Moira Rogers - Wilder’s Mate

“You’ve been fighting a long time, one way or another. There’s no undoing what they did to make you a bloodhound, but you could always settle down.”

“Like Levi?” He snorted. “No thanks. I wouldn’t do that to a woman.”

“I didn’t say you had to repeat Levi’s mistakes.” She sipped her drink and tilted her head. “Though it seems to me that girl would let you. You explained the harsh realities to her yet? She’s got the widest eyes I’ve ever seen this close to the border.”

“She’s not as naive as she looks.” Still, guilt stabbed at him.

“She’s the daughter, isn’t she? Ada’s girl? Last time Levi came through was six months back. He asked me if I needed someone around to see to the boilers and all the other little luxuries Anthony built for us before he went to New York. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but after I heard he’d died…” Of course he’d made arrangements for her. Not the hugs and warm words Satira seemed to expect, but exactly what Levi would see as taking care of her. An option that didn’t include winding up in the gutter or selling herself on the streets.

An unrecognizable tightness in his chest eased, and Wilder exhaled slowly. “Good, that’s good. I’m glad.”

Juliet blew out a sigh. “Sure you are, honey. If you’re not fucking that girl by the full moon, I’ll be mighty surprised. She’s got her fingers around your balls already.” He almost choked on his whiskey. “Jesus Christ, Juliet.”

“Fine time to turn into a prude. If you don’t want to repeat Levi’s mistakes, you leave her here with us. We’ll look after her.”

He was genuinely tempted, but… “You don’t know her. She won’t stay. If I leave without her, she’ll strike out on her own.”

Juliet looked like she wanted to argue, but soft footsteps echoed behind him and her gaze slipped away. A moment later, her eyes widened. “Oh, Lord save you.” Well, shit. Polly had poured Satira into crimson satin. The tiered skirt swayed fetchingly as she walked, but Wilder couldn’t tear his gaze away from the buckled corset and the way it somehow molded itself to her breasts.

And those breasts were perfect, full and pale and nearly spilling over the top of her bodice. With the tiniest bit of encouragement, a man could have their velvet weight in his hands. A few careful, gentle caresses, and her nipples would be hard. Ready for a man’s mouth.

Satira cleared her throat. Loudly. “As I recall, noting that I had tits was damn near the first thing you said to me, so it strains credulity to imagine you didn’t realize they were there.” Nothing like the truth to throw someone off balance. “Well, sweetheart. There’s tits, and then there’s tits.”

Juliet laughed heartily. “That’s just a man seeing something he wants, honey. Best get used to the expression if you’re headed into the Deadlands.”

Satira braced her hands on her hips and managed to look prim. “My mother always told me there’s nothing flattering about a man’s desire, since he possesses an unlimited supply.”

“That we do, sweetheart.” Better if she didn’t take his admiration too personally.

She looked like she couldn’t tell whether to be relieved or disappointed. She brushed her fingers over her skirts in a self-conscious gesture and looked away from him. “We’ll be renting a carriage, I hope?”

“You can’t sit a horse in that getup.” She didn’t look like a prostitute anyway. She looked like…

“What’s the story you cooked up? You’re on the make for a bloodsucker? A consort?” Color darkened her cheeks. “Polly thought it best. I doubt I’m a gifted actress, but she thought I could pretend not to speak much English. Or any, really. I don’t—I’ve never been skilled at lying.”

“Well, I’m damn good at it. You just stand there and look pretty, and I’ll do the talking.” Juliet circled the bar and looked Satira up and down. “You’ll do, child. Wilder, I’ll have the groom fetch your bags and transfer your belongings into something more fitting for a wealthy lady. He can bring them down to the coach station while you secure passage.”

“Thanks, Juliet.”

“I owed you this one. Run along, the pair of you.”

Wilder held out his arm to Satira. “Ma’am?”

She hesitated before curling her fingers around his arm, clearly uncertain. “No one will expect me to act a proper lady, will they?”

“Honey, they won’t know what to expect.” He patted her hand and tried to explain. “For all they know, you could have gotten rich last week and not have a damn clue how to act, or you could be goddamn European royalty and just not care. Either way, you’ll be fine, even if you fuck up.” Satira nodded and let him lead her out onto the creaking steps. “I feel foolish,” she admitted under her breath as soon as the door swung shut behind them. “I look foolish.” It was the last word that came to mind as he stared at her. In fact, words didn’t really come to mind at all. “You’re fine. Stop fretting.”

Her mouth twisted into a wry little smile. “These aren’t the assets I planned to utilize in my daring rescue.”

Wilder flashed her a lascivious grin and glanced at her cleavage. “If you ask me, you should use those bountiful assets more often.”

Her eyes rolled skyward, though she seemed to have gotten past the urge to blush. “Let us hope the men we wish to distract prove to be as taken with them as you are.”

“Not a man, alive or dead, who won’t be, Satira. I can promise you that.”

A team and buggy clattered by, kicking dust into the air as Wilder led her away from the brothel. The stagecoach station sat at the end of the street, a sleek building with two squat, odd-looking steam-powered coaches lined up next to it.

Satira perked up as they drew close, fingers tightening on his arm in her excitement. “The one on the right is the new model. You can tell because of the wider wheels. They help accommodate the shock absorbers.”

“If you say so, honey.” Wilder nodded to the coachman and helped Satira climb the carpeted steps.

“All I know is these things are supposed to make for a mighty smooth ride.”

“How do you manage to make everything sound obsce— oh.” The outside was ugly and plain, but inside was ostentatious luxury. Deep, thickly cushioned benches lined each side, so long that Satira could have stretched out on one. Everything was polished and gilded far past the bounds of good taste, and Satira seemed at a loss for words. “This is—”

“Pretentious?”

A laugh bubbled up, but she dug her teeth into her lower lip. “I suppose I’m to wait here while you secure passage?”

“It’ll only take a minute.” Wilder leaned against the edge of the doorway and blew a silk tassel away from his face. “Got a name you want me to give ’em? Something impressive?” She plopped onto one of the seats and shook her head. “Make something up. You’d know what would work, I’d wager.”

“I’ve got an idea.” Something that would limit questions, but generate plenty of gossip to precede them.

“I’ll trust your good judgment then. In this.” Her gaze dropped to her dress. “Which might indicate that my judgment has been rendered questionable.”

Only one thing would put her back on comfortable footing—clear and sincere irritation. “Who needs good judgment when you’ve got tits like that?” Then, whistling, he headed for the coach station.

She was going to stab Wilder Harding in his sleep.

They’d waited an hour in the coach before the driver had declared them the only passengers. Then he’d climbed up into the awkward enclosure housing the controls and left Satira trapped in an absurdly gilded cage with the crudest, most aggravating man she’d ever met.

And if he made one more comment about her breasts, she was going to—

What? Hit him? Oh, she wanted to pretend violence was on her mind, but too-taut nerves had driven her past the boundaries of sanity. Losing her grip on her fragile self-control might result in acts more carnal than violent.

That self-control took another hit when she glanced from the window and found his gaze had strayed to the bare skin exposed by her corset. How very unfair that the attention stirred heat and longing, when he’d made it so very clear that his appreciation meant as much as a man’s admiration for a fine table or expensive liquor. She was a pretty object to be used and set aside. Nothing flattering in that.

Nothing personal in that, no matter how much loneliness and her own unsuitable attraction might drive her to pretend otherwise. Anger at herself made her voice sharp. “Would it help our situation if I stripped naked and let you stare? Would that assuage your curiosity?” For a moment, he looked nothing if not startled, but he recovered quickly. “If the urge strikes you, sweetheart, you be my guest.”

Perhaps he thought her too cowardly. Too modest. She was too practical, so it must have been madness that forced her hands up. She lifted her chin, held his gaze—a dangerous challenge to a bloodhound—and deliberately pushed the stiff edges of the corset together, far enough for the first hook to pop free.

He didn’t move, but he watched her closely. “Feel like playing with fire, Satira?” Yes. Her capacity for self-delusion must be boundless, because she’d even come up with a rationalization, flimsy though it was. “It might help you keep your thoughts on your job instead of my breasts. Or do you still doubt my enthusiasm? None of the other bloodhounds complained.”

“Really, now?” He shook his head and looked away. “First off, I don’t doubt anything about you.

Second, my mind is on the job, so you don’t have to do me any special favors.”