by Nina Mason
“She did.” His fists clenched into balls at his sides. “But that was before I left her in your care. You abused my trust. You and Hugh—my own flesh and blood! I cannot think upon the tortures Maggie suffered at his hands without wanting to hit something.”
“I did what I could to protect her, but I could not challenge my husband without risking my mission.”
“He forced her to fellate him,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “And pushed her down the stairs to kill the bairn in her womb. My son and heir!”
“ Oui, which was unforgiveable of him, I agree, but the child survived, did it not?”
“The child did not survive,” he said with rising bitterness. “She lost it moments after the duel. A consequence, I have no doubt, of her maltreatment.”
“I am truly sorry,” she said. “I knew not of her miscarriage.”
He believed that much. How could she know? For she had already been arrested when Maggie lost the child. “How long were you in prison before King Louis bought your freedom?”
“Six months.”
Her answer aroused his sympathies. She had no doubt suffered cruelly at the hands of her guards. She was beautiful, French, and a freak of nature—three factors to invite their interest and misuse. He suddenly felt awful for lifting her skirts. He was a gentleman, not a rogue. He was supposed to protect the weaker sex, not exploit its members to satisfy his own twisted inclinations.
“Forgive me. Had I known the truth, I might have assigned you a different fate.”
“You know the truth now,” she said, “and yet would leave me helpless to protect myself against further misuse. Are you so confident in the innkeeper’s integrity that you would trust him not to take advantage?”
He was not. He trusted none of his gender to do right by a woman in Juliette’s situation. The temptation was too great. If he left a bag of gold unguarded, he would expect it to be stolen, and he would be doing no less with Juliette’s virtue by leaving her defenseless.
“What would you have me do?”
“Why not take me with you?”
“That is out of the question,” he said, appalled. “Even if I wished to, which I do not. I cannot join the rebels with a woman in tow.”
“Whyever not? Many soldiers bring their wives along to do the cooking and laundry.”
“You are not my wife,” he pointed out. “And even if you were, I would never dare think of risking your life on such a perilous venture.”
Her lips bowed into the artful smile of a seductress. “Not even for the conjugal relief my presence would afford?”
“Your presence would afford me no such relief,” he said stiffly.
“Why not? You are a duke, not a priest. And Scotch, no less.”
Robert, stung by the insult, rounded on her. “What do you mean by that remark? I suppose you regard the Scots as barbarians who would swive anything that moves without a second thought.”
A dark shadow passed over her face and her expression grew serious. “’Tis difficult to think otherwise after spending six months in one of your prisons.”
He looked way from her gaze. He would rather not think about what she’d suffered during her incarceration. In truth, she was blameless, but he’d been too intent on avenging Maggie to see the situation clearly. Now, he could. Even were Juliette of a mind to interfere, she would have been powerless to stop Hugh. Women who challenged their husbands often paid dearly for their defiance, with the full support of church and state. Husbands could beat their wives—to death, if need be—without facing the least censure.
Worrying his lip, he reconsidered taking her along. If he did, he might look a fool if none of the other rebels had brought their wives along. Aye, wives often traveled with their soldier husbands, but was such the case in this instance?
He knew for a fact the Lady Anna Mackenzie, the Earl of Argyle’s second wife, had remained behind in Scotland during her husband’s expatriation. He also knew she was loyal to King James, who not only supported her financially, but also had intervened on behalf of her daughter, Sophia Lindsay, who had famously aided her step-father’s escape from Edinburgh Castle back in 1681. If not for James, who was Lord High Commissioner of Scotland at the time, Lady Sophia would have been publicly whipped for her role in the caper.
Robert felt a qualm of regret over Sophia’s escape from the lash. He did so enjoy watching women being flogged, especially comely ones, as Lady Sophia was rumored to be. The day he’d first discovered the depth of his perversion flashed behind his eyes. On the cusp of manhood, he had observed his father beating one of the maids—and, to his horror, had become erotically aroused by the spectacle.
From his bedchamber window, he had watched, enthralled. She had been tied to the whipping post, down on her knees, and stripped to the waist. His father stood behind her, buggy whip in hand. Each time the lash struck her lily-white back, he grew more aroused. Everything about it was thrilling. The hiss and crack of the whip; the angry red welts the blows raised upon her lily-white flesh; the sound of her cries; and especially the way her breasts swung into view as she squirmed and thrashed.
His young cock had grown as hard and thrusting as the whipping post itself. Then, shame eclipsed his pleasure. What kind of fiend must be be to take such delight in the suffering of another of God's children, especially one of the fairer sex? Hating himself, he stripped off his nightshirt, knelt down on his prayer chair, and took down the scourge he used to mortify his flesh. As he punished himself, he only grew more sexually excited. When the ache in his loins grew unbearable, he seized his sacrilegious member and pumped like a madman until the serpent’s milk that had poisoned his soul was purged.
He blinked the past away and slapped the riding crop against his boot. The memory had made him hard inside his breeches. Longing surged through him as he gazed at Juliette tied to the bed. He bit his lip against the temptation to have his way with her. He was a man now, not a boy. A married man, no less, devoted to his wife. He could suffer arousal without acting upon his urges. Scripture promised that God would not tempt him without also offering him an escape.
Was leaving her behind, tied to the bed, the escape route the Lord would have him take? “Twould be so easy to walk out the door this minute and never look back. So, why did he suddenly feel abandoning her was wrong?
Perhaps he was a glutton for punishment, eh? Or maybe he was just more inclined to do what was right than to do what was easy.
Moving to the bed, he set about loosening her bonds. When her limbs were free, she sat up and rubbed her wrists.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “We must make haste, lest the rebels sail on and leave us behind.”
Chapter Four
Maggie paced the floor in front of the fireplace for what must have been the hundredth time. Prickling with impatience, she glanced at the clock and bit her bottom lip. Mrs. Crosse had said she would arrive within the hour, so what the devil was keeping her?
In the past ninety minutes, what had begun as a passing fancy had grown into an obsession. Now, she wanted Mrs. Crosse rather badly. Missing Robert was part of it. When he left her, it was as if part of her had been torn away. She felt so hollow inside she could hear the echo of her heartbeat thumping in her chest.
Was this what Mrs. Crosse suffered over Robert? If so, Maggie had great compassion for her. She would not wish this vacuous pining on her worst enemy, let alone someone she might have befriended under different circumstances.
Circumstances, however, were not different. Mrs. Crosse was in love with Robert, who she’d nursed through a bad case of amnesia five or so years back. When Robert approached his former caregiver about performing the engraftment, she’d asked for something in return: one night of passion with the man she adored but could not have.
Maggie made a counter-offer she could more easily abide: a night of passion with Robert and his wife. The threesome became a foursome when Lady Fitzhardinge paid an unexpected call.
The memory
of that night brought heat to Maggie’s face. When she was her usual self, she was ashamed of her darker side.
Who would she be tonight?—Assuming the apothecary ever put in an appearance. She glanced again at the clock, pulsing with annoyance. Priding herself on her punctuality, she had no patience for tardiness. Keeping someone waiting was ill-mannered, disrespectful, and inconsiderate. She had half a mind to send Mrs. Crosse away if and when she ever showed up.
Maggie jumped when a rap sounded upon the front door. Heart aflutter, she hastened to see who was there, praying she would not find someone else on the other side, most especially Lord Mulgrave.
To avoid appearing too obvious, Maggie had put on a gown—a mantua of mushroom-colored silk with a low neckline and full, slashed sleeves. To prepare for the visit, she had instructed the chambermaid to light all the fires and candles in the apartment before taking the night off. When the girl was gone, she went into Robert’s bedchamber—for Jamie was sleeping in hers—and laid out several items she hoped to employ over the course of the evening.
Breath held, she opened the door. ’Twas not King John, God be thanked. Relief rushed through her, followed by excitement, washing away her annoyance.
“Good evening, Mrs. Crosse.” Maggie smiled, pleased to see her friend at last. She had not realized how desperately she craved companionship until she’d sent the note. “I was beginning to despair of you.”
“I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting, my dear duchess.” Mrs. Crosse’s smile was as mischievous as the look in her lovely green eyes. “I was detained by a patron who needed me to make up a tincture for his gout. I would have sent a note, but had no one at hand to bring it to you.”
The apothecary was dressed more finely than she had been that evening. She, too, wore a mantua—of deep gold silk with a pattern of pomegranates woven into the brocade. A long strand of pearls hung from around her neck. Two more dangled from her ears. She looked every bit as elegant as any lady of the court, and far more handsome in her face and figure than most of her betters.
“I understand.” Maggie stepped aside to give her guest room to enter. “Pray, do come inside and make yourself at home.”
Mrs. Crosse entered and Maggie offered her a seat on the settee. “Would you care for something to drink?”
“I would not say no to a glass of gin.”
“I have no gin on hand, I’m afraid.” Maggie kept none in the house both because she detested the flavor of juniper berries and because, here at court, gin was considered a spirit for the poor. Mrs. Crosse’s request for a glass made her aware of the difference in their stations. “Will something else suffice? Whisky, perhaps? Or brandy?”
“Brandy will do,” the apothecary answered agreeably.
Maggie went to the bar, poured two generous glasses of brandy, and handed one to Mrs. Crosse before claiming the seat beside her.
Mrs. Crosse took a sip of her drink and licked the brandy from her lips. “How does the little one get along?”
“He is well, and sound asleep at present. With a bit of luck, he will not stir until morning.”
“Oh?” She seemed surprised. “Does he make a habit of sleeping through the night?”
“Yes,” Maggie said with pride. “He began doing so when he was just above two months old.”
“How fortunate you are to have such an obliging child.”
“I consider it a blessing to have a child at all.”
Mrs. Crosse’s merry expression sobered. “Did you have difficulty conceiving?”
“Not conceiving, no. But I did have trouble carrying a child to term.” Maggie touched her belly and looked down at her glass. “I am pregnant again, but have not yet made my condition public. Nor have I shared the news with my husband.”
The apothecary’s fetching emerald eyes opened wider. “Why have you not?”
“Because he left me before I was certain,” Maggie explained, “and because I had no wish to excite his hopes prematurely.”
Mrs. Crosse raised an eyebrow. “Does he want more children?”
“I believe so.” Maggie took a sip of her brandy, which burned a trail to her stomach when she swallowed.
“Despite the risks to you?”
“I know he worries,” Maggie said, disturbed by the question, “but so few children survive infancy, it seems only prudent to have more than one, if the Lord so wills it.”
“Well, I toast your courage, my lady.” Mrs. Croft lifted her glass in the manner of a tribute before taking a drink. “For my part, childbirth is a terrifying prospect.”
“Is that why you and your husband had no children?”
The apothecary nodded. “That, and the fact that I could not bear the touch of his liver-spotted hands.”
The frankness of her answer took Maggie aback, but also pleased her, as she appreciated candor when conversing with her familiars. Having passed her early years at a convent and her adolescence as a ward and companion in an isolated castle in rural Scotland, she had never acquired the qualities essential to success at court. These, insofar as she could tell, included love of gossip, a ready wit, slack morals, heartlessness, blind ambition, and a talent for never saying what one truly means.
Maggie blinked at Mrs. Crosse, her bottom lip between her teeth and her brow furrowed. “Then why did you marry someone so much your senior?”
Mrs. Crosse took another drink. “Because the only way I could achieve my professional ambitions was to marry a member of the Society of Apothecaries.”
“Yes, but why one so old?”
“Because the only women admitted to the Society are the widows of apothecaries. And the older the husband, the less time I would have to wait.”
“I see.” Maggie did see, and understood. The only way a woman could enjoy any rights or freedom in society was to be a widow. “And I gather, therefore, you have no plans to remarry?”
“None whatsoever.”
Not even if Robert were suddenly available? Maggie’s mind formed the question, but her lips refused to ask it. She picked at the silk of her skirt, not wanting to think about her husband sleeping with another woman, especially a new wife he loved as much as he’d once loved her. If she outlived him—God forbid—she might remarry, but she would never care for another man as deeply as she cared for Robert. He was the love of her life, and she could not believe a bond as strong as theirs could form more than once in a lifetime.
“Would you like another drink?”
“Yes, please.”
As Maggie refilled their glasses, Mrs. Crosse said, “Did your invitation not make mention of a certain Italian diplomat you desired me to meet?”
“Indeed it did.” Excitement threated through Maggie at the mention of Signor Dildo. Returning with the drinks, she handed the apothecary the glass from which she’d been drinking. “He is in the bedchamber, along with a few other accoutrements de plaisir.”
Mrs. Crosse arched an eyebrow. “Am I to understand he is not the gentleman you introduced me to when last I was your guest?”
Maggie blushed at the reminder. “That was his friend, Monsieur Verre.”
Mrs. Crosse laughed, letting her hostess know she understood her little joke. Verre was the French word for glass. “I enjoyed meeting Monsieur Verre immensely, and look forward to becoming similarly acquainted with his Italian counterpart.”
“Signor Dildo does not wear ribbons.” Maggie, emboldened, gave her a playful wink. “Shall we retire to the bedchamber?”
Mrs. Crosse stood and gazed into her eyes for several moments. “Would it be all right if I kissed you first?”
“On the mouth?”
Though caught off guard, Maggie was not averse to granting the request. She’d often wondered how it would be to kiss someone of the same gender; someone who had a smooth, whiskerless chin. She’d only ever kissed Robert, apart from the odd pecks on the mouth by some of the more presumptuous gentlemen at court—some of whom wore very prickly mustaches and beards.
Rather tha
n answer in words, Maggie puckered up. Mrs. Crosse leaned in and hovered there. She smelled of herbs, flowers, and feminine mystique. A tremor of excitement went through Maggie as the apothecary’s lips touched hers. Mrs. Crosse’s mouth was rigid at first. Then, it softened and slowly opened, like the door to a secret room. Maggie’s pulse quickened as the widow’s tongue came into her mouth, serpentine and beseeching.
It made her dizzy. It made her feel wicked. It made her want more. She drew away, her mouth wet with Mrs. Crosse’s saliva. She touched her lips and said in a voice that sounded strange to her ears, “That was quite nice.”
“Yes, it was, Lady Dunwoody.”
“Please. Call me Maggie.”
“I shall if you call me Gemma.”
Gemma. What a lovely name. How she used to wish she’d been given one as charming. In her early years at the convent, the other girls used to tease her by calling her “maggot,” which made her detest her name. They also called her a bastard because nobody knew who her parents were. Her father’s portrait had been in the basket with her when she was left on the steps of the abbey, but the sisters, being a sequestered order, had no idea who he was. Not that knowing would have put an end to the teasing, for she had indeed been a bastard. A royal one, granted, but illegitimate all the same.
Maggie touched her new friend’s face. Gemma looked so beautiful in the candlelight. As white as a pearl with ruby lips and emerald eyes. Her name suited her well, for she was a precious jewel.
“You are a very handsome woman, Gemma.”
“As are you, Maggie.” Gemma ran her fingers lightly over the spiral curls framing Maggie’s face.
Maggie brushed her thumb across Gemma’s lips, which were as soft as rose petals and still dewy from their kiss. “Shall we go into the bedroom now?”
“Yes, let’s do.”
Maggie led the way. Inside, she stopped beside the bed and turned to face Gemma, unsure how to begin. Should she disrobe? Should they undress each other? Either way, she wanted to keep her smock on. Nakedness felt too intimate and too much like betrayal.
