She gasped as his tongue rasped over her collarbone, and she felt the heat of his tongue on the rise of her breast. Dizzy with touch and scent and taste, she closed her eyes and savored the wild, sweet feelings sweeping over her.
As thunder boomed again, vibrating through the chamber, Shaw ripped at her stays, freeing her breasts for his plundering mouth. Her heart bucked and plunged as he found her nipple, drawing the bud between his lips and suckling, sending molten ribbons of pleasure spiraling down to her core.
More fabric tore, his or hers; she didn't know or care. She pressed her palms against his chest in a hopeless attempt to find something solid in this tumbling world of glorious sensation.
Her fingertips rested against the hammering pulse at his throat, and somehow that throbbing rhythm became her own. Vaguely, she was aware of Shaw lifting her in his arms, of discarded clothing littering the floor. But she didn't care. Nothing mattered but Shaw—getting closer, being one with him, easing this ache inside her.
He lowered her onto the bed, pushing her back against the tall headboard. The remains of her bodice and stays hung in shreds. She was naked to the waist, her breasts heaving and her bare skin slick with sweat. Her thighs were damp and throbbing as she tore away her undergarments. But she felt no shame, only awe that love between a husband and wife could be so powerful.
Sucking in slow, deep gulps of air, she watched as Shaw pulled off his boots and trousers. Heart thudding with excitement, she moistened her lips and gazed wantonly at the proof of his intense arousal.
Shaw was all magnificent male, pulsing with need, impossibly thick and long. Surely, she thought, surely he was too large for her. But even that fear was fleeting, and she opened her arms to him as he came to her.
* * *
"Damn," Shaw muttered when she lay quivering and exhausted in his arms. "Damn, but that was a fine good-bye." He cupped her naked breast and sought her mouth with his.
Rebecca's heart thumped against her chest wall as she stared up into his face. "There must... must be rules against this..." she gasped.
Gradually the light in his eyes softened to tenderness. "Did I hurt you?"
She shook her head, too filled with happiness to say anything more.
"You set me on fire, Bee. When I think about all the years we've wasted, I—"
"Not wasted," she managed. "Just waiting for the right time... the right place."
Teasingly, he growled and nuzzled her throat and breast before pushing up on one elbow. "Duty calls, woman. Wait right here. I'll be back."
She started to draw the sheet up to cover her nakedness, but he shook his head. "No, I want you to wait for me, just like that."
Chuckling, she gazed wantonly at him as he dressed. "Maybe you shouldn't go."
It was his turn to laugh. "Be good," he said. "Later, you can be as bad as you'd like."
She waited until the door closed behind him. "Be careful," she said to the empty room. "Please, be careful." Rising quickly, she went to the window, pulled aside the drape, and watched. The rain had slackened as he'd said it would, but it was too dark to make out his form as he strode away down the street.
Rebecca hummed softly as she washed and donned a clean nightgown. Oddly, the feeling of dark foreboding she'd felt earlier was gone. She wondered what had gotten into her, to be so afraid for Shaw. Was it some sixth sense or simply that she realized fully what she had and didn't want to lose him?
Perhaps they would get lucky tonight, and Shaw would find Eve. If he didn't, she would take the horse and carriage tomorrow and begin her own search. She gathered the scraps of the destroyed dress and began to set the room in order, all the while making her plans.
She might not be able to enter a bordello and question the loose women about her sister's whereabouts, but she could go back to the Saint Louis Post and check the back copies of the newspaper. If a fire had destroyed Thelma Brown's establishment, there should be a story about the event. And that would tell her if any lives had been lost.
One way or another, they would find Eve and Jamie. Whatever was wrong could be made right. Shaw had promised her, hadn't he? And he always kept his promises.
* * *
It was after nine when Shaw returned to the room. It took only a brief exchange for Rebecca to find out what he had learned—nothing. Not a soul would admit that they knew anything about a fire or that Thelma Brown had ever lived on High Street.
"I didn't expect to locate her so easily," Shaw said. "I came home because there's someplace I want to take you." He took a broadsheet from his pocket, unfolded it, and laid it on the table. "It's a music show on one of the riverboats. Tonight's the last performance, and I've got tickets."
"A minstrel show?"
"It says on that sheet that there's singing, dancing, and jokes by the Charleston Steppers. There's a magician, and a scene from The Queen's Man, put on by some London play-actors. Will you go with me, Mrs. MacCade?"
Rebecca hesitated. "I'm not much in the mood for going out," she said, "not with Eve missing." A tiny voice in her head whispered that she would love to see the performers and hear the music, but it seemed wrong to enjoy herself when Eve might be in danger.
"Come with me," he said. "We have only a short time here, Bec, a little time to be together. We'll look for Eve and the boy again tomorrow. But whatever's become of her, like as not, one evening of fun will make no difference. Unless..." He glanced meaningfully toward the bed. "Unless you'd rather turn in for—"
"No," she said, and then felt her cheeks grow warm.
"No?"
"What I mean is..."
He chuckled. "From what I remember earlier, you—"
"Hush, now." She met his gaze and quickly averted her eyes. "I've never seen a show," she said. "I'd like to. Then... afterward..."
"Is that a promise, woman?"
"It's a maybe." She hesitated. "I really am worried about Eve. Perhaps, it's selfish to even think about—"
"It's our honeymoon, Bee. One night can't change anything for your sister, but it would mean a lot to me." He pulled her into his arms and kissed her lips tenderly. "For me, darlin'?"
"All right," she agreed. "One night."
* * *
Rebecca found the show aboard the elegant paddle wheeler a marvel. The theater in itself was a wonderful sight, all gold and red, with thick carpet and crystal chandeliers. She felt like a princess as Shaw slipped the usher a golden eagle, and the man showed them to a table right beside the stage.
They stayed until nearly midnight, laughing at the foolish skits, listening to the music, and enjoying the bright costumes and sprightly players. They drank sweet cider and lemonade, had a delicious dinner served during the performance, and walked to the hotel from the steamboat landing holding hands in the moonlight. Best of all, when they reached the privacy of their room in the pearly hour before dawn, Shaw made passionate love to her again.
* * *
Their lives began to take on a pattern. Each night, and sometimes in the morning, she and Shaw would make love to each other. They would talk, and laugh, and tease each other. For a few hours every day, they would forget the hatred their families felt for each other, the curse that hung over their heads, and even Eve and Jamie's disappearance.
And for those few hours, Rebecca was blissfully happy.
But every afternoon and evening, Shaw would leave her, going into the stews, the drinking houses, and the back alleys of Saint Louis, looking for Eve. And each afternoon, posing as the wealthy Mrs. Thompson, Rebecca had her driver, Amos Washington, take her through the city searching and asking questions. She explored bookshops, stores, eating places, and laundries.
Sometimes, she would ask Amos to take the horse and carriage to the waterfront so that she could watch the throngs of travelers filing off the riverboats. Other days, they would simply drive through the various neighborhoods hoping to see her sister's face.
She never did.
Once, about two weeks after they arrived in Saint
Louis, Rebecca had a close call. She was certain she recognized her father coming out of a barbershop. Thankful for her wide-brimmed bonnet and the cloudy day that had made her ask Amos to raise the carriage hood, she'd held her breath and turned her head away.
Perhaps she'd been mistaken, or perhaps Poppa simply hadn't expected to see her wearing such fashionable clothes and being driven through the streets in a carriage. After that, she was more careful, avoiding the center of town and taking a parasol with her to hold in front of her face.
After the second week of July came and passed, Rebecca began to wonder if she'd lost Eve forever. Summer heat descended like a veil over the city, and even the breeze off the river seemed heavy and moist. She and Shaw had been so happy together, but Rebecca's joy was bittersweet. Seeing the man she'd thought was her father had reminded her that her marriage couldn't be forever. This precious time as Shaw's wife was a gift, one that she must cherish while she could. And if they didn't find Eve soon, they would have to give up, and she would have to return to Angel Crossing alone.
It was late, sometime after midnight. Shaw hadn't gone out that evening. Instead, they'd taken supper in their room. Afterward, they'd walked along the banks of the Mississippi, holding hands like young lovers, before coming back to share an hour together in the big copper tub.
Now Rebecca slept, curled next to Shaw, one leg drawn up and the other outstretched. Neither of them was wearing a stitch of clothing.
Abruptly, she was awakened by a hand over her mouth. Before she could react, Shaw whispered in her ear. "Shhh, someone's on our balcony."
Numbing cold flashed though her limbs, and her heart began to hammer loud enough to wake the dead.
"Do exactly as I say."
She caught his hand and squeezed it.
"When I make my move, you dive under the bed. Stay there until I call you out. Understand?"
She squeezed a second time. Thoughts of river pirates, outlaws, and cutthroats made her knees weak and her stomach clench.
"Now!" Shaw shouted.
She saw the faintest glint of his pistol as she dove off the feather bed and scrambled underneath. She struck her head on the frame but kept moving until she could peer out the far side. Shaw was on his feet, between the bed and the open floor-to-ceiling windows leading to the balcony.
"Hands up!" Shaw ordered. "Hands up or I'll blow your head off!"
"Don't! Don't shoot!"
Rebecca jerked upright, striking her head a second time. The voice wasn't that of a desperado. It was a child's cry, and now a short sob.
"Please, mister. Don't shoot me," the boy begged.
"Step in here so I can get a look at you." Shaw's tone was low but harsh. Rebecca had no doubt that he would shoot, given the slightest provocation. "Who the hell are you? What do you want?"
The lad was openly weeping as he stepped over the sill. She couldn't see his face, only a shapeless form no taller than her shoulder.
Below them, on the first floor, someone pounded on the wall. "What's amiss up there?" an angry male bellowed. "Decent people are trying to sleep!"
"Stand there. Don't move," Shaw said. A spark flared, and lamplight spilled across the floor.
Certain that this urchin wasn't the forerunner of a gang of desperados, Rebecca inched back out from under the bed the way she'd come. Reaching up, she snagged the corner of a sheet and wrapped it around her before she rose to her feet. "It's the same sprig we saw on High Street," she said. "The one throwing sticks at the cat."
Shaw was an imposing figure, standing well over six feet tall, stark naked, and holding the pistol. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"Dewey." The boy's nose was running, and his lower lip quivered as he tried to blink back tears. With his hands still held stiffly in the air, it was a losing battle, and two muddy trails ran down his face.
By the light, Rebecca could see that the scarecrow child had a black eye and a running sore in the corner of his mouth. Grimy wrists and ankles covered with insect bites stuck out of ragged clothing far too small for even Dewey's frail frame. He was barefooted, and one big toe was lacking a nail and puffy with infection. "Put that gun down," she said to Shaw. "I don't think we're in any danger from this—"
"Thief? Is that what you are?" Shaw asked him. "Did you come here to rob us?"
Dewey shook his head, lowered his hands, and blew his nose on his shirt sleeve. "Ain't no thief," he protested, amid a string of profanity that would have done justice to a flatboat captain.
"Watch your tongue in front of a lady," Shaw said. "Now start talking, unless you want me turning your ass over to the law."
"Sit there," Rebecca insisted, pointing to a chair. She didn't miss the hungry look in the child's eyes when he saw the remains of their dinner on the table. And her nose didn't miss the unwashed smell of one very dirty boy.
He glanced warily at the blue velvet cushion on the chair. "Nope. I'll stand," Dewey replied. The thin shoulders stiffened. "You think yer so tough? Gonna beat me up?" he asked. "I ain't scared of you."
"No?" Shaw laid his gun on the bed and pulled on his trousers. "Maybe you should be scared. Start talkin'."
"Shaw, let me handle this," Rebecca said. She looked back at the boy and saw that his gaze had wandered to the table and was lingering on half of a blueberry pie. "Would you like something to eat, Dewey?"
"Don't need none of yer charity. I et."
"You et?" She forced herself not to smile. "I'm sure you did, but the pie will probably be stale by morning. It's a shame to throw it to the dogs."
"Yeah, guess so." One dirty finger snaked out and dipped into the blue syrup. Dewey popped the finger in his mouth and was unable to hide his delight in the sweet.
"Go ahead," she urged. "Help yourself."
By the time the pie, the bread and butter, the last piece of chicken, and the cheese were gone, Rebecca had pried Dewey's mission out of him.
Apparently, he'd heard that Shaw had been asking around for a woman named Eve who used to work at Thelma Brown's place before the fire. He'd followed him for several days, finally coming here in hope of a reward.
"You know where my sister is?" Rebecca asked the boy. "She's alive and well?"
Dewey retrieved a fallen crumb of cheese from his pants and swallowed that whole. "Alive. Ain't too well. Been sick. Had the cholera."
"Cholera?" Fear made Rebecca's heart flutter. "But she's all right now. She's recovered?"
The child shrugged. "Too sick to belly bump. She's stayin' in a tent down by the river. You won't find it without me. I'll take you fer..." His forehead wrinkled. "Fer two dollars."
"You'll take me to Eve Raeburn, or I'll wring your skinny little neck," Shaw promised. "If it really is my wife's sister, I'll give you a half-eagle."
Dewey's hollow-cheeked face split with a grin, and Rebecca saw that he still had some baby teeth.
"How old are you?" she asked him.
"Twelve."
"Liar."
"Ten."
"If you're ten, I'm forty. What are you doing out this late at night? Won't your mother be worried sick?"
"Got no mother." His brown puppy-dog eyes filled with moisture. "On my own."
"What happened to her?" Rebecca asked.
"Dead of the cholera. She whored at Thelma's, same as Eve."
The truth of what he was saying hit her like a hard fist in the stomach. "Take us there, please," she said, trying to hold back tears of her own. She swallowed, trying to ease the constriction in her throat. "Eve has a little boy. Jamie. He'd be about three years old."
Dewey averted his eyes, then glanced at Shaw. "I'll take you." He motioned to Rebecca. "Ain't takin' her."
"I'm going," Rebecca said. "Of course, I'm—"
The boy shook his head. "Ain't no place fer her, mister. Lotta drunks, river trash. And lots of folks sick. I ain't takin' her."
"He's right," Shaw said. "We'll go. You wait here. I'll take the carriage, in case she's not strong enough to walk."
"Be
tter not take no horse," Dewey advised. "Last swivin' mule come that way, Duke bashed in its head and we et it."
Shaw pulled on his boots and tucked his pistol into his belt. "Don't worry about the horse, boy. If Duke thinks to have my horseflesh for breakfast, he'll have to eat lead first."
* * *
Nearly two hours later, Shaw carried a pale and barely conscious Eve up the stairs. "Where's Jamie?" Rebecca asked as she pulled back the covers so that Shaw could lay her in the bed. "Eve, Eve, it's me. It's Becca."
Dewey slipped in the door and stood there yawning. "Told you it were her," he said. "Gimme my half-eagle."
"Wait," Shaw said. "You'll get your money."
Rebecca placed a hand on her sister's forehead. "No fever," she said.
"I'm better," Eve said. "Really." Her face was white and lined, her hair streaked with gray.
"We'll fetch a doctor," Rebecca promised. She glanced at Shaw and silently mouthed, "Where's the boy?"
"Jamie." Eve's thin lips barely moved.
"Where is he?" Rebecca asked, although a sick feeling in her stomach told her the answer.
"He's gone... my baby... my Jamie..."
"Oh, no. Oh, no." Rebecca clapped a hand over her mouth. "Eve, I'm so sorry."
"I want him back."
Rebecca's gaze met Shaw's. He shook his head. She sank down on the bed beside Eve. "Did he... Was he taken sick like you?"
"Gone," Eve repeated.
"Jamie's in heaven," Rebecca murmured. "We have to trust in His mercy."
"No!" Eve pushed herself up. "No! He's not dead! He's not!" She seized Rebecca's arm. "You've got to get him back for me."
"Eve, I can't..."
"No!" Dewey cried. "She's tellin' the truth. Her boy ain't dead. He was stoled. Them church people stole Jamie the night they burned Thelma's."
Chapter 20
"What are you talking about?" Rebecca demanded. "Who stole Jamie from you?"
Eve gripped Rebecca's hand until her dirty nails made dents in Rebecca's flesh. "Men from one of the churches. They were led by a self-proclaimed deacon named Edward Penny. He owns a ship's store on the wharf, an interest in one of the newspapers, and God knows how many businesses. He was a regular at Thelma's. And, no, I didn't know him that way, but I knew who he was. All the girls did." Eve's lashes fluttered weakly. "He only wanted dark-skinned women, and he liked to slap them around... afterward."
The Taming of Shaw MacCade Page 22