by Nina Mason
Gemma just stood there looking at her, her head cocked to the side. Then, she said in a soft voice, “You seem very different tonight.”
Maggie swallowed and licked her lip, which still tingled from their earlier kiss. “Do I? How so?”
“You seem softer.” Gemma’s eyes shimmered in the candlelight. “Last time, if I may, you were bolder, more commanding.”
Maggie, embarrassed by her previous behavior, looked away from her gaze. “I am myself tonight.”
“And who were you before?”
“My alter ego, Mistress Margaret,” Maggie attempted to explain, “who comes from a dark place inside my heart. I knew not that she existed until after I married.”
Gemma touched her cheek, bringing Maggie’s gaze back to hers. “Did you know what the duke was like before you were wed?”
“I had some idea, for I spied upon him once with my abigail—when I was but sixteen years of age.”
Gemma’s eyes twinkled with intrigue. “What did you see them do?”
Maggie saw no reason to be bashful. If she was going to be friends with Gemma Crosse, she desired them to be open with one another. “He took her over his knee, lifted her skirts, and spanked her bare bottom. Then, he had sex with her.”
“That must have been quite a shocking scene for a young girl to witness.” Gemma’s hand dropped to Maggie’s shoulder, which tingled under her touch.
“’Twas indeed, but also quite…arousing.”
Gemma looked delighted. “Was it?”
“Yes.” Maggie perched herself on the edge of Robert’s bed and looked at her hands, which lay entwined in her lap like two sleeping lovers.
“Do you enjoy watching other people having sex?”
A scene took shape in Maggie’s mind. Robert and the lady and gentleman with which he’d had a threesome when they’d visited the court of King Charles. Having hidden herself in the armoire in Robert’s room, she had watched the three of them pleasure each other through the keyhole. Rather than being aroused by what she beheld, she had been provoked by her husband’s unfaithfulness.
“I must own that I do,” Maggie told her, “unless one of the parties involved is my husband.”
“But…you watched him with me and seemed unbothered. In fact, as I recall, you gave your consent.”
“Mistress Margaret gave him that leave, not I,” Maggie corrected her. “She is stronger than I and can bear much that I cannot.”
As she spoke, Maggie watched the dancing flames of the candles on the dresser opposite the bed. Would Robert approve of her bedding Gemma Crosse? He had disliked it when she lay with Juliette, but he also had said what women did together was beneath men’s notice. He’d said the same thing about the threesome he’d taken part in at court—because he had avoided penetrating either of his partners. Only intercourse between two members of the opposite sex counted as infidelity in the eyes of God and the law, he’d explain, but she had felt betrayed all the same. Lying with Juliette with him watching had been her way of getting even. His jealousy had made her victory complete.
Gemma sat beside her on the bed, bringing Maggie back to the room. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
“Not certain, no. But not opposed to the idea, either.”
She could not bear another night alone; another night of walking the floors like a ghost, imagining what she would write to Robert if she could. But she could not write, so all the desperate feelings built up inside her like steam in a kettle. Built and built until she was sure she would explode or go mad. With no way to write and no one to talk to, her only release was to cry. She would bury her face in her pillow so no one would hear and weep and weep until all the poison—all the pain, all the longing, and all the fear—was purged and she was empty again.
Reaching over, Maggie squeezed Gemma’s hand, which felt small and fragile in hers. This woman, this friend, could never take Robert’s place in her heart, but she could take his place in her bed. She could keep her company, give her pleasure, and stop the awful aching for a time.
They got up and undressed each other. Envy twinged in Maggie’s heart as her gaze swept over her companion’s voluptuous figure. Gemma’s shoulders were white, her bosoms ample, her waist small, and her hips wide. The triangle of curls betwixt her legs was the same dark brown as the hair on her head.
Gemma raised her hands and worshipfully ran them over Maggie’s breasts, sighing as she did so. “You are so beautiful, duchess.”
Beneath her caresses, Maggie’s nipples tingled and stiffened.
Gemma, still playing with Maggie’s breasts, drew closer and pressed a kiss to her mouth. When she withdrew, Maggie set her head against her shoulder. Although the bone was hard, her skin was warm, soft, and herb-scented. She put her arms around Maggie and smoothed her hair as if comforting a child.
Even with the fire going, the room was cold, and so quiet Maggie could hear the beating of Gemma’s heart.
“Shall we get under the blankets?” Gemma asked, shivering.
“Yes,” Maggie said, also chilled. “And perhaps we could just hold each other to begin with. Would that be all right with you?”
Assenting, Gemma helped Maggie into bed. Maggie closed her eyes, suddenly afraid. The pillow smelled faintly of Robert’s hair tonic and shaving soap. As she breathed in his scent, an abyss of longing opened inside her. Tears threatened, but she bit them back. She would not cry and spoil this small chance to fill the void.
Gemma crawled beneath the blankets at her side and put her arm about Maggie. Her breath was sweet, her face was smooth, and her arm was slender and light. Not at all like Robert’s. Gemma shivered a little, and when she blinked, her eyelashes tickled Maggie’s throat. They were as soft and light as the down in her pillow.
“This feels nice,” Maggie said, remembering the nights she would sleep in the same bed with Robert’s sister, Mary. Usually on bitterly cold nights or during thunderstorms. Mary had been her only true friend, and her death left a hole that no one else had ever filled. Not even her husband, dear as he was to her.
“Would it be all right with you if we just held each other for a time?”
“Of course,” Gemma replied. “Whatever pleases you pleases me.”
It did please her. Exceedingly. And for several minutes they lay there, holding each other like sisters. Maggie had always wanted a sister, though not one the likes of Anne or Mary, her two-faced half-sisters who were ashamed of their illegitimate siblings. She wanted a sister she could turn to on stormy nights and tell her secrets to. She wanted someone like Mary Armstrong.
Maggie lay there, listening to Gemma’s breathing as the clock in the parlor ticked away the seconds. She had left the bedchamber door open so she could hear wee Jamie if he needed her. So far, he had not made a peep.
By the by, Gemma kissed her throat and reached between her legs. Her touch, soft at first, quickly grew more ardent. Maggie allowed and enjoyed the intimacy, but did not reciprocate. Gemma’s mouth climbed toward hers as her fingers worked their magic down below. As her touch was sure and skillful, Maggie could not help being affected. Her cunny quickened and moistened. When Gemma’s lips at last reached hers, Maggie sought them eagerly. As their mouths locked in a wrangle of teeth and tongues, Maggie could feel Gemma’s supple breasts pressing against her own.
Gemma pulled her mouth free. “Where is your Italian godemiché?”
“Just there,” Maggie replied, motioning toward the bedside table. “But I would rather you used Monsieur Verre.”
As Gemma reached to retrieve the glass phallus, memories hopped through Maggie’s head like the rabbits she chased as a girl. The day she twisted her ankle and Robert came to her rescue like a knight in shining armor, white steed and all. The day Mary perished from her illness, leaving her friend and companion with no occupation. Maggie was sure Robert would send her back to the convent, but he did not. He kept her on as his ward for reasons she could not fathom—until, years later, he asked for her hand in marria
ge. She said yes, having loved him from afar for years. He was so dashing and mysterious, how could she help it? On their wedding night, she had been so afraid, but he ended up being incredibly sweet and gentle with her.
Would he ever be again?
The melancholy engendered by the question flew away when Gemma, now clutching the beribboned glass dildol, rose up on her knees on the mattress.
“Put it on,” Maggie said, “and do to me what I did to you the last time—but without tying me to the bed.”
Gemma struggled for several moments over the placing of the ribbons and the tying of the bows. The shaft of the dildol, which sprang from Gemma’s mound of Venus, looked as though it was carved from a hunk of ice. Maggie smirked as she imagined a larger version as the centerpiece on the refreshment table at a royal ball. Given the rampant hedonism of courtly life, she doubted anyone would find the sight of a giant ice phallus the least bit shocking.
When Gemma thrust her hips, Monsieur Verre gave Maggie a mannerly nod. Suppressing a giggle, she lifted her hand to pat his head. Gemma, placing her hand over Maggie’s, guided her fingers up and down the shaft.
Maggie found the exercise strangely arousing. It also helped warm the device which, though not made of ice, was as cold as the air. Gemma, meanwhile, used her free hand to tease Maggie’s clit until she was awash with pleasure and breathing hard.
Then, moving her legs to the outside, Gemma gently lowered herself onto Maggie, who moaned and swiveled her hips as the glass phallus came into her.
Stationing her arms on either side of Maggie’s head, Gemma began to move. In and out, in and out, in long, languid strokes.
Maggie fastened her mouth to one of Gemma’s breasts, tasting the salt of perspiration as the nipple hardened against her flicking tongue.
Gemma moaned with pleasure. “You are exquisite, my dear duchess.”
“As are you, Mrs. Crosse,” Maggie replied. “But tell me something, if you would. Do you prefer women to men?”
“I have no preference either way,” she answered. “I simply take my pleasure where I find it.”
Chapter Five
Holding Juliette around the waist with one hand and the reins with the other, Robert urged his horse down the embankment toward the beach, where a small group of men were putting a boat into the water—volunteers, he presumed, preparing to row out to the rebel ships.
Thankfully, all three fluyts were still anchored in the bay.
The men were a godsend. If he came aboard with them, he would be less conspicuous, even with a woman in tow. Would they try to stop him from bringing her along? Maybe, though not because the boat was full. By his calculations, there was room enough for both of them and their cases.
Juliette, as it turned out, had been staying at the same inn as he. In the minutes he’d waited for her to collect her things, he made peace with the idea of taking her with him. She could be extremely useful to him, assuming she behaved herself. She could clean his cabin and his shirts and fetch fresh food and drink when there was a chance to go ashore. He was sure to tire quickly of the standard sailor’s fare of salted meat, stale bannocks, and rum. Her market basket would also make the perfect hiding place for his reports to the king.
Though he could see no way to dispatch the daily updates His Majesty had requested, he might do better with Juliette’s assistance.
She also could warm his bed on the frigid nights ahead. Though it was May, the Highland winds were bitterly cold—and the sea winds would be even more chilling. He just needed to get through the hours in their shared berth without breaking his vows to Maggie—a test in self-restraint he feared he might fail.
He was flesh and blood, after all. A man, not an angel. He might give in to temptation when she was snuggled against him in the dark.
Taking a deep breath, he jumped down from his horse and reached for Juliette. When he grasped her by the waist, she set her hands on his shoulders. As he lifted her out of the saddle, he tried very hard to ignore the smell of her perfume and the brush of her curls against his face. She was all woman, in spite of her anatomy. He set her down gently and, fighting the urge to take her in his arms, he turned back to the horse.
Their cases were tied to the saddle, along with his bedroll and purse, which held money enough for bribes. If need be, he would pay the men to take them to the ships. If forced to leave her behind, he could not let her live; but neither could he kill her in front of so many witnesses.
Steeling his courage, he took the bags and started toward the beach, leaving the horse for whoever might claim it. Juliette followed, saying nothing. Two of the men saw them coming and walked toward them.
“Have you come to join the fight against popery and arbitrary government?”
“Aye, we have,” Robert replied.
“Do you believe the Duke of Monmouth to be the rightful king?”
“We do.”
“To whom do you pledge your loyalty?—Jesus Christ or the Popish pretender who wears the crown?”
Robert licked his lips to hide his affront. “To Jesus Christ, first and foremost.”
The other man nodded toward Juliette. “Who’s this?”
“My wife.”
“Why have you brought her?”
“To keep her safe,” Robert said. “If I leave her behind, she’ll have no one to protect her and no way to support herself.”
The man looked Juliette up and down in a way that would have earned him a blow had she been Maggie. “Aye, well. Had I a wife as bonny as yours, I’d be loath to part from her, too.”
Robert’s hopes climbed ever so slightly. “Then you do not object to taking us both to the ships? I will gladly pay our way, if that would make the task more agreeable.”
“Tempted though I am to accept your kind offer,” the man said, looking insulted, “collecting a reward for a good turn wouldna be very Christian of me, now would it?”
“I suppose not.”
“Come on then”—he nodded toward the boat—”afore the tide goes out and we lose our chance.”
Robert followed him to the waterline, which was indeed higher than it had been earlier that day. After handing over the bags, he stepped into the skiff. As it rocked under his weight, he swallowed hard and prayed he would not be sick before they reached the ships.
Once he’d steadied his footing, he offered his hand to Juliette. As she took it, he tried not to notice how small and soft her hand felt in his own. Tried, but failed. As he helped her aboard and into a seat, he reminded himself she had a penis. Perhaps if he kept her abnormal genitals in mind, he would find her other charms easier to ignore. On the other hand, concentrating constantly on her sexual organs might only lead to trouble. Aye, she had a tarse, but she also had a cunny. A hot, slippery one that would feel so good around his—
Stop! Entertaining such thoughts was not the way to avoid temptation.
He drew a deep breath to clear his head, prayed for strength, and looked around at the other men. All but two were now aboard and had taken up oars. Most wore linen shirts and plaids, which, judging by the pungent odor rising off them, had not been laundered in months. The odd man out donned trews, a knee-length coat, and leather boots. The pair still on shore, also in plaids, took hold of the stern and pushed the boat into the water. As they jumped in, the wind lifted their plaids, revealing everything God gave them to any who happened to be looking.
Robert threw a glance at Juliette. Did she notice the lewd display? If she had, she did not appear bothered.
The Highlanders grunted as they rowed toward the ships, which stood against the blazing orange sunset. Robert wondered how many of them would die before the rebellion was crushed. Most, probably. The thought filled him with guilt. Normally, he had little sympathy for Covenanters, seeing them only as traitorous zealots who made life insufferable for Catholics.
But normally, he played no direct role in their deaths. Even in the dark days he served on the Scottish Privy Council, which ordered the torture and executi
on of suspected Covenanters, he kept his hands clean as much as he was able.
This time, however, was different. This time, he would have a hand in the deaths of these men. Owing to the information he would communicate, the king would know where to station his army, which was vastly superior in size and skill to the small band of rebels under Argyle’s command.
The nearer they drew to the ships, the more knotted Robert’s stomach became. He did not like what he’d been asked to do. He did not relish being a subversive among men who were risking their lives for a cause. Aye, he disapproved of their cause, but he had never been one to believe the ends justified the means. God’s commandments forbade lying, cheating, and stealing—and a sin was a sin, regardless of how it was justified.
Within a few minutes, they reached the ships and drew alongside the S.S. Sophia, a six-gun Dutch fluyt with the same bulbous hull, square netting, and triple masts as a Spanish galleon.
A man in a green velvet coat looked down at them from the deck. He was of medium stature with fair shoulder-length hair and dark, earnest eyes. Despite his too-large nose and effeminate mouth, his was the sort of handsome face limners loved to paint and ladies to gaze upon.
Was he the man himself? He certainly matched the description of Archibald Campbell Robert had been given in his briefings.
“State your business,” the gentleman shouted down to them in a Highland burr.
“We’ve come to join you,” answered the man who had questioned Robert on the beach, “and request permission to come aboard.”
“Permission granted,” the gentleman returned.
A rope ladder dropped over the side of the ship. Robert waited for the other men to climb up before helping Juliette get her footing. He followed her up, ready to catch her should she fall, despite the cases wedged into his armpits.
When they were all on deck, the green-coated gentleman’s eye—quick, keen, and apprising—roamed over his new recruits. “Do all of you hail from Orkney then?”
Robert considered keeping quiet, but knew if he did, his English accent—and Juliette’s French one—would only arouse suspicion. “Not all of us, my lord,” he volunteered. “I hail from the bordershires—and my wife here is a Huguenot, who came to Scotland to escape King Louis’s dragoons.”