by Cheryl Holt
For a long time, he held her, and she was so still that he wondered if she was asleep, so she surprised him when she mumbled, "I'm not a whore—if that's what you're thinking."
"The prospect never occurred to me," he fibbed.
"I was young and foolish. He said he loved me, that we'd wed."
"Why didn't you?"
"He was engaged!"
"What a cad."
"I certainly thought so."
"Did he marry her?"
"Oh yes. She was very rich."
"Couldn't Percy have provided you with a dowry so he'd have had you instead?"
"I'd never have dared ask for one. Besides, even if Percy had agreed, it could never have been enough money."
"She was that rich, was she?"
"That rich," Sarah echoed, sighing, as if it had happened the previous morning rather than a decade earlier. "Do you ever wish you were someone else? That you could utter a few magic words and change who you are?"
"I've wished it every day of my life."
"So have I."
She peered at him, her beautiful green eyes poignant and glum, and he felt as if he were drowning, as if she'd bewitched him so that he could never do anything but exactly what she wanted.
"Lean on me, Sarah. I have wide shoulders. I can carry your load for a while. I don't mind."
The room grew very quiet, the interval terribly intimate, and he had to kiss her. It seemed that he had no other choice.
While there were now papers that said he was son and brother of an earl, the pesky detail couldn't alter who he was. He'd been orphaned, then kidnapped onto a ship where he'd been beaten and starved and worse. He'd seen and done things that were so foul the average human being would have perished just from witnessing them. He'd fought and won and survived.
He wasn't—and never would be—the type of man a lady like Sarah Carstairs could esteem, but he couldn't ignore the passion that sizzled between them, nor could he ignore the connection he felt.
At the moment, she was hurting, so her defenses were at a low ebb. It was inexcusable to take advantage, but he decided to proceed anyway. He'd dally with her for as long and as often as she'd permit, though he wouldn't behave as reprehensibly as Tim's father. Jack knew how to revel without her ending up pregnant.
He started in kissing her, and she was too weary to complain or quarrel. He was on top of her, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers busy at her bosom. As he caressed her, she moaned with resignation and delight, but when he slipped under the bodice of her gown to clasp her nipple, she stopped him.
"I can't, Mr. Merrick."
"I have my hand on your breast, Sarah. You should probably call me Jack."
She chuckled, but woefully. "I can't, Jack. I don't want this from you."
"It's not a matter of wanting, Sarah. It's a matter of needing. Let me please you. You'll feel better."
There was nothing to distract a person from his troubles like a raucous bout of fornication, so he began again, being forceful and insistent. She clutched at him as if she were dying, as if only he could save her. She pulled and hugged and rasped, digging her nails into his scalp, into his skin, but he didn't care. He wanted her to be heedless of her conduct.
Almost against her will, her hips responded, meeting his in an even tempo that seduced and promised. His cock was so hard, pushing into the soft cushion of her skirt, that he was amazed he didn't spill himself in his trousers like a callow boy.
He reached under her dress, fumbling up her leg like an uncouth oaf. He couldn't delay, couldn't woo her or display any finesse. He was simply desperate to touch her in her most private places.
He shoved two fingers inside her, being rough, being demanding, and with no more stimulation than that, she came in a potent orgasm. She spiraled up and up, until he wondered if her pleasure would ever end, but as soon as she finished, she was crying again. She squirmed away and showed him her back.
"My God," she muttered, "what's wrong with me?"
"There's naught wrong with you, Sarah. You're very fine."
"I should have been born a harlot," she said. "It's the only thing I'm good for. Just lust and lust and more lust."
Suddenly and without warning, they were swimming through some very deep waters, and he didn't understand what direction they were headed. He couldn't remember when he'd last had a partner who was so quick to find her release, but he didn't suppose he ought to mention it.
"You have a sexual temperament," he cautiously ventured. "There's nothing the matter with it."
"Nothing!"
"The people who say a female shouldn't enjoy mating are a bunch of pious idiots."
"But wouldn't you think I'd have learned something from the past?" She rose up on an elbow and glared at him over her shoulder. "You're the first man who's looked at me in an amorous way in an entire decade, and I fell into bed with you before I'd even gleaned permission to use your given name."
"And I didn't mind a whit."
"Well, / mind. I must be mad."
Wretched and furious, she flopped down.
Their brief foray had left him aching. He nestled himself to her bottom, taking a slow, leisurely flex, but she moved away, making sure there was plenty of space between them and indicating—at least in her opinion—that the tryst was concluded.
"Would you go?" she urged.
He didn't budge, and he thought about arguing, but he could tell that words would be pointless.
"Don't be sad," he said.
"I'm not sad," she claimed. "I'm mortified at my degenerate nature. Now I'd appreciate it if you'd let me fume in peace."
He climbed to the floor, and he stood, staring at her, dawdling like an imbecile, then gave up and sneaked
out. His phallus was in terrible shape, and he hoped there was a competent whore in the village. In light of Sarah's fickle disposition, he imagined a throbbing rod would become a constant, so he'd best get acquainted with every trollop in the county.
Eight
“It's for the best, Anne." "How can you say that?" Percy Merrick gazed at his cousin and bit down a caustic retort. Didn't she comprehend that she had to marry Jamieson Merrick? How could she think Percy would let her refuse? Stupid girl.
He liked Anne much more than was wise, but it wasn't in a brotherly manner. No, his interest was purely carnal. He'd often considered sinister behavior toward her, and he couldn't understand why he hadn't forced the issue. She was completely beholden to him, and he should have demanded a higher price for his benevolence.
"Won't you help me, Percy?" she begged.
"No, Anne, I won't."
"But you've always been my friend, and you're my only male relative. Why won't you intervene?"
"You're being absurd to spurn him—especially when you've spent the night in his room."
"I didn't do anything!" She threw up her hands in exasperation. "How many times must I tell you? I tried to run away, so he locked me in to keep me in the house. That's all there was to it."
"He was in there with you! Am I to assume that the two of you were merely playing cards and drinking tea?"
"We were sleeping! At least, I was! I don't have a clue what he was doing."
The moment the words left her mouth, she blushed bright red as she realized that many dastardly things could have been done to her as she'd slumbered, and Percy fumed as he speculated as to what some of them might have been.
Jamie was notorious for his rampant fornications. In London, he'd cut a swath through the female members of High Society. No man's wife had been safe.
Had he already raped Anne? Had he taken her virginity as he'd taken everything else from Percy?
"The maids advise me that he ripped your gown from your body and they had to deliver new clothes."
Idiotically, she contended, "It was an accident. My dress ... tore."
He laughed in a snide way, indicating she had no secrets. "What were you required to do that convinced him to let you out?"
"Nothin
g! I had to swear that I wouldn't sneak off again before the ceremony."
"And will you?"
"Well..."
"Do you imagine the servants haven't started talking? Do you suppose the neighbors haven't heard of your shame?"
She studied the rug and fiddled with her skirt. "I hadn't thought."
"No, you hadn't. You must listen to me, Anne. We tried to bring the vicar back this morning, but he can't come till tomorrow. You have a reprieve for today."
"I don't want a reprieve; I want a rescue."
"You're being silly. Any woman in the land would give her right arm to be in your shoes. You're marrying an earl; you'll be a countess."
"I don't want to be a countess. I've never wanted that."
"Jamie could have searched for years for a bride, but he chose you. You should be grateful."
"I am grateful, but it's all happening too fast. I hardly know him, and I... I... don't love him."
"Bah! Love has nothing to do with marriage. He's offering you a home and a fine position here at the estate. You should go to your room and reflect on your fortunate situation."
"He scares me. I'm afraid of him."
"Your fears are unfounded. I recognize that he's a bit rough around the edges, but you'll get used to his odd habits. Every bride feels the same doubts before her wedding."
"Really?"
She oozed sarcasm, and she was glaring at him so haughtily that she was lucky he didn't slap her. Where had she come by such temerity? Why couldn't she sympathize with his predicament? Did she presume she was the only one with problems?
Though it infuriated him, Percy agreed with Ophelia that he should pretend to be a gracious loser. It kept people off guard. Should a diabolical mishap befall Jamie, the finger of blame had to point in other directions, but Percy was sick with all the unctuous courtesy that was necessary in order to deflect suspicion.
"Yes, really," he sneered. "An approaching wedding is cause for jitters."
"And you know so much about it because ... ?"
"I know so much about it because—as you said yourself—I'm your only male relative, which means I decide for you. And I've decided that you shall wed the new earl." He leaned in, menacing her with his greater size, with the authority he'd always had over her. "Am I being clear enough for you?"
She shrank away, looking very frightened, and he reveled in her anxiety. He'd never been sufficiently stern with her, and at seeing how easily she was intimidated he rippled with an excitement that was almost sexual.
"I understand perfectly," she sulked. "Good. Now I'm weary of your complaints. Leave me be."
She hovered, aggrieved and wanting to persist with her pleading, but at viewing his stony expression she scampered off in a snit, and he frowned at her retreating form.
He might have temporarily lost the status of being an earl, but he'd been in charge of her for most of his life, and despite what Jamie assumed to the contrary, Percy would continue to command her in any fashion he desired. In fact, he'd do more than command.
Anne had never known her place, had never acknowledged the power Percy wielded over her, but she needed to be reminded. It would be so satisfying to creep into her bed, to steal her virginity—if Jamie hadn't already taken it. Jamie would get a ruined bride, which would be a little wedding gift from Percy.
Percy might even impregnate her, so that she'd give birth to Jamie's heir, but the babe would be Percy's. It was such a sweet picture to ponder.
If Jamie had actually proceeded, if he'd actually lain with Anne, then Percy would betray him in other ways.
Jamie wouldn't stay at Gladstone. Eventually, he'd go back to London, to his mistresses and his ship and his obscene parties. His brother would go, too, and Anne would be left behind. She'd be responsible for the house and accounts, and she wouldn't dare deny Percy access to what had been his. She hadn't the nerve.
No matter how futile the lawyers declared his case to be, Percy didn't ever intend to relinquish Gladstone. He would regain his position; then he'd avenge the humiliations Jamie had inflicted.
Anne was the key. If she tried to refuse Percy anything, she would finally learn how ruthless he could be. With Jamie in London, she'd be alone and unprotected. Percy could do whatever he wished to her, and she'd be too terrified to inform Jamie of what was occurring. Jamie was such a hothead that he might murder Anne for any cuckold.
His smile grim, he realized that he was aroused just from contemplating how he'd ultimately best Jamie. Desperate for immediate tending, Percy went to locate his sister.
Sarah, come here," Ophelia ordered as Sarah tiptoed by, obviously hoping to be invisible. She trudged to a halt. "What do you want, Ophelia?"
"I left some mending for you in your room. I need it by tomorrow."
There were a dozen maids who could complete the task faster and better than Sarah, and Sarah hated sewing. They both knew it.
"I'm busy, Ophelia."
Ophelia chuckled, relishing the game Sarah occasionally played but could never win. "How is Tim? I haven't seen him around lately."
It was a subtle threat, one that Ophelia used constantly and to great effect. She could and would do anything to Tim without a moment's hesitation, and Sarah had no doubt as to whether Ophelia was vindictive enough to follow through.
For an entire decade, Ophelia had taunted Sarah with the prospect of the accidents that could befall her son, and Ophelia was so humored by Sarah's pathetic bond to the little bastard. Her fondness had allowed Ophelia to garner ceaseless boons, with Sarah unable to decline or fight back.
"The mending, Sarah," Ophelia urged. "When can you have it ready?"
Sarah gnawed on her hp, a thousand rude retorts festering, begging to be spewed; then, like an obedient slave, she nodded. "I'll see to it right away."
"You do that."
Sarah slithered off, and Ophelia smirked, enjoying her petty torment.
Feigning nonchalance, she sauntered down the hall to wait near the salon where Anne was sequestered with Percy. As Anne emerged, looking distraught and furious, Ophelia was simpering with fake sympathy.
"Anne, what is it?"
"Nothing."
Ophelia stepped in, blocking Anne's access to the stairs. Before Ophelia talked to her brother she had to hear Anne's side of the story.
With so much at stake, Ophelia had to ensure she was in the middle of all the intrigue. If she wasn't, how would she ever orchestrate the conclusion she sought?
"Tell me," she demanded.
"It wouldn't interest you, and I'd rather not discuss it."
Anne was still smarting over her catching Ophelia in bed with Jamie. Not that there'd been time for anything relevant to transpire. Anne's inopportune appearance had seen to that, but she wasn't aware of how rapidly Jamie had ended the tryst after she'd fled.
His behavior was enough to make Ophelia suspect he had some scruples.
"You might as well spill it," Ophelia needled, "or I'll go ask Percy and find out his version. I can side with him—or not."
Ophelia could be an ally or an enemy, and her relationship with Percy could be used to benefit or harm. Though Anne was loathe to parley, she considered her options, then tucked away her sour attitude.
"I tried to convince him that I can't marry Lord Gladstone."
"Don't call that pirate Lord Gladstone to my face or I'll rip your tongue out."
"Fine then. He insists that I have to marry Jamie."
"But you don't want to?"
"No."
Ophelia shielded her livid reaction. She wouldn't openly work against Percy, but she'd cut out Anne's heart and feed it to the chickens in the yard before she'd let Anne become countess.
"Did Percy say why you should proceed?"
"He thinks that I'm lucky Jamie picked me and that I should be glad."
"He would," Ophelia falsely commiserated. "He's not the one who will have to live with that barbarian after the ceremony."
"Precisely, but he couldn't fath
om why I'd have reservations. Since I was ... ah ..." Embarrassed, Anne cleared her throat. "Since I was forced to spend the night in Jamie's bedchamber, I suppose there's no other result that's possible."
"I can't believe Merrick locked you in like that! I begged him to release you," Ophelia lied, "but the man is insane. He listens to no one."
"I know. I'm scared of him. He chose me, but it should have been you, instead. You're much better suited to be his wife."
Ophelia scowled. Had she just been insulted? She studied Anne, trying to decide, but Anne looked innocent as a cherub painted on a church ceiling.
"Have you spoken with your sister?" Ophelia inquired.
"I was about to."
"I noticed that she's friendly with Jack Merrick. Perhaps she could persuade him to reason with his brother on your behalf."
"That's a marvelous idea."
Anne flitted off, and Ophelia tarried, wondering how the universe could have conspired against her so completely. Was there no justice in the world?
Ophelia had plotted and planned, had managed and directed, while Percy had reveled in his London pursuits. She'd never been able to make him grasp how the estate paid for his amusements. He only wanted to play—and to have money available when he needed it.
She had kept the coffers full of cash, and now Anne might wind up in charge of everything! It was a tonic so bitter that Ophelia couldn't swallow it.
She went to the stairs and climbed, eager to fret and fume in the privacy of her boudoir. She'd occupied the countess's suite for nearly two decades, having evicted her mother from it at the earliest opportunity. It was her sanctuary, her haven, and she hastened toward it, lost in thought, when her mother leapt out from the shadows.
Ophelia jumped a foot.
"Mother, what are you doing?"
"I'm watching you," the demented shrew said. "I'm watching you and him."
"You're crazy as a loon," Ophelia hissed. In case there was a servant lurking who might overhear, she leaned closer and whispered, "As soon as this mess with Merrick is resolved, I'm sending you to an asylum. I intend to select the most disgusting one I can find. Do you understand me, Mother?"