She was on fire now, her skin hard put to contain her passion. Her blood raced hot and fast, and every inch of her was exquisitely sensitive to his slightest touch.
“Sweetheart,” he groaned. “Beautiful lady.”
William began to rub his body against hers, his arm or his hip, then his shoulder. The rough cloth excited her and his scent became part of her.
Reality narrowed to him, not the ropes nor the platform nor the lamplight. Only her big Irishman.
He peeled off his shirt and rubbed himself against her again, sliding over her easily thanks to sweat. And still the whip danced over her flesh and through her pulse. The chemise might as well have not been there, for any protection it offered.
“Do you want me? Do you want this?” He wrapped his arms around her from behind, nestling her derrière against his cock. The beads rippled deep inside, and Viola sobbed, throwing her head back against his shoulder.
“Or do you need something stronger?” His hand cupped her mound and his fingers rubbed her chemise’s silk against her pussy. The little whip thudded against her hip as he tugged her clit.
Rapture shattered Viola’s senses as it ripped out of her clit and up to her breasts and sent her spinning into unconsciousness.
The feel of his teeth on her breast drew her back to reality. She reached instinctively for his head but a rope prevented her. She slowly realized she was on her back, in a nest of ropes. A gently swaying nest of ropes.
Her eyes flew open.
She was lying on that unusual hammock, shaped somewhat like a star. Her body was woven into it by coil after coil of silken rope, which held her limbs and her torso. Her legs were higher than her head, and spread wide. She was utterly available to the predator who watched her with brilliant blue eyes. She licked her lips hungrily.
“Do you approve of my web, sweetheart? Is it magic enough to match your music?” William purred as he stepped back from the hammock to watch her.
He had shed his clothes, and his masculine strength was revealed in all its glory under a fine sheen of sweat. His cock stood hard and proud, jerking with eagerness for her, and his balls were high and tight.
Viola fumbled for words. “Yes, it’s magnificent,” she managed, and groaned as the damn beads shifted inside her.
Her body hummed with desire, existing only to feel this man in any manner he permitted. She closed her eyes and moaned at the possibilities.
“Beautiful queen.” He stepped up between her legs and caressed the delicate skin of her thighs. His rough fingers reminded her of the contrast between his strength and her fragility. Her pussy throbbed in eagerness for more.
“Watch me, sweetheart. See how large my cock is?”
She nodded, and didn’t speak of her disappointment that it now wore a condom.
“You’ll be a snug fit, sweetheart, with the beads stretching your ass. My cock will rub against the beads with every stroke, so you’ll feel me taking both your vagina and your ass. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Just, please, hurry,” she implored, and closed her eyes.
“Greedy wench,” he chuckled, a harsh broken sound. Then he gripped her hips and began to enter her. His cock stretched her folds taut, more agonizing than the first night when her pussy had memorized the feel of his cock.
Only the thinnest of membranes seemed to separate those beads and his cock. The beads rolled and shifted and twisted, sending shafts of fire through her body. Viola groaned and gasped for breath as her body slowly adapted to his cock.
“Viola, sweetheart.” William shuddered against her when he was finally sheathed, a tremor she felt as if it were her own. Then he began to withdraw slowly. Distressed at losing him, her muscles clamped down hard around him, using the strength he’d insisted she learn. Viola panted for breath.
He grunted in surprise and stopped. “Ah, sweetheart, you’re killin’ me here,” he whispered. “We’ll fly together, you and I, if you’ll just let me take you there. So ease up, you impatient filly.”
Viola moaned as her body released its tight grip.
“Ah, sweetheart, that’s better. You’re finding the knack of it now,” he growled, and slid farther out of her, the beads rippling in his wake.
He shuddered and groaned something in Irish. Somewhere, in what little remained of her brain, she realized the beads must be caressing him, too.
Then he thrust back into her, quick and strong. Viola sobbed William’s name as the hammock swung in response, the beads danced, and her pussy flowed around him. The net seemed part of her now, a safe vessel set in midair.
“And now we’re going to ride.”
He fucked her hard and surprisingly long, every movement overwhelming her with sensation. She had no connection to gravity, only to his heat and strength. The beads rolled and pounded inside her body, sending shock waves up through her spine until thinking became impossible. His hands plucked her nipples until she writhed and arched, supported and encouraged by the hammock.
All she was, all the pleasure she could ever hope for, came from being the woman he enjoyed.
An orgasm burst through her. Her muscles started to relax in the aftermath.
“Not yet,” he growled, and kept driving into her, preventing her from losing arousal’s high pitch.
Viola gasped as hunger rose in her again. Her hands clutched the ropes, as if for courage.
And still he rode her, faster and stronger. Another orgasm built inside her. She welcomed it, sought it eagerly, but hungered to share it with him.
Viola groaned his name.
Suddenly William threw back his head and howled. His cock pulsed inside her as his climax erupted.
He yanked the beads out of her and wild waves of ecstasy exploded inside her, like a dance of life. Viola burst into rapture, flying into a world where nothing existed but pleasure and this man.
Chapter Fifteen
Hal kept his rifle trained on the rocky outcrop where he’d last seen an Apache as the stage jolted through the pass. Anderson, the driver, had told him this was the last place likely to experience an attack. But since he had encountered even more Apaches on this journey than the trip to Tucson, Hal had no intention of relaxing anytime soon.
Anderson shouted back to him, “There’s Rio Piedras up ahead.”
Hal eagerly turned to look, hoping to see a neat metropolis rising five or ten miles away. Surely the Apaches would stay at least that far from a prosperous company town, however rough its manners. Instead he sighted a hamlet on a pile of rocks, rising from the desert floor a few miles away.
Rio Piedras was a singularly uninspiring town as it straggled over the long spine of a rocky ridge, like a lizard shedding its skin. The highest point of the ridge was crowned with a large mud-brick compound, boasting two watchtowers like ears on the lizard. Behind it, in the lower saddle of the ridge, clung the wide roofs of a large factory, probably the mine. Farther back stood a truly ugly wooden house, which must have cost a fortune to build in this treeless country.
A wide street linked the factory to the compound before dropping down to the desert. A Catholic church, with its curved belltower, stood across the street and slightly lower than the compound. A Protestant church’s single pointed steeple stood isolated a few blocks farther away, perched on the lizard’s shoulder. The town’s other buildings clustered around the street and below the compound, as if seeking shelter. A small stream trickled into the desert, only to fade rapidly into the sand.
Nothing about this place reminded Hal of Cincinnati. None of the buildings, except the big compound or the churches, looked fit to house his horses, let alone his little sister.
The two stagecoaches swung past a big depot at the ridge’s base, overtopped by the compound on its rocky cliff. From his perch atop the stage, Hal glimpsed several mud-brick huts straggling along the dying stream beyond the depot.
Thunderclouds built over the mountains and the scent of water touched him. There’d be rain, and plenty of it, soon, judging by how fa
st the clouds were moving. Possibly enough to bring that stream to roaring life.
The stages climbed steadily up the street, passing a cluster of hovels on a side street, even more villainous than those beside the stream. A few slatterns waved and posed hopefully before the hovels. Whores, no doubt.
Hal caught himself looking for Viola’s bright hair amongst them and snapped his head away. Surely she would never be that desperate. He was grateful when the stagecoaches halted barely a block farther, and he disembarked quickly.
Hal turned to the guard who’d admitted he knew where Viola had gone to live after Ross’s death. Hopefully, she’d still be there, as an independent widow rather than a fallen woman. “Which way is my sister’s house?”
“Just past the depot, down by the stream. Can’t miss it: she’s got yellow roses by the door.”
Flowers sounded like Viola. “Thanks. Good luck on your journey back.”
“Same to you, pardner. I’ll give your carpetbag to the station agent to hold for your return.”
Hal strode rapidly down the street, taking in the scene as he went. A pair of filthy miners lolled outside a saloon, talking to an overeager gambler. A whore swung her hips at Hal and started to speak, but fell silent at his glare. He shuddered at the reek of sweat, and worse, rising from her.
He spared a single, fulminating stare at the big freight depot and its appellation of “Donovan & Sons.”
Later, he promised himself. Later. If that teamster had ruined Viola, his depot would be in ashes before nightfall.
The mud-brick hovels revealed themselves as a pitiful group, with ill-fitting doors and crumbling bricks. Hal’s gaze alighted on the sole hut adorned with roses, obviously the one dwelling whose occupants had made an effort. Stray dogs and children dropped from his notice as he forged ahead.
He reached the place in minutes and halted outside. This hut was smaller than the others and its only window was broken. The ragged curtains fluttered gently in the rising breeze.
Hal swallowed, his collar suddenly too tight. He was all too conscious of the bullet holes in his duster, courtesy of the Apaches on the road to Rio Piedras. Even his new broad-brimmed slouch hat had a couple of bullet holes, making him look more like a road agent or river pirate than a river pilot. It was not the sort of attire he’d have chosen to coax a much-loved sister into forgiving her repentant older brother.
“Viola?” He tapped on the door lightly. To his shock, it gave under his touch and swung sluggishly back into the hut. His heart skipped a beat.
“Viola?” he queried again, and stepped forward. A patch of sunshine in the far corner lightened the gloom inside. No one was there.
“Viola, it’s your brother.” He cautiously entered the tiny hut. Mud-brick walls were totally covered by peeling pages from magazines and catalogues, forming a poor man’s wallpaper. The roof was a canvas tarpaulin, split open over one corner. A pool of water underneath the rip showed the stormy cause of the roof’s failure. A pair of mice skittered away over the hard-packed dirt floor, and into the gloom.
Hal’s stomach plummeted into his boots at the utter contrast to the last place he’d seen Viola.
She’d faced him from her bedroom’s center, clad in an elegant dark blue morning dress from M. Worth of Paris. The room had been flooded with light from a great bay window. Chinese Chippendale furniture, passed down from Grandmother Lindsay’s mother, and a priceless Axminster carpet, which the Commodore had won at cards, had filled the spacious room. The walls had been alive with hand-painted wallpaper from China, while silk brocade had hung at the windows.
Everything there was as it had been on that April morning in 1865. The Captain had ordered it kept that way for her return, one of his few orders that Hal agreed with.
“Jesus Christ.” Hal had run away from home at fourteen to work as a deckhand on the Missouri River. He’d lived a hard life there in the beginning, scraping out survival on the edge of the river. He’d fought pirates and visited gambling saloons and bawdy houses in some of the worst places west of the Mississippi.
His throat tightened. He’d rarely seen anything that reeked of bare survival as strongly as this deserted hut. And to think his beloved little sister had lived here…
A broken whisky bottle, with a handful of dried yellow roses scattered nearby, lay by the window. Its sharp edges were covered in dried blood.
“Dear God, Viola.” Hal’s knees gave out and he sank to the floor by that damning bottle. He touched the bottle’s razor-sharp edge with a single, trembling finger and fought back tears.
Marrying that drunken malingerer had brought his sister to this, a tiny hut not fit for a donkey on the edge of civilization.
If he’d shown more brotherly concern, if he hadn’t fought with her, if he’d bought off Ross as the asshole had hinted, she’d be safe now.
Hal’s shoulders shook. The rose petals fluttered in the strengthening breeze, reminding him of the garden that should have been Viola’s. A sob fought to make its way out of his heart.
His eyes welled up and he shuddered. He couldn’t fight the next tear, or the next. Then the tears became a stream, and a flood. Soon he was crying like a child, as he hadn’t since the night he ran away from home.
Viola leaned back from the piano and stretched her arms over her head. She bent first to the left then to the right, starting the series of exercises she’d first learned while studying the piano in Cincinnati. She’d practiced them later as a miner’s wife, helping her recover from prospecting. The exercises had the admirable fringe benefit of easing many of the aftereffects of a night in William’s bed.
The inner muscles surrounding her channel, as he called the passage to her womb, complained only slightly. They’d already been pampered by a long, hot bath that morning and were ready to welcome William at any time.
She tilted her head, smiling at the thought. He’d promised her she’d fly and she certainly had, better than any bird. He’d also enjoyed himself as much as she had. In fact, he’d arisen from bed so late he’d simply shaved before departing, rather than bathe as well.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as Viola purred at her success in distracting him. She’d have to think of something else for them to do that evening. Perhaps he could read poetry to her before they turned in; there was a volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnets in the sitting room. Or perhaps he’d introduce her to the other contents of his small ironbound chest, the one he’d returned the little whip to.
“Mrs. Ross? A boy just brought this note for you.” Abraham stood at the door, steady as always in his respectable black.
“From Mr. Donovan?” Viola took the note eagerly.
“No, ma’am. This was brought by one of the local children, not one of Mr. Donovan’s men.”
Viola frowned at the handwriting, a very ornate style she didn’t recognize. Shrugging, she opened the missive and quickly deciphered its meaning. “Dear me, Mrs. Graham has taken a turn for the worse and asks me to attend her immediately.”
“I’ll accompany you, Mrs. Ross.”
She cast a wary eye at the sky. It was almost pitch black to the west, promising a big storm. If they moved quickly, they could reach the Grahams before the rain started.
“Yes, of course.” She smiled at him. “I’ll fetch my new bonnet and we can be on our way.” Her attire today was extremely respectable, in marked contrast to the previous night’s: a pale blue walking dress of sturdy linen and a matching bonnet, both neatly trimmed in white and blue ribbon. Her underthings were also very conventional, of fine cambric with elegant blue ribbons and embroidery. Even Juliet would have been impressed.
Viola and Abraham hurried down the main street and into the general store. Mr. and Mrs. Graham lived above the store, and expected callers to confirm their welcome with Mr. Graham before proceeding upstairs.
The store was surprisingly quiet, without the usual leisurely shoppers or discussion of the latest betting craze. The walls were lined with shelves of bottl
ed and canned goods. Display cases full of more expensive items like guns stood a few feet in front of the walls, intermixed with heavier worktables, with their storage space underneath.
There was no evidence of its proprietor at all, unless he was hiding under one of the worktables.
Viola revolved slowly, scanning the room, then spoke to Abraham. “Will you glance outside to see if you can see Mr. Graham? I’ll look around in here a bit more.”
“Very well, but stay within sight, Mrs. Ross.”
“Of course.” She turned to survey the side door, wondering what could have happened, as she brushed against a heavy worktable.
Suddenly a big hand clapped a wad of sickly sweet-smelling cloth over her nose and mouth, while simultaneously yanking her back against a stout body.
Dizzy from the overwhelming scent, Viola still drove her elbow back into the brute’s belly. He grunted sharply but kept the cloth over her nose.
“Mrs. Ross!” Abraham shouted. Something crashed.
Viola felt her muscles waver and slacken as her vision blurred. Her attacker picked her up just as everything went black.
Viola awoke to an intense headache. Men’s voices spoke over her head. She swallowed hard, fighting back nausea, and tried to guess where she was. She lay on a rocky floor, her hands tightly bound behind her back with coarse rope. Water trickled over the ground near her feet, which mercifully weren’t tied.
She opened one eye cautiously, but shut it quickly when her head immediately protested.
“You two go back into the tunnel and keep watch for anyone coming this way,” Lennox ordered. “Don’t be too clever. Just make sure to warn me.”
Lennox. Damn. It had to be him.
“Yes, sir.” Footsteps thudded against the rock before fading away.
“Wake up, Mrs. Ross. We didn’t use much chloroform, so I know you’re alive.”
Viola opened both eyes and stared stonily at her enemy. Her stomach objected but not as emphatically as before. “Mr. Lennox,” she acknowledged.
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