The Highwayman's Lady Read online

  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.

  Chapter Thirteen

  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.

  “Shhhh. Easy, love. Cry if you want to.” I murmur the words into her hair, refusing to relinquish my hold on her despite her struggles. Her resistance subsides in seconds, in any case, and I gather her closer to my chest. “I have you, you are safe.”

  That was perhaps not the best choice of words. She stiffens within my embrace. “H-how am I safe? I hated what happened downstairs, and you said you would punish me again, if I cross you?”

  “Then do not cross me, little one. I do not believe I am being unreasonable, I have demanded but one thing of you, only that you keep yourself and our bairn safe.”

  “It is not just that. I do not know what you want, what you expect. I do not even understand why you are here.”

  “I am here to make sure you are cared for. I will leave when you are calmer.”

  “I do not mean here in my room. Your room. I mean here, at Kirkleven.”

  “I came to Scotland because I wished to talk with you. I explained that last night.”

  “You have spoken to me now and more besides. There is nothing more to say. You should leave.”

  I cannot help but indulge in a wry grin, though she does not see it as her nose is buried in my chest. “I suspect my brother might agree with you, but you would be the first to remind me that such a precipitous departure would upset Beatrice. I believe I might remain here a little longer.”

  Her sobs have subsided now and she tilts her head back to peer up at me through eyes red-rimmed and swollen. “I want you to leave me alone. If you insist on remaining at Kirkleven, I wish to have nothing to do with you. I shall avoid you, Gray, as best I am able, and I would appreciate it if you would do likewise.”

  I return her gaze and detect much of interest in her glittering eyes. I see fear there and the remnants of anger. Remorse and regret too. And doubt. Her harsh words do not reflect her true emotions, but she is seeking to defend herself, to erect a shield that she imagines will protect her from me. I can allow that. For now.

  “You will not avoid me entirely, Imogen, since you will be calling upon me for assistance on a regular basis. I believe we have established that. But otherwise, very well, I shall respect your wishes. But first, I intend to see you resting in comfort. Turn around and I shall loosen your gown.”

  “I can manage perfectly well. Perhaps one of the maids—”

  I treat her to one of my finely honed stern glares. “Give me your back, Imogen, and we shall deal with the matter without further fuss.”

  She glares back at me, but eventually gets to her knees and turns around. I am relieved, I would not have wished further confrontation today but I do intend to leave her in no doubt regarding the dynamic between us. I will have her obedience. She sniffles as I make short work of the laces securing her gown and ease it from her shoulders.

  “Stand up and let it fall to the floor, then climb back into bed.”

  She makes no move to obey, but I can be patient if the situation demands such. She lifts her gaze to meet mine, her expression more compliant now. “What about dinner? I am supposed to be dressing, though I am not in the least bit hungry.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You wish to join the family for the meal?”

  She shakes her head. “No, not really. But I will need to explain my absence to Beatrice.”

  “I will deal with that. I shall tell the countess that you felt indisposed, no doubt some lingering effects from this morning and have decided to spend the evening in your chamber.” I ease her from the bed and onto her feet before she thinks to dispute my actions further and quickly dispose of the gown and several petticoats. She does not attempt to hamper my efforts. “Would you like a tray to be sent up?”

  She tilts her chin at me, a hint of defiance creeping into her expression. “I am not ill. Just—”

  “I know and for what it may be worth, I am not aware of anyone who suffered permanent loss of appetite from sexual frustration. Your interest in food will be restored soon enough, but in the meantime I must insist you eat something. I will order you a tray. Come now, into bed.” I stand and draw back the covers for her and, obedient, she climbs in.

  “I do not wish to repeat what happened downstairs,” she whispers. “It was awful.”

  I pull the covers up around her, then cup her face in my hand. She does not attempt to escape my grip. Wise girl. “You may apologise to me, in that case and I will have your promise that you will take better care of yourself and our baby in the future. Because be under no illusion, Imogen, I will punish you again, if I have to, in order to keep both of you safe. You now appreciate that I can be inventive if I must, in view of your condition, but I will have my way in this.”

  She holds my gaze for several moments, then closes her eyes. I know I have emerged the victor in this battle of wills.

  “I am sorry. I did not mean any harm. I do care about our baby and would not intentionally endanger him. Or her.”

  So far so good. I wait for the rest.

  Imogen appears to be thinking, her pretty mouth working as she formulates her words, first in her head, then I hope, out loud. At last my patience is rewarded.

  “I promise.”

  “Please be more specific, Imogen. What do you promise?”

  “To be careful, to do nothing that might put me or our baby in peril.”

  “Thank you. I accept your word. If I have cause to take issue with your conduct in this regard ever again, you know the retribution will be severe. There will be a reckoning between us, Imogen.”

  “Yes, sir. I know that.”

  I release her chin and step back from the bed. “Then we are done here. Rest now and I shall see you tomorrow. Or perhaps not, since we are to avoid one another. If you do decide, though, that you wish to complete what we started in the library, you have only to ask me. I would be delighted to hear your apology again, and to show there are no hard feelings, I will endeav
our to fuck you to your total satisfaction. I leave that choice with you.”

  She makes no reply to that, and I find I am not surprised. I offer her a curt bow and make my exit. I have another awkward conversation to deal with and I can put it off no longer.

  * * *

  I find my brother and sister-in-law together, in the sitting room. Beatrice summons Masterson as soon as I enter and asks the man to bring another jug of ale and a goblet for me. Intent on my comfort, she ushers me into the seat she vacated and perches on the arm of her husband’s chair.

  “So, Francis, how are you? Really. Tell us all your news.” She bestows her bright, expectant smile upon me, an expression I have never managed to quite come to terms with. It is as though she defies me to disappoint her.

  I shift in my chair, using Masterson’s bustling presence as a ploy to delay the inevitable. Even I can only play for time for so long though and eventually I lift my gaze and commence the fabrication which will have to pass for my account of the last four years.

  “I have been abroad, for the main part. On the continent initially, then the New World.”

  “You have been in the Americas? How exciting.” Beatrice beams at me, leaning forward to encourage me to elaborate.

  “It is a place of much interest and fascination, certainly.” Thus far I have not departed entirely from the truth. I did go to France with the prince and remained there for several months before travelling to Spain. From Cadiz I boarded a ship bound for the Spanish colony of Mexico, a land I found both colourful and vibrant if somewhat uncivilised. Bitten by a wanderlust and relentless curiosity I travelled northeast into the territories of Texas and Louisiana, eventually arriving at New Orleans where I spent several months before seeking passage back to England. I might have remained longer had it not been for an unfortunate incident concerning the wife of a cotton plantation owner, following which I considered it prudent to make myself scarce. I loved the New World and it is my intention to return to the colonies at some stage, though perhaps not anywhere in the vicinity of New Orleans.