“Fair enough.” With a short bow of his head, he left her alone with Aileen.
Putting the laudanum on the writing table, Aileen took Charles’s coat from around Lillian’s shoulders, then her cloak. “Mr. Lowell Adams is right,” she said. “Rest is the best thing for you right now. Your poor head must be aching.”
“A little,” Lillian said.
“Do you want me to brew some tea and put a splash of laudanum in it?”
“No, I don’t think so. You know how it upsets my stomach.” She touched her hair, felt the crust of dried blood and grimaced. “What I’d really like is a bath.”
“Not going to happen tonight, I’m afraid. But you wait here,” Aileen said, gently pushing her down onto the bed. “I’ll get some more hot water and we’ll sponge the worst of it out.”
In short order, marginally cleaner hair curling damply around her face, Lillian let Aileen bully her into reclining. As soon as her head touched the pillow, she felt every ache and pain in her body. She must have rattled more than her head when she fell out of bed. Exhaustion dragged her down, weighting her limbs. Her eyelids fluttered shut as she felt Aileen remove her slippers and pull up the covers. They, too, smelled of Charles. Comforted, Lillian gave up the fight and let sleep take her.
Chapter 16
“Like any small town, a rail camp has its share of bad apples. It’s usually not too difficult to sort them out from the good.”
— Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company
Yorke saw Murchison standing at the edge of darkness, observing the efforts to subdue the flames sparked by the explosion. The man lifted a cigarette to his lips. The tip glowed cherry red in the night as he sucked in a long drag. Yorke spared only a hurried glance around to ensure no one was watching before joining the other man.
“An explosion?” he whispered harshly as soon as he was certain Murchison could hear him. “Right under Mrs. Cabot’s car? What were you thinking?”
At first, Murchison was so silent Yorke thought he might not answer. He took another drag on his cigarette, blowing out an acrid cloud of smoke on a leisurely exhale. “I was thinking you wanted the Cabot woman to cry off on this expedition she’s planning. I was thinking you said to step it up, no matter the cost. What better way to send the woman screaming back to Boston than to give her a little scare?” His voice lowered menacingly. “And I’m thinking it’s not a wise thing to draw attention to me right here, right now. Not too clever for a clever fellow like yourself, Mr. Yorke.”
Yorke felt a flush rise on his cheeks at the not-so-subtle reprimand. Shoving aside his trepidation at the other man’s animosity, he reined in his anger. “Afraid, yes. Injured, no. The last thing we want is for Worthington to hire a private army to keep his precious daughter safe. Bad enough she’s released the funds for Devereaux to hire more guards.”
Murchison shrugged, dropping his cigarette to the ground and crushing it out with the toe of his boot. “Easy enough to avoid.” He stared over Yorke’s shoulder and said softly, “It’s other fellas I’m more concerned about.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the Cabot woman wasn’t alone in her car when I lit the dynamite. Has a taste for the Paddies.”
Yorke felt his spine stiffen. “Mrs. Cabot was…entertaining Maguire in her car?”
Murchison’s lips twitched into a leer. “Entertaining. Yeah, I’d say what they were doing was downright entertaining.”
Outrage swept through Yorke on a cold tide of bitterness. Lillian Cabot was not just flirting with Maguire and Lowell Adams. She’d taken a filthy Irishman to her bed. He thought of how she clung to Lowell Adams as the man led her away to the crew car, and wondered if Maguire was her only lover. He tasted bile at the memory of how she spurned his respectful advances, yet found Maguire and Lowell Adams acceptable.
“Perhaps I was too hasty,” he said, forcing the conciliatory words out past his anger. “You’re right. It’s time to send Mrs. Cabot screaming into the night. That’ll be the quickest way to put an end to her plans for the investors’ excursion. And without a steady influx of money, work on the line will stall.”
“Speaking of money, the job’s changed. So’s the price.”
Yorke narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve gotta avoid more guards, get more creative with my little projects,” Murchison said. “And now you want me to set my sights on a specific lady, a lady whose pa has the pockets to buy whatever he needs to make my life difficult.”
“I never told you to target Mrs. Cabot’s railcar!”
“Now you have. And it’ll cost you.” Murchison pinned Yorke with cold, merciless eyes. “Unless you want me finding another employer? One who might be interested in what I have to say about what’s going on in this camp?”
“Blackmail?”
Murchison shrugged. “Business.”
Yorke struggled with his outrage. He should have known better than to trust Murchison would keep to the terms of their bargain. The man was no better than a common outlaw. “Fine. You’ll get your money.”
“Good.”
“But here’s what I want you to do—”
“Yorke,” Murchison said, his eyes on the private car. The flames were out. “How’s about you worry about your end of things, and I’ll worry about mine.”
Without another word, he slid into the shadows and disappeared. Yorke shot a glance over his shoulder to see what had sent Murchison into the night. Lowell Adams and the Irishman were part of the group examining the damage to the Worthington car. The two men stared in his direction.
Yorke felt his lip curl. Lillian had welcomed the Irishman into her bed, and probably that blue-blood Lowell Adams as well. It made him sick. Pivoting on his heel, he stalked toward camp. Murchison was proving to be an unreliable partner. Maybe it was time to make alternate plans. Then, if Murchison couldn’t get the job done, by God, he would. And Lillian Cabot would regret refusing Edward Yorke. In fact, it was time he treated her like what she was. A whore.
* * * *
Charles swung down the crew car’s steps, finally letting the fury he’d concealed from Lillian take over his thoughts. His hands clenched into fists, and he stalked toward her private car. Now that the fire was under control, some of the men had dispersed. By the lantern glow, he noted a number of engineers examining the mangled undercarriage. Fortunately, the surrounding vegetation was sparse. Other than the wooden ties supporting the tracks, there was little to burn outside the car. That, and the fact the dynamite was set at the front, away from the rear sleeping compartment, was all that had saved Lillian and Conn from serious harm.
He thought of the blood on Lillian’s face, and his temper spiked.
The fires, spoiled water and food, even the attacks on the tunnel crews had been troublesome, dangerous. But the attack on Lillian’s car smacked of something else. Something more sinister. Charles knew the extremes men would go to in the name of greed and wealth. Or even simple competiveness. It wasn’t hard to speculate on a motive for the attacks, if not the specific perpetrator. Slowing the advance of the Great Western Rail Company left room for its competitors to reach the western shipping routes first. The company that did would reap the lion’s share of government and private grants, not to mention access to lucrative trade with Japan, China and the rest of Asia.
A motion in the shadows drew his attention. It was Yorke, speaking to a man Charles didn’t recognize. In his months traveling with the work crews, he’d come to recognize many of the men on sight, if not by name. The stranger must have arrived with the influx brought by the hell on wheels.
Yorke and the stranger stood apart from the others, almost hidden by the darkness away from Lillian’s car and the work lamps. Only Yorke’s pale jacket gave them away. The other man wore a long, dark coat similar to Conn’s duster. A deep-brimmed hat concealed most of his face. His height dwarfed the slighter Yorke, who wore a pinched, angry expression. The o
ther man watched impassively as Yorke gesticulated.
Abruptly, the stranger looked up and met Charles’s gaze. He said something to Yorke, then vanished into the darkness. Yorke stared after him, then glared at Charles and stalked toward camp. Charles watched him go. He’d never liked Worthington’s secretary.
He wasn’t the only one interested in Yorke’s unusual meeting. Conn, the rough blanket he’d used to beat out the fire draped over one shoulder, followed the secretary’s retreat with hooded eyes.
“What was that about?” Charles asked.
“Don’t know.” Conn was silent for a moment, then, “Yorke seem like the kind of man to chit-chat with his sort?”
“No. Now that you mention it, he doesn’t.”
“Think I’ll have a talk with Devereaux. See what he knows about the man.”
“Good idea. Lillian’s in our cabin for the night with Miss McCurdy.”
Conn nodded his approval. “Expect Delilah will be able to get back into her car tomorrow, once it’s aired out and the mess picked up.”
Charles shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I don’t think she should be alone until whoever is doing this is captured.”
“Agreed. She won’t be.”
They eyed each other. “Turns then?” Charles said.
Conn shrugged. “Or not. Doesn’t bother me if you stay in the car too.”
“We’ll have to be careful. We can’t take chances with Lilly’s reputation. She’s a brave lady, but…”
“Then we won’t be seen going into her private car. Unless you don’t think you can sneak in?”
“I can go undetected just as well as you can, old man.”
“There you go, then.”
Chapter 17
“Hard work and hardship await many a man who works on the line. Far from family and home, and the comforts to be found among such, it can be more than some men can bear. But others thrive on the adventure of it all.”
— Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company
A shadow moved in the mirror. Lillian, arms uplifted to her coiffure, stilled. Her heart jumped as she realized her vulnerability, alone in her car, clad in just her flimsy underthings. The attack on her car the night before should have made her more wary.
Turning her head sharply, she saw Conn lounged in the doorway, one arm negligently braced on the frame. He’d discarded his coat, and stood in shirtsleeves and trousers, the simple waistcoat emphasizing a lean, well-muscled torso. His dark eyes gleamed hotly in the lamplight filling her chamber and she felt her heart beat faster for an entirely different reason.
“You startled me,” she said, voice breathy, devoid of the sharp tone she intended.
“Oh, don’t mind me, Delilah,” he said. “You carry on. Charlie and me aren’t about to leave you on your own while there’s trouble in the camp.”
“Ah, I see. So it’s for my own good that you’re here.”
“Well,” he said, “not entirely your own good.” His lips curved in a wicked, anticipatory smile she recognized all too well. “I’m thinking you don’t mind so much, in any case.”
“No,” she said, concealing her own smile. “I don’t mind. Why don’t you come in, then?”
“In a bit. I rather like the sights from here.”
Lillian shrugged delicately. “Suit yourself.”
She shifted on the tiny stool in front of her vanity and turned back to her mirror. Moving her head just a bit, she was able to watch Conn’s reflection. Knowing he was watching had an immediate effect on her body. Electric desire coursed through her veins. A flush pinkened the pale flesh of her breasts where they swelled above the low, loose bodice of her chemise. Her nipples, already aroused by the simple sight of him, beaded to an almost painful hardness. Wet warmth gathered between her thighs and her belly clenched as she remembered what it felt like to have Conn mastering her body, his hard fingers clenching her hips and buttocks as he pounded his hard cock into her.
She almost groaned at the thought. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to take a few measured breaths. In her mind’s eye, she saw Conn’s hot, all-seeing gaze on her as he watched from the doorway. What would it be like to make him lose his control?
Biting her lip, Lillian lifted her hands to her hair. She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she’d weaken. Methodically, she removed her pins, dropping them one by one into the waiting dish. As she worked, one strap of her chemise slid down, catching just below the curve of her shoulder. Leaving it there drew the near-transparent fabric tight across her breasts. She heard the rustle of fabric as Conn shifted his stance. Flashing a quick look in the mirror, she noted his hands were balled into fists. So, not as calm as he appeared. A bit more sure of herself, she pulled out the last pin. Loosened from restraint, her hair fell in fat, glossy auburn curls to her shoulders. Drawing her fingers through it, she spread it like a silk cape over her shoulders.
Then she touched the slender satin bow that secured the top of her chemise. The bow unravelled with one solid tug. Moving as if unaware of her audience, Lillian turned her torso so Conn had an unimpeded view, both of her profile and her face and chest in the mirror. The satin ribbon glided through the eyeholes. The bodice sagged further, helped along as she seductively caught the drooping straps and pulled it open. Playfully, she slid her wrists under the straps in a parody of bindings, trapping them. Then she looked at Conn through lowered lashes.
His pose of negligence gone entirely, he stood straight and tall, hands at his sides, tension visible in every muscle and sinew. The hard bulge of his cock looked huge. In two strides, he was at her side hauling her to her feet. His mouth came down on hers without preliminaries. His tongue jabbed at the seam of her lips, conquered as she eagerly parted them to let him take what he wanted. With mind-numbing skill, his tongue stroked and played with hers as his hands pulled her body flush against his. Satisfaction burned through Lillian. Here was the primal man who made her melt.
When he leaned back, his chest heaved with harsh breaths. He caught her wrists in his hands, and only then did she remember the straps holding them beside her breasts. Voice gravelly, he said, “Oh, Delilah, what a little tease you are. You need some taming, I’m thinking.”
In a blink, he picked her up and tossed her. Before she could squeal in surprise, she landed safely on the thick mattress, legs sprawled wide. Her bared breasts trembled and she wished he would suck and bite her aching nipples. Instead, leaving her hands trapped in the straps, Conn reached under her chemise and unfastened her pantalettes. Whipping them off, he dropped them to the floor. Cupping her buttocks in one wide palm, he flipped her skirt to her waist. Bracing herself on her elbows as best she could, Lillian pushed up in time to see Conn thread his fingers through the damp red curls of her cunny. Finding her clit with his thumb, he pressed against it. Her head fell back on a long gasp. Two long, masculine fingers filled her, sliding in her juices. Her hips began to rock against his hand as he teased and played.
Then he stopped, and she wanted to scream in frustration.
“Now, about that taming,” he said.
She watched, dumbfounded, as he stood up. He went to her wardrobe and rummaged inside it. When he turned back, he held a fistful of stockings. Lillian stopped breathing. Did he mean to do what she thought he did? Oh, God.
“Delilah,” he said, his tone chiding her inattention.
She looked from his hands to his face. While his voice was soft, his expression was anything but. Arousal made the hard planes of his face sharper, more impossibly beautiful than ever. He was like some Celtic god of nature, full of lust and raw masculine power. She didn’t know whether to spread her thighs in welcome or clench them together to ease the aching need to feel him there.
He didn’t give her a choice. Freeing her hands, he slid the chemise down her hips and off. Then he rolled her to her belly. The bed dipped under his weight. She sensed his big body come over her, felt the scratch of wool against her bare s
kin as his knees sank into the mattress beside her hips. Though he sat on his heels, she felt the hard shaft of his erection settle into the hollow between the cheeks of her buttocks. Leaning over, he caught one of her hands. With economic motions, he bound her wrist with the silk stocking, then secured it to the head of the bed. The second was accomplished just as quickly, just as surely. She pulled experimentally on her bindings. They were snug, but not too tight.
Conn’s hands slid between her breasts and the bed to cup her. She moaned her excitement. Nipping her shoulder, he whispered, “Now there’s a good girl, Delilah. Somehow, I knew you’d fancy this.”
“Conn,” she said.
“Give yourself over to me, and all will be well. Trust me?”
He waited. Lillian felt the pound of his heart through his clothes as he lay against her back, and the matching throb of his cock against her buttocks.
She nodded.
Placing an almost chaste kiss on her cheek, he breathed, “Good.”
He backed off her. Before she could protest, he held her hips, urged her to her knees. With a bit of maneuvering, he worked the dark-hued coverlet off the bed, lifting her so he could bare the brilliant white sheets underneath. “Perfect,” he said, almost to himself. “I want to see every move you make, my luscious Delilah.”
The bed dipped again, and this time, he crowded up close behind her. She rocked back on her knees, rubbing against his cloth-covered cock—and felt the sharp slap of his hand on one bottom cheek. “Ah, ah,” he said. “None of your teasing.” Even as he spoke, his palm rubbed the sting away. His soothing stroke roved from her bottom to between her legs. He spoke a crude word of praise and she quivered.
His other hand moved against her as he worked the fastenings of his trousers. She made a soft cry as his cock slid between her thighs to nestle in her wetness. He felt broad and thick against her. She couldn’t help it. She moved, riding his length, loving the feel of it sliding against her slit. He tilted his hips and on the next glide slid into her cunny. The wool prickled against the tender flesh of her bottom with each thrust. He reached his arm around her waist to toy with the hard nub of her clit.
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