The Acquisition

by Louisa Trent

  And then there had been that purse of gold coins Josh had given her in compensation for her lost virginity...

  She should have flung the money back in his face then, instead of deciding to return it when he came to say goodbye.

  But he'd never come to say goodbye.

  Josh's gold and words had damned her as a whore back then. She had only deluded herself into thinking his view of her might have changed. But no, seven years later, he still thought her a whore.

  She was not a whore! She had loved him, had always loved him. But he couldn't see that. Joshua Kane saw only what he wished to see.

  "Where in Boston have you worked?" he pressed, bypassing the flagellation remark.

  "At first, at another whorehouse," she admitted. "On Tremont Street. A very discreet establishment catering to a highly esteemed clientele. After that, I found a position in a private home."

  It was the truth. Her first position had been in a house of prostitution in Boston.

  Below stairs. As a cook.

  After one of the patrons had discovered her dessert-baking talents, he brought her home to meet his wife. The woman, who had a terrible sweet tooth, had turned a blind eye to the nature of the establishment where her husband had discovered her, and hired Harry on the spot.

  Joshua tapped his fingers on the captain's desk. "And did you stay there?"

  "No, I moved on again."

  "Naturally. A woman like you would wish to better yourself."

  A woman like her...

  How dare he! What did he know of women like her?

  "I did better myself," she said evenly, temper under control, but not without a flash of pride. All things considered, she had done well! A bigger house to oversee its running. A higher salary. More opportunities for advancement.

  "And after that?" he pressed again.

  After that came her last position. How much should she tell him?

  The whole of it, save the extortion, she decided. And with as few extraneous details as was possible.

  "After that came the position I have just left. I was head housekeeper."

  "Indeed?" The question was rhetorical and laced with cynicism. He didn't believe her! "Why did you leave and return to New Bedford?"

  "I was let go, sir."

  "With references?"

  "Without."

  "I see. You were fired. Why were you fired?"

  He wouldn't even let her escape the horrible word, damn him!

  "For stealing silver from the sideboard drawer." Unable to bear the censuring look that was sure to follow that sort of pronouncement, Harry turned her jaw away.

  "And so you have come to me."

  "Yes. Because of our past acquaintance, I thought you might overlook my lack of recommendation, and take me on."

  "I see."

  She dropped her gaze to her lap, folded the excess material of her dull skirt into a fan, and gave a weak laugh. "I am destitute. Deeply in debt. I have no place else to turn. I thought you might make me an advance on my salary, and I could work off the loan in the future. I would sign a bond paper..."

  "That would not be necessary; your word would serve as your bond."

  Hope soared. Was he saying he would help her?

  She sought to clarify. "Sir, you have yet to ask if it is true, if I stole the silverware from the sideboard drawer."

  "During the course of our conversation, have you sailed under false colors?"

  "You mean ... have I lied?"

  "Lied. Deceived. Hidden the truth. I am not speaking of only the larger parts of our discussion, but about any of the smaller details that have made the whole of our discourse. Can you say that in every area, you have been honest and forthright in your personal history, aboveboard in your entire representation of yourself?"

  "Why no, Captain Kane, I cannot quite make that assertion." She had left out the reason for the loan. A lie of omission, but nevertheless a lie.

  "So then, what purpose would it serve to ask if you stole the flatware, since you are an admitted liar."

  She looked at him straight on. The temper she had tried so diligently to keep dampened, flared. "We all have our secrets, do we not?"

  "Some more than most. Let's draw this farcical charade of an interview to a quick conclusion, shall we? I have no need for a housekeeper, as I already have in my employ Peggy, the servant who just showed you in. She is the wife of my first mate, Andrew, from the Regina Marie. They live above the carriage house on the estate. A good honest woman, she oversees the day staff ... and the silverware."

  Harry frowned, and not at the slung arrows that had hit their mark so precisely. "You already have a housekeeper? The position is filled?"

  "Just so."

  Dazed, she said, "But I am here for the purpose of procurement."

  A taciturn: "Obviously."

  Mortified, she started to rise. He not only thought her a whore, he thought her a whore come to solicit him!

  She drew back her shoulders. "You allowed me to believe there was a position, that there was a reason for this interview. We even discussed the terms of an advancement on my future pay!"

  He had given her reason to hope! Given it, and then had taken it cruelly away. She had expected more from him, had thought better of him. Though she had given him little reason to judge her kindly, she had nonetheless prayed he might forgive and forget the past, and help her now in her moment of need. But she could see now he was angry, and in that anger he stood as her harshest critic, giving her no time or room to apologize for her past words to him. Instead, he had thought ill of her from the very beginning. From when her footstep had first darkened his threshold this evening, he had assumed she had come for a nefarious purpose, not to seek gainful employment. He saw only what he wished to see, and in that narrow perception of her, had found her wanting.

  Damn him for not looking deeper, for not giving her the benefit of the doubt, for not understanding the underlying cause of an ignorant eighteen-year-old virgin's fear! She had been terrified, and not only of the sexual act itself, but of losing him. To the sea. To a more experienced woman. To his own blind ambitions. Josh had been a man moving up in the world, and so afraid was she that he would leave her behind on his climb, she had actually sought sexual instruction in a whorehouse! It seemed ludicrous to her now, even comical, but such had been the extent of her desperation back then.

  To hell with him! He was not the only wounded party here. Oh, no, he was not!

  "If the position is filled, then there is nothing further to discuss. I will bid you goodnight then, Captain Kane!"

  Captain Joshua Kane leaned back in his chair, examining her. "I thought you in need of money...?"

  "I am in need of money." She got to her feet, and began the long walk to retrieve her cloak.

  "Name the amount, and I will make you a gift of it."

  "Thank you, but no. I earn my money." She had her pride to consider. After having been the recipient of dole-outs as a child, after having been expected to feel an overabundance of gratitude to the devout church women who delivered food baskets and mended and patched cast-off clothing, and having felt naught but resentment over their misplaced pity, she had resolved never again to be another's good work. She was no charity case!

  "I do have another position available..." he said, throwing her the bone when she was at the threshold.

  Like a mangy dog come in from the rain, soaking wet and hungry, she caught the offering. But she was a dog of the streets, and so, before she started to gnaw, she looked for the string attached to the leftover scraps of meat.

  "A servant's position?" she asked in suspicion, carefully retracing her steps to the chair she had only just vacated.

  "Yes. A servant's position."

  She collapsed back into the chair, her limbs too weak to support her. "I will take it."

  "As it is only temporary in nature, less than a week's employment, I didn't feel I should mention it. If you would like, I will advance you the salary."

&nbs

p; No matter what the amount, it would not be nearly enough, not for a week's work. But perhaps the money would buy her additional time from her extortionist. And besides, what other choice did she have? Beggars cannot be choosers, and her brother's wife wanted her packed up and gone.

  "I will take it," she repeated. She had her pride, but she was no fool.

  "I find it curious you have not asked what the position entails, Mrs. Smith." His brow peaked like the pitch of a roof. "Do you always behave so spontaneously, without regard to the potential consequences?"

  "Yes!" she exclaimed, because it was true, and he knew it as well as she. Her temper had often gotten her into trouble, as did her foolhardy disregard for the etiquette of situations. She had tried to correct both faults, but it was difficult to act with discretion when facing a jail sentence.

  "Well, in this instance it might be wise to ask for the specifics before agreeing. For all you know, I might have need of a stable lad."

  "I love horses."

  "I know you do," he said softly.

  Was he recalling, as she was, summer days when he had taken her out riding in the country as a child?

  Her eyes took a dip, as they filled with sentimental tears.

  "Rest easy; you will not be cleaning out any stalls. You may already know I am holding a small musicale at the end of this week. Your brother and sister-in-law, in fact, have accepted my invitation."

  "Yes, Beth told me she and Ben would be in attendance."

  "Preparations for even as small a gala such as this would prove too much for my current housekeeper, so I will need additional temporary help. I have grown rather set in my quiet ways, and I do not want my present business schedule unduly interrupted with a flurry of party arrangements. I will need someone to supervise these plans for me, provide extra hands on deck for serving that night, that sort of thing. I also need a fancy cook. Peggy is fine for plain faire, but anything past meat and potatoes and ale is too much for her limited experience and my humble palate. Still interested?"

  "Yes!" A temporary position might very well become permanent. If she proved her worth through hard work and excellence, he might keep her on. Servants were sometimes hired on a trial basis, to prove themselves...

  "When would I start?" she asked excitedly.

  "I should think immediately. The event is but three days off, and I have neglected all but the most rudimentary of decisions pertaining to it. The invitations are sent, the orchestra is in place, but the menu..." He shrugged. "Sauces and desserts leave me hopelessly confused."

  "Not to worry. Both are my specialty."

  Too restless to sit still, Harry jumped from her chair. "I return on the morrow with my recommendations for dishes. And as to the advance of my salary--there is no need. Recompense me at the end of my tenure here." She crossed her fingers, hoping the tenure would be a long one. She needed the work!

  "Very well. Full payment at the end for services rendered," he agreed. Rising now too, her new employer cocked his ear to the window. "The storm has worsened. Why not allow me to drive you home?"

  "Bosh!" she said gaily, racing to retrieve her cloak. "Walking in the rain will help me sort out my ideas about what to serve your guests."

  In two strides he was at her side, helping her on with the drenched garment. "I really do insist."

  "Oh, but it's not your place to insist, Captain Kane." If the reply sounded churlish or ungrateful, it wasn't meant to be so; she merely needed to set up the terms of this, their new relationship. "On the morrow, when I start the position, you may govern my every step. But not tonight. Tonight, I am still a free woman!"

  And with that lofty declaration, she swept out the door into the dark driving force of the rainy night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Joshua's new housekeeper, cook, baker, party-maker, was building a white mountain of flour on the oak tabletop, her elbows flexing as she sifted the meal of the wheat grain, separating the coarse particles from the fine through the sieve. She was unmindful of his presence at the doorway to the basement kitchen, as he continued to watch his just-hired domestic wipe her work-reddened hands on her voluminous apron, then pull at the white cap covering her amazing red hair.

  Granted, getting flour in that glorious hair would never do, but why must she cover all of it? Josh thought in frustration. Could she not allow a few fiery tendrils to escape? A stray curl, perchance?

  But no. He could not see any of her hair at all. Annoying as hell.

  As to the apron--surely, it was intended to envelop a much fuller body? In its favor, the yardage of the white cotton hid most, but not nearly enough, of her faded black gown, the somberness of which only a threadbare gray collar and cuffs relieved. These were buttoned high and tight, preventing him from seeing her lovely long throat and elegant wrists, both so amazingly pale. Damn!

  She was laced too tight. Too fucking tight, he cursed to himself, his gentlemanly manner slipping in his increasing frustration. He was a man of vast and sundry carnal experience, and an intimate acquaintance with the female figure. He knew Harry's breasts were no longer immature; they were as full and high as her waist was narrow and long; she didn't require punitive corseting. The whalebone stays she wore had to cut into the silky softness of her under-breasts, while choking off her ability to take a deep breath. Foolish girl! Suffering the discomfort of a stringent undergarment, when there was absolutely no need. If he had his way, she would wear no stays at all. Or, at the most, something lacy and insubstantial, only to give lip service to support. If he had full authority over her, if he was her lover, he would absolutely forbid her to confine her admirable bosom or restrict her breathing. Otherwise, how would he hear her deep moans, gasps and groans during spontaneous bouts of lovemaking, those unplanned-for times that often occur when a woman is only partially clothed? Tight lacing wouldn't allow for those tantalizing sounds; tight lacing wouldn't allow for the swell and heaving of her breasts. With Harry's erect carriage, her unfettered breasts would present wonderfully sharp-pointed and proud thrusting.

  Josh felt his cock stir, not yet quite erect, but close.

  As to the derriere--his servant wore only a small bustle. Fine with him. The natural line of Harry's backside was already seductive enough without further embellishment. Seven years ago, in a whorehouse, her rounded bottom had incited him to madness.

  If he were her lover, there would be no need now to refrain from his baser desires. Harry was no longer an eighteen-year-old virgin; during the intervening years, she had become a whore of some accomplishment. She would know what a man expected from a woman he paid. Of course, if he paid her, she would not be his lover, but his whore.

  He flinched at the association of that word with Harry. Although he knew she had started into the whore's life with Ruby, still it was shocking to hear her speak of it, to say she had learned much in the brothel. To hear her talk freely, almost boastfully, of whippings and flagellation, brought home to him the reality of what she had become.

  Harry was no longer the innocent. She was a sexual sophisticate now, and she should know and understand what these arrangements were about, how they were negotiated. He didn't mind paying for it. He had always paid for it. So why did she persist in aggravating him? Why not be forthright and simply set the terms?

  She was playing hard to get, he supposed. To jack up the price of possession, he guessed. To that end, she had refused his escort home. He was certain she had done so only to cause him grief, to keep him in suspense, to make him pant and beg.

  He would not beg. He had never begged for cunt. He opened his money purse and paid for cunt.

  The night before, he had stood at his study window, away from the light to avoid detection, should she happen to turn back toward his house and see him reflected there, hovering against the glass, a solitary sea captain with his tongue hanging out, watching her. Last night, he would have paid a fortune just to see her face. At one point, he had become irrationally angered when she had demurely covered her mouth with a gloved hand, as a lady does after uttering a faux pas--though she was no lady, and that had angered him all the more. She should have been a lady!

  Last night, she made her way home in a rainstorm; today, she sifted flour. Both were equally fascinating to him. And today he could see her face. But not her red hair. Double-damn that cap squatting on her head like a mushroom! He wanted that cap gone, her hair loose, her breasts free; he wanted to make any carnal demand on her he cared to. He hated not having authority over her, hated she had the freedom to defeat him at every turn. The only reason he had allowed her to toil away as a servant in his home, was to gain some control over her while she played out this little purchase and sale game of hers. An employer's right was better than no right at all, he reasoned.

  And so last night, as the woman he lusted after made her solitary way down the cobblestone street, he had watched at the window, while counting off the hours until she began her employment in his home. He had stayed fixed there at the rain-swept glass until the dark pinprick of her had disappeared down the hill and away from sight.

  Today was different. Now that she was his paid servant, he had the power to set rules and enforce them, to exact obedience, to command and determine her every move in his household. And he could watch her, as he watched her now.

  It was better than nothing, but it wasn't enough.

  Sometime last night, he had moved from abhorrence over the notion of fucking her, to obsession over the eventuality of fucking her. Fucking her was now a foregone conclusion. Sometime last night, he became grateful that she was a whore, a commodity he could rent for as long as he pleased, the time-frame at his discretion, and the only commitment to her he need ever make.

  But he required total authority and a long time-frame. How long he couldn't say, only that he must be able to count the period of the arrangement on his calendar in terms of weeks, not days. He had to find a way to cast a net of domination over all she did, without--and this was the tricky part--admitting how much he desired her. Admitting his obsession would show weakness. He could not afford to show her any such sentiment. Sentimentality, either. She had come to him under the guise of seeking honest employment ... let her admit that what she was really after, was something else.

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