Their Private Arrangement (2 page)

“You're ready for me,” Duggan stated hoarsely, as he eased his hand inside James's breeches, caressing the hot skin of his distended cock.

James shuddered and gave a slight nod, his head lowering. Subservience washed over him in a heady rush, the eager servitude he felt for this treasured lover who wished to claim and use him well.

Duggan walked him toward the bed, directing him, then pushed him down upon it. James landed on his back there with a grateful sigh, his erection poking up from his open breeches. The sight of Duggan standing there—so tall and attractive with his ruddy good health—looking down at him with lust in his eyes while he was so lewdly exposed made his ballocks tighten and throb.

Duggan grinned then bent over him, hands planted either side of James's hips on the mattress, and took the crown of that upright manhood into his mouth. James's eyes flashed shut as rapture surged through him, his whole being centered on the immeasurable pleasure.

This was worth every moment of danger, every sacrifice. His back arched and his chest swelled. Whispering his words of affection, James locked his hands around his lover's head and caressed his thick, dark hair before roving down to his shoulders, so muscular under his hands. As Duggan devoured his manhood and his release built, he gripped those shoulders tightly. Yes, for Duggan, he would make things right. For Duggan they would find a way.

 

It was a week later and the menfolk—as Morag now thought of them—were together once again. Duggan had arrived sometime earlier. Morag had seen him striding across the hillside toward the inn as she opened the downstairs door. The upstairs entrance was already unlocked, and she made ready to dart up the hidden staircase and linger awhile. Alas the alewife had called her away and told to stop gaping.

“We are paid well to turn a blind eye, Morag. Don't peer at the gentleman so.”

“Yes, Mistress Muir.”

The alewife frowned, but took a moment to peer at Duggan herself before turning away and ushering Morag along with her.

Morag stepped behind her employer. As much as she wanted to see him, she was not eager for a telling-off.

“Times are hard all across Fife,” Mistress Muir added, “and we must give thanks for every coin that comes our way, and not put it at risk.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Some time later, however, Mr. Grant called her name from the landing above and asked her to bring a bottle of good claret. Morag collected the bottle from the alewife and mounted the staircase to the lodgings with some curiosity. It was unusual for Mr. Grant to request services when he already had company in his rooms. Once that door was shut, she could only speculate what went on between him and Duggan—and speculate she did. Her nights had been quite restless, thinking on it this past week.

But now she was on her way to Mr. Grant's rooms, and after the stolen kiss Duggan had given her two days previously, Morag approached the task with a light and eager step, knowing that he was up there. The embrace had also occupied her thoughts greatly. It was a long time that she had admired Duggan. As far back as she could remember she had looked fondly upon him whenever she had seen him at the market and at the kirk. Then she walked over the hills at the age of seventeen to seek work at the Drover's Inn and she saw him laboring in the fields. She wondered then if he had a sweetheart. When he started to visit with Mr. Grant at the inn several times a week, she never once thought that he would show her any attention, but now that he had she was eager to encounter him again.

When she knocked, Duggan opened the door and leaned one elbow against the frame as he looked her up and down.

“Mr. Grant requested a bottle of claret,” she stated.

He nodded and his mouth lifted at one corner. Lust simmered in his eyes and the sight of it made Morag's breathing grow hampered. A moment later he pushed the door wide open but made no effort to move, which meant that she had to sidle past him to enter the room. So close was she that she felt the heat from his body. The place where his chest was bared at the opening of his shirt captured her gaze. It made her want to put her hands inside his shirt and measure the breadth of his chest.

Several candles lit the room and she noticed immediately that one was placed near to the four-poster bed, where the curtains had been tied back securely. Mr. Grant sat in his winged armchair close to the fire, which was low in the grate. Morag hastened over to where he sat and set the bottle of claret down on the wine table at his elbow. Stepping over to the cabinet, she sought out the fine crystal glasses that he kept there. He'd previously told her he carried them everywhere, for the wine tasted better from crystal than pottery. She extracted two of the glasses from the cupboards and put them next to the wine. Brushing her hands on her apron, she dropped a quick curtsy. She knew she should leave, but there was a strange feeling in the room, as if both men had something on their minds.

Clasping her hands in front of her apron, she looked at Mr. Grant. “Is there anything else you will be requiring of me, sire?”

Mr. Grant looked, as ever, quite different to his companion of the evening. He was a much wealthier man, for he worked for the crown, traveling about with several other men, collecting taxes for King George's coffers. That meant that he was reviled by many, for King George was hated by the Scots, and no one liked to part with their coin at the best of times. Morag did not know much or even care about such things, for they were far beyond her experience. Folk took their work where they could, herself included. What she did know was Mr. Grant was a knowledgeable man and that he had fine clothes and dressed like a nobleman. He had been kindly to her, too.

Tonight he was not wearing his frock coat, and his waistcoat was undone, his necktie abandoned. He still wore his powdered wig, however, as if he were recently out and about on his business. In contrast, Duggan wore knee breeches that were well worn, as were his shoes. His shirt was long and loose, hanging open across the chest. The disheveled appearance made him seem all the more attractive to her eyes, however, for he was a wild man.

“Bring another glass if you will, Morag.” Mr. Grant gestured at the cabinet and gave her an encouraging smile.

Were they expecting company? Riddled with curiosity, Morag did as instructed. Mr. Grant poured wine into all three glasses, then lifted one and handed it to her. “Join us, if you will.”

She was so startled it took her a moment to gather her senses before she reached out and took the glass from his hand. This was quite out of order, and she blushed to the roots of her hair, unsure how to respond. Her duties were limited to scrubbing, fetching and carrying, and occasionally attending any ladies who stopped there and needed help with their dresses.

“Thank you, sire.” She dropped another curtsy, and then glanced at Duggan. Like her, he was a worker, and she looked to him for guidance.

Duggan still stood close to the door, with his feet placed widely and his arms folded across his chest. He looked across at her with an air of authority, as if he was the nobleman here, as if he was the one who held the power. How strange it was, and the immensity of it made her chest feel tight as a drum. It was as if the room had grown suddenly smaller and the air hot and heavy. There was a brooding expression in those eyes of Duggan's and it made her falter. It was as if he was imagining what she might look like beneath her clothing. Damp heat built between her legs and beneath her breasts, and her stays felt suddenly tight and restrictive. She shifted from one foot to the other.

Prowling like a tomcat, he made his way over and lifted a glass from the table. He concentrated on her, nodding at the glass in her hand. “Share a drink with us. Come now, don't be afraid, you are among friends.”

Following his lead, Morag took a mouthful of the wine. It tasted good and was potent stuff, and she tried not to gulp it. She noticed that Mr. Grant sipped from his glass while he smiled at the pair of them. He had kind eyes, and today they were bright with expectation.

Duggan drained his glass and relieved her of hers once she had done the same. Taking her into his arms, he looked down at her intently. “The last time we spoke, you assured me that no man warmed your bed at the present time. Is that still the case?”

Morag's eyes rounded. “It is, but why speak of it now?”

Duggan ran his finger along the top of her bodice. The other hand was firmly planted against her back, holding her in place. “Would you like a man to warm your bed?”

There was mischief in his eyes, and Morag quickly sensed his intentions.

He rested a kiss in her hair and then added, “To warm where you want it most of all, perhaps…between your legs?”

With a quick intake of breath, Morag urged herself to respond well. She sought the right words and as she did she noticed that Mr. Grant seemed quite attuned to what was being said, and watched with interest. Did he wish to observe them together? It was something she had experienced before—the urge some folk had to look, rather than to partake—but nevertheless she was surprised.

“Are you offering to take on the task?” She looked up at Duggan as boldly as she could, hoping that was the case.

Duggan smiled broadly and responded by ducking his head to kiss her neck. It was a hungry kiss and his hands locked around her waist. Morag swayed, her heart pounding, her head swimming. His hands tightened on her, for which she was grateful, for he held her upright when otherwise she might fall. He surely was a strong man, and a moment later she found her feet swept from under her as he lifted in his arms.

Morag wondered briefly if she were dreaming, but when his breath warmed her face and his hair brushed her forehead, she knew she wasn't. Resting there in his arms, she stared at him in awe, her lips parted.

“A ripe fruit, ready and eager to be picked and enjoyed,” Duggan said, and glanced in Mr. Grant's direction. “Don't you agree?”

Morag clasped Duggan around the neck and glanced at Mr. Grant from under her lashes. His lips were pursed as if in thought, but he nodded. There was a mixture of curiosity and nervousness in his expression, and his cheeks were stained with color. Again Morag had the feeling that it was Duggan who made the decisions here.

He turned away and carried her to the bed, where he rested her and kissed her hungrily on the mouth while he reached for her skirts. He seemed to recall their earlier discussion about a firm hand, because he made no pretence at politeness as he elbowed her legs apart.

Morag could not, however, forget the other man's presence. Did Duggan expect her to ignore him? The nature of their game was not at all clear, and whilst she had dallied with other folk who had taken their lodgings at the Drover's Inn, none had been like these two were. Her understanding of their situation—if it was correct—was that they were forbidden lovers, men who were attracted to their own kind. It made her even more curious about the arrangement, as well as her part in it.

Duggan's bold approach affected her though, making her wanton. She opened her mouth to his tongue and grappled for the hem of her skirts, which she hauled up to assist his approach. Morag wanted nothing more than to feel his weight over her. She desired him above all and was brazen in her responses, despite the onlooker.

“A willing wench,” he said, and sighed as he plucked at the top of her woolen stockings.

She leaned her head close alongside his and whispered, “That I am.”

Duggan pushed her stockings down her legs so that he could examine her legs.

Higher, between her thighs, she ached to be touched, her puss tingling. Soon he would touch her there, and she wriggled under him, eager for it.

Duggan's fingers roved along the soft insides of her thighs, stroking her until she was in a frenzy of need. His gaze followed, his mouth moving sensuously as if he were enjoying each discovery.

“ Mr. Duggan,” she pleaded, breathless in her urgency.

He responded by throwing her skirts up as far as her waist and staring down at his quarry. “Yes, my lusty wench, what is that you want?”

He was having a jest—it was there in his voice and in his expression.

Morag gripped his sleeve and tugged up on it. The lips of her puss were swollen and hot and wanting to be touched, her cunny eager to be filled.

“Is it this that you want?” He clasped her bared puss with his whole hand, squeezing it firmly.

For a moment she could not breathe at all, then she rocked her hips in his grasp, and that made her craving even worse. Gasping, she nodded. He squeezed again and then pushed one finger between her damp folds.

“Oh!”

“Oh yes, you do want it, don't you.” His eyes gleamed as he shifted alongside her on the bed. Pushing her thighs wider, he opened her folds with his fingers.

Cool air dashed against her intimate places. Her face burned, being so thoroughly exposed that way.

“You see how her furrow is made for this, James,” Duggan said as he splayed open her puss with both hands.

Morag whimpered, covering her face with one hand for a moment. But she had to know. When she glanced over at the watching man from beneath lowered eyelids, she saw that there was a tense, expectant quality to his expression. Her arousal grew. His hands were locked over the arms of his chair, his gaze steady on them. After a moment he craned his neck as if to get a better look. If she were correct, he was rather interested in what was going on in his bed.

Morag squirmed, for the dual attentions sent her into a wild mood.

“Aye, I see it,” came the reply.

Duggan seemed pleased by that, pausing to admire the place to which he had drawn the other man's attention, before he dipped down and ran his tongue into its swollen folds.

Morag jerked and arched against the bed, for she felt as if she might swoon from pleasure. She put her arms above her head and grappled for the wooden post at the corner of the bed behind her. Unable to resist, she gripped the sturdy post for purchase, then wriggled her hips up and down, the better to enjoy the strokes of his tongue.