A Wild Yearning (3 page)

As Delia followed the porter inside and past the taproom, she saw that it was almost empty, except for a pair of old gentlemen wearing wigs and suits of fine black cloth, sitting before the fire and engaging in a game of backgammon. One of the old gentlemen mumbled something, and his opponent picked up an ear trumpet, shouting, "Eh, what did ye say? Speak up, Feathergrew, demme ye!" Delia bit back a laugh.

The porter did not take her up the main staircase, but instead led her through the kitchen and up a narrow flight of servants' stairs at the rear of the inn. She got a brief glimpse of a paneled carpeted hall before he pushed open a door and ushered her inside with a quick flap of his hand.

"I'm taking a risk, I am, letting you in here without permission. So mind you don't steal anything." He leaned close and smiled suggestively, bathing her face with breath that reeked of rum and stale tobacco. "I'll be downstairs, minding the entrance. Whatever the gentleman gives you after you've finished your, uh, business, I'm to get half. You understand?"

Delia understood, but she didn't answer him. She stood just inside the threshold, her eyes wide in awe, for it was the most beautiful room she had ever seen.

Carpets covered the polished parquet floor, and damask curtains framed a pair of tall, sashed windows that opened onto a tree-shaded courtyard out back. Although it had been a warm spring day, it was now starting to cool, and a fire burned invitingly in the grate. A betty lamp was already lit against the coming darkness. It bathed the furnishings—all English-made and highly polished—with a warm glow, bringing out their sheen and the grain of the wood.

Delia heard the door click shut behind her and realized with a start that she had been left alone. Smiling, humming to herself, she wandered around the beautiful room. She ran her hand over the smooth back of a wainscot chair that sat catty-cornered to the fire. She touched the things,
his
things, left out on the bureau and desk: a razor and hone, an ivory-toothed comb, a set of steel-nibbed pens with their quills kept in an elaborate brass box. Also those things which attested to his profession: a set of bone-handled lancet blades, a physician's leather bag, and a pharmacopeia in glazed apothecary pots. Incongruously, leaning in a corner against the wall by the fireplace, was a Pennsylvania rifle. Its oiled wooden stock and gray metal barrel gleamed warmly, reflecting the flames.

Delia wondered about the man who owned these things. She thought she could detect his presence in the room, a faint odor of tobacco and rich leather that seemed to hover in the air. He was a man of some wealth, she thought, for what he owned was finely crafted and of the best materials. She wondered how big his farm was, and how old his two motherless daughters were.

But what sort of man was he that he would need to advertise for a wife? Perhaps he had been left badly scarred by the pox. Or perhaps he was old. Perhaps he was simply too shy to approach a woman on romantic terms.

"Tyler W. Savitch," she whispered aloud. "What kind of man are ye?"

Although she knew she shouldn't, Delia wandered into the bedroom. There was a looking glass above the mantel, and as

Delia caught sight of her own reflection she almost screamed, thinking for one brief moment that there was someone else in the room with her. This foolishness brought on a fit of nervous giggles and she covered her mouth with her hand. She looked at herself in the mirror, her eyes above her grimy hand opened wide and brimming with golden lights of amusement.

Then she noticed to her disgust that her cheeks were streaked with dried mud and her hair was matted with tiny twigs and dried leaves that she had picked up while hiding from her da beneath the stoop. What's more, her bodice, not too clean to begin with, was now stained with the rum that had splashed her when she'd doused the head of Jake Steerborn. What a sight I am, she thought, laughing aloud. No wonder the ostler had threatened to summon the constables.

She wet the hem of her petticoat with saliva and scrubbed the grime off her face as best she could, then shook out her tangled mane of black hair. She turned around, taking in the room, and her gaze fell with delight on the wide tester bed with its swelling feather mattress. The bed looked so soft she couldn't resist trying it.

Delia settled back against the down-filled pillows with a soft sigh. It was so quiet in here, back off the street and away from the rumbling carts and wagons and the shouts of the hawkers. How wonderful, she thought, her eyes drifting closed. How wonderful to be a real lady and sleep in a fine goose-feather bed like this one.

Mrs. Tyler W. Savitch, she said to herself. Mrs. Tyler W. Savitch, M.D....

Delia rubbed her hands across smooth linen, sighing and stretching luxuriously. She snuggled her face deeper into the soft downiness of the pillow—

Her eyelids flew open, and she pushed herself upright. Lord above us, she had fallen asleep on the man's bed!

She flopped onto her back. It was dark now, and long shadows shrouded the bed where it stood in the corner against the wall. But the moon was up and full, casting harsh silvery beams through the window and mixing with the pool of soft, golden lamplight that came from the sitting room.

She uncoiled into another long stretch, curling her toes and thrusting her fisted hands above her head until she felt a twinge of pain in her sore ribs. She wondered what time it was; it seemed very late. She supposed the night watch must have wakened her by calling out the hour, and thank the good Lord for that. Imagine if the man had come back to find her lying on his bed asleep! Why, if he really were using the ploy of looking for a wife to solicit harlots for a bawdy house, he would think her a prime candidate indeed, and her cheeks flushed hot at the very idea.

Yawning, she brushed the hair from her face and rubbed her eyes. She pushed herself into a half-sitting position, resting on her elbows, and then she heard the sound of muted laughter, the rustle of clothing.

A woman's voice, soft and tremulous, said, "Oh, Ty, that feels... yes, there... oh, please."

A soft, feminine sigh was followed by a husky murmur. "There?"

"Ah, yesss..." And another, softer sigh.

Delia bolted up straight and stiff, looking around with wild eyes like those of a raccoon frozen by the sudden flare of a torch. By the time her sluggish brain told her legs to move, it was too late—the man and woman were already on their way into the room.

Laughing, the woman came first, pulling the man after her by the hand. But once across the threshold, she stopped and, turning, leaned against the wall. Grasping the man by the ruffle of his shirt, she pulled him to her. He nuzzled the curve of her neck with his lips and she sighed.

Delia's mouth fell open in shock. The man was not only recruiting whores, he was trying them out himself first! She thought she had better make some noise, do something, anything... She drew in a deep breath.

"Oh, Ty, I thought I'd go crazy tonight, watching you dance with all those simpering ingenues," the woman purred. "Tell me you thought they were all ugly and that they bored you to tears."

"They were all ugly," a deep voice drawled. "They bored me to tears."

"You didn't look my way once all night."

"I looked, Pris. I looked." He caught his breath on the last word, for the woman had opened the flap to his breeches and slipped her hand inside. She laughed deep in her throat.

"Why, Tyler Savitch, I do declare. What have we here?"

For an answer he smothered her mouth with his. He pinned her to the wall with his hips while his hands moved lingeringly over her shoulders and down her arms, and her hands tugged and pushed at his confining breeches.

Delia's throat was so tight and dry she couldn't swallow. She had witnessed a lot of things at the Frisky Lyon but never anyone actually doing...
it.
Yet from her position on the bed she could see the man and woman plainly. They stood in half profile to her, and in the light cast by the moon Delia could tell the woman was small and fair and dressed as if she'd just come from a ball. The man wore only a shirt and breeches, and the breeches were now pushed down around his thighs. The woman's hands were pale against the darker skin of the man's buttocks as she squeezed the taut muscles almost savagely. Her bodice gaped open, exposing her breasts, and he held one of them in his cupped palm, massaging the nipple with long fingers. The woman's head fell back, and she groaned.

Delia almost groaned right along with her. A wet, hot heat flooded through her, drenching her like steam from a laundry. There was a strange feeling of tightness in her chest, as if it had been locked in a cooper's vise. Though the sound of the lovers' breathing was loud in the room, like the sough of wind through a forest, Delia didn't dare move, fearful as she now was of making even the slightest noise and giving her presence away. It was a wicked thing to be watching this, she knew. Dutifully, she squeezed her eyes shut, but they snapped open a moment later as if pried apart against her will.

The man was undulating his hips in slow, sensuous circles while he assaulted the woman's neck with his lips and tongue. She arched her back, pulling him tighter against her.

"Oh God, Ty... God."

His hands spanned her waist, lifting her up and bracing her against the wall. He lowered his head and sucked a nipple into his mouth.

The woman's panting breaths, loud and harsh, began to accelerate, building and building in tempo with the grinding motion of his hips. Her hands were twisted into tight fists at the small of his back, bunching up his shirt. The muscles of his buttocks clenched, unclenched. The woman moaned.

"Now, Ty, please... I can't stand any more. Please!"

Delia saw the man bend and lift the woman into his arms. She saw him turn toward the bed. She saw the woman grasp the man's dark hair and pull his face down to her hungry, open mouth. She saw the lovers pass out of the light into the shadows where she sat silent and watching. She saw it all and she couldn't move, couldn't move—

And then the man and woman, mouths locked together, wrapped in each other's arms, fell onto the bed... right on top of Delia McQuaid.

Delia screamed once—from pain as the man's broad shoulder smacked into her sore ribs. Leaping from the bed, the woman screamed and went on screaming. The man made no sound at all, but a split second later Delia felt the prick of something sharp against her neck.

"God Almighty, Priscilla, shut up. Do you want to wake all of Boston? Who in hell are you?"

It took Delia a moment to realize this last was addressed to her. When she didn't answer right away, he pressed the blade of the knife closer to her throat, nicking the skin.

"Who are you?" he said again, in a voice so cold and hard it rose the hairs on the back of Delia's neck.

"Please... don't kill me," she said, fear pitching her normally husky voice even lower.

The woman had gone blessedly silent, but now she let out a hysterical laugh. "Why, Ty, it's only a boy."

"I'm no boy!" Delia protested. Realizing the knife was no longer poised to slit her throat, she sat up, huffing with indignation. But when she started to get off the bed, a strong hand held her in place, pressing down on her shoulder.

"You stay right where you are.... Pris, fetch the lamp in here." The woman hesitated until the man said sternly, "Priscilla..." Then she glided from the room in a swish of skirts.

The man moved away from the bed, turning his back to pull up his breeches and button the front flap. Delia thought how she had sat crouched in silence, watching, watching that woman touching him, that intimate part of him, so boldly... She almost groaned aloud from the shame.

It suddenly seemed very quiet in the room, so quiet Delia could hear a clock ticking somewhere. She thought she should probably say something, perhaps introduce herself, but "How d' ye do, Dr. Savitch" didn't seem appropriate given the circumstances. She wondered what a real lady would do in this situation, but then, she thought despairingly, a real lady would hardly have gotten herself into this mess.

The woman returned, carrying the betty lamp. She, too, had taken the time to straighten her clothing. It was expensive clothing. A moss-green satin petticoat fell over a small farthingale, and on top of it was a silver-brocade overskirt looped up on each side to draw attention to her hips. Pearly breasts rose from the low, lace-edged neckline of a richly embroidered bodice frosted with rows of gathered lace. The elegant ensemble was topped by a lofty headdress of a spangled turban mounted with ostrich feathers.

Gold hair and blue eyes, and fair, fair skin, with a single tiny, heart-shaped silk patch at one corner of her full mouth— oh, she was undeniably beautiful. But she was older than Delia had expected. Why, Delia thought with shock, she had to be close to thirty.

She was also unlike any whore Delia had ever seen before, certainly unlike the harlots who plied their trade at the Frisky Lyon and other such grog shops on the waterfront.

The woman set the lamp on a nearby chest. Delia, sprawled on the bed while they both stood looking down at her, felt at a decided disadvantage. She lifted her head and stared defiantly back at them, although inside she was wishing herself in a deep, deep hole somewhere on the other side of the world.

The woman wrinkled her dainty nose. "Really, Ty, I thought you had better taste."

"I assure you, Pris, I've never seen the wench before in my life."

Delia stared at his face. His darkly handsome features were finely cast, with a thin, straight nose, square jaw, and sharp cheekbones. Though his buff breeches and ruffled lawn shirt bespoke the gentleman, he was not wearing a wig. His thick hair was a rich, dark brown, and he wore it tied back with a simple riband. His black eyes glittered at Delia from beneath slightly flaring brows. She felt ensnared by those dark eyes though, strangely, she was not afraid...

Priscilla's strident voice broke the spell. "Perhaps I should leave."

"Yes. I think you should," he said.

This obviously was not what Priscilla wanted to hear. "Well, then... Stevens can certainly see me safely home in the shay," she said stiffly. "Don't bother showing me to the door."

Yet she stood still for a moment longer, looking at her man look at Delia, then she turned on her heel and marched from the room.

"You stay put," he told Delia before following.

Delia remained sitting obediently on the edge of the mattress until she remembered what he and the woman had been about to do in this very bed.
Why, he probably thinks he'll try me out next for a place in his bawdy house.
—and the thought brought Delia up fast onto shaky legs. Of their own accord, her feet carried her into the sitting room.

He stood by the door with Priscilla, who was wrapped up in a hooded red cloak. His hands rested on her shoulders and he was saying in a soothing, gentle voice, "She's probably here because of that damn advertisement. It's late anyway, sweet, and you should be getting home."

"Ty, if you take that girl to bed—"

He put his fingers against her lips. "Hush. You know I wouldn't do that to you. One of the reasons I came all this way to Boston was to see you, Pris."

She nodded, her full mouth parting tremulously. "And you're leaving tomorrow. It could be months, perhaps years, before I'll see you again."

His mouth quirked into an endearingly lopsided smile. "Somehow I don't think you'll lack for company in the meantime."

Laughing lightly, she flicked his cheek with a painted ivory fan. "Law you, Tyler Savitch, you've a wicked mind."

He brushed his lips across her cheekbone. "Goodbye, Pris."

"Take care, Ty," she answered, smiling still, but as she turned, fumbling for the doorlatch, Delia thought she saw the gleam of unshed tears.

Ty closed the door behind Priscilla. He did not look at Delia but went instead to the hearth. He moved with a fluid grace and his body was lean, like his face. And hard. The fine lawn of his shirt clung to the muscles of his chest and back as he moved.

He lifted an embroidered waistcoat off the back of the wainscot chair and shrugged it on, although he left it unbuttoned. Then he took a taper from the mantel and stuck it in the coals. He put the flame of the candle to a fresh torch of pitch pine held in a bracket on the wall. The torch caught, flaring and shedding a bright light on the room.

He turned. His face was set into hard lines, lips pressed together, a scowl drawing a crease between his brows. Delia had to stiffen her muscles to keep from squirming under his direct gaze.

"Come here," he said.

She swallowed hard and took two tiny steps into the room. He had promised the other woman he wouldn't take her to bed, but that didn't mean he hadn't lied. Or that he wouldn't strike out at her, like her da, should his temper get the better of him. She looked up into his face. His eyes weren't black. They were a very deep, dark blue.

"I suppose you're going to claim you wandered into the wrong bed by mistake," he said.

Color leaped to Delia's face as she remembered how she had sat in silence and watched him making love to Priscilla. Delia had thought herself wise to life, to love, but she hadn't known it could be like that between a man and a woman. So much... so much
passion.
She wondered why such a man, with his enticing good looks, felt the need to advertise for a wife. Perhaps he intended to test all the women who applied to see which candidate could please him best in bed before making his choice. The very thought caused her stomach to do a somersault.

"Well," the man said. His face was still stern, but his indigo eyes sparkled with repressed laughter. "What were you doing in my bed, brat?"

Delia's head came up as she pulled the folded newspaper from the pocket of her petticoat. "Are ye Tyler W. Savitch, M.D.?" she demanded, though she knew well by now that he was. She held the newspaper out to him, pointing with a dirty finger at the advertisement. "Then are ye denyin' ye're responsible for this?"