Once Upon a Pillow

by Christina Dodd

  He nodded, still with that strange look of forced concentration on his face. “I know you wouldn’t have said a word. This is not about trust or keeping promise; it is about who you are, Pip. You would have condemned Minton with every scorching glance, every biting word, every dismissive gesture.”

  “How do you know?”

  He smiled crookedly but it looked like it was an effort. “Because I’ve been scorched, bitten, and dismissed. My darling, everyone in Trecombe goes to great lengths to tell me how much you loathe me, and yet, I have it on the best authority that you have never actually told anyone so.”

  She sniffed, still glowering down at him. “I wouldn’t do anything so déclassé.”

  “No. Yet every person in town knows your opinion of me. It only took one meeting with you to realize I could not tell you who I was or for whom I was looking without risking not only my mission but the lives of the men working for me.”

  She could not dispute his charge. She was easy to read.

  “Of course,” he continued, his breathing choppy, “you were a good bit better at artifice than I had allowed. Because I had no idea you knew my mission until this night.”

  “Well, I had what I thought to be prime motivation to keep my knowledge secret from you.” She could afford to be magnanimous. She had the upper hand here. It had finally dawned on her why Ned looked so uncomfortable. If she shifted a lithe she might even—oh, my! she could definitely feel the reason for his discomfort.

  “I thought you were using me to get close to John and I thought if you knew that I knew who you were, you’d arrest him forthwith. I was simply trying to buy time to convince John to give up his criminal ways.” She broke off, her eyes growing round. “Oh, no! Poor John! I’ve been preaching to him for months, accusing him of the worst things!”

  “Don’t worry about John,” Ned said in a strangled voice, because when she’d risen up higher on her arms, her lower body had ground against his. And then, his lips compressed together and his expression that of a man set on an arduous task, he lifted her off of him and tolled her to one side. She allowed the small distance. For the moment.

  “It still seems a shabby sort of thing,” she said, “first to court me and then—”

  “Then nothing,” he said grimly. “I wanted you. I wanted you then and, God knows, I want you now. But you spurned me, sweetheart. Not the other way around. And if it makes you feel better, you have put me through hell.”

  “It does,” she said.

  He laughed, leaning in and dropping a quick, hard kiss on her lips before hastily retreating. And why was he retreating? she wondered, frowning. She wanted more than that quick, brief touch. She’d been suspended on the edge of carnal satisfaction for hours and now she’d discovered that he didn’t want to toss her brother in prison and he hadn’t wanted to deceive her. She’d never given a rap for convention. But most important, she loved him.

  She wriggled closer and he flinched back.

  “Don’t you want to kiss me?”

  He didn’t answer, but a tremor rippled through his tensile body.

  She used the weapons at hand. Casually she moved her manacled hand over her hip to the other side, by necessity dragging his hand with it. He could have stopped her. He was certainly stronger than she—she couldn’t have moved this monolithic bed—but he didn’t. When his hand was on her hip, she stopped pulling. His fingers curled around her hipbone. She edged closer.

  “Do I kiss poorly, then?” she asked, feminine potency surging through her. “Won’t you kiss me, Ned?”

  His green gaze transfixed her. “I told you not to play games. Continue this and you’ll reap the consequences,” he said, his face tense but his voice even more so. “I’ve nothing left with which to resist and I’ve little will to do so.”

  “I want you.”

  “I know.” He was breathing hard. “Marry me.”

  “Fine.”

  He drew back, startled, then seized her arms, pulling her close. “You’ll marry me?” He looked so shocked, so gratified, so amazed that she could not help but smile.

  “Of course,” she replied simply. “I’d have no other.”

  “I swear you’ll not regret it,” he vowed fervently and then with a rueful grin added, “not more than once or twice a week. And in between I’ll make you glad you married me.”

  “But until then…” She raised her hand and traced her index finger down his sternum, over his pounding heart, across the compact muscles that leapt to life in his abdomen, lower over the soft swirl of hair low on his belly, to the narrow band of his trousers. Wickedly, she hooked her finger beneath the band and touched something blunt and silky smooth. He jerked back.

  “No,” he said desperately. “We must wait until we’re wed.”

  “Why?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, raised his face in a manner beseeching the heavens. “Only you would ask such a question, Pip.”

  She took advantage of his closed eyes, leaning in and nibbling on his collarbone. His skin was hot. He tasted salty. Ah, yes, he’d endured his own trials this night—

  He grabbed her and rolled her under him, his free hand cradling her head as he kissed her. It was a rough, uncontrolled kiss, the pressure driving her down into the mattress. She met it open-mouthed.

  He was thoroughly aroused, a big hard mound between her thighs. He tore his lips from her. “There’s reasons to wait,” he said desperately. “I’m not a scoundrel, Pip. I love you. I want you to realize that, to know it in your very soul. I’ll prove it to you by any means, satisfy every convention with my dutiful respect.”

  Her heart bounded with joy. He loved her. He wanted her to know he loved her, to prove his love. But, she didn’t need proof. She already knew.

  “I’m strong enough to handle a little self-denial,” he said with a crooked smile.

  “Then I must be the scoundrel,” she replied. She fumbled with his trousers’ remaining buttons, fighting them free of their holes. “And I most definitely cannot handle self-denial right now. And as for satisfaction, there are only two people you need worry about satisfying. Don’t make me ask, Ned. Please.”

  With a strangled sound, he reached down and jerked away the fabric between them, both her gown and his trousers. “Touch me.

  She complied, reaching down and wrapping her fingers around him. The intimate knowledge of his heat and size lanced through her. He bit off a sharp cry, swelling in her hand. Later she would explore more thoroughly this satiny smooth, rock hard enigma. Right now, they needed to finish what they had begun so many hours before, so many months before.

  He clasped her knee and pulled her leg up over his hip, spreading her legs. “Take me inside of you. Guide me.”

  He needed to know that she wanted him. It was there in his tense commands. Should she show any sign of pain, any alarm, exhibit the slightest second thoughts, she realized he would stop—even if it killed him. It made her want him even more. Without hesitation, she set him at her threshold. He took hold her hands, both manacled and free, and laced his fingers with hers, holding their hands against the mattress on either side of her head. Deliberately, she tilted her hips up in age-old welcome.

  He’d long since readied her. She felt herself stretching to accommodate the slow, nerve-rasping slide of his entry. He filled her slowly, thoroughly. The sensation was amazing. Wonderful. All the while he watched her, his face set as in stone, his eyes glittering and alive to every nuance of her expression, every check in her breathing, every contraction of every muscle. He watched her eyes as he took her.

  “Move. Please,” he implored thickly and she began to move, a slight, deliberate dance, her thighs locked around his trim hips.

  A grimace crossed his aquiline features. He was holding back, letting her feel him, accustom herself to his presence with her. She didn’t want him to hold back, part of this was about power, the give and take of uncontrollable forces.

  “Move,” she whispered and rocked her hips hard against h
im. He trembled.

  “Move in me.” She bucked, seating him deeper. His teeth clenched and he growled, sliding their two sets of hands up to her hips. He clasped her tightly and lifted, thrusting hard and deep into her. Sensual pleasure snaked through her body, pooling in her groin.

  Again and again, over and over, he drove into her and she reveled in the sensation, basked in the ferocity of his possession, hurling toward some summit, unforeseeable pinnacle of pleasure locked between her legs, plunging into her body, lifting and holding her, his body marble hard, hot, and immutable. She moved with him, feeling her interior muscles clench. And still the pleasure kept building, the need for surcease as sharp as an addict’s craving.

  Only the end remained, a sun blazing just beyond her reach and she struggled. Her body strained for release. She squeezed her eyes shut, lights exploding against the swirling darkness, her body straining… There! There. There.

  Waves of pleasure flooded her body, inundated her; skin, pores, senses. She stretched, transfixed by gratification, her throat arching back, sobbing, her nails digging into his sides as the tremors rippled through her.

  Her climax nearly killed him. He’d matched her thrust for thrust, ground his teeth against it, watching the waves build in her, feeling the moment she abandoned herself to the “little death” and felt his own body rise to partake of the feast. But he fought it, fought his climax, unwilling to let it go until he was sure, until every muscle in her body gripped him and the contractions had started to ebb. Only then did he allow himself release.

  He came abruptly, scorchingly, the power of it leaving him gasping, his arms bruising her, his throat raw with the sound torn from him. And when it was over and he collapsed above her and his face was buried in the velvet lee of her throat, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her lips to the base of his throat and gave him heaven again by whispering, “I love you.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was a miracle he even heard the faint knock on the door. The night had turned into day before all the months of anger and heartbreak had been burned away by the intensity with which they loved. But then, perhaps it wasn’t surprising that the smallest sound woke him. He had something to protect.

  He stood up beside the bed, shielding her with his body. “Who is it?”

  “It’s John Jones, Captain.”

  “John?”

  He swung around to find Philippa looking up at him from a nest of linens and blankets, tousled and infinitely desirable, her dark eyes wide and questioning.

  He touched her lips. “Quietly, my love,” he said in a low voice. “You may have no use for others’ opinions, but I’d not care to have your name bandied about. I’m a bit rusty with a sword.”

  Twin lines appeared between her brows, but she demurred without a sound.

  “I came to see if all was right with you,” John spoke through the door.

  “Aye, I’m fine, John. What happened with the raid?”

  “Caught Minton, sir.” There was undeniable pride in John’s voice. “He’s in chains on his way to Glastonbury as we speak.”

  “My brother works for you?” Philippa whispered, wide-eyed.

  “Aye. And will try to make you a widow before you’re even wed if you speak louder,” he cautioned.

  “What’s that, Captain?” John asked.

  “Good work, lad.”

  “Thank you, sir. But why is it you weren’t there at the end after all you’ve been through chasing the devil to ground? Or rather I should say after all my ill-tempered sister has put you through?”

  “The wretch!” Pip mouthed, her expression hot with affront. She started to sit up but Ned pushed her back.

  “I’ll not have you speak of her that way, John,” he said.

  John snorted. “Aye, you poor bastard—beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n. I don’t know why you don’t just toss her on her—”

  “That’ll be enough, Jones,” Ned broke in, his voice deadly serious. “I’ll speak with you later.”

  They heard John sigh loudly. “Aye, Cap’n. But you missed out on a rare good time. I hope whatever it was that kept you back was worth it.”

  Ned looked down at Pip. “Oh, it was.”

  “Then, as it appears I’m not going to be invited in, I’ll report to you later. Only…”

  Philippa’s eyes had grown dark as she looked up at Ned and a pink blush bloomed in her cheeks. She’d lifted her arms to him.

  “Only what, John?” Ned grated out in exasperation.

  “Only, please, Cap’n. I beg you to let me be there when you tell my sister who you are and what you’ve been doing and, more important, who I am and what I’ve been doing. I’ve had to listen to her sermons for near half a year. I think I deserve to be there.”

  “Maybe,” Ned allowed, watching Pip’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Now, go away, John.”

  “As you will, Cap’n.”

  With a sigh of relief, Ned turned to Pip. She was sitting up, the covers pooling around her hips, like Venus arising from the sea. “You are the most exquisite woman—”

  “Oh.” Jones’s voice again. “One more thing I forgot.”

  Astonished, Ned swung toward the door. “What?” he thundered.

  “Forgot to say, ‘Morning, Pip.’” And with that he was gone, leaving Ned and Pip staring at each other.

  “I believe,” Pip finally said, “that my brother has just given his blessing to our union.”

  Her lips started to twitch and then she broke into a smile and finally she began laughing and she was irresistible when she laughed. Too irresistible. He reached down and swept her up into his arms, nuzzling the velvety skin at the nape of her neck, the chain that had bound them all night swinging loose against her shoulders. He released her. Her lips were parted in invitation, her eyes darkening with anticipation.

  “You know, adept as I am with one hand chained, you would be amazed at what I am capable of doing with both hands free,” he said, bending down and sweeping a long, lingering kiss against her mouth.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Why don’t I demonstrate? Where’s the key?”

  “The key?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Aye.” He lifted their imprisoned hands and jangled the chain.

  “The key!” The drowsiness flushed from her expression. “I was afraid you’d find it, so…so I threw it out the window last night.”

  She looked up at him, falsely repentant.

  “Oh? Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Sooner or later a maid will arrive and we’ll send her for your fool brother who we will then send for a bolt cutter.”

  “But, what will we do until then?”

  “I can practice more of my one-handed technique, I suppose,” he suggested, smiling rakishly. He looped one strong arm around her slight waist, hauling her close and nipping her throat, beginning the ancient dance again. “That is, if you’re willing, my dark and wild Cornish beauty.”

  She was.

  The End of Her Captive

  Last Night

  by

  Christina Dodd

  In which the Bed wins all…

  Chapter One

  Today in Trecombe, England

  On the final tour of the famed Masterson Manor…

  “The famed and massive Masterson bed was our last stop on the last tour, so if you’ll come this way…” With practiced ease, Laurel Whitney led the tourists out of the Masterson master bedroom to the tidy little gift shop. “Because this is our final tour, everything except the books is half price.” She smiled too brightly. “Buy lots.”

  “Even the weapons?” the teenager asked.

  She started to answer.

  But the handyman, Max Ashton, got there before her. “Especially the weapons,” he said.

  The tourists chuckled.

  Laurel glared. She wanted to ask why Max had followed them, but she knew the answer. He wanted to annoy her for as long as was humanly possible. And he was doing a good job at it.

  She
adjusted the hem of her cream-colored cashmere sweater over her navy slacks and pretended not to notice him. After all, she had her dignity to maintain.

  Laurel was the Masterson Museum’s curator. She researched the ancient Masterson family, their traditions, and their legends. She lived in Masterson Manor and cared for it. Some people—like Max—would say that she cared far too much, for the thought of abandoning this place to its new owners broke her heart. Stupid of her to spend her days fearing the new owners would decorate with modern, minimalist furniture, and her nights imagining the desecration of the carefully tended old books that populated the library.

  Thankfully, the tourists, scattered throughout the store, distracted her before she got teary-eyed. Or rather…more teary-eyed.

  “Do you have different sizes on the t-shirts?” Newlywed Megan thumbed through the stack.

  “Everything we have is on the shelves,” Laurel answered.

  Megan held the extra large t-shirt up to the manly chest of her adoring husband, John, and frowned. “I’d love to see you on our deck in this. But it’s really too big.”

  He took it and held it in front of her. “Let’s buy it and you can wear it as a sleep tee.”

  She looked down at herself, at the shirt that reached only to the middle of her thighs, then up at him, and smiled with satisfaction. “That would work very well.”

  “I think so, too.” He smiled back.

  The teenager, Brian, said, “Yipe!” in disgust, and turned away. Forgetting all about the lovers, he hurried toward the glass-topped display of swords and battle axes, and when his mother joined him, he embroiled her in a heated discussion of why he needed at least one weapon of mass destruction.

  Mrs. Stradling scooped up bumper stickers and pencils.

  The tourists were thoroughly enjoying themselves, and Laurel watched them with a tight throat.

  The last tour.