Miss Blakes Abduction Ch 03

Constance dozed fitfully throughout the afternoon, troubled by dreams—about her brother abducting a defenceless young lady, until she awoke with a start, as the servants, the wizened butler and a stout maid, brought an old copper tub, and filled it.

She rose from the bed. Her head ached, and her skin felt stretched and drawn over her face. The tub with its curling wisps of steam called to her. She touched the tender bump above her temple, before gingerly stepping in. She washed luxuriously, for a moment able to forget the apprehensions of her situation.

There was a faint click of the lock, and a cold dread swept through her, remembering their last encounter and his brutal strength as he ravaged her mouth. She waited as though for a storm to fall, and felt it brewing somewhere behind her.

Constance jerked around, suddenly unable to bear her blind fear. She twisted to see Whitham standing behind her, towering over her, his hand poised above her head as though her were about to stroke her.

"Go away," she said, flipping her wet hair back around her shoulders as she turned, feigning nonchalance. She heard his lingering footfalls, as he stalked slowly around the tub, his perfectly-polished boots gleaming with the light from the fire. He stood before her, as impeccably dressed as she was naked, with a brooding, menacing stance that seemed to threaten more than words could.

"No," he answered, looking stubborn about it.

Constance crossed her arms over her breasts, as she caught his eye roaming over her naked form. She was in a rather vulnerable position, and they both knew it.

"What do you want?" she asked conversationally.

"I think that's fairly obvious." Eyebrow cocked, he gestured down at his obviously stiff crotch.

Constance snorted, "I'm surprised you recovered so well from our last meeting." She smiled, showing her teeth.

"I'm afraid my virility astonishes even me sometimes," he said, shrugging off her suggestion, and sat himself on the bed, lounging casually. Constance struggled to find something to reply, but there was nothing to say. Whitham was now unceremoniously examining his nails, which infuriated Constance.

"I think you should come out of that tub now," he said at last, without looking up.

Constance, who was feeling distinctly pruney, privately agreed, but said, "I'd rather not."

Whitham sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Turned as he was, half into the fire, Constance saw the deep lines of worry etched on his brow, and the raw stubble along his jaw. "I do not want to argue with you, Miss Blake," he said, not bothering to hide the edge to his voice.

"I know perfectly well what you want," she said hotly, "and I have no intention of giving it to you, so it seems that we must argue."

Whitham ran his hand through his hair, collapsing his elbows onto his knees, his back curving as he hunched over. He loosened his cravat with one hand. She caught an indistinct whiff of brandy from him. "No Constance. I have barely slept these last three days. I have had an aching cockstand all bloody afternoon and I want nothing more than to bed a woman and fall asleep with my prick still sheathed between her thighs." Constance could feel the blush creeping into her cheeks. It had suddenly grown very warm in the room. But if Whitham had noticed the change in her body he said nothing, and merely continued, "I am in no mood to fight you, but if you do not come to my bed quickly I will be forced to join you in that tub—which is not an altogether undesirable option," he added almost as an afterthought.

Constance thought he couldn't be serious, but he stood and began to undress, while she watched, dumbfounded. The sight of his long, powerful calf dipping over the edge of the tub finally prompted her to speech. "You can't just come in here with me. There isn't room!"

He stood in the tub, proudly naked above her, and smiled. "You'll have to make room." He nudged her aside as he crouched down in the tub. "Besides, it isn't as if we aren't well-acquainted already." He gave her a particularly knowing glance.

Constance seethed; "well-acquainted" indeed! Grudgingly, she tucked her knees up, to make room for his large body. The water level rose dangerously between their tangled limbs, almost overflowing the lip of the tub. The accommodation, which had been spacious for one, was nothing short of cramped with the addition of James Whitham's substantial bulk.

He sighed in relaxation, letting his head roll back against the edge of the tub, exposing the thick cords of his neck. His taut body gradually softened, as his cares dissolved in the water. Constance had not seen him like this before, like a weary Greek god caught in a moment of repose. The frown which had a few moments ago creased his brow had somewhat dissipated. He no longer seemed like the brutal man who had forced himself upon her that afternoon. His eyes closed, she could see the dark fan of lashes that brushed his cheek. His mouth was softened, with slightly parted lips. She had a sudden vision of kissing him, his mouth pressed over hers, seizing her, threatening to consume her.

She realized that last night he had never kissed her.

Whitham's eyes opened suddenly. She felt trapped, caught in his blue gaze, very aware of the way the hairs on his legs rubbed against her skin.

"Are you entirely comfortable with your stay here, madam?" he asked, with perfect politeness, as though he were in some formal sitting room and not cramped up against her naked body in a bathtub.

Constance gaped for a minute in indignation before she found the words to respond. "Comfortable! Even excluding this present situation," she gestured at the close confines of the tub, "—I should hardly be comfortable, here, held captive by the man who intends to murder my brother. What on earth are you thinking?" Her voice shook, her situation seemed much worse when she voiced it aloud. She couldn't bear his gaze, but bent her head toward the golden, fire-reflected swirls of water in the tub.

"Held captive by the man who, so splendidly, robbed you of your virginity," he reminded her.

"In a manner of speaking," she rolled her eyes at him, wanting to scoff at his arrogance, but being afraid of bursting into tears instead. "It is many hours since I have held hope of retaining my virtue and my reputation. I can now only hope that my life and the life of my brother may be spared." Her chin quivered too much to continue.

"Do you really think me capable of murder?" he asked her.

She looked up, meeting his gaze with shining eyes. "No less capable than you are of kidnapping and rape?" The tears spilled over, she looked away.

"I believe you are mistaken in that, Miss Blake," he said earnestly. "I must ask you to believe me—though I know you have little reason to trust me—when I say that for the moment, neither you, nor your brother, are in any danger from me." Constance looked sceptically at him. He continued, "I spoke in haste last night. Indeed, I have thought for some time, of accepting your body as payment for his crime." He let the statement hang in the air between them for a moment. "I know that as a loving, loyal sister, you would not hesitate to offer your virtue in exchange for his life."

She gave an empty laugh. "It seems that I already have."

He sat up swiftly, sloshing the water about, and dunked his head, shaking his dark hair like a dog. He pulled her up, so that their glistening bodies stood pressed against one another, while the water drained from their skin.

"I have a proposal for you, Constance," he whispered into her ear.

She pulled away, "I don't expect it involves your releasing me and giving up this whole charade, does it?"

"Hardly," he said dryly, stepping out of the tub and reaching for the linen towel. Constance, lacking an alternative, dried herself with a sheet. Whitham seemed not to care. He wrapped the fabric around his waist, in a way that appeared entirely unselfconscious, but only emphasised the contours of his body. His casualness irked Constance immensely, as he strode over to the bed, where there was a large satchel he had evidently brought with him.

"I have something you might want," he explained, pausing tantalizingly without touching the bag. "And if you give me what I want, I might let you have it."

Constance's heart throbbed, imagining the possibilities: a letter from her brother, a pen and writing materials—or something terrible... "What is it?" she whispered.

"A dress," he answered, "and my consent to move freely through the house."

She was careful to hide her expression, while Whitham was watching her. She realized the enormous potential a dress had. She restrained her breathing, to hide the flush on her face, and the brightness of her eye.

"What must I do?" she asked.

"Tonight, the task is very simple. I have a few questions I wish to ask you, and I would like to have them answered honestly." He stared at her frankly.

Constance paused. There must be some trick, something he wasn't telling her. "I won't give away anything about my brother," she warned.

"Of course not, Constance. For the moment, I am not interested in him." He seemed to mean it, but Constance noticed something evasive in his response.

"What kind of questions?" she asked warily.

"Come, let us sit, and have a drink," he gestured to the rug beside the fire, and turned away to his satchel, whence he produced a large quantity of very fine brandy, and two glasses. Constance sat, the sheet wrapped around her once more, braving Whitham's wrath should he object to it again. He handed her a glass, filled with a far greater quantity of brandy than she was used to consuming. Saluting her with his glass, he took a deep sip. Looking down at her own glass, Constance felt a twinge of panic.

"You don't trust me, do you?" he asked.

"No." She reached across to Whitham's glass with a questioning glance, and traded it with her own. He raised an eyebrow but let her switch the glasses. Then she drank deeply from Whitham's glass, being assured of the safety of its contents. "Is that the first question?"

Whitham took an ostensible sip from the glass he had intended for her. "How old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty," she answered.

She was a little disappointed that Whitham didn't remember. She knew Whitham's age exactly. She had always known that he was six years older than her, like her brother.

"How many proposals of marriage have you received?"

Constance turned the question back at him. "How many have

you

received?"

Whitham set the glass down on the floor loudly. "None of this cheek, Constance. I didn't mean to hit you this afternoon, but I swear, by God, sometimes you can drive me mad with your insolence. If you're not prepared to do as I ask we can skip the questions, and I'll take the dress with me when I leave." Constance watched his fist clench and unclench as he spoke. She waited, wondering if that was all he intended by way of an apology for his violence that afternoon.

"I've received none," she said quietly. "You know that." She sat rigidly, waiting for him to taunt her, waiting for some disparaging remark.

"So I won't have to worry about any of your suitors coming to look for you?" He tried to make it a joke at least.

"No," Constance answered, not thinking it funny.

"Don't you think it a little odd that you have been so overlooked in society?"

"Do you really expect me to answer that?" Whitham's blank look made it clear that he did. "What do you want me to say?" She continued in an annoyed tone of voice, "No, I don't think it odd, given my lack of money, beauty or charm that anyone should want me?" She took a gulp of the brandy, which she instantly regretted as she felt it burn down her throat.

"Would you say, Constance, that until last night, you were relatively inexperienced in matters of, shall we say, courtship and love?"

"Yes," she answered impatiently, still choking on the brandy.

"And yet, your response to me last night was so... ardent, as to make me think that it wasn't entirely unfamiliar to you," he said enigmatically. He held her gaze, and Constance stilled. She could feel a flush creeping into her cheeks that was not entirely due to the alcohol, but she was unwilling to give anything away.

"You don't often participate in social gatherings, do you?" Whitham asked, seeming to change the subject.

"Since my mother died, my brother has been my only guardian, as you know, and he does not often have time for such things."

"But your friends have frequently chaperoned you in society, I imagine. I can recall your attendance more than once at a ball given by Mrs. Everett. One ball in particular, I believe it was your first, was it not? Do you remember?"

"Yes," Constance replied.

Now she was truly blushing. She remembered that evening. Miss Caroline Everett and her friends, which included Whitham's sister, had delighted in taunting her, asking her about her dress and hair, or her how many beaux she had danced with.

"You were kind enough to dance with me." Whitham broke into her reverie.

Constance frowned a little. "You rescued me from Miss Everett and her friends. I expressed my thanks at the time, but if you want a renewal of my gratitude you're welcome to it." Constance frowned. She remembered the way the other girls had all been giggling over Whitham when he entered the ball. It had been some time since he had been seen in the neighbourhood, and there was a general stir caused by his arrival. All the girls twittered and fixed their hair, wondering who would be the first to dance with him. Whitham must have sensed all of this. Constance had been hiding alone at the back of the crowd, but he advanced steadily toward her, parting the crowd of gawking girls, and asked her, with all due formality to dance. Constance proved to be a terrible dancer. Whitham laughed with her the whole way through, easing her awkwardness, and leaving Constance with a very confusing mix of feelings when the dance was over. Later that evening, it was clear that Caroline Everett wasn't happy about it, and Constance overheard her, speaking to another woman loud enough for the whole room to hear, "Just now I went to thank Whitham over there for dancing with Constance. It was very kind of him to take pity on the poor girl. What a gentleman!"

Constance felt like a fool, and left the ballroom promptly, taking refuge on the terrace.

Whitham's voice broke in again, "and then I found you outside afterward, wandering in the garden all alone. Do you remember? We stayed out for hours, talking. That was the first time I—"his voice broke off as though he changed his mind. "There were rumours after that, I heard."

"I think that being out alone with you for several hours did considerable damage to my reputation. It would seem now that the rumours weren't entirely unfounded," she added acidly.

"You left for France, a little while later," he said quietly.

"Yes," Constance replied. "My brother sent me there to finish my schooling. He couldn't very well look after me by himself."

Constance toyed with the brandy glass, watching it catch the light of the fire. Of course she remembered the rumours—that she had gotten pregnant by Whitham and had gone to give birth to his child. She would never have dreamed that one day it would all come true. She took another deep sip.

"Do you think of me, when you touch yourself at night?"

"What?" Constance choked, nearly spitting out the brandy. Whitham watched her, entirely serious. He set his glass aside, moving closing to her.

"Come now, Constance, I can't imagine you lying stiff like a chaste nun in your little bed every night. I'll bet you touch yourself, your hand slipping under the covers to your breast, teasing your pink nipples into little points." His eyes examined her curves hidden under the sheet, as though imagining her naked flesh. "And then you trace your hand farther down, over your stomach, to the soft hair between your thighs. And then you slip a finger or two inside, stroking yourself until you cry out, biting that sweet plump lip of yours, until you collapse into the sheets, hot and sticky with your sweat and arousal."

Constance licked her lips carefully, breathing far more heavily than usual. "What gives you that idea?"

He laughed arrogantly, "I felt it last night, Constance. Christ, I heard you, and I'm sure half the household did too. You spent when I took you, Constance, even though you were a virgin, and quite spectacularly too, which makes me think it wasn't the first time you've known such pleasure. From what you've told me, it seems unlikely that you've sought the attentions of another man. Therefore, I am left to conclude that your experience is through your own ministrations."

Constance was feeling distinctly hot and flustered by this discussion, but said nothing.

"I've always imagined you to be so... passionate." He said, his eyes shining brightly. "Do you deny it then?"

Constance said nothing, but felt like she ought to explain herself.

"You do touch yourself don't you? You do make yourself spend?"

Constance met his eyes briefly.

"Yes," she answered.

Whitham, looking triumphant, stood and pulled Constance to her feet, pushing away the sheet so that they stood naked against one another. She could feel his hardness throbbing against her, echoing her own need.

"Lie on the bed, please, on your back." The part of Constance that wanted to be wary of him and resist his instructions was overwhelmed by the desire between her legs. Yes, let it be now, let him take me now, she thought.

"We come now to the main attraction of the evening," said Whitham as he rummaged through his sack, and brought out a long, slim object made of highly polished dark wood. He handed it to Constance, who touched it gingerly, as though both disgusted and terrified by it.

"I think you can guess what this is," Whitham said.

Constance was confused. "But why? Who would make such a thing?" She asked, holding the wooden phallus away from herself, afraid to claim ownership to it.

"It isn't difficult to acquire if one knows the correct shop. There are others like it, some quite grotesque, actually. This one is rather modest, I bought it for you."

"And what to you expect me to do with it?" Constance asked, frowning at the bizarre gift.

Whitham gave her a patronizing look. "I think, given our conversation, you can guess that as well."

Constance made a face, "You mean, you want me to... ravish myself upon this thing?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Whitham said plainly. "Do proceed."

Constance blushed and sputtered, "I am not about to... I mean... just for your entertainment... I would never!"

Whitham leaned over her, pushing her back so that she lay propped up on the pillows. He enclosed his hand over hers, grasping the instrument, leading it down. She gasped a little when the warm wood touched her moist flesh. She whimpered when he pushed it in a slight way. "I think you know what to do, Constance," and he stood abruptly, leaving her on the bed, legs spread, with a thick rod of wood half penetrating her moist lips.

He stood over the foot of the bed, hanging on to one of the posts, watching her eagerly. His erection was red and throbbing. She wondered when he had gotten rid of the towel. Constance could almost imagine that he was filling her right now. She sunk the shaft a little deeper into her channel sighing a little.

"Good Constance," Whitham said with a strained voice. "Now take it out again, slowly."

Constance did, feeling the delicious friction as it slid along her flesh. The dark shaft was coated with her moisture. She penetrated herself again, letting the wood glide back in, filling her even more deeply than before. She curled the fingers of her free hand around the sheets, biting her lip. Whitham was breathing heavily, leaning on the post, watching her hungrily. She watched him wrap a hand around his erection, stroking himself unabashedly in front of her. Constance couldn't help but moan a little, as she watched the muscles of his arm flex while he pleasured himself.