Hidden Paradise

chapter TEN



Mac

He had no idea what the time was; it was light and outside birds whistled and twittered, which meant it might be anytime after four in the morning. Sooner or later in this house a clock would chime or a servant would knock at the door and another day of gentlemanly pursuits would begin. He wondered if he should wake Lou and see if she’d like to ride—he could lend her a pair of his breeches, or she might have a habit for riding sidesaddle. She’d probably be a better rider than him, with her life on the ranch.

She turned and burrowed her head beneath the pillow, revealing the delectable curve of her ass; quite an ass she had for a slender woman. The idea of getting dressed and dealing with a large, unpredictable animal with steel on its hooves was becoming less attractive by the moment, what with Lou in his bed. She might not come back after this night. Perhaps she had used him to exorcise her ghosts and she’d tell him his services were no longer required. Or perhaps not. Seize the moment: seize that luscious ass.

He seized it and slipped back into the bed with her. She gave a grunt of annoyance and pulled the bedclothes over herself.

“Lou,” he whispered. “Lou, honey, I have something for you.”

He pushed his cock against her leg just in case she’d missed it.

She made no response, and he got his arms around her and held her, her hair tickling his face. He remembered her last orgasm before they fell asleep, her excitement, the sound she’d made when she came. He’d like to watch her touch herself in daylight. Would it be different? Would she perform for him? His cock gave an appreciative twitch. He’d like to do a lot of things with her, in fact, particularly when she was awake. And come to think of it, she’d probably like to go horseback riding, and he’d like to see her enjoy herself.

* * *


Lou

SOMEONE WHISPERED HER NAME.

“Too early,” she mumbled. “Oh, hi, Mac.”

“I got you fixed up.” Something landed on the bed beside her, a tangle of fabric and a pair of boots. “You’re going riding in drag, so you don’t have to go sidesaddle. Young Rob’s an enterprising lad. I hope the boots fit.”

“He knows I’m here?”

“He met us last night on the stairs, remember?”

She remembered now, the shock of Rob’s bare skin against her hands, so warm and surprising in the dark, and then the presence of the man who sat beside her on the bed, wearing a thin pair of cotton drawers. She sat to examine the clothes, breeches and coat, turning the boots in her hand. “They look a bit big.”

“You can borrow some of my socks. Stockings. Come on, Lou. You know how to ride, so they’ll let me out alone with you.”

“I’m not that good at English style.” But the temptations of wearing pants and riding later, and Mac now half-naked beside her, and a tray with two cups and a pot of coffee, strawberries and brioche, brought her fully awake. “I’m impressed.”

“I like to look after my women in the morning,” he said, pouring coffee.

“Your women? You have a few spares around?”

“Figuratively speaking.” He handed her a cup. “I’m not sure I need more than you this morning. I’m all yours. Have a strawberry. Have me.”

He watched as she bit into a strawberry and she flicked her tongue around the fruit, teasing him. He sprawled on the bed beside her, watching her with a smile on his face, and reached to wipe juice from her chin with his thumb.

“This is lovely,” she said. “Pure hedonism.”

He pulled apart a brioche in a scatter of crumbs and golden crust and consulted a sheet of paper, printed in a font that imitated eighteenth-century handwriting, with the Paradise Hall logo at the top. “Here’s my schedule for the day. Riding this morning, fencing this afternoon. Very macho, except then we have dance practice. After dinner apparently we will have music of Beethoven, Haydn and Mozart performed by a string quartet. Very cultured. There’s one thing missing.”

“What?”

“Hot sex first thing in the morning.” He tugged at the sheet covering her breasts.

She tugged back, unaccountably shy.

“I want to see you naked in daylight.” He tossed his schedule aside. “Let me look at you, Lou.”

She had never been particularly shy about her body—and hadn’t she walked around naked last night with no self-consciousness, dazed and relaxed from sex? Mac’s sharp intake of breath told her what she needed to know.

“You’re stunning.” He reached out reverently to touch her belly.

She tugged at the drawstring on his drawers, baggy thin white cotton, and ran her fingers down the line of dark hair that ran from his navel. Her fingertips brushed against the head of his cock, which lolled, half-erect, against his belly.

He’d been so generous, so attentive to her needs. Now she would give him the same care, the same pleasure. He gave a pleased sigh when she bent to kiss where her fingers had touched and when she flicked her tongue against him. His cock stiffened, pushed against her lips. He breathed her name, his hand stroking her hair.

“Take these off.”

He complied, lifting his hips and kicking the drawers aside.

Another happy sigh as she took him into her mouth. He tasted slightly of sweat and musk, dark, exciting. She swirled her tongue over the smooth head, the strong ridges and veins, tasting, learning him and what he liked. He liked to have his balls cupped, she found, and he gasped when she ran her fingernails over the base of his cock and scratched gently at his scrotum.

“You want me to come like this?” he murmured. “Because I will, Lou. Oh, God, Lou, that’s nice.”

She stopped, only to nibble down the length of his cock and dig her fingers into the dense hair at its base.

His eyes were dark and dreamy. “Kiss me.”

She raised herself to bring her lips to his, tasting the dark and sweet, coffee and strawberries, and meeting the thrust and curl of his tongue. She gripped his cock, her hand sliding, as his body tensed against hers.

He pulled his mouth from hers to whisper that he was going to come, soon, and where did she want it?

She tongued his lip.

In her hand, his cock swelled and he made a helpless sound against her mouth, on the verge of a climax, entirely at her mercy. She bent her head to his cock again, took him deep, and his hand returned to her head, fingers knotted in her hair as his body tensed. His cock pulsed; he cried out, semen spurting against her tongue, salty and warm and vital.

She raised her head to look at him, lying spent beneath her, his cock subsiding while he sucked in air.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Wow. That was nice. No, nice is an understatement. That was phenomenal. Anything I can do for you, Lou?”

“I need a shower,” she said. “I think you do, too.”

“Great idea.” He grabbed a handful of condoms.

She raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t that rather ambitious?”

“I thought we’d keep some in there. Just in case, you know, some other time…” He grinned and stood, stretching, in what she thought was a deliberate display but which she appreciated anyway. She took his hand and rose from the bed.

Some other time. She didn’t want to ponder the implications of those words. Did he intend them to sleep together—to have sex together—on a regular basis for the duration of the stay? Right now, with his hand caressing her bottom, them both stumbling off balance as he bent to nuzzle her neck, that seemed like a good idea, but…

“Lou, will you stop thinking!” He lowered his head to tongue her breast.

“I’m not thinking,” she said, and now she certainly wasn’t. His cock, already half-erect again, bumped against her hip.

“You are. You’re wondering what my intentions are.”

“That’s a new name for it.” She grasped the part of him that best expressed his intentions and stroked.

“It’s better with soap. Come on.”

They crammed themselves into the small shower in the corner of what would eventually be a luxurious bathroom but which was now minimal. He eased her into the corner and turned the shower on, letting loose a feeble stream of cold water. She squealed.

He had his mind on other things than the water temperature, hands cupping her bottom and sliding between her thighs, his mouth at her breast again. She raised a lather from the bar of sandalwood-scented soap and stroked his shoulders, his belly, his cock, the dimensions of the shower cramming them together.

He reached for a washcloth and wiped some of the lather away before donning a condom. She marveled at his regenerative powers as he pushed her into the corner of the shower, issuing instructions. “Leg up, around my waist. Yeah. Oh, shit. Can’t get in you.”

“Have you ever done it in a shower before, Mac?”

“Not as such.” He mumbled something about seeing it done in movies. “Seems a pity to waste this condom. Turn around.”

Ah, that made much more sense, if sense were the word to apply to this clumsy, urgent act. His hand, slippery with soap, caressed her breasts, creating aching excitement in her nipples. His cock bounced from her thighs to her buttocks, trailed down her crease and then he was inside her and she cried out with surprise and delight at the angle and that lovely sense of fullness.

“A—nice—dirty—clean—f*ck,” he said, thrusting. “Got to get these breasts clean, Lou. You’re not howling with pleasure enough.”

“I’m doing my best.”

“I’m going to play with your *.” A dirty, leering whisper as one hand left her breast to travel down her belly. “I liked it when you got yourself off last night. But right now I’m in control and I’m going to make you come.”

His finger touched and rubbed in counterpoint with his thrusts. She wriggled against him, trying to move, trying to hit the spot, and his cock slipped out. He cursed, she laughed, and then the moment turned from comedy to need and she helped him back inside.

He gave that breathy sound she now recognized with a sense of ownership as the moment before he lost himself entirely to pleasure, but she was ahead of him—there, not so hard, slow down—she was the one issuing instructions now, riding his hand and clenching him hard as she abandoned herself. His cock jerked inside her and he groaned her name.

She turned her head to his for a long, grateful kiss, water streaming over their faces. “Clean enough?” he asked.

“We haven’t even started washing yet.”

“Here.” He withdrew from her, and a moment later a dollop of herb-scented shampoo landed on her head. His fingers were long and strong and skillful—but she knew that already, those fingers had given her so much pleasure—as he slowly massaged her scalp.

“Now that’s the sort of sound I want to hear when I’m f*cking you,” he said.

“I don’t plan what sort of noises I’m going to produce,” she said. “But you are so very, very good at this.”

“I’m good at lots of things. I’m good at you, Lou. Good in you.” He tilted her head back beneath the shower.

“But I don’t know whether you’re good for me.”

“I am, baby. I am.”

In a way, he was. Her body hummed and tingled at his touch, any sort of touch. The first man since Julian, the first man to bring her back to life and touch her secret places, to make her cry aloud with pleasure. He was good for her, she enjoyed his lovemaking, his body and his touch. She liked to look at him, lean and naked and powerful, and for the most part she enjoyed his company and conversation. But it was nothing more. It should not be anything more, not now. It was too soon.

Her turn to massage his scalp and receive a low sound of pleasure. “In the nineteenth century—Victorian, I think, not during Austen’s time—there was a science based on the shape of the skull, to determine a person’s character,” she said. “And this…yes, you’re very horny. Smart but mostly horny.” She directed the showerhead to his head, the wet hair slick against his scalp. “Why did you become a journalist?”

“It was the guys in hats.” He wiped water from his face and reached for the soap. “In the old black-and-white movies, there’s always a bunch of guys in hats with notebooks shouting out questions. I wanted to be one of those, finding out the truth, working deep into the night with a cigarette in my mouth and a green eyeshade. A fearless investigator.”

“You’re a romantic.”

His hands, creamy with soap lather, fondled her breasts.

“Are they dirty again?”

“Very. Yeah, I was a romantic, all right. Timed my graduation from journalism school with the death of print and I’ve been freelancing ever since, froufrou stuff for magazines like the piece I’m doing now. Which reminds me, I need to interview you as the history consultant.”

“Probably not here.” She took the soap and caressed his buttocks. Between them, his cock stirred and shifted against her belly. He wanted her again and she, despite the ache of little-used muscles in her thighs and belly, wanted him. She stepped away as much as she could in the tiny space and directed the showerhead to rinse off the remaining soap.

He turned off the shower and took her in his arms again. “I should shave.”

“Shave later.”

“You sure you want to ride this morning? Horses, that is?” His unshaven face scraped her neck and shoulders.

“Yes. It’ll be fun.” She pushed him away and reached for a towel.

“We can have more fun here. You can put on the pants and we’ll pretend you’re my page boy.”

“How depraved,” she said with a thrill of excitement, even though she knew he was joking. She toweled her hair, shivering in the cool air, and ran back to the bedroom, wrapped in the towel. A large chest of dark wood held a collection of linens. She pulled on a shirt and a pair of drawers, both soft linen, scented with lavender, and used her own garters to hold a pair of woolen stockings in place.

In the mirror, she saw herself change into a creature with a distinctly masculine appearance, particularly with the coat disguising her shape. Mac looked on with appreciation as he tied his neckcloth. “Amazing how sexy a woman in pants looks now,” he commented. “Ankles get me really hot, too.”

“I’ve always thought the erogenous zone of the Regency was the nape of the neck,” Lou said. She tied her own hair back as she spoke, noting the abrasions on her neck from Mac’s stubble. “Haven’t you noticed how the poses in portraiture and fashion prints emphasize softness and submission, bent heads and so on?”

“Hmm. Maybe you’re right.” He looked at her with a slow grin. “We may have to do something about that.”

“But not now.” She pulled on her boots and stood to test them. A little big, but she’d manage without extra stockings. He looked as handsome as ever—somewhat Byronic and depraved with stubble on his chin and a lustful gleam in his eye. But she could ignore that. Should ignore that.

They left the room and ran into Di the lady’s maid with an armful of gowns and linens as they walked along the corridor to the main staircase. She gave a quick grin, hastily disguised, and dropped a curtsy. “Clean clothes and your day’s activities are in your room, ma’am. Please ring if you need any help.” She regarded Lou with a critical eye. “I can take the coat in for you if you want to wear it again. And tailor the breeches.”

“Thanks, but they’re borrowed,” Lou said.

“Enjoy your ride,” Di said, and continued past them.

They left the house, feet crunching on the gravel, into a beautiful early-summer morning. Lou paused to smell a creamy pink rose dotted with drops of dew.

“You remind me of that rose,” Mac said. “You, naked.”

He sounded so serious and embarrassed by his own sentiments that Lou was touched; she couldn’t imagine such a comment from him without a degree of cynicism. “Thank you,” she said, and took his hand.

“If anyone’s watching, this won’t do my sexual identity any good at all,” he said, but continued to hold her hand as they walked around the side of the house and into the stable yard.

A black horse, bridled and saddled, stood in the yard, tethered to a ring, chewing on a bag of hay.

“My old buddy Ajax,” Mac said, patting the horse’s neck.

“My old buddy Mac!” A tall blonde woman emerged from a doorway. “I thought we’d go out by the river again today and find a… Oh, good morning.” She bowed; although she looked fairly modern for a stable setting in breeches, boots and a tweed jacket, the clothes were historical facsimiles. Lou remembered that Peter had had to hire mainly female stable staff, as they were the most qualified of the applicants, and dress them as their male counterparts of two centuries ago.

“Oh, hi, Annabelle,” Mac said. “This is Dr. Lou Connolly.”

“Oh. Yes.” Annabelle shook Lou’s hand with a distinct lack of warmth. “Peter said you were an experienced rider but maybe I should come out with you, since you don’t know the countryside.”

You jerk, you screwed her, Lou thought.

“No, that’s fine,” Mac said. “I know the trails and Lou’s good with horses.”

“I have Dr. Connolly down for sidesaddle riding tomorrow,” Annabelle said. “But it’s okay. I was just saddling up Jasper. You do know how to ride English style, do you, Dr. Connolly? We don’t have any Western saddles here.”

Lou assured her she was fine with English style and Annabelle went back inside the stables to emerge from one of the loose box doors with a tall, rangy chestnut.

“I hope you can handle him. He’s quite fresh.”

“We’ll be fine.” Lou took the reins from her. She knew Annabelle wouldn’t jeopardize her job or any of the horses, but she could feel the woman’s resentment and jealousy, and suspected she might be up to some sort of practical joke. Sure enough, when she slipped her fingers beneath the girth, it was loose enough that an attempt to mount would have deposited Lou on the cobblestones.

Lou ignored Annabelle, stroking Jasper’s neck, and getting to know the horse, who snuffed at her sleeve and coat, inquisitive and friendly. She was reminded inappropriately of Mac burying his nose in her navel, her armpit, and bit back a laugh. She lifted the saddle flap to tighten the girth, aware that Annabelle was helping Mac to mount with rather a lot of close bodily contact, as though staking her claim.

“I think you need your stirrups adjusted, Mac.” Well, that took more hand-thigh contact than Lou would have expected.

The girth tightened to her satisfaction, Lou swung herself into the saddle. With the stirrup raised higher than it would be for Western style, she hoped her extra effort in mounting wasn’t obvious, but to her annoyance Mac and Annabelle were engaged in a low-voiced exchange. Annabelle finally giggled and released the lead that tethered the horse to the ring, slapping Ajax on the rump.

As Lou had guessed, Jasper was the horse that preferred to take the lead, which was why Annabelle had chosen him for her ride with Mac. She loosened the rein to let him trot ahead, with only a quick squeeze of her calves to encourage him. Beneath her, he was strong and lively; not so smooth a ride as her own Morgan horse, Maisie, but pleasant enough. She turned in the saddle to smile at Mac, who sat his horse well for a beginner.

“Having fun?” Mac asked as the clatter of hooves on the cobbled stable yard gave way to a soft pounding on a bridle path and they entered a quiet, shaded area.

“Yeah. It’s good to be on a horse again. Bring Ajax forward and we’ll ride together.”

As Mac and Ajax came level with them, Jasper snorted, ears back, and Lou urged him slightly ahead. “He likes to be boss. It has nothing to do with me, but do you have some unfinished business with Annabelle?”

He shrugged. “Sort of. We made out a bit.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. I felt sorry for her. She wasn’t expecting you to turn up with someone else.”

“Look, I couldn’t very well send her a text, could I? Or call her. Should I have sent a footman? Come on, Lou.”

“You’re right. It’s a lovely morning. Let’s not spoil it by bickering.” Sunlight glinted through the trees, which thinned out to parkland, grass dotted with stately oak trees.

He reached to pat her knee. “I’m sorry. I guess I was untactful.”

She smiled. “You up for a canter? Come on, then.”

* * *


Mac

MAC WATCHED AS SHE DRUMMED HER heels against the horse’s side and rode forward. She could ride almost as well as Annabelle.

He really shouldn’t have kissed Annabelle and stuck his hand in her shirt and… Well, all the rest of it. Although there was something about Annabelle that attracted him, a blonde, horsey quality like an English upper-class Valkyrie.

But Lou… He watched the gentle spread of her butt as her coattails lifted, the way her breeches-clad legs pressed against the saddle. Down boy. He really didn’t want to experience a hard-on on horseback. Riding was an uncomfortable enough experience in itself.

He thumped his heels into Ajax’s sides and the horse switched from a trot to a canter. Hands down, heels down, head up, lean forward a little. This was far more comfortable than posting to a trot with the awareness that he could do his balls some serious damage on the saddle horn if he misjudged the rhythm. Ajax shook his mane as though agreeing.

The path approached a thicket of trees again, and they slowed to a walk.

“So what is it about girls and horses?” Mac asked, coming to ride next to her.

“Obviously the sensation of a huge, powerful animal pulsing between our thighs and driving us to ecstasy,” she said, entirely straight-faced. “Really, Mac, dumb question. Why don’t you give it some thought?”

“Being in power? In control?”

“Partly. But it’s more than that. Horses are very intuitive creatures. Beautiful and muscular and you have a pact that you do no harm to each other and you try to understand each other, even though you’re so very different.”

“Like men and women?”

She tilted her head. “Possibly. At least we’re the same species, whatever pop culture may tell us. And I bypassed the whole adolescent horse thing so I may not be the best person to ask. I only started riding when I moved to the ranch, though I’ve done quite a lot.” Her face saddened. She was thinking about him—Julian—again.

“Do you think you’ll stay at the ranch?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s on the market, but my asking price is high and I doubt I’ll get an offer. I’d miss having the horse and dogs and cattle. A neighbor’s looking after them for me. That’s something I’d miss, too, if I moved—neighbors who look out for you. In bad weather, your lives can depend on each other. You don’t get that sort of community in a city. And then there’s my dissertation—as yet unfinished.”

“What’s your dissertation on?”

“Jane Austen and the stuff of domesticity.”

“The what?”

“It’s about houses and things—the sort of things women made and owned,” she explained, and sighed. “I don’t really want to talk about it. I gave a paper on the topic at a conference in the States where I met Peter and Chris, and the idea grew, but it doesn’t seem like part of my life anymore, even though I’m here.”

The path divided ahead of them. “If we go to the left, we can go around the lake. It’s pretty.”

He watched her face as the lake came into view, vivid rhododendrons dipping to meet their reflection in the dark water. On the wooded rise above was the summerhouse, a perfect miniature Greek temple. A pair of swans floated, serene and barely moving.

“They mate for life,” she said with such longing that he felt he was intruding upon her most intimate thoughts. He reached a hand out to her but she didn’t notice, and at that moment Ajax stepped away sideways, snorting loudly, as if reminding him just in time not to be an idiot.

A splash broke the silence and the swans turned to see who might be invading their territory. Someone’s head broke the surface of the water, hands rising to push back wet hair. It was that kid, the footman, Rob, who began a circuit of the lake, moving easily through the water.

“Let’s get moving,” Mac said, aware now of how Lou stared at the swimmer, whose buttocks occasionally flashed clear of the surface.

“Oh. Okay.” She tugged at her horse’s reins and began to talk of how American riding style differed from English, as though resuming an interrupted conversation.

So she did fancy the kid after all.