Their Virgin Hostage, Masters of Ménage, Book 5
Page 31
Or so it has been believed . . .
Recovering from a great loss, mythologist Jac L’Etoile thinks that throwing herself into work will distract her from her grief. In the hopes of uncovering a secret about the islands mysterious Celtic roots, she arrives on Jersey and is greeted by ghostly Neolithic monuments, medieval castles and hidden caves. But the man who has invited her there, a troubled soul named Theo Gaspard, hopes she’ll help him discover something quite different—transcripts of Hugo’s lost conversations with someone he called the Shadow of the Sepulcher. Central to his heritage, these are the papers his grandfather died trying to find. Neither Jac nor Theo anticipate that the mystery surrounding Victor Hugo will threaten their sanity and put their very lives at stake.
Seduction is a historically evocative and atmospheric tale of suspense with a spellbinding ghost story at its heart, written by one of Americas most gifted and imaginative novelists. Awakening a mystery that spans centuries, this multi-layered gothic tale brings a time, a place and a cast of desperate characters brilliantly to life.
* * * *
I remembered Juliette saying she would tell her maidservant to be on alert in case I needed anything.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Hugo.”
I nodded. “Bonsoir, Fantine.”
“Madame said you might be hungry. Can I make you something more substantial?”
“No, I’m fine with this.” I gestured at the plate.
“Everyone in town is talking about you finding that girl. It’s quite wonderful.”
“We all found her.”
“But they are saying it was you. Yes?”
“Well, yes, but only because I went down the stairs first.”
“Finding a lost child is a very worthy day’s worth.”
The melancholy expression in your eyes spoke more than your words. I knew what you were thinking. And as I looked, I admit I noticed more than the expression in your eyes. The sweep of your hair, your sweet scent, the swell of your breast under your chemise, I took them all in.
“Would you like some wine?” I asked.
You hesitated for a moment, then something flared in your eyes and replaced the sadness. Bravery? Rebellion?
Taking a glass from the cupboard, you sat down beside me. Poured some wine and then drank.
“The child was unharmed?”
I finished chewing the bread and swallowed. “She had a nasty cut on her arm, but that will heal.”
“How did she get to the basement of the castle in the first place?”
“She said that she followed a dog who’d been playing outside her window.”
“But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? I hear it in your voice.”
I shrugged, not ready to talk about the stranger events that I’d witnessed. Or thought I had. At that juncture, I hadn’t even accepted what I’d seen. I was troubled by the possibility that my mind was touched and I’d manufactured a vision.
“What have you been doing this evening?” I asked, anxious to change the conversation.
“Sitting by the window, watching the sea. You would have thought that by now I would have stopped waiting. I know he is not coming. That he will never come.”
“Why won’t he?”
“His family. They didn’t approve of me. I was working-class, he was aristocracy. They threatened him with his inheritance. After I’d been here for a few months I realized his having me come ahead and saying that he’d meet me was all an elaborate lie. It was just a ruse to get rid of me and the child he had no intention of legitimizing. And yet I watch the sea. I know there’s no reason to hope, and yet sometimes when I hear a ship’s horn coming into port, I still think...”
“Hope is the most difficult emotion to give up.”
“What do you hope for, Monsieur Hugo?”
“That you will let me seduce you.” I ran my thumb back and forth across your palm. The soft skin not hardened yet by housework. Juliette employed a laundress. I was glad of that. It would have been a shame to ruin that silkiness.
I waited for your reaction. When you neither resisted nor responded to my touch, I lifted your hand to my mouth and pressed my lips against your palm. I smelled a sophisticated and delicious scent. Lust surged inside me, which was a welcome distraction from the disturbing events of the last twenty-four hours.
“Is the perfume I smell one your father created?”
“No, it’s one that I made. I have a small laboratory in an unused bedroom.”
“Could I see it?”
“Of course.”
“Your blush makes me desire you that much more. Your innocence is a delight,” I said.
Following you upstairs, I watched your skirts move and caught sight of your ankles. I imagined putting my hand up that dress and searching out the warm wet spot between your legs. I wondered if you perfumed yourself there the way some Frenchwomen did.
At the landing, instead of turning left toward Juliette’s room, we turned right. I’d never explored this end of the house as there’d been no reason to before. I smelled which way to go. Led like a dog by the nose to the far end of the hall.
As you opened the door a cacophony of scents reached out and embraced me. I’d never smelled such a rich, complicated aroma. For a second I closed my eyes and just inhaled. I was transported to a lush flower field, a spice market, a citrus grove, the forest and the sea all at once.
When I opened my eyes again I was surprised at how bare and unadorned the room actually was. The smells were so decorative and elaborate. The furniture consisted of a long table, a single chair and a tall glass-fronted cabinet. There were two frosted glass wall sconces and a fairly simple two-tiered crystal chandelier already lit. Noticing that, I surmised you’d been working.
There was a bay window. And it faced the sea.
But the room was full of your utensils and supplies. Everywhere were gleaming glass jars, canisters, small bottles and large beakers. Around me, the smell evolved. I found myself thinking I was inside a library, then a church, then a bedroom smelling a lover’s body, hot with want.
The whole world of scents resided in this one single room. How was it possible?
“This is amazing. You are a true alchemist,” I said.
“No, just a perfumer.”
“Certainly that. Certainly that. Tell me, Fantine, why are you working as a lady’s maid if you have all this talent?”
“I’m a woman, monsieur. You of all men know that. No establishment in Paris would have me except to wait on customers and fill bottles. Women are not noses. We do not create.”
“Would you like to open a store in Jersey?”
Your shrug saddened me. There was so little energy in the movement of your shoulders.
“No. It’s enough for me to mix up scents for Madame Juliette and her friends. I do it to please her and because I miss my father and my home. While I work, I can pretend I’m back there for a little while.”
“But I might be able to help you set up a thriving concern and sell your perfumes in the village. Perhaps you’d find some joy in it that you can’t anticipate. Madame Juliette is an independent woman. Can’t you use her as role model?”
I knew when you didn’t answer it was because you were too well bred to argue with me. What I’d said wasn’t true any longer. Juliette had been independent when I’d met her. But she’d since given up acting to accompany me, and now she was as dependent as my wife was.
“Do you have all the materials you need? All the utensils?”
“That’s very kind, but I have everything. Madame Juliette orders what I need from Paris.”
“Will you at least show me how you mix a scent? Make one for me?”
Finally you gifted me with a smile.
I settled in the chair and watched your performance, fascinated with the change in you as you worked. You were animated in a way you hadn’t been before. The haunted look in your eyes was replaced by a determined concentration as you picked up one vial and then another, sn
iffing and searching and then settling on which one to use. Every movement was assured and knowledgeable, and I found myself as entertained as if I were at one of Juliette’s plays. Drop by drop the formula in the tube filled up. Every so often you would dip a small length of ribbon in the liquid, wave it in the air, then close your eyes and inhale its essence.
I imagined you were dreaming your own dream, oblivious that I was even there. And that increased my desire for you. Often the wanting is more satisfying than the fulfillment. I have come to prefer anticipation to satiation. Longing can make one feel alive in a more profound way. You see everything through champagne bubbles. Your senses are alert. You imagine how your lover’s lips will feel, how her skin will taste. What it will be like to unbutton her chemise, slip it off her shoulders, press your mouth to her skin, cup her breasts in your palms and feel her excitement harden her nipples. You picture her leaning into you, showing you just enough of her want that it ignites yours.
That knowing is all. You forget your enemies, your fears and your nightmares.
To live in the moment of desire is to be yourself in the most pure and painful way possible, because beneath every touch is the knowledge of how fleeting the pleasure is. How elusive the passion. How impossible it is to contain it for long.
“I think you might like this.” You held out a small container filled with topaz liquid.
I held it up to my nose.
“No.”
I was pleased to hear your laugh as you shook your head.
“Never smell directly from the bottle. Scent needs to breathe and interact with your skin. You have to put some on.”
I held the vial out. “Would you please put it on me?”
A moment’s hesitation. Your uncertainty was charming and seductive. The moment was a river to cross. On one side was the past, on the other side the future. I wondered what you were thinking. Then you tipped the bottle, wet your forefinger and gently ran your fingertip down the inside of my right wrist and then my left. I shuddered at your touch.
The scent wafted up and filled the air. You’d captured the scent of a primitive forest. Mysterious and woody. I visualized deep grottoes and mossy glens. I traveled a whole journey in just one inhalation.
“So is this how you see me?” I asked.
“My father taught me to paint portraits in perfume.”
“Perfume portraits,” I repeated, never having heard the expression before and enchanted by it. “Can you put on more?” I was teasing, testing, and was delighted when you obliged and touched your wet finger to small space behind my left ear.
“There are other places too,” I said.
“I know.” A whisper of a laugh. Was it excitement or just nervousness?
I took the perfume and put my finger over the top of the bottle. “Would you let me do the same to you?”
“If it would please you.”
“What about its pleasing you, Fantine?”
That shrug, again without enthusiasm. I wanted to make you feel, push you to enjoy. I unbuttoned your top blouse button. When you didn’t resist, I worked on another button. I might as well have been buttering toast. You didn’t care at all, one way or the other.
“What are you thinking? Why do you look so sad?” I asked.
“You are making me remember that I used to care about a man touching me.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No, it’s all right. If you want to . . . please . . .”
I finished unbuttoning your chemise and pulled it down off your shoulders. Your skin glowed in the candlelight. It was the color of the inside of a nautilus shell. Your breasts were small but perfect. I wet my finger with perfume and painted circles around each nipple. Then I leaned forward and got drunk on the scent of the flowers on your skin.
My ministrations were not unpleasant to you. I knew that. I’d been with enough women. You didn’t pull back in repulsion. But neither did you arch or purr. You simply didn’t care what I did. My efforts to reach you were failing.
And yet you were willing to let me pleasure myself with you. That was something of a conundrum.
Then you slipped off your chemise and stood facing me, naked to the waist. God forgive me but I thought of nothing but burying myself inside you and forgetting everything else. I smelled skin, scented flowers and thought this must be what Eden smelled like, and then I slipped into an embracing wholeness that gave me shelter and soothed my soul while at the same time inflamed me.
I’d never made love to someone so dispassionate who was not a professional. I didn’t understand. Why were you allowing this? Why were you willing to give yourself to me this way? What was wrong with you that I couldn’t move you—not with my fingers or my words? But as I put my lips to your lips, I determined to discover your mystery, not thinking that learning about it might mean our very destruction.
About Shayla Black
Shayla Black (aka Shelley Bradley) is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of nearly 40 sizzling contemporary, erotic, paranormal, and historical romances for multiple print, electronic, and audio publishers. She lives in Texas with her husband, munchkin, and one very spoiled cat. In her “free” time, she enjoys reality TV, reading and listening to an eclectic blend of music.
Shayla’s work has been translated in about a dozen languages. She has also received or been nominated for The Passionate Plume, The Holt Medallion, Colorado Romance Writers Award of Excellence, and the National Reader’s Choice Awards. RT Bookclub has twice nominated her for Best Erotic Romance of the year, as well as awarded her several Top Picks, and a KISS Hero Award.
A writing risk-taker, Shayla enjoys tackling writing challenges with every book.
Connect with Shayla online:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/ShaylaBlackAuthor
Twitter: www.twitter.com/@shayla_black
Smashwords: www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ShaylaBlack
Website: www.shaylablack.com
About Lexi Blake
Lexi Blake lives in North Texas with her husband, three kids, and the laziest rescue dog in the world. She began writing at a young age, concentrating on plays and journalism. It wasn’t until she started writing romance that she found success. She likes to find humor in the strangest places. Lexi believes in happy endings no matter how odd the couple, threesome or foursome may seem. She also writes contemporary western ménage as Sophie Oak.
Connect with Lexi online:
Facebook: Lexi Blake
Twitter: www.twitter.com/@authorlexiblake
Smashwords: www.smashwords.com/profile/view/LexiBlake
Website: www.LexiBlake.net
Also from Shayla Black/Shelley Bradley:
EROTIC ROMANCE
The Wicked Lovers
Wicked Ties
Decadent
Delicious
Surrender To Me
Belong To Me
“Wicked to Love” (e-novella)
Mine To Hold
“Wicked All The Way” (e-novella)
Ours To Love
Coming Soon:
“Wicked All Night” - Wicked And Dangerous Anthology
Theirs To Cherish
His To Take
Sexy Capers
Bound And Determined
Strip Search
“Arresting Desire” – Hot In Handcuffs Anthology
Masters Of Ménage (by Shayla Black and Lexi Blake)
Their Virgin Captive
Their Virgin’s Secret
Their Virgin Concubine
Their Virgin Princess
Their Virgin Hostage
Doms Of Her Life (by Shayla Black, Jenna Jacob, and Isabella LaPearl)
One Dom To Love
Coming Soon:
The Young And The Submissive
Stand Alone Titles
Naughty Little Secret (as Shelley Bradley)
“Watch Me” – Sneak Peek Anthology (as Shelley Bradley)
Dangerous Boys And Their Toy
> “Her Fantasy Men” – Four Play Anthology
PARANORMAL ROMANCE
The Doomsday Brethren
Tempt Me With Darkness
“Fated” (e-novella)
Seduce Me In Shadow
Possess Me At Midnight
“Mated” – Haunted By Your Touch Anthology
Entice Me At Twilight
Embrace Me At Dawn
HISTORICAL ROMANCE (as Shelley Bradley)
The Lady And The Dragon
One Wicked Night
Strictly Seduction
Strictly Forbidden
Coming Soon:
His Lady Bride, Brothers in Arms (Book 1)
His Stolen Bride, Brothers in Arms (Book 2)
His Rebel Bride, Brothers in Arms (Book 3)
CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE (as Shelley Bradley)
A Perfect Match
Also from Lexi Blake:
EROTIC ROMANCE
Masters And Mercenaries
The Dom Who Loved Me
The Men With The Golden Cuffs
A Dom Is Forever
On Her Master’s Secret Service
Sanctum: A Masters and Mercenaries Novella
Coming in 2013:
Love and Let Die
Masters Of Ménage (by Shayla Black and Lexi Blake)
Their Virgin Captive
Their Virgin’s Secret
Their Virgin Concubine
Their Virgin Princess
Their Virgin Hostage