‘That’s it, my sweet one. That’s it,’ he murmured, as he groaned, pushing the final inch into me. ‘Does that feel good?’ He nuzzled my neck, his hands gripping my breasts.
‘Yes,’ I moaned. ‘Yes, yes, more, please.’
‘More, what?’ He began pulling out of me, slowly, torturously. William was a gentleman in every moment of his life, apart from two very separate instances: when he was fighting, and when he had truly lost himself in desire. When he was fighting an opponent, a savage bloodlust came upon him and he fought like a demon. The gentleman’s code was left at the edge of the fighting ring. And, in the bedroom, he possessed a kind of devilish genius that made me breathless. I loved that he made me say what I wanted.
‘More, my lord,’ I moaned, louder. ‘Please.’
‘Yes. Ask me for it. Beg me for it.’ He smiled, as he pushed in to me again. ‘Good. Damn, you feel so good.’ His eyes glazed over again. He began a rhythmic pressure, pressing on exactly the parts of me that felt good. I felt the familiar pleasure in my abdomen start to spread.
I wrapped my legs around his hips and drew him in deeper.
‘Harder. Please,’ I begged him, needing greater pressure. He grunted, and pushed in harder. ‘Fill me up, my lord… make me yours… ’
He groaned louder, and took both of my wrists, pinning them to the bed under me.
‘Iwillpunish you for being… such… a desirous… harlot,’ he grunted. I moaned, feeling my orgasm start to peak. I ground my hips against his, clenching myself. I felt the reverberations of pleasure start to come: at first, like a small involuntary spasm, and then, more, deeper and stronger, until I was gasping out against him, demanding in broken words that he go harder, deeper.
The final wave of the orgasm hit me so hard that I screamed. I wouldn’t have been able to stop if someone had burst in and threatenedto arrest both of us; I was too deep in the pleasure, too enmeshed with William to care.
‘Oh, Tegan…Tegan…’ he moaned, as he allowed himself the release he longed for. As the echoes of my own orgasm rocked me, I felt his begin. He pushed hard into me, and cried out my name, over and over again. He gripped me, his mouth locked on mine. I kissed him, and felt him moan, felt the heat of him inside me.
Slowly, we stopped moving, and I held him tight.
‘Tegan,’ he murmured as I stroked his hair. He rested his head on my breasts. ‘I’ve never had this before. Someone I wanted so much. I can never satisfy the wanting of you.’ He chuckled softly. ‘Even now, when you have spent me completely, I want you. In my soul and my heart and my body.’
I wrapped myself around him, unwilling to disconnect from his body. I wanted to stay in this cocoon of closeness forever.
But I knew it couldn’t last. We seemed to be cursed with a life together that was rich with sweetness, and yet constantly in peril. I closed my eyes and held him to me.
TWENTY-THREE
We had stayed in each other’s arms all night, talking, and fallen asleep just before dawn.
When I finally slept, I dreamed I was in the rose garden.
It was dark. All around me were the ghosts of the dogs that were buried in the garden. Wraith-like, they barked and growled like wolves, but their shapes were like smoke: morphing and twisting into spectral teeth, voracious maws, shadowy legs that skittered and chased.
I was afraid. I remembered the dog that had chased me into the rose garden when I had first travelled to Trevarron House in 1755; it had also appeared from nowhere and tried to attack me, until I climbed up on the wrought-iron fences around the garden and cut my leg as I jumped down onto the other side. In the dream, I wondered: was that dog a spirit dog too?
Now, in the dream, I saw the shape of a girl, walking among the dogs. She was beautiful: a young teenager with auburn hair in ringlets that reached her waist, dressed in a white shift, like the subject of a pre-Raphaelite painting. She was barefoot, and she seemed to glide along the ground.
With a sense of mounting dread, I saw that the girl held a tiny baby in her arms.
As she walked among the shifting shapes of the spirit dogs, the shadowy teeth and the howling, ghostly half-shapes faded. They became real dogs again. The girl stroked and fussed the dogs with her right hand, rubbing their ears and talking to them. In her left hand, she held the child, which was silent and still.
In the dream, I knew that this girl was Mary Elizabeth Favisham Trevarron, and that she haunted the rose garden. Given her body back in death, she was nonetheless somehow trapped there, with the souls of the Trevarron’s dead dogs as her only friends.
She was only a child herself. But, I understood in the dream that she held the baby that had killed her.
I woke up with a heavy heart and tears on my cheeks. I felt that what I’d seen was one of those dreams that were more than just a random collection of information; this was a message. It was a horrifying message, but Mary Elizabeth was trying to tell me something. Whatever it was, I felt even more sure that rescuing Violet and Lady Hermione was important.
The next morning – the day of the escape plan – we returned to Nancy’s cottage. Over breakfast, we updated her with our information; that we had been to the rose garden, that we quite obviously hadn’t gone through the time portal, that we had met my aunt, who had later lived in this very cottage, and that we now had a rescue to complete. Nancy also agreed that she could have a carriage ready to transport Lady Hermione and her daughter up north to her family. She took it all quite calmly.
‘Indeed. Another Yew Tree Cottage dweller. You must bring her ’ere,’ she said, thoughtfully. I promised that we would, and, in fact, our plan depended on it.
Over breakfast, I asked her what she knew about Mary Elizabeth.
‘What I know, an’ what I ’eard, are two different things.’ She raised one eyebrow as she chewed a thick slice of farmhouse bread, thick with butter. I knew that, like Aunt Bill, Nancy got her milk,cheese and butter from Cullen’s farm. Despite the bad reputation of the Cullen boys in this time, the food was as good as it had been in my time.
