Did he have a checklist? she wondered.
Or was he just supremely efficient?
Or did he travel with women so often such mundane matters were second nature to him? Which last thought she found irritating for no good reason. Really, none at all, she decided, shutting the cabinet door and dropping into a sprawl on the seat. The women in his life were no concern of hers.
Yet—the thought was annoying. As if she had some claim on him. When she didn’t. When she clearly didn’t. When she’d never in her life even wished to make a claim on a man.
Nevertheless . . . she found herself reflecting on his many perfections—from a purely artistic point of view, she spuriously told herself. Like an artist considering a potential subject. She had no personal interest—other than one of a purely sexual and transitory nature.
In fact, had she not first seen Jamie Blackwood half dozing after a night of obvious sexual excess at the Countess Minton’s several weeks ago, she might not have perceived him with such fascination. But he’d been so patently the countess’s personal stud in residence, the erotic implications had been searing. Additionally, if he hadn’t so casually ignored Bella’s possessiveness, if his indifference hadn’t been so undisguised, she wouldn’t have found him so intriguing.
His attitude was very similar to hers.
She, too, preferred casual attachments.
And having met her male counterpart, why wouldn’t she fancy him?
Furthermore, caught as she was in the amber of Blackwood’s authority, an amorous liaison would not only test her ingenuity apropos his canons of behavior, but it would also dispel the boredom of a tedious journey.
Didn’t someone once say,
The will to do, the soul to dare
?
A small lustful ripple slid up her vagina at the salacious possibilities occasioned by long days with Jamie Blackwood on their travels north. She pictured him with her in the privacy of the carriage and pleasantly recalled the feel of him, the taste of him, the phenomenal size of his cock. He was really quite extraordinary, and she should know with sex one of her favorite amusements. The graphic memory of his finely tuned body and physical endowments whetted her appetite, titillated her consciousness, warmed her blood, escalated her breathing.
With considerable effort she managed to calm her breathing ; she disliked being so affected by the baffling man. She begrudged his scruples and her aberrant, practically giddy response to him when her love life had always been free of this bedeviling neediness. “Hell and damnation,” she grumbled. Why couldn’t he be like every other man she knew and fall at her feet?
Since he obviously wouldn’t, however, she must curtail her impetuousness and plan her campaign with levelheaded subtlety. Yielding to reckless desire would be counterproductive if she wished to play the seductress; the role required clear thinking and guile.
Particularly when her warder had rebuffed her at every turn.
Unfortunately she was by nature neither cool nor pragmatic, her life to date one of unhindered freedom. Consequently, planning a campaign of seduction soon gave way to more enthralling contemplation of Jamie Blackwood, his image in her mind vivid, sexually graphic, and despite rare attempts, impossible to dislodge. That she was cursed with an artist’s infinite capacity for visualization was a distinct liability. Or not, she decided, the sudden vision of Jamie au naturel lying above her, his dark hair framing his face, his gaze heated, close, his erection—oh, damn, here she was, panting and eager and
alone
!
A dilemma that never arose in London.
One she wouldn’t be experiencing here either if not for his stupidity!
Overwrought, skittish, her body glowing, she could practically
feel
the hard, rigid length of his cock as if she were still sitting on his lap; she could almost
taste
the peaty Highland whiskey on his breath as she’d plundered his mouth,
see
his broad shoulders filling the doorway of her carriage moments ago.
In the name of God—why does he have to be so pious?
She trembled as a soft, stirring desire coiled deep inside her, the rising heat curling upward, spiraling like flickering flame through her senses, warming her skin, drenching her vaginal tissue in readiness. A swamping wave of orgasmic urgency overwhelmed her, and she squirmed on the soft, cushioned seat.
She ached, quivered, throbbed, the need for satisfaction no longer a wish but a requirement. Her mind racing, she debated the means: the hairbrush or mirror handle; the neck of a wine bottle; some appropriate vegetable from the picnic basket? Or, or, or—a small excitement gripped her. Was it possible her warder’s efficient packing included a dildo? Considering the miscellany of items she’d already discovered—
please God!
If he’d been so considerate, she’d forgive his brusque authority and senseless rebuffs, his complete unconcern for her feelings. In fact, in her current mindless frenzy, she was indifferent to all his slights if only she attained orgasm
now, now, now
, and with that goal in mind, she dropped to her knees and rummaged madly through the storage cabinets under the seats. Seconds later, she opened a carved wooden box, cried, “Eureka,” came up off her knees in a flash, stripped off her riding pants, and speedily put the exquisite ivory dildo to good use.
Racing headlong toward climax, wallowing in a lavish, transcendent ecstasy, she forgave him
everything—every little thing!
Having been tantalized all evening by a man who pleasured other women but not her, a man who’d
almost
succumbed to her blandishments, her climax was almost instant. And so violent she couldn’t find the breath to scream.
Fortunately.
Nor time to pull down the shades, she noticed afterward with horror.
Oh God.
Hastily jerking down the silk shades, she briefly anguished over possible witnesses while her heartbeat subsided and the last orgasmic flutter died away. In the end, though, she concluded that no one would dare mention it to her face.
With any possible awkwardness dismissed and her initial frantic urges assuaged, she began to more leisurely explore her revived passions. To that purpose, she occupied herself with her tried-and-true substitute for reality—her imagination. She conjured up her handsome protector: that large body, those huge hands, his weight, the way he moved, with a grace rare in big men. She recalled his stark beauty, his cool, dangerous gaze; he was a man of substance among lesser men, she pleasantly decided as she plied the ivory dildo with deliberate languor. In and out slowly, slowly—a small helpless gasp as breathy punctuation each time she pressed it home. But wanting him instead, wishing all the while that it was Jamie between her legs, his cock gliding in, penetrating her slick warmth—gently, gently.
Or would he be rough and forceful instead? Would he indulge himself rather than her? Was he a brute with that prizefighter body? Not likely, she decided a second later, not with Countess Minton one of his harem. She was a connoisseur of men and their talents.
As the miles rolled by, Sofia continued her solitary, voluptuous game, varying the scene, the rhythm, the picture of Jamie in her mind. And pleasure took on new meaning, an exalted delight, a heightened degree of arousal that could only be attributed to her charismatic, imaginary partner.
She experienced a series of ravishing climaxes—all thanks to the baron’s stunning face and form, his stirring virility, his careless indifference—that last quality triggering her fiercest orgasms.
Sofia recalled his cool insouciance and suave courtesy on display that morning at the countess’s, the measured neutrality in his attitude as he waited to service the countess again. It had been clear that he was available as stud so long as he was humored.
Sofia had never had to humor a man.
How exactly did one do so?
A most provocative focus of her attention that proved to be highly stimulating, abundantly orgasmic, and ultimately, sweet prelude to sleep.
The sun was a faint golden glow on the horizon when the troop and carriages came to a halt.
The men dismounted, the drivers climbed down, and everyone stretched their muscles after a long night on the road. As conversation broke out amongst the men, Jamie made for the lead carriage. He was tired, desperate for a cup of coffee, and not in the mood to face the troublesome Miss Eastleigh. Silently rehearsing a polite good morning, he approached the carriage and on reaching it, braced himself, forced a smile, and opened the door.
His smile faded.
Sofia was sleeping on the forward seat, half-clothed, one arm trailing on the floor, the dildo fallen from her fingers. But it was her lower body that occupied his attention. She was nude save for the fur robe draped over one leg, her pale pubic hair gleaming in the faint shadows of the interior, her sex sleek and wet from masturbation, a light tincture of residue on her upper thighs.
He had to forcibly restrain himself from climbing into the carriage and waking her with a more substantial substitute for the engraved ivory device. One booted foot was already off the ground before he caught himself. Dropping his foot, he quietly shut the door and took a moment to tamp down his mindless resentment and bring his breathing under control.
Christ, this is all so bloody impossible.
With a muttered curse, he strode away.
But his men took note of his scowl and the small tic near his eye, and when he curtly said, “Miss Eastleigh’s sleeping. We’ll stop in the next town unless someone objects,” no one dared do so.
On the next leg of the journey, he rode far ahead of the troop at a hard, steady pace, putting distance between himself and temptation. Douglas and his brother exchanged glances as they rode side by side, leading the cavalcade. “The bonny lad wants that bit o’ fluff, I ken,” Douglas said with a grin.
Robbie lifted his chin in the direction of their leader far in the distance. “He canna last long the mood he’s in.”
“I dinna doubt ye’re right.”
“Tonight?”
“Aye, if not before.”
Both men nodded.
In the next village, Jamie was waiting for them outside a modest hotel that proclaimed its attraction as the holiday residence of some poet long forgotten. The name was unfamiliar except to the locals, although Jamie had been apprised of the man’s life story in brief as he’d bespoken a parlor for Miss Eastleigh and breakfast for them all.
He waited for Douglas and Robbie to dismount before coming up and speaking to them, his face absent of expression. “I want you two to guard Miss Eastleigh. The facilities are rather primitive here. No surprise in this rural outland. Escort her to the outdoor facilities and wait for her. Breakfast will be waiting for Miss Eastleigh and both of you in the parlor. She might try to run. She’s done it before. So take care. If you lose her,” he said, “I’ll cut off your balls.”
“Ye can try,” Douglas said with a grin. “But dinna worry, my bonny boy. We’ll be savin’ the lassie fer ye.”
“Screw you.”
“Suit yerself. But she wouldna mind bein’ more friendly, I ken.” He’d seen how Sofia looked at Jamie when they’d walked out to the carriage, how Jamie had tried to keep his distance. “Nor would ye mind a wee flirtation come ta that.”
“It won’t come to that,” Jamie said, his voice a deep rumble. “And knock on the carriage door before you open it. She might not be dressed.”
The brothers exchanged a quick look.
She’d found it then.
They’d overseen the loading of the carriage. “We’ll be reet polite to the lass,” Robbie noted, trying not to smile. “Losh man, we’re a’ discreet a’ o’ priest.”
Jamie gave them a gimlet-eyed look. “Just keep it to yourself.” Then he turned, took the stairs in a leap, crossed the porch, and entered the hotel. He ate alone, well distant from the troop and the parlor where Sofia and his cousins were breakfasting. He didn’t want to see her; he didn’t want to think about her. He wished he’d never opened that carriage door.
After he’d quickly eaten, he left orders with one of his men to meet that evening in Kenilworth. “We’ll stay there the night,” he said. “The lady might be tired of the carriage by evening.”
Sofia had been surprised Jamie wasn’t at the carriage door when she’d responded to the knock. But she soon understood she was being closely guarded; neither of the two men were more than ten feet away from the privy door when she walked out. Jamie was still absent when they returned to the hotel, and as she entered a private parlor, Douglas pointed. “Yon a washstand for yer convenience, me lady.” And he shut the door behind her.
She was grateful for an opportunity to wash, grateful as well for the tasty breakfast that had been laid out on a table set for three. So once she’d finished her ablutions, she opened the parlor door and as expected found her guards waiting outside.
She smiled. “Please join me for breakfast. I gather you are my warders today. I’m Sofia Eastleigh.”
“Douglas Blackwood and me brither, Robbie. Pleased to meet ye.”
The men looked slightly older than Jamie. Douglas was dark like him; Robbie’s hair was a mass of blond-red curls. They were polite, talkative in a reserved way that gave away little of a personal nature, and obviously hungry. As they ate, Sofia asked questions about Jamie’s estate in the Highlands, curious about her future hideaway. They answered everything except questions about the location. She understood.
When breakfast was over, she was escorted back to the carriage and the small troop continued their journey. They traveled on back roads, the scenery picturesque under the risen sun: fields of unripe grain; small villages, each with a parish church of divers antiquity; bucolic pastures, herdsmen minding their flocks, sheep and cows and horses; a long stretch of dense forest that cut out the sun for an hour or so. All lovely, green England in May, but a slow, slow, tediously slow journey.
She would have liked to ride, but she hadn’t seen Jamie since last night, and when she’d rolled down the window and asked Douglas, who was riding alongside, about him, he’d only said, “Jamie be ridin’ ahead,” with a reticence that discouraged further questions.