Whithers cocked his head to one side and said, “Ah, no, young master. The armoire was out being French polished at the time, so it wasn’t in the Trellis Hall.”
“So it survived!”
“It did survive that fire, yes, young master.”
“So where is it now?”
“The armoire, young master?”
“Yes, Whithers, the armoire. Where is it now.”
“Well, it was out in the old stables workshop, young master. For the French polishing so I suppose that it’s still there.”
“You suppose?”
“Technically, yes. That is where I would suppose that it was.”
“Well, has no-one looked?”
“Well, not really, young master, no, sir. Because the old stables workshop burned down also.”
“With the armoire still inside.”
“Alas, young master, that has been the supposition.”
“You don’t know for certain?”
“No, young master. The entire building and its contents were …”
Roger jumped in, impatient, “Carbonized, Whithers?”
“In their entirety, sir, yes.”
“Damn. What awful luck.”
“That was what Lord Wimbush said himself. Only the odd thing was, he said it when he learned that the armoire had survived the fire in the Trellis Hall.”
“Was that before or after the fire in the old stables workshop?”
“Ah, now you put your finger on another peculiarity, young master. The fire in the old stables was the very night after Lord Wimbush learned the good news of the armoire having survived the fire in the Trellis Hall.”
We shook our heads together as Whithers left us to enjoy the library, the port and the cognac. I said, “But it’s very mysterious, don’t you think?”
Roger’s head shook, “Almost as though the fires were chasing the old armoire.”
“And all the papers, lost.”
“‘Entirely carbonized’ I believe.”
“Quite. ‘In the conflagration.’”
Whithers was approaching with two cookies on a silver tray. “I do hope you will pardon my intrusion, young master, but I chanced to overhear what it was that you just said. Now, it’s none of my business, I know, and Lord Wimbush if he were here, he would tell me in short order to mind my place and manners, and to keep my nose out of it, so maybe I would be speaking out of turn, young master.”
“About, what, Whithers?”
“Papers, young master. Did I hear you correctly or did I misconstrue, but were you not referring to some papers?”
“Ah, yes, Whithers.” Roger poured some more port, and added a generous measure of cognac. “The papers that were lost in the old armoire.”
“Well, no, I don’t believe that there were any papers lost in the old armoire, young master.”
“Alas, Lord Wimbush had put some family documents there for safe keeping. A set of papers that were concealed inside.”
“I don’t believe that they were in the armoire.”
I said, “They were hidden, Whithers, fatefully as it turns out, in a secret compartment.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean, Miss. But they weren’t there in the fire.”
I said, “How do you know?”
“Well, I took them out. Wouldn’t have been any good with French polish all over them. Have you seen a piece of paper that’s had French polish spilled on it?”
Roger said, slowly, “No.”
“Unreadable. Absolutely useless.”
I said, “So where are they?”
“They’re on the mantlepiece.” We all looked up at the mantlepiece. “Behind the clock.” said Whithers.
“Wait,” Roger said, “Did Lord Wimbush know about that?”
“About the papers, sir?”
“Yes, Whithers.”
“Well, I don’t believe that he ever asked, young master.”
Whithers reached up behind the clock and pulled out a very old fat folder full of papers. I said to Roger, “But, why on earth would Father have wanted to destroy the papers.”
He said, glumly, “I can think of only one reason.”
He took a pull on his port and cognac. “He’s desperate to prove that I’m a bastard. He would surely only want to get rid of the papers if they proved that I wasn’t.”
I said, “And then you would be able to inherit, come what may.”
He put his hand over mine, “But there’s no way on God’s green earth that you and I could ever be together.”
When Whithers handed over the papers, Roger pulled them from the folder. Some ofthem looked incredibly old. With astonishment, he read, “It says here that Roger Percivant O’Cock, the first Lord Wimbush was a bastard.”
“Really?”
“O’Cock’s father had him with a lady from the tavern as his wife ‘would have none of him,’ according to this.”
He snatched another paper from the pile and said, “So was the second Lord, it seems.”
“I didn’t think that was allowed. Is it?”
He looked sadly at me, “Tradition is that it happens, so long as nobody makes a fuss.”
I pulled out a paper. “Hey, so was this one.”
He said, “This one, too.”
After a diligent search of the records, we discovered that every single one of the Lords of Wimbush up to the twentieth century was the son of the previous lord and a servant girl, somebody else’s wife, or in one case a “lady of the court,” all the way up until they reached the present lord.
He, it turned out, had been the product of a union between the former lord and the wife of a Russian attaché.
“Now,” Roger said, wearily pulling out last two clipped pages, “Here’s me.”
He read both sides of the pages in baleful silence. I asked him, “What does it say?” but he held up his hand as he went back to the start and began to read them again. He was quiet as he read, slowly.
“Well?”
He looked dazed as he stared around the room. Then at Wimbush. Then at me. “WELL?” I demanded, “Was Hardforth your father or not?”
“No,” he said, “He was not.”
“So,” I sagged. All this way, all that we’d been through and all of it for absolutely nothing. “So you aren’t a bastard after all.”
“I am.” A confused mixture of a smile and a look of wonder lit his face, “Aren’t I, Whithers.”
“You are, son. You most certainly are.”
I spun around to Whithers, “Whithers?” I stared, “Whithers! So, you?” he nodded gravely, “And so, you and Lady Clarissa…?”
“As was, Miss, yes. Spectacular woman she was. Still is to this day, I’d be willing to bet.” And he dabbed his white glove under his eye.
The Master Bedroom
HIS STRONG HANDS HELD ME AND I was where I wanted to be. The fact that it happened also to be on a thick, fluffy four poster bed in what would eventually be our fourteenth century English estate was just a bonus. But him. I felt so close to him, like I really could get what I’d panted and pined after, all these years.
As I stretched up to nuzzle my nose into his unfamiliar chin, his pulse deepened and quickened against my soft, squashed breasts. We had never been so physically close. I couldn’t stop touching him. And he couldn’t stop touching me.
“You’re not my brother at all.” I kissed him, long, soft and deep and he crushed me to him.
“And you’re not my sister,” he kissed me so warmly, so completely. “sis.”
“You’re not even my half brother. Not even my step brother, really.” I kissed him again and licked and nuzzled his neck.
“And you’re a fake sister. An imposter.” The beat of his heart and the pump of the blood in his throat made me sigh and pull him closer to my body.
His hands came slowly, naturally to life. His breath, his lips found mine and I opened for him. Then, as our mouths joined and our tongues danced; our bodies knew the moment was here. We were
free at last.
“You,” I said, rubbing myself against him like a saw, “You are a bastard. A complete and utter bastard.”
His still hardening length thrummed hot against me. My fingernails scraped down his shirt and straight behind his belt. It was too tight. I had to open it. As I dragged on the buckle, the heat of his eager cock made me wild to get at it.
“Legally,” I said, “You are nothing to me.” I kissed him again, harder, deeper.
His hands drug my shirt open. As soon as his fingers touched my bare waist and stomach, I jumped onto him. Flung my thighs around him, squeezed and held him tight, and devoured him with my mouth.
For such a long time I had pushed these feelings down, kept my wrong, bad, nasty thoughts in lock-down. Now that I could taste him, touch him feel his hands on me, feel his skin against mine, now my body wouldn’t wait for me.
“Legally or not,” he growled, pulling me against him, “You’re everything to me.”
My breasts wanted to be out of the bra, to flatten on his chest. Feel his lips and his breath. I kissed him harder and he slipped. I pushed him down to the deck. You’re mine now! His hands gripped in my hair, pulled my mouth to his.
I shook my shoulders to be rid of the shirt and pulled at the clasp between the cups of the bra. He looked up at me from the deck. His eyes widened and his mouth opened as my big tits bounced free.
I straddled his stomach and gave him my breasts, one by one. Electric sparks crackled through me as he hungrily sucked on my nipples. My stomach vibrated inside as he pulled them with his strong lips.
He licked and sucked all over my breasts, lapped them underneath and shook them. My breath rasped as I smothered his face with them. I held his hair against the deck as I nibbled all the way down his stomach. I jumped and thrilled as his abs trembled in response.
My hand kept a grip in his hair and I reached the other hand to his buckle. His head lifted. I yanked it back down. I liked this game. A part of me didn’t even think about whether he liked it. I wanted this.
His buckle fell open and I unbuttoned his fly. When I had the front of his pants open wide, I stopped and panted at the sight of the soft white cotton with a hot mass of hard flesh that pressed up from behind.
I licked my lips. I jumped to kneel between his legs. The thickness of cotton was springy under my fingertips. I panted at the zinging pulse of his hot ridges. Drawing my fingers down both sides of his massive shift, I watched in wonder as it twitched and beat towards me.
I bent closer to catch his scent, to breathe his heat. I licked my lips as I drew the waistband of the cotton slowly down. My eyes widened at the marvel of body architecture, the fat girth of his hard man-muscle.
The tip of my finger stroked gently from the cleft of the wonderful head, all the way down the tight curve, down to the soft sac. As I repeated the motion, it jumped under my finger.
My body was torn, wild with desire and yet needing his touch. I wanted the delicious torture of foreplay to go on forever, to test, tease, and barely touch his skin all over, centimeter by centimeter.
At the same time, I was desperate to have him stretch and fill me, and blast me with his seed.
My tongue made the decision for me. As I licked gently up the center of his swollen shaft, I knew I had to have the tang of him on my tongue–between my lips and at least to the top of my throat.
While I began to swallow his cock and relish the mingle his scent and taste, his head lifted. I couldn’t reach to push him back, so I simply pointed. He trembled as he obeyed. As he trembled, he thickened. As he thickened, I sucked.
Drawing my lips rhythmically along his length, I sensed his pace, felt where he needed pressure and where he wanted to be drawn and coaxed. Wet suction drew him in. My tongue slipped under him and his dark taste made me shudder with relish.
I sucked gently in a slow rhythm as his slick bulb filled the back of my throat. His forceful response drove me on. While I sucked him, I wriggled out of my jeans. Then I slid his down over his thighs, and off. I felt the warmth of his big thighs outside mine.
While I sucked his cock, I reached for his hands and took them. I stroked his palms and mingled my fingers with his. Then I put his hands in my hair. As the weight of his hands pressed the back of my head, I nodded.
He took the cue. His fingers entwined in my hair, and gripped my head. He pushed me harder, down onto his length. Yes! He shoved me farther down his thick cock until my lips met his hilt, until my tongue could touch his sac. Thin, sweet saliva gushed into my mouth and I held him in the smooth muscles of my throat.
His thighs and stomach clenched, and he sighed. He pulled me up to him, looked with something akin to wonder into my face, and then bit his lip as a hot glow came into his eyes. He breathed hard and held me against his body. I saw a fury come into his face. I pressed my tongue inside my lip and I nodded softly, once.
He spun me around and his hand reached under me. As his strong fingers took a hold of my hot mound, I almost folded over. My juices sprang to the fore and I gasped as my hips ground my hot petals into his hand.
“Yes!” I shouted as his fingers slid past my soaked panties, and past in between my throbbing lips. I leaned forward as his fingers teased around the hood of my bud. Tides of rolling sensation rose and swirled within me. My head shook and my thighs clenched.
I backed towards him, and pushed against the muscular control of his hand. He tore my panties and pulled my hips to bring my lips onto the head of his cock. My petals hugged him, and I moaned as he stretched me wide and his cock slid into my plump wet pussy.
He covered me, leaned over me, and his hands held my breasts as his massive mast plowed into my soaked pussy. Sweat dripped from his chest onto my back, and his hard thighs slapped against my rolling buttocks. A shock burst in my chest as his hand landed hard on my ass.
My back arched and my fingers clenched as I drove back against his thrusts. His shaft scraped hard against my soft spot, high inside at the front and waves of sparks radiated through my nerves.
He filled me so hard, so much, so completely. His arms wrapped around me and we became one, heaving, churning, and beating through the rising storm of ecstatic pulses. He filled me harder, deeper, stretched me wider and I reared up, my hands clawed and my tides swelled.
He grabbed my breasts and squeezed, setting my nerves alight. His fingers traced into my mouth and I bit him. I felt his hot breath on my neck as he leaned over me and I felt his tension rise. Veins stood out on his arms.
My throat was hot and tight, and I slapped the floor with my palms. My soft buttocks shuddered and rippled as he slammed into me, all the way up me. All my muscles tensed and flexed as he sawed in still deeper.
Within me a sea lifted, ready to brim over. His voice, a hoarse whisper, panted hot in my ear. “Now, Sis. NOW! Say it. NOW!”
“ROGER!”
Captain Charming (Tales of 1001 Flights) Page 22