by Ruby Duvall
Ryder chuckled and pulled her back to him.
“How very convenient. What kind of fortune-teller are you?”
“Hey, I’m not an oracle. I s-studied history, but I don’t know if it will rain tomorrow.” It was getting hard to use words that started with an s. She would have to avoid those words.
“What predictions could you make regarding this year?” he asked.
Ooh, tricky. Should she tell him? She was hesitant to say anything. It could be like that one Bradbury novel where a minor change meant a huge consequence.
“It is my belief, Samantha, that you are a woman of the eighteenth century,” he said teasingly when she didn’t answer. “A beautiful woman to be certain, and very slightly my elder, but nonetheless a creature of the present—”
“English and American representatives will sign an official peace treaty in Paris.” She said it all in a rush, pulling the information from another of her old college essays. She couldn’t remember what date the signing happened, but she was still surprised she had remembered so much considering how drunk she was. She might have even slurred “representatives”. Everything was blurry and dim, and her body felt heavy.
“Preliminary treaties were already signed last year and Paris is not a surprising choice for the meeting. That one is too easy to predict, madam.”
“You want more? I’m already putting the s-space-time continuum at stake here.” She punched his shoulder.
Ryder erupted in more laughter. “The space what?”
“William Pitt will become Prime Minister in December,” she declared.
His eyebrows shot up and he scoffed. “What nonsense. Pitt is far too young and the Duke of Portland assumed the title only last month.”
What the hell? Did he want some grand prophecy? Some Nostradamus doomsday shit? Well, she’d give him one.
“This summer, all of England and Europe will be covered for months with a thick, foul-smelling fog.” Her finger pointed at his dubious expression. “It’ll cause one of the hottest summers ever, and a pretty harsh winter too.” She dared him to not be impressed with that one.
Aggravatingly, he only laughed harder than ever. “What are you talking about?”
“Laugh now, Ryder, because it’ll be my turn later.” She moved to roll out of bed, but Ryder was quick to stop her.
“Nay, madam, pray forgive me for my diversion.” He pulled her back to him. “Pardon my offenses. I am both charmed and humbled by your prescience.” His hands were all over her, gathering her closer and pushing aside the sheets. The hard length of his arousal brushed her hip.
“You wanted predictions. I’m sorry if they’re not impressive enough for you.”
“Come, let’s not quarrel.” He pushed her knees apart and crawled over her. Her hands went to his shoulders. “I’ve a much better use for my mouth.” His eyebrow arched as he smoothed his hand down her stomach. She wanted to admonish him further, but he kissed her just as his fingers slid over her clit. Her entire body jerked in reaction. She had no hope of even having a thought, let alone voicing it.
Ryder knew exactly what he was doing with his fingers, which rubbed and swirled until her thighs shook. When he wasn’t kissing her, he was pressing his lips along her jaw and down her neck.
“I would live forever between these thighs.” His cock slid inside her. His groan almost drowned out the catch in her breath. He straight-armed away from her, a noise tumbling out of his throat like an animal triumphant over its prey. She fisted her hands in the pillows around her, letting him tuck her knees against his flanks as he leisurely thrust his hips. The feel of him was addicting.
How had she ever thought to deny him? Even if she did help him and his brother smuggle their contraband, she couldn’t fool herself into thinking that Ryder wouldn’t still want her in his bed—that he wouldn’t demand it and get it despite her resistance.
“Ah God.” He bent his head to watch his cock pumping in and out of her. He pressed deep in long, careful strokes that made her moan louder and louder. It felt so good but it wasn’t enough. She was greedy for more.
Her ankles crossed behind him and pulled him in to hasten the pace. He needed no further encouragement. He growled, ramming his cock into her with a mounting frenzy that shook the bed.
She tensed as an orgasm rose within her. “Ryder, yes,” she cried. He drew a sharp gasp from her and then they were both still, both braced against the waves of pleasure. He then crumpled onto her.
His passion was overwhelming. Even when he wasn’t engaged in foreplay, he stroked her skin, kissed the curves of her shoulders and studied her naked form like a sculptor memorizing a model. Had he been at sea too long? He had said it was his first homecoming in well over two years, but he had to have slaked his lust upon some other woman, perhaps someone in America.
Was that why he had agreed to buy her time from Mrs. Hayes? Was he thinking about some other American woman? Did it matter?
Once Ryder rolled off her, though, it was clear that they were both spent for the night, so Sam rose from the bed to clean herself up and put on her chemise. She then blew out the candles. When she crawled back in bed, her lover was on his stomach, already asleep. She lay on her back next to him, too drunk to be anxious, and was soon asleep herself.
* * * * *
She was startled awake when someone grabbed her. She shrieked as she was dragged from the bed, unable to see her attacker.
“What the devil?” Ryder growled. Sam could barely see the outline of two other men on Ryder’s side of the bed. One held him down while the other wrapped him in the bedclothes, and together they lifted him off the mattress.
“What’s going on?” she gasped. “Mrs. Hayes!” Her attacker kept her in a simple bear hug, not letting her interfere as his two accomplices trundled Ryder out of the room. Ryder roared with rage from inside the blanket.
“I’m here, mademoiselle,” a calm voice said from the hallway. The one holding her lifted her up and set her down in the bedroom doorway. Mrs. Hayes stood there with a single candle. Behind her, the two men were just going out of sight down the stairs with their struggling bundle. “Mr. Hull was kind enough to enlist two of his acquaintances to assist me. Mr. West is no longer welcome in our establishment.”
“What? Why?” Sam asked with no small amount of terror.
“I have decided to end our business relationship. No further explanation is needed.” Mrs. Hayes looked much older than when Sam had first met her. She wore no powder. Lines of hate bracketed her mouth. All she needed was a mole on her nose and a broomstick. “Mary, get the lieutenant’s things.”
The frightened maid emerged from a dark corner of the hallway where Sam hadn’t even seen her. Mary ducked into the bedroom and quickly collected Ryder’s clothes.
“So he was more trouble than he was worth?” Sam asked bitterly.
“He would have taken you away and that I cannot allow. We need the money.”
“Next chance I get, I’m scratching out your eyes.”
Mrs. Hayes was unruffled. She nodded to Mr. Hull. “Return her to her room.”
Mr. Hull tossed her behind him. She landed on her hip and yelped with pain. Before he left the room, he took her chair with him, and then her bedroom door slammed shut, leaving her in complete darkness. Even as the lock to her door clicked into place, she got to her feet and limped to the window. She pushed aside the musty curtains.
A couple of street lights were lit at the end of the block and a handful more were lit above the doors of a few houses, but the street was otherwise very dark. Sam could only make out a few shapes quickly walking along the street. The door of the brothel opened below and she pressed her forehead to the glass, watching the two men holding Ryder emerge from the house.
She gasped as he was unceremoniously dumped naked onto the dirty street. He quickly sprang to his feet. “You damned curs!” He threw a punch at one of the men that connected but the other man landed a punch in Ryder’s stomach. Ryder was doubled over f
or a second but then swiftly backhanded the one who hit him. That earned him another punch, this time in the groin. Ryder barely managed to keep his feet. Blows rained down upon him until he was on his knees and blood gushed from his nose. She could hear the two men laughing.
One of the men then turned to someone behind him. It was Mary. The man grabbed the clothes from her and tossed them at Ryder. He caught some of them, and just before the men came back inside, he looked up at her. She couldn’t make out his expression, and she didn’t know if he could even see her.
The front door shut and the street below became completely dark. Ryder was gone.
Chapter Seven
Ryder boiled with rage. His hands shook as they pulled on his breeches. His shirt was soaked with street water, so he put on his coat and balled up the rest of his clothes. His anger only grew when he noticed his pocketbook was missing. After shoving his muddy feet into his shoes, he jogged toward the Shakespeare’s Head Tavern to retrieve Oliver.
His teeth gnashed as he imagined what Mrs. Hayes was planning for Samantha. The fright in her voice as he was being carried away rung in his ears. The thought that another man would be in there with her, or even worse, that Mr. Hull might hurt her… He broke into a run.
He had to free Samantha, any way he could.
The street lighting grew brighter once he entered the piazza. Already, fruit and vegetable merchants were carting in their wares for the morning market. They and the patrons of Covent Garden’s several taverns and bagnios meant that the area was constantly busy, either with the sale of produce or the sale of altogether different merchandise. His dishevelment proved a boon, for the prostitutes took him to be a man without means and they ignored him as he passed.
Near the Shakespeare, Ryder found his driver lounging by the coach, talking and laughing with several coachmen. Oliver held his mug tucked against his chest as though he had been working on the same drink for quite a while. His friends, however, were in their altitudes if the redness of their cheeks was any reliable indication.
“Oliver,” Ryder called. Understandably, his driver didn’t spot him immediately. Ryder had never been in such disarray in front of him before. When Oliver found him, he squinted as though he disbelieved what he saw. His driver’s confusion would have been comical if Ryder weren’t so enraged.
“Sir?” Oliver asked as he stood straight. His companions turned to observe, amused but silent.
“Unsurprisingly, that harridan has shown her true nature. Do you know if the magistrate is sitting up tonight?” Ryder opened the coach door and tossed his soiled clothes onto the floor of the coach.
“You’re going back, sir?” Oliver asked. He then downed the last of his ale and handed the empty mug to his nearest friend.
“Of course,” Ryder said irritably.
“But she’s just a whore, sir.” Oliver’s friends guffawed rather loudly. The laughing quickly faded, though, at the expression on Ryder’s face.
“Do not forget that I am your employer. Even the most tolerant of men have their limits.” Intimidation had the desired effect. Oliver nodded hurriedly and stuffed his hat onto his head. “Leave me at the apartment and then fetch a pair of constables. I’ll pay their fees, and we shall rendezvous at the brothel.” Ryder stepped into the coach as Oliver climbed up to his perch. They were off in only a few seconds.
Ryder sat uncomfortably in his damp, soiled clothing, his anger only matched by his anxiety. The night was not yet over, and a handful of sin-filled hours were yet to be had before the denizens of London eventually found their way to bed.
He had to make sure that bed wasn’t Samantha’s.
* * * * *
With Ryder gone, Sam had to quickly reevaluate her options. Her only remaining method of escape would be scaling down the building, a bad idea for someone still fairly drunk with no shoes and nowhere to go, and she wasn’t ready to openly and brazenly bash at the door with the nearest object, so she sat on the bed and bided her time.
After a tense hour went by in the dark silence of her room, she heard footfalls on the stairs. It certainly wasn’t Mr. Hull, but Sam’s stomach cramped all the same. The footsteps grew louder as they approached her door.
“Miss Samantha?” Mary whispered. “Can you hear me? Are you all right in there?”
With great relief, Sam went to the door, pressing her hands against the wood. “Mary, let me out. Please!”
“I wish I could, miss, but Mr. Hull is at the front and his friends are eating in the kitchen at the back. There’s no way…”
Sam gnashed her teeth. “Damn it. Where is Mrs. Hayes now?”
“In the salon. One of her best clients just arrived. She’s got the other girls entertaining him, but…”
“But what?” she asked.
“The duke always gets the new girls. I wanted to warn you. Best brace yourself, miss. Mrs. Hayes’ll have him up here soon. She’ll have Mr. Hull take you to the biggest room. It’s one floor down.”
Sam closed her eyes and laid her forehead against the door. “Thanks for the warning.”
“I found your clothes. I left them in the room downstairs, wrapped up in a bit of linen. They’re under the bed,” Mary said. Her voice became a whisper. “A bottle of laudanum is in the drawer, miss.”
“Thanks,” Sam said flatly. It wasn’t what she had wanted, but Mary had helped as much as she could. She had to be smart and take that opportunity for what it was.
Mary was gone only a few minutes before another came to her door. Mr. Hull jammed the key into the lock and turned it with a frustrated growl. When the door opened, he seemed surprised to see her standing there and braced himself. A couple of seconds later, he relaxed. A maid Sam didn’t know stood behind him with a candle.
“She’ll get you ready for His Grace.” He spoke the last two words with rancor.
Sam entered the hallway and pretended to be oblivious. “Who?”
The maid turned and led the way downstairs. Mr. Hull laid his meaty hand on the back of Sam’s neck and pushed her to follow. “A crusty, hopper-arsed beau with a bountiful corporation.”
Her stomach turned sour, partly from an incoming hangover and partly from the picture Mr. Hull had painted of the duke. She didn’t entirely understand what Mr. Hull meant, but the underlying gist of it hadn’t escaped her.
They entered a familiar room. The tub was already full of steaming water. The door closed and the maid reached for Sam’s robe. Mr. Hull stood there, watching. Sam looked away with a sneer, knowing she couldn’t make him leave. When the maid pulled the chemise over her head, she briefly felt dizzy and had to put a hand on the maid’s shoulder until the feeling went away.
She was going to need some more wine if she wanted to survive the next hour or two without getting a massive headache. Once the maid had gathered Sam’s hair in her hands, she bid Sam to get in the tub. Sam did so and sat down with haste, unable to stand Mr. Hull’s stare. The maid put a few pins in her hair to keep it up, and then scrubbed her back and arms with a sponge. Sam detected scented oil in the water, lavender. It did nothing to settle her stomach.
After the maid finished scrubbing Sam’s legs, she braced her hands on the tub to stand up, but Mr. Hull loudly cleared his throat. Sam looked over and her stomach cramped again to see an erection tenting the front of his breeches.
“That West made good use out of your honeypot. The duke doesn’t like a buttered bun,” he said with a lurid smile. Sam looked at the maid, whose jaw was clenched. The maid’s eyes slid to her face with reluctance.
“Pardon me, miss,” she said. The sponge still in her hand, she reached between Sam’s legs to wash her. Sam gasped, her entire body jerking in shock. She bore it for the few seconds it took before the maid stood and turned away. Sam kept her eyes down, thoroughly humiliated.
The maid returned with a towel, bid her to stand up and gently guided her out of the tub. She wrapped the towel around her, but otherwise let Sam dry herself. She then proceeded to dress Sam in a blue
chemise, blue stockings and a white corset with bright-blue ribbons that were left loose. After taking the pins out of her hair and combing it, the maid declared her ready.
Mr. Hull’s hand returned to the back of her neck as he pulled her out of the bathing room and across the hall to a bedroom. Though certainly the most expensively furnished room she had yet seen, it wasn’t done up at all how she expected. The four-poster bed was draped with yellow French chintz, which matched the bedclothes and the daisy-patterned wallpaper. The mantle above the fireplace, which held an active fire, displayed several Chinese pots and a creamware plate. A couple of upholstered chairs were spaced about the large room as well as a lovely vanity and matching nightstand.
It could have very well been the bedroom of an elderly woman if not for the paintings hung about the room that, like the ones in the salon, depicted naked women in various phases of the sexual act.
“Nice bit of space for a hump,” Mr. Hull said. His hand still clamped the base of her neck, and she felt all the more sullied for it. “His Grace will be here shortly. Give him a nice tumble and Mrs. Hayes’ll reward you.” He stepped closer and the smell of smoke was overpowering. She gagged. “Otherwise, she’ll give you to me.”
let her go and left.
Her heart was racing. She did a quick search of the room. Her original clothes were under the bed as Mary said. The drawers in the vanity had various powders and paints for makeup. Atop was a tray holding an open bottle of wine and two glasses. She could find no dresser or armoire, and in the closet hung just a couple of dresses. The last drawer she checked was in the nightstand. Inside was a small, brown-tinted glass bottle containing a clay-colored liquid—the laudanum.
She pulled the cork out of the bottle’s short neck and took a whiff of its contents. “Oh G—” Her face turned away from what could be best described as pungent.