by Kerri Carr
Michael squeezed her thigh. “We could get started right here—if that’s okay with Adam. Technically, you’re here, right? We wouldn’t be cheating on you.”
“Damn. Next time, you’re doing the driving, Michael.”
“Deal.” He leaned in to kiss Nicole again, but she raised a finger, blocking him.
“Next time, we’re walking. I don’t want that poor cabbie to spend another evening in his trunk.”
“He’s fine.” Adam watched her in the rear-view mirror. “But, okay. I won’t steal his cab again.”
“Okay, if that’s settled, and Adam is happy to drive while you fuck me in here…” Nicole rocked her butt from side to side and pulled up her uniform skirt, revealing her thighs and white panties.
“Come get me, lover.” Michael slid across and lowered his head to her thighs, pressing his lips to her pale skin. Adam adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could watch—and immediately drifted toward the oncoming traffic.
“This is going to be so hard…” he murmured as he corrected the cab’s path.
“I hope so,” Nicole said with a grin. She couldn’t reach Michael’s erection, but her body tingled at the thought of his hardness invading her soft, slippery passage.
“I need to fuck you guys so bad.” Oops, did I say that out loud?
The cab braked to a halt at the side of a quiet street, and Adam joined his fellow vampire in the back seat. Nicole smiled. It would be less risky having him join them, than have him at the wheel, distracted. Sex in the back of a cab would be awkward, messy and cramped, but memorable.
And besides, she’d have the rest of her life to enjoy her immortal friend’s bodies in her bed, a life which could very well extend into three figures, now that her body was enhanced with supernatural energy.
She sighed as two pairs of hands explored her body and peeled away her clothes. Yes, becoming a trove was the best thing she had ever done.
THE END
Another bonus story is on the next page.
Bonus Story 36 of 44
A Soldier’s Love
Description
The story is set in the aftermath of The Jacobite Rebellions, just after the bloody conclusion of the Battle of Culloden. As violence and terror seize the land, a young widow banished from the clan due to the traitorous actions of her husband. She finds the wounded son of their laird, a man she used to hear about when she was young. From the moment she decides to nurse him back to health, she is hunted by English Soldiers until an enigmatic deserter from the English Army save them.
Bringing with him stories about her husband’s bravery, and his dying words, what secrets does he have about her husband’s death? How is the laird’s son involved? And will she be able to escape the carnage of the rampaging English Army and start a new?
*****
A heavy morning mist cloaked the long wild grass of the glen. Alice followed the rough dirt path that descended into the bowels of the misty valley. A thunderous peal of musket fire echoed off the looming grey crags. Startled, she dropped her empty wooden bucket she was carrying to the ground. The whole country had been plunged into chaos since the defeat at Culloden. The sound of firing squads executing “rebels” who had escaped the battle were becoming more common place. Whispered tales about the savagery and butchery of English Army dominated the local gossip circles.
Alice couldn’t help but think this country was in its death throes. Last night the peals of musket fire were non-stop and a red, raw fire from the direction of the laird’s castle scarred the sky heralding the death of her clan. Alice felt a tinge of sadness in her heart for her people. But were they still her people? She was an exile in all but name since her husband had betrayed the Jacobite cause. She was as much a topic for disgust as the English Soldiers in the gossip circle.
“That’s her, the one who was married to the traitor,” they’d whisper just loud enough to make sure she heard. And that’d just been the start. Soon she had to pay double for any sundries, she’d been spat at, and even reprimanded by grieving widows about how her husband’s cowardice had caused their husbands death months after his betrayal. She knew they just needed someone to push their grief on to. The sad part was that had it been someone else she might be doing the same herself without really realizing what she was doing. They hated her and she had no real idea what her husband had really done. She wondered if any really did.
She readjusted the green woolen shawl, tucking her long wavy red hair beneath it, before picking up her bucket. She continued her journey down the winding path to the small brook nestled among the crop of trees. A gentle breeze rustled through the drooping trees shaking the white-petalled flowers. Alice was basking in the captive beauty of the Scottish Highlands and nearly screamed as she discovered the unconscious, bloodstain clansman slumped against the base of the tree. At first, she wasn’t even sure if he was even alive. A cut to his face had soaked his long-rugged brown beard in blood. There were scores of cuts that covered his fore arms, and a dark red bloodstain had expanded across his dirty white shirt and spilled across his tartan kilt. His one hand was curled around an expensive walnut handled pistol and the other a small well-loved dagger. She recognized him. He was the was laird’s son.
Part of her blamed him for what had happened to her husband, Graham. The simple farmer went off to play soldier for the Jacobite cause because of the nonsense he’d filled Graham’s head with. They could have an independent Scotland under a new and righteous king. What did the cattle or crops care about the king or his righteousness? They’d still graze or catch disease just the same no matter who sat on the throne. And did kings really cared about the plight of the farmer, and the crushing tithes that were forcing them off their enclosures? She’d fought and argued with Graham for weeks before he went trying to change his mind. But men were such idiotic things willing to die for unachievable ideas and romantic songs. And Graham was a special brand of idiot that always followed his heart. It was why she loved him.
A larger part of her just felt sadness. The laird’s son had always been handsome with long-brown hair, and earthy brown eyes. When she was younger her and her friends always used to fantasize and giggle over the idea of him whisking them away to his castle. And from the looks of his body, the months of marching and fighting had done wonders to define his already lean body. It was such a shame it was now a smoldering ruin. Just how many handsome men had died for such a fruitless cause?
“Water,” the body croaked. Alice’s terrified scream echoed off the walls of the valley.
“By gods woman, are you a banshee or some kind of hag of the mist?” The body spoke a second time and Alice suspected it may not be dead after all.
Alice couldn’t help but feel like she was cursed. The most sensible thing she could do was turn and run. The last thing that Alice needed was to draw the attention of the English head-hunters who were scouring the country for traitors and rebels. He’d be the death of her, and she had enough of men drawing her into their stupid wars. And this fool had already involved her in his war more than she ever wanted to. Why was she even contemplating help the man who’d taken everything from her?
She went to the brook and filled her bucket with the intention of walking by.
I should just take my water and go back home, she thought as she bent down by the injured man. She cupped the water in her hands and lowered it to his pale pink lips. He pressed his warm lips against her hand and gulped down the water greedily. His coarse thick beard prickled tickled her as his lips moved against her hand. Her hand tingled as sucked against and she was surprised by just how it felt. How long had it been since she’d last felt the touch of another person? It must have been before her husband had the fool notion to go war almost a year ago.
“I’m no hag, you just startled me.” She filled the silence with the only thing that came to mind.
Alice made sure that he had his fill of water before she removed her shawl, and her long curly red hair spilled out. She dipped her shawl i
n the water, and began washing the blood from his beard to examine the cut on his face. Despite the blood there seemed something innately intimate about stroking a man’s cheek. He gazed at her from beneath the tangle of his dark brown locks. His warm hazel eyes probing her sparkling green eyes.
“Aye, I can see that. Your definitely an angel.” His thin lips stretched into a smile that Alice would have found flattering if it wasn’t for the blood. She rolled her eyes.
Men, they’d even die for it and the state he was in he’d most probably die before he finished. Definitely before she did. She smiled as she joked to herself, but couldn’t help wondering what those tittering girls in her village would make of this. Had she ever had a fantasy about coming across him wounded and alone in the woods? Or had he always been the hero? The meeting hardly ever mattered it was what happened next that she focused on.
Luckily the scar on his face wasn’t that bad. It was very shallow and the skin had already begun to knit together although the young girls may never consider him pretty again. Distinguished maybe, but not pretty.
She turned her attention to the stomach wound. She pulled at his shirt revealing his flat muscular stomach, muscles honed from the fighting of the past few months.
“Whoa, slow down lass. You should at least tell me your name first.” If he was making jokes that terrible the wound couldn’t have been that bad.
“Alice.” She stated her name and nothing else as she began to caress his hard stomach to wash away the dry blood and get a better look at the wound. The wound was small but deep enough to cut both skin and muscle. It didn’t look particularly life threatening and the bleeding had already slowed. That was a very good.
“I’m Roland.” He offered his name back.
“I know. You were the pretty young ladling that seduced my man off to war. From the battle?” Alice tried her best to keep the bitterness from her voice.
“Aye.” His light mood changed to muted and sullen, maybe even a little guilty. “Who was he?”
“Graham. He died a traitor.” There was a tone of accusation in her voice, exactly what she was accusing him of she didn’t know.
“I know. He was a good man that one, maybe too good. That was a bit of bad business. If only I’d…”
“I don’t want to hear it. I told him what would happen if he left.” Tear welled in her eyes, she still hadn’t forgiven him for abandoning her. Even so she had fantasized of him coming back, that there had been a mistake. For all she knew she was the last person alive that couldn’t see him as a betrayer. She knew she was delude. They’d been married months and he betrayed her twice. Why did he still deserve her tears, and her love? Why did she still care?
“He said you were a harsh woman. Always talked about you he did, worshipped you like a damn goddess, though he did you little justice.” He tried to feign a brighter mood one again as he pretended to flirt.
“So, what happened to you? Culloden?” she asked wanting to talk about something else. Anything else. Although she did find the flattery amusing, from a hag to angel to a goddess, but she did wonder how he’d escalated that one.
“No. I wasn’t there. After our surprise attack failed and we marched back, most of my men deserted. They’d been suffering for months and that, that was the final blow. I followed them to try and talk them back and the battle had already started by the time we’d got there. It was obvious we were overwhelmed. The artillery had devastated us and where the fighting was the thickest there seemed to be one of us to every three of them. Charles Stewart had already fled. I knew they were doomed so I turned and fled with the few kinsmen I managed to entice back. We escaped battle without a scratch, just bone-wary and hungry. I just left them to die.” His tone was sullen again and Alice thought that he might actually cry.
“You did the right thing. You couldn’t do anything. It’d have only led to more death. What else could you do?” Alice tried to comfort. She felt awful about bringing up Graham. He was already suffering enough.
“I know. I tell myself that too. We were finished. There was nothing I could do. Our army was destroyed, those of us left were scattered to the wind and our spirit already shattered after months of hardship. And I thought that be it. I’d never imagined the savagery after. The English butchery and bloodlust knew no bounds. I saw things that’d make the devil queasy in the aftermath of that battle. I know if I’d entered the battle, I would be one of those men mutilated on the floor or a pleading captive who was executed. And despite that I still had a little voice in my head telling me I could have tried but I ran. I could have tried.”
“You didn’t get stabbed running?” She hoped that this question would go better than the last one.
“No. On the run I headed straight for my father’s castle trying to outpace and outfox the yapping hounds nipping at my heels. I just wanted to go home but found it burning. Those English bastards had dragged my father from his home to ridicule, torture and prepared to execute him just because I was a rebel soldier. I turned and run. What could I do? I asked, and it answered again. I could have tried. I returned just in time to see them kill him. My blood burned for vengeance. I shot the maggot who took pleasure in humiliating him before lopping off his head. I wish I could have killed the others who pinned him to floor too, and taken my time doing so. I wished I could have saved him. I got in a tangle with a couple of soldiers as I escaped and one of them got in a lucky stab before I gutted him. My father would have been so proud. he used to say that only true warrior get stab in the front, everyone else is weak enough to get stabbed in the back. And then I just wandered.” He went sullen and quiet again. Just how much could one man go through in a single week? She wished there was treatment as simple for soul as there was his flesh.
“I think I’d better look at this back in my hut.” She tried to help him to his feet.
“I’ll be fine girl.” He battered her hands away and struggled to his feet. “It’s just a scratch, nothing a stomach full of food and a good drink can’t fix.” He groaned in pain as he doubled over and shrunk back against the tree to support himself. His knees trembled as he struggled to stand. A fresh patch of blood bloomed on his shirt as the wound reopened.
Why were men such pig-headed fools? she thought. She ducked under his arm and pressed herself into his warm body propping him up. She couldn’t help but think about how Graham used to feel. He was the gentlest man alive, his head full of warm-head ideas and notions and yet he had to life through that too. It most probably broke him too.
“You know they’ll kill you if they find you with me?” Roland grunted between gasps of pain.
“Here.” She gave him her bloody shawl. “Press this against the wound while I get you back to my cabin.”
“Bloody hell woman, you work fast.” He moved back to stupid jokes.
“Although, if you keep on with those corny jokes, I’ll happily leave you here to die.” She wasn’t joking.
*****
Alice carried Roland up the dirt path toward her dilapidated log cabin. Two English soldiers stepped out from a rocky outcrop and she froze. Their vibrant red coats, and dirty white trousers stood out against the green of the highland. She cursed herself. She should have seen them from miles away. She knew she should have left him to rot.
“Put me down and run girl.” The same thought was running through her mind. She hesitated and the decision was taken out of her hands. One solider dropped to his knee and raised the musket to his face ready to fire.
“Put him down and stay there,” he ordered. She lowered Roland to the ground as gently as she could.
The musket wielding soldier ordered the other soldier to approach as he covered him with the rifle. He was big and looked a little slow witted, a think stubble covered the lower half of his face. A thick cross-like scar stretched across down the side of his face and across his forehead distorting his skull. It just looked wrong. He gave Alice a stupid but creepy smile.
“Hi.” He waved at Alice before unleashing his
sword.
“Sorry.” The sullen guilty washed over Roland face again.
“Well what have we got here a rebel scum and the doting wife. How sweet.” The musket wielding solider came up and joined the first. His tapering over-shot jaw, narrow beady little eyes and long whisker-like sideburns made him look like a rat.
“I think she’s pretty,” the dumb one stated in a tone fit for a five-year old. His eyes groped over the curves of her body. Alice felt a little dirty at the look.
“Yeah, she’ll be a fine bit of sport. Will you enjoy watching your wife spend some time with us?” The rat-faced soldier threw his red coat to the ground.
“She’s not my wife. The bitch was just bringing me to you for the bounty. Tear her to pieces for all I care,” Roland snarled, lying to save her.
“Problem is us and the King, God bless his soul, have had a small disagreement. If we take your head back, they’ll take ours right along with it. So, we just take our rewards where we find them now. And it will be a pleasure taking this one.” Rat-face began to take off his white shirt.
Roland struggled to his feet and the small flintlock pistol sprang into his hand. Unsteady on his feet, he could hardly prepare the gun, let alone aim straight and Rat-face knew it. He was bemused if anything. The dumb one appeared more worried and lifted his hands to his ears and began to shriek while dancing on the spot. Roland discharged his shot into the ground, missing them by a mile.
“It’s okay, George. It’s okay. Calm down.” Rat-face sound worried and concerned. “Break his nose George.”
George rammed the hilt of his sword into Roland’s nose and it made a sickening crunch. Roland was sent sprawling to the ground, blood rushing for his shattered nose.
“God man. Make up your mind. Are you happy to watch or not?” Rat-face jeered.
“What shall I do boss?” George squirmed anxiously. “Should I kick him?”