Disrobed and Dishonored

by Louise Allen

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Jonathan. Here, take this.’ He swung off his cloak and tied it around her neck, flipping up the hood to cover hair and face, then boosted her up onto Tolly’s broad back and swung into the saddle behind her. Ah, more torture, the soft weight of her on his thighs, the little wriggle she gave to get her balance, the scent of her body pressed warm to his chest.

  ‘You are a successful highwayman then, Jonathan, to be able to afford The Golden Lion and yet resist my pearls?’

  ‘Shall we say it is more of a recreation than a business?’ he suggested, guiding Tolly toward the stable yard, puzzling about the woman in his arms. Not just out, certainly. Twenty-two or-three, he would guess, with some authority about her. Well-bred, respectable and, presumably, an obedient daughter up to the point her father introduced this undesirable suitor. He had never seen her before, which meant she did not move in his circles, but even so, to avoid embarrassment he rather thought he would keep his mask on.

  He helped her down in the shadows and led her up the side stairs and to his room without being seen. ‘Wait here. I’ll not be long.’

  His six friends were in the private parlor, cards on the table, bottles open, food spread out on the sideboard. They got to their feet, grinning, as he came in, still masked. ‘Well,’ Griffin demanded, ‘have I won back the money I lost on yesterday’s prizefight or am I out a dozen of my best cognac?’

  ‘You’re out.’ Jonathan tossed his hat on the table. ‘Here—a feather from a maid who’d taken her eggs to market and came back with a kiss to spare for me, black hairs from a fancy young thing with her nose in the air, a corn dolly from an old duck in a donkey cart and a paper of pins from a severe dame who is doubtless still blushing. Oh yes, and the promise of a ginger kitten should I care to collect it.’

  ‘Damn me, I never thought you’d do it.’ Lord Gray splashed port into his glass and downed it in one gulp. ‘I wagered against you. Get some food and come and help me win it back.’ He gestured at the litter of vowels on the table.

  ‘No, I’ll leave you to it.’ Jonathan walked over to the sideboard, rubbing his back. ‘Pulled a muscle somehow. Damn sore. I’ll take some food up and see if bed will put it to rights.’

  He retreated, with a laden plate and a wine bottle in his pocket, amid gibes about what had caused the strain and ribald suggestions for curing it.

  Sarah perched on the edge of the bed and wondered if she had gone mad. If she had misjudged her man, she was in serious trouble. Even if she had not, she was deliberately setting out to ruin herself. And then there was the undeniable fact that she was about to commit acts of shocking intimacy with a man. A stranger.

  What was almost more disturbing, she found her heart was beating with wild anticipation at the thought of it. She wanted him in almost equal measure to the fear. Her highwayman. Jonathan. She had never wanted a man before; at least she had never wanted more than a mild flirtation, a daring kiss to set her a-flutter for an evening, to be forgotten in the morning along with the champagne and the foolish flirting.

  Now…She jumped as the door opened and he came in, locking it behind him. He handed her the key before putting a plate on the table and taking knife, fork and bottle from his pocket.

  ‘Food first?’

  That voice seemed to curl round inside her, making her hot and flustered and strangely jumpy. ‘No.’ Eat? Is he mad?

  ‘Wine, then?’

  ‘Yes.’ That would help. She studied him as he eased out the cork. Long legs, broad shoulders, enough muscle to be a fighter and a smile on him that turned the hot, flustered feeling into a deep, disturbing, low ache. He still wore the mask and she was glad of it; somehow it made him less real. ‘Thank you.’ She gulped the wine and handed him back the glass. ‘I am a little nervous, I confess.’

  ‘Understandably. Do you still want to go through with this?’ Sarah thought of Sir Jeremy, thought of Mary’s tears, and nodded. ‘We will proceed to the matter at hand then? Would you like to undress first, or shall I?’

  Chapter Two

  ‘You will have to help me.’ Sarah got to her feet and turned her back. That was easier, she did not have to look at him. She tried not to flinch as his fingers, busy on the buttons, brushed the bare skin of her neck, then her shoulders, then were kept from her naked skin by her chemise. The gown sagged and she caught it, stepping out and standing there, his warmth at her back as he began to untie her stay laces.

  ‘You are very adept at this,’ she said, attempting to sound cool and sophisticated and aware she was achieving neither. The release of pressure on her ribs was not, oddly, helping her breathing at all. I can still stop, I can still say no…

  ‘I have had a little practice,’ Jonathan conceded. She could hear he was smiling. ‘You can turn round now.’

  He was standing there shrugging out of coat and waistcoat. Despite the mask she could see his eyes on her, a dark heat smoldering there. ‘Will you untie my neck cloth?’

  That brought her close, as he no doubt intended, her fingers clumsy on the simple folds. His clothes were respectable, but plain; she tried to concentrate on that while she unwound the warm muslin from his throat and pulled it free. He was waiting, it seemed, for her to unbutton his shirt, so she did that too, feeling a little light-headed as so much chest became visible right in front of her face. It was a very impressive chest, with flat, sculpted muscle and lightly tanned skin as though, perhaps, he had swum that summer or worked with his shirt off. He must undertake other, more honest, labor from time to time.

  And then there was the hair, crisp and startling as it brushed her knuckles, growing thicker and more focused as she worked down, until it vanished into his breeches. Sarah undid the last button and tugged so the shirt came free. And then there he was, clad in nothing but buckskins and boots and there she was, feeling as though she was wearing nothing but a blush.

  ‘It isn’t compulsory to proceed, you know,’ Jonathan said, watching her face. ‘We can just have some supper and I’ll escort you home.’

  ‘Oh yes it is,’ she retorted, suddenly sure, despite feeling more nervous than she could ever remember. ‘It is this or marriage to the swine who raped my maid and then threatened her. Papa considers him such a good match in material terms that I cannot think of any other way than this to get free from him.’ He still seemed to hesitate. Sarah swallowed down the lump in her throat. ‘Are you going to take your boots off?’

  That provoked a snort of laughter. ‘But of course. It is de rigeur to remove one’s boots before making love to a lady.’ He sat and began to pull them off.

  ‘You are a very strange highwayman.’ She supposed she should remove her petticoats. Was there an etiquette to this lovemaking? Sarah stood there in chemise and stockings watching the play of muscle on Jonathan’s back as he tugged. It was important to be able to describe the intimate appearance of her lover if she was to convince Mrs. Catchpole, her chaperone, of her ruin, she thought, finding strength in the reminder of why she was doing this.

  ‘I have had a sad life,’ Jonathan explained, glancing up and catching her staring.

  ‘No doubt.’ He was, thank goodness, retaining his breeches. The amount of bare man on display was already rather more overpowering than she had bargained on. For some reason she had thought this would all take place in the dark.

  ‘Now, I have been wanting, for the past hour, to kiss you again.’

  It was interesting, Sarah thought, striving for rational thought, how different a kiss was when there were so few clothes in the way. His arms around her seemed to caress her skin, she could smell his warmth and the intriguing male scent of sweat and plain soap and something citrusy and horse and leather, and he tasted of wine and man. And his mouth on hers was not smiling any longer.

  Rationality slid away to be replaced by a need Sarah did not know she had. She was shocked by the intimacy of his tongue in her mouth, inciting hers to touch and invade in its turn and surprised to discover that without havi
ng any idea what she should be doing, she was twining into his embrace and pressing herself against the outrageously hard ridge that lay against her stomach.

  She gave a gasp, startled and embarrassed and not a little fearful until Jonathan’s hands came down to cup her buttocks, lifting her against himself, rocking her into the hardness until she moaned, the fear subtly becoming another kind of trembling altogether. ‘Oh yes, sweetheart,’ he murmured against her neck. ‘Oh yes.’

  She was on the bed, Sarah realized, as her chemise was lifted over her head, and then there they were, her against the pillows wearing nothing but her stockings and Jonathan leaning against the bedpost breathing hard and looking as though he was counting.

  ‘Oh!’ One arm across her breasts and one hand flat at the junction of her thighs were not a great deal of covering, not when he was still in his breeches. He was watching her and she should be dying of shame—and part of her was and part of her was trembling with the need for him to hold her again. ‘Aren’t you going to take those off?’ she blurted, suddenly anxious to have this over and done with.

  He did, dropping them to the floor and making no attempt to cover himself. ‘Oh,’ Sarah said again. Her gaze skidded away, up his body, and met the masked green eyes. Now, his body naked, the mask seemed sinister and she swallowed, hard.

  Something must have shown on her face, for he raised one hand to the black silk, hesitated, and pulled it off. ‘Better?’ She nodded, studying his face intently, fearful of finding something there that the mask had hidden, but the green eyes were clear and frank and his expression serious. Removing the mask made him look younger.

  ‘Good,’ he said, his mouth curving up into a slow smile. ‘Are you all right?’

  She managed another nod as he came and lay down next to her, pulling her against him. ‘Stockings?’

  ‘I like the stockings.’ His voice, coming as it did from the valley between her breasts, was somewhat muffled.

  ‘Oh.’ She stroked his hair, then found the curl of his ear and played with that with one hand while the other pressed him to her breast and she became aware that she was whimpering softly and his lips and teeth had found a nipple and were tormenting it until she thought she would scream.

  Then he released her and propped himself up on one elbow, smiling down. ‘Is this what you had in mind?’

  ‘Mind?’ Sarah blinked at him. ‘I don’t think I have one.’

  ‘Oh well, I’ll just have to carry on then.’ He moved down the bed and began to untie her garters while Sarah lay back, panting. She knew what happened with animals: the male pounced and it was all very hurried and rather violent. Not like this at all.

  This seemed a little safer; he showed no intention of pouncing…‘Oh!’ Jonathan was licking up her leg from her ankle, up to the back of her knee. Her legs, with no conscious thought from her, fell apart shamelessly, and with a chuckle he lowered his head between them as she tried to close them, feeling that she would die of shame. What had come over her? ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’ And his mouth was there, flicking and teasing a tiny point of intense sensation that seemed to dominate every other feeling. It was outrageous, inflammatory, something was going to break, shatter—she had to resist, to hold on, to…She shattered.

  ‘Jonathan?’

  ‘Welcome back.’ He sounded pleased with her. ‘More wine?’

  ‘What was that?’ Sarah blinked in the candlelight. Jonathan was off the bed, pouring wine, still shamelessly naked. Still very aroused.

  ‘An orgasm.’ He handed her the glass.

  ‘But we didn’t…’

  ‘No. We don’t have to,’ he explained, comfortably matter-of-fact as he sat beside her and took his turn with the wine.

  ‘But if we had been doing…doing everything?’

  ‘Same result, some extra preliminaries.’ He dipped a finger in the wine and dripped the red drops onto her left nipple, then bent his head and began to lick.

  Sarah surrendered to the sensation, her hands clutching his shoulders as his hand slid down, touched where his mouth had been, his thumb circling the sensitised nub. Jonathan lifted his head. ‘Relax.’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘More.’ And he slid a finger into the wet heat, into the aching tightness and she arched, panting. Then another, and still his thumb wove its wicked pattern of arousal and her body clenched around the intrusion and her groping fingers found him and closed on mobile satin skin and bone hardness and heat and he moaned and thrust into her grasp as she lifted against his hand and there was darkness and stars and his mouth hard over hers as she screamed and he surged against her. And then a slow slide into oblivion.

  Jonathan was asleep when she awoke. She lay there for perhaps ten minutes, just looking at him while her mind and her body returned to something like normality and the impact of what she had done came to her.

  She was naked, in bed with a naked man with whom she had been utterly shameless, with whom she had experienced pleasure she had no idea existed. And now she was ruined. Sarah had no idea whether she wanted to laugh or cry, but she knew she had to go before he awoke, slip away, get to the hut and saddle up Daisy, ride home—all without him following her, discovering who she was.

  She sat up and Jonathan stirred. No, she had to delay him. He would be alert in a second if she tried to creep out. One silk stocking curled across the rumpled bedspread. She eyed the man beside her, sprawled in utter relaxation on his back, arms thrown above his head.

  So, she wanted to play games? Amused and aroused, Jonathan kept his eyes closed as silk trailed up his arm, caressed his wrists. How very sophisticated for such an innocent! He let her imprison his wrists, felt her fumble at the bed head. Then the knots tightened, something rattled and he was wide awake, straining to be free against bonds that did not yield one inch.

  ‘What the hell!’ Sarah was dressing, her hair scraped back into a tail and tied with one stocking. The other, presumably was what was imprisoning him.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I cannot risk you finding out who I am,’ she explained, her face rather pale in the candlelight. ‘I am very grateful.’

  ‘Grateful!’ he exploded, bucking futilely against the knots.

  ‘It was wonderful and so…helpful. And I really appreciate that you did not take advantage of me.’ She picked up his cloak and edged toward the door. ‘I will leave the cloak in the hut.’

  ‘Helpful?’ Jonathan demanded of the door as it closed softly behind her. ‘Helpful?’

  The storm that shook Saint’s Ford Manor had subsided to merely hurricane velocity by ten the next night. Mrs. Catchpole eventually recovered from the hysterics brought on by her charge’s careful description of exactly how a man’s member felt when held in the hand and had braced herself sufficiently to assure Sir Hugh that, indeed, it would appear his virginal daughter had been deflowered. And what was worse, that the young woman was so far abandoned to propriety that she was threatening to tell Sir Jeremy about it, in detail, if she was compelled to persist with the betrothal.

  Sir Hugh had subsided from puce to mottled crimson and stopped shouting long enough to agree that, to prevent scandal, he would inform Sir Jeremy that Sarah had changed her mind and there was nothing to be done about it. The spurned suitor had driven off in high dudgeon.

  That had all taken until midafternoon. The rest of the day had been filled with recriminations, more hysterics, demands to know who the man was—and firm refusals by Sarah to say—and dire warnings of what would become of her should she prove to be with child.

  She nearly blurted out that there was no danger of that and bit her tongue, concentrating on looking determined—which she was—and ashamed of herself, which she most assuredly was not. What she was also feeling was an alarmingly awareness of her own body and an utterly immodest desire to do it all over again. And again.

  Finally Sir Hugh had retired, muttering, to his study with a full set of decanters, Mrs. Catchpole had succumbed to a migraine and Sarah deemed it tactful to reti
re to her bedchamber for the night.

  Mary, beaming with delight that somehow her mistress had routed the feared Sir Jeremy, was agog to know how she had done it, but all Sarah would say was that she had stood up to her papa and that finally he had accepted, with very bad grace, that she could not be forced into the match.

  The maid left Sarah in nightgown and robe, a book of poetry in her hand, and went off to raid the cooking sherry in celebration.

  Quite how Sarah realized she was not alone, she was uncertain. There was no sound, no stirring of the air—just a tingling down her spine. She put down the unopened book with care and turned, her fingers closing around the candlestick. A tall, masked figure materialized from the shadows in the corner by the window.

  ‘Jonathan! How long have you been there?’

  ‘An hour.’ His voice sounded cold as he put up his hands to untie the mask, tossing it aside, his eyes not leaving hers.

  ‘While I was undressing?’ she demanded, then realized how foolish it was, after yesterday, to be indignant about that. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I followed the hoofprints of your horse, made some inquiries in the village. It was not hard.’

  ‘No.’ Her heartbeat was all over the place. ‘You must have heard me taking to Mary; you know my plan succeeded, thanks to you.’ He must have done more than listen; he had been there in her most private, feminine space, a space she had expected only a husband to enter. ‘Why have you come?’

  ‘To return these.’ He tossed the long rope of pearls on to the bed and this time she could hear the anger in his voice.

  ‘I’m sorry I tied you up.’ Sarah found she was stammering more than she had when she confronted her father. ‘I did not want you to find out who I was.’

  ‘It certainly gave my friends considerable entertainment to find me tied naked to the bed by one silk stocking and a string of pearls,’ he said, his lips thin.