by Kitty Curran
Your eyes widen, your blood thrums. Benedict drops to one knee.
“Marry me, my lady,” he asks, breathless, and in love.
“No! No! NOOOOO!” the Dragon screams.
One hundred percent of the ton awaits your response, none with more eagerness than Benedict. You see Mac look down at his boots. Nigel’s eyes shine with terror. Sir Charles Burley-Fanshaw mimes groping your chest and buttocks.
Lady’s choice. What will it be?
Benedict, duh! You are totally in love and you want to find some rainy garden and kiss on him all over it. Get thee hence to this page, you damnable woman!
Benedict is great but…you just can’t resist throwing your tiny scrap of remaining caution to the wind and get back to orphan-helpin’ with your favorite rugged Scotsman, Mac. Turn to this page.
The children really could do with a wash, you think to yourself as you head out to the collection of junk and scrubby grass that passes for the castle’s garden. But how would one be able to use that single tin bath to clean all of them effectively?
Perhaps some of these spare parts thrown haphazardly in a pile might help? Digging in, you find an old pump mechanism, a leaky watering can, a long piece of piping, and a rusty but usable spring. Together, they remind you of something…a device you once saw in an exhibition back in London that you attended with your dear papa when he was still alive.
You have an idea. You haul your finds into one of the rooms near the kitchens and set to work. Assembling the pieces with your nimble fingers and ingenuity, within a short time you have made a makeshift shower.
The water you put on to heat earlier is now, thankfully, hot. You haul it in, pour it in the tub, and start testing your invention. The mist on your previous walk has left you already drenched and caked in mud, so you decide to keep your dress on.
As you luxuriate in the feeling of hot water cascading down your body, making the fabric cling to every curve, Mac enters the room. You startle at the sight of every hot, sweaty magnificent inch of him. There is an equal hunger in his eyes and in your loins…but still a nagging doubt in your heart.
Do you throw caution to the wind and pounce upon the handsome lug for what might be the first shower sex in the history of the world? Turn to this page.
Or do you decide that now is the time to have it out with him regarding Constantina? You really cannot enjoy yourself while curiosity preys upon your mind. Turn to this page.
Lord Craven kisses you deeply as if for the last time. You respond with equal urgency, your mouth ravenous for his. As you finally pull apart, you set out on the walk back to Hopesend Manor together, and he begins to speak.
“Before the child, we were happy. I did not love her just because she was beautiful, but she was, and she was well acquainted with how otherworldly her beauty was. But when she bore the child, she became obsessed with the look of herself. She saw ugliness where there was only age. She saw weakness where there was only experience. She wished she could have undone it, she said. She no longer wished to be touched. She no longer wished to touch. She wanted only to brush her hair, look upon her reflection, and remember when she was young.
“ ‘If I could be young and beautiful forever, I could be happy,’ she would whisper to me, ‘I would give anything for that.’ I told her she was young and beautiful, but she scoffed at me. ‘You are a pottering old fool before your time,’ she said. And she despised my attentions to the child. ‘You love him more than you love me,’ she would say.
“ ‘We will all grow too old to be beautiful,’ she would whisper to me before we fell asleep. ‘I must save us all.’ One morning, I woke and she was not next to me. I had a horrible sense of what was about to happen. I ran to her chambers. She was holding the boy before the fire, ready to throw him into the flames.
“ ‘This way, he will be a boy forever!’ she cried. I stole him away, and, in so doing, my jacket caught fire and was singed. She grabbed hold of it and tried to push me in as well. ‘Nothing is according to plan,’ she cried. ‘Nothing but this will do. See you in hell!’ We struggled, and as we did so, she must have got turned around. My last memory is of her falling into the fireplace, her hair aflame, her eyes red, her laughter turned to screams, her beauty consumed by the blaze.”
Your mind reels. Hopesend Manor looms in the near distance. “Surely,” you whisper, “you tried to save her?”
“Yes!” he cries in anguish. “I pulled her from the flames, but it was too late. I lay her upon the hearth, I stroked her face, and I wept. But all my weeping could not douse her. I could not save her. And perhaps”—Lord Craven is now fully sobbing—“perhaps it was her wish not to be saved.”
He turns to you, his eyes lost and despairing. You kiss him and together enter the house and near the morning room. Your heart aches for him. You are about to open your mouth and offer some form of redemption, or at least a tongue kiss, when you hear voices arguing within.
Quick, turn to this page.
That does it. You grab the nearest erotically shaped lamp and smash Cad over his hot, handsome head with it. Down he goes, like and unlike so many before him, in the Rose & the Smoke.
“And don’t you ever, ever lay a hand upon him again!” you spit at his inert frame. Turning, you see Benedict staring at you with eyes aflame.
“Benedict?” you gasp.
“You…you damnable…” He stands shakily.
“…maddening…” He takes your face in his hands and stares deeply into your eyes.
“…wonderful woman.” And with that he kisses you so intensely it takes your breath away. You melt into his arms. The world could end at this moment and neither of you would notice.
Until, that is, you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder.
“Ahem,” Lady Evangeline says gently. “Think it might be best if you make a quiet exit. We really don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
As one, your eyes travel from the broken furniture, to the broken man, to the dozens of crushed watercress sandwiches that litter the room.
“You—you might be right, Vange,” Benedict admits.
“Of course I am, Benny,” she says briskly. “I suggest the two of you journey back in your coach as soon as possible before anyone notices you are missing.”
“And what will you do?” you ask.
“I…am going to clean up this mess,” says Lady Evangeline. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.”
“I wish I could say I was surprised,” says Benedict as he ushers you out the door.
Turn to this page.
You give a last lingering look at the empty doorway, then turn your attention back to the boy. “How did you lose your sister, Master Alexander?” you ask as tenderly as you can manage.
“I think the wolf ate her,” Master Alexander says, wiping at his steady stream of tears.
“The barghest? The wolf from the tales in the village?”
“Not that one. That one is just a village wolf. The one that got my sister was a bad wolf. A very bad wolf. Mama said wolves are always hungry for naughty children and that Helena was very naughty. But she wasn’t naughty! She just knew about Mama and…the man.”
“What man?”
“A man who did rhymes in Switzerland. He was always writing Mama poems, like ‘She walks in beauty like the night’ and other nonsense! And Papa found them and it made him upset. Mama always said Papa’s poems were best used to line the rubbish bin!”
“This, ah, man…,” you say. You know you must tread carefully. “Was he a special friend of Mama’s?”
“Yes, and Helena saw them struggling. She was going to tell Papa, but then Helena was gone! Do you want to know what I think?” The little soul quakes in your arms. You can scarcely believe it, but you think you think what he thinks.
“What, my darling?”
“I think—I think Mama was the bad wolf! And she got Helena, and she�
��s going to get Papa, and me, and you, too!”
Your heart breaks for the poor child. You vow to get to the bottom of this mystery for his sake, and the sake of his tortured father.
But how?
If you go to speak with the servants, turn to this page.
Or if you seek out that unspeakably handsome vicar, turn to this page.
The next day, you leave the children with Mrs. Ferguson as she heroically struggles once more to teach them sword dancing. As you retreat, you can hear her yelling, “Sallie! Punching your partner is not part of this dance!”
You feel mildly guilty, but also relieved. Now is your chance to search the castle for clues. You poke your head into one chamber and see the infernal wooden chest that Abercrombie has dragged over hill and dale. You shake your head—he lugs it around like a child totes a favorite toy. Seeing no one nearby, you enter the room and open the chest. Maps and papers spill out in disarray. But what do they all mean?
“Searching for something, lass?” Abercrombie’s voice sends your heart to your throat.
“Just some linens,” you lie. “Dodger has soiled yet another set.”
Abercombie laughs, but the twinkle in his eye is dimmer than usual. “Aye, ye will not find linens in there, or at all. We are short of staff, and short of resources, so there is very little to be done about Dodger’s keen desire to mess them other than wash the filthy things clean.”
“I will get to that, then.” You bid Abercrombie good day, and stride with forced confidence out onto the castle’s decayed gardens—and straight into Mac’s burly, beckoning chest.
“Aye, lass. I missed ye, too.” He laughs, and you feel relieved at the sight of him. You drown each other in a kiss that tunes your bagpipes.
“You have ta get married now!” screeches a joyful Sallie. You and Mac break apart to see that the orphans have arrived. Sallie hands you an envelope.
“This was left on the bloody castle doorstep, miss,” she says. “Is it your marriage certificate?” You ignore her question and tear a parchment from the envelope, revealing a hastily scrawled note:
You must meet me tonight by the loch. Alone. I have new information we must discuss.—O
Ooh…turn to this page!
Mrs. Butts has the true run of this home. Why would you waste your time talking to anyone else?
You are sure you will find her in the kitchens at this time of night, and so you make a beeline there. But as you break into a run, you stumble, suddenly thrown back against the wall of the gallery by a forceful, unseen hand.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing, girl?” The savagely prim voice of Manvers slashes at you in the darkness. Your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, allowing you to make out the manservant’s face in all its seething glory. “You look like a lunatic on the run from Bedlam. It is unbecoming. It is beneath us all.”
“I have urgent news for Mrs. Butts,” you spit back at the little troll of a man. You despise the way he sneers at you. As if he knows you. As if he owns you.
“You have hysteria, is what you have. You are too weak-minded to care for a high-spirited boy like Master Alexander. You know you were only brought here as a plaything for a sick man. The boy ought not be punished for the sins of the father. The boy ought not be exposed to such a shrill harpy. Not when his mother was an angel! Not when his father struck her down!”
Shrill harpy! Oh, how you quiver with hatred for this detestable little man.
Do you tell him where he can stick his loathsome misogyny? Turn to this page.
Or, if you feel that you have overreacted to the events of the evening and wish to request that Craven explain himself, turn to this page.
Nothing else matters as long as there is fire in your loins!
“Quite the worst idea we have ever had…” you repeat. “But don’t stop.”
Benedict gazes at you in wonder before plundering your mouth with an intensity that takes your breath away. His clever fingers work dark magic, until you see fireworks and are soaring, metaphorically, as high as one.
It is your turn to rip his clothing, pulling at his breeches to expose his tumescent member.
“Let us have this moment of happiness,” you say as you wrap your hand around his rigid maleness. “Just once. So that whatever happens next, we will at least have this memory. Of us. Together.”
The heat smoldering in Benedict’s silver-gray eyes becomes an inferno, and you wrap your legs around him as his swollen shaft is embraced by the glistening portal of your womanhood. You move your bodies together in an ancient rhythm, reaching an apex of ecstasy until both of you collapse in a golden haze of stars.
Well, now you’ve gone and done it! Turn to this page, you wanton orgasmic harlot.
You reach for a broken statue with which to bash Loveday’s head in. But it is too far away, and so you claw at the vicar’s traitorous blue eyes—to no avail. The world starts to go black…and then brightens again as you awaken to find Craven breathing new life into your mouth.
“I heard your whole sorry tale,” he says to Loveday. “I would have gotten here sooner, but I had to scale the locked gates of the garden.”
“This is my house,” Loveday spits.
“This is my home,” Craven spits back.
The two men fight.
To your horror, Loveday, though smaller and more finely made, turns out to be stronger than you realized. Craven might actually lose. You watch with dizzying hopelessness, but then you hear a tiny voice in your ear: “Find your move.”
It is young Alexander, who has followed you all, unseen, into the eldritch garden. He manages to throw Loveday off his father with far more strength than a child should have, and he speaks in a strange, high-pitched voice.
“You got Mama to kill me. It was a big knife. Then she pushed me in the fire. I fought so hard, but it wasn’t enough. Papa tried to save me, but I was already gone. Mama didn’t expect to trip and fall in the fire. I watched her burn. She deserved it. You deserve it, too.”
Loveday’s face contorts with disbelief. “NO! NO! I will kill you all! And even if I don’t, no one will believe you.”
Loveday backs away as he speaks, while you, Craven, and the possessed Alexander stalk toward him, united as a family. Suddenly a flash of lightning breaks open the sky. A tree branch falls and stabs Loveday through his traitorous heart.
For a moment, the shadows seem to illuminate a familiar, triumphant, dark-haired beauty wielding the branch. But only for a moment. Alexander promptly faints, and you and Lord Craven carry him back to his rooms.
Go to this page.
You deftly duck out of Farouk/Fabien’s reach and launch yourself at a nearby abandoned stall. Grabbing the first thing that comes to hand—a heavy earthenware tagine that you can barely lift—you swing round just as a pair of strong hands grabs you firmly by the waist.
Fabien’s gray-green eyes glow victoriously…then quickly dim as you smash the heavy ceramic over his head. You quickly slip the pistol from his waistband, aim it at the nearest henchman, and shoot. You barely graze the man’s shoulder, but it seems enough to spook the band of henchmen. They scatter and run deep into the souk. You turn to face Fabien, but he seems to have melted into the crowd, like a spirit summoned away by a vengeful goddess.
“Dash it!” You pull a dazed Kamal to a seated position. He has been beaten severely about the head by one of the henchmen. “I would have at least liked to catch one of those scoundrels for questioning.”
He stares at you in wide-eyed admiration. “Truly, you are an exceptional woman, miss. The Lady Evangeline is lucky to have found such a companion.”
Though you are charmed by his reverence for your surprising triumph, you have no time for flattery.
“That’s very nice of you to say, Kamal, but we must get back to Lady Evangeline. I’m sure she will want to hear about this. Kamal?”
You look d
own and realize that your trusted friend has collapsed from his head wound. You sigh. Carrying him back is going to be hard work.
Turn to this page.
You wrap yourself in a cloak and follow the sound of howling to the edge of an eldritch garden surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron gate currently in a state of romantic disrepair. The howls have ceased. Strangely disappointed, you perch atop a stone structure, only to realize it is a fallen angel—the likeness of Lord Craven’s first wife.
You leap to your feet, alarmed. Your erstwhile seat is, in fact, her grave.
“The governess pays her respects,” growls a sultry voice. You suppress a shriek. Lord Craven is lounging languidly against a broken pair of angel’s wings, his eyes and hair wild, a brandy snifter in one hand. There is no mistaking the look in his eyes—unchecked desire. Your body riots with passion.
“How strange—” You breathe deeply and hope to shake the fear—or is it excitement?—from your tone before continuing. “How strange to be so far from home and alone with naught but forgotten crypts and fallen angels to keep one company.”
Lord Craven rises slowly. You drink the sight of him like wine. He stalks toward you, his beautifully muscled frame straining against the pressures of lust. “The only eyes that can perceive any wickedness yet to occur here are long dead, girl.”
You fix him with a level, if hungry, gaze. “I am currently faced with a pair that speak quite to the contrary, if I may be so bold.”