by Multi-Author
“I’m not hurting you, am I?”
“No,” she said, catching her breath. “No, it’s good. It’s…” There weren’t really words, particularly not when Percy shifted his focus and began to rub her sensitive nubbin while Will continued to fill her.
The same soaring tension she’d experienced earlier began to build inside her belly. She knew now it would grow, spread through her fingers and toes, tickle all across her scalp until it possessed her completely, just as surely as William was possessing her now, and how she knew in time they would both possess her together.
“More,” she groaned a few moments later, realising she wanted him to speed up, even though her heart was already racing and she sounded completely breathless.
“You’ll have no complaints from me about that. Ride as hard and fast as you like.”
Yes of course, she was astride him. She leaned forward, clinging to him as she ground her hips, and he met her thrust for glorious thrust. The change in angle not only improved things, it made her wetter, hotter…Oh God! She was there again, shattering all to pieces while he still plunged into her.
She felt him come, felt the pulse of his cock while she was still clawing her senses back together, and the wetness of his seed filling her. She heard his cries and the way he moaned as he said her name. “My precious treasure,” he called her. “My sweet love.”
She was his. His and Percy’s or at least she was going to be. She’d made her mind up. A kind man wasn’t enough. Not when she could have two wicked men instead.
Percy was hard again by the time Will pulled out. He pushed into her, taking her from behind until he spent again. Then the three of them cuddled up tight, their heads all in a line upon the pillows, with one man on either side of her.
“I had no idea,” she admitted. “If I had there would never have been any doubt in my mind. I know what I want now.” She wanted this, wanted both of them, and to hell with convention and the potential backlash. Being loved by them would make it worth it. “The answer is yes. Yes, I will be your wife, Lord Ricborough—Will. And I’ll gladly welcome Percy into our bed and between my thighs.”
“Do you hear that Percy? She agrees.”
Their lover only grunted. He was already sleeping soundly.
Will dropped a kiss upon her nose. “Stay here for the rest of the night, so that we can see you when we wake.”
“If I do that, there’ll be no hiding what we’ve done.”
“I don’t want to hide it. I want to scream it out loud to everyone, so that they know that you are ours.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I’ll always be that.”
Epilogue
“WHAT DO YOU have to say for yourself, sir?” her father demanded of William the following morning. Aunt Clara had eventually realised that she was missing from her room when she hadn’t risen when called. It’d taken her no time at all to decipher where she’d gone, and to gather her father so that they might storm the room.
Poor Percy had been obliged to hide on the balcony so as not to cause too great a storm, while they were both marched down to the study.
“I should have you expelled from this house immediately. You bed my own daughter, in my own house, and at Christmas no less. It’s not done, sir. It’s not lordly. It’s not right.”
William failed to look contrite. “What I have to say is this—May I please wed your daughter.”
“What?” Mr. Marsh huffed and spluttered, his face turning even redder than hers. She guessed he’d assumed Lord Ricborough to be an irredeemable cad. “Marry her? Well yes,” he blustered. “I damned well think you better had, and soon too.”
“I’d be happy for the vicar to read the first banns today,” William remarked amiably.
“Good,” her father said. “Good.” She’d never seen him quite so lost for words.
“May I please join with the family and guests for breakfast?” Viola asked him. Strictly speaking, she was not invited to mix, but was supposed to return to her quiet life in the nursery on Christmas Day.
“I rather think you had better. It seems I’ve an announcement to make. You’d best go and make yourself presentable somehow.”
Aunt Clara tugged her away. “Leave them to work out the details. Let us go and find you something decent to wear. Perhaps the yellow and blue sprigged muslin could be made presentable. We’ll have to send for some dresses to be made and order stockings and shifts and all manner of new things. If you’re to be a lady, you’ll have to be well turned out.”
“Of course, Aunt,” she agreed, though she didn’t think Will would mind what her clothes looked like, as long as they were easily unfastened.
Percy stood poised at the bottom of the staircase. He met them in the centre of the hallway, shot her a questioning glance and beamed in response to her nod. “I hear that congratulations are in order, Miss Marsh. It seems were about to be cousins.”
“That’s right,” she agreed.
Aunt Clara tutted.
Percy stepped forward a pace, so that he was only an inch or two away from her. “Then allow me to be the first to offer you room in our heats as one of our family.” Then raising a sprig of mistletoe above her head, he kissed her. “I know you’ll make William the most splendid wife.”
THE END
If you enjoyed this story, please turn the page for an excerpt from Ménage After Midnight, part of the Romps & Rakehells Series.
More From Madelynne Ellis
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Keep reading to take a look at Ménage After Midnight, available now.
Affection for a price…
Paris Ashcroft supports himself by offering discreet sexual liaisons to women whose husbands neglect their duties. Romance is merely the means by which he makes a living. However, when Sophia Lovich, the one woman he’s lost his heart to, asks for his attention, he intends to surrender himself to passion. Little does he suspect that Sophie will ask him to endure her husband’s dark desires too!
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Excerpt - Ménage After Midnight
Romps & Rakehells series novella
Copyright © Madelynne Ellis 2012
PARIS KNEW HE’D struck gold when Sophia Lovich blew him a kiss from over her husband’s shoulder. Her gaze met his for a mere heartbeat before she glanced away, lowering those dark silken eyelashes of hers over eyes like chips of bitter chocolate. When she looked up again, he found it impossible not to smile back.
Lucifer curse him for the hideous wife thief he’d become, but Paris couldn’t help himself. Not this time. Not with her. He’d taken many to his bed out of necessity, but he rarely felt aroused by those who encouraged his affections. Swiving other men’s wives had become a way to bring food to the table and support his sister in her matrimonial quest. It wasn’t about love or excitement or anything but the most perfunctory sense of satisfaction on his part. He did it as a service to all the women who sought passion but whose husbands saw them only as a means to beget children, with no interest of their own in sex or in any sort of fulfilment.
With Sophia, things would be different.
There would be no detachment, only raw edges and passion.
He had only to look at her and his pulse raced. Every curve of her body set his imagination alight. She had such a tiny waist but broad padded hips. Perhaps some of that was the dress, but he liked to think not. He liked to imagine that hidden beneath her voluminous skirts was a softly rounded belly and thighs he could pillow his cheek upon. She’d have a plump womanly bottom too. Forget all the dainty sparrows; he loved Sophia for her sheer voluptuousness.
Hell if it hadn’t splintered his soul when he’d first seen the wedding band upon her finger. Not that he was in any position to make her an offer, but the fantasy of having her sprawled across his bed had been a good one. It remaine
d a good one. Better yet, tonight he intended to make it real.
Across the table, Sophia shook her head at his prolonged scrutiny. He’d been staring without even realising it, but a quick glance at the gamblers around the table suggested the indiscretion had passed unnoticed.
“When?” he mouthed, wanting to seize this opportunity with both fists. The mere prospect of it had him fidgeting, and too much of a delay would necessitate him shuffling out of the room with the skirts of his frock coat drawn fast across his front to avoid displaying his obvious arousal.
Discretion—that’s what women valued. And public reserve, coupled with fire in the bedroom. He’d do well to remind himself of that lesson tonight; else she’d fly before he ever got close to fulfilling anyone’s wishes.
Sophia didn’t reply. Instead, her gaze strayed over to the mantle-clock. Already long past midnight, many of Reeve’s house guests, his sister among them, had retired to their beds. Only the politicians and gamblers remained, of whom several were likely to still be present at dawn, Lovich among them with any luck.
To Paris’s utmost relief, Alexander Lovich barely raised his elegant head to look up from his hand of cards when his wife whispered sweet nothings into his ear. Perhaps that was for the best. Paris didn’t want her reminded of how fine a catch Lovich was. Unlike most of the husbands he stood in for, Lovich was neither rotund, aged, or sallow. He was a stallion of a man, with the physique of a blacksmith, without any of the calluses that accompanied that profession. His hair and teeth were apparently all his own too. He had warm smiling eyes and was quick to laugh.
“Don’t wait up, dear. And do remember to warm the bed,” Lovich said.
Oh, don’t worry, I’ll do that. Paris stifled the urge to smirk. No point flaunting the fact that he was about to tup another man’s wife, especially since it was a man he’d once admired. If Lovich had any sense, he’d be pleasuring Sophia himself, rather than indulging Lady Luck. Although, to be fair, the fool did at least catch her hand as she turned to go, in order to press a kiss to her knuckles. Many, he knew, would not even have done that. Too many men who didn’t care for their wives.
Still, the idle caress didn’t cause him any alarm. Sophia needed a greater show of affection than that one simple gesture, and with that thought clearly written into the sour turn of her lips, she bade the rest of the gamblers goodnight.
If you enjoyed this excerpt, check out more here!
Hamish
The 93rd Highlanders
by
Samantha Kane
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Author’s Note
Dear Readers,
In HAMISH, a wounded Scottish soldier falls back in love with his childhood friend Finn, who is now a doctor treating the wounded in the Crimean War. During the Christmas season widowed British nurse Edith gives both men a reason to go on. Look for the second book in The 93rd Highlanders, CONALL, available now. You’ll find more information about the series and my other books on my website. For up to date information about these and my other new releases please join my newsletter.
The Crimean War was fought in 1853–1856 between Russia and a coalition of Great Britain, France, the Ottoman Empire and Sardinia. Most of the fighting took place on the Crimean Peninsula in southern Russia. Russia lost the war.
Between 300,000–375,000 coalition forces died in the war. There were doctors assigned to military units at the front, but the British sick and wounded were sent to the British hospital in Scutari, a suburb of Constantinople in the Ottoman Empire. Hospital conditions in Scutari were deplorable, which prompted British nurse Florence Nightingale to recruit nurses to go to Scutari to care for the sick. Nightingale is considered the mother of modern nursing, and her nursing corps made a difference in Scutari, improving sanitary conditions and the morale of the sick and wounded.
I hope you enjoy Hamish, Finn and Edith’s story!
Merry Christmas,
Samantha Kane
Blurb
1855, Scutari Hospital, Crimean War
Injured at Balaclava as part of the infamous Thin Red Line of the 93rd Highlanders, Hamish Fletcher is sent to the hospital at Scutari, away from the front lines. His childhood friend Phineas Harper is a doctor there. Phin volunteered because so many of his friends and family were fighting in the Crimea. As soon as Hamish sees him all the confusing things he felt for Phin as a boy resurface. Having experienced war and the death of friends and family, both men are ready to face their feelings. But Phin has fallen in love with a widowed nurse and when he meets her, Hamish shares those feelings for the courageous and kind Edith. As Christmas approaches, they find the miracle of love amid the chaos of war.
Prologue
Balaclava, Russia
October 25, 1854
HAMISH FLETCHER LEANED on the barrel of his Minié rifle, the butt resting on the ground, and took a puff off his pipe. He watched calmly as the 93rd Highland Regiment scrambled to form two lines at the command of Sir Colin Campbell, commander of the Highland Brigade. They were closing ranks to face the oncoming Russian cavalry assault outside the allied-held port of Balaclava. He shook his head, wondering how in the hell the last line of defense had actually become the last line of defense. The British troops in the valley were supposed to have stopped the Russians long before they reached the 93rd’s position.
“Ain’t you going to take your position, Captain?” one of his men asked.
“Aye,” Hamish replied. “When I need to. Might as well get a rest in before then.”
The men around him laughed and suddenly they were all moving slower, panic erased by easy precision, the result of long practice. Hamish took one last puff and then tamped his pipe out on the ground, grinding his boot on the smoldering tobacco. He pocketed the pipe, and picked up his rifle as he saw the Russian cavalry bearing down on them across the valley. He wondered about his three brothers somewhere down the line. Douglas would be all right, he was a fighter. But the twins, Connie and Brodie, they were lovers, not fighters. Connie was too sweet, and Brodie had more tricks up his sleeve than a jester. Neither was made for fighting. He hoped Dougie could keep an eye on the other two.
Suddenly thoughts of home and his childhood haunted him. He was a realist for the most part, not given to romantic notions. But there were people he’d walked away from and things he’d left undone. He thought about Finn , one of Dougie’s boyhood friends who’d become his friend as well; and on one cool summer evening, more than a friend. Where was Finn now, he wondered, and did he think of Hamish, too, now and then? Did he regret, as Hamish did, walking away from the awkward passion that had possessed them that night? Finn had left for university, and Hamish had joined the 93rd. Hamish didn’t often bother to question his actions or his motives; life was too short. But Finn had made him question everything he was and everything he had always thought he wanted. There had been many women since Finn, and Hamish enjoyed a good fuck. He’d never wanted another man. But Finn had been different. He shook his head to clear it, bringing his thoughts back to the present. Maundering on about the past wasn’t going to help fight this battle.
“All right then, boys,” he called out calmly. “All in position?”
“Aye, Captain,” his men replied.
“Good, good,” he said, walking over to stand next to Flaherty. The boy was new and nervous as hell, of course. “Flaherty,” he said, looking down at the lad whose face was a sickly green, “you did remember to load your rifle, didn’t you?”
The men around them laughed and Flaherty blushed, washing away the green. “Aye, Captain,” he said formally. “If you look down the barrel, you’ll get a good shot of it.”
Hamish laughed loudly. “Good lad,” he said, clapping Flaherty on the back. Several other men followed suit. “I’ll let the Russians have first crack at your shot.”
The battle, what there was of it, happened so quickly Hamish nearly missed it when he blinked. The Russian cavalry came bearing down on them and Sir Colin o
rdered the first volley. No harm befell the Russians, they were still too far away. The second volley seemed to confuse the Russians, and their approach slowed as several horses turned about and broke ranks. It was the third volley that caused the Russians to turn about and retreat, much to his amazement. As far as Hamish could tell there’d been almost no casualties on either side. Russian heads would roll for this, he thought with amusement.
“We scared them off, Captain,” Flaherty cried out in excitement. “Just the sight of the scarlet coats of the 93rd scared them away!” He was spinning around in his jubilation, his rifle still pointed straight out, endangering the men around him.
“Flaherty!” Hamish barked, taking two quick steps to grab the rifle from his hands. At his call, however, Flaherty spun hard to face him and the rifle barrel slammed into Hamish’s forearm. He heard the crack and then the pain drove him to his knees. As soon as his arm hit the ground he watched as it bent at a strange angle. Shooting pain had him yanking his arm up and rolling to his back. His head slammed against something that felt like a boulder and then his vision started to go black around the edges. The last thing he saw was Flaherty’s horrified expression.
Chapter 1
HAMISH HOPPED DOWN off the wagon that was carrying wounded to the hospital. They were in Scutari after days of disorganization and travel. It was already November and noticeably colder than it had been over a week ago at Balaclava. Scutari was small, dirty and crowded and the so-called hospital looked worse. His arm was throbbing but he still turned to help his younger brother Conall off the wagon. They looked like bookends, Hamish with his right arm in a sling and Connie with his left arm in the same state. The resemblance between them probably made the comparison more striking. They both had the Fletcher coloring—bright red hair and full red beards—as well as thick chests and broad shoulders, and neither of them below six feet. The Russians had at least shot Connie. Hamish had taken a great deal of good-natured ribbing over his broken arm and aching head.
