My heart batters against my chest as I steady myself and grip my leather equipment bag. “Where is the nest?”
Samson frowns and he stands rigidly, his shoulders filled with tension.
There is no nest. “Why am I really here, Samson?”
“Because I will not allow you to destroy me.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “You will start a new life in America, away from me and Delphine.”
“My life is here. Did you honestly think I would go?”
“You should have loved me unconditionally, the same way I loved you.”
“I tried, Camilla, and I do love you in my own way, I swear it, but I need Delphine to provide me with the things you cannot.”
“I will expose you to the world!”
“No!” He lunges and shoves me hard.
I tip over, arms flailing, and the strap of my equipment bag snags on a branch. My arms reach up, grabbing the bough to stop myself from tumbling into the soggy terrain. The branch breaks with a loud snap. I land hard on my back—splash—the breath knocked out of my lungs. Samson curses and charges at me. I swing the broken branch with all my strength, striking him in the chest, knocking him down.
Samson tumbles face first into the muck. The bog squelches and sucks at his body. He pushes himself onto his elbows and struggles to his knees. Uttering a frustrated roar, he puts all his weight on his right knee and struggles to position his left foot on firm soil. As he shifts his weight to his foot, arms pinwheeling for balance, his boot punches through the thin carpet of moss. Samson plunges knee-deep into unstable ground. He fights to extricate his leg but only manages to sink deeper.
Gasping for breath on the ground, I watch him flounder. Samson tried to kill me. The realization sends my heart into a frenzy of uneven beats.
The more he thrashes, the deeper he sinks, and when the ooze reaches his thighs, he transforms into a wild animal, shrieking and howling and clawing at grass that tears beneath his grip. He sinks and sinks, past his hips, to his waist.
Slowly, I roll onto my belly, spreading my weight evenly along the shifting layer of peat. I inch forward until I reach firmer ground and cautiously rise on my elbows. Samson’s feral eyes meet mine, and they beg for help. His muddied hair lies plastered against his scalp. Water trickles down his face.
“For the love of God, Camilla, save me!” He holds out a hand.
I must rescue him. My heart pulses wildly in my ears. I wriggle through the wet grasses and reach for him. Our fingers are inches apart, so I crawl closer. The bog tightens its hold on him, submerging him to his chest.
“Please, Camilla, hurry!”
We make contact. Our hands clasp tightly. Samson pulls so hard I fear he will tear my arm from its socket. Dear Lord, no! I am not freeing him from the boggy terrain. Instead, he is pulling me forward, pulling me down with him. I brace myself by digging in with my knees, but they sink into the mire.
I will not die for Samson.
With a defeated moan, I release him and stare at my hand. My engagement ring is gone. Samson holds it between his fingers, despair etched on his face.
The broken branch lies a few feet away. I crawl to it and toss it at Samson, hoping it will give him purchase. He seizes it, but he is like a drowning man grabbing at an anchor. The wood immediately sinks into the water, and his arms disappear beneath the surface.
A wave of nausea overcomes me. I can do nothing more. His screams deafen me, and I hold my palms over my ears. I hate him for betraying me, but does he deserve to die?
The blame will be on my shoulders.
There is no one nearby to call for help. I have no rope. I have nothing.
And I am glad.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“This is who I am,” I admit to Hephaestus. “Surely you no longer desire me.” I dread the answer and wait for him to pass judgment.
For a long time he says nothing. He stares at me, his eyes dull, unreadable. I cross my arms over my chest, remembering my return from the bog, stumbling over the uneven ground, mounting Beauty and galloping down the desolate stretch of road to London. My mind in tumult, I promptly purchased an airship ticket in Samson’s name. After giving his father the letter, I arranged for Samson’s luggage to be sent aboard the American Eagle. In the confusion at boarding, no one seemed to notice only the bags embarked on the dirigible and not their owner. The lightning storm that struck the Eagle from the sky that very evening proved to be a most fortuitous event. I had to answer many questions about Samson’s abrupt departure, and was even questioned by Scotland Yard after his father insisted Samson would never leave his family with so little explanation, but in the end I became the first woman in England to head a powerful enterprise, Panoptography Limited, and my career as a sexual blackmailer began.
At last Hephaestus speaks. “Your fiancé lured you into the swamp to murder you. Do not blame yourself for abandoning him. He met a just end.”
I breathe a long, relieved sigh, and a heavy weight lifts from my shoulders.
He tilts his head at the cabinet. “What of these other men?”
“I discovered their infidelities, took Panoptographs of their immoral behavior and blackmailed them. All of them bent to my will save two.” I explain about Neville Mountbatten and Darmond Fitzwellington but neglect to mention the physical reprimands I meted out. Those details are best left for another day. “Fitzwellington is more unpredictable—and more dangerous—than I initially believed.” I relate my encounter with the Chinese dragon.
“You need protection. Allow me to stay with you tonight.”
“I will ask Ursula to prepare a room.”
“I wish to share yours.”
Mine? “Yes!” The word drops eagerly from my mouth.
Hephaestus folds me into his arms, and my fears vanish into the aether. Clinging to him, pressing my cheek against his massive chest, I close my eyes and allow the tears to fall. “I was afraid you would leave me.”
“No, darling. There is so much more I need to discover about you.” He wipes away my tears. “I know what you need, my sweet. Forgiveness.”
Do I deserve forgiveness after all I have done? My heart beats so loudly. Love threatens to burst free, like a dove from its cage, like a rose opening in the sun.
“Your heart belongs to me.” He squeezes my pendant in his fist.
Taking my hand, he leads me to the bed. We stand next to it, and I am all atremble. He reaches behind me to undo the eyelets on my bodice, but I stop him.
“This time, I will undress you.” I have only stripped men bare during my punishment sessions, mostly with the aid of my knife.
Using my hands in a tender fashion is a novelty, and my heart flutters. My fingers hover, then take hold of his shirt, and I reveal Hephaestus’ chest one button at a time. After pulling his shirt off his shoulders, I run my palms hungrily through the coarse hair that forms a line down his belly, to his sinewy, muscular arms. My pearl awakens, and moisture gathers in my nether folds. I want him closer to me, touching me.
Only his trousers remain, and I work on those buttons as well. My breath catches in my throat. Hephaestus twines his fingers in my hair. We do not speak. We do not need to.
My fingers brush against the bulge in his trousers. I stop, unsure of myself. Yet I have seen women pleasure men so frequently that I should not hesitate. I know exactly what I must do to please him. After undoing the buttons, I let the trousers fall. His erection presses against his thin cotton drawers. Taking a breath, I push the drawers down as well, revealing a member larger than any I have seen in the past. Considering Hephaestus’ stature, I should not be surprised.
He steps out of his trousers and cups my chin. “If you are uncomfortable, my sweet, you need not go farther.”
“I want to.” My cunny insists.
I run my finger from the base of his shaft to the head of his member, admiring the veins snaking along the surface. Hephaestus expels a shuddering breath. My touch excites him, and that in turn excites me
. Closing my fist around his member, I run my hand from top to bottom and then from bottom to top. My other hand joins in, duplicating the motion, and soon the rhythm sets Hephaestus on fire. His lips part, and he watches my rapid movements.
“Squeeze slightly more,” he instructs.
His eyes are smoldering embers, his touch is fiery hot, and he slides his hands down my arms. I continue the movements over and over, and Hephaestus thrusts his hips forward, pushing his manhood more firmly into my grip. After several more thrusts, he stops, taking a series of shallow breaths.
He leans forward, his lips hovering by my earlobe, and kisses me. The kiss tickles, and I laugh.
“We are treading on dangerous ground, Camilla.”
“How so?”
“If you continue to fondle my manhood, I will throw you down on the bed and ravish you.”
My heart pounds. “What if my deepest desire is to be ravished?” Years of pent-up longing struggles to burst free, and for once I will not stop it. My fantasies must come true. Hephaestus must bed me, slide his cock into me, make me moan and gasp as I have seen so many other women do.
“Considering your rigid views about love, I want you to think carefully about our relationship. I am not one to obey rules, and you are overly fond of them, my dear. You allow them to control your life.”
“Samson’s death hardened me, but you have shown me the power of forgiveness, and I realize change is necessary.”
“You cannot spend the rest of your life blackmailing men who have mistresses.”
No? Yet so many men need to be punished for their sins. What shall I do instead? “I have to consider my future. One thing is certain, however. I want you to be part of it.”
Hephaestus folds me into his arms, and I release his member most reluctantly. My pearl quivers with need, so I place my arms around his waist, clamp his thigh between my legs and shamelessly rub myself against him. He chuckles and encourages me by gripping my hips and following my movements.
I look up at him teasingly. “There are many ways to pleasure a woman. You need not take my virginity.”
His lips brush mine. “Lust becomes you, Camilla.”
My cheeks grow hot. Hephaestus skillfully removes my garments, and once I am nude, my frenzied rubbing continues. I feel his skin against mine, his warmth against me, as though I am standing by a fire on a cold winter’s night. He is soft and solid and hard all at once. My left hand drops to his buttocks, while my right returns to his cock, stroking it lovingly. Hephaestus moans, and I smile. He tightens his hold on my hips.
“Savor the sensation, my sweet.” He nuzzles my ear. “Make it last. Do not be so hasty to attain release.”
He sets a new rhythm for me, controlling the movement of my hips, and I rub in slow, sinful circles. Better, so much better. My pleasure intensifies. How will it feel when Hephaestus makes love to me for the first time? Closing my eyes, focusing on his powerful grip on my body, I imagine him laying me down on the bed and climbing on top of me. He covers me in kisses, first tender, then passionate, then with bites that make me gasp and cause my pulse to race. He lies between my thighs, spreading them wide, and I wrap both legs around his waist, waiting, wanting, yearning for more. I need to know what it feels like to have a man inside me. His lips pause over my nipples. His tongue licks them, tastes them, and his strong hands knead my breasts.
I rub myself faster on his thigh, and my release comes quickly, the sensation mounting to a crescendo, increasing in strength, increasing still. Stronger and stronger, the feeling grows until a moan escapes my throat. The orgasm diminishes in intensity, and I keep rubbing myself, enjoying the final moments. Spent, I rest my head against his chest.
“Hephaestus,” I whisper. “It was heaven.”
“You have not truly tasted heaven. Wait until you offer yourself to me.”
“And you will make me yours? Then I will experience the flames of paradise?” For my desire burns brighter every time I see him.
He laughs at my wordplay and kisses the top of my head. After clinging to my virginity for so many years, I quiver in anticipation of giving myself to Hephaestus.
“Now put on your shift,” he says. “I fear if you sleep nude you will tempt me into all sorts of debauchery.”
I slip into my best nightdress and when I return to bed, he is already under the covers, nude, waiting for me. He raises the bed sheets to allow me in. I turn onto my side, and his body curls against mine, his member hard and insistent against my backside. His powerful arms envelop me, and I have never felt safer than I do now.
“Sleep well, my love,” he whispers and kisses my neck.
“Good night, Hephaestus.” I cannot wait for the morrow to be upon us.
Chapter Nine
The following evening, long after dark, Hephaestus and I sit in comfortable silence in the parlor, which Ursula has brought to life by removing the white sheets and adding vases of blood-red camellias on the mantle. The room smells of chamomile, and I pour another cup of tea for Hephaestus.
Devlin is now running an errand to inquire what has become of Fitzwellington. I am deeply worried, for Hephaestus cannot remain here indefinitely as my protector, and my home is no longer a sanctuary. I will not feel a sense of security until I discover how the letter came to appear on the vanity. Although my resolve has weakened, I will not permit a man to defeat me.
“Allow me.” Hephaestus pours more tea into my fine china cup.
How courteous of him. I sent Ursula to bed long ago. “Thank you. It is reassuring to have you spend the night here once more.”
“What will the owners of the neighboring estates say?”
“They are a good distance away, but I fear they may notice your prolonged visits. I can imagine the gossip.” Unfortunately, that gossip may jeopardize my friendship with Lady Aldridge.
“Is society’s perception of you all that matters?”
“No, but…it is of importance. I do not wish to be ostracized, especially so soon after beginning to break free from my isolation.”
Outside, the dogs erupt into frantic barks. Devlin must have arrived. The knocker raps loudly five times, and the automaton opens the door and escorts Devlin into the parlor. His ill-fitting overcoat falls halfway down his thighs, all the better to hide his pockets, I suppose. He seems oddly serious this evening, as if preparing to deliver unwelcome news.
“Well?” I finger the stem of my cup. “What of Fitzwellington?”
“As best I can tell, he’s onboard the Eastern Star and bound for Hong Kong.”
I take a long sip of tea to settle my nerves. “How is it possible? A letter arrived yesterday, as though by magic.”
“I asked if he might have paid somebody to put the letter in your house, but I don’t think so.” He glances quickly at Hephaestus.
“Then what is happening here?” I drink more of the sweet tea, but it fails to soothe me. “Who was in my house? How did he enter? Hephaestus, have you any idea?”
I gesture for Devlin to sit down, but he shakes his head. The grandfather clock chimes midnight, and I start. The sound echoes loudly in the foyer. A moment later, the knight comes to life, creaking and clanking across the floor toward the parlor. But no one has knocked at the door.
“Is the automaton malfunctioning?” I gaze questioningly at Hephaestus, whose attention is riveted to his invention.
The knight halts before the table, all its metal parts winking and gleaming in the lamplight. Its right hand reaches for its chest, presses hard, and a metal panel springs open. Iron fingers reach inside the hollow space, pull out an envelope and place it next to the teapot.
My hand shakes so much that tea spills from my cup. I stare at the familiar envelope, and the knight pivots on its heel and returns to its place by the door. My skin turns cold. I am numb. So numb.
“You,” I say to Hephaestus, almost choking.
“Yes.” Hephaestus pushes his teacup away and leans forward.
His bulk looms over me. “How
is it possible? We had not even met when the first letter arrived.” My thoughts run wild. I seize the envelope, the fourth I have received until now, and tear it open.
DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO I AM? YOUR FORTUNE WILL SOON BE MINE.
“The handwriting is the same as the third letter. But the others, they were different.” Hephaestus has a partner. Is it Fitzwellington? I think back to the first two messages, which came from the post and not the automaton. The devil will come for your soul. The devil. “Devlin.”
Mussed hair falls over the boy’s forehead, and he nods slowly. By ignoring Devlin’s needs, I shaped him into the type of man I feared he would become. Oh my God. Then I paired him with Hephaestus, who hinted we had met before.
“You and your riches.” Devlin’s eyes flash. “How many times did I ask you for work? Proper, respectable work! Do you know what it’s like on the street, thievin’ every day, never knowin’ if that’s the day you end up in prison.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry don’t mean nuthin’! You live here all alone in your big house while the rest of us is sleepin’ in alleys and beggin’ for coppers!” He stands rigidly, his hands shoved into the pockets of his threadbare coat. “The day you got me to distract the woman at the post office, and then all those Panoptographs o’ Neville Mountbatten showed up in weddin’ invitations, I started to figure out what you was doin’.”
“I should not be surprised that you discovered my scheme,” I say softly. “You were always exceptionally bright.” Nevertheless, I did not send him to school, did not offer him gainful employment, did not make any attempt to remove him from his poisonous environment.
“He is an astute young man, and we spoke of you a great deal,” says Hephaestus. “Do you remember where you saw me, Camilla?”
“Honestly, I do not.” It is the truth.
“Have more tea.” He pours me another cup.
Reluctantly, I take a sip, and the liquid scalds my lips.
“Let me tell you about myself. I studied art in Italy for two years. After completing my studies, I arrived at my father’s home, and I saw a woman exit the front door.”
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