The Unraveling of Lady Fury Read online

  “I do.” She gulped and cursed herself for gulping. Damn him. “I want that heir, and I do have a lot of choices. One is that you will leave here. You will do so now.”

  He plunked himself down on the other side of the bed and removed his boots with a deep sigh. The kind that didn’t fool her in the least into thinking the man was nothing less than dangerous.

  “But I thought I was to be at your disposal? Are you telling me I’m not?”

  “Exclusively. But not in this manner. If you are to be at my disposal, then you will do as I say.”

  She extracted the words from some deep inner part of herself, some part she had always marveled at, and now she came to think of it, he had never liked. Yet she knew, by the whole lazy way he settled himself down, he wasn’t listening to a word she said.

  “That’s a pity. Did I tell you what a comfy bed you have here?”

  Though the bed was comfortable, that wasn’t the reason he now spread himself out, sticking his hands behind his head with a long, contemplative sigh, and crossed his ankles.

  She should have realized he’d strike back and would go on doing so, until he was in charge of the encounter. How could she let him be in charge? It wasn’t simply the thought of how he might humiliate her. The memory flashed of her on that quay. She could never go to that place again. Never.

  “If it is the bed you desire, I will wait in the Blue Chamber until you are of a mind to comport yourself as we agreed.”

  “Door’s there, sweetheart.”

  “I’m not going to kiss you, or touch you, or do any of the things you seem to think will make this encounter pleasanter.” She didn’t say, like old times. “Like taking my clothes off or letting you remove yours. No. This will be straight sex or nothing. Now, you may tell anybody what you like. About me. Or Thomas. At the end of the day, I may hang. But you are a servant. And you will go back to being a servant—”

  “Kiss me? And take your clothes off? Who said anything about that?” A slow grin spread across his face.

  “Not if you paid me. Not if—”

  “Paying you? Count your stars I don’t have no money. You know what that would make you?”

  Her fists clenched at his sheer, barefaced audacity. No matter how she kept her voice low, no matter how she didn’t snarl, she started to unravel. Didn’t she? Because no matter the lowness of his suggestion, it was only a suggestion. He wasn’t forcing her. All she had needed to do was refuse. Instead she’d gone up like a rocket. Raking over the rules in a way guaranteed to let him see she feared breaking them.

  She had to be careful in her determination not to be that girl, the one he had been able to take such a loan of, to treat like a fool. But she must ensure that determination didn’t make her do just that.

  It wasn’t just about being that girl. It was about control. Something he enjoyed and she would rather rot in hell than give him. But there were reasons, too many to ignore, why she couldn’t rot in hell.

  Her gaze lowered, seeking to look anywhere but into his. As ever his gibes were cheap. She had slept with him, but it didn’t make her a dockside whore.

  “It doesn’t make me anything. Because that’s not how this is going to be.”

  “Glad to hear it.” His lazy gaze flicked over her. “Because then you’d have to be worth it.”

  No, she would not rise to this. Even if the blood rose like a wave in her ears and she clenched her fists. She should know from old. It was what he wanted. Insulting her. Cutting her. It wasn’t anything new.

  Maybe for that matter, he hoped for it. For her to prove she was worth it. She had no need of descending to common little contests. She knew she was.

  “May I remind you, in some ways I am paying you—”

  “About that. See, you didn’t specify just what you are pay—”

  “And the clock is ticking.”

  “I can just get to it same as this morning, if you want. Though clock’s ticking and that, and you want a boy…”

  If she wanted a boy… She bit her bottom lip. Why, she’d never heard of such a thing. Did he think she was fool enough to fall for some old wives’ tale? But she did want this over and she must be careful not to dismiss because she had presumed.

  There was also the matter of her own reaction. It would demonstrate to him his shabby attempt to gain control by turning things on their head meant nothing. And she would, she would be in control, instead of worrying herself senseless about him trying to seduce her.

  “Go on.”

  “I don’t know. All I know is I heard it. From Ma.”

  “And she would know about this, would she?”

  It was a stupid question to ask about a whore and a midwife. Was Fury going to let her disquiet about Flint stop her doing this?

  “Where do you think she got me?”

  “Very well.” She endeavored not to speak through her teeth, although there was no denying she cringed. “Then we shall do it that way.”

  He deepened his smile. “I’m glad you see sense.”

  He was desperate to enjoy her humiliation. Only her pride made it possible for her to keep her expression neutral as she sat up.

  “So long as you do not expect me to touch you or tell me it is necessary to look at your face to make this a boy. I will be looking at the wall.”

  She hardly cared how unpleasant the words sounded. This nightmare that trapped her was endless. And she still had Thomas’s disposal to consider.

  Assuming an air of confidence, she grasped her nightdress as if to lift it. “Well?”

  “Hang on a moment, sweetheart.”

  His astonishment didn’t fool her. She waited, with as much calmness as she could muster, while he located the buttons of his breeches. She had planned this encounter to the letter and now, in taking control, she would not allow her mask to slip for a second.

  She was the wind in full sail, to use a seagoing analogy. She would do this. Even if her stomach churned with nerves and her throat had dried.

  “Just you tell me when you’re ready, although I’m assuming that you are.”

  She met his eyes with cool deliberation. Ever since she’d glimpsed him striding on board the Calypso—Captain Blackmoore, not Captain Flint, in his black tricorne and plain-cut coat—he’d disturbed her. This was one occasion he wasn’t disturbing her.

  Flint narrowed his blue eyes, staring at her. Oh, the duel had begun. Except this wasn’t a duel. This was to conceive the Beaumont heir. So he could stare as he unbuttoned himself with deliberate slowness as much as he liked. So long as he unbuttoned himself.

  “There we go. You want me to—”

  “We agreed I would not touch you. So I think you will.” Her throat was so dry she wondered she could speak at all. It was, however, amazing what one could do when the occasion demanded it. “I’ll just—” She clasped her nightdress and rose on her knees. “You know…”

  Edging her knee across his hips, she straddled him. “You just hold yourself still. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  He loosened his breeches and held himself with one hand. His thumb brushed against the back of her thigh as she positioned herself with as much decorum as she could. He could have spared her this. But she was not looking for that now. Raising her chin she fixed her gaze on the pale oval of Messalina’s face, visible opposite her in the flickering candlelight.

  Flint shifted beneath her. “I found grasping the bedrail helpful. Since I wasn’t allowed to touch you.”

  “Thank you, but I think I gave you the advice.”

  So long as she got through this with her inner self intact. “But first, if you will just give me a minute?”

  She couldn’t believe how cool she sounded as she braced herself up on her knees. This coupling was cold though. Why not be so herself? Yet she wondered, would another man hold himself so hard in the circumstances? Of course Flint had considerable sexual needs. And he’d no doubt been without since he was captured. Was it so miraculous?

  She edged down.
“Just tell me, if I’m not right.”

  “You said I was to touch you little as possible.”

  She looked at him for a second through downcast lashes. Damn him. She was going to have to use her fingers just to make sure he didn’t hurt her. But the knowledge of his unhelpfulness gave her the impetus to press herself through her gown. Then she sucked a breath and edged down further.

  The feel…the feel was like drowning…in a tub of icy cold water, the lack of air in her lungs. All the time she stared at Messalina, horrified, dismayed. Oh God. Why hadn’t she let him kiss her?

  “There.” Her breath was unsteady.

  “Sure it is, sweetheart. But you want to just get going.” It wasn’t a question. “You don’t satisfy me, it’s going to be a waste of time.”

  “Of course.” Her skin tightened. That was why she hadn’t let him. Damn him. Did he think she didn’t see exactly the kind of bid for mastery this was? “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s what it is. A man needs to be satisfied.”

  And so far she wasn’t doing very well. Were those the words he omitted? The reason he now folded his hands on his chest as if he were in church, praying?

  She grasped the bedrail. Had her mind really whispered Lady Margaret this morning? James Flint Blackmoore. Pig. Pig. Complete. Absolute. Pig. That was more appropriate.

  “If you need to be satisfied, I suggest you try being quiet, or that’s not going to happen.”

  “I will if you will. There is just one thing more though.”

  A miracle it was only one.

  “And what’s that?”

  “You have to go all the way.”

  “Are you saying I haven’t?” She gritted her teeth. The man was too frank. She had never had a discussion about the actual mechanics of sex with anyone. And what was he trying to imply? That she was hopeless?

  She jerked upward, an uncontrolled spasm. The preparation she’d taken in private with the cream would still help her here. Her nerves were what she must master.

  Flint had set her this task. If she proved inept, he’d know he’d won. The conception of the Beaumont heir wasn’t about that. But the preservation of her inner self was. He didn’t even like her. Was she going to make a fool of herself by showing she couldn’t do this?

  She began to move up and down, moving her hips. It was like being a whore, offering pleasure, taking none. Flint enjoyed whores—although, Fury had the feeling, they enjoyed him too.

  She drew another breath into her suffocating lungs. So long as she didn’t start thinking of the reasons whores enjoyed him, that was fine, because she knew, she knew from before, Flint wouldn’t lie there like this. He’d touch, he’d kiss. He’d clasp her thighs.

  Why did she remember so much, when she was meant to be thinking of the whores?

  It made desire spike, and she didn’t want it spiking. In desperation she jerked faster. Surely to God, he must be near breaking. But she daren’t look to see whether his eyes glittered with arousal. Or he breathed more heavily than usual. Or groaned. She daren’t do anything, except keep jerking up and down, trying to ignore the indignity of this. And if she asked him—not that it should matter when she knew her sexual prowess was nonexistent—he’d probably insult her.

  Was he purposely holding off? Or did he do this to show her just what the previous encounter had been like?

  In a panic she jerked upward and dislodged him.

  “Easy, easy. You want to damage the merchandize?”

  Raising her eyes to the ceiling, she attempted to reseat herself, her lungs so starved she could barely breathe. “I’m doing my best. It would help if you would.”

  “I did. I told you what to do.”

  “What do you think I’m…that I’m attempting anyway? You’re not exactly…”

  Could this get any worse? Had it even been as bad as this with Thomas? All those times that he couldn’t. And he had hit her because of it.

  “Exactly what?”

  “You know fine what. It would help if you’d just—”

  He rose off the bed. In the same moment his arms enfolded her. The breath jerked from her body as he flicked her over onto her back.

  “Keep still.”

  This wasn’t allowed. Not him holding her like this. His scent swimming in her head. Masculine. Soapy. Flint never wore scent. But he’d shaved, and the essence of citrus oil enveloped her, so powerful it stopped her breath.

  “I—”

  “Shh.”

  Her face, should she allow him to touch her face, even if his fingers were only headed for the bottom of the bed rail? Except he was inside her, so she was going to obey whatever instruction he gave her. Breathless, she lay with her face upturned, aware her lips were parted but no sound came. And her palm landed somehow on his back.

  “I got this.”

  Her eyes widened. This was not how she imagined this encounter would be. She had not thought she would be held. She had not thought she would feel his body so close. She had not realized that feeling him inside her—fully inside her—his breath coming in controlled gasps, the longing, the need to clench him and feel pleasure bubble through her, would overwhelm her. That she’d need to fight so hard to stop herself. Right as she poised on the brink. The drive toward fulfillment almost overpowered her, because she hadn’t been fulfilled and she couldn’t let herself be. But he had…and that was all that mattered.

  She was stunned.

  He really had helped her there, hadn’t he?

  For a long time she lay, not moving, the ragged huff and mingle of their breaths all she could hear. And maybe, outside, faint laughter, drifting up to her window shutters. Laughter that belonged to another world. One where her nightdress wasn’t rumpled around her thighs, trying to conceive the Beaumont heir.

  “You—you all right there?” His voice rumbled against her forehead.

  “I—”

  He’d somehow won, hadn’t he? She’d almost failed to satisfy him. If she didn’t satisfy him she wouldn’t conceive. When she considered every sexual encounter with him—not that she remembered them all, she’d need a longer life than this—there probably wasn’t one so shaming. One he’d had to finish for her.

  She tightened her throat. “Don’t think I was very good.”

  As she sucked air into her fluttering lungs, she wished she wasn’t stupid enough to say so. Especially to him, because the vulnerability she felt right now, where was there to go? She felt naked and foolish. But the words came out anyway.

  “That’s all right.”

  Had his voice been smug, had it been any of the things she knew so well—but it wasn’t. It was weary, weary as she felt herself.

  “Flint, I…” Flint? She prayed he hadn’t heard that—in the deepest regions of her soul. Now he’d gloat and she could not bear it. “I would like to lie here.” She was aware of each breath entering her lungs, as if it were being pushed there. “As you said, or maybe your Ma for that matter, it’s a good idea.”

  In some respects, this was worse than when he had left her on that quay. When he hadn’t wanted to know what she couldn’t tell him. When she had believed he’d gone forever.

  “Ma said it. Hell, you should know I don’t know nothing.”

  Anything…for as long as she could remember, he’d have died before he said nothing. It had been what those lessons he’d taken when the Calypso docked in port had been about.

  She closed her eyes tighter. If she opened them she’d glimpse too much. Maybe she hadn’t known the reason for the effort that went into making James Flint Blackmoore.

  She didn’t want to.

  One day she’d have everything she wanted. One day she wouldn’t be standing on the tightrope, unable to take her next step because some man or other twanged it. Or the sun came out to dazzle her.

  What he did here—well, of course he had finished things, was in no danger of not finishing things; it was his way of taking control. No doubt in the hope of touching her. Or worse, having her to
uch him.

  So, if he thought she stiffened as he pulled himself free because he disgusted her, so much the better. When it came to touching, she had been close to doing just that. And more.

  “But sure you should lie here.”

  “Yes. And I will.”

  “Till tomorrow morning then.”

  Tomorrow morning. She didn’t need to look at the ceiling or the oval of Messalina’s pale, traumatized face to know there were pertinent reasons she already dreaded it.

  * * *

  Get on top. Ambling along the corridor, Flint wondered how even his twisted mind could have conceived such a thing. Even by his own unexacting standard of lowness, he’d plumbed a whole new depth. He pushed open the door to the Blue Chamber. This place was nice. Not quite his taste. But comfortable.

  He closed the door and poured a glass of rum from the bottle that now stood on the washstand. As if the best place for it was down the sink.

  The saw of crickets, dwindling now the evening air had cooled, drifted through the slats in the shutters as he poured the glassful down his throat.

  To be truthful, for what he’d done in there, he despised himself. Maybe it was just the dynamics of the situation. Sex, but not. Maybe it was his hunger for a screw, a decent one, none of this hands off, don’t touch my tits or anything else for that matter stuff. He still hadn’t the faintest idea why something so simple—her, facing him in that soft robe, the candlelight playing about the tumble of black hair on her shoulders—should remind him of so damned much. His throat clenched even as he thought about it. Those days on the Calypso.

  But much more than that resonated deep within him.

  Flint had bedded enough women in his time to know. The hunger wasn’t just for the taste of her succulent lips, of her sweet flesh against his own. It was for her to look into his eyes as she had then as if he were the only man in the world. As if he pleased her so completely, and not just in bed, she didn’t want anything else. It had made him feel like King Flint.

  Ridiculous. But never had he felt the passage of the years so acutely. The sheer rightness of that moment, when all the gloss and all the polish slid off. Gloss and polish had its uses, like when she faced down Malmesbury. But it was still nicer without it.