Fantasy 03 - Double Fantasy (9 page)

He smirked. "You are so right for me."

"What do you mean?"

He started pushing in all the way, then withdrawing. The tempo quickened, his gestures more precise.

"Let me show you something."

She was terrified about what it might be. "No. Don't show me anything. Whatever it is, I don't need to know."

He dabbed at a spot she'd never noticed prior, and it set off such a maelstrom of sensation that she arched up, hissing and spitting at him to desist, but he pinned her down and kept on. His thumb flicked out, again, again, until she shattered into a thousand pieces.

She cried out in wonderment and spiraled to the heavens, while he cradled her throughout the tumult. As she reached the peak and floated down, he was smug and chuckling again.

"What was that?" she asked when she could speak.

"Female sexual pleasure."

She glared at him. "Did I scream?"

He considered for a moment. "Yes, I would say that definitely qualified as a scream."

"Do you suppose anyone heard me?"

"Just the entire household—and maybe a few folks down in the village, too."

"Aah! What will they think?"

"They'll assume either that I'm beating you or that you're loose."

She blanched in horror. "I'll never be able to leave this room!"

"Poor me."

She gazed at the ceiling, mortified, but already secretly wishing they could do it again. Was it addicting? Could she become obsessed?

"Can it happen more than once?"

"Yes. Whenever you're in the mood. But only with your husband."

"We're not married."

"A minor technicality, I assure you."

"So ... we could do it in the marital bed?"

"All the time." He nestled close and whispered, "Wouldn't such bliss be worth any price?"

At the carnal promise in his voice, she shivered.

She had a vision of herself, locked in his bedchamber—unwashed, unfed, unclothed—content to loaf and wait for him to inflict his base amusements. She saw herself chasing after him, begging him to proceed. She'd offer anything, would relinquish anything, would do anything, if he'd give her more of the same.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" she complained. "That's your plan. For some reason, you've been sent here to drive me crazy, and if that doesn't work, you'll slay me with ecstasy, instead."

"What a way to go." He sighed like the arrogant man he was.

"I hate you," she said again, which made him laugh.

Disgusted with him, with herself, she rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. He rolled, too, and spooned himself to her. With her ardor waning, the air was cold, and he pulled a blanket over them.

She yawned. "I'm so tired."

"Why don't you nap for a bit?"

"I just might."

"When you awaken, if you're very, very nice to me, I'll do it to you again." "I'll never survive it."

He snuggled himself to her bottom, and as he took a slow, languid flex, he shuddered as if he was in pain.

'Tonight, after the wedding," he murmured, "I'll show you the rest."

Despite her lethargy, her body rippled with greedy anticipation.

Seven

Jack Merrick stared out the window toward the park that sprawled behind the mansion. Sarah Carstairs had just walked by, headed into the woods with a basket slung over her arm. Without pausing to wonder what he was about, he hurried outside to follow her.

Their encounter on the verandah had been one of the more peculiar episodes of his long and sordid life, and he was fascinated by her.

She was beautiful and educated, serious and proper, her background the total opposite from his own, so he wasn't certain how he'd ended up kissing her with such wild abandon, yet he wasn't sorry.

The taciturn, pragmatic woman was no aging spinster, whiling away at her cousin's country estate. She was hot-blooded and eager. Jack had dabbled with whores who hadn't been as adept as she, and he was extremely curious as to how she'd come by her carnal experience.

If she was a virgin, he'd eat his hat!

Where was she going? Was she off to meet a lover

for a clandestine romp? The prospect disturbed him in ways he didn't care to acknowledge.

What sort of fellow would tickle her fancy? Probably some urbane, snooty aristocrat. He'd have persnickety manners and an annoying, upper-crust hit to his words.

Jack hated the man already.

He hastened after her, keen to keep her in view. If he stumbled on her with a paramour, he wasn't sure what he'd do. He couldn't imagine spying like a pathetic voyeur, but he had to know what she was about.

The path meandered by a dilapidated cottage. The roof sagged; the window glass was missing, the holes covered with old boards. Sarah stopped in the weed-strewn yard and called out to someone. The door opened.

Jack had been expecting a grown man, so when a boy of nine or ten years emerged, he couldn't make sense of the sight. The lad was slim as a rail, half-starved, and dressed in clothes that were little more than rags.

His insolent expression was the same one Jack had observed on children throughout his youth. It was a look of accusation and distrust. He and Jamie had gazed at adults with the same sullen, bitter rage.

Sarah approached the boy, moving cautiously, as if he were a rabbit that might bolt down a hole. Chatting quietly, she set her basket on the ground, and it appeared to be loaded with food.

Jack crept nearer. He couldn't hear them, but he could see them clearly, and he was stunned to note the obvious: Sarah was talking to her son. She had to be. With his thick brown hair and big green eyes, he couldn't be anybody else.

A thousand questions spiraled through Jack's mind. When had this happened? How had it happened? Where was the lad's father? And most important, why was the child living in a hovel and being regarded as a dirty secret? Had Sarah been too ashamed to claim him?

The possibility incensed Jack. Every injustice he'd ever suffered from his own father rose up to torment Jack till he felt as if he were choking on the boy's appalling circumstance. It too closely resembled his own, and he lurched away, too disconcerted to continue watching.

He rushed to the manor, his temper at a slow boil. He'd kissed her once, and for some stupid reason he'd convinced himself that he understood her character. On learning that he didn't know her at all, he was so angry that he couldn't think straight.

Like a deranged lunatic, he proceeded directly to her bedchamber and stormed inside. He pulled up a chair and sat down to wait for her. It was wrong to enter, wrong to accost her over such a private matter, so he couldn't decide on the exact purpose of his mission.

Eventually, she trudged down the hall and slipped into the room. She collapsed against the door, pressed to it as though she might fall if she didn't have its sturdy support. She sighed with dismay and rubbed a weary hand over her eyes.

"Hello, Miss Carstairs."

At the sound of his voice, she glared at him but didn't seem particularly alarmed.

"What are you doing in here, Mr. Merrick?"

"I wanted to speak with you."

"What? You couldn't do it down in the front parlor?"

"No."

"Well, just because your brother abducted my sister and is holding her hostage, don't presume that I'll stand for the same disgraceful treatment." She reached for the doorknob. "Get out, or I'll shout the house down."

"I'll go when I'm damned good and ready."

"Don't curse at me. I've had enough of you Merricks to last a lifetime. Where is my sister?"

"Still locked in my brother's suite."

"What is he doing to her?"

"I wouldn't hazard a guess."

When it came to females, Jamie had no scruples. Any wicked conduct was likely.

"When will he let her out?"

"When the vicar arrives to perform the ceremony. Not a moment before."

"So the wedding is on?"