The Prospect: The Malloy Family, Book 10 (9 page)

Her body warmed to the idea of being a woman, one capable of arousing lust in a man. She wanted it, she needed it, she craved it. This new Jo, she would make it happen. They were supposed to be married, after all. He was her faux husband.

Emboldened by her newfound wanton self, Jo began to wash. She dipped the washrag in the water and squeezed it, then ran the soap across the cloth. With a smile she might not have recognized in the mirror, she ran the cloth down her arms.

“What do you like to do for fun, Declan?” The question popped out and she could not possibly stuff the words back in her mouth.

“Fun?” He choked on the word. “I, uh, guess I like to play dice.”

She stopped, the water dripping softly onto the floor in a pitter-patter. “Dice? I don’t know how to play. If we find some, could you teach me?”

He shifted in the chair behind her, and she smiled. Oh, this was great fun. Jo patted the new Jo on the back for her cleverness. As she slid the cloth down her torso, paying special attention to her erect nipples, he cleared his throat three times before he spoke again.

“Dice isn’t a game for ladies.” His voice timbre had grown husky. She liked the sound of it, a lot.

“I am not a lady, Declan. I am your wife.” Saying it aloud wasn’t nearly as hard as she’d thought. The words were false but rang true. She wrung the washrag out and put fresh soap on the cloth before she started in on her lower half. As she rested one foot on the cot, the cool cabin air hit her heated core. Her vagina was wet from more than the bathwater. After her mother’s lessons on copulation, she knew what it meant.

The new Jo smiled.

“Not really, lass. We’re not truly married. It’s not real.” His words were more awkward than she’d ever heard from him.

She washed her way down another leg. “The details are not important. We are married in the eyes of Fort John. Married couples share and participate in activities together. Why not dice?”

“Dice is gambling, something regular folks frown upon.” He shifted again and she resisted, barely, the urge to look to see what he was doing in that chair.

“I am not regular folk and I do not believe you are either. Besides, what we do in the privacy of our, er, home concerns no one but us.” She wanted to learn something illegal like playing dice. Jo had spent her life doing what was expected. For once, she wanted to do something unexpected.

“I don’t want to get into any more trouble here. It’s just you and me, Jo. No one is gonna care if we’re being private or not. Folks don’t want us here.” He blew out an exasperated sounding breath. “Now drop the idea of playing dice. It’s not gonna happen.”

She narrowed her gaze. “I do not take kindly to being told what to do by anyone. If you will not teach me dice, then I will find someone who will.”

“Dammit, Jo, don’t be so foolish.” His anger was a welcome change.

“I can be what I want to be.” She threw the washrag into the bucket, splashing water on her feet. “And do not ever call me foolish.”

He rose to his feet with a growl and faced her. His expression changed instantly from anger to disbelief and something akin to wonder. Arousal mixed with fear flooded her, and she rethought her earlier notion that she was wet. Oh no, she wasn’t before, but she was now.

His gaze traveled up and down her form. She wanted to yank the dress over her head and hide, but the new Jo wouldn’t let her. Instead she propped one hand on her hip and waited while he looked his fill. She had no illusions she was beautiful, but judging by the look on his face, she wasn’t hideous to look at naked.

“Declan?”

He started as though she’d poked him with a stick. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” He turned around so fast, she was surprised he didn’t break his neck. “I’m sorry, lass, I didn’t mean to look. Dammit.”

“It is quite all right.” She dried off with her dress, then pulled her change of clothes from the sack. Her second dress was her favorite. The pretty rose color set off the brown in her hair. It had been her best dress before they’d left New York. Now it was tattered and in need of some repair, but it was blessedly clean.

She tugged on her old chemise. It was too short, but again, it was clean, then the dress. No spare pantalettes, but there was no reason to admit that to Declan. Perhaps it made her feel naughty, reckless and free. Perhaps she wanted him to discover she was nude beneath the scrap of cotton.

Jo couldn’t stop her thoughts from careening out of control. The more she thought about kissing him, mating with him and finding release, the tighter her muscles became. Soon she’d embarrass herself by attacking him, demanding carnal actions. Perhaps the fever had damaged part of her brain that regulated inhibitions. Or the notion of being married, of being allowed and expected to copulate regularly, made her act foolishly.

“I can’t be looking at ye naked no more. No matter if people think we’re married,” he grumbled.

“Ah, but I believe you have already seen all my charms, Declan. I do not believe you took care of me with your eyes closed.” Jo was actually teasing him, another unusual activity for her. The possibility of never seeing the “old Jo” again should frighten her. She might be the new Jo permanently—whether that was a good or bad thing, she didn’t know yet.

“I did what I had to.”

She watched his back, the muscles bunching beneath the shirt. Her fingers itched to touch the skin beneath the cloth, to see what he looked like without the garments he hid behind.

What in the name of all that was holy was wrong with her?

Jo shook her head, once again embarrassed by her licentious thoughts. It wasn’t as though she grew up in a brothel. Since she’d met Declan, her obsession with him and copulation had only increased. The only way to alleviate the ache was to participate in the act. Jo wanted to copulate with Declan.

He was about to do something really stupid, like stand up and show her just how big his dick had gotten while she washed herself. Declan considered himself ten times a fool for his thoughts, but he couldn’t seem to stop them. Jo wasn’t a stunning beauty, but she had an earthy loveliness about her that called to him.

Then there was her intelligence. She was so damn smart, used words he’d never heard before and figured things out long before he did. Declan wasn’t a dummy, but he had never learned to read or write or do sums. His da hadn’t believe in it and his ma barely knew enough to get by. Jo had a whole stack of books. He wondered what it felt like to be able to read them.

All of it combined to throw a woman in his path who not only aroused him but needed him. He was hooked like a damn fish on a line. Now this, tonight, with her bath and her goddamn naked body! He shivered at the memory of her standing in front of him, skin shiny and pink from the soap, breasts high and firm with jutting dark pink nipples, and a triangle leading to the pussy he’d like to taste, to fuck until neither one of them could see straight.

Jesus, that wasn’t the way to calm his overactive cock. It surged anew, aching and hard, his balls heavy with need. He had to beat his inner beast into submission—Jo was in his care and he’d promised her mother he would keep her alive, not bed her.

“I am finished. If you could see your way to assist me with my hair, I would truly appreciate it.” Her voice was breathy, high pitched, completely unlike her.

Oh hell. She might be resisting the same urges he was. Did ladies like her have those kind of thoughts? If so, it would please him, of course. Men wanted a woman who enjoyed bed sport in a marriage.

He wanted to smack himself at the thought. They might be almost married, but she was
not
his wife.

“Declan?”

“Huh?” He jumped to his feet, hoping like hell she didn’t spot the bulge in his britches.

“My hair.” She pointed at her head. “Can we wash it?”

That meant he’d need to touch her again. Of course it did. His torture wouldn’t be complete until he’d spent another fifteen minutes touching the wife he couldn’t ever bed.

“Sure we can. Lie on the cot and hang your head off the end. I’ll use the buckets to wet your hair.” He focused on the task, not on the woman. If he thought about her, he might lose control and do something he would regret. Possibly for the rest of his life.

She left the bar of soap on the edge of the bed, then arranged herself as he asked, her long dark hair hanging like a curtain to the floor. He swallowed hard and brought the two buckets over to the bed. Declan knelt beside her and took a deep breath to steady himself, not that it did a lick of good.

He put the empty bucket on the floor and gathered her hair, using a cup to slowly wet the long locks. She made small sounds of pleasure, damn the woman. Declan didn’t need more distractions, that was the goddamn truth.

As he soaped up his hands, she sniffed the air. “I love the scent of lavender. My mother gave me that soap every year for my birthday.”

“It’s fancy. I’ve never seen the like.” He at least could speak of soap—that had nothing to do with naked women or hard cocks.

He started working the soap through her hair when she moaned. He almost swallowed his tongue.

“That feels wonderful.” She drew out the word
wonderful
to eight syllables.

“Glad to hear it.” He continued to soap her hair, getting out three weeks of dirt and sweat. The flowery scent tickled his nose, and now he would always think of her when he caught a whiff of flowers. The experience kept getting better and better. Soon he’d be worshipping at her feet.

When he reached her scalp, he hesitated for only a few seconds before continuing. She felt so small and vulnerable beneath his big hands. Yet she must’ve had no fear of him, leaving herself open to him. It was somewhat humbling to have that trust from her. He sure as hell didn’t deserve it.

He gently scratched her scalp and she sighed happily. “That feels simply marvelous, Declan. You have a soft touch.”

“Only with you, lass.” He hadn’t meant to let that slip out.

“Then I am twice grateful to you.” She shifted on the bed and he glanced at her, then froze. Her nipples were hard as diamonds, poking up through the pink dress she’d put on.

“Uh, you shouldn’t be.” He tore his gaze away and tried to shift his dick without actually touching it. He only managed to make his discomfort worse.

Declan picked up the cup to begin rinsing her hair. His hand shook as he dipped the tin into the warm water. The water sluiced through her hair and soon the brown locks squeaked beneath his fingers. He wondered what it would look like spread out over a snow-white pillow, and another surge of lust roared through him.

Dammit to hell.

He was an idiot, dumber than a bag of dirt. Declan stood up abruptly and stalked over to the chair and grabbed the single towel they had. Declan almost tore it in two as he twisted it in his hands. He needed to release the demons inside him, but not on Jo—she didn’t deserve the full brunt of what lived inside him.

“Are you finished washing my hair?” She lay in the bed where he left her, hair dripping into the half-full bucket.

He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly through his mouth before he could speak. “I’m done.” His words were harsher than he intended.

She stiffened at his tone but didn’t reply. Declan knelt again and squeezed her hair out as much as he could, then handed her the towel, unable to touch her a moment longer. The cabin walls were closing in on him and if he didn’t get out of there soon, he would have no more control.

Jo had no idea what lurked beneath the surface. He’d been honest with her—he wasn’t a good man. There was violence in him, sometimes uncontrollable, always painful. Declan had never been able to control it and likely never would. He stalked back and forth in the confined space, no more than four long strides from one end to the other. A caged animal.

She sat up, using the towel to rub her hair dry. Her gaze was wary, her face drawn and tired. Declan wanted to tell her everything would be sunshine and daisies, but it was far from the truth. He’d promised her parents he would keep her safe, and he would, even from himself.

Jo rolled over for the dozenth time and stared at the rough ceiling above her. She told herself to sleep, but her mind would not stop turning. The fort wasn’t quiet; in fact, there appeared to be a constant murmur of voices and noise around them. She wanted to go outside and see where they were and what was happening. Yet the quarantine sign kept her inside. She knew firsthand from her mother’s experiences with quarantines that people took them very seriously.

On one occasion, someone had been shot and killed for breaking through the quarantine line, and although the man was mad with fever, he died for his actions. This man Parker could possibly do whatever he wanted if Declan and Jo broke the quarantine. That worried her—one thing of many swirling around in her mind.

She was nearly married. Married to Declan Callahan. The question she didn’t want to ask herself was, did she want a real marriage with him?

He had given up quite a bit—including what appeared to be an enormous sum of money—to keep her alive, to help her overcome the fever and typhoid. She was grateful beyond measure for all he’d done, but his anger over it all confused her. So did her own feelings about the entire situation.