Echoes in the Darkness (17 page)

The guisers, dressed in shabby black with tattered ribbons, known as “mock posh,” carried large, bell-shaped lanterns that turned the procession into a river of fire, designed to symbolise the death and rebirth of the sun. Leading the parade would be the Lord of Misrule. This was an Athal employee who was chosen by the drawing of lots to preside over the Montol ceremonies. For one night, masters and workers changed roles. The person who drew the longest lot enjoyed the powers of the King of Christmas and issued commands of a playful and ludicrous nature to his temporary subjects. Crowned with great solemnity, he had to make a solemn promise to act as the master of merry disport and madcap revelry. The Lord of Misrule had the power to command any of his subjects to do anything he asked, and they dared not disobey. His specific mission was to lead his followers along the path of dalliance, debauchery and delight. A modern-day Lord of Misrule fared considerably better than his predecessors. In the past, the lord’s throat had been cut on Montol Day as a sacrifice to the gods.

I was caught up in the thrumming excitement of the crowd on that icy night, as we donned our masks and cloaks and followed the lantern-lit procession through the village and along the cliff top. A determined band of villagers had cleared enough of the snow to ensure that the festival could proceed. Glistening banks of white rose high on either side, lending a mystical light to the proceedings. A band dressed to resemble medieval mummers played raucous pipe music and kept time with bells and drums. Acrobats tumbled and children clapped their hands, squealing with glee as they attempted to emulate the more adventurous feats. The crowd assembled to watch the Lord of Misrule light a beacon at the westernmost point of the Athal peninsula. This year’s lord was a young farmer who wore a battered top hat and tailcoat. He danced and twirled his staff to the wild, rhythmic Celtic tunes and imbued the occasion with a spirit of fun and mischief. The revellers had to obey his orders or face dire consequences, he constantly reminded us.

Inside the house, a whole boar was roasting on the spit and the table groaned with delicacies. Tynan and Lucy had gone by boat to stay with friends a few miles down the coast. Eleanor explained to me and a thoroughly overexcited Vicky that the festivities might well prove too raucous for them. Rather than spoil the spirit of Montol with their disapproval, the Earl and Countess of Athal opened their home to the revels but left its enjoyment to the younger family members. Class distinction and the laws that govern sensible behaviour were suspended during the feast. Wine and ale flowed like water. Cross dressing, bawdy songs, drinking to excess and gambling on the church altar were only a few of the wanton acts of previous years, at least according to Eleanor, who imparted the news to me in a gleeful whisper. Public drunkenness and licentiousness were not only tolerated, they were expected. All guisers were given full license to indulge their passions and taste of every pleasure, however base. The Lord of Misrule could only call his reign a success if, when the world turned right-side-up the following day, his merrymaking followers recalled their antics with shamefaced blushes.

That night, the young Lord of Misrule issued a steady stream of instructions to us, his subjects. Eddie and Cad were instructed to serve wine to the servants, which they did with much aplomb, and to the accompaniment of great laughter. A young lad from the village was tasked with the job of carrying his sweetheart on his back like a donkey for the duration of the night, and two girls from the village tavern were ordered to sing bawdy songs to the lord and his friends.

When the meal was over it was time for traditional carols and a dance known as the Dons Cantol. This was an intricate performance that involved dancing around and leaping over painted, lighted candles. It required considerable skill, and I approached the activity with caution, afraid of setting light to my skirts. It seemed the done thing was to hold them up to midcalf, which I did, provoking much appreciative applause. The dancers held hands, alternating men and women, and circled the flames in time with the music.

“Now then, me lads,” announced the Lord of Misrule. He was standing on the table, top hat askew and cheeks ruddy with the effects of too much wine. “‘Tis time to choose the lass who will be yours for the night!” At least a dozen pairs of hands reached for me, and I dodged them while looking around frantically for a means of escape. I could see Sandor bearing purposefully down on me from the other side of the circle. Panic rose in my throat before rescue unexpectedly and anonymously came my way. Strong hands lifted me bodily away from the other grasping fingers, and I was thrown over a broad shoulder. The breath was driven out of my lungs by this action, and I hung limply, unable to see who had claimed me.

“Just one final rule, lads,” the lord continued, swaying slightly on his perch. “‘Tis the lasses who are in charge. From now until dawn, you must do as
they
say!” This order prompted some ribald shouts and much laughter as girls dragged their swains away with them. Lifting my head, I saw Eleanor in a passionate embrace with… No, that couldn’t be right. I wanted to call out in protest as I saw Vicky move determinedly toward Sandor, but I was swung purposefully away toward the stairs.

I was still out of breath when, with unerring steps, my abductor reached my room. He set me down on my feet, turned the key in the lock and faced me. “I knew every man would try to claim the most beautiful woman in the room,
bouche.
So I decided to take decisive action to secure you for myself.” The relief that ran through me was followed by a thrill of anticipation. This was, after all, what I had dreamed of for so long. Who was I to fight the Lord of Misrule?

“Be quiet,” I said sternly. He raised his brows in surprise but was dutifully silent. “I am in charge tonight. The Lord of Misrule must be obeyed.” I didn’t know whether it was the heady wine, the primeval throb of the dance or whether I was just too tired of fighting how much I hungered for him. But I decided there and then to make Montol night count. The moment was all that mattered. Fear and recrimination could wait for morning.

“Take off your mask and cloak.” He obeyed without hesitation. I stepped forward and tugged the fine lawn material of his shirt free from the waistband of his trousers. He reached for my waist. “I did not give you permission to move,” I told him severely, and his hands dropped instantly back to his sides.

Cad stood obligingly still as I slid my hands beneath his shirt and gently caressed the unyielding muscles of his chest, my fingers tracing the crisp hair and lightly brushing his nipples. Once or twice I dipped a hand tantalisingly lower to stroke his taut stomach, rejoicing in the indrawn breath the action provoked from him. With infinite, tormenting slowness, I undid the buttons and slid the shirt down from his shoulders. A little clumsily, I freed his arms and dropped the garment onto the floor. Standing back, I studied him, thrilling at the magnificence of his physique, delighting in the way his broad shoulders and well-muscled chest tapered to his narrow waist and hips. Walking around him, I traced the outline of each muscle, first with my fingertips and then with my tongue.

I lowered my gaze to where his erection pressed insistently against the cloth of his trousers. With fingers that were almost steady, I reached for the buttons to release him. Cad’s eyes widened and he drew in a sharp, ragged breath. His cock sprang free of the restraining material, and I touched my tongue to my top lip in a gesture of anticipation. Slowly, I slid my hand down the straining shaft. He groaned slightly in an expression of appreciative agony. Pleased with this response, I repeated the movement.

“
Bouche,
I can’t answer for the outcome if you do that again,” he said huskily, gazing steadily into my eyes.

“Stop talking,” I ordered, “And take the rest of your clothes off.” He obeyed, and I allowed myself a little, appreciative smile.

“I have no maid to help me tonight. You will have to take her place and undress me,” I turned my back so that Cad could undo the laces at the rear of my gown. Following his lead, I remained stock-still while he removed my clothes. Soon my dress and undergarments lay in a heap on the floor alongside his clothing, and I stood before him in only my silk stockings and garters. Reaching up, I freed my hair from its pins so that it cascaded down my back in tumbling waves. Cad’s arousal was gloriously obvious, while my own desperate need was apparent only in my burning cheeks and the way I trembled beneath his touch. My heart leapt as he carried me to the bed and placed me carefully down so that I was sitting on its edge. Kneeling before me, he drew the delicate material of my stockings down, tracing a path along my thighs with his lips and, once or twice, nipping the tender flesh lightly with his teeth. I toyed with the idea of objecting to him taking the initiative, but I liked it, so I stayed silent. When I was finally naked, he continued to kneel before me. Spreading my legs apart, he bent his head and just touched the tip of his tongue to my throbbing clitoris. My whole body jerked violently. Erotic memories of Paris came flooding back. I knew only too well what that tongue could do. I wanted to fall back on the bed and give in to this treatment, but I was enjoying the game far too much. I wanted to make it last. Tangling my hands in his hair, I hauled his head up. “I think, Mr Jago, that you are forgetting who is in charge.” Storm clouds of desire darkened the ochre depths of his eyes. “You may only touch me when I tell you to. I believe a penance is in order.”

I rose and stretched luxuriously, knowing what the action would do to him. One thing I could do well was strike a pose. Sure enough, I heard a growl of frustration from behind me. On the dresser the various pots and bottles of cosmetics and skincare products I had brought with me from Paris were lined up in a neat rank. “This weather is so harsh,” I said plaintively, “and my skin is so delicate. Fortunately, this
crème de roses,
from M’sieur Guerlain’s delightful emporium, keeps my body supple. I have to massage it all over. Every night. Into every part of my body.”

“And my penance is to watch you?” Cad’s lips twitched appreciatively. He remained seated on the floor, his back propped against the bed, hands behind his head. The sight of his rampant masculinity made my throat constrict with longing.

“Oh no.” I shook my head, holding out the jar to him. “Your penance is to be my masseur.” Without waiting for his response, I lay face down on the elegant day bed in the window embrasure with my chin propped on my forearms. The first touch of his warm, rose-scented hands sent a ripple of pleasure through me as, with slow, deliberate movements, Cad began to massage the luxurious cream into the soles of my feet and my ankles. Gradually he worked his way up my calves, pulling my legs apart as he reached my knees. I turned my head to look warningly at him.

“I can’t get the cream on the insides of your thighs unless you spread your legs wider,” he explained with a deceptively innocent look. With a hand on each side of my thigh, he used long, strong strokes, stopping just short of my buttocks each time. “Lift your hips slightly, please.” His voice remained studiously expressionless. I did as he asked. His large hands began to knead the sensitive flesh of my buttocks and, in spite of my efforts to remain detached, I couldn’t stifle the tiny moan that escaped me. Instantly, the tempo increased. One finger slid inside me briefly while his thumb stroked my aching clitoris in a single, swift stroke. Before I could protest, however, he had moved his hands up to anoint my back and shoulders with wide, circular movements.

“Turn over.” I lay on my back, looking up at him from under desire-heavy eyelids. “If you please,” he added, and I nodded my approval of his meek manner. Gripping my knee, he bent my leg and placed it so that my knee rested against the back of the day-bed. “I may not need to use the cream here,” he commented, still in that detached voice, as he ran a leisurely hand down between my legs. Using his thumbs to hold my outer lips apart, he studied me thoughtfully. “You seem to be very moist here already.” He ran a finger tenderly across the glistening folds of my flesh.

I gave myself up to the sensation of his hands on my legs and stomach. His cock, the only indication that he was enjoying this as much as I was, pressed insistently against my thigh with each movement. “Stop doing that,” I murmured, remembering my role. His hands stilled at once, and I frowned. “No, not that. Stop pleasuring yourself by rubbing against me. I didn’t say you could do that.”

“Oh, you mean
this?
” He moved so that the iron length of his erection slowly singed the flesh of my thigh.

I bit my lip to stifle the laugh that threatened to escape. “Yes.”

He moved again, leaning closer so that he was almost lying on top of me. The tip of his cock scorched the moist core of my sex. “I’m glad we cleared that up, because I wondered if you meant
this.
” He moved slightly against me.

Although my body cleaved upward, lifting me in preparation to meet his thrust, I wasn’t quite ready to end the game yet. I decided to torment him even further. “Be sure to take your time and use plenty of cream when you massage my breasts.”

He took me at my word and slid his hands gently down my throat to my breasts, cupping them softly. My breathing quickened as his fingers pinched and played with my nipples. Then his mouth was on my flesh. His tongue flicked one nipple while his hand massaged the other. That proved to be my undoing instead of his. Within minutes, I was squirming and moaning under his hands. I opened my eyes to find him smiling down at me and my insides melted. “I might have to use something more effective than my hands to relieve the tension in these internal muscles, my lady,” he said, sliding a hand back down my body.

“Oh, very well,” I replied with mock resignation. Reaching up I drew him down on top of me, my back arching with pleasure as our lips met. He had been tortured long enough. And so had I. With a sigh of deep contentment, I welcomed him into me by wrapping my legs around his waist and tightening my muscles around him.