The Major's Lady

by Mia Easton

  Wesley Hale, with his dark hair and deep blue eyes, was not especially vain, she didn't think. He seemed aloof and uninterested in the many young women she'd seen paraded before him. Oh, how she delighted in his polite rejections. He was a man who wanted and needed more than just a lovely little wife with a lovely little dowry. He needed danger and excitement, a taste of the forbidden to reawaken some of the passion that must have flowed through him at times of battle. She would give it to him, and he would take her away from this existence, back to Pinegrove, his estate.

  She'd heard it was a fine manor house surrounded by towering pines. "I am Mrs. Hale, mistress of Pinegrove," she said as she peered into the looking glass. Or would it be Lady Hale? The servants she would hire would never guess she'd been one of them.

  She had to make a move tonight. Tomorrow, the major had his mysterious errand and she needed to make sure he would return. She turned from side to side, surveying herself. She'd borrowed a guestroom to get ready and to have access to the major's room without being seen, because tonight was definitely the night.

  Lying on his bed with a book turned over on his stomach and his hands beneath his head, Wes stared at the ceiling, revisiting the events of three years ago. For days after the battle, he had slipped in and out of consciousness and only bits of memory had returned from those days. A pile of corpses. The surgeon shaking his head, saying, "I fear he's lost too much blood." John Paul, painstakingly tending his wounds. He recalled seeing an undignified mass grave burial in process. He remembered John Paul saying, "You will not be buried here. Do you hear me? You fight, Wesley!"

  And he had. He couldn't help wondering, though, why and how had he survived? Luck? Will? The desperate need to know if he'd served a purpose? All childhood long and even into adolescence, his elder brother, Alexander, had bullied and tormented him, called him worthless. He'd tried to shrug it off, but it had impact. At sixteen, he'd learned about the Boston Tea Party. He felt a burning passion for the patriot cause and a desire to go fight with The Sons of Liberty.

  Alexander had been full of contempt. "Don't be a fool, Wesley. I should say, don't be a bigger fool than you usually are. The rebels have no chance of winning, and the only reason you want to take up their cause is because you know damn well that I'm a loyalist."

  The statement had been surprisingly stinging. It was more than the words, really. It was Alexander's conviction that he was incapable of any worthy purpose. Now, Wes wondered how Alex would feel to know the poison he'd spewed all those years had backfired. After all, it was probably the need to know he had served a purpose that had kept him alive. He could easily have given in to the wounds that ravaged his body. Everyone had expected him to die.

  When he recovered, he learned that the surprise counter attack he'd ordered had reversed the battle. So, the question that had so plagued him for much of his life was finally answered. His life had served a purpose. He had aided his cause. So, why was that not enough? What was this lingering ache that beleaguered him all the time? Why could he not let go of his personal failures and regrets in light of the successes? Why did he feel compelled to return to the valley where he'd nearly perished, over and over again?

  A knock at his bedroom door roused him from his thoughts. He was not surprised to hear it, despite that it was past eleven-thirty and the house had long since grown quiet. John Paul would have one more go at trying to talk him out of his sojourn tomorrow. Wes got up, set his book aside and went to the door. He flung it open, saying, "I'm going and—" He broke off because Eunice, the maid, was standing before him, out of uniform. Very much out of uniform, in fact. The top of her gown was unbuttoned, leaving little about her breasts to the imagination.

  "I hope you're not going just now."

  "No," he replied when he'd recovered his wits. He opened the door wider. "Would you care to come in?"

  "Thank you, sir." She walked past him, sashaying like a seasoned whore.

  He shut and then locked the door. "I'm not locking you in. I just want to make certain my oldest friend in the world doesn't come bursting in to rescue me."

  Eunice turned to him with a teasing smile on her lips. "From me?"

  "From myself." What was this show she seemed intent on putting on for him? She'd begun seductively removing her clothing. He walked past her and sat on the bed. "I have been wondering what you were trying to convey to me through those looks of yours."

  "Have you?" He was the most handsome man she'd ever seen. He had a limp, but other than that, he was perfect. When she was naked, she cupped and lifted her breasts as high as they could go. She dropped her chin and licked her nipples. It didn't get the overt reaction of lust and approval she usually got, so she sauntered toward him.

  "You never did say what you had in mind," he said. His cock had grown hard, but he also felt some trepidation. She was no innocent, and he'd seen the diseases that whores passed on. He had no desire to own one of his own.

  "I thought I'd show you, instead. Would you like to take off your clothes, or should I do it for you, sir?"

  Rather than reply, he stood and began removing his clothes. She watched, licking her lips as if he was a tasty meal. His jaw clenched as he experienced a rogue pang of disgust. He'd barely gotten his britches down when she gave him a shove backwards onto the bed and then began crawling on top of him. He scooted backwards.

  "Trying to get away?"

  "Oh, desperately trying," he replied drolly.

  She dropped her head and took his penis into her mouth. He drew in a sharp breath as she began working it. Only one other woman, a whore in Charles Town, had done this, and not nearly as fervently. It was fascinating to see her take most of it into her mouth to the back of her throat. She kept it up until he was getting ready to explode. "I'm coming," he warned. She didn't withdraw and he came in a series of spasms. Still, she kept him covered with her mouth, swallowing, sucking and swallowing some more. When she finally pulled back, she had a lazy smile on her face. "Did you like it?"

  "It was very interesting."

  Eunice began toying with his now limp penis. "I'd like to do it every night."

  "Not every night, I think," he hedged. Now that he'd come and she'd begun talking about it, he was feeling a strong desire to be done with her. "In fact, unfortunately, I have something to do tomorrow and I need to get some rest."

  "I'll go, then," she said. She rose.

  He got up, too, and stepped into his britches, wondering if he was expected to pay her something. If he suggested paying her, it might be an insult. "Thank you for your hospitality," he ventured.

  "Of course. Anytime, sir."

  Something about the sir sounded sardonic, but he was too addlebrained to dwell on it. Thank God she was putting her clothes back on quickly. She was fast in every way. He walked to the door and unlocked it. "Goodnight," he said as he pulled it open. She slipped through and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway. He shut the door and, after a moment of contemplation, locked it again.

  Close to dawn, he dreamt of a panther-like creature closing in on his naked, prone body. The creature eyed his exposed genitals hungrily before licking them with a huge, rough tongue. It hurt and yet he liked it. Or did he? He couldn't speak or move. He just had to endure it.

  The dream changed and he found himself walking through a wooded area. There was a dense fog that prevented him from knowing exactly where he was, and yet it seemed familiar. Then he saw the tree and the men hanging from it. But these couldn't be the same men, he tried to reason. They couldn't be. He attempted to move closer, but the distance wouldn't close. The fog was growing thicker and only the sound of dying men calling out kept him trying. If he could help, if he could save just one of them.

  He broke through into a clearing and discovered that he'd been wrong. The hanging men weren't calling to him. They were calling out in either ecstasy or impatience. Their genitals were exposed and engorged in anticipation while a dark-haired wench stood in front of one of the men and sucked his very li
fe out through his penis. At the very moment of orgasm, he fell lifeless and still, a sick grayish white color. The wench had killed him, and still the others pleaded for her to come to them. The wench whirled around to face him. It was Eunice. Her face and front were wet with semen and her expression was insane. The image was so startling, he jerked and woke covered in sweat, his heart hammering.

  Chapter 3

  October 31, 2004

  What is wrong with me? Liz thought disgustedly. She was crammed in the middle of the backseat of a pimpmobile. The car was transporting four other people, including her ex-boyfriend, while they drank rum and Coke out of plastic cups. She was twenty-five years old with a brain in her head, contrary to appearances at the moment.

  Ethan turned to look at her from the front passenger seat. "What's wrong with you?"

  She'd forgotten how much she loathed that particular expression of his—half sneering, half dumb-ass. "Nothing," she replied as calmly and scathingly as she could. "I'm just feeling a little too old for this high school routine."

  "It's weird being around me, huh?" Ethan asked with a nod, as if he'd answered his own question.

  "Come on, E," Jeff said. "She's cool."

  Cool, huh? Then, why had she noticed his many worried glances in the rearview mirror. They were all wondering if she'd make a scene since she hadn't been told that Ethan or Jeff would be here. She wouldn't. Her goal tonight was to be so calm and cool, she'd be proud of herself tomorrow. This was supposed to have been a fun night out with the girls, Hannah, Jordan, Katie and herself, but Katie had bailed at the last minute, and Liz had arrived at Hannah's apartment to find Hannah, Ethan and Jeff waiting for her. She ought to have just left right then, but then Jordan arrived and she'd let herself be coerced into Jeff's white Caddy that he called a classic. She called it a pimpmobile.

  The most annoying thing was that her friends, Katie included, had insisted on her coming out tonight. They were worried about her being depressed. Maybe she had gotten used to staying in on weekends, but it wasn't because of Ethan or any guy. Mostly, she stayed home because she detested clubs and the whole singles' scene. A night spent bar hopping always left her feeling even more alone and isolated than she'd felt before the night out.

  Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how she looked at it, work took up a majority of her life. She was the admissions director for an assisted living community, an impressive, upscale place. It was an inescapable fact that there were a lot of lonely, largely unwanted old people in the world, but she couldn't help feeling they had done a lot more living than she had. Not just in terms of years but in quality and passion. That was what was missing from her own life. In fact, it seemed to be missing from life in general. Or was that just depression talking?

  Jordan turned her head to give her a 'sorry, I know this is screwed' look. "This will be fun," she said. "The Haunted Grounds are so cool."

  Liz made a determination to lighten up. After all, there was no reason for her to feel tense. She'd broken up with Ethan after catching him screwing around, so it was bullshit that he was playing the rejected boyfriend and she was being made to feel guilty. Of course, the guilt was really because of her own pretense.

  She'd wanted out of the relationship before she caught him and she hadn't known how to go about it. That changed the night she brought take-out over to his apartment unannounced and found him in a drunken orgy with two overweight females. She'd made some exclamation, dropped the food, and ran out. Twenty-eight bucks wasted for take-out, too.

  Later, she'd accepted his apology, but that was as far as she'd go. There would be no getting back together again. She wanted more and better, and she deserved it. But her reaction that night had been over-dramatic and self-serving. She'd pretended to be all hurt and devastated when he'd never had the power to do that. She'd never cared that much about him. Maybe she couldn't care that much about anyone after the rejections she'd suffered in her life.

  They reached the mansion, which was lit up and crowded, even though it was Sunday. It was Halloween.

  "I heard he spends a half million dollars on this," Hannah said, referring to Leroy Rawls, the multi-millionaire who owned the mansion and who allowed the use of his property for The Haunted Grounds every year from early October to mid-November.

  "Even if he does, he makes it back," Jeff retorted as he pulled into a newly vacated parking spot in the front of the lot. "Eight and ten bucks a head, like a thousand people every night."

  Liz was feeling edgy and pinned in, especially as Jeff lit another cigarette. "The proceeds all go to charity," she informed him. "Are we ready?"

  Hannah picked up the bottle of rum. "Let's have one more, first. Pass me your cup."

  "No, thanks," Liz replied. "I'm done."

  "She wouldn't want to get out of control or anything," Ethan said. "Not with me around. Can't have that."

  "It's not a control issue," Liz retorted.

  "Baby, your whole life is a control issue. You have to be in control. Why do you think—"

  "I agree," Jordan spoke up, interrupting the tirade. "Let's go." She opened her door and got out and Liz clamored out behind her. As they walked on, Jordan asked, "Did you know the guys were coming?"

  "No. I'm so pissed at Hannah," Liz fumed, keeping her eyes on the path in front of her. The grounds of the mansion were lush and well-tended, but the ancient trees had raised roots. "This was supposed to be a girls' night out."

  "Ethan is trying to get to you. Don't let him."

  "I won't."

  "This place is something, isn't it?"

  "It's gorgeous. Even with the tacky decorations." The mansion, built in 1818, boasted more than fifty rooms. It was a private residence, but they occasionally had tours. She'd never had the twenty-five dollars to blow on it, but one of these days, she was going to splurge.

  "Hey, wait for us," Hannah said, coming up behind them. "Have you been here before?" she asked Jordan.

  "Yep. Last year. It's amazing. There's a sound system and fog machines, ghosts, witches. There's a kitschy quality about all of it, but—"

  "A what?" Jeff asked.

  "Phony, but in a fun way."

  "Kitschy," he repeated. He waggled his fingers and tickled Jordon. "Kitschy, kitschy, kitschy."

  "Stop it," she laughed, shoving his hands away.

  As they got in line to get tickets, a woman in the next line fretted about whether the rain would hold off. "Who cares?" Ethan said as he cut in front of Liz. "We're not sweet enough to melt, are we, Lizzy?"

  Distant thunder rumbled. It was definitely going to rain. It was probably going to pour. Liz tugged her jacket tighter and wished she'd worn a more rain repellant one.

  "Yes," an older man said from the next line. "I can smell rain." He was holding the hand of a girl who looked to be about eight or nine. She looked tired as she leaned her head against him.

  "Me, too," Liz replied. She smiled at the girl. "I love that smell."

  "I do, too," he agreed. "Yes, I can always smell it. That, and my elbow gets a twinge of arthritis." He glanced down at the girl. "I'd say we've got an hour before it hits."

  The girl nodded.

  It was past ten o'clock on a Sunday. "It's kind of late for you, isn't it?" Liz asked the girl.

  The girl grinned shyly. "Yeah, but everybody in my class has seen it."

  "That's the reason we're here," the man said. "It sure wasn't my idea, and her mother is likely to have a fit." The man and girl exchanged a look. "You're going to get Grandpa in trouble, you know."

  The girl grinned even wider. The obvious love and affection between grandfather and granddaughter was both sweet and somehow painful to witness.

  "At least the line's moving fast," the man said.

  Liz suddenly realized her group was no longer in front of her any more. "Come on, Lizzy Borden," Ethan called, holding up tickets. "Got 'em."

  Liz hated the attention he'd drawn to her. It was embarrassing that they'd cut in line.

  "Was h
e kidding about your name?" the man asked.

  "Yes. It's Gordon. Elizabeth Gordon. He thinks he's funny."

  "Well, that's a beautiful name," the man replied.

  "You two have fun," Liz said as Hannah grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her away. "Do you mind?" Liz asked, shaking off her hand.

  "Don't be mad at me," Hannah said under her breath. "Okay? Please?"

  Liz sighed and shook her head. This wasn't the time to get into it.

  The first hour was entertaining, but then the wind started in and so did Ethan. "You seeing anyone?"

  "Who I'm seeing or not seeing is my business, okay?"

  "Whatever. I heard you're not."

  She tried to outpace him, but he kept up and he kept it up.

  "You miss sex?" he pushed. "I mean, not that you were ever all that into it."

  She broke into a jog to get away from him, and he laughed.

  "There's still ten different trails," Jordan said excitedly. She was petite with short blonde hair and big brown eyes that lent an air of innocence that allowed her to get away with a lot. "Dead Man's Trail, Execution Row, Bloody Mary's Mile—"

  "There's no point in me going down Dead Man's Trail," Ethan said, looking pointedly at Liz. "I already know what that feels like."

  Everybody had to speak up to be heard over the wind. It wouldn't be much longer before it began pouring. The thunder wasn't so distant now and there were occasional flashes of lightning from the storm several miles away.

  Jeff gave a loud whoop and produced a flask from his pocket. "Who wants some?"

  A strange moaning sound from the ground took Liz by surprise, but not nearly so much as Jordan grabbing her arm. "It grabbed me," Jordan cried, doing a little jig.