The Highwayman's Lady (16 page)

I remove my hat and overcoat, then my boots and place those under the bed out of sight. I settle myself in a chair in t
he corner and prepare to wait, offering up a prayer to anyone listening that neither Masterson nor my brother thinks to check which room I have retired to.

I remain silent as Beatrice imparts the main details of my sorry tale to her husband. He listens, punctuating the telling with mouthfuls of duck, his expression inscrutable. At the mention of a lover who is to remain nameless, his eyebrows lift a fraction and he casts a disapproving glance my way but refrains from offering comment. His duck is quite gone by the time Beatrice completes her narrative and she passes him the platter in order that he might slice some more.

“No, thank you, my sweet. I believe I have had my fill.”

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable at the wealth of meaning to be inferred from that comment. Sir Phillip leans back in his chair and fixes his sharp gaze on me. I cannot look away.

“I believe I might contrive to locate this acquaintance of yours, Imogen. I am not without influence, even as far afield as Yorkshire, nor the funds with which to bribe those who might hold the necessary information.”

I shake my head. “Please, Sir Phillip, do not do that.”

“Did you know this man for long? Is he an associate from when you lived in York?”

“No, he is not from York. I… I believe he is Scottish, in fact.”

“Oh? He told you that?”

“No, my lord. It was in the manner of his speech.”

“I see. And… he is a man you met frequently?”

“I knew him but briefly. We spent one night together—at an inn. It was immediately before I came to Scotland.”

“What inn? Where was this establishment?”

“It was called The Blue Man, but I do not know the location.” I wring my hands in my lap, conscious I have already revealed more than I wish to. “Please, my lord, do not question me further. Ours was a most unusual liaison, always destined to be short-lived. I cannot involve him in this.”

“Perhaps you thought your liaison to be temporary, but does not the situation in which you now find yourself change all of that? Perhaps this man would wish to know—he may surprise you and take the honourable course. I have to agree with my wife, a husband for you would be a most convenient device at this time.”

“He was—is—honourable but he will not expect to hear of me again, whatever might have transpired in the months since I last saw him.”

“How can you be so certain? Despite your protestations I cannot but conclude that this man is a scoundrel and an opportunist and disreputable at best. Nevertheless, he also sounds to be a complex individual and not in the least predictable.”

I sigh. Sir Phillip is closer to the mark than he might imagine, on every count. “That is true, but do those very qualities not render him unsuitable as a husband and father?”

He sighs. “I am not convinced they do, but I will respect your wishes on the matter.” His next words are directed to his wife. “A widow, you say? Well, I must bow to your judgement, my dear. Will our current nursery suffice, do you imagine? What with Francis and now…” He waves his hand in my general direction.

“I believe so, though we will be requiring an additional wet nurse.”

“At least this is an event we can plan for, unlike the previous three unexpected arrivals. Our home will soon be packed to the gills, Beatrice. Shall I build a new wing?”

“I daresay we shall manage.” Beatrice tinkles her trusty little bell and Masterson ambles in. “Would you bring us some port, please? I believe we might all benefit from a small libation.”

* * *

It is with a far lighter step that I ascend the main staircase an hour later. I came down to dinner near faint with trepidation, expecting to be ousted from my new home, sent packing in disgrace. Instead, I have encountered compassion, security, and unwavering support. I will sleep better tonight than I have for a while, knowing my future and that of my unborn babe is settled.

I ponder Beatrice’s suggested solution as I make my way up the stairs. A tragic young widow—it is a part I can play, I imagine. Ultimately, it will not matter if my performance is convincing or not. If the earl and countess say it is so, there is no one around here to gainsay them.

I enter my chamber and use the small taper that I lit on my way upstairs to illuminate more candles around the room. I am tired, keen to gain my bed this night, so I waste no time in loosening the fastenings and slipping off my fine damask gown. It was once Beatrice’s but the deep bronze shade did not suit her blond colouring, so it has been altered to fit me and is one of my favourites. I lay it over a small stool at the foot of the bed and resolve to ask one of the upstairs maids to see to pressing and airing it tomorrow.

Next I remove my pretty silk stockings—another gift from Beatrice—my whalebone stays and the panniers secured to either side of my hips. It is not a fashion I particularly admire, but the gown requires such undergarments in order to fit properly, so I must endure. The style has been useful, too, in disguising my own changing contours. Clad now in just my loose cotton chemise that flows about my body, I sit down before the looking glass on my dresser and remove the pins from my hair. I shake the waist-length waves loose, then reach for my hairbrush.

It is not there. I always leave it in the same place as I prefer my possessions to come readily to hand. One of the servants must have been in and moved it. I scan the top of the dresser but to no avail, then lean back to peer at the floor on either side of me.

“Lose something?”

I start to rise as the masculine voice echoes around my chamber, a scream erupting from my throat. The sound is trapped within my mouth by a large hand sealing my lips. The intruder has moved with lightning speed, one moment concealed in the darkness at the corner of my chamber, the next instant closing the space between us to pin me in my seat. One hand covers the lower part of my face, the other arm is around my chest, immobilising me.

Terror grips as I claw at the hand across my mouth, convinced this madman intends to smother me. Is it some lackey of Sidney’s? Am I not safe even here, after all these months?

I can see only the midsection of my attacker’s torso reflected in my glass and the horror in my own my own eyes as I fight for breath.

“Be still, Imogen, I mean you no harm.” The voice is low, even, and familiar. I search my memory. Where have I heard that tone before?

“We need to talk, you and I. I shall remove my hand now and when I do, you will not cry out. Will you, little Imogen?”

Gray? No, it cannot be. Not here.

“Imogen, I require an answer. Nod if you agree.”

There is no mistaking now that rich, seductive timbre that has the potency to melt my very bones. I manage a small nod.

The palm covering my mouth relaxes, then slides down to grasp my throat. I should be even more afraid, yet I am not. I turn my head, try to look up at him over my shoulder.

“Eyes forward, Imogen. Watch.”

I obey, of course. My gaze is fixed on our reflection as Gray loosens the ribbons holding together the two halves that make up the front of my chemise. He opens them wide to expose my breasts, then takes long moments to simply look at me in the mirror.

“You are as beautiful as I remember, my Imogen. But are you a woman of her word, I wonder?”

His words baffle me. “I am. Of course I am. Why would you think otherwise?”

He slides his right hand down across my body to cup my left breast. His touch is gentle, his palm warm against my skin. He kneads the soft flesh with his fingers, a sensuous caress, the caress of a lover. My eyelids droop as I lean back against him.

“Open your eyes, girl. I told you to watch.” His tone is sharp, almost brutal. My moment of languorous surrender evaporates as I stiffen, my eyes wide as I stare into the mirror. He said he meant me no harm, but every fibre of my being anticipates the worst.

He grazes my nipple with the edge of his index finger and the traitorous bud swells and stiffens. Gray rubs harder, deliberately teasing the nub into pebbled hardness, then takes it between his finger and thumb and presses. It hurts, but not overmuch, the sensation more a nudge at the very edges of pleasure, really. He increases the pressure, twisting my nipple as he squeezes and pulls on it. Now the pain is real, unmistakable. I whimper, but manage to bear it by gnawing on my lower lip. It never occurs to me to ask him to stop.

“Thomas was attacked two weeks ago, his inn searched, his stables burnt to the ground. They came there looking for me.”

I gasp, shocked and scared. The pressure on my distended nipple intensifies but still I manage to gasp out my words. “Is Thomas all right?”

“Aye. He was battered a little, but he will live.”

“I… I am glad. Aagh!” I am unable to contain my squeal of pain as he ramps up the torture. “Gray, you are hurting me. Please…”

“Are you glad? I wonder.”

I am shaking now, my poor nipple throbbing in agony as he twists again. I lift my hands, instinct demanding that I wrestle his fingers away from my tormented flesh.

“Put your hands down. Shove them under your bottom and keep them there.”

I obey. I am able to do no other when he commands me in that tone that brooks no dissent. I struggle to gather my thoughts, trying to concentrate on what he has said, what appears to be the issue. “What are you saying? There is no need to do this. I liked Thomas. He was kind to me. Why should I wish him harm?”

“Thomas was not the target.”

“Or you? Certainly not you. Please, Gray, you must believe me.” I am writhing against him, unable to remain still as he twists and tugs my poor nipple without mercy.

“Must I? It was the king’s militia. Someone told them they might find me at The Blue Man. Who could that have been, do you think? Who knew?”

“I told no one. No one, I swear it. I came directly here after you left me at the coach in Harrogate and have not returned to Yorkshire.”

“But maybe you told someone here. Your fine new family, perhaps.”

“I…” I snap my mouth shut, try to recall exactly what I did say to Beatrice and Sir Phillip. I mentioned The Blue Man, but not Thomas. And we only spoke of it a few minutes ago. Nothing I told the earl and countess could not have occasioned an attack on Thomas or his tavern which took place a fortnight past.

“Ah, I see by your expression my words have some truth to them. Perhaps you would like to elaborate, my sweet, treacherous Imogen.”

I shake my head. “No, you do not understand. I did tell them, but only—”

Before I can complete my explanation, I am hauled from my seat and shoved toward the bed. I stumble forward to land face down across it. My nipple is throbbing from the mistreatment it has been subjected to and for a moment I lie still, too stunned at this turn of events to formulate further protest. That situation soon shifts as he grabs the lower portion of my shift and pulls it up above my waist. My bottom is exposed and I know that can only mean one thing.

“Please, there is no need to spank me. It is not as you think.”

I try to roll away from him, but he holds me in place with one hand planted in the small of my back. With the other he undoes the buckle of his leather sword belt.

“Betrayal does not attract a spanking, Imogen. That is reserved for minor misdemeanours, or even for when you are very, very good. You will be getting a whipping.”

“No!” I start to fight in earnest, but my efforts are worse than futile. Gray pauses in his preparations to pick up one of the silk stockings I took off earlier and had left on the bed. He uses that to bind my wrists together in the small of my back, ignoring my sobs and desperate pleading.

“Gray, please, stop. Do not do this. I would never break my promise. I did not… not really. Please, you have to understand.”

“Enough, unless you wish me to gag you too. I trust you will tolerate your punishment in relative silence. We would not want the entire household trooping in here, would we?”

“No, but you have it wrong. Please, could you just—Aagh!” My entreaty is brought to a shuddering halt as the leather whistles through the air before connecting with my unprotected left buttock. Pain erupts, a fiery streak rushing across my skin. I gasp, dragging in precious air as I fight to weather the shock.

The belt flies through the air again, this time to land across my right cheek with a sickening crack. I kick up with my heels, but the palm pressing against my lower spine ensures I am going nowhere. The third stroke catches me full across both buttocks, a river of white heat searing my tender flesh.

I am hurting, have never in my life experienced so much pain, but despite the agony gripping my body, two things are happening to me that transcend all of that.

The first, astonishing though it is, my quim clenches and drips with moisture. His assault is arousing me even as it reduces my body to a quivering, beaten shell. I hate this. I fear the whipping that I am sure I do not deserve. I dread the pain he will inflict on me, yet still I respond on a purely physical level.

The second affect and quite overwhelming, is the surge of protective love I feel for my unborn and vulnerable child. Whatever is to come, I will survive this. I know I will because all those months ago he told me he meant me no harm. But my baby may not. So tiny, so defenceless.

He lifts the belt again, the next stroke just a moment away. I must stop him. I find my voice.

“I am with child.”

Silence. I close my eyes, lie still, pray he has heard me and that he cares. He need only care a fraction as much as I do and it will be sufficient.

“Pregnant?” His tone is softer. I dare to hope.

I turn my face toward him, my eyes screwed tight shut though tears stream across my cheeks. I nod.

“It is mine.” A statement, not a question.

Again, I nod.

“How long have you known?”

“Two months, perhaps. I suspected…”

“You are sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Very well. A spanking then, not a whipping.”