The Jezebel (6 page)

“Ah, now, that is pleasure incarnate,” he gasped.

His shaft seemed to get harder still, then she felt it jerk, and he pulled free. Rolling to one side, he erupted in his fist, which he continued to pump up and down for several moments after, enthralling her.

When he saw her watching, he seemed pleased.

He kissed her mouth, then rose to clean himself.

When he returned, he began to undress her.

Dizzy with pleasure, but eager to do the appropriate thing, Maisie half sat, giving him access to her laces.

“You have undressed women before?” she murmured.

“No, but it appears to be a similar mess to a tangle of rigging, and I’ve always had a knack with unraveling that.”

That made her laugh, and when she glanced back over her shoulder at him, he smiled her way. Now that they had uncoupled she felt strangely adrift, but the way he undressed her, with care and attention, soothed her. Even so, she was embarrassed when he bared her fully.

He encouraged her to climb beneath the cover on the bed, then he carried her gown and under things to the map table, where he deposited them.

Joining her under the cover, he rested on his side, propped on one elbow to study her, observing her even more closely than he had before. Reluctant admiration shone in his eyes.

Maisie saw curiosity there, too. She had impressed him.

It hadn’t been her intention. This whole endeavor was a means to an end for Maisie, her virginity a trinket that she had to be rid of, for all it was worth to her keeper. Being admired wasn’t something she was unaccustomed to, however. She had spent so long being nurtured by Cyrus Lafayette, cocooned safely—or so she thought—in his worldly arena, that she had grown used to being watched and admired by a man.

When she looked at her lover she realized that what she saw in his eyes was very different. Admiration, yes. But he knew nothing of her secret talents, and he was admiring her as a woman, a woman who had apparently satisfied his lust.

That did surprise her. As much as she knew what she was doing by offering herself to him, and why, she did not expect that she would enjoy it herself—and she had, immensely. Nor did she expect the man she had chosen by default, in exchange for her passage to Dundee, to seem so thoroughly sated and pleasured by her company.

“There is one thing I do not understand.” He considered her, his gaze encompassing her body, stretched upon his bunk, as he spoke. “It is true that you have not lain with a man before—that much is plain to see.”

He paused and lifted the cover, the look in his eyes brooding as he considered her intimate womanly flesh at the juncture between her thighs, so freshly invaded by his rigid manhood, and the lingering streaks of blood on her inner thighs.

Maisie trembled. Every sensation she had experienced—from pleasure to pain, and back again into ecstasy—was so close in her physical memory that when he looked at her that way it ran through her flesh like myriad lightning strikes. How strange that was, that she had been so thoroughly affected by him. Maisie marveled at it, her heart racing as she contemplated the intense pleasure that had been borne out of the pain.

“How is it then,” he continued as he lowered the cover, “that you seem to be so skilled, that you know so much about giving yourself willingly, and pleasuring a man?” He asked the question in a forthright manner, as seemed to be his way.

But how was she to answer? The explanation would sound strange to anyone she might offer it to, and she would not blame a man for not believing it.

A virgin who was highly educated about fornication.

It was little wonder his brow was so furrowed. Maisie could not give her answer aloud. Instead, she rose up to kiss his firm, masculine mouth, in order to distract him.

It is because I was taught everything I would ever need to know by my guardian, my keeper, and that included detailed study of the nature of physical congress and all it can bring for a woman such as I.

CHAPTER SIX

At his wife’s request Cyrus Lafayette allowed “young Margaret” several weeks to grow accustomed to her new life in their Islington home before he began her education. Even though her guardian waited for her to settle in, Maisie could tell he was impatient. He wanted her instruction to begin. She soon discovered that her education was of great importance to Cyrus, although it was not until she was much older that she fully understood the reasons why.

The Lafayette house was large and overwhelming, and it took some time for Margaret to think of it as her home. The hallways were filled with sculptures and paintings, and the many rooms each had a different purpose, unlike the small croft cottage in which she had spent her infancy, and later the rented room she and her siblings had shared with their mother in the Lowlands. Maisie’s favorite place was the garden, where she felt closer to nature, but also safe, because of the high walls that surrounded it and kept it private. There were mulberry and crab apple trees, and neatly planted borders either side of the path. Cyrus often reminded her that she was safe inside those walls, indicating that would not be the case if she ventured beyond.

Margaret learned that the house was located in London, close to the cabinet where Cyrus was known as an influential government orator, and near the fashionable coffeehouses where he engaged in intellectual discourse with other important men. In those ostentatious environs Cyrus discussed subject matter for many of the articles he wrote on important issues of the time, essays that were circulated far and wide in books and then pamphlets and newspapers.

The passage of time did settle her, eventually, and it helped that the Lafayette household was run with strict routine, according to the master’s instructions, the servants and the mistress of the house following his orders without fail. So it was that Maisie adopted their strange but somehow comforting regimen. As the Lafayette ward, she did not want for anything, and that was strange, for it was very far from what she had known in her life before. The horrific memory of witnessing her mother’s death made her lower her gaze and be grateful that she and her siblings had been spared. During this time she did not even dare to think of her magic, let alone use it, lest her saviors cast her out to face a death like her mother’s.

Almost everything of a feminine nature was introduced to her life by Mama Beth. It was the master of the house who took control of her education—and through that, ultimately, took control of her.

“Young lady.” He beckoned her over one evening before Mama Beth and the upstairs maid prepared her for bed. “You must begin your classes tomorrow.”

Maisie instinctively went to his side, nerves building within her as she grew concerned about his meaning.

When she stood beside his winged armchair, he took her hand in his. “If you are to become a proper young lady you must learn about the world.” He looked at her with a searching gaze, his opaque eyes shrewd, his black hair shot through here and there with gray strands, drawing her attention, for he didn’t wear a wig in the informal setting of his home. “Can you read?”

“No, sire.” It was not a question she had been asked before, but she felt shameful, knowing she was amongst privileged people now and did not want to disappoint them.

“That can soon be remedied. Your schoolmistress arrives on the morrow. You will begin your lessons then.” He tapped Margaret on the end of her nose with one finger. “She will have you reading in no time, and then we can study together.” He showed great interest in that prospect, and his faith in her potential made her a little less afraid.

From then on her mornings were devoted to lessons with a schoolmistress, lessons that might be considered normal fare for a girl of her age. Under the governess’s instruction her reading and writing skills quickly improved, and her mind broadened as she took on geography, history and arithmetic. Her teacher, Mistress Hinchcliffe, was a widow. She had nut-brown hair and sad eyes, and her smile was so rare and special that Maisie soon learned its immense value. Mistress Hinchcliffe was a keen teacher, and she rewarded Maisie for her enthusiasm. Sometimes with her smile.

Maisie quickly learned things that she recognized to be useful and important—things that were not often afforded to young women of her age, and especially not those of her questionable background.

Once her reading skills were addressed, Master Cyrus began to undertake some of her tutoring himself, just as he had promised. He studied with her after Mistress Hinchcliffe returned to her lodgings, and the books he shared with Margaret were very different from the ones she studied with her morning tutor. At first he kept the volumes in a locked wooden cabinet in the schoolroom. However, Mistress Hinchcliffe often looked at it with a dubious glance, and eventually it and its contents were moved back to the library, from whence they had come.

“You must not share the nature of the lessons we look at together,” Master Cyrus instructed her after the cabinet was moved, “for neither Mama Beth nor your tutor would understand the precious subject matter, and it is my duty to protect you from those who would wish to harm you...the way your mother was harmed.”

He told her this as he led her to his personal library.

Her grip on his hand tightened.

In those early days he didn’t often refer to her mother’s demise. He did not have to remind her of it, but when he did so it was always in warning.

The books they studied were never shared with his wife. Neither did Mama Beth partake in any of the special lessons.

“I want you to know and understand your beginnings,” he informed Margaret. “You come from a long line of witches, and you are gifted and special. It is not my intention to quell that part of your nature. In fact, I mean to encourage it, but only in private. It is to be our secret.”

“Why are you so generous to me, Master Cyrus?”

“Because I have a great interest in your skills, and if we learn about them together I can protect you, and you can perhaps help me in return, one day in the future.”

“You might need me to undertake healing?”

“Perhaps.”

She was innocent of his real intentions.

“We will study all the books that I have on the subject, together, and we can discuss the matters therein. Do you understand?”

Young Margaret nodded. She felt excitement at the prospect, and was humbled that he cared to encourage that part of her for which most people would persecute her.

“You will discover, when we read together, that there are people all over the world who understand the natural rhythm of life and the power inherent in nature.”

“All over the world?”

Cyrus nodded and opened her first book.

They spent several weeks studying that first tome, returning to the beginning to read the important parts again, talking about it as they went. Margaret learned that people practiced magic in many faraway countries, and it wasn’t something solely borne of the Scottish Highlands. The book was beautifully handwritten in painstaking script, each page illustrated with tiny drawings. The knowledge excited her, introducing her to possibilities beyond her own experience and beyond the difficult days that her family had endured after their mother led them to the Lowlands.

There were several such books, and one in particular captured Margaret’s heart, for it documented Highland witchcraft. She was enthralled when she saw the old Gaelic and Pictish words written within. There were enchantments that her mother had taught them by ear, and many more besides.

“Some of these I know, but others I don’t.”

“Try those that are new to you, if you want to,” her protector encouraged. “Only when we are alone, though.”

Delighted, she nodded. “I promise. I will only make magic with you, Master Cyrus.”

His lips curled.

Under his watchful eye she learned to flex her skills, growing her craft and her repertoire of spells. It was an exciting time, and one in which her loyalty to her guardian evolved.

In time he tempered this by introducing a different kind of tract, books that advocated the hunting down and killing of witches. Young Margaret, who had flourished through her learning, had come to believe that it was a terrible mistake that her mother was persecuted. When she saw what he meant for her to study next, she felt instantly afraid. Two years had passed and she felt safe at last. Now that would be undone. “Why?”

“In order to be strong you must understand the reasons why your kind are so often feared and persecuted. Be brave, for it is only through understanding such ignorance that we can hope to defeat it.”

However, when he sat her down and encouraged her to read King James’s book entitled
Daemonologie
it shattered her heart and put her young life into stark relief. This was the very document from which all laws about and persecution of witchcraft had spilled down in her homeland and beyond. It was a brutal indictment, one that used the justness and power of religion and royalty to seek out and kill her kind.

“This will shock you,” Master Cyrus warned her, “but it is important you understand they are driven by their fear.”

Margaret was only a few pages in when she began to feel sickened, tormented by the words, and the images they conjured. It took her back to that fateful day. Since then she’d had her mind opened, and she’d been excited to find that those who believed and practiced magic were everywhere. Even though she’d witnessed her own mother’s persecution, it was hard for her to see how something borne of nature could offend souls and make them afraid. This document only reinforced the fact that she and others like her were in constant danger. Those in power—the monarchy and the church—feared and despised them, and turned honest workingmen against them. The more she read, the more ill she felt.

She drew back from the book, confused by it.

“Perhaps reading it aloud would be better, so that we might discuss it,” Master Cyrus offered, encouraging her to turn another page.

She had hoped that he would set the book aside for another day, for it was too close to her own experience, and the words of the magistrate and the villagers who had condemned her mother were reflected in every page.

“Ask me anything,” Cyrus said, forcing her on.

Why was he so determined she read it? Margaret stared at the page, faltering, yet afraid to disappoint him. “It says the witches serve one master. Who is this master?”

His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Read on.”

She read aloud, needing to do so to share her confusion with him. “The devil...it says the devil entices witches into his service. He lures them to follow him by promising them great riches.” She paused, turning to the man who was her only protector, her only master. “The devil? But this is Christian belief. They said this about my mother, but I didn’t understand it then and I do not understand it now. We believe in that which folds in on our lives time and again, bringing life and growth and good things. We believe in nature’s way, the seasons and the rebirth of everything that is good.”

He nodded. “Your people have often been unjustly accused of being evil, although I expect some turn that way.”

He tapped the page, encouraging her to read on.

Reluctantly, she did so. “It says that the devil bestowed the knowledge to cure illness—” she shook her head in disbelief, for that was not her experience “—or to curse and kill via means of wax figures.” She felt quite ill. “Wax figures to curse or kill? I have never heard of such a thing.” Upset, confused and angered, she wanted to destroy the book and all it represented. “These are lies!”

“People believe this because it is the king’s word, and the church and the lawmakers agree and act upon it. Try, if you can, to imagine you knew nothing of witchcraft, and how you might feel if you read this and believed it.”

The thought sent a cold shiver through her. “Yes, it would make me afraid, and if there really are people who did such things...people who used magic for their own gain...then I can see why men believed the king’s word.”

Master Cyrus did not respond to that.

“And the remedy they recommend?” He seemed determined that she finish reading the king’s
Daemonologie
that very night.

She read aloud again, unable to analyze the words on her own. “‘What form of punishment think ye merits these magicians and witches? They ought to be put to death according to the law of God, the civil and imperial law, and municipal law of all Christian nations.’” Her voice faltered as she remembered, the tears welling. “But...but what kind of death...I pray you?”

She heard the jeers, the accusations, the thud of stones that made her mother drop and bleed. Margaret did not need to read on, for she knew what the answer was.
Fire.

“Burn her to death,” they had shouted. “Rid our village of their evil.”

Tears spilled down Margaret’s cheeks as the wounds reopened and she relived the pain, remembering it all.

“Hush now.” Master Cyrus rested back in his chair. “You are safe, and you always will be, with me.”

Crying and gulping in distress, she found her vision misting.

“I do not want to remind you of your mother’s fate,” he said, after some time had passed. “You know that. But it is important that you understand why it happened.”

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “Why do they think these things about us?”

“It is ignorance and jealousy that lead people to do such things to a gifted, special one such as you.” His eyes flickered thoughtfully. “Fear of the power that you might have over them.” His brows lifted.

Maisie stared at him. He seemed pleased with her. Was it because she had been brave enough to read it all?

His eyes gleamed as he contemplated her. “I do not have your powers, my precious, but I respect them in you. You will not be harmed, not while I watch over you. That much I promise you.”

And she believed him.

“In time these laws will be revoked,” he added. “I have heard it spoken about amongst the important people, and there has been much written about the injustices that have taken place.” Cyrus’s mouth twitched into a smile. “And many people do not even believe witchcraft exists,” he added, “which suits us rather well, don’t you think?”