Jayne Fresina (34 page)

Lissome and goose-down soft, she arched, reaching in vain for him again, pouting, complaining she needed more of him inside her.

Withdrawing his fingers, he let her watch as he licked them, his eyes holding hers. Then he brought his hand, likewise her sultry, smoky gaze, down to his cock.

Her lips parted. Her pink tongue swept the plump lower curve of her mouth and then the upper.
 

More of him? If that was what she wanted, he would oblige. He would fill her, impale her so deeply…

He touched the swollen head of his member and felt the herald of a flood soon to burst. Capturing that plump bead of clear fluid on his fingertip, he leaned over her and offered it to those waiting lips. She took his finger like a hungry little bird and sucked it clean, long lashes fluttering briefly shut, before swinging wide open again, brazen challenge in the heated depths of her eyes.

Knowing he couldn’t make her, or himself, wait any longer, he lifted her foot higher, sliding her ankle over his shoulder until she was lifted to meet him. He arched forward, guiding the proud, throbbing crest of his manhood to her threshold. And held himself there, probing her quivering, dewy flesh, inspecting her, as if to be sure she could accommodate his size. He enjoyed the play-acting, reliving that night in May when the stars of good fortune were on his side.

“John,” she groaned again. “Please!”

Aha! She finally remembered.

He smiled, wolfish, lifted her second knee to his right shoulder and then drove himself into her. The penetration was ruthless, complete, earth shattering.

Pity they were not at Mistress Comfort’s tonight, for there he could’ve freely cried out his pleasure. Instead he bit down on it, transferring his energy to other muscles, pounding into his lover, her position making every rampageous, plunging thrust so deep there was no place left for her to hide her secrets.

His beautiful, incredible swine-herd was already falling, it seemed, joyfully flinging herself over the precipice to which his teasing carried her. This first time tonight would be over too quickly. But they had all night. All night. He didn’t have to persuade her to stay this time.

And when he felt the surge begin, he plunged, head thrown back, spending rapidly, gushing into her.

* * * *

It was growing light out when she heard the commotion and lifted her head from his shoulder, bleary-eyed, wondering if they were soon to be discovered. But the sounds came not from outside her chamber door, they came from below.

Still wrapped together in the coverlet, lying by the ashes of last night’s fire, they listened to the distant rumble of voices, one of which was raised louder than the others.

He sat up, rubbing his head. “That sounds like my brother-in-law.”

“The Earl of Swafford? What’s he doing here?” She yawned. “It can’t be.”

But John was convinced he recognized that voice. He reached for his shirt and she wound her arms and legs around him, the side of her face to his back.

“Don’t go yet,” she purred, clinging tight. “Stay.”

She spread her fingers over his broad muscles.

“Won’t your maid come soon?” he asked.

“Not yet.” She wriggled, clasping her legs tight around him, covering his back with kisses. “Stay! I command it.”

“You’re such a little madam,” he admonished sternly, turning his face so that she kissed the bristles of his cheek. “I can’t stay here playing stud to you all day. Some of us have things to do.” Twisting further, he kissed her on her small chin. “My lady swine-herd.”

“What things?” she protested. Not wanting him to leave her, even for half an hour, she couldn’t imagine what would be so important that it took him away from her arms today. “You’re my lover and you should do as I say, otherwise I shall be very upset and moody. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“Heaven forbid,” he chuckled dryly.

“Exactly. Your job is to keep me in fine humor.”

He stroked her leg where it curved over his hip. “And to service you at least once a day.”

“At the very least.” She gave his torso another glad squeeze.

“But this morning I have matters to sort out with your father. And,” he paused, “Winton.”

The coverlet fell from her shoulders and she felt the cold in that chamber. “But there’s nothing…”

“We can’t go on this way, sneaking about. I want you free of Winton.” He drew a deep breath and she loosened her hold, afraid her desperate clinging might suffocate him. “I will get that cretin out of your life so we can be together as man and wife.”

Her newly tended heart flowered, blossoming at his words. She didn’t mind it so much, after all, when he took charge. Cheek pressed to his back again, she finally allowed herself to say it.

“I love you.”

Suddenly he pitched to his right and then tilted back. She hadn’t the strength to hold him up and was, in the next moment, crushed under his weight.

“John!” She panicked, pushing at him, trying to extract her body from beneath his great sprawling, rangy form. His eyes were shut, his lips parted.

She’d killed him! Worn him out with her lusty demands. Oh dear Lord, he was dead.

“You see,” she gasped, helpless. “This is what happens! I have no luck, none! I bring death and destruction wherever I go!”

Only when she slapped at his cheeks with increasing vigor did he finally let his eyelashes flutter open and she saw the glint of mischief, just before his lips burst into their familiar sportive grin. “Well, I never thought I’d hear you say it.” Grabbing her around the waist, he wrestled her over onto her back, while she cursed and pummeled his shoulders. “The shock of it nearly did me in.”

“You rotten, thoughtless…”

He kissed her hard, his legs pinning hers, his hands in her hair, anchoring her face. Thus all protests died away and she melded to his body with all the wanton wickedness of a truly irretrievable hussy. His hussy.

A sudden light scratch at the door preceded her maid’s gentle inquiry, “Are you awake, Miss?

John reluctantly raised his head. “I thought you said…”

“She’s not usually this early,” Lucy replied with a brisk whisper, alert to the fact that something must definitely be going on below stairs. Hurriedly pushing him to his feet, gathering his scattered clothing, she called out to her maid, “What is it, Ruth?”

“Your father wants you, Miss.”

Anxious, feeling sick again now she was upright, Lucy quickly forced her lover behind the tapestry screen, mouthing at him to get dressed. “Just a moment, Ruth.” With him safely out of sight, she made a quick survey of the chamber, then dragged the coverlet back to the bed. Pulling on her shift, she ran finally to the door and unbolted it.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

The maid sidled in, small eyes observing the profusion of re-arranged candles, some of their wicks still weeping bluish smoke. “I’m to get you dressed, ma’am, as quickly as possible. It’s Master Lancelot.”

“Lance?” That was the last thing on her mind just then. She expected herself to be the one in trouble, not her brother.

“He’s to be married, ma’am.”

“Married?”

“Yes, ma’am. Immediately. The Earl of Swafford insists upon it.”

So it was his voice below. John was right. She glanced nervously at her dressing screen. “I don’t understand. Lance to be married?”

“After last night.” The maid lowered her voice to a hushed, scandalized whisper. “After what happened at the banquet.”

Lucy drew closer, heart pounding in her chest.

“Master Lancelot,” the maid whispered, “were caught with Lady Catherine Mallory, doing something he oughtn’t.”

“What?” Her brother would go out of his way to avoid the Earl’s eldest daughter, the “savage,” as he called her.

“You know, miss.” The maid nudged her. “He were caught drinking from the young lady’s cup…if you get my drift.”

“But how? Why?” It made no sense.

“The Earl, her father, walked in on them, in the stables, in the dark. Apparently they mistook one another for someone else.”

Her hands flew to her face, inappropriate laughter threatening to fly out over her tongue. Poor Lance. Now she understood.

“Young Lady Catherine protests she won’t marry Master Lance no matter what her father says, and your brother’s no happier about it, but your father is…”

“Happy as a horse in clover,” she muttered, imagining his glee at this mistake landing him such a prize for a daughter-in-law. In the corner of her chamber, that tapestry dressing screen rocked back and forth, little curses audible. The maid looked over at it, eyes steadily growing wider.

“I can dress myself today, Ruth,” she said hastily. “Go below and tell my father I’ll be down presently.”

The maid hesitated, lips curving into a knowing smile.

“Go on,” she repeated haughtily.

Finally the maid obeyed, shooting the screen one last glance.

As she bolted her door again, he came out of hiding, tucking his shirt into his trunk hose. “Sounds like your father will have more on his mind this morning than your shenanigans. What the devil was your brother up to with my little niece? She’s only nineteen, you know!”

“For once my brother’s in greater trouble than I am,” she said tersely. “You can help me dress.” Flustered, head still spinning with the news of her brother’s downfall, she added, “If you please.”

“A novelty!” His eyes sparked. “Usually I’m undressing you. I’m not sure I can do it in reverse. Seems to go against the grain, against what’s natural.”

But he put himself to the new task more than adequately, and with only a few distractions and delays.

Chapter 24

Descending the stairs, she immediately saw her brother sprawled in a chair by the fire, looking rumpled and decidedly untidy for a man who generally prided himself on a pristine appearance. His face held the pallor of sour milk, but there was something of a bemused twinkle in his dark eyes, as if he still didn’t quite know what just happened to him.

Poor fool. She’d had a feeling he was going to be surprised when he finally tripped over Catherine Mallory again.

Their father stood with his back to the fire while the Earl of Swafford, seated opposite Lance, laid out the marriage terms and details. The Earl expected no obstacle and would get none. Except, it seemed, from his own daughter, if what the maid said was true. Lady Catherine was widely known as a shrew and her feelings for Lance were no warmer than his for her, so it was more than likely she would dig in her heels over this marriage.

As for Lance, much as he might abhor the idea, he would never go against the Earl, his employer. Nor would he fail his strict sense of gentlemanly duty. A man of honor, if a mistake was made, no matter how heinous, he would pay recompense.

No one noticed her until she walked up to Lance and offered her congratulations. Without moving his head, he turned his eyes to where she stood and they narrowed enough to let her know he heard. He just couldn’t bring himself to speak.

She patted his clenched hand and smiled, hoping to reassure him, just as he’d tried for her once, on the eve of her marriage.

“Lucasta,” her father announced loudly, “your brother’s wedding takes place tomorrow at Blackfriars. You will attend with your husband.”

“No she won’t,” came a voice behind her. “She’s not going anywhere with Winton ever again.” A tall figure emerged from the shadows, the bright flare of a sword gleaming in his hand.

He must have broken into her father’s library and taken that sword from the wall, she realized. Barely ten minutes ago, she’d watched John descend to the yard from her window and he’d waved to her jauntily, giving no clue of what he meant to do about their dilemma.

The rogue, it seemed, was back and very evident this morning.

Boldly he walked up to the group by the great hearth, greeted his startled brother-in-law with a nod and said to Lance, “I trust you know my niece is only nineteen.”

“Yes. I am all too well aware,” Lance replied, long fingers clawing at his shortly-cropped hair. Equally terse, he added, “Do you know my sister’s a married woman?”

“She won’t be much longer.”

Sir Oliver opened his lips to protest and immediately became closely acquainted with the sharp end of his own sword.

“John,” the Earl stepped forward bravely, one hand up, conciliatory. “Put the sword down. We can discuss this calmly.”

But only Lucy’s hand on his arm finally made John lower that sword. Even then he kept it poised, ready to attack on the slightest provocation.

“As you see, Sir Oliver,” said the Earl, “my brother-in-law has come on a matter of business. Perhaps we should deal with that before we proceed with our other arrangements? It looks as though he’s in some haste to resolve his issue.”

Lucy watched her father’s face. There was not the slightest change in his cold countenance. He stared at John Carver, his eyelids lowering slowly and then lifting again no faster. “What do you want, young man?”

There was no hesitation. John, naturally, came straight to the point. “Your daughter.”

“My daughter is a married…”

“It was never consummated, father. I told you that.”

Sir Oliver tipped his head back, regarding Lucy as if she was no more than a squashed cabbage leaf under his feet. She wondered if he even heard her.

“Haven’t you endured enough scandal, man,” the Earl exclaimed gruffly. “Your daughter clearly wants out of the match. Would you make her suffer any longer? For what cause? To save your own pride?”

In the midst of this tense scene, surely the most pivotal in her life’s play, Lucy found herself pondering the oddities of men, of fathers in particular. Here stood the Earl of Swafford, admonishing her father for making her marry against her will, when that was precisely what he did to his own daughter in planning her hasty marriage to Lance. No one, however, would dare quibble with the Earl.

John reached for her hand and held it. Nothing else mattered. He was the finest, handsomest rogue that ever lived and he had come to fetch her. He wouldn’t leave again without her and she wouldn’t let him.

“I want your daughter, Sir Oliver,” he said with the lethal steadiness of a very sharp, very precisely wielded knife. “I’m here to fight for her. I’ll shed blood if I must.”