The Golden Leopard (32 page)

“A madman, in your judgment? Or criminal?”

“Perhaps a little of both, at least by repute. Putting together everything I’ve heard, I would say he is a man of small talent who is obsessed with finding a shortcut to social approbation. His latest project was to restore a twelfth-century castle, but the construction ceased when he ran short of funds. The castle isn’t far, and the map shows the route from there on to Clifton. But the roads are bad.”

She covered her mouth for a yawn. “Anyway, if you’ll be kind enough to nod at me and appear enchanted by the prospect of a detour, Lord Philpot will be pleased. Then we can toddle off to wherever we were headed in the first place.”

Shivaji didn’t smile—in her experience, he never smiled—but he did nod, and as she ascended the carriage steps, she noted that he was examining the map.

Moments later he approached Duran, who was enjoying the last of his cigar, and spoke in an expressionless voice. “Have you an opinion of this Mr. Holcombe?”

“The old bird in the turret? I wasn’t paying much attention.” Duran lowered his voice. “Philpot is a friendly chap, but he chattered like a magpie all through lunch. The food was good and the wine exceptional. That’s about all I remember.”

“You do not think we should call there?”

“I’m thinking about a good inn with a large bed, clean sheets, and sirloin for breakfast. So long as that’s where we wind up, stop wherever you like along the way. Not for long,” Duran added quickly. “Last night we drove straight through, and you must be tired as well. A direct line to Clifton has my vote.”

It was nearly an hour before Jessica could be sure Duran had been outvoted. She had spent it in the circle of his arm, aware of the tension in his body and the surreptitious glances out the window to see if they continued north on the good road or turned west onto a bad one. Now and again she caught a glimpse of Shivaji, straight-backed and at ease in the saddle, showing no sign that he’d gone without sleep for nearly forty-eight hours. Unless he could sleep on horseback with his eyes open, which would not have greatly surprised her.

When the coach took the left fork at a crossroads and began to climb into the Mendips, she felt Duran release a long breath and sink back against the squabs.

“Clever girl,” he said, stroking her cheek with an idle finger. “If ever I underestimated you, be certain I shall never do so again.”

“Of course you will.” But she was glowing at the praise. “What did you tell him when I was speaking with Lord Philpot?”

“Hmmm?” The finger paused while he considered. “Oh, that. I advised him you’d tippled heavily at luncheon.”

She sat up and looked at him. “Why?”

“Because I thought you might elect to cover your story by pretending to be foxed.”

“Well, you were wrong. I was pretending to be sleepy. Too exhausted to think or speak clearly.”

“I see.” He pulled her onto his lap. “How glad I am you were only pretending. Philpot was right. This road is poor and certain to get worse. Remember the last time we traveled a bad road, on the way to Sir Grafton’s country house?”

Heat rose from her toes all the way to the ends of her hair. “It was . . . nice,” she conceded. “But difficult.”

“I know,” he said. “You always want to rush, or you want me to rush. Leaving it to the motion of the carriage, to the rocking and the bumps, requires discipline. You haven’t much discipline, princess. Not when I am inside you. Would you like to try again? See how long you can endure before demanding the first climax? And the second? And the third?”

Already her breasts ached to feel his mouth. The burning between her legs entreated to be quenched. She swallowed. Gazed at him helplessly.

“No answer? Then we’ll do what
I
want. Let me think what that might be.” He studied her body. She was sitting sideways on his lap, his right arm wrapped loosely around her back, her legs stretched on the padded leather bench. “Your legs are closed,” he said in mild rebuke. With his left hand, he gently lifted her knee.

She felt the touch through her skirts and petticoats and chemise and drawers.

Then he arranged her foot on the bench so that her knee was bent up, and all he had to do was raise her skirts and push aside all the rest and . . . But he didn’t. His gaze had moved to her bodice, the russet bombazine covering her to the collarbone and a fringe of lace concealing all but an inch of flesh below her neck.

His forefinger moved to that inch, stroking it before lifting her chin for a light, tantalizing kiss.

“Are you playing sultan again?” she murmured when he went back to looking without touching. “Arrogant man.”

“That too. But primarily, I’m teaching you the joys of anticipation. They can be better than—”

“Not
better.
Nothing is better.”

“No? We’ll see. I shall leave you dressed, because I don’t know how far this castle is. And we should get on with things, because I want to be inside you for a long time. Can you feel my cock?”

She could, pulsing against her thigh, strong and importunate. Then his left hand moved to her ankle, slid under her clothing, and glided upward. A low moan escaped her throat. She began to wriggle as his fingers came closer, closer still, and he stilled her with his other hand.

“Soon,” he said, dipping his tongue into her ear.

At the moist invasion, she nearly cried out. The silk of her drawers felt rough against her skin as his finger meandered over it and approached the slit, already damp, that would admit him where most she wanted him to be.

He stopped.

“If I touch you there, you’ll come,” he said. “Won’t you?”

“Even if you don’t touch me,” she said breathlessly.

“Are you swollen, Jessie?”

“Y-yes.”

The finger brushed the soft hair near to the proof of it, brushed again, and then his large hand cupped her mound.

She pushed against it. He removed the hand.

“Always so eager,” he chided. “You can have everything you want, you know. I’ll give it to you. But at the time of my choosing, when it accords me the most satisfaction.”

“The coach is jolting about,” she said. “What are you waiting for?”

“An excellent question. How good are you with buttons?”

She was very good with them, in spite of trembling hands and a precarious balance. When he sprang free, large and hard and pulsing, she clamped her lower lip between her teeth and wrenched her gaze to his face.

“Now, please. Please, now.”

“As you desire, princess.” He brought her forward, raised her skirts and placed her knees astride his thighs so that she was open to him. Moving his hands to her waist, he held her above him for so long that she began to struggle.

“Shhh,” he said. “Slowly. Come down on me slowly.”

The knob of his cock slid against the hot, wet entrance to her body. Held there. The hands at her waist tightened and began to twist her left and right, left and right, so that she felt him there, up and down, forward and back, but never at the nub of her pleasure. Not so far as that.

“Kiss me,” he murmured.

Bending forward, only so far as he would allow, she felt his shaft between her legs, clutched in between her thighs, rubbed herself along it as his tongue slipped into her mouth and began to move in rhythm with her.

Not for long. Holding her still, he threw his head back against the cushions. “You make it impossible, wife. I am, as always, your slave.”

Raising her carefully, positioning her, he pressed upward even as he drew her down onto him, slowly down so that every inch of his penetration became a symphony of pleasure. More and more he filled her, thick and so deep. So very deep. When she thought he could give her no more, he did, and did again, until he groaned and held her tightly against him.

“Are you comfortable?” he said. “Legs? Arms? No cramps?”

“I am. Yes. Oh my.”

“Then don’t move. Not deliberately. Feel the vibration of the coach. The straining of the horses. Above all, feel me inside you, as I feel you encompass me. You are so tight, princess. So wet. So warm. Rest your head against my shoulder. Lick my throat, if you will. Yes. That’s good. Ahhh. No, don’t squeeze. This time we won’t make it happen. We’ll let it happen. And after, if that was not enough for you, we’ll let it happen again. Then, I promise, I’ll turn you on your back and give you the drumming you are asking for.”

She could not bear it, the waiting, the unexpected motions, the urge to move against him, the need to finish. To experience the hot pleasure that built and built and built for endless minutes. Hours, it seemed. Aeons.

His face was taut with restraint. He wanted it too, that rush, as the coach jiggled and she slipped up and down him, his flesh so deep inside her they might have been one creature with one single goal.

“Soon now,” he said in a ragged voice. “We need to do this right so that I can pull out in time. Go first, Jessie.” He pulled her so close against him that all her being was centered where she rubbed against him, harder and harder, until his hand pressed over her mouth to cut off her scream and his other hand lifted her off his throbbing shaft. She sagged against him, blood tingling, her skin so sensitive that when he licked a drop of perspiration from her throat, she came again.

“That was good,” he said after a long time. “Very good. Shall we do it again?”

“
Can
you?” she asked, sitting back to examine his face. Sitting back farther to look down at the slick, limp penis nestled against his heavy scrotum. At her glance, it seemed to stir.

“I expect I can,” he said.

And soon she was riding atop him again, rocking to the motion of the coach, the power of his manhood throbbing inside her.

He always had more endurance the second time, but she never did. The climax swept over her all too soon, while he remained hard as a standing stone inside her. As ever, he was patient when she rushed past him.

After her breathing had steadied and the pulsing at her genitals had ceased, she looked into his appraising eyes and smiled. “I would like that drumming now, if you please.”

With a purely male laugh of satisfaction, he laid her out on the lush padded bench, raised her knees and spread them apart, and looked down at where he intended to put himself. “Prepare yourself, Jessica. Stop me if you need me to stop, and I will. But unless you do, I want everything you have to give, and I mean to take it.”

He did, plunging inside her and thrusting with a primal force that slid her up and up until her head bumped the panel of the coach. Then he took hold of her, tugged her down until her knees were bent nearly to her breasts, and began again. And again. His hand slid under her buttocks and lifted her to him. She lost count of how many times he brought her to the brink of climax, let her fall back, and drove her there again.

The orgasm burst upon her with the force of an explosion. She was barely aware of his leaving her until the last twinge pushed at her nub and left. Then she opened her eyes and saw him sprawled along the bench across from her, his eyes half open, a smile on his face.

“Come here, princess,” he said, opening his arms. “Sleep on top of me until we get wherever we’re going.”

Her last thought, as she slid into dreams of remembered pleasure, was that she wished he hadn’t been so careful. She wished, inexplicably, profoundly, that he had given her his child.