Frail Blood

by Jo Robertson

  Confusion and disbelief played across her face. "But, but I want this," she protested, reaching for him again. "You want this."

  "God, yes," he groaned into her hair before taking several steps away from her. "But it's been a long day, Emma, for you – for both of us. You need rest now, not ... not this."

  She'd likely never know the cost of those words.

  Without another sound he turned on his heel and tramped off into the forest, his cock protesting with a will of its own against the tightness of his pants.

  It was only lust, he told himself. Another woman would do as well to ease it. And he half believed himself.

  #

  Emma drew in a harsh breath and let it out on a groan, staring at the reflection of her chemise-clad body in the cheval-glass. Her reddened cheeks, her tousled hair, her heaving breasts, mottled pink from Malachi's whiskers – all proved that she enjoyed his attentions.

  Her emotions had flooded from some untapped well within her, a place she'd never known existed where they'd lain unacknowledged and unexplored for years. She now realized she'd buried them in art books and physiology sketches, masked them with the curiosity of the school books and drawings.

  When she returned to the house after Malachi left, she'd drawn the curtains in her bedroom and removed her outer clothing, everything but her chemise and drawers, and now she peered into the pale sliver of her face reflected back at her. She seemed different, altered somehow by an earth-shattering change.

  When her mother had administered what Emma called "The Talk," she'd never hinted at these potent emotions. No, her mother had spoken of duty and discomfort, likening the act itself to the barnyard antics of animals. Mating, she'd called it, and then slapped her hands together as if brushing the dirt off them.

  No hint of uncontrolled passion, no allusion to mindless ardor.

  Emma shook her head and watched red fire dance around her shoulders in the mirrored reflection. She ran her fingertips over her mouth, testing the texture of her lips. Were they swollen from his kisses? She brushed a kiss against the flesh of her inner wrist. How had her flesh felt to him when he explored her neck so thoroughly?

  At Wellesley, and even before then, she'd been kissed on many occasions. Curious, she'd even allowed several gentlemen to slip their tongues into her mouth.

  Those experiments had been ... interesting. Wet and timid, sometimes nice, often sloppy, but certainly nothing profound. Malachi's kiss had left her mindless, had shaken her so badly she'd felt she might fall into a faint.

  His mouth was moist and dry at the same time, both soft and hard against her skin. But more than that, the core of her had responded to him with an elemental force that frightened her. She'd felt herself slipping away, losing all rational thought, forgetting every single reason why a man should not have such unrestrained access to her body.

  For God's sake, she'd welcomed him, had all but unfastened his trousers and taken him in her hand. Oh, she'd wanted to do that. Driven by curiosity and need, she'd nearly begged him to release himself from his clothing's strictures.

  A strange moodiness came over her. Damn him! Why had he roused her so thoroughly and then stopped what he'd begun?

  He wanted her. She knew that as surely as she knew her own name. He must have no doubt that she was willing. Then why had he rejected her? Perhaps he feared unwanted consequences.

  She'd not thought of that. She had heard of womb veils, sheaths, and various herbal concoctions, but she had no real knowledge of how they worked to prevent a child. A girl at Wellesley had once whispered of condoms in mysterious and sly tones.

  But surely Malachi did not casually carry such an item with him. He couldn't have sensed her attraction to him, could he?

  Mama had not included these topics in her lecture, most likely assuming her daughter would avoid such an unpleasant experience as sexual congress.

  Weary of such thoughts and feeling suddenly sweaty, Emma finished undressing and dipped a cold cloth into the wash basin. She stroked it across her fevered cheeks and neck. After a moment, she put on her nightgown and lay down, but moments later her body still heated the cool sheets and her mind chattered through her tired brain.

  She reached for the book on her bedside table, her art book from Wellesley, which included some of Michelangelo's sketches of the human form. Opening the book to page 124, she traced her forefinger along the drawing, around the sketch of a man's buttocks and back, then onward to the next page where the penciled drawing of a man's penis and testicles were clearly outlined.

  Another page showed the statue of David. The subject's organ was tiny, such a stark contrast to what she'd felt with her body aligned against the hardness of Malachi's groin.

  She wanted to feel that firm stiffness again. Not the flaccidity shown in the sketch, but hard and jutting like Malachi's body against her.

  That's what she wanted.

  And she would not be ashamed of that desire.

  Chapter 10

  "Though justice be thy plea, consider this, that in the course of justice none of us should see salvation."

  – The Merchant of Venice

  The Monday morning trial session began late while Judge Underwood glowered from the bench and Charles Fulton hurried down the courtroom aisle. Malachi turned his head to watch the prosecutor with curiosity.

  He'd never seen the man so flustered. Face purplish-red as a garden beet, morning coat buttoned askew, Fulton approached the magistrate and whispered something over the podium.

  The judge banged his gavel heavily, jerked his head toward Malachi, and growled, "In my chambers, gentlemen. Now!"

  What now? What trick had Charlie pulled out of his sleeve?

  When Malachi closed the door behind him, Fulton started right in. "He's persuaded the Knights to champion Alma Bentley's cause, a clear breach of ethics!"

  "What are you talking about?" Malachi shot back, trying to look unaffected. The district attorney couldn't possibly know about the incident with Emma last night. It was just like Fulton to make a hurricane out of a squall.

  "Mr. Prosecutor, explain yourself." Underwood brandished the gavel he still held at Fulton's nose. "You'd better not be pulling sneaky shenanigans in my courtroom."

  "He's been hobnobbing with Stephen Knight and – " When Charlie got upset, he looked like a small child crying for a lost toy. His face reddened unbecomingly and his mouth drooped in a pout.

  Confusion clouded the judge's florid face. "The artist? Franklin Knight's brother?"

  "The Knights have asked Mr. Rivers to employ their daughter," Fulton said. "Miss Knight is the newspaper editor. That, your honor, is a violation of propriety, if not law!"

  "Miss Knight has agreed not to act in the name of the press for the duration of the trial," Malachi explained. "She'll assist me only in the most insignificant ways." He wouldn't lie to Underwood, but he wondered how true his words were. To what degree did he think he could manipulate Emma?

  "Sounds to me like Malachi's got the situation under control, Charles," the judge said, sinking into a chair. "Why make a fuss at this point in the trial?"

  "There's no way Mr. Rivers can assure the woman's cooperation," Fulton sputtered, an unbecoming drool of saliva coating the corners of his mouth. "She's already printed a damning interview."

  "Humph," Underwood said, "Not damning to the prosecution, however."

  Fulton has the grace to look embarrassed.

  "As long as the woman doesn't write any articles about the trial in that newspaper of hers, I see no conflict." Underwood aimed a dark look Malachi's way. "But if she does, young man, you'll be facing a contempt charge."

  Fulton smirked at Malachi as the judge continued. "I don't hold with anyone screwing around in my courtroom, understand?"

  "Sir," Fulton began his protest.

  "Shut the fuck up, Charles," the judge growled. "That warning goes for the prosecution too."

  "Yes sir," Fulton mumbled.

  "Absolutely, sir." Malachi threw a
disgusted look at Fulton. The man was a weasel. If Emma had been helping the prosecution instead of the defense, he'd have no problem with the supposed breach of ethics.

  Now Malachi wondered just how much luck he'd have keeping Emma in line. Especially after last night.

  But he hadn't forced anything on her; she'd been willing, by God. He'd bet his life on it.

  #

  The morning session continued with the testimony of several more witnesses for the prosecution. Malachi noted covertly that Emma made no appearance in court today. Did she stay away in order to keep her bargain? Or was she too upset to face him?

  His behavior last night had distracted and confused her. And himself no less. Had he made an irretrievable error in judgment? Could they get past that and move forward with the business of the trial?

  At the luncheon break, he made his way down the gently sloping hill to the Tea Room where he asked Molly to prepare sandwiches for him. Then he spent the rest of the two-hour break in his office, going over his witness notes.

  Malachi planned to call only a few witnesses, primarily women, to testify to Alma Bentley's good character. He wanted to demonstrate her work ethic, her responsibility, and her innocence. At least how naïve and innocent she'd been before she met Joe Machado.

  He'd contemplated calling Mr. and Mrs. Machado to testify, but discarded the idea immediately. Too risky. Their grief might overwhelm any sympathy he could gain for Alma. But why they'd continue to employ a cleaning girl who fraternized with their son was a question he'd like the jury to wonder about.

  The jangle at the front door drew his eyes through his office to the reception area. Emma Knight moved gingerly through the outer room toward the open door of his private chamber, looking around with apparent discomfort.

  Today she wore a severe plum jacket buttoned to her neck and a black skirt that fitted her slender form snugly. Her hat bloomed with outrageously wild plumes in varying hues. She looked beautiful, but awkward, as she shifted from one foot to the other like a restless child.

  Then she caught his eye through the doorway.

  "May I come in?" Her voice betrayed none of the nervousness of her body.

  Malachi stood and offered her the chair opposite his desk. "Certainly. We have several issues to discuss."

  "We do?"

  "About the case." The expectant look fled her face and he felt suddenly optimistic, though he couldn't say why.

  She studied her hands. "Of course, the case. We should speak about how you intend to bring about Alma's acquittal."

  For a moment Malachi pondered the wisdom of sharing his courtroom strategem with her, but decided if he was in for a penny, then the pound would have to do. "I'm not going to argue that she is innocent."

  Emma nodded. "She's all but admitted her guilt."

  "Yes." He paused a moment longer before continuing. "I intend to demonstrate that Alma was driven to commit this crime by Joseph Machado's heartless treatment of her. He despoiled her, compromised her reputation, and promised her marriage. Then when another woman took his fancy, he discarded her like yesterday's trash."

  He liked the sound of those phrases and jotted a note on his ledger.

  "You intend to bring her damaged reputation to the forefront?" He heard her voice rise in outrage and from the corner of his eye saw her jump up to place her fists on the edge of the desk.

  "There's hardly any controversy about her reputation," he argued without looking up or standing. "That's sullied enough. I must now save her life."

  "But – but don't you think a woman has the right to take a lover?" When he glanced sharply at her, she faltered. "Just – just as much as a man does?"

  Where was Emma headed with this line of thinking? Surely she didn't compare her own reputation to Alma Bentley's. He forced steel into his voice and finally rose to stand at the edge of the desk, her rigid form mere inches from him.

  "That's not the point, Emma. I must show that Alma would not have murdered Joseph Machado if he'd not led her down such a path of sin and wickedness." He looked steadily at her until her beautiful chocolate eyes fell away and she turned her back to him.

  "Is sensual pleasure such a road to sin then?" she whispered.

  Malachi thoughtfully eyed her. She posed the question innocently enough, but he wondered if she referred to Alma or to herself. "I suppose it depends on the woman."

  She shook her head, as if she failed to understand or disagreed with the concept, and paced the short distance across his small office. Her back still facing him, she tilted her head to scrutinize the Picasso on the wall.

  "If you defend Alma as if she were a child, easily led by a man's wicked desires, you absolve her of responsibility for her actions," she said at last, turning to face him. "And strip her of equality with a man."

  Now he felt it, the simmering of her temper, whether at herself or him or the defendant he wasn't sure, but her anger lay just beneath the surface of a composed façade.

  "My task is to get Alma acquitted of murder charges," he grated out, impatient with her noble ideas. "Her equality means nothing if she's dead."

  He meant to shock her with his harsh words and edgy tone, and he must've succeeded for her face blanched right before her temper boiled to the surface. She clutched her fists at her hips and stepped toward him. He moved forward until he felt her hot, rapid breath on his chin.

  "My concern isn't with women's equality, Emma," he continued. "My allegiance is to my client." He lowered his voice in a more conciliatory tone, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

  She jerked away from him, her face flushed, her jaw set. "Your client should not be exonerated from premeditated murder simply because she's a woman," she ranted. "If she is guilty, she cannot be acquitted based on her sex. Such a defense may set women's rights back by decades!"

  At her obstinate idealism, he felt his own anger soar. "All women and their so-called rights are not my concern."

  Emma shook her head. "Alma must be held to answer the same as a man."

  "The same as a man?" he shouted. "The very fact that she isn't a man is the point."

  "Yes," she answered bitterly, "she's merely a woman, one treated little better than a child, with no rights or privileges."

  Damned stubborn woman! He paused and moved to close the door into the antechamber lest someone walk in on their railing with one another. He leaned against the door, folded his arms across his chest, and tried to calm down. "Do you really think Alma Bentley should go to the gallows for acting in a moment of angered passion after being jilted by a scoundrel?"

  Emma's eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she wouldn't abandon her position. "If she is guilty, she should not be acquitted based on her sex."

  He raked his fingers through his hair and tried again. "I must speak to a jury – a group of twelve men who will not believe a woman is capable of committing such a heinous act."

  He took a deep breath and walked slowly towards her. "Emma, these jurors want to understand why Alma committed this unspeakable violence. They will believe that she was led astray by a man, morally corrupted so that she had no will of her own."

  He took her by her upper arms and held tight. "They want to believe it."

  He was aware of the heat of her body through the jacket, saw the sheen of sweat on her brow, and felt the unseasonable warmth in the room. "I can get them to acquit Alma if I employ this line of reasoning. Otherwise she will hang."

  Emma blinked and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  He would not let go of her even though she attempted to twist away from him. "Perhaps Alma Bentley should be held accountable for the murder of Joseph Machado, but what about the shabby way her dead lover treated her?"

  She finally wrenched from his grasp.

  Malachi gave her no quarter and blocked her escape with his body. "Alma worked as a housekeeper in the home of Joseph's parents. She engaged in a sexual relationship with him and had expectations that he would do the honorable thing and marry her. Still he c
ast her off without consideration and went to another woman's bed."

  His face was now mere inches from hers, a pale mask beneath the dark plumes of her hat. "What about that injustice? Where is Alma's right to protect her honor?"

  Emma hesitated and Malachi almost thought he'd gotten through to her, forced her to think of the complexity of a women's position in current society. He remembered her hot, willing body last night. Surely she could see how close she'd come to being in Alma's position.

  He reached for her and pulled her hard against his chest, whispering in her ear. "Women like Alma Bentley are not like you, Emma. Your father's wealth and your own fortune protect you from the indignities most women face." He placed his lips against her temple. "Remember last night, Emma."

  She jerked away as if stung by an electric jolt.

  "These women need a liberal interpretation of the law," he said, "simply because they have so few rights."

  Her next words proved he hadn't broken through her narrow thinking after all.

  "No!" She held her arms out, palms forward, as if she'd hold him at bay. "There is a tide of reform sweeping across this nation, Mr. Rivers, and women are at the helm of it. You cannot treat us as children."

  He finally gave in to the delicious release of his own aggravation. "So it's back to Mr. Rivers again?"

  He spun away, sickened with both of them, weary of the heavy arousal that hung between them and clouded the more important issues.

  Her words echoed in his ears. "Women are a force to be reckoned with and when we are granted franchise, we can no longer be ignored."

  Malachi turned in disgust to face her again. "I don't wish to ignore you, Emma." He raked his eyes insolently up and down her body, lingering on her heaving breasts, remembering the sweet, heavy swell of them and her heady response when he tasted her flesh with his mouth. "Quite the opposite."

  "You cannot continue to treat us as chattel," she muttered.

  Fury and remembered passion propelled his words. "You don't know what you want," he taunted. "You've got Papa's money and your safe, wealthy life to protect you."