by Mason, Nina
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Words to live by in all things.
As Maggie went on attending Juliette’s bosoms, her thoughts drifted back to Robert. Was he enjoying the spectacle of his wife suckling another woman’s breasts? She conjured a picture of him in the dark, cramped compartment behind the wall stroking his hard cock whilst he gazed longingly upon the scene.
Juliette put her hands in Maggie’s hair, pulled her face toward her own, and captured her mouth in a torrid kiss. Juliette tasted of soap and smelled of perfume. So feminine and so sweet compared to Robert—not that she found his flavors distasteful. Far from it. ’Twas merely like trying a new dish. The sensations were foreign and exotic, but far from unpleasant. As much as she enjoyed the slab of lean beef that was her husband, she could still find room on her plate for a delicate French confection.
As they kissed, their tongues and breasts colliding, Juliette worked the dressing gown off Maggie’s shoulders and down her arms. When Maggie was left in naught but her shift, Juliette pulled her mouth away.
“Enlève ta chemise et étends-toi.”
Though Maggie failed to understand the words, she could guess their meaning. Juliette wanted her as naked as she was. Maggie wanted that, too—and to let Robert watch their nude bodies writhing together in mutual ecstasy.
Men were such egomaniacs. How could they not call it sex unless a penis was involved? And a man’s penis, no less.
After wriggling out of her shift, Maggie pulled back the covers, eager to satisfy her curiosity. The first thing she noticed was Juliette had no pubic hair, which, to Maggie’s eye, made the lady look more childlike than cosmopolitan. The next thing she noticed was the marchioness, as suspected, did indeed have a penis—though a rather small one that might simply be an over-grown clitoris.
“Est-ce que mon pénis te surprend?”
She could only assume Juliette asked if she was surprised to discover a male organ among her female parts. As Maggie considered asking if the tiny penis got hard like a man’s, the urge to play and explore welled up inside her with a ferocity that left her trembling.
Maggie lay down beside the marchioness, who, rolling toward her, embraced and kissed her mouth whilst merging the full length of their bodies—breasts, bellies, and pubic mounds. They fit together like mirror images. If looking glasses were soft and supple. The sweet sensations Juliette’s ministrations engendered were intensified by the awareness of Robert looking on.
For some time, Maggie remained docile, welcoming but not returning Juliette’s increasingly intimate touches. Softly, masterfully, those skilled French fingers circled and caressed in a most impassioning manner until Maggie could bear her inertness no longer.
She had to touch. Had to know what she would find between her partner’s legs. Down went her hand in search of the answer. Yes! The wee thing had indeed grown hard—and, though smaller than Robert’s, certainly possessed length and girth sufficient to accomplish the act of sexual intercourse.
Maggie stroked the tender appendage as Juliette went on teasing her more modest counterpart betwixt fevered kisses and breathless sighs of pleasure. Atingle with pleasure, Maggie looked down her body to the portrait. There, one of her husband’s gray-green eyes met her gaze.
She hoped he approved of what he observed. This was supposed to establish peace, not draw new battle lines. And he would away to London soon—a thought she still could not bear to dwell upon. If he must go, let it not be with both of them unhappy with the other.
Since she could not consult him, she decided to let her conscience be her guide. She would do no more than he’d done during the ménage à trois she’d observed. Thus, oral sex she would allow, both as giver and receiver. Penetration, however, was out of the question, lest he realize in hindsight the illogic of his chauvinistic beliefs on that score.
“Puis-je t’embrasser là?” Juliette’s question brought Maggie back to the bed.
At a loss, Maggie responded with one of the few French phrases she’d picked up along the way. “Je ne comprends pas.”
I comprehend not.
Frustration wrinkled Juliette’s brow as she struggled to find a way to communicate her request. “Eh, um, oh—how does one say it in English? Do you know the term gamahuche?”
“Oui.”
Delight brightened Juliette’s mirroring cornflower eyes. “Oui?”
“Oui, I know the word,” Maggie confirmed, “and oui, you may do it.”
With a beguiling smile, Juliette moved down the bed and positioned herself betwixt Maggie’s parted thighs. As she bent to the task, Maggie appraised her near-twin. Like herself, the marchioness was tall for a woman, but not to an unbecoming degree. Her figure was trim, her complexion smooth, and her hair thick, glossy, and all the golden colors of wheat. Her face was a roundish oval with delicate features, full lips, and a pitted chin, which had far from a disagreeable effect. Her teeth were sound and even, her smile compelling, and her eyes large and blue. Like her own, Juliette’s were more reflective than sparkling except when filled with the fires of passion.
In short, modesty aside, they both possessed in abundance all the points of beauty universally desired.
Maggie lay back with a sigh and enjoyed Juliette’s efforts on her behalf for several delirious moments until a chilling thought cracked through her felicity. Perhaps they looked so much like sisters because they were. Queen Henrietta-Maria and her sons had spent many years in France before Charles was restored to the throne, so the possibility they were related was not all that far-fetched.
What they were doing might not be a sin per se, but incest most certainly was. Sitting bolt upright, Maggie leapt off the bed, retrieved her dressing gown, and hastily pulled the robe on to cover herself.
Juliette regarded her with an expression of bewilderment. “What is wrong, ma chère? Have I done something to distress you? Why do you look so, so…troublée?”
“Who is your father, Juliette?”
The marchioness, looking lost and confused, shook her head. “Je ne comprends pas.”
Maggie stamped her foot in frustration. The language barrier made both inquiry and explanation impossible. She would get to the bottom of things tomorrow, with Robert’s help. For now, though, for the sake of her immortal soul, she had little choice but to bid the marchioness a hasty adieu.
“Good night,” Maggie said and dashed for the door.
She ran blindly down the corridor, eager to be away and for her husband’s counsel. Where was he? Still in the priest hole? She got her answer when, at the top of the stairs, she crashed right into him
Taking her by the shoulders, Robert held her at arm’s length and looked into her eyes. “I can guess why you left so abruptly, but the chances are slim your suspicions will turn out to be true.”
“True or not,” she said, her mind and gut still churning, “I should not have done what I knew to be wrong.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because I chose to listen to the serpent instead of the Holy Ghost.”
“I shall not insult us both by pretending to misunderstand you.” Looking wounded, he let her go and turned away. “And perhaps you are right. Perhaps I am the devil who lured you into temptation. Would you rather I did not return from London?”
“No!” The suggestion tore her heart in two. “I would rather you remained faithful to me. Swear to me you shall do naught to disappoint me whilst you are in London.”
Robert rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head as if attempting to exorcize a painful thought. Then, narrowing his eyes, he said, “I have already given you my word on that score. But, clearly, you do not trust me to keep my promises. So, why bother repeating myself?”
And at that, he turned on his heel and stalked off toward his bedchamber.
* * * *
Too unsettled by his feelings to make love to his wife, Robert slept in his own room that night—not that there was much sleeping involved. Tossing, turn
ing, agitating, cogitating, and kicking himself, aye, but very little he could call rest. He rose before dawn, packed his things, grabbed as many weapons as he could carry, and headed for the stables. By the time he reached his destination, he’d been soaked to the skin by a heavy, merciless rain that promised to make an already miserable journey doubly so.
Shivering in cold, wet clothes, he loaded the arms in the coach before checking the wheels and springs. The trip would be punishing enough without getting stuck in the mud in a downpour. He’d instructed the driver to harness his black Friesians in place of the usual Chestnut Thoroughbreds. If they did get trapped in a bog, the sturdier Norse-bred team stood a better chance of pulling them out of the mire.
As the coachman and postilion harnessed the team and loaded the carriage, he changed his mind about Maggie at least a dozen times before once again standing by his earlier decision. As much as he wanted her with him, he could not risk her safety. There was as good a chance they’d be set upon by brigands looking to murder Catholics as by outlaws looking to steal their money and jewelry.
If only they were parting on better terms.
At the very least, he would have liked to convey how wretched he’d felt watching her and Juliette carry on through the peephole. She’d accomplished her mission of balancing the score. He’d at last understood how much his actions at court had wounded her.
Seeing her with someone else—even a woman—had damn near ripped his heart out.
Combing back his rain-moistened hair, he threw a hopeful glance toward the castle. Please, let her come to bid him farewell. If she should not, he would go to her, even if doing so meant a late start and a cold rebuff. If he did not at least try, his regrets would plague him the whole of the journey.
An hour later, when the carriage was ready to set off, she still had not come out. In a state of sodden but dogged determination, he set off through the rain toward the castle, his clenched, cold hands fisted in the pockets of his coat.
Inside, after a frustrating search, he found her still abed. Her face was so peaceful in slumber he thought seriously about leaving without waking her. But, alas, he could not bring himself to go without making some effort to patch things up. Neither could he bring himself to dampen her bedclothes with his soaking attire. So, he did the only things he could think of. He built up the fire, stripped off every stitch, and laid his wet clothes on the hearth to dry. For several moments following, he stood before the mantle letting his chilled flesh absorb the heat. Then, he crossed to the bed, slipped under the covers, and spooned his warm body against hers.
Rolling to face him, Maggie ran a hand through his still wet hair. “What are you doing in my bed?”
“I’ve come to make peace before I away.”
“In the altogether?”
He let out a tense laugh. “’Tis pouring out and I was soaked through. I took a chance you’d rather I embrace you warm and naked than cold and wet.”
She snuggled closer to him, easing his angst. “How soon are you setting off?"
“As soon as we’ve said our goodbyes.”
To his delight, she placed her hand on the side of his face, her palm warm and relaxed, and moved in to kiss him. His lips were numb from the cold and the contact warmed them—and further sparked his hope.
She took her time with the kiss as if storing it away for future reference. He minded not in the least. Let her take all the time she needed to feel good about him again.
He placed his hand on her waist and she scooted to fit her body against his. The heat of her greeted his flesh through her thin shift.
Ending the kiss, she pushed herself up to look down into his face, bracing her weight with one hand whilst she played with his chest hair with the other.
God, how he wanted her, but the coachman was waiting and there were things he needed to say before he departed.
“We should talk,” he suggested, opposing his physical desire.
“I wish you did not have to go.” Her eyes were dewy and her mouth downturned.
Rising up on his elbows, he kissed the tip of her nose. “I must go, but know that when I return, things will be different.”
“Will they? How so?”
“I will try very hard to be the man you want me to be—and the husband you deserve.”
Her countenance brightened and she sat down on his lap. “Oh, Robert. Do you truly mean that?”
“With all of my heart. No more secret chamber, no more whips, no more buggery.” Fighting a grin, he added, “Only you and I reading to each other from Holy Scripture every evening before the fire.”
“You big rat.” She slapped him on the chest. “That is not the kind of marriage I want and you know it.”
He let the grin come, took hold of her face, and pulled her mouth down on his. As the kiss deepened, his passions enflamed, stripping away his resolve. Let the servants wait. He would take her and then set off. Perhaps, in the meantime, the rain would lighten some.
Though it killed him to do so, he pulled out of the kiss. “That is not the kind of marriage I want, either.”
“Then what kind do you want?”
Grinning lasciviously, he said, “I would much rather show than tell you.”
Complicity twinkled in her eyes. “What about the coachman?”
“Bugger the coachman.”
She giggled. “Only if you watch.”
His heart winced in protest. “Do not suggest such a thing, even in jest.”
Concern furrowed her brow. “Did you not enjoy watching me with Juliette?”
“I confess I did not.”
A smile danced on her lips, the minx. “Because you were jealous?”
“Aye. Insanely so.”
“It gladdens me to hear it,” she said, looking pleased with herself.
“I shall be true, Maggie,” he said with all sincerity. “Please believe me. I would give up anything and everything to make you happy.”
“I do believe you. And shall miss you fiercely.”
“I’ll miss you just as fiercely.”
The closeness of their bodies had made him hard underneath her. Lifting her hips, she took him into her. He thrust upwards, burying his full length in her enveloping humidity. The sensation was so sweetly sublime he nearly howled like a wolf. How he would miss the heaven of her body when he was in London. Hell, he’d pine for a repeat of this state of grace long before he got there.
He cast the thought away. Better to focus on the here and now. They were together, their bodies joined in the most sacred form of communion he’d ever known, and nothing else mattered. Not the king, not the pope, not even his devious brother.
Reaching up, he caught her face with his hands and pulled her mouth down upon his. He kissed her with passion, lips parted, tongue plunging deep.
As they kissed, he drove into her with gusto time and again. The erotic slapping of their merged bodies was music to his ears. He was all striving virility and she was all welcoming lushness. And she was his. His wife. His Rosebud. His angel from above.
Save me, Maggie.
As he pounded her with abandon, the orgasm gathered in his cods until it bordered on pain. Then, the exquisite tension released, shot up his shaft, and burst like a skyrocket. As pleasure exploded through his body, he shuddered and groaned into her mouth.
She sat up and smiled down at him.
Looking up at her, his heart overflowing, he was surprised to find he had tears in his eyes.
“Tell me you love me, Rosebud.”
She touched his face with a tenderness that made him ache to his core. “I love you,” she whispered, “with every scrap of my being.”
“I love you, too.” His voice cracked and his heart broke as he said the words. “Just as much. And shan’t know a moment’s happiness until I am back in your arms once more.”
Chapter Seven
Almost the moment Robert’s coach pulled away from the castle, Hugh became a different person. Barking orders at all within earshot,
treating Maggie like his personal hand-maiden, and, in general, acting as if he was lord and master over all he surveyed.
And perhaps he was—or would be if Robert failed to return from London. She had every reason to worry for her husband’s safety, not the least of which was his failure to write in more than a fortnight.
“Could you not write to someone at Whitehall to make inquiries about your brother’s well-being?” she asked Hugh across the dinner table.
“As I’ve stated before,” he returned with a glower, “I will do so when more time has elapsed. As you well know, the post betwixt there and here is prodigiously slow. I am sure my brother is perfectly well and will write as soon as he is able.”
Maggie, poaching in disappointment, returned her gaze to the bowl of mutton broth before her. Yes, mail from London often took weeks to arrive. Yes, Robert had embarked during inclement weather, which would have prolonged his transit time considerably. The chances were good he had not yet reached his destination. There were scores of logical reasons why he’d not sent word.
But since when was a pregnant woman rational?
Praise God and all of His Saints! She was with child and still reeling from the news. She’d only just had her condition confirmed by the local midwife. When she was not fretting about her husband’s well-being or trying to come up with a satisfactory name for the child, she was near to bursting with joy. She wanted so badly to tell Robert the news, but could not post a letter until she knew where to write him.
If he yet lived.
That he might have been killed en route struck her with the force of a blow to the chest. No, she must not think such thoughts. Of course he lived. If he had perished, if their connection had been severed, she would surely feel the separation at some deep-down level of her soul.
Hugh, to her tremendous vexation, seemed not to care a jot whether his brother lived or died. No, wait. He did care, only with different aspirations. The marquess seemed intent on getting Robert out of the way so he could claim the duchy for himself. Heaven help her. And Robert. What had become of the affable young man she’d once known? Either he’d stripped the goodness from his disposition by soaking too long in a solution of resentment and envy or he’d been playing a part the whole time.