by Gina Conkle
At least his housekeeper didn’t mince words. His erection pulsed, and he fought the urge to discuss a trade of intimate favors. Temptation smothered him, her skin smelling of warmth and clean air, her unruly hair, and impertinent chin.
He gripped the tub’s rim. “I am trying to be a gentleman.”
“Despite asking me to talk with you in your bath.”
“A minor detail. No one needs to know.”
She sat up taller, her arms resting in her lap. The quirk of her mouth told him she’d made a concerted effort not to peek at his nether regions. She had to know his cock was at full, painful, please touch me salute.
“And I thought you might want a harmless kiss.”
Her smoky alto sent a perfect tingle across his nape. He eyed her supple pink mouth. “Kissing you would never be harmless.”
Her chin dipped at the compliment, and messy tresses slipped forward. One of these days, he’d ask why she didn’t pin her hair, but for the moment, he needed her out of the scullery. Otherwise, he’d do something foolish—such as press his mouth to hers, take her hand, and guide it into the water to stroke him.
“Well,” she began. “Since you’d prefer clean chamber pots over kisses—”
His molars clamped. “I didn’t say that.” It’d be useless to argue what he really wanted. Feeding his wants wouldn’t help her.
“Do I get to see what you have?”
“No,” he said testily. If they were playing a game of fox and geese, the geese would be outflanking him again, worse than this morning. “It’s worth cleaning the chamber pots. All winter. Trust me.”
“Not if I don’t get to see it, milord.”
“Do you trust no one?”
Her moue and shrug came with “I’ll give you a month.”
He waved the papers. “This is worth two months at least.”
“A month,” she countered. “My final offer. Consider yourself fortunate that I don’t reduce my offer to a week.”
He chuckled at the incongruity of the master of the house negotiating labor from a domestic, but she had him cornered. Miss Turner warmed to the game, a woman born to it. Her presence drove him mad, yet invigorated him. He guessed that if a high-flying duke had discovered her at the Golden Goose and played his cards right, Miss Turner would’ve been a celebrated courtesan.
Instead, she’d chosen rustic housekeeper, his housekeeper.
“What’s it to be?” she prompted.
Her lush curves and stalwart ways sucked the air right out of his lungs. Even her voice teased him. He handed over the papers. “Very well. A month.”
She unfolded the broadsheets, and the pamphlet tumbled onto her lap. Her eyes rounded, silently telling him she valued the humble gift more than gold. He slid lower in the water. Miss Turner’s lips moved curiously. Whispery sounds came from her mouth as though she strained at reading the title aloud.
“You have heard of Ben Franklin, haven’t you?” he ventured.
“Oh yes. A third mate from a Boston ship used to visit me at the Golden Goose. He’d talk about Mr. Franklin’s experiments in electricity.”
He sat up to read the top lines aloud. “Letters on Electricity published in London by Peter Collinson, 1751. A little out of date. But you don’t mind?”
“No. It’s perfect.” She turned the yellowed pages with care, sometimes pausing to study the text. One hand covered her mouth as though she couldn’t believe her good fortune.
“You’ll find diagrams in there. I thought with your interest in mechanical things…” His words trailed off.
He was in a rare place…at a humble loss for words with a woman. Sinking lower in the tub, he marveled at how deeply she valued the well-worn pamphlet. He could be a piece of furniture, for all her interest in him.
“Thank you, milord. You have no idea how much this pleases me.”
“Oh, I’m beginning to guess.”
She stood, her brown eyes shining. “If you don’t need me, I’ll go to my room.”
Need her? His hand splashed into the tub. He made a show of searching for the cleaning cloth at the bottom. “It’s been a long day for both of us,” he said, waving her off. “Enjoy the night as you see fit.”
Body stiff, he waited for her door to shut before slumping in the bath until his chin hit the water. His knees broke the surface, and the back of his head hit the wall, but all his agony was between his legs.
Hot. Throbbing. Needy.
The cottage was silent, save Miss Turner’s muffled voice coming from her room beside the scullery.
He shut his eyes. Need her? The words brought seductive images…her plump, dewy breasts inches from his mouth. Air whistled between his clenched teeth. One hand slid down his thigh. Her muted voice carried—faint, melodic, desirable. He should stop…go to his chamber… But the desire to touch himself…
He grabbed his erection, a gust leaving his lungs. This wouldn’t take long. He was desperate for satisfaction. Water-wrinkled fingers fondled his length, the pleasure-pain of touch bittersweet because it wasn’t her hand caressing him. Through half-open eyes, he looked to the unlit kitchen.
Why did he want her so badly?
Visions of Miss Turner danced in his head, while her muffled voice came achingly real from the next room. Staring at the wall, he stroked his erection, conjuring her soft lips, her curved bodice hovering at the tub’s rim.
Low, rusty laughter erupted. He was an unhinged degenerate. If she knew he touched himself to the sound of her voice, Miss Turner would run to the Beckworth cottage and not think twice. He circled his cock’s tip. One finger grazed the sensitive spot. Pleasure shocked him. His ass muscles squeezed.
He played his hard shaft, up and down. Up and down. Water slapped inside the tub. Miss Turner was saucy and playful at the same time, the mixture snaring him better than well-practiced widows. He stroked faster, his breath ragged. In his mind, he pulled her shift’s small white tie. Her bodice loosened. His housekeeper slipped her hands inside and she moaned, cupping her breasts for him.
Air shot from his lungs. He groaned and put his mouth against the stone wall, stifling his noises. Excruciating pleasure-pain built low on his spine. His frantic hand rubbed hard. Up and down. Water sloshed around him.
Tremors racked his body. Tired muscles clenched, merciless with need.
“Genevieve.” He breathed her name against the stone wall.
He doubled over, his eyes squeezing tight. Shuddering from head to toe his seed shot free of his cock.
Satisfaction melted over him.
Panting hard, he watched his breath ripple the water’s surface. His eyes stretched wide, focusing, stretching wide again. Between his legs, a ribbon of milky-white fluid spiraled in the water, floating a moment before sinking to the bottom.
Spent to the bone, he stayed as he was, holding his penis as it went limp. Wet hair fell around his face. His stomach growled, while his housekeeper, the red-cloaked woman with secrets, read aloud in her room. He hungered for Miss Turner, his utterly off-limits housekeeper.
How would he survive this long, cold winter?
Nine
By the Alnmouth seaport…
Reinhard Wolf’s knife speared a chunk of cod. He raised the flaccid meat to eye level. Buttery sauce globbed on pallid flesh.
“Little about the Englisch sates me.” He bit the morsel and chewed quickly.
He sat with his back to a wall and an eye to the door. He’d already counted the number of men in the tavern—twelve, save Avo and himself. None were a threat. Years of soldierly habits made him mark points of egress in palaces and public houses alike.
Across the table, Avo Thade tore into a hunk of bread, talking around his food. “The Calliope leaves for Danzig tomorrow. We could be on it.”
“We retrieve Genevieve first. Then we leave.”
A
solitary traveler eating stew peered at them over his spectacles. One stern glare sent the man back to his dinner. Alnmouth’s public house was small and quiet, a place where foreigners were easily noticed.
“Need I remind you that we do not wish to draw attention to ourselves?” Reinhard said, wiping his knife clean. Firelight shined off the lethal edge. His thumb tested it, drawing a thin red line on his skin. “I thought we were done with your insolence.”
The Frisian’s openmouthed chewing slowed, and he set his bread on the plate.
“I’m glad we came to an understanding. Now, I need numbers.”
“My report.” Avo gave a tight nod. “Our Englisch friend provided forty Brown Besses, a thousand paper cartridges, and twelve ramrods to replace the damaged pieces. These left in a casket headed for Königsberg. Three dead rats rest beside the guns to smell like one dead Prussian merchant going home for burial. The casket will be met by two of our men in Königsberg to be transported for the Brotherhood.” His mouth twisted. “And we remain here, chasing one lief”—he paused and corrected his near-slip—“one woman.”
Reinhard speared another chunk of fish, smiling coldly at Avo’s quick correction. This one woman. He wasn’t required to explain how she’d gotten under his skin or how her escape needled him. Genevieve Turner belonged to him. The paper in his pocket proved it.
“And do you have numbers in your hunt for her?”
Avo smirked. “No, but I have a name, a village, and a color.”
He tipped the knife at Avo’s throat. “Quit playing games.”
A spoon clattered in a dish. The bespectacled traveler reached for his hat in his scramble to leave their side of the public house.
Chin up to avoid the knife, Avo watched the man retreat. “We are drawing attention to ourselves, no, Herr Captain?”
Reinhard lowered the knife and pushed his plate aside. He’d lost sleep. He couldn’t concentrate. Patience was a virtue he cultivated like gold, yet he was becoming short-tempered. Staring into the fire, he curled his fist on the table. Soon, word would come from the baron by way of their Englisch friend—an order to leave.
If he didn’t have Genevieve by then, would he defy king and country? For one woman?
Avo guzzled his ale and swiped his mouth. “She traveled under the name Miss Abbott, in a red cloak with elaborate stitching on the hood and hem. Black stitching, if you must know.”
“You are certain of this.”
“Her fur-lined cloak, the one you gave her, was in a shop near the Exchange.” Avo smirked again. “She traded it for a red cloak of lesser quality.”
“Yet you didn’t tell me until now?” Reinhard leaned forward, his cloth buttons hitting the table. Cloth buttons softened his appearance, a ploy to appear more like a common man and less soldierly.
“Because I know you prefer complete reports. It took me longer to find out the rest.”
“No,” Reinhard scoffed. “You hoped I’d give up.”
“Perhaps I did, Captain. You are too good a soldier for this, this distraction. The Brotherhood needs you.”
Reinhard sat back, both forearms braced on the table. “I didn’t think you liked me.” Not that he cared.
“I don’t.”
A rare laugh erupted. “We understand each other. What else do you have to tell me?”
“I obtained stagecoach records. She is in a village, Cornhill-on-Tweed.” Avo crossed his arms, his spine hitting the back of his chair. “Our Englisch friend is already en route. It would seem he also wishes for you to get her and be on your way to Prussia.”
“And this village, how long to get there?”
“Six, maybe seven days of hard riding. What will you do when you find her?”
“She will come with me as planned.” Reinhard patted his chest, where paper crinkled in his pocket. “Genevieve already knows I have the means to compel her.”
Ten
A few days later…
“Have you kissed her yet?” Samuel asked.
Marcus and Samuel rode along the pasture’s perimeter with an eye to the cottage. Miss Turner’s vibrant red cloak stood out against the mellow sandstone. Shovel in hand, she jabbed the earth with determined thrusts. The weeds didn’t stand a chance.
“I assume we’re speaking of my housekeeper,” Marcus said, halting Khan. “A hardworking, respectable woman of excellent character. She’s done a fine job with Pallinsburn. I wouldn’t besmirch her honor with talk like that, nor should you.”
Samuel rode on, his shoulders bouncing with laughter. “And every night she ascends to heaven on angels’ wings.”
Marcus frowned. If his friend saw right through him, how soon before others did? “Came on strong, did I?”
“A little.”
He urged his horse forward. “I don’t want her reputation damaged.”
“Should’ve thought about that before making her your housekeeper. People will talk.”
Marcus searched Miss Turner out again, a gust boxing his ears like an admonishing aunt. Was it so wrong to want to help a woman in need? Her serious exterior belied deep-seated passion, evidenced in the way she dove into every task. Miss Turner’s brand of serious enthusiasm fascinated him as much as her other features.
“What will people talk about? Her youth?” he retorted. “Does a woman have to be long in the tooth to hold a decent position?”
“No, but it’d help if you were toothless. Or married.” Samuel stared ahead, the wind assaulting his queue. “We don’t make the rules, Marcus, but we both know them.”
“You hired her, and you’re not a married man.”
Samuel’s gaze pinned him. “Nor do I have your unsavory reputation.”
A twinge pinched Marcus’s conscience. “I’d wager my housekeeper has more honor, more determination in her little finger than most women of my acquaintance,” he said fiercely. “Who I am should have no bearing on her.”
“Me thinks you doth protest too much…or whatever that drivel is. A clear sign you have it bad for her, but haven’t touched her. Yet.”
Why did Samuel hunt for sordid details? Likely he’d seen through Miss Turner with her low-cut bodices and saucy skirts. Didn’t matter. She worked hard. Marcus didn’t care if she fit the proper housekeeper stamp or not. He ought to buy a dull, gray gown and a handful of ugly mobcaps for her, if only to aid her reputation. Smiling against his collar, he guessed she wouldn’t wear them, nor should she have to.
Khan snorted, his nose tipping high. Their late-afternoon gander was too tame. Did the horse feel his master’s disquiet? One look at his red-cloaked gardener, and Marcus was certain of one thing: he’d do anything to keep his friend, or any man, on the straight and narrow when it came to Miss Turner. She deserved a fresh start.
His housekeeper had nabbed another piece of his heart when she’d clutched the ragged pamphlet. But the afternoon ride wasn’t meant to discuss his housekeeper’s allure. Samuel pulled his hat low, failing to look him in the eye.
“Quoting Shakespeare,” Marcus said. “You must be reading with Adam again.”
“I am.” Samuel nodded at a cluster of docile mares sniffing the ground. “Once these beauties start producing, I’ll hire a tutor. The lad has promise…isn’t as thick-skulled as Alexander and me.”
That thick-skulled youth was throwing his shoulders into scraping the warped cottage door. Alexander drove the plane along the door’s edge, conversing with Miss Turner in the late-day sun.
Marcus had unhinged the door to fix it himself. New tasks cropped up each day requiring him to use his hands. To repair the tack shed. Build a new stall. Chop more wood. By fixing Pallinsburn’s door, he’d planned to demonstrate to his housekeeper that he was more than a randy cottage master, but Samuel had shown up, claiming the need to ride the meadow’s perimeter and check newly repaired stone fences. Again.
Th
e call for another inspection meant one thing: Samuel had a request. A big one.
“You don’t need to worry about Alexander poaching on your interests,” Samuel said, his deep voice rumbling.
“Alexander would be a fine match for Miss Tur… I mean Miss Abbott, should she accept his attentions.”
It burned to say those words, but Marcus could acknowledge the truth. Alexander was a fine young man, respectful of his brothers and solid in nature. Everything Marcus was not.
Samuel steered his chestnut closer, his ice-blue eyes narrowing. “That’d be the second time in recent days you’ve started to call Miss Abbott by another name. Is there something you need to tell me?”
“No.”
Khan trotted forward, putting distance between them. Beyond the road, the landscape opened wide. Marcus felt his blood coursing with need. To go fast. To hear wind fly past his ears and see the ground surging beneath him.
Oh, how he needed sex. Stroking himself in the tub was getting tiresome.
A good, fast ride between soft, feminine thighs…
He glimpsed Miss Turner’s red cloak and cursed under his breath. Samuel caught up, blocking Marcus’s view of her. Their mounts slowed when they neared the second meadow’s gate, a sorry excuse for a barrier propped up by wooden stakes.
Samuel squinted at the empty pasture. “You haven’t asked why Alexander won’t give you any competition with your fair housekeeper.”
“Very well. Why?”
“Because he asked me to purchase an army commission. He’s set on going to the colonies.”
“And you discouraged him.”
“Of course I did. I want him to stay.”
Marcus faced the pasture, looking but not seeing. “And because he’s as hardheaded as you, he threatened to leave with or without your blessing. Is that it?”
“He should partner in this venture,” Samuel groused. “I’ll need help after you leave.”
Marcus’s grip on the reins tightened. Samuel took every opportunity to push, sometimes pound, for what he wanted. He’d not rise to the bait.