by Ruby Duvall
Ryder groaned above her. She managed to open her eyes. Her ankles bracketed his head and she saw her green shoes, which rocked as he pounded into her. His sun-bleached hair was still barely in its ponytail, hanging over his shoulder. He looked so broad and powerful over her. His face was tense with lust and determination.
Those piercing blue eyes were watching her.
“Give it to me,” she heard herself say. That did it. A noise of shock broke free from his mouth and his hips slapped home. He spilled into her.
Warmth rose up again, surprising her. She climaxed anew and her eyes lost focus. He hissed and it turned into a hoarse moan as he ground against her.
Breathing became easier. Then seeing. Then moving. He released her legs and she reached up to touch his face. The emotion in his eyes was hypnotizing. He looked as if he wanted to say something, to put into words what they had just experienced. He squeezed his eyes shut, silent. She was at a loss for words too.
She pulled him down and he tucked his face into the bend of her neck. They said nothing, but the embrace was enough for now.
Chapter Twelve
Ryder stared at his tavern meal without appetite. He would need sustenance for the journey back to England, but with most of his remaining wealth and all of Williams’ investment represented as various trade goods sitting in the cargo hold of the ship, he found his stomach had soured. Poor luck or simply insufficient planning could mean that the lot of it would be confiscated upon landing, not to mention the possibility of being strung up from the nearest tree to dance upon nothing.
“Not hungry?” Phillip asked. His half-brother had no such thoughts, it seemed, as his plate sat empty. They had arrived in Le Havre together early that morning on a postal packet and busied themselves for much of the day with the purchase, delivery and loading of goods. The Westerly Wind had arrived separately with MacKenzie at the helm, who would captain its return route to England as he was the one most familiar with the coast near Christchurch where Kelter would be ready with as many local farmers and laborers as he could gather.
Phillip continued when Ryder didn’t answer. “I am forced to admit that I am quite impressed with your handling of this run. It’s far smoother than any I attempted, and I also didn’t have the connections to arrange land transport.”
The compliment served to calm him, likely Phillip’s intended result. Ryder brought some food to his mouth. “I will be glad when we’ve left port, even gladder when we’ve landed the cargo.”
His brother drank deeply of his wine. A woman stopped at the table to ask if Phillip wished for more. Surprisingly, he shook his head. “Indeed. That MacKenzie fellow seems a very competent man, and whoever your bookkeeper is, he is far more capable than mine ever was. You’re bound to make twice the profit in the next few days than the most I managed in a single month.”
Ryder smiled at his brother’s choice of pronoun—he. What would Phillip’s face look like if Ryder told him all the things he did to his bookkeeper? Ryder adjusted his seat, remembering anew the lovemaking they had shared after Webb’s visit. Then, just before he rose from their bed to make for the harbor and board the packet, he had taken her slowly, reveling in the number of gasps he evoked.
His brother examined the remaining wine in his glass while chewing his lips. He breathed in and sat up. “No matter what happens, I am grateful for what you’ve done—about that damn business in Lydd and regarding my debts. It means a great deal that you allowed me to come to Le Havre.”
Ryder sat back from his meal, his stomach settling now that he had fed it something. “You’re welcome.” A small smile emerged on his brother’s face. Phillip lifted his glass in silence.
After downing the last of his wine, Phillip sighed contentedly. “Normally, I would now find myself a good whore and enjoy her thoroughly before the ship departed in the morning.”
The word “whore” was strangely upsetting to Ryder, as though its use diminished the cherished woman who continued to gather buyers back in London. Verily he regretted his early treatment of her and the manner in which he thought of her. Her first time with a man shouldn’t have been in that setting. While exultant he was that first man, he mourned that it was merely lust that drove him. Now…
He didn’t doubt that he would now regard differently any woman so employed. How had she come to this occupation? What unknown acumen did she possess of which the world was deprived?
“Retire early, Phillip, and alone. If I am forced to hunt you down in the wee hours of the morning and find a woman in your bed…”
His brother chuckled. “Yes, yes. Perhaps I shall surprise you and be the one to—oh damn my eyes!”
Ryder looked up from his nearly empty plate to find Phillip attempting to be inconspicuous. He had turned away from the tavern door and tilted his head as to make his countenance difficult to discern.
“What is it?”
Phillip’s whisper was fierce. “Webb, at the door.”
Ryder’s heart nearly stopped. He had been certain that the postal packet had left London without their presence onboard known to Webb. He and his brother sat at a booth near the rear of the tavern, which was quite full of other patrons and a covey of laughing French prostitutes. Ryder carefully peered over his shoulder.
It was Webb for certain. He was disheveled and seemed exhausted. Had he just arrived in Le Havre? Ryder turned away and followed Phillip’s example of sitting low in his seat and close to the wall.
Phillip glanced up at Ryder. “What do we do?”
The barmaid reappeared then and Ryder was grateful that she momentarily blocked Webb’s view of their table. She asked in French if they required more food or wine. The loud laugh of a prostitute rang out and Ryder scrambled for a solution to their predicament. They needed a distraction.
He spoke in French to the barmaid. “Send over a harlot.”
“Ryder, what are you doing?”
The barmaid, an older woman with graying hair, looked at him with pursed lips but after a quick curtsy, she went among the gaggle of prostitutes. A couple gasped with feigned outrage betrayed by sly smiles. One with blonde hair and heavy breasts approached. The sway of her hips was exaggerated. A smile played at the corner of her mouth. As she stood at their table, her expression was pleased.
“You are Englishmen?” she asked in English.
“We are, mademoiselle.” The term reminded Ryder of Samantha and he firmly put her from his mind. He hooked his finger at the blonde and she leaned down to display her full breasts. He continued in French. “Do not look, but there is a tall Englishman at the door with graying black hair and a brown coat. I will pay you handsomely to lure him away and keep him occupied. Ply him with wine, drug him, exhaust him, I do not care.”
It was her turn to purse her lips at him, but she was considering his offer. Ryder reached into his pocket and withdrew a generous amount. Her eyes flicked down to the money in his hand. She smiled. His money disappeared and she left the table.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” his brother said.
Ryder snapped back a retort. “Of course I don’t. If he sees us, just keep your mouth shut.” He didn’t dare turn around to watch the seduction unfold, but his brother threw surreptitious glances at the door.
“She’s talking to him. I don’t think he likes her though. He’s trying to walk past her.”
Ryder fisted his hands beneath the table. Damn his luck. “How did he learn we had boarded the packet bound for Le Havre? I saw no one following me. Did anyone see you reach the harbor, Phillip?”
His brother was watching the exchange between Webb and the blonde, but his expression betrayed his answer. “I saw someone but it wasn’t Webb and I didn’t think—”
Ryder rubbed his hand across his face. “You fool.” He thought he might regret allowing Phillip to participate in the first run, and he had been right. “Did you not postulate that Webb might hire another to watch your movements? The man obviously cannot be in several places at once.�
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“Wait. I think—bless her, she’s taking him upstairs.” The relief in Phillip’s voice was mirrored in Ryder. He breathed easier and risked a glance to the stairs that led to the tavern’s short-term lodging. The blonde smiled invitingly and pulled Webb by the hand.
Ryder stood.
Phillip was nearly shrill. “Where are you going?”
“Stay here.” He followed the pair to the next floor, keeping his distance. Once he was certain they were somewhere private, he made note of the room and checked his watch.
He then returned to the table. Phillip drummed his fingers as though a bevy of revenue officers would burst into the inn at any moment. “Change of plan. Return to the ship and rest there. I’ll remain here and ensure that Webb is not capable of leaving. I shall endeavor to meet you at the dock before we push off, but if I do not, leave without me.”
Phillip looked as though he would argue, but to his credit, he offered no objections and gathered his coat. After a quick handshake, his brother was gone.
Ryder returned to his seat. Exhaustion pulled at him but if all went well, he could sleep on the return passage. A few minutes went by and the same barmaid stopped at his table.
“Will you be staying, monsieur?” she asked in English.
“Yes madam. I’ll take coffee, if you have it.”
“Oui, monsieur.” She left.
A couple of hours passed. He had drunk his fill of coffee and fortunately remained alert. The tavern was somewhat quieter as patrons went to bed, often with a partner, but several unattached prostitutes awaited patrons who were content to drink later into the night before taking their pleasure. Those without the coin to afford them drank in silence, glaring into their glasses. Groups of rowdy customers who had been ejected from other establishments occasionally appeared, but either they were ejected as well or they fell into drunken, thankfully quiet stupors.
When he would have asked the barmaid for another cup of coffee, he spotted the blonde at the stairs. Her clothes were in disarray and she beckoned him with a smile.
Ryder stopped the passing barmaid and paid his bill. He then approached the stairs and the prostitute silently led him to the room she had shared with Webb. She held her finger to her lips in a request for silence and opened the door. Ryder braced himself and peered inside.
There on the bed, Webb was passed out on his stomach. His broad back sported a few red lines where the blonde had scraped her nails. A well-placed blanket spared the revenue officer his dignity. Satisfied, Ryder straightened and the blonde closed the door.
“If I did not need it so much, I would return your money,” she whispered in French. That satisfied smile reappeared upon her lips. “He is very strong and—mm, virile for a man of his age.” The smile faded into a pout. “He is cruel, though, for he would not remember my name. I told him my name is Josette but he kept calling me Samantha. Why, I wonder—”
She stopped speaking at the expression on Ryder’s face. He glared at the closed door, yearning to strangle the unconscious man on the bed. For a split second, his half-mad fear that Webb and Samantha had shared a bed preyed upon him, but he outright refused the notion. He trusted Samantha. He wholeheartedly believed her when she affirmed that he had been the only man in her bed, a state that he would perpetuate, for he would allow no other, and no other woman would ever be in his.
“Who is this Samantha that you have this look for her?” the blonde asked. Ryder calmed and returned his attention to the woman in front of him. He pressed more money into her hand, much to her delight. “Do not worry, monsieur. He will not wake until noon.”
Ryder nodded and she returned to the room. When the door shut, he descended the stairs and left the tavern.
* * * * *
Oh sweet baby Jesus. It felt so good to have a clean scalp. One thing Sam seriously needed to rectify and soon was her access to clean, hot water, and not just enough to fill a hip bath. Mary never complained when Sam wanted a bath, but enough hot water—sufficiently boiled as Sam could guess from where that water came—to wash her hair in addition to her body was extra work for the maid who had to haul it a pot at a time up the stairs. She was no engineer, though, and didn’t think she’d be able to design a water heater or a pipe system.
In the meantime, she sighed happily as Mary poured the last of the hot water over her hair to rinse out the soap. The maid giggled.
“You certainly love to wash, Miss Samantha.”
Sam hummed. “I feel calmer once I’ve scrubbed away the things that try to stick to me.” Mary made a noise of agreement.
“Wrap up your hair, and I’ll bring more water for your regular bath.”
Sam wiped the water from her eyes, one hand still braced over the hip bath and her knees cushioned by a folded towel. “Thanks again, Mary. I know it’s a lot of work for you.”
“Not at all, miss. Cleaning up after Mrs. Hayes and all those girls, not to mention the clients and the rooms….working here is far better.” Sam heard Mary stand and leave the bathroom. “I’ll be just a few minutes.” Her footsteps faded down the stairs.
After wringing water from her hair and grabbing the towel under her knees, Sam gingerly stood to avoid dripping water all over the floor—that’d happen soon enough. The towel around her body stayed put, so she fluffed out the other towel in her hand and draped it over the back of her head to rub the moisture from her hair.
The towel caught on something, though, pulling it tight across her neck.
Her locket.
The chain popped and as the locket fell to the floor, so did she.
Her knees hit hard. She also reached out to break her fall and pain shot up her arm from where she smacked her palm into the floor. The towel slipped from her head. Her lungs felt small, as if they couldn’t hold more than a thimble of air. No, it’s that she didn’t want to breathe. Breathing made it hurt. White-hot pain was ripping through her abdomen.
She looked down and red was rapidly spreading across her body towel. Something warm dripped over her thighs.
“Goodbye, Sam.” Brian stood in front of her, casually holding a gun.
How had she forgotten? Or rather, how had she moved on from the knowledge that Brian had killed her? It had been so out of the blue, a decision quickly made as if she was as important to him as whether or not he ordered a latte or a cappuccino.
He had pissed her off by forgetting her birthday, so he was deigning to take her to dinner after work. The car he spent more time talking about than talking to her was warm and ready. She almost got in but then remembered she had left her phone in her desk.
“I’ll be right back.” She went back inside the shop, her brown flats crunching in the snow, and made a beeline for her desk near the back door leading to the storage area. She was acquisition and bookkeeping, not sales, so she didn’t need to be seen. Her phone was next to the keyboard and she spotted the sticky note on her monitor about an eighteenth-century desk being prepped for shipment to a buyer who had paid an outrageous sum.
How did Brian always get them to pay so much more than the piece’s worth? She was of course delighted by their profits and she had chalked up the inflated prices to good salesmanship and a certain exclusivity and rarity to which antiques collectors succumbed. The desk, though, wasn’t particularly beautiful or well preserved. It was likely a merchant’s desk rather than a nobleman’s.
She went into the storage area. The desk was half-packed, boarded up on three sides. Yes, this one. The drawers were sticky and some of the original knobs had been lost. The buyer hadn’t even asked that they do any touch-up. She reached for a drawer and pulled it open.
Inside were several plastic bags tightly packed with white powder. Her mind went blank for a moment, and she stood there like an idiot. She was an idiot. How had it been so long—a whole year—and she hadn’t found this?
Another drawer was filled with the same, and another.
What should she do?
A noise behind her and Sam whipped ar
ound. Brian sighed with disappointment. His hand went into his coat.
Sam grabbed the second towel and pressed it to her stomach. She yelped at the pain, but she had the thought that she should slow the bleeding. Her locket lay on the floor, and she remembered a conversation with Mary. That necklace is your life.
Cold water dripped down her shoulders and warm water dripped from her eyes as she reached for the locket. She was forced to use both hands, one to coax open the delicate spring ring clasp and the other to hold the jump ring. Her fingers were difficult to control and fumbled for an insanely long minute to squeeze open the clasp. Why hadn’t she put this thing on a simple hook clasp?
God she hoped this worked.
She brought the chain around her neck and her fingers blindly attempted to make the two ends kiss. Her face was starting to feel cold. Her lips were tingling. Nausea was about to overwhelm her.
Contact. She released the clasp and the chain was whole again. The pain receded immediately and she slid to the floor. The nausea was still there and she fought to retain the contents of her stomach, to stay conscious.
The latter was proving difficult.
Footsteps on the stairs. Mary, thank God. Sam opened her eyes, but her vision was narrowing and keeping her eyelids up was too much. She felt herself slipping away.
* * * * *
Sam jerked awake, like when dreaming of tripping on a crack in the sidewalk. She was on the bed under the covers. Her hair, still damp, was cool underneath her head.
“Oh thank the Lord.” Mary leaned over her. The maid’s eyes were red and gleamed with new tears. Her hair was sorely tangled and her cap barely clung to her head. “I thought you were dying a-and I didn’t know what to do, miss. I thought I’d call a doctor but—”
“No, no doctors.” Sam really didn’t want one of those quacks in here. She had bled enough for one day, thank you.
“But all that blood! It was all over the towels. I didn’t see any cuts or…”