Seducing the Beast (16 page)

“Oh for pity’s sake!” Equal parts frustrated and bemused, she shook her head. “What could possibly happen out here?”

“There are many dangers, young woman!”

“Were you afraid I might be attacked by a flock of seagulls?”

One hand on his thigh, the other holding the reins, he shrugged, his frown fading. “There are traitors and assassins all over this land. The earl himself has been threatened with murder many times.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a loyal subject to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, and others are not so.” Now he leaned down, offering his hand to help her up onto the horse. “I trust no one.”

“Not even me?” she asked.

His eyes darkened. “Especially not you.”

Rather than take his hand, she quickened her pace down the slope, leaving him behind.

* * * *

He knew she was angry; he just didn’t understand why. So he let her storm off ahead to get it out of her system. It could be that time of the month, of course. He’d heard of such mysterious womanly things.

Entering the cottage several minutes after her, he pursed his lips in a deliberately merry whistle. She was arranging her wild flowers in the clay jug, ignoring him. He strode to the fire to warm the seat of his breeches. Women were emotional creatures, he knew, and could bite like a mad dog when their bristles were up. One moment she was sweet as honey, in the next she wouldn’t even look at him. This was why he never kept a mistress.

Now she sat before the fire, reading her book, weary sighs lifting her extravagant bosom, noticeable even under his belted jerkin.

Restless, he came to her chair, leaning over the back of it. “What keeps you so enthralled?”

Sighing again, she turned the page.

He leaned down a few inches, until her wayward curls caught on his stubble. “If you continue to sulk in this silent manner, I must punish you, devious wench.”

Snapping out a short laugh, she turned another page. “Your master makes you as mistrustful as himself.”

Suddenly he grabbed the book out of her hands and she demanded it back.

“’Tis not yours,” he replied. “It belongs to the earl. Like everything else here.”

“Except me.”

His stomach clenched. It was true. She belonged somewhere, to someone else. It was not an idea that pleased. Half an hour ago, when he couldn’t find her, he’d panicked. Spotting her on the hillside, gathering flowers, the relief had been almost too much to absorb.

Theirs was not only a physical connection, this wench touched him inside, found a part of him that was buried deep, protected by years of scar tissue. Whatever happened, he knew this thing between them was too strong to be denied, or broken, or lost. It was forever.

“You’re my chattel now,” he said with a calmness he didn’t feel. “Whether we like it or not.”

She leapt out of the chair and ran for the door. He was after her like bowshot, hauling her back. They struggled together and she stamped on his foot.

“You blow too hot and cold, madam,” he growled.

She wriggled and writhed. “You’re a hateful, twisted man, just like your master.”

This, of course, only spurred him on and he suckled hot, wet kisses at the nape of her neck. Already conversant with her weak spots, he knew where to tickle her.

Gasping with laughter, she squirmed free, but since he easily blocked the door, she ran for the stairs. He followed, dragging her down onto the steps, tickling without a care for her screams. In the midst of this new experience--a childish wrestling game--a very adult male part of him grew eager.

“Will you leave none of my clothes intact?” she protested.

“This is mine, not yours,” he pointed out, removing the belt from her waist.

“And now you want it back, I suppose.”

This was better. He realized he would rather have her fighting him than her sullen silence of disapproval. “You have no need of clothes in my company,
chattel
,” he said, possessive and greedy.

“Chattel indeed! Would you keep me naked in a cage, sir?”

Transferring his weight to one knee, he reached down, lifting her shift, sliding it up over her thighs. “Yes. Then you could conceal nothing from me.” And, in the next moment, he rolled forward, driving up into her until she was filled again, his desire sheathed deep within. Her lashes trembled and her lips parted in surprise at this sudden taking.

Immediate, primal need assuaged, he looked down at her, searching her eyes for some sign, a knowing flicker to prove she knew his true identity.

She ran a finger over his lips. “If you don’t trust me, what do you suspect me of?”

“All manner of wickedness.”

She frowned. “I’m going home. Get off me!”

“You’re my chattel. You cannot leave. I forbid it.”

“I’m leaving you,” she said again. “You’re a brute. Let me go.”

Rigid inside her, he thought he could feel her pulse beating in rhythm with his heart. “Shall I?”

Lips pursed, she gave no answer.

Moving his hips, he pressed up into her again and saw her pupils dilate. She lifted her chin, arching under him. “Should I stop?” he asked again, beginning slowly to withdraw.

“Oh.” She sighed, a throaty sound of frustration. “I suppose you may finish.”

He stared down at this willful wench, half-naked and sulky, her black tresses spilled across the stairs and over his arm where he held it beneath her. His chattel was exceptionally fortunate he wanted her so badly he could overlook her vexing behavior.

Thrusting again, he locked them together, his free arm lifting under her knee to ensure deeper penetration. Ah yes, that possession she would feel. And that. And
that
. She cried out, head thrown back, exposing her neck to his breath-moistened lips, and he covered it hungrily, needing the taste of her. She pulled on his shirt, almost ripping it in her haste and he laughed. She was hot, her sheath so incredibly tight, her breasts pressing up at him as he took her. He was already close to spilling and the tiny signal in his brain began to sound, but the pleasure of being buried deep inside this challenging, dangerous wench far outweighed the practical necessity of withdrawal. This was rapture, reckless abandonment in any sense of the word.

Again, the warning sounded shrill in his brain, years of Swafford duty too deeply instilled. He was shaking, a roar building within. Eyes closed, lips firm to stifle the cry of despair, he began to withdraw. Until he felt her thighs wrap around him, clamping tight, forcing him to stay.

He opened his eyes. “No,” he growled, at war with his own body.

“I want all of you.” Her voice fell around him like warm, spiced wine. He was drenched in it. “Please,” she gasped. “All of it. Fill me.”

There was no way he could stop now, not with those words begging. What else could he do, but oblige the lady?

Kneeling on the step, he brought her astride his lap, letting her ride, letting her feel every impassioned shudder of his need for her. Hands pressing down on her hips, he thrust upward and she cried out again, long hair tumbling down her back, the ends of it stroking his thighs, tiny, silken whips, driving him on.

She offered her breasts to his mouth and he took them greedily, just as he took her, his lovely chattel. On that afternoon he devoured her, his passion relentless as the tide pounding at those cliffs. There was nothing she refused him, no borders. She must have known the risk. Apparently she didn’t care about the consequences.

When it was over, he was the one who lamented his loss of control. “What have you done to me?” he groaned.

“So that was my fault too? I daresay if anyone might find a way to blame me for it, the cause of the Black Death could be laid at my door.”

She was still astride his lap, her arms around his shoulders.

“It can’t happen again,” he muttered into her unbound curls.

“But it
was
wonderful.” She moved, her body undulating against his, pert nipples teasing his chest, her tongue licking his sweat-dampened brow.

“You must be mad, woman. Why would you want to risk pregnancy?”

“There are potions I can take to prevent it,” she said thoughtfully. “I should make one tomorrow, if I can find the necessary herbs.”

He wasn’t sure how he felt about a woman controlling conception. Surely it was wrong. No good could come of it. It was against the axiom he’d lived with all his life, that man knew better. In all cases.

On the other hand he didn’t want a bastard babe, did he? He didn’t want any complications in his life, no more burdens than he bore already.

That evening they were quiet, and on the surface, peaceful, keeping to their own thoughts. She watched him as he bent over his writing desk, composing a letter he wouldn’t let her read. Once this was over, would he ever think of her again? Years from now, would he remember? Would he regret their time together was so brief? Or would he forget her completely?

Would he come to find her?

He looked up and their eyes met. Flustered, she sought any subject so he would never guess the folly of her daydreams. “You said the earl’s life has been in danger many times?”

He nodded, and returned his gaze to his letter.

“What would anyone gain from his death?”

“There are folk who would gladly be rid of Queen Elizabeth’s most trusted friends to leave her vulnerable and better their own cause.”

“Their own cause?”

He scowled. “These are treacherous times. Do you know nothing of politics?”

Politics
? Ugh. When anyone mentioned the subject she tended to let her mind wander to far pleasanter things, fried figs and jam tarts, for instance. This evening she made an effort to pay attention, for him.

“The queen’s cousin, Mary of Scotland, has her own supporters who would put her on the throne of England. Some say she has more right to it than Elizabeth, some want her on the throne to return England to the Catholic faith, some want her on the throne simply to improve their own status.”

“The earl is very close to her majesty?”

“Oh yes. He’s known her since childhood.”

She knew many considered it wrong for an unwed woman to sit upon the throne of England, but Queen Elizabeth remained unmarried, keeping several foreign princes dangling in hope without conceding defeat to any. “My father says she should be married. He says no woman should rule alone.”

Griff shrugged. “If the queen married and bore children it would secure the Tudor line, of course, that’s why many folk wish she would marry. It would solidify her claim. Then her cousin would be far less of a threat.”

“No woman should marry unless for love. It should never be a duty.”

“
Love
?” He shook his head. “This is politics, limpet, serious business, not foolish fancies and giddy emotions in which only an addle-brained female might believe. Her majesty was born to a life of duty and service. Like…my master.”

“Then I’m glad to be a plain, uncomplicated girl and not poor Queen Bess.”

“We may all be glad at that.”

“Sakes, you sound like my father.”

He laughed and picked up his quill again. “What you must put that poor fellow through. He has my every sympathy.”

* * * *

The nosy wench wandered over to his desk, trying to peer over his shoulder again and read his letter. He held it away from her prying eyes, explaining it was business of the earl’s to which he must tend. Business was nothing a woman should understand, he warned her. Too many thoughts cluttering their minds was never a good thing.

He blotted his ink and prepared a wax seal.

“Is this the earl’s insignia?” she asked, snatching up the ring he took from inside the desk.

He tried retrieving it, but she dodged away, reading the tiny words upon it.

“This is his motto?
Aut Vincere, Aut Mori.
Victory or Death.” She rolled her eyes. “I suppose there’s no arguing with that.”

“
You
know Latin?”

Her eyes flared, a brilliant blue shower of sparks raining down on him. “
I
know many things.”

Griff leaned back in his chair and pondered this enigma of a woman, who thought she might get away with her aversive sauciness. “An educated wench is more dangerous than the common variety, so my master says.”

“Yes, I daresay the idea terrifies him. How can women be kept in their place if they know as much about the world as he does?”

“Women do not need education. They have men to take care of them.”

“Men to own them you mean?”

“Precisely. I’m glad you agree.” He stood quickly and wrestled the ring from her fingers. “Any business of the estate must be marked with his seal, anything that goes through his agent’s hands.”

“I wonder you don’t stamp me with your precious master’s crest. Nothing has been through his agent’s hands so thoroughly as I. Should I not be stamped?” And she turned, bending over to present herself for his stamp.

Again, she made him laugh when he should be angry, reprimanding her behavior. “Mind yourself, limpet, before you knock this ink pot over, like you did the last.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t meet with his approval, so I can’t be stamped.”

“Indeed, you’re the utter antithesis of anything he might approve.”

Having made his smug comment, he suddenly reconsidered it. She had her hands on her waist, still wearing his leather jerkin belted over her shift. He’d grown accustomed to the sight, he realized, and dangerously accustomed to her presence in his life. He turned the ring over in his fingers.

Suddenly she said, “I wonder what the earl will say when he finds they’re married.”

He went still. “Married? Gabriel and that…that woman?” The fury billowed up like a red mist, obscuring his sight. “Are they married already? How do you know this?”

“I don’t know. Not for sure.”

He ground his teeth, pushing back his chair with an almighty squeal across the flagstones. “I didn’t think he would dare defy--”

“Oh, for the love of Saint Pete, are you so blindly loyal to the old miser you can’t let two people be at peace?”

“Miser?” he roared, spitting the word. “Miser? Who said the earl was a miser?”