Mistress by Midnight (22 page)

She gave a bitter laugh. If she had known that the carriage ride yesterday morning was the last time she’d ever engage in
sexual relations, she would have paid a bit more attention. She had nearly taken Con’s attentions for granted, her body responding artlessly to his every touch. They had fallen into a pattern over the last two months that made most speech unnecessary. In fact, she was quite sure Con kissed her so often to keep her quiet. She had complained endlessly about her boredom until she befriended her unusual neighbors. She had, in fact, been something of a shrew, resentful of Con’s control over her life.

And now it truly was at an end.

She hitched her skirt up and clambered over a stone wall that seemed to go on unbroken for miles. The prospect was very different from the gentle rolling downs of Dorset. The land here seemed vast, wilder. The peaks in the distance were still topped with snow even though it was summer. She wasn’t sure where Con’s land ended and someone else’s began, but she’d not seen another house or person to get her bearings. The disputed road was in the distance, and she remembered just where Tomas had let them out, their bodies bruised from the bumpy ride on the rutted lane. But she needn’t go that far—a narrow ribbon of water glinted ahead between green hills. If she followed it, she could find the waterfall.

Laurette stood still, listening. The countryside was never quiet—that was a myth city folk put about to excuse their frivolous natures. She heard the call of birds and the swish of the tall grasses in the breeze. Even the new sheep were bleating faintly behind her.

She imagined she could hear James and Beatrix laughing together. As long as they remained friends, there would be no harm to it. James needed a friend. Beatrix had a soft heart. Much like her own.

It had taken her years to harden it; she mustn’t relent now.

It was a beautiful day, the sun high in the sky. She headed toward the rushing sound of water and was soon above the modest waterfall. Like Beatrix, Laurette hadn’t bothered
with a hat and she lifted her face to the rays. She’d been in such a hurry when she woke up she hadn’t had much of a wash. Her face split in a naughty grin at her sudden idea.

The sunlight made rainbows of each water droplet as it tumbled over the rocks. The very air was veiled in shimmer. Laurette maneuvered down the grassy incline to where the stream foamed. Seeing the rocks in the river bed told her she would be in no danger of drowning. She’d have to stand beneath the noisy flow of water or only her ankles would get clean.

She unpinned her watch and removed the hairpins which held up her braid, tucking them into the pocket of her dress. It was simple enough to unfasten its ties, fold and place it far enough from the splash of the water so it wouldn’t get wet. She hadn’t bothered with stockings, either, so was down to her expensively embroidered demi-corset, shift and halfboots. She unlaced the front of her corset and then bent unsteadily to remove her boots. After a moment’s deliberation, she unbuttoned her shift and tossed it into the pile.

She was now just as God made her, every freckle and flaw revealed. Fleshier than she’d been in years. This past month, she’d felt a bit like a force-fed French goose. Or one of the girls in North Africa, made to consume an endless supply of camel’s milk so they would be attractive to their husbands.

One night over dinner, when she had complained to Con over his seeming desire to stuff her full of every conceivable delicacy Qalhata could cook up, he had explained the concept of
leblouh
to her. He had seen little girls with their fingers and feet pressed between wood to make sure they gorged themselves, as their countrymen prized a fat bride. Some women grew so obese they could barely move, but they were all the more worshipped for it.

Laurette had been horrified. She didn’t want to be worshipped, fat or skinny. Once, she had deliberately used her
body to draw Con into her childish dream of a future together. She had paid the price for that ten times over.

She and Con had dined, and dined too well together nearly every night in her weeks of captivity. He showed no signs of overindulgence—his flat stomach and chiseled chin were just as they had been. Every inch of him was—perfect. Even the tattoo he had to cover up his scarred shoulder fascinated her.

He explained it was a reminder to himself not to go completely native in the East. No good Muslim was permitted a tattoo. It was considered mutilation. Maiming. Con chose the Jerusalem cross to ensure he was not tempted to change his mind. It had brought him unwelcome attention occasionally, which suited his mindset at the time. Laurette was sure he deliberately placed himself in harm’s way for many years, before he finally came around to realizing his responsibilities.

And now the idiot man wanted to take on more of them. Sheep. Her daughter.

She shook her braid loose and stepped into the water, wishing she’d brought a bar of soap. The rocks were sharp and slippery against her bare feet but she welcomed the discomfort, just as Con had welcomed risk. Laurette wanted to feel alive, separate from everything that had bombarded her the past twenty-four hours.

Gingerly she stepped toward the splashing water until she was beneath it, rivulets of chilly Yorkshire snowmelt pounding her head and shoulders. She gave a little yelp as her skin contracted in gooseflesh. She hadn’t expected to be quite so cold. She tried to convince herself it was refreshing, but the wisdom of her actions did not stand up to scrutiny. Ducking around a jumble of boulders, she spied a large flat rock bathed in sunlight. She would sit and drip dry on it before she struggled back into her clothes.

The heat felt delicious on her bottom. After fingercombing the tangles from her hair, she wrapped her arms around her knees and closed her eyes. The pulsing sound of the waterfall
blocked birdsong and breeze. There was nothing but the rush and mist of the water and the warmth of the sun. If she chose, she could sleep her afternoon away as well as her morning. She felt the tension dissolve from her spine and took a deep, calming breath.

A
few yards away, Con watched his water nymph in her pool of sunshine. He had wanted to cool off under the waterfall since yesterday, and despite her scoffing, apparently so did she. She had no idea he was there, his manhood bedeviling him. Beads of moisture dripped from her wavy hair, sliding down her ripe breasts. Her clean-shaven cleft was visible, glistening. She was still as golden marble, her lashes fanning her cheeks, her lips forming the slightest smile. Her feet were flat upon the rock, her hands locked together around her knees. A purple butterfly came close to landing on her toes, and Con cursed it silently away. He wanted to look at her forever unobserved, or at least until she came out of her trance.

His hand reached for the fall of his trousers. He was iron hard. What would she do if she opened her eyes and saw him? Shriek and tell him to go away, of course, as though he hadn’t seen her naked a hundred times. Could he persuade her to bed him one more time before she disappeared to Dorset? He knew he had to let her go.

It didn’t mean he was giving up.

James would come around, too. They’d worked well together the past hour, hard enough for the scent of sheep and human sweat to be all over him. Nico and Tomas had taken the children for a swim in the lake before lunch. Con had not
wanted to overstay his welcome and break the fragile truce with his son. When Bea had innocently said Laurette was out walking, his mind had been made up. He’d clean off here and find her somehow.

Getting out of Laurette’s range of sight, he kicked off his boots and pulled a sliver of soap from his pocket. He shucked his trousers on the bank and pulled his dirty linen shirt over his head. He wasn’t fit to touch her yet. With any luck, she would continue to sun-worship while he stood under the water and lathered up.

The water was bracing, to say the least. Con nearly bit his tongue in half to keep from crying out. But Laurette had braved it and so would he. He scrubbed until his skin was red beneath his perpetual tan. He had joined his tenants for the spring planting, was no stranger to hard work. James cared for the land as well. He would be an excellent steward when his time came.

And hopefully Con would pass at a very great age, his marchioness Laurette still alive and waiting to be buried next to him in the churchyard at All Saints. They would expand their family, have other children together. Raising sons and daughters from infancy would be a novel experience, one he was determined not to mismanage again.

He soaped his groin, his eyes closed, imagining Laurette stroking him, licking and suckling him. Her long fingers and beautiful mouth were made for sin, even if she was trying to turn starchy spinster on him.

He was chuckling at the memory of her lips around him when he stumbled back from the blow of a fair-sized rock.

“What the devil?”

“You!” Laurette was in front of him, her hands covering her bosom and mound, eyes blazing with anger. “You were spying on me!”

“Hardly. I cannot help it if we had the same idea. I left
you
in peace.” He looked down at the mark forming on his chest.
“I suppose I should be grateful for your aim. A foot lower and we should all be sorry.”

“Speak for yourself.” He watched in amusement as she scrambled on the uneven stream bed, nearly falling. He caught her arm. “Let me help you.”

“Stay away! What if the children should find us?”

“They’re at the lake. We’re alone. There’s not a soul for miles.” He tried to pull her closer, but she slipped from his soapy hands and headed for his clothes.
His
clothes, instead of hers.

Damn.
He went after her but tripped and fell, slicing a knee on a rock. He watched in horror as she snatched his clothing in front of her. Surely she wouldn’t leave him here naked. He would catch her, once he could stand up.

He looked down as the shallow water turned pink. Botheration. Someone might have to stitch him. Well, Laurette could just ride him, as he didn’t think he should put pressure on his knee by embedding it in the grass as he covered her. Which he was going to do before she killed him.

He opened his mouth in protest as she balled up his shirt and threw it into the water. It rippled like a white ghost waving good-bye, then began its float down the current. As if struck by conscience, her hand dipped into the pocket of his pants before she threw them too and stilled.

He knew what she would find there. Good. He’d hidden them away long enough during his ridiculous imperial charade.

She had them in her hand now, his breeches dropped in a rumpled heap at her feet. Her golden brows were drawn together, her full lips rolled inward so only the barest pink showed in her suddenly pale face.

“They’ve been everywhere with me. They were the only things I took with me when I ran away.” He lurched to his feet, glancing down at the rivulet of blood dripping down his leg. His shirt would have come in handy about now, but it
had disappeared around the curve of the stream. She raised her eyes from her hand.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Like a stuck pig. I don’t suppose you’d loan me your shift.”

As though the objects burned her hand, she dropped them to the ground and moved quickly over the grass to where she’d left her clothes. Her breasts bounced with each step, and despite his pain, Con’s cock sprang to life again. She tried to tear the linen, but his blunt had paid top price for every inch of fabric he had clothed her in. With a frustrated groan, she pitched the whole garment at him as he climbed out of the water toward her.

“Thank you for not throwing my talismans away. And my pants, too, of course.” He flopped on the grass, blotting up the blood. Laurette stood over him, biting her lip.

“I don’t understand.”

“Laurie. I’ve tried to tell you a thousand different ways. I admit I was wrong when I forced you to come to me the way I did, but do you think it was merely a game? Some whim? I have never stopped loving you. Look at me. Wretched and bloody and still hard for you.” He admired the curve of her back and bottom as she went back to his trousers and bent to retrieve the flat skipping stone and the bag of tarnished beads. “You left them in our tree for me when I returned to Ryland Grove after—after I was away.” He couldn’t even say the word honeymoon. It had not been anything but a time of Hell. “I wasn’t going to meet you. I talked my way around it for two days, but I came anyhow. I couldn’t stay away. If I had known about Bea, I would have done something, I swear.”

“You cannot tell her. Promise me.”

“If you promise to consider my proposal again.”

There was no sound save the rush of the water. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no. What she did do was clutch his charms in her fist as he had done so many times, as if to draw out some sort of magical power.

He’d found the rock for her when they were children, and
taught her how to skip stones on the river. Its salmon color was easy to find amidst gray and brown when they dove for it. She carried it around in her pinafore pocket until she grew up and stopped wearing pinafores. The glittery bag was a reminder of when he saw her dressed up for the first time, her cheeks glowing and gown sparking in the candlelight. And more importantly, their twilight pledge at the ring of stones. Both objects symbolized their childhood friendship and the love that grew from it. And now everything, both the physical specimens and the concepts they represented, was in Laurette’s hands.

She sat down next to him slowly, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were still naked. There was no further attempt to cover herself, and Con looked his fill. Her nipples had pearled and her hair lay in a wavy tangle as it dried. Mermaid hair. The sun burnished the short gilt hair on her arms, as though she was sprinkled with fairy dust. He longed to kiss the sheen on her body, to taste her, but he clamped the linen to his leg and waited.

“Why do you love me?”

He had not anticipated such a question and stalled. Was there even an answer he could articulate? Loving Laurette had been a given for so many years he couldn’t remember life without her, or the idea of her. “Pardon?”