The Irish Devil (12 page)

“What? What do you mean?” Viola flushed at her rudeness and apologized. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business to ask about your private life.”

“Oh no, Mrs. Ross, I am glad to tell you since it brings much credit to Mr. Donovan. But I am not accustomed to speaking of these things in English so please forgive my clumsiness.”

Viola’s ears pricked. She smiled and nodded, indicating her willingness to hear anything Sarah wanted to say.

Sarah hesitated for a moment then spoke, clearly searching for words. “I was a rich man’s concubine in San Francisco. He found me ugly, since my feet are too big, and did not visit me. I spent much time sitting in the courtyard. Abraham spied me there and came to see me more and more often. Gradually, we began to talk through the grille and became friends. He started to save money to buy me.”

Viola twisted her head around. Sarah was smiling softly, her gaze turned to the past. “Did you find him handsome?”

“He was a tall northerner, not like anyone I’d known, and a
boo how doy,
or fighting man. But yes, I found him most attractive.” Sarah’s English was more fluent now as she moved further into her story. “One day, my master died. Ming Long declared I belonged to him, as inheritance from my master. Abraham announced that our attraction was of long standing and he had the right to buy me, if he could do so in a reasonable time. Ming Long disagreed violently.”

“What happened?” Viola asked, hanging on Sarah’s every word. She rolled over to pay more attention and Sarah draped a cotton quilt over her, forgoing the massage in favor of the story.

“Ming Long expressed himself in a very insolent manner. Abraham’s tong took offense, since an insult to one is an insult to all. The other tong swore neither Abraham nor his tong would have me. The two tongs fought bloodily.”

“Like Romeo and Juliet,” Viola breathed.

“A little, perhaps. Neither tong could win and both were furious at the other. Many worried the war would consume Chinatown.”

“And then?”

“Mr. Donovan was Abraham’s friend from the gold fields. He offered to buy me from the other tong’s supreme council. It would be good business and no insult to sell me to an outsider like him. He also asked to hire Abraham from his tong for the rest of his life. Both offers were accepted.”

“And?” Viola sat up on the bed.

“Mr. Donovan gave me away at our wedding. We took new names for our new start. Abraham also cut his queue, in honor of his new life.”

“How lucky you both are,” Viola breathed.

“Thank you. We light a candle every day for Mr. Donovan, in hopes he, too, may find domestic harmony.”

Viola stiffened. She changed the subject. “Thank you, Sarah, for sharing your story. You said something earlier about clothing?”

Sarah’s eyes twinkled for a moment and Viola realized guiltily just how obvious she’d been. Then Sarah smoothly resumed her previous role of perfectly behaved maidservant. “Yes, Mrs. Ross. Your new clothes are on the trunk.”

She returned with a dazzling array of brilliantly hued silks. But there wasn’t enough cloth for a respectable woman’s wardrobe, certainly not the yards and yards needed for a skirt.

Viola shook her head instinctively, rejecting the idea she might don such garments.

“Mr. Donovan chose these himself,” Sarah said emphatically and shook out the garments. A Chinese tunic and pants were revealed to Viola’s disbelieving eyes. Made of the finest pale gold silk and embroidered in gold, they were nothing a respectable American woman would consider wearing.

“I’m supposed to wear that?” Viola’s voice cracked on the last word.

“And you’ll look beautiful in it, sweetheart.”

Viola jumped. Donovan was leaning in the doorway, neatly dressed in a prosperous businessman’s suit. He tilted his hat back with a casual finger as he drawled, “I’ll enjoy watching you.”

“You expect me to clothe myself like this? Without a respectable corset or chemise? In trousers?” She came to her feet, still clutching the cotton quilt. Sitting on the bed seemed too vulnerable a setting for this conversation.

“Yes.”

“But it’s scandalous attire.”

Sarah set the clothing on the trunk and slipped out, silently dropping a curtsy to Donovan as she went. He nodded politely to her but his eyes remained on Viola as he stepped forward into the room and closed the door.

“Because I told you to do so and you promised to cover yourself only with what I gave you. Remember?”

Viola recognized the trap. Still, such attire was hardly decent. “Yes, but this isn’t proper! A respectable woman would never be seen without her corset, for one thing. And as for wearing trousers…”

She shuddered. She’d worn men’s clothing to work Edward’s mine, but that had been a matter of necessity. A woman’s skirts could not survive wriggling through small cracks and crevices. But she’d always been careful never to be seen by anyone else when wearing such garb.

“Are you saying no, sweetheart?”

Viola gulped but stood her ground. “I cannot wear these clothes, Mr. Donovan. What if someone else saw me?” she pleaded, hoping he’d understand and relent.

“If you refuse, then you must be punished for your disobedience.”

In one smooth move, Donovan snatched her up, sat down on the bed, and stretched her facedown across his lap.

Viola squeaked as a big, warm hand smoothed her behind. She was entirely naked under the quilt and overwhelmingly conscious of his thighs’ iron strength beneath her and his body’s heat beside hers. She struggled to sit up but he cuffed her hands in one of his big paws, trapping them firmly behind her back. “Mr. Donovan, what are you doing?”

He smoothed the quilt over her behind with his free hand. Viola gasped, agonizingly aware of how vulnerable she was to him. “Mr. Donovan, I am certain we can reach an amicable compromise if you will just let me sit up.”

“There’s no need for a compromise, sweetheart. Did you honestly think I’d humiliate you in front of other men?”

Viola closed her eyes and spoke the truth. “Yes, sir.”

“Does such behavior sound like protection?”

“No, sir.” Her voice was husky.

“Do you deserve retribution for your lack of trust?”

“Yes, sir.” She swallowed hard. She doubted his idea of punishment would be anything like what she’d experienced before. Still, she had insulted him and his honor had to be satisfied.

“Thank you for your honesty and sense of fairness, Viola. I swear I won’t abuse you.”

“Oh, I never thought you would do that, Mr. Donovan!”

“Thank you.” He smoothed the quilt down again, then rested his hand over her behind. She could have described exactly where every finger and his palm molded her. Breathing was suddenly difficult.

He patted her lightly through the cloth. “Mr. Donovan, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Quite sure. Especially when your voice becomes husky like that. It reminds me of how you pleaded last night, sweetheart.”

Viola choked.

He patted her again on the other side, then rubbed her behind. His touch, whether the staccato pulse of a pat or a lingering caress, felt delicious.

Viola blushed at the idea a spanking could be pleasurable.

“Where shall I punish you next?” he continued. “The curve of your sweet rump? Or shall it be the underside?”

Donovan swatted her again, caressed her, then swatted her. The quilt might not have been there for all the protection it offered.

“Your rump is turning quite pink, sweetheart. Are you melting as fast on the inside as on the outside?” he purred, then went on without waiting for an intelligible answer from her.

He varied the rhythm, whether fast or slow. Sometimes the pats came close together, sometimes he paid more attention to fondling her.

“Mr. Donovan!” Viola gasped after one particularly solid swat made her jump. “Must you make me feel so unlike myself?”

Donovan chuckled. “And your musk smells delicious, sweetheart.”

Viola found herself moaning.

“Does a harder touch excite you, sweetheart? Then perhaps I should try something gentler,” Donovan mused, and fondled her under the quilt.

“Mr. Donovan, please.” Viola shifted restlessly, hungry for more.

He traced the crease between her leg and buttock, then followed the crevice upward between her thighs.

“Open your legs, sweetheart,” he murmured. She obeyed eagerly.

His finger outlined her folds, evoking a gush of her heated dew. Viola tossed her head and tried to move closer.

He swatted her behind. Somehow the harder blow exacted more dew from her aching flesh.

Viola sobbed and squirmed against his leg. “Mr. Donovan, what are you doing?”

Donovan slid the quilt aside and set to work in earnest with his hand, always varying the rhythm and strength. His cock was a hard ridge against her arm but he ignored it.

Oftentimes his hand returned to her hidden secrets. He teased her pearl into a throbbing center of lust, while denying orgasm to her. “Such a responsive filly you are, sweetheart. Shall I touch you again?”

“Please.” She shuddered. “Anything.”

He took the quilt entirely away from her backside then.

She was helpless against his hand’s strength but all she wanted was more. Viola gasped and shrieked occasionally at the harder blows. She writhed harder and harder against him. She was a blaze of desperation, centered wherever his hand lingered.

“Mr. Donovan,” she whimpered as a finger swirled inside her. “Mr. Donovan, please.”

A second finger entered her swollen flesh, the calluses rough and exciting against her slick inner surfaces. “I’m touching your pussy, sweetheart. Say the word for me.”

She choked, unable to form that most improper word.

His two fingers pumped her slowly. Viola groaned and yielded. The need to climax was agony. Nothing mattered except that. “Pussy,” she sighed.

“Very good, sweetheart,” he purred. His fingers thrust into her again, exciting her but still not permitting release.

When she thought she could bear it no longer, his thumb pressed her pearl in the stroke he’d used in his office. Viola keened with relief as every muscle and sinew burst into rapture.

She drifted back to awareness and found him lightly spreading a soothing liquid over her flaming derrière. She blushed at the realization he was painting her with her own dew. She hid her face, but something deep inside throbbed at the act’s casual intimacy.

“Do you trust me now?” His hand stopped moving.

Viola fumbled to think. “Yes. Yes, I do,” she said more strongly. He could have taken a belt to her or worse, instead of this sensual spanking.

In truth, she feared that if he spanked her again, she’d likely melt in eager anticipation.

“L
indsay!”

Hal spun on his heel and grinned as he recognized the speaker. “Rogers, you reprobate!”

The cavalry officer waved as he ran across the Plaza in Santa Fe. Hal met him halfway and the two men shook hands eagerly. “Good to see you, you old so-and-so. Last time we met, you were heading off to join Sherman at Chattanooga.”

“And you had just been given command of your own gunboat.” Rogers slapped Hal on the arm.

“Care for a drink for old times’ sake?”

“Glad to. Powell runs a saloon over in Burro Alley and should have something for you to drink.”

They found a table in Powell’s saloon a few blocks away. A jovial reunion was followed by a long discussion before Hal selected a brand of whisky.

Rogers leaned back in his chair, chuckling. “Still drinking only the best, I see.”

“Why not?” Hal cocked an eyebrow at their old joke.

“Because Missouri pilots are paid more than Army officers. What is it now, ten thousand a season?” There was only laughter, not envy, in his words. “Might be worth it, to escape the petticoat brigade on shore.”

Hal poured for both of them. “Are you suggesting you’d leave your wife and daughter to serve on a mountainboat?”

“Daughters. Five of ’em.”

Hal choked then lifted his glass. “Here’s to the Rogers young ladies: may they be as beautiful, loving, and kind as their mother.”

“Hear, hear.” The two men drank solemnly. Formalities satisfied, they grinned at each other and settled back.

“Stayed in, I see.”

“Army life suits me better than civilian boredom. Mercifully, Caroline seems to thrive on it, as do the girls. And you? You come from a family of females, as I remember.”

“Two sisters, both married.”

Perceptive as always, Rogers caught the betraying flatness in Hal’s voice. “Don’t like either of your brothers-in-law?”

“Townsend’s what I expected Juliet would choose: prominent family, rich, stupid enough to be led around by the nose. He bought a substitute to fight for him, of course.”

Rogers shrugged that off. Most monied men had paid their way out of the draft. “And the other one? What was her name?”

Hal studied the light passing through his whisky. “Viola married Edward Ross in ’65.”

“What? That drunken malingerer married your favorite sister?”

Hal nodded and drained his glass.

“The devil you say.” Rogers took a healthy swallow in sympathy before speaking again. “She could have chosen worse. He stood his ground that first day at Shiloh, you know, and served those big siege guns that saved us.”

“Perhaps. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.” Hal refilled the glasses.

“You never can tell whom a woman will fall for. Caroline’s family still doesn’t understand what she sees in me.”

“That’s the strange part: Viola never mentioned love, just announced she was going to marry him. Nothing I said could convince her to break the engagement.”

“Big fight, huh?”

“The worst. I swore I’d never speak to her again if she held to that man.”

Rogers grunted, a world of understanding in the sound. “I gather she won the battle.”

“You could say that. She married him and I haven’t seen her since. Neither has anyone else in the family.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

The whisky levels sank somewhat during the succeeding silence. Finally, Rogers spoke again.

“So what brings a river pilot to the New Mexico desert?”

“I’m looking for Viola. I promised Grandmother before she died that I’d bring my youngest sister home.”

“And you think you’ll find her in New Mexico?”

“She and Ross went west after the marriage to make their fortune in the gold fields. I went to California first and now I’m working my way through the Rockies.”

“Any luck?”

“I’ve hunted her from Virginia City, Montana, to Leadville, Colorado. Heard a lot of stories about a drunken fool and his petite blond wife. Found Viola’s pearl necklace in Denver, that she’d pawned years ago, but no sign of her. Next stop is Silver City.”

He’d have been happier if he’d found the mourning brooch for the Commodore, which held great meaning for Viola. Sighting it would mean she was probably close by.

“What about Arizona?” Rogers asked.

“Few whites but many Apaches,” Hal reminded his friend. It seemed the least likely place to find Viola.

Rogers shrugged. “There’s gold out there, and silver. Folks have been moving in steadily since the war ended. Rio Piedras has a fair-sized mine, for example.”

“Rio Piedras?”

“The Golconda silver mine. Mostly a company town, with maybe a thousand people, but still has some small claims. It’s a day south of Tucson by stage.”

“Could be possible. Thanks for the tip.”

“If you head that way, keep an eye out for Paul Lennox, who owns Rio Piedras.”

Hal’s mouth tightened, remembering an old fight. “Met a banker in New York named Nicholas Lennox once. But they’re probably not related.”

“Could be. He likes to brag about his fine old New York family.” Rogers took a slow swallow before continuing. “Lennox served in a cavalry regiment during the war and spent considerable time in the Shenandoah Valley. A number of civilians, including babies, died ‘accidentally’ when he seized provisions from their farms. He’s not welcome at Army reunions and I heard his fiancée broke off with him.”

“Son of a bitch.” Sounded like the same kind of weasel as Nick Lennox. “Thanks for the warning.”

Rogers shrugged. “It’s the least I can do. You saved my neck on the Tennessee.”

“Hey, you were just a soldier boy ruining my clean deck with your blood,” Hal teased, lightening the moment.

Rogers met his eyes for a long minute then grinned. “Navy puke!”

The two men burst into laughter.

Hal and Rogers were still chuckling when they stood up to leave the saloon hours later, full of good food, good whisky, and good companionship. Hal’s present state of sobriety wouldn’t have withstood close inspection by his father. On the other hand, the Captain was a thousand miles away and nothing his son did had ever pleased the old autocrat. Except for enlisting in the Union Navy, of course.

Rogers paused to say good-bye to Powell, while Hal walked ahead onto the boardwalk. Moonlight and lamplight escaping from the neighboring saloons and dance halls were Burro Alley’s only sources of light. Like any other frontier town, the shadows whispered of possibilities, most of them violent.

The cool night air acted poorly on his whisky-sodden reflexes. He caught himself on a pole supporting the boardwalk’s roof, just as someone yelled, “That’s him! Get ’im, boys!”

A thick cudgel lashed downwards toward the back of his head. Hal used his grip on the pole to push himself away from the attack, but it still dealt him a nasty blow. He whipped backwards, using the pole as a pivot, and drove his elbow back into the unknown assailant behind him. An agonized grunt told him of the move’s success.

Hal grabbed the thug’s arm and flipped him neatly over his shoulder. A quick stomp on the wrist freed the cudgel, which he promptly kicked away as he drew his Colt. He looked around for the attacker’s fellows and spotted two men running away.

“Jesus, Hal, I can’t even turn my back on you for a minute before you find trouble,” Rogers drawled. The sparse light glinted on his Colt as he aimed it at Hal’s prisoner. “Recognize him?”

The thug sprawled in the dust was notable only for his anonymity: medium height, medium build, dark hair. And the Colt strapped to his waist that he hadn’t bothered to draw.

Hal started to shake his head but stopped, wincing. He put up his hand to his head and it came away covered with blood. “Never seen him before in my life.”

“What are you talking about?” the fellow whined and started to get up.

Rogers put a bullet between the thug’s feet as Powell burst through the saloon’s doors, shotgun in hand. He assessed the situation with a single glance, then took up a position between the thug and the alley beyond. No one else came outside, although Hal caught a flicker of movement at a dance hall’s doors.

The thug fell back and stared up at them. “Whaddya want to know, sir?”

“Why did you attack me?” Hal demanded. He swayed slightly but pulled himself steady with an effort, his Colt still firmly in hand.

The thug squirmed away from the shotgun until he was brought up short by Hal’s boot. “I was offered five dollars to mug you,” he stammered, glancing nervously between the two revolvers and the shotgun trained on him.

“By who?” Rogers asked.

“Mickey Clark.”

“Who’s he?” Hal asked.

“Local hoodlum,” Powell snorted. “Did Clark say why?”

“Some man named Lennox didn’t want you visiting him in Arizona.”

Rogers looked over at Hal. “Ring true?”

“Yup. Let him go.”

The thug scrambled up and froze when Powell prodded him with his shotgun. “If I see you again anywhere near my saloon,” Powell growled, “I’ll kill you for having troubled my friend.”

“Yes, sir!” The thug vanished into the shadows.

Rogers stepped up behind Hal and inspected his head in the poor light. Powell picked up Hal’s hat and dusted it off.

“Looks like you’ll need stitches for that,” Rogers observed.

Hal winced away from the probing fingers. “When’s the next stage to Tucson?” he responded. He had the devil of a headache, which would only get worse.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Then we’d better find a doctor who likes to work in a hurry.”

“Maybe you should wait a few days until your head heals,” Rogers suggested.

“Not if my sister’s anywhere near Lennox. Let’s go find that doctor.”

Viola accepted the chair Abraham held for her, careful to keep her eyes from the piano. She hissed slightly as her derrière made contact with the seat. Thin Chinese silk was no defense for her sensitized skin against the rough wool upholstery. She quickly recovered and plastered a smile on her face as she looked across the table at Donovan.

“You are very beautiful tonight, sweetheart,” he remarked as he inclined his head to her. His eyes drifted over her hair and still lower, expressing his appreciation and anticipation.

Viola blushed and almost squirmed at his open admiration. Her abortive movement rubbed her intimate parts against the wool, promptly reminding her of how high he’d built her lusts when he’d spanked her a few minutes earlier.

She gasped. Then she promised herself she’d stay quite still no matter what he said or did during the rest of the evening.

Donovan’s mouth quirked. “Would you care for some soup? And perhaps after dinner you can play a melody or two on the piano, the one you’re so careful not to look at.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Donovan! I cannot imagine anything I would enjoy more.” She realized her words could be taken as an insult to him and blushed. She started to stammer an apology but he held up a hand.

“I understood perfectly, sweetheart, and took no offense. Some piano music would be very enjoyable for both of us on an evening like this.”

Viola smiled at him gratefully. “Why did you obtain a piano? Does Mr. Evans play?”

“Not to my knowledge. The Oriental’s manager ordered it but found bringing it here too much for his budget. In the end, Lennox refused the bill so Morgan kept the piano in lieu of payment.”

“It looks magnificent.”

“And it has a beautiful sound.”

The meal passed quickly after that. The food was excellent, comparable to that provided in a first-class New York hotel. Donovan’s table manners were excellent, as smooth and polished as any she’d met. Viola suspected the conversation was less successful, since she spent much of her time either eyeing the piano, wiggling as the chair’s brocade scratched her through the thin Chinese silk, or remembering just why her intimate folds were so sensitive.

Finally, Abraham produced fresh coffee and a plate of ginger cookies before disappearing. Viola reached for the pot but Donovan’s hand closed gently around her wrist. Her eyes flew to his.

“Go meet your plaything, sweetheart. I can pour my own coffee.”

“Are you sure?” Viola hesitated, worried she’d be rude if she ignored him in favor of the piano.

“Go.” He pushed her gently.

She rose before he could change his mind and sat down before the glorious rosewood instrument like an acolyte before the high altar, her aches forgotten. She’d played the piano only twice, for a total of less than an hour, in the six years since she’d left her parents’ house. Both of those pianos had been small and forgettable, while this instrument looked perfectly suited for a concert hall.

Viola touched middle C lightly. The answering tone was perfect. Her fingers ran an octave, then two octaves. Equally perfect. She flexed her fingers, praying some of her old skill remained, and struck the opening chords of Chopin’s “Military Polonaise.”