Victorian Dream (32 page)

She released his wrists, and stroked the bulge below his belt. “I’ll show you good—and better,” she shot back. “But I want to talk to you first.”

“Talk,” he sputtered, “with you touching me like that, I can barely think, let alone talk.”

“I wanted to be sure I had your full attention,” she explained.

“Undivided.”

“Are you happy here?” she asked.

“Delirious.”

He eased his hands under her skirts and worked his way between the folds of material. Seeking and finding her pantaloons, he gently rent the seam in the crotch and proceeded to explore with his fingers what lay beneath the fragile material.

“I’m serious,” she gasped, barely able to talk now herself. “I don’t ever want you to regret marrying me. I don’t want you to yearn for the sea or anything but me.”

“I love you Trelayne, and I’m yearning only for you—burning only for you,”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” His hands stilled, resting on her thighs. “Traveling the world and being at sea was a good life, but a hard one. Now I’ve got the memories to last me forever with none of the adversity.”

“But what about New Bedford? I know you miss it. I see it in your eyes every time you speak of America.”

“I do miss Massachusetts,” he admitted, “and someday we’ll travel there, and I’ll show you my house. We’ll share the adventure together. To return by myself would make me unbearably lonely. And if you said you couldn’t or wouldn’t go with me, I would stay here forever. Wherever we are together is home. Now be a good wife and unbutton my trousers.”

Rather than obey his direct order, she unbuttoned his vest and shirt, smoothed the linen aside, and grazed her hands across the wide plane of his torso. He watched her every move, the expression in his eyes hazy with contentment. When she finally reached for his belt and undid his trousers, he bucked his hips upward in anticipation and the part of him now belonging to her sprung forth big and full and ready to take her to a place she coveted more and more.

Just the thought of what was to come made her wet, and taking the initiative, she crawled forward and hovered above him. Guiding the most needful part of him through the opening rent in her pantaloons, she slid downward in one, slow, delicious movement.

“Oh, God, Trelayne,” he groaned.

Savoring the feel of him deep inside of her, she dug her fingernails into his bare chest.

“So it’s hot lust you want today, and not sweet gentle loving.”

“Yes,” she breathed, rocking back and forth.

He let her move at will. It was exhilarating to be in control, to set the pace and conquer the male beast. She rode the man-animal without a care for his desires, lost in a world of gratification, although her enjoyment always seemed a please him as well.

Suddenly he spanned her waist with his hands, and lifting her off his body, set her aside.

“What are you doing?” she cried, scrambling to her hands and knees atop the abandoned coat and cloak. She wanted more, wanted to scream with disappointment and unfulfilled need.

“Walker,” she keened and panted.

“Shhh, little tiger, we aren’t done yet.”

Kneeling behind her, he brushed her skirts aside, and tearing the opening in her pantaloons larger, he took her from behind. She twisted her fingers in the wool, bracing her body as he slammed against her, forcing the air from her lungs and a moan from her throat. He took command now. Gripping the fabric of her dress in one hand, he held her in place then sliding the other hand around to the front, he sought the delicate spot he so skillfully tortured to perfection.

They had never done
this
before—it felt naughty—it felt wonderful. Each slow, deliberate, driving force sent a wave of animal hunger rippling through her body. Each groan escaping Walker raised her desire.

Moans became guttural cries. Uninhibited, she arched her bottom taking in the full length of him, and clawing at the wool, head back, she writhed with pleasure. The sweat of rising need dampened the inside of her thighs, and flushed with a craving that could wait no longer, she cried out and went over the edge. Wrapped in a release more overwhelming than ever before, she lost contact with the world around her. Walker grabbed her around the waist with both hands, and with one last forceful thrust, followed her to the end delight, leaving them both panting.

With a playful growl, he bent over her, and nuzzled and nipped at the back of her neck.

Then they smelled the smoke.

****

Lucien tossed the empty bucket of lamp oil aside, and watched the flames curl up the north wall of the stable. She was a bitch in heat. Just now he’d seen her screwing the good Captain like an animal.

On the outside looking in, he’d watched through the cracks in the barn. He felt like a beggar boy denied entrance to a fine restaurant—hungry for what he could never have, watching the man he hated partake of a feast that should have been his.

How could he ever have thought her worthy of his love and devotion? She was no better than a common whore. No better than Beatrice. He missed Beatrice, more than he ever imagined he would. Now he had no one—other than the voices in his head.

Limping away from the heat and smoke, he took shelter by the corncrib. His body, broken and bruised, throbbed and ached and he rubbed his thigh to ease the pain. When the balloon had gone down, he’d been dragged for miles along the rocky coast, tangled in the ropes, no escape from the agonizing battering of his face, left hand, and left leg. He’d languished in the night barely alive, wishing to die. But a fisherman had found him on the shore the next morning. And like it or not, he’d lived. Now, a monster scraped raw and scarred for life, he was the ugly hideous part of society he had always scorned and hated.

Clasping his head in his hands, he tried to make the pain stop. It was agony, greater than any he had known existed. And it kept getting worse. The voices trapped in the pain told him it was her fault, and she deserved to die. She had refuted their bright and glowing love, turning it into a dark malicious cloud. It was a putrid caul poisoning his thoughts, leading him to this end. Now she would suffer the pain he felt.

****

Walker leaped up, dragging Trelayne to her feet. They jammed their clothing into place and ran to the walk-through door. It was locked.

Catching the scent of smoke, Mister Darcy reared up, snapping the lead on his halter. Frightened by the acrid smell, the poor beast charged about, first one way then the other, knocking over feed bins, hay forks, and wheelbarrows.

“Stay behind me,” Walker ordered, as he tossed his vest aside and slipped free of his shirt.

One hand resting on his back, she kept pace as he stepped closer to the horse.

“It’s all right, old boy. Calm down, Mister Darcy. Good boy.”

For one split-second, the horse paused and turned toward the familiar voice. Walker grabbed the halter, slid the shirt over the horse’s face, and tucked the tails of fabric beneath the leather straps. The horse reared one more time, nearly jerking Walker off his feet, but he held tight not relinquishing his hold. Then the animal pawed the ground and stood trembling.

Trelayne ran to the sliding barn door and pulled with all her might. It wouldn’t budge. The smoke was drifting lower creating a swirling cloud of choking fumes. Through the haze she saw flames on the roof. If it caved in, they were dead, no mistake.

“Trelayne...”

She hurried back to her husband’s side. He took her right hand and placed what remained of the lead in it. “Take him over to the big door. A little fresh air should be seeping in around it. I’m going to try and break down the walk-through.”

Tears burned in her eyes from the smoke, and from the fear they may not survive this ordeal. She didn’t want to leave his side, but knew she must. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too.” He kissed her forehead, and smoothed her hair back from her face. “We’re going to be all right,” he added, and eased her on her way. “Don’t try to hold him, tie him up. He may get out of control again when he hears the noise I’m about to make.”

With his face still covered, Mister Darcy followed obediently.

Using an iron crow, Walker levered the hinges on the door. Built to withstand the abuse of rambunctious livestock, it was solid built, and wasn’t about to give way easily.

When the roof creaked, Trelayne cringed, expecting the wooden beams to come crashing down at any moment. How could this have happened? Surely someone would see the smoke and come to help.

“Easy, Mr. Darcy,” she soothed, petting the nervous gelding. “My husband will save us. He’s very resourceful and brave and handsome, and oh dear Lord, please don’t let it end like this.”

Trying to filter the smoke from the air, she buried her face in the horse’s mane.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The hinges burst loose on the wooden door, and Walker wrenched open the portal only to shove it back into place. A wall of flames waited on the other side. Someone had piled tree limbs and debris against the opening, creating a barrier Hell would have been proud to call to its own. With the exit rendered useless, he groped a path back across the stable, trying to tamp down his fear, hoping it didn’t show in his face

“It’s no good going that way. We might be able to get out through the roof.”

“But what about Mister Darcy? We can’t leave him here. I won’t leave him here.”

He hadn’t brought along his pistol today. An amateur mistake. He was becoming too comfortable in this civilized environment. He slid his hand to the hilt of the knife Hargis had made for him. That would be a horror. Having no compassionate means of dispatching the beast, he supposed it was all for one and one for all.

Optimism fading fast, he wrestled again with the sliding door. It remained jammed tight, but at least no roaring infernal met his gaze as he peered through a nearby crack.

“Maybe we could tunnel beneath the door,” she suggested.

“Good idea.”

As he turned to search for an implement with which to dig, Trelayne was seized by a coughing fit, and the horse snorted snot and slobber. There wasn’t time for trenching. Before long they wouldn’t be able to breathe.

“I’m going up top,” he said. “No matter what happens, you must stay right here. I’ll drop down on the outside and open the doors.”

****

“It’s too dangerous. There are already flames up there.”

“It’s the only way.”

“Wait.”

She took off her petticoat and tore it into strips. After wetting the fabric in the water trough, they tied one piece across Walker’s mouth and nose and wrapped the others around and around his hands.

Their gazes locked, and he chucked her under the chin. The expression in his eyes said he wouldn’t let the magic die, wouldn’t let this be the end.

Wringing her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks, she watched Walker climb the ladder to the haymow. Then his image disappeared in the smoke billowing down from above.

Pounding ensued followed by a flash of daylight. Fresh air streaked in through the new opening, offering relief. Then fear returned tenfold as the downdraft breathed life into all the pockets of smoldering hay. Fire leaped up from all sides creeping closer. Grabbing a bucket, she sloshed water over the horse, herself, and the ground around them.

Her chest ached from the smoke, and from the deep sobs she couldn’t hold back. A prayer on her lips, she remembered being a little girl and playing in the barn. She remembered when Mister Darcy had been foaled, and how her father had laughed good-naturedly when she insisted on naming him after a character in one of her favorite novels. No, no, no. Didn’t people about to die have their lives flash before them? She must think of the future, not the past. A future where her parents were recovered and returned home. A future where she was big with child—Walker beaming at the prospect of being a father. Just the other night, she’d had such a dream. What a surprise and delight to have such a happy vision.

The gelding trembled, and she hugged him close. His eyes remained covered, but he needed no vision to grasp the dire circumstances. Sweat trickled down between her breasts. Her back felt scorched, the air so hot it hurt to even think of taking another breath. Walker coming to her rescue was the only thing keeping paralyzing fear at bay.

Dizzy and at the breaking point, she leaned against the door and nearly fell on her face as it slid sideways. Merrick gathered her close, ushering her out into the fresh air. Jeb surged forward to lead Mister Darcy to safety.

Wynona was there too. Trelayne grasped the cup of water she offered, downing the cooling liquid in great gulps. When she could think straight, she glanced around. Where was Walker? Why wasn’t he at her side? Then she noticed the upturned faces of the people gathered around. She followed suit, and gasped in shock. He was still on the roof. And he wasn’t alone.

Walker stood tall, holding his position on the near wall. The fabric once used to cover his mouth was pushed down around his neck. “So you survived your ill-fated balloon ride,” he acknowledged.

“More or less,” Lucien replied, as he limped forward and steadied himself against a smoldering upright. “But the two of you won’t survive this conflagration.”

“Again, your plan seems a bit poorly thought out. My wife is safe and I intend to join her shortly.”

Lucien peered over the side of the roof. “How unfortunate,” he spat, his gaze boring into her. “It appears I’ll have to be satisfied with seeing only you die a torturous death. She can watch. It will no doubt be even more painful to her than dying.”

Lucien drew a large pistol from the waistband of his trousers and aimed the muzzle directly at Walker’s bare chest.

Trelayne dropped the cup and made to run forward. Merrick grabbed her around the waist and held her in place. “Leave it be,” he insisted. “Don’t be distracting him. He’s accustomed to ship’s riggings and high places and dealing with scallywags.”

Bowing to Merrick’s wisdom, and trusting to Walker’s fortitude, she choked back the desire to call out his name. A hush fell over the crowd, leaving only the sound of groaning timbers and the crackle of flames to fill the air.