by Claudy Conn
She glared at them and suddenly noticed Bianca scratching the finger that bore Sassy’s ring. She smiled and spoke the ancient words that meant return to me. Sure enough, the ring for all to witness flew across the room and found its home on Sassy’s ring finger at her back, where her wrists were still bound.
“What …? What was that?” Bianca exclaimed in a frightened tone.
“It is a family heirloom,” Sassy said softly. “It returned where it belonged.” She had in the meantime used a spell to release the ties and held up her hands to display the ring on her finger.
Sassy sensed that the turbaned man believed in sorcery. She could see it from the way his eyes opened wide when he stepped away from her.
Tom Wheeler laughed. “What parlor tricks are these?”
“Oh, the same as this,” said Sassy, who held the rope her wrists had been tied with. It vanished but was next seen tied around Tom Wheeler’s wrists at his back.
He cried out, “Whot?”
Sassy turned and saw Bianca had her gun leveled. Tom Wheeler shouted in a voice of panic, “Bianca, shoot the witch—shoot her now!”
Bianca aimed and took her shot!
* * *
The marquis and his men were only halfway down the stairs when they were attacked by a group of seamen.
The marquis saw that the magistrate and his two men were holding their own on the main deck as he landed his attacker a facer, and then another.
Percy dodged a blow, threw a strong left hook, and sent his attacker down the stairs on his butt. Percy clambered to get to him and knocked him out by slamming his head into the decking.
“Bloody hell, bucko, damn good job!” declared the marquis, who had at that moment shoved a brute into the wall but caught a left hook for his trouble. “I don’t have the time for this,” he told the bloke and hit him over the head with his pistol to watch him collapse to the decking.
The marquis laughed briefly and with Percy at his back hurried down the stairs to the companionway below.
The marquis kicked in the door, and then he and Percy stood a moment in astonishment. A man in a turban was curled up in a corner with his hands out as though to ward off a blow. Tom Wheeler was neatly trussed up and gagged, as was Bianca.
Sassy stood glaring at them, her cheek red and bruised from the slap she had received, her gown torn, but her spirits high. She turned and eyed both Percy and the marquis. “Be careful, or you shall find yourselves in the same predicament!” she announced fiercely.
The marquis and Percy exchanged glances before they burst out laughing. The marquis was so overtaken with relief that he bent over his knees and laughed some more.
~ Twenty-three ~
AT LENGTH, and after saying he had brought the authorities, the marquis was allowed to approach Sassy. He touched her bruised cheek gently and said, “My love, they have hurt you.” He looked towards Wheeler, and his voice was a harsh sound. “I will cut out their hearts for this.”
“No. You have hurt me—how could you have thought such a thing of me?”
He silenced her by scooping her into his arms and whispering, “Don’t you see? Did you not do the same?”
He didn’t wait for an answer as his kisses covered her face, her eyes, her ears, and finally her mouth.
Percy cleared his throat as loudly as he could. When the marquis finally looked his way, Percy gestured with his head and eyes at the yeoman who had already started gathering the men involved, including the captain, and taking them above.
Mr. Dobbs arrived on the scene and saw to it that Wheeler, Abdul, and even Bianca were put in chains and carted off. The captain was detained for further questioning.
“I don’t understand,” Sassy said to the marquis after she was allowed to catch her breath.
“I know, my sweet love. I gave you rather a difficult time back at my lodgings. I am a cad and can only hope you will forgive me. You see, I am a member of the Select Committee in Parliament. Word came to us through various sources that Bristol was being used as a white slave port. Nothing was done at first, until Colonel Saunders, a personal friend of mine, came to me about his daughter. She was a tutor at Netherby and went missing. Apparently, she’d stumbled upon the business they were conducting at Netherby. She told him only briefly that matters were grave, illegal, and immoral, and then she vanished.”
“Oh, Justin, she is dead. I heard them speak about her and Beth. They sold Beth to the awful turbaned man for his emir, and they said she was dead,” Sassy cried.
“Yes, I know, but they didn’t kill her. She killed herself when they sent her to Tangiers. We received her locket and an anonymous letter from someone she had befriended there.”
“And James Bankes, he was a part of it all, wasn’t he?”
“He has temporarily escaped capture, but we believe we will find him. Now, let me get you away from here. I will have to take you back to Netherby temporarily.”
“Yes, of course. What of the other teachers? I don’t think they really knew what was going on.”
“No, we have no reason to believe that they were involved in any way, but they must have turned a blind eye.” He sighed.
“The girls will need me until Lady Devine can find a replacement for Sallstone. And I think I can manage that job.”
“I am afraid you cannot. You will be busy with quite another as the Lady of Dartmour, if you will do me the honor of marrying me.”
“I am a white witch,” she said ominously. “Is that what you want?”
“I am a warlock with powers that sometimes border on the Dark. Will you still take me as your husband?”
It did not take an incantation or magic ring to predict her answer.
~ Epilogue ~
HE STOOD NAKED with his manhood swollen with need as it throbbed and danced before her openly lustful gaze.
She spread her hands over the silken gray sheets and pulled them off herself to display her own nakedness to him.
“Sassy … I can’t get enough … Will I ever get enough of you?” he whispered as he reached for and touched her nipple.
“I hope not, my husband.” She took his hand and put it to her lips. Then she placed it back on her breast and reveled in his groan of pleasure.
He climbed onto the bed and straddled her, using his hands and knees to enclose her. He bent with ease to first kiss her mouth. She loved the taste of his tongue, like honey, she had told him. She loved the scent of him, musky and masculine with a hint of pine.
His kisses traveled over her face, down to the hollow of her neck; he held both her breasts in his large hands and licked at her nipples before he traveled further to her belly. And then with one knee, he parted her legs wide to receive his tongue at the cleft between her thighs.
She moaned as he worked her, and she bucked with pleasure, calling out his name as his finger joined his tongue and he shoved it deep inside. He vibrated her at just the right spot with his other hand, and the rocket explosion of relief made her entire body shudder with sweet pleasure.
“Justin … oh … yes,” she said as he took his rod and placed it at her sweet sugar box and asked her if she wanted him.
“This … do you want this now … are you ready, sweetlife?”
“Yes, now—give it to me now!”
And he did, as he had so many times since their wedding day the month before. Later, after they had explored new positions and new ways to please one another, Sassy sighed and said, “This is real magic, Justin.”
He kissed her nose. “There is no magic that comes close.”
“Do you think Percy and Sophy are as happy? I cannot think anyone could be as happy as we are.”
“Everyone finds their own level of happiness, but what you and I have … oh my Sassy, oh my …” he said before grabbing hold of her between her thighs once more.
~ End ~
Available in February 2013:
After the love of her life is taken from her at Waterloo, Jenny is sure that joy and love are lost t
o her forever. But life had more in store for Jenny,
After the Storm (unedited)
~ Prologue ~
THE WIND, NO longer warm from the rays of the sun, bit at her face, causing her to blink. Long, chestnut-colored hair whipped around her slender neck and her lashes. She put one ungloved, delicate hand up and brushed the thick strands away from her face as she stopped her determined steps.
Desolate eyes stared at the tall oak—their oak. They had carved their initials there when they had a future, when they had hope.
“Johnny,” she whispered. “Oh my Johnny.” Finality infiltrated her tone and resignation the slope of her shoulders. Anguish tempered by time swept through her body as she dropped to her knees, heedless of the damp grass.
A year had passed—one entire year since the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, since the last time she had kissed his lips, saw his face—one year since Waterloo.
She felt a sick sensation take over when she tried to recall his face, that wondrous, boyishly handsome face, as he stood before her that awful night.
They went, all of them, almost merrily to Waterloo. Even then—with those dreadful drums beating throughout Brussels—even then, they looked as though they were off to a parade.
Jenny remembered the sound of those drums, calling their men to arms. The officers attending the Duchess of Richmond’s ball left hurriedly, some actually going off to battle in their ball attire, and Johnny, her Johnny had been among them.
Exploding cannons—the sound filled the atmosphere, as the Beau Monde breathlessly awaited the outcome. So many of her friends, so many of the English gentry, were there in Brussels that spring.
Napoleon had escaped, gathered his army, and begun to march. The Duke of Wellington, their hero, went off to meet him. The English believed that Wellington would win the encounter with the Frenchman and were there to witness it.
No one had anticipated the amount of blood it would take to fulfill their expectation. Thus it happened on June 18, 1815, that Wellington met Boney at Waterloo, and her John was lost forever.
Jenny thought that she could no longer cry and was surprised at the tear that made its way down her cheek. Mac had been there. He had lived, and while she searched for John, he found her.
Lieutenant William McMillan had taken hold of her shoulders, and when she saw his distorted features she backed up from him, screaming. She wasn’t sure anymore what she had screamed.
“Jen, Johnny’s last words to me were of you. He said he loves you and that you have to move on…”
She closed her eyes now. She had come to their tree to say good-bye, but could she? She didn’t feel ready. “Haunt me, Johnny, come to me as a ghost,” she hugged herself and prayed, “Stay with me forever.”
Her father and aunt had hurried her home to Devon, and even for their sakes it had been so very difficult not to fall into a decline. For weeks all she wanted to do was go to sleep and not wake up.
Her father had coaxed her outside by telling her the horses she loved needed attention. And that had worked to get her out a bit. Slowly, albeit listlessly, she began to eat, talk, walk, but she felt as though all joy in life had been snatched away.
She got to her feet and touched the tree before turning towards home. She loved the quiet solitude of her beloved Devon landscape. It was like a tonic that soothed her. Johnny was never quite at home in the country. He was too restless.
She crossed the open field with slow, long strides and felt the overgrown grass brush against the thin material of her stockings at her ankles and calves. The day had been touched with scudding clouds, and they hovered with the tease of rain.
It was still mid-afternoon, and yet, because of the overcast sky, it appeared later. Jenny’s gaze swept upwards, and she made the decision to take the shortcut across Farmer Cubbins’ field. She reached the roadside fence, picked up her skirts, climbed nimbly up, sat on the aged wood stocks, and then pushed herself forward onto the country dirt road.
She had been so engrossed with getting her skirts past the splintered rail and her feet over the ditch that lined the road that she hadn’t noticed the rider coming around the bend.
Her sudden descent onto the road caused the horse to rear and champ at his bit. This startled Jenny, and before she knew what had happened, she had released a screech, stepped forcefully backward, and landed herself in the very ditch she had tried to avoid.
According to prophesy, Ravena is the only one who can rescue a powerful sorcerer trapped in another dimension—but the prophesy doesn’t promise she’ll survive the experience. Read her story in
Hungry Moon—Quicksilver
~ Prelude ~
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet
1575, Scottish Highlands, where many honored their clans and chose to follow the old ways
Quinn MacValdane had a great deal of weight on his shoulders, but those shoulders were huge and certainly capable of carrying the burden. The weight, however, was unlike any other he had ever lifted, and he was tired of constantly having to deal with it. He just wasn’t ready to get married!
He was more than six months away from turning thirty and tired of the nagging as his birthday drew closer. He had to get out and away from it!
Mayhap he just needed a tussle with the pretty tavern wench, Sarah, to loosen up his nerves? Och but he liked her full breasts. The notion of her naked body under him made him smile, and he felt his dick spring up, ready for action.
A crackle of twigs made him look around and hold his lantern up.
He had heard the rumors but had shrugged them off. He wasn’t concerned—why should he be?
He was a sorcerer with supreme powers and had naught to fear from the beast.
Thus, he proceeded into the woods to take the shortcut to the town tavern. He grinned and hummed to himself, much like a boy at the thought of a few drinks with his friends and then a bit of fun with Sarah. She was a lovely, full-bodied woman …
He heard something again.
His hearing had always been extraordinary, and it told him now that something moved stealthily through the woods at his back and was eating up distance between them.
Once again, he held up his lantern and looked around—not afraid, but wary, very wary, for he knew that something evil was at his back.
He touched the silver-tipped sword that was tucked at his belt. If something rabid was out there, it was time to put an end to it! And, bloody damn, he was just the man to do it. He would enact his shield, protect himself from getting bitten, and finish the beast once and for all. The shield would protect him from the dangers of a rabid bite.
Everything in the forest seemed to go still.
Nothing seemed to move. Even the crickets had ceased their chatter.
Warily he started forward again.
His mother’s face flashed in his mind.
If only she would stop her nagging at him. Lately it was always the subject at the dinner table.
She was a dear heart, but he wasn’t in love, and he wasn’t ready to tie himself down to one woman.
She wanted grandchildren, something to fill the void and still the grief of his father’s passing. She wanted him to carry on the line.
He liked being single … he liked women …
He had told her to leave him be.
He was the only son, she enjoyed reminding him. She wanted to keep Valdane in a direct line. If he didn’t have a son, the castle and the estate would go to his father’s brother. What she didn’t realize was he didn’t care. He loved his good uncle—why shouldn’t the estate go to him?
These thoughts were once again interrupted, and Quinn MacValdane knew the creature was not only at his back, it had had gained ground.
The first thing that assailed him was the odor. Musky, and because his sense of smell was as good as his hearing, the scent of fresh sweet blood filtered through to him. It was
dripping saliva mixed with blood.
The second thing that assailed him was the sound of the beast, the low, unthinking wild growl. The sound was primal as the creature trumpeted hungrily with mindless rage.
The third thing was the sure knowledge that this was something sinister, something otherworldly: more, so much more than a rabid beast—more than the ‘werewolf’ he had actually expected to appear.
It was near, and it was exploding with Dark Magic.
This beast was frothing at the mouth and mad.
He would not be able to outrun it, and he wasn’t sure his shield would hold against its Dark Magic. What was this? What kind of werewolf had magic?
He felt its power vibrate in the air. He had been just a teen when the male members of his family had hunted and killed a werewolf years ago. This was so much more.
Quinn MacValdane did the only thing he could do: he enacted a spell that enswathed him with a protective shield.
It should have been enough.
He set down his lantern and withdrew his silver-tipped sword.
His shield should have worked like a coat of armor, but he had been right—this was more, so much more than a werewolf. This creature wielded Dark Magic and had stalked him with purpose.
It stood a foot taller than Quinn’s six feet. It clawed the air, its amber eyes burning with bloodlust. It was drooling saliva and blood from its recent kill, and it roared with fury.
