She’d been stunned—and frightened—to realize she didn’t know the answer to that. Oh, she was good at the job of living—or at least surviving—but she couldn’t recall the last time she’d found true joy in anything. Apparently, her lack of joy had taken its toll on her body and she’d begun to get ill.
It had crept up on her so slowly that she hadn’t noticed until she’d coughed up blood. The doctor had called it gastric ulcerates and said it was serious enough to kill a person. He’d put her on a diet that was bland enough to kill her, but it had made her feel better almost immediately. He’d also told her that rest was the key to getting better.
Mel had felt so much better after a few weeks on his dreadful diet that she’d forgotten the second part of his prescribed cure: going to the country to rest.
And then, around the New Year, she’d begun to cough—along with several of her employees. Not long after everyone had been sick, some for weeks. But, by the end of April—four months later—she’d noticed she was still coughing. And then she’d coughed up blood. Again.
“I’m not sure you comprehend what I mean, Mrs. Griffin, so let me state it as baldly as I can: it is not a matter of if you will die, ma’am, but when,” the doctor had told her after administering a vile-tasting tonic.
So, she’d grudgingly made plans, taking far too long to leave. Instead of departing in the spring she’d not left London until—
A flicker of movement caught Mel’s attention and she turned just as a horse and rider leapt from a bluff.
“My God,” she whispered, her hand at her throat as man and beast sailed through the air for an impossibly long moment before fluidly making contact with the shore, their movements not stuttering for an instant as they churned up the fine rocks and gravel.
Mel sat up and tilted her hat to shield her eyes, not wanting to miss even a moment of the magnificent display. She’d seen riders in the various London parks and drunken young bucks coming and going from The White House, but she’d never seen anything like this.
The power of the horse’s magnificent body was awe-inspiring. And the man mounted on it rode as though they shared one mind. Just as they reached the point where pebbles gave way to the water he reined in and leapt off the horse’s back. He leaned forward and took the beast by the harness, giving it what appeared to be a kiss on the nose.
Mel covered her smile with a hand, as if somebody might catch her enjoying the sight of a man being kind to his horse. He removed what she thought was the bridle and then did something to the saddle before turning the horse loose. And then he plucked off his hat and tossed it onto the shore while the horse wandered toward the nearest clump of sea grass.
Mel had suspected it was Mr. Stanwyck, but the sight of his ash blond hair confirmed it. So, he was an excellent horseman to add to all his other skills.
And then he began to remove his clothing.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered, sitting forward and twitching her hat even lower, not wanting the bright sunlight to interfere with what she was seeing.
His movements were sure and quick and he gave no care to his garments, which he tossed behind him without even looking.
Even from her lamentably far distance she could see his naked torso was every bit as well-formed as it had felt that first day when he’d rescued her from Hector.
He pulled off a boot while still standing and then the second, hopping around on one stockinged foot, his howl audible even from her vantage point. Mel grinned. Yes, the pebbles might be hard on a bare, tender foot.
His hands disappeared around the front of his body and Mel realized she was holding her breath. It came out in a hiss, along with a vulgar word, when he shoved down breeches, drawers, and stockings in one abrupt motion, stepping out of them as naked as the day he’d come into the world.
But oooh, how much more majestic.
He ran to the water, his compact, muscular bottom and impressive thighs flexing as he leapt and then dove into an oncoming wave. Mel held her breath yet again as she waited for him to surface. The seconds ticked past . . .
And then he burst from the water with a yell.
The next quarter of an hour was one of the more enjoyable that she could remember. He played in the water like a joyous sea creature and Mel caught too-rare flashes of water-slicked flesh as he gamboled and cavorted.
She was torn between wanting him to continue his playing and wishing he would emerge. Mel soon noticed that he drifted along with the water. That meant that in order to reach his clothing he’d have to walk not quite—but almost—toward her. She was duplicitous enough to mold her body between the cliff and the rock, deep enough into the crevice to be hidden but still have an excellent vantage point.
What a despicable voyeur she was. She’d long thought her clients who paid to watch were not quite right in the head. Now she realized there was an excitement associated with knowing you were doing something bad, but then doing it anyway.
Mel wriggled to get comfortable, wishing for tea and biscuits—or perhaps even a glass of the fine brandy she often enjoyed even though a lady wasn’t supposed to—so she could appreciate the show properly.
She also gave a brief but fervent moment of thanks to whatever deity had made her persevere and walk the extra three-quarters of an hour to reach this rarely used section of water. A beach that he had mentioned.
She shifted against the hard rock and squinted to find him but it was too blasted sunny to see anything but the blinding reflection off the water.
As if somebody had heard her complaint a cloud slid across the sun and the glare from the water lessened, giving her an uninterrupted view.
“Praise the lord,” she said beneath her breath.
It appeared that her luck was in. The sudden lack of sun must have cooled things off for the bather. He’d been swimming arm over powerful arm out toward the horizon but now turned and headed toward the shore. Once again, Mel held her breath as he came closer and closer and—
She was glad nobody else could hear the noise she made.
To say he looked like a water god out of mythology was trite, but, oh, it was so very, very true.
He strode from the waves like some male version of The Birth of Venus. Or The Birth of Adonis or Zeus or one of those randy Greeks or Romans who was always getting his kit off at the drop of a hat.
Melissa realized she was sliding off the rock because she’d leaned forward so much and pushed herself back into her crack, briefly disgusted by her own avidity but quickly suppressing it.
He bent at the waist and slicked water from his legs with both hands.
She swallowed.
When he stood again, he did the same with his arms and then, Great God Almighty, with his chest. Even from this distance she could see he had the smooth, nearly hairless, chest that exceedingly fair men often possessed. He walked toward his pile of clothing and again bent, this time with his bottom toward her.
A humiliating mewling sound escaped her, reminding her that it had been a long time—almost a year—since she’d last taken a lover to her bed. And it had been even longer since she’d taken a male lover.
Mel swallowed twice as he dropped into a crouch, his hands doing something with his clothing. How she wished she were close enough to see clearly what she could only imagine at this distance.
He shook his head like a big dog and diamonds of water glinted. And then he turned and flopped onto his clothing, his arms and legs spread to dry in the sun.
Melissa dropped her head into her hands. Good. God.
Beneath the thin summer muslin of her dress her sex was wet and pulsing in a way that made her want to take care of her body’s nagging urges this very minute. It wasn’t as if moral qualms were holding her back; no, it was that she was engaged in a violent mental argument. Her body wanted release, but her mind wanted a closer look.
Mel knew she should take a third fork—one suggested by the faint voice of conscience—that led back to the manor.
The sun re
sumed its relentless beating and she looked up to see the cloud had disappeared entirely. She was . . . hot, and not only between her thighs. She was hot everywhere and more than a little sweaty. If she was hot and sweaty, he would be . . .
As if in a trance she pulled on her stockings, tied her garters, and laced up her ankle boots. It would have been easy to slip back up the trail without being seen, but her body was moving toward him, just like she knew it would. The sound of pebbles crunching beneath her shoes was mostly swallowed up by the pounding surf. Still, she was astounded he didn’t hear her.
Although the soles of his feet were the first thing she encountered, she forced herself to look at his face before examining the rest of his body. His lips were slightly parted and his breathing deep and even: he’d fallen asleep.
Melissa briefly closed her eyes and said yet another prayer—that he would stay sleeping—since her last had been so effective.
And then she opened her eyes and feasted.
Her jaw dropped lower as her eyes made their way from his face down. He must play in the sun often; although his forearms and face were darker than the rest of his body, his chest and legs were also browned. He did have hair on his torso, just a scattering around his small coral-pink nipples, more in the area between, and then that fascinating thin golden trail that pulled one’s gaze south.
Melissa loved a man’s upper body, especially when the body was like Mr. Stanwyck’s. She swallowed; like Magnus. It was the first time she’d said the name—even in her mind—since the day he’d told it to her. She’d avoided even thinking it, as if that was some kind of restraint.
Well, so much for restraint now . . .
He was devoid of fat, his muscular torso ridged and corrugated in ways that made her already watering mouth even wetter. She let her eyes wander over the rounded muscles of his shoulders, the powerful resting bulge of his biceps down to the V of muscles that began at his taut belly and went down and down and . . .
She took her time before arriving at her final destination, her eyes widening at what lay on his flat abdomen, jutting proudly between his compact hips.
My, my, my.
Melissa grinned; the angelic curate possessed a devilish weapon. And it was tumescent, as if he drifted in some erotic dream world, his eyes darting restlessly beneath his eyelids, his magnificent body slick with quickly evaporating drops of water beneath the beating sun.
He shifted slightly and made a barely audible sound, his hand coming to rest on his shaft. Mel stared as he grew longer and thicker and hardened. The contrast between his tanned, golden-haired forearm and long, thick, ruddy cock was . . .
Well, it just was.
She made a loud gulping sound and it was all she could do not to drop down and take him in her mouth and—Mel froze, horrified. She’d actually begun lowering herself to her knees. She felt woozy at what she’d nearly done and whom she’d almost done it to: a curate, for God’s sake.
What a bloody disaster that would have been.
She bit back a groan, her frustration and lust looming as high and powerful as a tidal wave. But she swam against the current of her nature because something told her he wouldn’t be happy to wake up and find her attached to his body.
It was a shame, because she could make him so very, very happy.
Mel swallowed both the moisture in her mouth and the carnal thoughts as she gazed down on him, one last look before she left him here. Oh, Mr. Stanwyck, what a wonderful surprise you turned out to be.
Mel didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud until he twitched and shifted, his hand tightening around his stiff shaft. And then his eyes opened and met hers. For the tiniest fraction of a second his beautiful lips curved into a lazy welcoming smile and his heavy, hooded eyes creased at the corners.
An instant later, he yelled.
∞∞∞
Magnus was having the most delicious dream. He was naked, hot, and hard and sitting in Mrs. Tisdale’s kitchen. That should have been alarming, but it was Miss Griffin and not Mrs. Tisdale who was in the kitchen with him. She was cooking something on the small cook-stove. And she was wearing that same apron. But nothing beneath it this time.
A throb of pleasure traveled from his tight, aching balls to his erection as he stared, mesmerized by the way the apron strings met at the base of her spine, the ends dangling between a smooth, rounded bottom that looked like two halves of a peach. And just like a peach, it demanded to be touched, tasted . . .
Magnus sank to his knees behind her, his mouth lowering to one velvet cheek, his hand sliding between her slightly parted thighs. He grunted at the damp, swollen heat, his erection hard enough to cut glass.
She turned and looked down at him, as if he’d called to her, her beautiful face languorous and smiling
“Oh, Mr. Stanwyck . . . ”
Magnus smiled up at her while stroking between his thighs. But the sun behind her blazed so brightly he couldn’t see her expression when—
And that’s when he realized that he wasn’t dreaming.
His body folded into a jackknife position as he brought his knees to his chest. “What the bloody hell?” he yelled, his voice at least three octaves higher than usual.
She didn’t move or turn away.
“Miss Griffin!”
She cocked her head, as if confused, but she didn’t stop staring. Indeed, she lowered her eyes to where his arms wrapped around his knees. He suddenly imagined the view she must have of his exposed rod and jewels only a moment earlier.
“Miss. Griffin.” He repeated the words slowly and sternly—using the tone he employed on the disobedient boys he often tutored.
His words seemed to snap her out of whatever shocked state she was in.
“Oh,” she said, sounding and looking blank, as if her attention were a thousand miles away, rather than on his erect, exposed—Good Lord—dripping, erection. But then she turned around.
Magnus made an embarrassing sound—like a startled hen—and scrambled for his clothing. He seemed to be moving in treacle and his actions were clumsy as well as slow. He missed sticking his foot into the leg of his buckskins three times before he could pull the damned things on.
He yanked on his damp, wrinkled shirt, realized it was on backwards, pulled it over his head so roughly he heard something tear, and then tugged it back on the right way. A cravat was beyond him so he just hung the tortured strip of fabric over his shoulders. He was hunting around for his stockings when he saw she was standing on one of them.
He closed his eyes. If he was stunned, shocked, and rattled how much worse must it be for her? While it was true that she was a woman in her twenties rather than a girl fresh from the schoolroom, she was still a maiden. The poor thing had been positively frozen in shock looking at him.
Although he had no personal experience with nude women, himself, at least he’d seen renderings of the female form in books. And of course there was that one occasion at seminary when the man he’d roomed with had sneaked a woman into their rooms and then—
Good God! What was he doing thinking of that at a time like this?
Poor Miss Griffin. The most she’d probably ever seen of a man was two days ago when he’d removed his waistcoat. And she’d kept her eyes modestly fixed on her sewing then, he recalled. Magnus could only hope he’d not frightened her for life when it came to the male body.
He needed to calm himself, to approach this rationally, to not frighten her any more than she already was, he needed to—
She bent down and picked up his stocking. “Are you decent, Mr. Stanwyck?”
Magnus gaped. She didn’t sound ruined . . . In fact, she sounded . . . amused?
She shifted from foot to foot and he realized she was waiting. Impatiently, apparently.
“Ah, yes,” he said, his voice hoarse as he slipped his arms into his coat. “Quite decent.”
She turned and looked up at him, as unreadable as the Sphinx.
They stared, and it was Miss Griffin who broke the s
ilence. “Your stocking.”
He glanced down at her hand. “Er, thank you.”
A soft knicker made them both turn. Friar had come over to see what the commotion was about. The blasted horse. Why hadn’t he done the job of a faithful steed and let him know earlier that he wasn’t alone? Why hadn’t he watched over Magnus while he slept and—
“May I pet him?”
“Hmm?” He glanced at her as he hopped on one foot, pulling up his stocking. “Er, yes, of course.” She turned to Friar and Magnus gave in and sat down in the gravel with an inelegant thump.
“He’s beautiful.”
He pulled on his boot, his eyes on her long, slender hand as she stroked Friar’s neck. Lucky horse.
“What’s his name?” She turned to him. “Or is he a she? I haven’t been around horses much,” she added, when she saw his surprised expression.
“Friar is a he.”
“Ah, so a stallion.” She nodded, as if storing this piece of information.
“Well, he’s a gelding, but you know—” He stopped when he realized what he was saying.
Her mouth pulled up into a half smile that made him look away. Lord. They were sitting here talking about geldings when she’d just seen his—
“Friar?”
Magnus heard the humor in her voice. He pulled on his second boot and got to his feet, brushing off his breeches. “Yes, well, I had originally named him Flyer but my brothers decided it would be amusing to change it.”
She cut him a shy smile and he stared. Now she was shy? Now? When they were both clothed and speaking of horses? He didn’t think his face would ever be a normal temperature or color again.
“That is quite amusing,” she said, breaking their staring contest.
Magnus snorted. “They certainly thought so.”
“You mentioned you had five brothers,” she said, not taking her eyes or hand from the horse. “And are they younger, older—”
“I am the youngest.”
That information made her look at him. “The youngest of six boys. They must all dote on you.”
“Yes, well, I’m actually more of a family pet than a sibling—at least that’s what my brothers would say if you asked any of them.”
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 10