“Breathe, me love,” Hector said huskily before ramming in and breaking her maidenhead apart.
Pain lanced through every part of Victoria’s body, but she didn’t make a sound. Her nails sank into his shoulders to the point blood beaded. Her face was clenched in agony and her toes clenched into balls, but not a sound slipped from her mouth. When the sharp pain ebbed, her mouth gasped in deep breaths while her body adjusted to Hector’s size.
Hector kissed her neck, while his hand braced her slick thigh, “Tell me when.”
Nodding, Victoria felt the last stings disappear from her system and then, after feeling the last quiver of pain leave her belly, she, with a stabilizing breath, tightened her legs around him. “Now.”
Slowly, Hector moved and the feeling of him, once unaccustomed, grew on her, just as the pleasure he gave her intensified. Hector’s thrusts were slow but deep, like the gradual surge of the ocean. His lips never strayed from kissing her neck or lips, only to nip at tight nipples on her full breasts.
A guttural moan left her as Hector’s movement increased, bringing with it an onslaught of pleasure. The feel of his hard girth inside her spurred on a rhythmic contracting and tightening of her muscles around him until his thrusts were so hard and fast her body was locked tightly around him.
Fire was consuming her with the new pace and mindlessly, Victoria raised her leg only to have Hector place it on his shoulder while his hard thrust surged so deep inside her. Victoria knew she was marked, that she was his. The night air was filled with soft gasps, deep grunts, and moans while the passionate copulation continued. She felt possessed, taken – claimed - and it was marvelous.
Hector took both of her arms and with one palm locked them above her head. Trapped and reveling in it, Victoria arched her back as the thrusts intensified. A heated tension built within Victoria, warm and riveting, spreading through her whole body like wildfire.
Her body locked up so tightly and so quickly, while a rush of pleasure sped to her head and she heard Hector grunt out a curse before her insides seemed to explode. With her head somewhere between heaven and earth, Victoria was barely aware to feel Hector’s sporadic thrusts, or see the ecstasy on his face as he pulled out and released on the sheets.
With her eyes closed and the welcomed warmth of Hector over her, Victoria tried to find some words to describe the tumultuous sensations running through her but couldn’t. Her body felt weightless, and her skin was tingling.
A mere brush of air from Hector’s lips sent bumps rippling across her skin. Giving up on trying to assess it, Victoria wrapped her arms around him and her calves were around his shins. The embrace held until both regained their breath.
Lethargically, Hector drew her close. Pressing her head on his chest, he smoothed her hair from her face and kissed her forehead. “Sleep, mo ghràdh. I’m here.”
Languidly, Victoria surrendered to sleep.
Chapter 28
“You’re a lucky man, Duke Crowland, for my father to take such a shine to you,” His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales, George the Second, said as he extended his gloved hand to the other man inside one of the Palace’s lavish staterooms. The apartment was splendidly furnished, the sofas and ottomans being covered with crimson velvet and trimmed with gold lace.
The Prince himself was in a rich, dark blue coat festooned with gold buttons, sterling white stockings, and a dark waistcoat. “Even though my father is just about to go back to Hanover, this noonday actually, he has allowed time to see you.”
Brusquely shaking the Prince’s hand, the Duke of Crowland nodded, “Thank you for admitting me this quickly, Your Royal Highness. I do need to see him. It is of a crucial matter.”
The Duke hadn’t known that the King was about to leave, but this unknown factor played perfectly into his suddenly reconsidered plans. Originally, he had come to ask the King’s permission to march into Scotland, but the King’s pending absence gave him a doorway he had never imagined.
With the King gone to his beloved Hanover - all the way in Germany - and leaving the administration to his ministers, the Duke could easily accomplish what he had come for without the unnecessary complications of official rules and procedures that would cause delay.
Before dawn that morning, Geoffrey Moore had received the wretched news that his effort to stop Victoria from crossing to Scotland with the two men had failed.
The border guards and the bounty hunters had come back to him empty-handed, prodding the Duke to use the main card he had - petition the King at his residence at St. James Palace for leave to go into Scotland.
However, now that he knew of the King’s impending departure, he could act on his own and the King, in his absence, could not be held culpable for his actions by the ruthless Tories who were looking for every excuse to dethrone him. Even with that in mind, the Duke, faithful to his King and country, didn’t want to leave his Majesty in the dark.
“I assumed as much,” Prince George the Second replied with his hands clasped behind the back of his dark blue coat. “My father is getting dressed, he will be with you shortly. I believe that since you are fluent in French, you will not need my translator services?”
“No, but thank you, Sir,” the Duke of Crowland replied.
“Very well then,” the young royal said, and turned on his heel. “Good day, Duke.”
Nodding to the man, Geoffrey tempered his patience and waited in the stateroom. His eyes roamed over the crimson damask-covered walls to the window curtains made of the same material. The room was lighted by a grandiose chandelier, hanging from the center of the ceiling, holding a candelabra at each end.
He knew the King was having problems in his cabinet. It was a tense time in the capital as the late war with the Jacobite rebels had pressed the state into almost anarchy but, even so, he needed something only the King could give him - permission to march into Scotland.
“Duke Crowland,” King George’s heavily German-accented voice sliced through the Duke’s thoughts. “How are you?”
Knowing that he was about to breach the ceiling of the man’s English vocabulary, the Duke replied in fluent French, “Pleased to see you in such good health, Your Majesty.”
The ruling monarch smiled, the heavy curled and powdered wig on his head somehow a stark contrast to the thick powder and rouge on his face. Dressed in a skirted coat and big flappy waistcoat, the King of Great Britain laughed as he took a seat in the room, “Please, join me. You’re here so early, before my morning meal, and I can only conclude that by such an early visit, you need something from me. So, what can I do for you?”
Despite the many who took the foreign-born King for a fool, the Duke knew that the monarch had many secret ways about him, his astuteness to his current cause even more so. “I have distressing news, Sire, my daughter has been taken to Scotland and I need to retrieve her. Based on the law, I am fully prepared to invoke Martial Law. I need to go to that barbaric land and retrieve my child.”
The King’s face was troubled, “Duke, you do know that since we won at the Battle of Sheriffmuir, after the thrice-damned Earl of Mar’s mad conquest, and the damage done to their land, the Scots will not take lightly to any of our presence? Even more, I have just showed leniency to the land, and spent the income from the forfeited estates on schools for Scotland. I cannot by law send troops to their land when we are speaking peace.”
Here the Duke played his trump card, “There will not be any of your men, Sire. I have my own men to fight the battle, if one should occur. The Prince of Wales has informed me that you are leaving for Hanover, and I have realized the perfect defense for you. If you do go, you will not be held at fault for my action, one which I will take all accounts and expenses for. I pledged to serve you, Sire, and I will do all in my power to continue to do so, but while doing so, I need to protect my own.”
The Monarch stood and shook the Duke’s hand, “Thank you, thank you. I always knew I could count on you for your wisdom and support.”
N
odding, the Duke said his formal goodbyes and blessing for safe travel and left the room. St. James’ Palace, the ancestral residence of many of England’s Kings and Queens, was a beauty to look upon. Built of red brick, facing St. James's Street, and with the Chapel Royal adjoining it to the west side, imposing turrets and beautiful lawns, the palace was a landmark that Geoffrey hoped would endure until the end of time.
Driving away, the Duke’s plans of calling up his fighting men and assembling his weapons were being fortified in his mind. As the carriage’s wheels turned, the man felt a burgeoning purpose come over him. It was as though he was being appointed to finish the work his father had started before him. As a protestant - like his King - he scorned the thought of spirits speaking to him from the grave, but this feeling felt supernatural.
“I’ll be damned if any of you Scottish bastards take another of my blood,” the Duke seethed.
The carriage driver was already prompted to go to the seedier side of London, places any good blue-blood was shamed to even step, much less be seen. But the Duke had a purpose - there were mercenaries there, ruthless killers, men who were partners from his father’s days, and whom he had made sure to keep in contact with for years.
His personal fighting men were back in Crowland but these men knew the art of torture, and he wanted to afflict the same pain he had felt on his sister’s death, and his child’s kidnapping, on the Scottish dogs who had caused all this anguish.
Westminster, for all its pomp and splendor, had a dark side. The monks of the namesake Abbey would, in the Christian notion of mercy - offer safe haven to suspected criminals and debtors. The practice was so deeply ingrained into the custom of the land that the area leading to the western gate of the Abbey had been transformed into a “Sanctuary”.
It baffled the Duke when he thought about it. How was affording safety to criminals any kind of profit to the land? Again, he sneered at the ‘pious’ but foolish Catholics.
Their effort had allowed those criminals to build up narrow streets, loaded with cheap dwellings that lacked ventilation, had poor lighting, and no drainage or anything even close to a semblance of sanitation. Those houses became run-down and decrepit in less than three months after the construction casting a horrible blight on the beautiful city.
The roads were ill-paved and ill-maintained, and as he was travelling down one, Old Pye Street in the notorious ‘Devil’s Acre’, the Duke had to grimace as another wheel jarred in a deep pothole and sent the carriage jerking fiercely.
Though it wasn’t acknowledged in the open, politicians had connections with villains, who did their bidding for protection from the law and a handsome fee. It was an open secret how even the King had used one of his assassins to kill his wife’s Swedish lover whose body was found in Liene River.
“Ugh. This odor is repulsive,” Geoffrey huffed and swiftly dragged a handkerchief out of his pocket to press on his nose as the foul smell of the garbage-littered road slapped him in his face. God, he hated these places but they had a purpose.
The unmarked hackney carriage he had used specifically for incognito purposes rounded a corner and drove down an alley hemmed in by a tall dark wall and ending in a cul-de-sac. The carriage jerked to a stop before a building, squat and wide, that had shuttered windows.
It was the residence of a man named Severus Crane - a man who ran the seedy underbelly of this part of town, managing the pickpockets, whores, thieves, and murderers. The man had two sons, Barton and Jacob, who had enlisted in the army to combat the Jacobite rebellion the previous year and had come out alive. These men had military training with sadistic nurturing and Geoffrey needed these two to join him.
Alighting from the carriage, and mindful of a heap of trash nearby, the Duke ordered the driver to be watchful. “Have your weapon at the ready Mr. Percy, and do not be afraid to strike any of these ingrates.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” The man replied while pulling his pistol out of the holder.
With one hand to his nose to buffer the revolting smell, the Duke lifted up a gloved hand and banged on the door thrice. He was sure that Crane’s runners had already told him about his pending arrival so there was no reason to knock much more.
He stood there, with annoyance growing as the moments passed and hooligans’ nonsensical shouts rent the air. It galled him to know that he was the subservient party in the meeting, despite his status as a lord of the realm.
In any other circumstances, he would hold the upper hand and would have sent men to meet with this criminal. However, he needed a personal hand in this matter and did not feel comfortable in using a proxy, so he stood and waited.
It wasn’t that he wanted to be cruel but he felt pressed to make a statement. He was angry more than sadistic but also ashamed.
The stench was getting unbearable by the time the rusty door grated open and the dark, shrewd eyes of Severus Crane met his. The man’s disreputable business had certainly done him well.
Severus was contradictory to his sordid surroundings, having clean and fashionable clothes, meticulously combed hair, and no body odor. Fleetingly, the Duke wondered how he managed to be so orderly but dismissed the errant though. He had more important business to see to.
“Your Grace,” the man drawled idly, “Funny seeing you in these parts. Aren’t you afraid of being mugged?”
The Duke’s eyes narrowed, “Don’t try to act asinine, Crane. My driver is with me. I hardly doubt I’ll be mugged in your house since I came with a profitable proposition. Let me in, and we’ll speak.”
Crane uttered a darkly-humored laugh under his breath and pulled the door further in and bowed, “Oh, a proposition, that surely grabbed my attention, but as Your Grace demands. Please come in, and what may I humbly do for you this day?”
Chapter 29
Hector was awake - he had been from the moment the pink rays of dawn started to crown over the horizon but he didn’t want to move. There was a warmth pressed on him, a soft smell of jasmine oil and fresh water, and soft skin under his hands - Victoria.
Possessively, his arm tightened around her slender waist as his mind called up the exquisite pleasure of just a few hours ago. For a lady untried, she had performed perfectly. From the few heated kisses they had shared at the guardhouse, Hector had known that there was a deep well of passion residing in this lady, just waiting to be opened, and he had been proven right.
All that desire covered and laced by corsets and propriety - such a damn shame - but Hector reasoned he should be grateful. He was the one who discovered it and God help him, he was going to be the only one to taste it.
Tenderly, the Laird eased up, and bracing his elbows on the smidgen of the bed over her head, lifted to look at her. Heavier rays of light were creeping through the windows and her face was calm with a soft pink, her lips were bitten red. Cascading over her shoulders and pressed under her head was her mussed golden hair.
His eyes traced over her defined features, down the curve of her neck, past her collarbone, and down over the curve of her breast. Her arm was bent in a gentle ‘L’ shape just inches away from her face and her breathing was smooth and barely perceptible as she warmed his bed.
His bed. A fierce protectiveness came over him knowing that she was lying beside him. There was no way he was going to allow her bastard father to take her back. Which reminded him - he needed to prepare the castle for war.
Regret and remorse cloaked his chest at the thought that his people were put back in war just because he hadn’t left this lady alone, but - damn it - there was no way he could have ignored her when she needed him and when there was nowhere else for her to go.
A lot of his men wouldn’t understand. He knew that and was braced to face demands for explanations. He knew the council would not take lightly to an admission of chivalry, or that his actions were gratified recompense for what she had done for him. He highly doubted they would take kindly to saying that he followed his gut feelings.
His eyebrows knit in determination. T
hey might not understand it, but he did and so did his mother. He was no ungrateful bastard to not repay kindness and sacrifice in the same measure.
If his assumptions were right, the Duke should have gotten some information about their crossing to Scotland already which meant, if the Duke was planning an assault, he would go to the Crown for permission and then he would amass his troops and weapons. Examining it all, he assumed the Clan needed nine to ten days to prepare, maybe even less.
He was not too mired in his thoughts of rounding up the men and fortifying the battlements to feel his lover shifting. Snapping his eyes toward her, Hector took pleasure in seeing her awaken.
Heavily lashed eyes fluttered briefly before they lifted half-way, as her orbs adjusted to the darkness of the room. Her body went tense as her arm rose and her hand rested lightly on Hector’s arm as her head twisted around.
Highlander's Forbidden Soulmate Page 23
