Devi's Paradise (20 page)

He increased his movements, faster and faster, then barked aloud as he filled Romilly with his libation. He relaxed against her and her legs slid from his waist. She buried her face in his chest, recovering her breath and, with it, her senses.

‘What we’ve just done is dangerous,’ she whispered. ‘Armand might kill you if he found out.’

‘And I should think it well worthwhile. Dear God, Romilly, I think I love you,’ he answered, still panting from his exertions. ‘I know I have no right to say this to you. I’m a commoner and you are highborn, but the heart makes no distinctions when it comes to love.’

‘Don’t speak like that,’ she begged, putting her clothing straight and trying to pat her hair into place, all the time aware of his semen trickling down her inner thighs. ‘It’s nothing to do with class or station. I take little heed of that, but I fear Armand and what he may do to you.’

‘This shall be our secret for a while.’ Recovering his equilibrium, Joshua was making plans. ‘First of all I must carry out the task of seeing your aunt and uncle. Then I’ll return with the ransom and a ship to take you to Port Royal. Once there we can decide on our course of action. Dare I hope that you care for me, just a little?’

‘Of course I do.’ She didn’t exactly lie. She was fond of him, admired him, but was aware that the spark that had existed between her and Nathan and, later, had burst into flame with Armand, was lacking, not entirely perhaps, but a glimmer compared to a furnace.

‘You can’t be falling in love, surely? I don’t believe it. Not you! Not Armand Tertius, scourge of the seas going soft over a doxy!’ Cat was lying beside him in her netting draped four-poster, the sounds of the awakening inn rising from below, augmenting those coming from the port. Morning sunlight streamed in at the dormer windows.

He didn’t answer immediately, arms linked beneath his head, relaxed as men are after being milked of their spunk. ‘In love with Lady Romilly? I don’t think romantic love is quite my style, do you? I can’t see myself writing a poem to my mistress’s bosom or mooning around, waiting for her smallest sign of encouragement. But I’ll admit that she would suit me as a wife, perhaps, given that I was seeking one. She has the right blood in her veins, the right breeding and would give me authentic heirs.’

‘Providing they
were
yours, and not the spawn of some underling she’d fucked,’ Cat commented, tone sharpening whenever Romilly came into the conversation. ‘Ladies like a bit of rough, so I understand; a groom, a gardener, a gypsy… even a pirate, like you,’ she added, mocking him because it hurt not to.

He tugged her hair, making her look at him. ‘And what do you know about ladies?’

‘Damn all. I was born in the gutter, had my child in prison, what chance did I have to better myself? But I don’t regret a moment of it, for it led me to you,’ she vowed. ‘We are good together, you and me. We work well as a team. Can’t we keep it that way without some toffee-nosed bitch who was born on the right side of the blanket coming between us?’

‘She’ll be going soon, off to her rich folk in Jamaica, and she’s betrothed to that mincing popinjay Lord James. Do you really think I’d waste my time on her?’

Cat knew him better than he knew himself. For several years they had been occasional lovers but, womanlike, she nurtured a fondness for him that she feared was a lost cause. But hope springs eternal, and she was always tetchy if any other female appeared on the scene. Though it wounded her when he bedded them, she accepted that this was the way of men, just as long as he didn’t lose his heart and marry one of them. Sabrina posed no threat, for Armand would want his wife to be white. In any case, the Creole was after what she could get and incapable of sincere feelings.

Cat had been delighted when he chose to spend time with her instead of his beautiful prisoner. She told Lafette to stay away for a while, but they had a plan half formulated and it was necessary for her to keep him sweet, without Armand knowing anything about it. Scheming was life’s blood to her and she had found her counterpart in the wily Lafette.

‘What is it you find so attractive about this lady?’ Cat couldn’t help asking, running light fingers through the whorls of hair on his chest.

‘She’s a spitfire, proud as the very devil, refusing to yield herself to me entirely, and she has a perfect, peach-like derrière ripe for spanking. It glows poppy-red after a few strokes and she tries so hard to resist, screaming that she doesn’t like me spanking her but she comes off like a rocket every time I do.’ Armand’s eyes lit up and his penis started to swell before Cat’s eyes and, though she might envy Romilly for having this effect on him, she knew that she would reap the benefit.

He sprawled on his back, his cock standing up straight as a flagpole, and she bent over him, taking it between her luscious breasts. Her skin was slippery and his member slid in and out of that mock vagina in a smooth, silky motion. Cat clamped her legs round his thigh and rubbed her clit against the tanned skin.

But there were other ways she wanted to try before either of them climaxed, so she sat up, leaving his cock fully erect, the thick shaft knotted with veins. The foreskin was rolled back and the gold ring glistened with the dew seeping from the slit in his mushroom-like helm.

Slowly, sensuously, Cat leaned over and breathed on it. It bobbed with need and she held it and directed the head into her mouth. Armand made no sound, but she could hear his heart beating rapidly and his cock said it all – swelling, jerking, and pleading for the ultimate sensation. She smiled to herself and started to suck it, cradling his balls in one hand, gently playing with them as they hardened in their hairy sac.

She worked eagerly, cheeks drawn in as she increased the suction, and her clitoris echoed the sensations she was giving Armand. She wanted to attend to it, but was absorbed in fellatio.

She often acted the dominatrix, as with Phil, and Lafette wasn’t averse to having his backside paddled, but she enjoyed submitting to Armand, her skin stinging with the trauma inflicted on it only last night. This served to excite her all the more, and she rubbed her clit with her free hand whilst slurping at Armand as if his cock was sugar cane. He arched his spine, lifting his penis to her mouth while she fed on it like a babe at the nipple.

Cat did not slow her pace, using her tongue on his stem and running the tip round his glens. His cock grew bigger, firmer, and he suddenly spent himself over her face. The milky juice ran down her chin and throat and spattered her breasts. She laughed and massaged it into her skin.

‘That’s the best beauty lotion you can get,’ she pronounced. ‘I’m sure it’s the elixir of youth. It should be bottled and sold to women who think their looks are fading. There’s a fortune to be made.’

‘Oh, Cat,’ he reached out and ruffled her hair, ‘you’re incorrigible.’

But not the one you really, truly want, she thought sadly, but didn’t voice it, merely went to the nightstand and poured them two snifters of brandy.

‘Where were you last night?’ Armand asked, pacing the floor, hands locked behind his back.

On his return to Bella Vista he had ordered that Romilly be brought to him. It was early and she had been in the midst of her toilette and was not yet dressed. She trembled inside, wondering guiltily who had been talking. Was it that weasel, Mr Stanley? He was always watching her with his shifty eyes, a kitchen tyrant who bullied the servants. Could he have spied on her and Joshua? She was no closer to being an independent woman than when she had lived under her father’s domination.

‘I was here. I had supper, went out onto the terrace for a while and then sought my bed,’ she answered, but was sure that he knew she was lying.

He came closer, looming over her. ‘Alone?’

‘Of course, apart from Wade who helped me prepare for the night.’

‘Are you sure? A lady of your principles would not be bending the truth, would she?’

She turned defence into attack. ‘Why should you care? Were you not engaged about your own pleasures?’

‘That has nothing to do with the case. You belong to me, until such time as I am paid to release you. Was it Captain Willard who fucked you in the garden? I hear that you were seen with him.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. Your spies were mistaken. I’m astonished that you listen to tattling servants.’ It was hard to remain standing there for he was so very large and powerful, and his anger sent waves of excitement flooding her nerves and settling in her loins.

They were in his study, where he entertained cronies and worked on accounts with Henry Moorcross. It was a very masculine place without the smallest concession to softer, more feminine furnishings, and she was alone with him. Though noises came from without, the lively bustle of the household, and the chatter of parakeets and the calls of songbirds drifting in through the open window, she might as well have been on the moon. No help would be forthcoming.

‘I form my own judgements,’ he said coldly, though reaching out and running a hand down her cheek. ‘I believe you capable of any kind of trickery. You play the innocent very well, but are far from it in reality.’ His touch turned to steel, seizing her jaw so that she was forced to meet his eyes. ‘Now, I want the truth, lady. Did you fornicate with Willard last night?’

At that fraught moment Romilly was glad she was the Earl’s daughter. How dare this dog treat her so? ‘Let me go!’ she shouted, wanting to spit in his face. ‘I don’t have to answer your questions.’

‘Your manner says it all. You are guilty as hell.’ He let her go with such force that she stumbled.

‘Guilty of what? You’re not my husband.’

‘And I thank God for it. But while you are here I’ll not have you humping other men. You are mine and mine alone. Lay across the desk.’

‘What?’

‘You heard. Bend over it with your arse bare and raised towards me.’

She hesitated, opened her mouth to protest, but he propelled her to where a large walnut desk stood before one of the windows. He swept papers and ledgers away and forced her down across the shiny, brassbound surface. He pulled off one of the curtain cords and bound her wrists, stretching her arms on the far side and tethering them tightly. Romilly fumed but was helpless to do other than submit. The desk ground into her breasts, but as she struggled to ease her hands the wood rubbed against her nipples and her pubis contacted the metal edge. Armand lifted her negligee and nightgown, hitching them both above her waist. She visualised the lewd sight of herself with a bare bottom and the plump lips of her sex exposed. From where she lay, her face turned to one side, she could glimpse the garden beyond the window. It was glorious under the sunlight, with its brilliant blossoms kept green and fresh by the constant attentions of the slaves who worked there.

Only a few hours ago she and Joshua had transformed it into Eden, and she didn’t regret what she’d done. Revenge was sweet and she had succeeded in breaking through the hard shell with which Armand surrounded himself. She sensed more than heard him behind her, bracing herself for what she knew was to come. He didn’t hurry, making her wait.

She could feel herself drifting off, getting accustomed to the cord on her wrists and the discomfort of the desk. When he struck it was with the shock of a thunderclap. His hand caught her in that tender place where her buttocks met her upper thighs. The slap and her yelp resounded through the room. She jerked in her bonds, instinct making her attempt to get away, but the second slap flattened her to the wood, pain washing over her. He changed position, slapping her left cheek with a stinging technique that sent tears coursing down her cheeks. He rained blows as light as summer showers, followed by brutally severe ones that almost robbed her of her senses.

‘How now, darling?’ he murmured, bending over her, his breath tickling her ear. ‘Do you regret your rash coupling?’

‘I regret nothing,’ she declared stubbornly, though her rear was on fire.

He moved away and she wondered if he was finished with her. Then a bolt of lightning shot through her as he lashed her with a leather-covered paddle. She was bereft of the will to scream; it was as much as she could do to draw breath, and there was a deep singing within her, a litany to Armand’s mastery. She was achieving the exaltation that martyrs feel at the stake, but then reality hit her and she was aware of nothing except agony.

‘This is what you wanted and this is what you get,’ Armand muttered, poking the paddle into her crack, then reversing it so that the handle penetrated. ‘Say you want it. Repeat after me, “master, I’m a wilful trollop and want you to chastise me”.’

‘I won’t; this is ridiculous,’ she managed to say with a show of firmness, while inside she longed to recant, confess, have him punish her as he saw fit.

‘How beautiful you are, stretched out to receive your punishment,’ he murmured, and his hands drifted over her bruised hinds, cool on the burning skin. ‘I could almost lose my heart to you, Lady Romilly,’ and he traced her labial groove, his curved forefinger sliding into the tight cleft, the way eased by the moistness of her inner folds.

Her buttocks clenched and she sighed, pain mingling with pleasure. He stroked her little nodule, and Romilly couldn’t restrain her gasps and wriggles that indicated he had found his mark. Having thoroughly roused but not satisfied her, Armand turned his caresses into sharp slaps, his palm landing on her thighs, her bottom and her fissure. She didn’t know if she was on her head or her heels, one moment in agony, the next rising towards a fulfilment that was never attained.