Her Husband's Harlot by Grace Callaway Page B

the
problem in a much more primitive manner. By quelling her words with his mouth.
And other parts of his anatomy.
    Apparently
even bedding the whore had not assuaged his desire to fuck his wife. Seeing the
fire in Helena's eyes and knowing he was the cause of it, he'd been seized by a
primal urge to toss her onto the floor and cram himself inside her. All the way
inside, so deep that there would be no separating her flesh from his. So deep
that she would be marked forever his. So deep that she would scream with
pleasure, even if she remained royally pissed at him.
    All
this he'd wanted, tortured himself over—and his wife had just sat there, looking
as fresh and ripe as a summer orchard. God, he almost resented her for it. As a
result, he'd acted like a complete and utter ass. He'd deliberately belittled
the considerable improvements she had brought to his home. The irony of it, he
realized, was that his boorish behavior might prove the best thing for the both
of them. It might serve to drive his wife away. The farther the better, for her
sake.
    Shoving
his hands in his pockets, Nicholas trudged toward the warehouse. He had to stop
ruminating, or else he'd go mad. About a block away from Fines and Co., he
chanced to look down one of the alleys between the buildings. He saw two
figures standing there in the shadows. Their backs were turned to him and their
heads huddled as they spoke. He was too far away to hear their whispered words,
but there was something furtive about their postures, the way the lapels of
their coats were pulled up high about their faces.
    Nicholas
stopped and squinted, trying to discern the identity of the figures. As if
alerted to his presence, one of the men jerked his head up. Nicholas had a
glimpse of small malicious eyes and black-bristled jowls before the figure
turned and walked rapidly toward the opposite end of the alley. The other man
followed close behind. Within seconds, they turned the corner and vanished from
sight.
    Nicholas
continued on his way to the warehouse. On the main floor, he nodded to the
greetings from the workers, his thoughts churning. What the hell was Isaac Bragg
up to? For he was certain the man he had seen was the surly porter. Why was
Bragg lurking like a cutthroat in the shadows, and who was the second man in
the alley, the one Bragg had been conspiring with? Had any of this have to do
with the note?
    Nicholas
had a mind to let Bragg go and be done with the business, but there was the
morale of the other porters to consider. Bragg, damn his stinking hide, had a
way of stirring the pot. Besides, what if the blackguard actually knew Nicholas'
secret? What would he plan to do with such information—blackmail or some other
such infamy? And if he knew, why hadn't he done anything yet? Frustrated, Nicholas
had to admit the cleverness of the note's ambiguity: he could not question Bragg
directly without giving away the fact that he had something to hide.
    So
lost was Nicholas in his thoughts that he all but collided with James Gordon as
the younger man rounded the corner. Gordon fell backwards, his crutch clattering
against the wall behind him. The sack he was carrying exploded as it landed. Coffee
beans rained upon the floor. The porter rushed to gather the scattered pods,
but slipped again in his haste. With a sigh, Nicholas heaved up the stammering Gordon
and handed him his crutch.
    "Have
a care, lad," Nicholas said. "You don't want to go breaking anything
else now."
    "S-sorry,
sir," Gordon said, his face red as his hair. His blue eyes were huge with
fear. "I'll clean it up right aways. I swear, I'll get every bean back in
the sack and sew it up myself—"
    "I'm
not talking about the coffee," Nicholas said in exasperation, "but
your bloody bones. I'd like to leave Dr. Farraday some time occasionally to see
patients other than you."
    "Y-yes,
sir. Th-thank you, sir."
    With
an impatient jerk of his chin, Nicholas sent the lame porter on his way. Nicholas
headed up to the