Bride

by Stella Cameron

“Wake up!”

  Mr. Smith’s voice came to Glory through a heavy mist of sleep. She groaned and coughed. Her mouth felt as dry as the earthen floor in the cave.

  He shook her by the shoulder and stripped away the tartan he’d covered her with before he left. “It’s almost time. We’ve got to make sure you know exactly what you’re to do.”

  “Don’t want to,” she mumbled into a rancid-smelling sheepskin. “Sleep.”

  “You’ve slept enough. You’ve slept away many days, my girl. I need to check you.”

  She tried to turn over. “No!”

  Mr. Smith pushed her back onto her face and shoved the thin gown she wore up to her waist.

  Consciousness rushed back and she made fists beside her head. “Don’t hurt me again.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you again, my dove.”

  Glory lay quite still. He’d called her that several times since she’d arrived in this terrible place. Each time, instead of the things she’d expected, he’d forced an opiate down her throat and beaten her. She still didn’t know how badly or how often he’d beaten her. Steady doses of the opiate had assured that.

  “A beautiful arse, m’dear.” Something cold ran over her exposed bottom and between her legs. “This will make certain those nasty welts heal with as little marking as possible.”

  “You hit me, Mr. Smith. You’ve scarred me.”

  “No.” He laughed. “Just created the knife to turn in Hunsingore’s gut. I can imagine how that woman’s heart of his will cringe at the sight of what he caused.” The laugh rose higher.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Glory asked. “Go to his doorstep and pull up my skirts?” “You know what you’re to do.”

  She sniffed into the nasty sheepskin. “I don’t know why I should.”

  His slap on her slick, bruised skin slammed her teeth together and she choked on a scream.

  The laughter became even higher. “That’s right, my dove. You know what I like, don’t you?”

  At last he was going to let her have what she wanted. Glory’s excitement rose. The pain where he’d slapped her only increased the thrill.

  In one swift motion, he pushed the gown up to her shoulders. “Let’s have a look up here. Pretty colors. Very effective. And how will you act, my dove?”

  “Pitiful,” she said, her breathing short. “And like I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Very good.” More of the cold liquid drizzled along her spine. Mr. Smith spread the herbal-smelling unguent from her neck to her knees. “And what will you keep on saying?”

  His fingers touched the sides of her breasts and she wriggled.

  “What?”

  Glory wriggled some more. “Can’t remember.”

  He smacked her rear again and Glory cried out again.

  “What will you say?”

  “Give me a little bit,” she wheedled. “Go on, just a bit.”

  Rather than doing as she asked, Mr. Smith slid his hands beneath her breasts and squeezed, hard. “Say it.”

  She shook her head.

  He twisted, then flipped her to her back.

  Glory threw her hands over her head and licked her lips. “Come on, then.” She deliberately taunted him. He liked her to taunt him.

  From a pocket he produced one of his precious cundums.

  “Ooh, been down the Strand again, have you?” she asked. He insisted on wearing the piece of dried sheep gut over his rod no matter what they did. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m clean?” Fastidious, was Mr. Smith.

  With narrowed eyes, he stripped off his coat and threw it to the floor. He undid his breeches, pushed them down, and straddled her.

  She sighed. “There can’t be another one like you, luv. Oh, come to your darling, Glory.” Desperate to urge him along, she undulated her body, thrust up her breasts, then her belly, almost bucking him forward.

  An instant and he used a knee to pin each of her arms. With his cock so close she could almost reach it with her straining tongue, he slid on the thin bag and tied it in place.

  “Let Glory have it, then,” she said, smiling coyly. “All of it.”

  “Beg.”

  “I’ve been begging.”

  “Beg some more.” Winding a lock of her hair around his fingers, he turned and turned until she yelped. “Tell me what you want?” he said.

  “You know what I want.”

  Another turn of her hair tore at her scalp and she hissed out her pain. “Say it” The tone of his voice didn’t change.

  “I … want it… behind,” she managed to tell him. “And in front.”

  “But what do you want first, my dove?”

  Amazingly, the grip on her hair grew even tighter and she wailed. Between gasps she said, “I want to feel all of you, Mr. Smith. And I want you to do what makes you happiest.”

  “That’s better.” He lowered himself until his ballocks rested between her breasts, and took his fingers from her hair.

  Glory gave a little shriek and wrestled to release her arms. To no avail.

  “What are you going to say to Hunsingore, Glory?”

  Tears seeped along her temples. “I’m sorry. I’m going to say I’m sorry.”

  “Very good.” A slight shift of weight and the end of his rod pried her lips open. “And what will you say to the woman he’s asked to marry him?”

  She blinked. Mr. Smith pushed himself deep into her mouth, into her throat. Glory panted and sucked. Woman? He hadn’t mentioned any woman.

  Mr. Smith’s hips moved rhythmically.

  It always went this way. First what he liked best. Then what she wanted—after he got himself together again and emptied out his bloody cundum.

  Glory concentrated, sealed her lips tightly around his shaft, and used her sharp little teeth to milk him to release.

  And he never said a word—never did say a word when he came.

  As usual, he drew in a long, shuddering breath and leaped from her as if she might get something he didn’t want to give away.

  With his shirt all but covering fine, strong hips and his breeches around his ankles, he braced himself against the wall and waited until his breathing grew slower and quieter.

  “What woman?” she said.

  “The one he’s going to marry. The one you’re going to use if Hunsingore gives us any trouble. Only not at first. I’ve got other plans at first. Tell me what you’re going to do to Hunsingore.”

  “I’m going to make him sorry for me.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I’ll get him to comfort me.”

  “What sort of comfort will that be?”

  She smiled to herself. “I’m going to get him to take me into his bed—or somewhere else if that’s what presents itself.”

  “And?”

  Glory stroked her breasts and belly and pushed her fingers into the dark, slick hair between her thighs. “I’ll make him want to give me what I need.”

  “What you always need,” Mr. Smith said neutrally. “I do believe we understand each other well. Show me what he will do to satisfy you.”

  He needn’t have asked. Already her hips writhed. The unguent mingled with her own juices and her strong fingers quickly gave her what she wanted.

  Panting, she let her legs splay and spread her arms on the wool-covered pallet.

  “Very nice,” Mr. Smith said. “Too bad you can’t service quite all your needs yourself, my dear.”

  Glory licked her lips. “I’m glad I can’t, and so are you. So what’s all these other things we’re to do, then?”

  “Tonight Hunsingore learned what it is I want.”

  “We want,” she corrected him.

  “He will be shocked. And he will become even more alert. It would not be surprising if he were to attempt to isolate himself and his brood entirely.”

  “So how will I get in?”

  “The woman’s name is Lady Justine Girvin. She’s a cripple. Also very pious.”

  Glory raised herself on her el
bows. “He’s marrying a cripple?”

  “So it seems. Tricked into it. You’ll get at him through her. I’ll tell you how to do that. Then you will help me force Hunsingore’s hand.”

  Rolling her ample hips from side to side, Glory smiled up at him. “Why don’t we have a little fun before you finish telling me all about this?”

  “He’ll marry her soon. Within days, unless I miss my mark. Once she’s his wife he’ll be looking for diversion. But he’d still try to turn you away. You’ll approach the woman and explain how he always said you were to come to him if you were in trouble. Show her how much trouble you’re in.”

  Glory turned onto her stomach. “Then she’ll take me in? And I’ll have a chance at Hunsingore? I shall like that very much.”

  “Not too much,” Mr. Smith said, turning his cold face toward her. “Do not become distracted. Remember, I and only I can truly fulfill you, my dove.”

  “I’ll remember,” she said demurely, cupping her breasts. “So, is that it?”

  “Only the beginning, I fear. He won’t be easily frightened. That’s where you will be so useful. You will keep me in the information I cannot get without living with the man. With your help we shall—if necessary—make sure he loses one or two things he cherishes more than his own life.”

  Glory’s gaze flew to his face. “The woman?”

  He shrugged. “That will depend upon whether he appears to care anything at all for her. And there are others who may be more easily disposed of.”

  “You make it sound like …” She’d better be careful what she said or he’d lose his temper again.

  Smiling, he pushed away from the wall. With ease, he rotated her until her knees met the floor and her body folded across the pallet. “I believe this is what you were waiting for.”

  He forced his rod into her. Glory scrabbled at the twisted tartan and screamed afresh. “Go on! More!”

  Mr. Smith’s hips met her bottom and she almost fainted with pleasure. “So,” he said. “What was it I made it sound like?”

  She couldn’t talk, not now.

  He withdrew and lifted her to face him. “What?” The rutting began at once.

  Sweat coursed between her breasts and down her back. Each thrust pushed her farther across the pallet until her head met the wall.

  “What? I asked you a question, Glory.”

  “Don’t stop!”

  “I won’t—if you answer my question.”

  “Oh—” This was why she could never leave him—even if she hadn’t been afraid to try. “You talked like you were going to kill someone.”

  Just as she would have had it all, he pulled out of her. His grin chilled the protest on her lips. “Good. Very good. I’m glad you understand me so well.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Justine didn’t waver until Struan began to lead her through the door to his bedchamber.

  He looked deep into her eyes. “You don’t trust me?”

  “With my life,” she told him.

  “Then trust me not to do anything that will frighten you or make you unhappy. I’m tired, my love. Will you lie with me?”

  “On your bed?”

  “I thought that might be more comfortable.” “More comfortable than what?”

  He sucked in the corners of his mouth before saying, “Oh, I don’t know. The windowsill, perhaps, or my desk, or even the floor.”

  She smiled. “You do enjoy funning me, sir.”

  “I should enjoy lying on my bed with you in my arms even more.”

  The nameless place within her squeezed together. Such a thrilling squeeze. “I don’t suppose this is appropriate,” she said. “Really?”

  “Really, it is.” Struan settled her hand on his palm and smoothed her knuckles with his thumb.

  Justine put her free hand on top of his. “I have quite tossed my virtuous reputation to the wind, haven’t I?”

  “Quite.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful?” She sighed and traced the veins on the back of his hand. His cuff showed very white against a sprinkling of dark hair. “After all, we are to be married.”

  “We are indeed. You are my fiancée.”

  Married.

  Fiancée.

  Bride?

  “You are suddenly very quiet, Justine.”

  “I am often quiet. I had never expected to be a bride, Struan—not since I became old enough to realize it couldn’t happen.”

  “Old enough to be wrong, you mean? Lie in my arms, sweet.”

  “What if we fall asleep?” And she awoke to find this was as fictitious as Hannah’s ghost.

  “I shall not fall asleep. If you fall asleep, you may miss some of those things your curious mind spends so much time trying to imagine.”

  “Oh.” She walked forward with him to his ebony bed with its golden tiger sentinel atop each post. “Your grandfather liked extraordinary things.”

  “Yes.” The response was automatic.

  Justine ran her fingers over a bedpost. “What was his name?”

  “Edward. Why do you ask?”

  “Curiosity. One must wonder about the man who gathered such a fascinating collection into one place. How did he die?”

  Struan didn’t answer until she looked at him when he said, “You are a curious creature. He was injured in a hunting accident. He lingered for several years but never regained his strength.”

  A chill slithered up Justine’s spine. “How sad.” What had been written in the book was accurate. But surely her imagination had conjured the apparition…

  “Enough quizzing for now, dear one.” Struan flung back the dark-green counterpane and turned to Justine. Without fuss—and without asking permission—he proceeded to undo the tiny buttons that closed her robe from neck to waist.

  She stood quite still. And she found she could not breathe at all.

  “Who would think of such infuriatingly small buttons?” he said, frowning.

  “I would,” Justine said. “I made them.”

  “I see.”

  “That means you don’t.”

  “Not always.” He completed his task and slipped off the robe in a businesslike fashion. After setting the garment over a chair he swept Justine into his arms and deposited her on the bed without ceremony. “There. I shall not bother with the fire. We shall keep each other warm.”

  Justine didn’t need his physical touch to make her skin blaze.

  “You do not appear comfortable.” Studying her, he adjusted a pillow beneath her head, straightened her night rail, brushed her hair away from her face with his fingers. “Better?” He pulled up the covers.

  Unable to make a move to assist him—or herself, Justine nodded.

  “Wonderful,” he said, too heartily. “This will be a fine opportunity to deal with several matters.”

  “What matters?” she asked through loudly chattering teeth.

  Struan peered at her but made no mention of the clatter she’d made. “Just matters. You’d better be ready to make notes in your mind again.”

  He’d taken off his cloak. His coat and waistcoat followed. Sitting on top of them all, he worked off mud-spattered boots, then stood up again.

  Now he was undoing his shirt!

  “Um. What was the name of the waltz you played for me?” she asked in a rush.

  Struan paused in the act of pulling his shirt free of his breeches. “Damned if—I mean, I’m not sure I remember the title.” His shirt slid from his shoulders, down his arms to land on the floor. “No. I never knew it, did I?”

  “D–didn’t you?”

  “I’ll ask Arran.” Hair on his chest, smooth and soft-looking, shone as black as the hair on his head. The dark pelt became a slim line over his muscular belly and disappeared beneath the waist of his breeches.

  “You are quite differently made.”

  “Hmm?” His gaze settled intently on her face.

  “Different. I said you are very differently made.”

  “Different from what?”
/>
  “Oh”—she shrugged beneath the covers—“from me, I suppose. I haven’t seen a great many men without clothes.”

  “Well, well. You do surprise me.”

  “It’s true, you know. This is quite an unusual event for me.” “I always do my utmost to provide my guests with entertainment.”

  “Oh, I am entertained. Most entertained. You do not need a great deal of padding and so forth, do you?”

  Struan’s lips parted—then he placed them precisely together.

  A lot of gentlemen do, you know?” Justine told him. “Require padding, I mean. In their jackets and so forth.”

  “The other gentlemen you’ve seen without their shirts, d’you mean?”

  “Sin’s ears, no! I mean, no. It’s only that I’ve heard some gentlemen have their clothes made with certain enhancements because they wish to appear larger. You are quite large enough. Your shoulders are very large. And your chest is so … so… It’s just so. And you certainly must be grateful to require no stays.”

  The crinkling of his eyes left her in no doubt that she knew more about the artifice some gentlemen used than he did. The idea amused her.

  “Have I said something funny, Justine?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Not really. But you probably would laugh if I told you Calum explained to me that he’d seen gentlemen put on stays to make their waists seem smaller and their chests appear larger. What do you think of that?”

  “I think Calum is less than circumspect to discuss such matters with you.”

  “I asked him. It was because of Lord Belcher. He struts and sometimes seems perilously close to missing the chair when he sits because his back is held so straight. Lord Belcher has a very red face and at least three chins. He wears diamond buckles on his shoes—in the morning. And his shoes have heels to make him taller. And he favors cochineal to color his cheeks and lips even more pink—and the backs of his hands.”

  “God! A fop.”

  Justine wrinkled her nose again.

  “Forgive me,” Struan said, and began unbuttoning his breeches. “I’m sure you don’t appreciate blasphemy.”

  “Actually not. But you are right. Lord Belcher is a fop—an ancient fop. Are you going to take your breeches off?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “We both tend to see a great deal, don’t we?”