Wilder's Mate

Chapter Three

They rode into the edges of the border settlement just after noon, and Wilder led them straight to a whorehouse.

Not that it was advertised as such. No, the building looked boring enough on the outside, like a ramshackle hotel that had taken to selling liquor to fill its common room every evening. The clues were in the small things, like the way the damage and poor repair were merely cosmetic, and a closer look revealed that underneath the weathered boards were sturdy walls that would keep out the heat and cold. There was a knack to hiding wealth with squalor, a skill the border madams had taken to the heights of artistry. Old paint, crooked signs, tables with one wobbly leg—understandable, since it wasn’t wise for women to appear too prosperous in these times.

Most people wouldn’t notice the subtle signs that a brothel was doing well. Then again, most people hadn’t grown up in one.

Satira dismounted, struggling to hide a wince as she got her feet on solid ground. The discomfort was better and worse today—better because at least she could move a little, but moving certainly hurt more than sitting still. She surreptitiously stretched her legs and almost smiled to think of what Levi would say to her now, his gruff voice exasperated beyond measure. If you can’t walk it off, don’t stand up to begin with.

Wilder, of course, seemed perfectly fine. She pushed down an irrational surge of envy as she tied her horse next to his. “Does one of your contacts work here?” It wasn’t inconceivable, she supposed. Her own mother hadn’t spoken of such things but, if Ophelia was to be believed, whores heard more secrets than any preacher.

He gave her a maddening half-smile she already recognized. “You could say that.” The front door crashed open, and Satira flinched at the noise as it rebounded against the board wall. A voluptuous woman stepped out, boots creaking on the porch as she shouldered her shotgun and eyed the pair of them.

She was wild. Untamed. Corkscrew curls sat high on her head, held in place by who-knew-what sort of alchemy. She looked old enough to be Satira’s mother, but the body on fine display in her low-cut corset had curves, the sort men never seemed able to tear their eyes away from.

Her shrewd, assessing gaze lingered on Satira, too long for comfort. Then she shifted her attention to Wilder with a throaty laugh. “Wilder, honey, where you been hiding yourself? The girls have been crying into their pillows every night, they surely have, thinking you’d forgotten all about us.”

“Juliet, the day I forget about you will be the day they lay me in the sod.” He removed his hat and offered the woman a playful bow. “I’ve come to ask a favor.” An unmistakably fond smile curved the woman’s painted lips, and Satira felt the first stirrings of an odd, nearly foreign emotion.

Jealousy.

She fought to keep her expression politely blank, but Juliet’s too-sharp eyes narrowed. Fortunately, she didn’t remark on anything she might have gleaned, just nodded. “Why don’t you round up that poor girl and bring her inside. She looks like she might like to sit a spell on something that isn’t moving.” Juliet turned and retreated inside, and Satira glanced at Wilder. “Is it safe to leave our things here?” He shrugged. “Safe enough. If you’re worried, I can fetch your bags.” Combined incorrectly, some of the contents of her bag could set off a violent explosion that could level a good part of this settlement. After a moment’s thought, she flipped open one pack and dug through the contents until she found her kit, wrapped in one of her shifts. Each chemical was sealed safely in a nearly unbreakable container, but it wouldn’t stop a curious human from twisting off the tops and setting off a catastrophe. “This should stay with me.”

Wilder arched one dark eyebrow. “What the hell is it?”

She slipped the narrow leather strap of the small padded bag over her head. “You might be able to fight your way through a horde of vampires, but I planned to kill them a little more indirectly, if possible.”

“You’re not going to blow up Juliet’s place, are you?”

As if she’d be foolish—or suicidal—enough to ride with the bag behind her if it were liable to explode at any moment. “Not unless someone takes the bag from me, opens up everything inside and starts combining chemicals at random.”

“I meant on purpose.” Again, that wicked smile. “You haven’t seen what I’ve got planned for you.” The pieces fell into place a moment too late. A whorehouse. A favor.

A disguise.

Juliet’s voice roared from inside the brothel. “Wilder, I told you to bring that girl inside.” Satira flinched. “I think I might hate you a little.”

“No you don’t, sweetheart. You just wish you did.”

A woman met them just inside the door. “Wilder Harding, how did I know you’d—” She stopped short when she caught sight of Satira. “Hello there.”

She was beautiful. Perfect brunette curls swept back from her heart-shaped face to frame an elegant neck. Juliet might be hiding her wealth on the outside, but she’d clearly lavished it on the girls, if the cut and quality of the brunette’s corset and skirt were any indication.

Satira became painfully aware of her own appearance—her sunburned nose, uncombed hair and the dusty, ill-fitting clothing she’d worn for more than a day. She felt like a gawkish child as she averted her gaze. “Hello.”

The woman held out her hand with a friendly smile. “I’m Polly.”

“Satira.” Her own hand was dirty and far from elegant, marked from chemical burns, with chipped nails even Ophelia had given up trying to keep neat. She shook Polly’s hand gingerly and wished Wilder far, far away before her growing awareness of him turned her into a witless fool. At least she could still remember her manners. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Polly cast a sidelong glance at Wilder. “Surely you didn’t bring the girl here just to scandalize her, you terrible man.”

“On the contrary. I have your boss’s marker, and I plan to call it in.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Wilder’s hand slid up Satira’s back to toy with her hair. Her body reacted with embarrassing speed, a shiver claiming her as his fingers stirred the strands of hair that lay against the sensitive back of her neck.

One fingertip graced the side of her throat, and her nipples tightened with the first whispers of true arousal, so ill-timed she barely heard the rest of his words. “A disguise. We’re headed to the Deadlands.” The whore’s eyes widened. “She’s got an awful pretty neck for that kind of destination.”

“So little faith in me, Polly Ann.”

She rolled her eyes. “Come with me, Satira. If you’ve been riding with this scoundrel, you could undoubtedly use a respite.”

Satira stepped away from Wilder’s hand, crushing the tiny jolt of loss under the boot of her ruthless practicality. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

“I know you would, honey.” The woman led her down the hall and up the stairs. “Ever fancied having another hair color?”

She hated herself for wondering—even for a moment—if Wilder preferred his women with dark hair.

“Not particularly. It would make for a useful disguise, though, I imagine.”

“That’s why I asked.” She stopped outside of a closed set of double doors and eyed Satira. “You’d make a pretty redhead. Nothing brassy like Juliet, but something darker.” Her hair had never been important enough for her to balk at the idea. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

“Mm-hmm.” Polly tapped her chin. “And clothes…”

Only two types of human women roamed the Deadlands—those whose time was rented, and those who were outright owned. A free woman who set so much as a toe across the border was all but asking to become the latter. “I think I might murder him in his sleep.”

“Bet you won’t be the first woman to try.” Polly turned and pushed open the double doors. “Though I think I have an idea that might put Mr. Harding in his place.”

“What idea is— oh.” Satira’s mouth fell open as she stepped over the threshold and into the most glorious room she’d ever seen.

Warmth radiated from the far wall, where a shining row of drums must have held enough heated water for every person in the settlement to take a bath. Elegant copper pipes had been worked into the design of the room itself, framing wide, beautiful mirrors where they ran along the wall before curving down to feed three spacious tubs.

Plants grew from copper planters in the corners of the room, with wild, exotic blossoms that reflected and multiplied in more silvered mirrors. It looked like a little slice of paradise in the midst of a hard, barren land, and her fascination lasted all of two seconds before her mind began to unravel the puzzles. Whoever had designed the room had been brilliant, and they’d turned that sharp intellect toward making a beautiful, comfortable place for women who needed a bit of peace in their arduous lives.

All she’d ever built with her knowledge was weapons. “This is… It’s beautiful.”

“Juliet’s son designed it.” Polly opened a cabinet and pulled out a white cotton robe. “He’s back east now, studying under some inventor in New York.”

As well he should be. The tiniest tug of envy stirred, but repressing it had become habit. The best apprenticeship a girl could hope for was the sort she had—informal and indulgent. “Juliet must be proud.

He must be very successful.”

“She’ll talk your ear off if you ask about him.” Polly gestured to one of the bathtubs. “Do you need help with the spigots? Some of the girls have never seen hot and cold taps before, but I’m guessing you won’t be one of them.”

Satira had almost forgotten about the promise of a bath. “No, no I can manage.” She accepted the robe and moved to a smooth wooden bench, settling herself gingerly as her abused muscles protested. “I hope.”

“Looks like Wilder’s been riding you too hard.”

If only she’d been a little more innocent, the words wouldn’t have brought fire to her cheeks. If only there was some way to convince herself that she didn’t want to ride Wilder until her knees gave out, until he took over and used all that preternatural strength and wild animal instinct to fuck her past the edge of reason.

She muttered an unconvincing denial and turned her attention to her boots, too embarrassed to meet Polly’s eyes. There had to be something aberrant about a girl who liked beasts more than decent men, but at least it offered a comforting reassurance that Wilder wasn’t anything special—even if his ego might not agree.

Polly hesitated beside the bench. “I’m sorry, do you want me to step out or stay and talk? I confess, I’m not quite sure which a woman from relatively polite society might prefer.” It was the first time in her life anyone had mistaken her as anything of the sort, and a startled laugh bubbled up. “I couldn’t say which they’d prefer either. I don’t mind talking at all, but I don’t know Wilder nearly so well as you. I only met him yesterday. I’m a bit…” She trailed off helplessly, unwilling to say the one word that seemed to fit. Witless.

Polly smiled. “Flabbergasted?”

“Yes.” Satira dropped her boot and curled her toes with a sigh. “I need a disguise that will make it easier for us to mingle with the vampires and their representatives without seeming suspicious.”

“Of course you do. You’re going to the Deadlands.”

“You have an idea?”

“Yes, I did say that.” A hint of a smile played at her lips. “There are only a few options. The best, I believe, is for you to dress and act as though you’ve hired Wilder to escort you out to the border in search of a vampire patron.”

It was impossible to keep her horror from her face. “People do that?”

“Oh, yes. More than you might expect, really.”

Perhaps Levi’s influence had instilled her with prejudices she would never overcome, because the thought made her queasy. It had been difficult enough to think that she might have to offer her neck to save Nathaniel, impossible to imagine doing so willingly. Regularly. “I think I’m more naive than I imagined.” Polly shrugged. “It takes all sorts of people to make up the world. There are those who would be equally disgusted by the thought of taking someone like Wilder to bed.” There were, and plenty of them. She’d often heard the slurs cast at her mother. “Wilder’s mentor took my mother into his house as his new moon companion. I’ve spent most of my life around bloodhounds.

They may not behave like men, but they’re trained to protect us. They fight and die for us. It’s not the same.”

“Not to you,” Polly answered with another shrug. “But perhaps to others it is. Regardless, it will make the perfect disguise.”

She eased off her other boot and set them both aside. “Then I imagine we have a great deal of work ahead of us.”

“That depends on what sort of actress you are.”

There’d never been occasion to discover such a thing. “I think we should assume I will try my best, but we might not want to rely overmuch on my ability to spin lies under pressure.” Polly grinned widely and began to assemble cosmetic items at the vanity. “Then we shall say you don’t speak a word of English, so all you have to do is look confused. Where do you wish to be from?” Satira left her kit on the bench and moved to one of the tubs, sliding one hand along the shining brass rim before reaching for the hot water handle. “I can speak a few words of German, if it helps. Not many—

please, thank you and what I assume are a few impolite curses. Nathaniel always used them when he dropped something delicate or smashed his thumb with a hammer, in any case.”

“Prussia is a suitably war-torn area,” Polly mused. “That will do nicely.”

“If you say so.” Hot water flowed smoothly from the spigot, and Satira lost interest in anything but the promise of immersing her dirty, aching body in a warm, luxurious bath. Polly continued to talk, chattering about dresses and corsets and a dozen other trivialities that would probably be very important later on.

Not now. Not as Satira stripped off her dusty clothing and climbed into a slice of paradise more magical than any weapon she’d ever cobbled together.

Perhaps she could stay in the tub forever. Forget the world where she had to save Nathaniel, where her future depended on a man trapped at a vampire’s mercy. Without her mentor, she’d be cut loose.

Abandoned. She could sketch out an ugly, brutal life trying to sell her skills to men who would discredit her, or suffer an even worse life selling her body. She didn’t even have the beauty and skills needed to aspire to Ophelia’s class.

A common whore. Like her mother.

Unless Wilder—

No. Satira forced the thought away. Such fancies would weaken her resolve. Her desperation was a tool to be used, one that could be mixed with her stubbornness and her wits, same as any of the chemicals in her kit. She’d turn herself into a weapon and unleash it on anyone who got between her and her goal.

Even Wilder Harding.

The women had been upstairs for nigh unto an hour, and Wilder had no idea how much longer he’d have to wait. “Juliet, what the hell is Polly doing up there?” Juliet lifted a crystal decanter that had proven itself full of fine whiskey and refilled his glass. “I reckon she’s dreaming up ways to torture you with low-cut corsets and a pretty little neck all bare for the biting.”

The very thought made his skin prickle and his trousers tighten. “Polly would, wouldn’t she?

Pernicious wench.”

“Mmm.” Juliet slid the glass across the bar, her eyebrows coming together as she watched him. “I hope you know what sort of game you’re playing at, venturing into the Deadlands with a little lost lamb and you watching her like a wolf who can’t wait to sink his teeth in. Maybe you should go upstairs and take a ride on someone who can handle you.”

And Satira would know exactly where he was—and what he was doing. “Don’t have time, Juliet. I’ll make it back before the new moon, though. You have one of your girls ready for me then.” Amusement crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Only one? You must be slowing down.”

“Getting old, maybe,” he conceded.

“That so?” Juliet poured herself a whiskey and studied him, her sharp eyes seeing far too much.

“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.