Entangled (A Private Collection)

by Fresina, Jayne

  She sighed into his hair. “I don’t want it ever to end. Let’s stay like this forever.”

  He was so content that he fell asleep at two o’clock in the afternoon and, for the first time in his life, he dreamed for a while. A brief while.

  * * * *

  Daisy stretched under his weight with difficulty. Staying like that “forever” was giving her a dreadful cramp. Finally, still snoring lightly, he rolled off her and onto his back, arm flung out. She lay on her side, propped up on one elbow, watching him for a long time. He must have been tired, for he was out like a snuffed candle. Poor man.

  Rain still fell, rattling against the window, painting a drifting pattern of silver and grey around his room. They hadn’t thought to close the curtains. Even on that dull, gloomy, overcast day, she felt merry now, like a fractious child soothed by a new toy to play with.

  Was it really wonderful, he’d asked, as if he didn’t know for sure. She wanted to laugh out loud. Wonderful hardly described it, but it was the only word she could find in that moment, so it had to suffice. Later, she’d look in her dictionary, find more words, write them down, and learn them. It was good to enlarge ones vocabulary, and she was sure she’d need a great many superlatives in the future. Superlatives. Guy had taught her that word when he once accused her of always exaggerating and warned her that well-bred young ladies didn’t. Well-bred young ladies kept their adjectives in check, never got over-excited, and didn’t run on at length on any subject.

  Ugh, her clothes were still damp. She rolled off the bed and quickly finished undressing. All plans of returning to work had vanished. The hotel could manage without her for another few hours. Ginny had pestered her for some time to have more responsibility about the place and she spoke well, was always neat with her appearance, and learned quickly. This would be a chance for the girl to prove herself. Satisfied the hotel was in good hands, she undressed the man on the bed, no easy task since he was obliging as a dead weight, and then pulled the quilted coverlet over them both. Shivering, she curled up next to his warm body and, even in apparent sleep, he reached for her, turning onto his side, tucking one arm under her and pulling her into his heavy-limbed embrace. She wriggled her bottom against his groin, suddenly mischievous again.

  How dare he sleep when she wanted to play?

  Sighing deeply, impatiently, she stretched her body out along his length, tangling her legs with his. Did she imagine that, or had his muscles just tensed?

  Still, his breathing remained unchanged, his snores gently blowing in her hair. A twinge of guilt seared her thoughts. She’d worn the man out. He was supposed to be recovering from that horrific mining accident and here she was taking advantage of him like a selfish hussy.

  He ought to be resting. She ought to let him.

  Just as she made up her mind to lay still and stop bothering him, he moved and this time it was definitely not an involuntary motion. The thick, fleshy head of his cock pushed at her bottom. As his hands clutched her breasts, his finger spread wide to encompass the full mounds, squeezing possessively. She gasped, pressing back, parting her legs. His manhood slipped between her thighs from behind and rubbed on her sensitive flesh as he moved slowly, sensuously. When did it happen that he became erect again? Very sneaky. His left hand moved down over her belly and then guided his crest to the slippery entrance of her womanhood. He groaned deeply and held it there, pressing and rubbing until the friction made her sigh and moan, the heat sparking inside, melting her again.

  She wriggled, reaching down, trying to urge him in, but he held off.

  “What are you waiting for?” she panted.

  His breath skimmed her shoulder, dampened it. “Tell me you love me and you can have what you want.”

  She swallowed and it burned in her throat. His firm chest muscles pressed against her spine, his right arm was under her, wrapped around her, his knee was between her legs, holding her open while his cock massaged her entrance, driving her to the fevered brink of madness. She desperately wanted him inside her again. It had been too brief before, but now they were both naked, ready to linger and savor. She reached up with one arm and linked it around his neck, pulling his head closer, his lips to her shoulder.

  “I love you,” she gasped. “Please.”

  She felt soft laughter shudder through him. “You don’t have to ask my permission to love me.”

  “That’s not what I said please for.”

  “Oh. Is this what you said please for?” He began to press upward into her sex and then paused.

  “Please,” she whispered again, dripping wet. “I love you.”

  * * * *

  He mounted her from behind, one hand on her belly, the other wrapped around her waist. Thank goodness she hadn’t said “Lawrence” again. He shook that thought off, tightened his lips, and applied himself diligently to servicing his lusty, restless, demanding wife. She closed around him like a hot, skintight glove, and he took her hard, ruthless, wanting to hear her scream and feel her collapse on him, a lover impaled on his lance. A moment ago he’d been asleep, now he was wide awake and he wouldn’t close his eyes again.

  He promised himself, with a slow, taut smile, that he wouldn’t let her sleep either.

  * * * *

  Two hours later, Daisy was grabbing the brass bedstead, fingers wrapped around the cool metal, head down, curls spilling across the pillow. The man was unstoppable, it seemed, tireless. She felt his legs against the back of her thighs as he bent over her. He spread his knees on the bed and entered her again, his hands clutching her bottom, his flesh slapping against hers. He ground into her and she knelt before him, pushing back, taking him in. Her breasts brushed over the pillow as his rapid motion rocked her back and forth and the sensation heightened the pleasure in her nipples so that when his fingers reached for them and held them only lightly, it was all she needed to climax violently, yet again.

  Still, he wasn’t done. He was a master, his brinkmanship clearly unrivalled. As the tremors raced through her in wave after wave, he clamped his hips against her bottom, relishing his moment of deepest possession. She turned her head against the pillow and, through a veil of hair, saw his reflection in the dresser mirror as he looked down at her. His eyes were half closed, his jaw tight, his lips smiling. It felt like spying to observe him without his knowledge, but she couldn’t stop. And then he flung his head back and she saw his mouth form the shape of her name, his dark lashes down, his profile framed by the light through the window behind him.

  She loved him. Yesterday morning she hadn’t known him. And now, already, she loved him.

  Much later, as he lay on his back and she kissed his chest, tracing the carved ridges with her fingertips, she marveled at her good fortune. No, Lawrence Bailey wasn’t what she expected at all. He’d been sent to her by some mischievous little demon out to change everything she thought she knew, everything she ever thought she needed from life.

  “I’ll tell Guy tomorrow,” she said.

  He was resting with his head on his arms, staring up at the leaky ceiling. “That won’t be necessary. He already knows. Or he will soon.”

  “How can that be? I didn’t know myself until a few hours ago.”

  And he laughed, the sound rippling through his chest. “But I did. I knew long before.”

  She pressed up on to her elbows, her hair tumbling about her shoulders. “What have you done?”

  He said solemnly, “Chopped the little bastard up and dumped him in the river.”

  “The truth.”

  But he only laughed at her. Even when she sat astride his chest and threatened all manner of recriminations, he wouldn’t tell.

  Stroking her hair back over her shoulders, he told her how beautiful she was. Again she was reminded of Randolph Blackwood, who had once said the same thing to her, in almost the same tone of voice, when persuading her to be his muse one summer six years ago. Lawrence had the look of a Blackwood about him, she realized. It was in his very dark eyes and the cut of h
is chin. She’d never noticed before, but seeing Randolph’s son in the foyer only that morning had brought back the memory of that strong face.

  “What time do you suppose it is?” he asked, yawning.

  The rain had drizzled to a slow end and the day, which had never been greeted by a proper sun, now sank in a dull, sour milk mist behind the yew trees at the end of the garden. She could just see the tops of the drenched branches from the window and subsequently the dying, dreary light. The air was heavy with the threat of a storm.

  “Six or seven,” she estimated. It was time to go back to work. She’d left Ginny alone long enough and was surprised no one came knocking at the door with a problem.

  “Where are you going?” he protested as she scrambled off the bed in search of her clothes.

  “You sleep. Rest.” She checked her face in the mirror and saw she was flushed, her hair matted, parts of it springing out in wayward curls. Anyone looking at her, she thought in a panic, would see what she’d been up to all afternoon.

  Daisy Wellfleet Bailey, you’re a disgrace to the efforts of independent womanhood.

  Behind her, the man responsible for her descent sprang out of bed with a burst of rejuvenated energy, completely disregarding her advice, whistling a merry tune and ruffling his hair with one hand.

  She sincerely hoped he didn’t think he was done yet. He’d better not fall asleep later when they came properly to bed, because she had a feeling this was addictive.

  Smiling secretly, contented as the proverbial cream-thieving cat, she watched him in the mirror, once again spying. It wasn’t every day a girl got to have a man like this one to come home to. Even as he bounced about on one leg trying to pull on his trousers, banging his knees on various bits of furniture, he made her yearn for later tonight.

  With trembling fingers she braided her hair over one shoulder. It was the best she could do for now, to regain a little decorum.

  * * * *

  Ginny was at the counter, smart and efficient. For once Fred the porter was at his post, probably because he liked to flirt with Ginny, and Mrs. Smedley had everything under control in the kitchen with Violet’s help. The fire in the dining room was already lit, and the smoking oil lamps had been replaced by those with the wicks correctly attended to, as she’d instructed. They currently had only three guests and they were already seated for dinner.

  “Miss Wellfleet— I mean, Mrs. Bailey, here’s the post I sorted for you earlier. You didn’t have a chance to look at it yet.” Ginny handed her a small note. “The rest I put in your office, but this looks personal and important, miss— ma’am.”

  She recognized the crest on the back of the envelope. It had come from Abbingdon manor, the stationary probably pinched from the housekeeper’s parlor, and the address scrawled untidily across the front was in Lizzie Jenkins’ unschooled hand. She took it with her into her office and opened it.

  Five minutes later she came out again, calling for Albie. He came running, familiar with the angry tone in her voice.

  “Come with me,” she said, leading him upstairs.

  “Where are we goin’?”

  “You’re going to keep watch for me.”

  He clapped his hands, excited at the prospect.

  On the upper floor, she grabbed a small, sturdy chair from one of the empty rooms and dragged it across the worn carpet to Lawrence Bailey’s bedroom.

  “You stand out here in the hall, Albie, and if you see anyone coming, tell me at once. But don’t shout.”

  He saluted proudly and stood like a sentinel in the narrow hall while she went inside with the chair.

  * * * *

  Luke strolled in the garden with a cigar, letting the dusk close in around him. He didn’t need a jacket and he wore his shirtsleeves rolled up. After a day of rain, it was surprisingly warm, the air still damp with a fine mist, seething with the fertility of spring. The oil lamps from inside the house cast a mellow amber glow over the lawn and the neatly trimmed rose bushes that had yet to come into bud. As he drew in a deep breath, the scents of the slumbering garden sank into his nostrils and lay in the back of his throat, rich with promise for the seasons to come. He felt hope in his heart.

  In the distance, brilliant against the horizon, there was a flash of purple light. He counted to twenty five before he heard the low rumble of thunder. It seemed fitting that there should be a storm tonight.

  Smiling to himself, he pondered again the eccentric fact that this happened to him now, at the age of thirty-two when he thought his life was settled, comfortable, pleasantly predictable. He’d always been so careful to remove himself from any possibility of messy attachments with the female sex. Now he was ready to change everything, even his identity, for this chance at love.

  “I suppose you’re congratulating yourself.”

  Turning in surprise, he saw Guy Westerfield standing by the boxwood hedge on the edge of house light, partially cast in shadow.

  “She’s not yours and she never will be, whoever you are.”

  His shoulders stiffened. Through narrowed eyes he made a quick assessment of the boy’s height and weight. He might have known Westerfield wouldn’t give her up without a fight.

  “I took that girl away from a life of drudgery.”

  Luke stubbed out his cigar on the edge of a stone planter. “Sounds to me as if she took herself out of it.”

  “She wouldn’t have known she wanted any of this if it hadn’t been for me showing her another world. A better world.”

  He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “I gave her confidence. I taught her how to dress, how to walk, how to speak with refinement. How to behave.”

  “Thank goodness she was already housetrained.”

  Guy Westerfield took two steps forward, emerging from the shadows as another flare of lightening lit the sky. “What is it you want from her? I know you’re not Lawrence Bailey. You can’t be. Is this some confidence trick? You must know she hasn’t any money, and as for this hotel, Jonas Carbury could buy it out from under her any day now. Her brothers are itching to sell.”

  “Didn’t her brothers agree to let her keep it if she turns the place around and makes it profitable within six months?”

  “Yes, but she’ll never succeed.”

  “She’s determined.”

  “Clinging on by her fingernails and her teeth. The idea of Daisy running this place is patently ridiculous. I’ve let her play pretend for a while just to keep the peace. Eventually she’ll realize her limitations and run to the safe haven of the little house I offered her on the other side of town. Once she’s failed here, it’ll bring her back to earth and she’ll realize her place.”

  “Her place?”

  Thunder rattled overhead and vibrated through his feet. The storm was closer now.

  “With a body and a passionate temperament like hers, there’s really only one place she should be, don’t you agree? She was made for it. And, ultimately, it’ll be mine she stays in, not yours. I’m a fixture in her life. You’re transient, only passing through. Whatever you’re doing here, you’ll soon be gone again.”

  “Will I? She might want me to stay.”

  The young man laughed coldly. “You’re not her type. What are you? A coal miner? She knows I have more to give. She needs me. She knows which side her bread is buttered.”

  “I rather formed the impression that she doesn’t need anyone.”

  “It’s a façade. She seems to have cultivated a few wayward ideas in her pretty head, but time and experience will cure her of that. She’ll soon learn I can take care of her better than she can take care of herself. But I can be patient. That willful nature of hers is the one thing a few lessons in deportment can’t change.”

  Luke studied the other man’s pouting expression of entitlement and wondered what Daisy ever saw in such a weak-featured face. How dull and unhappy her life must have been in that household if this was what she turned to for escape. She was too good for Guy Westerfield. In trut
h, she was too good for Luke Blackwood as well.

  “Best go home, Westerfield. I’ve a feeling your father will want to see you in the morning.”

  “My father?”

  Luke shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Just a feeling.”

  A few seconds ticked by. Lightening suddenly cast the lawn in luminous silver, but neither man moved.

  “You’re the one who’s leaving,” the boy exclaimed, breathless, “not me.”

  “You’ll leave, or I’ll take you out.”

  Westerfield’s hands tightened into fists. “I beg your pardon?”

  Luke smiled slightly, bemused by the sallow boy’s posturing. “I believe in choices. Choices for everyone, no matter who they are. So it depends how much humiliation you want to suffer. I’ve given you a choice, Westerfield. It’s up to you. Walk out on your own two feet, or be carried out.”

  Thunder cracked the heavens above. He saw the first punch coming and blocked it. Tempting as it might be, he knew he shouldn’t hurt his opponent too badly or else Daisy, having that feminine tenderness, might feel sorry for the boy. So instead of striking back, he stepped away and warned Westerfield again to leave the hotel grounds.

  “I told you, I was here first. You’re leaving. I’ll tell her you’re not Lawrence Bailey.”

  His own temper provoked, he swallowed it down and turned to walk away. A second punch hit him on the side of the jaw. He tasted blood, then he was angry.