Retreat From Love (9 page)

Brett was watching, so she felt it only fair to kiss his as well.

43

Samantha Kane

September 30, 1810

My Dearest Anne,

I’ve only just stopped shaking enough to write you this letter. I saw my first major battle
three days ago, at Busaco. I want to tell you about it, but then again, I don’t wish to. The things I
saw, Anne. The things I did. I can tell you I am a different man today than I was four days ago.

Brett says the feelings will pass, but I think he’s simply saying what he thinks I want to hear.

God, what would I do without Brett? I know he is hurting too. He lost his horse at Busaco, shot
out from under him, and he had to fight his way out, hand to hand with the French bastards.

He’s roughed up quite a bit and got a rather nasty cut on his arm from a poorly aimed bayonet.

Yet he still smiles and tries to comfort me. The whole thing started at a convent, Anne. Can you
believe it? Nothing is sacred here, not God or life. I spoke with Mr. Matthews and he said that
what we hold in our hearts is sacred, and no building or book or philosophy can give us those
things. He is a good man. Have I told you how much he reminds me of your father?

I was sorry to hear about Monster. He was a good cat. Do you remember when you decided
he was lonely and we took him to The Narrows to visit with the Hutchinsons’ dog? Good Lord,
what a catastrophe! I don’t think the poor dog ever recovered. Poor Monster ruined him for
hunting, or so Mr. Hutchinson always claimed. I’m the one who fell off the roof fetching your
silly cat and broke my finger, but everyone was more concerned about that worthless dog. I cried
when your mother set the bone and you called me a big baby, but you brought me a posy of
wildflowers and kissed my cheek for rescuing that cat. I would break a thousand fingers for one of
those kisses right now.

Your Devoted Servant,

Bertie

Brett just heard about Monster and wanted me to tell you he was very sorry too.

* * * * *

Freddy put the letter down. He hadn’t known any of it, he realized now. He hadn’t really known Bertie. With a low curse he shoved the chair back from the desk and stood up. He began to pace around the perimeter of his private drawing room. His. How odd that sounded. He still thought of it as the duke’s. It seemed everywhere but at Ashton Park he could play the duke. But here, in this house, in these rooms, he felt like an interloper.

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Retreat From Love

He didn’t even remember Bertie breaking his finger. Where had he been when it happened? Probably in London. That was where his mother usually kept him locked away from the rest of the world with his Latin tutors and dancing masters. And Jerome had probably been away at school. He’d been sent away at an early age, as was proper with a future duke. But Bertie got to stay at Ashton Park. He was too wild for his mother, and for school. So he was left here with Reeves, a fitting punishment in his mother’s eyes. But to Freddy he was the luckiest boy alive. Bertie got to stay and roam the countryside with pretty Anne Goode, and eat Mrs. Tilton’s shortbread and know their father. He’d known Anne’s father as well, and everyone in the village.

Freddy entered his bedchamber and threw himself down on the end of his huge, ornate bed. His father’s bed and his father’s before him. Not for the first time Freddy thought that Bertie should be duke. After Jerome died, it should have been Bertie taking control of the dukedom, with Anne by his side. Bertie belonged here. Freddy did not.

God, he could still feel the envy, the resentment of Bertie. Freddy had so wanted to belong here his whole life.

The war had changed Bertie. That letter after Busaco was not written by the Bertie he’d known. That Bertie was carelessly self-centered, affectionate in an off-handed way, playful to the point of extremes. He was not given to introspection or appreciation for others’ pain. Freddy took a deep breath. He would have liked to have known the man Bertie became, because he understood now that he’d only known the boy, and only in a superficial way.

Freddy got up and blew out the candle on the desk. Then he took off his robe and climbed into bed. As he lay there he thought about Anne. Her offer to let him read Bertie’s letters had been completely unexpected. His appreciation knew no bounds.

Through them he was discovering a brother he’d never known. He had been shocked and saddened to learn that Bertie had written him and he’d never received the letters.

Anne had given him so much today.

Freddy rolled over and pulled a pillow close as he hugged it. Several times today he’d gotten the impression that Anne was as attracted to him as she was to Brett. That was unexpected. He couldn’t say it was unwelcome, however. She was still so damn beautiful. Her reaction to him this morning as soon as they’d arrived had been revealing. She’d been so flustered by his nearness. And then later, at the mercantile, when she had teased him and Brett and surprised them with her bawdy humor. Christ, what a woman. She was no green girl, all simpering smiles and nervous ignorance. No, she knew what she was about when she issued invitations like the one in the shop. And surely she had held his arm as tightly as Brett’s on the way home.

Brett. Freddy could still see his hand inside that glove. So tight and his hand so big, stretching the glove until Freddy thought surely it would rip from the pressure. Freddy groaned and rolled onto his back, assailed by images of Brett, real and imagined. Brett with his hand crammed inside that glove, Brett staring at Anne with that hot, hungry look in his eye, Brett with his fingers crammed in Anne’s tight, wet sheath, Brett with 45

Samantha Kane

his fingers hard and deep in Freddy’s passage. Freddy felt his buttocks clench at the last picture.

He threw off the covers, suddenly overheated. His cock was throbbing, hard and aching, and he took it in his fist. The pleasure was immediate, and he groaned as he arched his neck. His hand became Brett’s, a favorite fantasy of his and one he’d pleasured himself to many times before. He began to pump his cock, slowly at first, as he imagined Brett lying beside him naked, perhaps leaning up on one elbow so he could see his hand wrapped around Freddy’s cock as he worked him.

Freddy was breathing heavily, and he incorporated those sounds into his fantasy.

He reached down with his other hand and fondled his sac, rolling the balls inside against one another. He stretched one finger down and rubbed the sensitive skin between his sac and his hole. In his fantasy that hand and finger were encased in a beautiful pair of gloves and belonged to—

Anne couldn’t sleep, again. Tonight it wasn’t shock and embarrassment keeping her awake, however. It was desire. Spending most of the day in Freddy and Brett’s company had brought Anne’s senses alive. Lying here in her lonely bed, she could still smell their cologne. She could still feel the heat of their bodies as they stood near her and the play of muscles in their arms as she held them.

Their deep voices still echoed in her head. “I think you would still taste sweet, Anne,” Brett had whispered. And Freddy, with his rakish teasing. “I only know what you taste like in my dreams.” Did he dream of her then? How utterly marvelous that would be. Anne grinned like an idiot as she lay there and gave a little shiver of delight at the thought of Freddy and Brett dreaming of sex with her.

What did men dream of? Kissing? Oh, Anne would like to kiss them. Brett’s mouth was wide, and his lips looked as if they’d been drawn with firm precision by the hand of a master. His upper lip came to two sharp points in a heavy bow above a lower lip that was plump in the middle. Anne wanted to trace that bow with the tip of her tongue and then suck on that juicy lower lip before she dipped her tongue into the cleft in his chin. She groaned and grabbed her pillow at the thought.

And Freddy, God, that mouth. When he wasn’t smiling he looked…almost

petulant. Just shy of too much. She wanted to see him pout. She wanted him to beg, actually. On his knees. Oh God. At the thought she felt her sex start to throb and tingle as it grew damp. Yes, she’d lean down where he kneeled at her feet and she’d rub her lips along his, just rub, until neither could take it anymore. And then she’d open her mouth and shove her tongue inside his mouth.

Anne moaned and rolled onto her back again. What would he taste like? She

thought Freddy would taste dark, spicy. She rather thought Freddy’s kisses would be demanding. He ran deep, although she doubted few people realized it. He seemed so young and carefree, but his eyes and the width of his shoulders belied that. Mmm, his 46

Retreat From Love

shoulders. Anne imagined licking a path across his upper back. Her insides heated up and she felt more liquid dampen her slit.

Brett would taste sweet. So sweet. He tended to be taciturn on the outside, but she’d seen the tenderness inside. His kisses would be soft. His chiseled lips would caress, and beg permission before he softly ate at her mouth. He would take his time with kisses.

Just the thought of kissing them had Anne on fire. She threw off the covers and yanked her night rail up to her hips, and then she ran her fingers through her damp curls until she found the entrance to her body. She slid a finger inside and immediately imagined it was one of theirs. Freddy’s fingers were slender, long and graceful. But no, it wasn’t Freddy’s hands that had driven her to distraction today. No, Freddy would watch. But the finger filling her, fucking her, was thick and calloused, spreading her wide and rubbing so roughly inside. She was a glove, hugging that finger, hugging—

Brett sat up in bed, his head in his hands. He couldn’t stop thinking about them! He pulled his hair in frustration. This would get him nowhere, this constant fantasizing.

He’d nearly embarrassed himself today walking down the lane with Freddy and Anne.

He sighed. There was no fighting it. And why should he, here? In his own

bedchamber? Who was there to see? To censure? Slowly Brett reached under his pillow and pulled out Anne’s old glove. He hadn’t returned them to her today. He would have if she’d asked, but she’d forgotten about them. He took the one he’d stretched this morning and slowly worked his fingers back into it, this time not stopping until his whole hand was encased in the old, softly worn leather. He brought the glove to his nose and sniffed. It smelled like Anne, like lilacs and sweat and leather. He closed his eyes with a groan. Good, it smelled so damn good.

With a sigh Brett ran his other hand over the outside of the glove. It was soft and shiny smooth in places from wear. The stitches were so fine that the seams were almost unnoticeable. The fingertips were the softest, the smoothest. He ran his index finger over his lips. It was like kissing Anne. Brett touched the tip of his tongue to the fingertip of the glove. It tasted…used. Old. Sweet and salty. He unconsciously shook his head.

That wasn’t what Anne would taste like at all. Well, perhaps sweet and salty, but in a different way. He imagined she would taste a little like wild blueberries, sweet with just a hint of tangy sharpness as she burst against his tongue. Fresh and delicious. With a wry grin he remembered Freddy’s words today. “I only know what you taste like in my dreams.” Yes, Brett had dreamed about it too.

Brett ran his gloved hand down his chest, stopping to rub his nipples with the supple, worn leather. He shivered at the sensation. He pinched his left nipple hard, twisting it, and the sting combined with the warm, smooth leather made his cock jump.

Freddy, yes, Freddy would do that. He wouldn’t be gentle with Brett. He’d make him pay for making Freddy wait so long. He’d pinch and nip and pull and twist and torture him until Brett was begging for it.

47

Samantha Kane

A part of him tried to stop. He tried to think of Bertie, and why the things he was thinking of were impossible. But all he could remember was how possible they had seemed today when Anne was gazing at him with such longing and tenderness, and Freddy’s hot gaze was turning his lust into an inferno. Freddy had gotten hard watching Brett play with this glove today. He’d wanted Brett’s hands on him. Brett knew how much Freddy wanted his hands.

Brett let his gloved hand glide down over his stomach and into his pubic hair. He leaned back against the pillows as he rubbed the glove all over his inner thighs, his balls, his cock. He shivered as some of his pubic hair got caught on the leather and pulled slightly. Would Freddy like this? Would he like Brett to touch him with the glove? Would Anne? Somehow Brett knew they would both like it, very much.

He wrapped his hand around his cock as best he could. The glove was stretched as much as it could and still Brett’s hand was too big for it. It did not cover his entire hand, leaving the lower half of his palm naked. But it wasn’t the tightness of his grip that would make him come tonight. It was the glove, that small bit of Anne, touching him, holding him. Slowly he bent his knees, bringing his legs up, and he let them fall open so he was spread wide. He began to pump his fist along his cock, the leather hitting the sensitive little bump on the underside of his cock just below the head. It was an exquisite feeling.

His free hand slid down to cup his balls. He squeezed them lightly and ran one finger down along the seam beneath them until he touched the entrance there. His fantasy became more focused. He lightly rubbed the tight ring with the tip of his finger as he pulled and twisted his cock with his gloved hand. He imagined Anne working his cock like this while Freddy played with his hole. Yes, Freddy had offered Brett his delectable rump, but he’d also made it clear he wanted to fuck Brett. The first time Brett had realized what Freddy wanted he was shocked. But the idea had taken root and grown and become an obsession. What would it feel like? This wouldn’t be the first time Brett had fingered himself and imagined it was Freddy. He was a spineless bastard. He wouldn’t let himself have Freddy even though he could, but he’d lie here in the dark at night and fantasize about it.