by Cheryl Holt
"Often enough."
"Why were you whipped?"
"On which occasion?"
'That's not funny."
"Who's being funny? I was a slave on a ship, and I wasn't very biddable. I'm contrary that way. Beatings were a common occurrence."
"How old were you when they started?"
"I don't know. Seven? Eight?"
"You were flogged when you were seven years old?"
"Were you thinking our absence from here was all High Tea and rose gardens? I used to curse my father because he hadn't had the courage to simply murder us outright." He hurled the washcloth at her, and it landed at her feet like an accusation. "Go away. You annoy me."
He spun and sank down in the water, sighing as it swirled around his tired torso. He closed his eyes and tipped his head against the rim, shutting her out as if he'd forgotten she was present, and his disregard made her unaccountably reckless.
He'd discovered all her secrets, and he loathed her for them, which was galling and humbling. She craved his esteem and his undivided attention. Frequently, she felt as if she were invisible, and she wanted him to treat her as if she mattered.
She snatched the cloth from the floor and went over to him, perching her hip on the edge of the tub. His reproachful eyes opened, and he stared at her as if he didn't know who she was.
Boldly, she grabbed the soap, and without a word being exchanged, she stroked it across his chest and shoulders. He didn't comment or request that she stop. He merely studied her, his expression mulish, as if he was curious to see how brave she'd actually be, how far she'd actually go, before sanity and morality returned with a vengeance.
She scrubbed him all over, and he let her try whatever she wished. The sensation of being in charge was arousing and exciting, and the longer she continued, the more risqu6 the encounter became.
Finally, she urged him to his knees, the water slapping at his thighs. His cock jutted out, his balls hanging heavy between his legs. Without hesitating, she caressed him as she'd been yearning to do, her fist clutching him and pumping him to a sturdy erection.
He dipped down to rinse; then, looking angry and irked, he clasped the front of her dress and pushed the fabric away, baring a breast. He leaned over and latched onto her nipple, biting it, sucking on it so hard that she cried out in delighted distress.
He rose and stepped to the rug, and she was kneeling before him, at eye level with his phallus. He brushed it against her lips, and she licked the crown over and over, then eagerly took him inside. Silent and stoic, he peered down at her, as he methodically thrust.
Clearly, he assumed she'd call a halt, but she couldn't imagine that she ever would. He was so hot and virile, and she'd been missing this decadence, where her base temperament could run free, where she didn't have to constantly rein it in.
His lust was at a fevered pitch, and vaguely she wondered if he'd spill himself, if she would take him all the way to the end. Just how depraved did she intend to be?
At the last moment, he yanked away and picked her off the floor, laying her on the baker's table. He wedged himself between her thighs, and with no wooing or delay, he shoved into her.
It had been an eternity since she'd had sex, so she was tight as a virgin. She moaned with agony, but he didn't care. Nor did she. He rammed into her again and again, and she reveled in the naughty pleasure, dragging him nearer, goading him on, and it never occurred to her to tell him to slow down or be cautious.
As she'd learned to her detriment, when she was fornicating it wasn't in her nature to exercise prudence, and for some reason, her attraction to him made her even more irresponsible.
He nursed at her breasts, shifting from one to the other. The torment was so delicious that the instant he reached down and touched her, she exploded into an orgasm. Through the tumult, he kept flexing until he, too, arrived at his own conclusion.
Luckily, he had the presence of mind to withdraw and spew his seed on her stomach. After, he retreated and walked to the washtub to swab his privates clean. He was very meticulous, as if he wanted to wipe away every trace of her; then he retrieved his clothes and tugged them on.
She was sprawled on the table, her skirt rucked up, her legs spread wide, as if she was hoping he'd saunter over and mount her again. She forced herself to sit up, and she straightened her garments and mutely observed as he packed his things and tidied up. Low on her belly, the wetness of his seed was soaking into her dress.
He scanned the room to be sure he hadn't forgotten anything; then he turned to go, his face a mask she couldn't read. He appeared cool and unaffected, while she felt like a whore, like a housemaid who'd copulated with him for the promise of a meager penny.
He came over and kissed her, and it was the only kiss he'd bestowed during the entire bizarre episode.
'Tim will be fine," he vowed. "I'll see to him."
"Swear it to me."
"Why should I have to swear for you to trust me? Isn't my word good enough?"
She trusted no man, and she wouldn't pretend he was doing her any favors. If he was acting kindly toward Tim, he had an ulterior motive. Men always did.
"Don't you dare hurt him," she warned. "Don't send him away from me."
Jack must have been expecting gratitude, for her remark angered him. He looked as if he might bite her head off, or plead his case, but instead, he scoffed with derision.
"Next time you put your mouth on me," he crudely said, "I won't hold back."
"I didn't ask you to hold back."
"No, you didn't, and you need to realize that—with me—it's all or nothing. Next time, I won't pull out."
He stomped off, and she dawdled—all alone—in the quiet.
Thirteen
“What's your name?" Jamie asked. "Pegeen," the saucy housemaid replied, leaning her delectable bottom on the balustrade of the verandah. "But milord, you can call me Peg, if you'd like."
Jamie grinned. The girl was plump and buxom and pretty as a spring day in May. In blatant invitation, she tossed her hair over her shoulder, advising him—in no uncertain terms—that she was interested and available.
The front of her dress was damp, so the cloth clung to her large breasts. He couldn't decide if she'd intentionally moistened the fabric or if she'd spilled something by accident, but however it had happened, she'd definitely gotten his attention.
He was humored by her offer and wouldn't be averse to tumbling her occasionally. Women were always throwing themselves at him, and he usually caught them. Why deny himself? Especially now that he was an earl.
It was his prerogative to romp with the servants, and when such a lusty female was prancing about right under his nose, how could he be expected to resist?
For the briefest second, he thought of Anne, and instantly he felt guilty as hell, which annoyed him to infinity and back. He'd been spending entirely too much time with her, and he couldn't quash his incessant need to revel in her company.
He'd tried to stay away from her, but his attempts to create distance had failed miserably. He couldn't stop himself from crawling into her bed, and his fixation was putting them both in an untenable position.
She was the sort of person who would read too much meaning into their relationship. She'd think he was doting on her, and he was—in a way. With her being so sweet and wonderful, she was so different from the whores in port towns who'd made up the bulk of his amorous adventures.
He didn't want to hurt her, but if he continued trifling with her, she'd presume that a commitment was forming, when it never would.
He simply wasn't the type of man who grew attached. He didn't know how to care or bond, or perhaps the ability had been drummed out of him during his hard years as an abandoned little boy.
Whatever the reason, he didn't have it in him to cherish her as she deserved. So while he'd support and honor her, he would never fall in love with her, and he had to exert some control over his obsessive conduct.
Pegeen would be a great place to star
t, and if Jamie copulated with her, who would know? She would add spice to the boring intervals when duty forced him to Gladstone, and if she was particularly adept with that intriguing mouth of hers, she'd keep his mind off Anne and his foolish, unrelenting desire for her.
"Are you Irish, Pegeen?"
"On my mother's side, milord."
"I just love Irish women. They're so"—his gaze drifted to her bosom—"wholesome." "It's the fresh air." "Is it?"
"It's so arousing."
She waved toward the woods, indicating that she was eager to tryst. Any other time, he might have agreed, but it was his wedding day, and he just couldn't go. He wasn't such an ass that he'd roll around in the forest with another woman only moments before he lied and promised himself to Anne.
"I'm getting married," he told her. "In a few minutes."
"I heard. Congratulations."
"So I'm busy right now."
"But later..." She peered up the side of the house, to the windows of the earl's suite, where soon he and Anne would shut themselves in to commence their wedding night. She stepped closer, her pointy nipples poking his shirt. "A real man often finds that a virgin isn't what he requires, at all."
"He often does."
He chuckled, even as he was appalled to note that he didn't move away from her. Like the worst cad, he was leading her on, acting as if he might actually sneak from his marital bed to fornicate with her.
He was so disgusting!
All of a sudden, from inside the manor, an irate female shouted, "Pegeen Riley! Leave my fiancé alone!"
He and Peg froze, then leapt apart like guilty schoolchildren as Anne burst out the door and advanced on them.
"Run, Peg," he whispered. "I'll take care of this."
She flashed a thankful look and slipped down the stairs into the park, racing away like a thoroughbred.
On seeing her go, Jamie sighed, wishing he could have raced off with her.
He wasn't even married yet, and he was already in trouble with his bride. It was a sorry way to begin, and he hoped it wasn't a sign of how the rest of their life would go. Unfortunately, he doubted that he'd ever behave any better. He had no idea how to act like a husband, as Anne was swiftly learning.
She marched up, stopping when they were toe-to-toe, and she studied him as if he were a bug she'd like to squash.
"What was that?" she hissed.
"What was what?'
"Don't play dumb with me, Jamieson Merrick. Have you any notion of how long I've been watching you?" "How long?"
"Long enough for you to make a public spectacle of yourself where the entire estate could see. Why do I feel that I'm living through the same despicable event over and over?"
"She's a silly young girl," he claimed. "Don't work yourself into a lather over it."
"Tell me one thing: If I hadn't come outside just now, how rapidly would you have been out in the woods with her?"
At being apprised of how much she'd truly observed, he could barely keep from wincing.
"Don't be ridiculous. I was teasing her. She's naught but a bit of fluff."
"And what am I in comparison?"
"Well.. .you're Anne."
He thought the comment said it all, but from the hurt expression that crossed her beautiful face, it was clear he'd missed the mark by a wide margin.
"Do you know what time it is?" she snapped. "Ten thirty?"
"We're supposed to marry in half an hour! The vicar is about to arrive. How could you do this to me?"
"What did I do to you? I've merely been chatting with a servant."
Her jaw dropped; tears flooded her eyes. "You are a horse's ass, Mr. Merrick. An unrepentant, unlikable, unpleasant horse's ass."
"I've been called much worse, and if you're going to take that snotty tone with me, it's Lord Gladstone."
"If you ever conducted yourself like a lord, maybe people would treat you like one."
It was the lowest remark she could have hurled, and it cut him to the quick. Not that he'd let her know.
Her attitude enraged him. He wasn't in the habit of permitting others to insult him, and he deemed it quite bold of her. If she'd been a man, he'd have pounded her into the ground. As it was, a muscle ticked in his cheek, his fists clenched with a fury he couldn't vent.
He was aware that he'd behaved badly, but he wouldn't apologize for his natural tendencies, and he refused to be gelded by her. He was who he was. Not a saint. Not a dandy. Not a blushing swain. But a terrible sinner, and she would have to get used to it, because he wasn't about to change. He didn't want to change.
"I won't dawdle out here in the yard, arguing with you," he quietly stated. "Go back in the house."
"You have no intention of being faithful to me, do you? Why am I such an idiot that I can't figure this out?"
"Anne!" he scolded. "I won't discuss such a topic."
"Are the vows irrelevant to you?"
"They will mean everything to me," he brazenly fibbed.
In truth, he believed in nothing and he trusted no one. Vows were inane, given frivolously and without consideration, and while they were uttered constantly, he'd never met a soul who stuck by what was promised.
She scrutinized him, then shook her head. "You are such a liar."
"Go back in the house," he repeated more sternly, nodding to the manor. "I'll join you shortly so we can get started."
"Do you understand how absurd you sound? You can't practice fidelity for a single day, and you think I'll still marry you?"
"I know you will, Anne. You're letting your temper run away with you over a trifle, and I have to tell you that I don't care for it."
"You don't?"
"No."
"Then let me tell you this, and see if you care for it: I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth. You can chew on that bit of information while you're standing—alone—in the parlor with the vicar."
His cheeks reddened with ire, as she turned and hurried off, shouting, "Sarah! Sarah! Where are you?"
"Anne!" he commanded in his most authoritative, ship captain's voice, but she just kept going.
W
hat time is it now?" "Eleven twenty." The wedding had been scheduled for eleven, but Anne had meant it when she'd said she wouldn't participate. A union between them was wrong, wrong, wrong! She knew it, but he was so good
at cajoling and demanding that she always ended up relenting.
Well, not again. She wouldn't make such a dreadful mistake, and despite how he nagged, she would stick to her guns.
She gazed over at her sister, then at the locked door that led to the hallway. They were huddled in Sarah's room, sitting on the bed like two women about to be stoned to death.
"How long will he wait before he realizes you were serious?" Sarah inquired.
"For hours. He's so vain, it won't occur to him that I didn't arrive. Then again, perhaps he's holding the ceremony without me. He probably hasn't noticed that I'm not there."
"Are you sure about this, Anne?"
"Oh, Sarah, if you'd seen him with Pegeen!"
"It's a man's way," she gently counseled. "They're like beasts in the field, so a dalliance is insignificant to them. If you care for him—"
"That's the problem. I care for him too much. If I go through with it, he'll break my heart on a daily basis. I couldn't bear it; I'm not that strong, and I won't pretend to be blind to infidelity. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. I simply want what's best for you. I always had my doubts that it would be Jamie Merrick."
"He'll be so angry. I don't know what will happen to us now."
"We'll figure it out. I'm acquainted with his brother. He might help us."
"I wish Percy would intervene." "He won't; he's been very clear." "Yes, he has, the rat."
Sarah rose and walked to the window, and she stared out. She looked so sad, so weary.
"Are you all right?" Anne queried. "Anymore, you seem so ... despondent."
Sarah snorted at that; th
en she peered over. "There's something I've been needing to tell you."
"What is it?'
As if Sarah hadn't the strength to stay on her feet, she collapsed against the windowsill, a palm braced on the wall, and on seeing her so beaten down Anne was frightened. She'd been so wrapped up in her own melodrama with Jamie that she'd scarcely spoken to Sarah in days.
"What is it, Sarah?" Anne soothed. "You can confide in me. It can't be that bad."
"You'd never hate me, would you, Anne? If I'd done something awful?"
Her expression was so bleak that Anne grew alarmed, and she rose, too, and rushed over.
"Hate you? Are you mad?"
"Oh, this is so difficult." Tears surged into Sarah's eyes.
"Go on," Anne urged. "Whatever is it, I won't swoon. You can't shock me."
"Do you remember the year I was sixteen, and I went away to finishing school?"
"Gad, yes. I was so jealous."
"Well... I... I..."
She swallowed twice, about to confess her secret when noise erupted in the hall.
"Anne Carstairs!" Jamie bellowed. "By God, when I find you, I will wring your pretty neck!"
He was marching toward them, checking every bedchamber. A door slammed, then another and another, and soon he was directly outside. He tried the knob.
"Whose room is this?" he asked someone.
"Her sister's," his brother answered.
Jamie pounded on the wood so forcefully that it bowed with the blows. "Anne! You have five seconds to let me in, or I will kick my way in. Do you hear me?"
"Shall I open it?" Sarah whispered.
"No," Anne replied. "Let him make a fool of himself. He enjoys acting like a barbarian."
"Five seconds, Anne," Jamie counted. "Four, three, two, one." There was a pause; then he muttered, "Fine. Have it your way."
A hard jolt sent the knob flying, the wood shattering, and he stormed in, looking magnificent and livid and lethal. Anne imagined this was how his enemies saw him when he was boarding ships and plundering booty, and she had to admit that his reputation for menace was definitely deserved.
With all that visible fury focused on her, she was shaking. While she hadn't thought he'd ever hurt her physically, at that moment he appeared capable of any violence. He stomped over to her, and she flinched, as if expecting to be bit, but no strike landed. He simply towered over her, intimidating her with his size and presence, and it was certainly working.
