Ravished

by Keaton, Julia

  He breathed in relief to see the ancient oak, unaware he’d held his breath as he moved around the corner tower. He looked up toward the window. A skin scraped to paper thinness covered it, but he could see no light inside the hallway that lay there.

  Bronson moved to the tree, getting a grip on the rough wood, finding a handhold to haul himself up. He grunted as the bark scraped the flesh off his knuckles, but ignored it as he climbed his way up the branches.

  One thick limb stretched toward the window like an arm. Bronson stood, listening a moment to his brothers grunt as they climbed the great trunk, and then he placed a foot on the limb. It seemed steady enough.

  He held his arms out for balance, trusting the branch with his weight. Slowly, he walked. As he crossed half the distance, however, the limb groaned loudly, and wood snapped.

  Bronson froze instantly, sweat beading his lip as he waited to go crashing down. He glanced over his shoulder at his brothers, who waited at its edge. “I fear it will not survive many trips,” he whispered. “You must stay here.”

  “Nay, we go with you,” Gray whispered loudly.

  “I do not trust that it would survive more than this trip and my return. I go alone. You two wait for me here. If I do not return, know that they’ve taken me prisoner.”

  Releasing his breath and stilling his lungs as though it would lighten him, he continued walking. His face grew hot, his muscles ached with tension, but in moments, the window was there, close enough he could touch it.

  Gathering himself, he stepped from the limb, stretching until his foot met the window’s ledge. He leaned forward, trusting the sole of his shoe not to slip, and he grasped the window, pulling himself across the short distance. He hugged the frame, catching his breath, willing his blood to calm.

  Finally, calm enough he could continue, he bent and peeled the skin loose, working it open so that he could step inside. Darkness swallowed him as he dropped to the stone floor.

  He was on the second story. From the hazy childhood memories, he remembered the family and guest rooms were on this level. Below lay the great hall and other points of gathering as well as rooms for servants. He had no way of knowing which room she’d been given.

  There was no choice but to pray his fortune had changed and God smiled upon him.

  Bronson crept down the hall, stopping at the first door he came upon. Heart hammering, he eased it open, discovering the room was empty. He breathed a sigh, part relieved, part frustrated. He moved on, checking each door. It seemed this wing was empty of anyone, for he found not a sign of life. These had to be the guest quarters, which comforted him somewhat. Surely she would have been sequestered here.

  He was drawing near the main hall, evidenced by the spread of its passage and the torch lights illuminating it. He had but one more door to check. Steeling himself for disappointment, Bronson eased the door open.

  Eyes adjusted to the dimness, he peered inside toward the bed at the back wall. Pale light streamed through a crack at the animal skin covering the window, casting just enough light with which to see the bed.

  His heart stopped as he saw that it was occupied. He stepped inside, willing the raging blood to cease roaring in his ears. He crossed the room, making nary a sound, not stopping until he stood beside it and could gaze through the gaze draping the bed.

  Alex.

  Thinking her name sent a shaft of desire through him that mingled with relief so desperate it shivered his spine. Looking on her filled him with a sense of softness, begging him be gentle. He wanted to take her in his arms and carry her from that place and kiss every inch of her skin. She looked achingly innocent there, sleeping with one hand curled against her cheek, her hair spread around her in fine wisps. She was beautiful, at peace, and he wanted her with a suddenness that made his blood roil with frenzied passion.

  He lifted the curtains aside, kneeling on the bed. She stirred, parting her lips on a sigh, unconsciously begging him to kiss her. The hour was late. He knew no one would disturb them. Who more than a guard could be up at the hour? He warred with himself, needing to make haste, but he had to kiss her as she lay, touch her with the gentleness he was capable of and had never shown her.

  Losing the fight, Bronson eased onto the bed, lying beside her, looking down at her face, soft in the silvery light. He brushed a thumb across her lips, enjoying the feel of them. The were soft as rose petals. Unable to resist their velvet lure, he bent and touched his lips to hers, tasting her breath. ‘Twas not enough—and never was.

  He tugged her bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, wanting to groan as he tasted how sweet she was—sweeter than he remembered. It seemed an eternity since he’d touched her. She moaned, coming awake, kissing him back, her tongue reaching out to him. He released her imprisoned lip, exchanging his captive for her tongue, sucking her into his mouth and mating his tongue with hers.

  He reached a hand under the covers, down her belly and cupped her femininity through the night rail she wore, its sheerness no barrier to the heat between her legs, the instant moisture he aroused as he touched her. She whimpered into his mouth, parting her legs for him. Through the fragile fabric, he thrust his fingers into her core, his progress hampered by the cloth, frustrating them both.

  He tore from her mouth, branding her neck with kisses, her broken sobs and arching body firing the need of his loins. He was hard with arousal, deaf to anything by her moans of pleasure.

  “Do I dream?” she gasped, clutching the sheets as though he would tear her from them.

  “Nay, wildcat,” he breathed hot against her ear. “I came to steal you back.”

  She bit her lip as he moved his hand and thrust her rail aside, coming flush against her hot, wet flesh, toying with the bud that swelled against the pads of his fingers. She shivered, arching her neck as he tasted it and the gooseflesh that whispered across her skin.

  His cock pushed against his cod piece, demanding freedom, seeking the molten sheath his fingers thrust into.

  Her core clenched around him, nearing that peak that tantalized, quivering and unclenching. She cried out as he rasped her nub with his thumb, sucking a mark of possession beneath her ear.

  “Bronson, pray,” she breathed, frantically tugging his arm--, “give more, love. I need you inside me. I need … all … of … you.”

  He groaned raggedly, tearing his hand away to remove his cod piece.

  A cold voice spoke behind him, halting his movement. “Take yer hand off yer sword, my lord, else I will do what my father could not.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bronson sat up and shielded her from Kiara’s eyes as she straightened herself. Alex looked around Bronson’s massive shoulders as her cousin came fully into the room, leaving the door open behind her.

  Kiara lit a candle in the sconce and regarded him angrily. Alex could see her temper was barely in check. Her hands were clenched tight, as though she would pummel Bronson, but in her right hand she held a sword—a broad sword—and she had every look of one who could use it.

  Bronson stood, moving away from Alex. Alex swung her legs over the edge of the bed, dangling her feet, regarding her cousin with a mixture of horror, irritation, and gratitude.

  “Yer a terrible thief, ye know. If you weren’t so concerned on dipping yer wick, belswagger, you might have gotten away with it. As it is, I’m afraid I’ll be forced to cut yer cods off. I’ve need of a lucky charm in these black days.”

  Alex choked, snorting, clamping her hands on her mouth as she looked back and forth between them. She expected any moment to see them come to blows. She could not identify which seemed the more determined to be victor.

  Bronson frowned at the both of them. “How did you know I was here?” he demanded of Kiara.

  “I’ve devilish keen ears, my lord. You would be amazed. Now, come with me else I’ll be forced to throw you in the dungeon.” She paused a long moment, and said, “Yer brothers await outside. ‘Twas truly they who gave you away.”

  Bronson scow
led, punching a fist into one palm as he walked toward Kiara.

  “Father thought you damned Blackmores would try something. You canna blame yer brothers entirely. Men are too predictable by far,” she said, pointing the sword at his back and prodding him out.

  “Alex, you wait here while we deal with them. I trust you’re okay?”

  Alex nodded, still absorbed in the heat between her thighs and what Bronson had done. She watched them go, and shut the door behind them. Anger built, stagnating in her mind after they’d gone.

  How dare that villain steal into her room, touch her as she slept, make her beg for his caresses. He was to wed another and still, he could not release his hold on her.

  Alex shivered, ducking back into bed, huddling under the covers in pure misery. Her loins ached with need, conjured by that cocklorel. He thought of nothing but himself and his needs and wants. She despised him, and she despised her continued feeling of softness toward him.

  She felt no conceit that he wanted her for herself, that his position had changed in the short time she’d been gone—it was only his immense vanity, his pride that made him come to her.

  Despite the inflammatory reasons she told herself why she should hate him, she realized she did not. Her strength of will was weak. But it changed nothing.

  He’d cast out her confidence of the McPherson castle. ‘Twas not that she thought them lax, or its defenses incomplete, but she could not remain locked inside as a prisoner. She would have to go out, and she feared Bronson would be waiting for her.

  She did not feel she could survive another encounter with him and still regain her sanity. Forbidden love held its own allure by its very nature, as addictive and intoxicating as heavy wine, but no less dangerous for her senses. Bronson was nothing less than the forbidden, a man untouchable, unattainable.

  She had to remember that, no matter how much it hurt. On the morrow, she would ask her uncles to help her reach the king’s court. She could not remain here. Bronson’s actions tainted everything around her, until she saw and heard and smelled nothing but him.

  Again, she was struck with the notion that he was some dread affliction. She shook her musings aside, settling into bed, the candle easing her fears as she closed her eyes.

  Tomorrow, she would leave and never come back, for how could she stand to know that Bronson lived and loved with his new wife, so near to her.

  * * * *

  The Scotsmen ‘escorted’ the brothers to their horses and beyond, taking them to the borderlands. They’d appropriated their weapons, so they had no choice but to ride back home. There was naught more they could do.

  Already the sky turned gray with the coming dawn. Bronson rode wearily, feeling as though some great weight settled on his neck, pressing him down into the saddle. They arrived at Derwin Hall, and he found that the household was awake, eager for news.

  Bronson ignored them all, going inside and gathering a quantity of ale that he felt would make him forget all that had happened, and then staggered into the parlor to sit before the fire. He collapsed in the Glastonbury chair, spreading his legs straight out before him, draining his mug in one great swallow before he filled it again. He nursed his mug, staring into the flames, feeling a great emptiness gnawing inside him.

  He heard the door open behind him, but he did not look to see who came, merely took another draught and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The ale warmed the coldness gripping him, eased the tension of his body.

  “I gather you did not succeed, son?” his father said quietly in his gruff voice, more a statement than a question.

  “You mean I failed,” Bronson said with a growl, finishing off his mug and pouring another.

  His father pulled a chair beside him, laying his hand on his shoulder. Bronson shook his concern off, his black mood failing to dim.

  “Drinking yourself into oblivion solves nothing,” he said quietly.

  “It makes me feel a hell of a lot better,” he said angrily, taking a swallow for emphasis.

  His father sighed heavily. “I would change your fate if I could. I had love once. I would have my sons happy in their marriage.”

  “I do not love her father,” he said, turning bleak eyes to his father, his voice breaking with emotion. “She consumes me, mind, body, and soul for want of her honeyed thighs, but no more! ‘Tis naught but a madness that seizes me in its vile grip.”

  He shook his head. “I understand.”

  “You do not. It is a sickness. One that needs purging. Leave me so that I might lance the wound,” he roared.

  His father stood, pushing the chair back from him, standing over him in quiet rage. “You gather the last of your wits, boy. You’ve fobbed off your bride too long as you dawdled with your bit of fluff. The Blackmores are men of their word. I will not have you break the honor of your lineage.”

  “I know my duty,” Bronson said coldly.

  “Good,” his father responded, just as deadly cold. “You ride in a sennight.”

  * * * *

  The days passed in a haze of intoxication. The eve before his departure, Gray and Rafael forced him from the parlor and toted him upstairs, dunking him into a tub of icy water fully clothed.

  He came up sputtering, in a murderous rage, glaring at his brothers with blood in his eye. “I will kill you both,” he swore, swiping his soaked hair back from his forehead—the better to see his targets.

  “You have one last chance to see Alex before you depart, would you waste it with drink?” Gray asked in disgust, slapping the water and splashing Bronson with the frigid liquid.

  Rafael regarded him with his arms across his chest, his face grim. They each waited silently for his answer.

  “What is your plan?” Bronson asked, grimly conceding he’d wallowed in misery for far too long.

  “We go to see Hugh McPherson and ask for entrance … as civilized men rather than thieves.”

  He nodded, recognizing his brothers’ wisdom. He’d been unreasonable, worse than a pig, selfish to the point of destruction. Never had self-pity consumed him so unnaturally. He realized he had to thank his brothers for saving him from self-ruination, and he did. They nodded and left him, gone to prepare the horses.

  Alone now, Bronson stripped his sodden garments off, flinging them to the floor in a wet heap. He bathed and washed the stink of liquor off his skin, shaving and dressing.

  They were on their way by dusk. The landscape passed in a whirl, and before he comprehend it, they’d arrived at the McPhersons, had their arrival announced and were granted access inside. The McPhersons seemed to have graciously ignored his actions of before, for which he was grateful.

  Hugh met them in the great hall, bidding them sit before the fire, offering them wine and ale. Bronson declined the comforts of drink, moving to the heart of his reason for coming. “Where is Alex? I must see her.”

  Hugh McPherson’s smile faded, and he frowned, stroking the braids of his beard. He looked between the brothers, taking a sip of ale before he answered. “I thought mayhap you would come sooner, as our guests, but Alex refused to allow me to send word.” He sighed, pausing for so long, it set Bronson’s teeth on edge. “You’ll not like this, lad. She is married, lad, and gone this past week.”

  An unseen hand punched his gut, knocking the breath from his lungs. He clutched his stomach with one arm, certain he would be ill, but the pain spread through him instead, changing to a numbness that burned with a cold as frigid as the deepest winter snow. “What?” he croaked, swallowing hard to moisten his mouth and throat.

  He set his mug aside, giving Bronson a look of pity. “She is married, Lord Blackmore. There is naught you can do.”

  Hugh’s words echoed in his ears, over and over again, taunting, driving his mind to split asunder.

  Something died inside him.

  He shook his head, getting to his feet, ignoring the stares and outbursts of the others. Pushing aside his brothers, he staggered out of that hellish hall, out into the cold bite of winter and the
flakes of snow whirling down around him. There was nothing left for him now. No hope. Only emptiness and despair.

  * * * *

  Bronson rode with a fury to London, his family trailing behind him in slower conveyance. Now that he had nothing to stand in his way, he wanted to be done with this farce of a wedding and move on with his life.

  The cold accentuated the bitterness permeating his soul, never failing to remind him that he continued to live. He could not bear to slow his pace, dangerous as it was. He hardly slept before he took to the rode again, didn’t eat, only on the eve of his arrival did he stop to prepare himself to meet the king and his betrothed, though truthfully, he could care less of his appearance.

  Within a week of hard riding, pushing both himself and his horse to the limits of endurance, he reached the city’s outskirts, heading straight for the court. His family would find him—they knew where he went and his purpose.

  For now, he would do what was required of him and mark the final seal on his fate—gaining the king’s blessing for his nuptials.

  Reaching his destination, Bronson handed Ebony to a stablehand, impatiently going through the motions of gaining admittance.

  As he swept inside, his brother Nigel caught sight of him and left a group of men, intercepting him before he could proceed.

  “Bronson!” he called, running up, clasping his brother in a warm hug, noting his brother’s withdrawn air and impatience. “How fair you? We’ve expected you near a month now. Why were you delayed?”

  Bronson’s jaw hardened at the reminder of his failure. Would he never have peace? “’Tis none of your concern, brother. I go now to see the king.”

  Nigel frowned at him. “I will attend you. You’ve not the look of a well man, brother. I fear for your safety if you upset his highness.”

  Bronson grunted, not slowing his stride. He ignored the courtiers, the rich decadence of his surroundings, everything but his destination. Finally, he was upon it, access granted and ready to enter. The doors opened wide, he dimly heard his name announced as he strode up the center of the room and halted before his king.