Page 16 of Mistress of Sins

Fortunately there is no church filled with people to see your disgrace this time.

Jennet ignored the scathing whisper of her sensibility as she watched his eyes. His expression darkened as he exposed her legs, pushing the old silk up around her waist. It bemused her that he would apologize while intent on adding to her ruin— only this did not seem especially intentional.

No, Greystone appeared rather possessed by demons at present.

Knowing he would find no other hindrance beneath her skirts to bar him from having his way with her, Jennet knew the time had come to put an end to this. She must protest, scold him, plead with him, beg him to stop. Perhaps hit him again and bring him to his senses. Something had to at least be said. Why could she say nothing?

There is no more to say, her heart assured her, and everything to do.

In the end her body decided the matter. Jennet saw her hands reaching to help him, and felt the long, hard length of him come into her fingers. All iron swathed in thick satin, his cock swelled even larger as she caressed him. How splendid he was, all man, all wanting her. Nothing felt as good or right as shifting forward and parting her knees wide as she guided him to her slick, throbbing softness. The moment the heavy plum of his crown touched her he went rigid, and she curled her fingers around his shaft.

Greystone took firm hold of Jennet’s throat, almost as if he meant to strangle her, and then slowly pressed into her body with his, his gaze locked with hers.

At first, he seemed too large to occupy such a small space, even with the abundance of wetness with which she engulfed him. A pang of distress tried to part the heavy, dragging craving she suffered, and then became of no consequence. Jennet felt herself stretching around him, her body trembling in response to this wholly unfamiliar possession, but this seemed the way of it. She had never taken a man into herself; of course, there would be newness to the accommodation. Her instincts told her this was where he was meant to be, and nature had fashioned her to accept him there.

Greystone’s jaw tightened as he met resistance, something they both felt, and then it gave way with a brief yet startling, burning pain for Jennet. That soon faded as he pushed deeper, his hips moving in slow steadiness against her inner thighs, until he had joined their sexes entirely. Greystone dropped his hand and buried his face against her neck, his chest heaving as if he had just run to the village and back.

A curious tenderness filled Jennet, making sweeter the ache between her thighs.

Being thus penetrated, Jennet could also feel the beat of his heart ever so faintly inside her now. That pulsing made her clench around him, and she heard him groan against her neck. This pleased her, although she wasn’t certain as to why. Her legs curled around the backs of his, and she braced herself with one hand on the table under her as she reached for his face. When her thumb brushed against the hard line of his mouth, he pressed his tongue against her palm.

Such a luscious thing to do, Jennet thought, her head filling with all manner of unseemly notions. She wished them away from the hot house, alone together in a bed chamber where they might be naked together on a soft bed. There she would ply her mouth on his flesh in a like fashion, from the curve of his lower lip to the arch of his feet and back again. She wanted him to move inside her for hours and hours, and satisfy this infernal craving for his flesh pumping inside her quim. She gasped as he plunged deeper, and the motion set all of her insides to heating and quivering. Again, and again he thrust into her, until she thought she should beg him to stop until she could catch her breath.

Breath lost its urgency as something rose from her belly and engulfed her breasts, her heart, her head. That incandescent bliss consumed her as anger never could, and Jennet surrendered to and triumphed over him, entirely lost, utterly found.

Greystone pressed her face against his shoulder, muffling her cries as he struggled to contain his groans. They rumbled against her breasts as he drove to the deepest realm of her core, and there held himself as his cock jerked and jetted, filling her with his seed. The satiny warm wetness mingled with her own, and when he drew away she nearly begged him to stay inside her, where he alone would ever belong, he alone would ever again be welcomed.

He kept one arm around her as he pressed a handkerchief between her thighs, and Jennet felt a glimmer of renewed arousal to watch him tend to her so gently. He then drew down her skirts, and attended to himself before fastening his breeches and stepping back from her, his eyes glittering with obvious gratification and no small amount of confusion. Carefully he took hold of her waist, and set her down on her feet.

Not a word had they spoken to each other since the kiss, Jennet thought absently. No expressions of affection, nor pledges of fidelity. An offer of marriage, she suspected, would not be forthcoming. He had taken what little she had kept from him, her innocence. He had done that so completely she would never again look upon any man as she once had.

No more to say, and now everything done.

Greystone might have spoken, had she waited and listened. Instead Jennet turned half toward the door, and then swung back, driving her fist directly into his face. This time she connected with his lordship’s countenance, and with gratifying force. The pain for herself also proved significant, but it seemed a fair price for the pleasure of hearing and feeling her knuckles ram against his nose and mouth. He staggered backward and collided with a shelf of seedlings, sending them crashing to the floor.

Should she hit him again? Her hand throbbed painfully, but the rest of her felt magnificent. No, she had dealt with him properly.

Jennet walked out to retrieve her fan and her mask, donning the latter. She smoothed her hair, and shook out her skirts before she walked up to the doors to the reception room, and stepped inside.

Chapter 9

From the windows overlooking the terrace Ruban watched the drama between Greystone and Jennet unfold. It brought back memories of another night recently spent in an old chateau, but not at a ball.

Jean-Pierre and his men had worked for three days on the traitor, who had been seen skulking from an officer’s tent. By the time Ruban arrived the prisoner’s features were no longer recognizable, and he bled from the ears as well as the nose and mouth.

“Without the cipher he could not read the messages,” Ruban said after listening to their reports. “What else did you find on him?”

Jean-Pierre held up a small glass vial filled with a cloudy liquid. “Poison, we think. He tried to drink it after he was captured.”

Such vials had been found on the bodies of other prisoners who had chosen death over torture. It had been whispered that all of them had been allies of the most ruthless, feared killer in France.

“I know you have met with the Raven,” Ruban told the traitor, using a soothing tone. “Tell me his name.”

The lie was one told to every captive in hopes of provoking a reaction, although it had not yet worked. This time the prisoner stiffened, and then looked away.

Being so close to finding the most hunted man in France made Ruban caress the battered face with real affection. “Tell me who he is, and where I may find him, and I will set you free.”

“You cannot catch him,” the traitor said, his tone taunting. “By now he is home in England.”