Margaret Moore (14 page)

“I did not refuse you,” she retorted, twisting away from him.

“Elissa, listen to me, and listen well,” he said, his voice low and intense, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I am a proud man who does not take kindly to being treated like a flea under your petticoat.”

Her lip curled with scorn. “If you wish to find some excuse for your immoral behavior, do not look to me. I have done nothing wrong.”

“Not yet.”

“And I never will!” she cried hotly. She stepped close to him, so that she could see his face, and he hers. She would have him see that she meant what she said. “I will not dishonor myself by committing adultery.”

He raked his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Leave me.”

“Do you think I am your servant, to be so summarily dismissed? I am your
wife,
and deserve to be treated with respect. I am not one of your whoring actresses. I realize that although you are a nobleman and friend of the
king, you have been exposed to—”

“You have no idea what I have been exposed to,” he growled, “and I will not grovel because a woman finds me attractive.”

She straightened her shoulders. “And that is to be your clever, witty excuse? You will conveniently forget your fidelity to your wife upon such occasions? I daresay I should be grateful for the warning.”

“Madam, spare me the martyr’s pose, since you cannot play that role convincingly. There was nothing of the martyr about you on our wedding night—or have you conveniently forgotten that? No doubt you will next accuse me of dragging you down here against your will like some kind of barbarian.”

“If you will excuse me …”

He grabbed her arm as she went to leave. With the strength of a cornered animal, she wrenched herself free.

“Don’t you
ever
put your hand on me like that again!” she snarled.

Richard stared at her, shocked by the fierce look in her eyes. “Elissa,” he cried, aghast. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I only wanted—”

“Yes! Yes,
you
only wanted! What of me, my lord and husband? Is there any thought of what
I
might want in that handsome head of yours? Can you even conceive that others have suffered disappointments, too?”

Surprisingly, his coal-dark eyes softened. “Obviously not well enough,” he said with a
gentleness she would never have imagined he possessed. “I should have.”

“Yes, you should,” she muttered, nonplussed by the sudden change in him.

“I fear I have been a selfish beast. Can you forgive me?”

“If you have done nothing wrong, there is nothing to forgive.”

His lips slowly curved up into a genuinely pleased smile. “I assure you, Elissa, I am blameless tonight,” he whispered. “Why should I want Martha when you are my wife?”

And then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

For a brief instant, Elissa’s mind rebelled against the sensation of his mouth against hers, but only for an instant, as his tender kiss and warm embrace seemed to melt her fury and frustration.

She wanted to believe his explanation for what had transpired here. She did believe it.

Her robe fell open and she could feel the pounding of his heart through her thin chemise. Her own blood throbbed in her ears, pulsating through her body, heating her like the passion of his kiss.

As suddenly as he had started, he broke the kiss and swept her up in his strong arms.

“Where … where are you taking me?” she whispered.

“Somewhere we do not have to be quiet.”

Leaning her head against his chest, she
clung to him, wanting him to make love with her, remembering their wedding night and the incredible way he made her feel.

And there was more. In Richard’s arms, it was as if all the miserable years of her unhappy marriage had never been. She was at the beginning again, only this time, with no illusions, no silly, girlish ideas about men and love.

This time, she would not be a naive slave to a man’s desires. She would fulfill her own.

They went through the kitchen and a narrow door to a small, dark room that must be a storeroom, for a multitude of familiar odors greeted her, apples, flour and spices the most strong.

He paused a moment, then set her down on a soft pile of something in rough bags. Flour, she suspected.

Then he closed the door, plunging them into complete darkness and silence.

No, not complete silence, for she could hear herself breathing. And him, too—fast and heavy, perhaps from carrying her. Perhaps from some other cause.

He moved and she held out her arms, seeking and then finding him, catching him by the hand. As he had wanted her the night before, so she wanted him now, with an urgency she would not hide or deny.

She lay back on the soft pile, pulling him down beside her. Twisting, she kissed him
deeply and tore off his jabot. Her fingers fumbled with his buttons, undoing his shirt, and then she slid her hands inside to caress him.

His arms encircled her and held her close as a low moan escaped him. That sound made her feel suddenly powerful—as if she, a woman, could command him. That she, not he, could control their lovemaking, instead of being made to feel that she had no right even to enjoy it.

Heady with delight, desire, and excitement, she gently pressed the tip of her tongue against his lips. When they parted, she exulted.

Her tongue dancing with his, excitement built within her and she hiked up her chemise before slowly straddling him, pushing him back against the rough bags.

His erection pressed against her warm, moist cleavage, his shirt and breeches no real barrier at all. He sighed raggedly as his hands found her breasts and gently kneaded them.

Moaning softly, she started to move back and forth, only a little, yet the sensation—

She gasped as she seemed to explode with a throbbing, pulsating feeling the like of which she had never experienced, not even on her wedding night.

“I have to take you,” he said hoarsely, reaching down to swiftly untie his breeches. He yanked his shirt out of the way as she lifted her hips. Grasping him, she guided him,
and with a growl, he buried himself deep inside.

Placing her hands on either side of his head, she started to rock.

Breathing heavily, whispering encouragement and half-muttered endearments, he tugged at the knot at the neck of her chemise. Once it was undone, he slowly pulled it beneath her breasts, then raised himself so that he could take her nipple between his lips. She leaned closer as his tongue brushed against her, sending wave after wave of pleasure surging through her.

Tension built again, as if every sinew of her body was being drawn tighter. And tighter. And tighter.

And then they both cried out as the tension peaked, burst, and slowly, slowly ebbed away.

Elissa laid her head against his chest and listened to his rapid heartbeat, which was like the pounding of savage drums.

As it slowed, it became as comforting as the rhythmic swishing of the scythes of the laborers cutting the grain in harvest time.

“Good God,” Richard said with a ragged sigh. “To think all the times I played in this place as a lad, I never knew how truly exciting it could be. The bordellos behind Covent Garden might consider decorating a room with sacks of flour, baskets of apples, and jars of spices. I know I shall never react to the scent
of apples or cinnamon the same way ever again.”

She started to ease herself away from him.

“No, don’t go,” he cried softly. “There is no hurry, surely.”

“We should be abed, my lord.”

“I could become quite used to that form of address—except from my wife.”

“Perhaps you would enjoy it from the denizens of a Covent Garden bordello?”

He regally held out his hand. “I have never had to pay.”

“Sadly, all this activity has tired me, my lord.”

Richard cringed as he cursed himself. “Forgive me again, Elissa, for forgetting that you don’t understand that such talk is only meaningless banter. Now, since you have left me nothing save an exhausted husk, I must beg your assistance.”

“We are not in London anymore.”

He rose immediately and with swift, agitated motions, tied his breeches. “Elissa, I cannot change my habits of speech overnight,” he said with more than a hint of frustration. “I will do my best to govern my tongue, but zounds! You must have some patience. I have been amongst actors, courtiers and their women for fifteen years. This sort of talk is common in London. However, I shall try to amend my habits.”

When she still did not meet his gaze, he
reached out and gently took her hands in his. “Elissa, Elissa, my sweet, my wife, I do want to become the perfect country squire. Gad, that has been my goal for fifteen years.”

“Truly?”

He lifted her hand to his lips, then gazed at her with seductive, yet sincere, eyes. “I am sorry if my impetuous speech upset you, and I know I have much to learn from you in that regard.”

She flushed, and it was not just from his gentle kiss. “I think I have much to learn from you, too,” she said softly.

“Well then, wife,” he whispered, pulling her back down to the pile of flour bags, “we shall teach each other.”

“W
hat is the matter?” Elissa asked the next day as the coach came to an unexpected halt.

She looked at Richard, who was seated opposite her, beside the slumbering Mr. Sedgemore.

“I have no idea,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders and giving her what for any other person would be a small, friendly smile.

The look in his eyes, however, was far more than friendly and she blushed like a young girl in the first throes of romantic love as Will clambered up on the seat beside her to look out the window.

Meanwhile, Mr. Sedgemore dragged open his bleary eyes and yawned prodigiously.

The coachman’s head appeared at the window, an apologetic look on his face.

“I’m sorry, m’lord,” he said. “We’ve got a bit of a hill to get down and the road’s mudslick,
so I’m going to have to ask you all to walk.”

“I remember doing this when I was a boy,” Richard replied. “I think a walk in this fresh country air will do us all good, especially poor Mr. Sedgemore.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Sedgemore murmured groggily. He was obviously the worse for too much wine last night.

Elissa was in no particular humor to walk, either. She was rather fatigued due to a lack of sleep, as Richard should well remember. Unfortunately, last night’s activities appeared to enliven her husband instead of tiring him.

At least the way was not overly muddy, so there was not much chance of slipping, she noted as she disembarked, wincing slightly. Their nocturnal adventures had done more than weary her.

Her husband stood near the heads of the lead horses, surveying the road. Over in a nearby meadow, a flock of sheep ignored them.

Will jumped down, wobbling a little. “Is our house very far?”

“Over the next hill,” Richard said without looking back. “I could walk from here.”

He took a deep breath. “I have been too long in the stench of London,” he murmured. “And I believe that could be the very same flock of sheep I passed when I left home fifteen years ago. By God, they could be the same sheep.”

“It is five miles yet,” Elissa noted, not joining him in praise of the clean country air or amusing observations concerning livestock. “That is too far for the rest of us to walk.”

A five-mile ramble might be nothing to him, but it would be to her son, their fellow passenger, and her. Obviously, for all his play-writing, her husband lacked the ability to imagine walking five miles when one was only six years old, or suffering from a surfeit of wine, or wearing a petticoat and heavy skirt.

“I believe you are right,” he replied, sauntering toward them. “Indeed, I fear some of us will hardly be able to reach the bottom of the hill.”

He glanced at Mr. Sedgemore, who, with his hand firmly clasping the door of the coach, slowly got out of the slightly rocking vehicle. He staggered over to the ditch and promptly lost his breakfast.

“Men like that should stay away from wine,” Richard remarked without pity.

“Did the wine disagree with him, Mama?” Will asked.

“Yes, dear, it did,” she replied. Will was too young yet to hear much about drunkenness, and she gave Richard a look intended to convey her thoughts in that regard.

Her husband merely smiled and turned back to look down the hill. “Come, let us proceed.
There is a chestnut tree along this stretch of road I used to climb as a boy.”

“I shall see if Mr. Sedgemore needs any help,” Elissa said.

“I think he should reap what he sows. If he cannot deal with the result, he should stay away from—”

Will interrupted by pointing excitedly toward a huge chestnut tree a short distance away. It was about ten feet from the edge of the road and had enormous branches. “I want to climb it! I want to climb it!”

“I shall take care of him, my sweet,” Richard offered. “It is an easy tree to climb, if memory serves. Of course, it has grown somewhat.”

“Come on, then!” Will cried, running down the hill and toward the tree.

Its low, wide branches did seem created solely for the pleasure of small, adventurous boys.

“Very well, but don’t go too high,” she called after him.

She looked at Richard. “We must get on our way soon. I shall assist Mr. Sedgemore.”

“Do you think it wise to reward drunkenness?”

“Reward?” she asked, puzzled.

“If I knew you would play nursemaid, I would not have filled my cup only half full.”

Her eyes widened. “Is that how …?”

His grin was devilment incarnate. “I learned to drink with the best.” His voice dropped to
a seductive whisper. “I could teach you that, too.”

Blushing, she cleared her throat. “Should you not help Will?”

“Of course.” Richard strolled down the hill and toward the tree as if the road were the Banqueting House at Whitehall.

He really was too attractive …

“Lady Dovercourt,” Mr. Sedgemore called weakly.

Suppressing a frown, she hurried to help him. Fortunately, it seemed he had already found the best remedy for his ailment, for he appeared somewhat better.