by Nina Mason
“Only if you want to.”
As he let her down, the intimate brush of their bodies enlivened every nerve. Her feet found the floor, restoring her to reality. Well, a new reality that included fairytale knights and castles.
“What were you doing on my library ladder?”
“Looking at your…em, fascinating collection of literature.”
“You’re not put off by my tastes?”
“On the contrary,” she said with a trembling smile. “I’m intrigued.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “Intrigued enough to indulge in some fantasy roleplaying?”
She smirked. “I take it we’re not talking about Dungeons and Dragons.”
“Dungeons, aye,” he replied with a devilish grin. “Dragons, nay.”
* * * *
The lady’s lovely hazel eyes sparked, breathing life into the embers of desire Leith had felt when she was in his arms. He experienced the same flicker of passion when they met in the hall last night and while he watched her dressing through his slanted green eyes. God, she was exquisite—and so much like Clara it was driving him to distraction. She even smelled like his beloved wife. Citrusy and fresh. Too bad he couldn’t partake of those beguiling similarities without assuming a role.
Clara’s double took a deep breath and lowered her gaze to the floor. He could almost see the gears turning inside her mind. His own were working just as hard. Who was she? Why had she alone survived the accident? In that gown with her hair pinned up just so, the resemblance was not only uncanny, it was also disturbing and dangerous.
“Is that where your playroom is?” She met his gaze with a searing charge. “In the dungeon?”
As he nodded, excitement—or was it hope?—fluttered deep in his abdomen. “Aye.”
Clearly, she wanted him as much as he wanted her. The flush of her cheeks, the way she twirled her hair, the unmistakable tang of female arousal. Oh, aye. She was definitely up for a close encounter of the carnal kind.
Should he tell her he only had sex with women he disliked? Unfulfilling as it was sometimes, his curse left him no other alternative. Fortunately, dislike was no impediment to desire. Unfortunately, his disinclination rarely persisted, especially with submissives, who did everything in their power to win his approval. His passionate heart made it necessary to change partners more often than was ideal—the reason he was currently in the market.
Since this girl wouldn’t be in Scotland for long, he saw no reason not to move forward—or to tell her his secret. Later maybe, if things worked out, but not now.
Eager to move forward, he licked his lips. “So…do you think you might be up for a bit of roleplaying?”
“I might be,” she said, eyeing him guardedly, “if you promise not to hit me.”
He flinched as regret sank its teeth into his heart. Taking hitting off the table compromised his game plan. Hitting fostered distance and indifference, as he could never care for a woman who allowed him to abuse her. Still, there were other options.
“Fine. No hitting.” He took a breath. “And while we’re setting limits, no kissing, either.”
Disappointment shimmered in her lovely eyes as they searched his face. “Why not?”
He swallowed and scraped his teeth across his bottom lip, which tingled with the urge to taste the mouth so closely resembling his Clara’s. Wondering if her kisses would feel the same, he took in her upswept chestnut curls, her pixielike features, her graceful neck, and her corseted chest. He could smell her blood and see the rapid beating of her heart in the hollow of her throat. That other spicy citrus scent wafted off her, too. His olfactory archivist identified the fragrance as lemon verbena, Clara’s favorite.
The period gown flattered her figure, which was diminutive but also curvy. He imagined unwrapping her like a present, layer by layer. The thought quickened his pulse and enflamed his long-denied passions.
“Kissing is too intimate.”
Her cheeks colored and, with a directness that both unnerved and aroused him, she searched his eyes. As she lowered her gaze to his mouth, she licked her lips. The impulse to kiss her flashed through him with blinding intensity.
Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she said, “Is that a hard limit?”
The question startled him. How did this sweet, young thing know about hard limits? Arching an eyebrow, he asked, “Is hitting a hard limit for you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my foster parents used to beat me with whatever was handy…and I found it anything but arousing.”
“Your foster parents?” He furrowed his brow. “What happened to your real parents?”
“When I was eight, they were both killed in a car accident that nearly killed me, too.”
The pain in her eyes aroused his compassion. He knew all too well how hard it was to lose one’s nearest and dearest to tragedy. By the same token, her having no relations meant no one would grieve her when they learned she died in the explosion.
For several reasons, he hadn’t told the police she had survived. Mainly, he withheld the information to avoid having to explain how she came to be at Glenarvon. He could hardly tell them the truth, now could he? Plus, he had given her his blood, so he needed to keep an eye on her. If he told the police she was here, they might take her to a hospital to be examined, and he couldn’t risk that.
The final reason was more selfish. She looked too much like Clara to let the police take her away. Not that he intended to hold her hostage or anything. Not at all. He just wanted to keep her here long enough to establish if the resemblance was merely a fluke or something more providential.
Despite being a baptized Catholic, he believed in reincarnation. He did not, however, believe souls came back resembling their previous embodiments.
Bringing a curious hand to her face, he rubbed her cheek with his thumb. The charge he received from the connection both electrified and unnerved him. “I’m sorry. I know how much it hurts to lose the people who mean the most to you.”
Her head tilted to the side, into his hand. “I don’t doubt that you do. You’ve lost everyone, too, haven’t you?”
With a hard swallow, he withdrew his hand and stepped back. He didn’t plan to escape through the bookcase passageway, still open behind him, but hadn’t ruled it out, either.
Coming closer, she lifted a hand to his jaw. As her soft fingers grazed his stubbled skin, he shivered under the intimacy of the gesture, which he at once craved and feared. Her tender touch and gentle gaze were agony and ecstasy twisted together like barbed wire.
The truth rose in his throat like bile. He tried to swallow it down, but couldn’t. Suddenly, she didn’t just look like Clara, she was Clara—asking why he left her unprotected. As guilt pressed down on his heart, he released a trivializing chuckle. “What do you know of my life?”
“I’ve read your book,” she said, holding his gaze, “and have long wanted to meet you. That’s the only reason I signed up for the tour.”
Her answer both flattered and frightened him. “My book is a work of fiction.”
“Is it? Are you sure?”
With alarming boldness, she searched his eyes before her gaze dropped to his mouth. Again the urge to kiss her welled up inside him with eviscerating force. Her pink tongue darted out to wet her own lips, gutting him further. God’s flesh. The wee temptress wanted to be kissed as much as he wanted to kiss her.
Leith sucked in a breath in an effort to staunch the overpowering craving to appease her. “Of course I’m sure.”
All at once, he deeply regretted his decision to keep her at Glenarvon. She was too much like Clara. Not only in her looks, but also in the way she seemed to see through him. Though his wife, to her credit, never abused her power over him. Would her modern-day double be just as obliging?
She still held his impassioned stare, the brash and foolish young woman. “Tell me the truth. How much of your book is non-fiction?”
“What mak
es you ask such a question?”
Though her gaze remained locked with his, her voice caught when she answered with a question of her own. “W-what did you give me last night to mend my bones?”
He looked away to hide his astonishment. How had she remembered? Perhaps she hadn’t been conscious enough last night for his efforts to have an impact. Ready to try again, his gaze flew back to hers. He sent in his psychic tentacles, intending to seek and destroy the memory of him giving her his blood.
His probes met a wall. What the devil? Whatever prevented him from rewiring her circuitry made her all the more dangerous—and all the more alluring.
Stepping away, he averted his gaze. “You must be tired. I suggest you return to your room and try to get some rest. I will send the butler around before dinner with your instructions for the evening’s entertainments.”
She blinked at him. “Instructions?”
“Aye,” said he, as desperate to kiss her as he was to escape the temptation. “For the role you will assume when I take you to my playroom.”
“Very well,” she said before bending to retrieve something on the floor.
His gaze followed her reach to a book lying on its cover. Come to think of it, he had heard a thud just before she dropped into his arms like a gift from the gods. As she picked up the fallen book, he strained to see what she chose, but could not make out the title. He considered asking, but decided to let it go. Let her borrow what she liked and be the better for the read.
Clutching the book to her, she marched toward the door. As he watched her go, he pictured her in his playroom, cuffed to the chaise with her breasts exposed and her legs spread wide. What a pleasure it would be to play with her like a cat with a mouse. His jaw tightened as he breathed in her familiar lemony scent, which still clung to him. Maybe he should put her in a mask, so he wouldn’t be so distracted by her resemblance to Clara.
Chapter 5
Gwyn, who dozed off while reading the book she borrowed from Sir Leith’s library, was aroused from her nap by a knock on the door of her bedchamber. Assuming it was Mr. Brody with her instructions, she rose from the bed and opened the door. There was nobody there. She looked both ways, finding the hall empty. Puzzled, she dropped her gaze, surprised to find at her feet a box big enough to hold a coat. Stooping, she scooped up the package and carried it into the room.
The dream she’d been having still clung to the corners of her psyche like cobwebs. She had been in the backyard of the house where she spent her formative years, running away from her foster father while his wife, seated in a lawn chair under the corrugated patio awning, watched with the eyes of a blind woman.
Shaking the remnants of the dream from her head, Gwyn set the box on the bed and took off the lid. An envelope lay atop the tissue paper layer concealing the other contents. Snatching up what she assumed were her instructions, she opened the flap and eased out the notecard within.
Wear what you find herein to dinner, which will be served in an hour in the dining room. Over the meal, I will explain the rules to which we will adhere at all times while in my playroom.
Gwyn licked her lips, set the note aside, and peeled back the crisp sheets of tissue. Underneath were the various layers of an eighteenth-century maid’s uniform: a shift with drawstrings at the neck and cuffs, a plain linen skirt, a boned bodice that laced-up the front, a simple white apron, thigh-high cotton stockings, and low-heeled leather shoes with silver buckles.
Every nerve ending tingled as she ran her fingers over the garments, which looked old but smelled new. Her dearest wishes were coming true. Not only was her Knight of Cups handsome and charming, he also was into BDSM—and not only into it, but also understood how roleplaying could be used to heal the scars of sexual abuse.
What were the chances?
Gwyn, long curious about BDSM, had lurked in numerous online discussions of the lifestyle. One thing that particularly struck her was how many women like her credited roleplaying with aiding their recoveries.
At first, using BDSM to regain feelings of power and control seemed counter-intuitive. Wouldn’t a Dom/sub scenario only recreate the abuse and subject her to further disempowerment and degradation?
Further research revealed something surprising: the submissive in a BDSM partnership retained his or her power by setting limits and boundaries prior to the sexual encounter. The submissive also had a “safe word” to halt any of the Dom’s behaviors that felt uncomfortable. These safeguards not only established a level of trust and understanding far superior to most “vanilla” couplings, they also would allow her to rewrite the script of victimization that had kept her trapped in a cycle of shame and distrust.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t yet taken the step to seek out a suitable partner. The right one had to not only be sensitive enough to work with a survivor, he also needed to be comfortable playing both roles. To express her repressed rage, she would sometimes need to be the Dom to his sub.
Sir Leith seemed to fit the bill, further confirming her belief that he was the man she was meant to be with. While reading his book on recovery through BDSM, she realized something else: he, too, had suffered sexual abuse during his enslavement in Avalon. Had he gotten into the lifestyle for therapeutic reasons? If so, he might be able to help her as well. Now, if she could only overcome her shame long enough to tell him the truth about her screwed-up sexual history.
* * * *
Leith, already in costume, was in his library, trying to figure out how to stretch his dwindling funds to cover his expenses. Last week, his accountant had written to ask him to deposit more money in the accounts used to pay his bills, and Leith had not yet responded. He planned to use the money earned from the Castles and Cairns Tour’s overnight stop at Glenarvon to cover last month’s expenses, but his conscience would not allow him to keep the deposit.
He must, therefore, sell more of his gold. As he began to advise his accountant accordingly, he found his thoughts drifting to Clara’s twin. How would she look dressed as an eighteenth-century abigail? All too fetching, he would wager, though not half as fetching as she would look across his lap with her lily-white bottom begging for his palm.
Closing his eyes, he called into his mind the fantasy of spanking her. Too bad she forbade him to strike her. He used to spank Clara when she was naughty and took more pleasure from his discipline than he probably should have. Not that he ever spanked her hard or would deign to employ bodily punishments if they had lived in more enlightened times. Back then, husbands were expected to keep their wives in line by any means necessary. Thankfully, attitudes about marital roles had evolved since then, though not in as many spheres as one might wish.
He flattered himself he had become enlightened about abuse, especially after the indignities he suffered in Avalon. Images shot to the surface unbidden. Couples fornicating openly in the corridors, heedless of who watched. Lining up with the other knights like bulls at a livestock auction in the royal bedchamber, with its gold velvet draperies, honeycomb headboard, and beeswax scent. The bumblebee pendant with the diamond wings Queen Morgan wore around her neck. The enchanted golden chalice over which she had condemned him to roam the earth forevermore with no hope of peace, happiness, or love.
Even so, he did his best to endure by setting boundaries and crawling through loopholes. The women he invited into his playroom were neither slaves nor victims; they were experienced submissives who derived pleasure from being disciplined and dominated. Some were survivors of sexual abuse while others were well-adjusted, hard-working women who just yearned to surrender control every now and again.
These contractual relationships made it possible for him to exercise his passions without risking emotional involvement. He and his partners were merely acting out their agreed-upon roles. Like thespians playing a torrid love scene together, they didn’t mistake their scripted parts for a real relationship.
He intended to explain all of this over dinner, to be sure the fly who’d become trapped in his web was
clear on the rules.
Returning to his business, he took up his pen and finished the letter to his accountant. Just as he scrawled his signature across the bottom, a clearing throat drew his gaze toward the door into the hall.
There stood his butler, awaiting his attention. “Dinner will be served in half an hour, my lord.”
“Thank you, Gavin.”
As the butler took his leave, Leith pushed the letter aside and withdrew his tarot cards from the top left-hand drawer of his desk. After removing the silk scarf shielding the cards from negative vibrations, he shuffled the deck while focusing on what he wished to know. When the cards felt sufficiently infused with his energy, he used his left hand to cut the deck into thirds.
The three-level spread, which provided the answer in terms of the problem’s past, present, and future, seemed a good choice. He didn’t have time for anything more in-depth and a single card would shed insufficient light on the matter. The problem was bigger than his writer’s block. He was miserable, lonely, destitute, and bereft of hope. His curse was to blame for most of it, but not the whole.
After dealing three cards from left to right face down, he overturned the card representing the foundation of the matter.
Queen of Cups.
The queen on the card sat upon a stone throne carved with baby mermaids and seashells, gazing dreamily at the cup in her hands. The throne stood at the edge of a shore, the surf lapping around its base. The water did not touch the queen’s feet, which rested on a bed of sea glass and pebbles. A grass-covered bluff stood in the background.
No surprises there. The card obviously represented Queen Morgan on her island with the chalice she used for her sorcery.
Holding his breath, he flipped the card representing his current situation.
Five of Cups.
The image depicted a cloaked figure grieving over the three spilled cups before him while ignoring the upright pair behind.
Also glaringly obvious. The cards weren’t beating about the bush today. They were saying in no uncertain terms his regrets, not the curse, were destroying his peace of mind and strangling his creativity.
