Barbour, Carolina - Watch Me, Desire Me (Siren Publishing Allure)

by Watch Me, Desire Me

  “She tried to seduce me last night.” It was something Juden felt inclined to tell Jilst.

  “Did she succeed?” Jilst asked flatly.

  As leader of a nation, Juden felt the best practice was to lead by example. “If she did, I would have to marry her. Artamine wouldn’t accept anything less. I would feel obligated to make peace with him.” He sighed, the shock on his face evident, as the realization of his words sunk home.

  Jilst’s voice was placid. His expression gave nothing away. “I know her father would be the one to make a decision. It doesn’t matter to me one way or another if Viola’s attempt to make me jealous succeeded.”

  “Make you jealous?”

  The scenario thickened, and Juden found himself trying to figure out which way Jilst was going.

  “Viola has wanted me to ask Artamine for her hand in marriage for a long time. I refused,” Jilst said.

  “But you just said you wanted to marry.”

  “I do. I will when I’m ready, and not when Viola decides. She must learn that I’m the man, and she will act accordingly and obey my wishes if she is to be my wife.”

  Juden’s mouth curved in a faint smirk. He nodded, understanding. Relief ebbed through him realizing Viola’s entire escapade was to make Jilst envious enough to wed her. The scheme made sense. He and Viola’s attraction had been heated, brief. It fizzled when he came to his senses, so her sudden overzealous attention should have triggered something. Maybe it would have, if he was focused on the right thing. He had to plug himself for the oversight. He should have never been bait for Viola. Instead, he fell for it completely.

  In the scope of matters, understanding the world they survived in, there were greater evils then a conniving woman in love. Juden felt qualified to place what happened between him and Viola aside, and concentrate on matters that were more important. Jilst said he didn’t care if he bed Viola or not. That was good enough for him. “I’m not happy about what happened last night. However, overall, Viola’s actions are questionable, albeit not a death sentence where I’m concerned. I will speak to Artamine on your behalf.”

  “Thank you, Juden, I appreciate it.”

  Chapter 32

  Smiling, Milo watched her leave.

  Oslei had deigned to make his cock swell again. He felt elated, virile, filled with prowess he hadn’t experienced in a long time, all full five minutes of glory. His smile faltered. As habit, the stupid, greedy bitch played to male ego, offered accolades, applause, as he fumbled between her thighs.

  Her theatrics were commendable. Very convincing, almost as his own were, but not quite. The thought made Milo sulky, then furious and breathing retribution.

  The twit’s day would come, he thought watching her leave.

  Milo eased from the bed and made his way to the hidden compartment in the floorboards. His father had been ingenious, thinking of countless ways to keep secrets. He now had several locations and secret compartments at his disposal.

  Lifting the loose plank, he dug around inside, moving the items aside that didn’t interest him.

  The leather-bound diary had aged well. There were a few tattered corners, some of the pages were brittle, mostly the book was in perfect condition, except for the frayed paper ends, and the ink faded over the years.

  Carefully, Milo opened the book. He turned the sheets until he reached a certain entry. His fingers trembled as he looked over the scribbled script. Bending lower, he squinted, to make out the wide sweeps, bold lines, of his father’s handwriting. It wasn’t necessary, he reread the text, as he’d done a hundred times before. Each thought, verse, of his father’s thoughts, ingrained in his brain forever. He could recount each word verbatim in his sleep.

  Milo’s lips mouthed, as he mumbled, reading his father’s feelings aloud to himself. Words his father had not only written to himself but had actually sent to the King. He stroked his thumb over the missive, fury surfaced, so strong he wanted to toss the document into the flames flaring in the hearth.

  He contained himself. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t burn the thing, let it go, along with the anger he felt toward his father’s treachery. Perhaps he wanted a token to keep, to remind him why he remained bitter all this time and why animosity shuddered through his body after all these years. His father died years ago. With his death, he should have been able to release the fury inside him. Yet, it remained strong and pungent like rotted guts. Milo scanned the paper again. He shuddered, as each word renewed the raw rage he felt, as he did the first time he read the letter to the King.

  My Grace,

  I write this letter with an upmost sense of urgency and ask for your acceptance of my unorthodox terms concerning Dandelion. ‘Tis with a leaden heart, I make this request, my King, but know that there is no other consideration or solution to derive. As a devoted vessel to my King, my home is yours to manage as you please upon my death. As I live and breathe, as well. This I know and feel humbled that you have sought to allow me to oversee Dandelion as I please. You have placed faith in me. I call upon this trustworthiness, whilst you consider my decision. Dandelion is a thriving dwelling with a strong force that serves you well. I plead that if this way should continue that you not entrust it to the hands of my eldest son. Milo cannot be trusted, and he is of weak constitution. His mind clouded in mayhem and laced with insanity of that of a man lost in dementia. I know this. The details make me weary, too heavy of heart, to disclose. ‘Tis the truth, though, as I live in breathe.

  Dandelion’s magnificence, to serve you well, will be sustained if Juden VanZandt takes reign upon my death.

  This I must insist. Perhaps ‘tis proper to plead with exigency that my will be done.

  Lord Winslet DeCapri

  Every nerve ending inside Milo burst with ferocity.

  His eyes dimmed. A snarl curved his lip, as indignation bit at him. “Damn you, father. Curse your black heart!”

  Milo tossed the diary back into the hiding place. He slammed the floorboard down, struggled to his knees, and lifted himself from the floor. He swallowed the pain that shot through his back, a furious as the venom coursing through his body, with an intensity of a rushing current, hatred for his father made him quake.

  Milo sat on the edge of the bed. With trembling fingers, he reached for the grainroot. He cupped the cup so intensely his knuckles turned white. The past flashed before his eyes, the injustice of it all, sent fresh waves of hostility to eat at his core. He was livid when he learned of his father’s request. As if the discovery was yesterday, the sourness of it still left him reeling. All thoughts of fury, focused on seeking retribution, a long awaited sense of righting the wrongs he felt.

  The plan simple, one by one, he would punish those responsible for the discrimination.

  Lord Winslet DeCapri.

  Juden VanZandt.

  A sly grin emerged. Milo mentally checked off his father. That nuisance he dealt with years ago. With a sense of relish, he felt giddy, remembering that night. He stood over his father’s bed, raised the pillow, and stuffed it against his face until he stopped struggling.

  When the servant found him dead and alerted the household, he mourned convincingly, while smiling inwardly.

  It would be more difficult to deal with Juden. He tried with Isla. The thought piqued him. It didn’t help matters Juden left Dandelion and never returned, not even bothering to return for his father’s burial services, the ungrateful bastard remained securely tucked away in Duns Laire out of reach.

  He found a way to ferret Juden out. His plan clever, he would have patted himself on the back, if able.

  It was a long time in coming, he relished in Juden’s arrival to Dandelion, as much as he felt elated he forced Juden to come to him. He was gone for now. He would return. Milo was sure of this. He had his wife to thank for that.

  Briefly, Milo considered Saxby’s deceit; the bitch loved Juden. Then he dismissed the thought with a flip of his hand. If he wanted, Saxby could swiftly perish.

  J
uden would die a long and suffering death.

  Chapter 33

  Priest Manner slithered along the dark corridor like a reptile, paused, his eyes shifted about, ears pricked, and listened to the sounds around him for any indication anyone was about. So far, so good, the things he heard were normal noises of the dwelling preparation for the night. The heavy thud of footsteps the guards made walking toward the front of the holding to watch over the main door. In the distance, outside he heard the gate shut with a cla-clink, and secured the grounds. The swish of skirts the servant girl’s gowns made against the flooring, as they hurried along the main corridor to douse the candle sconces that lined the walls.

  Darkness ensued, offering him a chance to escape from his hiding place, slink along the corridor, and make it to his destination.

  Priest Manner pressed his ear to the door and listened, and then tried the handle. When there was no resistance, he pulled it open, and slipped inside the shaded room. Only a single candle offered any type of light, the flame low, and a soft glow cast his shadow as he moved toward the bed where he saw the outline of her silhouette laying in bed. He stepped forward on tiptoes, a floorboard squeaked.

  Megatha bolted up and shrieked at the top of her lungs, saying, “‘Tis a ghost! I swear!” She clutched the lacy material of her gown against her swelled bosom. Eyes wide, visibly shaken, she looked at the priest like an apparition that hovered at her bedside. When she opened her mouth to scream again, Priest Manner clamped his hand around her mouth.

  “Shhh, not a ghost, Lady Megatha, I’m in the flesh, alive and well.” Seeing her calm, he removed his hand.

  Megatha stammered, “The variant did away with you. Your lifeless body was dragged away—”

  “I was knocked out cold, and then taken to the dungeons. Where I remained for all this time, and treated like a prisoner.” He felt snubbed.

  Megatha narrowed her eyes, summing him up from head to toe. He answered her silent question. Knowing she wanted to know how he escaped, he knew to offer her a valid excuse, he concocted a story to give Megatha that was believable. He raised his chin haughtily, saying, “I’m a man of Oslei. There are those who have faith in me. A parishioner had pity on me.”

  The explanation seemed to please Megatha. She relaxed and her stance softened. A measure of suspicion remained, a tidbit, he could see it in her pinched features. The way she watched him closely, as if he were a wolf prowling the perimeter of a fowl coop.

  “My first thought was to leave Dandelion, I will, but not without speaking to you first. ‘Tis important you know what is going on for your safety. I have always felt as if I could confide you.” He sat on the edge of the bed. He sidled up to Megatha, subtly pressed close, not enough to spook her. He tested the waters, sliding his hand along her arm, to hold her hand in his own. Encouraged when she didn’t resist his touch, it was all he could do not to gloat.

  He patted her hand affectionately, leaned closer, and lessened the gap between them. His tone, a reptile’s tongue, whispered, “Lord Drackett still intends to have Dandelion. He plans to converge on the holding again with a massive number of warriors. Cut down anybody who stands in his path. Nobody will be able to stop him,” he lied, knowing that the coward tucked his tail, sulked, and licked his wounds since Juden defeated him. Lord Drackett did not intend to go up against Juden again. His heart wasn’t in it. More likely, he didn’t have the balls. He needed a little nudge something he intended to give the coward bastard. Seeing Megatha’s interest, he continued, and said, “Juden’s brother is here. Are you aware of this?”

  “That Tavian is present? Of course, you think me blind?”

  “Where does Juden go? When will he return? Have you seen his mass number of warriors that stopped Lord Drackett’s men from seizing Dandelion during the last battle? Or have they returned to Duns Laire?” Priest Manner needed to know specific details before he went to Lord Drackett. Buttery snippets to entice and tempt enough to make the idiot easily bend to his suggestion. He must attack Dandelion again. He had to make sure, and to coerce Lord Drackett into acting foolishly, he would provide him lies, half-truths, to force the idiot to do his bidding.

  Lord Drackett needed to die. What better way to accomplish this than let the man bring about his own demise?

  He preferred a swift blade to slice through Lord Drackett’s belly, to watch him bleed out slowly. The risk of doing such meant he would never gain what he desired more than life. He required patience, and use the tools available to him no matter how distasteful. He eyed Megatha.

  He continued to prod Megatha for answers to his questions. Things he needed to know and details required to assist him in carrying out his plot against those he needed removed from existence. “Do guards still man the towers and patrol Dandelion’s borders? How closely is the dwelling watched now that Juden is away?”

  Megatha raised a shoulder and dropped it. “I have no idea? You think anyone keeps me privy to such information. Since my stupid bitch of a daughter married one of Juden’s flunkies, her fanged-tooth husband practically made me a prisoner.” She sniffed in disdain. “I stay to myself and mostly keep to my chamber. ‘Tis all I can do not to witness the little whore’s smugness or Saxby mill about like her soul is gone now with Juden away.” She made a gagging motion. “My stomach sours to think both the harlots have succumbed to blasphemies of Oslei. The whores, each, shall get their just rewards.”

  Megatha was a bitter bitch. It was evident by her words and tone, he noticed. He counted on her reaction. She would be an excellent puppet. He just had to make her more pliable and eager to do his bidding.

  “With Carline and Saxby lost to us, ‘tis up to us to save Milo and his home.” He fed her a crumb to see if she took the bait. Megatha’s eyes brightened with interest. He continued to feed her scraps to gain her trust. “If you were to save Dandelion from those who wish your brother harm, he’d be forever indebted to you.” Slowly, he cast the line, and watched as Megatha took the lure. He worked to reel her in.

  “If you do the right thing, Milo will be eating out of your hand.” His words sugar laced, tempting. “Whom else can he trust? Lady Saxby already betrayed him and lay with Juden?” He touched her face with his fingertips, caressed the plump jowls, ran a thumb over her lips, and watched her shudder slightly. “No, Lady Megatha, you are the one to aide Milo. ‘Tis has to be you, the one with strength, substance, and the will to do what is required to save Dandelion.” Cunning as a fox, he said the things he knew Megatha wanted to hear, did what was required, and ignored the bile burning his throat at the thought of how far he had to take matters to get Megatha on his side.

  Seeing no protest, his hand slide down her throat, along the mounds of cleavage, and rested on a breast. To elicit a reaction, he flicked his thumb over a ripe nipple. Megatha sucked in air.

  “You do want to help Milo, don’t you?” he said, gingerly massaging a nipple casually. Drawing her to his web, he continued, saying, “‘Tis the right thing to do. After all where would you be if it weren’t for your brother’s unselfish mercy?”

  “There is nothing I can do,” she said timidly. Her eyes remained locked on his. The desperation he saw in Megatha’s eyes told him what was required of him. The thought distasteful, he had to be responsible to rectify the longing of a neglected woman. There was no other choice.

  Rutting the shrew was a dirty deed that was a necessity.

  “Ah, Megatha, you underestimate your value.” He toyed with the buttons of her gown, undoing one, and then another.

  Megatha caught his hand. “I’m not a fool, priest.”

  He met her challenging stare without flinching. “I have your best interest at heart.”

  Megatha scoffed and shoved his hand aside. “You lie.”

  Perhaps he underestimated Megatha. The single thought irritated him. He couldn’t afford to slip up and lose her.

  What to do?

  It was almost laughable he would resort to the truth seemed more difficult then lying. The ir
ony made it hard not to grin like a loon.

  “I need you.”

  Megatha’s eyes narrowed. “Continue.”

  “Lord Drackett will never gain Dandelion. Even if he managed to defeat all obstacles in his way, the King disfavors him. He will not allow Lord Drackett anywhere near Dandelion even though he believes otherwise. The reward of this glorious holding should go to one of Milo’s relatives upon his death. I intend that person to be me.”

  “You are a pauper. The King will never give you Dandelion,” she said, churlishly, flinging the one thing that infuriated him most into his face.

  Tightness gripped his chest, fury bubbled to the surface, and for an instant, he fought against the need to bash her head in with the metal pitcher on the side table. Taking breath, he throttled his anger to a manageable level. Teeth set, he forced himself to smile, as he said, “I’m well aware of my station in life. However, that is not going to stop me.” He tempered his tone and played to Megatha’s ego. “I need you to help me win. I can’t do this without you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  The bitch toyed with him.

  “Carline is lost to you. She cannot help you gain what you want most, to live in luxury with a measure of power as mother-in-law to the mistress of Dandelion.”

  “Saxby is the mistress of Dandelion,” she said blandly.

  “Not once Milo is dead,” he said, and then paused. “Not when she is conveniently dealt with along with Juden and anyone else who stands in my way.” He could have spelled out his plan to Megatha because he knew her smart enough to figure it out the details. What she did lack was knowledge of his entire scheme. There was no need to be completely honest. She would understand she was a pawn in the game when they married, ruled Dandelion, the moment he choked her to death. “When you remain as the sole heir, we shall wed.”

  Megatha looked at him with indignation he carefully ignored. She hadn’t sounded the alarm, slapped his face, or denied anything he said. The voracious bitch contemplated his words, almost savored the outcome of what his plot meant, he could tell by the look in her eyes. He waited impatiently.