Savage Impulses by Danielle Dubois Page B

Maisey with him, and now he was back, looking her
up and down with no compassion at all in his cold eyes.
    “Not bad,” he said finally. “You, girl, are
you a virgin?”
    “Of course,” she said, shocked, and then she
was sickened by why he might want to know.
    “Every girl down there says she is,” he
informed her, “but you, with that cute face of yours, I don't know,
maybe you can sell it.”
    “I don't want to sell it,” she protested.
    Her words were cut off with a brisk slap to
the face.
    She cried out, stumbling back.
    He wrapped his enormous bear's paw of a hand
around her upper arm, closing cruelly.
    Now she could see why Maisey feared this man
so much, he was enormously strong and not overly concerned with
being gentle.
    “You're going to,” he told her flatly, “or at
least, I'm going to. Come on, now.” With nothing more than that, he
pulled her half off her feet.
    She was descending into the crowded common
room that she had passed through so quickly before. On the
stairway, she passed a girl hurrying up the stairs, nursing a split
lip. At the bottom, she saw another girl pressed against the wall
and being pawed by a drunken farmhand. She bit her lip against the
terror that it would soon be her that was so brutally mauled and
did her best to keep her balance on the uneven floor boards.
    The saloon itself was dim but large. It was
lit with lanterns on every table, and, behind the long bar, there
was a fine mirror that was crackled with age. It gave everything an
air of debauched finery, as did the women in bright, flimsy
clothing, and the men who were already carousing the night
away.
    Black brought her to a table close to the
back where there were already two men seated. They turned to hail
Black with cautious hellos, and he took his place at the table
silently.
    Marigold looked for a chair where she was
supposed to sit.
    With an icy glance and a gesture, Black told
her that she was meant to stand.
    She instinctively tried to slouch and cover
her bared breasts with her hands.
    When Black saw what she was doing, he stood
up again with a snarl. “Up,” he commanded. “Hands behind your back
and tits out, you understand? I want them to see what you got.”
    “What, she's your stake?” one of the other
men scoffed.
    The other man laughed.
    They subsided under Black's murderous gaze,
muttering that whatever Black wanted was fine anyway, and they
started to play.
    Marigold realized numbly that they were
playing for her. Despite their initial protest, she could see their
eyes start to scan her body, up to her breasts and down her thighs.
The thought of going with one of those men, of letting them touch
her and handle her, made her sick, and she choked back the tears
that were welling up in her eyes.
    She didn't have much, but she had her
courage, and she refused to let them think that she was afraid.
    Marigold barely flinched when Black wrote her
name on a piece of paper and tossed it in. At first, she kept track
of whose pile it was in, but then she couldn't even do that. She
sunk into fear and exhaustion, oblivious to everything until she
noticed that the table had stilled.
    “Well if it isn't fine Mr. Sloan,” drawled
Black. “And we thought you were too fancy to come play in Langtry
anymore...”
    The man who had just arrived was taller than
Black but slender and lithely muscled. When he removed his hat,
Marigold could see a face that was surprisingly young. The newcomer
had no mustache or beard, but there was a firm set to his mouth and
his hard jaw that told her that he was no one to be trifled with.
With his straight black hair, sharp nose and deep brown eyes, she
realized with a shock that he must be at least part Indian.
    “I don't, but I thought I'd make an exception
tonight. You look like you need a fourth.”
    They made way so that the new stranger could
sit, but Marigold could see that the tone of the game had changed.
Suddenly the men were playing much closer to their chests,