The Duke of Hearts (The Highwaymen #2)

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

SHE TOOK HIM in the morning, her skin flushed, her breasts bouncing as he thrust into her. She made the most delicious noises when he was buried inside her. He liked watching her, liked her with her eyes closed and her mouth open, liked watching her abandon herself to pleasure. He liked toying with her clitoris until it swelled, liked the way her little cunny twitched around him when he brought her to a climax. He liked everything about her, really.

And she was going to be his wife.

He nearly spent inside her, because they’d had that conversation the night before about children, and she hadn’t actually seemed opposed to the idea. But then, he thought of how skittish she was about all of this, and he decided it was too soon to put her in that position.

He’d wait.

He pulled out instead, and she surprised him when he did. Her voice was throaty, her eyes half-lidded. “Oh, may I have that in my mouth, then?” she said, and he barely made an affirmative noise in his throat before she latched on and he was emptying himself inside her sweet, hot, wet mouth.

He was a very lucky man, he thought.

“Better than having to deal with the mess,” she said primly, planting a kiss on the tip of him.

He tackled her into the bed and kissed her hard. “You’re perfect, absolutely perfect. Have I told you how perfect you are?”

She writhed into him, clearly enjoying the praise.

He held onto her, yawning, though it was morning. He napped for a while, and then woke later to put his mouth between her thighs, to bring her to a climax before putting his prick inside her wet, sweet body again.

They didn’t get out of bed until luncheon.

Then, he just… didn’t leave.

He could have offered, but he didn’t, and she didn’t ask him to. They spent the next three days each other’s constant companions. They rode horses together and went on walks on the grounds and talked about all manner of things. They talked about their childhoods and their fathers. They talked about their opinions of religion and he confessed he was not sure he really believed God was real. After he said the thing to her about how everyone agreed that the Roman gods were pretend, her eyes got big, and she said she’d never thought about why it was that everyone was convinced their god was real. That seemed nonsensical, didn’t it? But if there wasn’t a god, how did everything come to be?

This led to a detour about Deism, about a god who might have created everything and then disappeared or died or something.

But then this led to a detour about how in most creation stories, there was something there. Even if in Genesis, God created the heavens and the earth, he must have been somewhere before that, and he had come from somewhere. Most other creation stories would have earth already there, or the sky or some massive creature or other, maybe a monster or Titan or turtle or even a massive tree… Nowhere was there any answer where these things had come from.

So, god itself was a dissatisfying answer, wasn’t it? God might create the earth, but where did god come from?

“Maybe the only reason we think things come from something is because that’s how it works for us, on our world,” said Marjorie thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s because this world is mortal, and we all die, so things have beginnings and endings. But maybe, outside of us, everything is eternal. Like God.”

“No ending, no beginning, you mean?” he said. “That hurts my brain, trying to fathom such a thing.”

“Mine, too,” she said. “You have to wonder, we can’t even really comprehend that, can we? So, could we truly make that up, something we can’t even comprehend? Could we make up God?”

“Well, everyone thinks we made up Zeus,” he said.

“True,” she said. “Back to that, then.”

“The important thing is that you’re not horrified by my blasphemy,” he said.

She chuckled. “You would have to work very hard to horrify me, Simon, and I feel you should know that.”

“But if we had children, you’d want them to believe,” he said.

“I suppose, if they didn’t, they should understand that everyone else does, and to say otherwise might put you in material danger,” she said.

“That’s a very practical way of thinking of it,” he said.

“Maybe gods are real and maybe they aren’t,” she said. “Whatever the case, humans always seem to need one. So whether we make them up or not, apparently we can’t function otherwise. It’s probably better simply to believe.”

“Oh, it’s definitely better,” he said. “Is that easy for you, just to decide to believe, even if it doesn’t make sense?”

“No,” she said. “But it is easy enough to decide not to think about it overmuch. You seem to be tormenting yourself with thinking about it too much.”

He laughed. “Quite, yes.”

They talked of other things, too, things that weren’t nearly so heavy or difficult to grasp. They talked about their favorite dishes and their favorite books. They talked about the things they could not abide about the winter, and the things they adored about the springtime.

And then, it was the day that Champeraigne was due to come and collect her payment.

But Champeraigne didn’t come himself. He sent another man, someone who worked for him, someone whose name Arthford didn’t know, though he had seen the man before. He was not a gentleman. He was a tradesman, someone who made a living keeping books for richer men.

He wasn’t violent when he didn’t get paid. He said nothing except that he must report this to the comte, and Arthford told him to do exactly that, and then the man left.

After he was on his way, Marjorie was full of nervous energy. He suggested they go on a ride, but she didn’t wish to leave the house unguarded, and so they stayed where they were.

Then, things became difficult, because they were consumed with a sense of dread.

They knew that Champeraigne would retaliate.

He would know that Arthford was there, though, so he might retaliate much worse than he had the first time he’d sent men to Briar Abbey.

They knew it would happen, but they didn’t know when, and they didn’t know how.

Days passed.

They made love, but neither of them could concentrate well enough to find their release, not unless they did it themselves, which meant they ended nearly all of their sessions mutually pleasuring themselves, lying next to each other, lost to their own minds, trying to concentrate and just… get there. But then, when he did, his orgasms never felt particularly good, like he was too stressed by all of it to really come.

On the fourth day after the man had come for the money, a letter was delivered for Arthford. It was from Nothshire.

It said that Champeraigne had just arrived in Shropshire, and that Rutchester was there, watching the Rivvens estate. Nothshire and Dunrose were heading to look in on the Viscount of Lilsbin, who had stayed home. His wife, however, was in Shropshire with Champeraigne. In other words, everything was going according to plan, but Rutchester could use him there. He could not watch the house at all hours. He needed to sleep. Where the hell was Arthford, anyway?

And then Arthford realized that the letter had been delivered to his house and then redirected here. So, days had passed since this missive had been sent.

That morning, Marjorie had said that she wished to have a nice, long bath, and he had thought to himself that he should give her a bit of time alone. After all, they had been spending every spare second in each other’s company.

He liked it, but his experience with Seraphine had primed him for the idea that women tended to get annoyed with his constant presence. He assumed this was Marjorie trying to tell him that she was getting a little bit tired of him.

The letter, then, had come at an opportune time.

He did not disturb Marjorie in her bath, but later that afternoon, he sought her out. He found her in a sitting room, looking out a window, wearing a dress, not her common outfit of trousers.

“I’ve had a letter about Champeraigne,” he said. “I told you that we were hoping he could be distracted, and it seems that’s come to pass. He is in Shropshire now.”

She turned from the window. “Oh.”

“Well, I’m not saying that’s a guarantee against anything,” he said. “But it’s possible he will not be retaliating against you until he returns. We can expect the man he sent lives in London. If Champeraigne isn’t in London, he may not even know that you’ve refused to pay.”

“Of course,” she said. “You’re leaving.”

“I…” He furrowed his brow. Did she sound disappointed? “Well, I have been asked, in the letter, to go to Shropshire myself.”

“Of course,” she said again, and her voice was very composed.

He eyed her, because something inside his brain was making him feel as if something between them had gone wrong. He shifted on his feet, feeling that his next words were likely to be wrong, no matter what he said, and not at all liking that sensation. “You, erm, you wished to take a bath this morning.”

She looked at him, quite thrown by that. “I did. Should I not have?”

“No, there is nothing wrong with taking a bath, a long restorative bath, alone. It makes sense to me that you would need a bit of time to yourself. You must be used to spending all your time alone. I have been encroaching upon your hospitality and your time, after all. I thought you might be pleased by the news I would need to go elsewhere.”

“Pleased,” she said. “Oh.” Her voice was downright cold now.

“You don’t wish me to go,” he said in a soft and wondering voice. Could it be that she wanted him here? That she was not tired of his company?

“Here we are,” she said. “You made so many pronouncements about how it was that I would grow bored with you , and—”

“You’re not,” he said, giving her a little smile.

“Don’t,” she said, drawing back. “Don’t delight in it. It’s wretched. You’re quite bored with me, so—”

“I’m not!” he protested. “Not at all, no.”

“Come now, I already knew it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you are having trouble, you know, with…” She gestured at his crotch.

“Oh, so are you, and I certainly haven’t ascribed that to boredom. Should I? I thought we were just anxious, both of us, about Champeraigne.”

She considered that, lifting a shoulder. “I can’t tell if you are simply trying to patronize me so that I shall not give you trouble as you take your leave of me or if you’re unaware of the reality of yourself.”

“Unaware of…?”

“It is the way of men!” she said. “I suppose you can’t help it. Once a man secures a woman, there is nothing left for him to do with her. The moment I say that I shall marry you, you’re completely not interested in me anymore.”

“Oh, trust me, there are a number of things we have not yet done, and I have interest in trying all of them.” He gave her an impish grin.

She did not return it. “I have seen it with men, many times. They are obsessed until they get what they want. Once they have it…” She shrugged.

“No,” he said. “No, no, a thousand times, no.” He cleared his throat. “All right, I shall write a letter back to Nothshire and tell him I’m not available currently, and I shall stay here with you and prove to you—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, rolling her eyes.

He didn’t know what to do. He went to her. He tried to take her in his arms.

She ducked out of them, putting pointed distance between them.

He was not used to this sort of behavior from a woman. Seraphine was never like this. Seraphine never cared when he was leaving, and she often disappeared on him without even saying goodbye. If he ever expressed any annoyance about things like that, she would laugh and tell him not to be ever so predictably in a bad mood. We are together now, are we not? Let us enjoy the present , she would say.

He did not wish to be that way with Marjorie, not at all. He spread his hands. “All right, it’s settled. I’m staying.”

She groaned. “Is there really and truly a letter?”

He drew back. “You think I made that up?” He yanked the letter out of his inner jacket pocket and handed it to her.

She took it out of the envelope and scanned it, furrowing her brow, her face flushing. Ducking down her head, she thrust the letter back at him. “All right, all right, you must go.”

He took the letter back carefully. “I shan’t. Not if it will cause problems between us.”

“I don’t wish to be a problem for you, Simon,” she murmured.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “Honestly, this… your reaction, it’s…” He let out a happy little sigh. “I love it. I love your wanting me, needing me. No woman has ever cared if I stayed or went, and it’s rather intoxicating. Let’s go back to bed. Now . I can assure you that if there were any issues with my finding release before, there will not be any now.”

She flushed a deeper shade of red. “I don’t need you.”

“Oh, you know what I’m saying.”

“You were right before,” she said, drawing herself up. “I am used to being alone. I am accustomed to my solitude, and I am quite capable of being on my own. Go.”

“Marjorie,” he said, grinning, reaching for her again.

She evaded his grasp. “I mean it, Simon, you must go. Stop treating me like some idiot girl who cannot understand that you have a life to live outside of me.”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” he said, shaking his head. “No, it only makes sense, your experience with men thus far. I am guilty of it, too, you see? Both of us have trouble believing anyone could truly want us, but I do want you, and I don’t mind proving it to you again and again. As many times as it takes. I said I would earn your trust, and I intend to do that.”

“And I said I didn’t want to be earned. I wanted us to…” She shook herself. “No, I am this way with you. I am some foolish and besotted girl. You make me needy and weak. I don’t even recognize myself.” She looked up at him. “You must go. Immediately.”

He hesitated. “Well… only if you’re certain.”

“Quite certain,” she said with a nod. Her voice was still cold.

“I am coming back, you know,” he said.

She nodded, wordless, composed.

“Marjorie, we are going to get married,” he said. “We shall be together forever, and whenever I leave, I am always coming back.”

“I don’t need that reassurance,” she said.

“It’s all right to need reassurance,” he said. “You have no idea what it meant to me to be reassured of you .” He closed the distance between them, kissed her thoroughly, and then he left.

THAT NIGHT, THE bandits came, as if they’d simply been sitting out in the woods, waiting and watching for him to leave.

Marjorie thought about sending someone after him.

She knew he’d come back.

She had been convinced that he had become bored of her, and maybe he actually was. Even if he was, he’d come back. He was the sort of man who had a certain amount of honor. He thought it was his own fault that Champeraigne had targeted her, so he’d see it as his responsibility to set it to rights.

He’d come back.

But then, she didn’t want to be dependent upon him.

She had forgotten, rather quickly, that she had no interest in being a man’s anything.

But somehow, he had made her waver. At first, she had thought that perhaps she could be his mistress. At least, when one was a mistress, one retained a certain sense of agency. At least a mistress could leave if she didn’t like it.

Sometimes, when she put on trousers, she mused over whether some part of her wished to be a man. Usually, however, she felt that she did not. She did not think she would like the responsibility of it, in the end. It was one thing to be entirely responsible for oneself, but men were responsible for more than just themselves. If she had been a man, if she had been her nephew, then she would have inherited this house and the upkeep of a maiden aunt. She would not have preferred that.

No, she didn’t wish the burden of having to take care of a wife and children and an aging mother or mother-in-law besides, and everything else that came along with being a man. There was freedom there, she supposed, but it was tempered by also a heavy weight.

What she wanted, she supposed, was to have the freedoms of a man but the lack of responsibility of a woman. Just the best of both worlds, she thought.

She had thought that perhaps that was what a mistress was. Free.

But then she’d thrown caution entirely to the wind and agreed to marry him.

How could that be anything other than a trap? And falling for him, already, she was not free.

Falling for him, she was tied to him. She cared if he stayed or went. She cared if he was bored with her. She cared, and if he rejected her, she was destroyed.

No, no, she could not be dependent on the Duke of Arthford, not in any way.

So, she started thinking that there must be some other way out of it besides appealing to that man for help. She knew now that these bandits were not actually desperate men trying to steal money to live and eat or support themselves. These men were being paid by Champeraigne to ransack her house.

This changed the stakes.

So, she told all the servants to leave and go hide in the stables, and she went around the house, observing the bandits until she had a good idea of which one of them was the leader.

Then, she loaded a gun, pouring the powder, ramming down the ball, all of that.

She went into the room with the barrel of the gun leading the way, and she followed the barrel right into the back of the head of the man in charge.

The others looked up and saw her, but they all seemed too stunned at the sight of a woman in trousers with a gun to know precisely what to do.

The man felt the gun hit the back of his head and he knew what it was. He went still.

“How much is Champeraigne paying you to rob me?” she said in a lilting voice. “I bet, however much it is, it isn’t worth having your head blown clean off.”

The man’s jaw tightened. “Let’s talk about this.”

“I’ll talk,” she said. “You listen. You tell everyone to put down everything they’ve gathered up to take away from me. And then, everyone exits in an orderly fashion. I’ll escort you out once you guarantee they’re all out.”

“All right,” he said. “All right.”

It actually went very easily. The men did what they were told, following the directions of the leader quite well.

But she knew she couldn’t do this all on threat. She knew she would need to do something beyond that, because this battle would be fought again and again and again otherwise.

When she escorted the leader out, then, she shoved him down on his knees in front of all of the others.

She moved around him, so that she was facing him, pointing the gun at him. “I don’t want any of you to come back,” she said. “I don’t know what he’s paying you, but I promise you, if you come back into my house, I won’t be so kind next time. Next time, myself and my servants shoot on sight, shoot to kill. We shall slit your throats. We shall throw you from the windows to fall and break your bones on the ground below. We shall show you no mercy. Ask yourself how much money that is worth.”

Then she shot off the man’s kneecap.

He howled.

Blood went everywhere.

All the “bandits” ran.

She went back inside and barred the door.

There, she thought. I’m no one’s responsibility. I can take care of myself.