As Wicked as You Want: Forever Ours Book 1

by Nia Farrell

  There were things, of course, that I would need, but I’d put those on my shopping list and packed them—some in my trunk, some in my carpet bag.

  “No, thank you. But here’s the list of what I’d like to keep. Please, sir, give Daniel my thanks, and tell him that he is to attend to these only if time and circumstance allow. My work is of utmost importance. If a piece of art is left or lost, well, it might be nearly replicated but you know as well as I, an original is irreplaceable. The tools of my trade are a close second. Anything else…well, I don’t want to pressure Daniel unduly. If he packs my studio, then whatever else he can comfortably do, I shall deem more than sufficient. I’ve listed things in order of importance. Tell him that for me, would you, please?”

  I did not bother folding the note but gave it to Edward, to read or not, as he wished. Part of me put it down to trust, that I depended upon him to see it safely delivered. A deeper, more secret part wanted to share this piece of me, to allow him to see what I deemed of value. I wanted him to wonder why a simple seashell meant more than a carved cameo. I wanted him to ask me how a pewter porringer came to be several notches above the twenty dollar gold piece hidden beneath my bed. If indeed he took the time to notice and remember such things, well, then, I could almost believe that he felt something toward me besides pity, or the concern that he might show to anyone threatened with injustice. If I were not careful, I might even be convinced that he actually cared.

  Be still, my heart.

  There would be time enough for him to finish packing his bags when he returned. Not that there was a great deal, but he had personal items in the bathroom, including the straight razor and hog’s hair brush that I had borrowed earlier, leaving my face clean of any peach fuzz that had sprouted overnight. After his morning ablutions, he’d opened the door for ventilation while he shaved.

  It was all I could do to stay at the table when, in my mind, I wanted to kneel at his feet and beg for the honor of doing that service. I wanted to wet a towel with hot water, squeeze out the excess, and use it to warm his face. While his whiskers softened, I’d strop his razor and work the damp bristles of his shaving brush over a bit of soap, churning it into lather. Once I’d covered the planes and curves and corners of his all too handsome face, I’d angle the blade and scrape clean his cheeks, jaw, chin, and throat, one short stroke at a time, wiping specks of hair and white foam on the towel and repeating until we were done.

  If only he would let me.

  But it was too soon, I supposed. After all, we had only just met. Logic dictated caution, which I would throw gladly into the wind if there was a chance that I could convince him to explore this intangible link, this undeniable attraction that we shared. He could not look me in the eye and tell me that it was not mutual. There was no way that he would be able to hide the truth.

  Evasion was my forte, my secret power. How else could I hide in plain sight?

  I saw him off, watching as he ambled down the hall, walking stick in hand, headed for my studio. This time, I did not wait—not when donning my disguise was going to take some time and I didn’t know how long I might have.

  First, I wet my hair and changed the part, a sharp crease down the middle, the black silk of my locks parted neatly in half. I folded my robe and nightshirt and put them in my carpet bag. My drawers were a sweaty mess, but there was no help for that, not until we were in New York and I had time and space to launder them. I draped them on the back of a chair to dry as best they could.

  I stripped down to nothing, then built myself back up, bit by bit, transforming myself into a creature so unrecognizable, I could only stare into the mirror in wonder. Palming the key, I covered my head, plucked a book to bring with me, and exited our room, locking the door behind me.

  I took a seat in a quiet corner of the lobby and found where I’d left off reading about Anne Bonny. I’d progressed through Charles Vane, Blackbeard, and Captain Henry Morgan and was well into Stede Bonnet when Edward returned. Not surprisingly, he walked right past me, lunch basket in hand, headed for our room. I snapped shut the book and trailed after him, following him up the stairs and down the hall, cursing his longer legs as each stride increased the distance between us.

  He stopped at our door and knocked. Gave his usual greeting and waited for my response. When none was forthcoming, he knocked again. I came up behind him and excused myself.

  He flashed me a look of annoyance, perhaps suspicion. After all, the Pinkertons employed women. For all he knew, I might have escorted the late President to his first swearing in.

  I held up the key and said, “Here, Brother Edward. You will need this. Did you give Daniel my note?”

  He stared at me in stunned disbelief, as if he could not believe his eyes. Then, just as quickly, anger clouded his face, sharpening his features. I felt flayed by his gaze. “What madness is this?” He grabbed the key and unlocked the door, shoving it open hard enough to bounce off the wall. “For Christ’s sake, Lane!”

  “Elena,” I corrected him, removing my veil-draped bonnet to reveal the stylishly beribboned net that helped hide my lack of coiffure. “There is no Lane. He’s been gone six years.”

  His disbelieving gaze was fixed on my too-short hair.

  I felt my face grow flush, but I resisted the urge to touch it. “If someone asks, tell them I had a fever. Or sold it to the wigmaker.”

  Although the first had a ring of truth.

  “Yes, fever, I think. Of course, if you’re worried about venal sin, simply say that I told you I was recently ill. It does make my stomach clench to go to the barber—that much is true. And you’re not claiming it as fact; you’re simply repeating what you’ve been told. Lord knows, I’ve sins enough on my shoulders. What’s one more? Anyway, my coiffure is a minor thing; its shortened length is an inconvenience that will disappear daily as it grows. My more immediate concern is perambulation. I feared that the hoops may take some time to get used to. It’s been six years since I’ve worn them. You’re staring, Edward. Come. Sit. You wanted tales of war. Now I shall tell one.”

  I took the basket from him and busied myself setting out our lunch while I set forth my story. It was sad, really. A tragedy worthy of Shakespeare. At the end, I could only throw myself on his mercy as a former family member and beg his continued protection.

  “You have to understand what it was like for us, Lane and me, children whose father was fighting for the North while his family was slowly starving. Richmond was the capital of the Confederacy. We were artists with a very limited market before the war, and none at all, now that war was here. Even though Mother was British born and sympathetic to the Southern cause, she was viewed with suspicion because of our father’s politics and Lane and I…well, we were reviled. Then targeted. Ultimately, frightened for our mother and for ourselves.

  “When word came of Father’s death, Mother collapsed. Doctors advised rest and relaxation, travel to somewhere away from the war, where she might find peace enough to mend, to heal. She freed our servant. Sold some of her jewelry and a handful of heirlooms that had been in my father’s family since before the Revolutionary War. Half of it went with her when she left us to fend for ourselves.”

  Once the basket was unpacked, I took the chair opposite him and smoothed a napkin across the black bombazine of my skirt. “Two weeks later, I came home from Mass and found Lane in the studio, staunching blood from the accident he’d had when his chisel slipped and gouged him. It didn’t seem that bad. We thought it was healing, until fever took hold. Red streaked up his arm. When the poison in his blood reached his heart, it killed him,” I said, still angry with God for taking him from me.

  “I was a woman alone, Edward. No husband. No brother. No protector. I was as talented an artist as my brother, but few men will pay attention to a female. Or the right kind of attention, anyway. There was but one choice left to me, if I had any hope of surviving, let alone controlling my own destiny. I buried Lane in secret that night, in the center of Father’s rose garden, t
hen I went inside and cut my hair and I became him.”

  His jaw was clenched. His quietude was somehow more disturbing than if he’d launched a tirade. “Does O’Flaherty know?”

  “God, no! No one does, save you. That’s why I ran when I was ill, dragged myself from my bed before they could send me to a hospital. I’d have been discovered for certain, and likely imprisoned as a spy, given that I was a woman from Richmond serving in the Union army. For that same reason, I decided to not muster out. It was not worth the risk.”

  “I cannot fathom it,” he admitted, shaking his head. “How the devil did you manage to hide your gender, to serve three years in the company of men?”

  “Men,” I said, “and at least one other woman. We were not messmates but we took turns, watching each other’s backs. There were far more women than history will ever know who fought in the late Rebellion. Some followed a brother, a friend, or a lover. Some fought for their home and hearth. For most, though, I think it was a job. A means to an end, despite the dangers that we faced. We served for pay that let us make the rent or send money home or save what we could, building a nest egg for the future. I suppose that I’m one of the fortunate ones, to have seen battle time and again and escaped without being wounded. My sister-in-arms was not so lucky. At least she’d told me her name, and where she was from. I sent word to her parents when she fell.”

  He was still in shock. I could tell. But at least now he need not fear the Pinkertons, who were looking for a man who no longer existed.

  “Thank you for bringing lunch,” I told him. “And for not tossing me out on my ear. Although your look still frightens me, as if you want to discipline me with that cane of yours.”

  “It would be best to not give me any such ideas,” he growled. “You have no clue what you have done to me.”

  “What I’ve done?”

  “Yes, damn you!” He bolted from the table and started pacing, rubbing a hand across his face, behind his neck, thrusting his hands into his hair and shaking his head at me. “If I was tempted before, I am twice tempted now, and there will be the devil to pay,” he snapped. “You, young Miss, and I are going to eat our lunch, pack our things, settle accounts, and get to the station.”

  “But why? Why so early? The train does not leave until after five.”

  “Because,” he said, “I cannot be trusted to stay in this room with you. Not without punishing you for your charade. If you want to sit comfortably, you will keep quiet and do exactly as I say. Test me, by God, and you’ll live to regret it.”

  Chapter Six

  I dropped my gaze, immediately subservient and strangely comfortable with his wanting—nay, demanding—my obedience. I could follow orders. I’d been a soldier—and a damned good one, not because it came naturally to me but because I had recognized and accepted that this was my lot in life: to submit, to serve, to obey. In the army, it was the barking voice of an officer, the dreaded roll of the drum, the blaring call of the bugle that issued commands. As an artist, I was at the mercy of my muse, her voice heard by me alone, compelling me to paint, or sketch, or sculpt, whatever was the order of the day.

  “Yes, Edward.”

  I risked a peek. My messmates would have said that he’d just given me the “skunk eye.” Uncertain if they were indigenous to England, I refrained from remarking on it.

  The July heat made the room oppressive enough without the added element of emotion. I swear, I could feel Edward’s displeasure rolling off him in waves as he stabbed at his food and masticated, grinding so hard, I feared he risked chipping a tooth. That would be a shame, when his was so fine a set. Strong, white, fairly even. The bottom row was just crooked enough to leave an interesting mark where he’d bitten. I could easily imagine him marking me on the swell of my breast, the curve of my buttocks, the pale flesh of my inner thigh.

  I set my wanton thoughts aside and ate like the lady I needed to be, for his sake as well as my own. I had no wish to test him, as he put it, although the thought of being disciplined by him sent a delicious shiver down my perfectly straight spine. I imagined the good professor had considerable experience when it came to applying the physics of his hand, whether it was his stinging palm to a blistered backside, or the stroke of his fingers coaxing another climax from his partner, whatever gender was his flavor of the day.

  Lunch had come from the hotel’s small dining room. As soon as we finished eating, Edward piled the dirty dishes in the basket, muttered something about returning them, and disappeared out the door, headed (I assumed) downstairs to hand them off. In case he made good on his threat to leave early, I double checked my things. Finding everything in order for our trip, I sat down on the far side of the table, where I was least apt to get in his way. I preferred to earn no more of his enmity this day.

  Upon his return, Professor Wainwright proved a master at single word sentences, mostly monosyllabic queries and commands.

  Ready? Come. Wait. Sit. Stay.

  Up. Here. In. Hurry. Wait.

  There.

  He expected me to fill in the blanks and respond immediately. If I hesitated, his fingers twitched on the silver handle of his cane in a manner that made me think he was keeping score, and that a reckoning was sure to come.

  We arrived at the depot three hours early—far too much time to sit idly when there was so much that caught my artist’s eye. I rummaged in my carpet bag that I would carry on board with me, found my box of art supplies, and exchanged my gloves for fingerless mitts before I started sketching.

  My first subject was a sleeping infant, and then the baby nestled in its mother’s arms. Next, the same child, the plainness of its tiny gown at odds with the fashionable cufflinks peeking from the jacket of the man whom I envisioned holding it, face unseen, somewhere off the page. I drew only his hands—large, strong, with slightly craggy joints and hair-dusted knuckles. They were at once protective and supportive, latent power tempered by surprising tenderness.

  Imagining those hands on me, I gave myself a stern lecture, reminded myself of the virtues of patience and perseverance, and went back to work. Naked baby, bare arms. Naked baby, naked torso.

  No baby, bare chest.

  Magnificent bare chest.

  It was a masculine landscape of curves and planes, padded swells and tempting hollows. I added every whorl of curling hair in the pattern that I’d memorized, spanning the breadth of his upper chest, thinning beneath his paps, narrowing to a tantalizing trail that disappeared behind the waistband of his drawers. My sleeping giant, caught unawares, captured in a tangle of sheets.

  I suppose it was just as well that he had not slept au naturel. I had no inhibitions when it came to art. Beyond what I saw, I drew what I felt. If his chest was worthy of adoration, God help me when I managed to see more.

  Rather than linger over it like a child kept from candy, bemoaning what I’d been denied, I flipped the page, unwilling to share what little I had with anyone passing close enough to see. I drew the baby again, now wide awake and chortling with glee at its mother’s silly faces. I sketched them in profile, captive audience and clown, the pure joy in their faces, eyes shining with love, each for the other. I signed it “Lane Davenport,” dated the piece, tore it out, and took it over to her.

  I pulled back my veil, wanting her to see me. Who I was. What I was. A reclaiming of my old identity and the forging of the new.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but…thank you,” I said, showing her the sketch. The mother was stunned, I could tell. Perhaps because I was in mourning and the artwork was bursting with life. “You have a beautiful child. What is its name?”

  “Lorena,” she stammered, staring at their image. I did not flatter myself that she recognized me from my signature, but she knew talent when she saw it.

  “Lorena. Like the song?” I smiled softly when she nodded. It was a tune more popular among the Southrons than the Federals during the war, but common enough, even I could sing a verse or two. “I admit, I was dreading the wait on our
train, but your baby….” I sighed. “Beautiful. Just beautiful. I couldn’t help but draw the two of you together. Please accept it, with my compliments.”

  I set the sketch on the vacant seat beside her and pulled down my veil, hiding behind it once more. I did not mention the other studies that I had done. Those I would keep, and perhaps paint later on, once we reached England. I suppose I should take heart that, while I’d clearly shocked Edward when he’d returned with lunch, he had not withdrawn his offer to see me settled. He’d escorted me to a vacant section of seating in the farthest corner of the depot, issuing the order to stay before hying off somewhere, clearly intending to keep his distance while maintaining control. I hoped he was engrossed in arrival and departure schedules, in one of his books or another newspaper from his ever-increasing stack—anything to busy his mind and keep him from over-thinking things.

  A motion snagged my attention, reminding me that I’d left my things unattended. I turned to see Edward, standing by my empty seat, glowering, his gloved fingers alternately flexing, then squeezing the ornate top of his walking stick.

  I could almost feel them on my throat.

  Squaring my shoulders, I walked gracefully back and slipped into my seat, wordless, intuitively knowing to not speak without permission. I looked at my fingers, their tips smudged with the same silver-black graphite that was smeared along the length of my little finger. It was a telling show of poor form, mocking my failure to keep the side of my hand off the paper.

  My teacher would not be pleased.

  Neither was Edward. I held my breath, feeling much like a condemned prisoner waiting for her sentence to be passed. When none came, I risked glancing at him and saw that he was watching the mother, who was showing their portrait to her child. The ill wind that had blown around him dissipated. He shook his head, heaved a sigh, and sank down onto the wooden bench beside me, close but not touching so much as the right side of my bombazine skirt. Reaching to his far side, he moved his newspaper and book to the space on his left, deliberately erecting a paper wall between us.