A very wicked christmas, p.25
A Very Wicked Christmas, page 25
“Hear, hear,” said Donald. “I agreed to test a few drops of your latest herbal mix. Not half a bloody cupful. Bad form, woman.”
“Oh, hush up!” yelled May, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “It wasn’t my fault the kitten pounced when I was measuring. Besides, I didn’t hear any complaints. Just pleas to whip you harder with the crop.”
“Stop it, the pair of you,” said Rosalind, her shoulders sagging with relief when a footman appeared with the sturdy wooden ladder often used to rescue her uncle from his treetop musings. He was like a cat – able to climb up, but never get down.
“I wish my husband would whip me with a crop,” said a glum voice beside her, and she turned to pat Mrs. Claire Vale on the arm. The young wife of a wealthy industrialist, Claire had been married to Phillip for five years, and the couple were Rosalind’s live-in clients at the present time. Unfortunately, even with the experience of thirty successfully assisted couples behind her, Phillip and Claire were proving to be quite the challenge.
“Mr. Vale is making good progress. Didn’t you say he permitted the candles in your room to stay lit when you were last intimate?”
“Yes. However, I want so much more from him. To be left all sweaty and messy and tender, so exhausted by his attentions I can barely see straight. But Phillip kisses me gently, holds himself up on his elbows so he doesn’t touch me, and apologizes for the inconvenience of his manly urges afterward!”
“If required, I’d fuck you hard, madam,” said Donald cheerfully, swinging his legs so hard he almost somersaulted off the tree branch. “Vale is a housecat, you need a lion. I was a soldier, you know. Calvary. Not much I don’t know about riding.”
“Bah. Mr. Vale may be shy, but I don’t see him climbing trees to converse with the faeries,” snapped May. “And if a certain lion attempted to mount another lioness, that lion would find himself short one appendage.”
Rosalind clapped her hands together. “How about we all go inside and discuss these matters over a nice pot of tea? There’ll be no mounting whatsoever if everyone catches a chill, now, will there?”
“Good point, Rosalind,” said Donald approvingly. “What a clever girl you are. Help me with the ladder, would you, there’s a dear. A wise man only communes at height with the faeries for a half hour or so…by Jove!”
“What?” shrieked May. “Are you hurt?”
“No, my dove. Just a carriage going much too fast on the main road…weaving all over the place…they’re going to tip. Slow down, you fools! Oh hell, the horses have broken away…they’ve tipped into the ditch by the driveway…they’ll drown or freeze!”
Not even stopping to think, Rosalind began to run, thankful she’d changed into her sturdy leather outdoor boots. Over her shoulder she called to the footman to fetch Mr. Vale and a cart, but continued at pace down the graveled driveway of Nelson Manor, her late husband’s adored country seat. The driveway was barely a half-mile long, but it still felt like it took hours to reach the stone pillars and wrought iron gates.
Hitching up her gown and tucking it into the sash around her waist, she carefully slid down into the ditch. The water was only about knee-height but icy cold, and she gasped, thankful at least she wore woolen stockings and suede gloves. Several feet away, the carriage rested on an ominous angle; the broken door hanging drunkenly on one hinge, its elaborate family crest gouged almost unrecognizable and the side window smashed. Two wheels were missing, probably in pieces on the road, and the end where the horse’s bridles usually fastened was gone completely.
“Hello!” called Rosalind, inching as close to the creaking, rocking mess of wood and metal as she dared. “Hello!”
No one answered, and swallowing hard, she bent to examine the carriage. A well-dressed man covered in blood lay sprawled across one seat, but when she gently picked up his wrist, there was no pulse, not even a faint flutter. Bile rose in her throat, but there was no saving him or the driver, who’d been mangled by the front of the carriage tearing away from the back.
Oh God.
“Rosalind! What do you see?” called May from the end of the driveway, her face bright pink from the exertion of running.
“I’ve found two men…a driver and a passenger. I think that’s it—”
A sound interrupted her, so odd at first she thought she’d imagined it. A groan? Was there someone else?
Hiking through the freezing, muddy slush, Rosalind peered around the back of the carriage. Partially trapped under a piece of door and almost submerged in the ditch was another man with a large, bloodied head wound. But his eyelids were fluttering!
“Lady Nelson!” yelled Phillip Vale as he and Donald brought the cart to a sliding halt on the snow-dusted roadside. “What can we do?”
“Two men are d-dead,” she replied, “but I think a third is still alive. We must move quickly – he’s injured and in the water.”
“I have some rope,” said Phillip. “Can you loop it under his arms? Then we can try dragging him out.”
Nodding, Rosalind tugged at the piece of door. Fortunately it moved easily, not yet frozen or embedded in the mud. But it revealed the man was huge, broad-shouldered, and very, very tall. “He’s large. I’ll need some help pushing him up.”
There was a small splash, and Claire waded toward her. “I’ll help you push, Rosalind. Phillip and Sir Donald can pull. My word, he is a big lad, isn’t he?”
“Sir,” Rosalind said loudly, touching his face. “Can you hear me?”
The man’s eyelids fluttered again, but didn’t open fully. Yet deep grooves appeared on his forehead and around his mouth as he grimaced. She could only imagine how the cold and pain must feel as it burst through the numbing shock of the accident.
“Help me,” he gritted out. “Please, ma’am.”
Rosalind’s eyes widened at the broad Yorkshire accent. He was far from home. “You just hold tight, lovely,” she soothed, wry tenderness enveloping her for a man who remained well-mannered in an extreme situation. “We’ll have you out of here in a moment. Can you wriggle your arms and legs? Good, good. Now I’m just going to tie this rope under your arms so we can lift you out. All right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Carefully, she eased him forward, thankful for her own five-foot-ten inch statuesque figure as she propped his head on her shoulder and looped the thick rope around his massive chest. All while fighting the urge to stop and hold him as his skin turned blue-tinged white and his body shook with violent shivers. “Not long now, sweet. Here we go. One, two, three…heave!”
It took four attempts to get the man out of the ditch due to his size, plus the extra weight of his sodden clothing, the thick mud, and the falling snow, but eventually they got him up onto the roadside and into the waiting cart. May chafed his hands, Claire draped a horse blanket over his legs, and Rosalind cradled his head in her lap as Phillip and Donald drove the cart at the briskest pace possible back to the manor.
Servants charged out the double doors at their yells, and soon the man lay in front of a roaring fire in the bedchamber adjacent to Rosalind’s own, while Donald, Phillip, and several footmen returned to the roadside, unwilling to leave the other two bodies in the ditch. Claire hastened to her own chamber to change her wet clothing, leaving Rosalind and May alone with the stranger.
“Poor dear,” said May anxiously, as she stoked the fire. “He is frozen solid. Although desperately lucky to escape with no broken limbs.”
“I can’t get him warm enough. He’s turning bluer,” said Rosalind, panic making her hands clumsy as she tried to tuck a heavy quilt around the man.
“No good. Won’t help if he is still wearing wet clothing. Cut it off him. I’d do it myself, but Donald will be back soon and expecting me to tend him.”
Sucking in a deep breath, Rosalind leapt up and snatched her husband’s ceremonial dagger from above the fireplace. Slowly, tentatively, she cut the man’s jacket and shirt away, revealing a heavily muscled chest and arms. Then she tackled his ruined boots and trousers, her eyes widening as the fabric tore to reveal strong thighs and a cock that, even flaccid, was long and very thick. “Do you think I should get some trousers…?”
“Better alive and unclothed than a modest corpse, dearest,” said May archly. “Perhaps you should warm him yourself; your cheeks are flushed enough.”
“Of course! Body heat.”
“Just as well you’re so tall, you’ll be able to cover most of him. The rest of us would be like frogs on a log…I must go see to your uncle. We’ll talk later.”
Rosalind bit her lip, unable to stop staring at the perfection of the naked man’s body. Giving herself a sharp mental slap, she quickly wrenched off her own clothing, cutting away her stays and the laces to her boots before cuddling into his side, clad only in a thin, thigh-length chemise. As she wrapped her arms around him, his skin was so cold it made her hiss in discomfort, but she gritted her teeth and held on.
Oh, but he was wonderfully large, making her feel positively petite. Her head rested on his shoulder, her nipples rasped against his chest, and that cock promised hours of ecstasy. He’d be a demanding lover, expert and sure as he took her on her back, from behind…made her ride him…
Rosalind sighed. If her well-paying clients knew exactly how much sexual experience she did have, they would demand a refund. Two men, one who’d bedded her precisely eleven times exactly the same way, and the other a thoroughly underwhelming one-time affair after her husband’s death. The rest of her knowledge came entirely from the eye-wateringly frank diary of a famed French courtesan and a little solo experimentation. Hardly the queen of fornication, but her and her young daughter Felicity’s livelihood relied on keeping up the Wicked Widow pretense.
On that thought, she closed her eyes and succumbed to exhaustion.
~ * ~
The world was askew in every way.
He was on the floor, lying on some sort of rug, definitely not in a bed. One side of his head felt like it had been stomped on by a mad bull. He couldn’t move. Jesus. His arm – something was wrong with his arm. And the temperature was far too hot to be England, surely.
Opening his eyes, Jack glanced around, his confusion only increasing at the sight of a roaring fire and an elegant and very expensively furnished chamber. This sure as hell wasn’t Northridge, so where on Earth was he? And what time was it? The light coming in the window on the other side of the room was too murky to tell.
“Mmmm.”
He froze at a soft moan, right next to his left ear. Slowly turning his head, he found himself staring at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She slept, so he didn’t know what color her eyes were. But her face was oval-shaped, and she had sweeping eyelashes as dark as her jet-black curls, a pert little nose sprinkled with freckles, rosy cheeks, and the kind of soft, plump lips that made his cock twitch.
Then he glanced down, and the world spun.
Holy hell.
He was naked. And apart from a short, very thin chemise, so was she.
Swallowing hard, his gaze travelled the length of the woman, unable to stop, for her body was as stunning as her face. Tall, certainly. Creamy skin. Ample breasts with large nipples visible through the fine lawn, narrow waist, flaring hips…and a thatch of dark hair between her legs, not quite covering the darker pink lips of her pussy.
Surely he hadn’t been lucky enough to lose his virginity to this beauty?
Jack blinked hard, trying desperately to recall the momentous event, even the lady’s name. All he got was a viciously pounding headache, right behind his eyes.
Which somehow triggered an erection.
Gritting his teeth, he stared at the fire, counted backwards from twenty, even recited a few macabre lines from Macbeth, to try to and distract himself. When that didn’t work, he tried inching away from the woman so his rapidly engorging cock didn’t touch her.
She moaned again and cuddled closer to him, one hand resting on his chest, her breasts pressing against his side and one leg sliding over his so her crisp nether hair brushed his thigh.
“Christ,” he breathed, almost panting now as his cock stretched toward his abdomen. A drop of pearly moisture appeared on the tip, the earthy scent combining with a citrusy fragrance coming from the woman’s hair and skin, and he groaned, the urge to handle himself and relieve the painful ache overwhelming.
“Oh! You’re awake. Thank heavens!”
Startled, Jack turned his head toward the woman, his cock surging further at her husky, seductive voice. Naturally, she was even more beautiful awake, her eyes a perfect matched pair of emeralds.
“Er, yes, ma’am,” he croaked, snatching a corner of quilt so it covered his groin, thankful beyond measure the fabric was thick and heavy. “I, ah…”
“Gracious, you are probably wondering where you are and who I am. Well, this is Nelson Manor in Rutland, and I’m Lady Nelson. Call me Rosalind, though – formality seems rather wrong after all this,” she finished with a musical laugh.
“You’re married?”
“Not anymore. I’m a widow.”
Unaccountably, his tension eased, although his cock remained hard as stone. “My name is Reynolds. Jack Reynolds. I’m from North Yorkshire, as you can probably tell from my accent. This is going to sound like the worst question in the world, but how did I get here?”
Rosalind frowned. “What do you last remember?”
Something about the question made him shiver, but oddly, his mind remained jumbled and foggy. “Building things in a shed. Lots of tools. I’m a carpenter and woodworker.”
“Nothing about the accident?”
Black spots danced in his vision. “Accident?” he repeated hoarsely.
She took his hand. “You were in a carriage accident. The wheels skidded on a patch of ice and tipped into the ditch outside the manor entrance. I’m so very sorry, but the driver, and the other man…your employer, perhaps…they passed away.”
Jack shuddered. “I can’t…I can’t remember. Hell.”
“It’s all right,” she said quickly, squeezing his hand again and stroking his arm. “I’m sure everything will come back in the morning; you did get a nasty bump to the head. But you were soaked to the skin and turning the color of blueberries, so I had to cut your clothing off and get you warm.”
“You saved my life.”
“I had help. My uncle and aunt, Sir Donald and May, Lady Kilburne. And Mr. Phillip and Mrs. Claire Vale. It’s after eleven in the evening, so you can meet them tomorrow. I know they’ll be so glad to see you are all right. But what about you? Is there someone I can write to in the morning?”
Sadness gripped him. “No. My mother passed just over a year ago. I don’t have a father, or brothers and sisters.”
Rosalind nodded, her smile sympathetic. “Perhaps a wife? Fiancée?”
“No, I’m not married. And I don’t have a fiancée…” he finished uncertainly, as something tugged at the edge of his mind. London? But why the hell would he go there? He didn’t know anyone in the capital, let alone a lady.
“Don’t tax yourself anymore. You need rest. I’ll warm some water and clean that goose egg on your head. You’ve got some bruising on your shoulder too.”
In minutes she had a porcelain bowl of water, a soft linen cloth, a small basket of distilled herbs, and a shawl to wrap around her own shoulders. Settling next to him again, Rosalind hummed to herself as she leaned back and forth between his temple and the basket, dabbing and dipping and pressing, her unfettered breasts bobbing with each movement.
Jack turned away and stared at the fire, concentrating on keeping his breathing even and not moaning at the goodness of her touch. He could do this. It was just his head and shoulder. Yet he couldn’t stop a hiss of pleasure when the edge of the cloth scraped his nipple.
“Oh! I’m sorry. A bit clumsy, was I? Well then. Let’s look at that leg of yours.”
“No!” he choked out, gripping the only thing between himself and embarrassment. If she uncovered him… “It’s fine, honestly.”
“It’s not fine,” she said sternly, reaching for the quilt. “Your leg was trapped under a piece of door…oh my.”
He turned his head back, but her gaze was firmly fixed on his groin. A thick silence ensued, as his cock grew impossibly bigger and harder under her rosy-cheeked yet avid stare. But he couldn’t move, not when Rosalind’s nipples visibly hardened under her chemise and she licked her lips. How could this kind, caring, and stunningly lovely woman be aroused by someone like him? Even the thought of kissing her, touching her, having her lush body underneath him…Christ. It would be heaven.
“You don’t have to tend me…I know what I am…just give me the cloth,” he said between frantic gulps of air.
“And if I want to very much?” Rosalind whispered, caressing his thigh.
His hips lifted involuntarily, nudging her hand higher, and when she brushed his cock, he groaned and murmured please. Ever so gently, Rosalind encircled his massive erection with her fingers and teased the damp head with her thumb.
He came.
Horrified, Jack could only gasp and buck as acute pleasure tightened and released his whole body again and again, sending long spurts of seed onto his abdomen and Rosalind’s hand.
“Sorry,” he gritted out, as pure humiliation set his face afire. The only opportunity he would ever have to be with a woman like her: in the aftermath of a situation where she pitied him enough to touch him, where the firelight disguised his eyes and misshapen hip, and he’d made an utter mess of it. Literally.
“Don’t apologize,” she said softly, her kind smile only making it worse.
Swiftly, he grabbed a thin blanket from a pile on the floor, and wrapped it around himself. “I hate to inconvenience you, Lady Nelson, but if you could please direct me to a guest chamber or the servants quarters – hell, the stables would do – and I’ll be on my way to the nearest town as soon as I can.”
“Jack. Mr. Reynolds. It’s all right, really it is. And this is a guest chamber.”
“Ah. Well, thank you. I really am quite tired,” he lied, praying she would leave so he could stand up without revealing his uneven gait, and the leg that occasionally just collapsed beneath him. The last thing tonight needed was another dose of utter humiliation.
