EscapeWithMe (19 page)

She arched her back and dug her shoes into the mattress. A
harsh sound came out of her. It was his name. If she could open her eyes, she
knew her vision would swim.

The warmth of his mouth disappeared and her knees touched
her shoulders. A weak gasp left her as his cock penetrated, thick and very
hard. Her vagina still throbbed around the stiff flesh, which thrust fast and
deep.

Ryder groaned above her. She managed to open her eyes. Her
ankles bracketed his head and she saw her green shoes, which rocked as he
pounded into her. His sun-bleached hair was still barely in its ponytail,
hanging over his shoulder. He looked so broad and powerful over her. His face
was tense with lust and determination.

Those piercing blue eyes were watching her.

“Give it to me,” she heard herself say. That did it. A noise
of shock broke free from his mouth and his hips slapped home. He spilled into
her.

Warmth rose up again, surprising her. She climaxed anew and
her eyes lost focus. He hissed and it turned into a hoarse moan as he ground
against her.

Breathing became easier. Then seeing. Then moving. He
released her legs and she reached up to touch his face. The emotion in his eyes
was hypnotizing. He looked as if he wanted to say something, to put into words
what they had just experienced. He squeezed his eyes shut, silent. She was at a
loss for words too.

She pulled him down and he tucked his face into the bend of
her neck. They said nothing, but the embrace was enough for now.

Chapter Twelve

Ryder stared at his tavern meal without appetite. He would
need sustenance for the journey back to England, but with most of his remaining
wealth and all of Williams’ investment represented as various trade goods
sitting in the cargo hold of the ship, he found his stomach had soured. Poor
luck or simply insufficient planning could mean that the lot of it would be
confiscated upon landing, not to mention the possibility of being strung up from
the nearest tree to dance upon nothing.

“Not hungry?” Phillip asked. His half-brother had no such
thoughts, it seemed, as his plate sat empty. They had arrived in Le Havre
together early that morning on a postal packet and busied themselves for much
of the day with the purchase, delivery and loading of goods. The
Westerly
Wind
had arrived separately with MacKenzie at the helm, who would captain
its return route to England as he was the one most familiar with the coast near
Christchurch where Kelter would be ready with as many local farmers and
laborers as he could gather.

Phillip continued when Ryder didn’t answer. “I am forced to
admit that I am quite impressed with your handling of this run. It’s far
smoother than any I attempted, and I also didn’t have the connections to
arrange land transport.”

The compliment served to calm him, likely Phillip’s intended
result. Ryder brought some food to his mouth. “I will be glad when we’ve left
port, even gladder when we’ve landed the cargo.”

His brother drank deeply of his wine. A woman stopped at the
table to ask if Phillip wished for more. Surprisingly, he shook his head.
“Indeed. That MacKenzie fellow seems a very competent man, and whoever your
bookkeeper is, he is far more capable than mine ever was. You’re bound to make
twice the profit in the next few days than the most I managed in a single
month.”

Ryder smiled at his brother’s choice of pronoun—he. What
would Phillip’s face look like if Ryder told him all the things he did to his
bookkeeper? Ryder adjusted his seat, remembering anew the lovemaking they had
shared after Webb’s visit. Then, just before he rose from their bed to make for
the harbor and board the packet, he had taken her slowly, reveling in the
number of gasps he evoked.

His brother examined the remaining wine in his glass while
chewing his lips. He breathed in and sat up. “No matter what happens, I am
grateful for what you’ve done—about that damn business in Lydd and regarding my
debts. It means a great deal that you allowed me to come to Le Havre.”

Ryder sat back from his meal, his stomach settling now that
he had fed it something. “You’re welcome.” A small smile emerged on his
brother’s face. Phillip lifted his glass in silence.

After downing the last of his wine, Phillip sighed
contentedly. “Normally, I would now find myself a good whore and enjoy her
thoroughly before the ship departed in the morning.”

The word “whore” was strangely upsetting to Ryder, as though
its use diminished the cherished woman who continued to gather buyers back in
London. Verily he regretted his early treatment of her and the manner in which
he thought of her. Her first time with a man shouldn’t have been in that
setting. While exultant he was that first man, he mourned that it was merely
lust that drove him. Now…

He didn’t doubt that he would now regard differently any
woman so employed. How had she come to this occupation? What unknown acumen did
she possess of which the world was deprived?

“Retire early, Phillip, and alone. If I am forced to hunt
you down in the wee hours of the morning and find a woman in your bed…”

His brother chuckled. “Yes, yes. Perhaps I shall surprise
you and be the one to—oh
damn
my eyes!”

Ryder looked up from his nearly empty plate to find Phillip
attempting to be inconspicuous. He had turned away from the tavern door and
tilted his head as to make his countenance difficult to discern.

“What is it?”

Phillip’s whisper was fierce. “Webb, at the door.”

Ryder’s heart nearly stopped. He had been certain that the
postal packet had left London without their presence onboard known to Webb. He
and his brother sat at a booth near the rear of the tavern, which was quite
full of other patrons and a covey of laughing French prostitutes. Ryder
carefully peered over his shoulder.

It was Webb for certain. He was disheveled and seemed
exhausted. Had he just arrived in Le Havre? Ryder turned away and followed
Phillip’s example of sitting low in his seat and close to the wall.

Phillip glanced up at Ryder. “What do we do?”

The barmaid reappeared then and Ryder was grateful that she
momentarily blocked Webb’s view of their table. She asked in French if they
required more food or wine. The loud laugh of a prostitute rang out and Ryder
scrambled for a solution to their predicament. They needed a distraction.

He spoke in French to the barmaid. “Send over a harlot.”

“Ryder, what are you doing?”

The barmaid, an older woman with graying hair, looked at him
with pursed lips but after a quick curtsy, she went among the gaggle of
prostitutes. A couple gasped with feigned outrage betrayed by sly smiles. One
with blonde hair and heavy breasts approached. The sway of her hips was
exaggerated. A smile played at the corner of her mouth. As she stood at their
table, her expression was pleased.

“You are Englishmen?” she asked in English.

“We are,
mademoiselle
.” The term reminded Ryder of
Samantha and he firmly put her from his mind. He hooked his finger at the
blonde and she leaned down to display her full breasts. He continued in French.
“Do not look, but there is a tall Englishman at the door with graying black
hair and a brown coat. I will pay you handsomely to lure him away and keep him
occupied. Ply him with wine, drug him, exhaust him, I do not care.”

It was her turn to purse her lips at him, but she was
considering his offer. Ryder reached into his pocket and withdrew a generous
amount. Her eyes flicked down to the money in his hand. She smiled. His money
disappeared and she left the table.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” his brother said.

Ryder snapped back a retort. “Of course I don’t. If he sees
us, just keep your mouth shut.” He didn’t dare turn around to watch the
seduction unfold, but his brother threw surreptitious glances at the door.

“She’s talking to him. I don’t think he likes her though.
He’s trying to walk past her.”

Ryder fisted his hands beneath the table. Damn his luck.
“How did he learn we had boarded the packet bound for Le Havre? I saw no one
following me. Did anyone see you reach the harbor, Phillip?”

His brother was watching the exchange between Webb and the blonde,
but his expression betrayed his answer. “I saw someone but it wasn’t Webb and I
didn’t think—”

Ryder rubbed his hand across his face. “You fool.” He
thought he might regret allowing Phillip to participate in the first run, and
he had been right. “Did you not postulate that Webb might hire another to watch
your movements? The man obviously cannot be in several places at once.”

“Wait. I think—bless her, she’s taking him upstairs.” The
relief in Phillip’s voice was mirrored in Ryder. He breathed easier and risked
a glance to the stairs that led to the tavern’s short-term lodging. The blonde
smiled invitingly and pulled Webb by the hand.

Ryder stood.

Phillip was nearly shrill. “Where are you going?”

“Stay here.” He followed the pair to the next floor, keeping
his distance. Once he was certain they were somewhere private, he made note of
the room and checked his watch.

He then returned to the table. Phillip drummed his fingers
as though a bevy of revenue officers would burst into the inn at any moment.
“Change of plan. Return to the ship and rest there. I’ll remain here and ensure
that Webb is not capable of leaving. I shall endeavor to meet you at the dock
before we push off, but if I do not, leave without me.”

Phillip looked as though he would argue, but to his credit,
he offered no objections and gathered his coat. After a quick handshake, his
brother was gone.

Ryder returned to his seat. Exhaustion pulled at him but if
all went well, he could sleep on the return passage. A few minutes went by and
the same barmaid stopped at his table.

“Will you be staying,
monsieur
?” she asked in
English.

“Yes madam. I’ll take coffee, if you have it.”

“Oui, monsieur.”
She left.

A couple of hours passed. He had drunk his fill of coffee
and fortunately remained alert. The tavern was somewhat quieter as patrons went
to bed, often with a partner, but several unattached prostitutes awaited
patrons who were content to drink later into the night before taking their
pleasure. Those without the coin to afford them drank in silence, glaring into
their glasses. Groups of rowdy customers who had been ejected from other
establishments occasionally appeared, but either they were ejected as well or
they fell into drunken, thankfully quiet stupors.

When he would have asked the barmaid for another cup of
coffee, he spotted the blonde at the stairs. Her clothes were in disarray and
she beckoned him with a smile.

Ryder stopped the passing barmaid and paid his bill. He then
approached the stairs and the prostitute silently led him to the room she had
shared with Webb. She held her finger to her lips in a request for silence and
opened the door. Ryder braced himself and peered inside.

There on the bed, Webb was passed out on his stomach. His
broad back sported a few red lines where the blonde had scraped her nails. A
well-placed blanket spared the revenue officer his dignity. Satisfied, Ryder
straightened and the blonde closed the door.

“If I did not need it so much, I would return your money,”
she whispered in French. That satisfied smile reappeared upon her lips. “He is
very strong and—mm, virile for a man of his age.” The smile faded into a pout.
“He is cruel, though, for he would not remember my name. I told him my name is
Josette but he kept calling me Samantha. Why, I wonder—”

She stopped speaking at the expression on Ryder’s face. He
glared at the closed door, yearning to strangle the unconscious man on the bed.
For a split second, his half-mad fear that Webb and Samantha had shared a bed
preyed upon him, but he outright refused the notion. He trusted Samantha. He
wholeheartedly believed her when she affirmed that he had been the only man in
her bed, a state that he would perpetuate, for he would allow no other, and no
other woman would ever be in his.

“Who is this Samantha that you have this look for her?” the
blonde asked. Ryder calmed and returned his attention to the woman in front of
him. He pressed more money into her hand, much to her delight. “Do not worry,
monsieur
.
He will not wake until noon.”

Ryder nodded and she returned to the room. When the door
shut, he descended the stairs and left the tavern.

* * * * *

Oh sweet baby Jesus. It felt so good to have a clean scalp.
One thing Sam seriously needed to rectify and soon was her access to clean, hot
water, and not just enough to fill a hip bath. Mary never complained when Sam
wanted a bath, but enough hot water—sufficiently boiled as Sam could guess from
where that water came—to wash her hair in addition to her body was extra work
for the maid who had to haul it a pot at a time up the stairs. She was no
engineer, though, and didn’t think she’d be able to design a water heater or a
pipe system.

In the meantime, she sighed happily as Mary poured the last
of the hot water over her hair to rinse out the soap. The maid giggled.

“You certainly love to wash, Miss Samantha.”

Sam hummed. “I feel calmer once I’ve scrubbed away the
things that try to stick to me.” Mary made a noise of agreement.

“Wrap up your hair, and I’ll bring more water for your
regular bath.”

Sam wiped the water from her eyes, one hand still braced
over the hip bath and her knees cushioned by a folded towel. “Thanks again,
Mary. I know it’s a lot of work for you.”

“Not at all, miss. Cleaning up after Mrs. Hayes and all
those girls, not to mention the clients and the rooms….working here is far
better.” Sam heard Mary stand and leave the bathroom. “I’ll be just a few
minutes.” Her footsteps faded down the stairs.

After wringing water from her hair and grabbing the towel
under her knees, Sam gingerly stood to avoid dripping water all over the
floor—that’d happen soon enough. The towel around her body stayed put, so she
fluffed out the other towel in her hand and draped it over the back of her head
to rub the moisture from her hair.

The towel caught on something, though, pulling it tight
across her neck.

Her locket.

The chain popped and as the locket fell to the floor, so did
she.

Her knees hit hard. She also reached out to break her fall
and pain shot up her arm from where she smacked her palm into the floor. The
towel slipped from her head. Her lungs felt small, as if they couldn’t hold
more than a thimble of air. No, it’s that she didn’t want to breathe. Breathing
made it hurt. White-hot pain was ripping through her abdomen.

She looked down and red was rapidly spreading across her
body towel. Something warm dripped over her thighs.

“Goodbye, Sam.” Brian stood in front of her, casually
holding a gun.

How had she forgotten? Or rather, how had she moved on from
the knowledge that Brian had killed her? It had been so out of the blue, a
decision quickly made as if she was as important to him as whether or not he
ordered a latte or a cappuccino.

He had pissed her off by forgetting her birthday, so he was
deigning to take her to dinner after work. The car he spent more time talking
about than talking to her was warm and ready. She almost got in but then
remembered she had left her phone in her desk.