The Nanny of Ravenscroft

Joyce Moye

I tapped on Jack’s bedroom door, even though it was open. I don’t know when I had stopped thinking of him as Mr. Mainhardt, or even as John Mainhardt.

He was sitting in one of the two chairs that flanked the fireplace, cradling a brandy snifter. His feet were propped up on a tufted hassock upholstered in the same chintz as the chairs. A fire crackled on the hearth, the flickering light throwing reddish shadows on the satin lapels of his dressing gown.

I pictured the cozy domestic scene this must have been when Valerie was alive: husband and wife, relaxing after a long day, gazing silently into the flames and listening to music.

Handel’s Royal Fireworks was playing.

“Come in,” he said, without looking in my direction. He nodded toward the vacant chair. “Have a seat.”

Glancing down at my fleece robe, the hem of my flannel nightie, and the oversized bunny-rabbit slippers peeping from beneath, I felt more out of place than usual. Valerie Mainhardt would have worn peach lace.

“She’s asleep,” I said as I sat. “I think her fever’s broken.”

“Here,” he said wearily as he passed the brandy snifter to me. “Drink this.”

We were comrades-in-arms, surveying the littered battlefield at the end of a long fight. He rose, walked over to the small oak credenza where a silver tray held a crystal decanter and several more crystal glasses, and poured himself another brandy.

“Earaches are hell,” he said.

“Especially on parents,” I observed wryly.

The biting, pungent fumes made my eyes smart as I took a sip of the liquor. Old, expensive cognac seared my throat and burned its way down.

He raised his glass in a salute as he returned to his chair. A smile hovered around the corners of his mouth. “I take it nannies are immune?”

“I’m not experienced enough to be immune.” I gave him a self-deprecating grin.

We probably weren’t talking about Precious anymore. In the last few months, we had arrived at a place where friendly banter rippled just above the surface tension of deeper waters.

Uneasy, I tried to change the subject. “Do you always have a fire going in here, even in the summer?”

Whenever he was home, neatly laid logs burned discreetly on the hearths of Ravenscroft.

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Always.”

When had I begun to think of him as handsome? His massive head, pockmarked complexion, and broken nose were not the Hollywood ideal.

“Why the infatuation with burning logs?” I asked.

“Why?” he repeated absently as he stared at the red-hot coals.

He knocked back half the contents of the brandy snifter and gave me a detached smile. “When my parents died, my grandfather sent me to a spartan English boarding school. A first-rate place, as they like to say.” The smile faded as his words trailed off. “It was one of those public schools that purport to turn boys into men with a regimen of frigid showers and freezing dorm rooms.”

His expression hardened. The memories I had dredged up were far from happy ones.

“And being from California,” I said quickly, wishing to undo what I had started, “you never could get warm.”

“Sort of.” Flashing an ironic grin, he visibly relaxed. “I was born in New York, actually. When I returned to the States, I’d never heard of surfing.”

I made a tsking sound. “And they say American culture is universal.”

He lifted one black eyebrow, and my insides began a slow meltdown.

“They say a lot of things,” he said in a low, earthy tone.

I probably shouldn’t have had more than one sip of brandy; the alcohol had turned my tired limbs to Jell-0 and my brains to mush. Lulled by the crackling fire and the enveloping sense of intimacy, I foolishly ventured beyond my depth.

“Kim told me that when Celeste first came to work here, she entered the house on her hands and knees. Is that true?”

As soon as I’d said it, I was sorry. I really didn’t want to know about my predecessor’s kinky habits, and I most especially didn’t want to know if she’d been his mistress.

“Would you like it to be true?” He watched me over the rim of his brandy snifter.

“I…I don’t know,” I replied, thrown off balance. “Forget I asked.” I waved a hand, as if the gesture could erase my question. “I was just curious.” I shrugged and gave him a wry grin. “You would think I’d be used to Kim’s weird sense of humor by now.”

I was offering a graceful way out. For both of us. Or perhaps it was only a cowardly, last-ditch effort on my part to find an escape.

“Curiosity is good,” he said softly.

The heat in his languid gaze was so intense that I had to turn away. I glanced around the lovely room, desperate to change the subject.

Though Valerie had been dead for three years, her presence still hovered in every corner of Ravenscroft. It struck me that I was jealous not of Celeste but of Valerie’s ghost. To hide my feelings, I made what I thought was a casual remark.

“It must have been nice, sitting here in the evening when Mrs. Mainhardt was alive, maybe playing cards across the hassock.”

“Cards?” He gave me an odd, incredulous look.

When I nodded innocently, he barked out a coarse laugh.

With the toe of his slipper, he shoved the hassock in my direction.

“The seat lifts up. Want to look inside?” Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

How could I turn down a dare to open Pandora’s box? Cautiously, I raised the hinged top. I don’t know what I expected would jump out.

He chuckled. “Nothing in there will bite you.”

By the fire’s glow, I studied the contents of the hidden cache. There were lengths of silk and bits of leather, and here and there a glint of metal. I had no idea what any of it was for.

I decided that the Mainhardts must have had a remarkable marriage. More than ever, I envied Valerie with her porcelain loveliness and erotic sophistication.

“Quite a toy chest,” I said, hoping I sounded blase. Primly rearranging my fleece robe across my knees, I glanced down at the bunny-rabbit slippers. The sight reminded me that I was the nanny, and I’d never be as cosmopolitan as Valerie Mainhardt.

“Hah!” Behind his crude laugh, I glimpsed something darker.

I was in way, way over my head. The only thing to do was brazen it out.

Reaching into the hassock, I extracted a strip of black velvet with some Velcro on the ends. A brass chain attached the velvet to a second strip of velvet. I held the fabric aloft, dangling it from my thumb and forefinger like a soggy piece of ribbon.

“What’s this?” I tried to sound nonchalant.

His eyes crinkled at the outer corners as if he were enjoying a private joke.

“Handcuffs,” he said and waited for my reaction.

“Ugh,” I replied. I didn’t try to conceal my distaste. “I don’t believe in tying up women. Macho fantasies are a turn-off.”

I was no longer interested in impressing him. I was ready to call it a night, hand him the brandy snifter, and return to my room.

He smiled sardonically. “How do you feel about tying up men?”

My mouth fell open. I couldn’t think of a clever retort.

He stood, and, as if drawn by a magnet, I stood right along with him. We were no more than a few inches apart. Pulsating currents filled the space between us. I raised my face, expecting to be kissed.

“Want to see how they work?” His cognac-scented breath warmed my cheek.

I nodded mutely.

He bared one forearm, shoving back the silky sleeve of his robe. His thick wrist was covered with black curly hairs, fine hairs that would tickle in all the right places.

“It’s very simple,” he said, the liquid heat in his voice numbing my reason.

He wound the length of velvet around his left wrist, the way someone would don a watchband, and pressed the Velcro ends together.

“You fasten the other one.” He held out his free arm and the empty handcuff.

Without thinking, I complied.

“Now I’m your captive.’

A white-hot thrill raced from my knees to my neck. Never before had a man offered to be my slave, to do whatever I wanted. Heck, I’d never even been asked what I wanted.

“Well?” His black eyes twinkled. He tipped his head to one side, clearly curious as to how I’d react. And, just as clearly, trusting me. A heady surge of power washed over me.

I sputtered out a nervous laugh. “I’ve never done this before.”

Chuckling, he raised his arms and dropped his bound hands behind my back, imprisoning me within his embrace. Through fleece and flannel, I could feel his desire.

“But you’re curious,” he murmured.

“Yes,” I said, my breath caught in the back of my throat. “Very curious.”

His cologne enveloped me; a distinctive mixture of lime and cardamom probably custom-blended for him in some place like Milan or Manila.

My pulse hammered in my ears. I could scarcely breathe. My heart was pounding so loudly that I was sure he could hear it. If he kissed me now. I knew I wouldn’t care who was the prisoner and who was the jailer. Nor who was the employer and who was the employee. The Jewish nanny and the wealthy WASP.

He brushed his lips across mine. “This is called ‘topping from below.’ “

“Oh,” I croaked, not daring to ask what that meant.

His kiss was gentle—and drugging. As his lips molded mine, the Royal Fireworks melded with the hiss and sizzle coming from the hearth.

I pushed against the wall of his chest.

“We shouldn’t do this,” I said, struggling for air.

“Whatever you say.” There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes. He relaxed his grip, allowing his arms to hang loosely at my hips. “You’re in charge.”

Some tiny, inner devil, lurking within some dark crevice of my brain, assured me that I could handle this. After all, I was in control. I could take things as far as I wished and no farther.

For how long had I wanted to run my fingers through Jack Mainhardt’s wavy, black hair? How long had I ached to slide my hands around the back of his neck and draw him down to me? How long had I hungered to kiss him until our lips were swollen with desire? You can have all that, the little voice said. And I listened, even though I knew there would be consequences.

“Kiss me,” I ordered.

“My pleasure.” He obeyed with ravenous zeal, although his arms remained slack at my hips.

“Hold me tighter,” I demanded. Raising his hands, he crushed me to him.

As his mouth found mine once more, my palms roamed his satin lapels with feverish need—but his dressing gown was not what I needed to touch.

I opened the buttons of his pajama top and explored the hard contours of his muscles, surprisingly well defined for someone who spent hours at a desk. I wondered fleetingly if he worked out. There were so many things I didn’t know about Jack Mainhardt, though I lived under his roof. I slithered my nails through the coiled hair between his pectorals.

“Take off your pajamas,” I breathed.

One elegant eyebrow quirked upward. “I’d love to comply, darling, but I may need a bit of help.”

“Yes, right,” I said, feeling idiotic.

With a soft chuckle, he raised his arms over my head and extricated me from his embrace. His eyes danced with amusement as he held out his handcuffed wrists to me.

“If I release you,” I teased, “is the game over?” More than anything, I didn’t want him to retreat back into that brooding shell of his.

He gave me an angelic smile and shook his head, his bound arms still outstretched in my direction.

“There is only one rule to this game,” he said in a husky baritone. “Well, two rules. The first rule is that no one leaves anyone else tied up when they exit the room.”

“And the second rule?”

“The second rule is that no one does anything without the other person’s consent.”

The fire popped and sparked. I was drowning in brimstone.

“But how will…”

He kissed the tip of my nose. “I’ll tell you.”

As though he could read my racing thoughts, he raised his manacled wrists and rubbed his knuckles along my cheek.

“And you’ll tell me,” he said softly.

As I gauged the ermine depths of his gaze, I realized I was hopelessly in love with Jack Mainhardt. An impossible attachment, given the nature of our relationship. I was the nanny, nothing more. I glanced away to hide my feelings—and found myself staring at his enormous bed.

The immense, scrolled-ironwork headboard and footboard were connected by an overhead frame, which, I sur-mised, had once been intended to support mosquito netting. I could envision the whole thing gracing a plantation bedroom in the muggy jungles of Malaysia. And I could imagine a dozen different ways a lover could be shackled to that bed. I had seen the enormous bed before, of course, but this was the first time I was seeing its carnal possibilities.

“It’s late,” I said, remembering where I was—and with whom.

I turned to go. He caught my hand with both of his.

“You just broke the first rule.” His heavy baritone was hypnotic.

“Oh,” I said in a tiny voice, embarrassed. With my eyes focused on the thick green carpeting, I reached for the Velcro bindings. “I forgot.”

“It’s okay, darling.” The droll humor was unmistakable. “It’s your first time.”

Too mortified to meet his gaze, I unfastened the handcuffs and headed for the door.

I was at the threshold when I heard his rasped plea.

“Don’t go, Michelle. Please.”

His hoarse entreaty, filled with loneliness and longing, drew me back into the room.

“Don’t talk,” I ordered, joking.

He barked out a laugh, his eyes smoldering with anticipation, but he spoke not a word as I led him toward the iron-bound bed.

“Lie down.” I pointed a finger. For a moment, I pictured myself holding a small whip. Undoubtedly, there was such a toy in the depths of the hassock, but I banished the image as ludicrous.

He lay on his back, his arms outstretched above his head. Patient. Obedient. The cuffs still around one wrist.

I slipped the chain portion behind an iron curlicue and reshackled his other wrist. One corner of his mouth twitched.

A horizontal man with a vertical need. I chose to ignore what was obvious as I toed off my bunny slippers, climbed onto the bed, and stretched out beside him.

As I had been wanting to do for a long time, I caressed his cratered face, stroked his wide shoulders, fondled his abdomen. I trailed my lips along his collarbone.

His chin nudged my flannel nightgown. “Are you planning to take that off? “

“You aren’t supposed to speak,” I said with a prim sniff. “I’m in charge here.”

He laughed. A deep, rolling belly laugh that I’d never heard before. And one that I wanted to hear again and again.

“You have a real aptitude for this, Miss Cutler.”

“Didn’t I just tell you to be quiet?” I couldn’t suppress my own laughter. He nodded, his eyes still moist from laughing. Giggles threatened to overtake us.

“Hush,” I snickered. “This will never do.”

“Take off your blasted flannel nightie. Michelle.”

Our gazes locked until our laughter burned away, turned to steam like the evaporating puddles from a sum-mer shower when the scalding sun reappears.

I sat up and, kneeling, yanked off my robe and nightgown. I was naked before I realized he was still wearing his silk pajamas.

“These have to go,” I muttered, the time for banter long past.

As I dragged off his pajama bottoms, he raised his hips to assist me, which not incidentally brought a certain aroused part of his anatomy closer to my lips. With a look, I warned him not to ask for anything.

He closed his eyes, and a shudder ran through his body. I saw him straining for control, but he refrained from giving me instructions. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered, because I knew what / wanted. I settled down astride him.

“Oh, God, Michelle.” He let out a raw groan.

I stifled the rest of his moan with a kiss, a kiss that went on and on. Mindless with need, I teased my nipples against the springy hairs of his chest as the rise and fall of my pelvis matched the thrust of his hips.

He gasped for air. “Michelle…release me.”

I shook my head, refusing. My mouth recaptured his.

Together, we were soaring toward the sun. And when I burst into flames, I didn’t know whether I’d found heaven or entered hell.

Afterward, I lay crumpled against his chest, sated and drifting toward sleep. He kissed the top of my head.

“Release me,” he whispered.

“Give me one good reason.” I rose up on one elbow and fluttered my eyelashes at him.

“I want to hold you,” he said simply.

“Aw, geez.” Tears prickled behind my lids and threatened to spill over. “Now you’re playing dirty.”

Determined not to let him see me cry, I swallowed against the lump in my throat and undid the Velcro.

His arms settled around me.

“There. That’s better.” With a contented sigh, he snuggled closer.

We were peacefully entwined when I heard Precious call my name. I glanced toward the door, and with dismay, saw it was still ajar.

“Oh, shit,” I said as reality intruded.