The Irish Devil (9 page)

The buggy climbed toward the mine offices, the gelding trotting smoothly now. Paul barely noticed the men jumping out of his way.

He was glad he’d paid the hooligans in Santa Fe to attack Lindsay. That should buy him a little more time to obtain Mrs. Ross, even if Lindsay survived.

Perhaps money would loosen Donovan’s grip on Mrs. Ross. If not, the O’Flahertys were very good at applying persuasion to stubborn fools. Donovan would be lucky to escape with his skin.

Paul chuckled at the thought of Donovan’s face sliced open by one of Conall O’Flaherty’s more inventive knife moves. His wounded hand lifted to fondle his muttonchops, causing a stab of pain.

Then he’d have the joy of punishing Mrs. Ross for cutting his hand with that bottle. Who would have thought a lady could pull off a veteran knife fighter’s move like that? Ross must have taught her, of course. He’d been a cunning fighter in that last fight.

He’d had other ridiculous ideas as well. Imagine refusing to claim Mrs. Ross’s inheritance after Paul informed him, saying he preferred to prove his capabilities by making his own fortune. Then he’d swaggered off to tell his wife the news. Paul hadn’t believed for a moment Mrs. Ross would dismiss a fortune as quickly, so he’d run his sword stick through Ross, planning to marry her as soon as Ross was buried.

Then the stupid bitch had declined his offer over and over again.

She needed a lesson for humiliating him so often, with her refusals and then bloodying his hand. He’d mark her in return, someplace painful…

Paul smiled at the possibilities.

He tied off his buggy and headed into his office, happily fondling his muttonchops and ready to plan his grand mansion on the Hudson. The first blueprints had just arrived and the builder had promised to break ground by July if Paul approved.

“S
weetheart.”

The baritone voice was a velvet rumble close by. Viola stirred reluctantly.

“Sweetheart, it’s time to wake up.”

Viola roused slowly. William Donovan was sitting beside her on the settee? How on earth could this have happened?

Memories flooded her, followed by a wave of heat. She closed her eyes in embarrassment.

Donovan kissed her hand. “It’s time for dinner. I’ll wait outside while you wash up. Then we can go uphill to the compound, if you’re still willing to keep our bargain.”

Viola nodded jerkily without opening her eyes.

He stood up and caressed her hair lightly. “Don’t delay too long. I might have to come find you.”

“I’ll only be a moment,” Viola managed. She was still trembling slightly when she joined him, every fold of her dress and hair on her head as tidy as she could make them.

Donovan’s head came up at her entrance. His blue eyes traveled over her slowly, lingering on her hair. “You look as lovely as a rose garden in the moonlight, sweetheart.”

She blinked at the unexpected compliment. Surely, he didn’t need to pay homage when she’d already agreed to be his mistress. Still, it was very nice to be treated as a lady. She dropped a small curtsy to him. “Thank you, kind sir.”

She accepted his proffered arm, feeling much more confident.

Donovan took her up the private path to the Donovan compound, instead of the more leisurely route through the public streets.

Rio Piedras’s springs tumbled out of several points in the steep hills. One bubbled up at the big compound, which overlooked the depot from atop a sheer bluff. The location and year-round water made it the most defensible building in town, as well as one of the least convenient. Still, Viola well understood why Rio Piedras’s original Mexican founders had built their first substantial dwelling on that rocky promontory.

She glanced over at Donovan as they climbed up the steep stairs. The setting sun highlighted the muscles in his wide shoulders. He must have carried her to the settee as easily as if she were a baby. How would he use that strength later?

Blushing, she sought something else to think about. A matron for more than five years and now a widow, she should be long past blushing like a schoolgirl over a handsome man. A boulder caught her attention, with its suggestion of silver ore. “Do any of the Golconda’s galleries come near your compound, Mr. Donovan?”

“No, the closest one stops about ten yards away. Even if I agreed, they’d have to blast to come closer.”

“Really? But silver is so easy to find everywhere else in town.”

“Which makes the mine galleries so close to the surface that a heavy wagon can break through. Not by my operations, thank you.”

Viola grinned at his emphatic refusal. Lennox must have been furious when Donovan denied him, something no one else would have dared to do.

The Donovan & Sons compound was a classic mud-brick structure built in the form of an irregular square, its thick walls providing protection from both Apaches and the sun. Donovan took her in through a heavy wooden gate, scarred from past battles, and down a narrow passage into the great central courtyard, which swept in a series of terraces and steps up the hill.

She studied the compound eagerly, glad to finally see the inside of the largest residence in Rio Piedras. It was totally unlike Lennox’s house, a very modern and quite ugly wooden structure.

They’d entered through the storeroom wing, the individual rooms marked by sturdy doors and few windows. The wing on its left held a small stable, with chickens, pigs, and goats penned outside. The other two wings were evidently living quarters, one holding the teamsters’ dormitory and the entrance from the main street. The highest wing must contain living spaces for Donovan and Evans, plus the kitchen.

An arched colonnade ringed the courtyard, linking the different wings. Watchtowers stood at two diagonally opposite corners, occupied now by vigilant teamsters guarding the wagons and mules below. Viola could see them with their big telescopes through the watchtowers’ enormous windows.

Yellow roses covered arbors in the courtyard, providing shade and an illusion of privacy. Water danced in a brilliantly hued tiled fountain in the courtyard’s center, where the ancient spring brought life.

In one corner stood a small shrine containing a statue of a woman and a graceful table holding candles, incense censers, and bowls of roses. Viola immediately hoped to examine the shrine more closely at another time. The statue looked Chinese, similar to one of Kuan Yin her grandmother owned, but held a small baby, as a Catholic’s Madonna would.

She could hear balls caroming around a billiards table in the distance, but few other signs of Donovan’s teamsters.

Viola nervously wondered how the main living quarters were furnished. Donovan wasn’t here often but he was most considerate of his men’s comfort, such as Evans who split his time between Rio Piedras and Tucson. Rumor said furniture and fancy goods had been delivered but no one knew what they consisted of.

Perhaps Donovan had a private parlor or even a private bedroom. She shivered at the thought and his hand tightened on her elbow.

“Are you well, Mrs. Ross?”

“Yes, thank you. Just a breeze from the valley, I think.”

Donovan made a noncommittal sound but drew her closer. His hot male strength burned through the thin calico and his breath stirred her hair against her cheek. She wanted him to move away so she could remember how to breathe. At the same time, she longed for him to come closer so his knowing hands could touch her intimate flesh again.

She gulped at the thought.

Mercifully, they reached the main wing a few minutes later, after crossing the last terrace. His houseman waited there in front of the colonnade, face impassive when he bowed. “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, Abraham,” Donovan answered easily. “Mrs. Ross, this is Abraham Chang, my houseman, who I would trust with my life. I’ve asked him to guard you when I cannot.”

Abraham bowed deeply. “Mrs. Ross.”

Viola blinked, then smiled shyly at the big Chinaman. As the younger daughter and considered unlikely to marry, she’d never had a personal servant before, unlike her mother and older sister. “I’m very glad to meet you, Abraham.”

Abraham bowed again. “It is my honor to serve you, Mrs. Ross.”

“Is dinner ready, Abraham?” Donovan asked.

“Yes, sir.” Abraham turned and led the way into a small parlor, prepared for a party of two. It was a man’s room softened by bowls of yellow roses, with white candles rising tall and serene. Mouthwatering aromas rose from covered dishes on the elegant walnut table and sideboard. Rich Persian carpets covered the floor.

A magnificent rosewood square grand piano fit neatly into the space by the far wall, unlike a modern curved grand piano which would have occupied most of the room.

Viola’s fingers ached for it.

An exquisite Chinese woman, dressed in an upper servant’s formal black, curtsied to Donovan. Viola’s attention snapped back to the room’s other occupants.

“Mrs. Ross, this is Sarah Chang, Abraham’s wife. She will act as your personal maid, if that’s agreeable with you. Nuns in China trained her as maidservant and cook.”

A maid and a bodyguard? Dear heavens, Donovan was lavishing care on her. “I’m sure she will suit me very well, Mr. Donovan. I’ve never had a personal maid before. How do you do, Sarah?” Viola held out her hand and Sarah smiled as she shook it and dropped another curtsy.

Then Donovan’s hand touched Viola’s elbow again and coherent thought fled as they sat down, with her back to that alluring piano.

They talked a bit, mostly of trifles, although Viola couldn’t have recounted the conversation later to save her life. She thought the food was delicious; she must have eaten some of it because Donovan didn’t mention her lack of appetite. Abraham waited on them, silently anticipating their every want.

All the while, she could think only of Donovan and wonder what he meant to do.

He’d been gentle in his office, giving her pleasure when it added nothing to his comfort. Her breasts ached at the memory of how his voice and hand had worked together on her. Perhaps he really did know other things to increase a woman’s passion.

“How’s Tennessee?” Viola managed to ask, watching Donovan deftly peel an orange. Strong hands. Long fingers that had known her so intimately only a few hours ago. She wrenched her eyes away and fixed them on his face.

“Well enough. Give him a week’s rest and he’ll be leading another ammunition wagon again.” Donovan offered her a section of the rare fruit. She’d last tasted one as a Christmas treat at her grandfather’s Manhattan mansion.

Viola nodded acceptance, expecting him to pass it to her on a plate. Instead he lifted the delicacy up toward her, clearly expecting her to eat out of his hand.

Viola’s jaw fell open in shock. He instantly popped the tidbit between her teeth. She helplessly closed her mouth and chewed, staring at his face. The fruit tasted delicious, tangy and sweet at the same time. She swallowed and another section was offered.

“Mr. Donovan,” she managed to protest. “There’s no need to feed me.”

“But I enjoy doing so, sweetheart,” he purred. His rich, hypnotic rumble made her heart skip a beat. “And you promised to serve my pleasure, did you not?”

He brushed the morsel over her lips, painting them with the tantalizing taste.

“Sweetheart,” he urged. It was a command, for all that his voice was soft. What could it hurt, to obey him when the reward would be so sweet? Viola opened her mouth and accepted the second helping.

“There now, Viola, doesn’t that taste good? Eat it leisurely so you can savor every morsel.”

She obeyed him, baffled by how much attention he paid to feeding her.

“Here’s another bite for you. Take your time,” he coaxed. “Let its sweetness glide down your throat.”

The fruit’s exotic taste rolled over her tongue with every slow bite.

“Now shut your eyes and heed only the orange. Just chew and swallow. You’ve all the time in the world, sweetheart. Enjoy it,” he purred.

Viola followed his voice’s sweet persuasion, closing her eyes to better concentrate. The tangy juice brought new life to her mouth, so long accustomed to beans and cornbread.

Whenever she finished a bite, the next one waited for her. She was held in a world defined by his voice in her ears and his fruit wending its way through her mouth and deep into her belly.

She opened for the next morsel and his mouth captured hers. He played with her, as if the kiss was a game to explore her shapes and textures and taste. Caught off balance as she was, it felt completely natural to yield to his caress.

Viola moaned when his tongue first delved deep. Her hand came up to pull his head closer. She threaded her fingers into his hair’s thick silk, fondling him. He growled softly and kissed her harder.

It seemed but an instant later when she came up for air and found herself lifted high in his arms. “Mr. Donovan,” she protested, but it sounded rather more like a plea.

He glanced down at her. “Do you want to kiss me again, sweetheart?”

Viola gaped at him. “What did you say?”

“Like this.” His mouth swooped down and she was lost again in a world of sweet sensation.

She blinked when he stopped, and slowly opened her eyes. She was in a small bathroom of very simple but modern design. Donovan stood directly in front of her, his big hands lightly caressing her shoulders. His touch sent quivers running through her skin and a hot flush up her throat.

“Be quick about it, sweetheart.” He dropped a kiss on her hair and left. Viola shook herself for a few moments, trying to regain control, then obeyed him.

She came out shyly and found herself in a very elegant and simply equipped bedroom. The mahogany furnishings were sturdily built in a style suited to a gentleman of considerable means but discreet tastes. The walls wore a smooth white plaster coat and massive wooden beams supported the ceiling. Persian carpets flowed across the tile floor, while heavy cream brocade draperies covered the high windows. The linens were of the highest quality, with a silken coverlet draping the bed. The light, sweet scent of China roses and sage drifted in from the courtyard beyond.

But Viola paid very little attention to these elegancies. Instead her gaze was riveted upon the man himself. She’d been too nervous to consider his clean-limbed frame before. Now, the sight of him struck her like a thunderbolt. He had stripped off his shirt and was even now placing it on the campaign chest at the foot of the bed, revealing his bare back. Muscles rippled, bisected by the strong line of his spine until it vanished beneath his trousers. Oh happy woolen cloth, to envelop a firm masculine derrière such as his.

Her mouth went dry. She swallowed and tried to say something, anything.

“Sweetheart.” He faced her with a single raised eyebrow. His chest was bare, except for a cross and two medals hanging from a gold chain around his neck. She stared, caught by strength as firmly defined as any sculptor’s work.

Viola ran her tongue over her lips. “Mr. Donovan,” she croaked.