Straight For The Heart

by Marsha Canham

  He swallowed hard and scrambled onto the bed, his knees tangling in the sheets. Alisha caught him as he fell heavily on top of her, her curse smothered under a hail of wet, sliding kisses.

  “My dearest one!” he cried. “My darling! How I’ve waited for this moment! How I’ve longed for it!”

  Alisha cried out as well, not from any sense of unrequited passion, but because his fat, clumsy hands were pulling at her hair, kneading her flesh, straining the fragile seams of her gown from shoulder to thigh. He seemed not to notice or care. He nuzzled and rooted at her flesh like a pig searching for truffles, moaning and grunting as he started to thrust himself against her thigh, stabbing at her through the ungiving layers of their bedclothes.

  “Wait,” she gasped anxiously, hearing the distinct rasp of tearing silk. “For heaven’s sake, wait!”

  “It is best to do this quickly, my dove,” he declared in a quivering vibrato. “Especially the first time. Afterward”— he panted—“we can take more time to explore and savor, but for now … ahh … !”

  Grasping, spatulate fingers greedily shoved the hem of her gown above her hips. Alisha locked her knees against their rough intrusion, but he was surprisingly strong, and as feverishly determined to wedge her thighs apart as she was to keep them together. He won the tussle with a victorious yelp and positioned himself eagerly at the breach, misreading her continuing struggles as passion, her cries as maidenly modesty as he hiked up his nightshirt and prepared to sheath himself in ecstasy.

  “Karl … wait a moment … please!”

  “A moment indeed, my love,” he trumpeted. “Only a moment more and bliss awaits us.”

  “But I can’t! I can’t do this!”

  “You can, my pet. Hold fast! I have you now! Hold fast to me, my petal, and … augh!”

  He plunged forward, driving most of the air out of Alisha’s lungs as he thrust his bulk over her. Too dazed to do more than gasp for a breath, she tried in vain to brace herself as he started bouncing and slamming her into the mattress. Her fists pounded and flailed at him to no avail. Her curses came on snatched gulps of air each time he heaved his sweating body into hers.

  “Ahh … ahh … ahh …”

  She swore and boxed his ears with the heels of her hands.

  “… ahhhh!”

  The balding, beet-red head jerked out of the crook of her neck with a strangled cry and Alisha gave one last mighty shove, managing to twist free just as something hot and wet spurted across her belly. Her groan of shock and revulsion was genuine as the clinging, clammy mass of doughy flesh collapsed on top of her and quivered to a halt, gasping words of undaunted passion into her ear.

  “My love, my dearest, my precious one …”

  “My God! Get off of me! Get off of me, I can’t breathe!”

  “Of course,” he gasped. “Of course. How thoughtless of me.”

  She groaned again as he hoisted himself free and rolled beside her onto the bed. The rush of cold air was welcomed but she dared not move in fear of discovering that every bone in her body had been crushed to pulp.

  “Alisha, my flower. Have you any idea how happy you have made me tonight?”

  She turned her head so he would not see the disgust and loathing in her eyes.

  “I can’t begin to imagine,” she whispered hoarsely. Then, remembering the role she had to play, she added through her teeth, “As happy as you have made me.”

  “No … happier. Far, far happier, my swan.”

  I cannot argue with that, she thought murderously.

  “I … hope I did not hurt you too much.”

  “No. No, Karl. You have made me very happy. If I acted foolishly, or afraid, it was because I … I honestly did not think it could be like this.”

  The sarcasm was lost under a crushing embrace.

  “Oh, my dearest petal,” he cried, and scooped her into the circle of his arms. “This is only the beginning! It will be much better for you the next time, and the next after that. I’m afraid I was so eager tonight I did not take the time … but in the coming weeks and months—” He stopped, overcome with rapture at the prospect.

  “Months.” She shuddered, doubting she could survive another week. “Months, yes. In the coming months I shall try to do my wifely duty and … and make you proud of me, and of the family we shall create together.”

  Karl clutched her hand and squeezed it against his lips. “I am rapturously proud of you already, my dove. You and I are more than family enough.”

  “Still, I intend to give you sons. In fact, I will not rest until I give you a fine, handsome son to carry on your name.”

  “Oh, my dearest, if it were only possible,” he whispered fervently, nearly putting his teeth through her hand as he caressed it.

  “It is not only possible, it is more than likely. You”—she choked back the bile that rose in her throat as she saw the mess on her belly—“are so virile, so manly. The seven children you gave your former wife are proof of that; the fact they were all daughters was no fault of yours.”

  He rolled onto his back with a despairing sigh and Alisha was momentarily distracted by the sight of his dome-shaped belly heaving to one side, then listing to the other before it settled. She caught the last few words he muttered, however, and came warily to attention.

  “… no fault of mine at all. They were my wife’s children, you see. She was a widow with an established family when I married her.”

  “Well—” Alisha tried to feign a wifely concern as she rearranged the folds of his nightshirt to cover his exposed belly and thighs. “I shall give you sons of your own. I am quite determined.”

  “It would take more than determination, I’m afraid,” he explained in an agony of embarrassment. “I am, my pet, quite unable to father children at all.”

  Alisha’s hand paused in the process of smoothing the cotton. “What? What did you say?”

  “I assure you it is the truth.”

  Alisha sat slowly upright, her gaze fixed on the mole that sat like a wart on the end of his nose. “How can you be so sure? I mean, you seem … perfectly healthy.”

  “Healthy?” he whined. “My heart has palpitations, my legs swell abominably with the gout. You already know my little problems with, ah, gaseous expulsions, although the doctors claim they have had some success with extract of ipecac. On the other hand, it is also true that the von Helmstaads tend to live into their eighth and ninth decades, and after tonight, well, I feel as if I could live forever in your arms, my pet. But children? No. No, I am certain, beyond a doubt, that children of my own, alas, would be impossible. An illness in my childhood rendered it so.”

  Alisha stared at him in growing horror. “Why did you not tell me this before now? If you knew you could not father children, why did you not tell me before you married me?”

  “Why, precious.” He reddened and shrank back cm the pillows. “I thought … that is, I assumed …”

  “You assumed what?” she demanded, the fury crackling in her voice.

  “I thought you would be relieved.”

  “Relieved? Relieved!”

  “I assumed my wealth, my title, the prestige you would gain as my wife would more than compensate for the loss. It never once occurred to me that you would possess any maternal instincts. Rather, I would have sworn the opposite having seen how you blossom and flourish under the heady lights of society. Knowing this and knowing how you would sparkle with diamonds at your throat and servants to tend to your every whim, I … I foolishly thought only in terms of offering you material happiness. I thought it would be sufficient.”

  Alisha was almost too furious to reply. The flatulent old fool had seen right through her, had known exactly why she had married him and had known what she wanted out of this unholy union all along. Almost everything, that is. It had never occurred to him that motherhood was foremost in her mind just as it had never occurred to her that the oaf could be sterile. Well, he had delivered his surprise tonight; hers would be arriving in somew
hat less than seven months’ time.

  He would simply have to accept the child as his and pretend to the world he had fathered it. What man could refuse such an opportunity to boast his potency?

  “What is more,” he was saying, still trying to appease his lovely young wife, “a child now would be disastrous. Simply disastrous.”

  The twist of irony faded from her lips and Alisha glared at him again. “What do you mean, disastrous?”

  “It would ruin us,” he huffed. “Utterly ruin us, my love. Strip us of every penny and probably see us tossed out onto the street like paupers.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “You said yourself, you are a rich man, with wealth, a title, prestige …”

  He coughed uncomfortably. “Well, ah, and so I am … to a certain extent. You see, the von Helmstaads are a very old, very revered family in Europe. Descendants of royalty, don’t you know, and as such, the family fortune and title are held in trust, safeguarded and preserved for succeeding generations to come. When it, ah, became apparent that I would not be able to sire an heir of my own, my nephew Wolfgang was named as my successor. Upon my death, he will assume the title, as well as possession of all the von Helmstaad holdings in Europe and here in America.”

  “What on earth does that have to do with a child? I should think you would want one in order to keep your fortune intact.”

  “It is a dreadfully complex matter, my dove. I really don’t think—”

  “What does it have to do with a child?” she insisted, startling him with a sharp jab in the ribs.

  “W-well, several years ago there were unforeseen circumstances—bad investments and the like—which caused me to, ah, violate some of the terms of the trust. When the discrepancies were discovered, I was forced to sign control of the family businesses and estates over to Wolfgang. It was all done very discreetly, of course; the family would not abide any further scandal, and as soon as your war ended, I was banished here, to America, and given a generous stipend yearly to run the family’s export interests on this side of the ocean. It is all fairly complicated and nothing at all for you to worry your pretty head about, but suffice it to say, the appearance of an heir now would nullify the terms of the agreement I made with Wolfgang. At the very least I could be brought to account for the breech of trust. I could be prosecuted, shamed, humiliated beyond endurance and, in the end, probably be forced to flee for my very life. Wolfgang,” he added with a small shudder, “is not a nice person to cross.”

  “What about your daughters … your wife’s daughters. They bear your name, do they not?”

  “Proudly so,” he agreed. “But they were never considered my legal heirs. Arabella was a wealthy woman in her own right and they inherited from her.”

  Alisha gaped at her new husband and felt her skin shrinking from the bones, crawling with horror. She had married this pompous, bloated ass in order to secure her future, to safeguard her own reputation against the shame of bearing an illegitimate child. Now he was telling her it had all been for nothing. She could end up worse off than she had been before, only this time she would be saddled with a squalling, hungry baby and a blubbering, useless husband.

  “Don’t look so distressed, my sweeting. Nothing is going to spoil our blissful union, now or ever. Wolfgang has agreed to a generous allowance for the both of us.” He leaned over and cupped a pudgy hand around her breast, molding it to the shape of his palm as he prepared to claim it with his lips.

  “Don’t you touch me!” she snarled, scrambling to the side of the bed. “Don’t you ever touch me again!”

  Having fallen facedown on the mattress when she slipped out of his grasp, von Helmstaad took a moment to right himself, and by then, she had jumped off the bed and was half way to the door.

  “Alisha? My goddess! My love! Where are you going?”

  She screamed out of sheer exasperation and snatched a large crystal decanter of perfume off the dressing table as she ran past. She delayed only long enough to hurl it at the bed and see it smash into a thousand bits on the wall over his head.

  Karl had dived for cover when he saw the missile coming. He was quick enough to avoid the spray of broken glass, but not the spray of pungent French perfume. He had no idea what had set his genteel young wife off in such a volcanic display of distemper. He certainly had had no idea that the flighty, flirtatious Alisha Courtland could have cared a fig for motherhood. After all, he had been honest and forthright in confessing his inadequacy as well as his indiscretion with the von Helmstaad trust. He could have simply said nothing and enjoyed her efforts to conceive a child. He could have pretended he was equally determined, equally indefatigable in his quest to produce an heir. Arabella had been cold and unresponsive in the bedroom, making him beg and plead for every minute he spent between her thighs. Alisha promised to be stunning in more ways than one.

  Time. Perhaps she just needed time to adjust to everything that was new in her life. A new husband, a new home … it was undoubtedly daunting for a young woman of such exquisitely tender sensibilities. She would come around. He was convinced things would look vastly different in the morning when she found his little gift on the breakfast table. She was, after all, born to wear diamonds. The size and worth of the one waiting to be suspended between those perfect white breasts would soothe whatever anxieties she had suffered tonight. He wouldn’t have to tell her the pendant, along with the other jewels he would adorn her with, were merely on loan, that they belonged to the von Helmstaad estate and would eventually go to Wolfgang with everything else.

  He was, if nothing else, a man who learned from his mistakes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  E. Forrest Wainright straightened the knot of his cravat and cursed as he brushed the flecks of dandruff off the stark blackness of his frockcoat. He could scarcely believe he had heard his houseman correctly: Amanda Courtland Jackson was requesting an audience with him and was waiting in his parlor this very moment.

  The name, when Bentick had first said it, had sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. That had been half an hour ago and while the initial shock had passed, the pleasure had not. It had grown proportionately with each minute he delayed, each step of his personal toilet he prolonged in order to organize his thoughts and—perhaps—unsettle hers.

  He did not want to appear to be either eager or expectant. Curious, yes, for she should surly have known her appearance here, without a chaperone, on a bright church-going Sunday morning would rouse nothing less. No doubt she had been sent by that arrogant, upstart brother of hers to plead yet again for more time. If that was the case, she would be sorely disappointed, for he had about expended his patience with the Courtland family. All of them. He had offered to buy the land outright and the offer had been thrown back in his face. He had made a sincerely genuine offer of marriage and that too had been slapped back in his face. If she had come to beg, he would let her. It would, in fact, give him the greatest pleasure on earth to see her humble and meek, her hands clasped in supplication, her eyes filled with tears. Perhaps he would even test her, see how far she was prepared to prostrate herself in order to save her precious brother’s pride.

  Wainright cast a critical eye in the mirror, tipping his head this way and that, and smoothed an errant lock of copper-colored hair over his ear.

  He had come a long way in the last seven years. Enlisting in the Army had probably been the smartest thing he had ever done, for when they had discovered his talents for scrounging, bartering, and outright stealing supplies and munitions for his outfit, he had been transferred into the quartermaster corps—a veritable gold mine of goods he had sold for ten times, fifty times its worth on the black market.

  He had come out of the war a rich, rich man and had come South with the rest of the insightful investors, knowing the devastated towns would need supplies to rebuild, and suspecting the shattered Southern aristocracy would be hungry to buy goods and luxuries that had been denied them during the long years of blockades. Wainright n
ow owned four sizable plantations, several businesses, and held solid investments in shipping and banking. He had initially wanted Rosalie for both its prestige and location, although the latter had lost some of its appeal lately, what with the extensive flooding and damage to the crops. He might even have walked away from it, turned his eye to some other plum prospect, had the Courtlands not risen above the normal level of arrogance he had encountered, spitting at his offers, laughing in his face!

  No one spat at E. Forrest Wainright. No one laughed in his face. No one bested him at his own game, and no one—no one humiliated him and walked away unscathed. He was determined to have Rosalie now if only to let it stand empty and rot to the bare floors.

  He would see Amanda Jackson. He would hear her out, nod in sympathy, commiserate with her tales of woe and tragedy. In the end, however, he would slap her down as coldly, as cruelly, as thoughtlessly as she had rebuked him.

  It was a shame, really, for they would have made a magnificent couple. Her beauty, her elegance, her refinement would have removed the taint of cheap speculator from his profile. With her by his side, he would have been invited, no, welcomed into the best homes in Natchez. With a beautiful Southern wife on his arm, he might have aspired to the governor’s office, or even higher, attaining heights of power and influence that made him dizzy just to think about it.

  He could have had the other one—the sister—for a song. But then so could every other warm-blooded stud in trousers. He had gone that route once, falling for a whore who opened her thighs to any man who waved a coin. He didn’t mind using whores, he just had no desire to be married to one. The lovely Widow Jackson, on the other hand, was a lady. She would have brought out the best in him, he had no doubt, and helped rid him of the taint of his northern roots.

  He swelled his lungs with a final deep breath and strode out of his dressing room, glancing at the imported Louis XIV canopy bed as he walked past.

  “This shouldn’t take too long, my dear,” he said. “You will strive to keep everything warm for me?”