THE HEALING HEART: Military and Pregnancy Romance

by Zelda Clemens

  ***

  . . . “ohhh,” Scott moaned as Frederica nestled herself onto him.

  They were both naked, and she was a woman and he was most assuredly a man again. He lay back on the bed as the petite wizard straddled him, parted her lips and guided him home. Her elfin body was far more than he had ever imagined. She was small and slender, and yet her form was perfect. Her round hips flowed so naturally from her slender waist. He could see her delicate ribs beneath her creamy skin. Her perky and perfect breasts seemed to flow from her body into delicious curves tipped with delightfully pink nipples.

  But as marvelous as she was to behold, she was even more a marvel to experience. She was so warm and so enveloping inside. The word ‘tight’ didn’t apply to this nymph. She was alive. Her muscled rippled and caressed him as they thrust in harmony. She would clutch him and massage him as he plunged and he could feel his knob and his shaft electrifying and delighting her.

  She soon went wild as she rammed herself. He moaned as he met that ramming, plowing her like an animal. He grabbed her tender breasts and she groaned. She fell into his arms kissing him madly as the two ravaged one another, shoving and pushing and grinding.

  ***

  Mai clenched her eyes as Erica ground into her. The helpless witch’s back was arched and her mouth gaped open, but no sound came out.

  Erica had ravaged her pussy to the edge of insanity. She had lapped and licked and tickled and delighted until Mai was a babbling fool on the edge of oblivion. Erica had wrapped her hood with those wonderful lips and her tongue had become an insane butterfly as it fluttered her clit propelling her closer and closer to that edge.

  And then for one awful moment Mai froze in terror. The lips left her. She lay stunned. She thought that this was the wizard’s revenge and she wanted to weep for the cruelty.

  But then – then she tensed. She clenched her eyes and dared to hope. She felt a soft breast, then a belly glide over her glistening slit. Erica’s thigh slide under her, and then she felt the heat and then she felt the pulse and then she felt a soft mound of fur brush her own. And then wet lips met wet lips and swollen clit met swollen clit and Mai shrieked silently in joy. She pressed herself against her captor turned lover and delighted in being a part of the bliss.

  ***

  “Oh Fred.”

  “Oh Scott.”

  ***

  “Mmm Mistress.”

  *****

  Frederica had no idea what to expect of the Underworld, so she wasn’t surprised.

  Pushed by a wizard’s wind and aided by the sacred jewel the wizard sisters, the witch and the rich man found themselves at the southernmost tip of the Greek mainland and the Cape Matapan Caves. Journeying deep into the ancient grotto they slowly passed from the realm of man and onto eerie misty flats. There they found thousands of wandering souls, their eyes hollow and unseeing all drifting deeper and deeper.

  They walked for what felt like hours. Frederica held Scott close, soothing the man’s natural fear with a charm of easing. But no mystical spell could quell a spirit that wasn’t willing, and so she looked on him with a new sort of admiration. Erica and Mai held hands. They gathered their skirts and tiptoed around the grime and muck, trading grunts of disgust. After a while the press of deceased blocked their way forward.

  “It won’t be long,” a voice kept saying in a reassuring tone. “Won’t be long.”

  Fred reached into her pocket, touched the jewel and the crowd parted. At the edge of a shallow bank they say a wizened old man with a long scraggly beard and hair, dressed in filthy rags and looking as old as time.

  “You,” he said pointing to them. “You’re not dead yet.”

  “Charon,” Fred began, “we’ve come— “

  “Oh, I see,” the man nodded. “A couple of wizards, a witch and – and who the hell are you?

  “Um,” Scott said. “I’m rich.”

  “Oh. Well state your business.”

  “I am the Witch Frederica Ramona-Lynda— “

  “Oh right,” he nodded. “Right. You’re expected. Come along then. Got your pennies?”

  Fred looked to Erica who looked to Mia who looked to Scott.

  “Witches,” the man spat. “You go questing all over the globe and in the end you forget a penny for the boatman. Sheesh.”

  “Um,” Scott ventured. “I have an AMEX Black Card.”

  “That come with points?”

  “Sheesh,” Scott said handing the man the card.

  “Well, off we go then.”

  “Not fair!” one of the dead cried. “We are the ninety-nine percent!”

  “Won’t be long,” Charon called back as the boat glided smoothly across the river. “Problem is that it will be,” he muttered.

  “How’s that?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Crossing the river, the mist cleared and the scene before them became idyllic. They saw a rolling pastoral landscape with trees and flowers in the full blush of Spring. The air was warm and bright and scented with roses, but the light came from no sun and it cast no shadows. No birds sang and the quiet was stranger than the flats.

  “She’s up there,” Charon said. “That little cottage with the white picket fence.”

  “Where is everyone?” Fred asked.

  “We’re, um, in mourning. She’ll explain. Off you go.”

  The cottage was nestled on the side of a small hill. Flowers and bulbs bloomed everywhere, and the grass and hedges were immaculately trimmed. They followed a white stone walkway to the white painted porch. There, seated on a white rocking was an old woman dressed in black. She was knitting and the threads she wove were gossamer.

  “The Arch-Sage sent you,” she said looking up from her work and smiling.

  And to each of them the woman looked something akin to their own grandmother.

  “Yes,” Fred said taking a breath. “We are— “

  “I know who you are,” the woman said. “Why have you come?”

  “We have come, oh Mother Goddess,” Fred said kneeling, “to return this.”

  And bowing her head, she held forth the bejeweled pomegranate.

  Persephone’s wail nearly cracked the sky. The four clutched their heads and fell to the ground as earth shook beneath them, and clouds blotted out the sky. The woman stood and grew young and beautiful and terrible before them.

  “Why do you torment me?” the goddess cried.

  “B-But Earth Mother— “

  “I cast that stone away when he died! I could not bear the memory!”

  Thunder began to roll and the goddess’s eyes became ablaze with white fire.

  “What?” Fred asked in bewilderment. “Who?”

  Persephone flung open her arms and it was as if the air had parted. They saw before them a, stone crypt resting deep underground. On it was carved the word HADES.

  “The Lord of the Underworld?” Erica breathed.

  “Dead?” Fred said.

  “Oh what’s the use,” Persephone said stifling a sob.

  The woman collapsed back on her rocking chair. She shrank to her old frail form. The clouds melted and the light that cast no shadows returned.

  “When gods die,” the woman sighed, “who cares anymore? Who even notices? Oh, people notice when spring does not arrive right enough. But who cares about a sad old man’s passing?”

  “But,” Erica began timidly. “I thought that the Great Hades was immortal?”

  “All the more bitter his passing,” the goddess said. “He was old. He was tired. He had a sort of malaise. You might call it an Unter-Weltschmerz. For the last few centuries he had even grown . . . tired of me . . .”

  Fred and Erica traded a look, and then Erica hugged Mia. The wizard and witch rested their heads together.

  “Forgive an old lady her anger,” Persephone said. “I’m just not myself anymore. Truly, I understand the feats of bravery and times of challenge you must have endured to help ease this aching heart. Please, take the gem as a small reward
for your kindness. Now go. Leave me to my loneliness.”

  Frederica gathered up the pomegranate. The four turned to go, each feeling their own sorrow for the once proud woman. And then Fred felt a small breeze in the still air, and beyond the roses she thought she smelled the ocean. She looked to her sister.

  “You wouldn’t,” Fred breathed.

  “Worth a try,” Erica whispered. “I really am thinking about the growing season.”

  Erica approached Persephone, her glimmering gown trailing sea-foam. Mai’s robe parted as she took Erica’s hand.

  “Dear Earth Mother,” they cooed.

  Fred took Scott’s arm and strode quickly down the cobblestone path.

  Spring came to the Champs de Mars a little late that year, but when it did it near exploded. People picnicked, children played, their silvery laughter filling the lilac scented air, boys wooed girls, and kites filled the sky while crocuses bloomed on the ground.

  Frederica sat on her blanket in her favorite spot, sipping her tea from a styrofoam cup while a wide-eyed Scott told Uncle Jon all about their adventure in the Underworld.

  “Well then,” Uncle Jon said. “All is well. Persephone is happy, my niece Erica and that wayward witch Mia have found useful employ, and you my dear Fred have yourself a pomegranate full of power.”

  Fred smiled and batted her eyes.

  “Now what of you Scottie?” the man chided. “Have your fill of the supernatural yet?”

  “Scott,” Fred said taking the man’s arm, “and I are going to sail to the Antipodes.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Never been there.”

  But even as Fred and Jon started to giggle, there was a small stir among the people in the park. A woman was walking through and among, handing out a seemingly endless stream of flowers. She was dressed in a sky-blue gown that flowed from her like sea-foam. Her raven hair bedecked with delicate flowers trailed in no wind. People laughed and danced in her wake. The smiling woman walked to the three on the blanket and scattered them with scented petals.

  “Erica,” Frederica said smiling.

  “What a gig,” her sister grinned.

  THE END

  Another bonus story is on the next page.

  Bonus Story 27 of 44

  A Wife for the Laird

  Description

  Ever since his betrothed, Evelinde, ran off with one of his trusted friends, Connor Buchanan, one of the most notorious lairds of Scotland, became a bitter man. He swore off women, vowing not to marry anyone until his death. That is until he laid eyes on Charlotte, an Englishwoman who has the face of an angel and the temper of the devil. Challenging him in ways other women never dare, Connor is intrigued and fascinated by this free-spirited woman.

  Would he dare adore another woman as much as he adored Evelinde? Or would she prove to be just another woman who would swear to have him only to run off with another man?

  *****

  England, 1818

  Charlotte was startled awake by loud knocks outside her bedchamber. At first, thinking that an intruder had come and was trying to invade her room, she picked the closest thing to her, a metallic candle holder, and clutched it tightly to her bosom, planning to whack it to the intruder’s head when he came for her. Another loud knock and her father came bursting inside, followed by two of their house helpers. Looking down at her and seeing the candle holder she was holding, his face turned to sheer contempt.

  “You worthless tramp! Were you planning to use that on me?”

  “N-No, father! I just thought—”

  “Pack your clothes! I’ve no use of a wench like you!” he spat loudly enough to make the two helpers jump like scared rabbits, moving frantically to do his bidding.

  “F-Father?”

  “You shall never come back here, Charlotte. You are not welcomed here anymore.” This was her father’s parting comment before turning his back and going out her bedchamber, closing the door with a resounding thump.

  Charlotte, having fully been awaken by his father’s tirade, stood and started pacing the floor.

  “W-What does he mean? Where shall I go?” she asked Laila, one of the helpers who she was great friends with. Laila was eighteen, the same age as Charlotte. They’d been friends since they were children. She was packing her clothes, sniffing and silent. The other helper, Margaret, was busy readying her clothes for the journey.

  “I ‘erd yer to wed to a savage man,” was her reply. Charlotte frowned, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “What in the ever-loving name of God are you talking about? I’ve no beau, you see. I never agreed to marry anyone. And a savage man?”

  “Aye, m’lady. I ‘erd yer father lost to a game ‘bout horses, and he offered you as his payment.”

  “What?” she sputtered. She couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that her father would go to such lengths just to get rid of her. “Why is he being so cruel? What had I done?” she asked even though she knew the answer to her questions. She was a child of her mother from another man. And to make matters worse, her mother died giving birth to her.

  In her mind, she couldn’t blame her father for being bitter and heartless toward her. Any man would be after learning that his beloved wife had a child with another man. And then, that said man would be broken after the same wife dies giving birth to the said child.

  “What else have you heard?” she asked Laila. Margaret came and helped Charlotte into her dress.

  “They say yer supposed to be husband is a highlander, m’lady. He was here in England for a short while, looking over for possible ventures, when he came upon a gambling table and played. He beat yer father multiple times, the stakes getting higher and higher ‘til—”

  “Thank you, Laila,” Charlotte interrupted, knowing what the last stake was—her. Laila nodded, finally standing. She looked at Charlotte with regret and sadness.

  “And where is this supposed to be husband of mine? Is he going to come here and accompany me to his home?” The idea of a stranger taking her somewhere scared Charlotte. And the fact that he was a highlander added to her fear. When she was young, she heard stories about people from the highlands. They were savages, cruel and blood thirsty. Some even say they kill just for the fun of killing.

  “Nay, m’lady. I ‘erd he already went home this morn. Your father said I’ll accompany ye to the highlands,” Laila said.

  “Thank you, Laila. And thank you Margaret.”

  The other girl frowned, unsure of why Charlotte would thank her. Margaret was just about fifteen, maybe sixteen, and was the new addition to the household. She had just come here merely a week now. She and Charlotte had never had the chance to be close.

  “I’ll not accompany ye, m’lady,” Margaret answered. Charlotte laughed and hugged the girl.

  “Have a good life, Margaret,” she whispered and felt the other woman nod. Satisfied, she let go of the girl and looked at her bedchamber for the last time.

  Her father was waiting for her beside a rusty carriage when they finally went down. He was puffing a tobacco, obviously frustrated and waiting for her.

  “What took you so long?! Ride on, now. And remember, no coming back!” he shouted. Charlotte shrugged and went inside the carriage with her head high. Once, when she was a child, she yearned for her father’s approval and love. Now, she didn’t feel anything but pity toward the man who raised her. He was a bitter man, and though he was cruel and mean to her, she sincerely wished he’d find something that’ll give purpose to his life.

  “Goodbye father,” she whispered, but the man was already gone, entering the house without a glance at her daughter.

  As soon as Laila boarded, the carriage moved. Charlotte never looked back nor cried.

  *****

  Scotland, 1818

  “That’s Castle Buchanan, m’lady,” the footman said as they neared the high fortress. Charlotte glanced at the enormous castle at the distance. It seemed formidable, a warrior that could withstand storms and fires. A place whe
re she did not belong.

  “What does my husband look like?” she finally asked. She had a million questions in her mind, yet this question ranked high above the others.

  “I’m not sure, m’lady. Some says he is handsome but others say he looked scary.”

  “What do you mean scary?”

  “I do not know, m’lady. That’s just how they describe him.”

  The carriage was now entering the fortress and Charlotte couldn’t help but look outside the window. There was a loud horn, and their carriage stopped. A few moments later, about a dozen men bombarded the carriage. No, these are not men. They were giants, sent by God to scare people and send them away from this place.

  “Who are ye,” one of the men, their leader, Charlotte assumed, asked the footman.

  “We are from England. I was asked to bring m’lady here to yer laird,” the footman answered. The man frowned, looking at her with curiosity.

  “What business ye have with the laird?” The questions were now directed to her, and she swallowed. This man, possibly the biggest of the dozen men, was looking at her intently. He was making her nervous.

  “I-I…”

  “M’lady is yer laird’s bride,” the footman said. Upon hearing the statement, all the men roared with laughter. Frowning, she gave them a heated glance.

  “Why is that funny?” she asked, frustrated and hurt.

  “Tis just, lass,” the leader said. “The laird vowed never to take a wife. And here ye are, sayin’ yer the laird’s bride!” And he laughed even harder.

  They instantly went quiet when a new horse was galloping toward them. It was a black one, obviously of the best breed. They waited for the man riding the black steed to reach them.

  “Duncan, what is going on?” the man asked the leader, alighting from his horse. Charlotte was speechless, shocked beyond words. Never had she seen a man this beautiful. He was wearing a plaid, showing off his muscular body. His skin was tan, obviously from working under the sun. His hair was wavy from riding through the wind, and Charlotte suddenly had the urge to touch it. His eyes, however, were cold. Intense and calculating. She shivered. Who is this man?