Fantasy 03 - Double Fantasy (16 page)

Her entire life had been one ordeal after the next, due to her being constantly under the thumb of various males who were never concerned as to her fate. She yearned to be mistress of her own destiny, and she couldn't abide the thought of Jack remaining at Gladstone. She couldn't be bumping into him on the stairs or in the hall by her room, couldn't he awake at night hoping he was about to sneak to her bedchamber again.

"Do you mind?" he queried. "I'd like to get on with my bath."

"I'm not leaving till we hash this out."

"I'm finished discussing it."

"Well, I'm not! Tim is my son, and I won't have you meddling."

"Now you claim him?" Jack laughed cruelly. "Why would you? You tossed him aside as if he was a mutt in a litter of puppies. He's nothing to you, and whatever I choose for him, your opinion is irrelevant."

"What a despicable thing to say to me."

"Name one thing you've ever done for him besides bring him a few scraps of dried bread."

"It wasn't like that!" she insisted.

"Wasn't it?"

"I love him! I've always loved him. I tried to do what was best for him."

"Every time you open your mouth, I like you less. Please go away before I end up despising you completely."

He grabbed the bar of soap and flung it into the washing tub, but she didn't budge.

"I've lived here at Percy's discretion," she tersely explained. "He and Ophelia wouldn't let me keep Tim. What could I have done?"

"First of all, Percy is an ass. And second of all, pardon me if I seem overly touchy on the subject, but

I have no sympathy for a parent who doesn't want his own child. If Tim had been mine, I'd have killed Percy before I'd have denied him." "Bully for you!"

At that moment, she hated Jack Merrick as she'd never hated anyone, and if she'd been holding a pistol, she'd have shot him dead.

What did he know about anything?

She'd been a desperate sixteen-year-old girl, with no mother to guide her. The instant pregnancy was mentioned, her paramour had fled to London. Aunt Edith had offered no advice but had merely railed about sin and damnation. Ophelia had been the only one willing to grapple with the consequences, the only one willing to take charge, and Sarah had been more than happy to follow Ophelia's stern instructions.

It was later, when the enormity of Sarah's loss began to sink in, that she'd grieved over her decision, but by then she couldn't change the charade they'd set in motion. Tim had been ensconced with his new family, the situation accepted by all.

There'd been no way to renege on her devil's bargain, so she'd observed Tim from afar. She was heartsick and guilt ridden over her stupidity, yet Jack Merrick stood there smirking and condemning her as if he were some sort of wrathful god.

"You pompous blowhard!" she seethed. "You have no right to judge me!"

"Sticks and stones, Sarah. Sticks and stones. Now I'd appreciate it if I could have some privacy."

His flip attitude enraged her, and she resolved to tarry simply because he'd ordered her out. She was sick of men telling her what to do, sick of them controlling her every move so that she couldn't so much as swallow a crumb of food without one of them informing her that it was allowed.

"I resided at Gladstone long before you ever arrived," she said. "I'll be damned if I'll scurry off to my room on your say-so."

"Suit yourself."

He shrugged and, as if he hadn't a care in the world, he unbuttoned his trousers. His gaze was locked on hers, and with each flick of his wrist he bared more of his abdomen, until the placard was flopping loose.

He seemed to be daring her to remain, or taunting her with his nudity. Apparently, he was expecting to chase her out in a prudish snit, but he was in for a surprise. She was no squeamish miss who would quail at viewing a man's torso. No, she was Sarah Carstairs, the selfish, faithless woman who possessed the intellect of a ninny and the soul of a harlot.

Nothing would thrill her more than to watch him at his bath. Why, if he but asked, she'd waltz over and wash him. It would be the ultimate wicked pleasure.

With no concern for modesty, he tugged his pants down and off. Then he climbed into the tub, giving her plenty of opportunity to assess his masculine form.

He was a fine male specimen, all muscle and brawn, his chest broad, his waist and hips narrow. His body was that of a warrior, honed by rough living and battle. There were scars everywhere, evidence of prior stab wounds, of prior gunshot wounds, and he'd been flogged, the skin on his back crisscrossed with old injuries.

The sight made her queasy. Mentally, she'd comprehended that his time away from England had been difficult, but until that instant, the truth hadn't really hit home.

He glared over his shoulder. "Why don't you make yourself useful and scrub my back?" "I don't want to." "Liar."

He held out the washing cloth, dangling it like a talisman, but she refused to reach for it.

"You were flogged," she said, stating the obvious.

"I certainly was."

"Did it happen often?"

"Often enough."

"Why were you whipped?"

"On which occasion?"

'That's not funny."

"Who's being funny? I was a slave on a ship, and I wasn't very biddable. I'm contrary that way. Beatings were a common occurrence."

"How old were you when they started?"

"I don't know. Seven? Eight?"

"You were flogged when you were seven years old?"

"Were you thinking our absence from here was all High Tea and rose gardens? I used to curse my father because he hadn't had the courage to simply murder us outright." He hurled the washcloth at her, and it landed at her feet like an accusation. "Go away. You annoy me."

He spun and sank down in the water, sighing as it swirled around his tired torso. He closed his eyes and tipped his head against the rim, shutting her out as if he'd forgotten she was present, and his disregard made her unaccountably reckless.

He'd discovered all her secrets, and he loathed her for them, which was galling and humbling. She craved his esteem and his undivided attention. Frequently, she felt as if she were invisible, and she wanted him to treat her as if she mattered.

She snatched the cloth from the floor and went over to him, perching her hip on the edge of the tub. His reproachful eyes opened, and he stared at her as if he didn't know who she was.

Boldly, she grabbed the soap, and without a word being exchanged, she stroked it across his chest and shoulders. He didn't comment or request that she stop. He merely studied her, his expression mulish, as if he was curious to see how brave she'd actually be, how far she'd actually go, before sanity and morality returned with a vengeance.

She scrubbed him all over, and he let her try whatever she wished. The sensation of being in charge was arousing and exciting, and the longer she continued, the more risqu6 the encounter became.

Finally, she urged him to his knees, the water slapping at his thighs. His cock jutted out, his balls hanging heavy between his legs. Without hesitating, she caressed him as she'd been yearning to do, her fist clutching him and pumping him to a sturdy erection.

He dipped down to rinse; then, looking angry and irked, he clasped the front of her dress and pushed the fabric away, baring a breast. He leaned over and latched onto her nipple, biting it, sucking on it so hard that she cried out in delighted distress.

He rose and stepped to the rug, and she was kneeling before him, at eye level with his phallus. He brushed it against her lips, and she licked the crown over and over, then eagerly took him inside. Silent and stoic, he peered down at her, as he methodically thrust.

Clearly, he assumed she'd call a halt, but she couldn't imagine that she ever would. He was so hot and virile, and she'd been missing this decadence, where her base temperament could run free, where she didn't have to constantly rein it in.

His lust was at a fevered pitch, and vaguely she wondered if he'd spill himself, if she would take him all the way to the end. Just how depraved did she intend to be?

At the last moment, he yanked away and picked her off the floor, laying her on the baker's table. He wedged himself between her thighs, and with no wooing or delay, he shoved into her.

It had been an eternity since she'd had sex, so she was tight as a virgin. She moaned with agony, but he didn't care. Nor did she. He rammed into her again and again, and she reveled in the naughty pleasure, dragging him nearer, goading him on, and it never occurred to her to tell him to slow down or be cautious.

As she'd learned to her detriment, when she was fornicating it wasn't in her nature to exercise prudence, and for some reason, her attraction to him made her even more irresponsible.

He nursed at her breasts, shifting from one to the other. The torment was so delicious that the instant he reached down and touched her, she exploded into an orgasm. Through the tumult, he kept flexing until he, too, arrived at his own conclusion.

Luckily, he had the presence of mind to withdraw and spew his seed on her stomach. After, he retreated and walked to the washtub to swab his privates clean. He was very meticulous, as if he wanted to wipe away every trace of her; then he retrieved his clothes and tugged them on.

She was sprawled on the table, her skirt rucked up, her legs spread wide, as if she was hoping he'd saunter over and mount her again. She forced herself to sit up, and she straightened her garments and mutely observed as he packed his things and tidied up. Low on her belly, the wetness of his seed was soaking into her dress.

He scanned the room to be sure he hadn't forgotten anything; then he turned to go, his face a mask she couldn't read. He appeared cool and unaffected, while she felt like a whore, like a housemaid who'd copulated with him for the promise of a meager penny.

He came over and kissed her, and it was the only kiss he'd bestowed during the entire bizarre episode.

'Tim will be fine," he vowed. "I'll see to him."

"Swear it to me."

"Why should I have to swear for you to trust me? Isn't my word good enough?"

She trusted no man, and she wouldn't pretend he was doing her any favors. If he was acting kindly toward Tim, he had an ulterior motive. Men always did.

"Don't you dare hurt him," she warned. "Don't send him away from me."

Jack must have been expecting gratitude, for her remark angered him. He looked as if he might bite her head off, or plead his case, but instead, he scoffed with derision.

"Next time you put your mouth on me," he crudely said, "I won't hold back."

"I didn't ask you to hold back."

"No, you didn't, and you need to realize that—with me—it's all or nothing. Next time, I won't pull out."

He stomped off, and she dawdled—all alone—in the quiet.

Thirteen

“What's your name?" Jamie asked. "Pegeen," the saucy housemaid replied, leaning her delectable bottom on the balustrade of the verandah. "But milord, you can call me Peg, if you'd like."

Jamie grinned. The girl was plump and buxom and pretty as a spring day in May. In blatant invitation, she tossed her hair over her shoulder, advising him—in no uncertain terms—that she was interested and available.

The front of her dress was damp, so the cloth clung to her large breasts. He couldn't decide if she'd intentionally moistened the fabric or if she'd spilled something by accident, but however it had happened, she'd definitely gotten his attention.

He was humored by her offer and wouldn't be averse to tumbling her occasionally. Women were always throwing themselves at him, and he usually caught them. Why deny himself? Especially now that he was an earl.

It was his prerogative to romp with the servants, and when such a lusty female was prancing about right under his nose, how could he be expected to resist?

For the briefest second, he thought of Anne, and instantly he felt guilty as hell, which annoyed him to infinity and back. He'd been spending entirely too much time with her, and he couldn't quash his incessant need to revel in her company.

He'd tried to stay away from her, but his attempts to create distance had failed miserably. He couldn't stop himself from crawling into her bed, and his fixation was putting them both in an untenable position.

She was the sort of person who would read too much meaning into their relationship. She'd think he was doting on her, and he was—in a way. With her being so sweet and wonderful, she was so different from the whores in port towns who'd made up the bulk of his amorous adventures.

He didn't want to hurt her, but if he continued trifling with her, she'd presume that a commitment was forming, when it never would.

He simply wasn't the type of man who grew attached. He didn't know how to care or bond, or perhaps the ability had been drummed out of him during his hard years as an abandoned little boy.

Whatever the reason, he didn't have it in him to cherish her as she deserved. So while he'd support and honor her, he would never fall in love with her, and he had to exert some control over his obsessive conduct.

Pegeen would be a great place to start, and if Jamie copulated with her, who would know? She would add spice to the boring intervals when duty forced him to Gladstone, and if she was particularly adept with that intriguing mouth of hers, she'd keep his mind off Anne and his foolish, unrelenting desire for her.

"Are you Irish, Pegeen?"

"On my mother's side, milord."

"I just love Irish women. They're so"—his gaze drifted to her bosom—"wholesome." "It's the fresh air." "Is it?"

"It's so arousing."

She waved toward the woods, indicating that she was eager to tryst. Any other time, he might have agreed, but it was his wedding day, and he just couldn't go. He wasn't such an ass that he'd roll around in the forest with another woman only moments before he lied and promised himself to Anne.

"I'm getting married," he told her. "In a few minutes."

"I heard. Congratulations."

"So I'm busy right now."

"But later..." She peered up the side of the house, to the windows of the earl's suite, where soon he and Anne would shut themselves in to commence their wedding night. She stepped closer, her pointy nipples poking his shirt. "A real man often finds that a virgin isn't what he requires, at all."