Royce could not stop thinking of the woman he had seen at the Hound and Stag Inn. She had been lovely beyond words with a dewy dark complexion that spoke of good hygiene and vitality. Although generally he preferred green-eyed pale blondes he would make an exception in this wench’s case. The soft curves that hinted at full breasts and hips made for a man to ride. Full, ripe-plum-colored lips concealed strong white teeth and her eyes. By the gods a man could drown in those long-lashed stygian orbs.
As he sat as his desk he had to rearrange himself in his uniform britches. His thoughts were decidedly wicked and that pleased him. It had been a few weeks since he’d taken a woman to his bed and done things to her that pleased him greatly. Rarely did he keep a wench for more than a week or two before moving on to the next but he could see himself taking longer with—what was her name again?
“Bess,” he said. “Her name is Bess.” He snorted. “Common name for a common whore.”
He had learned all he could about the landlord and his black-eyed daughter—wondering how people of color could afford an inn. They had come to Serenia from Chale six months earlier. Arbra had used an inheritance from his uncle—his white uncle—to buy the old waystation. He and Bess had done every bit of the remodeling that had turned a once-decrepit hole in the wall into a fairly comfortable inn. Despite his Chalean heritage, Arbra had done well for himself.
“Go anywhere near her and I’ll carve your heart from your chest,” Farrell had warned.
“As if I am afraid of the likes of you,” Royce said aloud.
He leaned back in the chair with his hand still on his aching cock, absentmindedly rubbing the tumescence beneath the britches.
“So you want her, do you, Farrell?” he asked. “Well, we’ll just see about that.”
Sometimes at night he lay awake thinking of all the ways he would like to hurt Declan Farrell. Visions of stringing the bastard up naked by his wrists and lashing his back—and chest—until every last scream and drop of blood had been wrenched for Farrell’s body never failed to arouse him. He refused to think about why masturbating to thoughts of the man’s torn and disfigured frame was far more enjoyable than tupping a female. It was not as though he had sexual feelings for the fool.
Far from it.
His hatred was what had sustained him through boarding school, and the day he stood in the dock to testify to the infractions that had tossed Farrell out of the Royal Marines, was now a day of celebration for him, marking the occasion each year with a toast of a fine Chrystallusian plum brandy.
“I despise you,” he said. “I loathe you.”
He realized his hand had somehow found its way inside his britches and his fingers were wrapped tightly around the head of his shaft. For a moment shame washed over him but the feeling was too pleasurable to let die.
With Declan’s handsome face and strong, sculpted body fixed firmly in his mind’s eye, he tightened his grip and his speed, leaned his head back and gave in to the pleasure.
* * * * *
The lecture went on and on and on until Dec thought he would lose his mind. To be treated like a teenage boy who had overshot his curfew was humiliating. To have James Giddens sitting there listening in as his father read him what was in essence a writ of house arrest was adding insult to injury. He drowned out most of what his father was hurling at him but what made it through his self-induced deafness brought him upright in his chair.
“And you will accept the invitation and be there this night!”
“Where?” he asked.
His father threw his hands ups. “You have not heard one bloody word I have said, have you, boy?”
“Aye, milord, I did,” Dec lied.
The duke came to stand over him. He put his beefy hands on the arms of Dec’s chair and leaned down until he was almost nose to nose with his son. “Then what exactly did I say?”
“You were scolding me for having outmaneuvered the babysitters I did not need,” Dec replied. “You warned me that what I was doing was dangerous and a potential embarrassment to the family. You…”
“Embarrassment?” his father said quietly then turned his head to look at Lord James. “Did you hear him, Jamie? An embarrassment, he calls it.”
“I did hear him, Your Grace,” James said with a twitch of his lips. “Shameless. Utterly shameless.”
Dec shot his father’s personal assistant a narrowed look that was completely lost on the man who also happened to be his godfather.
“Don’t look at him. Look at me,” his father demanded and once Dec had returned his attention to him, the duke lowered his voice. “You want to hang, boy? Is that what you really want?”
“No, milord,” Dec said.
“Well that is where your little escapades are taking you. Was it you who robbed the courier last eve?” Before Dec could lie and deny that it was, his father took one hand from the chair arm and held it up to silence him. “I know it was so don’t bother spinning some tale that says you were between the thighs of some whore in Wixenstead.”
Dec felt his ears burning at those words, but his father still hadn’t answered the question that was pushing nausea up his throat.
“Where am I to be going this eve, Father?” he asked.
“He wasn’t listening,” his father said to Jamie. “I knew he wasn’t.” He straightened, crossed his arms over his chest. “You, my recalcitrant son, will be dining at the invitation of the Duke of Oxmoor. You will be discussing with him your betrothal to his daughter Lady Althea Standfield.”
A cold chill flowed through Dec. “Betrothal?” he whispered.
“Aye, betrothal. It is high time you married and settled down, gave me a grandson or two, a few granddaughters to spoil. Vacated your debauched life and left your immoral ways behind. Grew up and became a responsible adult male. You cannot—nor will I allow you to—continue living without consequence for your actions.”
“I have only met the lady the once,” Dec protested, stalling for time as he tried to think of a way out of his predicament. “How do you expect me to say vows to a woman I don’t even know?”
“I did not meet my lady-wife until our wedding day,” Lord Jamie put it.
“Aye, and look how well that turned out,” Dec threw at him and knew a moment of satisfaction when Jamie’s face turned red.
“There will be no more discussion of it, Declan James,” his father stated. “You will be taken over to Standfield Hall this evening and you will accept the lady’s hand in Joining.”
Like hell he would, Dec thought. He clamped his mouth shut. There was no way he was going to be forced into marrying a woman he barely knew.
Or any woman at all for that matter. Even as he tried to picture Lady Althea’s face, Bess’s intruded to push her out of his mind’s eye.
“Lest you think you will run from this, let me disabuse you of that notion,” his father continued. “There will be two guards at your door and two under your window. You will not be allowed to ride to Standfield Hall this eve; you will be taken there in my coach with four guards accompanying you and Jasper Burrows sitting with you in the coach to make sure you don’t accidentally fall out and scramble away.”
“I only did that the one time,” Dec grumbled, “and I was ten if memory serves.”
“I would put nothing past you,” his father told him.
“Gave us a merry chase if my memory serves,” Jamie said with a chuckle.
“And got his backside tanned for the effort,” his father put in.
“A bit too big for tanning, now, Ned,” Jamie remarked.
“He thinks so,” his father said, “but that ain’t necessarily the case.”
“You realize what you are doing is enslavement,” Dec accused. “Forcing me into bondage to the Duke of Oxmoor. Selling me to the highest bidder.”
“Oh, for the love of the gods, Declan. Grow up,” his father snapped. “Did you truly believe you could go blithely through life debauching young women, drinking yourself into oblivion and robbing His Majesty’s coffers without there ever being a reckoning? Well, mister, let me assure you that you can’t and the Day of Atonement has arrived.”
“Lady Althea is a beautiful young woman,” Jamie injected. “Quite an accomplished pianist I’m told. She is the only child of the duke and will inherit a very sizeable estate.”
“Second only to my own,” his father stressed.
“With your holdings and hers combined, you will be a force with which to reckon,” Jamie pointed out. “Think of the good you could do—legally I might add—for those you are striving to help by nefarious means at present.”
“And without the threat of jail or the gallows hanging over your head.”
“Not Jasper,” Dec said. He knew when he was outnumbered and beaten. All he could hope for was to salvage a shred of control. Perhaps with the right man beside him he could think of a way out of this sorry mess.
“Beg pardon?” his father asked.
“I’ll not have Jasper babysitting me. Call for McGregor. Let him…”
“Absolutely not,” his father snapped. “You and Jackson McGregor have been the bane of my life from the time the two of you learned to crawl. Instead of stopping you from diving out of the coach, he would hold the door open for you to do so.” He shook his head. “No, Jasper it will be.”
“Father, please…”
“You are going and that is final. Get your arse to your chambers and stay there until it is time for you to leave,” his father ordered then pointed a rigid finger at him. “And you had best be dressed in your most sophisticated attire or I will have you dressed appropriately. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” Dec said, grinding his teeth.
“You may leave,” his father granted with a wave of his hand.
Pushing up from the chair, Dec bowed slightly to Lord James, a bit deeper to his father, and then hurried from the room.
“That boy will be the death of me yet,” he heard his father say as he gained the stairs.
* * * * *
Standfield Hall, Oxmoor
“I apologize for my daughter’s absence,” Duke Alastair said as he poured a snifter of Chalean brandy for his guest. “Women’s problems, it seems.”
Dec winced. He didn’t want to—need to—know the chit was having her monthlies. He took the proffered snifter. “I am sorry she is under the weather,” he said as politely as he could manage.
“Aye, well, a man gets accustomed to such things,” the duke said on a long sigh. “They are, after all, the weaker sex.” He took a seat across from Dec, crossed his leg at the knee and relaxed. “So, Declan. Tell me why I should allow you to marry my daughter.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the pompous old fool that he shouldn’t allow him to marry his precious daughter. That no man should allow him to marry his daughter. He wasn’t marriage material.
“Lord Declan?” the duke pressed.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” Dec said, “but I seem to have an eyelash in my eye.” He set his snifter down on the table beside him. “May I make use of your facility?”
“Of course,” the duke said. He pointed to a door off to the left. “Through there.”
Dec stood and walked over to the indicated portal. He closed the door behind him then slumped against it. His entire body was one massive lump of despair. He was being forced into doing something he truly did not want to do and knew he would regret his entire life if he allowed it to happen. Having the responsibility of anyone other than himself scared the hell out of him. Taking a lady to wife, being accountable for her safety?
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I will not do it.”
But how, exactly, was he going to avoid his father’s command?
He looked around the small room but there was no window. No way out save the way in which he’d entered. He looked down the hole of the privy seat and a part of him wished he could flush himself down the tube. It was an odorous affair, but if it had been possible it would have been a way out. What was a little offal when your life was rapidly imploding around you?
“Is everything all right, Lord Declan?” the duke called to him.
“I’ll be out in a moment, Your Grace,” he said with a groan and a slump of his shoulders. This whole thing had given him a headache.
Nerves, he thought. Nerves and the feeling of being trapped. His claustrophobia apparently wasn’t confined to closed-in places but extended to having no way out of an untenable situation.
He levered away from the door, hung his head, sighed so heavily it made the center of his chest hurt, and then turned to open the portal. The duke was lighting a cheroot as he trudged back to his seat and sat down.
“Your Grace,” he began, “I am sure there a hundred men of the peerage who would pay a king’s ransom for the honor of marrying your daughter.”
“I had one speak to me just yesterday,” the duke said. “I believe you know him. The Viscount Cumbria?”
Dec’s head came up. “Royce Penry?” he asked.
“One and the same,” the duke replied and frowned. “I, of course, turned him down.” He took a puff of his cheroot then looked at the glowing tip. “He is not without a small measure of wealth but I have it on good authority he is an unbending and rather obnoxious fellow. He most certainly did not endear himself to me yestermorn.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t happy that I sent him packing with his tail tucked between his legs.”
“You were most wise in not accepting his suit,” Dec said. “I have known him all our lives and he can be a cruel, demanding dictator at times. The sort of a man I would not want to see with my daughter if I had one.”
“My sentiments precisely,” the duke agreed. He looked Dec in the eye. “From all accounts I have had of you, you are the exact opposite of Captain Penry.”
“I have my faults, Your Grace, but cruelty is not one of them,” Dec replied. He put his fingertips to his right temple where a faint pain had begun to throb.
“I would think not given the sweet disposition of your lovely mother, may she rest in peace.”
At the mention of his mother, Dec felt the room squeezing in on him. What, he wondered, would she make of this? Would she have sided with his father or would she have gently insisted her husband allow their son to make his own life choices?
He was pulled out of his reverie but the duke’s next words.
“Althea can be a handful,” the older man said. “She needs a strong man who will not give into her every demand. One who is capable of telling her no.” He reached over to flick the ash from the end of his cheroot into a crystal dish. “I realize she is a bit older than most girls who have been married now for a while and have been graced with children. I fear I have spoiled her unbearably by now forcing the question of marriage upon her but I believe the time has come that she takes a husband.”
Dec cleared his throat. “I met her at your niece’s engagement party the other evening,” he said. “She is a lovely young woman and will make some man a very happy fellow.”
“Aye and isn’t it grand that you will be that happy fellow?” the duke queried.
“Your Grace…” he began and the vicious pain that rocketed through his head nearly toppled him from his chair. He reached up to press the base of his palm over his right eye as the nausea hit almost simultaneously.
“Is something wrong?” the duke asked, his voice seeming to come from several rooms away.
“Migraine,” Dec whispered.
The duke got out of his chair and came over to Dec’s. “Tell me what you need, son.”
“Home,” Dec told him. “I need to go home.”
Nearly fifteen years of suffering the ailment had taught him a dark room, a dose of tenerse and a cold rag were the only things that were going to get him through the next twelve hours or so.
“Why not stay here?” the duke inquired. “Surely the ride home will be absolute agony for you.”
“Home. Please, I just want to go home,” Dec repeated and was ashamed of the pleading in his voice.
“Of course,” the duke said. “I will get my men to help you to your carriage.”
Left alone in the duke’s elegant drawing room, Dec prayed he would not spew the hot bile that was pushing at his gullet. The scent of the cheroot was making his stomach roil.
“Up you go,” Jasper said, slipping his meaty arms behind Dec’s back and under his knees.
He would have protested being carried out of Standfield Hall like a child, but the pain had become nearly intolerable, crushing his skull, pounding fiercely. Every jolt of Jasper’s footsteps sent fresh spasms of anguish rippling from his temple to the top of his neck.
“Would you happen to have any tenerse, Your Grace?” Jasper asked as he carried Dec out into the cool night air.
“Garrett, fetch the tenerse,” the duke ordered.
The squeal of the coach door being opened sent another sharp pain through Dec’s head and he gagged.
“Easy does it, milord,” Jasper said. He handed Dec off into the arms of some other man who smelled of wood smoke and that man laid him down gently on the plush velour seat.
The coach tilted as the smoky-smelling gent left and Dec put his arm over his eyes to shut out the glare from the torchlights shining in through the glass windows of the coach.
“The tenerse,” someone said.
“Much obliged,” Jasper answered then the coach tilted again as the big man got in. He knelt beside Dec then gently put his calloused palm under Dec’s head to lift it. “Here, milord. Have a sip of this.”
Cool glass touched his lips. The scent of wild cherries invaded his nostrils. The taste of the liquid was ghastly—as it always was—and it immediately numbed his tongue.
“Has he had these headaches long?” the duke inquired.
“Since he was a lad,” Jasper replied.
“My late wife suffered from them,” the duke told him. “I know how bad they can be.”
“We’ll get him home and to bed and he’ll be right as rain, won’t you, milord?” Jasper asked, smoothing the hair back from Dec’s forehead.
The tenerse was a powerful drug that in combination with a variety of other liquids could cure—or cause—a plethora of reactions. Mixed with vinegar it was used as a mild analgesic. With water, an instant hangover cure. Diluted with milk it caused uncontrollable sexual arousal. On its own, it was an extremely potent narcotic that did not simply lull the recipient into sleep but shoved him there. Within seconds of the drug flowing down his throat, Dec was falling into unconsciousness.
* * * * *
“Well, I must say that was one way to get out of signing a nuptial contract with Standfield,” Jamie joked as he stared down at Dec. The young man was out cold on his bed.
“You think he was faking it?” Edward asked.
“Jasper says not and I’m inclined to believe him. It’s been a while since the lad has had one of his headaches. What with all the tension of late and this ultimatum of yours, it’s not improbable.”
The duke looked around at the man who had been his best friend since they were boys. “You think I’m being unreasonable in this, Jamie?”
“I did not say that,” Jamie answered. “I am inclined to agree with you he needs to settle down, but picking his bride for him? You know how I feel about that.”
“Just because you got a raw deal does not mean Declan will,” Edward snapped. “By all accounts the lady in question is quite a catch.”
“I’ve no doubt she is,” Jamie acknowledged. “But I think you should let Dec pick the woman he wants to spend his life with. Trust me; I know of what I speak when I say the wrong woman could make his remaining years on this earth a living hell. Better to pick your own poison than have one poured down your throat.”
“The hell with you,” Edward mumbled. “I’m trying everything I can to make sure he has remaining years on this earth.”
“I understand, Ned, but could you not be a bit gentler and a little less tyrannical in going about it?” He reached out to lay his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You know you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
“He is such a stubborn little bastard,” Edward said on a long release of breath. “Always has been. His mother spoiled him.”
“No more so than did you,” Jamie reminded him. “Especially when he came home after his rescue.” He squeezed Edward’s shoulder. “He was inconsolable, feeling such tremendous guilt. You began to cater to his every whim—no matter how ridiculous it seemed. That is when the problems with him truly began.”
“Aye,” Edward said, spiking a hand through his hair. “I remember it all too well.”
“Then think on that when you are tempted to command him instead of urge him.” He removed his hand from his friend’s shoulder and put his palm to his heart. “I believe marriage to Lady Althea is in his best interests—just as do you—but don’t force him into it. He will hate you for it if the marriage is a disaster.”
Looking down at his beloved son, Edward Farrell felt a gentle presence lurking in the room. Declan looked so much like his mother with his curly chestnut hair and pale blue eyes. He had her coloring and her smile, her oftentimes silly sense of humor. Most of all, he had her sense of social justice and responsibility.
“Responsibility,” he said.
“Eh?” Jamie inquired.
“He feels it is his responsibility to help those less fortunate than himself. I know he blames himself for being unable to save Kathleen and Eion but it goes deeper than that. Kate always taught him to stand up for those who could not stand up for themselves, to protect those who needed it. He is only doing what he feels is right, but—gods-be-damn it—his way could get him hanged.”
“Then let us find another way for him to go about it,” Jamie suggested.
Edward nodded. “Aye, that is a sensible proposal.”
“I am a sensible man,” Jamie replied, and at his friend’s snort, Jamie looked offended. “Well, I am.”
“I’ll believe that when Diabolusian warthogs learn to fly,” Edward said with a grunt.
* * * * *
Tenerse was such a vicious drug, he thought as he tried to swim his way out of the undulant current that tried to keep him under its control. Every time he thought he had reached the surface of consciousness, the drug pulled him down into its shimmering depths once more. He knew he’d been dreaming—and that his dream wasn’t a good one—but he couldn’t seem to grasp any part of it other than a sense of impending danger.
He tried moving his fingers but they seemed incapable of action. Likewise his feet. His head no longer hurt yet it felt packed full of cotton batting, his hearing muted to such a degree he could hear his heartbeat loudly in his ears.
A nagging irritation, he thought.
Hands touched him and he fought to open his eyes but they refused to obey. At least the hands were gentle and the cool cloth laid upon his forehead soothing.
“You poor man.”
It was Meg’s voice. Her soft hands stroking his cheek. If he knew her—and he knew her better than any man ever had—that gentle hand of hers wasn’t going to remain on his face. It was going to slide under the covers and…
All right, it was already there. Her fingers flexed around him.
“Are you awake, Deckie?” she whispered. “Do you feel me holding you?”
She began stroking him until he felt the hard erection straining between his thighs. Her thumb eased over his slit and he mentally groaned. Why she did things like this when he was helpless to prevent it had always puzzled him. When he’d asked her why she molested him in that way, told her he neither liked it nor appreciated the violation, she would simply smile. He supposed it was the power she wielded over him when he was unable to resist.
Truth was, he lied when he said he didn’t like it. He enjoyed the hell out of it, but his manly ego would not let him admit to taking pleasure in being sexually misused.
Struggling to push aside the lethargy, to pry his lids apart, he heard himself moan and her hand stilled for a heartbeat or two.
“Are you awake?” she repeated. “Aye, I think you are but you can’t move just yet. Good. Then let’s get right down to the root, eh?”
There was satisfaction in her voice as well as touch of laughter. That rankled and made him angry, but that anger whirled away when she tossed the covers back and put her mouth over his straining flesh.
Merciful Morrigunia, he thought as her lips closed around him. The woman could suck the silver plating off a doorknob. Her tongue was like a serpent coiling around and around the head of his cock—striking at the slit then gliding down to the base of his shaft. The graze of her teeth along the sensitive underside of the head sent spirals of intense pleasure up his cock to spread through his groin and thighs.
“Mm,” Meg said and she began bobbing her head up and down.
The release was coming. By the gods, it was coming fast. He felt his fingers twitch. He managed to crook them so he could grab hold of the sheet beneath his hips. His arms, his legs, his scalp tingled. When her speed and the force of her mouth upon him increased exponentially the breath caught in his throat and…
He let go.
Jet after jet shot from his hard as a rock cock. He could hear her lapping at it, feel her tongue tugging at him, her lips compressing as she milked him of every last drop. With the last surge of cum he succeeded in snapping his eyes open. All he could see was the punched tin ceiling tiles above him. Dragging his gaze downward, he saw her head between his legs. As if she sensed he was watching her, she lifted her head and looked up at him.
“Good morn to you, milord,” she said and grinned. Her mouth was slick with his seed and she ran her tongue around her lips.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to speak even if he was capable of prizing his lips apart, so he just lay there and looked at her with the bottom sheet still clutched savagely in his hands.
“Headache gone now?” she asked, straightening up. “Both of them?” She pulled the covers over his nakedness, lifted his arms in succession to place them atop the duvet. “I’ll get you a cup of coffee, then.”
He tracked her with his eyes as she left the bed and walked to the door. As he knew she would, she turned to look back at him. Her audacious wink was her calling card just as the highwayman’s was the leaving of a silver dollar at the scene of a robbery.
After she’d gone, he drew in a long breath, tried to move and still couldn’t flex any muscles save those in his hands. The drug took a long time to wear off when it wasn’t measured properly. The long draught of it Jasper had poured down his throat certainly hadn’t been measured. It was going to be a few minutes yet before he could move his arms and legs and at least an hour before he could hoist himself out of bed. Even then his legs would be like rubber.
The door opened but it wasn’t Meg who entered. It was Jack McGregor—which was a surprise.
“Still encased in cement?” Jack asked. He’d had a lot of experience with the aftereffects of tenerse on Dec. Dec knew he didn’t expect an answer. He came to the bed and sat down on the edge.
He grunted to let Jack know he still couldn’t speak.
“I can wait,” Jack stated.
He grunted again in acknowledgement.
“Lord James told me where you were last eve.”
A growl followed the grunt.
“Aye, well, you could do worse than the lovely Lady Althea,” Jack told him.
The muscles in his face were loosening and that allowed Dec to narrow his eyes at his friend.
“Well, you could,” Jack said. “If it’s any consolation, I approve of the duke’s choice of mate for you.”
That didn’t warrant even a snort so he just glared at his friend.
“He’s going to make you do it, Dec,” Jack warned. “You know it as well as I do. Might as well accept it and get on with your life. Marriage ain’t such a bad deal, you know.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You think that now but having a beautiful woman in your bed to wake up to of a morn is better than a sharp jab in the eye with a stick.”
Only marginally so, Dec thought.
“Of course, my guess is the Lady Althea will curb your habit of tupping every maid who crosses your path, but I could be wrong. She might not give a Diabolusian warthog’s ass whether you stray or not. Hell, she might even be inclined to do so herself.”
Now that required a growl and the one he imparted upon McGregor had the strength to break the seal on his lips.
“Fuck you,” he hissed.
“Don’t want the little woman screwing around on you?” Jack asked with a merry grin. “Can’t say I blame you. But what’s fair for the gander is fair for the goose, am I right?”
“Dick smack,” Dec called him.
Jack laughed. “That’s the Declan Farrell we know and love.”
Meg took that moment to come in with a tray. Her amble hips moved like two pigs fighting in a burlap sack and her big breasts jiggled when she saw Jack.
“Have a nice ride over, did you, Jackie?” she asked.
“Nice enough,” Jack replied.
“Want another before you go?”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t think Fairling would like that, Meggie.”
“What Fair don’t know won’t hurt you,” Meg replied.
“Go away,” Dec told her.
Meg shrugged. “You know where to find me if you want that ride, Jackie-boy.”
When she was gone, Jack looked around at him. “Did she blow you again?”
“What do you think?” Dec grumbled. He found he could move his arms and legs a bit.
“I think that’s a very nice way for a man to wake up each morn,” Jack said. “Wish Fairling felt the same way.”
“Doesn’t have a taste for it,” Dec replied.
“I can’t believe you said that,” Jack chastised.
“Help me sit up,” Dec asked, ignoring the annoyed look on Jack’s face.
“So,” Jack said as he twisted so he could push his arms under Dec’s and heft him up against the headboard, “what now?”
“I’ve got to piss.”
Jack jerked his hands back, held them up to his shoulders. “Don’t expect me to aim it for you.”
“Just help me swing my legs off the gods-be-damned bed, McGregor. I can piss in the pot if you will hold it for me.”
Jack snorted. “And let you splash me with your piss?” He shook his head. “I’ll get you to your feet and you can do it standing up with me well away from your lousy aim.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Dec said. “Is that all you can do, McGregor?”
Jack took his legs and swung them over the side of the bed then bent down to loop his arm behind Dec’s back to lever him to his feet. “Hold on to the bedpost,” he ordered.
“Like I don’t have sense enough to do that,” Dec mumbled.
Jack released him as soon as Dec had a grip on the headboard then squatted down to retrieve the chamber pot. He pushed it in front of his friend then did as he said he would—stepped out of range.
“So,” he asked. “What are you going to do about the Lady Althea?”
“I’ve not the faintest idea,” Dec said. His head was swimming again and his stomach queasy. He eyed the cup of coffee Meg had put on his bedside table but it held no appeal. The greasy film floating over it made the nausea worse.
“You need more tenerse?”
“No, I need a new head,” Dec said. He massaged his cock until the urine began to flow and he sighed with relief. Sometimes the tenerse had the nasty habit of preventing him from pissing.
Jack walked to the window and opened it. He glanced down, nodded at the two guards who looked up at him. “Not that you are in any condition to repel the wall but should you think to do so, I would advise against it. Lucas Pratt and his baby brother Micah as positioned beneath your windows.”
“Aye, Father said he was going to post men there to keep me in check,” Dec groused. “Two guards at the door, as well.”
“Well, he did what he said he’d do. Not only two at your door but two on each end of the landing to make sure you don’t take to the steps,” Jack informed him.
“The gods-be-damn it,” Dec said. He shook his cock then sat down heavily on the bed. “He might as well geld me while he’s at it.”
“According to Lord James, the duke wants grandchildren. I seriously doubt gelding is on his agenda,” Jack said.
Easing down to lay on his back with his legs dangling over the edge of the bed, Dec threw an arm over his eyes. “Doesn’t matter than I don’t want brats clinging to my legs, though, does it?” He pounded his free fist on the mattress. “Or a wife to provide them to me. A woman I’ve got to watch every minute to make sure she’s safe.”
Jack left the window to come over to the bed. He reached down and hoisted his friend’s legs up and swept them around so he could lie more comfortably. “You’ve sown so many wild oats in your day how do you know you don’t have a veritable army of brats causing mischief in the kingdom?”
“I would know,” Dec said. “Their mothers would be pounding on the doors of the keep with one hand while the other was extended for their due.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Jack agreed.
“You tell me what I should do,” Dec said.
“Marry the woman and go about your business as usual,” Jack said. “Do your duty as your father decrees it and when he dies, do whatever the fuck you want to do about your lady-wife. Divorce her if you like. What else do you want?”
“Bess,” Dec stunned himself by saying. He dropped his arm behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
“Who the hell is…?” Jack started to ask then apparently realized who his friend meant. He sat down upon the mattress again. “I doubt her father would allow you to take her as your mistress, Declan.”
“What if I asked for her hand?”
Jack shrugged. “Unless it is attached to her arm, what good is it?”
Dec glared at him. “You know perfectly well what I meant. This isn’t a joke, McGregor.”
“Mayhap not, but it is sheer folly,” Jack said.
“It isn’t unheard of,” Dec said. “Nor is there a law against it. If the tables were reversed, aye, there is, but a male has leeway a female doesn’t. He can marry a commoner then elevate her to the peerage by the union. It can be done.”
“Not when you are the son of the Duke of Arlington, it isn’t. There’s also the matter of her being a woman of color. Social gatherings would be difficult for her.”
“No one would dare say a word to her,” Dec snapped.
“Not to your face, at any rate,” Jack replied. You aren’t being serious about this, are you?”
Dec shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“You might as well get that ridiculous notion out of your head,” Jack told him. “Your father would have you committed to Baybridge for even suggesting such a thing.”
“He doesn’t have to know. We can elope then quietly divorce a month or so later. I would give her a nice settlement, find her another husband if she wants one.”
“And what about you?” Jack pressed.
“I’d be off the marriage market and a social pariah for a while. Besides, I can’t get her out of my mind,” Dec said.
“Aye, because you haven’t had her and know you shouldn’t,” Jack tossed back at him. “For once in your gods-be-damned life, think with the head atop your shoulders instead of the one between your legs.”
Imparting that less-than-wanted wisdom, Jack stomped over to the door, jerked it open and slammed it shut behind his departure.
“Ill-mannered boor,” Declan grumbled.
As Declan lay there staring, he had never felt so hopeless. It ranked close to when he’d been unable to save his mother and brother or the young steward. He couldn’t help but equate that heartbreaking failure to the failure of living his own life the way he wanted to live it.
He was being forced into doing something he didn’t want to do, and that not only rankled, it stung his ego. It hurt his pride. He was no toddler in short pants to be ordered about. He was a man—full grown and capable of handling his own affairs.
He loved his father and Jamie and Jack. They were his family. He respected all three more than he could put to voice and he knew they had his best interests at heart, but none of them could see past the duty he was being forced to uphold.
A duty he didn’t want. Didn’t need.
And wasn’t sure he could fulfill.
All his life his father had instilled him the tenets of duty and honor and honesty. Loyalty and respect and compassion. Duty to king and country and family. Honor to his father. Loyalty to his friends. Honesty in all undertakings. Respect and compassion for those less fortunate than himself. He had been brought up to be a good man. An honorable man. A man who would take care of his people and see to the welfare of the tenants and villagers under his protection. Cruelty and avarice had never been part of his genetic makeup and never would be.
So why was he being forced to do something that so went against the very grain of his soul? He knew if he didn’t find a way out of his predicament, he would be forced to marry the Duke of Oxmoor’s daughter.
He turned to his side to stare at the wall. There was a pattern in the wood that looked like a grinning bear and he smiled, tracing it with his fingertip.
“I just want to be happy,” he said to the image. “As happy as my parents were together.” He dragged his fingertip down the wall. “With Lady Althea?”
He sighed deeply and returned to his back and his perusal of the ceiling.
She was a pretty enough chit, he thought. Not as lovely as Bess and she would most certainly not be as sensual. If happiness was to be found with her, it would be a sedate, proper thing. Sex would be under the covers with the lights out. There would be the missionary position and nothing else—and then only on certain nights, no doubt.
If he was lucky.
But with Bess?
He sensed the sultriness simply in the way she walked. The way her hips swiveled, her eyes flashed.
Fire and ice, he thought. That was the difference between the two women.
There was no choice. He’d made up his mind and that was all there was to it. He couldn’t be forced to marry one woman if he was married to another. The first woman wouldn’t want him if he was divorced from the second. That was a social faux pas among their kind—second only in sinfulness to being a divorced woman.
He realized he was going to need to play his part very carefully so no one would suspect his plans. If his father wanted to believe him a petulant, recalcitrant little shit, he’d play the part. That apparently was how they saw him.
He grinned maliciously.
And what a petulant little bastard he was going to give them.
* * * * *
One part of Althea was relieved she had been indisposed with her monthlies when the Earl of Dungannon had been ordered to dance attendance on her father. Another part was heartsick at not having the chance to see what the man looked like. The night of the engagement party his face had been hidden behind the camouflage of the domino mask, but those vivid blue eyes within the black silk fabric had appeared in her dreams every night since.
“I suppose he is handsome enough,” her father had replied to her demand to know if he was handsome or not. “I imagine you would think so.” He rustled the newspaper in his hands without looking at her. “The maids certainly giggled enough over him.”
“You should have insisted on him staying with us if he was in such pain, Papa,” she said.
“I did not want to press him,” her father replied. “He did not seem particularly pleased with the arrangement his father and I have made.”
Althea looked up from her needlepoint. “In what way do you mean?” she asked.
A heavy sigh came from her father and he lowered the paper to look her in the eye. “He does not want to marry you, daughter, but he will. His father and I have agreed to the match and that is the way it will be.”
“Not marry me?” she said, putting the needlepoint on the table beside her. “Why ever would he not? Did he say he found me lacking in some way?”
“Not at all. He simple does not wish to marry—you or anyone else. Or so his father tells me. But that is neither here nor there. He will do as he is told. Edward is at his wit’s end with the boy’s randy behavior toward females in general and wishes for him to settle down.” He raised the paper again, snapped it then sniffed. “Thus he will be forced to do just that.”
Althea’s thoughts went to all the things she’d heard about Lord Declan Farrell’s randy behavior toward females. That was one of the things that so intrigued her about him. It was rumor he’d thrust his blade into the soft sheaths of many a maiden and married woman alike and that each of them sang his praises afterwards.
“He is a swordsman of high degree,” Lady Bertrice Cumberbatch and whispered. “His sword is much in demand, if you get my meaning.”
Althea wanted to see that sword in action. She wanted to duel with him—his thrusts to her parries. She wanted to feel that strong body pressing her down, holding her captive as he pressed his point.
Heat washed up her neck and over her face as she thought of what that point would feel like piercing the maidenhead that had become a true burden to her. She ached wanting to know the pleasure nearly every woman of her acquaintance had already experienced. Shifting in her seat, pressing her thighs together, she tried to will away the strange feeling that persisted on plaguing her from time to time. That heaviness, that—itch—that simply would not go away.
And there was the way her womb jumped when she saw a handsome man with a well-built form walk past. The strong flutter than came and went when she caught sight of a laborer’s bare chest as he went about his business around the estate.
“What ails you, daughter?” her father inquired and she jumped as she swung her gaze to him.
“Monthlies,” she said and hopped up from her chair.
“Oh, for the love of the gods,” her father grumbled. He waved his hand at her. “Go.”
She curtsied then all but ran from the library. Her heart was pounding, her palms were sweating and that heavy feeling had settled once more in the pit of her belly. Climbing the stairs, she pressed one hand just above the heaviness.
“What is wrong with me?” she asked.
You need a man between your legs, an inner voice whispered to her. Strong arms to hold you against a broad chest. Firm lips to claim your own. A sword to be sheathed inside you.
By the time she reached her bedchamber, she was covered in sweat and trembling. She ran to the window, threw it open and stuck her hot face into a cool mist of rain. The moisture helped to ease the flames glowing in her cheeks but did nothing to still the disquiet lower down her body. Nor did seeing the stable boy gathering forkfuls of hay from the mound—his shirt plastered to a very enticing body. When he glanced up at her with the fork thrust into the hay, she trembled.
He smiled and leaned on the pitchfork as he stared at her.
She licked her lips—wondering what his would taste like. How the sculpted muscles that undulated beneath the wet shirt would feel against her palms. How tight those brawny arms would hold her.
His smile widened, became knowing and he began to slide his hand slowly up and down the handle of the pitchfork in a suggestive way.
Althea stumbled away from the window, turned then looked wildly about her.
She had to have him.
Declan Farrell.
She must have him whether he was willing or not.
If it was the last thing she ever did, she would claim that man as her own.