Talking. Laughing. And then . . . not talking.
She wanted to know what happened next.
She'd never considered the possibility of this much pleasure.
The waves undulating between her thighs, spreading into the center of her body. Tensing. Flicking faster with her fingers. Harder.
Belly tightening. The wave cresting, spilling pleasure through her body.
She moaned softly, her head falling over the rim of the tub.
This could become habit forming.
It was too short. It didn't last long enough and it created a need for more.
Like eating sugary trifle. Or drinking hot chocolate. Explosive spice and sweetness in her mouth. The distant cousin to these hot, melting waves of pleasure still crashing through her body.
A lady never eats more than one biscuit. A lady denies herself pleasure.
But Thea was most definitely no longer a lady.
There was a knock at the door. Her heart beat faster.
"Who is it?" she called.
"Jenkins, ma'am," a female voice answered.
The maid. Not Dalton.
"Enter," Thea replied.
"Is this your only gown, ma'am?" the sturdy maid with rosy cheeks asked, shaking out the patterned blue-and-gray silk.
"I'm afraid so."
"Well, never you mind, I'll brush it good as new. And these handsome boots." She lifted the red leather boots. "Once I've got the mud off they'll glow again, red as rubies."
Thea thanked the maid and she left.
Thea felt newly polished. She'd discovered quite a few things about herself already on this journey.
Hidden reserves of strength she hadn't known she possessed.
She'd severed ties with her mother. Faced a pistol. Defused a duel.
Driven an arrogant duke to distraction.
Her perspective had shifted, as if an artist had decided the pose she was in at the beginning of the journey wasn't right and had painted over her, a new, bolder outline, the ghost of her former self only barely discernible beneath layers of fresh paint.
Chapter 16
Dalton pushed open the door of the Anchor Tavern, and the stale smell of spilled gin and refuse rotting in the back alley assaulted his senses.
He chose a corner table where his back would be against the wall and the entranceway in his line of vision, and ordered a pint of double stout porter from a buxom barmaid with flaming copper hair and a flirtatious smile, to while away the time until Con joined him here.
He'd hired a merchant brigantine with the poetic name of the Truth and Daylight, whose dockers had been offloading wooden barrels bearing the Cork Butter Exchange stamp, negotiating terms with the ship's master to turn around immediately and sail back to Cork on the next tide.
He'd also purchased Thea and Molly first-class passage on Bristol's most luxurious steam packet. Con could meet them at the docks in Cork Harbor and provide them an escort to their families.
Dalton was a greater danger to Thea than anyone she'd meet in a respectable dining room on a steam packet.
What was Thea doing right now? Most likely having a bath. Submerged in steam with one shapely, elegant leg poking out of the tub, her hair wet and coiling around her shoulders.
Or she could be curled up in a soft bed taking a nap.
And now he needed to quench his thirst. Where was his beer?
Dalton looked up in time to see an unusually large man hoist a full keg effortlessly to the bar.
The barmaid tapped his pint and brought it to his table. "Name's Pearl," she announced with an appreciative glance at his arms. "Care for some company?"
Dalton shook his head. "Not today. Thanks all the same."
The barmaid leant over his table so his gaze was drawn to the curving expanse of her bosom. "Sure now?"
"Sure," Dalton said firmly.
He gulped the dark brown porter, thick and hearty as a slice of bread, as he thought back on the news he'd learned after he finished with the ship.
O'Roarke's ship, the Rambler, sailed back to New York from Cork Harbor in two days.
The large man from the bar approached Dalton's table. There was something familiar about his crooked nose, thick neck, and deeply inset blue eyes. "Do I know you?" Dalton asked.
"By reputation, I've no doubt." The man straightened his cravat. "Albertson, though most know me as the Bristol Basher." His fists were enormous and covered with purplish bruises. "You're in my establishment."
Dalton had seen the Basher fight once, many years ago. "And a fine place it is." He'd wanted to sit here and drink his pint in peace while he waited for Con, not talk to the proprietor. Dalton gave him a forbidding look.
Undeterred, Albertson leaned his elbows on the table. "What brings you to Bristol, Mr. . . . ?"
"Jones." Dalton said shortly. "Here on business."
"What kind of business?"
"Not yours."
"Oh, well now." Albertson backed away, huge hands raised. "Just a friendly question. Enjoy your pint."
Dalton watched Albertson closely as he lumbered away. Nothing unusual for a prizefighter to own a tavern. The dank courts and blind alleys of the rookeries surrounding the docks were full of quay rangers and prizefighters and other desperate characters.
But Dalton hadn't liked his questions.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was probably nothing. He was rattled. He wasn't himself.
Con arrived and Dalton waved Pearl over for another pint.
"They're settled at the inn," Con said, taking a seat. "Lady Dorothea blushed five shades of crimson when I mentioned you. Something I should know about last night?"
"I don't want to talk about it." Dalton swallowed the rest of his porter in one gulp and gestured for another.
Con leaned back in his seat and hooked one boot over his knee. "I like that lady. She's got spirit and heart. And I won't see her hurt by you. If something happened-"
"She's still a maid."
Con stared challengingly for a few more beats and then relaxed. "And there's still time," he smirked. "She'll conquer you yet."
Ignoring that, Dalton accepted another pint. "We sail tonight. Found a brigantine unloading from Cork. The shipmaster said his crew would balk at turning straight back around but I offered him twenty percent over his usual profit to sail on the evening tide."
"Twenty percent over his normal voyage profit could be a tidy sum. Not worth that," Con groused. "Even with four extra passengers."
"Two."
Con's eyebrows spiked. "Two?"
"I booked separate passage for the ladies on a steam packet leaving tomorrow morning. They've no place on a merchant brig."
Con gave him a sharp look and set down his mug. "What are you so afraid of, then?"
"Nothing," Dalton scoffed.
Thea, he amended silently. He'd faced men who wanted to kill him but he was far more terrified of a slip of a thing with eyes the color of rainy skies and a smile like the first faint promise of a rainbow after it rained.
Con folded his arms across his chest. "You're not getting any younger, you know."
"Your point?"
"You should marry. Sire a brat."
"You know that's impossible."
"Man goes to his grave lonely. Man might have regrets."
"I'm not lonely. I've plenty of female companionship."
"Quit acting the maggot. That's not what I mean."
"You know I can never marry. Besides, you're one to talk. I don't hear you planning to visit Bronagh."
Con stared into his pint glass. "I've been thinking about that. I've a mind to maybe go and see her."
Dalton stopped with his pint glass half-raised.
"Least I can do is give her a chance to yell at me," Con said. "Might do her some good."
Was that a note of hope in his voice? "Might do you some good as well."
"I don't like Molly and the lady traveling alone."
"They won't be alone. I asked the ship's master to ensure they were under his personal protection, and the steam packet will be teeming with respectable matrons. You can meet them at the docks with a hired carriage and convey them to their destinations."
"About Molly's destination." Con swirled the dark brown liquid in his glass. "She's Bronagh's daughter."
"What?" Dalton thumped his glass against the table and porter sloshed over his knuckles. "How do you know that?"
"I stayed with her last night, after she fainted, and we talked of her family." Con's eyes filled with a wondering light. "She's Seamus and Bronagh's daughter. My niece."
"Truly?"
Con nodded.
"That settles it, then. You're going to see Bronagh whether you want to or not. Here's to Uncle Con." Dalton raised his glass in a toast.
Con snorted. "Now don't be thinking I'm suddenly going soft and turning into a family man. Bronagh hates me for leaving. She'll probably chase me away with a rusty pistol. Like mother like daughter."
"Or she could welcome you with twenty years' worth of stored kisses."
"Ha."
Something about that slightly wavering ha spoke volumes. It said that maybe Con was hoping for kisses. That maybe he really would consider retiring and becoming an honest farmer. Settling down. Finding love.
Dalton glanced sideways at his old friend and conspirator, trying to imagine babes dandling on his knees. Little ones tugging at that long, gray-threaded beard and riding upon his boots.
And . . . no. Couldn't picture it.
The Con he knew avoided most human interaction, preferring solitude and shadows.