by Cate Masters
Fury overwhelmed her senses. Clenching her teeth, she twisted in his grip. “Let me go.” She stomped her heel atop his foot. His grasp loosened. Clamping her hands together, she whirled, swinging her fists to land against what felt like his jaw.
Groaning, Jacob tumbled backward , thudding to the ground.
Two men rounded the corner. One asked, “What’s going on?”
Struggling to his feet, Jacob called, “Lutz, I need help.”
Sam grabbed Livvie’s arm. “Time to go, dearest.” He steered her toward the street. “Gentlemen, relax. It’s a misunderstanding. Nothing more.”
Their pace slowing, one asked “Sam?”
“Yes, Lutz. My girl and I were just leaving.”
“She’s my girl.” Jacob lunged toward them.
Livvie gasped, clinging to Sam.
“What’s going on?” The two men closed in.
Sam backed her toward the street. “The girl came here as my guest. I’m duty bound to see her home. Go about your business.”
“Is that the truth, miss?”
“Yes.” Livvie’s voice shook. “Sam is my escort. This awful man tried to force himself on me.”
Sam squeezed her arm. “Shh, darling. It’s all over now. Let’s go home.”
The men followed. “Yes. Take her home, Sam.”
“I am.”
“If she goes to your home, we’ll know she’s yours. Then no one will bother her again. Isn’t that true, Jacob?”
Jacob’s eyes flashed in anger.
Lutz spoke slower. “Jacob, isn’t that true?”
“Yes,” came his angry reply.
“Thank you, gentlemen. It was a pleasure to run into you tonight.” Sam turned, his arm tight around Livvie. “Say nothing,” he whispered.
From behind him, Lutz said, “We’ll make sure you get home safely.”
Sam walked steadily ahead. “No need for that. We’re fine.”
The houses along these streets appeared little better than shacks, hardly any space between. They must be in Conchtown, where the wreckers lived.
“Your girl’s a bit drunk,” said the other man. “If she refuses you, we’ll be there to step in.”
Sam waved them off. “Like I said, no need. I’m perfectly sober.”
Lutz gave a throaty laugh. “Sober, willing, and able.”
“That’s me.” Hastening his pace, Sam whisked her down the dark street.
Through a blur of tears, her heart pounding, Livvie did her best to keep up until they arrived at a small dwelling.
He pushed open the door, nudged her behind him before turning. “Here we are. I bid you good night, gentlemen.”
The third man guffawed. “Turning in already, Sam?”
“Not quite yet.” After closing the door, he moved to the window.
In the darkness, only his silhouette was visible. “Are they gone?” she whispered.
“No. Looks like they’re making themselves cozy. We’ll have to stay put for awhile.”
“Where are we?” She could see no other shapes or objects to give her any clues.
“My place.”
“Oh.” She backed away.
Exhaling sharply, he pulled the tattered curtain closed. “You might as well make yourself comfortable.”
His footsteps neared, and then he grazed past her. A match flared to life as he touched it to a candle wick, replacing the glass covering. Sitting on the bed, he ran his hand through his hair, his glance a silent accusation.
A dull ache throbbed at her temples. “Sam, I’m sorry.”
“How did this happen?” The whisper hissed from him.
“I don’t know. He asked me to dance. I said yes. The room closed in on me, so he took me outside. For fresh air, I thought.”
His lips formed a thin line. “How much punch did you have?”
Livvie tried to recall. The one Sam brought her, another at the table. Then another. She hung her head. “I meant no harm.”
He stared at the floor. “That won’t budge them from their post.”
Hugging herself, she glanced at the window. To think of them outside, waiting–watching–humiliated her. “What do we do?”
He shrugged. “We wait.”
A different sort of panic took root. “How long?”
“Until they give up, or pass out, or fall asleep.” He tugged a boot from his foot, and it thudded to the floor. “Are you going to stand there all night?”
The other boot dropped.
The memory of Jacob’s rough touch returned, too raw. Too vivid. Tears stung her eyes.
In a moment, he was holding her, rocking her. “Shh, it’s all right.” Leaning away, he smoothed her hair, his eyes warm.
She wanted to say she was fine, but again felt Jacob’s unwanted hand defiling her skin. Her lip trembling, she blubbered, unable to contain herself any longer.
He held her head against his chest. “Don’t cry. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Clutching his shirt, she let her tears flow freely. Tears she’d held back for months, since her father’s death left her abandoned, at the will of his partner. The uncertainty of the journey, her brush with death–she cried not for herself, but for all those on board. For young Peter, whose sweet youth was cut short.
He slowly backed to the bed, drawing her down in its soft cushion. The sheets smelled of him, a heady scent that quieted her tears. A powerful urgency filled her, like a snake writhing inside her, a pulsing need to entwine her limbs around his. She pressed closer, moving her lips along his neck. His skin intoxicated her more than the punch. Instinctively, her mouth sought his.
He groaned, and his moist lips closed on hers; his tongue caressed hers. She whimpered urgently, clutching him as if overtaken by madness.
His moans became words as he cupped her face. “No. Livvie. You’ve had too much to drink.” He fell against the pillows, releasing an anguished groan.
She lifted herself above him. “Sam, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” She unfastened the barrette, her hair falling past her shoulders. “I want you, too. Take me.”
The tortured look in his face melted. He pulled her to him and his lips sought hers. His roughness thrilled her. Not like earlier, when Jacob had forced his lust upon her. Now she instigated it willfully, skillfully, like a trained courtesan. Any doubts she harbored about her skill concerning men dissolved. She moved her body along his, stoking the fire already burning out of control. A puppet master she was, with Sam her puppet, moving according to her instructions, as communicated through her touch. She arched her neck up to entice him to cover the length of it in kisses. She arched her back, offering her breasts. His breath trembling, his lips touched her bosom in a reverence akin to worship. The power of these unspoken commands filled her with excitement and tenderness, a deeper yearning than she thought possible to fill.
Her breaths became more labored; the writhing inside her intensified. The churning in her belly moved upward. Gripping the headboard, she groaned, though not in pleasure. Her vision blurred as the room swam. “Oh, no.”
He paused, chest heaving. “Livvie?”
“Oh, no.” When she closed her eyes, the room spiraled.
He slipped from beneath her. “Livvie, are you all right?”
She was about to say no, she didn’t think so. Her gut burning, she held a hand to her watering mouth.
He scrambled off the bed, dragged her out the door just in time. She bent over, spasms of sickness washing over her. He held her hair, his other hand holding her up.
Cackles of laughter erupted across the street. “Sam, your girl is trying to tell you something.”
The humiliation of it made her groan. Each time she emptied her stomach, the three men laughed and hooted as though it were the funniest thing they’d ever seen.
When she coughed, Sam’s voice was in her ear. “Better?” She nodded.
“Any more?” he whispered.
“I don’t think so.”
The men cheered.
“Give her another round, Langhorne.”
He tugged her inside to the bed. “I’ll get you some water.”
Her muscles hung limp on her frame, unwilling to do her bidding. Her head felt like a bowl full of sloshing, swirling water.
A glass appeared in front of her face. “Drink as much as you can.”
Like an obedient child, she gulped. The churning quelled. Behind her, the mattress bumped with his weight.
Exhaling a long sigh, he drew her down. “That’s right. Rest awhile.”
“I have to return to the boarding house,” she murmured into his shirt. His warmth comforted her, so she nestled into him.
“You will, in awhile. Now rest.”
Her eyes drifted shut, and darkness enveloped her.
Chapter Fourteen
Sharp murmurs split the night. Sam knit his brow before he opened his eyes. The evening’s events came to light in his mind, and he relaxed into his pillow.
Livvie.
He rolled to his side and curled his arm against her, snuggled his face into her shoulder.
“No,” she murmured, “you can’t.”
“Livvie?” he whispered.
“Papa.” Relief edged her whisper. “Don’t leave me.” She gasped, and sobs shook her shoulders.
“Livvie, wake up.” He kept his voice soft and low, so as not to frighten her. “You’re having a bad dream. You’re all right.” The night’s events must have shaken her to the core. Murderous thoughts overtook him when he imagined Jacob’s hands on her.
Shifting away, her murmurs grew frantic.
Sam sensed her mounting panic. “Livvie? It’s Sam. Remember?” He should have kept the candle lit.
Her head lifted slowly toward him. “Sam?”
“Yes. You’re safe.” He eased his grip. His worry that she might scream faded.
She clutched his shirt and sobbed into it.
“What’s wrong?” He cradled her, yet not so tightly as to cause her worry.
She whispered, “My father’s gone. I’m all alone.”
He smoothed her hair. “No, you’re not. You have me.”
Her crying halted abruptly, and she tensed. “What am I doing here?”
“You were struck ill.”
“Oh, no. What time is it?” Too quickly, she sat up, groaning and holding a hand to her head.
He stroked her back. “Take it slow.”
“I have to get back. Mrs. Crowell will….”
“Will what? She has no authority over you.” He hoped she wasn’t still too drunk to see reason.
“I cannot shame her household like this.” She seemed to speak more to herself than to him.
“You did nothing shameful. Except drink like a sailor.” He chuckled. “And fight like one. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“This isn’t funny.” She stood in the darkness, and then wobbled back to the bed.
“I’ll get you back safely. First I must put on my boots.” He sat up and ran his hand through his hair.
“Oh, my.” She steadied herself at the bedpost.
“What’s wrong?” He’d hoped her stomach had settled, though readied himself to grab her and lunge for the door if needed.
“I was sick.” She angled toward him. “And I was in your bed. With you. And–oh no.”
“Nothing happened, Livvie.” His fingers searched out one boot, and then the other. His foot wouldn’t fit into the second. Livvie’s. After finding his other boot, he located hers and lined them up beneath the bed.
“I remember more than nothing.” Her tone held more wonder than accusation. “We…and you held me.”
More than nothing, though less than he desired. The little taste had instilled an insatiable desire for more. “Your chastity was preserved, milady.”
“No one will believe that. My reputation will be ruined. Even my brother won’t want me in his house.”
“This is Key West, love. Like I told you, many things happen here the world never learns. If you hurry and put your boots on, no one will learn of this, especially not your brother.”
She hoisted herself straight and grabbed the bed post. “My head is about to rupture.”
“I’ll help you.” Bending on one knee, he clasped her calf and lifted her leg. If the indiscretion horrified her, she kept mum. He tugged her boot on and laced it, and then set to the other.
She clung to the bedpost like a life ring. “I will never drink punch again. What was it, anyway?”
He stood. “Camperou. I warned you it would sneak up on you. The caracoa masks the Jamaican spirits.”
“Caracoa. That’s why it was so sweet. Until later, when it wasn’t.”
“Up you go.” He slung her arm around his waist and held it there while he lifted her, and then dragged her to the door. “Mind the step.” He hobbled outside, pulling her along.
“Ugh, what’s that smell?”
He stifled a laugh. “You should recognize it. It came from you.” He made sure to pass it swiftly, so as not to inspire a recurrence. “Shh,” he whispered. “You’ll wake your audience.”
She turned her head away. “You must think I’m a terrible fool.”
Something twinged inside him at her confession of humility. “No more than the rest of us.”
Her feet dragged along.
As many times as he lifted her up, she sank again. “Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“We’re going to have to do better than this, Livvie, if you want to be home before dawn.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I should be the one apologizing. I should never have kept you so late.”
“It’s my own fault, all of it. If I hadn’t been angry at you, I wouldn’t have drank so much punch, or danced with that man, and certainly never have allowed him to bring me outside. If you hadn’t come along when you did….”
“You might have seriously hurt Preston.” She packed quite the wallop, from what he’d seen.
The Crowell house loomed in the night, quiet and dark. He pulled her onto the porch.
“Where is your room?” he whispered.
“Upstairs, to the rear.”
Of course, it couldn’t have been located in a more convenient location. Not a first-floor bedroom, nor near the steps.
He released his hold. She swayed and held her head. In her condition, she might not make it up the steps without rousing the household.
He cupped her face. “I’m going to carry you.”
“What? No.”
“It’s your best chance of not disturbing the Crowells. No arguing. Or talking.” He scooped her into his arms, and she linked her arms around his neck.
Inside the house, darkness overwhelmed all obstacles, no shapes visible. At least he’d been inside before and knew where the staircase lay. A straight climb to the second floor, and then left to the end, hopefully encountering no tables or lamps to break along the way.
Loud snores echoed down the hall. Another thing in their favor. The noise would mask any creaking stairs or floor boards.
He tiptoed the best he could up each step. The creak of bedsprings halted him, and her arms tightened around his neck. The snores continued, so he did, too. They reached the top without incident. The rail guided his steps–slow steps, because he couldn’t see the end of the hall, and they would only find it by bumping into it.
Her arm dropped from his neck, and slid along the wall. Her grip on him tightened, and he stopped. She reached down to turn the doorknob, and a breeze wafted over them as she eased open the door. In three steps, his legs bumped the bed, and he set her atop it.
Her hold around his neck tightened. “Sam.”
A door creaked open down the hall. “Olivia. Is that you?’
“Yes, Martha. Go back to sleep.”
Shuffling footsteps neared. “I thought I heard someone.”
“Only me.” Livvie pushed the bed covers down and lay against the pillows.
Sam crept around the bed, feelin
g his way along. He dropped silently to his hands and knees beside it, trying to gauge how far the window was, wondering what might lie beneath it to break his fall.
Martha continued her inquiry. “You were out in the hall?”
Livvie’s sickly tone was not rehearsed. “I haven’t felt well tonight. I’ve made several trips out back.” She pulled a sheet across her.
“Using no lantern?”
“I didn’t want to wake anyone. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”
Martha stood in the doorway holding a candle. “I could have used some assistance with the night pan.”
“I’m not well, Martha. You should not come in.”
“What is that smell?”
“I told you. I’ve been ill. I must have eaten something that upset my stomach.”
“Well, young lady, that’s what happens when you attend public outings in dubious towns.”
“I must get some sleep. Good night, Martha. Please close the door. I forgot on my last trip.”
The woman drew back her head and studied Livvie. “Good night.”
The door clicked shut. A long exhale came from the bed, followed by the rustling of covers.
“Sam?” Her whisper came from directly above him.
He reached up and caught a strand of hair. Her hand closed around his, and he pushed himself up and leaned against the bed, kneeling.
His finger found her jaw, and traced along it. “Why were you angry earlier?”
“Because,” she whispered.
Typical female reply, but it made him smile. “That’s not a reason.”
“I wanted you to dance, but you wouldn’t. And that trollop gave me nasty looks, though she looked at you nicely enough.”
A thrill went through him. “You’re jealous.”
“No!”
He held his finger against her lips. “Shhh.” He lifted her chin and pressed his nose to hers. “You are.”
“You only want me to be jealous.” Easing closer, her soft lips moved slowly against his.
His blood raced through his veins and pounded in his ears. Her skin was warm against his, and she held him so sweetly, his head clutched in her hands. Her words echoed in his head: you only want me to be jealous. Their calculating seductiveness stung him. He hadn’t thought her capable of such manipulation. Perhaps her inexperience had led him to believe it, and all women were destined to flaunt their wiles as weapons as they aged. He pulled away.
