The Acquisition

by Louisa Trent

  "Because the owner of the rig, my sister-in-law, thought she might have need of it. And besides, I have always loved walking in inclement weather."

  The inclemency descended in driving torrents. And the one-horse shay was not available because its owner only thought she might have need of it?

  Beth. Ben's wife. Harry's sister-in-law. The owner of said shay. The cold-hearted bitch.

  "I should be happy to make my phaeton available to you for the journey home."

  Another bell-like laugh. "Already talking of my leave-taking, and the interview has not yet begun? I think perhaps you are discomforted after all, Captain Kane."

  Damn! Her fine manners did surprisingly discomfort him. New Bedford gossip spreads as quickly as whale blood on water, and so he knew Harry had returned of late to the seaport and in bad circumstances. Josh had shored himself against the possibility of meeting Harry on the streets--doubtlessly loitering under an oil lamp as she solicited customers--but he had expected that seven years passed as a prostitute would have coarsened her.

  This woman was the furthest thing from coarse. Impoverished, yes. But poised and dignified in that poverty, and so refined in her manner of speaking and behavior that her very reduced circumstances took nothing away from her intrinsic beauty. In fact, by sheer comparison, her thin cape and the poor stuff of her gown only accentuated her loveliness. He was drawn to ships in dry dock for much the same reason; when a vessel is pared of its sails, oft times the clean lines of the vessel are showcased. Without the distraction of silks and satins, the classical beauty of Harry's bones came to the forefront. An overwhelming urge to protect her, to offer her comfort, to buy her pretty things, nearly brought his hand to his money chest.

  To steel himself against the impetuous move, he balled the hand at his side. How could he be so naïve? Growing up as he did, he of all men should know better: a pretense of genteel poverty was a common whore's ploy. Prostitutes did their utmost to elicit pity while bartering their bodies, in the hopes the tactic would garner them more cash in the transaction. He was wise to her now! She would not put him at the disadvantage with her pathetic tricks!

  Twinkling eyes traversed the contents of the room, and then circled back to meet his. "My, but you have collected a large assortment of exotic souvenirs from your expeditions. Masks from Tasmania, porcelain from China, teak idols from the South Pacific. Are those coral shells on the shelf from Tahiti?"

  "Yes, they are." It would appear Harry had received a worldly education during the intervening years. She had become quite the sophisticate. With his familiarity with whores, Joshua could well imagine the kinds of knowledge she had acquired.

  It sickened him; his belly rolled in disgust at the sort of information she must now have in her possession. Easily, he was nauseous enough to wretch.

  "Goodness!" she exclaimed. "Do you keep exotic pets in your mansion too? Monkeys? Peacocks? Talking parrots? Half-naked Polynesian princesses with flowers in their hair?"

  "No pets. No women either, half-naked princesses or otherwise. And the latter is an indelicate topic of conversation for a gentleman to have with a..." He looked at her pointedly "...lady." There, that prolonged pause should put the little whore in her place. He was not about to let her think she could pull the wool over his eyes.

  Her laughter died. He missed it already, and cursed himself for its disappearance, even while lauding himself for discomforting her as she had, all right, yes, discomforted him. Tick for tack.

  In self-congratulation, Joshua smoothed a hand over the shawl collar of his dark coat. The tailoring was plain, but the cut was impeccable and sinfully expensive. In appearance, he knew he resembled one of the many well-to-do Quaker captains of New Bedford, and this suited him. But lacking a pacifist temperament, he was most decidedly not of the Friends' persuasion. Then again, in her plain dark gown, Mrs. Smith also resembled a Quaker, and she could not possibly have recovered her lapsed faith, for whoever heard of a Quaker whore? Which meant the dark clothing were widow's weeds. Somewhere along the line, Harry had married and lost herself a husband, most probably a former customer. From time to time, whores did wed a man they serviced. Had she loved him? More importantly, had her husband loved her, despite her sluttish past?

  Whoever the sod was, he most assuredly was a more forgiving man than he, for Joshua knew he never could love a whore; he certainly could never wed one. The comings and goings through those two white shapely thighs! And that was only her thighs. There was her mouth and buttocks to consider too. Dear Lord, for all he knew she was diseased. The pox was rampant amongst whores...

  Not that it mattered one way or the other to him; he wouldn't be getting close enough to any of her ports to catch a dose of the clap. That is to say, if she was still in the business. Some whores got out with marriage. Not many. Usually, the new husband simply became their pimp, collecting the money from his wife's labor.

  Harry was in half-mourning now, he would say. Though her gown was exceedingly dull and suitably depressing, as behooved the expression of grief for a lost loved one, she was not wearing a crape veil on her ugly black bonnet, as custom decreed in the first year after the death of a spouse. For that he was thankful: crape would have obscured her countenance.

  He had to see her face!

  Trying to peer through the hat's thick netting, he indicated a chair before his desk. "Please take a seat, Mrs. Smith."

  In a damp swish of black bombazine, she complied while he reclaimed his former position behind his captain's desk. He was now seated directly across from her.

  The dictates of society made current women's fashions increasingly cumbersome. The visual line of both gowns and bonnets were all directed down, as were the eyes of the wearer. His visitor's gaze was no exception. Harry sat at the outer edge of the chair, spine mast-straight, sights modestly cast to the floor. This new reserve of hers came as an immeasurable relief; even as a bratty imp, Harry had always seen far too much. Her lowered glance had the additional benefit of allowing him to scrutinize her, while remaining himself undetected.

  To better use--or abuse--this advantage, Josh lit the oil lamp situated on the upper left-hand corner of his desk. Now that illumination suffused his study, he could see her bonnet more clearly. Straightaway, he decreed it not only drab, but utterly deplorable. Lacking in style and adornment, the netting shadowed her face like a faded cobweb. Fortunately, not even spidery shadows could dim Harry's natural vibrancy.

  That red hair! His wish had come true: She now wore it long.

  That's where that particular wish fulfillment began and ended. Her beautiful hair was parted in the middle and pulled back severely over her ears. No curls, no tendrils, were allowed to escape the rigid confines of the plain style. She might just as well have been bald, for all the pleasure her long beautiful hair offered the observer.

  As to her current mode of fashion--the cinching corset she wore under her regrettable gown pinched the waist without providing any back-supporting properties whatsoever. Add to that the horsehair petticoat--full skirts require stiffening, and crinoline petticoats made of horsehair canvas provided the required inflexibility--and she seemed to be doing penance. As well she might, considering how she had occupied herself these last seven years.

  Still and all, he much preferred a natural waistline, and a little give and hang about the bosom, to the ridiculous and unnatural silhouette of lady's current styles in America. Give him those half-naked joyful Polynesian females with flowers in their flowing hair, their pendulous bare breasts softy swaying, their softly rounded bellies encouraging a man to pillow his head there any day. Give him too the Islanders free expression of carnality.

  Not that he had ever indulged in Island hospitality. He might not be a Quaker, but he certainly had lived as one for most of the past seven years.

  When Harry raised an arm to fix her bonnet, the move caused a subtle shift of her bosom. Her breasts had filled out, he noticed. A corresponding fullness in his loins reflected his appreciation f
or the changes time had wrought. To put a fine point on it, appreciation was too fine a word. His balls hurt like hell, if the truth be known, the ache so severe that keeping to the chair was rapidly becoming an ordeal.

  To take his mind off his man's dilemma, Josh played with a small jade figurine of Buddha squatting on top of his desk.

  "That statuette has a marking on the bottom. Are all the artifacts in this room similarly inscribed?" she asked conversationally, while he squirmed in his seat.

  "How observant you are, Mrs. Smith." His cordiality belied his thick tension ... and the thick tensility of his cock, spiking hard under his somber coat.

  Behind the cover of the desk, Josh made a discreet adjustment to the inseam of his trousers. "I have made many acquisitions over the years, and some are valuable. At least they are to me," he qualified. "To aid in identification in the event of theft, I have had this nautical knot engraved on each piece."

  She looked over his head to the artifact on the wall. "I should think the description of a black and red Tasmanian mask would be sufficient identification. Not too many of those about, I would imagine."

  He barked out a short laugh. "I will have you know that Tasmanian masks are quite the conversation pieces, second in popularity only to Jivaro shrunken heads from the South America Amazon."

  "Apparently, whaling has been a boon to curio items. But seriously Josh..." she stopped, covered her mouth prettily with a gloved hand.

  Had that slip been an inadvertent mistake on her part? Or, had she rather sought to remind him of past familiarity, to torture him with the truth that they had once, long ago, lain naked together in the same bed, and that her red hair, short and mussed, had decorated his rented whorehouse pillow?

  Refusing her the benefit of the doubt, Josh erected another, higher, more impenetrable wall between them. "I think it would be wise to keep this strictly business, Mrs. Smith."

  "Forgive me, sir! The appellation just slipped out!"

  He offered her a benign, somewhat patronizing smile in acceptance of her apology, while continuing to keep his guards well raised. What was her game? What was the purpose of this retiring pose she feigned? The last they met, he feared she would disembowel him, and then feed his innards to the sharks. Now butter wouldn't melt in her mouth

  Josh gawked as she licked her lower lip, the flesh pink and succulent. A ploy as well, he suspected, designed to bring to his mind other pink succulent lips on her female anatomy. Well, it worked! Sweat was breaking out on his brow, and a chair had never felt so uncomfortable under the heaviness of his aching sac. Time to bring the purpose of her visit front and center.

  He cleared the lust from his throat with a cough that only caused his manhood to throb all the more. "Mrs. Smith, I am at a loss here. What is the business of today's interview?"

  "You don't know? My sister-in-law didn't tell you?"

  "No, I am very much afraid she omitted the reason on the calling card. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what I can do for you."

  "What you can do for me? It is I who seek to do something for you."

  And he could use that something too, but he needed her to say it. He was a gentleman after all, and a gentleman does not make that sort of proposition without a clear conversational opening. "Exactly what do you propose to do for me?" he prodded, but staying well within decorum.

  The lilting laugh made a brief reappearance. "Why, anything you ask me to do."

  His pulses hammered at the provocative answer. "What are your exact talents?"

  " I would say my exact talents run the gamut."

  With that pouty mouth, he would say fellatio must be near the top of that gamut.

  "I can run a household efficiently and smoothly," she continued. "Using a seaman's vernacular, I would say that I keep everything shipshape. I am also an excellent cook."

  "A-a-are you telling me you are here to apply for employment in my k-kitchen?" Josh stammered in disbelief at the preposterous notion.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The interview was not going well, Harry conceded. The sea captain's voice had tightened like a strung bow, his disjointed words as sharp as arrows. Had her unintentional familiarity overstepped a servant's tenuous bounds, thus ruining her chances of getting this post?

  Her heart pounded in anxiety. This one man had driven the course of her life. Good or bad, Joshua Kane had been the precipitating factor for everything she had done, everything she had become. He had set the standard by which she judged herself. As he had guided her, shaped her, molded her as a child, so too was she his creation as a grown woman. If he despised her, she would have lost more than her only hope to stay out of jail.

  No choice but to meet the question head on, she looked into Joshua's hazel green eyes. "Why else would I have come here, if not to seek good, steady, honest employment?"

  That said, courage failed her, and Harry dropped her eyes to her lap again, surveying the shiny material of her dress. Thank goodness, only a solitary oil lamp lit the room, for the black dye she had used to freshen her best and newest gown had bled from the cheap fabric with its many washings, giving the skirt a slightly purple cast. Dignified impoverishment is an expensive proposition, and her gowns reflected that hard reality, while Captain Kane's coat reflected the reality of his extreme wealth.

  "If not for his dubious bloodline, he would be the most handsome and eligible male in all of New Bedford," Beth had told her.

  After seeing him again, Harry would only argue the beginning of her sister-in-law's assertion: Joshua Kane's forebears had no relevance to his identity, as he was so obviously his own man. His magnificent coloration only added to the perception that he was one of a kind--the curly blue-black hair juxtaposed against the olive-toned gradation of skin; the hazel-green eyes that tilted upwards, just a little, at the corners; the firm and sensuous coral mouth--were unique, and uniquely all his own

  Joshua was now thirty-seven years of age, a gentleman in his prime, and despite his dour clothing, he still, as he had always done, reminded her of a jungle lion, a wild animal trapped in a man's civilized body. His independence, his fierceness and courage and vitality, were all very feline. But it was the slow and sure way he moved that reminded her most of a jungle cat.

  A cat at home on the water! Now that just went to prove Joshua was anything but usual.

  "Please continue," the unusual man prompted.

  "Continue?" she asked like a dolt, lost in the male beauty of her interviewer.

  "Yes. Tell me something about yourself. Start with the beginning and work your way to the present."

  But he already knew everything there was to know about her early years! Surely he must recognize that due to their joint past history, this was not the usual interview between potential employer and employee.

  "Or, if you would like, start in the middle. For example, when did you lose your husband?"

  "My husband? Oh, I never wed. The title is honorary, I assure you. Housekeepers and whores are routinely called 'Mrs.' are they not? I simply adopted the courtesy title."

  "And the half-mourning?"

  "Since, in actuality, I am neither virgin nor wife, I elected to kill off the non-existent sod ... er ... excuse my language, sir ... and portray myself as a widow. Thus the need for weeds," she said cheerfully. "Plus the drabs have the decided advantage of masking a somewhat limited wardrobe. Wearing black has the decided advantage of making one appear older and more mature than one's years. In the beginning, you see, I had some difficulty obtaining any sort of desirable position, though I was more than amply qualified."

  "How so?"

  "I beg your pardon. How so ... what?"

  "Where did you come by all these ample qualifications?"

  "I must thank you on that score. You provided me the means for my qualifications, sir."

  "Me?" he said, sounding flabbergasted.

  His reaction amused her, as much as hers seemed to offend him. Why not nettle him? Why not discomfort him out of his staid correctne
ss? When had Josh become so hypocritical? They were neither of them born with a silver spoon in their mouths; they'd both had to do what they had to do to scrape by. Yet, to look at him today one would never know he had been raised rough on the riverfront.

  She supposed she was guilty of the same device. Her speech had improved, her diction, her manners and mannerisms were all those of a lady, albeit one who had fallen on hard times. But while she had not forgotten her humble origins, he appeared to have suffered a memory loss in regard to his. If he distanced himself any further from his birth, she would think he had sprung whole and fully formed from under a cabbage leaf.

  "Forgive me," he offered, gentlemanly composure regained. "I seem to be floundering here, but once again I must ask--how so did I provide the means of your qualifications?"

  "I should have thought it readily apparent. I used you as my reference. With Ruby. I learned much in her brothel. When I left New Bedford, I could whip up a haute cuisine meal, and after serving it, whip my employer too--there are gentlemen who like flagellation, don't you know? I also learned how to submit to the same." There! That should remind him of their lowly histories.

  But Harry saw how he had been looking at her. Obviously, he believed all the gossip about her and thought her a whore. His gibe about half-naked Polynesian princesses being an indelicate topic of conversation for a gentleman to have with a lady had not missed its mark. If he was going to shoot pointed arrows at her, she intended to turn them right back at him. Anger over the injustice of his incorrect assessment had prompted her to make mention of flagellation, no other reason.

  It hurt that he thought her a whore. But what had she expected? Seven years before, thanks to those five whaling merchants ... and her own temper ... her reputation had been damaged beyond repair. Everyone in town had thought her the new whore in training over at Ruby's place--an allegation honesty prevented her from refuting, for had she not gone there to learn the tricks of the trade? Granted, she had never meant to ply those tricks on anyone save Joshua.