Cole drooped lower, his breathing lengthening into slumber. Stress had taken its toll. Arthur kept rubbing the man’s neck and shoulders, enjoying the way Cole simply melted, fully relaxed, into slumber despite all the worry about Caesar. In fact, his own eyes began to get heavy.
Chapter Twelve
A solid thud made Violet jerk upright. Groggily, she rubbed her eyes. Straw tumbled onto her lap, so she shook her head to get the rest out of her hair. Stiff from sleeping on the hard floor despite the straw, she pushed up to her feet, wincing until she got the kinks out of her bad knee. Her chest felt tight and her energy reserves low, as though her body were beginning to fail.
So much for my demonstration for Cole’s benefit. I got as far away as a few empty stalls before I couldn’t go another step.
Afraid of what she’d find, she made herself go back toward Caesar’s stall. She hadn’t heard any urgent running back and forth. Surely Cole would have come to tell her the worst if the horse had passed. The thump came again, urging her to quicken her step.
Bedraggled and scruffy, Caesar was on his feet. He nickered, not his usual deep-chested welcome, but a sweet sound indeed. Crying, Violet rushed inside and threw her arms around his neck. He was thin and weak, leaning against her as though he might slip back down into the straw, but he was up and his breathing was better.
She wiped her face on his neck and sought Cole. He and Arthur were huddled in the corner and the sight of them tumbled together like puppies made her smile. Arthur might never have had a man before, but there was nothing reluctant in the way he kept a thick arm clamped around the smaller man. Cole’s head was tucked up into Arthur’s neck.
Like he used to sleep with me.
Heart aching, she buried her face in Caesar’s mane and held onto him for dear life.
“He’s better!” Cole scrambled to his feet and pressed his ear to the horse’s chest. “His breathing is still congested, but definitely improved.” He drew Violet into a hug, squeezing her so tightly she grunted. “I knew you wouldn’t leave him.”
Throat aching, she stared up at him. Should I tell him the truth? Why is it so hard to tell him that I’m dying? I thought a sharp, clean break would be best, but would it be better to tell him now?
Staring into his cloudy blue eyes that seemed to reach deep inside and tug on her heart, she began to doubt her original decision.
Arthur came to stand beside them, drawing her attention to him. He didn’t say anything, but the narrowed, considering gaze told her he suspected. He arched a brow and lifted his chin slightly, as though urging her to simply say it.
Staring back at him, she willed him to voice his doubts. With her steady gaze, she dared him to speak and break his determined battle to keep her out. I’ll lay down my sword if you will, dear boy.
Cole waited between them without saying a word, as though he could sense the complex battle surging about him. He leaned back enough to press against Arthur’s chest, a gentle bump urging him to speak. To give on this one thing.
Arthur opened his mouth.
Violet fought to keep her eyes and expression flat and even. No victory, no relief, no understanding, just the calm, steady order for him to surrender. Give me your will, Arthur, or you’ll never be my pony. Not the way you want and need.
He shut his mouth, took a deep, raw breath, and tried again. His eyes blazed with fury as he battled his curiosity and his own urge to tell her she was wrong. Wrong to keep whatever secret from Cole, wrong to free him against his will.
Tell me how wrong I am. Violet stared back at him. Challenge me with your words. I’ll gladly admit I was wrong in order to win your war.
Voices echoed down the aisle, breaking the silent confrontation in the stall. Arthur’s head jerked up, his eyes blanking and his face slipping back into a mask of cool disinterest. The veterinarian tromped into the stall to examine Caesar, so Violet stepped back to give her and Cole space to work and discuss the horse’s treatment plan.
Wearily, she rubbed her eyes. Doubt weighed on her chest, clogging her weakening lungs to the point she felt lightheaded. I’m going to have to tell Cole the truth. But how? When? What am I going to do with Arthur? How much longer do I have?
“He’s already begun the road back to recovery,” the veterinarian said. “He needs lots of rest, quality feed and fresh air and sunshine. Some time in a country paddock away from the city will do him a world of good.”
Violet agreed to have Caesar sent to one of the manors in the Duchy’s extensive network of lands and estates far from the urban sprawl of Londonium. She stroked his neck, he nibbled on her hair, and she fought the urge to throw her head back and wail like a baby. Even though I might never see him again.
Chapter Thirteen
It was surely a sad state of affairs when the front page of the Royal Gazette was covered in war news and not the latest on dit with the Season in full swing. Queen Majel must be beside herself that someone had dared leak a story about the failed siege of the Pyrenees, a scattered trail of moons that served as the outer defense for the main Iberian system. Without the fortresses secured at her back, Wellington wouldn’t be able to penetrate deeper to the central planetary jewel.
She has absolutely no idea how to make the final push to Iberia. Not without Arthur.
Violet scanned the rest of the article and set the datapad aside, sick at heart. More than a thousand Britannian soldiers had died at the initial battle. They’d withdrawn for now to regroup, but if Arthur wasn’t returned in the next few weeks, she feared the worst.
How many more will die?
She pushed up from her desk but wavered, dizzy. Sweat broke out on her forehead and her chest clamped down in a vise. She still hadn’t managed to recover from the long vigil in the stable. Her knees quivered, alarmingly weak, and she fell back down in her chair.
Closing her eyes, she fought to keep the involuntary panic at bay. Breathe, I have to breathe!
A spasm tore through her lungs and she coughed so hard she feared her head would explode. She barely managed to catch the bloody phlegm in her handkerchief. Pain tore through her lungs and blackness threatened.
Laying her head down on the cool wood, she concentrated on slow, shallow breaths. Control yourself. Fear will only make this worse. You’re not dying yet, Blackmyre. You have to help Arthur before you can expire.
The muscles slowly relaxed around her ribcage. Drained, she put herself together as well as she could. She couldn’t do much about the deathly pallor of her cheeks, but she tucked the bloody evidence away and smoothed the dampened strands of hair off her forehead. She pressed the call button and Mr. Chumlee’s thin, sharply angled face immediately appeared on the screen.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Send Cole to my study as quickly as possible and ready a carriage for him. I need him to run an urgent errand.”
“Of course, Your Grace. He’s en route to you now.”
Sorry Arthur, she thought, allowing her head to fall back against the chair wearily. I have no choice but to bring our personal battle to a head.
Tonight.
Arthur was both disappointed and relieved to find Lady Blackmyre alone in the ring. If he acted on his desires with Cole, how could he refuse the mistress who’d brought them together? Besides, everything Cole experienced or heard would be shared with her. She was too deeply entrenched in everything the man said or did or felt. Eventually, she’d reel Arthur in through the other man and then where would he be?
Trapped beneath the mistress’s boot once and for all.
It was a very pretty boot too. Despite the iron heart powering her formidable will, she somehow managed to look fragile. Her translucent skin matched the pristine white of her shirt, and she’d chosen to wear her hair loose down her back, gathered in a simple ribbon. Feminine and soft, her siren call set a fire in his blood that was just as compelling as the urge to roll Cole beneath him.
He wanted to wrap his big hand around her throat and drag her to the ground. He’d take her h
ere in the dirt, wild and out of control.
Clenching his hands into fists, he fought back the raw desire rising in him. This is what he’d feared for so long. The more games he played, the more violent his needs became. He’d killed the last woman he’d gotten his hands on. Granted, she’d been torturing him for days before he’d finally broken free. He’d done his best to split Cole in half—his own words.
How can this little slip of a woman think to keep me in control when I could flatten her with a single blow?
That old, familiar rage began boiling to life in him—the urge to destroy everything in his path until he was free. She’d never bound or penned him in any way. She’d certainly never used pain to drive him insane. He was free to go whenever he wished. But he felt chained, as trapped as surely as if she’d locked him in a dungeon.
He should have stayed in his old life. At least then he’d been safe. He’d never even thought about hurting someone. Granted, there’d never been fireworks between him and Kitty, but it’d been normal. Safe. He could have married her and given heirs to her House.
While I died a little more inside every single day.
“What do you think?”
He jerked his gaze to Blackmyre’s face, unsure what she meant. She inclined her head at the table. A pile of glossy black hair lay curled on top.
His heart skipped a beat and then leapt into a frantic gallop that left him lightheaded. She’d done it. A tail.
“As full and long as it is, I’m afraid every black horse in Londonium must be running about bald.” She picked it up, letting him see all that glorious length, combing her fingers through it. “Only the best for my magnificent stallion. All you have to do is ask me for it.”
Fury ignited with his lust until he seethed, a mass of conflicting emotions that made absolutely no sense. He wanted that tail shoved up inside him, burned to be a pony, a real pony like Cole. Yet he hated it. He hated what it represented. He hated her.
I never wanted this.
I never wanted her.
Which he knew was the biggest lie he’d ever tried to convince himself.
“Come stand at the ready for your harness. If you want anything else, tell me.”
Rage made him grind his teeth and clench his fists, even while he went to stand where she indicated. No speaking. No tail. It’s as easy as that.
The bloody thing held his gaze like a poisonous but glorious cobra he dared not take his eye off.
Her hand came up to his face, startling him enough that he nearly shied away as he hadn’t done since the beginning. Not offended, she merely smiled and showed him the bit. “Would you rather have a halter today?”
He opened his mouth wide, showing his teeth. Laughing softly, she slipped the bit inside, uncaring of that sharp threat. His gums throbbed almost as badly as his groin, aching to bite her again. He’d loved biting Cole, pinning him beneath him. Biting her had been a victory. He’d managed to rattle her control.
Naturally, I ought to do it again.
Without pausing to think, he darted his head down toward the expanse of creamy throat tempting him.
A sharp jerk on the bridle kept him from his target. Metal clanked painfully on his teeth, leather squeezing his head.
“My, my, someone’s feeling naughty today.” As soon as he ceased trying to lower his head, she released her grip on the top of the bridle and let it settle into place on his head. “You don’t get the martingale then.”
She turned away, giving him her back, and headed to the center of the ring.
Damn it, I hate it when she does that. She ought to keep her eye on me. She ought to fear me.
Like a meek little pony he followed, simmering at his own inability to strike out. Automatically, he started at a quick clip to her right as they always did, but a sharp snap from the whip sent him wheeling the opposite direction. He glared at her with the one eye she allowed him. When he tried to look at her full-on, she gave him another warning flick with the whip.
Play by her rules or the game is over.
Pressure boiled higher. His heartbeat thundered in his head so loudly he couldn’t hear his steps. The tinkling of his harness would have helped provide a calming music, but she’d withdrawn that small pleasure. At any time, she could take off his bridle too. She could throw the whip down and walk out of the ring, leaving him here alone.
He wasn’t a stallion—as she called him—if she wasn’t here.
She makes me the pony. Without her…I’m just a violent, damaged man.
The whip caught him in the shoulder and he snarled out his frustration. She made him change directions, back and forth, snapping that whip tantalizingly close but never hurting him. Just a lick. A sweet warning. When he wanted that throbbing sharp cut across his shoulder.
So I can charge her. See how many times she can catch me with that whip before I’m on her. Does she think the whip will keep me back if I’m determined to get her?
Rivulets of sweat dripped down his chest and his trousers felt like they were shrinking, binding him tighter and tighter. His breathing sawed in and out, a loud, rough growl of air that he couldn’t control.
Lady Blackmyre held her arms out to either side, her signal for him to swing around and come to her.
He stalked toward her as ordered, but he couldn’t understand why she dared call him in. Steam rose off him in waves, a shimmer of aggression and violence she’d have to be blind not to see.
“You’re awfully nervous tonight, Arthur.”
It was all he could do not to wrap his hands around her throat and shake some sense into her. His face hurt from keeping his mouth clamped shut. In fact, his whole body hurt.
She checked the bridle, her lip caught in her teeth. Another taunt of something he couldn’t have. “Is it pinching you to put you in such a nasty mood?”
He snapped at her fingers but missed, which only infuriated him more. He shouldered into her space and nipped at her throat again, but all he caught was a bite of shirt.
She stabbed him in the chest with the whip handle. “Back up, Arthur. You have to respect my space as I respect your limits.”
Lowering his head, he pushed his body closer, ignoring the scrape of the leather-wrapped handle digging into his gut.
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry you’re displeased with the tail. Don’t worry, pet, you don’t have to wear it. I thought you liked Cole’s or I never would have ordered one for you too. I’ll send it back first thing in the morning.”
He threw his head back and strained not to yell at the top of his lungs. Even knowing she had to be playing obtuse on purpose just to piss him off didn’t help curb his temper. Too many passions raged inside him. Fury and desire trampled his pride, destroying all the achievements he’d won over the years. To be brought so low, and so needy, by the thought of a silly horse tail…
His hands dropped to his trousers of their own accord. He yanked at the closure, ripping material to get some relief. He didn’t care if she reprimanded him for using his hands. The schoolmistress had whipped him bloody for such an offense.
Lady Blackmyre merely watched, her brows arched coolly and that damnable smile flickering on her lips. “You’re going to have a hard time getting those trousers off when you’re wearing boots.”
Growling, he dropped to the ground and dragged his boots off. His stockings. Worked the tight legs loose so he could stand and strip the itchy, miserable cocoon off his body. The linen drawers were cooler but he stripped them off too. Might as well give her the entire show.
He’d make it clear with his actions that he didn’t want to leave. He certainly didn’t want her to send that bloody tail back.
Tapping her index finger to her pursed lips, she made a slow circle around him. “Very nice, Arthur. Those haunches! Such power and strength. And such a lovely, thick cock. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a pony better hung than you. No wonder Cole felt like you were tearing him apart.”
That’s nothing compared to what I’m going to do to y
ou.
He flinched at the thought, relieved that he had never spoken to her. The head of his cock brushed his stomach and his breath hissed out. The relief he’d given himself before even thinking about coming to the ring felt like days ago, not an hour. His ballocks felt like they hung down to his knees, swollen with lust.
He didn’t want to court her. He didn’t want to make love to her in a civilized bed as a polite and proper partner.
He wanted to fuck her as hard and long as he could, and if she screamed and struggled, all the better.
What’s wrong with me?
Chapter Fourteen
He’s almost ready to break.
She took no pleasure in watching him fall apart. Forcing him to break his word could destroy a man. She had to believe that Arthur was stronger than that. In the end, he would understand why she’d been so hard on him. Why she’d refused to give up on him.
If I don’t make him fall apart, I can’t help him put the pieces of his life back together.
The toll was almost as hard on her as it was for him. If he was a mass of sweaty, straining muscle and the promise of rumbling violence, she was ice, hard and cold and sharp as she had to be. She wanted to cup his cheeks and bring his head down to hers, not torment him. He wanted to be a pony so badly he couldn’t take his eyes off the tail.
That tail represented everything for him. He wouldn’t be a pony without it. He’d never be complete. Yet she refused to give it to him until he broke, which he believed would destroy him utterly. Live incomplete the rest of his life, wishing he’d had the courage to submit to her fully, or murder his ego and confidence? The dilemma was tearing him apart and it hurt her to watch it. To cause it. Because every single verbal, physical and mental prod was deliberate.
I have to take him where he’d never willingly go. No one else in his life can do this for him.
She gave him a flirtatious wink and headed for the table.
He followed, bumping into her, his excitement driving him to dare rub himself against her. She allowed it, though it made her blood pulse heavily in her veins. It was all too easy to think about letting him fall upon her, all rage and violence and magnificent power thrusting between her thighs.
Her Grace's Stable: A Jane Austen Space Opera, Book 2 Page 11