Darkest Desire

by Darkest Desire(Lit)

  DARKEST DESIRE

  By

  JC Grey

  © copyright by JC Grey

  Cover Art by Eliza Black

  ISBN 1-58608-136-5

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  …and the great horned man-beast led his wild and ghostly hunt through the night sky….

  CHAPTER ONE

  His short ivory horns gleaming, a feral snarl on his lips, he drove his frothing horse forward. The stags, wild boars, wolves and snakes of the forest converged in his wake. Their howls and roars sounded louder now, and Morgan turned to look back in panic over her shoulder.

  He was just two arm’s lengths from her and she pushed herself on in frantic desperation, using every ounce of strength she could summon to try and elude him. She heard his harsh breath in her ear, the panting of his horse and then she stumbled over the hem of her long, white nightgown, tumbling into the bracken that carpeted the forest floor.

  Stunned, gasping for air, she scrambled to all fours as the man-beast leaped from his horse. Then he was behind her, his teeth gripping her neck, hard hands pushing her nightdress up to her waist, brutally parting her legs as he prepared to mount her.

  And the cries of the hunt quieted as the great man-beast overwhelmed his prey.…

  * * * *

  In the silence just before dawn’s first glimmers began to lighten the sky, Morgan McClellan’s eyes opened wide in terror. Gasping for air, she lay face down on her bed, her black hair spread on her pillow, her sweat-soaked nightdress gathered around her waist. Between her legs, an unsatisfied ache throbbed, making her bite her lip against a moan.

  Damn it, not again!

  It was the third time in the last week that the dream had awoken her, so real that the

  terror it evoked sent her hurtling from sleep to wakefulness in a fraction of a second, leaving her disoriented and so confused that she barely knew who or where she was.

  Morgan looked at the old-fashioned alarm clock next to the bed. Just after five. She rolled over cautiously, wincing at the soreness between her thighs, raised herself on her elbows and looked around at the room. In the early morning gloom, the sparse furniture was dark and shadowy but familiar: the old armoire in the far corner; her grandmother’s intricately-carved oak stool in front of the antique dressing table that was to be her next restoration project.

  Methodically, Morgan reviewed her bedroom and assured herself that nothing had changed, that everything was right in her world. Her breath slowed and her pulse regained its natural rhythm. She slumped back down on her pillow and flung an arm over her eyes, groaning. Right now, she really needed an extra hour or two of sleep but there was no way she would be able to doze off again before her alarm went off at seven. Her job was exhausting enough at present but these early morning wake-up calls were killing her.

  She lay in bed for a moment, going over all the things she had to do today. It was just eight weeks until the exhibition opened. She was at a stage where she needed to finalize the text for the displays and the accompanying catalogue. In some ways she hated this part of the job as much as she loved it. It required her to interpret the information about the significance of the exhibits in order to prepare meaningful and interesting context for the displays. The problem was that her passion for her subject often led her on speculative and highly personal journeys that tended to provoke controversy and leave her open for criticism.

  Countless visitors to the exhibition would read her every word, and her text needed to be as accurate as she could make it, while saying something that would shed fresh light. With just six months at the museum, it was her first major project and she needed to make an impression to ensure her contract would be renewed. She couldn’t afford a slip-up that would bring her own, or the museum’s, reputation into question.

  It was hardly surprising that she was feeling the pressure, but it was unusual that it should keep her awake at night. And, she thought, feeling her private parts continue to throb, it was most unusual for her dreams to feature such vivid sexual overtones.

  While she wouldn’t describe herself as frigid, Morgan was honest enough to admit she had little interest in sex, and none in screwing around. A couple of sweet but lukewarm experiences at college and in her early working days had failed to fire her imagination in the same way her job did, and for the past few years she hadn’t bothered with intimate relationships at all. At thirty-one she supposed it made her a bit of an oddity in a world that seemed obsessed by the sexual antics of young upwardly-mobile urban women. Not that she cared at all. Most of the time she was absorbed in the romance of the far and distant past where the adventures of knights and ladies and other-worldly-creatures seemed more real to her than anything out of Sex and the City.

  "Too real," Morgan muttered to herself, throwing back the quilt. If her recent dreams were anything to go by, she needed to restore some balance in her life.

  Sighing, she shuffled her feel into the lamb’s wool slippers under her bed. The chill dawn air quickly cooled the drying sweat on her body. In the bathroom down the hall, she hastily splashed water on her face and then sat on the curbed edge of the aged bathtub as she reluctantly lifted her nightie.

  "Shit!"

  Grabbing a face towel, she ran it under the hot tap for a few moments and then rubbed vigorously until the drying stickiness between her legs had disappeared. For a woman who prided herself on being so coolly controlled, it was embarrassing to admit to being brought to orgasm simply by a dream, but the evidence on her thighs was irrefutable. Momentarily she wondered if she should see a doctor but then discarded the thought. It wasn’t the sort of problem one saw a GP about. What the hell would she say? "I’m having sexy dreams that make me come!" Anyway, the problem would resolve itself once she was through this stressful time, wouldn’t it?

  Pushing her thoughts aside, Morgan returned to her bedroom, hastily slipping into a sports bra and panties before grabbing the hooded sweat top and fleece-lined running pants from her chair and pulling them on. With well-used running shoes laced firmly on her feet, she was ready for her morning jog. The floorboards creaked in the usual spots as she made her way down the rickety staircase of the old terrace house to the kitchen. She drank a long glass of water at the sink and gazed out over the large overgrown garden. The first fingers of sunlight were beginning to peek over the horizon.

  At the front door, she tugged on a warm cap, tucking her hair underneath. While she hated rising early, Morgan loved pounding the pavements at this hour. The air smelled fresh and clean, and the streets were empty save for a few early joggers or dog-walkers. On the steps of her house, she stretched her cold muscles and jogged easily down the street, picking up pace until she joined the tow-path along the harbor. An early morning mist gathered over the still water, its ghostly presence obscuring the far side from view.

  Its spectral presence brought the dream of the past few nights--and the identity of the central figure, the ghostly man-beast who pursued her through the night--to the forefront of her mind.

  The horned one.

  Lord of the night hunt.

  Cernunnos.

  The great man-beast of Celtic legend was occupying not only her dreams, but all her work hours at present. Ever since the renowned archaeologist Hunter Riley had agreed to lend his latest find to the Southern History Museum’s prestigious exhibition "More than Myths" four months ago, Morgan had thought about little except the lord of the hunt.

  Riley’s find in northern France wa
s one of the few items ever discovered thought to relate directly to Cernunnos, a little-known Celtic god. He had unearthed the heavy, intricately worked silver torque--a necklet usually worn by a warrior--while on a dig in Brittany. The weight and craftsmanship of the piece indicated it was likely to be the ornament of a famous warrior but the thing that got the historians most excited was that it appeared almost identical to the torque worn by an engraving of Cernunnos on the famous Gundestrup Cauldron. The whispers among the academic fraternity began almost immediately. Could it be that a mortal was the inspiration for the divine figure?

  From being a footnote in the exhibition, the lord of the hunt had suddenly become the star, with the torque featured larger than life on all the promotional material. Under wraps until the launch, it was the piece everyone wanted to see. Historians were openly debating the possibility that Cernunnos was more than simply a character of legend and the media were clamoring for expert opinions on the matter.

  And if Riley approved of Southern History Museum’s exhibition, there was talk that he might even donate the piece permanently to the museum. The museum board had almost slavered at the thought.

  Morgan shivered as a sudden blast of cold air whipped across her neck, and she noticed her pace had dropped. She picked up her pace along the banks of the harbor as a watery sun gradually rose from its resting place, sending soft spears of light across the gloomy city. Her feet found their usual rhythm and gradually she blanked all thoughts from her mind but the thud of her feet on the path. After three-quarters of an hour, she branched off from the main towpath, circling round toward home, picking up the pace until she turned into her street.

  On the steps of her house, she bent over with her hand on her knees, shoulders heaving for a moment while she caught her breath before she unlocked the door. It was barely six-thirty--still early. She could have a leisurely breakfast and still get to the museum shortly after eight. Hopefully it would give her an uninterrupted period to work on finalizing the copy for the Celtic section of the exhibition before most of her colleagues began arriving.

  The museum was quiet when Morgan arrived at the staff entrance. As always, she took the long way round to her office, through the exhibition halls where the towering ceilings and exquisitely-tiled floors made her footsteps echo as though she walked in a prehistoric cave. She loved this time alone in the halls, wandering through the exhibits. She saw something new and fascinating every time, once a Roman coin with a face almost obscured by age, another time a section from the wall of an Egyptian tomb. She would press her nose to the glass as though she was five years old and imagine the piece whispering its story to her.

  The front doors didn’t open until ten, and most of the staff arrived around nine, although Augustus Waugh, her boss and Director of Displays--a title that conveniently allowed him to fuss over every small detail--was inevitably at his desk early.

  Morgan waved good morning at him as she passed his office and got a cup of coffee from the machine before steeling herself to approach her desk. Awash with documents and books--three tomes even balancing precariously on top of her computer monitor--it filled the usually neat Morgan with dismay. She had worked so late last night that she hadn’t been able to face tidying up her workspace before heading for home. It would have to be the first job on the agenda this morning.

  As she filed papers and stacked books on shelves, Morgan didn’t even notice the shabbiness of the cramped first-floor office. The window was tiny and the glass not particularly clean, letting just a sliver of gray light into the room, and the furniture had certainly seen better days. It was hardly surprising. The museum relied largely on a less-than-generous government grant as well as private donations and legacies to keep operating, and there was rarely spare cash to spend on furnishing the offices of staff. The only vaguely contemporary items were the computers and phones, and even they weren’t new.

  When she had first arrived from Great Western Museum, where she had begun her career, Morgan had been secretly appalled at the uninviting office. While she accepted the need to direct as high a proportion of the museum’s funding as possible into new acquisitions and display projects, she saw no need for herself and her assistant to work in an office devoid of character. She needed color, inspiration around her. Morgan had immediately set to work on brightening up the space with posters and postcards, painting the bookshelves bright red and installing a glossy-leafed indoor plant. Now, at least it possessed some pizzazz.

  She turned as footsteps sounded in the corridor outside her door.

  "Good Lord, someone had a rough night." Augustus Waugh’s slightly critical tone immediately set Morgan on edge. She looked at him as he tugged nervously at his short salt-and pepper beard. His hazel eyes looked worried, as usual.

  "Thanks, Gus. You always know how to make a woman feel good."

  "Sorry, but you look like death dished up. Are you sure the exhibition isn’t getting to you?"

  Gus had asked the same question all week and it was starting to irritate as well as worry her. She got the distinct impression that her boss was starting to question her ability to do her job without falling to pieces. Not that she took it personally. Not only was Gus a worrywart but he had a deep-seated and unshakable belief that women were likely to throw a hissy fit or burst into tears at the first sign of pressure.

  Morgan couldn’t say she hadn’t been warned about Gus. When she had taken the job, her previous boss, Mary--who knew simply everyone in the field--had been up front about Gus’s blind spot about women. Nothing he had done in the past six months had led her to believe that Mary had exaggerated.

  "Gus, I’m just busy that’s all." Morgan deliberately kept her voice calm, expressionless. "With the torque coming into the exhibition relatively late, it’s meant a complete change to the thrust of it and a lot more work for everyone. As soon as we’ve finalized everything, I’ll start to relax again, I promise."

  "OK." Gus hesitated. "But if you need some support, just let me know."

  Yeah, right, if she wanted a big black mark against her name-- woman who cracks up when the heat’s on.

  "Thanks but everything’s under control." Morgan turned back to her desk and started gathering books into a pile for return to the library shelves. She hoped Gus would take the hint and leave her alone.

  "Oh, by the way, about the meeting with Riley … he’s finally back from France. I’ll take him over the museum and show him the plans for the exhibition, and I really need you there to talk about the approach to the torque."

  "Yes, it’s in the calendar, Gus. Two-thirty, right?"

  "Actually, he phoned late last night when he got in and asked if we could move it to eleven this morning. I said I’d check with you and get back to him if there was a problem."

  Damn. She obviously wouldn’t get as much work done prior to the meeting as she’d hoped, but maybe it was as well to get it out of the way this morning and then she might get an uninterrupted afternoon to work on her copy.

  "Fine." Morgan nodded. "Just give me a call when he arrives."

  "OK. Morgan… ?"

  "Yes?" Morgan raised her eyebrows at Gus. She wished he wasn’t such a fusspot. Everything had to be discussed a million times before he was happy. It drove her crazy.

  "Look, I just wanted to make sure you understand how important this is to the museum. If the exhibition is as successful as we hope, it has the potential to really give us the momentum to compete with the big boys." He paused to tug again at his beard. "The board is adamant that we keep Riley happy. They don’t want any dramas."

  Morgan nodded in sympathy at her boss. He was getting a lot of pressure from the board. After all, it was the biggest project the museum had ever undertaken, with a huge commitment in terms of resources at all levels.

  "Yep, I know. I really do understand, Gus."

  "Excellent. Well, I’ll see you later."

  His short, suited figure disappeared around the door and Morgan breathed a sigh of relief. Squaring her
shoulders, she returned to tackling her desk, devoting the next half-hour to catching up on long-ignored filing and replying to critical emails. When her assistant Andrea arrived late at nine, she was reviewing the Celtic Exhibits file with a critical eye.

  "Love the suit but the bags could do with some work." Andrea sat her plump behind in her chair and waved at the shadows beneath Morgan’s gray eyes. "Someone didn’t get much sleep last night." She raised her pale eyebrows and smirked suggestively. "Or perhaps you weren’t allowed to get much sleep."

  "If only," said Morgan, dryly. Andrea, at twenty-four, assumed everyone led as full a sex life as she did. Since Morgan had joined the museum, Andrea had waged an ongoing battle to uncover the "mystery men" in her boss’s life, assuming that, as her manager, Morgan was just being circumspect in keeping her private life to herself. She would probably faint from shock if she knew the sad truth about Morgan’s celibate life.

  "Big day today," Morgan said, turning Andrea’s attention to work matters. "Riley’s coming in at eleven, and I really want to get our approach clear before then so I can talk to him with authority. Can you please answer my calls this morning, and just take a message if anything really critical turns up?"

  "Sure, and by the way Morgan, that suit really does look great on you."

  Morgan smiled her thanks and brushed her hands self-consciously down the tailored black pant suit, which she wore with a fine lavender wool scarf and high heels. Her long black hair was pinned neatly in a knot behind her head and she wore small pearl earrings. She had dressed carefully this morning, conscious of the necessity of making a good impression at her meeting, although God knew why. Hunter Riley would be far more interested in what she said than how she looked. His assistant, Suzie, had made it abundantly clear in their email correspondence over the past few weeks that, having loaned his find to the exhibition and considering making the donation permanent, he was expecting a rigorous approach to the museum’s presentation of the torque and its potential links with the lord of the hunt. It was up to Morgan to convince him that she knew what she was talking about!