Their Private Arrangement

by Saskia Walker

  When she knocked, Duggan opened the door and leaned one elbow against the frame as he looked her up and down.

  “Mr. Grant requested a bottle of claret,” she stated.

  He nodded and his mouth lifted at one corner. Lust simmered in his eyes and the sight of it made Morag’s breathing grow hampered. A moment later he pushed the door wide open but made no effort to move, which meant that she had to sidle past him to enter the room. So close was she that she felt the heat from his body. The place where his chest was bared at the opening of his shirt captured her gaze. It made her want to put her hands inside his shirt and measure the breadth of his chest.

  Several candles lit the room and she noticed immediately that one was placed near to the four-poster bed, where the curtains had been tied back securely. Mr. Grant sat in his winged armchair close to the fire, which was low in the grate. Morag hastened over to where he sat and set the bottle of claret down on the wine table at his elbow. Stepping over to the cabinet, she sought out the fine crystal glasses that he kept there. He’d previously told her he carried them everywhere, for the wine tasted better from crystal than pottery. She extracted two of the glasses from the cupboards and put them next to the wine. Brushing her hands on her apron, she dropped a quick curtsy. She knew she should leave, but there was a strange feeling in the room, as if both men had something on their minds.

  Clasping her hands in front of her apron, she looked at Mr. Grant. “Is there anything else you will be requiring of me, sire?”

  Mr. Grant looked, as ever, quite different to his companion of the evening. He was a much wealthier man, for he worked for the crown, traveling about with several other men, collecting taxes for King George’s coffers. That meant that he was reviled by many, for King George was hated by the Scots, and no one liked to part with their coin at the best of times. Morag did not know much or even care about such things, for they were far beyond her experience. Folk took their work where they could, herself included. What she did know was Mr. Grant was a knowledgeable man and that he had fine clothes and dressed like a nobleman. He had been kindly to her, too.

  Tonight he was not wearing his frock coat, and his waistcoat was undone, his necktie abandoned. He still wore his powdered wig, however, as if he were recently out and about on his business. In contrast, Duggan wore knee breeches that were well worn, as were his shoes. His shirt was long and loose, hanging open across the chest. The disheveled appearance made him seem all the more attractive to her eyes, however, for he was a wild man.

  “Bring another glass if you will, Morag.” Mr. Grant gestured at the cabinet and gave her an encouraging smile.

  Were they expecting company? Riddled with curiosity, Morag did as instructed. Mr. Grant poured wine into all three glasses, then lifted one and handed it to her. “Join us, if you will.”

  She was so startled it took her a moment to gather her senses before she reached out and took the glass from his hand. This was quite out of order, and she blushed to the roots of her hair, unsure how to respond. Her duties were limited to scrubbing, fetching and carrying, and occasionally attending any ladies who stopped there and needed help with their dresses.

  “Thank you, sire.” She dropped another curtsy, and then glanced at Duggan. Like her, he was a worker, and she looked to him for guidance.

  Duggan still stood close to the door, with his feet placed widely and his arms folded across his chest. He looked across at her with an air of authority, as if he was the nobleman here, as if he was the one who held the power. How strange it was, and the immensity of it made her chest feel tight as a drum. It was as if the room had grown suddenly smaller and the air hot and heavy. There was a brooding expression in those eyes of Duggan’s and it made her falter. It was as if he was imagining what she might look like beneath her clothing. Damp heat built between her legs and beneath her breasts, and her stays felt suddenly tight and restrictive. She shifted from one foot to the other.

  Prowling like a tomcat, he made his way over and lifted a glass from the table. He concentrated on her, nodding at the glass in her hand. “Share a drink with us. Come now, don’t be afraid, you are among friends.”

  Following his lead, Morag took a mouthful of the wine. It tasted good and was potent stuff, and she tried not to gulp it. She noticed that Mr. Grant sipped from his glass while he smiled at the pair of them. He had kind eyes, and today they were bright with expectation.

  Duggan drained his glass and relieved her of hers once she had done the same. Taking her into his arms, he looked down at her intently. “The last time we spoke, you assured me that no man warmed your bed at the present time. Is that still the case?”

  Morag’s eyes rounded. “It is, but why speak of it now?”

  Duggan ran his finger along the top of her bodice. The other hand was firmly planted against her back, holding her in place. “Would you like a man to warm your bed?”

  There was mischief in his eyes, and Morag quickly sensed his intentions.

  He rested a kiss in her hair and then added, “To warm where you want it most of all, perhaps…between your legs?”

  With a quick intake of breath, Morag urged herself to respond well. She sought the right words and as she did she noticed that Mr. Grant seemed quite attuned to what was being said, and watched with interest. Did he wish to observe them together? It was something she had experienced before—the urge some folk had to look, rather than to partake—but nevertheless she was surprised.

  “Are you offering to take on the task?” She looked up at Duggan as boldly as she could, hoping that was the case.

  Duggan smiled broadly and responded by ducking his head to kiss her neck. It was a hungry kiss and his hands locked around her waist. Morag swayed, her heart pounding, her head swimming. His hands tightened on her, for which she was grateful, for he held her upright when otherwise she might fall. He surely was a strong man, and a moment later she found her feet swept from under her as he lifted in his arms.

  Morag wondered briefly if she were dreaming, but when his breath warmed her face and his hair brushed her forehead, she knew she wasn’t. Resting there in his arms, she stared at him in awe, her lips parted.

  “A ripe fruit, ready and eager to be picked and enjoyed,” Duggan said, and glanced in Mr. Grant’s direction. “Don’t you agree?”

  Morag clasped Duggan around the neck and glanced at Mr. Grant from under her lashes. His lips were pursed as if in thought, but he nodded. There was a mixture of curiosity and nervousness in his expression, and his cheeks were stained with color. Again Morag had the feeling that it was Duggan who made the decisions here.

  He turned away and carried her to the bed, where he rested her and kissed her hungrily on the mouth while he reached for her skirts. He seemed to recall their earlier discussion about a firm hand, because he made no pretence at politeness as he elbowed her legs apart.

  Morag could not, however, forget the other man’s presence. Did Duggan expect her to ignore him? The nature of their game was not at all clear, and whilst she had dallied with other folk who had taken their lodgings at the Drover’s Inn, none had been like these two were. Her understanding of their situation—if it was correct—was that they were forbidden lovers, men who were attracted to their own kind. It made her even more curious about the arrangement, as well as her part in it.

  Duggan’s bold approach affected her though, making her wanton. She opened her mouth to his tongue and grappled for the hem of her skirts, which she hauled up to assist his approach. Morag wanted nothing more than to feel his weight over her. She desired him above all and was brazen in her responses, despite the onlooker.

  “A willing wench,” he said, and sighed as he plucked at the top of her woolen stockings.

  She leaned her head close alongside his and whispered, “That I am.”

  Duggan pushed her stockings down her legs so that he could examine her legs.

  Higher, between her thighs, she ached to be touched, her puss tingling. Soon he would touch her there, an
d she wriggled under him, eager for it.

  Duggan’s fingers roved along the soft insides of her thighs, stroking her until she was in a frenzy of need. His gaze followed, his mouth moving sensuously as if he were enjoying each discovery.

  “ Mr. Duggan,” she pleaded, breathless in her urgency.

  He responded by throwing her skirts up as far as her waist and staring down at his quarry. “Yes, my lusty wench, what is that you want?”

  He was having a jest—it was there in his voice and in his expression.

  Morag gripped his sleeve and tugged up on it. The lips of her puss were swollen and hot and wanting to be touched, her cunny eager to be filled.

  “Is it this that you want?” He clasped her bared puss with his whole hand, squeezing it firmly.

  For a moment she could not breathe at all, then she rocked her hips in his grasp, and that made her craving even worse. Gasping, she nodded. He squeezed again and then pushed one finger between her damp folds.

  “Oh!”

  “Oh yes, you do want it, don’t you.” His eyes gleamed as he shifted alongside her on the bed. Pushing her thighs wider, he opened her folds with his fingers.

  Cool air dashed against her intimate places. Her face burned, being so thoroughly exposed that way.

  “You see how her furrow is made for this, James,” Duggan said as he splayed open her puss with both hands.

  Morag whimpered, covering her face with one hand for a moment. But she had to know. When she glanced over at the watching man from beneath lowered eyelids, she saw that there was a tense, expectant quality to his expression. Her arousal grew. His hands were locked over the arms of his chair, his gaze steady on them. After a moment he craned his neck as if to get a better look. If she were correct, he was rather interested in what was going on in his bed.

  Morag squirmed, for the dual attentions sent her into a wild mood.

  “Aye, I see it,” came the reply.

  Duggan seemed pleased by that, pausing to admire the place to which he had drawn the other man’s attention, before he dipped down and ran his tongue into its swollen folds.

  Morag jerked and arched against the bed, for she felt as if she might swoon from pleasure. She put her arms above her head and grappled for the wooden post at the corner of the bed behind her. Unable to resist, she gripped the sturdy post for purchase, then wriggled her hips up and down, the better to enjoy the strokes of his tongue.

  Within moments her release was set, and when it hit she cried out, loudly. Her cunny was awash, hot juices running down between her buttocks. Still Duggan licked her, and when she managed to level enough to glance down she saw that he was also stroking his manhood, which he had freed from his breeches. It was long and hard and damp at the tip. Morag captured her bottom lip between her teeth and stared at it admiringly. It was very large, and she knew it would feel good inside her. She longed for the weight of his body over her and the thrust of that engorged member inside her. Her cunny rippled and she whispered his name beneath her breath when she imagined what it would feel like, having that hard thing in her juice-doused channel.

  When he lifted his head to look at her, she saw admiration in his eyes. He held her gaze while his fingers moved inside her. “Good?”

  He pressed two, then three fingers into her channel, and she nodded, her hips moving gratefully against the intrusion. Then he glanced the other man’s way, and when he did he held her open with one hand while he plowed into her channel with the other, fingers moving in and out as if they were a man’s member. Each time he thrust, his thumb nudged up against her swollen bud.

  “Oh! Oh!” She rolled her head and bucked. His willingness to display her to the other man and his rough approach had disarmed her completely.

  “Lord, you are a hot one,” Duggan commented, whispering low, as if for her benefit alone. “I will enjoy being there.”

  The promise in his words made her moan aloud, and her hips moved quicker, urging him to use her. Even as her pleasure built, she noticed that Duggan kept looking toward the other man, as if his reaction was important. She was just a diversion, no more. It was what she was used to, but she found that she liked it when Mr. Grant looked over at her bared puss, for it stirred up a fine confusion of feelings—both embarrassment and lust. To see his curious glances while Duggan toyed with her made her feel quite delirious with pleasure.

  “She is everything I said she would be, is she not?” His statement was directed to Mr. Grant, but his words made her chest swell.

  “I see how well you look together,” Mr. Grant eventually responded.

  “Not too distasteful for you then?” Duggan gave a wry laugh as he climbed between her open legs and directed his lengthy rod to her opening.

  When she glanced over at Mr. Grant she saw that he had widened his eyes.

  “I confess it is a rousing sight,” he stated.

  As Duggan took his member in his hand and shifted between her thighs, laying the hard length of his rod against her damp flesh, he looked back at his friend. “I can see that,” he said, and nodded down at Mr. Grant’s breeches.

  Morag took another quick look. It was quite true. Mr. Grant appeared to have an impressive erection himself, for his fine breeches stretched tightly over his groin, straining under the apparent size of his member.

  Duggan’s smile had taken on a mischievous glint and his eyes flashed as he looked over at his friend. “Come now, James, don’t be shy. Why not afford yourself a bit of pleasure while you watch me having mine?”

  Without awaiting response, Duggan returned his attention solely to her.

  Morag had scarcely recovered from the release she’d had at his hands moments before, and when he locked eyes with her and began to move his hips, pressing his solid length between them, she was startled. He gazed down at her with possessive eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. The longing that she had felt for him took root deep within her and grew.

  “Are you ready to receive me?” Again he pressed his erection against her tender spot, and she moaned aloud.

  Need pounded inside her. Shifting so that her feet were flat to the bed and her knees lifted either side of him, she pushed her hands down his back, inside his loosed breeches and scratched his bared arse. “I think you know the answer.”

  He directed his cock to her opening and pushed. Her willing flesh gave way easily.

  The broad head of his cock stretched her open and she cried out, her back arching against the bed, her feet lifting from the mattress. “Oh, Mr. Duggan!”

  As he pushed deeper, filling her, the muscles in his neck stood out and his eyes narrowed. Morag locked her ankles at his back, arching up to meet him.

  He paused only to tug her bodice from her breasts, nodding when she pulled her nipples free for him to see. Their eyes met, and understanding passed between them. Then he began to ride her, and it was hard and fast and she relished every moment of it, moaning wildly and urging him on. As her release built once more, she fell loose in his grip and writhed under him, her body taking him, letting him mold her to him, savoring every thrust he had for her.

  In the background, she was aware of Mr. Grant. He appeared to lurch forward in his seat and when her head rolled that way she saw him fumbling with his breeches quite urgently. A moment later he had his member in his hand and was stroking it rapidly, his free hand locked around the base and sac.

  It hit her strangely, to see one roused cock being so lewdly handled while another claimed her at her very center, and she spilled moments later, after which she was rapidly joined by Duggan, who responded to her rhythmic grasp on his length by feeding her more of it, cursing as if thwarted, then pouring his hot seed into her.

  Morag grabbed him to her, chuckling, as he loomed over her in his delirium. “Oh aye, you’re a fine man, Duggan Moore, I always knew you would be.”

  Less than a week later the Drover’s Inn was surrounded by men from Dundee. They came shortly after dawn, shouting for people to rise from their beds to answer the
m. They carried muskets and torches and were leaving no stone unturned in their hunt for the wrongdoer they sought. Morag felt fear grip her heart. They were the bailie’s men and they had come to dispense justice. Morag flitted through the inn, watching where they went. Several of them quizzed the alewife, whilst some hunted through the cellars and others took on the outhouses and barns.

  Morag had scarce ever moved so fast, spreading word as quickly as she could, warning those who should be on their way. Then she went to the scullery, where she kept a watchful eye on proceedings, her heart racing. She steadied herself with one hand on her chest as she bided her time. She wanted to go to Duggan and Mr. Grant, who she knew to be slumbering together because she had passed part of the evening before with them. But since she had appeared in the scullery, one of the bailie’s men had her in his sights, and it would look suspicious if she ran off. She knew who they were after, and she had already done her best to see that their hunt was thwarted.

  A shout rang up from the outhouses and several almighty booms followed, the sounds of weapons being discharged. It sent a fearful shiver down Morag’s back and her palms grew clammy. When the bailie’s man headed outside to investigate, Morag darted away from the kitchen and up the stairs. As she went, she prayed they did not find their quarry.

  Lifting her skirts in her hands, she hastened to Mr. Grant’s rooms. Rapping quietly on the door, she rattled the handle. Mercifully, the door opened a moment later. It was Mr. Grant who stood there, and when his eyes lit on her, relief filled them. “Morag, hasten inside.”