The Jezebel (11 page)

Breathlessly, she begged his forgiveness. “I could not help it, I moved.”

“Well, I tried to rein it in, but you have set this thing in motion now.” Pulling back, he took a moment to admire the sheen of her juices over his rod, then he thrust deep once more.

In response she half sat, resting on her elbows.

Wrapping his hands under her thighs, he lifted them, encouraging her to bend her knees to her chest. She appeared to be astonished at what she felt. He rocked back and forth, making pleasure for them both, and a delighted smile lit her face.

Roderick bent right over and kissed her. Then he pumped into her hard and fast, for his sac was tight, his release impending. She jolted against the surface of the table. As she did, her breasts spilled free of her gown, and Roderick stared down at them. How bawdy she looked, with her wine-colored nipples peaked and poking over the layers of clothing attempting to contain them. The globes of her breasts were thoroughly magnificent.

She cried out as she spilled, her body arching. In a sudden and strange action, her hands fisted and went to a spot below her rib cage, while her eyes flickered closed for a moment. Then she grew limp in her release. When her eyes opened, they shone. Never had Roderick seen a woman so invigorated by a good tupping. It pleased him no end.

When he continued to thrust, she smiled, and nodded her head at the map beneath them. “Do you mean to push me all the way across the table before you finish this?”

There was a challenge in her eyes.

Glancing down at the map, he nodded. “Aye, I will not be content until I have ridden you all the way into Scotland.”

With laughter on her lips she clutched at his shoulders, aiding his quest.

Roderick had all but mounted the table in order to shift her across the border before he let go, but when he did it was with total triumph.

CHAPTER TEN

Maisie awoke in his arms. It was a chill autumn night on the North Sea, but with her cheek to his chest his body had kept hers warm.

Now he was moving and she stirred from her sleep. He’d set about extracting himself from their tangled embrace and was apparently attempting to do so without waking her, but this time she held tight to him. “You must arise?”

He paused, and when she pressed her head back into the mattress to look up at him, she thought he might change his mind and stay. His expression softened as he looked at her. He bent his head and kissed her, his mouth gently inquiring.

Maisie sighed with pleasure and wove her fingers through his thick hair.

“I must be on deck,” he said as he drew back. “Alas.”

Watching as he tugged on his clothing, Maisie decided she would never grow tired of looking at the male form. He was a hot-blooded stallion in comparison to the leaner, wraithlike men she had seen in drawings. He was agile nonetheless, and as he bent to pull his boots from under the bed where he had kicked them off, he pounced on her again.

Rolling her onto her back, he kissed her breasts reverently.

“I thought you were departing?”

“I am.” He lifted his head, but wrapped his hand around the curve of one breast as he did so, molding the flesh in his palm, stroking the nipple. “But I couldn’t leave without another kiss, not with you lying there appearing so wanton, what with your breasts bared and that brazen look in your eyes.”

Was that truly how she appeared? Startled, Maisie found she wanted to know more. “What look?”

“The one that lets me know you are thinking of the pleasure you might get from this.” He reached for her hand and drew it to the front of his breeches, where he rested it briefly against the bulk of his manhood beneath.

Maisie chuckled. “It is not just that I’m thinking of. I was admiring the entirety of the view. You are a fine built man.”

He grinned as he straightened up.

It made her happy to see him that way.

He continued to dress while he considered her silently.

Maisie pulled the covers higher. “See, I have made it easier for you to leave, no bared breasts to distract you.”

“So you did. But alas, the image is still here.” He tapped his forehead with one finger.

Before he left, he paused by the door. “I suggest you stay below this morning.”

Instinctively she went to object, but he hurried on.

“It won’t be for long. We dock in Lowestoft later today and I’ll take you on shore then. I thought you might enjoy that.”

Maisie nodded. “Some time on land would be most pleasant, thank you.” His thoughtfulness was an aspect of his character that contrasted to his rough-hewn looks.

“So, you will occupy yourself by preparing for that?” He waited for her to confirm her intentions.

“Yes, Roderick, I will occupy myself here until you come to take me on shore.” It was a reward offered to force her to stay below, but Maisie wasn’t willing to risk a proper turn on dry land for a few moments on deck.

“Good. I will purchase us a good meal in an inn there. We will talk then. You can tell me about yourself.”

That was the last thing she intended to do, and it took every bit of good sense she could muster not to deny him outright. Instead, she didn’t answer.

When he left, she stared at the door and fretted.

Why did he want to know about her? She couldn’t tell him anything. It wasn’t safe for him, or her. Unbidden thoughts of her keeper crept in on her. Why? Roderick didn’t think of her the way Cyrus did—as his tool, his possession. At least she didn’t think so. Her experience was limited to one guardian, but she couldn’t forfeit her liberty again. This arrangement was only for their journey.

Nevertheless, doubts threatened her. Roderick was not aware of her secret craft. He was thinking of her protection, and he wanted his men to trust him. Still, she couldn’t help but be reminded of what had transpired with Master Cyrus, and the way he controlled her in the name of protection. The fact that she was currently banished to this tiny room at Roderick’s command unnerved her. Slumping down on the bed, she knew it was going to be some time before she could rid herself of that fear, the fear of being held hostage for her craft.

* * *

Cyrus Lafayette had nurtured her abilities, giving her time to flourish in his domain. Within a year he discovered that her talent was particularly well exploited when it involved the elements and the emotions. He was, however, a patient man, and as she later discovered, his plans were both grand and long-term.

Cyrus had a private income, and his interests lay in power, specifically in influencing government and politics. He moved in high circles. Young Margaret knew little of this until she was twelve years old, when her tutor was given specific instructions to teach her about the royalty, history and contemporary government of Britain. Mama Beth took little interest in her husband’s work. She was a kindly woman and it was hearth and home that mattered to her. She didn’t comment on Cyrus’s affairs outside the household.

Young Margaret was curious when she discovered that he was a man of power and wide influence, because his role in her life was so very different. Or so it seemed. They spent many hours closeted together. He would debate her lineage with her in secret. These were times she both treasured, because of the subject matter, and feared, because of him.

Master Cyrus explored her world with her, but the way with which he controlled her made her wary even at a young age. She gained both knowledge and caution, but it was never easy. Maisie always feared angering him by saying the wrong thing. His attention was hers exclusively during these times. He was intense, serious, and she often found it difficult or uncomfortable to be with him. Above all, she felt in his debt. When he asked her to do something for him she did so, readily.

No more than once a week, Master Cyrus would encourage her to practice her magic in some small way, in the privacy of his study. She would move objects or extinguish candles with a few whispered words that had either been passed down to her by her mother, or learned under his tutelage. Then one day, he encouraged her to use her magic outdoors, while they were taking a walk in the park one fine Saturday afternoon.

It was a sunny autumnal day close to her thirteenth birthday. He walked alongside her and pointed out different trees, nodding his head and greeting other passersby as they went. When they were in a place where they could not be overheard, he took both her hands and encouraged her to test her magic, to stir the autumn leaves from the ground and make them dance in the air.

For Maisie it was exciting, a new beginning where she explored her craft, safely watched over by him, protected. Together they shared great enthusiasm about her talents, which made her proud, even though he warned her that others would not feel the same about her. They would be afraid of her, just as they had been afraid of her mother. Master Cyrus often reminded her of that.

“I will always protect and cherish you,” he would add.

The following week, Master Cyrus took her on the same walk and once again asked her to explore her craft, but with an altogether different purpose. “I would like you to do something special for me, something like the games we play with your powers when no one is looking.”

Margaret was pleased.

“We have read about love spells, and how you might influence on behalf of a lonely heart.”

She nodded. It was something that fascinated her immensely.

“There is a man with whom I share many fascinating discussions about politics. His name is Gilbert Ridley. He is a widower and he is shy and doesn’t seek company. However, I know a young woman who would dearly love to befriend him. I have arranged for her to pass by him when he is taking his morning walk along the river. When I pause to introduce you to Master Ridley, she will be nearby.”

“And I will draw his attention to her,” Margaret replied, delighted at the game.

The enchantment was woven, and of course it was a great success. Margaret thrilled at the notion that she had played matchmaker for two lonely hearts. The memory remained vivid, for it was a special moment in her life.

It was, however, the first of many times that Master Cyrus urged her to influence his acquaintances from the corridors of power. These requests were always couched in pleasantries, and the spells themselves related to seemingly inconsequential matters. She didn’t begin to suspect his intentions until years later, when she discovered that Gilbert Ridley was ruined, his heart broken and his fortune stolen by a wily courtesan and her accomplice.

As the years went on Maisie discovered other such occurrences that made her doubt her magic was the powerful natural healer that her mother had taught her it was. Instead, she increasingly heard the terrible things that were spoken against witches, and her inner struggle against what she was capable of overwhelmed her at times.

Master Cyrus, however, always set her to rights. He was determined to show her it was what she was destined for.

In time, she gained confidence about her craft, whilst becoming an educated young lady. Outings were a rare treat at first, and she was never allowed to go anywhere without his supervision. Mama Beth was under strict instructions to chaperone dressmakers’ visits, and Mistress Hinchcliffe never roamed from the subject matter of their lessons, lessons that the master of the house prescribed on a weekly basis.

The changes in her relationship with Cyrus Lafayette began around the time Margaret began to blossom into young womanhood. Mama Beth commented on it, and subsequently, requests given to the dressmaker for her gowns and other accoutrements became more lavish. Margaret accepted this as any young woman might, with pleasure and humble gratitude. Master Cyrus seemed to relish her transformation, and for some reason she felt painfully self-aware under his gaze.

“You are ready to discover more of the world, I warrant,” he said as he watched her from his winged armchair while she was busy with her sewing,

Mama Beth encouraged her, too. “You are a proper young lady now. I’m so proud.”

Margaret was not sure what discovering more of the world meant. Fear and caution were instinctive reactions. Not only because of her experiences, but because of the way Master Cyrus kept her informed of the terrible demise often wrought on those who practiced the craft. Education was always tempered with warning.

“More of the world?” she asked cautiously.

“Master Cyrus is taking us both to the theater,” Mama Beth informed her, cheeks aglow with pleasure. “It will be delightful to show you off at last.”

The theater. Margaret had studied Shakespeare’s plays with her teacher, but never imagined she might see them performed. These outings were a pleasure and joy to Margaret, but she also began to become suspicious, because they often encountered Master Cyrus’s associates, government ministers, financiers, merchants and tradesmen of the highest order. Some were gracious to his wife and ward, others seemed lascivious and offered barbed compliments that she couldn’t fail to notice. Master Cyrus, it seemed, had several enemies.

It then became apparent that when he encouraged her to use the craft, it was often in order to help him reach some personal goal. Margaret was made uncomfortable by that knowledge and began to query the full circumstances of the situation when he requested her assistance. She did not resent helping him, for he had given her opportunities in life that she would never otherwise have had. However, as time went by, the situation became more transparent, and Master Cyrus more obvious about his exploitation of her power. Alongside this, the nature of his relationship with her began to change.

At first it was small things. He told her that he wanted her to call him Cyrus, not Master. That felt odd. Mama Beth no longer accompanied them to the theater. Reasons were given, but it coincided with a change in his attitude toward Margaret. The admiration he showed her was no longer tempered, and it was no longer delivered as a guardian to a ward, but as a man with altogether different intentions.

Then one night Cyrus took her to a reception where they mingled with the actors they had seen onstage, together with personages of note, peers and lords. Margaret felt quite overwhelmed, and when she saw a young man smiling across the room at her, she returned the smile, for it seemed to bear some understanding of her predicament. Later, when the man approached, Cyrus greeted him dismissively.

“Charles Hanson,” he muttered, by way of introduction.

“I was hoping to make your acquaintance,” the young man had said to her.

“Thank you.” Margaret dropped a curtsy.

Charles bent and drew her fingertips to his lips.

A shiver of arousal ran through her and her eyes locked with his.

The young man was about to say more, when Cyrus announced they had to leave. He called for Margaret’s cloak and ushered her away, giving her no chance to say goodbye to Charles. Inside their carriage, Cyrus thumped the roof with this cane and glowered into the gloom.

“It was a remarkable performance,” she commented in an attempt to alleviate the oppressive atmosphere.

“Yes, it was a perfect evening.” Without looking her way, he reached out and clasped her hand where it rested on her lap.

She thought he might squeeze her hand and then return to his thoughts, but he kept hold of it, possessive and insinuating. Her skin crept with discomfort, but she knew better than to pull away. His mood was foreboding and she sensed it would be the wrong thing to do.

“Yes,” he added, “a perfect evening, spoiled only by that audacious upstart, Charles Hanson. How dare he think he might court you?”

She was surprised, for she hadn’t even thought that was the young man’s intention. Cautiously, she measured her response. “I’m sure he was only being friendly.”

Cyrus turned to face her, his hand tightening on hers. “I know what drives a man like that. He is not worthy of you.”

Why did it feel so awkward? “It matters not, Cyrus, for I am sure you are mistaken about his intentions. But I am quite certain that he is far above me in this world.”