by Ruby Duvall
“How do I get this open?” She tugged at the fore-flap of his breeches. He gave a gruff sigh.
“Samantha.” He gripped her arms and pulled her off the gravel lane. He found the darkest shadow he could and the trunks of two close-standing trees provided them some cover, but not much. Her white dress would be easy enough to spot if someone were looking. She faintly saw his hands at his breeches and then he embraced her again. Their lips came together. When her hand went exploring, she moaned against his lips to find the fore-flap was open and she slipped her fingers inside. There he was.
His hips bucked when she fisted him. His cock was thick with need, warm and stiff. She pumped her hand, wanting to hear the hitch in his breath, wanting to feel his body shudder and writhe. He pulled his mouth away and laid his cheek against hers. With the tree at her back and his body braced over her, her senses were surrounded. His hands were tight on her arms. She could smell that cream he used; his cheek was still smooth from shaving. The sounds he made. His body heat seeping into her…
She ached for him.
He evidently had the same idea. “I want to be inside you.”
Ryder pulled her hand from him and turned her around. He grabbed the back of her skirt, found the hem and searched under the layers. Surely this would be too awkward.
“It’s all right. You don’t need t—”
She gasped when his hands found the ribbons holding up her stockings. Fluffing the skirt over his arms, he stepped close and grabbed her hips. Still in disbelief, she instinctively leaned forward and braced her hands on the tree.
Oh. My. God.
The angle was perfect. He slid right in and she bit her lip hard. He waited only a few seconds for her to relax and then he was thrusting hard and fast. His firm hold on her hips put him deep every time.
She was going crazy. It felt so good and she couldn’t scream with pleasure, though she wanted to. She couldn’t groan, couldn’t gasp too loud. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the burgeoning warmth, the shocking sparks of pleasure.
He took one of his hands from her hips and braced it on the tree. She felt the weight and warmth of his chest on her back. Jesus, his mouth was right next to her ear and his cock was still pounding her vagina.
“Do you want to cry out?” he whispered. She shivered.
“Y-yes.” As soft as her voice was, she worried it was too loud.
A deep noise fell from his lips. He laid his hand over hers. “I would not care if you did.” Hell, she was starting not to care either. The only thing stopping her was that someone might interrupt before they finished.
She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to know if anyone was watching them with shock. She only wanted Ryder and what he made her feel. Desired.
Dizziness washed over her. A pulse deep in her belly, and pleasure bloomed, racing up her body just under her skin. She released a breathy moan. His hand tightened over hers and he took his other hand from her hip. His cock left her and she heard a hiss, then a rough sigh. Her legs shook. She tried to catch her breath.
After a few seconds, Ryder straightened his clothes and then stepped back. He shook out her skirt and it draped properly without fuss. Only her tousled hair and pink cheeks would be any clue as to what they had just done.
She didn’t know what to say as she fanned her face. It seemed Ryder didn’t either. They stepped around the tree to emerge onto the gravel path, but someone stood there.
Ryder’s entire body shook with fury. The heat of his anger suffused his skin. Samantha made a high gasp and recoiled from Webb. Whatever passion they had just shared was smothered beneath this violation.
Webb was revolting.
“And what did you expect to find, Mr. Webb? My brother? The ghost of Simon Carter haunting me?”
“You ran from the crowd. I knew you were hiding something…or meeting someone.” It was a testament to Samantha’s excellent composure that she did not react to Webb’s assumption.
“Did it occur to you that we did not desire a chaperone? This is Lover’s Walk, after all, and it was clear you would not leave us be.”
Webb disregarded his excuse. “Where were you these past few days? Absconding with your brother to conceal his whereabouts?”
“I tire of your accusations and your harassment. I’ve no obligation to tell you anything of my acts, or with whom I do them. Merely in the effort of removing your presence from my life, though with no small amount of satisfaction do I report that you have no case against my brother. I was in Lydd this past week to confirm the veracity of your accusations and found it lacking.”
Webb stepped closer. “I do not believe you. Prove to me that you were there or that your purpose was as you say.”
“My proof is the testimony of all those with whom I spoke, including the witnesses you claim so resolutely asserted that my brother bribed a revenue officer. None of them used such words, only claiming that a gift of brandy was offered and accepted.” Though Ryder was certain it had been meant as a bribe, having learned as much from Phillip, no one at the docks knew the purpose of the exchange.
“I also spoke with the physician who examined Carter and though he certainly maintained that Carter’s death owed to some substance ingested, you failed to learn that another had drunk from the same barrel and lived to talk of it.”
This surprised Webb. He mussed his hair as he had in the brothel when attempting to detain the wrong brother. “I would have this man’s name.”
“Carter’s brother-in-law, and he had quite an interesting description of the brandy. It nigh seared his throat and he could not drink more than a fist of it.”
“Poisoned, do you not see? It is lucky he’s alive.”
“Lucky indeed, for heavily imbibing over-proof brandy can just as easily kill a man. Carter had neglected to let it down to its proper strength and drank himself to death.”
Webb was clearly shocked, for it clearly had not occurred to him just as it had not immediately occurred to Ryder. Webb was still, his hand still in his hair.
“Though Phillip gifted the brandy to Mr. Carter, the man died through no fault of my brother’s actions. Carter’s death was accidental, and you’ve no case for bringing Phillip to a magistrate.”
“I…I know my intuition is right. I know what kind of man your father is, and what kind of man your brother is. I shall find more evidence if I must.” Webb’s voice was desperate. Was the man deranged? What reason would drive him to such lengths? Had Carter saved his life? Or was Webb unable to admit defeat?
“Cease this pursuit! What have you to gain by any of it?”
“It’s not about what I want,” Webb bit out. “It’s about justice. I could not be what she wanted but I wanted her to live, and your father took her from me. He and his must pay for their sins.” What was he saying? Was his mind unraveling? How did he know his father?
“Who—”
“I know he killed her, and now her son is just as rotten as the other. I hope the consumption eats at his black heart until the utmost end of his miserable life, and that his rotten sons die childless.”
Ryder’s heart nearly stopped. Had Webb known his mother?
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you plan to continue from where your brother left off. His debts are far from paid. I’ll not sit idly while you form your schemes and plug your whores—”
Enough of this.
Ryder stepped close to Webb, their noses mere inches from touching. “You shall not find any such evidence by following me, or perhaps you merely desired to spy upon us in the darkness? Were you standing there long? Did you hear her pleasure and wish it had been you with her? Did you—”
Samantha touched his shoulder. “Stop it.”
He bit his tongue. His palms ached where his fingertips dug into his flesh. He knew that prodding Webb gained him nothing and so stepped back. Samantha’s hand slid into the bend of his elbow and he led her away.
“I will not stop.” Webb’s voice was hard. �
�I’ll discover your crimes, and when I do, you shall hang from the nearest tree.”
Chapter Eleven
The dressmaker’s private fitting room was certainly sumptuous. Very fashionable styles of dress hung on headless busts. Several seats were available for a high lady’s entourage to gush over her clothes. A table was laden with little sweets and surely they offered coffee and tea to wash them down.
Sam wasn’t here for a fitting, though, and she certainly didn’t have an entourage.
The owner of the dressmaker’s shop was a small, thin man with an impeccably styled wig and just as impeccably fashionable clothes. Even so, he looked a little ridiculous. The wig was longer than necessary and his face powder just a little too thick. He looked as if he could dance with the ghosts in Disney’s Haunted Mansion.
“Is the fifth of June still suitable? The silk should arrive in London then.”
Was tomorrow the start of June? She and Ryder were very near ready for the first smuggling run, having spent most of the past two weeks gathering buyers for various goods, including brandy, linen, silk, tea and tobacco. It had been easy for them to solicit merchants under the guise of a man spoiling his mistress, and what they hadn’t marked for a buyer would be sold outside London to whoever would pay the highest price at the wholesale market.
The rest of the last two weeks had been spent together in bed.
“Yes, quite.”
“Then I will return on the sixth to settle the order.” She stood from where she had used one of the fancy little noshing tables to write the draper’s order on a small piece of paper. She still wasn’t used to writing with a quill and couldn’t jot down the shortest note without getting ink on her fingers. She had to carry around a plain linen kerchief to wipe her fingers off. Once her writing hand was mostly clean, she folded up the invoice and tucked it into her satin handbag.
The draper dipped his head and stiffly swept his hand toward the door leading to the front of his store. “I must say I am still quite surprised that your—uh, acquaintance sends you to represent him in this matter. I had thought Mr. West would be the one meeting me today.”
Samantha suppressed a sardonic glare as she followed him out. What a sexist idiot. She had been dealing with practically nothing but male merchants the past two weeks and their obsession with her gender was getting really old. The guy was buying smuggled silk and he cared about whether or not the person selling it to him was a woman?
“It’s far less conspicuous if I am the one to visit as it is only lady’s clothes you sell, and discretion is best for an arrangement like ours, don’t you agree?”
How many times had she said that?
“Ah yes, quite right, madam. Good day to you.” He dismissed her as though she were a sale that had no potential and moved on to a young lady with her mother.
Samantha left the draper’s. Oliver was dutifully waiting outside with the coach and helped her ascend the coach steps. If she were in a modern dress and Oliver were a limo driver, she probably would’ve told him she didn’t need a hand, but with a corset, clunky pattens to protect her shoes, a wide heavy skirt and a hat pinned to her hair, she’d take all the help she could get. She loved the dress though, dark-green silk brocade with a white floral pattern. Even her light-green stockings had matching embroidery.
Ryder loved it when she kept the stockings on.
Oliver shut the door of the coach. “Back to the apartment, Miss Reed?”
She smiled at him. “Yes. Thanks for waiting while I was in the shop.” He beamed at her and climbed up to his perch.
The coach lurched into motion and she nearly stuck her head out of the window like a dog. She didn’t think she’d ever get bored of riding a coach through historical London. She feasted her eyes on the people, the storefronts, the houses… It didn’t always look picturesque—or smell great—but it was still as exciting as her first walk up the Strand.
All too soon they were in a familiar neighborhood and she sat back. Ryder would be leaving very early the next morning to meet the ship in Le Havre. They’d load it up with goods the next day and be on their way back the third day. Even she didn’t know where he had decided to smuggle the contraband ashore, but if everything went well, she’d see him again in six days.
Of course everything would go smoothly. How could it not?
The coach slowed and she gathered up her skirt. She’d try to descend gracefully this time rather than get her panniers stuck in the little door of the coach. Oliver was at the door and folded down the steps. She held his proffered hand, found the stair with her foot and then squeezed herself out. Much better than last time. She hoped Oliver was proud of her.
She shook her skirt straight and Oliver closed up the coach. “I’ll be returning shortly with Mr. West.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks again, Oliver.” They smiled at each other and he clambered up to his seat. The coach took off and she turned to let herself into the apartment.
“Miss Reed.” The voice was all too familiar.
Any semblance of a smile vanished to find Mr. Webb approaching. She hadn’t seen him in full daylight before and puzzled over how closely his height and build resembled Ryder. He was likely as strong, which she really didn’t like.
“Ryder isn’t here.” She didn’t bother with any niceties. He had called her a whore and said he’d hang Ryder if he could. No love lost there.
He took off his hat as though doing her any kind of honor by removing it. “I am not here to see him.”
“I can’t imagine why you’re here then.”
“You invited me for tea, if you’ll recall. I’ve come to wave the white flag.”
Yeah, right. She vaguely remembered teasing him about having tea and assuring himself that she wasn’t hiding Ryder’s brother beneath her skirt, but that was before the death threat. Anyway, Phillip had no need to hide anymore and indeed was moving about London freely.
Webb tucked his hat under his arm. His mouth was set. “Is there a reason why I cannot join you in your parlor for tea, Miss Reed?”
If she didn’t have tea with him, would he think Ryder was hiding something in the apartment? The ledgers were in the bedroom upstairs, and they were definitely incriminating. Hell, the draper’s invoice was still tucked inside her handbag. He certainly didn’t have immediate access to it but she was nervous all the same. She wanted to tell him to screw off as he likely would assume Ryder was hiding something no matter what she said, but she was curious about something he had said in Vauxhall, something about Ryder’s deceased mother.
“One cup, that’s it.” She turned and let herself into the apartment. Mary called a greeting from the back. Webb closed the door and Sam struggled with the pins holding the hat onto her hair. She had to calm down.
Mary appeared from the kitchen beyond the parlor, all smiles until she saw the man behind her was not Ryder. Sam wrested the hat from her head, very aware that the hairstyling Mary had carefully crafted was now thoroughly messed up. With her back to Webb, she gave Mary a pointed look and crossed the adjoining parlor to talk up close with the maid.
“We have a guest,” she said loud enough for Webb to hear. “Please bring out some tea. Quickly, Mary.” Sam lowered her voice to a whisper. “Hide the books upstairs.”
“Certainly, miss.” Mary bobbed her head and first went to the kitchen to set a pot to boil. Sam turned and pasted a smile on her face. Webb still stood in the archway between the parlor and hallway.
She gestured to the chairs. “Please have a seat, Mr. Webb.”
He tapped his heels and bowed in silent thanks. He then chose a seat that offered a view of the front door. Sam forced herself not to wring her hands and hoped like hell that Mary made that tea as if it were an episode of Iron Chef—fast. She came around Webb’s chair and sat opposite him. His hat sat on his knee and she took it as a good sign that he wouldn’t be staying long.
“I must apologize for intruding upon you and the lieutenant at Vauxhall.” He said it hesitantly, as though
he were trying to put it delicately. Why bother? “I am impressed that you so aptly predicted the interlude.”
“Apology accepted. I don’t want to talk about that night anymore.” Webb nodded understandingly. She still found it difficult to remember with fondness those minutes in the Dark Walk with Ryder despite how passionate he had been. Webb had likely heard a great deal of their interlude, as he called it, and didn’t that just make her stomach turn.
Mary discreetly crossed the room and went upstairs. Webb turned his head slightly at the sound of the maid’s footsteps and kept his eyes on Sam. She kept her poker face on, though inside she was sighing with relief that Mary would stash the ledgers somewhere safe.
“With the war over in the colonies, do you know what Ryder intends for his life now that he’s paid off? I understand from the creditors with whom I spoke that his father’s business is struggling with the older son at the helm. Phillip must be having some difficulties replicating his father’s—ah, successful business practices.” He was fishing for information. It wasn’t likely Sam would ever meet William West, who was dying of tuberculosis if Ryder’s description of his symptoms was accurate, so she wouldn’t get a chance to judge the father’s character, but Webb very obviously hated the man.
“What do you mean about his business practices? What sort of business is he in?” Webb smiled and Sam was struck by how much he looked like Ryder. Maybe he was actually Ryder’s uncle? William’s illegitimate brother? Is that why he hated William West so much?
“The import business, Miss Reed. The details would likely bore you. That dress is quite becoming on you, you know. The green against your red hair.”
Sam hid a clenched fist under her skirt. He was only parroting the opinion of his era on the capabilities of the female sex and she certainly hadn’t encouraged a different opinion, having given off the impression for the last two weeks that she spent her days shopping, eating and screwing.