She shook her head. "No, really. I wouldn’t like you to be bored."
He gauged her reaction again, and thought she was telling the truth, that she really did not want to go. "Well, if you’re sure."
"No, really, thank you. It’s not possible for me."
"Why ever not?"
She raised her brows in surprise. "It’s hardly fitting. I am after all only a servant, a paid companion. It’s not appropriate for you to take me out to any social occasions."
Michael grimaced as though he had tasted something foul. "You’re my housekeeper, Bryony. Please do no use the phrase ‘paid companion’. It bring up all sorts of unpleasant connotations."
She blushed. "Oh, quite. Just so. I do apologise."
He lapsed into silence, though he kept recalling her words for days afterwards, and wondered why they rankled so much.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
At the end of a month of visiting the baths, Bryony was sure that Michael was ready for the next step in his course of treatment. Eswara had taught her a great deal, and not only about massage and healing.
Some in-depth conversations about male anatomy and what pleased men best, as well as some explorations of her own body, were enough to convince her that she was prepared to run the risk of moving her relations with Michael forward to something far more intimate.
For that she needed Michael receptive to the possibility. He had never mentioned her bargain again. But the way he looked at her sometimes when he thought she didn’t see was enough to convince her that the attraction had always been there, and she prayed it always would be.
She was sure it would be for her, for her heart sped up every time she laid eyes on him, and the sound of his voice was enough to make her melt.
She had taken to sleeping back in his bed at night, and his terrible dreams had once more vanished, leaving him much better rested and calm again.
She was sure from the way he had begun to touch her that it was only a matter of time before he woke up one night and found her there in his bed, and she was determined not to beat a hasty retreat when he did.
One clear, crisp snow-covered January day when they were finishing a section of the dictionary, he looked up at her.
"What is it, my dear?" he asked, noticing her staring at him.
"There is one thing. I was wondering what is to be your reward now that you’ve been so diligent about going to the Baths?"
"Oh, I don’t need--" he said, blushing at the reminder of her proposed bargain. Not that he ever needed reminding. Sometimes he couldn’t think of anything else but her proposal.
"How about a day off from work, and a picnic?"
He stared out the window. "But the weather is so—"
"It can be an indoor one. I’ll arrange everything. Please say you’ll come."
When she gave him one of her magical smiles, he could deny her nothing. "All right, I shall."
"Friday?"
He nodded "I shall look forward to it."
She prepared a feast fit for an Indian king thanks to Ash and Eswara, and arranged all sorts of games, from draughts to chess, to croquet with paper hoops, mallets and balls, to archery with a straw butt, and a toy bow and arrows tipped with different colours of vegetable dye to show where they hit the target.
The one problem was getting Michael up the stairs. Bryony again determined she would consult with a master carpenter about things she could do to make his life easier. Ash could help, she was sure of it, even if Michael were not willing to experiment with labour-saving devices to get him in and out of the tub and up and down the stairs, or even in and out of the carriage or onto a horse.
At last Michael got up with the help of Simms, Robin, and two of the footmen, in a plain wooden chair which they had lashed poles to. Bryony kept out of the way so he would not feel shamed. Only when he was safely in his wheelchair and the servants had withdrawn did she emerge from her room and welcome him.
He stared at the transformation she had wrought. The rooms were exquisite, with touches of the exotic everywhere, silk throws, pillows, and a wonderful spicy scent.
Then he saw the pictures on the wall and stiffened. "Where on earth did those come from?" he gasped.
"Ash copied them for me out of a book as a sort of house-warming present."
"But they’re, they’re naked! And dancing. Oh, Lord, not even dancing. Bryony! What are you thinking of?" he exclaimed, completely and almost painfully aroused by the erotic Indian art.
She shrugged. "I’ve learnt the body isn’t something to be terrified of after all. That not everyone wants to be brutal and cruel. That lovemaking doesn’t have to be all one-sided. That it can be a sacred experience for two people to share when they care a great deal about each other. I like them, so they’re staying."
He did his best to enjoy the picnic, but found his eyes straying back to the pictures every so often. He kept turning over in his mind what she had said about lovemaking as a sacred experience.
He began thinking of Bryony with her hair billowing down, clad in only a silk robe, and could scarcely breathe.
The picnic was meant to be fun, but there was a sensual undertone to it as she sat at his feet and brushed his leg every so often, reminding him of the first night they had been together at Blake’s when she had slept curved against his leg.
All those weeks ago he had been in love with her, and the feeling had only grown over time.
And she was still there with him... And seemed happy.
He laughed as they played croquet and he taught the boys archery. She had spread a sheet down on the floor under the butt in case of the dye splattering, and pointed to each hit.
"Your turn now, Bryony."
"Oh, no, I couldn’t," she protested with a shy smile.
"Here, you can be blue. Hold it like so—"
She perched in his lap and he froze. "I don’t think I want to play any more," she whispered, her lips only inches from his own.
"Bryony..."
The boys scurried around playing croquet like demented beetles. He let her stay in his lap for a time longer, though he made no move to make the contact more intimate.
"I don’t care what you say, Michael. I know you’re getting better every day. Maybe you won’t get back everything you once had. But you definitely won’t if you give up for fear of disappointment."
"I don’t give up, and I don’t fear anything," he snarled, trying to remove her arms from around his neck.
She fixed him with her deep blue eyes, daring to defy him once more. "You’re a liar, Michael. You’re the most fearful person I’ve ever met."
"Ha! You can say that to me after you ran away from your family?" he sniped.
She shrugged. "I ran because they’re dangerous. A very real threat to my sons. You ran because you think you’re dangerous. But I don’t believe you are. Even if you were, you can’t run from yourself. Who’s to say what any one of us can be capable of? I would like to think I was capable of Christian forgiveness. But I swear I would kill my brother-in-law or his mother with my bare hands if they so much as laid a finger on my child’s head."
"I believe it. You’re a lioness when roused to protect those you care about."
"You haven’t seen me really roused. Or aroused," she added with a warm smile.
His sucked-in breath told her she had hit her mark.
"Stop that right now. I don’t think you should be saying things like that to me. Not unless you’re only doing it because you know I’m no threat to you. In which case it’s cruel."
She gave him a sultry smile. "Actually, I was rather hoping you might be feeling, well, warm." She leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek. "If I can’t offer you an incentive for getting better, I don’t know who can."
"But we’re only supposed to be friends," he whispered, awed by her nearness.
"Friends can hug and kiss, can’t they?" she murmured, stroking his cheek.
He swallowed hard. "In my experience the only hugging and kissi
ng I ever did was usually a prelude to something much more."
"Well, why don’t we just relax and see where it takes us?"
He stared at her in horror. "Good God, Bryony. What sort of woman are you?"
She shrugged, not in the least ashamed. "The kind who thinks being honest is a virtue. You’re a wonderful-looking man. I’ve got to see you partially bare on a regular basis for weeks now. I would have to be as dumb as a stone not to be tempted by your magnificence."
"Oh, go away, Bryony!" he exclaimed impatiently. "You’re just making a mockery of me. Because I’m no longer a man."
He tried to shrug her off, but she stroked his cheek, gazing deeply into his eyes. "Does this feel like a mockery?" She rubbed his shoulders, his back, digging in gently with her fingers as Eswara had show her.
She got results almost instantly.
"What on earth-"
"My friend Eswara has been showing me the therapeutic massage she does on her son. He says it’s done wonders for his mobility. I think we should try."
"I don’t see how-"
"You have nothing to lose, do you?"
"You have better things to do with your time," he said curtly.
"A half an hour, that’s all I’m asking, Michael. Let me try, please?"
He nodded curtly. "It does feel rather good," he admitted grudgingly as her fingers continued to ripple over him.
He was almost sorry when it ended. The boys were sleepy and needed to be put to bed, and she had to summon the servants to help clean up the remains of the picnic.
"There now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?"
"No, it was fun. Thank you for a lovely day."
"If you want another massage again, all you have to do is ask."
After another week of considering all Bryony had said, all she seemed to be offering, Michael did ask. He told himself there was no harm, that he was not compromising her virtue. The feel of her hands on his fevered body gave him such bliss. Soon it became part of their nightly ritual, though he refused to let her see him bare, insisting she had to rub him through his shirt.
But on another night she heated some oil, and worked her hands down under his collar. They felt like heaven on his bare flesh. Gradually she was able to rub her way further down his back. Though he unbuttoned it, he refused to take off his shirt completely in front of her.
The fifth night he finally gave in and admitted it was easier without the shirt. By the tenth night she had actually got him to loosen the waist of his trousers.
By the end of a fortnight she had him in the bed and was slipping her hands onto his buttocks underneath the fabric, him firmly holding one edge in an attempt to ensure she was not peeking at anything she shouldn’t. He found it incredibly stimulating, so much so that he had to think all sorts of mundane thoughts to try to hold his passion in check.
But Bryony knew what he was feeling, and about three weeks after the massaging had begun, she gave him a potion that Eswara had given her, a concoction of cinnamon, mace, cloves, nutmeg and lavender which she had said would send the blood rushing through all parts of his anatomy. All.
She had given it to Michael in some plain tea with milk, and as he finished the cup and proclaimed it very tasty, if somewhat unusual, he gasped, wide-eyed.
"Michael, what is it? Are you all right?"
"I’m— Oh, Lord, I think the massage has given me some new sensation. Completely new ones. Heavens above, I’ve never felt like this before."
"Good or bad?" she asked, marvelling at the vast change in him.
"Good. Very good. Excellent, in fact." He closed his eyes and groaned.
She stopped for a moment, until he panted, "No, don’t stop. It’s wonderful." She worked her hands down his back, and asked him, "Do you feel all right? Do you want to lie down now?"
"Oh, yes," he sighed.
She got him into the bed and rubbed him down vigorously. He gained his release as she rubbed the small of his back, his erection thrusting into the mattress so hard he thought he was going to be lifted off it. But what to do about Bryony? She was there right in the room with him. She was going to notice.
Damnation, this was as bad if not worse than the time she had been in his lap at Blake’s. The blood pounded through his body so compellingly he was sure he was even incapable of the power of speech.
Bryony did notice, but knew this was supposed to happen and said nothing. It was all part of her attempt to entice him into longing for a normal life once more. Though Bryony thought it would kill her if it was not with her, she loved him enough to want him to be happy and as whole a person as possible given all the war had done to him.
Michael was so preoccupied with what was occurring at the front of him that he did not even notice her slipping the fabric down over his hips to uncover him fully. As she had guessed, he was magnificent. He must have been a fine horseman in his day.
She smoothed her hands down over his thighs. It was only when she got as far as his knees that he came to his senses and began to protest.
"I say, Bryony, I can’t believe— What on earth did you put in that tea?"
"I told you, cinnamon and a few other spices I would make biscuits with. Was it disgusting? Are you sick to your stomach?" she asked worriedly.
"More like completely overwhelmed," he rasped. "But you’ve now seen me almost totally naked. How could you! This isn’t what I hired you for-"
"As long as I’m this far down I might as well get to your feet," she said in a practical tone, stripping the trousers and drawers right off his legs.
He gritted his teeth and sighed.
Then he realized he had been able to feel her hands. Only vaguely, but the sensation had been there. He certainly hadn’t been able to see them touching him, for he was still lying flat on his face.
"I can feel that!" he said in surprise. "Do it again. Harder. Harder still. Now softer."
She obeyed his instructions, delighted with the change in him. She could hear the relief, the near-joy in his voice.
"I can feel you. Oh, God, a few other things as well," he gasped once more, wave after wave of sensation flooding his loins as she massaged his buttocks powerfully with both hands.
"Thank you," he panted. "You have no idea what this meant to me," he said into the pillow numbly.
"So long as you’re not in pain, dearest, that’s the main thing."
"You touch me, Bryony and all I feel is the most acute pleasure I ever have in my life," he confessed, before he fell into a dreamless slumber.
Bryony rolled him over and feasted her eyes on him. She had been right. Magnificent. He stirred and sighed contentedly as she began to clean him and adjust the bedclothes. She stroked his chest with the hot oil, working her way ever lower. He stirred and almost purred.
When she was sure he was deeply asleep, she gave a little smile of her own at his splendour and decided to put into hands-on practice everything Eswara had taught her about lingam massage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Michael woke with a start to find himself completely naked in the bed, the most incredible sense of well-being flooding through him like a tide of pure pleasure. He was covered by a single sheet draped over him. He could smell the lovely almond oil all over his body, softening his skin. He glanced down and saw his erection tenting the sheet, and blushed.
Bryony had to have been the one who had stripped him, covered him in the oil. Cleaned him, he thought with a groan as he touched himself and found only a light feeling of oil. Not massaged him there as well, surely? A few more exploratory touches convinced him she had, and a great deal more besides. Surely they hadn’t...
But no, he would have remembered, would have felt some sign. How on earth...
Eswara, of course, but surely not Ash too! The fierce jealousy burned within him one again. Was that why she had been looking so pleased with herself before Christmas? Was she in love with the young pup, and feeling sorry for him?
But when he saw her next, he did not dare speak of
his suspicions, for he feared questioning her would drag all that was shadowy and mysterious between them into the cold light of day.
He had begun to cherish the marvelous intimacy of the longer and longer massage sessions in which he could just lay with his mind empty and give himself up to the pure pleasure.
She smiled at him as he entered the study. Was it one of pity, or lasciviousness?
"Good morning. Did you sleep well?"
"Exceptionally, Bryony. Thank you."
The Model Master Page 17
