He touched her face, tilted it away. She whimpered. She wanted only to rest and let herself continue to float on the bliss that consumed her, but she was too weak to resist. He cupped her face and gently tipped back her head.
Then he was kissing her. Passionately, hungrily, sucking her breath from her and pouring it back in. Vibrations shook her. His hands were trembling. His hardness pressed against her, throbbing relentlessly.
He was everything, swallowing her up, suffocating her.
She didn’t care.
If this was what it felt like to be lost, to lose herself, then let him consume her.
He tore his mouth from hers and he was breathing heavily, yet from the look in his eyes, he still seemed intent on devouring her. Her hood was back and the brisk night breeze cooled her sweat so rapidly that she began to shiver.
He caressed her hair. “Let me take you to my rooms now.”
The biting cold cleared the passion from her senses. The sordidness of the past few moments hit her with brutal clarity. What had he done to her to make her so wanton? She’d never acted like this—never dreamt of acting like this.
She had certainly never come so quickly or so hard.
She didn’t even know him yet and already he held so much power over her—her mouth went bone dry, leaving behind a taste like bitter, metallic ashes. She’d completely lost her head for a time there. If she didn’t take action right away, she’d lose herself completely. She was sure of it. Panic pounded in her heart, sending powerful surges of energy to her legs.
Run! The word beat through every part of her.
Run now, while you still can.
She pressed against his chest and pushed him away.
“No!’
He stared at her and blinked. “No?”
“You heard me.” She took a few steps back and gave her skirts several fierce shakes to release the wrinkles, as if she could shake his effect off so easily.
He frowned at her, gaping as if she’d grown a second head. “Do you want more money?” He suddenly grinned. “After that performance, sweetheart, you can have anything you want. Anything within reason.”
“I don’t want anything. I just want to go home.”
How would she get home? She’d walked here. But it seemed as if a lifetime of experiences had happened to her since then. She’d developed a new respect for the dangers lurking in the city at night.
A shuffling sound drew her attention. She looked up. The ragged-looking woman was approaching them. With hands extended, she began aggressively begging, placing herself between them.
While the woman laid out her pitiful story, Emily quickly backed away.
* * * *
“Emily, wait!” Alex cried, trying to rush forward, but the elderly lady gripped his arms.
Emily turned and walked hurriedly away, heading in the direction of the Blue Duck.
Afraid he’d hurt the woman if he attempted to peel her hands off him, he tried to reach into his pocket for the money she wanted. But her hold wouldn’t allow it.
No matter. If the prickly little harlot wanted to run, he should just let her go. A sane man would.
The crone’s nails dug into his hand and her eyes flashed up at him, totally deranged in the moonlight. He brought his other hand up and clasped her wrist tightly until she let him go. She stood there raving at him loudly and waving her fist.
He took a handful of coins and tossed them to the pavement. The crazed woman cried out and fell to her hands and knees. Pity held him captive for a moment. As he watched her desperate display, he pictured all the terrible dangers that could face a young woman in the night.
Yes, Emily was just another harlot in a city full of harlots and people stuck in unfavourable situations, but tonight she’d been in his care. His responsibility. He couldn’t just let her walk the streets alone. He sighed with frustration and hurried to follow her.
He caught up with her outside the Blue Duck. “You really want to go home?”
She nodded.
“And you say your protector cannot see you coming home in a strange carriage?”
She nodded again.
A cynical smile twisted his mouth. “All right, sweetheart, I’ll take you and drop you a pace from where you live.”
* * * *
Her key was in her lost reticule. Staring at her door, Emily wanted to cry with despair. Realising the night was full of dangers, men such as Green, she’d had no choice but to accept a ride home from Alex. To her relief, he had sat silent and as circumspect as an uncle on the way from Race to Water Street. She’d given him a false address and even then hidden around a dark, cold corner for a while to make sure he didn’t follow her. Then she’d trudged home in the moonlight with the sharp, cold breeze in her face. She was exhausted and so frozen to the bone that her teeth knocked together. She wanted nothing more than to huddle in her bed under the thick quilt. But she couldn’t get inside.
“There’s no help for it, dear.”
At the soft voice, Emily turned. Her neighbour, Flora, was standing there, wrapped in her woollen cloak. Her haggard face had an especially pinched expression tonight.
“Hawkins done changed that lock.”
Horror crawled over Emily’s scalp at the woman’s calmly uttered words. “Goodness, no…”
“He let the ragman take all your things.”
“What?” Emily’s brain was too exhausted to deal with this now.
Flora’s mouth turned down and she nodded.
A sick sensation settled in Emily’s tummy. “But surely not…everything?”
Her precious book that she’d worked on so hard for the past two years. All those hours spent coaxing people to tell their stories, to let her make sketches of their loved ones, were now in danger of being lost forever.
“Standin’ there in his fancy wig ‘n’ brass buckles sayin’ he can’t wait another week,” Flora said, hand on hip, shaking her head. “Ain’t no pity in the better sort.”
“I’m sure if I could simply talk to him, I could reach his better side.”
“Don’t try it, Em—says if he sees you round, he’ll have you sent to the almshouse.”
Emily closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. Goodness, the almshouse. A prison.
I won’t…I just can’t go there. What will I do?
Chapter Five
“We don’t have room to take in foundlings,” Flora’s husband grumbled sleepily.
“It’s just one night,” Flora replied as she prepared to make a pallet for Emily.
“I hate to make trouble,” Emily fretted.
“Never mind him,” Flora said.
Emily knew the man’s uncertain temper. She wasn’t about to make trouble for Flora and, over the woman’s protest, she made to leave.
“At least take this blanket,” Flora whispered as Emily followed her through the doorway.
Emily accepted it, nodding her thanks. Numbly, she walked down the corridor and downstairs, then slipped out into the dark, chilly night. In the alleyway, she found a semi-clean corner to hide in. Dropping to her knees, she burrowed under the shabby blanket. Thank God dawn wasn’t that far away. From a nearby gutter, the smell of rotten fish and human waste caught her nose and she pulled the scratchy blanket over her face.
If Grandmother could only see her now.
Shivering, she closed her eyes, not expecting to sleep a wink, yet soon blackness swallowed her.
Morning sunlight shone in through the large sash window, bathing the bed in warm, rose-gold tones. His large, naked body covered hers. She grasped his shoulders, drawing him close and laughing as he whispered in her ear.
The meaning of his words were entirely lost as Emily opened her eyes.
It was the darkest part of night. She was cold, the dampness had sunk into her bones and her muscles hurt. Tears blurred her eyes. She was sleeping on the street like a vagrant.
The shock of it pounded into her heart. She was a vagrant.
She sniffed and wiped at
her eyes with her sleeve. What kind of fool was she? She might have spent last night in a warm, luxurious bed and covered by Mr Alexander Dalton’s beautiful body. And been a hundred and fifty dollars wealthier for it.
But she had worse things to worry about than hunger, damp and cold. Hawkins had given everything she owned in the world to the ragman. Her precious book—all her work for the past two years—was in danger of being lost forever. She’d have to take action. She needed money to buy her things back.
The wind picked up, howling through the alleyway and cutting through the worn blanket. She shivered again, uncontrollably, her teeth chattering. She’d refused the offer that she should take his warm coat. Quite rudely, in the end.
Why?
Because she’d been terrified of taking any part of him. What a stupid, foolish, green-girl notion!
What had frightened her so much last night? What did she care for her lost virginity? It wasn’t as if she ever wanted to be married. Anna had told her that a man could take precautions against getting a woman pregnant and that most of them would do so if asked nicely. Anna had whored and she had happened to be a very nice person.
But it was hard to forget the training of a lifetime. It was understandable that she’d quailed. However, this would be a one-time thing. Mr Dalton had offered her enough money to give her time to get her affairs in order. Enough money that she could give John back his money, and then some. Enough money for a year of food and shelter. With that, she could focus on what was really important—getting her book published. But would he still want to see her? Her heart skipped a beat in alarm. She might have nixed the whole business already. She began to feel a little ill and pulled the blanket more tightly about herself. Lord, she needed to pee.
No—she needed to keep her mind on the matter at hand and think positively. Be proactive. This was business. She couldn’t let herself become intimidated. She couldn’t know if Mr Dalton might still be interested or not until she asked. She needed to find out where he lived and go and ask him. Mr Porter would know.
* * * *
Her empty stomach growled as she walked from her Water Street boarding house to the Blue Duck on Race Street. In the frigid air, she pulled the edges of the old blanket together over her body as a few early morning stragglers gazed curiously at her. Finally, she reached the Blue Duck and sat on the stoop. Yearning for a cup of steaming coffee, she waited for Porter to show.
Two hours later, Porter came, whistling and jangling his keys as he ambled down the sidewalk. “Good morning, Miss Eliot,” he said, as if he were used to finding young women huddled in his doorway.
“Good morning,” she replied, through chattering teeth.
“Well, doll, what brings you here so early?” His coffee-scented breath nauseated her as weakness assailed her. She needed something very sweet to eat. Badly. She always did now in the mornings. It seemed to be a lingering effect of the fever. She swallowed hard.
“I have been evicted from my lodgings.”
“Have you?” He flicked his eyes over her and rolled his tongue in his cheek. “You’d better come inside.”
She stepped out of the way as he approached the door. As he slipped his key into the lock, the anticipation of getting indoors proved too much and she shivered violently.
“Your gentleman woke me up very late—or should I say early?” Porter laughed, turning his key in the lock. “Asking all about you, where you live… You certainly worked him up and left him guessing.”
She sucked in her breath. Alex had asked about her? Maybe he was still interested…
“I must say I’m surprised to hear of your current state of affairs,” Porter said as he opened the door. “Dalton definitely seemed interested. Granted, his interest seldom lasts, but he is very generous while it does.”
Porter’s words put a chill into her heart. But why? She only needed a little money from Dalton. She certainly didn’t expect to hold his interest for long. Nor would she want to hold any man’s interest for long. She wanted her freedom.
“I am sorry Mr Dalton woke you,” she said as they entered the tavern.
“Naw, it’s fine—I just got up, got dressed and went for a very good shoofly pie at my brother’s.” He grinned, rolling his eyes. “The other girls were set to claw your eyes out last night. Dalton is disgustingly rich and unwed—wildly popular with my girls, but he’s never taken any of them off the premises.” He laughed wickedly.
“Well, I was actually hoping you could tell me something more…er, geographic about him.”
“He lives on Chestnut, between Second and Third.” He described the house and gave her the number. “Knew him years ago, during our privateering days. He’s never grown too successful to remember an old friend. A fine gentleman, is Alex Dalton.”
* * * *
A sharp clapping sound cut into his sleep and dragged him from the most pleasurable erotic dream he’d ever had. Alex open his eyes. Brilliant light flooded his bedchamber. He closed his eyes against it.
“What the devil?” he asked.
Zachariah knew better than to throw the curtains open this early.
“Alex, it’s already half past eleven, wake up.”
He opened one eye. Halfway.
Peter van Moerdijk, his cousin, stood there, his silver-blond hair glowing in the sunlight, with his arms crossed over his chest, a grin lighting up his angelic features. “James sent me to come and fetch you.”
Beneath the heavy, all-obscuring coverlet, Alex released his grip from his hard, hungry cock. Then he rolled from his side to a sitting position in the bed. Slowly, he opened his other eye. “If you don’t close those damned curtains and get your cheerful arse out of here, I am going to thrash you through the floor.”
And Alex had done it. Countless times. Even though Peter was older and smarter in a bookish sense, Alex had always had the upper hand between them and it was just something they accepted.
But Peter shook his head. “Alex, you can’t miss the meeting with the congressmen today.”
Oh, damn.
The meeting. He had promised James.
Sensation vibrated through him. A memory of her body, shaking in his arms. God, she’d been so abandoned, taking her pleasure from him. He would have adored exploring that shattering sensuality of hers, discovering her depths—
Peter laughed. “Oh yes, I heard about her. The whole city—well at least the men—are spreading the buzz about how you knocked Richard Green to the floor of the Blue Duck over some pretty, petite little harlot.”
Alex rubbed his eyes.
“Does she look like Alice? They made her sound very much like Alice. Petite and delicate with large eyes. Is she?” Peter’s voice held an urgent interest that settled cold in Alex’s guts.
They had always shared everything since boyhood. And that included the details of their erotic conquests.
Alex wasn’t in the mood to share.
“She’s not like Alicia.”
“Ah, Alicia.” Peter laughed softly. “You always did indulge her airs.”
Alex dropped his hand from his face and stared at Peter levelly. “If she wanted to be Alicia, then why shouldn’t she be Alicia?” Alex shook his head, trying to clear the sleep—and the lust—away. “I don’t want to talk about Alicia today.”
Peter chuckled. “Your problem, oh cousin of mine, is that you must convince yourself that you are in love with all your women. Even after this brief, manufactured love ends, you insist on remaining friendly with them, forever letting them bend your ear and opening your purse to their little troubles.”
Alex arose from the bed, grimacing at the shock of chilly air on his naked body as he left the warm bubble under the coverlet. He found his banyan and donned it, tying the belt. He pulled the bell cord to signal his morning coffee and then turned back to Peter. “Your problem is you never care about your women one way or the other.”
Peter’s mouth dropped open and he placed his hand over his left lapel. “I loved Jacobine�
��and to the very devil with anyone who dare suggest otherwise.”
Alex nodded. He loved his cousin more than he cared for anyone else in his entire family, but he knew his faults as well. Peter was careless with his women. Sometimes fatally so.
He went about laying his shaving things out. He never could stand to be hovered over in the mornings by his valet. There had been a time when he’d been forced to allow others to bathe and groom him. He never would ever again.
“I did love my wife.” Peter’s voice held a hard edge of defence.
“Of course you did.” Alex didn’t want to talk about wives and lovers. Where the devil was his coffee?
“I know you, you romanticise everything, including marriage, but you have no real experience of what it is truly like.” Peter chuckled, a deep, cynical sound. “Do you think one day you meet some lovely thing and that initial rush of feeling, the heated lust just never dies and that’s how you decide—that’s the one you marry?”
“I don’t know, Peter, you tell me,” Alex said, his voice trailing off as a political cartoon on a leaflet that lay on his washstand caught his attention.
“It’s like this, Alex, you meet someone and she’s…an angel, pure and good. You want to protect her, to shelter her and give her everything. Her happiness is all. And she’s beautiful, you want her but you can’t just take her like you do other, lesser women. How can you do something you’d kill another man for? So you marry her. The love, the desire to cherish and protect her, to provide for her only grows stronger. But the heated ardour fades. You don’t want it to. But it does anyway. It’s not the same as love. And nothing can replace the thrill of chasing fresh petticoat.”
How could he judge Peter? He knew he’d be the exact same way if he married. Still, it was an extreme annoyance to see his own faults mirrored so closely in another person. Alex cut Peter an irritated glance. “You needn’t explain yourself to me, of all people.”
Peter blinked several times and rubbed the back of his neck. “So, does she look like Alice?”
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