He’d been in this bed with Sophia Stanton-Greville.
God, she’d been incredible, her skills beyond the ability of any woman he’d ever bedded before. He rose slowly, shaking his head to clear it. The front door opened and an old female slave came in, giving him a wide toothless grin, saying in just short of a cackle, “Good morning, massa. Aye, ‘tis fine you be this mornin’.” He started to cover himself, but the old woman merely shook her head. She couldn’t have cared less if he was wearing a gentleman’s morning wear or was as naked as the Sherbrooke Greek statues he and his brothers had gawked at when they’d been boys.
She offered him a bath and breakfast.
True to form, Sophia had left him alone.
He was just one of many. She hadn’t cared enough to stay with him. Oddly it hurt and made him angry, in equal parts. He was just another man and she’d not cared.
He eased himself down into the bath. He tried to remember the previous night in detail, but most of the specifics eluded him, which was surely very strange. He remembered kissing her at first, then he could almost feel again her mouth caressing him expertly and he shuddered with the memory. He remembered her riding him hard and fast, his hands kneading her large breasts, caressing them, lifting them, and he’d screamed like a wild man when his climax had hit him.
She’d screamed as well. And she’d spoken to him, urged him on, telling him what she liked, telling him what a man he was. He remembered it quite clearly, her voice soft and deep. He remembered her breasts in his hands and how they’d thrust forward when she’d arched her back over him.
Ryder didn’t remember pleasuring her though, and that was odd for he hadn’t lied to her. He was an excellent lover. He never left a woman unsatisfied. But he hadn’t taken her in his mouth as she had him. He couldn’t remember kissing her either, except at the very beginning of the evening, and surely that was even more odd, for Ryder loved kissing, sliding his tongue into a woman’s mouth, stroking her, bringing her closer and closer as he used his hands on her body to heighten her pleasure.
Why hadn’t he kissed her? Was she so abandoned that she could climax with him simply inside her? He hadn’t even fondled her with his fingers, at least he couldn’t remember doing so. He shook his head again, shaking away a slight dizziness. He still felt mildly drunk and he hated it, and the damnable vagueness.
He rose from the bath and the old slave handed him a towel. She didn’t show any interest in his body at all. No, he thought, the anger building stronger than the drunkenness, she was so used to seeing naked men here—Sophia Stanton-Greville’s men—that she didn’t even pay attention anymore.
He dressed in freshly pressed clothes—good God, did the cursed woman think of everything?—and ate fresh fruit and warm bread. He shook his head at the offered rum punch. Jesus, he thought, watching the old slave drink it when she thought he wasn’t looking. The drinking here was beyond good sense and control. He should know, he’d done enough of it the previous night.
When he left a few minutes later, he turned in the doorway of the cottage and looked back toward the bed, now freshly made up by the old slave. The interior still smelled of sex.
He hated himself for what he’d allowed her to do to him. She’d obviously kept control the entire time. He again remembered her shriek of pleasure and wondered if it had been feigned. Odd, for he wasn’t certain and surely that couldn’t be right. Ryder knew women. No woman could feign pleasure with him. But she could have and he simply didn’t know. He remembered then the glasses of rum punch he’d drunk when he’d arrived the previous evening at the cottage. How delicious it had been, how cool and refreshing, and then all he remembered was the warmth he felt, the hard arousal, the urgency, the incredible sex that had gone on and on until he’d finally fallen like a good soldier in battle.
He walked to his horse. Sitting beneath a mango tree was Emile, chewing on a piece of turtle grass, his hat pushed to the back of his head.
“So,” Emile said only, rising, and dusting off his breeches. “Are you ready to go home?”
“Yes,” Ryder said. “I’m more than ready.”
Emile asked him no questions. As for Ryder, he was cold sober now, his head so clear it ached. The more he tried to remember each detail of the previous night, he found he simply couldn’t call it forth. Except that he’d spewed his seed in her mouth, his back arcing off the bed the release had been so powerful, that and her sitting astride him, riding him hard, her hands busy on his body, pushing him until he couldn’t bear it, and again, he’d screamed his release.
Something wasn’t right. In fact, something was very wrong. He was still frowning when he and Emile rode down the long Kimberly Hall drive. Ryder listened with half an ear to the rhythmic humming and singing of the slaves as they worked in the fields.
“Emile,” he said finally, “have you ever seen a crocodile in the middle of the road in the mangrove swamps?”
“Yes, I have. It’s terrifying, really.”
“Something is very wrong,” Ryder said.
“What do you mean?”
Emile was dancing around the issue. He didn’t want to call Sophia Stanton-Greville a whore if Ryder was now enthusiastic about her. He was uncertain; he was trying to be diplomatic.
From one instant to the next, Ryder realized the truth, clear and shattering. It was her breasts! He’d fondled Sophia’s breasts two times. He knew the texture of her flesh, the size of her, her weight, his hands could even now mold themselves in the shape to hold her breasts.
The woman who’d taken him twice the night before wasn’t Sophia Stanton-Greville. The breasts were all wrong. It was that simple. If it hadn’t been Sophia, then it had been another woman, and that meant something that made him want to howl in fury. He turned to Emile and said, “There was something in the rum punch she gave me last night.” There, he’d said it aloud. And it was true, of that he was certain. But he couldn’t tell Emile he was basing everything on the size and feel of breasts.
Emile was clearly incredulous. “You mean to say she drugged you? Good God, why?”
“I woke up alone, just as you told me would happen. What was strange was that I was still feeling drunk. Something else even stranger is that I can remember certain things, but all the details of the night are gone from my memory.” He shook his head for there was something of a flaw in his theory. “If there was something wrong, if she has indeed been drugging men’s rum punch, why wouldn’t her other lovers have come to realize it and said something or confronted her with it?”
“I would say that you are the man with the most experience of all the men she’s taken to that cottage. Perhaps the others simply remembered the pleasure and didn’t question a thing.”
“Perhaps,” Ryder said. “Perhaps.” He was thinking that more than likely, none of the other men had ever seen and caressed Sophia Stanton-Greville’s breasts as he had. Just that other woman’s, and thus the fools didn’t realize the truth. Perhaps he wouldn’t have either, at least at first.
He laughed aloud then. She’d be brought down all because of her breasts.
At five o’clock that evening, Ryder realized there’d also been a man there. He could actually hear his voice, but he couldn’t remember the words he’d said. Did that make any sense? It had to. Who the hell had stripped him naked? He certainly couldn’t remember taking off his own clothes, much less Sophia Stanton-Greville’s.
She’d drugged him, seduced him, then brought in another woman to make love to him. It was clear enough. Ah, yes, and there was Uncle Theo who’d come in to see to his clothing. It must have been Burgess, there was no one else.
Ryder rose from the chair, a very grim smile on his mouth. He bathed and dressed carefully. He was coldly and calmly furious. He was going to drop in at Camille Hall. He had no doubt that he wouldn’t be invited to stay for dinner.
Sophie wanted to eat in her room but Jeremy came bursting in upon her. “What’s the matter, Sophie?”
Always he was afraid
that she would become ill and die as their parents had died. She hastened to reassure him. “I’m just fine, love. I’ve quite changed my mind about eating here in my room. Give me a moment and I’ll comb my hair.”
Jeremy sat in a chair watching her brush her hair, chatting all the while.
“ ... Uncle Theo had Thomas take me with him to the north field today, just for two hours, not more, because of the heat. It was fascinating, Sophie, but several times Thomas used his whip on a slave. I didn’t think it was necessary but Thomas said he had to because they were lazy and had to taste the whip to remind them what would happen if they didn’t work. He kept calling them lazy buggers.”
Thomas was a cruel monster. Sophie hated him. She fastened her hair at the back of her head with a black velvet ribbon. She rose and looked in the mirror. In the old pale yellow muslin gown she looked about sixteen. The only discordant note was the faintly greenish bruise on her left cheek. She had no intention of putting on the powder. It didn’t matter. Besides, in the dim evening light, no one would notice. And if Uncle Theo did, why it would probably give him pleasure.
She said over her shoulder, “If you were master here, Jeremy, would you keep Thomas as your overseer ? Or another man like him who would whip the slaves?”
Jeremy chewed on his lower lip, swinging his legs, his energy overflowing despite his mental contemplation.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “Uncle Theo seems to think Thomas is very good. He trusts him and allows him to do just as he likes. It’s just that—”
“What?”
Jeremy shrugged and rose. “Well, I’ve known most of the slaves since we came here over four years ago. Most of them are my friends. I like them and they like me. I don’t understand why you would want to hit someone you liked. And it’s so hot in the fields, Sophie. I know I wanted to rest after a while. They never get to rest.”
She ruffled his hair and kissed his brow, risking a little boy’s horror at such a motherly act. Jeremy squirmed away from her and out of her bedchamber. “Come on, Sophie!”
She drew to a stop at the bottom step of the stairs. She stared, her heart pounding. There, standing in the large open foyer, was Ryder Sherbrooke, looking like an English gentleman from his brushed pale brown hair to his glossy Hessian boots.
Uncle Theo had just welcomed him in.
Ryder looked up and saw her. He blinked, he couldn’t help it. The tart in the red gown from the night before bore no resemblance to this young girl standing there, mouth agape, staring at him as if he were the devil himself come to claim her for the fourth circle of hell.
Theo Burgess turned at that moment and a spasm crossed his face. Damn the girl, she looked like a virgin of fifteen, certainly not like she should look. He wanted to hit her for her defiance; he disregarded the fact that Ryder Sherbrooke was entirely unexpected.
“Hello, Sophia,” Ryder said very calmly. “Your uncle has seen fit to take me in. I am to dine with you. Ah, and who is this?”
“I’m Jeremy, sir. I’m Sophie’s brother.” Jeremy walked with his clumsy gait, his hand outstretched.
Ryder smiled down at the boy and shook his hand. “How do you do, Jeremy? I hadn’t realized Sophia had such a large younger brother.”
“Sophie says I grow faster than the swamp grass. I’m nine years old, sir.”
“He’s a good lad,” Theo said, his voice testy.
Sophie was standing there, frozen, waiting. Would Ryder look at Jeremy with contempt or pity? She didn’t know which was worse. People had looked at him with both and it was all horrible. Ryder had been a perfect gentleman thus far but she didn’t trust him, not an inch. Perhaps he hadn’t yet realized that Jeremy wouldn’t grow up to be perfect like him.
Jeremy beamed up at the man he recognized immediately as a real gentleman. He was young and handsome and well dressed, and there was a very nice smile on his face, a smile that reached his eyes. Jeremy also realized that he must be here because of Sophie. He turned to his sister and called out, “He’s having dinner with us, Sophie. Isn’t that grand?”
“Yes,” she said, forcing a smile that was ghastly. “That’s just grand.”
Ryder saw the marked resemblance between brother and sister. He also saw that Jeremy had a lame left leg, probably a clubfoot. It was a pity, but it didn’t seem to slow the boy down a bit. He was a handsome lad and seemingly well adjusted. He chattered all the way into the dining room to Ryder, who found him both amusing and intelligent. He reminded him very much of Oliver. Ah, how he missed Oliver and the other children.
Theo Burgess tried to sidetrack Jeremy, but it didn’t work. It seemed that the man was truly fond of the boy. He didn’t order him to be quiet. He merely shook his head at him and smiled at Ryder as if to say, What can I do?
Sophie said nothing at all.
“My sister is the best rider in the entire area,” Jeremy said. “Maybe on all of Jamaica, but I’ve never been to Kingston so I can’t be certain.”
“Thank you, Jeremy,” Sophie said, smiling at her knight, a quite beautiful unconscious smile that made Ryder draw in his breath. She looked about fifteen and that smile lit up her face. It made her look very different, very appealing, really, and he didn’t like it. At that instant he realized it was the very first time he had ever seen her smile.
What the hell was going on here?
He looked down at the delicious curried shrimp with pineapple. He speared a shrimp and chewed it thoughtfully. The boy was speaking again, telling his uncle and Ryder about his hours spent with Thomas in the fields.
Sophie noticed that he didn’t mention Thomas whipping the slaves.
The dinner was pleasant, finished off by mango pie topped with warm cream. The rich Jamaican coffee was thick and black and wonderful, as usual.
Ryder bided his time. He enjoyed the boy. He shook his hand when he was dismissed to his bed. When Theo Burgess asked him if he would like to adjourn to the veranda where it was much cooler, he readily agreed. Every man he’d met on Jamaica imbibed rum in the evenings. It was time for the ritual to begin. It was time to put his plan into action.
He wasn’t surprised when Sophie excused herself to follow Jeremy upstairs. Nor was he surprised when Theo called after her, “You will join us, my dear, when you have seen to your brother. Don’t forget, Sophie.”
“I won’t forget, Uncle,” she said, and Ryder heard something odd in her voice, something he didn’t understand at all. “I’ll be down shortly.”
Ryder set out to make himself a congenial companion. He was amusing, his anecdotes of the first order. He encouraged Theo Burgess to talk and once he started, Ryder sat back, thinking about what he hoped would happen.
When Sophia came out on the veranda, she was carrying a tray and on that tray were glasses of rum punch. Ryder wasn’t at all surprised.
“How delightful,” Theo said. “I’m glad you remembered, Sophie. I trust the punch is up to the Burgess standards? I assume you enjoy a rum punch in the evenings, Ryder?”
“Why, most assuredly, sir,” Ryder said.
So this was it.
He accepted the glass Sophia handed to him. He thought her hand shook a bit. But no, he must have imagined it.
Theo proposed a toast. Ryder clicked his glass to theirs and then pretended to drink.
He then rose, glass in hand, and walked to the wooden railing, leaning his elbows on it, and looking out toward the glistening sea in the distance. There was a half-moon and the scene in front of him was spectacular. But he really didn’t see it. He turned to face Sophia and Theo, made a toast to this beauty he really didn’t see, and again pretended to drink. As he turned away again, he dumped the contents of the glass into the vivid pink blooms of the hibiscus bush just below the veranda. He hoped he hadn’t killed the plant.
Now it was time to act. He turned, smiling widely, showing his empty glass, and said, “Why don’t we take a bit of a stroll, Sophia?”
She didn’t want to. She wanted him to just leave
. She didn’t want him to be sprawled naked in the cottage with Dahlia leaning over him, fondling him. She didn’t want to hear him yell again in his man’s release.
“Yes, Sophia, go along, my dear.”
“Do bring us each another glass of that delicious punch.”
“Yes, an excellent idea,” Theo said and he felt the blood speed up, felt the triumph. Sophia had been quite wrong about Sherbrooke. He was only a young man, not all that intelligent or sly, quite easy really, quite predictable. In a sense it was disappointing. There was no challenge in him, not really. Sophia had been wrong.
Sophie brought each of them a fresh glass. Again, Ryder accepted the glass she thrust toward him. He offered her his arm. “Let’s walk a bit. It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it? You can tell me some more of the island’s history.”
“Oh yes.”
He drew her into the garden on the eastern side of the house. It was darker here, but the scent of all the flowers was stronger, nearly overpowering. There was no one about, just the two of them, each with a glass of rum punch in his hand.
He said easily as he walked slowly beside her, “You don’t look the whore tonight.”
“No.”
“However, last night was something of a sensation, wasn’t it? Quite memorable, but not really, but surely I am quite wrong. It must have been memorable.”
“Yes, of course it was. You seemed to enjoy yourself.”
“And you, Sophia? Did you enjoy yourself as well?”
Still, she kept walking, and showed him only her profile. “Naturally. I wouldn’t have wanted to make love with you had I not expected pleasure from it. You are quite competent as a lover.”
“You screamed quite loudly when you climaxed.”
She was silent as the night.
“I found your skills quite adequate, more than just quite, actually. Did you enjoy taking me in your mouth? You took me so deeply I feared I would gag you. But you didn’t gag, at least I don’t think you did.”
The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 Page 41