Virginia Henley (25 page)

“Very much,” he said, caught up in her excitement.

She picked up a tambourine and began to undulate slowly. The beat of the music began slowly and deeply. A young Gypsy male came over to Kitty and began to partner her in the dance. He was very slim and swarthy and his teeth flashed white whenever their eyes met. They moved closer and closer in the hypnotic rhythm, never quite touching, and as Patrick observed the possessive look the Gypsy bestowed upon Kitty, he thought, “And she called me arrogant!”

The music speeded up and they whirled faster and faster. Her skirts swirled higher and higher about her bare legs until Patrick felt his anger build with the music. He felt a jealous rage grip him as he watched the pair fit their body movements to each other. He strode up to Kitty, took her arm in a grip of iron and commanded, “Come!”

“You are angry. Didn’t my dancing please you?”

She knew very well what emotions plagued Patrick at this moment, but she wanted him to tell her of his jealousy.

“Your dancing aroused me, but it aroused him too, as you very well know,” he ground out.

“He was just a boy,” she said and laughed.

“He felt a man’s desire for you.”

“Darling, you’re jealous,” she whispered.

His mouth came down upon her savagely and she clung to him, savoring his brutality. “Come!” he commanded.

“Where are you taking me?” But she knew.

“You promised me,” he asserted as he urged her onward toward the swimming place. She didn’t protest when he began undressing her with impatient hands. Soon all her loveliness was revealed in the moonlight and he drew in his breath sharply at the picture she made. He stripped quickly and towered above her, not to be denied. The water was momentarily
forgotten in his urgency, and she reached out to touch the quivering organ. Her fingertips ran along the entire length, which grew hard and rigid at her touch.

“Darling Patrick, never be jealous. You’re the most beautiful man in the world.”

“Kitten, desire and anger are a deadly combination. I’m warning you, there’ll be no holds barred this night.”

She licked her lips in anticipation as he pulled her down into the grass. She felt her own pulse merge with the earth’s beneath her body. He intended to make violent love to her, then bathe together. After their swim, he would love her yet again.

It was three o’clock in the morning. Kitty stood by the window, looking down into the garden. Tears made silver streaks down her cheeks. Patrick roused from sleep to find the bed empty. Quickly he slipped out of bed and came up behind her. “Sweetheart, you’ll catch cold. What’s wrong?”

“How can I bear it? Tomorrow you’ll be gone and I may never see you again,” she said, sobbing. “There could be a storm at sea, or you could catch a fever in America, or what about Indians?”

“Indians?” He laughed incredulously. “Oh, sweetheart, your Irish is showing. Don’t expect the worst; expect the best! I’ll be back before you know it and by that time Simon will be out of the way and we’ll be married immediately.” He made a mental note to seek out the young hothead who had stabbed him in Bolton and give him a certain job to do.

“Come and be warm, love.” He picked her up without protest and carried her to the bed. Instead of tucking her beneath the covers he stood her upon the bed before him and removed her nightgown. She shivered slightly as the cool air touched her naked skin, then shuddered convulsively as his warm breath teased her breasts and his hot mouth took possession
of the impudent crests that thrust boldly forward like tiny spears.

His rough tongue began to lick her aureoles, then he took the entire crown into his mouth and sucked fiercely. A low moan broke from her throat that sent prickles along the back of his neck. He wanted to hear the love cries she would make when his mouth plundered her woman’s center.

His powerful hands gripped her waist firmly as his mouth moved down her rib cage, then across her belly.

Kitty no longer felt cold. Her blood had heated to molten gold, flowing through every vein like liquid fire. She gasped as she realized his goal. Surely even Patrick could not be so boldly wicked as to put his mouth
there.

She tried to pull back from his mouth, but his iron hands gripped her like a vise, holding her for his ravishment. The kisses he bestowed upon her were so thrilling she threaded her fingers through his crisp, black hair and arched herself against his lips.

He murmured against her hot center, “Beautiful, beautiful.” His love words aroused her to a passion she had never experienced. His thumbs moved down to open her center and his tongue plunged inside to curl about her tiny jewel.

She was sobbing now at the exquisite torture of his scalding mouth as he licked and thrust, licked and thrust, exploring every secret crevice of her womanhood. Every nerve in her body responded to the hot center where he plunged so deeply with pure sensual enjoyment. Suddenly she became hot and wild and insatiable. She was all Gypsy, all woman, as she threw back her head and screamed her joy in a splendidly uninhibited frenzy of sexuality.

Patrick pulled her down beneath him. He knew she had experienced one delicious climax and he intended to arouse her immediately to another and satisfy her with the fulfillment
of being hard and deep inside her so that his body could feel every last tremor.

After their explosion, neither of them could bear his withdrawal. Her hands clung to him desperately. “Don’t leave me, I may never have you again,” she sobbed.

“I’ll take you with me in the morning. I’ll not leave you here to brood unnecessarily,” he said firmly.

When morning arrived, however, fate had conspired against them, and Mrs. Hobson had come down with an ague.

“I can’t leave her alone, Patrick. It’s best this way. All my fears have fled with the sunlight. You go and make things right with Julia, and as soon as Terry returns, we’ll leave for London, I promise.”

They both felt pain at parting. However, both knew it would be worse to drag it out endlessly. With one passionate embrace that implied a promise never to be broken, he was gone.

Kitty was left in a blissful state of hazy euphoria. Everywhere she went recalled scenes of Patrick’s presence. She smiled tenderly when she remembered the whole afternoon they had lain in the tall grasses of the meadow. Each time she had kissed Patrick, the corners of his mouth had quivered deliciously. She kissed him twice as often after this discovery, just for the pleasure of watching her lover’s mouth. She hummed a pretty song as she made lunch for her and Mrs. Hobson and carried it in to the ailing woman on a tray. “I want you to figure out how much you are owed and also what we owe the farm for our food.” The accounting came close to a hundred pounds and Kitty paid willingly, eager to be rid of the long-standing debts. After lunch, she decided to have a washday. There was a lot of bed linen as well as her own personal things that must be washed before she could pack everything. She would be ready when Terrance arrived, so there would be no delay in following Patrick to London. She tidied the kitchen and then packed all her belongings. She went to bed thoroughly exhausted and fell into a deep sleep. Suddenly something awakened her. It had sounded like someone in distress. Kitty could have sworn the cries came from her brother, Terrance. Carefully she got out of bed and removed from the dresser drawer the pistol Patrick had given her. Her hand tightened upon the gun as she silently moved forward and opened the door. The sight that met her eyes made her stagger back in horror. Three nude men were before her. Brockington held down Terrance while Simon bent over the boy. A motionless tableau etched
itself indelibly upon her mind as she realized what was happening.

“Christ, Brocky, she’s got a gun! Take it from her!” Simon ordered. She saw Terry’s face, the tears of pain and rage, and at the same time Brockington launched himself against her and grabbed for the gun. She either had to let go, or squeeze the trigger. She did the latter. Silence filled the chamber after the loud report. A surprised look on Simon’s face was captured for all time as the bullet entered his head and gaped like a third eye in the middle of his forehead. She thought irrelevantly, Patrick told me I was going to be a widow soon. I wonder how he knew?

The metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils, but she was nowhere near fainting. Terrance slid out from under Simon’s dead weight and reached for a dressing gown to cover his nakedness. He was shaking from head to foot.

“You’ve murdered him!” screamed Brockington as the realization of the situation finally penetrated.

“You caused the gun to go off, you are the murderer, Brockington,” she said as calmly as she could. She knew she had pulled the trigger and she was glad, but she had sense enough to realize that this influential young lord who stood before her must be implicated. Kitty still held the gun pointing toward Brockington. He proceeded to be very sick on the carpet.

“Are you all right,
acushla?”
she asked Terry softly, compassion almost choking her. He nodded, then blurted, “Only he touched me.” He began to cry again.

“God! Please try to be calm and tie him up for me. I’ll send Mr. Hobson for the doctor.”

“Let me get dressed, at least,” begged Brockington, pathetically.

“I caught you naked, and naked you’ll remain until I’m done with you.”

She knew this would keep him at a disadvantage, for once he got the upper hand she would just be the servant girl, and he would be the ruthless lord.

“Terry, go along to my room and I’ll just see if I can find you some brandy.” She reentered the dead man’s bedroom. Without looking at the corpse she crossed to a side table and took one of the decanters from it. As she passed in front of Brockington, now tied securely to the chair, she threw him a look of contempt.

“I didn’t hurt Terry,” he pleaded.

“You were waiting your turn,” she said with deadly calm. “I never understood why he married me until this moment. It was so he could have Terry, wasn’t it?”

“Before anyone sees me, please clean this awful mess,” he begged, indicating where he had been sick.

She gave him an incredulous look. “Me? Mop up your vomit? Not bloody likely!” and she stalked out with the brandy.

When the elderly country doctor arrived, Kitty took him upstairs and led him into her own bedchamber, where Terrance was awaiting them. Without any preliminary explanation or beating about the bush she said, “My young brother has been assaulted, Doctor. Will you kindly examine him and see if there is anything you can do for him?”

The doctor was shocked. “My dear young lady, is it necessary that you should have been informed of such unsavory goings on? Kindly leave us and I will attend the patient.”

She bit back a cutting retort. After all, she wanted this man on her side. It wasn’t too long before the doctor emerged. Once again he hesitated. “I must know, Doctor, I am responsible for him. Please be plain with me.”

“There will be no permanent physical damage, I am glad to say. He is in shock. A couple of days’ rest and if you don’t
treat him as if he were a leper, he should do very nicely. Who did this thing to him?”

“My husband,” she said quietly.

“He should be shot!” he stormed.

“We are in agreement. I’m afraid there’s more, Doctor. Would you come this way?”

They entered the room and Dr. Fielding staggered back at the sight before him. “God in Heaven, what’s going on here?” he demanded.

Brockington began to babble something incomprehensible and the doctor looked to Kitty for an explanation.

“I will tell you exactly what happened, Doctor, and it will be the
truth,”
she stressed. “I was awakened in the middle of the night by a cry of distress. It sounded like my brother, but he and my husband were away in London. I took my gun with me for protection while I investigated. I found this man and my husband raping my brother. I know there is a word for men like them, but I do not know what it is.”

“They are pederasts,” the doctor said sharply.

“Brockington here tried to wrestle the gun from me and it went off accidentally, killing my husband. He insists it was my fault, and I could insist it was his fault, but the truth of the matter is that we are both equally to blame.”

There was a hushed silence. Then the doctor went over to Simon’s body and carefully examined it.

“I’m Lord Brockington. Tell this woman to untie me immediately,” he demanded.

Kitty went over to him and undid the ropes that held him. He immediately began an undignified scramble into his clothes. The doctor shook his head. “This is highly irregular, highly irregular!” he stressed. “You must realize I can’t just sign a death certificate. I wouldn’t know whether to call it ‘accidental’ or ‘death by misadventure,’ but that’s beside the point. The police should be called.”

Brockington protested, “Good God, man, we can’t afford a scandal like that. My father could ruin you,” he threatened.

Kitty said, “I will abide with your decision, Doctor, whatever it is.”

He looked at them for a few minutes, considering different possibilities and then said, “The best I can do is consult my colleague, who is the coroner for this district. Whether or not he will call an inquest, I don’t know. I’ll be around tomorrow and bring Dr. Grant-Stewart.”