A Certain Latitude (23 page)

What could he do? Apologize. March was his host, after all.

He drew his gelding level with March’s mare, now at a sedate walk. March stared straight ahead, his lips tight.

Allen’s leg bumped against March’s. “I beg your pardon, sir. I do not mean to cause you injury.”

March laid a hand on Allen’s knee. “I know you do not. I hate myself, that I am sunk so low. I fear I am wretched company.”

“You’re not.”

March did not reply but slumped in the saddle—uncharacteristic for such a skilful horseman. His hand slid from Allen’s knee—and kept sliding.

“March!” Allen grabbed the other man’s reins and drew both horses to a halt, as March sagged into his arms. March’s hat tipped forward and rolled onto the ground.

“Get me down.”

Allen swung his leg over his horse’s withers, dropped to the ground, and helped him dismount. With both sets of reins looped over his arms, he fumbled for the flask of water at his saddle.

“Sit down, sir.” He helped March to a rock under the shade of some scrubby thorn trees and offered him the flask.

“Thank you. A sudden dizziness, that is all.”

“I can ride back for help, if you—”

“No. Stay here.” March closed his eyes and leaned against the rock.

Allen tipped water onto his handkerchief and pressed it to March’s forehead. March looked ill, there was no denying it, with a blue tinge to his lips, the shadows beneath his eyes accentuated.

March raised his hand to hold the handkerchief to his forehead. “I’ll rest awhile. See to the horses, if you will.”

The horses were still close by, taking advantage of the pause to crop sparse tufts of grass. Allen tethered them, loosened their girths, and returned to sit by March’s side.

“How do you feel?”

“Better.” March took another sip of water. “I feel a fool. To have lived here so long, yet still succumb to the climate.”

They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the chirps of crickets, the sounds of the horses tearing at grass and the buzz of an occasional flying insect.

“Generally,” March continued, “I feel a fool these days. To have taken on a new mistress, and after so many adventures in love, to know the one I love is the one I cannot have. It is most humbling.”

“I know.” Oh, yes, it was certainly humbling.

“Well,” March said with the glimmer of a smile, “we have that in common, at least.”

Allen leaned his head back against the rock, thinking how easy it would be to sleep. And how difficult it would be to submit to March—or, now, in this languid afternoon heat, how easy it would be.

March’s hand closed on his knee again. “Of course, you suspect I feign illness to take advantage of your somewhat sullied innocence.”

“Of course,” Allen agreed with the same sort of ironic humor. Yes, there was something about March he liked, that spoke to him even as he mistrusted him. “And have you consulted a physician recently?”

“Yes, yes.” March’s fingers moved, a gentle caress. “You deny me, but you deny yourself too. Will you look back on this moment when you lie dying and regret that you never let me love you?”

Allen opened his eyes. “March, how ill are you?”

“I’m perfectly healthy. As I said, this is a momentary weakness—the effect of heat and exercise. I’m somewhat more advanced in years than you, and besides, the island weakens the constitution.”

“Good.” Allen closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t like to think you use the bait of your impending demise—or my eventual one—to get up my arse.”

March chuckled. “You’re overprotective of your precious arse, Allen.” His hand still lay on Allen’s knee, warm and still. “Look at me.”

Allen opened his eyes, blinking slightly in the sunlight that filtered through the thorn bush. March’s face was close to his.

“I never thought to say the words ‘I love you’ to someone so damnably stubborn and arrogant. Someone who fights as though he would kill me, and almost drowns me when he deigns to offer one kiss. A man who almost certainly fights inside himself the truth of his nature—”

“Go to the devil, March!” Allen sprang to his feet. “I have told you a thousand times, I prefer women. You jump to extraordinary conclusions—”

“I beg your pardon. You came in my hand, Allen. And my mouth. I’ve tasted your seed. Or have you forgotten those insignificant details?” March rose to his feet. “You say you’re not a coward, you deny all, any, feelings for me, but I cannot forget those moments and, I think, neither can you.”

They faced each other, both breathing heavily.

“Think about it, Allen.”

March turned away to the tethered horses, and jerked the mare’s girth tight. Gathering the reins in his hand, he said, “I challenge, you, Allen. Come to my bedchamber tonight.”

The door creaked closed behind Clarissa. She took a step forward into the darkness of March’s bedchamber, smooth wood beneath her bare feet. The shutters were closed and the room perfectly silent.

“March?”

No reply. She shouldn’t have spoken. Darkness and silence were to be the order of the night, apparently.

She concentrated. The room held the faintest scent of March’s familiar bergamot—but, of course, she wore perfume, and it rose around her like a fine mist, masking other scents. Outside, far away, a night bird called.

She took another tentative step. Another one—so—and if she stretched out her hand she’d find a bedpost.

Warmth spread down her back, the awareness that someone—March—was close behind her. Cotton lapped against her calves—as he had commanded, she wore only a shift—and against her arms. His fingers closed on her wrists. He let out his breath in a long sigh—had he held his breath ever since she entered the room?

Now she felt the brush of his loosened hair against her shoulder. His hands tugged at her shift and she raised her arms to help him slide it over her head. There was a slight puff of perfumed air as it floated down and landed on the floor, glimmering pale in the darkness. He drew her hands behind her into the small of her back.

She moved her fingers against him, tickling the hard muscles of his abdomen.

He let out a hiss of annoyance. Something swished in the air and a line of fire imprinted itself on her backside.

She yelped.

He made a slight tsk-tsking sound, more warning than indulgence, but this time she understood. If she made a noise she would be punished. And what else, what other transgressions might she commit? She was sure she would, excited and fearful.

Something slithery and smooth encircled her crossed wrists and pulled tight.

So, she was bound. At his mercy. Just in time she stifled a small nervous giggle.

A familiar part of him bumped up against her stinging buttocks, pushing her forward—and a hand at her shoulders guided her. Onto the bed. On her knees, arse in the air—she’d overbalanced, but somehow had the impression that was what he wanted—her face in the sheets. Well, this was something new. She was totally, gloriously helpless and in a most undignified position.

March walked away—she heard the swish of silk, the pad of his bare feet—and the bedroom door opened, letting in a flood of golden light. For one moment she feared that slaves would enter, but March took the lights from Finch or whoever it was who waited outside. She heard the metallic taps of candelabra placed on furniture, as light filled the room.

He paused behind her as though admiring the view—well, he probably was; that was why he’d arranged her like that.

“Turn your head.” He spoke for the first time.

She found herself staring at her reflection in the cheval glass, her eyes wide, hair tumbled around her face. March himself stood in the shadows—she could only just make him out.

“These are the rules,” he said. “Any sound you make, until I tell you otherwise, will be grounds for punishment.” He stepped forward into the light, a small, black whip in his hand—almost a toy-like version of the sort of whip March’s overseers carried. “And sounds of both pain and pleasure will warrant—this.”

The whip flicked out again and she bit the sheet. Only just in time. Of course, she was sure he would trick her into making some sort of sound, or response.

“Do you understand, Miss Onslowe?”

She hesitated. Was she meant to respond?

The lash descended again. “Yes. Yes, sir, I understand.”

“Good.” He drew the leather through his fingers, his eyes fixed on her exposed parts. She imagined how she looked there, plumped and shining with moisture—shamefully, she wished the reflection could somehow reveal that too. And how embarrassing that she could feel how wet she was. How ready for him, how eager, despite the indignity of her position.

His hand dropped to the fastening of his silk dressing gown, and revealed his nakedness and his rampant cock. He bent forward and kissed her arse, where the skin still stung—she could see a red stripe in the mirror—and she found herself wriggling with expectation.

He straightened up, his expression stern. “I don’t believe I gave you permission to move.”

She hesitated. Was she meant to apologize? “I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t realize I should not.”

He bent his head in acknowledgment. Apparently she had made the correct response. Hands planted firmly on her hips, he buried his face between her buttocks—how wonderfully indecent—kissing his way down to her quim, wetly luxuriant, pausing to plunge his tongue inside. She let out a long breath—almost a sound, not quite, and tensed in anticipation. He paused as though considering the matter himself, before resuming his attentions with a twisting coil of his tongue around her swollen clitoris.

She cried out in surprise and delight.

March trailed the whip over her arse. “You forget yourself, Miss Onslowe.”

“Yes, sir. I am most sorry.” Her voice shook. She didn’t know whether from fear or excitement.

“Remind me, Miss Onslowe, what happens if you misbehave.”

“You will beat me, sir.”

“I regret it is so.” He raised his arm and the lash landed with a loud snap—and,
oh God
, that hurt, she did not expect it to hurt so much. Tears sprang to her eyes and ran into her hair and the sheet.

“Very good.” He knelt on the bed behind her, reaching beneath her to caress a breast. “I trust that will not occur again, Miss Onslowe.”

A pause.

“Will it, Miss Onslowe?”

“No, Mr. Lemarchand.”

“Very well. We shall proceed.” And proceed he did, plunging his cock deep inside her so she had to bury her face into the bed to suppress the sounds she longed to make, racked by astonishing pleasure.

After a while, he withdrew—his cock shone wet and red in the reflection, and arranged her on her side—one leg raised.

She could see her quim now, the hair darkened by her pleasure, reddened and swollen, her clitoris prominent. March positioned himself behind her again and guided himself into her. She saw his cock divide and penetrate her, sliding between the folds, dark against her pinker flesh.

“See how I fuck you?” He murmured into her ear. As usual, when March lapsed into vulgarity, the indecency ignited her excitement. “Feel how your quim takes me inside you. Welcomes me, sucks me inside. Shall I rub you?”

“Yes, if you please,” she gasped.

His hand reached for her clitoris, fingers spread, not needing to rub her because the movement of their hips provided enough friction.

His other hand appeared at her breasts, toying with her nipples, touching her in exactly the right way. She began the climb to another orgasm, fearing that her inevitable cry of pleasure would earn her further punishment, then not caring—watching herself, seeing her face soften, her mouth fall open, March’s cock thrust into her faster and faster, her body contract.

And, yes, she cried out, an incoherent gasp of sound she could not help. March, too, she saw in the mirror lost control—his movements spasmodic, teeth bared in a grimace that looked almost like pain, before a final deep thrust.

“So,” he whispered in her ear, “do you think I should beat you again, Clarissa?”

“If you wish,” she murmured.

“No. I’ll spare you.” He withdrew from her in a gush of fluid and tugged at her bound wrists. “Well done, my dear.”

Her arms fell apart, still behind her back. Sated and drowsy she lacked the energy to move. March rubbed her wrists and rearranged her, rolling her onto her belly.

“Surely…not again, so soon.” She started as something cool, smelling of herbs and tallow, spread onto her damaged backside.

“I didn’t realize quite how hard I hit you,” March said. “While I admit I find the marks somewhat arousing, I should like you to be able to sit down tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” She turned, with some care, to face him and stroked the lock of white hair back over his shoulder. “I wish...”

“Ah, Clarissa.” He touched his mouth to hers.

She pulled him in closer, deepened the kiss, loving his taste and smell, the touch of his gentle hands, the squash of her breasts against his hard chest.

“What a charming amorous scene.”

Allen Pendale, wearing only a pair of thin cotton drawers, stood in the bedchamber doorway.

“Pendale,” March drawled. “My dear fellow, how delightful to see you. Come in, do. I believe we have some brandy somewhere—Clarissa, will you not offer Allen some refreshment?”

Clarissa, from surprise more than anything else, had grabbed March’s dressing-gown as soon as she’d realized they were no longer alone. Now she wrapped it around herself, tying the belt, and fetched Allen a glass. She glanced at him: he stood awkwardly a few steps inside the bedchamber, feet planted squarely on the floor.

March appeared to be enjoying his discomfiture.

“Will you sit down?” Clarissa asked, as though speaking to a guest in a drawing room. She only just suppressed a giggle that she was sure would have turned into a loud, vulgar snort.

“No, thank you. I won’t be staying long. I came to say…” He took the glass.

Clarissa tried not to smile. He was wearing only his drawers, for God’s sake, and it was the middle of the night—surely he must realize that they could not be fooled into thinking this some sort of bizarre social call. She shot a look at March, who sprawled naked on the bed, his cock still wet and leaving a trail of semen on his thigh. Shouldn’t he be the one trying to put Allen at his ease? She seemed to be incapable of normal behavior—whatever that might constitute—all too ready to burst into loud inappropriate laughter at any time.