Once again, to my heirs, my wonderful boys, Erasmus and Nash. Never doubt my love. Never that.
I hope these pages, these glimpses into life as I now know it may explain, in some manner at least, why your sire never was the overly affectionate sort.
A few blessedly quiet, typical months have passed since the last Change. Thought I’d scribble out some less dramatic, less agony-filled thoughts.
For you see, most of the year I am simply a man. A husband, a father. Most of the year I function like a normal, red-blooded British male. I love my wife, my boys and a good, smuggled-in French brandy.
I also love not gnawing on raw beef bones, fighting a part of myself I sometimes sense growing stronger every year and always loathe. I keep telling myself that, somehow, by educating you two, we might halt this deadly curse before it touches yet another generation.
But how can I contemplate ordering you boys to never marry? To never father children? How can I expect you to give up something that has brought me so much personal joy?
Enough of that now. This was supposed to be a lighthearted entry.
Erasmus, you’re 14 and off at Eton. Nash, we had your 9th birthday celebration just last week. I gave you a volume of selected works by Shakespeare, most notably A Midsummer Night’s Dream, my particular favorite, hoping to entice your interest in literature (which proves nonexistent at the moment). But alas, it remains the archery set chosen by your mother that you gravitate toward.
“Let the boys be boys,” she told me when you ran off, pell-mell, to put it through its paces. “Plenty of time for them to falter under the weight of life and responsibility later.”
She is right. Still limps from what I did to her, damn my hide, but right all the same. So I think I shall set this aside and find you, Nash. See whether I can challenge your aim. Let us all be boys, for once, eh?
Nash wanted to howl.
He hated his demmed brother. Bastard had made them both suffer all week because he wouldn’t simply take a crack to soothe the beast.
He hated his demmed grandfather, whose selfish and thoughtless actions brought the curse careening down upon their heads in the first place.
But most of all, right this second, he bloody hated Francine.
His blasted brother’s little Francy.
Nash knew he’d acted the total arse, goading both his brother and his woman. Too pigeoned by the pink. Had he really said that? To a lady? He should be pilloried. Piked. Banished to the pigsty to forge within. For was that not where pigheaded pricks belonged?
In the mud.
He’d listened to them coo and kiss deep in the night, after she roused from the stupor they’d put her in. Had wanted more than anything to roll over and slake his frustration out on the smooth curves of her body. But already, recriminations gonged about his garret like a tide of Vikings laying siege to his brain.
Aye, you arse, ’Twas your pleasure, and now your own remorse, he bent Shakespeare, as he was wont to do, to fit his particular situation.
How could he? How the devil could the urges have taken hold with such ferocity that he’d been reduced to covering his brother’s woman?
Good God. Blake would likely never want to look him in the despicable eyes again.
The sharing? That was of no matter. They’d shared before, more times than he wanted to count. It was the commitment part of it that skewered him like a poor, severed head perched upon a pike.
For the mighty Marquis of Blakely had fallen irretrievably in love, and that Nash could never forgive.
Not when the two of them kept spewing whispered words of adoration on their side of the huge bed, as though he didn’t exist. Heard her whispered question, “Why so many candles, Erasmus, for I know you do not need them?” And then his brother’s rough, husky-voiced reply, “Trying to banish the night. Without you in my life, all was night.” The nausea-inducing exchange at least explaining why Blake had been so insistent Nash kept them burning.
Sickening, the way they practically purred for each other.
Especially when they’d exchanged an entire one-word conversation that nearly made him cast up his accounts, bantering about such overly sentimental drivel as endearing, my heart (granted, that was two), stalwart, masterful, salvation….
Putrid, that’s what it was.
He’d known this was coming. Had gone searching for it, in fact, when his brother refused to explain fully why, chancing across more than one startling set of papers on Blake’s desk his first night back, searching for clues as to the identity of the woman to blame for their wretched condition.
Only he’d found something far beyond a mere infatuation. Notes, showing the parish church where Blake had paid the minister to start reading the banns…
Nearly three weeks ago, which meant the fool already planned to marry this woman before the beast took hold.
How could he?
Not just how could he fall in love, but how the devil could Blake expect to marry someone he hadn’t yet confided their Deep Dark Secret to?
That bothered Nash twice as much as the rest of it. Never being in love—never planning to—he’d no idea how anyone could contemplate that sort of hurly-burly commitment without being honest with the other. Why multiply an already cursed situation through silence?
Not only because his brother’s action of “endureth all things” by “not forsaking thee” (on occasion the Bible snuck in when Shakespeare didn’t come readily to mind) and taking others had magnified the urges to the point of insanity for them both, but because his older, perfectly responsible, perfectly proper, demmed stinking perfect brother had found the one thing Nash knew he never would—
A woman to love.
One willing to do anything for him. Even prick his sorry arse.
When the low drone of their voices started again, he roused himself enough to roll off the bed, landing more agilely on his feet than he’d expected. Leading him to realize, now that Blake had finally sated the beast, it no longer hunted Nash as well.
For the first time in days, he was able to stand upright with ease, look down his nude body and see skin and the standard light covering of body hair. He held one hand out, gratified it was stable. Steady. The nails blunt tipped and regular.
He knew from experience much of the night would fade from his memory the first time he slept deeply—possibly even sooner. The Beast Lust had never ridden him so hard. Before, he’d always pricked away the urges, enjoying himself in the process. But this time? He was drained like an empty pond. Completely worn down to the point of utter exhaustion.
Was concerned if he didn’t escape now, but waited, the urges would strengthen and he might cover her again. Mount her and this time not have the wherewithal to remain outside the alluring body presented so willingly to him.
And while he might profess to hate his brother—and the woman who’d made Blake both stronger than Nash ever thought to witness, but weaker as well—he respected and revered the man far too much to risk coming between him and his love.
No wonder Nash always did everything he could to avoid commitments, avoid so much as looking at women when he took them. Why bother? One was just as good as another. And he wasn’t about to get duped into caring for one. Not with this curse business always looming every summer.
So he’d take himself off to the chamber his brother always kept readied for him, despite it only being used a handful of nights each year. Clothing, money. His perfect brother would have arranged for both, well before the season warranted it.
From there?
To the entrance hall, to upright the table and anything else he’d smashed. Tidy what he could.
And then? Was anyone’s guess.
Mayhap back upstairs to sleep the day away…find another faceless, willing London wench tomorrow night.
Mayhap…Scotland. Or perhaps…Cornwall and a dockside doxy.
At the doorway, he couldn’t resist a last glance, would have denied with his dying breath the envy inherent in it, upon seeing the intertwined couple.
For no matter how many times he told himself he hated Francine, God help him, he wanted someone exactly like her…
Someone who would look at him the way she gazed at his brother. Someone who would risk everything to see him unharmed and cared for…
Withdraw yourself, and leave them here alone, his blighted brain once more misquoted. But wisely.
And so he did.
Erasmus woke alone, the bed empty, curious what time it was but not really caring.
Francine was gone. Nothing else mattered.
Stale sweat and sex permeated the air, doubling his regret. Why had he not spoken to her sooner? Attempted to explain the…inexplicable?
You know why.
He did.
Fear. The very real possibility that she’d have nothing to do with him once she knew the truth.
Too late for regrets now. All he could do was look to the future.
He walked to the window, naked and fully upright, his hair, face and form returned to their customary appearance. After so many days denying himself physically, his cells had altered to the point that he’d feared harming Francine—or anyone else who dared enter his domain. Hence, his demand that Nash restrain him.
Nash, who had suffered almost equally, the ease he’d found in various women since his unexpected return lasting only a brief time, their proximity causing The Change to affect them both differently than they’d experienced before—when Erasmus wasn’t denying himself. But at least his brother had managed to find some moments of clarity.
For Erasmus, the past few days—even most of last night—were a haze. A haze of pain, longing and regret. And hatred. Couldn’t forget that, now could he? Hatred turned inward for being such a clodpate as to think he could dally with innocence and allow it to remain unscathed.
Drawing open the ruined drapes, he unlatched the shutters, inviting fresh air into the chamber.
Though it was raining, a persistent sheeting turning everything grey and dreary that had started sometime during the night, all he saw, felt, breathed was sunlight.
Sunlight.
Sunshine.
Francine.
Steeling himself against the pain of her loss, he idly wondered how his other male relatives might be handling The Change. Especially Phineas, poor bastard, the cousin once closest to him and also the person who had suffered more than any other because of their affliction. Alive or dead, sane or crazed, the not knowing…
God, he was a wreck. He leaned against the shutters, inhaling the humid air, imagining he could smell her again. Fresh. Unspoilt.
Before they’d gotten their wretched claws in her. He and his brother.
Nash had vanished again, during the night, likely taking the first ship to France or the first stagecoach to Scotland. Leaving the country like he always did—another sudden arrival and abrupt exodus—leaving Erasmus to make do with nothing more than the half-arsed correspondence he’d send once or twice a year and always from a different location.
The blackguard, availing himself of the purest part of Erasmus’s heart—Francine—and then abandoning him to deal with the aftermath alone.
Always alone.
Eyes squeezed tightly shut against emotions he didn’t want to face, he bellowed, “Franklin!”
His valet could attempt the unenviable task of making him presentable. Then he’d present himself, hat in hand, at Rowden House, seek an audience—
Not today, you won’t.
“By the devil.” How could he have forgotten? His valet, along with the entire staff was on paid holiday for the month. A tradition started by his father, one that made the various Hammond residences much-desired places for employment.
He’d thought the loneliness might be over, that the companionship and, yes, love, he’d so unexpectedly found with his Francy might carry him through this year, give him the strength to control the beast within. To resist altering into a maniac.
He’d been wrong.
He might have been able to resist the lure of other women, which had been less difficult than he’d anticipated, but as the sun crept into Leo, his traitorous cells had grown more demanding every day, until now, not even near the zenith of the zodiacal sign and he’d been near destroyed, broken. Without the respite garnered from her welcoming body, he shuddered to imagine what—
The sound of someone furiously assaulting the front door broke through his thoughts.
Probably the constable, come to cart him off to Newgate. Or Francine’s uncle, come to cart him off to the dueling field.
The man, once he’d returned to town, had been agreeably tolerant of the amount of time Erasmus spent with his niece. And—after Erasmus dropped a hint or two, leaving Francine’s aunt little choice but to confess her nefarious plans concerning Francine’s inheritance, along with her own gambling foibles—he’d been completely supportive of their “betrothal”.
That last dinner—before The Change snuck up on him and he whisked her off to have his wild and wicked way with her—he’d even thought he and Rowden might become something of friends… So much for that now.
If it was her uncle come to put a ball of lead through him, ’twas nothing less than he deserved. Exposing Francine to himself—and his brother—as he had, using her precious body for their own gain…he was a prigging animal. Who deserved to be shot. Drawn and quartered too.
Dipped in hot oil, rolled in grouse feathers—
The persistent clanging reverberated throughout the house. Threatened to burst his overly sensitive eardrums.
Damn him. He should have confided in her long before now.
You think of that—now?
One of the few clear moments he had of last night were her last words to him, crying for him to leave her alone, to stop touching…
Nay! Leave!
Had anything as heart wrenching ever crossed his ears before?
Which is where the bulk of the self-castigation came from. How his selfish actions had brought her to that place.
More pounding attacked his chest and head.
Leave off castigating yourself and answer the damn door!
Wrapped in a dressing gown, still moving sluggishly from the effects of The Change and the hours of bliss-induced relief he’d give anything to recall with more clarity, he made his way down the stairs to the entrance hall where the noise only increased, the blasted thumps clamoring in his brain.
“’Tis not even locked!” He wrenched the door open before the person on the other side broke the blasted thing down. Snarling, “What in Hades—”
Only to be brought up short when a dripping umbrella poked him in the chest.
Francine barreled her way in, looking more pure than a heathen even had a right to behold. The umbrella hit the floor and her reticule collided with the side table just as vehemently as her accusing gaze collided with his, her vibrant eyes magnified by the eyeglass lenses.
An avenging angel come to life, but his angel no more? If that’s what she thought, he’d correct her soon enough.
Let her say her piece. Let her ire carry her through, however she needed. He’d give her the remaining three weeks, while he got through somehow, and then, by damn, no matter what she said to him in the next few minutes, he was going after her. And he was going to claim her. Forever.
“I am here to conclude our bargain, my lord.” She faced him, removing her spectacles and carefully placing them on the small table with her reticule. “But first, I rather think I deserve an explanation. A thorough one.”
“Aye, you do. Apologies, as well. But you may not believe what—”
“Erasmus.” Exasperation coated her tone. “I saw your brother practically turn into a slathering lion and you were not far behind.” Calm, cool, her voice held no accusation, simply truth, as her fingers went to the bow beneath her neck, untying the bonnet she wore. “I daresay I can safely guarantee I shall believe most anything you have to tell me. Now start flapping your jaws.”
As she drew out the long ribbon, he noticed scratches her gloves couldn’t hide—the ones that streaked down her arms. Sheer surprise made him recoil.
“Oh-no-you-don’t!” Francine fisted one lapel of his dressing gown, halting his retreat. “Do not dare turn from me as you tried to last night. How can you think that I—”
“By the blazes. I hurt you. Look!” He raised her hand and pointed to the thin cuts crossing her sun-browned forearm above the glove. And the paler skin on her upper arm when he runched her sleeve. “Here too?”
She gestured to her arms. “These happened when you were trying to push me away and I was holding on for dear life. Did it occur to you that keeping me with you might have been safer than sending those dratted notes?”
Knowing he looked guilty—because he felt guilty—he didn’t complain that she’d pinched skin when grabbing him. Too damn relieved to see her. Have her in his home again.
“When will you get it through that thick, sometimes furry skull of yours—I cannot claim to know why, but I like it when you become wild and on edge—and a little rough. I know that makes me…”
“Wicked.” Did she know that the more she spoke, claiming to like his wild ways, the more perfect she seemed? Nothing could please him more.
“Depraved,” she countered on a frown.
“Debauched.” He grinned when he said it. An unholy grin that spread his lips wide and showed off—dare he hope?—normal-shaped teeth. “I must say, I do like how very debauched you have become, Francy.”
Everything would be all right between them. For, after that confession, he’d move heaven and hell to make it so.
“Stop tempting me to wipe that wickedly alluring grin right off your face,” she huffed, her frilly untied bonnet still perched upon her unhappy hair, gloved hands propped at her waist, slippered toes tapping, face full of righteous indignation.
“You are smashing in high dudgeon, did you know that?”
“I am unwilling to simply banter—no matter how tempted—when still more exists to resolve between us.” She grew deplorably serious. “You should have told me before now. Not kept me utterly in the dark. After all we have shared!” That did it. Wiped the mirth clean off his expression. “You would have saved us both some angst.”
“I concur. Can only claim my wits went begging.” He groaned, slamming one hand on the side table, causing something to flutter to the floor. Distracted, he looked down, muttering, “Surprised you can bring yourself to look at me this morning.”
“’Tis accomplished quite easily, I assure you. Magnificent specimen and all that.”
But he was no longer listening, bending to pick up the fallen, folded paper.
She jerked it out of his hand and tossed it back on the table, skewering him with no small amount of ire. “Have at it. Enlighten me. Thoroughly.”
And best make it good. She’s as pissed as she has a right to be.
“I… We…” Since when did he ever fumble about? Staring into pale blue expectant inquisitiveness, he swallowed and tried again. “My family— The males that is…”
How could he just blurt it out? He battled the multitude of lies that rose to his lips and finally surrendered to the truth—most of it, for now. Beneath her imploring regard, he could do no less. “Our grandfather was on African safari, hunting elephants, lions, zebras—anything he considered exotic enough for his trophy room. He was still a relatively young man and boasted more pride than sense.”
Unable to bear the distance, he stepped forward and hauled her to him, burying his face in the warm curve of her neck, knocking her bonnet off and not giving a damn. Her frizzed, not-about-to-be-tamed, pinned-up hair muffled his next words. “After the greedy bastard had already killed more animals than he could even transport home, he came upon a herd of lions and…”
“And what? I need to know,” she whispered, hugging him fiercely. Not saying nay now, is she? “And you, I believe, need to tell me.”
He lifted her off the ground so that her feet dangled, holding her as tightly as he dared. “He had already brought down two and was reloading for a third kill when another lion came from behind and attacked. Grandfather nearly bled to death right there on the savannah.”
“Oh, Erasmus…” Her fingernails scraped along his scalp, pushing him away or pulling him closer, he didn’t dare contemplate.
“’Twas no more than he deserved, extinguishing those beautiful animals for nothing more than sport, hoping to impress his friends back in England.” And how could he be condemning his grandfather’s actions? Since when did he feel empathy for the blasted animal whose form tried to overtake his own every year?
Her nails dug deeper. “Then what? Did your grandfather recover?”
“A tribal healer was summoned from a nearby village. He told Grandfather that the disembodied familiars were angered over his greed and disregard for life. The man said he had called on Felis leo spirit medicine, but it would only be available if a reciprocal exchange was offered. The healer gave him two options—either agree or surrender to fate and most likely die.”
“He agreed,” she whispered when he paused, squirming in his embrace. “Tell me the rest.”
He lowered her feet to the floor but held fast, inhaling the subtle scent of lilacs, sunshine and earthy, fragrant woman, absorbing the refinement she exuded, his soul soothed for the first time since he’d come to and found her gone. “On the verge of his last breath, Grandfather consented, unaware of what he had done, as the man had spoken in another tongue. Grandfather only knew what the single remaining packman had shared—the others having scattered—which was a fraction of the truth.”
“How did you discover the rest?” she asked, still gripping his hair, now making him face her.
“From letters and journals. My father’s and grandfather’s. Only studied a fraction; some is in code.” He tilted his head, nuzzled his cheek along hers, wishing—for her sake—that his stubbled face had seen the sharp side of a blade in the last week.
“Mother gave them to me after his death. Actually, arranged to have them delivered into my safekeeping after she left.”
Those had been dark days, not long after his father’s bloodied body was returned to the family amidst scandal and speculation. The rumor circling round being that the prior marquis took the embarrassing, foolhardy, dicked-in-the-nob way off the shores of England and shot himself in the head; the truth suspected by him and his mother even more ruinous to the family name than that spot of tragedy.
“I glanced carelessly over things, shared the absurd claims with Nash and Phineas.” Somehow, he no longer held her nor her him, instead he now paced across the entrance hall, as though to outrun the naïve memories. “We thought ’twas rich amusement, the whole lot of it nothing more than a jolly tale.” What else could they have thought?
’Twas nonsensical blather claiming that he and his brother and cousin had Roho ya Simba coursing through their veins, the Spirit of the Lion. And him having to track that tiny spot of knowledge down by consulting with a scholar interested in African tribes and their various languages.
“We were convinced ’twas merely something our parents had contrived—a jest on wild boys to keep the oat-sowing to a minimum. ’Tis all. Thought Mother shared when she did only to keep my focus off where she had gone.
“We never believed it. None of it. Not even her letter confiding the mangling of her leg was not a carriage accident at all but the result of our father turning on her the first time he faced The Change.” Now that he’d started blathering the family secrets, seemed he couldn’t stop.
“It was not until later, when our cousin Phin had his devastating wedding night and disappeared in a flurry…” He came upon another wall and paused, slapped his palms to the decorative paper he hadn’t changed since inheriting the London home so many years before. Stood there, breathing hard, staring at the floor between his bare feet. “Not until we saw the bridal room he left behind, the mangling of blood and golden fur, did Nash and I finally believe. Then I battled the curse the very next year. Nearly succumbing, until I had no choice but to take my father’s impassioned warnings to heart and do everything I could to stop it. As I have been doing every year since.
“And you know the rest.” Or enough of it.
“The curse? Have you knowledge of how?”
He nodded abruptly. There were still journal entries, additional ramblings he’d yet to share. There’d be time enough in their future. She hadn’t run screaming yet; he’d no intention of ever letting her go. Even if he couldn’t face her quite yet. “In parts. Not everything.”
“Why did you not struggle when we first met?” She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t control the flinch that ran through him. “Why now?”
He swore. Since when did he find his bare toes so enthralling? Since they look like toes and not like paws? “That part has been the biggest hubble-bubble, figuring out how it all works. Time and observation have filled in some blanks.”
His shoulders started to feel the strain and he pushed off the wall, straightened to his full height and slowly spun to her, finishing with a light shrug. “Too bad there’s not a fortune-teller in our midst. Best we can determine, when the sun is in the constellation Leo…traveling through that zodiacal portion of the sky…
“For those few weeks every year, the lion spirit is stronger, overpowering, as if the essence of what makes us human has slowly seeped away. It extends beyond belief, I know.”
She waved his words away, a measure of realization dawning in her expression. “This is why your eyes glow at times, is it not? I always thought it was mine not seeing clearly.”
“Francy, you see more clearly than any person I have ever met.”
At that very moment, her calculating mind appeared fast at work. “Although…lion. That does make sense, I suppose. The charges on your coat of arms. The three lions—you, Nash and Phineas.” Then she blinked and turned her focused gaze back to him. “What became of him—your cousin?”
“I know not. No word has been heard from him since that day.” Hadn’t seen hide nor tail of his elder-by-a-year cousin since the man’s wedding night.
God Almighty, Phineas. Was he even alive?
Or, heaven forfend, had The Change taken more than his soul? Landed him a trophy on some disgustingly vile and clueless lord’s hunting-lodge wall?
Nausea plowed through him at the notion. He squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the image.
For the most part, Francine had listened in stillness, breathing deeply, lips clamped tightly together to keep from peltering him with questions. The grief over his missing cousin as obvious as what she’d seen last night. Certainly more plausible.
She was still absorbing all that he shared, trying to grasp the enormity of what haunted not only him, but his family as well.
“Answer something for me, if you can?” She whispered the request, unsure of its reception.
Until he opened his eyes and braced himself, facing her straight on. “Certainly. You have every right to ask anything you wish.”
“Now that I have seen the toll it demands, can you explain why you persist in fighting it so hard?”
“How can you even consider that?” Shock stiffened his posture further. “’Tis an unholy, unnatural curse. Lions are predators. Carnivorous ones. Should I endanger all those around me by not doing all—”
“Shhh. Shh.” His voice had grown in proportion to the agitation she so easily sensed. Lightly, she placed four fingers on his chest and tapped, two of them on the dressing gown, two slipping over warm skin. “So you fear losing control? Harming”—she could not bring herself to say eat, not in the most literal of senses—“those you love?”
“Exactly.”
“Have you considered you might not?”
“Eh?”
“That you, perhaps…” Tap, tap. “Remain in possession of your wits, just not of your form?”
He swore, captured her fingers and pressed her palm firmly over his heart. “Would you have me risk it? For I will not.”
“There is no need. As long as you let me, I shall tame your beast.”
“Ah, Francy,” he chuckled, the first sign of true mirth she’d seen since arriving. “Despite last night, your demands I leave you alone, you are still my little innocent, are you not? Tame my beast, indeed.”
“What do you mean demanding you leave? I never! I did all I could to pour myself into your arms, fighting back your constant rejections.”
“Mayhap I misinterpreted?” Looking thoughtful at the possibility, he took her wrist and began divesting her of the long glove she still wore.
“You most certainly did. Yet still… Everything you just shared. Last night. Curses! Lions…” Her mind a complete rimble-ramble over all he’d told her…
No matter that she’d witnessed the truth of his preposterous claims, knew firsthand the veracity of them, everything he spoke of was just so…utterly and completely…
“Impossible.” Succinctly, she summed up the last twelve hours and his Banbury tale—the one no rational person would ever believe. But she’d seen…
“Fact.” He stoically insisted, pinching the glove in between her fingers and pulling it loose to toss it over his shoulder.
“Improbable.”
“Fact.”
“Insane.”
“Aye.” He agreed with a tight smile, releasing that hand with a kiss upon her palm and snaring the other.
“Cursed?”
“Forever.” His brow drew taut upon uttering that, as though pronouncing his own death sentence.
She infused her response with every ounce of raw feeling she now possessed, thanks to knowing him. “Cherished.”
“Ensnared.”
“Loved.”
“Married.”
“Married?” He’d said it with such assurance, she had to issue protest. Best she start training him now, she thought with a self-deserving bit of pique, how she planned to go on. Could not simply let him go around assuming things without asking. So she drew back, leaving him holding nothing but the second glove and started shaking her head. “But that is not what we—”
“Damn it, Francine!” He advanced. “Do not gainsay me on this. I will give you any freedoms you want, but agree to marry me in truth or, upon my word, I shall not allow you to leave.”
“Ever?”
“Never.”
“Hmm.” Making him wait—had he not forced her to do the same, and for an entire week?—she weighed the freedoms he promised with the threat of absolute confinement he hazarded. Wanted to call him on his rapper, point out the blatant contradiction.
But not now. He’d had a difficult night.
A difficult week. Mayhap a difficult life.
And she could ease that for him. Could keep him laughing. Keep the haunting secrets that hunted him so persistently at bay—
“Um…” She made a prolonged show of consideration, layered heavily with skepticism. Because she’d yet to share her own secret. Still confessed to more than a tiny seed of anxiousness over how he might respond. “This—the whole Felis leo thing.” She swept her hand between them encompassing the entrance hall and the stairs leading up to the bedchamber overhead. “This is your deep secret, correct? You do not have others I need to know about? Anything worse—uh, belay that—more unusual for me to learn of?”
The Den.
The Curse.
Family Responsibilities.
He thought a moment. Chose not to worry her sweet head with his other suspicions…
Possible connection to horrific murders. Tracking the monster committing said murders.
Time enough for that. After the wedding. The one she’d yet to agree to.
“Nay. That all seems more than sufficient to me.”
“Who else knows?”
“About the curse?”
She nodded.
“Members of our family, Adam. Most of our relatives reside in the northern shires. I cannot but feel it necessary to make a life in London, to—”
“Your cubs!” she exclaimed, more astute than he would’ve wished. “You living here is about those fellows you befriend, is it not?”
“Aye,” he sighed. In for a penny, in for a crown. “My grandfather and a couple of uncles were more indiscriminate than wise. Given the infidelities rampant in society, especially after the first two sons are sired, I decided to keep an eye on various coves carousing in and around London. In case any of them show tendencies toward being afflicted.”
’Twas also best not to mention the “debauched orgies” she once questioned him about—how every year he planned those toward the middle and end of summer, recruiting jaded women who liked hard liquor and hard loving, hoping to be in close proximity should any of the young bucks display animalistic leanings, knowing the only way to halt them would be immediate sex. In the years he’d looked out for the cubs, none had shown signs of The Change that he was aware of.
“Where is Nash? Upstairs still?”
“He has disappeared again. Like someone else I know.”
“I had an errand to run, one that could not wait. I expected to return before either of you awoke. But, smart lady that I am, I came back.”
“For which I am most appreciative.” He couldn’t stop himself from hugging her. Didn’t try. “When I woke this morning and you were gone, and I could not remember much of last night—”
“You cannot remember?” She sounded quite affronted at the notion. “You do not recall my time in your bed?”
“Very little. The blighted curse, stealing those all-important hours from me.”
“So you do not recall professing your enduring love? Nor swinging up onto the canopy, swaying from the hangings, imitating a gorilla?”
“I would never—”
“Tell me you love me or behave like an arse? I mean ape.”
“How you make me laugh, and how I love you. When I awakened alone, I feared you might hate me, that you had left for good. Though I was coming after you…” He hugged her tighter. “Well. Quite relieved you saved me that trouble.”
For that, he received an elbow in his side. “Trouble?”
He wisely returned to the prior subject. “I never know when I might see or hear from my brother. He battles The Change by running from it, pretending nothing of it exists until he is faced with it every year. He arrived a few days ago, claiming that my internal struggle had heightened his, begging me to…”
“Be with a woman?” she asked, and he gave an abrupt nod, relieved when all she did was give him an indulgent smile.
“Impressive restraint.” A gentle nod of thanks, before she was moving on. “As to Nash, when do you expect he will return?”
“I know not. I never know. Here.” He handed her the note that had fallen to the floor. “Evidently, he paused long enough to leave this. It is addressed to you.”
Standing within the circle of Erasmus’s arms, her back snug against his chest, she read the missive out loud.
Dear Francine,
My Brother is a Lucky Bastard Cove to have found You. You’re his Salvation. Not certain My own exists.
My most Sincere Apologies for how I Behaved. Did not mean to Attack you. Know that your Selfless Sacrifice gave me a few hours of Peace. My Humble Gratitude for that.
Be Well. Nash
P.S. I’ll kneel down and ask of thee forgiveness, shall I? I do beseech thee, grant me this…
“That is very poetical, and a bit odd…the postscript.”
“’Tis most likely Shakespeare. He butchers it regularly to suit his purposes when his own words should suffice.”
Her eyes raced over the last line, but she chose not to read it out loud, instead to bask in the suspected meaning behind the cryptic words.
P.S. 2 ~ Banns, Blake? And before you’ve even professed your Sins and Secrets? For Shame, dear brother.
“Beautifully written,” she said, folding the note until only her name remained visible. “But unnecessary. Nothing exists to forgive.”
“I doubt that. Through the murkiness, I seem to recall the jackanapes calling you a bi—”
When he bit off the word, she asked, “A what?”
“Ahem. Something I should have pummeled him for.”
“I think you misremember.”
“Mayhap he spoke in the African tongue? God knows neither of us were in our right minds. ’Tis the only excuse I have for how crudely we behaved.”
She smiled to herself. “Mayhap he only called me brilliantly debauched.”
“If you are, you only have me to thank.”
“Do not deride yourself.” She leaned back, pressing her entire backside all along his muscular front. “I adore knowing that you tend to lose control around me. Your unbridled actions make me feel alive. Until we met, I kept parts of myself stifled, not allowing myself to feel—or love—because I knew the emotion would not be returned.”
His chin rested over her head. “It is now. You know that, do you not?” She felt the kiss he gave her next. “A thousand times over.”
“I do. But as to Nash…” She ran her fingers across the harshly scrawled line of her name and looked over her shoulder at Erasmus. “His pain is apparent.”
He hugged her again, strengthening the security she always felt in his embrace. “Only until he finds someone like you.”
She exchanged the note for her reticule, loosening the drawstrings. “I have another proposition for you.”
He relaxed his arms and turned her to face him. “As long as you are not asking me to vacate the country, I accept.”
“Without even knowing what it is?” She laughed, relieved, nearly giddy. “You are very brave.”
“As are you.” The heat in his eyes made it clear he was referring to last night.
The sharp bite of renewed desire ran through her as she pulled out the bank note she’d obtained that morning, after making arrangements with her solicitor for it to be ready and waiting. “Today is my birthday, you know. Your payment, my lord. Now our original bargain is complete and… What?”
Erasmus was already shaking his head. “I refuse to accept your money. That was never part of anything.”
“You paid my aunt’s debt to Peterson. I owe—”
“Not a shilling of it, Francine.”
“What about my body? My heart? Does that proposition interest you?”
“Now that is most definitely worth discussing.” The bank note forgotten, he picked her up, curving one arm beneath her knees and securing the other at her back. “Are we talking the same terms as last time? You fulfill my desires. I fulfill yours?” He began ascending the stairs in a steady, measured pace.
“Of course, for as long as you want.”
“Forever?” He hefted her closer. “Because that is the only duration I will accept.”
“Forever…”
“Why are you hesitating? Now that you know what I am and I have you in my arms, I shall not be letting you go. Your independence? Are you concerned I might stifle you?”
“Never. I experience a greater sense of freedom with you than I ever thought to. ’Tis only…” She spread her fingers along his neck and stared over his shoulder.
“Tell me, woman. What makes you hesitate? Have you not laid all my secrets bare?” When she remained silent, he added, “Most of them, of a certainty,” prompting a reluctant smile.
One that faded when she murmured, “What about my eyes?”
Erasmus reached the landing and paused. “What about them?”
“You know I need spectacles.”
“No wonder. With all the stitchery you persist on doing with such a frown. Have you any idea how many times I arrived at Rowden House, when the weather was unfavorable, to find you hunched over a task you obviously find unpalatable?”
His arms strengthened beneath her bent knees and gave a little shake, inviting her to look at him. “When you ply a needle, you frown as though you have just caught sight of your hatless head on a rainy day.”
He imitated, pinching his forehead and pursing his lips till she laughed. “What a piercing scowl, indeed.”
“Then why do you do it? Persist in an activity that gives you no joy?”
“I have done it to hold tight to her memory—Mama’s.”
“Francy. You know better. Her memory is here.” His arms lifted her until he could place a tender kiss between her breasts. Then shifted his stance, returning her to his chest where he could kiss her temple. “And here. Not to make light of your concerns, but they certainly do not pose a reason sufficient to keep you from me.”
He hugged her tight and began walking again.
“My eyesight. It is waning. Which is why procuring my inheritance and freedom was so vastly important, you see.”
“I begin to.” His strides slowed.
“I needed the funds to accommodate myself and a companion, perhaps a small staff, in a cottage. Mayhap by the sea, so I could hear the ocean. Somewhere flat. With rich soil—”
“For a garden.”
“Exactly. I needed time to ensure that the space was arranged properly, the soil prepared, with everything dug and marked so I could identify what is planted and where. Plenty of seeds…”
“You do realize, do you not, that particular dream is not one that only works in isolation.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh, do tell. You have a cottage by the sea to tempt me with?”
“What you envisioned and just described? Mayhap not the ocean out your back door, but the rest of it? Certainly.” And while she started to breathe easier—for had he not confidently dealt with her concerns?—he added, “Is this why, in near darkness, apprehension takes hold?”
As it did right then at his perception, the arm not wrapped around his neck fidgeting with the empty space near the bridge of her nose—where her spectacles usually resided. “Long-held anxiousness, I confess. Worry over being trapped by a husband without your unique view of things, one who might have… Kept me intentionally locked away.”
“Oh, sweetheart. My brave, intriguing baggage.”
“It sounds ridiculously silly now. Especially given the exemplary example of my parents’ most unusual match. But tales of Aunt Prudence’s first marriage and seeing what it did to her?” Restless now, she swung both her feet. “There you have it.”
“Francine.” He waited until she looked at him again, then continued. “I can see well enough for the both of us and bring the light to where ever you are.”
“My dark lord with the glowing eyes.” Her restless hand went to one side whisker. She blinked up at him, tracing the edge and imprinting his beautiful, tired face in her mind.
He reached a chamber she hadn’t noticed the night before, wrenched the door open, walked through, then slammed it shut with his foot. He approached the large, handsome bed—forest-green hangings and draperies intact—dominating the room and dropped her onto the middle.
Following her down, he brushed her hair back from her forehead. “Do not let those concerns cross your mind ever again. Listen to yourself. Do you really think that I, of all people, would find fault with your eyesight? As if I do not have any demons lurking in my dungeon.”
“You have a dungeon? Hmmm.”
“Francine,” he said with a frown. “Do not interrupt me when my goal is convincing you how wonderful you are.” He kissed each eyelid. “In fact, I think these are exceptionally lovely.”
“Thank y— Stop kissing my eyes!” She squirmed, shaking her head. “I cannot help but worry. Aunt Prudence always said—”
“Your aunt belongs in a dung heap,” he surprised a smile out of her by saying. “If the idea of anyone learning your secrets bothers you, I shall insist on being unfashionably droll and always keep my wife by my side.”
“Wife.” She clutched his shoulders, her eyes and cheeks still tingling from his kisses. “That does sound rather decent.”
“Decent? That is all you can muster? You should know by now I am not nearly buffle-headed enough to let you get away. Ever.” He began peeling down the neckline of her gown, baring her shoulder.
“I should hope not.” Her skin sizzled at the look on his face. “You will not ask me to leave again? Even when the beast returns?”
“I vow, I shall never ask you to leave again.” The soft glow started up, heating his gaze from within. “No notion of what I was thinking, really, to not tell you everything before.”
“Perhaps all that hair on your face last night got tangled in your brain.” When he tugged harder, she arched her back so that, together, they could slip her arms from the sleeves, leaving her dress loose about her waist, her shift the only covering. “Did you really have the banns read? I thought both parties had to meet with the minister first.”
“How did you—? Nash. Caught.” Caught, mayhap, but not repentant. Not when he gloated, “It does help, having a soul doctor not opposed to extra coins in the plate. How could such a pious body of divinity not want to assist granting my heart’s fondest desire?”
As she started to dismiss his flim-flam, he turned serious. “For what began as a farce, thanks to a stubborn chit with frizzled hair and a fine mind, truly has proved my salvation.”
Her eyes tracked over his countenance. So strong. So dear. His longish hair hung down, giving him a bit of a boyish air she’d not seen before.
His fingers continued their downward trek, pulling her shift indecently low. “Ah, I do believe… Aye, I have located the lovely…boundary…”
Curious what he referred to, she tilted her head, only to see his fingers tracing the narrow path where her skin took on two distinct shades. “Now that I finally have the time, wherewithal and mental capacity, I shall apply myself to divesting you of every article of clothing, so I may satisfy a particular longing… That of appreciating, of mapping, that fine line between your sun-kissed skin—and the porcelain portions normally hidden from view. The portions I want reserved only for my lips and gaze henceforth.”
Her throat made a sweet-sounding little moan. “Agreed.”
“I admit to pondering any number of things of late—when my mind was not crazed with The Change. ’Tis time I put forth a new proposition to you. One I expect you to accept with all due haste.” His gaze abandoned where his fingers explored the pale skin he’d exposed to give her a heady look from beneath his brow. “Do you remember my original terms? You were to obey me in all things.”
“What a royal clanker!” Though ’twas hard to protest, given the way he was staring at her with such an indulgent expression of caring, of love. “Your memory is faulty, Erasmus. I do believe I agreed to service your physical needs or absent myself—”
“Have we not established that there will be no more absenting? I forbid it.” Though they made her giggle, the words were heartfelt and he left off gazing at her to scoop her in his arms and roll over, balancing her on top of his chest. “I, in turn, shall spend the next several decades convincing you of my sincerity.”
She cupped his face, skimming one thumb down his dear nose, then she leaned forward to place a kiss right on the scar. “I might just have to spend the next several decades taming this monstrous beast I recently found lurking in my garden.”
“Monstrous?” He slid his hands down her back and filled his palms with her glorious arse, using the hold to slide her…exactly…where he…needed. “Would you be referring to this, my lady?”
“Nay, I was not.” She laughed, giving a delightful wiggle until she cradled his rapidly firming erection. “But if it will make you feel better…”
“Only one thing will make me feel better: having you by my side. Always.”
Sky-blue eyes, full of serenity and love gazed down. “What about on top of you?”
With a growl, Erasmus William Charles Hammond, Lord Blakely, the former avoider of innocents and current purveyor of pleasure, proceeded to show his lady that it didn’t matter how well she could see or exactly where she was positioned—beside, on top of, around—he would love her forever, any way he could have her.
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Ensnared by Innocence. I hope you loved meeting my shapeshifters and their world. If you enjoyed the story, it would be terrific if you could please leave a review at your favorite retailer, telling others. Reviews really help authors!
The novel-length version you just read is three times as long as the short novella originally released a number of years ago. I am so, so happy Erasmus and his Francy finally got their full-fledged love story.
Those who’ve read Seductive Silence may have recognized Lord Tremayne at the museum—several years before he meets the love of his life (most definitely not his current mistress!).
As you can tell, I’m expanding my Regency world, including different aspects of the paranormal—and time travel—along with fabulous mere mortals, who aren’t always aware of what else is going on in their fair city.
Stay tuned, Nash’s story is next! Keep reading for details…
Anyone with a keen interest in lions may have recognized the Felis leo classification used throughout the story and wondered What is Larissa thinking? Everyone knows lions are under the genus Panthera. True, which is why, in the early version of this story the men struggled with their Panthera leo essence.
As I was rewriting this, doing additional research on word choice—always attempting to portray the Regency era using words that were common in the early 1800s instead of our more modern equivalents (except in Adam’s case!)—I discovered that it wasn’t until 1816 when the “Panthera” word was first proposed. Meaning that my 1812 Regency gents, and their ancestors, would have been familiar with Felis leo instead, a term in use since the late 1750s.
Now it’s Nash’s turn!
Cursed into the form of a lion without nightly sex, Lord Nash Hammond wants only two things—his liquor strong and smooth, and his wenches wild and willing. What he doesn’t need is a virgin!
Swipe on for a look at the blurb and most of the first chapter.