Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor

by Rue Allyn

  “Mrs. Smithfeld?”

  “Mr. Trahern! What on earth are you doing here?”

  His appalled expression told Edith that he was as surprised to see her as she was to see him. Somewhat relieved that he recognized a lady when he saw one, she now had a problem: How to get rid of him before her hired man arrived.

  “My presence here should tell you that I won the auction.”

  Far from happy to see him, she brightened her smile. She hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, and she had neither time nor interest in finding out.

  “I’m delighted you were victorious. However, I must ask you to leave as I am expecting a visitor.” She kept her tone polite but serious, at least as serious as the liqueur allowed. She seemed to be having trouble not only with managing her dreadful ensemble but also with enunciation.

  “Ha,” he barked a laugh. “A visitor, is that what they call a stud these days?”

  Stud? He’d actually said stud. To her. Does he know why I’m here? Impossible, but this is a bordello, and the man probably made assumptions. I’ll make an allowance for his rudeness this once, but only once.

  His expression grim, he stalked into the room, forcing her to retreat or have him walk over her or worse.

  “I … I’ll have you know Mr. Trahern that … that I have a perfectly legitimate reason for being here. Yes perfectly legitimate. However, that reason is no business of yours. Now please be on your way. Your presence is di … distinctly inconvenient.” Her voice shook. One hand clutched at her bodice, and she continued her slow retreat.

  He stopped moving an arm’s length away and looked her over with a lurid sneer. “Inconvenient? Woman, you don’t know that half of it. I’ve been more than a little inconvenienced tonight, and I’m not in the mood to talk. Get over here. I want what I paid for.”

  The man was insufferable. He actually seemed to imagine she should service him. The idea was ludicrous. She opened and closed her mouth unable to think of an insult that would put him in his place.

  Suddenly Edith was beyond furious. She’d lived her entire life in unpaid servitude catering to or circumventing the absurd, unreasonable wants of a man. Now, when she’d spent good money to have a man at her beck and call, to cater to her needs and desires, that man had the temerity to insist that he was in charge. That she should cater to him. She finally found her voice.

  “What you want? What you want!” Her voice rose with every word. Her arms dropped to her sides. Her hands fisted. “I’m fed up with men and their insistence on having everything their way. Well, not tonight.”

  A flush spread from her chest to flame in her cheeks. Her shoulders stiffened. Her chest heaved, and her bodice slipped.

  “I’ve invested everything in this venture,” she ranted, beyond caring. “Tonight we do things my way.”

  Kicking her trailing skirts aside, she advanced.

  The man stood there, his mouth open, staring at her chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  All sense fled before Edith’s fury. At the same time she wanted to hit him and kiss him. Kiss him? Where had that thought come from? Massively uncomfortable, hot, nerves itching, overwrought with confused emotions, and uncaring of the consequences, she had to show him who was in charge. She marched up to him, stood toe to toe then stretched toward his frown and pressed her mouth to his.

  The softness of his lips shocked her. Who would believe such a hard expression could feel so good? She inhaled. The scents of mint, leather, and the faint odor of chocolate swirled in her head, anger drowned in a flood of desire. After a moment, his mouth responded, moving ever so slightly back and forth across her own. This was even better. Tiny lightning bolts struck her skin. The itching hadn’t stopped, in fact the tingling sensation increased. It felt wonderful, and Edith wanted more.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and let her body fall against his until they were pressed together from shoulder to knee. A thousand new sensations overwhelmed her, and she tried to get closer. His arms tightened around her in a most gratifying manner.

  Inwardly Edith crowed, and the knot of tension in her belly loosened. She’d kissed him, and he’d returned her kiss. She’d shown him that she was in charge. Her desires would take precedence.

  • • •

  This was the most awkward, ill-practiced, unsubtle attempt at seduction that Dutch had ever been party to, and as Cerise Duval’s one-time toy he’d been party to a great many. The Smithfeld woman kissed like a child. Lips together and almost no pressure, suction, or movement of her mouth, as if mashing faces was all she knew about the process.

  Still, Dutch kissed her back. Kissed her like he was starved for it. His lips moved over hers, sampling her tenderness, tasting her sweetness. His hands skimmed along her soft curves to cup her buttocks and urge her closer. The pressure of her breasts against his chest stirred his senses. His manhood hardened, and he ground his hips against her softness. He hadn’t lain with a woman in more than six months. Abstinence alone could explain his body’s response. He waited for her to open her mouth. For a whore, she sure didn’t seem to know what to do. She just hugged him and pressed inward with both her mouth and body, but she didn’t move. Didn’t rub. Didn’t do anything else. She might as well have been a stick of wood were it not for her heat and heady female scent. The spicy odor of daisies engulfed him. No working girl ever smelled like daisies.

  His cock surged, straining toward that eager, inexperienced, feminine warmth. No! He put his hands on her shoulders, pushed her to arm’s length, and stared into her puzzled, hugely dilated, green eyes.

  He recalled her approach when he’d entered the room. She’d swayed from side to side in the oddest way. Was she drunk? When he considered her rapidly changing moods and the sudden flush of her skin above the sinking neckline of her dress, he knew drugs to be the cause.

  Not every woman who ended up in a cathouse wanted to be there. The auction had been for a willing virgin, but it wouldn’t be the first time that willingness was forced. Plus he had personal experience of Duval’s penchant for exotic aphrodisiacs. On the other hand, plenty of whores used stimulants voluntarily, so maybe she wasn’t an innocent. Regardless, he should follow his instincts and leave. But footsteps still sounded beyond the door. He could not allow himself to be seen leaving so soon, or word would spread like wildfire that Dutch Trahern had welched on a deal. How to find a way out?

  He dropped his arms and stepped away.

  The woman pouted at him. A whore wouldn’t pout, would she? If a client didn’t want a particular service, most whores would shrug and wait for the client to say what was wanted.

  Her lower lip trembled.

  He nearly tasted those lips again, but he refused to yield.

  He walked past her to the window embrasure that she’d recently vacated.

  “Um.” She tapped his shoulder as he passed. “What are you doing?”

  He ignored the breathy question and studied the view from the window. No balcony. The drop was a straight two stories into a back alley. Not fatal, but injury was a real risk. He turned and surveyed the room. Ah, the bed sheets and curtains. With a little effort he could be safely out of here and on his way home. He went to work stripping the bed.

  A soft touch on his arm made him pause. He turned his head to find her standing next to him. He almost regretted that she’d retrieved her bodice and covered herself. He inhaled sharply. His head filled with fresh daisies and woman.

  “Excuse me … but I think … that is … we need to discuss the services I’m paying you for.”

  He shifted to face her straight on and gave a bitter laugh. Drunk, drugged, or simply crazy, the woman was out of her mind. “You’re paying me? That’s real funny lady, when I just paid $2,000 for the privilege of telling you I don’t sleep with whores. Listen carefully. We aren’t getting into this bed or having sex together anytime, anywhere.”

  She frowned prettily, as if wishing for some sort of treat that he denied her. She was bein
g coy. Whores were too business-like to be coy. She couldn’t be a whore, could she?

  “What do you mean you paid for the privilege? If you wanted the job so badly, why didn’t you just tell Madame Duval? Or does she charge her studs if for taking on clients?”

  Dutch clenched his teeth to keep his jaw from dropping and his temper in check. He hadn’t thought anything could surprise him, but Mrs. Smithfeld had, several times. He stared at the now smiling woman with the death grip on her bodice.

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Studs don’t pay to work, and I don’t have truck with whores. This whole thing is Duval’s deal. She tricked me into publicly paying for your services in an attempt to ruin my business reputation. She just might succeed if I don’t get out of here without being seen. I’m tying these sheets together so I can climb down from that window without breaking my legs.”

  “You don’t have truck with whores?” The woman’s voice rose again, and her smile fled.

  “Ssssh! Do you want the entire city to hear you?”

  She ignored him and continued raving. “Just what kind of stud are you? I’ve a good mind to ask for my money back.”

  Dutch had had enough. He dropped the sheets and turned on her.

  The woman retreated one step.

  “Miss, Mrs. Smithfeld, whoever you are, I keep trying to tell you that I am not a stud. I’m the very reluctant winner of your supposed virginity. The virginity Duval auctioned to the highest bidder tonight.”

  The woman’s spine straightened and her chin tucked. She hauled back and slapped him hard enough to ring his ears.

  He saw it coming, and if he’d believed she’d follow through, he might have stopped her.

  “How dare you question my virginity! You don’t even know me. I, sir, am no whore!”

  He put his hand to his stinging cheek and checked to make certain he could still move his jaw.

  The slap re-lit his simmering temper, and he advanced on her, retribution his primary goal. She cradled the hand she used to hit him against her waist, using the other to fight a losing battle with her décolletage as step for step she backed away.

  The raw panic on her face cooled his ire a bit.

  The sinking dress dragged the floor. She caught a heel in the hem, pulling the dress half off her body.

  He put out his hands to keep her from falling.

  “No!” She raised her arms as if to protect her face from his fists, giving up all hold on the recalcitrant bodice.

  He let his hands drop and closed his eyes to get a mental grip. Finally he understood what the woman had been saying all along. She wasn’t a whore. No whore behaved like this woman — well except for dropping her clothes. Whores did that all the time but not when running away from a client. Whores ran toward clients, and drugged up or not they didn’t act in ways guaranteed to make a client angry.

  He opened his eyes.

  “I’m not gonna hurt … ” His jaw opened and shut. He couldn’t pull his eyes from her naked form. “For Pete’s sake, put your clothes back on.”

  He bent, tugging at the cloth around her feet.

  “No. Don’t do that.” She batted at his arms and twisted downward, trying to rescue the dress.

  “Stop fighting me,” he growled. “You’ll tear it.”

  She succeeded in getting a grip on the dress but cracked her head against his. She staggered into him.

  “Ow.” He jerked upward, the dress still in his hands.

  “Noo!” Already off balance, her tangled feet slid out from under her along with the cloth. Then her head hit the floor.

  For the third time in almost as many days, Dutch had a female at his feet. He stared at the woman sprawled before him. She was beautiful. Beautiful and naked and not moving. How had he gotten into this situation, and who would believe it if he told them? “Get up. Virgin or not, I’m not fool enough to get down there with you.”

  Nothing.

  She didn’t twitch.

  He looked at her chest to make certain she was still breathing. Rosy nipples atop small ivory mounds shifted.

  Dutch swallowed.

  Yep, she was breathing.

  He knelt beside her and grasped a surprisingly soft hand. He waited. She didn’t jump him. He felt for her pulse. It was steady and strong. He bent close to her face and lifted an eyelid. The pupil was dilated. Drugs, concussion, or both, it didn’t much matter. Despite his inspection she remained still as stone.

  Now what? What if she were seriously hurt? It could be hours before anyone came to check on her. He couldn’t just leave her. He was almost convinced she wasn’t a prostitute, at least not a willing one. If it cost him his business and his hard won reputation, as long as he had the means, he wouldn’t allow Duval to ruin another innocent.

  The noisy hallway had gone silent, all the clients and whores busy with the same activities they imagined he enjoyed. So any ruckus he raised would be ignored. Damn. He’d have to take her with him. Then what? He couldn’t, wouldn’t keep her. He’d have to figure that out later. Right now he had to get out of here. Cerise wouldn’t be happy that he’d left with her newest acquisition, no matter what fee he’d paid.

  He looked from the woman on the floor to his makeshift rope and the window through which he’d planned to escape. Carrying her while trying to climb down those tied sheets was not an option. That left only one escape route.

  He wrapped the filmy dress around her body and hauled her over his shoulder, holding her steady with one hand. With the other hand he cracked the door open. Cautiously he checked, finding the dimly lit hallway empty. For the first time that night Dutch felt lucky. Unseen, he slipped out of the doorway and headed for the back stairs.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Edith woke with a splitting headache. Blinding sunlight streamed in through the open window. She shut her eyes and gently probed her throbbing pate with one hand. Her fingers encountered a bandage. Even that small touch hurt too much, and with a moan she stopped.

  Blocking the light with a raised hand, she cracked her eyelids and tried to peer through her lashes at the room. A thin blanket lay folded on a spindly chair near the far wall. Last night’s horrid dress was slung over the chair’s ladder back. She would have liked to cover herself, but she doubted she could sit up let alone walk across the room and back.

  This certainly wasn’t Madame Cerise Duval’s bordello. Dingy unpainted clapboard made up the walls. Cracks showed through here and there in the crude woodwork. Who put this place together, she wondered? As a six-year-old, she’d built better structures out of sticks and stones.

  Her arm grew tired, and her head continued to throb. She drew her hand back to cover her eyes, trying to imagine where she was and how she got there. The only possibility that occurred was that Mr. Trahern had abducted her. For what nefarious purpose she could only imagine. He’d seemed so nice at the railway depot. She’d even felt guilty about deceiving him, but he was a wolf cloaked as a gentleman. At her first opportunity, Mr. Debaucher of Women Trahern would learn the consequences of abducting a Boston Alden. If he was typical of the populace, then San Francisco certainly was different the Boston. That thought reminded her of a greater difficulty. To find Kiera, Edith had to get back to the bordello. Giving the duplicitous Mr. Trahern his comeuppance would have to wait. The first step to leaving was to find out where she was.

  Banging on the door interrupted her musings.

  “Missee, you dressed?” The voice came from the opposite side of the door.

  Edith chanced a look down at herself. In the stark light of day her nudity caused her to shudder. The shudder hurt her head, and she moaned once more. What had she been thinking last night? How had she imagined she could persuade a man as dastardly as Mr. Trahern to conduct a pretended liaison? Success might have been possible, if he’d been the gentleman he pretended to be at the depot.

  The door latch rattled. “Missee, you sick? I come in. Help you.”

  “No,” Edith breathed. “Wait
, please.”

  She hauled herself into a sitting position. She might be in pain, but pain never killed her before, it wouldn’t now. Her stomach churned, and her head swam. Resting her elbows on her knees, gingerly she lowered her head to her palms. She had to get to the blanket. She had no idea if the low pitched voice on the other side of the door belonged to a man or a woman. Whoever it was, she didn’t want to be seen in this naked state by another stranger.

  As if by magic the blanket settled across her back and shoulders. She clutched the edges and drew them closed in front of her. Cool, dry fingers touched her chin and lifted gently upward. Edith found herself looking into the black-on-black eyes of the strangest female human being she had ever seen.

  The woman was oddly beautiful, small and round with upward tilting black eyes and smiling generous lips in a heart-shaped face. Her skin was fine-grained, and she had a smooth, golden complexion. A long, black braid hung down her back, reaching past her knees.

  “Tsung so sorry Missee hurt. Bring you food and water. You feel good-good soon.”

  Amazement kept Edith silent. Her broken head kept her docile as the woman brought forward a basin and began to tend Edith’s injuries.

  When the basin was removed and her head was re-bandaged, the woman brought a tray that held a covered bowl, a tall glass of orange juice, a napkin, and a spoon.

  “Who are you?” Edith asked as she removed the cover from the bowl. A stench similar to soured laundry beat at her nostrils. She re-covered the bowl before her stomach could betray her disgust. “Where am I?”

  “I Tsung, and you in Mista Dutch house.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No need beg pardon. Mista Dutch bring you. Is okay you be here.”

  Edith shook her head, then wished she hadn’t. The oddly named Tsung obviously did not understand. “I need to get back to Madame Duval’s bordello. And,” she cast a glance at her blanket covered form, “I need my clothes.”