The Irish Devil Read Online Free

The faerie queen had featured in his earliest fantasies, always a nymph-like woman with blue eyes and moonbeam hair. His mouth quirked slightly as he recalled some of those dreams, in which an uncommonly brave and strong lad had found the lovely lady at his mercy in either an ancient oak forest or on a grassy knoll. This latest episode had been set amidst the woods wherein he’d captured her, thus setting her at his mercy.
    He smiled slightly and tilted his head back to catch the underside of his jaw. Suddenly the dream’s ending flashed back as he rhythmically scraped bristles.
    His cock delved deep and hard and fast, urged on by her body’s rhythmic pulses as she arched ecstatically under him. She cried out, her sweet curves half hidden beneath his net, as her climax tightened her around him. Her head flung back and her blue eyes, now almost purple with passion, flew open. They matched the pure indigo of a crocus flower, the color of the twilight sky above a mountain range.
    Viola Ross lay under him, shuddering in pleasure from his attentions.
    Fingers suddenly locked around his wrist like an iron vise. Abraham’s eyes met his in the mirror for a moment, both pairs wide with shock as crimson welled up over the sharp blade and ran down William’s throat. After a long moment, William carefully shifted the razor away from his skin until he could take first one free breath, then another.
    Abraham released his hand and began to smoothly mop up the blood, face impassive once more.
    He would have cut his own throat, if not for Abraham’s speedy reaction.
    But sweet singing Jesus, carnal relations with Viola?
    William peeled out of his once white undervest, moving in short jerks. A dream of Viola Ross, by all the saints. A fancy less likely to come true could hardly be imagined. He wrenched his mind back to reality.
    “Thank you for saving my life.” His voice rasped against the stillness.
    “An honor, sir, to repay at least part of the debt I owe.” Abraham bowed deeply and William nodded, unwilling to start the old argument.
    A silent but more watchful Abraham produced another undervest. William accepted it but refused the proffered crisp white summer shirt. “Red flannel, Abraham. We’re loading Army wagons today.”
    “Excellent choice, sir.”
    William raised an eyebrow and Abraham elaborated.
    “Red is the color of prosperity, good fortune, and wealth in my country.”
    “A noble sentiment, Abraham. But I’ll wear it to remind myself of who I truly am: teamster, wagonmaster, and child of Ireland.” And he’d continue to maintain his distance from aristocratic women who kept even their hems away from poor Irish lads.
    “It takes a wise man to know himself so well,” Abraham murmured. William chose to accept the phrase as a proverb, not a compliment.
    He finally finished dressing, careful to keep his mind away from vagrant fantasies. Fortified by one of Sarah Chang’s excellent omelets and eager for the distraction of hard work, he headed for his freight depot.
    He passed a few blocks of shops, most with a warning sign in their windows: “Irish Need Not Apply.” His mouth tightened briefly at the familiar sight. Even in this isolated town, where most of the miners were Irish, they still weren’t welcome to hold jobs in more settled firms, such as a general store or bank.
    Just before reaching the depot, a buckboard wagon rolled past, carrying a man and woman. The man lifted his hat to William, whose senses immediately came to full alert. Charlie Jones and Maggie Watson sat side by side, heading out of town.
    Why wasn’t Viola Ross chaperoning Maggie Watson, given Maggie’s insistence on following all of society’s rules?
    “Good morning, Jones. Mrs. Watson,” William greeted them.
    The two nodded back, Jones beaming at him while Maggie bobbed her head. “Good morning, Mr. Donovan,” she trilled in her usual fluttery style.
    “Hoped we’d see you, Donovan, so I could share the good news,” Jones