Page 31 of Passion's Wicked Torment

“That’s right. So why don’t you put that silly thing away . . .” he was smiling as he finished, “before I stuff it into your mouth and make you eat it.”

Vroman continued to hold the gun on McShane, though he clearly had no intention of using it now. He was sweating fiercely. McShane went up to Kristin. The mask of joviality faded from his face as he saw how frightened she was and noticed the purple bruises on her body—telltale marks of the first two terrible days. McShane turned to Vroman. “Hitting the ladies now, is it?”

Vroman began backing away, but McShane grabbed him by his shirt front and pulled him toward him. He glared down into his face, his brown eyes twinkling. McShane said in a low, sweet, very menacing voice, “Fire the gun, Vroman me lad. Go on. Fire at me.” Vroman shook his head vigorously. “Go on,” urged McShane sweetly, honey in his voice. “Please? Give me the chance to do to you what I’d really like to.”

Vroman threw the gun into the pool. He threw it without looking, his eyes still riveted on McShane. Then McShane raised him up and tossed him into the pool. He threw him so that he landed right on top of the gasping Stryker, who had finally managed to pull his upper torso onto the rubber life preserver. This knocked him off again, and once again, he began flailing around in the water, screaming for help.

The director did not wait to be attacked. He backed away toward the double doors, under the watchful eyes of the mountain man, who was smiling pleasantly, his white teeth gleaming like a tiger’s fangs. The director reached the double doors and rushed out.

Kristin wanted to hurry back to the pillows and pull one in front of her to hide her nakedness. She had no strength remaining, though, due to the drugs and the exhaustion from the torment she had been through. She collapsed on the tiled foor and lay there at the mountain man’s feet. She could not gather her strength to stand up, though she tried.

McShane looked down at her and, for the first time, stopped smiling. The smile was false, anyway, an automatic reaction, like a nervous twitch in other men when their blood boiled toward violence. Kristin saw the look on his face now, and it was extremely gentle and saddened. It looked very out of place on this grizzly bear of a man. He knelt down and lifted her up in his arms, again surprising her with the great gentleness with which he did so. He started through the doors.

Behind him the two men in the pool flailed about wildly, Vroman attempting to swim Stryker ovèr to the side. Vroman shouted between gasps and coughs, “You’ll pay for this, McShane! You won’t get away with it!”

Kristin wanted to speak to the big mountain man who was helping her, but she could not make herself do it. She felt so weak it took all her strength just to stare up at him with her half-closed eyes. She felt warm and cozy against his thick fur coat, and she felt even more warmed by the gentle look on his face as he smiled down at her. She tried to say something, but before she could get the words out, her strength deserted her completely. She swooned into a deep, bottomless void of blackness.

CHAPTER 17

When Kristin awoke, she found herself in darkness. The orange, glowing embers of a banked fire were nearby, and the air was warm; so evidently she was inside a room. The burning coals did not provide enough light for her to see by. She felt very warm and comfortable and still very weak. There was a heavy fur blanket on top of her, she discovered through her sense of touch. And she was lying on a mattress of furs also. She was no longer dressed in the tom remnants of her Egyptian slave princess outfit, but instead was wearing a loose, very large, man’s flannel shirt. The feel of the bushy furs against her bare legs was very sensuous. She reached out to see what else she could discover.

Her hand alighted on a hard, flat, naked belly. She withdrew it quickly. Someone was under the covers with her. Please, God, she thought, let it be him! That . . . that mountain man. She strained her eyes to see, but the darkness foiled her. She tried for a moment to rise to her feet, but found that she was far too weak. She could not even make herself stand.

The man shifted position on the fur bedding, sighing and grunting comfortably in his sleep. She thought she might be able to tell if it was the mountain man by moving her hand over his chest. If he was unusually big and brawny, there was a good chance it was him and that she was safe. Gingerly, she reached out under the covers and touched where she thought his chest should be. What she felt, though, was a rigid, pulsing maleness, for he had shifted his position.

“Ohh!” she exclaimed, withdrawing her hand as if it had been burned.

“I beg your pardon, lassy,” he said in a voice that was low and groggy from sleep. “Forgive me for responding in such an unforgivable way to these shameful dreams I been having about you.” He stretched and yawned leisurely.

“You’re not going to . . . touch me, are you?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“I’ve been through a lot. I want to thank you for saving me. But please, I don’t want anyone doing anything to me. Okay?”

“Sean McShane never found it necessary to force his attentions on any woman, I assure you. You’re as safe with me as if’n I were with me own mother. Bless her soul.” His voice had a good naturedness to it still, as if nothing in the entire world could be taken too seriously. Kristin felt safe and secure in his presence

.

He rose from the fur bedding and went to the banked fire, where he stirred the ashes and put in two fresh splits of firewood. The orange glow became yellow and bright, and now Kristin could see. What she saw was that Sean McShane was indeed naked—and physically excited. And he was a Hercules of a man. She was thankful when he pulled on his leather britches. Then he put a pot of coffee on to boil.

“Where are we?” she asked, raising herself up on one elbow.

“My cabin.” He yawned and stretched again.

“Do you have a gun?”

“Why? You want to shoot me for them sinful, ungentlemanly dreams I been having of you?”

She was in no mood for humor. She was still weak and slightly dizzy and she was frightened that Vroman and Stryker might return. “They could come here to try to take me back. If you have a gun, you could stop them. Vroman has more men than just the ones you saw when you were there.”

“Don’t worry, lassy. I know more than you do about how many men the blighter’s got. But he won’t come bothering you anymore.”

“How do you know that? Do you think he’s afraid you’ll go to the law if he does?”

“Lassie, I am the law.” When he saw her frowning in confusion, he went to a wooden closet and opened it. He pulled out black trousers with gold piping, a uniform jacket and hat. The jacket was crimson red with golden buttons, and the hat was flat brimmed and peaked—the unmistakably distinctive uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

“You’re a Mountie?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why don’t you go arrest them?” It was more of an outraged demand than a question. “They held me against my will! And they abused me horribly. And . . . you know what that place is? It’s a house of ill repute, that’s what it is!”

“And well I know it, being one of their best customers.”

“But you’re a policeman!”

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