by Fiona Monroe
It was dark now, but there was some moonlight casting a pale silver illumination over the outbuildings. Above, the great back of the house rose like a cliff, with only a glimmer of light showing behind one of the upper windows. The dining room, where poor Gordon must be receiving dinner in awful solitude, looked out over the formal gardens in another wing.
John had no lamp, but there was enough moonlight to navigate easily toward the laundry. As he approached, he saw a glow through the partly-opened door. If Rosie was within, and he did not think she had gone anywhere else, then she must have lit a candle.
He pushed the door quietly, not wanting to alarm her.
She did not hear him immediately. There she was, a perfect vision in her neat, plain day gown, her cap slightly askew on her curls, locks tumbling from its confines, comfortably nesting amidst a pile of linens. She had indeed lit a small stump of candle, and she was intent on what looked to be a book in her lap. Her lips were moving silently.
He drew breath, and it was enough to alert her to his presence. She startled violently, slammed shut the book, thrust it into the basket at her side, snatched up her candlestick, and leapt to her feet, all in one swift, guilty movement. Then she stared at him with wide, bright, terrified eyes, and that charming crimson flooded her pretty cheeks once more.
"My lord!" she yelped.
"Hush, Rosie. There's no need to be frightened." He shut the door more firmly.
"I-I am truly sorry, my lord. I know I should not be in here—"
"According to whom, Rosie?"
"My lord?"
"Who forbids you this place?"
"It's not, well, it's the laundry, my lord. I've got no business here. But this time of night, no one's ever in here—the laundry maids do their work by daylight—it's out of the way, my lord. It's warm and smells nice, with the soap. I canna go to my room, my lord, I share it with Beattie. She's a parlour maid, and she, well, she'd tell my da."
"Your father?"
"Aye, my lord."
"Who is your father, Rosie?"
"If it please you, my lord, Mr. Spink, the head groom, my lord."
"Oh! That grim old blighter! I'm sorry, Rosie, no disrespect intended to your honoured father, but, damn it all, yes. Disrespect, for all that. Spink and I have had many a quarrel about my stallion."
Rosie pressed her lips together, nodded, and hung her head.
Spink, in charge of the stables since time immemorial, vehemently disapproved of the name of Lord John's favourite horse, in the first instance. Satan was not an appropriate designation for any animal in a decent Christian establishment, far less for the young noble master's personal mount. The man had had the impudence to attempt to insist that he, Lord John, change the name of his own horse. Then, Spink took issue with the beast itself, saying that it was too hot and high and ought not to be fed on oats or was too dangerous for him to ride at all.
"Well, well. Who would have thought such a blasted tree could put forth such a fresh and lovely bud?" He took a step toward her. "What would Beattie tell the old man? Are you being idle, my girl?"
She blushed the more. "No, my lord! I'm not wanted for anything, just now, my lord—I finished my duties—but my da would be angry at me."
"For what, Rosie?"
"F-for dallying with the book, my lord. My father doesna want me to learn my letters. He says there's no need for a girl of my station, that it turns a serving girl's head and leads her to wickedness."
"Tut, tut. He is doubtless right. May I see this iniquitous tome?"
She looked at him blankly, her mouth slightly open. She had pearly, exquisite little teeth.
"The book, Rosie. Show it to me."
Not taking her eyes from him, Rosie reached slowly under the concealing linens in the basket and drew out a very battered and grubby unbound copy of The Child's New Spelling Primer. The textbook, meant for very young children, was enlivened by simplistic retellings of Cinderella and Little Red Riding Hood.
"It is mine, I swear it, my lord," Rosie said anxiously. "I was given it as a present."
"By whom?"
"By Miss Bridie, my lord. Her ladyship's maid who went away to marry a Highlander."
"I know all about Miss Bridie, Rosie."
"Y-yes, my lord." She hung her head again.
It gave him a stab of dark amusement to realise that all the servants—even down to this little kitchen maid, as she had been at the time—believed that he had conquered Bridie and that her marriage had been a face-saving patch-up affair. For all Bridie's scruples, her obstinate honesty had not spared her reputation. She may as well have yielded to him as not.
"So, Miss Bridie encouraged you in defying your father's wishes, hey? That sounds just like the minx." He flicked through the disintegrating pages, which seemed as if they might be twenty years old, then tossed them onto the pile of laundry. "I hope you are more obedient in other respects."
"I-I try to be a good girl, my lord. Oh, my lord, please do not tell my father!"
She looked absolutely sick and faint with terror now.
"Hush, Rosie, nonsense. I care not a fig for you learning or not learning your letters; it's no concern of mine. Do you think I should trouble myself to run to the stableman with tittle-tattle about his daughter's doings?"
"Thank you, my lord, I—"
"But I do think it rather heartless of you to be sneaking out here and reading Little Red Riding Hood when this is a house of mourning."
"Oh! My lord, I know it is so very dreadful that his lordship—but that's another reason I came out here. All the servants are upset, my lord. They're afraid they will lose their place. Mr. Greaves says, who knows what will happen now? Who is in charge of the estate, my lord? Mrs. Swankie says it is his little lordship, but Aggie—she's the cook's assistant—said how can a wee bairn that size be laird over the whole of Dunwoodie? Mr. Greaves says there will have to be a regent, like the Prince Regent, my lord, and who knows what he will do? He might shut up the house. Wee Betsy was greetin' about it because she has no ma or da and nowhere else to go."
Relief that he was not about to betray her book-learning secret seemed to have made Rosie garrulous. Unfortunately, it was about all the things that John, himself, did not want to think about.
"Hush," he said, again, a little more harshly. "None of you ought to presume to speculate on what the family will do. It is not your place."
"No, my lord." Rosie looked abashed. "But there was a lot of noise and greetin' in the servants' hall, my lord, and I just wanted a wee bit of peace. Begging your pardon, my lord, I should be getting back."
She curtsied and glanced uncomfortably at him, for she could not make a move to leave his presence without first being granted his permission.
He knew she would not dare to move without his word, but he grasped her arm lightly anyway, to prevent her. "There's no hurry, Rosie," he said in a much gentler tone. "Put down the candle."
"My lord, please. I will get a row."
"It's the middle of dinner. You won't be looked for yet a while, I imagine. And if anyone asks, you may say that Lord John commanded your presence."
"Oh, no, my lord. No! I cannot say that." Rosie looked truly frightened again.
"Why the Devil not?"
"M-my father, my lord. He forbade me to—beg your pardon, my lord—he said I was never to go near you again, could I help it."
"Did he indeed? Well, confound the impudence of the fellow. I am your master, am I not? And his, for that matter? So, Mrs. Swankie, good woman, told tales?"
Rosie twisted her hands in her skirt.
"I should have thought she would have had other things on her mind this morning than to go blabbing her master's private doings to the stableman. I shall have words with her."
"Oh! My lord. Don't, I beg you—she will know I spoke out of turn."
"Don't worry, Rosie. I shall order her to treat you well."
"Th-thank you, my lord. May I be excused?"
"You may not. You ma
y thank me instead, not with words, but with a kiss."
"Oh, no—"
Rosie turned her head aside with more determination than he had expected and clamped her lips together. His own lips made contact, instead, with a mass of dark curls, sprung from below her cap in the brief struggle. When he tried to clasp her against him, her body was rigid.
"Rosie," he growled, keeping hold of her stiff, unyielding form. He feared that if he released his hold, she would bolt from him.
"I must not! My lord, please don't. Oh, I must not!"
"I only want a kiss, Rosie. Come, sweet maid. Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made for kissing, lady, not for such contempt."
He found the bare skin on her neck, since she would not give him her mouth, and placed gentle kisses there until he felt her beginning to melt in his arms. A sigh escaped her at last, and he dared to touch her chin and turn her face toward him. After a look into her wide, frightened, yearning eyes, he took possession of her lips and ran his hands down her spine.
She moaned and pulled away with a sudden violent twist. "No, I canna. I must not!"
If he had not caught her wrist, she would have run from him. He did not restrain her with any great force; her flight was half-hearted, and she allowed herself to be pulled back against him.
For a few moments, he held her shivering form close, without attempting any further attack on the fortress of her maidenhood. She seemed to be half-sobbing into his shoulder, clinging to him rather than repelling him.
"There's no need to be frightened," he said as soothingly as he could. "You want to kiss me, don't you? There's no harm in that."
"My father—" She gulped and sobbed.
Oh, curse the man. "You disobey him over the matter of that miserable story-book, but you will not defy him to oblige your lord?"
"Oh, no, my lord, but he knows about—this morning—and he gave me such a hiding, my lord, and he said that if he heard that I so much as exchanged a word with you again, that would be nothing compared to what I'd get. He'd make sure I'd not sit down for a fortnight. If he knew I kissed you—"
"But he won't know, Rosie. Nobody will know. We are quite alone here."
To prove the point, he kissed her again more forcibly. This time, she did not resist at all. After having explained her reluctance and her father's anger, she seemed to surrender and relaxed into the embrace. When he tweaked down the front of her bodice and released first one, then the other delightful orb, she offered no protest. Her breath became ragged as he toyed with them, caressing and kissing them.
"There," he murmured and manoeuvred her gently backward toward the pile of laundry.
When he eased her down onto the crumpled sheets, she gave a sharp yelp.
John ventured to pull up her skirts. Her sturdy legs were bare, as they had been that morning; unlike this morning, her upper thighs and her plump, luscious backside were striped all over with angry purple and black weals. He pulled in a breath. "By God, you weren't wrong. That looks like as sound a thrashing as ever I had as a boy."
Rosie lay passively, no longer attempting to cover herself up. "My da took down a strap from the tack room, my lord. Oh, it hurt so much, worse than any hiding I ever had before. He said I deserved no less."
"Very likely," John muttered. The girl must have been in pain all day. Perhaps another reason she had come out here to read, was that the laundry pile was soft enough for her to sit on that poor, punished bottom. The strap must have landed at least two dozen times across the fair flesh, wielded with the full strength of the old stableman's wiry arm. The father had cause enough to be angry with his daughter, but the sight made John wince in sympathy. He even felt a little guilty.
"Well, Rosie," he said as he rolled her carefully over onto her back. "Since you have endured the pain of your punishment, I think it only fair that you discover the pleasure you suffered for."
Her tear-filled eyes blinked at him blankly. He kissed away the tears on each lid then ran his hand in one deft movement up the smoothness of her inner leg. His fingers found her already hot and taut and ready, and as he touched her, she moved instinctively against him with a satisfying moan in her throat. She offered no protest at all as he took her knees and spread her legs wide, only hissed and squirmed a little at the pressure on her sore backside.
John lifted the candle close to enjoy the glorious sight, for a moment, of that pink unploughed furrow. He was scarcely conscious of his own movements in unbuttoning his breeches and letting loose his straining, rock-hard manhood. Though his senses were clouding with ravenous desire, he held back to stroke and even kiss the nub of her womanhood until she was whimpering and gasping, "My lord! Oh, my lord!"
No more pleas for desistence, no longer even a pretence of reluctance or coyness. She would know what sweet delight was, to recompense for her suffering; and he would pay the stableman back for his many insults, by taking his daughter's virtue. With little thought to spare now for gentleness or for her tender nether regions, he thrust her back amidst the linens and plunged heedlessly between her thighs.
He was dimly conscious of her giving a cry, near a scream, as he pierced her maidenhead and pressed his full weight down on her bruised bottom. He did not mean to hurt her, but he could not stop now. Moments more, and she gave another cry, of quite a different timbre; and as she did so, he felt her body arch and her fingers dig convulsively into his hair. It was the last thing he was conscious of before the world exploded, in suspended seconds of transcendent delight.
Nothing existed. James choking to death in front of him, Contarini and the dagger in the bed, the chapel in Venice and the girl with the veil, his vow, the lies his vow entailed, Bridie's shining eyes. Nothing.
"Rosie?"
Rosie shrieked.
The scream went right into his ear, ripping through the moment of bliss and temporarily stunning his senses. Without knowing what he was at, John lifted himself from the girl and staggered to his feet.
Standing in the opened door, in the eerie and faintly demonic light of a hand-held oil-lamp, was the sturdy figure of Spink, the head groom.
Rosie scrambled back into the pile of linens, frantically pulling down her skirts and rearranging her bodice.
With dreadful clarity, John saw Spink's sharp, ferret-like eyes dart between his own lowered breeches and his daughter's state of dishabille and understand the whole in a moment. The man uttered a growl of rage, animal in its intensity, and before John could react—before he could begin to believe that a servant on the estate would ever presume to lift a hand to him—Spink had lunged for him, and the side of his head exploded.
There was a moment of dizzying red and black, then his face was on the flagstones and the screaming—high, frantic, surreal—had begun again.
"Da! No! Da! Dinna hurt him!"
John felt himself suspended and realised that Spink had lifted him half off the floor. The stableman's snarling face was inches from his as he drew back his arm to aim another blow. His eyes, John registered dully, were red and full of tears.
"Da! No! You'll kill him!"
Abruptly, John felt himself fall backward, with a sick pain as the back of his head banged onto the stone floor.
There were running steps and voices, and then hands on him. Gentle hands, urging and helping him to sit up. And sobbing, heartfelt, wrenching sobbing.
John slouched in the chair next to the study fire with his forehead in his hands, while Gordon faced the malefactor. As soon as he had more or less recovered his senses, John had waved away all assistance, but his head was aching within, and his jaw was throbbing without. He thought he would ask for brandy and a cold compress later, but for now, he could not bear any solicitude. He was ashamed of being caught so far off his guard, of not having the capacity to fight back. He did not want this underling to see how well he had overcome a gentleman.
Spink had been marched into the presence of Lord Gordon between two sturdy footmen, under the severe eye of Greaves, the butler. It had take
n a footman and two gardeners to restrain the stableman and prevent any further assault on their master.
Gordon was pacing in front of James' desk, in a fair imitation of the recently deceased laird. His step was more measured, however. There was none of James' angry energy. His tread was deliberate; his silent fury was tactical; it was all done for effect. It was the theatre of the House, John thought through the pain in his brow.
"Well," said Gordon, after that judicious and ominous silence. "Have you anything to say for yourself, Spink?"
Spink had Souter's hand on one arm and Gurthie's on another, but he still tried to launch himself forward. "His lordship took my Rosie's honour! I'd do it again—let me at him! I don't care for all he's a great and mighty lord, he laid his filthy hands on my wee girl—I'll kill him, I will—"
"That will do, Spink," said Gordon imperturbably. "Any more talk like that, and I will have you put out the gates at once, thirty years' service or no. It won't do your daughter any good for her father to lose his position."
"There's nothing as will do her any good anymore! She's lost—ruined—her poor ma, I promised I'd keep her safe and honest—" Spink's fury seemed to collapse, and he sagged, defeated, between the two footmen. "My poor Meggie. What can we do? You great folk can do to us as you please. But you'll answer for it on the Day of Judgement, by God, you will. Aye, there'll be no lords and ladies when we all stand before the Eternal Judge."
"That is enough of such talk, my man. The Lord put us all in our place upon this earth, and you would do well not to question His will. And you cannot, whatever you perceive the provocation to be, lay violent hands on your betters, do you see? You shame yourself, and you dishonour your late master, the Marquess, by causing this disgraceful brawl on the very day of his passing out of this world."
Spink's shoulders sagged the more. The fight seemed to have gone out of him completely. "I am sorry, my lord. I meant no disrespect at all to the laird, who was as upstanding a noble gentleman as ever lived."