by Mason, Nina
The wee vixen. How she both surprised and enchanted him at every turn.
Only lately did they learn she was the illegitimate daughter of James Stuart, the king’s younger brother and heir presumptive to the throne. Robert’s late father had taken her from a convent at the age of twelve to be a companion to his only surviving female child.
Keep Maggie on as your ward, my son. Look after her. Marry her if she’ll have you. She is better than you know.
Only now did Robert comprehend the full meaning of his father’s deathbed statement.
Robert looked toward the window. The sky outside was as blue as Maggie’s eyes. ’Twould be a fine day to enjoy the outdoors—something his wife did on her own whilst he attended to the tedious affairs of the estate. He’d much rather be with her, enjoying the fragrant roses and herbs—along with more fleshly pursuits.
Not that she’d welcome his company. Last night, she’d locked him out of her adjoining bedchamber. This morning, he’d risen early and frustrated. How she meant to punish him hovered in the back of his thoughts, keeping him equal parts anxious and aroused—a confounding distraction, to say the least. The wee vixen required no instruction when it came to milking his anticipation for its full worth.
A loud knock called his attention to the door. Please, let it be Maggie come to tempt him away from his mind-numbing duties.
“Your Grace? Are you in there?”
The sound of the housekeeper’s voice withered his hopes. “I am indeed, Mrs. McQueen, but excessively occupied. How may I be of service?”
“The morning post has come,” she said, louder. “There’s a letter for you from Master Hugh. I presumed you’d wish to read it straight away.”
She’d presumed correctly. Hugh, two years his junior, was currently in France, where Robert had sent him to impede his pursuit of Maggie. Last he’d heard, his brother was happily installed at Versailles as an honored guest of King Louis XIV, who, by all accounts, had as roving an eye as his cousin Charles. He sincerely hoped the penchant for adultery did not run in the family.
“You may enter.”
The door groaned open and in came Mrs. McQueen, a short, stout middle-aged woman who always brought to mind a busy hen. She offered a silver tray upon which the letter lay. Taking it, he turned back to the desk.
“Do you need anything more, m’lord?”
“Aye, Mrs. McQueen. A stoup of hot broth, if you please.”
“As you wish, m’lord.” She bowed her head in deference. “I shall fetch it forthwith, m’lord.”
When she was gone, he examined the letter. His younger sibling’s familiar penmanship was scrawled across the front panel. Hugh had the delicate, flourished cursive of a woman.
As Robert rubbed his eyes, which burned from lack of sleep, Hugh’s portrait took shape inside his mind. They resembled one another. No, wait. They resembled their mother, who’d gifted both her sons with her wavy dark hair and changeable gray-green eyes. Hugh was almost his equal in height, but lankier in build and far more particular—some would say foppish—about his mode of dress.
Boyhood memories blotted out Hugh’s face. Wrestling matches, horse races, games, and dares, many of them ruthless. Like most brothers, he and Hugh had always been competitive. They’d even chosen the same woman—though for different reasons.
Cloying French perfume wafted up from the folded letter, bringing him back to the desk. The stamp, too, was French. Robert turned the letter over and broke the red wax seal with his letter knife.
My Dear Brother,
I pray this letter finds you happy and in good health and that the news I convey herein does naught to diminish your hoped-for well-being.
I am homeward bound as I write this—and not alone! I bring with me my new bride, whom I met and courted during my extended stay at the Palace of Versailles. You may well be surprised by my news, but not, I pray, rendered unhappy by it.
Look for us in a se’nnight. I hope to find you and your Dear Duchess overjoyed by our reunion and ready to welcome me and your new sister home to Balloch Castle with open arms.
Until then, I remain
Your most grateful sibling,
eternal votary & humblest servant
H.
Robert read the letter a second time after recovering from the initial shock. He’d not expected his brother’s homecoming so soon—and never with a wife.
His thoughts leapt to Maggie with a pang of distress. Might she still harbor feelings for Hugh? Please, let her not. To lose her after waiting an age to win her love would devastate him beyond measure.
With a sigh, he set the letter down and reached for the next on the unopened pile. All at once, the pain in his arm was naught compared to the ache in his heart.
* * * *
“Give me your arm,” Maggie said to Robert in a commanding voice. “You may not count your transgressions at court as infidelities, but I most assuredly do.”
Later in the evening this was. After dining on mutton broth, salted beef, and bannocks, they’d at last adjourned to the flagellation chamber. He now was naked with his front pressed against the wooden cross whilst she stood over him tense and shivering in naught but her shift. The cold of the room had hardened her nipples and raised goose pimples across the hatch of fine scars on his back.
She was still her mild-mannered self, but could feel Mistress Margaret straining against her leash like an ill-behaved hound. Maggie did her best to keep her dark side tethered, as letting her surface too quickly could prove hazardous to her husband. Last time Mistress Margaret put in an appearance she’d given him a rather severe beating.
Not that he hadn’t enjoyed every minute, the scurvy adulterer.
“Would it help if I promised never to stray again?”
“It might, if I believed you.”
“But you do not?”
“No,” she said. “Because I am not foolhardy enough to listen to the promises of a serpent.”
He heaved a sigh and sagged against the cross. “Very well. Have it your way then.”
“I intend to, believe me.”
The room was dimly lit and smelled of damp, burning tallow, leather, and the fire’s pine logs. The burning wood snapped now and again, giving her a start as the sudden pops broke the hallowed silence. Strange the chamber should feel like a sacred space, though what went on herein was indeed a form of adoration.
Ecstasy was ecstasy, after all, be it sacred or profane.
Dark delight coursed through her veins as she tossed a backward glance toward the pegs on the wall. She’d not yet selected her instrument of punishment from amongst the offerings on display, but planned to do so as soon as she finished securing her husband’s arms.
The right was the last. When he surrendered the arm to her, she pressed the limb to the board before binding his wrist snugly with the leather thong provided for the purpose.
His legs, she left free to enable him to spread them when ordered to do so. Her plans for him would require an open stance. To carry them out, she’d need more than a flogger. She’d seen what she had in mind at the convent where she grew up. At the time, she’d not known the tool’s purpose, but had since worked it out. She did not, however, yet know what such instruments of self-pleasuring were called, if indeed they had a name.
But surely her degenerate of a husband would. And probably owned more than one.
Images flashed of him using such a tool on other women—or men, given what she’d witnessed at court. Indignation rekindling, she blinked to block her disturbing imaginings. ’Twould not do to lose her temper whilst she enjoyed complete power over him.
Leaving Robert to anticipate his punishment—for better or for worse—she crossed the chilly stone floor to the cabinet depicting the Stations of the Cross. Please let it contain more than spare candles and incense.
She pulled open the doors, which concealed numerous small drawers—precisely what she’d hoped to find. A shiver went through her as she feasted her eyes on the ba
nquet of delicious devices.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice somewhat muted by his position.
“Looking for something.”
“May I ask what?”
“You may ask, but I cannot tell you—for I know not what to call the tool I seek.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Yes.” She glanced his way, wanting to gauge his reaction to her answer. “’Tis a false phallus.”
“I see.” His voice sounded strained. “And for what purpose do you seek this object?”
“Can you not guess?”
“I can. And would much rather you alter your plan.”
“Which is precisely why I shan’t,” she said. “Now tell me at once where to find said object or I shall pull the whole cabinet over.”
“There are several in the lowest row of drawers. But, I beseech you to take the utmost care.”
“I shall take as much care as you took with my feelings at court.” Her tone was tart by design.
He’d taken no care whatsoever and, consequently, she intended to make the experience about as enjoyable as the daily clysters the nuns had forced upon her person. They insisted routine rectal purging would preserve her good health and perhaps they were right. She’d suffered neither pox nor plague and had blessedly skirted the fever that carried away Robert’s sister and father five years past. Not that she still administered clysters, though perhaps she should consider readopting the practice.
“I am exceedingly curious,” he said, startling her some. “How is it you came to know of the existence of such devices?”
The memory set fire to the flesh of her face. “One of the sisters at the convent kept one hidden in the drawer of her night table.”
He let out a small chuckle. “I’d be willing to wager a considerable sum on the chance more than one of the allegedly chaste sisters saw to her needs with a Godemiché. The lady I mentioned earlier in Leicester Square swears nuns are her biggest customers.”
She did not doubt it, given the things she’d see at the convent. “What did you call it?”
“Godemiché.”
It sounded as if he’d said gūd-a-meesh-ee. A French word, undoubtedly. Hardly surprising given their taste for all things érotique. She arched an eyebrow at her husband’s profile. She narrowed her eyes. “To be clear, we are speaking of a device shaped like an erect phallus?”
“Aye. We are indeed.”
“Are these devices—these Godemichés, as you call them—readily available?”
“In Paris and London, they are,” he said. “And probably in Rome as well. Though you have to know where to go for such things. There is a lady in Leicester Square who sells several varieties. If you wish, I shall procure one for you when next I away to London.”
“Why not lend me one of yours?”
“Because I would rather you had one of your own—one that has not been tainted by previous use.”
A blaze ignited in her chest as images of him using a Godemiché on other women flashed through her mind. “Are you planning to away to London anytime in the near future?”
“Not planning to, no. But the king may require my service and, as you know, ’tis not within my power to refuse a royal summons.”
Angry as she was with him, she did not relish doing without him for so long. London was more than four hundred miles away—a carriage ride of close to a fortnight, if the weather and roads were good. His safety also concerned her. Gravely. He could be attacked by bandits again and not be as fortunate as he’d been last time. The mere thought plunged a dagger into her heart.
She shook her head hard to dispel the terrible feeling. Naught could be gained by mourning a loss that had not come to pass. He was here with her now. Hers to tease and torment as she saw fit. Returning her focus to the task before her, she slid open a small drawer and peered inside.
There were two small corked vials, one ceramic, and one glass. The glass ampoule contained what appeared to be an oil of a greenish hue. She picked up the ceramic one, pulled out the stopper, and took a cautious whiff. The contents smelled of lavender and clove, just as he did.
“Why do you keep hair oil in here?”
“Because it makes an excellent lubricant.”
Taking his meaning, she replaced the cork, returned the vial to the drawer, which she closed before opening the next one. What met her gaze took her by surprise. A doll carved from wood—a woman with an elaborate coiffure and costume. She picked up the figure, puzzling over its erotic purpose. The doll was finely crafted and beautifully dressed in a silk brocade mantua in shades of pink and mint.
“Why do you have a doll?”
“Look under her skirts.”
Maggie lifted the doll’s brittle petticoats, expecting to find carved female genitalia. To her surprise, she—if indeed the doll could be called a she—also possessed a penis, which sprouted from the place her clitoris ought to have been.
“I am at a loss.” Maggie scrutinized the doll’s odd anatomy, still unable to account for its purpose. “Why does she have the organs of both sexes?”
“She’s what is known as a tribade. A woman born with both male and female sexual organs.”
“Are there such creatures?” Turning to face his bare backside, she ran her thumb over the doll’s tiny erection.
“Aye, though the condition is rare.”
“Wherever did you acquire such a thing?”
“From my brother.”
Surprise dropped a boulder on Maggie’s chest. “Hugh gave this to you?”
“Aye. He sent it last month from Versailles. Apparently, the courtiers there enact sexual postures using similar figures as a form of diversion.”
Myriad questions competed inside her mind before one’s melodic voice rose above the others. “How is dear Hugh? Did he happen to mention how he is getting on?”
“Aye, he did,” Robert replied. “And you’ll be pleased to hear he does well and plans to return to Dunwoody posthaste—with his new bride in tow.”
“His new bride? But—”
Jealousy’s searing fingers plucked Maggie’s heartstrings. Once upon a time, Hugh had paid his addresses to her, but Robert sent him away—to protect her from disappointment. Allegedly. Swallowing, she returned the doll to its place, shut the drawer, and moved on. She loved her husband, wicked as he was, and wanted to believe him about his brother’s preference for those of his own gender. But his behavior at court and the news of Hugh’s marriage cast long shadows of doubt across her trust.
“Why did you not tell me of Hugh’s plans over dinner?”
“For the simple reason you seemed determined to maintain an atmosphere of frosty silence.”
His accusation was true, so she could hardly blame him for keeping the news to himself. Taking a breath to ease the tightness in her chest, she peered inside the next drawer, which contained three phallic looking cloth casings and several silk ribbons.
“What are these?” Her lip curled in disgust.
“I presume you have found my petits linges.”
Gingerly, she poked one with her finger. The linen felt as if it had been coated with wax. “What are they for?”
“Disease prevention and contraception.” He heaved a quavering sigh. “Maggie, I am tied to a bloody cross in the altogether, in case you’ve forgotten. And the room is as cold as a crone’s nipples. Could we please get on with the business at hand? My arms are beginning to ache something fierce and my cock is shrinking from the cold. You can explore my cabinet of erotic curiosity to your heart’s content afterward, I promise. I will tell you whatever you wish to know and even demonstrate if you desire me to do so.”
Hot blood scorched her cheeks. She’d been so taken in by her explorations she’d nearly forgotten the unpleasant position she’d left him in. “Yes, of course.” She threw a glance toward her husband’s comely backside. “Now, to save time, pray tell me, where have you hidden the Godemichés?”
He heaved an audible sigh. “You
will find several varieties in the bottommost drawers.”
She opened the farthest left of the lowest row of drawers. Inside, a pair of carved rosewood phalluses rested upon a purple velvet cloth. One was approximately ten inches and had testicles at the base. The other, even more enormous, was simply the shaft and glans.
Effervescing with curiosity, Maggie lifted the larger of the two out of the drawer and ran her fingertips over the polished surface. ’Twas pleasingly smooth and firm but also daunting in size. If she inserted this monster into her husband’s rectum, she’d likely rupture his bowels.
“Have you ever used this on yourself?”
“Which?”
“The big rosewood one.”
“Nay.”
Relief gusted through her. He’d have to be out of his senses to insert aught so large in his anus. She returned Goliath to its place, shut the drawer, and moved to the next. Inside was a carved ivory Godemiché of a more natural size. There was a hole in the tip of the glans and some sort of stopper in its base. Picking up the device, she made a more thorough examination. The weight suggested the phallus was hollow. She tugged on the knob of the stopper and out popped a base with a wooden stick resembling a spurtle for stirring porridge. She studied the object with intense curiosity.
“Why is there a stick inside the ivory one?”
“Maggie, pray can we move this along?” Impatience sauced the question, enflaming her irritation. “My cods are turning as blue as your eyes.”
Mistress Margaret rocketed to the surface of her psyche, snapping her leash. Godemiché still in hand, she strode to the wall of whips, liberated a riding crop from its peg, and went to where he hung upon the cross. Fury broiling her innards, she drew back her arm and let the crop fly. He jumped when the tongue struck his buttocks with a satisfying snap.
“You will keep a civil tongue in your head when addressing me, you wriggling maggot—or pay dearly for your impudence. Do you understand me?”
“I do, Mistress Margaret,” he replied with all due humility.
“Good.”