My Lady's Choosing

by Kitty Curran

  “Trying to wash myself clean,” you venture breathlessly. Taking a tender, tentative step toward you, he raises his massive hand to his sublimely thick neck and, almost imperceptibly, works a few buttons loose, sending you to madness at the sight of his fine, fiery pelt being slowly revealed.

  “Of what, lass?” Another step closer, more buttons undone.

  “Dirt,” you answer. “And desire.”

  Mac strips the shirt from his shoulders as if he were a mountain shedding its treeline. Moonlight sneaks in through the leaves of the trees, through the glass in the pane, to touch him as you wish to, to drip down the ripples and curves of his body, to pool in the V of his pelvic muscles. He holds your gaze, and just barely bites his bottom lip, catching you as you drop to your knees.

  “Can I help you?” he rasps. You peel his breeches from him, unveiling a haggis so impressive it would keep you sated for days.

  “Please,” you respond and proceed to lick him. He moans, lifting you up with one hand to kiss him, full on the mouth. Then, with the other hand, he neatly pulls up your skirts and you wrap yourself around him, making sure not to slip. The steady stream of water you have rigged to fall on you serves only to enhance his already enticing body as you make rhythmic love underneath the fall of artificially induced rain.

  He dips you back low as he sends you to ecstasy, and for one sublime moment you are washed clean of all sins, all worries, all fears.

  But as the afterglow passes, and the water grows cold, you regard your ragged lover with your own measure of hauntedness. You must know the truth.

  “Who is Constantina?” you ask.

  “My greatest regret,” he whispers, shaking the dream-rain from his hair. You grip his wrist with your infinitely smaller hand, a sparrow lifting an elm.

  “More,” you say.

  “You know nothing of such things,” Mac says, and he attempts to shake his wrist loose. Your grip tightens.

  “I know of regret,” you say, keeping your voice low. “I loved and lost before, too. My childhood love, Ollie Ruston, died at sea. I never could tell him how I truly felt. I understand heartbreak. I have wanted others, never to have them. I understand, Mac. You can tell me if she was a woman you loved and lost.”

  “Loved?” Mac asks, his voice as wounded as his eyes. “Constantina wasn’t the woman I loved. She was the woman I killed.”

  Do you flee? Because murder! The note was right! If so, turn to this page.

  Or do you sit it out with him? We’ve all done things we regret, and you’re still a bit, ah, damp from your interlude. If so, turn to this page.

  You throw yourself between the two men. Cad hesitates, if only for a second, and you seize the opportunity to talk sense into him.

  “What is it you intend to do?” Your voice could cause frostbite. “Murder your own half brother? Your own half brother who is a member of the aristocracy?”

  “He’s not a—” Cad attempts to blurt out, but you cut him off.

  “We know, Cad. We know that your mother’s first husband is alive in Bedlam. We know that her marriage to your father was illegal and bigamous. We know Benedict is the rightful heir.”

  “Oh? And who will believe a fanciful little wretch such as yourself?” Cad bites back, expecting you to cower—which you do not.

  “Indeed, the ton may very well dismiss the word of such a girl.” You speak without bitterness, for you are long accustomed to your station. Cad appears unnerved by your calm, and so you press on. “However, the ton will believe the respectable Lady Evangeline!”

  “You’re dashed right there!” Lady Evangeline rushes back in. You turn to Cad in triumph.

  “They will also believe the warden of Bedlam, who will attest that poor Mr. Caddington is one of the inmates.”

  “You best believe I bribed that old—”

  “Men can be re-bribed,” Lady Evangeline says simply.

  Cad looks around in horror. You raise your chin and stand firm.

  “Face it, Cad. You’ve lost.”

  Cad’s powerful frame sags in defeat. He turns a pair of dazzling angel-blue eyes to you.

  “What are you going to do? What am I going to do?”

  If this entire incident has solidified the notion that Benedict is indeed the only man you will ever love, turn to this page.

  If you are sick of having your helping hands used against you by someone you thought you could love, or at least take to bed, and now want to see just what London and the Rose & the Smoke are all about, turn to this page.

  There are few things so deeply, so strangely satisfying as perfectly recalling an intricate dream after the mist of morning has cleared. Or being able to make love as tender as it is violent while balancing on one leg and using a bust of John Donne for support.

  You hope you will be able to recall the details of this particular session of physical and metaphysical congress for the rest of your earthly days. You also hope you will be able to walk straight again.

  Your eyes are heavy with exhaustion, but as you watch Lord Craven’s furrowed brow smooth out in the first phase of deep, post-ecstasy sleep, you know you must scope out the “ghosts” haunting him, once and for all.

  Where to first?

  Do you go to speak with the servants? Turn to this page.

  Or do you seek out that unspeakably handsome vicar? Turn to this page.

  “Cousin Benedict, may I introduce my young protégée?” trills Lady Evangeline. “My dear, this is my cousin, Sir Benedict Granville.” You dip your head and curtsey politely. The dark-haired figure returns a curt bow.

  It is a dance of politeness you have been accustomed to engaging in since childhood, and one you have performed a thousand times before. You really should not stumble, but when you look up and find yourself staring into the most intense silver-gray eyes you have ever seen, framed by heavy, dark brows, a strong nose, and a face made entirely of dramatic angles, you find yourself doing just that. Sir Benedict raises one aristocratic brow. His black evening coat molds to his body like a second skin and does little to conceal the powerful form underneath. You detest him immediately.

  Lady Evangeline has spoken to you before of her fine cousin, by way of warning. He is apparently frosty to the idea of marriage and the prospect of settling down in general, though she hasn’t explained why. No doubt he views women as out for his gold and their own glory. Indeed, Lady Evangeline has recounted wearily the brusque manner the man takes in rejecting the many fine ladies who pursue him for his fortune, title, wit, and good looks.

  Still, as painful as it is to admit, you can hardly blame either Sir Benedict or his admirers for their stance. A man who can look as good—and superior—as he does swirling a champagne glass in a dimly lit corner of a ballroom deserves as much attention and defense as he can muster.

  “Are you schooling her in the arts of heathen women, Vange?” Sir Benedict Granville punctures your observational reverie with a weary glare toward his cousin and you. He flicks his gaze over your form with cool, practiced disinterest. You notice, however, that his eyes linger a moment too long on your own, before he settles himself into a posture even more devil-may-care than his first. Lady Evangeline claps her hands.

  “Correct, dear cousin!” she says. “Now why don’t you be a dear and take this lovely young lady for the next quadrille?”

  Neither you nor Sir Benedict can refuse the request without seeming rude. You turn to your new dance partner. He sighs and takes your hand.

  “You are my aunt’s companion, are you not?” he asks as he leads you to the dance floor.

  “I am, sir,” you admit. The dance begins.

  “Aunt Craven has been telling me how her companion has been setting her sights shamelessly on one Sir Charles Burley-Fanshaw,” he says as the dance steps take him back to you. “Rather old for you, isn’t he? Or do you care not so long as his purse is full?”

  Eve
ry suspicion you held about Sir Benedict has been confirmed. Insufferable man! Lady Evangeline said the only thing sharper than the lines on his suit is his tongue. Still, it didn’t prepare you for the sting. Or the sweetness of a returned volley.

  “Sir Benedict, you are too kind to pay such interest in the life of a simple girl such as myself,” you retort, a fixed smile upon your face. “But I assure you that the only thing I am looking for, should I marry, is a man who displays wit, good sense, and kindness.” The dance causes you to separate and you must wait a few seconds to deliver your final verbal blow. “Alas, there has been not one man fitting that description whom I have met this entire evening.” You feel dismayed at the shiver that passes through you as he again takes your hand. Still, you keep your tones dulcet. “You wouldn’t know of any, would you?”

  This time it is your turn to arch a brow. You let your gaze match Sir Granville’s for a moment just shy of total, delicious impudence. Though his facial features remain arranged in a most pleasing play at composure, his silvery eyes dance like the sea, full to the brim with chop.

  The dance has finished. You smile winningly, turn on your heel, and head back to Lady Evangeline.

  If you have still to meet Mac, turn to this page.

  If you have already met Mac, proceed to this page.

  A few weeks have passed, and the day of the Highland Games has finally arrived! Repairs to the castle are well under way thanks to the reward money Ollie donated, and now you, the orphans, and the entire village are gathered to watch the ancient sport of strong men doing hot things with their bodies for prizes.

  Mac, unsurprisingly, wins the caber toss, winking at you as he gives his final heave. Thanks to Mrs. F’s tutelage, the orphans perform admirably at sword dancing…sort of. Still, they managed to make some friends with the local wee bairns (once they got over the locals calling them Sassenachs), so a mediocre show of sword dancing is not a total loss.

  The sun is low in the sky when Timmy, who you only now realize had been missing the entire day, trudges up to your happy, strange family circle. He wears a weary grin and drags Dodger along with him.

  “I have good news and bad news, miss,” Timmy says. You and Mac share a look and a laugh.

  “Well,” Mac booms.

  “Out with both!” you say with a cackle.

  “The bad news is, Dodger broke a wall when we were looking for secret passages,” Timmy explains. You shoot Mac a worried look. How much will replacing a wall cost?

  “The good news is,” Timmy continues, “he found the hidden treasure! Now we can all live happily ever after!”

  The children cheer. You and Mac kiss. Dodger tries to pick up a fallen caber in his mouth.

  Only one thing could make the occasion sweeter. You find an obliging local blacksmith and marry Mac over the anvil in traditional, inexplicable Scottish fashion. Afterward, when the villagers have tired of the day’s merriment and the children are all in bed, you and Mac take a stroll about the castle grounds and survey the glory of the first day of the rest of your lives.

  The sun sets, staining the sky the pale-fire color of memory, promises, and Mac’s head of hair.

  You turn to your love and share a look of total simpatico. If teamwork makes the dream work, you two make that dream a very wet one, indeed. You kiss as though you are discovering islands off each other’s hidden coasts. Finally, breathlessly, you pull away.

  “I want you to take me in the stables,” you say.

  “Aye, lass.” Mac takes a steadying breath.

  “I want you to flip your kilt up, lift my skirts, and toss your caber deep inside me.”

  Mac spins you around and bends you over, right there on the shores of the loch. “Yes, lass,” he murmurs. “But first can you meet the monster that haunts my depths?”

  “Aye, laddie,” you answer, and pull his strong hands down to slip over your slick glen.

  You take great pleasure in making the large, gorgeous man shudder like a rickety guest house in a gale. As you take each other everywhere you wish, you realize something wonderful.

  Living happily ever after is exactly what you’ll do.

  The End

  You say nothing and try not to make any sudden movements. Delphine tightens her grip upon your arm and pulls you roughly out of the battle. You cannot help but tremble in fear.

  “What is wrong with you?!” Delphine whispers viciously. “Why are you not fighting? Has Evangeline really moved on, really found happiness with a weak, pathetic ingénue?”

  She pulls the knife closer, and you gasp as the wicked blade pierces your skin. A small trickle of blood runs down your neck. You try not to quiver lest it draw more blood. You fail. Delphine crows in simultaneous triumph and despair.

  “She didn’t used to be like this! She used to be free! Free and wild and in love with me! What happened to her? What did you do to her?” Delphine hisses this last part in your ear, her breath hot and angry.

  “Unhand her at once!” shouts a cut-glass voice.

  A thrill runs down your spine as you see Lady Evangeline approaching, her small gold pistol pointed at her traitorous ex-lover. Delphine stares at her wildly.

  “You—you have no loyalty!” cries the outraged Frenchwoman. “I would have loved you—I still love you—for all time! But you prefer this boring petite anglaise to a woman who would do anything for you!”

  Evangeline’s beautiful eyes are filled with tears, but her voice holds steady.

  “It’s over, Delphine,” she says. “You made your choice when you betrayed me. I thought I might never love again. I was wrong.”

  You gasp as Lady Evangeline turns to you. “You showed me that, my dear. No matter what happens after this day, I must thank you.”

  “Lady Evangeline!” you sigh.

  “NO!” screeches Delphine. “You will not have this! Not while I still live—”

  A gunshot rings out, and for a split second you think that Lady Evangeline has done it, has killed her former love. You turn to her and are startled to see her face crossed with a curious mixture of anguish and relief as she stares at a figure several feet away.

  Following her sapphire gaze, you turn and see a familiar looming presence, silhouetted against the bright sunshine and holding a gun.

  “Fabien! But why?!” you gasp. He turns to you, his tormented Nile-green eyes even more tormented than usual.

  “Because you stopped her from killing me,” he says at last. “Consider our debt settled.”

  Before you have a chance to respond, he nods at you, holding your gaze for several loaded moments. Then he swings himself onto his camel and rides deep into the desert, as if he had been a mirage the whole time.

  At the sight of their employer’s demise, what remains of Delphine’s hired thugs turn and flee like the mangy scum they are. Your brave battalion of Sekhmets, lionesses each and every one, whoop and cheer.

  You barely notice, for Lady Evangeline has pulled you into one of Delphine’s abandoned tents and is kissing you fiercely yet tenderly, your bodies entwined as perhaps they had been fated to be all this time.

  Well, finally, you two! Turn to this page.

  Knowing that it would be useless to struggle, you pretend to be dead. The vicar laughs triumphantly and maniacally as you lie as still as a dormouse.

  Once you hear him leave, you race back to the house. Craven is shielding a trembling Alexander from the Reverend Simon Loveday, who has pulled out a small gold pistol and is aiming it at them.

  “This was Blanche’s gun,” he hisses. “I thought it poetic that it should be the one to end both of your miserable lives.”

  You seize a nearby urn, stalk silently up to him, and hit him over the head with it. The vicar slumps to the ground, out for the count.

  After the authorities arrive and drag off a revived and howling Reverend Simon Loveday, you take an exhausted Alexander to bed.

&n
bsp; At the child’s beside, Craven strokes your hair and turns to you.

  “You have saved us all,” he says. “But I know that it would be cruel to keep you here. Not when you could be free…free to love a worthy man. Free to go about your business without a care in the world.” He says the words with a tremor in his voice and saddened hope in his eyes. “I can find a place for you, far from here. In America, with an honorable man of my acquaintance. One who I know will be a good employer.”

  Do you take him up on this kind offer? Because, let’s face it, life here is more than a little dysfunctional. Even without the evil vicar. If so, turn to this page.

  Or is dysfunction merely the spice that makes up a well-rounded dish of life? If so, turn to this page.

  “How dare you!” you seethe. “My parents were the kindest, dearest souls ever to have lived, and I will not hear a word spoken against them, you…you…pompous, arrogant—”

  “They may have been exemplary individuals, but do you deny that your life is hardly suitable for a woman of your spirit?”

  “I do not go hungry, and my wants and needs are not extravagant.” You square your shoulders. “And neither are Henrietta’s. She cares not for finery or titles, only that she is with the man she wants!”

  “Henrietta is a child! She doesn’t know what she wants!”

  “How can you say that?! She is one and twenty, old enough to—”

  Benedict does not let you finish. Instead he looks at you the way a drowning man would a raft. It is more than desire, more than longing that crosses his handsome yet haunted face.

  “Sometimes we all want something we shouldn’t,” he says huskily, and then he kisses you with such abandon that it takes your breath away.

  To your surprise, you find yourself succumbing to his passionate embrace. Your body is liquid gold as you melt into his. Nothing exists in this moment except you and him.