An Untitled Lady: A Novel

by Nicky Penttila

  He was a natural salesman though, able to talk with anyone. He couldn’t have learned it at the castle, or even aboard ship. Perhaps he was just born with it. She wondered what she had just been born with. Certainly not the gift of conversation. Those social calls were draining. Nor a love for figures, despite her fondness for them now. Perhaps her imagination, though it, too, brought her little profit.

  She caught herself dawdling, staring moonstruck out the small-paned window. He was late. The shadows halved the courtyard. If he did not come soon, she would need to call Mr. Smith to take the receipts to the banking-house. Nash never liked to keep much paper overnight, saying if they were known as a cash-poor ’house no one would think to rob them. He had a man in overnight, to guard the contents. And, of course, he paid the constables the donation they expected to keep a sharp eye out.

  Finally, she saw him striding across the yard. A loader ran out to meet him, agitation in his step. He nodded and followed the man toward the side entrance, but remembered to look for her at the window and wave. She turned back to her little counting-desk, smiling. He’d want the receipts soon enough.

  She didn’t look up immediately as the door opened, its tiny bell ringing. It wasn’t Nash, though, but someone with a cough so painful the sound of it pinched her lungs. A young man, grizzled before his time, and spitting into a filthy rag.

  “Spare a cuppa water fer’n old man?”

  He wasn’t old, but there was no doubt he needed the water. She poured him a glass from the pitcher at the sideboard and walked to the front to hand it to him.

  He grabbed her by the wrist, spilling the drink. “No screams, clear? Where is your blunt?”

  “At the bank.”

  “Not seen him left yet.”

  Maddie flicked her wrist hard, fingernails talons as she turned. He let go her arm with a yelp.

  “No need for that, miss.”

  “Get out.” She stepped away from him. He pulled a knife out. The flash of its blade mesmerized, the thought of its power scared her. The man might be scrawny and sick, and smell of an ash heap, but he could still cut her bloody.

  “Not without the blunt.”

  Panic raced her heart, and sense fled. But anger remained. She would not be pushed about so, and by a stranger whose breaths were shorter than her own.

  “You know so much, you find it. You know so much, then you know you haven’t seen me before. I don’t know where the strongbox is.”

  “But thee know it’s a strongbox. Give it me.”

  Never. Nash would be livid, and he wouldn’t let her help him anymore. What was a small cut compared with spending the rest of her years shut out of his life? “Follow me, then.”

  “Tell me where it is, and you can run out the back.” He was softening to her, or at least didn’t want to cut her if he didn’t have to. As coughs racked his chest, he brought both the knife and his grimy cloth to his mouth.

  “But that’s where it is, in the back. He keeps it where he can see it, he does.”

  “No good for the clerks.”

  “We don’t handle much coin here. Mostly receipts.” They paid out more in coin, to drivers and delivery men, than they took in. Were he clever, the man would have known that the time to hold up Nash was on the way back from the bank in the morning.

  Although he did seem to know that the time to hold up Nash himself was never. His feverish gaze flicked from her to the back door, to the front door again.

  “Do you wish me to lock the front? So no one disturbs us?”

  “Aye. Bonny day.” He dropped the point on the knife, and she slipped past. The tumbrels in the lock clicked, and she pocketed the key.

  “It’s just beside the door.” She gestured behind him, as if she wanted him to go ahead of her.

  “You first.”

  She slid by him as far away as she dared. As she neared the inner door, she started to run. She slammed the door shut and began to scream, letting loose her anger and fear in sound.

  Within seconds, a half-dozen men ringed her, with Nash panting up behind.

  “There’s a man inside wanted to take your money.”

  “He threatened you?” Nash’s voice was ground glass, dripping menace. “You two, around to the front.” They took off at a run.

  “Wait.” Maddie gave Nash the key.

  “You took the time to lock him in?”

  Maddie said nothing. They could talk about this later. She moved away from the door, gesturing that he could enter.

  Nash nearly broke the hinges opening the door. Maddie saw the rail-thin thief in the center of the room, his head snapping from one doorway to the other, eyes wide.

  Nash closed the door behind him.

  { 19 }

  Nash could barely see the scarecrow of a man in front of him for the screen of red shading his vision. The idiot thief had his hands up already, in complete surrender. It would be unmanly to strangle him, or even to punch his face into pulp. Nash did not trust himself not to do either.

  “Jem, get between me and this—this—”

  Jem did as told, his hobble slowing his progress long enough for Nash to regain some of his composure. Now he wished only to rip the man’s face off.

  “Why did you make the lady scream?” His voice held only a quiver of anger, yet it was enough for Jem to slide closer to the scrawny criminal, as if to protect him.

  “She did it of her own. You know how women are.”

  Nash waited. The truth often took its own time. He was rewarded less than half a minute later.

  “Wasn’t nothing, guv. A short blade, is all.”

  “You held a knife to her throat?”

  “Not her throat.” Another pregnant pause. “More her middle, like. She weren’t afraid at all. She were quiet.”

  Nash’s hands were so tightly fisted the nails drew blood. A low rumble started at the base of his ribs, reverberating past his heart, roaring out his mouth.

  “You thought to stab my wife?”

  Jem started to move toward the front door, pushing the man ahead of him with the crutch. “I know this man. Part of the union Malbanks turned out.”

  “Mill-breaker?”

  “No, a union man. Cowper, is it?” The tone of Jem’s voice had shifted. Nash pulled his gaze away from the idiot scarecrow trembling before him.

  “What of it?” But the man’s voice burbled, and he spit a bolt of phlegm onto his sleeve.

  “This is no place to tumble, man. Quinn here isn’t a man to cheat. Best you go.”

  “A mistake is all. Just a mistake,” the scarecrow choked out. But he added, “No harm done, eh?”

  “Step over here and say that.” Nash looked at the floor, as if he were a bull getting ready to charge. No harm? Maddie could have been hurt. She could have been killed. The thought sent spikes through his belly. No harm? He was never letting her out of his sight again.

  “Quinn.” Jem’s voice startled him. The man never addressed him by name. “I have this here. The lady, might she be needing your help?”

  Maddie. Nash pressed his palm to his overheated forehead. She was all alone while he was thundering on about how he’d keep her safe. He was an idiot.

  He turned on his heel and had a hand on the door’s knob when Jem spoke again.

  “Be needing the key.”

  He tossed it to his man, glaring so hard at the scrawny piece of thieving humanity beside him that the coward visibly wilted. Then he pushed the door open.

  Maddie was there, by the wall. He barely registered the handful of men around her, just the worry on her face. He took her by the arm. “We’re leaving.”

  “Is the man all right? You didn’t harm him?”

  They were all the way out into the side yard when the gist of her question registered in his overdriven mind. He pushed her toward the shade by the wall.

  “Harm him? I should well have done, for his harming you.”

  She rubbed her arm where he’d grabbed onto her. “You are the one to draw a bru
ise.”

  With a fingertip, she wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. At her touch, his anger receded, washed away by a flush of relief mixed with pleasure. She worried over him.

  Then the anger rolled back in. “He threatened you. You’ll never feel safe here again.”

  “Nonsense.” Her other hand framed the side of his face. “I may not be so eager to give glasses of water to strangers, but I cannot say I will be frightened.”

  “Of course you are. Women always are.”

  Her touch drew him closer, until they were chest to chest. She kissed him on the lips. It was the first time she had ever just chosen to kiss him, and it was sunshine sweet.

  “With you as a protector, how can I fear?”

  She kissed his lips again, gently. Too gently. He took the back of her neck and plunged his tongue into her mouth. The unrelieved anger still pulsing through him transformed to an aching need for her. He needed to taste her, to have her.

  It was the thought of her gone missing that dug the hole in his heart when he’d heard her scream. He’d dropped everything and run. He couldn’t even remember what he had been doing before her voice shot panic down his spine.

  Already, Maddie had laced her way through his emotions. Who would have guessed he’d fall for his own wife? He had never needed anyone so much. Seeing her, talking with her, touching her, sleeping with her, gave shape to his days.

  His hand slid down her lightly corseted back and over her non-corseted rear. She hiccupped, and then moaned into his mouth. The sound enlarged his heart—and his cock.

  There was a shuffling behind him, and someone cleared his throat. Nash turned to clock the noisy bastard, and then realized he was standing in the loading area of his warehouse. A yard full of men pretended not to be watching him manhandle his wife in public. He let her loose, a little bit.

  Again, Jem was the brave soul bringing him back to earth. “He’s gone, and he’ll not return. And his wife and child live in your debt.”

  He’d been acting to save his own family, but Nash was beyond caring. “Then he shouldn’t have threatened mine.”

  Jem nodded. “Thinking you might be taking the lady-wife home. There’s a cart to spare.”

  “There’s not. We’ll walk.” Though Nash had to wait a moment before he was ready to present front to the world at large.

  Maddie looked like she needed the time as well. Her eyes were wide and dazed, her lips luscious from his kisses. He’d damned well do more than that, but Jem was right. Better to do it at home.

  * * * *

  Maddie’s head was spinning as she raced to keep up with Nash’s long stride. Was he angry with her? Should she not have screamed? How could she have known he’d go rabid?

  She came up beside him at a corner when they had to wait for a farrier’s cart to cross. He took her hand. She had forgotten to put her gloves on, or her coat, but the rush of blood after her encounter hadn’t settled, especially with this pell-mell scurry home, and she was in danger of overheating.

  “You’ll not be going back there.” His voice was oddly low and tight. Its timbre so distracted her that she did not at first understand the meaning of his words. Then they only made her blood race faster.

  “One mistake and I’m out?”

  “First, Jem breaks his leg. Then, a robber threatens your life.”

  She tried to follow his thinking. “One didn’t cause the other, and neither has anything to do with me.”

  “If you weren’t there they wouldn’t have happened.”

  Insufferable man. “Do you blame me for the dip in the calico trade? That happened this month, as well.”

  He shot a sidelong look at her. “I wouldn’t put it past you. What’s true on the seas must be true on land, too. Women are plain bad luck.”

  Maddie had never heard anything so inane, or at least not since grammar school. She said nothing, but her anger simmered for the final few minutes of their sprint.

  How dare he accuse her of wrecking his business? As if women never came to the warehouse. She knew of at least two who had come to buy, and more who had come to sell, just this week. He was being irrational, and because he was a man and especially because he was her husband she must allow it. It wasn’t fair, or right, or even proper. The very idea set her blood to boil.

  By the time they arrived at their doorstep, she had had enough of him. Nash pulled the door open, and nearly dragged Maddie through.

  She wrenched her hand from his grip, and they stood there, panting from the forced march, glaring at each other. Maddie massaged her wrist as she took stock of her husband.

  He had a wild look in his eyes, which stared straight ahead, not even casually scanning the room the way he usually did. His hands were fisted, punching rather than resting on his hipbones. The front packet of his trousers was starting to bulge out.

  He snatched her wrist right out of the hand that was massaging it, and started up the stairs. She heard Mrs. Willis trundling up the basement stair. “We need nothing,” he called out. Maddie could say nothing, as she gasped for the breath to pump her legs fast enough to keep up.

  “Dinner?” Mrs. Willis’s voice followed them, surprised.

  “Supper, later.”

  She had barely made it into their bedroom when he kicked the door shut. Her skirt, caught between the door and its frame, ripped as he pushed her back against the wall beside the door.

  Maddie was through being manhandled, and put her hands on his chest to push him away. But she misjudged the strength of his movement. Her hands were crushed between their bodies.

  Then his mouth demanded hers.

  Her anger spent itself in dueling with his tongue. The tingling in her limbs grew from distracting to pleasurable, the skin of her fingers sensitive to the pounding of his heart.

  When he let her go, it was with such force her head bumped the wall. He wrapped a hand around the spot, as if to protect it, and with gentled kisses traced the line of her jaw to her ear. Then he tucked her head in the bulk of his shoulder, gripping her tightly.

  “I thought I would lose you.” His whisper carried enough pain to sink the world. “How could I have put you in such danger?”

  Maddie felt the anger in his muscles, and smelled the fear. He had been afraid for her, not angry at all.

  He cared for her.

  She smiled into the warm musk of his jacket, and slid her hands around his back, meeting at the join of his spine. She didn’t want to lose him, either.

  They stood still, together, in the quiet of the afternoon when everyone else was working. Maddie wanted to trap this moment, to hold it in her hand if she could, store it in her heart.

  “Come to bed,” she whispered.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I need you.”

  He loosened his grip, and pulled the kerchief away from her neck and out of the cleft of her breasts. As the cool air touched her warm flesh, she sighed.

  He lifted her arm, kissing the inside of her wrist. The pulse welcomed him with warmth. He smiled and undid the six buttons holding her sleeve, then did the same to her other sleeve.

  This was slow torment.

  “Who put all these buttonholes in your clothing? Dashed inconvenient.” Maddie hummed in agreement and kissed his cheek. The impatience in his voice turned her senses on high. In a flash, all her skin wanted to be free, to be open to his touch. He turned her around, reaching for the buttons up the back of her dress.

  “Cursed ornament,” he muttered, but now he didn’t seem in quite so much hurry. Each button undone, he slipped his finger under the fabric to reach for the next one. Each feather touch set another little patch of her spine on fire. She shivered happily.

  He undid the last button, near the base of her spine, and pushed the sleeves of her practical cotton morning dress down to her elbows, trapping her gently in its folds. He made quick work of unlacing the half-corset, until all that was between him and her flesh was the thin cotton shift. Dispensing with his own coat and shir
t, and pulled her to him, her back against his chest. Her skin rippled as it met his, her neck tilted, pleading for his kiss. He swiftly complied, one hand reaching around to embrace a breast, the other wrapped around her hip, drawing her even closer to him. She felt the hot demanding readiness of him, and the mild echo in her core raced to match his. He ministered to her breast, and then nipped at her neck, and she moaned. Everywhere was new sensation, everywhere wanted more.

  He pushed her sleeves down, and then lifted her by her elbows out of the dress. She kicked away the skirt as he swung his arm down to scoop up her legs. He carried her to the bed, setting her as if she were riding the bed sidesaddle. He didn’t join her there, though. Instead, he knelt and took her foot, removing the shoe, and then sliding ever so slowly up her calf, over her knee, to the edge of her stocking. Would he ever stop?

  Heat pooled only inches away from his fingers. He must know it. She ached for him there. The fingers stopped, waited agonizing seconds. Then they started back down, dragging her stocking with them. She tipped over to lie on the bed. She couldn’t hold back the groan.

  “Want to try again?” He grinned at her as she lay sideways looking down at him. “Roll up. There’s another leg.”

  She rolled onto her back as he slipped her other shoe off. He sat at the foot of the bed taunting her other calf, her knee, her thigh. She wouldn’t fall for it this time. Still she felt every whisper of movement, every wisp of his breath. The fingers stopped, and bent around the edge of her stocking. The muscles in her hips melted.

  The fingers did not go down.

  Her whole body went electrically still, snare-drum tight. She felt his thumb sliding up, up, yet her stocking was also sliding down.

  He had two hands.

  It was too much, too much. She had to fight to keep from writhing, her breaths too fast and shallow. Would he touch her there? Would she die if he didn’t?