“Jasper,” she panted. “Jasper . . .”
“Yes, my love?”
“Touch me.”
“I am,” he said lightly, innocently, though his face shone with sweat.
She jolted against him, swiveling her hips to punish him, and for a moment he lost all coherent thought.
Then she said, “Not like that. You know.”
He shook his head gently and flicked her nipple again. “You’ll have to say it, my heart.”
She sobbed.
He should’ve taken pity, but alas he was a wicked carnal man, and he wanted to hear those sweet, prim lips utter the words. “Say it.”
“Oh, God, touch my pussy!”
And he felt the first spurt, just at the words. He gasped and thumbed her wildly rocking cunny, feeling his hard flesh working in and out of hers, and it was too much.
He arched up off the floor and caught her mouth to his to muffle his yell. And he came, exploding into her, showering her with his soul.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day, the king announced the second trial: to bring back a silver ring that was hidden atop a mountain, which was guarded by a troll. Once again, Jack waited until everyone left, and then he opened his little tin snuffbox. Out came the suit of night and wind and the sharpest sword in the world. Jack put on the suit and took up the sword and then whoosh! Whist! there he was, quick as you please, in front of the nasty troll and his blade. Well, this battle took a little longer than the first, but in the end, the result was the same. Jack had the silver ring. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
When Melisande awoke the next morning, Vale was already gone from the room. She brushed her hand over his pillow. It was still warm, and she could see the indent where his head had been. She was alone, just like all the other mornings of her short marriage, but this time it was different. She’d lain in his arms last night. She’d listened to his breathing, heard the slow thump of his heartbeat, been warmed by his hot, bare skin.
She lay a moment smiling before rising and calling for Suchlike. Half an hour later, she was downstairs, ready for breakfast, but her husband was not to be found.
“Lord Vale went riding, my lady,” a sheepish footman said. “He said he’d be back when ’twas time to leave.”
“Thank you,” Melisande said, and went into the little dining room to break her fast. It was no good chasing him. Besides, he’d have to come back eventually.
But Vale chose to ride his horse beside the carriage that day, and she swayed inside with just Suchlike for company.
They made Edinburgh by late afternoon and pulled up beside Vale’s aunt’s stylish town house just after five in the evening. Vale opened the door to the carriage, and Melisande only had time to place her hand in his before his aunt was welcoming them. Mrs. Whippering was a small, stout lady wearing a sunny yellow dress. She had rosy cheeks, a perpetual smile, and a rather loud voice, which she kept constantly in use.
“This is Melisande, my lady wife,” Vale said to his aunt when she paused for breath in her effusive welcome.
“So happy to meet you, my dear,” Mrs. Whippering yodeled. “Do call me Aunt Esther.”
So Melisande did.
Aunt Esther led them into her house, which had apparently been redecorated on the occasion of her marrying her third husband. “New man, new house,” she said merrily to Melisande.
Jasper just grinned.
It was a lovely house. High on one of Edinburgh’s many hills, it was of Whitestone and had clean, classical lines. Inside, Aunt Esther favored white marble and a checkered black and white floor.
“In here,” she called, bustling down the hall. “Mr. Whippering is so looking forward to meeting both of you.”
She led them to a red sitting room with paintings of enormous baskets of fruit bracketing a black enamel and gilt fireplace. A man so tall and thin he looked like a knobby walking stick sat on a settee. He had a muffin halfway to his mouth when they walked in.
Aunt Esther flew at him in a flurry of flapping yellow skirts. “Not the muffins, Mr. Whippering! You know they are not good for your digestion.”
The poor man gave up his muffin and stood to be introduced. He was even taller than Vale, his coat hanging on him in folds. But he had a very sweet smile as he peered at them over half-moon glasses.
“This is Mr. Horatio Whippering, my husband,” Aunt Esther announced proudly.
Mr. Whippering bowed to Vale and took Melisande’s hand, twinkling up at her roguishly.
The introductions made, Aunt Esther plopped herself down on the settee. “Sit down, sit down, and tell me all about your trip.”
“We were attacked by highwaymen,” Vale said obligingly.
Melisande arched an eyebrow at him and he winked.
“No!” Aunt Esther’s eyes rounded, and she turned to her spouse. “Did you hear that, Mr. Whippering? Highwaymen attacking my nephew and his wife. I never heard the like.” She shook her head and poured tea. “Well, I expect you frightened them off.”
“All by myself.” Vale smiled modestly.
“You’re lucky to have such a strong, brave husband,” Aunt Esther told Melisande.
Melisande smiled and avoided Jasper’s gaze for fear she might laugh.
“I think they should be hung, really I do,” the little woman continued. She passed a cup of tea to Vale and Melisande and one to her husband, admonishing him, “Mind you don’t add cream. Remember what it does to your digestion, dear.” Then she sat back with a plate full of muffins on her lap and announced, “I must take issue with you, dear nephew.”
“And why is that, dear aunt?” Vale asked. He’d chosen the largest muffin, and now he bit into it, spilling crumbs down his shirt.
“Why, this hasty marriage. There’s no reason for such haste unless”—she peered at them sharply—“there is a reason?”
Melisande blinked and shook her head.
“No? Well, then, why the rush? Why, I’d hardly got the announcement that you had changed fiancées and in the very next post—it was the very next post, wasn’t it, Mr. Whippering?” she appealed to her spouse. He nodded, obviously well used to his part in her monologues. “I thought so,” Aunt Esther continued. “As I say, the very next post, a letter came from your mother writing that you’d already married. Why, I hadn’t even time to think of a suitable wedding present, let alone make plans to travel to London, and what I want to know is why marry so fast? Mr. Whippering courted me for three years, did you not, Mr. Whippering?”
A dutiful nod.
“And even then I made him wait nine months for a proper engagement before we were wed. I can’t think why you should marry in such a hurry.” She stopped to inhale and drink some tea, frowning ferociously at her nephew.
“But, Aunt Esther, I had to wed Melisande as soon as humanly possible,” Vale said, all wounded innocence. “I was afraid she might call it off. She was surrounded by suitors, and I had to beat them off with a stick. Once I had her pledge, I got her to the altar as swiftly as possible.”
He finished this outrageous pack of lies by smiling innocently at his aunt.
The lady clapped her hands delightedly. “And so you should’ve! Well done! I’m glad you caught such a fine lady to make your wife. She looks like she has a level head on her shoulders—that should balance your foolery.”
Vale clasped his chest and swooned in his chair dramatically. “You wound me, dear lady.”
“Pish,” said his aunt. “You are a silly fool, but then most men are when it comes to women, even my dear Mr. Whippering.”
They all looked at Mr. Whippering, who tried his best to appear suitably scampish. He was somewhat hampered by the teacup balanced on his knobby knees.
“Well, I wish you both a long and happy marriage,” Aunt Esther declared, popping a bite of muffin into her mouth. “And a fruitful one.”
Melisande swallowed at the allusion to babies and looked blindly down at her cup of tea. The thought of holding a small bi
t of her and Jasper, of stroking baby-fine reddish brown hair, sent a bolt of painful yearning through her. Oh, how wonderful it would be to have a baby!
“Thank you, Aunt,” Vale was saying gravely. “I shall endeavor to father at least a dozen or so offspring.”
“I know you jest with me, but family is most important. Most important. Mr. Whippering and I have discussed this on numerous occasions, and we both agree that children settle a young man. And you, dear nephew, could do with a bit of settling. Why, I remember the time—” Aunt Esther cut herself off with a start and a squeak as she stared at the mantel clock. “Mr. Whippering! Look at the time. Look at the time! Why didn’t you tell me it was so late, you horrid man?”
Mr. Whippering looked startled.
Aunt Esther rocked violently, trying to get up from the settee. She was hampered by her voluminous skirts, her teacup, and her plate of muffins. “We have guests for supper tonight, and I must get ready. Oh, do help me!”
Mr. Whippering stood and pulled his wife from the settee.
She bounced up and ran to ring for the maid. “We’re to have Sir Angus, and he’s a terrible stickler, but don’t let that bother you,” she confided to Melisande. “He tells the most delicious stories after he’s had his second glass of wine. Now, I’ll have Meg show you to your room and let you wash up, if you desire, but be sure to come down by seven o’clock, for Sir Angus is sure to be on the doorstep at exactly that time. Then we shall have to somehow make conversation with him while we wait for everyone else to arrive. Oh, I’ve invited some lovely people.”
She clapped her hands like an excited little girl, and Mr. Whippering beamed down at her fondly. Melisande set aside her plate and rose, but Aunt Esther was listing her guests on her fingers.
“Mr. and Mrs. Flowers—I’ve seated you next to Mr. Flowers because he’s always quite kind and knows when to agree with a lady. Miss Charlotte Stewart, who has the best gossip. Captain Pickering and his wife—he used to be in the navy, you know, and has seen the strangest things, and—oh! Here’s Meg.”
A maid, presumably Meg, had entered the room and curtsied.
Aunt Esther flew to her. “Show my nephew and his wife to their room—the blue room, not the green. The green might be bigger, but the blue is ever so much more warm. There’s a draft in the green,” she confided to Melisande. “Now don’t forget: seven of the clock.”
Vale, who had been sitting all this while, complacently munching muffins, finally rose. “Don’t you worry, Aunt. We’ll be down precisely at seven and with our best bows and buttons.”
“Lovely!” his aunt exclaimed.
Melisande smiled, for it seemed quite useless to try and say anything, and began to follow the maid from the room.
“Oh, and I forgot,” Aunt Esther called. “One other couple will be there as well.”
Both Melisande and Vale turned politely to hear the name of these new guests.
“Mr. Timothy Holden and his wife, Lady Caroline.” Aunt Esther beamed. “They used to live in London before they moved to Edinburgh, and I thought they might be a treat for the both of you. Mr. Holden is quite a dashing gentleman. Maybe you even know him?”
And for the life of her, Melisande didn’t know what to say.
SOMETHING WAS WRONG with Melisande, Jasper thought later that night. She sat on the farther end of the long supper table from him, between the kind Mr. Flowers and the punctilious Sir Angus, the latter already on his third glass of tongue-loosening wine. Melisande wore a deep brown dress with small green flowers and leaves embroidered down the bodice and around the sleeves. She looked quite lovely, her pale oval face serene, her light brown hair softly pulled back. Jasper doubted anyone else in the room noted her unease save he.
He sipped his wine and considered his lady wife, smiling vaguely at something Mrs. Flowers leaned close to say. Perhaps the company of newly met people intimidated Melisande. He knew she was a shy creature, as all the fey were wont to be. She didn’t like crowds, didn’t like long social events. It was opposite to Jasper’s own nature, but he understood this about her, even if he could never feel that way himself. He was used to her stiff reticence when they went out.
But this unease was more than that. Something was wrong, and it bothered him that he didn’t know what.
It was a pleasant gathering. Aunt Esther’s cook was very good, and the supper was plain but enjoyable. The narrow dining room was intimately lit. The footmen were generous with the wine bottles.Miss Stewart was to his right. She was a woman of mature years, with powdered and rouged cheeks and an enormous gray-powdered wig. She leaned toward Jasper, and he caught the strong scent of patchouli.
“I hear you’ve just come from London, what?” the lady said.
“Indeed, ma’am,” Jasper replied. “Over hill and over dale we’ve ridden, just to visit sunny Edinburgh.”
“Well, at least you didn’t come in winter,” she retorted somewhat obscurely. “Travel’s dreadful after the first snowfall, though the city’s pretty enough—all the snow cloaking the dirt and soot. Have you seen the castle?”
“Alas, no.”
“You should, you should.” Miss Stewart nodded vigorously, making the wattles beneath her chin shake. “Magnificent. Not many English appreciate the beauty of Scotland.”
She fixed him with a gimlet eye.
Jasper hastily swallowed a bite of the very fine lamb his aunt had served. “Oh, quite. My lady wife and I have been stunned by the countryside thus far.”
“And so you should be in my opinion.” She sawed at her lamb. “Now, the Holdens moved here from London some eight or ten years ago, and they haven’t regretted it for a day. Have you, Mr. Holden?” she appealed to the gentleman sitting across the table from her.
Timothy Holden was strikingly handsome if one liked men with soft cheeks and red lips, which apparently most women did, judging from the feminine glances aimed his way. He wore a snowy white wig and a red velvet coat, worked in gold and green embroidery at the sleeves.
At Miss Stewart’s question, Holden inclined his head and said, “My wife and I enjoy Edinburgh.”
He glanced down the table, but oddly it wasn’t his own wife he looked at but rather Jasper’s.
Jasper sipped his wine, his eyes narrowed.
“The society here is quite superior,” Lady Caroline chimed in.
She looked to be a good deal older than her handsome husband and was titled to boot. There must lie a tale. She had blond hair so light it was nearly white, and pale pinkish skin that made her as nearly monochromatic as paper. Only her light blue eyes gave her any color, poor woman, and they looked rimmed in red against her colorless skin, giving her the appearance of a white rabbit.
“The garden is lovely this time of year,” she said. “Perhaps you and Lady Vale will honor us by coming to tea during your visit?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jasper saw Melisande go still. She was so motionless he wondered if she breathed.
He smiled politely. “I’m devastated to decline your kind offer. I’m afraid we stay only the night in Edinburgh. I have business with a friend who lives north of here.”
“Oh, yes? Who is that?” Miss Stewart inquired.
Melisande had relaxed again, so Jasper turned his attention to his neighbor. “Sir Alistair Munroe. Do you know him?”
Miss Stewart shook her head decisively. “Know of him, of course, but never met the man, more’s the pity.”
“A wonderful book he’s written,” Sir Angus rumbled from the far end of the table. “Simply marvelous. Filled with all manner of birds, animals, fishes, and insects. Most instructional.”
“But have you ever met the man?” Aunt Esther demanded from the foot of the table.
“Can’t say that I have.”
“There!” Mrs. Whippering sat back triumphantly. “And I don’t know a single person who has—save for you, dear nephew, and I don’t think you’ve seen him in years, have you?”
Jasper shook his head somberly. It was h
is turn to stare at the table and twist his wineglass.
“Well, how do we know he’s even still alive?” Aunt Esther asked.
“I’ve heard he sends letters to the university,” Mrs. Flowers ventured from his left. “I have an uncle who lectures there, and he says Sir Alistair is very well respected.”
“Munroe is one of Scotland’s great intellectuals,” Sir Angus said.
“Be that as it may,” Aunt Esther said, “I don’t know why he doesn’t show his face here in town. I know that people have invited him to dinners and balls, and he always declines. What is he hiding, I ask you?”
“Scars,” Sir Angus rumbled.
“Oh, but surely that’s just a rumor,” Lady Caroline said.
Mrs. Flowers leaned forward, putting her ample bosom perilously near the gravy on her plate. “I’ve heard his face is so terribly scarred from the war in America that he has to wear a mask so that people don’t faint in horror.”
“Poppycock!” Miss Stewart snorted.
“It’s true,” Mrs. Flowers defended herself. “My sister’s neighbor’s daughter caught a glimpse of Sir Alistair leaving the theater two years ago and swooned. Afterward she took to bed with a delirious fever and wasn’t well for months.”
“She sounds a very silly girl,” Miss Stewart retorted, “and I’m not sure I believe a word of it.”
Mrs. Flowers drew herself up, obviously offended.
Aunt Esther intervened. “Well, my nephew ought to know whether or not Sir Alistair is horribly scarred. He served with the man, after all. Jasper?”
Jasper felt his fingers begin to shake—an awful physical symptom of the rotting malaise within himself. He let go of his wineglass before he knocked it over and hastily hid his hand beneath the tablecloth.
“Jasper?” his aunt repeated.
Damn it, they were all looking at him now. His throat was dry, but he couldn’t raise his glass of wine.
“Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, it’s true. Sir Alistair Munroe is scarred.”
BY THE TIME Jasper helped see off his aunt’s guests, he was bone-tired. Melisande had excused herself from the company shortly after supper. He paused outside the door to the bedroom Aunt Esther had given them. Melisande was probably abed. He twisted the doorknob gently so as to not awaken her. But when he entered the room, he saw that she wasn’t asleep. Instead, she was making a pallet on the floor against the far wall. He halted because he didn’t know whether to laugh or swear.