“Gentlemen, the cavalry will be here by nightfall. The supply train should depart in the morning, taking Donovan’s men with it.”
“Are you sure about that, sir?” Conall questioned. “It’s coming from a long way off.”
Paul’s humor was too buoyant to be offended by any challenge to his judgment. “Learned my dust clouds in the recent unpleasantness, O’Flaherty. That dust is loose and fluffy, thrown up by horses’ hooves, not heavy wagons. Cavalry, nothing else. The prize will be ours come Friday.”
Chapter Thirteen
Viola took another spoonful of snow pudding as she watched William sip his tea and stare into space. Sarah had outdone herself with this rich dessert but it meant little when compared to tomorrow’s dangers. Viola set aside her spoon and began to nervously crumble lemon biscuits into the creamy white sweet.
The cavalry had come a day earlier than expected, damn them. Evans and most of William’s teamsters would leave tomorrow for at least a week. They wouldn’t have the usual overwhelming complement, since William and some other teamsters were staying behind in Rio Piedras to guard Viola. Apaches could kill them all in a single attack.
William had to be concerned about his men’s survival. If only she could do something to distract him.
“Tea?” William offered, lifting the pot.
“Yes, thank you,” Viola replied automatically. The hot drink flowing into her cup raised different questions. Perhaps she could use them to divert him.
“William, have you ever indulged in strong liquors?”
He shook his head as he filled his own cup. “Never. I saw too much of how they could destroy a man when I was twelve. I took an oath then never to imbibe, except for the Sacrament at Mass, of course.”
“Of course,” Viola nodded. He attended Mass every week here in Rio Piedras. She’d attended Mass almost a dozen times with Molly and Brigid O’Byrne. It had seemed an exotic but comforting ritual to her eyes, and she respected its appeal.
“Did you take any oaths as a child not to engage in an adult activity, Viola?”
She cocked her head as she considered. “When I was eighteen and the war broke out, I swore I’d never join a political party. But women will never get the vote so it’s not much of an oath, is it?”
“You’d keep the vow, if it came to pass, wouldn’t you?”
“Certainly.”
“Then it’s a true oath. But why that one?”
Viola hesitated: how much could she tell him? But the war had ended six years ago and she could surely speak freely of at least a few matters. If nothing else, the story might distract him from worrying about Evans. “My father and brother served in the Mississippi Squadron of the Union Navy during the late conflict. My mother’s family, including her brothers and nephews, served in the Confederate Army.”
She snapped another lemon biscuit in two, remembering the anger and fear that had drenched her home. William patted her hand, comforting and undemanding.
“Did your mother sympathize with the Southern cause?”
Viola laughed bitterly. “Indeed so. Very strongly, in fact. She fought verbal duels with my father on the subject, which lasted for hours, both before he enlisted and afterwards, as well. I would run from the house and ride my horse for miles, or play the piano with the doors shut, trying not to hear them.” Especially the time when Father backhanded Mother across the face…
She thrust the memory back and went on. “I swore I’d have no part of politics, if that’s what it did to families.”
She snorted as she remembered some of the slogans shouted then. “Mother called herself ‘a true daughter of the South,’ who would fight for what she considered right when her own flesh and blood would not.”
Viola laced her fingers with his for strength. “Mother held parties at our house, where she’d flirt and flatter Union soldiers into telling her confidential matters. I watched her as closely as I could and diverted the conversation whenever possible.” Viola shivered as the old knots tightened in her stomach. “But I’m afraid some secrets were leaked to her, only to be passed to other Southern sympathizers. I grew to dread afternoon socials and dinner parties, even church bazaars. People called me such an attentive daughter for staying so close to my mother at all times. But all I desired was to stop Mother from harming anyone.”
“Ah, my poor darling,” William crooned and kissed her hand.
She closed her eyes as a tremor swept through her. His lips were firm and warm, reminding her of today’s joys rather than yesterday’s pain. This room was so far away from Cincinnati that the old agonies seemed a distant memory, something to be aired out then put away like laundry.
She opened her eyes slowly as she tried to regain her balance. William’s eyes were intent on hers, compassionate and patient. Perhaps she could say a little more. If nothing else, she was diverting him from worrying about Evans’s departure.
“Mother acted on her beliefs, too,” Viola said carefully. Don’t say too much even now; just speak of things Mother wouldn’t be tried for. “A captured Confederate general escaped one Christmas, thanks to Mother’s help. She, who was the wife and mother of Union sailors, helped return a man to battle, a soldier who’d surely kill her menfolk if they crossed him.”
William’s eyes flashed. His fingers tightened on hers, then slowly loosened.
“Mother showed no remorse, ever, for risking her family’s lives,” Viola finished. Who was William angry at? Could he be disgusted by her, since she hadn’t stopped Mother?
“The bitch. The stupid bitch to risk her son’s life.” William uttered a string of what must have been curses in a foreign language, his face blazing with anger.
Viola stared at him. She’d carried the burden of her mother’s treason alone for so long that it was burned into her soul. Sharing the knowledge with someone else, someone who understood her bone-deep anger and disgust with her own mother, was an emotional release that left her shaken.
A knot deep in her heart fell away and her eyes blurred with tears of relief. She patted his cheek. “It’s over now, William. The war has ended and my father and brother survived. No harm was done.”
“No thanks to her.” He added a few more words, all of them heated.
The conversation obviously needed a new direction, since she hadn’t intended to make him angry. Her nerves were still unsettled but perhaps his past would be more relaxing. “Are you speaking Irish?” Viola asked softly, blinking away salt tears.
William opened his mouth, then smiled sheepishly. “My apologies for using profanity, sweetheart.”
“Where do you come from in Ireland?” Viola shrugged off his apology. She’d never heard a word about his life prior to 1855, when he’d started his freighting company.
“I was born near Bantry Bay in County Cork, on the estate of Lord Charles Mitchell.”
“Did your family have a farm there?” Viola’s ever-present curiosity bubbled into full life.
William hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching hers. She smiled at him encouragingly, hoping to hear a good story.
“My parents were servants at the great house before Lord Charles turned them off to save money in ’45. My father had a wee farm after that, and a few good horses for trading.”
Viola did some calculations in her head. She’d been born in 1843 but she’d still heard talk of Ireland. “The first year of the famine.”
“Aye.” Old agony echoed in his voice.
“But your family,” Viola sighed and fell silent, thinking of the stories that had been told and retold in Cincinnati. Molly and Brigid had said only that they were too young to remember much. Their grim expressions had discouraged any additional questions.
“We were evicted from our farm in ’47,” William answered her. “My two little sisters, my mother who was eight months gone with child, my father, and myself. They burned our home and they left us penniless and starving in the rain.”
Viola was horrified. How could anyone leave a pregn
ant woman and three children without shelter in the rain? “The callous sons of bitches,” she cursed, entirely forgetting propriety. “Wasn’t there someplace for you to go? The workhouse, perhaps?”
“We took shelter in an abandoned cottage. But my mother went into labor the same night.”
Viola stood up and hugged him fiercely, as her eyes blurred. “Dear God.”
William froze, then leaned against her, as if seeking shelter from that night’s cold rain.
“The labor was difficult, with the babe turned in the womb and not helping. My father did his best to help her, while I tried to comfort my sisters. They tried to be brave but, Blessed Virgin, how they cried.”
He stopped, his face engraved with anguish. He must have looked the same way on that wet Irish night so long ago. Viola stroked his shoulder tentatively, afraid to speak.
“My father sent me for help. The storm was fierce and it seemed to take forever before I found the midwife. I wished with every step that I could do more. Put a strong house around them, food on the table to give her strength, anything.”
Tears blinded her but she hung on William’s every word.
“My brother Séamus came into this world that night, although he never drew breath here. My mother died before dawn, too worn from hunger to survive the long labor. I swore on their graves that no wife or child of mine would ever suffer as they had.”
“Oh, my poor darling,” Viola gasped as she fought to breathe past the sorrow that choked her. She’d longed for a child of her own but she’d never felt a babe quicken in her womb. William’s loss made her emptiness deeper and stronger until she could scarcely think. She trembled, but kept her arms around him.
“Typhus claimed my sisters within the month,” William rasped as he stared straight ahead, one hand gently patting her. “Da took me to Cobh after that, where he earned a living as a forger. He partook of gin, deeply and often, to escape the memories. I swore I wouldn’t do the same, since that would be deliberately forgetting the lost ones.”
Sobbing, Viola buried her face against his hair, but his last words cut into her heart.
“And I swore I’d gain money any way I could. If we’d had cash, my family would still be alive.”
Merciful heavens, no wonder he sought money and power so fiercely.
Abruptly, William wrenched her onto his lap and locked his arms around her in a bruising grip. Great shudders ran through his body. She buried her face against him and wept enough for both of them.
It seemed hours before she stirred. Her head hurt from crying so hard, her nose was running, and her eyes and throat felt like sandpaper. His shoulder was sopping wet from her tears. She undoubtedly looked a fright, but William simply handed her his big bandanna.
Viola wiped her cheeks and blew her nose. How had he survived that much pain?
He turned her in his arms and settled her against his other shoulder. Exhaustion marked his face and his eyes were red.
She nestled as she considered how best to comfort him. Viola caressed his cheek. “Darling William,” she murmured, and leaned up to him.
Their mouths slid over each other as if relearning the shape, then settled into a gentle kiss. Viola caressed his head and enjoyed the simple renewal. But all too soon William lifted his head and closed his eyes, one hand warm on her back.
He needed more easing.
Viola untied his neat silk cravat and unbuttoned his stiff white collar. William cocked an eyebrow but said nothing when she carefully removed both cravat and collar.
She paused for a moment to consider her next move. His legs’ strength was as hot and solid under her silk-clad derrière as the desert floor on a summer day. She could see the pulse beating in his throat and feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He was so vitally alive, unlike his lost family. She needed to celebrate his survival.
Viola unbuttoned his shirt’s top button, then another and another. William sighed as the soft collarband loosened its grip around his throat. She pressed a kiss to the small scab there. He rumbled soft approval but didn’t open his eyes.
She opened his shirt and the cotton undershirt. She slid her hand inside and briefly glided her fingers over his nipples. He shuddered as a soft gasp escaped him.
Even in dishabille like this, his western clothing was so much more respectable than her Chinese tunic and pants. But the Chinese clothing could be removed so much faster. She smiled to herself.
“Lean forward please, William. Let me take off your jacket.”
“We should go to the bedroom,” he murmured, and started to straighten up.
Viola settled herself more firmly on his legs. “No.”
“Are you refusing me?” He blinked at her and her heart twisted at how tired his eyes were. Had he ever spoken of his loss before? Probably not, or he’d have learned to be less drained by the telling.
She tilted her chin at him in mock hauteur. “Me? Refuse you? Certainly not. But I do believe you could remove some of your clothing without doing harm.”
He chuckled and some of the light returned to his face. “Teasing me, are you? Very well.”
He shifted in the chair as she’d requested, and she quickly removed his jacket. She slid his braces off his shoulders and down his arms, then peeled his shirt off and stood up.
He lifted his hips to free his shirttails, his expression quizzical. “You seem very determined tonight, sweetheart. Must I be polite lest you blast me with shells full of rock salt?”
Viola giggled at his gentle banter. “I am certain, sir, that a true gentleman like you would never need to be rebuked with salt,” she answered demurely. Then, more briskly, “Your undershirt next, William.”
“As you wish, sweetheart.” He peeled the intruding garment off while remaining in the chair, leaving only the crucifix and medals around his neck.
She sighed at the picture he presented. She’d learned enough of the masculine physique, thanks to him, to recognize its sensual temptations.
She’d always thought him beautiful, and now she feasted her eyes on him, anticipating the evening’s frolics. The broad shoulders, strong arms, deft hands with their long nimble fingers. The strong chest, with its muscles and neat pelt of black hair above the clean ridges of his abdomen. His skin was milk-white except where the sun had kissed his throat, forearms, and hands.
Her breasts tightened at the sight.
Viola removed his clothing to the piano, then stood over him, arms akimbo as she pondered her next move. “You need to be rid of those boots,” she decided, and stooped down.
“As you wish, sweetheart.” He aided her as much as he could while remaining in the chair. Soon the offending footwear, including his wool socks, departed his feet.
She stood up to place his elegant Wellington boots alongside his other attire and caught a glimpse of the solid ridge behind his fly. He was breathing harder now and a faint sheen of sweat clung to his chest.
Viola choked as a blaze of lust scorched her. Her nipples were hard and urgent, and her pussy tightened as if to embrace him. Dew slipped down her thigh in welcome for this man.
But he didn’t move. He didn’t pounce on her. “Sweetheart, do you mean to stand for hours with my boots in your hand?” he drawled, his voice rich with carnal undercurrents. He must be enjoying her attentions.
“Of course not.” She brought herself back under control and took his socks and boots away. “Kneel on the floor please, before the piano.”
He came to his feet with the easy grace of a prowling mountain lion and strolled to the spot designated. Dear heavens, his back was magnificent with the smooth sweep of his spine bisecting those impressive muscles.
“Kneel, sweetheart?” he questioned.
“On all fours, if you would, after you unbutton your fly.”
“You are a constant surprise, sweetheart. Very well.” He unbuttoned his trousers very slowly until she trembled with hunger. She could see the hard length of his cock, and watched it stretch and fill
with every movement as he deliberately teased her. She did so enjoy the sight of him.
She bit her lip until she drew blood, and somehow managed not to lunge at him. The silk was very damp between her legs.
He lowered himself easily to the floor, then looked up at her over his shoulder. “Now what?”
“You’re obviously overdressed for the occasion,” Viola observed huskily. She ran her fingers lightly down his spine, as if playing an arpeggio. He shuddered and arched into her touch.
She smiled more confidently and skimmed her hand over his shoulders in the lightest possible touch. “You are so beautiful, William.”
Her hand slipped inside his trousers. He gasped and lifted his hips toward her. Another tremor slid through him, and she knelt down beside him.
She fondled his hips and derrière, enjoying the contrast between soft skin and hard muscle, the hard line of his spine and the solid curve of his buttocks, his flat stomach and the roaring heat of his cock when it brushed her fingers.
She leaned closer to him and rubbed herself over him, savoring how her tunic’s silk barely shielded her skin from his shape and textures. She straddled his leg and rubbed her eager mound against his thigh. She pressed her nipples into his back and he jerked, rumbling a stream of Irish words as she teased him.
His thick black hair fell forward around his face. The golden lamplight caressed his skin until he seemed a god. His hands clenched into fists but he obeyed her requests.
Nothing in the world existed except this man and herself.
“Bloody hell,” he moaned, “now she starts enticing me of her own will. Sweet singing Jesus, how can I protest?”
“Then don’t, silly man.” She dropped a kiss on his shoulder as she cupped his balls, his crisp hairs tickling her fingers. “Just let me remove your pants. And drawers, too, of course.”
“Of course.” His voice was husky, almost rasping.
She drew the intruding cloth over his thighs, baring him to her avid gaze. She nuzzled his hip and licked him. “You have such a beautiful ass.”
The Irish Devil Page 21
