by Darcy Burke
She rose up on her toes and kissed him soundly. “I would love to.”
“I have a mother?” Lily shouted from the open carriage, her voice cracking on the final word. “Truly?”
“You have an entire family,” Violet corrected, still in a state of disbelief. “We all do.”
Smiling so wide it hurt, she slid her hand into Alistair’s and climbed into the carriage to join their daughter.
EPILOGUE
Six months later, Violet stepped from her bedchamber onto a stone balcony overlooking the Waldegraves’ new property. Her new home. A thousand far-off stars glistened overhead. While Bath had been too crowded to call home, she would be hard pressed to find fault with the sweeping Scottish manor overlooking the sea.
Lily’s burns had healed even better than expected, only leaving faint scars behind. The manor boasted plenty of wide, windowless rooms for her to roam during the day. Between the Highlands and the beaches, Lily’s nights were filled with sensory delights.
So were Violet’s.
Her husband approached from behind. Without a word, he slid his arms about his wife’s waist and buried his face in her hair.
“Sorry we left England, love?” Alistair asked quietly.
“Good Lord, no.” Violet leaned into him, allowing the sea-scented breeze to rustle her skirts and tangle her hair. “Are you?”
He shook his head, then pulled her forward into his embrace. His hands cupped her face. He dipped his head to kiss her, his mouth hungry and his gaze full of promise. “The only place I’m sorry we left is our bedchamber. Care to join me for a moment or two?”
“Just a moment or two?” she replied archly, allowing him to take her hand and lead her back inside. “And here I was hoping we might manage to occupy ourselves until sunrise.”
“Just sunrise?” He slid her night rail from her shoulders and pressed a warm kiss to her breast. “And here I was hoping we could do this the rest of our lives.”
“Mmm. Perhaps we could start with this ... ” She let her mouth and tongue leave a trail of kisses from his bare chest to just below his waist. “Or did you have other plans?”
“I like your plans,” he said quickly, sucking in a breath as she continued the trail with her tongue. “I love everything about you.”
Sinking to her knees, she paused only to flash him a saucy smile. “Allow me to give you one ... more ... reason ... ”
THE END
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Nether-Netherland Series:
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Historical Romance Novels:
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Too Sinful To Deny (2011)
Born To Bite (2012)
Let It Snow (2013)
Dark Surrender (2014)
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Erica Ridley learned to read when she was three, which was about the same time she decided to be an author when she grew up.
She is the author of two Gothic romances, Too Wicked to Kiss and Too Sinful to Deny, the vampire romance "Never Been Bitten" in the paranormal romance anthology Born To Bite, and the contemporary paranormal romances Charmed, Midwinter Magic, and Let It Snow.
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Undone
A Fiery Tale
LILA DIPASQUA
Copyright © 2012 by Lila DiPasqua
Cover art and design by Kim Killion, Hot Damn Designs
Copyedited by Linda Ingmanson
Formatted by Jessica Lewis, Author’s Life Saver
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN: 978-0-9880350-1-0 (trade pbk.)
ISBN: 978-0-9880350-0-3(e-book)
Dedication
Please see the back of the book once you finish it! This important dedication contains a SPOILER.
A Historical Tidbit
The court of Louis XIV was as decadent as it was opulent. It was a time of high culture and corruption. Of elegance and excesses. The pursuit of sinful pleasures was a pastime. Sex, an art form. Louis was a lusty king. He and his courtiers were connoisseurs of the carnal arts.
It was during this wicked time period that Charles Perrault, the creator of The Tales of Mother Goose, first began writing down fairy tales—the folklore that had been passed on verbally for generations. It wasn’t long before fairy tales became a highly fashionable topic of discussion in the renowned salons of Paris.
Female authors also tried their hand at this wonderful new genre. It was Charlotte-Rose de Claumont de La Force’s 17th century fairy tale, Persinette, that would later inspire the Brothers Grimm to write Rapunzel.
Perhaps, just perhaps Mademoiselle de La Force was inspired by hearing stories about characters such as these…
Happy Reading!
Lila
Once upon a time, there was a woman who was shut away in a tower. It was said she’d been there for years. Rumored to be a prisoner of her own making. No one knew much about the mysterious beauty. Or the secrets she guarded. It was certain she’d live out her days cloistered. Yet one day, out of the forest, they say her prince appeared. One look at the lovely enchantress, and he was enthralled. Upon hearing her ethereal voice, he was undone… What happened next, you ask? Well, he scaled the tower and rescued the beauty, of course… Was that the end? No, my dearlings, that was only the beginning.
And what was to follow was the stuff of fairy tales…
Chapter One
1660
Just before midnight…
Sexual excess was known to alleviate tension. An evening of unbridled lust had a soothing effect on the mind as well as the body. But as Simon Boulenger struggled to maintain his grip on the window ledge—sharp stone cutting into his fingers—he felt anything but relaxed.
Muscles in his upper body corded as he scraped his boo
ts against the stone wall, searching for a foothold. The full moon’s silvery light illuminated his predicament.
His feet were too far from the ground below to simply let go and drop.
He grabbed hold of the closest tree branch. Satisfied with its sturdiness, he began his descent, branches and leaves brushing and scraping him along the way until he reached the lowest limb and dropped to the ground.
Definitely too bright a night for an amorous encounter with the beautiful wife of a high-ranking politician of the Republic of Genoa.
Brushing the dirt off his shirt, he slipped into the shadows where the stable boy waited with Simon’s horse.
He’d paid the grimy mite to give a warning of two quick whistles at his mistress’s window should Marco de Franco return inconveniently early, which he had. Simon’s circumspection was born of necessity. Though the Republic of Genoa was a good distance from Spain, he always took precautions. The Genoese’s loyalties were with the Spanish. And there were those who would pay handsomely for the capture of the man the Spanish called El Demonio Negro—the Black Demon.
The boy handed him the reins.
“Bravo. Grazie,” he said, as fluent in the language as any Italian in his employ.
Dropping more coins into the boy’s dirty hand, he rode off, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. If Marco de Franco were to learn that his lovely wife had spent the last few hours in the throes of passion with the son of a French peasant, it would send the pompous fool reeling. It wasn’t that de Franco cared if Francesca entertained lovers, for he was preoccupied with the pursuit of power and his own extensive extramarital affairs. But to learn she’d engaged in a carnal encounter with a lowly commoner would be too much for his arrogant sensibilities to digest.
As he negotiated the next bend in the road, Simon caught sight of his carriage in the distance. Moonlight glinted off its roof. His men were there waiting for him, just as he’d ordered. He slowed his horse, his smile disappearing.
The brief sojourn in the Republic of Genoa was over.
Time to face France.
And what awaited him there was far more perilous than a nocturnal liaison with a highborn lady.
He drew in a fortifying breath, and let it out slowly, mindful that he was still too far from his two men for them to notice.
After many months at sea, he’d returned to France three weeks ago to pay the Crown’s share of his recent captured prizes from Spanish ships—never imagining what he’d find. Now those images haunted him. Guilt and anger were a constant clash inside him. And assuaging his torment with women and drink in Genoa had proven futile.
Reaching the carriage, Simon dismounted.
Paul took the reins from him. “Good evening, Captain,” the young man said.
There was nothing bloody well good about this evening any longer. “Let us be on our way,” he ordered, though it was the very last thing he wanted.
Inside the moving carriage, Simon’s mood only darkened by the moment. Merde… They’d dangled his dream in front of him.
Then betrayed him.
He’d come a long way from the orphan rescued from starvation in the streets of a French fishing village. He was now the commander of a fleet of privateer ships for France, dressed and spoke like an aristocrat, and was at last wealthy.
But he was still not a noble. Or an official officer in the King’s Navy.
His lifelong dream to elevate himself from his station of birth and obtain a respectable place in society was dead.
As dead as Thomas…
Tightening his jaw, he glanced out the window and watched as the darkened trees threaded past. He’d been a colossal fool. And now he was caught in a treacherous trap. How the hell was he to get out of this? He wanted out. He had to get out. But how do you stop dancing with the devil once you’ve sold him your soul?
The carriage stopped dead with a sharp lurch, Simon’s shoulder bumping against the window frame. Instinctively, his hand shot to the hilt of his sword.
He jumped from its plush interior, sword drawn, battle-ready.
“I’m sorry, Captain.” Paul leaped down. “It is one of the wheels. We will fix it quickly, sir, and be on our way.” The young man raced around to the other side of the carriage to join the driver and the broken wheel.
The delay grated on Simon’s already thin patience, his frustration churning inside him.
Before he could utter the profanity burning up his throat, a blow to his chest shot the air from his lungs and knocked him off his feet. The back of his head slammed against the ground, dazing him. He squeezed his eyes shut. His sword, still clutched in his hand, lay with him on the packed dirt.
As he drew air back into his lungs, awareness seeped into his senses. There was a body on top of him. Not just any body, but a soft one, with ripe breasts pressed to his chest—the unmistakable body of a full-grown woman.
She gasped near his ear and struggled to an upright position. He could feel the firmness of her thighs on either side of his hips, her hands shoving at his chest, and her lower body squirming against his groin.
Steadying himself against the pain at the back of his skull, he opened his eyes. She stilled. Her gray garb and shoulder-length headdress covered her entirely, leaving her face her only visible feature.
And it was exquisite.
The moon’s silver light caressed her soft-looking skin, but it was her eyes that drew him. Although the night forbade him the ability to detect their true color, they were light, bright, and spectacular to behold. Her dark brows were delicately arched. Her cheekbones beautifully pronounced. And her mouth—Dieu. A hot current rushed through his veins as he stared at that lush mouth. Just the right fullness.
The kind of mouth sure to offer a man untold carnal bliss.
Her lips were parted. The sound of her quickened breaths burned in his ears. Inflaming him further.
Every bedazzling detail of her face and the erotic press of her lower body against his own seared into his senses.
Transfixed, he sat up slowly, his cock straining against his breeches. The heated reaction she effortlessly elicited from him was astounding. So was being suddenly knocked off his feet by a beautiful woman in an unattractive garb in the middle of the night.
Her eyes widened. She squirmed again and made to flee. The friction shot a bolt of sensations along his prick that reverberated all the way up his spine. He gripped her arms, stilling her, barely catching the groan that surged up his throat.
“Let go!” she demanded, threads of panic and anger in her tone.
He didn’t want her to leave so soon, but he didn’t wish to scare her, and so he slackened his grasp, knowing full well she was going to bolt.
Shoving hard at his chest, she bounded to her feet.
“Wait! What is your name?” The words tumbled from his mouth. But she ran through an open iron gate and disappeared behind a stone wall.
Reeling, Simon rose and walked to the gate, ignoring the astonished looks of his men who he noticed were now standing near the horses. He’d no idea how much they’d witnessed. Nor did he care.
Paul rushed toward him. “Captain? Is everything all right?”
Simon scanned the shadowy grounds for any sign of her. “Yes.” No. She’d vanished. Yet she’d left him burning.
Utterly seduced.
He could see little. The umbrage of the trees hid much from view. What lunacy was this? How could such a bizarre encounter have stirred his blood this way?
Studying the stone barrier that ran parallel to the road as far as he could see, he wondered why she’d been out all alone at this hour of the night, and what such a captivating woman was doing hidden behind such a formidable wall.
“It is a convent, sir.”
He turned to Paul. “Pardon?”
“A convent.” He picked up Simon’s sword and brought it to him. “The wheel can be fixed easily. We’ll be on our way shortly.”
The carriage was the furthest thing from his mind as he
stood at the threshold of the convent grounds, scanning all visible windows and openings of the stony structure.
Ah, hell. He sheathed his sword. “Wait here.”
***
Heart pounding, Angelica pushed open the wooden door she’d left unlocked and rushed inside. With fumbling fingers, she secured the latch, then raced down the dimly lit corridors, causing each torchère she passed to flicker and dance.
Reaching the chapel, she halted abruptly.
It was empty.
She offered an instant prayer of thanks.
Not only had she made it back in time for the Third Vigil, but she’d escaped whatever might have befallen her at the hands of the man she’d just encountered outside.
The hour was late. The road was deserted. And men who wandered about at this time of night were best avoided.
Racing to return to the convent before she was expected in the chapel, she’d emerged from the thicket and hadn’t seen the stranger, shrouded in shadow, until it was too late. She felt as though she’d collided with the stone wall that surrounded the convent instead of a man. Her chest still hurt.
She couldn’t afford to be as careless as she’d been this night. She was always guarded. Always careful. Rarely did she leave the convent. For years, she’d embraced a cloistered existence in exchange for security.
However, tonight, unable to turn her back on a family in need, she’d let her conscience win out over her caution.
And run right into danger.
She placed her hand over her agitated heart, willing it to calm. She was safe now.
In a decade, he had still not found her. Nor would he ever.
