The Doctor's Daughter: A Virtue, Arizona Novel

by Patricia Green

  "Is Miss Verity actually a doctor like Dr. Bucknell?"

  Mrs. Perkins tut-tutted a moment. "No. It's a terrible tragedy. She was in medical school in Boston when her mother passed away suddenly. There was no recourse but to take Miss Verity out of school and hurry her back here to take care of the family. She's the eldest, you know."

  "No, I didn't know."

  Mrs. Perkins nodded. "So, she knows some doctoring, but her father knows more. I think she'd been limited to the Women's and Children's Hospital anyway. I'm sure that went against the grain for her." She stuffed her dust rag into an apron pocket and smiled, her eyes motherly. "Done?"

  Oh, yes he was done. Now he knew quite a bit about Verity, and she knew nothing about him. Well, hell, he knew nothing about himself! "Yes, thank you, Mrs. Perkins."

  She left shaving supplies, the ewer and pitcher, clean cloths and a hand mirror on the side table, took the tray and, with a cheery goodbye, left him alone with his thoughts.

  Chapter Three

  A week had passed and Mr. Smith said nothing about her gaff with the wooden Indian. It established him as a gentleman in her mind, though he was a bit of a flatterer. She preened under it, despite efforts not to take it to heart. He made little jokes about his situation, and spoke of Mrs. Perkins as though she were a friend. Verity couldn't fathom what motivated him to be so kind and personable. It was a testament to his good character, unless it was a very elaborate act. Still, she preferred to think him simply a lost soul trying to find his way.

  Perhaps he owned one of the many silver mines dotted around Pine Grove county. Or maybe railroads caught his fancy. There were a thousand things that Mr. Smith might be. If only he could remember.

  It was time to equip him with crutches and have him make his way back into the world. His wife or mother must be very worried about him by now. A small wave of jealousy sprayed its destructive foam in her face. He couldn't have a wife. Surely he'd remember her if he did. How did one forget someone so important? He'd remembered his horse, after all, a wife was so much more important.

  Once adjusted, the crutches fit under his arms well enough. He tottered about, swinging his splinted leg gently as he walked. He stumbled once, but Verity helped him regain his balance and he continued around the room more confidently as every moment passed. "Would you like to walk to the parlor, Mr. Smith?"

  "I am afraid I'm hardly presentable in this nightshirt, Miss Bucknell."

  She hadn't thought of that. Of course he'd want to appear more independent and less the invalid. But what trousers could possibly fit over his splint? "It might be a problem for you, but honestly, I doubt my sisters would think badly of you. Unfortunately, my father's bed robe is too small. You are considerably taller and broader than he is."

  "Sisters?"

  "Yes, Chastity, Faith, Hope and Mercy."

  "Virtues in Virtue. Very clever," he said with a big smile.

  "My family has been in this town from its beginning. It is a family tradition to name daughters this way. My mother was Modesty Sutton Bucknell, and my grandmother, Patience Rice Sutton."

  "What did you name your daughters?"

  At twenty-six, it seemed unlikely that she'd ever have daughters. One had to be married first, after all, and the prospects in Virtue were slim. She'd grown up with all the town men of her age group, and found most lacking in the intellectual requirements. Exceptions existed, but by this time, they were all married with families. Her time for courting, marriage and children was over. Except for Artemis, but he hardly counted. For all intents and purposes, she was a spinster. It galled her that her education had gotten so in the way of her personal life, but her childhood dreams included medical school so she could be like her father. Unfortunately, that was dashed when she had to come back home from Boston and leave the college of medicine in order to help run the household when her mother died. Now that even her youngest sisters were able to care for themselves, she knew she could go back to finish her diploma, but it seemed like there was always some crisis preventing her from making the long trip.

  "I doubt I'll have daughters, Mr. Smith. I am not married." Time to change the subject, if only to get that puzzled look off his face. "I think the parlor would do well for your first outing."

  "If you're sure."

  "I am." She almost turned away, but his warm scent called to her. "First, let me do up the ties on the nightshirt. It's one thing for me to see the handsome hair on your chest, but quite another for my sisters to do so."

  He chuckled. "Handsome? You exaggerate, Miss Bucknell."

  The adjective she'd used for him shone like a mirror in the sunlight, blinding her brain. Heat washed over her. "I would not claim to be an expert on chest hair, Mr. Smith. But I do know what is appealing—at least to women." There. She'd paid him a compliment. How would he take it? She kept her eyes on his Adam's apple while she tied up the throat strings of his nightshirt. But he was so close. His scent was rich and clean, and she could feel his warm skin on the back of her fingers. She finished tying, but didn't step back. She couldn't; not yet. Instead, she looked up and found his bright blue eyes on her, a shimmer of something as stunning as a lightning bolt burning in his gaze. He dropped the right crutch, and it fell against the bed then settled with a rattle on the floor.

  She was mesmerized. Madness addled her mind, and a surge of something powerful and primitive thrilled up her spine. "Your strings are tied." She should move away now that the task was complete. She couldn't. Her feet were firmly planted on the floor, inches from his.

  He nodded slightly once and touched her cheek.

  "I should step away," she whispered, even as she lay her cheek against his palm and closed her eyes. "Your hand is warm. I shouldn't remain here." But she did remain. She was compelled to remain. There were invisible strings pulling her to him. "I stand too close, Mr. Smith."

  "I stand fascinated," he whispered, just before his lips touched hers.

  Verity's body vibrated as, bound by a mysterious force, she flattened her palms against his chest and made small circles there, excited by his hard-muscled masculinity. Never kissed before, she took the sensation into her body like apple brandy, sipping, savoring, counting the seconds silently and enjoying every one.

  His mouth moved on hers a bit more vigorously and she reciprocated, trying out the feeling of responding less passively. The tip of Mr. Smith's tongue ran along the seam of her mouth, and she ventured into that new territory by touching her tongue to his. That seemed to burst a damn as he slanted his mouth against hers with some force, never hurting her or scaring her, but taking what she offered.

  Sensations so startling and emotional welled up in her, and a snake coiled and uncoiled in her belly. Mr. Smith pulled her down as he sat on the bed, and soon she was kissing him while lying on her side on the soft mattress. Heat and desire burned her through and through, as Mr. Smith, now with both hands free, caressed her face.

  They broke for air for a moment, and he kissed her nose, her cheeks, her eyelids. She felt beautiful and precious for the first time in her life. Gone was the weight of responsibility. It was heady.

  She pressed herself against him, and held his face in her hands while she stole kisses from him. Oh, how she wanted more, and more after that. A minute passed. Her body flushed and trembled. He touched her breast and his thumb found her nipple. An arrow of lust speared her, and she moaned.

  "I want you," he said against her lips.

  "Have me," she replied.

  "It wouldn't be right."

  "Damn right and wrong."

  Mr. Smith chuckled and his chest vibrated against her hands. His thumbs played her nipples, a sensation she'd never felt before. "Mr. Smith," she said, a plea in her voice, "Please don't hold back."

  He breathed deeply, with a slight nod. "Pull up your dress." Scooting up further on the bed, he lay prone, his one splinted leg bent. His nightshirt tented in that forbidden zone, one she was so afraid of, but needed to know better.

  B
lushing from toes to hairline, Verity complied, standing and exposing her drawers in a way she would never have thought was possible. But she craved him, his beautiful body, his fierce kisses. Even the mystery around him appealed to her. He might be anyone or anything, and, in fact, the unknown made him dangerous. He was a lion in the wild, red in tooth and claw, and she was the gazelle, his prey. But she cared little for her safety. She wanted him. No, she wasn't the gazelle. She was the lioness, demanding his attention. She challenged him to consummate their freshly forged relationship and challenged herself at the same time. Her secret dreams must be fulfilled.

  He pulled up his nightshirt and exposed himself. The magnificence of his erection made her wet. She hadn't known it could be like this, that her own excitement would throb at her core. "Have you done this before?" he asked.

  Would he reject her if he knew she was a virgin? Or would that appeal to him more? It depended on how honorable he really was. The fact of his lack of memory was glaring, but her body insisted that she go on, even while her mind whispered doubts. But the whispers were faint. She knew he was a gentleman, why, she'd practically thrown herself at him and yet he was concerned about her virtue. The truth was lost in the noise of her lust and emotional upheaval.

  "Yes, I've done this before. Not many times," she said, trying not to give the impression that she was a slut, but she could bear being a fallen woman in his eyes if it got her what she wanted.

  "Are you sure you want this?" he asked, his words spilling out in a rush.

  "I'm sure."

  He wrapped his big hand around his root and offered it like a rose. "Mount up."

  "Um…"

  "You've never done it that way?"

  She shook her head. She'd never done it any way, but that was her secret for now.

  "Well, I can't take you in the usual way, Verity. My leg is in a splint."

  Her heart sang at the sound of her given name from his lips. His dear lips. Lips that made her quiver all over. "Of course. Where do you want me?"

  "Straddle my hips with your knees."

  She got onto the bed and spread her knees around him. Her pantaloons fell open where they met, unseamed, in the middle of her sex. Her light petticoat and skirt tumbled down to cover her tender flesh from his eyes.

  "Pull your skirt up again. I want to see you. I need to see where I'm going. Now mount me."

  Could she do this? Could she really give her virginity, lying to him as she did? A niggling knowledge that he wouldn't trust her if she perpetrated this crime upon him ate at her, but she dismissed that quickly. She wanted what she wanted. Lioness, she told herself, remember you are the lioness. A moment later, she'd raised her skirt then positioned his root at her opening. She knew what was supposed to be done, though the sensation of it was shrouded, kept from young women of quality.

  He released himself from his hand and took her by the hips as she hovered over him. "Down," he said, his voice like a gravel road, bumpy and unpredictable, rough, and hard as the staff at her entrance.

  She closed her eyes and sat abruptly. Pain shot through her middle, settling on her sex. Her hands fisted on the hem of her lifted skirts.

  "God damn!" he said. "You lied to me!"

  "Please don't stop. I want to know."

  "You put me in a terrible position," he said, the stern tone in his voice scaring her. Would he stop?

  "Please…Mr. Smith, I implore you." The pain was fading away, and only the sensation of his hardness in her sensitive flesh throbbed within her. She whispered, "Please," hating herself for begging, hating what she'd just become, but loving the freedom it represented, loving the way he treated her, for he still hesitated. "Am I doing something wrong?"

  "Verity, it's all wrong, but here we are. There's no putting things back, even though I wish I could." He paused, and Verity worried, until he asked, "Do you ride horses?"

  What utter nonsense! "Of course. What does that have to do-"

  "Ride me like a horse, post upon my cock."

  The crude word sent another thrill through her, and she started to move. Her wetness made him slide in and out, each motion bringing her more pleasure than the last one. Something amazing was building within her, centered in a place low in her belly. The emotion of this coupling, this incredible intimacy, brought tears to her eyes and she wiped them away, even while posting faster, obeying his hands directing her hips.

  "Am I hurting you?"

  "No! Oh no!"

  "I'm almost there," he told her.

  "Where are you?" she whispered, but it was so faint that he didn't hear her, or chose not to reply. Faster and faster she went, and pressure built up within her. She wanted to burst, to fly, to fall to pieces. And no sooner had the thoughts tumbled through her confused mind, but she did explode. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh, Mr. Smith."

  He continued to direct her hips at a fevered pace and then he arched his spine, pressing deeply within her, grunting as his sex pulsed in her.

  They stopped, panting together, catching their breaths. "I've ruined you," he said, his voice so sad that she teared up again. "I will never forgive myself."

  "Do not say so. I wanted this. I've wanted it for days, but did not wish to admit it to myself."

  "You lied to me about something incredibly important. I didn't deserve that. It's disrespectful and selfish."

  She disengaged and lay upon him, her head on his damp chest. "Can you forgive me? I couldn't help it."

  "You're always telling tall tales, Verity. This time, it got you into a heap of trouble."

  "No one will find out."

  "I know and you know. That's enough for me. I have a conscience, Verity."

  Her heart was breaking as he chastised her. This lioness had the heart of a shy lamb.

  "Move off me and lay forward upon the bed with your feet on the ground."

  Was she so irresistible that he had to have her again? That was very hard to believe, but the hope that he'd want her many times more made her follow his instructions.

  Chapter Four

  As she lay over the edge of the bed, her body pulsed. The sensations of moments before were still fresh, new, exotic. Nothing existed but the beat of her heart and the warmth of Mr. Smith's presence beside her. He sat up and pushed her skirt up over her hips in the back. What was he doing? He could hardly mount her like a cur as he was only able to move one leg. Feeling the first hard spank against her thinly cotton-covered bum gave her pause and she raised her head. "Mr. Smith!"

  "You deserve this spanking, Verity."

  With that, he delivered two more spanks. They were hard and painful. She cried out. The problem was, she knew she did deserve to be punished for all her untruths. She'd been telling tales since childhood, most of which she admitted, but with Mr. Smith, she admitted them less. The embarrassment of telling him the truth was sometimes too much to bear, so she made things up, both to amuse him and to cover her inadequacies. It was wrong. Both her father and Pastor Denton said so. The bible said so. And, in fact, everyone in town said so. She definitely deserved punishment for being so naughty, but at the hands of Mr. Smith?

  "No more lies and prevarications, Verity," he said sternly, peppering her behind with many spanks.

  "Ow! Yes, all right. No more!"

  "I've been onto you all along. Whatever could you be thinking, implying you weren't the one who examined me when I first came in? Mrs. Perkins was designated to help me with the chamber pot. And while she was here, Mrs. Perkins told me how I got here, and your part in it. Did you think I wouldn't find out? And, Verity, two hours of sleep and a winking wooden Indian?"

  "Oh! Oh dear, that hurts!" More spanks landed on her vulnerable rear. Her thin drawers did nothing to soften the blows. They seemed to get harder as the sting built up. "I only let you think I examined you. It was your idea!"

  "Not good enough."

  Again and again he rained hard, hot whacks. Her bottom was on fire and the pain was excruciating. Even while knowing she deserved this treatment, she couldn
't help moving her hands back to cover up.

  "Uh, uh, uh," he remonstrated. "That will only injure your hands." He shifted on the bed where he sat next to her, taking her hands and holding them at the small of her back. Now she was helpless. Tears were streaming down her face and plopping on the counterpane where she lay.

  His hand was so big, so hard as he slapped her smarting butt. "Oh, Mr. Smith! I implore you. Stop. I've learned my lesson."

  He paused. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes! Yes, I'm quite sure."

  One more, very hard spank that rocked her forward on the bed, and he stopped. "Done." He dropped her skirt and petticoat down. "You may get up now."

  Instead of standing immediately, she sank down onto her knees, panting and rubbing her bottom as she went. "You hurt me, Mr. Smith. You are not a gentleman."

  "Did I ever say I was a gentleman? Why would you think so?"

  She used the edge of the bed to lever herself up to her feet and stood looking down at him where he sat. Her bottom stung and itched. Her whole body was on fire. Humiliation made her angry, though it was hard to tell if she was angry at him or herself. That would sort itself out.

  "You have not abused me before this day."

  One of his dark eyebrows rose. "And you are abused now?"

  "I may have deserved that spanking," she said, shaking her finger in his face, "but not one so hard and painful."

  He laughed and caught her hand, pulling it down from his face and pressing it against her hip. "Do you think a little tap on the bottom would make a robust enough impression on a strong-willed woman like you, Verity?"

  Perhaps not. She certainly did feel less inclined to lie at the moment. She turned her back on him and took a few steps away. "I don't want to talk about it further. I will only say that I'll be glad when you're gone from this house, Mr. Smith. You discomfort me." But oh, how she'd loved melding herself with him. The memory of it, so fresh in her mind, lingered and called for more. She'd gotten what she wanted, a once in a lifetime experience, and now she could go on with her day-to-day existence, wiser and more fulfilled. Mr. Smith might appeal to her—admittedly, perhaps in all the most dangerous ways—but he had to get back to his life, or make a new life if the old one didn't manifest itself. She also had a life to get back to. Her sojourn into the adult dealings of men and women, into flirting with him every day, into caring for him and seeing him respond to that care, all of those things needed to come to a halt. Too much more time in his vicinity might bring them too close. She couldn't risk that. He'd find out he had a wife and children somewhere and leave her hanging.