Corey McFadden (25 page)

The system of bellpulls in the house was elaborate and up-to-date, the envy of the earl’s friends.

“I’m sure that will be all we will need tonight, Mrs. Formby,” he said, pulling his thoughts together. “Do get some sleep. Remember, I shall be indisposed in the morning. Depending on what kind of story the girl has to tell and how she is feeling, we may try to spirit her out of the house tomorrow night. I have been thinking that perhaps my shooting lodge might do for her recuperation....” The idea had just come to him. The lodge was not staffed at this time of year, only a caretaker and his wife in a cottage on the premises. Yes, it might be just perfect....

“Very well, my lord. I’ll wish you good night.”

“It’s good morning, I’m afraid.”

They smiled at each other, and, sweeping up the soiled linens, she turned and let herself out of the room, closing it quietly as she left.

Radford took a deep breath. His heart was beating too fast. He was embarrassingly aware of the tightening in his breeches. It was preposterous. He was an adult, had bedded hundreds of beautiful women, and this serving wench had him as hard as a rock, and peeping at her like a schoolboy! Ridiculous. He put the sight of her long, graceful limbs out of his mind and moved with determination back to the bed. The girl was under his protection, he reminded himself. He had never been one to take after the serving girls, unlike many of his peers. He would not start now by taking advantage of this girl who was clearly at his mercy. If he was so hot for a woman, he could have at Bella soon enough.

She was not asleep. Her eyes followed his as he moved toward her, large and luminous, indecision and fear plain in her face. He was caught by the dancing candlelight reflected in the green depths. He sat. As if of its own volition, his hand reached for hers, and he held her long, cool fingers in his as he stared at her lips. He willed his hand to be still, not to caress her soft fingers, not to frighten her.

“I’ll not hurt you, girl, nor will I turn you out,” he spoke softly but with an intensity under his words. “You must tell me now. Who are you, and what are you running from?” He would be patient. He could feel her pulse beating rapidly through her fingers. The girl was terrified. He watched her eyes as he waited....

* * * *

Maude sensed a change in him at once. She made as if to pull her hand away, but he held it tightly, if with gentleness. He stared into her eyes, and if his were kind, his expression was nevertheless determined.

She took a deep breath. “My name is Molly Ramsey, my lord, and I am deeply ashamed that I have lied to you.” There, she had done it. Trapped back into another lie, using the first name of the maid Aunt Claire had dismissed, but safe now from the specter of John Romney rutting over her like a pig.

“All right, Molly,” he said softly, “that’s a good start. Now, what were you running from when my carriage knocked you down?”

“My mistress and her son.” She swallowed convulsively. She was trying to keep as closely to the truth as possible, so as not to foul herself up later. “He wanted to take indecent liberties with me, and she hated me for it. Between the two of them, I could not go on living there.”

“All right. That is believable, Molly. Where do these paragons live, if you please?”

She was prepared for this. She had thought it up through the pain. “In Suffolk, my lord. They have a small holding.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied her face for falsehood. “Suffolk is a long way on foot from where I picked you up, girl. How did you get so far?”

“Not on foot, my lord. We were visiting friends of theirs in Bedfordshire.” She named the general district of the earl’s estate. “I was only able to escape when we got away. They keep close tabs on me when we are at home and I would be recognized in the neighborhood. I took clothes from a stablehand and I ran. I regret the necessity of the theft, my lord.”

“You had been beaten before I picked you up, had you not?”

His eyes were warm. He was accepting it, every word! Was there hope yet that her story would be believed?

“Yes, my lord. He had brutally attacked me. It was the last straw.” She was gaining in confidence. This would work. It had to.

“But why disguise yourself as a boy? Surely you could have gained shelter more easily somewhere as a female.”

She snorted before she could stop herself. “Women have no protection in this world, my lord.” She knew that her tone had turned bitter. “I would have been molested, or worse. I had no money, and, worst of all, no references. Stableboys travel freely, my lord. Women are hobbled by their stupid skirts.”

His mouth quirked up at the ends. “As you say, Molly, women are unduly fettered by society. But what did you do for this lady’s household? You are a jack of all masculine trades—a most proficient stablehand, I am led to understand. This would not be normal for a serving wench.”

He asked too many questions. Drat him anyway! Why couldn’t he just accept her sincerely heartbreaking story and let her get some sleep? “We were a small household, rather pinch-penny and not terribly well-ordered,” she persevered. “Not like this one, anyway. I had to be proficient at everything. And I found I liked the horses a lot more than I liked kitchen work. Well, who wouldn’t?” she demanded imperiously.

This time he could not repress his laughter. “You are a most unusual serving maid. Miss Molly. You prefer stable dung to kitchen grease?”

She drew in a deep breath. Why couldn’t the man go to bed? “My father was a stable master, my lord, before he died. I spent my early years around horses. It is to be expected that I would prefer a saddle to a cooking pot!” She was ranging far afield of the truth now and she fervently hoped he would give up his cross-examination and leave her alone.

“And was your father also a card sharp, Molly? Who was the ‘kindly master’ who taught you all your tricks? Surely not the randy son of your mistress?”

She had to hand it to him. He was zeroing in on all the loose ends. The man should have been a bloody barrister!

“My father, my lord.” She allowed her eyes to droop somewhat. Maybe if he thought she were sleepy....

“I see. Molly, stay awake, I am not finished with you yet. What if I accept all that you say? There is one thing that has always puzzled me about you. I am sorry I ignored my instincts earlier. Your speech, girl. You talk like no serving girl I’ve ever run across, country- or city-bred. You talk like the gentry, pure and simple. How is that?”

She closed her eyes again, stalling for time. Now she was tired in earnest and frightened. He went on too long; he should not be picking at such nits. He should have patted her head and left her to sleep several lies ago! She opened her eyes and looked at him.
Please let him believe this one! Just one more time....

“I...I am a good mimic, my lord. I used to be able to entertain the staff with imitating the gentry. I’ve a good ear. It comes easy to me. My father always said we were better than most...” she trailed off. It was weak, but it would have to do. She had no more tales up her sleeve. Her side ached.
Please believe me, please. You must
....

“I think I believe you, Molly.”

The candle flickered. His eyes were warm. Her small hand lay in his large one. She sighed.
I want to sleep now. Please hush and let me sleep
....

“But what am I to do with you, girl? I cannot keep you here. I’d be a laughingstock, and the staff would take your masquerade amiss. I must send you away for both our sakes.” His voice held a note of regret, but true finality.

Her eyes flew open.
Away! From him! Where would she go? What would she do?
Her hands clutched at his fingers. Her voice caught in her throat. “I...I don’t want you to send me away,” she choked out. “Please let me stay! Please!”

It was the laudanum. It was the pain. It was the knowledge, now stark and cold in her heart, that he and this house were as close as she would ever get to a family who would care for her, servant or not. She felt the first tear slip down her cheek and closed her eyes against the darkness....

* * * *

“Monkey! Hush...listen to me....” He caught her frantic, cold hands and held them still. “I’ll see you are safe. You must trust me, monkey.” What was happening to him? His heart was twisting in his chest.

Her breathing was ragged. A tear slipped from underneath her eyelid and made its way down her cheek. He wiped it away with his large thumb, clumsy against her soft skin. She turned her face into his hand, trusting, questing.

He bent his face to hers, rubbing his rough, bearded cheek to her softness. “Don’t cry. I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he whispered softly in her ear. “I promise.”

She slipped her hand around his neck and held it tightly, as if she were afraid to let go. He could feel her shaking and he reached out and pulled her toward him. She is truly frightened of something, he thought. This story is half right, and half all wrong. I do not know what the truth is, but I will find out. She is so soft, so loving....He could feel her breath warm against his ear, sending waves of desire through him. Her heart fluttered against his chest. He rubbed her back gently.

“Shhh. Shhh.” He nuzzled her cheek, then, without warning to either of them, his lips caught hers. Soft, so soft and yielding...and yet so innocent. Her lips were closed against his, but she did not resist. Gently, he parted her lips with his tongue. Seeking, probing, he encroached upon her luscious mouth, his hot, insistent tongue tasting, caressing. Tentatively, he felt her tongue, gentle, then aggressive, as she thrust back, probing his mouth as he had probed hers. He groaned and eased himself onto the bed, careful not to pull at her wound. He would just hold her....

* * * *

Maude was spinning, spinning down into a world she had never known before. A world of nothing but heartbeat, and pounding, insistent need, a need she could not identify, but could not live without. She felt his tongue push into her mouth, invading space she would have thought inviolate, and yet it felt so right, so good, that she answered with her own. She felt the bed sag as he lowered his weight onto it. She could feel the length of him now, hard, pushing against her.

While his tongue plundered her willing mouth, his hand slid down, tracing gently the line of her cheek, her jaw, her neck, her chest, coming at last to rest upon her breast, where he cupped her soft, exquisite flesh, rolling her nipple, now taut and responsive, between his thumb and forefinger. She gasped at the sensation, rearing her head back and arching her back to bring herself closer to his touch.

Pounding, pounding, her heart beat, as his lips forsook hers and took the path his hand had traced down her flesh. She moaned as he took her breast into his mouth, his tongue swirling under, then over, his hand pressing her flesh hard against his mouth. He caught her nipple between his teeth and teased it, tickled it, until she moaned and thrust herself hard against him. There, that was it, what she had sought. That pressure there, between her legs, where the sensation was one of fire and overwhelming need. She could feel his manhood now, pushing, throbbing against his breeches, and she rose to meet the thrust, wanting to impale herself, to feel his fullness. She felt the thin material of her nightgown rip under his hand, then it slid down the length of her body, caressing her bare belly, her hip, her buttocks, her thigh. Again, his lips sought hers, bruising, insistent, his tongue circling hers, then thrusting deep, possessive.

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind, she heard the faintest din of a warning bell. Faint, but insistent. She should not be doing this. Things were bad enough without being ruined in the bargain. But the yearning overrode the warning bell, the throbbing pulse of desire, pent up all these weeks, drowning out the tiny alarm. She moaned, and pushed against him again, seeking the pressure of his body against hers.

He was ready for her. His hand moved across her belly, down gently, softly, seeking the hot, moist nest, her center of pleasure. She reared back, gasping, as his hand found her sweet spot, his fingers probing, her secrets open now, slippery wet, begging for his touch. Vaguely, she was aware that he was unfastening his breeches with his other hand, ripping them out from beneath him, tearing off his shirt, then his stockings. And then he was naked. Her breath caught in her throat as he reared up over her, golden-skinned, muscular, massive, as she remembered him, a Greek god rising from his bath....

* * * *

She wanted him to do this. He could feel her desire like molten heat. He was hard, he could not wait any longer. He eased himself down on top of her between her thighs, his breath coming in jagged gasps, his manhood throbbing as if it would burst before he could enter her. Gently, slowly, he pushed into her, then with a hard thrust, it was done, her small scream of pain raking his consciousness. He was still for a minute, shock and chagrin chasing across his face. The girl had been unbreached. This son of the mistress she so feared had not managed to catch her. He had done the deed himself and with no care whatsoever for her pain. He heard her whimper below him.

“Hush, now, hush, love. I am sorry. I did not know. It will be over in a moment.”

Quickly, he thrust into her, then withdrew, and thrust again. His pleasure built again to the bursting point, though he felt her tense beneath him. With a cry of release, he arched and spilled his seed, hot, deep within her.

He lowered himself to her side, the side that did not bear the wound. He could hear her breathing, heavy, irregular. Guilt wracked him. He had been so insistent in his own need, so sure that her responsiveness had been born of experience as well as desire, he had not stopped to consider whether she was a virgin. It had been years since he had bedded a virgin; it had never been a point of interest for him. A lady’s pain decreased his pleasure. Nor had he considered that she had been dosed with laudanum, an opiate which in small doses could impair judgment and increase the sense of well-being.

Her breathing slowed. He watched her profile, her eyes closed, while his hand idly traced through the short curls against the pillow. With his other hand he reached for hers, catching it to his lips. “Monkey, have I hurt you?”