The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  “Please do, monseigneur. In fact, I believe that you most certainly do owe me an explanation for introducing a stranger into my bed!” She glowered at Alain de Morlaix.

  He smiled engagingly at her, and she realized that although he looked exactly like the duc, his eyes, in fact, were dark brown, unlike Adrian’s, which were blue. “Do not be angry, petite,” he said softly. “Let Adrian defend his conduct before you condemn it.”

  Arabella found herself sitting, large goose-feather pillows at her back, between the two men. “Well, Adrian?” she demanded.

  “Alain’s mother and my mother were half sisters,” the duc began. “Louisa, Alain’s mama, the elder by a year, was my grandfather’s bastard. The girls, however, were raised together and were inseparable. So much so that when my mother married my father, Louisa came with her rather than be left behind. My father was a man of great appetites, and with my mother’s permission, took Louisa as his mistress. Alain and I were conceived at approximately the same time. We were born in the same hour, on the same day, although I am the elder by several minutes. It was important to my mother that I be born first, and the effort of birthing killed her. My father then married Louisa, although the marriage was considered morganatic. We have two younger sisters, Marie-Phillipa, which was my mother’s name, and Marie-Louise. They and I are legitimate. Alain is not.”

  “I do not,” Arabella said sternly, “see what this has to do with our situation.”

  “Alain is my dearest friend,” Adrian Morlaix said. “I share all my thoughts with him, even the ones that distress me. You, ma Belle, have given me great pain, although I realize that you never meant to do it, chérie. It hurts me that I am unable to bring you into the full flower of passion when we make love. Never before has this happened to me. I realize, of course, that the fault is not mine. The fault lies in you, ma Belle, but I would nonetheless bring you that special happiness, for I do quite adore you.

  “It occurred to me that perhaps two men could accomplish what one has been unable to do. Under normal circumstances I should never share my mistress with anyone, but since I have decided to do this for you, mon amour, I could only share you with one man in this whole world, my brother Alain. Like me, he is skilled in the arts of Eros and Venus. Together we shall bring you to the heights of ecstasy, ma Belle!”

  Arabella didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. All these months she had been holding Adrian Morlaix in thrall with her cool and elegant demeanor while in the throes of passion. It had never occurred to her that her seeming inability to attain la petite morte with him would give him such distress that he would propose such a solution! She had even intended that tonight she would yield herself fully so that his memories of her would be happy ones once she was gone. Her sudden disappearance would, of course, be confusing to him. What in the name of heaven was she to do? “My lord,” she began, but he stopped her mouth with his hand.

  “This frightens you, ma Belle. I can see it in your eyes, but you must not be afraid. Alain and I will be the most gentle and the most considerate of lovers, chérie. You will know pleasure this night as you have never before known it, I promise you.” He touched her cheek. “Look how she blushes, Alain. Is it not charming? I believe that ma Belle is shy at the thought of sharing herself with us both.”

  Alain de Morlaix turned her face to his and smiled at her. It was an incredibly sweet smile. “You must not be shy of us, ma petite,” he told her. “We mean you no harm.” He put his arm about her. “Why, she is trembling, Adrian! We must reassure her this instant!”

  “Give me your lips, ma Belle,” the duc ordered quietly. She turned to face him, shrugging off Alain’s arm. He kissed her ardently, his tongue pushing past her teeth into her mouth.

  Arabella wasn’t certain that she shouldn’t be afraid of these two men. Their voices were gentle, and they claimed that their intent was as well. She obviously had no chance at escape from them, and yet, how did one woman make love to two men at the same time? Was such a thing even possible? Had it been done before? What kind of men did such a thing? What kind of woman did such a thing? If she protested more volubly, would they cease? Somehow she didn’t think so. Perhaps if she was quiet and cooperative, if she allowed herself release and convinced the duc his brother was no longer a necessity in their bed, just perhaps Alain de Morlaix would be quickly sent away. Nonetheless the duc could hardly be surprised if she left him after this. The situation, though frightening, was also providential.

  The duc held her face between his two hands. He pressed her mouth fiercely even as she felt two other hands sliding around and cupping her full, round breasts in an embrace. The effect was most startling. Arabella shrieked, but Alain de Morlaix murmured softly in her ear.

  “Non, non, chérie. Do not be afraid of me. How lovely your breasts are. They are like the first firm apples of the autumn.” He fondled her flesh enthusiastically. “Perfection! They are pure perfection!”

  She did not know if it was his touch, or his words, or simply the piquancy of the situation, but Arabella felt her breasts, suddenly tender, swelling and growing fuller within the palms that fondled them. Gently he pinched her nipples, pulling them out to their fullest length between his two fingers, and then tweaking them quickly with his thumbs until she thought she would scream with the sharpness of the sensation.

  Alain de Morlaix nipped at the lobe of her ear. Slowly and deliberately his tongue licked at the inner shell of that same ear as he murmured low into it, “Already my man-root grows eager to sheath itself within your delectable little body, ma petite. I am wild with my desire for you, chérie.” He kissed her ear and then said, “Adrian, give me her lips now. Surely you have sated yourself of them by now.”

  The duc released her mouth reluctantly from his embraces, saying to his brother as he did so, “I shall never grow tired of ma Belle’s kisses, Alain, for they are as sweet as the nectar of the gods. Still, I will relinquish them to you for a time, mon frère, but you must promise to give them back.”

  The duc then leaned forward and, bending his dark head, began to suckle upon her sensitive breasts even as his brother turned Arabella’s head toward him and kissed her lips with hot kisses.

  She was assailed by a plethora of sensations racing over her whole body. Neither man seemed to care at this moment whether she participated in their lovemaking at all. Their sole aim, and both were quite determined in it, was to arouse her to the fullest heights of desire. Arabella knew that they were going to succeed quite easily in this intent. She did not believe that a marble statue could have resisted the gentle lust of these two handsome men.

  There was, of course, a certain humor in the situation. Adrian Morlaix would never know how hard she had struggled over these past months, how terribly difficult it had actually been to restrain herself from showing her true emotions. He was a wonderfully passionate man, and several times she had come perilously close to revealing herself. That it had all been but a sham to retain his attentions until she learned what she had come to learn no longer seemed important. That she had succeeded in deceiving him so well was a certain comfort and a humorous thought in this unexpected and difficult situation in which she now found herself. Still, her conscience troubled her even as her passions were slipping out of her control.

  Hands. She was no longer quite certain whose hands began to stroke every inch of her body lovingly. Her shoulders. Her bosom. Her belly. Her thighs. Her buttocks. There was not a part of her that they did not touch. She was like a child’s doll, helpless to their will, being turned this way and that way as the two eagerly explored and loved her. Her mind was reeling with their kisses and their touches. She burned fiercely one moment, shivered wildly the next. Arabella began to moan softly, unable any longer to deny or even delay the pleasure that the duc and his younger brother were giving her. She began to strain her body toward their delicious caresses.

  “Ahhh, ma Belle,” the duc purred, pleased to see her reaction. “You are beginning to feel the passion, are
n’t you?”

  “Ohhhh, yesss!” Arabella gasped. “Oh! Oh! Ohhh, yesss!”

  Smiling, Adrian Morlaix sat back against the goose-feather pillows propped against the bed’s carved linen-fold headboard. He drew Arabella into a half-reclining position against his hard chest. Alain de Morlaix then began to kiss her torso, his lips moving lower and lower across her taut, perfumed flesh. His tongue flicked out against her skin, causing her to start nervously even as he drew her legs open to him, and the duc crushed her breasts in his hands, kneading the flesh almost painfully as Alain finally reached the sensitive jewel of her womanhood. Arabella cried out sharply as, opening the soft and vulnerable folds of flesh that hid her little pearl from his immediate sight, his tongue began to love her quite expertly, stroking her with long, slow touches, suckling on her until she was wild with needs she had denied for months, until her own desires were as uncontrollable as the cries that she could not sustain.

  “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” Alain cried excitedly. “She is like honey, Adrian! I cannot get enough of her! I cannot!” He lowered his head again, his tongue worrying at Arabella’s flesh hotly as the first wave of tempestuous fulfillment began to wash over her.

  “Take her, mon frère! Take her!” Arabella heard the duc say savagely. “Take your pleasure now, but leave the culmination for me, I beg you, for my own desires long to be sated!”

  By some miracle his words managed to penetrate Arabella’s consciousness. They shook her to her core, but what in God’s name had she actually expected to come from such a ménage a trois? Still, her conscience fought a final battle to prevent this sensual madness. “Non! Non!” she cried. “Non, Adrian, non!”

  The duc gently caught her little hands in his, restraining her. Cradling her in a tender embrace, he looked down into her face, and placing his lips against hers, said softly in soothing tones, “Non, ma Belle. Do not struggle against our pleasure.”

  Arabella was half fainting, but even so she could feel Alain de Morlaix now firmly astride her, his hard thighs pressing against her, his manhood penetrating her with a slow but sure thrust. He groaned with unfeigned delight as he began to move upon her, his body almost shaking in his excitement.

  “Chérie! Chérie! What bliss! Mon Dieu, what bliss!” he cried aloud, and then, “Sacre bleu, Adrian! She has unmanned me like some untried boy!” Alain collapsed atop her, half sobbing with his frustration.

  “The night is young yet, mon frère.” The duc laughed, not in the least disturbed by his brother’s brief performance. “Ma petite rose d’Anglais has much to give, and we shall take it all, n’est-ce pas?” He gave his sibling a moment to recover himself, but then, attuned to Arabella’s delicate state, he at last said, “Alain, dismount and let me finish what you have but started. I believe that ma Belle is near to total and complete fulfillment thanks to our mutual efforts on her behalf!”

  Arabella struggled to open her eyes, for although her senses were aroused, she still felt shame and had not quite been able to face the sight of both men using her. She felt Alain de Morlaix moving off her, and finally able to focus, saw Adrian mount her. He smiled down into her face.

  “Do not fight it, ma Belle,” he murmured. “Let the passion take you and sweep you away!”

  She felt him thrust hard, and then he was filling her full of himself, and in that terrible instant she knew she was lost. There was no way she would prevent him from gaining his victory this time, and the truth was that his victory would be hers as well. Her arms wrapped themselves about him, drawing him down against her even as she pushed herself up to meet his downward movement. Her legs wound about his torso as she clawed at his back, her nails digging hard into him.

  Adrian Morlaix threw back his head and laughed aloud.”You cannot resist this time, ma Belle!” he cried. “At last you are completely mine!”

  Never before had Arabella felt as she felt at this moment. Her heart was pounding wildly within the cavity of her chest, yet all of her concentration seemed to be focused on the violent storm rising from deep within her. She knew that she was totally out of control, but the fear building inside her stemmed from the realization that she was unable to govern or contain her passion any longer, rather than from the passion itself. It threatened to overcome her entirely. Suddenly, in a burst of pure clarity, she understood that only by surrendering to this overwhelming passion could she survive it. Slowly, for her fear was almost as great as her desire, she let go of her grip on reality and was swept wildly up into the maelstrom. Up. Up. Up. Until suddenly she was falling, falling, falling into a warm and endless darkness. She could hear the sounds of a woman screaming, and the cries of a man well-satisfied, but certainly it had nothing to do with her. Like a small frog in the deep depths of its pond, she pushed herself away from it. Away into the swirling darkness where only the safety of nothingness awaited her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “My God!” Lord Varden said anxiously. “You look like the very devil himself, Arabella. What has happened?”

  “I am not certain that I want to discuss it, Tony,” she told him. “You have come, I presume, to tell me when we can leave. Please, let it be soon!”

  “The king plans a day-long hunt tomorrow in his forest,” Lord Varden said. “It is the perfect time for us to leave, although there will be some questions, I’m certain, about our disappearance,” he told her, and then he took her hand. “Arabella, you really don’t look well at all. Are you certain that you are all right?”

  “Tony,” she asked him, “have you ever shared a woman with another man?”

  Lord Varden looked startled by her question, and then he blushed as he said, “Well, on one or two occasions, my dear, I—” He stopped suddenly, and blanching, said, “God’s bones! Are you telling me that the Duc de Lambour…that Adrian Morlaix… God’s bones, Arabella! Such a thing is not to be borne! You are a decent woman, not some common trull!”

  “Oh, I bore it, Tony, for I had no other choice,” she told him. “Did you know that Adrian has a half brother who might be his twin? Only their eye color is different. His name is Alain de Morlaix.”

  “But why would Adrian do such a thing?” Lord Varden wondered aloud. “It is obvious that he adores you. In fact, he is in love with you, much to the court’s amusement.”

  “And it was for just that very reason that he did what he did to me last night,” Arabella said. “I played the game too well, Tony. I was so cool in passion in order to retain his interest that he felt he must give me complete fulfillment, as he so delicately put it.” She laughed ruefully. “Since he himself was unable to accomplish that feat alone,” Arabella continued, “he shared me with the one man he could share me with without being jealous. His half brother Alain.” She shuddered, and Lord Varden put a comforting arm about her.

  “Are you strong enough to make this trip, Arabella?” he inquired of her, concerned.

  “I must make this trip, Tony, for I cannot bear the thought of another night like last night. They planned to spend the entire night with me, and had their delicate attentions not rendered me unconscious for over an hour after their first assault, they might have. When I finally came to my senses at last, Adrian had, in a fright, sent Alain away. I began to weep and could not stop for some time, though my poor duc begged me to cease. Finally I fell asleep after he swore to me that he would not allow Alain back in my bedchamber that night.

  “Let me rest today. Adrian has not visited me this morning. He was called to Amboise quite early, I am told. When he returns I shall be very angry with him. He will not spend the evening in my bed, and I shall cry sick tomorrow for the hunt. We will be long gone by the time he returns, for you may rest assured that the king will have them all back to his chateau for a feast afterward.”

  “With luck,” Lord Varden told her, “we may well be gone a full day before the duc even notices that we are gone. I shall go off on the hunt myself, however, but I will slip away during the first chase and meet you at the inn at Villeroyale. We will contin
ue on to Calais from there.”

  “We must travel round-the-clock, Tony, but for brief stops. I do not want Adrian catching up with us, and we cannot rely on the Duchesse de St. Astier to keep our secret. Sorcha is not reliable, and she hates me, though she has no real cause. We cannot trust our safety to her goodwill, for she has none.”

  “I fear you are right, Arabella,” Lord Varden said. “She persisted in keeping me by her side last night when we returned to the entertainment, and all her questions were of you. She is fearfully jealous, and you are correct when you say you believe her to be harboring a grudge. She is.”

  “I was newly married to Tavis Stewart when we went up to court for my first visit,” Arabella explained. “Sorcha—she was Lady Morton then—attempted to rekindle her old friendship with my husband. I do not think I was too harsh in my objections.” She smiled a small smile, and Lord Varden was relieved to see it, for her pallor was greatly unnerving him. “Beware that she does not take advantage of you, Tony,” Arabella teased him.

  He chuckled. “She will not have the chance.”

  “Only because we are leaving,” she said.

  “That too,” Lord Varden admitted, “but in actuality, our duchesse will not have the time. Poor Jean-Claude Billancourt had one of his attacks last night and insisted that his wife sleep in the kennels with him. No one dared to interfere, and so the lady is much the worse for wear this morning, for I am told the St. Astier hounds do not like her very much. So when she was not servicing her lord and master as a good bitch does, she was kept busy fending off the other dogs, several of whom—and I have this on the very best authority, my dear—nipped at her. She finally struck her husband on the head, rendering him temporarily unconscious, and then called for the servants to release them from the kennels, which they did immediately, fearing for the duc’s life.”

  “Poor Jean-Claude,” Arabella sympathized. “How is he?”