The Model Master

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  "Am I?" she said angrily. "I’m not the one who screamed the house down because I cut my finger."

  She swung past him before he could grab her arm and give her a scathing telling off the presumptuous little madam wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

  By the time Bryony returned with a pile of blankets and pillows, Michael had cooled down somewhat, and she pointedly ignored him as she checked her sons. Moving over to the hearth she made up a nest of blankets and placed the boys down upon it one by one.

  "You might as well go to bed. You’ve done enough and you’re obviously worn out."

  "I was going to say the same of you."

  "They’re my sons and you’ve done more than your share," she said shortly.

  Michael knew she was right, but he was reluctant to let them out of his sight. He had another problem as well, one he would have to confide in her if he was ever going to get to bed.

  He sighed. "I would go to bed, but at the risk of sounding forward, especially since I'm sitting here without trousers, the truth is I can’t manage to get into it by myself."

  Her expression was contrite in an instant. "Come, I’ll help you."

  "I expected one of the servants back before now," he lied, "but with the storm they’re obviously not returning tonight."

  She pushed him down the hall and asked, "What do you need me to do?"

  "I have to get out of the chair completely and then climb up in. and don't worry, there's no point to the trousers now if I'm going to bed anyway."

  "I'm sorry, I wasn't abandoning you, I was just giving us both a little rest in between," she apologized quickly.

  "Don't worry. You're right, I sat back down because of the strain. So thank you for being so consideration, and let's turn our attention to me getting to bed instead."

  She nodded. "Just tell me what you want me to do."

  "I find the easiest way with a man my size is to raise myself up at the head of the bed and sort of roll in head first. If you can support me under the arms, give me a push and help me turn, it will be fine."

  "Good, let's go."

  She took a last look at her sons, who looked to be sleeping peacefully now, and then began to push his chair out of the kitchen towards his chamber.

  When they got to the room, they were awkward together the first time, and he slipped downwards and nearly landed on his knees.

  "I’m sorry. I’m a bit weak and lost my grip," she gritted between clenched teeth.

  With superhuman effort she heaved him up and forward, and helped turn him over until she was flat against his chest staring down at him. A slight movement of her head would have brought their lips together.

  But Michael turned his head almost angrily, hating her to see him like that. Her breasts burned against his partly bared chest where his shirt buttons lay open, and he could feel his manhood almost burgeoning out of control. All she had to do was wriggle her hips and...

  "Thank you, Bryony, that’s quite enough," he said in clipped tones.

  She continued, moving each of his legs in turn, grasping his ankles and laying his bare legs out straight. He looked down at the peculiar sensations flooding through him, and he was sure he could feel her. His elation was vast.

  But a few light touches was one thing—a normal life was so far away it might as well be in another galaxy.

  She fussed with the covers until he thought he would scream, and he wondered at her high colour. Surely she could not have felt some sort of passion for him?

  She would not meet his gaze. He wondered if he had disgraced himself utterly, if she had seen his erection. Felt it?

  But no, his shirt tails were long enough to cover his problem, and he had not grabbed her, much as he had longed to seize her body and bury his face in her fulsome softness.

  But no, she was more embarrassed about her presumption in her next act, for she had seen the chamberpot and now handed it to him.

  "Is there anything else you need?"

  "Er, no, thank you," he said with a blush, taking it from her. "If you could just please snuff the candles except this one on the bedside table."

  "Yes, of course. Good night, and thank you again."

  To Michael’s surprise Bryony bent and kissed him on the forehead as she had done her own sons.

  But before he could grasp her by the elbow she was gone, her bare feet whispering along the floorboards as she left him alone with his brooding and rampagingly lusty thoughts.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bryony was sure she had only just settled into a light sleep when she heard Michael’s voice bellowing throughout the downstairs of the house. She scrambled up off the floor and ran towards his room, stumbling in the dim light from the now guttering candle by the bed.

  None of the words made much sense, for he was shouting orders to imaginary comrades. But the tone was enough to convince her that if a crisis was not upon him already, it soon would be.

  Was he abusing opiates? He certainly seemed to have the most awful dreams, she remarked to herself, her face paling at the words. She was not easily shocked, her husband having had a most foul mouth when he had been drinking.

  Michael wasn’t swearing violently, but lightly and good-naturedly at his allies for a time, until it all changed and then he was describing the blood and horrors of the battle he was reliving in his worst nightmare.

  Bryony was torn between allowing Michael to shout himself hoarse and trying to wake him. She put a tentative hand on his chest only to have it smashed aside.

  Her wrist stinging from the swingeing blow, she cried out. He seemed to hear her, and stilled somewhat. So he could sense her.

  She tried touching him again, this time lower. "It’s all right, Michael. I’m here. You’re not alone. It’s Bryony. I, um, I wanted to ask your help with the boys. Darren still has a great deal of fever and I’m not sure what to do."

  She rubbed his hard-muscled chest and stomach in soothing circles. After a time he shuddered and lay still. At least the screaming had stopped.

  "Michael?"

  He blinked and sat up, his eye unfocused and glazed. . "What, what is it, who’s there! Belle?"

  "No, it’s me, Bryony. Darren’s still ill. What do I do?"

  He flung the covers off himself with a jerk, instantly awake. "Go behind and hold the chair with your right hand and help me in with your left."

  She did as he instructed. In a split second after he was seated he began heading for the kitchen.

  It was no lie she told; Darren was still very hot. But Bryony felt as though she couldn’t keep her eyes open a minute more. They got him into the cold tub, and then brought some blankets over, put one on the floor, one around herself, and one around Michael’s lap as he sat barelegged. He was touched by the gesture and thanked her softly, longing to kiss her glittering tears away.

  She sat on the blanket and leaned against the side of the chair, one hand on her son in the water, her head leaning on Michael’s knee.

  "I’m sorry, Michael, I’m so tired, I just can’t—"

  "I’ll wake you, I promise. Rest now."

  He brushed back her dark hair. Allowing himself a light peck on the top of her head, he settled into his chair to keep vigil.

  The gradual lightening of the grey dawn was just beginning to filter in through the small mullioned kitchen windows when Bryony stirred at last. She raised her head and gasped. She was stiff and cold, and shivered against the warm hard blanketed leg she had been leaning on. She sat up straight and turned to look at Michael. "Oh lord, I’m so sorry."

  "Don’t be," he said promptly. "Gavin is fine now, sleeping, and Darren looks like he is out of the woods as well. Even you’re looking better for being clean and having had some sleep."

  He began to fold the blanket she had given him and put it to one side, but his gaze never left her face as he worked, then reached for the trousers she had brought for him but had never managed to help him put on.

  As she watched, she noticed there was a light in his eyes
she had not seen before. Once again she could not help observing what an incredibly beautiful man he was. She longed to reach out and touch his face, trace his lush full lips, his elegant high cheekbones.

  She tried to struggle to her feet to fetch her son out of the tub, but her leg had fallen asleep under her, and she partly rose, only to stumble. She was about to go head first into the water when Michael grabbed her by her supple waist. She landed squarely on his lap. There was no mistaking the tell-tale bulge, and its contact with her soft bottom through only the thinnest of coverings was enough to unman him completely.

  "Oh God," he gritted out.

  "I’m sorry!" she apologised quickly, trying to get out of his lap.

  But he hung on, wrapping his arms around her waist tightly and kissing the nape of her neck torridly as he groaned.

  Bryony at last understood and moved her hand back to caress his now perspiring face. Her other hand rubbed the back of one of his as he clutched her. She was surprised he could feel her. As she tried to turn her head to kiss him she squirmed slightly in his lap to try to enhance the pleasure. It was certainly doing the most thrilling things to her, though the tingling coursing through her was also due to her partly dead leg.

  At last his quiet sobs of passion subsided, and he released her just enough for her to swivel sideways and kiss his bare chest and throat.

  "Thank you for looking after Darren," she said, quickly glossing over the moment so he would not feel ashamed. "And thank you for helping me with my leg. The pins and needles ought to stop in a minute."

  He sagged against her in relief. She was either the most naive woman in the world, or the most generous. The latter, he decided as she stroked the column of his neck for a time, and continued to kiss his chest.

  He knew why she was doing it—she felt sorry for him. Still, she felt so lovely in his lap, he could feel himself stirring all over again.

  Pity was the last thing Bryony felt as she savoured the lightly salty tang of his perspiration as she kissed his bared flesh wherever it peeped through the opening of his shirt.

  But when she moved to kiss him on the lips he turned his head again and asked gruffly in a voice deepened by passion as he set her on her feet, "Are you hungry?"

  "My stomach feels as though it’s been turned inside out," she admitted.

  "Have something to eat first. After that you’d better put on a clean chemise and then a frock. Some of the servants will be back soon and I would not have you embarrassed unduly."

  She went to get clean underthings and the dress she had selected a few hours before. But when she came back into the kitchen without the shawl around her shoulders Michael could feel himself springing to life with an acuteness bordering on agony.

  Arabella was taller than Bryony, so the gown trailed along the floor by a good three inches. Her bosom was thus even more exposed in the square neckline than it had been in the chemise, for the band of stiffened ribbon which formed the waist of the dress pushed the ample globes upwards. But she seemed not to even care at all. Her attention remained focused upon her sons as if her appearance was the last thing in the world she thought of.

  Michael did care, for to see such a display of delectable pink and white creaminess when she bent over was more of a temptation than he could bear. But should he be direct about it, or let her know in a round-about manner?

  In the end he opted for the more genteel way. "Bryony, lass, that gown doesn’t fit very well. Perhaps you should find another one, or locate Arabella’s work basket and stitch in some lace?"

  "Hmm?" She looked down at her bosom and blushed. "Oh yes, I see what you mean. I’m sorry."

  "Don’t be sorry. Not your fault. I just don’t want you catching pneumonia or being concerned I might think ill of you. Have you ever seen a storm like it?" he asked, the eaves groaning as the wind swirled outside.

  "No, it’s pretty fearsome," she agreed, going back into the bathroom to retrieve the shawl. She tied it around her shoulders and nibbled on a crust of bread as she looked out the window. The gown was a lightweight one of fine muslin. Without the usual yards of petticoats it clung to her like a second skin whenever she moved.

  Get a hold of yourself, man, Michael scolded himself.

  But he couldn’t block the image of Bryony in his lap from his mind. The incredible sensations she had evoked.

  Oh, she had not meant to. The fall had been an accident. But she must have known, known and been disgusted by his uncontrolled lechery.

  He tested her once again, not wanting to see anything dark and shadowy in her attitude toward him.

  "Bryony," he said softly.

  She turned to look at him, and only when he continued to remain silent did a tiny frown of puzzlement crease the creamy space between her brows.

  "Shall I make you some tea, some breakfast perhaps, Michael?" she asked, her eyes never leaving his face.

  He gave her a small smile. "Tea would be most welcome. And whatever you would care to have, I shall too."

  Her eyes sparkled with mirth. "I doubt you’re a milk drinker."

  "A bit more bread?"

  "Aye, some toast, with a tiny bit of butter for me, and marmalade."

  "Sounds just the thing for us both," he agreed.

  She went past him to get the things and stroked back the thick curl of hair which had fallen down across his brow. "Poor thing, you must be exhausted," she said in a motherly tone. "Breakfast for you, and then off to bed."

  "No, I can—"

  "Bed for you. I got some sleep. You need some too."

  "I did have some before you woke me," he reminded her.

  Bryony nodded, setting her ebony curls bobbing. "Yes, you must have been out a couple of hours."

  "Did you sleep then?"

  She shook her head. "I was too anxious. Then I heard, um, Darren wheezing a bit and got scared and came to fetch you," she explained, hoping he had not detected her lie.

  Michael was so tired he couldn’t even recall whether or not he had dreamt. In fact he was so spent from his climax he just wanted to put his arms around her and sleep once more. But he needed to eat, and somehow get clean underdrawers and then trousers back on before he disgraced himself utterly with his lovely young companion.

  He hoped one of the servants would return soon, but as they ate breakfast, gave the boys more milk, and then settled them both down on the pallet by the blazing kitchen fire, there was still no sign of anyone.

  "It must be the storm keeping them away," she said when she saw Michael continuing to glance at the door every so often. "But I suspect you’re going to need the chamberpot and more clean clothes at some point. I’m sure Gavin spilled milk all over you again," she said, offering him the excuse he needed to agree with her suggestion.

  He nodded his agreement. Except he had been the one who spilled like a schoolboy...

  The tantalising curve of her breasts peeping out from the top of the shawl nearly unmanned him all over again as she bent near him to tidy the blankets off the floor she had left by his chair. He could see why she had picked the gown, since it was evidently an old work frock. But its summer-weight fabric was much too thin without undergarments. It was so revealing as it pushed her bosom up to curve voluptuously, practically inviting his caress, that he knew he would not be able to withstand her amplitudes touching him as she tried to wrestle him into the bed once more.

  "Why don’t you get a warmer gown, and then come help me change into some heavier clothes? This storm is as bad as any I’ve seen in the dead of winter."

  "Aye, it was sleeting when we found you last night. But are you sure Arabella—"

  "Something nice, warm, woollen, and without so much as a hint of decolletage, or I’m not going to be answerable for the consequences," he growled, the light in his eyes telling her he was completely serious.

  But then so was she. She stepped past him, undid the shawl and grasped his hand, placing it smack in the middle of her bosom. "Perhaps I don’t expect you to be."


  "God Almighty, what are you doing to me?" he exploded, shock and desire transforming his features, hardening them almost beyond recognition.

  He yanked his hand away, but not before he had felt their soft firmness, and one exquisite nipple pouting into his thumb, begging him to circle it tenderly.

  "Being honest about it. You’ve gawped at them long enough. You might as well have a taste, so to speak. And that can be arranged too—"

  She started to undo the small pearl buttons of the top of the gown with an uncharacteristic boldness which shocked her even as it propelled her onwards.