by Nia Farrell
“Sir, can we please start again? Micheil MacDonald, this is Marcus Vos, and I’m Rowena Campbell. I believe we’ve met.”
MacDonald’s answering look made her butterflies rush to take flight. “Aye, we hae,” he replied in Scots-English. “And ye owe me four. Mr. Vos, thank ye for yer service. I’ll see tae Regina now.”
“Miss Wright?” Marcus waited. He needed to hear it from her.
“It’s all right, Marcus. Mr. MacDonald and I are going to continue our conversation after hours. Would you please let Sir Piers know? You won’t need to wait. I’ll call Geoffrey, our chauffeur,” she added for MacDonald’s benefit, “when I’m ready to go home. And Marcus, thank you.”
Just like that, she put herself into Micheil MacDonald’s hands.
He took her arm and guided her to the far side of the banquet seating, where they could recline on adjacent couches and watch the scene. The play was progressing around them. More clothes were coming off. Whips and floggers and canes were presented. Ropes and breasts and penises were coming out. For the first time, she realized that she hadn’t seen his brother.
“Where’s the birthday boy?” she asked Micheil, who signaled for a goblet of wine.
“Dinnae fash,” he said, observing everything with a degree of detachment. “Xander’s gone tae the dark side. When he’s seen enough, he’ll come learn how the other half plays.”
Rowena motioned for a server and ordered a platter of fruit, cheeses, and nuts and a carafe of fruited water. Because Micheil was giving her space, she felt generous enough to peel a grape and offer it to him.
“Are ye intae food play, lassie?” he asked, bemused. “I must hae missed that on yer blog.”
“Depends,” she said. “Food play—especially with bondage—involves a degree of trust that’s hard to have when it’s just one night.”
“Three nights.”
When she didn’t argue, he took the grape from her fingers with his teeth and chewed it, letting his gaze settle on her in quiet contemplation.
“Why are ye nae claimed?” he asked abruptly, sounding almost irritated that she wasn’t. “The Doms at my club would hae ye collared in a heartbeat.”
“Ah,” she said. “But I’m a musician, not a player. I spend my time here with my lips wrapped around a recorder or a whistle, not someone’s body parts. My sister and I have another year left on our contract. After that, I look for her to stay on as musical director.”
“And ye?” He accepted another grape that she peeled for him.
“Who knows? Once the book’s out…if the movie deal goes through…I might be at home, writing full time, performing here and there when the mood hits, not because I’m under contract.”
He swallowed before speaking. “Would ye like that? Just writing?”
“That, and drawing.” She reached for another grape. “Considering I’ve dreamt about it since I was a kid? I would love it.”
He took another drink of wine and studied the reproduction goblet, admiring its details. Stretching out his arm, he swept the cup in front of him, encompassing the room. “And here?” he asked, his husky voice caressing her skin. “What do ye like here? If ye were in the scene, what would ye be doing?”
“Nothing,” she quipped, flipping her veil. “Don’t you know? I’m the token Vestal Virgin.”
He gave her his Dom look and almost growled. “Okay,” she said, pretending she was not affected. She could so drop to her knees for him. “If I weren’t a virgin—which I’m not, I’d probably go for a Praetorian Guard or two. There’s nothing like a man in uniform, then and now.”
Remembering what that was like, she filled her goblet with fruited water and drank deeply, but it did nothing to extinguish the spark he had ignited. To distract herself, she peeled another grape.
“What about you?” she asked him, offering him the slick orb of fruit. “If you were in the scene, what would you be doing?”
Their gazes locked, and for the longest moment, he didn’t say a word, but his eyes—his eyes spoke volumes.
She swallowed hard and asked again. “What would you be doing? Sir?” she added.
The Dom in him said, “You.”
His eyes never leaving hers, he took the grape from her fingers, tucked it in his mouth, and bit down, savoring the juices that exploded on his tongue. He reached past her for the platter and snagged a red, ripe strawberry.
“Eat,” he said, and held it to her lips.
She’d never really been into food play, for the reason she’d told him, but this was different. This was something else. Something more. She parted her lips and let him feed her, biting the berry, eating half at a time. It was succulent. Decadent. Hedonistic. Unbelievably, unbearably sensual.
She peeled another grape. This time, he caught her hand. Held it. Took the grape from her, then licked the juice off her fingers.
“Sir,” she breathed, fighting panic.
Micheil’s smile was teasingly wicked. “No kink. No sex. Observer only. Ye’re good.”
“Of course,” she volleyed back, desperately wishing he’d let go of her hand. He seemed to have claimed it for a prize. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Why indeed.
Naughty girl Regina Wright would have topped from the bottom. She’d have had him for breakfast and spit him out already. Use them and lose them. One by one…or two by two. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Except Micheil MacDonald was determined to be the exception to her rule. He was getting deeper and deeper under her skin and into her hair, real and fake.
“Relax.” He rubbed his thumb over the pulse point of her wrist. “Breathe. Nothing’s going tae happen here, lassie.”
But what about later? How could she relax when she was hurtling toward some unknown but inevitable conclusion?
“And after hours?” she asked him.
He kissed the palm of her hand and folded her fingers, as if to keep it there. “Ye ken where this is headed,” he said, underscoring the silent promise in his eyes. “Maybe nae taenight, or the next, but before I leave, ye shall give yerself tae me every way ye can, in every way I wish tae take ye. Just the two of us,” he rasped, his eyes burning into her. His nostrils flared like an alpha wolf scenting its mate. “Like yer sister’s Dom, I dinnae share what is mine.”
“Hey there!”
Xander shattered the spell that Micheil had woven around them, promises of pleasure that left her swollen and aching with need. His pictures did him justice, capturing the man whose inner child was always ready to play. He’d channeled his into a fortune, designing video games.
Micheil growled when Xander took the couch beside her, sandwiching her between the two brothers.
“Happy birthday,” she offered. “I’m Regina.”
“Right,” he said. “And Wright.” He smiled, pleased with his cleverness. “Nice to meet you. Have you been here before?”
“Mm, yes,” she said, glancing between the brothers, making certain Micheil could hear too. “But I’m a musician. That’s my sister on the kithara. It’s a double strung lyre, appropriate for this setting. Sabrina teaches music history, composes, and researches. We’re usually in the mead hall, but we play all over. Period pieces from ancient to modern times, depending on what Sir Piers needs. Mostly indoors, although last weekend we did a cèilidh for the Highland raid.”
Another epic weekend. The BDSM community was still buzzing.
“Sometimes we pull in extra musicians or we’ll book bands. Last night my girlfriend and I went to a concert by the group that plays the World War II dance hall scenes here. While I waited for Elly to get off work, I dropped by the bookstore and I happened to meet your brother. He was kind enough to refrain from asking if I’d time warped.”
Xander’s mouth dropped open. Evidently Micheil had told him about her. Definitely an ego stroke.
“You?” he said. “But…”
“Wig,” she laughed. “And contacts. I’m Regina Wright tonight. She has her own look. I have mine. Making certa
in they’re different lets me operate in ninja mode when I’m out and about. While I prefer not to attract stalkers, I also don’t want anyone analyzing my choices when I’m checking fresh produce or buying steaks to grill. My secret for handling success is to have good friends and hide in plain sight. But how about you two? How do you manage it?”
She spoke to Xander but slid her gaze across to Micheil, who seemed pleased with what he’d heard.
“I cannae speak for my brother,” said Micheil, his accent decidedly more pronounced than Xander’s, “but I micro manage. Much of my work is done in my computer lab at home. I’m in the office as needed and pay the right people tae see things run smoothly when I’m nae there.”
“Yep,” Xander agreed. “That’s pretty much it. Except I need players and beta testers and spend way too much time online with some of them when I should be working. Do you play?”
“No,” she said. “Once upon a time, I did, until I saw that nothing else was getting done. I can’t keep up with my garden as it is—although I finally broke down and hired the neighbor’s daughter to mow the lawn. She’s a good kid. She’d rather work outside than babysit or serve fast food. I’m dreading the day she graduates, or discovers boys.”
Xander didn’t linger. Rowena had to wonder if Micheil had done some sort of silent sibling communication to let him know that his presence wasn’t wanted. The birthday boy slipped away, headed for a cluster of ménages on the far side of the room.
“And how old were ye?”
She knew what he meant. Her fight or flight instinct kicked in. It was all she could do to stay where she was, her throat aching with words she’d sworn to never speak.
“I don’t know,” she rasped, nearly choking. She lifted her goblet, drank, set it down with trembling fingers. “Young,” she told him.
Too young.
Far too young.
He held her with the strength of his gaze, refusing to let her go. Refusing to let her hide. And, with one hand, refusing to let Marcus rush in and save her from her demons.
If he only knew….
He stood up, and she felt five years old again. It was all she could do not to curl in a ball, cover her face, and hide. “Please,” she whispered, eyes stinging with unshed tears, silently begging him to understand. “If you insist, I will tell you. Just not here. Please, Sir?”
“I’ll tell them we’re going. Ye’re done here for the night, with the contract terms met. And ye willnae be needing Geoffrey. I’ll take ye wherever ye want, tae talk, then I’m taking ye home.”
Micheil escorted her to wardrobe first. Personal assistants were there to retrieve their clothes and help them disrobe, whisking away their garments to be cleaned and returned to a closet the size of a warehouse. She felt suddenly shy, as if a hundred men hadn’t seen her body, but he had no qualms about stripping down in front of her before dressing in silk boxers, a long sleeved Henley shirt, faded jeans, and brown leather loafers.
She took longer, unpinning her wig, removing it and the net underneath. She uncoiled her hair and let it fall, rubbing her scalp before brushing out the waist-length waves. Leda helped her out of her layers of clothes—the stola that reached to her ankles, the girdle that supported her breasts, the outer purple-bordered tunica and the inner one, worn against the skin and reaching to her knees. Under it, she was naked save for the fascia banding her chest.
Micheil watched while Leda untied it, watched while Rowena layered herself again in the trappings of modern civilization. Panties, bra, sweater, trouser socks, slacks, ballerina flats. They didn’t speak until they were in his rental car, an SUV with dark tinted windows that looked like something a government agent might drive. It had a navigation system, and she gave him the address of their first destination, a 24-hour coffee shop with outdoor bistro seating.
The night was cool, bordering on cold, and they took their to-go cups back to his car. She held hers between her fingers, hating that she felt like ice. Hating that he was going to make her tell him.
Rather than delay the inevitable, she took a deep breath and started in.
“First, he’s dead. Only one other person knows, and she’s bound by her professional oath to not tell. I won’t say another word until you swear this stays here. It’s not your story to share. Are we clear, Sir?”
She was topping from the bottom again, dictating to a Dom who expected obedience and demanded the truth that her twin sister didn’t know.
Surely that told him something.
She could tell from the tightness around his mouth that he didn’t like it, but he nodded. “Aye. It stays here.”
Rowena stared at the steam rising from her coffee, as if looking through the mists of time. “I was four or five,” she said. “It hurt. He said if I told anyone, he’d do the same to my sister. It didn’t stop until I was twelve and he found another, younger niece to abuse. I didn’t know it at the time. All I felt was rejection, as twisted as that sounds. I needed to feel wanted, and boys that age want sex. After one kept coming back every time he and his girlfriend fought, I made my one-time rule. They had to be clean. They had to wear condoms from the start. When we were finished, once I left, they were never to call me again.
“I was sixteen when I started college. Eighteen when my cousin was finally brave enough to tell what was happening. Uncle Frank didn’t last long after his conviction. The morning he was scheduled for transfer from county to state, they found him hanging in a cell, with a note that read, ‘Girls, I’m sorry.’ To this day, I can’t help wondering if there were others, and how many.”
She ran a finger along the edge of her cup lid, searching for the right words. “I can’t tell you how many partners I’ve had, because I don’t honestly know. I grew up the naughty twin and Breanna stayed the nice one. Now she has Gunnar, and I have a billionaire Dom who owes me four spankings. If you would, Sir…would you take me home now? Please?”
They didn’t speak, except for her to give him directions. He parked behind her van and walked around to get the car door for her. Fishing her house key from her pocket, she opened the front door and led him inside. It might not have the opulence that someone with his bank balance was used to, but her midcentury bungalow was clean, and cozy, and inviting.
“You’re the first,” she told him as he stood in the center of her living room, looking at everything. She’d redecorated some after Breanna moved out, edging away from seaside vacation home toward English country cottage. Her color palette was largely pastel. Softer to bolder shades of peach, sage, celery, chicory, and buttercup. The fireplace mantle sported blue flow china, some pewter pieces, and Jamestown glass. Her instruments took up an entire corner, the floor and walls covered with a hammer dulcimer, bodhrán, recorders, Irish whistles, mountain dulcimer, flutes from around the world, and her guitars—a modern acoustic guitar, an antique parlor guitar, and a reproduction vihuela.
When her words registered, she crooked a smile.
“Weird, huh? I’ve never had anyone here. I always meet my friends somewhere, or pick them up. Sorry if my hostess skills are rusty. Would you like some tea? I have Earl Grey, jasmine, green, white, an assortment of herbals….”
She bit her lip and shifted her feet, watching, waiting.
“Nay,” he said. “Thank ye, but I’d rather see where ye work.”
She took him to her office. Her state-of-the-art computer sat atop a waterfall-front art deco desk, with Frank Lloyd Wright chairs and vintage oak filing cabinets. An overstuffed chaise longue stretched out from one corner, embraced by overflowing bookshelves that lined the two walls.
“Welcome to Regina Wright’s world,” she said, “where the magic happens.”
“Nay.” He stood in the doorway, refusing to enter. “Nay,” he repeated, softly but firmly. “No’ this. I want tae see where Ginger Owens writes.”
Rowena swore her heart stopped. For a long moment, she forgot to breathe. “Well,” she said when she could speak again, “that was unexpected.”
&nb
sp; He leaned against the jamb, staying where he was. “I told ye I came because of a book. The Brave Little Pony. Really, yer agent should keep ye better informed when someone’s trying tae acquire first print rights.”
“I…uh….” She looked at him, the writer in her trying to describe how she felt. Gobsmacked came to mind. “Give me a minute.”
“Sit,” he ordered. She sank onto her chaise. “After the accident, Alexis did therapeutic riding tae tone and strengthen her muscles when she was learning tae walk again. One of the other riders had yer e-book on her reader and let her look at it while she waited her turn. We went tae the bookstore, but we couldnae buy The Brave Little Pony. We couldnae order it, either. My daughter thought it was sad. Some of the weans at the center had never seen a reader, let alone owned one. Without that, or a tablet, they could never read yer story.”
Not her story. It was her cousin’s story. The little pony who was brave enough to share a secret, to tell the truth, even if no one believed her.
He willed her to look at him. “I didnae ken it, but Alexis had a secret, too. She’d been playing with the radio, and Jayne had asked her tae stop. She was fiddling with the stations when the accident happened, and she thought it was her fault. She blamed herself,” he said, his voice noticeably gruffer. “Yer book helped her understand the importance of sharing her secret.”
He blew out harshly and pierced her with his gaze. “Who knows what it would hae done tae her eventually, carrying around that burden of guilt? Who knows what she would hae used, what she would hae done, tae numb the pain?”
Next thing she knew, he was cradling her face in his hands and wiping her tears with his thumbs. He scooted her over and sat beside her. Gathering her in his arms, he pulled her against his chest and held her until her tears were spent.
“Sorry, Sir. It’s dark,” she said, then realized, to him, it made no sense. “You asked to see where Ginger Owens writes. She writes and draws outside.” Surrounded by the good things in life. Earth and sky. Flowers and trees. Listening to music, to the sounds of songbirds and flowing water. “You’ll need to come back in the daytime if you want to see where.”