Authors: Delilah Marvelle
He was so endearingly forward and real. It made her soul want to melt like butter in a pan. She softened her tone. “I do like you, Robinson.”
He eyed her. “You do?”
“Of course I do.”
He held her gaze. “Do you like me enough to kiss me again?”
She bit back a smile. “I like you well enough to kiss you on the cheek. Will that do?”
“No. I want you to kiss me on the mouth.”
“I’ll kiss you on the cheek and then we can decide if there’s room for more. Take it or leave it.”
He hesitated, then leaned down toward her, offering his good cheek. “Fine.”
Lifting herself on her bare toes, she grabbed hold of his linen shirt to balance herself and touched her lips to the warmth of his cheek, the stubbled, unshaven hairs rasping against her own skin. She kissed that cheek softly, only to kiss it again and again, finding herself slowly giving in to wanting so much more of him and that tender warmth. Sliding her hands up to his solid shoulders, she kissed his cheek again.
His hand quickly encircled her waist, his broad chest rising and falling more notably against her own as he dragged the heat of his moist lips across her entire cheek, guiding them down toward her lips.
Georgia half closed her eyes and leaned heavily against him, unable to breathe against the feel of his tensing muscles. She fought the urge to seize that mouth that lingered so close to her own. She also fought from raking her own fingers down toward the flap of his trousers, dragging up her skirts and riding him there against the table just to know what it would feel like. She doubted he’d resist, but as lost as he was in that head of his, the last thing she wanted to do was take advantage of him.
“Do it,” he murmured against her skin. His tongue darted out and erotically traced her lips with its wet warmth.
Her stomach flipped, realizing he was in tune with her thoughts. She released his shirt and scrambled away and out of his hold. “We shouldn’t.”
He leaned heavily against the table, causing it to creak and sway beneath his weight, and gripped the edges, turning his knuckles white. The thick line of his erection was visible against the flap of his trousers. “Why not? Am I not attractive enough?”
Only a man who had knocked out every last thought from his head would require an explanation as to
why
they shouldn’t bend to lust. She quickly held up the folded banknotes. “I ought to put this away.”
He leveled her with a heated stare. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you not find me attractive?”
“We’re gettin’ too involved, Robinson. All right? It isn’t that I don’t find you attractive—I do, believe me—it’s just that we don’t even know who you are and I’m rather worried this won’t end well for either of us.” She turned away and hurried into the front room.
Though she could have easily stripped him and let what boiled between them explode, she knew nothing good would come of it. Men of wealth didn’t marry penniless girls from the Five Points. They only ever fecked them. That much she knew, even if
he
didn’t. And though she had no qualms of submitting to this bubbling desire coiling within her, for she was no prim virgin, she sensed far more than her body was going to get fecked. Her dream of owning land and being a self-made woman would be ruined. What if she ended up pregnant?
Hurrying over to the patched wool curtains, she pulled each across the set of three windows facing the street, dulling the bright morning light spilling into the room.
Robinson strode into the front room and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the farthest wall. “What are you doing?”
“Ensurin’ no one sees where I keep my money.” She wandered over to the wall she had tacked from ceiling to floor with posters and handbills Raymond had gathered throughout the years from political rallies. She never cared for male politics but the posters and handbills had proven useful, for they hid all the holes in the walls.
She paused before a slogan poster that read
True Democrats Meet Here.
She glanced back at Robinson and intoned, “Open, sesame.”
Turning back, she untacked the bottom of the poster from the wall. She leaned in. Reaching into the jagged four-inch hole in the plaster of the wall, between protruding thin wood lattices, she patted her way down and to the right until her fingers grazed her box.
Grasping it, she carefully angled it so as not to let the contents spill and pulled the carved wooden box up and out of the wall. She brushed off the dust from the posy-engraved box. Lifting the lid, she tucked in the last of what she would need atop those pennies, dimes, nickels, quarters and folded banknotes.
She pressed the lid back onto it, smoothing her hand over it with genuine pride, knowing she had at long last achieved what she never thought possible. She had a full ninety-eight dollars and ninety-six cents thanks to Robinson, when she’d needed only sixty to head west and claim her half acre.
She smiled, fingering the box to ensure it was real. “My father gave this box to me. ’Twas like he knew I’d be fillin’ it with a dream he’d never be able to be a part of.”
A large hand touched her lower back, making her jump. She glanced back at Robinson from over her shoulder, realizing he’d been standing behind her all along.
He pushed away her long, unbound hair over her shoulder, causing her skin to frill from the graze of his fingertips. His eyes trailed down toward the box in her hands. “What happened to your father?” he inquired in a soft voice that made her want to turn and rest her head against his shoulder.
Shifting toward him, she lowered her eyes to the box, pressing its smoothed edge against her stomach. Her throat tightened. She rarely spoke about her father anymore. “I’ll never know.”
Robinson slid his arm around her and pulled her closer against his muscled warmth. “Forgive me. You needn’t feel obliged to tell me anything about him.”
“No. I want to. I feel like I’m honorin’ him when I do.” She leaned against him. “Da worked over at the docks paintin’ ships and haulin’ crates since I was old enough to remember. He never missed a day of work. Not even when he was sick. A day’s wage meant more to him than his health, no matter how much I nagged him about it. On that fifth of June, he pinched my cheek the way he did every morn before leavin’ to work, and insisted that after I sold all of my matches, that I stay away from the boys and make turnip soup for the both of us. So I went about my day and, by the end of it, made soup, filled his bowl for supper and set a spoon beside it at exactly a quarter to five the way I always did.”
Fingering the box still in her hands, she swallowed. “I sat there waitin’ two hours. It was so unlike him. He was always punctual in everythin’ he did.” She swallowed again. “So I went over to the docks lookin’ for him. All the men were still there, includin’ the foreman. They claimed he’d never even showed up for work that mornin’. ’Twas the first in thirteen years. I panicked and took it straight to the watch, knowin’ somethin’ wasn’t right. They were useless and only called me in to identify bodies that never belonged to him. Bein’ a mere fifteen with barely eighty-two cents in a jar, I took to sellin’ as many bundled matches as I could, prayin’ on my rosary he’d come back.” Tears rimmed her eyes, remembering those nights spent cradling her father’s clothes unable to breathe or think.
Robinson rubbed her back soothingly, his large hand gently gliding up and down. “So what…happened?”
She let out a shaky breath, nestling her cheek against his chest. “He never did come back and his body was never found. That’s when the landlord started pesterin’ me for the rent. I asked him for a means to find work, seein’ I didn’t have the money.” She shook her head in disgust. “He only unbuttoned his trousers and asked if I was a virgin. I bloody took off without even gatherin’ my clothes, knowin’ how it would end.”
She drew in another breath, remembering that soundless night she’d spent in a coal bin tucked out of sight, expecting someone to crawl out of the darkness and rape and kill her. “Da, damn him, always taught me to believe in the best. Even when there was no best. I tried to honor him through all of it by keepin’ my chin up. I really did. I was fortunate Raymond took me in. Very fortunate.”
Tears blinded her. She choked back a sob and buried her face against Robinson’s chest, hot tears trailing down her cheeks. “Sometimes…I still imagine that Da had actually gone out west himself to start life anew and maybe I’ll find him when I get out there. ’Tis better than imaginin’ him sliced up in some ditch outside the city without the dignity of bein’ buried by his own daughter.”
“Oh, Georgia,” Robinson whispered brokenly.
She sniffed, freed a hand from the box and poked his chest. “And that’s why we’ve got to get you back to your family. Whether you remember them or not, they’re sufferin’ all the same. And you don’t want that for them. They deserve to have you back. I know I’d want you back if you were mine.”
Robinson’s hands trailed up her back, curving around her shoulders, and found their way up and into her unbound hair. Cradling her moist cheeks with his palms, his thumbs brushed away the tears still rimming her eyes. He tilted her face upward toward him.
Through blurred vision, she saw her own pain reflected in that rugged face, as if he himself had endured everything she had just shared. It made her cry even more, for it was the first time in years since anyone, aside from her dear Raymond, had so genuinely acknowledged her pain. Though she always tried to be as hard as steel to the world, sometimes a girl couldn’t give that tough upper lip and pretend it didn’t hurt. Especially when it
did
hurt.
Robinson kissed her forehead several times, easing her back into a sense of calm. “I vow to you, Georgia,” he murmured, “you will never find yourself in a coal bin or at the hands of vile men seeking to rip away your honor. Not whilst I breathe.”
She closed her eyes, pushing out the last of the tears, and swallowed his words whole. The last wretched pinch of the past faded as he continued to graze kisses against her forehead.
She tightened her hold on the box nestled between them and slid her arm around his waist, not wanting to let go.
After delivering one last lingering kiss to her forehead, Robinson released her and stepped back, allowing her arm to slip from his waist.
Georgia lingered with her eyes still closed and made a haunting wish upon her soul. It was a dark and incredibly selfish wish that sought to take back everything that was ever taken from her. She wished that this remarkable man was as alone in the world as she was and that he would never remember who he was or what had once been. That way, she could be his equal, without him or his circle judging her, and they could move west and take on that half acre of land together. Oh, wouldn’t that be something.
CHAPTER SEVEN
If you have great talents, industry will improve
them. If you have but moderate abilities,
industry will supply their deficiency.
—Joshua Reynolds, Discourse to Students
of the Royal Academy (11 December 1769)
R
OBINSON
AT
LONG
LAST
understood how this red-haired rose had grown its thorn. That thorn had sprouted out of misfortune and self-sustained pride, trying to pierce anything that dared touch its delicate petals. Though he didn’t want to release the softness of that pale, tear-streaked face, he knew it was best to step away, lest he kiss more than her lips.
Gently releasing her face, he stepped outside of her embrace, even though he still desperately wanted to cradle away the pain she had endured at the hands of despicable fate. With each passing breath, he was beginning to realize that he had nothing to offer this woman aside from mere words and physical touch. This incredible woman deserved a man in full possession of his wits, who knew where he stood in the world.
She lingered before him, her long, unbound hair splayed in waves across her slim shoulders. The scoop of her nightdress revealed the pale curve of her neck and hinted at the dip of those small breasts that were hidden beneath that plain nightdress. Her eyes were still dreamily closed, hands still clutching her box.
He took another step back, digging his palms into his hips in an effort to keep himself from stepping back toward her. With but a few tears, the woman had made him realize just how utterly helpless he was in his damn condition.
When she at long last awoke from her reverie, her green eyes met his. Though they were still tear-glossed, there was an unexpected new vivid heat and softness radiating from them.
He swallowed and didn’t know what he was supposed to say or do in response to what he was seeing in those eyes. All he knew was that something intimate had been unleashed between them and nothing would ever be the same.
She quickly turned back to the wall and lifted the poster, pushing the box back down into the hole from whence it came. Carefully, she tacked the poster back into place, then turned back to him and set her chin, resuming that seizing-the-world-by-the-throat facade. “Well, enough with the tears and the gossip. I’ve got hours of laundry and I’ve yet to knot my hair and dress.”
He paused. “Do you require assistance?” He held up both hands. “These are yours to do with as you please.” He lifted a brow. “Within reason, or we might not get anything done.”
She smirked and angled a hip toward him. “Whilst I appreciate the offer, I highly doubt you’d be able to stomach
my
work.”
He lowered his hands and tauntingly stared. “Give me the chance to prove you wrong.”
She paused. “You’re really lookin’ to help?”
“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise, Georgia.”
“All right. Can you bring up water from the pump just down the street? The washbasin is already full. I’ll just need ten buckets for the rinsin’ basin.”
“Done.”
She grinned and pointed at him. “You’re glorious.”
He set a hand on his chest and offered a half bow. “I try. I’ll set to work. Where can I find the pump?”
She pointed toward the curtain-drawn windows, swinging her hand right. “When you leave the tenement, turn right. The pump will be three blocks down, set within an enclosed alley on your right. Whatever you do, don’t leave Orange Street. Matthew’s jurisdiction changes from street to street, so you’re better off not wanderin’.”
“Yes, madam. Might I ask where the pail is?”
She gestured toward a dented tin pail tucked beside two massive basins that sat on unevenly nailed wooden stands. Eight wool sacks, which were all filled to tipping with male clothing, were piled against the wall.
He cringed at seeing those sacks. He didn’t know much about laundry but that looked like a tremendous amount of work.
He strode toward the pail. “Once I bring all the water, I’ll assist you with everything else.” Leaning over, he swiped it up by the bent handle.
“Thank you. The day will be warm with the sun out the way it is.” She pointed. “You ought to remove your coat and waistcoat. And while you’re at it, drape it over the washin’ basin. I’ll launder both given the hospital never did.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you.” Robinson set the pail down again and stripped his coat and buttonless waistcoat, draping both across the large basin. Rolling each long linen sleeve up to his elbow, he slowly turned back toward the pail.
Robinson paused and heatedly watched Georgia sashay out of the front room and into the kitchen. Her hands casually gathered up and bundled her long hair, knotting it into place. Narrow but shapely hips swayed and shifted beneath her frayed nightdress as she disappeared into the closet beyond and took to folding the rumpled linen on the straw bed. All the while she hummed a melodious ditty as if life were glorious now that he was fetching her ten pails of water.
His jaw and every single last muscle in his body tightened as he continued to watch her with a yearning that almost choked him. How he wanted to replace that flash of a stranger’s nakedness still lingering in his head with
her
. All he’d need do was stride over to that closet, grab her, shove up that nightdress and pound his lust into her and make it real.
He swallowed and glanced away, lest he actually do it. It appeared he was done for. Because he not only wanted to pound his very body and soul into her, he wanted to see that woman every single goddamn morning for the rest of his life.
He blew out a breath and snatched up the empty pail. Angling into the kitchen, he reached out and opened the entrance door.
“You should eat somethin’ along the way,” Georgia called out from the closet, pulling out a gown from an open trunk. “I’ve no doubt you’re hungry. There’s a jar with my food allowance in the cupboard beneath my bonnet and rosary. Two nickels ought to be more than enough. Have at it. Nobody will be able to give you change for full dollars here.”
Robinson grinned at the thought of food and swiveled back toward the cupboard. “I will most certainly have at it. I’m famished.” Passing the closet, he glimpsed her stripping her nightdress, those ivory limbs catching the corner of his eye.
His grin vanished as he averted his gaze with the snap of his chin toward his shoulder. Jogging over to the glass jar, he dug a hand into it and fished out two nickels with a scraping
tink
from the pile of coins covering the bottom. He dropped the coins into his right trouser pocket and stalked back over to the door, keeping his gaze affixed straight ahead and chanting to himself not to stray from his set plan to leave.
“I suggest you buy a baked yam off Martha,” she called out again. “It’s on the way to the pump and will melt your tongue off. Just tell her I sent you and she’ll only charge a penny.”
“Will do.” Jumping out, he slammed the door behind him and momentarily leaned against it, bringing the pail against his knees. He was going to have to talk to Georgia about setting more boundaries. He couldn’t have her stripping in front of him like that. Not unless she wanted him between her thighs. He hissed out a breath and pushed away from the door.
Rounding to the narrow staircase that was lit by a dirty lone window pouring in skewed sunlight from above, he pounded his way down the oak stairs. He strode along the ashen passageway and out the entrance door that had been left open, illuminating a brightly lit dirt street filled with carts, horses, men, women and children hustling by. The stench that had assaulted him last night slammed against his nostrils again, taunting him to gag. He tightened his hold on the pail and swallowed back nausea, chanting to himself that if Georgia could survive breathing in this air, so could he.
Charging out of the tenement and into the open, wide street, he veered right and into the boisterous crowds of shouting voices. He trailed past rows and rows of cracked, dirty windows and small, narrow doors leading into grocer and junk shops and other tenements. Most of the doors he passed appeared to have been smeared with greening black sludge that had been swiped off either people’s boots, their asses or a horse’s ass, or…all of the above. He decided it was best to stay closer to the street itself as opposed to those doors and windows.
The heat of the sun pierced through the blue sky, pulsing against the side of his shoulder, as it penetrated the linen of his shirt and his skin beneath. Each booted step he took made him realize he was going to be mopping up his own sweat within minutes.
He wrinkled his nose and dodged an incredibly large pile of rotting cabbage and hay that had been mashed into horse dung. It was obvious where all the smells were coming from.
Robinson eventually paused on the corner of a looming intersection where two wide streets crossed. Carts and horses pushed through throngs of dust and sweat-covered people who were shouting out their wares and their business. He glanced over toward a lonely-looking cart set against one of the buildings beside him.
A short, dark-skinned woman with razzed, curly black hair that had all been tucked into a small straw bonnet leaned against a wooden cart whose crooked sign had been scrawled with the unevenly painted words
Baked Yams.
He’d found his first destination: breakfast. Thank God.
Walking over to her cart, the sweet sugary scent of whatever she was selling momentarily pushed out the stench of the street and made him realize he was not only hungry but damn well starving. He leaned toward the woman, who had yet to notice him. “Martha, I presume? Good morning. Georgia said I should visit if I wanted my tongue melted off. So here I am.”
She grinned, her teeth shockingly white against her dark skin. Leaning toward him, she scanned the length of him from boot to face. “You’s a good-looking white boy.”
He eyed her, feeling his own face blooming with heat at the unexpected compliment. He cleared his throat. “Uh, thank you.”
“Oooh, and shy, too! Not many of those ’round here.” Martha chuckled and bustled around the cart toward him, wiping her hands on her apron. Waving toward the small pile of odd-shaped, melted-looking brown tubes, she said, “Pick yourself a fat one.”
He visually probed the pile and pointed to the largest one hidden against the tin platter set atop the cart. “That one there looks friendly enough.”
Grabbing up a fork, she stabbed the one he had pointed out and swept it upright, holding the yam out toward him. “A penny. Seeing you know Georgia.”
He grinned and took the fork from her. Setting down his pail, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a nickel. He held it out and carefully detached the warm yam from the prongs.
She plucked the coin from his fingers, stabbing the fork back into one of the yams in her cart, and pulled away the collar of her gown, revealing a hidden leather satchel tied around her neck. She dropped the nickel into it and then dug into another satchel hidden beneath her apron. Pulling out a handful of pennies, she handed him back four and winked. “Be sure to come on back now.”
He stuffed the pennies into his pocket and swiped up the pail. Leaning toward her, he smiled. “If these yams are any good, madam, you will be seeing me on the hour.”
She laughed, reached out and smacked his backside hard.