Death by Ploot Ploot

  "Nay, sweetling, get closer to me," he rasped hoarsely.

  Get closer to him? Was he mad? Did he not hear her words? She was as close as she could get. And that was the problem. "Have you been hitting Mabel's secret rum stash, perchance? I am as close as I can get."

  He shook his head no.

  "I'm not?"

  He nodded, indicating the area below their waists.

  "What do you mean?" Now she was curious– against her better judgment. They were stuck together as if glued. Perhaps they had to get as close as they could to disengage? Was it like that Oriental finger cuff her cousin had once given her?

  Once caught in the tube the only way out for each side was to push together. This must work on the same principle. How embarrassing!

  What was wrong with the man that he would even think of doing such a mad thing in the first place? Now they were both locked together. At least it didn't quite feel as bad as before. No, it felt... bearable. Strange.

  Intimate.

  Good lord, the infamous Tyler Devon was actually inside her.

  "Move towards me," he instructed.

  “So it is like a finger trap.”

  He tried to ask; he really did. But he was dumbstruck.

  Meanwhile, Ginny decided to take the initiative and move towards him. “OH.”

  And again. "Oooh."

  Tyler gave her a guarded look as there was no telling what strange simile would come this time. He was still tangled up in the finger trap bit.

  "It's quite a situation, isn't it, my lord? Do you think the motion will loosen us up?" She didn't wait for his answer; didn't even look at him. She simply started wiggling back and forth with short, fast, jerky movements that were quite determined.

  To unman him.

  Blanching, Tyler grabbed her shoulders. "Cease!"

  Ginny paused and glared up at him, a hank of hair covering one eye. "Why?" She seemed annoyed at the interruption.

  "Slower, for now. And smoother. Like this."

  He moved forward, thrusting into her with a long, slow stroke.

  A puff of air escaped her throat. "That is better."

  She smiled up at him. "It's almost... likable, isn't it?"

  "Almost." His lips twitched with amusement. "How about this?" he murmured. He clutched her hips beneath his palms, his fingers splaying over the hipbones.

  Holding her steady, he began to show her a little of his hard-earned expertise on the subject. If his years spent as a wastrel were for naught else, at least he could bring pleasure to her. He found his rhythm, gliding in and out, giving her as much friction as he dared this first time.

  Gently, he surged inside the moist canal rubbing against a spot he knew would soon excite her over the edge. The dewy walls quivered in response. Tyler increased speed very gradually, not too fast, not too hard this first time–

  just even deep, strokes.

  Ginny was stunned at how good it felt. He was bringing her round to his point of view on the thing with hardly a word spoken in its defense. In this circumstance, actions definitely spoke louder.

  Tyler angled his head, fastening his mouth over hers. Ginny cried out with pleasure against his sweet lips as his member thrust solidly inside.

  What tastes and feels this good?

  Nothing that she could recall.

  Mabel’s Yule cakes are quite delicious...

  Not. Like. This.

  Nothing like this!

  Tyler thrust into her again and again and it seemed to him that riding Ginny quickly became akin to riding a storm at sea. Unlike most ladies of the ton, she was not content to lie still and be acted upon. She writhed beneath him, bucking, scratching his back when he ground his hips into her (once biting his shoulder when he slammed into her a mite harder than he intended). She was as earthy as he, apparently, when it came to matters of the flesh.

  He adored every response. He adored her scent and feel and touch.

  But, most of all he adored her taste.

  Sweet and soft with an inexplicable hint of raspberries.

  The wild beating in his chest grew stronger and faster. For the first time, he was touching, he was feeling, he was connecting... Yes... yes... God, yes!

  He shimmered with scented bathwater and clean sweat; his breath grew ragged as he pinned her to the mattress. "Speak no more of this being a marriage of convenience, Ginny, for I vow I will take you as my wife fully this night. You belong with me."

  Passionately, his lips seized hers as she reached her first peak. She breathlessly cried out into his mouth, her moans of completion tumbling down his throat, making him shiver.

  Aye, she was his now.

  But who actually belongs to whom, he wondered as he quickly found his own best release in a pleasurefilled garden of raspberries and rejoinder.

  Spent, he dropped his head onto her shoulder, his body slick from their lovemaking. Even so, the strange tugging in his chest was not weaker as expected– it was stronger. The fire still blazed.

  Eventually, he would catch his breath.

  But his heart, he knew, was long gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tyler heard a splash.

  Followed by fast paddling sounds and a low growl.

  He opened one eye.

  Charles’ fat head bobbed next to him.

  The idiotic cat was skirting the perimeter of the tub.

  As the furry boob swam around in circles, his front paws were frantically treading water in an attempt to stave off a drowning.

  Gaping at the sight, Tyler watched astounded as the cat’s eyes narrowed. He had sighted his slippery prize. The coveted, drenched wig floated just out of his paw’s reach.

  Down the corridor, a door opened and closed with a brisk snap.

  Heavy, shuffling footsteps followed by wheezing indicated that Mabel Dooley was frantically careening up the hallway.

  “Where has that rapscallion gone to now?!” Her disgusted mutters filtered under the bedroom door.

  Tyler was fairly positive the woman was referring to Charles.

  At least, he hoped so.

  As if in response to his thoughts, she harrumphed out loud. “I can’t keep me eye on that bugger tonight wot wit’ the strange goings on in this household!”

  Hmm. Perhaps not the cat.

  Ginny’s stalwart maid was sure to have something to say to him come the morning. None of it would be good he was positive.

  She had probably already figured out that he had tricked Ginny right from the start.

  Of course, he had something to say to her as well.

  He intended to find out her part in the Reggie Moore debacle.

  As Mabel came closer, Charles made a last desperate lunge at the wig.

  Tyler cocked his head to the side and continued to watch the madness. Ah success.

  The willful feline somehow caught the wig in his jaws and was now managing to use the edge of the tub as a cantilever for his chubby, sopping body. Prize in tow, the cat belly-flopped from the metal rim to a splayed landing. Sans dignity, he shot past the bed to the door– all four legs skidding wildly in different directions.

  Tyler rolled his eyes and wisely decided to go back to sleep.

  He recognized a ship of scalawags when he saw one.

  * * *

  A soft tapping awoke him sometime before dawn.

  Careful not to awaken Ginny, he padded soundlessly to the door. Opening it a crack, he was greeted with Pratt’s apologetic expression.

  “I beg pardon, my lord, I know you indicated that you did not wish to be disturbed for any reason, but a man just delivered this message for you saying it was quite urgent. I did not think it prudent to wait until morn even though you were–” Pratt’s face turned bright red; they both knew exactly what Tyler had been doing.

  He held his hand out for the letter. The prearranged, nondescript cartouche told him who had sent the message. He quickly broke the wax seal to read the note:

  Devon, The package we spoke of is in
imminent danger of falling into wrong hands. A mutual acquaintance seeks to procure it; no doubt in the hopes of getting a steep price from me. I realize this is an imposition, but might I impose on our relationship to ask your immediate aid in this matter? I thank you in advance for I know you will not let me down.

  Yours in friendship, A.

  Tyler exhaled slowly, deep in thought. The letter was carefully written, but he had no trouble reading between the lines. That hornswaggler Creaze had gone behind his back and sailed for Cornwall!

  The Lion was a wanted man in England. Unlike Tyler, his identity was known by some. If he ever stepped foot on English soil, he would be hung forthwith. The man had no choice but to ask him for help.

  The Lion rarely asked Tyler for anything, although he would have gladly done him any favor. The fierce pirate had saved his life on more than one occasion and the two men had been fast friends for years.

  He would have to leave at once if he hoped to catch up to Creaze.

  “You did the right thing, Pratt. Good man. Meet me in my study in fifteen minutes. I will be leaving shortly, and I will need to make some arrangements first. Have my horse saddled and ready.”

  “Very well, sir.” Pratt nodded and left.

  Tyler quickly donned his discarded breeches, shirt and waistcoat. Combing his fingers through his unruly hair, his thoughts strayed briefly to what had caused those tangles the night before. Ginny. She had run her fingers through the thick length over and over.

  He sighed. He hated to leave her now, but he had no choice.

  She would not be happy with what he was about to do, but it was for her own good. And his. Even the grandson of a duke would not be able to save her reputation should it be discovered she was the writer of Reggie’s risqué

  Methinks articles.

  He could not risk possible scrutiny revolving around secrets in his house.

  A stranger twist of fate he could not have written.

  Both of them lived in a masquerade.

  Standing beside the bed he fought the urge to run the back of his fingers along her downy cheek. He had taken a vow to protect her, and he intended to keep it.

  Slowly, his hand dropped away; he did not want to awaken her.

  It was better this way.

  Less questions for him to answer.

  Grabbing his boots, he cast one last longing glance at his sleeping wife before he softly left the room.

  Once in his study, he sat behind the desk and penned two quick letters, sealing them in wax with his crest.

  He rang for Pratt.

  Though the sun would not rise for a few hours, the good butler answered his call almost immediately.

  “Sir?”

  “I must leave at once. Give this letter to my wife when she arises, and this one to her lady's maid, Mabel.” He handed him both letters.

  “Yes, your lordship.”

  “Lord Henry is not to see my wife until I return. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, my lord. Quite clear.” Pratt coughed behind his hand. “And how long will you be gone this time, sir?”

  Tyler glanced at Pratt, surprised. The butler had been too discreet to ask him such things in the past.

  Pratt reddened as he realized his lordship misinterpreted his interest. “In-in case her ladyship should inquire, sir.”

  Tyler’s brow furrowed. “Ah, yes. Well, I’m not certain.

  Hopefully, not more than a fortnight.”

  “Very good, sir.” The butler turned to leave but hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. “Take care of yourself, sir,” he added softly.

  Tyler was somewhat shocked, and oddly moved.

  He did not how much the man knew, but he had always been the soul of discretion. “I will. Thank you, Pratt.”

  * * *

  Tyler switched his horse at the usual place– the stable would board his stallion until his return. From the inn, a hired hack took him near the docks. He walked the few blocks to the docks. He was always careful to leave no trails to his other life. London was the busiest port in the world; wharves lined the Thames for miles. Thousands of ships docked in port, but it still paid to be alert.

  The Chameleon perched prettily in the water as it awaited his return.

  The smart brigantine was specially modified for speed with extra cannons added because Tyler always relished a good battle. Once out in open water, she would look a mite different. Her light sails would be replaced with dark ones so that during the day the ship would instill a proper fear– while at night, she’d be favored for a sneak attack.

  Tyler headed straight for his cabin to change. His first mate and quartermaster, Cappy– who always preferred to remain on board with a few trusted men when they were in port– followed him.

  “What’s going on, Capt’n? Are we away?”

  “Aye. Gather up the crew quick as you can.”

  “Aye, aye, Capt’n. Shouldn’t take too long. Those swabbees have been itchin’ to get back ta business.

  Where we headed?”

  “Cornwall.”

  “Cornwall? A right difficult business that; I’m not partial to the coast. Those rocks have taken more ‘an few blokes to a watery grave.”

  “Do not fret; we’re not going to interfere with the runners there. We will be the soul of discretion.”

  Cappy screwed up an eye. “And what will we be doin’ in bloody Cornwall?”

  “We’re out to snare a puffed up fox.”

  “Good enuf then.” Cappy nodded and left.

  As Tyler wrapped a scarf around his head, he felt a sheet of paper crinkle against his chest. The poem.

  Taking the page out, he glanced at the title. Rogue Heart.

  He snorted.

  Lord Devon had gone soft.

  Wadding up the paper, he threw it to the floor. The sudden pitch of the ship caused it to roll under his bunk.

  Nothing ever turned out the way one planned.

  Bloody hell, he was in love with his wife.

  * * *

  Ginny awoke to an empty bed.

  Which was not a bad thing since it was Lord Devon’s bed.

  Memories of the previous night flooded her mind causing her to blush. Not from embarrassment. From desire.

  The man had been incredibly passionate. She was positive the room was still steamy from their heated encounter. And the experience had ended as decidedly delicious– even if the act seemed an abnormal thing to engage in at first.

  Ginny had always noticed that Tyler withheld certain parts of himself from others, yet, he had been so raw with her last night... so...

  The door burst open.

  “Eeek,” Ginny dived under the covers to hide her nakedness.

  Mabel barreled into the room, bearing a breakfast tray. “Ye can come up outta there, it’s not as if I haven’t taken care of ye, y’ whole life.”

  Charles pranced in beside her, looking very smug for such an early hour.

  Ginny peeped out from behind the sheet. “Are you alone?”

  “Aye, I’m alone.” She plopped the tray down on Ginny’s lap, sloshing the pot of chocolate. “And so are ye, from the looks of it.”

  Ginny flushed. “What does that mean?”

  Mabel tossed a sealed letter at her. “That prissy fellow Pratt asked me to give this to ye when I brought up yer breakfast. And in case ye feel special, I got one as well– although I’m sure they read different.” Mabel glowered at her.

  Ginny returned an innocent look. “What did I do?”

  “Hmpf!”

  Her shoulders sagged. “It was all Lord Devon’s doing; he just, sort of, came at me, and then...” She picked at the blanket.

  Mabel, realizing Ginny was talking about an entirely different subject, was immediately contrite.

  She sat down on the bed. “He didn’t hurt you, did he, love?” She patted the girl’s hand.

  “Hmm? Oh, no, not at all. Actually he was quite, ah–” She bit the inside of her cheek.

  Mabel snorted know
ingly. “One can imagine. Did I not tell ye he’d be a fine lad that one? And ta think, he’s put out with me after we got on so well.” She sighed dramatically.

  “What are you talking about?” Mabel handed her a dressing gown, which she put on under the covers.

  Charles jumped onto the bed and flopped across Tyler’s pillows. The portly cat rolled onto his back and scooted about, making sure to scratch his back all over the fresh linens. Objective accomplished, the rascal then made a beeline for Ginny’s custard.

  Mabel swatted his nose. “Ach, get away from that, yer bugger! Didn’t ye already have two in the kitchen?

  Yer getting a bit pudgy.”

  Charles lowered his head onto his front paws with a disgruntled “Mrowr.”

  “Getting pudgy?” Ginny rolled her eyes and glanced over at the envelope. She recognized Tyler’s seal at once. A small lump formed in the pit of her stomach. A mix of trepidation and some other emotion she’d rather not name.

  Angry with herself, she snatched the letter and quickly ripped it open. She read the contents:

  Madam, A certain matter has demanded my attention, and so I am forced to be removed from your obeying, dutiful, and submissive side. I anticipate that I shall be gone for the better part of a fortnight.

  During my absence, I expect, nay, demand that Reggie emigrate to another place, far, far away from England, from whence he will never be sighted again. I have given Mabel instructions to this end, and I expect my orders to be carried out to the letter. Be warned. I intend to hold her accountable should I learn otherwise upon my return. And just to be clear, my dear lady, you will continue your duties as my wife when I return. That is to say you will be a proper lord's wife to this very improper lord. For now, I am forbidding you to see Lord Henry– at least until I have ascertained his part in your charade.

  I cannot abide treachery in my own home, Ginny.

  Your attentive husband, Tyler Ginny crumbled the letter up in her hand. “How dare he?!”

  “He’ll dare a mite more than that if you go against his wishes,” Mabel remarked wisely.