by Eliza Lloyd
He also knew that what he did today could lead to a lifetime habit he was not sure could be controlled. Did he want to be at the mercy of his sexual desires?
Did he want to inflict that desire on Katrina?
And what happened once he remarried? A wife would never agree to such disciplines. Would he then keep a mistress to satisfy those special cravings?
What he did know was that he had never been subject to addictions. He drank lightly, he gamed occasionally and he never smoked. Sanguinity came naturally. Perhaps that is why this episode felt different. The dark edge was new and dangerous.
“Mark?”
He turned toward her with a smile and handed her the pinched-off blossom.
She brought it to her nose. “Mm. Honeysuckle.”
“The food should be out shortly. Here.” He pulled a chair for her and just as she sat, the lone footman carried a large tray to the table.
“Oh yes. Pour me some tea. I feel parched.”
The footman quietly arranged a tray of delicacies, including small apricot cakes, lavender shortbread, fresh fruit, cucumber sandwiches and cheeses, then he poured tea before departing.
“Sugar?” she asked.
“Please. Two spoons.” How could they have been engaged in such activities not thirty minutes ago? Mark could read no sign of her feeling about the engagement.
She took a spoon for herself and then poured milk before sipping. “How I wish I could bring my sons here to enjoy such a peaceful idyll.”
“Here?” Mark asked, brows raised.
She smiled, cup to her lips. “Well, someplace like it. I think they would enjoy the water and climbing the trees. Those things boys cannot do freely in London.”
“That is also why men trek to the country—to do those things that cannot be kept secret in the city.”
“I wish I did not have to be anyone’s secret.”
Mark glanced at her, but she stared into her cup. “Eat up. I thought I would take you rowing on the river afterward,” he said.
“Rowing? I haven’t done that in ages. I insist on manning an oar.”
“You do?”
“I must show you the strength of Russian women. We cannot be thought weak under any circumstance.”
“Anyone who knows you would never think such a thing.”
“Truly? Oh, this is delicious—have you tried it?”
She held an apricot cake for him. He opened his mouth to accept her offering, then gripped her wrist before she could pull away. He swallowed the cake after a few chews and then leaned toward Katrina. He kissed her lightly and then again, longer and with more purpose.
“Yes, it is good,” he said when he pulled away.
It was more than good. It was terrifying and compelling and insane.
Once again, he had to wonder at Katrina Klee. Her glacial reserve displayed itself at the worst time. He suspected they’d experienced something wholly unique and worth discussing, yet she acted as if their exchange were completely normal and therefore easily ignored.
And he did not know how long he could traverse this ledge with Katrina without tumbling to his eventual demise.
Chapter Seven
“I will race you to the river,” Katrina said.
She’d already gathered her skirts in one hand, her parasol gripped in the other, and laughing, surged ahead of Mark and his staid pace before he had a chance to accept or decline.
“Katrina! Wait. You’ll hurt yourself.”
She glanced over her shoulder to see his stride had lengthened and his smile had broadened. She only laughed again and ran ahead, as fast as her feet and her short stride would allow.
By the time she reached the narrow, downward path to the river, Mark had nearly caught her.
“Slow down, Katrina. You will tumble into the water.” Then he caught her, his grip tight about her upper arm, his other arm snaking about her waist. He whirled her about so that she was behind him. “Now we will see who actually wins the race.”
“Cheater,” she said, still smiling and still determined to get the best of him.
Mark didn’t hurry but he remained ahead of her, supposedly to catch her if she did take a tumble.
They burst from the path into an open area and scared the three goats munching grass near the river. The mother goat was tethered to a spike in the ground, the two kids began jumping and bleating with excitement. At the water’s edge, the brush had been cut back and the grass trimmed by the dutiful goats.
“Well, hallo,” she said. The two babies trotted up to her and she held out her hand.
“Be careful, they might eat your skirt right off you.”
She laughed as they nibble at her fingers. “Oh, they are so adorable. Do you think Le Carre would mind if I took them home?”
“He probably wouldn’t, but your neighbors might.”
“Lord Dursk already thinks our household is full of misbehaving boys. Mrs. Balfe wouldn’t say a word. Two goats would hardly be noticed.” She stood upright with her hands at her waist. “Now, hand me my oar, sir.”
Along the shore was a triangular dock with two rowboats, one painted bright yellow and white, the other white with a blue stripe around it.
“Which boat?”
“The one that will not sink.” Mark shed his jacket and handed it to her. He proceeded to ready the small rowboat by testing the oarlocks and then untying the weathered rope from the pile.
He reached back for her, holding the boat steady while she stepped in. She clutched his hand, unwilling to lose her footing at such a precipitous moment. She really did not believe Mark would allow her to row, so she said nothing, settling on the plank that would face him.
“It’s been so long since I’ve done this. The last time I visited St. Petersburg, rowing on the Neva during the White Nights was de rigueur and beyond spectacular.”
“White Nights?” Mark climbed in and pushed off.
“Beliye Nochi,” she said with a sigh. “Well, the city is so far north and because it is at such a high latitude, the sun does not set from the middle of June to the beginning of July. It is marvelous. Oh, you must see it!”
She held his jacket in her lap, he gripped the oars and put his back into the sculling, shooting the rowboat upstream.
Katrina retied her bonnet, all the while staring at Mark’s arms and shoulders. She popped open the parasol and tilted it so she could still see him fight the current while she fought the urge to wish for something more. Being his lover was the most interesting and exciting thing she’d ever done. But something more involved permanence, which didn’t seem likely.
“When was the last time you were in Russia?” he asked.
“Before I married. Many years ago. It’s mostly cousins now, on both sides of the family. One aunt, my father’s sister.”
“All Romanovs?”
She laughed. “You heard? Well, while the story is true, it is doubtful tsars or princesses or heads of state know Katrina Angerstein’s name, let alone those of her children.”
“Why return at all?”
She waved a hand. “Men. You sound like my oldest. ‘But Mama, I am a Klee.’ Well, it is our heritage and I think they need to experience it.”
“So, your sons have not been to Russia but you think they would enjoy it?”
“Not yet, but I hope soon. I was born there. When my parents came to England, I was only six. My grandfather was already an acclaimed craftsman and he wanted one of his sons to continue the trade. He was a respected smith in his own right, but you know how family duty can be.”
“But no son to pass on the trade?”
“Alas, no. And to my knowledge, none in Russia either. Such a shame, the Angersteins were the finest craftsmen,” she said wistfully.
She trailed her fingers in the water, watching the oars as they cut through the water and caused small wakes, remembering how it was growing up Russian while living in England. Being too shy to speak to other children because she did not understand them. The ne
ed to be accepted and then understanding what it meant to be a cit. She was versed in all the fine arts, but she was still on the outside, looking in. Even after she married Samuel Klee, she tried even harder to be amongst the fashionable set. Perhaps that was why Russia still called to her. Maybe that was where she really belonged.
Even when Mark had approached her that first night, hadn’t she had several moments of joy at believing this was her moment—that at last she would be accepted into their inner circle?
It had been a constant internal struggle—wanting to succeed in English society and knowing she was indisputably Russian.
Was that why she was so willing to participate in activities, which while extremely pleasurable, were also a bit intimidating?
She was like an explorer who had found what she was searching for, only to discover she was searching for the wrong thing. Hadn’t she committed to making Mark happy, while satisfying her need for physical pleasure? Wasn’t that what any mistress would do?
With Mark’s handling of the oars, they traveled far upstream, conversing about the sights along the river with a bit of gossip about acquaintances and innuendo about their liaison mixed in.
A fish breached the water. “Oh, did you see that?” she asked.
“Just a sprat. My oar probably went through a school of them.”
“We should have brought our poles.”
“I brought mine.” He glanced at her, with a lazy grin, and pulled back on the oars, speeding them on.
“Are you sure you want fish nibbling on it?” she said. She had a natural rhythm with Mark, understanding him with but a few words.
“Not fish, no.”
“I’m perfectly willing to perform a mistress’s duty, but not in a boat. I don’t swim and I fear if I ended up in the water, these skirts would draw me under quicker than you could say Davy Jones.”
“Never fear, I will rescue you if such a catastrophe were to occur.”
“Well, that is good. Now if you would be so kind as to prepare me a place, I should like my turn at the till.”
“If you insist,” he said. He pulled one oar into the boat and then scooted to make room for her. “Take my hand.”
She set aside jacket and parasol and reached for him. The boat wasn’t as wobbly as she had feared. Mark leaned suddenly and she fell into his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck.
“This is convenient,” he said.
Katrina stared into his eyes, warm with laughter. It was only natural to kiss him and he was of the same mind. They met in a fiery, open-mouthed kiss that lasted several long seconds until they had to pull away just to breathe.
The boat had turned about during the exchange.
“My,” she said, licking her lips as she pulled away. She would like to know that he was all hers, that she could touch him and run her fingers through his hair and stroke his bare arms and caress the arch of his foot or drape her arm about his waist on a cold, chilly night. It was good. She had forgotten all of the simple pleasures that went with having a mate.
She had forgotten what it was to enjoy intimate contact with the male of the species.
“My. My. Mine.” He kissed her again. “Now, shall we see if you are really Russian or just a braggadocio?”
“Hmpf,” she said, before sliding to the plank beside him. The oar was smooth and oily, having been well-handled in the past. “Ready.”
Mark leaned forward and she kept time with him, though her strokes were a bit shorter. He immediately adjusted so they were sculling in harmony and the boat seemed to move swiftly with the current.
They didn’t speak, but the peace between them was easy and Katrina enjoyed the lapping of oars, the occasional birdcall and the bodily heat. His arm bunched with each pull and they rubbed along together. She’d forgotten the pleasant pull of muscle and the roll of the oar in her palm. She smiled to herself, thinking that she was now straining the last of her unused muscles. Tonight, she’d crawl into bed and sleep like a dead rock.
When they arrived at the dock, they accidently shot past it, and Katrina let out a small gasp.
“Let me,” Mark said. She tried to return to her spot, but he said, “No, just come closer.”
She scooted next to him, secure beneath the shelter of his arm. She brushed her hand across his back and set her other hand to his thigh.
The position was a bit awkward but he gripped the oar, turned the boat quickly and somehow got them to the dock, where he grabbed the piling. Water splashed and the boat bumped lightly against the small pier. He wrapped the rope tight and then took a quick step out of the boat. She stood, lifting both hands to him, and he swept her up and into his arms.
“How did I do?” she asked.
“Mother Russia would be proud of her daughter.”
“We are not fragile like English women. We can bear cold winters, deliver strapping sons and never leave a scrap on our plate after a meal.” She laughed and glanced at his expression to see his brow pulled low. “Oh, Mark, don’t let me do that. I meant no disrespect to your wife.”
“None taken.”
“We have a saying in Russia.” She repeated it just as her mother had. “Which means, ‘you cannot throw a word out of a song’. Susannah was part of your song and to avoid speaking of her now or to avoid mention of the son you might have had takes away part of your song, part of you.”
“It is difficult, that is all,” he said with a clipped edge.
He clasped her hand and led her away from the dock and toward the house. The grass was recently trimmed and the world smelled just a little differently as the small blades dried in the sun. The scent added to the melancholy of the moment.
“I cried for a week when Samuel died. And then one morning, I looked up to see my sons, their eyes full of unshed tears. I stopped crying so they could shed theirs. Every family mourns in their own way.”
* * * * *
That night, Katrina left for their room first—already the nervous anticipation of what they might do stirred in her belly and worried at her thoughts, but she was prepared and naked, and completely enthralled with him, if not in all they did.
And she thought she would be tired!
He came to her quietly, the door closing with barely a whisper and his tread soft without his boots. At the end of the bed, he stood and shucked his robe, revealing the strength of his broad shoulders and the muscle that defined his torso and limbs. Clean-shaven and smelling of some scent that spoke of forests and torrential rains, he climbed onto the bed with her. Maybe there was the scent of the grass blowing up off the lawn too.
He was beautiful, really, more so than any man of her acquaintance. Certainly he was manlier than Samuel.
She was prepared for roughness, for darkness, for something new and curious and shocking. Maybe he would tie her at wrist and ankle? Or maybe something equally outrageous?
But he came to her, lifting the sheet away and mounted her without a word. His cock, ever firm and empurpled, pressed into her belly as he lowered his body over hers, like a blanket made of heat and muscle and tickling hair.
She wrapped her arms about his neck, pulling him close so their lips touched. She hummed at that first contact, so intimate, their breaths mingling as if their souls reached out to embrace the other. Then their mouths connected. Moist heat, like wine on a summer’s day, filled her mouth as she drank him in.
Playful as their tongues touched. Urgent as their need escalated.
His fingers slipped along her skin and up her neck, twining with her hair. Her nipples were hard beads against his chest, rasped by the gentle movement of his body rocking over hers, as he thrust with unthinking need because his body was made that way, whether or not he was inside hers.
She traced the contours of his arm to the roundness of his shoulder. Spreading for him, she encouraged him to fill her. He reached for her bended knee and wrapped it over his waist, caressing down her thigh as he did so.
Some things were too perfect. Mark Turnbow as her lov
er was one of them. The slow way he aroused her was another. Many of their best interludes had been fast and hard and without care, each daring the other to keep up.
Tonight, he seemed in no hurry and she didn’t mind.
There was a certain tenderness, a deep caring as their bodies melted and melded into each other. When he lifted his hips, she felt the gentle prod and the determined search before his cock slid into her moistened sheath. His hum vibrated through her. Her sheath clutched at his manhood.
Their kiss ended on a sigh. His mouth looked for anything he could suck or lick, eventually trailing down to her breasts. Mark pushed up, his shoulders high above her, his head hanging down as he tongued one nipple and then moved to the other.
She closed her eyes against the drugging influence of pleasure. One of his hands caressed over her face and then pushed into her hair, sweeping back until his large palm brought her face even with his. He kissed her again, deeply. Without hesitation.
Under him, she writhed, her body trapped by his and the increasing tempo of his deep thrusts. She dug her nails into his back then wrapped both legs about his thighs, unwilling to let him go.
Tightness built in her back and throbbing beats pulsed between her legs, becoming unbearable because she wanted more. Mark dipped his head again and latched on to her breast. She surged upward and he pushed deep, his weight bearing down on her mons, his mouth and tongue tormenting her breast.
Inside, the ache of arousal kept her in a tight grip until she finally burst, soaring until her body clenched and jerked, gripping Mark’s cock in the final spasm of release.
Mark was in a similar state. She was vaguely aware of his last hard thrusts and his primal groan when he finished after her. She was more aware of his body as he enveloped her again, his hot breath against her neck, his sweaty cheek against her brow.
Her legs relaxed. When Mark felt her movement, he rolled gently away to his side, facing her with his eyes closed. His hand was still draped over her chest, palming her breast with no particular goal, just lightly caressing her womanly bits. A soothing action Katrina enjoyed no matter which man’s hand performed the task—husband or lover.
