The Northern Devil Page 19

  She crooned his name and encouraged him again with the same stroke, gliding her palm over him.

  He was sweating fiercely, as red and flushed as though he’d been shoveling coals into a roaring furnace instead of wading through snowdrifts at the top of the Rockies. “What the devil are you thinking of, Rachel?”

  “I’ve never watched you closely, Lucas,” she mused, still fondling him, still watching her hand sweep slowly over him.

  He started to say something in English. But it abruptly turned into a harsh grunt when her fingers gently cradled his balls. He cursed softly in that strange language but didn’t try to move away.

  “May I look at you, Lucas?” she asked sweetly. “All of you, without clothes between us?”

  She petted him very, very gently, strumming the seam of his trousers—and enjoying how very weak her own legs were. Her breasts were tight and aching, her nipples pressed against her corset, hungry for attention.

  His breath wheezed out and his shaft strengthened even further. “Not here, Rachel. Good God, what if someone saw us?”

  Rachel shifted to face him. Now she could put two hands to enjoying him. If she unbuttoned his vest and shirt…Her husband was such a very handsome man.

  His fingers were almost shaking when he clasped her wrist but he didn’t yank her hand away.

  “Hanscom is back aboard the train, amid the palace cars, correct?”

  “Correct,” Lucas agreed, a little hoarsely. “Rachel, I haven’t agreed…”

  “No, of course you haven’t.” Her voice was really very husky—not surprising, considering how fast her heart was beating. “Do you really need to?”

  A low chuckle was her only answer. His hands settled on her shoulders and began to gently knead her, subtly encouraging her attentions.

  “Braden and Lawson are in their quarters, so there’s no one else who could watch us,” Rachel observed, not quite certain anymore what she was talking about, and pulled off his shirt.

  She sighed, liquid heat spilling gently from her core onto her thighs. His naked torso was truly beautiful: The sculptured form, the iron-hard muscles rising and falling, the coppery nipples nestled amidst his thick black pelt. Even the blue veins twisted under his marble white skin like a sketch showing the path to heaven on earth.

  She laid her palm flat against his belly for a moment, simply enjoying the rise and fall of those rippling, hard bands of flesh. His shaft surged, as if lunging up to reach her hand.

  How she wanted to knock him flat on his back and sheathe his shaft deep inside her. If he’d been naked and her heart hadn’t been beating loudly enough to be heard in Salt Lake City, she’d probably have done it. As it was, she contented herself by sliding her hands around to his back and slowly down over his ass. His high, tight, ass.

  “Dammit, Rachel, hurry up.” He sounded as if he wanted to wring her neck. He kissed the side of her neck, stroking her back and pulling her close to him.

  “Hmm.” Was this what being drunk felt like—the near inability to think straight, move, or even talk? But she was panting, too, and her hips were rocking back and forth, trying to reach the fiery hot bar behind his fly. If Demon Rum had such a salutary effect on women, no one would campaign against it.

  She kissed his shoulder, nuzzling and nipping at his collarbone.

  He groaned and threw his head back, clearly reveling in her attentions. “Rachel,” he growled, “what the hell are you waiting for?”

  Startled but encouraged by his passionate response, she encouraged to work her way across and down his chest, slowly slipping out of his grasp and sinking onto her knees. His expression turned into a rictus of delayed pleasure and he clenched his fists, pounding them at an imaginary wall.

  Her skin was flushed and tight, crackling with the heat coming off him.

  He spread his legs like someone desperate to keep his balance—and she smiled, a slow, seductress’ gleam.

  She unbuttoned his trousers and slipped her fingers inside, giving his shaft long, slow pulls. He arched his back, hungrily pushing into her hand for more.

  Fire pulsed deep inside her, the waves rising higher every time he pressed against her.

  She slipped his trousers down his hips to display his magnificent shaft. The splendid dark crimson head was greatly engorged, reaching almost to his belly and weeping a little with eagerness. His balls were fat and heavy under their dusting of hair but starting to rise high.

  She wanted to fill herself with him, starting with her mouth. Taste him, smell him, learn his textures, absorb him into her bones, starting at her head…

  He panted, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his fists clenching and unclenching. “Rachel, for the love of God, will you stop kneeling and do something?”

  She tossed her hair to one side and bent her head. A slow swirling lick over his tip brought the lovely, familiar, salty taste and his hips surged forward.

  Her core clenched in agreement. She repeated the caress, lingering over him, polishing him in wider circles, swirling in more patterns. She’d always enjoyed doing this, savored the fires burning hotter and deeper inside herself.

  Lucas’s fingers sank into her hair and kneaded her scalp. “My dear lady, you are so very skillful.”

  She hummed, hunger rising hotter and faster through her blood. She stretched her jaw wider so she could take more of him into her, managed to bring his entire cockhead into her mouth, licking and sucking the greatest delight in the world. Oh yes…

  His knees almost buckled and he groaned with pleasure.

  She hummed her approval when her body remembered old skills and took even more of him down her throat. She stroked his ass and between his legs, finding all the wonderful sweet spots which made his breath catch and his hands snatch at her head.

  Up and down, up and down, matching the rhythm to her breathing, the beat of her heart, the fire blazing in her core…

  And then she had him entirely inside her mouth and throat. He jolted into climax, throwing back his head and howling in pleasure.

  The uninhibited passion in that cry tumbled her into rapture, shaken to her foundations and tossed to the stars.

  She leaned against him afterward for balance, feeling very warm and relaxed.

  Even if his late mistress still held his heart, having his body could be very, very enjoyable.

  Chapter Ten

  The high mountain valley was a beautiful scene, which would have inspired any painter. The sky above was a clear, crystalline blue, touched by a few wisps of cloud from the distant peaks. The frozen river curved elegantly along the valley floor, framed by the high bluffs and crossed by a graceful trestle bridge. The temperature was warmer today, leading to a gentle chorus of slowly melting snow and ice.

  The two trains waited patiently, light trails of black smoke drifting from their smokestacks. Dozens of men worked industriously at clearing snow from the huge icy drift in front of a great locomotive, plumes of white flying like egret feathers above their heads as they dug. A handful of other men, barely visible through field glasses, tramped farther afield with rifles on their shoulders, hunting antelope and rabbits, in the hopes of varying their fellows’ diet.

  Children found wondrous ways to play amid a small grove of cottonwoods nearby, under their mothers’ watchful eyes.

  All in all, it was a landscape remarkably full of active people—with Rachel Grainger not counted anywhere among their number. She yanked her buffalo coat higher up around her ears. At least outside, she had the illusion of sunshine and warmth.

  “I could walk down to the cottonwoods and play with the children,” she suggested, trying to sound reasonable. She was standing with Lucas on the Empress’s rear platform, which allowed them a good view and the illusion of privacy.

  She glanced up at him between her eyelashes, trying to charm him. “I’m sure their mothers would be glad of the assistance, after so many days cooped up inside. I promise I wouldn’t go inside the grove, so I’d still be visible from the tra
in.”

  “Rachel, you know very well that everyone is out there because it’s the only way to stay warm. We should have enough to eat, but we’re running very low on coal. We can’t let the palace cars freeze, yet the engines may not have enough to reach the next station.”

  “Then let me go out into the sunshine.” She put her hand on his arm pleadingly. “You could use the Empress’s private stock of coal for something else—perhaps the stoves in the emigrant train’s family car, where the children are.”

  Just let me stretch my arms in the open, Lucas…I’ve spent three days caged inside that wooden prison, while the howling winds reminded me of Collins’s Ledge.

  Lucas shook his head, as implacable as ever. “No. Remember the lady who broke her leg when she stepped through the crust of snow and caught her foot between hidden roots and boulders in there? I won’t risk you having a miscarriage.”

  What sort of clumsy idiot did he think she was? And as for a miscarriage—it was such an utter impossibility as to be not worth even discussing.

  With her nerves already on edge, her usual diplomacy slipped through her fingers. “I’m sober, Lucas, unlike her, and I swear I’d be careful.”

  “No.” His face softened slightly. “I’ll take you for a walk this evening after dinner.”

  When she’d be unlikely to find anything to exclaim over but would very likely be battered by another round of that omnipresent arctic wind. She tried to appear enchanted, but no doubt failed miserably.

  He misread her appalled expression. “You needn’t worry about the stench from the emigrant train.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He shrugged. “Its railroad cars are manufactured with a single convenience at each end, even though there are two adults for each seat. They weren’t built for longer than the minimum run.”

  She gaped at him, opened her mouth to demand an explanation, and shut it.

  He went on briskly without providing any further details. “I asked Braden to form a work party to clean it as much as possible—starting with the family car. There’s too much chance for disease with so much filth around.”

  She made an instant decision but, before she could voice it, Lucas spoke again, his voice harsher than usual. “You’re not to go anywhere near that train, do you understand?”

  She stiffened, startled at being addressed in that peremptory tone of voice. “Why not?”

  His expression hardened into granite immovability. “I won’t have you risking your life or the child’s.”

  “I am not pregnant.”

  “You might be.”

  She opened her mouth to expostulate with him. She was very healthy and her pregnancy—if one existed—was less than a week old. Surely scrubbing floors couldn’t possibly injure her health, assuming she was careful not to become too tired.

  Mitchell appeared, loping up alongside in the cleared path, his normal urbanity gone. “A fight started among the shoveling gang farthest from the engines. Something about Mississippians not having dealt an honest game of faro last night to the Texans.”

  Lucas muttered something about damn fool Southerners, which Rachel pretended not to hear, and tossed the dregs from his coffee cup into the snow. He gave her a quick, hard kiss. “Stay inside and warm, wife.”

  A moment later, he was gone with Mitchell, somehow managing to look unrushed although moving very quickly.

  Inside and warm. How many days had she been doing that? Didn’t he understand how much it reminded her of Collins’s prison?

  If she helped at the emigrant train, she’d still be inside and warm.

  Rachel gathered up both their coffee cups and went back into the Empress. “Braden?”

  He immediately faced her and came to attention, a tray of dirty breakfast dishes in his hands. Those very, very perceptive—and extremely polite—eyes acknowledged her. He bowed slightly. “Yes, ma’am?

  Even after years away from the British Army, he was still very much a soldier and formidably alert. What did she possibly have to worry about if he was her escort, as he would be at the emigrant train?

  “How are the preparations for your work party coming?”

  He eyed her warily. “To the emigrant train?”

  “Of course. Do you have sufficient supplies? What about personnel?”

  His gaze, previously quite cordial, promptly turned flat and unrevealing. “We have more than enough supplies, ma’am, but are limited in the number of staff.”

  What an extraordinary phrase, limited. “Why?”

  “Volunteers were requested, ma’am, and none have stepped forward.”

  None? Her eyebrows flew up. Three overcrowded filthy railroad cars and nobody except their own exhausted passengers would help him clean? They were admittedly very dirty, but she’d seen volunteers turn out for far more distasteful duties.

  “The weather is good and there is much to be done elsewhere.” His tone was overly dispassionate.

  She had no difficulty unraveling this description and finding a possible cause for the problem. “Do you know if any disease has been reported on the emigrant train?”

  He betrayed no surprise, of course. She suspected that he’d perfected that expression while explaining night raids along India’s North-West Frontier to younger soldiers.

  “Fever and the grippe, which are to be expected given the weather.” He paused, somehow managing to look even more stolid—a sure sign of nerves on his part.

  She came alert. “Yes?”

  “There’s a young boy, perhaps five years of age. He’s suffering from a sore throat, runny nose, cough, fever…”

  “And?” she demanded.

  A muscle ticked in his cheek. “And a rash.”

  Goosebumps raced up Rachel’s arms. “Measles?” she breathed.

  “We don’t know yet.”

  If he had measles, they’d have to quarantine every other child onboard—and every adult who hadn’t already survived that dread pestilence. The worst impact of contracting it would fall on pregnant women and their unborn children, but only if the mothers weren’t immune. Good God, how that disease could kill and kill and kill…

  Rachel shuddered. “It could be an ordinary rash,” she said firmly. “Combining that with the grippe would explain everything.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Braden didn’t sound entirely convinced.

  The child had to have a combination of simple problems, exacerbated by foul conditions. Anything else would mean an epidemic, which could kill dozens of the people trapped here.

  She murmured a quick prayer to Divine Providence and started planning how to care for the little darling. After nursing Elias, the practicalities rolled off her tongue.

  “Has he been moved into someplace separate? We’ll need to make him comfortable, of course. Cleansing everything will be vital, with carbolic soap if at all possible.”

  He frowned, color slowly fading from his face. “Are you considering going there yourself?”

  “Who else will, if they think he has the measles?” Rachel asked simply.

  He looked even more appalled. “Mrs. Grainger, you must take excellent care of yourself.”

  She smiled reassuringly at him. “Braden, please relax. I’m very sure I’ve had the measles. In fact, I’ve tutored small boys just before they came down with it—yet I stayed healthy. So there’s no danger to me. But if you don’t want to come…”

  His shoulders went back and he slammed into attention. “Ma’am!”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Do you swear, by your mother’s grave, that you’ve had the measles?”

  He clicked his heels, drawing himself up into an even more rigidly formal attitude. “I swear, by my mother’s and grandmother’s graves, that I have had the measles, ma’am.”

  “Then we are agreed,” she said briskly. “We’ll go over to the immigrant train and make sure that the poor little boy has the best possible care.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She pretended not to hear his mutte
red prayer that Master Lucas wouldn’t be angry, probably because she was whispering the same thing.

  Rachel stepped outside and took a great, healing breath. It was so late in the day that few people were visible except the shoveling gang laboring to move the trains forward. The setting sun cast purple and gray shadows across the snow, turning the high mountain valley into a twilight world. Frigid its air might be, and cold enough to snatch at her lungs—but it was also pure, since she was upwind of the emigrant train.

  She’d thought the stench on the outside had prepared her for the harsh reality of the railroad car’s interior. But she’d been so, so very wrong. Filthy beyond belief in the most animalistic fashion was the only way to describe it. No wonder the poor boy had been sick. Thank God, they’d washed him up, and found him and his mother a clean place in the baggage car with a sympathetic clerk.

  Now that she’d finished scouring the convenience, Rachel simply planned to return to the Empress and burn every article of clothing she wore. She’d long since lost every drop of food in her stomach. She pulled her blanket cloak around her more closely against the wind and started to trudge forward. At least, she’d had enough sense not to bring her precious buffalo coat on this work.

  “Rachel.”

  The deep, rough voice made her jump. She whipped around. “Lucas?”

  He was standing just behind her, feet planted wide apart. His fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides. Two bright spots of color burned high on his cheekbones. By the look in his eyes, he could have murdered anyone who stood in his path and laughed for joy afterward.

  Oh dear Lord. Rachel’s skin turned absolutely frigid. For a moment, her fingers tightened on her blanket before she resolutely loosened her grip.

  “What the devil have you been doing?”

  She eyed him warily. But she had done nothing wrong. “Scrubbing the convenience.”

  His voice was very gentle—too gentle. “How dare you disobey me and risk our child.”

  Risk? What on earth was he talking about? She tried to reach him with logic, using the pattern of all their years of correspondence. “There’s no danger. I’ve had the measles before.”