Frail Blood (13 page)

She stood beside Malachi and leaned against the table, her
hips anchored at the edge, her voice lowered as she spoke. "Patsy has been
involved with a man in every family who's employed her as a cook, not only here
in Placer Hills, but in Sacramento as well."

She felt color creep into her cheeks again, but continued. "Alma,
on the other hand, appears only to have been involved with Joseph Machado."

Malachi gazed up into her face with the bemused expression
of a parent humoring a child. "And do you believe these tales, Emma?"

He covered her hands and she could feel the warmth of his
through the linen of her dress. What must surely be the newly-discovered
substance called adrenaline heightened her senses. Her thighs tingled where his
hand rested, and her blood pumped furiously through her veins to settle hotly
in her extremities.

She shook off his hand and walked to the window, careful to
keep her back to him. "I believe Alma is an innocent. Perhaps Joseph took –
took her virginity. Perhaps it was another man. But she is still an innocent,
hardly more than a child, and foolish enough to believe a man's promises in the
heat of the moment."

Suddenly he stood behind her, his breath ruffling the
tendrils of hair at her nape. "What do you know of a man's promises to a
woman in the ... heat of the moment?"

She turned to face him, her mouth inches from his chin, the
sweet, spicy odor she'd come to associate with him assailing her senses. "I
– I have some experience with – "

At that inauspicious moment Sarah banged through the
swinging door that led to the kitchen's antechamber, her jacket on and her hat
firmly anchored to her head. "We're leaving now, Miss Emma – "

The cook stopped dead in her tracks when she spied the two
of them by the window. Startled, Emma took a quick step back, but Malachi
merely stared impassively at Sarah.

"I can stay longer, Miss, if you wish." Sarah's
faded blue eyes flashed a meaningful look at her mistress. "Both the
mister and I can stay late."

"Don't be silly, Sarah." Emma touched a hand to
her hot cheek. "Mr. Rivers and I are quite finished with our work on the
trial. In fact," she said, moving into the foyer to retrieve his coat, "he
was just leaving."

Sarah eyed them both suspiciously. "If you say so, Miss
Emma." Lingering a moment longer, she turned with a swoosh of her skirt
and retreated through the swinging door into the kitchen.

A moment later Emma heard the back door slam emphatically.

Chapter 13

"Other women cloy the appetites they feed, but she
makes hungry where most she satisfies."

–
Anthony and Cleopatra

Emma and Malachi had moved to the foyer where she clutched
his coat in her hands as tightly as if she'd rip it to pieces. He stared at the
strain etched on her pale face, unable to tell whether she wanted him to leave
or remain.

"I believe my waistcoat and neck cloth are still in the
dining room," he reminded her gently.

When she whirled around, he followed her into the room where
they'd reenacted Joseph's murder moments before. There she retrieved his
belongings and thrust them into his arms as if they were hot coals burning her
hands.

She seemed very eager for him not to stay, and leaving was
probably best given his history with women who cloaked worldliness with a thin
veneer of innocence. Like Constance, Emma sometimes behaved as though she'd
amassed a wide array of sexual experience, but on an occasion her words spoke
otherwise.

He should go before desire overrode his better judgment.

"I can see that you are as eager for my departure as
your cook is," he said testing the waters. As he laughed, he wormed his
way into the jacket, stuffing the neck cloth and waistcoat into his greatcoat
pockets. "Never fear, Emma, I am on my way."

"I didn't intend to be rude," she protested weakly.
He watched a delightful flush creep from the swell of her breasts through her
neck to settle like an early-morning sunrise on the finely sculpted cheekbones.

He smiled while the urge to touch her strained against his
common sense. "Well, at any rate, we appear to be finished with our work
on the case for the moment." He tossed the heavy coat over his arm and
strolled toward the marble-floored foyer.

Her voice stopped him at the front door. "We did not
finish our plan for Alma's defense."

He paused, his back toward her. "I believe her actual
defense is an area I must strategize myself." He turned the knob and
stepped onto the landing.

The frustration in her voice halted him on the first brick
step that led down to the graveled turnabout. "Malachi!"

He believed that exclamation cost a great deal of her pride,
acknowledging as they did her hunger for him. She wanted him. That was clear. They
were both worldly adults of a legal age. For those reasons, and his own
throbbing need, he turned and crossed back over the threshold into the foyer.

Before his marriage to Constance, he'd been relatively
inexperienced, but after their separation, he'd flung himself into a year-long
debauchery that now shamed him. Now he satisfied his needs with the occasional
widowed or unmarried women who had no expectations of him.

Why then did he hesitate to couple with Emma? She was
willing and desirable. And certainly, she was no innocent.

Suddenly the long hours of work on the case exhausted him. He
closed his eyes briefly and rubbed at the pain bridging his brow. He gently
closed the door behind him, leaned back against it, and inspected her for
several long moments.

"What do you want of me, Emma?" he asked, running
a forefinger across the smooth line of her jaw.

A wild, animal attraction electrified the space between them.

She covered his hand and gestured toward the parlor. "We
could talk further about Alma's case, of course." Her hips swayed gently
as she led him into the room. "Or we could talk of other things."

He flung his coat on a heavy piece of furniture at odds with
the blatant femininity of the rest of the décor while she crossed the foyer
into the dining area. He heard the faint clink of glass against glass.

Removing his jacket and rolling down his shirt sleeves, he
glanced around the room. The parlor contained a frilly sofa and matching chair
covered in various pink hues splashed with muted hues of gold and brown. Heavy
drapes hung at the windows and a rich wine-colored rug covered the oak floors.

Bold woman, Emma Knight, to decorate a room in colors that
might clash with the rich auburn of her hair.

A curio cabinet to the eastern wall held a variety of
figures, including a miniature bronze of Rodin's
The Age of Bronze,
the
well-proportioned naked man poised with his right hand over his head to reveal
the lapping musculature of his ribs and chest.

A life-size sculpture of Lorenzo Bartolini's
Nymph and
the Scorpion
was tucked into a corner beside the archway of the door. Why
wasn't he surprised that art of a naked man and woman was displayed prominently
in her house?

The chair he chose was deep and comfortable, fine leather in
a rich chocolate color, one that matched Emma's eyes. He sank into the soft
folds and rested his head on the high back, closing his eyes.

Why in hell was he still here? Did he believe he could bed a
woman like Emma Knight and then ignore her? She was beautiful and prickly and
smart as hell, but he didn't love her and had no thought to marry again.

"I thought you might like brandy." She spoke from
the archway and when he opened his eyes to look in her direction, he saw that
she carried a tray with decanter and two snifters. She positioned herself on
the sofa, laid the tray on the nearby table, and poured the amber liquor into
each glass.

Malachi sighed deeply, downed the brandy quickly, and sat
beside her. Emma clearly wanted him to make love to her, and unfortunately, the
many reasons
not
to become involved with her had fled his brain at the
moment.

Their hips touched as he edged closer to her and twined his
fingers in her hair. He pulled out the remaining pins one by one, dropping them
onto the sofa cushion.

When her rich curls splayed across his hand, he lifted them
to his lips and inhaled the scent of her shampoo, her perfume, her body, and
beneath it all the unmistakable odor of arousal. He trailed his fingers down
her neck and across the swell of her breasts, fascinated with the vein that
pulsated at her throat.

His blood thrummed through him like wildfire and his
erection tightened against his trousers.

"Malachi." She moaned his name and turned her face
into his hand, her breath warm and moist on his palm. Shards of craving gnawed
at his self-control.

"You've done this before." He intended to form the
words as a question rather than a statement, but was irrationally irritated at
the thought of another man enjoying her body.

She laughed softly. "A lady never speaks of her lovers."

He groaned and reached for her again, his hands enormous
round her slender waist. He traced her lower lip with his tongue, delighting in
her gasp of pleasure, and delved into the sweet flesh of her mouth. He'd
thought only to kiss her, to go no further this time, but once he'd begun
tasting her, he couldn't stop.

His kiss deepened like a thirsty man quenching his parched
need. He held the back of her head firmly as he tasted her mouth and nipped at
her lips, darting his tongue in and out of her mouth in a simulation of the
thrusting his body yearned to perform between her legs.

Her response was wild, uninhibited, practiced.

Thank God, she wasn't an innocent. Constance's trickery
years ago had vowed him off virgins, or rather, women who passed themselves off
as such in order to deceive a man into marriage.

"Touch me," she begged into his mouth. She reached
for his hand and pressed it against her breast, and then worked at the
fastenings that loosened his trousers. A moment later he felt the cool wrap of
her fingers around him, the sure exploration of his shaft.

"Good God, woman, slowly! You'll have me finish before
we've begun." His harsh breathing roared in his ears.

After a moment he stood up and tucked himself back into his
pants. He poured himself another brandy, struggling a moment as propriety
battled with lust. When his heart ceased to thunder in his temples and his
breathing approximated normal, he turned to face her.

"Emma, this is a dangerous road we're about to travel."

Her chest heaved and her voice sounded ragged. He felt
irrationally smug that he'd roused her so thoroughly. "Not so dangerous,"
she whispered.

"Yes," he replied with a modicum of rationality, "it
is dangerous." He would not take this irrevocable action without her
understanding the reality of their actions. "I am older than you by a good
many years. I understand the damage that can be done to your reputation."

"And what of your reputation?"

"You know that it is different for a man than a woman."

"Yes, of course." Bitterness was heavy in her tone.
"A lady is not allowed to demonstrate passion or feelings of sexuality. Another
issue in which our sex is inferior to yours."

As though she needed to arm herself for battle, she poured a
drink and tossed it down like a seaman. She sputtered, coughed, and wiped her
mouth with the back of her hand, then tossed her mane of fire from her face. "For
once women ought to come out on top."

A bawdy bark of laughter escaped him. "Yes, there's
that." He reached for her hand and drew her close. He saw puzzlement flit crossed
her face, but in the next second it was gone and he thought he imagined it.

"I'm sure I should too," she answered with a
smile, pressing her body against him.

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you prepared?" He'd
neglected to carry a condom with him, unprepared for the night's turn of
events.

"Prepared?" she echoed.

"For contraception," he prompted. "Have you
thought that what happens between us could lead to a child?"

"Don't be silly. I know what I'm doing."

He frowned and lifted her chin to examine her face. She'd
gone for him straight away, taken him in her hand with a practiced motion.

She ran her hands slowly down his chest and set his pulses
racing. "I'm a modern woman, Malachi, and I believe in my right to
experience life to its fullest. Wouldn't you agree that ... lovemaking is one
of life's greatest pleasures?"

Still holding her chin, he smoothed his thumb over her lip,
watching as she opened her mouth and sucked and nipped at it. "Ah, yes,
one of life's most rousing diversions," he said, feeling his cock heavy
and rigid against her dress.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and ruffled her fingers
through his hair. "Then let us talk less about it and act more."

He kissed her heartily before releasing her.

"I am going upstairs to my bedroom." Her voice was
firm. "I should very much like you to join me there in a few moments."

When she reached the bottom step of the staircase, he
uttered one last question. "Emma?"

She paused, her foot raised to step upward. "Yes?"

"Why did you say the other day that you might want to
be f – made love to? Why did you use that coarse word?"

"Perhaps I wanted you to know that I could speak such
an obscenity."

He nodded, for that's what he'd surmised. "Well, then,
I will enjoy bedding you, Emma." He paused. "But let us be clear. I have
no inkling for marriage. I will not marry you."

The words hung between them like a challenge to battle. Neither
had mentioned matrimony, but Malachi wanted his intentions clear.

"I want you. God, I can't remember desiring a woman
more. But we are speaking of physical pleasure, mutual physical pleasure, not a
life-time commitment. If you are not clear about this, you must say so now."

She frowned, but he could not read her expression in the dim
light of the stairway. "Why should I give up all that I have – my freedom
and wealth – to be under the thumb of a man?" She gestured around her, arms
akimbo. "I've never wanted to marry, Malachi. Why should I consider it
now?"

"You must be sure, Emma. I am not a man for marriage,
family, and children."

"You flatter yourself, Malachi. I want sensual
experience from you, nothing more." She continued up the stairs before he
could utter another word.

He stood minutes later in the lighted parlor, his brandy
glass dangling from his fingers.

What in hell was he to do with a woman like that?

#

Malachi checked the time on his pocket watch, walked out
onto the landing of Emma's porch, and sat in the swing around the side of the house
where he'd first kissed Emma. He could see the lights wink out in the windows
of the caretakers cottage some distance away. Sarah Ralston and her husband
must believe he'd gone home too.

But Malachi wouldn't put it past the wily Mr. Ralston to
come back and make sure.

He pushed back and forth on the swing, contemplating his
position, his reputation. His lust. He thought about Emma's family, her
position in the community, her reputation. Her unchecked passion.

His logic told him to leave her alone – what good could come
from a liaison with such a lady, a stubborn, independent, fiery woman who'd
never give him a moment's peace? But his desire – and perhaps that cold organ
resting above his ribs – teased him into believing a woman like Emma could be
worth disrupting his ordered life.

Until he returned to the parlor to retrieve his outer
clothing, he wasn't sure what action he'd take – stay or run like hell's hounds
chased him. The former was far more appealing, but the latter compellingly
prudent. Never one for indecision, his vacillation between logic and desire irritated
him.

Lingering between the stairs and the front door, he came
upon a full-sized portrait of a young girl with riotous red curls. The painting
hung at the far end of the foyer beneath the stairway's alcove and was surely
young Emma around the age of twelve.

The buds that would develop into the rounded mounds of
breasts that now tantalized him pushed against the thin white dress of the girl
in the picture. Unsmiling, her face showed a serious expression that, even at a
young age, foreshadowed curiosity mixed with defiance.