by Meg Buchanan
He held his breath. He’d meant to reassure her, gentle her the way he would with a horse that was being difficult, but she was just as skittish and unpredictable. It seemed an age before she looked up, the anger gone but the hurt still there behind her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said to his relief. “It’s all so strange.”
“Have some wine.” He pushed another glass towards her. He needed to remember she was just seventeen, a frightened, beautiful child who was clinging to her only hope of being rescued.
After the meal, he suggested they walked in the grounds. She looked grateful, she might have agreed making love was beautiful, but she seemed more than happy to delay trying it a second time.
Outside the moon made long shadows on the grass, almost blue and the trees and deserted tents dissolved into the gloom. Once they were in amongst the gardens and well out of sight, he asked, “Are you still safe?”
Sophie nodded and sighed.
“I’ll stay all night again.” He had to get her away.
Sophie dropped his arm and put some space between them. “I’m sure Charlotte would be happy with whatever you wanted to do. She would be overjoyed.”
“But not you?”
“I have no choice. This is all Charlotte’s plan.” He could just see Sophie’s face and dress like a ghostly shadow beside him. “And I know, like you she didn’t think I was perfect last night. She said that it was all right for a first time, but she will expect me to do more than lie there like a log tonight.”
This was said with such a tone of irritation and complete disgust, finished with a good imitation of Charlotte’s voice, he gave a shout of laughter. “That’s a little unfair.” So, Charlotte was watching. “Did she say what she wants you to do?” He could be forgiven for being curious.
“She wasn’t specific,” said Sophie, still not impressed. “But she showed me a drawer in the room filled with scarves and other things. She said we were to use them.”
Shades of Millicent. “Did she say who she thinks should be tied up?” he asked, still curious.
“Tied up? Why would someone be tied up?” She sounded so puzzled, so out of her depth, he laughed again.
“And you shouldn’t laugh,” she said.
“Sophie.” He stopped walking, turned to her, tilted her chin up so she had to look at him. “I’m sorry, but this situation is as strange for me as it is for you.”
“Not quite. You at least know what you are meant to be doing. You had to get me drunk before I would do anything.”
He put his forehead against hers and tried to reassure her. “I thought you were lovely. I’m not sure what Charlotte expects of you,” he said, lying but not thinking it necessary to go into the details. “But I truly do think you were perfect.”
“Really?” she asked doubtfully.
He wrapped his arms around her, her head tucked comfortably under his chin. “Really.” He heard a morepork in the distance and the shadow of the tree behind them draped them in darkness.
She moved away a little. “I found out about the club like I said I would.” She pulled a folded piece of paper from under her sash and handed it to him. “I drew this, it’s a map.”
“For God’s sake, Sophie,” he said, dismayed at the risk she’d taken. He unfolded the paper and tried to see what she’d drawn. It was too dark, so he folded it again and put it into his pocket. “I’ll have a look at it later, why would you do this?”
“I was careful. I wanted to help.” He couldn’t fault the impulse. It was done, and she’d got away with it.
“It will be helpful. Where do you live?” He guessed it wasn’t in the bedroom she took him to, there were no books or pens there.
“Over there.” She pointed to a shadowy house to the right of the club. The dull glow of candles and firelight flickered from some of the windows, the rest were dark. The owl called again, and Sophie shivered, it wasn’t cold, but the night, and the shadows, the sound of the morepork and talking about something so odd was chilling.
He took off his coat, draped it around her shoulders and put his arms around her. “How often do you go to the club?”
“I am only to go if you are coming now,” Sophie looked up at him, dark eyes in a pale face. “Charlotte calls you my special friend.” She demonstrated again the ability to mimic Charlotte’s speech and sound disgusted at the same time.
He laughed quietly, even though there was nothing funny about the situation.
Sophie smiled up at him. “I know on Thursday night there was a bigger crowd than usual.” She chewed her lip thinking about what she’d seen. “Some of the men had a meal first, but most of them arrived just before nine and went straight outside.”
“Why?”
Sophie shrugged, hesitating as if she didn’t really believe what she was going to describe. “I think from the noises I heard and from what the men said that they were watching dogs fighting. I think they bet on which dogs will win and which ones will be ripped to pieces.”
“You didn’t see the dogs fighting?” He sat the coat more comfortably on her shoulders and adjusted the collar. He suspected she knew a lot more about the true nature of the world than she did a week ago and was only just starting to believe what she’d learned.
Sophie shook her head.
He smoothed her cheek, trying to comfort her, to let her know he was on her side. “What about the other girls?”
“I think they are given to the men. Charlotte tells them who they will be with. I have seen her directing them.”
“But not you?” Sophie shook her head again, and he drew her in closer. “I’ll tell Charlotte I’m staying with you until morning.”
“Why?” Her voice was muffled by his shirt. “The other men don’t stay all night.”
That was difficult to answer. She was beautiful, and he found her appealing. She was very young, very innocent, very impulsive, and easily hurt, but when they were making love, once she left the shyness and innocence behind, sensual, uninhibited, perfect. Now he wanted to protect her and keep her safe.
He didn’t go into any of those reasons because it was a bizarre mix; the way he was drawn to her, the desire to make love to her, set against her need for his protection.
Confusing. “If I can find a way to get you out of here, it will give us time to get away before Charlotte looks for you.” Sophie nodded. “And I want to be sure Charlotte knows you’re mine alone if we have to wait before you can escape.” He kissed her, and she responded and melted into him. At least now she didn’t flinch and pull away when she was touched. They might not have consummated the act last night, but she did learn a little about what was expected of her.
Then Charlotte found them. She swept across the grass, risking damage to the heels of her shoes and the hem of her gown, and herded them back to the building like a proud sheep protecting her lamb.
“Come inside, it is getting cool out here,” she said, A very warped sheep considering her objective. How long would it be before she told him what he owed her? Would she require money or favours?
Chapter 11
HE DIMMED THE LIGHTS in the bedroom as low as he dared. He didn’t want Charlotte coming into the room and insisting the lights were turned up so she could enjoy her entertainment for the evening. Then wandered over to the sideboard and opened the drawer. Scarves and other things just like Sophie said. He picked up a riding crop from amongst the silk and ribbons and examined it.
“What is that for?” asked Sophie, peering over his shoulder.
“Guess,” he said and hit the palm of his hand with the crop.
“Vraiment?” asked Sophie.
“Vraiment.” He turned so he was facing her, ran the tip of the crop from the top of her bodice between her breasts and down her body.
Sophie tucked her chin in against her chest, watching the progress of the crop and then looked up at him dismayed and disbelieving.
No, they wouldn’t be using the crop. Perhaps they would work up to it another tim
e. He put it on top of the sideboard beside the tray with a decanter of whiskey, an ice bucket, and glasses then pulled out a long silk scarf and ran the softness over his palm. This was more what they needed for a beginner. He wound the ends around his hands and turned to face Sophie.
She stepped back, watching him warily. “Who will be tied up?” she asked hesitantly.
“Guess,” he said again and went towards her menacing, twisting the silk around his hands, enjoying the game.
She watched him and when he was close, sighed and reluctantly held her hands up, palms and wrists pressed together, like a child praying.
He lowered the scarf and took her hands. He’d forgotten again for a moment how innocent she was. “Not like that,” he whispered. “Like this.” And held her wrists apart. If all this went terribly wrong and he couldn’t find a way to get her out of the club she must know how to protect herself.
“Why?” she asked.
“You need to be able to get your hands free. If someone tries to really hurt you, you’ll need to get away. There are some unpleasant people in the world.”
She sadly glanced at the mirror. “I know.”
He wanted to pick her up, carry her to the bed, surround her with his body, keep her safe that way, the way he did last night, but wasn’t sure how serious Charlotte was about the scarves and things.
“We don’t need to do this,” he said quietly. “We can just play again.”
“No, Charlotte told me, we can’t just play like last night. We have to do what she wants.” Sophie didn’t say, so, let’s get on with it, but she held her hands up again the way he showed her, and he knew that was what she meant.
He went to obey the silent demand, then changed his mind. “We don’t have to start with someone tied up, it is normal to play for a while first.”
Sophie nodded hesitantly and lowered her hands, bit her lip, then looked over at the whiskey. “Should I pour you a drink?” she asked hopefully.
He considered that. No, he should keep his wits about him if he was to continue to keep his promise to Sophie. Tonight must finish up as frustrating as last night did. She seemed a lot more comfortable with him than she was, but he didn’t want to frighten her by losing control.
“Not tonight.” He needed to walk a fine line between being a convincing customer and keeping Sophie safe. He took her hand, drew her closer and lowered his head and kissed her. She drew back and ran her tongue over where his lips had touched hers.
“All right?” he asked quietly. Sophie nodded, and this time her hands slid up his arms to his shoulders, she rose onto tiptoes and kissed him. It was a start. After a while, he moved his lips from hers to the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat and was rewarded with an intake of breath. But she pulled back again, watching him as if waiting for direction.
He would start with something easy. “Take your hair down.”
She nodded, lifted her arms and slowly removed the pins from her hair, one by one and placed each on the sideboard beside the decanter. Her hair tumbled loose over her shoulders and arms. She ran her fingers through it, then her arms fell to her sides again. “What should I do now?”
“Turn around.”
Sophie turned in his arms and stood still as he slowly unbuttoned her gown. He found Charlotte had taken the hint about undergarments seriously, though the confection of pale silk and ribbon, boning and lacing Sophie was wearing was like nothing he would see hanging on the family clothesline. He traced the line of lace along the top edge of the corset then pushed the back of the gown apart and down her arms.
“Very beautiful,” he said, running his hands down her waist then hips as the fabric dropped to the floor.
Sophie turned back, tumbled hair, transparent slip, nipples pushing against it above the corset, corset nipping in the already tiny waist.
“My turn.” She slowly and deliberately undressed him. No giggling or falling back. This time she showed a business-like concentration on tie, cuff links and buttons, shirt, shoes, socks. When she was finished, he was almost naked.
“Is this fair?” He looked down at himself, just in his trousers, palms held away from his sides, then at her. Compared to him, she seemed close to fully dressed even without her gown.
She giggled and stepped back. “It is what you told me to do last night.”
“I’m surprised you can remember.”
“And whose fault is that? You suggested the champagne.”
“You were happy to drink it.”
Sophie nodded, then tipped her head to one side. “I told Kitty about last night.”
“Kitty?”
“One of the other girls. I told her about you touching me with your mouth, and the way it made me shudder and sigh.”
“What did Kitty say?”
“Kitty said you must be a good lover, or I am a fast learner.”
“Is she a companion too?”
Sophie shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. But Kitty is nice; she talks to me.”
Sophie stood with her arm across her body, her elbow cradled in one hand, her other hand a fist under her chin, and studied him. “Now, what should I do next?” she asked herself.
“It is my turn.” He reached for her.
She stepped back and shook her head. “No.” She was smiling, daring him to come closer. Then she reached up and ran her hands through her hair again, arching her back, still smiling a little, skittish and flirting, enjoying keeping out of reach.
He sat down on the end of the bed and watched this new Sophie. It didn’t look like she was avoiding him because she was frightened, this time she was teasing.
“Sophie, this is ridiculous.” This wasn’t the play he was planning on. He had been thinking of tumbling in the sheets, caresses and kisses, the slow revealing of flesh as she became used to him again.
She stooped and picked up the scarf he’d dropped on the floor and twisted it around her hands the way he did earlier.
“I think I should like to tie you up.” She moved a little closer. “How is it done?”
He reached for her again, almost caught her petticoat this time, but she was too quick and stepped back.
“Tell me how it’s done,” she repeated, and stood there, garters, silk stockings, little slippers, the dark triangle that tickled his nose last night just visible, a shadow between her thighs.
He considered this change of direction, then shrugged. If that’s what she wanted, it might be interesting to see what she’d do. And they must do something this evening. He’d let her take the lead.
He sat on the end of the bed, pushed his fists into the mattress and humped himself back nearer the head.
He lay back, head against the headboard, arms stretched wide. “Like this.” His hands almost touched the carved end posts. “You’d need another scarf.”
He waited while Sophie went to the sideboard again and carefully selected one, then came back and looped the end around his wrist. Concentrating on the job, tongue caught between teeth, she tied a knot and then tied the other end to the post. He tugged on the silk when she was finished, the knot slipped. It should come undone easily if he pulled. Satisfied he let her tie the other wrist.
“Finished?” he asked when she was done.
Sophie nodded. “I think that must be right,” she said, studying her handiwork.
“What are you going to do now?” He was almost sure she couldn’t know.
“Wait and see,” said Sophie.
He pretended to tug against the bindings. “It seems I have little choice.”
Sophie giggled and went over to the sideboard. She picked up the crop from beside the decanter and then came back to the bed.
She tapped the crop on her palm. “I think a beating must be what happens now.” At the side of the bed, she toed off her slippers, and with stockinged feet, climbed inelegantly onto the mattress. She crawled across to him then pushed herself to standing, one foot each side of his hips.
He stared up at her. “Magnifice
nt.”
Sophie giggled again, then pretended to be serious.
“Do you dare laugh at me, Mr Samuels?” And tapped him with the crop.
“I wouldn’t think of it, carry on.”
She stood there a little uncertain, then touched the end of the crop to the base of his neck and slowly ran it down his chest, like he did to her earlier, then his ribs, down his stomach, to the waistband of his trousers. And she stopped.
“What now?” he asked, half amused, half aroused.
Sophie lifted the crop, tapped the end against her shoulder this time, her other hand on her hip.
She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “I am not sure.” Then her expression changed to pure mischief. She discarded the crop, dropped to her knees, legs each side of his waist, slip billowing, hands resting on his chest.
“This.” Her hands slid to the side of his ribs, and she tickled him, it took him by surprise. He bucked, twice, and she landed in a heap on the covers beside him, recovered, giggled, then pushed herself back up to kneeling and remounted.
“You nearly threw me off the bed then, Mr Samuels.” She slid her hands back to where she tickled. “I will punish you for that.” And tickled him again, this time he was ready and resisted moving.
“Untie me, Sophie,” he ordered, half laughing, a little irritated. “Tickling isn’t playing fair.” And he wanted revenge now.
“No.” Sophie leaned over him again and kissed his lips. She placed her finger where she’d kissed. “Be good,” she said. “Soit-gentil, I want to play.”
She moved her mouth to his chin, then neck, small kisses, tiny nips, hands following, hair trailing over his chest. She got to the bottom of his ribs and stopped. She traced the two red lines there, the flesh slightly puckered each side, then looked up at him, the glint of tears in her eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “You have scars; I didn’t see them last night.”
“I fell out of a tree when I was young.”
“It must have hurt.” The atmosphere in the room had changed, become solemn. Sophie leaned forward, small fist in the bedclothes, and kissed him on the lips again. “Poor Courtney,” she said quietly, into his mouth, her tongue met his, and then she moved her lips to his neck again. Then to his chest in a series of tiny kisses.
