Wild Yearning

by Penelope Williamson

  Yawning, she brushed the hair from her face and rubbed her eyes. She pushed herself into a half-sitting position, resting on her elbows, and then she heard the sound of muted laughter, the rustle of clothing.

  A woman’s voice, soft and tremulous, said, “Oh, Ty, that feels … yes, there … oh, please.”

  A soft, feminine sigh was followed by a husky murmur. “There?”

  “Ah, yesss …” And another, softer sigh.

  Delia bolted up straight and stiff, looking around with wild eyes like those of a raccoon frozen by the sudden flare of a torch. By the time her sluggish brain told her legs to move, it was too late—the man and woman were already on their way into the room.

  Laughing, the woman came first, pulling the man after her by the hand. But once across the threshold, she stopped and, turning, leaned against the wall. Grasping the man by the ruffle of his shirt, she pulled him to her. He nuzzled the curve of her neck with his lips and she sighed.

  Delia’s mouth fell open in shock. The man was not only recruiting whores, he was trying them out himself first! She thought she had better make some noise, do something, anything … She drew in a deep breath.

  “Oh, Ty, I thought I’d go crazy tonight, watching you dance with all those simpering ingenues,” the woman purred. “Tell me you thought they were all ugly and that they bored you to tears.”

  “They were all ugly,” a deep voice drawled. “They bored me to tears.”

  “You didn’t look my way once all night.”

  “I looked, Pris. I looked.” He caught his breath on the last word, for the woman had opened the flap to his breeches and slipped her hand inside. She laughed deep in her throat.

  “Why, Tyler Savitch, I do declare. What have we here?”

  For an answer he smothered her mouth with his. He pinned her to the wall with his hips while his hands moved lingeringly over her shoulders and down her arms, and her hands tugged and pushed at his confining breeches.

  Delia’s throat was so tight and dry she couldn’t swallow. She had witnessed a lot of things at the Frisky Lyon but never anyone actually doing … it. Yet from her position on the bed she could see the man and woman plainly. They stood in half profile to her, and in the light cast by the moon Delia could tell the woman was small and fair and dressed as if she’d just come from a ball. The man wore only a shirt and breeches, and the breeches were now pushed down around his thighs. The woman’s hands were pale against the darker skin of the man’s buttocks as she squeezed the taut muscles almost savagely. Her bodice gaped open, exposing her breasts, and he held one of them in his cupped palm, massaging the nipple with long fingers. The woman’s head fell back, and she groaned.

  Delia almost groaned right along with her. A wet, hot heat flooded through her, drenching her like steam from a laundry. There was a strange feeling of tightness in her chest, as if it had been locked in a cooper’s vise. Though the sound of the lovers’ breathing was loud in the room, like the sough of wind through a forest, Delia didn’t dare move, fearful as she now was of making even the slightest noise and giving her presence away. It was a wicked thing to be watching this, she knew. Dutifully, she squeezed her eyes shut, but they snapped open a moment later as if pried apart against her will.

  The man was undulating his hips in slow, sensuous circles while he assaulted the woman’s neck with his lips and tongue. She arched her back, pulling him tighter against her.

  “Oh God, Ty … God.”

  His hands spanned her waist, lifting her up and bracing her against the wall. He lowered his head and sucked a nipple into his mouth.

  The woman’s panting breaths, loud and harsh, began to accelerate, building and building in tempo with the grinding motion of his hips. Her hands were twisted into tight fists at the small of his back, bunching up his shirt. The muscles of his buttocks clenched, unclenched. The woman moaned.

  “Now, Ty, please … I can’t stand any more. Please!”

  Delia saw the man bend and lift the woman into his arms. She saw him turn toward the bed. She saw the woman grasp the man’s dark hair and pull his face down to her hungry, open mouth. She saw the lovers pass out of the light into the shadows where she sat silent and watching. She saw it all and she couldn’t move, couldn’t move—

  And then the man and woman, mouths locked together, wrapped in each other’s arms, fell onto the bed … right on top of Delia McQuaid.

  Delia screamed once—from pain as the man’s broad shoulder smacked into her sore ribs. Leaping from the bed, the woman screamed and went on screaming. The man made no sound at all, but a split second later Delia felt the prick of something sharp against her neck.

  “God Almighty, Priscilla, shut up. Do you want to wake all of Boston? Who in hell are you?”

  It took Delia a moment to realize this last was addressed to her. When she didn’t answer right away, he pressed the blade of the knife closer to her throat, nicking the skin.

  “Who are you?” he said again, in a voice so cold and hard it rose the hairs on the back of Delia’s neck.

  “Please … don’t kill me,” she said, fear pitching her normally husky voice even lower.

  The woman had gone blessedly silent, but now she let out a hysterical laugh. “Why, Ty, it’s only a boy.”

  “I’m no boy!” Delia protested. Realizing the knife was no longer poised to slit her throat, she sat up, huffing with indignation. But when she started to get off the bed, a strong hand held her in place, pressing down on her shoulder.

  “You stay right where you are. … Pris, fetch the lamp in here.” The woman hesitated until the man said sternly, “Priscilla …” Then she glided from the room in a swish of skirts.

  The man moved away from the bed, turning his back to pull up his breeches and button the front flap. Delia thought how she had sat crouched in silence, watching, watching that woman touching him, that intimate part of him, so boldly … She almost groaned aloud from the shame.

  It suddenly seemed very quiet in the room, so quiet Delia could hear a clock ticking somewhere. She thought she should probably say something, perhaps introduce herself, but “How d’ ye do, Dr. Savitch” didn’t seem appropriate given the circumstances. She wondered what a real lady would do in this situation, but then, she thought despairingly, a real lady would hardly have gotten herself into this mess.

  The woman returned, carrying the betty lamp. She, too, had taken the time to straighten her clothing. It was expensive clothing. A moss-green satin petticoat fell over a small farthingale, and on top of it was a silver-brocade overskirt looped up on each side to draw attention to her hips. Pearly breasts rose from the low, lace-edged neckline of a richly embroidered bodice frosted with rows of gathered lace. The elegant ensemble was topped by a lofty headdress of a spangled turban mounted with ostrich feathers.

  Gold hair and blue eyes, and fair, fair skin, with a single tiny, heart-shaped silk patch at one corner of her full mouth— oh, she was undeniably beautiful. But she was older than Delia had expected. Why, Delia thought with shock, she had to be close to thirty.

  She was also unlike any whore Delia had ever seen before, certainly unlike the harlots who plied their trade at the Frisky Lyon and other such grog shops on the waterfront.

  The woman set the lamp on a nearby chest. Delia, sprawled on the bed while they both stood looking down at her, felt at a decided disadvantage. She lifted her head and stared defiantly back at them, although inside she was wishing herself in a deep, deep hole somewhere on the other side of the world.

  The woman wrinkled her dainty nose. “Really, Ty, I thought you had better taste.”

  “I assure you, Pris, I’ve never seen the wench before in my life.”

  Delia stared at his face. His darkly handsome features were finely cast, with a thin, straight nose, square jaw, and sharp cheekbones. Though his buff breeches and ruffled lawn shirt bespoke the gentleman, he was not wearing a wig. His thick hair was a rich, dark brown, and he wore it tied back with a simple riband. His black eyes
glittered at Delia from beneath slightly flaring brows. She felt ensnared by those dark eyes though, strangely, she was not afraid…

  Priscilla’s strident voice broke the spell. “Perhaps I should leave.”

  “Yes. I think you should,” he said.

  This obviously was not what Priscilla wanted to hear. “Well, then … Stevens can certainly see me safely home in the shay,” she said stiffly. “Don’t bother showing me to the door.”

  Yet she stood still for a moment longer, looking at her man look at Delia, then she turned on her heel and marched from the room.

  “You stay put,” he told Delia before following.

  Delia remained sitting obediently on the edge of the mattress until she remembered what he and the woman had been about to do in this very bed. Why, he probably thinks he’ll try me out next for a place in his bawdy house.—and the thought brought Delia up fast onto shaky legs. Of their own accord, her feet carried her into the sitting room.

  He stood by the door with Priscilla, who was wrapped up in a hooded red cloak. His hands rested on her shoulders and he was saying in a soothing, gentle voice, “She’s probably here because of that damn advertisement. It’s late anyway, sweet, and you should be getting home.”

  “Ty, if you take that girl to bed—”

  He put his fingers against her lips. “Hush. You know I wouldn’t do that to you. One of the reasons I came all this way to Boston was to see you, Pris.”

  She nodded, her full mouth parting tremulously. “And you’re leaving tomorrow. It could be months, perhaps years, before I’ll see you again.”

  His mouth quirked into an endearingly lopsided smile. “Somehow I don’t think you’ll lack for company in the meantime.”

  Laughing lightly, she flicked his cheek with a painted ivory fan. “Law you, Tyler Savitch, you’ve a wicked mind.”

  He brushed his lips across her cheekbone. “Goodbye, Pris.”

  “Take care, Ty,” she answered, smiling still, but as she turned, fumbling for the doorlatch, Delia thought she saw the gleam of unshed tears.

  Ty closed the door behind Priscilla. He did not look at Delia but went instead to the hearth. He moved with a fluid grace and his body was lean, like his face. And hard. The fine lawn of his shirt clung to the muscles of his chest and back as he moved.

  He lifted an embroidered waistcoat off the back of the wainscot chair and shrugged it on, although he left it unbuttoned. Then he took a taper from the mantel and stuck it in the coals. He put the flame of the candle to a fresh torch of pitch pine held in a bracket on the wall. The torch caught, flaring and shedding a bright light on the room.

  He turned. His face was set into hard lines, lips pressed together, a scowl drawing a crease between his brows. Delia had to stiffen her muscles to keep from squirming under his direct gaze.

  “Come here,” he said.

  She swallowed hard and took two tiny steps into the room. He had promised the other woman he wouldn’t take her to bed, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t lied. Or that he wouldn’t strike out at her, like her da, should his temper get the better of him. She looked up into his face. His eyes weren’t black. They were a very deep, dark blue.

  “I suppose you’re going to claim you wandered into the wrong bed by mistake,” he said.

  Color leaped to Delia’s face as she remembered how she had sat in silence and watched him making love to Priscilla. Delia had thought herself wise to life, to love, but she hadn’t known it could be like that between a man and a woman. So much … so much passion. She wondered why such a man, with his enticing good looks, felt the need to advertise for a wife. Perhaps he intended to test all the women who applied to see which candidate could please him best in bed before making his choice. The very thought caused her stomach to do a somersault.

  “Well,” the man said. His face was still stern, but his indigo eyes sparkled with repressed laughter. “What were you doing in my bed, brat?”

  Delia’s head came up as she pulled the folded newspaper from the pocket of her petticoat. “Are ye Tyler W. Savitch, M.D.?” she demanded, though she knew well by now that he was. She held the newspaper out to him, pointing with a dirty finger at the advertisement. “Then are ye denyin’ ye’re responsible for this?”

  “You’ve got it upside down.”

  Hot color flooded her cheeks, but she thrust out her chin. “I know how t’ read. Some. Anyways, the advert never said nothin’ about knowin’ how t’ read.”

  “No, it didn’t. … What’s your name?”

  “Delia. Delia McQuaid.”

  He beckoned to her with one languid hand. “Well, come closer, Delia McQuaid—”

  Delia’s whole body went rigid. “I don’t know what ye’re after, mister, but one thing ye ought t’ know right off, I’m not intendin’ t’ lie with no man, leastways not till the ’I do’s’ are spoken.”

  One brow flared upward, and his mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “Thank you for warning me. Now come here so I can get a better look at you. Come, come. I won’t bite.”

  She came right up next to him.

  A spasm of disgust crossed his face. “Jesus, you reek like a distillery. When was the last time you bathed?”

  Delia was mortally insulted. “I’ll have ye know, ye nosy bastard, that I bathe once a month.”

  “We must be nearing the end of your thirty days then. Open your mouth.”

  “Huh?”

  He seized her chin and pried her mouth open.

  She jerked it out of his grasp. “Here now! There’s no call t’ be lookin’ at my teeth. I’m no horse ye’re thinkin’ of buyin’.”

  “At least your teeth are cleaner than the rest of you.”

  He hooked the leg of the wainscot chair with the toe of his boot, pulling it around so that he could lean against the hearth with one foot braced against the seat of the chair, his shoulders pressed into the mantel, his thumbs hooked into his waistcoat pockets. He let his gaze move over her, studying her the way he had back in the bedroom. It made her uncomfortable to be looked at like that, yet she was acutely aware of his decidedly masculine pose and how he was making her heart thud loudly against her chest.

  At last he drew in a deep breath, letting his foot fall as he straightened. “Well, now, Delia McQuaid, you’ll not thank me for it, but I’m afraid the—”

  “Is it her—that Priscilla person? Is Priscilla the one ye’ve picked for the post of wife then?” Not that Delia blamed him, for though the woman was perhaps a mite old for him, she was not only beautiful but also rich by the looks of her. And she obviously knew her way around a bedroom.

  His laughter was a throaty rumble that brought another blush to her cheeks. “I haven’t picked anyone else. I was going to say I’m afraid the post—if you can call it that—is yours. If you want it. I’ve got to have somebody by tomorrow, and you’re the best of a bad lot.”

  Delia suspected she was being insulted again and her head jerked up with immediate defiance. “An’ what’s that supposed t’ mean?”

  “It means that you’re young and hardy and your wits are all there, although how sharp they are remains to be seen …” Delia’s mouth fell open.

  “And though your virtue is undoubtedly questionable, you don’t appear to be suffering from the great pox yet, although—”

  Delia’s mouth fell open even wider. “Aooow!” she screeched, so loudly that he winced. “Ye filthy-minded bastard! I’ll have ye know that just ’cause I work in a grog shop, it don’t mean I’m a whore. I haven’t said yes t’ the post yet, no, nor will I now. Nay, not if ye was the last man on earth, would I marry ye, ye—ye—”

  He looked taken aback. Then he threw back his head and let loose a hearty laugh. Delia searched the room for something to hit him with. Nothing appeared lethal enough, except perhaps for the fire poker…

  “Delia, Delia,” he said, laughing still. “Something tells me Merrymeeting Settlement would never be the same again with you around. And Nat would probably want to nail my
hide to his barn door for landing you in his lap.”

  “I don’t understand ye,” Delia said through stiff lips. She wanted to burst into tears.

  His laughter died down, but the amusement remained to give his eyes a mischievous glint. “I’m not the one in such desperate need of a wife. Heaven forfend.”

  “But ye said … The newspaper …”

  “I placed that advertisement at the behest of a neighbor who lost his wife two months ago. With two young daughters and a farm to run, he needs a woman’s help. But there’s a sad dearth of eligible matrimonial material in The Maine,” he said, naming the vast wilderness territory that lay northeast of the New Hampshire Colony. “I was coming to Boston anyway to hire a preacher for our settlement, and Nat prevailed upon me to find him a spouse while I was here. I told him he was off his fool head.”

  Delia felt a knot of sick disappointment forming in her stomach. She should have known such a man as Tyler Savitch —so handsome and fairly oozing masculine charm—wouldn’t need to stoop so low, nor would he ever be so desperate that he would advertise for a wife. What a wooden-headed fool she’d made of herself, first spying on him in that awful, shameful way, and now this … She imagined herself as he must see her in this moment, standing before him in all her ignorance and dirt, and she wanted to die.

  She forced herself to meet his eyes. “What happened t’ her, yer friend’s wife?” She thought it probably behooved her to ask, for if she were to go gallivanting off to The Maine and marry a perfect stranger, it would be nice to know how the man’s first wife had died. What if he had done the poor woman in?

  Ty hitched his hip onto the edge of the desk. He looked down at the hands he had clasped in his lap. Delia looked at them as well. They were a gentleman’s hands, long and fine-boned. There was no dirt under those nails.