Free In The Face Of Death by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

with a lingering frown. There could be no doubt that Sherman was in fine fettle, enjoying the savor of victory while he generously praised the efforts of his untried men.
    “With training, they could be a formidable force for good in this city. If we are to keep order, we will need such a company, a true militia. We cannot continue to rely on the marshals and sheriff to preserve the peace. Most of the time, they are like foxes among the chickens.” He drew on his cigar and looked around the room, pleased that the gathering was listening to his instruction. His steely eyes rested on Madelaine an instant longer than on anyone else, then he turned away and continued to expostulate on the urgent need for a proper militia.
    Only an hour later, as the guests were departing, did Sherman approach Madelaine directly. “As you are unescorted, Madame, I will do myself the honor of accompanying your carriage to your door.” It was more of a pronouncement than a suggestion, and Madelaine bridled at his high-handed gesture.
    “Thank you, but my coachman is armed, Mister Sherman, and I am certain we will manage,” she said, reminding herself of the gossip that so troubled him. “He carries a shotgun in the box, and he is prepared to deal with any trouble we might encounter.”
    “Nevertheless, I will ride along beside your carriage. You are one of the few ladies without male escort, and you are the only one without some other guest with you. As your banker, and, I hope, your friend, I ask that you take no unnecessary risks tonight, and permit me to see you to your door.” A flicker of amusement lurked in his eyes though his manner was as correct as possible. “Let me do this for you, Madame. It would relieve me to see you safely within your own house.”
    Madelaine sighed, annoyed that she had not accepted Baron deStoeckl’s offer of escort some twenty minutes before. “Very well, Mister Sherman. I will accept your escort. And thank you for your concern.”
    Sherman only nodded and called for his horse as Madelaine’s coach drew up at the porte-cochere. He held the door for her and handed her up the steps, then went and mounted the handsome Spanish grey he had acquired two months ago. He signaled Enrique, the coachman, and they set off toward Franklin Street.
     
    San Francisco, 21 July, 1855
    To my astonishment, he returned after he had ridden back to his house and satisfied himself that his children were safe and their nurse calm. By that time, Enrique was gone home, Olga and Christian had retired to their various apartments, and all of the city seemed asleep. Even the bands of toughs who often boldly parade the streets at the small hours were gone to ground in the wake of the riot.
    It was finally necessary that I explain about the risks that come with loving those of my blood, and he heard me out indulgently, promising me, as if I were one of his children, to consider what could happen if we keep on as we have been. Nothing I said persuaded him that there could be any difficulty coming from our affair. He was jubilant that I wanted him still, given how he has behaved of late. I tried to insist that he take heed of my warning but he was too eager to make the most of the night, and was at pains to end my warnings as quickly as possible, which he did by summarizing all I had said to him succinctly but with a flavor of skepticism that was certainly his most overriding impression of all I told him. Any dread he might have of what might come of this was banished by his desire, which never faltered.
    This time he had no hesitation, no awkward beginnings. His embraces were long and deep, and he undertook to follow my lead, to find out how long he could build his passion before spending. He was merry as a boy with a first prize, and he romped with me for more than an hour before fatigue finally overcame him. When I woke him an hour before dawn, he was as refreshed as if he had passed a full eight hours in slumber, and was in good