Embracing Ashberry

by Serenity Everton

  “No noises,” Ashberry whispered against her hair. “Remember our companions on the seat.”

  “I know,” Ellie breathed, continuing to wiggle against him.

  Ashberry had no mercy. He was quickly discovering that he adored her best like this, soft against him, needing him, even if they were fully dressed. “You know what will happen when we arrive?” She shook her head, trying to push her breasts up into his hands. The effort failed, for Ashberry refused to harden the contact, simply brushing lightly against her gown.

  “I’ll put your pelisse back around you, cover your breasts so no one but I can see your nipples hardened under the fabric,” he whispered, warming her heart. He squeezed her just once, causing a gasp, then returned to the light caresses that caused her to twitch and turn. “Then I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Tate, who keeps the house, and help you up the stairs to our room. If she asks, you’ll simply tell her you are exhausted and wish to rest.”

  Ashberry’s voice was warm against her ear, soothing and exciting at the same time. “And I won’t let you out of it until we are ready to leave tomorrow morning. You’ll be all mine, every inch of your skin, your mouth, all night. No maid, no Griffin.” The words fired her, until Ellie could feel herself warming between her legs. “There should be a bath waiting and water for it on the hearth. I’ll bathe you, perhaps allow you a dressing gown if you ask nicely.” She gasped, shifting just a little to the side, angling so she was able to tip her back against his thigh, presenting her breasts. His voice roughened, “If you do that, though, I might just put you naked in the bed.” He scraped her nipple with his nails and though the contact was eased by the dress and chemise between them, she still arched up into his hands. “Someone will bring dinner to us when I call for it. Not that you’ll be in any condition to answer the door.”

  “Stephen.” The sigh on her lips pleased him, even as her eyes closed.

  He continued. “I have been thinking about this all day, thinking about you all day.” One of his hands moved to her lips, tracing them until Ellie’s mouth opened. His index finger slipped inside and she grasped it between her lips, as if it was the only piece of him she had to cling to. The heat of her mouth and tongue surrounding Ashberry’s skin set a pulsating beat to his blood. “Thinking of ways I could have you. Dear Ellie, you have no idea what you do to me.”

  She released his finger and he felt barren suddenly. Cold. Until she spoke. “I do, I think I do.” Ellie whispered. “When you touch me, I can’t think. I forget to breathe. I want more, more of whatever it is, whatever is pleasing you at that moment. I don’t want to let you go; I don’t want to see you walk away from me. I burn inside.”

  Ashberry groaned, his mouth coming down against hers. She did understand, he realized, fascinated by her words, wrapping them into his head, wrapping his hands around her head and holding her still for his plundering mouth.

  Alexander had to wait to open the carriage door while Ellie quickly pinned up her hair, tying her bonnet on top of it. Flustered, she let Ashberry pin her pelisse closed before he climbed down and then helped her out.

  The inn was not an ‘inn’, per se, at all. It was a respectable two-story house on the outside of a small village. Mrs. Tate, the woman who owned it, rented rooms to those she called ‘quality’ travelers and their ‘people.’ She was pleased to meet Ellie, bustling ahead of them with her large keys in hand. “Now, my lady, you look quite tired. Your Wendy said you would like water for a bath, so I’ve already got it in your room.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tate,” Ellie whispered politely.

  “You look tired, my lady. Do you feel ill? I could call the physician.”

  The last person Ellie wanted to see was a doctor. “No, thank you though, Mrs. Tate,” she refused, blushing when Ashberry looked down at her with a smile. “I think I’ll just rest for the evening.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Tate smiled, unlocking a door and ushering them in. “This is my best room, my lady.” She looked to the lord beside his wife. “I shall bring her supper on a tray, no?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Tate, and I will share mine with her.”

  “Very good, my lord,” she approved, nodding. “You just let me know if you need anything.” She waved them in, handing Ashberry the key. “I’ll send those boys of yours up right away with the bags so the lady can rest.”

  Ellie wandered to the window while they waited, looking down at the dusty coach. “She seems like a nice woman,” she murmured.

  “Yes,” Ashberry answered. “A widow. Her husband was an officer in the Army. He married her and bought this house when he sold his commission, then promptly gambled away everything he had.” He paused, and then concluded, “Except the house, of course. He managed to die soon after of pneumonia, leaving the poor woman in dun territory. She started this enterprise as a way to keep the place.”

  Ashberry didn’t tell her that his own father was the cause of most of the dead Tate’s losses, or that Ashberry actually had held a marker for the house as well. Mrs. Tate had long ago earned it back, he reflected, remembering the day he had slipped it in, cancelled, with a draft for his bill. He, as well as the Carlisles and the Scottish lairds in Edinburgh, and all their ‘people’ as Mrs. Tate called them, were her primary customers, though surrounding neighbors in the northern lands were beginning to stop at the woman’s house for sustenance and rest when they passed through. She had three ‘quality’ bedrooms, as she said, plus her own small rooms on the ground floor, and three smaller rooms above the kitchen for servants.

  “Best of all, my ‘boys’, all above the age of forty, won’t need to sleep in the stables. She hires locals from the village and rents out the service quarters as well.”

  Ellie smiled, glancing around the room. Gas lamps were set around the room, making the room glow a deep orange. She could tell the lime washed floorboards were old oak, as well as the ceiling beams and fireplace. The floor was mostly covered with comfortable carpets, and a luxurious hearthrug framed a small sitting area with a well-stuffed chaise before the fireplace. The bath was not far away—a low, brass tub. There was a small dressing screen in the corner, and behind it a pretty vanity with mirror, a table to set the bags and a washbasin with close stool. The bed was unpretentious, but still a large four-poster, with heavy blankets over it and a bench to sit on at the end. Near the window was a small table with two straight chairs, for dining, Ellie supposed, and the woman had graced the bare mantle with a vase of dried flowers.

  The curtains were clean, the bedding fresh and a number of large pails waited, warming on the hearth. The walls, Ellie thought, were glazed with a modest plaster, probably tinted green, though the shade was difficult to identify in the low light. As she considered, Alexander rapped at the door and carried in their bags: two of Ellie’s and one for Ashberry.

  Ashberry took them, hardly letting Alexander inside the door. “All three of you, take the night off,” he told the butler. “You know we’ll need to be leaving at a decent hour to make Drake’s End before the dark.”

  Alexander nodded. “The weather’s holding nicely, my lord, and all coming south on the road say it’s easily passable all the way to Scotland.”

  “Good,” Ashberry murmured. The door shut and he turned the key distinctly. Ellie turned at the sound, her eyes on him, as Ashberry held the key in front of her and then lifted it high to a shelf well above the door, much higher than Ellie could easily reach.

  “Let’s hope,” Ellie blushed, “That I don’t have to go for help during the night.”

  Ashberry raised his brows as he carried the bags behind the screen. Ellie followed him, watching as he unabashedly opened one of hers and began to search through it. “Are you looking for something in particular?” she asked after a moment.

  “Soap,” Ashberry said without pause. Ellie moved beside him, reaching into the other bag and producing the bottle immediately. He met her gaze for a moment as she handed it to him. “Can you take this off by yourself?” he asked, fingering her g
own.

  She nodded so he turned away. She could hear him emptying the pails into the bath, stacking them neatly together, as she undressed. The gown was folded neatly, the petticoat shaken and hung, her stockings carefully pulled down and laid over the screen. She looked at her face above only the chemise and smiled, defensively refusing to examine herself below the breasts.

  When she stepped to the side of the screen, Ashberry’s back was turned. He had discarded his coat, hanging it on a peg by the door and he was loosening his cravat as she spoke. “Is my bath ready?”

  He dropped the cloth to the floor as turned. He took the hairbrush she had retrieved from the bag from her and then led her to the bath. He turned up the light on table beside it, leaving the brush there, its silver back shimmering. The flame flickered against the water.

  With hardly a breath between them, he lifted the hem of her chemise. Both knew her form, her curves, were visible beneath its length, and Ashberry’s fingers brushed against her thighs as he guided it upwards. She closed her eyes when it passed her belly and then higher.

  Over her head, Ashberry told himself. He had just purchased the flimsy fabric; it wouldn’t do to rip it so easily. The cloth fell from his hands afterwards, when her eyes opened and their gazes locked on one another. Dismissed, it puddled on the floor, forgotten.

  The bath was everything his voice and hands had earlier promised. The water wasn’t deep, covering just up to her navel, and she felt exposed when he had knelt beside the tub, dripping water down her front, tapping her hardening nipples with the backs of his fingers. Ellie was amazed at how affected she was just by the expression on his face when he looked at her, the hoarseness in his voice when he spoke about her, described her body to her, washed and rinsed her.

  When he stood her up, he didn’t wrap the towel around her, but stroked it down her body, starting with her shoulders. He patted here, then there, before lifting her out and carrying her to just before the fire. He dried her feet first, kneeling before her, then turned her in a circle, his hands exploring the shape of her, the curve of her. He guided her down to sit on the rug, then retrieved her brush and knelt behind her.

  He brushed one lock at a time, laying each carefully over her shoulders to dangle past her breasts all the way to her stomach. Occasionally, he would tangle a hand in it, turning her face for a soft kiss, then a rougher one, before he would remember the task he had set for himself and draw away.

  That evening, that night, she came apart in his arms four times.

  Ashberry counted, not that any man wouldn’t.

  The first time, he had held her below him on the bed, appeasing her need to feel his full body against hers only when he had spread her thighs and began to pulse inside her, his finger on her flowering nub pressed down by his own weight.

  The second time, while her supper tray grew cold, he stood her before the fire, her golden robe open, and knelt before her. She had been sweetly unsure, timid until he had whispered reassurances against the mahogany curls between her hips. Ashberry didn’t know if it had been his words or his lips that had caused her to moan and arch but he didn’t waste time discovering the answer. His hands squeezing her bottom as he held her in place and his shoulders lodged to keep her thighs open to him, he feasted on her even as her cries echoed in the room and she desperately grasped at his hair for support.

  FOURTEEN

  Their intimacy, much later after she had napped and he fed her bits of food that were warmed over the fire, could have changed water to steam. He had been lying on the chaise, Ellie sitting on the rug beside him, when he felt her fingers begin to explore his chest, his arms. She had closely examined his hands, his face, rubbed her palm against his hairy stomach until he had felt himself grow and harden under her inquisitive watch, until her fingers had dared to explore the heat of him.

  When he had groaned and rolled from the chaise, she had amazed him, wrapping her fingers through his thick locks and kissing him heatedly, putting every lesson she had learned against his mouth into each movement of her lips, even into the tilting of her head as she offered her body to him. He hadn’t the heart, or the willpower, to refuse her gift, for his fingers quickly found her wet and willing.

  After he laid her on the chaise, lifting one of her knees and leaning it momentarily against the side, he had taught her how to wrap her legs behind him. She was the one who pushed her feet against his thighs, pressing him harder against her, but he had drawn it out, longer and longer, until her strangled cries were satisfied.

  The last time, the fourth time, Ashberry reflected, had been unintentional. He had thought her dreams came as usual, and he had drawn her into his arms, his hands stroking her, soothing her as he held her naked body against his and laid gentle kisses along her hairline. She had simply wiggled her bottom against his stomach, murmuring, so sleepily that he hadn’t realized she was awake. Only when Ellie rolled over, facing him, did he realize that she was not dreaming, that the caresses he had intended as therapeutic had actually lit that magical fire inside her. He had played with her then, fondling her, teasing her, until the sleepy, steamy willingness of her beneath the blankets had shattered and she had sighed, sinking against him trustingly even as her body slipped back into slumber.

  Ashberry slipped from their bed early the next morning, stopping before he walked away.

  The room was cold, but he couldn’t resist the urge to stroke the hair away from Ellie’s cheeks as she slept in the pre-dawn light. Allowing a smile to cross his lips, he remembered her warmth, her responsiveness and felt his body’s immediate answer. He knew even now that he could wake her gently and she would stretch and open her arms to him. In truth, he was more confident that he could predict her behavior now, while she was sleepy, than he was when she was fully cognizant of her surroundings.

  The chill of the room reached him and Ashberry kissed the corner of her mouth before crossing the room and squatting in front of the hearth as he built the fire up and warmth crackled forth into the room. If he had learned anything in the past thirty-six hours, he mused, rising and turning for a final look at his bride, he was beginning to suspect that Ellie’s inner fire burned hotter than even his wildest fantasies had dared to envision.

  The thought of pushing her shuddering body to the limits of sensuality sent desire rolling through him yet again, but he tamped down the instinctive response and moved behind the screen where their bags waited. Ashberry had to dress and confer with his three servants, all of whom would have their own suspicions if their master didn’t show up in the downstairs parlor at the pre-arranged time. With rueful realization, he realized that he was arrogant enough to not particularly care about their knowing grins, but that he had no intention of subjecting his wife to the experience.

  Ellie actually trembled as she dressed that morning. Ashberry had risen before her, restarting the fire and departing the room just as dawn sent its pretty rays through the windows. She had awoken when he left, but he was already gone by the time she rose from the bed, drawing the coverlet around her and moving to stand in front of the fire until her toes and fingers again felt warm.

  Still, she didn’t tremble because of the chill. No, it was the memories of her husband against her, of their silent giving, of the joy she felt when she watched him rise against her hands, answer the call of her mouth, the tenderness in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching.

  She dressed in her habit and boots, thanking her mother’s good sense that they were still comfortable enough for the coach, despite the functionality. After a moment, she left the blouse untouched, wearing only a chemise and jacket buttoned from waist to neck. She was packing the last of her things when Ashberry returned for the bags. His hands, now gloved, were still gentle as he cradled her against him, held her in place for his kiss.

  “Your chariot awaits, my lady,” he murmured regretfully with a look to the rumpled bed and a smile for her suddenly flushed cheeks.

  The wonder of it all, the confusion of it, plagued h
er all morning. They rode together in the coach as they left town, for the chill of the morning was still damp and Ashberry’s body beside her under the blankets was warming. It didn’t really matter to either of them that he discovered she was practically bare beneath her jacket almost immediately—his fingers as they fondled her created the succulent heat she had never known before him. Her hand grasped his thigh as she arched her back against him, until he lifted her to his lap, facing him, her legs curled against his side.

  “Hold the blankets up around us,” he breathed in her ear, and she did, anchoring them under her hands behind his shoulders.

  His hands fondled, teased ruthlessly, through the gossamer fabric of her chemise while she shut her eyes and concentrated on remembering how to breathe. He paused occasionally, at least until her soft gasps turned into wordless pleas and until her anxious twists on his lap settled to eager, inviting arching. Then his fingers would rise again to her aching nipples and he would take the nubs between his thumbs and forefingers and start again.

  At some point, he told her, his voice rough. “Late this summer, my dear, if we make this trip in reverse, I shall spend my time indulging just as I am now.” She shuddered in his arms, causing him to laugh and add wickedly, “Except there will be no blanket. We will simply draw the curtain, and you, my dear, will put your hands behind you and bend back over my knees, and I will lower your dress and bare you to my hands, my mouth.”

  When the day started to warm, he finally gave her some ease. She nearly sobbed when he dropped his hands to her waist and moved her to rest beside him, insisting only that the jacket remain open when her fingers would have risen to refasten the buttons. Carefully, he tucked the blankets around them, drawing her close to his chest and slipping his arm around her shoulders so that her nearly bare breasts pressed against his side where they could draw warmth from him.