Wild, Wicked and Wanton: A Hot Historical Romance Bundle

by Natasha Blackthorne

  She had missed him so terribly. Even huddled under the heaviest quilts Mrs. Webbs could find for her, Emily had still shivered herself to sleep. Only in her dreams, where Alex covered her body with his own tall, strong one, had she found any relief from the dreadful, bone deep cold.

  Determined not to show how much his absence and apparent ability to thrust her from his mind had bothered her, she affected a slight shrug. “I was asleep. It’s two in the morning.”

  “So? You’ll simply sleep later tomorrow.” He extended his hand. “Your drafts.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “The written parts. Come on, hand them over,” he replied impatiently.

  Shrugging, she handed him the stack of papers. “Why do you want them?”

  “I want to know what I am endorsing.”

  She gave him a suspicious look. “You already saw it at Mr. Jefferson’s office.”

  “Well, maybe I want to know it bit more intimately. Take a seat.” He motioned to the other settee.

  She sat down. His business-like demeanor made her uneasy and she fidgeted with the belt of her wrapper, uncertain what to say or do. She glanced about and noticed the stack of papers on the side table. “What were you working on?”

  “An article admonishing those who allow party politics to divide them, especially when neither the French nor the English can be trusted.” He began reading her pages, absently chewing on his quill as he did so.

  After a while she decided to bring up something that had been weighing on her mind. “Alex?”

  “Mmm?” he asked distractedly.

  “I know a former sailor. He’s disabled. Being illiterate, he’s had it very hard.”

  He looked up and sharply at her. “You’re asking if I have a job for this man?”

  She nodded.

  His face grew pained. “Emily, I can’t hire everyone you know who is in dire straits.”

  “I am not asking you to—I simply wonder if you have a position for this man. His wife was a good friend to me in the boarding house.”

  He lifted his glass to his lips, took a drink, then paused. “Oh, what the hell—I suppose I could ask the Sexton manager if he can find a place in his warehouses. However, this is something I’ve made it a rule not to do.”

  “Hiring a disabled man?”

  He looked at her archly. “No—mixing my private life with my business.”

  “There’s something I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, yes? What’s that?”

  “You’re wealthy, right?”

  “Aye, I am wealthy. But you knew that, so let’s have it. Out with what’s really on your mind.”

  “You could afford to ransom many men from Algeria?”

  He winced. “Oh, Emily. I know the situation seems so simple to you, but it’s not. If men like me were to step in and ransom those men held captive, it would only encourage the pirates to become bolder. And paying endless tributes to those greedy blood-leeches is not the answer either.”

  She couldn’t believe he could be so cool about the issue. “But something must be done.”

  “Yes—we need to go to war and beat them down to their knees so that they will quake in fear at the mere mention of the United States.”

  “But everyone says that cannot be done. That we’re too small.”

  “Though we’ve limited financial resources, we have a burgeoning population and we’re only as small as we allow ourselves to be. But we need a navy to go to war with a country half the world away.”

  “It’s only a handful of men. Surely they could be ransomed and then later our country could worry about all of this navy and war business?”

  “Not having a national navy threatens to place our country in a crisis. Fairly soon, either the British or the French are going to do something so atrocious we’ll be forced to either fight them or capitulate.”

  She could see that he was sincere in his belief, but she didn’t really believe it herself. He was worried about the larger effects and forgetting the individual human lives involved.

  “And you want to use my book, my art, to further the cause of this national navy?”

  “Aye, I do.” He studied her for a moment. “But you don’t trust me, do you? I mean, not on this.”

  “No, I don’t,” she admitted.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So this is just automatic resistance against anyone using your work for something you didn’t originally intend?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, if you let me use your work, you get to have your work printed—and maybe you’ll even get things settled your way. It might move people to raise ransom money for those men.”

  “But you don’t believe that’s the proper way to solve the issue.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then I don’t understand why you’d take a chance on backing my work, if it might convince others to ransom them.”

  “Others have to work according to their own consciences, just as I must work according to mine. That’s part of living in a free republic—we have to accept it.” He resumed reading, flipping through the pages one by one, scanning intently. For some reason, her heart stayed lodged in her throat in a way it hadn’t done when the printers had looked over her work.

  And it wasn’t just because she and Alex were lovers. It was because he took her work seriously, whereas the printers had not. Now he seemed to want to try to find fault with it. Was that because he now found fault with her? Nervous energy surged through her legs, making her want to get up and pace. She pulled the skirt of her wrapper tight over her knees and forced herself to sit still. She began to feel a bit ill.

  But why? There was nothing wrong with her work.

  Was there?

  Finally, he glanced up. “It’s very good, but it contains far too many errors and it lacks structure. I’ll edit it.”

  “Edit?” The word wrapped like a cold, iron fist around her heart. “I don’t want anyone interfering with my work.” She reached out and snatched her journal book from his hands.

  “Now, don’t be offended. In truth it’s far better than I expected. It’s good, but it lacks a certain uniformity”

  “I don’t want or need your editorial help, thank you very much.”

  “I am not asking.” His voice was firm. “I am telling you this work must be edited or you won’t see a penny from me to have it printed. You may be stubborn-headed and suffering from a severe case of emotional myopia as regards your work, but I won’t let you short-change your own work and I sure as hell won’t put my name behind something that is less than it could be.”

  “But you’re not a professional editor. And what do you know of art?”

  “I know how the work should be presented.”

  “Presented to further your political agendas?”

  “It’s the best for the country. For the people involved.”

  “You’re a maker of maps and a political writer, that’s true. But you’re not an artist. You don’t have a feel for…art.” Fear of what might happen to the work she had crafted so carefully pressed on her so hard, making her voice sound hoarse. She felt so vulnerable in the face of his great wealth and social power.

  If he wished to press his advantage, he could mold her work into whatever he wanted. And she would be forced to choose between staying true to her vision or getting her work into print in whatever form he would allow.

  The unfairness of it burnt into her.

  What she had just said to him was completely true.

  He did not have experience as an artist—or even as an editor of art books!

  He didn’t have the needed artistic understanding or experience. She could have bowed to someone’s else greater experience, if he had it. Or if he had a more neutral view of her work, rather than one tainted by a need for political polemic that suited his cause.

  Well, it was her work, and she wanted it to be slanted to the side of the human cause. T
he dignity and humanity of the enslaved mariners.

  But how to make this man understand that? Especially when, for whatever reason, he seemed opposed to actually hearing and understanding her side of things?

  She took a deep breath. “Alex, I could accept an editor, but only if—”

  He held up a forestalling hand. “Enough. The work will be edited, or it won’t be printed.”

  Anger at his presumption boiled in her blood. “I knew you’d feel entitled—”

  His golden brows rose and the whites of his eyes seemed to widen. “Sweetheart, I don’t feel entitled. I know I’m entitled, by my own vested interest in your book.”

  She gaped at him, her heart pounding in her ears, each beat resounding with the most profound frustration. “But you’ll take my vision and change it into something it isn’t supposed to be.”

  Her voice sounded small and girlish. As powerless as she felt. He didn’t know what he was asking of her. It was as if he were reaching into her soul and rearranging all the particles of the foundation of her being. No one had ever invaded her creative vision like that. Her creative vision was the only place in her life where she had all the power of choice, the final say. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow him to take that away from her.

  “How can you trust me so little?” He actually had the audacity to look hurt when she was the wounded party.

  “How can I trust you when you are determined to corrupt my vision?”

  His face contorted with concern. “Sweetheart, you’re just too close to your own vision to see it clearly.” He rose from his settee.

  She stared up at him as he came to sit beside her. “But Alex, you don’t have the artistic expertise…”

  Her voice died off as he touched her shoulders. There was something so possessive, so proprietary in his touch.

  Now she understood.

  The jeweler, the fine clothes, the sumptuous food and expensive wine—even the sensual pleasures he gave her—all were intended to bend her to his will. Bend her so he could use her work for the sake of his own cause. And she was allowing such luxury to sway her. To tie her closer to this man who wanted to prostitute her art.

  But from this day forward she would fight the temptation.

  The time had come to leave Alex.

  She swept her gaze over his handsome features and her stomach sank, every particle of herself cried out in protest to her mind’s declaration. She’d never felt such a reluctance to believe her own rational processes. Surely there was a way to stay and manage to keep her emotional balance, to enjoy him as a lover and yet not lose herself to him.

  Surely she could learn to love him more lightly? Couldn’t she learn to play by the rules of his life, to be as carefree with her attentions as he apparently was able to be with his?

  But no.

  She knew it was time to leave him.

  No matter if she didn’t want to.

  The connection to him was simply too threatening now. He wanted to control her artistic work and shape it into something else. Something that could be used to meet his own ends. And she wasn’t sure what she believed about the national navy issue. She needed time to think things out.

  But her own intense responses gave him a power over her that she could allow no one to have.

  She jerked away from him.

  “Ah, so it’s like that, is it?” His voice was gentle, tender, and her heart threatened to soften. To betray her.

  No—she wouldn’t let him do this to her. He was controlling her just as surely as Grandmother had. Controlling her with the silken trap of her affection for him and her own sensuality. Her liking for all the luxury and affection her secret side had hungered for. She tightened her fists and dug her nails into her palms and refused the urge to turn and look at him.

  “My book is a work of art from my own heart. The people I interviewed through letters spoke directly from their hearts to mine and I have faithfully recreated their stories. It is not flawed.”

  “I never said it was flawed. I said it was very good but we can work together to make it better.”

  His cognac-smooth voice was beguiling. She wanted to believe him, but she knew better. Grandmother was right. Gentlemen were arrogant and they thought they knew everything better than a woman did. Some men were bullies who intimidated with their loud voices and fists, but Alex dominated with his charm. He was by far the more dangerous type of man. And after living with Grandmother, she’d sworn she’d never be manipulated again. What was she doing here with this man?

  Suddenly, she needed to be alone. Desperately.

  “I think I shall go to bed now,” she said.

  “If you must, but we’re not done with this conversation. If you want your work printed, you’ll let me edit it. Do you understand me?”

  “Oh, I understand only too well. Because of my social station, my lack of wealth, my gender and my age, I don’t have the power to get my work printed as it was meant to be seen. You hold all the power and you choose to use it. Now I am forced to allow the corruption because it is the only way I may get my work distributed to the people of this nation, now, without further delays. All right, it is an urgent matter and I am powerless, I must allow the corruption.”

  His handsome face contorted as if he were pained. More manipulation. She wouldn’t cave in to it. She lifted her chin.

  He took her hand. “Emily, that’s not the way it is.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, it is not.”

  “Then prove it.”

  “How? What proof will you accept?”

  “Hire an independent editor. Someone with artistic experience.”

  “There’s no time for that.” He put his other hand over hers as well. “You are tired and I shouldn’t have tried to press matters at this time of night. I am simply busy and it is hard to find other times for us to discuss the matter.”

  “No, the time of day is not the issue. I will never be reconciled to the use of my art to further your cause. I will never forgive you for this.”

  * * * *

  The next day, Emily stared in dismay at the noon meal Sally had brought to her in her small, personal sitting room. She had suffered all morning with her righteous hurt and anger and refused herself all food. But now the aroma of duck served in a honey glaze of tangy orange and cranberries threatened to put an end to her hunger strike.

  She held firm against temptation. “Please take this away, Sally.”

  Sally eyed her sourly. “When he heard you refused to eat, Mr. Dalton ordered Mrs. Webbs to make that special for you. If you don’t eat it, you’re going to offend her.”

  Left alone, Emily nibbled listlessly at the succulent duck. His concern and attention were just another way to try to control her actions. She let her fork fall, glancing about the luxurious room. All of this luxury was too seductive. It gave him too much power to be able to provide it. She mustn’t get too soft.

  Soon you’ll have to return to blood pudding, bitter coffee and cold boarding house rooms.

  Very soon after last night’s revelations. Alex had finally shown his true face.

  He could easily have hired an independent editor, someone with artistic experience. If he wanted the work edited, he should have found and hired such an editor earlier in the life of the project. Now he was just using the time constraint as an excuse to do what he had always planned.

  He fully intended to alter her art to suit his own needs. She was simply a tool.

  He had her now. The publication of her book could be delayed no longer. Those men were suffering, and the longer they stayed in captivity, the greater the chance they would die there and never know freedom again. She must trust in the divine will of Providence. Would her book turn people’s hearts, no matter how it was slanted? Dear God, she hoped so! For her work was now in the hands of politicians and polemicists. Mr. Jefferson had seemed so kind, so wise, so moved by simple human decency. She had believed that his humanity had inspired him to help her with the f
unding for the book.

  What a fool she had been! Had he, too, only wanted to use her work to further his own political agenda?

  She had to admit she didn’t really know what Jefferson’s true political agenda was. Shame washed over her. She had thought that she had viewed her book as a project, from every possible angle.

  Yet, she had lacked the life experience needed to truly see all of those angles.

  She hadn’t researched enough, hadn’t foreseen what other people might want to gain from her work and the whole Algerian situation. She had been too single-minded, too focused only on her vision.

  She had trusted that others—even men as powerful as Jefferson and Alexander Dalton—would view the situation the same as she did. That they would put the well-fare of the enslaved mariners above all other considerations.

  Now she saw her mistake. The harsh lesson settled bitterly in her craw.

  But it was too late to correct it. Too late to change her course of action. Indeed, there might not have been any help for it in any case. No one else had cared enough about the issue to be moved to help her get her book into print.

  How disillusioning to learn that human decency held no value—that everything was about political gain.

  Maybe this was the only way to get even the kernel of her message out, to bend to these political propagandists. It wasn’t a truth she could easily accept, but it was the truth nonetheless.

  Oh, it was too hard to have this mission, too soul-rending to have the importance of it pressing on her, driving her…and to know that she had been unable to find others of a like mind and a kindred heart.

  Alone.

  She was completely, utterly alone.

  Never had she felt such bitter, cold aloneness.

  Perhaps the feeling was worse because she had allowed herself to believe in Alex’s friendship. Because he had only been patronizing her in order to get control over her art.

  Twirling a ringlet about her finger several times and tapping her foot in short, rapid jerks, she sipped despondently at her claret. The rich wine glided over her tongue.

  Warmth passed through her body, easing the gnawing ache of loneliness inside her.

  She downed the glass then had another and another and another. Each one seemed better than the last. The warmth filled her, from the top of her head right down to her toes. It was like being bathed in pure sunlight.