Scarlet Devices (13 page)

Matthew leaned forward, an earnest light in his eyes. He was convinced, and his certainty went a long way toward convincing Eliza. “Orm once said that the hills of his ranch were paved with gold,
all kinds
of gold. He added that part deliberately,
all kinds
. What if he was being clever and he really meant poppies? They grow wild in California, entire fields of them like in my dream. It would be easy enough to adapt that landscape for growing some form of opium poppy, I'm sure. And he wouldn't have to ship across the ocean, so he could almost certainly undersell the Chinese in both the legal and illegal markets here in the Dominions.”

“But the sabotage? Murder? Why would he care about the rally? Isn't he sponsoring one of the drivers? Jones, I think.”

“It's only smart to have a man on the ground. I wouldn't be surprised if he had more than one driver or race official on his payroll. But I think his real goal is to stop as many of us as possible from getting to the last few airship legs. He doesn't
want
us going west over the Sierra Nevada. Think about it, if you had a giant illegal opium farm, would you want anyone flying over and discovering it? He's probably been shooting down airships for years. He might have even been behind that geological survey that found toxic fumes there. I think it was privately funded.”

Eliza mulled all these ideas over, worrying at them in her mind until she thought she had them in some sort of order. “This would be an interesting twist on my premise.” At Matthew's blank look, she explained further, falling naturally into her lecturing rhythm. “This is what I studied at Vassar. I told you, I'm writing a book about it. Myths and common legends come from someplace, they always have some origin point and often even a grain of fact at their heart. I've long argued that the ruling classes have used the power of certain myths, encouraged their growth or even deliberately propagated them, to keep their workers in line. Not only in antiquity, but here and now. The inland lords and eastern manufacturers know there are freeholds and land for the taking in the west, and they don't want their farmers or laborers sneaking off in the night to find their own stakes. What better way to keep them at home than by making the whole idea of going west synonymous with never being seen again, even turning it into a metaphor for death?”

“Not to mention the poisonous gases.”

“Each additional tale like that only serves to bolster the fear surrounding the central myth. But in this case, if you're right, perhaps the entire thing is more fact than legend. Only it isn't poisonous gases and mysteriously disappearing addicts, it's anti-airship guns and a complicated scheme to conscript a labor force.”

Matthew frowned, apparently thinking of additional pieces. “I'll bet one of the last legs is routed directly over his land. He couldn't demand a change in the race route without arousing suspicion, and he couldn't shoot us all out of the sky at once on that last sprint over the Sierras. That would also cause a huge fuss and there would almost certainly be a search party. He needed to eliminate as many as possible before the last day, and in enough different ways to make sabotage seem improbable.”

“Not needed.
Needs
. And what real proof do we have? I don't see how we can stop him.”

“It's true, they'll laugh us out of the rally if we bring my crackbrained theory to the officials in Dodge City. But Eliza, what if he really does have Phineas?”

She took his hands, squeezing in reassurance. “Consider that this is the first real lead you've had about where he might actually be. Before, you had no hope of finding him, did you?”

He shook his head, clearly not liking the admission, but too honest to deny it. His fingers played over hers, twining and untwining.

“So at least now you have hope. Will you tell the race officials your theory tomorrow night?”

“I'm not sure yet. I'll have to sleep on it.” Matthew seemed distracted, staring at their still-joined hands. “You think I'm a prude, don't you?”

“Come again?”

“For not letting you take advantage of me.”

“Are we back to that?”

“I'm not sure you even like me. And as I've said, I'm very fond of you.”

She sighed, trying to think of a way to respond that wouldn't start another argument. As much as she sometimes enjoyed arguing with Matthew, she'd had quite enough of it for one evening. “I like you. I'd like to know you better. But I don't think you respect me very much, which is hard to take.”

He grinned, and she couldn't help returning it. “You're beating me pretty soundly for time in this rally, and I assure you I have a healthy respect for that. And for your conviction, which I admire enormously. I had no idea you were so educated about this myth business. Not sure why, really; I knew you'd been away studying. You must have been studying
something
. But I knew you as a child, and I think I needed time for my mind to catch up with . . . the rest of me in recognizing that you weren't a child anymore.”

“I'll choose to be flattered by that.”

“I hoped you might. Believe me when I say I don't see a little girl when I look at you.”

“But you still won't let me take advantage of you.”

It was Matthew's turn to sigh, in obvious frustration. He freed one hand to push his hair back, raking it away from a furrowed brow. “If I asked you to marry me, what would you say? Hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically or otherwise, I would say no. I don't want to marry, I want to have a life of my own.” The whole idea of marriage stuck in her craw. Wives might no longer be the chattel of their husbands, but in the marriages she'd seen it didn't seem to matter. They still fell into the patterns of matronhood, motherhood, a host of expectations that held no appeal for her. Running a household, caring for children, losing the chance to do
so many things
. It wasn't that she never wanted a home or family. But not now, not yet, when she had so much else to do first. “I don't see why the two must be connected.”

Nearly tearing his hair out, Matthew growled in exasperation. “Neither do I. I'd love to be taken advantage of. But you don't want to marry, and I . . . oh, I can't believe I'm saying this. I don't have a French letter, and I don't think withdrawal works worth a damn. If you were to get pregnant I'd never forgive myself and neither would you. You'd have to marry me then, and it would be forcing you into something you don't want.”

“Oh.”

 • • • 

E
LIZA'S EYES WERE
wide, startled. Matthew cursed himself for laying out the truth so bluntly, but he simply hadn't known what else to say. He wanted her desperately, of course he did, but he
couldn't
. His honor might be overridden by desire at the moment but it wasn't gone completely.

“Oh,” she said again, after a little pause. “By French letter, I take it you're referring to some sort of, um . . .” She made a gesture with her free hand that drove Matthew several feet closer to the edge of insanity. He grabbed her fingers and wound his through them again, to stop her before he could visualize any more.

“It's a lambskin sheath. To catch the—”

“I understand the mechanism. I know what it is and what it's for, I just didn't know they were called that.”

“Ah.”

He'd half expected her to be horrified, but to Matthew's slightly apprehensive surprise, Eliza now merely looked speculative. He wasn't sure that boded well for his self-restraint, as her ideas in the past had led him quite far astray from paths of strictly virtuous behavior.

“That's very practical of you, Matthew. Very considerate.” She seemed to be more interested in filling the silence and giving herself more time to consider than actually complimenting him.

“Sweetheart, what are you thinking about?”

“Sweetheart?” She lifted her eyebrows at him. “I like that. I'm thinking of a friend at Vassar.”

“I see.” It seemed an odd time for reminiscence, and he knew there was more to it by the look in her eye as she tilted toward him over their hands.

“If you saw what I was thinking, you wouldn't look nearly so calm or collected. I'm thinking terrible things for which I will surely go to the devil. Probably the very sorts of things those temperance ladies suspect me of.”

“Eliza, I've explained, I really can't.”

“You can't do
that
. You do realize there are other things we might do, yes?”

M
ATTHEW SWALLOWED AND
tried to will his heart to beat at a normal pace. He wondered if Eliza cared that his palms were sweating all over hers. “Hypothetically?”
The cracking voice is stellar. You're a born Lothario, Pence.

Her grin was evil, pure delightful evil. For all the world, though he would never say it, like a wicked child bent on mischief. Adorable. “Where would be the fun in that?”

It was the same look she used to get when she thought she'd successfully slipped by him, just before he thwarted her by pulling her away from the giant turbine, the molten metal, the thousand and one hazards the workshop presented. She'd given the same enthralled, hungry look to the machinery that she now bestowed upon him. As if she were itching to get her hands on it. What little blood remained in his brain simply couldn't support thoughts of denying her. He wanted to be the engine she took apart to see how it ran. It was a new world out here on the frontier, and if she wasn't bothered by the muddy morality of it all, why should he be? It wasn't as though anyone would know but the two of them.

“As long as we don't do
that
,” he said, scarcely believing he was in such a position.

Her grin widened and she bent closer still, then seemed stricken with a moment of uncertainty. “I don't actually know what most of the other things are,” she confessed.

He freed his hands and cupped her face, stroking his thumbs over her high, sharp cheekbones. This, at least, he was reasonably confident about. “I do.”

At least he knew enough to start with. Matthew was certain he'd come up with more ideas as he went along. And so might Eliza, he thought, his cock twitching at the possibilities as he kissed her until they were both mad for more.

She was trickier to undress today. Her shirt seemed to have an endless amount of tiny buttons, and beneath that he was faced with a set of stays and a chemise. Eliza batted his hands from the back laces of her stays, never taking her mouth from his, but the fastenings on the front of the garment baffled him and he finally gave up.

She leaned away long enough to mumble, “They're like hooks.” Then she gripped the placket on either side, exhaled mightily and squeezed, somehow popping the whole thing open at once. “If you'd messed with the lacing it would have taken you hours and you'd have needed to lace me in again in the morning.”

“I would have been happy to, but I like your way better. Curse this lantern, though, I can barely see you.”

“Will this help?”

To his utter shock and delight, she pulled her chemise off over her head. His brave, defiant, beautiful girl. “Immensely. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Now you.”

Matthew shrugged his suspenders off, popped a few shirt buttons open, then gave up and took it off over his head as Eliza had, tossing it off the bales with a flourish.

“That'll be a nest for mice by morning.”

“Don't care.”

“You're quite lovely, you know,” she murmured, raising her hands to his shoulders. Following the contours, she worked her way to his chest, learning him muscle by muscle. He itched to do the same to her, but forced himself to be patient, to let her set the pace.

 • • • 

H
E FELT ESSENTIAL
under her hands. Like a part of herself she hadn't known was missing until she found it. She'd known a fraction of this sensation in the woods, but to face him this way, uncovering themselves to one another as a conscious decision, was unfathomably better. Eliza liked all of him, everything she touched, from the rounded muscles of his shoulders and arms to the firm, flat planes of his chest. She brushed the divot between his collarbones with her thumb, then with her tongue, and found it salty but wonderful. He tasted necessary.

When she got down to the rippled muscles of his abdomen, Matthew finally reached across the narrow divide between them and mirrored her movement, teasing his fingers across her belly. He was bolder, dipping below the waist of her breeches.

“These need to come off next.”

“Boots first,” she reminded him. He slipped from the bales with a cheeky grin, positioning himself on the floor beyond her toes.

“Your foot, madam?”

She offered one leg up and he pulled, levering the tall boot off in one practiced motion. Then the other and, to her chagrin, her socks, which had to be the worse for wear. Eliza expected him to climb back up, but he didn't. He coaxed her to stand, then set to work on her breeches, quickly discovering the side buttons and the silky, specially designed short drawers. He slid both down at once, slipping his hands beneath the fabric and caressing her legs from thigh to heel until the clothing was gone.

And that was it. Standing naked in front of a man. Not so difficult after all, so why was she shaking? People did it every day. But Eliza felt stripped of more than clothes. Matthew's sparkling eyes seemed to notice every facet of her being, not just her appearance.

“We can stop if you want to,” he offered. She shook her head fervently.

“Why on earth would I want to stop?”

“In that case, lie back down.”

She'd planned to be more active, but when it came down to it, Eliza found herself lying back and simply
feeling
. Matthew traced her from toe to neck and back again, caressing each part of her with seemingly infinite care. Then he started another round with his mouth, licking and nibbling everywhere he'd stroked. Everywhere except the place she wanted him most urgently. When he finally brought his fingers there, sliding up from her thigh to run them gently over her folds as he kissed her mouth sweetly, Eliza was embarrassed to realize she was whimpering, shamelessly pushing into his touch.

“You're wet,” he whispered, as though it were a miraculous discovery to have made. “I have to investigate more thoroughly.”

He slipped down her body, kissing his way, and in her ignorance she didn't realize what he meant to do until he replaced his fingers with his tongue. His hot, velvety, muscular, absolutely astounding tongue.

“
Oh
. I never want you to stop doing that,” she in-formed him.

“What if I did
this
instead?” His tongue of wonders swiped over her clitoris, and she realized if he kept going, she would climax. Would he want that? Was she supposed to like this? Then he did it again and she didn't care whether she was supposed to or not. When he used his fingers
and
his tongue, well, that was just cheating and she was no match for it. It felt too good to resist, too good all over but especially in that center of hot anticipation, the furnace he was stoking so patiently. She couldn't help but burst into flame, wailing his name as the orgasm burned through her.

When the heat finally eased and he lifted his head, she felt cleansed but embarrassed. For all her brave talk, she hadn't known a thing, not really.
Mouths
, that simply hadn't occurred to her, though after the fact it seemed obvious and brilliant. Why not mouths? Of course. So much better than fingers alone.

“You taste wonderful,” he mumbled against her inner thigh. His chin was wet. Looking down her body, she saw him resting his head on her leg, eyes closed as he nuzzled about. His arms still cradled her hips, and he was petting her in gentle, soothing, aimless strokes along her flanks. He looked absolutely content and like he belonged there.

“I can't see how I would. I need a bath more than life itself.”

“No. You taste like life itself. And I need a bath too, so what does it matter?”

He slipped one finger back inside her, then worked another in more slowly. It tugged, stretching her, but didn't quite hurt. She already wanted more, wanted to
learn
more.

Matthew shifted again, crawling up to hover over her on all fours, pressing kisses here and there as he went. He lingered over each of her breasts before finally reaching her mouth and settling in, lowering himself between her legs. It was slow and dreamy, perfect. But his trousers were scratchy against her still-tingling thighs, and his erection pressed against her pelvic bone insistently every time he moved.

“Is there a quid pro quo I ought to know about?” she asked at last, between languorous kisses.

Matthew opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He bit his lip, shifty-eyed, looking embarrassed and aroused and generally worthy of affection. After a moment he seemed to come to a decision. “There
is
, yes, in theory. Or so I've heard. Nobody's ever . . . I've only ever done the one thing, the primary activity that we agreed
not
to do. And I wouldn't ask you to try that other thing. I don't think it's the sort of thing nice gentlemen ask ladies to do.”

“Oh. You mean you've never done that thing you just did? You seemed quite good at it.”

“How would you know?” he pointed out.

Eliza shrugged. “If I ever gain a basis for comparison perhaps I'll report back. In the meantime, carry on as you did, it was splendid. Aren't we long past the part where we worry about what nice gentlemen and ladies do?”

“I suppose we are.”

“If we're debauching one another, we might as well do the thing properly. Why are your trousers still on?”

“No good reason springs to mind.”

He practically leapt up, shucking his trousers and drawers so quickly Eliza didn't have time to prepare herself mentally. Suddenly there it was, the piece of his body whose existence she wasn't supposed to acknowledge, standing out at a stiff angle and bobbing gently as he leaned over to toss his garments on an adjacent hay bale.

Words ran through her head in a rush, and she just as quickly discarded them.
Penis, male member, manhood, willy, that thing
 . . .

“What do you call it?”

“Fred.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I call it Fred,” he repeated, apparently quite serious, and just as apparently quite comfortable and cheerful standing naked in front of her with Fred drawing all the attention. Eliza made no effort not to stare, though she could feel herself blushing madly.
Want
coursed through her all over again as she watched Matthew grasp it in one hand. He slid his fist down its length and back again, firmer than Eliza would have expected, then set it free.

“You've
named
it?” She wasn't sure whether she found that appalling or hilarious.

“Well, you're the one who asked.” The light finally dawned, and he snickered at himself. “Oh. I think the word you're looking for is
cock
. Some prefer
prick
, but it's always been
cock
in my mind.”

“Except when it's
Fred
.”

“Correct.”

She reached out tentatively, then drew her hand back. “May I touch it?” It seemed the sort of thing a man might have strong feelings about. If he went and named the thing and all. As though it were a pet. She wanted very much to pet it. She was fairly sure it wouldn't bite.

He edged close enough to lean his knees against the bale, offering himself up. “Eliza.
Sweetheart
. Henceforth, whenever we are naked and alone you have my blanket permission to play with Fred as much as you like.
God
, this is madness.”

He said
God
again when she touched him, running her fingers over the surprisingly soft skin of his cock. She liked that word. It was cheerful and blunt, just like Matthew's manner now that he'd given himself over to lewdness. A good solid word for a good solid thing.
Very
solid, when she tried gripping it as Matthew had, and found the muscular core beneath the deceptively velvety surface. The skin slipped over it as she moved her hand, revealing and concealing different things. Matthew's breathing grew heavy, serious, and Eliza glanced up to see his lids had drifted down to half-mast. But not closed, oh no. He was watching her, watching everything she did with avid interest. The veiled ferocity of his gaze raked Eliza's skin, charging the moment with even more tension.

She wanted too much, was thinking too much. Her response disconcerted her; it was so uncontrolled, so extreme. Surely people did this every day without going mad. Eliza decided she needed some detachment. To treat the whole thing as a learning experience, not the mess of hot emotions it was rapidly becoming.

Trying to think objectively, she experimented with her hands to see which actions produced the best noises from Matthew. The underside of his erection seemed more sensitive than the top, and when she stroked hard enough to move the loose skin around the bit that peeked out at the end, he groaned in a most gratifying way.

“I won't last much longer if you keep doing that.” He seemed to be warning her of this, for some reason.

“Do I want you to last longer? Isn't that defeating the purpose?” Her fingertips brushed against Matthew's testicles, eliciting another delicious sound from him.
Oh, Fred's cohorts are sensitive too
. She wasn't supposed to be filing that knowledge away for later, but she couldn't help it. Eliza was already anticipating a next time.