Scarlet Devices (14 page)

“It's nice to be able . . . oh, do that again. Again and again, just like that. No, harder.” He wrapped his fingers around hers and tightened both their hands, moving so hard and fast that Eliza thought it
must
hurt him. But it didn't seem to. Quite the opposite. Instead, he shuddered and stopped, started again, pumped his cock a few times more in no discernible rhythm and then spent himself in a glorious mess.

The edge of the hay bale, the blanket, Eliza's knee, their joined hands. The thick white fluid seemed to be everywhere, though there was less of it than she'd been led to expect. The girls at college really hadn't known much, she decided, even the ones who claimed to know much more than they ought to. She felt spent herself, for no good reason . . . and like she'd accomplished something miraculous and strange.

Matthew sagged onto the bedrolls and flopped to his back, still breathing hard. After a second he pulled Eliza down with him, rolling half on top of her and kissing her like his life depended on it.

“I can't believe we just did that,” he said after an indefinite period of time. Eliza was half-drugged by the lazy sensuality that had overtaken her. She hummed in response and tried to catch his lips with hers again, but he evaded her and stood, finding his discarded shirt and attempting to clean up with it. “You're quite sure you won't marry me?”

“Positive,” she murmured, feeling somewhat less positive than she had an hour earlier. “I'll marry someday, for love. Once I've done all the things I want to do.”

“Tell me some of them.” He flicked the ruined shirt away, then crawled back onto the hay bale bed, tugged a bedroll open and flung it over both of them as she considered.

Under the blankets, snuggled against Matthew, Eliza felt nearly giddy with happiness. It was illusory, she reminded herself, a side effect of their no-doubt-foolish activities and the overall heat of moment. But for the moment, in the drowsy dark as their sated bodies relaxed and melted together, it was almost too perfect to bear.

“I want to see Europa, especially France. And Italy. Oh, and Switzerland, I want to see the Swiss Alps. Climb as high as I can.”

“I'd love to go back to France. I never made it to Paris, I was too busy in Le Havre when I was there. You should add England to your list, by the way. If only for form.”

“England is a given,” she assured him, as if he ought to have known.

“Good girl.”

“Yes. But even the good girls rarely get grand tours. Let's see, what else?” Matthew rolled to his side, getting more comfortable, one arm around her shoulders. She nestled against his chest, toying with the sparse dusting of soft hair. “Finish my monograph, of course. I suppose I'll have to adapt my premise if your theory about Orm turns out to be correct. All my fiddling about with staged photographs of the missing, and discussing myth creation mechanisms, seems pointless if there's been an actual conspiracy to abduct people and spirit them away. I'll have to throw out most of my work and start fresh, and a revision that drastic will take some time, obviously.

“And after that I'd like to spend some time in the workshop. I think Dexter's intake array is a good start, but I had an idea about modifying and reinforcing it to protect against incidents like this afternoon, with the rut. I can do the designing on my own, but I'll need the equipment at Hardison House to mill the parts for a prototype.”

“I had the same thought, about fortifying the array. We'll have to compare notes. You never finished letting down your hair, I just realized. Wouldn't you like to?” His restless fingers had found a stray hairpin, which she accepted from him and added to the small pile on top of her shirt. “I know I'd like to see it.”

“You just want to make me lose time in the morning, brushing and rebraiding it,” she accused him, then yawned mightily.

“Speaking of morning, have you set an alarm? Just in case mine doesn't go, it's always good to have a backup.”

“Mmm hmm.” The chronometer in her car was set to go off at five o'clock in the morning. It would honk the horn, which ought to wake them, the farmer's family and possibly the local roosters.

Matthew echoed her yawn, apologizing reflexively. “I would have liked to do more things, you know. I'm just too damn tired.”

She was too sleepy to muster a response, other than a contented sigh.

A few minutes later, nearly lost to slumber, she felt Matthew press a kiss to the top of her head. He whispered something then, and she pretended not to hear it. She was so close to sleeping it could have been a dream, anyway, and it would be better if it were because it wasn't something she could hear from him. Nor something he ought to be saying.

It had sounded suspiciously like, “I love you.”

J
ENSEN HAD DECIDED
to continue despite the dark and rain, and he wasn't the only one who paid for that choice dearly. When the hail had begun, he'd run off the road toward what he thought was a crofthold in the distance. The small, square light he'd seen turned out to be a storm lantern hung under a tree branch at the hastily erected encampment of the Watchmaker and Mr. Jones.

Jensen cut a swath through the sodden wild grass, and plowed straight into the delicate structure of the Watchmaker's vehicle, which in turn had flipped over onto Jones's steamer, taking out the canvas roof and most of the windows before rolling off again.

When Eliza and Matthew pulled up, the Watchmaker's folly lay on its back, extendible wheel struts collapsed over its undercarriage, looking for all the world like a giant dead spider.

Fortunately, aside from the bump on the head Jensen had taken, nobody was hurt. The Watchmaker and Jones had used their two tents to construct one large shelter against the storm, and the three men seemed to have spent the night in relative comfort despite the obvious ill feelings over the wreck.

“The two Frenchies are ahead of you,” Jensen volunteered. “They'll get word to the rally authorities in Dodge City that we need rescuing. But if one of you were to get there first and take the lead back for the Dominions, I'm sure we'd all appreciate it.”

“Not I,” the Watchmaker grumbled. “I don't care who wins.”

“Not the Watchmaker. But Jones and I would appreciate it.”

Matthew eyed Jones, wondering if he were in line for praise or punishment for the night's events. Surely if he were working for Orm, he'd have been meant to stay in the race as long as possible, to be the last man standing no matter what was required to achieve that goal. On the other hand, this crash was certainly no fault of his, and had eliminated two other competitors. Yet Jones himself showed no particular emotion other than regret at the empty bottle by his bedroll.

He let Eliza take the lead as they set out again, not out of chivalry but because the wagon track had narrowed somewhat and somebody had to go first. The landscape was more of the same: rolling grasslands and occasional cultivated fields, small outlying holdings guarded against pirates and endless sky that had cleared overnight to a pristine robin's-egg blue. Lovely, but hostile. It grew less lovely as the road widened in late afternoon, signaling they were nearing Dodge City.

Still, Matthew was glad for the drive, and for the time to think. He had let Eliza set the pace even before they were on the road, taking his cues from her when she woke that morning. He'd been up for some time, working on a new modification for his vehicle, culling makeshift parts from his own supplies and from a rack of tools in the corner of the barn. He was just leaving some coins in their place when he heard her stirring.

She was quiet and pensive. Not sorry about what they'd done, and not shy with him, but definitely not ebullient as he himself was. But then he'd wanted her longer. Did she really want him at all, or was he simply convenient and willing? Would she change her mind if they ever did do
that
? If Dexter found out what had happened, would he kill Matthew quickly or roast him alive on a spit over a smelting pot? All very important questions for which Matthew had no answers.

Then he nearly ran himself off the track, remembering random moments from the previous evening. Eliza's hip by his cheek, the sweet taste and sound of her pleasure. Her hand, so fragile but so strong, moving under his as he came. Her inky braid slipping off her shoulder to coil on the bedroll, a line of finest black silk against the rough wool. Her face, always her face, and the light in her eyes he'd never seen before last night. He would have gladly given up the race to remain in that enchanted barn with Eliza forever. Instead, he could only gaze ahead at the rear of her car, remembering and trying not to let the memories stir him to the point of discomfort.

Still running in single file, Matthew and Eliza passed Madame Barsteau at a point he reckoned was a few miles from town. She was overheated, but waved them on without concern. They arrived in the heart of Dodge City just in time to see Moreau emerge from his muddy once-white steamer, wave weakly to the cheering crowd and crumple to the ground in a dead faint.

 • • • 

“H
E'LL LIVE,” THE
doctor pronounced after examining Moreau at the hotel where they'd been installed for the night. “It's that influenza. Don't appreciate you folks bringing it to town.”

He spoke to the assembled group of drivers in the common dining hall, but made a particular point to glare at Eliza, who felt like a child being reprimanded in school. Moral censure was the last thing she'd expected in a town that evidently boasted seventeen saloons, but the place was rife with temperance ladies. Boasting their poppy pins and sporting their placards—she wondered if placard-making instructions were some part of their organizational documents, as the signs were all remarkably uniform—they marched along the raised wooden sidewalks of the main road through Dodge City, using the last of the daylight to illuminate their righteous indignation. The sheriff of the town, upon Eliza's arrival, had apologized in advance. His men were keeping the women away from the hotel where the racers were housed and guarding the cars overnight, but he didn't have the manpower to do much more.

The doctor didn't look any more approving than the ladies of the Temperance Society.
Imagine if he knew what I'd been up to last night
.

Eliza shrugged, feeling the others starting to follow his gaze. “I, for one, feel quite well.”

“He also has signs of chronic dyspepsia. All that foreign nonsense he eats, no doubt.”

The man sported a sizable paunch beneath his waistcoat, and evidence of the supper he'd been summoned from still clung to his shaggy gray mustache and beard, so Eliza thought he shouldn't cast stones.

“Moreau does love a good meal,” confirmed Matthew. “Thank you for seeing to him, doctor.”

“Had to. It's my job, keeping a body well. All you should know there's two kinds of folks here in Dodge, the righteous and the sinners. When night falls it's the sinners' town. You leave the hotel at your own peril, body
and
soul. Some a'you I don't suppose care much about that. But you been warned, and I don't want a midnight call to tend to any a'you who choose to risk it and end up with a bullet or stab wound for your trouble. I'll come, but I won't like it. Good evening to you all.” He shot another sidelong glance at Eliza, then spoke as though he couldn't help himself. “So shall righteousness hate iniquity, when she decketh herself, and shall accuse her to her face. My good wife and her ladies see through you,
miss
.”

She didn't know from what pocket of schoolroom knowledge, from which of her governesses or tutors, the response came, but she had one for him. “The Lord knoweth how to deliver the godly out of temptations, and to reserve the unjust
unto the day of judgment
to be punished. It is not for you or your wife to make that judgment, sir. Nor is it for me. Only for the Lord.”

She assumed her most demure face, her very best posture, and stared him down with all the earnest innocence she could muster until he turned on his heel and stalked out of the hall.

A lull followed his exit, punctuated by the clink of dinnerware as a serving girl began to clear the table. Finally Madame Barsteau broke the silence.

“I am intrigued by this notion of a town that goes to the sinners at nightfall. Who will join me?”

“Always up for a bit of sinning, ma'am.” Parnell offered her his arm.

“Cecily?”

Miss Davis stood and brushed her skirts down briskly. “If the good doctor was the representative of the righteous, I suspect I'll much prefer the wicked.”

“Anyone else?”

“I don't think it would be wise,” Eliza said with false regret. She wanted wickedness that night, but would have preferred it in the form of sneaking into Matthew's room. Or sneaking him into hers, she wasn't particular as long as they got to continue their . . . conversation of the previous evening. She wanted,
needed
, to touch him again. Sadly, however, sneaking was far too risky in the current setting. “There are probably still temperance ladies at large. I'll stay in the hotel and go up early, and then I'm for a bath and a good night's sleep.”

Matthew and Whitcombe shared a glance, and the large man nodded, then followed his three colleagues out into the night.

When the others were gone, Cantlebury drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. “All right, enough with the suspense. What's this about, Pence?

 • • • 

M
ATTHEW LAID OUT
his theory and evidence to a skeptical Cantlebury and a thoughtful-looking Miss Speck.

“I spoke to Whitcombe earlier. He's keeping an eye on the others. Him, I trust. You two as well.”

“And Miss Hardison,” Miss Speck pointed out. “I gather you trust her.”

He'd honestly forgotten that didn't go without saying now. He could scarcely think about anything other than Eliza; of course he trusted her. Clearing his throat, he looked at the beautiful lady in question and caught her covering a smirk with her hand. He couldn't kiss the smirk off her lips tonight, to his extreme woe.

“I trust her completely. The other three, I don't know. But one of them could well be Orm's man. Or woman. Statistically I suppose it would be more likely a woman at this point, but if Orm is involved with these Temperance Society types it seems unlikely he'd sponsor a female driver.”

Cantlebury pursed his lips, pondering. “Assuming, of course, that your theory about Orm is correct—and I grant you, I'm inclined to think it may be—why tell us and not the rally authorities? Or
somebody
in authority?”

“Tell them some women were wearing floral jewelry and I had a dream about my friend's little brother harvesting poppies, therefore they should risk angering a wealthy, powerful baron? You only believe me because you know me. Besides, aside from the local constabulary, who would I report this to? There are a few army outposts in this part of Victoria, but there isn't even a proper garrison until we reach Salt Lake City. As for the rally committee, all they can do is stop the race, and then where are we? I can't stop now, I made a promise to Smith-Grenville. True, at the time I thought it was a promise that wouldn't come to much. But if Orm does have slave labor taken from opium dens, if he really is as implicated as I think in all this, I owe it to Smith-Grenville to investigate. To at least
look
for Phineas at El Dorado. What's more, I feel I may owe it to Phineas. I sometimes wonder if we haven't all misjudged him. This drug business, it seems so wrong, so out of character for him.”

“Opium can change a person's character,” Miss Speck reminded him.

“True. And I realize that my quest is not everyone's. I'm going on, race or no race. Perhaps others would prefer to stop. I wanted to give you two and Whitcombe the information and let us all come to a decision together about whether to take it to the rally representatives.”

“Did Whitcombe give his proxy vote?” asked Cantlebury.

“He says he'll go on if there's a rally to race in. The longer he stays in this thing, the longer he's away from home and his mother's wrath over him losing. You've met the widow Whitcombe, I believe?”

“Indeed I have, and I'd fear her wrath too. Well, that's two of you.”

“Three,” Eliza volunteered. “I'm going forward.”

Matthew knew she'd feel that way, but he still clenched his teeth when he heard her say it.

“Lavinia? What say you, my love?”

Miss Speck smiled at Cantlebury, her soft brown eyes shining. “Whither thou goest.”

He was caught off guard, struck dumb by her for a second or two.

Cantlebury cleared his throat before replying. “Who would have thought we'd have so much scripture in one evening? You know I'm staying in the rally too, right?”

She laughed. “Of course, darling.”

“Just wanted to be sure. So we're at least five. Madame Barsteau is in 'til the end, I'd be willing to wager. I don't know Parnell or Miss Davis well enough to guess.”

The serving girl returned to finish clearing. Once she'd gone, Cantlebury hopped from his chair and offered a hand to Miss Speck.

“Perhaps if any of us make it as far as Salt Lake, we can contact the garrison. But for now, it sounds as though we race tomorrow. Time for us to retire for the evening. Darling?”

“That's a bit forward, don't you think?” Matthew nodded at the couple's joined hands.

Cantlebury looked supremely amused. “Not at all. I signed the registry as Mister and Missus. Nobody knows us from Adam here, Pence. We common folk don't quite draw the attention you socialites do.”