Bound in Moonlight (20 page)

He had already sodomized her. That he'd made her enjoy it didn't negate the fact that he'd done it against her express wishes. What further indignities did he have in store for her?

He peeled off his gloves, unwrapped his cravat, bit the end, and tore it lengthwise, producing a long, narrow strip. Walking around the tree, he pulled both of her arms behind her so that they were hugging the massive trunk and lashed her wrist cuffs to each other with the band of linen. He must have pulled it tight; she could barely move her upper body. Ripping the remnants of his cravat in two, he bound her legs to the branches on which they rested, tying the strips over her stockings between her knees and her garters.

The viscount removed her hat and set it on the boulder, then withdrew from inside his coat the small rubber ball from the black box; so that was what he'd retrieved from it before they left the room.

He said, “Open your mouth, Miss Keating.”

She stared at him.

Gripping her jaw, he pried her lips open and shoved the ball in. It filled her mouth, forcing her tongue back so that speech would have been impossible even if she'd had the temerity to attempt it.

He removed her cravat then, and tore it into two strips, one of which he tied around the lower part of her face to hold the ball in place. The other, he tied over her eyes.

She felt his hands on her spencer jacket, undoing the buttons. He opened it to expose her breasts, then pushed up her skirts and petticoats as far as they would go and parted the slit in her drawers. Caroline's lack of vision seemed to intensify the sensation of his fingers brushing her most sensitive flesh. The little hairs there tickled; the arousal that had consumed her earlier came rushing back.

Caroline flexed her hips in a wordless plea.

He said, “Sorry, but I'm headed back to the room to take a nice long bath, wash off the dust of our little ride. But perhaps one of the other gentlemen will oblige you.” There came a rasp of metal on metal that Caroline recognized, with a surge of horror, as a padlock being opened.

She shook her head wildly as he locked the Black Heart onto her collar. His only response was to slide two fingers inside her and scoop out the little steel balls.“ Wouldn't want you enjoying it too much,” he said, and then she heard him walking away through the grass.

She stopped moving and listened, trying to figure out where he was, what he was doing. There came a creak of leather as he settled himself into the saddle, then a soft click-click of his tongue and the slow, retreating hoofbeats of the horse.

Caroline thrashed against her bindings, trying vainly to cry out.
He won't leave me like this for long,
she thought desperately.
He's just trying to teach me a lesson.

It was a dramatic one. He'd shown her not only that he could wield absolute power over her, but that he didn't care one bit whether other men were intimate with her. She felt like Reenie Fowls, lying sprawled in that doorway for any randy goat to use as he wished—except that, in Reenie's case, she'd been blessedly unaware of her debasement.

Tears welled in Caroline's eyes, but her blindfold absorbed them before they could run down her cheeks. She gulped back the urge to cry, but she couldn't seem to stop shivering.

She heard a soft thump, and froze.
Please be Rexton. Please . . .

A cat mewed from somewhere just off to her right. That gray cat she occasionally saw roaming about must have jumped onto a branch.

She heard a low feline rumble as he drew near. He settled down very close to her head; she could almost, but not quite, feel his heat and the tickle of his whiskers. There came a soft rasping sound, and she knew, because she'd grown up with cats, that he was rubbing his head against the rough bark of the tree. He sat there for some time, purring and keeping her company. His presence soothed her.
At least someone cares about me,
she thought giddily.

After some time, she heard a soft shudder as he stretched head to toe. He mewed again, as if to say good-bye, and then padded away.

Caroline felt calmer after the cat left, stronger. There was nothing to be afraid of, not really. Rexton would come back for her soon. He had to.

He didn't. Time stretched on. It was difficult, in her present circumstances, to estimate how long it had been since he'd left; it felt like an eternity. Her most helpful clue was the quality of the light filtering in through her white linen blindfold, which dimmed considerably as the sun dipped behind the looming mountains. The air cooled, and a symphony of chirrups and trills rose up all around her.

It was dusk, and so far she had managed to remain unmolested. Of course, the Nemeton was hidden deep in the woods, and evidently it was not a place of which the château's visitors were routinely aware.

Rexton knew no one would happen upon her here, she realized. He just wanted to scare her, to prove a point.

She heard hoofbeats on the dirt path through the woods. He was back. Thank God he was back.

He dismounted, and a few moments later she heard, or sensed, his footsteps in the grass as he walked toward her.

Her scalp prickled. Why was he approaching so slowly? Why would he, unless he was looking her over, absorbing the sight of her bound and gagged and tied with legs widespread to this tree . . . as if it were the first time he was seeing her like this?

Her foreboding intensified as he came near. Rexton had a certain subtle but distinctive scent, warm and pleasant. The man now standing between her legs carried with him a whiff of something earthy, even perhaps a bit rank. There was a hint of the barnyard—or the stable.

He squeezed her breast with a hand that felt oddly beast-like. His palms were covered in leather. He was wearing thick gloves, she realized—fingerless gloves.

God, no,
she thought as he unbuttoned his trousers, the gloves and his coarse-textured coat grazing her inner thighs.
This can't be happening. Please don't let this happen.

Ten

C
AROLINE THRASHED AND bucked, whipping her head wildly as he pushed into her. She tried to scream, but of course no sound emerged. He clutched her thighs as he took her, his thrusts starting slow, and growing sharper, deeper.

A sob shook her chest, but the gag rendered it silent. She wept as she struggled, her blindfold soaking through with tears; no doubt her ravisher didn't even realize she was crying.Each spasmodic breath she took became increasingly shallow because of the congestion in her nose. Panic seized her as her air supply diminished. She felt the same wild desperation as when she'd been drowning in the Thames.

The stableman grew still, and then she felt his hands on her gag, yanking it down. She spat out the ball and gasped for air.

He withdrew from her abruptly; she felt his gloved hands brushing her thighs as he rebuttoned himself. There came a tugging on the strip of linen securing her left leg as he fumbled with the knot. She heard a soft click, then the cold slide of steel against her stockinged thigh as he sliced the binding off. He freed her right leg, as well, then circled the tree and did the same to her hands.

Caroline pulled off her blindfold and lowered her legs, which gave out the moment her feet touched ground. She collapsed in a heap, sobbing uncontrollably.

Sinking her face in her hands as he came to stand before her, she pleaded, in a hoarse, watery voice, “Go away. G-go away.
Laissez-moi tranquille. Je vous prie . . .”

“Miss Keating.”

She looked up sharply.

Lord Rexton hiked up his trouser legs and crouched so that they were at eye level. He reached toward her with a handkerchief.

She recoiled until her back hit the tree.He was wearing the stableman's homespun jacket, his fingerless work gloves. She shook her head in outraged disbelief.

“I borrowed these things from Sèbastien,” he said.

“What? But . . .” She looked down at the Black Heart on her collar, only to find that it was an ordinary padlock. “W-why?”she choked out as she rubbed her damp cheeks. “Why would you do such a thing? Just to prove that you can subject me to whatever godawful nightmare strikes your fancy?”

He sighed heavily. She thought he was going to say something, but he just offered her the handkerchief again, saying, “Here, take—”

She swatted his hand away. “Bastard.
Monster
.”

He rose to his feet, looking down upon her with a grim expression. Quietly, he said, “You see?”

“This promises to be quite a show,” Narcissa told Caroline that night as they sat next to each other in a corner of the candlelit dining room, their leashes looped around the legs of a dessert table laden with traditional Auvergnat sweets: Sour cherry
milliard,
walnut cake, fruit-studded brioche, apricot pâté, and sweet rye crêpes stuffed with peaches and blueberries. A few other slaves were tethered in other parts of the enormous room, while the remainder were with their masters at the long dining table.

On top of the table, amid the playing cards and liquor bottles, stood the elfin Jessamine strapping on a leather harness equipped with two polished ebony phalluses. One she'd greased up and shoved inside her; the other jutted out in front like a giant black erection.

“Where did she get that thing?” Caroline asked Narcissa. “I didn't see it in the black box.”

“She brought it herself. You do know she's one of the boys, don't you?”

“Let's have her do her friend Laurel first,” called out Mr. Charles Bricks, a wealthy manufacturer of steam engines who had bought Narcissa, much to her dismay. He was in trade, a nobody in her scheme of things. Fed up with her high-handedness, his treatment of her had grown increasingly rough and punishing with each passing day. It was a turn of events that had thrilled her—so much so that she'd agreed to continue their liaison upon their return to London.

“Not Laurel,” Dunhurst said. “I want to see her ride a chit she's never ridden before, one who's never gotten it from another wench.”

“All in good time,” said Jessamine's master, Beau Brummel. “She shall begin with Laurel—providing Don Ortiz will indulge us with the loan of his beautiful slave.”

“But of course.” The courtly and elegant Eugenio Ortiz rose and helped Laurel to climb onto the damask-draped table.

The two women went into each other's arms with practiced ease, kissing like the longtime lovers they evidently were as they kneaded each other's bottoms.

“Not like that, for pity's sake,” Dunhurst barked at Jessamine. “She's a slave. Treat her like one.”

This sentiment was echoed by several other men. They looked toward Mr. Brummel, who shrugged and told Jessamine, “This will be your chance to play the master.”

The two slaves met each other's gaze in brief but eloquent communion. Laurel nodded almost imperceptibly. With a smile of anticipation, Jessamine stepped back and gave the other woman two sharp slaps across the breasts. “On your knees, bitch!”

The men all snapped to attention, save for Lord Rexton, sitting toward the end of the table drinking gin and smoking a cigar. He hadn't joined the other men in their customary late evening game of whist, nor in the bawdy conversation that accompanied it. Nor did he seem very interested in Jessamine's little performance. All he wanted to do was drink. He had imbibed more that night than Caroline had ever seen him consume.

Narcissa, having apparently noticed the direction of Caroline's gaze, whispered, “David's emptied half of that bottle while we've been sitting here, and he doesn't appear to be slowing down.”

David.
Caroline had never thought of him by his Christian name. Of course the woman who had been his lover, however briefly, would call him that.

Turning to Caroline with a coy smile,Narcissa said, “You're quite the lucky little goose, to have been bought by the likes of him.”

“You think so, do you?”

“I've shared his bed,my dear.When it comes to doing a bit of front door work, David has no equal. If only he weren't such a cold-eyed prick. He pees ice water and shits snowballs, that one.”

Before this evening and that heartless charade in the Neme-ton, Caroline might have defended her distant and brooding “master.” Now, her assessment of David Childe, Lord Rexton, was very much the same as Narcissa's. Something had shut down in her when she realized he'd contrived to make her think she was being taken against her will. He truly was a monster. Caroline's goal now was simply to get through the next and last day of Slave Week and earn her ninety thousand guineas. Curious, how infrequently she'd thought of the money this past week. Now, it was
all
she thought about, because it was her only reason for remaining here and putting up with the likes of Rexton.

They had spoken not a single word to each other during the ride back to the château. Once they were in their room, he'd had their chambermaid bring her some wine and saffron-scented stew, and fill the bathtub. As if to prove that he hadn't requested these things out of kindness, he said, “We'll be joining the others downstairs later this evening. Wouldn't want my slave looking like some consumptive little St. Giles gutter-crawler.”

“What shall I wear,my lord?”

“Black stockings and those black velvet slippers.”

She waited a moment for him to continue.When he didn't, she had said, with well-feigned composure, “Yes,my lord.”

Caroline had hoped all week that she would never have to be completely unclothed in front of the others. Despite the casual nudity among the slaves—and some of the masters, for that matter—she'd found the prospect excruciating. Rexton had seemed to sense that, because he'd never demanded it before. But things were different now. He appeared determined to demonstrate that her feelings were of no import to him. For her part, Caroline had resolved never again to surrender to despair as she had that evening in the Nemeton. Her mistake had been to care. For her own sake, she must be as callous and unfeeling as Rexton himself until she was gone from here.

When he'd led her into the dining room naked but for her shoes and stockings, she kept her head high and her comportment serene. Most of the men surveyed her up and down with open curiosity. She had expected that. There were a few admiring comments—nothing crude except for Sir Edmund Byrde. “See there?” he said as Rexton was tying her to the table leg. “I knew she was a blonde.”

That quip was greeted with laughter, except from Rexton—and Dunhurst, who stared at Caroline in a way that made her shiver.

Rexton had scowled when, about an hour later, Charles Bricks tethered Narcissa so close to Caroline. No doubt the viscount suspected that his slave and his former paramour would end up talking about him—for conversations among the slaves were permitted when they were waiting about for their masters, so long as they maintained their prescribed positions and kept their voices low. Caroline had thought he might separate them, but he hadn't, probably because he was too soused by then to be bothered.

“Has David been on the cut all week?”Narcissa asked.

“On the cut?”

“Funneling gin down his throat. He was a lush when I was with him, but not to this extent.”

“That's right, you little strum. Suck it deep.” Jessamine stood on the table with her legs braced apart, clutching handfuls of Laurel's hair as the other woman fellated the big ebony phallus. With one hand, Laurel pleasured herself, on Jessamine's orders; with the other, she manipulated the phallus in a way that Jessamine appeared to find intensely arousing, given her quickening thrusts and hectic breathing.

“Was that why you broke things off with Lord Rexton?” Caroline asked. “Because of the drinking?”

“Oh, my dear, I would never have broken it off. A bastard he may have been, but he could go all night. I'd be so exhausted the next day that I wouldn't even get out of bed. No, it was he who ended it. I made the unpardonable error of telling him I was falling for him. He got out of my bed, put on his clothes, and left. I never see him anymore unless we happen to bump into each other at a ball or the opera. Of course, we see each other here, but he acts as if I'm invisible. He hasn't said a word to me all week.”

Jessamine and Laurel climaxed together, to the appreciative applause of their audience. Laurel was handed down from the table and replaced with Aster. Jessamine commanded her to assume the “await” position, with her legs wide apart and her hands gripping her ankles, then took her with the phallus as she whipped her on the bottom with the end of her leash.

“Is this where you met Lord Rexton?” Caroline asked. “At Slave Week last year?”

“Oh, goodness, no. I only came here last year because I knew he would be here. It hadn't been that long since he'd thrown me over, and I suppose I wanted to know how he would react, seeing me as the sex slave of another man. I was a fool. He didn't display the slightest bit of jealousy. He hardly seemed to notice I was here, the knave. I did discover that I quite enjoyed Slave Week, though, so it wasn't a complete waste of time.”

Narcissa was the type who prattled on with nary a pause. Violet had been right. She was quite the magpie.

“How did you meet, then?” Caroline asked.

“Oh, I've known David since we were young. I met him through his cousin, Clarissa Lefever, when we were children. Well, she was Clarissa Bensley back then. She and I were bosom friends, still are. We grew up on the same square in London. Clarissa's mother, David's aunt, brought him up after his mother died. Scarlet fever, you know. David came down with it at Greyton Hall, the family seat, when he was six, from breathing the night air when he'd been told not to. His mother sent the family and servants away so they wouldn't catch it, but she stayed behind to take care of him. She nursed him back to health, only to die of it herself. He was alone in the house with her body for a week because Lord Rexton—the late Lord Rexton,David's father—had been waiting for word from Lady Rexton before he brought everyone back. He eventually came home to find his wife decomposing in their bed and David huddled in a pile of straw in the stable, staring at nothing and refusing to speak. Ghastly business.”

At a loss for words, Caroline looked toward Lord Rexton, who was refilling his glass with gin. He spilled some on the tablecloth as he set the bottle aside unsteadily.

“His lordship got fed up with David pretending to be mute,” Narcissa continued. “A thing like that can get on one's nerves. And, too, he couldn't help feel that David was responsible for his mother's death. He told him as much, and that having him around the house was just a painful reminder of—”“

He told a six-year-old child that he'd killed his mother?”

“Well, he did, in a way. In any event, his father sent him to London to live with the Bensleys, but he kept his older brother, Alex, home with him. David didn't utter a sound the first few weeks he lived with Clarissa and her family, not one bloody word. I told Clarissa they ought to just pack the little loon off to Bethnal Green and be done with it.”