Sweet as the Devil

by Susan Johnson

  The silence lengthened.

  Blighted hope and heavy breathing a miasma in the air. Sofia opened her eyes and spoke first. “Forgive me for making demands,” she said with a smile, having sensibly concluded that it was just a matter of time before Jamie Blackwood succumbed to his libido if not her allure—a belief based on personal experience. “I do thank you for your kind attention, though,” she amiably added, dropping her gaze to the bulge in his riding pants that put the lie to his refusal. “As a matter of fact, I’m wonderfully tingly all over—inside and out—inside mostly and very much so, thanks to you.”

  Jamie was currently a universe beyond tingly and dubious of any apology with a codicil such as hers. In addition, hot-blooded lust was still hammering his senses with unprecedented force, the hard, pulsing spasms vibrating through his body with every beat of his heart. No novice to degrees of horniness, he recognized that Miss Eastleigh’s fiery disposition might lead him to take undue risks.

  And that he would not do. “We must go,” he said. He didn’t trust himself to say more.

  “A final kiss?” She smiled, a small sweet smile. “For good luck?”

  “No,” he harshly said, then more graciously, “Don’t ask. I can’t.”

  But his erection had swelled and lengthened at her words, and before he could stop her, she’d reached out and touched it.

  “Don’t.” He stepped out of range.

  “I swear you must be a monk”—her gaze flicked downward—“to ignore that.” Amiability forgotten, more prone to temper than reason, she could not conceal the frustration in her voice. “Or are you afraid of me or my father—of what people might say?” Still wanting what she wanted, she taunted, “I wouldn’t have thought you so timid.”

  “This isn’t a game,” Jamie coolly replied, his brief madness overcome, saner counsel once again in command. “This is bloody serious. And I could give a damn what anyone thinks, you included. What I am afraid of is finding us in the crosshairs of Von Welden’s killers if we don’t leave quickly enough.” Taking her by the shoulders, he spun her around and gave her a nudge in the direction of the door. “So while you’re damned tempting”—he placed his hand in the small of her back—“you’re not worth getting killed for. Now move or—”

  A hard knock on the door cut him short.

  “The horses are getting restless, sir.”

  He recognized the voice. “We’ll be right there, Douglas.” Only the twitch over his cheekbone gave evidence of his temper as he spoke. “They’re high-spirited bloodstock, Miss Eastleigh. After you.”

  Good Lord, she had to give the man credit. He was cross as a bear yet astonishingly restrained, a virtual flesh-and-blood knight-errant while she was acting like a petulant child, she ruefully admitted. She turned back. “A last question,” she said, taking pains to be equally civil, yet not entirely resigned to meekly submitting to prolonged abstinence. “Would you ever consider giving in to impulse—say of a sexual nature?”

  “Even if I did, I wouldn’t now. Survival trumps sex in my book, Miss Eastleigh. Although, I admit, under other circumstances,” he added in the same cool tone, “you’d be lying on that sofa over there and I’d be fucking you. Is that a satisfactory answer?”

  “Why not do it then?” Her voice was honey sweet. “It wouldn’t take long.”

  “Maybe I don’t like to rush.” He unconsciously flexed his fingers against an almost overwhelming urge to pick her up and toss her on the sofa.

  She contemplated his erection still evident beneath the tan twill of his jodhpurs, then looked up. “Why don’t we find out whether you do or not?”

  “Out.” He indicated the door with a jab of his finger. “Now.”

  “Would it make any difference if I said no?”

  He exhaled softly. “We’re wasting time.”

  “Someday I’ll get my way.”

  “I’m sure you will. But not on my watch.”

  Whether she was more galled by Jamie’s intractability or her lack of control in the deteriorating chaos of her life, of one thing she was certain. Drawing herself up to her nominal height next to Jamie’s strapping size, she said, “I insist we stop to see my mother. I’ll brook no opposition in that regard. Do you hear?”

  “Yes, of course. I said we would.” He pushed her toward the door.

  “And I suppose you always keep your word,” she scoffed.

  “Mostly.”

  She looked sideways, then up, and her sudden smile appeared bright as a rainbow after a storm.

  Oh Christ, he thought.

  “Do you mean to say,” she softly queried, “that you might actually consider straying from the path of righteousness?”

  “No.”

  “Now why don’t I believe you?” she purred.

  He inwardly groaned.

  Bloody hell.

  One evening with Miss Eastleigh and his defenses had damned near collapsed. It didn’t prophesy well for the days ahead, or more to the point, the coming days were going to be a living hell.

  Maybe he’d have to reconsider his scruples apropos sex with the prince’s daughter.

  Merde.

  As if he needed any more problems.

  CHAPTER 14

  TWO TRAVELING CHAISES drawn by four-horse teams were waiting at the curb. After helping Sofia in, Jamie stood at the open door, his hand resting on the latch. “I’ll be riding tonight.” He looked away at a word from one of his troopers, nodded, then turned back to Sofia. “Sleep if you can.”

  He shut the door and walked away.

  They traveled fast, but the well-sprung carriage softened the impact of any rough patches for the single passenger inside the lead chaise. At first Sofia watched the city streets race by, wondering when next she’d see them, wondering with a degree more apprehension whether they were being followed.

  But once they reached the outskirts of London—the city lights distant now—the carriage came to a halt. The sound of jingling harness and men’s voices was heard as the troopers dismounted, and then the quick tread of spurred boots was audible and drawing near.

  The door opened and Jamie stood within the dim glow of the carriage lamp, booted and spurred, the width of his shoulders filling the doorway, a quick smile flashing white in the gloom. “I thought you’d like to know that we’re quite alone on the road. No one is following us.”

  “You must be clairvoyant. I was just worrying about pursuit.”

  “Leave the worries to me,” he pleasantly said, as if he were in his element, as if fleeing from killers in the dark of night were exhilarating. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Yes, very. Thank you.”

  “There’s food if you wish, books”—he glanced at the inside carriage lamp. “You can turn up the wick if you like. We’ll be stopping toward morning for breakfast. We’ll find a hotel with, er—washing facilities unless you require them sooner.”

  “No, no, I’m fine.”

  He dipped his head and smiled again. “Sweet dreams, Miss Eastleigh.”

  The door closed on his stark beauty, professional competence, and unexpected cheer, and with a disgruntled sigh, Sofia lamented his unfortunate sense of duty. But wishes weren’t horses, as everyone knew, so she busied herself inspecting her sumptuous prison.

  A very luxurious prison indeed, it turned out with numerous amenities tucked away in compartments under the seat: a fur carriage robe, several silk-covered down pillows, a hamper of exquisite picnic fare, one of chilled wine, a small stock of books, a brush, comb, and silver-backed mirror, a toothbrush and toothpowder, and a change of clothes, underwear included, that appeared to have been purloined from a maidservant.

  Blackwood was indeed efficient as the principessa had noted. He’d thought of most everything, Sofia marveled. Opening another small cupboard under the seat, she stared wide-eyed at the stack of clean, white flannel. Not just most everything, she thought, smiling despite herself— everything . . . the indispensable necessities for her monthly courses conveniently o
n hand.

  Did he have a checklist? she wondered.

  Or was he just supremely efficient?

  Or did he travel with women so often such mundane matters were second nature to him? Which last thought she found irritating for no good reason. Really, none at all, she decided, shutting the cabinet door and dropping into a sprawl on the seat. The women in his life were no concern of hers.

  Yet—the thought was annoying. As if she had some claim on him. When she didn’t. When she clearly didn’t. When she’d never in her life even wished to make a claim on a man.

  Nevertheless . . . she found herself reflecting on his many perfections—from a purely artistic point of view, she spuriously told herself. Like an artist considering a potential subject. She had no personal interest—other than one of a purely sexual and transitory nature.

  In fact, had she not first seen Jamie Blackwood half dozing after a night of obvious sexual excess at the Countess Minton’s several weeks ago, she might not have perceived him with such fascination. But he’d been so patently the countess’s personal stud in residence, the erotic implications had been searing. Additionally, if he hadn’t so casually ignored Bella’s possessiveness, if his indifference hadn’t been so undisguised, she wouldn’t have found him so intriguing.

  His attitude was very similar to hers.

  She, too, preferred casual attachments.

  And having met her male counterpart, why wouldn’t she fancy him?

  Furthermore, caught as she was in the amber of Blackwood’s authority, an amorous liaison would not only test her ingenuity apropos his canons of behavior, but it would also dispel the boredom of a tedious journey.

  Didn’t someone once say, The will to do, the soul to dare?

  A small lustful ripple slid up her vagina at the salacious possibilities occasioned by long days with Jamie Blackwood on their travels north. She pictured him with her in the privacy of the carriage and pleasantly recalled the feel of him, the taste of him, the phenomenal size of his cock. He was really quite extraordinary, and she should know with sex one of her favorite amusements. The graphic memory of his finely tuned body and physical endowments whetted her appetite, titillated her consciousness, warmed her blood, escalated her breathing.

  With considerable effort she managed to calm her breathing ; she disliked being so affected by the baffling man. She begrudged his scruples and her aberrant, practically giddy response to him when her love life had always been free of this bedeviling neediness. “Hell and damnation,” she grumbled. Why couldn’t he be like every other man she knew and fall at her feet?

  Since he obviously wouldn’t, however, she must curtail her impetuousness and plan her campaign with levelheaded subtlety. Yielding to reckless desire would be counterproductive if she wished to play the seductress; the role required clear thinking and guile.

  Particularly when her warder had rebuffed her at every turn.

  Unfortunately she was by nature neither cool nor pragmatic, her life to date one of unhindered freedom. Consequently, planning a campaign of seduction soon gave way to more enthralling contemplation of Jamie Blackwood, his image in her mind vivid, sexually graphic, and despite rare attempts, impossible to dislodge. That she was cursed with an artist’s infinite capacity for visualization was a distinct liability. Or not, she decided, the sudden vision of Jamie au naturel lying above her, his dark hair framing his face, his gaze heated, close, his erection—oh, damn, here she was, panting and eager and alone!

  A dilemma that never arose in London.

  One she wouldn’t be experiencing here either if not for his stupidity!

  Overwrought, skittish, her body glowing, she could practically feel the hard, rigid length of his cock as if she were still sitting on his lap; she could almost taste the peaty Highland whiskey on his breath as she’d plundered his mouth, see his broad shoulders filling the doorway of her carriage moments ago.

  In the name of God—why does he have to be so pious? She trembled as a soft, stirring desire coiled deep inside her, the rising heat curling upward, spiraling like flickering flame through her senses, warming her skin, drenching her vaginal tissue in readiness. A swamping wave of orgasmic urgency overwhelmed her, and she squirmed on the soft, cushioned seat.

  She ached, quivered, throbbed, the need for satisfaction no longer a wish but a requirement. Her mind racing, she debated the means: the hairbrush or mirror handle; the neck of a wine bottle; some appropriate vegetable from the picnic basket? Or, or, or—a small excitement gripped her. Was it possible her warder’s efficient packing included a dildo? Considering the miscellany of items she’d already discovered—please God!

  If he’d been so considerate, she’d forgive his brusque authority and senseless rebuffs, his complete unconcern for her feelings. In fact, in her current mindless frenzy, she was indifferent to all his slights if only she attained orgasm now, now, now, and with that goal in mind, she dropped to her knees and rummaged madly through the storage cabinets under the seats. Seconds later, she opened a carved wooden box, cried, “Eureka,” came up off her knees in a flash, stripped off her riding pants, and speedily put the exquisite ivory dildo to good use.

  Racing headlong toward climax, wallowing in a lavish, transcendent ecstasy, she forgave him everything—every little thing! Having been tantalized all evening by a man who pleasured other women but not her, a man who’d almost succumbed to her blandishments, her climax was almost instant. And so violent she couldn’t find the breath to scream.

  Fortunately.

  Nor time to pull down the shades, she noticed afterward with horror. Oh God. Hastily jerking down the silk shades, she briefly anguished over possible witnesses while her heartbeat subsided and the last orgasmic flutter died away. In the end, though, she concluded that no one would dare mention it to her face.

  With any possible awkwardness dismissed and her initial frantic urges assuaged, she began to more leisurely explore her revived passions. To that purpose, she occupied herself with her tried-and-true substitute for reality—her imagination. She conjured up her handsome protector: that large body, those huge hands, his weight, the way he moved, with a grace rare in big men. She recalled his stark beauty, his cool, dangerous gaze; he was a man of substance among lesser men, she pleasantly decided as she plied the ivory dildo with deliberate languor. In and out slowly, slowly—a small helpless gasp as breathy punctuation each time she pressed it home. But wanting him instead, wishing all the while that it was Jamie between her legs, his cock gliding in, penetrating her slick warmth—gently, gently.

  Or would he be rough and forceful instead? Would he indulge himself rather than her? Was he a brute with that prizefighter body? Not likely, she decided a second later, not with Countess Minton one of his harem. She was a connoisseur of men and their talents.

  As the miles rolled by, Sofia continued her solitary, voluptuous game, varying the scene, the rhythm, the picture of Jamie in her mind. And pleasure took on new meaning, an exalted delight, a heightened degree of arousal that could only be attributed to her charismatic, imaginary partner.

  She experienced a series of ravishing climaxes—all thanks to the baron’s stunning face and form, his stirring virility, his careless indifference—that last quality triggering her fiercest orgasms.

  Sofia recalled his cool insouciance and suave courtesy on display that morning at the countess’s, the measured neutrality in his attitude as he waited to service the countess again. It had been clear that he was available as stud so long as he was humored.

  Sofia had never had to humor a man.

  How exactly did one do so?

  A most provocative focus of her attention that proved to be highly stimulating, abundantly orgasmic, and ultimately, sweet prelude to sleep.

  The sun was a faint golden glow on the horizon when the troop and carriages came to a halt.

  The men dismounted, the drivers climbed down, and everyone stretched their muscles after a long night on the road. As conversation broke out amongst the men
, Jamie made for the lead carriage. He was tired, desperate for a cup of coffee, and not in the mood to face the troublesome Miss Eastleigh. Silently rehearsing a polite good morning, he approached the carriage and on reaching it, braced himself, forced a smile, and opened the door.

  His smile faded.

  Sofia was sleeping on the forward seat, half-clothed, one arm trailing on the floor, the dildo fallen from her fingers. But it was her lower body that occupied his attention. She was nude save for the fur robe draped over one leg, her pale pubic hair gleaming in the faint shadows of the interior, her sex sleek and wet from masturbation, a light tincture of residue on her upper thighs.

  He had to forcibly restrain himself from climbing into the carriage and waking her with a more substantial substitute for the engraved ivory device. One booted foot was already off the ground before he caught himself. Dropping his foot, he quietly shut the door and took a moment to tamp down his mindless resentment and bring his breathing under control. Christ, this is all so bloody impossible. With a muttered curse, he strode away.

  But his men took note of his scowl and the small tic near his eye, and when he curtly said, “Miss Eastleigh’s sleeping. We’ll stop in the next town unless someone objects,” no one dared do so.

  On the next leg of the journey, he rode far ahead of the troop at a hard, steady pace, putting distance between himself and temptation. Douglas and his brother exchanged glances as they rode side by side, leading the cavalcade. “The bonny lad wants that bit o’ fluff, I ken,” Douglas said with a grin.

  Robbie lifted his chin in the direction of their leader far in the distance. “He canna last long the mood he’s in.”

  “I dinna doubt ye’re right.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Aye, if not before.”

  Both men nodded.

  In the next village, Jamie was waiting for them outside a modest hotel that proclaimed its attraction as the holiday residence of some poet long forgotten. The name was unfamiliar except to the locals, although Jamie had been apprised of the man’s life story in brief as he’d bespoken a parlor for Miss Eastleigh and breakfast for them all.