Two fingers entered her, his palm pressing to that sensitive spot. Her hips rose to meet his thrusts again and again. She might have been hurtling through the night sky, passing Orion and Cassiopeia into the blackness beyond. All of her pulsed and quivered in ecstasy, seconds before shattering into a thousand pieces.
“Oh!” Her breath went wild with uncontrollable laughter as the flare of satisfaction reached its apex and waned. She gripped his thighs, needing something solid to hold on to. “I don’t know why I am—”
A sharp hiccup cut off her words. Her hands might as well have been holding air. From up high, she was thrown over a cliff, and then she was tumbling down, chest heaving, breath disordered. What was happening to her? All that had been pleasure parried into a familiar bruise upon her heart. There was no name to this grief, no face to behold. It was everything, and she was suddenly nothing.
“W-What is wrong with me?” She found tears on her cheeks when seconds ago she was laughing.
Marcus gathered her against his chest. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck. Sweat and sawdust lingered on his skin, and she never loved those scents more.
“I’m sorry.” She tried to pull away, wipe her tears. But he refused to let her go. He had warned her, and she hadn’t listened. How had he known what it would do to her?
“Don’t be sorry. Shhhh. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I should . . .” She didn’t know what she should do, only knew that she ought to do. She ought to do for him as he had done for her. Henrietta sat up to face him. “Shall I touch you?”
He was unreadable in the shadows. Would he want her whole body or the use of her hand? Maybe there was something else men like him desired and she’d never learned. Maybe, with her messy face and messier emotions, he wouldn’t want her at all.
The edge of his thumb caressed her cheek as he cupped her jaw. “I want nothing you haven’t already given.” Then he softened his rejection with a kiss to her tear-stained cheek.
Her heart beat heavily under her breast. “We made a deal.”
He fanned his fingers along her jaw and waited until she allowed herself to meet his gaze. “Letting me care for you is loving you, Henrietta. Otherwise, it’s just physical. I didn’t agree to that, and neither did you.”
Chapter 14
Henrietta woke with the first chirps outside her window, alone in bed. The sun hadn’t yet risen. Lying still, she tried not to take inventory of the unfamiliar aches where Marcus’s touch left a memory.
She had never felt closer to anyone before last night. As promised, the night was over. It was morning, and none of his feelings for her would linger. She should be grateful. However, grateful wasn’t what she was feeling.
She was hungry.
Not the way a stomach felt hollow waiting for a meal, but in her whole body. It knew what it meant to be nourished. How would she ever return to the barest level of subsistence?
Henrietta pounded her fists against her mattress in frustration.
Damn it all. She didn’t want to feel anything, especially not hunger. There must a salve for it. One of those shaved women would probably know, she thought petulantly.
With her resolve in place to force all thoughts of Marcus from her mind, if not her body, she donned her comfortable quilted jumps and poked her toes into her slippers. She still had to hand over the enciphered letter to Shrupp today. If she couldn’t find it, she’d have to start again.
The hinges of her door squeaked, making her feel like a burglar in her own home tiptoeing down the hallway. She shouldn’t have bothered.
He sat in the middle of her foyer, in his ingenious chair. Her personal letters were scattered at his feet like snowflakes. In his lap, he held her decorative bowl.
A cold chill coiled up her spine. All the warmth from yesterday gone. “What are you doing?” Her voice echoed off the bare walls.
Marcus dragged his attention from the letter in his hand. She was equally divided between being angry that he’d breach her privacy and hurt that he didn’t smile when he laid eyes on her.
Then she remembered her hair, a volcanic eruption of curls and impropriety. She grabbed a handful and twisted it, wishing she had pins to fasten it in place.
Marcus kept his voice low. “This is a little more than a list of supplies.”
Letting go of her hair, she lunged for it, clutching it to her chest. “How dare you?” None of his tenderness for her lingered. She wished she could rip the memory of his touch from her skin like a splinter buried deep in the flesh.
She backed away, knowing without looking what letter he’d found. She wanted to sink into the floorboards as realization settled heavily on her. Yesterday’s upheaval of excitement, the overwrought emotions. Hiding her uncle’s work before anyone saw it.
Shame kicked hard in her belly.
With his face blank, his body stirred in the chair with the need to move. “I thought he’d have you draw the layout of Fort George or a list of munitions and arms in transport. Nothing that might put actual lives at risk. Least of all, my friend.”
Breath whooshed from her lungs. “What?” She looked at the letter, seeing exactly what she expected. Columns of numbers interspersed with a few scrambled words. How could he read it? To be sure, she peered at him again. There was no Bible in his hands.
“I don’t know what those numbers mean. A code, for certain. But I’m guessing this has little to do with the weight of tea.”
She looked from him to the letter again. A line of numbers ended with the phrase gram tea. The letter shook in her hands.
“It’s a reference to the Margate, is it not?”
Her heart stopped for a second, long enough to cause her a sharp pain.
How long had it taken him to read, or had he been lying to her this whole time? The sharp pain in her chest became a thudding, like a bomb ticking away seconds before exploding. He caught her out, lied to her, treated her like she was nothing more important than an expendable, flammable piece of paper.
“Would you tell me if those numbers refer to a man named Asher?”
His calm fueled her need to combust. This was personal to her. Her survival. Why didn’t he understand?
“I told you about him,” Marcus continued in measured tones as if he had no idea what this was doing to her.
“You never told me his name. I couldn’t have known who he was.” And it didn’t matter anyway. He would still be in prison, and she would still be a pawn to her uncle. God, how she hated everyone, most especially herself.
He nodded once. “As far as I’m concerned, it makes no difference.”
She looked again at the columns of numbers and scrambled words. Not choosing a side between Britain and America should have meant allaying her guilt. But it didn’t work that way, and now she knew it. She’d chosen her safety and home over the safety and home of others.
And he’d chosen to deceive her. It made a grand difference to her. She needed to hear his betrayal. Know it for the coward he was.
“How did you read this?”
He glared at her, letting out a huff of annoyance. “I told you, I know the alphabet. I can’t help that the letters bounce around on me. These bounced right into place.”
Hammering on the attic stairs put an end to their exchange. Marcus wheeled away. She didn’t know what he intended to do. Confront Shrupp? Tell her uncle he found the letter carelessly tossed aside for anyone to find? Would he toss her aside so easily? She feared she knew the answer to that.
“Marcus,” she pleaded.
He rolled toward the kitchen as Shrupp entered the hallway. “Get out of my way, Sergeant.”
She waited for Shrupp where she stood. Before he could utter a nasty word, she held up her hand. “I need an hour.”
Shrupp grunted, foll
owing Marcus into the kitchen. The rickety door to the outside slammed in its crooked frame, followed by barking and a loud human oath.
Henrietta escaped to her study and took out the original letter locked in her drawer, setting it beside the coded one Marcus found. She knew what she had to do. She crossed off a numerical phrase here and a scrambled phrase there.
The sound of banging broke her concentration. It pounded through her nerves, battering her skull, and drowning out the steady hum of her thoughts. Every thwack reverberated through the house and into her. Now that he’d destroyed her, was his aim to destroy her house too?
“Time’s up.” Shrupp entered, uninvited.
“I can’t send this.” She held up the blotted mess. It looked like she’d chipped the tip of her quill. “I need more time to finish a clean copy.”
The banging stopped.
“There isn’t more time. I must be off.”
She couldn’t give him the original. Her retractions were too noticeable. “You’re free to go. If you want to bring this letter, you’ll have to wait for it.” Henrietta took out a clean sheet of paper.
Shrupp hovered. Hammering began elsewhere. This time it sounded like the side of the house. “If you find him distracting, I can take care of him.”
“He offends me less than you, sir.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. From the corner of her eye, she stole a glance his way. If he was going to hit her, it was better to see it coming.
Shrupp stepped back and laughed. “You have a wicked mouth.”
She didn’t have time to waste on him. She copied the letter with furious strokes.
Between his pacing behind her and the hammering outside, she was going to go mad. Working quickly, ink dripped, making the new copy nearly as unreadable as the first.
A rush of air cracked the plaster wall above her head with a loud thunk. She jumped, nerves frayed, heart galloping. A hilt of a dagger extended from the wall, two feet above her head.
“What are you—?”
He leaned over her. The buttons of his uniform snagged on her hair, trapping her. Unaware of her distress, Shrupp grasped the dagger. Plaster flaked away as he worked it out.
What was wrong with him? “Why did you do that?”
Scowling, he disengaged her hair from his buttons. Then he removed a plain kerchief from his pocket and smoothed it over the honed edge of the blade, a moue of distaste firming his lips. “I don’t like spiders.”
Her gaze darted between the wall and his blade. “And you thought to kill it with a dagger?” There was no saying what he might do to a larger adversary. Clenching her jaw, she went back to her frantic scribbling, the tip of her quill buckling from the pressure.
“There. Done.” She dropped her quill in the ink and turned to him. “When shall I expect your return?”
“Planning to warm my bed?” A dark brow rose expectantly.
Blood rushed to her pounding temples. If only he would leave for good. Otherwise, she might just have to scour the countryside for old barns filled to the hayloft with spiders. She’d collect them all and bring them to her attic. Create a spider refuge in his honor.
She sneered, holding nothing back. “Never.”
Shrupp reached for her face and gripped it hard in his large, rough hand. He tutted his disapproval, stepping close enough for her to smell the Castile and pine of his shaving soap. She forgot how to move, snared by fear and loathing. His nostrils flared.
“Your mouth says no, but your cunny says yes. Admit it. I can smell your arousal.” His dark eyes grew heavy-lidded. “You like a little cruelty, don’t you?”
“Get out,” she growled through her teeth.
Shrupp made a show of bowing grandly before leaving.
Standing in the middle of her study, indecision arrested her. She should burn everything her uncle gave her, she should chase after Marcus and finish what they started, she should do none of those things, go back to her room and never come out.
How could she be this stupid? She never should have dallied with Marcus. She should have taken a bath last night. This morning. It would have removed his touch from her skin. Instead, she’d relished it. She’d savored the way he made her body feel. She needed to wash herself clean.
In the kitchen, she stoked the embers in the hearth. Pumping the bellow made flames rise to the cauldron and burn hotter. She kept at it until she was sweaty and satisfied, then went out to collect a bucket of water from her well. The door glided into its frame with nothing more than a snick. She stopped in her tracks. The wood was still rotting, but the angle of the frame formed near right angles. New nailheads shone against the dull, gray wood.
There she was, trying to be mad at him for being mad at her, for making her want and making her need, and finding it all impossible. She let out a roar of irritation. Sissy barked her response from a distance.
Henrietta filled a bucket and trudged back to the hearth, pouring water into her empty cauldron. She went back for more until her cauldron was full. While the water warmed, she swept through her house and noted the absence of men. Bloody, mercifully, finally, alone. She needed better invectives.
She dragged her copper hip tub to her room and hauled bucket after bucket of water. Puddles left a trail through the hallway. She’d mop it later.
Locking the door, she disrobed and sank into the hot bath, letting her head gently fall back on the metal rim, with her knees bent and feet flat on the floor.
What a fool, what a fool, what a fool.
She squeezed the bridge of her nose to release some tension.
When she’d asked him to make love to her, she hadn’t been sure what to expect. Maybe she had a sense of it. After all, his kisses were like none she’d ever experienced. Her mother never taught her women could find pleasure in their bodies. Sam must not have known either, or didn’t think she deserved it. But Marcus did. Or he did yesterday.
Henrietta closed her eyes and tried to relax, pushing all of her thoughts away. The water lapped at her hips. It tickled where it skimmed her skin, alternating between cool and warm at the slightest wave. Not like Marcus who claimed her, leaving a little of himself behind as if he were marking her forever.
Well, she would prove she didn’t need him. She’d undo all the claiming he’d done and find her own ecstasy. No tears for her today.
Between her thighs, she explored. Where her folds came together, she found the small bundle of nerves Marcus had shown her. It fit neatly between her fingers, hardening as she tested her own sensitivity. See? She didn’t need him.
She tried wide circles and slow circles. She varied pressure and pressed against it as small tremors built deeper inside of her. A breeze fluttered the curtains of her open window, caressing the dusky peaks of her nipples, making them rise and harden with acute delight.
She tried to imagine Dr. Nealy’s hands doing the exploring, but the image of him faded as soon as he opened his mouth to tell her she was doing it wrong, that only witches found their pleasure. She squeezed her eyes shut and there was Marcus laughing with her.
She shook her head to let him out, but he refused to leave. Fine. Her hips flexed and bucked to her own indulgence. Marcus used his magical fingers on her, muttering how he wanted to please her.
One curious finger pressing inside of her wasn’t enough. His were thick and blunt, unlike hers.
Someone knocked on her door.
Henrietta scuttled to sitting, heart pounding through her ribs. A wave of water splashed out of the tub. Nearly slipping, she gripped the edge of the tub, trying to steady herself. She hadn’t heard either her front door or her back door bang shut. Of course not, he’d fixed them, the cad.
She glanced at her fingers, shriveled from playing under the water, and sat on them so she didn’t have to look at them while having a c
onversation.
“Who is it?” Her voice was too high and breathy. She looked down and slapped her hands over her breasts before the person could respond.
“Marcus.”
Drat. Or not. She was irrationally confused. Part of her wanted to invite him in. What was it Mrs. Gittel had said about finding someone to argue with? She wanted to argue him naked, use that anger to thrust her body against his, feel his heat, make him sweat. Good Lord, who had she become?
Overly heated herself, she said, “I’m indecent at the moment.” Forget her shriveled fingers or her erect nipples. She slapped her hand over her mouth. Why would she tell him she was indecent?
“Get decent. We need to talk.”
She made a sour face at the door, shooing him away as if he could see her. This time, she took her bathing seriously.
~ ~ ~
Henrietta wore her blue dress today. Her hair meticulously pinned and tucked beneath a dowdy cap. The woman in the thin shift and all her sumptuous curves wasn’t present. Pulling her toast from the griddle, she was harsh gestures and harder angles.
“Shrupp left.” Marcus waited for her to turn to him. “Tell me about the letters.”
Sissy padded into the kitchen to stand beside her. She dropped her rock on the floor and looked up expectantly. Henrietta frowned, ignoring Marcus as she brought a crock of butter to the table. She took her time slathering it on her toast with more force than necessary. The bread broke apart and crumbled. Henrietta tossed it on her plate, and it slid off the other side. Sissy caught it in her mouth before it hit the floor, swallowing it whole. Henrietta pouted. “I’m sure you can guess for yourself. You read one, after all.”
“Some of one, anyway.”
He had no idea what to say to her and knew he was screwing this up by getting mad. As it was, he woke up hard with the memory of her coming apart in his hands, the way she gave herself over to him, the trust she offered, and the trust she spoiled with a bunch of stupid numbers and letters.
A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 13