The Highwayman's Lady (21 page)

“That too, Imogen.” His tone is cold, clipped. He means me to obey him.

My chemise soon joins the rest of my clothing in a pile on the tiles underfoot. I glance from Gray to the door and back again, convinced that at any moment Masterson is certain to enter to enquire if I require a tray of tea or perhaps one of Mrs. MacBride’s fine scones.

Gray stands and gestures toward the chair. “Come here, please, Imogen. And bring your book with you.”

I pick up the slender volume and move toward him. I dread him touching me, especially after what he just said about being so angry, but at the same time my quim is moistening disgracefully. I have no notion what to expect from him now.

“Place the book, open, on the seat of the chair. You may bend over to read it. You will spread your legs please, wide. I wish to enjoy the sight of your pretty little cunt whilst I savour the immortal words of the bard.”

“But…” I stare at the velvet-covered cushion on the chair, and its angle to the door is not lost on me. I will be not just naked but spread open, on shameless display should anyone enter. I meet his amused but unrelenting gaze. “You bastard,” I murmur.

His grin widens. “My dear departed mother might take issue with that claim, but I would not quibble with the general sentiment. Even so, get on with it.”

My knees are shaking as I stand before the chair. Even as the words of protest clamour to escape my throat, I know I will do this. I must, because he has commanded it. A beating might have been easier to bear than the abject humiliation he intends to subject me to, not to mention my morbid horror at the prospect of being discovered thus.

Beatrice and Sir Phillip already have a somewhat ambiguous view of my moral fibre; this would place me beyond redemption. My only hope is to complete the task he has set quickly enough that I might be allowed to get dressed and escape back to my chamber unseen.

With a groan I assume the position he has described, and I start to read. The scene opens with Benvolio, a servant, bemoaning the likely prospect of a fight if the households of the Capulets and Montagues should inadvertently meet. I can see some similarities to my own situation, should Lady Beatrice return early from Stirling and find it necessary to retrieve one of her recipe books from the household cabinet.

“
I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire. The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, And if we meet we shall not ‘scape a brawl, For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring
.” I pause to glance over my shoulder at Gray.

He is leaning against the desk, arms folded, his eyes raking my body. I cannot resist a peep at the front of his breeches and am gratified to see the tell-tale bulge there. That is something, at least… I think. I return to my page and continue to read.

I reach the point in the text where Romeo is waxing lyrical about being in love. The fool.

“
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vexed a sea nourish’d with loving tears: What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
”

As I utter the final words of the line, Gray moves to stand behind me. “This is stirring stuff, is it not, Imogen. I trust you will agree I made a fine choice.”

I agree to no such thing and might have shared my views with him, but the caress of Gray’s palm on my bare bottom forestalls any further comment. I clench, bracing for a slap despite his promise not to spank me.

“Ah, so tense, my sweet. This cannot be good for the baby. Perhaps I can help you.” He slides his hand between my legs to stroke the spread lips of my quim, then without preamble spears two fingers deep inside me.

“Oh! Oh, Gray…” I cannot contain my moan of pleasure as I squeeze my inner muscles around his fingers.

“Please, continue. You were just at the point where Romeo is discovering the woes of being in love, I believe…” He punctuates his words with several deep thrusts, angled to connect perfectly with that most sensitive spot inside me that always feels so good.

“I cannot, not if…”

“Ah, my apologies. I shall stop then.” He withdraws his fingers, wipes the copious excess moisture across my buttocks, then steps away to resume his position beside the desk.

Confused, I stumble on with my reading. “
Well, in that hit you miss. She’ll not be hit With Cupid’s arrow. She hath Dian’s wit, And, in strong proof of chastity well armed, From love’s weak childish bow she lives unharmed. She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide th’ encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold
.”

Gray moves in again. “Ah, poor Romeo. He is infatuated with a woman who will have none of him. I know exactly how he feels.” As he speaks he inserts his fingers into my quim again, as though it is the most natural thing in the world that a literary conversation should be accompanied by a spot of vigorous finger-fucking.

I groan as my body spasms. I am wet—dripping, I daresay—and his fingers slide in and out so easily. He manages to finds that perfect spot each time, and even reaches around me with his other hand to stroke my clitoris. My climax begins to coil and form, rearing up to seize control of my senses.

Then, as suddenly as it started, my arousal is receding. Gray does not step away this time but his fingers go still within me as my response dies. I squirm and wriggle, seeking to re-establish that delicious friction, but to no avail.

“Be still, Imogen. Continue reading, please. I want to know what Romeo does next.”

“I cannot. Not when you do—that.”

“This?” He delivers a couple more driving thrusts and I gasp my assent.

“Yes, that. Please, Gray, I need…”

He leans over me to murmur in my ear. “I know exactly what you want, what you need. But you have to earn pleasure, you know that. This is not about pleasure, Imogen. This is your chastisement for endangering our baby.”

“I do not understand. What are you doing? Oh, aaagh.” I slump forward as another wave of delight shimmers through me. His fingers are again circling and stroking my clit as he withdraws his digits to trace the outline of my nether lips.

“You like this, Imogen?”

“You know that I do.”

“Then remember it. This shall be your reward, if you please me. But you have not pleased me today, have you?”

“I am sorry, I never intended—”

“Have you?” His voice is insistent and uncompromising.

“No, sir, I have not. I know that, but I shall not do anything of the sort again.”

“I am gratified to hear it. My work here is almost done then. Please, continue with the scene.”

I have no idea how I do this as the print is blurring before my eyes but somehow I manage to stumble on with my reading. “
O me! What fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love
.” I pause as Gray executes a particularly skilful caress that draws moisture from my drenched quim right back to my rear hole. He teases that sensitive little pucker mercilessly for perhaps a minute as I writhe under his hand.

“Imogen, you seem to have stopped again.” As has he.

“
Why then, O brawling love, O loving hate, O anything of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
”

Gray resumes his sensuous stroking as I continue to recite the lines of the play, tormenting me with the promise of fulfilment only to deny me again and again. As my arousal builds he stokes it, coaxing my response toward a shuddering climax. Then as I near the point of completion, he suddenly withdraws. I know what he is about, and seek to confound him by grinding my teeth and ensuring I make none of those little sounds that might alert him to my plight.

Alas, I might have control of my tongue but my body has other ideas. I can neither control nor prevent the clenching and spasming that betray me every time. Skillful, intuitive, aware of every sensuous shiver that ripples through me, Gray pushes me to the edge of heaven and holds me there, dangling over that glorious precipice as I grope my way through the remainder of the scene.

“Please,” I beg him after I deliver the final lines, “please let me take my release. I cannot bear this.”

“You can bear it and you will. Shall we move on to scene two now?”

I slump forward to bury my face in the cushion, the book shoved to one side. I am sobbing bitter tears of frustration, contrition, and need. He may insist all he likes, but I will not be able to even see the page let alone decipher the words.

“I hate bloody Shakespeare,” I mutter.

“Philistine,” he chuckles. “So, you want your release then?”

“Yes, yes,” I wail.

“You shall have it. Later. If I deem you to have earned it and if you ask me very nicely. For now, since you are clearly incapable of embarking upon the next scene, I want you to put your clothes back on and go up to your chamber.”

I turn my head to stare at him, his image shimmering through a veil of tears. “I… I cannot. What if there are servants outside? They might know. What if they heard?”

“Ah, yes, you do tend to be somewhat unrestrained in your moans of pleasure. We shall go the back way then.”

As I ponder what he might mean by that he helps me to my feet and assists me back into my clothing. He is remarkably deft about the matter and I wonder how many women he has laced back into their gowns during his career as a highwayman. Are the rumours I have heard of these romantic but lawless heroes actually true? The result is somewhat dishevelled but I am passable I suppose.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Gray marches across the room, but not in the direction of the door to the hallway. Instead, he pauses beside a bookcase on the opposite wall, one that houses a collection of family journals I have yet to examine. Bewildered, I follow him.

He turns to me with a grin. “Here, hold this. You will need it to get back in.” He drops a key into my hand. The key to the library.

I stare at it. “But, the door is already open.”

“No, sweetheart, it is not. I took the precaution of locking it as I came in. You will no doubt wish to regain entry at some stage, so you will need that. We are leaving by another route.”

So I was safe all along. There was never any chance we would be disturbed. Again, he has deceived and manipulated me. I am still processing that nugget as he grasps an ornately carved pillar at one end of the shelving. With a raucous creak, the entire shelf swings out from the wall to reveal a passageway beyond.

I gasp, amazed. “How did you know to do that? Where does it go?”

“You forget, Imogen, I grew up here. As a boy, I often had occasion to value a more direct route back to my chamber, when I found it prudent to avoid one or other of my parents and even Phillip from time to time. Come, allow me to assist you.”

He sweeps me into his arms and steps through the opening. A lever on the far side closes the entrance behind us and we are in darkness.

“Hold tight, just a few seconds and we will be there.” He steps forward, the walls of the narrow passageway brushing my shoulders and feet as we move through the darkness. Gray stops after a few paces. “We are at the foot of a flight of stairs. There are twenty-three and I would ask you to count them but I suspect we may both regret that, if the powers of concentration you displayed whilst reading Shakespeare earlier are anything to go by.”

His tone is gentle now, faintly mocking, but I find I do not resent it as much as perhaps I might. “You distracted me when I was reading, sir. I believe I might do better now. Why do we need to count them?”

“It is pitch dark, and I would wish to know when we reach the top. If I miss my footing in the dark I fear we might both break our necks.”

“I see. Despite the reservations you have expressed I believe I might still contrive to count to twenty-three.”

“Really? In that case we shall count together. One.” He ascends the first step.

I join in, counting with him as he carries me up the next twenty-two. At the top of the staircase he strides forward a few more yards, then pauses to let me stand again. He gropes in the darkness, finds what he is seeking, then with another loud scraping sound the wall before us slides aside to reveal the head of my bed barring our way.

“How do we…?” I begin.

“I would be happy to lift you over, but as a boy I always preferred to slither beneath.” He crouches to gesture to the space under the bed, then glances up at me. “Perhaps not on this occasion, though.” He stands, takes me in his arms again, and gently eases me over the wooden bedrail, then vaults over after me.

I gaze at the diminutive form huddled on the bed and wonder if perhaps I was heartless earlier. She lacks experience, despite her advancing pregnancy. Her sensuality is just awakening. I hope my new approach to her chastisement has not impeded her on that journey.

“Allow me to help you to undress.”

“For you to torment me further? Go to hell.” She brightened briefly as we made our way up here, no doubt distracted by the novelty of a secret passage, but her mood has darkened in the few moments since I placed her on the bed.

“Imogen, I know you are frustrated right now and feeling somewhat humiliated perhaps. It will pass.”

“I hate you. Get out. Please, just leave me alone.”

“I will do so, but only when I know you are safe and comforted.”

She turns to face me, her features wet from crying, her eyes reddened. “You think you can taunt me like that, toy with me, then offer me comfort? You
are
deranged, sir. Quite deluded.”

I listen to her tirade, not particularly surprised at her reaction now that the ordeal is over. In the library she was contrite enough. Sexual frustration will achieve that result as often as not in my experience, though the form of discipline I employed this afternoon would not be my preferred recourse since I find my little Imogen’s release every bit as intoxicating as my own. Needs must wait though, and we are where we are.

I suspect she is confused, wrestling with her emotions as well as the discomfort imparted by her rampant yet unassuaged lust. Her reactions will be unpredictable but this is not the time to pander to her sensibilities. I lie down alongside her on the bed and take her in my arms.