Page 23 of Broken

“No, Giles.”

Using both hands, he set to work without speaking again, straddling her hips to begin with, but careful not to place any weight on her body. She moaned against his pressure, and he grew more certain with each pass of his hands that her moans were not of pain, but relief.

He rubbed over her spine and shoulder blades, out along her arms. Giles returned to her neck and worked softly there for some time, then returned to her back and bumped along her bony rib cage, down to where her nightgown stopped him. He reversed himself and drew the material up her body, baring her legs and her backside.

His mouth grew dry. He could not have spoken if his life depended on it. There were more scars on her legs. He rubbed his hands up and down, noting the tightness of the skin and muscle, then rubbed her tiny feet, too, and spent considerable time softening them.

He worked back up and over her whole body again and again, enjoying having his hands occupied on bare skin, and getting no suggestion from Lilly to stop at any point. Aside from the occasional deep moan, she rarely made a sound.

When he did stop, he stared at her soft skin and swallowed hard. The scars did not detract from her body. She was beautifully formed—small waist that could do with some extra padding, along with her ribs, generous hips that flared out to perfect globes that made his mouth water. Given his position and the angle of her legs, he could just make out a thatch of white hair between her legs. He groaned, tempted to bury his head and taste her.

A loud snore stopped him cold. Then another sounded, and he snorted. He was painfully aroused by his good-intentioned actions, but she was asleep.

Giles scooted off the bed and adjusted her nightgown so she was decent again, then carefully rolled her over to her back, never even glimpsing her breasts under the thick material. He pulled the blankets up to her chin, just to make sure that view was definitely barred to him.

When the bed looked as if Lilly had not had company, he crossed to the door and unlocked it. Quietly, he re-crossed the chamber and took his place beside the bed, stretching out to imitate sleep in case Dithers thought to check on his activities.

Giles tried to subdue his raging erection, and took some time doing it. Dithers peeked in just as he had won that war. He brought with him a light supper and wished Giles good night, glancing at him with a strange gleam in his eyes.

If Giles didn’t know better, he would bet that Dithers had lowered his standards and stuck his eye into the keyhole earlier to peek through.

* * *

“They’ve not passed through here, Mr. Barrette.”

Bartholomew looked up at the hovering groom and scowled, none too pleased with the news. Another day wasted, another day lost scouring the countryside for Baron Winter’s coach. He had been so certain the old man would have headed toward familiar haunts, but this time he’d gone to ground good and proper.

He glanced at his dust-covered servant, Brown, through the gathering gloom of the taproom. “We’ll spend the night here. Be ready to depart at first light.” The man tugged his forelock and scurried out of the taproom.

Curse that bitch to hell and back.

At least this tavern served better swill, and he could safely drink his fill tonight. It also offered a better class of tart. A comely wench swung her hip close to his arm so her skirts brushed. She apologized, but then did it twice more. She leaned forward to take his empty tankard away, giving him an unimpeded view of her breasts.

Strumpet.

But at least she was blonde.

He ordered another ale, noticing the innkeeper’s gaze on the woman too. A wife, or a daughter, Bartholomew didn’t give a damn. She’d be after coin for her troubles either way.

He kept track of her movements. When the innkeeper grew distracted by another patron, the woman slipped out the back, glancing over her shoulder to see if he had noticed. After a moment or two, Bartholomew climbed to his feet and followed.

Moonlight made the shabby kitchen garden pleasing, and he found the woman waiting by a garden wall. Without a word, she drew him near, clutching at his arse like a woman possessed by passion. If he didn’t know just what she was after, and what she’d actually get, he might have been amused.

“You’d best be quick. My husband’s got a terrible temper, but I’ve a mind for a pretty dress.”

He turned the little woman against the wall, slammed her head against the rough stone and hitched her skirts high. “You should be more afraid of me than your husband. No one knows you’re with me.”

The tart whimpered.

“And they never will. I’ll pay you well, but shut your stupid mouth, or this will only get rougher.”

Her head nodded marginally. He freed himself from the tight confines of his breeches, spread her thighs, and took her with one hard thrust.

She cried out, but Barrette was too consumed by hatred to do more than tighten his grip on her hips. He forced her legs wider, slamming into her with every frustration he’d carried on his shoulders for the past days.

He wished this was Lillian. The perfect daughter would make a perfectly good fuck if he could ever catch her alone. He’d bend her to his will – force her to do things with him and no other. He would make her father regret his decision not to accept his suit. Lilly’s dowry should stay with him and Dumas.

He finished with a grunt, straightened his clothing, and dumped a generous handful of coins on the ground. She gasped for breath, but made no move to straighten herself. He walked away, but after a few steps he turned back to offer advice. “Buy any color dress you like, but not lemon. Only a walking corpse wears lemon.”