The Hands of the Outlaw

The Hands of an Outlaw
(An alternate ending to “Prophecy”)


The guard roughly shoved Marguerite into the little room and laughed as she stumbled and fell to her knees. The sound of the thick wooden door being shut and bolted behind her did not drown out her cursing, or Roxton’s loud “ooof” as he followed her down.

“Oh, Roxton,” gasped Marguerite, half-laughing and half-crying, “you’re really stuck with me now!” And they both stared down at the iron manacles, attached by only a very few links of chain, that joined them at the wrist.


******
Unfortunately for Roxton and Marguerite, their failed mission to rescue their stolen weapons from Kaysan’s outlaw band had resulted in the pair’s capture. The outlaw chief, laughing jocularly, had tied them, side-by-side, to two poles. He hadn’t paid much attention to Roxton. After one or two taunts, he’d left the side of the hunter, and approached Marguerite. His eyes made no secret of his interest in her as he circled her twice. And then he’d stopped in front of her, moving in close.

Roxton, fuming and powerless to act, had seen Marguerite’s shoulders stiffen as Kaysan slowly and deliberately pressed his body against hers. Roxton’s hands, tied tightly together behind the pole, clenched into fists. Marguerite, using every bit of self-control she possessed, hadn’t even trembled as Kaysan lowered his shaggy head and kissed her lasciviously. Marguerite didn’t tremble … but Roxton did. He couldn’t stand to look. He couldn’t look away. That this lout was tasting Marguerite’s lovely mouth, feeling the length of her body against his own – things Roxton had yearned for so long to do – maddened him. His chest hd asd as he watched the outlaw chief’s calloused hand push roughly under Marguerite’s blouse, and he heard the pked ked whimper she wasn’t able to hold back.

“So glad you came to our party,” drawled Kaysan, his lips pressed against Marguerite’s neck. The muscles in her throat worked convulsively. Then, as Kaysan, in a sudden movement, tore her shirt in two, she closed her eyes, and a strangled sob issued from her throat. And Roxton, watching in a kind of furious fascination the outlaw’s dirty hands on Marguerite’s pale breasts, felt a new and dark sensation taking shape inside him.
***

*********
Now, as he sat on the dirt floor of the hut where Kaysan had imprisoned them for the night (after chaining them to each other), Roxton fought to keep his emotions under control. He was tormented by an impotent anger at having had to helplessly witness Marguerite’s humiliation by Kaysan. He had wanted to tear the bastard apart. He had wanted so fiercely to protect this woman, and was enraged and chagrined that he’d not been able to. He wanted to kill Kaysan for hurting her. And yet … Roxton couldn’t repress the persistent image of Kaysan’s mouth traveling over Marguerite’s arched neck and smooth shoulders – the startling contrast of his brown skin against her silvery whiteness – his fingers at the tips of her breasts; Roxton couldn’t stop thrilling to the little cries and frightened gasps that had come from Marguerite’s throat. The hunter was seized by fury … and by a guilty but unmistakable excitement. God, was he going mad?! He seemed to remember that this was what it had been like during his time with Calista: the bizarre wildness, the rage, and the consuming heat.

Roxton was more than aware of Marguerite’s body beside him; his every nerve-ending jangled. The heiress was dozing restlessly. Her hair had fallen from its clip and was in tangles, her eyelashes were coal-black against her cheek. She was wearing Roxton’s shirt, which he’d given her to cover herself. It had taken some time and effort to accomplish this, as being chained together at the wrist made it difficult; Roxton had had to tear one sleeve completely off the garment. The trickiness of the maneuver had served momentarily to divert him from the sight of her partially nude body, until his shaking hand had brushed against her bare breast. Then he’d felt his stomach muscles contract with a ferocious want, and his knees had literally weakened. Crazily, both his desire and his protectiveness were heightened to think that, but a short time ago, another man’s hands had touched her there.

Now, into his mind again came the picture of that man’s hands on Marguerite’s shrinking flesh, trailing down the cleanly elegant line of her body, and the look of anger, mixed with appeal, in her eyes. Roxton’s blood seemed to be burning in his veins; his breathing was harsh and uneven. Flooding through his tense body surged a black torrent – some primal, bestial need to claim his mate, blotting out all memories of his rival.

“Marguerite.” His voice was a husky growl. “Marguerite.” Her eyelids fluttered and opened; she looked up at him with her clear gray eyes. Roxton put his right hand on her shoulder – and her hand involuntarily moved with his, borne along courtesy of their iron manacles. Roxton’s breath caught. Without thinking, he used his left hand to press Marguerite’s hand against her own shoulder, next to his. He saw her swallow hard and bite her lip; he heard her sharp intake of breath. His eyes never left her face as he quickly straddled her prone body.

“So beautiful …” Roxton muttered, as he stroked her shoulder beneath the loose shirt … where Kaysan’s hands had touched her, while Roxton had been compelled to watch.

Marguerite gazed, spellbound, as Roxton covered her fingers with his own, and flattened them against her skin. Together, their wrists bound and heavy with metal, they caressed the haunting curve of her shoulder and the top of her breast. Margue fee felt dizzy. “Touch me,” she gasped. “Touch me.” Whether she was talking to Roxton, to herself, or to both, she didn’t know or care.

He kissed her – a deliberate, hard kiss. Her mouth was like wine. Impatiently, he tore the shirt from her body, and then the skirt. All the sinuous beauty of her body was open to him. “You’re mine.” The words came from low in his throat. “Mine.” Marguerite arched frantically beneath him, and he was on fire with lust, with love, with the need to erase Kaysan’s touch. Roxton moved their intertwined fingers to rub her stiffened nipple, as Marguerite moaned and bucked her hips upward. He knew what she wanted. Oh, God, he wanted it too.

Roxton pulled her upright and half-carried her to a coarsely-hewn, straight-backed, wooden chair – one of the few bits of furniture that the little room contained. He was desperately hard. She was so tempting, so enticing … her hair streaming wildly down her back, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire. Roxton looked at the mebandbands around their wrists, and the short length of chain that connected them. Images and emotions swirled madly inside him: the ire and – yes – the lust he’d felt watching Kaysan’s mouth on Marguerite’s, his hands on her breasts, his knee fighting to press between her legs. In some strange way, the outlaw was still a part of this.

Marguerite recognized theocitocity of the storm raging inside him, and whispered, “Roxton.” She reached her hand up to the back of his neck and his his head down to hers, so she could kiss him. “I want you,” she told him. “I want you.”

“Oh, God. Marguerite …” he rasped. He covered her hand with his once more, and ran it down her body, pressing it flat against her skin. The sight of their joined hands at her hip mesmerized him. The hunter dragged her hand lower. Marguerite slowly parted hong ong legs until she had one on each side of the seat. Roxton knelt in front of the chair; he could see she was wet and slick. She was so lovely … and, now, she was his.

Purposefully, he drew their hands between her legs, pressing firmly, and hearing her ragged breathing.

“Do it with me,” he instructed her. “I want to see you.” Together, they teased her, grazing the delicate skin with light fingertips – then dipping into her wet warmth, slowly at first, then driving hard, hard, and fast – as Marguerite writhed against the rigid chair back. She lost track of whose hand was whose; the boundaries between herself and Roxton became blurred and then swept away in waves of passion.

And then, Roxton heard it. Just a small, easy-to-miss sound – but distinctly audible to the ears of a keen hunter like himself: the grating noise of wood on wood. He raised his head and exhaled loudly; hticeticed instantly that the sliding panel on the door had been opened and a pair of eyes was focused intently upon them. Roxton’s nostrils flared and he tossed his head. He knew those eyes. Earlier, they had lingered, not on him, but on Marguerite, and, oddly, Roxton had somehow shared in that vision of her … through those same dark eyes: Kaysan’s eyes. Now, his own glare fixed on Kaysan’s and locked there.

Marguerite’s questioning murmur broke into his consciousness. She obviously remained unaware of the outlaw’s presence. Roxton looked down at her. His chest hitched. He didn’t even realize that the animal-like howl he was hearing had been ripped from his own throat. Violently, he pulled the woman he loved from the chair and whirled her around, so that her back was against his chest, and so that they were both facing the doorway. Her head fell back against his shoulder, eyes closed; Marguerite tried frantically to pull his hand back down to where she ached for him, but he was so much stronger than she, and he wasn’t allowing it. As the hunter yanked forcefully on the chain that bound them – and he wasn’t quite sure what he intended to do – his attention was caught and snared by the sight of red blood on Marguerite’s manacled wrist, where the iron had obviously chafed her soft skin.

Instantly, Roxton became still. His lips curled in a snarl, and he wolfishly licked his lips. The smile on his face was not his usual charming one, but an unsettling, almost non-human leer. He sensed that, behind the door, Kaysan was smiling back. Roxton jerked Marguerite’s wrist to his mouth, and licked hungrily at the blood there. Guttural sounds were coming from his throat. He didn’t know if it was real or imaginary, but Kaysan’s breathing, harsh and rough, seemed to fill his ears. Roxton thrust his knee between Marguerite’s legs and moved himself against her. She moaned his name, over and over, and he wanted to devour her. Urgently, Roxton unfastened his trousers with his left hand, while he sucked savagely at her torn wrist, until his face was smeared with her blood, and its metallic tang filled his mouth.

He couldn’t wait. Jerking his head upward so he could again lock his slitted eyes with those of the outlaw, Roxton hissed, “ She’s mine, you bastard. She’s mine.” As he slammed into her, and even as he reached his violent climax, he never broke away from Kaysan’s gaze, never was unaware that Kaysan’s hand had become, like Marguerite’s, an extension of his own.

End