The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2)

by Mason, Nina

  He dragged his memory, finding his mind like a writing slate that had been erased—or a letter whose ink has been smeared by a spill. Shadowy remnants remained, but nothing he could make out as a whole. A scene flickered. A swordfight with a ruffian. Might that be the attack that robbed him of his memory? Nay, it could not be, for he saw himself in the countryside fighting beside a grand carriage bearing his father’s ducal seal.

  “I recall being besieged whilst making a journey in my father’s coach, but only vaguely.”

  As he said it, something came into his mind. A pearl rosary with an engraved silver heart instead of a crucifix. The prayer beads had belonged to his mother and yet, he vividly remembered the feel of the rough natural pearls betwixt his fingers as he knelt in supplication. In the memory, he donned a long velvet coat with ridiculously wide cuffs—a style with which he was unfamiliar.

  When and where had this been?

  Sudden, suffocating dread gripped him. “My rosary. Did I have it when your father found me?”

  “Your rosary?” Her eyes bulged in astonishment. “You are Catholic then?”

  Invisible fingers closed around his throat. Had he endangered himself? He swallowed, licked his lips, and regarded her in earnest. “Would it make a difference if I were?”

  He breathed easier when a kindly expression overtook her features.

  “’Twould make a great deal of difference, as a matter of fact,” she said. “As we are Catholics as well, we’d be much more inclined to offer you sanctuary until we are able to ascertain who you are.”

  * * * *

  This was the first time Maggie had ever been seriously ill. She knew she was sicker than they dared tell her, weakly realized at some level she hovered on the brink of death. The cracked rib stabbed when she breathed, her head pounded whenever she moved, and her whole body felt as though she’d been set upon by demons armed with red-hot pitchforks.

  Somewhere in the cloud of forlorn and bewilderment shrouding her mind, she knew she still carried the baby. Robert’s baby. And the knowledge of that blessing gave her the will to hold on.

  They were not, however, yet out of danger. Death was in the room, hovering, waiting to claim one or both, and she had no strength to battle the threat. In quiet moments when she was left alone, she often harkened back to that day the two highwaymen attacked their carriage. How heroic Robert had been, how brave and strong. If only he were here now to stand by her and hold her hand and protect her until she recovered enough to do her own fighting.

  But he was not.

  Dr. Cockburn, Mrs. McQueen, and Hugh always seemed to be at her bedside, offering tinctures, poultices, and comforting words. But physics and kindness were not what she needed. Only the love she and Robert shared was powerful enough to conquer death.

  Hugh put on a good show for the doctor’s sake. Holding her hand, offering words of encouragement, pretending her fall had been a terrible accident. He was a good enough actor to be on the stage. At times, he almost convinced her he regretted what he’d done. Then, she’d remind herself what kind of charlatan she was dealing with.

  She said naught about the fall, partly because she was too weak and partly because she knew Dr. Cockburn would think her accusations a figment of her delirium. Even if the physician believed Hugh had pushed her, he would only summon the baillie, and she knew how that would go. Then, when she got better, assuming she lived, Hugh would punish her for casting aspersions upon him.

  Even if she made no accusations, he would doubtless find another means to get rid of her and the baby.

  She could not allow that to come to pass, so, in a rare moment of lucidity, Maggie withdrew from beneath her mattress the letter she’d written to the Duke of York and waited for a moment alone with the housekeeper.

  * * * *

  Three weeks had now passed since Mrs. McQueen posted Maggie’s letter and, having had no reply, she was a bundle of conflicting emotions. Angst, outrage, hope, pluck, fear, desperation, forlorn. On the verge of tears, she heaved an anguished sigh. Maybe she should give up hoping for Robert’s return and set sail for Paris. In France, Catholics were in the majority. In France, she could start a new life for her and her child.

  No! She must not abandon hope quite yet. Robert was alive and would come back to her in time. She could feel him, still there, still loving her. Were he dead, surely she would not feel him thusly. She had to keep the faith. Had to. As black as things seemed at present, she had to trust that all would turn out well. That justice would be done. That, at the end of the day, Hugh would get his just desserts.

  “Turn the other cheek,” the angel on her shoulder whispered. “Forgiveness is the swiftest path to healing an injury.”

  “Listen not to that coward,” the devil on the other retorted, grinning slyly. “The best way to get over being wronged is to get even.”

  Someone opened the door. With effort, she rolled in her bed to see who it might be, praying her visitor was not Hugh. She’d taken all the abuse she could handle for one evening. Nay, for a lifetime. Since she’d recovered from the fall, he’d stopped restraining her at night, but insisted she resume her chores.

  Hope flickered in Maggie’s heart when the soft glow of a candlestick revealed Mrs. McQueen’s features.

  “Have you brought me a letter?”

  “Aye, m’lady,” the housekeeper whispered. “A letter from London. I do hope it contains happy news of Himself.”

  As did Maggie. With every fiber of her being.

  Mrs. McQueen came to the bedside and handed Maggie the letter, which she promptly turned the folded sheet over to examine the penmanship and seal. The faint ray in her heart brightened to a beam. ’Twas indeed from the Duke of York. She bit her lip and lifted her gaze to Heaven.

  Thank you, Jesus. Please let it bear glad tidings of Robert.

  With trembling hands, she broke the seal and, as she unfolded the sheet of paper, she got up and moved nearer the candle. Squinting, she strained to read what was written upon the page. The light was so dim and the handwriting so hurried, she could scarcely make out the words.

  To my darling daughter,

  In response to your request, I have journeyed to London at great personal risk to make inquiries regarding the whereabouts of your missing husband. At this juncture, I have some good news to impart, though perhaps not the news you are hoping for. I have not yet found your Robert, but have managed to locate his carriage and driver. I am now in possession of the knowledge that he arrived safely in London, but not what befell him thereafter. With my brother’s help, I have commissioned an artist to sketch Dunwoody’s likeness, which has been printed upon a leaflet and distributed throughout the districts. As an added incentive, I am offering a handsome reward for information pertaining to his whereabouts. Thus far, none of the leads has panned out, but be not discouraged. I am confident we shall find him very soon, alive and well. I will write again when I have more to tell. Until then, keep the faith.

  Yours, etc.

  James

  “What does he say?” the housekeeper prodded. “Has he found Himself?”

  “Not yet,” Maggie replied, barely able to contain her elation. “But he has found the carriage and driver, confirming both the falsehood of Hugh’s claims and my suspicions he was a party to the plot to have his brother killed en route to London.”

  “So, we as yet know not if the duke is dead or alive?”

  “I believe him to be very much alive,” Maggie said, “but in some kind of trouble that prevents him from returning to me.”

  “I do hope you are right.” The housekeeper looked doubtful. “What do you think he will do to Master Hugh when he returns?”

  Maggie took a moment as the desires to forgive and get even battled within her once again.

  Take your pound of flesh.

  No, turn the other cheek.

  With all the power of an avenging hero, Mistress Margaret broke free of her fetters, drew her sword, and slew the angel.

  “Wh
y wait to find out what Robert would do? I’ve borne enough ill-treatment to last a lifetime. Nay, ten lifetimes. I shall avenge myself—but will need your help to pull off my plan. Can I count on your allegiance, Mrs. McQueen?”

  “Aye, of course.” The housekeeper patted her arm. “I will do all within my power to bring that mangy cur of a man to heel.”

  “First, in the morning, you must call upon the village apothecary to procure a powerful sleeping powder,” Maggie told her. “Then, in the evening, you must put a goodly amount of the mixture in the ale you serve to all within the castle apart from ourselves. Can you manage all that, do you think?"

  “I not only can,” said Mrs. McQueen with a twinkle in her eye, “I certainly shall.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Arise and shine, my lord. For you grow pungent.”

  The voice crashed into his sleep like a medieval flail. He’d been dreaming of Maggie. She’d been lost in the woods like that day years ago when she’d tripped in a hole and sprained her ankle. Only this time, he could hear her sobs but could not find her after searching the whole of the wood.

  The intruding voice belonged to Mistress Wakeman, of course, who now stood at his bedside clutching a ceramic basin in both hands. The careful way she balanced the bowl suggested ’twas full of liquid.

  He eyed the washbowl with sudden alarm. “Pray, what is that for?”

  “To wash you with, of course,” she said. “If I do not, you will soon develop bed sores.”

  Panic cut through his grogginess like a knife. “Leave the basin and I shall wash myself.”

  She laughed. “You can barely wipe your own arse, my lord. How do you expect to wash yourself properly?”

  She set the bowl down on the night table, which she must have cleared whilst he slept. Some of the water had splashed on her bodice, making it evident she wore no stays. His groin tingled with interest as his gaze lingered on the bumps formed by her protruding nipples. God help him. There was no way he’d get through this without getting hard.

  Her shining green eyes beamed at him. Her auburn hair was caught behind her head in an emerald ribbon, and her snug frock accentuated her voluptuous curves. Oh, aye. There was no way in hell he’d keep his concupiscent thoughts in check with all of that going on. Even with no soapy water and scrubbing involved.

  “I do not think your washing me is a good idea, Mistress. As you are a maiden and I am, well, a man.”

  She gave him a placating smile. “There is nothing you have I’ve not beheld already—and touched, if you’ve forgotten.”

  “Be that as it may,” he said, licking his lips, “this will be different, believe me.”

  “What is the trouble, my lord?” She batted her eyes at him, feigning innocence. “Do you fear my touch will arouse your reins?”

  “That is precisely what I fear,” he said, holding her gaze. “And, if such is your goal, I strongly urge you to reconsider.”

  “My goal is to rid you of your stench and bad humors—and to prevent festers from developing upon your backside. Now, stop arguing and take off that shirt, so I may see to you before the water turns cold.”

  He could see she was determined and he did need a wash rather badly, so he would just have to make the best of things, he supposed. Sitting up, he pulled his nightshirt off over his head and handed the garment to her.

  She tossed the shirt on the chair by the fireplace before turning back to him. As she made to draw back the bedclothes, he slipped both hands underneath and placed them over his genitals.

  She jerked back the covers—all the way down to the footboard, exposing the whole of him to the room. Mercifully, the bedchamber was warm, thanks to the fire.

  Turning to the basin, she said with a note of humor in her voice, “You might as well take your hands away, for I am determined to wash you there, too.”

  He tried very hard not to picture her running that wet, soapy sponge over his cock and cods. Tried, but failed miserably. He’d not had relations in weeks. Had not even masturbated. Given how ready he was, a stiff breeze could bring him off. There was no way in hell he could endure being scrubbed down there without firing his cannon.

  “Have it your way,” he said, begrudgingly taking his hands away. “It seems you are determined to embarrass the both of us, so have at it.”

  Hands sloshing in the washbasin, she said, “I will not be embarrassed, so why should you be?”

  Picking up the sponge, she wrung out the excess water before moving around to the foot of the bed. She began to wash his feet, making him twitch as she scrubbed his sensitive soles.

  Fighting a smile, she asked, “You are ticklish, my lord?”

  “Aye.”

  Normally, he did not suffer from modesty, but, for some reason, she made him feel incredibly exposed. To lessen his discomfort, he watched as she worked the sponge between his toes, across his instep, and over his ankles.

  What would he do when she and her sponge reached his crotch? He closed his eyes and conjured an image of her soapy hand sliding up and down his fevered length. Desire flooded his groin, as hot, thick, and sweet as melted sugar. His cock tingled and swelled. Oh, what the hell? Getting hard was inevitable, so he might as well enjoy himself instead of lying here in misery like some tight-assed Puritan.

  She returned to the bowl to rinse the sponge, which he heard her wring out before returning to his legs. Up she went, as slow and steady as a tortoise. Shins, knees, thighs. The closer she moved to the target, the more titillated he became. The leisurely approach of her sponge was more effective in stoking the fires of his lust than if she’d stripped naked and climbed atop him.

  He imagined her bending over to press a kiss to the tip of his glans. Her tongue darted out to wick away the tear of pre-come that had emerged from the eye. Oh, aye. He would let her suck his cock if she was so inclined, but would draw the line at swiving her.

  “Are you enjoying your bath, my lord?”

  He coughed a laugh. “Must you ask?”

  “I suppose not,” she said, skimming her fingers over his cockstand.

  Pleasure hummed through him. He kept his eyes closed. Somehow, not watching made the act feel less sinful. The sponge grazed his cods, making them contract, which, in turn, caused his erection to jump.

  She inched the sponge up his shaft and over the sensitive head before running it back down to his bollix. The sensation was equal parts exquisite and excruciating.

  “Oh, God,” he groaned.

  She made the same move again. Up and over the tip, then back down to his cods, which, though heavy, were endeavoring to climb back inside his body. He put Maggie in her place. Sweet, beautiful Maggie who had no idea how much he yearned for her or how many times he’d fantasized about her doing wickedly naughty things to him whilst he pleasured himself.

  A scene took shape behind his eyes. He and Maggie in a garden masturbating for each other’s entertainment. Perplexed, he blinked the picture away. What had brought that on? ’Twas hardly the sort of thing he usually fantasized about.

  Taking a centering breath, he refocused on the sensations pulsing through his groin. Mistress Wakeman had given up the sponge and now had her hand wrapped firmly around his girth in a way that called into question her status as a novice.

  Opening his eyes, he placed his hand over hers. “Like this,” he whispered, moving her hand up and down under his. “Hard and fast. We are past the point of no return, so let us proceed apace toward the finale.”

  He released her hand and closed his eyes, leaving her to continue alone. As pleasure besieged him, he thrust his hips to help move things along.

  Taking the hint, she squeezed and pumped with added vigor.

  As his enjoyment escalated, a low groan escaped from deep in his throat.

  “Do you like it?” Maggie asked in Mistress Wakeman’s voice.

  “What’s not to like?”

  Warm moisture kissed the head of his cock. Assuming she’d picked up the sponge again, he opened his eye
s a crack. It startled him to see her bending over him with her lips around his glans. He watched in a breathless stupor as she danced her tongue over the tip and around the reddened collar.

  “God help us both,” he muttered and closed his eyes again.

  Ecstasy swam through him as her warm, moist mouth closed around more of his length.

  Teeth clenched, he flexed his hips, serving her a heartier portion.

  Rather than object, she took him still deeper, sucking and swirling her tongue in ways that stole his breath and addled his brain.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he rasped. “How far can you go?”

  To his astonishment, she took him so deep he could swear he felt her tonsils grazing the head of his prick. How was such a thing possible? Did the lass have no gag reflex?

  Meanwhile, the pressure in his cods was building to the breaking point.

  “Mistress, I’m nearing climax,” he warned. “If you do not want me to come off in your mouth, you’d best desist at once.”

  She did not desist. Instead, she bared her teeth and scraped them along his blood-gorged flesh. Sweet holy Jesus. That was enough to pull his trigger. His cods discharged, firing hot blasts of pleasure up his shaft. To his amazement, she swallowed his ejaculate without a bit of fuss.

  She then sat up, licked her lips, and patted his thigh as if she'd just lanced a painful boil. “Feel better?”

  He blinked at her in wonder. “Aye.”

  “I thought you would.” She got up and returned to the basin. “An excess of the seminal humor can throw the body out of balance. In such cases, extraction of the surplus generally proves restorative.”

  He gaped at her, dumbfounded. Then, finding his voice, he said, “Are you telling me you did what you did just now for medicinal purposes?”