Mercy of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  “Do you not have a girl to help you clean?”

  “No, I prefer to employ my considerable energy to the task. It helps me...settle.”

  He took her cloak and placed it carefully on a hook in the hallway to the parlor. Then he returned, resting his hands on her shoulders briefly, letting his fingers play up and down her neck. Chills trickled like warm water down her back. He guided her into the parlor.

  “I hope you find it pleasing,” he murmured, his breath teasing the tiny hairs on her neck.

  Find what pleasing?

  He pulled her against him; the hard length of his cock against her stomach both alarmed and pleased, her breasts yielding to his chest.

  After he released her, she glanced around the parlor. He had tidied up since her last visit. He lit an already laid fire, and soon the room glowed with a homey light. The furniture shone with beeswax, and the room smelled of sandalwood. He lit a candle and came to her.

  “Please, my bride. Sit down. Let me wait on you.” He cocked his head, eyes glinting with amusement. “Have you ever, in your life, had someone attend you?”

  That is not the life of a work horse.

  “I was born to wait on others, not the other way around. Like women everywhere,” she added. “As soon as I could walk, I worked.”

  “Not tonight, my bride.” He gently pushed her onto the settee and lifted her feet onto a cushioned stool. He undid the laces of the more practical boots she had put on before they left the cottage. He pulled them both off and waited.

  “Kindly take off your stockings, madame.”

  “Why?” she croaked.

  “Obey your husband,” he growled playfully. “Take off your stockings, or should I assist you?” He grinned. “Not just yet? I will pour us some wine. We’ll enjoy the fire for a while.”

  He pretended not to watch as she rolled the stockings down, taking care not to damage the dress. She found herself taking her time merely to torment him. Where had this coquettishness come from? And what was he about? Surely he would not take her here, in the parlor?

  “Do you like champagne?” He handed her a goblet of fine etched crystal with a delicate, twisted stem.

  Her hands felt big and awkward holding it. Where had he gotten something so fine? “I don’t know. I have never had it.”

  He set his wine glass down and put her feet upon the stool, then sat on the settee beside her, very close. They were silent for a while, listening to the fire crackling.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked.

  Was she comfortable? No one had ever asked her that before. “I...yes.”

  They resumed their reverie. Indeed, she was not used to silence; living with a large family had meant there was always someone crying, hollering, pots clanging, children playing, her father bellowing. And a house with a new baby was seldom silent.

  Ian cleared his throat and turned to her. “There is something I must say to you before anything else—something for which I must apologize. Believe me when I say that I do not regret our joining, being ever aware that I do not deserve you. My inability to control my impulses has resulted in taking you away from where you are needed, away from your sister and her family. I promise you that I will do everything I can to help you care for them—I have seen the worry in your eyes, and I will not keep you from them.”

  He lifted his glass. “To my wife, beautiful and strong. To our marriage, sudden but most precious.”

  The reflection of the fire danced in the champagne’s bubbles. He watched her mouth as she touched her lips to the rim and took a sip.

  “Oh, it’s wonderful! Wherever did you get it?”

  He grinned. “Maggie, when you smile, my heart capsizes, and I fear it will never right itself again. In answer to your question, I resided in France for a time.”

  He compressed his lips and gazed into the fire. There were deep shadows under his eyes; it seemed he did indeed fatigue, although one could never tell from his level of activity.

  He peeked out from under his lashes and murmured, “I played for the court of King Louis for a fortnight. He gave me that bottle as a gift.”

  She nearly spit out the precious mouthful. “You played for King Louis XV?”

  He shrugged. “I had been travelling, and one of his counselors heard me perform in the market and brought me to court.” He spoke as if he’d merely gone to buy a loaf of bread. “Mind you, I would not spread that information about.”

  She nodded. England’s relationship with France was always on edge, and the threat of another war loomed ever near.

  He filled her goblet. “I saved this bottle for a special occasion.”

  He set it down and knelt in front of the stool. He reached into his pocket and opened a vial. The scent of eucalyptus tickled her nostrils. He cradled her foot in his hand, massaging the oil into it, his fingers strong yet sensitive. She could not help moaning with pleasure. His eyes gleamed like sun on sea as he glanced up from his ministrations from time to time, mouth slightly open, lifting at the corners.

  She set the goblet down and eyed him warily. Should she not be waiting upon him? Of course she knew what the marital act entailed, but had no knowledge how the night would transpire. If she’d had the time to imagine her wedding eve, she would never have imagined his strong fingers massaging the arch of her foot, one firm hand upon her calf.

  His fingers gently kneaded the bottom of her foot, below the toes. Bit by bit, the muscles gave way. Her breasts tingled with warmth. He had not touched them! How could this happen merely by touching the foot?

  “What...” she jolted upright.

  “Maggie,” he rumbled. “Let me care for you.”

  He pressed his thumb on a spot on the inside of her ankle, below the bone and moved in a circle, slowly, gently. “Lay your head back and close your eyes,” he growled playfully.

  She cooperated, letting her mind rest and soon felt only the movement of his long fingers upon her feet. Her womanly parts softened and reached for him.

  He stopped, and she felt at once cold and lost-but not for long. Hands cradling her face, he kissed her, soft at first, then with a growing intensity she matched, joining her tongue with his.

  “Do you like kissing me, my Maggie?” he murmured.

  He smiled against her lips. His tongue tasted of wine and a flavor unique to him. She felt the fire of life course under his skin, hot and eager.

  He took the pins out of her hair and massaged her scalp. “Your hair is like polished obsidian, Maggie. So soft it slips through my fingers.”

  “Where did you learn to manipulate the feet like that?” Her voice sounded different to her ears, softer, more womanly.

  He sighed. “Can we discuss this later?”

  “I would like to know now...husband.” She had watched other women do this since childhood but had never attempted it herself. She lowered her lashes and peeked out from under them, ran her hands slowly down his shoulders over his muscled upper arms. “Please.”

  He groaned. “You are no match for me. I suppose you have a right to know where I have been. I had hoped to have this conversation later—much later.” He glanced up the stairs where their bed awaited.

  Then he continued. “I spent a year in China and sought the help of one skilled in the art. I had need of it at the time as a remedy for something that had been plaguing me.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I had succumbed to—I am not proud of it. You see,” he traced her collarbone. “I had been seeking a solution I thought would help, but it did not.” He laughed without humor and looked away.

  His melancholy made Maggie’s stomach twinge with distress. She laid her hand upon his cheek. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  He kissed her open lips tentatively, and she answered back, pressing against the hard length of him into the cushions and matching the increased pressure of his lips with her own.

  She reached up to caress his neck and feel his heartbeat, and as she had longed to do, pressed her lips ag
ainst his neck, so she might feel his pulse enter and enliven her. She must get closer to him.

  He sat her on his lap and slowly unbuttoned her bodice. “Maggie, may I love you? I promise to the best of my ability, to take the time you need.”

  He removed her bodice, his breath upon her neck. The fire warmed her breasts through the thin shift in contrast to the cool air on her back. Her nipples stiffened.

  Ian’s eyes swept over her, dark with intensity. “Oh, Maggie. You are magnificent.”

  To cover a twinge of embarrassment, she said, “And you are overdressed.”

  “You’re right.” He removed his coat and unbuttoned his linen shirt and stood bare-chested before her, crisp light brown hair at the base of his throat, curling over his broad, muscled chest, and around his nipples. Below the muscled planes of his stomach, a trail of hair led to the waistband of his breeches. Maggie’s belly grew warm. This man knew how to make a good fire, in the hearth and in her belly.

  He held his hands out to her and smiled, long lips curling up at the edges. “Maggie, do you want me?” His eyes held such hope and fear, she caught her breath.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Must I say it?”

  He chuckled, pulling her to her feet. “No, I can see it in your eyes. I will do my utmost to please you. Let us go upstairs. Let me love you.”

  She followed him to the bedchamber, watching the hard muscles of his buttocks flexing through his breeches with each step. At the landing, he took her hand and led her into the room, lit two brass candle sconces in the corner walls. The four poster bed was made of sturdy oak, and the bed covering made of blue satin with birds embroidered with leaves in a pattern throughout.

  “Is it to your liking?”

  She nodded, awed by the size of the room. What a family would normally share was theirs alone. In the far corner was a dressing table with a pitcher and basin, and a looking glass. At the other end of the room was a window, where she would see the morning light from the bed. He shut the curtains. She stood in her bare feet, arms covering her breasts. She must look ridiculous with the skirt of her wedding gown still on, but on top only the shift.

  “You must be cold, standing there,” he murmured and led her to the edge of the bed. “May I remove your overskirt?”

  She nodded. “Take special care with it. It is Lena’s.”

  The heat radiated from his chest. His breath upon her barely clothed stomach as he knelt to undo the skirt sent waves of shivers through her. He took his time, sliding his hands down her thighs. Her center clenched.

  He carried the dress over to the dresser and laid it carefully on top, then returned to caress her face and kiss her. She returned the kiss with increasing intensity. Her heart pounded in her throat.

  “Maggie,” he said, eyes resting on each breast in turn.

  Her nipples hardened in response to his gaze.

  “Please.”

  “Yes,” she breathed and reached back to untie her shift, letting it fall to the ground.

  “Ah,” he smiled. “You are...I have no words, so my body must speak for me.”

  He kissed her again, holding the back of her neck, and her body melted into him. Eventually, he stepped back and slowly removed his breeches, throwing them aside. His legs were long, with narrow hips, muscled thighs and calves covered in light brown hair. His manhood stood straight and erect against his belly. The air left her lungs as he took her in his arms again.

  His manhood pulsed hot against her bare skin. Their mouths met, deep, rough, tongues melding. His lips found her neck, biting, kissing, and chills ran through her, liquid heat pooling in her middle. She pressed her breasts to him, and he guided them to the bed, lowering her. The shock of their bare bodies together and the pleasured heat of it! He circled the nipple with his tongue, took it into his mouth. His rod leapt against her stomach, imploring and she knew she must get closer.

  She grasped his shoulders. “Please,” unsure of what she wanted but yearned for.

  He ran his hands through her hair. “Yes?”

  She nipped his lower lip. His cock surged against her entrance, and she urged him on.

  He eased into her and she started at the shock, gasping as he eased his way further, and she felt the burn of her maidenhood breaking.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered and kissed her.

  She lifted her hips as he pushed the length of his silken hot cock into her. He held very still and their eyes locked. She rose to meet him, her womanhood squeezed around him and every nerve came alive as she urged him to fill her, fill her more, and he sent light and fire coursing through her, as she bucked under him, dissolved into him.

  As pleasure rocked her, he nipped her neck, and she was lost again, suspended in the air not knowing where her limbs and his began as he pumped his essence into her. They moaned together and rolled onto their sides, slick with sweat and still one. He throbbed inside her and trails of sensation lingered as they lay in silence for a while.

  Kissing her forehead, he groaned in pleasure and murmured, “Are you well, Miss Maggie?” The rusty edge of his voice made warm honey trickle between her legs, and his member swelled within her in response.

  She sighed. “I have no words.”

  He smoothed hair back from her face. “I had meant to take more time, to be more thorough, to ease your maidenhood.”

  She snorted. “Did you not hear me cry out? And not with pain.” She ran her hand down the muscled length of his back and sighed again, snuggling closer.

  “I quite like to hear you sigh,” he whispered. “I vow to make it happen often.”

  ****

  Later, they sat against the headboard and feasted upon wine and plates of savories.

  “I am ravenous,” she mumbled, mouth full of meat pie.

  He peeled an orange and dripped juice upon her bare shoulder. “My apologies.” He slowly licked it off, nipping the shoulder lightly.

  “Ouch,” she shrieked, spilling champagne onto her privities.

  “Oh, that will not do.” He lowered his face to her lap, unbound hair tickling her thighs. She squeezed her legs together in protest, but he edged them open with his face, kissing the insides of her thighs. Parting her womanly folds with his finger, he covered his mouth on the nub of her pleasure bud, which had stiffened and grown. One hand caressed her breast. He increased his pressure on her pleasure bud and lowered his mouth to fill his tongue into her in and out, slowly. And before she knew what happened, he replaced his tongue with his cock.

  I cannot get enough of you,” he growled and held very still, then slowly entered and paused. “Do you like the feel of me, Maggie?”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “More.”

  His smile played against her lips. He sank his cock a little deeper, stopped again.

  “Please, more.” She must feel him inside of her. All of him. “Will you make me beg?”

  He rolled them over. “Have dominion over me, Maggie, for you do rule my heart.”

  A force stronger than herself bid she ride him until they cried out together.

  They rested, replete, and she understood now. Understood why women risked their lives in childbirth for the pleasure of a union, with a man who could make the blood sing in their veins, bring them such pleasure that the rest of the world disappeared for a while. That lying in bed with the feel of a man’s rough, muscled flesh against hers could give her this loose-limbed peace and well-being.

  He held her face in his hands. “Oh Maggie, I do not deserve such joy. I do not deserve the bounty of your body and your soul. God knows I am not worthy of you.”

  “Why would you say such a thing? It is not as if I’m the village princess. More like the village workhorse.” The words were out before she could stop herself.

  He let out a short burst of laughter. “Come again?”

  “I am a workhorse, valued by how hard and long I can work.”

  He tightened his hold on her so she could barely breathe. “Maggie, what rot. You are exquisite in every w
ay possible. For as long as I live, I will write your song and never do you justice: your hair, silken, your eyes, dark as dusk, grey as dawn, the bounty of your body and the welcome of your hips. And your giving spirit, generous and strong. Your sense of purpose buoys me, strengthens me, and now without it I could not survive. I only hope to be worthy of you, my wife.”

  “Ian, you have made me come alive. I did not know how much I needed you until now.”

  “May it always be so, my love.”

  She could not speak but could only hold him, knowing her life had changed this day, in every possible way.

  Night fell, and she lay boneless and glowing with pleasure. Ian made forays downstairs to get supplies and even at one point, heated water, filled a basin, and helped her cleanse her privities.

  His energy seemed boundless, his appreciation of her body boundless as well. He clearly knew his way around a woman’s body, and being above all a practical woman, she did not mind. Indeed, thankful she was for it, more than once.

  A miracle had happened: for several hours her only concern had been her own pleasure. And her husband’s. Eventually, they made their way downstairs to the parlor. She watched idly as he bounded about the room, candlelight playing on unruly hair spread out over his shoulders. He stocked the fire, down on his haunches, naked and primitive, making her heart pound in her ears, blocking out all rational thought.

  They sat together, he stark naked, she in a thin silk robe from China. The silk whispered against her body, making her feel like a decadent queen.

  She traced the scar that ran up the side of his jaw to his ear lobe. “How did you get this?”

  He grew still. She did not recognize the voice that rasped out in a hard monotone. “There is so much in my life I am not proud of, Maggie. I would not have you think less of me.”

  “You are my husband now. It does not matter.”

  “Does it not?” He grasped her hand. “I pray that you will always feel this way.”