As Wicked as You Want: Forever Ours Book 1

by Nia Farrell

  He wore it still, damned Irishman.

  I froze, locked in a flashback of a battlefield littered with dead, dying, and wounded men. Limbs missing or shattered. The smell of blood and the stench of release. Absurd tears stung my eyes, instantly reddening them and my nose. “I’m sorry,” I stammered, clutching blindly at Edward’s arm. “Fredericksburg. Oh, God. It just…came.”

  He drew me against him, offering shelter from my storm, and guided me into the parlor. We sat on the sofa while Dr. Wainwright hovered, assessing my soldier’s heart. I was shaken, with good reason, and embarrassed when there was no need. But I was also mortified, and rightly so. This was hardly the impression I wanted to make upon the man who might possibly be my future father-in-law, if things progressed to that point. I hated that he was seeing me like this, a broken thing in need of mending…and yet his knowing eyes conveyed only concern, and compassion.

  “Edward says that you do not take laudanum. A glass of wine, perhaps?”

  “Please,” I whispered. “And thank you.”

  Edward had told him of my service; that much was clear. And it was true that I shunned laudanum for my condition. Seeing someone enslaved by dependence was enough to make me avoid it like the plague.

  I wondered how long it had taken Mother to wean herself off of it, or if she even had. Surely she had. No doctor would marry an addict…would he?

  The men gave me the space and time I needed to sort things out. The wine helped. It was sweet, red, and fruity, with an underlying hint of spice, a perfect companion to the platter of delectables that miraculously appeared.

  Dr. Wainwright smiled at my keen interest. “Masey said that you were fond of fruit and cheese.”

  I nearly choked on a bite of pear. Masey. Not just in England, but here.

  And Edward had said nothing. The time he’d been in my apartment, he’d seen her portrait. Had remarked upon it, wondering if she were a romantic interest. He’d thought then that I was Lane, yet he’d said nothing more about her once he knew better.

  But I’d said nothing either. Guilt assailed me, that I hadn’t thought to ask about Masey.

  After she had suffered at another’s hands.

  “Where is she? How is she?” I hadn’t seen her in six years, not since she’d left with Mother.

  “See for yourself.”

  I followed Dr. Wainwright’s line of vision to the door where Masey stood, as beautiful as ever, dressed in the black bombazine of first mourning, a smile wreathing her heart-shaped face. She motioned behind her, and out stepped a young boy, with pale coffee skin and wavy black hair. “Miss Elena Davenport, may I present my son Joseph? Joseph, remember, I told you about Miss Davenport.”

  I looked at them, the pair of them, my father’s daughter and the child who was so clearly hers, and knew, in that moment, what my mother had done. She hadn’t come to England for her sake alone, but for Masey. Masey, who’d been taken against her will and left with child—a child who would have been born into Southern slavery, had my mother not done what she had.

  For six years, I was wrong. So very wrong to believe that Mother was selfish, that she cared less for others than herself. How many other women would treat their husband’s bastard as she had? She’d freed Masey—and her unborn child—and had spirited them away, offering them a life that they would never have had in America. She’d protected the one who could not possibly protect herself, even when it meant leaving the two born of her body behind.

  Oh, God! Forgive me, Mother! Forgive me!

  I burst into tears and flew to Masey, hugging them both, tears rolling down my face. “Oh, Masey. Masey. I didn’t know. I never knew. Here now, let me look at you.” She was as beautiful as ever, still slender but with the feminine curves that come from having borne a child. “And Joseph.” Save for his darker skin, he looked pure Davenport, with no trace of his sire about him, thank God. “You named him for Father. He’d be so proud…of you both.”

  And he would have been. Masey had intelligence and gifts to match her beauty. I knew her to be a great reader. I soon learned that, now that she didn’t have to hide her literacy, Masey aspired to being an authoress, less in the line of Austen and more in tune with Shelley or the Brontë sisters. Dr. Wainwright had welcomed her into his household along with my mother, and here she would stay, for as long as she needed or wished.

  I could see that her presence and Joseph’s were a balm to the good doctor’s soul. Perhaps it was the distraction, but more likely it was the connection to my mother, that in providing for Masey and Joseph, he honored the memory of her.

  Of course, I had to tell Masey about Lane. I’d lost my twin but she had lost her half-brother. We cried together, and I sought to pull us both from our funk by telling of Edward’s arrival and the Pinkertons, of the mess I had made by not mustering out and the solution that he’d offered, to come to England with him.

  She cast a strange look at Edward that raised my hackles and made me wonder if she somehow harbored hope to one day have him for herself. That she might have known him first, in the biblical sense, was a dreaded and very real possibility. The notion lodged itself in my head like a weedy infestation that I struggled in vain to eradicate. I told myself, even if it were the case, Edward was mine, now and forevermore, if I had anything to say about it.

  Yet the thought of them together refused to leave, and soured my mood. I withdrew into my shell, listening to the conversation flowing on around me, responding to questions but not otherwise engaging. Finally, Edward made excuses and we cut our visit short. He waited until we were in the hired cab before confronting me.

  “What was that?” he asked point blank. “You were barely civil. I had hoped to have a nice visit. I thought you would enjoy seeing Masey—she’s always spoken fondly of you.”

  I looked at him, not bothering to hide the storm clouds brewing in my gray eyes. “Have you fucked her? Have you slept with my sister?”

  The color bleached a bit from his face. “Sister?”

  “Half. My father’s by-blow, begotten on a house slave at a Tidewater plantation while he was there, painting a commission. Masey was eight when her mother died, and she came to live with us. My mother was Catholic. In her mind, she could not divorce, and so she found a way to live with her husband’s infidelity. Now, have you fucked my sister?”

  Edward shot me a look of annoyance, clearly displeased. “No,” he said crisply. “I say this not because you deserve an answer right now, the way you are acting, but because I have no wish to add to everything else that you have suffered. But this attitude of yours is uncalled for. I do not deserve to be treated as I have been this past hour. Trust me, if this carriage ride were longer, I would have you over my knee, and you would not sit easily for a week. Be assured, you shall not sit easily for a week, but punishment will wait until we get home. I will give you fifteen minutes to prepare yourself, then that arse of yours is mine.”

  I trembled at the terrible promise in his voice. He would never strike me in anger, but I had wronged him and must now pay the price. He did not speak again. The silence between us was as thick and heavy as the hand that was sure to fall.

  I stripped off my clothes and made use of the water closet before presenting myself. The door between our chambers was open. As I approached the threshold, I could see Edward standing beside his bed, stripped to the waist, save for the braces of his pants that bracketed the sides of his masculine chest. He held a coil of rope in one hand and a riding crop in the other.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw that the top of his dresser was covered with instruments. I lowered my gaze and approached him with no little trepidation. He demanded a reckoning. Acknowledging it was one thing; allowing it required my submission. My nature urged me to bargain for a lesser punishment, or cry Delphi, yet I chose to remain silent, with head bowed and eyes downcast, humbling myself, the student who had shown such disrespect to the teacher. He was right. I’d behaved badly and no one, especially not Edward, deserved such poor
treatment.

  He pointed to one corner at the foot of the bed. I walked to the spot and stood, shuddering when he tapped the crop against his thigh.

  “Wrists,” he rumbled, the low timbre of his voice echoing in the depths of my being.

  I presented my hands as he had taught me, fingertips up, palms pressed flat, a penitent seeking forgiveness and absolution. He bound my wrists and forearms in a series of knots, sacred geometry given form and function, connecting priest and acolyte.

  He tossed the crop onto the bed and pushed me against the bedpost. “On your toes,” he growled, pulling my wrists up as high as they would reach before tying them above my head. “One word,” he said. “If you can’t take it, what will you say to make me stop?”

  “Delphi,” I choked out, as the first tear escaped.

  He started with his hand, then moved through the paddle, riding crop, flogger, belt, cane, and tawse, each one worse than the last. By the time he’d finished, I was past being able to stand on my toes and was hanging by my wrists, a sobbing wretch of humanity that collapsed into his arms when he hauled me down.

  Edward caught me when I would have fallen. He laid me upon the bed, rolling me until I was stretched out on my stomach. My buttocks, back, and legs were on fire, but the healing ointment that he applied cooled some of the heat, as did the glass of lemonade that he had had sent up ahead of our session.

  “I am sorry,” I said. “Truly. The look that she gave you—when she’s been here and I have not…well….”

  My imagination had run wild, and now we had both suffered for it.

  “I had not told her about Lane,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know who she was—what she is—to you. I knew that she was raised in your household, of course. I felt that the news of his death should come from you. If she looked at me oddly, she was likely wondering why I said nothing when I called on Father yesterday. The two of us spoke privately, so that what was discussed would be held in strictest confidence. Joseph is a typical young boy, well behaved but prone to occasional mischief. I wanted to advise my father of our safe return. At the same time, I wished to make him aware of the effects that sudden, loud noises might have upon you. Given the circumstances, I felt it in your best interest to decline his offer, on your behalf, to stay with them. I admit, it is selfish of me to keep you here, away from her and from Joseph. It is your choice, of course. Now that you know, should you wish otherwise—”

  “No!” I sobbed. “Oh, no! Please! Don’t say it! Don’t you dare think it! Even if Masey lived independently with room to spare, I would choose to be here, with you!”

  Surely he knew this. Surely.

  “Please, Edward. Tell me that you want it, too.”

  Edward stripped down to nothing and lay down beside me, one arm crooked above my head so that his hand reached my hair. Stroking it, he threaded his fingers in the short, black waves, grasping my head at the same time that I felt his other hand on my throat, claiming it, claiming me.

  “Want it?” he echoed, sounding incredulous. “More than want it, I need it. I need you, Elena. In my life. In my bed. Whatever it takes to keep you here…I will. You are mine,” he vowed. “Mine.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I stayed in his bed for the next three days, more or less. I needed and wanted to be there, in his arms and under his care as my body healed from his discipline. In truth, I could have lingered longer, but after the initial period, it was no longer in my best interest to lie abed, where I was invariably either committing venal sins with Edward or committing another of his reference tomes to memory. No, I needed to move, from his bed, from his room, from his house. More than that, I needed to show him that I would return. I was his, by his word and by my choice. However wrong we might be judged by the world, what we did was right for us, and that, to me, was what ultimately mattered.

  Edward had decided that his next book was to be on the Trojan War. It was a particularly fond subject of mine—a veritable tapestry of lust and longing, drama and tragedy, pathos and hubris that started not when Helen said yes but when Cassandra said no. The princess of Troy’s refusal to yield to Apollo set in motion the tragic chain of events, driven by Apollo’s thirst for revenge, that would lead to the fall of Troy and Cassandra’s disgrace. Claimed as a prize and taken back to Mycenae by King Agamemnon, the princess would be murdered—along with the king—by Helen’s half-sister, Agamemnon’s outraged queen.

  I was less concerned with how Apollo had stirred the wrath of Clytaemnestra than with the three star-crossed lovers: Achilles, Patroclus, and Briseis. I dreamed of the day that Daniel arrived with my tools and marble, and I renewed my hints of the erotic removal of Edward’s body hair. Meanwhile, I read The Iliad in Homeric Greek and pondered what would have happened, had Patroclus not died. It was certainly fodder for a fictional novel, an alternate reality where Achilles lived and returned home to be married, with a wedding feast given by the man who shared their bed.

  It was hedonistic. Perfectly pagan. Superbly erotic and therefore unmarketable in the commercial publishing world of literature, and yet I knew such things were printed and sold to consumers that included licentious soldiers, rebellious daughters, and lonely wives. Surely, there must be a broader audience for such scandalous tales. The men and women who patronized the same private clubs as Edward had, before meeting me. If I were of a mind, I supposed that I could write and illustrate it. Perhaps in my older age, when I could no longer wield a chisel and hammer, I might turn my hand to pen and paper…or perhaps I should learn to play the literary piano and compose a risqué novel on the keyboard of Shole’s new typing machine.

  Then again, there was Masey. I considered suggesting the project to her, but then I thought better of it. If she aspired to either critical acclaim or commercial literary success, this was not the type of book that should be seen on her credits.

  And so it was, when next I called upon her (without Edward this time), we spoke of Mother and Lane and Father and Joseph, weeping anew over all that we had lost while yet clinging to our hopes for the future. She spoke not of her circumstances, neither of her pregnancy nor delivery nor the one who was responsible for Joseph’s existence. Instead, she displayed a mother’s pride in her child’s accomplishments. He was a bright boy, fairly well mannered and the veritable pet of the doctor’s household staff. Thankfully he seemed to have inherited Masey’s good nature and showed none of the meanness that had led Rutherford Thomas Paine to force himself on my half-sister. To think that she was but fifteen years of age at our annual Valentine’s Day party...well, suffice to say, it distressed me greatly—quite hard enough to make my stomach pinch and sour.

  I sought my bed upon my return home, which is where Edward found me, holding a towel-wrapped hot brick to my stomach in hopes that the warmth would help ease the ache. He’d spent the day at the inner sanctums of the British Museum, discussing his writing project with a professional colleague who was an expert in Ancient Greek civilization. Unfortunately the other man was a misogynist. Because my presence would have inhibited rather than enhanced their session, I had found myself with a rare free day and had chosen to spend it with Masey.

  “Your stomach again?” Edward asked, concern in his voice.

  “No blood,” I told him. “Neither here nor there, not until this weekend, I think. How was your day?”

  He tsked and shook his head. His blond curls were gilded in the late afternoon sunlight that slanted through the leaded glass window, illumining the motes so that the air sparkled with gold dust. “Do not think to avoid me. Babs said that you had oatmeal and applesauce at tea. Have you taken anything to ease it? Brandy? Whiskey? Wine?”

  “A glass of wine. The heat seems to help nearly as much. Now, how was your day? And do not think to avoid me,” I parroted, earning a crooked smile.

  “Strange,” he said, shedding his frock coat and draping it on the back of a chair. “Old Avery hedged and prevaricated and dodged as many questions as he could. He grudgingly yielded answe
rs when pressed but was very clear in his hope to dissuade me from writing. I hate to think it, but I fear that I shall need to verify every answer I was given, in case he was misspoken or I was deliberately misled.”

  “My guess is, he’s either working on his own paper or he’s giving it thought. Either way, you’ve tipped your hand.”

  Edward frowned, considering. He shook his head and sighed. “If that is so, I cannot stop him. Old Avery will do what he will, independent of my wishes.”

  “Then you should make him sorry,” I told him. “Write a book brilliant enough to overshadow his work and everyone else’s. You can do it. I know you can.”

  “Such faith,” he murmured, reaching out to stroke my cheek. “But I daresay, you have not read his work.”

  “I’ve read yours,” I said emphatically, surprising him. “Not in their entirety, but I’ve read the first two chapters of Aristotle Revealed and I’m nearly halfway through Spartan Training and Traditions. Your choice of subject matter is telling, Edward. No surprise to me, knowing how fond you are of, um, certain Greek traditions, but really. Has no one remarked upon your enthusiastic descriptions of Aristotle and his students? And the Spartans ? Well!”

  Heat flared in his eyes, just a flash—there, then gone, as he tamped it down by sheer strength of will. “In Sparta, there would have been no hiding you, that much is certain.”

  His resistance challenged me, as surely as if he’d drawn a line between us. Honor it if he must, but there was nothing to stop me from reaching across, was there?

  I fastened my gaze on the front of his pants, wet my lips, and dropped the towel-wrapped brick on the far pillow.

  “Elena,” he warned.

  “Lane,” I tempted.

  “Fuck.”

  My hands were on him in a heartbeat, prying free buttons, finding the opening in his drawers and pulling him through. I took him half-hard down to his root and teased him with my tongue, thrilling to the way his flagstaff of flesh swelled in my mouth, unfurling to its full glory.