A Midsummer's Sin (7 page)

“What the devil do you mean?”

“I mean you make a pleasure out of mourning. You are happy to sate your hot lusts with me, but it’s Patience you will always love and respect.” Her lip curled up. “You canonise her, hold her memory above all things—even your precious faith, your image of God.”

Thomas’ jaw dropped. “You’ll take that back! It’s a lie.”

“It’s no lie. And, what’s more, it’s all falsehood! An illusion!”

Her illogical words, hurled at him, locked the gears of his mind. “What?”

“Patience never made you happy.” Her face was flushed, her nostrils slightly flared. “Never!”

Her words crashed over Thomas with the shock of icy, cold water. She stood there, still flushed, her dark red brows drawn tightly and her hands on her hips. He blinked hard.

Patience held you to blame for another man’s sins.

No. He wouldn’t listen to the traitorous whisper. He swallowed and forced himself to speak softly, “You’re wrong. I loved Patience. I respected her above all women.”

“Then why—all those weeks on the
Abigail
, before her death—did you look at me with softness and longing?”

It was as if a hand had tightened about his throat, choking his air. He couldn’t speak.

“Admit it. Admit you knew unhappiness with her and I shall gladly wed you.”

He put his hands up, trying to push her words back. “No!”

Her face softened. Something like pity flashed in her eyes. “Thomas, please—”

“No, just no!”

He jerked his breeches closed and made his fingers fly over the buttons, refastening them. He might have lusted for Rosalind. Yes, of course he had. But he had not felt softly towards her while his wife lived. He had not put Rosalind above Patience in his heart.

He still did not.

He bolted to his feet. Then he looked down at her, narrowing his eyes. “You’ll take back what you just said about my wife.”

She met his gaze without flinching. “I shan’t. It is the truth. I cannot lie.”

So that was it. He would not reach for Rose again. “I withdraw my offer of marriage.”

She paled. Did she care? Had she lied before? It didn’t matter. Sin or no sin, he couldn’t wed her now.

He turned and walked away.

* * * *

Rosalind stood in the backyard. For two days, the weather had turned cool and thunderstorms had pelted the land. She’d been trapped inside, haunted by the remembered pain of her afternoon with Thomas. What madness of her to think she could break through his fantasy of what his marriage had been. He would never look on another woman without comparing her to his image of Patience. A paragon who had never existed.

Well, no more wallowing. She thrust the matter from her and turned her face up. The gently misting rain wet her lips. Nature’s kiss. The only kind that was safe to enjoy. She hugged her shoulders and twirled.

“Rosalind!”

Rosalind startled. She froze and turned. “Yes, Goody Wilson.”

Wind flapped the elderly lady’s white cap and her grey eyes were stern. “Foolish girl, out in the chill and rain when there’s sickness about.”

Inwardly, Rosalind shrugged. She’d always been healthy. Shamefully healthy while those around her had fallen to illness.

“Get yourself inside and into some dry clothes.” Goody Wilson’s eyes raked Rosalind’s loosened and wildly curling dark red hair. “And make yourself look decent. Goodman Marlowe has come to fetch you home with him.”

Rosalind’s heart seemed to stop. She struggled to conceal her dismay. “What?”

“His housekeeper fell ill last night. That terrible summer’s ague that is going around.”

“But we shall be busy here, too!”

Goody Wilson waved her off. “I can spare you, girl, a day or two. I am not so old that I cannot manage the borrowed field help on my own. You go and tend his house and take care of Sally and little Hannah and old Goodman Hopton shall stay here away from the contagion.”

* * * *

“You think I arranged this?” Thomas’ chuckle was an empty, cynical sound. It sent shivers through Rosalind as they rode in the horse-driven cart on their way to his house. “I assure you, having you under my roof is the last thing I should ever want.”

His cutting tone made her throat burn. She glanced away, taking sudden interest in the dark green woods as they rolled slowly by. Rain tapped on the oilcloth she held over her head, jarring her already frazzled nerves. She compressed her lips. How foolish. He could never have loved her. His celibacy had overcome his better nature and he’d tumbled her twice. Now he had sated himself on her, he would never look at her as anything except his discarded harlot.

She pressed her hand to her throat, willing the choking sensation to ease.

* * * *

Rosalind closed the book and sighed deeply. After an hour spent reading aloud to Sally, she longed for a long cool drink of water.

“How lovely your voice is. It has been a long time since anyone entertained me so. Goodman Marlowe reads the Bible on the Sabbath evenings but it’s not the same as poetry and stories.”

Rosalind had wondered at Thomas possessing a book of plays. But then he’d taught literature and languages at Oxford. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to leave all trappings of the past behind.

Sally frowned. “Couldn’t we have just one more story, love?”

Recovering rapidly now, the housekeeper had become a gentle tyrant in the past couple of days. Still, there must be few joys in her usual life. Unable to find the meanness to deny her, Rosalind opened the book. “What shall it be, then?”

“Oh,
Romeo and Juliet
, I think.” Sally’s words were almost a sigh.

Rosalind reached the part where Romeo was imploring Juliet as she stood on her balcony when an acrid scent filled the air. She sniffed. Yes, definitely. The bread!

She jolted out of the chair and went scurrying into the kitchen.

Thomas stood staring down at the smouldering black loaf in the open, cast-iron Dutch oven.

“Goody Wilson always sang your praises.” He raised his brows.

In the past couple of days, with the urgency of caring for a seriously ill woman behind her, she’d been all jitters and nerves. She’d broken a pitcher, spent all day on laundry only to foul it in the mud and dropped a box of precious blackberry preserves meant for the Boston market.

“I cannot wait for Sally to recover,” he said at length.

What could she say?

“Mistress Abramson, why don’t you start some flat cakes so we shall at least have something to eat this night.” His tone was cool, censuring.

“You don’t understand…” She dropped her voice. “Sally is very demanding. It is difficult to naysay her.”

“If she is well enough to be a nuisance then she is well enough to be about her work. Thank the Lord I can take you home tomorrow before you lay waste to my entire house.”

“You speak as if I were doing things purposefully.”

“It’s not out of the question, is it? You were not happy to have to come here.”

“I go where I am needed, just as anyone else would.”

He scowled. “I think you want to bedevil me.”

“Why should I want to bedevil you?”

“Because of what happened. I know women. You were willing. More than willing, but, now that some time has passed, you have convinced yourself that you were unfairly seduced by an evil, lecherous man.”

Her mouth had dropped open during his incredible accusation. “You believe this?”

“I am forced to believe it by your very truculent behaviour.”

“And your Patience—was she truculent as a way to attempt to govern your behaviour?”

“It is a feminine way, is it not?”

“Well, it is not my way. If I should wish to bedevil you, I should come right out and say the truth—that you’ve behaved like a petulant child over the matter with your long, arch looks and rude silences.”

His expression closed. “You’re just a borrowed boundgirl. I think you should cease giving your opinions now.”

He removed the charred bread from the oven and took it with him as he left the house.

* * * *

Sally’s snoring drove Rosalind out of the narrow bed they shared and into the barn. She spread a blanket over a pile of hay then sat there to slowly savour a cup of Thomas’ rum.

Thomas.

She was sick of the sight of him.

The sooner she returned to Goody Wilson’s, the better.

She drained the cup and dropped it to the soft hay. On a weary sigh, she lay back on the pallet, wrapping her cloak about her. Sleep drifted over her.

The sound of the barn door coming open startled her awake.

Thomas stood there, holding a lantern. He was clad in his nightshirt.

She pulled the edges of her wrapper tightly together. “Can’t you give me any peace?”

He walked over and picked up her discarded cup. He sniffed. “Up late, drinking. Is this what you do at Goody Wilson’s whilst she sleeps?”

She frowned at him. “You shameless lecher, who are you to criticise me?”

He dropped the cup. It landed with a dull thud on the packed dirt floor. “You think because I’ve fucked you that you can disrespect me?”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“By God, I have had enough of your sauciness and your sharp tongue,” he growled the words.

A strange mix of fear and excitement brewed in her belly. He took a step towards her and emotions tingled through her, to the very ends of her fingers and toes. She turned and began to ran.

He wrapped his arm about her waist, stopping her, and pulled her back. He bent and brought his face so close to hers his stumble scraped her cheek. “Oh no, you’re not going anywhere. You temptress. You witch.”

His breath wafted over her, an ethereal kiss. Cider-scented.

“You’ve been drinking yourself!”

“You would lead any man to drunkenness.” He pulled her along. The movement seemed exaggerated. The barn swept dizzily by. He fell back and took her with him, leaving her stomach behind.

Her hands spread over the straw as she lay across him, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

“You crimson-haired witch. They burn witches but I know a better way to tame a witch.”

“Let me go, you bastard.” She gathered her wits enough to push against his arms as he still held her. “I’ve had scores of others, all better men than you.”

She blurted the last words in a heated rush. She’d said it to hurt him. However, it was nothing more than he’d suspected, she was sure.

Something flashed in his eyes and he tightened his grip. Then he laughed down at her, the sound cold and empty. “Truth at last. I knew you for a shameless harlot when I first set eyes on you. In that garish green gown with all your flaming locks clashing against it.”

He rose to a sitting position, quickly rolling and turning her. Once again, the barn spun by until she lay face down over his knees, staring at the dirt floor, her heart pounding.

She tingled all over and her breath began to come harder and faster. He caressed her buttocks through the thinness of her nightwear. Her cunt clenched and wetness seeped from her.

This was…carnal. Sinfully so.

He stopped caressing her and a wave of loss swept over her. She almost cried aloud. His hand made contact with her arse. The smack echoed in the barn. One of the horses nickered in answer. A stinging blossomed on her buttock, an almost pleasant sensation.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

His hand landed repeatedly.

Each time, the blows grew a little sharper, stronger. The tingling, stinging sensation changed to outright burning.

He stopped. She wasn’t sure if she were glad or sorry. He pulled her clothing up. Cool air rushed over her burning flesh. His hand came down on her bare flesh again. Fire consumed her. Her blood turned to pure honey and gushed out of her cunt in a torrent of pure aching hunger.

After several more smacks, he ceased and caressed her stinging flesh. “Are you going to behave now like a gentlewoman ought?”

His voice was hoarse, hungry sounding. His desire throbbed like steel beneath her.

He slid his hand between her buttocks, lightly touching her swollen, aching cunt.

Her hips arched of their own volition to make greater contact with his hand. He rubbed her and she found herself jogging her hips to increase the friction. Equal parts pleasure and shame at being bested washed over her. She sobbed with the conflicting feelings. His fingers slid along her wetness until they reached her straining, erect nub. He flicked it and she cried out.

“God, but you are a wanton.”

He worked her with a precise skill she’d never dreamed a man would possess. Where had he learned such things? The tension built in her and she was writhing and sobbing her need. He pinched the bud between his thumb and forefinger and waves of pleasure consumed her, sparks of pure fiery pleasure that burned strong yet swift.

She lay panting in the aftermath, wet flooding from her cunt like a river.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

“Damn you, damn you,” she panted.

“Do you want me to fuck you now?” He asked the question casually but she heard the hunger beneath.

And dear  God. Yes. She wanted him to absolutely ravish her.

“Go put your hands to the wall if you want me to fuck you.”

Chapter Four

Heart thudding, Rosalind tore herself off his lap, stood and all but threw herself to the wall.

She understood what he wanted, what his pride demanded after days of her coldness. Half an hour ago, she wouldn’t have dreamt of giving in. Now she couldn’t wait. She hadn’t been able to move fast enough.

She waited, panting, trembling with excitement and need.

He slammed his body against hers, pressing her to the wall.

A thrill passed through her.

Her heart raced faster, pounding her chest harder.

God.

He shoved his knee between her legs, forcing them apart. His cock touched her aching, overheated flesh.