Wild, Wicked and Wanton: A Hot Historical Romance Bundle

by Natasha Blackthorne

  He caressed her tongue with delicate strokes, each brush teasing her, making her crave a deeper taste of him. Her knees went weak and she sagged against him, moving her hands up to clasp his shoulders and cling. His scent intoxicated her. His touch surrounded her.

  She’d never forget his taste, his scent, his feel. Never.

  He put his hand under her cloak and flirted his fingertips over her bodice, touching nipples hardened by both cold and arousal. At the delicious sensation, she gasped.

  Light headed, she opened her eyes and looked up. The sky seemed to loom closer than it ever had before. Surely thousands of stars twinkled above in the inky blackness.

  His touch grew harsher, impatient, commanding her attention back from the heavens. He pulled her bodice down until his hand grazed over her bare, erect nipples—his palm was not smooth as she had guessed it would be, but rough, as if he was used to doing some labor with his hands. The texture only increased the sensation.

  On a soft moan, she closed her eyes.

  He groaned and deepened his kiss, sweeping his tongue between her lip and her lower teeth, touching on areas that were sore from her fall onto the table in the Blue Duck.

  It didn’t matter.

  Even the pain of his tongue on the bruised portions of her mouth became a strange sort of pleasure.

  If only this would never stop—

  Discordant singing broke the spell. He lifted his head and she pulled away and took several gulps of crisp, cold air into her lungs while she turned her head in the direction of the singing. An elderly beggar woman had wandered into the alleyway and was sifting through the rubble.

  Alex’s gaze flickered to the woman and he pulled Emily behind the abandoned carriage. Then he jerked her back to him, moving his hands down to cup her buttocks and press her hips tightly to his.

  There was something between them. Something so hard and throbbing that its heat penetrated even through her gown and two petticoats. His maleness. She gasped and glanced up at him. His eyes were like periwinkle fire now.

  “I want you.” His whispered growl echoed in her belly.

  He sounded so aggressive, so animal. It shocked her. Even more shocking was her own reaction. The aching, empty sensation in her core. The flood of wetness over her inner lips and down her thighs. The utter paralysis of her limbs. Her reaction was like a drug in her body, getting stronger with each beat of her pounding heart.

  She was his. His to do with as he wished.

  Prologue

  Philadelphia, PA

  August 1793

  A quarter to two in the afternoon. With her stomach knotting, Emily Eliot tore her eyes from the clock. She’d have to hurry, else Grandmother would get a megrim over the worry of Emily’s being out for longer than it took to walk to the baker’s and back. She hated making Grandmother ill.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  Emily’s heart echoed the rhythm of the printing presses as she drew up her courage. She took a deep breath and approached the man who was leaning so lazily against the worn walnut desk.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sawyer. I’d like to discuss my book again.”

  He blinked several times, then grinned. He wasn’t too old or too ugly, but his reptilian smile repulsed her to the very pit of her soul. “Now, sweeting, I have explained it repeatedly—if you’d only be a little more agreeable with me, I’d look a little more favorably on this book of yours.”

  Her mouth fell open. What—had he just made an improper suggestion? After she had so patiently explained the last time that she was uninterested in—in… Well, in what he was interested in? He’d seemed like such a rational person. Why must he be so insensitive? She gaped at him.

  He peeled an orange with his ink-stained fingers, filling the air with a sharp citrus scent that mingled with the odors of paper dust and fresh ink. All the time he leered at her. Leered at her while she was here to see him on a matter of such importance.

  Crawling sensations tingled over her skin and she resisted the urge to shiver openly. She still wasn’t used to dealing with men on her own and certainly not men who regarded her so salaciously. But for the sake of her mission, she’d have to press on. She wiped her sweating, shaking hands on her skirts and took a step closer.

  “Mr. Sawyer, please don’t tease me. You said I might return in two months and ask if you had changed your mind about printing my book.”

  He lifted his sandy brows as he paused with an orange segment held to his red, overripe lips. “I believe that what I said was for you to wait at least two months before coming to pester me again.”

  Pester him? Pester him? How could he suggest that her work was so insignificant? It was only the most pressing issue facing the United States at the moment. Her book was a collection of stories telling the tales of some of the mariners from the Dauphin, a ship out of Philadelphia that had been captured by the Barbary Pirates in 1785.

  Her father had been one of the mariners on board the Maria of Boston, another ship that had been captured by the Algerians. He had been taken into slavery and had eventually died of the plague.

  Pressure built in her throat, forcing her to swallow.

  Papa.

  She missed him. Even more, she regretted having lost the chance to get to know him as a young woman, to relate to him as she had been unable to as a little girl during his brief visits home.

  The Algerian situation, as well as country’s refusal to do anything effective to end it, had stolen her father from her. And she knew now, from her extensive and difficult research, that he had surely suffered greatly before his death.

  She swallowed again, harder this time, and with determination forced down those aching feelings. She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted. It was hard enough to stay focused as it was, given all the efforts that others seemed to be making to prevent the publication of her book.

  She’d had to wait so long already, for accomplishing this work had been no small feat under the watchful gaze of her grandmother. She owed a great debt to Mr. Thomas Jefferson, the Secretary of State, who had answered her very first inquiry and generously supplied the names and addresses of the mariners’ relatives. Over the past two and a half years, through letters, she’d managed to interview the families of the captured men. She had also done detailed sketches of them, from their family’s descriptions. But gathering the information like that had taken so much time. More time than she could have imagined when she’d embarked on her course.

  Now it was taking every ounce of faith she possessed to persevere with trying to get her work distributed to the populace. All she lived for was getting her book printed, but she’d never imagined it would be like this.

  Most people did not understand the tortures and suffering those men were going through at the hands of the Algerians. Not completely. It was easier for people to remain ignorant of the tortures. But her book would force the public to face the truth. All of it.

  It would put a human face to the matter.

  Indeed, many human faces. Those of their fellow countrymen, men and boys who had parents, wives, sweethearts and children who loved them. Who needed them home again.

  Her inner vision was so strong. She knew her book would make the necessary difference. She could save those men.

  She’d been sure that the need for her work would ensure its rapid publication. Yet to her vast shock, she’d been rejected by every printer she’d contacted. “Well, Mr. Sawyer, it is very hard to remain patient when I know that my book will bring a personal perspective that the people of the United States will no longer be able to ignore.”

  He stared back at her silently, blinking a few times. Had he even heard her? Didn’t he know it was rude to refuse to answer? Goodness. Writing letters had been a lot easier than facing printers in their shops. She straightened her spine.

  “Mr. Sawyer, how could anyone with any human feeling remain passive while our countrymen are still held in Algiers, in shameful slavery?” She couldn’t help letting some of her disapp
robation leach into her tone. “It has been almost a decade and still our country refuses to act.”

  “Indeed, it is terrible business what those Barbary pirates have done, but our country is young and money is limited.” He rolled his shoulders up and tilted his head to the side. Then he relaxed. “Without a navy and without large sums to pay their ransoms, I just don’t see what more can be done.”

  He popped a piece of orange into his mouth and chewed it slowly.

  She resisted the urge to shake her head. Initially, he had seemed like a kind person. How could he just stand there and say those things? Didn’t he care about what his countrymen were going through? Apparently not. Unfortunately, in her experience, his apathy wasn’t atypical. Her shoulders sagged. It was so hard to see what needed to be done so clearly and yet to have others be so blind and deaf to her message. But she couldn’t give up.

  Clearly she’d have to try harder.

  “Please, Mr. Sawyer, you must listen.” The words rushed past her lips, their urgency pressing hard on her. She took a deep breath and made a concentrated effort to slow down. “The long-term lack of concern over this issue is what has allowed those men captured in eighty-five to be held for all these years. My book would really help people to see this issue in a more personal light. People need to see those men as fellow citizens, with families who love and need them—not just as names on a list.”

  “Young lady, I’ve told you repeatedly what I need. The public wants to read stories of captivity, torture, ravishment, a little allusion to sexual depravity…heaving bosoms.” Mr. Sawyer’s gaze dropped to her bodice. “Though for myself, I prefer more tender fruits.” His leer was unmistakable.

  No man had before ever said the word “sexual” within her hearing.

  She gasped and fought a sudden wave of dizziness. Every time she’d come here, he had pushed the bounds of decency a little more. However, no man had ever spoken to her so bluntly as he had just done. For one thing, they would never have dared with her formidable, sharp-tongued grandmother always close by. But here, today, Emily was alone and she’d have to fend for herself. She crossed her arms over her small breasts and squared her shoulders.

  “We could discuss a compromise.”

  “A compromise?” she asked warily.

  “Aye, a compromise.” He pushed away from his desk and walked towards her.

  The predatory glint in his gaze sent gooseflesh rising over her neck. She quickly retreated several steps, until her back hit the wall.

  “If you would agree to meet with me tonight, for a late supper, I would gladly print your little stories in my bi-weekly gazette.”

  From the look blazing in his beady, lead-gray eyes, she had no doubt what he meant and it had nothing to do with eating supper. That look was so intense, it ought to have frightened her, for no man had ever looked at her with such open lust.

  But instead, anger burnt through her.

  This vile man was proving everything Grandmother said about the world and its dangers correct. She hated him for that. However disgraceful a feeling it was, she couldn’t help but resent Grandmother’s protective, fearful ways. She didn’t want Grandmother to be right.

  Dear heavens, had she really been stupid enough to come here today and expect to be taken seriously? But, then again, no other printer in Philadelphia would even give her the time of day.

  She just had to get her book printed.

  She had to do it for the sake of the men still suffering in foreign captivity. It was her life’s mission.

  “Well?” Mr. Sawyer’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  Taken unawares, she wasn’t quick enough to stop him from taking her hand into his ink-stained, hot, dry one. She suppressed a shudder of revulsion and slipped it out of his grasp.

  Yet hope flared in her breast—it wouldn’t allow her to let go of the possibility that she’d misunderstood. Oh, fancy chance that she could ever slip out past Grandmother for such a late night meeting. The very thought of trying sent quavers through her limbs. But she’d have to do what she’d have to do to get her book printed. The captives were counting on her.

  “You’d really print my book, if I—I went to supper with you?” Her voice shook so hard she could barely get the words out. She wasn’t so naïve as to believe that supper meant just supper. She suppressed a shudder of revulsion, even as her heart gave a little flutter of fear.

  He’s not so bad. You can do anything if it means getting the book printed.

  But could she actually allow a man to…

  The printer’s gaze took on a shrewd glint. “Well, that’s where the compromise comes in. As far as printing a book with the woodcuts needed to reproduce your illustrations—as good as they are—I’d need to see an interest from the public for more of your work. It’s just too expensive of an investment. I will run your little stories as a series, one man’s story every two weeks.”

  Her mouth fell open and for a moment her brain wouldn’t function. Then the full outrage of his suggestion hit her. “B—but without the illustrations, my work will lose its impact! It’s just not the same at all! Without the faces to put to the names, the work seems more distant, less real. I just can’t agree to publishing anything less than the whole work as I intended it.”

  “Then we remain at an impasse. If you change your mind, come back and see me. Otherwise, I am a very busy man and, to put it bluntly, you’re wasting my time.”

  Emily left the printer’s shop, as she always did, in a state of shock. How could anyone with any sense of patriotism or compassion not jump at the chance to bring fresh sympathy to the issue of the Americans still languishing in Barbary?

  Oh, Papa.

  It was too late for him. She swallowed and blinked, hard and rapid. It did absolutely no good to dwell on the past. Papa had died a slave. But there still was a chance at freedom for the other men. She’d do whatever she had to in order to see that they got it. But she’d never, ever see her work chopped up piecemeal or slanted to appeal to base tastes.

  It must be very hard for a man like Mr. Sawyer to live with his own conscience. His sleep must be haunted with all manner of nightmares. Well, she had no time to waste on pity for that. The nation needed her work to wake it up—to save its very soul. And small, short-sighted minds like Mr. Sawyer’s were keeping it from being printed.

  She’d exhausted every avenue she could think of—what else could she possibly do?

  Chapter One

  Philadelphia, PA

  November 1793

  Warm cider wetted Alex’s parched tongue, sweet and spicy and American. It did little to quell the restlessness that crackled along his nerves like lightning along a cast iron fence. He shifted in his chair and flexed his shoulders.

  He’d come out tonight looking for something. He wasn’t quite sure what. In the past, more often than not, that something had been quim. But tonight he longed for something else. Something more dangerous. Dangerous quim, perhaps?

  He surveyed the smoke-filled public room of the Blue Duck tavern, letting his gaze flicker over each woman present. The redhead had breasts like firm, ripe melons that threatened to explode from her tight, low-cut gown. Auburn hair fascinated him—however, these curling locks shone too brassy bright, as if she’d been too zealous with henna. And she was wearing enough paint to cover the broadside of a barn. He moved on to the blonde in the dark blue velvet with the too-round face. The raven-haired wench with eyes that were too closely spaced. The tall, chestnut-haired girl…his eyes lingered on her. Well, now, she was pretty enough, but her giggles echoed on the air, a wholly irritating sound, and her large, blue eyes looked vacant.

  He couldn’t abide a dull woman.

  All right, he’d be the last person to deny it. His standards were high. Not out of any particular desire to discriminate, but simply because beauty and perfection proved so unfailingly intoxicating, like opiates but without the dry mouth and aftertaste.

  Indulgence in sex and sensuality was the only way be
sides travel where he could lose himself enough to find peace. And for a man bent on losing himself in sin, there could be no better place in Philadelphia to seek it than Hell City.

  But tonight it appeared as if every comely wench had abandoned the city. With an inward sigh, he turned to face the bar again and quaffed the remainder of his cider. Whatever he was looking for, he wasn’t finding it.

  Perhaps he should take a trip to New York or New Orleans.

  But no, he couldn’t. He’d promised his younger brother James that that he would use his considerable wealth and influence to help foster the issue of a national navy. He’d promised to stay home the entire winter while the matter was debated in Congress. God, an entire winter landlocked… Just a handful of days home from the Orient, and already his demons waited for him in the enforced self-reflection of idleness.

  He’d better find something—or someone—to fill the idle hours, else the season would prove to be a living hell.

  “Well, well, well, Dalton, I’ve been looking for you all over.”

  At the high-pitched, slightly nasal voice, Alex’s jaws clamped so tight that his teeth ground together and his neck went rigid, as though embodying his unwillingness to turn. Nevertheless, he did turn, and what he saw froze his blood to sludge. An acrid taste like ashes choked off his voice. In silence, he let his gaze slide over the deceptively boyish visage and a heavy weight of nausea settled in his guts.

  Richard Green. A cousin on his mother’s side, the small-time merchant was a coward who had once betrayed Alex in the worst way possible.

  “Dalton, I know you’ve been disparaging me. I warn you, I won’t stand for being made a fool of.” Green stared at him with a half-smirk, his lips twitching as if he were merely an innocent schoolboy called in front of the headmaster. As if, between them, Alex was the one capable of inhuman cruelty. As if it were Green whose youth had been shattered.

  Alex tightened his grip on his tankard. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to plant his fist in the middle of that smirking mouth.