The Redemption of Madeline Munrove

by Mary Campisi

  Annabelle’s laugh trickled past her, sparing Madeline a most visual reminder of Simon Schilling’s ministrations. Who would have thought the poor widow knew what constituted a good laugh? And a sway of hip that spoke of skill and practice? And that smile, yes, that hinted at secrets. Dark. Pleasurable. Wanton. “You may attempt anything, Mr. Fontaine. Whether you shall have success is not assured, especially when the odds are so decidedly not in your favor.”

  Douglas Fontaine’s gaze narrowed on Annabelle. “A challenge. How invigorating.”

  Sarah coughed and fidgeted in her chair, clearly aghast by Annabelle’s comments. “Lady Annabelle is quite the jester. She has us in stitches most days.” She nudged Regina and said, “Isn’t that so?”

  Regina scratched her jaw and shot a glance skyward. “She’s a real corker. Has us on the floor, rolling around, doubled over.” She nodded and crossed her arms over her thin chest. “The laughing never stops when she’s around.”

  The man knew Annabelle had meant what she’d said, but whether he was truly affronted or merely annoyed was difficult to tell. Clearly, he was not one accustomed to refusals, and Madeline would wager tomorrow’s supper that females were more often than not the ones making the offer.

  Annabelle spoke again, this time meeting Douglas Fontaine’s frank appraisal with one of her own. Wide eyes, no batting of lashes, no quivering lips. Oh, she did know what she was about! Madeline wished she could remain to see what tactics Annabelle would employ to slip the laudanum in his drink. And if a search of his person were necessary? Would her lips quiver, fingers hesitate, eyes squeeze shut against a peek of the man’s exposed body? What would Annabelle do?

  “Do you play chess, Mr. Fontaine?”

  Chess? Ah, a battle of wills and strategy. How intriguing.

  “I’m quite an accomplished player.” His lips twitched as he added, “But then, I’m quite accomplished in most games. Even the ones that have no rules.”

  Chapter 19

  Douglas ignored the soft rapping on his door. She could rap her way to America for all he cared. The little minx had certainly spent a good deal of time enjoying after dinner refreshments and he would venture, amusing conversation from Ethan. Drat, the blasted devil would pay dearly when this whole mess was over. What did he think making Douglas appear the fool and a ridiculous one at that? Oh, but Madeline had found the evening quite entertaining, if her giggles and apt attention were any indication.

  Had she once giggled over Douglas? Not the pretend Douglas, but the real one? Him? He recalled their first meeting. She’d clobbered him with a shovel.

  More rapping followed by a faint but urgent, “Simon? Are you asleep?”

  Had he been asleep, her insistent rapping coupled with her questions would have awakened him. He glanced at the book on pyramids he’d been attempting to read, attempting and failing. The peak of every pyramid had a blasted point which made him think of nipples—Madeline’s nipples—and all hope of leisurely reading vanished. How the devil had the woman taken such a hold on him?

  “Simon, wake up. Simon?”

  The entire household would be outside his door waiting for an explanation if she kept this up. He may be displeased with her but he would not see Madeline’s reputation sullied by his anger. Douglas tossed the book aside and pulled on his breaches. He should answer the door naked—see if she thought about Ethan then. The temptation to do so settled in his gut—and lower—but truth be told, he was not in the mood for games. He flung open the door just as Madeline prepared another round of knocking. She arrested her hand mid-air and stepped back.

  “Oh. You’re awake.”

  “Madeline, that incessant rapping has most likely awakened the entire household.”

  She shook her head and fat curls brushed her left breast. “They aren’t sleeping yet. I left them a few moments ago.” Her expression brightened and she cast him a mischievous smile. “Annabelle has challenged Mr. Fontaine to a game of chess.”

  Annabelle, the timid creature who refused to look him in the eye and spoke so rarely one might think her a mute, had challenged the chess master of Richmond, Virginia? “Interesting.” He would not tell her that in the past, games of chess had ended in games of chest with the opponent’s wives, with Ethan championing a win on all fronts.

  Her lips spread into a most enchanting smile. Douglas did not want to be enchanted at the moment. “You have all taken a keen interest in that gentleman, you especially.”

  Her expression grew puzzled. “An interest? Because I invite him to dine and extend hospitality, which is only proper?”

  “I assure you, Madeline, proper is the last thing on that man’s mind.”

  She huffed and stepped closer. “You have no idea what is on Mr. Fontaine’s mind. You do not even know the man.”

  Truer words than she realized. The Douglas Fontaine he knew would never suffer such indecision and certainly not at the hands of a woman. Where was the man who lived by maps of reason and logic? Who did not permit emotions to outweigh rational choice? Where the hell had he gone and who the devil was this jealous idiot who had claimed his body?

  “Simon, you weren’t listening to a word I said.” She placed her hands on her hips in a manner he recognized as a preparatory stance for battle.

  He blinked hard, wishing for the briefest of moments he was back in Virginia with his ledgers and fields of tobacco. “I heard you, Madeline.”

  “Then you are ignoring me, for politeness dictates a response.”

  She really was a bossy bit of baggage. If he weren’t in such a foul mood, he’d thoroughly enjoy sparring with her. “Then I am rude.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “That is all you have to say?”

  “And I have a headache.” Damn it, his head had started pounding, right about the time Madeline began rapping on his door. She studied him as though trying to detect the truth of his words. Good luck to her, for when she was near, he no longer understood his actions or his thoughts.

  “You claimed a headache last evening.”

  Was that an accusation or a detection of supposed weakness? Hah, he possessed the mental dexterity and fortitude of fifty learned men. No sixty. Or more. “How very observant you have noted my headache. Add to your observations the fact that I did not suffer from one a short while ago and you will deduce the cause.”

  Her nostrils flared. Her jaw twitched. “I am the cause?”

  “You are very astute. Now that we have established that, perhaps you will tell me why you interrupted my sleep with that infernal rapping?”

  A most becoming shade of pink swirled from her neck to her cheeks. “You were sleeping?”

  “Attempting to sleep would be a more appropriate term.”

  She gnawed her lower lip. He wished she would stop that. It made him think of what she’d been doing with those lips last evening. And that tongue. And damn, if he did not want her to do it again. And yet again.

  “Simon?”

  When she spoke thus, as though it took every breath in her lungs to say his name, he wanted it to be his name—Douglas William Fontaine, not some errant nephew of a man named Schilling. “Yes?”

  “I do not wish to argue. I have something to tell you and perhaps when I do, you will understand why I’ve treated Mr. Fontaine as I have.”

  Douglas’s temple throbbed in earnest. What could she mean? What did she know? He held out a hand and said, “Come.” He led her to the bed and motioned her to sit beside him. Of course, she did not obey. Rather, she scrambled onto the bed and plopped cross-legged in the center of it. Interesting pose, that. She didn’t speak which was an oddity in itself, so he decided to coax her along. “What is it, Madeline?”

  She made circles on the knee of her wrapper and did not meet his gaze. “I was not forthcoming in regard to Mr. Fontaine. You see, I knew him to be a dishonorable man which necessitated the invention of a husband.”

  Madeline looked at him then and he wished she’d kept her eyes on her blasted wrapper. He did not want
to see the pain on her face, pain that he had caused. “You think Mr. Fontaine dishonorable?” The greater dishonor was her brother’s treachery.

  “I know it to be so. He’s come with the express purpose of stealing Lingionine.”

  Damn that lying brother of hers. “How did you come by this knowledge?” Amazing he did not bellow the question or demand an immediate response.

  “Weston sent a letter,” she confided. “Apparently there was a game of cards—” she shook her head and sighed “—there is always a game of cards of one sort or another when my brother is running about. Weston beat Mr. Fontaine but the man caught him in an alley, bloodied him up and stole his money back as well as the deed to Lingionine.”

  Interesting tale. Unfortunately, there was less truth to that than the one about the boy planting a giant beanstalk. Munrove had indeed played cards, but he’d lost everything in his pockets, including the deed. Douglas had been the one attacked in the alley. A few well-placed jabs had landed Munrove flatter than one of Mrs. Fowler’s lemon cookies and whimpering for mercy. Surely, Madeline knew her brother to be a scoundrel, he could tell by the manner in which she spoke of him. Why then, could she not believe Douglas Fontaine might be in the right? He would help her reason it out. “Why would your brother have the deed to your home on his person?”

  She gnawed on her lower lip which told him she had wondered the same thing. “He said he would explain everything once I had the deed and he could return home.”

  Ah, so the bastard planned to make a grand entrance once his sister did his dirty work for him. What a chap. Douglas would like another shot at bloodying the bugger’s nose. “The Mr. Fontaine you introduced me to this evening does not look like a man accustomed to bloodying his hands.”

  She smiled at that. “He did have a bit of a popinjay appearance about him, didn’t he?”

  Ethan would not look kindly on being called such, but that was the hazard one risked when adding powder blue and melon to one’s wardrobe. “He did at that. And I doubt he would risk a mark on that pretty face. I could not detect a single scar. Most unnatural on a man.”

  Madeline nodded, and pointed to the tiny scar above her right eye. “Or a woman. It is impossible to engage in life fully without succumbing to the marks of battle.”

  What a profound thought. He adored her brain.

  “Unless one is too crafty to get caught in the heat of battle and becomes the leader. Then, I suppose scars and the like could be avoided.”

  But at times that brain drew inaccurate conclusions.

  She shrugged and added, “But I think it is doubtful.”

  Until said brain reasoned its way to logic.

  “But possible.”

  He’d had enough of this back and forth reasoning. “Make up your mind, Madeline. Is it doubtful or possible?”

  Her brow furrowed and she tapped her chin in a manner not unlike Ethan, which only further annoyed him. “Why can it not be both? Like love and hate? Rich and poor?”

  “Because it cannot. Logic dictates you must choose.” How could she not see that?

  She cast him a look that he was certain she reserved for children and said, “I think you are the one who dictates I must choose. Logic has nothing to do with it.”

  Blast it, she had him. He did want her to make a choice and he wanted the choice to be him. “Will you at least admit there could be another side to this story?” As in your brother is a scoundrel and a cheat and relies on you to clean up his messes?

  Madeline sighed and moved toward him. “Agreed. I merely showed Mr. Fontaine a bit of extra attention so he would relax and we could catch him off guard.”

  “To what end?” What manner of havoc had she and her band of misfits planned?

  She hesitated a moment and said, “To retrieve the deed to Lingionine.”

  “You mean steal it?”

  Her eyes sparked as though he’d just accused her of attempting to steal the King’s drawers. “Something can only be stolen if one does not own it. Therefore, it is a matter of retrieval.”

  “And where is this deed and how will you retrieve it?” He knew exactly where the deed was—in the rafters above Matilda’s stall.

  She cocked her head and threw him a hint of a smile. “Mr. Fontaine will be drugged, stripped and searched.” The smile grew. “Fear not, we shall locate the deed.”

  Too bad Ethan would not be awake when the women stripped and searched him. He would be very disappointed to learn he had missed that. They would find nothing but if Ethan’s crowing were true, they would join the legions of women who had enjoyed disrobing him. Satisfied Ethan could cause no more damage to Douglas’s reputation this evening, he turned his attentions to Madeline and her soft curves. And the bare ankles peeking beneath her wrapper.

  “Simon, what are you thinking? Are you concerned for Mr. Fontaine’s safety? I assure you, he will come to no harm.”

  Douglas untied the ribbons at the neck of her wrapper. “I fear it is already too late for Mr. Fontaine.” He pushed the wrapper aside and trailed a finger along her nightgown, from her breasts to her belly. “He was caught unawares and for that, he shall pay dearly.” The truth of his words startled him. It was indeed too late to deny his feelings for Madeline.

  She shivered and murmured, “Fear not. He is in good hands.”

  “Of that I am sure.” He wanted those hands on him. Now. In the morning he would tell her the truth about Douglas Fontaine. If she did not come after him with a shovel and a pistol, he would ask her to be his wife. Tonight he would claim her body once again and pleasure her in ways that would give the author of Mr. Ogleby’s Position pause.

  She pushed herself to her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck. “May we cease this talk of Douglas Fontaine?” She pressed her breasts against his chest. “I have other ideas that do not involve talking.”

  That delicious tongue rimmed his lips and rendered him quite speechless. He ran a hand along her back and cupped her buttocks, urging her closer. “Would those ideas involve tongues?”

  She sighed and straddled him. “Oh, yes, indeed they do.”

  “Oh, I do love the sound of that.” He had plans for a luxurious exploration of her body, beginning with her mouth, proceeding to her neck, then her belly…. He was still formulating a plan when Madeline thrust her tongue in his mouth, unfastened his breeches and yanked them down. She moaned and flung off her nightgown chanting that blasted name that was not his. When she rubbed her breasts along his chest and impaled him, he groaned and thrust deep inside, all thoughts of slow and luxurious fleeing with each moan.

  “Simon,” she purred, moving up and down his shaft with increased urgency, “have you another lesson for me tonight?” She licked his neck and sucked the tender flesh behind his ear. “You promised a list to continue our exploration.”

  A list? He had? He could not remember what he’d promised but if she continued riding him with the skill of a seasoned courtesan, she would be the one providing lessons and lists. “We shall continue,” he managed, thrusting into her long and deep. “But you must give me leave to finish the task at hand—” he found her neck and ran his tongue along the slender column behind her ear until she shivered “—for I am a man who will see one task completed before I begin another.”

  She sighed and arched her neck, permitting him greater access. “Excellent idea. You are most thorough with your, ahh, tasks.” When his fingers found the swollen flesh of her sex, she gasped and added, “And your attention to detail is—” another gasp “—commendable.”

  “Commendable?” He thrust into her once more before lying on his back and pulling her on top of him. “That is a term I have long strived to achieve in regard to a woman’s pleasure.” He hid a smile when he looked into her eyes.

  Her lips twitched. “It is quite a sturdy term which signifies all manner of aptitudes. Commendable,” she repeated, trailing a finger along his chest to his belly.

  “Hmmm.” She could call him a fish as long as those
greedy fingers continued their quest of his person. Lower. Much lower. Douglas was contemplating the skill of those fingers when Madeline leaned over, clutched his shoulders and lifted herself from his shaft with laborious precision, stopping when she reached the tip. Heaven and hell melded into one. Her smile spread as she watched his face contort with pleasure and need. Oh, but she enjoyed wielding such power over him. Mayhap he should not share other positions for with minimal practice she would gain true power over him. The thought fled his brain the moment it landed there. Was he mad? What man would not wish an adventurous woman in his bed?

  “I do believe this position brings you great pleasure,” she murmured, fitting herself on his shaft with a sigh.

  “Indeed it does,” he agreed, clamping his hands on her hips. “Almost as much as this.” He thrust inside her heat, faster, harder, driven by the need to block out all else.

  “Simon,” she moaned. “Oh, Simon.”

  Soon, she would be moaning his real name.

  “Simon!”

  Her eyes grew wide as she jerked against him, once, twice, five times, her heat pulsing with tiny spasms. Too tempting. Too irresistible. Too much. Douglas flipped her onto her back and looked into her eyes as he said, “You’re mine, Madeline. Mine.” He held her gaze as he thrust into her with the desperation of a man who has finally found sanity. One last thrust and he filled her with his seed. She pulled him close and stroked his back until his breathing evened. As he drifted to sleep one final thought floated through his brain and settled in his heart. He could not let her go. Ever.

  Chapter 20

  Douglas studied the sketch he’d started at daybreak. A new barn, tripled in size with a hideaway loft where he and Madeline might spend a lazy afternoon. He would build a gamekeeper’s cottage as well, complete with the softest bed and the fluffy pillows Madeline favored so much. If they were riding and took a sudden need to rest or indulge in non-resting activities—which might or might not be conducted out of doors, depending on the weather—the location was at the ready. One must allow for the elements and the mood of one’s partner and if last night were any indication, Madeline would often be in the mood.