“It’s the fastest way,” he said impatiently when she still didn’t move. “Thought you were in a rush.”
“Never before have I ridden astride.”
“Oh, for the love of God.” In three seconds, he had her plunked on the beast, legs hanging down on either side of the large animal, Francine scrambling to stuff some of her shift between her thighs—lest her intimate regions meet the saddle. Astride was one thing; plastering herself indecently there quite another. As to indecent, her skirts rode up to reveal a significant amount of lower leg and thigh.
Sparing her exposed skin not a single glance, he hefted himself up behind her and grunted as he unwound the reins. “Huh. For all your height, you’re a dainty little thing, aren’t you?” He turned them toward the exit and clicked to his horse. “Smell a hell of a lot better than this place too.”
That was all he said, galloping through London in such a way that were less at stake, the ride would have been exhilarating. As it was, every minute only tumbled the nerves tighter in her belly.
Once they reached the area where larger, more elegant townhouses resided, he slowed the animal to a sedate pace, making sure to take to the shadows any time a carriage or hack lumbered past, preserving what little modesty she no longer claimed, but the gesture appreciated nonetheless.
During one such moment, as they waited, hiding, tense and still, for people to disembark and their carriage to be taken round back, she asked, “How did you and Lord Blakely meet?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” She was about to argue the matter when he added, “Not now, you wouldn’t. Maybe after tonight though…”
Cryptic. Curious. Not important enough to follow up on, not when all her turbulent thoughts brawled through her brain like unruly street bruisers, clashing for dominance.
“I can’t believe you aren’t scared,” he murmured, the words breezing past her ear and jostling her hair. “At least…wary of arriving at his doorstep, unannounced.”
“Are you daft? I’m terrified.”
He grunted a low chuckle. “Impressive. Must be that stoic English upbringing.”
More like habit of hiding what I feel and think. “I have become adept at shielding my true nature.”
He stiffened behind her and she rushed to explain, “But not with your friend. Never with Erasmus. With him… I am amazingly free. Utterly myself, I assure you.”
As though sensing his master’s easing, the animal beneath them ruffled his lips in a long, snorted whinny.
The people and conveyances finally cleared and Adam ordered his beast to move out once again. It wasn’t but a handful of blocks later that she began to recognize several streets. Oh, if only she’d known. Lord Blakely’s home wasn’t overly far from Rowden House.
Before turning down what she assumed was the last street, Adam pulled up at the end, halted the horse and sat there silently for a few seconds.
The cool evening breeze that kissed through her hair, the lone carriage that rolled by, bringing more late-night revelers back home, the single laugh she heard someone utter from a distance…
It all seemed so very normal.
When inside her entire world was breaking apart. A fine trembling had taken hold of her limbs.
“Why have we stopped?” Over the furious pounding of her heart, she asked the question, afraid of the answer. “You have not reconsidered, have you?”
Quietly, the words whispering past her ear, he said, “There’s more than a fair chance your Lord Blakely will have my head for this, Francine. I’d hate to lose my job—or my best friend—over bringing you here.”
Please don’t change your mind.
“But I’ve seen him act differently the last couple months and all for the better. I know he needs you too. I’m just not sure…”
Not sure about what?
It took greater strength of fortitude to remain silent, let him work through things on his own, than it had to ride astride for the first time, the unused position starting to strain her thighs.
“Truth is…I’m not sure you’re ready for what awaits you inside.”
“I am.” I have to be.
“Just…” He swore. “Prepare yourself. I don’t know how bad it’s gotten, but he won’t be himself, that I can guarantee.”
Her legs and every other muscle tensed. “What do you mean how bad? What exactly is it?”
“That’s for him to tell you. Not me.” He hefted out a big sigh. “Damn. I cannot believe I’m letting you go in there alone. Maybe I should…” As though sensing his master’s indecision, the big horse shifted his weight, rocking them both with a creak of saddle and leather.
“Shall I take the decision from you? I shall speak with him alone. Face whatever”—whomever—“he keeps from me on my own. I need to do this.”
He clicked to his horse and tightened the strong legs behind her, nudging the animal forward with his heels. “All right. I’ll wait, though—out of sight. For five minutes, no more, in case you change your mind. Then I really must get back to the club.”
“I will not change my mind.”
“I’m still waiting.”
“Make it three minutes.” She tried to compromise. “I do not want to take you from your duties. I don’t claim to know what all they are, but Erasmus speaks very highly of you.”
“Not after tonight, he won’t.”
13
Angst, Anxiety, and Demmed Animals
Several days ago, in a rare moment of anguished clarity
* * *
Do this for me—for yourself—for every Hammond that has come before either of us and I pray may come after: save yourself, and your family. Take whatever measures you need to in order to remain whole. I pray your love for me, and yourself, outweighs your hatred of what you become, of what I ask of you.
Be at peace, my Erasmus, my precious heir, be at peace.
* * *
Erasmus’s aching fingers strained to close around the old pages from his father, to crush and crumble. Squeeze the life out of them and throw everything into the fire. Then jump in after. The weight of its requests heavy indeed. Nearly beyond bearing.
Had he not done all that his father asked? All that he could to identify any stray, cursed family members? To save Nash, if not Phin?
To keep his own seed from perpetuating?
And where had it landed him?
Beset with guilt.
Bombarded by questions. Where the hell was his brother? What had happened to Phineas? Was The Den and his work there doing enough to keep others safe?
Had he fallen blooming in love with the most sexually eager “innocent” a man could hope to frolic with?
“God help me.” The letter gripped tight in his trembling fist, his head thumped down on his bent arms. He didn’t need the distraction. Not now, not with lives at stake. So many lives.
But the thought of sending her away? Of never seeing her again? Not waking up, with the notion of basking in her smiles, her wit propelling him out of bed… Instead, the idea of waking with the dark, interminable dread of knowing he wouldn’t see her in a few hours, might never see her again?
He couldn’t fathom it.
But if he failed the men closest to him—failed to protect his club, his cubs—and the ones they might be a threat to, how could he ever hope to help others? To help himself?
How could he justify keeping Francine, when every facet of their agreement, their every conversation, kept reminding him how he was supposed to give her back? Return her freedom. Grant her that ultimate independence she so craved.
Even if he’d be giving away his bloodied, ensnared, godforsaken heart in the process.
The one she’d rescued.
The one he couldn’t live without. The one she held in her dainty, dirt-dusted, lovely hands.
Casting one last glance beyond her shoulder, where she knew Adam waited, watching over her, Francine marched up the steps to the townhouse he’d indicated Lord Blakely owned.
Where was a doorknocker when one needed it? Needed to desperately lift the heavy metal and bring it crashing down as hard as she could, hear its metallic clangs echo satisfyingly in the air?
“Nothing for it.” She kicked the door sharply with the side of one boot, swinging her leg as hard as she dared. “There now.”
That thumped pleasingly loud.
No one responded to her summons, so she banged on the door again, this time with her bare knuckles.
The night was cool and she set the valise down to pull the big jacket tighter around her middle. Muted thumps echoed beyond the paned windows, confirming Adam’s assertion that someone was home.
And what was that? She pressed her ear to the window beside the door. There it was again—something long and animalistic…sounding suspiciously like a roar, of all things. What was going on in there?
She straightened and pounded against the thick door with both hands. Hit the solid wood with such force, it jarred her teeth. Kicked it again for good measure. Who needed a doorknocker when they had determination?
“Erasmus! Let me in,” she called from her position on the stoop, heedless of who might overhear. The jacket’s long sleeve got in the way and muffled the next round of pounding.
Her breath coming in gasps, she tried the handle.
Locked. No surprise there.
Where were his servants? Why did no one respond? Abandoning decorum, she lifted part of her long skirt and wound it around one hand to bang harder, thrashing the impenetrable wood with all her might.
She worried he might be dallying with another woman.
She worried he might be sick, or worse.
She worried about him.
“Erasmus Hammond! Open this—”
The door swung open abruptly. “What th’ hell do you want?”
“Erasmus?” Francine stared at the…person before her. It was him. But it wasn’t.
Sun-bleached streaks lightened his coal-black hair and it had grown! Several inches at least—in a week? His already-muscular chest had expanded, was hunched forward and bowed inward from some invisible weight he carried on his back. Golden whiskers covered his cheeks and jaw, extending down his neck and replacing the dark shadow she’d come to expect by the end of their evenings.
She stared in shock. Erasmus had thought her false betrothal proposition was ludicrous? This was insane! Grown men did not turn into hairy beasts in the span of a few days, not in the nineteenth century!
Not in any century!
But he had…
Nay! It couldn’t be. ’Twas a parlor trick, a cruel jest.
The pressure behind her eye sockets heralded the arrival of unwelcome tears. Her ungloved fingers dashed them away. She didn’t have time for silly female emotion.
Shaking off her confusion, she swept up her bag and poked him in the chest with it, propelling him away from the door. She stormed over the threshold, turning in dismay when a low rumble erupted from his throat.
My. Even disreputable and…well…somewhat hairy, he was a sight to behold. Never before had she faced such raw power, so much brute strength, especially in the form of the person she’d come to care about more than any other.
Feral energy radiated from him. Effectively intimidating, if her racing heart were any judge. But she couldn’t deny the flash of excitement that flared in some latent part of her either, the extreme wildness beyond exciting. What did that say about her?
Debauched, indeed.
He’d often been a little untamed in their lovemaking, but nothing like this. Never a total barbarian…his eyes now cullish, hooded, no longer bright and clear. All tolerant amusement gone; all indulgent consideration wiped free from his face.
Her resolve firmed. This wasn’t like him and she wasn’t leaving without answers. “Are you drunk? In an opium haze?” She leaned in, hoping to catch a hint of his breath—not that she knew what opium might smell like.
She bustled several feet from the doorway and spun to face him, clutching her shaking fingers tight around the handle of the valise, praying for courage. “I refuse to leave, so you have no choice but to tell me. Erasmus, what has happened?”
He rammed the door shut so hard it bounced back off its hinges. He kicked it closed, fumbled with the lock. Then whipped around and advanced. “So, malaya, you finally saw your way to showing your face? About demmed time!”
The angry words were snarled with such hatred that she stepped back, a frisson of true fear latching on to her heart.
Where was the gentle, caring man who had escorted her everywhere these past weeks? The man who arranged for packets of seeds from his estate’s garden to be sent to her? The man who once arrived, one magical time, with a tipitiwitchet! The difficult-to-come-by plant that he said needed her soft touch to tame it and that she was to think of his stalk claiming her “luscious pink interior” every time she glanced upon the wicked specimen? Who’d been her staunchest defender and biggest supporter since the night they’d met?
Where was the man who had captured her heart, for surely this beast wasn’t him.
She stood tall, determined not to let him intimidate her. “I refuse to be bully-hectored by you, no matter—”
A tormented wail came from overhead, followed by such a commotion that the ceiling-mounted chandelier swayed. She gripped his arm. “What is going on up there? Did you decide I wasn’t enough to satisfy your ‘extensive appetites’?” She bit her lip, refusing to be cowed when he turned hate-filled eyes on her. “I thought we had an agreement. One you obviously—”
“Forget your bloody agreement.” He shrugged away from her hold and ripped her valise out of her hands, hurling it to the floor with a threatening growl.
She retreated, bumped against a table, that spark of fear igniting…
Be strong. He’ll not hurt you.
She was starting to question…
“Are you here to save your lover?” he spat the words. “Can you manage such a sacrifice, I wonder?”
“Sacrifice? Erasmus, what—”
Another crash sounded from upstairs the very second she noticed his nose. It was smooth and blemish-free. No scar marred its even surface but two slightly larger nicks slashed across his lips, the faint lines almost obscured by the heavy whiskers furring his face.
Faster than plucking a weed, awareness swept through her. “Where is Erasmus? I demand you take me to him!”
Realizing this barbarian wasn’t her beloved returned all her confidence and then some. She grabbed the impostor’s linen shirt, barely noticing how frayed it was at the seams. Tears gathered and fell from her eyes as she suspicioned this detestable man must have harmed her beloved.
She fisted her hands in the ragged material, also catching the chain he wore beneath. Further proof! Erasmus never wore jewelry. No chains, ever. Only his beautiful signet ring handed down to him from his father.
Pummeling the shammer’s chest, she screamed, “What have you done with Erasmus? Where is he?”
“Franceeeeeeeene!”
The bellow came from upstairs.
Her attention diverted from the one before her, it took but a moment to realize he’d shoved the heavy jacket from her shoulders. It landed in a heap with a whoosh-thunk. The stranger stood appraising her, a wary, disgruntled expression settling over his menacing features. “Scrawny. Shit. You aren’t near strong enough. Too fucking innocent, just like he claimed. God damn it!”
Giving her no time to make sense of his words, the man before her swayed, gesturing with disgust, an odd puffing noise coming from his open mouth. He motioned for her to leave and she caught sight of his hands, the nails elongated, pointed, curving into claws.
“Erasmus!” she shouted, stumbling from the monster before her. “Erasmus!”
Another roar. She jumped. It seemed as if the plaster directly above
them was about to come falling down.
She returned to the stranger, digging her fingers into his shirt and hammering him with her fists. “Take me to him!”
Fire burned in her heart, the breath heaving from her lungs. She struck his burly chest over and over as hard as she could, the action ripping the top of the worn shirt until it exposed his upper chest. His skin was covered in thick, tawny hair, so unlike Erasmus’s smooth, shapely muscles. The difference goaded her on and she struck him with more force, not caring that tremors were shuddering through him, increasing the glaze that filled his eyes.
“Please!” Francine cried. She pulled at the hair covering his pectorals, trying to get his attention, trying to hurt him. “Please. You have to tell me! What have you done to him?”
“Quiet!” He clutched her arms, and for a fraction of a second, his face gentled. Refinement overlaid savagery. A modicum of peace settled across his fierce visage, then it was displaced when another convulsion ran through him, almost dislodging their combined grips. “Listen well, mwanamke,” he gritted out. “I am Nash, his brother. The Change is upon us. He refused to call for you and…” Low growls vibrated from within his throat. “He refused to fuck any of the women I brought here, damn him. He remains in agony, suffering, because of you. And ’tis making me suffer as well, damn you both!”
Nash threw her from him and Francine crashed into the small table.
“Leave now. If you value your life…leave!”
As she watched, he shuddered again, his hair and nails extending. He hunched over, his arms hanging perilously close to the floor.
“Franceene…”
The cry was softer now, more anguished. She looked toward the staircase, torn, not understanding.
The man-beast before her roared and she saw fangs.
God have mercy.
“If you value your life, leave or I cannot promise what…” Nash stumbled toward the staircase, landing on all fours. He loped partway up the steps, turning to look at her over his shoulder. Stringy hair hid most of his face. Her lack of spectacles blurred the rest. “Or, Lady Francsheene…” His words were slurred, garbled. “…falloww me…schraight intoo hell.”
Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Page 21