by Mason, Nina
He might be a rake, but she was in no position to pass judgment.
“Is there a name for someone who becomes stimulated by watching other people having sex?”
“Aye.” He planted more kisses on her backside. “A person who enjoys watching is called a voyeur.”
“Do you think I might be one?”
His hand came betwixt her legs and fondled her pleasurably as he went on kissing her posterior. “Do you make a habit of spying on people in the throes of passion?”
“No,” she said. “But I did see something at the convent—though I did not realize at the time ‘twas of a sexual nature. Do you think it counts as voyeurism if you do not know what you are watching?”
He chuckled. “For heaven’s sake, Maggie, what did you observe?”
“Two of the sisters at the convent, kissing whilst they washed one another’s private places.”
“Was the exchange of a sexual nature?”
“In hindsight, I believe so.”
“How old were you at the time this occurred?”
“It was right before your father took me away, so I must have been only nine or ten.”
“Did watching the two sisters arouse you?”
“It might have. I do not recall.”
“Would you enjoy watching me with another woman?”
“No!” The mere thought knifed her heart.
“Why not?”
“I would be wounded by it.”
“Would you?” He sounded genuinely surprised. He also sounded gladdened, which, in turn, gladdened her.
“Yes.”
He rose up behind her, slipped his arms around her, and took her breasts in his hands. As he caressed and teased them, he pulled her backside against his front. He was not only aroused, but unclothed as well. When had he undressed?
Sweeping aside her hair, he bent to kiss her neck. “Maggie,” he whispered seductively, “how would you like to fellate me?”
The question startled her. It also gave her leverage. “I will if you unmask and untie me. I want to touch you and see the pleasure it gives you.”
Whilst removing the mask from her eyes, he chuckled lightly. “Perhaps you are a voyeur at that.”
After untying her, he lay down and stretched out on the Persian carpet.
She bent over his pelvis, took his hard cock in her hand, and dragged her tongue across the dome of his glans.
His breath hitched and he thrust his hips to drive himself deeper.
Obliging his wish, she took the whole of the head into her mouth and sucked as she dug her tongue into the hole in the tip. What had he called it again? Oh, yes—the urethral meatus.
“Oh, aye,” he rasped. “That feels amazing.”
His cock was at once hard and supple, tasted mildly salty, and smelled of sweat, sex, and urine. She took it deeper and applied more suction as her tongue explored every undulation within reach. The pleasurable moans he emitted in response acted upon her like an aphrodisiac.
Admitting more of his phallus, she twirled her tongue up and down the underside of his shaft whilst twining her fingers in his wiry lower curls. Her other hand held his erection aloft as her lips and tongue moved up and down his length. She looked up to find him watching her with blistering intensity, front teeth docked against his lower lip.
She freed her mouth. “You look as if you are enjoying yourself.”
“Oh, I am,” he said with a breathless smile. “Exceedingly. The sensations as well as the view.”
She returned his smile with a cocked eyebrow. “You like watching?”
“Show me a man who says he does not and I will show you a liar.”
He groaned as she swept her tongue around the crown of his cock. He reached for her, buried his hands in her hair, and held her fast as he thrust his hips, driving more of his length into her mouth.
She bit down gently to express her displeasure at his taking the lead.
“Oh, aye,” he rasped, undeterred. “I like it rough. Bite me, scratch me, slap me, pull my hair.”
His request for mistreatment sent a wicked thrill through her. If abuse did it for him, who was she to deny him? She’d much rather misuse him with his full consent than be misused herself.
Drawing his cock still deeper, she bit down as she tugged a tuft of his pubic hair.
“Oh, aye. But you can be even rougher.”
She took him deeper, scraping her teeth along his shaft as her tongue throttled his glans. He seemed to like it, so she kept it up as she clawed her fingernails down the inside of his thigh.
He groaned and squirmed, igniting a dark fire in her womb. She had no idea sucking a man’s cock could be so arousing.
“More, Maggie,” he pleaded, his voice raw.
As she sucked and scraped with gusto, she flicked his cods, pulled his hair, and clawed his thighs and abdomen.
“Hurt me.”
Hurt him? She was at a loss. What else might she do to inflict pain?
Yes! The riding crop. Where had he left it? Letting him go, she sat up and looked around. She found it, on the floor, within reach. Snatching it up, she held it up to his view.
“Would you like me to whip you?”
“Pray do.”
“Where?”
“My ass, my cock, my balls, my nipples. Anywhere and everywhere.”
“How hard?”
“The harder, the better.”
Panging with guilt, she snapped the tongue of the whip half-heartedly against the head of his cock. He gasped and jumped, but did not seem distressed. Quite the opposite, in fact. She snapped the crop again, against his bollox this time.
He let his head fall back and moaned with a tenor quite unlike agony.
“Roll over,” she said. “You’ve been a naughty boy and I need to blister your behind.”
He turned over, keeping his front end low and his back end high. Rising over him on her knees, she cracked the whip across his buttocks, raising a red welt on one darkly downed white cheek. Suddenly remorseful, she bent and smothered the mark with kisses.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I know not what came over me.”
“No apology is necessary, Rosebud. You only did what I asked of you.”
He pushed up on all fours, spun round, and pounced.
In a blink, he’d pinned her under the weight of his body. His gray-green eyes were aflame with passion. He came down on her, mouth to mouth, coaxed open her lips, and inserted his tongue. Capturing it betwixt her lips, she sucked with vigor.
As his pelvis ground against hers, thrills shot through her reins like flaming arrows. She wrapped her legs around his hips, hooking her heels in the small of his back. With incredible languor, he sank into her until his full length was enshrined in her body.
The feeling of fullness, of completion, was utterly sublime.
He drew back and plunged in again, then rotated deep inside her, causing her to writhe and moan with pleasure.
He moved with more purpose, sinking in all the way and circling before drawing back to a point just shy of disengaging. The sensation was glorious. He kept this up for some time, gradually increasing the speed of his thrusts until he pounded her fast and hard. Breaking free of her mouth, he pushed up on his arms and looked at her, his hair a dark cloak around his handsome features.
“Did you like whipping me?” His voice was hoarsened by passion.
“Yes.”
“Would you do it again?”
“Now?”
“No, another time.”
“If you truly desire me to.”
He got quiet for several moments before he asked, “How do you like being fucked by your husband in the middle of the day on the floor of the library?”
“I like it very well indeed.”
“A perfect blend of conventional and unconventional, is it not?”
She laughed. “To be sure.”
“I can take you places beyond your wildest dreams, Rosebud.” He eased into her whilst keeping his gaze
locked with hers. The tenderness in his eyes warmed her to her soul. “You only have to set aside your fears and your judgments.”
He drove into her with reckless abandon. She whimpered softly under the bombardment, even as pleasure expanded inside her like a bottle under pressure. After several more thrusts, her cork burst, spraying orgasmic effervescence through her body.
“Oh, Maggie,” he cried out as he reached his own sparkling finale.
Pulling out of her, he spilled his warm seed onto her belly before collapsing beside her, panting and perspiring. He nestled against her and buried his damp face in her hair.
“Rosebud,” he whispered in her ear. “Do you remember what you said earlier about not being able to watch me with someone else?”
“Yes, Robert. I remember.” She’d rather not be reminded, especially in the syrupy afterglow of orgasm.
He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her so hard she could barely breathe. “I do not think I could bear it, either.”
Chapter Seven
Maggie watched breathlessly as Robert, clad only in his shirt and belted plaid, reached behind a set of tooled-leather books and triggered a hidden lever. Within seconds, the bookcase rumbled like thunder and swung out from the wall.
A cocktail of comingled distress and surprise quickened her pulse. No wonder she’d never located his secret chamber. Not in a million years would she have guessed it might be hidden within the walls of the library.
Six days had passed since he’d told her King Charles could dissolve their marriage—six days during which she’d been fitted for new gowns, learned about the ideas of Thomas Hobbes and Renee Descartes, and worried herself sick about the royal guillotine hanging over their necks.
Six nights had passed as well—nights she’d spent alone with her anxiety, tossing and turning. Not only did her husband avoid her bedchamber, he’d not so much as kissed her the entire time. During the daylight hours, he was cold and distant, lectured rather than discussed, and scarcely said two words together when he could be bothered to appear for a meal. Clearly, something troubled him deeply. Nay, not troubled. Tortured. But, try as she might, she could not get him to open up about his woes.
Now, suddenly and without explanation, he’d sought her out and insisted on showing her his secret chamber. Why? They were setting off toward Edinburgh at first light. Could this not have waited until they returned? Or, did he fear, as she did, she’d not return to Balloch as his wife? Panic closed around her heart like an Iron Maiden. If the king annulled their marriage, what would become of her?
She’d be royally screwed in more ways than one.
“Come on.”
The duke held a pewter candlestick. When he stepped into the passage behind the bookcase, she followed.
Her vision adjusted to the dim glow. The entrance sealed behind her. A shiver went through her as she followed her husband and the only light deeper into the unknown.
The smell greeted her first: leather and wax with hints of dank, dust, and a faint sweetness she could not identify.
He stopped before an old wooden door with iron strap hinges. A small window was cut into the wood at eye level. Had the family hidden priests down here in times past?
“Wait here,” Robert said.
The groan of the hinges lifted the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. Robert and the candle disappeared inside, leaving her alone in total darkness. Her heart raced and her perspiration dampened her skin despite the coldness of the air. Had he brought her here to beat her?
His hand closed around her wrist, scaring her so badly she nearly wet herself. He yanked her across the threshold and slammed the door, unsettling her all the more. He’d lit several candles, but she could still barely see.
As her eyes adjusted to the low lighting, the chamber’s austere furnishings materialized out of the shadows. The bed—a large four-poster occupying the center of the small room—took shape first, followed by a painted cupboard on a stand near the door. In the far corner, a Eucharistic prayer chair faced the wall. Another supported a large wooden cross.
Maggie swallowed hard. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Did he re-enact the passion of Christ in here?
Her gaze landed on a wall-length board of pegs. From them hung a daunting array of whips. Fear scurried up her spine on tiny ice-cold feet. Her pulse quickened and her stomach tightened.
Reluctantly, she returned her attention to the prayer chair. A shelf just above held two devotional candles, a statuette of St. Francis of Assisi, and a cat o’ nine tails.
Strike me blind!
This was where he punished himself and where he brought the whores he whipped for sexual gratification.
She’d been wrong about him. He wasn’t the devil on her shoulder, he was an angel and demon rolled into one. A walking paradox. On the one hand, he professed to respect women as his equals. On the other, he took pleasure in debasing them. How could two such disparate men reside within a single body?
She turned to find him studying her, his eyes dark and questioning. Was he attempting to read her, to gauge her reaction to this place? If so, what did he expect? Shock? Fear? Abhorrence? She felt all of those things. He’d vowed not to hurt her, but no longer could she trust his promise.
Inflicting pain was the room’s sole purpose.
Finding her courage, she took a turn around the chamber.
He followed.
The cabinet was painted with the stations of the cross; the sheets on the bed were of fine Italian silk; the cross was outfitted with leather straps—for restraining his victims, ostensibly.
The prayer chair, she gave a wide berth.
“Say something, Maggie.”
She rounded on him with terror in her heart. “For what foul purpose have you brought me here this evening?”
He stood there a moment, raking his fingers through his hair as he regarded her with circumspection. Finally, in a low voice, he said, “Not the one you suppose.”
“I suppose you intend to punish me for some wrong I cannot fathom.”
“No,” he said. “I have brought you here to punish me.”
Her mouth fell open. “Punish you? Whatever for?”
“I should never have married you.”
Anguish bit her hard. She turned away, unable to face him. “Is that why you’ve been so sullen the past few days? Because you regret our marriage?”
“No.” He took hold of her shoulders. “‘Tis not the marriage I regret. ‘Tis the position I’ve put you in with the king—put both of us in.”
“I do not take your meaning,” she said, growing frantic. “How will punishing you help our situation?”
“’Twill not help per se, but might absolve me of some of my guilt. You promised you would beat me again if I wished it and I am calling you to honor your pledge to me now.”
Her sense of justice rose up in revolt. “I did not beat you, Robert. I struck you once in play. ‘Tis not in my nature to inflict pain—especially upon my own husband.” Rounding on him, she met his tormented gaze. “Please, Robert. Tell me what is wrong.”
“I’ve fallen in love,” he said contritely.
Fear plucked her heart like a string out of tune. “With someone else?”
“No, you silly nit. With you.”
The air left her lungs. After his behavior of the past two days, she was sure he wanted King Charles to dissolve their union.
“If, perchance, you were to inform the king we are in love, he might see fit to give us his blessing.”
Robert held her at arm’s length and searched her face. “Is that the truth? Are we in love?”
“I believe so.” He was not an easy man to love, but love him she did. Her heartache over the past few days had made the depth of her feelings known to her. “Do you think it will make any difference to the king?”
The spark of hope fled his eyes. “The king is not a bad man on the whole. He is, however, deeply distrustful, believing all human motive stems from self-interest. He thinks ill of
everyone and, given his position and the vindictiveness he’s experienced firsthand, he’d be a fool not to be wary. But he also is selfish, Maggie. He favors only those who serve his interests.”
“He sounds like an odious brute.”
“More a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Do not presume his heart will be touched by a bond of mutual affection. If our union serves him—or, leastwise, in no way threatens his interests—he may see fit to sanction our vows.”
Questions crowded her mind. “If you knew all this at the outset, why did you not seek his royal blessing before we were wed?”
He let her go and turned away. “I had my reasons.”
“What reasons? Pray, tell me, Robert, so I might come to understand why you have put us both is so tenuous a position.”
He stood there a long while with his back to her before saying, “Aye, well, if you must know—and I suppose you must—there were two reasons. Firstly, I wanted you with too great a passion to deny myself any longer than I already had. Secondly, I knew the king had in mind for me a bride of his choosing.”
“What?” She was stunned to her core. “Who?”
“One of the ladies of the court he’d tried in vain to seduce. And the king, like most men, desires nothing so much as that which eludes him.”
Maggie blinked at him, unable to grasp his meaning. “So, why marry her to you?”
“Because she’d demonstrated an interest in me the last time I visited the palace.” His voice was as gray as her hopes. “Marrying her to me would have all the appearance of doing her a great favor—one he’d expect her to repay.”
“Even if she was your wife?”
“He knows what I owe him and sets no store by vows of fidelity—his own or anybody else’s.”
“Does he have no regard for the queen?”
“Nay. Nor anyone but his brother, ‘twould seem—and even poor James is not invulnerable to the king’s hostility, though the duke fares far better than the queen. Charles at least shows deference for his brother, whilst he shows only contempt for his wife. When they entertain, the royal couple occupy opposite ends of the banquet hall, he surrounded by his mistresses, she by her ladies in waiting, most of whom her husband beds regularly.”