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His Mistress An Ellora’s Cave Electronic Publication in association with author Treva Harte MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-165-6 Mobipocket (PRC) ISBN # 1-84360-166-4 Other formats (no ISBNs): Rocketbook, HTML, Adobe All Rights Reserved. http://www.ellorascave.com © Copyright Treva Harte, 2002. This book/e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by email forwarding, copying, fax, or any other mode of communication without author and publisher permission. Edited by Cris Brashear
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Warning: The following material contains strong sexual content meant for mature readers. “His Mistress” has been rated NC-17, erotic, by three individual reviewers. We strongly suggest storing this electronic file in a place where young readers not meant to view this e-book are unlikely to happen upon it. That said, enjoy…
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Chapter One 2002 His breath hesitated, then began again. Mercy watched it move slowly in and then out. There was a pause. The hospice nurse came in and watched as he began to suck the air into his lungs again. "It won't be long now," the nurse whispered. She touched Mercy's shoulder and Mercy fought not to shudder. Mercy wanted to argue. But she looked up into the face of the nurse. The nurse knew. The eyes in that face knew everything. Luke wasn't in pain. Not now. Not as far as Mercy could tell. She ought to be happy for that. She was happy. A tear ran down her face and she wiped it away, impatiently. The tear was for her, but she could do that later. Right now was for Luke. The last right now he'd ever have, they'd ever have. Without Luke, who was she? Mercy looked down at herself, wondering if she was physically becoming as invisible as she felt. Luke was her brother, her twin. They'd been born together. Would they die at the same time? She felt dead already. Luke's breath drew in, made a gurgling sound. Then nothing more. Mercy bent her head into her hands and fought herself. "Let me give you something." The nurse's voice was soothing, but not as quiet as before. She no longer felt the need to whisper. "To sleep for a while." Mercy wanted to say no. What did she need? She was the strong one. When his friends had heard and deserted him, when Luke grew weaker and more frail, she had been there. Steadying him. The two of them had always been a team. Luke was the one everyone adored. Mercy was the one who took care of things. But she didn't have to be strong for Luke now. There was nothing more that needed taking care of. Her work was gone. "Yes. I want to sleep." Mercy could hear her voice, slurred and distorted. Was that
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her voice? Maybe she was disappearing. Maybe she could sleep and be gone herself. Off to oblivion.
1775 "He's dead then." Mercy pulled the blanket over her husband's head. She took one strong, deep breath. People were depending on her. Those people were waiting outside the halfopened bedroom door. They entered the room after she spoke. She could feel the apprentices staring at her. Her apprentices now. "Paul, go fetch the undertaker." Mercy made her voice calm and firm. "There are things that need to be done here." She heard Paul clattering down the hall, eager to be gone. James stayed. She could feel him watching her. He always watched her, saying nothing, stepping forward to help when he saw what was needed. For one weak moment Mercy wanted to turn to him, to ask for advice. James was the only one close to an adult in the house now except for her. He was tall and quiet, strong and competent. Her husband had come to depend on him in the shop more and more as he grew ill. But she was the mistress now. Mercy thought about all that she needed to do. The shop would close for the day to pay proper respect for George's demise. She did respect George. He'd been a good printer, a fair master, an honest man. She would have to inform George's cousins. Greedy bastards. They hated her because George had married her – forty years younger, plain and awkward – solely to thwart their desires for his shop and savings. He'd have preferred a son for an heir, of course. Mercy tucked her pale, ash blonde hair behind her ear. He already had three wives and five children who waited in the churchyard for him. They'd failed him. His fourth wife had failed to get him a child, too. Or he had failed her.
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James' voice broke into her thoughts. "Mistress Baines?" "Yes?" "My condolences. Master Baines was a good man." Condolences? Of course. She was grieving and widowed. She would be receiving many condolences. And she was sad, in a strange, detached way. If she hadn't had to nurse George for so long, watching him slowly fade away, perhaps she would feel sadder. Right now she felt some pain but she wouldn't lie to herself. She also felt relief. "Yes. Ah...yes." She wasn't sure what to say. The glittering in James' eyes might be tears. But perhaps it was some other emotion she couldn't fathom then. Whatever was in his eyes made words catch in her throat. "There. That's the last time I'll speak of that." James pushed himself from the wall. "What do you want me to do next?" What? Mercy tried to think what had been done when her mother died. She'd been younger then but— "My father!" Mercy recalled. "Please go tell him." He nodded without saying more and walked out, leaving Mercy alone. She twisted the wedding ring on her finger. She'd given James and Paul their orders. But what was she to do next? She hesitated and went back to the bed. "Thank you." She wasn't sure precisely why she whispered those words to George. Because he'd married her? Because he'd been fair if not loving? Because now he'd died and she was freer than most women ever were in this lifetime? Perhaps all of that. At any rate, she was a twenty-five year old widow with a printing business, a house and two apprentices. She had to answer to no one in this world. She was in control.
"No, Father. I have no intention of selling a thriving business to you." Mercy's head throbbed. All morning she'd dealt with relatives and neighbors and friends. The cousins had been bad enough, but they knew there was nothing more they could do. Her father
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refused to know that. Well, he'd pushed her into her marriage. He could live with the consequences. "George's shop makes more money that your bookstore ever has. Why would I?" "Because it won't stay a thriving business when people see a young, foolish wench runs it!" "I guess I'll find that out for myself." Mercy ignored the nervous little throb in her stomach. Of course she could manage. Hadn't she managed everything for the past few months? "Damn it!" Her father took a step toward her and she braced herself. If he was going to hit her she see herself in hell before she would cry. Then he stopped. "May I see you to the door, sir?" James' voice was emotionless. Mercy turned her head. James might sound emotionless but her father had been wise to stop. James looked formidable—and he towered over her parent. "I'll see myself out." Her father allowed himself one last glare. "Mind my words, girl. I didn't marry you off to get nothing!" "You got George's help with printing all these years and a considerable loan when we married!" Mercy snapped back. She stopped and then spoke more calmly, trying not to smile at her words. "Of course I'll be happy to continue business with you, Father. But you may find me less lenient about extending credit." Father looked like he might want to continue arguing but first he looked up, past Mercy's shoulder at the apprentice behind her. No one moved. Her father glared for a moment more, then he simply stalked away. "Thank you, James!" Mercy turned, laughing, reaching out to touch his cheek. She could feel stubble on his chin. Of course he hadn't had time to shave today. "You're a godsend." That was when everything changed. James moved his head back, sharply, almost as if she slapped him—the way her father had threatened to do to her. She took a step back, startled. Then James stepped closer to her. Mercy stepped back again.
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Her breath caught because James didn't stop. He came closer yet. What did he mean to do? She could feel the heat from his body. She could feel his breath on her hair. His two arms reached out to touch the wall behind her, boxing her in. Should she be afraid? Mercy knew she was starting to shake but not from fear. "Don't tease." The words sounded forced from him. The voice didn't even sound like James. "What?" "It's been months, woman. Months and months. Longer. You've been married a year." His voice grew huskier yet. "Almost a year." "And all I could do was watch. Listen. Wait. And hate myself for doing it." Her brain would not work. Simply not work. He couldn't be saying what she thought he was. He couldn't be wanting what she thought he did. But his hands were on her shoulders now. They closed tight on her and she realized she was shaking even harder. His finger traced from her throat down to the cleft between her breasts, the way she had dreamed about before and been ashamed for fantasizing. And then his mouth followed. That was better than fantasy. She could feel herself beginning to melt. Had he known all this time? Had he known that she watched him back while they worked? His muscles fascinated her as they moved his body. She'd anticipated seeing him when she'd risen from her bed to cook breakfast for the household. He'd be there at the table, looking drowsy, his hair a little rumpled because he'd just left his own bed. As she cooked, she imagined what he looked like—what they'd look like together—if they'd met before he left his bedchambers. Neither had said anything to each other. She hadn't been sure why he watched her. But she'd known why she stared and yearned even though she tried not to look. He was so beautiful. So male. "You don't belong to him now." James murmured the words against one breast. "You belong to yourself. And perhaps to me. If you're willing."
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Strong, big hands. Warm mouth and tongue. Mercy shut her eyes as she felt his erection firmly held against her. Oh God. Not like George's. This one was hard and eager. Briefly she remembered the frustrating sessions she'd had with her husband at the start of their marriage. She'd used hands and mouth and tongue as he instructed, only to have, at best, a hasty thrusting before… She blushed. Mercy remembered George's groans as he came. Watch. Listen. Wait. Had everyone heard them? Him. Heard him. There had been no moans of satisfaction from her. She'd been his wife. She had a duty to him and she'd fulfilled it. But James wasn't old. He wasn't ill. He was—eighteen? nineteen?—She'd need to know since he was done with his bonds of indenture at twenty-one. The wave of heat Mercy felt suddenly rose up hotter and more insistent. His bonds. She found the strength to push his arm down. James was breathing fast and hard but he moved back to let her go. That was as it should be. Mercy collected her scattered wits. Then she stepped forward to speak to him. On her terms. "I don't belong to you, James Herrick." She made the words slow and distinct. Forceful despite the sudden force of her desire. "You forget yourself. You belong to me." He said nothing. "And we're in the shop where anyone might walk in—to offer me condolences on my husband's death!" For a moment she felt a lash of shame herself. How could she have allowed this? How could she have not seen the attraction she had fought was mutual? "You ought to be punished!" Mercy said, fiercely, more to herself than him. She saw a slow red flush up across his cheeks. His head dropped. "I forgot myself." James said. "You can make me do that...Mistress." "I'll talk to you later." As she said that, she saw him look up at her again, his eyes hot. Had she meant the words as he was taking them? Mercy didn't know any more. Or if she did, she didn't want to think about it now. Later. "Mistress Baines?" Paul's high young voice called through the house. "I packed up the master's clothes as you bid me. What should I do with them?"
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Later she would decide what to do with the tall young man with the broad shoulders and fascinating mouth. Another decision to make in her new life as an independent woman.
"Oh heaven, what a day." Mercy dropped on the bench by the fireplace and for a moment just let herself relax by the fire. Had she ever had a more difficult one? Since George's death—had it been only this morning?—she'd been pestered right and left. The undertaker, the clergyman, the visitors came and went. She'd told James to set up the type for a notice of George's death but the news had flown faster than newsprint. She'd told Paul to put up the mourning wreaths but people began to knock on the door before he had finished. On and on and on. So many things for her to order and do. She tried to remember all the duties of a widow. She wore black. She kept her mouth grave and unsmiling as she performed her role. But she would now and then catch James' eyes and feel a surge of warmth lick up inside her. She had to stop. Stop looking. Stop feeling. Had to— "Mistress?" It was James' voice. "Let me help." Someone to help would be pleasant. But what could he do? It was nearly dusk now, another early twilight for a Boston winter night. She just had to endure until tonight— Mercy looked up at him towering over her. Before she could blink, suddenly, he was kneeling in front of her. Mercy's eyes widened as she realized he was easing off the shoes she'd put on earlier. They were her best ones, but they cramped her feet horribly. James' fingers rested on one rosette decorating her shoe's instep. She looked down at him, on his knees submissively, his dark head bent over her feet. "What are you doing?" "Helping. You're exhausted and worn." He took off one shoe, his fingers kneading the arch of her foot as he did. Oh! Mercy
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tried not to jump. His fingers were touching parts of her body that seemed especially sensitive. Mercy wondered if she should warn him he was being too—too...forward. But it did feel good. He had such remarkably gentle hands for such a big man. Then she felt his mouth on her instep, his tongue making its way up to her toes. Mercy's breath caught. This wasn't helping her not look, not feel, not want. How could the warmth and pressure of hands and tongue on her feet make her so close to screaming? Looking at James' head bent over her, watching him kneel before her made her body feel...odd. His two hands grasped the heels of her feet, spreading her legs apart as he leaned over, nuzzling at each foot in turn. This want was stronger than anything she'd felt before. Ever. She felt warm and flustered and parts of her were aching. James was doing more to her by touching her feet than George had managed to do even when they were most intimate. Mercy's fingers almost reached out to touch James' hair before she realized what she was doing and forced herself to stop. She mustn't encourage this. Mercy knew she had to make the right choice. She wouldn't know what that choice was unless she could stop to reason, not feel. But she sighed helplessly, before saying, "No." "Please." James' one word caught at her heart. And it made her want him even more. She fought herself and the scream of desire inside her. She watched her legs tremble and tried for sanity. "Don't, James." They were viciously hard words to say. God, what might he do for her? She wanted him to make this need, this heat stop. She wanted him to stoke those feelings even more. She could imagine his tongue, his hands, his cock driving her even more mad—and satisfying her. She wanted to know that. She wanted to know him. But instead she said, "I can't let you do this now. I don't want to tease. Or promise something I might never give you." His hands rested just lightly on the balls of her feet. "As you wish." The desperation was gone from his voice. His hands withdrew from
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her body. For the moment she wished he'd ignored her commands. But only for a moment. Mercy knew she wasn't quite ready yet. “It’s your choice what you will do with me.” "Thank you, James." She tried to make it sound like a dismissal, but it came out a little too breathless and grateful. He stood, looked down at her consideringly. Mercy looked up, feeling suddenly smaller than usual and more defenseless. But all he said was, "You're very welcome, Mistress Baines."
***** What would she do? He'd been a madman to suggest anything. He'd been a worse lunatic to try what he did. But he hadn't lied. Mercy could make him forget everything. Everything but her. He knew what she thought of herself. Or didn't think of herself. She thought she was unattractive. He'd heard her say that. James had no idea why, though he'd heard her reasons, too. She wasn't too tall—she was one of the few women he knew that didn't make him feel overgrown. She wasn't plain. Her pale hair and skin fascinated him. He wanted to see it closer, to contrast it against his own darker complexion and hair. She wasn't too bookish for a woman—she knew everything a printer needed to know and more. Mercy never mentioned her body. But he knew what it must be like. He could see those high, lush breasts, the tight waist, the...Oh damn. Everything about her had fascinated him from the time she first entered the shop as the master's betrothed. He thought he'd die then from the wanting and never having. Fool. He hadn't even begun to know frustration then. James felt his cock hardening and the old wave of guilt and longing swept over him. He'd been in a strange kind of hell ever since she came to live there as the master's wife. James had grown almost used to the constantly felt sweet desire and sour regret intertwined while he looked at what he couldn't have. Mercy smiling, Mercy scowling as she tried to decide something...Mercy working to
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stay calm when her life was changing around her. He shifted on the floor. When he chose to sleep here tonight, as far from anyone else in the house as he could manage, he'd hoped he would need the privacy. That they would need the privacy. Oh God. Where was she? Asleep upstairs? That was where she'd been night after night while he hadn't slept. Couldn't sleep. If she continued to say no, he could do nothing. But he had no idea how he would bear her decision. James gritted his teeth. He couldn't force her even if he wanted to use force. She controlled their world. If she didn't come to him, he'd go mad but he'd stay. He was indentured to her now and he meant to keep his word. Indentured servants did run away of course—and many weren’t ever found again, either. Those that did were punished. James bit back a smile as he recalled her threat to discipline him. The punishment for running away wouldn’t be laughable. If he did and was caught, his punishment would have to be serious. He’d seen friends of his whipped publicly for making the attempt. But he wouldn’t leave. Not because he was afraid of her, but because she needed him. She knew a great deal but she hadn't spent the last five years learning the trade she now owned. He had. His master had taught him when he'd been just a scrawny youth who knew nothing and was worth less than that to anyone. Now James knew he was finally of use to the shop and his mistress. He couldn't leave. He was bound to help Mercy by more than the paper that said he must. Please let her come to me. Then he heard the footsteps. They were hesitant but they were coming down the stairs. She'd chosen. She'd chosen to be with him. The heady joy hit him almost like an unexpected blow. James thought for a stunned moment that he might cry. He'd prepared himself for disappointment. He didn't know what to do with fulfillment.
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Certainty and a strange calm rushed over him next. By God, he might not know yet, but together they'd find out what to do with fulfillment.
Chapter Two For hours now she'd debated. A sensible woman wouldn't go. A wise woman, a chaste woman wouldn't dream of what might happen if she did. Perhaps she'd misread the situation. She'd be humiliated. She'd...Mercy had looked at herself in the bedroom mirror and seen herself clearly. She wasn't a sensible, wise or chaste woman right now. She was a woman who was lusting. She could stay here, in the bed she'd shared with her husband, the one he'd died in. She could stay here, sensible, wise, chaste and alone until she died. Or she could go downstairs and see what James could offer her. She thought of what his eyes and words and body promised. Mercy had shivered. And the Bible said Eve had held out temptation? Foolishly, once she'd gotten within reach of what she wanted, the terror had risen up to almost choke her. Mercy fought this new fear. Sex outside the marriage bonds or possible humiliation if they were discovered wasn't as frightening as—what? The loss of her new freedom? If anyone could tempt that from her it would be James. So she'd hesitated suddenly, afraid to move, just watching James' body under the pile of blankets. "James?" The body on the pallet by the fire sat up instantly. Mercy bit her lip. He'd been waiting. Somehow that made her visit easier. He must be as eager as she was. The fire inside her, demanding she go to him, forced her to walk forward. One step. Two. Then he was on his feet and walking toward her. Oh heaven. James was naked. Not like George. Perhaps George had been beautiful when he was young. She didn't know, would never know. But James was. Hard muscles bunched and unknotted as he walked toward her, the darkness coyly hiding and then the fire's light revealing his body. His penis was already stiffening. Oh yes. Everything about him was beautiful. "You wanted to talk to me?" His voice was beautiful, too. She'd heard that voice in
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the shop sometimes and she'd stop everything just to listen. James had a dark, rich rumble of a voice. When he spoke just the tone felt like it was caressing her. "Paul! Where is he?" Now she knew how much apprentices could hear. "I sent him to sleep in the shop." James didn’t seem overly concerned about the problem. "He didn't object?" "I don't let him object." She let out a small whoosh of laughter that caught in her throat as James' tongue entered her mouth. Mercy didn't want to laugh any more. Her head bent backward and her fingernails bit hard into his chest. His hand reached down and then pulled up her thin nightrobe. That hand soothed its way down her stomach and then fondled, just lightly, almost touching her pubic hair. That felt so good...so tormenting. "James—" Mercy breathed it out. "I came to—to—" She wasn't sure what to say or how to say it. "You wanted to talk to me, Mistress?" His voice was hoarse. And amused. "To discipline me for what I did earlier?" "Yes. No. I don't remember." He smiled. Mercy wanted to snap at his amusement. How dare he laugh at her? But she whimpered instead as his hand brushed down and one finger traced a part of her body that was swollen and aching. She knew the finger could feel the wet slickness inside her. She could hide nothing from him. Hide? Suddenly Mercy didn't want to hide anything. She was aching and wanting, but she knew that her need made him all the more eager. She could hear it as his breath caught. She could feel it in how those hands trembled. She could see it in that stiff penis. "I'll be happy to accept my punishment." He whispered it in her ear and then lifted her up to rest his own swollen erection between her thighs. She'd never— This was what a man could do? Mercy rubbed against his cock and quivered. And then she realized the head of that cock was slightly damp. She could feel
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a drop of his semen drip against her skin. He wasn't going to end everything this quickly, was he? No. Oh, no! Damn him. If he did intend to finish, she wanted...something quickly. Something for herself this time. She did her best to squirm onto that shaft but the position of her body and her own tightness made it impossible. Mercy gave a sound that was more a growl of frustration than a whimper this time. That was when James dropped to the floor, cushioning her as they went down together. She rested on top of him and his eyes, bright and knowing, smiled into hers. What was she to do? "Anything. Anything you want," he whispered. She'd straddled her husband before but this—this was different. What did she want? She wanted to touch that chest, to trace the hair all the way down to...oh, yes. Mercy eased herself onto his hard length slowly, stretching to accommodate that size. This was almost familiar but not. Mostly not. This wasn't her married sex. Mercy had no idea anyone could be so big. She watched James' eyes start to shut and his jaw begin to clench. "Mercy..." he whispered the word as more a plea than her name. Mercy smiled. She liked that. James was a large man. But she knew she would be able to take all his hard masculine strength and make this man lose control of it. Ah. At last she fitted herself onto him. Very big. Very hard. She felt stretched, but excitingly full. Experimentally she clenched her muscles and closed over all that hardness. He half-rose upward and her eyes widened. How delightful! How powerful. Then she rose and slammed herself down, hard and fast. Once she did, she knew she'd been wrong. James wasn't going to finish quickly. Even though he was below her, she could feel the forceful way he pushed up into her. God, he was strong. His cock was going to last for a long time. Not that it needed to. Within moments Mercy was riding him fiercely and within moments more she could feel waves of sensation rushing over her...wonderful sensations that she'd never felt before. His hands toyed with her nipples as she began to
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cry out. Those hands on her breasts sent whips of excitement through her. She hadn't ever imagined sex could be like this. She felt his potency and stamina and...his body was made for riding. Fierce, hard riding. Mercy tried to hold off for a little while and realized she had no control over herself right now. She moved down his cock hard and squeezed. More, more, more. Tightness and strength and sensation. She wanted, she craved, everything he had. She wanted to be overwhelmed, she wanted him to be overwhelmed. Oh Lord. And she was and he was. Together. "Now!" Mercy realized it was her voice. She realized it was her screaming as the tension built and built and then—finally released. James groaned too, as if he was hurting. Almost immediately she felt him spurting up deep inside her. Her legs were shaking but her hands were still holding the length of his dark hair as she gradually opened her eyes. James wet his lips and then his eyes opened. "Again?" he asked. Again? He could manage more? Could she manage more and still live? "Is that possible?" she whispered. His laughter was warming. She could feel him inside her, that his body found it quite possible. "I'll gladly take more of the same punishment, Mistress. I'm just happy my offense is so grave." His clever fingers probed at her, stroking a new fire within her almost before the old one had quite flickered out. Mercy moaned and felt herself begin to tremble all over again. "I can give you all night and more, Mistress," James promised. "I've waited much too long to be satisfied with less." He shifted so that she was beneath him and she found she liked feeling a man's solid weight above her. Then he moved her legs so that her heels touched his shoulders. When he entered her, filling her, she sobbed. She was so sensitive from last time that the almost painful pleasure of his cock's slow slide inside her had her wanting to
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climax already. "I'll play more next time, Mistress. I swear," James whispered, tickling words against her ear, moving so the head of his penis tickled other parts of her body. "There's a great deal we can do. But I think we both don't need any more to make us ready right now." She was so hungry. She’d had no idea she was this starved for sex, for the thrust of a penis within her, for…for James. She couldn’t imagine any of that without James. No one else could do this so exquisitely. Mercy opened her mouth when a pounding on the outside door began. "Open up in the King's name!" A harsh British accent called out. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Her stupid, eager body was making her wits slow. The body merely wanted to continue what she'd started. Her brain was demanding that she think. Soldiers? Out so late? That must mean trouble. "Coming!" James barked out. He rolled off of her, then lifted her up easily to her feet. He began ducking for the breeches and shirt that she saw scattered on the floor. He turned to her and said, "Get dressed. You'll not want them ogling you like this." He was right, though his tone could be less commanding. Perhaps she'd tell him so when they had leisure. Her body still protesting the postponement of her treat, Mercy fled upstairs while James slowly unbarred the door. As she worked to dress herself, cursing at the darkness and her inability to hurry, she heard James say clearly from downstairs, "There's been a death here today. The house is in mourning. Is this an emergency?" "We know about the death." The harsh voice responded. "That means there's room enough for someone to be quartered here. We're here for the house."
*****
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Mercy sat up in bed and held her head. It hurt terribly. She realized she was thirsty, too. She looked out the window. It was almost dawn. She'd managed to sleep, actually sleep, for several hours. Whatever the nurse had managed to get for her had worked better than anything else she'd tried for weeks. Sleep. She wished she could have more. Her body still ached for sleep and the sudden desolation swept over her again as she remembered where she was and why. But she wasn't as unhappy as she had expected to be. That dream had taken her out of herself and her grief. She could remember every moment of it, vividly, unlike most of her dreams. What an amazing story her brain had concocted! So different from her own life… Mercy went to switch on a light. She knew there wouldn't be any more oblivion tonight. She didn't want to think about Luke right now. Distraction was called for. If not sleep, what did she have to distract herself with? Books. She had a sudden desire to read about Boston and the Revolutionary War.
Chapter Three She looked down at the gray suit that hung loosely on her. Perhaps she'd forgotten to eat once too often. Mercy had always been a little too thin, a little too tall...but she could see she was turning gaunt. Stupid. She wasn't the one who had been ill. She was starting to look like Luke had in those last months. Mercy clasped her hands tightly together, vowing to eat. Soon. As soon as she got this last business done with. "Ms. Ward?" The man who walked in was younger than she expected. Better looking, too. He had light red hair and happy blue-gray eyes. He looked as carefree as Luke used to long ago. And almost as handsome in his way. He was slighter than Luke, but even as he shook her hand, very correctly, she could feel the vitality pulsing inside him. Masculine intensity and life. Mercy caught herself imagining what he might look like, act like in bed. She went back to gripping her fingers even tighter. As if what he seemed like made any difference. She might not be able to help this sudden, unexpected, unwanted interest in a man. But he’d have no interest in her. She was completely—completely unsuitable. She wasn’t here for him. Just for what information he could give her. Information she’d have to pay for. "Mr. Grant?" "Call me Cullen." His smile was charming and wide. "Mercy." She knew what was expected of her. But she didn't feel charming. Her manners felt as ill-fitting as her suit. His smile dimmed for a moment. “My deepest sympathies.” She was sick of hearing other people mouth platitudes, too, even though he sounded truly sincere. Mercy tried not to sound as disgusted as she felt. It wasn’t this man’s fault that Luke was gone and that he himself seemed so full of life. What would he know about enduring death? "I hope this won't take long. Luke didn't have much to dispose of."
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"You might think so. But things have changed since Luke wrote his will." She put a hand up to her mouth. Changed? How could they have changed other than Luke being dead? "Don't look so worried, Ms. Ward. Several weeks ago someone made a gift to Luke. A sizeable one. Luke died much wealthier than you probably ever expected he would." "What? Who?" Mercy knew she sounded stupid. She felt stupid. "Please come into my office." She sat down inside and stared at him. Mercy stared at her hands. How long could she keep grasping them? Then she stiffened her shoulders. She was tired of looking like an idiot. "What do you mean Luke had money? Who would give him—“ "Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?" "Two hundred and fifty—?" Mercy repeated. "Someone else who was dying from the same disease he had." Mercy knew she wasn't stupid because she instantly realized what that meant. No longer dazed or hesitant, Mercy hissed, "You mean the bastard who infected Luke thought two hundred and fifty thousand dollars was enough to pay for his life?" "No. I mean a man who was dying and who was Luke's friend and who thought perhaps he had hurt Luke unknowingly put his entire estate in trust for Luke and his heirs. That man gave all he had to give." The charming smile was gone from Cullen Grant's face. "So did Luke." Mercy stood up. "Why would I want any of that creature's money?" She wasn’t interested in what this man could tell her. He hadn’t known Luke or his suffering. Or hers. The hospitalizations, the desperate search for funds for those hospitalizations. The failure of medicine to do anything to help his pain. "Please think about what you want to do. Don't rush to any conclusions." She stood up, fighting for her composure. She’d gotten good at hiding her feelings. After all, you couldn’t cry or rage constantly in front of a dying man and his nurses. It exhausted both you and them. “You’re angry.” Cullen Grant wasn’t fooled. “At me? Your brother told me about
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you when we spoke about his estate. He admired your strength and kindness. So do I. I’m not the enemy, Ms. Ward.” “No, of course not.” “No one is now. Even the man you’re angry at is dead. “ “Yes.” Would he please stop talking? His voice was making her…making her disturbed. She didn’t want to stir up emotions. Emotions hurt. She was just tired and wanted to rest. “The only man here right now wants to help.” She had to look at him then. He deliberately reached out to cover her hands, the hand she realized she still had clenched. “Truly I do. I know others must. You’re not alone.” Of course I am! Mercy wanted to scream the words. But she looked at the hands covering hers, warming them, and felt her lips begin to tremble. No. She wasn’t going to cry. Something about this man who was paid to help her might make her inner barriers shaky, but she’d worked too hard to build them. An attractive man’s few kind words and a careless caress wouldn’t make them fall. She didn't bother to answer him as she stood up, walked to the door, and just got to her car as quickly as she could. On the way home the tears she'd fought began to trickle down again. What was Luke's life supposed to be worth? What was a man's atonement worth? And how much was she willing to accept for her own sorrow? Quarter of a million dollars. Surely that wasn't the right amount of money. Mercy stumbled into the house. She'd meant to eat once she got home. She wasn't hungry now. Mercy knew she ought to at least warm up some soup but all she wanted was to go into her blessedly quiet bedroom and sleep. The tears had made her eyes burn. She was exhausted again from the emotions tearing at her. Her gray suit still on, Mercy stretched out on her bed and shut her eyes.
***** "I'm sorry, but where do you expect to be placed?" Mercy smoothed the skirt down, trying to hide her sweating palms. "This isn't a large home."
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Captain Randall Bryant stood in front her, humming just a little under his breath. From what she could smell, he'd been at the taverns before deciding to take up residence in her house. "Ah, that's easy enough. What's the best you have to offer?" Her mouth hung open at the audacity of the question and then she saw his smile. While she was still outraged at his words, the smile was mischievous, inviting her to smile, too. For a moment she softened. Of course the man was a British soldier despite the Irish lilt still lurking in his words. And he'd been a soldier for a long time, if she could judge by his looks—especially by the scar on his face. Still, just then he looked almost Paul's age when he wanted to get away with something he ought not. She caught herself before she treated him the way she might a young and unruly apprentice. He wasn't Paul's age. He was a captain in the mighty British Army. The army that could choose to quarter troops where they wished in Boston while they occupied it. And she needed to mind her manners in front of its representative. "As you wish, sir. My bedchamber can be made ready for you shortly." After all, she had cleaned it out today and not made use of it yet. "Very shortly. I'm damned near ready to pass out now, darling." She thought he might have winked. "I'll also need a decent stable for my horses. And I suppose a place for my man." Why was she ready to laugh when she should be furious? The stables hadn't been used for years. Quartering yet another man meant he would have to go in with the apprentices. She heard James shift near her. She risked a glance. He would look impassive enough to most people, but she knew better. He had no mixed emotions toward the captain. Briefly she laid a hand on his arm. James could be discrete, God knew, but she wanted no hint of trouble with the British. "Shall I ready Paul's and my room for you then, Mistress Baines?" His voice was flat. "Yes. Do that." Mercy nodded decisively. "I'm sorry to put you both out."
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"That's not your fault, Mistress." Before he could say anything more dangerous, James turned. "Ho, boy!" For a moment the charm was gone from the captain's voice. James froze. "Loyalty to your mistress is fine. Commendable. But mind your tongue. I'm used to curbing young studs like you. You might not care for my tactics." The two men looked at each other and Mercy felt her fingers clench. How the hell would she get James out of whatever trouble Captain Bryant could put him in? "Understood. Sir." James didn't sound obedient, but he didn't sound disrespectful either. Mercy held her breath. "Good." The blue-gray eyes were assessing, but he let James leave without any more discussion. "Dismissed." The captain opened the door and barked the word to the soldier who waited outside the house. Mercy heard them march away. Then he turned to her, a slight smile on her face. Mercy felt an unmistakable warmth as he tilted his head, watching her. Oh God. What was wrong with her? She couldn't be attracted to one man so soon after having another. He walked toward her and then picked up her hand and kissed it—rather the way she thought he might do for a British gentlewoman. She couldn't help it. Mercy was impressed. "I am delighted to meet you, Mistress Baines." He murmured the pleasantry against her hand, refusing to let it go. "Indeed, this association may well prove to be the most delightful thing I've found all this time in these rather bleak colonies." "Oh dear," Mercy said aloud. What was happening to her? She was still the gangly bluestocking she had always been. Yet two dissimilar but attractive men were showing signs of interest. Mercy thought about the ache between her thighs. At least one had shown more than a mere sign. But she was still feeling intrigued by someone else. Captain Bryant straightened up at her words and then burst into laughter. Mercy
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bit her lip before she began to laugh, too. "Perhaps very dear indeed, Mistress Baines. We shall see."
***** She sat before the mirror she took from her bedroom and had placed in the apprentices' small bedroom. What had happened to her? Before they'd been interrupted she had been ready for yet another bursting orgasm. Her body had excited a man as much as she'd been excited by him. She ought to be thinking about her new, unwanted visitors. She ought to think about many other things—but she wasn’t. She knew what she wanted to think, wanted to do right now. Half-embarrassed, half-aroused by her thoughts, she stripped. Mercy stared at herself again. Her body hadn't changed. It was the one her husband had tried and failed to use often enough. But James had touched her—there. And there. She pressed at her nipple, watching it grow eager for more touching. He'd touched her elsewhere. Her hand slipped down between her thighs. Shameful touching. That's what others would tell her. Mercy sucked in a breath, imagining James' hands caressing her, getting her slicker and more ready for his aroused cock— She looked up at the mirror again, and saw herself standing naked and eager. She looked behind her shoulder and saw the door was partially open. Oh God! There were several men in her house and she'd left the door ajar? Then she saw James, standing just inside the door. Watching. Mercy swallowed. He said nothing, once again, but this time she knew why he was watching. And thinking. "What do you want?" She whispered anyhow. She wanted to hear the words this time. "You." James whispered back. She looked at him in the mirror. At all of him. He was hard, his breeches opened.
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And his own hand was stroking his hardness, just as she had stroked against her softness. "You can't. Not now." She could hear the other men stirring in the next room. "Too dangerous." "I know." His hand just stroked more fiercely. "Go on, Mercy." And she did, feeling the excitement mounting because of his excitement. And because her fingers pushed and tickled and caressed boldly the way she wanted him to. And she looked at the way he was working his erection, roughly, almost desperately, as he watched her. He wanted her just as much as she did him. Just the thought of his own desperation made her own sexual need that much greater. She gritted her teeth and shut off the cries she wanted to make as her legs began to tremble and her body arched up, finding hotter and hotter need and finally spiraling into a fierce ecstasy. Even as her greedy body hummed with satisfaction, she forced herself to keep her eyes open as she watched James falling into his own pleasure, his teeth gritting and his seed spurting out hard over his hand as he gave in to his own climax. "Shut the door carefully when you leave," Mercy whispered again.
***** "Pardon me, Master Holmes?" "Matthew. Please call me Matthew." Mercy wiped the printers' ink from her hand onto a rag by the chair and tried to think of a tactful way to respond. "Ah. Master Ho—Matthew. My husband has been dead less than a week. I'm not in any state to think about remarriage." Mercy watched the man's face drop. Was he so desperate for a wife? "Yes, I know, but I fear that if I don't press my suit now you may never consider me." She looked at the diminutive man before her. God certainly hadn't done much to make him attractive. And she'd heard he was heavily in debt from certain speculative
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trading ventures that had not gone well. But he had proposed very politely and so she couldn't give him the brusque refusal she had the last pompous soul who had demanded her consideration. "I don't know if I shall ever consider marriage again, sir—Matthew." She looked down at her hands, still smeared with traces of ink. "So far I find that I like my independence too well." The man snorted. "There's too much talk of independence through this whole city. I supposed I shouldn't be surprised even young widows say they prefer it." He picked up his hat— his best hat, Mercy surmised. He bowed. "Very well, Mistress. I leave my offer open should you find your independence more burdensome later." Mercy smiled, dropped a small curtsey, and then sat down, abruptly, as he left. That had been unexpected, though she was coming to realize she should expect such things. Apparently she was valuable. She saw James contemplating her from behind the printer's press, continuing to work. As usual, he said nothing. But she knew him. "I refused him quickly enough," she protested. "Small loss," James answered. He smiled slightly. "A very small loss indeed. You'd make three of him." "But—“ she prompted. "You've had two proposals this week alone. Soon you'll be receiving offers from men you should consider." His face closed up. "But I won't, James." "I can't marry as long as I stay indentured." "I should hope not. How could you support a wife? You have another year before you receive even a journeyman's wages." Mercy had read the contract very carefully. "Mercy!" He shot a look around the shop, realizing where he was. "Mistress." "James." Mercy kept her face very solemn, though she longed to laugh. "Are you trying to make me jealous?"
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"I had no idea Matthew would propose in front of you." "Hellfire, woman!" James began to move from behind the press and Mercy couldn't help but start laughing. "No, James, truly. I don't want to marry. But if I did—" she stretched out one hand, remembered the ink, and dropped it again. "But if I did, I would propose only to you." "But you don't wish to marry." "I like doing what I want, not what my husband tells me I must." Mercy smiled. "Just as I like making you do what I want." "But—" "I know you'd say things would be different between us. How can I be sure of that? I doubt any man can make marriage that different when a wife is obligated to do what he says. Women have to obey. A daughter is bound to her father. A wife to her husband. Only a widow is allowed freedom." "You may be right to doubt other men. But I have no doubts about what I want." James bent his head, careful to shield her body from the door. He nudged her breasts from her bodice and fastened his mouth on one nipple. "I'm dying without you, Mercy." "Oh!" Mercy's hands flew up and tightened around his hair. His tongue wetted her, his mouth suckled. Then his teeth tightened, just briefly, around the hardening tip of her nipple. They hadn't had a chance to couple since Captain Bryant's quartering. James was sleeping near Paul in the shop and the captain's comings and goings at night were too erratic. Mercy had no desire to be discovered. But James was gradually growing bolder and more inventive with his caresses during the day. Right now Mercy knew she wouldn't care if all Boston traipsed in while he mounted her. While he mount— "James!" She hissed. "I'm being careful." James took his mouth from her breast long enough to say that, and then resumed lifting her skirts.
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Careful. Mercy's eyes widened and slapped at his hands. He stopped, lifted his head, and swallowed. "What?" "I could get with child if we continue this way." She thought of that one night and the delight of feeling James inside her, pouring himself into her body. "I could be with child now." James just smiled. He reached down to caress her stomach just briefly. She felt herself growing damp and ready for him. For a moment she wanted to give in, to share his quiet happiness. No. She had to be practical. Everything had a price and this was what she had to do to stay free. So she spoke what needed to be said. "I could pass a baby off as George's, but it wouldn't be right. And soon that would be impossible." She watched his smile die. "James, I'm not getting married. I certainly don't want any bastard children. And so—" "And so." She thought he would say more. Instead, suddenly, he bent and began to suckle her again. Harder. Mercy moaned. Could she climax just from his mouth on her nipples? Not quite. She pulled at his hair, desperate for more but dimly remembering they were in full view of anyone. This time James pushed her hands down and walked away. For a moment Mercy was ready to scream in frustration. Then she realized what he was doing. James hastily barred the doors to the outside and then to the living quarters. He swung the shutters shut. Within a minute he'd pulled her up atop the table where they assembled the type. What he didn't bother to do was undress her completely. "Don't worry, Mistress. I'll be careful," he said. She tensed, briefly. How could he be careful when—he put his mouth on the outside of her undershift…Careful? This was careful? It didn't feel careful. She could feel him through the cloth. What his mouth was doing was—was—She writhed. "Ah. You do like that." He sounded pleased.
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Then he moved the undershift and she was naked to that eager mouth. Did other men do that to women? She'd had no idea…and soon any ideas she could hold onto were gone, lost, scattered as his mouth soothed, provoked, tickled at the most intimate parts of her body. She tried biting her underlip to keep from crying out at first, but soon she forgot even that. Those fierce, burning pangs of desire that this man could create were going to drive her quite mad unless— She screamed out sharply, shuddering. His tongue eased slowly, slowly away as aftershocks kept rocketing inside her. His tongue's strokes didn't finally stop until she finished the last of her quaking. "Oh." Mercy managed that and marveled at her ability to form any sound at all. "Was I not careful, Mistress?" James asked. "And didn't you enjoy it?" Mercy wondered how he'd known to do such a thing. But then apprentices weren't to marry or get women with child. How many other women had James been careful with before her? She would have been more provoked at the idea if she didn't feel quite limp from James' skills. That and because a sudden pounding on the front door made her jump. "Ho, in there! Is anyone about?" She looked down at herself, her breasts pulled from her bodice, her dress crumpled, and she hastily slid under the long counter that separated the printing press from the public. The public couldn't see her like this. James opened the door and then moved himself behind the counter as an elderly man made his halting way into the shop. Mercy covered her mouth to stifle a giggle as James leaned across the counter near her. Behind his printer's apron, James was sticking out like a poker – and probably felt as hot as one. He couldn't afford to be seen on the other side of the counter, either. "I want to put out an advertisement!" The man said in the loud tones of the nearly deaf. "That's what we're here for, sir. What would you like to say?"
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Mercy couldn't help it. As both punishment and reward for his delightful skills and where he'd learned them, she began to push the printer's apron up and then work at the buttons holding his breeches together. She heard his breath suck in as she unfastened them one by one. She could feel him quiver as her hand stroked his testicles. "I have a runaway servant wench," the man boomed out. "Damn the wench's fool brain! My wife disciplined her and the gal took a notion to run. Can't have that, can we?" "No, in—deed," James' voice sounded a little odd, though still polite. Mercy wondered if she could have managed as well if he had begun stroking her with his tongue as she had begun to do to him. From her past performance, she doubted it. She ran her hands down his now naked butt. Such a nice one. The cheeks of his rear clenched and she buried her giggles by burying his hard cock down her throat. "Red hair, Irish brogue, answers to Mary…" She wondered if James even knew what he was parroting back to the man. His cock was thrusting just slightly into her. Mercy wondered how he was managing any restraint as she tickled the head with her tongue. James was reciting the price for the advertisement in a slightly distracted voice. Mercy stroked his inner thighs with her hands while she used her teeth on his cock just a little. She loved feeling the hair on his legs. She traced a pattern through it. James grunted. Then she lost the thread of the conversation completely as she began to stroke and lick and nuzzle the hard length of James' penis. She did love that cock. So responsive, so sensitive, so strong, so demanding… Mercy traced the vein in his penis with her tongue, up and up to the sensitive tip that already was wet from her mouth and from his seed. It seemed to pulse as she moved. Then Mercy put her hand down to touch herself, feeling hungry all over again at the sight and feel and taste.
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The feel of his cock in her mouth while her fingers rubbed against her folds was making her need something else. Her clit was aching for something beyond her fingers. Her whole body wanted much more. More of the man above her. Would James ever be done with that stupid customer? She was aching and wet and she needed James. Now. She nibbled on his cock, just lightly. She felt him shudder harder this time. Dimly she heard the old man's hesitating footsteps on the floor and then she heard the door close. They were alone again. "Dear, sweet heaven—“ James' voice choked above her. "You'll destroy me!" She sucked hard on the sensitive tip of that cock. Oh, yes. James was right. She wanted his destruction. She wanted him to break. Better yet, she could make him want the same thing. And his swollen, hard, needy cock filled her mouth as he finally came, spurting hard into her.
Chapter Four The phone's ring woke her up at last. Blinking, Mercy automatically picked up the phone. How long had she slept? "Miss Ward?" It was the lawyer. Cullen. Cullen Grant. "I hope I'm not disturbing you." Disturbing her? Mercy was still breathing hard from her dream. She tried to come up with the right words to respond. "Not at all. Is there a problem?" It seemed as if her own world was the dream, completely unreal, since Luke died. The man was calling to tell her there had been a mistake—that she'd misunderstood. There was no money. There— "I wondered if you might like to have dinner with me. I hope you wouldn't consider that a problem." His voice sounded unusually hesitant. She could tell he wasn’t used to indecision. Dinner? Mercy scowled. A business dinner? Or…something else? She bit off asking that and wiped her hands over her face. She was so tired of asking stupid questions. "Very well. When?" She'd simply find out the answers for herself. "Tonight at—would eight be too late? I have business to finish up here, I'm afraid." Finishing up business seemed to indicate she wasn't work-related. Mercy thought about that smile and those eyes…and the body attached to them. If she was wrong and she found their evening out would be charged to her in a bill, she would be disappointed. Ridiculously disappointed. "I could wait until then." What else did she have to do? She hung up before she realized she didn't know where he planned to take her or how to dress. Mercy looked at herself in the mirror. Perhaps it had been that dream, but she was eager to look good. Desirable. "Idiot." She said out loud. But she assessed herself in the mirror anyhow.
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Once she stared at her face, she blinked. Her cheeks were flushed—from her date? From her dreams? But she looked more alive than she had since she first got the news about Luke. Then Mercy looked again. There was—there was ink on her cheek. She stared down at her hands. There was ink there. Printer's ink? "Oh my God."
***** Mercy sat on the front stoop, clutching her shawl tight about her. It was cold but not the frigid cold of an ordinary Boston winter. It was just cold enough to make her blood stir. "Mistress Baines?" She knew that brogue. That voice. Lately the captain had seemed to be everywhere. In a way he was. His friends came late at night to talk and play cards and she had to retire to her own room. Her apprentices' room. And James slept with Paul and Captain Bryant's dour manservant. Sometimes she thought she'd go mad. She wasn't sure what frustrated her more—the lack of sex or the additions to her cramped household. She could feel the tension rising throughout her household by the day. "I hate him." "James?" She'd been startled. James rarely spoke his strongest feelings, even though he had them. "What do you mean?" "I hate Bryant. I hate what he stands for, I hate what he is himself. Cocky. Able to flirt with you without penalty. Able to bed you—“ "James! He's never—“ "He wants to." "Perhaps. He's never said so. And, remember, he'll bed me only if I consent. I choose who I make love with. "
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"Sir. I thought you would be celebrating tonight." Mercy didn't bother to stand. The Captain stood before her and bent his head in almost a bow. "Isn't this the King's birthday? I thought all the army was celebrating." "Yes, I did have a toast with the others to his health. But George the Third is no particular king of mine." The man smiled and then gestured to the stoop. "May I?" She nodded and he settled himself next to her. Was he just a trifle closer than need be? Mercy wasn't sure. James was probably right when he'd snapped out those words about the captain even though she'd pretended all was well. She was playing a dangerous game with two men and not sure how it would end. No doubt dangerously. "You are a soldier for the king, Captain. And yet you say the king is not yours?" "I'm Irish, Mistress Baines. Even if I were English, there are still those who don't find an upstart from Hanover an Englishman. I'll fight for him if he pays me. I don't need to feel loyal to him." "But you'd die for him in battle?" The man shrugged. "I'll die for something, I suppose, someday. I'd die to win a battle, to save my men, or because I just calculated my risks wrong. Dying for a king? No." "That's an interesting viewpoint, Captain." Mercy cocked her head. "Do many in your ranks subscribe to it?" The captain smiled instead of shrugged this time. "Warm for the northern colonies is it not?" His eyes drifted down the street. "Yes. Remarkably warm for January." Mercy accepted the change of subject easily. She knew she'd get no more from him anyhow. "That's good for us. The people who have fled to town now that the British are here have less problems that way. Some have no money for firewood." "And are these poor folk in town because of the British or because they are fleeing their countrymen who wish to rebel?" The captain glanced at her. "They're here because there is trouble. Terrible trouble. I don't know that it matters why." Mercy spoke carefully. She didn't know whether the Captain was a Tory, Whig,
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or simply his own man, but she didn't want to cause any problems for herself. "Well, you're in the right about the benefits of the weather for another reason entirely. Our officers had feared the winter would cause the Charles to ice over. And then the countryside would rise up to cross over that ice and try to take Boston." He spoke almost absently. She realized that his hand had reached out to touch her wrist. He fingered it lightly, caressingly. "Should you tell me of this, sir?" Should she protest? But it was such a light touch. And, foolishly, her breath was quickening a little as he played against her skin. "That's no great secret in town. But why can't I speak of it with you? I heard your husband was a good Tory, fiercely loyal to the King, Mistress Baines." "He came from England when he was a boy, Captain. And yes, he was loyal." "And you are not?" His fingers reached up to the crook of her elbow, where suddenly her skin felt very sensitive to his touch. She swallowed. "I don't have much loyalty to things I don't understand, Captain. I've never seen the King. Never been to England. But I can't say I am a rebel, either. I simply want to work in my own shop and conduct my life quietly. That's difficult in these times." Mercy shrugged. "I have no concern with politics and I wish these present troubles didn't intrude into my life." "And I'm a soldier, meant to be a part of trouble." His eyes went back down the street. "When I was a boy, just commissioned, I was sent to the Colonies. Down South. With General Braddock. That would be twenty years now. Twenty years." "That was trouble indeed." "Trouble beyond my young imaginings then. 'Twas an education watching my men drop while Indians picked them off like they would targets. And the officers above me died even faster. I got my first blooding there. Damn, it stung!" He rubbed his shoulder at the memory. Then his hand moved from his shoulder and reached out to caress her neck, tickling sensitive nerve endings near the pulse in her throat. Mercy shivered. She had to speak
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now, didn't she? But she didn't. He had clever hands. The man was heating her body with just the tips of his fingers. "The only one who got us out was a Colonial. He wasn't much older than I was at the time. A Yankee named Washington. He and the other Colonials who knew what they were about kept us together as best they could." "I see." "I have respect for you Colonials. More than many in this army do." The Captain's head turned, sharply, and his hand dropped down to his side, resting on his sword handle. He spoke calmly but she could see he was on the alert. "And I respect what they can do to my army if we are not careful." Footsteps interrupted what he might have said next. James appeared suddenly from around the corner of the house and stopped short when he saw the two of them. Everyone was silent for a moment. "You are not out carousing in the King's name tonight, sir?" James asked. Mercy's breath sucked in. She'd sat and watched and wondered. She'd wanted James and cursed his absence when the Captain had seemed to be gone for the night. Now all her former desire for James' return was gone. Did James want trouble? "No, boy. Are you? Townsfolk are not allowed out at night without good reason. Nor are they allowed out of town without a pass." Out of town? Why would Bryant say that— "I know, sir." James began to walk up the stairs, past Mercy, without even acknowledging her. Mercy felt panic. Something was wrong. Something she hadn't been aware of until now. "Boy." "Captain?" "Let me see your hand." Mercy realized then that one arm dangled oddly from under James' cape. James hesitated. "Now, boy."
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When he stretched it out, Mercy saw blood dripping from James' palm, despite a rag that bound it. Her hand crept up to her throat. "Interesting." Captain Bryant's voice was crisp. "The guard said they'd heard someone spying near some of my fellow officers. The men had a bit of a scuffle. The fellow broke away, but not without a sword slash on the hand for his trouble." James said nothing. But Mercy saw his other hand reach under his cape. That was when the captain’s servant stepped out from the shadows, his Brown Bess musket leveled. James froze in place. "I wouldn't try anything rash, young man. Assaulting yet another British officer would do you no good." "Assault? I hurt my hand earlier today while chopping wood for the mistress." James drawled the words out. "But you may believe what you wish." "That he did." Mercy seconded the lie without hesitation. "And I can't believe James chose to go out tonight to flirt and play after causing me such trouble. I thought I told you to put a poultice on it and rest, sirrah. That hand will be of no use to me for several days as it is. I have no need for you to aggravate the wound, James." "I apologize, Mistress." James said. "And you'd be prepared to tell anyone you needed that was the way of it, would you, Mistress Baines?" The captain's voice was very soft. “I see. Put the musket down, then, Sean.” “Don’t let ‘em get away with it, Capt’n!” The servant protested. “You’re always too soft—“ “Enough, man.” Bryant snapped the order out but he kept his eyes on Mercy all the while. Mercy stared back, unflinchingly. "That’s what I’d tell anyone, Captain. Anyone at all." "Then I see I was wrong, Mistress Baines." The captain shook his head. "As were you. You are a woman with strong loyalties indeed."
Chapter Five "Good evening, Sleeping Beauty." Mercy smiled as her eyelids slowly lifted up. "Oh!" This wasn't a dream. Cullen was in front of her, on his knees, his face close to hers. "I guess I fell asleep in the chair." Thank God she'd dressed before she fell asleep on the porch. But probably her hair was now a complete mess…and she hadn't checked her makeup or— "I know you're awake now but could I have a kiss anyway?" he asked. He didn't wait for her answer but leaned forward and just gave her the lightest breath of a kiss. Light but still arousing. Mercy stared straight into his incredible eyes and thought for a moment she might lean forward for yet another. Those eyes reminded her of someone else. Someone charming, attractive. And those lips were incredible. Then she let out a quick huff of air. Of course she wasn't going to kiss him again. She hardly knew this man! He pulled back a safe distance, but kept eye level to her. "I suppose I should apologize," he said. "But you were so irresistible asleep like that." Irresistible? Mercy laughed. "Hardly," she said. "Luke had all the good looks in the family." "Well, from the photos I saw of Luke when he was healthy there must have been a strong family resemblance between the two of you." Mercy tried to fit that idea into what she'd always believed of herself. Yes, she and Luke certainly looked like brother and sister but as to her attractiveness? She decided to think about that later. "I hope I look all right for dinner," Mercy said. "You didn't say where we were going." Cullen still had on his business suit from work. And a tie that matched the color of his eyes. His hand reached out to help her up. He lifted her out of the chair easily. "You look perfect for the place I have in mind. You look perfect anyway." His hand rested on her elbow, half-escorting and half-caressing. Mercy shivered. Was this how
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Captain Bryant's hands had felt? She could almost feel the same things her namesake felt now in those dreams, she almost felt like a participant instead of an observer… "Thank you, sir." "Cullen. Please call me that. I feel as if I know you. Ever since I became involved in your brother's estate business and heard of you I've been eagerly anticipating meeting you." "Ah." She didn't point out that their meeting would have to mean her brother had died. She preferred to think about this man's eagerness to see her instead, even if Mercy didn't know what to think of him. "Where are we going?" "To my house. If you don't mind."
***** "Were you out of your mind?" Mercy hissed the words to James as she bent to rewrap the new bandage she made for his sword cut. "I realize I could have cut a tendon. That would have made me less useful to you." James shrugged. "But I think it will heal quickly enough." "I will smack you in another minute. You know I don't mean that." "I'm sorry I was caught. But for some reason Bryant isn't interested in arresting me so we're both safe enough. For now. Perhaps all you need to do is flash your eyes—or something more—at him and you'll continue to be safe." Mercy bit her bottom lip hard. God knows what the captain or others were listening to from the other rooms. James had picked a fine time to become both jealous and talkative. "Now you are being insulting along with stupid." Mercy spaced her words out evenly. "Then I must humbly beg my mistress' pardon, mustn't I?” There was neither contrition nor amusement in James' words this time. "That would be a small start to what needs doing, yes." She jerked the bandage a little tighter than necessary on his hand and wasn’t sorry when he winced.
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"Mercy, I've tried to get information before and I will again. I'm sorry if that puts you in danger. I never meant for that to happen. But you must know how important this is! We can't have the British occupy us forever!" Oh God. "You're a rebel, aren't you? And what's more, an active one." Mercy shut her eyes. This wasn't some young man's prank as she'd half-hoped. She should have known. Everything James did, he did deliberately. So much for staying out of trouble. "My home and business might be confiscated. We could all be sent to prison." "And that's why we have to get those with the power to do such things out of Boston. Out of the colonies." "I don't want to listen to this!" "Then don't. But I'll tell you anyway." James pressed himself against her and kissed her hard, devouringly. Her hands reached up behind his neck. "Mercy, I've wanted you forever. Since I first saw you. Maybe before then. When I dreamed of you in the night, I imagined how gently I would treat you—and then not so gently. It kills me to think I've dragged you into trouble." "Then why did you?" Mercy kept herself from wailing the words only by remembering others might be listening. "Why did you risk yourself?" He took a nip from her shoulder, as if he couldn't stop himself. "The only thing I care about more than you is freedom. I want my own desperately though I'll earn my way to that in a year and three months. But Boston's freedom is more important than even my own because that's in more doubt. If I can help get the damned redcoats out and make sure they stay out, then I must help. Nothing is worth more than that." "Including my own freedom? What is that worth?" Mercy knew of the prison ships out in the harbor. People grew ill or died there under the horrible conditions. The British could do that to traitors. God knows, they could do even worse. James shut his eyes. Then he bent and began to loosen the bindings of Mercy's saque dress without looking back at her face.
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"You're worth everything, Mercy. Every part of you is valuable," he whispered against her breast. "I'm your servant. Your slave, really. I'd do almost anything for you. I never wanted you involved in my more dangerous activities. I'd learn to hide what I did from your—from my late master. I thought I could do that from everyone forever." "Those are nice words, James. But only words." Mercy fought the now familiar weakness as James slowly removed her dress. Her nipples were already hardening with just the thought of what he might do next. "You've put all of us in danger." She looked at the bandage on his hand as he bent her over the chair. The bandage showed what James was willing to risk. “Then let’s not use words right now,” he growled. Without any further play, he entered her from behind. Mercy gasped. How did he know she needed nothing more to prepare her for his hard slide inside her? Maybe because despite their quarrel both of them were already desperate for each other. She could tell that this time James meant to master her. She didn't find that objectionable right now. As her wetness helped him slide into her even deeper, she knew that she found it exciting to allow his domination. The considerate lover, the eager apprentice—both were gone at this moment. Mercy hadn't contemplated before how exciting it could be to have someone who wanted her immediately, without more thought. James had proved capable of answering her every demand. Now she knew he was also able to make his own. He was gripping her nipples hard, hard enough to hurt. That was exciting to her. His cock had never felt so hard penetrating her before. That was beyond exciting. Mercy whimpered. His breath rasping against her neck, his hair that draped over her body, tickling her skin as he pulled himself in and out of her furiously…that were no words for how she felt. "Mine." She heard him say in her ear. "You're mine." She saw her hands gripping the seat of the chair, fighting for some control. But this time everything seemed beyond her ability to contain. Mercy wanted to feel. Just feel. And she was. Pleasure, submission, excitement, sharp almost-pain as he pounded into
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her. She moaned louder as the pace grew even fiercer. Then he stopped, the head of his penis touching but not quite inside her. "Say it." She knew what he wanted and she clamped her lips shut. Mercy wiggled her rear invitingly against him. He was ready for her, she knew it. But he wouldn't enter her. She could feel tears in her eyes, tears of want and anger and frustrated desire. His breath sucked in and out next to her ear. Neither of them said anything. His hand reached to touch—almost—her swollen, wet clitoris. Then he pulled away. He was going to tease her. And she would go quite mad. "I'm yours." Mercy let the words burst out of her. His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her hard against him. Their sweat made their bodies slide even more quickly as the two of them parted, then fiercely came together again. Finally the pace was too much to endure. Mercy knew she had to scream. She was going to climax, loudly. She couldn't stop herself. But at the first sound, James' hand clapped over her mouth. She bit it hard. Somehow that small violence was the final thing Mercy needed for her orgasm. Her whole body quaked as she felt that rush of ecstasy course through her. As she did she felt James pull out from her almost immediately. He didn't withdraw from her entirely. She could feel him against her rear, still erect. Groaning softly, he thrust hard against her thigh. Once more. Twice. The sudden rush of his semen hard against her leg, made her shiver with residual delight and dismay. She'd wanted him to burst inside her, had wanted— No. She had told him not to. He'd obeyed her in that, though he had pleasured himself as he chose otherwise. And he'd pleasured her. Oh Lord, he had. With that thought she collapsed completely against the chair, her legs unable to hold her weight. She felt James slide down her back, down the back of her leg and then, with one hand still gripping her ankle, he rested his body on the floor. Their mingled pants for air were all that was heard for a moment in the room. "That solved nothing," Mercy finally managed.
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She ought to be angry. Furious. Now besides risking her freedom and his, he had risked discovery of their liaison together. She would never have been able to face Captain Bryant again had he walked in on the two of them. That gossip would have soon spread through the town and her humiliation would be complete. "Perhaps not. " James' voice was amused again and almost calm. "But aren't you glad that we did?" "Yes. You scoundrel." Mercy conceded the point as she looked down at him. "I may be a scoundrel, Mistress Baines, but you are the one who injured my one good hand." James kept his eyes shut as he spoke, but she saw his mouth begin to smile again. Her James was back. "I'll never be able to get back to work at this rate, love."
***** Mercy sat up in her bed and stared. Was she with him? No. No, she was in her bedroom. For a moment she'd felt trapped in her dream and she'd feared that this time when she woke up…but of course she was in her own room and her own bed. Her head hurt a little from all the wine she'd had at dinner. Mercy wasn't used to drinking. She wasn't used to having a handsome man flirt with her outrageously. Cullen had been very entertaining. So why had she dreamed of the Boston Mercy and her James instead of the real life man she'd met? Any normal woman would be overwhelmed to have someone like Cullen tell her she was beautiful, that he'd daydreamed through work thinking about her…Mercy sighed. Why did what he had to say seem more of a fantasy than the one she was creating, night after night, in her mind? Because it had to be a fantasy. A two hundred and fifty thousand dollar fantasy to be exact. Mercy had never had any man interested in her before. Not the way Cullen was interested. But after thirty-three years, she knew enough to know someone like Cullen wouldn't want just her alone. He’d listened to her while she tried to dredge up polite conversation. When she ran out of conversation he’d listened more when she told him what it had been like, really
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like, to deal with someone dying slowly in front of you. “You’re amazing,” he’d said at last. “I’m in awe.” “Of what?” “That you can be so strong and so gentle. And that you seem so lost— so unaware of your own worth.” Worth? She was worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, no more and no less. “And, Mercy—“ “Yes?” “I wish you trusted me more. Liked me better.” “I— I like you fine. For someone I don’t know very well.” “Then we’ll have to get to know each other better, won’t we?” The evening came to an end, of course. And someone younger and richer, someone clever and amusing and young, wouldn’t want to really spend more time with her. After all, at the end of the evening he’d brought her back and left her to crawl into bed by herself. He hadn’t kissed her again. Just that one quick tease of a kiss at the start and then nothing. Well, perhaps he’d looked at her and her breath caught. But that was her being stupid again, not anything he’d actually done. She had imagined he looked as if he wanted to push the door down behind her and sweep her into the house … But he hadn’t, had he?
She was here and he was—well, wherever young,
handsome, clever young men went after they’d done their duty to boring old maids. And why didn't she care more? Instead, all she was worried about was that her dreams seemed to be speeding toward something. At first what she saw had gone day to day, then suddenly it skipped over weeks at a time. She didn't know why. If they were her dreams why couldn't she make it linger? And what were the dreams speeding toward? Mercy lay back down again, but suddenly she was afraid to go back to sleep. If she slept, she'd start again. She knew that. And she was beginning to be afraid the dreams were moving toward a nightmare rather than a sexual fantasy.
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The phone rang. Mercy sucked in a breath. Nighttime telephone calls meant emergencies. Then she remembered Luke was dead. There was no family member she needed to worry about. Mercy picked up the receiver. "Mercy?" It was Cullen's voice. "I have a problem."
Chapter Six Mercy was trying to have no more on her mind that spring morning than the prospect of washing not only her own laundry but Captain Bryant's. That was no small task even though it was a pleasant morning. If the British soldiers were gathering and rumors flying all about town, well, that was nothing to her. If James had disappeared last night and not been seen all today, well then he had best have a good explanation when he returned. Captain Bryant had left this morning in uniform. She refused to worry. If the British Army was about to move onto the countryside well then, she was safe enough inside Boston— She stopped at the bedroom door. There was a body lying on the bed. Mercy gasped. For a moment her mind flew back to her husband's death there in the same place. "No!" Mercy exclaimed as she realized whose body was stretched out on the covers. Not James! She wouldn't let it be James! She ran toward the bed and stopped. It was James. A gagged James who was tied so tightly to the bedposts that he couldn't move. He glared at her as she stared. She moved forward more slowly, and tugged the gag from his mouth. He spit and cleared his throat. She watched him toss his dark hair out of his eyes and then stared at the ropes gripping his wrists. They had to have been strong. There were marks where he'd pulled at them. "That cursed Irish bastard trussed me up like a pig on a spit before he left. Told me he'd be damned if he'd let me tell my friends where they were headed." James' usual calm was gone. "Let me go, Mercy. I have to let the others know what's planned." "Go?" Mercy's voice sounded odd to herself. Her fear about him was gone now. But another emotion had taken its place. She'd never been hit so suddenly with such lust in her life. Her legs trembled with the force of it. "Mercy?" James stared at her.
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"No. No, I don't think I will let you go." Mercy took one step closer yet. "It's all right. Paul Revere will warn Adams and Hancock. As for the rest of it—well, what happens can start without the two of us." She reached directly for the buttons on the fold of his breeches. Her hands were shaking, just a little. Should she be embarrassed? Mercy realized she wasn't. She had no room for any other feelings. Only one. She wanted him. The impatience and anger in James' face was changing too as he looked at her. "Mercy, I need you to untie me—“ She shook her head as she got the final button free. Then she bent her head and took his cock into her mouth. Oh, yes. He didn't want to be untied. Or at least his cock didn't mind staying. "Ahh." His half-sigh, half-growl filled the room. "Mercy, we mustn't. God, that feels good but—“ Mercy laughed, shook her head, and stepped back. His cock twitched violently at their separation. Mercy took off her small cap and then shook her hair loose. It fell about her shoulders, almost hiding her breasts as she unfastened her bodice. Almost. For once they didn't have to worry about noise. Paul had scurried away this morning to make deliveries and then play with other apprentices who were also shirking their work. He wouldn't be back until dark. There was no one here but the two of them. And one of them was quite helpless. There was so much to undo and remove. Mercy realized James had never had to chance to see her completely naked in broad daylight before. She had no chance to be shy—the look on his face showed her that he completely approved of her nudity. She wanted to hurry but her fingers felt clumsy and unused to her clothing suddenly…She pulled off the dress at last with a sigh of relief. "I love your breasts, Mercy," James said. "The nipples are so pink and when they tighten…I want to take them in my mouth and make you scream." Mercy's hands shook more. "I'll never get the undershift off if you keep talking," she said, almost crossly.
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"I love your thighs. When I run my tongue over them they taste so sweet. And then I want to bite them…" his voice was hoarse. As punishment for his chatter, Mercy paused and nuzzled her own mouth between his thighs. He bucked when she licked his scrotum, abruptly stopping when the ropes at his legs would let him move no further. Her undershift was loose about her and she could see his eyes staring down it to her body. "Let me lick, Mercy. Taste you. Please." Mercy kneeled over his mouth and threw her undershift off at the same time. His tongue was hot and covered her clit immediately. She reached behind her back and covered his cock with her hands. His cock jumped again and Mercy smiled and eased herself back and away. She knew it didn't hurt that her breasts thrust forward as she kept her hands on his cock, pressing it just lightly. James looked like he was strangling for breath. "Let my hands free!" "Not yet." Mercy bent forward and nibbled on one male nipple. His whole body quivered. She smiled and backed away again, this time positioning herself on the tip of his cock. He strained to move it up further but his bonds only allowed for a fraction of an inch inside her. "Do you want to kill me?" he asked. "I want to pleasure you." Mercy rubbed her body a little lower down his length and his eyes half shut. She knew what that meant now. He was caught in his own desire. "And I am. Aren't I? Tell me, James." "Never have I…been so…tormented. . ." "And pleased?" "And pleased, damn your eyes." Mercy chuckled, the feeling of power mixing with the lust. She shoved herself down on his cock and they both moaned. "That would be damn my eyes, Mistress," she said sweetly and clenched her
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muscles tight around him. "Mistress—“ James shut his eyes completely, his face contorting. "You're a cruel and…exciting…Mistress." "And yours. Your mistress." "Oh God, yes." She stretched her arms out, touching the ropes at his wrist and leaning forward so her breasts brushed his chest. She liked seeing him sweat and groan beneath her. She was making this strong man, taller and bigger and more physically powerful, moan and collapse underneath her. Mercy chuckled again and her own breath caught. One thing hadn't collapsed yet. It felt hard and harder yet as she began to move up and down, slowly. She wanted to hurry the pace but— "I can't endure it, Mistress. You have to go faster." James' voice was thick. It almost killed her but she slowed down even more. "Do I?" She realized her own voice was thick, too. "Why? Mustn't you do what I desire?" His tongue reached out and licked the sweat above his lip. She let one finger caress his throat, follow the corded vein in his neck. His pulse was beating fast. Very fast. "Yes. I have to. I’m yours." He spoke at last. That was all she needed. She pushed herself down completely, taking the full, hard length of his cock up inside her own wet sheath. Mercy felt herself gripping hard, hard, squeezing. She looked down to see James looking closer to agony than climax. But she knew, she knew…She could hear her own pants as she moved faster yet. She was the conqueror and James was hers. Completely hers. She watched his head twist to the side as he groaned agonizingly, as she felt her own body's heat rush over her and consume her in one tightening, almost terrifying release… "Mercy!" She fell forward on her hands, trying to catch her breath. She could feel James' cock still quiver inside her, trying to get the last of his semen out into her flesh.
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Then they said nothing more for a long moment. Gradually Mercy's breathing slowed down. "My bonds, Mistress?" James' voice was almost back to normal. For one mad moment she thought about not releasing him—never releasing him. She savored the idea a bit more and then regretfully made herself do what she must. Mercy pulled at the ropes with a scowl. They were tight and difficult to loosen. She finally managed the ones at his wrist and had begun his those at his ankles when he asked his second question. "I—Could I have made you pregnant?" Mercy shook her head. "The timing is all right?" "No. I just took precautions." Mercy frowned, trying to remember what. She had, she was sure of it but— James almost relaxed but then his eyes narrowed again. He asked his third question. "How did you know about Master Revere and who he would warn?" Mercy stopped and tried to think. How indeed? "I don't…I don't know." Her head felt confused. She knew from—she had read it? How could that be? "What do you mean?" James' voice sharpened. Her lover was gone. Now he was all business. "How could you not remember? Damn it, Mercy! Did you make all this up? As soon as I get free I'll need to—“ "No. It's over. Soon the rebels will be leaving town and the loyalists will be coming in. The British are being picked apart right now at Lexington and Concord. Poor Captain Bryant. It's just like what happened to Braddock long ago with the Indians who tore into his troops." Mercy heard herself saying this all in a flat, calm voice. "Things will have changed completely again with the British retreat." James was sitting upright, staring at her. "Are you spying for us? For the British? Who is telling you all this? "
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"No one told me. I just know. Because—“ Mercy held her head. The images were clear now. Too clear. "Because?" "I'm from the future."
Chapter Seven Mercy woke up knowing something was different. The breath that blew against her ear, warm and lazy, reminded her what it was. Who it was. Cullen. She felt the aches and the contented drowsiness in her body. Once again that was from Cullen. Cullen's hand reached out to grip one breast and begin to fondle the nipple to hardness. Mercy bit her lip, feeling her heart start to race again. "You still have a problem then?" She knew her voice sounded teasing. Hers. She never teased. Not until Cullen. "I seem to have the same problem I did before I called you." Just the way Cullen said the words made her want to laugh. That and the hard erection he was holding against her rear. "Do we need to work on it again?" Last night had been…amazing. She'd had no idea until lately how enjoyable it was to have a man underneath you, waiting for you to do whatever you wanted. And once you knew, it was even more delightful discovering that he was more than ready to participate. "I knew you'd be hell on wheels in bed. If you just let go," Cullen had laughed, a little breathlessly, up at her sometime during the night. She looked over at them both in the mirror. She looked wild, her hair flying and her face glowing. She looked…she looked like hell on wheels. She’d never looked like that before. And Cullen? Cullen had looked delicious. Mercy bent down to deliberately bite his earlobe. He yelped, and then his hands reached up to grab her hips and pull her down on top of him. "You're bossy, too." "I'm about to be independently wealthy. Well, at least debt-free. I'm entitled to a little assertiveness." She lifted herself up and then down. "And a little ass, too." "Mmmmm." His hands reached out to touch her nipples. "So you're going to take
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the money?" "Yes. I'm taking it and it's going to help me live my life again. I'm going to find out what I can do besides take care of a dying man." Mercy paused for a moment and looked down at the lawyer. Did he want her money? She didn’t feel sure of that any more. Still— "I may travel. Everywhere. I've always wanted to travel. Once I pay the hospital bills, I may spend every remaining cent on riding all over creation." He pulled himself up just high enough to let his tongue brush over those hard, aching nipples, making them harder, making them ache even more. Then he lowered himself down again. She bent over, following that clever tongue of his, wanting more. How dare he withdraw just when she was heating up again? He smiled, a lazy but satisfied grin. "Start with a little riding here." The memory made her smile. Arrogant beast. He made her do things she’s never done before. Had never had any intention of doing. But he made her enjoy them, too, and she’d made him do things—things she’d had no idea she could make a man want to do. Better yet, now it was starting all over again. The magic of the night hadn’t left even though it was morning. Cullen nuzzled his face against her neck and then whispered, “I want to fuck, Mercy. You. I want you.” She could feel his cock, hard, eagerly agreeing with his words, thrusting against her as if it couldn’t bear to be without her a moment more. And she knew she couldn’t bear to be without it any longer, either. "Are you insatiable then?" Mercy gave a loud sigh and fought a giggle. "Oh, all right. If you have that big a problem—“ “It’s a very big problem. A huge problem. Want to see?” Mercy rolled over to face him.
Her breath caught. This wasn't Cullen. She was seeing yet another body stretched out on the bed. The blood was coming too fast through the formerly white linen shirt.
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And his lips looked blue. "Captain Bryant?" Her voice shook. "Randall?” His eyes opened. She could hear his breath, rasping hard in his chest. No. She didn't want to see any more death. But Mercy knew what she was looking at. "Again." She bent forward to listen to the faint voice that still had a trace of ironic amusement left. "Never learn—happened again. Picked us off." Without him saying more she could imagine the slow, deadly retreat back to Boston. The sound of bullets whistling out from behind walls and trees. The crumpled bodies. Randall had staggered into the house using his man's shoulder for strength. And his own will power. He wouldn't fall in front of his enemies. But he collapsed as soon as he entered the house. "Has your man called a doctor? Should I fetch one?" His eyes shut again at her words. Mercy reached out to take the hand that had no blood dripping on it. The wrist's pulse was faint. "Oh, Randall." "Unfair." Damnably unfair, Mercy had to agree. If he lived in modern times perhaps more could be done. But right now he was bleeding to death in front of her and all she could do was try to stop the worst of the wounds. She was no doctor. "Bad timing. I didn't see you first. What we might have done together, Mistress Baines…" If James hadn't been there what would have happened between them? His chest moved upward one more time. Then stopped. "Is he dead then?" James stood at the doorway. "Yes. Yes, I believe he is. God rest his soul." Not just his soul. All of them. Men died in war and this was only the start of one. James had eight years to risk himself still. God, how she hated knowing this—knowing what was history to her, what was the present reality for him and unable to change any
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of it for either of them. What good did it do to know so much and yet not know anything that mattered for her? “Damned rebels! They killed the best soldier in the whole damned army—“ The voice behind them was Bryant’s sullen manservant, silent no more, shaking with tears and anger. “And we could do nothing in return. Just march, fast as we could. There was no one to shoot at, nowhere to hide. Blast them to hell!” And, without more warning, there was a pistol in the man’s hand and—oh God, she couldn’t even remember his name!—he shot into James’ chest. This was what she’d feared all along. This was what she knew would happen. Death. Always death. “Mercy—“ James choked the word out. She saw James stagger back, fall, the surprise still on his face before it changed into agony. “There’s one gone anyhow! One spying rat! My master let him free but he didn’t deserve to live!” The man’s voice rose almost in hysteria but she heard the satisfaction in it. And Mercy got up from her knees on the bed with the captain’s pistol in her own hand. And she fired at close range. What if the British caught her? What difference did it make now? She could finally avenge this death. It wasn’t much, but it was something. They might as well all die together…
Mercy blinked and the world rearranged itself. She reached out to touch Cullen's face very gently. This time. He looked so much like the captain. And if he was, then this time he had shown up in her life when no one else was there. There was a big hole in her world that he could fill if he wanted. Mercy caught herself. Careful. Careful. This time slipping was going beyond dreams or explanation. She traced Cullen's face. His face felt real. Yes. This was today. Now. She wasn't crazy. Perhaps she'd been too stressed with
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her brother's death. But she knew where she was. In her bed. With a man who'd told her he wanted her, needed her and then shown her how much. Safe. She was alive and so was he. "I saw you and wanted you. I wanted you before then." How many people had said that to her before? When? Mercy wasn't sure. She knew Cullen had. Was it when Cullen had arrived on her doorstep late last night? She had agreed he could visit when he called on the phone, wondering why she agreed even as she said it. After all, he might be out for her newly-acquired money. She didn't know him. She hesitated before answering. When she didn't say anything, he did. Cullen's voice hadn't been laughing when he said, "I need to see you tonight. I have to." He'd waited at her door while she stood on the other side, wondering if she should let him in. Wondering what trouble she would open the door to. But he'd looked as if he'd wait there forever if she kept the door locked. And she didn't want to keep it locked. She'd had to open the door. To open herself to him. They hadn't said much more. Nothing but his words, half-whispered— "I saw you and wanted you. I wanted you before then." And then both of them had stripped, quietly, looking at each other the whole time. They hadn't hurried. They knew they didn't need to. They enjoyed. She'd never done all that for another man. Not in this lifetime anyhow. Before her dreams she would never have done such a thing. But when he was naked and he reached for her, she’d been there. Waiting. Ready. And when his cock had finally slid inside her, it was as if he'd been inside her before. How many times had Mercy known and met him? And what had they done then? Mercy looked at Cullen's face, where she had traced her fingers. She wasn't surprised any more to see the blood she'd carried on her hands from another man's wounds—now, faintly, on Cullen's face. She thought she'd been in control back then. There wasn't any control left now. No
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time, no permanence, perhaps no real death. Just people who returned over and over to almost, but not quite, relive their old lives. Or else she was dreaming. Or lost her mind. Why couldn’t she stop remembering, dreaming, having the past return to her? "If you're from the future does that mean you will go into the future again?" Mercy looked at her man. She saw that James had accepted what she said at last. He'd done it more gracefully than she ever would had someone said the same thing to her. "You're asking difficult questions today, love." The endearment slipped out without thought. "Then the answer is yes." "I don't seem to have a choice whether I stay or go any more. I don't know anything." "Will you come back?" Mercy held the palms of her hands up, helplessly. He had to realize the answer to that. Or what her lack of an answer meant. James took those hands, pulled them to his lips to kiss them. He didn't let them go. "We belong together, Mercy. No matter who you are or where you go. I know that inside me. I've known that always." "Don't you understand? If I could, I'd be with you always. But this isn't my place. The future—my present—doesn't seem like home any longer, either. My only home is with you. But none of that matters because I can't stop what's happening any more!" There was a long silence before Mercy whispered at last, “I do love you, James. I didn’t want to admit it to you or myself. But I do. For all the good that does.” Someone began to bang on the door. Now she knew it would be Bryant and his servant and she knew how this scene would end. "Don't cry, love. You never cry. No matter what happens." She wanted to deny she was crying but she realized her eyes were wet. Besides, his hands were around hers now, his warmth comforting her. She wanted comfort. "Hush. You can’t leave me any more than I can leave you. We'll manage. Somehow."
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Those should have been empty words. Empty comfort. She already knew they were untrue. James was going to die. He had died. But…
"Don't cry, Mercy." "I can't help it." "But…oh, hell. Maybe you should cry. I bet you haven't since Luke died. Have you?" "Yes. No." Did crying over two hundred years ago count? Cullen's arms were around her tightly. She let herself absorb the strength in him. She needed that or she'd fly apart. All that would be left would be millions of grieving, bewildered pieces. "I don't understand anything any more." She said that, knowing he couldn't begin to know what she meant. She got up from the bed, starting to pace. Cullen rose and placed himself in front of her, stopping her. "I'm not even sure what I don't know." "We're together. That's all we need to understand for now." Then, just as everything had come clear when she told James she was from the future, things came clear again. This was real. She felt sure again—sure of herself and what her future could be. With him. She looked into the blue-gray eyes. She'd thought she'd known who those eyes belonged to. Cullen was smaller, slighter, with a swagger in his walk like Randall Bryant had. Used to have. But she'd ignored other things. Cullen was younger than she was. Twenty-seven perhaps? Six years younger. She had to be right. Even more important than the age, the warmth and the awareness of her, the comfort and the intensity was— "You—you look different." God, what if she was wrong? Mercy touched his cheek. The way she had when they started once before. Then she whispered, "James?" This smile wasn't the quick one she'd seen in Cullen before. This smile came more slowly, then spread out across his face and lit her within. James.
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"Call me what you want, love. The name doesn't matter. What we look like doesn't matter. I'm here. With you. Where we're supposed to be. Always." He bowed low over her hand, like the gentleman that he wasn't. And she curtseyed, equally low, like the woman she had been. Was still. And he turned over her hands and kissed the palms again.
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