Frail Blood (11 page)

Once begun, he couldn't seem to stop his rant. "Do you
want him to do this?" He grabbed her arms and jerked her tighter, bringing
his lips down on hers in a kiss more punishment than passion. He ground his
mouth against hers, forcing it open and darting his tongue inside in a rough
attack.

Shocked by her instant flair of response, he gentled his
assault. He covered one breast with his hand, gently at first, but when she
moaned he pressed harder. "Do you want to be fondled like this? You enjoy
it from me, but how would you feel if a stranger, stinking and drunk, did the
same?"

He felt her protest under his lips, but he couldn't make
himself stop. Emma needed to understand that her life was different from most
women. He slid his hand over the curve of her buttocks and around to cup her
hard through the front of her skirt. "What about this?"

"Don't," she finally groaned, though the word
sounded less protest than desire.

He finally flung her away from him, reminding himself that
he'd gotten into the same kind of trap with his first wife. He'd learned from
bitter experience how to fend off eager virgins.

He chose the crude words to shock her. "Is that what
you want? To be
fucked?"

She stared wide-eyed, mouth trembling, large brown eyes wet
and shimmering.

"That's the price that comes with voting, Emma. Are you
willing to pay such a high fee?"

When she remained silent he turned away savagely. "I
thought not." He threw himself into his chair, picked up the notepad he'd
been writing on, and ignored her.

Long moments passed before he heard the swish of her skirt
and looked up to see her entering the outer office. She paused, back to him,
and whispered words so soft he wasn't sure he heard them. "What makes you
so sure I don't want to be f – fucked?"

He stared hard at the slammed door long after she'd gone,
trying to hold on to his anger at her, but failing miserably. He doubted she'd
ever forgive him for goading her into using such crude language.

Chapter 11

"Cowards die many times before their death."
–
Julius Caesar

Emma jumped into the carriage she'd left in front of Malachi's
office and whipped the horses into a wild frenzy. Her hands were trembling so
badly she could scarce hold onto the reins. The light wind tugged at the
feathers on her hat and her hair straggled down from its knot, strands sticking
to her wet face.

She traveled two miles before she looked back over her
shoulder. Why did she bother checking? A man of logic and cool-headed emotion,
Malachi Rivers wasn't likely to follow after her. Hadn't his pushing her away
last night proved that very point?

Damn! Why did she allow him to rile her? She slowed the
horses to a trot and stared at the swooshing of their tails in front of her. Malachi
was trying to
punish
her with his words, not educate her.
Shock,
not persuade her.

She was not wrong on this. If Alma Bentley were guilty – if
indeed she had killed Joseph Machado – she must pay the debt to society, the
same as a man. If she were not held accountable for what she'd done, if she
were granted favors – leniency – because of her sex, what hope was there for a
future of true equality between men and women?

Emma nearly approached the turnoff to her property before
she slowed the horses to a stop in the middle of the rutted road. Why had she
fled from Malachi? Running away was not part of her makeup. She and he were on
the same side, the defense of Alma Bentley. Emma had already accepted his offer
of work.

Was she such a coward that she'd turn tail at the first sign
of conflict?

The pale early fall sun peeked through a mass of cumulous
clouds, warming the seat beside her. The horses shifted restlessly, their
beautiful manes glossy in the light. After several moments more, she made her
decision and prompted the horses towards home.

She wouldn't return to town in such a disheveled state. She
would freshen up, change her now-dusty clothing, and have Ralston drive her
back into Placer Hills. If she weren't going to work for Mr. Rivers – and he'd
surely dismiss her after that outburst in his office – at the very least she
could return to court to take notes for an editorial on the trial.

She was a newspaper woman, after all, and she
would
report
the news.

#

During the afternoon court session Charles Fulton was as
cocksure as ever, apparently having recovered from Judge Underwood's ruling for
the defense. Malachi settled in to endure the testimony of the last round of
prosecution witnesses. Alma sat beside him, looking more dispirited and
timorous, if possible, than on any previous trial days.

The final witness had taken the stand when Alma tugged
earnestly at Malachi's sleeve. "Mr. Rivers, look. She's come again even
though she wasn't here this mornin'."

Malachi knew immediately of whom she spoke.

Alma's awed voice told him even as she turned in her chair
and leaned backward, extending fingers that peeked through a worn glove. "Thanks,
ma'am. It means ever so much to me that yer here," Alma whispered before
letting go of Emma's hand and turning back to meet the judge's frown.

Malachi refused to glance Emma's way even though her
attendance in court clearly meant something – a proffer of apology or a
declaration of war. He'd find out soon enough which.

The district attorney dispatched the next two witnesses with
a swiftness that surprised even Judge Underwood. When the last one had left the
stand, the magistrate banged his gavel once more.

"Mr. Rivers, you've not asked a single question of any of
the witnesses." He hefted his giant girth over the bench to squint at
Malachi over the top of his spectacles. "I must ask you, sir. Do you
intend to mount any sort of defense at all on your client's behalf?"

Still standing, Fulton smirked at Malachi.

"Yes sir, I do," Malachi replied, rising to his
feet.

Underwood waggled his eyebrows. "Mr. Fulton?"

"The state rests, your honor," he answered as his
two lackeys stood beside him. No doubt they already envisioned Alma standing on
the hanging platform, a noose round her neck.

"Court adjourns until tomorrow morning, then,"
Underwood proclaimed, his voice booming through the courtroom, "when the
defense will present its case in the matter of Bigler County vs. Alma Bentley."

The final sound of his gavel striking the wooden podium
sounded like a prison cell clanging shut. Malachi's hand covered Alma's as he
prayed that his best efforts on her behalf would be sufficient to save her.

When the courtroom cleared and the defendant had been
returned to her dungeon beneath the court steps, he stuffed his leather case
with his notes and turned to leave. Emma Knight sat quietly on the last row of
benches at the rear of the room.

Their eyes met across the empty distance. Why had she
remained behind? To apologize? Considering her obstinate nature, he hardly
thought so. On the other hand she might expect an apology from
him.

There were so many things to be sorry for, he thought. Suddenly
too tired for another confrontation with her, he trudged down the aisle to meet
her.

She rose and stood by the back door, her hand on the knob as
though she'd bar his way. In her usual blunt manner, she began without preamble.
"Am I still in your employment?"

He frowned, confused not by her abruptness, but by the
uncertainty he detected in her manner. She ought to be royally furious with him.
"Would you like to continue working for me?"

She bit her lower lip before nodding. "Yes."

Curiosity sufficiently aroused, he couldn't refrain from
asking. "Why? You appear to dislike everything about me and the case, the
way I practice law, how I defend my client. Surely it cannot be pleasant to
work for someone so despicable."

"You are not
so
despicable," she muttered,
"And I – I think I may learn from you." She stumbled out the words as
if unfamiliar with the niceties of apology. "I don't have to agree with
you to respect you."

He fancied she didn't offer respect to many men and felt
absurdly flattered. "Do you respect me then, Emma?"

"Of course. You are a fine lawyer." She spoke to a
distant spot just over his left shoulder. "Sometimes I speak hastily and
too passionately about causes I believe in."

He smiled. "Is this an apology?"

"Certainly not," she retorted. "I don't
regret stating my beliefs."

He sighed, took her arm, and guided her through the
marble-floored foyer toward the outside steps. She would be contrary even when
joking, but through her jacket the warmth of her arm against his fingers made
up for her prickliness.

"Are you sure, Emma?" he whispered in her ear,
inhaling the fresh citrus of her scent. "I have heard many apologies, and
I must say your words sound awfully like one."

"Don't be silly," she answered but he caught the
tugging of her lips in what certainly was the start of a grin.

Had she forgiven him then?

#

Malachi suggested dinner at the teahouse so they could
continue work on the case, but Emma knew their appearance together there would
afford the local gossips plenty to chatter about. They stood at the edge of the
lawn around the wide, grassy expanse surrounding the Bigler County Courthouse
while she made a bold decision.

"My cook Sarah has the best culinary reputation in the
county," she pointed out. "Dining at my house can provide greater
discretion than eating in public."

After a moment's hesitation, he agreed. "But first I
must visit my client."

Alma Bentley's prison cell lay beneath these very concrete
steps and Emma took a chance on this brief spate of friendliness between them. "May
I go with you?"

At first she thought he would refuse. After all, she was
merely an employee of his law practice and woefully ignorant of the law. But
since Alma had grabbed her hand in such friendly desperation in the courtroom
today, Emma had a strange compulsion to speak to the woman again.

Malachi peered into her face. "Why?"

Emma felt her cheeks heat up. "I caused Alma's case
serious damage initially." She didn't regret her decision about printing the
interview and confession. That was her job, after all. "But if even the
slightest possibility exists of her innocence, I don't want to be responsible
for her death."

Malachi set his mouth in a hard line as they descended the
long, concrete steps. "I told you. Alma's not innocent."

Emma nearly tripped on the bottom step, but righted herself.
"I know, but – "

"There will be rules," he warned.

"Of course," she complied readily.

They rounded the corner leading to the prison alcove. "You
may not ask Alma any questions," he added.

Damn.
"Agreed."

"Nor shall you confide in your uncle nor print anything
which she says. You must treat her confidences as if they are
sacrosanct."

She nodded, impatient for the rule-listing to end.

"Emma." His tone was skeptical and he lifted her
chin with a finger. "Look at me." She complied, too aware of his touch
on her skin.

"Do you understand what I'm saying? You must not print
anything about Alma in that newspaper of yours," he insisted.

"If you cannot agree to this stipulation, you must tell
me now." His blue eyes burned into her with the intensity of a bright
summer's day. Although his words threatened, his finger became a palm to cup
her jaw like a caress.

"I – I promise I will keep her confidences."

His brows lowered suspiciously. Had she agreed too eagerly? "And
you will not feel you've been tricked into foregoing your civic duty?"

She shook her head and his hand fell away from her cheek. "No,
Uncle Stephen will manage the paper until the trial is completed."

"Good." Malachi nodded his head in satisfaction. "Good
for him."

She placed her arm on his sleeve. "I only want to do
the right thing, Malachi. I have no intent to harm Alma."

His grin broke like a ray of sunshine. "We're back to
Malachi, are we? Good."

#

The bailiff stood guard outside the prison cell that housed
Alma Bentley, his spindly arms crossed over his chest. Emma saw at once that
his presence was unnecessary for the heavy metal door of the cell effectively
screened the prisoner from prying eyes.

A tiny barred window set high in the door afforded anyone
peering through nothing more than a gloomy interior filled with shades and
shadows.

Jacob Streetman jammed the metal key into the lock. "Don't
knows as it's proper for a lady like Miz Knight to be in such a place," he
grumbled, swinging the door wide open.

"Judge Underwood has approved the request, Jacob."
Malachi clapped the bailiff on one wiry shoulder. "I'll bang on the door
when we're finished."

Streetman hesitated as if he were afraid the small woman who
sat on a cot in the darkened corner of the room would rise up and overpower
them all. A ridiculous concern since Malachi stood nearly six and a half feet
and Emma herself who was no frail reed.

Alma looked up immediately from the congealing heap of dinner
mounded on a metal plate on her lap. "Mr. Rivers, Miss Knight!" she
exclaimed, a shocked look on her face as she started to rise from her place on
the cot. "I – I didn't 'spect visitors."

Malachi gestured with one hand. "No, Alma, please
finish your supper. We'll wait."

The woman sunk awkwardly onto the tick mattress while Emma
took in the rest of the cell's meager furnishings. A rickety wooden stand with
wash basin and cloth, a worn hair brush, a privy pot tucked beneath one end of
the bed. Nothing else, no books or candle, no paper or pen.

Emma smiled tentatively. "You're looking well, Alma."

Malachi lifted one dark brow but remained silent.

"Thank you, miss." Alma fixed her eyes on her
dinner and raised another bite to her mouth.

The only window fixed into the heavy door behind them
allowed a tiny bit of fresh air into the room through the metal bars. The
stifling, fetid odor of unwashed flesh and stale breath, along with the
distinct smell of fear and desperation, clung to the stone walls.

The dampness of the interior chilled to the bone in spite of
the unseasonably warm day, and Emma shivered as she drew her cloak closer. "Is
there no fire?" she wondered aloud.

Another foolish question which she promptly regretted. She
looked around for a place to sit, but saw no chair in the room. How could Alma
receive visitors?

Perhaps no one visited a murderess.

Malachi lowered his brow and followed the direction of her
gaze as if he'd also just noticed the lack of amenities. "Sit beside Alma
on the bed," he said, pointing to the dark woolen bed cover.

When she fingered the blanket, Emma felt the prickly texture
through her thin gloves. Poor Alma, to be treated so! The prisoner scooted away
from her with an apologetic smile as if her threadbare clothing would rub off
on Emma's finery.

"I'm near finished now, ma'am." Alma stuffed the
last remains of bread sopped in gravy into her mouth and wiped her lips with
the back of her hand.

Shame and embarrassment for her own gaudy wealth hit Emma
like a blow. Malachi was right. She knew little of the travails of low-born
women like Alma, understood neither their poverty nor their circumstance. She
had no right to sit in judgment of them.

Malachi squatted down on his heels, set the tray aside, and
took his client's roughened hands in his. "How are you doing today, Alma?"

"Oh, I can't rightly complain, Mr. Rivers. It's a bit
cold in here, but the sheriff made them bring me another blanket." She ran
one hand over the bed covering. "It ain't much, but it keeps me a bit
warmer."