by Zoë Archer
“Wish that there was. I wish we could predict it. The best we can do is encourage compassion in others, and see the signs of cruelty as early as possible so we can stop it.”
“And if you bait and blackmail men like Jack Dutton in the process…”
He offered another shrug. “To quote Marco, quoting Machiavelli, ‘Il fine giustifica i mezzi.’ The ends justify the means.” He turned to her. “You’re not having second thoughts?”
“Not after hearing those horrible women blather on about the undeserving poor. Whatever the hell that means. It’s as if … they’ve blinded themselves on purpose. As if they’d rather be sightless than see what’s really around them.”
“It’s a choice many people make.”
“Some of us don’t have that choice.”
He brushed his lips back and forth across her forehead. “That’s why we fight back, however we can.”
Alyce settled deeper into his embrace, feeling the length and energy of his body, the soft, thick blankets and crisp sheets enfolding them. A moment out of time. A memory that she’d hoard, belonging only to her and Simon. This wasn’t real life. Even if the scheme for the mine worked out, she’d go back to being a bal-maiden. Her pay would be better, and every day wouldn’t be such a battle, but she’d remain Alyce Carr of Trewyn, Cornwall, helping her sister-in-law as she raised her nieces and nephews. She’d also take a more active role in the running of the mine, and damn anyone who said she couldn’t because she was a woman. Her path was clear.
Simon’s was, too. Hearing him speak of his work for Nemesis, the determination in his voice, the quiet anger at the brutality of the world—this was what he was meant to do. He was a ruthless scoundrel of dubious but also unquestionable morals. When he left, as he’d have to, it would hurt like hell. She’d never known anyone like him. She never would again. Even if she left Trewyn, left the mine, and sought her fortune elsewhere, there wouldn’t be another man like Simon.
“Why does time have to move?” she murmured. “Why can’t we stick a pin in it, the way those scientists pin butterflies?”
He let out an uncharacteristic sigh. “Time has wings, but we can’t pluck them off, we can’t make it stop flying. There’s only one thing we can do about it.” In a sudden move that robbed her of breath, he flipped her onto her back, pinning her arms above her head. His body stretched over hers, hard and relentless. And his gentleman’s face was taut with need. “Enjoy every goddamn minute we’re given.”
She arched up to meet him for a blistering kiss. Though they’d already loved several times this night, they couldn’t get enough of each other. She struggled against his hold, wanting to touch him, but that only made him tighten his grip on her wrists. And curse her if his blatant show of strength didn’t make her burn all the hotter.
They wrestled against each other, a rough give-and-take that stole thought. All she knew was this wild dance, hot and slick. His cock curved thickly against her stomach. A sudden image filled her mind, her body, making her wetter.
“Let go,” she gasped, breaking from the kiss.
“Not a goddamn chance,” he growled.
“Trust me.” She smirked. “You’ll want to let me go.”
He raised a brow. A moment later, he released her wrists.
She slid out of bed and hurried into the bathroom. Grabbing another washcloth, she ran it under the warm water tap.
Emerging from the bathroom, she found him stretched out on the bed, the covers thrown off, splendid in his bold nakedness. He watched her with glittering eyes as she climbed onto the bed and knelt beside him, holding the warm, damp cloth.
“Hold on to the headboard,” she directed.
His mouth curved at her demanding tone, but he did as she commanded. He reached back and gripped the curved brass headboard, the movement revealing all the lean, solid shapes of his muscles, making the curves of his biceps round even more impressively.
“Don’t move, and don’t let go,” she continued.
“Her true colors come out,” he said, his voice low and unsteady. “Dictatorial, that’s what you are.”
“If that word means bossy, then, yes. Now quiet and let me work.”
But he wasn’t quiet at all when she began gently rubbing his cock with the washcloth. He groaned and growled as she ran the soft cloth up and down his shaft, caressing him, cleaning him. Circling around the base and then up, to swirl around the tip. She went slowly, so slowly, and with every stroke, he writhed and twisted and cursed.
He started to reach for her, and she gave him a stern look. “Don’t let go, I said.”
His eyes narrowed with a look that said he’d obey for now.
She slid down him, then continued stroking him with the cloth. But it was growing cool, and the last thing she wanted was to subject him to the effects of cold water. So she set the cloth aside. His eyes flashed as she pushed his thighs open and knelt between them. Her heart throbbed in fear and excitement—she’d never done anything like this. But what he’d done to her earlier on the chaise had given her ideas.
This was their night. And she’d deny herself nothing.
So she gripped the base of his cock, and lowered her head. All the while, their gazes held.
Her tongue swirled around the head. So silken and tight, and that tiny kiss of salt beading at the very tip. An inhuman sound clambered up from his chest. Growing bolder, she took the head fully into her mouth. Sucked on it. The headboard rattled as he tugged hard and let out a series of curses or maybe prayers. She couldn’t tell the difference.
She lowered down further, taking more of him into her mouth. Her eyes glided shut. She couldn’t fit all of him in her mouth, so she wrapped her hand around his shaft. Then moved. Sucking, licking, up and down. Imitating the strokes she’d used with her hand, and the way he’d been inside of her. But deliberate thought evaporated as she lost herself in the pleasure of giving him pleasure, his delicious taste and feel, and how he shook and shuddered beneath her touch.
And still, she wanted more. She pulled him from her mouth. He made only the lowest sound of protest before she straddled him, placing the head of his cock right at her opening. She held herself there for as long as she could stand it. They didn’t speak, only stared at each other, both of them gasping, and if she looked anything like he did, they were both ready to level the whole of Plymouth with their need.
It was a trust, too. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve let go of the headboard. But he held, restraining himself, holding himself down as if she’d captured him. This man who wanted freedom above all else was giving it up, for her.
Her heart strained against the cage of her ribs. And she saw his own heart, reflected in the brightness of his eyes. It was almost too much. She wanted to duck her head to hide from it. But she never refused a challenge or turned away from something difficult. So she lowered herself onto him.
They both hissed as he filled her. His thickness, his fullness—they were everywhere, and she welcomed them, taking him into herself. She paused once he was seated fully inside. Just to feel him. To know this moment.
Her hands braced on the planes of his chest, she began to ride him. Leisurely at first, as she discovered angles and movements. Then faster. She learned that to tilt her hips just so rubbed her bud against him, and if she leaned in just this way, the head of his cock brushed against a sensitive point inside her, sending shudders of pleasure through all parts of her body. She moaned with every new discovery.
“Yes, Alyce, yes,” he panted. “So … beautiful … learning your … power.”
He was carved like oak, burnished with sweat, strained tight as he gripped the headboard, the cords of his neck standing out. The look of a man who never loved his suffering more.
Control broke. She gripped his shoulders and rode him hard, flesh to flesh, until the orgasm broke her apart. She splintered into fragments of light and sensation. Losing awareness of everything but pleasure.
She crumpled against him, her face to his
damp chest.
“I’m letting go,” he rumbled, his voice as taut.
In an instant, she was lifted from the bed. Simon carried her over to the chaise as if she weighed no more than a scrap of lace. But for all the decimating potency of her climax, she didn’t feel delicate like lace. She felt powerful, durable. Forged strong in the heat of what their bodies had done.
He stood her so she faced the chaise, then guided her hands to grip its back. The position made her thrust her behind out, a bold invitation. She felt bold.
“Now you don’t let go,” he commanded.
“Or else?” she couldn’t help retorting.
Her answer came as a sharp smack against her buttocks. She jumped. Hot sensation filled her. God, she hadn’t been spanked since … never. She always ran faster than the teacher with the switch, and they never believed in hitting at home.
She waited for a sense of anger or embarrassment. None came. Only more pleasure.
“Or else that,” he said, voice edged with need.
Now she couldn’t decide whether or not to be disobedient. That spank had been wicked, glorious. But she also wanted him again, for him to take her as he wished. So she held fast to the back of the chaise.
He gripped her hips with bruising force. The tip of his cock notched at her entrance. And then he thrust in, one sure, thick stroke that was all of him.
“Wanted this,” he rasped. “For so long. To lean you against a wall at the engine house or in the village, and take you, make you mine.”
She didn’t think it was possible for a woman bent over a chaise having sex from behind to blush, but she did. “You’ve got me now.”
And he seemed ready to make full use of the chance. His hips moved, his cock within her, and it wasn’t gentle or sweet. It was raw and real, as animal as she felt. She pushed back into him, making eager sounds. Sounds without words, which meant “yes” and “more” and “harder.”
She chanced a glance over her shoulder, wanting to see him. His body in motion was a beautiful thing, especially when that motion was loving her roughly. His eyes were clamped shut, his mouth open. He’d never been more glorious. And she was the one who put that look of ecstasy on his face.
Growling, he pulled out. Release shot from him, spattering onto her buttocks, her back. It felt incredible, but just once, she wished he could climax inside her. A wish that couldn’t come true. Not without the possibility of consequences.
For a long while, they remained as they were: her bent over the chaise, him continuing to hold her hips. But then he moved, and he found one of the discarded cloths, using that to clean them both.
Slowly, stumbling like drunks, they got back into bed. The moment they lay down, he wrapped her in his arms, their bodies weaving together. He tipped her chin up and kissed her, once, sweetly.
“Simon,” she breathed, and in that one word, in his name, was all her hope and fear and need and dread and pleasure. Things she’d never shared with anyone else. Only him. Two little sounds in his name, but they held everything she couldn’t admit, not even to herself.
Too soon, it’d all be taken away.
“I know, love,” he said. “I know.”
Love, she thought as she drifted off to sleep. Yes. Love.
CHAPTER 15.
The carriage ride to the owners’ offices revealed that nothing in the world had changed. Men and women walked to and from work, the sky was a watery gray, the smells of damp pavement rose up, and a nautical bell tolled distantly. A dog barked, a man shouted in complaint against a thoughtless driver. Just another day.
How could everything look and act exactly the same, but everything for Simon had shifted as completely as the poles reversing? It didn’t help that the woman who’d come to be his North Star rode across from him in the cab, scattering his thoughts whenever they tried to gather.
He went over the steps in his mind—presenting the documents to Harrold, Stokeham, and Tufton, the exchange of property, signing more documents, Jack’s appearance, Simon’s response—it was just the same as reviewing a battle plan, thinking of all possible steps, every contingency.
No sooner did his thoughts alight on these details than he’d remember the night before. Alyce beneath me, above me, all around me. Her taste. Her smell. The feel of her. And her boldness that set his blood to flame.
The need to fight rose up in him. For her. And … for himself. She’d given him that.
There she sat across from him in the cab, wearing another of Harriet’s expertly tailored traveling ensembles. Alyce’s hands knotted in her lap, and she couldn’t seem to keep her gaze still. It slid out the window to blankly watch the passing streets, then skittered around the interior of the hired carriage, to finally land on him. She attempted a smile.
And, damn it, there went those knives into his heart again. Her bravery never stopped.
He wanted to say something to her. Anything. To reassure her. To let her know that last night had been the culmination of every dream, every desire. Yet they both knew that dreams never lasted in the light of day. So they both kept silent, rocking slightly with the movement of the carriage, until it drew to a stop outside the offices.
She took his arm as they went up the front steps. Before he could place his hand on the doorknob, Linton the clerk had already flung the door open.
“Welcome, Mr. Shale.” Linton glanced at Alyce, waiting for an introduction, but Simon hadn’t the interest or patience to go through the standard rituals.
He gave the clerk his coat and hat. “Where are the others?”
“In Mr. Tufton’s office. I’ll show you the way.”
Alyce didn’t speak as they made their way through the workplace, though her gaze touched quickly on the rich furnishings. No doubt tallying what everything cost and comparing it to what that money could’ve bought the workers of Wheal Prosperity. Yet she looked cool and mildly uninterested, as a woman of her class might when presented with the mundane activity of earning a living.
The young clerks at their little desks all watched her pass. She wore a bronze and blue traveling ensemble with a little feathered hat, and carried a fur and satin muff against the autumn chill. In this masculine fortress, she had to seem a welcome respite. A visitor from the realm of the inconsequential. Little did any of these clerks know that Alyce was a living weapon disguised in moiré silk.
Inside Tufton’s office, Harrold and Stokeham also waited. They rose from their chairs, smiling, and offered handshakes and bows at Alyce and Simon’s entrance. Linton was sent to fetch tea.
“Thank you again for your hospitality last night.” Simon waited until he’d seated Alyce in front of Tufton’s desk before taking his own seat.
“I’ve never had a more enlightening evening,” Alyce added.
Harrold laughed indulgently. “Happy we can be so enriching. A shame, though, that you live so far away in London. We could make such evenings a regular occurrence.”
“What a pity,” Simon said. He hefted his portfolio. “Shall we get to the matter at hand?”
At Tufton’s nod, Simon arranged the paperwork on the desk. “First, here are the documents pertaining to my overseas properties. These are stocks. They’ll serve as collateral against the return of the mine. When the mine’s back in your hands, you’ll pay for the stocks—and everyone’s satisfied.”
“How soon will we see a profit?” Stokeham demanded.
“The profits are small but steady from these investments,” Simon said. “The real benefit, however, is that the money isn’t taxed, nor can the British government touch it. Profit in protection.”
The men chuckled, and Harrold accepted the stocks.
Simon pushed other documents forward. “As you see on this sheet, it has Alyce’s maiden name indicating she’s the representative of the Cornish Mining Collective. This ensures the venture has her brother’s protection. It just needs your signatures transferring ownership.”
“Cornish Mining Collective?” Harrold said with a frow
n. “Is it a genuine corporation?”
“I created it,” Simon explained, “and I’ll dissolve it. Most important is that my wife’s signature is on it.”
The men eagerly put their pens to the paper, and, with a flourish, Harrold handed the pen to Alyce. Only Simon saw how her hand trembled slightly when she signed the document.
And then it was done. The transfer had been made. Wheal Prosperity no longer belonged to these bastards.
Alyce set the pen down, then sat back in her chair with a barely audible sigh. He had to commend her—she didn’t look at him or give any sign that this bit of paper shuffling was anything more than a slightly mystifying nuisance. The sign of a green confidence player was revealing too much through nonverbal cues. A shared look. A quick smile.
But she played her part exactly as she was supposed to. Goddamn, but she never stopped fascinating him with the many people she could be, and yet still remain herself.
“Well, gentlemen—”
The door banged open. Everyone, even Simon, jumped. Jack loomed in the doorway.
“I’ve come back again, like I said I would,” he growled. “Every day until you pay what you owe.” His gaze caught on Simon. “What the hell are you doing back here?”
Simon rose from his chair. “Ensuring your ugly face doesn’t, in fact, return.”
Jack stalked forward. “Listen—”
“Ah, no, my gargantuan friend, I believe it’s time for you to listen.” Simon held up the sheaves of paperwork. “All of this ensures that you haven’t got a leg to stand on. Wheal Prosperity doesn’t belong to these men anymore. It belongs to my wife.”
Harrold, Tufton, and Stokeham looked on with wide eyes and gaping mouths, like an audience at the latest melodrama.
Jack sneered. “Then I go ahead and tax her, don’t I?”
“You can’t. First, because the ownership is a now a collective that falls outside of your department’s purview. It’s exempt from your thieving taxes. And second, because you might want to take a look at my wife’s signature.”
