Bought and Paid For

By Everly Ryan

Unable to support herself and her beloved servants, Widow Carrie Hatcher contemplates the unthinkable-offering her services for money. Forced to board wounded Colonel Wesley McEwen in her home, Carrie vows to make the striking Confederate soldier her first "client." But Carrie gets more than she bargained for when she agrees to comply with Wesley's every illicit request for one week. Throughout long, sultry nights, Wesley tutors Carrie in every position, every skill, of her illicit new trade. From dark taboos to pleasurable punishments, Carrie becomes his willing pupil. Passions inflamed, the couple becomes more scandalously intimate but Carrie realizes she wants to give him far more than just her body. The colonel, however, may be too haunted by his past to risk accepting more than he's bought and paid for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Everly Ryan
• Release date: Jan 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386463078

Book preview

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

An Excerpt From Lover for Ransom

About Everly Ryan

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 Everly Ryan. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

Chapter One

Marietta, Georgia

September 23, 1863

After the battle of Chickamauga

Miss Carrie, they’s bringin’ the soldier up the walk. Sefronia whispered urgently.

Carrie Greer Hatcher’s black mourning skirts swept the floor as she moved from the waning warmth of her hearth and peered out the window at two hulking gray figures bearing a litter toward the door.

Because their heads were bent against the onslaught of rain, Carrie couldn’t make out their faces. A greatcoat was draped over the man on the litter, covering everything except his shiny black boots.

Carrie heaved a sigh. Another mouth to feed, she muttered.

That one look more dead than hungry, Sefronia added.

The wounded had been pouring in daily from the battle at Chickamauga Creek near Chattanooga. Carrie could not imagine how it could have been lauded as a Confederate victory when trainload after trainload of men poured deep into the heart of Georgia.

Every day Carrie had prayed that they wouldn’t bring a soldier to her house, but nearly all the houses in Marietta were filled. If they were foisting only the one on her, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

I hope this one smells better than the one they put with Mrs. Clark, Sefronia said, backing away from the window as heavy boot steps resounded on the wooden planks of the front porch.

Carrie swallowed and tamped down the dread in her stomach. Since her Boston-born husband, Amzi, had died of pneumonia shortly after he was conscripted to fight for the Union, Carrie had been left with no way to support herself and her two servants. Amzi’s parents had never approved of him marrying a slave-owning Southerner, and Carrie had known she and the two servants—who’d been with her since her crib days—would not be welcomed up North. As it stood, her home, Sefronia and Jenny were all she had left in the world. How could she possibly care for a wounded man as well?

One of the soldiers rapped on the door. Carrie’s breath froze in her chest. She gave Sefronia a nod. Let them in.

Sefronia twisted the lock and pulled open the heavy wooden door. Wipe them feet before you come in here, she said bluntly.

Carrie braced herself as she heard the sounds of soles on the boot scrape at the front door, followed by the jingling of spurs as the litter bearers strode into the foyer. At least they had some raising.

Where can we put him, ma’am? one of them asked.

Carrie glanced down at the man on the canvas stretcher. Dark tendrils of rain- and sweat-drenched hair clung to his pale forehead. With his eyes closed and his mouth slack, Carrie feared the man had already died.

What’s the matter with him? she demanded, suddenly fearful he had some dreaded disease he would pass on to them all.

He was wounded in Chattanooga, the soldier replied impatiently, strain from carrying the stretcher from the depot evident in his voice. When he shifted to get a better grip on the wooden handles, the man on the litter let out a low moan.

You can put him upstairs, Sefronia said quickly.

This man can’t be hauled up those stairs, the other man protested.

Carrie’s lips parted in surprise. The only downstairs bedroom is my room.

Good enough, the bearer stated.

Wait! Carrie objected but the soldiers were already roaming down the hall, looking for a bed on which to deposit their load.

Helpless, she followed, standing in the doorway to her room, gaping as the soldiers gently hefted the litter onto her bed. Carrie bit her lip as they lifted the wounded man off the canvas and onto her prized embroidered counterpane.

After rolling up their litter, they started out of the room.

Panic surged. Carrie blocked the doorway. Wait, you can’t just leave him here! I don’t know what to do with a…a sick man.

The soldier stared sternly. Ma’am, we’ve got a few hundred more down at the depot. Take care of him as best you can until the doctor comes.

A doctor? Carrie’s heart soared. That changed everything. The doctor could also treat Jenny. He would possibly be carrying medicine for her. Carrie bit back her excitement and avoided Sefronia’s eyes.

Jenny had been Carrie’s wet nurse and, while her mother was busy tending to the affairs of plantation life, Jenny had been the one who’d comforted Carrie when she’d skinned her knee or fallen off her errant pony—and worse. Now she lay wasting away in a bed upstairs and would certainly die if she wasn’t seen by a doctor soon.

Carrie’s gaze darted from the soldiers to the vulnerable-looking man stretched across her bed.

The soldiers shouldered past her. We’ll have his trunk sent over from the depot, one of them said.

Trunk? Carrie inquired. When will the doctor come?

The soldier stopped and looked at her with such hardness, Carrie quaked. His eyes narrowed. "There are a thousand men who were wounded protecting your home from the Yankees. The least you can do is make what might be this man’s last hours on this earth comfortable for him."

It was on the tip of Carrie’s tongue to blurt that she could ill afford to care for a sick man but she feared this angry, tired litter bearer would take her charge away therefore, dashing her chances of getting a doctor to come to the house. When she didn’t retort, the two soldiers turned and strode toward the door.

Carrie stood in her hallway, not knowing which way to turn.

What are we gonna do with him? Sefronia asked, her hands finding her hips.

I don’t know, Carrie confessed, gnawing her bottom lip as she peered at the soldier on her bed.

Stretching from the headboard to the footboard, he was tall and broad. The bed looked ridiculously small under his massive frame. What if he dies before the doctor comes? Carrie’s voice faltered as she whispered.

He gonna die sure enough if you don’t get them wet clothes off him, Sefronia said.

Carrie’s gaze flew to Sefronia’s. I can’t undress a…a strange man!

We gonna have to if we gonna get that doctor to look at Ma, Sefronia said, walking cautiously toward the bed.

Reluctantly, Carrie approached. Her gaze moved from his boots up to his face. Wet hair framed strong-lined, olive-skinned features. Although his face was ashen from his wounds, he had the look of a man who’d been long in the sun.

A shiver swept up her spine despite the sultry late-summer heat.

Sefronia lifted the greatcoat off him and Carrie stared, torn by conflicting thoughts.

Despite his condition, this was the most stunningly handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

His several-day-old beard only served to outline his chiseled jaw and severe, dark features. His long fingers clenched into a fist on one hand and on the wounded side, the fingers appeared stiff and swollen.

A sense of compassion flooded Carrie but she reminded herself he was a Confederate—a man come here to take her food and use her firewood when she had none to give. Still, he was the answer to their prayers. His presence meant a doctor would come.

He shivered uncontrollably, clinging to life. His frock coat, bearing the three stars that denoted his rank as a colonel, was draped over his good arm. A deep brownish red bloodstain marred the sleeve of his grimy white shirt.

This man’s in a bad way, Sefronia mumbled as she began tugging off his boots.

He groaned when she lifted his leg. You best check that arm to make sure he ain’t got the blood pizen.

Blood poisoning? Carrie asked, her voice rising with terror. Dear Lord, why had they ever brought him here? She had enough to worry about without some dying man in her bed.

Look and see, Sefronia urged.

Carrie swallowed and, trembling, reached for the placket of his shirt. Such heat radiated from the colonel’s body that Carrie placed her palm over his forehead instead. The contact of her skin on his sent a tremor through her body. He’s burning up with fever.

A resounding knock on the front door startled both Carrie and Sefronia.

The doctor? Sefronia asked aloud.

Probably someone with his trunk, Carrie said, wiping her palm on the apron of her dress. Show them in with it.

Sefronia set the colonel’s big boots by the fireplace and then left the room.

Amelia…

Carrie’s gaze shot to the colonel. Sir?

He was so cold and stricken with fever, his teeth chattered. Carrie blew out a sigh as she pressed her palm to his damp clothing. He was soaked through. Sefronia was right. They’d have to get him undressed as soon as possible.

Gingerly, Carrie drew the collar of his shirt open to view the wound on his upper arm. A filthy dressing had been applied and needed to be changed. Carrie shut her eyes against the sight.

Put it in here, Sefronia said as she led two home guard boys into the room.

The two wiry boys put the colonel’s trunk at the foot of the bed and then nodded curtly to Carrie before they left.

We’ve got to get him into some dry clothes, Carrie said as she moved to the trunk.

Sefronia lifted the lid.

Folded neatly inside were several gray woolen uniforms, white shirts, belts, socks and undergarments. On top of it all was a bloodstained Confederate battle flag bearing the names of several battles. Perryville, Shiloh, Murfreesboro.

Is there a nightshirt? Carrie asked, peering inside.

Sefronia withdrew a voluminous white nightshirt and shook it out.

Both women’s gazes drifted to the hulking man on the bed.

How will we ever get him into it? Carrie asked.

He ain’t gonna like it none, Sefronia said as she walked around the other side of the bed.

Inhaling sharply, Carrie moved to the colonel’s other side. Unbutton his shirt, Carrie whispered.

You do it! Sefronia hissed. I ain’t touchin’ him. He might die an’ I don’t want his shade lingerin’.

That’s silly superstition, Carrie scoffed as she leaned over the colonel.

Careful not to touch his chest, she lifted the shirt and undid the row of tiny buttons at the top. They would still have to pull it over his head.

From the looks of the filthy fabric, this had been the shirt the colonel had fought and been wounded in. When Carrie lifted his heavy arm to work the shirt off, he let out an animalistic moan.

This will never work, she said. Seffie, bring me the shears. I’ll cut it off him and we can wash it and use the remnants for bandages.

At once, Sefronia darted out to retrieve the shears.

Amelia… the colonel murmured pitifully.

Carrie smoothed his wet hair back from his face. Lie quietly.

She continued to soothe him even as Sefronia returned and began cutting his shirt away from his feverish body. But when Sefronia gave his frock coat a tug, his eyes flew open and he struggled to sit, grasping at his coat.

In that dim instant, Carrie could see his eyes were as black as his hair—and that something in his gaze bespoke of the horrors he’d witnessed. Something haunting and utterly terrifying. Involuntarily, her hands flew away from him but he seized the bodice of her dress, his fingers entwining in the rows of pleats, his grip shockingly strong.

Carrie cried out as he dragged her down. Her hands scrambled for the mattress. One found its mark. The other ended up on the hard plane of his chest.

Sweat beaded on his forehead and his piercing gaze locked with hers. Don’t take it! he rasped through clenched teeth—and then he fell back limp on the bed.

Stunned and shaking, Carrie stumbled a few steps back before she grabbed hold of the bedpost and righted herself. Exchanging a worried glance with Sefronia, she rubbed her arms.

Sir, she said with authority, we must remove your coat before you catch your death from dampness.

When he didn’t respond, her first thought was that he had died. She shot another look at Sefronia. Sir?

He’s dead!

Carrie sucked in a breath. Sir!

The colonel stirred, his eyes cracking open as he struggled to prop himself on one elbow. Both Sefronia and Carrie rushed to assist him in shrugging free of his coat. When it was finally free of his body, he clutched the sleeve. Leave it, he groaned.

Very well, Carrie said. It will be one less thing to launder. The wet wool reeked of blood and sweat and gunpowder but Carrie wasn’t about to take it from him.

As Sefronia finished cutting his fine linen shirt away from his body, he lay perfectly still. His breathing was so minimal, Carrie wondered again if he had died. Only the muscle tightening in his jaw told her he was alive and aware.

You gonna shuck off his britches? Sefronia asked as she tugged the remnants of his shirt out from under him.

Carrie’s gaze riveted to the button on the waistband of his pants. She’d never undressed a man—not even her own husband.

They’s damp from the fever too, Sefronia said, laying her hand on the colonel’s thick thigh.

Her mouth suddenly going dry, Carrie’s gaze skimmed the soldier’s chest. Broad and rippled with sinewy muscles, his torso was dusted with sparse black down. Allowing her gaze to move intrepidly lower, she stared at the spot where his narrow waist tapered into his breeches.

With trepidation, she began to undo the row of buttons on his fly. His phallus jerked beneath her hand and Carrie jumped. A furious