Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) (26 page)

"
Bloody fuck.
"

His stunned oath shot up my confidence. Wild with love, with the pulsing need to bring him bliss, I kissed him again. This time I let my tongue swirl over the engorged head. He tasted delicious, of salt and virile essence. He hissed my name, his hands coming to my hair. I thought he meant to push me away, and I resisted. Instead his fingers dug against my scalp, guiding me, teaching me the rhythm of his joy.

Eager to learn, I strove to follow his ragged instructions.
Open for me, let me in
... I struggled take him deeper, my cheeks hollowing to the sounds of his panted groans.
Sweet Jesus, yes, just like that, suck me deep
...
My senses whirled as I learned to breathe with the proud heat of him lodging against my silken tissues. Every cell saturated with his taste, his feel, the sounds of his pleasure. Beneath my fingertips, the flexing hollows of his buttocks grew slick with strain. Feral noises tore from his throat; I'd stripped the civil inhibitions from him completely. With his head thrown back and eyes closed, he held my head in place as he invaded me in this new and titillating way.

Wetness flushed between my thighs, and I moaned around his flesh. The gargled sound drew a shuddering reaction from him. Pulling free of my lips, he pushed my back to the mattress. Before I could catch my breath, the hem of my chemise was shoved above my waist. I heard my drawers ripping and then his mouth descended upon me, savage and scalding. The typhoon of sensation blasted through me, and I cried out. A large hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my sobs as his tongue drove into me again and again.

I quaked as he feasted upon my intimate flesh. He was insatiable, unstoppable. He licked me inside, outside, each assault of his tongue tautening the tension in my belly, my thighs. His growling demands shimmied down my spine.
Give me your nectar, let me taste how sweet and ready you are
... My legs tightened as he found the quivering knot, the pinnacle of sensation, and began flicking it with fierce insistence. My head rolled against the covers, my gaze suddenly snagging on the reflection overhead.

The wanton creature was writhing, her lover's dark head between her thighs. With her lips swollen and her breasts flushed and rose-tipped, she rose against his mouth with passionate abandon. She seemed wild, unrecognizable. But not evil ... just powerfully free. Excitement bled through me with an intensity akin to pain. My breath puffed heavy and moist against his palm.
Please, Hux, please
...

He suckled deeply, and I shattered.

Before I had time to recover from the incandescent climax, I found myself flipped onto my stomach and dragged to the edge of the mattress. My heart still thundering, I lay there, my toes touching the floor, my hot cheek pressed against the silken coverlet. In this position, I was open, vulnerable, yet my mind was too bliss-blown to protest. My spent nerves twitched as a finger slid inside me.

"How lovely you are." Like warmed honey, Hux's voice trickled over me as his hand took on a slow, seductive stroke. "I can hardly wait to have you this way, Abigail. Open to me, waiting. Trembling for me to take you."

He pushed deeper, faster, drawing a moan from my throat.

"Don't wait," I panted, straining to see him. "Make love to me, Hux. Now."

My head was pressed back into the mattress while his fingers stretched and played with my tender flesh. The sound of the moist, lightly slapping strokes unleashed a primal surge of heat. My lungs struggled for air as he fanned the flames with wicked praise of my wantonness. How wet and ripe I was. How much it aroused him. I whimpered as his fingers withdrew. I felt him spreading the sticky dampness up higher, into the crevice of my bottom.

Shock sizzled up my spine to feel the bold, turgid heat of him sliding against that cleft. When he began moving back and forth, gasped cries left the both of us. His stiff length rubbed against a place I had thought only for another purpose. His thrusting stimulated brilliant sparks of pleasure; with each graze against the secret nerve endings, my fingers dug deeper and deeper into the mattress. There was no purchase against this. No way of fighting the dark seduction of submitting to him, giving him everything ...

His fingers plunged inside my throbbing quim, and I buried my scream into silk.

"This is how it'll feel when we are wed," he rasped, as he worked heat inside me, over me. "You'll be mine completely. To love whenever, however I want."

Dark waves of arousal crashed over me. His possession—it was too much to endure, too much to resist ...

"I'll never have enough of you, Abigail. I'll always want to be inside you. Your wet, delectable pussy,"—his low, dark voice tingled over my senses—"and everywhere else."

Mad with need, I abandoned myself to the scorching friction of his fingers, his cock. To the elemental desire pawing inside of me. "Oh, God, I'm so close," I choked out. "Help me, Hux,
please
..."

"Will you give me what I want, Abigail? Let me in where I want to be?"

"Yes," I gasped. "
Yes.
"

In a lightning-quick move, he flipped me over. His cock rocked against my clit with mind-melting strokes. He drove me into a frenzy, my hips lifting to his thrusts, the world unraveling into dazzling threads of light and color ...

"Your heart, Abigail," he rasped, his eyes wild. "Let me in your guarded heart—"

My eyes widened. The truth prickled on my tongue the instant before the climax slammed into me. A scream broke from my lips. At the same time, he groaned violently. His shudders mingled with mine, heat gushing with voluptuous force between us. For several moments, we remained this way, he collapsed atop me, our heartbeats thundering in unison, no sound save that of our winded breaths. Finally, a shuffling from the direction of the dressing room pierced my languor.

"Hux," I whispered in panic, "get up."

No response.

I managed to push him off me. With a grunt, he rolled onto his back. Bemused, I saw the exhausted flicker of eyelashes against his cheek, the even rise and fall of his chest. Brushing the hair off his brow, I pressed a kiss upon his sleep-smoothed jaw and threw the covers over him best as I could. I dragged on my clothes and departed with the stealth of a thief.

THIRTY-ONE

By dawn the next morning, I was in the library cataloging books. I had not slept well. During the night, I had been visited by amorphous dreams that even the necklace could not chase away. I knew why: these were not demons that haunted me, but my own, all-too-human fears. Looking down at the list I was making, I saw the swerving, blotted loops of my usually neat handwriting.

The passionate interlude of yesterday had left me shaken. Hux's entreaty reverberated in my head.
Let me in your guarded heart.
Clearly, he suspected I was hiding something from him. With the three weeks expired and the future looming, I knew I could no longer run. After he returned from his ride this morning, I would simply have to march into the study and confess everything. All I could do was pray for the best. There was a ripping sound as my nib sliced through the parchment.

A while later, I heard noises in the adjoining room and knew I could prevaricate no longer. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door before courage deserted me. Hux was standing by the window. He had his hands clasped behind his back, his posture one of intense contemplation. The morning light shot his hair with silver and glazed his features with austere perfection. Once again, I was bewildered by the brilliance of him. Bewildered and doubting that I could be loved by such a man.

His head turned. His eyes softened. "Miss Jones. How are you this morning?"

The formality of his tone disconcerted me—until I realized we were not alone. A pair of chairs faced the desk, and Mrs. Beecher was sitting in one of them. Hux's solicitor had risen from the other.

"Oh, I b-beg your pardon." I bobbed a hasty curtsy. "I did not see you. Good day to you both."

Mr. Creagan, a portly, avuncular type who had always shown me kindness during his visits, bowed in return. "And to you, Miss Jones. A
very
good day indeed, I think."

Puzzled, I tilted my head at him. He only smiled, his eyes twinkling, his fingers stroking his graying beard.

"I-I'll leave you to your business, then," I said uncertainly.

"No, stay a moment," Hux said. "We were about to call you in actually."

For some reason, he looked to Mrs. Beecher. The housekeeper cleared her throat, saying, "Yes, I was hoping you could help me today, Abigail. It being the last Friday of the month, I usually make my rounds with the village merchants. My joints, however, have been bothering me of late. The earl has kindly agreed to let you and Ginny come to assist me. If you can spare the time, that is."

Guilt assailed me. I had been so wrapped up with Hux and demons that I had not noticed the housekeeper's ailment. She, who had been so good to me. "Of course, Mrs. Beecher," I said quickly. "Anything I can do to help."

"I'll make sure Ginny is ready then." She rose, a relieved look on her worn face, and I felt more ashamed than ever. "Can you be ready to leave in a half hour?"

I nodded.

After she left, Hux came to me. He stayed a respectable distance; even so, invisible waves of tension rippled between us. Over Hux's shoulder, I saw Mr. Creagan busily thumbing through a stack of papers he'd removed from his portmanteau.

"You do not mind going with her?" Hux murmured.

Looking at this magnificent man, remembering the way he shuddered in my arms, I felt helpless yearning spangle over my skin. I wet my dry lips. "No, of course not. I should like to help."

"And you feel, ahem, fully recovered to do so?"

Understanding brought a flush to my cheeks. "I feel perfectly fine, my lord." Awkwardly, I added, "And you?"

"My head aches like the devil from the piss they call ale at the Lamb and Flag." A lazy smile drew across his lips, and his eyes darkened with smoky warmth. "My other aches, however, seem miraculously relieved."

"I am glad to hear it," I whispered, my heart fluttering.

He brought my hand to his lips. On the surface, 'twas a decorous gesture, but his lips lingered for a barely perceptible moment, long enough to release a riot of butterflies in my midsection. "There is much I wish to discuss, Miss Jones, concerning your position. In particular, the permanence of it. We will talk after you return. Is that agreeable to you?"

My chest palpitating, I managed, "Yes, my lord."

"Until then, stay out of trouble." He smiled faintly. "An efficient secretary is a difficult thing to replace, after all."

*****

We arrived at the village by mid-morning. Entering St. Alban gave me the feeling of entering another time. Though there was now a railway which linked the small market town to London, the currents of history ran deep. I sensed the presence of the Romans everywhere: in the sunlight burnishing the buildings a rich, ancient gold and the winding, narrow streets designed to confound invading enemies. I was once told the bricks of the original settlement, called Verulamium, had later found their way into the medieval Abbey at the heart of the town. The blood of St. Alban, Britain's first martyr, was said to have fallen upon those sacred stones. To me, the majestic cathedral represented the town's gothic soul. Modernization seemed but a shifting skin.

As the carriage rolled down High Street toward the center of town, I saw the hustle and bustle of market day. The twisting streets around the Abbey were crowded with stalls of colorful produce and handmade goods and people haggling cheerfully over both—much as they had been since the tenth century. Looking out the window with wide eyes, Ginny waved regally at passersby.

"I didn't know you knew so many town folk, Ginny," Mrs. Beecher said dryly.

"They won't be forgettin' me
now
, will they?" Winking at me, Ginny sat back against the lush cushions. "Gor, what a way to travel. I wish Tom—an' 'specially 'is ma—could see me now!"

Hux had sent Edgar to drive us. Looking none too pleased with this plebian errand, the groom had grumbled as he shoved us into the gleaming carriage. Everywhere we passed now, I saw villagers stopping to gape at the fine equipage. After a few minutes, we arrived at a row of shops beyond the frenzy of the central market. Here, the street was quieter. The storefronts were neat with blooming planters, the windows plates of shining glass.

After sending Ginny into the apothecary's with a lengthy list, Mrs. Beecher eyed me from across the carriage.

"You've been avoiding me, Abigail," she said finally.

Prickled with shame, I dropped my chin. "I am sorry, Mrs. Beecher."

"You used to seek me out, to consult with me on matters. But ever since you and the earl ..." Mrs. Beecher broke off. "Look at me, Abby."

Slowly, I raised my eyes to her somber, bespectacled gaze.

"You know you can trust me, don't you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Beecher."

"Then tell me what is going on. These past three weeks you haven't said a word. Have you ..." Her lips tightened. "Does he mean to do the honorable thing by you?"

"I think so," I said, biting my lower lip. "I mean, he's alluded to it ..."

Snorting, the housekeeper crossed her arms. "Words don't replace a wedding ring, my girl. But from what I've seen the earl seems earnest enough in his affection for you. And he, of all people, wouldn't give a fig what the world thinks of it. So why has he not yet made things official between the two of you?"

"I think he means to. Only there are matters as yet ... unresolved," I finished lamely.

"On your end or his?"

"Both," I admitted. "But please do not ask me to reveal his secrets—I cannot."

"What of yours?" she persisted.

My pulse accelerated. Looking into her faded, steady eyes, I said cautiously, "Mrs. Beecher, have you ever told a lie ... about yourself?"

Her lips quivered, her hands clutching in her lap. In an unnaturally high voice, she said, "Oh, Abigail, tell me you are not deceiving the man! He despises liars, betrayal of any sort. All those rumors about how enraged he became over his wife's infidelity ..."

"The rumors are false," I said quickly. "All of them—I know that for certain now. And I am not so much lying to him as ... well, omitting a rather important fact?"

"To him, 'twill be one and the same." The other woman's grim prediction echoed my own fears. "You cannot share this fact with me, Abby?"

Feeling heat well behind my eyes, I shook my head quickly. I could not endanger Mrs. Beecher by entangling her in Lilith's web. "You cannot understand, Mrs. Beecher. Suffice it to say, it is too awful a thing to be borne, and yet I must bear it all the same."

"I understand more than you think," she said. "More than you'll ever know."

Hearing the strain in her words, I remembered that she, too, had hinted at secrets in her past. I reached for her, clasped her weathered palm between my hands. "Do ... do you wish to talk about it?"

"It is too late for me, my dear." Her work-hardened fingers tightened on mine, her eyes glittering. "But not for you. Do you love him, Abigail?"

Without hesitation, I nodded.

"Then for what it's worth, take my advice. Tell him the truth. Or suffer a coward's life, never knowing what could have been yours."

*****

By late afternoon, we completed all the errands, piling the carriage high with the fruits of our labor. Having missed lunch, we found ourselves famished. Mrs. Beecher suggested tea at a nearby inn before heading back. We were about to pass through the open doors when a familiar set of faces came out first.

"Abby!"

Smiling in surprise, I returned Mary Jane's exuberant hug and nodded politely at Jack and Mrs. Simon.

"Where have you been?" Mary Jane asked. "Why haven't you come to visit us? Is it true, what everyone's saying?"

My head spun with the girl's questions.

"Mary Jane," her brother said, frowning, "you mustn't pester Abi—, I mean, Miss Jones. And you must address her properly."

"But Jack," I said, astonished, "the three of us have never stood on formality. Mary Jane must call be Abby, as she always has."

"My children know their place in life and the proper decorum that accompanies it. Unlike some I could mention." This came from Mrs. Simon, who did not deign to look at me, but instead inclined her head stiffly at the housekeeper. "Good day to you, Mrs. Beecher."

"And to you, Mrs. Simon," the housekeeper said evenly. "I hope Mr. Simon is well?"

Mrs. Simon gave a brittle smile. "Quite, thank you. He has been attending to his God- given duties, as have I. Indeed, that is why I am in town today. As a member of the planning committee for the Spring Ball, I was making sure the invitations have reached the right people. More than a few from the upper echelons of Society shall be attending. You have not yet replied, have you, Mrs. Beecher?"

I flushed. I had not expected an invitation, but the deliberateness of the slight felt particularly malicious. Looking at Jack, I saw that he had an unhappy expression and for some reason his gaze remained trained on the ground. He would not look at me, no matter how I tried to catch his eye.

"No, I have not," the housekeeper was saying, "nor do I intend to. I enjoy the company of those with their feet firmly planted on the ground, thank you."

Mrs. Simon raised her thin brows. "You must do as you wish, Mrs. Beecher. Come, children, we must be on our way."

I watched in disbelief as the trio walked away. Mary Jane turned to wave, but her mother issued a sharp reprimand. Jack did not look back.

Beside me, Mrs. Beecher was fuming. "The gall of that woman!"

"She seems like a right bi— ... I mean, bit high in the instep," Ginny said. "C'mon, Abby, ne'er mind 'er. Let's get that spot o' tea."

Even inside the cozy tearoom I could not banish the Simons from my thoughts. 'Twas not Mrs. Simon who had me in the doldrums—her behavior was not at all out of character—but Jack. For some reason, his coldness stung me deeply. I had thought (perhaps naively) that our differences had been resolved, that once again he could be counted a friend. His frosty demeanor had clearly indicated otherwise.

"You haven't touched a thing, Abigail," Mrs. Beecher said. "You mustn't let the likes of Stella Simon bother you. Eat a sandwich—you'll feel better."

A lump in my throat, I bit into the delicate cucumber square. It tasted like sawdust. I was washing it down with hot tea when a male voice sounded behind me.

"Abigail?"

Startled, I sputtered. Ignominious splotches blossomed upon the pristine tablecloth. By the time the coughing stopped, I was certain I was a bright shade of red.

"Jack," I croaked. "What are you ...?"

"I wanted to have a few words with you," he said. His eyes flickered to Mrs. Beecher and Ginny. "That is, if you can be spared for a moment or two."

"You don't have to go with him, Abigail." Behind the round lenses, Mrs. Beecher's eyes narrowed at Jack. "What would your mother say, young man?"

"She's not my keeper," Jack said. "Besides, Mary Jane's keeping her distracted at the flower shop."

I stood. "I'll be back soon."

Taking Jack's arm, I went with him to the courtyard at the back of the inn. A few others stood out there, smoking and talking. To escape prying eyes, we went to the lone oak tree in the corner, finding shade and a little privacy beneath the budding branches. Neither of us, it seemed, wanted to speak first.

"You look different, Abby," Jack said finally.

"Do I?" I asked with a tinge of bitterness. "Enough so that you no longer recognize me as a friend?"

A flush deepened the tan on Jack's face. The filtered sunlight picked up glints of gold in his tousled hair. "Back there ... that's what I came to apologize for. I shouldn't have acted that way, Abby, and I'm sorry for it."

"I haven't changed." Incredulously, I realized I was on the verge of tears. I blinked furiously at the dusty ground. "I'm still the same Abigail Jones I ever was."

"I know you are," Jack said quietly. He tipped my chin up, and his eyes reflected the verdant warmth of midsummer. "You'll always be the same girl who stopped me from blowing up the entire farm. The same girl who listened to my dreams and never laughed at them. The girl I—"

Jack broke off, and suddenly my heart was beating very fast.