The Acquisition

The Acquisition

Louisa Trent

Published 2003

ISBN 1-931761-79-4

Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright © 2003, Louisa Trent. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Liquid Silver Books http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com

Email: [email protected]

Cover Art by William Etty (1787-1849)

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

The year 1844 New Bedford, Massachusetts

Hands fisting the rumpled linen, skull thrown back against the tarnished brass bedstead, throat strenuously working, Joshua Kane surrendered to the near agony of pre-orgasmic tension. "Harry, Harry," he gasped. "You're killing me, Harry!" Female twitters erupted in the dingy Central Wharf brothel; the raucous hilarity competing with the hiss of forges melting pitch on the whalers moored below on the Acushnet River. Delores popped up from the region of his lap, her mulled-cider eyes narrowed to hot-toddy slits. "Have you gone daft, man?" she bellowed at the interruption. "Who the bleedin' bloody hell are you callin' Harry?" "I ... I..." Josh stammered. "Look at me, man!" Four participants bumped shoulders--and other body parts--on the narrow whorehouse bed. The only man in the group looked at Delores, though sheepishly. "Well? Do I look like a Harry to you?" The whore jeered, hands anchored on the wide boom of her hips, obviously waiting for an answer to her query. While scratching two day's worth of stubble on his chin, Josh pondered the question before reaching a decision. To be fair, Delores did make a sound argument. But like a length of hemp, all arguments, even ones that are sound, come with their share of twists and knots and confusions. The kink in the rope of this dispute was this: he hadn't really seen Delores' face in a goodly while, what with the whore being turned 'round aft and all, her rear bulkhead raised to his forward prow. Even with his seaman's far-reaching gaze, it had been nigh on impossible to see her features. And then, when she had finally changed positions, just for a moment, just for the blink of an eye, the candlelight had glinted on her scraggly topknot, turning it from dull brown to fiery copper... Which explained why, at that critical moment before pain crested to rapture, when his guards were lowered in anticipation of a splendid release, he had made the thoughtless blunder. Now of course, what with her bow facing him and all, her spine straightened like the proud mast on the Regina Marie, her commendable bosom hoisted like twin sails righteously unfurled, Josh had to agree that if ever a female looked less like a Harry, it was Delores--a right good woman with a heart as large and open as the sky over the Pacific. And here he'd gone and blurted out Harry's name, when his prominence was in her face. No help for it, once words are uttered, there's no taking 'em back. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, the only thing left for him was to own up to his mistake. "Sorry," he said contritely. "I meant no insult." Delores' snub nose went up in the air. "Ruby's brothel caters to every taste," she harrumphed, not letting go of the hurt, even after the apology. "If yours have changed since last we met, you have only to say the word and I will have a..." Here, she looked pointedly at his jutting harpoon. "...lad sent to your room."

One tiny slip of the lip at an inopportune time had not only sunk his ship, it had landed him in a fine kettle of fish. Now all New Bedford would suspect the cut of his jib had altered. Josh sighed. He would have gotten off the bed and taken his leave, save for the indisputable fact that Delores was the most popular comfort-giver in port. Considering the multiplicity of brothels located on Water Street, this was saying a mouthful--and Delores could easily accommodate all comers in her mouth, including those in the double-inch range, like him. Blessed with a long throat and virtually no gag reflex, her swallowing talent made Delores worth her weight in gold, a sizable expenditure in view of the whore's statuesque rigging. "You know I don't like the lads, Delores," Josh said soulfully. "Out on a whaler, surrounded by Old Salts day in and day out, I just got out of the habit of speaking sweet female names like yours. That's all. Don't go getting your dander up on account of I misspoke a passion-provoked wobble. I'm starved for you, to be sure." "Starved for me?" Delores snorted. "My big, round, rosy arse, you're starved for me, sailor? For all you care, I could be any Tom, Dick, or Harry..." "Don't go saying that now! I have a dickens of an appetite for you. And as to the rest, why, your stern is a work of art!" Josh declared stoutly, trying desperately to mend torn sails. Delores looked to her companions. "Hear that, whores? Me arse is a masterpiece! Reckon you didn't know that!" Bawdy laughter broke out amongst all three females. The smallest whore on the bed, Chantee, twittered. "Hey! The prow of the Regina Marie could use a figurehead. Josh, why not commission a ship's artist to carve Delores' arse cheeks in walnut?" Rose chimed in next. "Grand idea, having her bottom mounted." "Sounds like a typical night's work at the brothel to me." Delores sulked, not at all mollified. Josh had sailed before the mast since the age of twelve; thereafter, he'd been gone to sea whaling for months at a time. In all those years, as any seaman did, he had encountered his share of rough sailing, but never had he faced down a mutiny. First week back on dry land, and what does he meet up with? Three females ganging up on him! A damn rebellion in the brewing! If these ladies jumped ship, he would not only be out good coin, his cock would be very sad indeed. With a four-year expedition ahead of him, he needed a man's relief before he sailed. When ordering up a three-wench night from Ruby, the brothel's madam, he had specified his requirements: a brunette, a blond, and a lady with some color in her cheeks, like him. A Portuguese or Cape Verdean, a West Indian or an African, would do him fine. No fair-complexioned redheads. No young misses, all skin and bones. And positively no virgins! An uninitiated female only meant trouble for a man. He had paid well for full-bodied, hot-blooded experienced women who knew every way there was to satisfy a sailor's lusty appetites. Fathomless throats, fallow pussies, forgiving bottoms--these accoutrements were all necessary for the appeasement of a 10-inch spar like his. "Four extra gold coins a-piece to compensate for my unintended offense," Josh threw out, hoping the peace offering was sufficient to smooth choppy seas.

Evidently it was, for suddenly the waters turned to glass. "Aye, aye, Cap'n." Delores said, giving him a cheeky salute. His bowsprit saluted right back. "I am not captain yet," he said modestly. "I make master after this next voyage." That is, if he brought back enough barrels of whale oil in the cargo hold... As the obliging whores assumed an interesting huddle on the bed, Josh folded his dark, muscled arms behind his head on the pillows, set to enjoy the all-female revue, when the door burst in. "Best come quick," panted Fergus, Second Greaser from the Regina Marie. "I intend to," Josh drawled with a wink. "Join in. I don't mind sharing." Gesturing wildly in a southerly direction, his second mate shouted. "No, you don't understand. There's a brawl. Downstairs. In the tavern. And Harry's getting the worst of it." Harry getting the worst of it... Josh jumped out of bed and into his worsted trousers. "Another fight?" he raged. "That makes two this week alone. That scruffy, snot-nosed whelp! Wait 'til I get my hands on that little bugger." He yanked on his heavy shirt. "This time, I make no allowances. It's too late for a dressing down. This time, Harry goes over the barrel." "Will you be using the cat o' nine tails or a leather strap to flog the miscreant?" asked Fergus. Josh felt the blood drain from his swarthy face, leaving him as white as he'd never been. Cat o' nine tails ... leather strap ... on Harry? The mite wouldn't stand up to the switch of the rattan. "I was but spouting through my blowhole," Josh mumbled. "I would never whip the runt." Delores followed him to the door. "You're leaving us, three naked whores on a bed, for a snot-nosed whelp?" "It's not like that," Josh blustered. Feeling his color rise back up, he pulled on thick wool seaman's socks before stepping into sturdy oiled leather boots. A friend and fellow seaman had once compared Josh to a barrier reef, a body of rock or coral separate from the coastline. And Josh supposed, because of his upbringing and mixed skin tones, he did keep himself separate and apart from most folks. But every barrier had a chink, and Harry was responsible for the hole in him. The fissure was so wide, a schooner could sail right through to the lagoon; after that, it was but a few leagues to the unprotected coastline of his heart. His feelings for Harry shamed him. Made him sick to the gut. Unfortunately, regret didn't make those feelings any less genuine. Delores whispered loud enough for even the dead buried at sea to hear, "Looks like our big strapping Josh has a deep, dark, dirty secret. Looks to me he harbors unwholesome feelings for Harry."

No use trying to defend the indefensible, Josh raced for the taproom. He had to get to Harry before his deep, dark, dirty secret got hurt.

CHAPTER TWO

"Let me at 'em." Harry Clark took a wild swipe at the air. "Fuck'n idiots! Shaunnessy, why the hell are you holdin' me back? These river rats deserve a lickin.' Let me at 'em so I can rip 'em apart, limb by limb, and feed their innards to the fish!" "I told you before Harry, you ain't brawling in my taproom. If Josh finds out I let you at 'em, it will be me own limbs what ends up as whale bait. Now calm down, or it's out on the street for you." Another position lost, Harry mused, still trying to break free from Shaunnessy's hold. The third position he'd be fired from in this last year alone. Granted, mopping up after drunken sods wasn't the most illustrious of endeavors, but at least it was honest work and helped pay the back rent; put bread on the table too. Ben, the best brother in the whole wide world, was hard-pressed enough as it was to keep them both out of the poorhouse; if this position went by the boards too, they might very well have no place to sleep in the near future. But no one, no one, called Joshua Kane bad names in front of Harry Clark and got away with it! To his face, seafaring folk called Joshua Kane a good steady sailor; behind his back, it was another thing altogether. Bent over, cleaning up regurgitated pints of ale from Shaunnessy's sawdust floor, no one had taken notice of another set of cocked ears. And since those ears didn't lap over, when a loudmouthed whaling merchant called Joshua "the mongrel bastard of a whore," Harry had pounced. Remarks like that could not go ignored. Harry's five knuckles, delivered to the loudmouth's flabby fish gut, swiftly put an end to his maligning. But in case that hadn't done the trick, there'd been a sharp knife stolen from Shaunnessy's kitchen hiding in Harry's back pocket, ready to carve the loudmouth into filets. If the barkeep would but loosen his hold... An elbow delivered on the sneak to Shaunnessy's apron-covered paunch finally cut Harry free. Fists once again raised and pumping, fancy footwork skipping across the filthy floor, ready to take on the whole of the tavern, Harry yelled, "Come on, boyos! One at a time or all together. Don't matter shit to me. I'll take you all on, every last stinkin' one of you." The chin jab came as a surprise. Head spinning, arms cuffed, the barkeep Shaunnessy nowhere to be found when he was finally needed, the fight seeped out of Harry. Mouth pried open and shot after shot of cheap whiskey poured in, it was either drown or swallow. Swallowing fast, the ensuing alcoholic buzz making the taproom walls weave and lurch, Harry was barely cognizant of Josh's arrival, hardly heard the grunts and groans the whaling merchants made as the first mate of the Regina Marie smashed his fist into jaws and bellies, his knee into groins, his foot into arses.

By the time everything was under control, the lights had flickered and dimmed inside Harry's head.

****

Josh had already removed Harry's boots and socks. Leaning over the bed, he moved the moistened wash linen over the badly bruised chin, the swelling the result of a right hook not ducked in time. He had taught the runt better than that! Next to get washed was the still straight, but nevertheless bloodied, nose. When the little pugilist stirred, Josh put the cloth aside temporarily. "Well, Harry, it's about time you came to. And what do have to say for yourself this time?" The brawler hiccuped in answer. Then belched. And finally was sick, the vomit spewing all over the linsey-woolsey shirt Harry wore, the fumes alone enough to knock Josh back two paces. But no sickbed reek was enough to put Josh off caring for Harry. Aboard the Regina Marie, he had seen to the care of more serious injuries than this. While at sea, the masters of whalers routinely act as physicians. On the last voyage alone, Josh had helped Capt'n Ingraham amputate a seaman's limb below the knee when gangrene set in after an accident--sawing bones was part and parcel of the grim task of doctoring the crew. So too had Josh assumed a caregiver's role while Harry was growing up. As Ben had no head for such things, Josh had been the one who'd bathed the fevers and bandaged the cuts and scrapes, not Harry's brother. No lasting scars remained from any of those wounds, thank God, though Harry had been a mighty large handful for a little peanut. Harry was still a large handful. With drink-bolstered belligerence, and just itching for another fight, the handful asked, "Where the hell am I?" "Over at Ruby Patterson's," Josh muttered, trying not to take a deep breath while undoing the first button on the soiled shirt, a shirt he remembered Ben wearing a while back. A tousled head of bright-red hair spiked off the pillow. "I've never been above stairs in the tavern before. So this is what a cathouse looks like. Nice fuck'n room!" "I'm glad you approve, mate," Josh said dryly. "And an eye to your language, if you please." "Horny toad, Josh! You just dry-docked after a year at sea. You have heard worse." "You are not a sailor, and I didn't raise a guttersnipe. Watch your p's and q's," Josh advised, in the same quasi-parental tone he had used for years with Harry. Not that it did a bit of good; for the same amount of years, the belligerent Harry had ignored him. Ignoring Josh again, Harry scooted around, mischievous eyes darting from wall to wall. "But, if I'm upstairs in the cathouse, where are all the naked whores?" Josh shot the little curious drunkard a quelling look "That's not for you to know or see, mate. Naked whores would be a bad influence on you; you're already far too incorrigible as is. And by the way, in

case you're wondering, Shaunnessy let you go." "My arse got fired again? No surprise there. Figured he would. In fact, I saw it coming. Which is why I took a souvenir in lieu of severance pay." "Harry, what did I tell you about stealing the silverware?" "Not to." Harry squinted. "But Josh, you keep a collection. Why shouldn't I?" "The difference is, I don't steal my keepsakes. I pay for my acquisitions." "I only steal as a last resort, only if I'm unfairly treated, just to even things out a mite. The reprobate barkeep held back my first week's pay, and you know I'll never see it now. Plus, Shaunessy fixed that fight!" "I beg your pardon?" "He did! The unprincipled Irishman held my arms behind me, so I couldn't land another blow after the first." "So--you admit to starting the fight, eh?" "I didn't say that..." Josh stared Harry down. "Scuttlebutt says there was a patron downstairs minding his own business, pushing back a few with his cronies, and for some fool reason you came out swinging. That so?" "The devil take that big-mouthed barkeep! The fight was instigated, I tell you." "They always are, Harry." "Oh, Josh, don't go being angry! Who the hell cares if I lost the position? I didn't want to clean up after a bunch of soused water rats anyway. Fuck it! " "Harry..." he warned. Merry eyes danced drunkenly, the gaze out of focus. "Fire and piss, Joshie! This here's not a church, it's a brothel." How well Josh knew it! And not only from the standpoint of a paying customer: his own mother had been a whore. After growing up in an establishment very much like Ruby's place, he had utmost familiarity with the goings-on inside the velvet-appointed rooms: every trick, every perversion, every act that passes as an expression of love. Still, Josh felt terrible about bringing Harry here, about exposing an innocent to the sounds and smells and sights of lurid vices. Josh wanted Harry as far removed as possible from the young male and female whores who routinely sold their bodies in this fancy house down on the pier. And here they now were, right in the thick of the commerce. "If a body can't fuck'n cuss in a brothel, where the fuck can a body fuck'n cuss?" Harry grumbled. With a protracted sigh, Josh searched for the right explanation and came up short. "You don't hear me using bad language."

"No, I don't hear you, and the reason I don't, is only because you have high aspirations of being a fine gentleman someday. I don't share those same dreams. I'm happy enough being exactly who I am." Josh was happy with the way things stood in that respect too, for all that the mouth on Harry could singe the wings off an angel. "You're right there, Harry--you will never be a gentleman. Now let's get this off you," Josh said, speaking low, trying to escape bad memories. "This shirt is covered with blood and dirt, and frankly smells of stale tobacco and cheap rum." "I will have you know, not a drop of rum passed my lips, cheap or otherwise. Not even watered-down grog. It's ale you smell on my clothes, and whiskey you smell on my breath," Harry slurred self-righteously, taking issue with the malt, if not the actual transgression. "And I don't need you to undress me. I am fully capable of undressing myself. I am not a child," Harry added, after another hiccup. From where Josh was standing, Harry was every bit the child, and an obstinate one at that. This was borne out when a slender arm was raised, only to fall back limply to the bedding. The skinny hothead didn't have the strength or the sobriety to perform even the most simple of childhood tasks. Josh continued unbuttoning the hothead's shirt. "Harry, I appreciate that at 18 you are growing up, but right now you need a little help. All right?" Harry wiped uncoordinatedly at some chin slobber. "All right, Joshie. Truth to tell, I don't mind you getting me naked, not one itsy, bitsy, bit." A naughty grin was flashed. "I just thought I would help, is all. " Josh rolled his eyes at the drunkard's 100-proof boast, as he carefully removed the shirt. As Harry wore neither a camisole nor a chemise, he assiduously avoided looking at all that bare skin revealed... Most especially, Josh avoided looking at those small, pink-tipped, immature breasts. Still, he was harpoon-hard, his arousal just as sharp as a whaler's spear, as he picked up the sopping wash linen from the basin, wrung it out, and finished cleaning Harry's bruised face. Ben should be hung from the scaffold for many things, but letting his kid sister work nights at a tavern was right at the top of the list. Second in importance was not putting her in some female undergarments. A lone female working and living on the wharves, as Harry did, was asking for trouble; even if she did disguise her sex under lad's clothing. Did Harry know how close she had come to assault tonight? If those five whaling merchants had found out they'd been fighting a she, not a he, they would have taken out their humiliation on her in a strictly male-on-female way. Gang rape was a common occurrence in the back alleys abutting the docks. Josh took a deep breath. His beat-up hands actually trembled. Apart from some minor bruises, she was all right, he reminded himself again. Those merchants hadn't raped Harry. He had arrived in time. She was so drunk, she most likely wouldn't even recall the night's events. As to her assailants, he had left those slimy turds in the sawdust, clutching their mangled balls; they wouldn't be cocking any females for a good long time.

But what would happen to Harry when he shipped off? Who would protect her then? The possibilities were as endless as they were horrific. In the year while Josh had been gone, Harry had grown up. In some ways, she was still the same nuisance brat she had always been. But in other ways, she was a blossoming young woman on the pinnacle of adulthood. And as Ben was a good-for-nothing, she was on that pinnacle unsupervised. Even if she wasn't attacked, some seaman passing through town could sweet-talk her into the family way. Sighing, Josh pushed a short strand of red hair back from Harry's forehead. What was he to do with her? She talked about the naked whores, but did she even really understand how things were between a man and a woman? It worried Josh that Harry had started her flux. The summer before Josh had left port on his last voyage, she had come to him, afeared she was dying of some horrible disease that made her bleed from the privates. He had explained the facts of life as best he could, about her monthly and her need of clean rags and such, but he hadn't gone into any great detail. Maybe he should have. Maybe he had been remiss not to. He wanted Harry to learn about lovemaking the sweet way. He didn't want her virginity stolen up against the wall in some back alley. He didn't want her kept ignorant, but he didn't want Harry's sweet innocence corrupted either. Josh wasn't ready to see his little Harry armed with a woman's full defenses. Despite her foul mouth and redhead's temper, she was charmingly naïve. Lying there on the bed, half-naked, proved how open she was with him. A little too open. While Josh was busy washing her face in the stark brothel room with its peeling paint walls, shabby furnishings, and gray bed linen--still warm from the three naked whores he had paid off only a few minutes before, and sent packing--Harry had been busy too ... wiggling her second-hand lad's trousers down her legs. Despite his good intentions to ignore the little drunkard's blatant disregard for propriety, Josh gazed longingly at Harry's pretty, red-curled-covered notch. "Why no drawers, sweetheart?" "It's wash day." "Huh?" Josh asked, those red curls dazing him, dazzling him. He'd grown up in a brothel! He knew all about female flesh. There was nothing new here, nothing he hadn't seen hundreds of times before. Save with Harry, everything was new again, pure again, real again. "I have but the one set of underwear," Harry said by way of explanation, yawning and stretching, both arms flung over her head as a knee came up, and she kicked free of the trouser legs, leaving her completely nude, thighs splayed. Christ! Why did Harry go and do that?

He shouldn't be looking where he was looking now. It wasn't right. It wasn't decent. He shouldn't notice. Josh jumped up off the bed where he had been seated. "Oh, that's right. Monday's your wash day." Harry squinted her bloodshot eyes some more. "I cannot hang out a line of wash without every seaman in town knowing what I wore the week before. I have absolutely no privacy." This said while she lay naked on his bed in his brothel room, with her knee bent, absolutely everything open to his perusal. Josh forced out a chuckle, though he didn't feel much like it, and rubbed his thumb along his jaw. He should tell Harry to close up, to guard her femininity against men like him, lusty men who needed to get laid. Instead, Josh looked his fill--he was no saint--but he didn't touch. In all the years he had seen to Harry's care, he had never stepped over the line, never touched her in a disrespectful way. "Well smote me down, Harry. You're only piqued because I saw your lacy underpinnings." Her pale cheeks went pink, rosy pink, to match the parts of her he should not have noticed. "That wasn't my clothesline you were nosing up to," she said, glaring up at him, though drunkenly. "Where would I get anything with lace on it, Joshua Kane?" "I thought maybe it was something that got beached up. Flotsam from the hold of some wealthy sunken ship off-shore." "Well, you thought wrong." "That's right." He slapped his hand flat against his forehead. "Today's the day I ogle Rachel Truit's clothesline. I got the days confused there for a minute. Yours were the big white drawers flapping in the breeze. Enough material to be sailworthy, as I recall," he teased. He felt bad about the lace-underpinning jibe, as Harry owned naught that would pass as pretty. Save all of her, every last pretty inch. From the top of her flame-bright head to the bottom of her narrow pale feet, Harry was like a porcelain doll that sits behind the locked glass doors of a curio cabinet, made for admiring, not for rough play. Josh had only jested with Harry about her underdrawers because teasing put some much-needed space between them. His perverse desire for his best friend's baby sister made him feel like a lecher, and it wasn't that way, never had been that way, between them. The affection they felt for one another was pure, and Josh intended it to stay that way. Harry was twelve years his junior, after all, and as pale as he was swarthy. Like all seamen, he was tan, but Josh knew his complexion was not made dark entirely by the sun. More importantly, Harry trusted him. That meant the porcelain doll stayed locked away behind that glass door. "I need to go downstairs and straighten out the tab for the havoc you reaped in Shaunnessy's tavern." Joshua backed up. "All those broken glasses..." "Don't go, Joshie," she called after him, sounding like the little tike she had only just been, a blink ago. "Why are you always leaving me?"

His heart turned over in his chest. "But don't I always return to you, sweetheart?" "I'm afeared someday you will take it into your head to sneak off on me, that you will leave without even saying goodbye." No matter that she fretted, and he would do anything to set her mind at ease, Josh never made a promise to Harry he might not be able to keep. There could yet come a time when he had no choice but to leave without telling Harry adieu. Sometimes a man got involved in things larger than himself, a sacred duty, a charge passed on at a deathbed, an obligation of love that must be seen through, carried out, regardless of the inconvenience. Then a goodbye might not be possible. Thinking a little better with distance, Josh reached into his seaman's chest, pulled out a soft cambric nightshirt he never wore and tossed it at Harry on the bed. "Get into that while I am gone." "Oh, pooh! I don't need no silly nightshirt..." "Harry," he warned. "All right." Scrambling to a naked sit on the rumpled bed, she reached for the garment. "I will wear the silly thing. Only don't leave me. Please? " Didn't she see? He had to leave! He had to make his way in the world. A man born poor, stays poor all his days, if he lacks ambition. The sea was his way to riches, the only way a man like him had. He wasn't wealthy yet, but that day was coming soon. Josh expected to make captain after this next journey--a four-year whaling expedition to Alaskan overkill in local waters had prompted--and then he would buy Harry all the pretty things a young miss coveted. He would be better able to take care of her then, make sure she wed the right sort of fella, that sort of thing. Money buys respectability, and he wanted respectability for Harry. Josh pulled his thoughts away from the future, to concentrate on the here and now. "I need to get a note sent off to Ben, so he won't worry after you." "I can stay here with you?" "I think you should. Ben is expecting a ... uh ... a visit from Beth tonight," Josh explained, when Harry's expression turned confused. "Oh," she said, with the wisdom of the intoxicated. "That's why Ben took his Saturday night bath early this week. He has talked a blue streak about proposing to Beth. Could be tonight's the night." According to Ben, Beth Holmes was holding out for marriage. If Ben popped the question, the bed would be shaking and sounds passed right through the cottage's thin walls. Josh did not want the impressionable Harry exposed to shaking beds and carnal noises, not at her young age. "Ben and Beth had an argument," Harry confided. "But yesterday, they patched things up between them. Good thing too, because we've fallen behind on the rent money." Josh filled in the blanks Harry left out: since Beth's father owned their little run-down fisherman's shack, rental arrears would mean eviction if Beth and Ben were on the outs. Old Man Holmes was a real son-of-a-bitch, vindictive--and a tightwad on top of it. He wanted his spoiled daughter taken off his

hands. If Ben didn't propose marriage to Beth, Harry would pay the price for her brother's lack of foresight. That couldn't happen. Joshua couldn't let Harry go homeless and begging; she would end up working the piers, picking up sailors ... prostituting. "How far behind is the rent?" Josh asked, quickly. "A year's worth behind," Harry slurred. It was worse than Joshua thought. A year's rent, even on a fisherman's shack, was a lot of whale oil. Damn! And there was no need for any of this to have happened. To ensure Harry's care, Josh had given the chronically out-of-work Ben money to cover expenses like rent, before leaving New Bedford on his last voyage. No help for it, Josh would just have to dip into the money put aside for his savings--Harry was not losing that shack! That was the only home she had ever known. Harry wiped a hand over her eyes, made sleepy from all the drink. "Upon their marriage, Beth's father has promised Ben a position in his merchant's business. Finally my brother will have steady employment! I hate accepting handouts from church people. Charity makes me feel lower than low." "I know, sweetheart," Josh whispered. Double-damn Ben, for spending the money meant to keep his little sister from feeling ashamed. With a huge drunken yawn, Harry flopped back onto the pillow, the nightshirt still clutched in her hand. "Go write that note to Ben. I don't want my brother to worry. And then hurry back to me!" Josh knew he always would. Though it killed him to leave Harry there in the brothel room, naked on the bed, he opened the door. Giving her a suitably affectionate smile, the type of smile a big brother would bestow upon a much younger sister, Josh stepped out into the hallway.

CHAPTER THREE

Head spinning dizzily on the pillow, Harry fixed her bleary eyes on the closing door. Joshua and his fond smiles... She hated that fuck'n smile. Josh had given her that slow and easy smile all her life. It was the same detestable grin he bestowed on slobbering dogs with wagging tails, and chubby children with sticky hands. Having once been such a child, and having once owned such a dog, she was all too accustomed to those lifted smile muscles. Sadly, the stray had long since gone to doggy heaven, and thankfully her appearance had changed since losing her baby fat. Unfortunately, Josh's reaction to her never had. Changed, that is. And that was the agonizingly painful crux of her problem: Josh still saw her as the annoying kid sister of his best friend, someone he was required to be nice to. She was being niced to

death, and she was fed up. The man she loved in secret, the man whose name appeared in her raggedy diary about a zillion times, wielded niceness like a warrior's sword, while hiding behind the shield of kindness, the same way other men hid behind lies. Josh would never, ever lie to her, but his kindness still kept her from getting too close, and his niceness still cut her to the very quick. Crinkled, seafaring hazel-green eyes, flashing white teeth, a quick and engaging laugh ... a damn irritating habit of patting her on the head ... these were Josh's weapons. Well, she had her own battle weapons, and she intended to use every sneaky last one of them tonight. She only wished her head wasn't spinning so! Not that she was sorry about the brawl, she wasn't--that loudmouth had deserved her fist in his gut for what he had said about Josh. On land, Josh had started off as poor as poor can get. At sea, he had worked his way up from cabin boy to harpooner to first mate. Hard work and good instincts had served him well, helping him locate the feeding grounds of the sperm whale, those great ocean beasts hunted for their blubber and meat and bones. Where would folks be without the boiled-down whale fat that provided clean oil to light their homes and streets, and the whale bones made into corset stays and buttons and sundry other useful items? In the dark with their clothing undone, is where they'd be! Everyone depended on these expeditions, and that's why Harry was so confident that someday Josh would captain his own whaler, maybe even own his own fleet of vessels; he was that good at spotting whales. That reliable too. So constant was Josh, the minute hand of one of those fancy timepieces could be set to his dockings and departures. Though to Harry's mind, Josh seemed to leave more frequently than ever he returned. This discrepancy in logic was due to the fact she missed him so when he was away at sea. He seemed to stay away longer and longer every time he embarked upon a new voyage. This time he would be gone four whole years! Harry wanted to give Josh something to remember her by when he left, something to ensure his safe return to her. Only to her. There was only one thing she had of any real value, and she intended to hand it over to him tonight. A fortnight ago, her best friend, Mary, had explained what a man and woman did together in bed. After recovering from her initial sick disgust, Harry promptly decided that no man was ever doing those things to her... Save Josh. If she had to have a man's thing rammed up inside her privates, only Josh's man's thing would do. And if that were not a true test of her heart's devotion, naught ever would be. That is to say, if the description Mary gave her was even an accurate presentation of the facts. The entire notion seemed farfetched to her, if not downright silly. Why would anyone wish to do that? All that naked bundling under the covers in bed! To her mind, the time would be much better served sleeping than doing that. Harry didn't believe most married people really did that, and if they did, not on a regular basis, probably only every year or so, just to make a baby. But according to Mary, that was done more frequently; husbands wanted to do that all the time, several times a day as a matter of course, regardless that it just about killed their wives, causing them all kinds of miseries from dyspepsia to megrims to the woman's troubles. For that reason--leastwise, according to

Mary--the fastest way of getting the wedding vows said was to let a man do that to you. She didn't expect Joshua to wed her before he left, that was far too grand a scheme, but she did wish to be in the running for the position when he returned, even if it took doing that. If what Mary said were even true. Sometimes, she thought her best friend was a terrible fibber and had made the whole thing up, and that wasn't how babies were made at all. If mum hadn't died giving her life, and if father hadn't died when she had just turned eight, Harry was sure either one or both would have confirmed her suspicions that babies came about through some other means. Like ... like... Harry couldn't come up with an example, which was why she intended to ask Josh. At least, she knew he didn't lie. And if it were true, why she would just have to bravely grit her teeth, and let Josh do that to her, she supposed. She loved him so... A tap on the door prompted her to call: "Come ahead!" Those knuckles had to belong to Josh, for no one else would bother to knock before entering a whorehouse room. The man she loved crossed the threshold with his usual no-hurry gait. Upon seeing her struggle to sit up, he loped to the bed in a long-legged stride. "Here. Let me help, " he said, sounding concerned. His concern irritated her no end. She was as drunk as a skunk, but otherwise as right as rain. And to make matters worse, once her spine was vertical, he fixed the bed linen up under her arms, all neat and tidy, ruffled her hair, patted her head, and smiled. Her fists balled up. She could easily have hauled off and punched that good-looking smile to kingdom come. As it was, she bared her own teeth and snarled. There is only so much fondness a grown woman can take. Josh being Josh, he mistook her bared teeth as a positive sign, and rubbed her hair some more. She gave up. She absolutely gave up. The man was impossible! He would never see her as a grown woman. If she didn't love him, she'd give up and walk away. But she did love him, and so would give him this one last chance to notice her. She stayed still under his patting palm. "I am not a tadpole anymore." He shrugged. "I know." No, he did not know! He was as thick as a pea-soup fog rolling in off the harbor, she thought, covering her mouth to squelch a dry heave, trying not to be sick again. "Need the basin, sweetheart?" "No," she croaked. Sitting back down on the bed, Josh pulled her onto his lap, and ordered in his craggy baritone, "Tilt your chin." He held her head over the basin while she was sick. Again. How mortifying! After rinsing out her mouth,

he rubbed her back. There was nothing intimate in his touch. There never had been. She could dream though, and often did. As Josh placed soothing strokes on her skin, her eyes drifted closed. She wished he'd never stop. "Better?" he asked, after a little while. Unlike Josh, she was not always honest. "No," she promptly lied. "Just relax against me," he said, gently kneading her neck. Lovely little bonfires flared inside her body. She imagined his strong, capable hands cupping her titties, kneading them like biscuit dough, all digits sinking into her flesh. She was near desperate to turn into him, and kiss his eternally-smiling mouth. "Better yet?" he asked. "Getting there." "Think sunny thoughts, maybe it will help," he told her, as though she were still a child tagging along with him and Ben during hot summer days spent fishing and swimming, followed by cool nights with nothing more important to do than watching fireflies. "Josh," she began, allowing the bed linen to accidentally-on-purpose slide off the tips of her titties, thus baring them to his gaze. All's fair in love and war, after all, and this bed was the battlefield. Josh scooted out from under her hips. "Need help with that nightshirt?" "No..." "Good," he said, amicably. "Pull it on." Before she could protest, he was out the door. Again. Leaving her. Again. Just as well, Harry decided, sniffing a raised arm. Stinking to high heavens was no way to seduce a man. Reaching for the washcloth, she scrubbed her body. Then, curious as she had never been curious before, she squeezed the rag, not so much to wet the bed, only so that a few drops of warm water trickled between her open legs. Her finger followed the same path, delving the folds she had never dared delve before, traveling the route she would seduce Josh's member to take--at least, according to Mary. When she came to a barrier, she stopped. Detoured. Conducting a shallow search, she found a little nubbin. Experimentally, she rubbed the small projection. Mmm. The sensation was almost painful, yet oddly enjoyable too. Why had she never done this before? she wondered, splitting her thighs and moving her finger more energetically. Soon her hips rolled, as waves of something unexpected and wondrous crashed over her, lifting her up and tossing her about on stormy seas, an empty cargo vessel needing ballast to keep her steady. But she wasn't filled and she wasn't stable, and she didn't know if she could sail towards shore alone. She wailed for help. "Josh! Josh! Josh!"

Unprepared or not, the waves--not puny splashes either, more akin to tidal waves--swept her along. She yelped, then screamed, then hit the breakwaters hard, a honeyed bliss unlike she had ever known before, tossing her about before she floated on calm seas. Too bad it couldn't be like that with a man, she mused, and toppled face down on the bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

Josh had been waiting out in the brothel's hallway, pacing the floor, while Harry made herself decent, when he heard her scream for help. A mouse, he decided, and cracked the door; no river rat could have gotten past the barricade of him. It would appear his little Harry was growing up, Josh concluded, getting an eyeful. When a man lives in close quarters with thirty horny whalers for months at a time, that man soon learns not to barge in on someone in a private moment. He would remain outside until Harry finished up--though, unable to drag himself away, he continued to watch the events unfold from the threshold. From time to time, Josh paid to observe a female at play. The vice was an uncomplicated and basically harmless pleasure in which he openly indulged. That is to say, he never watched from a secret vantage point, as he did now. While the clandestine nature of spying on Harry added to the sexual thrill, the voyeurism also filled him with self-loathing. This was Harry he was watching! It was perverse! Inherently erotic too, the way she examined her body, the delicateness of her stroke, the rapt attention on her face, the tightening of her pretty features as satisfaction approached... Christ! Harry went off like a damn canon volley. If those cries of ecstasy were any indication, Harry had the makings of a sensual woman. Someday. She was still in the getting-acquainted stage with her body, still far too young and inexperienced to control the pleasure, to draw out the climax. He could teach her. Show her how to extend the orgasm, how to increase one contraction to several. Who better to educate a sensual novice than a man born and raised in a whorehouse, a man too familiar with the sins of the flesh, a man who knew what the pleasures of naked skin were, and what they were not ... a man who well-understood that sex is no substitute for love. He could teach her, save that Harry didn't see him as a potential lover; she saw him as a little maiden sees an older adult in her life: a father, brother, doting uncle ... some male relative whom she respected. Respected! Her admiration was akin to hero worship. Harry looked up to him as some sort of mythical figure, her perception of his abilities completely unrealistic. No mortal man of mere flesh and blood ... and

ejaculate ... could possibly meet her high standards. The way she saw him made him uncomfortable. And even if it killed him, he was determined to live up to her misguided view of him. Looking like somebody in Harry's eyes, was what drove him to make his fortune, and making his fortune was what kept him away from New Bedford for increasingly longer and longer periods of time. Josh had been twelve years old when Harry was finally launched, puny and weak, from her dying mama's belly. As a two-year-old, she had toddled after him and Ben wherever they went. At eight, her father had died, leaving her alone. For one reason or another, Ben couldn't manage her care, so Josh had stepped in and taken over. Hell of a job he had done too, by the looks of things. Passed out cold in a drunken stupor, a lopsided grin plastered on her face, naked in a whorehouse, what would Harry's Quaker parents say if they could see her now? That their daughter had needed a firm hand, no doubt, and that the mixed lad, the bastard son of a whore they had shown good faith to, had let her--and them--down. Dressed in her brother's cast-offs, toiling in taprooms, about to be evicted from the rented shack she called home; it shamed Joshua he had not done right by Harry. But he had left money with Ben for her care--where had that sum gone? Too late now to wonder. It was time now to take action. He needed to step in and take complete charge of the little spitfire. Protect her, financially and otherwise. To do that, his control had to be made legal. Wedding her was the only way to accomplish that goal. Josh raked his hands, both of them, through the soft texture of his short-cropped, curly hair. That goal sounded noble. Altruistic. Even heroic. Though he admired Harry's father, respected the man's Quaker philosophies, Josh was not a selfless man; his motivations reflected his ambitions and his lust. His every thought of the redheaded seductress was impure. He wanted Harry, and the only way to keep her for his own was to wed the saucy wench. He wanted to be Harry's first. He wanted to be her last. And he was fully prepared to kill any man who tried to get some of Harry in between. Maybe in other places, sophisticated society places, he could keep her as a mistress. Here on the waterfront, a woman who bedded a man was called either whore or wife. Harry would not be called whore by his making. A ring on the hoyden's finger was the only way to keep her respectable. He needed that respectability too. Wedding Harry would serve his ambitions well, would cause folks to discount the fact that though he was born free and lived white, his skin hue was darker than most. Before his mother had died, pox-ridden from years of whoring, she told him he was the descendent of kings... Inconveniently, she never specified which nation. His looking glass told him his bloodline was anybody's guess. His angular features were certainly not totally African, and neither were they intrinsically European, nor were they distinctly anything else, though his prominent cheekbones hinted he had some Cherokee in him somewhere. Christ knows, he had searched out a similar face to his in his travels, and he had yet to find an exact match, which left him to believe he was a little of everything, a hodgepodge, a mixture of dissimilar ingredients. No one specific race predominated in his lineage; of that one truth he was certain. Mostly, he was something other than the locale he happened to be exploring.

Josh wished he could have made his father's acquaintance. As it was, he was left to wonder the mystery of his family tree, what strange combination of continents went into his making. It was only good fortune that in the seaport of New Bedford, where various-hued complexions were a usual sight, he was accepted at face value, which was to say, people took him for a seaman. Here, his swarthy complexion went without comment. For the most part. Some folks--men in taverns after downing too many pints--still talked. Josh let them. Until and unless they questioned his right to live free. That's when he silenced them. With his fists. With anything else available to him. Harry wasn't the only one temperamentally unsuited for the Quaker way of life. Josh only hid his anger better. Half relieved, half in consternation, at his decision to wed her, Josh would have preferred declaring himself after this next voyage. Four years was a long time for a new bride to wait for her man to come home. Faithfulness would present a problem for the undisciplined, hot-blooded Harry. She was so bejesus young! In four years she would mature. Maybe then, she would see him for the man he was, not the hero she wanted to believe he was. Like a man starved, Josh ate up Harry's appearance, taking in the nipped waist, spanning it visually from hipbone to hipbone, before eyeballing the contours of her flat little belly. If he got her with child before he left, how would his babe ever fit inside that small belly? Harry was too young, her body still too immature and narrow to carry any seed he might plant. And if she did somehow manage to carry to term, alone on the shore, there was no guarantee she would survive the birthing. Young mothers died all the time trying to push out babies planted too soon. Harry's own mother had died in childbirth, and she had already given birth once before. He would just have to take his leave of her before expulsion--though withdrawing was no guarantee against conception. Neither were the herbs and poultices and barriers and douches, which whores used to guard against motherhood. There was a grim reason why knitting needles were right popular items in brothels; and it had nothing to do with making socks. Josh blanched at the thought of leaving Harry in port alone and in the family way. Frightened and vulnerable young women, even married ones, were sometimes driven to do things they wouldn't ordinarily do, desperate measures to avoid giving birth--especially to a babe with some mixed blood in its veins. Then again, there were accidents at sea all the time. Bringing down the huge whales was an occupation fraught with danger, and whalers were not the safest ships to sail. Suppose he left her a widow with a child, and no way to manage? To block out the stinks and noises and prying eyes of seamen roaming the halls, going from whore to whore, Josh closed the door after him and crossed the floor. Snoring on her back, one knee raised, her pussy still wet--this time, he didn't pretend to look away--his young Harry looked anything but the innocent virgin. Oh, but she was. Josh knew the difference, and he could always tell. Harry was as pure as the first fall of snow. Her untouched virginity pained him, and yet he coveted it more than he had ever coveted anything. His gaze never leaving Harry's nude body, Josh stripped off his own clothing. Taking up the linen he had used to bathe her, he held it to his nose, breathing in her female essence before rubbing the linen, that still carried her musky lingering scent, down the length of his jutting cock, from stem to stern. Slow. Then fast. Imagining the cloth's damp folds were Harry's damp folds, Josh came on a muffled moan. After cleansing his spent lust, and with sharpness taken off his man's need, he took a seat at the edge of

the bed, reached out a hand, and fingered a strand of red hair that fell over Harry's forehead. It felt silky against his rough palm, which was why he patted her head at any and every opportunity. After they were wed, he would tell Harry not to cut her hair again. He didn't like that she wore it short, like a lad. He wanted Harry's hair long enough to tickle her bottom. A very nice bottom it was too. A little additional flesh would have served him better, but as things stood, as long as she was healthy and hale, he wouldn't change one of her dainty curves, including the mischievous curve of her mouth. Her sensuous lips, lush and full and cherry-red, were made for kissing, though he had never once kissed her on the mouth. On the cheek, yes. The top of the head, yes. The forehead, yes. But never the lips. Bending, Josh lightly took Harry's parted lips, which tasted of whiskey and clung to his. When he offered her his tongue, she took it. Greedily. Murmuring a woman's plaintive sighs deep in her throat. Wanting her so bad he shook with it, Josh broke off the kiss and flung himself away from the bed, his lungs heaving for air. He had to go, get out of the room. This wasn't right! He wanted the vows said first! Halfway to the door, clothing gripped in a hand, the wayward drunkard slurred, "Don't go! I'm cold." A room at Ruby's whorehouse came cheap--meaning everything cost extra, save the bedbugs. To put a layer between his flesh and fleabites, he paid for the frayed and grimy linen, but had forgone the moth-eaten wool blankets. What the hell, he figured, he was used to sleeping on a cold and drafty whaler, used to going without creature comforts for months at time, why use good money best spent in other ways? Depriving himself of carnal relief was something else again. Ignoring his man's need just wasn't wise, not when he had planned on spending as much time as he could with Harry while he was on shore. Because he had chosen fornication over warmth, Harry was shivering. "Cover me, Josh!" she cried through chattering teeth. At eight, when she had lost everything, to fill the void grief left in her young life, Josh had given Harry everything he had inside him to give. Maybe it hadn't been enough, but it was all he'd had. He had always been naught but ship caulking in her hands. Now, selfishly, he needed something for himself. Knowing she was drunk and couldn't possibly know her own mind, knowing that at eighteen her mind was still immature, knowing her innocent mind might not equate what she had just asked him to do with copulation, as in a stud covering a mare, he whispered, "Are you sure, sweetheart?" "I'm sure." "Sure, as in you're cold and you need a blanket, or sure as in you're cold and you need me to warm you up ... in another way?" "I want you to put your thing inside me." Well, hell's bells! She couldn't have made it any clearer. A boyhood spent in a brothel had afforded Josh a unique insight into sexuality. Between observation through open doors and his own direct experiences, he knew how to give enough pleasure to diminish pain and, conversely, how to give enough pain to enhance pleasure. He understood and practiced different methods of stirring a woman, of guiding a female to passion. When it came to females, there was

no need for him to use a sextant; with a seasoned navigator's familiarity, he sailed in charted waters. Save when it came to virgins. With virgins, he was hopelessly lost at sea. Very much the virgin, his sweetheart's port was unaccustomed to seafaring visits of any kind; there would be no clear and pleasurable sailing into her tight inlet. The first few voyages were bound to be storm-wracked. And still, Joshua had to have Harry, despite everything he knew to be right and decent and proper. Despite it all, Josh had to make Harry his. Walking back to the bed, Josh got in beside Harry and took her into his arms. "You're so nice and warm, " she said, cuddling close, nuzzling her cold nose into the crook of his neck. So much for making the little drunkard his, Josh thought, supporting Harry's bright red head so it wouldn't roll backwards and hit the bed-board when she let out one hell of a snore. He couldn't even make her stay awake!

CHAPTER FIVE

She awakened naked in a strange bed, with Josh naked on top of her, covering her just like Mary had predicted. How this had happened, Harry didn't exactly recollect, but only a fool looks a gift horse in the mouth. Thanking her lucky stars, she got to work on forcing Josh to see her as a woman, not as the child who had followed him around the docks since she was old enough to walk. A wiggle, Mary informed her, was irresistible to the male. A wiggle was the best place to start a seduction. Harry slowly undulated her hips. A muscled arm folded over her. The man attached to that muscled arm growled, "Stop that!" To her mind, this proved Mary wrong; Josh didn't like the wiggle. And if Mary was wrong about the first step, her friend was more than likely wrong about the last step too, that step being the part where the male puts his thing inside the female and does that. Ben always said, if there was a man he never wanted to make angry, it was Joshua Kane. For the life of her, she couldn't see it. Josh might bark at her, as he had just done then, but he didn't bite. Big and ferocious to look at, he had never been anything less than gentle with her. And because she loved him, she was willing to risk the slight outside chance that perhaps Mary might still have been correct about some aspects of doing that. Because ... well ... Josh was covering her like a blanket, just as her friend said a man would do when his thoughts turned to mating. Harry was determined to whip those mating thoughts into mating action. Scooting around the steel enclosure of sinewy arms, Harry ran a lazy finger over Josh's back.

As far down as she could see, no telltale pale skin marred the all-over perfection of his lustrous tanned skin. He must strip down on board the Regina Marie... Alas, though her eyes held to a downward cast, she couldn't see all of him. Nothing below the waist, that is. Specifically, his thing. However, she had stumbled upon enough seamen pissing into the Acushnet River, to speculate that poor Josh had been born with some sort of deformity, for unlike the tiny soft hoses those pissing seamen owned, Josh's male part felt hard and huge between her legs. Also, it blazed poker hot, landlocked as it was on the inside of her thighs. Despite Josh's odd irregularities, Harry moved onward with her seduction. Her best friend told her men liked touching a woman's chest--it got them hot and bothered and ready for doing that. Harry looked up into the handsome face she loved. "If you would like to give my titties a tweak, you may." There! That should tell him she meant business! "Titties, Harriet?" At long last, she had caught Josh's full attention, if for all the wrong reasons. Was that disgust registering on his vocal cords? "Yes, titties. You needn't tweak 'em first, not if you don't have a mind to," she amended. "I only thought you might like to." That Mary must be the biggest liar in all of New Bedford! "Breasts, sweetheart. 'Titties' is coarse." Oh! It was only the wording he disapproved of, not the action. Josh objected to foul language in general and obscenities in specific. On more than one occasion he had given her a stern lecture--and a threatened spanking, which he had never once delivered, more's the pity--when she had used a particularly salty cuss word. Josh could be such a stickler for decorum at times! Buoyed by drink, she squeezed Josh's big hand--was there perhaps a correlation between hand size and thing size?--up onto her chest, covering the small bump on the otherwise flat terrain. According to Mary, men preferred big chests. As there was nothing she could do about the deficit, Harry simply closed her heavy eyes, and enjoyed the lovely sensation of having his warm hand on her naked and cold tittie. Mmm. His fingers moved! Now that felt wonderful, indeed. "They might yet grow," she said by way of apology when he quickly ran out of territory to cover, and there was nothing left for him to hold onto except the tip. "They might. And if they don't, that's all right too," Josh said, rubbing his fingers together around the part that goes into a babe's mouth. Mrs. Shaunnessy suckled the youngest of her brood in the taproom's back kitchen. The babe latched onto the long brown teat and gulped noisily, then belched. Harry's lids snapped wide. An idea was born.

Men. Babes. Where was the difference, when it came right down to it? As long as Josh didn't belch afterwards. Belching wasn't very romantic. "Would you like to put your mouth on the teat?" she asked politely, making up the seduction as she went along. Josh's hazel-green eyes, usually so warm with understanding when directed at her, suddenly hardened. His tanned face hardened too. This was not the same Josh whose hand she had held as a child. Who was this fierce man? She had made a mistake in comparing this stranger to a babe. Josh was definitely a full-grown man, Harry realized. With his curly blue-black hair, rich dark skin, tall stature, and seaman's muscles, this unfamiliar Josh must have the ladies swooning over him. What chance did she have against those exotic foreign ladies he met in every port? Someday he might go away for good, never to return... She wouldn't be able to go on living if Josh never returned. Though this new Josh frightened her a little, as the old Josh never had, as brash as a seaport doxy, Harry offered up her teat to him. "Go on," she urged. "Suck it." His mouth landed and drew the tip in, his teeth biting the suddenly pointed end. Odd, that point. Only cold weather made her point like that. Though it was still breezy in the room, she was no longer cold. In fact, she was very pleasantly warm with Josh in bed with her, on top of her, covering her. As Josh suckled her, Harry's hands clenched on his wide shoulders, and then reaching down his back, she scratched him like a cat. She couldn't help it! She just had to do it, for when he suckled her, her belly fluttered and her female parts gnawed, and down below, she grew moist, then wet, just as when she had touched herself. Her scratch was the end result of all that, and beyond her power to prevent. Boldly, she placed his hand over her privates. Josh rubbed the heel of his palm against her opening, and the pressure made the ache more bearable, but it still wasn't enough. Panting, moaning, her pelvis lifting, Harry rocked against his hand, grinding her opening against his palm for relief. "I want ... I want ... I want..." Good heavens! She wanted what Mary told her about. She wanted Josh to do that to her! "I want ... you to come inside me!" To gauge his reaction to the idea, she looked up. There was an unusually stern cast to Josh's face. She had never seen that severe expression before. Did the idea repulse him? Just wait 'til she got her hands on Mary! But much preferring her hands on Josh, she reached for that hot poker searing the inside of her upper thigh. "Harry, no!" Josh shouted, but his eyes, now hot points of green jungle flame, drifted to her loins, as he

posed himself up on his arms over her. He wanted to put his thing inside her; she could tell. "Do it now," she demanded. Growing up, Josh had always admonished her to be brave, especially down at the wharf when he was leaving on yet another extended voyage, and she would start to blubber. So as not to let him down, she would always make up a story, tell him soot had landed in her eye, or some such nonsense, to explain her smarting eyes. She opened her thighs, lest she weaken and show fear. For now that Josh had come up on his elbows, she could see his thing was a fearsome sight. Not only long, it was thick as well, with bulging veins and a monstrous wide top, from which something oozed like a volcanic eruption. Josh wasn't built like a normal man. That's why he felt so huge and hard and hot against her thighs. Mary had prepared her; her friend told her mating hurt. But Mary didn't know Josh was deformed. Mating with a man like Josh, a man with such a huge appendage where a small soft sausage should be, might very well kill her. His freakish thing started to grind against her. She could tell he was trying to hold that enormous mistake of nature away from her, but it seemed to have a mind of its own, a life of its own. And though it belonged to Josh, and therefore she loved that deformed part of him too, she couldn't help but wish that he had a large nose instead, or big floppy ears, or anything, anything else, just so long as that anything else didn't have to knife its way inside her. Despite her consumption of ardent spirits, she went rigid on the bed. The lovely, wet, widening sensation Josh had provoked inside her when he sucked at her titties, had dried up, until her opening felt as though it had shrunk to the size of a darning needle's eye. Doing that would hurt. Oh, she would suffer! But to ensure Josh's return to her, she must let him. Biting her lips until she tasted blood, two hands around his neck in a chokehold, Harry dragged on Josh until that enormous appendage rammed at the gate to her passage. The best she could hope for was to get the agony over with as quickly as possible

CHAPTER SIX

"Harry wait!" His lust swelling like the mountainous waves of a nor'easter at sea, Josh rasped, "Sweetheart, no!" But while his mouth said one thing, his manhood was saying something else again. Fair means or foul, his cock wanted into her. He wished he could be that mythical figure for Harry, but he was only a man, a flesh-and-blood man. He would be gone to sea for four lonely years, and God help him, but he hated the endless monotony of that ocean duty, hated the blood and stench of whaling, hated picking the bones of those great ocean beasts,

hated boiling down what remained, their blubber, for oil. Whaling ships weren't called floating butcher shops for nothing. Injured whales roar when the eleven-foot lances pierce their thick flesh. Not from the throat, as the great beasts had no vocal cords, but somewhere deep within the bowels of the belly. Even then, even after whales are speared, they don't go down easy. Each and every one fights unto death for their freedom. In a wake of bloody foam, they drag the stout whalers on sleigh rides across the waves, until tired and weak and yes, finally beaten, the harpooners move in for the kill. There was truth in the saying, "a dead whale or a stove boat; an injured whale could reap destruction on boats and men alike." Still, Josh had to ask himself why. Where was the need for all that destruction? For what reason? So landlubbers could have clean-burning spermaceti candles and baleen-boned corsets? And so he could make his fortune. Mustn't forget that. For the sake of his ambition, he had blood on his hands. To make something of himself, he put up with the misery and the loneliness of the endless days on the ocean, subsisting on naught but hardtack and dried fish. While scouts perched on the masthead lookout kept a constant eye peeled on the horizon for skyward spouting, signifying the majestic presence of whale herds, Josh kept his eye peeled on the future. He blood-slaughtered whales so that one day, someday, he would rise above his lowly station in life. But someday was far off, and Harry felt good right now. A shudder raced through Josh. He could wait no longer. No use pretending he was the noble hero he had tried to be for Harry. Tonight he would forget his sordid past and trapped future, and make Harry his in the here and now. Time enough on the morrow to make the necessary arrangements to wed her before he shipped out... Though there was something he needed to tell her first. A secret he must reveal. It was because of Harry's father that Josh was now doing everything he could to make sure folks not born free had a chance to live free before they died, and he did those things illegally. Harry needed to know who he was, and what he did, before she cast her lot with him. After he told her, and if she agreed, he would go talk to the minister before leaving on this next voyage. He worked the pretty pink nipple, rolling it gently between thumb and finger, back and forth, petting her, and Harry moaned. Heatedly. His hand looked huge on her, hard on her, dark on her, but his darker, harder, bigger body needed no further persuasion than that heated moan, that heated moan told him everything he needed to know. "That's right. That's right," he soothed, but breathing rough. Carnality soaring, his free palm slid down her flat belly to her loins. Mouths joined, he continued to court a nipple, while sliding a careful finger to those seductive outer lips, easing open the plump folds, gaining admittance to her lush wet tight channel. There it was, the virginal barrier; his middle finger had bumped into it. Josh grunted in pride. Harry was his, all his; she had never belonged to another. Withdrawing his touch, he let his cock delve her, just a bit, just to get a taste of Harry. She broke the kiss. "Josh?"

"Hmm?" He asked, keeping a smile in his voice so as not to scare her off, though he wanted to grimace, the pleasure was that painfully intense. Harry, the little seductress, wiggled her hips. And his cock surged ahead into Harry's tight, virgin sheath. And he wanted to crow with pride at the possession, crow and laugh and cry too, at that first small breech of Harry. So good. So good. So painfully good, to be inside her if only that one little bit, her pure body clamped to his not-so pure body, the innocence of her devastating the experience of him, her brightness such a contrast to the darkness of him. Ah... His cock twitched, burying deeper, wet deeper, hot deeper, pulsating deeper, her muscles, her muscles, her muscles... Fighting him. Trying to keep him out. "Joshua, no! I ... I have changed my mind." She was a virgin. Naturally, there would be reluctance, even fear. This is what he had guarded against; he never wanted Harry to fear him. "Hush," he whispered, pushing forward. "Just let me, Harry. It will get better soon. When the membrane breaks, I will stop and rest a spell before continuing. Only when you get accustomed to me inside you, when your muscles relax, will I start to move." "No, I tell you! I have changed my mind. I thought I could do it, but I cannot," she cried, and pushed off against him, her hands hammering to keep him at bay. "Shh," he said, firmly; it was too late for him to stop now. Didn't she understand that? And she owed him. He'd sacrificed years of freedom for her. Everything he had done, he had done for her. Too late. Much too late to call a halt to this now. It had gone too far, and she felt too good. He butted her maidenhead. "One push and I am in, and you are mine." Harry was too stubborn and willful for her own good, for his good too. He would not have a cock-tease in his bed! She was to be his wife, and wives must obey their husbands. He would not tolerate a woman who defied him! And he would make it good for her, he swore that he would, just as soon as he got inside her, all the way deep inside her... "No!" she said, and tried to buck him off. "You bastard! Let me go! I want someone better than the son of a whore! A gentleman. Someone with money. Someone who doesn't stink of fish guts." "Hold still!" he raged, restraining her squirming body with the weight of his much larger body. When she still wouldn't hold still, he held her down, a hand on each of her wrists. In a red haze of anger and unrequited lust, he pushed hard and deep while she writhed. To his dying day, he knew he would never forget Harry's pain-filled scream as he ripped through the barrier. He had never caused a woman pain, and here he had hurt Harry, the one person he had never wished to

hurt! Everything he had done, he had done for her! His ambitions were for her. He loved her. Loved her! Purely. With everything that was good and true and decent inside him. Lust died. Josh eased out of Harry as carefully as he could, then jumped from the bed. Closing up her legs, Harry faced the wall. "I hate you, Joshua Kane!" "You are young yet. Only a child," Josh said, the weary words dragged out of him. "I should have explained to you about how it is between men and women." "I am not a child. It's you, Joshua Kane. I don't want you. I am tired of making do, of always wondering where my next meal is coming from. Look at this room," she seethed, as a drop of virgin's blood trickled down her thigh. "This room is squalid. I deserve better. I will have better than the likes of you! Someday, I will be a fine lady with fine clothes upon my back, and a fine carriage, and a fine mansion up on the hill, away from the sounds and smells of the piers. My someday cannot include you." Josh stumbled into his clothes, angry, frustrated, concerned, all rolled into one. Why didn't she just come right out and say it? Why let it hang there between them? When push came to shove, the Quaker teachings Harry's abolitionist father preached, a religion that maintained that a man's heart, not his race or creed, is what counted, had not been sufficient to breech the insurmountable barrier of their differing skin tones. Finally, Harry had seen the truth that stared her in the face, a truth that stared him in the face every morning when he shaved. A mixed bloodline was his birthright, and he could not change it. But he could change the course of his destiny. No, he would change the course of his destiny. He was strong and smart; ambition burned inside him. He would work his fingers to the bone, seize every opportunity, take every risk, if only to prove her wrong. Someday, he would make her eat those words of derision. Someday, he would be on top of the world looking down. Josh took out his purse and placed it beside Harry on the bed. It was the money put aside for the bank. Every last coin he owned in the world was inside the purse, enough to pay the back rent on her shack, enough so that she wouldn't starve during the four years he was gone. He had just handed her the start of his future, a future he had hoped one day to share with her. That was the best he could do. "I won't bother you again, Harriet," he said formally, and left the brothel room.

****

For a good long while after Joshua left, Harry lay there naked and stunned. When the numbing left, the hurting took over. Pain was the impetus she needed to sniff back her tears, sit up in the bed, and upend the leather purse, emptying its contents between her folded legs. The clinks and clatters bounced onto her bloodied loins, the small fortune in gold decorating her red triangle of curls. She picked up the scatter of riches in both palms and let the coins fall like heavy gold raindrops between her fingers. Josh had paid for her virginity like she was a common whore...

"Well, lookie here, lads! If it isn't the brawler from the taproom," a voice said from the direction of the threshold. The breeze off the river must have blown the door open, she thought, getting into a naked crouch on the bed, the gold coins falling from her pubic hair onto the linen, as she faced down the five whaling merchants from the earlier taproom altercation. "What do you want?" she asked the last man into the room, the tall, bearded one who closed the door behind him. "What do we want? Why, I reckon we want us some fun, right lads?" The other four agreed that fun was what they were after. "You have a lot to make up for whore, after the way your customer roughed us up." The whaling merchants thought her a paid whore too. No use contradicting the filthy assessment, when the proof was festooned in gold across her belly. Saying nothing in her own defense, Harry picked up the coins. She placed each one back in the purse, closing the clasp tight. Done with that, she rose from the bed. "As you can no doubt see, I don't come cheap," she said defiantly. "You gents might have a hankerin' to bed me, but even if you pooled every last coin in your pockets, it wouldn't come close to my asking price for the privilege." She drew back her shoulders. "So, either cough up the fee, or get the hell out of my way." All bluster, of course. All swagger and blowhard. She had gleaned the make of the cowardly sods when they had tried to build themselves up by ripping Joshua down. Just as she had done. No time for regrets now. Later, she would let shame pour over her at her unfeeling words to Josh. If she showed weakness now, if she cried over spilt milk, she would be gang-raped. And how would that serve anyone? She fully intended to save herself for Joshua, to try again at what she had failed at before ... after she had apologized to him for her pain-provoked insults. Picking up her discarded bundle of clothes from the rough timber floor, she reached into the pocket of her trousers, and pulled out the silver knife she had stolen from the tavern, her severance pay. Her Quaker father had been a pacifist, an abolitionist, a practitioner of tolerance. Some of his teachings had stuck and some had not. Turning her cheek was one of the things that had not adhered. But correcting a social injustice? Now there was a teaching that had stayed fixed. The way Harry saw it, stealing from the rich--a tavern owner, for example--and giving to the poor and downtrodden--namely her--was the epitome of correcting social injustice. She stole silverware, especially cutlery, because of its beauty and practicality. Fine knives in particular could be resold on the street for a tidy profit, plus they came in handy for carving manners into a bunch of rowdies.

Harry held the hilt of the blade loosely, as Josh had taught her for gutting a fish. "Maybe I can't take all of you on, but I can sure as hell manage one. Speak up! Who's volunteering to get gelded?" When no one stepped forward, Harry shouldered her way past the drunken louts and marched naked down the hall. She needed to speak to Miss Ruby about working at the brothel.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Harry spun her knife with a quick flex of her wrist, spearing the cucumber mid-air. "What I don't understand is, if it's too fuck'n hot outside to serve reg'lar soup, why bother making soup at all? And who the hell would want to slurp cold cucumber soup in an entry, anyway?" Ruby Patterson looked up from her chopping. "My dear, the word is entrée not entry. One doesn't drink soup of any kind in an entry; one drinks it before the entrée. And a person of quality never slurps anything, anywhere. Now please, return to the task at hand, which is the thin slicing of these vegetables." "Well, shoot! Cold soup makes no goddamn never mind to me." "While I do admire your balls Harriet, I prefer them hanging on a man." Harry scratched her ear. "Huh?" "A lady, my dear, never uses bad language, poor grammar or slurred diction," the brothel madam scolded in modulated tones. "Well, that information does me a shit-load of good. I ain't fixin' to be no lady. Whoring is what I need to learn." "A man will pay well for a mistress, if she is can conduct herself as a lady in his drawing room and a whore in his bed." Ruby laughed as she diced some fresh herbs. "If she can also cook, the world is her oyster." "Sounds fishy to me, and it still don't explain the cold cucumber soup," Harry grumbled, returning to her former slicing. "Practice," Ruby said, and Harry still didn't know what the hell the brothel proprietor meant. All Harry knew is she had been working inside the whorehouse kitchen all week and she was no closer to learning how to please a man ... or how to lose her fear of doing so ... than when she had first stepped through the door. And she had to learn the tricks of the trade for Joshua. Before he left on his whaling expedition, she intended to show him she was a woman, not a frightened child. If she didn't, after all those hateful things she'd said, he might never come back to her. "Miss Ruby, I learn fast. You can see how quick I picked up cooking. When are we moving on to the whoring part of my education?" "The first lesson you must learn is that seduction is all about mystique. Feminine allure. Fantasy. Beauty

alone isn't enough to entice a man; an element of carnal mystery is also required." "Speak plain. I can't understand all those high-falutin' phrases." "My dear, you are not playing up any of your attributes. You have a beautiful clear complexion, glorious red hair, remarkably straight white teeth--" "I ain't no horse up for sale." "Oh, but you are up for sale, my dear. Do not doubt it for a moment. Now, may I continue?" "Sure. I'm all ears," Harry said, lining up the sliced cucumber pieces in a straight row. "Very nice ears they are too. Small and flat, with earlobes suited for the wearing of diamonds. Someday, in gratitude for dispensing your favors, men will shower you with gifts. After we finish practicing, you will have your earlobes pierced in preparation for wearing those precious stones." Harry didn't want gifts from men, didn't care about jewels at all; she only cared about Josh. Pride prevented her from explaining this to Miss Ruby, just as pride prevented her from making her way in this world on her back. But Harry was not so foolishly prideful that she didn't understand that Ruby and her whores had a lot to teach her. There was education; then again, there was education. She needed to learn the art of man-pleasing and Miss Ruby needed some kitchen help, so Harry washed dishes and peeled cucumbers in exchange for some bed pointers. Never again would she feel ignorant about the man/woman thing. Never again would fear cost her something she wanted. Armed with a woman's knowledge, she intended to fight for what she wanted, and she wanted Josh. "You are also tall and thin," Miss Ruby continued. "Though your breasts are small yet, they will most likely continue to develop." "Whew! That's a relief," Harry told her new employer. "I thought maybe they had quit growing on me. Here's hoping they grow to watermelons. " "Not all men require voluptuousness. Some men find a small bust and narrow hips charming. I will teach you to make the most of what you do have. A corset will narrow your already narrow waist to the point of envy, and a padded bustle will fill out your small derriere. Good posture will do wonders for your bust." Harry promptly stopped slouching. "Did you know that cucumbers remove puffiness from beneath the eyes, and also act as an astringent to tighten the pores?" Miss Ruby offered. "Nope, can't say that I did." Harry reached for an enormous cucumber. "Don't slice that one." Miss Ruby held out her palm. "Please give that one to me. It's just about the right size." "Right size for what?" Harry handed it over.

"For our lesson. Now that the preparations for the soup are completed, you will begin your training on pleasing a man--through other means than his stomach." Holding the cucumber between two palms, Miss Ruby began to caress the green skin. "For demonstration purposes, let us pretend this is a man's cock." Harry giggled at the coarse word falling from Miss Ruby's ladylike lips. "It's too big." "Not if you are fortunate, my dear." So, though large, Josh hadn't been abnormal... Harry wished she had had that important piece of information at her disposal a week earlier, perhaps then she wouldn't have been so a'scared. Ignorance and fear. Both had paralyzed her, both had caused her to reject the man she loved. "One takes the erect cock like so," Miss Ruby continued, rubbing and squeezing her fingers up and down the green vegetable in a milking motion, that made butterflies flutter in Harry's belly. "If the well-endowed man likes oral gratification, those inches can present quite the challenge--unless that lady has some experience." "Wait--oral gratification?" "I will make up diagrams later. For right now, know that there are three ports a male may enter the female--mouth, vagina and anus. Only a vaginal entry has the possibility of conceiving a child." "I wish to learn all three!" If she was to have a chance with Joshua, she must make him see she was no child. He would leave New Bedford soon, gone for four years. Before he departed, Harry needed to show him, prove to him, how much she loved him! "How long will the instruction take?" "With your enthusiasm, my dear, not long at all. I have trained the best in the business. Your full attention now, if you please." The brothel madam kissed the top of the cucumber, then delivered tiny nips in a circular motion. Next, she licked the green length, from top to bottom, sucked at the top until her cheeks indented, before inserting the cucumber in her mouth. Before Harry's astonished eyes, the whole vegetable disappeared down Miss Ruby's throat. "How'd you do that?" Of course, what with Miss Ruby being in the middle of the lesson and all, the madam couldn't answer. Next it was Harry's turn. Swallowing a cucumber whole was a sight harder than it looked. Then again, Miss Ruby also made cooking look easy. Harry sputtered and choked, and got nowhere. But even though her palms turned green, her lips grew swollen, her throat tightened, she didn't give up. Practice makes perfect. That's what Josh always said. And in her case it did. Before the day was out, Harry could accommodate any vegetable in the larder. That part of the feat accomplished, teacher and student moved on to swallowing seed. Not cucumber

seed, neither. As Harry knelt on the floor, Miss Ruby squeezed out blast after blast of gooey paste from a pastry bag at the back of her student's throat. The emulsion tasted horrid! The madam serenely advised that regardless of the taste, the paste must be swallowed. Afterwards, Harry was to smile, lick her lips, and tell the man his cum tasted very fine indeed. Miss Ruby also informed Harry that coarse words like "cum," though completely unacceptable in polite conversation, often acted as a stimulant in the bedroom, whatever that meant, Miss Ruby didn't speak any too clear. But not daring to ask--or argue--Harry committed each and every stimulating word to memory.

****

"Rise and shine, my dear," the whorehouse madam said, whipping the linens from the bed, which left Harry bare-arsed. She had never slept naked before, but when Miss Ruby explained sleeping in the altogether was the de rigueur for ladies with whoring in mind, Harry had opened her mind, and gone without her usual voluminous nightgown. "Do I get to wear a wrap?" Harry asked, as her teacher drew back the curtains and sunlight made her sleepy eyes squint. "No clothing for you today, my dear. You must become accustomed to your own nudity." "I am not a priss!" Harry protested, her fingers going to her newly-pierced ear lobes. "I said naught last night, when the fancy ladies discussed my 'gina like it was a public park or somethin'." "The word is va-gina, dear. And in the drawing room, you will disavow all knowledge of that region of your anatomy. In the bedroom, you will use the word 'pussy', or better yet 'cunt.' These crass words simply drive males wild. And no, I don't believe you are prissy, and that is an asset. Still, you must learn to move gracefully, au natural. You tend to clop around in your boots and breeches. Today, we learn the basics of movement sans apparel. On the morrow, you read." "Books?" "Exactly. The most important sex organ is the mind. You will exercise it each morning. In the afternoon, you will learn decorum and manners and diction. You must speak, act, and think like a lady, Harriet..." And so it went, day in and day out. With the fervency of a recently converted zealot, Harry applied herself to each facet of her education. After three months of lessons in the kitchen, bedroom and drawing room, she could make a roux as easily as she could make a curtsey, and she could seduce a man while doing either or both. A smile, a rolled back sleeve, the merest hint of ankle--all were subtle enticements to a man. In public, ladies should always use a subtle approach. In private was something else again; there, her "natural lack of inhibitions and joie de vive," as Miss Ruby liked to call her friskiness, came in right handy. Miss Ruby also said her pupil, meaning her, Harry, was "truly gifted in the sensual arts and would make a fortune as a demimonde in Europe, or a courtesan in this country, or a rich man's mistress anywhere." Harry didn't let the compliments go to her head; Joshua was the only man she wished to please. But true

to his word--he was always damn true to his damn word--Josh didn't try to see her again. On the day the whaler was due to weigh anchor, Harry swallowed the final lump of pride stuck in her throat, and told Miss Ruby she would need time off from her kitchen duties that day; she would not let Josh board the Regina Marie the way things stood between them. Regardless of the heated words they had exchanged, she would bid him farewell, just as she had always done. After a lengthy toilette, she attired herself from skin out in new garments--cotton drawers, lawn petticoat, batiste and lace camisole, whale-boned corset. The stays pushed her slight bosom up and out, and a small amount of horsehair padding worn over the petticoats added extra dimensions to her backside where none existed. The gown was a cotton day dress, with brown and beige stripes; a large bow sat on the bustle, and a lace ruche adorned the high neckline. Brown kid slippers and gloves, a crimson bonnet, a paisley shawl, and a new reticule weighted down with an old money purse, completed the outfit. At first, Harry set out with lady-like decorum, her footsteps quickening as she approached the end of Water Street. Past the columns of the Double Bank Building she raced. Past Rodman Candleworks, where the prized spermaceti candles were made--so prized because they were smokeless, dripless, and burned bright on the darkest of nights. She carefully skirting the remains of whales left on the streets, while trying not to gag at the stench emanating from Rose Alley, still odious despite the flowers the league of society ladies had planted. Though her faith had lapsed after her father's death, and she wasn't religious minded any more, she said a little prayer before the doors of the Seaman's Brothel. Generally speaking, chaplains used to conduct services aboard the decks of whatever ships happened to be in port. But twelve years prior, in the year 1832, amid the hue and cry that New Bedford was made up of naught but taverns and boardinghouses and brothels, the Port Society for the Moral Improvement of Seamen got together, and built the small and modest wooden church building on Johnny Cake Hill, as a moral reminder to whalers that there was more to life than whoring and harpooning. The Society wanted the chapel to be "a place of meeting for religious purposes, for those who are temporary residents in our town, and whose business it is to follow the sea." Those ideas were too grandiose for Harry, but she did think the center aisle of the chapel was a right pretty place for a bride to walk down, on the way to start a new life. Or, if Joshua preferred, they might wed following the old custom, with Josh's captain performing the wedding onboard the Regina Marie. Harry knew Josh would want to wed her, now that he had taken her virginity. They just had a few wrinkles to iron out between them first, was all. When the busy wharf came into clear sight, Harry's excitement rose in direct proportion to the hustle and bustle of the area, her heels then fairly skimming the uneven cobblestone streets. There, up ahead, was the moored Regina Marie! And there was Josh on board, helping to weigh anchor. Though her heart clutched and she feared she would die, so that Joshua wouldn't see her, Harry ducked behind a tower of unloaded crates while she sobbed. Too late now to tell him she was sorry, too late to tell him to keep safe for her, too late to extract the usual promise that he would return to her all in one piece. Much too late to tell him how much she loved him, and if he would only wait for her to grow up, she would make him a dutiful wife. Josh was leaving her, as she always feared he would, without even saying goodbye.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Seven years later...

While seeing to the breakfast dishes, Harry heard Lydia's plaintive wail. Tossing the drying cloth over a shoulder, she raced for the little one in the nursery. "Have you forgotten about me this morning?" Beth bellowed from the adjoining door, as Harry rushed past. "Forgotten?" Backing up, Harry peeked in at her peevish sister-in-law, who was situated in the middle of the newly-made bed, propped up against a snowy-white mountain of pillows, frilly nightcap in place over her recently shampooed head; all compliments of Harry's excellent memory and back-breaking labor. "Why ever do you ask?" "Because I will take my tea now, and it has yet to arrive." Had the pot suddenly sprouted wings? The only way for the tea caddy to arrive was if Harry, herself, delivered it. But Lydia required her attention first... Her brother's indulged wife had been brought up with an army of domestic staff at her beck and call. Upon marriage, her financial situation had been greatly reduced, a fall in social circumstance everyone, especially her husband, was reminded of at least twice a day--why was it that Beth believed everyone suffered from absent-mindedness? Though no longer able to afford live-in staff, a vast contingent of day help still waited upon Beth hand and foot. That is, until Harry's return home from Boston in disgrace. Then, as a cost-saving measure, the washwoman had been promptly dismissed, along with the cook and three maids. Now all the work fell to Harry. "As a way to help defray your room and board," Beth had said. Fine with Harry; the last thing she wanted was to be a financial burden to her brother and his frugal wife. And goodness knows, all those new bonnets purchased with the defrayment looked perfectly charming on Beth. "Finished your hot chocolate so soon?" Harry asked with a sideward glance at the breakfast tray. Only the scant crumbs of the hot-buttered scones and marmalade breakfast she had prepared for Beth, remained on the plate. "Yes. And next time a little more cocoa, if you please. It is imperative I regain my strength after this last birth." That the youngest, Lydia, was almost three years of age, was a point Harry refrained from mentioning. "I am of a delicate constitution you know, and must constantly, unflinchingly, look to my health," Beth repeated for the umpteenth time, lest Harry forget. "You may have entertained half the male population of

Boston in your bed, but as you have never given birth, you would know naught of the horrible indignity motherhood imposes upon one's constitution. As Captain Joshua Kane's musicale soiree is at week's end, I must remain ever vigilant in that regard. The evening is bound to tax my diminished strength, but one must not shirk one's social obligation." Harry pinched her arm, hoping the slight twinge might prevent an unseemly outburst of laughter. Beth was as strong as a bull, and with the maternal instincts to match. This sad truth was borne out a moment later, when her sister-in-law asked, "Which child is that, and why, pray tell, is he or she still mewling?" "It is Lydia, and I suspect she is in need of a hug." Since her fall from grace, Harry had taken over the role of official hug-giver. Helping out in the household was backbreaking work, but cuddling her little niece and nephews was all pleasure. The opportunity to hug the little ones was the only good part of her disgraced homecoming. "A hug?" Beth asked, floundering in unfamiliar territory. "Gooey-hands. Sticky-lips. Pudgy arms in a strangulation hold," Harry described that little bit of heaven that was a hug, feeling just so incredibly sorry for her self-absorbed sister-in-law for not understanding the bliss she was missing out on, by having taken to an invalid's bed when there was no need. Apart from her spoiled upbringing, Harry knew what ailed Beth, and it was naught that a good boot to Ben's lazy arse wouldn't cure. Beth's husband, Harry's brother, drank far too much, and it was her marital duty towards him that Beth sought to avoid in her invalidism. Such a pity! "Well ... I suppose ... you may see to Lydia before delivering my tea." Thinking her sister-in-law was showing an unusual degree of unselfishness this morning, Harry started for the nursery again. "But first," Beth called after her, less than two steps later, "before you go..." Harry's escaping feet ground to a disappointed halt. "Yes?" she asked, backing up. "Speaking of Captain Kane..." Which they most decidedly were not... "I have made you an appointment to see him today." With a sigh for the delayed hug, Harry entered her sister-in-law's bedchamber and retrieved the breakfast tray. "See Joshua Kane? Why would I wish to see him?" Her brother's infrequent letters provided some New Bedford news, and from those sporadic reports, Harry knew Josh had successfully completed his four-year whaling tour to Alaska. That was the sum and substance of her knowledge about the seaman lost to her seven years earlier. Beth launched into her gossip with relish. "The waterfront district isn't good enough for the likes of the good Captain Kane any more. Since he has moved up in the world, gone from mastering ships to owning his own fleet of whalers, he hobnobs with the filthy rich up on the hill. It's my understanding his splendid new mansion on County Street requires a housekeeper." "If you are suggesting I work for him, I cannot possibly! The man detests me. And I ... and I ... have no

wish a' tall to see him!" Despite the vehemence of her protestations, a long-banked cinder suddenly flamed, its unexpected heat burning her cheeks and sending a prickly flash of awareness to her bosom, a wayward flush of arousal she simply could not help. "Be that as it may, you must find a position," Beth said, not noticing Harry's flaring color--like neglected children, impoverished relatives who act as servants are rarely seen or heard. "You are another mouth to feed, after all. Besides which, I fear your unsavory reputation will besmirch us. If it were only a question of myself and your brother..." Beth shrugged, letting the rest go unstated, though still clearly understood. "As this is a live-in position, I will no longer need fear your presence will blight innocent minds." As an afterthought, she added, "On your day off, to repay your indebtedness to us for your keep, you will return to perform the heavier household tasks." No slacker or moocher either, Harry had always paid her own way, while sending money home to help her brother care for his growing family and support Beth's yen for new bonnets. But because she'd been sacked, that contribution had now stopped. "Does Captain Kane know about me?" Harry asked. "Everyone in New Bedford knows my sister-in-law is little better than a common trollop, a strumpet." "Please, Beth, do not mince your words in fear of offending me," Harry interjected. "Feel free to call me what I am--a whore. Trollops and strumpets fornicate for the sheer pleasure of it; whores receive payment and very little pleasure. What I meant is, does Captain Kane know the reason why I am home?" Beth's smile was coy. "Do you refer to your thievery?" Harry's mouth remained a crisp straight line through which she pushed out a tight: "Yes." "Unlike some people related to me only through marriage, I am of honest character. I should have had no choice but to relay to him the sordid details of your transgressions, as I have had to relate those same sordid details to anyone and everyone inquiring over you. As I did not see Captain Kane in person, I was not asked." Beth plucked at her night rail. "Alas, I leave the incriminating specifics entirely to you." "Thank you!" She had not wanted Joshua Kane to learn of her itchy fingers through Beth, an unrepentant scandalmonger. "No need to thank me! Captain Kane is both a prudent and charitable man; he may hire you in charity, but once he knows the facts, I do anticipate him prudently locking the silverware up at night. Was it one or two place settings you stole, dear?" How cruel her brother's wife was at times! Harry's shoulders slumped in abject humiliation. "Three." Which was two more than she ordinarily lifted. Done, because there had been a great need for balancing the scales of social injustice in the home where she had toiled long hours for a paltry salary. She would

do it again too! Only this time, she would not befriend the scullery maid, who had snitched on her to the lecherous master of the Beacon Hill brownstone. This time, she would let the lecherous master have his way with the scullery maid in the dark pantry corner, and see how the snitch liked having her mouth stuffed with limp sausage. Harry's mouth twisted. No, she wouldn't either. That was only spite talking. Even knowing the outcome, she would do exactly what she had done, which was to knee Mr. Burton, the master of the Beacon Hill brownstone, in his Boston Brahmin balls, so that the scullery maid could make her escape. The ungrateful twit! As Harry saw it, for the aggravation alone, she had more than deserved those three sets of silverware. Her knee had been badly bruised in that testicular encounter--her past employer having possessed a lamentably flaccid cock, but exceedingly hard balls, no doubt pickled from his alcohol consumption. But that was then, and she had another problem now. She loathed the idea of begging Joshua Kane for a position, bonnet in hand. But no one would hire her, not without references! And her sister-in-law was right, the house, a wedding present from Beth's father, was small, already bulging at the timbers; Harry's presence toppled it from cramped to crowded. And she very well might inflict her salacious reputation on the children if she remained. She hated to be a burden! Pride would most certainly have prompted her to leave sooner, had she someplace else to go other than a jail cell. Harry's already twisted mouth tightened. There was more to the story of her dismissal than she had let on to her brother and sister-in-law: She stood accused of pilfering more than silverware from the Beacon Hill address where she was employed as housekeeper for the last three years. Jewelry had gone missing, too. When the snitch scullery maid reported the silverware missing, Mr. Burton, already angered over the kneeing incident in the pantry, had ordered Harry's bedchamber searched first. An incriminating salad fork was found buried under the cot's thin mattress, its discovery witnessed by two members of the staff, as well as the butler. Harry had wondered where that fork had gone! She regretted the oversight too, not only because the salad fork incriminated her, but also because three intact settings of silverware would have fetched her more cash at the Newbury Street back door, where she had sold her ill-gotten goods. The incomplete booty had brought her considerably less, without the damn missing salad fork. Anyway, as Harry expected, she was promptly dismissed without a letter of recommendation. Catching her on the way out the door, Mr. Burton informed her that a valuable set of diamond cufflinks had also gone missing. Who did she think would get the blame if he went to the authorities? Already caught red-handed with the salad fork, Harry knew the answer. She was given two choices: pay for the worth of the diamond cufflinks before summer's end, or sleep with Mr. Burton in recompense. Fail to follow through, and he would go to the authorities over the silverware. After all, she was guilty of stealing. Not the cufflinks, though. She hadn't taken those. Harry had little interest in jewelry; for some perverse reason, it was always silverware that attracted her, particularly cutlery. At any rate, the despicable philanderer was toying with her. Mr. Burton, a widower unable to stay within his inherited means, had probably sold the cufflinks himself to pay off his gambling debts. Not that it mattered, for he knew he had her beat; a dismissed housekeeper without references would have difficulty finding any new position, never mind finding a new position that paid well enough to come up with

extortion money. Plain and simple, Mr. Burton wanted to stuff his limp sausage in her drawers and he was using the cufflinks as leverage. Goodness knows, the man needed something to get his meat up. Always the optimist, Harry had immediately pounded doors seeking honest employment. And failed. Worse still, she had spent much of her meager nest egg on lodgings in a woman's boarding house, and the one meal a day she had allowed herself. No choice left to her, it was either starve on the streets of Boston, or return home to New Bedford in disgrace. Harry returned, an impoverished relative living off her brother and sister-in-law's questionable goodwill. In a fortnight, summer officially ended, and she faced jail time or Mr. Burton's limp Brahmin sausage. She could always go into the whoring trade, Harry supposed with an extended sigh. In New Bedford, prostitution was a business second only to whaling in financial success. And where was the difference? If she didn't come up with the extortion money, she would be on her knees before Mr. Burton anyway. And after she got off the hook with him, without references, the only way to support herself was a brothel. Unless she threw herself on Captain Joshua Kane's mercy. Would the wealthy sea captain she had once scorned, hire her without references? More of a stretch--if in the eventuality that Captain Kane did agree to hire her without references after scorning him, would he make her an advance on her salary so she could pay off her extortionist? Highly unlikely. And it would take balls harder than even Mr. Burton's to ask. Harry twirled a lock of hair around a finger. "What time is the appointment?" "I left my card with the parlor maid, requesting that Captain Kane expect Mrs. Smith promptly at seven o'clock this evening, thus giving you sufficient time to bathe the children, and put them down for the night prior to your leaving, as well as allowing you ample time for dinner preparations." "Most considerate," Harry murmured under her breath, as she hurried away to give Lydia a belated hug while Beth's tea steeped, just the way she liked.

CHAPTER NINE

Joshua Kane stared bleakly out the window into the rain-swept darkness, unable to concentrate on the leather-bound ship ledgers spread out before him on his captain's desk. When his study door received a knuckle rap, he called out a prompt, "Enter," thankful for the interruption in duties, and ennui and speculation about what might have been. Peggy, his housekeeper, stuck her head between door and jamb. "A Mrs. Smith to see you, sir," she announced, with enough pomp and circumstance for Buckingham Palace. Conscious that his visitor must be standing directly outside in the entry, well within earshot, he mouthed,

"Did she happened to mention why she is here?" "No," Peggy hollered back at him. "Shall I ask, or is that cheeky?" Brought up catch-as-catch-can in a whorehouse, gone to sea from age twelve, Josh had never before had to deal with the complexities of servants. And as Peggy had always worked as a barmaid, not a parlor maid, she was equally confused. He suspected, however, that asking the visitor to state her business before making the announcement, rather than after, would have been the way to go. Too late now. For a lot of things. Smiling encouragingly at the uncertain Peggy, Josh said in a normal speaking tone, "Just show Mrs. Smith in." He would find out the reason for the visit soon enough. More than likely, his caller was another society matron, here to plead whatever the cause in vogue this season--piano lessons for the musically deprived Eskimo children was his personal favorite. It didn't matter a sparrow's fart what the cause was, Josh would contribute. Go along to get along was his motto. To maintain his new position in society, he could not afford to make waves. Pushing back his captain's chair, Joshua gained his feet in anticipation of Mrs. Smith's entrance. Mahogany paneling makes for an oppressive room, particularly on a dark and dreary night. At first, his visitor's slight figure, encased entirely in unrelieved blacks, the hue somber enough to match both his melancholy mood and the foul weather, blended into the walls. The disappearing act lasted just for a moment, just until he saw the flash of red hair under the extremely ugly bonnet. This was a female who would never fade into the background for long. Harry. No one else on this earth possessed hair that flamed as bright. Raw energy, as well as unbridled beauty, enlivened that hair. And carnality. He mustn't forget carnality. Black garments. White skin. Red hair. Stark contrasts, each emphasizing the differences and yet somehow enhancing the other. How did she do it? How did she embody so many opposing forces and yet make them seem so uniquely irresistible? "Your horrified expression informs me my sister-in-law neglected to include my first name on her calling card, Captain Kane. An oversight, I am sure." Josh was not quite as sure. Ben's wife was a bitch of the first water, and his best friend deserved no less. "No harm done," he replied amicably. "Your graciousness is commendable, but I can see you are clearly taken aback," she contradicted, reminding him of the young willful Harry. "I do sincerely apologize," she continued, reminding him not at all of the unapologetic Harry of old. "If my presence causes you discomfort, I shall certainly leave." "I am not at all discomforted." At least, not in the polite way she'd meant. Stepping away from the barrier of his desk, he came around to meet her. "May I take your cloak?" Her ugly, ugly, wretchedly ugly, cloak.

A downward glance at a wet sweep of black skirts. "Oh, dear. I fear I am dripping all over your carpet." "Think nothing of it. My concern is only for your health. Pleurisy abounds this season," he said, with a solicitous formality. "How very kind of you to concern yourself with my health. It is rather a beastly evening," she replied, equally as formal and telling him naught. What the hell was she doing here? She shrugged. He lifted--careful not to touch any part of her--and the saturated wrap came away. "Don't tell me you walked here, Har ... uh ... Mrs. Smith." "Then, I shan't." She laughed merrily. At first, Josh tried to fortify himself against the sound of that lilting laugh, but some forces are just not possible to guard oneself against. Tidal waves ... hurricanes ... freak forces of nature ... many a time he had strapped himself to his ship's wheel to circumvent, to navigate, to ride out a storm. But Harry's lilting laugh rolled right over him, a force unto itself, drowning him in memories. "I understand you are staying with Ben and his family." Useless to deny the knowledge. "The distance between the wharves and here is at least..." She laughed again. "Seven years of successful whaling." "Yes, well," he stammered, taking both pride and discomfort from his recent wealth. "Why not take a horse and buggy on such a nasty day?" he asked, installing her hideous outer garment on the coat rack in the far corner of his study. The time spent doing so, which he drew out as long as possible, gave him chance to brace up. "Because the owner of the rig, my sister-in-law, thought she might have need of it. And besides, I have always loved walking in inclement weather." The inclemency descended in driving torrents. And the one-horse shay was not available because its owner only thought she might have need of it? Beth. Ben's wife. Harry's sister-in-law. The owner of said shay. The cold-hearted bitch. "I should be happy to make my phaeton available to you for the journey home." Another bell-like laugh. "Already talking of my leave-taking, and the interview has not yet begun? I think perhaps you are discomforted after all, Captain Kane." Damn! Her fine manners did surprisingly discomfort him. New Bedford gossip spreads as quickly as whale blood on water, and so he knew Harry had returned of late to the seaport and in bad circumstances. Josh had shored himself against the possibility of meeting Harry on the streets--doubtlessly loitering under an oil lamp as she solicited customers--but he had expected that seven years passed as a prostitute would have coarsened her. This woman was the furthest thing from coarse. Impoverished, yes. But poised and dignified in that poverty, and so refined in her manner of speaking and behavior that her very reduced circumstances took nothing away from her intrinsic beauty. In fact, by sheer comparison, her thin cape and the poor stuff of

her gown only accentuated her loveliness. He was drawn to ships in dry dock for much the same reason; when a vessel is pared of its sails, oft times the clean lines of the vessel are showcased. Without the distraction of silks and satins, the classical beauty of Harry's bones came to the forefront. An overwhelming urge to protect her, to offer her comfort, to buy her pretty things, nearly brought his hand to his money chest. To steel himself against the impetuous move, he balled the hand at his side. How could he be so naïve? Growing up as he did, he of all men should know better: a pretense of genteel poverty was a common whore's ploy. Prostitutes did their utmost to elicit pity while bartering their bodies, in the hopes the tactic would garner them more cash in the transaction. He was wise to her now! She would not put him at the disadvantage with her pathetic tricks! Twinkling eyes traversed the contents of the room, and then circled back to meet his. "My, but you have collected a large assortment of exotic souvenirs from your expeditions. Masks from Tasmania, porcelain from China, teak idols from the South Pacific. Are those coral shells on the shelf from Tahiti?" "Yes, they are." It would appear Harry had received a worldly education during the intervening years. She had become quite the sophisticate. With his familiarity with whores, Joshua could well imagine the kinds of knowledge she had acquired. It sickened him; his belly rolled in disgust at the sort of information she must now have in her possession. Easily, he was nauseous enough to wretch. "Goodness!" she exclaimed. "Do you keep exotic pets in your mansion too? Monkeys? Peacocks? Talking parrots? Half-naked Polynesian princesses with flowers in their hair?" "No pets. No women either, half-naked princesses or otherwise. And the latter is an indelicate topic of conversation for a gentleman to have with a..." He looked at her pointedly "...lady." There, that prolonged pause should put the little whore in her place. He was not about to let her think she could pull the wool over his eyes. Her laughter died. He missed it already, and cursed himself for its disappearance, even while lauding himself for discomforting her as she had, all right, yes, discomforted him. Tick for tack. In self-congratulation, Joshua smoothed a hand over the shawl collar of his dark coat. The tailoring was plain, but the cut was impeccable and sinfully expensive. In appearance, he knew he resembled one of the many well-to-do Quaker captains of New Bedford, and this suited him. But lacking a pacifist temperament, he was most decidedly not of the Friends' persuasion. Then again, in her plain dark gown, Mrs. Smith also resembled a Quaker, and she could not possibly have recovered her lapsed faith, for whoever heard of a Quaker whore? Which meant the dark clothing were widow's weeds. Somewhere along the line, Harry had married and lost herself a husband, most probably a former customer. From time to time, whores did wed a man they serviced. Had she loved him? More importantly, had her husband loved her, despite her sluttish past? Whoever the sod was, he most assuredly was a more forgiving man than he, for Joshua knew he never could love a whore; he certainly could never wed one. The comings and goings through those two white shapely thighs! And that was only her thighs. There was her mouth and buttocks to consider too. Dear Lord, for all he knew she was diseased. The pox was rampant amongst whores... Not that it mattered one way or the other to him; he wouldn't be getting close enough to any of her ports to catch a dose of the clap. That is to say, if she was still in the business. Some whores got out with

marriage. Not many. Usually, the new husband simply became their pimp, collecting the money from his wife's labor. Harry was in half-mourning now, he would say. Though her gown was exceedingly dull and suitably depressing, as behooved the expression of grief for a lost loved one, she was not wearing a crape veil on her ugly black bonnet, as custom decreed in the first year after the death of a spouse. For that he was thankful: crape would have obscured her countenance. He had to see her face! Trying to peer through the hat's thick netting, he indicated a chair before his desk. "Please take a seat, Mrs. Smith." In a damp swish of black bombazine, she complied while he reclaimed his former position behind his captain's desk. He was now seated directly across from her. The dictates of society made current women's fashions increasingly cumbersome. The visual line of both gowns and bonnets were all directed down, as were the eyes of the wearer. His visitor's gaze was no exception. Harry sat at the outer edge of the chair, spine mast-straight, sights modestly cast to the floor. This new reserve of hers came as an immeasurable relief; even as a bratty imp, Harry had always seen far too much. Her lowered glance had the additional benefit of allowing him to scrutinize her, while remaining himself undetected. To better use--or abuse--this advantage, Josh lit the oil lamp situated on the upper left-hand corner of his desk. Now that illumination suffused his study, he could see her bonnet more clearly. Straightaway, he decreed it not only drab, but utterly deplorable. Lacking in style and adornment, the netting shadowed her face like a faded cobweb. Fortunately, not even spidery shadows could dim Harry's natural vibrancy. That red hair! His wish had come true: She now wore it long. That's where that particular wish fulfillment began and ended. Her beautiful hair was parted in the middle and pulled back severely over her ears. No curls, no tendrils, were allowed to escape the rigid confines of the plain style. She might just as well have been bald, for all the pleasure her long beautiful hair offered the observer. As to her current mode of fashion--the cinching corset she wore under her regrettable gown pinched the waist without providing any back-supporting properties whatsoever. Add to that the horsehair petticoat--full skirts require stiffening, and crinoline petticoats made of horsehair canvas provided the required inflexibility--and she seemed to be doing penance. As well she might, considering how she had occupied herself these last seven years. Still and all, he much preferred a natural waistline, and a little give and hang about the bosom, to the ridiculous and unnatural silhouette of lady's current styles in America. Give him those half-naked joyful Polynesian females with flowers in their flowing hair, their pendulous bare breasts softy swaying, their softly rounded bellies encouraging a man to pillow his head there any day. Give him too the Islanders free expression of carnality. Not that he had ever indulged in Island hospitality. He might not be a Quaker, but he certainly had lived as one for most of the past seven years.

When Harry raised an arm to fix her bonnet, the move caused a subtle shift of her bosom. Her breasts had filled out, he noticed. A corresponding fullness in his loins reflected his appreciation for the changes time had wrought. To put a fine point on it, appreciation was too fine a word. His balls hurt like hell, if the truth be known, the ache so severe that keeping to the chair was rapidly becoming an ordeal. To take his mind off his man's dilemma, Josh played with a small jade figurine of Buddha squatting on top of his desk. "That statuette has a marking on the bottom. Are all the artifacts in this room similarly inscribed?" she asked conversationally, while he squirmed in his seat. "How observant you are, Mrs. Smith." His cordiality belied his thick tension ... and the thick tensility of his cock, spiking hard under his somber coat. Behind the cover of the desk, Josh made a discreet adjustment to the inseam of his trousers. "I have made many acquisitions over the years, and some are valuable. At least they are to me," he qualified. "To aid in identification in the event of theft, I have had this nautical knot engraved on each piece." She looked over his head to the artifact on the wall. "I should think the description of a black and red Tasmanian mask would be sufficient identification. Not too many of those about, I would imagine." He barked out a short laugh. "I will have you know that Tasmanian masks are quite the conversation pieces, second in popularity only to Jivaro shrunken heads from the South America Amazon." "Apparently, whaling has been a boon to curio items. But seriously Josh..." she stopped, covered her mouth prettily with a gloved hand. Had that slip been an inadvertent mistake on her part? Or, had she rather sought to remind him of past familiarity, to torture him with the truth that they had once, long ago, lain naked together in the same bed, and that her red hair, short and mussed, had decorated his rented whorehouse pillow? Refusing her the benefit of the doubt, Josh erected another, higher, more impenetrable wall between them. "I think it would be wise to keep this strictly business, Mrs. Smith." "Forgive me, sir! The appellation just slipped out!" He offered her a benign, somewhat patronizing smile in acceptance of her apology, while continuing to keep his guards well raised. What was her game? What was the purpose of this retiring pose she feigned? The last they met, he feared she would disembowel him, and then feed his innards to the sharks. Now butter wouldn't melt in her mouth Josh gawked as she licked her lower lip, the flesh pink and succulent. A ploy as well, he suspected, designed to bring to his mind other pink succulent lips on her female anatomy. Well, it worked! Sweat was breaking out on his brow, and a chair had never felt so uncomfortable under the heaviness of his aching sac. Time to bring the purpose of her visit front and center. He cleared the lust from his throat with a cough that only caused his manhood to throb all the more. "Mrs. Smith, I am at a loss here. What is the business of today's interview?" "You don't know? My sister-in-law didn't tell you?"

"No, I am very much afraid she omitted the reason on the calling card. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what I can do for you." "What you can do for me? It is I who seek to do something for you." And he could use that something too, but he needed her to say it. He was a gentleman after all, and a gentleman does not make that sort of proposition without a clear conversational opening. "Exactly what do you propose to do for me?" he prodded, but staying well within decorum. The lilting laugh made a brief reappearance. "Why, anything you ask me to do." His pulses hammered at the provocative answer. "What are your exact talents?" " I would say my exact talents run the gamut." With that pouty mouth, he would say fellatio must be near the top of that gamut. "I can run a household efficiently and smoothly," she continued. "Using a seaman's vernacular, I would say that I keep everything shipshape. I am also an excellent cook." "A-a-are you telling me you are here to apply for employment in my k-kitchen?" Josh stammered in disbelief at the preposterous notion.

CHAPTER TEN

The interview was not going well, Harry conceded. The sea captain's voice had tightened like a strung bow, his disjointed words as sharp as arrows. Had her unintentional familiarity overstepped a servant's tenuous bounds, thus ruining her chances of getting this post? Her heart pounded in anxiety. This one man had driven the course of her life. Good or bad, Joshua Kane had been the precipitating factor for everything she had done, everything she had become. He had set the standard by which she judged herself. As he had guided her, shaped her, molded her as a child, so too was she his creation as a grown woman. If he despised her, she would have lost more than her only hope to stay out of jail. No choice but to meet the question head on, she looked into Joshua's hazel green eyes. "Why else would I have come here, if not to seek good, steady, honest employment?" That said, courage failed her, and Harry dropped her eyes to her lap again, surveying the shiny material of her dress. Thank goodness, only a solitary oil lamp lit the room, for the black dye she had used to freshen her best and newest gown had bled from the cheap fabric with its many washings, giving the skirt a slightly purple cast. Dignified impoverishment is an expensive proposition, and her gowns reflected that hard reality, while Captain Kane's coat reflected the reality of his extreme wealth. "If not for his dubious bloodline, he would be the most handsome and eligible male in all of New Bedford," Beth had told her.

After seeing him again, Harry would only argue the beginning of her sister-in-law's assertion: Joshua Kane's forebears had no relevance to his identity, as he was so obviously his own man. His magnificent coloration only added to the perception that he was one of a kind--the curly blue-black hair juxtaposed against the olive-toned gradation of skin; the hazel-green eyes that tilted upwards, just a little, at the corners; the firm and sensuous coral mouth--were unique, and uniquely all his own Joshua was now thirty-seven years of age, a gentleman in his prime, and despite his dour clothing, he still, as he had always done, reminded her of a jungle lion, a wild animal trapped in a man's civilized body. His independence, his fierceness and courage and vitality, were all very feline. But it was the slow and sure way he moved that reminded her most of a jungle cat. A cat at home on the water! Now that just went to prove Joshua was anything but usual. "Please continue," the unusual man prompted. "Continue?" she asked like a dolt, lost in the male beauty of her interviewer. "Yes. Tell me something about yourself. Start with the beginning and work your way to the present." But he already knew everything there was to know about her early years! Surely he must recognize that due to their joint past history, this was not the usual interview between potential employer and employee. "Or, if you would like, start in the middle. For example, when did you lose your husband?" "My husband? Oh, I never wed. The title is honorary, I assure you. Housekeepers and whores are routinely called 'Mrs.' are they not? I simply adopted the courtesy title." "And the half-mourning?" "Since, in actuality, I am neither virgin nor wife, I elected to kill off the non-existent sod ... er ... excuse my language, sir ... and portray myself as a widow. Thus the need for weeds," she said cheerfully. "Plus the drabs have the decided advantage of masking a somewhat limited wardrobe. Wearing black has the decided advantage of making one appear older and more mature than one's years. In the beginning, you see, I had some difficulty obtaining any sort of desirable position, though I was more than amply qualified." "How so?" "I beg your pardon. How so ... what?" "Where did you come by all these ample qualifications?" "I must thank you on that score. You provided me the means for my qualifications, sir." "Me?" he said, sounding flabbergasted. His reaction amused her, as much as hers seemed to offend him. Why not nettle him? Why not discomfort him out of his staid correctness? When had Josh become so hypocritical? They were neither of them born with a silver spoon in their mouths; they'd both had to do what they had to do to scrape by. Yet, to look at him today one would never know he had been raised rough on the riverfront.

She supposed she was guilty of the same device. Her speech had improved, her diction, her manners and mannerisms were all those of a lady, albeit one who had fallen on hard times. But while she had not forgotten her humble origins, he appeared to have suffered a memory loss in regard to his. If he distanced himself any further from his birth, she would think he had sprung whole and fully formed from under a cabbage leaf. "Forgive me," he offered, gentlemanly composure regained. "I seem to be floundering here, but once again I must ask--how so did I provide the means of your qualifications?" "I should have thought it readily apparent. I used you as my reference. With Ruby. I learned much in her brothel. When I left New Bedford, I could whip up a haute cuisine meal, and after serving it, whip my employer too--there are gentlemen who like flagellation, don't you know? I also learned how to submit to the same." There! That should remind him of their lowly histories. But Harry saw how he had been looking at her. Obviously, he believed all the gossip about her and thought her a whore. His gibe about half-naked Polynesian princesses being an indelicate topic of conversation for a gentleman to have with a lady had not missed its mark. If he was going to shoot pointed arrows at her, she intended to turn them right back at him. Anger over the injustice of his incorrect assessment had prompted her to make mention of flagellation, no other reason. It hurt that he thought her a whore. But what had she expected? Seven years before, thanks to those five whaling merchants ... and her own temper ... her reputation had been damaged beyond repair. Everyone in town had thought her the new whore in training over at Ruby's place--an allegation honesty prevented her from refuting, for had she not gone there to learn the tricks of the trade? Granted, she had never meant to ply those tricks on anyone save Joshua. And then there had been that purse of gold coins Josh had given her in compensation for her lost virginity... She should have flung the money back in his face then, instead of deciding to return it when he came to say goodbye. But he'd never come to say goodbye. Josh's gold and words had damned her as a whore back then. She had only deluded herself into thinking his view of her might have changed. But no, seven years later, he still thought her a whore. She was not a whore! She had loved him, had always loved him. But he couldn't see that. Joshua Kane saw only what he wished to see. "Where in Boston have you worked?" he pressed, bypassing the flagellation remark. "At first, at another whorehouse," she admitted. "On Tremont Street. A very discreet establishment catering to a highly esteemed clientele. After that, I found a position in a private home." It was the truth. Her first position had been in a house of prostitution in Boston. Below stairs. As a cook. After one of the patrons had discovered her dessert-baking talents, he brought her home to meet his wife. The woman, who had a terrible sweet tooth, had turned a blind eye to the nature of the

establishment where her husband had discovered her, and hired Harry on the spot. Joshua tapped his fingers on the captain's desk. "And did you stay there?" "No, I moved on again." "Naturally. A woman like you would wish to better yourself." A woman like her... How dare he! What did he know of women like her? "I did better myself," she said evenly, temper under control, but not without a flash of pride. All things considered, she had done well! A bigger house to oversee its running. A higher salary. More opportunities for advancement. "And after that?" he pressed again. After that came her last position. How much should she tell him? The whole of it, save the extortion, she decided. And with as few extraneous details as was possible. "After that came the position I have just left. I was head housekeeper." "Indeed?" The question was rhetorical and laced with cynicism. He didn't believe her! "Why did you leave and return to New Bedford?" "I was let go, sir." "With references?" "Without." "I see. You were fired. Why were you fired?" He wouldn't even let her escape the horrible word, damn him! "For stealing silver from the sideboard drawer." Unable to bear the censuring look that was sure to follow that sort of pronouncement, Harry turned her jaw away. "And so you have come to me." "Yes. Because of our past acquaintance, I thought you might overlook my lack of recommendation, and take me on." "I see." She dropped her gaze to her lap, folded the excess material of her dull skirt into a fan, and gave a weak laugh. "I am destitute. Deeply in debt. I have no place else to turn. I thought you might make me an advance on my salary, and I could work off the loan in the future. I would sign a bond paper..."

"That would not be necessary; your word would serve as your bond." Hope soared. Was he saying he would help her? She sought to clarify. "Sir, you have yet to ask if it is true, if I stole the silverware from the sideboard drawer." "During the course of our conversation, have you sailed under false colors?" "You mean ... have I lied?" "Lied. Deceived. Hidden the truth. I am not speaking of only the larger parts of our discussion, but about any of the smaller details that have made the whole of our discourse. Can you say that in every area, you have been honest and forthright in your personal history, aboveboard in your entire representation of yourself?" "Why no, Captain Kane, I cannot quite make that assertion." She had left out the reason for the loan. A lie of omission, but nevertheless a lie. "So then, what purpose would it serve to ask if you stole the flatware, since you are an admitted liar." She looked at him straight on. The temper she had tried so diligently to keep dampened, flared. "We all have our secrets, do we not?" "Some more than most. Let's draw this farcical charade of an interview to a quick conclusion, shall we? I have no need for a housekeeper, as I already have in my employ Peggy, the servant who just showed you in. She is the wife of my first mate, Andrew, from the Regina Marie. They live above the carriage house on the estate. A good honest woman, she oversees the day staff ... and the silverware." Harry frowned, and not at the slung arrows that had hit their mark so precisely. "You already have a housekeeper? The position is filled?" "Just so." Dazed, she said, "But I am here for the purpose of procurement." A taciturn: "Obviously." Mortified, she started to rise. He not only thought her a whore, he thought her a whore come to solicit him! She drew back her shoulders. "You allowed me to believe there was a position, that there was a reason for this interview. We even discussed the terms of an advancement on my future pay!" He had given her reason to hope! Given it, and then had taken it cruelly away. She had expected more from him, had thought better of him. Though she had given him little reason to judge her kindly, she had nonetheless prayed he might forgive and forget the past, and help her now in her moment of need. But she could see now he was angry, and in that anger he stood as her harshest critic, giving her no time or room to apologize for her past words to him. Instead, he had thought ill of her from the very beginning. From when her footstep had first darkened his threshold this evening, he had assumed she had come for a nefarious purpose, not to seek gainful employment. He saw only what he wished to see, and in that

narrow perception of her, had found her wanting. Damn him for not looking deeper, for not giving her the benefit of the doubt, for not understanding the underlying cause of an ignorant eighteen-year-old virgin's fear! She had been terrified, and not only of the sexual act itself, but of losing him. To the sea. To a more experienced woman. To his own blind ambitions. Josh had been a man moving up in the world, and so afraid was she that he would leave her behind on his climb, she had actually sought sexual instruction in a whorehouse! It seemed ludicrous to her now, even comical, but such had been the extent of her desperation back then. To hell with him! He was not the only wounded party here. Oh, no, he was not! "If the position is filled, then there is nothing further to discuss. I will bid you goodnight then, Captain Kane!" Captain Joshua Kane leaned back in his chair, examining her. "I thought you in need of money...?" "I am in need of money." She got to her feet, and began the long walk to retrieve her cloak. "Name the amount, and I will make you a gift of it." "Thank you, but no. I earn my money." She had her pride to consider. After having been the recipient of dole-outs as a child, after having been expected to feel an overabundance of gratitude to the devout church women who delivered food baskets and mended and patched cast-off clothing, and having felt naught but resentment over their misplaced pity, she had resolved never again to be another's good work. She was no charity case! "I do have another position available..." he said, throwing her the bone when she was at the threshold. Like a mangy dog come in from the rain, soaking wet and hungry, she caught the offering. But she was a dog of the streets, and so, before she started to gnaw, she looked for the string attached to the leftover scraps of meat. "A servant's position?" she asked in suspicion, carefully retracing her steps to the chair she had only just vacated. "Yes. A servant's position." She collapsed back into the chair, her limbs too weak to support her. "I will take it." "As it is only temporary in nature, less than a week's employment, I didn't feel I should mention it. If you would like, I will advance you the salary." No matter what the amount, it would not be nearly enough, not for a week's work. But perhaps the money would buy her additional time from her extortionist. And besides, what other choice did she have? Beggars cannot be choosers, and her brother's wife wanted her packed up and gone. "I will take it," she repeated. She had her pride, but she was no fool. "I find it curious you have not asked what the position entails, Mrs. Smith." His brow peaked like the pitch of a roof. "Do you always behave so spontaneously, without regard to the potential consequences?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed, because it was true, and he knew it as well as she. Her temper had often gotten her into trouble, as did her foolhardy disregard for the etiquette of situations. She had tried to correct both faults, but it was difficult to act with discretion when facing a jail sentence. "Well, in this instance it might be wise to ask for the specifics before agreeing. For all you know, I might have need of a stable lad." "I love horses." "I know you do," he said softly. Was he recalling, as she was, summer days when he had taken her out riding in the country as a child? Her eyes took a dip, as they filled with sentimental tears. "Rest easy; you will not be cleaning out any stalls. You may already know I am holding a small musicale at the end of this week. Your brother and sister-in-law, in fact, have accepted my invitation." "Yes, Beth told me she and Ben would be in attendance." "Preparations for even as small a gala such as this would prove too much for my current housekeeper, so I will need additional temporary help. I have grown rather set in my quiet ways, and I do not want my present business schedule unduly interrupted with a flurry of party arrangements. I will need someone to supervise these plans for me, provide extra hands on deck for serving that night, that sort of thing. I also need a fancy cook. Peggy is fine for plain faire, but anything past meat and potatoes and ale is too much for her limited experience and my humble palate. Still interested?" "Yes!" A temporary position might very well become permanent. If she proved her worth through hard work and excellence, he might keep her on. Servants were sometimes hired on a trial basis, to prove themselves... "When would I start?" she asked excitedly. "I should think immediately. The event is but three days off, and I have neglected all but the most rudimentary of decisions pertaining to it. The invitations are sent, the orchestra is in place, but the menu..." He shrugged. "Sauces and desserts leave me hopelessly confused." "Not to worry. Both are my specialty." Too restless to sit still, Harry jumped from her chair. "I return on the morrow with my recommendations for dishes. And as to the advance of my salary--there is no need. Recompense me at the end of my tenure here." She crossed her fingers, hoping the tenure would be a long one. She needed the work! "Very well. Full payment at the end for services rendered," he agreed. Rising now too, her new employer cocked his ear to the window. "The storm has worsened. Why not allow me to drive you home?" "Bosh!" she said gaily, racing to retrieve her cloak. "Walking in the rain will help me sort out my ideas about what to serve your guests." In two strides he was at her side, helping her on with the drenched garment. "I really do insist."

"Oh, but it's not your place to insist, Captain Kane." If the reply sounded churlish or ungrateful, it wasn't meant to be so; she merely needed to set up the terms of this, their new relationship. "On the morrow, when I start the position, you may govern my every step. But not tonight. Tonight, I am still a free woman!" And with that lofty declaration, she swept out the door into the dark driving force of the rainy night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Joshua's new housekeeper, cook, baker, party-maker, was building a white mountain of flour on the oak tabletop, her elbows flexing as she sifted the meal of the wheat grain, separating the coarse particles from the fine through the sieve. She was unmindful of his presence at the doorway to the basement kitchen, as he continued to watch his just-hired domestic wipe her work-reddened hands on her voluminous apron, then pull at the white cap covering her amazing red hair. Granted, getting flour in that glorious hair would never do, but why must she cover all of it? Josh thought in frustration. Could she not allow a few fiery tendrils to escape? A stray curl, perchance? But no. He could not see any of her hair at all. Annoying as hell. As to the apron--surely, it was intended to envelop a much fuller body? In its favor, the yardage of the white cotton hid most, but not nearly enough, of her faded black gown, the somberness of which only a threadbare gray collar and cuffs relieved. These were buttoned high and tight, preventing him from seeing her lovely long throat and elegant wrists, both so amazingly pale. Damn! She was laced too tight. Too fucking tight, he cursed to himself, his gentlemanly manner slipping in his increasing frustration. He was a man of vast and sundry carnal experience, and an intimate acquaintance with the female figure. He knew Harry's breasts were no longer immature; they were as full and high as her waist was narrow and long; she didn't require punitive corseting. The whalebone stays she wore had to cut into the silky softness of her under-breasts, while choking off her ability to take a deep breath. Foolish girl! Suffering the discomfort of a stringent undergarment, when there was absolutely no need. If he had his way, she would wear no stays at all. Or, at the most, something lacy and insubstantial, only to give lip service to support. If he had full authority over her, if he was her lover, he would absolutely forbid her to confine her admirable bosom or restrict her breathing. Otherwise, how would he hear her deep moans, gasps and groans during spontaneous bouts of lovemaking, those unplanned-for times that often occur when a woman is only partially clothed? Tight lacing wouldn't allow for those tantalizing sounds; tight lacing wouldn't allow for the swell and heaving of her breasts. With Harry's erect carriage, her unfettered breasts would present wonderfully sharp-pointed and proud thrusting. Josh felt his cock stir, not yet quite erect, but close. As to the derriere--his servant wore only a small bustle. Fine with him. The natural line of Harry's backside was already seductive enough without further embellishment. Seven years ago, in a whorehouse, her rounded bottom had incited him to madness. If he were her lover, there would be no need now to refrain from his baser desires. Harry was no longer

an eighteen-year-old virgin; during the intervening years, she had become a whore of some accomplishment. She would know what a man expected from a woman he paid. Of course, if he paid her, she would not be his lover, but his whore. He flinched at the association of that word with Harry. Although he knew she had started into the whore's life with Ruby, still it was shocking to hear her speak of it, to say she had learned much in the brothel. To hear her talk freely, almost boastfully, of whippings and flagellation, brought home to him the reality of what she had become. Harry was no longer the innocent. She was a sexual sophisticate now, and she should know and understand what these arrangements were about, how they were negotiated. He didn't mind paying for it. He had always paid for it. So why did she persist in aggravating him? Why not be forthright and simply set the terms? She was playing hard to get, he supposed. To jack up the price of possession, he guessed. To that end, she had refused his escort home. He was certain she had done so only to cause him grief, to keep him in suspense, to make him pant and beg. He would not beg. He had never begged for cunt. He opened his money purse and paid for cunt. The night before, he had stood at his study window, away from the light to avoid detection, should she happen to turn back toward his house and see him reflected there, hovering against the glass, a solitary sea captain with his tongue hanging out, watching her. Last night, he would have paid a fortune just to see her face. At one point, he had become irrationally angered when she had demurely covered her mouth with a gloved hand, as a lady does after uttering a faux pas--though she was no lady, and that had angered him all the more. She should have been a lady! Last night, she made her way home in a rainstorm; today, she sifted flour. Both were equally fascinating to him. And today he could see her face. But not her red hair. Double-damn that cap squatting on her head like a mushroom! He wanted that cap gone, her hair loose, her breasts free; he wanted to make any carnal demand on her he cared to. He hated not having authority over her, hated she had the freedom to defeat him at every turn. The only reason he had allowed her to toil away as a servant in his home, was to gain some control over her while she played out this little purchase and sale game of hers. An employer's right was better than no right at all, he reasoned. And so last night, as the woman he lusted after made her solitary way down the cobblestone street, he had watched at the window, while counting off the hours until she began her employment in his home. He had stayed fixed there at the rain-swept glass until the dark pinprick of her had disappeared down the hill and away from sight. Today was different. Now that she was his paid servant, he had the power to set rules and enforce them, to exact obedience, to command and determine her every move in his household. And he could watch her, as he watched her now. It was better than nothing, but it wasn't enough. Sometime last night, he had moved from abhorrence over the notion of fucking her, to obsession over the eventuality of fucking her. Fucking her was now a foregone conclusion. Sometime last night, he became grateful that she was a whore, a commodity he could rent for as long as he pleased, the time-frame at his discretion, and the only commitment to her he need ever make.

But he required total authority and a long time-frame. How long he couldn't say, only that he must be able to count the period of the arrangement on his calendar in terms of weeks, not days. He had to find a way to cast a net of domination over all she did, without--and this was the tricky part--admitting how much he desired her. Admitting his obsession would show weakness. He could not afford to show her any such sentiment. Sentimentality, either. She had come to him under the guise of seeking honest employment ... let her admit that what she was really after, was something else. Was she capable of that kind of openness? Harry had not been entirely forthcoming about her last situation. Reading between the lines, Josh believed her last benefactor had caught her stealing, and had tossed her out; now, as she was without funds, she sought a new patron. Well, fine. He understood. But he needed her to come clean about her purpose, for he would not be used. She would not twist his prior regard for her to her own devious ends. No whore would take advantage of him! If she needed money, let her admit the need and name the amount. Honestly. She made her way on her back and belly and knees; let her make her proposition. He would not refuse, whatever the price. Joshua took a step out from behind the partially closed door, and made his presence known with a cough. "Oh, sir! I didn't expect to see you here in the kitchen. You should have rung for me." "No matter. I was on my way out into the gardens, and thought I would stop by and see how you were getting along. Is there anything you need?" She took no time to mull her answer, but said straightaway, "Honey. I should like fresh honey. I am putting together a sampling of the menu for your party to see if it meets with your approval, and my apple tart calls for a light honey glaze. Oh, to find a tree trunk with a beehive lodged within..." Modern inventions and gadgetry fascinated Josh. As soon as a convenience was released for sale, he would snatch it up. He had a tremendous sweet tooth, which he indulged like a young lad at every opportunity. And he required complete privacy in his garden, and bees tended to keep unwanted visitors away. So he had taken to keeping bees. "No need to go poking about rotten elms, scouting out honey bees. I have an apiary in the garden," he boasted. "Never, you do!" his newly hired servant exclaimed, dropping her flour-covered rolling pin onto the oak table. "I certainly do. Would you like to come have a look?" Or she could skip the looking part, and simply come. He wouldn't mind bending Harry over the oak kitchen table, making her scream with pleasure... "Now?" she asked, dimpling. How Harry had managed to retain the bubbly enthusiasm of her youth after seven years of whoring was a mystery, but he had to say her joie de vie made him feel quite giddy. "I was going to the gardens

anyway. The apiary is at the end of the path." Harry's red hair silhouetted against the roses ... he very nearly ejaculated into his trousers at the thought. The formal raised flowerbeds provided Josh with hours of pleasure, as did the less formal wildflowers. There was a kitchen garden too, as well as a small plot for herbs, but the flowers drew his fancy. Can't make a meal of flowers, like one could of potatoes. Peonies will never fill a starving man's gut. And that was the whole point: the gardens proved he no longer need concern himself with hunting down his next meal. Cultivating flowers was an extravagance no poor man could afford, not in time or in financial outlay. Roses, in particular, were the most impractical and time-consuming of all flowers to grow, which explained why he liked them the most. He flaunted his roses to his neighbors like other wealthy folks flaunted their carriages and wine. Harry went to the sink, washed the flour from her hands. "I cannot dawdle, mind you, as I have much to do." Her eyes glinted with mischief. "But a small peek at the blossoms and bees shouldn't hurt." While she dried her hands, Josh went to get his bee-keeping equipment, anxious to show off his new hobby to her. "What is that?" she asked, as he knew she would, as he lit the device at the stove. "A smoker," he replied, trying to sound blasé about his most recent addition to his bee-keeping equipment. "Go on. I know you cannot wait to explain what the contraption does." "A smoker douses the bees with..." He turned towards her with a raised brow and a hand flourish. "Smoke," she supplied with a giggle and an eye roll, reminiscent of the young hoyden Harry, filling in the blank rather nicely too, he thought. "Exactly. How astute of you, Mrs. Smith. Smoke calms the bees so they won't sting the keeper during handling. This particular smoker features a metal fire pot with an attached canvas and wood bellows. The bellows pumps air into the pot to release a cool smoke from the spout." He nodded to the door. She preceded him up the stairs--affording him a choice perspective of her narrow hips and bustle-enhanced derriere--and into the walled-in garden. "Honey bees favor mauve, purple and pink flowers," he said conversationally, still walking behind her on the crushed-stone garden path, still slavishly gazing upon her gently swaying rump. He hadn't forgotten, not in seven years, the heart-shaped perfection of Harry's bottom, with that pretty, infinitely fuckable, dainty hole. How many men had paid to use that forbidden entrance to her body, how many customers had lined her palm with gold for the privilege of sending their cocks deep, of sodomizing her as she bent over for them? Had she screamed while they took her, hard and deep? Had she cried out in pained ecstasy, as they nailed her between those flagrantly sensual bottom cheeks? His cock lanced at the prospect of taking her that way. What was her price, dammit? Why wouldn't she tell him how much it would cost him to spread her buttocks out? His new servant turned then, toward the pale lavender spike of a Veronica. As she fingered the gentian blue vein of a blossom, gliding a fingertip up and down the erect flower stalk in a teasing caress that brought to mind bedsteads not flowerbeds, it took all Josh's control not to bend her over the stone

birdbath receptacle, and spend himself in her receptacle. How she taunted him! Under the deception of lifting a leaf to show her the pigment variegation, he dipped his shoulders; his hand leveled out at her belly. "Bees are particularly attracted to this plant for their pollen and nectar gathering." Employing the ruse of showing her the compact blue spires of a silver speedwell Veronica, the gray foliage making the blue blossom seem bluer, he bent his knees, the move bringing his nose to within inches of her mons, that delightful protuberance in a woman which the slight jut of pubic bones created. Though Josh loved the perfume of the gardens, for once he ignored their scent, in favor of trying to breathe her into his nostrils. An impossible feat, of course, with all those irritating layers of poorly dyed black wool and horsehair petticoat and cotton drawers between them, blocking out the natural fragrance of woman. Harry naked is what he demanded. Harry naked, and stretched out pale before him, his dark face in her slick pink slit, his nose in her moist pussy, his tongue in the beguiling narrow wetness of her female slit. He would lap her up, drink her in, wallow in the flavor of her. And she would let him, if he paid her enough. "They ... that is ... the bees frequent the violet blue catmints too," he rasped. "And then there are the pastel pink blossoms. These, and the richer pinks too, they particularly enjoy first thing in the morning, when an overlay of dew still dampens the blossoms." Rich pink. Wet pink. Deeply rose-pink. Virgin, untouched pink. Harry's genitalia had been as beautiful as any unfurled, prize-winning rose. All those years ago, he had splayed her thighs and gazed upon her rosebud while she slept off her drunken stupor; it was a sight he had never been able to put from his mind. Josh straightened his long legs, covering the evidence of his wayward thoughts with his coat. "Bees also enjoy the wild-growing thistles." That was Harry: wild and prickly, surrounded by thorny bracts. She wouldn't give herself easily ... or freely. Only money would make her accessible. "The flowers are lovely," she said. "You must employ a host of gardeners for their maintenance." "At present, I employ only Peggy and her husband, and they are not responsible for the gardens." "No free men?" She meant laborers, men of color whose skin pigments were only a shade or two darker than his own dark skin tones. "No," he said briefly, no inflection. He employed many people of color, but not as laborers, and the question of their freedom was not open to discussion with him. A pointed chin was tilted. "You do all the work yourself?" "Hardly work, to lift a shovel and scratch with a hoe. And the bees must dine on something." He indicated the direction she should take, with the hand that held the smoke pot. "To the apiary, madam." She walked beside him, her spine straight, her bosom astonishingly full and upright, even under the apron. Clearly, beneath her fraudulent widow weeds, Harry was a voluptuousness lady.

Whore, he corrected. A voluptuous whore. He must never mistake Harry for a lady. He had never bedded a lady. Whores by the dozens, yes. A light-skirt or two--or ten. Not precisely whores, but not about to turn down monetary gifts from male callers. But no ladies. "The apiary," he said, and released a gray plume of smoke from the apparatus he carried. They were close to the center of bee activity, and he would not have Harry stung. She gasped. "Why, the apiary looks much like a miniature white garden house, only with drawers!" "Not too near, Mrs. Smith." Taking her by the shoulders, Josh placed Harry behind him. Once she was out of harm's way, he slowly waved the smoker so as not to further incite the bees, as they went about their business of pollen and nectar collection in the warmth of the day. "Oh, do let me see!" The hard points of firm breasts bored holes into his back below the shoulder blades. To better feel those arrowheads of flesh, he pressed back on his heels. He longed to remove his coat, as he usually did while walking among the flowerbeds, particularly when he came to this sunken portion of the gardens. Furthermore, to provide him with additional privacy from the street, he'd had a ten-foot brick wall enclosure built. This barrier from prying eyes and wagging tongues enabled him to toil outside bare-chested--even naked should he choose, and he often did on hot days. Owing to his condition, he would not remove his coat today. A pity, considering the wanton provocation of those lush, full, upright, pointed breasts pressed to the middle of his back. If he paid her enough, would she agree to walk naked with him in the gardens? "You may go closer to see in a moment," Josh told Harry. "Wait until the smoke calms the bees. I don't want you stung." They waited, his erection already tight and uncomfortable, and made more so by her teasing proximity. Set your price! his mind demanded. She obviously wanted to do business with him, why did she delay? This teasing of hers was unconscionable! She was in a bad situation, which money could alleviate. He had the money, and he wanted her... To whore for him. Only that. He would have her service him, with no useless and artificial displays of emotion. And for that service, he was willing to pay her far above the going rate for prostitution. Sweat breaking out on his forehead, Josh stepped away. "You may look. The bees have calmed." Harry tiptoed up to the apiary. "I have only seen honey bees kept in boxes or baskets," she whispered, her nose within inches of one of the openings. "Not too close," he said. "This particular apiary contains eight working hives. Langstroth just released his invention this year, and I bought one immediately. See?" he said pointing. "These mechanisms are moveable frames. No longer must bees be killed or driven away from their nests before their honey and

wax are collected." "Astonishing! So," she said, her mood changed like quicksilver from pleasure to business. "Where is my honey? There are tarts waiting for their glaze inside the kitchen." As he waited to glaze the tart he was with... "I just installed some fresh honey in a crockery jar yesterday. It's in that little garden shed up ahead. Come with me." Come with me. This time, she would come! This time, he would bring her to fulfillment. She would climax! Whores never did. They put on great orgasmic shows for the benefit of their clientele, but the loud screams were all pretense. The performances never ceased to amuse him; still, if the antics grew too noisy, they also distracted a man from what he was about. As he didn't need his conceit stroked, and he knew the ins and outs of prostitution too well to derive any benefit from the theatrics, he generally asked the whore to dispense with the routine, thereby saving her vocal cords, and allowing him to finish up quicker--a good outcome for all concerned. Did Harry enjoy it? As a young maiden, with a curious nature and no inhibitions about her developing body, the potential has been there for her to enjoy the act. But it was too late to second-guess the might-have-beens now. As it turned out, she hadn't wanted him for her first lover; Harry had had bigger fish to fry. He was only a lowly mate on a whaler, and she'd had her cap set on trading her body for wealth. But it looked like she'd made bad choices in protectors. Harry had obviously run aground; she looked as poor as the lowliest of dock slatterns, her faded gowns held together with naught but pride. Even that would desert her damn soon. If her brother's bitch wife threw her out on the streets, Harry would end up swallowing her pride, as she swallowed cum from every newly arrived whaler and fishermen in port. Better for her to go down on her knees to him on a fine plush carpet, than on the cobblestones of some back alley. Make your deal, woman! When Josh opened the door to his outdoor garden shed, Harry preceded him through. He shut the door behind him, the pot in his hand sending out a billowing cloud of smoke. "So the bees don't get inside," he explained. "And if they do get inside, the smoke will prevent them from becoming agitated." Soon, the windowless shed filled with smoke, muting whatever sunlight managed to sneak in through the small ventilation duct in the roof. "This shelf is where I keep the honey crockery. I would suggest you sample the flavors first, then decide which one you would like for your baking needs." "Flavors?" she asked, coming to stand beside him. Close, as the shed was small. "During the flower-growing season, different blossoms come in and out of peak bloom. For that reason,

there is a subtle nuance in flavor between the jars." Lifting a lid, he dipped a finger into one of the crocks, scooping some honey out as he always did for himself. " Here, sample this." He meant to transfer the honey from his finger onto her finger for her to taste. Before he could, she brought his digit to her lips. In a slow, dream-like motion, her tongue flicked his fingertip. "Mmm. Delicious." Her perfect white teeth flashed a smile in the smoky darkness of the shed. "May I have the rest?" She never waited for the answer. She licked his flesh, tabby to cream, then drew--actually sucked--the entire length of his finger into her mouth, extracting the honey between her pursed pink lips. He jerked back, stumbled back, his finger forcibly withdrawn with the abruptness of the move. "I think you have wasted enough of my time ... and my wages ... for one day, Mrs. Smith. Take the honey, and return to work immediately." Spreading her apron out, she had the temerity to curtsey to him. "Certainly, sir." Was that a knowing twinkle in her eye? With the crockery jar of honey cuddled to the front of her apron, in the cleavage between those lush breasts to be exact, she turned on her heel and left. Josh sagged against the wall. "Fuck," he raged under his breath, and unbuttoned his trousers. Just in the nick of time. Once freed, his cock shot a stream of ejaculate into the smoke-filled air, the loss of control stinging him worse than any swarm of bees ever could.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"I didn't employ you to polish the furniture!" On hands and knees before the mahogany Hepplewhite tea caddy, rubbing beeswax into the slender tapered legs, for which the illustrious furniture maker was noted, Harry jumped at the harsh criticism in Captain Kane's voice. "If not to keep house, then why employ a housekeeper, sir?" "To organize a party! Not to perform hard labor!" "Polishing such lovely pieces is hardly laborious." As the sea captain approached, Harry assumed a more upright position on her knees. "Did you come to speak to me about something of import sir, or did you simply wish to scold?" "Actually, I came to pay you a compliment. The apple tart was excellent." Harry blushed with pleasure. "Thank you. I am glad you enjoyed it."

"Wherever did you learn to make pastry?" "Here and there." To hide her sudden anger, she went back to her polishing, venting her hurt and frustration on the Hepplewhite, rubbing the dark wood until it gleamed. She had already told him where she had learned her pastry skills, and if he had not taken her at her word, then to hell with him. She would not relate the story again, so he might have the opportunity to disbelieve her again. Turning away, she let her backside bear the brunt of Captain Kane's disapproving expression. Why subject herself to his contempt? He thought her a whore, a liar too, which was why yesterday in the garden shed, she had behaved so badly. Licking his finger was a direct result of his bad opinion of her. A boot came down on the floor directly behind her; he stood over her now, looking down upon her both literally and figuratively. "I wish you would stop doing that!" On all fours, she held herself still at his feet, polishing rag in hand. "What would you like me to do instead, sir?" Up to her ears with his sanctimoniousness, she wiggled her bottom. "I am at your complete disposal." "Mrs. Smith, I have an idea of what your duties consisted of in your former positions, but as far as I know, I have only employed you in this household to oversee an evening's entertainment. Am I correct?" "Yes sir," she whispered, shamed that when given a chance to prove herself, she had done more harm to herself than good. When would she ever learn to control her hot temper? Sliding back onto her legs, Harry faced her employer. "About the honey incident in the garden shed ... I apologize. Licking your finger was completely inappropriate." "Your conduct was childish, Mrs. Smith, and neither of us are children." Looking up at him from her subservient pose, Harry reminded herself once again that she needed to keep this position. Truthfully, she was desperate to keep it. "Henceforth, I will take better care to maintain a professional manner, both in public and in private," she whispered. Even when provoked, she added to herself. "A professional manner--that is all I ask." He extended a hand. "Now, up you go. That's enough polishing for one day." Upon the placement of her hand in his, the remembrance of the taste of his skin, over-layered with honey--salt and sweet--made Harry lick her lips all over again. Captain Kane was such an attractive man; even as an ignorant virgin, his physicality had drawn her in a carnal way. The dark-toned skin, the blue-black hair, those compelling hazel eyes shot with flecks of green, the white flash of teeth in a ready smile... As a young maiden, that ready smile had irritated her to tears many a time. Because she had loved him so. And in her love for him, Joshua had always seemed larger than life, and not only because of his enormous stature. She had always felt safe with him, as though nothing bad would

ever happen to her when she was with him. Such faith she'd had in him! She wished she hadn't been intoxicated on ardent spirits that night in the brothel. Perhaps things might have turned out differently. She had been such a silly goose... Suddenly, she went dizzy. The memories, the regret, the fact she had gotten up at dawn to see to the children's breakfasts and do her chores in her brother's house, before making the journey on foot up the hill to the mansion, where she had spent the day cleaning and cooking--all done while worrying over a looming jail sentence--proved too much. When she stood, she wove back and forth on her feet. Captain Kane steadied her, his arm about her shoulders. "You must have come up too fast." "Yes. That's what it must have been. Sorry to impose." "Perhaps if you were to recline on the settee..." "It's nothing. Really. Will you please excuse me? There is something in the kitchen I must attend to." Before she broke down, she rushed away.

****

The party was over, the last guest had left; Captain Kane's official entry into New Bedford society had gone off without a hitch. The soiree had been a tremendous success. And the party organizer had gotten the boot. A familiar itch was developing in Harry's fingers. She carried the empty dessert tray back down below stairs to the kitchen, to be washed and put away with the rest of the silver. Later, Peg told her, she would inventory each item, the count tallied and dated. Evidently hoping to curry favor, one of the guests--namely Beth--had reacquainted Captain Kane with a certain servant's propensity for stealing silver. The thief in question now carried a letter of termination in her apron pocket. A charitable gentleman might accidentally-on-purpose forget a servant's thieving history, but when that propensity becomes public knowledge, in a roomful of snooty guests he is desperately trying to impress ... well, what's a gentleman to do? She'd been let go. Without a reference. The itch in her fingers worsened. Granted, she had been in Captain Kane's employ for only a few short days, and letters of recommendation were not customarily given for such a brief tenure ... but he could have at least asked if she wished him to write a reference. No such inquiry was made. The itch in her fingers grew stronger, more compelling. Her employer hadn't even extended the small but meaningful courtesy of firing her in person; Peggy had delivered the letter and the agreed-upon salary. After everything was cleared away, she was free to go. Well, thank you very much!

Harry rubbed her itchy fingers against the coarse texture of her black skirts. What with cleaning and cooking and baking for the night's festivities, she hadn't seen hide nor curly blue-black hair of the sea captain, turned wealthy ship owner. Joshua Kane was avoiding her. The sea captain didn't wish to continue her employ and didn't have the balls to tell her so to her face. She needed permanent employment, so she might request a substantial loan based on her projected earnings, money she needed to stay out of jail ... or to stay off her knees before the boots of a Boston Brahmin. Her own fault, she was let go. It was the finger lick that did her in. What bedevilment had made her do it? Pride. A backward, self-destructive pride to be sure, but that pride had kept her going on many a bleak day. Captain Kane thought her a whore. To fulfill his poor estimation of her, she had sucked honey from his finger. And because in Harry's life it never rained unless it poured, when her brother's wife had sent her packing, done while stuffing a cream puff in her mouth, pride once again had prevented Harry from begging and pleading to stay. Harry didn't really blame Beth for giving her the boot. Everyone speaks freely in front of servants, as if they have no ears or feelings, and Harry had heard the guffaws as she had moved among the guests with her serving tray. The laughter and crude stories circulating around Captain Kane's drawing room had simply proven too much for Beth's delicate constitution. All for the best she left; Harry would sooner die than expose the children to that sort of gossip about their aunt. Her underarms were damp--fear always made her perspire, and she was plenty fearful now. With no place else to go, it was Ruby's place or the streets for a certain dispossessed pastry chef tonight. To get her mind off the itch that cried out for scratching, Harry got to work cleaning up the kitchen. When the place was neat as a pin, she removed her fancy apron--it was not hers to take--and placed it in the basket with the rest of the soiled laundry for the washwoman, then headed for the service door, where she slid her cape over her shoulders and slammed her bonnet on her skull. She was pulling on her gloves when she recalled that earlier in the evening, she had left an additional dessert tray in Captain Kane's study. It would never do to leave it there! Such an oversight was a testament to slovenly work habits. For the umpteenth time, Harry marched herself back up the stairs. She would retrieve the tray and bring it back down stairs for washing. After it was stored with the rest of the silver, then she would leave. The study door was ajar, and Harry entered the dark room without knocking. A sliver of light from the hallway sconce directed her to the tray on the captain's desk. Itchy-fingered panic set in before she picked it up. What was she to do? The thought of strange men pawing her at Ruby's, violating her on the dingy bedding, made her want to upchuck. And, dear Lord, jail? She would never survive imprisonment. Nor would she be able to prove her innocence. She may not have stolen those diamond cufflinks but she had stolen the damn silverware, and that made her a thief. She could either plead guilty and throw herself on the mercy of the court, or throw herself at the feet of the Boston Brahmin... A corner curio cabinet contained Captain Kane's collection of intricately carved scrimshaw. Oft times, whalers incised designs in whalebone or whale ivory to combat long stretches of tedium between pod

hunts. Though the pieces were beautiful, they were not anywhere as valuable as the assortment of miniature porcelain pieces on the next shelf down. Even the smallest item in that display would fetch a king's ransom. Harry lifted a lovely blue and white china vase, certainly not the largest piece in the group, but in her estimation the most finely wrought. The sale of this one item to a private collector would ensure her freedom. From jail. From a Boston Brahmin. From a whorehouse. What would she have to lose by taking it? Nothing! She slipped the delicate blue and white china piece carefully into the side pocket of her cape. After picking up the tray that had brought her to the study in the first place, she started for the door. "Moving up from stealing silverware, are we?" a voice said from somewhere in the dark recesses of the room. "I must say you have exquisite taste. Of all of the items in that curio cabinet, the piece you took is by far and away the most valuable." Joshua Kane stepped out from the small alcove where he had hung her rain-wet wrap on the stormy night of her employment interview. Harry turned and faced the intended victim of her thievery. Though her belly was clenched in a knot, to all outward appearances she knew she appeared unperturbed; apart from her relapses of temper, Ruby had trained her well. "I could fill a ship's hold with cutlery, and still not equal the value of this little beauty. Ming dynasty, isn't it?" Joshua's handsome jaw took a dip. He thought she was a whore, and an ignorant one, too. Mistaken on both counts! Miss Ruby had insisted she read to broaden her education, and she had, with a vengeance. "I thought so," she coolly remarked. "Why didn't you say you were dusting it, and slipped it accidentally in your pocket?" "Because lying is one character flaw that seems to have passed me by. I have most of the others, in various degrees, but not telling the truth is rather shabby, especially if one is found out. One tries so hard not to appear worn." "I am obliged to report you to the authorities, you know." He tssked. "And you must already have a prior charge of stealing against you." "Actually, I don't." She would not let him get the best of her. She must not lose her temper. "Your last employer--he let you off?" "We worked out an arrangement." "I see. Might a similar arrangement be agreeable to you now?" She was stunned. This was Captain Joshua Kane, a man of strict principles, and he was offering to make her a deal! "What sort of arrangement?" she questioned, all the time suspecting what the terms of the arrangement would be. The sea captain's smile was not at all like his usual smile; the corners of his mouth were lifted, but it was a cold and calculating move on his part, done with malice of forethought. It would appear he

had neither forgiven nor forgotten her hateful words of long ago. Her brother had been right about Joshua Kane; this was a man one should never cross. "An arrangement that would benefit us both. An arrangement whereby you would serve me, and I would pay for that servicing." "In what capacity?" she asked, though she already knew. He indicated the same chair she had assumed during their first interview. "Please take a seat." It was an order, not a request. As though she was off to the gallows, Harry walked stiffly to the indicated chair, and lowered herself onto the seat with a sweep of her cloak, the incriminating Ming vase a bulge in her pocket. "Mrs. Smith, I find myself in rather a sensitive circumstance." She would not shirk from the truth; she would not hide behind euphemism. "Are you asking me to become your mistress?" she asked straight out. "Nothing so pretentious. What I am looking for is a whore, a prostitute, three portals for hire. In other words, I am in the market for fish. Would you care to consider such an arrangement, or would you prefer I file a proper complaint against you for thievery instead?" She felt herself blanch. None of the instruction she had received under Ruby's tutelage, nor any of the unwanted sexual advances she had thwarted in any of her past positions, had prepared her for Joshua's blunt crudity. He had never spoken to her in this manner before; never had she known of this dark side of him. His unpretty words touched something equally dark inside her. The prospect of having his hands on her body, especially the parts of her body he had so coarsely described, thrilled her. Three portals... Oh, God, yes! Let him, please let him, touch her there! Before she lost courage, she asked the unspeakable question. "What, if anything, does the position pay?" He tapped his fingers together. "How much do you need?" No need to calculate; she already knew to the penny. And no time to waste on self-pity or embarrassment, either; straightening her shoulders, she told him the amount. Her upright posture caused her cloak to gape. His glance lingered over her revealed breasts , the hot stroke singing her skin beneath the hideous black bombazine gown. "That figure would not present a problem. And you may keep the vase since you fancied it enough to steal it. You will most certainly earn it. Of course, you would first need to prove you can please me before the position is yours. Can you please me, Mrs. Smith?" During their initial interview, he had asked her to list her exact talents. Should she tell him now that, at least in theory, she excelled in fellatio? That she had spent weeks perfecting oral stimulation? That she could deep-swallow up to ten inches? That when it came to cum, yes, she would swallow the full shot,

regardless of the taste, smell or texture? Or, should she instead outline her natural ability to contort her limber body into any and all positionings? There was always the missionary position too. Some men did prefer a wife-like demeanor in their whores. Nightgown in place, limbs barely parted, in the dark, thinking of other things--a new hat, for example. Other men only wanted to do what their wives wouldn't allow, which was virtually everything else. She was well versed in all deviant practices, particularly those practices involving the tolerance of pain. Perhaps she should relay this piece of information to him, tell him a woman who survived having her heart torn from her chest, can survive just about any physical discomfort. "Captain Kane," she began softly, and removed one very worn black kid glove, "I know I can please you." "How so?" "You are a man of the world. Surely you understand my meaning?" With a downward motion, she directed his gaze to her waist, before leading his eyes lower. The desk blocked her lap from his view, lending the moment to speculation and fantasy. What is she doing? he would wonder. Where has her hand gone? Between her limbs, perhaps? "I'm afraid I do not understand your meaning." His lids were heavy, his expression slightly indolent. "You will have to be more clear." Oh, she could be very clear indeed! But as befitted a lady's refined sensibilities, she delicately phrased the indelicate situation. The tenor of the statement was no bolder than before; if anything, her voice took a dip in pitch. Female stridency is not at all attractive. "You have needs I can alleviate." He leaned further back in his chair. "A forgone conclusion, as I only just admitted as much. " "Forgive me if I am being presumptuous here, but you once found me desirable..." For the sake of deference, she let the remainder of the statement hang. "I still do. But that begs the question: Can you please me? Are you worth the amount I just offered?" Was she? She thought not. In her opinion, if he really wished value for his money, he would keep her on as his cook. He liked her apple tart? Well, her custard pie really was absolutely melt-in-the-mouth divine, the eggs light and fluffy. Like eating a cloud, or so she had once been told. And she had received numerous compliments during the soiree about the rest of her desserts, too. But what did the good sea captain care about any of that? Though a man might lay claim to wishing for an honest response--for example, a genuine orgasm as opposed to one that was faked--the wise woman knew reality must never intrude on the feminine bolstering of the highly vulnerable male pride. When it comes to the appeasement of carnal appetites, it is all about the creation of illusion. A man would demand his dinner, ask for seconds, but never praise the cook for peeling the onions. That is what cooks are paid to do. Similarly, whores are paid to stroke a male's conceit and his cock too, not for coming tired to bed, stinking of pungent raw vegetables. If she rose from her chair now in affronted dignity, and demanded to do honest work in exchange for an honest week's pay, with a character reference at the end of the employment, anger would thin Captain Kane's gentlemanly veneer, and he would show her the door. And where would her show of arrogance have

gotten her? Whoring in Ruby's brothel sooner rather than later, is where. She was under no false delusions here: she might put off the eventuality, temporarily delay it, but she would not elude it altogether. Accepting this arrangement was tantamount to accepting she was a whore. Afterwards, when the sea captain was done with her, the future would hold nothing but more of the same. Without a character reference, there was but one occupation remaining a woman like her: prostitution. She would avoid prison, though. Mustn't forget that! She would also avoid sinking to her knees before the Boston Brahmin. There was something else at play here too, that dark urge she had recognized inside her. She was not aloof to this gentleman's attentions. Those compelling hazel green eyes did not leave her unaffected. They stirred her still, despite the hurt he had caused her, despite the harshness of their last meeting, despite the obscenity--or perhaps, because of the obscenity--of his proposal. She was not above succumbing to the awful pull between them, to the terrible attraction that had always been there, even when she was far too young to give that attraction a name. She was not so young anymore. Lust was the dark force that pulsated between them; lust had always simmered just below the surface whenever they were alone together. The sea captain had denied the pull when she'd been young, but his eyes gave him away now. As long as she controlled the incendiary sparks, manipulated the heat, was ever-vigilant not to get caught up in the leaping tongues of fire, she would walk away unscathed at the end. He would not hurt her again! This time, she would be the one to leave him without saying goodbye. "I await your answer, Mrs. Smith." A little delay spoke to ladylike modesty; a large delay would damn her as disingenuous. "I am worth the expenditure," she said, with an assurance that fell just short of a boast. "How so? Tell me why you are worth such a huge sum of money. " "Because I say I am worth it." Her bottom lip trembled.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"As a gentleman, I find haggling over money unseemly." Leaning forward, Josh reached into his leather canister, selected a cheroot, and tapped the square-cut cigar against his thumbnail. "I am also a man of commerce. As such, I expect to receive quality merchandise in exchange for my cash, be the expenditure a useless but beautiful Ming vase, or a utilitarian, but ugly whaling vessel." "Are you asking me to prove your investment in me is wise?" He laughed. "Mrs. Smith, I already know this investment isn't wise. But is it sound business? Will I

receive a good return on my outlay of cash? More importantly, does the investment have merit, value?" "You mean ... do I have merit and value." "Exactly. And what is your merit and value?" "I will provide you with pleasure, that is my merit and value." "So difficult to gauge ephemeral qualities. I need a perceptible standard, something more concrete, something the senses might appreciate." "What precisely would you like me to do to prove my worth, Captain Kane?" Josh could tell that Harry was quickly losing her composure; to please him, she would need to curb her flashes of tempestuousness to suit him, not the occasion. Such as when he was between her thighs; then her fiery responsiveness would suit him just fine. "I never make acquisitions without first making a full investigation. You may start by displaying the merchandise that is for sale. Remove your clothing, Mrs. Smith." Her features sharpened. "Fine," she said tight-lipped. "If it gives you pleasure, then of course I must bow to your whim." "It does give me pleasure, and not ephemerally," he admitted, before catching himself. His feelings for Harry were hardly short-lived; they had begun when she was born, and had lasted with a surprising intensity through a seven-year separation. He doubted she could say the same. How many lovers had she had since she had almost, but not quite, had him? Too many to count, he idly wagered. "I will need the agreed upon sum by summer's end," she negotiated. "Why wait? You will have the full amount on the morrow." He held up the cheroot. "May I?" A nod. Then the unwed widow said, "I prefer to earn a portion of the money first. I would see you have good return on your investment." How could a woman selling herself, a thief, be so damned honorable? Joshua wondered, lighting up and taking a puff of tobacco. He didn't often smoke, only when he needed something to occupy his restless hands. If he didn't give his idle fingers something to do now, he feared he would jump up out of his comfortable chair, rip that incredibly homely bonnet from Harry's head, capture her scalp, and savage that glorious red hair between his teeth. How long was it? he mused. Down to her bottom, tickling the crack, he hoped. What was a man, without his dreams? Only half-alive, he answered, feeling that long-dead part of himself spring to reluctant life. Very painful it was too, all that blood rushing directly to his cock. He had been semi-hard before; he was hurting hard now.

"Where shall I remove my clothing?" she asked, placing her gloves aside and gaining her feet. She looked to him for instruction. "Over there." He motioned to the window facing the street. The curtains were open and he had no intention of drawing them. It was half past seven on yet another stormy evening. If someone should happen to walk by--an unlikely possibility at this hour on such a wet night--and look into his study, they would see a prostitute disrobing, a common enough sight in New Bedford, though perhaps not in this tony part of town. And that's why he wanted her there before the glass. It was the element of risk, the danger that someone might actually look in and see her naked in the window, that excited him to the slippery brink of orgasm. Unless he held himself in strict control, he'd go over the edge. Never before had he behaved so irresponsibly. The outrageousness of that irresponsibility caused him to violently shudder. And what of her? How did she feel about him showing her off? He decided he didn't give a shit how she felt. Too bad if someone, a passerby, saw her framed naked in the glass window, like a beautiful and untouchable object d'art! For years, he had worked hard on a stinking whaler for her. Everything he had done had all been done for her, and it was high time she returned the favor. Sexual servitude, complete carnal subjugation ... blind and unquestioning erotic obedience ... those were his requirements. Harry owed him, and he expected her to pay up, starting immediately. "Closer to the glass," he said, thinking that Harry's red hair would brighten even those depressing dark skies. He nearly laughed when her shoulders squared, and she stomped to the window. The years hadn't changed Harry as much as it would seem. "Shall I disrobe fast or slow?" she asked haughtily, chin at an arrogant tilt. Fast! Fast! Please fast! "Slow, I should think. Entertain me," he said, throwing out the challenge. "Shall I face forward or away?" "First facing, then away." She met the challenge, besting him with each sad article of apparel deliberately dropped to the carpet. The sturdy boots were the first to go, the unsightly thick gray hose followed. She reached under the gown to the ribbons at her waist. He interceded. "Drawers last." Save the best for last. "Hat next." He could delay gratification with a vengeance. "Then, any jewels. Stripped bare." "Certainly."

She attacked the black ribbons under her chin, that stubborn, obstinate, willful chin. A chin that stuck out at him in defiance, as she dropped the ugly bonnet to the polished floor. She hates that hat too! he decided, and resolved to buy her a new one, a pretty one. Nothing too flamboyant, but something that better suited her age--still young at five and twenty--and patrician bone structure. That jaw! Good Lord. That elegant long white throat. Her face would still be gorgeous into old age. And no vanity about her either. Harry was no narcissist. Neither was she a fool. She would make her looks work for her, but as a tool like any other tool. She was no slave to the looking glass. But she would be a slave to him. And what a strange thing that was for him to think! He detested slavery. No man may own another. And yet he would own her. When she withdrew the drop jet earrings, he wanted to laugh with glee and relish, victory too. At long last, Harry was doing what she was told! And to think it had only taken the threat of imprisonment, and the outlay of a small fortune. "Undo you hair," he ordered. With the removal of a few pins, she had earned the price he had paid for her. Triple the price he had paid for her. The red masses unfurled around her shoulders, and fell under its substantial weight to her hips. And the sight did indeed light up the dark and dreary night. Joshua allowed the light to shine for as long as he could bear it, and then intentionally snuffed it out. He mustn't ever make this what it was not--it was business, not romance. So too, he mustn't ever forget that Harry took money from men, strangers, in exchange for her body, thereby becoming the very thing he wished to save her from, the very thing he despised. Why? He had left her enough money to support herself for all the years he was gone, and more besides. Why, dear Lord, why had she sold herself? There had been no need! Maybe need hadn't entered into it. Some women, like his mother, enjoyed it. Not so much the physical aspect, but rather the control. A talented whore could bring a man to his knees. Was Harry that type of woman? If she were, she would soon discover she would not get that from him. No whore would bring him to his knees ... well, perhaps for cunnilingus, but that was his choice. He knew too much about whores to ever fall for any of their games. Harry was down to her cotton drawers and chemise; her petticoat and gown created a wrinkled hillock on the floor. No one would ever accuse Harry of neatness, he concluded with an inward chuckle, very much like a proud much-older brother. Though Mr. Clark had treated him like a son, though as a seaport whore, his mother had serviced many men, and though Joshua's own feelings for the winsome little hellion had started off tenderly, Harry was not his half-sister; Joshua's dark skin nullified any question of incest. He had many questions about his paternity, resentments too over the blend of different nations that had gone into his making. But for once, he was grateful of his mixed heritage, because it eased his mind about a possible blood relation between them.

"Should you please me, we will continue on in public as employer and employee, thus saving the tattered shreds of your reputation, while maintaining the whole cloth of my own. What we do in private will remain private," he offered, magnanimously. "To prevent any missteps, even behind closed doors, I will refer to you as I would my housekeeper." "Refer to me as you will. Call me what I am." "Thief?" "Yes." "Whore?" "If that is how you mean for me to serve you--why not?" "It is." She shrugged. "Then I will answer to whore." "Madam will suffice. And I will be Captain Kane to you." He was a gentleman now, wealthy beyond the scope of his boyhood dreams, an up-and-coming citizen of New Bedford, despite his less than advantageous beginnings. The mixed-race bastard son of a whore had made good through hard work and ambition; Josh had no intention of committing any blunder that might ruin his reputation. Flaunting an immoral relationship in the faces of those moralistic Quaker men, with whom he must do business, defied established convention. He could not afford to sink into decadence. At least not publicly. Privately was a different matter once again. Privately, he planned on sinking deeply into the decadence of her. "You will continue on with your invented background, maintain your widow's pose, call yourself Mrs. Smith. But you will burn the dreadful gowns you have worn here this past week, the one you wore tonight included." "It is my best." "I will replenish your wardrobe. No blacks or grays. Mauves and silver-blues. Rich fabrics I will enjoy seeing and touching--that is, when I allow you to wear anything at all." He looked at her sideways. "You will wear no corset in private." She shrugged, her prominent breasts rising with the action. "Very well." "Nor will you wear a chemise," he added, while she pulled hers off over her head and her full breasts bounced deliciously. "I would see the outline of your nipples through your gowns," he told her, though he need not tell her anything. Not a thing. He had paid to take, not to give, and that included explanations. "Naturally, there will be speculation about the true nature of our relationship, but no untoward comment will be made. At least, not to my face." He laughed. "That is the beauty of having wealth. In society, no one dares insult a rich man to his face, if he at least makes an effort to remain circumspect. I will put on a good show for the high and mighty and hypocritical gentlemen and ladies who visit here."

A ferocious swell of possessiveness was filling him. She was his! Of all the acquisitions he had made through the years, Harry was by far the finest. That shocking thought took him completely unaware. More shocking still, owning her, another human being, was eminently satisfying. He intended to exercise his authority over her. She would need to obey him, not as a wife obeys her husband, but as a love-slave obeys her master. Wild child Harry would finally have to toe the line. Revenge was indeed very sweet. The sweetness soured when she untied her frayed petticoat, and his eyes were drawn to her hands. It was said the true predictor of a lady's means was the state of her hands, not her address. Never had that old adage seemed truer than now. Hers were not the hands of a pampered lady or even a whore; her hands showed the ravages of chilblain. Harry's hands were servant's hands. Prior to this, he had noticed their condition, but the incongruity, the significance, had no impact until right now, right this very moment. What was a whore doing with work-roughened hands? This made no sense! It was his understanding she had lived all these years as a kept woman, maintained by a series of wealthy male protectors, cosseted from the harsher realities of outright prostitution. Why then were her hands so rough and chapped, inflamed from chronic exposure to moist cold, as though she had been washing dishes as an ordinary housekeeper would do? Quite frankly, he didn't know which thought repulsed him more, the image of her whoring, or the image of her toiling away in a cold and dank kitchen. Both possibilities filled him with loathing. However, he let the circumstance go unquestioned, save to say, "Henceforth, you will take better care of your hands." "Yes, sir." He nodded, everything under control. "You may proceed." Her petticoat puddled on the floor. Why had he told her to go slow? The wait was killing him. Harry was killing him. Like a stevedore working the docks, he drew on the cheroot. Only to snuff the cigar out less than a minute later, when he lost sight of her in the cloud of billowing smoke. It would never do to have his vision of her obscured. By temperament, whaling captains are a reticent bunch. A good thing too, for gone to sea for years at time, listening to the same stories, the same jests, eating the same food day in and day out, nerves tend to fray. In stormy weather, in close quarters, amidst the stink of whale entrails and unwashed male bodies, he had never once lost his patience with any of his men. He made a decision, and he stuck to it; anything less than decisiveness, and his crew would lose respect for his authority. And here he was losing his patience, his decisiveness ... his very mind ... over this slip of a female. Why wouldn't she fucking hurry? Finally, the thin cotton of her chemise was undone enough to see cleavage. Deep cleavage it was too. "Push up a tit so I can see it," he drawled lazily, though inside he was as excited as a lad with a new toy. He could no longer wait to see a nipple. They looked enormous under the thin cotton!

"Your choice which one," he added. "Your generosity leaves me breathless," the saucy wench retorted, shelving a hand beneath a perfect round globe and lifting until the breast spilled over the cotton neckline. Just as he had suspected, the nipple was reddening, growing hard and pointed. There was that stark contrast again, this time between the reddening nipple and nearly translucent white skin, between softly round breast and sharply pointed nipple. But the most telling contrast of all was between her work-roughened hands and the perception he wished to have of her, as a pampered bird in a gilded cage. The disparity caused him some unease. "Remove that godawful chemise," he growled in consternation. Why did she taunt him? And why was a kept woman's undergarment so threadbare, he could almost see through it? "You did tell me to go slow, sir." The vixen! She had bested him and knew it. His expression--a starved wolf drooling at a steakbone--had given too much away. Once she was free of the undergarment, Joshua perused those extravagant nipples at his leisure, taking in their distention, a good inch out from the pale globes now. Amazingly, for breasts so full, they were amazingly firm, with absolutely no sag. And the color of the areola had gone from red to bright red in her excitement. Harry was aroused, and like any female animal, her body showed its receptiveness to be mated. How would she look below? "Drop those drawers," he said curtly. "Fast or slow?" His mouth gave a feral twist. "I have paid good coin to see your flaming bush, and I will see it now!" For years, he had dreamt of red curls. Hot, wet dreams. Fiery, silky curls. He would wake up shamed, not because the linens were sticky, but because even in sleep, she'd had the power to control him. No more. Once carnality became commerce and money changed hands, romance ended. She was a whore, paid to please. How she must enjoy watching poor wretches squirm before dispensing her favors ... for a price. Mercenary shrew. He frowned. But if she received payment for her body, how to explain the threadbare chemise, the reddened hands, the badly dyed mourning gown, the aura of poverty she wore like a proud banner. A shrewd ploy. To up the price. He tapped his fingers. "Well? Where is the burning bush?" "I am afraid you will be disappointed, sir," she said. With a shimmy, her plain cotton drawers slid down her hips to the floor.

His gaze fell, his mouth agape. She was bald as a newborn. "You don't care for it?" she asked innocently. "I loathe it. Detest it. It is, in short, an abomination!" He pointed a finger at her privates; his voice shook like sails during a gale. "You will let your curls grow back." There, before his very eyes, was proof that she was indeed a whore, not a housekeeper, and he couldn't bear to look truth in the cunt. "Full bush!" he ordered, almost shouting the improper directive. "Aye, aye, Captain." She gave him a saucy salute. He answered with a salute of his own, one hopefully she could not detect because of the cut of his coat. The slit was fully exposed, right there out in the open. It couldn't possibly be anywhere as narrow as it looked. Certainly not as narrow as it had been before, he thought, remembering, remembering, always remembering how it had been. After all the men she'd had, she should be able to take him with little difficulty. And this time when she took him, he vowed to please her as he had failed to please her before.

CHAPTER FOUTEEN

"Touch yourself," Captain Kane ordered, her patron just full of commands this evening. "There are many places a woman may touch herself to elicit a pleasurable sensation in both herself and her voyeur. Where would you like me to begin?" "Your breasts." "Very well." Her left palm went underneath the left breast again, in presentation fashion. "That is not touching, Mrs. Smith. If you are aware of voyeurism, surely you must also know the difference between cupping and touching." Naturally, during her stay at Ruby's place, she had been trained to self-gratify; she had also been trained to put on a show for a male audience. Both had left her feeling remarkably unmoved. Never had she derived any real benefit from either activity. Nevertheless, Harry pulled at the nipple, and surprisingly, the tip began to tingle. "Do they always distend like that when you are with a man?" "Yes," she replied. Providing he was the man, she wanted to say. The cause of her arousal slanted his jaw, examining her like a ... like a...

Like a what? Not a woman, surely. Not even like horseflesh... She had it! He examined her like an inanimate object. A Greek vase, perhaps. His examination sank to her body's center. A Greek vase with a vagina, she thought, giggling to herself. "Open it up," he ordered. There was no question as to what he referred. And so while pulling at her nipple in a milking fashion that supposedly maddened men, she loosened her upper limbs. With two fingers of her non-milking hand, she parted the folds of her vulva. "I cannot see it," he said, like a petulant little boy. Another "it" in the glossary, presumably substituting for clitoris. At least he knew she had one. "I'm sorry," she said contritely. "Is there anything I can do to improve your view?" "Swing your leg open." "Happy to oblige," she said, and did. "Ah, there it is! A plumb little nubbin it is too. Touch it," he ordered. "You seem rather reserved, considering your profession," he observed, as she did as directed. Fear, not reserve, explained her diminished enthusiasm. A cucumber phallus differs as widely from the genuine article, as simulation differs from the actual event. At Ruby's place, she had always controlled the penetration, the angle of the thrusts, the amount of power behind each foray, the time element... And she had never climaxed, not even with direct clitoral stimulation. But that inability might not matter. It was his pleasure, not hers, that counted. Besides which, a female's sighs and groans at climax were easily faked. That is to say, if he even cared enough to expect that sort of thing. When the sea captain said, "Turn," Harry dropped her hands and performed a handily done pirouette. "Spread your buttocks." Open ... swing ... touch ... turn ... spread... Like a puppeteer, his spoken directives acting as strings, he manipulated her. And like a licentious marionette, she conformed her limbs to the pull of his verbal commands, done for his delectation. "More," he insisted, not sounding at all like he was enjoying this; sounding instead like he was flustered. "I want you well open in back." And then she understood what he was doing. This examination wasn't so much for his delectation, as it

was for his health. "Do you check me for disease?" she asked, feeling herself blush at the indignity; it was one thing to expose oneself for a man's pleasure, quite another to expose oneself for reasons of cleanliness. His answer was strangled. "Yes." Dying a little inside, Harry did as she was told, splaying herself for the intimate examination of her person. He was thorough about it too, taking his damn sweet time, but no matter the minutes of the inspection, she knew the humiliation would last her a lifetime. "Do you allow for sodomy?" he asked after a while. "Yes, of course," she said, offended he would think she would give only a slice, when the whole cake was for sale. "Knowing that oral and anal copulation bring with them a maximum legal penalty of twenty years, you agree to perform acts considered sins by churches, and crimes by the state?" "Oh, la! The law prosecutes, society persecutes, and churches assign to hell, what two consenting adults do together in the privacy of the bedchamber--and then those same esteemed institutions allow for involuntary enslavement of a whole group of people, by virtue of skin color! Such blatant hypocrisy! Well, what can one expect when even a solitary masturbation falls under the same sodomy law. Who does one hurt with that activity?" "I am discussing legalities here." She snorted. "You may have whatever it is you like, whenever you like it, however you like it, sir. You have only to say the word. I am well-versed in any and all natural and unnatural acts. I provide pleasure; it's up to you to dictate the manner that pleasure takes." "Do you allow for sodomy," he insisted, as though he hadn't heard her earlier answer. "Yes or no?" "As a thief, I have already broken the laws of church and state and society--what's sodomy compared to swiping the silverware? Yes, I allow for sodomy!" "So you say now, but the orifice is dainty. You will require a skillful handling." "I assure you, I will not." "No difficulty accepting a large man?" "With a bit of oil to amend the fit, any size is fully accomplishable--though generally speaking, gentlemen usually request only a partial penetration of a lady." She dipped her chin until her head was differentially lowered. "Forgive me, I misspoke. I meant to say whore. A lady never allows a gentleman sodomy." "And as I am only recently a gentleman, I will require a full penetration." Full penetration. Harry felt herself blanch. As she vividly recalled, Joshua Kane was not large; he was

tremendous. No longer an innocent miss, she was realistic: large schooners have no business docking at small piers. A bump and a jump perhaps, but no full off-loading of cargo. How would she ever accommodate his freight? Recovering her slipped composure, Harry said, "Naturally, it will be as you wish, sir." "Well, we shall soon see about that, won't we? Bend over." Damn him! Bottoms-up is a fine salutation for a tavern, but it is not a woman's most becoming pose--and what female wishes to appear in a less than favorable position, when trying to impress a man? "Hardly the romantic words a woman longs to hear at a moment like this," she quipped, then grumbled, "To the floor?" "No, rounding won't be necessary. Just a slight drop from the waist should do me." Her full breasts shifting, she slanted lewdly forward, her gaze leveled with the empty street outside the window. "Now there is an enchanting sight." "I'm gladdened you think so." "I do. You appear disease free. You must have chosen your customers wisely. If we come to terms tonight, I want you to know I won't be too strict with you," he continued. "You may carry on much as you did before. You have only to ask my leave first, before you start or stop or continue an activity. This will satisfy me." "And I do so wish to satisfy you, sir." While Harry considered the devious means she might employ to circumvent the sea captain's full authority, a horse-drawn conveyance halted directly outside the window. Three gentlemen alighted the coach. "It would appear you have company, sir," she offered dryly; in her bent position, she could see the whites of the gentlemen's eyes. Behind her, a chair scraped the hardwood floor. "I am expecting associates from Canada. I have a ... uh ... delivery I intend to make there. As Peggy has already left for the evening, I will need to let them in. This shouldn't take too long. I will show them into the front parlor, and when I return we will complete our transaction. Will you excuse me?" "Certainly." She felt his presence behind her, though he didn't touch her. "You may come up. I shouldn't wish you to get a crick in your neck." "Thank you." She straightened her spine. "You are far too good." The sound of a door opening, but the return compliment of a door closing tight was not paid her. That the door was left partially ajar in her present state of undress testified to Captain Kane's ready acceptance of

her as a whore. This was no slight against her in particular; it was only that no gentleman bothered to protect the privacy of a prostitute. The very idea was ludicrous. Because the door was not fully closed, she could hear some of what they said, not all, but it didn't sound like any sort of whaling business... The minutes dragged by. Finally, the door across the hall reopened and the sounds of joviality, rising and falling in staccato rhythm, signaled the conclusion of the meeting. As booted feet once again paraded past the study, she called out recklessly, "Captain Kane..." Door hinges squeaked. "Yes, Mrs. Smith?" She glanced over her shoulder at the captain's poked-in head. "Would the gentlemen care to have a look at the merchandise?" "I beg your pardon?" he said gruffly. "Have you arrived at a decision regarding my purchase?" "I will not be rushed, Mrs. Smith." "I wouldn't dream of it, sir! But considering the pressing circumstances, I need to come to terms with some benefactor this evening, and as I am already nude, I thought your associates might like to have a gander. Perhaps one of them might make me an offer." "If you insist..." "I am afraid I must, sir." "Very well." The sea captain's voice. Murmurings amongst the gentlemen in the hall. Squeaks and squawks as the door swung in. "Would you be so kind as to turn about?" one of the gentlemen inquired of her. She inwardly cringed; bad enough her backside was on display! "Certainly," she said amiably. Boldly squaring her shoulders, which pointed her breasts, she faced the four gentlemen at the door. "Will this do?" All stepped inside the study, save Captain Kane; he hung back, a thunderous expression upon his features. The expressions of the other three gentlemen could only be called admiring. This admiration appeared to irritate Joshua all the more. "Could you open your limbs, my dear?" the tall, good-looking gentleman who brought up the rear of the group asked. Here we go again! Turn ... open... "Tut, tut, sir." Ignoring the scowling sea captain, she spoke directly to the merchant. "I am not open for a

public auction, only for a private sale. Are you interested in arranging a one-on-one situation?" "No, he is not interested in a one-on-one anything!" the sea captain roared. Once, Joshua's doting smiles used to irritate Harry no end. Now his ill-disguised vexation ... his suddenly revealed acrimony ... hinted at the real man beneath the placid exterior, and caused excitement to coil inside her belly. "Captain Kane, if you decide not to act as this young woman's protector, I should be interested in making her an offer," the brash merchant said. Turning away from ogling her, he gave a formal bow to his foul-humored host. "Or, if you do decide to have a go on her, I would appreciate it if you passed her on to me when you are done." Just for an instant, the blasé expression Harry had determinedly fixed in place wavered. She would have liked to scream, to rant and rave and shout. To tell them all to go to hell, because she was not that kind of woman, she was not a whore to be passed from one man to the next! Only, after Josh got through with her, she would be that kind of woman. Accepting money for sexual favors would have made her that kind of woman. And who was she to protest, to look askance, at the whaling merchant's proposal, when servicing his immaculately attired person would be far superior to servicing a multitude of uncouth sailors at Ruby's place, many of whom had no familiarity with a cake of soap, many of whom hadn't seen a woman in months? There was no decision to make here, for really, what choice did she have? No choice. If Josh wouldn't have her, she must consider this whaling merchant's offer. Harry turned her most dazzling smile on the merchant. "Sir, I should be happy to meet with you priv..." "This evening is at a close," the captain broke in. With a frown, he ushered his associates back out the door, leaving her alone once more in the study, with nothing to do save listen to the clickety-clack of carriage wheels recede along the cobblestone street. Guests gone, Joshua returned to her. "The night grows increasingly damp," he said, standing before her, but at a small distance. "I hope you haven't grown chilled during the wait. A small fire, perhaps?" "Don't go to any bother on my account," she said, with as much hauteur as she could muster while naked. "I am fine. Absolutely fine." "My associates thought you fine too." Joshua walked out of sight behind her. She heard the scrape of a chair. Then, "You may come to me now." She turned and began the long walk to the desk, head held high, step measured and unhurried. It would never do to appear overtly excited, though she was keyed up, her teeth on edge. First, she had stolen a Ming vase. Next, having been caught in the act of thievery--she really would have to stop the criminal activity, as she obviously lacked the necessary talent--to avoid yet another legal entanglement, she had put on a lewd display for the wealthy ship owner who had ended her virginity seven years before. Then, she had exhibited herself to his associates, virtually selling herself to one and all. The events of the evening had left her ... stimulated. Sexually.

Joshua Kane was certainly not the romantic hero of her innocent dreams, and yet ... and yet ... her lust for him burned hotter than before. A mature woman's desire now, her hunger demanded satiation. "Place your left foot here," she was told. The sea captain indicated his desktop with a hand. While considering the height she would need to achieve, she stared at those knuckles; a seaman's scarred and battered knuckles, the hand dark and large. With her leg raised, her foot up on top, her femininity would be accessible to that large, dark hand, fully open to his jaded view of her. Would he go up to those scarred seaman's knuckles inside her? How many fingers? One? Two? Impossible to fit more than two! Impossible to accept more than a knuckle-deep penetration--those fingers were long! He could hurt her. Those hands could hurt her. His male part had already caused her pain. And Josh was angry, very angry with her. What would he do to her in his anger? "I promise to catch you, should you lose your balance," he prompted, when both her feet remained glued to the floor. "I have excellent balance, sir." She needed the money. She needed the money. She must have that money! Her legs were long; the desk was low. Harry hiked her limb, ensconcing her heel on top. Money motivated the action, but money did not cause her vagina to moisten. The sea captain, not the money, had caused her to go fluid. To save her pride, to protect her dignity, to keep some part of her secret, she kept her knee bent inward, to hide her honeyed vulnerability from him. "Widen out," he said, not allowing her even that small bit of secrecy. All was lost. As soon she changed her present pose, he would see what she strove to hide... Like a ballet dancer, she stretched a limb, pointed a toe, and said as though she had not a care in the world: "Like so?" Leaning forward in the chair, his eyes never lifting from her exposed and glistening vulva, Joshua Kane reached into a gold canister embossed with his signature nautical knot. "I have something for you," he said, holding that something out to her. The sperm whale ivory felt unbelievably smooth when she wrapped her palm around it. "Don't tell me--you propose to teach me the art of scrimshaw?" "I propose you use that whale tooth as a phallus. A female as wet as you needs something inside her."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Thirty teeth of the sperm whale may be used for ivory," the sea captain offered. "This one is highly

unusual. Though most whale teeth measure up to 8 inches in length and 3 inches across, this one is two inches longer and one inch wider. The same make as am I." He settled back into his chair. To watch, naturally. "Very well," she said, and inserted the enormous whale tooth dildo between the lips of her sex. "Slowly, slowly," he said. "No need to rush." Her lungs emptied on a whoosh as her vagina was penetrated; it had been years since she had done this at Ruby's, and she was woefully out of practice. "Can you accommodate all of it?" he asked. She nodded, too breathless to speak, as she pushed and pushed and pushed, until all but the very end of the ivory had disappeared. "Move it in and out," he ordered. She did. Slowly. Slowly. No need to rush. "Bring the ivory out and show it to me." She did. He observed the saturated tip. "How does it look to you?" She caged her bottom lip between her teeth. "Well?" he demanded. "Wet, sir. The phallus looks very wet. Copiously wet." "Why?" "From my excitement," she ground out. "Why are you excited?" Damn him! "I am excited because you watch me, sir," she said. In her pent-up resentment, she teetered in her one-footed pose after only just boasting of her excellent balance. "Steady," he crooned. "Steady," he repeated, speaking low. "Now put it back in. Nice, gentle glides." His hand went to the small of her back, the palm so incredibly hot there, at the base of her spine, his fingers moving in a circular motion, encompassing the beginning swell of her bottom, supporting her as she glided the phallus in and out. It was the first time he had touched her in seven long years. "Are you all right?" he queried.

Her chin gave a jerk, which made a liar out of her. She wasn't all right! She was terrified, of being with him, of failing him, of leaving herself open to him again. He had hurt her once, just about crushed her, and she couldn't go through that pain again. "Your body is really quite splendid." His eyelids wore a heavy, half-mast look. "Do you mind if I ... well ... investigate you further? Just a sample. Just to help me make my decision. Not for free, you understand. I wouldn't expect anything for free--I will compensate you for the exploration should I decide you don't suit." "No, sir," she chirped, pushing the ivory in and out. "I don't mind your exploration." His eyes narrowed on her breasts. "You really are quite, quite spectacular. A man could easily reach orgasm by simply thrusting between your ... well, of course you know my meaning. Your clients must use you like that all the time. Tell me, do you have clients who pay to run their hands over you?" he asked, his hand running over her bottom. At the absurdity of his question, the tension inside her loosened. "No sir." "So, generally speaking," he said, his hands now cupping the cheeks of her bottom, "these clients get right to the point?" "Generally speaking, is that not the experience of most ladies with most gentlemen?" "I suppose it is. But I am not most gentlemen, and you are hardly a lady." His hands smoothed over her breasts now, and she moaned. "To please me, Mrs. Smith, you must come. I insist upon it. Come for me." he urged, while she self-gratified. "Come for me. I would see your face when you climax. Watching your orgasm would give me pleasure. You do wish to pleasure me, do you not, Mrs. Smith?" In all the times she had practiced at Ruby's, she had never once climaxed. And if she playacted an orgasm, she knew he would know. She pushed the dildo harder, going deeper, thrusting faster, until she was drenched in perspiration. Her hair stuck to her back and her breasts swung vulgarly in her frenzy to find release. How ugly she must look! How bestial! "So wild and uninhibited," he said softly. At his words, she listed to the side. "Place your arm around my shoulders," he demanded. Grateful for the additional support, Henry leaned forward, into him, her face cuddled into the crook of his neck, her free arm thrown somewhere around his shoulder, she couldn't say where, her limb still obscenely raised, her hand working the ivory in and out of her weeping vagina. No closer to climax, she began to vocalize, little disturbed sounds of frustration. "Shh," he whispered, his palm playing hypnotically over her bare skin, upwards now along the length of

her spine, spreading the clammy wetness of her perspiration over the surface of her back, cooling her skin even as his touch heated her. "Relax," he soothed. "Let go." "I cannot!" Her muscles were obstinately tight. She needed that money, and her own body was defeating her. He insisted she climax, and she couldn't. Her failure was the same failure she had always known, and she hated not winning. Removing the ivory from her vagina, she flung it on top of the desktop. "I will retrieve my clothing and leave," she told him, and moved away. He pulled her back, his hand cuffed around her wrist. "Not yet." His lips planted themselves softly on her bare breast. She was about to tell him it was no use, that she couldn't give him what he needed, that as a woman she was a horrible failure, when he kissed her breast. Lightly. Just a moist breath blown gently over her hot skin, before his mouth opened over the achy end. He drew the tip inside. Oh, God! He was suckling her. Strongly. Noisily. Lustily. The hungry sounds of his sucking triggered a corresponding drawing, gnawing sensation inside her vagina that left her panting and wanting and needy. She had to have more! "Harder," she said raggedly. "Do it harder!" This was a novel experience. At Ruby's, she had received endless and calculated instruction on how to please a man, but none on how to receive pleasure--indeed, no man save Joshua, had ever touched her--and so she was unprepared for her own greed, a greed she had no control over. It was frightening how that greed took on a life of its own. He bit her. On the nipple. Just the very tip. It hurt. His teeth clamped, grinding back and forth on the tender flesh. Agony. She screamed. In pain. In rage. In defiance. In wanton pleasure. In their shared past, Josh had never treated her with anything less than gentleness. Even when he took her virginity, he had shown her care. He had always shown her care. Now he deliberately pained her. The pained delight took her by surprise. She fought the weakness. Tooth and nail, she tried to keep the release at bay. It made no sense! To please him, she needed to let go and climax. But she couldn't help but feel fearful, threatened ... resentful ... for he held all the power here, and she held none, not even over the traitorous response of her own body. It wasn't fair for it to happen this way! Was it not enough he held her future locked in his hand? Must he hold her pleasure too? She twisted away. "No! Stop!" Her glistening nipple popped free of his mouth. "Let me go. I don't wish this."

"Be silent." His palm closed around her bare buttock, holding her in place. She bucked, arched ... panicked. Struggled! Her bared breasts shifted and bounced. To stop their vulgar bobbing,she crossed her arms, each hand covering a full mound. "Arms down at your sides," he ordered. "I will not!" Like a limp serviette, she was dragged onto his lap face down, and his finger, his thick long finger, was driven roughly back to front up inside her vagina. He commenced a bruising thrust. "No!" She screamed the word and tried to get away, to escape him. He held her fast. "Take it." She deliberately clenched her muscles in an inexplicable attempt to keep him out of her vagina. Immediately, he pushed a second digit up inside her, driving it up inside her protesting passage, using the rear approach. Once in place, he opened both fingers inside her, pressing them relentlessly against the walls of her vagina, stretching her out. "You will do this!" he ordered. "I tell you, I cannot!" His free palm came down on her buttock, the slap sharp and bright. She bucked. He smacked her again, harder this time. "Take it, damn you, take it!" Something hard and implacable broke inside her. The hurt she had nurtured for seven years was wrenched away, and a fierce rapture rocked over her like a tidal wave, sweeping her along with it. Her body rolled and swelled and crested, the tight knot in her lower belly releasing. In that wretchedly awkward positioning, that inelegant face down, bottom up pose, she grasped Josh's calf, holding onto his limb for dear life, lest she never find her way back. And then she forgot how very unpretty she must look, forgot about performing, lost sight of everything save what he was doing to her, save what she was feeling. A shrill and ugly cry broke her lips, followed by another. She convulsed, teeth bared, body twitching, helplessly losing herself to the encroachment of pleasure. Dear Lord! Could a person die of ecstasy? Only when the aftershocks had petered out, did he let her go.

She stumbled clumsily to her feet. "Do I get the money now?" He laughed uproariously. "Considering I got you off like a well-primed canon , madam, you should be the one paying me!" "And here I thought you were a sea captain, when apparently you are a gigolo!" "Picked up a few fancy foreign words in the brothel, did you? Well, tell you what, you may use them later when you French me--nothing like oral sex for showing a man gratitude." Josh chuckled some more at the cutting stare she sent his way. "Do I at least get a thank you?" "Whatever for? You spanked me!" she said peevishly, reaching behind to rub a smarting buttock. "And you loved it. I should have taken you over my knee long ago; a hellion like you needed a firm hand. A little corporal discipline would have stood you in good stead." Her hand left her hurting posterior, and moved to rub her throbbing nipple. "Here," he said. "Let me see." Shooing her hand away, he inspected her breast. "Now, my behavior here was unconscionable, and I do apologize." He circled where he had strenuously suckled. "I certainly never meant to bruise you. I was carried away, transported in the heat of the moment." He was jesting, of course, poking fun at her ability to make a man like him forget himself, when they both knew the bruises were not passion-provoked, unless that passion was anger. The bruises were merely part and parcel of what he had paid for, which was his calculated domination of her. His sarcasm gladdened her, however, for it put what had just happened into its proper perspective. His lack of seriousness was borne out a moment later when, leaning over, he kissed her badly swollen nipple, then looked up at her sorrowfully. "You will hurt for a few days. But then, understanding your temperament as I do, you will most likely enjoy the hurt. Now, did I pain you anywhere else?" Her eyes dropped to her reddened cleft. "I see. There too, eh? Shall I kiss those pretty swollen lips and make them all better?" At the naughty suggestion, molten honey seeped from her labia, the lubricating droplets easing the soreness his two large fingers had caused. "Any damage is covered under our agreement," she said, sounding more like a prissy old maid than a trained whore. "So--what say you? Have we a contract, sir?" "If you need money, I will gladly give you whatever the amount. You need not suffer my attentions if you have no wish to." "I do not take charity." As to his comment about suffering, she kept mum. The man was arrogant enough already, without her adding unnecessarily to his conceit. There had been no suffering. A little pain, yes. But pain made the pleasure all the sweeter. Wasn't that always the way of it? "I warn you, madam, it's all or nothing. You will not hold back with me."

"Fine," she grumbled, nursing her grudge anew, for though he was of a dominant bent, she had never been of a submissive persuasion. Henry would just have to pretend. And there was no better time to start than now. "You will have my all," she conceded. Placing a thumb against the top of her sex, he began to rub her swollen clitoris with one hand, while his other hand moved to her smarting bottom. "All or nothing," he repeated, feathering a teasing finger down the crevice between her buttocks. "Yes. Yes," she agreed, distraught, her bare breasts now violently heaving, hoping he would do what he did before, craving the bite of his kiss on her bruised nipples, wanting ... no needing ... the pain of it. But pride prevented her from asking him to perform the service. "I said so, did I not?" she asked, refusing to beg, refusing to submit, fighting him with her mind, even as her body gave in. "I have agreed to all of your conditions." Hating herself, hating him too, and with fear tasting like a rusted nail in her mouth, as he stroked deep within her buttocks, she wailed out another surrender, her body succumbing to his touch, no pretense at all.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

His little whore sat rigidly straight on the very edge of the leather seat in the furthermost corner of this, his largest of carriages. Harry was as far away from him as was possible within the close confines, her thin cloak clutched protectively around her. Josh sat directly across from her, slouched into his corner, an erection that refused to soften turning each moment of extended celibacy into unrelieved anguish. She was killing him for sure. He wanted his little whore naked. Had it been warmer, he would have insisted she shed that ugly cloak she wore like a wall between them. The interior of the carriage was completely private; besides, the driver, his former first mate, saw no more than his former Captain told him to see. But the night was lamentably damp, and afraid she might catch cold, Josh allowed Harry her poor faded wall of black. In his black mood, that was the only concession he had allowed her. She was nude beneath the pitiful wrap, her full breasts jiggling as the carriage wheels rolled over the uneven cobblestone streets of New Bedford. "Open your cloak," he ordered, urgency finally besting him. The night wasn't all that damp. As long as she kept the ugly cloak over her shoulders, she should not suffer the cold overly much. He had to see those enormous nipples ... At least she didn't make him wait. Quick as a shark strike in bloodied waters, she untied the tattered black ribbon that had held her cloak together. All for show. She untied the ribbons fast enough and at the same time managed to show him nothing. Stingy girl!

"More. Spread the cloak open. And while you are at it, spread yourself open too." Granted, it was a coarse request, but Harry only seemed to respond to the harshest extremes of coercion. He could only guess that over the years she had become inured to subtle approaches. Though ... though ... for a woman who had whored her way through Boston, until caught with her sticky fingers in the silverware drawer, her passage remained absurdly narrow. Tight. Not virginal, certainly, but not a well-used sheath either. Her glove would fit his hand with little room to spare. Feasting his eyes on her generous bosom entertained him admirably for a while. Hoping for more ruts in the lane, his gaze dropped to her trim waist and flat belly before coming to rest at the denuded vee. She was closed, her shapely thighs protecting the gates to the kingdom. He wouldn't have it! He had agreed to pay her a fortune, and he would see the treasure nestled within anytime he wished, which was to say, all of the time. He reached across the narrow distance that separated them, and wrenched her knees apart. Now she was well and truly open, no pubic hair shadowing the notch. He didn't care for her mons bare like that... He knew himself well enough to understand why; her lack of pubic hair was a stark reminder of her chosen profession. How many men had passed through that wet valley on the way to paradise, he wondered. Wondering could make a man crazed. Far better not to think about such things, not to remember how innocent she had once been... "You will keep your limbs like so," he barked at her. "The pose is unseemly." Her nose rose to the carriage ceiling. "No true gentleman would make such a request in a conveyance." "Harry, if you are once again insinuating that I am not a gentleman born, I couldn't agree with you more. I have had to work long and hard for my place in society." "That is not what I meant..." Josh held up his hand. "I don't care about the expectations of your other gentlemen protectors, but I expect you will make it available to me whenever I fancy. This means seeing it and touching it and smelling it and penetrating it, at my discretion. For that to happen, you will need to stop crossing your ankles and start opening your thighs. All the way. No pretended ladylike demeanor, no virginal airs, no maidenly modesty. We both know you are none of those. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, sir. Very clear. I never meant to disparage your background. I apologize." Did she apologize for what she said then, or what she had said in the past? Her words back then had stung ... they had also driven him like a demon to make something of himself. Always ambitious, after her cutting remarks, his need to improve his lot in life had consumed him. He had

worked relentlessly to rise up the ranks, to master his own ship, and then to own a ship. Now, he owned a fleet of ships, thanks in good part to her kick in the pants. When the carriage stopped in front of Ben's door, Josh tore his rapt gaze away from Harry's pretty rosebud, and reached across to her. "Allow me," he said, and closed her cloak, tying the tattered black ribbon neatly under her chin. Touching her proved difficult. The urge to possess her was hellish. Accustomed to discipline, to doing without, he sucked up his discomfort, until she loitered over a useless attempt to fix her bright red hair. Then, he said irritably, "Leave it." "If my hair is mussed, my sister-in-law will suspect our relationship." Her hair was down, but it was by no means mussed, at least not by his hands--another longed-for activity he had denied himself. "Beth will know regardless." She gasped. "But how?" "Madam, your orgasmic glow has yet to wear off." Her hands went to her face. "Flushed," Josh told her, and smiled with pride; he had given her an orgasm, her first one unless he was very mistaken. "Also," he cheerily continued, feeling remarkably smug, "it is quite obvious you are nude under that deplorable cloak. The material is worn thin, and your body is lush. And when you move ... well ... your body takes on a certain unmistakable fluidity." Now Harry clapped both hands to her mouth. "My sister-in law is a terrible gossip. By the morrow, all of New Bedford will know of our change of circumstances." "What of it?" "The behind-the-hand whispers!" "Surely, there were whispers about you before, in staid Boston?" "My concern is for you, sir. Not myself. I can tell appearances matter a great deal to you, that you are protective of your personal reputation." Her eyes dropped. "Besides, what was there to gossip about in Boston? I told you already, I was employed there as a housekeeper and cook. My skills were much sought after." He fondled a round breast over the blasphemy of cheap black cloth. "How skilled, hmm?" "Very skilled." Her eyes blazed defiantly, not liking his teasing innuendo. Well, he didn't like her lies either. Housekeeper and cook, indeed! She was a whore in those wealthy homes, not a servant. Though her chapped hands continued to leave him perplexed... "You will show me your skills later, when we return home. Neither of us will get much rest tonight, I'm afraid. Good thing you are my whore, not my housekeeper. You need not rise early to make me breakfast." He winked. "There are some compensations to be had for your change of circumstances,

eh?" Once his driver opened the carriage door, Josh jumped to the ground. Turning back, he helped Harry alight, swinging her out easily, his rough seaman's hands bracketing her waist, his nicked and callused fingers sinking into her flesh, softly giving, now that she wasn't wearing a corset. It was all he could do not to take her there against the side of the vehicle, up against the wheel, in clear view of her brother's house. Once again, self-discipline made him loosen his hold. Like a gentleman, Josh escorted Harry to the front door. Once inside the front parlor, Joshua came right to the point. "Ben, I have engaged your sister as my new housekeeper. I have brought her home to gather her belongings. Naturally, I will recompense you and Beth for stealing her away." "Who do you think you are, comin' in here and tellin' me what my sister will do?" Ben slurred in reply. Josh's childhood friend was in his cups earlier than usual tonight; the bottle of whiskey on the oak table was already more than half empty, and the evening was yet young. "I may not be a rich ship owner like you, Joshua Kane, but I provide for my own kin, be they in trouble with the law or not. Harry had it good here, sittin' around on her arse all the day long, eatin' me food, havin' me bride wait on her hand and foot. She never had to do naught to earn her keep. You be acting like some gentrified toff, with your big words and your polite manners. I knew you when you had not a pot to piss in, when you were just a whoreson bastard..." Josh narrowed his sights on the ruin that was his friend, taking in the rheumy, bloodshot eyes, the ale-soft paunch, the gouty bare feet, and felt his former pity change to disgust. That Ben had squandered his life on the forgetfulness of liquor he could forgive, but what he had allowed to happen to Harry--this Josh could not forgive. On many separate occasions, and on each and every time Josh had shipped out, he had left money with his friend to care for his younger sister, yet Ben had spent that money on himself. Such selfishness was indefensible. Josh was about to tell Ben so, when Harry returned, a satchel that had seen better days under an arm, each hand occupied with a nephew. "Off to bed with you now, you young ruffians," she said, knee to floor, giving the lads an affectionate hug. "When will you come back?" the older of the two asked. Making up his mind, Joshua spoke up before Harry had chance to reply. "Your Aunt Harriet will not be coming back." "Oh, yes, I will." Anger flared in his new acquisition's eyes. "You will not." Harry straightened. "Then our arrangement is off, sir." Josh retained his patience, though his aroused state strained forbearance to the limit. "The children will come to my house. I am putting in a butterfly garden, and I will need expert advice."

"My brother and me know everything there is to know about butterflies, sir!" "Of course you do, lad. Which is why I need your help." The boy looked to his aunt. "When might we visit, Aunty Harry?" Aunty Harry's expression softened. "You heard Captain Kane; the invitation is for my day off. Now off to bed with you dicken-raisers!" When the two had scampered away, Harry returned her attention to him, where it rightly belonged, considering the investment he had made in her. "Thank you, sir," she said, prettily. "Not to mention it." Josh motioned to the bag, the meager bulge in its leather sides telling him the satchel didn't hold much. "Is this all of your belongings?" he asked incredulously, picking it up. At her nod, he said. "Then we will be off." Ben's inebriated snores ushered them to the door.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When they arrived back at the sea captain's mansion, an old sea dog awaited them on the front walk. "What can I do for you, Kouadjo?" The sea captain inquired of the wizened, dark-skinned man. "Emergency down at the docks, Cap'n. The oil barrels, it is. When I sluiced them out, they sprung leaks like sieves, each hole so big an octopus might squeeze through. All look to be defective. Best come quick," the messenger imparted. "The Suzanne shoves off on high tide." "Damn and blast that cooperage!" "Aye, aye, Cap'n. He be a rotten scoundrel, is that one," the sea dog agreed. "Very well, Kouadjo. I will be along shortly." The seaman dipped his head, and scurried off. "Kouadjo," she said thoughtfully, when they were once again alone at the gate to the mansion. "What an interesting name. African, is it not?" "Kouadjo is merely the name I call him," he explained quickly. "A nickname, as it were. To all others, he is known as James Roberts. He is not a runaway, but a freeman born." Of all the heinous deeds the sea captain suspected her of, the implication behind that swift explanation was by far the worst. Since the enactment of Fugitive Slave Law of 1850, it was illegal to aid and abet

runaway slaves. Did Captain Kane really believe she would turn him in, if he should have a runaway on his payroll? When had he become so wary, so cynical? Her father had been an outspoken abolitionist, and he'd not been alone; there were a number of similarly inclined Quakers in New Bedford, all looking to see the end of slavery. This was why when Frederick Douglass escaped enslavement, he came first to New Bedford, to work the docks, to blend with free people of color ... and fellow runaways ... before moving on to become a great writer, politician, orator and abolitionist. Though Mr. Douglass was now famous, respected and admired, it was still dangerous to help people escape the chains of slavery. Harry had always believed perhaps her father was close to Josh, closer than he was to his own son, because they shared an abhorrence of slavery. She knew Josh's fearless high-mindedness had always drawn her to him. Where were those fine principles now? Where had they gone? Lost in his quest for wealth and empty social climbing? "All of us are born free; it's injustice that enslaves people," she said coldly. "Call me a whore, a thief too, but do not dare to call me a sympathizer of slavery! I might have cast off much of my father's teachings, but not everything. I would never turn in a runaway!" "These are perilous times, and I have much to lose if accusatory fingers are pointed in my direction. I employ only free men of African descent on my ships and in my warehouses." And to think she had once thought Joshua Kane a man of unswayable moral convictions, of lofty principles! How mistaken she had been. He looked out for only his own skin, looked after only his own fortune, and ignored the plight of those who were not nearly as fortunate. He was in a position to help, and instead he thought only to protect his own assets. "So much for having a social conscience," she said snidely. "And just so you are aware of my position," Joshua said. "Now, I am sorry. But there's no help for it; I will have to go see to the barrel problem. Leaky barrels cut into my profit." "And we cannot have that," she snipped. "Will you be all right alone in the house? I could get Peggy to stay with you," he offered. "I do not need a keeper, sir." He cleared his throat. "So--do you stay? Will I find you here upon my return? Or shall I give you the money now before I take my leave of you?" "I stay. Where else would I go tonight?" "Ben's." And that proved how little he understood her situation; her brother and sister-in-law were happy to see the back of her. "No," she said sadly. "Not Ben's. I am not willing to drag the children through the mud with me." "I did mean what I said, No one need know the true terms of your residence in my home. For all intents and purposes, you are my housekeeper. I have no wish to destroy your reputation." She laughed dismally. "That was accomplished long ago. Whore, thief, now rich gentleman's kept fancy

woman--I would say if anything, my reputation is improving. Now go and see about your leaky barrels." When still he hesitated, she waved him off. "Go." Josh shook his head. "If I have your oath that you will retire to bed and remain there. You are dead on your feet." "The Religious Society of Friends forbids the giving of oaths..." The sea captain smiled. "'Because giving an oath is prejudicial to the cause of truth, and to that confidence between man and man, the maintenance of which is indispensable to our mutual well being,'" he quoted. "But as you no longer practice your faith, that tenet doesn't apply." "I still find it difficult after all these years to..." Henry shook her head. "So silly! You have my oath. Now off with you!" Once her pledge was given, like a small and uncertain lad, Josh climbed back into the carriage--curious he had even bothered to extract her word or give it any weight, considering his poor opinion of her. The gilded clock on the front parlor's marble mantelpiece was striking midnight as she let herself back into the empty house. Frowning, she pondered the meaning of this new humility in Joshua Kane, a man who, in the past, had never lacked confidence. Why was he unsure of himself now? And why should she be touched that, worried over her fatigue, he had ordered her to bed, even suggesting Peggy stay with her? She thought for a minute about that, scouting out more devious motivations for his source of worry, other than concern for her well-being. And promptly found them. He most likely reasoned that, secured in bed, she would not wander the house, touching his precious hoard of treasures. Captain Kane probably thought that, left to her own devices, his new whore-thief would abscond with the silverware. Thus Peggy was assigned to guard not her, but what Joshua treasured most. Things, not people, is what he treasured. The truth was, she really would have liked to wander the mansion, exploring those exotic foreign treasures showcased in the lavishly appointed downstairs rooms. But not having been given leave to do so, Harry stomped up the staircase to the third floor--the servants' quarters. As no staff was in residence, she had her pick of the attic rooms, which fortunately for her, were all furnished with single beds and washstands. Nothing grand, but clean. She had slept in far worse places. In her term as scullery maid, she had shared a narrow cot with three other servants in a tiny loft above the attic, where the ceiling was so low under the roof eaves, she couldn't stand up straight. And hot! My, in the summer she thought for sure she would suffocate in the heat. And in the winter, the top skim of water in the washbasin froze, and had to be broken in the morning to perform her ablutions. Seeing that Captain Kane intended to treat his future servants with consideration should have cheered her immeasurably. Alas, it did not. The change in him from idealist to cynic was just too depressing to make her feel cheery. Her parents would have been so disappointed! Her father, in particular, had treated Josh more like a son

than his real son--a source of jealousy for Ben. Perhaps that was why her brother drank... But she was too tired to think about any of that now. Her bone-crushing weariness had finally caught up with her, and yawning hugely, Harry undid her cloak, pulled back the linen, and crawled naked into bed under the covers. Stroking the love bite on her swollen nipple, she fell asleep.

****

"Goddammit!" Joshua Kane raged. "All these barrels are of inferior quality. Not one will hold whale oil." He clapped The Suzanne's first mate on the shoulder. "You are a right good man, Kouadjo, with a right sharp eye. Must be from all your wildebeest scouting on the Serengeti Plain. And it's a good thing too that it rained today, eh? Otherwise, we would not have caught the problem until the ship was out on high seas and the barrels started leaking our profit all over the deck. Make no mistake, your diligence will be rewarded. On this expedition, there will be a nice increase in your take of the profits." The small man glanced worriedly at the ship's owner. "What will you do, Cap'n?" "There's naught much to do but delay sail. Johnson, the barrel-maker, will hear from me first thing on the morrow. For now, go home, mate. Get some sleep. We meet back here at first light." Kouadjo scratched his bald pate. "If you say so, Cap'n." Whenever the African's skull got itchy, Joshua took notice. The man possessed any uncanny sixth sense. "What has got you worried?" "The white lady read much in my name. Can she be trusted?" "She's a thief and a whore, but her father was a Quaker of high integrity. I wouldn't trusted her around a set of silverware or around a gaggle of stiff cocks, but she's no sympathizer." "And you return to her now?" Joshua understood his first mate's confusion. Ordinarily, he would not have waited 'till morn to resolve the problem. He would have gone to Johnson's house, dragged the cheat up out of bed by the scruff of his neck, and taken his ire out on the barrel-maker's backside. But a cheeky redhead lady slept in his new bed in his new mansion in the newly fashionable part of town, and the importance of leaky barrels dimmed in comparison to getting back to her. Profits be damned! He couldn't wait to have that hot, curvy body naked and squirming on the tick next to him. "Aye," Josh told his mate, and leapt back into the carriage without a backward look. Kouadjo could go scratch; he had years of wholesome living to rid himself of. The return ride seemed to take forever. As soon as the wheels came to a stop, Josh opened the carriage door, jumped down, and raced for the house, taking the stairs to his second floor bedchamber two at a time. And for his effort, what did he get? A lusty wench in his bed, boneless and warm with sleep, willing to do anything to take the cares of the world off his shoulders, if only for a few brief hours?

Like hell. What he got was the same empty bed he always returned to, only this time, the vacant bed was a source of additional worry. She had given him her oath! Where the hell had she gone? After lighting a lamp, he went looking. He should have expected as much. The scamp had never caused him anything less than grief. Why had he taken the lapsed Quaker at her oath? As befitted a man of his significant wealth and prominent social position, the mansion reflected every convenience and luxury. Architect-designed, labored over by a small army of skilled artisans, the house was built on a grand scale. In short, to proclaim his success, to impress upon the good people of New Bedford he had come a long way from his humble origins as the fatherless, slightly-too-dark son of a whore, he wanted an imposing house built. Apart from his somewhat austere accommodations, all the rooms were fit for royalty, or so his interior designer had repeatedly assured him. And well they should be, considering the prohibitive cost of the sumptuous velvets and satins and brocades and lace that adorned the walls and windows and beds and furniture, all imported from Europe and Asia. High crown-molded ceilings, gleaming floors, tall windows--some with decorative stained glass--all shouted opulence and good taste. Now that he was searching out Harry, he wished there were not quite so many damn grandiose rooms to check. She hadn't fallen asleep in any of the numerous and thickly cushioned chairs downstairs, perhaps while gazing in admiration upon any of the three carved marble fireplaces, the stone and artisan both imported from Italy. Neither did she slumber in any of the six upstairs bedchambers on the second floor. Harry hadn't appreciated any of the first or second floor rooms enough to stay put in any one of them. This left the third floor. Mumbling a foul spate of salty curse words under his breath, guaranteed to make even the most drunken of sailors blush, he ran the steps.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Harry, asleep on the upper level of the mansion in a closet of a bedchamber, looking for all the world like a disheveled street urchin, didn't stir a muscle, as frowning, he approached the narrow cot. He had wanted her in his fine bed, dammit! She'd had her pick of any of the other beds too, but which one did she claim? The plainest, thinnest tick in the mansion, a cot he wouldn't let a dog sleep on, a room he had decided he would use for storage; which explained the lumpy mattress and cast off furnishings. So much for impressing her with his fine taste, he thought, setting the oil lamp he carried on the modest bed stand. Leaning over Harry as she slumbered on, he drew a careful finger down the smooth slenderness of an arm thrown out above the cover, his fingers lightly tickling the creamy-white skin from bare shoulder to

bare elbow, and back again. She didn't so much as twitch. All tuckered out, he decided, straightening to undress. Naked, he furrowed into the lumpy tick beside her, the space no wider than a ship's berth, Ah, yes. He had come a long way only to wind up in a second-hand bed in the attic. The irony of the present situation did not escape Josh as his bare arse stuck out over the edge of the narrow bed frame. This wasn't much of an improvement over the circumstances of that first time they had lain naked together. At least Harry wasn't stinking drunk now. "Shove over, sweetheart," he murmured. Sleeping as deeply as she was, come morn she would not recollect he had ever spoken the endearment. But he needed to say it. This might very well be his only opportunity for honesty. And so he needed to hear the word, for it had always been the truth: Harry had always been, and continued to be, his sweetheart, though it was too late now to acknowledge that pathetic state of affairs. Harry was a whore, just like his mother had been a whore. There was no room in his future for a woman of easy virtue, for a woman who could be purchased as easily as he had purchased Harry. There was his reputation to consider. For seven years, his conduct had been impeccable. He had taken no mistress, had made no whorehouse visits, living only to grow his wealth and improve his social status. He shouldn't take a whore to his bed now either, not when he had worked hard at distancing himself from his checkered origins. But he was a man, and men have needs. Because he was also wealthy, society would forgive a small dalliance and look the other way--so long as he didn't rub anyone's face in his male weakness. Discretion was the order. Passing Harry off as his housekeeper would work out very well. So why foul everything up by bringing her downstairs to his master bedchamber, to the room meant for a wife, the mother of his children, for the sake of a brief interlude? Because he deserved a bit of decadence in his austere existence. Because he had decided not to wed, so what harm would having her there do? Despite the expectations of all those marriage-minded society mamas scouting the market for an eligible gentleman, despite their apparent willingness to overlook his dark skin tones for the sake of his fat purse, no lady-wife would ever share those fine bedcovers with him. He was a gentleman of indeterminate background, and he would not pass on a problematic legacy to any progeny of his. A man should know where he originates! All he had was a trove of questions, the answers valuable only to him, and perhaps to those who would deem his bloodline unacceptable, should it flow from a continent too dark for their tastes. Close to his mouth was an earlobe, a pale shell perfect in every way. Josh nuzzled the classic confection while filling his nostrils with her hair's perfume, and craving a scent of a different variety, the musky sweetness found between a woman's legs. Should he awaken her with a kiss there? He worked his way down. Keeping to her side so as not to crush her with his much greater weight, he pressed his mouth to her throat. "Josh," she murmured in her sleep.

The familiarity pained him, reminding him as it did of a carefree time, a time when he still hoped they might make a life together, a time before he'd had to make the fateful decision that had ultimately destroyed that hope. All for the best, he reasoned, in light of how she had turned out. A whore. His innocent Harry had become a whore. Jesus, but didn't it rip his gut apart, what she had done? She had been the only pure thing in his life, and now she was as corrupt as a woman who came with a bill of sale could get. The price tag didn't stop him from wanting her. After surrounding himself with the best of everything--house, furnishings, carriages--here he was in bed with a woman who had come cheap. Beneath his mouth, a nipple softened with sleep turned hard. He placed a gentle kiss on the tip, though there was no need for gentleness; as a whore, Harry would be well used to rough manhandling. His eyes burned ... she would never be his bride ... never be his bride ... never be his bride now. But he would fuck her. Hell yes, he would. Because he had paid for it, and as a matter of principle, he always insisted on getting his money's worth from his purchases. The intermingling of their body fluids would mean nothing, though she was sure to moan in delight during the exchange; whores always put on a good show in bed. Raised in a whorehouse, he knew all about those over-acted performances. He'd often overheard the prostitutes in his mother's establishment twitter amongst themselves over loud orgasmic scenes enacted the night before. He blocked out the pain of that memory with activity; dropping his mouth, he suckled Harry's teat. "Josh," she cried out heatedly. "Josh!" Hmm--the naked tart was not so soundly asleep after all. That ache in her voice was priceless ... and signified naught. True, the nipple under his lathing tongue was erect, the tip elongated to fit the pull of his teeth, but that was but a physical reaction, having little if anything to do with him She opened her eyes wide, a breathy "Oh!" left her lips. A whorish trick of the trade! Disgusted at her deceit, he popped her teat out of his mouth, twisted his body round in the opposite direction to get at her luscious, woman-scented genitalia. He did tell her he would kiss those pretty swollen lips to make the hurt all better, and he always kept his word. The first kiss was chaste, just a little tickle and a peck--no poke. Then his tongue came out to play. He delved her deep between the folds, licking her nectar, loving the taste of her in his mouth, loving the vixen sounds she made deep in her throat, though they were as artificial as her former heated cries. Soon, side-by-side wasn't good enough, not close enough. He picked her up--she was full on top but trim below, and weighed no more than a feather--and put her back down so that her sweet swollen lips were directly above his mouth. His tongue darted into the notch. She squealed. His tongue strained deeper, thrust harder, rammed as far as he could go, swallowing her essence, tasting

her moisture before it dribbled down his throat. He moaned into the hollow of her when, in an accidental move, her lips chanced to glaze the head of his cock. Then she did it again, this time her tongue actually flicking his engorged flesh, and he realized his naiveté; this was no happenstance encounter, this was deliberate provocation. Shocking! He didn't expect the intimacy, didn't even really wish for it, but in order to tell her to stop, to behave herself, to just lie there and passively take what he did to her like a good little whore, he would need to cease doing what he was doing, and if he did that, those vixen sounds she was making deep in her throat would cease. Although the sounds were creative license, a figment of his own need for them to be real, it was intolerable to cause those throaty murmurings to end. He continued, though not nearly as smoothly or expertly as before. His even tongue strokes--experience-honed to give a woman the utmost enjoyment--changed to short spastic jabs as her mouth teased him. Closed mouth. Open mouth. Mimicking his moves, returning the favor, doing as he was doing to her. Then he was in, all the way in, deep inside Harry's mouth. His tongue beat inside her cunt as his cock beat inside her mouth; she was as inundated by him as he was enclosed by her. And he asked himself, who has more power--she who sheathes or he who penetrates? As soon as his cock moved within her mouth, he had his answer. Powerless not to, he made a push. Not a cocky thrust, nor even an eminently satisfactory glide. No, his move was not nearly that graceful; it contained little in the way of savoir-faire. He made one jerky, uncoordinated jab to the roof of her mouth and that was all he could manage; like a green lad, he knew he was about to come. Not until she did, he vowed. He was not a gentleman born, but he always pleased his bedmate. First. His body, undisciplined as never before, strove to force an honest climax from her. Sweating in his determination, on the brink of exploding and desperately trying to hold back, he knew the meaning of agony then. He could tell when it started to happen for her, for her mouth, her glorious, pouty, sassy mouth, tightened 'round him as she crested, then came. As the beast of pleasure clawed at him, he succumbed too, his seed a hot shot of surrender to her throat. His tension dissipating, his muscles unknotting, Josh allowed his head to fall backwards onto the bed, while simultaneously, she released him to collapse prone onto his chest, her cum-filled mouth neighboring his testicles. "Swallow," he rasped. He felt a real satisfaction when she did. Many a night, he had awakened in a sweat, his bed linen wet and slick after having dreamt of her orally stimulating him, orally pleasuring him, just as she had just done. Christ, Jesus! She had taken the whole of him, just like the best of whores. But never, not even with the best of whores, had it been like this; never had he been pleasured, as Harry had just pleasured him. "Kneel up," he barked, disgruntled.

Immediately, she obeyed. Knowing the way of it, her thighs stretched open over his hips, up on her knees... Turned away. No man fucked a whore face-to-face; face-to-face was reserved for wives and wedded bliss. She understood this requirement without having to be told. His arm lifted from the mattress, his palm taking ruthless possession of her bottom cheek, cupping the whiteness of her rounded flesh, a thumb traversing the crevice, his cock tightening in anticipation. "I will need to withdraw." His member was now fully erect, the distension eagerly prodding the air. "My box of rubbers are next floor down." "Rubbers, sir?" she questioned. Goodyear and Hancock had begun mass-producing prophylactics. All seamen kept a supply on hand for those comfort trips ashore. As a whore, she had to have familiarity with the barrier method of avoiding disease and conception! "Rubber condoms," he stressed, suddenly weary of her games. "I am clean, but I could seed you." He swallowed hard. "Unless, would you prefer to receive me here?" His wandering thumb split her bottom cheeks and pressed against that small seductive hole in back. "The choice is entirely yours, sir," she replied, holding herself steady for his digital manipulation. Naturally. He was paying after all, and she had already agreed to give him anal. Discounting that one dismal failed attempt before, this would be their first intercourse. They were hardly bride and groom, but the romantic in him called for a vaginal penetration. He parted her hair into two equal portions and swept the mass of red ringlets over her shoulders, so nothing would obscure her long white back with that straight, proud spine. What right did a whore have to carry herself with such a prideful straight spine? "Go to all fours," he said, tersely. This is not how he had planned it, this was not the rose-colored fantasy he had once envisioned for them, but possibly this, the hard reality of fucking her on a narrow bed in a servant's chamber, was the very thing he needed to drive away those fantasy visions. Lord knew, he needed something to force them out of his head. Doing as she was told, Harry arranged herself doggie fashion, up on her arms, legs spread wide to receive him, making both inlets, vaginal and anal, easily available to him. He situated himself behind her, up on his knees. Reaching a hand around her, he cupped the fall of her full breast, hanging drooped to the bed linen because of the positioning. He liked her teats toppled, he liked the bestial quality of it; she was not so dignified now, was she? No! She looked like a dock whore with her teats out and hanging. Josh didn't allow the weight of the breast to fill his palm, but rather he let the hardened nipple skim his fingertips; the hardened nipples swaying back and forth like a pendulum.

"Roll your shoulders," he ordered, because he could; he could make her do any ungraceful move he desired. She complied, and her large breasts swung back and forth. Freely. Inelegantly. His cock lurched. He could take no more. He mounted her full on, covering her stud to mare, and like that same stud, his mouth opened over her nape. Then squeezing her breast as though it were a tropical fruit, a melon, warm and ripe from the vine, he went in. Not driving in. Not in like a madman forever in search of a sanity far removed from his grasp. And not like a whaler either, gone to sea for much too long. He went in like a gentleman. A polite penetration showing her restraint and consideration, for all that she was a whore. And still she cried out. "I'm sorry, sir. I sorry," she said, her voice tight with pain. "It won't happen again, I promise. It's just that you're so large..." Another whore's trick, to tell a man his cock was as big as a stallion, and he would go off quick from the swell of his head alone. Damned disingenuousness. Dammed calculation. He slid forward for a stroke. He didn't go hard nor did he go deep, and fortunately the back-to-front positioning of the congress hid his surprise: Harry was the tightest non-virgin he had ever encountered. She might very well have been a bride on her wedding night, for all the give her narrow channel afforded him. She bucked. "Hold steady," he cautioned. "I intend to go easy." Still, her body revolted against the intercourse, a joining that, though mercenary, could hardy be called callous. His strokes were deliberate, careful. Conscious of her narrow make, she had no cause for complaint! Yet, her body remained tensed. "Would you care to end it now?" he asked politely, his cock not buried near enough to derive optimum sensation from the encounter. She would not make him feel like a rapist for a second time! Once had been bad enough. His hand loosened from her breast and came away. So too did his grip on her hip slacken. He would not hold her in place. Let her go, and good riddance to her! "The money we agreed upon will still be yours, regardless of tonight's outcome. You may take the Ming vase and leave." Her answer was filtered between clenched teeth. "I have always earned my money." Work, that's all he was to her. "Then so you shall now as well," he replied. He resumed the fuck, fully aware of her pride; fully aware too that to Harry, he would always be the dark-skinned bastard son of a whore, a cock she would tolerate inside her body only because she needed the money. He didn't push, he didn't drive, he didn't go hard or fast or deep. Keeping to a measured tempo, he

stroked to a swift if uninspired resolution onto the bedding. At least, she didn't scream "yes, yes, yes" or some such nonsense. At least she spared him that empty fraud. He hadn't pleasured her and he damn well knew it. And why should he care? What matter to him if Harry remained unfulfilled? Because her lack of orgasm reflected poorly on him as a lover ... and as a gentleman. Only an inconsiderate clod got his without regard for the woman underneath him. That explanation was the only reason. She had her pride, and he had his pride too; he had vowed to make her climax as she had not climaxed before. And though he had pleasured her with his mouth, with his hands, she had only put up with having him inside her. He supposed even that was an improvement over their encounter of seven years before. At least there had been some resolution this time, as lacking in potency as his weak expulsion of semen onto the linens had been, at least the intercourse had been fully completed this time. Their new relationship was officially consummated. As transactions went, a handshake would have been more intimate. Josh couldn't help but think that the letdown, the dejection he was currently experiencing, was what a man must feel upon the first sexual intercourse after a wedding ceremony. Though on the one hand, the groom is disappointed, even crestfallen with the experience, he is at least relieved that the first awkward step is over and done. On the other hand, once accomplished, the marital novice is hopeful the next time will be an improvement, until mutual bliss is eventually achieved over the course of a long and happy lifetime. The similarities between himself and a newly wedded groom began and ended with that initial vague sense of disappointment. There was no lifetime here to look forward to--at Harry's going rates, Josh's wealth would be depleted forthwith, if he paid for an extended liaison with her. Also, though fundamentally simplistic, it was still worth impressing upon himself that Harry was not his bride, she was hardly a virgin, and mutuality had never been part of their agreement. He had paid to use her body, and use was what he had gotten from her. All that he had gotten from her. His own hand would have achieved the same end result. With as much decorum as he could muster, Josh hastened his withdrawal from the bed, grabbed his clothing from the floor and left the room.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Harry had always been an early riser. Since childhood, she would be up and about, walking to the pier at dawn alongside the dockhands. Today was no different, yet very different. Today she wasn't bursting with energy, ready to defeat whatever obstacles stood in the way of what she needed to accomplish. Today, she lumbered heavily from bed, taking no notice the door was open to the hall. There are no locks on servant's bedchambers, and prostitutes are impervious to open doors. As she was both, the lack of privacy left her unaffected.

Squinting against the beginnings of light streaming into the narrow casement window beside the bed, Harry despondently regarded the dead weight that was her body. She understood for the first time what it was to be whore, to feel used, soiled then abandoned, to sleep alone in a lust-scented bed. Thus far, she had climaxed twice, once through digital and once through oral stimulation--the first time ever she had known such blessed release, the first time ever she had known such utter despondency. Was a fleeting elation worth this utter dejection? Last night she had felt nothing. Not anger, not resentment, not even hurt at Joshua's usage. It was as though she were dead inside, or at the very least, gone away somewhere else. Indifference was new to her, but as she had sold herself as an object, it did make sense she should suddenly be incapable of emotion: things are utilized or admired; things lack the capacity to cry or laugh ... or climax. The pitcher of water was still on the bed stand, left there from the night before. Harry walked to it, poured a conservative amount into the shallow basin. Cupping her hand, she swished out her mouth, and then spat into the commode installed inside the washstand's lower compartment. Next, she splashed water onto her face. She didn't bother to dry off afterwards, but let the moisture drip down her chin, her throat, to fall onto the upright tilts of her nipples. Her nipples were sore, she noted distractedly. From dragging back and forth across the coarse bedding, she supposed. Caring very little about the abraded skin, she opened her legs and washed her tender vulva. There was no semen to cleanse. Her owner had withdrawn in time, spending his seed on the bedding. He had come once in her mouth, and that ejaculate she had swallowed. His cold treatment of her, the way he had cut himself off from her, his objectification of her ... the absolute authority by which he controlled his climax ... had been a blessing, a reprieve from sensation she didn't choose to feel. His remoteness had resulted in the numbing of her feelings. Just as well, she decided, she felt dead inside. What need did a whore have for sentimentality? She was a whore. The knowledge finally sank in. Whether she did her whoring at Ruby's place, in Boston, or here in this room, she was now a whore, paid to service a gentleman. Rinsing the cloth, she washed between her buttocks. All for the best, the back-to-front doggie approach: the positioning kept her ever mindful of her new occupation in life. She must come to terms with the fact she was now a prostitute! It was done, best to accept it, and move on. She had taken money for the use and abuse of her body. No going back. Turning, she took up a small bottle from the bed stand and opened the top. With a tilt, she placed a few droplets onto her finger, coating her labia with the lotion. The fall of a footstep behind her. "Sore?" she was asked.

Evidently her owner could see over her shoulder. Her belly did a flip-flop. Was that genuine concern in his voice? She killed the hope, squashed it dead. This arrangement must be kept on a footing she could deal with; she could not deal with concern. To that end, she replied breezily, "Sore? Hardly. I barely knew you were there." "Oh, really?" "Yes," she said, trying not to wince. Her vagina stung. The lotion was making her morning-after swelling worse. "Yes, really." "I am happy to have caused you no undue inconvenience." "No inconvenience at all. So little did you distract me, that while you went in and out, I created a new recipe in my head involving your delicious honey." "Glad to have been of some assistance, and I hope the unguent helps the soreness. You were disturbingly tight, madam." That was a rebuke if ever she'd heard one. "Unguent?" she scoffed. "You are mistaken. No unguent this, sir. Merely a perfumed oil. Gentlemen do so enjoy a scented cunt," she said, intentionally using the crudity. "I do not." She looked around and up at him. "No? Then, I will certainly not use it until I am once again in the presence of a gentleman." A pause, then, "I will leave shortly for the docks." She turned completely about. "When shall I expect your return?"--a cloaked way of asking when she should expect to earn her money again. "I will be busy all day today, and most likely into tomorrow. The barrel problem." "Most ship owners do not handle small nuisances like leaky barrels themselves," she offered. "I do. The Suzanne is due to leave port high tide on Wednesday, and she must be made ready. After that, I must attend to business in Boston. I should be gone four weeks." His eyes fixed on her nipples. "Possibly less." His expression went taut as his gaze dropped to her thighs. "Three weeks if I push." "Much can be said for pushing." She opened her legs. His mouth twisted. "Yes ... well ... ahem ... I can conduct some of the business here just as easily as there, and I think all things considered, I shall. Would you kindly instruct Peggy to have enough food on hand to entertain a few guests--my business associates and their wives, here at the house--in three weeks' time?"

"Certainly," Harry replied, knowing she would do no such thing. She would handle the entertainment of his guests herself: Peggy would be far too overwhelmed to put together the kind of elaborate entertaining a wealthy and prosperous ship owner like Captain Kane would be expected to provide. She would plan her menus while he was gone. It would take her mind off missing him. She mustn't ever miss Joshua again. "During my absence, you should expect visits from the dressmaker. I will want you outfitted quickly." "Very well." She replied, her hand pushing down her belly to her opening. "Would you care for a quick one, Captain Kane, before you start your busy day?" "No thank you. That is not why I am here." She laughed. "Oh, surely it must be! Now, how would you like it? Shall I drop to my knees at your feet? You seemed to have liked my mouth on you well enough last night." "I said--no thank you." That is what he said, but he spoke the words not into her eyes but at a point much lower, the direction of his gaze more than a little telling. Because of Joshua's protection and influence, she had remained innocent of the grim realities of living in a rough whaling seaport; anyone who had interfered with her would have had to answer to the man for whom she now served as whore. Behind his back, Josh was called names, disgusting and loathsome epithets, but no one called him coward, and no one disrespected his mother. Harry sensed he had hated his mother's profession, but he never spoke ill of the woman who gave him life, nor did he allow any one else to. There were rumors, unconfirmed rumors, that he had once very nearly killed a man who had insulted his mother. He might have hated what his mother did, but he had loved her. While she was at Ruby's, Harry had learned that Joshua was one of the regulars. Naïve at eighteen, this information didn't sit well with her. The idea that her hero had paid to have women see to his baser urges ... or that he was even in possession of base urges at all ... had made her rethink her view of him. Things get around in whorehouses, and every whore to the last at Ruby's had good things to say about Joshua and his lovemaking. He was never rough, paid well for what he wanted, and had a lusty appetite, needing it more frequently than any man any of the whores had ever known. This morning, his features appeared strained, and she took his tenseness as her personal failing. She always put in a good day's work for a fair day's wage, always gave as good as she got. Always! And as he was giving her a fortune for the use her body, she was not about to shirk her end of the arrangement. She turned and walked away, back towards the bed. "Oh, sir, you have such a lovely thick cock," she purred and bent over the bed, her feet on the ground, her upper body lifted up from the soiled bedding on her arms, which allowed him the freedom to play with breasts should he choose. It was a whore's positioning. "Your cock is so big and hard. Do me hard, sir. Deep and hard. I want your big, hard, thick luscious cock inside my cunt." A sound came from behind her, a vocalization she could not identify. But whatever it was, her owner did take her at her word that she wanted it deep and hard, his hand wound itself tight into her hair, his mouth bit the side of her neck, and his cock, which felt indeed big and hard inside his trousers, pressed against her.

"I have a yen for something different this morning," he said, his finger prodding at her back opening, deep and hard. She forced her body to relax as the digit entered, joined soon after by another. The enormous pressure, so charged with the forbidden, sent an exultant shiver from her anus to her vagina. "Harder," she grated out. The two fingers began to drive up into her, working her hard and deep, and she moaned in excitement. "Harder!" she ordered. "Christ," he rasped, and did her harder still, one hand at her front now too, a finger entering her vagina, searching and finding her clitoris. It hurt, this new invasion, and she liked the hurt, gloried in it; there was something very appealing about the pain. "Mmm, oh yes, mmm." Her body started to shake and shudder. She couldn't help it. Pleasure or pain, she could no longer tell. Giving over to it, she came on a high-pitched scream, like the most common of dock slatterns. Finally, she was measuring up to Joshua's low opinion of her.

CHAPTER TWENTY

"If I can get a good price, I would like to add another one or two whalers to my fleet this year. Do any of you gentlemen know of a owner fallen on hard times, who might be willing to give me a good price?" Cornelius Tucker, the whaling merchant, responded. "There's the widow Monroe, out of Marblehead. It's my understanding that since the death of her husband, she's run the business to ground. You could wed your way into that deal. She's of childbearing age. The fertile side of thirty, and a looker too. One child from the marriage. Understandable, as the husband was twenty years her elder, and they were only wed two years before his death. It's said she's sweet-tempered. With looks and docility, she won't stay long on the block. If you're interested in staking a claim, best get your bid in quick before you lose an opportunity of a lifetime. " Josh gave a nod, already making plans to meet the Widow Monroe. Not that he would ever consider marrying his way into a business venture, but he would be a fool not to consider all other available avenues to obtain those whalers. But when Mrs. Smith came towards him wearing one of the new gowns he had instructed the dressmaker to sew during his three-week absence from New Bedford, a silk mauve designed to emphasize the fullness of her bust and narrowness of her waist, all plans to meet the widow were forgotten. His little whore looked delightful, swaying along the garden path but a few yards away from where he stood with his group of business associates. Josh patted himself on the back for ordering the gowns made sans bustle. He cared not a whit that current fashion decreed the enhancement of the derriere, he wanted to see the natural line of Harry's backside, which was seductive all on it own without the absurdity of added padding. Her derriere certainly seduced him, as did the rest of her.

Her pleasure had become his obsession. Sex. He had never hungered for it as much as he hungered for it now with her. If she would only climax with him, delve all the facets of sensuality alongside him, his companion in carnality--wouldn't that be the stuff of rapture? Memories like that would sustain him when Harry moved from him to the next man, the one with the fattest purse. Three weeks ago, he'd had to tear himself away from Harry in that sparsely furnished bedchamber, and he hadn't seen her since, not until this very moment. She was almost, not quite, abreast of him and his business associates now. His heart actually hammered in anticipation. He was unable to concentrate, the conversation going on around him faded into the background, no more than an irritant, like a bee that cannot be gotten rid of. Harry was all-important. He had missed her, dammit! Knowing she slept in his home without him had been its own form of torture. The only thing that had kept him going was the knowledge she did sleep in his home, even if without him. Had she slept naked under the covers on that narrow servant's cot? She had come abreast of their little group now; any moment she would look up and smile at him... And there she went, eyes lowered, ignoring him in the same manner she ignored the gentlemen he was with, no difference. How dare she ignore him! He might have been a hunk of stone garden statuary, for all the attention she paid him. Her deference infuriated him. Had she smiled at his business associates, given them a flirtatious wink, he would not have been nearly as angry. He would simply have chalked up the behavior to her whoring background, and let it go at that. But no, she didn't do this. She didn't smile and wink and flirt; Harry had behaved like the best of well-trained servants. Harry was not his servant! She didn't hold any respectable position in his household. In fact, he had left strict instructions for Peggy to take charge of this evening's entertainment. Peggy had served the meal, but she could not have cooked those fancy French dishes; she could not have made things run smoothly. He owed his household's well-greased efficiency to Mrs. Smith. And that filled him with rage. Harry was his whore, and as such, the very least she could have done was spare him a smile and a wink on her way to wherever it was she was going. Where the hell was she going, anyway? He stalked her with his gaze, noting the liquid way she moved, knowing her body moved that way because it was not constricted. Mrs. Smith ... his fetching whore ... wore no whalebone under her new gown. Without a confining corset, her lush, firm breasts shifted ever so subtly with her steps. And her hips! Without a bustle, her bottom undulated as she went on her merry way. Where was her merry destination? His garden shed! She opened the door.

What did she want in there? Honey! It had to be the honey. Harry must need honey for the dessert she had made--not Peggy--to go with the après dinner coffee and tea. Spectacular meal enjoyed, the ladies had retired to the drawing room to gossip, while the gentlemen had adjourned to Josh's study for a glass of port and a discussion of business, then out to the gardens where they could smoke their cheroots without offending female sensibilities. Joshua stamped his cigar underfoot, turning his full attention briefly back onto his guests. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen? I must have a word with my housekeeper. I will rejoin you and the ladies inside in the dining room." He gestured to the side door. "If you would please enter the house though that entrance? For some reason the bees are active tonight, and should you pass near the apiary and garden shed, you might well get stung." With a formal dip at the waist, Josh left his associates to seek out Harry. He didn't close the door to the garden shed after him, partially to see her in the dark interior, partially for another motivation entirely. Too busy making her selection from the various crocks upon the shelf, Harry failed to acknowledge his arrival. He made a sound. She looked up. Eventually. "Oh, sir," she said evenly. "You startled me." She didn't look even mildly startled to him; his presence left her sublimely unaffected. "What? No welcome home kiss for the master of the house, Mrs. Smith? Considering the amount I am paying you, I would have expected you to fly into my arms, copious tears raining down your face." Crocodile tears, to be sure, but she could at least have put on an act. "Welcome home, sir," she said, like the most servile of servants. Not even a peck on the cheek did he get! "Are you so indifferent to my homecoming, madam, that you cannot at least favor me with a glance?" he said peevishly. "Not indifferent, sir, merely careful. An intimate regard is exceedingly improper in a servant. Had I addressed you before your guests, the salutation would have constituted grounds for immediate dismissal." "Since we are alone now," he began, his frustration growing by leaps and bounds, "I expect you to behave with somewhat less discretion." He went to her. Bending down, he took the hard and disapproving line of her lips with his. It was their first mouth-to-mouth kiss. His mouth had been all over other places, but not since that night

seven years ago, had he kissed her mouth. She trembled. Was she remembering too? She pulled away. "Sir, this is most unwise." "I am not paying you to lecture me on what is and what is not wise, Mrs. Smith," he said sternly. "This time, when I kiss you, I want your mouth open and reciprocating." He lowered his jaw once more. He tongued the seam of her lips--not locked this time, simply closed--and made his way inside. It was better than sweet, the way she kissed him back. He wanted more. Lifting her arms around his neck, he clutched her to him, her lush body melting into his hard body. Now, this was a homecoming! Fool! He thought, breaking it off forthwith. Hers was but a paid welcome. "Remove your gown," he ordered, irritated for forgetting that this was business, not affection. "M-my gown?" "That is what I said," he replied. "But I am nude under my gown, apart for the silk hose and garters." It was better than he thought. The imagery she provoked! Was there anything more stimulating than the thought of a peeled down female, naked save for garters and silky hose? "What color are the garters?" "Pink. Bright pink." Vulva pink, he had instructed the dressmaker. His cock jerked within his trousers. "Carry on, Mrs. Smith." "But your guests are right outside in the gardens." No, they were not. Josh could see the backs of black coats file to the side door, just as he had instructed--no one intentionally leaves themselves open to the possibility of a bee sting. They were alone outside; only Harry didn't know that. How far would she take this servile routine of hers? "Let us not pretend that you have never before been nude in the company of men, Mrs. Smith." He recalled her calling another group of associates into his study. She had been completely unconcerned when they had charged the room to look her over. Now that he was the one calling for the display, she didn't seem to like it nearly as much. Why was that? Could it be her dislike had something to do with him holding the upper hand? In his fury over her earlier indifference, Joshua relished that superiority. "You said you could please me," he reminded her. "Our contract is based on that premise. This pleases me." "But the gentlemen..."

"Ignore their presence, as you ignored me in the gardens." Her features tightened, her eyes darted to the open door, which afforded her no view of the gardens, not from the angle where she stood. In persuasion, he bent and kissed the hollow in her throat, and as her pulse hammered, felt her capitulate to her own wanton nature. "You know you want to do it. You enjoy men looking at you. Admit it! You like them to admire your body. Why pretend otherwise?" He took her lips again, and when they clung, he palmed her unfettered breasts over the silk of the gown, petting her half-hearted resistance away. By the time he was done, she was panting, as malleable to his wishes as her nipples were hardened to his touch. The usual row of buttons and hooks ran the length of the mauve silk, upwards from the dip at the spine to the nape of Mrs. Smith's lovely neck. Had he been her lover, not merely someone in a long line of male someones who had bought and paid for her services, he would have helped her with the nuisance of disrobing. But he was not her lover, and gentlemen do not help whores disrobe. But he would watch. Which he did, avidly, as she reached behind her to undo the row of buttons and hooks, the release of which she accomplished with a surprising self-sufficiency. When her busy fingers stilled, her arms fell back to her sides. "Must I, sir?" "Drop the gown forward," he said, pouncing at this, an opportunity of a lifetime: Never before had he been able to exercise authority over Harry. "Oh please, sir, might we not retire to a bedchamber?" "I intend to have you, Mrs. Smith. Right here, right now. No further delay. Do you begrudge me my sport?" "N-no." "Then why do you hesitate?" he asked, refusing to allow either her rosy blush or her bashful glance toward the door to move him. Her shy expression was all part of the performance. But this show was all his. She licked her lips. "Very well." Like a petal falling from a dusky rose, the silk bodice of her mauve gown drifted to her waist. Bare, her large breasts jutted full and high, the tips flagrantly upright and hard, so red, they competed with the color of her hair. The exhibitionistic nature of the adventure arousing her, Harry fairly vibrated with lust. Her lively, mischievous eyes bounced, her gaze met his, challenging him. No longer servile, she became his partner in this. Where did all that lust go when he was inside her? No doubt she enjoyed foreplay, the thrill of seduction, but she only suffered him when he was buried inside her.

Not this time! Josh reached for the crock behind her on the shelf, removed the cover, and dipped a finger in, applying the scooped honey first to one lengthened nipple, and then to the other, coating them diligently. Round and round, his finger went, until those turgid red nipples glistened, sticky and golden, shining in the narrow band of light from the open door. He lowered his mouth. Took a teat in, licking and sucking noisily, biting her, just a bit, giving his sweetheart only a little pain, no more than he could handle. Her head fell back, her throat arched, her mouth gaped, soft mewing sounds ushering forth. Christ, but Harry was beautiful when she was pained. Why had he never realized before she needed an edgier sort of courting? He eased his teeth up, popped the end of her breast out. "Lift your skirts," he ordered. She did without argument, but not without comment. "Does all of this arouse you, sir?" He had been looking downward, noting the flush on her belly, the droplet of fluid racing from the notch down the sleek thigh, generally enjoying the view, but at that his neck snapped up. "It's you who arouses me." "Oh, I think it is more." "How more? In what way more?" he blustered at this turnabout, at this her reclaiming of the advantage. "Considering you are a collector, I thought perhaps you received a vicarious enjoyment from showing off your latest acquisition to your esteemed colleagues." His brow rose. "Namely you?" he asked bluntly. "Namely me." In a voice that resonated with defensiveness, he said, "And what if I do enjoy a little exhibitionistic bragging? So what?" Though he never knowingly sought to make an object of her. He sought only to make her... What? Climax, dammit! With his cock inside her. No pretense. With honest passion. She was the one who had driven him to this game. Yet knowing the game wasn't real, danger-induced arousal still coursed through him. And she knew it. "Your fiery bush has made its return I see," he offered, those wanton red curls totally enslaving him, beguiling him, mesmerizing him. There was no need to tell her to spread herself for him; her thighs opened of their own accord. And once again, he dipped his finger into the crock of honey before dipping his finger into her honey pot. He sank to his knees, a supplicant at her feet, and nuzzled her red pubic hair with mouth and nose, before

beginning the pleasurable task of licking her out. His mouth at the notch, kissing it, worshipping it, he then dove his tongue in, drove it up into her, no restraint, no apology, no need to explain. "Yes, yes, yes," she cried, her fists pounding the walls behind her, heedless of the audience she thought they had. She grabbed his head, pulled his hair, yanked and tore at the strands, writhing and quaking, about to climax, the game exciting her as much as him. Triumph was at hand! He stood, unbuttoned his trousers, and sheathed his cock with a rubber taken from his coat pocket, hoping to catch her on the cusp of fulfillment before she tumbled without him. Like a good little whore, she turned about and faced the wall of the shed. He felt her sexual desire wane as soon as he breached the hot slit of her vagina. As he started madly pumping from behind, trying desperately to catch up with her before she went off, it was already too late. Harry had gone away; only the shell of her body remained. When he exploded into her after only a few deep thrusts, he came alone. "Right yourself," he said, incensed and bewildered. She had been so close to coming! Right up until entry, she had been with him all the way. Once breached, she had shut down, pulled back inside herself. But really, what had he expected? She was a whore after all, and that's what whores did--they removed themselves from the act. They had to, for survival. Having grown up in a bordello himself, he should have known how it went. But still, disappointment made him ask, "Do you ever come when a man is inside you?" She turned back to face him, blinked in rapid succession. "Pardon?" Games gone by the boards, he spelled it out. "Have-ever-gone-off-when-you-have-been-with-a-man?" She laughed. "Captain Kane--the only time I have ever been with 'a' man is when I have been with you." And then he knew, he knew why she hadn't achieved orgasm: One man at a time wasn't enough for her any more. Some whores were like that. After a while, having only one man at a time wasn't enough sensation. How many men would it take for Harry to come? Flinging the rubber's full reservoir into the metal can assigned for spent vegetation, he left her and went inside the house to rejoin his guests.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"She's a soiled dove, you know. A former barmaid. A tavern brawler. Not really his housekeeper, a'tall-a'tall," Mrs. David Chadsworth whispered behind a raised hand to the buxom Mrs. Frederick Winston. "And do be careful of your jewelry. She's not only a light-skirt, she's light-fingered, as well. Why Captain Kane would choose to sully himself on that thieving slut, when he could wed a decent young lady of impeccable background, is quite beyond me!"

Raised hand or not, whispering or not, Harry heard the dowager's nasty comments, every last hurtful one of them. Close enough to wipe smirks off faces, it was difficult not to be aware of what was being said about her, as she moved among Captain Kane's guests, serving tea and coffee, bringing around trays of desserts. While the gentlemen ogled her behind their wives' backs, their respectable ladies gossiped about her before her face. She was an object of sexual conjecture and ridicule, an open target for disgusting gossip. And the worst part was: she couldn't even say these guests besmirched her good name; she couldn't even defend herself to herself, never mind to others. She was a thief. A whore too. But let any of these fine grand dames, who wore their husband's names with such pride, walk in her worn-down shoes for a few days. See how well they maintained their seats on their high horses then! Her father had been an educated man, a Quaker with lofty principles. Before his passing, he had taught her some of those lofty principles too. Though she believed in much that he'd said, principles don't keep hunger pains at bay. She had done what she had to do to survive, keeping what she could of her integrity intact, while trying to keep her belly fed. Life was both hard and cruel for a female on the wharves, and she had learned young to fend for herself. Anyone who trod on her felt her boot in return. But she never raised her boot first. Never! And she had never stepped on someone weaker than herself, not through word or deed. Yes, when an employer didn't give her a fair shake, she evened things out by helping herself to the silverware drawer. Yes, when her own silly stupidity had caused her to lose the man she loved, she had done something about obtaining the kind of education she needed to win him back, and gotten branded a whore for her efforts. That was the chance she took, and she accepted the repercussions of her actions. But she wasn't a fool and she couldn't afford to take any more chances. She couldn't allow love for a man who didn't love her in return, to bring her to ruin a second time. She was a survivor, and would do what she needed to do to survive. Outside in the garden shed, she had almost come, had almost screamed in climax. Even knowing that Captain Kane's business associates would hear, she had almost wailed her release. Those gentlemen didn't matter. Though Joshua believed their presence had excited her, he had been mistaken. His associates had neither incited her pleasure nor hindered it. To her, they simply were not there. With a touch, everyone and everything else had faded away, like whaling boats on the distant horizon. Damn Joshua Kane! After telling him the truth, after revealing to him he was the only man she had ever been with, he hadn't believed her. Which was why she had turned from him like a whore. Mrs. Chadsworth turned to Mrs. Winston. "A pity Captain Kane's heritage is what it is. The mother, a whore; the father, anybody's guess. If not for the enormity of his purse, I would suggest we keep our daughters away from him. Who knows what manner of children such a match might produce?" "I was thinking that very same thing," Mrs. Winston said, from behind her hand. It was one thing to gossip about her, and another to gossip about Joshua. Despite her vexation with him, he didn't deserve the maliciousness of these full-of-themselves females. With a little wobble, her foot came down hard on Mrs. Winston's toe; Mrs. Chadsworth received a kick to the shins. "My goodness!" Harry exclaimed, still reeling. "I feel so dizzy." Her owner came rushing over. Taking her by the elbow, he steadied her, spoiling her plans. Too bad,

really! One more wobble and she would have dumped the tray she carried across their elaborate hats. "Mrs. Smith, are you all right?" The sea captain inquired of her, voice laced with misplaced concern. "I'm fine." She tried to shake him off, still hoping to let the tray go. Her must have read her intent, for detaching her fingers from the handles he placed the tray out of harm's way on a nearby table. That done, grabbing her arm, he pronounced officiously, "Madam, you will come with me posthaste." Not if she could help it! Coming with Joshua was the very thing she was desperately trying to avoid. Quite bad enough she'd climaxed without him; simultaneous orgasm would add insult to injury. "I have things to do in the kitchen." She tried to jerk her elbow away. "Now," he said, the single syllable flying in the face of her multi-syllable reluctance, his hold on her--unlike his faith in her--unshaken. A dropped curtsey outmaneuvered him. Freed from his grasp, her gaze on the thick carpet that according to Peggy had been brought all the way from the Orient, she said, "Yes, sir. At once, sir! Straight away, sir!" When he turned his back, she did one thing first... Well, two to be absolutely correct, and then dragging her feet, she followed her keeper out into the hallway. Out in the hallway, he turned to her. "What was that about, Harry?" A strict retelling of the events seemed a bit over-zealous. Best to simply relate the occurrence as it pertained to her. "I lost my balance," she prevaricated. "Did you lift anything from them?" "I have no idea what you might possibly mean!" "Did you steal anything from those two back-stabbing females?" The fingers of her right hand closed tight at her side. "Pardon?" Always best to feign a hearing loss when an accusation is being directed at one. "I am not a man easily duped. I imagine there are dogs everywhere that will bite the hand of the one who feeds them, just as there are guests who will snap at the host who serves then delicious honey-glazed tarts. Now, give them here." His palm was extended, palm up. She let the two hatpins go. "Careful not to stick yourself, sir. Take it from one who knows, two pricks at the same time can make a person scream." He raised a brow. "I thought as much. Harry, you will go upstairs now."

"But, sir, I am in the midst of attending to your guests!" "Peggy will take over now." Harry dropped her voice. "Peggy's abilities are much improved." "Owing to your unstinting tutoring while I was away, she informs me." "Oh, wasn't that sweet of Peggy to put in a good word for me! And she is coming along wonderfully, but she is not quite yet up to full-charge service." "She can stamp on feet as well, if not better, than you." "I explained, sir," she said, much affronted. "I grew dizzy and..." "You are dismissed from attendance here. You will go upstairs now and await my arrival in my bedchamber. There is a silk wrap on my bed. You are to don it after readying yourself for retiring." "But..." "You may make use of my water closet." Her mouth gaped. "Really?" she squealed in delight, before her eyes narrowed in suspicion. A rare treat for stamping on guests' feet? For stealing? For fibbing? Not likely! What was Joshua up to? He wasn't any too happy with her at the moment. The way he had stormed from the garden shed spoke of his displeasure. She had given him no cause for that displeasure, as far as she could tell. Nevertheless, he had been peeved with her before this current debacle. She let it go. Harry had never seen the inside of Captain Kane's private suite, and she dearly longed to. Peggy told her there was a separate room built into the mansion for bathing and necessary trips. Just like the grand Tremont Hotel in Boston, the indoor plumbing carrying both hot and cold water. The water closet boasted the luxury of a commode, eliminating trips to the outside privy or use of the chamber pot at night, and a tub, made not of copper or tin, but of porcelain. She could hardly wait to see it all! "I will go there immediately." With a turn of heel, Harry raced for the staircase. Regardless of Josh's motivation, regardless that she most probably would have to pay the piper later, she didn't intend to miss out on using that W.C.! The master's bedchamber was located in a separate wing of the mansion, ensuring complete privacy. Closing the door after her, she whipped off her apron and gown and a few essential undergarments. Nude, she headed for the rear of the chamber. The W.C. was everything Peggy had said it was, and more. After turning on the faucets, Harry watched in awe as the white claw-foot tub filled with water, the sound of the splashing reminding her she had to pee.

Her gaze darted to the oak-seated commode. Dare she? Why the hell not! Sitting her hinny on the throne, she made water, the stream gushing noisily into the bowl. With a pull on the chain from the overhead tank, water flushed clear through. It was such an enterprising invention she could hardly wait to pee again. But the tub was full, and in she went, sinking up to her chin in the hot water. After taking out the pins, she lathered her hair with scented soap, submerging to rinse. Once. Again. Until the long strands squeaked. Then, she did the rest of her, luxuriating in the regal accommodations until the water grew cold. Climbing out, she dried off and went in search of the wrap. The silk had been carefully laid out at the foot of the bed. She shimmied into its slinky folds, loving the cold feel of the fabric on her warm body. She was in the middle of combing out her hair when the door to the bedchamber opened, and in walked Captain Kane. He was not alone. Though this turn of events shook her to the very quick, Harry quickly applied a smile of welcome. "A visit from two handsome gentlemen--to what do I owe this honor?" "Sven Josephson is a good friend, and a fine tattoo artist," Joshua Kane explained. "As I recall, you once admired my skin decoration." Long ago, she had asked him for a tattoo like his. She couldn't believe he had remembered! As she had yet to see her owner naked, she hadn't had the opportunity to reacquaint herself with that exotic marking: That first night in the servant's cot had been dark; since then, he had remained fully clothed. "A dragon," she said softly, her memory of the beast returning. "On your chest. I remember your telling me he was there to guard your heart against breaking. Is he still there?" she asked wistfully. "Yes. He's a loyal fellow. And I still require his services." She knew about the need for such guardianship. A dragon would have come in handy seven years ago. It still could. Sven gazed upon her with a certain male gleam in his eye, and she sensed from that gleam that Joshua was up to something more illicit than tattooing. "Am I getting a dragon like yours?" she inquired. "No," he said shortly. "Too large. And green. I happen to like your ... uh ... chest just as is. I favor a knot." All of Captain Kane's possessions were marked with nautical knots, engraved for easily identifiable ownership. And so he would mark her the same. "Where will this tattoo be placed?"

Her visitors, both dressed in evening attire, stepped forward. Sven Josephson was as tall as Joshua, but of a much slighter build. His hair was as light as the sea captain's was dark, as fair of complexion as Joshua was otherwise, the degree of skin coloration startling when the men stood side by side as they did now, both of them gazing at her. "Undo your robe," her owner said. No sense playing coy. She not only undid the robe, she let it fall to the floor. At Josh's stare, her breasts rapidly hardened. No surprise there! No surprise either, when he touched a tip, and both nipples jutted into space. "Sven, what say you to placing the tattoo here, above the areola?" "Either that side," the tattoo artist replied, delicately circling her left nipple with a finger. "Or this. Your choice." No man, save Joshua, had ever touched her intimately, and now this stranger, this Sven, had his hand on her flesh, his artist's palm cupping her left breast. Sharing her body with two men at the same time was an experience she would never have sought on her own. She loved the sea captain! And she somehow needed to survive a second break with him. Sven's stroking hand was not abhorrent; his touch did not repulse her. In fact, there was almost a calming quality to his attentions. Hoping his presence might dilute Josh's dangerously strong pull on her, that he might act as a buffer, a barrier, against her all-consuming feelings for the sea captain, weaken them until the intensity dissipated, she accepted this for what it was and gave herself over to the two men. Shockingly, as two sets of hands roamed the geography of her body, her natural sensuality was released. As both men claimed a breast, their thumbs encircling the nipples, a warm rush of need and desire swelled within her. Guards lowering, restraints giving way to sensation, she responded carnally to their fondling, her body beginning to buzz like Joshua's honeybees. Joshua! She loved him so! How had they come to this? What twisted path had led them here? "The belly is also a possibility," the tattoo artist suggested, his palm moving downwards ever so slowly, torturously slowly, from her excited breasts to just above the jut of pubic bone. "Perhaps," Josh replied, his hand lowering too, now within a finger-length of her genitals. A fist clenched in her belly. A pulse throbbed in her vagina. She needed to be filled, and there was only one man she wanted inside her. Joshua. She had loved him since forever, through childhood and maidenhood, through seven long years of separation. She longed to join her body to his, only to his; obviously, he didn't feel the same. "Please," she whimpered, her limbs parting. She was so wet there between her thighs, every nerve ending alive and on fire. "Here too would be nice," Joshua offered, his warm hand at her pelvis, moving across her pubic triangle. "On the inside of the thigh, I should think."

Impossible to hold still! Her thighs spread wide as the gnawing in her loins grew insistent, the bite of the need sharp and painful. Only Joshua could ease her torment. "I want ... I want..." "Let's get you over to the bed, all right?" She shook her head. "I..." She gazed into his hazel-green inscrutable eyes. "Yes. Yes. All right. The bed." On the bed, a man flanked her on either side--odd that they remained dressed! On the bed, an artist raised her legs, bent them at the knee, while a sea captain combed his fingers through her loosened hair, still damp from her earlier bath, then leaning over her, kissed her mouth. She was lost. Her lips clung to his lips, willing to do anything to please him, the eroticism of his beautiful mouth moving over her mouth blocking out the intrusion of the other man, even when that other man spread her legs wide. "Ah," she heard a distant and unfamiliar voice say, felt an unaccustomed hand glide along her inner thigh, stopping just short of touching her intimately. "She's extraordinary. And you're right, my friend, the tattoo will look wonderful here, against the background of that red-haloed pussy." While Josh kissed her, open-mouth kissed her, the artist went to work. She moaned. From the needle punctures? Or from her heated response to Joshua's beautiful mouth? She couldn't say for sure, but she did know this: once Josh's nicked and callused seaman's finger entered her, she hardly felt the tattooing at all. "As long as your paramour doesn't move, masturbating her is fine," she heard the tattoo artist say, when Joshua added a second digit to the first. Not move? Was Sven jesting? She had two long lovely fingers inside her, gently rocking inside her--how could she remain unmoved? Still, wanting to make the sea captain proud of her, she resisted the urge to roll her hips, to meet the thrusts of those fingers. Finally, the long, slow, drugging kiss ended. And with the tendons in her thighs gone tight, and Josh's three fingers making her crazed, she asked the tattoo artist directly, her thighs wide open, her vagina as wet as wet can be, no shame, no modesty: "Now? Please may I move now? I will die if I do not." The artist looked up from his tattooing to her dripping cunny. He grinned across at Joshua. "You picked a fine, juicy one, mate. Is she always so?" "As wet as the ocean, and almost as many fathoms deep," the lout replied. The lout smiled at her. "Almost done," he told her. "Do not move yet." "B-b-but I'm going to come," she said breathlessly, her throat arching upwards off the pillow, her eyes wide with frenzy.

"Not yet," Josh commanded, his green-hazel eyes now solemnly meeting hers. With his free hand, he began to stroke her nipples too, the fingers of the other hand still moving busily inside her. "Not yet, girl. Soon." "Oh, please?" she begged, her hands going to the bed board, gripping the oak. She licked her lips. "Please, sir, please?" "The knot is finished," announced the tattoo artist in the nick of time. "Leave the bandage on for three hours, and then gently wash the wound. Take care when you fuck her." He winked at her tormentor. "You are planning on fucking her, right?" "Do mermaids sing to seamen at night?" "I have heard them once or twice..." Joshua opened her up a little wider, pulling back on her labia to rub her clitoris, and regardless of the other man on the bed looking on, her body jolted, straining upwards off the bed. Unconcerned about the audience, she began to keen, " Oh, yes. Right there. Mmm. Oh, yes..." "Need another set of hands there, Cap'n?" the tattoo artist asked. "No thank you, Sven," Joshua said politely. "That will be all. You may leave us now." "Yes, yes, yes," she screamed, unable to wait for the door to completely close before hurling into pleasure.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

His little whore was on the bed, flattened there, naked; her legs open and spread; clearly, she was available to all comers. "Damn you to hell, Harry, for what you have become," Joshua raged, as maddened as he had never been maddened before. To keep from throttling her, he backed up to the footboard. "You would have let Sven have you!" "Sven is gone. Do we fuck or not?" she asked, and tossed her head on the pillow. Staring at her lips, still red and swollen from the imprint of his mouth, an extended kiss she had lustily accepted in the presence of another man, he ripped off his coat and cravat and shirt. "We fuck," he growled. "Hard, Joshua Kane," she spat up at him. "Do me good and hard. Make it last." "You flame-haired bitch! You are naught but three cargo holes in need of lading." "That's right," she snarled, teeth bared. "Are you man enough to fill them?"

"You will soon see." To hell with the rest of his clothes! He tore open his breeches and freed his cock. His member bludgeoned the air. Her narrowed eyes went wide. "Beg me for it," he said, sliding back on his heels on the bed, a fist gripped on his blood-engorged sex, the head shiny with a slick of pre-cum. "I have never begged for anything in my life." "You will start now." It didn't take any too long for never to become right now. Her swollen lips twisted. "Please," she begged. "How do you want it first?" "I would like to taste it." "Then, best get over here." She made as though she was about to leave the bed, and walk around to the footboard. "No! Your feet may not touch the floor, girl." She went to a feral crouch on the bed, thighs parted, arms on either side of her limbs. She was so wet, she could easily have cried pussy tears. "But how can I taste you if I am here and you are way over there?" she asked. "I'm sure you can think of another method of reaching your destination." She dropped back down to all fours. "Like this?" "There's a good girl," he said, encouragingly. "Now, you may come here to me." One hand before the other, hips wriggling, large breasts toppled and swaying, bottom undulating, she crawled forward to him across the length of the bed. She came to a stop before him, still on hands and knees, eyes lifted to his face, wild red hair mussed, legs spread like a she-animal. She would have given what she had between those spread legs to Sven. Anger coiled in his gut like a snake waiting to strike. Digging his fingers into her disordered mane of hair, he dragged her head down and over him. "Lick it." Her pink tongue came out; she flicked a drop of pre-cum into her mouth. "Don't be greedy," he admonished. "Save some for later."

Disregarding his edict, she went at him with avarice, the gluttonous wetness of her tongue steaming the heat of him. "Ah, good," he crowed, one hand still fisted in her tangled hair, the other moved down her endlessly straight back. "That's right, girl. That's right. Not too fast, my little whore." She bit him! Intentionally. On the head of his cock. Outraged, he pulled on her hair. When her neck snapped up, he took her mouth, savagely took it, tasting the salt of himself on her tongue, sucking it off her tongue. When her mouth softened, he yanked the kiss to an abrupt end. "Say you're sorry, girl." "Why? You have put your teeth to me many a time..." "Apologize!" he roared. "Go fuck yourself." "Had I wished to do that, I would not have paid you!" With a lift and a heave, he turned her about until she was faced away. "Bring your bottom up." Finally, a command she didn't refuse. Performed with ridiculous speed, she not only brought her bottom up, she wiggled the two rounded halves of a very tempting whole in his face. His hurting cock made a piercing arc, the urge to charge her like a rutting stag almost irresistible. The imp grinned at him over her shoulder. "Do your worst." "Eyes forward," he grumbled, holding himself steady. "I don't suppose you own one of those lovely rattans?" she asked, looking right at him. "I would dearly enjoy the bite of the switch. Oh, for a few raised welts to show off to the whores at Ruby's." She turned away. "Your resolve to discipline me is still ... uh ... firm, I hope?" Impossible for it to get any firmer. Where once was a cock, there was now an iron club, an unyielding cudgel ready and able to pound rocks into dust, ready and able to give her the only kind of discipline a disobedient female like her could understand. "You are not prone to premature ejaculation, I hope?" she asked solicitously. That did it! Strike a man in his staying power, and you strike a man in his vitals. His arm came back, his palm ready to deliver a corporal discipline to her backside she was not likely soon to forget! His palm was within spanking range of her perfect buttock, when a strand of fire-red hair, fallen across the undefended globe, caught his eye. He brought the lock to his nose, the reason he wasn't already inside her forgotten in his inhale. Nothing else mattered but getting into her, but seeing her face as she came. And she damn well would

come this time, or he would die trying! He flipped her over onto her back and entered her hard, pushing and driving up inside her, the sound of his harsh breath echoing in the chamber, her gasping breath bouncing off his face and echoing too, their loins slamming together. Relentlessly. Furiously. Both of them making the sounds that wounded animals make, as they hurled toward completion. She screamed at the end, screamed and scratched at his humping back, tore her fingers through his hair. Her legs thrown up in the air over her head with his hammering, she came on a writhing roll of hip, the unexpected genuineness of the orgasm leaving him wet with sweat, and her bathed in a golden rich sheen of perspiration, both of them limp with release. He refused to stop. Hauling her legs higher, up over his shoulders, he entered her semen-wet vagina, pounding the mouth of her womb as she pounded her fists into him, the ball of hurt over what she had become exploding inside him. For seven long years he had lived as a dead man, but he was fully alive now. "Come for me!" he shouted. The second climax hit her harder than the first; she came apart on a shudder, hitting him with her fists with all her might, just as maddened as he. He held her fast, with all his might, two arms wrapped around her. Still she managed to squeeze loose, to whack him upside the skull. He captured her arms, held then over her head, pinned there with one large hand. "Do not strike me again." She spat up into his face. "Once more and I quit," he promised, flexing his pelvis, her spittle a tag on his chin. To prevent another volley, he opened his mouth over hers, sent his tongue to her throat, and kept pumping his hips. The last climax left her wrung out, poor little sweetheart, and undoubtedly sore. He pulled out carefully, lest he worsen the situation, and rolled to her side. "Rest now," he told her. With the fight gone out of her, she drifted quickly to sleep. Yanking off his remaining clothes, he fell asleep naked behind her, his arm holding her close.

****

It was just after midnight, and Joshua rubbed Harry's spine, stopping at the fullest part of her derriere. "I think I would like another tattoo here," he whispered into her ear.

"When will Sven do it?" she asked, chin propped in a hand. He dropped a kiss on the spot. "Not Sven. I will do it. I have before, many a time." "With other ladies?" She glanced away. "I mean, with other whores?" "No. On fellow whalers. I learned the decorative skill in Tahiti, where tattoos mark a special point in the wearer's life: when boys become men, upon marriage. Seamen oft times collect them. My dragon was drawn on me in China." Using his fingertip, he scored the flesh on the raised cheek, moving gradually down and over. "A red rose this time, right here, on the flank." "Aye, aye, Captain." "I will use a good sharp needle and red pigment for the punctures. Applied here, you should feel little pain. " "Are you implying I am plump?" "No, not at all. You're body is ... perfect," he mumbled, telling her the truth because it was the truth. Seven years before she had pleaded with him to make love to her, only to suffer her change of mind when she had cried off. He could not afford to fall vulnerable to her caprice again. He could not let her interfere in his life, interrupt his plans, sway him from the course his life had taken. They could have no future together! But she would wear his mark always; there was some satisfaction to be had from that. The knot was not just any knot, and it meant more than a simple decoration, though he would never tell her so. Too sentimental. Harry was his whore and their arrangement was based on financial considerations, not emotion. To turn this into anything more than what it was, would be a grave mistake. He could not give this thing between them any more importance than it already held in his life. He was not in a position to form an emotional attachment to her, not of any sort, and for more than one reason. Still prone on her belly, she turned her jaw to face him, her lively gamine face pensive for once. "I am glad you will be the one to do the rose." "Oh, you didn't care for Sven?" "I liked him well enough, I suppose." "He's a fine man. Completely trustworthy." "Do you plan on this completely trustworthy tattoo artist joining us in bed in the future?" "No!" "Why?" "Because I'm not a man who easily shares. Because ... excuse my bluntness here ... I want all your portals for myself!" He felt his face burn. "Simultaneously."

She smirked, the old Harry returning with a vengeance. "Three penetrations at the same time! My, what if such a thing were possible? Think of the problems that would present! I mean, how would the additional rigging ever be stowed?" She fluttered her lashes. "As is, one can only pity the tailor who must fit the cut of your breeches around that bulge at the inseam." Her gaze dropped. "The head alone ... it is extraordinarily wide, is it not?" "I have had no complaints, madam!" he declared stoutly, and rising just as stoutly to the occasion--he was always at the ready when Harry was close at hand. Wanting the conversation at an end, he said, "Up you go now," and helped her straighten. Harry's tangle of red hair fell into her eyes. Josh pushed a few strands back from her forehead, then his eyes dipping, watched in bemusement as his semen dribbled down her legs. His little whore was at her most beautiful when she was cum-coated. "You want it again," she said, and presented him her back. "No," he replied. But his member played him for a fool. "It's really all right, sir," she said, a grin in her voice as his cock nudged her bottom. "This is what you paid me for, after all." His fingers tightened on her shoulders, as his cock rooted for entry between her cheeks. Harry didn't draw back, didn't chastise him at all, as the plum head prodded her, her equanimity telling him she had been down this road many times before. Furious with her for yet another unwanted reminder of her whoring ways, he gave her a push, through the adjoining door into the water closet. "Commode first, then the tub for a wash-down. The tattoo must receive aftercare." "Can you find your own way out, sir, or shall I walk you to the door?" A chuckle formed deep in his chest. He refused to surrender to the urge. "I stay." Two hands on her shoulders, he pressed her down onto the commode. He was proud of his water closet, the first and only in all of New Bedford, and he allowed himself a smile of vainglory as her rosy rump hit the oak seat, sitting there so shy with her legs closed. "Go," he said sternly. He distinguished her blush even in the pre-dawn darkness. "Sorry to disappoint, but I really have no need." "It would pleasure me greatly to watch my little whore pee into this very expensive commode. You are paid to pleasure me, are you not?" Under his palms, he felt the heat of her embarrassment rise from her skin as she made her stream, the sound of loud splashing causing him to laugh out loud.

Her chin dipped, her red hair falling forward over her face. "I think I might possibly die." "Certainly not from this," he soothed, his hands rubbing down her bared back. "I shan't ever forgive you this humiliation." He sighed, lifted her chin. "Yes, you will. When I fuck you, and you scream to the ceiling in abandon." The girl was too stubborn by far, a situation monitoring her every breath would soon correct. As long as he was paying for her time, she would not have the freedom to make a wrong decision, like whoring for example. If Ben had kept a better watch on her, not allowed her run wild, put her on the short leash, Harry might not have run off to Boston and taken the easy way out. Taking money for her body was the lazy way, the dishonorable way, of getting by. She should have done anything...taken in laundry if need be...rather than sell herself. The thought of Harry bent over a washtub, her hands swollen and red, scrubbing other people's soiled linens, flashed through his mind and almost made him change his mind about her doing anything to get by. But there must have been something else she could have done to tide herself over. And he wondered again what she had done with that money he had left her. "Later, we are off to Boston to make reparations to your last employer. I will not have a charge of thievery hanging over your head like a gloomy cloud. I want you, and your thoughts, all to myself for the time we are together." "But sir, there is no need! I can handle the situation." "Harry, I am a wealthy man of some considerable influence and I do not want it known that my ... housekeeper ... is a thief." "Very well," she grumbled. "This all comes together very well. As it turns out, I have an errand to run in Boston, as well as a party to attend. An associate of mine asked I deliver to him a manservant--and a merchant friend of mine is giving a house party. This is a case of killing three birds with one stone." "Do you plan to stay overnight?" "Yes. At the home of my friend." "And I will stay with the servants ... help out in the kitchen?" "It's not by my choice, but I see no respectable way around it," he admitted. Then, "Finished on the commode?" he asked. "Yes," she said in a small voice. "Good," he said amicably. "Now up you go." When she stood, he slid onto his back onto the Italian tiled floor of the W.C. "Come over me." "I beg your pardon?"

He explained: "I would like to look up inside you. This is the best perspective. Now come. Separate your legs above my eyes. Don't be bashful." "It's only a cunt, like any other cunt," she groused, but stepping over his head. "Oh, but it's not. It's your cunt, and that makes it special. I want to see it from every angle. Now, split your legs wider." She did, but he knew she didn't like doing it. From his prone position, he reached up and opened the folds with two fingers. "The passage is incredible. And the clitoris is as large as I have ever seen on a woman. Like a little penis. I longed to do this to you when you were eighteen. I longed to have you take down your drawers, and simply look at the wonder of you. I would not have touched you or interfered with you in any way; I would only have looked. But you would have been shocked. Such as innocent you were." "I owe that innocence to you. You sheltered me from the harder realities of the wharves." "I tried anyway. And failed dismally." He moved a finger into the innocent maid, who had become far too experienced. Given her occupation, Harry's muscles were inexplicably tight, that unaccounted-for embarrassment again. "I'm sorry," he apologized, and gave her a second digit. Quickly. He had learned as a sea captain that when exerting authority through discipline, such as when using the rattan on the back of a man who has disobeyed orders, it is far more merciful to inflict pain swiftly, rather than cruelly offer out an artificial hope of reprieve. The same principle applied here. Embarrassed or not, he would have this from her; no sense pretending he would back down from his demands. Had she been his wife, naturally, he would have made concessions to her bashfulness. But she was not his wife, she was his whore, and men did not go easy on their whores, especially whores with histories of disobedience. Give Harry an inch, and she would try to take over. This he could not allow. Last night, Harry had behaved mutinously. She had been willful and spiteful ... she had very nearly bitten off the head of his cock. She had to understand he would not tolerate disobedience. He expected her to do as she was told, both in and out of bed, and he would use every means at his disposal to accomplice that goal. Even her humiliation. "One more to go," he said, pushing a third finger up inside her. That accomplished, he slid out a bit from between her legs, so that his shoulders and head were clear, and he could now look up at her from his position on his back on the floor. Her hands went to cover her mons. "This is most unseemly," she said, as he spread her vagina open. "Think of something else," he said sympathetically, but nevertheless continuing to stretch her. When her

cradling hands interfered with what he was doing, he told her, "Arms behind your back, girl." When she did as she was told, giving her no quarter, he thrust his fingers up inside her. Hard. Then pressed down directly on top of the clitoris, before rubbing the nub back and forth. Harry started to writhe, embarrassment conflicting with pleasure. "Move up and down over the fingers," he ordered. Looking away, she rode up and down over his fingers, her knees bending and straightening, her large breasts bouncing. Her nipples had reddened and lengthened; they stuck straight out. "That's right, that's right. Ride them," he coaxed, smoothing the palm of his free hand over her buttock. He feathered a finger down the crevice, and then making up his mind, dipped his middle finger in up to the knuckle. "Yes?" he asked, now that both openings were plugged. "I told you yes in the beginning, did I not?" "You did, but after the fight you put up last night I thought perhaps you had changed your mind." "You needn't worry. You will get your money's worth from me." "Very well. Then, gallop like a little mare." She went up and down at a fine clip, until she cried out, "It's happening." "Not yet." "What do you mean, not yet?" she screeched. "Am I lamp to be turned off and on?" "Not yet, I say." She began to struggle, her body thrashing. He'd had quite enough of her antics! "Settle down, girl, or you won't get it at all." Withdrawing his digits from her orifices, he picked her up and set her in the tub. In a pre-climactic daze, she stood docilely as he ran the warm water enough to cover her ankles. After removing the bandage on her inner thigh, he stepped in with her, behind her. Soaping a wet linen, he squeezed it over her shoulders, smiling at the sight of the bubbles on her fair skin, so pale in comparison to his own swarthy tones. Once she was soaped, he dropped the linen and ran his hands over her. She squirmed, wet and wiggling, but didn't attempt escape. Needing release, she was pliant under his big palms as he lathered her red-tipped breasts, her underarms with their fine filigree of red hair, between her legs, drawing out the washing when he came to her slit, tarrying a long while over those swollen folds. He washed the round cheeks of her buttocks, and in between too, all at a leisured pace, no longer needing to dodge knees and elbows and fists, as he'd had to the night before. This was a different Harry, a more subdued Harry.

Though her chin was dipped, her head submissively lowered, her attitude quieted, he continued to keep a restraining arm around her, as he took his turn washing up. "That's right. Stay, just like that," he soothed. Still holding her firmly, he adjusted his arm so that he could move his thumb back and forth over her very distended nipple, his fingernail scratching the hardened tip. "Just so," he murmured, when her body gave over. There was naught she wouldn't do to gain that orgasm he had withheld. Easing his restraining arm away, he bent his knees to cup the water, rinsing them both. Afterwards, his hand slid across her flat belly, moving freely between her legs, back and forth between her legs, again and again, his thumb deftly separating the lips of her engorged sex, so plump and wet from her warm bath, and from the heat of her own arousal. "You're creamy, sweetheart," he offered, an off-color whisper in her ear, his thumb going up inside, easily up inside, no resistance whatsoever now, and no argument either, letting him diddle her as he might. He concentrated his efforts on the bud at the top. Then, once she was re-primed, he lifted her hand to her open vulva, showing her what he expected her to do. "Continue on just that way," he said after a while. As she masturbated, his cock, already turgid, distended outwards, seeking an inlet, any inlet to her body. "Please Josh," she whimpered, her rosy bottom, slippery from the bath, backing up to him, sliding up and down his loins, taunting him with that deep crevice, tempting him with the dainty hole that lay within. "Bend over," he commanded, stark and to the point, petting her bottom as she complied. "That's right," he praised. "All the way over, hands in the water." When her hair fell forward over her face, floating like red seaweed in the partially filled tub, he bent and kissed her bottom cheeks, then sent his tongue straight in, rimming the dimple, before his tongue dipped into the hole. "Oh, please?" she pleaded. He pressed, but didn't penetrate. "You must tell me." His hand moved down the length of her spine, gauging her submission. "How shall I come inside you?" She started to cry, great sobs wrenched from the core of her soul. It hurt to hear those sobs, hurt to break her down, but it was a necessity. "Speak it, Harry," he commanded. "Say the words and know them for the truth." "Come into me anyway you would have me. My mouth. My cunt. My buttocks. It matters not how or the method you use. Only join your body with mine."

They were close, but they were not all the way there. Not yet. She wasn't fully broken. Not yet. He asked the final question: "Why?" "Because you own me, Joshua Kane. Only you, no other man." She was broken! Picking her up in his arms, he carried her back to the bedchamber. It was dark in the bedchamber, and Joshua didn't bother to light additional oil lamps. It was hot in the room, and he didn't bother to open a window. He was sweating like a lathered horse, and he didn't bother to swipe at the sweat rolling in rivulets between his shoulder blades down the length of his spine. He spread her over the top of his bed, arms bent at the elbow on top of the burgundy coverlet, back bowed. He knelt behind her, one hand forward on the round of a buttock, a thumb sinking into the crevice. Cock taken in hand, he leaned forward, pressed his lips to the elegant pale nape that drove him wild, then began the penetration... Not sodomy. It was enough for him to know she would allow him all, and that in her obedience to him, naught was forbidden. She was under his thumb now, and he was determined she would stay there.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"You know, I really think we should try it." "Would you stop?" the sea captain said, sounding vexed indeed at her suggestion. The man had no sense of humor whatsoever! "I don't see why not..." "Because I said so. Besides, all the blood would rush to your head." "Oh, pooh!" She roused herself to a sit. "Come downstairs and I will show you. I used to stand on my head all the time as a child and this shouldn't require any more skill than that. I'm very sure I could swing from the dining room candelabra, upside down with my eyes closed and my hands clasped behind my back. And all you would have to do is climb atop the table, and poke me in the arse--" The arse under discussion was smacked. "Coo, sir, I just love it when you spank me," she purred. "Harry," he chuckled, "can you never once be serious?" "Your gravity more than makes up for my frivolousness, sir."

"Call me by my first name. I think you should, you know, now that we're ... now that we're..." "Going at it like bunnies on an aphrodisiac?" she helpfully supplied. The chuckle rumbled to an all-out gale of laughter, the kind of belly-whoop that says a man is relaxing. It was a fine sound, and she enjoyed it immeasurably, though her guards remained every bit as high. Even when she looked into Joshua's hazel-green eyes, crinkled in good humor, she kept her defenses raised. She did, however, allow herself to touch the male beauty of his sensuous mouth, now atremble with hilarity. "Oh, Joshua..." was all she could think of to say. Breaking the moment, and her hold on him, he looked down at her marked thigh. "How do you like the knot?" "I should have preferred a dragon like yours." "Far too fierce for a female," he decreed, as though that was the end all and be all of the discussion. "Of course," she said, and played with a strand of hair, her argumentativeness hidden in coquettishness--over the years she had learned to temper her natural inclination to defend every point. Now, she only championed those causes that must by moral right be upheld. It was enough for her to know the female of the species could be every bit as fierce as the male, particularly if a beloved was in jeopardy An uncomfortable pause came into the conversation. Joshua was the one to overcome it. "Unless ... did you want a more masculine tattoo because ... that is to say ... do you sell yourself to both sexes? Some whores do." And some men allowed bitterness over the past to sour the future. Joshua's mother had been a prostitute and his father an unknown entity--so what? Her parents had both been Quakers, and she had not followed in their Godly shoes. People make their own paths. Feeling a fit of argumentativeness coming on, she drew her shoulders back. "I would sleep with a woman if I were attracted to her as a person. We fall in love with the whole person, not specifically their genitalia. Face and form--all outward appearance matters not a whit to me. Nothing matters but the sincerity of an individual's Inner Light." There! That was a point worth defending. And perhaps she hadn't strayed as far as she had thought from her parents' faith. "You know, for a tiny thing, you have a fierce heart." She laughed. "And that is my very point!" "Well, you made it, and now up you go. We leave for Boston within the hour." Harry rose naked from the Captain's bed. "I will need to return to my bedchamber for a fresh change of clothes." "This is your bedchamber from now on, madam. I will want you beside me at night."

"I will move my things immediately, but for now I must change. And sir, in order to pass as your housekeeper in Boston, we will both need to conduct ourselves appropriately in public." Tossing on her discarded servant's attire, Harry moved slowly to the door, her body sore from the strenuous way they had passed the evening. "Drat this journey to Boston, anyway!" Joshua called after her. "I want you all to myself!" Ablutions quickly performed, Harry dressed in gray muslin, the gown suitable for a housekeeper. It took but a scant few minutes to fold a few things away in a valise, and she was ready to leave. Donning her new paisley shawl, she rushed out the mansion's front door to the carriage already pulled around front. As Joshua helped her climb into the compartment, she noticed Peggy's husband wasn't alone on the driver's seat; a dark-skinned male, perhaps eleven or twelve years of age, was seated beside Andrew. Settling into her seat, Harry quirked a brow at Joshua . "A freeman, I take it?" "I have already related my policy on the slavery issue." "Is he going into service in Boston?" "No. I have higher hopes for young Daniel than servitude. The lad is very bright indeed, but he is in need of some formal schooling to challenge his quick intellect. I am to deliver him to a Quaker in Boston, and then it is onto a Friends school for him." "A Friends school in Boston?" Joshua shook his head, more tight-lipped than usual. "Elsewhere. Now, no more idle chatter." And with that brusque comment, that was most certainly an evasion of truth, they were off to Boston, a wealthy ship-owner and his servant-whore.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Since their arrival in Boston a week previously, Harry hadn't seen Joshua, not even to ask the sea captain if he had met with her last employer as he had told her he would. She was on pins and needles to learn the outcome of that meeting, to know if he had been successful in paying the extortion money or if a jail sentence lurked in her future. The past nights, though exhausted, Harry had gone sleepless, tossing and turning in the stifling attic room she shared with three other servant girls. So as not to disturb her bedmates on the narrow cot, she had taken to the floor, her folded arms acting as a pillow. Her wayward thoughts were not only occupied with blackmail; she hungered for release.

Miss Ruby had once told her slyly that not only males have needs; that once a woman has known physical satisfaction it becomes difficult to go without for long. Joshua had introduced her to carnal pleasure, and once initiated, her body cried out for more of the same. The days were somewhat better. Kept busy in the basement kitchens, acting as scullery maid, up to the elbows in washing cooking dishes and pans, the time passed quickly. Still, no matter what she did or how busy she kept, the knot of need in her belly would not go away. Only lying again with Joshua would appease the ache, and it was that urgency that made her a harlot. Tonight, she would serve at the lavish affair given at the Boston brownstone. Somewhere among the dignitaries and the not-so-dignified, mingling between old money and new, charity rubbing shoulders with opportunists, she should find a dour, closed-mouthed sea captain. This time, she wouldn't wait until it was too late; this time, she would seek him out in the crowd of guests and somehow, someway, tell him how sorely she had missed him, and to please never leave her again. And then, she would fling caution to the winds, and abandon herself to illicit passion. Because she loved him, truly loved him, regardless that he thought the worst of her.

****

While Josh discussed the going rates for a barrel of whale oil with a group of merchants he did business with, out of the corner of his eye he saw his hostess, Mrs. Theodore Taylor, raise two gloved fingers to a passing servant. "Over here with that champagne," said Teddy's wife. A good sort was Abby Taylor, but no teetotaler, and that was for damn sure; she had ordered the liquor tray over to her several times already, draining glass after glass. What surprised Josh was she was still strong on her feet, no sway at all, this after knocking back what had to be a keg ... or at least enough to put most seamen under the table. This time, the domestic his hostess had called to her side was Harry. After dropping his cargo off at Saint Catherine, Ontario--a small village just beyond Niagara Falls--he had rushed back to Boston on horseback, much faster than the carriage could have taken him. He had searched her out all night, since the very moment he had arrived back from the Canadian border. She must have been cloistered in the downstairs kitchens, for not until this very instant had he seen her. He drank her in. Knocked her back with as much gusto as his hostess knocked back her champagne, though from the corner of his eye, so as not to arouse the suspicions of his esteemed companions. Harry's every move was of interest to him. He took special note of the way she raced over to the jovial Abby, the dozen or so fluted glasses expertly balanced on the tray, not a single drop of the vintage wine spilled. Her flawless performance both amazed and disturbed him, as did her subservient demeanor. Had he not memorized every facet, every expression, every nuance of her animated features, committed every variation of her lively face to memory, he might not have known she was the same woman he had so thoroughly enjoyed in his bed. She'd been a right hellion, full of piss and vinegar, all wet pussy and big tits, grinding herself to him, her outrageously red mane of hair falling into her mischievous eyes, then over her animated face as he had her from behind, her heart-shaped arse taunting him, seducing him... Josh felt himself harden. What was it about the soft curves of a woman's derriere that spiked a man's

flesh? He had grooves on his back, left there from his little whore's bloodthirsty nails. Harry had fair carved him up, and fucking her had been worth every last scrape. Lord, but she had been something! A real siren in bed. Would her sweet singing lure him to the rocks, destroy him as she had almost destroyed him before? Three years before, when he had finally returned from the ice-jammed seas around Alaska, the excursion making him captain of his own ship and wealthy too, he'd thought to find Harry waiting for him on shore. He'd thought, despite their exchange of angry words, she would take the money he had left for her and use it to stay safe and sound. When he found out what she had done instead, he had gone on a month-long drunk, wenching from morning to night, not putting the bottle or whores aside until he boarded ship again. That was the last time a drop of ardent spirits had passed his lips. The last time too he had gone a'whoring. Deciding he would not take the easy way out, that he would neither drown his sorrows in a bottle of rum nor fuck them away, he had channeled his anger into making something of himself. He had succeeded. Rising above it all--bad beginnings, bad temper, bad habits--Josh had achieved success beyond his wildest dreams, and yet he had felt empty inside, incomplete, as though a part of him was missing. And there was the other part of himself now, her red hair all neatly tucked up into a starched cap, nary a strand escaping, her voluptuousness hidden under a pristine white apron. "Yes, ma'am, Mrs. Taylor," she whispered like a well-trained domestic, bobbing a curtsey, her eyes demurely lowered to the floor. Christ, he hated those meekly lowered eyes! Glass selected, his hostess said, "See to those three gentlemen over there next." Two-and-a-fraction gentlemen, Joshua corrected in his thoughts. Mrs. Taylor couldn't know part of him was a gaping void that Harry had once filled. As she made her way to them, fluted glasses expertly balanced on the tray, eyes meekly lowered, he lowered his own gaze too, sharing the varnished pine planks. "Champagne?" she offered, casting the tray all around. His eyes came up, and he reached for a glass, with no intention of drinking it, just to have some part of himself close to her. "How have you been, Mrs. Smith?" he asked politely, offering a distant sort of consideration a caring employer would correctly show his servant, only his gaze, riveted to her face, giving his lack of distance away. "Very well, sir," she answered quickly and just as correctly, and unfortunately telling him not a blasted thing. How was she being treated? He wanted to know, and would have asked had they been alone. Was her room adequate--comfortable being too much to expect in servants' quarters? Did she have enough to eat? She looked pallid, as though she hadn't gotten out much, as though she had been worked too hard for too many hours. So many things to ask her, and he couldn't ask them, not until they were

alone. Damnable party! He detested these engagements, everyone making silly conversation, sprouting witticisms ... flirting. He wanted to flirt with Harry, whisper silly things into the perfect shell of her ear, try to make her laugh with a wit he didn't possess. But she did. Harry possessed a sharp wit. She tickled his funny bone. She also made him angry enough to spit nails. And so horny he knew he would have to think up some excuse to get her alone. Fast. His cock was begging for her, weeping pre-cum for her, and if he didn't get into her drawers he didn't know what he would do. Why the hell couldn't he come up with one single reason to get her alone? "Is this servant in your employ?" The merchant at his side questioned. "Mrs. Smith is my ... uh ... uh ... housekeeper," he stammered, denying their true relationship which was--what? What was Harry to him, now that she was no longer the other part of himself? She was his whore, of course. His little cunt. The wanton wharf-tart he had paid to fuck. He had not gotten his money's worth lately! "I don't care to drink after all," he said, holding out the fluted glass of untried champagne to her. She took it, her fingers knocking against his knuckles, some of the grape spilling onto the shine of his shoes in the collision. She gasped. "So sorry, sir!" His hostess, upon hearing the slight commotion, hurried over. "Those boots will need buffing, before the leather is stained. You, maid, take Captain Kane outside to the hall and see to it immediately. " "By all means, ma'am. Come with me, sir." Harry turned; he followed. "Please take a seat. I will return shortly with the boot polish," she said softly, indicating a delicate armless chair situated in a small out-of-the way alcove under the staircase. Though no bigger in size than a cloak closet, closing the exterior door would turn a small open area into a comfortably snug secluded space. Nodding at a few guests milling about in the hallway, Josh settled himself onto the brocaded seat, a gentleman awaiting a shoeshine. When the shoe polisher returned, rag and blackening in hand, she sank to her knees in a puff of white apron before his long legs. Her gown attracted his attention. The homely gray serge was obviously borrowed, obviously a scullery maid's, obviously two sizes larger than she needed at the waist, and obviously not quite large enough at the bosom. For a little slip of female, Harry had a staggeringly full bosom. Who knew, as a string bean maiden, she would blossom into voluptuousness? Not he, certainly. At just squeaked past seventeen, she had been very nearly flat on top, and he knew this for definite, having caught her in the altogether.

Josh had just about grown up with Ben, for a time they had been as close as brothers, and so as he always did, Josh entered the waterfront shack without a warning knock. And caught Harry in the tub before the fire in the kitchen. Had he thought of Harry as his sister, the thing to do would have been to make a disparaging joke and turn his back in brotherly disgust, if only to hide his own mortification. But he hadn't been mortified, and the only disgust Josh felt had been with himself for not turning his back on Harry when, in her sweet innocence, she had sent him a smile...

****

"Ben's not here, Josh. Gone out somewhere with Beth, I 'spect," she told him, continuing to soap up. "I've been out casting a line all afternoon, and as I stink of fish guts, I decided to take an all-over dunking before putting the trout to the fire. Stay to eat, please?" A step in the small room brought his knees to the tin tub. He had stared, and stared, and couldn't stop staring. At her little tits, for the most part, as the rest of her was under soap bubbles. "You really should have locked the door, sweetheart. There are rough men wandering these docks at night." "And not a one will mess with me, knowing they have you to tangle with if'n they do. Besides, you know me, I can take care of meself." She raised a knee out of the water and sighed a long sigh. "I think I'm dying, Josh." "W-w-what? Whatever gave you that fool idea? You're as healthy as a horse." "I'm bleeding." Every inch of him tensed. "Where? Tell me where, right now!" "From my innards. My belly." "Show me!" When she raised the other knee, the move opened her up. "From here. The opening. See?" She pointed. He looked. And saw. Everything.

****

At the time, he recalled being more relieved than anything else. Harry was healthy, and that's all that was important. She was just growing up, was all! And as he had gazed into the notch, that wide-open notch, that's when he had explained how things work with females.

He should have explained everything to her then, not just the essentials. But the bath water must have grown cold, because she gave a little shiver, and he told her to get her tail out of the tub. After that, he just couldn't go on with the lesson, not when his cock was pointing north. Feeling rotten about his man's feelings for Harry, who was seventeen but was still little better than a child with her pert little tits and non-existent hips, and just the beginnings of a fiery red bush where her trim thighs met, he let it all go in favor of hiding his own lust from her. He didn't want her looking at him any differently than she always had, which was as an older male relative. But as she dried off before the fire, chatting away, not bothering to hide any of her naked self from him, he knew he could never return to those safe family-type feelings again. The very next day, he had signed up for another voyage, done to remove the danger of him from the innocence of her. And now the grown up version of that child-woman knelt at his feet, polishing his boot, and she was not an innocent anymore. "I apologize for my clumsiness, sir." Harry's eyes twinkled with amusement. The dawning light came up slow. "You shameless hussy! You intentionally spilled that champagne." "Mrs. Taylor is quite the stickler for shiny boots, sir." He kicked the door closed with one of those shiny boots. In the darkened cloak closet, her gaze lifted from the task at hand. "There is no inside lock, sir." "As I am your employer, not Mrs. Taylor, you are in no danger of getting sacked should we be discovered." "I have no reputation to lose, but what of yours?" "My reputation be damned! I need to know how you have been." "I have been most excellent, sir." But her tone of voice told a different tale: his little whore was miffed. At him. "I had to leave you here, Harry. There was no other choice. I couldn't take you with me where I was going, and I didn't want you with me when I sought out your last employer. And by the way, that little matter has been resolved. All an unfortunate misunderstanding." Josh had waited for the weasel outside a tavern, and after setting him on his arse in a back alleyway, they had come to financial terms about the missing silverware and jewelry. "So, that matter is finished. Why you chose that drunken lout as your protector is quite beyond me." "Most women in my situation don't have the freedom to choose. They soon learn they must accept or starve. Would you have suggested I starve?" "I left you a sum of money to provide for you. There was no need for you to go to Ruby's." Even in a dark closet, it was nigh on to impossible to miss the jut of that obstinate chin. "I had every reason." Water over the dam, he conceded. He had no wish to rehash a past history that could not be changed.

Most especially, he did not wish to argue after only just returning. He wished for something else instead. "Take that apron off," he said. "Yes, of course," she replied. Placing her polishing rag and blackening aside, she untied the bow in back and drew the atrocious maid's apron off over her head. "Cap too. And shake loose your hair." When the thick richness of her red hair was undone, he leaned forward at the edge of the seat. He didn't give a tinker's damn that guests milled outside in the hall; he would have this! "Strip off," he demanded. He couldn't go to her maid's bedchamber, nor could he bring her to his second floor guestroom. Waiting to get back to New Bedford before fucking her was out of the question. Chin lowered, she nodded. He refused to let her embarrassment thwart him. Harry was a whore, an occupation that didn't allow for modesty. If a guest opened the cloak door they would simply see a naked prostitute polishing his champagne-stained boots. Every gentleman has his carnal quirks. Gown pulled down to her waist, corset and chemise removed, Harry now knelt bare-breasted at his feet. She was beautiful in her partial nudity. Lovely and refined and dignified. She looked almost like a lady, for all that she was on her knees in a small alcove room under the staircase. Looking toward the door, she stalled in her disrobing. "All the way, girl. Everything must come off." While she shimmied the gown down her hips, he reached for the enormous jut of a bobbing nipple, already gone from soft pink to hard claret. "Tell me you missed me as I missed you. Say it, even if it is a lie." Her eyes shuttered down. "I missed you." He would soon see how much. "Leave the stockings, dispose of the drawers." At last she was naked, her enormous nipples eagerly jutting, the full breasts swinging ever so gently, just the way he liked, but her shapely legs lamentably closed. "Open your thighs," he said, her obstinacy making him more and more aggrieved. She knew what he wanted--she whored for a living--why did she drag her round heels over this? When her limbs were parted, he gave her the nod. "You may proceed," he said relaxing back in his chair and holding out the stained boot to her. Naked, she buffed his boot until it shone. He quite enjoyed the performance, so much so, he held out the other boot too, just to watch the gentle sway of her bosom increase to a fast-paced oscillation.

By the time the second boot wore a shine, he was in pain. He ripped open his suddenly too-tight breeches. His throbbing cock made an undignified arc. His excitement was not lovely, not refined, and certainly not gentlemanly. "Place the polishing rag away, and take me in your mouth." Her chin tilted forward, her lips parted. Christ! The wet rasp of her tongue on tortured flesh! The hot kiss of her lips, the glorious welcome of her mouth... He knew he would come immediately if she sucked him off, and thereby disgrace himself. "No, don't!" Two hands on her shoulders, he set her away. She had been kneeling upright, but she slid back onto her haunches at his rebuke. "I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong?" "No," he growled. She rubbed a hand over her pouty lips, already a bit swollen. "But I thought you wished me to..." "I do." Her bent-back legs were well open. No longer seeming concerned about a possible interruption, her face looked slumberous, her mouth a little slack. A female in heat, she slid a palm between her thighs. "I-I truly did miss you," she said, cradling her opening. "You need it?" When she nodded, her palm pressing into the notch, he lost the rest of his already diminished control. With a yank, he brought her up and over his lap to straddle him, her bright red bush decorating the front of his breeches like a bouquet of red posies. She was wet. As open as a female can get too, the positioning so exposing her that he felt the damp heat of her cunt through his woolen trouser leg. He took the point of a tit into his mouth, groaning between suckling her, hard and strong, finally biting into the flesh, his teeth grinding the huge nipple. Taking the harsh cry of her pleasured pain into his mouth, his tongue muffling the sound, his big hands clenched on her buttocks. He didn't need to tell her to turn about; a whore to the core, she swiveled of her own accord until she was faced away astride his lap, her hips lifted slightly, her nude body angled forward. "Will this do?" she whispered. He ran a hand down her spine, under her bottom. Yes, she would do exceptionally well. But he remained silent, not telling her anything of the kind.

Mistaking his reticence for displeasure, she lifted some more. "You can get it in either way," she offered, a whore trying to please. Back hole, front hole, she had made both easily available to him. Digging his fingers into the softness of her bottom, he weighed the advantages of both approaches, before deciding upon a natural, if intense congress. He savagely forced his cock into her, a full penetration of the front passage. She bucked. "Take it," he told her. "Take all of it." He thrust home hard. "Oh, God," she moaned, a hand going to cup the notch again, cradling her red pussy again, as though this was new to her, as though she hadn't done it hard a thousand times before, as though he was actually paining her. "Be still," he admonished. "I'm almost there." He bit into her shoulder, his hands seizing her toppled breasts, his fingers squeezing the southerly-directed nipples, pinching them as he made the push. She felt so good, so tight, so wet and hot and obliging, as she accepted his length, every last inch, giving him his money's worth and then some. Then he was driving his cock into her, and everything he had done during the past week was forgotten. There was only Harry. Only Harry. Only Harry's sweet cunt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

She was dropped off at the front door to the sea captain's fine New Bedford mansion like a sack of bruised something, and then with the strict admonishment for her to stay put inside the mansion until his return, Joshua Kane sped off down the cobblestone lane in his carriage, not even coming inside to change his travel-dusted black suit, no explanation as to where he was going, no word of when he might return. Gone fishing off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland for cod, mackerel and haddock in his two-mast schooner, Peggy told Harry when she asked. Off getting laid, more like it! No wealthy sea captain toils like a poor fisherman. It was naught but a ruse. The lusty seaman most likely had a different woman in every port. That business about him missing her back in Boston was pigswill, bosh a man spoke to get whatever he could from a woman. Save that Joshua didn't lie. He was honorable through and through. In Boston, in that dark little closet-room under the staircase, he said he had missed her. Why would he have said such a thing unless he had meant it? And she would give him whatever he wished, without him having to resort to lying, so why bother with

the trouble of dishonesty. But fishing? That was quite the tale to swallow. She had no choice but to swallow it, as she had swallowed him on the carriage ride home from Boston. She'd had no choice in climaxing, when, in reciprocation, he had put his mouth to her loins and pleasured her in return. She had screamed her release to the carriage ceiling. It wasn't right! It wasn't fair. But it was the way it was. She loved him. A week into his latest absence, seeing she was miserable without him, Peggy divulged the sea captain was due back in port the following day. Regardless of his instructions for her to stay put, Harry intended to meet him on the pier. She was sick and tired of him taking off and leaving her, and it was about time she did something about it! Harry arrived at the wharf while it was still dark outside, just a little after four in the morning. Josh's fishing schooner had already docked and the crew had departed--save for Josh and the lady he was bidding adieu. An assignation, she decided, watching as Joshua bent and respectfully kissed his companion's cheek under the half-light of the moon. She was a Quaker, dressed plain and simply, beautiful in a quiet and elegant way, a lady an affluent gentleman would proudly wed. They were not lovers yet: Joshua would never bed a virtuous lady without vows. A hand clutched to her belly, Harry waited for the Quaker lady to walk down the plank, then made her way down the pier to the schooner.

****

One end of the cloth in his mouth, Joshua tied off the new bandage on his upper arm, the first one having soaked through. The injury, the slash of a bounty hunter's knife not dodged quickly enough, was not too deep, but staunching the flow of blood had proved difficult. After the rousing success of their mission, he had dismissed his crew to celebrate their accomplishment at the local taverns, so he could doctor himself alone. Appearing weak before his men was something a sea captain learns early on not to do. While struggling into his white cotton shirt before the portal, he spied a lad, who looked an awful lot like the Harry of old, climb up the gangplank, a basket slung over a slender arm. Tight-lipped and grim, he waited for her arrival. "I have brought you something to break the fast," his little whore announced, as she trounced into his captain's cabin without so much as a tap on wood. The basket she carried was raised for his inspection. "So you have, but I left you strict instructions to seclude yourself in the house while I was gone. You have

deliberately disobeyed me. Again." "I did obey you. Until today. Where have you been? And do not tell me fishing off the Grand Banks either, for I shan't believe you! " Though he trusted Harry--perhaps not with the silverware, but most certainly with his life--he was not in a position to confide in her. For the sake of her safety and for the sake of others who depended upon his silence, he could not talk freely. "I was off adding treasures to my collection," he said evasively; it was not fully the truth but not fully a lie either. At any rate, it was the best he could do. Her arms crossed under her bosom, the voluptuous shift of breasts told him she was naked under the shirt. "Seeing another woman, from what I could see," she snipped. So. Jealousy had instigated this visit. But how much had she really seen? "I beg your pardon?" he asked, trying to see how much she knew. He had docked under the cover of night for a reason--how long after anchoring had she arrived? Had she seen his cargo slip quietly down the plank and into the covered wagon? "I saw you kiss that Quaker lady!" "So?" "You must have taken her sailing with you. But you aren't lovers yet; I could tell. Do you intend to ask for her hand in marriage before taking her to bed?" He said precisely, "If I choose to see other women, that is my prerogative. You are my whore, not my wife." Let Harry think what she would; a clandestine tryst served as the perfect cover. Unless Harry discovered the identity of the Quaker lady, and linked her name with his. Harry's curiosity would not only endanger the lady, but would also jeopardize everything he had worked for all these years. "Harry," he said sternly, as a captain of a whaler would say to an unruly seaman. "Come here to me." Even in her rough shirt and breeches, up close, there was no mistaking Harry for a lad. She glided to him, hips undulating, a sensual, ungovernable, unmanageable temptress. "You must not gossip about what you saw here tonight, particularly not to your brother." Ben was a drunkard, and when he was in his cups, he talked too loudly and too much. "I will tell whomever I please." "No, you most decidedly will not. Not if you wish our present arrangement to continue. My private life must remain private. I have my reputation and the lady's reputation to consider. You would know nothing about that, a good reputation being amongst the things you sold long ago." "I can give you what she cannot," she said defiantly. "That good Quaker lady will never know how to satisfy you in bed." "And you do, I suppose."

She removed her wool cap, shook out her red hair. "I was a bad little girl, Joshie. I disobeyed you. Don't you think I need to be punished?" "Actually, yes I do. How do you propose I do that?" She smiled coquettishly. "As a captain, how do you ordinarily punish a seaman who breaks a rule on board a whaler?" Josh took a steadying breath. "The penalty for going against a direct order is lashing." "Then, that is what I deserve. You are a man of principle. You shouldn't let my sex sway you from the righteous course of action." She was taunting him, and for that reason alone she deserved a whipping. But she was right--her chronic disobedience had demanded discipline long ago. He had never carried through on any punishment, because his soft feelings for her had always swayed him from the proper and just course of action. He could not back down, not this time. He needed Harry to make him a promise not to tell what she had seen tonight, and he would do what he must to wrench her word out of her. A jealous female is a dangerous female, and in her spite, Harry could bring trouble to a good woman's door. This he would not allow. "The whipping will be administered with a rattan across the buttocks. Five strokes." She smiled. "Fair enough." "I am glad we are in agreement," he said dryly. Thinking she would back down when she got a gander of what was used for a seaman's punishment, Josh went to get the switch. When he turned back around, she was already naked, down to her bare feet. The tart! A seaman removes his shirt for the sting of the cat-o'nine-tails, for the lash of the leather whip, for the welt-raising bite of the rattan. To treat a female the same made him ill. But Harry was a whore, and whores were not known for their discretion. He needed her word, dammit! "My private life must remain private, Harry." "Then you should take more care not to kiss in public. I can hardly wait to tell Ben what I saw." The rattan Josh gripped in his hand was a flexible bamboo reed soaked in water and bent into a handle on top, split at the striking end to form two tongues. From the same cabinet, he had also taken out three lengths of hemp. Onboard ship, the miscreant was lashed before the mast, in full view of the assembled crew. Many times, the humiliation of the public spectacle, the ignominy of being tied, acted as more of a deterrent against additional mischief than did the pain itself. Why would she not back down? Apologize for disobeying him? Swear to him she would keep what she saw a secret? He gazed upwards. "That gear hook-and-eye will do for your arms." His eyes fell. "The cot on one side and the chest of drawers on the other will hold your feet in place."

He flicked his wrist and the rattan bounced, cut a swath in the air. If she moved, turned, the supple bamboo might very well miss its intended target, perhaps wrapping instead around her hip to sear her belly or go higher and score an unprotected breast. A female's nipples were sensitive, he knew; Harry's would be unusually so because of their enormous size. A misplaced stroke would cut into that tender flesh. Could she not see the danger here? Sweat broke out on his forehead. Onboard ship, as was his responsibility as captain, he carried out discipline, but whipping was not a directive Joshua gave easily. All those previous occasions dimmed in comparison to this horror. Yet without her promise, he would mete out judgment, a punishment that would sting, that would cause her to wear raised welts on her posterior for several days afterwards. Harry clapped her hands together. "Well, let's get on with this, shall we? Afterwards, we can dig into that lovely breakfast I brought. You must be quite starved after your assignation. Unrequited lust does that to a man," she said cheerfully, going to stand under the gear hook. "But you will work out your tension and satisfy your appetites on me, will you not?" She held out her wrists to him. In a daze, he looped her wrists together with the cord and applied a nautical knot. He threaded the end of the hemp through the eye and pulled the cord, thereby forcibly raising Harry's long, slender arms overhead until they were stretched taut at the shoulder; her red underarm hair no longer hidden from view. Another pull on the cord and the gentle scoop of the underarm leveled out to a plain. Once more he yanked on the rope, and this time large breasts lifted to an exaggerated height. If he tightened the cord any more, Harry would hang suspended in mid-air. A great black swell of violence rose in him tonight, feelings of impotence bringing those dark stirrings to the surface. A reward-hungry bounty hunter had found him out, wounded him, and in the ensuing fight Josh had very nearly lost his cargo. Luckily his face had not been detected, so he could continue his campaign, but now he had Harry to worry over, another name added to his list of concerns. Joshua made sure Harry's feet remained solidly fixed. He didn't want her suspended, didn't want her feet to dangle, didn't want to force her onto her toes. He wanted her body taut so when he flexed his wrist and let the rattan go, the bamboo would strike the flesh brightly and snap immediately back without lingering and causing secondary damage. A clean whipping, no accidental tears in the flesh, no misdirected strokes, no permanent scars. Permanent scars! Good Lord! Was he actually going through with this? Would he actually take a rattan to Harry's flesh? Yes, for he had no other choice. She had not backed down, and neither would he. So that her upper torso would not shift, Joshua tied the cord off around the metal hook. And then squatting, he tied one well-turned ankle to the bottom of his bunk, the other to the base of his stacked chest so that her limbs were split. He could have tied her ankles together. He needn't have spread her open. Ankles together is a far more dignified pose for a woman. He tightened the cord until her thighs were as far apart as he could make them; humiliation was a

deterrent, especially to the female sex. At the arms draped, at the foot bound, spread-eagled in a standing position, she was secured. Only an arrogant man would fail to make sure. To test the restraints, Josh drew a shaky hand from her ankles up the outside of her legs, then back down. Her body remained taut. Still, so as not to neglect duty, he repeated the same motion on the inside of her legs, his eyes lifting moodily to the juncture of her body, to those sprightly red pubic curls. The separated folds no longer hid anything. The clitoris, plump and rosy pink, was right there for him to see, nestled at the top of the notch. Harry was no longer an innocent, no longer pure. And Josh wouldn't lie to himself, he hated she had sold the temple of her body to paying customers. He had wanted to be the only one to worship within. He had coveted that moist passage, dreamt about it, spilled his seed while masturbating to the memory of it. He had hungered for that tight, wet slit for seven damnable years. The lusty passion of her pussy--he'd wanted it to be his, and his alone. Exclusively. Why had she given what should have been his to countless other men? Flattened to her belly, he rubbed his sleepless, haggard face downward, until his cheekbone nested in her pubic hair. Wishing things might have been different between them, he wound his fingers into her soft curls and pulled upwards, until the lips of her sex met his mouth. He kissed it. Kissed her cunt deep and hard, sent his tongue up into it, found her clitoris and gave the nub his teeth. Cupping her pelvis with a palm, he spanned her womanhood, the opening to her body under the heel of his hand, his fingers encompassing the pudendum. She moaned, full out, a woman stretched to the limit of her endurance, a woman about to come. His cock lanced. Wet from his kiss, saturated with her own wanton juices, creamy with excitement, the lips of her sex already separated, he pushed a finger up and in, all the way in, as far as he could reach. He added two more digits, all the way in, as far as they would go. Three fingers in, the heel of his hand rubbing the opening, the thumb stroking the clitoris. Bound by the ropes, she started to writhe. Jaw raised, arms pulling against the overhead restraint, she was beautiful. Irresistible. He wanted to fuck her 'til she screamed. Withdrawing his touch from her vagina, he knelt behind her at eye-level with her seductive bottom. His man's temptation. Her ass. He drew his finger down the crevice, delved the crack, found the delicate hole, fingered the rim. "Oh, yes," she groaned, and her body snapped against the restraining ropes. "Do me just like that. I know that's what you need, what you want. You will never get it from your Quaker lady like you may have it from me." "Cease," he cautioned her, his erection hammering for release. He gave the puckering his attention. Mouth first--a deep kiss--followed by a finger penetration.

"Mmm," she purred. "I will need to get your hair out of the way of the rattan," he told her softly. Her red mass of hair had been stuffed under her woolen cap and now it was tousled and disarrayed, hanging well past her bottom. He started to collect the strands, curling tendril by curling tendril, the ache in his groin turned to a hot spike of agony that burned the length of his cock. Gone from her this last time a week, the time before that the same, his manhood had suffered the absence of sex, the emptiness of being without her. He had to have her now! Still, he persevered, doing what he must do, what must be done. Blasphemy to catch even a strand of that beautiful red hair in the switch! The rattan would slice through, severing the lock. What would it do to her flesh? Christ! Would Harry forever be his hell on earth? Swallowing again, harder this time, he collected the hair into two sections and brought them forward to drop over her shoulders in front. Now cleared of her woman's glory, his fingertips lingered on her nape, his gaze drifting lower. Her back! The elegant serpentine curves encased in the palest of silk, skin so much lighter and more finely textured than his. Had she never noticed the difference in color gradations between her translucent white skin and the opaque dark cast of his? Within him beat the blood of another continent, some bright hot land quite apart from the cooler clime of her ancestral origins. There was more than one heritage in his background. Did she not notice? Wonder? The time was not right for that discussion. Too caught up in primitive urges, the call to mate, the need to protect, the terrifying prospect of exacting punishment, he smoothed his palm downward over her spine, over to the womanly flare of hip; how he loved her curvaceous shape. Harry the thief. Harry the whore. Harry the feisty wench from the wharves. Front hole. Back hole. Both were his punishment. Both were his pleasure. She was the beginning and the end ... the cause of his everything. Including what portended to be a great loss of blood. For to deliver the most precise strokes possible when he flayed her rosy bottom, he would need to use his dominant arm, the very one the bounty hunter had injured, the one that even now bled fresh into the bandage. But Harry needed discipline. And he would always give Harry whatever it was she needed... He only hoped he didn't pass out first.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Three lengths of rope immobilized her body, but she could still do some tricks. For instance, she could tilt her pelvis, thereby bringing her buttocks up, an open, if vulgar invitation. Her disciplinarian groaned at the unsubtle summons. She laughed. "You know you want it that way." He palmed her bottom; she actually heard him swallow. Oh, he wanted it all right. She knew he did; already his thumb was at the crack. Another hoist of her hips. "Go on! Your chaste Quaker lady will not give you sodomy! But I will. Gladly." She went up on her toes, making it easier for him to engage her. His finger rubbed into her anus. "Mmm..." she murmured, a further enticement to end his reluctance. This time, she would fight for her man; this time, she would not let him sail away from her, into the arms of a lady who would give him ennui within the space of a day. "You want this," she coaxed. "Do not deny it." He didn't; he didn't say anything. But his magnificent cock, now released from his breeches, prodded her from the rear, the bulbous head wet with his excitement. "Send it into me hard, straight into the buttocks. Cock me good in the arse." His reprimand was irritatingly subdued. "Hush, girl. Don't say such wicked things." "You needn't play at being the gentleman with me, seaman! I know polite society bores you silly. And I disobeyed you, defied you, you need to discipline me. Best take the anal opportunity when it presents itself, for you will never get it from that devout lady you kissed upon the cheek, not even if you first say the holy words. Unnatural practices are frowned upon amongst the devout." "The Quaker lady has naught to do with this. This is between you and me." "Oh, it is, is it? Well, be that the case, I say give me what I deserve." "Harry," he warned, but his voice sounded uneasy, and she could tell he wanted to do it, wanted to exact punishment from her. Joshua had been angry with her for years; time for him to get that anger out of his system. His cock rubbed her deep. "That's right," she purred. "Go on. Do it. Your discipline feels so good. Too bad the Quaker lady will never do anything deserving of such punishment." "Damn your filthy mouth, and damn you for being a whore! I hate the thought of men touching you. You do deserve to be punished for selling your body, for disobeying me. You never did do what I told you to

do." "Punish me," she cooed. "It's the only way I will ever learn." "You whore," he raged. "How many men have you let have you? How many men have paid for your cunt, for your ass, for your deep throat?" You, she wanted to cry. Only you, Josh. But she kept her quiet, giving herself over to the punishment of loving him. He kneaded her belly, his fingers dragging through her pubic hair, clawing into the curls to get at her. Then his hand fisted, the knuckles of that fist pressing to her opening. She knew what he wanted "Do it," she urged. "I need it done." She panted as he breached her, not crying out against the pain, riding the wave of it as his folded fingers worked themselves into her vagina, knuckle by knuckle. "Would your fine Quaker lady allow you this, would she allow you to fist her?" "I would never ask it of her, " he growled, sounding not at all like the Joshua she had always known and loved; this Joshua sounded ... hard. Cruel. Destroyed. Was she destroying Josh? She didn't mean to! Destroying Josh was not her intent. She was fighting for him, the only way she knew how; with her body. Giving him what that prissy lady never would. Delegating the pain to some far off region of her mind, she snorted. "Ask me? You don't have to ask me for anything. You have only to name it, and it is yours!" "Because you're a whore. That's the difference between you and the Quaker lady." No, the difference was she loved him! No one would ever love this man like she loved him, she thought fiercely, keeping the tears back as his seaman's wide hand worked its way up inside her until it was all the way in.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

It was much later, night again. Between bouts of carnality, Joshua released Harry from bondage and let her rest on his cot. When darkness fell, he walked her naked outside on deck, to give her a breath of fresh air, to stretch her limbs ... to watch the breeze off the water blow her knotted hair.

A few minutes ago, he had re-tied her, and now his hardness rammed between her buttocks, prodding at the gate. As the pressure built around the head of his cock, he continued to push into her. He had spent much of the day readying her for this moment, stretching her, lulling her body's resistance. She was a whore, but he was a large man, and the sodomy could not be rushed. "Deep breath in now. Let it out slowly when you feel me enter," he said, kneading the slope of her bottom, gauging the relaxation of her muscles. Upon hearing the air fill her lungs, he began the entry, watching the head of his cock bury itself as Harry exhaled. No need to hurry, he made the breach carefully, as a gentlemen should when performing unnatural intercourse. He grunted, his mouth agape, his jaw raised, savoring the possession, but still rubbing her, still soothing her, still making sure she would get her pleasure too, the wail of her previous climaxes still humming in his ears. She had screamed like a banshee as she came, an orgasmic, high-pitched sound. He wanted to hear her cries of rapture split the air again and again. For him, only for him. He flexed his hips. Once. Enough to go deeper, to give her a taste of it; he was still just a mere fraction buried, the head totally in. She had started to pant, shallow nervous breaths, knowing it was too late to go back, feeling him there as he felt her surround him. A distinctive pop, and her body was drawing him in, easily in. He filled her, impaling with his thick man's flesh, until he was seated deep inside her buttocks, She gave a long sigh, her body accommodating the unsanctioned breech. No going back, too late to ever go back to what they could have had together, that sweet and innocent affection, that pure and meaningful devotion. It was too late. Harry was a whore, a lowly prostitute who allowed sodomy if the price was right. Evidently, the price had been right. Josh looked down to where their bodies were joined, a taboo connection a gentleman never speaks of, but about which all men secretly dream. His cock swallowed within those shapely buttocks, his mat of wiry black pubic hair flattened against the pale silk of her flesh, signifying she had taken everything he had to give, and that he had taken everything she had to give. The last bastion of the female reserve was his, completely his. He would never forget the dark thrill of this moment. "You are skilled at this, madam," he praised, in supreme satisfaction. Two hands on her hips, he pulled out, all the way out, only for the illicit sensation of entering her again. "Do you feel me stick you?" he gasped. "Do you understand how undeniably I am inside you?" She didn't honor the question with an answer, and he didn't expect she would. His was a question decency forbade a gentleman ever ask, but he had paid for the pleasure of asking it, and her realization of what he was doing to her was part of the price he had paid.

To think he'd once wished to wed her! To think she had once thought herself too good for the dark likes of him! To think that had he wed her, he would have missed out on this debauchery; no husband defiles a good wife, a woman he respects, in such a manner. But Harry wasn't his good wife, no man in his right mind could possibly respect a whore, and now that his cock was stuffed up in her hindquarters, she couldn't believe herself too good for the dark likes of him! She rode no high horse now. But he couldn't tell her so, he couldn't speak the poison that had festered inside him all these years; it was enough he knew that she was not too good for him now. Still, despite the bitterness eating at him, he was careful with her. She was daintily made in back and still virgin tight, though wholly receptive, wholly aroused. So aroused and so receptive to everything, he predicted it would be a long, lust-filled night before he had sated his little whore's appetite. "Mmm," she moaned, when he started to move. "Mmm. Oh, yes." "You like it?" "Oh, yes. It's lovely." Smiling, he glided in and out of her buttocks, as his lustful whore purred. Her bottom started to pump, meeting each of his invading strokes. She actually had the temerity to recklessly push back against his loins, trying to engage him deeper, thinking she would control this. Well, she was not in control here! "No, girl," he cautioned. Heedless of his warning, she continued to meet his strokes, mewing for him to go faster, harder, deeper. This, he would not allow. Call it vanity, call it pride, but it suited him to pleasure her. But she was very mistaken if she thought he would give her joint partnership in this. Regardless of his continued softness for her, he dared not encourage Harry's willfulness. She had always been too headstrong for her own good, and now more than ever, it was imperative she remain under his authority. To allow her an inroad into his thoughts, a free and equal sharing of his life, would imperil her and others. His cock still buried in her buttocks, he clamped his hands down atop her shoulders, pressing her down. Firmly. No room for compromise, no mistaking his word was law, letting her feel the weight of his authority. "Good girl," he praised, when she ceased struggling and submitted. "That's right," he whispered in her ear, his cock easing in and out of the cavity. "That's right. Take it. Just take it." She did. He should have done this long ago, he thought. Long ago, he should have managed her with a decisive discipline. That same long ago night he had taken her virginity, he should have had his ship captain wed them, regardless of her disinclination. He should have dragged her on board the whaler by the fiery hair on her head, and made his providing for her legal. He should have pulled her off her high horse, taken a switch to her hide, and put it to her just like this, so she would understand she was not too good for the

dark likes of him. Their lives would have been so different then. So different, he mused, his cum shooting up inside her anus as she sobbed out her woman's release.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The rattan had been put away in the cabinet, and Joshua was walking back toward her. "Are you all right?" he asked politely, pushing the hair from her eyes. What could she say? She didn't know if she would ever be all right again, ever the same again. That wild and impetuous hooligan she had once been, the one who ran free and wild along the docks, was forever gone now. She had come of age this morning. She was a woman now. Joshua's woman. She had always suspected that beneath the fond smiles and gentle touches, lurked a hard and dominant man, and she had been right on that score. After the second sodomy, he had whipped her soundly. And now--what could she say? She let a shrug serve as her answer. "You will have some bruising." The teeth marks ... the skin discoloration ... the stripes that must surely adorn her posterior were of no import; what mattered was refraining from begging for more of the same. Joshua was not the only person in this cabin to reveal his true nature this day. Harry loved the sea captain's brutally tender mastery, every pain and ache of it. He poured water into the basin on the stand above the commode, then dropped a cloth into the shallow water. "You need a wash." "I suppose I do," she said noncommittally, so much in love with this unforgiving man that she felt sick with it, leaden with it, despairing from the hopelessness of it, desperate to stay with him regardless of the cost to her pride. Joshua respected his Quaker lady, as he did not respect her. "Rain water," he specified. "Your skin is much too delicate for salt water, especially now." He touched a buttock. She bit her lip. Her bottom stung like the very dickens. She liked it. No, that was a lie. She loved it, loved what he had done to her. Loving it was her final humiliation.

She groaned when he licked her bottom cheeks, then kissed along the path of the rattan. He hadn't gone easy on her. The switch had flayed her skin. She hadn't asked for mercy, and he hadn't volunteered any. He had delivered five strokes, exactly as he said he would, all of them falling across the fullest part of her bottom. "You will recover quickly. These should heal quickly too," he said, and rubbed a hand across the point of each breast, back and forth. Her nipples were sore, swollen, bitten ... elongated with excitement ... and she gasped in pained pleasure. "Oh, yes. Just like that," she moaned, squirming against the restraints. "I need you to promise me you will not tell anyone about what you saw this morning. The Quaker lady's name cannot be linked with mine. You are to give me your solemn word, or this thing between us stops here." Her brow puckered. "Why?" "Because she is decent and kind, and I have no interest in wedding her, and that is what a lady like that expects and deserves." "You will never get in her drawers without vows." "I but kissed her cheek, girl!" he said in exasperation. "I have no desire to kiss her pussy. Yours is the only pussy I want my tongue up inside." Triumph! "You like kissing my pussy?" "Yes, I do. We are well matched in carnality. And I am not opposed to giving you what you need. My only regret is I didn't tie you up and whip you sooner." She laughed, impatient for the next time. Joshua had never lost his control before with her, but she felt the remnants of that lost control now on the inside of her buttocks. She was slippery with his intemperance. His semen gushed out of her in a viscid stream, a slick that coated the back of her thighs. She loved the decadent feel of his cum between her back cheeks, loved how he had thrust his cock into her buttocks as though he couldn't help himself. She had never felt so cherished as when he took her despite himself. "I guess we do get along well enough together. But I grant you, your lady is quite pretty." "Yes, she is pretty, but she is not my lady," he reproved her. "She is a friend, a good friend. And there is no need for jealousy. You are quite beautiful." His hand went between her thighs. "This is beautiful." His eyes wore a heavy-lidded look as his fingers rubbed her. "The lady dulls in comparison to your luster." A woman without pride, when his finger slipped into her opening, she pulled against the ropes and begged, "Please? I'll do anything you ask." Anything to stem the longing. She felt so empty without him. She was naked and bruised, her bottom seeping cum, and she wanted more of the same. "Give me your word you will not tell anyone what you saw here today."

"You have it! Now do me again." "Not yet," he answered. "If you behave yourself, I will give you what you need in a while." A while was too long to wait. There was a terrible pleasure in what he was doing to her, a shameful pleasure. She was hung from the ceiling like a slab of venison on the hook. Naked and splayed, she had never felt so undefended or so powerless. Modesty had never governed her; still, the positioning of her body exposed her in a fashion no woman wishes to be exposed. With her legs spread wide, her openings--both back and front--fully revealed, she felt like her whole being was situated in her cunny, between her buttocks. He knew it too, for he slipped two fingers up inside her back passage too, to give her relief there as well. He had kissed her genitals and anus like some gentlemen kiss a woman's mouth, and probably with more enthusiasm, as though he couldn't get enough of tasting her. She would die if she didn't have him again. Her breasts bounced in rhythm to the manipulations of his fingers, faster and faster. "I bought you plugs in a gentlemen's club on this past voyage. They're a very pretty jade. I would like you to start wearing them." Whore plugs. Of course. "Fine," she said through clenched teeth. She would agree to wear a leather dog collar around her neck, so long as he filled her. "The wash comes first." His touch was removed. With Josh, duty always comes before pleasure. "Damn you!" "Temper, temper, my dear." Picking up a cloth he had left to soak, he squeezed it, dribbling water over her shoulders. The warm rivulet raced down her breasts, dripped off the tips. "Oh, God," she moaned, her eyes closing against the sensual torture. Next he cleansed her vagina with the warm cloth, gently opening the folds to rinse away the honey of her lust. "My fist is large--did its size discomfort you?" he asked. "No," she lied. Childbirth would have been easier than accommodating his massive fist, but she had done it. She had given him what he wanted, and that's all that mattered--her pleasured pain was but a secondary reward. As Joshua had shaped her life in the past, so he continued to shape her life now. She was a woman who took money for the use of her body. That use included sodomy. With that

acceptance, guilt died and excruciating pleasure reigned. And so when Josh had asked the fateful question, his voice thick with need, "Can you take it again, the same way?" Shameless in her love for him, she had given him her swift agreement. Sodomy or missionary, the form the lovemaking took mattered very little to her. What mattered was that hoarse need in his voice. Joshua needed her! Only her body, naturally. Still, never before had the independent, self-reliant, damned selfless Joshua, ever needed anything from her. She had always been the needy one. And when he sodomized her for the second time, so transparently soon after the first, she knew his need was her triumph. Now he walked behind her again... Only to place a compress on her backside. "The flesh is reddened, but I didn't break the skin," he told her. "There are ... raised welts." He tracked one with a finger, the same path his mouth had taken. "You took it well. Like you were born to it." Because of the second astounding orgasm she had experienced with the sodomy, she had felt very little straight pain. Is that why Joshua had used the switch directly after her climax, to reduce the sting of the rattan? Most likely. He was the very definition of consideration. "We must start practicing more care," he said, coming around front again and tenderly circling the lips of her vulva. "I won't chance conception." "Because I'm a whore?" "No, because I'm a bastard myself, and of unspecified origins." "You are who you are, Joshua Kane, as I am who I am." "A mongrel bastard and a fallen angel-whore. What a rare combination." His circling finger dropped away. "Where are my manners? You must be famished. What delicacies have you in that basket you brought me?" He left her to investigate the small captain's table set off to the side in a corner of the cabin. "My, doesn't this look good," he said, raising the basket lid. Taking a china plate from dish cupboard, he made up a plate, carrying it back to her. He fed her, exclaiming over each tasty tidbit that went in her mouth, saying such foolishness as, "Yummy! "And, "Doesn't this make your taste buds sit up and beg?" She didn't taste the food she had labored over for hours, selecting only the finest and freshest of ingredients--sailors at sea for any length of time soon develop a craving for the greens of vegetables and the citrus of fruit, both of which she had included in her menu's selection--but she did lick his fingers with every morsel he fed to her, her tongue lathing his dark skin, up to the buttoned cuff of his pristine white shirt. His gaze dropped to her parted thighs. The visual excited men, a lesson Ruby had taught her long ago, and so she knew her splayed and tied body aroused her disciplinarian. Joshua wanted her again...

Or rather, he wished to make use of her body again. His vigorous appetite for sex both elated her and filled her with dread; men have been known to substitute an attainable woman for one who is not, thereby saving the chastity of a lady they hope to marry. Wed a lady, bed a whore. It was a time-honored tradition. She fell into the latter category, the Quaker lady into the former. She broached the subject that had preyed on her mind, as his hooded eyes broached her. "Where did you really go this past week?" "The Grand Banks," he said, giving her the same stock answer as Peggy, who was also a terrible liar. "I would like honesty between us." "A gentleman gives his mistress as much honesty as he can." Her brows raised. "Oh, is that what I am now? Not your whore, your mistress? A promotion, I gather. Well, I think I should just as soon remain as I was, if you don't mind. Gentlemen talk more freely with a whore." "You prefer whoring to what I have offered you?" he exploded. "What have you offered me? Only financial compensation! I tell you this, sir; I would much prefer to remain a whore, than have an untruthful relationship." "Some women do prefer the whoring life. If that's what you need, you can get it from me as well as from anyone else. Are you done with your meal?" "Yes." "Good." "Are you done with me?" "No." "Good." He loosed her from the ties. "Let's try a bed this time, shall we?" "Sound idea that, and what say you to an adventure a little more daring? "More d-d-daring?" he said hoarsely, and in a comical move, teetered backwards, clutching his upper arm and shoulder, as though mortally wounded. Evidently, her lover was in need of convincing... When she finished her argument, cum clung to the points of her breasts. She scooped her winnings up and deposited the product of his man's lust into her mouth, sucking her finger vigorously to remove every last bit. She grinned. "You know, Cap'n, I rather liked that." She could tell he did too, despite his protests to the

contrary. "Are you up for another go 'round?" The sea captain's face took on an appalled expression. Green around the gills, he swayed, groaned, gasped, "Harry, Harry, you're killing me, Harry!" Before she could catch him, he collapsed at her feet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Harry sprang like a gazelle for Josh, her ear pressed at his chest. He was still breathing, though shallowly. What was wrong? Why had he collapsed? Her gaze surveyed him. Joshua's skin usually sported a seaman's perpetual tan, but his face was pallid now. And his lips! They were bluish and pinched. Perspiration dotted his forehead. And he was cold, clammy, unnaturally still. Thinking to shake him awake, she grabbed his shoulders, then slipped her hands to his upper arms. He winced, groaned in pain. Was that blood on his sleeve? My God! It was blood. Her fingers were coated with crimson. Joshua was bleeding. Profusely. She attacked his shirt, her hands moving frantically over the buttons, ripping them off in her haste. His arm was hurt, bleeding; she could see that now. But what had done the damage? A bullet? Please, no! Not a bullet. When she had the shirt off, she jumped to her feet for the drying linen. Wadding it up, she used it to staunch the blood flow so she could see the source of the problem... Not a bullet! A clean slash, deep enough to require stitches, but not so severe that she couldn't handle it herself, with the help of the sea captain's medicine chest. She scrambled to get the wooden box. Opening the double-hung doors on the front, she saw an assortment of small drawers, inside of which were tinctures, cures for all manner of illnesses. The box also contained aids for surgery. After forcing a swallow of laudanum down Josh's throat--to keep him out while she stitched him up--she proceeded to clean the wound with water. Finally, as a precaution against the fever that often followed stitching, she poured whiskey over the gaping wound. Needle threaded, she seamed the slashed flesh. After the stitches were tied off, she cut the leftover

thread with her teeth and replaced the bloodied bandage. The patient belonged at home in his own bed, away from the damp of the wharves. But out cold on laudanum, Josh was dead weight, far too heavy for her to move on her own. Surely his carriage would arrive soon to pick him up and drive him back to the mansion--the sea captain must have informed Andrew of his arrival! She would simply wait for Peggy's husband to help her move him. Harry covered the sea captain up to the chin to keep him warm, then drew the dark privacy curtain around the bunk to keep out the damp ocean breezes. That accomplished, she searched out her own clothes in anticipation of the carriage's arrival. She was shrugging into her shirt when she heard footsteps outside the cabin. Andrew! She raced to let him in. And came face to face with a stranger. The man tipped his hat. "Name's Dan Green, ma'am, and I'm looking for the sea captain of this here vessel--Captain Joshua Kane." "Why?" she asked, boldly, something in the stranger's attitude making her wary. "I hear tell this schooner came up from down south, ma'am, and I sure would like to ask the captain a friendly question or two about some runaway slaves escaped from a plantation in Atlanta." Dan Green was a bounty hunter! Harry could smell the reek of dirty reward money emanating from his pores. "I've procured me a process to catch those runaways," Green continued, "and I almost caught one carrying a thousand-dollar reward on his head, when a lawbreaker interceded on his behalf. I took a knife to him, and that should've slowed him down a mite. I 'spect to find him real soon, and when I do, I'm turning him over to the Marshall for aiding and abetting fugitives." A chill ran down Harry's spine. Joshua! He had a knife wound on his arm--had he saved those slaves? Keeping her expression carefully composed so as not to betray her fear, Harry asked, "What does any of this have to do with Captain Kane?" "Well, ma'am, seeing this schooner just pulled into port from down south, I'm wondering if the captain might have seen that dockside scuffle." "Captain Kane is not here right now, but I will certainly relay the information upon his return" "You might tell the captain, ma'am, that the man I'm looking for has got to be favoring his arm. Bleeding like a stuck pig too, if'n he hasn't seen a doc." "I will." She smiled. The bounty hunter eyed her partially open shirt. "So--you know the cap'n real well, do you?" "Well enough." "You his woman?"

"His whore," she corrected. "I traveled with him to Atlanta, and kept him so well-occupied in port, that I know he couldn't have seen anything." "Do tell?" "Yes. Captain Kane was with me the whole time." "I reckon I sure would like to ask him a few questions anyway, just in case. If you don't mind, I think I'll stick around inside the cabin for a spell..." The cabin was dark, and she had covered Josh up well, encircled his bunk with the sleeping curtain. The bloody water in the basin, the linen she had used to staunch the wound, and the medical box were all inside the bed enclosure. "By all means." She tossed her head and smiled, let her shirt loosen, until the upper slopes of her breasts were revealed. "Mr. Green, I wore Captain Kane out that last night in port before we set sail, and so I know he won't be looking to get any today, and so as it happens, I'm between customers--" "Do tell?" The repulsive bounty hunter leered inside her gaping shirt. "Yes, I do tell. Not that a virile and handsome man like yourself would ever need to pay for it, but if you're interested in a quick diddle, I'm available right now." She winked at the bulge forming in his breeches. "Considering the size of that pleasure rod, I'll give you a reduced rate." The bounty hunter thumbed his jaw. "I've always had a hankering for redheaded fillies--that hair is natural, ain't it, honey?" "Yes." "Think you could show me some proof?" Feeling like she could easily retch, Harry unbuttoned the shirt and opened it wide. The slave catcher's eyes dipped to the center of her body. "That sure is a red beaver you got yourself there, sugar," he said, and gave her a cocky grin, sure of his appeal to the ladies. Harry had all to do to breathe the same air as the bounty hunter, and here she was about to trade her body for Joshua's safety. For if the man she loved awakened, groaned, made some sound, he would give himself away. She was so proud of him! To think Joshua had interceded on the behalf of a runaway slave! That's what his knife wound was about; he had stepped in and saved another human being from a certain return to slavery, and by doing so, had placed himself in jeopardy. If his intercession was found out, Joshua would be fined, sent to jail, his reputation would be lost. Putting those concerns aside, he had risked everything so another might live free. Any sacrifice she made dimmed in comparison... Harry dropped her shirt to the floor. "You've got a great set of jugs on you, sugar," the slave catcher said, grabbing one.

"I'm so happy you think so, Dan," she replied evenly, feeling the bile rise in her throat. She fought it down as his hands moved between her legs. This bounty hunter would never touch the heart of her; her love belonged solely to Joshua and that love would remain inviolate, regardless of what this coyote did to her... Though tolerating his hands would have been easier, had he been toad-ugly and monster-repulsive. Dan Green was neither. In fact, he was good looking. But inside, he was loathsome. Anyone who would hunt down another human being for profit, defiled his own humanity. "Not here," she said quickly, when he one-handed the front of his trousers. "Let's go to the first mate's cabin." "And you're sure this Captain Kane was with you the whole time you were in Atlanta?" "Why would any man leave my side to walk the wharves at night?" she asked, taking his hand and leading him out of the cabin, away from Joshua.

****

"Here," Andrew said, propping him up to a sit. "Let me help you to your feet, sir." Josh felt woozy, like he had been drugged. Tongue thick on the words, he asked, "Harry? Where's Harry?" "You mean Mrs. Smith?" "Right," Josh said, holding onto the bed stand. Why was the deck pitching under his feet? "Her! I found the slut downstairs, naked on her knees before a man's rigging. Looked like she was about to blow his sails, when in I walked and interrupted. I ordered him off the ship. Your housekeeper is getting dressed, away from my sight. Disgusting bitch, going off with a gent and leaving you here alone to bleed to death, by the looks of things." "Harry naked with another man?" "Saw her with my own eyes. She sure hoodwinked me. Despite her whoring reputation, I took her for a decent woman. Wrong! Any woman goes off with one man, while another man is lying injured in the next cabin over, is no good in my estimation." Andrew looked behind him. "Here she is now." Harry rushed into the room. "Are you all right?" Joshua's eyes narrowed on her nudity, on her passion-bruised mouth, on the enormous nipples he had not recently provoked. She didn't try to hide her nakedness from his driver, the true sign of a woman beyond redemption. Harry was a born harlot, and Joshua had to face up to that fact. "Andrew, would you be good enough to wait up on deck? I have something I need to discuss with Mrs. Smith in private." "Very good, sir." His driver fled the cabin.

"Is it true? Did you off with another man after I had passed out?" "Yes." She straightened her shoulders. "But there were precipitating factors. Please--if you would but hear me out--let me explain..." He shook his head. "Did you stitch me up?" "You were bleeding. There was no one else..." "Thank you." Josh took a deep breath. It hurt like hell to fill his lungs, but he had to do something to refrain from backhanding her across those succulent lips, from striking that contrary mouth. The urge to strike back against her unfaithfulness had him in its black grip. He fought the urge. A man never hits a woman, even when provoked. The rattan. The spanking. Those were methods of controlled discipline ... erotic domination. What he felt now was an out-of-control need to hurt her as she had hurt him. He would not give into it. "I knew you were a whore, Harry. You are merely staying true to form. I had only deluded myself into believing we could take this arrangement to a new level. I see now we cannot." "If you would but let me explain!" "Silence!" he shouted, trembling with weakness. "You have my gratitude for seeing to my care. But henceforth, I would prefer you keep to a different bedchamber." She straightened her shoulders. "Very well. I will take the chamber next to yours. You may yet develop a fever." "Thank you for your concern, but Andrew will handle my care here on out." He surveyed her wanton nudity. "Kindly dress, then meet me in the carriage for the ride back to the mansion." Turning on his heel, Joshua walked slowly away from Harry.

CHAPTER THIRTY

During his convalescence, Joshua had left instructions with Andrew to bar Harry from his bedchamber. Tricky creature that she was, the little whore managed to sneak past his man several times, knocking at the locked door, inquiring as to his health through the keyhole. He always turned her away.

A fortnight later, Joshua was up and about, fully recovered. He was taking a stroll in the gardens one sunny afternoon, when Kouadjo came rushing toward him. "Letter for you from the Quaker lady, Cap'n," the wizened seaman said, untucking the missive from his sleeve. Kouadjo was the first man Joshua had helped escape the bonds of slavery. In a turnabout, rather than take the train to Canada, Kouadjo had refused his ticket, adamantly insisting to go to work for him instead. Ever since, the wizened African had acted as Josh's shadow, never letting his former sea captain out of his sight for any longer than it took him to take a hot piss in the cold Pacific. Kouadjo was one of the reasons Josh had to be careful; the man was still in danger of recapture, and if Joshua's link to the Underground Railroad were found out, the runaway slave would be sent back to the southern plantation from whence he had escaped. A horrific possibility. As the letter passed to dark hand from darker hand, Kouadjo's dignity and courage in the face of an uncertain future filled Josh with awe. "Cap'n, you are needed. There are passengers who seek a way station on their trip. They ask for your help." "Since you always read these letters from Emma Howland first, why not save a step and simply relate the contents?" While Kouadjo shrugged and grinned, Josh removed the sheet of paper from the unsealed envelope. Without glancing at the words, he asked, "So--when am I needed, mate?" "Two days hence," his friend replied.

****

Harry was on hands and knees scrubbing boot traffic from the hall, when he arrived home later that afternoon. "Good day to you madam," he said, taking his hat in hand. Harry looked up from her sudsy water, wiped her hands on her apron. "How are you?" "Most excellent." Josh could see that the same could not be said of her. Harry looked ill--exhaustion etched her features, blue shadows smudged her sunken eyes, a gray pallor muddied her normally healthy complexion. Her wan appearance taking him aback, he stuttered out, "W-w-what ails you? And get off your hands and knees, dammit!" Not trusting himself to touch her, not in any way, he stood back to give her room but did not help her rise.

Harry remained on her knees, making no attempt to gain her feet. "If I left here, sir, would you think to look?" "What foolishness is this? You are not leaving here! Absolutely, you are not! I would hunt you down and bring you back. You owe me, girl," he blustered. "No, I am not leaving. You need me too much for me to take off like a thief in the night!" "And you would know about that circumstance." She said, a weary note creeping into her voice, "Mine is but a hypothetical question, but I would appreciate an honest reply." "Well I suppose ... I don't know..." He raked a hand through his hair; the idea of her leaving had left him so nonplussed, that he was at a loss to get two thoughts together. He tried again. "I would look everywhere for you--every whore house and brothel in New Bedford and Boston. New York, as well, in case you thought to ply your profession there." She laughed. "You never thought, even for a minute, did you, that I might seek out honest employment?" "No," he said baldly, now standing over her as she knelt on the floor, scrub brush in hand, apron covering a faded dark gown. "You are a whore and whoring is what a woman like you does. Why would I have looked anyplace else?" "I hoped that you would have given me the benefit of the doubt," she offered as a ridiculous argument. "Seven years ago when I sailed from port, I left you a bag of money. You never spent it on your support. Instead, you chose to become a whore." She jumped to her feet, raced for his study. He followed in pursuit. "Where do you think you are going, girl?" A small velvet bag was tossed at him from his sea captain's desk. "There! I left that for you this morning." "I just this moment returned," he said defensively, upending the bag's contents onto his desktop. He stared at the pile of gold coins. "What's this?" "Every last gold coin you paid me seven years ago for my maidenhead! If I had accepted that money, I would most certainly have been a whore. But I am not a whore, save to you. I have been enslaved to you all my life!" "There are no slaves in all of New Bedford," he said, haughtily, self-righteously, indignant that of all faces, she should throw the issue of enslavement at his own dark one. "Your very own Quaker father taught me that slavery is an abomination. No man may enslave another."

"Fine sentiment, yet I wear your brand of ownership." He said, discomforted, "That is not at all the same. You entered a financial arrangement, and of your own free will. You could have refused the tattoo the same as you could have refused me. You are only vexed because I refused you the dragon." "A nautical knot is how you mark your acquisitions." "A lot you know about knots," he mumbled under his breath. She walked away from him. "A lot you know about me!" Like a madman, he hollered after her. "You went off with a man aboard my own schooner! You were about to take a stranger down your throat." "His name is Dan Green, and he is a slave catcher, and I pray to God he remains a stranger to you, sir." And with that she slammed out of his study and stomped up the staircase, her revelation leaving him too revolted to move. At the thought of Harry servicing a slave catcher, Joshua heaved the contents of his belly into the spittoon kept beside his desk for the convenience of his tobacco-chewing business associates.

****

Through her open bedchamber window Harry heard voices coming from the gardens--a man's voice, a woman's voice, Joshua Kane's brusque sea captain's voice. Surrounded by a wall that kept out the noises and prying eyes of the street, the gardens were Joshua's own private retreat. Save for the handful of guests that night of his party, he never brought visitors to the gardens... Curious, she went to the sill and peeked over. The man and woman to whom Joshua spoke were runaway slaves. She felt it in her belly, knew it in her soul; this was no freeman and his wife scurrying after Josh's coattails. Their furtive and hunted looks gave their fear away. When the sea captain led the couple to the little garden house and locked the door latch behind them, Harry knew for sure that the shed served a more noble purpose than the storing of honey; that little garden house was a way station in New Bedford's active Underground Railroad. It was no accidental happenstance that Joshua had interceded in Atlanta on behalf of an escaping slave. He must regularly transport slaves on the first leg of their trip north. That's what his errand in Boston had been all about. He had escorted that young lad through to Niagara Falls, a common route for fleeing slaves on their journey to freedom in Canada. Captain Joshua Kane was more than a philosophical abolitionist; he was an activist against slavery. Her heart swelled with pride. Her heart quaked with fear. And as soon as he returned to the house, she would tell her hero she wished to be his helpmate, to do anything she might to support his cause. She would tell Captain Joshua Kane what pride had prevented

her from telling him before, that she loved him with all her heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

"Good day to you, Emma Howland," Joshua said with a dip at the waist. "A good day to thee as well, Joshua Kane." The Quaker lady smiled softly, her voice as gentle as her face. "I have come for the two passengers in need of transportation to the train station." "The schedule for the departure was suddenly changed, thus the need for a daylight transport," he whispered. "I did wonder about the change of plans. When does the train leave?" "At dusk. From Lexington." Offering the good woman his arm, and saying loud enough for anyone passing along the cobblestone street to overhear, "Won't you come walk with me in my garden? The roses are in bloom and I would dearly love to show them to you." Before turning away, Emma called up to her driver, "Samuel Lewis, would thee kindly bring the horse and buggy around back? Joshua Kane has graciously invited me to see his flowers. Afterwards, I will leave that way. We shouldn't be too long." His lovely guest turned back to him. "Shall we go?" Once behind the garden walls, straightaway, the lady commenced to sneeze. She always did; flowers, bless her good heart, were Emma Howland's bane. "God bless you," he said, and meant it. Her smile was radiant. "He already has. Now show me to these train passengers, Joshua Kane." "Be careful on this trip, Emma," he said, opening the door to the garden shed. "These are dangerous times." Emma peeked in at the two fugitive slaves she would transport to Lexington. "Know thee is safe," she said twice, to allay each of the runaways' fears. "My rig is through the hedge. Watch for the break in the greenery. You will hide in the wagon, under the canvas sail in need of mending. My driver will show you." After the fleeing slaves had departed, Josh turned to the social activist who had quietly practiced civil disobedience, for as long as he'd had the pleasure of knowing her. "Godspeed," he said quietly, kissing her cheek, as was their custom of long standing. Suddenly, the Quaker's eyes changed, as though transformed by the Inner Light Friends always strove to achieve.

Joshua wasn't a Quaker but he quaked in his boots then, for some said it wasn't faith at all that allowed Emma Howland to see into besieged hearts and minds; some said Emma Howland had been born with the gift of second sight, a sort of empathy that could heal troubled souls. "Believe her!" she ordered. "Pardon?" He asked, though Josh knew exactly to whom Emma referred. "She who thee doubts, she who has lost her Quaker faith--believe her! Do not let vanity stand in the way of seeing what is true." Josh was stunned, so shaken that for an instant he could not speak. How could he relate to this spiritual lady the horrible secret he carried within his breast about Harry? This was neither the time nor the place for that discussion. Not that this would ever stop the Quaker lady; she brought the light into dark areas regardless of the inconvenience to herself or to others. Josh gathered his wits about him. "Emma Howland, I am not plain, but neither am I vain!" he said in his own defense. "And you have a train to catch." She touched his face. "Joshua Kane, thee are a good man. Thee will find the true way if thee but look in the right direction." And then Emma was slipping through the break in the greenery, leaving him alone with the havoc of his thoughts. Did Emma mean his true way was Harry? No! Emma could not possibly mean that. Or if she did, for once the lady who saw too much was mistaken! The way for him had never been Harry. He was turning back toward the house, his eyes seeking the recently occupied upstairs servant's bedchamber, when he saw the bees. Loosed , they swarmed in a thick buzzing cloud through the gardens. Bees only swarmed in agitation when their hive was disturbed. His gaze darted for the apiary. Someone had toppled it over. Who? Why? What random act of maliciousness had caused the apiary to topple? And more importantly, where was the culprit now? An instant later, he saw Harry backed against a tree. A moment after that, he discerned a stranger, an intruder who had no business being in his secluded garden, scaling the wall to the street, trying to make his escape, an angry army of bees attacking. For Josh, there was no decision to be made: He let the man go, in favor of stalking to Harry. "An assignation with a lover in my own gardens!" he exploded, unmindful of the swarming bees. For how else to explain the presence of this stranger, this intruder who violated the serenity of his walled retreat, but

that he was there to rendezvous with his wayward acquisition "Josh, it wasn't like that. There was no assignation, no lover! Please, let me explain," she cried, clutching her ripped gown together, the buzz of angry bees around her competing with the angry buzz inside his own head. "Explain!" he shouted, his gaze narrowed on her exposed breasts. "What is there to explain? That man had his hands all over you. I can see the red welts of his love bites on your throat!" "There is no other man. There was never another man. Only you. I have always been faithful to you," she said almost incoherently, as sobs wracked her body. "Faithfulness!" he scoffed. "What does a whore know of faithfulness?" "I speak the truth," she cried. "Don't speak to me of truth, you lying bitch!" "Oh, God," she screamed, tearing at her hair "The stinging. Please, Josh! Make the hurting stop!" He threw back his head and laughed at her supposed hurt. "You love your pain, madam. You crave the sting of it..." It wasn't until her eyes rolled back in her head and Harry fell to the ground that he noticed the bees. They had somehow managed to get trapped under the fall of her red hair. "Christ no!" Dropping to his knees beside her, he scooped up handfuls of wet garden soil.. Plastering it to her nape, her throat, her face to ease the painful swellings, Josh picked Harry up in his arms and ran for the house, the bees trailing them every step of the way.

****

"You did a fine job extracting the stingers, Captain Kane," the doctor told him. "All things considered, I would say the patient is a fortunate woman. No breathing problems are apparent. Other than the swellings, there appears to be no serious harm done." Joshua stopped his pacing outside the bedchamber door. "Thank God." "I must tell you, though, she is suffering from what I would say is chronic exhaustion. It looks to me as though your housekeeper has been overworked for quite some time." "The lady is not my housekeeper." The doctor looked at him over his spectacles. "But Mrs. Smith was installed in the servant's bedchamber." "A mistake on my part. A miscarriage of justice, and not the only one for which I am fully responsible." Josh took a deep breath. "Thank you, Doctor. Peggy will see you out."

Turning on his heel, Joshua raced in to see Harry. There was a truth too long delayed in telling. She was sitting up in the narrow servant's bed when he strode toward her. "The doctor tells me you will be fine." She seemed disinterested in the prognosis. As if her well-being were of no import, she said, "Joshua, it wasn't as it looked. That man wasn't in the garden to see me." He brushed her explanation aside. "I don't care how it looks. I forgive you." "P-pardon?" "I forgive you all," he said prepared to be generous "A person cannot be blamed for their nature." "You arrogant jackass! You pompous boob. You pretentious dolt. You conceited peacock! If you expect gratitude for your trite magnanimousness, you know me even less than I think you do!" "W-w-what?" "I said, stuff your damn forgiveness up your arse!" She rose from the bed, a beautiful if swollen virago, the bee sting welts red enough to match her hair and flaring temper. "I may not be a paragon of virtue like your Quaker lady, but I demand to help you too!" "Help me? How would I ever have need of your help? I think the shoe is on the other foot here, madam. You are in grave need of someone to look out for you. Which is why I think we should wed, regardless of your unfaithfulness..." "Wed! From whore to wife in one breath. Are you completely mad? I have managed fine all these years without a husband." "Ha! Only because you had men to protect you." "I need no man to protect me. And how many times must I tell you? There have been no other men!" "I know for a fact you worked at Ruby's. Why, you told me so yourself, and in graphic detail." Who could forget her lewd reference to flagellation? "I worked in Miss Ruby's kitchen. As her scullery maid and as her apprentice cook. In exchange, she gave me lessons in seduction." "There you have it! You learned a whore's tricks." "I did, for you. Because I had disappointed you in bed, and I wished to learn to please you. So you wouldn't leave me, never to return. But you left me anyway, without a word of goodbye. I was quite bereft." The guilt inside could no longer be contained. Harry spoke the truth, the truth that deep in his heart he had known all along: she was the wounded party here, not him. He was in need of her forgiveness, not the other way round. To protect himself, and what he had done, he had refused to see the light, and

admit all blame belonged to him. His reprehensible actions that night in the brothel assigned the culpability of everything that came after directly on his head. All the words exchanged, all the hateful words! Harry had every reason for her epithets; he had no such excuse. He was older and experienced; she was neither. He should have taken care! He should have cherished her sweet innocence instead of treating her like a ... like a whore! "Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I raped you that night..." She held up her hand. "Oh, we end this nonsense right here! You cannot rape the willing. I planned that seduction, and then backed out at the very last moment, leaving you high and dry. I was prepared to trap you into returning to me, but I had not the sufficient information as to how the task was accomplished. And so I disappointed you." Her chin fell. He picked up her fallen chin, looked directly into her eyes. "I am all the names you called me and more, but I swear you have never disappointed me, particularly not in bed! You are a fair tigress in bed." "Oh, sure, I am now," she preened, gone from despair to a boast in the blink of an eye. "But not then. Back then I was a silly and nervous twit, with half-arsed ideas about what men and women do together. And you were so very large and forceful..." She grinned. "I do so enjoy your forcefulness." "How can you smile? I raped you, and afterwards, like a craven coward, I couldn't face you. That's why I didn't come 'round and say goodbye. I was ashamed, you see. I had treated you with such little reverence when I worshiped at your feet." Ignoring his heartfelt declaration, she gave her head a brisk, business-like nod. "I wish you to know that I have never lain with another man, not for money or for anything else. I wish you to know that you have been the only man. Not that I have not had my share of propositions, you understand, because I have. Why do you think my last employer had it in for me?" She answered her own question. "Because I turned him down flat, is why. That is not to say that I didn't steal from the silverware drawer on the way out the door, for to even the score with the lecher, I certainly did relieve him of some knives. A fine set of cutlery it was too, but I never stole any jewelry. "And that man on the schooner, that slave catcher, Dan Green? I must make a clean breast to you--I wish you to know that I would have taken his rotting cock in my mouth. I am not a paragon of virtue like your Quaker lady. I am a pragmatist who does what must be done to survive, to enable those I love the same opportunity. The world can be a harsh place, Joshua Kane, and only the strong survive. You need me!" She wove on her feet. He caught her under the arm, supporting her with all his strength. "Do not tax your health, girl." "I am strong! And you need my strength, my cunning, my fast thinking. I can protect you. That man in the garden was Dan Green, the bounty hunter. As of right now, today, he only suspects you of aiding fugitive slaves. But who knows what the morrow will bring? You are in desperate need of someone to watch your back. If you continue as you have been doing, you will be caught for sure." "You speak nonsense. Must be all those stings you took to the head..."

She laughed. "You pigheaded lout! My childish opinion of you was correct. You, Captain Joshua Kane, are a fuck'n hero, and I want in on this Underground Railroad." "Un-underground what?" "You were wounded by that bounty hunter's knife in Atlanta while aiding and abetting fugitive slaves. Your damn garden shed is a way station for escaping slaves. Do not think me a fool." His eyes narrowed. "The apiary?" "I tipped it to let loose the bees." He grinned. "That was my intent when situating it on the path on the way to the garden shed. Had I not been otherwise occupied, I would have done the same thing myself." She snorted. "Otherwise occupied indeed! You were too busy kissing the cheek of the Quaker lady to notice. You certainly are taken with her." "I am only taken with you," he said solemnly. "A marriage between us is dangerous, my skin tone makes it so. There will be questions, especially now when there is a war looming on the horizon. People will be called upon to choose sides on the slavery issue." "I stand by your side. But there is no need to wed me for that." "My life is ... complicated. If you stand too close, you may get hurt. I couldn't bear it if you were ever hurt." "I am not afraid, Joshua Kane. Do not denigrate me by offering me a protection I never asked for, and which is overzealous at best, and stagnating at worst. See me as I am, before it is too late for us," she cried. "I went to Ruby's to learn how to seduce you. I failed you as a woman, and I vowed never to fail you that way ever again. I lusted after you as a silly and ignorant maiden, and I lust after you all the more now as a woman, but if you refuse to trust me, to let me into your life, to aid you in your work, I will be the one who leaves you this time." "I never left you! Not the way you mean." "You left me as I always feared that you would, and you never even said goodbye. You always left me." She doubled over, her arms around her middle. Christ! What had he done? "I needed to provide for you..." "You needed to rid yourself of a child who couldn't satisfy you in bed." He took her in his arms. She fought him, but he held her close despite the blows she landed. What was he to do? This going round and round resolved nothing. He needed her to accept what he had done, and grant him pardon! How could he go on otherwise? But they just kept going around in a circle! A circle has no beginning, no ending, no resolution! And maybe that was the truth, the path he needed to follow, not a straight line at all towards forgiveness, but a circuitous path that began and ended in the same place. With her, only and always, with her.

"I love you, Harry. I always have loved you. I will love you to the day I draw my last breath. Since you toddled the wharves after me, I have loved no other but you. Now simmer down before you make yourself ill." She yanked away; he let her go--but not too far. "You wish to take that Quaker to wife," she grumbled, the fight not gone out of her yet. "I saw your devotion to her. I cannot be like that godly woman. I cannot do it," she said fitfully. "And who asked you to be like anyone else but yourself? Listen to me, girl, and listen to me good--I will never wed another if I cannot wed you. That tattoo you wear is called an anti-gallican hitch. It's a knot that cannot be untied; only cutting through the heart of it will sever the connection. Do you see, Harry? This is how I feel for you--only death will cut me from you. I will love you always. Say you will be my wife." She blinked. "You l-l-love me?" He swallowed his pride. He couldn't give Harry all that he longed to give her, but he would give her all that he had to give. "Regardless of my skin color, irrespective of where my people hale, with everything that makes me a man, I love you." "And I love you the same, with everything that makes me a woman. And I will wed you based on that reason and no other. So long as you promise never to pat me again on the head," she said tremulously, allowing him to see her tears as she turned into his waiting arms.

THE END

About the Author:

Louisa Trent is happiest writing and so she writes all the time, even when the veggies are in need of peeling and the dust bunnies are in need of vacuuming. When she was far too young to contemplate anything as serious as marriage, she snatched up a boy with a sense of humor and led him right to the altar. Somewhere along the way, she picked up a couple of academic degrees which she uses each and every day, though certainly not in the way she intended to use them. Blessed with three funny sons and a husband who still makes her giggle, she lives in a quaint New England town in a messy home surrounded by flowers and laughter.

Visit Louisa's website at: http://www.louisatrent.com Email Louisa at:

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Bittersweet -- Louisa Trent

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