The Acquisition Read online

  The Acquisition

  Louisa Trent

  Published 2003

  ISBN 1-931761-79-4

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright © 2003, Louisa Trent. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com

  Email: [email protected]

  Cover Art by William Etty (1787-1849)

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The year 1844

  New Bedford, Massachusetts

  Hands fisting the rumpled linen, skull thrown back against the tarnished brass bedstead, throat strenuously working, Joshua Kane surrendered to the near agony of pre-orgasmic tension. "Harry, Harry," he gasped. "You're killing me, Harry!"

  Female twitters erupted in the dingy Central Wharf brothel; the raucous hilarity competing with the hiss of forges melting pitch on the whalers moored below on the Acushnet River.

  Delores popped up from the region of his lap, her mulled-cider eyes narrowed to hot-toddy slits. "Have you gone daft, man?" she bellowed at the interruption. "Who the bleedin' bloody hell are you callin' Harry?"

  "I ... I..." Josh stammered.

  "Look at me, man!"

  Four participants bumped shoulders--and other body parts--on the narrow whorehouse bed. The only man in the group looked at Delores, though sheepishly.

  "Well? Do I look like a Harry to you?" The whore jeered, hands anchored on the wide boom of her hips, obviously waiting for an answer to her query.

  While scratching two day's worth of stubble on his chin, Josh pondered the question before reaching a decision. To be fair, Delores did make a sound argument. But like a length of hemp, all arguments, even ones that are sound, come with their share of twists and knots and confusions. The kink in the rope of this dispute was this: he hadn't really seen Delores' face in a goodly while, what with the whore being turned 'round aft and all, her rear bulkhead raised to his forward prow. Even with his seaman's far-reaching gaze, it had been nigh on impossible to see her features. And then, when she had finally changed positions, just for a moment, just for the blink of an eye, the candlelight had glinted on her scraggly topknot, turning it from dull brown to fiery copper...

  Which explained why, at that critical moment before pain crested to rapture, when his guards were lowered in anticipation of a splendid release, he had made the thoughtless blunder. Now of course, what with her bow facing him and all, her spine straightened like the proud mast on the Regina Marie, her commendable bosom hoisted like twin sails righteously unfurled, Josh had to agree that if ever a female looked less like a Harry, it was Delores--a right good woman with a heart as large and open as the sky over the Pacific. And here he'd gone and blurted out Harry's name, when his prominence was in her face.

  No help for it, once words are uttered, there's no taking 'em back. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, the only thing left for him was to own up to his mistake.

  "Sorry," he said contritely. "I meant no insult."

  Delores' snub nose went up in the air. "Ruby's brothel caters to every taste," she harrumphed, not letting go of the hurt, even after the apology. "If yours have changed since last we met, you have only to say the word and I will have a..."

  Here, she looked pointedly at his jutting harpoon. "...lad sent to your room."

  One tiny slip of the lip at an inopportune time had not only sunk his ship, it had landed him in a fine kettle of fish. Now all New Bedford would suspect the cut of his jib had altered.

  Josh sighed. He would have gotten off the bed and taken his leave, save for the indisputable fact that Delores was the most popular comfort-giver in port. Considering the multiplicity of brothels located on Water Street, this was saying a mouthful--and Delores could easily accommodate all comers in her mouth, including those in the double-inch range, like him.

  Blessed with a long throat and virtually no gag reflex, her swallowing talent made Delores worth her weight in gold, a sizable expenditure in view of the whore's statuesque rigging.

  "You know I don't like the lads, Delores," Josh said soulfully. "Out on a whaler, surrounded by Old Salts day in and day out, I just got out of the habit of speaking sweet female names like yours. That's all. Don't go getting your dander up on account of I misspoke a passion-provoked wobble. I'm starved for you, to be sure."

  "Starved for me?" Delores snorted. "My big, round, rosy arse, you're starved for me, sailor? For all you care, I could be any Tom, Dick, or Harry..."

  "Don't go saying that now! I have a dickens of an appetite for you. And as to the rest, why, your stern is a work of art!" Josh declared stoutly, trying desperately to mend torn sails.

  Delores looked to her companions. "Hear that, whores? Me arse is a masterpiece! Reckon you didn't know that!"

  Bawdy laughter broke out amongst all three females.

  The smallest whore on the bed, Chantee, twittered. "Hey! The prow of the Regina Marie could use a figurehead. Josh, why not commission a ship's artist to carve Delores' arse cheeks in walnut?"

  Rose chimed in next. "Grand idea, having her bottom mounted."

  "Sounds like a typical night's work at the brothel to me." Delores sulked, not at all mollified.

  Josh had sailed before the mast since the age of twelve; thereafter, he'd been gone to sea whaling for months at a time. In all those years, as any seaman did, he had encountered his share of rough sailing, but never had he faced down a mutiny. First week back on dry land, and what does he meet up with? Three females ganging up on him! A damn rebellion in the brewing! If these ladies jumped ship, he would not only be out good coin, his cock would be very sad indeed. With a four-year expedition ahead of him, he needed a man's relief before he sailed.

  When ordering up a three-wench night from Ruby, the brothel's madam, he had specified his requirements: a brunette, a blond, and a lady with some color in her cheeks, like him. A Portuguese or Cape Verdean, a West Indian or an African, would do him fine. No fair-complexioned redheads. No young misses, all skin and bones. And positively no virgins! An uninitiated female only meant trouble for a man. He had paid well for full-bodied, hot-blooded experienced women who knew every way there was to satisfy a sailor's lusty appetites. Fathomless throats, fallow pussies, forgiving bottoms--these accoutrements were all necessary for the appeasement of a 10-inch spar like his.

  "Four extra gold coins a-piece to compensate for my unintended offense," Josh threw out, hoping the peace offering was sufficient to smooth choppy seas.

  Evidently it was, for suddenly the waters turned to glass.

  "Aye, aye, Cap'n." Delores said, giving him a cheeky salute.

  His bowsprit saluted right back. "I am not captain yet," he said modestly. "I make master after this next voyage." That is, if he brought back enough barrels of whale oil in the cargo hold...

  As the obliging whores assumed an interesting huddle on the bed, Josh folded his dark, muscled arms behind his head on the pillows, set to enjoy the all-female revue, when the door burst in.

  "Best come quick," panted Fergus, Second Greaser from the Regina Marie.

  "I intend to," Josh drawled with a wink. "Join in. I don't mind sharing."

  Gesturing wildly in a southerly direction, his second mate shouted. "No
, you don't understand. There's a brawl. Downstairs. In the tavern. And Harry's getting the worst of it."

  Harry getting the worst of it...

  Josh jumped out of bed and into his worsted trousers. "Another fight?" he raged. "That makes two this week alone. That scruffy, snot-nosed whelp! Wait 'til I get my hands on that little bugger." He yanked on his heavy shirt. "This time, I make no allowances. It's too late for a dressing down. This time, Harry goes over the barrel."

  "Will you be using the cat o' nine tails or a leather strap to flog the miscreant?" asked Fergus.

  Josh felt the blood drain from his swarthy face, leaving him as white as he'd never been.

  Cat o' nine tails ... leather strap ... on Harry?

  The mite wouldn't stand up to the switch of the rattan. "I was but spouting through my blowhole," Josh mumbled. "I would never whip the runt."

  Delores followed him to the door. "You're leaving us, three naked whores on a bed, for a snot-nosed whelp?"

  "It's not like that," Josh blustered. Feeling his color rise back up, he pulled on thick wool seaman's socks before stepping into sturdy oiled leather boots.

  A friend and fellow seaman had once compared Josh to a barrier reef, a body of rock or coral separate from the coastline. And Josh supposed, because of his upbringing and mixed skin tones, he did keep himself separate and apart from most folks. But every barrier had a chink, and Harry was responsible for the hole in him. The fissure was so wide, a schooner could sail right through to the lagoon; after that, it was but a few leagues to the unprotected coastline of his heart.

  His feelings for Harry shamed him. Made him sick to the gut. Unfortunately, regret didn't make those feelings any less genuine.

  Delores whispered loud enough for even the dead buried at sea to hear, "Looks like our big strapping Josh has a deep, dark, dirty secret. Looks to me he harbors unwholesome feelings for Harry."

  No use trying to defend the indefensible, Josh raced for the taproom.

  He had to get to Harry before his deep, dark, dirty secret got hurt.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Let me at 'em." Harry Clark took a wild swipe at the air. "Fuck'n idiots! Shaunnessy, why the hell are you holdin' me back? These river rats deserve a lickin.' Let me at 'em so I can rip 'em apart, limb by limb, and feed their innards to the fish!"

  "I told you before Harry, you ain't brawling in my taproom. If Josh finds out I let you at 'em, it will be me own limbs what ends up as whale bait. Now calm down, or it's out on the street for you."

  Another position lost, Harry mused, still trying to break free from Shaunnessy's hold. The third position he'd be fired from in this last year alone. Granted, mopping up after drunken sods wasn't the most illustrious of endeavors, but at least it was honest work and helped pay the back rent; put bread on the table too. Ben, the best brother in the whole wide world, was hard-pressed enough as it was to keep them both out of the poorhouse; if this position went by the boards too, they might very well have no place to sleep in the near future. But no one, no one, called Joshua Kane bad names in front of Harry Clark and got away with it!

  To his face, seafaring folk called Joshua Kane a good steady sailor; behind his back, it was another thing altogether.

  Bent over, cleaning up regurgitated pints of ale from Shaunnessy's sawdust floor, no one had taken notice of another set of cocked ears. And since those ears didn't lap over, when a loudmouthed whaling merchant called Joshua "the mongrel bastard of a whore," Harry had pounced.

  Remarks like that could not go ignored.

  Harry's five knuckles, delivered to the loudmouth's flabby fish gut, swiftly put an end to his maligning. But in case that hadn't done the trick, there'd been a sharp knife stolen from Shaunnessy's kitchen hiding in Harry's back pocket, ready to carve the loudmouth into filets. If the barkeep would but loosen his hold...

  An elbow delivered on the sneak to Shaunnessy's apron-covered paunch finally cut Harry free. Fists once again raised and pumping, fancy footwork skipping across the filthy floor, ready to take on the whole of the tavern, Harry yelled, "Come on, boyos! One at a time or all together. Don't matter shit to me. I'll take you all on, every last stinkin' one of you."

  The chin jab came as a surprise. Head spinning, arms cuffed, the barkeep Shaunnessy nowhere to be found when he was finally needed, the fight seeped out of Harry. Mouth pried open and shot after shot of cheap whiskey poured in, it was either drown or swallow.

  Swallowing fast, the ensuing alcoholic buzz making the taproom walls weave and lurch, Harry was barely cognizant of Josh's arrival, hardly heard the grunts and groans the whaling merchants made as the first mate of the Regina Marie smashed his fist into jaws and bellies, his knee into groins, his foot into arses. By the time everything was under control, the lights had flickered and dimmed inside Harry's head.

  * * * *

  Josh had already removed Harry's boots and socks. Leaning over the bed, he moved the moistened wash linen over the badly bruised chin, the swelling the result of a right hook not ducked in time.

  He had taught the runt better than that!

  Next to get washed was the still straight, but nevertheless bloodied, nose. When the little pugilist stirred, Josh put the cloth aside temporarily. "Well, Harry, it's about time you came to. And what do have to say for yourself this time?"

  The brawler hiccuped in answer. Then belched. And finally was sick, the vomit spewing all over the linsey-woolsey shirt Harry wore, the fumes alone enough to knock Josh back two paces.

  But no sickbed reek was enough to put Josh off caring for Harry. Aboard the Regina Marie, he had seen to the care of more serious injuries than this. While at sea, the masters of whalers routinely act as physicians. On the last voyage alone, Josh had helped Capt'n Ingraham amputate a seaman's limb below the knee when gangrene set in after an accident--sawing bones was part and parcel of the grim task of doctoring the crew. So too had Josh assumed a caregiver's role while Harry was growing up. As Ben had no head for such things, Josh had been the one who'd bathed the fevers and bandaged the cuts and scrapes, not Harry's brother. No lasting scars remained from any of those wounds, thank God, though Harry had been a mighty large handful for a little peanut.

  Harry was still a large handful.

  With drink-bolstered belligerence, and just itching for another fight, the handful asked, "Where the hell am I?"

  "Over at Ruby Patterson's," Josh muttered, trying not to take a deep breath while undoing the first button on the soiled shirt, a shirt he remembered Ben wearing a while back.

  A tousled head of bright-red hair spiked off the pillow. "I've never been above stairs in the tavern before. So this is what a cathouse looks like. Nice fuck'n room!"

  "I'm glad you approve, mate," Josh said dryly. "And an eye to your language, if you please."

  "Horny toad, Josh! You just dry-docked after a year at sea. You have heard worse."

  "You are not a sailor, and I didn't raise a guttersnipe. Watch your p's and q's," Josh advised, in the same quasi-parental tone he had used for years with Harry. Not that it did a bit of good; for the same amount of years, the belligerent Harry had ignored him.

  Ignoring Josh again, Harry scooted around, mischievous eyes darting from wall to wall. "But, if I'm upstairs in the cathouse, where are all the naked whores?"

  Josh shot the little curious drunkard a quelling look "That's not for you to know or see, mate. Naked whores would be a bad influence on you; you're already far too incorrigible as is. And by the way, in case you're wondering, Shaunnessy let you go."

  "My arse got fired again? No surprise there. Figured he would. In fact, I saw it coming. Which is why I took a souvenir in lieu of severance pay."

  "Harry, what did I tell you about stealing the silverware?"

  "Not to." Harry squinted. "But Josh, you keep a collection. Why shouldn't I?"

  "The difference is, I don't steal my keepsakes. I pay for my acquisitions."

  "I only steal as a last resort, only if I'm unfairly treated, just to ev
en things out a mite. The reprobate barkeep held back my first week's pay, and you know I'll never see it now. Plus, Shaunessy fixed that fight!"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "He did! The unprincipled Irishman held my arms behind me, so I couldn't land another blow after the first."

  "So--you admit to starting the fight, eh?"

  "I didn't say that..."

  Josh stared Harry down. "Scuttlebutt says there was a patron downstairs minding his own business, pushing back a few with his cronies, and for some fool reason you came out swinging. That so?"

  "The devil take that big-mouthed barkeep! The fight was instigated, I tell you."

  "They always are, Harry."

  "Oh, Josh, don't go being angry! Who the hell cares if I lost the position? I didn't want to clean up after a bunch of soused water rats anyway. Fuck it! "

  "Harry..." he warned.

  Merry eyes danced drunkenly, the gaze out of focus. "Fire and piss, Joshie! This here's not a church, it's a brothel."

  How well Josh knew it! And not only from the standpoint of a paying customer: his own mother had been a whore. After growing up in an establishment very much like Ruby's place, he had utmost familiarity with the goings-on inside the velvet-appointed rooms: every trick, every perversion, every act that passes as an expression of love. Still, Josh felt terrible about bringing Harry here, about exposing an innocent to the sounds and smells and sights of lurid vices. Josh wanted Harry as far removed as possible from the young male and female whores who routinely sold their bodies in this fancy house down on the pier. And here they now were, right in the thick of the commerce.

  "If a body can't fuck'n cuss in a brothel, where the fuck can a body fuck'n cuss?" Harry grumbled.

  With a protracted sigh, Josh searched for the right explanation and came up short. "You don't hear me using bad language."