“Why?” she murmured, her voice cracking as tears flooded her eyes once again. “Why would he do that? Why do any of this?”
Niall’s expression remained hard and emotionless as he shrugged one big shoulder. “I cannae pretend to know his mind. I only know he suspected ye might leave shortly after arrivin’, and he was most adamant that I ensure ye make yer way safely to yer final destination.”
Swiping at her eyes once more, she sighed. At least, she would not need to ask her mother to pay for the cab.
“Very well,” she relented. “You may take me to my aunt’s address in Mayfair. Once you’ve deposited me there, I trust I won’t be seeing you again?”
“I most certainly hope not,” he countered, leading the way to the carriage.
He offered her a hand up, but she ignored him, pulling herself into the vehicle on her own. It occurred to her that she’d left her sack behind in the flat—the one containing the clothing she’d worn to Dunnottar.
No matter. She had no reason to go back.
Glancing back up at Niall, who now sat across from her, she smirked.
“When you see your Master again, thank him for me,” she said, making herself more comfortable on the carriage seat.
“Whatever for?” he muttered.
The carriage began to move, and for the first time all day, Daphne smiled … a true smile.
“For setting me free.”
EPILOGUE
3 months later …
Adam stomped through the open doors of Dunnottar, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. A footman closed one of the large double doors behind him, shutting out the bitter cold. Despite the hours he’d just spent riding hell for leather across the wilds of Scotland, he was in a state of heightened agitation. His body remained on edge, every muscle stretched taut, every vein pulsating with blood heated to its boiling point.
Niall appeared from seemingly out of nowhere, his ever-present scowl marring what might have been considered a handsome face.
“Enjoy yer ride, Master?” he asked, though he sounded as if he could not care less.
Niall—who was as much Adam’s friend as he was his butler—was angry with him. He had been ever since the day he had relented and allowed Daphne back into the palace after throwing her out on the front steps. When it came to the Fairchilds, the only person who wished for their blood more than Adam might be Niall.
The man did not understand the nuances of warfare. He did not understand that a true general did not dash across the battlefield and stab his enemy in the heart. He drew out the death of his nemesis, strategically cutting pieces of him away bit by bit … until there was nothing left.
He had spent five years methodically destroying Bertram Fairchild, as well as his father and uncle. That had proved far more satisfying than a fleeting duel or bout of fisticuffs.
“You know very well I did not, so sod off,” he snapped, storming past Niall and down the corridor.
He did not have it in him to endure Niall’s censure, or Maeve’s moping about. One of them was angry for letting Daphne stay while the other would not stop glaring at him because he’d let her leave.
Bugger them both.
He wondered what either of them might say if they knew that though he had sent her away, she was not truly gone. She haunted him daily, traces of her seeming to linger in every nook and cranny of Dunnottar. He saw her in the meadow where he’d first revealed Bertram’s true nature to her, her bonny face wet with tears, the sun glinting off her hair. He heard her in the music room, the heavenly sound of her fingers against harp strings soothing him like no amount of spirits or fucking could. He smelled her scent in that room, too, heard her cries of surrender as he’d taken her down to the rug and torn through her maidenhead. He even saw her in his study, kneeling quietly at his feet with a book in her lap, eyes demurely lowered.
The chit had no knowledge of how she’d enflamed him, the simple act of dropping to her knees on the floor enough to fill his cock with blood to near bursting. He’d had her in every way he had imagined, but now that she was gone, he found himself imagining more.
“It is over, you bloody moron,” he groused at himself as he stormed into his bedchamber and slammed the door. “She served her purpose.”
That was certainly true enough. He’d gotten what he wanted from her, striking out at Bertram through her. What else was there?
Forcing his gaze away from his bed, he gritted his teeth, a primal growl tearing through his chest. She even haunted him here, her cries reverberating from the walls and ceilings, the memory of spanking her until her buttocks glowed red before impaling her tight arse disturbing his dreams.
Bringing her into his private sanctuary had been a mistake … he realized that now. But, what else was he to have done after she’d stumbled upon Serena, disobeying his direct order?
As he entered the washroom, he told himself he only missed having an available cunt around whenever the mood to fuck struck him. That he’d merely been obsessed with the novelty of bedding Bertram’s little sister … defiling her in every conceivable way.
However, even that did not calm him, his body as restless as ever, his cock hard as stone … despite that fact that he’d frigged himself upon waking this morning. As well as right before he’d gone to sleep. And the night before that … and the night before that.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, pacing toward the washstand and gilded mirror in the corner where he stood to shave.
Niall often referred to him as a barbarian for not hiring a valet, but he’d always preferred dressing and grooming himself.
Bracing his hands upon the washstand, he bowed his head. He closed his eyes and attempted to tear his wayward thoughts away from Daphne. Yet, closing his eyes only worsened the effect, the red swirls moving about on his eyelids reminding him of her hair. Clenching one hand into a fist, he imagined wrapping that hair around his hand and yanking until she cried out … until her eyes watered and she whimpered.
God, he’d never seen anything more beautiful than the sight of her surrender, of the moment fear left her eyes and submission to his will settled in. He had been right about her all along, having seen it in her eyes the first time he’d laid eyes upon her.
Daphne craved danger, the thrill of a threat, the promise of destruction. She danced upon the precipice, taunting the darkness, beating her pristine white wings as if to flaunt herself, to goad the beast lurking in the depths.
Come and get me, her every movement seemed to say.
He had enjoyed every moment of stalking, and eventually, overcoming her.
Opening his eyes with a strangled sound of frustration, he spied a little scrap of silk lying beside the basin a chambermaid had filled with clean water for him.
Taking it up, he smoothed his fingers over it, lifting it to his nostrils. It still held her scent … though its strength faded more and more with each passing day.
It was one of the ribbons she’d worn around her neck—he’d found it in the guest chamber she had once occupied. He grinned at the memory of throwing her up on the dining room table after tearing off her gown—her body stripped of everything except for this length of ribbon.
With a grunt, he tore open his breeches, unable to abide this torment any longer. He could no longer fight what felt like a force of nature, a gust of wind blowing him in a certain direction.
With the ribbon still in his hand, he fisted his cock, wrapping himself in silk and a rough, calloused palm. His head already seeped with moisture, he was so wound up, and he stroked himself with a brutal desperation born of a need she had created. He jerked his cock while imagining holding her down and drilling her like a madman, one hand wrapped around her throat. He recalled the way her eyes had widened the first time he had compressed the vital veins in her neck, slowing the flow of blood. She’d been afraid, but that had only made his lust surge, and he had tightened his fingers, wanting to test her mettle.
As expected, she had performed beautifully, c
losing her eyes and allowing the sensation to heighten her climax, sucking in a mouthful of air just as she spiraled into oblivion.
He doubled over from the force of his own completion, grasping a scrap of linen just in time to catch his seed. He pumped his hips, wringing himself dry despite knowing it would never be enough. By evening, he would be right back where he’d started, wanting a woman who no longer lay within his reach.
But … she had never been completely out of reach. He held the entire Fairchild family in the palm of his hand. With one closed fist, he could smite them into dust. She would never be completely free of him.
Glancing down at the scrap of ribbon stained with his seed, he came to a decision. His body unwound, his muscles relaxing.
Peace washed over him, and he found balance once again, the sort of calculating calm that typically ruled him.
The answer was simple.
He felt this way because they had unfinished business. She was not completely out of his blood, but this was a problem easily remedied.
Adam made quick work of cleaning himself up before leaving the washroom, stalking into his chamber and retrieving a large trunk from beneath the bed. He threw a few items inside before having a sudden thought.
He found the bell cord to ring for Niall and went back to work.
By the time his friend and butler had arrived, the trunk had been half-filled with the things he would need for his journey.
“What’s this, then?” Niall asked, brow furrowed as he took in Adam’s erratic packing method.
“Prepare a carriage for travel, Niall,” he barked. “I am leaving immediately.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
Ignoring his first question, Adam chuckled, the excitement of the hunt to come making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This time, when he got his hands on his little dove, he was going to exorcise every debauched fantasy of her he’d ever had. She would not escape him until he was well and truly ready to let her go.
“London, Niall,” he declared with a feral grin. “We are going to London.”
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***
CHAPTER ONE
London 1819
he sting of cold stones against the bottoms of her bare feet reverberated up her legs, the frigid air lashing at her legs as she held her skirts aloft and ran. Her heart thundered in her chest and her lungs burned as she struggled to breathe past the knot of fear that had lodged itself in her throat. The surface of her skin fairly tingled with awareness, the hairs on the back of her neck rising to stand on end. Glancing over her shoulder, she kept going, desperate to outrun the monster chasing her through the winding corridors of the dark, ominous castle. Torchlight cast shadows against the walls, and behind her, the hallway loomed like a never-ending tunnel with no bends or turns. Her eyes told her that nothing chased her, that the corridor behind her remained empty. Yet, her body, her very soul, told her something else.
He was coming.
The beast who had tormented her for weeks, torn her apart and made her like it … he was on her heels, breathing down her neck, snorting fire and ash. He delighted in tormenting her, toying with her like a cat playing with a mouse before sinking its teeth in and ripping it to shreds. Fear twisted in her gut, even as anticipated flooded her senses, her lips parting to allow the taste of the pursuit to dance upon her tongue. His scent clung to the air around her, the constant reminder of his presence unrelenting. Cedar … smoke … brandy. She could smell him, taste him, hear his voice in her head.
“Yes, little dove,” he rasped in the dark, his voice echoing down the corridor. “Run! You know how I love to chase you.”
His demented laughter echoed from the walls around her, vibrating through her entire being. A desperate cry fell from her lips—part fear, part arousal. Her palms were as damp as the mound between her thighs.
Something slammed into her from behind and she was thrown forward, face first onto the unrelenting stone floor. She gasped, struggling to recapture the breath that had been knocked from her. Kicking and flailing, she fought against the hands grasping her ankles and dragging her back into the darkness … into the jaw of the beast.
“No,” she whispered, even as he climbed over her, pinning her to the floor with his hard, massive body. “Please … no!”
Her lips protested, but her body surrendered, her back easing into a deep arch when he grasped a handful her hair and yanked. She cried out, her scalp stinging and her back aching, her cunt pulsing with need and her nipples going to stiff points. She could not see him, but she felt him, his thighs straddling her hips, the press of his chest against her back, the rasp of the stubble on his jaw against her ear, the sweep of his long, dark hair falling around her like a curtain. The hard ridge of his thick cock pressed against her buttocks.
She heard him, his heavy, rasping breaths in her ear from the exertions of the chase, his deep, resonate voice when he spoke.
“Mine,” he grunted in her ear.
Then, he was pressing her head against the stones, holding her captive with a brutal hold on her hair as he began snatching up her skirts. She kicked squirmed beneath him, yet he only laughed again, shoving a rough hand between her legs. Her screams of terror melted into moans of delight as he stroked her, invaded her with his fingers.
“Please,” she moaned, lifting her hips to invite him in deeper, the salt of her tears invading her mouth as she wept. “Please … just let me go!”
The blunt tip of his cock touched her entrance, his mouth grazing her ear as he poised himself to enter her. His teeth scraped her earlobe, sending a shudder through her.
“Never,” he rasped, just before shoving the full length of his cock inside her sheath.
Lady Daphne Fairchild awoke with jolt, her lips parted on a cry that echoed through her bedchamber. As her mind slowly floated up out of her vivid dream, she absorbed her surroundings. The mauve damask canopy and sheer white curtains surrounding her bed tinted the light of the morning sun, turning the air around her into a soft pink haze. The matching sheets and counterpane were soaked with her sweat, while dampened strands of hair clung to her face and neck. Her nightgown clung to her skin, and the cool air caused by a waning fire made her skin break out in goose bumps. She would have liked to blame her hard, aching nipples on the chill in the air, but her throbbing cunt proclaimed the truth.
As frightening as her dream had been, her body had become aroused.
With a heavy sigh, she plopped back onto the pillows and closed her eyes, slowing her breaths and trying to bring her galloping heart down to a normal cadence. Behind her closed eyelids, remnants of the dream flickered and flashed. Her nipples tingled as she remembered the feel of Adam’s chest against her back, his breath in her ear. Her cunt clenched at the memory of his cock shoving into her. Whimpering, she bit her lower lip, squeezing her legs together to try to stifle the pounding between them … to smother the unrelenting desire that seemed to plague her day and night. The sensation only increased, her depraved longing becoming too strong to ignore.
Releasing a frustrated huff, she reached beneath the bedclothes and lifted the hem of her nightgown. She would never be able to leave this bed until she did something about the agitation overwhelming her entire body. Tossing the bedclothes aside with one hand, she palmed the mound between her legs with the other, hissing from between clenched teeth on contact. She was swollen, aching, pulsating in time with each beat of her racing heart. Sinking a finger between her lower lips, she encountered her engorged clit, agitating it with slow circles. Staring at the canopy hanging over her head, she released a sigh of relief, allowing her legs to fall open and her body to relax into the mattress.
Self-pleasure was not something she had done often before the thirty day
s and nights she had spent in Scotland, entombed in Castle Dunnottar. Now, however, she could hardly go two days without the need for climax, for relief from the longing that gnawed at her gut.
In truth, there were many things she’d never done before entering her ill-fated agreement with Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor. She had never allowed a man to shove his cock down her throat, or penetrate her every orifice. She had never delighted in being spanked, or choked, or debased in all the countless ways he had thought of to use her. Yet, not only had she allowed it all, she had enjoyed it all. Every unseemly act.
Another sound of impatience simmered in her throat and she quickened her strokes, the soft pads of her fingers hardly affecting her. She needed calloused hands and a commanding touch. She needed a rough, masculine voice in her ear and the brutal clench of a man’s hand on the back of her neck.
She needed dominance.
Closing her eyes again, she did something she had promised herself she would never do again … She thought of him.
Raising her hips from the bed, she slipped two fingers into her sheath, then a third, trying to fill herself the way Adam did. A moan fell from her as she ground against her own hand, imagining his large body on top of her, his fingers wrapped around her hair and bending her neck to near-impossible angles. She slammed her fingers into herself, the heel of her hand making contact with her clit with each thrust.
She became the wanton he’d often accused her of being, forgetting the risk of her lady’s maid walking in on her, not caring that her small household staff might hear her moaning and panting as she pleasured herself. All that mattered was easing the ache, scratching the itch, finding a moment of perfect oblivion.
Sucking in a deep breath, she held it, imagining one of his hands wrapped around her throat, his fingers biting into the vital veins supplying her pulse. She had never spent harder or longer than she did when he deprived her of air, waiting until she began to splinter to allow her to take a breath. It was not the same, yet, her body fed off her memories, hurtling toward climax. Her breath came out on a sharp cry as released unfurled from her center, light spasms gripping her fingers while her clit pulsed and fluttered against her palm.
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