by Christine Merrill, Michelle Willingham, Louise Allen, Terri Brisbin
His arousal pressed painfully against his trousers. He reached down to unbutton them. She helped him pull them off, his drawers with them. He saw her gaze at his male organ, so hard with desire, he felt as if he would burst. She did not shy away, and it made him inexplicably proud of her. She had more courage than he. She’d had the courage to enter his room.
He was determined to take her slowly, to make this first time one of pleasure for her, not pain.
“This is new to me,” she whispered.
“You make it feel new to me as well,” he murmured back.
His lips captured hers again. He stroked her gently with his fingertips, fearing that contact with his whole hand might loosen the binds he kept tight on his passion. She gasped as his fingers explored her breasts, and he gently rubbed their tips over her nipples. Then his fingers slid down to between her legs.
“I will make you ready,” he murmured to her.
“Yes,” she responded, her voice thick.
She was warm and moist for his touch, and his fingers easily eased inside her. A low moan escaped her lips, and she arched her back, but never pulled away.
There was a pounding in his head that told him to simply mount her and seek his release, but he fought it and focused on pleasuring her, determined she should not regret the decision she had made to come to him.
Margaret gasped at the sensations his fingers created. She knew so little of lovemaking; she’d never imagined a man could touch her so and bring such exquisite pleasure. The sensations grew more intense—not painful, but something akin to demanding.
She clasped his hand, stilling it. “Wait, Graham.”
He withdrew his fingers. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. “Not hurt. Not precisely. I—I do not know how to explain.”
He held her close. “No need to explain.”
She wished she could put it into words, but it was all so new, so profound. One thing she knew, she needed his arms around her at this moment, needed to calm herself, to assimilate the experience.
“Do you wish me to stop?” he asked.
She could tell he was trying to keep his tone mild. “No, do not stop.” She thought she might perish if she did not have the yearning growing inside her fulfilled.
He lay on his side, the masked part of his face pressed against the bed linens. She could almost envision how he might have appeared without the injury. His dark good looks took on a rakish appearance with the shadow of a beard on his face. Lifting a finger, she drew it from his cheek to his chin, careful not to touch the mask, lest he become angry again.
He lay still while she explored the contours of his muscles with eager fingers. She slid her hand over his shoulders and down his chest, thrilling at the feel of his skin, the wiry hair that peppered his chest. The scars beneath her fingers made her wish to weep. Battle must be a terrible thing to so mar his body. She felt his muscles tense as she traced the scars. She did not want to distress him.
She moved her hand lower, wondering if she dared touch the male part of him.
She dared.
He groaned when her fingers closed around him.
The actresses had explained how a man’s male member grew hard when desire overtook him. Margaret felt a surge of power knowing she had caused his arousal.
His own hand closed around hers and she felt as if she’d made another misstep, but he said, “My turn now.”
He touched her body like she’d touched his, this time caressing her with a firm touch, not mere fingertips. He eased her onto her back and rose above her, both hands kneading her breasts.
The sensation shot all the way to the apex of her legs and she heard an urgent cry escape her lips. The need she did not quite understand grew stronger. Then he did something equally as wondrous. He placed his lips upon her nipple and tasted it with his warm tongue.
Her back arched and she dug her fingers into his skin.
She’d had no idea a man would want to do such a thing, nor want to touch her so intimately. She wanted to cry out with joy, so glad she’d given herself this chance to be loved by Graham, even if only temporarily. The memory of his touch—his tongue—would last for a lifetime.
“I think it is time, Margaret.”
She would also remember the sound of her name on his lips.
“Yes.” She almost laughed, more than ready for the grandest mystery of all.
He gently spread her legs. With a mixture of fear and need, she forced herself to relax. He began to ease himself inside her, stopping suddenly to whisper in her ear, “This may give you some pain.”
He pushed, one hard thrust that made it seem like something tore open inside her. She felt a sharp pain and cried out.
He held her in his arms. “I am sorry.”
She stopped him from withdrawing, pressing her hands against his buttocks. “Don’t stop.”
It seemed all the permission he needed. He began a rhythm with which her body seemed already familiar, meeting his every thrust, growing her excitement until she could not think. She was lost in the sensation, in the pleasure, in the delicious need. She heard their excited breaths, felt their bodies moving against each other. She saw him above her, as lost in the moment as she. They were joined. They were one, sharing the need and sensation and pleasure. It was exhilarating. It was unforgettable.
Faster and faster they moved, until something changed for both of them; she could feel it. Pleasure burst through her, waves and waves of pleasure that washed over her. His muscles tensed, and she realized he’d spilled his seed.
Coming down from the intensity of that shared moment reminded Margaret of a feather floating to earth, slow and languorous.
Graham slid from her. The break from their joining was jarring, a loss from which she could not imagine recovering. Unbidden tears rolled down her cheeks.
He rose on one elbow. “By God, I did hurt you.”
She shook her head. How was she to explain it to him, all that she felt, all that seemed now altered inside her? “I am not hurt. Far from it—” She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, before gazing back at him, so handsome, even if half shrouded. “I did not expect it to feel like that.”
She was no longer merely Margaret, because he was now a part of her. Two become one.
He stroked a stray lock of hair off her face. “I swear I will make it better for you next time.”
She snuggled next to him, laying her head against his heart. “You cannot possibly make it better.”
He held her tight. “There was pain, I know it. There will not be pain again.”
The pain had been fleeting. It marked the moment of change in her. She was forever altered, forever a part of him. “It was a mere trifle.”
He stroked her hair again and looked so concerned that she searched for a way to reassure him that to worry was misguided. Celebration seemed more in order.
He rose from the bed and walked over to the tallboy that held his washbasin and pitcher. He poured some clean water on a cloth and brought it over to her.
“The linens can be laundered,” he said. “There will be fresh ones tomorrow.”
She clasped his hand and pulled him back on the bed so that she was underneath him again. “Do not bring me too much reality,” she whispered. “I want nothing to spoil this lovely dream.”
She reached up to kiss him, and soon the dream was alive again and the changes inside her were etched even deeper.
Chapter 5
The dream lasted into the morning and through the next days and weeks. Margaret tried not to think that it would come to an end when the two months were done.
Their nights were filled with loving. Margaret had not believed anything could bring more pleasure and happiness than that first coupling, but each night Graham proved her wrong. He was a generous lover, this hero of her childhood, this man she adored.
Their daylight hours were an idyll of another sort, consisting of long conversation, of reading to each other, playing savage games
of piquet, or singing the silliest songs they could think of, while she played the pianoforte.
They took long walks. She’d even coaxed him out into the sunshine and fresh air. They walked through the garden and the wooded area nearby. The rare person they encountered took Graham’s appearance in their stride, probably hearing of his injuries and mask and not being surprised by them. He was not as fearsome as he thought; Margaret was pleased she’d been right about that.
A crack in the fragile shell of their dream-like existence occurred when Graham’s man of business called with the papers that set up a trust to pay her brother’s expenses to Cambridge and her annuity. She’d gasped at the amount Graham had given her. She would be able to live in comfort wherever she wished. Neither the trust nor the annuity could be rescinded, even if Graham changed his mind. Andrew’s education and her future were secure.
Seeing the papers, however, reminded Margaret that the bargain she’d made with Graham was for a period of two months. And the end was rapidly approaching. The thought cast her in the dismals the whole day, and she could not explain her mood to Graham.
On the morning after the man of business had called, Margaret woke at dawn with a very unsettled stomach. Not wanting to rouse Graham, she slipped out of bed, wrapped herself in a robe, and made her way down to the kitchen where the indefatigable Mrs. Coombs was already busy preparing breakfast. The smells, usually intoxicating, made her retch.
“You are up early, miss,” Mrs. Coombs said cheerily.
“Will you check if I am feverish?” Margaret asked. “I feel unwell.”
Mrs. Coombs placed her palm against Margaret’s forehead and then against her neck. “No fever. What is troubling you?”
“I feel nauseous.”
Mrs. Coombs’s brows rose. “Indeed?” She lowered them again to peer at Margaret. “Tell me, miss. When did you last have your courses?”
Margaret’s mouth dropped open in sudden understanding. “Before I came here.”
“I suspected as much.” The woman crossed her arms over her chest. “I’d say you are not ill.”
She blinked. “I am not ill.” Warmth spread throughout her and she pressed her hand to her belly. “I am with child.”
“My guess,” said Mrs. Coombs.
Margaret hugged the idea around herself. “A child,” she whispered. She shook her head. “No, it is impossible. I was taught how to prevent it.”
Mrs. Coombs leveled a look at her. “There’s no preventing a baby that wants to be born.”
“A child,” she whispered again. Graham’s child. What could be more wonderful? A child to watch grow. A child to love, to help against the desolate loneliness of losing Graham.
Mrs. Coombs cut her a slice of bread. “Here. Eat this. It helps to have something in your stomach. Chew it slowly.”
Margaret chewed very slowly. “I feel better,” she said as she finished the bread. Indeed, she felt joyous. “Thank you so much.”
Mrs. Coombs nodded in satisfaction and turned back to her work.
Margaret paused before walking out the door. “Mrs. Coombs, do not tell Graham of this.”
The older woman looked up. “I do not keep secrets from him.”
Margaret walked over to her. “Please, I beg you. Do not say a word to him of this. It—it is my news to tell.” Or not tell.
Mrs. Coombs put her hands on her hips. “Very well. I’ll not volunteer a word.” She shook a finger at Margaret. “But if he asks me, I’ll not lie to him.”
“That is enough.” Margaret gave the woman a hug. “Thank you.” She again started for the door.
Mrs. Coombs called after her. “I’ll leave a tin of biscuits in your bedchamber. Let me know if that does not do the trick.”
Margaret smiled. “You are an angel.”
Keeping the secret was not as easy for Margaret as she supposed it would be. She tried to hide her queasiness and her sheer preoccupation with the fact that Graham’s child was growing inside her. She was quieter, and the change in her took away some of the ease between her and Graham.
This morning, Margaret had been fighting nausea when Graham reached for her to make love with her as he had so many mornings before.
He broke off abruptly. “What is this, Margaret?”
She sat up. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Do not play the innocent with me.” He pulled on his shirt. “Something has changed.”
She seized his hand and held it against her cheek. “Nothing has changed, Graham. I—I merely feel a little unwell this morning and I did not wish to trouble you.”
“Unwell?” He felt her forehead.
“Not feverish,” she said. “Unwell.”
He gave her an intent gaze. “Have you felt unwell the last few days?”
She could not meet his eye. “A little.”
“Then why not tell me before?”
“I did not wish to ruin things.”
He took his hand away. “Hiding it was meant to improve matters?”
A child had not been part of the bargain he’d made with her. She was afraid to tell him of it.
“Graham, I have felt a bit queasy in the stomach. I presume it came from something I ate.”
He peered at her. “Queasy in the stomach.”
She made herself return his gaze. “It is nothing.”
He gave her a skeptical look and turned away to dress. She watched him remove his mask, his back carefully to her and the mirror angled so his reflection did not show. After washing and shaving, the mask went back in place and he put on his clothes, all the while avoiding looking at her or speaking to her.
Margaret held her breath as a wave of nausea hit her. At the moment, all she could think of was her tin of biscuits. She found her nightdress and crossed the room to her bedchamber and the bed she never used.
And her tin of biscuits.
He appeared in her doorway. “I’ll be down in the dining room.”
She quickly hid the tin. “Will you tie my stays first?” It was the one part of dressing she was unable to do on her own and it had been part of their morning ritual for him to help her.
Unlike other days, he did not enter her room. Instead he remained in the doorway as she hurriedly put on a clean shift. She stepped into her stays and positioned the garment, then she walked over and presented her back to him.
When he’d performed this little task for her before, it had been a lovely, intimate moment between them. Not this day. His hands were efficient at tightening the laces, but there were no lingering caresses, no murmured words in her ear. She felt his fingers tying the laces in a bow, but instead of a fond sweep of her shoulders, he merely stepped away and was gone.
She leaned on the doorjamb as another wave of nausea washed over her—and an encroaching fear that the idyll’s end had already arrived.
Graham sat across the table from her, watching her nibble on a piece of toast. His appetite was no better than hers, but that only convinced him that matters had indeed changed between them.
Only two weeks were left of the two months they had agreed upon. He had hoped to ask her to stay longer, but now he wondered if he’d been blind to how things stood between them. Now he felt she might at any moment ask if she could leave early.
He could stand the silence between them no longer. “I have matters to attend to in the library.”
He did not wait for her response, but strode out of the dining room to the library, where he drew the curtains to block out the light. He found a bottle of brandy and a glass and sat behind the desk in the dark. He had finished half the bottle before the door opened.
She was silhouetted in the doorway. “What is this, Graham? You are sitting in the dark?” She marched over to the windows and opened the curtains. The sunlight he’d blocked out came flooding back like a triumphant army.
She turned to him and saw the bottle. “You are drinking? It is only nine-thirty in the morning.”
He lifted his glass. “In the dark, it might
be any hour.”
She walked up to the desk and picked up the bottle, measuring how little remained. “This is nonsensical. You are succumbing to a fit of depression merely because I felt a little unwell this morning.”
He defiantly drained the contents of his glass. “Do not turn tables on me. You are the changed one, Margaret. You have been different ever since the money I promised you came into your control.”
Her chin shot up. “The money? You think I changed because of the money?”
He let his eyes bore into her. “Possibly. I cannot undo it now. The money is yours.”
She returned his gaze with a wounded expression that was quite effective. He almost believed in it.
“Oh, Graham.” She twisted away from him, walked back to the window and gazed out on the garden where she had taught him he need not hide in darkness. She turned back to him. “I admit reading the papers and recalling that I would receive money for—for our time together did sober me.” Her arm swept the expanse of the nearly floor-to-ceiling window. “It was a bit like opening the curtains. It let the outside world back in, the reality. I did not much like being reminded of it. The money itself was not the cause.”
He poured more brandy, not because he wanted it, but because he needed to be numbed. “If not the money, then what has changed you?”
She turned away again.
“You are hiding something from me, Margaret. I am convinced of it.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “Are you the only one who is allowed to hide, Graham?”
He gave a dry laugh. “Me? I have been honest with you from the beginning. Have you been honest with me?”
She swung around to him. “Honest? Perhaps. But you have hidden yourself from me just the same. I am not to know who you are. I am not allowed to see what you look like.”
He stood. “Back to my face again, are we? I ought to have known. You will not be satisfied until you unmask me.”
She took a deep breath, as if attempting to muster courage. “I will make another bargain with you. Reveal yourself to me, and I will tell you what I have kept hidden.”