by Karen Ranney
“Biscuits for breakfast?”
“Annie’s biscuits,” he corrected. “The best.”
“Do not talk with your mouth full.”
He nodded and smiled.
“Good morning, miss,” Cook said, turning from the stove. She performed an awkward curtsy, especially as she had a spoon in one hand and a pot in the other. The odor of chocolate filled the room, and she suddenly understood why Robert couldn’t stop grinning.
When his biscuit was finished, he said, “We’re going to have chocolate to drink, Miss Sinclair. In honor of the day.”
“In honor of the day?”
“It’s Wednesday. Don’t you think every day should be special?”
She smiled at him and reached to take a biscuit herself. Tomorrow, she’d fuss at him about eating a proper meal.
“I’m sure Annie wouldn’t mind if you had some chocolate, too.”
“Thank you, Your Grace, you’re more than kind.”
He grinned at her and took another bite of his newest biscuit acquisition. She was tempted to ask if he intended to hoard the others, but didn’t.
Beatrice smiled her good-bye and made her way into the family dining room, where the table was set for breakfast. In a sense, the chamber was indicative of her life. From the kitchen, she could hear the sound of laughter and conversation. Somewhere, Devlen was no doubt occupied in a myriad of duties. Here, in this room, she was alone, strangely segregated from others. Proper, alone, and suddenly lonely.
In the year since her parents had died, she’d learned to accept the silence of her life, learned to live with the aloneness of loss and grief. It had been a habit she’d suddenly lost the ability to endure. She suddenly knew she’d never be able to go back to that life.
She moved to the line of serving dishes and inspected the contents one by one before replacing the lids.
At the cottage, she had been occupied with a daily tedium. Washing, weeding her tiny garden, carrying water to the struggling plants, cleaning, mending her garments and those she could still use that had once belonged to her mother. Her life hadn’t been interesting, but it had been busy. Her new life was fascinating and yet was steeped in tedium.
She sat at the table and folded her hands, intent upon studying her nails. They’d lost their bluish tinge since she’d been eating well. Her hands no longer looked so frail or skeletal. Her body had filled out, her clothing was almost too snug. There were no lasting ill effects of her near starvation during that last hideous month before coming to Castle Crannoch.
After a few moments, she stood again and walked around the table and took another chair. The view was different, and she could look out the lone window at least. The day was a gray one and looked to be cold. Too cold for a walk, perhaps? She needed to stretch her legs, to do something other than simply wait until breakfast was done to begin her teaching chores.
Even that was not onerous. Robert was a good student when he wished to be, and when he didn’t, one look from Devlen changed his mind about misbehaving.
The morning that had begun with such promise was now proving to be interminable.
She stood once again and left the dining room.
The fact they were lovers did not give her the authority to invade Devlen’s privacy. Otherwise, she’d have used some of her free time to explore, to investigate some of this grand house Devlen had created for himself. She should retreat to the library and pick out a book. But she would be there soon enough to begin Robert’s lessons. She needed something to do other than think of Devlen, some occupation that would take her mind from her enthrallment.
What was she but a slave to Devlen Gordon? A slave to pleasure, one who had begged him to bind her with chains.
Finally, with nowhere else to go, she retreated to her room, but before she entered, she turned and stared at the double doors leading to Devlen’s chamber.
She strode across the hall and knocked gently on his door. There was no answer. Had he already left for the day? With such an empire to run, he must be occupied every moment of the day. If so, she was envious. She wanted something to do other than to think of him.
She heard a sound, and pushed on the latch, surprised to find the door unlocked.
He’d opened the drapes, and the weak sunlight spilled into the room, illuminating the midnight blue of the carpet and the draperies surrounding the bed.
The sound came again and she suddenly knew where he was.
Slowly, she pushed open the door of the bathing chamber and leaned against the jamb, watching him.
He was reclining in the copper tub, his arms on the sides, his head back with his eyes closed. Steam rose around him as he hummed a tune, some little ditty that had bawdy lyrics, no doubt.
After a moment, she stepped into the room, closing the door behind her, but taking the precaution of locking it before turning to face him.
He glanced behind him and now sat looking at her, his features impassive, but a twinkle sparkling in his eyes.
“Are you going to tell me what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander?”
“I should, shouldn’t I? But I must confess any thought I had has simply flown from my mind.”
“At the sight of me?”
“Of course.”
Beatrice retrieved the three-legged stool and set it beside the tub. She sat and dipped her hand into the hot water, playfully flicking water onto his chest.
“Dare I hope you’re going to bathe me?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I’d be a fool to say no, wouldn’t I?”
“We’re both fools, of one kind or another.”
He was dangerous, addictive, fascinating, and bad for her. She was virtuous, educated, and—to the world outside this house—imbued with sense and decorum. There was some type of future ahead of her now that she’d been the Duke of Brechin’s governess.
She resented him at the same time she was fascinated by him. Nothing good could come of her relationship with Devlen Gordon.
He smiled at her, as if he understood her sudden irritation.
“You didn’t use the English riding coats last night.”
“I know. I remembered later.”
“Does that mean I’m going to have a child?”
“Not necessarily. But it does mean I can’t be trusted around you. I’ve never forgotten before.”
What a silly time to feel a surge of pure, feminine pleasure.
His erection broke the surface of the water like a creature emerging from the deep.
“Does it always grow like that? Is it the hot water?”
His laughter echoed against the stone walls. “Not the hot water, Beatrice. It’s you, I’m afraid. Frankly, even the idea of your hand being so close.”
“Oh.”
“Indeed. Oh. You see, I have been sitting here thinking of you touching me, and in you come, locking the door behind you.”
“Really.”
“You have the most fascinating look on your face. Why?”
“If you must know, I’m trying to envision what it must look like right at the moment.”
He abruptly stood, water cascading from his body in sheets. “There, does that help?”
He was most gloriously made, a man in his prime, muscled and splendid. His buttocks were round and formed like two perfect buns. She trailed her fingers over one and watched as it flexed beneath her hand. But it was his impressive array of male attributes that caught her attention and held it.
His erection was long and thick, growing as she watched. It pointed to his stomach, and he pushed it down with a hand as if preparing to use it as a lance. If she’d still been a virgin, she would have been terrified.
She knew, however, what absolute wonder he could perform with such a weapon, and was only fascinated at its girth and length. Slowly, she extended one finger and trailed a path from its bulbous head to the nest of surprisingly soft hair at its base.
“It’s very hard,” she said. “And hot. Does it
hurt?”
“Yes.”
She glanced up at him to see him watching her intently. Her finger strolled from base to tip, and then softly circled the head.
“Indeed?”
“I’m in great pain at the moment.”
“You should take advantage of a long, soaking bath I think. Something that would take the swelling down.”
“Is that what you would recommend?”
“A snow pack, perhaps, would be better.”
“It would certainly cool any ardor.”
She stroked his erection again, and it trembled beneath her ministrations.
“You must certainly seek some treatment for it.”
“Kiss it.”
She glanced up at him, shocked. His eyes were glittering, his face ruddy with color. “Kiss it, Beatrice.”
Slowly, she rose and, with one hand on the edge of the tub for balance, reached over and pressed her lips against him. His erection bobbed in response, hot and eager, and so soft she was tempted to kiss him again. She held him with one hand, her fingers gently resting against his length as if to coax him still. Her other hand curved around one buttock as her lips found him, and opened just a little.
The bulbous head was soft against her lips. She opened her mouth just a little wider, enough for her tongue to dart out. A teasing touch, one eliciting a groan from Devlen.
She smiled, her lips curving against the shaft.
The steam from the water dampened her face, plastered the fabric of her bodice against her chest. She wished she was naked with him. She ran her palms up his thighs, combing the hair on his legs with playful fingers. His buttocks were smooth, so beautifully shaped she couldn’t help but caress them with her hand.
All the while, he stood motionless, his hand on the back of her head, fingers spread through her hair. She didn’t move her lips, but from time to time she would blow a warm breath on the head of his erection to see it jerk and throb in response.
She loved having him under her power.
He smelled of the soap he’d used, something scented with sandalwood. Reaching out with her right hand, she scooped some up from the tin and placed it on his knee, rubbing it into his skin in a circular pattern.
“Beatrice.”
She sat back and looked up at him. “I want to wash you, Devlen.”
He grabbed her hair, and tugged gently. “There. Wash me there.”
She only smiled.
One leg was washed slowly, from the knee down to his foot, submerged in the steaming water. Then the other, using the same slow, rhythmic touch.
His erection grew as if to attract her attention. She was not likely to forget about it.
When she was done with his legs, she lathered the base of hair between his legs, taking care to soap the testicles with a gentle circular motion. Finally, it was time to wash his erection. She covered both palms with the sandalwood soap before placing them on the shaft.
He made a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh.
Beatrice smiled.
Using both hands, she stroked him from the base to the tip, her grip firm and unrelenting. He said something to her, some caution she blithely ignored. She wanted him to explode in her hands, wanted him to lose control as she did every time he touched her.
She grew breathless and heated—she wanted the same from him. Her heart pounded so loudly her chest quivered with it. Her mind opened and her soul poured out to him. She wanted him as desperate and longing as she felt.
Both hands were on him, holding him still, and she bent forward and opened her mouth, encircling the head with her lips. He arched his hips forward, and she felt an answering response deep inside, where her body readied for him.
A few drops of water splashed from the faucet into the tub, a log dropped in the fire, but they only accompanied the kissing sounds she made when teasing the head in and out of her mouth. Devlen whispered something, a warning perhaps, and she only moved slightly so she could grip one of his buttocks with each hand.
She moved, releasing his erection, compelled to do something shocking. She bit him tenderly on that beautiful backside, kissed the spot, and then rubbed her cheek against his buttock. He made a sound in his throat, a cross between a laugh and an oath.
The moment was so decadent, completely sensual, and probably wrong, but her breasts tightened, and her body heated.
She trailed a path of kisses back to his erection.
He was arching his hips back and forth as if to urge her to mouth more of him. But despite pressing her head forward with his hand, she wouldn’t do what he wished. This moment was for his satisfaction, but she would be the architect of it.
She pulled back and gripped the shaft again, looking up at him.
He’d always used words to such advantage with her. Could she do the same?
“I want you to explode in my hands, Devlen.” She gripped him tightly, using the remainder of the soap as a lubricant to slide her hands tightly down his shaft to ring the head with her fingers.
“A waste, Beatrice.”
He looked fierce and proud and almost angry with passion. At that moment, she wanted him in her, rising over her and into her. But her satisfaction would have to wait.
One more stroke and he closed his eyes.
“Open your eyes, Devlen. Look at me.”
She licked the head of his erection, never breaking eye contact.
His gaze grew even more fierce as the color on his cheekbones deepened.
“You taste sweet. Is that your soap? Or you?”
One more lick.
“Did you make the formula of your soap for just this purpose? How inventive of you.”
She licked him again, tightening her grip around his shaft and sliding her hands up and down once more. He felt hotter and harder than before.
“What a marvelous instrument this is,” she said, speaking to his erection. She licked the head again. “You taste of salt.”
He tightened the grip on her hair.
Another stroke, and a rhythm began between them, not unlike when he was inside her. He arched, she stroked, her gestures accompanied by words of encouragement.
“It will be soon, won’t it, Devlen?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Oh yes.”
“If you don’t stop teasing me, I’ll be more than happy to deliver.”
“Please do. I want to taste you.”
“Damn it, Beatrice.”
That’s when she knew he was hers. She had him between her hands, at the end of her licking, teasing tongue. She smiled and bent to taste him again and he swore once more, his hips jerking forward before his erection shivered and arched and throbbed. His testicles drew up and she held him as he exploded between her hands.
He dragged her up against his body. His eyes were glittering, the flush on his face had darkened. His kiss was punishing and exhilarating. She held on to his shoulders for balance as he pulled her closer, her dress sodden.
For once he was powerless, and her mood was exhilarated and wild.
A strange and wonderful time to realize she was in love.
Chapter 28
Beatrice sat on the leather sofa in Devlen’s library, Robert on the floor in front of the circular table. The room was palatial in comparison to the library at Castle Crannoch, both in terms of numbers of volumes on the shelves as well as the furnishings. Two leather couches, tufted and designed for comfort, sat sideways in front of a roaring fire. Between them was a low round table adorned with a crystal bowl filled with flowers.
When they studied, Beatrice took the precaution of moving the crystal bowl to the floor.
The mahogany shelves surrounding the room were crafted with intricate dentil molding and filled with leather-bound books with gilt titles. She’d examined most of them, fascinated with the depth and breadth of Devlen’s curiosity.
The room was shaped like an L; at the other end was Devlen’s desk where he sat working on a stack of papers. He glanced over a
t her from time to time, and smiled, then returned to his task.
“We’re going to discuss Pliny the Younger this morning,” she said, forcing herself to pay attention to Robert’s lessons. She would have liked to sit and study Devlen, instead, since he was such a commanding personage, especially dressed casually as he was this morning. But that wouldn’t be proper, not to mention a colossal waste of time.
She wouldn’t be any closer to understanding him than she was now. Nor would she have an inkling of what plans she should make.
Time. Time had never before raced by as quickly as it had these last weeks. Some permanent provisions would have to be made for Robert, and she was very much afraid the plans wouldn’t include her.
Beatrice didn’t want the child returning to Castle Crannoch, however. If she could do nothing else, she’d convince Devlen not to allow him to return to that dark and brooding place.
As for her, she needed to find another position. Cameron Gordon had dismissed her, and she was without prospects. She wasn’t going to starve again.
She could always remain as Devlen’s mistress. If he wished her in that role, that is. What kind of life would she have if she remained? One of pleasure and luxury, no doubt. But little regard from others, and she doubted she’d have friends. And security? As much money as Devlen would promise her, perhaps. She’d be a rich man’s mistress.
She’d be Devlen’s mistress.
She’d be Devlen’s lover.
Life was quickly done and easily over. She’d learned that lesson in the past year. Even Robert in his youth had learned how temporary life could be. Should she return to her cottage to spend the rest of her life as a virtuous woman, repentant of her time of lust? Or should she live her life as best she could, as fully as she could?
She bent to her lessons, blocking out the sight of Devlen with some difficulty.
Instead of looking for another room in the house to do their lessons, Devlen had urged her to use his library, which was all well and good, but he had occupied it as well.
At first, she’d been a little self-conscious to instruct Robert in front of his cousin, but Devlen rarely appeared to be listening. A few times she caught him smiling, however, like now.