The Lost Baroness

by Judith B. Glad

  "Tickle, tickle," he laughed, as his fingers found yet another sensitive place. "I knew you'd be ticklish."

  The wiggles turned into strokes as his long hands caressed her body. Siri's giggles turned into gasps of pleasure when one hand crept under the loose Chinese jacket she wore and found her skin.

  "You are becoming a habit with me," he said, his voice hoarse with desire. "I can't seem to get enough of you."

  "I know," she said, giving herself up to his touch. But her pleasure was tainted with bitter anticipation. How much longer would she know this perfect joy? She ran her fingers into his tightly curled hair, clasped his head tightly and brought his mouth to hers. "Take me now," she demanded, hungrily kissing his face. "Now!"

  He drove his tongue into her mouth as he tore open the knot that held her silken trousers to her waist. In a moment he had shoved them down her legs and his hand was hot and heavy on her mound. Siri writhed against it, knowing his probing fingers had already found her body's honey.

  "You're ready for me," he said, dipping into her. Siri reared against the pressure of his hand, drawing his fingers more deeply into her body. Then she was borne to the pallet with the weight of his body. In an instant he was inside her, driving her higher with each thrust. The maelstrom took her, and she clung to him as he swept her to complete disintegration of body and soul.

  His shout echoed her scream, and then he collapsed atop her, gasping for breath.

  Siri wrapped her one good arm about him and clung, as if she would float away if she did not.

  When Buff woke from the deep sleep into which he'd fallen, he realized he was still coupled with Siri. Barely. With only a slight movement, he slipped free, then rolled to lie beside her. She made a soft, complaining sound and groped for him. Her skin was cool, but still moist from their exertions.

  He pulled the quilt from the side of the pallet where they'd kicked it, and covered them both. The room, while warmed slightly by the brazier, still held a damp chill. Like everywhere in Astoria, he thought. I wonder if this place ever dries out. He'd heard that the summers were warm and dry. Not that he was planning to stay around to see for himself.

  He lay there, letting random thoughts drift through his mind. Memories of home came and went, and he wondered if he'd ever see the cabin in Cherry Vale again. His folks had built themselves a great big house in Boise City after he'd left home. The mountain-girt farm where he'd grown up was now only pasture, with a herd of shaggy Scottish cattle Pa had taken a liking to watched over by his godfather, William King.

  A wave of longing swept through him, but he couldn't understand why. He'd not seen a town until he was fourteen. One look had been enough to convince him he'd never again be content to stay in Cherry Vale.

  Yet now he found it called him. Yes, he decided, I'll go up and see the old place. But I'm not staying. Silas is still holding a place for me in the business. That'll suit me better, over the long haul.

  Great God! Was he actually thinking of settling down? Of giving up his exciting, adventurous life?

  I think I am. If Siri will be with me.

  Restlessly he turned away from her and from thoughts of settling down. Uncertain, undecided, he stared up into the dark ceiling. One of the candles had burned itself out, and a second was guttering in the sconce. It must be getting on toward evening. Suppertime.

  But he wasn't hungry. He'd done nothing but lay about and read all day. He was ready to be up and doing.

  Well, tomorrow we'll be on the Kehloka and can walk on the deck. Not much exercise, but better than this.

  Was he going to be able to get Siri on the steamer? Or would she freeze up like she had before? She'd told him yesterday she was certain she could do it this time, having had time to make up her mind to it. But she was still scared stiff. And the closer the time came, the stiffer she got.

  He glanced over his shoulder to where she lay beside him. She was even sleeping stiff. Turning toward her, he touched her cheek. "Siri?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "Time to wake up." He slid out of bed and reached for his britches. As he did so, he grinned. Man alive, she was hot as a firecracker! Hadn't even given him a chance to shed his shirt. Each time they came together he discovered new depths to her passion, as if she was every woman he'd ever desired, all rolled into one.

  While she was dressing, he went to find the young Chinaman who'd been taking care of them. The fellow had said something about water for baths. After that last passage of loving, Buff figured they both needed one.

  When he got back to the room, Siri was brushing her hair. It rippled and shone in the light of the single candle like molten silver. Buff clenched his fists, or he'd have buried his hands in the slick strands. "We'll have water for baths in about an hour," he told her, burying his never-satisfied need in practicalities.

  "Underbar! My hair is like I dipped it into a pan of grease, so sticky. And I smell like..." She wrinkled her nose. "Well, I do not say what I smell like, because I am en artig dam!" She tilted her nose in the air and held out her hand, as if for him to kiss.

  Buff took the hand and bowed over it. But instead of kissing, he turned it and flicked his tongue over her palm.

  She shuddered, and pulled her hand away. "Nej. Do not tempt me. I want a bath."

  "We have an hour."

  "That will be enough time for me to trim your hair, too. You are...I don't know the English word. Lurvig, like you have been in the woods a long while."

  Running his hand across the back of his neck, Buff admitted he was getting a mite bushy. "The word is shaggy, darlin'. And you're right. I do need a haircut."

  Shorn and bathed, Buff watched Siri relax in the tin tub. She had insisted he take the first bath, to wash the residue of his haircut away. When the Chinaman had refilled the tub with fresh, hot water, she'd asked Buff to go away while she bathed. He'd offered to scrub her back and she'd changed her mind. Now she sat with a linen towel wrapped around her hair, her head laid back against the tub's rim and her eyes closed.

  She wasn't asleep, though. Nor was she as relaxed as she seemed. The cords of her throat still stood out, and he would swear her jaw was clenched. Worrying about tomorrow, he decided.

  "What will you do once you have your kids?"

  She turned her head and stared at him. "Förlåta mig?"

  "I asked what you plan to do once you've got your kids back. Have you a place to go? A way to support yourself?"

  She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Her fingers, clutching the edge of the tub, grew white with strain. After a long while, she shook her head slowly. "Nej, I have no plans. I have only thought of having them with me." Her throat worked. Twice she seemed about to speak, but only swallowed. At last she said, "I will find a way to make a home for them. I will."

  Scrambling down beside the tub, he caught her shoulders. "Siri, it's all right. Don't cry. I didn't mean... Look, we'll figure it out."

  "I am not crying," she said. "I must be strong. For mina barn." She wiped the back of her hand across her cheek, leaving a trail of soapsuds. "In Portland," she said, her voice trembling, "there will be work. I believe this." She blinked rapidly.

  Buff grabbed the towel and wiped the soap from her cheek. Getting a good hold on her, he lifted her from the tub and stood her on the small rug beside the brazier. She sagged against him for a moment, soaking his clean garments. "Hold on, there. Stand up!"

  Her spine stiffened, but she still felt...fragile.

  Holding her up with one arm, Buff snatched the towel from the top of his trunk with the other. Awkwardly he wrapped it around her, then picked her up and carried her to the pallet, where he carefully laid her down. He stroked along her spine, slow, even strokes intended to soothe and relax. "Don't worry," he said, his voice a low croon. "I'll take care of you. All of you. Hush now." Over and over, until the words came automatically and his mind was free to consider the implications of what he was promising.

  For some reason it didn't scare him anymore.
/>   Much.

  * * *

  Resisting the urge to push the black-clad man carrying a shoulder pole from his path, Jaeger cursed under his breath. These barbaric yellow kineser would not be allowed to freely walk the streets of any civilized city. Only in the East and in this loathsome country were they given the freedom that should belong strictly to white men.

  That Lachlan was friendly with them was proof that he was equally uncultured and uncivilized. What worthy man would associate with them, let alone live in one of their hovels?

  Jaeger shivered in the early-morning damp. The rain had begun again. Overnight it had laid a slick layer of ice on every surface. Now everything was half-frozen and dripping. At least the day promised to be warmer. The bitter cold that had held Astoria in its grip for a week had made him appreciate the clouds that usually filled its skies. Yesterday he had watched the entrance to the Chinese store for most of the day. Not until he had gone for a steam bath after supper had he felt warm again.

  A movement at the door across the street caught his eye. No, it was just the old woman, sweeping. He settled back against the wall of the butcher shop and resigned himself to a long wait.

  Lachlan and the woman were probably still abed. His lip curled with contempt. A man of low tastes indeed. Lachlan actually seemed to care for the woman, a baseborn servant. The sort to be used and cast aside by any man of refinement and culture.

  Wait! Was that him? Jaeger eased back into the building's shadow. Yes! And the woman.

  The two of them lingered in the doorway, apparently taking leave of the Chinese woman. When Lachlan bowed respectfully, Jaeger stifled a snort. As if an unlænding was deserving of respect from a white man. Lachlan was no better than the animals he consorted with.

  Eventually Lachlan and the woman turned to walk toward the docks. He followed, keeping to the shadows.

  Verdammt! They must be leaving on this morning's steamer. Lachlan had told the red-haired maid he still had business in Astoria and would wait until they could travel overland to Portland.

  Lachlan had made a fool of him.

  * * *

  Once again they approached the dock where the Kehloka, with its red and white trim, slowly appeared out of the misty rain. Haloes of fog surrounded lanterns mounted on the wheelhouse. Shifting curtains of mist gave the steamer an eerie quality, as if it was a ghost ship waiting to carry damned souls to helvete.

  I am going to find my children, Siri told herself for perhaps the hundredth time since she had awakened, held warm and safe in Buffalo's arms. If I do not board the steamer, I will never find them, my Rolf and Rosel. Her chest tightened with every step, and she forced herself to take deep, even breaths. They are in Portland. Soon they will be in my arms.

  She would find work in Portland. In a dressmaker's shop, perhaps. Or in one of the fine hotels, where good service was rewarded. Then nothing would stop her from keeping them with her. Martine would never again steal them away.

  She waited while Buffalo spoke to the man standing at the end of the gangplank, but paid no attention to what he said. Instead she forced herself to look at the steamer, with its gay red-and-white trim, its gleaming brass rails, and the warm light that shone from the many small windows on each deck. Other passengers pushed by her, but she ignored them too. This is a good ship. Safe and strong. There will be no danger.

  Buffalo's hand slipped under her elbow. "Ready?" He smiled down at her, his eyes promising all would be well.

  "As much as I can be," she said. Lower lip caught between her teeth, she took the first step onto the gangplank.

  Her chest tightened. The air she breathed seemed to thicken, to catch in her chest. I am going to my children.

  The second step was easier. She gasped for breath. When Buffalo's arm went around her waist, she felt her chest expand, felt cool air rush into her chest.

  A man pushed by her, knocking her into the rope lifeline. She caught the wet hemp with both hands.

  "Easy," Buffalo said. "You're okay. Just let go, one hand at a time. We're in no hurry."

  Her fingers refused to obey her mind's orders. They clung to the rope. My children. I must go to them. Slowly her fingers uncurled. "Yes, I am okay. Tusen tack." A few more steps and she set foot on the deck. It moved beneath her and her belly clenched.

  "You're okay," Buffalo said again. "They're just loading cargo." He pointed aft, where a winch had just released an enormous crate onto the deck. "Do you want to go to inside, or stand on deck?"

  She looked around her, seeing the slick, gray water beyond the deck. Acid stung her throat as her stomach clenched. She still had to labor for each breath. "I...I had best go inside," she said, "where I cannot see."

  "Good idea." He led her along the deck to a wide, semi-enclosed stairway. It seemed so much like it should be in a house that she found her breath coming more easily as she climbed. Numbly she let Buffalo guide her to a double door halfway along the upper deck. When he opened it, she looked inside and gasped in surprise.

  Her father's sailboat had been of average size. It had a small cabin, open at the aft end. Inside there was a single hard bench on which to sit. She had played there one winter when the Magli Arnesdotter had been hauled ashore for keel repair. The gill-netter Valter had fished from had been tiny, scarcely large enough for two people and a cargo. On it there had been no shelter at all.

  The room before her might have been in the Occident Hotel, for all its elegance. Gleaming brass fittings, including two ornate hanging lanterns, added richness to the deep maroon of velvet upholstery on easy chairs and sofas, the ornate pattern of an oriental carpet that all but covered a shining hardwood floor. Small windows along both outside walls were covered with matching maroon velvet draperies that could be pulled aside with thick, twisted cords of gold that bore on their ends long, elegant tassels.

  "We're early, so we've got a choice of seats," Buffalo told her. "Where would you like to sit?"

  Most of the sofas were set with their backs against the outer walls. At least she would not be forced to look outside. She chose a small sofa, built to seat two people, between two groups of chairs. It looked almost too elegant to sit upon. "I thought you took a cabin," she whispered to Buffalo. She would be much more comfortable where she didn't feel ill at ease and clumsy. This room was far too elegant for the likes of her.

  "I did, but I thought you might want some coffee or tea to warm you up. They'll start serving as soon as we get underway."

  Siri did want some tea, so she sat gingerly on the sofa. "I hope there are no other passengers," she said, half to herself.

  The double doors opened and a man and a woman entered, as if Siri's words had summoned them. She was clad in an elegant sealskin cloak and wore a bonnet trimmed with the same rich fur. Her companion wore a wool overcoat trimmed in velvet.

  Siri, had insisted on wearing her one good dress today, rather than the Chinese shirt and trousers. Next to the woman's stylish appearance, she looked like what she was, a servant. How she wished she could crawl under the sofa and hide.

  Three men came in over the next few minutes, but no one else entered. "Not much travel, as cold as it's been," Buffalo said.

  Siri didn't answer. All her attention was going to moving breath in and out of her chest. If she moved, she was afraid she would jump to her feet and run screaming from the ship.

  The whistle blew, a loud burst of sound that brought her to her feet.

  "Whoa, there!" Buffalo caught her hand as she leapt up. She tried to wrench free, but his hold was unbreakable. His arms went around her, his voice was soft in her ear. "You're all right, Siri. You're fine. Just take it easy."

  Part of her knew she was in no danger, but most of her was certain she was about to be thrown into the churning water. The floor jerked under her feet. She fought the bonds that held her, but she was trapped. "No! Let me go. Let me--"

  Two warm hands enclosed her face and a deep voice said, "Siri, you're safe. We're not sinking." The voice held assurance a
nd promise. She believed it.

  Slowly the terror receded and she relaxed. When Buffalo guided her back to the sofa, she went willingly, sitting down almost bonelessly when the seat's edge pressed against the backs of her knees. He continued to hold her, murmuring wordless comfort, until she took a deep breath. "I am all right now," she said, pulling free of his embrace. Shame filled her that she would behave so badly, especially in front of the elegant woman across the room.

  She stole a peek and saw that the woman was staring with disapproval. Buffalo must have seen the direction of her gaze, because he said, "Pay her no attention. She probably drinks vinegar for breakfast."

  Siri couldn't help it. She giggled. But she stiffened when the whistle blew again. Almost immediately she felt a change in the vibration of the floor, and she saw the curtains on the windows across the room sway.

  "Relax. We're underway. You'll be fine." Buffalo's arm went around her again, and she drew strength from it.

  I am going to find my children. As long as she believed that, she could endure anything.

  * * *

  Lachlan would pay. No one made a fool of Jaeger.

  Why was he taking the woman with him to Portland? She was not beautiful. She had no feminine wiles. Could Lachlan have discovered something that indicated she was the lost Thorssen child?

  He pulled the miniature from his pocket and studied it yet again, holding an image of the Trogen woman in his mind. Although she seemed plain and unlovely to him, he had to admit she was more attractive than when he had first seen her. As if she had lost her air of defeat and had gained weight. Her cheeks were plumper, her eyes less shadowed.

  He studied the small painting. The jaw was the same, square and strong. The children had hair of palest silver, unusual even in Denmark. And their eyes were narrow, and light in color.

  When he had first seen Frau Trogen, she had seemed too old to be the Thorssen child, almost middle aged. Now, thanks to Tuomas, he knew she was in her mid-twenties. Not so different in age from the Thorssen girl.

  Perhaps...