Pit Bank Wench (30 page)

‘That be right kind of you, Cara,’ he answered, ‘I know she will be grateful.’

Leading the way into her private salon Cara turned, flashing him a magnificent smile. Harriet would not be the only grateful one should this evening go as planned!

‘There’s no need for gratitude between friends, and we have been friends for such a long time, have we not?’

No need for gratitude? Rafe concealed a cynical smile. No, not so long as the price was right.

‘We have that, Cara, but then we could be better friends, you and me.’

Her lids lowered demurely but beneath them her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. So Rafe Langton still lusted after her as much as ever? Tonight might just see him receive a taste of satisfaction. And what of Carver? Should he find out then any idea of marriage with him might go out of the window. But one man at a time. Cara filled two brandy goblets, smiling into their rich golden depths. Tonight she would take care of Langton and once that was done . . . well, Carver always had found her irresistible!

Handing a glass to him, her eyes a green-gold dazzle, she baited the trap.

‘How could you and I possibly be better friends?’

His glance rested for a long moment on the breasts peeping from the low
décollétage
of a tightly fitted gown of gold-flecked sea green silk georgette, an exact match for the eyes that taunted him as his gaze lifted to them.

‘You bloody well know how, Cara,’ he answered thickly, brandy spilling as he stepped quickly towards her. ‘I’ve asked you often enough!’

‘I had supper laid here, I thought it might be more cosy. I hope you have no objections?’ She stepped away, careful that the gap between them was not too wide; it was meant to provoke rather than deter his ardour.

‘It ain’t supper I be interested in.’ His eyes swept hotly back to her high breasts.

Keeping a smile hidden behind a pout, Cara touched one hand to the exquisitely laid table. ‘Oh, Rafe! You have no interest in my supper, and I tried so hard to please you.’

‘You can please me, Cara . . .’

She remained still as he stepped up to her. There would be no gain in rebuffing his advances too many times.

‘. . . you can please me very much.’

‘I had hoped to do just that.’ Her husky voice was low and teasing. ‘But here you are, saying you have no interest in the food I chose especially for you and Harriet. And then she couldn’t come – too bad, isn’t it?’

The pause was small but the meaning it carried was large enough to reach deep into the pit of Rafe Langton’s stomach. His eyes seeming to fold away behind flabby cheeks he reached for Cara’s hand, raising it to his moist lips. ‘Forgive me, Cara,’ he said, specks of spittle transferring themselves to her hand as it pressed against his mouth. ‘The supper looks wonderful, it’s just that when I’m with you . . .’

She withdrew her hand, resisting the urge to wipe it on her gown. ‘Will you excuse me just a few moments?’ She smiled. ‘Help yourself to more brandy, or there’s wine if you prefer.’

In the bedroom that adjoined the salon Cara slipped out of the lovely gown tossing it on to the bed. Her fingers swift and nimble she undid the laces of her whalebone corset sending it after the dress. Langton did not seem to need any extra persuasion; she had seen the look that lingered on her breasts, almost felt the heat in them as they played over her. But a little caution was better than a lot of regret and tonight she played for high stakes. Drawing off her silk chemise and drawers she stood naked.

Alone in the salon Rafe Langton gulped at his brandy. She had not refused outright as she had before. Perhaps Felton would be proved right?

Felton! The glass to his lips he paused. It was understood by those who knew them that he and Cara Holgate were as good as engaged, that they would marry, yet Felton had suggested . . . had almost handed her over on a plate! What could be the reason?

In the bedroom, Cara touched perfume to the vee of her breasts. Parting the satin robe she had donned, she looked again at the naked body reflected in her long dressing mirror. Deep rose satin gleamed against skin the colour of finest ivory. Below taut breasts her waist curved inward before rounding out over slender thighs that tapered into shapely legs. Yes, she could please Rafe Langton – always supposing he met her price.

Returning the perfume to the dressing table, she smiled as she slowly buttoned the robe. Langton wanted her body and she wanted his share in the Wednesbury Canal. Green-gold eyes smiling back at her from the mirror, she touched one hand to her breast. Fair exchange, they said, was no robbery.

‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting.’ A brilliant smile hiding the distaste that rose in her as she looked at the portly figure stood beside the fireplace, Cara moved towards the table. ‘I wanted to be a little more comfortable. You don’t mind, Rafe?’

‘Mind!’ His eyes devouring her, he came to stand beside her at the table lowering his glass unsteadily. ‘A man would be out of his brain to mind seeing a woman dressed like this!’

Tilting her head back slightly, her carefully painted lips parting just enough, lashes lowering seductively, she murmured, ‘Then we could begin.’

‘Cara!’ Catching her arm as she half turned toward her place at the table, Rafe’s breathing was harsh and urgent. ‘Forget the bloody supper!’

Her lashes lifting, Cara’s eyes smouldered. ‘Then what else can I give you?’

Fingers tightening on her arm, his voice almost a croak, he groaned, ‘You know the answer to that.’

‘Yes, I know the answer to that, Rafe.’ Pulling her arm free she took a seat at the table. ‘You want a mistress. Surely there are ladies a-plenty would be willing . . .’

‘I ain’t interested in others, I want you. And what’s more, I be willing to pay.’

‘Let’s not become coarse, Rafe.’

‘Coarse I may be, but that be what it comes down to in the end – payment. The only question be, what payment do you want? You’ve refused trinkets afore.’

‘Trinkets are pleasant to receive but they can only be sold once, their revenue is strictly limited, that reduces their worth to me.’ Leaning forward she filled the crystal wine glasses, the movement carefully designed to reveal the mounds of her ivory breasts. Holding a glass out to Rafe who still stood beside the table she smiled up at him. ‘I want something that will provide a more regular income.’

‘
. . . Cara Holgate likes her independence . . .
’ Carver Felton’s words returned to Rafe’s mind. ‘
Offer her that sort of money and she will warm your bed not to mention your blood
 . . .’ Felton had offered his own mistress on a plate. Rafe’s hand went to the document in his pocket. It was a bloody expensive plate! But what else was money for other than to buy a man his pleasure?

Withdrawing the reassigned contract his solicitor had drawn up he laid it on the table, podgy hand resting on the cream vellum.

‘That’ll provide you with a regular income, but I sank a fair bit of money into it. How do I know I’ll get what it’s worth?’

Rising slowly to her feet, her eyes hazy, Cara pressed him into a chair. Keeping her glance fixed on his she released the buttons of her robe. ‘Perhaps you should taste before you buy?’

Drawing the robe apart she heard the gasp as his eyes feasted on her breasts. Calmly picking up her own untouched brandy glass she dipped one nipple into the gleaming spirit then, bending over him, thrust it into his open mouth.

His hands closing over her hips Rafe pulled her body towards him, eyes closing as he sucked hard on her breast. But Cara’s eyes did not close.

Cold and hard as glass they remained fixed on the contract lying on the table.

Leaning against the stall, Emma lifted one foot, taking the weight from her injured ankle. Daisy had protested strongly that morning, saying it would do no harm for her to stay in bed. Emma rubbed one hand across the bandaged foot. She had refused, saying it was not painful, but the passing hours had proved that a lie. Watching as Samuel struck a match, holding the flame to the candle stubs he had set inside jars strung over the stall, she found herself wishing the day was at an end.

‘Sure and isn’t that a pretty sight? Reminds me of the jack-o-lanterns that dance over the peat on a summer’s evening.’

Turning quickly, her foot not yet on the ground, Emma had to grab the stall to prevent herself from falling.

‘By all the saints, don’t go falling again! You fair scared the life from me when you did so yesterday, and this is the only life I have.’ Eyes bright as the candle flames, Liam Brogan smiled.

‘I said for her to go home.’ Samuel blew out the third match, flicking the burned out stick into the gutter. ‘Ain’t no need for her to be here, standing on that ankle. Ain’t as if I can’t manage on my own.’

‘Good evening to yourself, sir.’ Liam touched one hand to his ruffled hair. ‘If she be at all like the women at my home in Ireland then you might well save your breath, for they go their own way in spite of what they be told.’

‘Ireland, you say?’ Samuel nodded. ‘That be a distance, what brings you here to the Black Country?’

‘The Black Country!’ Liam laughed. ‘Now why would you be calling it that?’

Pushing his boater to the back of his head then setting it straight again, Samuel regarded the tall young man with laughing eyes stood at his stall.

‘Look around you, lad. There be more foundry stacks and colliery wheels than there be peas in broth here and the smoke of them sometimes has the sky dark as my black puddings.’

‘I see what you mean, but still it holds great beauty.’ As he said it Liam’s glance rested on Emma.

Touching his whiskers, Samuel smiled. Always ready to chat he asked, ‘Will you be staying long in Wednesbury, lad?’

Busying herself with the pile of paper held down by half a house brick, Emma avoided Liam’s glance but she could not hold back the colour that flew to her cheeks.

‘We’re here to dig the new navigation,’ he replied, eyes fixed on Emma’s bent head. ‘How long that will take I can’t rightly say, nor yet what may happen once the job be done. It could be I will be returning to Ireland then.’

‘Well, we none of us knows the future,’ Samuel answered philosophically. ‘That might be better all round or there would be some would put an end to life afore it was properly begun.’

‘
None of us knows the future.
’ Emma’s fingers whitened about the rough paperweight. That was so true of Carrie and her mother, and once they did know it they had put an end to their lives. But her life . . . that had continued, she had not had the courage needed to end it even though she knew her future; it would be spent alone, caring for her bastard child.

Dim light spilling from the candle jars began their nightly battle with advancing shadows, bringing with them a chill breeze, but it was the tension in Emma’s slight figure, the droop that pulled at her head that Liam sensed was due to more than the pain in her ankle, pulled at his heart. He had sensed that same pain on the two occasions they had met before and it had mingled with his own as he had glimpsed the golden band that circled her finger. Now, much as he wanted to hold her and comfort her, he knew he could not. She was a married woman and he ought not to have given in to the urge to come and see her; it could do nothing but cause him more anguish.

‘Well now.’ He turned his glance away, switching it to Samuel. ‘Much as I’ve enjoyed chewing on the wind ’tis time to be getting back or we’ll be having supper for breakfast. I’ll be after having six of your finest pork chops, supposing you have any?’

‘I have, lad, and you’ll taste no better. Though I say it as shouldn’t, Hollington’s be the finest meat in the Shambles.’

‘Then I look forward to being a customer again.’ Liam’s eyes followed the glint of the ring as Emma first wrapped his purchase then counted his change into his hand. ‘Good evening to yourself, Mr Hollington, and to you also, Mrs Price.’

He had addressed her as Mrs, he obviously thought she was married. Emma’s hand went to her stomach. If only it were true. But it was not and never would be for what man would marry a woman who had borne another man’s child!

As the shadows of the darkened street swallowed Liam’s tall figure, the darker shadows of her future engulfed Emma’s heart.

So Langton had parted with his share of the canal? Carver Felton smiled as he drew on pale grey chamois gloves.

Cara had said yes. He took the silver-topped cane from the manservant who at once opened the door for him. Had there ever been any doubt, given the price Langton had been prepared to pay? And did he still think the goods worth the cost?

Nodding to the manservant, Carver walked towards his waiting carriage.

Langton had given away a small fortune, given it to a woman in return for what? A few hours in bed! Carver smiled sardonically. And those hours would have given him no more than he could get in any bawdy house in Birmingham, for a lot less than he had paid Cara. True, her bed was probably more comfortable and her face more attractive than that of other doxies. But then it wasn’t her
face
had Rafe Langton panting at her heels!

Heading the carriage towards Wednesbury he shook the reins, setting the horse to a steady trot. Cara had played her cards well. But she had not played with an expert. She had won that round, but then Rafe Langton was no great shakes as an opponent. Now she would play against a master . . . and this time she would learn how it felt to lose!

She had been so pleased with herself last night. She had greeted Carver with eyes so blinded with self-satisfaction they could see nothing else. Nothing that was until the pretty Melissa had walked in. Then her eyes had followed her cousin, watching the younger woman almost avidly.

Carver stared into the dark evening. Cara was jealous of her cousin, that much became evident to him with every meeting, but at the same time she seemed to take a pride in the girl. It was almost maternal. He smiled at the thought. He would never have described Cara as the maternal type.