Bertrice Small

by Unconquered

  Down the narrow forest road came an elegant phaeton. “Good!” said the prince. “Boris Ivanovich is right on time. Now listen to me, Sasha. I want you to drive straight through to the Crimea without any layovers. Do whatever you have to do to relieve yourself, eat while the horses are being changed. I want her on the farm within two weeks. Rest her up a few days after you arrive, and then breed her. Remember, the longer it takes, the longer we will be separated, my dearest Sasha.”

  “Must I stay until she delivers a child? Can I not come back while she is pregnant as long as I’m back for her confinement.”

  “No,” said the prince firmly. “I do not want to take any chances with her. She is much too valuable a slave, Sasha. Keep her in the house wth you, for I don’t want her in the quarters with the other women. She is not like them, and those damned peasant sows could hurt her. Give her whatever she wants—within reason—to keep her happy.”

  Sasha gazed lovingly at his prince, then catching his master’s hands up he covered them with kisses. “We have never before been separated, my beloved master. Each day away from you shall be an eternity.”

  “You are the only one I can trust to do this for me, dearest Sasha,” said the prince.

  Sasha kissed the prince’s hands once more and then climbed out and carried Miranda into the other coach. It began moving as soon as he had closed the door.

  Prince Alexei Cherkessky drove himself back to his palace in the city, where Gillian was waiting for him.

  “Where have you been?” she pouted. As usual she was wearing a sheer silk gown that left nothing to the imagination.

  In answer he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, his cruel mouth forcing hers open. Quickly inflamed, she responded ardently, pressing her voluptuous body against him, taking pleasure from the pain the gold buttons of his uniform inflicted on her soft flesh, from the pain his hands inflicted as they crushed her buttocks. He pushed her onto a settee and, kneeling before her, sought the sweetness between her open legs, his knowledgeable tongue wreaking havoc, biting at her little love button until she screamed with delight. Then as swiftly as he had begun his attack he stopped, standing up and straightening his tunic.

  For a moment she lay panting with disbelief, then she swore at him, “You bastard! Don’t leave me hanging!”

  He laughed cruelly. “Tonight, douceka. I’m saving myself for tonight. I have a special treat for you, one you’ve never experienced, and will never, I promise you, experience again. You can finish yourself now. Go ahead. I like watching you when you do it to yourself.”

  “Rotten bastard!” she snarled, but her fingers were already busily working her aching flesh. It was never the same as with a real man, but she had to do something or explode with the longing.

  Prince Cherkessky lit a thin black cheroot, and sat back to watch his mistress as she writhed before him. She was probably the most insatiable female he’d ever met. She would do anything he wanted, and always with gusto. He would miss that, but she was too dangerous to keep around any longer. He knew she hoped to blackmail him into marriage, but he had no intention of making a highbred English whore who spied for Napoleon against her own country the next Princess Cherkessky. That honor was being reserved for a young cousin of the Tzar’s, Princess Tatiania Romanova, and unknown to everyone in St. Petersburg society except his future in-laws, the engagement would be announced next month on Tatiania’s seventeenth birthday, the wedding to take place the following month.

  Of course, he had to tie up some loose ends. Sasha was one, but he was safely on his way to the farm. Eventually, thought the prince, I will write him about Tatiania, but I cannot allow him to come back until she has given me several children. Sasha may be the only person I truly care for, but he cannot give me children to insure the continuation of my family.

  A moan from Gillian penetrated his thoughts, and he focused his glance on her again, watching her face with interest as she climaxed. “Very nice, my dear!” he said. “Now I shall reward you by telling you where I have been today. I arranged for your former rival to travel south with Sasha. They are already well on their way.”

  “Alexei!” Gillian flung herself into his arms. “Oh, I do adore you!”

  He smiled thinly. “I am pleased to make you so happy so easily,” the prince said. “Go and bathe yourself in preparation for our evening together, my dear.”

  Gillian scrambled to her feet and hurried to her own rooms. She wondered what wonderful surprise he had in store for her. Would it be the sapphire necklace and earrings she had admired last week at the jeweler’s? It was too soon for a marriage proposal. Now that they shared the secret of Miranda Dunham, however, he would marry her to keep her silent. It was only logical, and in the event that it did not occur to him, she would suggest it. He was not a stupid man. He would see the advantage of her being his wife.

  In his own apartments the prince prepared, ordering iced champagne and fine black caviar. He bathed, and then surprised his servants by giving them the evening off. By nine o’clock all was in readiness. The draperies were drawn and his bedchamber was lit by shimmering candlelight.

  Gillian’s hair had been red and short in London. In St. Petersburg it was long, wavy, and blond, an effective disguise. Tonight she wore it loose, and she was totally nude except for a necklace of diamonds and pink satin slippers. The prince wore only a silk robe.

  Gillian’s color was high. She had spent her few hours away from the prince dwelling on Miranda’s fate. Having drunk two glasses of champagne, she grew bold. “Tell me what it will be like for her, Alexei?” she begged him.

  “Who?”

  “Miranda Dunham. What will it be like for her on your farm?”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, my dear, but it should be quite comfortable for her. Do not your English horsebreeders take especial care of their prize brood mares? Well, I too take excellent care of my breeding stock.”

  “What if she refuses to cooperate,” urged Gillian. “What if she fights your attempts to mate her with Lucas? A woman can fight, you know.”

  “If she will not cooperate, Gillian, she will be forced.”

  “How?”

  “She will be tied down so Lucas may complete his duties,” said the prince drily. “Does it please you to know that, Gillian?”

  “Yes,” she breathed huskily. “Oh, God, how I wish Jared Dunham could know her fate! Know that another man is using what he considered his!”

  The prince’s eyes narrowed. So, Sasha had been right after all. Not that it mattered. The silver-blond beauty was on her way to the farm. Stupid Gillian didn’t even realize that, in her eagerness for revenge, she had exposed her lie about Miranda not being married. “Let us not dwell on the functions of serfs, my dear,” he said. “There are far more pleasant ways in which we may amuse ourselves.” Removing his silk dressing gown, he then removed her necklace and took her hand to lead her toward his bed. “I was cruel to you this afternoon, douceka, but tonight I promise to give you your heart’s desire.”

  Gillian’s heart skipped a beat. Had she misjudged him? Was he going to propose tonight, after all?

  The prince pulled her to him. “Ah, douceka, what pleasure you give me,” he said, tracing the line of her jaw with his supple fingers. She shivered with delight, and his slanted eyes narrowed. They fell back together on the bed, Gillian atop the prince, and his strong arms lifted her slightly to seat her on his already strong lance. She squealed with pleasure and wiggled her plump bottom provocatively on his thighs. His hands reached out to play with her breasts, rolling the cherrylike nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

  “What a sensuous little cossack you are, my dear,” he said as she rode him. “But you are too anxious for your pleasures. Tonight you will have to wait a bit.” He lifted her off him.

  “No!” she protested. “Damn you, Alexei, I can climax a hundred times for you, and I want to!”

  “No, no, douceka,” he scolded. “This night we will come close several times, bu
t I will allow you only one pleasure. However, it will be greater than any you’ve ever known or will know again. I promise you perfection, my dear.”

  He turned her over onto her stomach and, without her seeing it, reached for the riding crop he had placed conveniently near the bed. Seating himself on her shoulders facing her feet, he applied the crop viciously to her bottom. Gillian screamed and tried to buck him off, but she could not, and he did not stop beating her until her buttocks were a mass of dark pink weals. Then as she lay weeping and helpless he entered her as he would one of his male lovers, using her skillfully until her sobs of pain began to turn into moans of an entirely different nature. When she was quite close to fulfillment, he withdrew from her and rolled her onto her back. Pulling her legs over his shoulders, he buried his face in her, tonguing her with marvelous deftness, then withdrawing with incredible instinct only a moment before she slipped over the edge.

  She cursed him again and again, using every foul word she could think of in at least three languages, and he laughed delightedly. Finally Alexei Cherkessky believed his mistress was ready for the final pleasure. She was whimpering and clawing at his groin now, so he murmured “All right, douceka, I’ll fuck you now,” and pushed his swollen organ into her. She sighed as he entered her, thrusting her fevered body upward to meet him. He smiled down at the look of pure pleasure on her face; her eyes were closed, the lids trembling.

  Expertly he drove her toward a perfect orgasm, his slim hips thrusting downward in rhythm with her movements. His hands slipped around her white throat with its madly jumping pulse, and he began to speak softly to her. “I am granting you your greatest desire, Gillian, ma douceka. I have allowed you your revenge on Lord Dunham for preferring his exquisite Miranda to you.” The prince’s fingers began to tighten about Gillian’s neck. “Lord Dunham will, I fear, seek her unless there is nothing to seek. You wanted to be Lady Dunham in life, Gillian, but that was not to be. You shall, however, be Lady Dunham in death.”

  Gillian’s eyes flew open as sudden sickening realization of his intent penetrated her mind. Her hands flew to his in an effort to release his hold. She opened her mouth, desperately seeking air, trying to scream, but his grip was relentless. Gillian knew she was going to die. His hands began to squeeze the life from her at the very moment she began to experience the greatest climax she ever had known. Survival struggled with sensual pleasure, and she found her strength to fight him gone as her eyes closed.

  “They will find your body in the Neva, douceka, dressed in Lady Dunham’s clothes and jewelry. You will be identified as her, and buried in her grave, with her name on your tombstone. Have you no thanks for me, douceka?”

  Gillian Abbott’s body shuddered in a combination of orgasm and death throes, and then she was still. Prince Alexei continued to fuck her until he attained his own pleasure a few moments later. Then he withdrew from her and rose from the bed to wash himself in his dressing room. He drank down a full glass of champagne to steady his nerves. He was shaken from what he considered the most exhilarating experience he had ever had.

  He felt he had been more magnificent than he had dared to hope, her orgasm and her death all tangled into one mass of passion. He sighed sadly, realizing it was not likely to happen again. No woman he’d ever known had been as primitively sexual as Gillian. She was unique, and he would miss her. But nothing must endanger his marriage to the Tzar’s young cousin. Slowly he dressed himself, and then he dressed Gillian’s fast-cooling body in Miranda Dunham’s clothing. He could not fit the vest over Gillian’s overgenerous breasts so he discarded it. The drawers were skintight, for Gillian had a plumper bottom than Miranda, but he managed to squeeze her into them. He solved the problem of a too-tight dress bodice by ripping the front of the gown to make it look as if the cameo brooch had been torn off by thieves. After fastening the garters about her legs to hold up the white stockings he discarded the black slippers, for Gillian’s feet could not fit Miranda’s slender shoes. Lastly the prince jammed the wedding ring onto his dead paramour’s finger and, picking up her lifeless body, he carried her from his apartments downstairs and out onto the palace terrace, which faced the river Neva.

  The palace was quite deserted. No one saw him. At the terrace edge he paused to lift Gillian over the balustrade, and then he lowered her body by her own arms down into the river where the current quickly caught at it and sucked it away. Alexei Cherkessky watched with great satisfaction. Everything had gone as perfectly as he had planned it. In the morning he would have Marya, his old nurse, clear Gillian’s apartment out. There would be no need for an explanation. Mistresses came and went. Well-trained serfs did not ask questions, and his serfs were as well trained as physical violence and pure fear could make them.

  Reaching into his tunic, he drew out a thin black cheroot, and lit it from one of the garden lanterns. Then, slowly inhaling the rich tobacco smoke, he wiped Gillian Abbott from his brain, and began to contemplate Princess Tatiania Romanova, his innocent bride-to-be. He held no hope that a well-brought-up seventeen-year-old virgin would be as interesting as Gillian. Still, if she were not prejudiced against bedsport and was an apt pupil, he could school her, and they would get on quite well. All in all, it was an encouraging thought.

  Chapter 11

  JARED DUNHAM GALLOPED UP THE DRIVE OF SWYNFORD HALL, his heart hammering a joyous refrain: Miranda! Miranda! Miranda! The green English countryside looked marvelous to him after his stay in gray-brown Russia. Eleven months! He’d been gone almost a full year! What had ever possessed him to take on the mission? What had ever possessed him to leave Miranda?

  A stableboy ran out to take his horse as he arrived at the front entrance to the hall, and a footman hurried down the building’s steps to greet him.

  “We thought you were still in Scotand, m’lord,” he said. “We weren’t expecting you till next week.”

  “Where is Lady Dunham?” Jared asked.

  A strange look passed briefly over the footman’s face, but before he coud answer, Amanda and a lovely young woman with copper-colored hair appeared and hurried to his side. “Thank you, William,” Amanda dismissed the servant, then turned to her companion. “Which one of them is it?” she asked.

  There was not a moment’s hesitation. “It is Lord Dunham, Amanda, not Jon.”

  “Jared! Oh thank God! You have Miranda with you?”

  Jared thought he’d entered a madhouse. “What do you mean, Amanda? I do not understand you.”

  “My lord,” said the other young woman, “I think it would be best to go into the house. Mandy dear, come along. I believe the library will do nicely.”

  Once in the library, Jared roared at his pretty sister-in-law, “What the hell do you mean, do I have Miranda with me? Where is my wife?!” Amanda burst into tears, and Jared swore angrily. “Dammit, kitten, this is not the time for weeping! I want an explanation!” But Mandy only wept harder. Defeated, Jared turned to the other woman. “Madam?”

  “I am Anne Bowen Dunham, m’lord, your new sister-in-law.”

  “What!?”

  “Please sit down, m’lord. I’m afraid my explanation is lengthy. Would you like a sherry perhaps?”

  Jared looked at her shrewdly. “I have a feeling, Mistress Anne, that I’m going to need something stronger. A whiskey, I think.”

  Anne moved serenely to the table where all the decanters and glasses were set up. Carefully choosing a short cut-crystal tumbler, she poured a generous dollop of smoky Scots whiskey into it and handed it to him. Amanda was sniffling on a nearby settee.

  He took a deep swallow of the whiskey, and looked levelly at Anne. “Mistress?” he said.

  “Were you aware, m’lord, that Lord Palmerston brought your brother Jonathan to England late last autumn to impersonate you?” Jared strongly nodded his head, and Anne continued.

  “Lord Palmerston felt that your absence should not be a public fact, and as your sister-in-law Charity had been lost in a boating accident, Jon was free and willing to come an
d masquerade as you all last winter.”

  “Did my wife know?” asked Jared.

  “Of course. It was very hard for her, m’lord. She loves you terribly, you know. Being alone during her confinement was especially difficult for her.” His face registered complete amazement at these words. “M’lord!” Anne caught at his hands. “Oh, heavens! Did you not know that, either?” He shook his head weakly. “M’lord,” she said softly, “you are a father. Your son was born on April thirtieth. He’s a lovely, healthy little lad.”

  “What is his name?” Jared asked.

  “Thomas,” she said.

  Jared nodded. “Yes, I would have agreed to that,” he said, and she hid a smile. “Where is Miranda, Mistress Anne?”

  “She went to St. Petersburg to fetch you, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Hear me out, please,” said Anne, and then she continued. “Your brother and I met and fell in love. Miranda arranged for us to wed in secret. She wanted us happy, bless her. But she herself was wretchedly unhappy, far more unhappy than anyone knew. Or so I believe.”

  “It’s true, Jared!” broke in Amanda. “She begged Lord Palmerston for word of you, but he would tell her nothing. He kept saying, ‘When I hear, madam, you’ll hear.’ You know that icy, awful tone of voice he uses when he doesn’t want to be bothered. If he’d only taken the time to reassure her, Jared! Where were you that it took you so long to return?”

  “I was in prison, kitten. Had I not been I would have returned months ago.”

  “Prison? Why on earth were you in prison? Who put you there?” gasped Amanda.

  “The Tzar, kitten, but don’t fret. I was treated quite well. I was confined within the Fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul, and lived in a comfortable two-room apartment with a fine view of the Neva River. My valet, Mitchum, was with me, and other than the lack of freedom we were quite comfortable.”

  “But why?” Amanda demanded again.

  “When Napoleon took Moscow, the Tzar became frightened. He was fearful of many things—that the French would continue on to St. Petersburg, that the Emperor woud discover Alexander was contemplating an alliance against the French. I believe the shock of Moscow’s fall drove him to panic. He ordered me imprisoned in the Fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul, but I was not to be mistreated. I was to be given comfortable rooms above ground. I was to have my servant with me, and food, wine, and a fire, as well as any small comforts such as books and a chess set. Since only a few people at the British Embassy even knew I was in St. Petersburg my disappearance from the scene was no problem. The ambassador, of course, did what he could, but he could do little as he himself was in a tenuous position.”