by Once a Rogue
“There might be a little of the rogue left in me, but only you know where to find him, Lucy.” He brushed a hair back from her cheek, dislodging another rose. “I know why you’re worried, but I don’t care about your past. I don’t care what you were before. None of that matters now.”
Her lashes fluttered wide open in surprise and he saw his face reflected in her wide black pupils. Liquid passion bubbled over inside him, his pulse quickened, his arousal too exultant, irrepressible.
He began pulling on her bodice and her sleeves, forgetting the purpose of hooks and laces. They rolled together, straw sticking to hair and skin.
* * * *
He kissed her fervently, as if he needed her for sustenance. In the beginning she almost feared it, this passion he had for her, but her own desires soon kept apace and she let her doubts fall away like the rose petals from her hair. All the facts of how she came to be there, the things he didn’t know that she should have told him, all the warnings, they were insignificant when measured with this yearning that had dwelled inside her since the first time they had met. Here she was, living her heavenly dream. Let it last a while yet.
Nuzzling her breasts, he gasped her name, his thighs hard between hers, sliding them apart quickly. In the next stall, a horse whinnied, wondering what they were doing on the other side of the wooden barrier. And then he entered her, slick and hot, her skirt and petticoat up around her waist, since he was in too much hurry to remove it. She felt him inside her, filling her, stretching her sheath, plowing forward and upward. He found the rhythm quickly, his expression strained, the light in his eyes purely carnal, covetous.
They rolled again until she was astride him and he lifted his hips, grunting, thrusting upward. She cried out, her head flung back, his hands on her breasts. Her body was his now and his belonged to her. They couldn’t stop, there was no end in sight. There were no words, only sensations, pleasure, pain and ecstasy.
* * * *
Pounding into her, strange sounds spat out over his lips and then he drowned inside her, rapidly emptying his seed into her warm haven. It came so quickly, he didn’t even try to hold back. She would have moved off him when she felt the peak begin–he felt her shift–but his hands came down on her hips and held her there, his singular intent being the ultimate sharing, the most potent sign of his love, and his declaration to her, a commitment to their future.
He lay still, spent, relaxed in the straw. They’d have twenty babes, a mix of redheads and dark, boys or girls, he didn’t care as long as they were healthy. He already saw them all, mischievous little creatures, running around the yard, avoiding their chores, laughing and happy. His heart sang wildly at the thought of it, at the picture of an idyllic family life. Children, a wife, all things he didn’t give much more than a cursory, skeptical thought to before this.
She curled against his chest and kissed his nipple. “Is that it?” she whispered.
“Is that it?” he repeated, shaking his head so the straw crackled. “I forgot how demanding you are.”
“It was very….quick. For all your insufferable boasting…”
One hand to the back of her head, he drew her lips to his and kissed her hard. “I’ve only just begun, wench.”
So had she. She reached down to hold his sac in her hands, stroking. “I remember how easily you’re roused again after the first.”
Yes, he thought happily, they were both starved for one another. It wouldn’t be long before he was ready again. Slowly she kissed her way down his chest and he, blissfully supine in the straw, gazed up at the beams as he felt her warm, silken mouth descend, making love to that part of him no one ever lavished with so much adoration as she did. Her tongue wrapped his crest in velvet and he moaned, a slow shuddering breath of delight. She lapped at him, kissed and sucked. He clenched his muscles, lifted his hips, his hands feeling for her hair as it spilled around his thighs and stroked his groin.
He wondered then about his cousin, but when he thought of her with any other man he felt a sharp pain in his heart, bile rising in his throat, so he quickly emptied his mind again, promising himself never to think of her past. Whatever had come since May, it was now August, and he would erase those other months between. Tonight she would know for sure where she belonged and with whom.
* * * *
She felt his fingers in her hair, pulling her up. His manhood was marble-hard again now, lifting and pulsing, thanks to her steady ministrations. Blushing from all the attention, it stretched almost to his navel, making her womanly core melt with joyous and greedy anticipation. Lucy gave the very tip one last lick, tasting his salt and the musk of her own body, and then he whispered at her to turn around. Straddling his chest, she did as he asked. He pressed his flat hand to the small of her back, bending her gently. She took him in her mouth again, only seconds before she felt his lips and then his tongue repaying the favor eagerly between her own thighs. She paused a moment as the quicksilver delight shot through her. Her eyelids were heavy, her heartbeat galloped, warm lust flooding through her veins, bursting forth in all directions. He stroked her thighs with his strong, firm hands, but his tongue between them never stopped, never broke its rhythm. Drawing a sharp breath, she let out a soft moan and arched.
Already it started, the rapturous surging swell. Not wanting to get there before he did, she hastily continued as she began, pleasuring her lover, while he did the same to her.
* * * *
She woke in his bed, not even sure how she made it there. In the fever of their passion, somehow, they must have put out the lantern, locked the gate, bolted the door and found their way upstairs. All she remembered were his kisses and his hands on every part of her, his body over her, under her, inside her.
Little quakes, even now, could be felt deep inside where he started the waves hours ago.
Through his open shutters, the big moon spread a wide arc and lined his profile with silver. He was asleep on his back, arms and legs flung out with carefree abandon, hair ruffled and messy. The little cut on his lip had started to bleed again in the stables, but now it dried. Tomorrow she would put a salve on it for him.
But tomorrow…tomorrow she must leave. The thought broke in abruptly, destroying her peaceful, loving perusal of his face.
Stretching, she sat up, the sheet falling away to her hips. She was naked. Presumably he got her that way, although she seemed to recall it was a struggle since he tried to do everything at once. Her most vivid memories of those last few hours were not of practical acts done by rote, but of sensations, soaring heights of ecstasy, frenzied demands scratching in her throat, slippery skin on skin, the prickle of straw in her hair, the scent of him inhaled in great, greedy gusts and the taste of his kisses, far more potent than his mother’s infamous plum wine.
Now there he lay, innocent as an angel, one arm under his head, the other stretched out toward her, palm up, thick, square fingers curled in a claw. She should go back to her bed across the hall and try to get some sleep or she’d be in no fit state for her journey tomorrow. But when she moved to slide off his bed, his hand was suddenly around her wrist, eyes observing her sleepily.
“Stay with me,” he purred, drawing her hand to his chest. “I’ve never had the pleasure of tumbling you in the morning.”
She shook her head. “I can’t stay with you.”
“Yes you can.” He was watching her through drooping lashes, fingers stroking her arm.
“I should never have come here, John,” she murmured. “If I’d known…I would never have waited on Nathaniel’s cart for you.”
“You know what my father used to say?”
She sighed. “No. Do tell.”
“Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve. Won’t help us now, will it?” Slipping his arm around her waist, he drew her down into the bed and she went limp, helpless.
“What about your mother? She’ll know.”
“Let me worry about mother. In the morning. Now sleep.”
Snuggled against his side,
his arm under her, she laid her head on his shoulder and eventually closed her eyes again, too comfortable and replete to argue.
Tomorrow she’d tell him. Tomorrow she’d say goodbye. She could hardly do it now.
Tomorrow.
* * * *
In the morning he woke her with a kiss, ready to resume their games. He had a long day ahead of him, he said, couldn’t lay abed with her all day, much as she might want him to.
“So I’ll take some comfort now,” he said, “in case I’m weary later.”
They both knew he’d never be too tired, but she willingly complied, charmed by the warm blue light in his eyes, the mischievous gleam of a little boy getting away with his naughtiness. The seasons might change, but he never would, not completely, no matter how he tried, because perpetual summer lived there in his luminous gaze. Today she was heart-achingly reflective, dwelling on every touch, every glance.
He made love to her slowly this morning, entering her from behind, careful, deliberate, anchoring her hips in his hands as he plowed her furrow, inch by inch, until his loins were flush with her buttocks and there he stayed a moment, evidently delighting in the possession. He ground into her and she muffled her cries in the bolster, her hair an untidy, tangled sprawl over her shoulders and his bed. Then, just as slowly, he withdrew until he was almost all the way out, but not quite. He stopped again, reaching around to clasp her breasts in his hands, before he re-entered, thrusting deeper still.
She felt his chest arching over her back, the power of his thighs braced against the back of her legs and, as he gently squeezed her nipples, she clamped her teeth down on the luckless bolster. To be on her hands and knees before him was the ultimate submission and before she met him she would never have imagined allowing this. Ever. But then there were many things she’d never imagined before John.
She sheathed him eagerly each time, pressing back against his groin, trying to hold him inside longer, the desperate craving building with every lingering, torturous retreat. Her breasts hung into his hands like ripe fruit and when he plumbed her again, harder this time, losing a little of his self-control, the bed trembled, shaking his juicy prizes so he closed his fingers around them, gripping tighter. His breath scorched her neck as he covered her like a stallion to a mare, nibbling her skin, working his hips against her.
The tide came in faster waves as she, unable to hold still any longer, pushed back against the tumultuous pressure, squeezing, her orgasm fluttering around his cock as it swelled inside her sheath. And they both felt it, like a thousand tiny kisses lavished on his thick shaft, a decadent sensation comparable to none other. Then he came. The cry rolled out of him like thunder as he emptied wildly, his hips slapping against her bottom, finally pushing her down to the bed.
He slumped over her, breathing hard, still holding her hot breasts, his heart pounding madly where his chest pressed to her back, her own orgasm still coursing through her body, leaving her limp and careless, glad to die under his weight if need be. There were no words. None at all.
And she knew she wasn’t leaving that day.
Perhaps tomorrow would be soon enough.
Perhaps tomorrow she could give him up.
Chapter 18
When John tripped downstairs an hour later, whistling merrily and pulling a leather jerkin over his shirt, his mother had just come in from the hen house holding a basket of eggs under her arm. They exchanged the usual greetings, but he always knew when something troubled her.
She stood by the fire with her back to him, complaining of a chill in the air this morning. He walked up behind her, laid his palms on her shoulders.
“It’s all right, mother. You don’t have to be angry with me.”
Immediately she turned around, the poker in her hands. “You shouldn’t have done it, John. The poor girl…couldn’t you resist your base urges?”
“It’s all right, mother,” he repeated calmly, planting his feet firm, hands on his hips. “I’m going to marry her. Of course. What did you think I planned to do?” And then he laughed easily, clapping his hands together while she turned pale and wan.
“You might have told me!”
“I just did, didn’t I?” He eyed the poker in her hands. “Do put that down, mother. I thought you were going to take a swipe at me for despoiling your precious Lucy.”
“Hush!” She put the poker on its hook, scrutinizing the low ceiling. “Is she still asleep?”
“No, she’s up,” he replied loudly, “and fiddling around with her hair. She’ll be down shortly. Where’s breakfast? I’m famished.” Resuming his jaunty whistle, he began juggling three eggs from the basket, until his mother took them off him, one by one.
“When will you be married then? Let it be soon. There’s been enough gossip in this village.”
“As soon as the parson will take us,” he replied with a grin, bursting at the seams with it this morning, exhilarated. She was his now. She was staying and he would make her his wife.
He quite liked this wooing business after all.
His mother looked relieved, putting the eggs gently back in their basket. “Best tell Alice first. Wouldn’t want her to hear it from another.”
“I will, I will.” He groaned, not looking forward to it. Taking an apple from the dresser, he bit into it, complaining he thought breakfast would be ready by now.
“And when you tell Alice, be a gentleman for once and remember where you come from and don’t…”
“Oh, mother,” he rolled his eyes, taking a second, bigger bite of apple.
“…roll your eyes at me,” she continued, not even looking up from the pot over the fire. “If you’re going to be a married man with a wife, you can start remembering your manners, because you’ll soon have your own sons to be an example to.” She paused then as the reality hit her. “My John, a married man at last! I began to think I’d never see the day.”
He was glad he’d pleased his mother. She may not be the sort to let her emotions overrun these days, but he knew the signs of her excitement. His father used to say she had a temper when she was younger, but she’d mellowed over the years and now, when she felt life getting the better of her, she would sip her plum wine and soon get over it.
His merry mood uncontainable, he surprised his mother again, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and planting a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m sorry, mother, if I haven’t always been good to you.”
“Good to me? For pity’s sake, what brought this on?”
“I’ve spoken harshly sometimes, not been respectful as I should be.”
Her dark eyes twinkled. “That much is true.” She reached up, slapping a playful hand against his sun-tanned stubble. “I see Lucy’s been a positive influence on you already.”
He chuckled. “She has that.”
“The girl has a wise head on her young shoulders. Sees through you right enough. She’ll handle you as I never could, for all my years on this earth.”
His mother claimed not to know her age, but his father used to say she was sixty-five. Unfortunately he said she was sixty-five every year, sometimes changing it to a hundred and twenty, whenever she’d pricked his temper for some reason. At other times, when his father wanted to make up for some quarrel, he would say she was one and twenty. Since no one knew exactly how old she was, she seemed to think she could live as long as she liked, but often she’d remarked to John that even she couldn’t live forever to see his children born.
He thought of his first born child, still marveling at the idea of fatherhood. It was a good thing, he decided, to be done with boyish games, to grow up, settle down. Someone had to continue the Carver name, since his sisters, of course, took their husbands’ names. Perhaps he’d name his first son Sydney. His mother would be overjoyed.
“I’ll go and see the parson today,” he said through a mouthful of apple, thinking practically.
“Aye. You’ll need the banns read.” She paused, finger to her lips. “I wonder if there’s time to get so
me silk and lace from your sister for a wedding gown? She might send us some from London since she’ll be there next month. I’d like to make Lucy something pretty, something to do her justice for once.”
“Lucy doesn’t need a wedding gown, mother. I’d marry her stark naked. That’s the way to do her beauty full justice.”
She grabbed her ladle and batted him round the shoulders while he laughed and dodged away.
* * * *
By the time Lucy made her way downstairs, John was already gone out with his dog. Worried they’d made too much noise last night, Lucy was surprised and grateful when Mistress Carver hurried over to embrace her, exclaiming she couldn’t be happier and she’d known it from the first moment she saw her.
“I’ve wanted John to be happy and find the right woman, but I began to despair of it, I admit.” She held Lucy’s face in her hands, brought it down to her level and kissed her brow. “No woman was ever quite right for him. They were all too in awe of my son and would let him get away with anything. Not you, though. When I saw you and the way he looked at you…you made him nervous, Lucy.” She chuckled. “And that’s always a good sign.” She trundled off to the pantry and Lucy took the bucket of scraps out to her pigs, as she did every morning.
It wasn’t until later, as she and his mother collected the last of the apples from the orchard to make cider, that Lucy learned they were all at cross purposes.
“I shall write to my daughter and see if she might spare us some cloth for the bridal gown. Her own wedding was such an extravagant affair.” The old lady stooped to gather some wind-fallen apples from the grass at her feet. “I’m afraid we can’t put on anything quite so grand, but it should be a memorable day. After all, my son is a Sydney, as well as a Carver!” She tossed the apples in Lucy’s basket. “There’ll be no rushing about, no scandals. It’ll all be done properly.”
Lucy gripped the basket in her arms, watching his mother’s lips as they moved, but not quite certain she’d heard correctly. “A wedding?”