by Isobel Carr
“I hope Mrs. Whedon’s servants are enjoying their holiday. We certainly can’t risk them coming home early to find this.”
Sandison nodded his pale head. “Would you like to see the priest’s hole? It had a few interesting items, but no strongboxes full of gold. We’d already removed the contents before MacDonald’s visit.”
Leo followed his friend into the drawing room and watched with interest as Sandison ran his hands under the mantel. One of the two bookcases slid back into the wall, revealing a narrow passageway that led to a small, shelf-lined room with a tattered footstool as its only furnishing.
“So what was here?”
Sandison laughed. “A few candle stubs, a crumpled letter, a shagreen case containing a crystal heart, a psalter and rosary, a pair of garters with a Jacobite slogan woven into them, and a child’s leather horse. Nothing of import. I’ve brought it all back. I knew you’d want to see it regardless.”
“Lead on, Macduff.”
“Lay on,” Sandison said with a disbelieving shake of his head as he descended the stairs.
“Lay on?” Leo grinned and poked him with a finger wielded as a sword.
“And damned be him who first cries ‘Hold!’ ”
“No,” Leo assured him. “I don’t think that’s it at all.”
“It is, you undereducated cretin,” Sandison said as he held open the door to the drawing room. “And highly appropriate to the present circumstances you find yourself in. Everything we found in the priest’s hole is there on the table, except for the raggedy footstool, which you’ve already seen.”
Leo studied the letter first: a hastily scrawled note advising the recipient, a Mr. Boutin, to flee the country. The spidery handwriting angled across the page and was signed only with a large, fanciful C. He picked up the crystal heart and held it up to the light. Inside, pale hair and gold wire were twisted into the prince’s initials.
“A pretty bit of treason, that bauble,” Sandison said.
Leo nodded and put it back into its case. “My grandmother used to tell stories about all the Jacobite ladies in Scotland wearing Stewart Hearts to show their support of the prince’s claim to the throne, but I’ve never seen one.”
“It’s doubtful we’ll ever see another.”
“Put it back where you found it,” Leo said. “Most of them must have been thrown away or destroyed after the Jacobites lost at Culloden. This one deserves to survive to tell its tale.”
The candle guttered in its socket, the flame dying in a pool of wax. Leo moved closer to the remaining one, eyes straining in the bare light of a single candle.
He’d been well and truly engrossed in the first volume of Viola’s memoir. She had a lively style. It read more like a novel than a lurid confessional. And the novel in question was more Tom Jones than Fanny Hill.
Leo flipped back to the beginning and read the opening sentence again: At the age of nineteen, I became the mistress of the Earl of D—. I shall not tell you the why’s or wherefore’s of what came before, for they are of no interest to any but myself. Not a word about what had led to her estrangement from her family. Nothing about how she’d come to be a courtesan. She’d written it as though she truly had sprung from nowhere, fully formed, a goddess to be worshipped.
The only hint to Viola’s origins was a single comment that she’d been introduced to the earl by one of his friends, a man who’d been so enraged by her decision to accept the peer’s extramarital offer that he’d ceased speaking to them both.
It was the only bittersweet moment in the entire book. Otherwise it was a parade of decadence and delight. A tale of friendships and rivalries. She’d embraced the life she’d chosen, or that had chosen her. Wholeheartedly, unreservedly, unashamedly.
Such immodesty ought to disgust. Leo searched his emotions, forcing himself to confront every niggling response. No disgust. No derision. Not even mild contempt. There was abundant curiosity, dawning respect, even a smidgen of admiration. Whatever Viola was, whoever Viola was, she was no one’s victim.
Viola looked up from her manuscript to catch Nance thrusting something furtively into her pocket. Her maid blushed as Viola raised a brow. What was she up to?
“Nance? Why so mysterious?”
“It’s nothing, ma’am. Just hair from your brush.”
“But why is it in your pocket?”
The pretty little maid blushed furiously. “It’s for the Midsummer-men.”
“The what?”
“Midsummer-men, ma’am. You take a pair of orpine cuttings, and you wrap one in your hair and one in your lover’s hair—if you can get it—and you tie them together and put them up in the rafters. If they bend toward each other, he loves you. If they bend away, he doesn’t. Or that’s what the girls in the village told me after church last Sunday.”
“And you’re making one for me?”
“And his lordship.” Her blush grew even more furious.
“Have you made one for yourself?”
Nance nodded and fled through the adjoining door into the bedroom. Viola gave into the mirth bubbling through her. Nance was city-bred, but clearly she was taking to the country. There were several of the footmen who could be in contention, and perhaps even a groom or two. Nance had certainly complained about Leo’s footman Sampson enough to indicate a clear inclination.
Viola scratched out the paragraph she’d been working on and bit her lip as she puzzled out what to write next. Usually the words just flowed, but Sir Hugo’s chapters were turning out to be slow going. She could find nothing witty to say about him, but neither could she leave him out. She needed the pages, and after the incident at the theatre, people would be expecting something very juicy indeed.
She tossed her quill aside and capped the inkwell. She needed a ride to clear her head. Riding, she’d discovered, provided a wonderful stimulus to her thought process. It was as though the motion of the horse jogged her muse and memories to life.
Viola followed her maid into the bedroom, and Nance assisted her into her habit. Well, into Lady Boudicea’s habit. Viola brushed her hands over the oatmeal linen. She was going to have to procure a habit of her own, though Nance had done a splendid job of altering this one to fit her.
Viola topped her curls with Lady Boudicea’s straw cocked hat and grabbed her crop. As she descended the stairs, her heart sank into her stomach with a sickening lurch. Her readers would be expecting something about Lord Leonidas. Did he realize that? Was he prepared for it?
Her life had been so dramatic, so incendiary since he’d erupted into it. She could hardly fail to mention the last few weeks. Especially when Lord Leonidas’s story overlapped that of Sir Hugo.
When Viola reached the stable, she asked for Oleander to be saddled and took a deep breath. She let the scent of dust and straw and horse invade her senses until her nerves settled.
She didn’t want to write about Lord Leonidas.
He was hers. This entire experience was hers, in a way that nothing had been since Stephen, and she didn’t want to share it.
CHAPTER 18
When Leo returned to Dyrham, he found Viola confident enough in the saddle to join him on cross-country rides about the estate. She was most comfortable at a trot, but she’d managed a canter on several occasions, and today she should get enough practice in to master that gait, too.
They’d fallen into a schedule of sorts. She wrote all morning, they rode all afternoon, and then they made love all night, sleeping only in fits and starts. She’d woken him from a dead sleep this morning with a hand wrapped around his cock.
She was going to be the death of him, but what a magnificent death it would be.
He reined Meteor in, while Oleander waded across the shallow streambed. Viola let the reins go slack, just as he’d instructed her, then collected them again when they reached dry ground. Pen splashed through behind them and ambled off into the field, snuffling in the tall grass as she went.
Viola glanced over at the folly and then back at hi
m. “Is Kirby Muxloe really as magnificent as you say?”
“Why ask? You can judge for yourself shortly.” He urged Meteor forward, and Oleander fell into step beside him as they emerged from the water.
“It’s just that I’ve never seen a castle.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying. Never.”
“You’ve most certainly seen the Tower of London.”
“Well yes, but one hardly wants to count that.”
Leo chuckled. “And, pray tell, why not?”
Viola shrugged and flicked a large, trailing curl back off her shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s just so, so…”
“Large? Stony? Imposing?”
She laughed, and her dog woofled back, causing her to laugh again. “I don’t know. The Tower is just, well, it’s the Tower. It’s impossible to imagine London without it. And a castle, well, a castle should be a hulking gray ruin, covered in lichen, with the wind whistling through it like a ghost.”
“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed in Kirby Muxloe. Apart from the ghost, it fits your description as though you’d already been there.”
They rode across the field and pushed through a gap in the hedge and onto the road. Leo glanced up and down the deserted lane. “Come on then. If we hurry, we can be home in time for dinner.”
Viola’s laughter drifted back as Oleander broke into a canter, and the two of them shot merrily down the lane. Pen took off in pursuit, a cloud of dust rising from her churning paws. Leo watched them for a moment, something like pride stirring in his chest. With a whoop, he set Meteor after them.
Their pace ate up the miles to the castle. Leo reined in Meteor. Beside him, Oleander slowed as well. “If you look there, just beyond those trees, you’ll see the very top of Kirby Muxloe’s tower.” Viola straightened in the saddle, straining to see. She shook her head, her face a moue of chagrin.
“Not to worry,” Leo assured her, “we’ll be there momentarily.”
As they emerged from the trees, she grinned like a child, a gurgle of delight breaking free. Leo grinned back, well able to remember the first time his grandfather had brought him here.
In the middle of a large moat, the water smooth and dark, stood the earthworks for the base of a grand castle. All that remained were a single tower and the large gatehouse. Viola reined in as they approached the remains of the bridge.
“Is it safe?”
“It’s not as old as it looks,” Leo responded. “Look below; the supporting timbers are enormous.”
He urged Meteor forward, and Oleander followed, their hooves loud as the battering ram of the Roundheads must have been. As they passed through the wide, vaulted entrance, a hare burst across the open, grassy expanse that was all that was left of the castle. Pen gave chase, her excited baying echoing off the stone walls of the gatehouse. The hare disappeared into a hole, and Pen jammed her nose in after it and began to dig.
Leo leapt down and turned to help Viola from her saddle. She kicked free and slid into his arms, the motion almost without thought now. She tugged away from him, as though she were eager to explore.
“Not so quickly.” Leo tightened his grip.
Viola smiled up at him slyly, her arms sliding up his chest until she could clasp her hands at the back of his neck. “Yes, my lord?”
Leo gave her a quick, hard kiss. He held on just long enough to feel her go pliant in his arms. When he broke it off, she was still smiling. “Can we climb the tower?”
“Pick up your skirts, and we’ll go exploring.” She glanced at their mounts, worry pinching her brow momentarily. “The horses will be fine here. Come on.” He held out his hand, and she took it, scooping up her skirts with her free hand.
“Is there a dungeon?”
Leo grinned. “Yes, but it’s under the tower, and it’s usually flooded. You’ll have to look elsewhere for your ghost.”
“This will do,” Viola said as they reached the entrance. Sunlight poured in through the remnants of a window. The sound of wings filled the air as a small flock of starlings took flight and whizzed about the room.
Viola shuddered. “I don’t like starlings. I can’t explain it, but I just don’t like them. They look at you as though they’d like to peck out your eyes.”
She shuddered again, and Leo bit the inside of his cheek to hold back the laugh attempting to work its way out of his chest. What a thing to be afraid of: birds no bigger than your hand. “There are ravens nesting in the top. Shall we forgo the view and make do with the gatehouse?”
“No, they don’t bother me the way starlings do. Ravens are honest in their greed. Almost playful. But there’s something deceitful about a starling.”
Viola let go of Leo’s hand and hurried up the dark stairs. The only light came from tiny and very occasional arrow slits. She didn’t so much as pause to gaze out of one, the urge to leave the birds behind too strong.
When she reached the ramparts, she pulled off her hat and turned her face up toward the sun. The breeze caught her hair and sent it flying all about her face. She smiled as Leo stooped under the lintel. She knew she was being silly, but she couldn’t help it.
Viola spun about to take in the full view. The ruins were amazing, marooned as they were like a private island in the middle of the countryside. If she let her imagination wander, she could almost picture knights upon enormous destriers down in the courtyard and ladies in flowing gowns and bejeweled hats gathered to watch them.
“It makes you feel small, doesn’t it?”
“Small?” Leo looked lost.
“Well, maybe not you. But it makes me feel small. Once upon a time, this was someone’s home. That courtyard bustled with life. People worshipped in the chapel. And now it’s just this. Empty and tumbling down around us.”
“Ah, now you’re getting deep and possibly maudlin. None of that. Today is for adventure.”
Leo pulled her along the wall. Her skirts slipped from her hand, and she tripped, legs hopelessly tangled. He caught her up and tossed her over his shoulder. Laughing, he ran along the rampart until he reached the entrance to the tower stairs. He ducked under as she squealed, her hat flying out of her hands and rolling away. He charged up the stairs, emerging onto a large, circular battlement with her still balanced on his shoulder.
“There.” He set her on her feet. “Dragged through the castle like the spoils of war.”
Laughter bubbled up, causing her to gasp for breath. “So you’re the marauding knight? You’ve broken the castle’s defenses and are now going to claim the lady of the castle as your own?”
“It’s a rather good idea, you must admit.”
“Must I?”
“I really think you must. It’s surrender or death, my lady.”
Viola turned her back to him, putting her hands on the parapet. “But isn’t an honorable death what any true lady would choose?”
“Ah, such a loss isn’t to be thought of.” He crowded her into the battlement, hands pushing her hair aside, mouth exploring her neck. He’d been playing with her a moment before, but now their game had changed. She could feel herself pulled toward him, an invisible wire strung tight and growing tighter still, like a violin being strung to the perfect pitch. Desire swamped her, flooding out all concern for decorum.
“No?” She pressed back, hips circling.
“No, my lady.” His arms came around her, hands splayed out over her breasts. Even through her stays, she could feel his palm scrape across her nipples.
His cock was hard against her. She pushed, and he thrust back. His hands slid down to her thighs, and her skirts rose like the curtain at Drury Lane. The leather of his gloves danced along her skin, the distinct edges of the seams trailing along her hip, moving across her belly, then down between her thighs.
She gasped as he touched her. His knees nudged hers apart, and after a moment, his cock pressed for entrance. His circling fingers urged her backward; the thrust of his hips as he pressed inside pushed her into his hand. She fought
for breath, her release carrying her away as assuredly as Leo had done only minutes before.
He pressed fully in, then stilled. Leo rested his forehead against the back of her head, his breath hot and unsteady on the nape of her neck. “Any man who wouldn’t storm a castle for that isn’t a man at all.”
Viola tightened herself around him and pushed backward. She didn’t want slow and tender. She wanted the conquering knight. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging in, hips rocking against her. She moaned, wanting more. Needing more. His weight pinned her to the parapet; his cock filled her.
“Again. Come for me one more time.” His voice grated over her. His hand slid back around, pushing roughly between her thighs, fingers riding hard against the swollen folds and the sensitive peak hidden between them.
She was gasping, pleasure sliding over into pain and back again, her release teetering just out of reach until it crashed over her and her bones liquefied. Leo made a growling sound that rattled through her, and he pressed infinitesimally deeper as he came.
“Good God, Vi.”
She attempted to move, but he held her fast.
A soft tremor rippled through her, and he made a guttural sound in the back of his throat. “Whatever you do, don’t move just yet.” She pushed up, feeling the full weight of him. He rubbed his cheek against her neck like a courting cat. “There’s nothing better than the throbbing, shuddering afterglow of a woman’s release.”
“No?” Viola tipped her head, giving him the side of her neck to explore. He was wrong, but the particulars of why and how weren’t something that could be explained.
His teeth slid lightly across her skin, and she let the thought go. It wasn’t any of her business that Lord Leonidas Vaughn had never been in love.
CHAPTER 19
Light flooded through the mullioned windows of the parlor, bouncing off the Canaletto over the mantel, making the canals of Venice appear to flow across the canvas. Viola stared at it for several minutes, letting her mind wander along streets she’d only ever read about.
