Moira Rogers: Wilder's Mate

He nodded toward the saloon, a three-story affair that surely had rooms upstairs for all sorts of things she’d never considered. “Even ready for that?”

“The men won’t do more than look at me, will they?”

Over his dead body. “Not a chance.”

If she pressed any closer to his side, she’d be climbing him. “Then I can stand anything.” They both had to stay calm and hold their ground, because the last thing she needed was to watch him fight to defend her. So Wilder took a bracing breath and climbed the wide steps up to the swinging doors.

Deafening silence didn’t fall when they walked in, but those at the tables closest to the doors turned to stare, mostly at Satira. More than a few covetous gazes, male and female, followed her as they walked to a small table near the bar and sat.

It took the space of three heartbeats for his gambit with her alias to pay off. The bartender appeared at his elbow, bowing so low as to be obsequious. “If I might inquire… Could this beautiful flower humbling my establishment be the lovely Lady Rothschild? Word of her arrival has preceded her. Several have already left messages, requesting the honor of an interview.” Satira looked at Wilder, her widened eyes saying more loudly than words that she thought he’d lost his mind. “The lady is fatigued from her journey,” he told the man gruffly. “She’ll only consider interviews and offers once she’s had some rest, but she would like some refreshment.” The man shifted his attention to Satira, who managed to plaster a haughty look on her face, though her jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt. When it became clear she had no intention of saying anything, the bartender looked back to him. “Of course. Only the best for our distinguished guest.” Wilder mustered a dismissive nod and went back to studying the room. When the bartender had gone, he leaned close to Satira. “Gonna make it?”

Her lips barely moved with her whispered reply. “I’m suitably occupied planning my revenge.”

“It got their attention, didn’t it?” The look she gave him was worthy of any outraged heiress, and he rolled his eyes. “It worked. Now we just have to play it out.”

She parted her lips, glanced around the bar at the dozens of eyes staring at them in abject curiosity, and snapped her mouth shut. Color crept its way up her neck and into her cheeks, but she clung to her aloof demeanor until the barkeep returned with bread and stew and a vinegary wine that a true aristocrat wouldn’t have let within a stone’s throw of her lips.

Satira ignored everyone else in the saloon as she ate. Though her discomfort was plain to him, he doubted anyone else would notice. When she finished her meal, he tossed several crisp bills on the table and rose to offer her his arm.

Half the bar watched her slide her hand into the crook of his elbow and rise, her back held stiffly straight and chin high. Wilder got more than a few irritable looks from men and a couple of come-hither smiles from women whose eyes promised they’d give him a better time than any stuck-up blueblood.

It wasn’t unusual for guards and escorts to extend their duties into the bedroom, and many of them probably figured he’d be climbing into Satira’s bed with her tonight. His dick grew hard at the thought, and he didn’t have to feign a dour expression as they walked out.

If only they knew.

He’d almost managed to get to sleep when a timid knock sounded on the door that led to Satira’s adjoining room. “Wilder?”

He fought the urge to slam a pillow over his face. “Yeah?”

She must have taken his reply as permission to enter, because the door inched open and she slipped through, a slight shadow wrapped in a blanket. The floorboards creaked as she took a step closer to the bed.

“Do you mind…?”

She looked like she thought he’d growl at her until she ran screaming from the room. “Come on in.”

“I can’t sleep.” Her voice held more than a little shame at the confession. “If people are expecting you to bed me, it can’t hurt our disguise if we sleep in the same room, can it?” Now he wanted to slam a pillow over his lap. “Can’t hurt our disguise.” It could only hurt him if he had to control himself around her. She grasped her blanket tight around her shoulders, but the gauzy fabric brushing the floor as she walked was sheer, flesh-colored silk.

She stopped next to the bed. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll go. I’ll understand.”

“Do you?”

“I think so.” She stared at the floor. “Men have needs, but you’re not interested in complicating our already difficult situation by giving in to them.”

If he was a snake… “Did you come over here for sex, or because you’d sleep better if you weren’t alone?”

“The latter.” She shivered and clutched at the blanket as it began to slip. “I know you could get to my room quickly enough if anything happened, but the way some of those men were watching me…” She was scared, and he felt even worse about his lust as he patted the blanket beside him. “Climb up.

You don’t have to be alone, and you don’t have to worry about me.”

“Thank you.” The blanket gaped open as she scrambled onto the bed, revealing that the damn flimsy nightgown Juliet had packed for her was transparent all over. She shivered and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

Wilder shook his head. “That scrap of nothing isn’t warm enough.” Satira choked on a laugh, a little hysterical but genuine. “I know. If it gets much colder tonight you’ll have to kick me out of your bed to keep me from cuddling as close as I can.”

The laughter was better than the way she’d looked at him before, hesitant and wary and almost ashamed of her fear. “If you put your cold feet on me, I’ll scream like a little girl.” Icy toes poked at his leg, and he laughed and shoved her away.

She squirmed right back, and this time he got an entire foot pressed against his knee. Her breathless laughter cut short on a little moan of pleasure. “You’re so warm .”

“Won’t be for long.” He affected a growl, one he ruined by laughing again. “Jesus, woman. What were you doing, hanging your legs out the window?”

Satira huffed, but it didn’t stop her from tucking her other foot against his shin. “My feet get cold.”

“You’re a walking icebox.”

She echoed his words back, laced with drowsy contentment. “Won’t be for long.” Quick as a rattlesnake bite, his protective shell of humor faded, leaving him in bed with a sleepy, scantily clad woman whose body made his knees weak. “Then it’ll be my turn to freeze.” One small hand crept back across the covers until her fingers brushed his. “I’d keep you warm.” His balls ached. “Better watch what you promise, sweetheart. I’m not a noble man, no matter what you think.”

Satira twisted until she faced him, eyes wide but unafraid. “It’s been eleven months since a man took me to bed. I don’t want noble.”

His first thought was to turn her over his knee and spank her. That led directly to his second thought, a mental image of her bent over in front of him, her pale ass red from his hand, her cunt glistening and wet.

“Satira.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and went still, her slightly ragged breaths and too-quick heartbeat the only sounds for long moments. Then she breathed out a tiny sigh. “You make me feel like such a fool, throwing myself at a man who doesn’t want to have me. Over and over again, and I’m supposed to be intelligent.” He urged one of the thin straps of the nightgown from her shoulder. “You worry too much.”

“I know.” With her eyes still shut she missed his mouth the first time, her open-mouthed kiss landing on his cheek.