The Railroad Baroness

by The Railroad Baroness (lit)

  Lillian twined the stockings even tighter around her wrists, taking up the slack to get more leverage to thrust back against Conn’s steel-hard belly and thighs. He let her, and they pounded together like the pistons of a train. Release tore a cry from Lillian’s throat. It roared through her, exploding from her cunny, through her belly and over her breasts in a sizzling wave of sensation. Her thighs and arms quivered with the force of it and she couldn’t stop thrusting herself on Conn’s shaft. Gradually, her mindless motions eased. She slowed, stopped. Only then did she realize Conn’s beautiful cock was still hard and hot inside her. Gasping for breath, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Conn knelt, head bowed, chest jerking with the force of his exhalations. Heat rolled off him in waves.

  “Conn?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he took one last, deep, cleansing breath. And opened his eyes. The deep blue irises looked black and liquid. Never taking his eyes from hers, he traced one finger along the crease of her buttocks. He didn’t stop until he touched the rosette of her anus. A bolt of desire shot through her, and Lillian flinched. His gaze sharpened, apparently recognizing her acceptance of the intimate touch. With a circling fingertip, he caressed the tiny hole. Lillian began to pant with renewed excitement.

  “Do you like this, Delilah?”

  She could only nod.

  With gentle force, he breached her hole with his fingertip. “And this? Do you like what I’m doing to your pretty little arse?”

  She bit her lip. It had been so long since a man had done that to her that it stung more than a bit, but oh, it felt so good.

  He didn't seem to need an answer. With controlled force, he began to move against her, thrusting into her dripping cunny with his cock as first one, then two fingers thrust into her back hole. Lillian whimpered and tilted her hips, wordlessly begging for more. He gave it to her. His fingers left her and the broad, moist head of his cock touched her anus. Stilling her hips with one hand, he pressed against the ring of muscle. The pain intensified, but so did the pleasure. The bulbous tip breached her and they both moaned. Conn said something in a language she didn’t understand. With steady pressure he pulsed his cock against her, leaning in, easing back, until finally he slid all the way inside.

  Lillian dropped her head, all her attention on the delicious, stretched-tight feel of Conn possessing her totally. He ran a palm down her spine and she arched like a cat. Conn growled and tangled his fist in her hair. Leaning forward, he turned her face and gave her a hungry kiss.

  “Sweet, Delilah,” he said, coasting his lips over her cheek and down her neck, breathing deeply of her scent.

  He released her hair and braced his hands on her hips. With complete control, he drew his cock from her in a torturously slow glide. He pressed back in just as slowly.

  “Ah, Conn,” she said, hips writhing in his hands as he forced her to accept what he gave her, at his own pace. “Please. Please.”

  Conn’s laugh was low and dark. “What the lady wants.” He slammed into her, rocking her forward on her knees. Lillian cried out, so overwhelmed she felt weak from delight.

  Conn didn’t wait for her to sort out the sensations. His hips pounded against her, slapping into her buttocks. Her bottom burned. Charges of energy seemed to shoot from her anus to her clit to her breasts, a thrilling circuit that feed on itself, growing stronger and stronger. Conn’s fingers dug into her, adding to the pleasure-pain.

  Low grunts that seemed ripped from his throat accompanied each powerful thrust. Lillian clutched the stockings around her wrists and held on. He shoved a hand between her thighs and cupped her. His fingers found her clit and pinched her with exquisite pressure. It was too much. Lillian screamed. She began to buck against Conn, ignoring the bindings on her wrists, his steadying hand on her hip, his masterful fingers on her clit. She heard Conn’s hoarse shout, felt the spasming of his cock inside her rear passage as he gave up his seed, then was swept away by her own spasms.

  Conn fell against her, crushing her into the bedding. His jagged breaths sounded loud in her ear. His hand stroked up her arm in a rough caress. He freed one wrist from its silk binding. Bringing it to his lips, he placed a gentle kiss on the ring of reddened flesh.

  “My poor one,” he whispered. “So delicate. I’ll have to take more care next time.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, just as softly. “Just sleepy.”

  He freed her other wrist and kissed it, too.

  Ignoring her denial, he said, “I’ll take more care.”

  He lifted up from her. She sighed as his softening cock left her. He was back in a moment. She roused when she felt the damp cloth between her thighs, then along the crease of her buttocks, washing her with soft tenderness. He shushed her protest. She sensed his movements as he stripped, too weary to open her eyes and enjoy the sight. He slid into bed beside her and rolled her into his arms.

  “Sleep now, Delilah. I’ll watch over you.”

  As she drifted off, she felt him smooth the damp hair away from her face and touch his lips to her forehead.

  Chapter 18

  “Though available in the East for decades, travel by rail to the West is an entirely novel experience. It must be experienced to be believed.”

  — Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company

  Aileen suggested the simplest solution to conceal the blast damage, green tablecloths appropriated from the serving staff. Secured around the bottom edge of Lillian’s private car, they fell in festive swoops all the way to the ground, hiding both the mangled wheels and the scorch marks left by the explosion and fire. The car still sat askew on the tracks—there simply hadn’t been time in the few days since the blast to hoist it back onto the rails, even if the wheels could be brought sufficiently into alignment—but the decorative folds of fabric gave it an elegant appearance of semi-permanence. No one arriving with the excursion group would suspect the damage hidden behind the drapery. The twisted wrought-iron steps were replaced by wooden risers complete with railing, all painted a crisp green to match the car.

  Another tent town of sorts sat on the far side of the cars aligned on the spur, some distance from the workaday camp. These tents, however, had the holiday appeal of a beachside installation or an exclusive garden party. The excursion’s train pulled an elegantly appointed dining car, study with bookcases and comfortable leather chairs, and tiny private quarters certain to titillate for pure novelty’s sake, but Lillian planned to entertain the company’s guests outside the rolling cars, too. Large chintz cushions, gauzy draperies and delicate furniture graced the tent reserved for the ladies to share tea and conversation. Thanks to Charles, the tent set aside for the gentlemen had a distinctly masculine appeal, with sturdy portable chairs, wooden benches and a heavy liquor table complete with cigar cabinet. By day, the sun would glow through the canvas of the dining tent and provide warm shelter for luncheons.

  Now, with evening approaching, lanterns strung from the solid supporting beams added a whimsical touch, glittering off the polished silver and sparkling crystal wine glasses. Arrangements of fall flowers collected from the area decorated the tables and tall, free-standing braziers took the chill off. The sun set earlier in the foothills, limning the trees and craggy mountains in gold as dusk approached. With it came the train chugging toward camp, wheels squealing and whistle screaming with escaping steam as it slowed to a crawl.

  Lillian, Aileen on one side, her men on the other, waited with outward calm. Yorke had yet to appear, or send an explanation for his absence. Lillian mulled the idea of suggesting her father find a different job for the man. It was apparent he couldn’t work with her.

  Brass buttons marched in a double row down the front of Lillian’s fitted royal blue jacket over skirts of the same hue. The fabric fell gently to the ground, brushing the toes of her black boots. Gathered up at the sides, it formed a small bustle that emphasized the curve of her bottom. Her thick auburn curls were tamed in an elegant twist u
nder the matching military-style hat perched on her brow.

  She was well-acquainted with most of the people that comprised the excursion, both socially and through her father’s business connections. Usually confident of her ability to handle most any situation, her nerves felt stretched to the limit. What if the saboteur targeted the excursion? Devereaux insisted his men were ready to pounce on the villain at the first sign of trouble. Indeed, a number of his guards patrolled the area now. Their vigilance soothed her concerns, but she knew how vital the excursion’s success was to the next phases in her father’s project.

  With aching slowness, the engine squealed to a grating halt, its massive momentum daunting even so. A conductor jumped out of one of the trailing cars to put a footstep in place.

  The first guest stepped down from the car. Lillian’s welcoming smile was unreserved. Wilbur Hartendy hailed her with an upraised arm, a wide smile parting the walrus-like whiskers on his ruddy cheeks.

  “Lillian, my dear. You look as lovely as always.” He held out his hand to a slender woman of his own age with silver hair and bright blue eyes. With his help, she descended the stairs, and the couple made their way to Lillian. Close friends of her parents’, she’d known them her entire life.

  “Aunt Horatia,” she said, taking the other woman’s hands in a warm clasp and kissing her lightly on one paper-thin cheek. Wilbur bent for his own kiss, his whiskers tickling Lillian’s lips as she pecked his cheek. “Uncle Wilbur.”

  Her pleasure was genuine. Their solid and respectable presence assured her of at least two allies to help win over any reluctant investors.

  “You know Aileen, of course,” she said. They greeted Lillian’s companion with friendly familiarity, then turned questioning gazes on the two men. “And Charles Lowell Adams.”

  “Ah, right,” Wilbur said. “Didn’t recognize you at first, my boy, though I don’t know why. You have the look of your father about you. But it’s been some years.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charles said, shaking his hand. He greeted Horatia with easy charm, and included Conn in the introductions. “Allow me to present my friend, Conn Maguire. The man’s an artist with a camera.”

  When the older couple greeted the Irishman without so much as a lifted brow, both expressing admiration for his work, Lillian released a pent-up breath. Horatia and Wilbur were only two people, true, but their influence had the power to set the tone for most of the others in the excursion.

  Satisfied that Charles and Conn could cope on their own, she faced the passenger car with renewed enthusiasm as another couple descended to the ground.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Daniels,” she said. “I’m so thrilled you were able to come. Please tell me your trip was a pleasant one.”

  Swept up in the social niceties of her familiar duties as hostess, Lillian forgot her irritation with Yorke’s conspicuous absence.

  * * * *

  As a general rule, Salome Northrup did not get involved in matters that were clearly none of her concern. She was a businesswoman, plain and simple. As she’d learned, discretion was almost always the better part of the bottom line. However, in this case, her business had been directly affected by the incidents plaguing the camp since Mrs. Cabot’s arrival. Her tents burned to the ground. Her girls terrorized. It was more than hazards of the trade. And, to be frank, having so many men expropriated for guard duty and so many others restricted by curfews created a serious dent in her income. Besides, she liked Lillian Cabot. The woman wasn’t too hoity-toity to offer help where it was needed.

  She stepped forward, holding out both hands in welcome to the large man as soon as he entered the reception area of her new main tent. “Tom, thank you for coming.”

  Devereaux bussed her cheek with genuine affection. “Sorry I can’t stay, Sal. Mrs. Cabot wants us to keep a particular eye out while her guests are here. They’re down for dinner now, but I should get back.”

  “I understand,” she said. “That’s why I asked you to come, actually.” He raised his brows in question. Instead of answering, she spoke to one of the women seated in calculated dishabille on a nearby settee. “Bettina, will you play hostess for a little while, please?”

  Certain her request would be followed like the order it was, she led Devereaux into her private quarters. Comfortable and feminine, they were plain compared to the more opulent décor of the public areas where the girls entertained the paying customers.

  He settled himself in a comfortable chair, took off his hat and rested it on his knee. While he did so, she went to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of whisky. “Do you know a man named Travis Murchison?” she said, handing Devereaux the glass. Then she sat in a facing chair and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Murchison?” He took a swallow of the liquor and considered. “One of the mule-skinners, isn’t he?”

  “That’s what he’d like you to think.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’m certain he’s doing more than driving wagons.”

  Devereaux frowned, all business. “Explain.”

  “One of my girls told me he hired her to service one of your men. Said it was to pay a debt.”

  “On the job? I’ll have his head,” Devereaux growled.

  Sal gave him a feline smile. “I think she already did. But you know that’s not so strange. What is strange,” she said, looking at him meaningfully, “is when he hired her. It was the night the horses stampeded through the camp.”

  “And I’m guessing you mean it was exactly when the horses escaped, and the man we’re talking about is Wyatt Smith. No wonder he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary before the stampede.” Devereaux snorted. “Murchison hired your girl, you say?”

  “Yes.” She shrugged. “I didn’t really think anything of it at the time. I got my portion of the transaction and that was the end of it. It was only when one of the girls mentioned seeing that prig Yorke talking to Murchison that I began to wonder.”

  “Yorke? Worhington’s man?”

  “The very same. I wondered what in the world could bring that annoying fop to talk to a rough sort like Murchison. So I started asking around, and when I found out that Murchison arrived on the same train as Mrs. Cabot and Yorke…”

  “You got suspicious.”

  “Let’s just say my instincts told me to pay attention.”

  Devereaux pushed to his feet and set the empty whisky glass on a table. “Well, Sal, your instincts are good enough for me. I’ll have some of my men round up Murchison, find out what he knows.”

  The madam stood as well. “I hope I’ve helped.”

  “Didn’t hurt,” he said, putting his hat on. Then he gave her a lingering, arousing kiss that belied his age and no-nonsense demeanor. “See you later?”

  Sal ran her hands over his firm chest and a belly that she knew wasn’t as paunchy as it looked. “Please.”

  She escorted him to the reception area and watched him confidently stride out of the tent, a man on a mission. Satisfied she’d done what she could to repay her debt to Lillian Cabot, she resumed her hostess duties, hoping that the upheaval in camp would end soon and business could resume its usual, very profitable, patterns.

  Chapter 19

  “Railroad guests can expect to be treated to the best of everything.”

  — Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company

  Most of the guests, though excited by their arrival, retired to their private cabins early with the promise of special activities for the next day. While her father would see to running the numbers with the investors back in Boston, Lillian planned to give them insight into all aspects of work on the railroad, from scouting and surveying to actually laying track and blasting at the new tunnel.

  But she didn’t want to think of that now. Practically shoving Aileen out the door, Lillian hurried to her room to change out of her clothes. Foregoing a nightdress, she selected a thin silk robe and nothing else. Fingers trembling, she pu
lled the pins from her hair, freeing the auburn tresses to tumble around her shoulders. Her green eyes looked huge and luminous in the mirror of her dressing table. Her hard nipples pushed insistently against the silk of her robe. Lillian shifted on the cushioned stool, and her thighs rubbed together, slick and slippery with the moisture of her excitement.

  Pressing her fingers to her flushed cheeks, Lillian closed her eyes and willed her heartbeat to slow to a less frantic pace.

  It was impossible.

  She stood up in a rush and went to the doorway. Leaning against the frame, she waited. Twining her fingers together in a nervous dance, she waited. Biting her lip and taking deep breaths, she waited.

  When the soft knock came, she gasped.

  Barefoot, Lillian ran lightly to the rear door and unbolted it. Conn and Charles, silent as wraiths, stepped into the hall. Charles bolted the door. Conn pulled her to him and claimed her mouth. Lillian sighed and melted against his chest. Growling with sensual hunger, he plundered her lips as if he couldn’t get enough. When he finally let her go, Charles moved to take his place. He ran his lips over her throat, pressing gentle, loving kisses in a trail to her mouth, where he lingered and played until her fingers sank into the fabric covering his shoulders.

  Charles swept her into his arms and led the way down the corridor to Lillian’s room. Conn prowled after them, his eyes locked to Lillian’s as she peered over his friend’s shoulder. Then they were in her bedchamber, and Charles slid her body down his until her feet touched the carpet. The room seemed small, the size of it overpowered by the presence of two strong, virile men.