Frail Blood (10 page)

It was only lust, he told himself. Another woman would do as
well to ease it. And he half believed  himself.

#

Emma drew in a harsh breath and let it out on a groan,
staring at the reflection of her chemise-clad body in the cheval-glass. Her
reddened cheeks, her tousled hair, her heaving breasts, mottled pink from
Malachi's whiskers – all proved that she enjoyed his attentions.

Her emotions had flooded from some untapped well within her,
a place she'd never known existed where they'd lain unacknowledged and
unexplored for years. She now realized she'd buried them in art books and
physiology sketches, masked them with the curiosity of the school books and
drawings.

When she returned to the house after Malachi left, she'd
drawn the curtains in her bedroom and removed her outer clothing, everything
but her chemise and drawers, and now she peered into the pale sliver of her
face reflected back at her. She seemed different, altered somehow by an
earth-shattering change.

When her mother had administered what Emma called "The
Talk," she'd never hinted at these potent emotions. No, her mother had
spoken of duty and discomfort, likening the act itself to the barnyard antics
of animals. Mating, she'd called it, and then slapped her hands together as if
brushing the dirt off them.

No hint of uncontrolled passion, no allusion to mindless
ardor.

Emma shook her head and watched red fire dance around her
shoulders in the mirrored reflection. She ran her fingertips over her mouth,
testing the texture of her lips. Were they swollen from his kisses? She brushed
a kiss against the flesh of her inner wrist. How had her flesh felt to him when
he explored her neck so thoroughly?

At Wellesley, and even before then, she'd been kissed on
many occasions. Curious, she'd even allowed several gentlemen to slip their
tongues into her mouth.

Those experiments had been ... interesting. Wet and timid,
sometimes nice, often sloppy, but certainly nothing profound. Malachi's kiss
had left her mindless, had shaken her so badly she'd felt she might fall into a
faint.

His mouth was moist and dry at the same time, both soft and
hard against her skin. But more than that, the core of her had responded to him
with an elemental force that frightened her. She'd felt herself slipping away,
losing all rational thought, forgetting every single reason why a man should not
have such unrestrained access to her body.

For God's sake, she'd welcomed him, had all but unfastened
his trousers and taken him in her hand. Oh, she'd wanted to do that. Driven by
curiosity and need, she'd nearly begged him to release himself from his
clothing's strictures.

A strange moodiness came over her. Damn him! Why had he roused
her so thoroughly and then stopped what he'd begun?

He wanted her. She knew that as surely as she knew her own
name. He must have no doubt that she was willing. Then why had he rejected
her?  Perhaps he feared unwanted consequences.

She'd not thought of that. She had heard of womb veils,
sheaths, and various herbal concoctions, but she had no real knowledge of how
they worked to prevent a child. A girl at Wellesley had once whispered of
condoms in mysterious and sly tones.

But surely Malachi did not casually carry such an item with
him. He couldn't have sensed her attraction to him, could he?

Mama had not included these topics in her lecture, most
likely assuming her daughter would avoid such an unpleasant experience as
sexual congress.

Weary of such thoughts and feeling suddenly sweaty, Emma
finished undressing and dipped a cold cloth into the wash basin. She stroked it
across her fevered cheeks and neck. After a moment, she put on her nightgown
and lay down, but moments later her body still heated the cool sheets and her
mind chattered through her tired brain.

She reached for the book on her bedside table, her art book
from Wellesley, which included some of Michelangelo's sketches of the human
form. Opening the book to page 124, she traced her forefinger along the
drawing, around the sketch of a man's buttocks and back, then onward to the
next page where the penciled drawing of a man's penis and testicles were
clearly outlined.

Another page showed the statue of David. The subject's organ
was tiny, such a stark contrast to what she'd felt with her body aligned
against the hardness of Malachi's groin.

She wanted to feel that firm stiffness again. Not the
flaccidity shown in the sketch, but hard and jutting like Malachi's body
against her.

That's what she wanted.

And she would not be ashamed of that desire.

Chapter 10

"Though justice be thy plea, consider this, that
in the course of justice none of us should see salvation."

–
The Merchant of Venice

The Monday morning trial session began late while Judge
Underwood glowered from the bench and Charles Fulton hurried down the courtroom
aisle. Malachi turned his head to watch the prosecutor with curiosity.

He'd never seen the man so flustered. Face purplish-red as a
garden beet, morning coat buttoned askew, Fulton approached the magistrate and
whispered something over the podium.

The judge banged his gavel heavily, jerked his head toward
Malachi, and growled, "In my chambers, gentlemen. Now!"

What now? What trick had Charlie pulled out of his sleeve?

When Malachi closed the door behind him, Fulton started
right in. "He's persuaded the Knights to champion Alma Bentley's cause, a
clear breach of ethics!"

"What are you talking about?" Malachi shot back,
trying to look unaffected. The district attorney couldn't possibly know about
the incident with Emma last night. It was just like Fulton to make a hurricane
out of a squall.

"Mr. Prosecutor, explain yourself." Underwood
brandished the gavel he still held at Fulton's nose. "You'd better not be
pulling sneaky shenanigans in my courtroom."

"He's been hobnobbing with Stephen Knight and – "
When Charlie got upset, he looked like a small child crying for a lost toy. His
face reddened unbecomingly and his mouth drooped in a pout.

Confusion clouded the judge's florid face. "The artist?
Franklin Knight's brother?"

"The Knights have asked Mr. Rivers to employ their
daughter," Fulton said. "Miss Knight is the newspaper editor. That,
your honor, is a violation of propriety, if not law!"

"Miss Knight has agreed not to act in the name of the
press for the duration of the trial," Malachi explained. "She'll
assist me only in the most insignificant ways." He wouldn't lie to
Underwood, but he wondered how true his words were. To what degree did he think
he could manipulate Emma?

"Sounds to me like Malachi's got the situation under
control, Charles," the judge said, sinking into a chair. "Why make a
fuss at this point in the trial?"

"There's no way Mr. Rivers can assure the woman's
cooperation," Fulton sputtered, an unbecoming drool of saliva coating the
corners of his mouth. "She's already printed a damning interview."

"Humph," Underwood said, "Not damning to the
prosecution, however."

Fulton has the grace to look embarrassed.

"As long as the woman doesn't write any articles about
the trial in that newspaper of hers, I see no conflict." Underwood aimed a
dark look Malachi's way. "But if she does, young man, you'll be facing a
contempt charge."

Fulton smirked at Malachi as the judge continued. "I
don't hold with anyone screwing around in my courtroom, understand?"

"Sir," Fulton began his protest.

"Shut the fuck up, Charles," the judge growled. "That
warning goes for the prosecution too."

"Yes sir," Fulton mumbled.

"Absolutely, sir." Malachi threw a disgusted look
at Fulton. The man was a weasel. If Emma had been helping the prosecution
instead of the defense, he'd have no problem with the supposed breach of
ethics.

Now Malachi wondered just how much luck he'd have keeping
Emma in line. Especially after last night.

But he hadn't forced anything on her; she'd been willing, by
God. He'd bet his life on it.

#

The morning session continued with the testimony of several
more witnesses for the prosecution. Malachi noted covertly that Emma made no
appearance in court today. Did she stay away in order to keep her bargain? Or was
she too upset to face him?

His behavior last night had distracted and confused her. And
himself no less. Had he made an irretrievable error in judgment? Could they get
past that and move forward with the business of the trial?

At the luncheon break, he made his way down the gently
sloping hill to the Tea Room where he asked Molly to prepare sandwiches for him.
Then he spent the rest of the two-hour break in his office, going over his
witness notes.

Malachi planned to call only a few witnesses, primarily
women, to testify to Alma Bentley's good character. He wanted to demonstrate
her work ethic, her responsibility, and her innocence. At least how naïve and
innocent she'd been before she met Joe Machado.

He'd contemplated calling Mr. and Mrs. Machado to testify,
but discarded the idea immediately. Too risky. Their grief might overwhelm any
sympathy he could gain for Alma. But why they'd continue to employ a cleaning
girl who fraternized with their son was a question he'd like the jury to wonder
about.

The jangle at the front door drew his eyes through his
office to the reception area. Emma Knight moved gingerly through the outer room
toward the open door of his private chamber, looking around with apparent discomfort.

Today she wore a severe plum jacket buttoned to her neck and
a black skirt that fitted her slender form snugly. Her hat bloomed with
outrageously wild plumes in varying hues. She looked beautiful, but awkward, as
she shifted from one foot to the other like a restless child.

Then she caught his eye through the doorway.

"May I come in?" Her voice betrayed none of the
nervousness of her body.

Malachi stood and offered her the chair opposite his desk. "Certainly.
We have several issues to discuss."

"We do?"

"About the case." The expectant look fled her face
and he felt suddenly optimistic, though he couldn't say why.

She studied her hands. "Of course, the case. We should
speak about how you intend to bring about Alma's acquittal."

For a moment Malachi pondered the wisdom of sharing his
courtroom strategem with her, but decided if he was in for a penny, then the
pound would have to do. "I'm not going to argue that she is innocent."

Emma nodded. "She's all but admitted her guilt."

"Yes." He paused a moment longer before continuing.
"I intend to demonstrate that Alma was driven to commit this crime by
Joseph Machado's heartless treatment of her. He despoiled her, compromised her
reputation, and promised her marriage. Then when another woman took his fancy,
he discarded her like yesterday's trash."

He liked the sound of those phrases and jotted a note on his
ledger.

"You intend to bring her damaged reputation to the
forefront?" He heard her voice rise in outrage and from the corner of his
eye saw her jump up to place her fists on the edge of the desk.

"There's hardly any controversy about her reputation,"
he argued without looking up or standing. "That's sullied enough. I must
now save her life."

"But – but don't you think a woman has the right to take
a lover?" When he glanced sharply at her, she faltered. "Just – just
as much as a man does?"

Where was Emma headed with this line of thinking? Surely she
didn't compare her own reputation to Alma Bentley's. He forced steel into his
voice and finally rose to stand at the edge of the desk, her rigid form mere
inches from him.

"That's not the point, Emma. I must show that Alma
would not have murdered Joseph Machado if he'd not led her down such a path of
sin and wickedness." He looked steadily at her until her beautiful
chocolate eyes fell away and she turned her back to him.

"Is sensual pleasure such a road to sin then?" she
whispered.

Malachi thoughtfully eyed her. She posed the question
innocently enough, but he wondered if she referred to Alma or to herself. "I
suppose it depends on the woman."

She shook her head, as if she failed to understand or
disagreed with the concept, and paced the short distance across his small
office. Her back still facing him, she tilted her head to scrutinize the
Picasso on the wall.

"If you defend Alma as if she were a child, easily led
by a man's wicked desires, you absolve her of responsibility for her actions,"
she said at last, turning to face him. "And strip her of equality with a
man."

Now he felt it, the simmering of her temper, whether at
herself or him or the defendant he wasn't sure, but her anger lay just beneath
the surface of a composed façade.

"My task is to get Alma acquitted of murder charges,"
he grated out, impatient with her noble ideas. "Her equality means nothing
if she's dead."

He meant to shock her with his harsh words and edgy tone,
and he must've succeeded for her face blanched right before her temper boiled
to the surface. She clutched her fists at her hips and stepped toward him. He
moved forward until he felt her hot, rapid breath on his chin.

"My concern isn't with women's equality, Emma," he
continued. "My allegiance is to my client." He lowered his voice in a
more conciliatory tone, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

She jerked away from him, her face flushed, her jaw set. "Your
client should not be exonerated from premeditated murder simply because she's a
woman," she ranted. "If she is guilty, she cannot be acquitted based
on her sex. Such a defense may set women's rights back by decades!"

At her obstinate idealism, he felt his own anger soar.
"All
women and their so-called rights are not my concern."

Emma shook her head. "Alma must be held to answer the
same as a man."

"The same as a man?" he shouted. "The very
fact that she isn't a man is the point."

"Yes," she answered bitterly, "she's merely a
woman, one treated little better than a child, with no rights or privileges."

Damned stubborn woman!
He paused and moved to close
the door into the antechamber lest someone walk in on their railing with one
another. He leaned against the door, folded his arms across his chest, and
tried to calm down. "Do you really think Alma Bentley should go to the
gallows for acting in a moment of angered passion after being jilted by a
scoundrel?"

Emma's eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she wouldn't
abandon her position. "If she is guilty, she should not be acquitted based
on her sex."

He raked his fingers through his hair and tried again. "I
must speak to a jury – a group of twelve men who will not believe a woman is
capable of committing such a heinous act."

He took a deep breath and walked slowly towards her. "Emma,
these jurors want to understand why Alma committed this unspeakable violence. They
will believe that she was led astray by a man, morally corrupted so that she
had no will of her own."

He took her by her upper arms and held tight. "They
want
to believe it."

He was aware of the heat of her body through the jacket, saw
the sheen of sweat on her brow, and felt the unseasonable warmth in the room. "I
can get them to acquit Alma if I employ this line of reasoning. Otherwise she
will hang."

Emma blinked and tears spilled down her cheeks.

He would not let go of her even though she attempted to
twist away from him. "Perhaps Alma Bentley should be held accountable for
the murder of Joseph Machado, but what about the shabby way her dead lover
treated her?"

She finally wrenched from his grasp.

Malachi gave her no quarter and blocked her escape with his
body. "Alma worked as a housekeeper in the home of Joseph's parents. She
engaged in a sexual relationship with him and had expectations that he would do
the honorable thing and marry her. Still he cast her off without consideration
and went to another woman's bed."

His face was now mere inches from hers, a pale mask beneath
the dark plumes of her hat. "What about that injustice? Where is Alma's
right to protect her honor?"

Emma hesitated and Malachi almost thought he'd gotten
through to her, forced her to think of the complexity of a women's position in
current society. He remembered her hot, willing body last night. Surely she
could see how close she'd come to being in Alma's position.

He reached for her and pulled her hard against his chest,
whispering in her ear. "Women like Alma Bentley are not like you, Emma. Your
father's wealth and your own fortune protect you from the indignities most
women face." He placed his lips against her temple. "Remember last
night, Emma."

She jerked away as if stung by an electric jolt.

"These women need a liberal interpretation of the law,"
he said, "simply
because
they have so few rights."

Her next words proved he hadn't broken through her narrow
thinking after all.

"No!" She held her arms out, palms forward, as if
she'd hold him at bay. "There is a tide of reform sweeping across this nation,
Mr. Rivers, and women are at the helm of it. You cannot treat us as children."

He finally gave in to the delicious release of his own
aggravation. "So it's back to Mr. Rivers again?"

He spun away, sickened with both of them, weary of the heavy
arousal that hung between them and clouded the more important issues.

Her words echoed in his ears. "Women are a force to be
reckoned with and when we are granted franchise, we can no longer be ignored."

Malachi turned in disgust to face her again. "I don't
wish to
ignore
you, Emma." He raked his eyes insolently up and down
her body, lingering on her heaving breasts, remembering the sweet, heavy swell
of them and her heady response when he tasted her flesh with his mouth. "Quite
the opposite."

"You cannot continue to treat us as chattel," she
muttered.

Fury and remembered passion propelled his words. "You
don't know what you want," he taunted. "You've got Papa's money and
your safe, wealthy life to protect you."

Emma paled and tightened her fists. Malachi wondered briefly
if she'd strike him, but before she could act, he shoved against her and goaded
her further. "What do you want, Emma? Some day to walk down a deserted
street and be whisked into an alley by a foul-mouthed attacker?"