by Alyssa Cole
“I’ll have some boys come around with a bath basin and get you food.” She put a hand to her chest. “I thought you was the devil himself when you walked in all covered in blood.”
“I feel like him,” he said, thinking about the myriad ways he could have led Elle away from such danger instead of straight into it. If he’d been paying better attention, if he hadn’t enjoyed being pleasured in the clearing so damned much. It was too late for regrets, anyhow.
His stomach growled loudly, startling both him and the woman.
“Can you make that a double order of food?” he asked, taking advantage of his body’s rudeness.
She nodded, and he turned and walked heavily toward his room. As soon as he was inside he ran to the window and hefted it up. Elle held up her arms and he grabbed her shoulders, pulling her up and inside and then holding her close against him once she was over the sash. He closed the window with one hand and then hugged her close, smelling the faint scent of roses tinged with iron.
He settled them onto the bed, which felt like extravagant goose down after a full day on the road and the stress of the last hour.
“They’re bringing water for a bath, and some food. Then I’ll try to sew you up.”
“Thank you,” she said. She reached a hand up to tentatively touch her scalp. “It might be too late for stitches.”
“We’ll see once you’re cleaned up,” he said as he kissed her ear softly. The bleeding had stopped, but red streaked her face. He drew a shaky breath.
“I cannot believe you expected me to leave you there,” he said after struggling to find words that weren’t I nearly lost you, dammit. “You think I would give you up to slavers?” Just the thought of what would have befallen Elle had he left her made him sick to his stomach.
“You promised to keep me safe from unwanted advances, not from slavers trying to sell me Down South,” she said, ever prudent. “I would have forgiven you.”
“A technicality,” he countered. “And I would not have forgiven myself.”
“Who would have passed along our findings?” she snapped. “What we’re doing is more important than you and I.”
“But you know what would have happened, if you went with those men,” he said.
“ ‘Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!’ Do you know that one?” she asked, quoting Scott at him as if the words of his countryman would make accepting such a possibility easier. “Don’t patronize me, McCall. I will do whatever it takes to see the Union persevere.”
Malcolm had nothing to say. She was right. Making such a sacrifice was part and parcel of being a spy, but he was unable to connect Elle with such a fate. He sighed when she leaned back and kissed his jaw. “But I’m glad you didn’t leave me. I’m willing to die, but not ready. Not now.”
An ache opened in his chest, something raw and heretofore unknown to him that had been unearthed by the woman in his arms.
“I don’t know what I would have done if that bullet had—” His throat closed up, and he cleared it roughly.
“You were just worried about getting a reprimand,” she said. “Can’t go letting the best brain in the Loyal League get shot up.”
“You’re much more valuable than your brain,” he said. “Especially to me.”
She stared up at him, her dark brown eyes glossy and wide.
“I should hope so,” was all she said, but her voice was thick with emotion.
A knock at the door interrupted them.
He placed her on her feet and had her stand behind the door as he opened it, keeping her out of sight as two young men carried in a large metal basin of warm water. The woman from the lobby carried in a tray laden with two heaping plates of potatoes, with bits of meat mixed in.
“Sorry for the scarcity,” she said as she put the plate down. “Meat is harder to find than a needle in a bushel of cotton with this blockade going on and all these hungry soldiers passing through.”
The woman handed him a needle, already strung, as well as a spool of thread and a small sachet of greasy brown paper.
“That’s calendula salve, a painkiller. Stops infection, too. Let me know if you need anything else,” she said as she followed the boys out. She grabbed his jacket on the way out, miming running it over a washboard before closing the door.
A confusing jumble of emotions clouded his mind as he watched the woman go. What twisted providence allowed people so subjugated to be so kind and thoughtful to the people who kept them under their boot?
Malcolm locked the door and turned to find Elle struggling out of her shirt. His shoulder felt like someone had taken a heavy stick to it, but Elle had suffered manifold more. He walked over and pulled the shirt over her head, careful not to jostle her too much as he tugged at the sleeves. The fabric that had bound her breasts was loose and jumbled, but he carefully unwound it as she stepped out of her pants.
She stepped into the basin, sinking in slowly as she adjusted to the heat and then crossing her legs, submerging as much of her body as was possible in the poor excuse for a bathtub. Malcolm watched her, noting her body’s weary movements. When they had set off for home, he’d wondered if they’d have time for another round of lovemaking. Now all he wanted to do was tuck the covers under her chin and make sure she recovered.
“This is twice you’ve saved me now,” she said as she cupped steaming water in her hand and poured it over her body. “I don’t enjoy the role of damsel in distress. I’d like to switch, if you don’t mind. Next time I get to save you.”
“Whatever you wish.” Malcolm pulled a chair over and sat beside her, an empty ceramic cup in his hand.
“I’ve heard of men saying they’d like to drink a lady’s bathwater, but I think you might have chosen the wrong day to indulge such a desire,” she said, lifting a hand and letting the water drip from her fingertips. It was already pink with blood and cloudy with dirt from the road.
He smiled at her and dipped the cup in, pouring the steaming water over her neck and shoulders.
“I’m not that parched, Elle. I’m going to wet your hair now and get the blood out.”
She nodded.
She was pushing her hair out of the way when he noticed her wrists. Dark bruises encircled them and pink abrasions where the rope had rubbed her skin raw. He pulled a hand up to his lips and kissed the back of it gently before continuing to pour water over her back and shoulders.
As he washed the blood from her hair, he marveled at how different it was from his, like soft, springy lamb’s wool. He carefully untangled the matted patches with his fingers and then began cleaning the wound again. Blood still seeped out, and he knew what needed to be done. He got the needle and his flask, handing the latter to Elle, but she shook her head.
“It’s going to be painful,” he said, as he passed the needle through a candle’s flame.
“I can stand it,” she said, then added quietly, “I killed a man today. I can take it.”
He couldn’t endorse her need for penance—he felt no regret over the man he’d killed—but he wouldn’t begrudge her it, either.
“He deserved it,” he reminded her, then began his work. The needle’s first pass through her flesh made him ill, but he worked quickly and cleanly, trying to make the process as painless as possible. She only winced once.
“Didn’t that hurt?” he asked as he tied off the thread and snipped it. He opened the sachet of salve and smeared a dollop of it over the wound, hoping it eased the pain.
“My mama has me trained well. Even if my hair is getting pulled out by the roots, I can sit still and not move.”
That sounded like torture to him, but she smiled as if remembering something fondly. Catching the puzzled look on his face, she explained, “I was the picture of tenderheadedness when I was young. I learned quickly that wiggling about wasn’t to be tolerated.”
Malcolm still didn’t quite get it, but he nodded as if he did. He washed his hands and then br
ought over the food tray and handed her a plate. They ate in silence, her in the basin of cooling water and him on a chair beside her. There was one fork between them and he relinquished it, scooping up food with his fingers.
“One of these days, we’ll actually eat at a table,” he said.
She smiled up at him, cheeks full of potatoes and lashes glossy.
“You’re lovely,” he said, running a knuckle over her shoulder because the need to touch her was so strong in him. She clasped his fingers in her hand and appraised him.
“You aren’t so bad yourself.”
CHAPTER 18
Elle awoke before the dawn, as she always did, no matter how her body yearned for rest. Malcolm’s chest rose and fell against her back, his even breaths showing he was still deep in the thrall of sleep, and Elle wondered if he was always so late to rise. Two mornings in a row, now, she’d awoken in the arms of the man she’d resisted with every ounce of her strength and still lost her heart to. If she wasn’t careful, she just might get used to it.
Her body ached and her head throbbed, but she felt safe in his embrace.
“How are you feeling?” he asked in his gravelly morning voice, the one she was discovering instantly activated her libido.
“Like someone kicked my behind up Main Street and back,” she said, shifting so that her back was flush up against Malcolm’s front. She absorbed the feel of him—his chest against her shoulder blades, his thighs pressing into hers, and his groin nestled against her backside.
He slipped an arm between them and cupped her ass in his hand, slowly massaging her. Elle relaxed into his touch, loving the feel of his strong fingers pressing into her. Her tight muscles loosened under his deft touch, and Elle signed at the delightful mix of pleasure and pain.
“How is it you always know how to make me feel good?” she asked, twisting so she could look back at him even though he was just a silhouette in the darkness.
He chuckled.
“It doesn’t take a genius to realize that a lady who rode a horse all day might have a sore behind,” he said, fingers still kneading. “Among other injuries.”
He sighed as he worked, and she knew he was thinking of her brush with death. She’d forced away the thoughts of the slavers whenever they’d surfaced in the night. If she lingered on the memories of their sneering faces too long, they threatened to suffocate her, so she tamped them down. There would be a time to deal with them after the ball, after they got conformation about either the ironclads or some unknown threat.
Malcolm’s thumbs rubbed the small of her back as his long fingers worked at loosening her hip muscles. “This is just an excuse for me to touch you, you know. I’m not entirely selfless.”
Elle felt little jolts of ardor tumble through her as he worked. Any guilt she felt about escaping was sanded away by his rough hands on her skin. The press of his fingertips was a wonderful reminder that she was alive and that she should make the best use of her time on this mortal coil. Her nipples tightened and moisture gathered between her legs as she willed his hands to slide slightly lower down her body.
She turned onto her back, so that she was looking up at him. He rested his head on one hand, arm bent at the elbow and pressing into the mattress. He didn’t stop caressing her with the other hand, just moved it so that it roamed over her thighs and stomach, avoiding the one place she very much wanted him to touch.
“I can’t stay much longer,” she said, hating the thought of leaving him. She snaked her arm under the space between his armpit and the mattress and levered herself closer to him. Her hand slid up and down his back, reveling in the sculpted muscle and sinew.
His hand moved to her inner thigh, fingertips dragging along the sensitive skin. For a moment, she thought that he hadn’t heard her because he simply stroked her reverently as if they had all the time in the world.
“The clothing you wore is torn and bloody, and your hat is gone. I sent a message to Timothy, your League man, asking him to send me a dress for a petite young woman. It won’t arrive for a little while, I imagine.”
Elle wondered what Timothy would make of that message. He was known for his discretion and didn’t seem like the type to judge. For a moment the same shame that had assailed her when first they made love began to descend, but then she remembered how tenderly Malcolm had cared for her the night before. If Timothy or anyone else in the League learned of what had passed between her and Malcolm and didn’t like it, they could find someone else with a steel-trap memory to assist them. She wasn’t sure what their future held, but she knew now that she could not deny what there was between them, even if that made her as foolish as him.
“So you’re saying you have time to make love to me?” she asked. She would see him that night at the ball, but they’d have to be on full alert, searching for definitive proof that the ironclad or some other naval project was under way. There would be no time for dalliances or the simple pleasure of being in one another’s arms. And there was no guarantee of what would become of them afterward. Anything she wanted from him she’d have to take now.
She turned her head toward his chest and darted out her tongue, lapping at his small, hard nipple. She circled her tongue around the textured smoothness and then drew the nub between her teeth, gently.
Malcolm groaned, but his hand stilled on her stomach.
“You’re injured,” he said in a low voice. His body had gone tense and unmoving, except for his cock, which pressed against her hip expectantly. As ever, it didn’t share Malcolm’s concerns.
“And I need something to distract me from the pain. Consider yourself as providing medical relief,” she said. She could sense his head incline toward hers in the darkness, but he did not resume his exploration of her body. She wondered if he would value his opinion of her condition over her own needs, but then his head dipped and his lips brushed against hers. At the same time, his fingers slid into the curls between her legs, searching for the slick pearl of her desire. He teased her with abbreviated strokes of his fingertips and Elle moaned quietly at the double-edged sword of pleasure and denial.
“I have wanted to play doctor with you, so I’d be a fool not to jump at this opportunity.” He claimed her mouth in a flurry of kisses that left her breathless. Her nails scraped down his back as his fingers worked her nub and spread the folds that held evidence of her arousal.
Her hand slipped from beneath him and down her side to grip his penis. At her touch, Malcolm made a sound that could only be described as ungainly, and Elle’s core pulsated in response. She stroked him reverently, matching her tempo to each brush of his fingers over her slit. The veined thickness of his cock intrigued her, as it had during their encounter in the field. It was a contradictory organ: hard and soft, smooth and rough. The hot heaviness of it triggered some innate desire to take him within her.
As if sensing her thoughts, Malcolm slid his hand up to her stomach again, scooping her toward him so that she turned onto her side and the length of his body pressed against hers from behind once again. The head of his cock rubbed at her slick opening and they both gasped as he slowly pushed into her. Inch by slow inch, he worked himself into her, his cock forging a trail of exquisite sensation as it pushed into her depths.
“Malcolm.” The word came out too loud, and she clamped her mouth. Every time he’d touched her had been delicious, but without the fear and resistance she’d felt before, his every caress was now magnified. His lips on her neck sent sparks streaking through her body, and the press of his palm against her hip left her shuddering.
He held her against his chest with one arm, keeping her body flush against his as he pumped his thick member in and out of her. She arched in his embrace, swiveling her hips to meet each of his vigorous thrusts.
“Dammit, you feel amazing,” he rasped as he withdrew and then plunged into her again and again. “You are amazing.” Each drag of Malcolm’s cock against her inner walls drove her closer to completion, closer to the certainty that she would combu
st from sheer bliss.
Malcolm’s hips pivoted and twisted as he drove into her, pulling strained animal sounds from the both of them as passion stole stealthily through their limbs. He was mindful of her injuries, but the drive behind each thrust reminded both of them that it was a gift to be alive and able to bestow pleasure upon one another. She gripped his forearm as a clamor of emotions rose within her, pushed forward by her impending climax.
“Love me, Malcolm.” The words tumbled out of her mouth without thought as the pleasure enveloped her. His calloused hand slid between her legs again, pressing her closer to him, fingers circling her clit as he drove madly into her.
“Ellen,” he growled reverently as he surged into her. Her world imploded into the one magnificent point of heat between her legs. She cried out as the pleasure rocked through her, nearly paralyzing her with a potent dose of adrenaline and passion. Malcolm followed suit, holding her close as he thrust uncontrollably. He withdrew at the last moment and spilled his seed on the mattress between them.
He pulled her onto his chest and they lay in sated silence. Elle drowsed, occasionally falling into a light sleep where she dreamt of the events of the previous night and the work that lay ahead of them. She dreamt of her childhood home and the plantation where she’d been born. The waking dreams were strange and random; the only constant in the vignettes was Malcolm.
A light knock at the door startled them awake, finally, and Elle hopped from the bed and took up her station behind the door. Malcolm received a wrapped package and handed it off to her immediately. The old mauve dress inside was slightly too small for her, but it would do for the day ahead. Malcolm silently helped her button it and she wondered if his thoughts aligned with hers.
If they were correct about Dix, then today could be the last day of his mission, and hers. She knew that he had only come to Senator Caffrey’s mansion on a whim, and on that whim the entire axis of their lives, and perhaps that of the war, had tilted. Where would he be going after this? Where would she?
