My Wicked Fantasy

by Karen Ranney

  “So you come from a line of spice merchants?”

  “Even pirates, if you wish.” He smiled suddenly, and there was something devilish about it, an upturn of lip, a sweet mischief in the glint of an eye. He could charm the elves from behind a toadstool.

  “Have you ever heard of the Radanites?” At the shake of her head, he sobered. “They were Jewish traveling merchants, the only avenue of international trade during the eleventh and thirteenth centuries. While the Crusades were pitting Christian against Muslim, the Radanites transported various commodities across both lines. Wool, Frankish swords, furs, all went out toward the Orient, while they returned to Europe with pearls, precious stones, and spices. My ancestor discovered that holy war was not as lucrative as using the Radanites’ trade routes. Unfortunately, in addition to those commodities, however, he was rumored to have also dabbled in the white slave trade and providing eunuchs to guard them.”

  “How absolutely awful.”

  “You do not look horrified, Mary Kate. Only fascinated. Shall I summon some ancestral trait and measure your worth? I suspect that you would cost a bagful of gold to own. But then, that is, no doubt, what Alice has promised you.”

  He wiped his hands dry, turned and busied himself with the arrangement of his tools. A scalpel, such as a surgeon might use, a pegging awl altered for his use with delicate stems, a grafting spreader, an assortment of delicate instruments designed and crafted from his specifications.

  “Surely you are not wounded by the truth, Mary Kate,” he said, not turning.

  “I am merely wondering if now is the time to pose the question I would ask of you.”

  “What now?” He threw down the toweling he used to dry the last of the instruments, turned.

  He was too close, enraged, goaded, devoid of that utterly smooth civility, that politeness of his that had previously tamped down emotion. The man who faced her now was filled with it, brimming over with it, churning with it.

  “Why did my wife choose another? Why did she leave me? Why could I not love her enough, or give her enough, or promise her enough to entice her to stay? A title, a fortune she could not spend in a lifetime, yet not enough inducements to remain with her husband. Is that the question you are going to ask?”

  A moment passed, then another.

  “No, it wasn’t. Not really.” She toyed with the edge of a leaf, the delicate browning of it something nature meant, not a sign of disease or neglect.

  “Then what is it?”

  She looked up at him, shyness vying with daring. “Will you kiss me?”

  Chapter 18

  “Will you kiss me?”

  Could she really control her physical responses so adeptly? Or was the blush that grew rosier on her cheeks a true sign of emotion?

  “My husband never kissed me. Not the way I think it could be done. No other man has ever touched me.”

  The words tumbled so reluctantly from her lips that they bore the imprint of truth on their backsides. He did not want truth from her, or to witness the slow blush that crept inexorably over her cheeks. He did not want to experience her in the way she offered herself up for his delectation, a redheaded nymph with the soul of a harlot and the naughtiness of a smiling cherub.

  He wanted to tell her that her voice should not be that tremulous. It indicated virgins unaware, a maiden’s first response, the innocence of spring. She should, instead, if she insisted upon playing a role, emulate the women of the demimonde, lush and experienced and willing.

  And yet she offered a dare. Come play with me. A taunt any sane man would accept. Still, there was the feeling that such experimentation would border on danger, a slight slip and he would be falling. Closer and closer into what? A pit of such confusion that he would forever wallow in it.

  Who was she? Erstwhile nymph, playmate, seductress, or something even more elusive? A woman with daring words and longing in her eyes who wanted to play in passion for the sake of it, to taste a kiss and know its power.

  He was a fool to think she was that simple. Yet he came closer, drawn by the scent of her, the lulling quietness of her, standing there waiting for his judgment. Would it be no? Adult, wise, restrained, civil. Yes? A child’s answer, a promise of delight, if for but a moment, improvident, even slightly wicked.

  A smile wreathed his mouth, a look in his eyes of such intent perusal it held Mary Kate in place. “You would experiment, then, with me.”

  A finger reached out and stroked her lip. There was no spice to lure the taste of her tongue, only the taste of his flesh. He smiled as she flushed again, rendered warm by the look in his eyes, that touch of gaze that lingered and lured and beckoned all at once.

  He bent closer, almost brushed his mouth against her lips, but pulled a breath’s length away. Gentle fingers trailed against the edge of her chin, traced down her throat, back up again to fondle a tender lobe of ear.

  “Did Alice tell you I was so easily coaxed from sanity, then?”

  She blinked open her eyes, stared at him. Only the greatest of actresses could mimic that air of confusion, he thought.

  “I confess to being adulterous to my wife, Mary Kate,” he said, almost lazily, the finger now threading through the tendrils of hair at her temple. What an odd color it was, how bright and glorious. So must the first dawn have appeared, flaming orange light. “But my deed was performed only after my wife demonstrated her preference for another’s bed,” he whispered, his lips lured closer to the absolute perfection of her skin. Soft, so soft. “And long after she left me for another. Why, though, do I think it would be disastrous to bed you, Mary Kate?”

  “I but wished for a kiss.” Soft whimper of words. His hands pressed against her skull on either side of her face, his fingers spread through the glorious disarray of her hair. One by one the pins fell free, her hair tumbled loose around his insistent fingers.

  “Ah, but, Mary Kate, icing is not a substitute for cake.”

  In a locked room at the end of the east hall, close to the kitchens, was the spicery, where they kept the household flavorings used for his personal meals. Coriander, cumin, cardamom, pepper, paprika, were all packed in carefully sealed storage jars, side by side with chili powder, curry, turmeric, mace, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cloves. The currency of the St. John empire.

  Yet the scent of Mary Kate was something he’d only imagined before, the delicate bouquet of woman, exquisitely gentle yet lingering, some elusive fragrance that imparted knowledge at the same time it hinted of mystery. He breathed it in as he edged closer, victor to the prey, yet feeling curiously defeated by her silence, her tentative eagerness.

  Her eyes were open, steady on his, the look in them setting his body on fire. It was as if she kissed him in her mind, her lips pillow-soft and swollen, her tongue dueling with his, his own mouth greedy and voracious and feeding on her.

  All this, before he’d touched her.

  “Did Alice send you as consolation, then, Mary Kate? A prize in recompense for the good name she stole from me? Do I get to keep you instead of my faithless wife?” It was not the first time he’d asked her.

  She’d no chance to answer before he laid his lips gently on hers. Gentle intimacy, acquaintance. So might a carnivore bestow a last caress upon his prey before the final killing stroke. She tasted of allspice and Mary Kate.

  Her lips were soft and full, slightly moist. It was like sampling the most forbidden fruit; a dart of tongue upon her mouth was hardly enough. He wanted to nibble at her, devour her in a way that was feverishly carnal. He wanted her to be able to taste him on her lips tomorrow.

  His thumbs angled beneath her jaw to raise her face more conveniently, offer her as sacrifice to the hot tongue separating her lips. He met her lips with his own, felt hers part immediately, offering haven for his breath, capitulation for his invasion.

  She made a low humming sound, a vocal appreciation one might make when being treated to a delectable morsel of sweetmeat, a piquant flavor of cherries in syrup, a bite of rare citrus. Ar
cher would have smiled at the sound of it, had he not been tempted to nibble at her with a little less delicacy and more rapaciousness. She tempted him to the borders of his restraint. Virgin, no; neophyte? He no longer knew or cared.

  He came to know her, in the way lovers recognize each other, the startling simplicity of the taste of inner lip, the corner of a mouth, the texture of soft flesh and enameled teeth. He explored her, the way he delved his own conscience. And learned her mouth, her lips, her breath, the way he knew himself.

  Finally he drew away, again a breath’s distance, enough to measure the dazed look in forest green eyes, yet close enough to stroke a tongue against her lips as if to cool them. She made a sound like a sob, a tiny protesting sound that caused him to shut his eyes and pull her head against his chest.

  The strength of his arousal was so great it hurt, pain that both pleasured and demanded. His blood beat in time to its call, his breath sliced through his chest, every muscle readied itself for penetration. He was no rutting animal, no creature of simple needs devoid of intellect. Yet this moment, all his senses were alert; a mating ritual as old as mankind demanded he ease himself in her, unclasp the fists she made upon his shifted chest and place those hands, instead, on his bare skin. She would use her nails upon him; he would mark her with his mouth. She would be warm and wet and welcoming, a fitting vessel for the seed his body ached to disgorge.

  Instead, he stepped back. Away.

  “Was that all you wanted, Mary Kate? A kiss?”

  Her eyes were wide, her lower lip being delightfully restrained by those delicate white teeth. He wanted to place his mouth on hers, tenderly anoint that spot with his tongue, skim her lips. He wanted, in a way so unlike him, to breathe his wants and needs into her, so that his words would be part of her breath, part of her very blood.

  He had no doubt this moment was his, because for all the wide and fearful eyes, for all the wonder in those magnificent eyes, she had not run from the room. She did not put her hands up to brace him away from her, not even when he reached out and cupped both her elbows with his palms, drawing her back into his embrace. Only a tiny whimper escaped her lips, but it was not a protest as much as it was a sound of recognition.

  He felt like a wolf, starved and lean from a long, fa mined winter, and she stood docile within his arms, a curvaceous lamb, her blood warm and pounding, rending him almost heady with hunger. He wanted to cover Mary Kate the way a wolf devours its prey. Not with greed or malice, but simply for survival. He felt that if he were denied her, if he could not assuage this ravenous need with her flesh, he would starve. To the death.

  He bent and placed his lips on her neck, where the blood beat heavy and strong. She sighed, an open exhalation of surrender, a sound so welcome to his famished body that he smiled at the sound of it, His hands left her elbows, dropping to her waist, carefully corseted and protected by whalebone and lace.

  “You are a paradox, Mary Kate,” he whispered against her skin. “You have the hair of a strumpet and the boning of a spinster. You are tightly buttoned against sin, and yet your nipples are like tin bullets against my chest. Which is the real you, I wonder?”

  He did not give her a chance to answer, swallowing her words in the open cavern of his mourn. It was not a gentle kiss, nor one of domination. It lured and beckoned and promised such sweet joy that it almost burned him.

  He pushed her away slightly, holding her arms out oddly with both hands cupped at their elbows. She felt like a rag doll supported by string, a contorted puppet awaiting a master hand.

  He studied her as if she were a great work of art, noting the warm flush of her cheeks, the eyes with their confused and helpless expression, as if passion were a strange emotion felt rarely in her life. She looked away as he watched her, her flush deepening, the tendrils of her hair lying mussed around her face an apt match for her blush. He noted, too, her captivation in his hands, the fact she had not moved nor seemingly wished to.

  Yet appearances were not to be trusted, especially with Mary Kate Bennett.

  “If I led you to my chamber now, would you go? But of course you would. It’s part of the game, isn’t it?” He stepped back, his smile muted. “The question is, do you go there on your own, or because Alice wished it of you?”

  Mary Kate flung open the window, breathed in the cold night air. She felt smothered in the folds of her nightgown. It was as if the air of her bedchamber was too warm, humid, so thick that she could almost feel it as it entered her lungs. How silly. It was not the air that felt sluggish, but the beat of her own blood.

  She stood at the window for long moments, concentrating on night sounds, the crying of some nocturnal bird, a denuded branch brushing against its neighbor, the sough of winter wind as it raced over the great expanse of manicured grass.

  There was nothing there at nighttime that was not present at light of day. Then why did night seem to enhance her emotions, make her feel even lonelier than she’d ever been before? What was there about this night that kept her on edge?

  Oh, the answer was there. The texture of cotton against her bare breasts puckered her nipples and caused a flurry in her stomach. Her skin seemed sensitive to each eddy of air, flutter of breath.

  She was too restless, too churned in mind and soul and body. The wind invited her, taunted her, urged her to strip off her clothes and be bathed in it, cooling her hot flesh. One example of her insanity. The other had been this morning, when she had said words she never should have said. Thought things she never would have believed possible. Asked for a kiss.

  She’d wanted to know what a kiss was. She’d not known that it had the power to invade all of her body. Her arms had been held straight at her sides, but her fingers tingled to touch him. Her toes, too, were troubled by sensation, a desire to curl, and rub, and otherwise rid themselves of prickles and a curious warming. His mouth dusted soft kisses over her lips and she had stood, acquiescent and absorbed in all the various sensations flying through her body.

  Even when Edwin had bedded her, Mary Kate had not felt such a sweeping rush of emotions. A bubble of some feeling curiously similar to joy had expanded in her chest, threatened to burst with the fullness of itself. Her hands reached up and braced themselves upon his shoulders, found exactly the right spot upon which to rest, as if bones and muscles and sinew had been created just for such a purpose. She rose on tiptoe to deepen his kiss, greedy for more of the feelings that were racing through her body, a ribbon of fire spreading from hands to feet and back, again, to coalesce somewhere deeper, in the very pit of her.

  When his tongue touched hers, she drew back, startled. But the sensation was eagerly accepted by the rest of her body. The breath grew tight in her chest, as if she wore a particularly constrictive corset. Her lips felt as though they were hot; they, too, tingled, and each time the sensation was near to unbearable, Archer had seemed to know, to deepen the kiss.

  In some dim, shadowed part of her mind, a portion not left warm and hollow and pounding with her body’s pulse, Mary Kate recognized that she had been too unworldly, too curious, for the man and the kiss. She was, perhaps, too receptive, easily conquered. Yet she was also thoroughly, absolutely enchanted.

  A star seemed to fall from heaven in response to her unspoken thought. A night bird chittered in derision. Then there was silence again, a deep dark invasive silence.

  She should be away from this place.

  She had been so hopeful when she had left London a month ago. So certain that her journey would find welcome at its end. Instead, she was now burdened with a resident mind ghost and a longing for something that could never be. A face appeared before her eyes. Not an angelic one, surrounded by blond curls, but one in which black eyes flashed irritation, a mouth reluctantly turned up in humor, a chin defiantly angled out at the world.

  No. Please. She shook her head as if to dismiss her longing, as if the vision of Archer could be so easily banished with the toss of her head. Instead, he seemed firmly fixed there, an appendage she’d n
ever noticed before, a presence as resolutely intransigent as that of Alice St. John.

  How odd that here, in this place, the echo of her voice was only that, a soft remonstrance, nothing more. Except for that one morning when the panic had nearly torn her apart, it was as if Alice were at peace with her presence at Sanderhurst. As if she’d plotted and planned for such a thing.

  What rubbish. There was nothing at Sanderhurst for her, nothing but the lure of Archer St. John. And in that direction lay only trouble and heartache.

  Get far from here, Mary Kate. Far enough away that you cannot hear Archer St. John’s voice. So far that the memory of him does not lure you to stand at a window and wish to howl at the moon. Perhaps enough time will pass that you will not remember this morning, and the longing you had to walk into his arms.

  You begged for a kiss. You would have accepted more.

  There is no place for you here.

  The truth, at last.

  Chapter 19

  There was nothing to this business of being a footman, Peter Sullivan thought, even though there were as many rules and regulations as being aboard ship. All to a purpose, he reminded himself, all to a purpose. Still, it was hard to take it all as seriously as that old crust Jonathan would have him do, since there was no danger in him being swept overboard or dying of dysentery. Still, if the majordomo wanted the bloody silver polished, then he’d polish it until heaven itself could be seen in its reflection.

  He set the porringer down on the counter and moved to a more comfortable position on the high stool. It was one thing he’d never quite gotten used to, in the five months he’d been away from the sea, the utter quiet of Sanderhurst. The only time it was this quiet aboard ship was in the eye of a squall when all hands seemed to hold their collective breath waiting for the sound of the masts tearing away, or that liver-loosening gush of water that meant there was a serious breach in the hull. Even then, in the silence had come the groan of wood, the creak of timber, the slam of the waves against the side of the ship.