by Christine Merrill, Michelle Willingham, Louise Allen, Terri Brisbin
When he had arrived there on a stretcher almost a month later after another skirmish had shattered his leg and his career, he had wanted to meet with her and to explain the circumstances of her husband’s death. But she was already gone back to London. Disappointment and relief had mingled with the pain of his wound.
Grief was an indulgence not always followed by the women in the camps. Although it was rare in officer’s wives, there were some women who put greater store in being married then they did in the identity of their husband. An unfortunate death in battle meant that there would be a drumhead wedding to someone when the company returned.
If the opportunity presented itself, how would he have been able to resist an inquiry? He was not even free to make the offer. And worse yet, suppose she’d married someone else?
But, no. She would be brokenhearted, he was sure. She would have thought him coarse beyond words to suggest that she wed again so quickly. Now that he was free, perhaps he would seek her out, after a respectable period of time.
In the waiting for the opportunity, the desire for her had only grown in him. He had come to a brothel for relief. And now, he found himself peering into the boudoir of a woman who could easily be the double of the girl in the portrait.
But not in nature. Even in his wildest imaginings he had not dreamed of seeing her like this. She was touching herself. She cupped her breasts, and then sat back upon the bed and spread herself wide before him, letting her fingers sink into the curls of hair between her legs before settling into a rhythm against her own body.
Tom swallowed and tried to still his breathing. She must know that he watched. There was a sly smile upon her lips as though she could imagine the effect that her play was having upon him. And then it was forgotten in a gasp as she shuddered and made a faint noise of pleasure released.
The effect was exquisite. He was hard for her, almost to the point of pain. He fingered the key in his hands for a moment, watching as she arched her neck and gave another shudder of satisfaction from her own touch.
Then he went to the door, opening it hurriedly, entering and locking it behind him again.
Chapter 2
Victoria smiled in triumph as a man limped into the room, for it was obvious that she had been right. He had watched. She could see it in his eyes. And it was plain that she had aroused him with her behavior.
His cheeks were flushed as though from too much wine. But it was not drunkenness. Desire, of course. She had expected that. But embarrassment? Watching and knowing that she knew. She had been told he was no stranger to houses of ill fame. But perhaps he was not usually a voyeur. He was younger than she had expected, little older than herself, but ten years younger than Charles. And though the sight of him locking the door should have scared her, his appearance did not match the dark villain she had expected. Tom Godfrey’s hair was brown, touched with gold from too much sun, and it fell in his eyes as he looked at her. He reached up and brushed it away.
“Do you fear interruption?” she asked, glancing at the locked door.
He dropped the key into his pocket. “I certainly do not wish it.” His voice was pleasant, almost defying her to enjoy the sound of it. He approached the bed, and she resisted the urge to close her legs. Instead, she leaned back against the pillows, stretching her arms over her head and clasping her hands together. She could feel her breasts draw tight, straining against the chemise as she moved.
He shed his clothing quickly, as though there were little time to waste. And judging by the state of him, perhaps there was not. She felt an inappropriate frission of desire at the sight of him. He was a soldier, body hardened and marked by battle. There was an angry red scar high on one leg, which explained the hitch in his gait as he walked.
But he seemed healthy enough. And aroused he was almost frighteningly large.
It had been a long time since she had been with a man, she reminded herself, trying not to stare. And while she had no reason to want this particular man, her body’s reaction to his was normal, and not the least bit traitorous to her husband’s memory. As long as she did not dwell on it.
He smiled at her, and climbed on to the bed, reaching for her. As he took her into his arms, she felt the tingling friction of his bare skin against hers, and dropped her arms to circle his neck. Heat rose in her at the contact, and she fought down her guilt. What was about to happen meant nothing. She must separate physical response from more tender emotions. She would lie back and close her eyes and it would be over in no time.
And then, his lips touched hers.
She shied away from his kiss, turning her head. The man might expect no more than a lack of struggle in the actual act, but there would be no way to hide what she felt for him if they kissed.
He pulled away as well. “I’m sorry.” He glanced around the room. “Have I misunderstood? Because if you are unwilling…” He was hard against her leg, but very still, as though he awaited her permission to proceed.
The reaction surprised her. He was strong, and she’d been afraid he would force her cooperation if she did not give it. “I am willing,” she said softly. “But not to kiss. Not upon the lips, at least.”
He smiled. “Why ever not?”
Why indeed? “There are some things best shared between true lovers. And I wish to save some small part of me, for that.”
He seemed puzzled. And she wondered, did he need to fool himself that an encounter in such a place meant something more than it actually did? It was a sign of a romantic nature, a weakness that she had put long behind her after the hardships of even the happiest moments of the last few years. To reassure him, she said, “There are other things, very pleasant, I assure you, that I am quite willing to do.” She ran a hand down his body, slowly over the chest, and followed the trail of hair on his belly lower, until she could take him in her hand.
The act was all it took to render him incapable of further questions. The confusion on his face was replaced with a dazed smile and he closed his eyes and sighed. She had imagined a coupling almost brutal in its suddenness. But it appeared that he was content to let her be the aggressor.
It was strange and exciting to have such power. She could set the pace, and the action, and perhaps she could avoid joining with him at all.
Victoria pushed lightly upon his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. Then she knelt between his legs and slowly massaged his member, from shaft to tip and back, spreading his own moisture upon him, feeling him pulse beneath her hand, and an answering pulse in her own body.
He groaned, and covered her hand with his own. “Darling, your touch is heaven.”
A wicked thought occurred to her. And as she stroked him, her curiosity grew to insatiability. What better place to give over to such a whim than here? She bent over him. “Then what shall you think of this?” And she gave him the kiss that no man could resist, taking him gently into her mouth, surrounding him with her lips and running her tongue along the tip of him, feeling smoothness, tasting salt.
His hands clutched the sheets on either side of her head, as though he were afraid to reach for her, lest she stop. She moved her mouth over him, taking him deeper, and his back arched as muscles tightened in growing excitement. His moan stopped suddenly, his teeth closing with a snap. “Please.” The word was shaky, little more than a gasp. “Oh, yes.” He trembled. She could feel his control slipping, and it caused an answering tremor in her own body, before she reminded herself that what was happening between them had no meaning.
“We have not been introduced,” he ground out, with a desperate laugh. “My name is Tom Godfrey.”
She withdrew slightly, and purred against his skin. “Thomas.”
He groaned as though the sound of his own name was as exciting as her kiss. Then, he reached out a hand and stroked her hair. The gesture was strangely tender. “Your name. Please. I must know…”
She gave one last whirl of her tongue against him, and said, “Victoria.”
He gave an almost convulsive sh
udder and rolled away from her, spilling his seed into the sheet beside them.
For a moment, she felt strangely bereft. She missed the feel of him against her cheek and in her mouth, and the warmth of his body close to his. Had she really been alone so long that even the touch of an enemy was welcome?
He was curled over with his back to her. And his shoulders were shaking with what looked to be silent laughter.
It angered her to think that he found her performance so amusing. Was she really so unskilled that her actions were laughable? She buried the feeling, and reached out a hesitant hand to his shoulder, as though from concern. “Is something the matter?”
He was definitely laughing, for his words escaped after a chuckle. “An old gun does not usually have a hair trigger.”
“Old?” At first it made no sense. Then, she realized he spoke of himself. “You are hardly thirty.”
He rolled back to her, still smiling, and touched her cheek. “That is old enough to have learned control. But you quite overcame me. I embarrassed myself like a greenling on his first trip to a brothel. Unlike some, you are too kind to comment upon it.”
Perhaps, if she had truly been a whore, she would have known the correct response to what had just happened. Should she have laughed at his joke, to put him at ease? She must do something quickly. If she wished information, she could not have him pulling on his boots and leaving her. “We could try again.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He leaned forward to kiss her.
Without thinking, she turned her head from him again, causing him to draw back.
“You are a most curious woman, Victoria.” He was staring at her as though he was the one who had come to search for truths. “I cannot decide what arouses me more, what you will do, or what you won’t.”
“That was not my intent.”
He ran a thumb from her cheek to touch her lower lip, and then drew it slowly down to stroke her throat. “Liar. I think it is in your nature to drive men mad.” He leaned forward to kiss her throat at the spot where his thumb rested, and she felt a jolt of excitement.
“Please, do not.”
“You do not like it?”
It would do no good to lie. “Of course. But…”
He kissed her again. “It will be some few moments before I am ready again. If you will not spend it in kissing, then I must find another way to pass the time.”
Now he was ringing her throat with love bites, as though tracing the path of a necklace as his hands roamed over her breasts. His touch was hard, possessive, just as his kisses were. And it was not the only thing hardened, for she could feel his body growing eager to join with hers. She gave a weak laugh. “Dear sir, I think you are quite ready enough, now.”
“Do you?” He dipped his head to take the tip of her breast in his mouth through the cotton shift. “But I wish for you to be ready as well.”
“I do not require satisfaction.” She gasped, for his hands were between her legs, tugging at the curls there. “At least, not in that way.”
“You hurt me, darling, to make me think that it is my money that matters to you. You might not require this. But you certainly deserve it, after what you just did to me.” As his mouth slid down her body she had a fleeting fear that his actions were as much about control as hers had been.
And she could feel it slipping away as he moved closer and closer to where her body wanted him. She tried to pull away, but he wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her fast. “Please, sir, no.”
“You will not let me kiss you on the lips.” He sighed, but did not release her. “So you must allow me to imagine what it might be like.” He dipped his tongue into her navel. “To whisper into your ear and touch it like so. To kiss my way along your cheek.” He trailed the kisses along her belly. “Until my lips find yours.” He settled himself carefully between her legs and barely touched her with his mouth. “Gently at first. Ever so gently. Just a touch.”
The shock of it was too much, and she gave another shudder. What had the abbess said, about the jealousy of others working here? If this was how he was in the habit of treating them, then she understood. His kiss was rougher now. And as he thrust his tongue into her, his fingers crept up to stroke.
Victoria put her own fingers into her mouth and bit down, trying to stop the scream of pleasure that she knew was coming. But the feel of them, the intrusion and the sharp pain of her bite along with his repeated invasion of her body tipped her over the edge into another cascade of pleasure.
Yet, his kiss did not cease. She struggled against it for a moment. But it was all too much, too good, and she was unable to think for wanting more.
Only when she was sure that she must be spent did he obey and release her, to slide his body up hers. “And now, I think you are ready, are you not?” He hovered for a moment at the entrance to her body, before beginning a slow thrust into her. He stopped. “Unless you do not wish it.”
His hesitation was almost painful, for she longed to be filled. “Please.” Later, she could regret asking him. But now she was so close to coming again that it was impossible to do other than beg for more. “Please. Oh, yes. Please.”
He pushed into her with a sudden, hard thrust and she gasped. She had not expected it to be so…
He withdrew and thrust again.
…different. The act was familiar and yet new, because her lover was different. The intense pleasure she felt was from the novelty, nothing more. Or so she told herself, as she dug her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and moved her hips to match the strength of his thrusts, eager to feel him deep inside.
Sensing her need, he was not gentle. He raked his fingers down her back to clutch her bottom and pounded into her with a strength that demanded nothing less than her total surrender. Then he buried his face into the side of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin, and he licked hard at the muscle on her shoulder until she moaned in response.
At the sound, he rolled so that she could be on top of him and squeezed her hips to urge her on.
And she rode him, squeezing her legs together around him, tightening her muscles about him to feel how impossibly hard he was until she heard his answering groan and his body began to arch. As he lost control, he reached to the front of her, rubbing her with his thumb to bring her over the edge with him, shattering.
She collapsed on top of him, sprawling across his body, her cheek against his chest. It made her feel alive again to lie still for a moment, as passion receded and sense returned. He was taller than she had expected. His body big and solid under her, and still inside of her, undeniably male.
It felt good to be wanted. To be desired. And not to be alone.
He wrapped a hand around her waist. His grip was weak at first, little more than the weight of his own arm, as though exhausted by his own climax. Then slowly, he curled it possessively around her, the hand angling up toward her shoulders in a caress.
She could not see his face, but could tell his smile was gone by the tone of his voice. “I know who you are,” he said.
Chapter 3
Victoria Paget was lying in his arms, spent from lovemaking, just as he had always imagined her. It should be a dream, but now that the act was done, it was set to turn to nightmare.
Why had he asked her name? The question tortured him. He should have remained in ignorance, convinced that he was with some nameless bit of muslin. Or perhaps he should have left at the first moment of suspicion, when he’d stood outside the room.
Of course, that would have left her at the mercy of the next man to come along, and the thought of that haunted him even more. She was the object of his desire. A desire that had bordered almost on obsession in the months he had spent recuperating from his injury. He had hoped to exorcise the demon of her memory in a harmless game of pretend. A woman of experience would have him without complaint, scars and all. And the madam had assured him that in dim light, the girl she’d found would pass for the one he dreamed of.
She lay still a
gainst him, as though waiting for him to speak. “I know who you are.” There. It was out and said.
“Wh-what do you mean?” There was the barest hesitation in her words, before her face returned to tranquility. He had startled her, but she was pretending ignorance.
It angered him that she thought she could still fool him with lies. “You are the widow of Captain Charles Paget, are you not?”
She said nothing, but glanced quickly toward the door and back. Did she fear him enough to run?
“I recognized your name,” he said, not caring about her fears. He tightened his hand on her back, still gentle, but enough to forestall an escape.
“It is a common name,” she argued, making no move to leave. “And I gave you no surname.”
“Perhaps. But it does not signify. You are Victoria Paget.”
“I did not think that you…that anyone would realize.” He could feel her budding resistance fade. Her eyes dropped, probably in shame of what she had become.
“I served under him. He spoke of you often, with much pride and affection.” And yet, she had come to this. He made no attempt to hide his disappointment. “He showed me the miniature he kept with him. I was there on the road with him, when he died. It was I who gathered his effects and returned them to you.”
“Why did you bother?” There was bitterness in her tone as well, to answer his.
“It was the least I could do. Not enough, I know. I could not save him. Nor could I help the others.” And now, he was the one who felt shame. What sort of monster was he, to offer words of condolence on a brothel bed? He rolled to the side, so their bodies could part from each other. “If it gives you comfort to know it, his death was sudden. The pain was brief. If he had time for a final thought, it was of you. But I did not want to see his possessions taken by looters. They were rightfully yours.”