by Meara Platt
A strange sort of rage filled Benedict’s chest. “We can’t have that. You must stay here, safe within these walls, until he goes away. Or until we do.”
“Thank you,” she said, nearly weeping. It was a far cry from the playful, joyous way the two of them had parted in the morning. “You have no idea how desperate I am.”
She surprised him by throwing herself into his arms and hugging him. The shock of such an intimate gesture threw him for a moment. He recovered himself quickly, closing his arms around her and returning her hug. Never in all his life would he have imagined being so forward and intimate with a woman he’d only barely met. Then again, after the night they’d spent and the promise of more to come, it seemed fitting.
“Let’s get you settled somewhere out of the way,” he said, sliding his hand around her back and escorting her down the hall. “There are several unused bedrooms in the—”
He stopped as she gasped when they passed the peacock room. She did more than gasp, she sprinted forward as though the devil were on her heels, dashing to the far end of the hall. Confused, Benedict raced after her.
He caught her when she turned a corner.
“What in heaven’s name was that?” he asked, his pulse pounding as though they’d dodged gunfire.
“That’s him,” she hissed, shaking. “In your parlor. That’s my fiancé.”
Benedict frowned. “Mr. Stanley?”
She nodded tightly, rigid with fear.
Benedict stood straighter, letting out a breath, determination filling him. “Do you think you can find your way to my bedroom on your own?” he asked.
“I think so,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Then go there. I’ll join you shortly, and we can determine what to do next.”
He pivoted to return to the peacock room to deal with Mr. Stanley, but she grabbed his sleeve to stop him.
“I had to leave the inn without my belongings,” she confessed, looking miserable.
“Say no more,” he said. “I’ll have them fetched as soon as possible. You can stay safe and hidden.”
“Thank you,” she said, letting out a breath.
A rush of sentiment filled Benedict, and before he could question it, he leaned in and kissed Miss Porterfield’s forehead. “You are safe here,” he assured her.
Her eyes were watery with gratitude, which made him feel ten feet tall. He left her to find his bedroom and strode back down the hall to meet with Mr. Stanley.
“Mr. Stanley, I presume?” he asked as he entered the peacock room—a fanciful receiving parlor decorated entirely in blues and greens, with every conceivable representation of a peacock in the furnishings and decorations.
“Lord Killian,” the man greeted him. He was large and brutish with a face that might have been handsome, had he not broken his nose at some point in the past. That small detail instantly left Benedict thinking that the man had a violent streak. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Stanley went on, extending a hand.
“Likewise,” Benedict lied, shaking the man’s hand. Part of keeping Miss Porterfield safe was pretending that nothing at all was out of the ordinary. “I understand you are interested in purchasing this plantation?” he asked.
“I am.” Stanley smiled greedily. “As I understand it, sugar is one of the most profitable commodities in the Caribbean.”
“It is,” Benedict said cautiously.
“My father owns a successful plantation in South Carolina,” Stanley explained. “While I am in line to inherit it someday, my father is a hale and healthy man. I would rather take a chance at beginning my own enterprise instead of waiting for him to die.”
One of Benedict’s eyebrows inched up. The man was blunt, to be sure.
He also carried with him an unsettling presence and a feeling of cruelty that Benedict wanted to get away from as fast as possible.
“I have several men interested in purchasing the plantation,” he said, bending the truth a bit. “I plan to have an informal meeting with everyone soon in order to go over the details and listen to offers.”
“Fair enough,” Stanley said with a grave nod.
“Tell me where you are staying and I will send word to you when that event will be,” Benedict went on, gesturing toward the doorway and indicating he was ready for the man to leave, even though they’d only just begun their conversation.
“I am at the King’s Arms in St. John’s,” Stanley said. “I’ve only recently arrived. I have some…other business in town that I’ve been seeing to.”
“Then by all means, do not let me keep you from that business,” Benedict said. “I’m quite busy myself today. You understand, I’m sure, as a fellow plantation man.”
“I do indeed understand.” Stanley treated him to a toothy smile that made Benedict’s blood run cold.
Thankfully, they had reached the front door. “I’ll be in touch soon, sir,” he said.
“I look forward to it,” Stanley answered.
They shook hands, and Benedict did everything he could to get the man out of his house as fast as possible. Once Stanley was gone and the door was shut behind him, Benedict leaned against the wall and rubbed a hand over his face. Miss Porterfield had every right to be scared out of her wits, poor woman. He was determined to do his all to keep her from falling into the brute’s hands. It hadn’t taken more than the ten minutes he’d spent in Stanley’s company to know that he wouldn’t wish a dog he didn’t like on a man like Stanley, let alone a woman who had instantly become so important to him as Miss Porterfield. The sooner he finished all of his business in Antigua and carried her—and hopefully his child—away to England, the better.
Chapter Four
It took Benedict a moment to identify the sensation spreading through his chest when he awoke the next morning. For months, since arriving in Antigua and being forced to deal with the details of his father’s untimely death at the hands of pirates, he’d greeted each day with anxiety and a depressing sense of duty. But as the sun dawned on that day, seeping in through the airy curtains on his open windows along with the scent of tropical flowers and sea air, something different stirred in his soul.
He wasn’t alone. Miss Porterfield lay tucked against his side, her arm and one leg thrown across his body as he lay on his back. For one, long second, he let himself simply enjoy the feel of her entwined with him. Then the reality of their situation weighed down on him, bringing whispers of doubt with it.
He was a madman for even considering the plan he’d embarked on with Miss Porterfield. It was sheer madness to attempt to create a baby with a woman for the mere sake of convincing another woman to accept his marriage proposal. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that the plot wasn’t fair to either Miss Porterfield or his dearest Lucy.
Except that in following through with the plan he would be rescuing Miss Porterfield from a fate worse than death at the hands of Mr. Stanley. And by presenting himself as a marriageable man with an heir already, he could give Lucy the life and love she deserved as well.
He shifted out from under Miss Porterfield, twisting to his side so that he could watch her as she slumbered. She was so different from Lucy in every way. Instead of a halo of golden hair, like Lucy had, Miss Porterfield’s luxurious mane was a rich auburn color. Where Lucy had a cherubic, round face, Miss Porterfield’s was oval, with high cheekbones and tantalizing lips. He knew just how delicious those lips could be and how sensual it was to kiss them. Lucy had only let him get so far as kissing her hand. And where Lucy was pleasantly plump, Miss Porterfield was lean and lithe. Not that she didn’t have curves, oh no. Her breasts were perfect handfuls with large nipples that hardened to pebbles under his touch, and her backside was soft and pert.
He sucked in a breath, growing hard at the thought of it all. Casual debauchery had never been his style, but he’d had his share of lovers in the past. None of them had fired his blood the way Miss Porterfield did, though. He knew full well she’d come to his bed out of desperation, but de
ep within him, he held onto the thought that she stayed there because she wanted to.
Throwing caution to the wind, he grasped the sheet that covered them and tugged it down, slowly revealing her tantalizing body in the morning sunlight. She breathed in as she slept and rolled to her back, resting one of her arms above her head. Benedict’s cock jumped at the sight of her. She was as glorious as a painting by one of the masters with her red hair flowing around her and her breasts exposed. He pulled the sheet down farther, past her hips, to reveal the vee of curls between her legs.
Lust consumed him. But it felt like more than animal hunger. He didn’t just want to fuck her. He wanted to give her pleasure, to see her writhing with it, and to hear her sighs. She had consented to give him so much, so that was the least he could do for her in return.
He inched closer to her, shifting down so that he could close his mouth over one of her breasts. Her nipple tightened in his mouth as he raked it with his tongue. She sucked in a breath, waking, as he stroked her side. For a moment, her body tensed, but as he continued to tease and suckle her breast, she gradually relaxed, letting out a breath of pleasure.
He kissed his way up to her shoulder, then on to her neck and lips while his hand traveled down over her hip. Gently, he nudged her thighs apart before slipping a hand against her sex. She gasped, but her surprise turned to a groan as he teased his fingers into her wetness. Her mouth fell open under his, and he used his tongue to mimic what his fingers were doing.
Within seconds, her body responded, and she moved her hips farther apart. Heat and need pulsed through him, making him rock hard. She wanted what he was offering her as badly as he wanted to give it, and that made him feel like the most powerful man in the world. He answered her plaintive sounds by plunging two fingers inside of her in quick, teasing thrusts while grinding the base of his hand against her clitoris.
“Come for me,” he whispered against her ear. “I want to feel you throbbing.”
She made a sound of surrender. He increased the intensity of the way he pleasured her, rubbing her clitoris with his thumb. Her breath came in shorter and shorter gasps and she worked her hips against his hand until she came apart with a sudden, mewling cry. Her inner muscles squeezed around his fingers, but that wasn’t enough for him.
He moved over top of her quickly, lifting her knees to the side and thrusting into her while she continued to orgasm. It felt so perfect that he let out a groan of satisfaction as he moved. The pure sensuality of mating with her was better than any wine, any sunshine, any pleasure he’d ever experienced. Something in the back of his mind warned him that a utilitarian arrangement wasn’t supposed to be that amazing, but he ignored it as he thrust into her with abandon.
He climaxed fast and hard, spilling his seed into her with a force that took his body by storm. The pleasure was phenomenal as it enveloped him, but it continued to pulse and glow even after he finished and collapsed above her.
He lay there, their bodies entwined, for several seconds as they both fought to catch their breaths. It didn’t dawn on him that he might be too heavy for her until she wriggled under him. Then he muscled himself to the side.
“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “You didn’t have to move.”
His brow inched up. “I was afraid I might crush you.”
Her cheeks glowed pink in the aftermath of passion, and perhaps with shyness. “Would you think less of me if I told you I rather enjoyed the sensation?”
Her innocent question, asked with such sweetness in her eyes, did something to his heart that was incomprehensible. “I don’t think I could ever think less of you,” he admitted.
He didn’t know what else to say. It didn’t seem right to share the sort of thing they’d just shared only to roll out of bed and go about his business, like he would with any paid lover. Instead, he lay where he was for a moment, watching her watching him.
* * *
“I think you should call me Benedict,” he said at last, a grin tugging at his lips. “Formality doesn’t seem right at this point.”
She smiled back with absolute charm. “Agreed. Which means you should call me Suzanne.”
“Suzanne,” he repeated.
A voice at the back of his head screamed a warning at him. Given names weren’t part of the deal he’d struck with her. Neither were earth-shaking orgasms.
“We should get up before the servants grow suspicious,” he said, rolling to the side and climbing reluctantly out of bed. “Not that they aren’t already suspicious.” He headed toward the screen, behind which stood his wash basin, shaving soap, and clothes for the day. “I should swallow my pride and admit to them that we have an arrangement.”
“Oh.” He caught sight of her sitting up in bed, covering herself with the bedsheet, the way she had the day before. “What would you tell them?”
He winced as he disappeared behind the screen. “I couldn’t tell them the truth. I suppose I would have to say that you are my mistress. Not ideal in any circumstances, but it would be simplest to explain. Would that sit well with you?” He peeked out from behind the screen.
Suzanne had just climbed out of bed and into a beam of morning sunlight. It illuminated her hair like fire and made her skin seem to glow. It was like looking at some sort of mischievous nymph arising from the heart of a tiger lily, and it stirred every sort of carnal and protective instinct within him.
“I suppose I’ve lost all hope of pretending we have a respectable arrangement,” she said, not noticing he was staring as she fetched her clothes from the chair where she’d draped them the night before. He made a mental note to purchase a new, more appropriate wardrobe for her as he ducked back behind the screen. “I can only hope your servants don’t think too little of me for sharing your bed.”
“Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t say this,” he said, pouring water into his wash basin, “but it’s not their business to think anything of you.”
“You’re too kind,” she said. Or, at least, he thought that was what she said. She spoke so quietly he almost couldn’t hear.
They continued with their morning routine of washing and dressing. Their proximity as they went through such basic, functional tasks was endearing to Benedict. It seemed to normalize what was a decidedly abnormal situation. When they were both finished, they met in the center of the room.
“What do you have planned for today?” she asked, a deeper question in her eyes.
Benedict shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I had today slated to be a much-needed day of leisure.”
She lowered her head. “I see. You will be making calls and attending whatever gentleman’s club exists in St. John’s, I suppose.”
He laughed. “No, not at all. There is nothing leisurely for me in making calls or being in company. In truth, I was planning to take a boat out past the breakers off to the north of the island for some fishing.”
“Fishing?” Strangely, she smiled.
“Yes. It’s a boring, manly pursuit, of course.”
“Not at all,” she said. “I used to go fishing with my older brother, Robert, when I was a girl. Father always forbid him from taking me along, but if he couldn’t catch us before we departed, there was nothing for him to do about it.”
Benedict laughed at the image of a small girl and her elder brother that came to his mind. “You’re a fisherwoman, then?”
“I can be.” She returned his smile.
The sensation in his chest that he was trying to ignore or avoid just kept growing stronger. “All right. In that case, you can come with me.” His smile dropped. “Right after we explain your presence to McHale and ask him to send for a seamstress to make a few new gowns for you.”
Suzanne blinked. “You would have gowns made for me?”
They started for the door. “Of course. You weren’t planning on wearing the same, worn dresses that I’ve seen you in thus far forever, were you?”
She gaped at him in surprise. “No, I suppose that would be impractical. But I�
�that is to say…you are too kind to me.”
He laughed, taking her hand as they exited his room. “Considering what you are doing for me and the criticism we are both likely to receive for it from McHale and the servants, it is the least I can do.”
It was hard to tell whether McHale took the news of Suzanne moving into the house as his mistress well or badly. Benedict’s butler was an older, somewhat conservative man, but he had seen much of the world. It was likely that he’d seen far worse—and under the plantation’s roof—than a pretty woman being ensconced in the master’s bedroom as a particular sort of companion. And it was a great deal more acceptable than the way some plantation owners misused and abused the unfortunate women they enslaved. The very thought of that filled Benedict with more determination than ever to free all those whom his father and grandfather had enslaved before selling the damned plantation.
Once everything was settled, McHale agreed to arrange for a seamstress to come to the house, and a few minor items of business were taken care of, Benedict set out for the private pier that extended from the edge of his property into the turquoise water of the Caribbean Sea.
“You really used to fish as a girl?” Benedict asked as he rowed farther from shore. He liked the strain rowing put on his muscles as much as he liked the not-so-subtle way Suzanne was admiring his prowess. It made him feel like the kind of man society and propriety sometimes stopped him from being.
“I did,” she said, smiling up at the sunshine. He was glad she wore a wide-brimmed bonnet and had a light shawl draped over her shoulder. A little sunlight was beautiful. Too much would leave them both burned and in pain. “My father only made his fortune when I was close to ten years old,” she explained. “He went from working on a ship as a young man to captaining it to owning it to purchasing a merchant fleet.” Her smile dropped. “That is why he was so adamant that I marry the heir to one of the most lucrative plantations in South Carolina.”
