Purring at the image, Nick knocked back some brandy and allowed himself to remember exactly how and when he’d first had the pleasure of Desdemona’s mouth.
It was a cold winter day in 1862 when eighteen-year-old Nick Lennox had boarded the City of Thebes, a Hudson River steamboat, to return to Columbia. Paul had flatly forbidden Nick to follow him into the Army, so Nick was compelled to do his best at school, while watching for chances to better his life after graduation.
His fellow passengers were the usual sort, at least on the boiler deck—mostly stolid merchants who’d have neither conversation nor connections to offer him.
Damn. He’d hoped to make a few contacts on the voyage downriver, men who could one day throw business to a young banker. He planned to take over Dunleavy & Livingston from his godfather, Silas Dunleavy, but needed money and connections to do so.
Although blackmailing Mrs. Pendleton—she of the adulterous liaison with a Negro carpenter—had paid his tuition, it wasn’t enough to compete for top dog in New York banking against that sanctimonious idiot, J. Pierpont Morgan.
All in all, it looked like a boring trip, especially without a nymph de fleuve onboard, one of the harlots who specialized in amusing gentlemen on boat trips. He’d never understand why western riverboats barred them.
A whiff of his neighbors’ conversation reached him, as they, too, watched the last passengers come onboard.
“I say Grant’s the best of a bad lot,” pontificated the man beside Nick. “He did damn well at Forts Henry and Donaldson. And his victory at Shiloh was very well fought, very well indeed.”
“A tanner’s son? It’s McClellan for me. He’s at least something of a gentleman,” the other man said stubbornly. His words had the ring of an old argument, something that the two could repeat until they ran out of breath.
Nick paid them only the slightest heed, as he watched two women bid farewell on the dock. One was an exquisite little beauty, with creamy skin and pale gold hair starting to escape her bonnet. The other was probably her mother—taller, with dark hair, a splendid bosom, and a very trim waist. More importantly, both were wrapped in very expensive sable capes.
He smiled, smelling the sweet scent of money.
Unfortunately, only the mother came aboard; Nick would have enjoyed seducing the younger beauty. Still, older women often had a looser hand on the purse strings for a pretty male face.
“McClellan’s a cowardly fool,” said the first man.
“And Grant’s a drunken sot,” expostulated the other.
Nick’s inner demon nudged him into becoming devil’s advocate, and he turned to face them. “What about Robert Lee, gentlemen? He’s one of the Lees of Virginia and he married into George Washington’s family. You can be sure he’s one of the right sort of people.”
The two men glared at him. The older woman, she of the splendid curves, stared at him as the purser collected her ticket. Hope blazed in her eyes for a moment but was quickly veiled. She went below after one quick glance at his companions, closely followed by a Negro maidservant.
Nick blinked, startled by the woman’s reaction. He recovered himself and quipped, “If he wasn’t a rebel, that is.”
Grant’s advocate laughed. “If Lee was fighting for the right side, he just might be the best general on the Continent.” His friend joined in the laughter, and the brief contretemps was soon forgotten.
Nick found himself seated next to the woman at dinner, evidently a ploy by the steward to even up the numbers. Seen close up, she was a beauty of perhaps two score years, with dark blue eyes and raven hair. Their two dinner companions prattled on about cotton prices, with only the barest nods for Nick or the beauty.
“Nicholas Lennox, at your service, ma’am,” Nick introduced himself as he passed a tureen of turtle soup.
“Desdemona Lindsay, sir,” she answered in a soft southern drawl. “Are you related to the late Henry and Katherine Lennox?”
Curiosity reared its head. Wasn’t one of the Lindsays married to a southern belle? He racked his brains for the connection, but managed to answer her. “My parents, ma’am.”
“My condolences, sir. They were truly exemplars of the right sort of people. As is General Lee, God bless him.” As her voice lingered over the last sentence, she glanced up at him through her thick lashes. A coquette’s trick, but still damned effective.
Nick swallowed and silently cursed the color rising to his cheeks. Damn his lack of years; Paul never blushed. “Thank you, ma’am. That sentiment means a great deal, especially when coming from a lady like yourself.”
She inclined her head, letting a single curl caress that long swan’s throat. God help him, she was beautiful. But ladies were so tedious in the bedroom, good for nothing but breeding heirs.
Her voice was soft, pitched to reach only his ears. Her husky tones triggered a slow roll of heat through his veins. “You are very kind, sir. You must be alone now, as I am.”
Nick shrugged and stirred his soup, watching a rich morsel rise to the top. He tried to think of something other than how her red mouth would look wrapped around his cock. “A fellow gets used to loneliness, ma’am.”
“Still, it can be a burden on the soul to be without loved ones, as I know to my cost. Perhaps we can ease one another’s pain. With private conversation, of course.”
Nick blinked. He’d been the object of advances before but never made so openly, or in so public a space. Perhaps he’d misunderstood her.
Then a slim hand rested on his thigh—and his clothes were suddenly too damn tight. He barely stopped himself from loosening his collar. What the devil was she doing?
The soft, warm weight of her touch glided higher.
He choked. His woolen undervest rasped his nipples.
Her fingers drummed gently on his legs.
His cock wanted to lunge out of his trousers. His spoon clattered onto the table.
She cupped her hand over his balls. No fondling, just her steady warmth seeping through wool trousers and drawers and into his loins. His heart began to thud like a recruiting band’s drum.
“Ma’am.” He tried to find words that would gain him a reprieve. He wanted more but not here, not now.
“Yes, Mr. Lennox?” One finger—one finger only!—stroked the underside of his cock through his trousers.
His breath caught with an audible wheeze.
“Problem, sir? Anything I can do to help?” the waiter asked.
“Just take the soup away. I’ll eat only plain foods tonight,” Nick rasped.
“Yes, sir. And you, ma’am?”
“You can remove mine as well,” she responded smoothly. Beneath the tablecloth, her hand began to glide slowly up and down his cock. Nick couldn’t have moved if the Angel Gabriel had blown his horn.
“Congratulations, ma’am, on your husband’s promotion to captain. Mighty clever work he did, down there in New Orleans,” the steward said, as he neatly stacked their dishes.
Her hand froze. Nick’s brain, never absent for long, lurched back into full life. Husband? She must be Richard Lindsay’s wife, the millionaire owner of that Ohio packet line.
Another harsher thought struck him. Why was she making advances to another man? And could he possibly make some money from it?
“Thank you, waiter, you’re very kind. Yes, the Lindsays are very proud of Richard.” She almost spat the word “Lindsays.”
Was she angry at them? What was going on?
Nick surreptitiously stroked the back of her hand under the tablecloth. With an almost painful jerk, her fingers returned to fondling him. Nick settled back to enjoy himself.
An hour later, the final course was removed from the table and diners stood up to stretch their legs. Nick’s cock was as full and aching as he’d ever known it to be; Desdemona Lindsay had a damnable skill for arousing a man. Several times, he’d had to clamp his fingers around her wrist lest he spend in his trousers like a callow youth, not a strong fellow of eighteen.
He held h
er chair, grateful that the full cut of his trousers hid most of his arousal. “Excellent meal, ma’am.”
“Indeed, although I think it might be improved by some meat. Lean young meat, fresh and tasty.”
Nick prayed his ears weren’t red. He was quite sure his cock was brilliantly crimson from the blood pounding in it. “Indeed? I’m sure any red-blooded man would be happy to provide you with a taste of such meat.”
Her tongue strayed across her lips, raising images of how it could pleasure his loins. He forced himself to keep his breathing steady.
Mercifully, their dinner companions were still totally absorbed in the high price of cotton. They took their lamentations to the bar without a second glance at Nick and Desdemona’s doings. The waiters also paid little attention as they rapidly cleared tables.
“Do you truly think so? I do hope you’re right,” she breathed. “Perhaps you could stop by my stateroom in, say, ten minutes, with a sample?”
“It would be a pleasure, ma’am,” Nick said sincerely.
“You are so kind, sir.” Her voice was honey smooth, an incitement to undreamed-of delights.
Nick inclined his head. Ten minutes later, to the second, he rapped softly on Desdemona’s door. It opened immediately and he slipped inside, his cock at flagrant attention.
Wearing a heavy brocade peignoir and slippers, Desdemona closed the door quickly and turned to face him. She was as beautiful and mysterious as Delilah, with her black hair softly curling around her face. Her breasts rose and fell under the silk, drawing his attention to the valley between them where bare skin showed.
He’d make sure he saw all of her this night, enjoy any part of her he desired—after she explained what she really wanted. Carnal pleasures were quite enjoyable, but not nearly as important as the possibility of some lucrative blackmail. After all, the Lindsays were so very, very rich; they could afford to pay for silence about a matriarch’s adultery.
“Thank you for coming,” she breathed and leaned up against him. He took command of the kiss quickly, learning the taste of her lips and mouth until she moaned and leaned against him. Her nipples were full and hard, stabbing into his chest.
The slut.
He kissed her harder. He ran his hands down her back and squeezed her ass. She shuddered. Her legs spread. One leg wrapped around his thigh.
Nick tore his mouth away. He needed to climax so he could start thinking and make her beg for completion. Otherwise, he’d be the one promising anything, just so the witch would give him release.
“My cock—” he began and winced at how hoarse his voice sounded.
“Oh, your beautiful man meat.” She smiled wickedly and licked her lips. “Does it ache?”
“You know it does.”
She smiled again. Delilah must have worn the same look of carnal knowledge. She stepped away and dropped to her knees. She rubbed her cheek against his cock.
Nick’s breath stopped. His cock, however, knew exactly what to do and somehow swelled even larger. If he didn’t spend soon, he’d probably burst, given the pressure in his balls.
His brain, on the other hand, yammered something about how ladies never used their mouths on men. Never. So that couldn’t be a possibility.
“Such strong man meat,” she breathed. “Ripe and almost ready, rising from a man of fewer years than my youngest daughter. Perhaps it needs some help.”
Nick’s head fell back against the door as his hips pulsed against her cheek.
She unbuttoned his trousers swiftly, with a knowing chuckle. A moment later, his cock was in her hands. Her strong, knowledgeable hands.
His cock throbbed, as it wept pre-come over its length. His balls tucked themselves even higher and tighter into his groin, desperate to release their heavy burden.
Nick bit his lip until it bled.
Desdemona’s wicked tongue tasted his seed, teased his cock.
He groaned. His hips pushed again and again at her face.
Suddenly, her mouth swallowed his cockhead. She sucked hard.
Instantly, climax ripped through him. Seed boiled up from his balls, through his cock, and into her voracious mouth. He arched. He all but howled as she drank him dry.
He sagged against the door afterward.
She looked up at him and, very deliberately, cleaned her lips with her tongue. “Man meat. How delicious,” she murmured and smiled confidently at him.
Self-preservation triggered his brain back into action. She was too self-assured.
“What do you want?”
Her eyelashes swept down, veiling the truth. “You, of course.”
He gripped her chin and forced it up. “What else?”
She tried to jerk away.
His grip tightened; he didn’t care if she bruised.
She stilled and glared at him.
Good. More wariness in her expression made him feel safer. “What else?” he repeated, more harshly.
She bit her lip, but finally answered him sullenly. “I have family in Kentucky. The war is difficult for them and they need the necessities of life—food, medicines, clothing.”
“What of it?”
“Kentucky is troubled and half-lawless. Goods often disappear on the journey. I need someone reliable who can ensure my gifts arrive safely.”
“Is that all?”
“Of course it is. What more could there be?” she spat back at him.
He studied her for a long time in the dim light. She glared back at him unflinchingly.
Finally, Nick nodded. Paul had said he could borrow the O’Flahertys if he needed help. “Three brothers work for me. They can deliver your goods.”
Her eyes blazed with joy. “Thank you! Oh, thank you, kind sir!”
She sprang up and hugged him, her peignoir falling open.
He kissed her again. She responded eagerly, moaning a little as their tongues dueled.
Stuff and nonsense, how women worked themselves up over trifles. She obviously didn’t know how to pay a simple bribe to get the food delivered.
Her leg rubbed his again. He groaned as his cock began to harden. Her errands were so trifling he wouldn’t bother to tell Paul. He’d just tell the O’Flahertys to take care of matters. With that decision, Nick set himself to enjoying the rest of the night in Desdemona’s bed.
Nick cursed himself for the callow fool he’d been. Desdemona Lindsay had been concerned with far more than food and medicines. Her nefarious schemes had risked Paul’s life, and that of every other Union soldier, more than once.
He would never forgive her for that. He hadn’t thought of a punishment good enough for her yet, although he enjoyed experimenting every time they met.
Desdemona was now his frequent lover, although she delighted in appearing the perfect society lady in public. A few months ago, she’d hesitated to set the Lindsay hounds on the Schuyler bitch. When she’d finally yielded, she’d given him a superb cocksucking, which had almost made him forget her previous reluctance.
Nick took a long, slow sip of brandy and stroked his cock as he considered his options.
If his arrangements came together, Donovan and Lindsay would be dead within the week. Then he wouldn’t need the Schuyler chit’s fortune to bury them.
Still, how could a man turn away from it? It would be a shame to waste all that beautiful money, which made even Commodore Vanderbilt turn polite, on a lanky female with no feminine graces.
She needed finding and taming and marrying—just so one lucky fellow could have the pleasure of spending every last dollar the Schuylers had ever made, while dancing on Donovan’s and Lindsay’s graves.
He’d find her. Somehow, somewhere, he’d have his hands on her again and this time, he wouldn’t let go until his ring was on her finger.
Chapter Six
Hal dutifully kissed his mother’s cheek as he listened, with only half an ear, to her laments about the journey from Chicago, while Cicero grumbled from behind his master’s leg. Rosalind would be safe on the Cherokee B
elle in a few minutes, far from his parents, who might recognize her and insist on returning her to that brutal bastard, Lennox.
Viola and William would also be better off onboard. Hal didn’t know everything that had happened between Mother and Viola back in ’65, just that Viola had turned steely in Mother’s presence while Mother became tongue-tied, a most unusual state of affairs. Best to keep them separated as long as possible.
“I’m glad you made it here safely,” he said finally, more to put an end to her complaints than because he’d truly been worried. Every child of Richard and Desdemona Lindsay had realized early in life that nothing in this world mattered as much to Mother as her own comfort. Heaven knows she’d never disturbed her routine long enough to nurse him through the aftermath of Father’s lessons.
A roustabout nodded as he went past, easily balancing a ham on each shoulder. Hal returned the greeting casually, and Cicero barked automatically.
No sign of any other passengers except the Old Man, his parents’ servants, and now Ezra jumping down from the wagon, leaving Samuel to hold the reins.
“So why did you come if it makes you so wretched?” Hal asked bluntly, considering his father’s presence. The Old Man had never, to his knowledge, come further upriver than Jefferson City, days below Kansas City.
She hesitated, catching his full attention. That ridiculous feathered hat shadowed her face so he couldn’t read her.
“There are duties to be performed,” Mother said finally, “which we need to discuss with you at length and in private.”
She emphasized the last word as she eyed two approaching roustabouts with disfavor. They touched their hats, stepped around her carefully, and trotted toward Front Street.
Hal’s eyebrows elevated. Mother wanted to discuss duty? The last time she’d mentioned that word was when she’d tried to talk him into joining the Confederate Army—preferably his uncle Beauregard’s regiment—instead of the Union Navy.
“Indeed,” he murmured noncommittally. Ezra, efficient as ever, dammit, was now organizing his parents’ luggage, helped by Obadiah and Rebecca, his parents’ longtime Negro servants, and the two roustabouts.
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