Nash's Niche (Behind Closed Doors) (5 page)

Chapter Five

Nash squinted at the staircase and frowned. Since when had it swayed?

Beside him Randall groaned. "I think your stairs might not like me. They are trying to bite. That is not friendly." He hit Nash on the shoulder. "Is it?" he demanded. "Not good at all, and me a guest. I tell you, you need to control them better. I bet you that they wouldn't be so unfriendly toward Perry, they would not dare." He snorted.

Nash decided the noise was not unlike that a stallion that sensed a mate. He didn't think that was the case with Randall, but who knew?

"You sort 'em Nash; I'll wait in the library until you soothe them." With a tipsy bow, Randall turned and staggered back the way they had come. Nash had no doubt his brother would be snoring in the library chair within minutes.

With a shrug—or what he thought might be a shrug—Nash looked at the offending fixture they had been attempting to mount. It was true they did seem to be ready to attack in waves. "Down boys." He sniggered, recognizing that reprimand
ing a staircase was not the attitude of a sober man. Nash took a deep breath and put his foot where he decided the first step should be. He was right. Emboldened, he lifted his other foot and waggled it in the air. The waggling helped him decide what moved the most, him or the wooden treads. He tilted his head to one side and decided that made the sway worse. Straight up was the way forward, for head, feet and indeed all his body.

"Be brave." Why did his voice sound unnaturally loud? No matter, he thrust his foot downward. The jarring that went from his foot to his chin as he hit the hard wood was most unpleasant. Nash looked upward. He still had a long way to go. Even after he tried to shake his head to clear it, the ascent still looked daunting. Perhaps all fours would be better?

He tried; it was. Ha, let Perry tell him he had no mind for complications, he'd solved this problem. Nevertheless, one thing was certain, Perry would not have been beaten by such a small obstacle as a moving staircase. With hardly a thought to what his elder brother would say if he could see him, he adjusted his cock, which, with all the abnormal moves, was perking up quite nicely. It was a pity it was all in vain. His weapon would have to get used to abstinence just as he would. Nash bit his lip, and wondered not for the first time why he credited his prick with a mind and a will of its own. He moved onto his hip and rubbed his tool for a second. Another wayward thought crossed his mind. Why did one small albeit important part of a gentleman's anatomy have so many ways of describing it? He grinned at the now considerable bulge.

"And want, and I will be your master
My Lord pego." Nash put one hand in front of the other and followed them with his feet, until inch by swaying inch he reached the landing. As he knelt there he pondered his next move. He ought to stand up, just in case. Nash rolled his eyes and wished he hadn't. Now he could add a headache to his motion sickness. Just in case of what? The plague? An earthquake? Neither was likely in Rutlandshire. Ah, he remembered. The servants. Not that he expected them to be about anytime soon, but he should set a good example.

Nash moved his head cautiously and scanned the landing.
The only thing available as leverage was the newel post or several door handles. For no reason he could think of he crawled to the door at the left hand side, and began to pull himself up. His nose was a mere inch or so from the wood. He'd never really scanned the grain before but the tiny pattern delighted him. It was something to marvel over when his brain decided to work once more.

Eventually, with more effort than he felt it deserved, Nash stood upright. The last time he had expended so much energy was when he was balls deep inside Madame Felice. He smiled reminiscently. She had given him a night to remember. It had saddened him, that
after he had fallen into an exhausted sleep with her in his arms, he awoke to find himself cuddling a pillow. On questioning his staff, no one would admit to seeing any hint of his visitor. She had, to all intents and purposes, vanished into thin air. It had taken the tiny heart inked on his groin to make him believe it himself. Those hours spent with her had been amazing. How one woman—in a mask no less—could tie him in knots for months was way beyond him. Especially as their time together had been so short: five hours give or take and over half of one of those hours they had spent having matching tattoos. At least it meant he'd recognize her again. 
As long as she is naked and I can see her cunt and that telltale sign.
Sadly Nash had long accepted that was the least likely scenario ever.

The door he had decided on was the one he'd locked earlier. He searched his mind to try and remember why he had done that. Then he remembered, it had been open. Someone had wanted his brandy
… but he thought he'd left it there? Or was it something else? He had brought his stud books up, and some of the latest progeny were valuable. In his bosky state Nash accepted he couldn't fathom the mystery out, or have the skill to insert a key into a lock. But he intended to. It took four tries to look for the key in his pocket and realize it wasn't there but in the lock, and a further five to work out how to turn it. He thrust his tongue between his teeth and concentrated. Then the key turned, he lifted the latch and all but fell into the room as the door swung open.

"Ha, thought you could beat me
, oh door? Not a chance, I am skilled and," he hiccupped. "And … where's it gone?" He addressed the empty room with a question. "Where have you hidden it? I want that scarf. It re-reminds me of, oh hell." He put his hand to his head. No matter what the scarf, or lack of the scarf reminded him, he needed to lie down. That meant on his bed, where there was room, and not papers.

Sadly, it also meant navigating another closed door. That was the one into his bedchamber and it wouldn't be locked. His hand provided a helpful tool to anchor him to the wall as he shuffled the few yards to his goal.

It took him longer than he'd ever thought it was possible, but finally he lifted the latch and stumbled over the threshold of his bedroom. The scent of lavender was stronger now. Nash sniffed.
Damn! Why can't I remember who or what I associate with that smell?

The room was shadowed, even though his shutters and curtains were open. Nash half remembered he had given his valet the evening off, and told him not to wait up. He'd known the evening would stretch into the small hours
. It was so rarely he and Randall had a chance to get together without anyone else around. Now faced with the need to remove his pantaloons he wondered whether it had been a wise move. Not that Ericht usually undressed him per se, but he had been known to help on the odd occasion that Nash was what Ericht called diplomatically, 'under the weather'.

Nash swayed around the doorjamb and rocked on his heels as he decided how best to get to the bed.

"One," He lifted his leg ridiculously high and placed it with exaggerated care a foot or so ahead of his body. "Two … I can do this. Three, four, five." He high stepped toward the chair set at right angles to his bed and collapsed onto it. "I did it." He wriggled his nose. The chair was all fine and dandy, but he needed his bed. With a sigh Nash toed his house shoes off, and looked at his pantaloons. They were knitted and stretched to fit the contours of his body. Therefore in theory they should pull down even over his still hard cock. It was no good; once he was able to rest in comfort he would have to take himself in hand. However, before then…

He struggled to his feet and with one hand to anchor him steady, he used his other to pull the garment over his cock and arse and thence down his legs. Once they gathered around his ankles, Nash used his feet to tug the pantaloons off and stepped over them. His shirt could stay. That was one effort too much. He measured the distance to the bed. Two
strides should do it.

The first st
ride worked. The second was slightly longer and had him wobbling, but it brought him to the edge of the mattress. He let his body fall forward.

Not onto the mattress, on to…

A body? He tried to see clearly. Two bodies? Surely not, not in his bed. He squinted, put his hand into the direction of where he thought one of the bodies could be, and patted flesh. Soft warm female flesh. His vision wavered and cleared enough to know it was one body…

It stirred. Nash levered himself to stand on the floor one more, loath to leave the soft comfort he'd found, but aware enough to know he needed to. He let his hand move to the left and drift up what he decided was a damn curvaceous thigh. If only he could see clear
ly just who had offered herself as his plaything. It would be best to have a face on the body he was about to fuck.

The body jerked as
his fingers circled damp curls and he nipped her soft nub until it hardened in a beautiful mimicry of his cock. Then he let his fingers delve into the warm channel under them. The body tried to pull back even as a soft mewl showed him his ministrations were appreciated. Then he heard a scream, one that most certainly wasn't a sound of pleasure.

"Do not move," he said in a rough voice. He felt it only fair to warn whoever he was now filling with his fingers, and who he noted was writhing in time to his thrusts, that, "I have a weapon, and I will use it."

Chapter Six

Felicity was having a beautiful dream. Her brandy-filled, hazy mind was full of body thrumming pleasure. Someone was playing with her curls and increasing her juices. His—she knew it was a he—fingers teased and played with her nub, and then with an exquisite slowness pushed inside her cunt. She moaned and wriggled as he thrust into her channel. She squirmed. Why fingers? Why not his tool? A thought struck her. Dreams didn't talk. She opened her eyes and from out of the mist that surrounded her, and the semi lightness of the night, she saw a large figure. It loomed over her and she jerked back, no easy feat, as his hand clamped onto her skin like a limpet. The wicked fingers increased their pressure both inside her and over the tiny nub, which she had learned could give her so much pleasure.

He pinched her, and she tried to pull back even as the sensation of a climax began to roll through her. Felicity had oft thought how lucky she was to know what the tingles and goose bumps that bombarded her could herald
, how to enjoy every last nuance until her juices coated whatever digit or toy she used, and let her body shudder in completion. Only once had she known a true climax—well, not once she allowed, but one night. However, now wasn't the time to think about that. Now was the time to extract herself from this predicament.

She screamed, even as she matched his movements.

There was a growl,
a growl for heaven’s sake, what sane man growled
, and those magic fingers moved ever faster. She couldn't help but match them. Then he said the silliest thing ever, and told her not to move. Felicity thought there was as much likelihood of that happening as the King recovering. She ignored him and thrust against him. She was so very close to coming, and surely he wouldn't deny her?

It seemed he would. The deep velvet voice flowed over her, and increased her arousal. The words did stop her in her tracks though. "I have a weapon, and I will use it."

If anything was guaranteed to stop her coming, those words were it. Felicity's arousal disappeared as fast as a pickpocket with a fob watch. She heaved a sigh and pulled as far away from him as possible. There was a rustle and the mattress shook, before she heard the noise of a match scraping over a tinderbox. A flare of light as it caught, and then a candle sent long shadows dancing over her skin.

Felicity narrowed her eyes and watched as a man—a tall
, dark-haired, and incredibly handsome man set the candle into a sconce. She looked him up and down, and couldn't help the chuckle escaping.

Apart from a fine linen
shirt, he was naked. And just below the hemline that seemed to frame it, his long, thick, and hard cock waved a welcome. Felicity looked at his face, then let her gaze drift lower to admire his prick. Then she stared back at his face again. Her stomach churned, as the gentleman—even only wearing a shirt, and with a rampant staff that stood out proudly from his body, he couldn't be anything else other than a gentleman—stared at her. Her pulse jumped. She would bet her pin money she knew him—in the biblical way. If only her brain wasn't brandy-fuddled and his shirt would lift just one more inch, she could be certain. However, even in the flickering candle light Felicity was sure. It was the one man she had glimpsed heaven with, and vowed to leave well enough alone, who threatened her. She thought quickly. He had no idea who she was, and she intended to keep it that way.

"Well now," she said slowly. "You're right, you most certainly do have a weapon. I do hope you know how to use it properly."

Then he also looked at his cock. With one hand he stroked it from root to tip and swirled his finger through the dewdrops of liquid that collected there.

"Oh, you mean this?" His hand caressed himself once more, and he raised one aristocratic eyebrow. "This most certainly does work. But
, my dear, I didn't mean my pego. I meant my pistol." Almost before she had time to register that he'd even moved, a pistol appeared in his other hand.

To her annoyance, Felicity gasped. Was this how she was going to end up? How ignominious, shot through the heart by a man with an impressive weapon. Correct that, weapons. She wasn't sure whether he did indeed have three hands, or two heads, or the brandy was showing her the error of her ways. Whichever it was
. it wasn't in her nature to give up without a fight.

"Very impressive," she said as she thought fast how to
calm the situation. That notion was followed immediately by an idea of how she could defuse one of the weapons. Her breath hitched, even as a fresh surge of arousal increased her juices again. Only once before had she ever felt so alive, her body singing and her nerve ends tingling with sensation. "Two weapons both primed. Which one will you use?"

She couldn't believe her temerity. She, Felicity Oakley was indulging in sexual badinage with a semi-naked man who trained a pistol on her. Not only that, the exchange was making her hot and inflamed and not quaking with fear. Arousal was a funny thing. Surely she should be in tears and begging for mercy, not wondering if the evidence of her excitement was showing on her mound and thighs?

He swayed and laughed. "How many of you are there?" The pistol wavered from side to side, but not enough to miss her if his finger tightened on the trigger. All the while he stroked his cock. Felicity wondered it was some fetish of his, to keep one weapon aimed while he primed the other.

"Stop moving," Nash said. "How can I shoot you if you won't stop still?"

All at once the alcohol left Felicity's system, and her head cleared.
He's drunk. Worse than I am.
It helped her stay calm. "I'm still sir, but I fear one touch and you will fall over. Perhaps you could point your weapon elsewhere?"

He sniggered. "Which one?"

Felicity scrambled onto her knees, and for the first time was conscious how abandoned she must look. Her skirts had caught around her knees, and she suspected her garters were showing. Not only that, her hair had long lost its pins, and now tumbled over her back, and at some point she had shrugged out of her jacket. The thin muslin of her gown was crumpled and twisted, and stretched tight over her nipples, which were pushing at it as if to demand freedom. She hoped there was nothing about her to remind him of their previous meeting. She remembered his question.

"Both of them?"

He tilted his head to one side. "Hmm, first of all, I have questions." Her lover, she was now certain it was he, shook his head. "Damn, why did I imbibe so freely? No, that is not a question for you. I know the answer. Stupidity. I want to know why you're sleeping in my bed. I can't believe Randall left you for me as a present. And who you are. After all how can I fuck with someone whose name I don’t know?"

You did last time
. For one horrified second, Felicity thought she had spoken aloud. As she had no idea who Randall was, Felicity stayed silent. She suspected his words were not directed at her anyway. His next sentence confirmed it. "So, if it wasn't Randall, and she isn't an apparition, maybe I need to ask? Or maybe I need to sit down and then…" His voice trailed away. As she watched, fascinated, he closed his eyes and his grip on the pistol slipped. Felicity leaned forward and took it out of his slack fingers.

He blinked owlishly, and smiled. "I do think I need to know
… need to know…" Almost in slow motion his upper body began to move toward the bed. Felicity only just had time to put the pistol under the pillow and move to one side as he hit the mattress with a thud.

There was a loud and very unromantic snore.

She giggled behind her hand. The one thing Felicity was sure of was that he'd have a terrible headache once he woke up. She studied his back. The least she could do was help him onto the bed and make him comfortable before she made her escape. It was obvious she was no longer able to stay there, neither in this room or her own.

With considerable effort, Felicity lifted his legs up onto the mattress and rolled him onto his back. He might be asleep but his cock wasn't. It still stood up hard and proud out of its thatch of hair. To her annoyance his shirt still skimmed the very top of his prick. She contemplated his comatose body for a few seconds.
It was no good. She had to know. Very carefully she took hold on the linen shirt and lifted it higher. Even in the light of the candle she could see what she was looking for. In the center of the hair that highlighted his staff, was a patch denuded of anything except a tiny tattoo. Felicity gently traced it with her finger. That night was the one shining beacon in the last few months of greyness and despair.

Was it wrong to be happy he had done as he vowed?
To keep the tiny, inked heart with the letters N and F entwined in it, free from hair in remembrance of their night together?

Carefully she left his shirt fall and slid over the mattress away from Nash. She'd almost reached the far side when a large male hand circled her ankle and tugged. She fell onto her front with an
ooft
, as the unexpected attack took the breath from her.

"Oh no you don't. My bed, my choice. I choose you." The voice might still be affected by the amount of drink taken, but his strength wasn't. Slowly Felicity felt herself pulled back over the covers toward Nash. She tried to grip onto the edge of the mattress, but the silky coverlet gave her no purchase. As she
was moved closer to him, her skirt rucked up even higher. Now he'd have a fine view of her arse. She closed her eyes and waited for what happened next.

Three sharp smacks to her buttocks made her jump, even as her body welcomed the sharp sting of his hand. Felicity couldn't help herself; she groaned her appreciation of the pleasure
-pain.