Pride and Premeditation

by Steffanie Holmes

  “What?”

  “Don’t be driven low by petty people and their prejudice and hatred.” Heathcliff’s hands balled into fists. “Don’t take all that rage and turn it inward, until you hate yourself so much you become incapable of feeling anything else. You’re no monster, Mina. This path is not for you. I’d leave you before I drag you down into the darkness with me.”

  My chest tightened. I spun around to face him, to stare down this wonderful man who believed he was a monster. Heathcliff’s eyes bore into me, full of storms and ghosts.

  “You were always more than the darkness,” I whispered. “Before I even met you, you, Heathcliff, were the first true hero I had. On my bleakest days, I looked to your love for Cathy and believed that one day someone could love me like that.”

  “You call that love?” he spat. “It is nothing but a wild, maddening, dangerous passion.”

  “If you don’t think that’s love, then what is?” I faced him. “Love isn’t this high, noble act reserved for sedate dances and quiet moments. Real love is primal, and savage, and human.”

  “What are you saying?” Heathcliff demanded, sweeping across the room to press his body against mine. His heart thudded against my chest, perfectly in time with mine.

  “I’m saying that if it’s monstrous to love you, then I will happily become that monster,” I shot back, my arms trembling. “Because I love you.”

  I barely got the words out when Heathcliff mashed his mouth against mine, sweeping me into his arms. We slammed against the wall. My elbow hit the hand dryer, but I barely felt it, so enraptured was I with Heathcliff’s fire and with the surge of emotion welling inside me.

  I love him. I hadn’t said the words to shut him up or make him forget about Hindley and the evil things he’d done in his book. I said them because every syllable rang true inside me, and every fiber of my body begged for the fire of his passion to engulf me.

  The words unleashed something in Heathcliff – if this was what his monster was capable of when stoked with love and kindness instead of cruelty, then how different might his story have ended if he hadn’t been denied so much. He ravaged my mouth with his, rendering me completely senseless, lost to his violent devotion.

  His hand pawed at my dress, dragging it up my hips. Someone could walk in at any moment. But I didn’t care. I had Heathcliff. We belonged to each other and it felt like my entire life had been waiting for this moment. I needed Heathcliff inside me, right now.

  Clearly, Heathcliff had the same idea. In seconds he had my skirts up around my torso, tearing my panties away. He clawed at his breeches, popping off a button in his haste. It ricocheted off the toilet stall and skidded out of sight. Heathcliff yanked down his breeches, pressing his hardness against my hip. “Bloody stockings,” he muttered, fighting to roll them down over his rigid cock.

  I slashed the thin silk with the edge of my nail, tearing a hole wide enough for the head of his cock to poke through. Heathcliff’s dark eyes crinkled as he laughed. “Now who is the feral one?”

  “They don’t call me Mina Wilde for nothing.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him close, pressing together our beating hearts.

  After rolling on a condom, Heathcliff leaned his weight against me and lifted my arse in his hands. I wrapped my legs around him and clamped my thighs tight. The hilt of his sword jabbed against the back of my thigh. He found my opening, sliding inside me. I gasped as he claimed me, body and soul.

  We found each other in the storm of our love, driving rain and hard hail and winds that tore at our skin. Heathcliff said with his kisses what he could never utter. His monster rushed boldly to the surface, pushing out through his skin, and Heathcliff and the monster became one, and they were fierce, and storm-tossed, and utterly beautiful.

  My Heathcliff.

  Heathcliff reached up with dark fingers to cup my face, dragging my lips to his. “Mina, I love you,” he cried out, slamming his cock inside me.

  Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I remembered Ashley telling me to never believe a bloke who uttered those words during sex. The haze of endorphins was bound to make people go a bit loopy.

  But when that bloke was Heathcliff, and his dark eyes were filled with storms that matched the tempest inside me, and a corner of my father’s letter jabbed into my chest, I knew Ashley was wrong.

  “I love you,” I whispered back.

  Heathcliff’s body shuddered. He held me close as his orgasm claimed him. We came together in a shower of sparks and rage and fireworks.

  Even when he’d pumped himself dry, he remained inside me, holding me against that wall as if it were the only thing tethering us to earth. An electric charge buzzed through my body – the aftermath of an incredible orgasm, but something more, something deeper. From the way Heathcliff’s eyes bore into mine, he felt it, too.

  “Whatever souls are made of,” he whispered, “yours and mine are the same.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Heathcliff and I cleaned up and straightened our clothes as best we could in the bathroom. I peered out the door, looking in both directions. People wandered past the end of the hall toward the breakfast buffet, but no one headed toward us.

  “It’s safe.” I slipped out and held open the door. “Come on.”

  Heathcliff walked out, using his handkerchief to hide where the button had popped off his breeches. “These bloody clothes don’t leave anything to the imagination.”

  “Nope, and I’m glad of it,” I smiled, pinching his bum. “Let’s go.”

  “There’s my Mina.” Heathcliff offered his arm, and I took it. My thighs made a pleasing tingling sensation as they rubbed together, reminding me of what we’d just done. I’d had to throw my ruined underwear away. Going commando in a Regency dress – this might be the most punk rock thing I’ve ever done.

  Raised voices echoed down the corridor. A crowd milled at the entrance to the breakfast room. I stood on tiptoes, trying to see over them. Professor Carmichael stood with Alice near the back of the crowd, and I dragged Heathcliff over to them.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered.

  “It’s fantastic. That Gerald character walked right up to Professor Hathaway and accused him of plagiarizing his work.”

  “Possibly you shouldn’t look quite so gleeful,” Heathcliff murmured. Professor Carmichael rearranged her face into a concerned expression.

  “Of course you’re right. I’d hate for this to come to blows, especially with ladies present. But it couldn’t happen to a nicer person.”

  Heathcliff sighed. He dropped my arm and shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the yelps of protest from ladies as he tossed them aside. I followed him, grateful I’d chosen to wear my Docs again this morning.

  We reached the front of the crowd and for the first time could see the scene unfolding. Gerald and Hathaway glared at each other from opposite sides of the buffet. Christina stood behind her father, tugging on his sleeve in a pitiful attempt to calm him down. Hannah and the two other goth girls stood behind Gerald with their arms folded and fierce expressions on their pale faces. Hathaway smirked at Gerald, whose skin burned as dark as the tomato sauce swirls decorating his plate.

  “Why don’t you tell them all, Hathaway?” Gerald was saying. “Tell all these people who worship you that your entire life is a lie. I don’t know who you’ve got writing your books and speeches now, but you should probably fire them because your last book had more holes in it than Hannah’s fishnet tights. All I know for a fact is that it cannot possibly be your own words.”

  “Really, now, Gerald. Must we dig up this ancient history again? The university investigated and found me innocent of plagiarism.”

  “That’s because you were sleeping with the head of the committee!” Gerald yelled. Behind him, Christina gasped and hid her face behind her fan.

  David shoved his way in front of Hathaway and glared at Gerard. “Don’t do this. You’re upsetting Christina.”

  “She’s a big girl, D
avid. She can look after herself.” Gerard shoved him aside. “She needs to know what kind of man her beloved father really is.”

  “And what kind of a man is that, Gerald?” Professor Hathaway said. Unlike Gerald, his tone was reasonable, sensible, carrying an air of authority. Even if what Gerald said was true, Hathaway was going to come away looking like the winner. “The kind of man who takes pity on a failing graduate student, offers him a place even though his grades weren’t high enough to qualify, tutors him extensively and creates every opportunity for him to shine, only to have that attention thrown back in my face when I’m falsely accused?”

  “You only did that because you wanted to get in good with my girlfriend. You knew she wouldn’t continue graduate study unless I did, and then you wouldn’t be able to have your chance at her.” Gerald grabbed the goth girl by the hand and shoved her forward. “Tell them, Hannah. Tell them how that bastard touched you.”

  A collective gasp traveled through the crowd. Hathaway’s confident expression faltered for a moment. Beside me, Heathcliff tensed, ready to pounce on Hathaway if necessary. All eyes fell on the girl as Gerald dragged her beside him.

  “Gerald, stop it!” Hannah wrenched her hand away. “It’s bad enough you made us come along this weekend, but now you’re saying that in front of everyone. He just touched my breast in the elevator. He said it was an accident, and I believe him. Don’t bring it up again!”

  “Listen to her, Gerald,” Professor Hathaway cooed. “You wouldn’t want a slander suit brought against you for things you cannot understand.”

  “I understand perfectly! I understand what you’ve done to your own daughter, making her into this Regency doormat just so she would remind you of your wife.”

  Christine’s face paled. “Please, gentlemen. Let’s not make a scene.”

  “Yes, Gerald.” Hathaway nodded. “Let’s step back and collect ourselves. Anger is an ugly emotion to air in public. Accusations of plagiarism are best left for a university ethics committee to deal with, and not solved by a duel over breakfast. Come along, Christina.” He placed a hand on the small of her back and let her away. Guests stepped aside to let them pass, and I heard a ripple of whispers in the crowd of how Hathaway had dealt with the situation like a gentleman.

  I’m not so sure. Hannah’s face as she watched them walk away was etched with pain. The story she told and what really happened wasn’t the same.

  The silent room stared daggers at Gerald. He growled, swiping his hand over the breakfast buffet, scattering platters and chafing dishes, and sending a waterfall of sausages and eggs cascading across the carpet.

  “Enjoy your breakfast,” Gerald snarled at the crowd, stomping away, his leather trench coat flapping behind him.

  Staff rushed in to clean up the buffet. The crowd milled around, drifting back to the tables and gossiping about what had just transpired. I turned to Heathcliff. “What you do suppose that was about?”

  “Looks like the Brontë Society is here for personal reasons after all,” Heathcliff said.

  I noticed Morrie and Lydia sitting at a table by the window, enjoying plates piled high with food. My stomach rumbled. I hadn’t had a chance to eat because of what that old lady said, and what happened in the bathroom afterward, and now the food was all over the floor. I slid into a chair next to Morrie and plucked a rasher of bacon from his plate.

  “Heathcliff, Mina, I’m so pleased you found us.” Lydia beamed up from their breakfast “What frightful good fun! I thought there would be a duel for sure—”

  “Your name is Heathcliff?”

  Hannah wrapped her red-tipped claws around Heathcliff’s arm, her eyes locked on his like she was seeing him from the first time. From the way her body arched toward him and her tongue ran along her lips, I knew she liked what she saw.

  Heathcliff grunted in reply.

  She tugged on his arm. “You should consider joining the Brontë society. We’re a lot more fun than this crowd.”

  “I’m not sure I like your costumes any better,” Heathcliff growled.

  “This isn’t a costume.” She gestured to the black-and-red damask corset and black tulle skirt she wore over fishnet stockings and New Rock boots. “I dress to express the darkness and existential angst within me.”

  “Good luck with that.” Heathcliff tried to free his arm, but she sank her nails deeper.

  “It’s my destiny to one day marry a Heathcliff,” she whispered. “I want my future children to be sons and daughters of Heathcliff. Every day I pull tarot cards and look at my horoscope to find out when he will arrive. I thought Gerald might be a good contender if he would just agree to change his name, but that was before I knew an actual Heathcliff existed. And my horoscope did say I would meet a dark stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all! Tell me, Mr. Heathcliff, were you an orphan? Do you love the wild moors? Would I need to change my name to Cathy? Because I would do it. I would!”

  “This Heathcliff is all those things, and he owns a bookshop in the village,” I said, taking perverse delight in watching Heathcliff squirm.

  “You’re supposed to be helping me,” he growled. In response, I nicked a sausage off Morrie’s plate and chomped down on it.

  “A bookshop?” Hannah’s eyes sparkled. I felt a kinship with her – another outcast book nerd who dreamed of a passionate, grumpy man. “You must tell me all about it. Do you mind?” Hannah asked me, indicating the empty chair at the end of our table.

  “Not at all.” I grinned, shoving back my own chair. “In fact, I think I’ll go to the kitchens and see if I can get some more food, if you’d both like to sit together. Perhaps you could take Heathcliff for a walk around the courtyard after breakfast?”

  Heathcliff glared at me. “Why are you making things worse?”

  “Have fun!” I waved as I stood up. I grabbed an empty plate off the end of the buffet, maneuvered my way around the staff cleaning the carpets, and entered the short hallway leading toward the kitchens.

  Gerald stood in the middle of the hall, his bulk blocking my way. He had his head bent low, whispering with Alice Yo and Professor Carmichael. As I cleared my throat to indicate they might shuffle over and let me pass, all three snapped their heads up, eyes wide. They scattered in three directions, leaving the hall deserted.

  What are they up to?

  Chapter Eighteen

  I barely saw Heathcliff for the rest of the day. The one time I glanced at him across the room during a lecture on spinster tropes, Hannah was practically sitting in his lap and he’d acquired two more black-clad admirers. It looked as though the Argleton Brontë society had found their new leader. I wondered what Gerald thought of it all, but I hadn’t seen him in any lectures, either. Maybe Cynthia had asked him to leave.

  While I waited for Professor Carmichael’s lecture – the final lecture of the day – to begin, I scanned the tiny room for Morrie. He’d been absent all day as well. Lydia led him from activity to activity, showing him off and breaking into impromptu dances in the halls. He seemed perfectly content to bask in her growing popularity and cater to her whims. I tried not to feel jealous. It’s probably for the best. Although Morrie had come back to the room last night and fallen asleep in bed with us, he hadn’t said a word to me all day. He had to be thinking about what I told him last night.

  Maybe I read him all wrong. Maybe he really doesn’t care about me. I’ve made a big mistake—

  Morrie dropped down into the chair beside me. “Good afternoon, gorgeous.”

  My stomach did a little dance. “You’ve sprung yourself free.” A horrible thought occurred to me. “Wait a second, you haven’t stuffed Lydia in a closet, have you?”

  Morrie winked at me. “Would I do that?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “Touché.” Morrie pointed across the room. “However, in this instance, I am innocent. Our little miscreant has acquired more admirers. She didn’t even notice when I slipped away. I’ve officially been demoted.”

  I followed h
is gaze to a throng of people across the aisle, the only other people in the room. They were too far away for me to recognize, but Lydia’s high-pitched laugh echoed across the room. “Do you need to cry into my shoulder?”

  “Yes, please.” Morrie dropped his head onto my shoulder and pretended to be wracked with sobs. As his lips grazed my neck, a shiver ran through my body. I reached up a hand to push him away, to remind him that I hadn’t been kidding about what I’d asked, when he spoke first.

  “I thought about what you told me last night,” he whispered against my hair, his lips brushing the lobe.

  “And?” My body went rigid. An ache danced between my legs.

  “And I think you’re playing a dangerous game.”

  His breath tickled along my neck, sending another delicious shiver through my body. “Oh yes?”

  “People don’t usually issue ultimatums to James Moriarty and live to speak of it.”

  “Be that as it may.” My body ached for him to keep going. I pressed my hand against Morrie’s chest. It took all my self-control, but I pushed him away. “You’re not touching me until you give me an answer. What’s it to be, Moriarty – spill your feelings, or suffer the blue balls?”

  Morrie drew back and puffed out his lower lip. “You’re mean.”

  “You love it. And as soon as you tell me you love me,” I patted my arse, “you can have a piece of this.”

  “Bloody hell, gorgeous.” Morrie stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Cold shower,” he muttered as he ducked out of the room. “See you at the ball.”

  Cynthia, acting as MC, called for silence. Professor Carmichael took the stage. “Thank you very much for coming. I wasn’t expecting to see so many of you here for the last lecture of the day, instead of taking an extra hour for ball preparation—”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t see the time. I have to get ready for the ball!” Lydia leaped up, pushing her way through her gaggle of admirers and fleeing the room. A few other women followed her, muttering about curling irons and petticoat lengths.