D2D_Poison or Protect (16 page)

Preshea cocked her head, frowning. Her hands, thank heavens, never stopped moving – caressing, testing the weight and heat of him. She clearly enjoyed touching him and took reassurance in it. “Does that mean you wish me to be in charge, give orders? As though you were a servant?”

“If you like. I wouldna protest. Ideally, I should wish for plenty of time to learn what makes you moan, what makes you wet. I’d as lief please you without your having to ask, although I’m happy to take requests.”

She seemed to come to some decision, then she nodded. “If I am demanding, I always get exactly what I wish for from the milliner, and the dressmaker, and the cobbler, and so forth. Why should this be any different?”

He strained to hide a smile. “Why indeed? I’m thinking if we move to the bed, I might start taking measurements?”

A Scotsman Without His Beard

Preshea was going to say that, from last night’s endeavors, she already had his measure. Then she noticed something peculiar about his bed.

He had tied a cravat to each of the posts. It reminded Preshea of something she’d once learned, on the securing of prisoners for interrogation.

“I will not!” She revealed herself and her fear immediately in a way she would have thought impossible a few days before. “How could you ask?”

He rested a hand on her shoulder, gentling her like a skittish horse. “Softly, lass. Those are na for you. They are for me.”

“What?”

“You are a lass who prefers control. I’m thinking that in this way, you’d see me as no threat. Simply yours for the taking.”

She tilted her head. “For the asking?” she corrected, not liking the aggression in the word.

“That, I already am.”

Preshea was surprised to find how excited she was by the idea. This big man, entirely at her mercy, with no ability to act on his own needs. “You would do this thing voluntarily?”

“With pleasure.”

She did not use the knots she’d been taught (the ones that limited blood flow, designed to be cruel). She tied him firmly, but in a pretty bow. That way he could, with a little dexterity, pull the tail and be free without her aid.

He lay spread before her and under her gaze – passive, eager, and uninhibited. As if he had waited for this all along. She did not wish to think of him as different, but there seemed no way around it.

Preshea explored at her leisure. She used her hands mainly and her teeth a little to nip here or there. She applied lips and tongue sparingly, unsure but eager. She found herself delighted by his noises.
How close the sounds of pleasure are to those of pain.

She crawled over him on her quest, not concerned about her weight, so slight compared to his.

She adored that she could watch and see if what she did appealed. There was obvious evidence when she aroused him. He enjoyed the licks a great deal, her use of teeth slightly less so. Depending on how she moved, what he could see of her body also caused a reaction. She found herself playing him like an instrument, to see the way he jerked and moaned, the moisture beading at the tip of his cock.

“Lass,” he said. “You’re killing me here.”

“Now, now, I promise things would feel a great deal different if death were in play.” She was straddling him, faced towards his feet, exploring the length and texture of him with long, tight strokes.

“Just a taste, please?”

Again, she was amazed that he would want such a thing. But his eagerness was genuine, for when she backed up and over his face, he strained his neck up to taste her, using that wicked tongue exactly as he had previously to drive and torture her. She ground against him without thinking, chasing the tingling sensation, and he drove her towards it. He struggled against the ties as if he dearly wished to touch her, to hold her against his mouth. When the explosion came, it surprised her with its suddenness and intensity. She had been so delighted with her explorations, she had not realized how aroused she was.

She moved off and turned, collapsing back against the pillows, feeling wet and replete.

“You shaved. It’s nicer, less prickly.”

He turned to look at her, eyes heavy-lidded. “My valet couldna countenance the request.”

Oh, dear lord.
“He knows!”

“He’s no snitch, and he’s no notion which lass I might be entertaining.” He paused. “Or lad, I suppose it could be. He’s sour with ignorance.”

Preshea let out a relieved sigh. “Oh, well, then, if you’d risk a hanging offense simply to divert attention from me…”

“Dinna think as I’d go that far,
leannan sìth
.”

She was inspired to be devilish and twist his meaning. “You’re ashamed of me as a lover, keeping me secret from your valet?”

“Daft lassie. You’ve a reputation to protect. One that doesna, so far as I’ve heard, include being one of
those
widows.”

“No, I’m considered too dangerous for dalliance. Except by foolish Highland captains.”

“Exactly so. Now, am I risking much if I ask to be untied?”

She evaluated him. He was still fully aroused and no doubt eager to seek his own satisfaction.

She was not averse. But she was not willing, just yet, to cede control either.

“No, I like you captive.”

He gave a plaintive wiggle. Which caused certain parts of him to flop about in a ridiculous and highly unthreatening manner.

“I’ve plans, sir,” she instructed, tone severe.

He brightened. “Aye? Weel, I’m at your mercy, then.”

He was indeed. Preshea elected to take ruthless advantage of that fact.

She rode him again, the ties allowing her to set the pace with little influence from him, although he was straining and growling near the end and the bed frame was creaking in a most alarming manner. It was wonderful, all that coiled muscle vibrating under her with nowhere to go, and no means of release except what she permitted.

In the end, she dismounted and used her hands; far gone into lust though she might be, children, as she had said before, would be a liability. She found she enjoyed watching him spend himself to her will, at her dictate, under her touch.

Afterwards, she untied him. Feeling warm with release and delight and flushed pride at her new skills. She was also disconcerted by her decision to return to his bed. She’d no excuse for loving him a second time.
So, why did I?

Preshea Villentia refused to lie to herself. To others, all the time. To herself, never.

I wanted him. Simple as that. And he made it plain he was available to my desire.
Already I want him again. And I will want him tomorrow. And the night after.

But the house party would end, and they would go their separate ways, and she would never see him again unless she chose. And he would never see her again unless she chose, because disappearing was also one of her skills.

She left the bed, reaching for her dressing gown. “So, tomorrow night?”
I’m weak in the face of massive Scotsmen. Or at least this one.

“I’m na giving over my banyan, lass.”

She met his mock seriousness with her own. Good, tonight they would not talk about matters of the past or the heart.

“As if I would ask such a thing. Although I am glad you gave over the beard.”

“Mawkins will be suspicious.”

“I suggest you shave before supper. Perhaps that will allay his concerns.”

“You’re a devious creature.”

“You have no idea.”

“You secured the house before you came to me?” He reached for her hand, dangling at her side, and stroked her wrist with his callused thumb.

“Of course. Formerly Connie sends her regards. I believe she has a
tendre
for you.”

“Poor lassie, to die so young.”

“Still thinks we are engaged, wants to know when we’ll be telling her family.”

“Aye? When will we?”

“Please don’t.”

“Lass, I want this clear – I’d apply for the position of fifth husband, if you’d permit.”

“Oh, yes? Here I thought you desired a long and happy life.”

“Aye, lass, but I’d as soon a shorter one with you than a longer one without.”

“Careful what you wish for.”

“Lass—”

“No, don’t spoil this. Don’t make me remind you.”

“Remind me of what?”

Preshea took a breath. She had so hoped for a few more nights together. “It’s not lies, what they say about me. I’ve killed, and I was glad to do it, and it was easy. I should do it again if necessary. I’m good at it.”

“Dinna think my soldiering was all larking about in foreign lands. I’ll wager I’m a better shot with that little revolver than you are, and as like to kill more people with it. What matters that I did it all open-like, under sanction of queen and country? ’Tis still killing. I know how you feel.”

“Do you? Do you really? Did you enjoy it?”

He paused, sitting up, rubbing his wrists where the cravats had bit into his flesh. She remembered how he had rubbed her back the night before, to relieve the press of corset lacings. So much care in him, in his touch. “Sometimes, maybe. The heat of battle can be a place of passion, in its way. I was good at killing, too. ’Tis hard to turn aside from a skill at which one excels, no matter how civilization perceives that skill.”

Oh,
thought Preshea on a moment of wonder,
he does understand.
“But it’s
all
I’m good at.”

“Now, lass, I’m thinking that’s a wee falsehood. What we just did, you’re verra good at that.”

“Well.” Preshea was shocked to feel herself blush. “It’s not a skill I should care to market.”

“I hope not. What need have you, anyroad?” He seemed quite perplexed.

“You do not feel useless, having resigned your commission? Having given over your only talent?”

“’Tis not my
only
talent, either.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her lasciviously.

The conversation was not permitted to continue. Two voices commenced screaming down the hall.

* * *

Gavin cursed the interruption. He’d actually been getting somewhere with Preshea. She was not closing him off with her beliefs about herself; the ghosts haunting her words had been silent.

“What the devil!” He grabbed up the poker from the fire and made for the door.

“Put on your banyan.” Her voice interrupted his mad dash. Firm and cool and competent, like that of his major.

Instinctively, the soldier took over and he followed her order.

Preshea peeked out the door while he did so.

“Some kind of dramatic happening in the family wing, outside Lady Flo’s room. Oh, dear, I do hope Miss Pagril wasn’t even more foolish than last night.”

He folded over the front of the banyan. “What’s this?”

“They’re lovers. You didn’t realize?”

Gavin wasn’t too surprised. “I saw the intimacy. Didna think it was consummated. That’s possible, between women? Remarkable.” Gavin considered how such an undertaking might work, thrusting his feet into slippers.

“You’re the one with the wicked tongue.”

Gavin’s imagination soared. “Weel, yes. I take your point. Have you?”

Preshea gave him an exasperated look. “No. But while my own experience is limited, I have benefited somewhat from the expertise of others.”

“What?”

“Books, Gavin, dear. I read.”

“Oh.”

“Now do hurry. I can hardly be the first out of your room, now, can I?”

During the course of the conversation, Preshea had donned her dressing gown and slippers. She pulled back and coiled her hair in such a way that, although dressed
exactly
as she had been when she first entered his room, instead of sensual, she looked demure. It was in the way she held herself, the set of her shoulders, the expression on her face. Truly, his lass was amazing.

“Leave the door ajar when you go.”

He marched out, leaving the door behind him slightly open.

Everyone was awake, including a few of the servants.

Gavin strode down the hallway, clutching the poker, and looking as threatening as possible.

The hubbub was indeed centered on Lady Flo’s room. The titular occupant was in hysterics on her bed, wrapped in copious blankets.

Miss Pagril was fully dressed, thank heavens, and sitting nearby, clutching Lady Flo’s hand and glaring out the window. It was one of those upper rooms that had a large oriel window. It jutted out over the rear garden, providing a most desirable view.

The window was open to the cold night, and looming just outside was the Snodgrove private dirigible. Jack, paralyzed with horror, was half-in and half-out of the thing.

He had a piccolo in one hand and a lobster in the other.

The Duchess of Snodgrove stood near her younger daughter, having a protracted bout of hysterics.

The duke was pacing about – calling for the constabulary, his steward, the local magistrate, his scrivener, the town butcher, his favorite hound, and anyone else he could think of in any position of authority.

Lord and Lady Blingchester hovered in the doorway, eyes avid. “Gone off his crumpet, he has!” said the one to the other.

Lord Lionel was trying to calm his father.

Miss Leeton was tucked into a different corner of the room, clutching a sobbing Lady Violet, patting at her in a consoling manner. The actress’s eyes were bright with appreciation for the drama.

Gavin marched in and took control of the situation. Putting his poker to one side, he sent the butler off for smelling salts and sherry.

“Jack! Get yourself and that ridiculous craft out of here. What are you thinking?”

“I only wished to serenade Lady Vi!”

“Chose the wrong window, did you?”

“They’re rather difficult to distinguish from the outside when floating.”

“Why the piccolo?” Gavin couldn’t help but ask.

“It’s the only instrument I play.”

Gavin tried not to stare at the lobster. He decided not to inquire further. Whatever Jack’s reasoning, best to accept that crustaceans were necessary to his view of the world.

“Jack, you daft idiot, shove off.” Gavin loved Jack for his easygoing nature and big heart. He was truly the most loyal of friends. But the man could get right barmy notions in his head.