Vow: A Lords of Action Novel

by K. J. Jackson

  “Thank you.” She nodded, attempting to produce a small smile, but it only twisted into a frown on her lips. Caine realized in that moment how distraught—horrified—she was for any of the other girls about to be sold.

  He couldn’t blame her. But he also wasn’t aching to be beaten to near death and robbed this night. So he would do what little he could. He could get one out.

  Opening the door of the hack, he jumped into the street. He helped Ara from the hack and quickly ushered her along the street to Tom and his waiting carriage.

  Depositing her inside, he paused before turning to the brothel and stuck his head into the interior of his carriage, his hand gripping the door. “Just concentrate on the one, Ara. And remember, you were the one. It will make a difference.”

  She nodded again, the frown still set in place.

  Caine closed the door to the carriage, wondering if saving the one would truly sate her.

  He guessed not.

  { Chapter 4 }

  The day had brought forth too much—far too many memories.

  Caine drained the last brown drops of brandy and clunked the tumbler to the table. He reached out, wrapping sloppy fingers around the bottle of brandy.

  Damn the memories.

  The exact moment Ara’s voice had told him that Isabella was dead. Telling her parents. Their faces contorting in grief. His failure to bring her home. The guilt that would not loosen its hold on him.

  He had not expected the memories to rush upon him as they had. But the second his carriage had pulled away from the simple cottage of the girl they had saved last night, Misty, the memories had overwhelmed him.

  It had taken the rest of the previous night and most of the day on the muddied roads to reach Misty’s home. And far from Ara’s father’s reaction to her return, Misty’s parents had pulled her into their arms, overjoyed that she had been returned home. Even after the girl told them what had happened, Caine had not seen the slightest waver in their gratefulness for their daughter’s safe return.

  Caine had watched Ara closely during those moments in the cottage. She had refused to let Misty go into the house by herself, wanting to protect her if need be. Watching the joyful reunion, Caine had waited for jealousy to spark to life in Ara’s eyes, but there was none. Quite the opposite, tears streamed down Ara’s face with genuine happiness that the girl had been wrapped in the comfort of her father’s arms.

  It was only as they left the cottage that Caine caught a glimpse of the heart-wrenching sadness taking over Ara’s eyes.

  Ara had hidden it in the carriage. Pretended to sleep while the daylight turned to darkness. But Caine could see she was awake the whole time. Awake and twitching against whatever was in her mind.

  Apparently, the resurgence of memories was not for him alone.

  His own memories had stewed for a month, skillfully avoided by him at every turn. Yet they had not left his head. Instead, they had festered, not dissolving away to nothingness as he had planned for them.

  Glass clinked on glass, the last of the amber liquid dripping from the bottle as Caine stared at the wall in front of him. Just on the other side, Ara was ensconced in the room next to his at the coaching inn they had stopped at halfway back to London.

  Ara had wanted to push on through the darkness, but as none of them, including his driver, had slept during the day or the previous night, Caine had insisted they stop.

  That had been a mistake.

  The moment he had entered his room, the silence had crushed him. He had stopped moving, stopped the busyness, and he paid for it. Far from all of his usual distractions in London, Caine could not defend against the onslaught of pain that came with the memories of Isabella’s death. The last hours of silence in his room had only strengthened the failure that constantly gnawed on his chest, refusing to yield.

  His head tilted back, a swallow of brandy sliding down his throat.

  A scream pierced the air, snapping Caine upright.

  “No, Crow—Crow—not her—not the Crow—not there—”

  The words, the scream, were coming straight through the wall from Ara’s room.

  Caine fumbled to his feet, snatching his white linen shirt from the chair. He jabbed at it, trying to get his arms though the holes—failure. Damn shirt. Damn brandy.

  More screams.

  Flinging the shirt to the floor, he grabbed the candle from the table. His feet sloshed, weighted down by invisible mud. Too slow. Ara was in trouble and he was too slow.

  Three tries to turn Ara’s doorknob, and he finally managed to crack open the door. It had taken only seconds but felt like an eternity, every motion heavy on his limbs.

  Ara screeched, again and again, and Caine found her in the darkness, her body thrashing on the bed.

  “God no—no, no, no—not the wolves. Not the wolves. Crow. Please. Not the wolves. No. Please crow.” Another stinging scream.

  Caine’s muddled mind took in the dark room, searching for an attacker. Someone that would make Ara scream, crazed.

  “Ara.” His voice was no match for the wail that filled the room.

  He lifted the candlestick in his hand, scanning the shadows again.

  Only Ara in the room.

  Caine’s sluggish eyes landed on Ara, and he finally realized she was asleep, terrorized in her dreams. Her next scream stunned him, a cold, brutal chill invading his spine. He had seen men in the war, their legs being sawed off, bullets tearing them apart from the inside—but their screams were nothing like this. Whatever horror was in her mind was tearing her apart, chunk of flesh, by chunk of flesh.

  He knew he was too damn drunk to help her properly, but he didn’t have a choice. Muttering a line of blasphemies under his breath, Caine closed the door behind him and set the candle on the small table next to the fireplace.

  Shrieks, three in a row, rang in his ears, smothering the room, and Caine rushed to her as fast as his sloth-feet would carry him. The sheet twisted along her legs as she kicked, her bare feet jamming into the wall by the bed. The top half of her body was covered only by the simple white chemise—damp with fear—that she had stripped down to. Her hands flailed above her head, slapping onto the headboard, battling unseen demons.

  Caine stumbled, landing on the edge of the bed, and grabbed Ara’s writhing shoulders. Her hands flew up at the touch, fighting him, her screams reaching a new pitch.

  “Ara, wake up. Ara.”

  “No. God no. Not the wolves. No, no, no. Crow. Please no. Don’t do it. Please. No, no, no.”

  “Ara, it’s only me. It’s Caine. Wake up. Ara.”

  A scream, and she attempted to crumple into a ball, trying to disappear away from him, but the tangled sheet along her legs held her captive. It aggravated her savage terror, and her whole body convulsed, trying to both fight him and escape him at the same time.

  He shook her. “Ara.”

  The shrieks intensified.

  Blast it. She sounded as if she were being tortured. There’d be a knock on the door soon if he didn’t quiet her, and rightfully so.

  He grabbed her face in his hands, his nose touching hers. “Ara. Wake the hell up.” His voice overtook her screeches.

  His hands on her head tightened. “Wake up, Ara.”

  She stilled, silent.

  Blood pounding in his ears, Caine watched as her eyes cracked open, the long lashes fluttering.

  It took seconds before her eyes focused.

  Caine pulled his face away from hers, giving her room, but did not drop his hands from the grip on her head.

  Confusion filled her eyes, crinkling lines along her forehead. “Mr. Farlington?”

  “Caine. I think we are well past Mr. Farlington, Ara.”

  She blinked hard, confusion still thick in her green eyes. “Caine?”

  “Yes?”

  Her trembling fingers came up, wrapping along the back of his hands still clamped to her cheeks. “These are your hands?”

  He nodded with an exhale of relief. Realit
y was settling into her mind. “Yes.”

  “Why? What are you doing on my bed?”

  “We are in a coaching inn. Do you remember where we were?”

  Her fingernails dug into the back of his hands for an instant, then dropped to the bed as her eyes fell. “Misty. We were delivering Misty.”

  “Yes. And we are in a coaching inn on the road back to London. Do you remember?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes came up to him. “I was dreaming?”

  “You screamed of crows and wolves.”

  She drew a gasping breath that covered a sob.

  Caine knew she was awake, knew he could drop his hold on her, but the tremors still vibrating through her body made him keep his hands in place. “You are safe. Do you understand? Safe.”

  She nodded, her cheekbones rubbing against his thumbs. “I am sorry. I tried to stay awake. I tried. But I was too tired.”

  “You have been awake for days, Ara. You need to sleep.”

  “My mind in sleep is traitorous.” A quake rocked her entire body, and her head fell as she gulped back a sob. Her chin stayed down, but her wide eyes lifted to him. “Mr. Farlington, I do not want to ask. But…”

  “What is it?”

  Her hands came up, gripping his wrists. “Your heartbeat…may I listen to it?”

  His head tilted. Even with the brandy fogging his brain, it was an odd request. “Why the heartbeat?”

  “At the townhouse. When they attack in my dreams and fill my brain, and my body hurts I fight so hard…I listen to Patch’s heart after, it thumps, and it takes away the shake in my body. It is outside my body and constant—something to hold onto to even me. It will not take long, I swear it.”

  His chest tightening at her words, he silently dropped his hands to grab her body, wrapping her onto his lap as he shifted on the bed, setting his back against the wall. Drawing her legs up to her belly, Ara curled onto his chest, making herself small as she shoved her blond hair aside to lay her ear on the bare skin above his heart.

  In this position, one arm wrapping along her back, the other holding her head tight to his chest, Caine could feel the constant trembles in her body—and also feel as they eased. But she did not fall asleep. The constant tickle of her eyelashes against his skin verified she was refusing to close her eyes again.

  “Who is Patch?” The question had been forefront in his mind in the long minutes since she had mentioned the name.

  He could feel her cheek rise in a smile against his chest. “I found a dog. He followed me from the park across the street to the townhouse the first week I was there.”

  “And you let him sleep with you?”

  “Yes, when I need him to. Though the bugger has decided that should be all the time.”

  Caine chuckled, aware that the laugh was delayed by his still brandy-soaked mind.

  “Caine, will you teach me? I do not want to be innocent anymore.”

  His muscles froze.

  Even in his sodden state, he knew he had best tread carefully with that question. “What do you mean, Ara?”

  “Your world. London. This world I do not understand.”

  Caine exhaled, his body relaxing. Of course it was an innocent request. It always was with Ara. She was old enough to be relatively savvy of the world, yet she had been exposed to so little by her father.

  “It is the sounds. The smells. The sights. The people. It is so big and I walk around, trying to understand it all. But it is so much. There is gold gilding on some of the doors, and then I walk ten blocks, and I am standing in front of buildings like the one they took me to. All of it is so far beyond what I knew in Marport.”

  “You were to never speak the name of that town again, Ara.”

  “I cannot even with you?”

  “Never. You need to forget everything of your life before a month ago. You swore you could do it.”

  She shook her head. “Even that I do not understand. The demand must have a reason.”

  “I cannot have anyone question that you are a distant relative, Ara. I do not want you ever tainted by your past. This is the easiest way. The only way. You come from a tiny village in Devonshire. You are a fourth cousin, descended from the youngest of my great, great grandfather’s four brothers, Richard. That is all anyone ever needs to know of you.”

  She nodded, falling silent.

  Minutes passed, and the tremors had nearly ceased, only the slightest shiver running periodically along her arm.

  More minutes ticked by, and Caine could not stop himself from questioning his own demand of Ara to forget everything she had ever known. And then his blasted mind went rogue and wandered unwittingly to a month ago—to the very moment he knew Isabella was lost to him.

  Damn, he missed Bella.

  The brandy in his mind sucked, pulling him into the hell of memories.

  The ultimate cruelty of her death was that she had been waiting for him. Protecting her virtue, her innocence—and that was the very thing she had been stolen for.

  Before Caine left for the war, Isabella had never allowed more than a kiss. He had never held her like this—like Ara was on his body.

  Never had her body draped over his.

  Her heartbeat thudding on his chest.

  Her lips near to his skin, her warm breath heating his bare nipple.

  Ara.

  At that moment, her head tilted and she looked up at him. Innocence in her eyes. Innocence like Bella’s.

  Without thought, he dropped his head, taking her mouth under his. He sensed for a moment she resisted him, resisted the kiss. But by the time the deterrence registered through his soused senses, she was leaning into him, gently offering her mouth to his.

  His tongue swept across the softness of her lips. Hell. So sweet. Bella was sweet like that. His tongue breached her lips, and she opened her mouth to him, taking him in, pulling him into her essence.

  Her nipple, taut against her chemise, was suddenly under his fingers, his palm moving to cup her breast. How had his hand even landed there? He rolled her nipple, pinching it. A murmur at the touch rumbled from her throat into his mouth, sending his cock rock hard.

  His senses took over his brain. His mind nothing but nerve endings being stoked. Her fingers moved against his bare chest, wrapping around his neck, curling into his hair. A thousand wildcats could tear at him, and he wouldn’t abandon this kiss.

  The hand he had wrapped around her waist moved downward, his palm landing on her thigh, his fingers pulling up her chemise. His thumb swept the inner stretch of her thigh, the skin prickling under his touch.

  No resistance. She only purred under him, her tongue twisting with his, her body arching into his. His thumb moved upward, breaching the hair at the juncture of her thighs. Soft. Wet. Throbbing.

  He swallowed the gasp that escaped her at the touch. He stroked through her folds, finding the hard nubbin waiting for him, plying it, making her hips ride his hand in rhythm, her body begging. He continued his onslaught, her moans begging him insistently for more until she shuddered violently, screaming into his mouth and then gasping for air under him.

  His hand on her nipple dropped, and he freed himself from his breeches.

  Hell. What he was doing was so wrong. Wrong. But Bella was so sweet, so pliable in his arms. Her skin rippling under his fingers. Her thighs clamped around his hand, contractions still rolling from her core.

  He needed to take his love right now. Right here. They had waited too long. Years too long.

  He grabbed her hand, setting her shaking fingers along his shaft, guiding her to stroke the length of him.

  Exquisite. Her fingers both strong and gentle against him.

  His mouth moved against her lips. “Yes, Bella. There. Yes. Bella.”

  Both of her hands flew up, hard against his chest. Hands he needed down below. Touching him. Stroking him.

  Nails bit into his skin. Her face twisted from him, her lips gasping for air.

  She was fighting him. Fighting to get away from
him.

  The fact sank through the tar in his mind—through the thick haze of lust and brandy blurring his thoughts.

  “No.”

  The one word pulled him into reality. Into the present.

  Bella wasn’t in his arms.

  Ara was.

  And she was trying to twist away from his clamp. Escape him.

  His hands instantly dropped from her.

  She scampered to the far side of the bed, tugging her chemise over her knees and ripping the sheet up over her body in one frenzied motion.

  How long had she said no? How long had she tried to free herself from him?

  Dammit to hell.

  She stared at him, the sheet up to her chin, heaving. Her lips, plump and bruised, opened and closed, her tongue licking her lips as she fought for breath.

  But she wasn’t afraid. He could see that. No fear in her eyes. What he saw was accusation—hurt?

  Had he hurt her? Blasted ass that he was, he couldn’t even think straight enough to know if he had hurt her.

  His hand went out to her. “Ara—”

  “You called me Bella.”

  “I what?”

  “You called me Bella. You thought you were with Bella.”

  His own words from seconds ago barreled into his mind. He had.

  Of all the bastard things to do, he had called her Bella. He had touched her, then called her Bella.

  His hand dropped from midair.

  “I…I cannot be Bella for you, Caine. I cannot.” Her voice crept across the bed, shaking, distraught, but with a trace of pride that would not be denied.

  Caine stood from the bed, shoving his erection under the flap of his breeches. He went to the door quickly, yanking it open.

  He paused, his head bowed as he stared at the floor of the hallway, not able to turn back to her.

  “I apologize, Ara. There is no excuse for how I just violated you. I apologize. Please know that I will never touch you again.”

  He stepped from the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Two steps into his own room, he collapsed backward onto his closed door.

  He was a bloody bastard.