Authors: Bertrice Small
Darling Jasmine (12 page)
They found their way to the family hall and, seating themselves at the board, waited for the servants to serve them.
“The king was not always as he is now,” James Leslie said. “I knew him from childhood. I think his age and time have conspired to make him behave foolishly.”
“He never had a mistress like so many of his antecedents,” Robin Southwood said. “He has always been faithful to the queen, but for his young men; and those only since he came to England.”
“But he was not always faithful to the queen,” Glenkirk said quietly, taking a deep draught of his wine.
Southwood was fascinated. “No?”
“The king once had a mistress.” Jasmine said.
“My mother,” Glenkirk answered. “It was a very long time ago. The king developed a passion for her, although she never encouraged him. He sent my father to Denmark to escort his new bride home to Scotland, and while my father was gone James Stuart forced my mother to his will. When my father finally learned of it, it destroyed their marriage, and Mama fled to Lord Bothwell for protection. It is a long story, and perhaps some time I shall tell you of it; but the king was not always the silly fellow he is now. He was ruthless, and cruel, and as tough as any soldier.”
“Did the queen know?” Jasmine was curious.
“I don't know,” James Leslie answered her. “I do not think so, for she was always very kind to me, and to my brothers and sisters. I don't think anyone knew but Lord Bothwell, my father, the king, and my mother's servant, Ellen. You must remember the strict way in which the king was raised, surrounded by overpious and overmoral men, who would have been horrified to learn that their king, their protégé, had coveted another man's wife and taken her despite her refusals.”
“God's nightshirt!” the earl of Lynmouth said, using a favorite expletive of the late queen. “I should never have believed such a tale but that it is yours, Jemmie. Your mother married Bothwell, didn't she?”
“After my father's death,” James Leslie said, “except that he wasn't dead. He went to the New World, and his ship was lost. He was presumed dead, but damned if he didn't turn up several years later at Glenkirk with a wild account of his adventures. By that time the king had had him declared dead, and Mama was remarried and living in Italy with Lord Bothwell and their three children. I convinced him to reveal himself to no one else but me. To remain dead for everyone's sake. Since he had no desire to resume his former life, he agreed. There was, it seemed, a beautiful young lady in the New World awaiting his return.” The earl chuckled. “My father was ever the charmer.”
“Is he still alive?” Jasmine wondered aloud.
“Aye! He married his lady-in-waiting, and has since fathered several more children,” James Leslie told his audience.
“You will be completely at home in this family, I can see,” Robin Southwood said. “My grandfather was a pirate. My sister, Willow, was fathered by a renegade Spaniard who lived in Algiers. And Jasmine is the daughter of an Indian emperor.” He laughed. “We are not a quiet clan, but then neither, it would appear, are the Leslies of Glenkirk.”
They had eaten as they talked. A simple meal of sliced salmon, roasted capon, new lettuce braised in white wine, baby peas, bread, and two cheeses: a soft Brie from France, and a sharp cheddar. Now the earl of Lynmouth arose to take his leave of Jasmine and Jemmie.
“I will leave you to yourselves tomorrow,” he told them, “but I will come to escort you to Whitehall myself on the following day.” He turned to his niece. “You must be prepared to humble yourself, Jasmine. You do understand that, don't you? The king is fully prepared to forgive you providing that you are properly contrite. The Mughal's daughter must masque herself behind the guise of a remorseful and apologetic dowager marchioness of Westleigh. Are you ready to do that?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Jasmine said softly.
“Such docility, my dear,” he teased her. “I am most impressed. Now behave that way with the king, and we will have no more difficulties.” The earl of Lynmouth looked at James Leslie. “I would congratulate you on the success of your venture, sir, but I can see that you have fallen in love with her all over again and are as helpless as a babe before my niece's wiles. Try to appear in control of the situation before old king fool.” He saluted them with an elegant bow and departed.
“Grandmama says he is much like his father,” Jasmine observed when her favorite uncle had gone. She sipped at her wine and reached for a strawberry from the basket just placed upon the highboard. “Would you?” she teased him, biting into the berry, “like to continue our discussion of earlier? The one we began in the barge? Do you think anyone else ever made love while rowing upon the river, Jemmie?” She licked the juice of the ripe strawberry from her fingers.
“I suspect we were not original in our efforts there,” he remarked dryly. He leaned over and licked the fruit juice from the corners of her mouth. “Ummmm, good,” he observed, and took one of the berries for himself. Holding it by its green stem, he stroked the berry provocatively with his tongue, then, biting into it, he swiftly devoured it.
Jasmine reached out and caught his hand. Raising it to her lips, she slowly sucked each of his fingers free of the sweet juice, all the while holding him in thrall with her turquoise gaze. Rising from her seat she led him from the hall, but not before the earl of Glenkirk had reached out to capture the strawberry basket in his free hand. They moved from the main level of the house to its third floor, where the bedchambers were located. She led him into the large apartment that had once been her grandmother's. It consisted of a dayroom, a bedchamber, and a dressing room. Rohana came forward as they entered, but seeing the naked passion between her mistress and Lord Leslie, the servant quickly and discreetly withdrew even as the two lovers disappeared into the welcoming bedchamber.
Jasmine took the basket from him and set it upon the bedside table. Her fingers fumbled with the fastenings on his doublet, pulling it open, drawing it off, unlacing the shirt beneath, almost ripping at the fabric as she pulled it over his head. With a little cry she smoothed her hands over his furred chest, her fingers moving in excited little circles. Their earlier encounters had but whetted her appetite for him. His skin was warm beneath her fervid touch.
He matched her actions, undoing her bodice and loosening her skirt tapes so that the garment fell to the floor. Her breasts swelled dangerously over the top of her chemise. He bent his dark head and kissed the pulsating flesh. Then, impatient, he ripped the garment off of her, flinging the remnants of fabric across the room, even as she undid his breeches, drawing them down, letting them fall that he might step from them. She tore his drawers off as he had her chemise.
Their mouths meshed in a hot, humid kiss. Their bodies touched their full lengths as he pulled her against him. Crushed against his furred body, she whimpered deep in her throat, “Jemmie! Jemmie!” Her arms slipped about him, her hands slipped down his back to cup his taut buttocks. She kneaded the flesh with supple fingers, feeling his thighs press even tighter against hers, feeling his wiry, thick bush touching her velvety smooth Venus mont. She wrapped a single leg about his leg, forcing them into an even closer juxtaposition.
“Ohhh, bitch!” he groaned, taking her face between his hands and covering it with kisses. His warm lips moved across her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids. Their tongues intertwined in a lustful dance as his hands moved up to tangle themselves in her hair, pulling the pins from it so that it fell in an ebony swath about them. Now he was cupping the double moons of her bottom, forcing her to release her grip on his leg. Slowly he raised her, and then, equally slowly, he lowered her onto his hot raging lover's lance. “Bitch!” he half sobbed.
Jasmine wrapped her legs about his torso. Dear heaven! He was so hard that his deliberate entry had almost hurt her. Her head fell back, and at once he leaned forward, licking the slender column of her throat with a burning tongue. She whimpered again as he moved across the chamber and carefully lowered her onto the edge of the bed. Fully braced, she unwound her legs from about him, and he pushed them back, allowing him greater access to her throbbing sheath. Her arms lay above her head, giving him total freedom of her breasts.
Reaching out with both hands he squeezed them hard, half-smiling at her cry of passion. Leaning forward, he began to tongue the nipples. Her breasts had always been her most vulnerable point. He teased them unmercifully, licking, nibbling, kissing, biting down on the sensitive nibs just enough to cause quick pain, which he immediately kissed away, all the while remaining buried deep within her sheath.
Jasmine could feel him throbbing within her. Her breasts felt swollen and tight, as if they were about to burst, but she knew even if such a thing were possible, she would still not obtain relief. She was afire with her own lust and almost maddened in her passion.
“Fuck me, dammit!”
she hissed at him.
“Fuck me!”
“Fuck me, dammit!”
she hissed at him.
“Fuck me!”
He looked down into her face and laughed softly. “Tell me how much you desire me, darling Jasmine,” he taunted her, then caught the hands that reached out, fingers curled to scratch him. He forced her arms back over her head again.
“Tell me!”
he growled. “Tell me, or I shall leave you. You may not love me, sweetheart, but by God, you shall desire me!
Tell me!”
His green-gold eyes blazed down at her.
“Tell me!”
he growled. “Tell me, or I shall leave you. You may not love me, sweetheart, but by God, you shall desire me!
Tell me!”
His green-gold eyes blazed down at her.
“You desire me as much as I do you!” she retorted, and squeezed his manhood with the muscles of her sheath's walls. It was an old harem trick that all the women of her country used to pleasure their men.
“Say the words, Jasmine. Say that you lust after me!” he insisted, a spasm crossing his face as she tortured him.
“Say it!” Bending, he took a nipple into his mouth and began to suckle hard upon it.
She almost screamed. He was killing her. He claimed to love her, but he was killing her. Her whole body had begun to ache with her hunger to be satisfied. “I want you, Jemmie!” she half sobbed.
“I want you!
Now fuck me before you destroy me, you bastard!”
“I want you!
Now fuck me before you destroy me, you bastard!”
Almost at once he began to move within and upon her. The rhythm became faster and faster, until their combined passion exploded in a furious burst that left him breathless and her unconscious for a brief few moments. She soared so high with her pleasure that Jasmine thought she would never return to earth, and cared not, but of course, she eventually did. He lay half-sprawled upon her, his breathing rough and harsh, his heart hammering violently.
She couldn't move. She was replete with satisfaction and didn't want to move. Obviously neither did he. They lay there, and she dozed easily, relishing the pleasure they had just given each other. When finally he pulled himself to his feet, she asked him sleepily, “Did Rohana draw me a bath?”
James Leslie shook his head to clear it, and glanced across the bedchamber. There before the fire was her oaken tub. “Aye,” he said.
Jasmine struggled to her feet. “I want to bathe,” she told him. Bending, she drew off her stockings with their beribboned garters, and padded across the floor, climbing into the tub. “It's still warmish,” she announced, and, taking up the flannel cloth and soap, began to wash herself, soaping everything he could see and everything he couldn't see.
He watched her, fascinated. He had just experienced the most passionate moment he had ever known. Their desire for each other had been such that they had both been close to violence. It had been damnably exciting. James Leslie had always been a conservative man. Responsibility had been thrust upon him at an early age by a less-than-restrained father and his beautiful, passionate mother, whose indiscreet affair had ended in self-imposed exile from Scotland. His sweet Isabelle had been a charming young wife, but there had never been any fire. He had not believed himself capable of fire until now. There was obviously more of his mother's nature in him than he had previously thought.
“Jemmie.” She was standing in her tub now, the water sluicing down her lush body. She beckoned to him. “Let me bathe you, my lord.”
In a half daze he stepped into the tub, standing patiently as she washed him, the flannel cloth and the soap moving swiftly up, and down his long frame, caressing his broad shoulders with a silken swish, sliding down his long legs as she half-knelt. He shuddered just slightly as her firm touch bathed the instrument of his sex, but if she noticed, Jasmine said nothing. Standing again, she rinsed him thoroughly.
“There!” she said, her tone pleased. “You're done. Let us get dry. You do me, and I'll do you.” She handed him a towel, taking the other for herself and rubbing him vigorously. “Ohhh, that's so much better,” she said when they had dried each other off. She dashed across the bedchamber to get into bed. “I haven't had a proper bath since we left Belle Fleurs. I hate being dirty, and those little sponge baths are never the same as a good tub of water.”
“Don't you want a nightgown?” he asked her.
“Why? Do you want me to wear one, Jemmie? Come into bed, my lord, else you catch your death of cold.” She motioned to the place beside her, holding the covers back in invitation.
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