by Rue Allyn
He took his mouth from hers, plundered her throat and lower. Marking her. Licking her nipples. Taking one tight bud into his mouth, he suckled. Pleased at the depth of her moans and the tremors that shook her.
Her hips wriggled a wanton path across his lap to center her heat above where his cock strained at his pants. Yearning struck through him.
He lifted his head, needing to see her.
Passion stared back at him. Wild, amazed, and amazing.
She attacked his shirt.
Buttons flew.
His hands fell away from her.
She clawed at the closure of his trousers.
Unable to bear more, he stilled her hands, placing them on his chest. The heat of her caresses invoked boiling discontent and searing pleasure.
“Put your feet on the floor.”
“Only if I can kiss you again.”
He smiled. “I insist.”
Feet on the floor she straddled him and the chair, then leaned forward. Her lips worked magic on his mouth. Her hands traced the muscles of his back.
He struggled to free his aching length from the cursed pants.
Finally, all restriction removed, he sought entry. Her folds were slick and wet.
He stroked himself against her, extended the sweet agony until desire breached his restraint. He grasped her hips and pulled her down onto him, seating his phallus deep. Pleasure lifted him, sending him deeper still, again, again, and again.
• • •
A stab of discomfort stilled Edith’s hands, but the thrust of Dutch’s body into hers rocked her forward. His mouth close over her breast first to lick and tease, then suck.
Sweet tension arrowed to her groin. Her body tightened around him.
She felt full but empty, stretched to breaking but unsatisfied, wound tight but not tight enough. How could she stand more? How could she not? She couldn’t think. Didn’t want to think. She wanted. Wanted. Wanted.
His hand squeezed her bottom, moving her up.
No, no. That solid moving presence inside her withdrew. Her hips descended. The fullness spread, deeper, higher, tighter. Yes.
Again he squeezed and lifted.
She resisted.
A throbbing rhythm raced her pulse to some unknown end.
She rose and fell, sobbing aloud her discontent.
His hand slid from her buttocks, snaked between their bodies, and touched her.
Her heart exploded in her chest.
His body slammed into hers.
Her every muscle clenched.
She heard a groan. Was it his?
Touched? Sweet heaven, that was no touch; he’d killed her with pleasure. Wave after wave of sensation drowned all thought. She collapsed against him. The throbbing pulse continued, centered now where her body and his joined. She gasped for air. Filled her lungs, which forced her chest harder against his. Pressure against her tender nipples sent the pulse echoing through her body. She wept with pleasure.
“Shhh. Shhh. Edith, it’s all right. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll make it better. I promise. I won’t hurt you again.”
Too weak to lift her head, she turned her cheek to his shoulder and looked up at him.
His blue eyes had gone smoky gray with concern.
“I’m not hurt.”
“Not hurt?” His tone was puzzled, and he touched a finger to her face. “But you’re crying.”
“I know.” She smiled. “Tears of delight.”
“Tears of delight?”
She nodded, happy to feel his solid shoulder beneath her cheek.
“I didn’t know I could feel this way … that a man and woman could … I hadn’t thought it possible.” Her face began to heat.
Dutch tunneled his hands into her hair. Lifting her head he kissed her. Tenderly, as if she were a priceless treasure to be worshipped and adored. “Thank you.”
“Thank you?”
“Edith, you’ve given me a gift few men ever receive.”
“All I did was enjoy what we did.” She blinked her eyes, suddenly as weary as she was sated.
“I know.” He smiled.
“I don’t understand.”
He kept smiling as he studied her expression. “We’ll talk about it after we sleep.”
“But … ”
“No. I’ve exhausted you, and I’m tired myself. We both need sleep.”
She had no energy to argue. “All right.”
He gathered her into his arms and stood.
Five steps and he tumbled them both into the bed. He arranged himself at her back, one arm beneath her head, the other across her stomach, his hand spread possessively over her belly.
Warm and sheltered, she snuggled her buttocks into the curve of his hips and felt him stir.
“Are you sure you want to rest?” Her words came slow and with much effort.
He nipped at her earlobe. “For a while. Now go to sleep.”
• • •
He’d forgotten she was a virgin.
Dutch lay his head back on the pillow and waited for sleep to overtake him as lust had overtaken him earlier. His need for Edith had been so powerful that he’d forgotten she was an innocent. She could claim all she wanted that she didn’t hurt. He wouldn’t be fooled by that fairy tale about crying tears of joy. No woman was ever happy when she lost her maidenhead.
He’d make it up to her. She’d never cry in his bed again, or anywhere else if he had his way. They would share a lifetime of love making. He would dedicate himself to her happiness and security. She had a good, deserving heart. Just look at what she risked to find her sister. As soon as they tore up that agreement to annul the marriage she would be his completely and forever. She wouldn’t regret the choice. He’d make sure of it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Edith woke late and alone to a bright sunny day. She felt wonderful. A tiny bit sore, but wonderful. Even Dutch’s absence couldn’t lower her spirits, though she would have liked to dally abed with him for the day. Smiling, she smoothed her hand over the depression in his pillow and found a scrap of paper.
“Marcus and his wife have arrived home. I want to introduce you, please join us soon.”
“Trahern” ended the note in a bold, hurried script.
She very much wanted to meet his friends and thank them for their hospitality. She leapt from the bed, washed, and dressed as speedily as possible. Nonetheless, she wasn’t able to leave the room until close to mid-day.
Descending the stairs, Edith halted when she heard raised voices from an open door just off the first floor landing.
“What were you thinking to bring her here?”
“I was thinking,” said a rigid growl, clearly from Dutch, “that my partner would be happy to shelter my wife.”
Obviously the shouting voice belonged to his partner, Marcus Smiley.
“Wife? Are you telling me you actually married a whore? You can’t be serious. Do you know what I heard people saying about her before I even stepped off the train?” Derision replaced the shout.
“I’m dead serious, Marcus,” Dutch paused. “She’s no whore. She’s a proper Boston spinster who got lured into one of Cerise Duval’s traps. Edith told me everything.”
Edith cringed inwardly. She hadn’t exactly told him everything. She’d avoided explaining the terms of the will. He probably wouldn’t have believed her if she’d given the details. Even she had trouble believing Grandfather had signed the document that required his granddaughters to bear children but not to marry in order to inherit. A clerk had made a mistake in transposing the attorney’s notes into the legal document. Now Grandfather was comatose, unable to sign a correction. What the circumstances would be when she and Kiera returned to Boston, Edith didn’t know, but she had to find her sis
ter first.
The entire business was so incredible that she knew Dutch would think she was joking or, worse, lying. If he did believe her, he’d certainly never give her the annulment he’d promised. He’d think she’d tricked him, and that would be the end of any chance that he might love her back. So by omission, she led Dutch to believe that she and her sisters would be destitute. Which in the strictest sense of the will’s wording was true, because none of them was heartless enough to have a child just to inherit a fortune, no matter how badly they all needed that fortune.
Footsteps paced, coming to a halt just beyond the door. In her mind’s eye Edith could see Dutch thrusting his hands through his sun-hued locks.
Smiley laughed derisively. “You of all people should be too smart to fall for such a pack of lies.”
“Of all people, I would know an innocent when I bed one. I married her and took her virginity. I tell you, she isn’t a whore.” His voice wobbled a little.
Did he still doubt her? No, it must be something else. If only she could see his face.
Marcus snorted. “You know how easy it is to fake virginity.”
“Which is precisely why I know she didn’t, couldn’t fake it.”
Marcus’s voice came closer. “Even if you’re right, it won’t make any difference. The entire town is saying that you literally stole this woman from Duval’s cathouse. After stealing her, you sheltered the whore in your own home until she burned it down around you. Yet you married her. Are you out of your mind?”
“Gossip. It’ll die down after Father Conroy performs a church ceremony.”
“I doubt it. Half of Father Conroy’s committee met me at the depot. They’re outraged and want to tar and feather you. They’re ready to insist you turn her over to them, or they’ll arrest both of you. They also had some wild story about more human cargo on our ships and us being in cahoots with Duval and the Chinaman.”
“That’s absurd. Everyone knows Cerise and I are enemies. Besides, Father Conroy is the one who insisted Edith and I get married. We wanted to keep the marriage quiet until this business with Duval is over, but he was going to spread the word of our wedding among the vigilantes to prevent just this sort of reaction.”
“He obviously hasn’t gotten the word to everyone on the committee. The ones I spoke with want to boycott our business. Maybe you’d better tell Father Conroy to talk faster. And forget keeping your marriage quiet. Send an announcement to the papers or we’ll be broke inside of a month, all because you couldn’t keep your trousers buttoned.”
“The fire has us close to broke as it is. But business aside, I need your support to see this through.”
“I don’t think I can help.”
“You can, Marcus. Your reputation is solid, and now that you’re married, you have even more respectability. People will forget the Duval auction. They’ll forget faster if you and Eileen accept Edith as Father Conroy has.”
“Out of the question. Eileen is a gently raised woman. She shouldn’t know anything about women like your Edith.”
She’d heard more than enough. Gathering her skirts, Edith descended the last few steps prepared to set Marcus Smiley straight and tell him just what she thought of a man who wouldn’t help his friend and partner. Later she’d clear up Dutch’s mistaken idea that they had to remain married.
“Miss? Mrs. Trahern?”
Edith jerked back from bursting into the room where Dutch and Marcus argued. She turned. “Yes?”
A petite woman with a cloud of bright red hair stood before her. “Are you, Edith? The woman who came here with Dutch?”
“She nodded. “You must be Mrs. Smiley. I want to thank you for giving us shelter last night.”
A smile formed on the woman’s face. “Call me Eileen. I’m happy to help Dutch. He’s been so good to Marcus.” She looked to where loud voices continued to emerge from the slightly open doorway. “I hate to see them argue.”
“I was about to go in and stop the argument.”
Eileen tilted her head in question.
“They’re arguing about me, and neither of them is right. So I thought I’d set them both straight and restore the peace.”
The smile softened. “You’re a much braver woman than I. Dutch can be formidable in a temper.”
Edith smiled back. “Believe me, I know. But I grew up dealing with an angry man, so I can handle Dutch.”
Eileen’s brows wrinkled with worry. “I’m sorry to hear you’ve had trouble.”
Edith stepped closer to the other woman and laid a hand on her upper arm. “The trouble is nearly over, and I’ve had help from many good friends.”
“Good.” The smile returned, rapidly followed by dismay. “Oh, I nearly forgot. This note came for you.”
Edith took the paper and scanned the contents. The framer would be happy to talk with her but was leaving the city tomorrow for an extended visit with relatives. Could Edith possibly come to his shop today?
In the next room, the men continued to argue.
Edith hesitated. She would never remain married, so the argument between Dutch and his friend was needless. Interrupting them would save everyone much heartache. But if she interrupted, she might lose her best chance to find Kiera. That thought forced the decision.
“I have to go out. Would you be so kind as to tell Dutch I’ll be back in a few hours?”
“I’ll be happy to relay your message, but perhaps you’d like to wait until he can go with you.”
Edith looked to the room where the men argued. She didn’t think Dutch would be amenable to chasing to the far side of San Francisco when she refused to stay married to him. She shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine, and Dutch will probably need some time to cool off after his, er, discussion with your husband.”
Eileen nodded. “Very well. I’ll relay your message.”
“Thank you.” She pressed the married woman’s hand then grabbed her shawl from the peg in the foyer. Scooped one of Dutch’s calling cards from the front table, she hurried out the front door. Clearing up things with Dutch and his friend could wait. The framer, her only lead to Kiera, could not.
• • •
Two streets from her destination, Edith paid off the rickshaw driver she’d hired outside of the Smileys’ home. The fire hadn’t reached here, and the rain had turned the dirt roads to mud. The coolie hurried off eager for another fare. She cast an uneasy look at her surroundings and wished she’d paid the man to stay. The hairs at her nape prickled as if she’d been followed, which was ridiculous. The rundown buildings and narrow streets would make anyone uneasy. Still, this wasn’t the Barbary Coast. The address was well outside the bounds of that depraved area. However, even her short adventures into the city with Tsung and Dutch showed her that crime and poverty were not restricted to the Barbary’s hells.
Across the road, two men sauntered from a saloon, pausing to look her over. Aware of the unwanted attention, Edith set off at a brisk walk, eyeing the shop signs in the dirty windows. She didn’t want to miss the framer’s establishment.
Her neck prickled once more. A quick look over her shoulder showed that the men had crossed the street and were walking in her direction. Beyond them a shadow dodged swiftly into the dark of an alley.
She looked forward once more and, reaching the end of the boardwalk, arrived at a sea of muck. Footsteps behind her announced that the men were getting closer. To her left a trail of thin planks set end to end spanned the distance to the next section of boardwalk. She lifted her skirts to keep them out of the sticky ooze. Ignoring the whistle that sounded when she showed her ankles, she scurried as lightly as possible across the planks that sank and twisted with every step.
On solid boardwalk once more, she turned. The men were halfway across the plank trail.
“You waitin’ fer us, Honey Pot?” asked one
of the men. The other leered.
She bent, sank her gloved hands into the mud to get a solid grip on the end of the nearest plank.
“What you doin’?”
The board weighed very little, but tearing it from the grasp of the ooze proved more of a challenge than Edith expected.
Fear lent her strength. She heaved the board upward and tossed the end toward the middle of the street at a right angle to its original path.
“Now that ain’t very friendly.”
She turned and ran, checking the signs on the doors and trying to strip off her mucky gloves as she went. At the end of the boardwalk she found the framer’s shop. She whisked around the corner and through the shop’s door.
Heart thundering, she leaned against the door and watched the street from the adjacent window.
The two men came running around the corner and stopped abruptly.
“Where’d she go?”
“Bitch! I see her again, she’ll be sorry.”
Shouting and muddy to the knees, they walked past the window and out of her view. She expelled a sigh of relief, leaned her forehead against the window, and finished stripping off her gloves. Setting them aside she reached into her handbag for Dutch’s calling card. She’d brought it just in case the framer had left early, so she could leave a message.
“Ah, I see you accepted our invitation, Mrs. Smithfeld, or should I say Miss Alden or perhaps Mrs. Trahern?”
Edith straightened and turned away from the window. In the dim light of the room stood the elegant form of Cerise Duval. Beside her sat a thin, bent, old Chinese gentleman in a wheeled chair. Four burly men flanked them, two on either side of the couple.
“Madame Duval!” The calling card dropped from Edith’s hand. “Aren’t you rather far from Morton Street?” Edith tried to appear calm while her heart raced for a second time.
“I’m here because of you. You and your sister have caused me no end of trouble and money, Miss Alden. My associate and I agree that it’s past time that you started to pay.”
Edith spared a glance for Duval’s associate.
The old man studied her through narrowed eyes, as if he were purchasing a vase or painting. Grandfather had often worn a similar expression when considering a business proposition.