Perilous Risk

by Blackthorne, Natasha

  Or perhaps it was simply that he was more determined than other men.

  Finally, the blows stopped. “I’ll hear your apology, but first let us be clear about what this punishment is for.”

  Is for? Was it not over?

  A sinking sensation rocked her belly.

  “I would never punish you for refusing my husbandly rights. You are empowered to refuse carnal relations. I want that much understood.”

  “I understand,” she said in a soft, small voice.

  “I punished you because you continue to anticipate my needs. You are not my caretaker.” He gave her a gentle push out of his lap.

  She stood on legs that still shook from the sensations humming in her blood from his sound spanking.

  “If I want your service, I shall ask in clear and no uncertain terms.”

  “Yes, Stephen.”

  “On your knees.”

  With her heart gone all fluttery, she hurried to comply.

  He was unfastening the buttons on his fall. “I don’t require you to demonstrate a courtesan’s skill. Tonight, I just want a warm, moist mouth to suck me to completion.”

  His blunt words might have hurt her at the start of their liaison. But tonight, oddly, she felt relieved to hear them. She didn’t have to worry about the women he’d been with before. If they were extravagantly beautiful, skilled, younger than herself.

  It didn’t matter. She believed him. He would tell her exactly what he wanted and needed.

  He was her husband and he didn’t expect to be entertained or to have sexual relations that could ignite fireworks every night. Had she honestly felt that the men before had expected that?

  Yes, actually she had.

  She opened her mouth and took him inside and set to sucking him with a slow but steady motion.

  He threaded his hands into her hair and gripped her head. “Yes,” he said in his hoarse voice. “That’s it exactly.”

  Later, listening to his breathing as he slept, she felt the night’s chill penetrating the thick quilt. They needed at least one more. But that would mean a journey into the cellar because she had searched everywhere else in the cottage.

  Since coming here, she had oft imagined odd noises down there at night. She was developing a fear of dark, damp, closed-off places. Fear of what might happen to her in there. Fear inspired by men like Gerard and the Earl of Barnet.

  She hated to ask her uncle to give up some of his blankets because he was always running short on them, always giving them away to patients who were needy. She had recently posted a message to her housekeeper in London to send several of her heavy quilts here. However, in the meanwhile that fear had kept her from searching the last place for more covers for the bed.

  * * * *

  “How dare you marry without consulting me first.”

  Rebecca stared into her father’s eyes, cringing at the open censure, the open indignation. “Well, you see, it happened very fast.”

  “I am hurt, Rebecca, deeply hurt.” He held himself stiffly, tossing his head and shaking his white mane back off his shoulders.

  Barely a week and a half had passed since her marriage to Stephen. She had hoped that Father might simply be happy for her.

  She had also written to Edwin and her son had already replied that if she were happy, he would be happy for her too.

  She ought to have known better about Father.

  Father’s mouth twisted as though he’d tasted something sour. “Frederick said he was dying.”

  “Father, please don’t say things like that.”

  “He looks quite healthy to me.” Father sounded disappointed.

  She took a deep breath. “You say that as though you wished he were dying.”

  “Really, Rebecca, it is no good, no good at all. You left London without any rational explanation, there’s been nothing but confusion at the shop ever since, and now suddenly you are married?” Father drew his bushy white brows together. “Are you sure of your marriage lines? Is it possible this man has committed a fraud to trick you into his bed?”

  She shook her head. “Uncle Frederick assured himself that the license was valid and then so did the minister. The marriage was witnessed by the same and is valid.”

  Father pursed his lips. “Indeed, when did a nobleman need to trick you into his bed in any case?”

  She took a sharp inhalation. But at least Father was only directing his anger at her and no longer wishing for Stephen’s imminent death.

  Father watched her intently, waiting for some sign of weakness, this she knew. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

  “So you fancy yourself a baroness now?”

  “I am a baroness.”

  “You think Society will accept you?”

  Sickness twisted through her stomach. But outwardly, she just shrugged.

  Father scoffed. “You’re a damned fool if you think they will.”

  “It is my problem, Father.”

  His expression changed to a fierce one. Involuntarily, she took a step back. He leant closer, scowling and suddenly she was seventeen again, caught, shamed.

  “Well, daughter, I am glad you have such minor problems. My problems are more complex and pressing. I must somehow find someone to replace you.”

  Her fingers fidgeted with her skirts. “Ste—Lord Drake says he will help you. He will fund the wages of any and all assistants you wish to hire. If you wish to refurbish the shop, he says—”

  “Oh, I see you are a convert to the aristocrat’s way of seeing the world. Money means everything, eh? A little ready coin solves all problems.” His scowl deepened. “How shall I replace your experience? How will I feel as comfortable with a stranger as I might with my own daughter? Who will bring me my supper and slippers and tea in the evenings?”

  “You might marry again.” The words had barely left her lips and his expression lit with fiery anger. Her heart skipped a beat and she caught her breath.

  “Marry?” He scoffed. “How should I ever trust a wife now? You have proven to me, over and over, that women are all whores.”

  First, she heard only his scathing tone and vulgar words. She caught her breath, still scarcely believing her ears. It had been years since he’d used such callous and crude language with her. Since she had told him that she had wed Donald. Then her father’s full meaning rained down on her and, realizing emotionally that her father had just called her a whore, she clamped her hand to her mouth and fled the cottage into the outdoors.

  “Yes, that’s it, run! Run away from the truth! Just as you have always done.” His voice thundered behind her.

  Tears blinded her but she picked up her skirts and ran all the harder, turning down the path to the sea. And ran straight into a solid form.

  Hands gripped her shoulders. “Shh, sweeting.” Stephen’s voice was gentle and very hoarse.

  “You can’t be a very perceptive man if you allowed my daughter to dupe you into marriage.” Father’s words carried from the side of the cottage.

  At Father’s words, Stephen’s hands tightened on her shoulders.

  “He doesn’t mean it.” She swallowed back a sob. “He’s angry. He’s disappointed. He’s hurt.”

  “I don’t care if he’s got a bloody axe lodged in his head.” Stephen turned to Father. “You, sir, are no longer welcome in my house. Ever. You’re to stay away from my wife until you can learn to have a civil tongue with her.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it is? Well, let me tell you, my fine Lord Drake, she will betray you. That’s the kind of cat she is. She can’t help lifting her tail for every—”

  On a growl, Stephen released her shoulders and stormed towards Father.

  She picked up her skirts and hurried back towards the cottage.

  “Please, Stephen, please! He’s hurting now. He’ll take it back later,” she said, faltering over the lie as she stopped running and pulled a stray lock of hair off her face.

  Stephen grasped Father by the collar. Father was no lightweig
ht but Stephen lifted him partway and shoved him against the exterior wall, so that Father had to reach for the ground with his toes. “Leave, immediately.”

  “This is not your house,” Father said, his tone defiant yet a touch breathless from the pressure of Stephen’s powerful forearms pinning his body against the wall.

  “Perhaps it would be best if you did leave, Augustan.” Uncle Frederick’s voice sounded calm yet firm from behind her.

  “Well, well, Frederick. I knew you held a soft spot in your heart for her, but I had not realized just exactly what was up between the two of you.” Father flicked his glare from Uncle Frederick to her then back to Uncle Frederick. “My daughter is a whore who uses her indecently strong carnality to enchant every man to champion her side of things.”

  “Father! That’s a ghastly thing to suggest.”

  “I am not suggesting anything. I am asserting the obvious truth.”

  Fresh tears filled her eyes. “Uncle Frederick has been nothing but a loyal and loving brother to you. He stood by you when you had alienated everyone else. And you thank him with this kind of vile accusation?”

  “If he would take your side against me, then he’s no longer any brother of mine.” Father turned back to Stephen. “My lord, if you’ll release me, I’ll be on my way.”

  Stephen released Father with a strong shove. “I repeat, you are never, ever to come near her again. You are not welcome near any of my houses or my children if God shall so bless us.”

  Father straightened his waistcoat then tossed his heavy mane of white hair. He held himself rigidly erect as he walked to the stable.

  Rebecca watched the wind whip Father’s hair and then she went weak. Suddenly the wind’s chill seemed to penetrate her clothes and cut through her bone-deep. She shivered, hugged her shoulders and hurried back to the cottage. Once inside, she sought refuge by sliding into the nearest chair.

  Stephen and Uncle Frederick followed her inside. Both men seemed at a loss as to what to say or do.

  “What did I ever do to deserve such vitriol from the man who sired me?”

  “He never forgave you for growing up,” Uncle Frederick said.

  She pulled her handkerchief out and wiped her eyes, angry at the tears that insistently to kept falling. “All girls grow up.”

  “But you weren’t supposed to. You were supposed to take your mother’s place at his side. To be his consolation for all his hard work, his helpmate.”

  “Hannah, Susanna and Esther were allowed their own lives but I was not. And they were much older than me.”

  “He blames you for your mother’s death.”

  “She died of a fever. How can I be to blame for that?”

  “She had been nursing you, for you were sick from that same fever. Illogical? Perhaps. But he never made peace with her death.” Uncle Frederick sighed. “Perhaps now, your Lord Drake is regretting becoming attached to this family.”

  “I think we could all use a drink,” Stephen said.

  * * * *

  Rebecca sat at the vanity, listlessly running her silver-backed brush through her hair. The pain that had been etched into her face all evening lashed into Stephen. His stomach had begun to ache, though thankfully it had not yet begun to burn. He rubbed his midsection. He wanted to avoid taking any opiate unless it became truly unbearable.

  Years ago whilst in the Dragoons, he’d always disliked Rebecca’s father for what he had put her through before and after her marriage to Donald Howland. “That’s why he wanted to wed you to such an old man,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Mr Peterson was sixty years old.”

  “I remember you telling me that.”

  “I suppose he wasn’t all that bad but to me, at such a young age, he seemed ancient and wizened. I was terrified of finding myself beneath him.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “I-I just couldn’t bear the thought…even of allowing him to kiss me. When Donald declared himself and offered to take me to Gretna Green, I jumped at the chance to escape.”

  “Any girl with even an ounce of spirit would have done the same.”

  “Oh, when I received his first reply, once Donald and I were settled at his regiment, Father was so hurt. He wrote such scathing things in that letter. He told me never to come home again.”

  “But he relented later.”

  “Yes, he relented, shortly after Edwin was born. But Edwin was a disappointment to Father. It is just as well that Donald was eventually sent to the Caribbean. England had become a painful place.”

  “Perhaps your father simply resents Edwin as he would resent anyone who took your time and devotion.”

  “Perhaps.” Her voice held such a miserable undertone.

  “He will relent this time.”

  “Yes, perhaps he will. Or perhaps he is too offended, too hurt this time.”

  “No, he will relent.” Stephen made his voice firm. “We will not accept him back.”

  “How can I reject his apology, should he make one? He is my father.”

  “Did he really apologise after your marriage to Howland?”

  Her shoulders sank. “No, I suppose he didn’t. He rationalised how he had been hurt, how hard it had been for him to think clearly in the face of my betrayal. But he never actually said he was sorry for the things he’d said.”

  “But you’re a grown woman now. You have your son and you have me. If your father cannot consistently be loving towards you, then you do not need him.”

  He was proud in a way to see her accept her unpleasant feelings and that she had not sought to distract herself through drinking too much whisky.

  Yet, he ached for her pain.

  His stomach began to burn, a reminder that he’d merely been given a reprieve, not a cure. Anger smouldered through him, hot, bitter yet impotent for he was surely still headed for death. Maybe a little slower now that he was adhering to a proper diet and medication, but it was still approaching. His time with Rebecca was limited. He would not be here to shield her from her father. He would not be around to protect her.

  At least he had given her his name and made her his lady. She would also inherit his personal wealth and all his personal effects. He had sent word for his solicitor in London to find and purchase a fine house for her, in Mayfair. And she would have funds to purchase a country house of her choosing as well. Or she might travel. Or do any number of things she fancied to do. He would leave her well provided for.

  He could feel satisfied about that.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  His stomach began to burn hotter. He arose from the bed and went to the kitchen to take an opiate pill with a glass of water. Then he forced himself to eat a light meal of milk and bread. With his queasiness increasing, he certainly did not wish to eat. But he did it for his health. For Rebecca’s sake.

  He went to lie in the bed and wait for her to join him. To wait for the medication to take effect.

  Being an invalid was a damned nuisance.

  “You’re feeling ill again, aren’t you?”

  The fear in her voice pricked at him. Oh devil take him, why hadn’t he tried harder to hide it? He’d become lax around her. “Just a little stomach-ache. It is passing now.”

  That wasn’t a lie, the pleasant haze of the opiate was washing over him.

  He opened his eyes. She stood there in her nightdress. It was the type of garment a wife wore to bed with her husband. With lace trim and rosettes and ribbon bows on the sleeves and neckline. Her nipples were pink little points against the sheerest white muslin and she was running her hands up and down her upper arms. He tossed the covers on her side of the bed down and motioned to her. “Come to bed.”

  She lay beside him stiffly, as though he were so fragile she daren’t rock the bed or touch him. He pulled her close.

  She settled her head against his shoulder, still moving delicately, as though to disturb him the least.

  He let his hand drift along her waist, down the curve of her hip to
her positively lush bottom. She grew rigid all over. Likely, she was fighting any feelings of enjoyment, for one should not take enjoyment from an invalid. A dying man.

  He forced the thought away and fit his hand into the crease between her buttocks. At her body’s instant relaxation, he smiled. He was managing to train her to his ways. To his control. But he wouldn’t be around long to enjoy it. He delved deeper into the crease between her legs. The muslin was dry, there was no wetness to seep through.

  That was a bit deflating.

  He toyed with the idea of manually arousing her yet he could sense her mind whirling with thoughts. If he wanted to have her properly tonight, he’d have to relax her first. To distract her from anything but feeling.

  “You have me now, Rebecca. You don’t need anyone in your life who is less than respectful or affectionate towards you.” He moved his hand all the way up to her shoulders and began to massage the point in between the blades. He turned closer to her and put his face into the silken cloud of her golden-brown hair. The scent of violets washed over him. The scent of Rebecca.

  The opiate was truly taking effect now. He felt no pain. His cock was beginning to harden and lengthen. She must feel it.

  “Stephen?”

  “Hmm?” He pressed his increasing erection into the softness of her belly. He was leaking. He would make her pristine, modest little nightdress wet. So wet.

  “How did you become a…what you do?”

  “You mean how did I become an assassin?” He could hear the distraction in his voice. He was rubbing his shaft against her. And he was getting harder and harder by the moment. God, he loved how hard she could make him just with her presence. Just with her scent of violets and womanly flesh. And her innocent muslin nightdress.

  “Yes, how did it happen?”

  “It’s not a very nice story, my love.” He fit his face into the curve of her neck, smelling her, kissing her, tasting her.

  “But I’d like to hear it.”

  “Now?”

  “Well, yes, now.”

  “Not now…later.”

  “You will fall asleep later.”