His Mistress

by Treva Harte

  Her gray suit still on, Mercy stretched out on her bed and shut her eyes.

  * * * * *

  "I'm sorry, but where do you expect to be placed?" Mercy smoothed the skirt down, trying to hide her sweating palms. "This isn't a large home."

  Captain Randall Bryant stood in front her, humming just a little under his breath. From what she could smell, he'd been at the taverns before deciding to take up residence in her house.

  "Ah, that's easy enough. What's the best you have to offer?" Her mouth hung open at the audacity of the question and then she saw his smile.

  While she was still outraged at his words, the smile was mischievous, inviting her to smile, too. For a moment she softened. Of course the man was a British soldier despite the Irish lilt still lurking in his words. And he'd been a soldier for a long time, if she could judge by his looks—especially by the scar on his face. Still, just then he looked almost Paul's age when he wanted to get away with something he ought not.

  She caught herself before she treated him the way she might a young and unruly apprentice. He wasn't Paul's age. He was a captain in the mighty British Army. The army that could choose to quarter troops where they wished in Boston while they occupied it. And she needed to mind her manners in front of its representative.

  "As you wish, sir. My bedchamber can be made ready for you shortly." After all, she had cleaned it out today and not made use of it yet.

  "Very shortly. I'm damned near ready to pass out now, darling." She thought he might have winked. "I'll also need a decent stable for my horses. And I suppose a place for my man."

  Why was she ready to laugh when she should be furious? The stables hadn't been used for years. Quartering yet another man meant he would have to go in with the apprentices. She heard James shift near her. She risked a glance. He would look impassive enough to most people, but she knew better. He had no mixed emotions toward the captain.

  Briefly she laid a hand on his arm. James could be discrete, God knew, but she wanted no hint of trouble with the British.

  "Shall I ready Paul's and my room for you then, Mistress Baines?" His voice was flat.

  "Yes. Do that." Mercy nodded decisively. "I'm sorry to put you both out."

  "That's not your fault, Mistress." Before he could say anything more dangerous, James turned.

  "Ho, boy!" For a moment the charm was gone from the captain's voice. James froze. "Loyalty to your mistress is fine. Commendable. But mind your tongue. I'm used to curbing young studs like you. You might not care for my tactics."

  The two men looked at each other and Mercy felt her fingers clench. How the hell would she get James out of whatever trouble Captain Bryant could put him in?

  "Understood. Sir." James didn't sound obedient, but he didn't sound disrespectful either.

  Mercy held her breath.

  "Good." The blue-gray eyes were assessing, but he let James leave without any more discussion.

  "Dismissed." The captain opened the door and barked the word to the soldier who waited outside the house. Mercy heard them march away.

  Then he turned to her, a slight smile on her face. Mercy felt an unmistakable warmth as he tilted his head, watching her. Oh God. What was wrong with her? She couldn't be attracted to one man so soon after having another.

  He walked toward her and then picked up her hand and kissed it—rather the way she thought he might do for a British gentlewoman. She couldn't help it. Mercy was impressed.

  "I am delighted to meet you, Mistress Baines." He murmured the pleasantry against her hand, refusing to let it go. "Indeed, this association may well prove to be the most delightful thing I've found all this time in these rather bleak colonies."

  "Oh dear," Mercy said aloud.

  What was happening to her? She was still the gangly bluestocking she had always been. Yet two dissimilar but attractive men were showing signs of interest. Mercy thought about the ache between her thighs. At least one had shown more than a mere sign. But she was still feeling intrigued by someone else.

  Captain Bryant straightened up at her words and then burst into laughter. Mercy bit her lip before she began to laugh, too.

  "Perhaps very dear indeed, Mistress Baines. We shall see."

  * * * * *

  She sat before the mirror she took from her bedroom and had placed in the apprentices' small bedroom. What had happened to her? Before they'd been interrupted she had been ready for yet another bursting orgasm. Her body had excited a man as much as she'd been excited by him.

  She ought to be thinking about her new, unwanted visitors. She ought to think about many other things—but she wasn’t. She knew what she wanted to think, wanted to do right now.

  Half-embarrassed, half-aroused by her thoughts, she stripped. Mercy stared at herself again. Her body hadn't changed. It was the one her husband had tried and failed to use often enough.

  But James had touched her—there. And there. She pressed at her nipple, watching it grow eager for more touching. He'd touched her elsewhere. Her hand slipped down between her thighs. Shameful touching. That's what others would tell her.

  Mercy sucked in a breath, imagining James' hands caressing her, getting her slicker and more ready for his aroused cock—

  She looked up at the mirror again, and saw herself standing naked and eager. She looked behind her shoulder and saw the door was partially open.

  Oh God! There were several men in her house and she'd left the door ajar?

  Then she saw James, standing just inside the door. Watching.

  Mercy swallowed. He said nothing, once again, but this time she knew why he was watching. And thinking.

  "What do you want?" She whispered anyhow. She wanted to hear the words this time.

  "You." James whispered back.

  She looked at him in the mirror. At all of him. He was hard, his breeches opened. And his own hand was stroking his hardness, just as she had stroked against her softness.

  "You can't. Not now." She could hear the other men stirring in the next room. "Too dangerous."

  "I know." His hand just stroked more fiercely. "Go on, Mercy."

  And she did, feeling the excitement mounting because of his excitement. And because her fingers pushed and tickled and caressed boldly the way she wanted him to. And she looked at the way he was working his erection, roughly, almost desperately, as he watched her. He wanted her just as much as she did him. Just the thought of his own desperation made her own sexual need that much greater.

  She gritted her teeth and shut off the cries she wanted to make as her legs began to tremble and her body arched up, finding hotter and hotter need and finally spiraling into a fierce ecstasy. Even as her greedy body hummed with satisfaction, she forced herself to keep her eyes open as she watched James falling into his own pleasure, his teeth gritting and his seed spurting out hard over his hand as he gave in to his own climax.

  "Shut the door carefully when you leave," Mercy whispered again.

  * * * * *

  "Pardon me, Master Holmes?"

  "Matthew. Please call me Matthew."

  Mercy wiped the printers' ink from her hand onto a rag by the chair and tried to think of a tactful way to respond.

  "Ah. Master Ho—Matthew. My husband has been dead less than a week. I'm not in any state to think about remarriage." Mercy watched the man's face drop. Was he so desperate for a wife?

  "Yes, I know, but I fear that if I don't press my suit now you may never consider me." She looked at the diminutive man before her. God certainly hadn't done much to make him attractive. And she'd heard he was heavily in debt from certain speculative trading ventures that had not gone well. But he had proposed very politely and so she couldn't give him the brusque refusal she had the last pompous soul who had demanded her consideration.

  "I don't know if I shall ever consider marriage again, sir—Matthew." She looked down at her hands, still smeared with traces of ink. "So far I find that I like my independence too well."

  The man snorted.

&
nbsp; "There's too much talk of independence through this whole city. I supposed I shouldn't be surprised even young widows say they prefer it." He picked up his hat—his best hat, Mercy surmised. He bowed. "Very well, Mistress. I leave my offer open should you find your independence more burdensome later."

  Mercy smiled, dropped a small curtsey, and then sat down, abruptly, as he left. That had been unexpected, though she was coming to realize she should expect such things. Apparently she was valuable.

  She saw James contemplating her from behind the printer's press, continuing to work. As usual, he said nothing. But she knew him.

  "I refused him quickly enough," she protested.

  "Small loss," James answered. He smiled slightly. "A very small loss indeed. You'd make three of him."

  "But—“ she prompted.

  "You've had two proposals this week alone. Soon you'll be receiving offers from men you should consider." His face closed up.

  "But I won't, James."

  "I can't marry as long as I stay indentured."

  "I should hope not. How could you support a wife? You have another year before you receive even a journeyman's wages." Mercy had read the contract very carefully.

  "Mercy!" He shot a look around the shop, realizing where he was. "Mistress."

  "James." Mercy kept her face very solemn, though she longed to laugh.

  "Are you trying to make me jealous?"

  "I had no idea Matthew would propose in front of you."

  "Hellfire, woman!" James began to move from behind the press and Mercy couldn't help but start laughing.

  "No, James, truly. I don't want to marry. But if I did—" she stretched out one hand, remembered the ink, and dropped it again. "But if I did, I would propose only to you."

  "But you don't wish to marry."

  "I like doing what I want, not what my husband tells me I must." Mercy smiled. "Just as I like making you do what I want."

  "But—"

  "I know you'd say things would be different between us. How can I be sure of that? I doubt any man can make marriage that different when a wife is obligated to do what he says. Women have to obey. A daughter is bound to her father. A wife to her husband. Only a widow is allowed freedom."

  "You may be right to doubt other men. But I have no doubts about what I want." James bent his head, careful to shield her body from the door. He nudged her breasts from her bodice and fastened his mouth on one nipple. "I'm dying without you, Mercy."

  "Oh!" Mercy's hands flew up and tightened around his hair.

  His tongue wetted her, his mouth suckled. Then his teeth tightened, just briefly, around the hardening tip of her nipple. They hadn't had a chance to couple since Captain Bryant's quartering. James was sleeping near Paul in the shop and the captain's comings and goings at night were too erratic. Mercy had no desire to be discovered. But James was gradually growing bolder and more inventive with his caresses during the day. Right now Mercy knew she wouldn't care if all Boston traipsed in while he mounted her.

  While he mount—

  "James!" She hissed.

  "I'm being careful." James took his mouth from her breast long enough to say that, and then resumed lifting her skirts.

  Careful. Mercy's eyes widened and slapped at his hands. He stopped, lifted his head, and swallowed.

  "What?"

  "I could get with child if we continue this way." She thought of that one night and the delight of feeling James inside her, pouring himself into her body. "I could be with child now."

  James just smiled. He reached down to caress her stomach just briefly. She felt herself growing damp and ready for him. For a moment she wanted to give in, to share his quiet happiness. No. She had to be practical. Everything had a price and this was what she had to do to stay free. So she spoke what needed to be said.

  "I could pass a baby off as George's, but it wouldn't be right. And soon that would be impossible." She watched his smile die. "James, I'm not getting married. I certainly don't want any bastard children. And so—"

  "And so."

  She thought he would say more. Instead, suddenly, he bent and began to suckle her again. Harder. Mercy moaned. Could she climax just from his mouth on her nipples?

  Not quite. She pulled at his hair, desperate for more but dimly remembering they were in full view of anyone. This time James pushed her hands down and walked away. For a moment Mercy was ready to scream in frustration.

  Then she realized what he was doing. James hastily barred the doors to the outside and then to the living quarters. He swung the shutters shut. Within a minute he'd pulled her up atop the table where they assembled the type. What he didn't bother to do was undress her completely.

  "Don't worry, Mistress. I'll be careful," he said.

  She tensed, briefly. How could he be careful when—he put his mouth on the outside of her undershift…Careful? This was careful?

  It didn't feel careful. She could feel him through the cloth. What his mouth was doing was—was—She writhed.

  "Ah. You do like that." He sounded pleased.

  Then he moved the undershift and she was naked to that eager mouth. Did other men do that to women? She'd had no idea…and soon any ideas she could hold onto were gone, lost, scattered as his mouth soothed, provoked, tickled at the most intimate parts of her body.

  She tried biting her underlip to keep from crying out at first, but soon she forgot even that. Those fierce, burning pangs of desire that this man could create were going to drive her quite mad unless—

  She screamed out sharply, shuddering. His tongue eased slowly, slowly away as aftershocks kept rocketing inside her. His tongue's strokes didn't finally stop until she finished the last of her quaking.

  "Oh." Mercy managed that and marveled at her ability to form any sound at all.

  "Was I not careful, Mistress?" James asked. "And didn't you enjoy it?"

  Mercy wondered how he'd known to do such a thing. But then apprentices weren't to marry or get women with child. How many other women had James been careful with before her?

  She would have been more provoked at the idea if she didn't feel quite limp from James' skills. That and because a sudden pounding on the front door made her jump.

  "Ho, in there! Is anyone about?"

  She looked down at herself, her breasts pulled from her bodice, her dress crumpled, and she hastily slid under the long counter that separated the printing press from the public. The public couldn't see her like this.

  James opened the door and then moved himself behind the counter as an elderly man made his halting way into the shop. Mercy covered her mouth to stifle a giggle as James leaned across the counter near her. Behind his printer's apron, James was sticking out like a poker – and probably felt as hot as one. He couldn't afford to be seen on the other side of the counter, either.

  "I want to put out an advertisement!" The man said in the loud tones of the nearly deaf.

  "That's what we're here for, sir. What would you like to say?"

  Mercy couldn't help it. As both punishment and reward for his delightful skills and where he'd learned them, she began to push the printer's apron up and then work at the buttons holding his breeches together. She heard his breath suck in as she unfastened them one by one.

  She could feel him quiver as her hand stroked his testicles.

  "I have a runaway servant wench," the man boomed out. "Damn the wench's fool brain! My wife disciplined her and the gal took a notion to run. Can't have that, can we?"

  "No, in—deed," James' voice sounded a little odd, though still polite.

  Mercy wondered if she could have managed as well if he had begun stroking her with his tongue as she had begun to do to him. From her past performance, she doubted it. She ran her hands down his now naked butt. Such a nice one.

  The cheeks of his rear clenched and she buried her giggles by burying his hard cock down her throat.

  "Red hair, Irish brogue, answers to Mary…" She wondered if James even knew what he was parroting back
to the man. His cock was thrusting just slightly into her. Mercy wondered how he was managing any restraint as she tickled the head with her tongue.

  James was reciting the price for the advertisement in a slightly distracted voice. Mercy stroked his inner thighs with her hands while she used her teeth on his cock just a little. She loved feeling the hair on his legs. She traced a pattern through it. James grunted.

  Then she lost the thread of the conversation completely as she began to stroke and lick and nuzzle the hard length of James' penis. She did love that cock. So responsive, so sensitive, so strong, so demanding…

  Mercy traced the vein in his penis with her tongue, up and up to the sensitive tip that already was wet from her mouth and from his seed. It seemed to pulse as she moved. Then Mercy put her hand down to touch herself, feeling hungry all over again at the sight and feel and taste.

  The feel of his cock in her mouth while her fingers rubbed against her folds was making her need something else. Her clit was aching for something beyond her fingers. Her whole body wanted much more. More of the man above her. Would James ever be done with that stupid customer?

  She was aching and wet and she needed James. Now. She nibbled on his cock, just lightly. She felt him shudder harder this time.

  Dimly she heard the old man's hesitating footsteps on the floor and then she heard the door close. They were alone again.

  "Dear, sweet heaven—“ James' voice choked above her. "You'll destroy me!"

  She sucked hard on the sensitive tip of that cock. Oh, yes. James was right. She wanted his destruction. She wanted him to break. Better yet, she could make him want the same thing.

  And his swollen, hard, needy cock filled her mouth as he finally came, spurting hard into her.

  Chapter Four

  The phone's ring woke her up at last. Blinking, Mercy automatically picked up the phone. How long had she slept?