by Lisa Cach
Her mount came to a stop, and Henry’s astounded face appeared in her line of vision. There was no trace of cool composure. He looked alarmed. He looked bewildered. He looked thoroughly un-Henry.
“What happened?” he demanded, his voice cracking as he sought his usual tone.
Elle tried to sit up. Her corset wouldn’t let her. She was stranded like a turtle. She looked at Henry’s face and repressed the hysterical giggle in her throat.
“If you couldn’t ride, you should have just said so. Were you trying to impress me?” He now looked very serious and concerned.
“Why, did I succeed?” she asked back and snorted with unladylike laughter. Her sides hurt, and she tried not to laugh in the corset while she was on her back, but the effort made her laugh even harder. “For God’s sake, help me up, will you?”
He looked at her, his frown even deeper, and she howled.
“I’ll have you know, I can ride,” she asserted from her prone position, once she caught her breath. “I’m just out of practice.”
“Apparently.”
“I’m more used to riding astride, that’s all. I’ve never had any fondness for sidesaddles.”
“I can hardly believe your father allowed you to sit astride a horse,” he said, finally pulling her upright.
Elle straightened her hat and unhooked her right foot from her left leg. “He doesn’t know I ever did.”
“I imagine not.” He looked at her with consideration, as if assessing her sanity. “Do you want to turn back?”
“I can ride, I tell you.”
He looked doubtful. She tried to return his regard with equal gravity, her lips pursed tight over the urge to smile. She wiggled in the saddle, testing her position. She could face forward more easily now, somewhat as she would have if she sat sideways on a wall. Her right leg was bent and up high, while the left dangled somewhat. She fished again for the stirrup and found it. With her legs in proper position, the odd darting of the skirt suddenly made sense. It fell in beautiful clean lines over her legs.
“Very well, then.” He nudged his mount into a slow walk, watching Elle from the corner of his eye as she followed suit. She was aware of his scrutiny and tried to sit on the horse as if she knew what she were doing.
They proceeded in silence down the path, which soon led into the leafy green shade of woodland. The leaves were still the light green of spring, and belled purple flowers grew in swaths beneath the trees. A small cloud of golden dust shimmered in a shaft of sunlight, and Elle closed her eyes as Belle walked her through it. She almost imagined she could feel it tingling on her skin, and when she opened her eyes again, a feeling of dreaminess overtook her spirit. The forest was magically lovely, idyllic, pastoral—it was soft, and peaceful, and somehow tame. She had the sense that people had travelled this path for hundreds and hundreds of years.
Elle began humming under her breath. It was the tune that always played in the background of cartoons during nature scenes, especially those at dawn. She wished she could see herself from the outside and know what she looked like riding through this landscape in her jaunty tricorn hat. She looked down at her gloved hands, holding the reins. They didn’t seem to be a part of her. She moved her fingers, watching them from a disembodied distance. How curious.
Her eyes moved to Henry, riding slightly ahead of her. She liked what he was wearing. His beige breeches were tight around his thighs, ending at a row of four buttons at his knees. His riding boots covered the bottom half of his legs, but there was just a sliver of white stocking visible between breeches and boots. She liked that men’s pants only went to their knees: She liked looking at Henry’s calves, watching them flex with each step. How long ago was it that men wore tights? Now, that would have been the time to live.
She glanced up at Henry’s face. He hadn’t noticed her perusal of his pants. He was probably busy mentally figuring expenditures for the house. She nudged Belle abreast of his horse. She felt him glance at her, but kept her eyes turned away, feigning interest in the forest.
When it was safe, she surreptitiously cast her eyes to his chest and hips. She liked the way his body moved, his hips rocking in rhythm with the horse. So, that was why men sometimes said they mounted a woman. She felt a prickling, tingling heat surface across her skin and could not help imagining her naked legs spread wide, and those clothed hips rocking between them, gently nudging her damp flesh, teasing her with a touch that never lasted long enough, the rough fabric a tantalizing barrier. What would it feel like, she wondered, to be completely naked and make love to a man wearing all his clothes? She would be so vulnerable, so exposed. She almost moaned at the thought.
Why hadn’t she slept with Henry? Her mind felt muddied by lust and this peculiar dreaminess, an almost familiar dreaminess, that she couldn’t place just now. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of any obstacles to making love to him. It was as if all her inhibitions had flown away, leaving only the desire that had been simmering at the bottom of her soul since the first night she had seen him. She was married to the man, and he had certainly tried to take her to bed on their wedding night, which showed a certain willingness on his part. He would not refuse her.
She wanted to run her fingers across his chest, and to taste the spot where his neck met his shoulders. She wanted to touch that tender spot where his thigh met his groin, and cup his male flesh in her hand. She wanted to slide her hand over his shaft and feel it grow large and firm against the palm of her hand.
She brought Belle over closer to Henry’s mount, until her own legs brushed against his. He turned to her, and she tilted her head to one side, looking up at him with her eyes slightly narrowed, blinking slowly like a cat in the sun, her lips curled in a sultry smile.
Flickers of emotion crossed his face, from neutral expectancy to surprised recognition of her subtle invitation, then an eyebrow rose slightly, in question. She let her lips part naturally in answer, and her reward was watching his face change its character, losing the aloof veneer, his eyes becoming blacker and his jaw muscles tensing.
He drew his mount to a halt, and Elle absently did the same. She became mesmerized by his lips and could almost feel them working their way down her neck, over the tops of her breasts, to suckle at her nipples as they had on her wedding night.
“Do you know what you’re asking, when you look at me that way?” he asked her hoarsely.
“Yes.” The word came out on a softly exhaled breath.
He looked like he wanted to question this abrupt change, then thought better of it. She leaned forward, wetting her lips.
“Please . . .” she murmured, shameless in her desire to feel his mouth on her own, and his hand between her thighs, stroking the folds of flesh she could already feel were swelling with desire.
“Are you ready to take on your full role as a wife?”
She smiled. “Always so serious. You make it sound like we’re fulfilling a contract. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“I had not thought to take you out-of-doors.” He blinked about him at the woods. She was delighted that she had thrown him off-balance yet again.
“It’ll be our woodland bower, like in the poem. How does it go? ‘Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove . . .’ ” she trailed off, not sure of the rest.
“ ‘That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, woods, or steepy mountain yields,’ ” he finished for her. “Christopher Marlowe.”
“Yes. I think this is what he had in mind, don’t you?”
“I have no doubt.”
“Do you remember the rest of it?” she asked dreamily. “I loved that poem when I was young. I won’t laugh, if you want to recite it.”
He dismounted and came around to her side of the horse. “ ‘And we will sit upon the rocks, seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,’ ” he said, reaching up and putting his hands around her waist. Elle drew in her breath at his touch, even muted as it was through her layers of clothing. “ ‘By shallow r
ivers to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals.’ ”
His strong hands lifted her from the saddle, and she put her own hands on his shoulders to steady herself as he lowered her to the ground. She could smell a faint, spicy masculine cologne emanating from his skin, tied in with the scents of leather and horse. She felt dizzy with it and leaned her head towards him to breathe it in more deeply.
“ ‘And I will make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies.’ ” She barely heard the words he spoke, feeling his voice instead, vibrating within her, invading her as he would with his body. Even from several inches away she could feel his warmth on her face, entwined with that alluring aroma that was uniquely his.
“How do you remember it?” she asked.
“I was once young as well, long ago. I have not the wit to be original with my poetry, so I borrowed Marlowe’s work in my pursuit of . . . well, let us just say in my pursuit of feminine attentions.”
“Were you successful?” She imagined him as a younger man in the gardens with a woman, rutting with her from behind to keep from crushing her skirts, shushing her to keep her from giving them away as they hid in the bushes.
“On occasion.”
“Good.” She slid her hands behind his neck, pressing her body against his, trying to rub her breasts against his chest. His breathing deepened, and the hand he raised to brush gently at a stray hair on her cheek was shaking slightly.
He reached up and grasped her hands, pulling them from behind his neck. “Come. I can at least do better for you than the middle of a road.”
He led her off the path, the reins of the horses in one hand. He tied them to a branch, than took Elle farther into the forest, through ferns and soft undergrowth, until the gurgling of a creek could be heard. Cool, misty air rose up from the tributary, shimmering in the light, and encouraging the growth of deep mosses along the banks. There was a small clear area of deep moss, surrounded by foliage and yet warmed by the sun, looking as if it had been created expressly for the purpose at hand.
She watched him shrug out of his jacket and could not resist the urge to help. Her fingers went to the loose knot of the cravat at his throat, her action catching him unaware. He stood immobile, allowing her to untie his shirt and unbutton the vest that covered it. Her gloved hands shoved the clothing wide, her fingertips brushing lightly through the dark hair on his chest. She leaned forward and licked at his skin, her tongue moving up to the hollow at the base of his throat.
She heard him groan, and then his arms were around her, crushing her to him as his head bent down to capture her lips with his own. She felt a cool sliver rush through her nerves, making her knees go slack. She could feel the strength of him surrounding her, so much greater than her own, and abandoned herself to it.
His mouth moved to the side of her face, then beneath her ear, one hand knocking off her hat while the other untied her hair, combing it between his fingers. Her head was bent back with the force of his assault, and she felt as if she had conjured up a storm to sweep her away. His hands were clutching her buttocks, softly kneading, pulling her up against his arousal.
“Help me undress,” she whispered to him. “I want to feel you against my skin.”
She could feel his muscles coil even tighter in response to her words. “I should go slowly,” he rasped, his hands stilling on her. “I do not want to hurt you. I do not want you frightened.”
“I can’t wait,” she said softly, exhaling gently over his ear, then she touched the tip of her tongue inside his ear. “I want to feel you inside me.”
He pressed his face into her neck. “Do not say such things.”
“Then hurry, Henry.”
He let go of her and began tugging at the buttons of her jacket, then at the ties of the false shirtfront. She closed her eyes, feeling his hands skim over the tops of her breasts. Cool air touched her skin, bringing out luscious goose bumps, the added sensation only serving to increase her arousal. Her skirt and petticoat fell to the ground, and she stood before him in her chemise and corset.
“Turn around,” he told her. She obeyed, then couldn’t resist pressing her buttocks against his thighs, bending forward slightly and rubbing herself against him. The chemise was thin, and she knew he could feel every warm curve of her.
“God, Elle . . .” he wrapped his arms around her from behind, straightening her back up, her arms immobilized within his. His right hand pulled up the skirt of her chemise, caressing her skin as his fingers found their way to her damp nest of curls. His fingertips were chilled by the air and were a startling invasion. She felt him combing gently through the curls, one fingertip discovering the nub of her sex. He slid the length of his finger against it, until she was resting entirely against the palm of his hand, the end of his finger seeking and gaining entrance to her body. She could feel her own slickness as the end of his finger slid in and out, his palm gently rubbing and pressing against her. She threw her head back, leaving her shoulders and neck bare to his mouth.
He released her and went to work on the laces of her corset, loosening them enough that the garment could be slid off over her hips. He turned his attentions to his own clothes, stripping them as quickly as he could.
Elle kicked off her ankle boots and stood in the sunlight, her arms slightly lifted, feeling the competing sensations of cool mist from the stream, wafting along her ankles and up her chemise, and the warm sun on her arms and face. She could feel Henry’s eyes on her, sliding along the shadowed valleys of her body as surely as an actual touch.
She crossed her arms and grabbed opposite sides of her chemise, and then, with one hip thrust forward and standing slightly on her toes, she slowly lifted it up and over her head, tossing the garment heedlessly into the ferns. She wore nothing but stockings, tied with pale blue ribbons above her knees.
Her skin tightened in the mist from the stream, and she ran her hands over her belly, feeling the marks her tight clothes had made upon her, and up to her breasts, pushing them up between splayed fingers before letting her hands descend again, skimming the indentation of her waist, following the curve of her hips, then one hand briefly dipped to lightly brush her own curls, reminding her body of what it sought.
He watched mesmerized, and then it took him only one step to stand in front of her, his manhood erect. A trail of dark hair marked a path up to his navel, then on upward to where it spread, like the foliage of a luxuriant tree, across his broad chest.
His hand, large and strong and coated with fine ebony hairs, came up to lightly touch her breast, and she could feel the reverence in his touch, as if he thought her a work of art, or a gift from the angels. She leaned into his hand, her nipple brushing against the roughness of his palm, the hidden muscles within her contracting with pleasure.
His mouth followed his palm, the wet heat almost burning on her chilled skin. He suckled at her, gently biting, while one hand found again the rich nerves between her legs. She spread her feet wider, allowing him greater access, arching her back against his supporting arm as he slid his fingers along her slick folds.
Her own fingertips touched his thigh and traced their knowing way to his groin, tangling softly in the hair beside his shaft before she grasped that heavy smoothness in her small hand. It flexed within her grip, pumping to an even greater width. Henry groaned and pulled his hips away from her, and she felt the head ease through her fingers.
He sank down to his knees in front of her, and urged her with gentle taps to spread her legs still wider. His hands grasped her bare buttocks, and then he lowered his mouth to her, his tongue plunging through her curls to taste the heart of her. Her legs gave out, and she had to plant her palms on his shoulders, bending forward, to support herself against the wet thrusting of his tongue.
He lowered her to the ground in front of him, her knees raised and parted, her feet planted on the mossy ground. She raised her chin to the sky in bliss, the back of her head digging into the ground, as his mouth descended once again. It had been so long,
so very long since she had felt this pleasure.
The strokes of his tongue were slow at first, languorous, frustrating her with the desire for more. He sucked her nub into his mouth, rolling his tongue against it, his lips massaging the base. He released her only to trail his mouth down to the entrance of her inner corridor, and her skin picked up the fine flexings of his tongue as it delved within her. Then again he stroked her, the caresses shorter and faster, his mouth anchored to her while one finger slid deep within her.
She felt her climax building within her, so close. Henry must have felt it too, for he removed his hand and rose above her. Knowing what was coming, and wanting it desperately, she reached down to help guide him to her. He dipped the tip of his manhood into her, then removed it, rubbing it against her, prolonging her torture.
“Henry, please . . .” she moaned. Her hand pushed at him, urging him lower.
He slid just within her opening, poised for the final thrust. He threw his weight onto his arms, braced on either side of her. “I do not want to hurt you.”
She squirmed beneath him, trying to move him deeper. “You won’t.”
He inched himself slightly deeper within her, testing. Elle moaned, then wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled her hips upwards. With an answering shudder he sank himself within her, then began to move in the steady rocking for which she had yearned.
Elle opened her eyes. She was entwined with Henry’s naked form, one of his arms draped heavily around her, one of her legs wedged between his. She frowned, trying to shake the dreaminess from her mind. It had faded a bit, enough for her to begin to question what had just happened. She pushed back from Henry, feeling her sweaty skin unstick from his.