The Irish Devil (14 page)

“Oh yes, warrior!” she groaned and clamped down.

William smiled triumphantly. He was the one who’d brought her to this, not the weak Lord Philip. His balls were heavy and full, but not desperate for relief.

He studied Lady Aurelia again. Was she as excited as he could make her? His fingertips drummed against the sensitive spot deep inside her grotto.

Lady Aurelia almost came off the bed at that stroke. Her muscles clenched around his hand rhythmically and her eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Her gasps and groans accented the wet music of her pussy welcoming him.

William rubbed her clit hard, determined she’d reach the peak at a time of his choosing. She launched into climax, sobbing, as her channel clamped around his fingers. Her body convulsed as wave after wave rippled through her.

Finally she collapsed, gasping for breath. He caressed her hair and covered her with a silk coverlet.

“Thank you, warrior,” she whispered, and kissed his hand. “I am fortunate indeed to have served you.”

A moment later she began to snore, and William straightened up.

“Well done, Donovan.” Lady Irene’s voice was soft.

“My lady.” William bowed, startled she’d been able to approach him unawares. She handed him a towel and indicated they should leave the room.

Once outside, they stood in silence for a minute as he wiped his face and hands.

“Thank you for dealing so well with Lord Philip. He was quite complimentary about your discretion, once he recovered enough to talk sense.”

William bowed again but said nothing.

“So it seems I am once again in your debt and must ponder how best to express my thanks.”

William waited, watching her warily.

“I have been watching you closely, Donovan. You have a knack for appearing on the edge of many fantasies and also when students are being educated. How much do those activities interest you?”

His heart leapt but he kept his voice level. “A great deal, my lady.”

“Have you ever thought of entering my school here?”

William’s lips tightened. Students always began as colts or fillies, the yielding partners in a fantasy. That role held no appeal for him. “My lady,” he began.

Lady Irene laughed. “Donovan, your expression is priceless. You’ll have to manage it better if you’re to succeed. Were you thinking you’d have to become a colt?”

“Yes,” William gritted.

She chuckled. “All masters must spend at least three months as a colt or a filly, in order to better understand that side of the reins.”

William shuddered. Still, if it was the fastest way to graduate to the true curriculum, it could be worth it. He swallowed hard before answering. “Very well.”

“Are you sure?”

“Will you school me if I don’t agree to yield?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then I’ll do it.” And he’d probably puke after every lesson.

“You’re a brave man, Donovan. Educating you will be an adventure for both of us.”

Lady Irene had been quite correct: learning to be a master had taken two years of very hard work. But it had been worth every minute.

The question now was how best to use those lessons to explore Viola’s fantasies and pleasures? He had three months with her and, sweet singing Jesus, he meant to make the most of every minute.

William crossed his arms behind his head and began to plan in earnest, while his faerie maiden slept beside him in the big bed. Tomorrow he’d do his best to free up more time with her.

Morgan Evans knocked once at the office door and waited.

“Enter,” William answered, calm as always. The men now laid bets on which tune he’d whistle during an Indian fight.

Morgan obeyed, shutting the door behind him as he tossed his hat onto the rack. William nodded a welcome then returned to the column of figures he was summing up.

“Sorry about the missing clerk,” Morgan offered.

“Don’t be a fool. You couldn’t stop Crampton from breaking an arm any more than you could persuade someone else to clerk here for a few months.”

“I did find one fellow who would.”

William glanced up from the litter of paper scattered across the desk. “Then why isn’t he here?”

“Wanted miner’s wages to do so.”

William laughed. “Four dollars a day? No wonder you left him in Tucson. Have some coffee and sit down, Morgan. I’ll be with you as soon as I finish checking the munitions tally.”

Morgan poured himself a cup of coffee and added a generous dollop of milk, from one of Donovan & Sons’ local milk cows, before taking the chair across from the desk. When he’d ordered the furniture for the depot and the big compound from Missouri, he’d made sure it was large enough for either himself or William. Now he settled into the expansive upholstery with a sigh of relief. It was so much more comfortable than a wagon’s wooden seat.

He watched William unobtrusively as he sipped. Morgan had come a long way from the ragged scarecrow whom the big Irishman had hired so calmly in Memphis. But he was still learning from the man, even as he gradually built his own empire.

He followed William’s hiring practices easily now. Any man who could do the job was welcome, no matter what the color of his skin. The majority were Confederate veterans, as most teamsters in Arizona were. But there were also Union veterans, Irish, Negroes, even a pair of Cheyenne Indians working for Donovan & Sons.

Of course, doing the job meant no drinking on the trail and no starting fights, whether with Indians or other Donovan & Sons employees. There were also the other rules typical of top freighting houses: punctuality, honesty, and so on. Break any of William’s rules and he’d fire you immediately.

But if you did a good job for William, then he paid you very well indeed. Hell, William even paid your family a pension if you died while working for him. He made sure his men were fed and rested as much as possible on the trail. He was fair, generous, and better at the job than most of his employees.

Morgan considered William the brother he’d never had and the only man, other than Bedford Forrest, whom Morgan would ride through hell for.

“Did you manage to find all the chickens?” William asked.

Morgan laughed, eyes crinkling as he recalled the search. “Yes, finally. Including the ones who’d taken up housekeeping in the barn. So they’re all going to join the Army, whether they want to or not.”

William laughed with him as he finished the tally with a flourish. “Maybe they’ll like it better at the fort than in Rio Piedras.”

“Probably. William, how long before the Golconda plays out?” Morgan finally asked the question that had been burning his tongue for months. William had seen every major strike since 1855. He’d hauled freight for the fabulous Comstock Lode in Nevada when they’d first struck silver there. He’d know the answer if anyone would.

William shrugged. “Ore’s still the same quality as at the beginning. Mine’s been around over a year, so it probably struck a rich vein, not a glory hole. My guess is Lennox will have water problems before he runs out of silver ore.”

“Bad enough to shut down?”

“Maybe; there’s enough water in these rocks. Even the Comstock has been nearly closed by flooding. The big pumps which saved them can be hauled only by railroads, not wagons.”

“How long?”

“No way to tell. But last month’s cave-in could mean they’re closer to underground springs than they’d like.”

Morgan whistled. “When that happens, it’ll be time to move on to the next strike.”

William sorted the papers into neat piles, then began to file them into the appropriate cubbyholes. “For you and me and the miners, but not as easily for Lennox. There’s always money to be made, hauling supplies. The risky bet is owning a mine.”

“Big profit for the mine owner.”

“Sometimes. But nothing at all when the mine is gone.”

“Steadier money in hauling freight or selling supplies.”

“People always have to eat,” William agreed.

Morgan set down his empty cup of coffee and stretched. Now to keep William away from Lennox for a bit longer. He disliked Lennox, as did anyone who’d heard of his brutish deeds in the Shenandoah Valley. But better he spend an hour listening to Lennox’s complaints than see William shot in the back by that murdering bastard.

“If you’d like, I’ll walk Lennox’s latest invoice up to his office now.”

“You sure? I planned to take it.”

Morgan shrugged. “I’m the one who usually discusses payment with him. I also need to talk to him about the extra dynamite he wants hauled. At a discount.”

William snorted and handed over an envelope. “Damn fool. In that case, you have my permission to talk to him. Maybe this time you’ll persuade him dynamite just can’t be treated like beans.”

Morgan rose and bowed with an exaggerated flourish, as if in his grandmother’s drawing room. “I will do my best, sir.”

William laughed again and saluted Morgan in return.

Following Lennox’s rat-faced clerk, Morgan found the mine owner poring over blueprints, apparently of a house. His office was as elegantly furnished as if it stood on Wall Street, down to the ornate glass lampshades that danced to the stamp mill’s beat.

The clerk coughed. “Mr. Evans is here to see you, sir. From Donovan & Sons,” he added, hissing the final word.

Lennox’s head came up. For a moment, his expression was as viciously cold as any rattler lurking in the rocks. Then it wiped clear, to be replaced by the appearance of warmhearted friendship.

The house shuddered and the lampshades tinkled as the stamp mill pounded rocks into dust for refining.

The hair pricked on Morgan’s neck. What the hell was going on? Lennox had never been more than grudgingly polite to him. At least the man wasn’t wearing a gun and his sword stick rested in a stand by the door.

“Evans, my dear fellow!” Lennox offered his left hand in greeting.

“Lennox.” Morgan shook it politely and retrieved his own as soon as possible. What had caused Lennox to bandage his right hand?

“Would you care to join me for a drink? Something civilized, to remind us of our families back east.” Lennox almost shouted to be heard over the stamp mill.

“Thank you,” Morgan accepted, the unexpected offer making him still more wary. Lennox providing refreshments, something he’d never done before, was like an Apache asking a cavalryman to drink from Apache Spring.

“Sherry? Or chilled Riesling from the well house, perhaps?”

Morgan tensed. The last time he’d drunk sherry was with Jessamyn Tyler in 1863, while spying for Bedford Forrest. He’d sworn never to have it again until she was tied up in his bed, as he’d been tied up in hers. His voice was a little hoarse when he answered, “Riesling, thank you.”

“Ah yes, a cool drink to take away the heat.” Lennox returned with two tall crystal goblets, their sides sweating lightly in the room’s warmth.

Morgan accepted his with thanks and sipped cautiously. This was no time to get drunk.

Lennox sat down in a chair next to Morgan’s, rather than behind his big desk. An almost companionable silence followed before Morgan stirred.

“I brought your latest invoice,” he began.

Lennox waved the envelope aside. “Let’s not worry about shopkeepers’ trifles like that. Just leave it on the desk and I’ll send payment over tomorrow.”

“Very well.” Lennox accepting an invoice without a word of complaint? If he’d still been riding for Bedford Forrest, Morgan would have had every gun cocked and loaded by now.

“Have you ever thought of owning a great estate, Evans? A magnificent home and acres of cotton, such as your family held before the war?” Lennox’s voice was almost, but not quite, idle.

“Often,” Morgan answered honestly. He’d redeemed Longacres, the Evans family cotton plantation in Mississippi, four years ago by paying off back taxes with savings from his job. His cousin David ran it now and sent Morgan regular reports.

“A beautiful vision, is it not? The fields humming with your workers making money for your future, the mansion aglow with light beyond the driveway, and the wife eager to charm you and your guests as you build alliances. The gracious lady who comes from a family as old and noble as your own, a woman who will bear you sons.”

“A spectacular dream,” Morgan agreed, and shoved away the vision of Jessamyn Tyler doing exactly that. He took another sip of Riesling as he tried to guess Lennox’s goal in this conversation.

“I’m sure, as a gentleman born and bred, you’ll understand how terrible it is to see a lady living in surroundings unworthy of her.”

“What are you talking about?” Morgan set down his glass.

“Mrs. Ross, of course. To see her living in that Irishman’s house is an affront. I’d marry her in an instant if she were under my roof.”

“Quite so,” Morgan murmured noncommittally. He had no idea why Lennox was so set on marrying Mrs. Ross. There weren’t any other women around from Lennox’s class, but Morgan had always thought Lennox would look for a wife in New York, the city he always bragged of. The man’s repeated proposals to Mrs. Ross smacked more of obsession than love, especially since the fellow showed no signs of being besotted with her.