A Perfect Mistress

by Barbara Mack

  “My revulsion?’ she said softly. “Please, I don’t know what you mean.”

  She held out one slim hand in supplication, and he took a step away from the bed, turning his back to her. Sophie let her hand fall back to her side, sitting up more fully against the pillows. He crossed to the round window, staring out, outlined by the dim light. Sophie could not help but admire the sight before her. Really, he was a fine figure of a man.

  “You led me to believe that you desired me in your bed, madam, or at the very least that you could tolerate me there. Really, was it too much to ask for a little honesty? I would have found someone else if I had known you felt this way. I must leave in the morning, and it is too late to search for anyone else.”

  His tone was bitter, and Sophie struggled to understand what he meant. She was waiting for him, wasn’t she, in the bed, dressed in her nightgown? She was willing. She’d told him so, and she’d meant it.

  She shuddered. She could do it. She could. She liked his kisses, surely the rest couldn't be so horrible. He'd been gentle with her; and he wouldn’t be as cruel as Thomas had been. Nightmare images of the library and what had happened to her there snaked into her mind and a tremor shook her body.

  He was speaking again, and Sophie pulled herself back to the present, away from the memories of atrocities that had been performed on her unwilling body.

  “I'm not scheduled to leave until the morning,” he said crisply. “I will go back to my own room for the night while you rest here, and I will arrange for someone to escort you back to your home tomorrow.” He turned to face her, his hands clasped behind his back. “I don’t blame you. Of course it would be difficult for a lovely woman such as yourself to have me touch you, but you indicated that you would not mind, and I never picked up on your hesitation.” He inclined his head. Sophie thought she could see hurt for a moment on his features when moonlight lit the room again, then the light faded and she was sure she was wrong when he spoke coldly again. “My fault entirely. I let my eagerness blind me perhaps. I had forgotten . . . but that is of no consequence.”

  “No!” Sophie cried. “I’ll let you. Only come back to bed, please come back to bed. It’s just that I’m such a coward, you see, but I promise that I’ll let you do whatever you want. Only don’t send me away!”

  Horror filled her voice. She didn’t want him to leave, she didn’t! That thought gave her the courage to scramble out of the high bed to stand in front of him, hands wringing together. She tilted her head back, trying to read his face but it was too dark in here and she could not tell what he was thinking.

  “Please,” she said more calmly. “Only tell me what you want, because I don’t know. It’s just that . . . I’ve been worrying about it, you know. Please don’t send me away.”

  She fell to her knees before him, and he made a sound. Sophie was afraid that he was going to send her out, right now, and she was desperate to salvage the situation. She clutched his legs with both hands, and he started.

  “Don’t do that,” he said, uneasy. Her position reminded him of all the hopes he’d had for this night, and to his horror he felt an unwilling desire begin to rise in him. He felt disgust for his own perversity, for he desired nothing more than to take her at her word and take her back to bed. Then he remembered the tear that had seeped from between her tightly closed eyelids. He reached down to pull her hands off him and she clutched him tighter.

  “Please,” she whispered, tears making her voice husky. “Let me. Let me just ...”

  Jackson groaned when she raised one tentative hand to stroke him through the breeches. His arousal leapt to meet her seeking touch, and he moaned again, unwillingly. Sophie cupped him in her other hand, and sucked in a startled breath when she felt his skin tighten through the loose material. Suddenly sure of what to do, she pulled down his unfastened trousers and smiled up at him. She circled her hand over him and marveled at how warm and firm he was, how taut the flesh beneath her hand. She brushed her thumb over him, and he gasped.

  “Sophie,” he breathed. “Don’t. Don’t.”

  She paid him no attention, seemed not to hear him, in fact. Her hand continued to stroke him, and Jackson was suddenly a prisoner to her touch. Though he knew he could pull away from her easily, he stayed in her hold and grew harder still, until he felt that he would explode under her hand like some green boy.

  It had been too long since someone had touched him this way. Too long. He threw his head back and gave himself up to the wonder of her fingers. And when she leaned forward and touched her lips to him, he felt his knees begin to buckle and his head swim. He reached out his hands again to push her away, but she fit her lips around him and drew him deep into the warm, soft recesses of her mouth, and he was lost. Jackson let his hands drop back to his sides, and his eyes closed.

  Sophie felt him shudder, and her pulse leaped. Suddenly, this was not a chore, but a necessity. She was wet and swollen between her legs, and she thought of him touching her there and squirmed, pressing her thighs together and making a sound deep in her throat at how good it felt. His hips bucked, and she gently squeezed him. He reached out and grasped her shoulders tightly as he began to shudder, and a guttural shout of satisfaction rang through the room. Sophie slowly released him, but couldn't resist pressing her lips against his stomach just once more as he fell away from her.

  Sophie gave a half-laugh, half-sob, and leaned her head against his thigh. She had done it. And what's more, she'd liked it.

  It was only when he heard her sob that Jackson came back to himself, and a sick disgust made him feel like throwing up. God, was he so pathetic that he would let her do this with nothing but fear fueling her actions? How far he had fallen. He pulled away from her with a growl, fastening up his trousers. Panting, he crossed the room and leaned shakily against a chair, wondering at the pain and betrayal he felt. He had thought himself beyond those emotions after everything that had happened to him. He smiled bitterly. He had been fooling himself. His emotions weren’t dead. It was easy to manipulate him after all; this girl had done it with nothing more than a shy smile and a pretty, guileless face.

  “Pack your things,” he said coldly when he could speak again. “I’ll come for you early.”

  He threw open the door of the room and left her there on the floor. He stood outside for a moment in indecision, hearing the soft sounds she made as she cried, then moved resolutely away. He wouldn't go to his room, he decided. If he stayed close, he would have her, and despite her words and actions she did not really want him. Who could blame her? he thought bitterly. He was a monster, and children hid their faces when he came too close. A monster, and monsters were by their very nature solitary creatures. As he was meant to be.

  Jackson strode through the inn, growling at a passing servant who dared to ask if he needed anything, frightening the poor man half to death. After the man had slunk away, he let out a huff of air and raked a hand through his dark, thick hair as he paced out to stables. There had been no need to scare the man, and he felt a moment’s guilt. Heaven knows, it had probably taken all of his courage to approach him, as terrifying as his appearance was; inevitably, his scar and eye patch caused the superstitious to cross themselves in his presence and the squeamish to avoid him.

  He found himself a neat little corner formed by bales of hay and wrapped himself in a blanket that smelled strongly of horse. He grimaced. It was none too clean here, but at least he was out of the wind.

  He twisted and turned, trying to find a comfortable spot. Jackson cursed. It was no use lying to himself; it wasn’t his surroundings making him feel this way, it was the desire that still burned in his loins. He wanted to go back to the inn. He wanted to go to her room and have her again and again. He wanted her, still, knowing that she was repulsed by him. He knew that he could go and open her door and he could have her, and that tempted him beyond belief.

  Sophie. Sophie, with her blond curls and her wide blue eyes and her beautiful body. He rolled over, knowing that his s
leep was going to be filled with her image. Resolutely, Jackson closed his eyes. He would not give in to the urges of his body. He could deal with this. He would just find some willing prostitute before he started for home, one who would close her eyes for the right amount of money. One who wouldn’t lie with her eyes and make him believe that she wanted him.

  That was the only type of dalliance left to him. A cash transaction.

  He heard her skirts swishing long before he saw her. He heard her coming closer and closer, and he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

  “Jackson,” she said quietly. “I know you're awake. Come back to the inn.”

  “How did you find me? Go away, I'm comfortable here,” he said gruffly, not bothering to open his eyes. He knew she was smiling; he could feel it. Suddenly he felt like a small, pouting boy, and he didn't like it, not at all. She was the one at fault here, not him.

  “A servant told me where you were. There's a bed at the inn,” she said. “And I'm there.”

  His eyes popped open, and he stared at her. Sophie was smiling, and she didn't seem disgusted at all. She sat daintily on the edge of the hay bale, smoothing her skirts around her. A flush brightened her pale cheeks.

  “Do you always go storming off when you're given a gift?”

  Jackson stared at her. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  “How long has it been, Jackson, since you held a woman in your arms?” she asked delicately, deliberately holding his gaze. “Have you, at all, since your accident?”

  “Two years.” He turned his face away from hers, and was shocked beyond words when she reached out and firmly turned it back.

  “It has been three years for me. Were you nervous?” He nodded, his eyes sliding away from her direct gaze once again, but her next words had them turning back. “So was I. Terrified, in fact, because the last sexual experience I had was a rape. I was afraid that I … that I ...”

  Jackson reached out to grasp her hand, and she squeezed it gratefully. “I wanted to. I wanted you, but I was afraid that the memory of that time would intrude. And it did, for a moment. What Delia had planned for me made it all come back again, and I couldn’t get past the fear for a little bit.”

  “After my husband died,” Sophie said in a voice that trembled only a little, “I went back to live with my father. I didn't really have a choice in the matter; I was penniless, and my husband had no family willing to take me in. Our mother died when we were small, and my father was so stern; Delia ran away when she was sixteen, but I'd no way out until I married. I was happy married to David, though we had very little money. I thought I'd never have to see my father again, and I said things when I left that he never forgave. He made me pay for those words when I came back. My life with him was a misery, and when he died I tried to mourn, I truly did. Then the lawyer informed me that he'd made no provision for me in his will; instead, he'd left his money to a distant cousin who is a missionary in India. I was kindly allowed to stay in the house until the cousin arrived to take possession.”

  “He seemed like an answer to a prayer, Thomas did. He insisted that I stay in the house while he took lodgings elsewhere in town. Handsome, respectable, oh-so-courteous, every female in town was in love with him.” Sophie smiled bitterly. “Including me, of course. He began courting me immediately, and the match was encouraged at every turn. It seemed as if, finally, I was going to be happy again.”

  She let her eyes drop, and Jackson pulled her hand up to hold her palm against his face, his heart pounding. A relentless anger began to burn in him, because he knew how this story ended.

  “Until the day he cornered me in the library and raped me, that is. He tore my clothes, called me whore and seducer and said that he knew what I wanted and he'd give me what I'd been begging for. I still have a scar on my breast where his teeth tore at me. After... after, while I still lay bleeding on the floor, he wept and told me that he loved me and we would be married at once.”

  She lifted her head and smiled crookedly at him, and Jackson felt he might drown in the blue of her eyes.

  “I went to Delia straight away and she took me in, but something was broken in me that I thought could never be repaired. I didn’t know how she was; I hadn’t seen her for years, and I was just a little girl when she left. I barricaded myself in that house, and I never looked at another man. I never thought that I'd want another man. And then I met you, Jackson,” she whispered. “And I dared to hope that I might be whole once again.”

  Jackson threw off the horse blanket and stood, never relinquishing her hand. “Let's go back to the inn,” he said awkwardly. “No sense sleeping out here when there's a perfectly good bed in there.” He wanted to say something else, but he didn't know what it could be, so he tucked her into his side, trying to tell her with his touch what he could not say out loud. The warmth of her body made his heart sing as they walked together.

  Sophie felt her heart pounding in her chest; she couldn't wait to get back to her room and finish what they had started. The flesh between her legs felt slick and swollen, and the tips of her breasts rubbed the silk of her underclothing. As they neared the inn, she hurried her steps, and Jackson lengthened his stride until they were both nearly running. Sophie felt a giggle bubble up in her chest, so she let it loose. It felt so good to laugh, and she turned her face up to twinkle at Jackson as they dashed inside the double doors, and he grinned down at her.

  “You're very handsome when you smile,” she panted as they gave up all pretense of decorum and ran up the steps to her room, ignoring the scandalized maid who stared after them, her hands on her ample hips.

  “I liked my gift.” He swung the door open and pulled her into his arms before it even slammed shut, pressing his mouth hungrily against hers. “It's quite the best one I've received in years,” he said against her lips, his tongue darting in to duel with hers. “Though the tin soldiers I got when I was four are a very close second.”

  “I said it was a gift for you, but truly it was for me,” she said slyly, her hands creeping up to tangle in his dark, soft hair. “Now we have time to play.” Jackson laughed into her mouth, and Sophie nipped his lip with her sharp teeth, drinking in his sound of pleasure.

  A long, long while later, they lay cuddled together in the big bed without talking. Sophie pressed her ear to Jackson’s chest and listened to the slow, steady beat of his heart. She turned her face up to look at him, the eye patch looming in her vision.

  “How did you lose your eye?” she asked quietly, trailing her hand down his chest and tracing little patterns there. Jackson rolled onto his side and stared at her, his head propped on his hand.

  “It’s not a pretty tale,” he cautioned.

  “You’ve heard all my stories. Are they all beautiful fables with happy endings? I live in the real world, and bad things sometimes happen there. You can tell me, Jackson. I’m not squeamish, and I don’t need to be protected. Tell me.”

  “It’s a long story. Are you sure you want all the horrid details? We have had a very long, exciting night…” She nudged him, frowning, and he grinned at her. “All right, all right.” He rolled to his back and put his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

  “My mother was the daughter of a poor farmer and they barely scraped a living out of the soil. She lived with her two brothers and her father in a two-room shack; her mother died when she was young. I don’t really remember much about it, I was too young when we left.”

  “What about your father?” she asked softly.

  “He owned a neighboring farm. He’d seen my mother around town, and he made excuses to come and see her after that. He brought her pretty things and he was nice to her, she said. She knew he was married, but she just couldn’t help herself. She was lonely, and her brothers and her father barely spoke to her, except to grunt orders at her. Next thing you know, she was pregnant with me, and her brothers and father weren’t happy about that. They went to see my father up at his house, and he gave them mone
y. Maybe it was to keep them quiet, or maybe he genuinely wanted to support me. I don’t really know.”

  Jackson rubbed his forehead, and he wouldn’t look at her. Sophie put her head on his chest, and his voice rumbled against her cheek.

  “When I was about four, my grandfather died and my uncles kicked my mother and me out of the house. They’d never been happy about taking money from my father, and they didn’t want her around. My mother went to my father, and he put us up in a house in town. He visited once a week and brought us an envelope of money, but he never once spoke to me. He saw to it that I was educated, clothed, and well cared for, but not once did he call me by name or even acknowledge my existence. If he passed me on the street, he looked the other way. I’d see him sometimes with his family, and I’d be so angry. He had two daughters; they were always dressed like little princesses, and he doted on them. I’d follow them sometimes when they were in town, and I’d see the way he acted toward them. He bought them things, and he was always smiling at them. I don’t ever remember him smiling at me, not even once. He always called me ‘the boy’. How is the boy doing in school? The boy’s clothes are looking ragged, you’d better get him some new ones. The boy needs to apply himself. You coddle the boy too much, he needs to learn to be a man. As if he was ever a good example for me.”

  Jackson made a derisive sound, and Sophie rubbed his chest in a soothing manner.

  “My mother acquiesced to his every wish, and I resented him more and more every day. Everyone knew that I was a bastard. I had no friends, and neither did my mother.”

  He sighed, and brought up a hand to cover his eyes. Sophie rubbed her face in the hair on his chest.

  “What happened then?” she prompted. “That’s not the end of the story, Jackson. You were a boy then. What is it like now?”

  “My father’s wife died when I was ten, and Mother always believed that he was going to marry her one day. If she was nice enough, and she always did what he wanted…maybe then he’d love her. Maybe then he’d marry her. He had only to say something once, and it was done. I hated that. I hated that she was so subservient. She treated him as if he was a king, and she was just a lowly peasant. If she’d curtsied every time he ordered her to do something, I wouldn’t have been surprised.”