Jasmine looked around her. The inn was small but immaculately clean. There was a lovely fire burning in the big fireplace that took up almost an entire wall, and the tables were well-scrubbed. A large old black and white dog lay sprawled by the fire snoring. Jasmine smiled and looked up at the marquess.
“Let us remain here the night, my lord,” she said. “I am not of a mind to brave the elements any longer, and ’tis so private and peaceful here.”
“I could sleep down here by the fire,” he mused.
“Or you could share the bed with me,” she said softly and put her hand upon his arm, looking up at him with a melting glance. “We are to be married next week, my lord. What is the harm of it?”
The innkeeper could not hear their conversation, but she was not surprised when the gentleman said, “We will take your guest chamber, Mistress Greene, and have our supper here by the fire when you are ready to serve it.”
“Very good, my lord!” she replied, and then moved to help them with their wet cloaks. “I’ll take them into the kitchen, m’lord, and dry them by the fire. They’ll be just fine come morning.”
“I’m afraid,” Jasmine said, “that you will have to take my skirts as well. I am soaked practically through. Would you or your daughter have a skirt I might borrow while I eat supper?”
“Ah, poor lamb,” the innkeeper sympathized. “You come into the kitchen with me right now, m’lady, and I’ll take care of you. Lizzie,” she called, and a fresh-faced girl of about sixteen appeared from the direction of the kitchen. “Run, child,” her mother commanded her, “and fetch your Sunday best. The lady is wet clear through to her petticoats.” She turned to the marquess. “I’ll bring you a tankard of good ale and some cheese, my lord, if you’ll wait but just a moment.”
“See to my lady first, goodwife,” Rowan Lindley said as the woman hurried off out of his sight. His feet were dry in his boots, and his breeches just barely spattered with rain. A woman’s skirts were far more vulnerable to a blowing storm. Settling himself in the large single chair by the fire, he reached down and scratched the half-sleeping dog’s silky head. Dark eyes viewed him a moment and then closed. The marquess laughed softly. “So you’ve correctly ascertained that I’m no threat, have you,” he said to the dog, and stretched out his legs toward the fire.
Shortly, Mistress Greene returned with a large pewter mug filled with foamy brown ale which she gave him along with a plate of bread and cheese. “This will ease your lordship’s appetite until supper,” she said. “Twill be a wee time, for your lady’s chilled and I’ve had my daughter bring the oak bathtub so your lady can bathe by the kitchen fire and get some warmth
back into her little bones. Why, the lass is as slender as a reed and there’s no meat on her at all.” So saying, the innkeeper bustled off, leaving the Marquess of Westleigh chuckling.
In the kitchen, Jasmine found herself quickly divested of all her clothing and settled into a hot tub before the enormous fire where several iron pots bubbled and a joint of beef was being turned on a spit by Lizzie. Their wet clothing was spread on wooden racks at one end of the fireplace so it could dry. She was handed a clean cloth and a cake of soap by the innkeeper. The soap smelled of lavender, clean and brisk. Then left to herself, Jasmine washed the stink of the horses from her body and watched, soaking in the hot water, as Mistress Greene vigorously kneaded dough for the cottage loaves she would be serving in the morning.
With the dough left to rise within the bowl, her hostess helped her from the tub, and Jasmine toweled herself off with a rough, clean cloth. Her petticoats and chemise had been dried, for they were but fine lawn cotton, and she was offered Lizzie’s Sunday best skirt of red linen along with a low-necked white blouse.
“I’ve nothing for your feet, and your stockings are still very damp, m’lady,” Mistress Greene told her.
“Even fine ladies are known to go barefooted on occasion,” Jasmine said with a smile. “The inn is warm, and my feet will not freeze.”
“Then go and keep your fine gentleman company while I see to the supper,” the innkeeper said. “I’ll have Lizzie light the fire in the bedchamber so ’twill be warm for you later.”
That she was dying of curiosity, Jasmine could see, and because she had been refrained from asking, Jasmine said, “I am Mistress Jasmine de Marisco, the granddaughter of the Earl and Countess of Lundy. The gentleman accompanying me is my betrothed husband, Lord Lindley, the Marquess of Westleigh. I am on my way home to Queen’s Malvern to be married. My coach and servants will arrive later. They will be quite comfortable in your stable, but they will need to be fed.”
Mistress Greene nodded. “I’ll be happy to serve you, m’lady. More than likely, however, your coach will pass us by for the Red Bull, believing you to be there. If they do, you can catch them in the morning.” The innkeeper curtsied as Jasmine turned and went into the tap room to join the marquess.
“Ohh, Ma, do you think she is telling the truth?” Lizzie wondered, very impressed by it all.
“Aye, she’s a de Marisco girl. I saw her grandma once and never forgot it. She was on her way to visit a daughter and they stopped here at midday to water the horses and have a meal. You was just a wee thing and wouldn’t remember, but I never forgot her ladyship. She was the most beautiful woman I ever seen. Mistress de Marisco favors her grandma. I wondered why she seemed so familiar when she came in earlier, and now I know. And a marquess for a husband!”
“He’s really good-looking, too, Ma, with those gold eyes of his,” Lizzie noted, and then she jumped as her mother slapped her. “Maaa!”
“You keep your eyes to yourself, Lizzie Greene! More than one girl’s found herself in trouble flirtin’ with the gentry!”
“I wasn’t flirtin’, Ma. I just looked at the gentleman,” Lizzie sniffed.
“Well, don’t go lookin’ at gentlemen, my girl, or so much the worse for you,” Mistress Greene warned her daughter. “Now get yourself upstairs and see a nice fire’s lit in the guest chamber so’s the lord and his lady don’t freeze later. Then get back down here and we’ll be serving the supper to them. That lass needs food, I can see.”
Rowan and Jasmine sat at a small table pulled next to the fire and enjoyed the meal that Mistress Greene offered them. It was simple country food, but well-seasoned and hot. There was a rabbit stew with chunks of tender meat, onions, and carrots; thick slices of the beef Jasmine had seen roasting in the kitchen; a dish of mashed turnip with a knob of butter melting in it; fresh brown bread; and small, hard cheese. When they had managed to consume a goodly portion of this, washed down with brown ale, Mistress Greene presented them with a sweet pudding made with eggs, cream, bread, sugar, and currants.
The Marquess of Westleigh loosened his belt and said to the innkeeper, “If more people knew of your culinary skills, madame, your inn would be overrun with travelers, I vow it!”
“We do quite well, thank you, m’lord, with the day traffic and the occasional overnight guest,” she told him with a pleased smile as she cleared the table of the last dishes. “When you’re ready for your bed, you’ll find the guest chamber at the top of the stairs.”
“Will someone wait up for the coach, Mistress Greene?” Jasmine asked her, worried about Thistlewood and Toramalli.
“No need, m’lady. My daughter and I sleep here on the
ground floor. If they come, we’ll hear them for certain, but I think they have already passed us by for the Red Bull. I thought I heard a vehicle go by earlier on, but with the wind and rain, I could have been mistaken.” She curtsied and returned to her kitchen.
Rowan Lindley and Jasmine sat silently for a few minutes before the fire, and then he asked, “Do you wish to retire, madame?”
She stood up and stretched languidly. “I am tired, my lord,” she admitted, “and the rain upon the roof does have a soothing effect.”
“Go up,” he said. “I will join you shortly.”
Opening the door at the top of the stairs, Jasmine found herself in a tiny room that was overwhelmed by a bed hung with homespun linen hangings decorated with colored threads. Stepping in, she closed the door behind her. The chamber was as immaculate as the rest of the inn. A well-laid fire burned in the small fireplace, warming the area quite well despite the blowing storm outside. The only other piece of furniture in the little space was a small wooden chair. Jasmine removed her skirt, petticoats, blouse, and chemise, laying them neatly over the rungs of the chair back. She loosened her hair from its chignon, combing it with her fingers. Then she hurried to climb into the bed. Though the lavender-scented sheets were cool, the feather bed beneath them would quickly warm her, she knew. Pulling the quilt over her, she snuggled down, her eyes closing.
Jasmine did not know what it was that woke her, but Rowan was in the chamber and about to enter the bed. “Do you always wear your shirt to bed, my lord?” she asked sleepily.
“Nay,” he told her. “I generally sleep without any covering at all. ’Tis more comfortable, I find.”
“So do I,” she answered him.
Rowan Lindley removed his shirt and laid it with his other clothing upon the seat of the chair. After adding a few more twigs to the fire, he climbed into bed with her. For several long, deeply silent minutes they lay side by side, and then Jasmine began to giggle.
Surprised, he raised himself up upon an elbow and looked down into her beautiful face. “What, may I ask, is so amusing, madame?” he demanded of her.
“
We are!
” she managed to gasp before being overcome by a fresh fit of laughter that brought tears to her eyes. Finally, however, Jasmine managed to control her mirth, and said, “Oh,
Rowan, my love! For months you have lusted after me, and I most boldly have offered to share my bed with you tonight. Here we lie, side by side, naked as the day we were born, and neither of us dares to make a move toward the other. Do you not find that amusing? I do!” And she began to laugh softly again.
Unable to restrain a grin, he chuckled with her, but then he grew serious and said, “Are you certain that you want this, Jasmine?” His heart was beating so fiercely within the cavity of his chest that he wondered that she could not hear it. If he were to restrain himself much longer, he thought, he would burst into a thousand pieces.
Reaching up, she caressed his face with her hand. “We are to be married in seven days, Rowan Lindley. My grandmother, God bless her, is so enthusiastic about this wedding that you would think it was my first marriage and not the second. She has planned a huge celebration. The house will be filled to overflowing with all of my relations and their offspring, some of whom I have not even met. The king and queen, thank God, cannot come. Amid all of this, you and I will be put to bed with great ceremony upon our wedding night. I’m told any sound heard issuing forth from our nuptial chamber will be snickered at and fully interpreted as to its meaning by those up and avidly listening as they swill their wine in the Great Hall of Queen’s Malvern.”
“Good God!” he said, looking appalled. “Is there no escape?”
“We cannot offend my grandparents by fleeing the scene immediately following our wedding ceremony,” she said, and there was genuine regret in her voice. “We are forced to remain and take part in
all
of the festivities. I therefore propose we make tonight our wedding night, Rowan Lindley. Here at this little inn we are safe and secluded, our privacy protected from prying eyes. Here, tonight, we may make love to each other with all the passion of which we are both capable so that on our official wedding night we may sleep peacefully and foil the gossips.”
“You are a devious woman,” he said softly.
“I am my father’s daughter,” she replied. “Now what say you?”
In answer he threw back the quilt that covered them. “Stand up, Jasmine,” he said. “I would see you as God has fashioned you.”
She arose, and in the flickering firelight she saw a little stool upon the tiled hearth. Stepping up upon it, she looked directly at him. Slowly she raised her arms up, placing them behind her head, revealing the firm, full cones of her breasts to him. Her nipples were large and a deep brownish-rose in color. “Well, my lord?” she purred at him, her turquoise eyes glittering darkly at him.
He devoured her beauty slowly. The magnificent breasts, the long shapely legs, the full hips. She was incredibly voluptuous for such a delicately boned girl. The flames from the fire played over her creamy skin, bringing out a faint hint of gold that darkened just slightly upon her smooth Venus mont. “
Turn,
” he softly commanded her, and with the hint of a smile upon her lips, she obeyed him, revealing to him her long shapely back and a bottom that was surprisingly fuller than he would have suspected, given the way her skirts fell. Her ravenblack hair hung just to the small of her back. She faced him again.
Rowan Lindley arose from the bed. Offering her his hand, he gallantly helped her from the stool and stepped up upon it himself. “Now madame, I offer myself to you for your inspection,” he said.
Jasmine stepped back slightly and boldly surveyed him. He was tall and sturdily built, with very long legs. His chest was broad and smooth, his shoulders wide. He had big feet, with toes that seemed quite long to her.
“Turn,” she told him, and he did, revealing a hard buttocks and a long, broad back. He faced her once again and Jasmine asked him, “Why is the hair between your legs darker than the hair upon your head, my lord? Other men have the same color in both places.”
“The hair upon my head is lightened by the sunlight,” he explained with a grin.
What a question to ask a man!
Her eyes lingered between his legs where his manhood lay at rest. It was larger than any she had ever seen. Both Jamal Khan, her brother, and Glenkirk had been more than well-endowed, but Rowan Lindley seemed to her to be larger than other men. Her questioning look met his eyes. “Your manhood is very big, I think,” she said slowly.
He nodded and agreed, “I’ve seen none bigger, Jasmine. Boys like to compare their attributes, and mine was always the largest by far.”
“Will it fit me?” she wondered aloud.