The Northern Devil
Page 27
She laughed, the sound soft and musical like bells showing the way home through an early winter snowstorm. “My dear northern devil, would I ask you to be anywhere except the West? Just promise me that you’ll come home every night to me and our children.”
“Every night, always.” He kept their kiss gentle, gliding his tongue over her mouth in a symbol of sealing their new vow.
She gave a soft moan and leaned forward, caressing his shoulders. His tongue teased the seam of her lips and she sighed again, kissing and playing with him in a sweet dance.
“Can we try to make a child tonight, Lucas?”
He frowned. “Weren’t we before?”
“But this time—because we love each other, not to silence some lawyers?”
She ran her tongue over her lip, looking more adorable than any dozen women had any right to. If he could have reached up into the heavens and brought down the moon for her personal enjoyment, he’d have done so.
“Of course we can, my darling.” He’d simply have to learn how to be a good parent according to her terms.
He kissed her again, more intensely, pushing aside the future trial for the current pleasure. He lingered over it, enjoying the luxury of time with her, the hedonism of hot water, soft gaslight to watch her by…
Best of all was the knowledge that they could do this tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…
She purred his name and stretched against him, rubbing herself over him like a cat, stroking him with her breasts and nipples until he groaned, heat spinning through him. Her silk robe might not have been there for all the distance it put between their skins.
One day, he’d feel his child’s heartbeat there, just as clearly.
Water danced, exploring the tub’s limits.
His nerves sang with exactly how taut her breasts were, how curved her stomach, how strong her thighs. He untied her robe and pulled it down her arms, the better to stroke her shoulders and kiss them.
She tossed her head back and laughed, sending ripples of joy through the room like the sun glinting on spring snow, while it melted
Lucas chuckled with her, more than willing to share anything that gave her pleasure—and deliberately pulled her robe completely off her.
She stretched her arms around his neck, nuzzled his throat, and stroked herself even more lasciviously over him.
Water splashed over the side.
He groaned and ran his hands down her back, his fingertips gliding over her spine and shaping her fine rump. Ravishing, oh so very ravishing.
Her sweet folds rippled around his cock, pinned between her thighs.
She moaned happily.
He almost came, fire lancing from his groin through his chest.
He gasped, reaching for some shred of logic. He could enjoy playing with a woman as much as any man. But this would never do, not for making babies.
He abruptly grasped her by her hips, making her kneel in the tub. He sat upright with his legs crossed, sending water hurtling out of the tub.
She choked.
An instant later, he lifted her up high, slipped his hands under her thighs, and brought her down across him—and astride his cock. He simultaneously wrapped her legs around his hips and bathwater exploded toward the ceiling.
She moaned and her eyes slid half-shut, arching in anticipation. “Oh yes please, Lucas.”
He bared his teeth in pure masculine triumph
Slowly, oh so very slowly, savoring every fine, delicious sensation of fiery hot cock sliding into tight wet channel, he slid into her.
She moaned again and again, helping him, her inner flesh kissing him. He lifted her up and down, down and up, water wildly sloshing across the floor with every beat and her sweet voice chanting his name.
Where ice had once lived in him with the stern determination never to think about who he was with, now his cock tightened every time a chestnut curl touched the water—because she’d tossed her head in passion—or her golden eyes glazed in anticipation.
He burned for her, through her, with her.
His balls were fat and heavy, orgasm a hairsbreadth away. Yet still he delayed beyond the bounds of reason, because she hadn’t reached hers.
He toyed with her pearl, coaxing it in just the manner she preferred.
She arched again, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and climaxed on a long ecstatic sob.
Instantly, he matched her, going blind as he filled her womb with his seed, the world as golden as her eyes. Rapture—and definitely the taste of heaven…
San Francisco, Christmas Eve 1873
Outside, the heavy winds and rain pounded at the windows of the fashionable new mansion. But inside, the big kitchen was filled with a dozen people and the enticing scents of melting butter, molasses, and pure sugar. The enormous central table was covered with square pans, each one thoroughly buttered. Some of them were full of delectable taffy, looking like spun gold under the shimmering gaslight.
Both Lawson and Braden were enveloped in once-white aprons, now much touched by flour, butter, and molasses. Lawson stood at the stove, giving careful attention to the boiling pot of taffy he was stirring. Braden bustled around, providing the eternal flow of small supplies to the partygoers.
T.L. Grainger—Lucas’s father—and Portia Townsend—Viola Donovan’s niece—were assembling a gingerbread house at a small table near the butler’s pantry. He’d arrived that afternoon, laden with gaudily wrapped packages, and looking surprisingly anxious under his urbane mask.
But the longer he sat with Portia, the more he relaxed and the more genuine his laughter became. And the more he and his son Lucas glanced at each other in true understanding and affection, sharing their relief that a beautiful young girl was looking less heartbroken.
Portia was genuinely smiling as she mastered the clearly unfamiliar task. She’d only slowly started to chatter since her abrupt, unexplained arrival from New York two months ago, for an indefinite stay with Viola and William Donovan. She was as blond and blue-eyed as Viola, with a cameo-pure beauty that would one day make men beg for a single smile. At the moment, however, her face was highlighted by streaks of red, green, and blue icing.
In the center of the room were the star attractions: Rachel’s mother and sister.
Mother was pulling taffy with her Los Angeles rancher, while her San Francisco lawyer was tying strands of taffy into Mother’s initials. Rachel had no idea which gentleman held the advantage in the competition for her mother’s favors.
Mercy currently had the rapt attention of three Donovan & Sons’ men. One was pulling taffy with her, one had rushed off to obtain butter for a small blister on her hand, while another was pulling taffy using a large hook embedded in the wall—and making a great display of strength as he did so, straining against the sugar in order to flex his arms and shoulder muscles. Mercy was paying only polite attention to him.
The doorbell rang and Braden marched off to answer it.
Rachel leaned against Lucas and tried not to chuckle. They were standing in the dining room doorway, which gave them some leeway for commentary. “Does Miller always show off quite so openly?”
“Not according to Evans.” Lucas carefully shifted their newborn son to his other arm and pulled Rachel close, his blue-green eyes gleaming with contentment. He’d been so deliciously protective of her during her pregnancy, but not too much so. He’d even found her a classics society, where she could continue her studies.
She wrapped her arm around his waist and snuggled happily. “Maybe he’ll stop doing so.”
William Donovan laughed, his six-week-old son sound asleep on his shoulder. “I’m afraid not. In fact, your sister seems to have captured the hearts of more than one Donovan & Sons’ employee.”
“Exactly as her older sister did,” Lucas said smugly. He dropped a quick kiss on the top of the top of her head, one of the little demonstrations of affection that were becoming easier and easier for him to give.
She snuggled closer and glanced
at the clock, calculating how much time had to elapse until they could go upstairs together.
The front door thudded open in the wind and Braden’s deep voice warmly greeted the newcomers. Rachel turned to welcome them, anticipating two of her favorite men.
Little and Lowell appeared in the door. Little was, as ever, big and quiet—but with a smile lurking behind his eyes at the sight of his godson, Lucas’s firstborn.
Lowell’s hair was still slightly damp and his face roughened by the harsh weather. A lock of black hair had escaped a comb’s instructions to fall over his forehead, highlighting his clear blue-gray eyes. He’d come straight from hauling freight into the northern gold mines, clearly delaying only to wash. His clothes reflected it—clean but not elegant on his rawboned frame, as befitted a young man of the outdoors, not the city. He was incredibly striking but not handsome, at least not yet.
A small sound escaped someone and Rachel glanced around. Portia was staring at Lowell like a woman, not a child, desperate to memorize every inch of him.
A shiver ran up Rachel’s back.
Lucas’s arm tightened around her. He stepped forward, with their son, and she gladly went with him. It was Christmas and she was united with her beloved northern devil, the greatest gift of all.
Author’s Note
My infinite thanks go to the superb staff of Golden Spike National Historic Site in Brigham City, Utah, Central Pacific Railroad Photographic History Museum at CPRR.org, and to Karen Woods for the perfect quote from Catullus.
During January and February 1873, House and Senate committees investigated corruption involving the Grant administration, the ruling Republican party, and the two railroads linked by the Golden Spike—the Union Pacific and the Central Pacific. After hearing detailed accounts by the broker himself of bribery (including dates and amounts of payments to the vice-president, vice-president-elect, and congressional members), the House committee reported that only the broker and the sole Democrat named were guilty. A series of votes to censure the recipients was later narrowly defeated in public session, after blatant lobbying on the floor of the House.
All characters are fictional, including all railroad staff. All errors are entirely my own.
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