He drank himself to sleep.
In the morning, he ordered a bath from the mistress of his lodgings, and once bathed and shaven, he felt like a new man. He had just completed his toilet when the landlady brought him a note.
It was from Victoria. She was visiting a friend, Siobhan O’Hara, at a public house with a lady’s tea room. There was also a lovely outside patio.
And Siobhan’s personal apartments were atop the lower level public house.
She would be delighted if he might pass by.
Discreetly.
Immediately, he felt overcome by emotion. And he realized, sadly, that Victoria had understood the extent of her father’s temper and determination. That would not deter him. If she wished it, he would be discreet.
And so he donned his hat and set out on the street until he reached O’Hara’s. There, he paused, uncertain, but a young lady came from the house, Miss Siobhan O’Hara, as pretty as a picture with her blazing red hair and snapping green eyes. “Why, Captain Miller! How lovely to see you. I have a box that needs lifting around back, if you’d be so good as to assist me?”
“Aye, with pleasure,” he assured her, and so he walked around with her to the rear of the establishment and the delivery entrance. “I really do have a box of Cuban rum,” she told him, her green eyes afire with laughter. “If you would?”
“As I said, dear Miss O’Hara, with pleasure!”
He lifted the box, and set it where she directed just inside the storage room, then she brought a finger to her lips, winked, and led him to a stairway.
“You’ll not be disturbed!” she promised, and disappeared outside.
He walked up the stairs. When he reached the door at the top of the stairs and was about to knock, the door flew open.
Victoria was there.
She drew him in.
She did not speak.
She slid into his arms, as if they had been betrothed for years, as if they were known lovers, and she was greeting him as was only proper.
They kissed, and her lips were pure sweetness, her breath was mint, and what she might have lacked in experience, she quickly made up for in ardor. Holding her, he felt his limbs inflame, his desire ignite into fever. He tried so hard to hold back, but she would have none of it.
“Please!” she commanded. “I watched you on the streets forever! We would meet, and you would ask about my welfare and mention the weather. And now we have talked, and we know our hearts and minds.”
“But you are a proper lady,” he whispered against her lips, aching. And yet, he loved her—he would never force anything upon her. He would wait. He would fight. He would die for her.
She laughed. Ah, that melody of sound. Her eyes were wicked as they touched upon his. “I am a proper woman as well, my dearest Captain! One who has dreamed of you…longed for you so many lonely nights!”
Everything within him seemed to explode with a thousand rockets, and his need for her was urgent and desperate, and still…
She would not wait. They tangled in a passionate kiss. She was a determined tease, touching his sex, stroking him through clothing, until they both struggled to rid one another of the cumbersome costume that was only proper on the streets, yet so impractical in such a climate! They were both steaming as they struggled with stays and laces and ties, and he laughed, asking her how he was ever going to put her all back together again.
“You’ve never disrobed a woman before, Captain?” she teased. “Why do I doubt that?”
“Well, I have disrobed one, but I’ve yet to re-robe one,” he told her. “And seldom were the woman quite so dressed!”
She never took offense at honesty, and for that, he loved her all the more. And as they talked and laughed, their clothing was at last cast away, and he looked at the beauty of her nakedness, and he was as breathless and in awe as a school boy. But he drew her to him, and their bodies seemed so attuned and so perfect. The feel of her flesh against his was the most wondrous thing that might be imagined, until her lips fell upon his shoulder and his chest, and he could bear no more, lifting her up and carrying to their hostess’s bed, where he laid her tenderly down and loved her once again with his eyes.
“Come, come, Captain!” she taunted.
Enough. He loved her then with his kisses, his caress; he adored her from head to toe and back again, until she was crying out for him, and he rose above her at last, sinking slowly into her.
He was her first lover. He had expected as much. And he made love with all the aching tender care a man could summon, until her needs matched his, and they fulfilled the frantic need of their desire in a glorious rush of silver and gold—it seemed that the world turned colors for them, celebrating their sheer ecstasy of belonging, consummating all that had filled their dreams.
Nor was she then shy, decrying her moment of madness or asking if he loved her still. She was tender and thoughtful for long moments as they both learned to breathe again, and then she rolled to him and said, “My father has indeed threatened me. I loathe him! No, he is my father, and I love him, but I detest his snobbery! He has forgotten his own love, forgotten my dear mother. He has it in his head that I must marry a filthy rich banker named Townsend—or that lying little thief of a man, Eli Smith, who is a pirate in truth, but is such a suave and smooth liar that they believe he is merchant when the bastard is none. I know he has taken ships, I just know it. I’ve seen goods that such a man could not afford among his offerings, but he has thus far escaped the law. I swear that I will not have either man! He will have to understand that I love you.”
“He lost your mother,” Bartholomew reminded her. “He lost your mother, and he forgot about love and dreams. Maybe he had to bury them to salve his grief. I’m glad you do not hate him—a daughter should not hate her father.”
She looked at him in such a way that he felt he could melt like candle wax in her arms. She stroked his cheek. “I love you for all good reason!” she said.
“We will be together,” he assured her.
She nodded grimly. “Aye, we will be together. You mustn’t come around—give me time to talk to him. I will make him see life my way. Siobhan is my dearest friend, and her brothers are hardworking men, and her mother is a saint. They will keep our secret. Meet here, not tomorrow but Friday, say, and it will appear that I abide my father’s rule. If I cannot sway him to my way of thinking…”
“Then I have a fine ship, and we will sail away to another port,” he assured her.
“Aye. We will sail away to another port,” she agreed.
The hour was growing late, but they were new lovers so enamored of one another that they were careless of time.
They made love again.
Then he knew that she must get home, and he fumbled ridiculously trying to help her back into her corset and stays and all else, but she laughed and guided him and at last, she was dressed. He left first, going into the public house for a beer and a fish pie, and she emerged later, joining Siobhan in the tea room for sandwiches and tea.
He lived for Friday.
On his way back to his rooms, he ran into one of the men who had been seeking Victoria’s hand.
Eli Smith.
He greeted the man pleasantly enough; he did not know him well. He didn’t like Smith, though. There was something shifty about his eyes—something oily in his speech.
“So, you’re not at sea, Bartholomew Miller!” Smith boomed. “I thought you were seeking a life as a merchant?”
“Indeed. I’m heading out to sea soon.” Bartholomew said, trying to be pleasant.
Smith was pleasant enough in return. “Aye, I must take to the sea soon again myself. But first I must press my suit. I believe that Mr. Wyeth is entertaining my request for his daughter’s hand in marriage. The lady is not ready to wed, but I will lay roses at her feet and await her love!”
Bartholomew fought to keep his smile.
“Good luck to you, Mr. Smith,” he said, touched his hat and went on.
He loathed Eli Smith.
He was certain Eli Smith loathed him, as well.
Finally Friday arrived and Bartholomew made his way to meet Victoria.
As he moved through the streets, he noted that one of the town’s most fascinating women, Dona Isabella, was busy with a bevy of servants.