The early morning streets were nearly deserted when he approached the mansion, a touch of chill in the air reminding him that soon autumn would be upon them. The school year was gaining momentum and he had many tasks to do once he returned, but he couldn't go on without telling Stokes exactly what he felt.
As he strode up the steps, he heard tripping footsteps behind him and turned to see his wife, her bonnet awry, cloak flapping behind her. "Why," she gasped, out of breath. "Why are you here? Are you unhappy with me? Are you going to ask my father to take me back?"
He frowned at her. Where on earth had she gotten such an idea? "No, of course not." He attempted to turn her around but she stood firm. "Marguerite, go home. I just need to speak with your father for a few moments, and then I will return."
Her expression anxious, she clung to his arm. "I won't go back without you. What are you talking to Father about, if not me? Are you demanding the money already? You never told me the condition for getting it."
"What makes you think there was a condition?"
"With Father, there's always a condition."
He shrugged. "I guess there is, but no. I am not here to demand money. In fact, I plan to tell him I don't want any of his money."
She looked appalled. "You don't mean you plan to live in that school forever?"
"No. Of course not. And your father will probably offer you the money. But I wish you'd trust me to take care of you. I am sorry but he is not a good man. He ruined my father and took everything from him. That's why I married you for money, to get my half of everything back. Marguerite, I watched my mother die in poverty because of your father.
"But now," he grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. "Now I have you and I don't need anything else."
She met his gaze with a level one of her own. "My father may be many things, and he uses his money to control me—and apparently you. But he is not a thief. I do not believe that." She rapped on the door, then marched past the butler when he opened it.
They found her father at the breakfast table and William's mouth watered at the array of food displayed. Eggs and sausage, potatoes, corn cakes, white bread on a plate. A pitcher of honey. Coffee. Fresh peaches swimming in cream.
Even when the man was alone, he ate like a prince.
He stood, his face wreathed in pleasure. "Children, join me?"
William eyed the bounty and fell upon the food like a ravenous animal. His bride devoured her share. Whether she cooked or not, someone was going to have to. High morals departed easily in the presence of an empty belly. As his hunger eased, he remembered his mission.
"Mr. Stokes, about my father…" His stomach churned.
The older man wiped his mouth and set his napkin on the table. "How much do you know?"
"Not a lot, not the details anyway."
"Son, he didn't mean to hurt you and your mother. He just liked gambling too much."
What? His father a gambler? William fisted his hands. Such lies. "I don't believe you. I never saw him so much as pick up a card."
Marguerite sat next to him, her eyes flicking back and forth between her father and husband.
Stokes looked him full in the face, without a trace of guile. "I was willing to take the blame; I did know you blamed me for your losses but until I realized how good you might be for my daughter, I saw no way to help you.
"I did sponsor the school, of course, and in fact assisted your mother in paying for your education, but in convincing you to marry my Marguerite, I thought I had at last found a way to make right all the foolishness of the older generation.
"Your father lost all his money, but he never neglected you. I, on the other hand, provided every financial benefit but was an utter stranger to my child. We ended up with a spoiled brat—I am sorry, my dear, but it is the truth—and a bitter, unhappy young man. But between the two of you, I saw fire, a spark, a way to give you the money your father could not—and a firm, caring hand for my out-of-control daughter."
William took Marguerite's hand under the table and she squeezed his fingers.
"If I was wrong, if you are both still as miserable as you were the other day, then I apologize." His mouth quirked under the moustache. "But I don't think I was wrong, was I?"
They glanced at each other, then at him. "No, Father," Marguerite said, shifting a little in the seat. "You were not wrong. I hope William does not regret marrying me."
"Far from it," he said. "I came here to tell you to keep the money. Marguerite is enough of a prize."
They spent a while longer with Stokes, while he told them stories about when he and William's father were young miners at the start of the boom, and made his peace with the past, then the newlyweds made their excuses and strolled hand in hand down the street toward the school.
"Now that we are alone, husband, I must tell you two things. First, I am immensely relieved that Father insists we take the money. I was not born for unnecessary poverty."
"I understand. And the second thing?"
"I insist that I teach some of the subjects, perhaps the sciences and Latin, to the young ladies at the school."
"Until you're pregnant."
"Yes, I understand the need to avoid scandal, but I shall teach all those subjects to our children, as well, especially our daughters. I will not have unenlightened children just because we live in the West."
"Understood."
"I have been troubled because women always have to choose and cannot have everything like men can. They can use their minds, or use their bodies, or use their spirit but not all three. In the life you offer me, I can come closer than anyone I know to having everything."
"We can together, I think. Look, I am already freed of those ledgers."
"One day I still want to go to the Continent and see the remains of the ancient world."
He nodded. "Perhaps next summer, when the school is closed, we can make a late wedding trip."
She offered him a smile. "How far I came to find my perfect mate."
"Yes," he murmured. "I believe we should offer some advanced classes to the young ladies at our school. And even when we do have our family, perhaps you can continue to be involved in one way or another. We shall offer the finest educational opportunities in the West." They turned the corner and started down to the next street. "But if you are to be part of the school, I warn you, there will be discipline if you misbehave."
She bumped him with her hip and gave a low, throaty chuckle. "I haven't told you about the train ride out here, have I? There was this man and his wife… it was quite scandalous, but I am afraid a fellow traveler and I snuck into the car and… well, we watched."
"You were naughty."
"Mm, very bad." She batted her eyelashes at him in an unrepentant fashion and his spirits rose even higher.
"I am afraid you will have to be disciplined, my dear." Perhaps he'd have to find new ways to deal with his wife, ways they might both enjoy.
"I am counting on it."
The End
About The Author
Kate Richards divides her time between Los Angeles and the High Sierras. She would gladly spend all her days in the mountains, but she’d miss the beach…and her very supportive husband’s commute would be three hundred miles. Wherever she is, she loves to explore all different kinds of relationships in her stories. She doesn’t believe one-size-fits-all, and whether her characters live BDSM, ménage, GLBT or any other kind of lifestyle, it’s the love, the joy in one another, that counts.
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Don’t miss these exciting titles by Kate Richards and Blushing Books!
For Ben: Corbin's Bend Series - Book Six
Three Dark Hours
By
Maggie Carpenter
©2014 by Maggie Carpenter
This book is for adults only, and contains scenes of spanking, graphic sex, bondage, sensory deprivation, and are fantasies only, inte
nded for adults. This book is not for children, nor does it condone corporal punishment of children. This book contains scenes of nonconsensual activities, BDSM and other nonconsensual activities. This book does not support nonconsensual spanking or any other nonconsensual activities, sexual or otherwise.
Copyright © 2014 Maggie Carpenter
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Blushing Publications
ISBN: 978-1-62750-5253
Ebook Cover Design
Ashley@ Redbird Designs
Visit the author at:
https://www.Amazon.com/author/maggiecarpenter
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Video Book Trailers
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CHAPTER ONE
Isobel couldn’t take her large green eyes off him. She knew she should be listening but it was impossible to focus on his words when his washboard stomach and incredible arms were so damn visible. It was spring, but the evening was unseasonably warm, and he was wearing a crisp white shirt with the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. She could see a smattering of chest hair attempting to escape, and could easily imagine glistening water droplets trapped there as he stepped from a shower.
I would lick them, one by one, and I know you would grab my hair and-
“Would you agree, Miss Parker?”
Her gaze darted up; his dreamy blue eyes were staring at her, a slight frown creasing his brow.
“Y-yes, I would,” she stammered, having no idea what he’d been talking about and praying she’d offered the right answer.
“Which one of my observations do you think would be the most important?”
Shit, really?
Feeling the flush of embarrassment she glanced past him to the blackboard where he’d written three bullet points.
Have knowledge of your subject matter.
Draw on personal experience.
Listen to your characters.
“Um, they’re all important,” she managed, “but if I had to choose I’d say the personal experience thing.”
There was a tittering through the class, and she could see his frown deepening.
“Anyone care to enlighten Miss Parker?”
A middle-aged woman sitting a few desks across from her threw up her arm, waving enthusiastically.
“Mrs. Adams,” he smiled.
Isobel grimaced.
Mrs. Adams, Mrs. Adams! You always have the answers, don’t you Mrs. Adams?
“I’d say your comment about people-watching,” the woman declared. “If I sit in a coffee shop long enough I’ll see a quirky habit, or an outfit, something. There’s always something if I wait long enough.”
“Exactly. You can draw from the outside world to color your work, to add dimension to your characters. You’re all creative geniuses, but there’s no law that says you can’t step away from your computer screen and note the behaviors of strangers, then incorporate those behaviors if they ring true.”
Isobel sighed and stared at her hands.
Shit. I’m so busted. I should just listen and not look at him. Those eyes of his, and that mouth. This is so hard.
“Your assignment for Monday is to write a short story based on a title I’m about to give you. The story is to be written in the third person, and no more than twenty-five hundred words.”
As he turned his back to the class and erased the board, Isobel stared at his wide shoulders and narrow waist.
I’ll bet you’re a surfer. You don’t get a physique like that jogging or going to the gym. That’s a surfer’s body if I ever saw one.
Bent at the elbow, his arm moved backwards and forwards, and she felt herself getting lost in its rhythm.
Oh, man, I can see myself against that board, your hands holding my arms above my head while you kiss my neck.
“Miss Parker,” he called as he continued writing, “please tell me which of the bullet points you think best pertains to this title.”
Snapping herself from her fantasy she watched him turn to face her, and when he crossed his arms and fixed her with a steady, firm eye, she felt herself flush an even deeper red.
Why is it so damn sexy when a man does that? Especially him. Please uncross your arms, you’re not being fair. How can I think when you’re striking that pose?
“Miss Parker, the board?”
Gulping, she shifted her gaze to the title he’d written in large block letters; it read, THREE DARK HOURS.
“Which of the bullet points, Miss Parker?”
Taking a deep breath and doing her best to focus she nervously began.
“It would depend on what the story’s about. I mean, if it’s a tale of horror I’d say listen to your characters, unless you’ve seen a ghost yourself, then you’d draw upon personal experience.”
She risked a look, and his nod of approval gave her a shot of much needed confidence.
“If you’re writing about a scuba vacation, then it would be having knowledge of your subject matter, because that would involve technical stuff you should know,” she continued, “oxygen tanks, things like that. You’d have to know what you’re talking about to make the whole thing believable, but I think each of those bullet points is equally important. Lose any one of them and your story will suffer.”
Holding her breath she waited tremulously for his response.
“Those are excellent thoughts,” he smiled brandishing the dimples he rarely showed.
I want to drop vanilla vodka in those lovely little caverns, and use the tip of my tongue to-
“See you all next week,” he declared breaking into her decadent thoughts. “Miss Parker, would you stay behind for a moment please?”
Shit. Okay, just calm yourself. He’s probably going to scold you for not paying attention.
Lord, I hope so. I’d loved to be scolded by him.
Pulse racing, she tried to settle her nerves as she watched her classmates meander out the door, but had to grit her teeth when she saw Mrs. Adams stop at his desk.
You’re so frickin’ obvious. Must you fawn all over him?
Agitated she wriggled in her chair, then impatiently gathered her books and tumbled them into her satchel, constantly eyeing the conversation between the gorgeous Mr. Patrick Doyle, and Mrs. Adams. They were speaking in hushed voices, and when Mrs. Adams finally moved away and headed out Isobel rose from her desk.
“Please, stay there,” he directed.
Dropping back into her seat, her eyes followed him as he moved towards her.
My gosh, I love your walk. You don’t walk, you stride, like you have a place to be, or a purpose, or-
“Now then,” he said firmly, sitting at the desk next to hers, “you and I need to have a little chat.”
Mmmm, what is that smell? Ralph Lauren? No, Givenchy? No, I know exactly what it is, it’s L’Occitane, the original.
Isobel prided herself on recognizing a man’s aftershave lotion or cologne, and she was convinced what he chose reflected the type of man he was. L’Occitane’s first was one of her favorites, and she smiled her approval.
“Miss Parker, are you listening?”
“What, I’m so sorry, I was thinking about your bullet points,” she apologized.
“This is why I need to talk to you. To be truthful, and this is confidential,” he said soberly, “I think you’re probably the most gifted writer in this class, but-”
“You do? Really?” she bubbled. “Oh, my, gosh! It means so much to hear you say that.”
“But,” he continued, raising one eyebrow and staring at her intently, making her toes curl, “I was going to say, you seem to have trouble focusing. Is it me? Am I boring? Do I not deliver the information in an interesting way?”
“Please don’t think that, not for a minute,” she protested. “You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had. I mean, I’ve been out of school for ages, but I don’t remember ever having a teacher like you.”
She realized she’d fumbled her response and had sounded young and inarticulate, but that’s what he did to her; made her nervous as hell which made her behave like an idiot.
“So, what is it then? Why does your mind wander?” he asked, his voice tinged with tenderness. “Do you have a problem? Something personal?”
Hell, yes, I have a problem. You! Can’t you see I have a ginormous crush on you? I think about you all the time. How am I supposed to focus on some random grammar question when you’re so incredibly hot?
“Miss Parker? Did I just lose you again?”
“Isobel, my name’s Isobel,” she offered.
“I’m afraid I keep things formal in my classroom,” he replied with a slight smile. “Is there a problem?”
“Not the way you think,” she answered quietly. “I’ll try to do better.”
“If you need to discuss anything I’m always available,” he said warmly.
What if I don’t turn in my assignment? Will you spank me? Ooh, to be spanked by you, talk about a dream come true.
“Can Three Dark Hours be about anything?” she asked, trying not to fall completely apart as she stared into his cobalt eyes.
“Of course,” he nodded.
“Can it be confidential? I mean, can it remain private, just between you and me?”
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