He shrugged away the profound thought and let the past unwind until—there—a name, a face—Clive Chandler. And yes, he had a sister, but damned if her name would come to Nick. She had been a youngster, as best as Nick could recall. Too young to be part of her brother’s adventures.
Nick barely remembered Clive, but the name was solid as was the distinct odor of port associated with it. They’d drunk their way through a year at Cambridge together. Nick grinned in the darkness. No wonder he had few memories. Lord, but they’d consumed vast quantities of liquor, only to rise the following morning, cast up their accounts in the nearest chamber pot, attend a couple of lectures and then repeat the process all over again.
Relieved now that he’d associated the Chandler name with a face, Nick resolutely closed the door on his past life. He’d taken too long to come to terms with his “death” to jeopardize the fragile state of mind within which he now existed. The question remained as to whether this Chandler was a relation of that Chandler. It would at least provide the opening for a conversational gambit.
And it would give Nick a good look at the tall, slender woman with the whiskey brown eyes.
He gazed absently between his mount’s ears as he wondered about her. Why he’d experienced such a strong reaction to her glance and whether she had felt a similar sensation. It had been as if somebody brushed his body with hoar frost, a touch so cold it burned him.
He had responded instantly and still did when the memory crossed his thoughts. He lusted—strongly—an unusual reaction for one so in control of his emotions. He also hungered, a deep growling hunger that began in his loins and spread to his fangs. He wanted to taste her blood, to drink her sweetness as he sucked her pussy. Her screams of pleasure would be a symphony of passion, one that only he could conduct to its conclusion.
And again his cock stirred…not the most comfortable of responses while riding through the night. Easing his position slightly, Nick shifted on the saddle and deliberately forced his mind away from the mysterious companion and on to what lay ahead.
He had no illusions. Isolde had invited him for a reason and the odds were damned good that sex would be involved. Exactly how he was going to avoid such an encounter occupied his thoughts for quite some time and he nearly jumped when the coachman hailed him.
“There ‘tis, sir. Gate’s just ahead.”
He looked to where the man was pointing with his whip. There, indeed, it was. Solid and uncompromising, the massive grey building dominated the skyline, barely illuminated by the rays of the moon. There were lights in some of the windows, but a lot more remained dark, adding to the overall impression of stern and unyielding protection.
More of a prison than a haven of home comforts.
They passed through the gatehouse and within moments were nearing the steps leading to the center entry, a flight of grey granite that opened up onto an impressive frontage and two huge oak doors.
These doors were already opened and awaiting the arrival of the ladies, maids bustling, servants fetching and carrying and Nick staying firmly out of the way as much as he could.
Isolde directed her butler to take care of Nick and smiled prettily at him, begging him to join her for a little refreshment after he’d settled in to his room.
He barely managed a nod before she swept away, followed by a retinue of maids. The Dowager and Chandler had already left the hall.
Nick had no other option but to silently follow the butler to his assigned room. The die was cast…he was now a guest of the FitzAdams family. Exactly what that would entail remained to be seen.
*~*~*~*
Verity closed her door behind her with a sigh of relief. It was very, very late indeed and the Dowager had sunk gratefully into her bed with little fuss or bother—an unusual occurrence for which Verity could only be profoundly thankful. It had to be past midnight.
She was tired too, tired and on edge from the constant nagging knowledge that Sir Nicholas Blaine was somewhere on the floor below, settling himself into a suite of rooms.
Fortunately the Dowager’s apartments were in the farthest wing, well away from the noise and bustle of the rest of FitzAdams Towers. Now that the old woman was settled with her maid in attendance, Verity was free. But the trip back to her own room had been a series of tentative peeks around corners and hurried rushes to staircases leading away from the main rooms and up to Verity’s little nook.
She did not want to come face-to-face with Nick. Not tonight—not ever come to think of it. He was too disturbing. Too much a reminder of all the things she would never have.
She lit the one small candle on her bureau and began the process of disrobing as hurriedly as she could. It was October and already the damp cold air of winter was beginning its inexorable seepage through the old stone walls and poorly fitting windows. She would whimper and badger the grudging housekeeper to provide a fire later in the season, but for now the room was chilled and so was Verity.
She had gotten as far as unpinning her hair when a light tap on the door made her heart thud in her breast.
“Miss Chandler.” Verity recognized the voice of Isolde’s personal maid and opened the door an inch or two to peer through.
“What is it, Marjorie?”
“The mistress is asking for you. The usual time and place.”
“What, tonight? It’s so late…it’s been a long day for all of us.”
The woman grimaced. “Don’t I know it. But she’s all excited and she’s got his Grace all in a lather too. You’d better be there, Miss. I wouldn’t care to gainsay her when she’s in this mood.”
Verity swallowed. “Has she been…indulging already, Marjorie?”
The other woman stared steadily back. “A little. Not much, but enough.”
There was silence for a moment, then Verity sighed and nodded. “I’ll be there. It will take me half an hour or so. You may tell Lady Isolde I shall attend her.”
“Very good, Miss.” The woman left as quietly as she’d arrived and Verity closed the door with another deep sigh.
She had hoped to avoid this rendezvous tonight. She always hoped to avoid it, but once her skills had been revealed, there was little chance her hopes would be fulfilled. Isolde was a greedy woman, hungering for what Verity could provide. More, always wanting more, never being truly satisfied…in more ways than one.
Verity crossed her small room to a chest at the foot of her bed and flung the blanket draped over it aside. With hands that felt leaden and awkward, she opened the chest and stared at its contents, then secured the lid and began to remove what she needed.
First came a corset. Reminiscent of something the Dowager would have felt quite at home in, it was a far cry from the delicate confections of lace and ribbons that passed for corsets beneath the light gowns of today.
This was heavy black satin, embellished with tiny red and silver beads. The laces crisscrossed each other beneath the breasts, and there were half cups boned to lift and separate the wearer’s assets into tantalizing trembling mounds of flesh. The small ruff of lace trim barely covered the nipples.
Verity laid it on the bed and pulled out a pair of slim black satin breeches, followed by an elegant pair of tall riding boots made of shiny leather and polished to a glow. Beneath these was a small leather mask, not dissimilar to those of the Midnight Shadows. Black evening gloves completed the ensemble—with one exception. Coiled neatly at the bottom of the chest, softly shining and neatly polished, was a whip.
*~*~*~*
Nick paced the floor and raged silently. Isolde had manipulated him into a position where he could not refuse her and he wasn’t happy with the notion. Not happy at all.
“Don’t you love the night, Nick?” She’d been staring from the window into the darkness. “So enticing. So mysterious. I hate to sleep and miss it.”
Nick had to agree. “You’ll get no argument from me there, Isolde. Unfortunately, during my travels in Europe, I…contracted an ailment. It’s left me with an unpleasant reaction to sunlight.
Therefore I have become almost a night-dweller. It’s kept me solitary in my habits.” He chuckled wryly. The story was quite plausible and explained so much about his odd needs. His listeners never knew how close to the truth it was.
“Really?” Isolde’s eyes opened wide. “How sad, Nick. And yet how lucky you are to be able to fully appreciate the shadows and nuances of darkness.” She leaned toward him, deepening the valley between her breasts and running her tongue over her lower lip. Her eyes were brilliant in the candlelight. “I love darkness. I love the excitement of not knowing what lurks in the shadows.”
The invitation wasn’t subtle. Nick remained silent, unsure of what exactly was in the wind—or in this case, Isolde’s mind.
She seemed to reach a decision. “I think I know you well enough to discard the proprieties, Nick.” She closed the distance between them and lifted her hand to his cheek. “I’ve thought of you. Often. I’ve told Gawain of our—dalliance, shall we say.”
“You have?” Nick watched her carefully.
“Oh yes. Gawain appreciated my recounting of your skill.” She ran a finger down over his chin and tapped it. “Gawain and I have a rather unique relationship. One I’d like to explain in greater detail. And I know he’d enjoy making your acquaintance. Would you do us the honor of joining us in a little while? For some—conversation? Perhaps some wine?”
It had been beautifully phrased. A polite invitation on the surface—no more than that. And yet beneath the surface…Nick sensed an undercurrent of something dark. And for him, that was quite an unusual occurrence.
He’d been helpless to turn it down, out of practice at such delicate social maneuvers. He realized he’d not missed that sort of game at all. But here he was, caught once more in its coils. And not feeling very pleased about it either.
Isolde had suggested he refresh himself in his room and then join her and Gawain in their suite within the hour. It was a suggestion he’d found himself acquiescing to, in spite of his private reservations and it was a suggestion that had brought him to a large set of double doors at the very end of a long passage.
Clearly the FitzAdamses liked their privacy, since their suite of rooms occupied the wing farthest from the habited portion of the massive residence.
When the door swung open in answer to his knock, Nick could see why.
It was uncannily like a scene from a fifteenth-century painting Nick remembered seeing in Europe. Candles wavered in the draft from the door and their light flickered over a huge and shadowy salon. But no salon he could remember had been furnished or used in quite this way.
In one pool of light was a tall man, whom Nick assumed to be Gawain FitzAdams, master of the house. He was quite nude and flashed a friendly smile as he stood with one leg resting on the shoulder of another naked man. Behind him a second servant—for what else could they be?—slapped FitzAdams’ arse, swift and hard blows that jarred him a little and made him laugh. It was a strangely high-pitched giggle, interspersed every now and again with a moan as the man between his legs sucked his cock with great enthusiasm.
Across the room was the mistress of the house, Isolde. She was also naked. But Isolde was manacled to the wall, her limbs stretched to their limits by shining and well-formed chains. Her backside bore marks witnessing punishment that had already been administered.
As Nick stepped into the room, the overwhelming smell of something herbal assailed his nostrils and made him catch his breath. It was a smell he recognized—also from his travels in Europe—and when he caught a glimpse of Isolde’s eyes he knew he was correct.
She’d drugged herself and probably Gawain too. They both looked aroused, tensely attuned to the erotic savagery of the moment. Isolde rattled her restraints to attract his attention. “Hello, darling.”
She nodded at a maidservant standing awkwardly off to one side. The woman quickly unfastened the manacles and Isolde strolled casually to Nick, completely unconcerned about her nudity.
“Ignore Gawain. He’s having fun.” Her comment preceded a moan from her husband. He was now bent over a sofa with one man fucking his ass and another fucking his mouth. Clearly Gawain FitzAdams took his pleasures in a slightly different style to those Nick preferred.
“And you?” Nick watched Isolde. “Are you having fun?”
“Pain is pleasure and pleasure can be pain, Nick.”
“Really?” It was a question that he didn’t need to ask. He knew the answer all too well, but from a perspective different to that of his hostess.
“Oh yes. I’ve been lucky. I’ve found someone who knows how to administer just enough pain to bring me the utmost pleasure.”
Gawain screamed shrilly from his corner, distracting them, as his playmates spanked him again and continued to fuck him.
Nick raised an eyebrow and turned back to Isolde. “Clearly you’re not speaking of your husband.”
She lifted one white shoulder in dismissal, not even turning to survey the little party going on by the sofa. “That weakling? I should say not. He serves a useful purpose in our relationship, as do I. We both get what we want out of it. Except for one particular area…”
“Sexually.”
Isolde nodded. “Yes. So we make adjustments. We take our pleasure together still, like any married couple.”
Gawain shrieked once more as he swayed and thrust his cock into his manservant’s mouth.
Nick wrinkled his nose. “Not quite like any married couple.”
“You’d be surprised.” Isolde’s tone was wry. “But I suppose you are right. Not every couple explores their pleasure quite the way we do. And yet no one is harmed. Is there damage here? No. Simply the pursuit of delights in the way that suits us best.” She let her hand rest on Nick’s chest. “And I’m hoping you might be persuaded to assist.”
“Assist with what?”
Nick fought to keep his face expressionless. He’d been to many places and seen many things, but few matched the unpleasantly decadent eroticism of the scene before him.
“Assist with this.” Isolde beckoned and a tall woman stepped from the shadows.
Nick gulped down a gasp of shock. He immediately recognized Verity Chandler—her brown eyes were blazing through the slits in the leather mask across the upper half of her face.
But it wasn’t her face that drew his gaze. Her body was magnificent!
A black corset cinched her waist to improbably tiny dimensions and made the most of fine breasts that swelled dangerously near to the edge of a boned platform. Her nipples peeked coyly through a small ruffle of lace, a rosy shadow against ivory skin. Tight black trousers encased legs that were long and slim, ending in riding boots polished to a glassy shine and finished with small jangling spurs.
She wore no jewelry, just a pair of long black leather gloves. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in unruly waves around the whiteness of her breast. She looked like an Amazon princess at first glance.
Then he noticed what was in her hand. Lying comfortably across her palm was the smoothly carved handle of a very long and lethal-looking whip.
“Let’s show Sir Nicholas what we do, shall we?” Isolde turned to Verity and glared at her. “Do it right this time. I don’t want marks on my shoulders.”
Verity dipped her head in response. “Very well.” She flicked the whip, just a slight movement of her wrist, but so skilled that the tip cracked in the stifling air of the room.
“Good.” Isolde stood against the wall, facing outward this time, reaching for the manacles and simply holding the chains. “Make me come, wench. There’ll be a bonus in it if you do.”
Nick stepped back, watching Verity closely as she moved to stand before Isolde. He could tell when she visually assessed her position and shuffled back a foot or two. He concurred—she had an excellent eye for distance.
Even knowing what was coming next, Nick jumped as Verity flicked her whip and caught her mistress’s nipple fair and square.
Isolde cried out. “Yes. Oh God—yes. Excellent. More.”
>
Verity repeated her maneuver with the same result, dappling Isolde’s breasts with flicks from the very end of the whip. Nick had chance to observe that never once did she break the skin. There were red marks where the lash had landed, but there was no blood.
Truly this woman was very skilled. Almost as skilled as…
What were the odds? That within such a short time Nick would meet two people equally skilled in the use of a whip? Unobtrusively he studied Verity Chandler, drawing parallels with the “Hermes” he’d met the previous night.
Was it possible? Could the leader of a band of highwaymen be a woman?
A few more lashes later, Nick knew the answer. The technique was unmistakable and his supposition was cemented by the aroma coming from the woman herself. Verity had a unique scent that Nick had only sensed once before, briefly. Last night in the cellar. He’d noted it at the time but paid little attention to it.
An interesting blend of lavender and cinnamon wafted from her hair. It would have been undetectable to another, swamped by the odiferous fumes of the drugs Isolde and her husband were using. But in the cloying heat of the room, Nick smelled it. And found himself captivated yet again by the whip-wielding beauty who was so much more than she appeared.
Isolde gasped. “Near. So near. For God’s sake, Chandler. Finish it.” Her hips were grinding forward against nothing, her mound and thighs glistening with juices as she climbed to a pain-induced peak of delight.
Verity lifted her hand, but Nick caught it. “Allow me.” He took the whip from her fingers and gently pushed her aside. “Tonight you need not be the instrument of her climax. ‘Tis time she learned what pain and pleasure can really do.”
Verity sagged a little and nodded. “Very well.” She stepped back into the shadows as Nick raised his hand and turned from her to look at Isolde.
“Are you ready?”
Isolde whimpered. “Make me come, Nick.”
“Of course.” Nick saluted her with the whip then shook out the length and lashed her, a solid blow that curled around a thigh and caught her right on the pussy.
Darkness In The Flames Page 26