Too Wicked to Wed

by Cheryl Holt

  Tentatively, she caressed the foul mounds. “Like this?”

  “Yes. Now pinch the tips.” Timidly, she took hold, scarcely applying any pressure, so he snapped, “Harder.”

  “I’m embarrassed,” she whined.

  “Before we’re through, you’ll be more than embarrassed.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her onto his lap. “You’re such a stupid, stupid child. You can’t do anything right.”

  He considered sucking at her nipple, while he bit her, while he marred her, but he couldn’t abide the notion of having the rubbery piece of flesh in his mouth.

  “Get down on your knees,” he ordered instead, and he tried pushing her to the floor, but she resisted, fighting him to the bitter end. “Get down,” he repeated, “or I will beat you first, and then you’ll have to do it anyway.”

  She whimpered, but complied. With shaking fingers, she unbuttoned his trousers, and she leaned over his erect and ready phallus, but she couldn’t proceed.

  “Please . . . I can’t. . . .”

  “Do it!”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  He clutched her by the throat, making her look up at him. His feigned regard swept over her, and she soaked in his appreciation like a sponge.

  “Promise you won’t hurt me afterward,” she begged.

  “My dear, Peg,” he crooned, “how could I think of it?”

  “Last time you were so angry.”

  “You disobeyed me, Peg. Can you recall how you disobeyed me?”

  “Yes.” Her lashes fluttered down, her cheeks reddening with humiliation.

  “It won’t happen again, will it?”

  “No.”

  “Then there’s nothing to fear, is there?”

  “I guess not,” she said more softly.

  “Focus on the cash you’ll have when you’ve finished. Imagine all the pretty baubles you’ll purchase with it.”

  His stirring her avarice did the trick. She bent down and sucked at him, swallowing deep as he’d taught her. She was clumsy and inept, but he reveled in his dominion over her, in his having her prostrate and vulnerable. He could strangle her, or kill her with a few vicious blows to the head, then bury her in the forest, and no one would ever know.

  He closed his eyes and began to thrust.

  “What have you learned?”

  “So much that I can’t decide where to start.”

  Archie paced his library, a drink in hand, his temper on a short leash. He had numerous bank accounts, but no means of replenishing them. Creditors were circling, so something had to be done.

  He’d sent Adrian to Mansfield to parlay with Helen, but the bastard had been gone a week, and Archie was livid. He didn’t like Adrian being off on his own. With Adrian’s carnal proclivities, there was no telling what mischief he might have stumbled upon while he was away.

  “What was Helen’s explanation for why she’s still on the property?”

  Adrian shrugged. “Westmoreland permitted her to stay.”

  “For how long?”

  “Another year.”

  “A year!” Archie was aghast. “Why would he let her?”

  “Helen claims he wants her advice about the farm, but I don’t buy it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I heard from another source that they’re involved.”

  “Sexually?” Archie was stunned.

  “The servants are abuzz. Apparently, he deflowered her the day he came to take possession.”

  “Helen is such a prude. Can you truly believe she’d spread her legs for anyone?”

  “I’m not certain,” Adrian said. “She seemed the same as ever, but then, they’ve been seen kissing, too.”

  “Right out in the open?”

  “Yes.”

  Trying to make sense of the news, Archie resumed his pacing. If Westmoreland was copulating with Helen, then the bet was in force, the chance of regaining the estate a viable option. Yet Archie hadn’t been apprised of the situation. Allegedly, Westmoreland was a reputable criminal—honor among thieves and all that—who’d abide by the terms of the wager.

  If Helen had succumbed, then Archie deserved to know. How could the two of them presume to keep their liaison a secret?

  “It galls me that Westmoreland might have taken her virginity,” Archie complained.

  “Why? Every sister loses it sooner or later.”

  “But Westmoreland!” Archie shuddered with revulsion. “I wish I’d ravaged her before she wasted it on that petty villain.”

  “You haven’t the nerve for such a despicable deed.”

  “I have, too.”

  “Quite the boast, darling. I’d love to have you prove it. If I thought you were man enough, I’d hold Helen down, myself, while you raped her.”

  A horrid notion occurred to Archie. “You don’t suppose they’re in league together, do you?”

  “To what end?” Adrian inquired.

  “To cheat me out of my heritage!”

  “How could they defraud you? You can’t be swindled out of what you don’t own.”

  “Well, if they’re fucking, then after a month, the estate should be mine. What if they’ve agreed to be quiet about their affair? If he’s genuinely fond of her, he might give her Mansfield as a lover’s parting gift. Or what if she’s seduced him with marriage in mind? She’d have my legacy, and I’d be cut off at the knees!”

  “Anything’s possible, Archie.” Adrian’s voice was laced with derision.

  “The conniving bitch!” Archie seethed. “What if she’s betrayed me?”

  “Shut up.” Adrian went to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. “You talk and talk, but you never act. I’m weary of listening to you rant.”

  “But what can I do?”

  “You see?” Adrian chided. “That’s your main problem. You have no imagination.” He turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m exhausted from my travels”—Adrian smiled snidely at what his words implied—“so I’m off to take a nap.”

  “You can’t be serious. I’ve been waiting for you for days.”

  “Well, I’m tired, so you’ll have to keep on waiting.”

  He walked by, and as he passed, he patted the front of Archie’s trousers, the slight touch making Archie’s cock sit up and beg. Archie was disgusted with himself. Why was he so eager for Adrian’s approval? He was so willing to debase himself in the pathetic hope that Adrian would want him with an equal fervor.

  “How many lovers had you whilst you were away?”

  “Too many to count,” Adrian taunted. “The variety was so refreshing. My rod is completely worn-out.”

  “Bastard!” Archie hurled.

  He threw his drink, but Adrian was gone. The glass thumped against the wall and fell to the rug, so that he didn’t even get the satisfaction of a loud shatter.

  Adrian poked his face through the door. “Must you always behave like a child?”

  “You’re a whore, Adrian. An absolute whore, and I hate you.”

  “Perhaps if you were more of a man, I wouldn’t grow bored and require other company so often.”

  He strutted out, as Archie raged all alone.

  Robert tiptoed through the dark kitchen, clutching a robe, towel, and change of clothes, as he proceeded to the small bathing room beyond. The staff was wonderful about preparing hot water after supper so that he could have a bath. It was an effortless business, a bucket dipped into the reservoir behind the stove, then the contents dumped into a real tub, where he could actually recline and soak.

  As he’d learned during his failed trip to Arabia and his subsequent year at sea with the Captain, he couldn’t tolerate being filthy. He’d been raised in a tidy house, where clean laundry and nightly washing were routine, so it had been difficult to endure lengthy stretches without the simple luxury that he’d once taken for granted. He indulged whenever he could.

  He was so distracted, having been busy hiding from Pat Reilly and avoiding the Captain,
that he’d entered the room before he realized someone was already inside and enjoying the amenity, and he cursed his luck. In all the evenings he’d crept down, he’d had the spot to himself, and he had begun to assume that he was the only one who used it.

  He could see the occupant’s back, and as he focused in, trying to identify the interloper, he recoiled in horror.

  It was Reilly! He’d recognize those shoulders anywhere! Reilly’s ponytail was unbraided, the strands curly and shimmering in the dim candlelight. He was relaxed, his bare arms resting on the edge of the tub, his slender fingers gripping the rim.

  In an instant, Robert was hard as a rock. He had to flee or he’d be humiliated beyond redemption, but his trousers were so tight with his erection that he didn’t know how he’d exit without assistance.

  Oh, why couldn’t he have been born a normal man? What purpose was served by making such a vile discovery at age twenty? He was still a virgin! How could Fate be so cruel?

  He had stepped away, intending to sneak out undetected, when suddenly Reilly glanced around.

  “Hello, Robert.”

  Robert gulped with dismay. In his fevered state, Reilly seemed very pretty. “Hello, Sergeant.”

  “I heard someone coming. I was hoping it was you.”

  “You were?”

  Reilly’s lips were full and ripe in a manner Robert hadn’t noted prior. His skin was silky, his cheeks aglow, and at the transformation Robert was so mesmerized that he couldn’t storm out as he ought.

  “Would you wash my back?” Reilly asked.

  “Your . . . your . . . back? I don’t think so.”

  Robert gazed at the door and ordered his feet to march toward it, but they wouldn’t obey. He was frozen in place.

  “Then why don’t you climb in with me?” Reilly needled. “If you won’t wash my back, I’d be more than happy to wash yours.”

  Robert started to shake, trembling with a violent need to do precisely as Reilly had suggested, and he fought the urge with every ounce of his being. Despite how vigorously he desired Reilly, he’d had a sound Christian upbringing, he knew right from wrong, knew piety from buggery, and he wouldn’t yield to temptation.

  “Come, Robert,” Reilly entreated. He was up on his knees and shifting around. “Come to me.”

  “No. No, I can’t.”

  “You can, Robert. I know you want to.”

  “No . . . please . . .”

  Reilly had spun all the way, and he halted, his chest squared, his hair tossed over his shoulders, and Robert saw . . . a pair of female breasts, a slim waist, a rounded hip, and a dusting of crotch hair with no phallus in the middle of it.

  He gawked, his confused mind racing. Ultimately, he accused, “You’re a woman.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve always been a woman.”

  “Since the day I was born.”

  “I’m not a sodomite. . . . I’m not a sodomite. . . . I’m not a sodomite. . . .” Though he wasn’t a Catholic, he made the sign of the cross several times; his relief was so great that he collapsed against the wall.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not. I’ll never be all right again. My heart is about to quit beating.”

  Reilly laughed and rose, facing him without a hint of modesty. He—she—left the tub and sauntered over, water dripping off her and sluicing down her thighs. She was wet, slippery, and moist, and the most exotic, fantastic vision he’d ever witnessed.

  “My name isn’t Pat. It’s Patricia.”

  She was tall, as tall as himself, and she looked him straight in the eye as she pressed her drenched body to his and kissed him directly on the mouth.

  He’d been kissed before, by tavern wenches who frequented a sailor’s world, so he understood how it was accomplished, but nothing in his previous experience had prepared him for Patricia Reilly. He was quite sure he’d died and gone to heaven. She was so willowy, all long arms and legs, all smooth curves and lines, and she threw herself into the embrace as if she wanted to keep on for the rest of eternity.

  “Why aren’t you a woman?” he demanded as he yanked away. The question was absurd and made no sense, but she answered it anyway.

  “Because it’s safer being a man.”

  “Does the Captain know?”

  “Of course. It was his idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was owned by a rich and powerful sultan in Egypt.” She’d been enslaved! How awful! “When the Captain rescued me, it was an affront that had to be avenged. The man will never stop searching.”

  “So you’ve been hiding in plain sight.”

  “With the Captain constantly watching over me.”

  “I thought you were his bodyguard.”

  “No. He’s mine.”

  “Have the two of you ever . . . ?”

  “God, no. He ruts like a dog. I have some standards.” She clasped his hand. “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  She led him into the adjoining room, a scullery maid’s alcove with a narrow cot and a dresser. Her shirt was draped across a chair, her boots tucked under it.

  “You sleep in here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been spying on me as I bathe!”

  “Every night, through the crack in the door.”

  He flushed with chagrin. “For shame, Miss Reilly! For shame!”

  “Why? I liked what I saw.” She lay down and stretched out. “And since we’re about to be lovers, you should probably call me Patricia.”

  She was a naked, enticing siren, her pert breasts teasing him, her nipples erect and luring him to misbehave. Down below, her womanly hair was . . . was . . .

  Gad! He couldn’t even look! He was too much of a coward!

  He wasn’t positive what to do next. He’d heard bawdy rumors about how sexual mating was conducted, and he’d occasionally glimpsed the Captain with his partners, so he had some concept of what transpired, but not much. His monumental failings swept over him, once more. How could he have lived to be twenty, have sailed the oceans and traversed Arabia, but not have learned how to make love to a woman?

  “The crew jokes about you,” she said. “They claim you’re a virgin. Is it true?”

  He peered up at the ceiling. “Dear Lord, let the floor open and swallow me whole.”

  “Do you know what I think?”

  “No, what?”

  “I think there’s a tiger lurking inside, one that’s waiting to be set free.”

  “A tiger!” he scoffed.

  “Lie down, Robert.”

  She patted the mattress, and he disgraced himself further by confessing, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, I do. Don’t be afraid.”

  He hated that she could perceive his fear, and he yearned to prove that he wasn’t scared, but still, he couldn’t move. He was torn between a hunger to proceed and the desperate need not to humiliate himself, and she saved him by rising and taking charge.

  She guided him to the bed and eased him down. He felt paralyzed, unable to speak or react, as she arranged his torso just how she wanted it.

  Then she climbed on top of him and balanced on her haunches. She unbuttoned his trousers, and he realized that he should dissuade her or participate, but he couldn’t do either one. The entire episode was like a dream, and he wondered if he wasn’t walking in his sleep.

  “You’re not dreaming,” she whispered, as if she could read his mind.

  She reached under the placard, and as a female palm encircled his phallus for the first time, he knew she was correct: He was definitely awake.

  “Oh, sweet Jesu,” he groaned, and he arched up.

  The stimulation was so intense that he prayed he wouldn’t spurt all over the sheets, but embarrassment seemed likely. Struggling for calm, he steadied his breathing, he recited mathematical tables, he named the capitals of Europe—in alphabetical order.

  She tugged his pants down
around his flanks, his privates bared for her inspection. “You’re very fine, Robert. Very fine.”

  Her voice was little more than a purr, the word very sounding like verra, and hinting at a Scottish heritage that hadn’t been disclosed. She grabbed hold and centered him; then she lowered herself, her sheath gliding down to encompass him. In a thrice, he was impaled inside her, and before he could thrust or enjoy, a wave of uncontrollable pleasure inundated him, and with great relish, he emptied himself. A boisterous, mortifying cry bellowed from his lips as he bucked and writhed.

  He was no stranger to the naughty gratification of orgasm and had stooped to appeasing himself when his swelled loins became too much to bear, but none of those furtive incidents could begin to compare with the bliss she’d bestowed. He was so titillated, his cock immediately ready for another go, and he would do anything, would give anything, would tell her anything, so long as she agreed to a repetition.

  With a bit of practice, he could be better at it. He just knew he could!

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  “For what?”

  “For . . . for . . .” He couldn’t say for being such a virginal idiot.

  She chuckled, but in a kind way, and she leaned down and kissed him. “The initial one is simply to take the edge off. We’ll do it again—and again—till you start to get the hang of it.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “Oh yes, I absolutely do.”

  She dug her knees into the mattress so that she could rock back and forth across him. With immense gusto, he clutched her hips and joined in.

  9

  Open it—this very second—or I’ll break it down.”

  Luke frowned at the locked door, his hopes for a pleasant, wild romp rapidly fading. He’d assumed that he and Helen were in complete accord, that she realized they shared an attraction that had to be acted upon.

  He knocked more loudly. “Open up, Helen. Now.”

  He pressed his ear to the wood, but silence greeted him, and his temper spiked. He thought he’d been clear, and she’d agreed, that a hot, spicy amour was precisely the cure for what ailed her.

  “I know you’re in there. Say something.”

  No response.

  He sighed, wishing—just once!—he could take the easy road with her. “Fine. Have it your way.”