Authors: Julia Keaton
She traveled lower,
down his rippled belly, fascinated by the difference of his body from hers. He
sucked in a sharp breath, his belly jerking as her hand dipped beneath the
water, following the thin trail of hair.
“Mmmm,” he groaned
suddenly, startling her.
If he’d struck her
he couldn’t have surprised her more. Alex was horrified at the unconscious
movement of her hands, at the manflesh she’d sought to take hold. Alex jumped
up from the floor, dropping the cloth with a splash. She scooted around him,
edging toward the door, keeping her eyes on him lest he make some sudden move
for her.
He gave her a
quizzical look, one brow arched. “What is the matter?” He raked his gaze down
her body. Heat followed the trail of his eyes. “You’ve gotten wet, Alex.
Care for a change of shirt? I have plenty to lend.”
Alex glanced down
at herself, saw she was soaked through. She hadn’t even realized.... Alex
looked up as though stricken. “No, my lor--Bronson. I--”
Was that ...
something ... bobbing in the water betwixt his legs? Alex gulped, caught
between horror and curiosity.
“You can’t walk
about in that wet shirt. Hold a moment, I will get one for you.” He started
to rise.
“No, no, no,” Alex
shrieked. The door opened suddenly behind her--salvation. She pried her eyes
off the sea serpent rising to eat her, scooped up her doublet, and dashed for
the door, bolting past the maid bearing linens without pause. She fairly
dashed back to her room, where she could have at least the illusion--if not the
truth--of safety.
Alex slammed the
door and leaned her back on it, inexplicably weak.
Dear god above,
she’d nearly ruined herself in there! She never
ever
wanted to see
manflesh in her life ever again.
His soap scented
her skin, surrounding her in the memory of stroking his naked flesh, in having
him pressed intimately against her. He had to suspect her a queer creature,
for she knew she acted too odd for her actions to go unnoticed.
Alex sank to the
floor, pressing her hands against her hands low on her belly. Her womb ached,
clenched on a spasm of pain. She could still feel the race of her blood, and
wondered if her reaction to him would only increase the longer she remained in
this household. She did not trust herself around him. He was far too comely
for her ease of mind. No matter that he thought her only a manchild, he was
her family’s enemy. She couldn’t allow herself to grow soft to him.
* * * *
Bronson paid no
heed to the maid who came in and scurried out again almost as quickly. His
thoughts centered wholly on the tempting minx who’d escaped him at the first
arisen opportunity. He hit the water with his fist, cursing his recklessness
and the single-minded beast between his legs.
He’d been so intent
on feeling her hands on him, he’d hardly managed to glean any information from
her. What’s more, he endangered his mission by allowing her to know she
affected him. Her woman’s touch had enflamed his blood, however, and he’d been
hard pressed to think of anything besides pulling her into the tub and onto his
throbbing cock.
His coddles burned
with pent-up need, drawing tight against his flesh. His shaft pulsed with
desire. He could not fathom why he wanted the woman so badly, but surmised
he’d been far too long without a woman or he would not want this strange
creature so badly. The girl was resilient, a survivor, it seemed—a trait he
found wholly remarkable. He could admit that he admired her determination,
even if it was at odds with what he himself wanted.
Bronson knew she
would attempt escape rather than face possible exposure. He just had to be
sure to keep close watch on her so she would not be able to do so.
The situation was a
tricky one, to be sure. He felt unaccountably awkward near her, as if she
fogged his mind from reason. He would do well to reign in his lust, mayhap
slake his thirst on a willing maid. Bronson scowled at that thought. He was
not so weak willed that he could not control himself. And, he reassured
himself, he had no plans to reveal her for what she was, not until he found out
the true reason behind her guise.
The thought gave
him pause.
Had
she told the truth to him for her travels? Was she
attempting to escape her betrothed, or was she, in fact, already married and
unwilling to admit it so? There could be way of finding the truth except by
tripping her on her own lies. That she lied, he was certain, but when she’d
spoken of marriage, it sounded an honest answer … and made a disturbing kind of
sense. Many a woman dreaded the marriage bed, not discounting the
arrangement. As his father’s eldest son, even his own marriage had been
arranged.
The thought of some
brute or old man plowing into her woman’s sheath made his blood boil. Madness
overtook him, bade him to find the truth of the matter. If she was a maiden
still, she could not be married, but there was a very real possibility that a
man claimed her hand for marriage.
He would have no
way of finding out if she was a maiden unless he revealed his knowledge of her
true identity, and he could not take that risk. His groin clenched with the
notion of plunging into her depths, with sinking his fingers into her core.
Bronson rubbed his
groin, trying to ease the unbearable pressure, but touching himself with images
of her in his head only increased the pain and his sense of guilt of betraying
his own betrothed. He had not even seen the woman he was to marry, let alone
spoken vows, and already he was tempted to break the marriage contract. For
what? For a temptress and a liar who’d more likely steal his family blind as
not.
Bronson stood from
the water, stepping out onto the toweling she’d knelt on and grasping one of
the linens the maid left. His manroot stood straight from his belly, angry and
turgid as he rubbed himself dry. He would get no sleep this night.
* * * *
“I canna believe
yer forcing me to wear this, Kiara.” Wren grimaced at the old dress she’d
forced on him.
Kiara giggled,
smirking at his expression and stoop. She was a wicked girl indeed, but having
the hall laugh at his disguise was worth some punishment in the afterlife. She
couldn’t help but enjoy teasing him mercilessly. It was the McPherson way.
The servant’s
entrance door opened briefly as a spry maid stepped out and rushed past them.
“Shh,” she whispered, huddling close to Wren, turning her face away
inconspicuously. “Yer brogue’ll surely give us away. And remember, yer an
elder woman, so keep yer nose out of the maid’s skirts. I canna say I’d miss
ye much if they caught ye.”
Wren glanced up at
the glass facade above them. “‘Twill take hours to search.”
Kiara nodded.
“That is why we’re splitting up. I’ll check upstairs, and you down. We meet
back here in an hour to compare our findings if we have any.”
Wren nodded. “Good
hunting,” he whispered as they moved inside. They said nothing as they passed
through the entrance.
Kiara held her
breath, awaiting discovery from the servants, but no hue and cry went up,
accusing them as impostors. Kiara soon found the servant’s stairs and parted
ways with Wren, stifling a chuckle as he crept about like an old hag.
She’d just stepped
out of the servant’s passage into what looked to be a main hall when a familiar
male voice boomed through the passage. Kiara froze instantly, her heart
thundering in her chest. She flattened against the wall, darting a glance to
the source of the voice.
Him!
Another of the
Blackmore brutes trotted down the hall toward him. “Gray!” he shouted. Her
nemesis stopped, grinning as his brother caught up to him. They spoke in low
tones, laughing, boastful sways to their bodies as they continued down the
hall.
A murky name for a
scoundrel and blackguard if ever she’d heard one. Gray like mud and stone, old
manure and foul skies--
He stopped
suddenly, and her breath caught as he looked away from his brother ... straight
at her. She couldn’t hear what he said, but he frowned, and her stomach
clenched as his brows drew together.
Did he recognize
her? God’s teeth, she must look an impostor doing nothing but standing there
gaping at him.
Never run from a
wolf when it challenges you. They sense your fear and go in for the kill. She
had to remember these Blackmores were more akin to beasts than men. With a
calmness she didn’t feel, Kiara slowly stood away from the wall and began
walking in the opposite direction. Her neck crawled with the feel of his eyes
on her. It took every ounce of her will to keep from running in panic.
Finally, she
reached a juncture and turned, glancing out of the corner of her eye down the
hall. He was gone.
Kiara started
breathing again. Damn man. How dare he make her feel hunted and ... and
scared?
“You there! Come
here.”
Kiara glanced up from
her feet, startled. A frazzled, doughy woman beckoned her forward, her arms
loaded with linen. Kiara approached, surprised when she thrust the load into
her chest.
Kiara grabbed it
automatically, giving the woman a quizzical stare.
She blew her hair
out of her eyes. “Take this to Lord Bronson’s chambers. He’s expecting you.
Here’s the key. You bring that back down to me when you’re done. I have to
get back to laundry.”
Kiara freed a
finger and took the key. “Where is it?” She needed to dump this off and start
her search if she was ever going to find the girl.
“New here? Lord, I
cannot keep up with the staff. At the end of this hall.” She left her then,
disappearing back into a servant’s door.
Kiara hefted the
load, getting comfortable with it, then walked down the hall. She reached the
door, listening to muffled voices inside. Not seeing anywhere to set the
linens, she struggled with the key and finally managed to unlock the door,
wondering why in the world it was locked in the first place.
These Blackmores
were stranger than she’d thought.
Kiara opened the
door, nearly dropping the linens at the sight of the huge, naked brood leader
bathing ... and then the boy in the room turned around with a startled gasp.
God’s teeth! She
froze, watching in stunned fascination as he dashed past her, nearly knocking
her to the ground in his haste.
“Bring those to
me.”
Kiara nodded,
trying to appear meek as she left the linens, leaving as quickly as possible.
The boy was long gone, no trace hinting to where he might have gone. But she
knew quite suddenly that that had not been a boy. She could practically pass
for Kiara’s sister.
Something nefarious
was going on. That she’d been dressed as a boy and been bathing the head of
the Blackmore sons could only bode ill. The door had been locked. The girl
was a prisoner, and that Blackmore beast was enacting perversions on the poor
girl. Why else would he have her inside, bathing him, if not to seduce her?
And that meant the
McPhersons would need to rescue her, for she was certain this girl was kin ...
as certain of it as she was her own bloodroots.
Knowing she could
do nothing about it so outnumbered, Kiara went back the way she’d come. It
would take some planning, of course, but she had a key. If the girl was locked
up with Bronson regularly, she could be rescued easily.
She was smiling by
the time Wren met her in the courtyard.
“Still gloating
over me? How fared your hunting?” Wren straightened slightly, his back
popping with the movement. He pressed his hands to his lower back, grimacing.
“Walk with me.
‘Tis time we were gone,” she whispered, linking her arm with his as though she
supported him. Other servants left to go to their homes, and they slipped
easily among them.
“I found her,” she
finally whispered, secure in their safety. He tensed beside her but continued
walking.
“And?”
“She is kin, I know
it. But that Bronson Blackmore holds her captive. I fear for what will befall
her if we don’t do something to get her out. I think he means to seduce her,
though whether as a boy or girl, I canna tell.”
Wren nodded,
looking disgusted. “A nest of wolves, to be sure. Their girlchild had hold of
me for a quarter of an hour. I thought like as not I’d die from her going on
about me being too sickly to work.” He chuckled, rubbing his chin. “A pretty,
wee thing she be.”