What You Desire (Anything for Love, Book 1)

by Clee, Adele

  Haines' mouth straightened into the beginnings of a weak grin. “I’m afraid I can’t say, my lord. But know that Haines always keeps his eyes on the road, always looks straight ahead, even when he arrives a little too early with a chattering maid in tow.” He turned and looked over his shoulder and whispered, “Although I’d best not say chattering now that she’s my wife.”

  “Thank you,” Sebastian said patting him on the shoulder.

  Sophie heard the thunderous pounding on the dusty road but did not sit up. She was lying on a blanket, her hands cupping her head, looking up at a perfectly blue sky when Dane dropped down beside her.

  “I remember feeling overwhelmed by the beauty of this place,” she said propping herself up on her elbows to look out over Rockingham Pool, “and it is just as spectacular now.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot comment on its beauty,” he replied still a little breathless from his journey. “Nothing could compare to the look of pure pleasure on your face when I brought you here. I have never forgotten it.” He glanced down at her breeches and let his fingers trail along the soft curves of her thighs.

  “It is a special place for me,” she sighed as she looked up at him. “I tried to fight my feelings for you, but it is impossible not to love you. Everything changed the day we came here.”

  Dane smiled. “Everything changed for me, too. I am just sorry that the memory was tainted by me hurling you into the carriage.”

  She sat up and put her hand on his cheek. “Which is why I think we should finish what we started,” she said blushing slightly. “There is a secluded spot just to the right, behind those trees.”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with unbridled passion. “Have I told you how much I love you, how much I want you?”

  “Every day,” she sighed with pleasure. Getting to her feet, she took hold of his hand and pulled him towards the trees. “Come, it would not be wise for you to be seen kissing Mr. Shandy and little William is in desperate need of a sibling to keep him company.”

  Dane inclined his head. “But next time, do you think you might wear a dress? I find breeches so cumbersome.”

  Sophie gave a coy smile. “Next time, you must surprise me. But know that I’ve always found a military uniform rather appealing.”

  “What about a pirate? I’ve often fancied setting sail in search of treasure.”

  She pulled him behind the trees and devoured his mouth while her hands ravaged his body. When they broke for breath, she said, “Did you ever hear the story about the prince and the pirate princess?”

  “I can’t say that I have.”

  “Well, the princess was forever stealing into places unnoticed,” she said, stripping off his waistcoat and running her palms over his shoulders. “I should have a care, as one day you may come home to find she has captured your study.”

  “Now my mind is busy concocting all sorts of lascivious images. Should such a scandalous event ever occur, there must be some way I’d be able to reclaim it.”

  “Oh, she has her price. But you will have to wait to find out what it is?”

  Thank you!

  Thank you for reading What You Desire. If you’d like to be the first to find out about new releases and catch a peek at preview chapters, then why not head over to my website — www.adeleclee.com — and sign up for my monthly newsletter.

  If you would like to read an excerpt from my next book, Lost to the Night, please turn the page.

  You can read Madame Labelle’s and Marcus Danbury’s story in What You Propose which will be available in March 2016.

  Adele x

  Coming Soon!

  Lost to the Night

  (The Brotherhood Series, Book 1)

  Chapter 1

  A tavern in Schiltach, Bavaria, 1818

  Alexander Cole’s blood gushed through his veins like hot, molten lava. The sweet fire that consumed him had nothing to do with the buxom wench at his side, merrily massaging his cock.

  “You like it,” she giggled playfully, shaking her fleshy wares as if they were easy to miss.

  Alexander groaned as she tightened her grip and nuzzled his ear. Yet he continued to stare at the woman sitting on the opposite side of the tavern.

  He’d noticed her walk in minutes earlier. She’d not ordered a drink, but sat shrouded in a sapphire-blue cloak, boldly watching him. Was she aware of the eager hand pleasuring him beneath the table? Was that the reason she stared?

  Alexander.

  Despite downing copious amounts of wine and ale, his mind suddenly stilled, the noise of the boisterous crowd drowned out by a soft sibilant whisper. He heard his name echoing through the silent chambers of his mind: a siren’s call — luring him, drawing him, forcing him to follow.

  Alexander.

  He glanced around the crude room, its stone walls and low beams relics of a bygone era, searching for Reeves and Lattimer. Reeves was asleep on the wooden bench, his fingers wrapped around the handle of a tankard as he cuddled it to his chest. Two weeks of drunken debauchery had definitely taken its toll. Through the cloudy mist of stale tobacco smoke, he spotted Lattimer climbing the stairs. The eager wench was pulling him up by his hand, his reluctance due to an unsteady gait as opposed to a lack of enthusiasm.

  Alexander.

  He heard his name again, the seductive tones of a woman’s sated whisper dragging him back to the mysterious creature across the room.

  The wench at his side continued pumping, yet his focus moved to the enchantress, who had lowered the hood of her cloak to reveal a mane of silky golden tresses. He sucked in a breath, captivated by her full red lips and porcelain skin. Drinking in the sight, he groaned as she put the tip of her tongue to her lips and moistened the entrance to her mouth.

  Compelled by a sudden wave of disgust, he slapped his hand over the wench’s sweaty fingers.

  “Oh, you want to help.”

  “No,” he growled pushing her hand away, his desire for a stranger the motivating factor.

  He threw a few coins onto the table and hastily buttoned the fall of his breeches.

  The golden-haired goddess smiled, raised her hood and moved gracefully to the door before escaping out into the night.

  As though connected by an invisible thread, he followed her to the door and yanked it open, ignoring the wench’s cries of protest — jealousy being a trait he despised.

  Rain lashed against the solid oak door and he winced as it pelted his face, quick and sharp, almost knocking him back. He could just make out his quarry crossing the muddy road, heading towards a carriage. Pulling his coat more firmly across his chest, he snuggled into it and braved the weather — some strange force urging him to take the next step.

  The lady glanced over her shoulder and beckoned him to follow. Whether it was intrigue, lust or a powerful primal hunger that drew him to her carriage, he did not know. She climbed into the conveyance and closed the door, yet the driver made no move to depart and sat staring off into the distance waiting for a command.

  Alexander stumbled up to the window and peered inside to find his beauty sitting back in the seat, her cape open, exposing the upper curve of her breasts. Shaping his mouth in an attempt to form a word, he seemed to have lost the ability of speech.

  The temptress smiled and opened the door. “Are you coming in?”

  He climbed inside, the carriage lurching forward before he’d had chance to take his seat.

  They raced through the cobbled streets at breakneck speed, up along the path curving through the forest. He thought to seduce his vixen with salacious banter, but his tongue felt thick, his lips swollen and numb.

  She watched him, her hands resting in her lap, never moving, yet his body reacted to the touch of her wandering gaze. It felt as though her fingers clawed away at him, scrabbling over his chest, tugging at his clothes, freeing him from the confines of his breeches. As the imaginary assault tormented him, he could smell the heady scent of his arousal and he struggled to draw breath.

 
“You respond to me well, Alexi,” she whispered. “But now you must sleep — sleep.”

  Sleep was the last thing on his mind, but his lids grew heavy, his surroundings hazy, black.

  Alexander had experienced many vivid dreams in his life. The best ones always involved forbidden carnal pleasures: screwing the rector’s wife, his daughter, both together.

  But this dream was like no other.

  He recalled climbing a narrow stone staircase curling up to a tower. The sound of teasing feminine laughter pulled him up. As did the potent smell of exotic incense drifting out from the doorway. The seductive mist creeping towards him felt like invisible fingers massaging his shoulders, determined to relax him, to seduce him.

  Time skipped forward.

  He lay stretched out on the canopy bed: a monstrous structure of wooden pillars and grotesque carvings. Two naked women fondled with his breeches, stripping him bare. Their eager hands and mouths bringing him close to climax. But when his enchantress entered the room they scurried away, the sound of their whimpering dampening his desire.

  “I read your thoughts, Alexi,” she said, her cape billowing behind her as she walked towards the bed. “You like power, you like to control. You have had many women, no.”

  Alexander nodded.

  “After tonight, you will no longer be able to hide behind your chivalrous mask, behind your polished words and fancy clothes.” She crawled onto the bed to straddle him while he watched, helplessly. “Your depravity will be your constant companion now.”

  As she bent down to kiss him, he felt a coldness sweep through him followed by a raging fire as her tongue and teeth licked and nipped his neck. Something sharp punctured his skin — then he felt lost, alone.

  Then he felt nothing.

  Chapter 2

  New Forest, England, 1820

  Evelyn Bromwell pulled the thick tartan blanket over her legs and sighed. “I’ve never known it be so cold,” she said thrusting her gloved hands under the blanket as the wind rocked the carriage. “Not in April.”

  “Well, you know what they say about the weather,” Aunt Beatrice replied, her hands nestled inside a mink muff. “In like a lion, out like a lamb.”

  Evelyn frowned. “How can it be in like a lion when the month’s almost over? Besides, I thought the saying referred to March.”

  “It applies the other way around, too, and the Welsh often use it for April. If you recall, it was rather mild early on.”

  The wind rattled the window just to prove a point, the drawn-out howl like an ominous warning.

  “More like in with a whistle, out with a whirlwind,” Evelyn chuckled.

  A dull thud on the carriage roof caused them both to gasp and they froze in anticipation, as though a lion really was about to burst in through the door.

  “Either the coachman’s been blown off his perch or the forest is tumbling down around us,” Evelyn whispered, not wishing to tempt fate. “I’d pop my head out and take a look. But knowing my luck I’d be slapped in the face by a stray branch. Somehow, I don’t expect Mr. Sutherby will want to propose to a lady when she’s sporting a blackened eye.”

  Aunt Beatrice smiled. “I think you could sprout a potato from your nose and still Mr. Sutherby would be smitten.”

  Mr. Sutherby might be smitten, but Evelyn wasn’t.

  Oh, she was hardly in a position to complain. A handsome man with an affable character and a sizable fortune wanted to marry her. It sounded perfect. For a gentleman to embody all three traits was a rare find indeed. It’s what her parents dreamed of. It’s what they would have wanted.

  The only thing that could possibly make Mr. Sutherby more desirable was a title. But such far-fetched aspirations were only to be found in fairy tales, not dreams.

  The wind gave a mournful cry and the carriage rocked from side-to-side.

  “Do you think we’ll even make it to the inn?” Evelyn asked feeling a little wary. “I think the forest is the worst place to be in a storm.”

  “I’ve heard the sea is the worst place, waves as tall as houses, they say. We’ve only a few miles to the inn. We’ll bed down for the night and be at Mytton Grange by luncheon.” Aunt Beatrice removed her hand from her muff and patted Evelyn’s knee. “Let’s not think about it. We’ll soon be tucked up nice and snug. Perhaps if we talk, we’ll distract our minds.”

  Evelyn groaned inwardly. She didn’t want to talk about Mr. Sutherby but it seemed the only thing her aunt was interested in.

  “Of course, your Mr. Sutherby —”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  Her aunt narrowed her gaze but then gave a knowing smile. “I understand. You’re nervous. It’s to be expected. Very well, I shall think of a different topic to occupy our thoughts.”

  Her aunt fell silent while she stared at a point beyond Evelyn’s shoulder.

  Feeling somewhat impatient and having never ventured as far as the New Forest before, Evelyn asked, “Do you know anything about the area? Any exciting tales from ancient folklore?”

  “Not really,” her aunt sighed, “though there are tales of the Earl of Hale. He lives a mile or two from here. Have you heard of him?”

  Evelyn pondered the question. “The Earl of Hale. The name’s familiar. Do you mean the gentleman who’s said to be horribly disfigured?”

  “Well, that’s what folk say.”

  “But you’ve never seen him?”

  “No, no,” her aunt said shaking her head vigorously as though the thought was abhorrent. “No one has.”

  “Then how do they know he’s disfigured?”

  Her aunt shrugged. “I’m sure someone must have seen him at some point. They say he had an accident abroad. When the old earl died, they say he wouldn’t set foot near the grave. He hung back in the shadows, his collar raised up to his cheekbones, the brim of his hat touching the tip of his nose.”

  “To hide his terrible scars, I imagine.”

  Evelyn was so intrigued she’d almost forgotten they were in danger of being blown away. She imagined all sorts of hideous marks: raised pink rivulets running down his cheek, an earlobe missing, an eye drooping and sagging. Had the earl been injured in a fight or fire?

  “And he lives not far from here?” she said trying to distract her wayward thoughts.

  “Yes. In an old Elizabethan house in a clearing.”

  They fell silent for a moment.

  Aunt Beatrice’s head shot up and she gave a little gasp. “Have I told you about the Pixey mounds? Well, that’s what the locals call them. You’ll find them dotted all around the forest.”

  “Someone must have seen him recently.”

  Aunt Beatrice jerked her head back. “Who, the Pixey? The mounds are old burial sites. I don’t think they’ve got anything to do with real pixies.”

  “Not the pixies — the earl. Someone must have seen him since the accident.”

  Her aunt shrugged. “Well, I guess we’ll never —”

  They heard the dull thud before they felt the tremor that shook the carriage. The horses’ high-pitched neighs were long and loud and interspersed with the coachman’s cries and curses. The carriage swayed left and right, throwing them from their seats as they scrambled to hold on. They felt an almighty bump, the wheels on the right lifting clean off the floor, the carriage tipping left as they hit a ditch.

  They continued to fall, crashing down onto the forest floor, the sound of splintering wood lost amongst their shrieks and screams. Evelyn’s head rebounded off the inside wall and suddenly everything went black.

  Evelyn opened her eyes and blinked rapidly as she tried to focus. She had no notion how long she’d lay there in a crumpled heap, curled next to the body of her aunt. She felt no immediate pain, other than a pounding behind her eyes.

  “Aunt Beatrice,” she whispered to the listless woman lying next to her. “Aunt Beatrice.”

  She waited for a sign of life: a cough, a gasp, a sigh. But the world had fallen deathly silent. Flexing her fingers and lift
ing her arms to check her limbs were able, Evelyn grabbed the edge of the seat and tried to stand. The carriage lay on its side, the window above them framing a mass of purple and black clouds, so thick she imagined she could touch them.

  Dragging herself up on her feet, she turned to examine her aunt’s body. Lying on her side with her head facing away, her aunt was too quiet, too still. She patted the folds of her aunt’s skirt, moving up to her arm and shoulder. Nothing appeared to be broken. Then she noticed her aunt’s head squashed against the shattered window. Evelyn pushed her hand under the old lady’s cheek and it felt slimy and sticky.

  With a gasp she pulled her hand away, her pale pink glove now a deep shade of red.

  There was blood, too much blood. She needed to get help, quick.

  Pushing the carriage door open, she climbed out and lowered herself down to the floor.

  An uprooted tree trunk blocked the road, the knobbly branches disappearing into the forest. No doubt this was the reason for the startled horses. Miraculously, they were unharmed and stood quietly waiting for instruction, oblivious to the disaster that had just unfolded or the upturned wreckage behind them.

  Evelyn scanned the ground, looking for the driver and spotted the burly figure lying sprawled out on the floor. She raced over to him and touched the back of his coat, rocking gently in the hope of rousing him.

  Nothing.

  Her aunt’s words drifted into her thoughts.

  It’s just a few miles to the inn.

  After giving each one of the horses a reassuring pat and a few calming words, she wrapped her cloak around her, climbed over the trunk and hurried down the road.

  She tried to run, desperate to reach the inn before dusk, knowing how difficult it would be to rouse help come nightfall but the biting wind made her task more arduous.