The Copper and the Madam (9 page)

Rory, a tall and imposing man, could do
serious damage to another human being, nonetheless a warm feeling
covered her, the knowledge that Rory would never hurt her.
Trust
him
her inner voice urged, and she vowed to try and do that
very thing.

Rea stepped in close. Rory looked down at
her, his longish hair falling over his face. His eyes burned, and
not from the drink.

“You know, Rory, anytime you wish to talk to
me about your job, I am willing to listen. I am not a hot-house
flower whose petals will wilt at the slightest provocation. I have
an idea of what occurs out on the cobbles.”

“Thank you, darlin’. I will take you up on
the offer. Now, take off my shirt as well.”

The vest fell to the floor, so she worked the
buttons on his white shirt. Rea pushed it off his shoulders. She
had never seen Rory bare-chested. She stepped back to admire the
view. Well-formed, as if a sculptor had carved every muscled plane
with love. Reddish-brown hair dusted his chest and arrowed into a
thin line down his flat abdomen to disappear enticingly under the
waist of his trousers.

“Touch me, Rhiannon.” His voice rough and
husky with need.

She stepped closer and laid both hands flat
on his chest. The crisp chest hair curled about her fingers. He
felt even better than her dreams. She caressed him, tracing every
part of his torso. Warmth traveled through her body. Her insides
took a tumble. Desire. She knew it instinctively though she’d never
experienced the sensation, except when she watched Rory fuck.

Prominent veins laced his arms. She followed
that trail with her fingers. Rory moaned, his head back, and his
eyes closed. Everywhere she explored she met with hard, unyielding
muscle and power.

A prominent erection strained against his
trousers. A large man. She could see the proof. A cold fear gripped
her insides. He would want her to touch him there. Could she? Rea
had always considered a man’s cock a weapon, something used to
intimidate and dominate.

“Please lass, brush your fingers over my
prick. For a moment only. I will ask nothing more, at least
regarding this.”

Rea followed the length of him down between
his legs, and then slowly moved back up to his waist.

“Oh, sweet Jaysus….” he groaned, his voice
coarse and laced with desire.

His cock twitched. The tips of her fingers
came in contact with solid masculinity. Her nipples tightened. Yes,
she desired him, even this most male part of him.

Rory clasped her wrist and caught her in his
heated gaze. “You don’t have to do any more. Not tonight. Will you
take this off? I want to see all of you. I have waited so bloody
long.”

Old anxieties rose to the surface. The
teasing she’d endured from childhood until her later years. She had
been rather fat as a young girl. As she grew older, she also grew
taller and stretched out a bit, but the plumpness never left. She
knew most men preferred those willowy, tall women she had seen
gliding about the shops at Piccadilly Circus.

She wore nothing under her shift. She’d been
nude for many men in the past. The luxury of modesty that left her
at age fifteen had never returned. With a swift motion, she pulled
the garment over her head and tossed it on the floor next to Rory’s
discarded shirt and vest.

“God above in his heaven,” he moaned.

His eyes flickered with molten heat. Taking
her hand, he led her toward the bed.

“I want to touch you now, Rhiannon. Lie you
on the bed and explore every inch of your skin. I want to bring you
pleasure.”

She glanced down at his arousal. “What about
your needs?”

“Tonight is about you, Rhiannon.”

A lump formed in her throat as she recalled
Lydia’s words.
“If you can find a man who puts your needs and
wants above all else, including his own, then hold onto him for
dear life.”

Rea wanted to throw herself against that
muscular chest and sob her heart out. Instead, she followed him to
the bed. She lay down, and Rory stretched out on his side next to
her.

He cupped the heft of her breast and brushed
his thumb by her already erect nipple.

“Beautiful, your breasts are glorious. Your
body lush.” He spread his hand wide and moved across her ample hips
while he laid soft, passionate kisses on her chest.

She was aroused.
Very
aroused. She
writhed under his touch, hot moisture gathered in her quim, and the
flames moved upward until soft moans escaped her lips.

A man’s touch once filled her with
abhorrence. Rory’s didn’t—in any way. His kisses trailed lower as
his fingers brushed by her curls.
Oh, heaven
.

Rory froze, his head lifted. His puzzled gaze
studied her abdomen.

“Rhiannon, darlin’….” His voice softened.
“When did you give birth to a babe?”

Rory knew what those vertical marks on a
woman’s abdomen meant. Once, in the morgue, Doctor Williams had
pointed them out to him on a drowning victim from the Thames,
explaining it was one way to tell if a woman had given birth. The
skin stretched to accommodate the babe growing within. He called
them “striae.” He also said they could be caused by rapid weight
gain, but Rhiannon, by her own admission, had lost weight since her
youth. So childbirth remained the logical explanation. Deduction
was his forte after all.

Her body grew rigid.

“Talk to me, Rhiannon,” he coaxed.

He did not wish for her to withdraw and grow
distant. He had enough of that between them these last years. Tears
escaped her lids and rolled down her temples, wetting the
pillow.

His heart contracted in pain at her distress.
Rory pulled her close and threw the quilt over them both. With her
head burrowed against his chest, he rubbed her back in comfort.

“Let it all out, lass.”

Perhaps his gentle words opened the gate to
her pent-up sorrow, for Rhiannon sobbed quite loudly. Each agonized
howl speared his heart. He continued giving comfort, murmuring soft
assurances, stroking her cold, trembling skin, laying kisses to her
forehead. Never had he held a woman like this, nor given any part
of his heart before.

Rhiannon’s mournful cries changed into
hiccups, until at last, she stilled. She fondled his chest as she
took deep breaths and exhaled.

“I became pregnant immediately. It could have
been that horrible old earl who raped me or any of the disgusting
men who followed. No one had instructed me on how to avoid
pregnancy. The other whores wanted to take me to a woman who had
aborted theirs. The discussion, in which I had no say, ended with
the decision I would have the baby. How relieved I felt, believing
I would be given a reprieve from fucking. I had fanciful notions of
becoming a loving mother. God, I was so young and immature. But a
lot of men would pay a pretty penny to fuck a woman heavy with
child. I spent the next several months on my knees, sometimes with
a man standing in front and in back of me at the same time.”

Rory’s rage burned hot and deep. He knew this
happened. He’d seen it his whole life, from St. Giles to
Whitechapel to Lambeth; women used and discarded, and the same with
children. To know Rhiannon suffered such uncorked a dangerous
mixture of emotions within him. He tamped down the fury and waited
for her to continue.

“I named my son James. He died two days after
he was born. He’d be close to nineteen if he had lived.” She
sniffled.

Rory held her tighter. “My poor darlin’.”

Rhiannon curled closer. “Such a beautiful
baby. He even had hair the color of mine, and blue eyes. There were
discussions of sending him to the orphanage, but he died before the
decision could be made. Weak lungs, the doctor said. I think James
made his own choice. He wanted no part of this world. I cannot
blame him.”

“Gordon reminded you of the son who did not
live,” Rory stated.

“Yes, I suppose he did, in his physical
appearance. I have felt this grinding sense of loss for so long,
Rory. A part of me shriveled up and died that day with James. I do
not think I can feel anything ever again.”

They lay together in silence for several
moments. The sun had set. A lone oil lamp burned on the night table
by the bed, casting a soft glow over them. Rory continued to stroke
her arm.

“Rhiannon, I’ve closed myself off from
feeling anything my whole life. It is easier to deal with the
contemptible responsibilities of life when you don’t give a damn. I
suppose I care about injustice, or why else be a copper? I can
claim a passing compassion for my fellow man when it is warranted.
But outside of any of that, I have not given my heart to anyone,
not even my wretched mother.”

“Why would she keep you in the room when
she...serviced those men?”

“We lived in the one room. How else could she
keep an eye on me? My mother bade me to face the wall, but the
sounds disturbed me. I had no idea what went on, at first. Later,
at the bordello, I can’t say. Perhaps, again, to protect me. Or so
I tell myself,” he replied.

“Protect you from what?”

“Life. She kept me at her side at all times.
She did not want me running the streets like other dirty-faced
lads, getting into all sorts.” He paused in his painful tale. His
feelings for his mother were muddled at best. “Blast it all, before
she died, she made me promise to go to the priest. I did. She must
have arranged my care with that whiskey-drinking bastard.”

“So she did protect you, right to the very
end,” Rhiannon stated, her voice gentle.

Rory was astounded to find tears in his eyes.
He hadn’t cried when his mother died. Not once. A true slam to his
guts to realize after all these years later that she deserved more
than the indifference he gave her memory.

“Aye, she did.”

“My father sold me without a thought for my
well-being. He abandoned me. He left me as everyone always has.
Even the people I care about, like Desmond and Gordon, left me. My
son—left me.”

Rory exhaled. “You think I will do the same,
is that it? I told you I have never given my heart, Rhiannon. I
want to give it to you.”

She shifted to lean on her elbow. “You do not
mean that.”

This woman could not accept that someone
could care for her, or love her. Love. Jaysus, did he feel that
toward her? This never-ending ache in his heart, the constant
twisting of his insides, the roiling emotions, and the steady
arousal haunted his every step. Even now, his hard cock throbbed
for her.

Rhiannon swiped the couple of tears that had
rolled down the side of his face.

“Oh, Rory. We are a pair, are we not?”

He turned the lamp down until darkness
covered them like a cloak. Exhaustion had taken over his mind and
body. He couldn’t talk about anything else right now. Rory laid her
head back on his chest. Having her lush, naked body curled about
him calmed his soul.

“We are that, love. Rest, sleep for a while.
We have the rest of the night together. For now, let us take a
little respite.”

Rhiannon sighed then burrowed in closer.
Within minutes, her soft breathing proved how exhausted she’d been
as well. Rory’s lids grew heavy and soon all slipped into
darkness.

***

Rea opened one eye. The room was cast in
complete blackness except for a thin beam of moonlight from the
window on the opposite wall.

Rory held her tight in his arms while he
slept. His long, reddish-brown lashes nearly brushed his cheeks.
The handsome copper looked so innocent in his slumber. Telling him
about her son had been the right thing to do. She had never spoken
of James to anyone before. While the memories were still hard to
take, revealing the secret of her lost child helped to break away a
small portion of the wall she had built around her heart.

Perhaps Rory had done the same by talking of
his mother. When those couple of tears had snaked down his cheeks,
her heart did a tumble.

Rory stirred; a husky moan escaped his
throat. The quilt tented from his hard arousal.

Well
. As fascinated as she was by his
obvious desire for her, could she touch him—there?

His eyes snapped open, and his gaze softened.
He turned the lamp up enough to cast a low illumination in the
room. Rory opened his watch.

“Fifteen minutes past eleven. We slept a few
hours, at any rate.” He snapped it closed and laid it on the table.
Pulling her close, he nuzzled her neck affectionately. “Feeling
better, love?”

Oh, delight lit up her insides at him calling
her “love.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Do you think we can continue where we left
off? I believe I touched you—here.” He burrowed his hand under the
quilt, his fingers caressed and ignited her skin. She rolled flat
on her back and instinctively spread her legs. Rory tossed back the
quilt and turned on his side to face her.

“That’s it, Rhiannon. Lie back, relax, and
let me explore. I want to bring you pleasure. Stop me anytime you
feel uncomfortable, you follow?”

“Yes. I will.”

No man had ever explored her body before. Her
five years of sexual experience consisted of sweaty, grunting men
who grabbed and fondled roughly and fucked her with no regard for
her own pleasures. Not that she found any pleasure in sex. Except
when she observed others. She had to admit, “voyeur” described her
well. She’d rather watch than participate. There were many times
she studied Desmond and Lila those afternoons they “practiced.” She
had become aroused. Passion existed deep inside her, but she hid it
as a protection.

His beautiful greenish-hazel eyes reflected
his desire. Could she reach deep inside and bring her own passion
to the surface?

“You are getting wet.” He smiled.

Rory plunged two fingers in, and she gasped.
His thumb rolled back and forth over the nub.