The Wedding of Molly O'Flaherty (4 page)

“Is it a long story that has something to do with me?” I asked, and even I could hear how dangerous my voice had gotten.

He hesitated.

“Silas,” I said in a low voice. “Be honest with me.”

“I’d never be anything but honest with you,” he said. “But I can’t tell you the truth right now.”

“So I’m right,” I said flatly. “Because it can’t be coincidence that you and Julian have decided to do business with the one company that is about to partner with mine.”

“We want to help,” Silas pleaded, stepping toward me again, but I dodged him.

“Don’t you see how terrible that is?” I said, crimson anger filling me, swirling against the inside of my mind like wine in a glass. “Every time somebody tries to help, I start to have hope. And every time that hope is crushed, it’s just a little bit worse. It’s just a little bit harder. And I can’t take it any more—the hope or the failure. I can only handle the certainty, no matter how grim it is.”

Silas stopped, his eyes closing for a moment. “That was exactly what Julian and I wanted to avoid.” He opened his eyes, and I saw that battle again in their depths, that struggle. There was something more he wasn’t telling me.

The crimson anger turned black.

“I am
so sick
of being treated like I can’t handle anything!” I cried.

Silas, understandably, looked at a loss. “But you just said you couldn’t handle—”

“Never mind what I said! Here’s what I want: I want you to treat me as you’ve always treated me—as an equal. And I want you to leave me alone. Stop interfering and stop trying to rescue me. I don’t need either one.”

“This is not about us trying to rescue you. Jesus
fuck
, Molly, stop being so goddamned combative for one minute.” Silas paced over to the mantle and back again, his long strides eating up the space in the room. He was so leonine, so
masculine
and animal all at once—loping and tall and powerful. I bit my lip against the sudden drop in my stomach as he turned and I could see the outline of his semi-hard cock against his trousers. Arguing with me was arousing him, and God, that thought would be enough to warm at least a thousand of the innumerable cold nights that awaited me after my wedding.

To hide my discomfiture, I lowered myself into the yellow velvet chair by the window. Outside, London settled into an early autumn evening, cool and cloudy, the street already clogged with hansom cabs and horses.

“We are trying to help because you are our friend. Because we care about you. I know your pride refuses to hear this, but at some point in your life, you will have to accept help when it is freely offered. Help that comes unattached to any sort of economic or emotional exchange, help that just
is
.”

“That’s called charity,” I told him sourly.

“And so what if it is? Are you so willing to hold on to this principle of independence that you won’t even consider something that could be beneficial to you and this company you care so much about? Is your pride worth that much?”

That
wounded my pride—being called prideful. “I’ve sacrificed
everything
for this company,” I said. “Including my pride. Including my dignity and my self-worth—”

I broke off without meaning to, my throat suddenly too tight to speak, shame crawling over my skin like a swarm of insects.

He was over to me in an instant, dropping to his knees in front of me, his hat tumbling to the floor as he reached for me. His hands found mine, and I didn’t resist as he laced our fingers together. He still wore his gloves, and I looked down to study the contrast of my freckled wrists against the white leather.

“Tell me,” Silas said, ducking his head so I had to meet his eyes. They burned blue in the dim light, and I never wanted to look away. Except that shame that prickled and skittered over my skin…

“I saw it in your face outside,” he continued, his voice soft. “There’s something you haven’t told us—haven’t told me.”

“I haven’t told anyone,” I said. That was a truth that was easier to force out. The truth about the truth. “Except Birgit.”

I saw the moment understanding kindled in his eyes. The moment he absorbed the only reason I would tell Birgit my secret when I hadn’t told anyone else. The moment that his concern fused together with incandescent rage.

“When.” His affect was downward, making it not a question at all, making it an edict instead. I
would
tell him, that tone of voice said, and I would tell him
now
.

And somehow, his change of demeanor unstuck my throat. I couldn’t tell my grinning, happy Silas, but I could tell this stern, powerful man who’d spanked me, who’d fingered me in a ballroom, who’d come all over my face while growling harsh, depraved things to me. And somehow, the very idea that this domineering, almost cruel version of Silas, might think less of me because of what I’d done with Cunningham was ridiculous. I don’t know why I felt that way, just that something about the way he looked at me now—like he could see beyond my flesh and bone to the soul buried deeply within—told me that he saw me as something untainted and lovely. Something that was his.

“When I was fourteen,” I answered after a minute. “Not long after my fourteenth birthday.”

“Did he…” Silas’s jaw worked as he attempted to restrain his anger. “…Did he
force
you?”

I shook my head, my eyes hot with tears as I started from the beginning of the story. Not with tears of shame, but with tears of relief. I was finally,
finally
telling him about the burden I’d carried for a decade and a half. And as I told him, he held himself completely still, completely controlled, even though I could feel the tremor in his hands as he clutched mine harder and harder. As if to reassure himself—and me—that we were here together and I was safe and the things I was describing to him now were securely in the past.

After I finished, Silas took a minute. “I’ll kill him,” he said eventually, and the words were completely cold and completely calm.

I shivered.

“You can’t,” I said. “Can’t you see that I’ve thought endlessly about this? There’s no way to punish him for what he did. What he still does to me. He’s too powerful and my own reputation is too…murky…for me to be a reliable witness. All we can do is protect Birgit.” I took a deep breath and said out loud that darkest thought that haunted me. “It’s too late for me. He’s won. He’s defeated me, and he’s ruined me. I can’t purify myself, I can’t fix what he’s sullied. I’m tainted now.”

Silas pressed his lips together, the deep frown forbiddingly handsome on his face. “No,” he said. “I won’t hear any more words like that from you.” And then he tugged off a glove with his teeth, exposing his bare hand, which now slipped under my skirts.

“Silas,” I breathed, still unsteady from my confession. “We can’t…”

“I can’t touch you with intent to bring pleasure,” he interrupted. “This is not a touch to bring about pleasure. This is to remind you whom you belong to. Feel free to use your safe word.”

I should. I should use it because we couldn’t do this, but then his hand skated over my knee, following my stocking until it ended at the middle of my thigh. And then his fingers were brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, sliding up and toward my center…

My legs fell open of their own accord. Even though I knew I shouldn’t allow this, even though I knew Julian or the Baron or—God forbid—Martjin van der Sant could walk into this room at any moment…

“Whom do you belong to, Mary Margaret?” Silas asked.

Now his fingers were
there
, right there, the rough pads seeking out my entrance, and then he shoved two of them harshly inside. He was right, it wasn’t about pleasure, it was about possession, except the very nature of such a possessive act was inducing something very, very close to pleasure inside me. My legs widened as far as my skirt would allow, and I was now at the very edge of the chair, shamelessly rocking against his hand. Viola had gotten me off last night, but this is what I’d really wanted. Silas. His flesh, his fingers, his fury, as he jabbed his fingers in and out. It hurt so good, my toes curling from the sharp discomfort twined with intense pleasure.

“I said,
whom do you belong to
?” His voice was hoarse now, and I knew without looking that he was hard.

Just that thought made my mouth water. “You,” I confessed. “I belong to you.”

“Precisely so, Mary Margaret. And
my Molly
doesn’t get to talk about herself like that.
My Molly
knows that she’s not tainted, she knows that only that monster is to blame.
My Molly
knows that she belongs wholly and entirely to my love and that she’s worthy of every single second of it, and not despite of what happened. Because it’s part of your history and part of you, and I love every single part of you, wounded or otherwise.”

He’d lied, because now his thumb was rubbing hard against my clit, and he was going to make me come, even though it was forbidden and wrong and dangerous, he was still going to make me come.

“I want you to feel it all right now. All the shame and all the fear and all the hate, and I want you to let it all go. Give it to me, give yourself to me, and I will carry it all for you. For the rest of eternity or even just for a few minutes. Give it to me.”

Fire licked everywhere, at the soles of my feet and the insides of my palms and up my neck, but most of all at my core, which burned and flamed at his rough, demanding touch. He shifted, so that he had one foot planted on the floor, while the other knee stayed planted where it was, and his new stance exposed exactly how hard he was, how ready, and I could even see the wet spot on his trousers where he’d started leaking precum. I wished he would say
fuck the contract
and pull his cock out and shove it inside me. I wished he would throw me down and rut into me, press my face into the floor and fuck me until I forgot everything but him, him and his gigantic, perfect dick.

He angled his fingers so that he was rubbing against that one spot inside, and I couldn’t take it anymore. My nipples tightened and my belly tightened and my cunt tightened—all of my senses and sensations shrinking to the one point where his touch met my body.

“Oh God,” I moaned, my head falling back. “I’m going to…Oh God, Silas…”

“Yes,” he groaned. “Let me have it. Let me feel it.”

And there it was, all of it, the shame and the fear and the shredded sense of self-worth. It hovered in me as my orgasm hovered just out of reach, and then my orgasm crashed into me, fusing everything into white-hot waves of release. It ripped through my body, out of me and back into me, sending me soaring and falling at the same time; my only tether to reality was Silas’s other hand still gripping mine, squeezing hard as I clenched and pulsed around his fingers and rode his hand chasing after every single flutter.

And when I opened my eyes to see Silas staring at me with his face so serious, so stern—eyes hungry and still a little angry—more shudders rippled through me.

He was right. I belonged to him.

He still clasped my hand as he slid his fingers out of me and raised them to his mouth, where he slowly sucked my taste off of each and every one, our gaze never breaking as he did.

I took a deep breath in and a deep breath out, and where I expected shame or regret for violating the contract, I found none. And I found that—just a little, just an infinitesimal amount—my other shame had lessened. It was still there, and I wasn’t young or foolish enough to believe it could be wiped out with a single act or a single intention, but it was better.

Lesser.

He was right; he had carried my burden, and carried a part of it still, because he had looked the horrible truth of it in the face and still chosen to love me. As if it didn’t matter what I had let Cunningham do to my body or to my mind, because he saw that Molly O’Flaherty was so much more beyond those events, that those events could matter as much or as little as I wanted them to, and that, either way, he would shoulder the load with me while I figured it out.

We sat in silence for just a minute more, my body languidly unwinding and his face no less intense, but before I could speak to thank him, to explain what gift he’d just given me, he wiped his hand on his pants and then glanced to the clock on the mantel. And like that, the authoritative Silas was gone and my friendly Silas was back in his place, polite smile and all.

“I should go,” he said ruefully, getting to his feet and giving my hand one final squeeze.

“Silas…” I stood too, trying to find the words. “I—I want to say
thank you
but that isn’t quite right. But I don’t know what
is
quite right.” I stopped when I noticed the formidable erection still tenting the front of his pants. “Silas, you can’t go downstairs like that.”

“I’ll walk it off,” he said with a faux-cheeriness that vanished the moment I stepped forward and pressed my palm against his rigid length, curling my fingers around it through his trousers. A low hiss escaped his lips, and for a minute, I thought maybe he would finish what he’d started. That maybe my commanding Silas would return and order me to the bed, where he’d satisfy us both.

But it wasn’t meant to be. He moved backwards, wincing as my hand left his cock.

“Let me help,” I begged. “We’ll be fast. I promise.”

He came just close enough to drop a kiss on my forehead and then he straightened his jacket so that it hid the worst of it. “I must go, buttercup. I’ll see you in an hour or two.”

And then he swept his hat off the floor and left the room.

I’d lied to Molly.

The moment I closed the door of the rented room, I was searching out another space, one private enough where I could rectify the embarrassing physical situation I found myself in. And the whole time, my mind was screaming
why did you leave her, go back go back go back
, but I knew I couldn’t. For one thing, we’d violated the contract. Well,
I
had violated it, despite all of her careful and creative planning last night to find a way for us to share intimacy without breaching the damned thing, and then I’d blown all that work to hell when I’d shoved my fingers inside of her.

While a sick part of me could justify the breach by saying that my actions had only been to take care of her after her confession, no part of me could justify further violating the agreement simply for my own pleasure.

And for another thing, there was her confession itself, and all of the rage and concern and tenderness and frustration it inspired within me. I’d wanted to show her that I was there to support her, there to love her, but I also wanted to respect the solemnity of the moment. The seriousness of it.

Serious and solemn moments, moments filled with tragedy and pain, should only rarely evolve into sticky cum-covered moments.

I wouldn’t say never. But
rarely
.

And the very next door I tried opened to my efforts. It was empty, and with a silent prayer, I locked the door and hoped no one would try to return to the room in the next…well, honestly, it wouldn’t take very long.

I freed myself as quickly as I could, letting out a long breath when I finally circled my hand around my dick and started pumping. I didn’t bother to pull my pants down any farther or even unbutton my jacket; I widened my stance and worked my cock fast and hard, imagining it was Molly’s hand wrapped around me, that it was her breathing I heard instead of my own.

I looked down to see the dusky-dark crown pushing through my fingers and then pulling back, disappearing and reappearing, and I thought about how it would look thrusting up between her breasts or between the cheeks of her ass. I tightened my fist, thinking about that ass, about the way she’d gasped and panted when I’d fucked her there for the first time. I’d been gentle and easy since Molly had never allowed a lover to take her that way. Only me. I’d been the first to fuck that hot, tight place. I’d been the first to mark her there.

And then my mind disappeared into a filthy haze of images—some remembered, some imagined—depraved things that I would never admit to thinking in polite company…or even in not-so-polite company. The feeling of Molly’s delicate throat under the crush of my fingers, the image of my hand holding her down as I pumped into her. The tableau of her and me and Viola and—yes, even Castor—all together in that bedroom, slick cunts and warm mouths and hunger. Me straddling Molly and jetting cum onto her lovely freckled face.

I erupted all over my hand, long spurts of white heat, groaning and fucking my fist even faster to spur the pleasure on longer, pretending for those last few thrusts that it really was Molly’s cunt I was fucking and not my own hand. Until finally, I stilled, breathing hard. My lust was temporarily slaked, but I didn’t feel any better. Instead, I tried to push down the yawning emptiness that wanted to creep up in its place.

I didn’t want to do this alone.

I wanted to be with her.

And on top of that, what kind of man needed a woman that way after she’d told him the terrible stories of how someone had abused her?

A
bad
man, that’s the kind of man.

I felt a little guilty for using the nearby ewer and towel to clean myself, since this wasn’t my room, but it needed to be done. A few minutes (and some vigorous scrubbing) later, I was clean and decent enough to be seen in public. I pressed the emptiness down, along with the anger over what Molly had endured at the hands of that monster, plastered a grin on my face and made my way to the club’s dining room.

Generally only members were allowed to dine at the club, but members could invite guests, and since Castor was a member, we were more than welcome. When I reached the table, Julian, Castor and Martjin van der Sant were deeply engaged in a conversation about shifting trade alliances around the Empire. I made my apologies for my lateness, was introduced and sat, staying quiet for most of the meal. Not necessarily because business didn’t interest me, but because I wanted to study van der Sant, this man I’d rashly plunged into business with for Molly’s sake.

Van der Sant seemed to be the kind of person who inspired respect, not affection. Though short in stature, his rigid posture and imposing demeanor gave the impression of a much larger man, and his conversation was clipped and direct. Completely humorless.

However, when Julian happened to mention his child, van der Sant’s face softened. “I always wanted a son,” the Dutch man said. “But I am more than pleased with my Birgit.”

He turned his attention to the waiter, to signal for more water, while the three of us exchanged uncomfortable glances. Castor and Molly had arranged tonight so that Birgit’s innocence would be unequivocal. But we hadn’t once given a thought to the emotional toll this would take on van der Sant, witnessing the attempted seduction of his daughter. Would he be furious? Devastated?

How would I feel if this happened to one of my nieces? Or my own daughter? There was no way to endure that kind of test politely or stoically—every masculine protective instinct roared at the thought. In fact, I wanted to go upstairs now and strangle Cunningham before he could even lay eyes on Birgit again.

But of course, reality was slightly more complicated. The illegality of murder aside, there was the issue of preserving the relationship between father and daughter along with Birgit’s virtue. I’d not been consulted—perhaps if I had, I would have advised against all this subterfuge and opted for something more direct—but I knew enough about Molly to know that she believed in almost nothing more than the sanctity and warmth of a healthy love between a father and his daughter. I knew enough about Molly to know that she saw Birgit as a younger version of herself, and that her efforts to help Birgit were penances paid to the ghost of the girl Molly used to be.

Lost in thought, I didn’t notice how the conversation had shifted until the mention of Molly’s name pulled me out of my haze. My head snapped up to see van der Sant gesturing delicately with his fork.

“…Currently investigating a shipping company here in London that we’d like to work with. However, there have been rumors of certain
behaviors
,” he said distastefully. “My manager tells me that there are a few people who assert that Miss O’Flaherty has been sighted acting immorally.”

Immorally.
The word carried judgment and self-righteousness and the strident fervor of someone who associated any and all irregularity in public behavior as a moral failing.

Irritation flared, irritation and the very real urge to drive my fist into van der Sant’s face. But that was unthinkable—however harshly he criticized Molly, he was still a potential business partner, and I couldn’t jeopardize that with my selfish need to defend her. The company was more important to her than what some priggish stranger thought of her. Aside from that, Molly’s relationship with the three of us was still unknown to van der Sant, and it was prudent to keep it that way until it was absolutely unavoidable. It would be wise to keep up the illusion that we were merely investors interested in sealing our exchange with a friendly meal.

He may decide not to do business with Molly at all after tonight
, I thought. But that was out of my control. My reaction to van der Sant’s statement, however, was in my control. With great effort, I kept my face relaxed and open, my lips tilted up in an interested smile.

But next to me, Castor and Julian had both stiffened, Castor’s powerful frame no longer merely athletic but threatening. Silent anger spilled out from Julian, spilling like paraffin oil across the table, a dangerous thing waiting to be kindled into explosive flames.

I glanced over to Castor, whose scowling visage indicated he was ready to fling lightning bolts down upon his enemies, like a muscled, clean-shaven Zeus, and then over to Julian, who flexed and fisted a hand under the table, unconsciously rehearsing for a duel of honor, and then to van der Sant, who seemed baffled by the sudden and stony silence that had fallen over the table. It appeared that it was going to have to be me who kept this dinner afloat, along with Molly’s prospective partnership with van der Sant’s company.

“Rumors are just that, Mr. van der Sant,” I said easily, using the smile that had gotten me dances in the ballroom and reprieves from my childhood nursemaid. “Just words. Did you happen to find anything substantially immoral in the company itself while you were investigating?”

Van der Sant shook his head and wiped his mouth. “That’s just it, Mr. Cecil-Coke. The company has been sedulously guided through the years. The books are scrupulously kept, the managers are all honest, and there’s been nothing irregular whatsoever in the financial machinery of her business.”

“Surely that is a better testament to Miss O’Flaherty’s character than mere hearsay?” I asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“I’m forced to concede you are correct,” van der Sant admitted. “And while I find it improper for a woman to be involved in such a masculine enterprise, I cannot ignore that she has done a marvelous job. Her company still presents an excellent opportunity for us, and though it may trouble my conscience, I believe I will put aside those rumors permanently. Ultimately, what matters is that her company is ethically run, and in that respect, it is quite spotless.”

Good, you asshole
, was what I wanted to say. But I refrained, instead only making a small noise of approval in my throat and then asking if he’d like more wine.

Next to me, Castor and Julian slowly let go of their anger, and by the time we were finished with the meal, a semblance of civility had covered over the earlier tension. Still, Julian’s voice was brusque when he stood and said, “Would you like to retire with us upstairs for some brandy? Silas and I would like to talk over our new investment.”

Van der Sant nodded. “Of course.”

The room wasn’t empty when we opened the door. Of course, that was the plan, but I still felt a clench of anxiety when Molly stood and swept toward Birgit’s father with a serious look creasing her face. I wanted to protect her from this—all of it. From van der Sant’s disapproval, from the memories of Cunningham’s touch, from the chaos that could ensue after Cunningham’s perversion was exposed.

But Molly didn’t need protecting. With her shoulders back and her eyes slightly narrowed in determination and her dress gleaming green in the light of the small chandelier and its matching wall sconces, she looked like a solemn figure from some sort of Gaelic myth.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said quietly to Martjin van der Sant. “I have something important to discuss with you.”

The Dutch man looked from me to Castor to Julian—and then back to Molly—confused and clearly a little annoyed. “Miss O’Flaherty, this is highly unusual. And improper.”