A Faerie Fated Forever

by Mary Anne Graham

  Geoff's appraisal bore malice verging on insanity. "Son of a bitch," he said as he executed a military half turn and stalked away.

  “Shall we?” Nial asked as he led their party to retrieve wraps and the carriage. The laird bit back the smile that wanted to become a laugh at the way John and Vi studiously ignored his obvious disarray. Bonnie looked from Nial to her daughter and gave a "harumph," likely meant to sound judgmental but bearing more than a trace of admiration for her daughter's daring. Carrick clapped a hand to his shoulder a wee bit harder than necessary and muttered a reminder that to a Scot a claim was a vow. Nial pacified the other laird by replying with the truth - that Heather was more than his mate, she was his life.

  When the carriage drew up to the Standings mansion the others exited. Nial didn't get out, choosing not to display the erection fertilized to gargantuan proportions by hot anticipation. He kissed Heather's hand and responded quietly to her, “I’ll see you, Nial,” with a murmured, “Sooner than you think.” She didn’t quite hear him but needed to escape to the peace of her room to think about the evening too much to question him further.

  After the group got out, Nial had the coachman drive him around the corner drop him off. He climbed the fence that enclosed a small garden and settled on a bench that had a view of Heather’s room. When he saw the light of a candle enter the room, he forced himself to wait several minutes longer. He circled the big tree behind the house with his legs and climbed up. He jumped stealthily onto the small balcony outside her room and peered in.

  She sat on the side of her bed holding something in her hands. He identified the black and red cloth as a ladies’ lace-trimmed handkerchief, but could not understand the evil that emerged from it to batter him across the pane of glass he peered through. She shook it out straight in front of her and stared at it intently, but without seeing it. It was then that he noticed the monogram and identified the “S” as belonging to Sorcha.

  It brought back part of the night that nearly ended his future. The memory had either been obscured by the witch's potion, washed away in the alcohol he tried to drown himself in or simply erased as too painful to handle. It was what he knew she saw so he forced himself to go back and stand beside her at the hedge leading into the garden. He was embedded in the witch, filling her with lust brewed by her black magic. Sorcha reached inside her bodice and drew out the cloth, this handkerchief. She bent down to where her body held his and swabbed the black fabric with the rancid refuse of their joinder. She'd tossed it to the ground at Heather's feet with a comment that it was all of Nial she'd ever have. He'd looked up as Heather bent to pick up the vile thing. As she straightened, the glint of moonlight had caught the gold of her eyes.

  Heather put the handkerchief to her nose and sniffed. Nial shouted “NO” at the top of his lungs as he opened and plunged through the window in a single motion. He shouted it again, completely forgetting the need for stealth in a race to get to her before it was all gone. He stood at the base of the window with his nightmare running through his mind.

  Nial advanced on her and ripped the cloth from her hands.

  “No, that’s mine. Give it back, I need it,” Heather insisted, reaching for the cloth.

  “Why? My love, why would you hold onto this? Why do you need it?” She jumped up to try to grasp the handkerchief he held just out of her reach. His challenge brought her temper to the fore and she spoke without thinking.

  “I need it as a permanent reminder that none of this means anything except that you’re carrying a boatload of guilt and that you missed your calling as an actor.” His face colored and he gritted his jaw. Good. Perhaps she had finally reached the man beneath the pretense.

  Tonight he had subjugated his manhood to her need for proof. How dare she think it all make believe? The accusation thrust him beyond control, beyond tempering his words or his actions, beyond anything but making her satisfy the craving that she had stoked so publicly. By God, she had asked for it and she was going to get it – she was going to get all of it.

  As he spoke his hands ripped at his shirt, “Guilt? I felt extreme guilt, awash in guilt, love, for about two minutes. Then you bent over and the moonlight reflected the gold in your eyes and I felt nothing except the pain of the empty forever I had sentenced myself to without you.”

  He ripped the shirt from his chest, but forgot that he wore a jacket and the sleeves of the jacket got tangled with the cufflinks that bore the emblem of his clan. Seething and beyond himself, he stepped on the jacket with a foot as he ripped it and the shirt off and tossed them on the floor.

  Her eyes widened with momentary fear. Her actions and accusations had beckoned the male animal and now that beast stood before her. Nial had cast aside the pretensions of daily life. In the fury of metamorphosis, the beast controlled the man and it lacked the man’s capability to pretend or conceal. This was what she wanted but he responded much differently than she expected.

  Buttons were beyond barbarians too, so he ripped at his pants and tore them in his eagerness to free the most beastly part of him. Now completely nude, he turned and stalked to the fireplace, holding her eyes as he waved the handkerchief before him.

  “This is not the truth. This was never the truth. This was black magic, evil, lies and drugs all driven by an insane woman’s desire for power. She is gone to wherever the faeries have banished her and I wish them joy of her torment. I burned her personal belongings and this scrap of fabric is all that exists of her on this world. And now,” he said with a flick of his wrist as he tossed it into the fire, “it’s gone too.”

  He turned to her only when the flames devoured the cloth. He cupped his hands around the hard that rode his stomach, holding it out for her inspection. He watched as she surveyed his turgid arousal and awaited the moment when her anger and insecurity changed to desire. Her breathing quickened, she flushed and her nipples pebbled against her gown. He had summoned the woman. Still he stood there, holding the visible proof of his desire for her inspection.

  His need throbbed before her, open, unvarnished and magnetically alluring. She could not look away from it. As she watched, his hand moved up and down the organ he held, and a single drop of liquid desire emerged from the tip. “Guilt, Heather?”

  She stared at the pearly drop, seeing male passion in pure undiluted form. It couldn’t be imitated or produced at will. The greatest actor on earth could not pretend the seething froth of animalistic urges that made the beast challenge her with his need and his desire. The hand holding the phallus shook ever so slightly. Her gaze darted to his eyes, which were fixed on her in an unguarded, open plea for recognition of his love.

  He hadn’t expected the switch in her attention. He was a man and a Scot and he couldn’t beg for anything, even the love he needed more than life. He hadn’t been able to hide the plea from his eyes, knew it was there, but expected her attention to stay focused on his play with his manhood.

  Their eyes locked and he flushed like a small boy caught in mischief. Like the plea, he couldn’t hide the flush at being caught. She was a woman and a Scot so she would scorn his weakness. Hell, she'd laugh at it. She would expect more from her man. She could never respect, let alone love, a man who would lower himself to beg for anything. He told himself that he could claim she misread his expression. He ordered himself to chase it from his gaze. But she was important to him – no she was necessary. He couldn’t live without her so his desperation overcame his will, and the plea became more open. The tremor in the hand holding his staff grew more pronounced. Then he shamed himself as badly as a Scotsman could by saying the word out loud and more than once.

  “Please. Sweetheart, please, I…”

  His face showed how appalled he was with himself in the instant before he turned away, dropped his hand and strode towards the window. He had to get out of her presence before he heard her laugh. He was at the window in a trice and lifting his leg to escape outside when he heard her voice instead.

  “Nial, stop. Turn around.�
��

  He stopped, but he couldn’t face her. He couldn't turn around but he couldn't leave. He stood there, gripping the window ledge with hands that trembled harder. He knew the plea in his eyes was profound and shut them, squeezing tight against the tears that threatened to emasculate him right in front of her.

  She threw off her gown and ran to him. He had one leg outside the window and one inside when he felt her bare breasts at his back, “Nial, I love you. Don’t leave me. Don’t go.”

  He turned but it was the beast that lunged for her. Male pretension would never have allowed the plea, and the voracious animal didn’t kiss her so much as lurch forward to seize her mouth. He pushed her backwards and fell on top of her, consumed by the thought that the woman who played him until she made him beg would pay. She'd pay right now.

  The man tried to return, briefly, pausing as the beast shoved between her legs. “I can’t wait. I can’t make this good for you.” Then he thrust, impaling her with his full length in a single surge. The beast was unchained and untamable. It raped and pillaged, and he heaved and plunged berserkly, need driving him to frenzy. He came alone, in less than a half score of thrusts.

  The man reappeared, collapsing against the pillows with weightless arms, acknowledging his total shame. The man arrived too late because the beast had already had his way, taking her without tenderness or consideration and most certainly without consent. He had just raped the only woman he would ever love. He forced enough strength in his arms to crawl off of her and bury his face in the sheets. He couldn’t stop the tears that trailed from his navy eyes at the knowledge that the monster had devoured his future. He could hide them.

  “Nial?” She called, but there was no response. She called louder, “Nial?”

  He rolled over. As he had faced her with his shame, he must now face her with his grief. He would not add to his list of sins. When her father’s blade sheered his monstrous member, leaving him to bleed to death upon the sheets where his crime occurred, he would face his due punishment with courage. He would not die a coward. His fists grasped the sheets as he widened his legs to allow her father’s sword full access to the ravening fiend between his thighs.

  That brute lacked even the common decency to wither in ignominy. Monster that it was, at the sight of Heather’s bare breasts and still erect nipples, at the sight of the cream of his lust coating her rainbow of brown curly nether locks, it hardened anew. It would make a ready target for the blade.

  “Why have you not cried for your father, my love? I’m ready,” he said, though tears at the eternity he would enter and spend alone still rolled unheeded down his cheeks.

  Heather started to doubt his sanity. Had she driven him too far? It took a little time for her dazed heart to kick in again. It took considerably longer for her brain to function. So it was a bit before she realized that Nial’s shoulders shook with sobs. Perhaps her overworked brain still wasn’t working right for she could make no sense of his words. Why would she summon her father? And more importantly, why was he lying rigidly still, clutching the sheets? Why was he crying? She finally believed him so this should be an occasion for shared joy rather than tears.

  If she couldn’t make sense of emotions just yet, well, that was no reason to ignore the physical. She could deal with that. He had left her behind a moment ago and it was now her turn. She sat up in bed and crawled between his sprawled legs. He felt her motion but couldn’t face her again so he kept his eyes closed tight. A moment later he felt her tongue licking his traitorous sex, and his eyes jerked open wide. She winked at him and reached low to lick the balls that had fascinated her earlier.

  Apparently she had decided to torment him before she beckoned her father. Would she wait until his need was again rigid and uncontrollable? Perhaps she thought to lull him into believing he would reach satisfaction in her mouth, only to open it at the last moment to scream Carrick’s name and laugh as the blade severed his erect organ? He had to admire the deviousness of her plan, even as he schooled himself to resist.

  Then she took the head of his staff fully into her mouth and he thrust, not surprised to find resistance beyond him. He had been an idiot to try. His need for her was within her control. It had never been within his. As her fingers reached down to tickle his balls, he spread his legs to increase her access as he groaned and surged upward, seeking her tongue again. She curled it to a point and concentrated on licking the sensitive head and though he clenched ferociously he could not stop a pulse of ecstasy. She caught the drop in her mouth, moaned and licked her lips.

  He could take no more. Truly, he could not allow her to take him so far that he would beg her father to allow his completion before his traitorous tarse was severed. Another moment or two of this and he knew he would. Was it too much to ask to retain dignity and courage at the moment of death?

  He shook his head at the thought. “Heather, love, I admit I deserve this but, I seek mercy in my final moments.”

  Final moments? She raised her head to look into his eyes.

  “Summon your father now. I would not be so far gone that I cannot at least retain the pride not to beg for completion before his blade severs my sex.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? I’ve been trying ever so clearly to remind you that you left me behind a few minutes ago and you owe me now. You really don’t seem to be taking the hint well. Why would I call for my father and why would he bring his sword? You’re not making much sense.”

  He finally gave up his death grip on the sheets to prop himself on his elbows as he sat up to look her in the eyes. “Love, I lost control of myself a few moments ago. My only excuse is that I was overcome that you finally understood that you were my fate as I am yours. Then I went too far. You’re going to make me admit it. Is that what you wait for? Does your father await the words? Well then I will say them loudly. I raped you. There you have it, the admission.”

  She did burst out laughing then, but as moments trickled by with only her laughter and no irate sire with a blade bursting in, he sat up and seized her shoulders. “Heather?”

  “Darling, you got ahead of me a bit ago, surely you did. But you didn’t rape me for goodness sake. In fact, I treasured your loss of control for it more than anything, gave truth to your words. Sever your sex? Surely not, my fine laird.”

  She lay down on the sheets and spread her legs in invitation. “I have far better uses for it than that.”

  It took a couple of heartbeats before her words penetrated, but when his smile came, it was brilliant in its intensity. He still wore it while he made sure she caught up with him. She caught up so thoroughly, that she fell sound asleep, moments after the loving ended. He held her tenderly, loathe to accept the inevitable.

  He had to leave as a token to a society he gave less than a tinker’s damn about. Ostensibly, he must creep away before dawn so that the servants didn’t bandy tales of his presence far and wide. In truth, he didn't care if the whole house knew of it. Indeed, he cared not if the world knew. However, he would not shame her further, so he would go. But he lay a few moments longer, still unsure of her feelings. She said she loved him, but she was still uncertain. Unwittingly, as he had frantically stuffed handkerchiefs down her bosom he had reminded her of the events that brought her here.

  Had he finally convinced her or did she still have a test or two up her sleeve?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He took a great deal of teasing from Boz the next morning, which was not unexpected. However, when he went with his cousin to his club, he was astonished to learn that the public gossip was about an Earl who had just informed his wife he intended to divorce her to marry his mistress. The private gossip of the sort women saved for other women – well that was a different story.

  When he left the club to tend to some correspondence, he learned that the women of London had noticed his arousal, but only commented upon it in secret – or to him directly. A number of them made blatant propositions to take him up on what they thought he had been
showing off. He rarely blushed, but by the time he arrived at back at Sedgewick’s his entire body was pink.

  Heather overheard about seven conversations between women who could talk of little else but the “majesty of the Scot’s Highlands.” The man garnered enough attention before. It galled her that her actions increased the furor. She should demand that he never leave the house without wearing a banner that said “Heather’s property. Do not touch.” The number of women who wanted to lure him away daunted her and while she busily nurtured those insecurities and pondered her own questionable allure, she ran into Geoff. She shared a cup of tea with him, and his open admiration bolstered her confidence.

  Badgerton pressed his unexpected advantage. “The man lacks any sense of propriety. He made an idiot of himself last night, and everyone is talking about it.”

  “Yes, yes he did,” she said, her current prickly frame of mood beyond fairness.

  “Well, we can make up for lost time, Heather. Promise you will dance with me and have supper with me tonight?”

  Thinking that a bit of jealousy would do the spoiled laird a world of good, she responded, “Why, Geoff, I would be delighted.”

  That evening, she whirled around the dance floor in Geoff’s arms. She knew she looked her best in the moderately cut bronze gown because her dance card was filled. She tilted back her head to laugh at one of her companion's more blatantly admiring phrases, when Nial walked in. To say he was displeased would put it mildly. He stopped in mid-stride and absolutely glowered. The dance ended as he entered, and he sought his prey without delay.

  His ire and jealousy soothed her after the day she'd endured, hearing so much about Nial’s manly charms, and about how much each speaker wanted to taste those charms.

  Maclee opened his mouth to speak but Badgerton beat him to it by holding up the dance card fastened to Heather’s wrist. “Apparently the lady has come to her senses. You are out of luck tonight because every minute of her time is spoken for.”