Crow Hollow Read Online Free PDF Page A

down or Goody Stone snuffed them. And James doubted the reverend would leave off until Peter did. Heaven forbid.
    James was climbing the stairs when he heard movement in his room. Alarmed, he reached for his knife, thinking that someone was inside trying to force open his sea chest. But of course it was only the older of the two servant girls from supper. She bent over the bed, thrusting with a bed warmer up and down the mattress. Her blond hair spilled from her head rail. Her bottom stuck out toward him and jiggled with every movement. He stood in the doorway and stared.
    When she finished, she straightened, then gasped when she saw him. “Pray, pardon me, Master Bailey. I didn’t realize you would be back so soon.”
    Her face was flushed and invigorated from her labors. James was invigorated in his own way. His earlier resolve seemed suddenly foolish.
    He only just remembered his purpose in Boston. “You ignored me at supper. Will you tell me now? At services tomorrow—where will the Widow Cotton be seated?”
    “Next to Goody Stone, of course. The reverend’s family always sits together. Is that why you’ve come, to marry the widow?”
    “Good heavens, no.” He let his eyes range up and down the girl’s body. “I have no interest in the widow.”
    She smiled at this. Emboldened, he shut the door quietly.
    Her smile turned uncertain. “Master Bailey, the door. You closed it.”
    “Do I unsettle you? Shall I open it again?”
    “If the mistress sees . . .”
    “She’s mending stockings. The reverend is reading his Bible. As is the Indian. Nobody will know, except perchance your sister. Can you trust her?”
    “I suppose a few moments wouldn’t be a sin.”
    That was all the invitation James needed. Almost overcome with passion, he closed the distance. She didn’t resist as he took the bed warmer and set it aside, then pressed her against the wall. Her mouth fell against his. Her kisses were clumsy but eager.
    “Master Bailey.”
    “Call me James.” He smothered her mouth again, then drew her neck back to kiss it.
    “Yes, James. Yes.”
    “What is your name?” he said, voice husky.
    “Lucy Branch.”
    “Lucy. Oh, you’re beautiful. The most heavenly thing I’ve seen in ages.”
    “Do you truly think so?”
    He pressed into her. One hand reached for her breast. The other lifted her petticoat and stroked along her inner thigh. Lucy let out a little moan.
    “James, no. Please.”
    “You don’t like it?” he asked between kisses on her neck.
    She was panting, her breast heaving up and down. “Yes, yes. But . . .”
    “But what?”
    “If they find out, I shall be whipped. And then thrown into the street.”
    James had taken greater risks in the past. That time at Versailles, for instance, making love to the mistress of the Marquis de Prouville, while the man argued a treaty with an English diplomat in the next room. But Louise-Colette had been the one pushing herself on him. This was different.
    “James, please. I am helpless.”
    He tore himself free. He drew back a step, then another. His body was throbbing, and from the way the girl was plastered against the wall, her hands flat against the timbers, her eyes closed and her mouth open, he could tell that she was throbbing in her own way. She didn’t want him to stop, not really.
    He was convinced they had time, that the danger was slight. And if he pressed her, he knew she would not resist much longer. And if she did truly want him to stop, then what? Would she cry out? Of course not.
    Damn you, James. Don’t do it.
    With effort, he backed toward the door. His hand found the wooden latch, and he lifted it slowly, quietly. Then he stepped to one side to let her go.
    Lucy looked at the open door, looked back at him. Her gaze continued to smolder. She opened her mouth, and he knew she was going to tell him to shut the door again. If he did, he would take her. He was not so strong as that. But she gave a tiny shake of the head and