by Kris Tualla
“Atherton told us what you said,” John McGovern interjected. “But we’ve considered all of the landowners in St. Louis County, and we feel you are the best option for a candidate. You are a landowner, you are well-educated, and you are very well thought of in the community.”
“But you, Caldecott!” Nicolas swung his hand toward the older man. “You are the one who follows politics the most ardently! Why don’t you run?”
Ashton leaned back in his chair. “Frankly, Hansen? I’m annoying.”
Nicolas’s mouth opened and slapped shut. He had no retort for that accurate assessment.
“We’ve put quite a bit of thought into this.” John’s quiet voice carried the weight of his argument.
Nicolas turned to Rickard. “Rick, you’re a wealthy landowner. You’re well-educated, popular… Why not you?”
Rickard folded long arms across his chest. “I actually gave it some consideration, Nick. It’s true, I am well-liked and I have a decent education. But I’m afraid my past reputation as—how should I put it?—as a bit of an adventurer, precludes my candidacy.” He blushed. “I see no reason to give Mr. Herbert Q. Percival, Esq. more ammunition than he’s likely to fabricate on his own.”
Nicolas scowled. “What’s he got to do with this?”
Ashton waved a dismissive hand. “He’s that columnist from the St. Louis Enquirer. Bit of a muckraker if you ask me.”
“That’s not the point,” Busby said impatiently. “The point is, every county sends representatives, and we want you to be one of ours!”
Anne brought in the coffee. Conversation stilled while she served each of the men. Nicolas passed the brandy bottle again and they laced their coffee. He relished the pause; he needed to bring up a point of contention, but did not wish to do so in front of Anne.
“There is another issue,” he stated quietly, once the housekeeper was out of earshot behind the closed door.
Caldecott matched his tone. “That would be, what?”
Nicolas made eye contact with each of the men. “Ashton? John? Rickard? You all must understand that I stand firmly against slavery.”
Rickard nodded and answered for all the plantation owners. “We know.”
“But I understand that you have purchased two slaves, a husband and wife. Is that true?” Ashton probed.
Nicolas winced. “It is.”
“And?”
“And I consider that a bit of a problem!” Nicolas blustered. “Don’t you?”
The men looked at each other, waiting for someone to speak.
“It could work in your favor!” Caldecott posited. “Shows that while opinionated, you are not unreasonable!”
Nicolas stood and faced a window. Sleet hit the window, melted, and dribbled down the pane. Frozen drops blown toward suicide, unaware. Would this path be the same for him?
“Nick?”
He turned to face Rickard, his beloved and closest friend.
“Sydney placed this idea in front of you first. She would support you whole-heartedly. You know that.”
Nicolas nodded solemnly.
“And then I presented it to you. I wouldn’t have done so if I didn’t fully believe in your capabilities. You know that as well, do you not?”
Nicolas nodded again.
Rickard rose and walked to him, stopping when they were eye to eye. “When these men came to me with the same suggestion, and asked my honest opinion, I gave it to them.”
Nicolas narrowed his eyes. “Do you truly believe, brother, that this is something I should do?”
“I do, Nick.”
Nicolas slid his gaze to the other men, then back to Rickard.
“And,” Rickard added. “Should you choose to follow this path, I’ll be beside you all the way. You have my word.”
“What do you say, Hansen?” Ashton Caldecott stood and offered his hand. “Are you amenable?”
Nicolas’s mouth twitched. “It’ll cost some money, I imagine.”
John McGovern jumped to his feet. “We’ll raise money for you! We shall be your committee! Won’t we, Nate?”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “Um, I guess. Yes.”
“Are we agreed?” Rickard grinned.
His chin low, Nicolas regarded the men mischievously from under his brows. “If you all are foolish enough to support me in this endeavor, I suppose I may as well not stand in your way.”
“Is that a yes?” John asked.
“Yes. I’ll give it a go.”
“A toast!” Ashton lifted his brandy and everyone grabbed a drink. “To Representative Nicolas Hansen of St. Louis County!”
“Here, here!” The chorus preceded the enthusiastic gulping of various liquids.
Nicolas looked at Rickard and shook his head. “This will be interesting, brother. No doubt about that!”
***
“This will be so interesting!” Sydney effused. She set the hairbrush on her dressing table and turned to Nicolas. “How are you feeling right now?”
“Truthfully?” He pushed one boot off with the other. “Now, don’t laugh.”
“I promise,” she said, curiosity piqued.
He pushed the other boot off and paused. “I feel patriotic.”
“Do you? More than in Norway?”
“Is that odd?” He collected his boots and set them beside the hearth, glancing back at her over his shoulder.
“No! Not at all!” Sydney smiled at the light in his eyes. “I believe you should feel that way.”
Nicolas faced her. “I don’t mean to sound trite, min presang. But I sincerely wish to ensure that everyone has life, liberty and the opportunity to pursue happiness, without regard to their origin.” He untied the neck of his shirt and pulled the tail from his waistband.
“Or gender?”
“What’s that?” He stopped and considered Sydney, obviously puzzled.
“Never mind,” Sydney sighed. She crossed to their bed, plaiting her hair for sleep. “What must you do first?”
“Well,” Nicolas pulled his shirt over his head. “There are papers to be filed in St. Charles before the end of November, so I’ll need to get to that task off the reel.”
He tossed the soiled garment into a basket and unfastened his flies. “Then I reckon I’ll travel around the county, encouraging people to vote for me. Like when I candidated for the throne.”
Sydney watched him bend over and step out of his nankeen breeches. His muscles slid under his skin, moving into the lamplight, then falling back in shadow. An undulating landscape of vibrant masculinity.
She stroked her braid, her eyes dropping to his manhood. “When is the erection?”
His head jerked. “What?”
“Election! Oh, my!” Sydney laughed and felt her face grow hot. Parts lower warmed as her misspoken words elicited that exact response in Nicolas.
“What precisely do you wish to discuss, wife?” Nicolas tossed the breeches after the shirt. He rested his hands on his hips, striking a proud pose. The dying firelight cast him in gleaming bronze. A Nordic god statue.
“I wanted to talk about your candidacy, husband.” Sydney slid off the bed. “So you plan to travel the countryside?” She sashayed toward him.
One corner of his mouth lifted. “I do.”
“Seducing the inhabitants of St. Louis County to your cause?” She trailed her finger down his chest.
“Of course.” He stroked himself, readying. “I have a very strong… constitution. Missouri needs a strong constitution.”
Sydney walked around Nicolas, her hand running lightly over the contours of that constitution. “And then what?”
“And then, when they pull the curtain closed, and are alone with their ballots…” Nicolas grabbed her hand and lifted it to his lips. His tongue tickled her palm.
“They will embrace the pen—long, smooth, and dripping in anticipation—and they will plunge it onto the paper, spilling its slippery contents in a burst of freedom exercised.”
Sydney breathed in
bursts of her own. A quiver spread outward from between her thighs. “And?”
Nicolas lifted the nightgown over her head in one seamless motion.
“And they will be completely satisfied,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck, raising gooseflesh. “Fulfilled by the experience.”
His hands circled her waist. “And live in anticipation of the next…” one brow lifted, “…election.”
His lips moved to hers. Sydney climbed his massive body, until her knees gripped his hips. He pushed into her and she rode her husband, urging him on. Nicolas moved to the bed and fell over her, the strength of his thrusts sliding her backwards.
Sydney held on as he bucked and rotated until, with an explosive grunt, he emptied into her, leaving her completely satisfied and fulfilled by the experience.
November 22, 1821
Nicolas pushed the bedroom door wide. “How is Leif doing in school?”
“Why hello, husband. My day has been quite satisfactory, thank you. And how was your meeting?” Sydney simpered as she checked the contents of her leather midwife’s satchel.
Nicolas stopped, effectively chastised.
“Good afternoon, min presang. I missed you and thought of nothing but you and your sweet kisses all the day long!” He punctuated his declamation with a loud, wet smack on her cheek.
Sydney laughed and straightened. “Leif still excels in arithmetic. Mr. O’Grady says he’ll soon need to send away for more advanced books, to keep ahead of the boy.”
Nicolas nodded. “And his reading and writing?”
“His penmanship is much improved, though he still struggles with English.”
Nicolas waved a dismissive hand. “That’s to be expected. He’s only spoken English for these past six months since we left Norway!”
“True.” Sydney hefted the satchel to her shoulder. “You can speak to him directly when he returns with Taycie.”
“You’re summoned?” Nicolas seemed to just now notice that she was dressed to go out.
“A birth at MacGregor’s. It’s her fifth and I expect all to go well.” Sydney stood on her tiptoes and kissed Nicolas warmly on the lips. “You may eat dinner without me, but make sure Anne saves me a plate, will you?”
“I will.” He cupped her buttocks and squeezed. “Hurry home. I have much to tell you.”
Several hours later, Sydney slipped between the covers. She burrowed next to Nicolas, seeking his dependably abundant warmth on the freezing November night. Snow fell on her ride home; beautiful lacy confetti, deceptive in appearance, deadly in numbers.
She stayed in the kitchen, waiting to be sure of Leif’s safe return after delivering Taycie home to Atherton’s. She made hot chocolate and toast for him, and hung his greatcoat by the fire to dry. When he stumbled sleepily upstairs, she followed.
Nicolas shifted to accommodate her. “All is well?” he whispered.
“Yes. A boy. After four daughters, they were quite pleased.” Sydney pressed against him.
Nicolas held her close. “Are you exhausted?”
“Tired. But unfortunately, wide awake,” she answered. “Tell me about your meeting.”
Nicolas climbed from the bed and prodded the fire. He added logs, and then returned to her side. Propped on one arm, the enlivened flames illuminated his face.
“I shall go to St. Charles next week and file my papers. My committeemen feel I needn’t begin to press my case until after the New Year.”
“When is the election?” Sydney said carefully, and smiled.
“May twenty-first. If elected, my term begins on July the first.” He pressed his body alongside hers.
“So you have five months to campaign, then.”
“Caldecott seems to believe that I need to hire a secretary.”
Sydney considered him. “Do you agree?”
“Maybe. I shall need a valet for certain.” Nicolas rubbed his face in her hair. “I am considering Leif.”
“Are you?” Sydney frowned. “You would trust that boy to care for your wardrobe?”
“He can learn. And even my clothes from Christiania are not excessively fussy.”
“True.” Sydney smiled at the thought of Nicolas, glorious in his fine clothes. “Would you let him shave you?”
“He’ll need to learn, in any case. Have you noticed the shadow on his lip? The fuzz on his chin and cheeks?”
Nicolas shifted so his hand could rest between her thighs. “You are sensible that he’ll be fourteen in March.”
Sydney made room for him. “But what about school?”
Nicolas took her earlobe between his teeth. When he spoke, the warmth of his breath sent pleasant shivers down her neck.
“He needs, more than anything else, to improve his English. Coming with me will give him opportunities to do so. Plus…”
Nicolas kissed her neck, causing her breath to catch. “He has other skills which may come in quite handy.”
“Other skills?” Sydney breathed, completely distracted by her husband’s.
“Should I need a spy, if you will, he might fit the bill rather well. Remember how he stowed away?” Nicolas’s fingers slid into her warm, slippery folds.
“Um-hmm…”
“He and I could speak Norse, and our conversations would be private.” He pressed his groin against her thigh, the heat of his arousal hard against her.
Sydney turned toward Nicolas and threw one leg over his hip.
“Husband, take whom you wish, but I can think of nothing but your ‘private’ at this moment.”
Nicolas circled her waist and pulled her to him. “Then I shall ‘take’ you, wife.”
And he did. Very well.
***
Lily hid in the dark hallway as Taycie entered the manse through the kitchen door. The girl climbed the back staircase—tiredly by the sound of her footfalls—toward the third story slave quarters. Lily sighed in relief. She had returned only moments before Leif rode up to the house to deliver the apprentice midwife.
It would not do to be caught. Lily had instructed Bella, her house slave, to notify her each time Taycie was summoned after dark. Then she dressed and rode out on her own mission. The more nights that Taycie’s presence was required, the more chances Lily had to pursue her goal.
Lily slipped into the dining room and poured a glass of wine. She drank it quickly then climbed the main stairs to her room. Once there, she undressed, dropping her wool dress and shift to the floor. She didn’t wear a corset on these outings.
Lily’s body still glowed from her assignation. Her breasts were ruddy and tingly. She washed the stickiness from between her legs, gentle against her abraded skin. Lily smiled. He was a bit rough tonight. That was of no concern. There were times when a woman liked a little force.
Besides, when a man was under the influence of drink, or a surreptitiously served drug, he was not fully sensible of his actions.
Lily climbed, naked, into bed. Lulled by the wine and her night’s experiences, she slept.
Chapter Eight
December 2, 1821
St. Louis
Rodger Merrick trotted up the frost-edged steps to the red brick offices of the St. Louis Enquirer. He wore his usual chestnut brown greatcoat, designed to be unobtrusive. As a regular columnist, it was advisable to be invisible.
He touched the curled brim of his black felt hat and dipped his chin, holding the door open for a pair of exquisitely dresses ladies. They smiled at him, flirting with a glance and a gloved touch, as they quit the building.
Rodger smiled in return and stepped past them into the warmth of the office. He was well aware that women found his slim, graceful build and dark looks exotic; they told him so often enough.
“How are you this bright morning, Merrick?” Ralston VanDoren eyed the younger man with keen interest.
“I’m doing well, sir.” Rodger moved to his desk and lifted the morning’s mail. He shuffled through the missives.
“Better than your friend Percival, I’ll wager!” V
anDoren offered Rodger a cup of coffee.
Rodger shifted his attention to his employer and accepted the steaming brew. “What have you heard?”
“Quite a ruckus last evening! Old Camden McPherson was deep in his cups when he made unappreciated advances toward a lovely lady… what was her name?” He tapped his chin, brow wrinkled.
“And Percival?” Rodger brought him back to his point.
“Right! Seems he came to the lady’s aid.”
“Tell me, Doren.” Rodger leaned his hands on his tall desk. “In what manner?”
“McPherson took her to a back room, no doubt to have a private meeting, if you follow me?” VanDoren winked. “An hour later he shoots out like a cannonball, screaming like an ingénue, saying that Herbert Q. Percival invaded the room and removed the lady!”
“Did he see Percival?” Rodger asked sharply.
“Apparently not. He says he ‘closed his eyes a bit’ and when he came sensible, the lady was gone.”
“And that is the end of it?” Rodger sipped his coffee, his knuckles white around the mug.
VanDoren grinned. “No. Herb left a note.”
Rodger lifted one brow. “It said?”
“Only the word ‘thanks.’ What do you suppose that means?”
Rodger smiled, reached into his waistcoat pocket, and retrieved a folded paper. “It means he stayed up late, writing.”
“Did you read it?” VanDoren snatched the ink-scribbled paper.
“Of course!” Rodger let the older man have the article.
“Is it good?”
“It is. It seems that Camden is funding some less than reputable establishments.”
VanDoren read silently for several minutes, his mercenary smile widening.
“This is more than good, Merrick. It’s going to blow the top off McPherson’s reputation. To say nothing of his marriage!” His vivid blue eyes met Rodger’s. “I shall pay him well for this little gem. But tell me, when am I going to meet this elusive friend of yours?”
“Doren…”
“It’s been nearly a year, Merrick!” He folded the paper and pushed it into his pocket. “You, yourself, have been here over a year and a half! Don’t you trust me to know?”
