by Nina Mason
She stepped closer and moved her nose over his stomach and down, inhaling deeply. Under his clothes, he shivered. The sensation, which gave him gooseflesh and hardened his nipples, had naught to do with the temperature of the room.
“You smell fine to me,” she whispered. “Like some kind of big feral male animal.”
Self-conscious, he stepped away. “You are too charitable. My hair is oily, my armpits reek, and I can only imagine how vile my private parts smell.”
She regarded him with a look of determination. “In that case, let me call for some hot water and give you a bath.”
He imagined her, soapy sponge in hand, scrubbing his naked body clean. The idea was too appealing to raise a protest about the lateness of the hour.
She pulled the servant’s bell and, within a few minutes, someone knocked at the door. He waited in the bedchamber whilst she instructed whoever had come.
“Boil plenty of hot water,” he heard her say, “and bring it to the bathing closet in fifteen minutes.”
* * * *
When Maggie returned to the bedchamber, she found Robert waiting just inside the door. Before she could say aught to him, he captured her mouth with such passion she fell back against the jamb, needing its support as she reeled under a dizzying rush of desire.
It felt wonderful. Glorious. Better than anything else in the world. She ran her hands slowly up into his hair, over his stubbled jaw, across his hard shoulders, and along his strong arms. Yes, he smelled ripe, but his stink was pure raw male animal musk. She found it far more arousing than offensive. Moving her hands around to his back, she pulled his body firmly against hers, feeling all over again how much she had missed him.
Playing house with Gemma had been all well and good, but her friend was not Robert. No one was, or could ever take his place in her heart or in her bed. Suddenly ashamed of her behavior, she broke from the kiss.
Flushed and short of breath, she said, “Forgive me.”
“For what?” he asked, eyebrows drawing together.
“You were jealous when I went to bed with Juliette. I should have guessed how you would feel about Gemma, whatever you might have claimed to the contrary.”
A strange, unreadable look crossed his face before he stepped away from her and averted his gaze. “How funny that you should bring up Juliette, for I encountered her in my travels.”
“Juliette?” Maggie frowned and furrowed her brow, unsure she’d heard him correctly. “Was she not hanged?”
“No.” When he returned his gaze to hers, she was sure she saw guilt there. “King Louis bribed the judge to release her.”
“King Louis?” she asked, growing uneasy. “Why would he pay to free a Huguenot?”
“Because she is not a Huguenot,” he told her with growing fervor. “She is Romish, like us, and has been working in secret for her king and country. I ran into her in Orkney, awaiting the rebel ships. We joined Argyle’s forces together, posing as man and wife to protect our covers.”
“Man and wife?” she repeated, shocked again. “Did you..?”
“God, no!” He laughed, though nervously. “I was as faithful as the day is long—not that it was easy, given the sleeping arrangements.”
Though relieved he had not cheated on her, Maggie could not let such an inflammatory aside go unremarked upon. “Whatever do you mean by that?”
Before he could answer, someone knocked on the door. Presuming it was the servants with the water, Maggie pulled out of Robert’s embrace and went to let them in. After directing them to the bath closet, she went to check on Gemma and wee Jamie. Both, to her delight, were sound asleep. With any luck, they would not stir until morning, giving her hours yet to celebrate her husband’s homecoming.
Returning to the bath closet, she watched the maids fill the tub, offering instructions when necessary. When all was prepared to her satisfaction, she sent them away before returning to Robert’s bedchamber, where she found him seated upon the needlepoint settee in the window alcove, removing his boots and stockings. As he reached around to unfasten his cravat, he looked up to find her watching him.
“Shall I remove the rest?” The wolfish grin he gave her set her blood afire. “Or would you prefer to do the honors?”
“Let me,” she said, excited by the idea of peeling off his clothing, layer by layer. Doing so would afford her the chance to discover his body anew.
He got to his feet and stalked toward her like a predatory animal. When he was only inches away, he spread his arms wide and laughed. “I’m all yours.”
She started with his waistcoat, working the buttons out of their holes in silence. As much as she wanted to inquire further about Juliette and their sleeping arrangements, she wanted him naked even more.
When the waistcoat was off, she tugged his shirttail free of his breeches. Sliding her hands inside his shirt, she relished the feel of his flat belly and muscular chest. Locating his nipples, she gently pinched them between her thumb and forefinger.
Groaning with pleasure, he shut his eyes.
She pressed a kiss to his stubbled chin before unbuttoning the ruffled cuffs on his sleeves. When they were open, he lifted his arms so she could pull the shirt off over his head. Trembling at the sight of his naked chest, she kissed and licked each of his nipples to hardness before moving to his breeches. As she untied the ribbons closures, she did everything in her power to tempt and arouse him. When his breeches fell, she wrapped her hand around his cock.
“Oh, Rosebud, my sweet seductress,” he breathlessly whispered. “You certainly know how to drive me wild with desire.”
She gave his erection a few ardent strokes before letting go. Yes, she knew how to inflame his passions, but she also knew when to back off to prolong the seduction.
He stepped out of his puddled breeches and kicked them aside before gripping her shoulders. “Now, it is my turn to undress you,” he said with a devilish grin. “For I should like you as naked as a nymph whilst you give me my bath.”
Bending to kiss her décolletage, he slowly peeled her mantua off her shoulders and down her arms. It dropped to the floor in a whispering cloud of silk. He then reached around to untie her petticoats, which fell around her ankles, one after the other. Finally, he unlaced her stays and tossed them aside.
Now, she was down to her smock. Holding her gaze, he ran his hands down her body with an ardor bordering on reverence. Falling on his knees before her, he swept his hands up the backs of her thighs and over her buttocks, sending thrilling shivers through her. The tremors intensified when he pressed his mouth against her maidenhair and darted his tongue into her sex.
Breathlessly, she said, “As much as I am enjoying your devotions, your bathwater is getting colder by the second.”
He laughed, got to his feet, and untied the string on the neckline of her shift. As the thin fabric slid down her body, he said, teasingly, “Satisfied?”
“Very, though not as much as I hope to be.” Smiling salaciously, she stepped back to admire his naked body. “Oh, yes. I definitely prefer the male physique to the womanly form. You are a glorious sight to behold, my dear husband.”
Setting a finger under her chin, he lifted her gaze to his. “The feeling is mutual, Maggie.”
He kissed her briefly before heading into the bathing closet. As he stepped into the tub, she took a seat on the stool the servants had brought and picked up the basin of herbal water she’d asked them to prepare. Still standing in the tub, he turned to face her so that his cock was at her eye level. Picking up the saturated sponge, she squeezed it, giving his stiff phallus a warm herbal shower. She then wiped down his cockstand with a buffing motion meant to heighten his arousal. The low moan he emitted made it clear she’d succeeded.
As she moved the sponge to his bollocks, he grabbed her head and held her steady as he thrust his tarse toward her mouth. She napped her head to the side, thwarting the effort.
“Later,” she said. “After you’re clean.”
The tub wa
s the size of a water trough for horses, long enough for Robert to sit in with his knees bent and wide enough to give him room to move on either side. She positioned the extra sponges she’d requested behind his head and back for added comfort. The water, thankfully, was still pleasantly warm.
Dipping into the herb-infused water in the basin, she washed his arms, his chest, his neck, and his face. Moving around to the foot of the tub, she bent at the waist to sponge down his lower half. As she worked, his gaze remained intently upon her.
All the while, her unvoiced question about Juliette burned in her heart and brain. When she could bear the strain no longer, she said, striving for a tone of nonchalance, “What did you mean earlier…about the sleeping arrangements?”
“I shared a berth with her.”
She swallowed. “You and Juliette shared a bed?”
“Aye.”
All at once, it felt as if she’d been thrown into a deep pool of doubt and had forgotten how to swim. “But…you said you were faithful to me.”
“I was.”
“In what sense?”
“In all senses. I never so much as kissed her.” He got broodily quiet for a few moments, then, “Too bad you cannot say the same about Mrs. Crosse.”
The accusation cut her. Afraid he might see her upset, she moved around to his head and began to rub his neck and shoulders.
When he dropped his head back and groaned with pleasure, she whispered in his ear, “Yes, we kissed. Her kisses, however, were naught to me compared to yours.”
There was a long, pregnant pause, at the end of which he heaved a sigh and said, “I know it’s rather like locking the barn door after the horse has been stolen, but can I ask that you never do it again? That, from this moment forward, you kiss no other lips than mine?”
She bent to his ear and pressed her cheek against his dripping-wet, herbal-scented hair. “Yes, my darling. Of course you can ask that I save all my kisses for you.”
He coughed a chuckle. “And will you grant my request?”
“I would be happy to.”
“No more fun and games with Mrs. Crosse or Lady Fitzhardinge?”
“No more fun and games,” she promised, ready to keep her word. “I do, however, have a question before we close the book on this subject.”
She felt him tense. “What sort of question?”
“A purely academic one.”
He let out a breath. “An academic question I will gladly answer…assuming I am in possession of the answer.”
She licked her lips as she plucked up her courage—not that she had anything to fear, she told herself. In the beginning of their marriage, he had tutored her sexually, as well as in many of the subjects women were not permitted to study. He wanted an educated wife and she wanted very much to be one. In fact, it had been she who’d broached the subject first. She’d made a deal with him: she would allow his unorthodox tastes in their marriage bed if he would give her a proper education. In the years that followed, both of them had honored their promises.
“I only want to know if there is a name for an erotic relationship between two women.”
“Not that I know of,” he said, “but there is a name for women who prefer to bed those of their own gender over those of mine.”
She waited for him to continue. When he did not, she grew impatient. “Will you not tell me the name?”
He let out a breath. “I will tell you if you will tell me why you wish to know this.”
“I wish to know so that I might further my erotic education.”
When he turned his head to look at her, there was worry swimming in his eyes. “Are you certain of that?”
She bent to kiss his cheek. Was he seriously worried she might be whatever the word was he would not tell her? “Yes, dear heart. Quite certain. I prefer your cock above all things.”
“If that is so,” he said softly, “come join me in the tub.”
Her heart fluttered excitedly. “Not until you tell me the word.”
“ Tribade is the proper word for a woman who prefers her own sex,” he said. “From the French word for rubbing, which, I suppose, is the only way ladies can pleasure one another. More informally, I have heard such women called ‘Disciples of Sappho,’ after the poetess of Lesbos. They also are sometimes called Flatts, after the card game, for the same reason they are called Tribades. Around the court, however, such ladies are more commonly known as ‘Followers of Mistress Hobart.’”
“Mistress Hobart?” she parroted, curious. “Who the devil is she?”
“Mary Hobart was the senior maid of honor to Mary Beatrice when she was still the Duchess of York. Apparently, she made advances to most of the young ladies in the household, but was usually rebuffed. Her first success was with another maid of honor named Anne Temple, whose favors Lord Rochester also desired. Rochester eventually broke up the relationship between the ladies by publicly accusing Miss Hobart of having sensibilities in favor of the fair sex. Thereafter, Miss Hobart was satirized not only as a predatory tribade, but also as a hermaphrodite.” He shifted in the tub, causing the water to slosh. “Though why Miss Hobart should be so singled out, I cannot tell you. For Tribalism—if indeed there is such a word—is not uncommon at court. Did I ever tell you about Mary Beatrice’s cross-dressing cousin?—Or the time Frances Stuart and Lady Castlemaine were caught in bed together by King Charles himself?”
“No,” Maggie said, amused by his stories. She thought about telling him the reports she’d heard about Sarah Churchill, Barbara Fitzhardinge, and Anne Stuart, but decided to keep their secrets for the time being. The hour was growing later by the minute, the bathwater was getting cold, and her stamina was flagging. If they did not move things along, she would be too fatigued to enjoy her husband’s affections.
“I do not believe you did. Knowing what I do of my uncle, however, I can only presume he either joined them or drew up a chair to watch.”
“Actually, he was exceedingly displeased.”
“On what grounds?” Surely he felt no jealousy. “For did you not say men consider what women do together beneath their notice?”
“Aye, but he was jealous, though not for the reason you suppose. He resented their liaison because, despite his persistent efforts to seduce Frances Stuart, she continually rebuked his advances. Eventually, she left the court altogether to escape the king’s unrelenting seductions.”
“Speaking of seductions…”
This was her chance to move things along. Rising from her stool, she walked around to the side of the tub and stepped over the edge, carefully placing her feet in the gaps on either side of his hips. The water was tepid at best, but smelled like the herb garden she used to so enjoy at Balloch Castle.
As he met her gaze with lust in his eyes, a streak of heat went through her. Now warmer than the water, she gripped the edges of the tub and lowered herself onto him. Still hard from the gentle scrubbing she’d given his cock, he came into her as she sat.
Shuddering, he reached up and cupped her breasts. As his thumbs grazed her nipples, he let out a clipped laugh. “You would not believe the things I was thinking whilst listening to Colonel Churchill drone on about his battles in Dorset.”
“Tell me,” she said, wiggling her hips for his pleasure (and hers).
“I imagined myself buggering you—and oh, how sweet a dream it was.”
She was uncertain how she felt about him taking so much pleasure from dreams of sodomizing her. “Do you often fantasize about fucking me there?”
“Oh, aye.” His voice was throaty and his eyes hooded. “I think about claiming your sweet little sphincter all the time.”
Still unsure, she set her hands on his chest and leaned forward to kiss him. As their lips met, he lifted his hips and pushed into her depths. Though the feeling of his possession, as always, was superb, she could not imagine how admitting him through the back door could be anything but unpleasant.
As she dandled him languidly, she gave him her tongue, though o
nly for a moment before she withdrew. Pulling back, she sat up straight and looked into his eyes. “Why do you find the idea of buggering me so appealing? Is it not enough that I give you ready access to my mouth and my cunny? Or that I allow you to tie me up and strike me?”
“Dearest,” he said softly, touching her face. “It is not that I am particularly fond of anal sex; it is only because you deny me that I want it so much.”
She furrowed her brow. “If that is so, does it then follow that indulging your fancy will lessen your desire for it?”
“I assume so,” he said, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “For it is one of the contradictions of human nature—is it not?— that we covet what is denied simply because it is denied us.”
As much as she wanted to please him, to give him what he wanted, the thought of taking all of him there filled her with dismay. She bit her lip and circled her hips, taking his measure. Robert’s cock may not be quite as monstrous as Lord Mulgrave’s, but neither would she call it diminutive. He was a good eight inches at least, and almost as thick as her wrist. Even were he exceedingly gentle with her, he could not help causing her pain.
“I do not know…”
His eyes brightened and he cupped her cheek. “Maggie, are you actually considering letting me…? Well, you know.”
“I am considering it, but am still too afraid to agree.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Your excessive enthusiasm.”
He furrowed his brows. “I do not understand.”
“What if you get carried away and hurt me?”
“You have my word that will not happen. I shall come into you very slowly and desist at once if you truly do not care for it. First, however, I would very much like to avail myself of your other bewitching orifices.”
* * * *
They both had exited the tub and Maggie was down on her knees, drying Robert’s lower half. The cool air on his wet skin had softened his cock, but it would take very little to make him hard again. When she started to rise, he set his hands atop her head to stop her. Stay where you are and use your mouth to make me ready.”