The Rogue's Folly

by Donna Lea Simpson

  She rode out on Cassie, needing to rid herself of some of the angry energy she had bottled up in trying to be diplomatic with two men as foolish and stubborn as the reverend and Mr. Crandall. She galloped over the long swath of green through a fallow pasture, and then jumped off of Cassie and let her rest.

  Well, she had taken care of the present situation. And now there was another matter she must settle one way or another. She strolled through the long yellowing grass and tangled weeds, kicking with her booted foot at clods of earth and small stones. It was a warm enough day that she did not even need a jacket, and the October sun beat down on her neck with friendly heat.

  She walked and thought about the new dilemma in her life. Her mother had written her several letters in the last few weeks. After a resentful silence of some months, Maisie had written that she would like to come and visit her daughter, but she needed her permission because that was the agreement they had signed after that debacle in the spring, a situation that was inadvertently her mother’s doing in taking to her bed that horrible, sadistic creature, Captain Dempster.

  But her mother now sounded contrite, and May could not help the softening in the region of her heart. Her mother was who she was. She said she had been behaving herself of late, and in fact had not gone back to her old ways after that awful time in the spring. Her daughter would not even know her, she had become so circumspect. Her affair with Dempster had been a kind of madness, one that she bitterly regretted now. That she had risked her daughter’s life would always haunt her, and so it should, she wrote. She wanted to visit her daughter to discuss her future plans, and to assure herself that May was all right.

  But how could May believe her? She wanted to, but her mother’s past told against her. Her mother had been shockingly immoral, and May blamed her even for her beloved governess’s fall from grace all those years ago. After all, it was one of Maisie’s guests who was with Beaty—

  With a shock, May realized that Beaty was just three years older than May was now when last she had seen her. Had she felt about that man the same way May felt every time she touched Etienne? Did that man’s kisses burn into her? Is that what led to . . . her thoughts shied away from the memory of a day that was burned into her brain, the day she lost some innocence about relations between men and women.

  May remounted and rode some more, ending up, inevitably, at the folly. She did not tie Cassie to a branch this time, knowing she would stay in the wooded grove and would not wander far from her. Through the branches May could see Théron, the coal black of his coat a dark shadow in the wood as he moved silently toward the open area around the folly. She smiled, noting that Cassie was moving toward the black stallion as he entered the clearing. They were drawn together it seemed, even as she felt drawn to Etienne.

  She stepped into the folly. Etienne was sleeping on the couch, stretched out, one arm flung over his eyes and the other drooping off the edge of the sofa. He was deeply asleep, and she gazed at his perfect, lithe body, her heart beating hard and the liquid warmth she had come to recognize beginning again in her loins. Trembling, she lay down beside him, sharing his pillow, cradled in the curve of his out-flung arm.

  She felt restless and wild inside, and could not stop picturing his hands as they were the night before, roaming over her body, cradling her bottom, lifting her leg over him. And all the while his tongue probing her, searching her, making her squirm with ecstasy. She would have given anything to feel his tongue and lips on her naked skin.

  She curled up to his body, and his warmth and the quiet comfort of his breathing made her drowsy. How nice it would be to have him with her all the time, every night, to sleep beside like this. He shifted to his side, and her eyes flew open when she felt him pull her body close. But he was still asleep. It did feel rather nice, him so close, his leg and arm over her in a protective gesture, his body so close . . . so close . . .

  She drifted into sleep, and the midday shadows shifted across the wall of the folly. The sun was able to light up the folly better now, with the leaves of the alders and beech trees falling in little golden drifts on every autumn breeze. It peeked into the small structure and touched the two sleeping figures with a soft gilding and sunny warmth.

  • • •

  Etienne sighed and stretched slightly, awakening to the knowledge that he had been having a wonderfully naughty dream and that he was thoroughly aroused. A soft, slender body was curled into his own and he opened his eyes, startled.

  May was curled up against him with one arm around his waist, and he was laying almost on top of her, one slender, breeches-clad leg between his and snug against his groin. He pushed against her languidly, nuzzling the fragrant softness of her hair, but then stopped, rigid with shock as his mind fully awakened.

  She must have come to the folly while he slept and laid down beside him. She had not visited him that morning. After their late-night tryst he had feared that he had frightened her away for good. And after that, why did she lay with him now? Did she want him as he now acknowledged he wanted her?

  Or perhaps it was just that she was sleepy.

  He propped himself up on one elbow and gazed at her. The sun drifted in through bare branches, and the soft cambric shirt she wore molded to her small, perfect breasts. Every instinct told him to touch her, to caress her, to let her know how desirable she was and that there was nothing to be frightened of in her sensuality. He ached to love her slender body until she cried out in ecstasy.

  But no. He must not think that way over this little one.

  He gazed instead at her face, soft and strangely childlike in repose. She had not the blond curls, nor the retroussé nose, nor the perfect small mouth of other women. Her mouth was too large, her features too sharp and her forehead too high.

  Ah, but when she laughed! When she laughed her face lit up and her eyes, so pale blue like the sky, they sparkled. He had made her laugh many times just to see that glimmer. She had a sweet nature hidden under a tart manner, and a passionate heart and body hidden by her reserve.

  He traced her mouth with the tip of one finger and she pursed her lips. Her mouth opened then and he gave in to the urge to kiss her, covering her lips with his own, deepening the kiss as his arousal pulsed with awareness of her as a desirable woman.

  She gave a long, purring “Mmmm” of satisfaction and stretched, kissing him back and languidly flexing her body under his. Like a cat awakening, she rubbed herself sinuously against him. His breathing quickened and his kiss became deeper and wetter, as his hand slid down over her body, memorizing the curves that undulated like the low Kentish hills.

  Mon Dieu, but she was sweet, his little one, like honey dripping from a comb. She turned to him and pressed herself to his body, burrowing her lips into his neck and clinging to his shoulders, her slender fingers digging into the muscles. He held her close, and his hands wandered freely, cupping her bottom, kneading her thighs, and he pushed against her, finding sweet relief in the feminine valley between her legs.

  It had been too long, and she wanted him; he knew it with every particle of his being. And yet . . . she was such an innocent. He pulled back from her, groaning when she would urgently rub against him, almost defeating every chivalrous urge for the violent desires of his body. He was torturing himself to no end, for he would not take advantage of her semiconscious state. Besides, he honored her innocence and would preserve it from his own desire.

  “Little one,” he whispered, gazing down at her.

  “Etienne,” she whispered back, in a voice that deserved to echo in a dark bedchamber. It was a soft voice rich with desire, sweet with drowsy passion.

  He took her shoulders gently in his hands and shook lightly. “Little one, awaken.”

  “Etienne, please,” she whispered, and then pulled him down for another kiss.

  • • •

  What a delicious dream, she sighed, and licked her lips. And then she felt the warmth of a body next to hers. She opened her eyes to see Etienne’s tawny gaze a
nd smiling face close to her.

  It was not a dream after all! She had been shamelessly rubbing herself against him! Feeling the heat rise to her cheeks, she stumbled from the couch, her riding boots thudding against the stone floor. Her hair had tumbled from the pins that had anchored the heavy coil, and with shaking fingers she tried to pin it back, to no avail.

  Etienne lay back on the couch and grinned up at her. “What a constant and delightful surprise you are, little one.”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. She wondered, had she been doing what she wanted, on some level, to do? She had thought it a dream but could still feel him between her thighs rubbing against her. And she thrust back! She covered her cheeks with her hands, devastated by the growing conviction that she was no better than her mother. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, eyes wide.

  His expression sobered. “I mean nothing, my sweet, truly.”

  She glanced wildly around the folly and moved, clapped her hands together. “Look at this place,” she cried. “It is so dirty! How can you live like this?” She took the broom and cleaned up some scattered leaves that had blown in through the open window and piled his dirty dishes on the small table. She whirled through the place cleaning, uncomfortably aware of Etienne’s gaze on her as she worked.

  Finally, though, the place tidied to her requirements, she slowed her pace and put away the broom. She met his eyes and bit her lip, hoping she would not see in his eyes condemnation.

  He patted the sofa beside himself. She approached cautiously and sat gingerly down. He put his arm around her and pulled her close until their thighs were touching. “Little one, you must know, what you feel is not dirty.”

  She gazed at him trustingly, and his heart was deeply touched. She had become so much to him that he was no longer aware of what exactly it was he felt for her. No woman had touched his heart since his mother had died. He wondered if his long string of older lovers had been an effort to replace in his heart the one woman who cared for him as no other. He never did let them in his heart, though. Always he managed to escape heart whole.

  But May . . . her laughter, her sorrow, her sweet tender passion were all life to him, and he thought that he would have to leave very soon, for the danger he brought her was more than just Delisle and his henchman. If they should fall in love with each other there could be no happy resolution, no fairy-tale ending. He was outside of the law, and he brought danger with him. And even beside that, he was poor and she rich. He could never marry with that between them.

  Marry? Bah, what was he even thinking! Marriage was not, nor ever had been, a part of his plans.

  He returned his thoughts to what he wanted her to know. “What goes on between a man and a woman is not dirty. How can you think that, if you believe in a good and benevolent God who created us as we are? You English do believe that?”

  “I have learned that man was created in God’s image, but that woman was created to destroy him, bringing about his eviction from the garden. You certainly have not heard some of the sermons I have, about hellfire and damnation,” she said wryly.

  He shrugged and chuckled, happy to see her sense of humor returning. “The priests are even worse. Having no women themselves, neither do they want the rest of us to enjoy them. But I have developed my own theory. Do you think that God, or nature, or whatever you believe in, meant love to be distressing to a woman, only pleasurable for a man? Of course not. Lovemaking is meant to be enjoyed equally by both men and women. It is just that the consequences of that physical expression of love outside of marriage are so much more devastating to women.

  “That is why there is this curious . . . what is the word? Ah, yes, it is the same in my language and yours . . . dichotomie . . . ah, dichotomy—how strange that many of your English words are so like the French—there is this dichotomy between what women feel and what they are allowed to do by society.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her open gaze made his heart turn over again, and he looked away. His voice, when he spoke, was curiously husky. “Men, dictatorial beasts that they are, feel the need for the virgin bride, you know this? We are a jealous breed, and need to be sure our sons are truly ours, you know? But for the woman’s sake, for her pleasure, it is best if the man has had some experience before taking her . . . her virginity.”

  “Why is that?”

  Dieu! Had nobody told this girl anything? “You don’t really want me to explain, do you?” he asked, shaking his head in wonder.

  She pursed her mouth and looked off out the window, at leaves carried on the autumn breeze, and then gazed back up into his eyes, leaning closer. “I . . . I think I do, Etienne,” she said, her voice husky. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  Inwardly he groaned. Tell this girl about men and women, even while his body still desired her, while he remembered her kisses and her body arched against his own, her curves fit against his hardened body?

  But he would do anything for her. “Let us lay back in comfort then, and I will tell you some of what is true between a man and a woman, as I know it.”

  Chapter Ten

  It was a long and awkward conversation, but Dieu, someone should tell these girls the truth! The amount she did not know, and especially about her own body, was appalling. Hours later, Etienne watched May ride away on her pretty dun mare, Cassiopeia.

  She had the perfect seat on a horse, and the view of her bottom . . . ah, he was becoming enamored, and that, it was not good. He hoped he had answered some of her questions regarding men and women, but it was torture! He must conceal from her the way he had come to feel. She must think that the desire he so obviously felt for her was merely the transient urges a man experienced when he saw something that appealed to him.

  He could not quite understand the depth of his own feeling. Perhaps it was just gratitude, for he had much to thank her for, and he would not be the first man to confuse his feelings. Relations between men and women were difficult, for always, in a man, was the awareness of desire, the viewing of the woman with the question in his mind—and what would this one be like under the covers?

  He would not allow himself to believe it was more than that. He stared down the path, not able to see May any longer but unwilling to move.

  Brooding, he wondered, who did he think he was fooling? He wanted her body, yes, but also he wanted her to love him . . . just a little. He felt tied to her, bound by some mutual stirring, a tension between them that lovemaking alone would release.

  He knew women; what she felt was the awakening of her young body to sensations she had long suppressed. Something happened that had shocked her, something from long ago; certainly it was not the awful experience with her captor. He squinted into the woods. Her questions had been quite pointed on occasion. Was the man always on top? Did they use their mouths on each other’s bodies? She wanted to know if people talked while they were doing what they did in bed. Or did they just cry out, unintelligible?

  He shook his heads. How difficult to answer was that? Every woman was different, some chattered the whole time. That kind of woman drove him to distraction! Some said nothing at all, nor did they move or participate. Never did he make love to that woman twice. But some were the right blend, murmuring or sighing their pleasure into his ear, and taking delight sometimes quietly and sometimes with cries of joy.

  Would May be like that? He rather thought she would, from the way she had whispered his name, a sound so precious he thought he could listen forever.

  He must put that out of his mind. He would not be the one to give her her first experience as a woman. He had dedicated the afternoon to laying the foundation for a happy marriage for her in the future, preparing her for some other man’s bed. If he could, he would erase from her heart the fear of lovemaking, the strange, dark distaste with which she viewed it. He hoped she would go to her first man with trembling anticipation, not quivering fear.

  A bitter, metallic taste flooding his mouth, he pushed away from the door and threw
himself back down on the couch.

  • • •

  May wound her way through the woods and then let Cassie have her head as they cantered up the hill. Etienne had explained so much. It was odd that even though she knew her feelings for him were not appropriate, she felt she could ask him anything. He would not laugh at her. She could ask questions and speak of things she thought would be hidden in her mind forever. He made it all sound so simple, so delightful even, and it would take a while to assimilate all he had said.

  He had explained the physical aspect of lovemaking, and it filled her with wonder. Of course she had understood some of the raw facts already. One could not live in the country and not know unless one was a sheltered young miss, and she had been unusually free as a girl with a mother who was more interested in her endless stream of beaus than in her child. She understood the earthy truth about animal impregnation.

  And then there was Beaty of course, and what had gone on behind the door.

  But Etienne’s description had made it seem not so foreign or strange. In his description sexual relations between a man and woman became natural and even beautiful, rather than ridiculous and sordid, as she had come to think of it when she allowed herself to think of it at all.

  But she had not been able to ask some questions, the ones that had to do with her desire for him. She set Cassie to galloping, but then reined her back when they came in sight of the stables. She jumped from the mare and led her by the reins.

  Lately she had felt a confusing swarm of desire and urges that had all begun to center on Etienne. Alone at night in the dark she would picture his lithe form, his broad shoulders and slender hips and exciting hands, and she would feel the thrill of excitement, the heat as she remembered their kisses and how their bodies fit together as one.

  Everything he said went against the strict teachings of Miss Parsons. If she believed him, what she felt was normal, natural, nothing to be ashamed of. But if she believed her former teacher, what she desired made her a strumpet, just like her mother.