Taming Maria (22 page)

Maria's hair
was confined in a snood beneath a hard hat, but her face was
whipped by the mare's flowing mane. She felt as if her body was
weightless and that she had become one with her mount, wanting
nothing but to gallop over the moor for ever, the earth, the grass
and the mare mingling with her own soul.

Damien was
gaining. His whip cracked down repeatedly and she remembered how it
had slashed her during the phaeton race, and punished her since.
This sent a thrill through her, and the pressure of the saddle's
high pommel stimulated her clitoris with every movement. She had
the absurd desire to rein in, throw herself on the grass and
implore him to take her.

He was giving
wild cries that were flung by the wind, tossed and echoed. His
mount neighed in response, ebony hide flecked with foam. Maria
cried encouragement and the mare responded. The barrow was coming
nearer, huge on the skyline and, with a final supreme effort, she
reached there first.

She slowed to
a walk, leaning over and patting her mare's steaming neck,
murmuring, 'Well done, girl.'

Damien drew up
alongside. 'Congratulations! This makes us even. One all.' He was
breathing fast, sweat running down his face. 'I'll give you the
money when we reach the house, unless you want another race?'

'No, thanks.
I'll take the cash.'

'Why do you
need it? I supply you with everything.'

'Believe it or
not I like to have some measure of independence, and whatever you
give me comes from my estate, does it not?'

'Your father
trusted me to manage your affairs.'

More fool him,
she thought as she dismounted, petting her animal who was
recovering her wind. The warmth of her breath wafted over Maria's
skin. Her head, hot and moist, nuzzled into her shoulder. 'This is
a fine beast,' she said, glancing up at Damien and then looking
away. There was something in his eyes that she did not like. 'We
must find water for them, they have both done well.'

'Not yet.' He
cocked a foot out of the stirrup and swung down. 'I want to talk to
you.'

The barrow
loomed above them and the sun had gone. The clouds were piling up,
black and threatening. 'We should go back,' she said. 'It's going
to rain.'

He seemed not
to hear her, coming so close that she could see the texture of his
skin and the long lashes shading his eyes. His arm snaked out,
winding around her waist. She could feel his heat, engendered by
the gallop and his own pulse. It was as if his gaze was hypnotic,
making her forget everything except him. His lips descended on hers
and once again wove their magic. He had not approached her for days
after her introduction to the butt-plug. She had spent them
attempting to act normally, accompanying Arabella on a round of
social visits in the parish, taking tea or playing cards.

Arabella's
aplomb astonished her. She was well respected for being the wife of
an earl, and played on this. Though Maria recognised a few of the
ladies as being among those who had attended the hunt and the orgy
that followed, on the whole they were of the old school, engaged in
'good works' about the village. Damien was a master of dissembling,
too, when it suited him. What had once seemed a joyous escape from
school and restrictions, had become clouded with doubt about her
aunt and guardian.

The wind had
an edge to it, and rain started to strike across from the sea.
'Stay there,' Damien commanded, and tethered the horses near
Scratch Tump. He returned to Maria and took her hand, leading her
into the shelter of the stones supporting the entrance where a
Stone Age builder had inserted the fossil of an ammonite as
decoration.

'Inside,'
Damien said abruptly. It was pitch dark, the uneven ground sloping
downwards. He seemed to know his way, as sure-footed as a cat.
Maria stumbled after him, more terrified of being left alone than
of what he might do to her.

He stopped and
she nearly cannoned into him, chilled to the marrow, her riding
habit offering little protection against the dankness. She heard
the scrape of a tinderbox, followed by the glow from a lantern.
Damien was no stranger to this ancient tomb.

'What a gloomy
spot,' she said, trying to lighten the mood. 'Of interest only to
those who study ancient monuments.'

'You think
so?' His smile was demonic in the lantern-light. 'I'll admit that I
have professors of archaeology begging permission to view it, and
have permitted a few of the skulls and bones and artefacts to be
taken to the nearest museum. It has been suggested that some of the
dead may have been human sacrifices. Whatever it was, it belongs to
me, situated on my land. No one comes here unless I allow them. The
locals avoid it anyway, saying it is haunted. That's where it got
its name. Old Scratch means the devil in these remote parts.'

Maria
shivered. 'I'm cold. I want to go.'

'So soon?' He
set the lantern on a ledge. 'Aren't you curious? There are still
human remains in some of the alcoves. Wouldn't you like to meet
your ancestors?'

He was amused
by the situation and she determined not to be the victim of his
macabre sense of humour. 'Another time, perhaps. I would rather
return to Raven Towers,' she replied lightly.

He ignored
this, lifting a skull from a stone shelf. '"Alas, poor Yorick",' he
quoted. 'The Bard of Avon had something apt to say about almost
every situation. Don't you agree?'

'You didn't
bring me here to discuss antiquities or Shakespeare. Get to the
point, Damien.'

'Hasty one! I
always find anticipation hones the edge of appetite. But if you
insist... take off your clothes.'

'You must be
jesting! I shall freeze to death.'

He raised his
crop and trailed it down the side of her face. 'Strip.'

'And if I
refuse?'

'I would hate
to mark that pretty face, but you know that I insist on
obedience.'

Her hands
trembled as she removed her gloves, then the hat, jacket, blouse
and chemise. He rested against the wall, legs crossed at the
ankles, watching her every movement. When she was bare to the waist
he reached out and tickled her nipples with the tip of the crop.
They puckered and she turned away, ashamed that he should see how
much he excited her.

Unbuttoning
the waistband of her skirt she let it fall, then laid it with the
rest of her clothes on a slab that might once have contained a
corpse. Breeches, hose and riding boots came next and at last she
stood there, shivering with cold, as naked as the day she was
born.

'That's more
like it,' he remarked, stalking round her, absorbing her from every
angle. 'No need for pretence here. There is no one to see us, only
the dead. You enjoy the fear you feel when I'm near you. Before
meeting me you never confessed, even to your dearest friend, that
you wanted to be dominated. Isn't this true?' He spoke with an
intensity that riveted her, and made her feel she was being
interrogated by a judge. He raised the crop and brought it down
across her bare thighs. 'Answer, damn you!'

Shocks rippled
through her, her skin stinging where the whip had struck. 'I don't
know,' she whimpered. 'I can't remember.'

'Liar!'

He taunted her
with the crop, circling her breasts then letting it strike her
skin, leaving red marks. He tapped her belly and thighs, and though
she squirmed and tried to avoid that fast-moving whip, each stroke
made her vagina wetter, slippery with love-juice.

'Stop!' she
cried.

'Really?' he
sneered. 'Surely not? I've only just begun.' He pushed her back. A
few steps and she felt uneven stone. He prodded her but she could
go no further. 'Face the wall.'

He poked her
with the crop, forcing her to obey. The stone was cold and damp,
chilling her breasts, belly and thighs. She kept remembering that
for centuries the tomb had been untouched, sealed and filled with
cadavers. The atmosphere was rank with the smell of decay.

'Don't make me
do this,' she begged, though hating herself for whimpering.

'Spread your
legs wide,' he ordered. 'And lift your arms over your head. That's
right. Can you feel the rings? Stay like that while I bind
you.'

Her fingers
found the metal and hung on. He wrapped ropes round her wrists and
tied them to the rings, then did the same to her ankles, attaching
them to lower ones. 'Are these ancient trappings?' she asked
sarcastically, still finding the courage to defy him.

He chuckled.
'My own additions. Friends enjoy coming here as a diversion.
There's nothing like a touch of fear and horror to enliven one's
lovemaking.'

She found this
disgusting. 'How can you call it that, debasing a noble
emotion?'

'Sentimental
nonsense! We are all animals under the facade of respectability.
And you, my dear, are no better than the rest. You like this, don't
you? You look so lovely, strung up there.'

'Let me go.
Free me, please. You are wrong to say I enjoy it. Give me the
chance to love you in the normal way... romantic, if you like, mock
it though you may.'

She could not
see his expression, but caught a hint of regret in his reply. 'I
renounced love many years ago. I gave my heart to someone who
betrayed me, and I swore that never again would I allow myself to
weaken. This is my way of loving now.'

The crop came
down with full force, catching her lower back. Maria jerked in her
restraints, steeling herself to endure the savage attack. He struck
again and again, varying the spots on which the crop landed. She
wept, feeling utterly worthless, a slave of no use but to bring
pleasure to her cruel master. She was no longer conscious of the
cold, her whole body suffused with a heat that concentrated in her
loins. Every involuntary spasm when the crop stuck chaffed her
nipples and caused her pubis to rub the stone. Her wrists were
sore, her ankles too, but now she was sinking into a state where
all she could think about was the next blow, and the next agony and
the next thrilling stimulation.

Damien came
close to her, pressing against her spine, grinding his prick into
her open crack. She could feel it, that hard, engorged tool. It was
bare, solid, the helm leaking fluid. Was the ordeal over? Could he
be about to take her? Desire ripped through her and she moaned her
longing.

'Damien, set
me free. Do with me as you will, but don't beat me any more.'

'You want me,
don't you, my poor little slave-slut? Say it.' His voice was a purr
close to her ear, his arms around her, one hand clasping her mound,
the other squeezing her breasts.

'Yes, yes... I
want you.' She was willing to confess to anything if he would stop
punishing her and give her what she craved.

He withdrew
his hands, leaving her bereft. The air rustled as the crop cracked
through it. Damien focused on her buttocks. Her emotions were
engulfed by pain, her thighs quivering, her backside clenching and
her sex wet with arousal. It was as if she was someone else
observing this enslaved woman, seeing how her anger was
dissipating. She was absorbing the pain, going beyond it, filled
with desire for intimate contact with Damien.

Then, with
almost cruel finality, her ordeal was over. He freed her wrists and
ankles and supported her as she fell into his arms, weakened and
disoriented. He held her cleft in his broad hand and frigged her
clitoris. She was so close that she came within a few strokes,
rubbing against his fingers. Convulsing and writhing she gasped out
foolish phrases. Thinking about it later in the clear light of day,
she feared she had told him she loved him.

He turned her,
held her punished bottom in his hands and entered her vagina from
the rear. He pumped frantically. A few strokes and he spurted, and
she was completely satisfied, though wishing it could go on for
eternity. He rested against her for a moment, then broke away.

'May I dress
now?' she whispered.

'Of course,
and hurry, we shall be late for luncheon.'

Charles,
concealed among the gorse on the headland, saw Damien and Maria
race towards the barrow out of the storm. With the aid of his
telescope he was able to watch at close hand as they dismounted and
disappeared inside the mound. He lowered it slowly, pulling his hat
down and his collar up, braving the elements, every nerve taut as
he speculated on what they would be doing there.

He had been in
the area for several days, staying at an inn. He told the landlord
he was a student of architecture, exploring the local monuments.
Quint had been transformed into another scholar and Bates went
along, too. They had secretly linked up with others who kept an eye
on the coast, ready to track any suspicious looking vessels that
anchored in one of the numerous remote bays in which the county
abounded.

He speculated
as to whether he should inform Maria of her guardian's involvement
with the enemy. Not yet, common sense insisted. The last thing he
wanted was for Damien to suspect he was on to him. But the
situation needed to be closely monitored. He and his confederates
were hoping to make arrests soon and bring the viscount to
justice.

His every
instinct was to rush into Scratch Tump and wrest her from Damien's
arms. The thought of her yielding to him was abhorrent and yet he
had to admit that he had fucked Sally before leaving London. Many
men would have stoutly declared that this was different, but
Charles was too honest and enlightened to cling to this outmoded
creed. Even so, he longed to claim her as his own, dreaming of
marriage and remaining with her till death parted them. While
Damien was at liberty this was unlikely to happen, yet it was
tricky. The last thing he wanted was for Maria to sympathise with
her guardian. She must see for herself that he was a traitorous
villain.