Frail Blood (20 page)

The man's stench was overwhelming.

His teeth rotted in a foul mouth.

His hand groped between her legs and she felt the deep,
relentless sting of invasion at the juncture of her thighs.

Blood spurted down her legs, pooling in bright, angry
puddles at her bare feet. She opened her mouth to scream and the man slammed a
vicious punch into her jaw. More blood flooded from her wounded mouth, choking
her screams until they fell into a gurgle of terror.

Her breath froze in her throat.

She choked and gagged in reflex.

Suddenly a cold wind sucked into her lungs and a scream
ripped from her throat.

"Emma, Emma!"

Hands restrained her, but she fought against them, thrashing
and kicking out.

"Wake up, Emma. You're dreaming." A thick band of
flesh pressed against her cheek, a hard palm against her head. She couldn't let
them overpower her. She mustn't capitulate. She resumed her efforts and fought
like a she-wolf guarding her pups until the restraints loosened.

A light slap stung her left cheek. "Emma!"

Her eyes jerked open. Malachi crouched on the end of the bed
in front of her, his arms raised, palms outward. She knelt at the opposite edge
of the mattress, her own fists clenched in front of her, her arms raised like a
pugilist prepared to lash outward. Sweat rolled down her temples and pooled
between her breasts.

She blinked furiously, trying to orient herself. "You
struck me." She shook her head, vaguely understanding that was not the
relevant point.

In her nightmare she'd been resisting her attackers. "I
– I thought ... " Her words trailed off as she separated the vivid dream
from the present reality.

Malachi's voice was unexpectedly gentle. He covered her
fists with his hands and lowered her back to the bed. "You're safe now."

"Those men – those t – thugs tried to – "

"Shh, I know, but you gave them hell." He laughed
softly and ruffled her hair back from her forehead.

"I thought they would r-rape and then k-k-kill me,"
she stuttered, annoyed that she had no control over her voice, that she
appeared vulnerable and weak. "I c-couldn't fight them off. I tried, but
... "

"You were amazing, a regular 'Gentleman Jim' Corbett."

The appellation forced a smile from her as she watched
Malachi move into the cordoned-off kitchen area and wring a cloth out in the
cauldron of water hanging over the fire.

"Aye," he continued, wagging his brows and taking on
an Irish brogue, "those men in the alley were shakin' in their boots when
they saw the fierce weapon in your wee hand."

"Silly, Corbett wasn't Irish." But his joking
cheered her and lightened the mood. She felt much better.

He handed the warm cloth to her. "Wash your face."
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched as she ran the cloth over her
forehead and down her sweaty cheeks. She noticed the hairbrush in his hand. "What's
that for?"

"Sarah brought it with a change of clothing for you."

"Sarah! Sarah knows I'm here?"

"You set up quite an alarm when you didn't return last
night. Stephen and your parents were frantic."

She groaned and sank back onto the pillow. "My parents!
Oh my God."

"Don't worry. Except for Stephen and me, Sarah's the
only one who knows the truth. Your uncle and I have spun a clever lie for them."
He winked at her. "You are not, in fact, lying in the bed of a wicked
single gentleman, but are at this moment conducting an interview with a woman
residing in New Castle."

"Thank goodness for Stephen!"

"Sit up," he ordered, handing her the hair brush. "You
must get dressed and leave. We've skirted close enough to discovery and mustn't
press our luck."

She sat up, took the brush, and began drawing it through her
hair. When she'd seen him standing at the wide end of the alley, his greatcoat
flowing from his shoulders like a musketeer, his face a dark glower in the
nearly lightless night, she'd never felt so relieved, nor happy, in her life.

He'd come to save her when she hadn't even known she would
need saving. "Thank you," she whispered, her throat suddenly clogged
and scratchy. "Thank you for coming."

"I should have killed them." His voice held a
flat, deadly calm she'd never heard before.

"No! I shouldn't want you to kill someone for me."

"I wanted to rip them to pieces."

His hands fell gently to her shoulders and eased the robe
down her arms, trailing a path of fire over her flesh. Her nipples puckered
with the chill to her bare breasts and she closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation
of his touch.

Please don't send me away.

His fingers shook as they roamed gently over the top of her
breasts and around to cup them with both hands. She heard the hitch of his
voice as he lowered his mouth to her neck.

"I couldn't bear the thought of those animals touching
you, much less ... " His mouth moved gently over her neck and shoulder,
pressing tender kisses on the scrapes and bruises beginning to blossom into
ugly blue flowers.

"That they'd defile such loveliness was unthinkable."

She drew her breath in on a great shudder that set her limbs
shaking again. "I want you," she said, lowering her eyes, afraid to
see another rejection written on his face.

"Ah, Emma," he groaned and buried his face in her
hair. The soft lawn of his shirt tantalized her sensitive nipples, and she
clung to him, desperate to satisfy the hunger in her loins.

He pushed her down on the pillows and gazed at her for long moments
with such longing that she wanted to weep. This was how she wanted a man to
look at her. That flash of desire was what she'd waited for. At last he pulled
the covers to her shoulders and made to rise.

"Don't leave." She grabbed his hand and clutched
it tightly. "Don't go away. I don't want to be alone just now.
Please."

She knew instinctively they'd arrived at a turning point and
saw the same understanding in his expression. There would be no going back from
this night, no recriminations or regrets. He nodded briefly, secured the door,
and checked the fire a final time before extinguishing the last of the lamps.

In the room's dimness she watched as he stood by the bed's
edge and slowly removed each article of clothing, pausing between items as if
to give her a chance to recant. His eyes were beautifully kind and gentle and
shimmered like the moonlight on the lake.

He laid each garment on a chair back until finally he stood
only in his drawers slung low on his narrow hips. The breadth of his chest was
sprinkled with dark hairs that funneled downward to his navel and dipped
beneath the white cloth. Her eyes followed the line to the unmistakable bulge
in his groin.

She smiled and he flashed back a lopsided grin. He hooked
his thumbs in the waist of his drawers and paused, staring intently at her. She
held her breath and waited. He pulled off the final piece of clothing and stood
beautifully naked before her. His body was like burnished gold, sleek and
smooth as if wrought from marble by a master sculptor.

She'd never seen anything so beautiful in her entire life.

Chapter 21

"Why then, can one desire too much of a good
thing? –
As You Like It

Emma fitted into the curve of his body as if God had
fashioned her particularly to meld into one flesh with him. Malachi smiled at
the unaccustomed Biblical reference and lifted his head to see the cold ash of
the fire in the grate and the black slivers of night peeking through the window
slats.

Although they'd lain together with nothing between them, he'd
not had her. And he wouldn't until she insisted. This much he could do for her,
he thought.

She'd slept long and peacefully in his arms, hardly
stirring, healing and shoring up energy. He eased his arm from beneath her neck
and padded across the cold boards that chilled his feet even through the thick
rugs scattered here and there that his mother had hooked years ago.

He built up the fire again, poured a glass of water, and
gulped it down, then fiddled with the papers stacked on the table. The chill of
the room on his naked flesh didn't bother him.

In fact, he was stalling, putting off the moment when he'd
crawl back into bed beside Emma and gather her close and ... his body twitched,
knowing far better than his brain what it needed.

No more indecision, no more wrestling with his blasted
conscience. If Emma still wanted him, he'd make love to her, show her that the
passion between them could transport them to a kind of heavenly bliss.

When he crept into bed and folded her into his arms, she
wriggled her backside into his groin. Desire so fierce he couldn't breathe for
a moment cut through him like a wound. He tightened his arms around her and
nestled his face in the sweet smell of her hair, pressed his chest against the
smooth curve of her back.

"Hmmm." Emma groaned and stretched like a cat
waking from a nap in the sun. Then she settled again, captured his hand, and
pulled it round her waist, holding it against her breast. His cock twitched
against her bottom, a relentless snake coiling around a warm spot.

He began with her breast, cupping its extraordinary fullness
and thumbing the nipple until it peaked in a hard nub beneath his touch. She
breathed in on a sigh and then out on a tiny moan. He stroked her thighs, ran
his hand over her belly and back, gently caressing skin that was silk beneath
his fingers.

God, he wanted her now! A primitive urge drove him, a
relentless desire to bury himself deep inside her, to pummel her mindlessly
until she came and he released himself into her body. He jerked himself back
from the edge of his lust.

Slow down, breathe, think.

Suddenly aware that she'd fully awakened, he ceased the
gentle movements of his hand on her body.

"No, don't stop," she murmured.

His hand roamed over her belly again and dipped down to
explore the curls covering her sex. He made lazy, soft circles with his fingers
until he heard the rapid increase of her breath, a tiny gasping of combined
pleasure and pain.

"Do you like that?" he whispered against her ear.

"Oh, yes," she responded and covered his hand to
urge him on.

He dipped a finger among the curls and felt the sweet, slick
wetness. Christ, she was hot and ready for him! Go slowly, slowly, he reminded
himself as he drew in a long, ragged breath. He inserted a finger into her
opening and felt her inner muscles clench around it. He stroked and rolled his
finger inside her, rubbing the tiny nub with his thumb.

"Malachi," she groaned, "w – what are you
doing to me?"

He laughed softly. "Shall I stop?"

"Don't you dare." Her breath came in sharp, hard
gasps as though she labored to fill her lungs. He sank two fingers inside her
and let her ride them until he felt her pleasure begin to peak.

Then he withdrew and turned her round to face him. "Oh,
no, little one, not yet."

Her eyes were glazed over like a woman drunk, her lips
parted. He kissed her thoroughly, invading her mouth and dancing with her
tongue in hard, fiery thrusts. She was a heady aphrodisiac and he couldn't
taste enough of her.

He rolled her over on top of him. Her hair dangled onto his
chest and her body clung to his in moist, heated spots. The hot core of her
inviting him in, he thrust upward slowly in painful pleasure. He held himself
back, enticing her with the tip of him, withdrawing and pushing forward again
an inch at a time until she was as mindless for him as he was for her.

"Malachi!"

Quickly he rolled her over, separated her thighs with his
knee, and spread her legs wide. Then slowly he plunged into her until he was
hilt deep in the warm, wet slickness of her sex. He held his weight from her
body and paused until the primordial urge to take her fast and furiously passed.
He began to move in and out of her, pushing until she writhed beneath him,
wrapped her legs around his waist, and orgasmed in one long, exquisite shudder.

The clenching of her inner muscles threatened to bring him
to a quick release. He endured the sweet torment as long as he could, allowing
her to draw out her satisfaction, until finally he withdrew from her wet and
willing body.

Then he climaxed with his own fierce release, spilling
himself into the cloth he'd laid aside beforehand, unwilling to risk the
consequences of their lovemaking as they'd done with their first encounter.

Finally, he collapsed on her and felt her pounding heart
echo to the thundering of his own.

#

Propped on his elbow, Malachi watched the early morning
light slant through the shutters and play across Emma's bare back. She lay on
her stomach, her face turned away from him, her glorious hair cascading down
her pale, slender back like tendrils of silk. He stroked her hair, drawing his
fingers down her back. She began to stir with his caressing.

He wanted her now. And would yet again, he realized, after
he'd slated himself. And before morning fully rose through the woods
surrounding his cabin, he'd still desire her. He doubted he'd ever get his fill.
What power was it she held over him?

She turned her face toward him, strands of russet strung
across her cheeks and lips like flashes of fire, and smiled lazily. "Good
morning."

"And to you, m'lady," he answered, sweeping the
hair from her eyes and scraping the backs of his knuckles over her flushed
cheeks. What gift to the gods had she pledged to be rewarded with such loveliness?

She ran her fingers lightly over his chest and seemed to
take the measure of him before speaking at last. "Thank you."

He raised a brow and smiled as he trailed his fingers across
her breasts. "And what great service have I done that warrants such
gratitude?"

"You know." She blushed prettily, sat up, and drew
the sheet around her breasts. "For – for last night."

"In that case, you're welcome. The pleasure was mine."
He reached for the sheet and slowly pulled it from between her fingers. Her
breasts, full and ripe, quivered under his gaze. "A pleasure, I might add,
I'd very much enjoy again."

Her chocolate eyes, warm and wide, turned serious. "I –
it – w – what we had last night was very important to me. I wanted to
experience the same sexual pleasure a man is afforded in our society."

"But of course," he murmured, wondering where she
was going with this conversational direction.

"After all, men take their pleasure when and where they
will. Ought not women be afforded the same right?"

"I cannot speak of other men and women, Emma, but only
of us. And I am glad that you enjoyed pleasure last evening." He dipped
his head to place a gentle kiss on her breast and when he heard the low purr of
passion in her throat, he took one rosy nipple in his mouth.

"Shall we repeat the experience," he teased, "to
be sure that you indeed are equally satisfied in your pursuit of unbridled
passion as the men of your acquaintance?"

She pushed him away with a playful shove and a frown. "Now
you are mocking me."

He suppressed a laugh. "God, not at all. I am merely
eager for a repeat performance. I confess that I am utterly –" He swept
his hand over her belly.

"Completely –" He dipped his fingers lower. "Positively
–"

He watched as she closed her eyes and groaned. "Enchanted
– "

His breath strangled his words and his cock strained against
her leg. "Ah, Emma, I just want to make love to you until we are both
senseless," he whispered and pushed her onto her back.

For their second mating, sweet as the first, he drew on all
his skill of hands and mouth and fingers until their bodies were slick with
sweat and the heady scent of their sex. He exploded so quickly he hardly had
time to withdraw before his seed spilled onto her thigh.

Spent with passion, they rolled onto their backs, arms flung
overhead, bodies damp with sweat. He stared at the rough-beamed ceiling as he
lay hip to hip with Emma.

Too close, he thought. He knew better than to rut like a
callow youth hot for his first woman. Emma deserved better than such unreliable
measures. Tomorrow he would speak to her about a preventive sponge she could
employ to thwart any unwanted consequences from their lovemaking.

He glanced at her. He could not foresee the end of their
coupling any time soon. The idea gave him great satisfaction as he pulled her
close, pondering what he felt for her.

Fondness? Affection? Not love, surely.

He smiled while they both drifted into a light slumber, and
when the sun leaked steadily through the windows, he proceeded to show her how
soundly he could demonstrate his affection.

#

They didn't begin to settle down to the business of the
trial until late Saturday night.

Before they did, Emma had scores of questions she to ask
Malachi about the physicality of their lovemaking. Amazed at how sedated she
felt while still desiring him, she wanted to pummel him with queries. The
dispassionate diagrams and drawings of her art and medical books merged at last
with personal experience into a sort of wonderful logic.

No wonder the girls at Wellesley, the more adventurous ones
at any rate, had blathered on about the experience. Nothing in Emma's life had
quite prepared her for the magnitude of emotions or the range of sensations
during those most intimate moments with Malachi.

She wished to talk to him of it, she truly did, but once
satisfied, he seemed eager to move on to another issue – that matter currently
being the progress of Alma Bentley's case. But, then often no more than an hour
or two later, he fixed his interest upon her again, with apparent desire to
repeat the entire experience again.

With embellishments and intensity!

And, most surprising of all to her, Emma's own inclinations
ran astonishingly parallel to his. After their first disastrous liaison, she'd
hardly thought it possible to desire any man, let alone be so eager to couple
with Malachi again.

For the moment, however, they sat at the roughly hewn table
which served as both Malachi's dining table and his work place. His case files spread
out on the table before them, and he leaned over one particular document,
scrutinizing its contents. At the moment the trial occupied his attention, but
dressed as scantily as they were, Emma suspected he'd soon disregard the
folders in favor of more sensual pursuits.

"Emma, where are the notes of Sheriff Butler's
interview with Mrs. Machado?" He rummaged through the papers, scattering
them even more haphazardly across the battered table top.

She leaned across the table and plucked the precise file
from the bottom of the pile, her décolletage gaping as she did so.
"Here," she said, handing it over.

Emma followed his gaze as it lowered to her chest, smiling
at the glint in his eye. Suddenly she was eager for him again and when he
reached for her without a word, she readily succumbed to his ardor.

Work appeared destined to play second fiddle to their insatiable
need for one another. Was such intensity normal? Would it continue or would
they eventually become sated with one another's bodies? And what did it mean,
she wondered, that they craved each other so much?

An hour later, breathless and sweaty, she believed they'd
finally reached a saturation level.

"Now we really must work, Emma," Malachi said sternly,
all the while tracing lazy circles around her thigh as it draped across his
leg.

She snuggled her face into his neck, inhaling the spicy,
dusty smell of him. "I am more than willing to investigate," she
said, her voice muffled in the delicious spot between his neck and shoulder.
"Simply clarify what you wish me to ... investigate."

She trailed her hand down the flat planes of his stomach.

“You minx,” he groaned. "You she-devil." He
flipped her over and delayed their work for yet another hour.

#

When Emma finally returned home, Sarah refused to stray far
from her charge's side. Uncle Stephen and Malachi had joined her for a brief,
uncomfortable Sunday dinner during which Emma flushed under her uncle's
scrutiny. Now her uncle had left and Malachi and she set to work once more on
Alma's defense.

"There is something strange about the Machado family,"
Malachi said between hardy bites of the sandwiches Sarah had provided. "Something
more than the quarrel between the elder son and the parents."

"I, for one, don't believe Joseph was alone the night
he died," Emma said. "Alma was convincing in her tale of a woman's
footsteps sounding from above the kitchen."

"Hmm, perhaps, but why would either Phoebe or her
mother lie about a fact so easily corroborated?"

Emma swallowed a large draught of milk before answering. "Likely
whoever it was panicked and spun a tale for fear of discovery."

"Still, it doesn't mean the woman in question killed
Joseph Machado."