Moonspun Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  She opened her eyes and stared down at her bread man and its enormous phallus. Her husband was enjoying himself immensely. She tried for a smile and managed one, albeit a very sickly smile. “Yes, of course, but please let me cut myself a piece. Here, give me the knife, or perhaps I should just tear off a bit. Yes, I will do that.” And she did. She tried desperately not to laugh when her husband groaned loudly. She handed him the piece of warm bread and watched him smear butter and honey on it.

  Then he turned and offered it to her. “Shall I tell you how to eat it, my dear?”

  “I imagine that I put it in my mouth and bite down, then chew, then swallow. Is that the correct procedure?”

  He flinched, grimacing in pain. “You aren’t one for imagery, I see.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  He gave her that incredibly wicked grin, all white-toothed and gleaming. “Well, since we’re married, I suppose there’s no harm in educating you. This might shock you, Victoria, but the imagery involves my own, er, masculine self and my—and his—desire for your mouth.”

  She simply stared at him, at sea.

  Rafael sighed and gave it up. It was beyond him to draw it out. He would show her, and he devoutly hoped that when he did, she would be feeling far differently from the way she felt now.

  He tore himself off a piece, all the while watching her nibble at her bread. She looked delicious, he thought, and sweet, and he became hard once more. He shook his head at his body’s response. No, he would wait; he could and would be noble. She had to be very sore, after all.

  He continued watching her beneath his lowered lashes. There was no reason he couldn’t pleasure her, though. He was old enough to wait his turn. And her pleasure was very intriguing to him. He found that he reveled in the way her eyes glazed and became vague, and in those marvelous cries and shouts she made before, during, and after her climax. No, he amended to himself, not cries after her climax, soft whimpers and little gasps.

  She was splendid. He was a lucky fellow. All would be well once she forgot her pique. He would make it all up to her.

  Since together they had consumed an entire loaf of bread during the afternoon, dinner wasn’t an event of dire necessity. Rafael suggested a stroll and Victoria agreed. She was frankly bored with her own company, and despite her husband’s multitudinous vagaries, his perfidy, and his boundless oblivion, he did make her laugh—when she didn’t want to smash a board on his head.

  He took her hand when they reached the narrow garden path behind Honeycutt Cottage, and his touch sent immediate recognition throughout her body. She saw them on the kitchen floor, like two wild people; he was bucking and roaring on top of her, and she, unmindful of anything save him and the feelings that were flooding through her, was doing everything she could to encourage him, to become one with him, to experience everything with and through him and herself.

  At least he hadn’t seen her thigh. Her drawers, now the possessor of a tear along the entire central seam, still had intact frilly legs. No, he hadn’t found her “malformed toe,” the wretched bounder.

  The sun was lowering now but the slight breeze was warm, the air redolent of honeysuckle and hyacinth. There was a low stone wall that ran beside the orchard path down to a small pond. It was there Rafael took her, pausing occasionally to sniff at a rose or any other bloom that took his fancy.

  “It’s lovely,” he said.

  He didn’t wait for her reply, merely eased down, pulling her with him and stretching his long legs out before him. Victoria settled herself beside him, keeping her legs well covered with her pale yellow muslin skirts.

  “There are a lot of frogs and water reeds,” she said.

  “Hmmm.” He lay on his back, pillowing his head on his arms.

  To keep herself from staring at him, Victoria said abruptly, even as she forced herself to keep her eyes on the water reeds, “Where in Cornwall do you wish to build your house?”

  “Our house?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose. If you wish.”

  “Not very close to Drago Hall. I was thinking about the northern coast. Perhaps near St. Agnes. Have you ever visited there?”

  “Yes.” She turned her head to look down at him. “I have, and I find it beautiful. Wild and savage and untamed. I suppose it’s a lot like you.”

  “Is that a compliment, I wonder?” He cocked open one silver-gray eye.

  “Then why must we stay at Drago Hall at all?”

  It was a reasonable query, he thought, wishing he’d kept his plans more indefinite. He supposed he should tell her that he already had a house in mind. No, he would wait. He said, hoping to discourage any more conversation along this line, “I told you that I hadn’t been home in a long time. I wish to visit Drago Hall. It’s unfortunate that my brother and his wife are in residence, but we will make do.”

  “It won’t be easy.”

  “I am your husband. Do just as I tell you, look to me for advice and protection—and nightly diversions, of course—and all will be well.”

  She hissed air out between gritted teeth. “I think you’re an ass, an—”

  “Don’t insult me, Victoria, or I’ll make love to you right here, right now.”

  He’d spoken ever so softly, but she believed him and she was afraid that she would fight him for only a very short time before yielding. She lowered her head, feeling like a fool, feeling like the wild, untamed, savage one. She felt tears sting the back of her eyes. He didn’t care for her, not one whit, and now, since he knew her weakness for him, he would manipulate her to his heart’s delight.

  Two tears rolled down her cheeks.

  She wasn’t aware of them until she tasted the salt on her lips.

  He said in that same soft, relaxed voice, “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying.”

  “You are so delightfully perverse. You will talk to me or I will make . . . “He paused, frowning at himself. “Forget that. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She jumped to her feet, and to her mortification, her leg crumpled and she went down in a graceless heap. It was all too much. She lowered her face to the sweet-smelling grass, wrapped her arms around her middle, tasted dirt, and didn’t care.

  For a long moment Rafael didn’t move. He was confused. Slowly he came up to his knees and clasped her shoulders. He gently pulled her back against him. “It’s all right, truly, love. Did you hurt yourself when you stumbled?”

  She shook her head and he felt her loosened hair brush against his chin. He leaned against a maple tree and pulled her onto his lap. She felt limp, boneless, without will. It disturbed him. He wanted his enraged fighter back.

  He held her tightly and felt her hiccup against his shoulder. He smiled over her head. “It’s very odd, you know. Life, that is. A month ago I didn’t know of your existence, and now I’m irrevocably leg-shackled to you.”

  “I’m the one who is leg-shackled,” she said between hiccups, her voice sliding into bitterness. “Not only married, but as poor as I was before. At least you are leg-shackled and rich.”

  “I was already rich. Your money is mine by the law of the land, but I really have no need for it. However, I would have done about anything to keep that money out of Damien’s greedy hands.”

  “You did do ‘about anything.’ You were forced to leg-shackle yourself. And all your talk about fate is nonsense, Rafael. We would have met eventually, when you finally returned to Drago Hall.”

  “I wonder if Damien would have succeeded in ravishing you by then.” He tensed, wanting his brother’s neck between his hands. He also realized that he hadn’t given a thought to the Seawitch in several days. Or Rob or Blick or Flash or any of the other men who had sailed with him. He rubbed his cheek against the top of Victoria’s head. She seemed to have lost her burst of anger and was once again nestled against him in what he chose to think was a trusting position.

  “No, you wouldn’t have been there. You would have run away, just as you did. And what would have b
ecome of you? I shudder to think. But I found you. You’re a very lucky wench, Victoria Carstairs.”

  The problem was, Victoria decided, that he mixed perfect truth with nonsense. It was nearly beyond her to combat him.

  Rafael’s mind skipped ahead when she remained silent. He had so damned much to do. And frankly, he realized that what he would truly like was at least a month alone with his bride. His ardor seemed inexhaustible to him, and he would enjoy a problem-free period to indulge himself and her.

  “Rafael?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to go back to the cottage now.”

  “I don’t make a comfortable enough chair for you? Aren’t the chair arms warm and strong and the seat soft and giving?”

  She heard the laughter in his voice and realized this was one of those times when she wanted to hit him. She wanted to jump off his thighs, but she was suddenly afraid that her leg would lead her to more humiliation. He had to assist her.

  “Could you help me, please?”

  That was an odd request, but he quickly agreed. He stood, holding her close, and eased her to her feet. “Did you hurt yourself when you stumbled?”

  She shook her head, her eyes on a level with his throat.

  “I’d like to go back now, please.”

  It wasn’t, however, until much later that evening that Victoria knew the meaning of true humiliation.

  15

  Are you sick or are you sullen?

  —SAMUEL JOHNSON

  “Excuse me,” Victoria said, striving for a calm she was decades away from feeling. She quickly shoved back her chair before Rafael could respond, and rose.

  “Why? What the devil is wrong with you, Victoria?”

  “Nothing. I’ll be back shortly. Please continue with your dinner.” And she was gone.

  Rafael frowned into his crystal glass of deep red wine, wondering what was wrong. She didn’t seem precisely ill, yet since she’d come down for dinner she’d been quiet and withdrawn. It bothered him no end.

  He took another bite of perfectly baked ham and chewed thoughtfully.

  Victoria paused in the middle of her bedchamber and wrapped her arms around herself. Her belly was cramping and she had nothing to relieve the discomfort. She searched yet again for some laudanum. At least she could dose herself with that and sleep away the cramps. It was unusual for her to feel any discomfort at all with her monthly flow. It was marriage that had done it to her, she thought, grimacing at a particularly vicious cramp. She was unsuccessful in her search. She drew a deep breath and walked back downstairs.

  She paused in the open doorway until her husband looked up at her. “I’m tired,” she said, as if she were a reciting schoolgirl, “and I wish to retire now. I don’t feel really well, Rafael, so I would appreciate your not coming—” Her voice fell like a flat stone from a cliff.

  He looked at her a moment, his expression bland. He said in his sea captain’s voice, and his father’s, had he but known it, “What’s wrong?” In the past, it was that tone that had always exacted instant obedience.

  Victoria nearly blurted out the truth in that instant, but managed in the nick of time to keep her tongue still in her mouth. She stood there looking at him, her mouth shut.

  “Victoria, I asked you a question,” he said now, his voice filled with virtuous determination. “You will answer me, if you please, now.”

  “It’s nothing at all of any importance. I simply need to sleep. I’ll be fine in the morning.” That was nothing but the truth. She fidgeted a moment with the narrow bracelet on her wrist. “Do you have any laudanum, Rafael?”

  That brought him out of his chair. He strode across the dining room and was appalled when she flinched backward. He stopped cold in his tracks.

  “Why do you want laudanum? What the devil is wrong?”

  She quickly slithered past him out the dining-room door. “It’s not important. Good night.”

  “If you take one more step, I’ll bare your bottom and thrash you.”

  All the wretched tears, she thought inconsequentially at that moment. It was her monthly flow that was making her so abysmally emotional and a stupid watering pot. She hated it even as she felt the tears now, brimming in her eyes. “You can’t do that,” she said, thrusting up her chin. He took a step toward her. “You can’t. You have all my money, why can’t you be satisfied? Why must you torment me?”

  “Torment? I assumed that my behavior was motivated by caring and concern for your welfare. But I see that you don’t wish that. Very well. You are ill? Well, then, go away and hide and bear it, please, in silence. I don’t wish to be bothered. By the way, I don’t have any laudanum.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode back into the dining room.

  Victoria picked up her skirts and ran back to her bedchamber.

  It was just past ten o’clock that night and Rafael was pacing the small library downstairs. He wasn’t drunk, not even close. He’d consumed only a third of a bottle of brandy. Smuggled French brandy, of course. Excellent stuff. He paused in his perambulations and looked upward. What if she was truly ill? Bosh, he thought, shaking his head, she was too thick-headed and too stubborn to be sick. She had run, quite literally. She had run away from him, hadn’t she? Still, it nagged at the edges of his mind, goading him until he couldn’t bear himself anymore.

  He changed from his clothes into his dressing gown, snuffed the candles in his bedchamber, and very quietly entered her bedchamber through the adjoining door. She hadn’t drawn the draperies across the windows—she’d showed some sense—and he could dimly see her outline in the center of her bed. His intention, he told himself yet again, was merely to see that she was all right.

  He stood over her, so still that he could have been an errant shadow. It didn’t take him long to realize that she was fully awake. He said softly, still not moving, “Victoria, where do you hurt?”

  “Please go away, Rafael,” she said, moving a bit further away from him on the bed. Slowly she eased her arms away from her belly, praying that he wouldn’t notice.

  It was a prayer in vain. “Your stomach? Your stomach hurts? Something you ate?” Then he touched her very gently, his fingers curling around her upper arm.

  “No. Unlike you, I am different, and things happen to me that never happen to you.”

  “Well, that’s true,” he said slowly, taking apart her words in his mind and reshaping them to give them her true meaning. It wasn’t long in coming.

  “Ah,” he said.

  She stiffened. Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped. She gritted her teeth, hoping against hope that just this once he would keep still.

  He didn’t. Instead, she felt him lift the covers and slip in beside her. His big warm body was quite naked.

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Hush, Victoria. I’m a very weary, concerned husband. Let me hold you. You’ll feel better in the morning—you’re right about that.”

  And that was that.

  She didn’t say a word when he pulled her back against his chest, fitting her bottom against his belly, nor did she do anything but suck in her breath when his large hand lay lightly over her belly. The warmth was marvelous, and she sighed deeply.

  Rafael listened to her even breathing in sleep and smiled to himself. He very softly kissed her ear and tried to make himself more comfortable. Poor little tyke. Then he realized that his ardor had been effectively doused for several womanly days.

  “The sacrifices I make for you,” he said, more to himself than his now-sleeping wife. He gently kneaded her belly until he himself fell asleep.

  They left the following day just after luncheon, as Rafael had planned, after Mrs. Ripple’s last attempt at a luncheon.

  “How, I wonder,” Rafael said pensively, “can a body ruin perfectly good ham? Ham, I am compelled to add, that you and I had already baked to perfection?”

  “Perhaps, it was the overabundance of some herb.”

  “You’re right. It was dill, I believe. Gallons of it.
Perhaps I should have made her one of my special bread men, changed the direction of her culinary thinking—it could have only improved the outcome, I think.”

  “Ah, here’s Tom,” said Victoria, laughter in her voice.

  Rafael heard it, and gave her a quick look. He studied her face for signs of any lingering discomfort, but found none. Her color was healthy, her eyes bright. He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “You are feeling just the thing again?”

  “Yes, certainly,” she said as she quickly climbed up into the carriage, not waiting for either Tom Merrifield or Rafael to assist her.

  Rafael stuck his head in the open window. “Feel free to call a halt whenever you wish to. All right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh, Rafael, does Damien know that we are arriving in two days at Drago Hall?”

  Rafael studied his York tan gloves for a moment, then said, “Of course. I wrote to him. I’m certain he’ll welcome us as politely as a vicar.”

  “I just bet he will,” she retorted. “As for Elaine, she will doubtless give a ball in our honor.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Rafael said thoughtfully. Indeed it wasn’t. He needed to reacquaint himself with all the hot-blooded young gentry who abounded in the area. He needed to discover the identity of the Ram. A ball seemed the perfect start. “I’ll speak to Damien about it very soon.”

  She shook her head at him. “I was jesting, but I see that you aren’t.” She wondered what he was up to. Something, of that she was certain. He had a purpose for returning to Drago Hall, one that involved more than a simple pilgrimage to his ancestral home. How would she pry it out of him? She was fast learning that when he wasn’t busy charming her and others, he could be as closemouthed as a clam.

  “We will leave Tom Merrifield at Axmouth. Do you remember my telling you about Flash Savory?”

  “Yes, the fastest pickpocket in all of London.”

  “He’s the one. He will meet us at Axmouth, at the Sir Francis Drake Inn. We will keep Mr. Mouls’s carriage and horses until we reach Drago Hall.”