My Captive Duchess (The Reeves of Reeves Hall #1)

Chapter 30

Jane

I wake gradually to a most pleasant sensation. My sleep-filled mind is slow to determine the source of this delight. It only knows that it does not want it to end. I breathe deeply, releasing a contented moan. “Hmm.”

A large hand is roaming over my body. It stops at my breasts, easily engulfing them in a warm clasp. Fingers strum the throbbing tips, making them stand like stiff peaks. Then the hand carries on its journey, drawing slow serpentine strokes over the smoothness of my belly, the soft flare of my hips. On it goes, travelling lower still to my hair-covered mound, resting over it with proprietorial warmth.

I am seduced by the comfort of Broek’s hand stroking me. It soothes a troubled part of my being that came to life the day I was taken in, orphaned and penniless, by the ostensible charity of my relations. Unloved and alone, I braved the challenge of each day with a stoic resolve that could not erase the void that had been left in my soul. It is a deeply entrenched need of every person in humankind to be encased in familial love. When that love is missing, some may fill the gap with a carapace of courage, a will to fight on. To the unkind world around us, we display a calm fortitude and pretend that all is well. But still, that need never subsides.

Then along came Giles, and I drank thirstily from the well of love he offered me. Dearest Giles. Yet even his tender ministrations could not shield me from the cruel words, the whispering, the snubbing. I was thrust into a world in which I patently did not belong and where all others understood that I was an upstart that did not know my place. Never have I felt, even in my father’s home, a sense of truly belonging. My place was never assured. Perhaps it is this deeply felt uncertainty that has, over the years, fed the contrariness of my character. When thrown into deep water, the choice is either to sink without a trace or to swim vigorously towards the shore—even if that shore is never reached.

Yet now, with the simple act of this hand resting on the core of my body, I feel claimed. I belong. I feel it to my very marrow. No words of love have been spoken between Broek and me, though our bodies have proclaimed it so loud that we would be deaf not to hear. Broek lingers with his hand on my mound as if he too knows the importance of this touch. In this one instant, he calms my itinerant soul and locks it into the place where it belongs. I open my eyes.

Broek leans on one elbow as his other hand rests possessively over me. We say nothing, simply gaze deeply at one another, and I know I have made the right choice. My hand snakes up to the roughness of his cheek. With a gentle press I pull him towards me, parched for his kiss. His lips touch mine softly, almost reverently. This kiss is different from before. There is no passionate frenzy, yet it expresses just as great a need. Our lips come together repeatedly, feeding a mutual hunger for love that will never be sated.

Eventually, Broek pulls back enough to speak, his large palm still resting on the core of me. “Jane,” he says, his voice gritty. “Marry me, please.”

“You are supposed to woo me,” I demur.

He expels a long breath and replies, a trifle irritably, “I am no good with words. You must take me as I am.”

“I require some expression of your sentiments, Broek,” I tell him, softening the rebuke with the loving touch of my fingers on his whiskery jaw.

“I would have thought my sentiments were clear,” he grumbles.

“Ah,” I say lightly. “So they might be, but for the clarification of any doubts, I would prefer a spoken expression of those sentiments.”

He eyes me cautiously. “Would such words, if expressed, be similarly reciprocated?” he enquires.

“Naturally,” I assure him.

“And what weight would such words have?” His tone is bitter as he continues, “I have heard them spoken before, long ago, poetic sentiments accompanied by soulful looks of the eyes. They were all for naught.”

“I am not Tarla,” I say very simply.

The hand at my mound pulls away, and I feel the loss instantly. Broek turns to lie on his back beside me, bleak eyes staring at the canopy above. “I know you are not her,” he hisses softly.

“And yet you wonder why this between us would be any different.”

A long silence then, “Yes.”

I curse that wicked woman once more for the damage she has wrought, and wonder if it is possible for Broek ever to heal from the wilful destruction of his trusting nature. I conclude that only constancy through time can be a balm for this wound. There will be no quick cure for what ails him, and I shall have to be patient, trusting that what I sense in him is love, and that in the fullness of time, it will be expressed openly. Broek has taken the first, vital step of handing me back my freedom. Now it is my turn.

I turn onto my side, facing him, and place a hand to his groin in an echo of his previous touch. The tips of my fingers graze his stiffening member. In a clear voice, I tell him, “Yes, I will marry you.”

He groans softly and places his hand over mine, guiding it over his swollen shaft. “Feel what you do to me,” he grunts, and certainly, I can feel the magnificent solidity of him. “Ask me,” he grits, and I know what it is he wants.

Looking up into his torrid eyes, I breathe, “Fill me, Broek.”

“With pleasure,” he grounds, then looms above me and spears my flesh with his. Thus begins the sweetly punishing rhythm that culminates in both our satisfaction. Afterwards, he takes me by the hand to the washroom and cleanses both our bodies under the rain shower. I am both wondrous and curiously at ease with this naked intimacy that has grown between us. It is as if we are Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden before the advent of the evil serpent.

We step out of the rain shower and dry ourselves with the towels Broek possesses that are so soft and warm. Then, naked and without shame, we walk hand in hand to my own chamber, where Broek watches me as I take out fresh garments to wear. He stands and observes each step of my toilette. One time, he assists me with the laces of my stays, dropping a kiss on the tip of each breast before it is covered by the stiff material.

When I sit at my dressing table and pick up the brush, he takes it from me and runs it gently through my hair. When that task is done, he studies me intently as I gather my locks into a knot at the back of my head, leaving a few loose curls to fall at my temples. And last of all, I take the bottle of cologne and place a small drop of the fragrant liquid on my wrist, rubbing it into the flesh. He lifts my hand and sniffs deeply, making a humming noise of satisfaction.

It is by mutual consent that I then accompany him back to his chamber and watch him as he goes about his daily toilette. I am, of course, intimate with the undergarments of a gentleman, yet still I observe him in fascination as he pulls on drawers, stockings and trousers, covering the delightful bulge at his groin that refuses to soften in my presence. His shirt come on next and then the cravat, with which he grapples imperfectly until I take the fabric from his hands and tie it neatly for him. It is something I used to do for Giles, so I am a quick hand at it. Broek watches my deft work in some surprise, then mutters, “Thank you.”

I smile benignly and rise on my tiptoes to drop a kiss on his lips. “My pleasure,” I reply. Then I am assisting him with his tailcoat, brushing away a speck of dust from the shoulder. I step back to admire him and nod in approval. My husband-to-be is an exceedingly handsome man, even if it is myself saying so. I shall not be one to complain if this is to be my life from here on.

We leave his chamber side by side, visiting a sleepy Chloe and bidding her good morning, then descending the stairs together to make our way to the dining room. As we do so, I reflect on the tremendous differences one single day can bring. At this very time yesterday, I was plagued by nerves in anticipation of my flight. Now, I am calm, content and hopeful. “I think perhaps I shall go to Newquay in the carriage today, and shop for a gown,” I tell Broek airily. He raises a brow but does not argue with this. “After all,” I continue, “I shall need something new to wear for our wedding.”

“Not black,” he grunts.

“Not black,” I agree.

In full harmony with each other, we enter the dining room. We are the first ones there except for Horis, who greets us with both a timid and curious gaze. Broek pulls out the chair for me, dropping a kiss to the top of my head before sitting at the table beside me. He serves me coffee, eggs, a few slices of beef, and of course, Uvonian pancakes. I eat hungrily—our recent exertions having built my appetite—as one by one, Broek’s other siblings troop into the dining room.

Our meal is a convivial one, though Broek himself does not contribute much to the discourse. He watches me with the predatory eyes of a hawk, and I bask in his hungry gaze. Once or twice, he cannot resist reaching forward and running a hand over the bare flesh of my arm, or tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His attentions do not go unnoticed. “I see the two of you have made up,” observes Liora.

In response, I state baldly, “Broek has agreed to restore my freedom. I shall be going out in the carriage today to visit the shops in Newquay.”

No word of protest comes from the family. Liora merely replies that she has a few items she requires from town, and would I mind very much if I picked these up for her. I voice my acquiescence, pleased at this normalisation in our relations.

I finish breakfast in a jubilant mood. It is not every day, after all, that one becomes engaged to be married. And when in addition to this, one’s freedom has been won after over a month of captivity, I would think it quite natural to feel some self-congratulatory sense of achievement. Each heated look Broek sends my way, each solicitous gesture, each tender touch brings forth in me a sense of joy along with a feverish excitement. I do believe that, were it not for the proper decorum, I would be hauling Broek back to the bedchamber for some further satisfaction.