The Moonlight Mistress

by Victoria Janssen

  He lifted his head. “Did I hurt you?”

  She stared at him, dazed. She licked her swollen lips. “You don’t have to hurry too much,” she said. “If we drive through the night, this…this might be…”

  “It will not be the last time.” Pascal bent and firmly kissed her thigh. “I will go to England and find you.”

  “What if you’re killed?”

  “What if you are? Don’t fret about that now. Have you no romance in your soul? You English,” he said, fumbling with the drawstring of her drawers.

  “It isn’t romantic to be ravished beside a country lane?” Lucilla asked.

  “Bees, flowers, I suppose so,” he admitted. “Touch me.”

  She couldn’t reach much of him, so tangled her fingers in his hair. She didn’t let go even when lifting up so he could drag off her drawers and her awkward skirt. Her petticoat made for admirable protection from the grass, which she quickly forgot about as his rough cheek brushed her thigh. He spread the lips of her sex with his fingers, and for a moment the air on her wet skin was like a chill up her spine. Then his hot breath gusted over her, and his tongue pressed her open with a long lick. She arched into his mouth, her eyes fluttering closed. Delicately, he searched out each fold and traced its path while she twitched in pleasure. She’d never experienced such a light, slick, exact touch; it was as if he found thousands of nerves too hidden for fingers to discover, nerves that tingled and sparked deep inside her belly and sent electrical currents coursing through her arms and legs.

  Her belly twisted, coiling her ever tighter. “More,” she said at last. “Please, Pascal. More.”

  He shifted her leg, and to her shock lifted her knee over his shoulder. A brief awkwardness, and he did the same with her left leg, wrapping his injured arm lightly around her thigh. She felt splayed open, yet secure because he held her. She tightened her calves against his back and he sighed before bending to kiss her again, his tongue flicking inside her with unbearable intimacy and lapping at each fold of flesh as if it were her mouth. Her body throbbed ceaselessly, and she writhed in his grip, panting for breath. She moaned when he slipped the very tip of his finger into her opening, the sound a momentary relief of the pressure building inside her, until his finger slid deeper and she was forced to moan again. She couldn’t think. “Please,” she said. “I can’t—”

  “Harder?” he asked.

  “Yes—deeper—”

  He slid two fingers inside her, massaging his thumb over her sensitized flesh and, after a moment, closing his mouth over her clitoris and sucking, a bolt of feeling that speared her to the ground. Her back arched; she both craved and winced away from the intensity of his fingers thrusting within her, his lips pulling at her. A brief climax shuddered over her skin without giving her relief. Her body continued to fight toward pleasure until she let her mouth open and screamed, short and satisfying.

  Pascal froze and withdrew. “You aren’t hurt?”

  Lucilla panted. “Needed air,” she said. “More.”

  Lubriciously, his fingers slid into her again, reaching up and in, rotating on withdrawal. He laid his cheek against her thigh, watching his hand move, his expression intent upon her. Lucilla watched his face until she had to close her eyes from the intimacy of it. She laid her head back on the grass and drew deep breaths. The pressure inside built inexorably now, as if her first climax had been only the first road sign on the way to fulfillment. She could feel the tightening within her beginning again, from a different place than before. “It’s so good,” she said, then moaned when he touched his mouth to her again. “Pascal—”

  He didn’t withdraw this time, suckling harder, thrusting faster with his fingers. Lucilla lost count of how many times her skin shuddered, flutters of climax teasing her toward some unknown peak. When she crested, at first she expected another small spasm, but it built and built, and then the heavens ripped open and golden sunlight spilled through her and over her, racking her with pleasure in its wake.

  She fell into sleep almost immediately after, aware of Pascal kissing her mouth, covering her with her skirt and easing his jacket beneath her head, then no more. She woke, and it was dusk. A dog howled, then another and another, like a pack of foxhounds baying—she realized that was what had woken her. She blinked at the emerging stars, too few as yet to pick out the summer constellations. Pascal was watching her.

  “You needed to sleep,” he said, his tone brusque. His finger gently traced the shape of her upper lip. “I don’t think we should stop again.”

  Lucilla lifted her arm, which seemed to weigh ten stone, and closed her fingers over Pascal’s wrist. “I will miss you,” she said.

  He leaned down and kissed her, a quick hard pressure. Then he took her hand and helped her to her feet. They didn’t speak as they stowed the remains of their meal, lit the motor’s lamps and set out again.

  INTERLUDE

  IN THE UNDERGROUND LABORATORY, TANNEKEN did not change form, so as she had expected, her wounds took three days to heal. She no longer regarded the pain. She refused to think of it. She had long ago given up imagining herself free; now she imagined the hot salt of the old man’s blood coursing across her tongue. She ran pattern after pattern in her head that might lead her to this goal.

  During those three days, the old man did not come to the room where she lay on concrete, beneath a bare bulb. Neither did either of the men in uniform, who stank of tobacco. This was unusual, but not unheard of. She would much rather forgo food than suffer their odoriferous presence.

  On the third day, she began to wonder if their absence was part of some new test. She paid more attention to the sounds of the laboratory, dim and muffled by this room’s thick walls: water in pipes, the roar of a generator for electricity, the occasional distant rumble of a train rushing over her head. Nothing else. The motorcar did not arrive or depart.

  When she’d been in the room with cages, she’d heard wolves whine or growl, but could not smell them to discern whether they were like her or true wolves, or perhaps even dogs. Sometimes she’d seen them, the gleam of their eyes across a room as they watched her, and heard their breath, but the stench of the laboratory blurred all scents, even her own, and she could not identify them at all. Perhaps they were merely dogs. They did not seem large enough to be wolves.

  Their presence now, whatever they were, would have been welcome as a diversion as the third day moved into a fourth. Had the old man taken them elsewhere? Was she to be left here to die? Surely he would not waste the opportunity to see how long it took for her to die from his torture.

  She was hungry, and glad she had become accustomed to rationing her water. If not for that necessity, she could have gone into her wolf mind and ignored the dull passage of time, but then she would have no water, and though she could live for a few more days without food, water was another matter. She’d been wise not to change form. Her weak human body could not last so long.

  On the fifth day, she found a new corner to pace, then lay with her head on her paws, drowsing. It was difficult to remember how long she had been in this room. She had not been entirely conscious when dumped here. Perhaps it had been longer than she thought. She might not have drunk water each day. She might have been forgotten here—

  Above, she heard a shallow roar. Not the motorcar, but perhaps a motorbike? She’d heard this one before, or one very like it. It heralded the taller of the uniformed guards, who held her down after she had been drugged, and broke her bones upon request. That one often brought food.

  She rose slowly and stretched, careful to loosen each muscle. She might have one chance. The guard might not know she had been alone so long. He might not know that she was fully recovered from her injuries. She might, this time, be able to escape.

  She always thought these things, and was always driven back from the door by the old man and his electrical prod. This time he was not there. She had not heard him or his motorcar in days. She stalked over to the door, her legs weak from lack of exerci
se and hunger, and leaned against the concrete wall, trying to ignore its pervasive chemical stench. She waited.

  The door opened, tobacco and wool and engine oil. She sprang. A gun went off. Her teeth met in flesh. Blood spilled into her mouth. She thrashed. The gun went off again, spitting bits of concrete over them. He was down! She released her bite and breathed in his face. He stared back, trapped, eyes wide, lost in terror. Good. Let him see what it was like.

  She trotted out of the room, following his distinctive scent through twisting corridors. The fool had left open a door leading to the surface. She ran.

  4

  THE MOTOR RUMBLED IN THE SILENCE OF A RURAL night. Lucilla wished she’d saved some of the coffee from earlier. To her relief, Pascal eventually asked, “Do you know your primes?”

  “Choose something more difficult,” she said. “That won’t keep me awake, it’s only recitation.”

  He thought for a moment. “What is the pattern? Eighteen, fifty, one hundred fourteen, two hundred forty-two.”

  Lucilla pondered as she drove. Working backward, she arrived at the solution. “N plus seven multiplied by two. Another.”

  “Create one for me,” Pascal said. They passed an hour in this fashion, their patterns growing quickly more complex as they tried to outdo each other, laughing and cursing when they failed. After an hour, they switched to word games, which became games of association and thus reminiscences.

  “We lived on the outskirts of London, so we could play outside. When I was small, I liked playing with boys more than with girls. Dolls bored me, unless I could send them flying from trees or floating downstream on a raft. I played with Anthony, who lived in the house next door. My brother, Crispin, was too small, really, but he followed Tony everywhere, and me, as well, and I liked having a follower. He was the sweetest little boy.”

  “I didn’t like other children,” Pascal said. “They never wanted to speak of interesting things, only run about like a pack of rabid, howling animals.”

  “I doubt they appreciated being called rabid,” Lucilla noted with some humor. “I assume you did not restrain yourself?”

  “No, I did not,” he said. “Tact is foreign to me. It’s a waste of time. We have so little on this earth.”

  “So how did you amuse yourself?”

  “My grand-oncle Erard, the one who took me to the Antipodes, taught me accounting, and navigation, and a number of card games. He was a most satisfactory companion,” Pascal said, and when she glanced at him, he was looking at her. “It’s always pleasant to meet someone agreeable.”

  Lucilla refrained from pointing out that if he made himself agreeable to more people, this might happen more often. She was beginning to understand his priorities, and to wish she could share his indifference to societal rules of politeness. A woman didn’t have as much freedom in these matters as a man, but she could think of some cases in which she might have been better off to say what she thought. In the future, she decided, she would do better. She said, “When Anthony grew up, he married our neighbor, Lizzy.”

  “Should I be sorry that he married her and not you? You would not be here if he had. Or would he have allowed his wife to travel abroad to study derivatives of phenacetin? If not for those things, I might still be negotiating for a way home to France, instead of motoring along with a woman of considerable intellectual attainments.”

  Intellectual attainments, and willing to have sex with him, as well, Lucilla thought, amused. “You can be insufferably smug when you’re right,” she said. “My life would have been very different had I married Tony. He and I grew apart when he became interested in girls, as I apparently was not one.” She could not imagine ever allowing Tony to kiss her as intimately as Pascal had done. Perhaps unfamiliarity had some advantages. One did not know what to expect, so one was more open to new things.

  Pascal said, “I scorned girls long past the point of most boys.”

  “You must have had a change of heart at some point.”

  “I will tell you, if you wish to hear.”

  In the easy intimacy of the long dark ride, it was easy to say “I do want to know.” She paused. “I’d rather not speak of my broken engagement, if that’s all right with you.”

  A brief pause. “My curiosity was so obvious?”

  Lucilla admitted, “I don’t want to spoil this by thinking of him. In fact, I don’t think I shall think of him ever again.”

  “Will you think of me, instead?”

  “I will,” she said. Pascal would be difficult to forget. “Now, tell me of your amorous adventures.”

  He hesitated. “I have never spoken of this to anyone else. You understand?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Very well. My father worked at shipbuilding, and my grandfather, as well. We lived near the docks. I saw prostitutes ply their trade, and at home we children slept in an open loft above my parents’ bed, where we could hear what went on. I saw no mystery in sexual congress.”

  For all his English education, he’d grown up among the working class. Lucilla found it didn’t matter to her. “My upbringing was very different,” Lucilla said, though it was obvious he did not need her to tell him this. It was the best she could say to acknowledge their differences. “My mother would have summoned up the wherewithal to give me the basics if I’d gone through with my marriage, I suppose, but I had to go to all sorts of lengths to find out what I wanted to know.” She paused as an idea slid into place in her mind, like a puzzle piece. “Women are easier to control if they are not allowed to know their own desires.” After pondering this for a moment, she asked, “Did you know your desires?”

  “I felt desire, but it caused me to be angry with myself. I had thought I was different from other males,” Pascal said ruefully. “It was a sad day for me when I found myself loitering for a glimpse of women’s ankles. I was not prepossessing. I was healthy enough, but very small until I reached my seventeenth year. Like a plucked chicken.” Lucilla laughed at this image. He would not yet have grown into his nose. He continued, “I had no idea how I should speak to women, or how to entice them into an alliance.”

  “Surely you’d seen others courting.” In her world, once one reached a certain age, courting had taken up ninety percent of everyone’s energy.

  “Their conversations had no point, and even seemed duplicitous at times, as surely no one could truly believe all the things men said to women, and vice versa. I watched, and eventually deciphered the language of their bodies, which was often quite different from their spoken language. Communication on both levels was required. Mastering both was the solution. I then experimented.”

  “With some success?”

  “None at all.”

  Lucilla laughed. “I was expecting the triumph of the scientific method.”

  “I continued to have faith in it for some time, though my academic studies took more and more of my time once I began to prepare for university and work toward various scholarships,” he admitted. “I had given up when a woman chose to seduce me, just before I left for Cambridge.”

  He fell silent for a moment, drinking from his bottle of lemonade.

  Lucilla said, “Will you tell me what it was like?”

  “How would you like me to tell you?” He spoke quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the engine.

  Lucilla swallowed. She kept her eyes on the packed dirt of the road, winding away before the motor’s lamps. “Tell me as if we were lying together. After.” She pictured it in her mind, their bodies close and warm, the sound of their breathing, the scent of their effort lying on their skins, and shuddered inside.

  She heard him take a deep breath. “I was sixteen.”

  “So young!”

  “Ancient, compared to my compatriots in the neighborhood. One could have a prostitute for a single coin, if one were not afraid of one’s mother finding out.”

  “Who was the woman?”

  “The widow Jacques. She owned her late husband’s bake
ry. She was not so old, but had been a widow as long as I could remember—perhaps ten years or more. She had no children. I recall my oncle Marius wasted a year in courting her at one time, but she did not wish for a partner in her business.”

  “Her name?” Lucilla felt this was important.

  “Marie-Beatrice. I did not call her this, you understand. I was not so brave.”

  Lucilla wanted to know more; she wanted to know everything about how Pascal’s experience had differed from hers. Women weren’t supposed to want to know these things, but if she did know—it felt as vital to her now, to know his experience, as when she had learned the first workings of chemistry. “How did she—”

  “She was a woman much to be admired. One afternoon, I had extra francs from my grand-oncle. I was hungry—I was always hungry, no matter how much I ate, or how often—and as I walked past her shop, I smelled the bread baking. I went inside, but no one was there to sell me bread. So I slipped past the counter and went in search of her in the kitchen.”

  “What did she look like?” Lucilla asked.

  Pascal offered her the bottle of warm lemonade, and she drank, one-handed, as she drove, then handed the bottle back. Their fingers brushed. He said, “She was very small, even compared to my height then, but with a prodigious bosom.” He added wryly, “You understand that this was of the greatest interest to me.”

  So far as Lucilla had been able to determine, his interest was for all parts of the female body, but perhaps he’d been less catholic in his tastes as a young man. “Was she alone?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Pascal paused, as if remembering. “She stood behind a table that was dusted with flour. She wore an apron, decorated with flowers, and a cap over her hair, of the same fabric. She didn’t wear these things in the front of the bakery. It is hard to explain. It was as if I saw her in a negligee, to see her in these items that she wore for baking in her own place, where none saw her.”