The Prospect: The Malloy Family, Book 10

by Beth Williamson

  His gaze traveled up and down her form. She wanted to yank the dress over her head and hide, but the new Jo wouldn’t let her. Instead she propped one hand on her hip and waited while he looked his fill. She had no illusions she was beautiful, but judging by the look on his face, she wasn’t hideous to look at naked.

  “Declan?”

  He started as though she’d poked him with a stick. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” He turned around so fast, she was surprised he didn’t break his neck. “I’m sorry, lass, I didn’t mean to look. Dammit.”

  “It is quite all right.” She dried off with her dress, then pulled her change of clothes from the sack. Her second dress was her favorite. The pretty rose color set off the brown in her hair. It had been her best dress before they’d left New York. Now it was tattered and in need of some repair, but it was blessedly clean.

  She tugged on her old chemise. It was too short, but again, it was clean, then the dress. No spare pantalettes, but there was no reason to admit that to Declan. Perhaps it made her feel naughty, reckless and free. Perhaps she wanted him to discover she was nude beneath the scrap of cotton.

  Jo couldn’t stop her thoughts from careening out of control. The more she thought about kissing him, mating with him and finding release, the tighter her muscles became. Soon she’d embarrass herself by attacking him, demanding carnal actions. Perhaps the fever had damaged part of her brain that regulated inhibitions. Or the notion of being married, of being allowed and expected to copulate regularly, made her act foolishly.

  “I can’t be looking at ye naked no more. No matter if people think we’re married,” he grumbled.

  “Ah, but I believe you have already seen all my charms, Declan. I do not believe you took care of me with your eyes closed.” Jo was actually teasing him, another unusual activity for her. The possibility of never seeing the “old Jo” again should frighten her. She might be the new Jo permanently—whether that was a good or bad thing, she didn’t know yet.

  “I did what I had to.”

  She watched his back, the muscles bunching beneath the shirt. Her fingers itched to touch the skin beneath the cloth, to see what he looked like without the garments he hid behind.

  What in the name of all that was holy was wrong with her?

  Jo shook her head, once again embarrassed by her licentious thoughts. It wasn’t as though she grew up in a brothel. Since she’d met Declan, her obsession with him and copulation had only increased. The only way to alleviate the ache was to participate in the act. Jo wanted to copulate with Declan.

  He was about to do something really stupid, like stand up and show her just how big his dick had gotten while she washed herself. Declan considered himself ten times a fool for his thoughts, but he couldn’t seem to stop them. Jo wasn’t a stunning beauty, but she had an earthy loveliness about her that called to him.

  Then there was her intelligence. She was so damn smart, used words he’d never heard before and figured things out long before he did. Declan wasn’t a dummy, but he had never learned to read or write or do sums. His da hadn’t believe in it and his ma barely knew enough to get by. Jo had a whole stack of books. He wondered what it felt like to be able to read them.

  All of it combined to throw a woman in his path who not only aroused him but needed him. He was hooked like a damn fish on a line. Now this, tonight, with her bath and her goddamn naked body! He shivered at the memory of her standing in front of him, skin shiny and pink from the soap, breasts high and firm with jutting dark pink nipples, and a triangle leading to the pussy he’d like to taste, to fuck until neither one of them could see straight.

  Jesus, that wasn’t the way to calm his overactive cock. It surged anew, aching and hard, his balls heavy with need. He had to beat his inner beast into submission—Jo was in his care and he’d promised her mother he would keep her alive, not bed her.

  “I am finished. If you could see your way to assist me with my hair, I would truly appreciate it.” Her voice was breathy, high pitched, completely unlike her.

  Oh hell. She might be resisting the same urges he was. Did ladies like her have those kind of thoughts? If so, it would please him, of course. Men wanted a woman who enjoyed bed sport in a marriage.

  He wanted to smack himself at the thought. They might be almost married, but she was not his wife.

  “Declan?”

  “Huh?” He jumped to his feet, hoping like hell she didn’t spot the bulge in his britches.

  “My hair.” She pointed at her head. “Can we wash it?”

  That meant he’d need to touch her again. Of course it did. His torture wouldn’t be complete until he’d spent another fifteen minutes touching the wife he couldn’t ever bed.

  “Sure we can. Lie on the cot and hang your head off the end. I’ll use the buckets to wet your hair.” He focused on the task, not on the woman. If he thought about her, he might lose control and do something he would regret. Possibly for the rest of his life.

  She left the bar of soap on the edge of the bed, then arranged herself as he asked, her long dark hair hanging like a curtain to the floor. He swallowed hard and brought the two buckets over to the bed. Declan knelt beside her and took a deep breath to steady himself, not that it did a lick of good.

  He put the empty bucket on the floor and gathered her hair, using a cup to slowly wet the long locks. She made small sounds of pleasure, damn the woman. Declan didn’t need more distractions, that was the goddamn truth.

  As he soaped up his hands, she sniffed the air. “I love the scent of lavender. My mother gave me that soap every year for my birthday.”

  “It’s fancy. I’ve never seen the like.” He at least could speak of soap—that had nothing to do with naked women or hard cocks.

  He started working the soap through her hair when she moaned. He almost swallowed his tongue.

  “That feels wonderful.” She drew out the word wonderful to eight syllables.

  “Glad to hear it.” He continued to soap her hair, getting out three weeks of dirt and sweat. The flowery scent tickled his nose, and now he would always think of her when he caught a whiff of flowers. The experience kept getting better and better. Soon he’d be worshipping at her feet.

  When he reached her scalp, he hesitated for only a few seconds before continuing. She felt so small and vulnerable beneath his big hands. Yet she must’ve had no fear of him, leaving herself open to him. It was somewhat humbling to have that trust from her. He sure as hell didn’t deserve it.

  He gently scratched her scalp and she sighed happily. “That feels simply marvelous, Declan. You have a soft touch.”

  “Only with you, lass.” He hadn’t meant to let that slip out.

  “Then I am twice grateful to you.” She shifted on the bed and he glanced at her, then froze. Her nipples were hard as diamonds, poking up through the pink dress she’d put on.

  “Uh, you shouldn’t be.” He tore his gaze away and tried to shift his dick without actually touching it. He only managed to make his discomfort worse.

  Declan picked up the cup to begin rinsing her hair. His hand shook as he dipped the tin into the warm water. The water sluiced through her hair and soon the brown locks squeaked beneath his fingers. He wondered what it would look like spread out over a snow-white pillow, and another surge of lust roared through him.

  Dammit to hell.

  He was an idiot, dumber than a bag of dirt. Declan stood up abruptly and stalked over to the chair and grabbed the single towel they had. Declan almost tore it in two as he twisted it in his hands. He needed to release the demons inside him, but not on Jo—she didn’t deserve the full brunt of what lived inside him.

  “Are you finished washing my hair?” She lay in the bed where he left her, hair dripping into the half-full bucket.

  He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly through his mouth before he could speak. “I’m done.” His words were harsher than he intended.

  She stiffened at his tone but didn’t reply. Declan knelt again and squeeze
d her hair out as much as he could, then handed her the towel, unable to touch her a moment longer. The cabin walls were closing in on him and if he didn’t get out of there soon, he would have no more control.

  Jo had no idea what lurked beneath the surface. He’d been honest with her—he wasn’t a good man. There was violence in him, sometimes uncontrollable, always painful. Declan had never been able to control it and likely never would. He stalked back and forth in the confined space, no more than four long strides from one end to the other. A caged animal.

  She sat up, using the towel to rub her hair dry. Her gaze was wary, her face drawn and tired. Declan wanted to tell her everything would be sunshine and daisies, but it was far from the truth. He’d promised her parents he would keep her safe, and he would, even from himself.

  Jo rolled over for the dozenth time and stared at the rough ceiling above her. She told herself to sleep, but her mind would not stop turning. The fort wasn’t quiet; in fact, there appeared to be a constant murmur of voices and noise around them. She wanted to go outside and see where they were and what was happening. Yet the quarantine sign kept her inside. She knew firsthand from her mother’s experiences with quarantines that people took them very seriously.

  On one occasion, someone had been shot and killed for breaking through the quarantine line, and although the man was mad with fever, he died for his actions. This man Parker could possibly do whatever he wanted if Declan and Jo broke the quarantine. That worried her—one thing of many swirling around in her mind.

  She was nearly married. Married to Declan Callahan. The question she didn’t want to ask herself was, did she want a real marriage with him?

  He had given up quite a bit—including what appeared to be an enormous sum of money—to keep her alive, to help her overcome the fever and typhoid. She was grateful beyond measure for all he’d done, but his anger over it all confused her. So did her own feelings about the entire situation.

  Jo hadn’t ever dreamed of her own wedding, lace and frills and a handsome gentleman at her side. No, that activity was best left to her sisters. Joe dreamed of finding someone who would accept her for who she was, who would buy her new books and understand she was not simply female—that she was an intelligent human being. Declan had treated her the same as he treated all women, with polite deference, until the tiny cabin in Fort John.

  Until he became her faux husband.

  Jo wrestled with her thoughts and feelings, no closer to knowing what she wanted to do than when she read her mother’s letter. She wasn’t angry, surprisingly, at the turn of events. What did that mean? Was she secretly pleased by her new faux husband? Truth be told, she was a little angry with Maman for putting her in the position, although Jo understood why. Her family didn’t want to leave, but to sacrifice their land, and the future, was an untenable choice.

  Her stomach did a funny flip at the memory of the kiss. He’d kissed her. It had been her first kiss, one she’d dreamed of with the very man who made that wish come true. She pressed a fingertip to her lips as though she could recapture his touch. His behavior when he washed her hair had been confusing, almost as though he was angry at her, but at the same time, his touch has been sensual.

  There had been too much information to absorb. Typhoid had stolen three weeks of her life. She only had snatches of the days, much of which was not pleasant to recollect. Being sick, that sick, made a body lose control of nearly every orifice. It wasn’t much of a relationship to date, considering he had been cleaning up her bodily fluids for twenty-one days.

  Jo wasn’t a romantic at heart, but something about Declan taking care of her made her eyes prick with tears. He could have abandoned her, snuck off and found his own way to another place. Yet he hadn’t. He’d stayed, enduring Drummond and Parker, nursing her and taking nothing for himself.

  Declan Callahan was a gentleman. Whether or not he admitted it, he was a gentleman. He professed to be a bad person, one who had done many bad things in his life. However, his actions spoke louder than his self-recriminations.

  She sighed and rolled to her stomach again, sleep as elusive as an answer to what she should do about her faux husband.

  “If you don’t lie still, neither one of us is going to sleep tonight.” His husky voice cut through the darkness in the cabin.

  Jo started, more surprised than frightened. “My apologies, Declan. I find I cannot sleep. Perhaps because I have spent so much time sleeping my life away in this cabin.”

  He grunted. “You weren’t sleeping the whole time, lass. I promise you that.”

  She scowled at his mention of her sickness. “None of my actions was intentional.”

  “I know that. I’m just tired is all. This chair isn’t the most comfortable place to sleep.” He snorted. “Although I’ve slept on ground, on rocks and in the muck. I should be grateful it’s not raining or snowing instead of moaning about the damn chair.”

  An idea sprang to Jo’s mind and she could not make it cease. He’d sacrificed a great deal to take care of her. The man deserved a good night’s sleep. She reached down inside and found her courage.

  “You are welcome to sleep beside me in the bed.” She thought she’d whispered it, but the words dropped like stones in a still pond.

  “Have you lost your mind, little one?” He sounded completely surprised.

  “No. There is nothing improper about a husband and wife sharing a bed.” She sounded prim and proper, as though she hadn’t invited him to lie with her.

  “We aren’t truly man and wife.” His voice was tight with an unnamed emotion.

  “We have already lived it though it was a real marriage, as though we are man and wife.” Her ire grew with his reluctance. She was offering a place to lay his head, not a romantic liaison. “There is enough room for both of us, provided you stay on your portion of the bed. It is not a feather mattress, but I assume it is more comfortable than the chair.”

  She held her breath, waiting for his response. After a total of eight heartbeats, she heard a shuffling noise, as though he’d changed position. She told herself she wasn’t disappointed. It was a foolish thing to do, after all. He was saddled with her as his wife, but that didn’t mean he wanted her.

  When the bed dipped beside her, she bit her lip to keep the gasp from escaping. His big body eased in beside hers. She stared at his shadowed form, her heart thumping wildly. Jo could hardly fathom she was lying in bed with a man. With Declan.

  She truly was not going to sleep a single wink.

  Soon the heat from having him so close seeped into her and she snuggled closer. He stiffened.

  “Believe it or not, I am not a saint.” His voice was low, almost a growl. “Move any closer and you will be my wife.”

  Excitement shot through her like an arrow with a healthy dose of fear. She might as well be his wife after all they’d been through. Her hopes for a marriage were long since faded. There wasn’t a long list of suitors, or even one, who had begged for her hand in marriage. Now she had a faux husband of her own. He wasn’t perfect, she had no illusions about that, but neither was she. Far from it.

  “Would that be so terribly bad?” Her whisper might as well have been a shout. Everything grew still until she could count her heartbeats and his in the blackness of the night. She held her breath, waiting to either be rejected or welcomed. Jo didn’t know which one she preferred.

  “You’ve just beaten the fever, lass. No matter what I want, you need to heal before you jump into any bed sport.”

  Bed sport. It was a silly and naughty way to phrase copulation and she loved it. Declan proved once again he was a gentleman. Being rejected wasn’t too terribly bad, since he didn’t say no, only not now. Besides he also indicated he wanted to participate in bed sport with her.

  She smiled at him, not that he could see it. “You want me?”

  This time he did growl. The sound vibrated through her, raising the small hairs all over her body. She rather liked the elemental reaction she had to Declan. I
t was the first thing she fought against when she discovered it. Now she wondered why. It was invigorating.

  “If lying next to you, having to clench my teeth at the smell of your soap, of you, doesn’t kill me, then your questions will.” He banged the floor with one fist. “I’m going back in the chair.”

  He started to rise, and she grabbed his arm. “No, please, stay. I will stop, Declan, I promise.”

  Half off the bed, he paused and she knew he was going to get up anyway. She felt the coiled strength in his body through his arm, which was all corded muscle and sinew. The man was pure power and he could have done whatever he wanted with her while she struggled with her illness, but he hadn’t. She knew it all the way to her core.

  Now again, he was saving her, this time from herself. Jo was teasing him, a new activity for her, although in truth she did want to know what bed sport was like. It seemed rather messy and involved more than one bodily fluid, but with Declan, she expected it would be filled with pleasure.

  “I can’t.” His voice was ragged with regret and need. He left the bed, much to her regret, and settled noisily into the chair.

  “I am sorry.” She hoped she hadn’t ruined whatever chance they had at an actual marriage because of the new Jo’s behavior.

  “So am I.”

  Chapter Five

  Seven excruciatingly long days later, Jo was physically much better but mentally and emotionally spent. Declan did everything he could to keep his distance from her. Not an easy feat when they couldn’t actually leave the tiny cabin. She discovered he’d been dumping the chamber pot waste out the front door into a ditch. Horrified, she asked him to find an alternate method, but he grunted and ignored her.

  It was the way of their interactions. The new Jo hated it. The old Jo endured it. Both wanted to end it. However, Declan had a hard head and the ability to be as unresponsive as a rock.