Alex's Angel (21 page)

Coming closer, he caught her hands in his own, turning her to face him. “Let’s see Aunt Rachel’s efforts to make you an elegant lady of fash—”

His voice trailed off. Holding her just at half an arm’s length, he stared at her—at her bodice to be exact—his pupils dilating until the irises looked dark.

Under his attention, her nipples pulled even tighter and she ached for his touch. His expression became almost pained as if he were struggling with himself.

“Alex.” The word came out as a breathy plea.

He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, then took two steps backwards and closed it. He put his broad against it and held his hands out to her.

She went to him but, before she could press herself to his hard body the way she wanted to, he touched her bodice. His fingers brushed her erect nipples and she moaned.

“Shh,” he warned.

Blood singing through her veins, she came over slightly giddy with the intense pleasure. Biting her lip to avoid moaning aloud, she arched her back and frantically rubbed herself against his hands. She couldn’t get enough of his touch. Heavens, she’d never get enough.

“Damn it,” he said. “There’s no time.”

The regret in his voice made her despair, voracious hunger made her bold. “How long does it have to take?”

Emily’s earnest expression made Alex grin. She was so obviously ready for him to show her how quickly one could fuck, but—

He shouldn’t have touched her.

He’d vowed not to touch her.

However, the desire in her eyes and her obvious arousal had wiped away every ounce of his self-restraint. He should stop fondling her. Now. But her nipples were hard points beneath his palms, the fuzzy, soft velvet sliding easily over her satin underclothes.

God, had he ever felt anything so sensually decadent? So utterly exciting? No. And considering all the decadent, sensual things he’d done, that was saying quite a lot.

She murmured softly. Her body fell against his, forcing him to stop and to catch her. She felt boneless. Totally passive, submissive.

Damn it. He wanted to fuck her—no, he wanted something a little more exotic than a fuck. But there was no time. His cock twitched in protest and he groaned with frustration.

He slid his hands over her velvet-covered arse and jerked her pelvis snug to his and he rocked against her. Hard.

Her body trembled.

“How long, Alex?”

Her soft, sweet voice sent fresh blood racing from his head, hardening and lengthening his cock even more. He grasped her buttocks and pressed her softness to his erection. “It takes as long as it takes…”

“Then maybe it wouldn’t take too long?” Her voice was all husky with hunger.

He bent and nipped at her neck. He could smell her excitement on her skin. God, he wanted her and he wanted her now. And no, it wouldn’t take long at all. It would be quick and hard. He moved to thrust his hand into her hair to tilt her head for a deep, ravenous kiss. Then he came up against the veritable battalion of hairpins and froze. What the devil was he about here?

He took her shoulders and gently pushed her away to put space between them. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of lust.

“Alex?” Her voice was thready, husky. Pleading.

He let his eyes caress her in the elegant, dark green gown. “They really do have you dressed to perfection.”

He met her eyes again. Their rich, sherry-brown depths were smouldering with desire.

“Alex?” She chewed on her full, luscious bottom lip, as if waiting for him to do something more serious about this most interesting situation. His erection throbbed painfully. Fuck, he wanted her. Wanted her like he’d never wanted anyone else.

He grinned at her and came close again to drop a kiss on her adorable nose. “If I do what I want to, there will be no fixing the damage to your hair and dress in time.”

Then he stepped purposefully away from her. His erection strained his fall, twitching. God, he was going to spend the entire meal with aching balls. He deserved it for breaking his promise and touching her.

“Goodness, what do you want to do?”

She sounded so sweetly perplexed that he had to laugh. “Goodness, indeed.”

Her forehead wrinkled and she tilted her head to the side. “Won’t you tell me?”

“No.” If he told her about it, he’d be unable to hold back from doing it. Then he’d really be damned. For all time. He bent and pressed his lips to hers, quick and hard. “You’re too much of a temptation.”

He let her go, then turned on his heel, opened her door and left. Once in the corridor, he leaned along the wall and breathed out a long sigh. What had he been doing in there? God help him, having her in his house was going to prove his undoing—and maybe hers, as well. He needed to find her a husband, and soon.

* * * *

“So you are an artist, Miss Eliot?” asked Colonel Peter Muhlenberg, Congressional representative for Philadelphia. A tall man with a hawkish nose, his intense eyes twinkled at Emily in a fatherly fashion. A seaport Democrat-Republican, thus important to charm.

“Yes, Colonel Muhlenberg,” Emily said, heart solidly lodged in her throat as it had been all evening. To say that she was utterly terrified of making a misstep would be a gross underestimate.

Fifteen other people, persons of substance, sat in the Chippendale chairs at the English-crafted mahogany table that was covered with a fine linen cloth embroidered with delicate green vines and primroses. Feeling every gaze upon her, Emily inhaled deeply.

Catching her eye, Alex smiled at her. The white flash of his teeth against his lean, handsome tanned face, the brief, intimate knowledge in his gaze, sent a spark of fire through her.
 
Her mouth parted slightly and she stared back at him, transfixed. He winked.

She glanced down immediately. Heavens, she couldn’t look at him. Didn’t dare to look at him for fear that her desire would return and she would suffer a humiliating recurrence of stiff-nippled immodesty. Why had he denied her earlier? He had implied that there would be enough time. Maybe he was already growing bored with her. She didn’t know why it should matter so much, but it did. She wasn’t quite ready for things to end between them.

“Come now—this false modesty is too much, Miss Eliot. Dalton is to be congratulated on attaining such a brilliant talent for his propaganda purposes.”

At the familiar voice, Emily jerked her gaze to Mr Patrick Sawyer. The small-minded printer. It had been a shock to see him here. Apparently, he had much political sway in Republican-Democrat circles.

He regarded her with a wintery glint. “This book covers the very issue so dear to Mr Dalton’s heart—the Barbary captives. So often we’ve been treated to Mr Dalton’s polemic on the matter; well, this time we’re in for some real handkerchief-in-hand melodrama.”

“Miss Eliot’s book is a captivity novel?” The colonel’s tone was shocked.

“No, not mere sensationalism. This work documents the real effects the loss of those men has had on their families and the community. Miss Eliot includes sketches of these mariners based on the descriptions given to her. Very evocative, designed to touch the heart. Once this book is published, the public will surely cry out for justice and the Federalists will have their standing navy,”
 
Mr Sawyer said.

A hush fell over the table.

For a moment, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. She blinked and shook her head slightly. Mr Sawyer’s look turned softer, perhaps holding a hint of sympathy—or was that guilt?—before his gaze shifted away.

Like a physical impact, realisation hit her.

He had refused her work not because of the cost. No, this was worse. He had feared the sway the book might have given the Federalist’s cause. He had denied those mariners the chance to have their story told over politics. His promise to print her chapters separately had all been just an enticement to get her into his bed.

Then a second illumination came to her. Alex’s motives were political as well.

Her gown seemed to have shrunk several sizes, tightening upon her ribs. She couldn’t breathe and her fingers began to tingle. She reached for her wineglass and lifted it with a shaking hand.

And she didn’t need to look at him to know it was true.

Fool.

Stupid, naïve fool.

She put the glass to her lips and took a deep drink, then almost choked on it, too angry with herself to swallow quickly. The wine eventually made it down and the burn centred her somewhat.

Of course this was why a wealthy, powerful man would take an interest in her book. He wanted to use it for something other than her original intention.

He wanted to prostitute her artistic vision and use it as a tool for political gain. Far, far, far worse than anything a real whore could do.

But why hadn’t he been open about this from the start? She’d been right not to trust him. She set her glass down and stared at the rich red fluid, trying not to turn and glare accusingly at him. She’d never even considered that there could be a propaganda purpose for her book beyond raising public interest in ransoming the captive mariners. Her head swam with the new perspective. They were going to use her book to build support for a national navy. How should she feel about that? She didn’t know. It seemed that a national navy was important but only after the individuals held in Algeria were free. Individual human life mattered more than national causes. If they used her book in that way, it would distract attention from the cause of raising ransoms. Right? She wished desperately that the meal was over and she could be alone to sort out her thoughts.

But she couldn’t. She was obligated to stay by the terms of their contract. To stay here among men who thought of life and death and freedom in very different terms than she did. Men who were willing to play with those mariners’ liberty and lives as if they were but pieces on a chessboard.

Even more than ever, she understood her disadvantage due to her social class, her age and most of all her gender.

She felt so out of her element.

And betrayed.

“What made you decide to apply your art to the Barbary cause?” Rachel’s question broke into Emily’s thoughts.

Her mind already whirling with emotion, she answered emotionally, “My father was an able seaman on the
Maria
, bound for Cadiz, overpowered off Cape St Vincent by Barbary corsairs in eighty-five, and was taken into Algerian captivity. He died awaiting ransom by our government—a ransom that still hasn’t come for any of the other mariners.”

Instant images came swirling up. Her father spiriting her away behind Grandmother’s back, his eyes sparkling, to take her to the waterfront to watch the ships come in. Her father just returned from sea, giving her a sack of oranges and a pineapple. The headstone placed on his empty grave.

“Our mariners put themselves out on the high seas to fight for the nation’s economic future against rivals who would like nothing better than to see us fail. Surely they are warriors, as much as the brave men who fought our war of independence, only in a different kind of war. I wanted to do something to show what their loss meant to their families and their communities. I wanted to wake people up.” Emily’s voice broke. “I couldn’t let my father’s death count for nothing.”

Tears blurred her vision and she self-consciously wiped her eyes on the corner of her napkin. The table remained silent. Looking up, she met Alex’s eyes. They were filled with mirrored pain. His compassion was like a physical touch reaching across the table to comfort her. Did that understanding come from the death of his own father? It didn’t matter. The warmth of his understanding just confused her.

He hadn’t been totally open with her. He wanted to use her art to further his own cause.

A single person’s handclap broke the silence. Emily turned. Sawyer was clapping.

“See what I mean? A powerfully evocative personality, coupled with a very talented artist’s eye. An effective tool for the Federalists. When can we expect to see your book in print, Miss Eliot?”

His sarcastic tone burnt her ears and sharpened her inner turmoil. “I—I don’t rightly know when it shall be printed.”

“So you’re living here in your benefactor’s house as his employee until then, eh?”

“She’s here as a member of my household—I consider her as much a member of this household as my own dear cousin Nancy,” Alex replied firmly.

Sawyer smirked. “Of course—and rightly so. She’s quite a remarkable young lady who has fallen into tragic circumstances. How lucky she is to have found such a sympathetic protector.”

Something in Sawyer’s tone and demeanour made Emily feel positively unclean.

“Yes—she’s a very lucky girl and we, too, are fortunate to have her,” Rachel said with a beautiful smile. And so persuasively that Emily almost believed her. “I think the time has come for us ladies to retire—what do you say, Miss Eliot?”

Emily could have collapsed with relief. Her whole world had turned into a confusing nightmare. She would have demanded to be driven home, if only she had one to go to.

* * * *

“We should simply ransom those men and be done with it. We cannot afford a national navy at this juncture,” a Democrat-Republican congressman said.