Ghost of the Thames

by May McGoldrick

  “Yes. I could not speak to all of them. They are from different parts of India. Several of them may not even be from there. Some were just recently brought here, but some have been here longer. The ones that I could speak with told me they were separated from their mothers as soon as they arrived in London.”

  “Did they say anything more?”

  “They have been kept like slaves. They have had horrible things done to them.”

  She fell silent, and Edward could only imagine the tales they had to tell.

  “Why were they there in the warehouse?”

  She stared at him as the question sank in. “These boys are all small and thin,” she said finally. “They can crawl in narrow places, so they were ‘rented’ out to others in the dockyard to catch rats in between floors of the different warehouses. That was the job they were expected to do. But most of them hated it; they were afraid. So they were punished.” She looked up, concerned. “What those men were doing to these boys cannot be legal. Is it?”

  “No,” Edward answered. “The laws that protect children in this country are dreadful and most of them only apply to the textile industry. Restrictions on their age and hours and such. But this is something else entirely. This – this is slavery. And the people who were running that business will be punished.”

  When he looked back at her, he could see there was a haunted expression in her face. It was clear she would not easily shake off the tragedy she’d witnessed.

  “How did you know they were there?”

  She shivered. “If I told you the truth you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Perhaps we should try.”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, bringing her closer. She fit against him perfectly, willingly, resting her head against his chin.

  “I will explain,” she said softly. “I promise. But first I need to understand it myself. Everything is so confusing. I have yet to find a connection between my past and the places I go to in the middle of night.”

  He pushed the hood of her cloak back and ran his fingers along the line of her jaw. She melted into his touch.

  “Maybe we can understand it together,” he replied. “After tonight, I cannot take you to an asylum, you know.”

  She pulled back just enough to smile up at him, and Edward felt the warmth of it deep inside of him. Annoyance, worry, relief, passion--she managed to expose a whole spectrum of emotions in him. And he took it all in, amazed at how she affected him.

  “Thank you,” she said, moving back against him. Her hand slipped inside his coat and rested against his heart.

  The gesture, however innocent, had a violent effect on his body. His lips brushed against her brow. He felt his reason being overpowered by physical need.

  Suddenly, she drew her hand back. “Your shirt is wet!”

  “It is nothing.”

  She stared at her fingers and then sat up straight as she turned to face him. “This is blood. You were hurt. You—”

  “I tell you it’s really nothing. Just a scratch.”

  She pushed back his coat and pulled the waistcoat away from his shirt. “This is not just a scratch. You didn’t say a word. We need to get you a doctor.”

  “No. Really. I’ve taken a look at it. I’ve done more damage to my shirt than anything else.”

  Her brow knotted and she took his chin in her hand. “You are just being brave. I’m responsible for this.”

  He kissed her. She tried to pull back and argue, but he kissed her again, more deeply this time, more passionately. The moment she leaned into his touch, he lifted her onto his lap and took possession of her mouth. He didn’t let her go until he felt every layer of her reserve drop away. She was kissing him back with as much fervor as he was feeling, and he broke off the kiss.

  “I am quickly losing any sense of restraint,” he said, looking into eyes glazed with passion. “I know I started this, but—”

  “And I’m glad you did,” she whispered against his lips.

  She kissed him again. Her arms slid upward, encircling his neck. Her breasts pressed against him, and she placed soft kisses against his chin, on his lips. She ran her fingers through his hair, her mouth moving to his ear, where she tasted his earlobe. Her lips moved back to his mouth. She was breathless and he was feeling it, too.

  “Your kisses make me forget all that is askew in my life. There is no better relief that I can ask for, Captain.”

  “Call me Edward,” he said, correcting her. “I think we are well past ‘Captain’, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She pressed her lips against his again, and he delved into the kiss, taking what she offered. His hand moved up under her cloak, and he touched her breast through the dress, kneading her firm flesh. She leaned into his touch, a soft moan escaping her. His other hand slid down along her back until he felt the curve of her hip. He brought her closer to his hardness, pressing, making his intention known.

  She tore her mouth free. Her eyes were large and beautiful and were filled with uncertainty when they looked into his. But she didn’t move off his lap.

  “Actually, kissing is not the best relief,” he told her.

  The burning color in her cheeks hinted at the fire that he knew was burning in her. And he wanted to be the wind that fanned that flame.

  “I am afraid.”

  “Not of me, I hope.” His lips began feasting on her neck. His hand roamed the front of the dress again and found her breast, teasing the nipple that was rising to his touch, even through the layers of cloth.

  “No. It is not you that I fear.” Her lips moved back to his mouth, and she kissed him again, this time using the tip of her tongue, encouraging him. Her innocent play caused the fire in his loins to rage. Instantly, whatever good intentions he’d had, they were gone and forgotten. The decision he’d made earlier of not touching her, for fear of complications, was now cast to the wind. Starved to have more of her, he slipped his tongue into her mouth, tasting, searching.

  He pulled at the hem of her skirt and reached under it. He caressed her calf and thigh and moved past the stockings. She gasped with surprise when his hand came in contact with her silken skin.

  The carriage slowly rolled to a stop. Breathless, they broke off the kiss, and she scrambled off his lap. He smiled to see her sitting across from him, hurriedly trying to pull her clothing back to some sense of order. Edward turned his gaze out the window to the quiet street in Soho.

  “I would not complain if you were to invite me upstairs,” he said.

  “Someone needs to see to your wound.”

  “You can look at it for me.”

  “But I am no medical expert.”

  He understood the subtle meaning behind her words. Whether she remembered her past or not, Edward could tell she felt that she was inexperienced with men. Still, he was not ready to let her go.

  “You are the one I need. You are the only one who can cure what afflicts me.”

  There was a moment of hesitation, and then she stretched her hand out to him. He took it and kissed her fingers.

  “I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

  He pressed his mouth to her palm, tasting her. “Disappointment is nothing we need to be concerned with now.”

  Outside the carriage, Sophy waited by the door as Edward sent his driver away. As he approached her, Edward could see the hesitation in her eyes, but her grip was firm as she slipped her arm into his.

  Dawn was not far off, and the household was asleep as they made their way up the stairs to her lodgings. Inside her rooms, he locked the door, and leaned his back against it, watching her.

  She took her time, moving around and lighting half a dozen candles. He noticed she struggled with the ribbons of the cloak and made a production of putting it away. She was avoiding his eyes.

  He laid his hat and cloak aside, and had to fight the urge of simply picking her up and carrying her off to bed. He would like nothing more than to continue where they left off in the carriage. But he wanted Sophy to make t
he choice. He wanted her to come to him.

  “Can I, perhaps, get you some wine?” she finally faced him from across the room. “Or I can go to the kitchen and prepare some tea.”

  “No wine. No tea.”

  She started. “Oh, no! Your wound. You came up here for me to see to it.”

  He decided not to correct her as to why he had come up.

  She drew a chair out from the table. “Come and sit here where there is some light. I will get towels and water to wash the wound.”

  While she was gone, Edward removed his jacket and waistcoat and tie. Pulling his shirt out of his trousers, he didn’t peel it off. The garment was covered in blood down the left side. He looked under the cloth. When the villain in the warehouse had attacked, he’d struck Edward a glancing blow with his whip. The butt of the cutlass hilt to the head had finished the fight, though, quickly enough. He could see that the cut had already stopped bleeding.

  Sophy came back into the room carrying a bowl of water and some towels. Her gaze fell upon his open shirt, and she hesitated. “Please sit.”

  Edward did as he was told. He watched her slowly approach, thinking this could be the best foreplay he’d ever engage in before making love to a woman.

  “Can you take your shirt off?”

  Edward did as he was told, making it look as painful as possible.

  She put her supplies on the table. She picked up a towel, shook it loose, and refolded it again. She was standing close enough that he could pull her onto his lap. He knew there would be no slowing down, however, if he did that.

  “It will be difficult to tend to this wound if you are not going to look at it.”

  She soaked one of the towels in the water and wrung it out before turning to him. The prettiest blush covered her face and neck. She was trying hard to focus only on his chest. He saw her eyes narrow with alarm.

  “What is this?” she asked surprised, noticing the star-shaped scar on his shoulder.

  “Old bullet wound.”

  “And this?” she touched a long white scar that crossed his bicep.

  “A Frenchman’s sword.”

  She frowned and turned her attention to his current wound. Taking a deep breath, she gingerly pressed the wet towel against the cut. He winced exaggeratedly.

  “Oh, I am so sorry. Did I hurt you badly?”

  He smiled at her.

  “That’s not funny,” she scolded, wetting another towel and washing off the dried blood around the cut.

  He could joke all he wanted, but her feathery touch on his skin was driving Edward to the edge. He watched the rise and fall of her breast above the neckline of the dress. He admired the loose tendrils of hair dancing around her face. He thought of a thousand places on her body where he wanted to put his lips.

  “You are right. This cut is not too bad, at all.”

  He didn’t want her to stop. “You never can be too careful, though. A slashing wound like that can be very dangerous if it isn’t cleaned properly.”

  “No. In fact, I don’t believe it even needs a dressing.”

  “But what about where it cut my back?”

  Her eyes widened. “Your back? Why didn’t you tell me? Let me see.”

  As she tried to pull him forward, he moved his legs, trapping her between them.

  Leaning against him, she looked up into his face, aware of her dilemma. “You’re lying.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You should put your shirt back on.” Her voice had suddenly grown husky.

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because . . . "Her free hand traced a muscle on his neck down to his shoulder and chest. Her breathing was uneven. “Your bare chest is a distraction.”

  Taking the towel, he tossed it onto the table. He took her by the waist and brought her closer to him. “Now that you have me nearly undressed, where do we go from here?”

  In answer, she leaned down and kissed him with such enthusiasm that Edward lost every ounce of self-control. He wanted her. He would have her.

  He pushed himself to his feet with enough force that the chair went tumbling backward. Reaching for Sophy, he lifted her into his arms. Her lips trailed soft kisses on his neck and face as he carried her into the bedroom.

  “Undressing me is not as simple,” she told him when he put her down on her feet next to the bed.

  “The treasure is well worth the effort.” He turned her around and started undoing the buttons. One of them popped off, a victim of his impatience. Then another one, this time yanked off.

  He pressed his lips to her skin the moment her bare shoulders come to view. She leaned back against him, turning and raising her mouth to be kissed.

  Taking the corset off was too much work. Laughter bubbled out of her as he struggled to free her of the garment, cursing profanely all the while.

  “I believe you took less time to fight the men at the warehouse than it will take you to undress me.”

  “Is that a challenge?” He yanked open the corset and dropped it at her feet with the dress. The petticoats followed. Left wearing only a chemise, she leaned into his chest again, rewarding him with another kiss.

  “Is this when you lecture me, wish me good night, and leave?”

  He turned her around, captured her hands, and held them both behind her in one of his. “Do you want me to leave?”

  He looked hungrily into her shining eyes and flushed face, at the stretch of ivory skin descending to her full breasts. The dark tips strained against the thin fabric.

  “No,” she whispered.

  He pushed the chemise down from her shoulders, exposing her breasts. His mouth descended and closed over her nipple, and she cried out softly.

  Edward’s control hovered at the very edge. He stripped the last layers of clothing from her body and gently laid her down on the bed. She was flushed and shivering with anticipation.

  As he stood over her, she modestly placed an arm over her breasts, her other hand covering the triangle of dark curls.

  Her body was one of the miracles of creation. She was an image that he wanted etched permanently in his mind. Her skin, her breasts, her waistline curving to her rounded hips, her long legs. He would relish the feel of them wrapped around him, drawing him in.

  He unbuttoned his pants, and she watched his hands’ movements. The moment he freed himself, she inched away from him on the bed and looked away.

  The hesitation was enough to make him think of her pleasure first. He discarded the rest of his clothes and joined her on the bed.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said simply.

  Edward smiled and kissed her, drawing her to him like a butterfly to the flame.

  Sophy’s dark eyes were clouded with passion when he ended the kiss. He took both of her hands and pushed them away from her body. His mouth traveled to her breasts. He tasted, teased, and gloried in her body’s tremors as her excitement rose higher with every touch.

  He gently brushed his fingers over her stomach, moved lower and teased the dark curls. Her knees were slightly raised and pressed together. He looked up at her.

  “Open for me.”

  A deep blush spread from her cheeks down her neck and past her collarbone. She looked as if she were burning with fever.

  She was hesitant, but ever so slowly her knees parted. Edward’s fingers trailed a path downward, slipping into her and touching her moist center. She quivered, her lips parted. He moved down on the bed. Reaching beneath her, he raised her buttocks, lifting her to his mouth.

  Sophy’s back arched, and she cried out aloud, but Edward held her in place. Quickly, her hips found the rhythm of love, and he continued to tease and taste her until she was riding the waves of passion into the very center of the storm. Finally, with a desperate cry, she reached for him and brought his mouth to hers.

  He entered her, driving deeply into her. She cried out and her limbs tightened around him. He thrust hard and deep, quickening his movements until the hot wet grip of her undid h
im. They came together, their cries of ecstasy blending so that he couldn’t tell them apart.

  It was some time before he found his voice to whisper in her ear.

  “It is safe to say there is no husband . . . and no five children, either.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The house on Devonshire Terrace, near Regent’s Park, was a handsome structure with a spacious, brick-walled garden separating the home from the New Road. The entrance was set into an impressive portico of brick and stone, and two sets of bow windows overlooking the garden graced the three floors of the house. Past the garden, a large coach house was visible.

  Inside, a large vestibule opened onto a wide square foyer, where she and Edward were relieved of their outerwear. To the left, a stairway curved gracefully to the second floor gallery. On the right, through open doors that led to a well-appointed library, Sophy could see long windows and, beyond them, a brownstone terrace with steps descending into the garden. Splendid ornamental columns framed the doorway to the dining room, which also overlooked the garden.

  Mrs. Dickens, navigating her way through a brood of children and servants, was proud to show Edward and Sophy the house as they awaited her husband’s return from his afternoon walk. On the floors above, the drawing room, nursery, and children’s bedrooms were equally bright and charming.

  Sophy wasn’t sure she was ready to meet with the novelist. But Edward had made the arrangements and had even met with Dickens on his own yesterday. The two of them had put together a plan of some sort that they wanted to share with her.

  They had no sooner entered the library after their tour, when a serving woman entered. The youngest child of the family, barely six months old, had become too fussy. Mrs. Dickens left the guests on their own.

  “A lively household,” Edward commented when the two of them were left alone.

  Upon entering, he had positioned himself across the library by a window. She had not seen him since yesterday morning. He’d left her while she’d still been in bed. It was almost terrifying how much she had missed him. So often since, she’d found herself daydreaming about what they'd shared. His kisses, his touch, the way he had her come undone, and the aftermath of holding her in his arms as if she were the most precious thing in his life.