Frail Blood (17 page)

He was very much afraid he'd have to put Alma on the stand.

Malachi left the cell moments later to insure a warm meal
and additional bedding were delivered to Alma. When he returned some fifteen
minutes later, Emma had already said goodbye and left the girl alone in her
cell.

He arranged the extra blankets at the end of the cot while
Streetman set a food tray on the chair and balanced a water pitcher on the wash
stand. Malachi waited until Streetman had gone before he instructed his client
on her possible testimony next week.

"Don't worry, Mr. Knight," she said.

"Oh, I don't, Alma. I know you'll perform well if you
are called on to testify."

"That warn't what I meant, Mr. Rivers." She gave
him a pitying smile. "I think she likes you too."

"What? Who?"

"Miz Knight. She likes you too," Alma repeated. Her
thin face glowed with the surety of someone who'd loved before.

"Don't be ridiculous," he muttered. "Miss
Knight and I can scarcely stand one another."

Chapter 18

"A thousand times the worse, to want thy light."
–
Romeo and Juliet

Crude as it was, Malachi never apologized for his home. He'd
built it himself at the age of thirteen with his father's somewhat inept and
drunken help. Large even then, he'd learned the tools of carpentry through
trial and error, mistake after mistake, too proud to ask for the help of any
townspeople.

Too embarrassed to let anyone witness the extent of his
father's debauchery and violence.

It had been a labor of arrogance, determination, and pure
orneriness. He'd intended to show his father that he and his mother had little
need for such a poor excuse of a man as Matthias Rivers.

The cabin stood several decades later, rough, rude, and
humble, but a stubborn reminder of what Malachi had risen above. Or what he
thought
he'd risen above. Now he looked around the single room, taking in each meager
detail of modest furniture and plain furnishings.

Preferring the wooden shutters he'd fixed to the windows, he'd
left them without curtains. The undecorated shelves contained neat rows of
canned tins and sacks of staples. From his position where he relaxed in the
large wooden tub of hot water, he examined the oversized bed – his only
concession to comfort – tucked behind a drape fastened to the ceiling's beam.
The rude dresser and wash stand in the corner were mirrors of Alma Bentley's
humble cell furniture.

His sense of self-sufficiency continued to work on him, so
he remained here where his mother had lived out the remaining years of her
too-young life and his father had drunk himself to death. Even though Malachi
could easily afford a mansion to rival Emma's home across the way.

He leaned back in the wooden tub and soaked in the steamy
bath. The shutters were closed for privacy, but the dim light of dusk filtered
through the heavy growth of trees around the cabin. He sighed and reached for
the soap, intending to scrub every care from his muscles.

Moments later the knock at the door, hardly more than the
tapping of fingernails on wood, alerted him. Damn, here he was ass-deep in a
hot bath, intending to ease the weariness from his bones and he had a visitor.

Digging his grandfather's pocket watch from his pants lying
on the floor, he studied the time while listening for the sound again. He'd
nearly convinced himself he was mistaken when the rapping sounded again, this
time markedly louder.

Still, he ignored it until the banging began. Who else but
she
would be brass enough to call on him without warning?

Reaching for a towel and wrapping it around his body, he
stepped out of the tub, splashing water on the wooden floor.
Damn.
There
was a mess he'd have to clean up. He walked across the smooth planks in his
bare feet and swung open the door to the cabin.

A wind chilled his damp flesh and though he'd half expected
her, the shock of Emma Knight on his porch tingled his entire body and his mind
grew cold.

Wrapped in a heavy cloak from head to ankle, boots on her
feet and a trimmed cap pulled down over her ears, she blew impatient wisps of white
puffy air out of her mouth. Her pink-tinged nose and cheeks darkened as he
gazed at her.

She shuffled from foot to foot, rubbing her gloved hands
together. Small wonder. Winter had crept suddenly into northern California, not
the usual rain, but a cold storm that layered in and dropped the temperature in
the foothills.

Belatedly, his thoughts unthawed and the cold registered as
his damp skin weathered the breeze blowing through the open door. "Emma,
why in Christ's name are you here?"

She raked her eyes over his scantily clad body, a flicker of
annoyance in her dark eyes. He had a good mind to drop the towel and wipe that
haughty look from her face.

"Well," she huffed, "aren't you gentleman
enough to invite me in, Malachi Rivers? I'm freezing my ... nose off out here
on your porch."

He eyed her warily before swinging the door wider and
gesturing for her to come in with a wide sweep of his hand. "Ah, Princess
Emma, welcome to my humble abode."

She scowled at him. "I hate when you do that."

He lifted his eyebrows. "Do what, precisely?"

"Mock me." Emma moved across the floor, her boots
clacking loudly in the sparsely-furnished room as she looked around with interest
at the surroundings, her back toward him.

A moment later she dropped the cloak, and all hell broke
loose in his mind.

She wore nothing at all beneath the coat and stood in the
center of his humble cabin wearing only boots and a ridiculous hat covering her
glorious curls. Not a stitch covered the curls beneath her waist.

Malachi turned quickly, aware that the tenting of his towel
might cause it to drop of its own accord.
That
would surely shake her
aplomb. He reached for his trousers, dropped the towel and stepped into them,
aware as he did so that he gave her a full view of his bare backside.

It couldn't be helped. What the hell was the chit up to now?
Fastening his pants, he turned to face her. "Put the coat back on, Emma,"
he instructed as calmly as he could.

Her look of hauteur was followed by an uncertainty that
nearly undid him, but he girded up his determination. "This is a very bad
idea."

"I – I thought about ... before."

He began shaking his head while she continued a clearly rehearsed
speech. "I want – I want to try again. I – I didn't realize how ...
momentous such a – an act was and I wasn't prepared the last time you and I –
we ..."

What was an ordinary man to do? Did Emma understand how hard
a refusal was to such an offer? She stood splendidly naked in front of him. The
supreme irony of her feet and head covered while the rest of her remained bare was
not lost on him. She'd cleverly covered what some cultures held were the most
sensuous parts of the female body – her slender feet and riotous hair.

Steeling himself against her allure, he warned her, his
voice less stern than his cock. "We're not going to have a repeat
performance of the other night's debacle."

He watched her lovely face falter and deflate. He bent to
pick up her discarded cloak, wrapping it gently around her shoulders. She
clutched the edges together but not before he witnessed a rich pink color
diffuse her flesh.

He stepped back as if burned, then gentled his voice. "You
understand we cannot behave so irresponsibly while we work together, Emma. I'm
sorry if I led you to believe otherwise."

She tilted her chin and focused on a spot beside his ear. "Of
course not. However, you should know I am not so fragile that I would break
under the duress of having ... sexual congress with you. You mustn't think me
so unsturdy."

"Emma," he whispered, drawing her close and
pulling off the cap. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair before holding
her at arm's length, but she would not look into his eyes until he lifted her
chin. "You can scarcely utter the word 'sex.' How will you be able to
engage in the activity itself?"

"But we already have," she protested.

He blew out a harsh breath at the reminder of how he'd used
her so carelessly. "Yes, but that wasn't pleasurable for you. And I won't
repeat the experience until you are able to enjoy it also."

Understanding flooded her eyes. "Then you agree that
after the trial ... " She let the words dangle there like a hangman's
noose while he wondered how he'd stepped so readily and easily into the snare.

He was still wondering several long minutes after she'd
quietly left the cabin and he heard the sure step of her boots on the winter
leaves and twigs.

#

After the brisk walk back to her house, during which she'd
relived the embarrassing, but hopeful event of the early evening, Emma was
eager to soak her weary limbs in a hot, scented bath. She wanted to think about
the case, of course ... and Malachi. What they'd done. And more importantly,
what they
hadn't
done.

She heard the sound of her parents' carriage as she ascended
the stairs and her mood altered instantly. She hastily dressed and smoothed her
hair as neatly as possible. When she reached the bottom step again, Sarah had already
opened the front door.

What now, Emma wondered, as a chill of fear walked icy
fingers up her spine.

She should have been prepared for the unannounced assault of
her parents on her home. They'd never before backed down when they wanted her
cooperation and this time was sure to be no exception.

Now, instead, both parents preceded her into the parlor,
armed with argument and clearly prepared to do battle.

"Don't worry," she said to Sarah, noticing the troubled
look on her face.

The older woman had been with the Knights for many years,
first as a young maid for the newly married couple and later as nurse to baby
Emma. Fiercely protective of her charge, she'd been a welcome buffer between
the outspoken and oft misguided young Emma and her stern and straight-laced
parents.

When Emma purchased her own home, Sarah had left the elderly
Knights' employ without hesitation. Emma suspected her parents would never
forgive the betrayal.

She gave Sarah a quick hug. "I'll handle them. I should
be used to Mama and Papa's officiousness by now." She barely suppressed a groan.
"Prepare tea for the three of us, please."

Her shoulders set, she marched off to the parlor to face the
inevitable parental disapprobation. Her father's glare as he stood to watch her
enter the parlor banished all hope of cordial or friendly intercourse.

"Mother." She nodded toward the sofa where her
mother perched at the edge, her spine as straight as a ruler, her gloved hands
resting on her lap, and her face a calm slate of disaffection.

"Father, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Emma
complimented herself on the lack of rancor in her voice.

She seated herself in the dark blue striped wing chair by
the windows, but her father remained standing. She understood the ploy the
moment her hips touched the chair cushion. He liked using his height to cow her,
to make her feel his superiority as he loomed over her defenseless female form.

She jumped to her feet and walked to the archway, leaning
against the jamb while she regained her composure. At that moment Sarah entered
with the tea tray and deposited it on the table near her mother with a
disapproving clatter.

Mrs. Knight flashed the older woman a look of pure hatred. Emma
had never understood why her mother held such contempt for Sarah Ralston.

When she was younger, she'd believed her mother was jealous
of the affection the young Emma had for Sarah, but she later realized her
mother was completely incapable of any deep emotion. Envy of Sarah implied that
Mary Elizabeth Knight held some kind of maternal interest in her daughter.

Emma knew that assumption was a grave misconception.

Her father moved closer, his body rigid with disapproval. Emma
was hardly surprised. Very little of her behavior pleased her father. She didn't
imagine he'd been happy with her decision to live alone as a single woman, nor that
he'd rejoiced over her partnership with her uncle.

Papa started in first. "You must cease this foolishness
immediately, Emma. You're ruining the family name."

"What foolishness is that, Father?"

"Don't play coy with me, girl. You must turn the business
of the newspaper back to Stephen immediately."

Emma shrugged as if her father's words hadn't cut like a
samurai's blade through the chambers of her heart. Or as if the three of them
hadn't already broached this subject
ad nauseum.
"Stephen is
running the paper during the course of the trial. And he's agreed to ...
subsidize my finances until I'm of age for my inheritance."

She swept back her hair impatiently. "Anyway, what has
changed to cause your sense of immediacy?"

Her parents exchanged a meaningful glance.

"Beginning tomorrow, the details of the trial will
become ugly," her father conceded.

Emma looked from one of them to the other. How were they
privy to court affairs? "How do you know this?" She heard the sharp
edge to her voice but didn't care. "Where have you gotten such privileged
information?"

"You've been many things, Emma, but never dull-witted. Don't
be stupid now," her father said. "I have friends."

"Charles Fulton," Emma said flatly. "How dare
he breach ethics by discussing the case with the two of you!"

Her mother rose and advanced a single step toward her
daughter, but stopped and narrowed her eyes as if she were unable to fathom how
she'd birthed such a recalcitrant child. "You must cease assisting Mr.
Rivers with the murder case."

Emma merely arched one brow and returned the hard look in
her mother's eyes.

"You must see how unseemly your behavior is, consorting
with a single man like Mr. Rivers!" her mother hissed. "You're
behaving like a wanton, and when the trial gets ugly, your reputation will be
in tatters."

Emma forced a small laugh past her stiff lips. Why did her
parents' words hurt after all these years? She ought to be accustomed to their
low opinion of her. "I thought by now you were used to my unseemly
behavior, Mother."

Her mother flounced about, turned her back on Emma, and
stared out the wide expanse of windows. "It's your
brother's
fault."
She tossed the words over her shoulder toward her husband. "He and his ...
unnatural ways will ruin us!"

What was her mother talking about?

"Shut up, Mary." Her father scarcely raised his
voice, yet her mother's protest died on her lips.

"What does Mama mean?"

"Nothing. She means absolutely nothing." Her
father glared at his wife's back. "How Stephen behaves in his private life
has nothing to do with us."