The Outlaw's Daughter by Emily Tilton

Author:Emily Tilton [Tilton, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Stormy Night Publications
Published: 2014-11-27T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Travis pulled the doorbell of Mrs. O’Reilly’s house at two minutes past six. His nerves felt like banjo strings tuned a good deal higher than they should be. The feeling was one he had not had, he thought, since his very first battle back in Virginia. A girl will do that, I guess, he thought. And I reckon I don’t mind. Nerves made him sharp: he just needed to tune that banjo down a bit.

Had the visions that played in his head, of Mrs. O’Reilly inspecting Maggie Curtin, whom Travis couldn’t help thinking of now as his girl, come true?

Something about Maggie’s strange upbringing seemed to have made her game for this unusual plan, but Travis wasn’t sure that that made him happy, really. Part of him wanted to be the one in charge—completely in charge—of Maggie’s erotic education. He couldn’t deny that sending her into Mrs. O’Reilly’s gave him fantasies that stiffened his cock, but those fantasies also made him jealous and, above all, fearful for his girl’s safety. He thought that by coming there himself he would be able to keep her safe, as well as to be ready to use whatever opportunities they might get to take care of Mason, but from the moment he conceived the plan, his one worry—that Maggie might have to go through with fucking Mason or another of Mrs. O’Reilly’s gentlemen callers—had occupied Travis’ mind.

The door opened, and an elegant-looking young woman in a blue silk gown stood there. “May I help you?” she said, in what sounded to Travis’ ears like the sort of cultured accent he had once associated with officers in the army.

Travis had never been to this sort of high-class whorehouse before. He had, from time to time, thought of splurging and using one of his bounties to see how the upper crust satisfied its amorous cravings, but the few times his need for female companionship had got that acute, he had found solace in a simpler sort of establishment.

He knew how a man got in, though. He had asked around at the hotel about the best places to find an evening’s pleasure, and had of course been informed by the hotel desk clerk about Mrs. O’Reilly’s, and told to say what he now said. “Mr. Brown sent me.”

“Oh,” said the fetching young lady, who looked to Travis’ eyes for all the world like an Southern beauty, with blond ringlets and blue eyes, “any friend of Mr. Brown’s is welcome here. Please come in. My name is Anna.”

“And you’re one of Mrs. O’Reilly’s…”

“Boarders, yes. Come with me to the parlor, and I’ll introduce you to Mrs. O’Reilly. Then, if you like, we can get to know one another better.”

“I’d like that,” Travis said, because he knew he was supposed to say it.

Anna led him into the entry hall, and then toward a doorway further in, from which direction Travis heard the sound of a piano playing what sounded like one of those tunes from an Italian opera—the kind that an Italian army friend who had died at Cold Harbor used to sing.

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