The Coachman's Daughter

by Gayle Eden

  Grabbing up her coat as she climbed the stairs, Haven was as quiet as possible getting water in the pot, scooping up already ground coffee and then stirring the embers of the fire in an iron stove. She cleaned herself up while it brewed, pulling off muddy boots, to pad to her room.

  After combing her hair, washing her face, she found a soft cream shirt and pair of wool trousers, dry socks and her spare boots. She did not put the shoes on until she had taken the tray with pot and cups out and set them outside the door. Closing it and wincing as it squeaked, she put on her boots and then carried the tray below.

  Amber light shone over the area before she reached the slatted door. Nudging with her foot, she got it open and entered by globed candle light. He did not sit behind a desk, but on it. She passed by him to a low table between two chairs just under a window. It was not a large space and after seating herself, she poured coffee she had already mixed with thick cream.

  He slid off the desk and took it from her hand, lowering himself into one of the plain leather chairs, knees wide and spine slumped as he relaxed.

  She sipped her own, leaning back and observing him. Somewhere in her mind, she chanted, let him be his usual ass of a self, please. She really could not take it if he acted half way nice to her. Particularly if he talked to her again as he had on the road.

  Resting the cup on one his thighs, he met her gaze, the candlelight reflecting in the deep green, those blasted thick sooty lashes making them so sensual her stomach was doing summersaults. Most of that hair was tucked behind his ears but some spiraled damp against his temple and cheekbone, drawing attention to the fact, they were fine boned. His mouth was dark, sensual, and almost full. His nose was straight, strong, and she had once lost herself watching him in repose, always feeling some response inside of her to the warm hue of his skin and that dark coloring in contrast to such pure green eyes…

  Moments seemed to tick off and then he leaned and placed his cup on the table. Not knowing why, Haven braced herself, and in one smooth moment he had taken hers, set it down—was taking her chin in his hand, and then kissing her.

  Making a sound of surprise, she had her breath stolen when his tongue eased between her teeth and touched her own. Raising her hands, Haven pushed at him, pressing back and turning her head aside. “My lord.”

  “Shhh. I’m not going to hurt you.” He got to his feet and used a hold on her shoulders to bring her out of the chair. His voice was hushed, quiet, but his eyes were intense. Given the small space, there was nowhere for her to go.

  “Look at me.”

  She did. “I think you’d better—”

  His head descended. This time a moan escaped because his lips were sensual and his tongue was boldly laving hers. There was a seeking next, a too gentle one by that tongue that made Haven respond despite herself.

  Her lips became malleable, pliant. Her tongue answered the soft caress of his.

  Dizzy, nearly trembling, she felt the wash of weakness and light-headedness fill her. This time when he let her draw a breath, his mouth moved to the side of her neck. She pushed and blindly took a step, rocking the small table her shin smacked into, but she got around it.

  At the door, Deme caught and turned her. Coming close so her back was pressed against the slats.

  She looked up at him. “Don’t.”

  He skimmed his hands up to her shoulders again, and then rested them under her hair at the sides of her neck, his thumbs brushing her jaw line. It left a tingle a trail of sensitive flesh behind. “I’m kissing you, Mulhern.”

  His words were followed by another dip of his head. Kisses next were soft, supple nibbles at the corner of her mouth, then whisper soft upon her lips.

  She had her eyes closed.

  It only intensified the sensations.

  “You smell of fresh flowers and rain,” he murmured near her ear before pressing his lips there.

  There was something about the gentle way he did it, something in the slight part of them, the moments he tasted her skin that pushed back any fear she had. Haven was not afraid of him in the typical way, she was more afraid of herself—because in her secret dreams, she had wondered….

  His lips were warm when they covered hers again, and Haven could not help it. She opened for him. Her body, her skin, flushed when their tongues did a sensual duel. He was teaching and tasting her, and he was doing it as lover would, unhurried, making her feel what tongues could taste, and giving her inner mouth caresses that were like—sex.

  He released her lips slowly, the flesh clinging from the mating.

  Her lashes parted enough to look at him, her mind clear enough despite the haze to realize he was undoing buttons on her shirt.

  “My lips, my mouth,” he said, before parting the edges, “Want to feel you.”

  She released a loud unsteady breath, gazing downwards the moment he dipped, and his sensual lips were around her pale pink nipple. Her breath grew more uneven and ragged.

  Haven helplessly took her hands from being pressed against the wood and carefully cupped his head. His soft hair was cool amid her fingers. Those lips were pure velvet on the now painfully hard peaks.

  She felt it between her legs as he suckled one, then he moved to the other. They were not large breasts, rather shallow, milk white and large of nipple. He cupped the underside and his head moved, his inner lips caressing that hardening flesh.

  There was a change she recognized as arousal in him. Somewhere between panting and absorbing shocks sparking through her body, she saw his tongue flicker over her areola, and his white teeth teased them.

  It was a stinging pleasure, exquisite. Haven knew she was lost.

  After thoroughly suckling each, leaving her breathless, and the tips quivering wet, Deme raised his head and kissed her. His tongue and lips seemed more erotic because of where they hand been. Every time the tip of his tongue brushed hers, her nipples felt it.

  He suckled on her tongue and bit at her lip.

  “Oh. God.” She managed when he let her breathe again, and dropped her head forward, resting it against his upper chest a moment. Her hands moved from his hair, down to his upper arms. “This must stop,” she groaned.

  His own hands were warm and firm on her sides. He brushed his lips in her hair. “Does it not feel pleasant?”

  “Very.” She released a vacillating breath, eyes squeezed shut. Her body felt coiled, everything inside her skin tense, her skin itself, ultra-sensitive. “That doesn’t make it right. I’m not one of your London ladies or serving wenches.”

  One hand moved round to her spine, the other easing up higher, just under her breast. “I have no confusion about whom you are. I rarely kiss a doxie, and I certainly do not feel this aroused with one. I know exactly who you are.”

  She shook her head and moaned. “We don’t even like each other.”

  “True. We don’t.” he laughed tersely. “But I’ve wanted to kiss those lips for some time. Who knew, Mulhern, that once I had, I would be more intoxicated by that than brandy? Your skin, your breasts, are quiet the most beautiful things I have ever seen.”

  She lifted her head, vision fogged by her own intoxication with him. Her whisper was as low and husky as his. “You shouldn’t be talking to me like this. We shouldn’t…”

  Deme stared deep into her eyes, his arousal, yes, not that far from the surface. “How intimate have you been with a man, Mulhern? Have you found pleasure…?”

  “No. But you are foxed; you won’t remember this, let alone…”

  His hand lifted and his fingers pressed to her lips. “What does it matter? What does it? I have a need, a desire I have not felt for many years to give pleasure. To have my hands and mouth on your skin, to taste passion, honest, passion and desire. Let me pleasure you. What is the harm in that, hmm?”

  She dropped her gaze to his mouth, ignoring the knowing smile that formed there for the moment, because what was the point in pretending he could not seduce her? He could. She had always been attracted to him even w
hen she did not like him. She still did not, but she could not resist the temptation.

  More experienced than herself, Deme saw her moment of surrender and lowered his head, kissing her while his hand caressed over her backside, his body coming closer. The kissing was more erotic, more explicit now.

  Her sounds filled the little space; hot, compact, climbing higher as the arousal inside her coiled and then widened to every nerve and pore.

  He skimmed his warm mouth to her ear, braced a hand above her and eased back so that the other could massage her breasts.

  Her fingers dug into his shirt, the silk cool and sensual. Haven bit her lip as his palm dragged down over her stomach, and then over the trousers.

  When he cupped between her legs, she gasped but he caught that too in his mouth.

  The kneading, the way he did it, had her heart racing, her breath coming so fast she feared she would faint.

  Deme leaned back and slid his hand from the door, using them to guide her so her hips were against the desk. His breathing was terse, face taut and eyes incredibly beautiful. Had she not been caught up in the moment, Haven would have savored it, wondered at it, as it was, she felt the parting of the latches, the air on her lower stomach, mere seconds before he was on his knees, his lips and tongue skimming over her navel, under it, down and across her skin with warm breaths.

  Her hands covered his a moment at her sides. “I don’t know about this.” My God, was that her voice? It sounded like a rasp of desperation.

  Nipping and then kissing her, he took her hands, brought them to his lips, flicking her fingers and palm with his tongue, then biting at her wrist before he stood.

  Heat emanated from him. His curls were wild about his head and neck, and his lips looked sensual, sexual. He placed her hands on his shoulders and eased one of his down, slowly, moving over her sex before covering it. The heat and feel of it sent fire skittering through her.

  “You are aroused.”

  “Yes, obviously.”

  “Um. Wonderfully. Shall I stop?”

  “No.” She swallowed. Neither of them were smiling or teasing now. The air between them was too raw and explosive.

  Letting her hands drop, she moved his away a moment and let her shirt fall back over her shoulders and to the desk. He skimmed her trousers lower, spread her thighs slightly and murmured what she should do until Haven found herself with her bare bottom on a well-worn desktop, trousers down and fallen over her boots, her torso nude and held up by her hands braced on the desk.

  Mesmerized despite the exquisite tension, she watched his hands rub her leg from her knee upwards, then inside her parted thighs, and upwards again.

  His thumb brushed through the curls whilst he observed her, and she knew he was watching her. That she was aroused was as unmistakable as the damp musk that shone on his thumb.

  He whispered, “This little jewel right here,” and touched a spot that nearly made her faint. “Is in want of petting. It will firm and blossom and your silken juices with increase. I have a feeling your nectar will be delicious on my tongue.”

  Deme stepped back again and removed the trousers and boots.

  Eyes going up her body, he husked, “Beautiful. Amazingly beautiful.” Shaking his head as if he was utterly surprised by it. His gaze finally locked with hers. “I can give you pleasure. Do you want it now?”

  “Yes.” For the time being, she chose to believe everything she saw in his eyes. She was a woman grown, and her body was aroused, painfully. Her sex ached. His every kiss, his every touch, pleasured her. She may feel differently at saner moments, but she wanted more. When she saw her words pleased him, it only deepened the hunger.

  The Marquis unbuttoned his silk shirt and exposed a broad shouldered torso, sinewy and naturally dark, taut in stomach and hips—his dusky nipples hard on his pectorals. Coming to stand between her legs, his bare sides caressing her inner thighs, Deme let her look over him. When Haven sat up a bit to caress him, and he did not deter her.

  She smoothed her palms over his upper arms, down them, and around at his shoulders. When she did the same to the front of him, she heard the subtle growl in his throat. A purr of male pleasure.

  He kissed her. She could taste his fierce arousal as surely as he must taste her own. The kiss was wild and rough, more feeling than finesse—until he pulled back and grabbed her hands. His dark heavy breathing wafting on her cheek, he placed them by her hips again.

  Lips touching her temple, breath unsteady, Deme rested palms on her thighs a moment. “You cannot be loud in your pleasure. Sound carries and your father will hear.”

  “How can I bloody promise that? It is all I can do not to moan and you are only caressing me,” she reached to catch his hair at the nape and force his head back.

  Deme rolled his lips, his eyes searching, intense. “I do not think I have ever seen a woman so beautiful in my life.” He shook his head as if to clear it. His voice was hardly discernible when he rasped, “Your eyes are amber, shimmering, and hungry, aroused.”

  “Deme.” Her legs trembled under his touch. “I cannot promise what I will or won’t do.”

  He kissed her softer than she knew he wanted to. The tension in him was as searing as his skin. His scent, male scent, was of virile potency, of arousal, that matched hers. He trembled slightly.

  In that kissing, she realized his body came closer. She felt the prod of his sex against hers, hot through his snug trousers. He was letting her feel that steel hardness in him. She sensed he was helpless in needing more than he intended when he started this tryst.

  He parted their mouths painfully sluggish. Trembling breaths stirred on each other’s lips. Lashes lifting at almost the same time, faces close, they locked gazes, seeing everything uncovered, unveiled—not Lord and daughter of a Coachman, just a man and woman merely. Male and female, who aroused each other, who attracted each other —exquisitely, powerfully.

  Then he said, “I am not a man used to exercising restraint.”

  It reminded her why, and how often, and how easily his conquests were.

  Haven drew gradually back and used her hand to move him away. Sliding off the desk, she scooped up her shirt and slid it on.

  In a silence that was oddly loud, she pulled on trousers and boots. Weak, trembling, as if her strength had been stolen; she walked around him and sat in one of the chairs.

  Elbows on her knees, she buried in her hands and whispered, “What am I doing? My God, what I am doing? You have done this a hundred times with as many women. I cannot believe I—”

  Somewhere, over the deep thud of her heartbeats, she heard the slide of silk. The sound of his pulling on his shirt.

  Deme resumed his seat, silent and with tension from the arousal and hungers in his body. For some moments, he simply counted the slam of his heart against his ribs, and waited for the roar to leave his ears. He kept his eyes closed. Bloody raging hell. Bloody hell, why did he even speak. He had lost….control.

  He could blame everything on overindulgence. He could say brandy and whiskey made him feel what he felt. He could lie to himself.

  “I will leave—Wimberly,” he heard her say with uneven breaths. “After… after your brothers depart. I had planned on it, in any case. I have money enough to go wherever I please.”

  Letting his lashes lift, he still could not look at her yet. He stared instead at the niches on the wall where papers were tucked and sorted.

  She went on, “Lisette will be going back to town. I—we all knew I would go eventually. Everyone is growing up, and we… we all must.”

  He already knew the answer, the insult, the way it would be taken when he did look at her and ask, “Would you consider becoming my mistress?”

  Mulhern drew in a deep breath and raised her head, letting her hands drop heavily to her thighs. By then she had masked those eyes he could read so easily before.

  “I don’t want to be owned or paid by you. I’ll want you, when you can say that you want me, as you say it to your equal
—” She got to her feet, looking down at him before finishing, “Not because you are Lord or Marquis either.”

  She stepped over his legs and dodged his attempt to catch her hand the first time.

  He got to his feet and caught her on the next try, bringing her back against his chest. He had whispered tersely, “What is this, Mulhern, Some game of yours to have me painting after you just because we’ve discovered a mutual lust.”

  She whirled around and glared at him. “I didn’t seduce you.”

  God, he wished she would slap him. He thought she might yet. Even in anger, her eyes were like polished jasper. He would never see them; see her, the same again.

  Knowing exactly what he was doing, Deme smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “Did any of that matter moments ago when I had you wet and aching?”

  “No.” Her teeth cinched for a moment. “That proves I want you. But —to you it is just another female you can—.”

  She drew in a breath through her nose, her eyes getting colder by the moment. “No. No I will not be the one to lie. You feel something for me, something so powerful I can almost smell it, taste it. Yet you will tell yourself I am only worthy of some tumble in a stable, or to be hidden away as your mistress. Even now, you are cheapening it in your mind, aren’t you? You may say you have craved honest desire and passion, but you are afraid of it.”

  She stepped back and raked him up and down with her gaze, her body trembling. “The truth is, you—are not good enough for me.”

  He stood there while the door clicked, hearing her footfalls, then the door above open and close. He heard muffled voices.

  Deme sat himself down heavily in the chair, sitting there long after the candle sputtered.

  When the door opened again, near dawn, he moved his booted feet from the table and straightened.

  Patrick Mulhern set the lamp on the small desk and leaned his hips against it. He was dressed neatly for the day, though not in livery.

  For silent moments, they took measure of each other.

  “I’m not here as a servant to the Duke, your Lordship. I am here as Haven’s father.”