A Midsummer's Sin

by Natasha Blackthorne

  Her mouth had dropped open during his incredible accusation. “You believe this?”

  “I am forced to believe it by your very truculent behaviour.”

  “And your Patience—was she truculent as a way to attempt to govern your behaviour?”

  “It is a feminine way, is it not?”

  “Well, it is not my way. If I should wish to bedevil you, I should come right out and say the truth—that you’ve behaved like a petulant child over the matter with your long, arch looks and rude silences.”

  His expression closed. “You’re just a borrowed boundgirl. I think you should cease giving your opinions now.”

  He removed the charred bread from the oven and took it with him as he left the house.

  * * * *

  Sally’s snoring drove Rosalind out of the narrow bed they shared and into the barn. She spread a blanket over a pile of hay then sat there to slowly savour a cup of Thomas’ rum.

  Thomas.

  She was sick of the sight of him.

  The sooner she returned to Goody Wilson’s, the better.

  She drained the cup and dropped it to the soft hay. On a weary sigh, she lay back on the pallet, wrapping her cloak about her. Sleep drifted over her.

  The sound of the barn door coming open startled her awake.

  Thomas stood there, holding a lantern. He was clad in his nightshirt.

  She pulled the edges of her wrapper tightly together. “Can’t you give me any peace?”

  He walked over and picked up her discarded cup. He sniffed. “Up late, drinking. Is this what you do at Goody Wilson’s whilst she sleeps?”

  She frowned at him. “You shameless lecher, who are you to criticise me?”

  He dropped the cup. It landed with a dull thud on the packed dirt floor. “You think because I’ve fucked you that you can disrespect me?”

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  “By God, I have had enough of your sauciness and your sharp tongue,” he growled the words.

  A strange mix of fear and excitement brewed in her belly. He took a step towards her and emotions tingled through her, to the very ends of her fingers and toes. She turned and began to ran.

  He wrapped his arm about her waist, stopping her, and pulled her back. He bent and brought his face so close to hers his stumble scraped her cheek. “Oh no, you’re not going anywhere. You temptress. You witch.”

  His breath wafted over her, an ethereal kiss. Cider-scented.

  “You’ve been drinking yourself!”

  “You would lead any man to drunkenness.” He pulled her along. The movement seemed exaggerated. The barn swept dizzily by. He fell back and took her with him, leaving her stomach behind.

  Her hands spread over the straw as she lay across him, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

  “You crimson-haired witch. They burn witches but I know a better way to tame a witch.”

  “Let me go, you bastard.” She gathered her wits enough to push against his arms as he still held her. “I’ve had scores of others, all better men than you.”

  She blurted the last words in a heated rush. She’d said it to hurt him. However, it was nothing more than he’d suspected, she was sure.

  Something flashed in his eyes and he tightened his grip. Then he laughed down at her, the sound cold and empty. “Truth at last. I knew you for a shameless harlot when I first set eyes on you. In that garish green gown with all your flaming locks clashing against it.”

  He rose to a sitting position, quickly rolling and turning her. Once again, the barn spun by until she lay face down over his knees, staring at the dirt floor, her heart pounding.

  She tingled all over and her breath began to come harder and faster. He caressed her buttocks through the thinness of her nightwear. Her cunt clenched and wetness seeped from her.

  This was…carnal. Sinfully so.

  He stopped caressing her and a wave of loss swept over her. She almost cried aloud. His hand made contact with her arse. The smack echoed in the barn. One of the horses nickered in answer. A stinging blossomed on her buttock, an almost pleasant sensation.

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  His hand landed repeatedly.

  Each time, the blows grew a little sharper, stronger. The tingling, stinging sensation changed to outright burning.

  He stopped. She wasn’t sure if she were glad or sorry. He pulled her clothing up. Cool air rushed over her burning flesh. His hand came down on her bare flesh again. Fire consumed her. Her blood turned to pure honey and gushed out of her cunt in a torrent of pure aching hunger.

  After several more smacks, he ceased and caressed her stinging flesh. “Are you going to behave now like a gentlewoman ought?”

  His voice was hoarse, hungry sounding. His desire throbbed like steel beneath her.

  He slid his hand between her buttocks, lightly touching her swollen, aching cunt.

  Her hips arched of their own volition to make greater contact with his hand. He rubbed her and she found herself jogging her hips to increase the friction. Equal parts pleasure and shame at being bested washed over her. She sobbed with the conflicting feelings. His fingers slid along her wetness until they reached her straining, erect nub. He flicked it and she cried out.

  “God, but you are a wanton.”

  He worked her with a precise skill she’d never dreamed a man would possess. Where had he learned such things? The tension built in her and she was writhing and sobbing her need. He pinched the bud between his thumb and forefinger and waves of pleasure consumed her, sparks of pure fiery pleasure that burned strong yet swift.

  She lay panting in the aftermath, wet flooding from her cunt like a river.

  It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  “Damn you, damn you,” she panted.

  “Do you want me to fuck you now?” He asked the question casually but she heard the hunger beneath.

  And dear God. Yes. She wanted him to absolutely ravish her.

  “Go put your hands to the wall if you want me to fuck you.”

  Chapter Four

  Heart thudding, Rosalind tore herself off his lap, stood and all but threw herself to the wall.

  She understood what he wanted, what his pride demanded after days of her coldness. Half an hour ago, she wouldn’t have dreamt of giving in. Now she couldn’t wait. She hadn’t been able to move fast enough.

  She waited, panting, trembling with excitement and need.

  He slammed his body against hers, pressing her to the wall.

  A thrill passed through her.

  Her heart raced faster, pounding her chest harder.

  God.

  He shoved his knee between her legs, forcing them apart. His cock touched her aching, overheated flesh.

  She arched backwards, pressing her arse against his pelvis, wailing with hunger.

  He grasped her hips. He impaled her.

  Swiftly.

  Savagely.

  With his knob pressing against her womb, he held still. His girth throbbed, straining at her inner walls.

  He groaned. “God, Rose, you are tight as a glove on me. My own, my own sweet, hot cunt.”

  He pulled himself almost all the way out. The empty, hollowness made her sob in desolation. He grabbed her hair, yanking gently. “You are, aren’t you?”

  “What?” she panted.

  “You are my own sweet, hot, tight cunt. Say it.”

  “Oh God,” she gasped.

  He tightened his grip on her hair. “Say it, or I swear I’ll withdraw myself and palm myself off.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t,” she wailed, writhing her hips against him.

  “You don’t think I will?”

  “No, no, you wouldn’t be so cruel!”

  “You may watch me do it.”

  A sound between a sob and a moan tore from her.

  “Just say the words, Rose.” He pulled out and rubbed the head of his cock over her nub.

  Her arousal rose to painf
ul levels. She couldn’t deny him. “I am your cunt.”

  “And so you are.” He thrust his loins forward with force.

  “Ah!” The fullness was divine, the sense of relief sweet like nothing she’d ever known. Tears streamed down her face and she worked her pelvis frantically against his.

  “Be still.” He gripped her hips, held her relentlessly. “This time I shall fuck you.”

  He slammed his hips against hers time and time again. His balls slapped against her mound and the head of his cock jammed against the mouth of her womb.

  Tormented, delighted, she bit her lip to keep from screaming. Copper taste flooded her mouth. Her inner walls clamped down on his thick hardness and spasms of piercing delight tore through her cunt. Knifed into her womb. Pleasure held her, consumed her.

  Then dropped her back to earth.

  She fell against the splintery wood wall, spent.

  With a harsh growl, he withdrew.

  Jets of wet warmth splattered her buttocks.

  Relief hit her.

  He had pulled out. He had respected her wishes. He wouldn’t force her into marriage even though she’d handed him the means. But he still refused to force the issue. Something tender and warm swelled in her heart.

  When their breathing had slowed, he wrapped her into his embrace and carried her to the makeshift pallet. Sleep took her quickly. When she awoke, he was gone.

  * * * *

  Rosalind sat at the kitchen table, sipping at her tea. She hadn’t glanced at him once since he’d sat down. Last night he’d given in to his former sinful nature wholly. He had not changed. He had merely suppressed himself a very long time.

  She had submitted to his will.

  She had taken pleasure in turn.

  But, in the clear light of morning, perhaps she was repulsed by his darker carnal demands. Demands he certainly would never have dared share with Patience.

  Or any true wife.

  She spoke before he could collect his thoughts. “I’ve known a lot of men, it’s true.”

  A peculiar tightening centred in his chest. He did not want to know. “Keep your secrets, Rose. We all have them. Only God can judge.”

  “No, I want you to know.” She looked up, her gaze intense. “I need you to know.”

  He sat his cup down and looked at her seriously. “All right, Rose, tell me.”

  “My mother was the youngest of twelve. A blacksmith’s daughter who had beauty and not much talent. But she wanted to be an actress. At seventeen, she went to London and joined an acting company. The manager accepted her and kept her but only because she did his bidding with the gentlemen. She enjoyed their attentions. She enjoyed the bit parts Mr Boger let her play on the stage. Her other children, twin boys, were taken by their father. I certainly never knew them and Mr Boger wouldn’t tell me their names or where they went. When I was eighteen, my mother became ill. She could no longer earn her keep and so…” she paused, her throat moving rapidly, “I had to.”

  “Good God.” She had borne such abuse. And now Thomas had treated her roughly, demandingly, like men treated a whore. He began to feel ill. “Rose…”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  She stared back at him so placidly, so peacefully. “I was never actually forced, not tied to the bed and physically made to submit. I didn’t have the choice to say no to whatever they wanted because, had they complained to Mr Boger, he would have thrown me and my mother to the streets. However, they were all gentlemen.”

  “You were forced to this?” All his muscles were tightening and energy surged in his blood. He fisted his hands. “How could those gentlemen not know? Did they abuse you?”

  She shrugged. “With some of them it was terrible. They were old, ugly, poorly washed, heavy handed. But some were not so bad. One or two were handsome and kind. However, there was always a sense that I must do these things and so it was impossible to truly enjoy them or be at ease.”

  Anger boiled over within him. “Oh, come now, don’t lie to me. They were not always all of them kind.”

  A shadow crossed her face. “No, that’s true, they weren’t.”

  “And this Mr Boger, he used force to coerce you? At times?”

  She looked down and nodded slowly.

  His heart contracted. “Didn’t that make you hate men and their demands?”

  “It made me hate Mr Boger for putting me in that position. But he’s not all men.” She glanced up and her brown eyes shone with such a purity of spirit, such an open willingness to face life, he didn’t know what to say.

  Pain for her suffering knifed through him. Hatred burned his guts.

  He closed his eyes and balled his fists tighter. Boger deserved to die.

  Thomas would write to Harvard College and tell them he would be delayed in accepting his teaching job. He’d go to England, seek Boger and kill him.

  She paled and her dark eyes grew large. “Don’t look at me like that…please!”

  Her words did not register. He only heard her anguish.

  It was too much.

  He couldn’t keep looking at her. Anger pounded through him. Anger like he’d only known once before. It energised him to the point of being unable to think. He jerked to his feet. He needed to move his body. To clear his head.

  He needed to make plans. To think things through.

  Watching Thomas stride to the door and leave the house, Rosalind’s throat constricted and began to burn. She placed her hand to her collarbone, as if she could force the welling emotion down. She’d known the telling might repulse him. But she’d had to tell him. She’d gambled and lost for he was repulsed. She’d seen the horrible look on his face, the disgust he couldn’t hide.

  It was like dying. Truly it was. For she loved him and nothing would ever be the same in her life after he was gone. All her dreams of being a helpmate, a wife, were gone now. There would never be another man for her.

  But what now, then?

  She had no idea. Well, she’d always survived. She’d survive even this. Perhaps she would return to the theatre life, go to Paris or Italy. But she loathed the very idea.

  The clopping thud of approaching horse’s hooves on the road sent her running to the window. The man was riding like a fury. But she recognised the tall, wiry man and the black gelding.

  Jacob, a fellow bondslave of Goody Wilson.

  A curl of dread wound around the pit of her stomach. She hurried outside and met him halfway as he rushed up the walk.

  His face looked grave. Like death. “Jacob!”

  “It’s Hannah. She’s taken ill.”

  * * * *

  Thomas sat in the kitchen, head in his hands. Exhausted. Reverend Shepard and his eldest daughter were with Hannah. Thomas had to believe the man’s previous medical training would make a difference. He and Rosalind had just barely kept ahead of Hannah’s illness.

  Rosalind had given so much of herself so freely to his child. She had shrunk from the more gruelling aspects of the illness. She’d been so gentle, so kind, caressing the hair from Hannah’s forehead and singing softly to soothe her fretting.

  He shouldn’t compare.

  He couldn’t help but compare.

  Patience had never been easy with illness. She had let the maid nurse their children through sickness while she’d read aloud from the Bible and prayed. He had thought nothing of it. With a houseful of servants, his mother had been much like that.

  In his overtired mind, the memory of the full horror and pain of the night his infant son had died on the Abigail hit him full force.

  He had touched Patience’s shoulders. She had slumped down and evaded his touch. She had looked up at him, her grey eyes strangely calm. She had clutched her open Bible, her lips had been moving.

  He had been unable to hear her. His heart had pounded too loudly. Pure rage had pounded through his blood. Why had God taken his innocent son? If someone had to die why hadn’t it been Thomas himself? He’d lived a sinful, indulgent life. He’d partaken o
f much. His son had known nothing of life’s joys.

  Patience had pulled back from him, holding the Bible up to him. She’d been almost shouting now. “Please, husband, read with me and take comfort in the Lord’s wisdom.”

  “I can’t,” he’d replied. “I just can’t. Not now.”

  She had lowered the Bible and looked at him with a studied expression of sympathy, her blonde brows drawn together, her high forehead wrinkled. But her eyes had been frosted with disapproval. Maybe even a touch of superiority.

  He had hated her in that moment. God help him, he had hated her.

  An image blazed across his mind. Hannah with her cheeks flushed and her braids swinging as she ran happy and free with the other small children at the last corn husking played in his mind. Her happy laughter echoed in his ears.

  “I cannot lose her!”

  “Oh, Thomas…”

  He started. He had forgotten Rosalind’s presence. He blinked hard and her face came slowly into focus. He realised, with some shock, that he was blinking away tears.

  Her brows were drawn together and her forehead was wrinkled.

  “I shall not lose her.”

  “It shall be God’s will.” Her voice was like a soft, soothing blanket. Warming him.

  Anger surged through him, resisting the comfort.

  “Damn it, woman, do not say such things!” He sat down, bent his head and raked his hands through his hair. “If I lose her, I do not know what I shall do. I shall have nothing, nothing worth living for.” He covered his face.

  Her touch fell on his hair, gently.

  “If God takes her, I shall never forgive him.”

  “You mustn’t speak like that.” The chair beside him creaked. She touched his shoulders. “We must pray, Thomas, we must pray very hard.”

  “And if God doesn’t answer our prayers?”

  “Then he must have a very good reason.” Her voice choked on the words.

  He shook with anger. He wanted to shove her away. To tell her to take her words with her to the devil.

  Softly, she pulled on his shoulder, urging him closer.

  He let her. He didn’t even understand why. But he let her.