by Jo Robertson
#
Malachi dumped the bath water off the back porch and hung the towels to dry in the small mud room to the rear of the cabin. Finally, he fixed the makeshift drapery so that it hung from a beam over the bed and provided Emma with privacy while she slept. He hauled the rocking chair closer to the fire and angled it so that he merely had to turn his head to glimpse the back of her sleeping form.
She hadn't moved a muscle in nearly an hour.
He worked on his summation for the trial, but after thirty minutes, put his work aside and donned a heavy coat. The least he could do was inform the Ralstons that their mistress was safe.
Emma might not appreciate the effort, but he didn't want the older couple to worry any more than necessary. He imagined a bizarre scenario in which they had already set up a cry and hue about the surrounding woods only to find their Goldilocks sleeping in the bed of the big, bad wolf.
All they needed was that kind of scandal.
He smiled to himself with no real mirth and set off at a rapid pace to cover the several miles between their two houses, counting on Emma to remain sleeping while he was gone. He arrived short of breath, only to see her house lit up like a New Year's celebratory party.
A carriage sat in the graveled turnabout, and Stephen Knight's Olds automobile waited at the farthest edge of the drive. Damn! The honesty with which he'd intended to approach the Ralstons gave way to a quick inventory for a credible lie, one that would satisfy Emma's family and maintain her reputation.
Fortunately, the person to answer his knock on the heavy oak doors was Stephen Knight himself. "Malachi!" The older man quickly stepped out onto the landing and drew Malachi several yards away from the house.
"She's safe," Malachi said immediately to allay the man's fears for his niece's safety.
A stern look of reproach in his eyes, Stephen glowered at Malachi. "What have you to do with Emma's disappearance?"
By instinct Malachi pulled Stephen deeper into the shadows. "She hasn't ... disappeared. Emma's at my cabin."
Stephen had every right to the look of anger and disappointment on his unlined face at this admission, but he merely narrowed his eyes and asked, "Have you harmed her?"
"No! God, no!"
A look of relief replaced the uncle's worried countenance. "Thank God!" He staggered backward for a moment and Malachi caught him, lowering him onto a gnarled stump by the largest of the outbuildings.
"Where in God's name has she been?" Stephen asked when he'd caught his breath and bearings again. "Sarah and Ralston noticed she was missing and came to me. We've called no one."
Malachi raked his fingers through his hair and down over the scrap of rough beard on his jaw. He hated telling the man where Emma had gone. And worse yet, why she'd gone there.
But there was no avoiding the truth. Perhaps between the two of them they could concoct a story to satisfy her parents, for he now recognized the opulent carriage in the driveway as belonging to Franklin Knight.
No doubt only the fear of scandal had kept them from alerting Sheriff Butler.
He crouched beside Stephen so that their eyes were level. "It's my fault," he admitted, staring at his hands. "I goaded her and she took off for – "
"Say no more." Stephen sliced his hand through the air. "It doesn't take much to get Emma to behave recklessly."
"She went to the Waterfront Street docks."
"My God, to that hell-hole?" Stephen leapt from the stump. "Why would she risk going to such a place?"
Since the river's last flooding the surrounding area of Sacramento had rapidly declined into the worst kind of slum, inhabited by degenerates and thieves.
Malachi rose and put a hand on the older man's shoulder. "She wanted to see where a woman like Alma Bentley was raised. To see the living conditions of less fortunate women."
Stephen didn't suppress a glow of approval. "Damn, that's exactly what the chit would do! But so late? At night? Hadn't she any idea of the danger?"
Malachi shrugged. "Apparently, the cab was ordered to wait for her." He smiled as he imagined the haughty tone Emma would've taken with the driver. Clearly to no avail.
"And?"
"And he did not. When I arrived, Emma was fending off a number of men with the heel of her boot."
Malachi would not tell her uncle of the heart-stopping scene in the alley where the four degenerates had cornered her, stripping her to the waist and lifting her skirts to ogle that which only a husband should see. Nor would he speak of her near rape and degradation, for Malachi had no doubt the men intended sadistic sport for the unlucky lady they'd captured in the alley.
Better that Stephen believe the experience at the docks was another of Emma's humorous sallies in the name of her newspaper research.
Stephen surely questioned Malachi's easy lie, for the chuckle he gave appeared forced. "That's my Emma. Tackling the world."
"She's resting at my cabin, sir. I promise she is safe. No harm will come to her in my care." He paused a brief moment. "Nor by my actions."
"I'll have your word on that, Rivers." The man extended his hand and flashed a steely look. "Emma is very precious to me, you know."
"I understand, sir." He clasped the man's hand in a firm grip and inclined his head toward the house. "What story should we tell the others?"
"Let me take care of that," Stephen said. "I have a lady friend in New Castle. I'll spin a tale that Emma was interviewing a witness for the trial and neglected to inform us of her whereabouts until just now."
Malachi looked around him. "At this moment?"
"Of course." Stephen smiled slyly. "Did you not hear the horseman who raced down from New Castle to deliver the news?"
Malachi grinned. "Emma is fortunate to have you, Stephen."
Stephen gazed back at the house where the forms of Franklin and Mary Knight silhouetted against the sheer draperies hung in the parlor windows. "Emma's a rare one."
He sighed and jammed his fists into his pockets. "Sometimes I wonder how she flowered into such a hothouse orchid in the cold frigidity of her parents' marriage."
#
Emma was still sleeping when Malachi returned to the cabin. The fire had died out and the room was beginning to chill. As quietly as possible, he laid another log and tindered it until it caught and started to blaze up.
At last he returned to the rocking chair where he jotted down a few additional notes for his summation. With luck, the trial would end this week. With even greater fortune smiling on them, Alma would be a free woman.
He must've dozed, for a sound awakened him and he jerked his head from his chest, searching around the room. There, again, the rustling of flesh against fabric. He glanced toward the bed where Emma lay.
She'd rolled over and now faced him, thrashing at the bedding until it bunched at her feet. A groan came from her lips, but her eyes remained closed. The robe he'd wrapped so carefully around her body had tugged open with her tossing, and her bare breasts peeked beneath the robe's lapels. Her pale, slender thighs gleamed beneath the hem.
She was an extraordinary woman. Beautiful, yes, but unconventionally so with her richly-colored hair and perfect flesh, her eyes at times as inky as midnight, and then again soft as the rich brown earth of his land.
He'd taken her virginity – albeit unknowingly – but to engage in further relations with her, as tempting as the notion was, went against his notion of gentlemanly behavior. As inexperienced as she was, she had no real conception of the consequences of engaging in an affair.
Still, he suddenly realized he very much wanted to be Emma Knight's lover. Unless he was far off the mark, that's what she desired too. What harm was there in two willing adults enjoying the pleasures of the flesh?
Not now, of course. Not when she suffered from memories of what might have happened in Firehouse Alley near the docks. Later, when she'd healed.
Now that her bothersome virginity was out of the way, they could indulge in the true carnal delights between a man and woman. He rather thought he'd en
joy showing Emma how earth-shattering the act of physical satisfaction could be.
He hesitated in his musings. But to what end, he asked himself?
Emma professed not to desire marriage. He certainly had no inclination to marry again. What other option was there for persons of their station? Her station, at any rate, for society might wink at his sexual transgressions, but it would never approve a woman of Emma's social position taking a lover for any length of time.
And, once he'd begun with her, he did not envision readily giving her up.
But surely he did not love her.
#
Emma opened her eyes to take in the scene around her. Her lids pressed down on her eyes as if she'd been drugged, but languor sent a pleasant mellowness over her limbs.
Malachi rocked gently in a massive chair by the fireplace which blazed with a roaring fire that reached her even in the corner of the room. His head buried in a stack of papers, he reached occasionally for a book from the stack on the floor, underlined something in pencil, and jotted notes on a yellow pad.
For a lazy moment she couldn't remember why she was here in his cabin, in his bed, but the sheer comfort of the worn quilts and the mesmerizing dance of the flames lulled her into a drowsiness that closed her eyelids and slowed her breathing until she slept again.
The man's stench was overwhelming.
His teeth rotted in a foul mouth.
His hand groped between her legs and she felt the deep, relentless sting of invasion at the juncture of her thighs.
Blood spurted down her legs, pooling in bright, angry puddles at her bare feet. She opened her mouth to scream and the man slammed a vicious punch into her jaw. More blood flooded from her wounded mouth, choking her screams until they fell into a gurgle of terror.
Her breath froze in her throat.
She choked and gagged in reflex.
Suddenly a cold wind sucked into her lungs and a scream ripped from her throat.
"Emma, Emma!"
Hands restrained her, but she fought against them, thrashing and kicking out.
"Wake up, Emma. You're dreaming." A thick band of flesh pressed against her cheek, a hard palm against her head. She couldn't let them overpower her. She mustn't capitulate. She resumed her efforts and fought like a she-wolf guarding her pups until the restraints loosened.
A light slap stung her left cheek. "Emma!"
Her eyes jerked open. Malachi crouched on the end of the bed in front of her, his arms raised, palms outward. She knelt at the opposite edge of the mattress, her own fists clenched in front of her, her arms raised like a pugilist prepared to lash outward. Sweat rolled down her temples and pooled between her breasts.
She blinked furiously, trying to orient herself. "You struck me." She shook her head, vaguely understanding that was not the relevant point.
In her nightmare she'd been resisting her attackers. "I – I thought ... " Her words trailed off as she separated the vivid dream from the present reality.
Malachi's voice was unexpectedly gentle. He covered her fists with his hands and lowered her back to the bed. "You're safe now."
"Those men – those t – thugs tried to – "
"Shh, I know, but you gave them hell." He laughed softly and ruffled her hair back from her forehead.
"I thought they would r-rape and then k-k-kill me," she stuttered, annoyed that she had no control over her voice, that she appeared vulnerable and weak. "I c-couldn't fight them off. I tried, but ... "
"You were amazing, a regular 'Gentleman Jim' Corbett."
The appellation forced a smile from her as she watched Malachi move into the cordoned-off kitchen area and wring a cloth out in the cauldron of water hanging over the fire.
"Aye," he continued, wagging his brows and taking on an Irish brogue, "those men in the alley were shakin' in their boots when they saw the fierce weapon in your wee hand."
"Silly, Corbett wasn't Irish." But his joking cheered her and lightened the mood. She felt much better.
He handed the warm cloth to her. "Wash your face." He sat on the edge of the bed and watched as she ran the cloth over her forehead and down her sweaty cheeks. She noticed the hairbrush in his hand. "What's that for?"
"Sarah brought it with a change of clothing for you."
"Sarah! Sarah knows I'm here?"
"You set up quite an alarm when you didn't return last night. Stephen and your parents were frantic."
She groaned and sank back onto the pillow. "My parents! Oh my God."
"Don't worry. Except for Stephen and me, Sarah's the only one who knows the truth. Your uncle and I have spun a clever lie for them." He winked at her. "You are not, in fact, lying in the bed of a wicked single gentleman, but are at this moment conducting an interview with a woman residing in New Castle."
"Thank goodness for Stephen!"
"Sit up," he ordered, handing her the hair brush. "You must get dressed and leave. We've skirted close enough to discovery and mustn't press our luck."
She sat up, took the brush, and began drawing it through her hair. When she'd seen him standing at the wide end of the alley, his greatcoat flowing from his shoulders like a musketeer, his face a dark glower in the nearly lightless night, she'd never felt so relieved, nor happy, in her life.
He'd come to save her when she hadn't even known she would need saving. "Thank you," she whispered, her throat suddenly clogged and scratchy. "Thank you for coming."
"I should have killed them." His voice held a flat, deadly calm she'd never heard before.
"No! I shouldn't want you to kill someone for me."
"I wanted to rip them to pieces."
His hands fell gently to her shoulders and eased the robe down her arms, trailing a path of fire over her flesh. Her nipples puckered with the chill to her bare breasts and she closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation of his touch.
Please don't send me away.
His fingers shook as they roamed gently over the top of her breasts and around to cup them with both hands. She heard the hitch of his voice as he lowered his mouth to her neck.
"I couldn't bear the thought of those animals touching you, much less ... " His mouth moved gently over her neck and shoulder, pressing tender kisses on the scrapes and bruises beginning to blossom into ugly blue flowers.
"That they'd defile such loveliness was unthinkable."
She drew her breath in on a great shudder that set her limbs shaking again. "I want you," she said, lowering her eyes, afraid to see another rejection written on his face.
"Ah, Emma," he groaned and buried his face in her hair. The soft lawn of his shirt tantalized her sensitive nipples, and she clung to him, desperate to satisfy the hunger in her loins.
He pushed her down on the pillows and gazed at her for long moments with such longing that she wanted to weep. This was how she wanted a man to look at her. That flash of desire was what she'd waited for. At last he pulled the covers to her shoulders and made to rise.
"Don't leave." She grabbed his hand and clutched it tightly. "Don't go away. I don't want to be alone just now. Please."
She knew instinctively they'd arrived at a turning point and saw the same understanding in his expression. There would be no going back from this night, no recriminations or regrets. He nodded briefly, secured the door, and checked the fire a final time before extinguishing the last of the lamps.
In the room's dimness she watched as he stood by the bed's edge and slowly removed each article of clothing, pausing between items as if to give her a chance to recant. His eyes were beautifully kind and gentle and shimmered like the moonlight on the lake.
He laid each garment on a chair back until finally he stood only in his drawers slung low on his narrow hips. The breadth of his chest was sprinkled with dark hairs that funneled downward to his navel and dipped beneath the white cloth. Her eyes followed the line to the unmistakable bulge in his groin.
She smiled and he flashed back a lopsided grin. He hooked his thumbs in the waist of his draw
ers and paused, staring intently at her. She held her breath and waited. He pulled off the final piece of clothing and stood beautifully naked before her. His body was like burnished gold, sleek and smooth as if wrought from marble by a master sculptor.
She'd never seen anything so beautiful in her entire life.
Chapter 21
"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? – As You Like It
Emma fitted into the curve of his body as if God had fashioned her particularly to meld into one flesh with him. Malachi smiled at the unaccustomed Biblical reference and lifted his head to see the cold ash of the fire in the grate and the black slivers of night peeking through the window slats.
Although they'd lain together with nothing between them, he'd not had her. And he wouldn't until she insisted. This much he could do for her, he thought.
She'd slept long and peacefully in his arms, hardly stirring, healing and shoring up energy. He eased his arm from beneath her neck and padded across the cold boards that chilled his feet even through the thick rugs scattered here and there that his mother had hooked years ago.
He built up the fire again, poured a glass of water, and gulped it down, then fiddled with the papers stacked on the table. The chill of the room on his naked flesh didn't bother him.
In fact, he was stalling, putting off the moment when he'd crawl back into bed beside Emma and gather her close and ... his body twitched, knowing far better than his brain what it needed.
No more indecision, no more wrestling with his blasted conscience. If Emma still wanted him, he'd make love to her, show her that the passion between them could transport them to a kind of heavenly bliss.
When he crept into bed and folded her into his arms, she wriggled her backside into his groin. Desire so fierce he couldn't breathe for a moment cut through him like a wound. He tightened his arms around her and nestled his face in the sweet smell of her hair, pressed his chest against the smooth curve of her back.
"Hmmm." Emma groaned and stretched like a cat waking from a nap in the sun. Then she settled again, captured his hand, and pulled it round her waist, holding it against her breast. His cock twitched against her bottom, a relentless snake coiling around a warm spot.