Chapter 12

CHAPTER12

A week ago

Jacob and Maggie had been sharing a bed for two months now and satisfying each other with a lot of mutual hand and mouth play, but his wound was healed sufficiently he could finally lie fully on his back comfortably and thrust his hips without going through the roof with pain. The strapping had been removed from his leg today as well. He could walk freely at last, and his strength was coming back.

And his cock was active as hell. His lurid fantasies had become obsessive as he contemplated what he was going to do to Maggie when his body would let him. Watching her enter the room from his seat by the fire, with a tray of food for their dinner, he decided tonight was the night.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back. “Hungry?” She set the tray down on the table and his eyes travelled over her body, her generous breasts curving over the top of her bodice, she was like and unlike Genevra. She had Genevra’s curves, but she was much more responsive than Genevra. She didn’t act like she loathed him for a start. Genevra’s cold disdain for him had made him furious with her. A wife was supposed to meet her husband’s needs, not the other way around.

He winced internally recalling some of his worst outbursts. But she goaded him, always arguing and talking back. It was her fault he hit her, she would try the patience of a saint, and he was far from that. And on top of that she lost two babies and then proved barren. Altogether she had been a great disappointment as a wife.

Maggie on the other hand liked it rough and hard, she didn’t need him to be careful of her, and she took care of herself if his passion took him quicker than it took her to get there. He liked that a lot. Now he was mobile he could fuck her properly and thoroughly, like he’d been promising himself for an age.

“Famished,” he said, grabbing her round the waist and dragging her down into his lap. She squealed and laughed as his arm wrapped round her waist and pulled her close for a kiss. “Food can wait,” he muttered slewing her round in his lap.

* * *

Genevra’s daywas busy as usual, but her peace was considerably cut up by a visit from Josiah Neeps, her stepfather’s Manager. The man was built on bullish lines, with high coloured cheeks and a developing paunch. She spotted him from the doorway to the office, but stayed hidden to watch him approach Joe, as he was manning the tap for customers in the public bar when he came in. Joe recounted the conversation to her later, telling her that he recognised his former boss immediately.

Neeps sauntered up to the bar and requested a beer.

“Certainly, Mr Neeps, pot or tankard?”

“Tankard.” Neeps cast his pale piggy eyes about and then brought them back to Joe who handed him a frothing tankard.

“That’ll be six pence sir.”

Neeps handed over the money and took a long pull of the beer, wiping his mouth. “That’s a fine drop of Whittaker’s you have there,” he said with a friendly smiled.

Joe grunted assent and eyed him suspiciously. “What you doing here, Mr Neeps?”

“Fellow can’t have a beer at his local?”

“Certainly, he can but this ain’t your local,” replied Joe with a frown.

Neeps shrugged. “No need to get your breeches in a twist Joseph, I’m looking for Mrs Tate. She about?”

“What do you want with her?”

“Just a friendly visit.” Neep’s mild tone didn’t fool Joe. Genevra had confided to him something of the threats her stepfather had issued, and as Joe told her, he wasn’t about to let the likes of Neeps harass or upset her. He was about to tell him she wasn’t on the premises, when she emerged from the office.

Neeps seeing her, smiled and headed her way. She took him into the coffee room. A few minutes later Neeps emerged and headed out the door to the street. Genevra came towards the bar to speak with Joe.

“What did he want?” asked Joe quietly.

“He says he came to warn me, because he has a ‘soft spot’ for me!” Genevra uttered this with a grimace. “In actuality I think he hoped to ingratiate himself with me. I believe Hiram sent him to spy on me, despite his promise not to send him here to take over the books.” She thumped a bunch of dirty tankards into a crate to take them out and wash them. “He means to wrest the Tavern from me if he can. I must find a way to stop him!”

“Steady lass,” Joe put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re paying down the debt, he’s got no legal recourse against you while you’re meeting the terms of the loan.”

She sighed. “I know, but it’s tactics like this that he employs to unsettle me.”

For their penultimate night together,Garmon took her to the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Entering the box, set on the uppermost tier, Genevra discovered that they had a perfect view of the whole audience below them as well as the stage. The box was deep with curtains on the sides for privacy, the rear part in shadow. It was furnished with a couch big enough for two, upholstered in plush, deep-rose velvet, to match the curtains. He served her sparkling wine and she toasted with him to another evening of pleasure. The theatre hummed with the noise of the audience and the jangling cords of the orchestra tuning up.

The snuffers, began dousing the lights and the opening cords of the performance began, accompanied by the drawing back of the curtain. Genevra loved the theatre and seldom had the opportunity to indulge her passion, so she was looking forward to the performance of Shakespeare’s A Mid-Summer Nights Dream with eager anticipation. This was a new semi-operatic production by Frederic Reynolds that had been playing to packed houses since January, she was beyond pleased to finally see it.

She sat entranced through the first half and was happy to stroll in the intermission and stretch her legs. Garmon was a perfect host, attending to her every comfort and keeping her in giggles with his saucy stories of the shenanigans of the cast. She could almost think herself a grand lady being gallanted to the theatre by a noble beau.

Yet there was an edge to him tonight, a tension that spoke of something held tightly in check. Watching his profile as he steered her around a knot of theatre goers in the hallway, she vowed to try to find out what the matter was later, when they were alone.

He had showed her such care and solicitude last night, it behoved her to return the favour.

Returned to the box for the second half of the play, she settled into the couch and prepared to enjoy herself.

Seated beside her he murmured, “Are you quite comfortable?”

“Indeed yes, this couch is spectacularly comfortable,” she said wafting her fan slowly. The theatre was warm.

“Good,” he said as the curtain rose, his hand holding hers on her knee. She became so absorbed in the performance, it was several minutes before she realised that he had contrived to get his hand up under her skirt and was very lightly brushing over her lips.

She raised her fan and whispered behind it, “What are you doing?”

“It is perfectly obvious what I am doing,” he replied quietly. “Keep your eyes on the stage, no one can see.”

She waved her fan and stifled a gasp as his fingers traced a line between her lips that set tendrils of fire alight in her body. With the utmost effort, she held herself still, trying not to react to the teasing of his fingers.

She glanced sideways at him, and his gaze was fixed on the stage, but his lips were pursed in a slight smile. The dratted man was enjoying this.

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at being fingered in public, but the sheer outrageousness of it, the naughtiness of it, made her wetter than ever, and she swallowed a moan when he pushed a finger lower, seeking access to her body. She sank back against the cushions canting her hips and parting her legs to enable him to push a finger inside her. The front of the box hid what he was doing from anyone’s sight even if they could have seen anything in the dimness of the theatre, which was sparsely lit by only a few candles.

She moved lower on the couch, giving him greater access and rolled her hips helplessly as his fingers wrought havoc with her body. Distracted from the performance., she whimpered, and he whispered, “Are you close?”

“Yess!” she hissed back behind her fan.

“Good,” he said withdrawing his hand.

She gasped in frustration but any protest she might have made was silenced when he slid quietly to his knees and lifting her skirt, slipped under her petticoats and set his mouth on her.

The next few moments were suspended, tortuous, bliss, as he brought her off in spectacular fashion with his lips, tongue and fingers.

She stifled the groan that rose in her throat and stiffened, shuddering as the pleasure peaked and broke, trying to keep her breathing as quiet as possible as her hips writhed, pushing her soft, inflamed flesh against his wicked tongue.

She collapsed back against the couch, her body going lax and tried to recover her equilibrium as he withdrew from beneath her skirts and resumed his seat beside her.

“I trust that was satisfactory?” he murmured.

“I will kill you!” she said without heat.

He laughed. “As long as it is the little death, my dear I’ve no objection.”

He captured her hand and placed it over the placket of his trousers, pressing her palm flat against the palpable erection there. She could feel the heat of it through her glove. “You need to do something about that,” he said quietly, his eyes still on the stage.

“You want me to stroke you?” she asked, rubbing her hand surreptitiously up and down the shaft through the cloth.

“No, I want you to get up and go to the back of the box, where I am going to fuck you.”

“What!” she gasped. “You can’t, not here!”

“I can, and I will,” his voice had an implacable note, that she had heard occasionally from him before, and it made her shiver.

“Don’t be concerned, no one can see us. It is dark enough and there is enough ambient noise to disguise any accidental noises we might emit, in the throes of passion.”

“Garmon, you can’t mean it?”

“I do. Get up, slowly, and move to the back of the box.”

She hesitated and sensing his rising impatience, her body trembled with an echo of alarm.

“Do it!” He said, his voice harsh and low.

She swallowed and rose slowly, edging away from the front of the box into the darkness in the rear. He was right it was dark back here.

He joined her a moment later, and before she could say or do anything, he kissed her. A devouring brutal kiss, she could feel the simmering anger in him, it came through in the kiss and the hardness of his hands on her body. Not painful, but firm. It should terrify her. Instead, her body pulsed with desire.

“Bend over and grab that chair,” he said quietly.

She turned obediently, not precisely afraid, but something between alarm and thrill sending goosebumps over her skin and wetness to between her legs.

He lifted her skirts, and she heard the faint sounds of rustling cloth. In another moment, his cock was pressed at her entrance and then with a hard thrust and a stifled grunt he was inside her.

He sighed, bending forward over her back he nuzzled her neck and whispered in her ear. “Hold on, this is going to be brutal and quick!”

She gripped the back of the chair and spread her legs further apart to stabilise herself as he drew back and pushed into her hard.

She stared at the stage through a prism of narrowed vision as he pushed into her with repeated hard thrusts, jolting her whole body with the force of it. His cock reaming her inside, made her want to groan it felt so good. This was really happening. He was fucking her in a theatre full of people while a performance was played out below them.

Fucking her hard, his hands tight on her hips, her breasts quivering and bouncing in the confines of her bodice with the force of his driving demand within her.

Her flesh clamped and tightened on him as pleasure spiralled upwards, her body so finely tuned by now to his she couldn’t resist the siren call of his flesh buried in hers. She quivered and swallowed the cry that rose to her lips, turning it into a muffled grunt in her throat as pleasure spiked and coursed through her like an incoming tide, washing into every part of her body.

He stroked into her again and again, wrapping an arm round her belly, he pulled her tight against him as he plunged deep, burying his head in her neck, breathing hard, through his nose, grunting with the force of his release as it loosed, hot and flooding within her. His arm shook as the last waves beached and ebbed. His hot breath raised goosebumps on her flesh.

His lips traced a kiss on her shoulder, and he murmured, “And that is how you fuck a woman in public.” He ran his nose over her skin and kissed her again. “Lends a spice doesn’t it, my dear?”

His hand clenched on her belly momentarily, and then he let her go, withdrawing swiftly and dropping her petticoats back into place.

She turned, her knees trembling and clutched the chair behind her for support, her flesh still throbbing from the intensity of the release. He did up the last of his buttons and lifted a curl off her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. With a finger under her chin, he kissed her lips softly and whispered, “Thank you for indulging me.”

She let out a breath slowly and let go of the chair gingerly. “You’re right, I feel thoroughly fucked,” she said softly and smiled wryly.

He smiled back and offered his arm. “Come and watch the rest of the performance.”

“We shall havesupper in the Piazza” he said an hour later as they left the Theatre. Since the Piazza was in walking distance, he offered her his arm and asked, “Well my dear, did you enjoy the show?”

She smiled, “Yes very much, what I saw of it.” Her slightly accusing glare made him grin.

He was not going to apologise for ravishing her in the box, he’d been fantasising about it for days. And the reality did not disappoint. “Thank you for bearing with my rough handling.”

She laughed. “That wasn’t rough, it was -” she hesitated as if looking for the right word. “Erotic.”

His cock twitched at the word.” I’m glad you found it so, I did too. That first night we sealed our bargain I said to myself at the conclusion that it was what a fuck was supposed to feel like. It was so pleasurable it made me laugh with sheer joy. I’ve been in a foul mood all day. You made me feel better tonight.”

“I wondered,” she said, squeezing his arm and looking up at him with a look that gave him an odd feeling in his chest. Was that concern he saw in her eyes? For him? The wound in his shoulder itched.

“What made you angry?”

He hesitated to confide in her, but there was no one else, and he needed to talk to someone.

Before he could say anything, they had arrived at the Piazza, a famous Covent Garden coffeehouse. The building was Gothic in design and adjoined the Piazza Hotel.

Settled at a table and orders placed, the privacy afforded by the high-backed booth in which they sat, and the intimacy of candlelight encouraged confidences.

Twirling his glass of burgundy, he said, “Do you remember Mr Mor?”

“How could I forget? Mr Mor made quite an impression, why?”

“He’s disappeared. I can’t find any trace of him. My boys have searched high and low and there is no word, no sightings, nothing. He is not in London; I am sure of it.”

“You’re concerned?”

He nodded. Observing the play of the candlelight on the ruby red liquid in the glass. “I can’t imagine that he would have left London of his own volition.”

“What is the relationship between you?” she asked sipping her own glass of wine.

“None by blood. He is the son of Irish immigrants. When I met him, he was an orphan who’d been scraping a living as a mudlark and pick pocket for at least three years. He was eight years old when he saved my life.” His lips twisted in an ironic smile. “I’d picked a fight I couldn’t win and wound up in an alley with a knife wound bleeding out. He staunched the blood, fetched a doctor and nursed me back to health. I was twenty-two. So not quite a son, more like a little brother, I suppose. He’s been with me ever since.”

Their meal arrived then, and the conversation lapsed until the waitress departed.

“What do you think has happened to him?”

“I don’t know. We quarrelled last time we spoke. That is what bothers me most. If he was dead-” he swallowed. “I think I would know, someone would have seen something, he is well known in these parts, and he wouldn’t be taken down easily...” he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“What is it you fear?” she asked gently.

He raised his eyes from his plate and contemplated her. She was beautiful in any light, but candlelight gave her a luminous quality, her hair glinting like golden treasure, her skin creamy and perfect, her eyes sparkling blue like sapphires, her lips full and kissable.

Anyone else who asked that question would get an abrupt and nasty answer, but Genevra Tate could ask him anything, and he’d be inclined to answer. Possibly truthfully to boot. So, he voiced the fear he’d been fighting acknowledging for days.

“I-” he cleared his suddenly thicken throat. “I fear he has left me.” It sounded so pathetic put like that and the pain in his throat made him reach for the wine and gulp it down in an attempt to ease the restriction. He blinked his eyes, trying to bring her into focus as her hand reached out and covered his. He turned his hand under hers and gripped it tight. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

He raised her hand and kissed it. They resumed eating, and he poured more wine for himself and topped up her glass. There was a restful quality to Genevra, being in her company made him feel at peace in a way he couldn’t ever remember feeling. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that she would make an excellent wife. She certainly deserved a man who would treat her well.

“Do you plan to marry again?” he asked, curious.

“No!” Her eyes widened in alarm and her hands tightened visibly on the cutlery. “No, I do not.” Her emphatic reply made him quirk an eyebrow.

“You’re very certain about that?”

“Absolutely! Never again.” Her mouth set in a mutinous line, and he detected, not for the first time, some steel in her. He didn’t disapprove. She would need that if she was to survive in a world of men, which she seemed determined to do. After her experience with Jacob, he didn’t blame her.

“If you change your mind, let me know, I’ll vet him for you.”

She opened her mouth and shut it again. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a racing term, used to refer to checking the soundness of a racehorse. There aren’t many men of substance that I don’t know something about and no one I couldn’t find out about in quick order if need be.”

“Thank you, but it won’t be necessary.” She shivered visibly.

“Are you cold?” She had put off her cloak when they sat down to eat.

“No, I just–can we speak of something else? Marriage is not a topic of conversation that I find congenial.”

“Of course,” he sipped more wine. “How is the Tavern doing?”

“Well. Trade is brisk. I am thinking of acquiring a spirit’s licence, but I don’t wish to serve Gin, even though it would be profitable. I fear it will attract the wrong clientele.”

“What will you serve instead?”

“Brandy, Whisky, Cognac.”

“You’ll need a reliable source of supply. The best spirits are imported, mostly illegally.”

“I know, which is why I was hesitant about it.”

“I can help you source a supplier.”

“Can you?” She picked up her glass and sipped looking at him over the rim. “Legally?”

“Ask no questions...”

“I’ll think about it.”

“It is in my interest to help you increase your profits; I’ll get my money back faster.”

“True, but you have given me six months remember?”

“I’m not likely to forget, Genevra.” He took her hand and fondled the fingers. The prospect of this pleasant liaison coming to an end tomorrow night was lowering in the extreme. “I could waive it altogether for-”

“No!” Her response was quick and decisive and if truth be known, a little hurtful.

“I will pay the debt according to the terms set,” she said firmly.

“Can’t wait to be rid of me?” He asked with an edge to his voice.

She withdrew her hand and flushed. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it? I thought you were enjoying yourself?”

“I am.” When nothing further was forthcoming, he probed deeper.

“Why?”

She drank off the rest of her wine and set the glass down frowning at the table. Finally, she raised her eyes and said quietly, “I want my independence. I want to stand on my own feet. I don’t want to be beholden or controlled. I’ve had a belly full of it.”

“I admire your courage my dear, and I understand why, after what you have been through, but without a man’s protection you are vulnerable in the extreme. This world is not kind to unmarried women.”

“I know. But I have Joe and his boys to protect me, and I’ll figure out the rest myself. I have a brain, I’m not stupid or helpless!”

“I never said you were.” he said mildly, “In fact I think you are a highly intelligent and competent woman.”

“You do?” She smiled, clearly pleased and his heart lifted. He liked it when she was happy.

He nodded, frowning in thought. “Who is this Joe you mention? You have spoken of him several times.”

“He is my tapster. He’s a good man. He was a friend of my father’s, I’ve known him most of my life, he worked in the brewery and when Jacob vanished, he left my stepfather to come and work for me. I suppose he is like an uncle to me; his boys are like younger brothers or cousins.”

“Why didn’t your stepfather intervene with Jacob?”

“Jacob was careful to only hit me in private, so no one knew, and I was too ashamed to tell anyone what he was doing to me.”

“Why didn’t you leave him after-” he couldn’t voice it, just the thought made his blood boil and his stomach sick.

“I was too afraid to. I know it sounds crazy, but I had nowhere to go except back to my parents and my stepfather would have sent me back to him. In fact, he did, the only time I tried to run away. It was only after Jacob disappeared that I began to get my confidence back. The night terrors slowly abated, and I was able to function normally again.

“When he turned up dead, I was elated. The relief. You see I lived in dread he would show up one day and drag me back into purgatory.” Watching her face while she recounted this history, was almost more than he could bear. His hands clenched beneath the table, and he fought the urge to punch something.

“Have you finished?” he nodded at her plate.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he reached across the table between them and pulled her up out of the booth, settled her cloak around her shoulders and walked her out of the coffeehouse, his body thrumming with barely suppressed fury. In the street he hailed a cab and helped her into it. Whereupon he took her in his arms and kissed her until neither of them could breathe. Holding her tight he murmured against her hair. “Never again. You will never suffer like that again. I promise you.”

Genevra swallowedtears and clung to him, afraid to believe his words. For how could he honour such a promise?