The Red Velvet Horse (Siren Publishing Allure)
Page 11
“My, don’t you look like the cat who stole the cream.” Mrs. Knowles looked me up and down with a twinkle in her appraising eyes. “Am I ever glad to see you. I’ve got some marvelous news for you, my girl.”
It was a dusky twilight set amidst a crimson sky, and the crisp snow all around us lent a sense of unreality and theatre to the scene.
“Really?” I queried in some surprise, for what could possibly have happened at Mrs. Knowles' establishment to influence the affairs of yours truly.
“A Mr. Tom Bateman from Vancouver was here looking for you.”
“Tom?” I repeated dumbly. How could that be, when he had pointedly refused to answer my telegram, even when pressed for such a response by the telegraph people?
“He left this for you in the hope that you might return here one day,” Mrs. Knowles slipped a letter from the locked upper drawer of her bureau.
My Darling Hannah:
How can you ever forgive me for letting you down so atrociously in your greatest hour of need? Even now I pray that it will not be too late for us, who were true lovers in every sense of the word. Do not believe for a moment, my love, that I would have turned from you so cruelly for it is not so. My sister, who was afraid of losing me to one whom I adored so completely, burned your letters to me, and turned the telegraph boy from our door while I was away at work. I kiss your eyelids, your lips, and your breath, now and always.
Your very own Tom
My God, that treacherous wicked little bitch, I thought to myself with such a fury that it threatened to consume me, like Phaeton on that ill-fated ride through the heavens.
If it hadn’t been for her deception, I would have escaped the misery of life with Joseph Murchison. Damn her straight to hell.
Then I brooded for a while about how others had attempted to keep Tom and I apart, first of all my maidservant, Mattie and then Tom’s own sister. Why were the fates so set against us?
When I had recovered my equilibrium, and a stiff shot of Mrs. Knowles’ best brandy helped, I sent a telegram to my darling, which triggered an inevitable shudder of déjà vu.
“I love you,” I wrote with such passionate abandon that it scared me, all thoughts of my upcoming marriage to the good Barry Sims totally forgotten. “Come to me now…lest by delay, we lose each other for all eternity next time.”
And then I waited with fidgeting fingers and fluttering heart for a reply. Which, much to my delight arrived immediately, and in the affirmative.
“Will see you in one week from today, providing there is no ice on the railway tracks. Yours always, my love, Tom.”
So began the longest week of my life. I tormented myself relentlessly with all manner of bogies about train derailments and the like. When it was finally over, and I rushed to meet him at the station, all my hopes, dreams and greatest joys were at last realized.
“I love you, my darling, oh how I love you,” I told him breathlessly, gazing with wonder at his perfect face and shining green eyes. “And I will never let you go again…ever.”
Tom returned my kiss with a fervor that matched my own, and pledged himself to me with a passion so intense it ignited my spirit.
* * * *
Fog horns bleat from the harbor, on this chilly evening in late October. Soon it will be All Hallows Eve.
From my parlor window––on clear nights––I can see the lights of Niagara Falls, Canada sparkling across the water.
Tom and I, have taken up residence in the United States. Here I remain safe from prosecution on the charge of bigamy.
We married in a tiny chapel beside the Niagara River. Our blessed union recognized as legal in this most charitable of nations.
I can feel the child stir in my belly, as I get up to throw another lump of coal on the fire. My lying in period can’t be far off.
The flame sputters blue and sends sparks flying up the chimney. All is silent save for the steady ticking of the mantelpiece clock.
Tom will be home soon. He has found a position as a riverboat pilot which suits him well. I fill a kettle with water and place it on the stove, then I begin to set the table.
Chapter Nine
So, that was that, April thought, the end of Hannah Wilks’ manuscript at last. She was glad the story had a happy ending, and that Hannah walked off into the sunset with the man she loved, and who loved her.
Now April began to ponder her own fate. What would become of herself and the men in her life? That she still loved Holt was a given, yet with the burgeoning of her affair with Curtis, she was becoming more and more confused. She knew that this new love in her life had more than just a trace of influence from the past. For surely it could not be dismissed as mere coincidence, that both Hannah and she, had formed intimate attachments to men who worked on public transport?
Was she attempting to relive Hannah’s experiences? Confused and far from happy, April felt like a feather tossed in the wind and totally at the mercy of the fates.
It was just while she was ruminating about her future in this way, that fate took a hand in the matter.
* * * *
A mysterious moon sailed through the clouds and lit a ghostly pathway over the water. It was almost midnight, but the lights still burned in the Quayside Martial Arts Center.
Curtis, wearing a white karate uniform with a black belt, side-kicked his opponent twice, before bowing formally and walking from the room.
He had been studying the art of self-defense since he was a teenager. Although his initial attraction to karate had been strictly of an “I can kick your ass” nature, as he progressed he discovered that the mental discipline and spiritual oneness soon eclipsed that.
His lifelong ambition had been to own his own martial arts studio, and now that opportunity had presented itself.
“I hate the thought of being so far away from you,” he told April. For the business he was buying into was on the other side of the country. “But, it’s the chance of a lifetime and I just can’t afford to pass it up.”
“No…no, of course not,” she agreed, though her heart lay heavy in her chest. So soon after Holt’s defection, it was particularly hard to bear.
There are planes nowadays, she told herself stoically, unlike in poor Hannah and Tom’s day.
* * * *
“I don’t think kismet likes me very much,” she confided to Fern, who was polishing a nineteenth century brass samovar. “First Holt goes out of my life and now Curtis.”
“Oh, buck up dear, things will get better. You never know, this separation might be just what the doctor ordered to get things sorted out.”
“Meaning?”
You can’t just drift along forever. The more you see of Curtis, the less likely it is that you and Holt will patch up your differences again.”
“What makes you think that I would want to?” April snapped. Yet the loneliness in her eyes was impossible to hide.
“What you need is an evening of fun. There’s a masked ball next week, why don’t you go?”
* * * *
The Mardi Gras Masked Ball was sponsored by the local Antique Collector’s Society, and held in the Georgian Court Hotel. April had only attended them sporadically in the past, but now at Fern’s urging, she found herself entering into the spirit of the thing.
“Wow, I’ve never seen it this crowded before.” She jostled her way towards the bar, through a throng of masked merry makers.
April had chosen the simple white gown of a Grecian water nymph, topped off with a tiara of flowers and a silver face mask, while Fern had opted to go as a witch. “Just seemed right somehow with this hair,” she had laughed, clutching at a broom handle painted black for the occasion.
They carried their drinks to a corner table and surveyed their fellow guests.
As usual, at functions such as this one, there were more witches than anything else. “Well I’m certainly in the majority,” Fern laughed. There were long black gowns and pointed hats everywhere.
“Yet there are fewer
witches than vampires,” April observed. As she spoke, one of the Count Draculas bowed to her and asked her to dance.
“Would you care to join me in this following little number?” he said, in a quite clever parody of the notorious Romanian blood drinker. It was Holt.
“Damn you, Fern.” April felt betrayed and set up for this reunion. Yet, she wasn’t quite as displeased as she pretended to be.
The dance floor was crowded and electric with energy, and it felt good to have Holt’s arms around her again.
Yet she resisted. It was all happening too fast.
“I’m crazy about you, April,” he murmured, drawing her even closer.
“Hey, slow down.” She felt confused, conflicted. “We need to talk about this.”
“I know, sweetheart,” he agreed, while continuing to press himself against her, until she half-way relented.
We’re practically making love standing up, she thought. Fully clothed, to the pulsing beat of a live band. Got to get a grip. She reminded herself of how he’d betrayed her with a cheap prostitute.
“I need to have you properly in a bed,” he whispered. “With all our clothes off. Legs intertwined, belly to belly, and mouth to mouth.”
“I’m not ready for that yet,” she whispered, although her body thought otherwise.
“Is it because of Curtis?” he asked, his cock rising hard against her thigh.
“No,” she answered truthfully, for her handsome lover seemed further away at that moment than he ever had before. “It’s about trust.”
“I’ll never stray again,” he promised. “I must have been crazy.”
But could she be sure?
On the one hand she felt as if she’d returned safely from a dark and lonely journey, as Holt kissed her hungrily on the mouth. While on the other, she remembered the pain his infidelity had caused her.
“Welcome home,” he whispered.
She felt her body strain against his with a kind of desperate need that could not be denied. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to draw back, pull away.
“Let’s have dinner, tomorrow,” she suggested, guiltily aware of her flushed face and glazed eyes. “How about the Green Man Bistro, at six?”
“If that’s what you want,” he said. “Your wish is my command.” He hesitated for a moment and smiled. “I’ll do my level best to try to seduce you, of course.”
“Of course.” She grinned, admitting to herself she’d be disappointed if he didn’t.
THE END
AUTHOR BIO
Iona Blair is a multi-published author whose erotic novels are often described by reviewers as "shocking." Iona lives in an old converted lighthouse on the Pacific Coast, where her thoughts run as wild as the weather.
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com