Читать книгу Mistress By Mistake - Maggie Robinson - Страница 12

The angry tears had left dry salty tracks on her hot, flushed face. Not that she was warm. In fact, her body was covered in gooseflesh as she lay, each limb staked to a carved bedpost by lengths of white silken rope. Trust Sir Michael Xavier Bayard to have implements of torture so handy. At least he had not blindfolded her, and there was no need of a gag anymore. After all her useless shrieking, she could barely croak out her displeasure at what the fiend had done to her. The evil little clock-cupid on the nightstand told her his arrival was imminent, which was a very good thing. If he did not release her to relieve herself very soon, this day would progress from folly to festering Hell.

How she ever thought his punishment might be amusing was a complete mystery. She had been robbed of her clothes and her dignity. He had set her spinster’s cap on fire, causing the lingering malodorous scent in the bedchamber. He had opened the window to the little balcony to air the room and toss out her boots, and the gauzy lace was wafting in the twilight breeze. The air had also caused her nipples to peak into hard pink points. Her hair was a snarled mess from writhing in fury. Her mama would not know which was worse—her nudity or her dishevelment.

Yes, Mr. Peachtree was right. It was a very good thing her poor mama was dead. Mama had ambitions for both her girls. She was spared the knowledge that Deb did not get George to marry her after all and that Charlotte had somehow fallen even further into disgrace than her sister. Charlotte would consider herself lucky if she didn’t wet the bed.

The thud of the downstairs door brought a surge of unbalanced hope. When the demon entered the room a few long minutes later, Charlotte gave him a pathetic smile.

“Please,” she whispered. “Untie me. I need to use the chamber pot.”

The fiend’s dark eyebrow raised. “How am I to know your intentions are honorable? You may decide to bean me with it if I let you loose.”

Oh merciful heavens. Surely he wasn’t going to watch her. She shut her eyes to the frustrated tears that were welling up again.

“Oh, very well,” he relented. She felt her bonds on her wrists loosen and abstained from grabbing his head and squeezing. Punching him in his handsome straight nose. Giving him a scar to match his other cheek. Instead she rubbed the feeling back into her hands and arms as he stood over her, looking at though he wanted to fry her with thunderbolts.

“I’ll need your word that you’ll not kick me or try to run away.”

“I promise,” she croaked.

When her legs were free, she hobbled to the dressing room door. There must be something in there she could use as a weapon—a hanger, a footstool. She’d spent the afternoon contriving ever more violent imaginary attacks upon his person. Although she had always thought herself a pacifist, it was easy for her to see now why people committed murder. But if he had been angry with her before, he was apt to be even more so if she attacked him physically. It would have to be poison. Slow. Painful. Her mama said patience was a virtue, and Charlotte’s chance would come to bring Sir Michael Xavier Bayard to his knees.

She concluded her business and caught sight of herself in the standing mirror. Remarkably enough, there were no permanent signs that she had been held captive by a madman and come perilously close to losing her own mind as well. She simply looked well-tumbled. She sponged her face and body quickly, for who knew when she would be free again? Lifting her chin and straightening her spine, she returned to the scene of his crime, holding her hands before her.

“See? No weapons of any kind.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Charlie. Some might say just looking at you like that is enough to make a man lose all his sense.” He pulled open a drawer and tossed her night rail at her. “See? I’ve relented already. Put it on. I had planned, you know, to keep you tied up and at my mercy for a week.”

“A week!” she squeaked, scrambling into the threadbare lawn. It wouldn’t afford much protection, having been washed so often it was practically sheer. If she could see the shadow of her nipples, then so could Bay. She clapped an arm across her chest.

“Yes. Consider the alternative. Death by hanging, and the ropes would not be silk, my dove. But I find I cannot do it.”

She looked down at her bare feet. It was too much to ask for her boots back. “Th-thank you.”

“Don’t thank me quite yet. I’ll come up with some alternative, but I find it’s difficult to think on an empty stomach. In a few minutes Mrs. Kelly is bringing the dinner you so thoughtfully planned.”

Charlotte realized she was starving. She’d been too nervous to eat much breakfast and had to watch Mr. Peachtree tuck into his lunch with one hand as he held his little gun on her with the other. He’d had difficulty cutting his meat, which only served him right. She heard the rattle of dishes as Mrs. Kelly climbed the stairs.

“Here, Mrs. Kelly, let me help you.” Bay sprinted from the room to take the heavy tray from the housekeeper. Charlotte snatched a brass candlestick from the mantel, concealed it under her voluminous nightgown and sat down at the cozy little table in the corner. Who knew when she could access enough poison to fell a man Bay’s size? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, her mama always said. Bay came back carrying a silver tray heaped with all the delicious things she had requested. Charlotte kept her lips pressed together so her drool would not escape.

Mrs. Kelly stood in the doorway, giving her an accusatory eye. “Sir Michael, I hope you don’t mind I served these courses all at once. A woman my age can’t be too careful on the stairs, you know. The desserts are downstairs chilling. Please ring when you’re ready.”

“I can go down and fetch it,” Charlotte said, her voice scratchy.

“Aye, and stab me with one of my own knives and run off, no doubt.”

“I’d never harm you,” Charlotte said truthfully.

Bay began to place morsels of food on a plate for her. As if she were still in the nursery, he cut everything into bite-size pieces with the one knife that had come on the tray. Charlotte hoped she would be allowed a fork, but she was hungry enough to eat with her fingers and lick them off to get every last smear and crumb.

“I was going to feed you as you lay tied on the bed.” He handed her a silver fork.

“I would have spit the food back at you.” Charlotte shoved an inch of asparagus in her mouth. Crisp, the very taste of green. Divine.

“I was rather afraid of that. I don’t know where you learned your manners.”

“My manners are perfectly unobjectionable!” Charlotte said through a mouthful of salmon and puff pastry. Or they would be if she were not trapped here. Her mama had been a stickler for propriety. She watched as Bay held a rough shell between his fingers and slipped an oyster into his mouth. His eyes half closed, he swirled the meat around his tongue, making a little sucking sound. Perhaps it was he who had the abominable manners. She closed her legs together tight to stop the betraying ache between them. She knew perfectly well what else Bay could do with that tongue. And rather hoped he would do it again.

Mrs. Kelly had outdone herself on this lovers’ supper. Each portion was small yet perfect—six succulent oysters each, one fillet of chicken, a tender salmon pie the size of her fist. Champagne fizzed in the flutes that had been wrapped in their starched napkins. Charlotte fingered the fabric. Should Bay destroy all her caps, she could fashion something out of the table linens.

The food was so delectable there was little opportunity for conversation. Bay reveled in each bite, pausing only to give her looks that were steeped in sin. When their plates were empty, he stacked the dishes on the tray. “I’ll fetch the dessert. You won’t do anything stupid, will you?”

Charlotte brushed against the cold candlestick that was lodged against one thigh. “Of course not,” she said, as scornfully as possible. Let him think he had won her over with a hot meal and a few sultry gazes, not to mention the hours she’d spent lashed to the masts of the bed.

As soon as he left, she stationed herself behind the door, testing the weight of the weapon. Charlotte would need two hands for the job. She didn’t plan to kill him, just whack him a bit to make him insensible so she could dress and escape. Then she’d have to make a detour into the back garden for her footwear. It was inconveniently dark now, but she supposed if she had to, she could run through the streets of London barefoot.

She racked her brain thinking of whom she might turn to in her hour of need. George, perhaps. True, he was very married with several children, but it was indirectly his fault that she was in Jane Street to begin with. If he hadn’t ruined Deborah, she wouldn’t have chosen a career as a courtesan and dragged Charlotte along with her.

She could never go to Robert.

Whistling! Bay was whistling as he came up the stairs. How very considerate of him to give her sufficient warning. She gripped the candlestick over her head. In a second it would come down on his.

“Charlie? How did you know my favorite—”

With a ferocious cry, she struck out. She would have been more accurate if only she had kept her eyes open, but she had ever had a distaste for blood and mayhem. She managed only a glancing blow on his shoulder, enough for the figs to bounce from their bowl and roll to the floor in a creamy puddle instead of Bay’s body. She found herself pressed up against the wall by man and silver tray, the scalloped edges of which dug into her stomach. “Ouch!”

“I can see,” said Bay, his face thunderous, “I was mistaken taking you at your word about refraining from stupidity. Let’s see now. Perpetration of fraud and entrapment, two instances of theft, and now attempted murder. I begin to think you have a low opinion of me, Charlie.”

“I wasn’t going to murder you, just knock you out,” Charlotte said sullenly. “It’s only what you deserve, keeping me a prisoner here and torturing me.”

“Torture?” His smile was wide and terrifying. “You haven’t begun to see torture yet. Did I tell you I was a guest of some French outlaws for a week? A very long week. It was most instructive.” With a vicious little shove, he pushed the tray against her, then brought it to the table. He popped a petit four into his mouth and chewed.

Charlotte stayed rooted to the floor, knowing if she tried to run he’d be on her in a minute. She realized she still clutched the candlestick in both hands. Bay was so confident of her clumsiness he hadn’t even bothered to take it away from her. Lifting her chin, she glided across the floor to put it back on the mantel, lessening the effect a bit when she squelched a fig under her left foot.

“I want to be arrested,” she announced. “Newgate will be a haven of respectability compared to Jane Street. Keeping company with the lowest criminals for a lifetime is preferable to spending one more day with you.”

“You wound me.” He was eating a slice of almond torte now, licking his fingers. “Care for some dessert? Mrs. Kelly really is a treasure.”

“I want nothing from you but my freedom!” she cried. “You are inhuman! I assure you I am completely innocent of conspiring with Deborah. And she won’t give tuppence to get me out of here. She’s got what she wants now. I doubt she even remembers she has a sister.”

“Now, Charlie, you do yourself a disservice. I’ve only known you two days and I could never forget you. Take off that horrible nightgown.”

“P-pardon?”

“Don’t play deaf. Although I wouldn’t mind dumb. No man wants a shrew for a mistress. The nightgown, if you please.”

With great reluctance, Charlotte pulled it over her head and handed it to Bay. He balled it up and threw it out the window into the garden, where it could have a late-night assignation with her boots. At least he hadn’t burned it. The room was only now beginning to smell fresh. She shivered again to be exposed to him so blatantly. She had never been naked with a man before, not even Robert.

“Lie down on the bed, Charlie. I’m afraid I’m going to have to tie you up again.” The man had the effrontery to look regretful.

Charlotte bit her lip. “Please don’t. I’ll be good.”

“I have no doubt of that. You are amongst the best I’ve ever had.” He gave her a smug smile. Beast. Comparing her to other women. Hundreds of them probably, scattered throughout Europe. Everything was about sex to him. Just because he was so freakishly perfect and proficient—well, she would not succumb to his wiles, tonight or any other night. She would lie like a stick or a stone, completely insensate to his touch. She spread herself out on the white sheets like a pagan sacrifice, closing her eyes as he pulled each insidious knot tight.

She would not look at him. She would not speak to him. She would not—

“Oh!” Something cool plopped onto her stomach. If her breasts had not been so ridiculously large she could see what he had done.

“I’m a fool for you, Charlie,” he said, his voice deliciously low. He bent over and began to lick the raspberries and whipped cream from her belly. She tried to lie still—she did, really, but when the tip of his tongue circled her navel, then dipped in, she jumped. Apparently finished with her stomach, he scooped more from the bowl and rubbed a dollop of pink on one nipple, then stood back to admire his handiwork.

“This is outrageous! This is wrong!”

“I quite agree. I’m missing something.” He decorated the other breast as well, heaping a mound of raspberry-streaked cream on her aureole. Charlotte knew her nipples were stiff with cold and decadence. Bay then proceeded to warm her up, suckling the sweet mixture from her bosom as one sticky finger traced a lazy curve down her stomach to her curls. When she realized where he was going to put the raspberry fool next, her mouth opened in protest. Surely he would not do something so scandalous.

But he did. The wicked gleam in his eye matched the gleaming silver spoon as he dripped the tingly mixture between her legs. She gasped from the chill and knowledge of what would soon follow. Futile tugging on her bonds only resulted in his earthy chuckle.

“Better. Much better. Pink on pink. Lie still. If you can.”

He held the spoon, empty now, and traced a pattern on her inner thigh as the raspberry fool slithered downward. The edge of the spoon tickled as Bay wrote his secret message. What was he writing? What was he waiting for? She wouldn’t bother begging him to stop. She couldn’t beg him to begin.

He took a step back, appraising her again from head to toe. She was open to him, splayed as wide as he could tie her without causing discomfort. She flushed, embarrassed that he would see just how anxious she was for him. There was no use in pretending she wasn’t interested—her nipples were as rosy and firm as fresh berries. She was dessert, a banquet of carnal pleasures.

And then he bent to her. Finally. She had no choice but to accept his wicked ministrations, and she had no desire to do anything else. He parted her folds, slipping one long warm finger, then two, in and out of her passage as he laved her center. The cold of the cream, the heat of his mouth on her bud sent spirals of hunger deep within. And he was still dressed, denying her access to what she needed beyond need.

She shut her eyes and let him take her over the edge, not that there was any other place for her to go. She was at the mercy of a master seducer whose patient skill wiped away the reality of the room. There was no point to looking at a painted heaven on the ceiling when Bay was escorting her to his own particular paradise. Charlotte was aware of every lick and stroke, every breath, every ripple. Her skin was on fire, her voice hoarse. And still he did not stop, when one would have to be blind and certainly deaf not to know that she had been flung off the earth too many times to count. Even if her hands had been free, she could not have pushed him away for all the ruby necklaces in the world. The exquisite tug and tingle on her most private place went beyond anything she had ever felt. His lips, his teeth, his fingers worked in wicked concert. The man was a fiend. A talented one who knew precisely how to unlock the prim Charlotte from her prison and set her free. Too free. She would drown and disappear in her freedom, swept away by forces she’d never imagined.

The waves came hard, one after another until she lost her voice completely. How had she lived for thirty years not knowing such a thing was possible and so necessary? Two days with Bay had completely ruined her for her cottage and cats.

Mrs. Kelly’s sister had made raspberry fool often when Bay was a boy, apparently using the very same recipe. He licked the familiar tart and sweet concoction from Charlie’s soft white skin, savoring her shivers and his memories of innocence. He was no longer innocent, of course, which suited the occasion, for he was going to brand Charlie Fallon with his teeth and tongue. She would not think to brain him with brass candlesticks again, or run away, or steal from him. He intended to make her his slave to passion, and from her quaking and quick breaths, he was halfway there.

He shut his insistent erection from his mind, concentrating on her pleasure, lapping the cream from each fruit-stained nipple, drawing her flesh into his mouth, suckling. Her eyes were closed, but her lips were in their telltale position of transcendence. Little rabbit. He smoothed his hand down her body, combing his fingers through her springy black curls. The contrast between her midnight hair and pearl skin was totally erotic to him. She was a creature of extremes, going from governess to goddess. From rabbit to tigress. He spooned out more raspberry fool from the crystal bowl, coating her nether lips and her own berry within.

And then he feasted. Her tang mixed with the taste of the dessert nearly unmanned him. He buried his nose in her fragrant curls, inhaling raspberries and her citrus perfume. His patient sampling of her swollen center was rewarded as she strained against her bonds, crying his name at each orgasmic jolt. This was the true torture, to keep her flying higher and higher until she begged him to stop. And he would not. Could not.

When he was sure she had no more fight left in her, he cut the ropes, shedding his clothes before he disgraced himself like a schoolboy. She curled around him like a cat, every inch of her skin seeking his. His cock drove into her sweet heat and he kissed her, gifting her with her own essence. She shattered and he deepened the kiss, feeling that she was branding him now, making him a slave to her. He was plummeting, spinning, losing his bearings.

But now she caught him. Ensnared him in her honeyed trap. Anchored him inside her, her legs wrapped around him, hips soaring up to complete the job he’d started. Control had shifted, and it was she who drove him in deeper, she who held him so tight. She who robbed his mind and rocked his body like the expert she was.

Sex was supposed to be simple, elemental. But there was something about Charlie Fallon that complicated their coupling. She was everything he loathed—a manipulative woman—yet he couldn’t get enough of her. The taste of her, with or without raspberry fool. The feel of her. The orange-y scent of her, which made him hungry to kiss her everywhere all over again.

She was a thief. A liar. A whore. And right now, those words meant nothing at all.