Chapter Fourteen

 

Malachai told himself that, although he was an ass, at least he was a satisfied one. Loretta Linden had met all of his expectations and even exceeded them. She was spectacular. And her body . . . He groaned, remembering.

Then he groaned again when he realized what was in store for him. He truly, truly was an ass. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that it wouldn’t have made any difference. He would have had to marry the wench anyway, since she’d showed up at his hotel room, alone, after midnight. He might just as well marry her a happy man as a frustrated one.

“Oh, my.”

He turned to see what Loretta was oh-mying about. With a grin and a feeling of masculine pride filling his large, seafaring chest, he saw that she looked rather like a kitten who’s just lapped up all the cream. “Enjoy yourself?” he said with something of a smirk.

Her eyes had been closed, but they opened at that, and she turned her head and smiled at him. “Oh, my goodness, yes!”

“Good.” He couldn’t help himself; he grabbed her and squeezed her in a bear hug. She was absolutely perfect for him! How strange, he thought, that a fiery, rabble-rousing do-gooder should be the one woman in the world he didn’t especially mind the thought of being shackled to for life.

“Did you enjoy it?” she asked, sounding shy.

It was far past time for shyness in Malachai’s considered opinion, but he thought it was sweet that she was worried that he hadn’t been satisfied. As if there was any question about it! “Yes,” he said, striving for a sober tone. “I enjoyed it.”

“Oh, good.”

She sighed and subsided into his arms as meekly as if she weren’t the most aggravating female Malachai had ever met in his entire life. They remained like that for several minutes. Malachai had almost drifted off to sleep when Loretta spoke again, with another sigh. “I suppose I should go home now.”

He yawned hugely. “Why bother? Let’s just call in a justice of the peace, and we can get married right here, right now. Save you the embarrassment of showing up at your house looking like a ragamuffin.” A ragamuffin who’d just been thoroughly and excellently loved, he added silently. He wouldn’t embarrass her by saying it out loud, although his masculine pride scooted up another couple of notches.

He realized she hadn’t spoken and craned his neck to look at her. “Is that all right with you?”

Still she didn’t speak. Worse, she frowned. What the devil was the matter with the woman? What was there to frown about She wasn’t going to insist on a big wedding, was she? With bridesmaids and formal gowns and black monkey suits and attendants all that rubbish? Malachai loathed ceremonies. He didn’t want to go through with one on account of his having been an ass, damn it. Marrying her was punishment enough, for God’s sake. He shouldn’t have to be humiliated into the bargain.

At last she spoke. “I beg your pardon?”

Ah, hell. She was going to be difficult. Aiming for a conciliatory note, which wasn’t easy, he said, “I just thought you might not want to bother with a big ceremony, since we’ll have to get hitched right away.” He shrugged in an effort to show how little it all meant to him.

“Ceremony?” she said. “Hitched?”

“Yeah. You know, a big wedding.”

“Wedding?” Her voice had risen.

What the devil was her problem? “Yeah. We’ll have to marry now. I mean, you might possibly get away with calling on me at my hotel room in the middle of the night, but you’ve stayed far too long now for anyone not to guess what went on.”

Her eyes began flashing sparks. Malachai considered that a worrisome signal. “Well?” he demanded, still attempting a reasonable tone. “You know it’s true.”

“I,” said Loretta in her most annoying fire-eater’s voice and sliding to the edge of the bed, “know nothing of the kind.” She popped out of the bed and stood, her perky breasts bouncing and sending a spike of lust through Malachai. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, Captain Malachai Quarles. I won’t marry you. I won’t marry any man.”

It was Malachai’s turn to jump out of bed. He probably didn’t appear as formidable as he’d have liked to, since seeing her there in the all-together had stimulated his masculinity and it was now standing proudly at attention, but he couldn’t help that. “You’ll damned well marry me!”

“I won’t. I,” she said, her chin lifting, “am an advocate of free love, and I won’t violate my principles for anyone. Why is it necessary to formalize these unions, is what I want to know.” She looked around on the floor, presumably for her clothes, not that they’d do her any good since they were now in shreds.

Astounded, Malachai actually stuttered. “F-formalize th-these unions? What the devil do you mean by these unions, damn it?” He snatched up his dressing gown, which had somehow or other ended up dangling from the lamp stand. He was enraged when he realized he’d put it on inside-out, and he tore it from his large frame, shook it violently, and put it on again the right way. He nearly cut his body in half yanking the belt as he tied it. “I’m a man of honor, damn it! It’s my duty to marry you now, and I’ll damned well do my duty!”

She looked upon him with Malachai could only describe as scorn, her nipples peeking out of the ripped-up shirt she’d donned. “There’s no need for you to shout, Malachai. And you needn’t consider me your duty. I refuse to be any man’s duty.” She huffed. “Stupid word.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, knowing full well that he had. “What we did now requires formalization, that’s all. It’s . . . it’s expected. You can’t go around bedding men and not marrying them. It’s not done!”

Another pitying look slapped him. “I’ve told you before that I am a forward-thinking woman, Malachai Quarles. If I advocate free love, I am obliged to act upon my principles.” She frowned down at her nipples and tried to adjust the fabric over them. Malachai tried not to notice.

“Principles! Principles? Since when does a woman have principles? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”

She stopped attempting to make her shirt decent. It was an impossible task, although Malachai didn’t think that was her motive in stopping, since common sense wasn’t one of her outstanding characteristics.

“How dare you?” Her voice throbbed with passion. “Women do, so, have principles. Why, if it weren’t for women, the world would be in even worse shape than it is! We’re the ones who care for the poor! We’re the ones who bandage and nurse you men after you fight your stupid wars! We’re the nurturers! We’re the ones who suffer when a man decides to drink his wages. We’re the ones who— Uff!”

She couldn’t continue her diatribe because Malachai grabbed her. “I have my principles, too, damn it, and I’ll be damned if I’ll bed a woman and not marry her!”

He nearly dropped his teeth when she laughed. She laughed! At him! It sounded like a genuine laugh, too. He could scarcely believe his ears.

“That’s silly, Malachai. I know good and well I’m not the first woman you’ve bedded. How many wives do you have, anyhow?”

Putting her down again, he felt a little bit—only a little bit—abashed. “You’re the first decent woman I’ve bedded.”

“Ah, I see. Until now, you’ve only bedded indecent ones.”

Sarcasm dripped from the words. She turned and started scavenging for her trousers. He guessed she’d given up on the shirt. He watched her lush bottom twitch and longed to feel it again. His mind’s eye imagined her riding him, guided by his hands on that part of her anatomy, and he almost forgot the subject of their argument.

He shook himself in an effort to clear his lust-blinded vision. “It’s the truth,” he insisted. “Hell, you don’t think I bed the virgin daughters of millionaire bankers every day in the week, do you? How do you think I’ve remained single until my fortieth year?” Damn, he wished she were wearing more clothes. It was difficult to keep track of his points with her parading around nearly naked.

As she stepped into her trousers—she didn’t bother with her drawers, he noticed—she gave him another scornful glance. “I see. So it’s only the virgin daughters of millionaires who have been safe from you thus far in your colorful career?”

“That’s not what I meant! Damn it, I’m not a monster. I don’t go around ravishing females!”

“I see. You only fornicate with the willing ones who aren’t from the upper echelons of society, I suppose, or the ones who don’t have any choice in the matter. And if they’re women of color, I imagine that’s even better, since surely no white man is ever expected to be responsible for ravishing colored women!”

Malachai’s rage shot up like a bullet from a gun. He trembled with it. It was perhaps the first time in his life he’d been this angry and, at the same time, unable to hit the person who’d enraged him. His fists clenched. His teeth ground together. He felt his jaw muscles bulge. He spoke carefully and distinctly for fear that if he let himself go, his roar would shatter the glass windows. “I have never raped a woman in my life.”

“I see. Until I came along, I presume you only bedded those women who are forced to earn their livings on their backs? Or married women. I’m sure there are bored married women out there who might think it a thrill to bed the dashing Captain Quarles—as long as their husbands don’t find out.”

He shuffled his feet. “I wouldn’t put it like that.” It sounded so bad, the way she said it.

Loretta sniffed. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. However, I still don’t see why that makes it necessary for us to marry.”

She frowned at her ensemble, which was pathetic. Her hair was a mess, too. Malachai ached to run his fingers through it again. Fortunately, he was unable to do so even if Loretta wanted him to, since he couldn’t unclench his fists.

“You are the most aggravating—” Malachai sucked in a huge breath and tried to tamp down his ire. It couldn’t be done. “You’re making me sound like some bag of scum who takes advantage of women all the time. I’m not, and I don’t!”

“I’m glad to hear it.” After tugging fruitlessly at her shirt, she added, “I’m going to need to borrow a shirt from you.”

He stomped to the closet, yanked the door open, and snagged a white shirt from a hanger. “Here.” He threw the shirt at her. “Use that.”

She caught the shirt. “Thank you.”

“Want a collar?”

“That’s not necessary, thank you.” As she put on the shirt, she said, “I don’t know why you’re so angry. You didn’t expect any of your other women to—”

”I don’t have other women!” Because he had to do something or burst, he reached into the closet again and snabbled another shirt. After jerking his robe off and throwing it from him, he stabbed his hands into its sleeves.

“Well, you’ve certainly bedded other women, and you apparently didn’t think you had to marry them.”

“Of course I didn’t!”

“Why? Were they all married to other men? Were they all unworthy of your name? Or did you consider them beneath you.” She frowned, evidently pondering her choice of words. “In a manner of speaking.”

Malachai grabbed a pair of trousers and flapped them furiously so that he could stick his legs into them. “They weren’t beneath me. They just didn’t expect marriage from a man just because they went to bed together.”

Loretta finished buttoning Malachai’s shirt. It was miles too big for her, but she looked up and shot him a beaming smile. “There! You see? I don’t, either, so you’re off the hook.”

“Off the . . .” He paused in the act of buttoning his trousers, and realized suddenly that he didn’t want to be off the hook. He watched as Loretta tried to manhandle her hair into some semblance of order and it struck him that he actually wanted to marry her. All that stuff he’d been spouting about honor and duty was so much bilgewater.

Damn, he hated to admit that. Because his last series of thoughts had so disconcerted him, he gave up the argument for the nonce. “We’ll talk about this later. I’ll see you home now.”

“There’s no need for—”

”Don’t say it!” he roared. “I’ll see you home, whether you want me to or not!”

She clucked her tongue. “Oh, very well.”

# # #

Loretta couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt this wonderful. It might perhaps have been when she’d realized she wasn’t going to drown the night the Titanic sank, but she doubted it, since it had been difficult to take comfort from her own survival when so many others had perished.

She didn’t think it was when she’d met Mrs. Pankhurst. That had been an exciting moment, but it hadn’t filled her with this sense of . . . of . . . joy and fulfillment, she guessed were the best words for it.

She knew it wasn’t a valid sentiment, the fact that she’d now experienced sexual congress with a man—and such a man—made her feel like a true woman. A woman in every sense of the word, even though Loretta would be the last female on earth who would actually say that a woman had to have a man in her life to be fulfilled or worthwhile. Why, often the reverse was true.

It made no difference. Even though she knew in her heart that if she’d lived her entire life without knowing, in the Biblical sense, a man, and died a virgin, her life would have been full and useful, she was still ecstatic.

Not only had she been bedded by Malachai Quarles, the only man she’d ever met for whom she’d felt honest lust, but it had felt wonderful!

She really hadn’t expected that. Her mother had never spoken to her about the physical aspects of marriage. Loretta hadn’t expected her to, since poor Dorothea Linden became embarrassed at the least little thing, but she’d listened to other women talk. She’d heard that it invariably hurt the first time, and often hurt forever, no matter how often one did it, but it was a duty when one was married, so one did one’s duty. But the fusspots had been wrong. Dead wrong.

At the moment she sat on Malachai’s bed, waiting for him to return to her. He’d made her promise to sit still and not move while he secured a cab. As much as she hated to admit it, she was glad he hadn’t left it up to her to do that, mainly because she looked decidedly odd.

As soon as the door had closed behind Malachai, she’d jumped off the bed and inspected herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, and she had a silly smile on her face, but the rest of her was a total disaster. Her hair had never been so messy, and her clothes were beyond description. It was as well that she hadn’t had to rustle up a taxi, because any one of San Francisco’s cabbies, a canny lot, would probably have pegged her for a runaway rich girl and tried to take advantage of her. And, while Loretta trusted herself to win any verbal confrontation she found herself in, and could probably hold her own in a physical fight, she didn’t want to do battle tonight. Or this morning, rather. She wanted to gloat over the fact that she’d got what she wanted from Malachai Quarles.

She was actually humming to herself, something she seldom did since she couldn’t hold a tune, when she heard the key in the lock of his hotel room door and experienced a mad impulse to rush to the door and greet him with a kiss. She held herself back because, after all, they weren’t really lovers. Not in the sense that they bedded each other regularly and had strong emotional feelings for each other. Not yet, anyway.

For the briefest of moments, Loretta thought of all the lovers she’d read about. Wouldn’t it be something to have a real, long-lasting, true-love match, like the one George Eliot had with the man with whom she’d lived? Or Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton?

But she couldn’t continue daydreaming, because Malachai pushed the door open, stumped in, and said, “What the devil do you mean to do about Tillinghurst?”

So far had her thoughts strayed from Mr. Tillinghurst, the stolen artifacts, and Malachai’s lost sailor Mr. Jones, that she could only blink at him for several seconds before understanding struck. “Oh, um . . .”

“What I suggest is that you do nothing for a day or so. I want to check out your story first.”

Euphoria vanished in a flash of temper. Loretta jumped down from the bed. “Do you think I was lying to you?”

With a disgusted look on his face, Malachai threw a pea-coat at her. “No, but there’s no sense going off half-cocked. I want to make sure you saw what you say you saw before I go running to the police.”

“Fine,” she said, feeling disgruntled as she noticed a good six inches of the pea-coat’s sleeves flapping in the breeze after her hands ended. She had to raise her arm and shake one sleeve down before her fingers appeared and she could try to roll the other sleeve up. The fabric was thick wool, however, and didn’t want to roll. “Curse it,” she muttered, and resigned herself to flapping sleeves.

“Fine?” Malachai stopped in the process of putting on his own coat and stared at her, incredulous. “You mean you agree with me?”

She gave him a withering frown. “Of course, I don’t agree with you. However, if you don’t want to go to the police, that’s fine with me. I’ll go myself. I’m the one who discovered Mr. Jones, after all. I should be the one to take the credit.”

“Credit? What credit?” He reached out, grabbed one of her sleeves and rolled it up as if the fabric were as sheer as linen and not as thick as a log. Loretta watched him do it and felt inadequate.

“I didn’t mean credit, exactly. What I meant was that since I’m the one who discovered Mr. Tillinghurst to be a kidnapper and thief, I’m the one who should report it.”

Taking her by the hand and exiting the room, making her trot to keep up with him, Malachai muttered, “You see? That’s just what I mean. You’re assuming that since you found somebody who calls himself Jones at Tillinghurst’s place, you’ve solved the entire problem of the missing artifacts. But you don’t know that, and I don’t know that. You didn’t actually see anything at all, much less Jones or any artifacts. If you send the police out to Tillinghurst’s place and they discover there’s a reasonable explanation for somebody named Jones being there and don’t discover the missing treasure, you’re going to feel like a fool. And a good thing, too.”

“That’s not fair! What was Mr. Jones doing there, being held captive, if he hadn’t been kidnapped? He said that’s what happened. So did Mr. Peavey.”

Malachai grunted. “That’s what you think happened. For all you know, Jones is there because he wants to be, and you must have figured out by this time that nothing Peavey says can be taken at face value.”

Curse it. Loretta hated it when people got sensible on her. After trying to think about it—the captain was setting a very rapid pace, and most of her concentration was centered on keeping her feet pumping as Malachai sped her across the lobby carpet—she said, “Well . . . I suppose you may have a point, although I know I’m right.”

“Huh.”

A sleepy-looking doorman in a natty uniform saw them coming and, without acknowledging the state of Loretta’s person by so much as a raised eyebrow, he opened the door. The damp, heavy fog of November smote her in the face as soon as she stepped out of the hotel. The air smelled of damp and salt and creosote.

There was something eerie about this time of day, Loretta thought. She’d only been awake at three or four o’clock in the morning a few times in her life, but those few times had struck her as spooky. This time did, too. She scurried a trifle closer to Malachai’s comforting bulk.

Fog swirled around their feet, and street lamps shone through it in weird smudges of dirty yellow, providing very little actual light. She heard footsteps heading their way and her heart sped up, her imagination instantly featuring armed thugs bent upon mayhem.

A policeman, swinging his nightstick, gradually appeared from out of the fog. He nodded and smiled at them, and Loretta silently called herself a fool. And there was the cab looming in the mist and looking like something from out of a Gothic romance. It was a horse-drawn number for a change. Most of the daytime cabs were motorized these days, she supposed because during the day people were in a hurry to take care of their business, whatever it was. She guessed all the old cart horses had been relegated to night-time service.

Malachai nodded at the policeman, gave Loretta’s address to the cabbie, and opened the cab door. Reaching inside, he flipped down the stairs for Loretta to climb. “I’ll ride with you and see you safely home.”

She was about to say she didn’t need an escort when a brilliant thought occurred to her, and she swallowed her protest. It wouldn’t have done her any good to voice it anyway. As she slid onto the seat she cried, “I have it!”

Climbing in after her, Malachai sat with a grunt and said, “You have what?”

It didn’t sound to Loretta as if he gave a hang, but she answered him anyway. “I know what we should do.”

“About what?”

She saw his eyes watching her keenly, and realized he was thinking about the supposed wedding problem. Since she didn’t want to argue with him anymore about that, she hurried to explain. “About Mr. Tillinghurst and Mr. Jones and Mr. Peavey.”

After expelling an exaggerated sigh, Malachai said, “All right, go on. I suppose you’re going to tell me even if I don’t want you to.”

“Indeed, I am,” said Loretta, offended. “I thought you cared about your men, Malachai Quarles.”

“I do.” She saw him cast an obviously patient glance at the tattered ceiling of the cab, and ire swelled within her.

“All right, then. Since you don’t believe me, we’ll just take Mr. Peavey out to Mr. Tillinghurst’s estate and let him tell us if that’s the place.”

“Huh. And how do you propose to get this scheme to fulfillment. Ask Tillinghurst if we can bring a crazy man into his home to prove that he’s a thief?”

“Of course not! But you’ve been taking Mr. Peavey all over San Francisco. Why not take him out of town to Mr. Tillinghurst’s estate? He might recognize something.”

“We’re talking about Peavey here, remember.” Malachai tapped his forehead with a gloved finger.

“He’s not that bad off.”

“Yes, he is. I doubt that he’d recognize his so-called castle even if he suddenly turned clear-headed. He’s been bashed around a lot lately, remember.”

Loretta fingered her cheek, where traces of her own injury remained. “Well, it’s worth a try.”

“Maybe.”

Feeling defiant, Loretta added, “And if you won’t agree at least to test my theory, I’ll have no choice but to go to the police and let them sort things out.”

“For God’s . . . All right. If it will shut you up and keep you from making a damned fool of yourself, we can take Peavey to Tillinghurst’s place.”

“Good.” A huge yawn caught Loretta by surprise.

“You need to get some sleep. You’ve had a busy night, and you haven’t fully recovered from your injuries yet.”

Was that worry in Malachai’s voice? Loretta couldn’t credit her ears.

“Only you would do such a damn-fool thing as climb over somebody’s iron gate in the middle of the night and search for stolen treasure on private property. It’s a damned good thing you didn’t get mauled by those dogs.”

Any hint of pleasure at the notion that he might care about her vanished like smoke. “At least I did something! That’s more than you’ve done so far. And I, don’t forget, found Mr. Jones.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“You’re impossible, Malachai Quarles, did you know that?”

He snorted. “I guess that means we’re well matched, then, since you’re the most impossible female it’s ever been my misfortune to meet up with.”

Deciding silence would be her best friend at the moment, Loretta opted to keep mute. His words—about them being well matched, not the ones about her presumed impossibility—had thrilled her, though.