After the Kiss

by Joan Johnston

  “A spider.”

  She shivered. “A huge, long-legged spider.”

  “I wear the glove to conceal—”

  “Neither of us can see anything!” she interrupted. “It is as dark as the bottom of a well.” She found his gloved hand in the dark—resting on her belly—and began tugging at the fingers of the glove.

  He tried drawing his hand away, but she caught his thumb and held on. “If am to be yours for a lifetime, then you are also mine. It is only a crippled hand, Your Grace. Let me remove the glove.”

  “Marcus.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Marcus. Say it, please.”

  “Will you let me take off the glove?” She had the feeling he was smiling. She reached toward his face to confirm or deny it. Some instinct made him reach up at the last instant to snag her wrist and draw it away.

  “Marcus,” he repeated.

  “The glove?” she demanded.

  He made a disgusted sound in his throat. “Very well. Remove it.”

  “Thank you, Marcus.”

  She was certain he did not breathe the entire time she was tugging off the glove. When at last she had it off, she heard him exhale gustily.

  “There,” she said, stuffing the glove under her pillow. “That was not so bad, was it?” And good luck finding your glove when you want it again.

  He tried to withdraw his hand, apparently no longer interested in touching her without the glove.

  “No, Marcus. I believe you were touching me … here … when you left off.” His hand trembled as she laid the curled fingers against her belly. She kept her hand atop his, moving it around her body where she thought it might feel good.

  She could distinguish the criss-crosses on his palm where the flesh had been sewn, the indentations where flesh had been torn away entirely. But mostly, it felt like a man’s hand, with wiry hair across the knuckles, five gnarled, inflexible fingers, and fingertips that, while not as callused as his other hand, still had a texture rougher than her own.

  She heard Marcus gasp when her pebbled nipple grazed the center of his palm. And bit back a gasp of her own, when he circled his palm against the sensitive crest.

  “Your hand seems to have a great deal of feeling in it,” she said. “I thought because you held it so stiffly—”

  “I feel everything,” he interrupted, his voice roughened by passion. “I feel the pleasure. And the pain.”

  “What pain?”

  “Sometimes my hand aches. No, that is not a strong enough word. Sometimes the muscles tighten excruciatingly. My whole body rebels against the torture.”

  “How do you stand it?”

  “You may have heard that I indulge on occasion in an excess of brandy,” he said sardonically.

  “Rumor says you have been disguised on more than one occasion since your brother died.” She paused and added. “I thought it was grief that made you get foxed.”

  “I suppose it was partly that, too,” he conceded. “And other things.”

  She wondered what “other things” might include. Ruining her reputation? Abandoning her? Coming home alive, when Julian lay dead on the battlefield?

  Eliza laid his hand palm up in hers and began to massage his fingers. To her surprise, when she manipulated them, she was able to move them slightly. “Have you ever tried to make your fingers work again?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Why bother?”

  “Because you might regain the use of your hand. Because—”

  He snatched his hand away. “I don’t indulge in false hopes, Eliza. Hoping something will happen doesn’t make it so.”

  “I was not hoping you would move your fingers,” she responded tartly. “I intended to move them myself!”

  Eliza made a quick decision. From now on, whether he liked or not, whenever they were in bed together—and from what he had said, that meant almost every night—Eliza intended to work on those fingers. She was no doctor, but Marcus had nerves to feel sensation and muscles that could clench hard enough to cause him excruciating pain. What more did he need for a working hand?

  “Eliza,” he murmured.

  She felt the tension emanating from him. She knew what he wanted. “Yes, Marcus?”

  “I want to put myself inside you.”

  “Again?”

  Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Yes, again.”

  “I am yours, to do with as you wish.” She knew from the protest he made in his throat, that he had wanted a different answer from her. She had not been able to give it to him. She could not surrender herself entirely to him. He could make her body sing for him—it was already humming loudly—but she had to protect the part of her that needed more than physical pleasure from him.

  He did not immediately cover her body with his. This time he touched her everywhere with his hands. And to her surprise, with his mouth.

  “Do people do this?” she asked.

  He laughed. “I am doing it to you.”

  “Is it … proper?” she insisted.

  “My dear Eliza, you surprise me. When did you ever care what was proper?”

  He had a point, Eliza conceded.

  When his lips closed around her breast, and he began to suckle, she grabbed fistfuls of his hair to keep him there. Her insides began squeezing and un-squeezing with incredible pleasure. “Marcus, what are you doing?”

  “Does it hurt?”

  She shivered as cold air hit her nipple when he released it. She pressed his head back down. “No, no. It feels wonderful. Don’t stop.”

  He played with her breasts. He tickled her ribs. He kissed the flesh beneath her ear, brushing her throat with his whiskers.

  “You need a shave!” she chided, laughing when his whiskers tickled. She knew better than to touch his face. And he was careful not to let her.

  When he mounted her at last, kneeing her legs apart and placing himself between them, she braced herself for the same pain as the first time. But as he pushed his way slowly inside her, filling her impossibly full, there was no pain, only a feeling of being stretched, of knowing he was there.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I think so,” she replied.

  “No pain.”

  She shook her head, then said, “None.”

  He began to move. Only this time, his hand slipped between them, to a spot where their bodies met. He moved his thumb, and she felt an exquisitely sharp sensation. She inched her body upward, seeking it again. She arched and swayed and writhed beneath his hand, while his shaft steadily rose and fell inside her.

  Eliza closed her eyes and felt the sensations building. She angled her hips and shoved upward, wanting him to push deeper, faster, harder, so she could find whatever it was that lay just beyond her reach. She circled his hips without being asked, deepening the angle between them and giving him better access to her body. “Marcus, please,” she pleaded. “Please.”

  She felt his muscles begin to tauten, heard him make a guttural sound in his throat.

  Without warning, her body began to spasm. “Marcus!” she cried.

  “I’m here, Eliza.”

  She held tightly to him as the pleasure became so intense it was almost pain. She heard him cry out, felt his seed spill into her. And then she was drifting back down from whatever rapturous place they had gone together.

  “Go to sleep, Eliza,” he murmured in her ear, his breathing still harsh and uneven.

  She was too breathless to answer, merely closed her eyes and let him hold her tight in his arms.

  Much later, Eliza yawned. She must be sure to awaken early in the morning. She and the twins had a great deal to do.

  They had a little surprise planned for the Beast of Blackthorne.

  Chapter 18

  Marcus was not ready to wake up, even though he knew the day had begun. He had been having a dream which he did not want to let go. He was loving Eliza, looking tenderly into her eyes as she gazed adoring
ly back at him.

  In real life, he had let her out of his room and rebolted the doors shortly before dawn. She had grumbled at being woken so early, scratched her head, demanded a lantern, and disappeared down the hall wearing his dressing gown and a pair of his slippers.

  He felt good. More hopeful than he should. She had taken off his glove. He had made love to her twice.

  She had wanted him.

  That was half the battle. Now if he could only figure out a way to get Eliza to forgive him, they could live happily ever after … at night.

  He heard voices. Children’s voices. Shouting. Breaking glass. Running feet and more shouting.

  Marcus leaped from the bed, uncertain what catastrophe had occurred but anxious to get there as quickly as he could to help. And realized he was stark naked and had no idea where he had dropped his clothes in the dark.

  He found a shirt and trousers near the foot of the bed and his stockings and boots at the head. He managed to get everything on, then realized he had no idea where his cloak and glove were. On hands and knees, he discovered his cloak balled up under the bed, but the damned glove was nowhere to be found.

  Crying. A child’s voice, crying.

  He swirled the cloak around his shoulders, disappeared inside the hood, then stuck his crippled hand into his pocket. It could stay hidden there until he could find another glove.

  He shot the bolts and swung open the door—to find chaos in the hall.

  Footmen were running to and fro carrying framed art and vases and even an ormolu clock! Maids were dusting cobwebs from the hall ceiling and sweeping the floors. He glanced down the hall and saw that only a hundred years’ growth of ivy kept sunlight from coming in through the mullioned windows across the east wing facade—which had been completely stripped of curtains!

  “What is going on here?” he bellowed.

  A maid at the far end of the hall opened her mouth to scream, but caught herself and curtsied instead. “Good morning, Your Grace. Her Grace is in the drawing room.”

  He had not asked. But it gave him a direction to go and a good notion who was behind all this disorder.

  A footman edged out of his way juggling a Sevres vase. Marcus caught it as it fell and handed it back to the fellow. The footman was careful not to look at Marcus’s face as he said, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  The more polite they were, the angrier he got. What had happened to shrieking in terror? What had happened to fainting dead? He was the same monster he had been yesterday. Was he not?

  Marcus glared at the next man he met, who backed up against the wall, holding a painting in front of him for protection.

  “Oh, it’s you, Fenwick,” he said, relaxing slightly in the darkened hallway. “Why is my butler engaged in moving the furnishings?”

  “Wasn’t given a choice, Yer Grace,” Fenwick whispered, glancing down the hall toward the open drawing room door. “Her Grace said any servant who didn’t come to the east wing and help this mornin’—’ceptin’ Cook, who’s got orders to cook yer breakfast—was discharged! And anyone who screamed, or fainted, or looked at ye the least bit funny, was discharged without a reference.”

  Marcus clenched his jaws. Even Her Grace’s blackmail could not totally repress the servants’ abhorrence for him. It had served to curb their tongues, but not the terror reflected in their eyes and bodies. He did not want them here reminding him what a monster he was.

  He marched down the hall, cloak swirling, intending to ring a peal over her head.

  Marcus entered his drawing room and stopped dead. Nothing was where it had been. Except she had left the dark curtains over the windows. Perhaps she had considered that necessary to curb her own terror at seeing him, he thought darkly.

  “What do you think, Griggs? Keep the chairs facing the fire, or turn them facing each other?” Eliza asked.

  “Sergeant Griggs!” he bellowed.

  The sergeant reflexively snapped to attention, caught himself, and turned to face the duke. “Is there somethin’ you wanted, Your Grace?”

  “Did I not give you strict orders that I was not at home to Her Grace during the day?”

  “You did.”

  “Then what the devil is going on here!”

  “Oh,” Eliza said, smiling as she crossed to him. “I can explain that.”

  “I was not speaking to you,” he said, keeping his eyes on the sergeant. “Well, Griggs?”

  “Your Grace—”

  “As I explained to Griggs,” Eliza said, interrupting him, “I had no desire whatsoever to have an audience with you.”

  Marcus turned his head away, so she could not see his face. Fortunately, she did not cross to stand in front of him, but stared at his profile instead.

  “All I wished to do was rearrange a little furniture and do a little cleaning. I never intended to disturb your rest.”

  “I heard broken glass. And a child crying.”

  “Oh, the twins were moving a crystal candelabra, but Reggie jigged when Becky jogged, and it met a sad fate on the stone floor,” she said with a shrug and a diffident smile. “Neither child was hurt. Becky only cried because she was afraid you would be angry with her—I understand it was a Christmas gift one year to their mother. But once I assured her you would simply be glad she was unhurt, she was content. You are not angry, are you?”

  Marcus wondered when he had lost control of the conversation. “No, I am not angry.” The fewer reminders of Penthia in the Abbey, the better. “But I still do not understand what you are doing here.”

  “If the twins and I are moving in, we—”

  “What?” Marcus could not quite believe what he had heard. “What did you say?”

  “I said if the twins and I are moving in—”

  “No,” he said shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I wish to live alone. You cannot—”

  “Uncle Marcus!”

  “Uncle Marcus!”

  Marcus pivoted and saw Reggie and Becky running toward him full tilt. He pulled the hood completely forward, to ensure his scarred face could not be seen. “Stop!” he commanded.

  They lurched to a halt six feet in front of him.

  “Uncle Marcus?”

  “Uncle Marcus?”

  Two pairs of pleading, anxious eyes stared up at him. He knew what they wanted. To be picked up, to be hugged, to be laughed with and loved. He wished the problem were as simple as Eliza had tried to make it. He could not go back to living as he had before Waterloo. Servants could be forced not to show their revulsion, but that did not mean it did not exist, that he could not feel their fear and loathing. The same held true for the children.

  What if he tried to pick up one of the twins and, as Reggie had last night, she fled from him instead? He would rather love them at a distance. Maybe he was protecting himself at their expense. But he could not do otherwise.

  Marcus felt a quick tug on his breeches and looked down to find Becky standing near him.

  “Uncle Marcus—”

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Eliza said—”

  “I have forbidden you to come to this wing of the Abbey,” he interrupted. “I meant what I said.”

  “And I meant what I said,” Eliza interjected, “when I told the children we are moving to this wing of the Abbey.”

  How beautiful she looked, a few curls spilling from the knot at her crown, her chin raised, her golden eyes sparkling with defiance. “You cannot move the household willy-nilly wherever you want,” he said.

  “Why not? There is plenty of room here.”

  “The place is haunted,” he said flatly. He glanced at Reggie and Becky and saw his suggestion had been planted in fertile ground.

  Eliza countered, “It is no such thing. I spent the night here last night and nothing happened to me.”

  “Oh, no?” He reached out to caress her throat and whispered in a voice no one but she could hear, “Who made this bruise, Eliza? A Beast I think. A monster in the night.”

 
She flushed to the roots of her hair.

  “Oh!” Becky cried. “You’ve taken off the glove!”

  Marcus stared at the hand resting on Eliza’s cheek. The slightly curled fingers were pale as chalk, the scars even whiter than the skin surrounding them. He quickly withdrew his hand and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “Your hand does not look nearly so much like a spider without the glove,” Becky said ingenuously.

  “A spider?” Marcus shot Eliza a look, and she shrugged as though to say she had not coached the child.

  “I thought it looked like a bird’s claw, Uncle Marcus,” Reggie volunteered.

  Becky looked up at him quizzically. “Does it still hurt, Uncle Marcus? Is that why you do not use it?”

  “The wounds are healed,” he said curtly.

  “But sometimes the muscles get very tight,” Eliza said, looking at him. “We can help Uncle Marcus make it feel better by bringing him hot water to ease the cramping.”

  “Oh,” Becky said, looking up at him and back down at the bulging pocket that contained his gnarled hand. “Do you need some hot water right now, Uncle Marcus? Is that why you are acting so horrid?”

  Marcus felt like laughing. And crying. “My hand is fine.”

  “I can help too, Uncle Marcus,” Reggie volunteered.

  “I need nothing from either of you!” Marcus snapped. “I can take care of myself.”

  Marcus felt his stomach knot as tears brimmed in Becky’s eyes. Reggie’s eyes misted, but she blinked hard, and in moments her face was coldly emotionless.

  Reggie took Becky’s hand. “I told you he would not want us here.” Then, watching him over her shoulder, she dragged Becky from the room.

  Griggs gave him a disappointed, disgusted look and followed after them.

  Marcus glanced at Eliza and found disillusionment and disapproval in her eyes.

  She had no right to condemn him. This was all her fault. He did not want any help coping with the nightmarish episodes he occasionally endured with his hand. He was not convinced a little hot water was going to do much to end his suffering, and he had no desire for the children to see him in that kind of agony, or entirely castaway when he used the one method he had found that did ease the pain.