by Eva Devon
In fact, her expectations had been for a farmer. The horse thundering out of the darkness was anything but a glue pot. It stood a good seventeen hands, its muscles evident under its silken russet coat, and its rider—
Cordelia blinked. . . Then blinked again. Clearly, she, like her husband, had gone mad.
She mumbled against her gag, swayed a bit and then with a most embarrassing moment, she did something exceptionally unfortunate, given her tied hands.
Cordelia Eversleigh nee Basingstoke, archeologist and adventurer extraordinaire, fainted.
*
She was not certain if it had been moments or hours, but given that she was lying upon unforgiving dirt she quickly deduced her brief departure from this world had only been a short one. Still, she appreciated the moments away for certainly they had restored her reason. Even so, she was hesitant to open her eyes, lest she find that she had indeed gone mad.
“Madam?” a dark voice intoned. . . A suspiciously familiar voice.
She groaned inwardly. Yes. Indeed. She had cracked. It was most disappointing for she had always considered herself to have a resolute character undaunted in the face of adversity.
A strong finger poked at her arm. “Madam?”
“Mmmmrphf,” she grumbled into her gag and the dirt, for as she opened her eyes, she realized the blasted idiot had left her face down.
“I do beg your pardon,” he began as he turned her onto her back.
She grimaced at the pain of her shoulders wrenching against her bonds.
Glaring up at her potential rescuer, she began to curse. . . ineffectually. “Uuuu. . . Bassshhhhrrdddd. Fmmmm. Unnnnghtyyyyy mfffff.”
He gaped down at her, his face masked by the night.
“Unnnnnnghtyyyyyyyy mfffffff!” she tried again, hoping he would overcome his shock to do the gentlemanly thing.
A deep, rough laugh boomed through the night.
He was laughing at her. Laughing. A growl of fury twisted up from her throat and she attempted to lash out at him with her foot.
“My apologies,” he sniggered.
“Hmmmph!!’
“A moment. A moment.” And then he leaned down and Cordelia fell silent.
Yes. There it was. Proof that she was mad.
Her husband stared down at her with a fresh expression of amusement at her expense. There was something slightly sinister about his appearance in the dark and she could have sworn he’d been wearing a white linen shirt not a black silk one, but her mind seemed to have trotted off.
He peered down at her as if he had never seen her in his life, a rather cruel and interesting ruse. Still, he reached around the back of her head and yanked the cravat free.
She stared at him, waiting for him to say something, anything really. Surely, he was displeased at her escape? Instead, he was gazing down at her as if the heavens had suddenly blessed him with some unholy present.
“You’re not particularly pretty,” he observed.
She arched a brow and pursed her abused lips. “Prettiness is over rated as any sort of accomplishment…”
“You’re quite nicely formed,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her. “An attribute which in the end is far more desirable than an admirable face.”
Yes, he was her husband. . . even if he was acting most bizarrely.
Slowly, her husband brushed his black gloved fingers over her cheek and then down her neck. They trailed lightly, teasing over her chilled skin, edging along the neckline of her lacy bodice.
She kept waiting for her body to burst into treacherous fire as it always did at his touch. Yet, nothing happened. A feeling of sheer delight stole through her. At last, her mind had conquered her body. It was such a relief that she longed to jump up and do a whirling dervish. . . Alas, her hands were still tied behind her. “You, sir, are an ass.”
“How can you say that to your savior?” he quipped, his face a mask of amusement and that amusement took precedence over her discomfort.
She attempted to shift away from his gloved hand doing its dance very nearly upon her bosom, yet the pain in her shoulders made undue movement impossible. “I should rather be kicked in the head by a mule that risk your kind of saving.”
“Come now, I’m not that bad.” He smiled ever so slightly, a smile that was full of darkness rather than humor. “Most women adore me.”
She turned her head away from him, her only immediate means of protest. “I thought we had established that I am not most women.”
He paused in his bold stroking of her neck and breastbone. “Do forgive me, have me met?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. It is I who most likely hit my head as I left your coach, not you.” She whipped her head back towards him, intent on making her irritation plain. “Do not act the fool with me.”
He cocked his head to the side, his hair perfectly groomed away from his face. “My coach?”
Wasn’t his hair all boyishly mussed? Or at least it had been “Yes. . .”
His face paled and he rolled his eyes up to the heavens in dramatic supplication.
Cordy lifted her head from the ground trying to get a better look at his pained expression. “I say, are you quite alright?”
He whispered something inaudible then ran his eyes over her face again with far less passionate interest then groaned, “Cordelia, Duchess of Hunt, I presume?”
She snorted. “Don’t be an idiot.”
He brushed his gloves together, as if brushing her from him and allowed himself to plunk back onto the hard ground as if sitting in the middle of the road was the most common occurrence for a peer. “I concur, my brother is a fool, but you must not abase me in the same fashion.”
She twisted, her frock catching under her hips as she gaped. “Y-your—”
“Brother.”
“Yes, thank you. I was about to say that.”
He shrugged elegantly. “You seemed to be stuttering.”
A groan of her own grumbled past her lips. “It has been an eventful night.”
“So, I gathered from Grandmama.”
“The dowager?” she panted, all this wiggling about on the ground finally taking a toll.
“Mmmmm.” Her…dare she say it, brother-in-law…adjusted his hat so it sat back from his face. “I do believe all of London heard her rantings. She is not used to people going against her dictates.” He leaned back slightly. “I never expected to run into you on the road. Its rather opportune though.”
“I don’t follow.”
He stared at her for several long moments as if attempting to see deep within her and then after apparent failure in his quest he scowled. “Jack seems to have some sort of fascination with you.”
Her mouth opened then closed with undignified astonishment. “You do realize I am still tied up and lying upon the cold ground.”
“It had occurred to me, yes.”
“And?” Her voice was a touch over born and she gulped back her desire to bellow at him.
“I suppose you should like me to untie you.”
“Yes. That would be pleasant, thank you.”
“But you see,” he leaned forward, those black eyes of his, so similar to her husband’s, wandered over her face, found nothing there and descended in a most impertinent fashion to her breasts and hips. “I should like to discover what it is about you that would cause my brother to act in such an odd fashion. He doesn’t usually take such interest in women.”
“Are you saying he prefers men?”
“Good God no,” he burst out quickly. “Not that some of the men in my family—” He cut himself off and his brows furrowed slightly whether in disdain or curiosity it was hard to measure. “What a mind you do have. I’m shocked you even know anything about such goings on. You see, my brother and I usually enjoy women, sometimes even the same one at the same time, but more as one might enjoy a nice piece of linen which after one uses—”
“One discards?” she said, disheartened. It didn’t surprise her. Of course, it didn’t. S
he knew his reputation and the temperament of most men in general. Men would never hold equal to women in terms of admirable qualities, yet she found herself deeply disappointed that even his brother held such a confirmation of Jack’s dissipation.
“Yes, exactly. How astute for a woman you are.”
“Thank you,” she drawled.
“I’m glad you can appreciate the delicacy of the situation.”
“I’d appreciate it more if my hands were untied.”
“Learning to live with disappointment is the most important key to happiness.”
“And have you achieved such blessed happiness?”
“Ah. No. But then again, it is a far more suitable trait for females then men.”
“Of course.” And with that she knew she had no other recourse than to put the blighter in his place. As swiftly as she was able, she drew her knee up, blasting it into the side of his face.
Whether by shock or force, he twisted to the right, landing beside her. Without hesitating, she vaulted up and threw her leg over his middle, a compromising but necessary position, she leaned back and with her tied hands grabbed his most important asset. . . Unpleasant as it was she gripped his shaft until a rather un-masculine sound whistled out of his lips.
“Untie me,” she demanded coolly.
“Release me,” he countered, his voice considerably higher than a moment before.
“No.”
“I begin to understand my brother’s perplexity,” he rasped. “I should just throttle you.”
“You can of course try, but I have a good hold upon your nether regions, and if you were to attack me, I promise I shall take your manhood with me.”
He panted slightly and for a moment she was horrified by the possibility that he might be enjoying this so she squeezed with a considerably harder degree.
A yap of pain escaped his lips as he gritted, “Women are not meant to be violent.”
“Women are exceedingly violent when unencumbered by society. Some tribal societies even encourage a woman’s violence. . . For instance many of the native tribes of North America leave torture to the women.”
His hands came up and he held them in supplication. “Now, I am going to reach around and untie you. Shall you trust me?”
“Trust is hardly a word that shall ever be in my list of feelings with regards to you, my lord, but in this instance, I shall have to hold on with dear life, and allow your hands freedom to do what is necessary.
He merely shook his head at her verbosity then began to work at her bindings. When he’d got the first part of the binding loosed, he said, “I shall recall your warning and keep myself to ladies entrenched in society.”
“How very boring for you.” The braided rope eased from her wrists and though she was tempted to whip her hands forward, she continued to grip his continually hard and rather large cock lest he win the upper hand.
“Boring as it may be, I am rather fond of my cock and should like to keep it where it is.”
“Do you promise to leave me be when I unhand you?” She had no desire to have to fend him off again, once she released him.
“Madam, no man in his right mind could leave you be. You are a veritable fortress to be climbed and overcome.”
She squeezed a little harder and he yelped again. “Yes! Yes. I swear.”
“Why should I believe you?”
His hands came up to her shoulders and gripped with their own determination. “Because you have me quite literally by the balls.”
“I do, don’t I?”
“Mmmm.”
She glowered at him, weighing the dangers of her predicament. It was clear that Jack’s brother was no gentleman and yet, they couldn’t sit thusly like some Sisyphus, watching the sun go up and down and she stuck to her task of keeping him at bay. “So be it.”
And she began to loose her hands, but not before the pointed crack of a pistol echoed through the air.
Chapter 13
Being outwitted by one’s wife was not a feeling Jack cared to ever repeat. It had never occurred to him that he could underestimate her tenacity so wholly, for he thought he had possessed a relatively good understanding of her skill and audacity. But one did not expect a tied up woman to quite soundlessly hurl herself from a rapidly moving conveyance in the middle of the night.
Did one?
No. One did not. After all, he wasn’t so hideous that such an action should be necessary? Or was he? It didn’t bear consideration that she found him so entirely unlikable that bouncing along a dirt road in the middle of the night was more appealing than his company.
Granted. . . He had tied her up, but she had flailed so and escape, whether she realized it or not, meant his grandmother, full of wrath at being foiled in her plans, would very possibly shred Cordelia’s name so thoroughly that no one would ever receive her again. And while he realized that Cordelia didn’t have much estimation for their class, she did need some support. If only for her work. His grandmother could see that she never, ever had assistance of any kind from anyone again in any corner of Europe.
Regardless of his hideousness or lack there of, he would once again have to rethink his appraisal of his wife and accept that he had been lacking in his esteem for her and his judgement of her sanity. Surely, only a half mad woman. . . or an Eversleigh woman. . . would do such a thing?
There was nothing for it. It was his duty as her husband, however temporary that state, to take her in hand and help her to understand that such activities only led to neck breakage.
Riding back in the direction from whence they had come at breakneck speed was a damned nuisance. Coaching horses did not the best seats make, and he refused to consider that the odd churning sensation in his stomach was anything more than indigestion.
Nothing had happened to her. He was not afraid.
After all, if a group of bandits had fallen upon her she, no doubt, would have them all singing and dancing her tune within moments, or at the worst, he’d locate them incapacitated murmuring about whirling dervish females and witch craft.
Yes. . . Witch craft. That had to be it. His wife had learned black arts in the East and this would explain her infuriating behavior and astounding abilities. Yet, he found himself thanking the dubious maker for these black arts. They would keep her safe.
As he road further and further without her in sight, the pit of his stomach tightened into such a ball he was sure that he was going to seize up. He refused to believe it was with concern for her safety. . . Absolutely refused. . . Said refusal didn’t stop him from swearing that he would wrap his fingers about her pretty neck and shake.
The sight that eventually befell him was not reassuring.
A woman, unmistakably his wife, in Gemma’s cream puff of a costume, sat astride a man in the dirt. He pulled his pistol from the back of his breeches and aimed it high in the air, ready to ride to her rescue.
All feelings of knightly chivalry deflated as irrational and blind rage tumbled through him. She didn’t seem to be struggling, in fact she was engaged in conversation with the man beneath her. Which nearly urged him to aim his pistol at the man sprawled on the dirt, writhing beneath his wife.
Writhing. Beneath. His wife.
A strangled sound strained from his throat. She appeared to have her hands in a rather compromising place. . . On the man’s cock.
He pulled the trigger on the primed pistol and the perfectly designed fire arm went off. A crack of smoke and embers pierced the cold night.
Cordelia’s gaze jerked away from the prone man beneath her and snapped up towards him.
Those dark blue eyes of hers, the color of black sapphires in the moonlight, widened to twin saucers of dismay then dawning recognition replaced any anxiety she might have been experiencing. “Blast!”
“Hello, Jack,” Charles called blithely. “Thank God you’ve come.”
“Charles,” he exclaimed. . . The full realization that his wife had been fondling his brother’s balls began to sink in as di
d a rage so intense he was uncertain he would be able to speak further let alone act with any sort of restraint.
“Could you call your wife off?” Charles appealed, his voice oddly strained through the cold air. “Her grip is reminiscent of Nelson.”
Cordelia blinked. “Lord Nelson fondled your. . . Erm. . .”
Pain pounded between Jack’s eyes, a pain resembling a nail being driven solidly into an unyielding knot of wood. He had heard that some women were veritable headaches, but he’d never believed the term could be taken literally. At this rate, he was going to have to murder someone. At this particular moment he wasn’t certain if it was his brother, or his wife, or perhaps both. He might even have to include himself. But there was one thing that he couldn’t escape. Cordelia was one of a kind. Still. . .
“You’ve been fondling him?” Jack asked, his voice so low, one might have thought it had wrung deep in the primordial caverns of the earth.
“No!” she exclaimed, indignation lighting her pale cheeks.
“And Nelson was our intractable bull dog if you must know,” piped in Charles, still lying underneath her. As though having his balls in iron grip upon the road was a nightly occurrence, he folded his hands behind his head and lounged upon the earth with the same sort of comfort he did upon his Oriental rugs. “Your tenacity resembles him in the most singular of ways. You see, once he got his grip on something, he never let go.”
Cordelia blanched. Clearly recalling the location of her hands, she scrambled backwards in crab fashion, sliding along Charles legs. One of her elbows found Charles’ groin as she attempted to get to her feet.
Instantly, Charles let out a howl and then a groan of pain that sailed soprano like through the silent night. The moan was then replaced by a rather unmanly whimper. His limbs coiled slowly inward, pulling him into the fetal position.
“I say,” Cordelia muttered, brushing her hands furiously against her frock. “Is he quite alright?”
“Impotent,” Charles gasped. “Your wife has rendered me impotent.”
“A blessing for the human race,” she sniffed, without a hint of remorse.
“All the same, I’d still like to make attempts,” Charles wheezed.
