Unexpected Pleasures (20 page)

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Authors: Mary Wine

BOOK: Unexpected Pleasures
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“It that what you craved, my lord?”
Justina purred, lowering her voice and drawing her fingernails down his chest in gentle scratches.
“It is a good place to begin, but I fancy a brisker pace, my beauty.”
One of his hands lifted and delivered a short smack on the side of her bottom.
She yelped, more in surprise than in pain. The spot stung but it somehow intensified the heat inside her. She rose up and pressed back down faster, his cock sliding smoothly in and out of her passage.
“Ah, so obedient to your master.”
“I am the one riding you, sir.” She increased her pace, intending to show him that she could be the leader, but another smack landed on the opposite side of her bottom and it drew a moan from her.
“And I say, faster, my beauty!”
Her breasts began to jiggle with her motions and his gaze became fixed on them, but his hips also lifted to meet her on every downward plunge. She could hear his breath rasping between his clenched teeth and he lifted one hand off her hip, making her gasp.
But he didn't deliver another smack to her bottom; instead he moved his thumb between the folds of her slit to find her clitoris. He rubbed it, sending sharp need through her passage. Her thighs quivered but she tightened her muscles and kept her pace, riding him with quick motions, lowering herself all the way so that his cock was buried completely inside her. Pleasure began to tighten beneath his thumb, the hard flesh stretching the walls of her passage, carrying it deep into her belly. She could see his cheek twitching as he held off his own pleasure until hers peaked.
“Ride me to the finish, my beauty.”
“I shall!”
She kept her pace by sheer force of will, and pleasure exploded beneath his thumb a moment later. It raced into her passage, where the walls of her sheath tried to grasp his cock tighter.
“Christ in heaven.”
Synclair grabbed her hips and held them in place while he bucked beneath her, driving his cock in a series of hard thrusts while his seed spurted inside her. She felt it hitting the mouth of her womb, hot and smooth. Pleasure shook her, moving in waves through her body until she slumped down onto his chest, unable to maintain her position above him. For a long moment there was only the sound of his heart beneath her ear and the brush of the morning air felt refreshing against the skin of her back.
“We should ride every morning.”
He rolled her over, gently smoothing her hair away from her face before tapping a fingertip against her lips.
“Just as soon as you wed me.”
 
Synclair didn't remain in the bed long enough for her to protest. He rolled over and stood up. He reached for a tassel that hung from an iron hook near the bed and gave it a pull.
“It is not my permission to wed that we need, Synclair.”
He turned to look at her and the expression on his face stunned her. Raw, unrelenting determination shone from his eyes, and there was not a hint of yielding. Instead, she saw only his challenge, daring her to try him.
He walked back to her. “I ask your consent, Lady, because that is the correct thing to do, but I assure you, I will not be so soft when it comes to the men who run this country. I have bled for England, and her nobles will give me the woman of my choosing for wife.” He reached out and cupped her cheek in one hand. “If I must take you from them, so be it.”
A knock on the door announced the arrival of Arlene and her staff. Synclair leaned over to place a kiss against her lips before striding from the room with his sword in hand. The man didn't have anything on except for a dressing gown, but the pommel of his sword rose above his shoulder because he cradled it across one bent arm like a babe. He was every inch the hardened knight she had struggled to avoid and escape at Amber Hill, and yet, her cheek was still warm from his hand, a touch so tender it warmed her heart.
For the first time, she wished him success in his quest, even knowing that she would be his prize.
Let the arrogant lords sitting on the King's privy council think she was being awarded to him. All that mattered was the fact that she knew he had asked her.
She stopped wishing and began praying because it was far too probable that his quest would fail.
Far too much so.
C
HAPTER
N
INE
“N
ot too far from the house, Brandon.”
Her son smiled with glee and plunged into the new blanket of snow, just beyond where it had been swept off the steps in front of the house. It was drifted up to his waist but that did not stop him from running full speed toward it and jumping to land in it. White powder flew up in a little cloud all around him while the sound of his laughter made Justina smile.
“Come, Mother! Jump and see how far you fly!”
A husky chuckle was her only warning before a hard, male body captured hers. Justina squealed but it was more from excitement than fear. She recognized Synclair's scent as he wrapped his arms around her and swept her off her feet.
“You want to see your mother fly?”
Justina felt her eyes round with horror. “Don't you dare, Synclair.”
He offered her a smug grin. “You should know by now that I dare quite often, Lady.”
He tossed her toward the snow drift and she squealed again, the sound intensifying when she landed in the frozen powder.
“Synclair ... you toad!”
The snow chilled her skin everywhere it wasn't covered, and her body heat melted it where there was fabric. Her dress began to turn wet as she struggled to crawl out of the snow bank Synclair had tossed her into. He stood grinning at her with his hands propped on his hips. Justina grabbed a handful of the frozen snow and hurled it at his mocking face. Her aim proved true and snow exploded all over Synclair's face and chest. She jumped, his body instantly bracing for battle, but it was the surprised look on his face that made her laugh, in spite of the way her bottom was turning numb.
Brandon howled with approval and threw two more balls of snow at Synclair.
“So you want to battle, do you?”
Synclair began tossing large handfuls of snow at Brandon. Justina gasped and tried to fight her way clear of the snow, but heard a mock growl before she was scooped up and tossed further into what had been the yard a week ago. Now it was deep drifts of snow and she sank into it while balls of snow continued to fly.
“I shall never surrender!” Brandon sent out a war cry while continuing to throw snow at Synclair. Justina tried to fight the fabric of her skirts and gain some sort of footing.
“Then you shall be defeated!”
Synclair drove Brandon back but at the last moment, her son threw a final handful of snow at the looming knight and he stopped, pretended to stagger a few paces before falling backward as though he were mortally wounded. Snow flew up in a white mist as his large body collapsed onto its surface.
Her son howled with glee.
“I am victorious!”
Brandon flung his small body at his victim and she heard Synclair laughing as the child landed on top of him.
“And I am growing wet, lying on this snow.”
Synclair stood up, taking Brandon with him. He set the boy down on his feet and dusted what snow he could from his clothing. Justina made her way out of the snow bank and kicked her skirts with a disgruntled sound.
“Women's clothing is so cumbersome.”
“But what else would you wear, Mother? A kilt like a Scotsman or robes like the Greek statues?”
Synclair winked at the boy. “I think your mother would look interesting in britches.”
Her son's eyes widened.
“Sir Synclair is jesting, my lamb,” Justina informed her son gently, while she tried to hide the blush beginning to stain her cheeks with guilt.
Brandon frowned and his little nose wrinkled. “I know I shouldn't correct you, Mother, but I am no longer a little lamb. I just defeated my first knight.”
“Ah yes, well you are correct, my lion.”
Her son roared and ran inside the open front doors, his voice echoing off the walls.
“You are a good mother, Justina.”
It was true praise, she turned to see it shimmering in Synclair's eyes. Large wet splotches marked his britches and doublet and snow still clung to his knight's chain, but he was interested only in looking at her.
“And you will make a very fine father some day.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless you chain me to your bed again, in which case you may not live to see the new year.”
One corner of his mouth twitched up. “Is that a fact, Lady?”
“Quite a solid one.”
He pulled her against him, nuzzled against her neck. “Does that mean I am forgiven this once?”
Justina squealed and pushed against him. “Your face is cold!”
“And I want you to warm it for me with words of peace between us.” His arms didn't release her, but molded her against him.
Justina lifted her face to lock gazes with him. “How could I refuse you that? I have not seen my child in far too long, but it does not change the fact that I will have to return to the viscount at some point. The law is on his side of this matter.”
He frowned, his arms tightening around her.
“Which is why I chained you. The thought of you not being here when I returned was too harsh to bear.”
Justina reached up and placed her hands against his jaw. The skin was warming up quickly and she smoothed her hands up to his cheeks and then behind his neck.
“I cannot bear the thought of you in chains over this, Synclair. You know the law as well as I do.”
“Trust me to find a way to negate the law, Justina.” He made a sound beneath his breath that was blissful while her hands drew the chill from his nape. But his eyes suddenly became serious.
“We will begin with Brandon; he will not stay here for very long.”
There was a light in his eyes that hinted at the intelligence that must have been responsible for seeing Synclair through the hostile territory he had traveled at the King's side. Justina could see him formulating a plan and it sparked hope inside her. It had been a very long time since she had felt that emotion.
“What do you mean?”
She pushed against his chest and he frowned but released her. Justina took several paces away from him before turning to face him again. It amazed her how completely he could change from being playful to embodying knighthood. She wasn't finding it so simple to remain logical while pressed against his body. While they were discussing Brandon, she needed her wits clear.
“We are far too close to Whitehall. It will not take very long for Biddeford to discover that this house belongs to me now.”
“It is a private residence.”
“One that I recently paid the inheritance taxes on.”
Justina drew in a deep breath. “I see.” It would be very simple for Biddeford to consult with the court records.
“Good. That will make it simpler for me to tell you that it may be necessary to send Brandon to Scotland.”
“Scotland—”
“Laird Barras owes you a personal debt of gratitude.”
Justina bit back her first words because they were nothing but an emotional response, one born from her resistance at allowing Brandon to leave her side. Of course he had to go. If he remained, every one of her nightmares would become reality. Her failing to return to Whitehall had no doubt sent the viscount into a rage. One that might so easily be turned upon her child. The man had threatened to do it often enough, so she had no reason to think he wouldn't make good on his threats. Especially if he discovered Brandon so easily within his reach.
“Laird Barras is a good man ...”
One who had married Curan Ramsden's sister. It had been Jemma who had gifted her with the mare she rode back to court and away from Synclair. Someone had poisoned Jemma, and there was one thing Justina had learned about living at court, and that was how to deal with poison. She had helped to expose the culprit and that would surely earn her favor with Jemma's new husband, Laird Gordon Barras. Even Biddeford would not find it simple to take her son away from the Scot.
Synclair captured one of her hands, freeing it from her skirts where she had begun twisting the fabric.
“I will try to send him north to Curan to begin with, but it must be done on the morrow. Curan will send him across the border if it becomes necessary.”
Justina nodded her head, keeping her lips sealed because she feared that her voice might quiver. She had to remain strong; it was her duty as a mother.
Synclair pulled her back into his embrace, his arms wrapping around her while he placed a soft kiss against the top of her head. His strength was her undoing. Her resistance strained beneath the weight of Biddeford's threats and threatened to buckle now that Synclair was sheltering her. Sobs shook her body and tears began wetting his doublet. She pressed her face against the wool to muffle her weakness.
Synclair held her, his hands attempting to soothe her, and when she finally ran out of tears, he framed her face between his hands and wiped away the drops still clinging to her cheeks.
“I swear, Justina, I will not rest until your guardian is no longer able to meddle in your life.”
It was like hearing something out of her dreams. Words that she had so often longed for but knew had little hope of ever becoming reality.
“But I have given you nothing but struggle, Synclair. Wedding me will bring you only more conflicts and none of the benefits that a marriage should yield to a man of your position.”
“I disagree, Lady.”
She laughed, caught between the urge to smile and the need to cry even more.
“You and I are forever disagreeing.”
He made a soft sound beneath his breath. “Something I enjoy.”
He leaned down and sealed her reply with his lips. The kiss began softly but increased in pressure until she opened her mouth and yielded to him. His hand cradled the back of her head, while his tongue penetrated her mouth, taking it, just as he had taken her.
 
The Viscount Biddeford had been raised at court. His father had taught him well how to cultivate relationships among those in positions of power. He would not call them friends, for a wise man never allowed himself to fall to the weakness of having friends. Court was for gaining power and wealth. It was not for fostering emotional ties. Men who hadn't been taught that so often ended up losers to men such as he.
Many nobles departed from court during the winter but that was their mistake. Now, while the weather forced them all to remain indoors, was the time for arranging details to suit his needs. Besides, the King was not improving. His wound was being tended every day now, sometimes twice. That doubled his own need to see things settled before there was a change in power. He would have Bessie Portshire as his wife and thereby gain a powerful connection to her father, the duke.
But that meant retrieving Justina. The viscount made his way down another length of hallway and into a chamber that quieted when he appeared.
“Good day, my lords. Thank you for coming.”
Half of the privy council was present, men he often did business with. He owed some of them favors and knew secrets about the other half that they didn't want repeated. What they all shared was a love of power and knowing that they held it.
“I need to introduce a petition tomorrow and I am hoping for your support.” Biddeford watched eyes narrow in response but he did not allow that to affect his confidence.
“My ward, the Lady Wincott, has gone missing, and I want her returned to me.”
There were a few dry chuckles but the viscount silenced them with a raised eyebrow.
“As I am sure that every one of you would show the same devotion to your own wards, I am hoping you will agree with me that the Baron Harrow must be held accountable for his actions.”
“The Baron Harrow is well respected, enough so that the King received him almost immediately.” Lord Faulkner spoke up and there were too many heads nodding in agreement with him to suit Biddeford's taste.
“Is that so? And how is His Majesty feeling today?”
The lords all fell silent. Being on good terms with Henry Tudor would soon benefit no one. It was an unspoken thing but one that every man in the room understood.
“As I was saying, I believe the Baron Harrow should be arrested and placed under house arrest until the matter of how my ward has come to be detained by him is investigated.” The viscount spread out his hands. “I simply cannot fail to do my duty as her guardian.”
No one truly believed that he was sincere about sheltering Justina, but the men in front of him were silent as they considered the risks of failing to side with him. He had often raised his own hand to vote for them when they called upon him, and it was time for them to repay him.
“May I count upon you, my lords?”

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