Captivated

by Bertrice Small

  The marquis's climax was only seconds behind, and as the last vestiges of her cry died away, he abruptly withdrew and came on her stomach.

  "No… no," she panted, her gaze still half-lidded. "You can't…"

  It was too late, and rolling away, he lay sprawled on his back, eyes shut, breathless, inexplicably angry.

  She lunged at him. "You can't do this to me!" she screamed, pummeling him wildly.

  His eyes snapped open at the first blow, and, catching her fists in a brutal grip, he shoved her away. "I'm not… a pawn in your game." His breathing was labored, his body sweat-shined, his steely grasp hard like his eyes.

  "This isn't a game," she said through clenched teeth, trying to shake his hands off. "It's not negotiable."

  His hold only tightened. "I don't care what it is. Find some other man to"he drew in a deep breath to stabilize his breathing and temper"do what you want. I won't."

  Poised on her knees beside him, prisoner in his grip, she raged, "You don't realize how necessary this isfor me. How can I make you understand?"

  "You can't." All he could think of was her eager, untrammeled passionof all the men who had been where he'd been, when it shouldn't matter, when it had never mattered before. "Are you always so fucking enthusiastic?" he growled.

  She went motionless. "You are bothered by that?"

  "Maybe I am."

  "Maybe I don't care," she hotly replied, struggling to pull free of his grasp.

  "Answer me." His fingers were crushing.

  "What do you want me to say? No? No, then. I was a virgin when I met you. Like all the other women you fuck," she snapped, as temperamental as he, as moody, as sullen. As troubled by disquieting feelings. "That's your specialty, is it?" she sarcastically went on. "Fucking innocent maids. Strange. Rumor has it you like adultery bestall those society belles whose husbands don't satisfy them flock around you in droves. What's your record for a night? Eight?" she waspishly noted. "Or was it ten. I forget the dossier figures." Tantrumish, she glared at him. "So don't lecture me on morality," she said, testy and thin-skinned. "You don't qualify as a critic."

  His rising temper was almost visible as her sarcasm escalated, and when she finished, he curtly said, "I prefer quiet women."

  "Shall I tell you what kind of men I prefer?" she insolently returned. "We could compare the best of our repertoires. I've always found that men who"

  Her words were cut short by his fingers pressed hard against her mouth. "Why don't I tell you instead what I want from you," he said, rude and glowering. "Stop that or I'll break your wrist," he gruffly added, warding off her blow with his shoulder, his grip viselike on her other hand. "Maybe I'll tieyou to the bed this time," he brusquely said, restive under incomprehensible emotion, unsated lust flaring at the sight of her still pinked with passion telling him of other men. What had they done to her and she to them? he wondered, his erection swelling. How often did she respond like she had with him? Why did he feel this overwhelming need to possess her?

  There were no answers, nothing simplistic to explain the inexplicable. "You wanted numberless orgasms, didn't you?" he murmured, shifting into a seated position in a smooth flow of muscle, flipping her over on her stomach. "Let's see what we can do about that," he went on, moody, insult in his tone, raising her to her knees with effortless strength.

  "Stay," he ordered as he would to a recalcitrant pet, slapping her bottom as she tried to escape, holding her securely around the waist while he moved into position behind her. His grip was pitiless, his fingers leaving marks on her pale skin. "You never even need stimulation, do you?" he silkily murmured. "How convenient," he sardonically went on, her dew-wet cleft tantalizingly available, the pink curve of her bottom provocatively raised to meet him. And, resentful of his stark craving for her, he thrust forward without preliminaries, gliding in too easily, he thought with chafing displeasureher vagina slick again with the sweet liquid of desire.

  She shouldn't respond to such brute disdain, she querulously reflected, and while her intellect understood the ruinous barbarism of his actions, a molten heat dissolved through her body, the feel of himgloriously large, exquisite, the delectably forceful friction of his penetration sending fevered tremors coursing through her senses. She shivered at the heated rush, moved backward in greedy, shameless longing, slavish to the pleasure he provoked, an orgasmic flutter already pulsating deep inside her. She gasped, whimpered, the aching pressure flaring, quickly reaching tinder point as though he had to no more than enter her and she climaxed.

  His savage rhythm continued unrestrained, each stroke driven by the entire force of his lower body throughout her orgasmic spasms and beyond, unrelenting, powerful, and within seconds she was crying out again in violent climax. Raw sensation tore through her mind and body and senses over and over again as the Marquis of Crewe gave vent to his moody need for submission. He rode her with a reckless disregard for everything but his own inexcusable need to assert himself, to master this woman who challenged his susceptibility to feeling.

  "No more, no more…" she panted after numberless orgasms, her body over sensitized, ravished. "Please… no more…"

  Her soft appeals finally pierced the mindless fury of his discontent and an enigmatic satisfaction pervaded his mind as he allowed himself his own climax outside her body, the soft curve of her lower back alternative to her fertile interior. Then his hands gentled on her, and he felt the silken texture of her skin as if for the first time and in a voice pitched low, filled with grace and charm, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

  She twisted around so violently, he was taken by surprise. Swinging her arm back, she slapped him with such fury, she was shaking in the aftermath. "I wish I had a whip so I could thrash you bloody," she stormed, trembling, glaring at him.

  Her capitulation full recompense for his resentments and, momentarily sated, he was in a mollifying humor. "Perhaps we can accommodate your fetish for flagellation later," he suavely said.

  "Only if you die in the process."

  "Then where would you be in your quest for an heir?" he pleasantly queried.

  "No worse off than I am now in your uncooperative mood. At least I'd have the satisfaction of wiping that insolent smile from your face."

  "Forgive me," he murmured, schooling his face into somberness, currently in harmony with the world. "I'm completely to blame."

  "Damn right you are."

  "Now, if there were only some way I could compensate you," he murmured.

  "Don't toy with me, Crewe. I nearly expired with your particular brand of recompense and I'm no nearer pregnant than I was before."

  His facile smile vanished and his extended sigh recognized the extent of their dilemma. There was no denying her sensual appeal, and whether he fucked her out of spite or desire wasn't particularly clear. "Is there no middle ground?" he queried.

  "Not if I care to live. Or my mother."

  "Don't say that."

  "I wish I could sugarcoat the truth, Crewe, but there you have it. Look," she plainly said. "You know as well as I dothe whole world knows, you don't exactly use caution in the dispersal of your semen. So do me a favor. Think of me as one of your nameless London belles, many of whom offer your children to their husbands without a qualm. Disregard this quibble with coercion and be as obliging to me."

  "But itis coercion."

  "I can be as accommodating as Lady Lismore or Caroline Bennett or any number of others. Would it help if I saw that you had your freedom on the estate? Let me talk to Gregory."

  His interest immediately piqued by her offer, he weighed the odds of her becoming pregnant before he could escapebefore they both escaped if she wished to leave as well. An expert gambler, no one understood the laws of chance better than he. "How much freedom?" he bargained, an edgy excitement flaring through his brain.

  "We'll talk to Gregory and see what's possible. I need a child, Crewe, and I'm willing to negotiate."

  "Call him in."

  Her brows rose. "Should we dress first
?"

  "You should, at least," he casually replied, familiar with the company of men.

  But he pulled on a pair of riding pants while Sofia found her robe, and before long they were discussing the requirements of Gregory's role as warden on the terrace below, the east view from the house bucolic in the morning sun.

  "The marquis would like some incentive to go along with my husband's plans," the princess explained.

  The captain gazed across the marble table at the marquis, his gaze blank. "Why?"

  "Don't be difficult, Gregory," she interposed. "I would prefer cooperation, if you must know."

  His gaze softened as he looked at his mistress, which fact the marquis took note of. "Would you cooperate then?" the captain inquired, his oblique eyes flicking to Hugh, his glance suddenly piercing as though he could see into the marquis's mind.

  "Yes," Hugh said, knowing what the quid pro quo would be, counting on the favorable percentages in terms of time. If he could escape in a day or so, a pregnancy might be averted. "How much freedom would you be willing to concede?"

  "A hundred yards in the open. Your privacy in the house."

  "Two hundred yards and freedom of movement in the house."

  "Fine."

  It was too easy. "Any guarantees?"

  "Are you giving any?"

  The perimeters of trust were clear. There were none.

  Although the men might have been related in a more perfect world, their looks so similar. Only the subtle ethnic differences set them apart: their eyes, the marquis's slightly fuller mouth, the nuance of a curve in the marquis's nose where it had been broken in public school. But they were both dark, tall, powerfully built, and interested in the princess.

  Perhaps that interest could be turned to his advantage, the marquis thought. "Why don't we ride out and see the estate," Hugh suggested, anxious to test the limits of his freedom. "Can my batman come along?"

  "Certainly."

  "Obliging," Hugh softly murmured, his dark eyes on the captain.

  "As long as you're obliging to the princess, my lord, I'll continue to offer you every courtesy. Do we understand each other?"

  "Perfectly. Let me get my boots and a shirt. How much time do you need?" he courteously inquired of Sofia.

  "Ten minutes."

  "A woman who can dress in under two hours. Where have you been all my life?" the marquis silkily intoned.

  "We aren't all china dolls, my lord. Perhaps you've been associating with the wrong women."

  "Obviously," he replied, his gaze amused. "Very obviously," he softly murmured, his glance altogether different.

  She blushed.

  The marquis smiled.

  The captain did not.

  "Well, then," Hugh pleasantly said, rising from his chair, the order of precedence having been nicely clarified, "why don't we meet at the stables in ten minutes."

  The princess looked glorious in a form-fitting forest-green riding habit, the military cut accentuating her voluptuous femininity, her veiled hat seductive.

  "You turn heads, my lady," Hugh graciously said as she approached. "Do I detect a Worth creation?"

  "How perceptive, my lord. While you look like a red Indian in your buckskins."

  "I dress for comfort," he replied, smiling, his fringed jacket and chamois riding pants consummate foil for his harsh masculinity.

  "Have you been to the American West?" she inquired, moving toward a splendid Thoroughbred held by a groom.

  "Several times. The hunting is superb."

  "A change from your pursuit of females?"

  "Females inhabit the West, my lady."

  She cast him a sharp glance. "Of course. I should have known."

  "Men must be a constant in your life as well." His tone had turned minutely chill. And he cautioned himself to restraint, every rational impulse reminding him to ignore the princess's amorous partners.

  And for a flashing moment, he acceded to the persuasion of reason.

  "Do you hunt or do they hunt you?" he abruptly inquired, following her, waving away the groom.

  "I don't need your help," she murmured, gesturing the groom back.

  The marquis said "Get away" in such a vicious tone, the man literally leapt aside. "There, now," Hugh softly murmured, cupping his hands to lift her up, "let me help you mount."

  "A change for you," she tartly said, her smile brittle.

  "And when it seemed as though you were enjoying yourself," he sardonically replied, watching her cheeks turn pink.

  "Perhaps I can repay the favor someday," she brusquely declared, placing her booted foot in the scoop of his hands. An unwanted shiver ran down her spine as he smoothly lifted her weight and dropped her onto the saddle.

  "I wait with bated breath, my lady," he murmured, adjusting her foot in the stirrup with an authority that triggered a rush of heated memory. His palm drifted up her leg, smoothed the folds of her skirt, stroked her knee curved over the pommel of the sidesaddle. "You look… ready," he whispered.

  She shouldn't react to such insolence, she thought, nor respond to the carnal heat in his voice, but her body failed to understand degrees of pique and she felt a damp heat liquify between her legs. "You irritate me, Crewe," she curtly said, repressing her shameful carnal urges.

  "That's not all I do to you, Princess," he quietly remarked, skilled at recognizing female arousal. "Should I see if you're wet for me?" he whispered with unctuous charm.

  She brought her whip down on her mount's flanks in answer, and he quickly stepped back, his smile knowing. Striding to the mount prepared for him, he leapt into the saddle and threw a swift glance at Gregory and his troop, at Pierce. "Keep your distance," he ordered, and, whipping his black, he galloped after her.

  Matching his mount's pace to hers, he maintained several yards between them, surveying the country through which they passed, taking note of landmarks, his eye on the sun, gauging their direction… until he spied a distinctive grotto on a distant hillside and, overtaking her, he forced her mount to turn.

  She fought against the pressure of the large black he rode, the horses shoulder-to-shoulder in a hard gallop, the inexorable pressure of his larger mount bringing hers around. "I don't want to ride with you!" she shouted.

  "Show me the view from there!" he shouted back, ignoring her words, pointing at the tumble of stone perched atop a wooded rise. And when she continued to oppose him, he leaned over, grabbed her reins, and pulled the horses to an easy lope. They slowed as the ascent became steeper, but he didn't release his grip on her reins and, pursed-lipped, she rode beside him.

  "How much can Gregory be trusted?" he asked, glancing back to see their guards the required distance away. Pierce rode alone behind them. "Not talking, are we?" he noted a moment later, surveying her set face.

  "What good would it do?"

  "I thought you wanted to get away."

  "I'm to trust you, you mean." Her tone was filled with disgust.

  "I suppose you'd have to."

  She snorted, her swift glance barbed. And they settled into silence the remainder of the way up the rise. The grotto turned out to be much larger at close quarters, the entrance two beautifully cast bronze doors worthy of at least a baptistery if not a cathedral, the pile of stones artfully arranged specimens of exquisite marbles and malachite in harmonious hues, a riot of vines, flowers, moss ornamenting the stone. "A very expensive alehouse," Hugh blandly remarked, sliding from his saddle, aware of the common entertainments for picturesque follies like this.

  "Or a dolly house," Sofia flippantly noted, staying in her saddle, her reins still securely in the marquis's gloved hands.

  "Is that why you didn't want to come here? You don't trust me?" the marquis impudently inquired, walking around to lift her from her mount. He put up his hands.

  "Must I?" she coldly asked.

  "Unless you think you can wrestle me to the ground and then ride away," he drolly returned.

  "Lord, you're difficult."

  "Down," h
e ordered, beckoning with his index finger.

  "I could scream for help," she petulantly said.

  "And that would get you a baby?" His smile was boyishly innocent.

  "Damn you."

  "But I'm a necessary evil," he softly replied. "Now, if you prefer, I can haul you from that saddle."

  Abruptly pitching forward, she fell limp as a rag doll, and only his quick reflexes saved her. Grunting, he absorbed her sudden dead weight, steadied himself, and, scooping her up against his chest, hatless now since her fall, he lightly said, "Your husband might have good reason to be out of sorts with you. You're damnably headstrong and independent."

  "Only men are supposed to be headstrong and independent?" she hotly contended.

  "Of course. Haven't you read the rules?" His voice was teasing as he moved toward the small structure.

  "Then it's time to change the rules."

  "Good. You'll come away with me then," he advanced, looking down at her, his gaze suddenly grave.

  "Maybe I will." But even as she spoke, caution warned her against believing a man she'd met a day ago, a man captive and intent on escape.

  "Youcan be accommodating after all," he murmured, more inclined every moment she was in his arms to graciously acquiesce to his assigned role as stud. "And I did promise Gregory to honor my part of the bargain," he softly added.

  "Will you now?" she queried, as aware as he of their closeness, her voice taking on a tantalizing nuance.

  "The thought of coming in you is beginning to hold great appeal," he honestly replied.

  "I'd be most grateful," she said with equal honesty. A pregnancy would put her beyond her husband's retribution and save her mother.

  "A folly of another kind in this architectural one," he mockingly declared, bending slightly to turn the knob. "I hope we both know what we're doing." The door swung open on well-oiled hinges onto a sun-dappled chamber illuminated by latticework skylights. Cool marble covered the walls and floor, elaborately inlaid with gilt mosaic. Off to one side a small pool, moss-banked with a lightly flowing current reflected the sunlight in sparkling luminescence. The furnishings were faux rustic, primarily willow and bamboo chaises covered in colorful patterned silks. "Apparently vice was the entertainment of choice here," the marquis dryly noted, surveying the numerous chaises. "Shall we find the softest one?"