Fate's Victim

by Roxane Beaufort

  Title Page

  FATE’S VICTIM

  by

  ROXANE BEAUFORT

  Publisher Information

  Fate’s Victim first published in 2003 by

  Chimera Books Ltd

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2010

  www.andrewsuk.com

  New Authors Welcome

  Copyright © Roxane Beaufort

  The right of Roxane Beaufort to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

  Advisory Note

  This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Introduction

  The vehicle stopped. She was lifted, carried down the steps, and then hoisted over a broad shoulder. She guessed it to be Aidan by the smell of him, and the way in which he held her with an arm under her buttocks.

  He was walking and she swayed, her head hanging down, her hair streaming, hat and pins lost in transit. Cold air. Sounds of footsteps and the jingle of harness as the cab retreated. Where was she? What was the bastard about to do to her? It was horrible to be robbed of sight and voice, and unable to struggle or defend herself.

  Would he let her go eventually, or did he intend to keep her prisoner? She heard the squeal of iron hinges and knew by his movements that he was descending. It was colder still, and damp, and Angela was terrified.

  Chapter 1

  It was a glorious morning. The sky was a cloudless blue, the moor stretching ahead, a light breeze brushing Angela’s face as she gave her mare full rein, galloping furiously, trying to outstrip Aidan. She loved to tease him, gaining confidence daily, though still hardly able to believe that he had chosen her from among the debutantes who had ‘come out’ that year, presented to Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace.

  He was so handsome and dashing and she thrilled to be in his presence. The mare’s strong thighs rose and fell beneath her and, though seated side-saddle, she was aware of the movement causing mayhem in her lower regions. Strange feelings had begun to possess her since meeting Aidan. She was never alone with him, always chaperoned, except when, as now, they went riding. Even then a groom was not far away though, she suspected, obeying Aidan’s instructions to keep a respectful distance.

  The wind whipped strands of her thick, curling hair across her face from beneath the veil and top hat; essential as part of a well-turned out young lady’s riding attire. Her figure-hugging jacket, cut just like a man’s, clinched her tightly corseted waist. Her long skirt, worn over breeches, flowed elegantly across the mare’s withers. But when she glanced over her shoulder to where Aidan was rapidly gaining on her, she had the wild desire to tear off her clothes and ride bareback and astride. She imagined the feel of saddle leather pressing against her naked female parts. The idea made a coil tighten deep inside her and she could feel dampness at the crotch of her knickers.

  Her breasts tingled, the nipples hard and almost painful, and these physical manifestations alarmed yet delighted her. She knew nothing about sexual congress, had never seen a naked man. Even the nude statues of Greek gods in the art galleries to which she had been taken as part of her education, though muscular and handsome, had been discreetly covered by a carved fig-leaf when it came to the genital area. And as for knowing what would take place on the wedding night when she eventually married Aidan? This was a closed book, such matters never, ever discussed, though her companion, Miss Maude Hicks, had hinted that she must obey her husband in all things and be brave and enduring of his demands in the nuptial chamber.

  Brave and enduring? These words inflamed Angela. What could they possibly mean? Would he hurt her? Somehow the notion of Aidan striking her with one of his aristocratic hands gave her those strange spasms of longing that centred below her waist. She liked to think of him being masterful, sometimes even expressing anger, but could not imagine why. The only other male contact of her own class was her father, Sir Barnaby Bayswater, and she adored him, a solitary child whose mother had died giving birth to her. He had a loud, hearty voice, sometimes lost his temper but rarely with her, a bluff, hard drinking, hard riding squire who owned Lairdland Manor and estate in this farming area of Somerset.

  Angela was eighteen, used to being waited on hand, foot and finger, and being told that she was beautiful. Her hair was a rich, dark brown that gave off reddish sparks when the light struck it. Her eyes reflected her mood, blue-green and unusual. They could sparkle with mischief, become languid with desire or flash with anger. She and Aidan made a handsome couple and when the time came for them to marry, it would surely be the wedding of the year.

  He caught up with her, reached across and placed a gloved hand on the bridle, slowing her horse. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he chided, smiling widely, his teeth white in contrast to his sun-browned face. ‘You’re not going to escape me, little thing. I demand a forfeit from you for even trying. A kiss at the very least.’ And he kneed his mount and headed towards a copse that lay not far away, leading Angela with him.

  Her heart was beating like a drum and she feasted her eyes on his profile, that hawk-like nose and strong chin, those high cheekbones and black hair and eyes that were as grey as the sea on a winter’s day, yet holding fire in their depths. He reminded her of a hero from a Brontë novel, for she was an avid reader, and never more so than when devouring tales of love and romance, with mysterious heroes who concealed sinister secrets and spirited heroines who tamed them in the end.

  It was shady beneath the trees, made darker after leaving the bright sunshine. Angela noticed that the groom did not follow them. The path was narrow, leading deeper into the wood, and her throat became dry with excitement and apprehension. What were Aidan’s intentions? He had spoken of kisses and he had kissed her once before, when she accepted his proposal after he’d begged her hand in marriage from her father. It had been a chaste kiss, a mere brushing of lips, but she treasured the memory, hugging it to herself and reliving it, especially when in bed at night. She would dwell on it, wriggling with excitement, her secret place wet and swollen, though she never dared touch herself.

  Aidan halted and, without relinquishing his hold on her mare’s rein, swung from the saddle, tethered his own animal to a nearby tree, removed his gloves and pocketed them, then came across to stand close to Angela’s knee. She looked down into his eyes and the expression in the depths of their black pupils made her dizzy. What did she read there? Was it true love, a deep and abiding passion that would last for all time? Or was it blazing desire, a heat that amounted to lust?

  She shivered and he reached up, his large hands clipping her waist and lifting her down into his arms. He stood her on her feet but did not let go. Her breasts were pressed to his chest and she could feel something hard – she didn’t know what – lodged against her belly. Without thinking she raised her arms and clasped them around his neck. His face came closer… closer still. She felt his warm breath on her lips and then the full glory of his mouth capturing her own.

  Angela gasped as his tongue penetrated and tangled with hers. She knew she should draw back, refusing to permit such an intimacy, but she couldn’t do it. She wanted
more and more, leaning her head against his enclosing arm and surrendering to all the wild and wicked sensations he now lavished on her.

  To her intense disappointment he raised his head, staring into her bemused eyes and murmuring, ‘Would you do anything for me, sweetheart?’

  ‘Oh yes, anything,’ she breathed, her hands sliding down to lie against the lapels of his riding jacket, palms flat as she became aware of the rise and fall of his broad chest.

  ‘Do you accept that as your betrothed I am now your master, and shall be even more so once we are married?’ There was a note in his voice that chilled her, and yet set her on fire, too.

  ‘I accept it, Aidan,’ she whispered.

  ‘I shall be your lord,’ he said harshly, gripping her under the elbows and dragging her closer, making her even more aware of that strange, lengthy object like a bar of iron at the front of his tight jodhpurs.

  ‘For ever,’ she vowed.

  ‘Good girl,’ he muttered, and there was a harsh note in his voice. ‘And this is to be our secret. You are not to tell anyone. Do you promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ she vowed.

  He released her but kept her fingers in his, and she followed him to where the bole of a large oak tree barred the way, its leafy canopy like a dome above them. Aidan pushed her against it, spreading her arms wide above her head and feasting greedily on the sight of her breasts. He took off his belt, pushed up her jacket sleeves, bound her wrists together and fastened the buckle end to a branch. He was not very gentle and the leather chaffed her delicate skin.

  He stood back a pace and admired his handiwork. ‘Beautiful,’ he commented, then removed her hat and veil and unpinned her hair. It came tumbling down like a silken curtain part concealing her shoulders. His hands fastened on the jacket and blouse and opened them wide, tearing aside the chemise and fingering her bare, up-thrusting breasts, his thumbs caressing the hard nipples.

  ‘Oh, Aidan… we shouldn’t… I mean, we must wait until we’re married,’ she protested weakly.

  He scowled down at her and she shivered at the sudden change in him, a cruel not a tender lover. She was helpless to stop him and he hitched up her skirt, and pulled down her breeches and cotton drawers. He cupped her mound, tangled with her dark bush and inserted a finger into the cleft, wriggling it against her little nodule that immediately hardened in response.

  Angela thought she was about to die of pleasure. ‘What are you doing?’ she cried, unable to move and not wanting to.

  ‘Testing your virginity,’ he replied. ‘I don’t intend to give my name to soiled goods.’

  ‘How dare you?’ she shouted indignantly, regaining control of her wayward parts and blushing furiously at their exposure.

  ‘I dare anything. I’m your master, remember?’

  He flung off his hacking jacket and waistcoat and began to unbutton his shirt. Angela stared, fascinated, her own discomfort forgotten. He slid the garment from his shoulders and let it fall to his waist, the tails still tucked into his jodhpurs. His chest was broad and muscular, and covered in a crisp pelt that circled the pectorals and red-brown nipples. At close to thirty he was a fine figure of a man, his body honed by riding, swimming and fencing. He had also rowed for Oxford University when an undergraduate. He was the answer to any maiden’s prayer, and he knew it.

  He stood spread-legged before Angela and gave her the full benefit of his impressive appearance, then picked up his crop and ran the lash through his hands in a slow, measured way.

  Angela drew in a breath, embarrassed by her naked breasts and lower body, but unable to stop staring at the rod-shaped object stretching to his waist under cover of his breeches. It seemed huge, grotesque and formidable and she longed for him to unfasten so she might see it. He followed the direction of her eyes and smiled.

  ‘You are curious about my organ?’ he said. ‘Ask me nicely. Say, “please, master, let me see it”.’

  The glade was hot, the sun captured between the high trees like a golden orb. It was a magical place and Angela’s senses swam. Her body throbbed with need, her nipples hard as cobnuts and her love-bud aching for something, she didn’t know what, only aware that she was dying of frustration. ‘Please,’ she whispered.

  His face hardened and his eyes snapped. ‘You have forgotten something. What did I tell you to say?’

  ‘Please, master,’ she faltered.

  Still holding the crop Aidan lowered his free hand to his fly and unbuttoned. As if panting for release his cock shot out through the gap, nine inches of stiff flesh. Angela could hardly believe her eyes. It was so huge, so dark-skinned with a shiny purple helm, the foreskin stretched back, and beneath it dangled two heavy balls like ripe plums in a hairy sac. Heavens above! What was she supposed to do with such a thing?

  He seemed to read her mind, smiling sardonically and saying, ‘One day you will rub it for me, my dear, and take it between those precious red lips, both those of your mouth and your labia. I shall use it to wrest your virginity from you and plunge it into your welcoming sheath. I’ll take your maidenhood and make a woman of you, using this mighty weapon of mine.’

  ‘On our wedding night?’ she murmured, awestruck.

  ‘Precisely,’ he replied, caressing the cock stem and head with his fingers, making it burgeon to even greater size.

  ‘But you’ll not do so now?’ Half of her wanted him to, the other half was terrified. Supposing he put a baby in her, though she had little idea how this might be achieved?

  ‘No, my dear, but I shall give you a little taste of my power,’ he replied, his penis sliding in and out through the tunnel of his curled palm. He let it go and it remained sturdy as a lance, bobbing as he moved. Leaving it on show he took up his crop and, before she could even register what was about to happen, brought it down across her naked thighs. She screamed at the searing pain, jerking against her bonds. Aidan repeated the action, raising his arm, the crop whistling through the air before biting into her flesh, while his penis jerked and wept clear dew.

  ‘Oh, oh… no more, Aidan, please!’ she sobbed, and he threw the whip aside and fastened his mouth on her breasts, nibbling the nipples, sucking them into even larger and more fevered point.

  His cock was wetting her lower belly, leaving streaks of moisture, and he groaned as he tongued her breasts, then let her go almost savagely, tucked his organ away and fastened up. In a few moments he was fully dressed again and wearing his low-crowned topper, the perfect English gentleman. He untied her wrists and she rubbed her numbed arms, then adjusted her clothing, pinned up her hair and retrieved her hat. Her thighs hurt and she was sure the crop had left marks, but somehow the idea of stripping off in front of the mirror in the privacy of her bedroom and viewing these stripes made her tremble.

  ‘Are you ready, my love?’ he asked politely and, when she nodded, he assisted her into the saddle, bending and cupping his hands so that she might use them for mounting.

  She could hardly bring herself to meet his slightly mocking eyes. What unmaidenly behaviour! And she had enjoyed every moment of it, though was unsure about the union with his crop and her bare skin. That had hurt intolerably. Whatever was happening to her? Was she becoming a Scarlet Woman, a wanton hussy with no morals?

  Calmly he led her to the bridle path where they were joined by the groom, Jacob, and equally calmly rode with them to the lodge gate that led into the grounds of Lairdland. The topmost turrets and twirled chimney pots of the ancient house could be glimpsed some way off between the trees.

  ‘I shall call on you later,’ Aidan said, bowing over her hand and raising it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on the back of her glove. He turned to the groom, saying sternly, ‘See Lady Angela safely to the entrance, Jacob. If you fail in this duty you’ll have me to answer to.’

  With that he wheeled his horse and trotted away, leaving her more confused than ever before in her whole life.

  Jacob helped her to dismount, a sturdy youth with a winning smile, who now looked at her in a kno
wing manner that made her blush as she wondered if he had somehow seen and heard her recent contact with Aidan.

  She tipped her head at a haughty angle and swept past him, ordering crisply, ‘Daisy Belle needs a thorough rub down, and then make sure you cover her with her blanket. Give her a feed of bran-mash and don’t neglect her.’ She knew these instructions were totally unnecessary, but had to somehow assert her authority.

  Jacob nodded and touch his forelock. ‘Certainly, milady. Of course, milady. Leave Daisy Belle to me.’

  But as Angela climbed the wide stone steps leading to the front entrance she was uneasily aware that Jacob was looking at her in a bold way, as if he was imagining or even remembering how she had appeared when naked from the waist down. It was most disconcerting and she was angry with Aidan for putting her in such a position. Yet indignation was overpowered by longing as she recalled his lips on hers, his tongue tantalising her nipples and his fingers dividing her cleft. Even the throbbing of her bruised thighs did not spoil her remembrance of the encounter.

  She reached the massive door under its stone portico to find it open and Jackson, the butler, waiting for her. He was a tall, stately man, very conscious of his position. He had served Sir Barnaby for years, a faithful retainer who, along with the housekeeper, Mrs Gregory, ran the household like clockwork. Now, to Angela’s surprise, that black-clad, grey-haired severe lady stood by his side, both of them looking as if they were the solemn harbingers of important tidings.

  Angela paused, riding crop in one hand, her skirt lifted with the other. ‘Jackson? Mrs Gregory? What is the matter?’

  ‘It’s your father, Lady Angela,’ Jackson replied and, to her utter astonishment, she saw tears glistening in his pale blue eyes. ‘I have terrible news. He is dead, milady. His heart gave out.’

  ‘When?’ she demanded irrelevantly, unable to take it in.

  ‘An hour ago. The doctor is on his way,’ Jackson answered, and he slumped, his usually upright stance replaced by the bowed shoulders of an old man. ‘He didn’t suffer, milady. In the stables at the time. Just complained of a pain in his arm, and then collapsed.’