A Certain Latitude

by Janet Mullany

  She scowled at March. Allen bit back a smile. Despite his efforts to teach her how a mistress should behave, she seemed to be incapable of hiding her feelings.

  And then she laughed. Standing in the tiled magnificence of March’s plunge bath, water lapping gently around her thighs, she reminded Allen of the vibrant creature who had thrown her stockings overboard. She lifted her wet hair to the back of her neck in both hands and squeezed the water out, breasts lifting.

  “It will be my pleasure, my lord Prospero.” She waded over to Allen and sat astride his thighs. She touched his lip with one forefinger, slightly damp and wrinkled from the water. “Let me give you this,” she whispered. “You know I cannot give you more.”

  He closed his eyes. He wanted her, but he didn’t want her pity. Her finger still rested on his lip and he drew it into his mouth, biting softly. Her breasts rubbed against his chest, soft and springy, their tips hard, while her thighs gripped his.

  He dared not look into her eyes, fearful of what she might see in his, and equally fearful of what he might see in hers—pity, indifference. Touch only, then, the gloriously smooth velvet of her skin, the tickle of fine hairs, and the scent of her, fine lavender soap, the slickness of her arousal.

  Thank God she was aroused, unless it was the presence of March that fired her, or the prospect of performing for him. Or, despite her objections, the submission of her will to his, the abandon of self.

  Water lapped, the fire crackled and she breathed soft into his ear.

  He ran his hands over her back, the tender knobs of vertebrae, the sharpness of her shoulder-blades—fine, smooth skin; the flesh riper, with more spring on her buttocks, softly warm between them, growing warmer and, even underwater, the silkiness of her excitement. He slipped a hand around between their bodies, to rub the springy mass of hair, rotate the hard bead of her clitoris.

  She sighed, her lips brushing his. Yes, open for him, take him in, tongue, cock, the perfect fit he never expected to experience again. One hand on her arse, guiding her to his orgasm, the other leading her into her own. Her arms brushed his head. She must be clutching the tiled surround.

  Clarissa moved, Allen hardly at all, her breasts brushing his chest—he knew she liked that, a stolen pleasure Her thighs tightened against his, her quim changing the way it did before she came, her breathing fast and urgent now.

  Behind his eyelids he imagined her face rapt and intent, as she sought release.

  She engulfed him, gripped, shivered, whimpered, her mouth sliding to his shoulder.

  Behind his eyelids now, flashes of light, a leap into the abyss.

  She raised her head to kiss the salt that welled at his eyes.

  He hoped March had not noticed. But Prospero knew everything that happened on his island.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Dey say you and my papa…” Celia struck a note rather too hard on the pianoforte.

  Clarissa winced. After a night of very little sleep, the sound jangled in her aching head. Out of tune again, too. She was not surprised Celia had heard something from gossiping slaves, but she was not sure how she, Clarissa, should respond.

  “That is a matter between Mr. Lemarchand and myself,” she said. “You need not concern yourself and it should certainly not affect your lessons. Try that scale again, please.”

  She was not ready for Celia’s response. “You better than the others.”

  “The others? The scale, if you please, with your right hand and then the left hand.”

  Celia began to play, murmuring to herself. “One, two, three, thumb under…no, Miss Onslowe, I didn’t like his other mistresses. Some of them were only greedy black girls. And the white ones, they were not much better.” She landed triumphantly on the final note. “So, I like that he likes you.”

  “You know,” Clarissa said with as much delicacy as she could, “in most houses, I would not continue as your governess.”

  “No!” Celia, her scales abandoned, grabbed Clarissa’s hand. “You must stay, Miss Onslowe.”

  “I shall. I am saying only that this is a most irregular situation, and when we return to England I shall probably live in a different house. Things are different there.”

  “I know. Everyt’in’ like ice.”

  “Everything.” Clarissa didn’t know whether to feel relief or embarrassment that Celia accepted the situation with such equanimity. March, she thought, had been somewhat careless in dragging a succession of mistresses through the house. She hoped that, with Allen, he would maintain some sort of discretion if anything more were to happen. Last night seemed like a dream, now. They had each slept for a few hours in their own beds, and today the two men rode out together.

  She became aware of Celia’s expectant look. “Three octaves, Miss Onslowe!”

  “Very good. Would you like to try both hands together? And then we’ll go into the garden for some sketching.”

  “You are killing me,” March said. His horse sidled, made restless by her rider’s agitation.

  “I doubt it,” Allen said, uncomfortable with the role he felt March forced him to play, the cruel lover who would not yield. “You cannot force desire—surely you should know that.”

  “You say it was the one time, then. One night. An aberration. Nothing more?”

  “Precisely.”

  March gave a contemptuous snort. “At least I have the courage to admit to my desire.”

  Allen reined his horse in. “You accuse me of cowardice?”

  “Of course not. As you say, if you do not desire me, then I cannot possibly accuse you of cowardice—only, according to you, a lapse of judgment.” March dug his heels into his horse’s side. His mare lunged forward, shaking her head.

  Damn March. Allen was the lawyer—he was the one supposed to entangle others with their words, tempt them into verbal traps. He shouldn’t be the one feeling foolish and dishonest and, what was worse, unkind.

  The sunshine, the spectacular view of the island—they had ridden up onto the range of blue mountains you could see from March’s house—were spoiled. He sighed. It was a pity Clarissa was not here; she would have enjoyed the view—the textures and colors of forests and cultivated land, smudges of smoke marking estates, and the larger, darker haze on the coastline, only just visible, that was the town of St. James. St. James, where his father was; and doubtless the Earl would return any day.

  And then Allen would have to go back to his father’s house, something he both feared and anticipated. He would get away from March, but leave things unresolved—and he would leave Clarissa too. He clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward to catch up with March.

  What could he do? Apologize. March was his host, after all.

  He drew his gelding level with March’s mare, now at a sedate walk. March stared straight ahead, his lips tight.

  Allen’s leg bumped against March’s. “I beg your pardon, sir. I do not mean to cause you injury.”

  March laid a hand on Allen’s knee. “I know you do not. I hate myself, that I am sunk so low. I fear I am wretched company.”

  “You’re not.”

  March did not reply but slumped in the saddle—uncharacteristic for such a skilful horseman. His hand slid from Allen’s knee—and kept sliding.

  “March!” Allen grabbed the other man’s reins and drew both horses to a halt, as March sagged into his arms. March’s hat tipped forward and rolled onto the ground.

  “Get me down.”

  Allen swung his leg over his horse’s withers, dropped to the ground, and helped him dismount. With both sets of reins looped over his arms, he fumbled for the flask of water at his saddle.

  “Sit down, sir.” He helped March to a rock under the shade of some scrubby thorn trees and offered him the flask.

  “Thank you. A sudden dizziness, that is all.”

  “I can ride back for help, if you—”

  “No. Stay here.” March closed his eyes and leaned against the rock.

  Allen tipped water onto his handke
rchief and pressed it to March’s forehead. March looked ill, there was no denying it, with a blue tinge to his lips, the shadows beneath his eyes accentuated.

  March raised his hand to hold the handkerchief to his forehead. “I’ll rest awhile. See to the horses, if you will.”

  The horses were still close by, taking advantage of the pause to crop sparse tufts of grass. Allen tethered them, loosened their girths, and returned to sit by March’s side.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Better.” March took another sip of water. “I feel a fool. To have lived here so long, yet still succumb to the climate.”

  They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the chirps of crickets, the sounds of the horses tearing at grass and the buzz of an occasional flying insect.

  “Generally,” March continued, “I feel a fool these days. To have taken on a new mistress, and after so many adventures in love, to know the one I love is the one I cannot have. It is most humbling.”

  “I know.” Oh, yes, it was certainly humbling.

  “Well,” March said with the glimmer of a smile, “we have that in common, at least.”

  Allen leaned his head back against the rock, thinking how easy it would be to sleep. And how difficult it would be to submit to March—or, now, in this languid afternoon heat, how easy it would be.

  March’s hand closed on his knee again. “Of course, you suspect I feign illness to take advantage of your somewhat sullied innocence.”

  “Of course,” Allen agreed with the same sort of ironic humor. Yes, there was something about March he liked, that spoke to him even as he mistrusted him. “And have you consulted a physician recently?”

  “Yes, yes.” March’s fingers moved, a gentle caress. “You deny me, but you deny yourself too. Will you look back on this moment when you lie dying and regret that you never let me love you?”

  Allen opened his eyes. “March, how ill are you?”

  “I’m perfectly healthy. As I said, this is a momentary weakness—the effect of heat and exercise. I’m somewhat more advanced in years than you, and besides, the island weakens the constitution.”

  “Good.” Allen closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t like to think you use the bait of your impending demise—or my eventual one—to get up my arse.”

  March chuckled. “You’re overprotective of your precious arse, Allen.” His hand still lay on Allen’s knee, warm and still. “Look at me.”

  Allen opened his eyes, blinking slightly in the sunlight that filtered through the thorn bush. March’s face was close to his.

  “I never thought to say the words ‘I love you’ to someone so damnably stubborn and arrogant. Someone who fights as though he would kill me, and almost drowns me when he deigns to offer one kiss. A man who almost certainly fights inside himself the truth of his nature—”

  “Go to the devil, March!” Allen sprang to his feet. “I have told you a thousand times, I prefer women. You jump to extraordinary conclusions—”

  “I beg your pardon. You came in my hand, Allen. And my mouth. I’ve tasted your seed. Or have you forgotten those insignificant details?” March rose to his feet. “You say you’re not a coward, you deny all, any, feelings for me, but I cannot forget those moments and, I think, neither can you.”

  They faced each other, both breathing heavily.

  “Think about it, Allen.”

  March turned away to the tethered horses, and jerked the mare’s girth tight. Gathering the reins in his hand, he said, “I challenge, you, Allen. Come to my bedchamber tonight.”

  The door creaked closed behind Clarissa. She took a step forward into the darkness of March’s bedchamber, smooth wood beneath her bare feet. The shutters were closed and the room perfectly silent.

  “March?”

  No reply. She shouldn’t have spoken. Darkness and silence were to be the order of the night, apparently.

  She concentrated. The room held the faintest scent of March’s familiar bergamot—but, of course, she wore perfume, and it rose around her like a fine mist, masking other scents. Outside, far away, a night bird called.

  She took another tentative step. Another one—so—and if she stretched out her hand she’d find a bedpost.

  Warmth spread down her back, the awareness that someone—March—was close behind her. Cotton lapped against her calves—as he had commanded, she wore only a shift—and against her arms. His fingers closed on her wrists. He let out his breath in a long sigh—had he held his breath ever since she entered the room?

  Now she felt the brush of his loosened hair against her shoulder. His hands tugged at her shift and she raised her arms to help him slide it over her head. There was a slight puff of perfumed air as it floated down and landed on the floor, glimmering pale in the darkness. He drew her hands behind her into the small of her back.

  She moved her fingers against him, tickling the hard muscles of his abdomen.

  He let out a hiss of annoyance. Something swished in the air and a line of fire imprinted itself on her backside.

  She yelped.

  He made a slight tsk-tsking sound, more warning than indulgence, but this time she understood. If she made a noise she would be punished. And what else, what other transgressions might she commit? She was sure she would, excited and fearful.

  Something slithery and smooth encircled her crossed wrists and pulled tight.

  So, she was bound. At his mercy. Just in time she stifled a small nervous giggle.

  A familiar part of him bumped up against her stinging buttocks, pushing her forward—and a hand at her shoulders guided her. Onto the bed. On her knees, arse in the air—she’d overbalanced, but somehow had the impression that was what he wanted—her face in the sheets. Well, this was something new. She was totally, gloriously helpless and in a most undignified position.

  March walked away—she heard the swish of silk, the pad of his bare feet—and the bedroom door opened, letting in a flood of golden light. For one moment she feared that slaves would enter, but March took the lights from Finch or whoever it was who waited outside. She heard the metallic taps of candelabra placed on furniture, as light filled the room.

  He paused behind her as though admiring the view—well, he probably was; that was why he’d arranged her like that.

  “Turn your head.” He spoke for the first time.

  She found herself staring at her reflection in the cheval glass, her eyes wide, hair tumbled around her face. March himself stood in the shadows—she could only just make him out.

  “These are the rules,” he said. “Any sound you make, until I tell you otherwise, will be grounds for punishment.” He stepped forward into the light, a small, black whip in his hand—almost a toy-like version of the sort of whip March’s overseers carried. “And sounds of both pain and pleasure will warrant—this.”

  The whip flicked out again and she bit the sheet. Only just in time. Of course, she was sure he would trick her into making some sort of sound, or response.

  “Do you understand, Miss Onslowe?”

  She hesitated. Was she meant to respond?

  The lash descended again. “Yes. Yes, sir, I understand.”

  “Good.” He drew the leather through his fingers, his eyes fixed on her exposed parts. She imagined how she looked there, plumped and shining with moisture—shamefully, she wished the reflection could somehow reveal that too. And how embarrassing that she could feel how wet she was. How ready for him, how eager, despite the indignity of her position.

  His hand dropped to the fastening of his silk dressing gown, and revealed his nakedness and his rampant cock. He bent forward and kissed her arse, where the skin still stung—she could see a red stripe in the mirror—and she found herself wriggling with expectation.

  He straightened up, his expression stern. “I don’t believe I gave you permission to move.”

  She hesitated. Was she meant to apologize? “I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t realize I should not.”

  He bent his head in acknowledgment.
Apparently she had made the correct response. Hands planted firmly on her hips, he buried his face between her buttocks—how wonderfully indecent—kissing his way down to her quim, wetly luxuriant, pausing to plunge his tongue inside. She let out a long breath—almost a sound, not quite, and tensed in anticipation. He paused as though considering the matter himself, before resuming his attentions with a twisting coil of his tongue around her swollen clitoris.

  She cried out in surprise and delight.

  March trailed the whip over her arse. “You forget yourself, Miss Onslowe.”

  “Yes, sir. I am most sorry.” Her voice shook. She didn’t know whether from fear or excitement.

  “Remind me, Miss Onslowe, what happens if you misbehave.”

  “You will beat me, sir.”

  “I regret it is so.” He raised his arm and the lash landed with a loud snap—and, oh God, that hurt, she did not expect it to hurt so much. Tears sprang to her eyes and ran into her hair and the sheet.

  “Very good.” He knelt on the bed behind her, reaching beneath her to caress a breast. “I trust that will not occur again, Miss Onslowe.”

  A pause.

  “Will it, Miss Onslowe?”

  “No, Mr. Lemarchand.”

  “Very well. We shall proceed.” And proceed he did, plunging his cock deep inside her so she had to bury her face into the bed to suppress the sounds she longed to make, racked by astonishing pleasure.

  After a while, he withdrew—his cock shone wet and red in the reflection, and arranged her on her side—one leg raised.

  She could see her quim now, the hair darkened by her pleasure, reddened and swollen, her clitoris prominent. March positioned himself behind her again and guided himself into her. She saw his cock divide and penetrate her, sliding between the folds, dark against her pinker flesh.

  “See how I fuck you?” He murmured into her ear. As usual, when March lapsed into vulgarity, the indecency ignited her excitement. “Feel how your quim takes me inside you. Welcomes me, sucks me inside. Shall I rub you?”

  “Yes, if you please,” she gasped.