Lionheart

by Kate Roman

  LIONHEART

  Kate Roman

  www.loose-id.com

  Lionheart

  Copyright © March 2012 by Kate Roman

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  eISBN 978-1-61118-778-6

  Editor: Maryam Salim

  Cover Artist: April Martinez

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 809

  San Francisco CA 94104-0809

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * *

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Chapter One

  Rhodesia, 1922

  Thornside was a rough, sprawling estate several miles outside Bulawayo, completely unlike any home Ashcroft Haywood had ever seen in England and just as unlike the stately mansions he’d glimpsed during his short stay in Capetown. Squatting inside a fenced compound, the low, one-story main house was a marvel of whitewashed wood and glass. Flowering bougainvillea shaded the grand portico from the harsh afternoon sun, and a wide, perfectly maintained drive curved past sawtooth lawns to the wide veranda leading to the front entrance. Two natives stood in crisp white uniforms on either side of the imposing teak front doors.

  Gerald Haywood, Thornside’s master, was a bluff, red-faced, mustachioed old soldier. Twenty-one-year-old Ash had met his uncle as a child but remembered little save a bullying manner and a habit of shouting. Ash was accustomed to that: his father, Sir Roland Haywood, shared his brother’s traits. Gerald and Sir Roland greeted each other with noises like cannon fire while Ash stayed quiet, standing up straight and pasting on his best company smile.

  Then the baronet turned to his son. “My boy’s grown, Gerald, and that’s all I can say for him. Takes after his mother, no doubt.”

  Ash blushed under the two men’s critical scrutiny. His mother had died when he was a young child, and he hardly remembered her. His tentative inquiries to Sir Roland on the subject were met with fierce cuffs and shouted imprecations, or worse. Ash shivered. Even though he’d reached his majority, his father still dealt with perceived imperfections with a heavy hand. Or a whip, if one was handy.

  Gerald slapped Roland’s shoulder. “I admit, the boy’s a little weedy-looking. Still, we’ve never bred a cur yet. Remember that bitch pup I had, the one our father said would never make a hunting dog? I still remember the thrashings the old man gave me over her. Yet in the end, Sally was the best hound I ever bred. Her line’s still going strong—I’ve two of her great-grandsons in my kennel. Throw them in the deep end, brother, that’s the ticket. A good thrashing, then face-to-face with a lion, and they all learn fast enough it’s fight or die.”

  Roland nodded sagely. “And that’s one thing England can’t give the boy. Still, if anyone can scare up a lion for him, it’s you, dear brother.”

  “Quite right. First thing in the morning we’ll see what this whelp of yours is made of, what?”

  Sir Roland snorted in response.

  “Until then, let’s get out of the heat. Sun’s over the yardarm, man, so we can retire to the study. I took a great she-beast of a leopard earlier this month, and she’s just back from the man who puts them up for me. Black as pitch but a dab hand at mounting. Come!”

  The talk at dinner veered from the Haywood brothers’ successes during the war to the gory recounting of successful hunts, both in England and in pursuit of the larger game Africa had to offer.

  Ash ate in silence, feeling nothing but discomfort at the way his father and uncle treated Thornside’s staff and an inchoate nervousness whose root he couldn’t quite identify. If pressed, he would’ve likened the sensation to standing too close to the edge of the platform as the Midlands Mainline thundered toward him along the rails, showing no sign of stopping.

  “We’ll hunt tomorrow.” Gerald clapped his hands together, interrupting Ash’s musings with a start. “There’s a big black-maned bastard I’ve had my eye on, and the natives brought word this morning that he’s in the area. Rollie, can the boy shoot?”

  “He can,” Sir Roland answered, eyeing Ash with disfavor. “But he’s slow on the mark.”

  Gerald chuckled into his mustache. “You’ll sharpen up out here, lad. All very well taking your time with a deer or a rabbit. Lady’s game. A lion, now, or a rhino—if you don’t get him first, he’ll have you, d’you see?” Gerald drew his finger slowly across his throat.

  The sweet potatoes and venison soured in Ash’s mouth, and he swallowed with difficulty. At the first opportunity, Ash excused himself from the table and went to his room.

  On the nightstand, he found a book on Rhodesia’s plentiful wildlife, the birds and prey beasts who made their home on the savanna. At any other time, it would have interested him greatly, but tonight it provided little distraction from the dread Ash felt at the thought of tomorrow’s hunt. He touched a line drawing of a lion, standing proud on the savanna. The thought of shooting one was as alien to him as if his father and uncle had demanded he build a bridge to the moon or fly to the Americas on wings of his own devising.

  And yet, there was something about Africa.

  Not Thornside, with its deliberately cultivated air of transplanted gentility, but Africa itself, the dry and dusty land Ash had glimpsed out the windows of the train that had borne him from Capetown to the heart of the veldt. Rugged and dramatic, the veldt swept off in all directions as if fleeing the incursions of man, and the rich golds, the vast panorama blessed by the warm sunshine, all of it captivated Ash, called to him. Defying all reason, the whole landscape felt achingly, hauntingly familiar.

  Restless, Ash kicked off the bedsheet and rose. He dressed quietly and padded through the sleeping house and slipped out into the night.

  It was more beautiful than he’d ever dreamed possible. Lit by a full and lambent moon, the vast night above was washed with pinprick stars and nebulous swaths of dust, as if someone had spilled milk on a huge piece of dark blue velvet. For a moment, it was all Ash could do to stand and stare, hoping for a way to fall into the sky.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Ash whirled, heart in his throat. A swarthy stranger stood leaning against the veranda railing, arms folded across his chest. He was stocky and muscular, with sun-darkened skin and black hair, and he stared into the heavens with a slight smile.

  Ash found his voice with difficulty. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Best thing to happen all day,” the stranger answered. He looked over at Ash, finally. “At least so far.�
�

  Ash grinned and ducked his head, feeling the first real stirrings of happiness since he’d arrived at Thornside.

  The stranger held out a hand. “Bennett. Roy Bennett.”

  “Ash Haywood.” Ash felt a tingle when they shook hands, a thrill at the feel of that rough, calloused palm. He could think of about a dozen other places he’d like to feel it. For a start. But to his consternation, Bennett, Roy Bennett stepped back, frowning.

  “Ah. A Haywood. Please accept my apologies for disturbing your evening.”

  “What? No, wait. Please, don’t go.” Ash flushed, knowing how he must sound. But he was pleased Roy withdrew no farther. “Please. I… What are you doing here?”

  “Patching up one of the Karanga who fell afoul of Gerald Haywood’s lash.”

  “My uncle? I thought it was just my father who…”

  “Your father who what?”

  Ash shifted nervously. The last thing he wanted to do was try to explain Sir Roland’s vitriol to a perfect stranger. He’d learned to hide the bruises well. He knew his place.

  “The…Katanga, will he be all right? Can I help at all?”

  “Karanga, not Katanga. They’re a tribe of natives round here. And yes, he’ll be all right when his wounds heal. But not as well as if he’d steered clear of this cursed place altogether.”

  Ash trembled. Cursed summed up exactly how he felt about Thornside, his father, and his uncle—a symbol of all that could look upon the veldt and see so much land to be conquered, see the wild things as trophies to be taken. “I wish I had steered clear of it,” he burst out.

  Roy looked at him keenly. “I take it you had little choice.”

  “Little to none.”

  “You make no choices of your own?” Roy stepped forward, and a stray moonbeam fell across his face. “I find that hard to believe.”

  Ash caught his breath. In the full moonlight, he could see Roy had pale, piercing eyes filled with intensity and promise. Eyes tinged with sorrow and passion. “Choice is a luxury, not a necessity,” Ash said obliquely. “But to hunt lions… They’re…they’re beautiful. I’d choose to watch them, not hunt them. They should be the ones hunting.”

  Roy’s gaze flickered, whether with understanding or withdrawal, Ash couldn’t be sure. Then Roy spoke. “So tell me, Ash Haywood, if you were a hunter, what would you be hunting for?”

  A good man, Ash thought, eyeing Roy’s muscled frame. “A good…friend.” Roy stepped forward, and Ash could smell his sweat and something deeper and more feral. “Every man needs a good friend.”

  The two of them looked around guiltily, but the only things stirring in the night were the frogs and crickets, croaking and chirring under the sky. As for Thornside, the windows of the main house remained dark and unseeing.

  Ash grinned down at his feet. He knew he ought to feel foolish, but somehow, in Roy’s presence, he didn’t.

  A finger to his lips, Roy gestured for Ash to follow and led him along the veranda to the edge of the house, then around the corner, where the veranda continued along the house’s back side. In truth, Ash needed little urging. His heart pounded, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling so alive.

  Roy guided them to a dark crook of the house, the windowless join of two walls sheltered by a riot of tangled vines, heavily peppered with fragrant blossoms the size of a man’s fist. Roy ducked his head under the vines and vanished for a second, then turned and held the vines back so Ash could join him. It was a small and perfect nook, the vines blocking out all moonlight and providing a darkness warm and complete. Ash fumbled for Roy, sight unseen, and his hands found Roy’s warm body just as Roy grabbed him and pulled him into a rough embrace.

  A thrill coursed through Ash, and he pressed needily against the other man, running his palms over Roy’s chest and shoulders, biting back soft noises as his mouth was commandingly plundered. Roy slid his arms around Ash, pulling him close. Ash could feel Roy’s hard cock through his trousers. His own cock hardened in response, already aching to be freed.

  Roy pushed Ash up against the side of the house. He ground his cock roughly against Ash’s hips. Ash threw his head back, gasping at the wonder of friction. Roy was mouthing his way along Ash’s jaw, down his neck as he slipped his hands down and cupped Ash’s bottom.

  For a few moments, it was all Ash could do to buck and writhe under the staunch attentions of his mysterious lover. It felt so right, even as he knew that, should they be discovered, the repercussions would be devastating.

  But he couldn’t think of stopping.

  Ash fumbled with the front of Roy’s trousers, hands shaking, desperate to uncover the treasure beneath. He could dimly feel the shape, the heft of Roy’s member beneath his clothes, but that wasn’t enough, would never be enough in a million years, and he nearly tore at the stiff fabric in his driving need for skin contact.

  Roy released Ash and, chuckling softly, took a step back, undoing his trousers and shoving the garment down.

  It was impossible to see, so Ash let his hands be his guide. They didn’t disappoint.

  He briefly squeezed the tops of Roy’s thighs, pleased by the thick crop of hair under his palms, then quickly claimed his prize. Roy was thick and uncut, already leaking at the tip, and Ash used both hands to work the thick shaft, moving the delicate foreskin over the ridge and back, lubing Roy with his own precum.

  Roy stifled a groan, then thrust into Ash’s hands with gusto.

  Reaching down to cup Roy’s balls, Ash sank to his knees on the rough wooden planking, and by touch alone guided Roy’s crown to his eager mouth. He was rewarded by a salt-sour squirt that he lapped happily, alternately squeezing Roy’s sac and working his thick shaft. It was heaven. Pure, sensual heaven. The heavy tang of Roy’s musk emanating from the base of his belly, the quiet, masculine grunts.

  Ash released Roy’s balls and dropped a hand down to his own aching cock.

  For a moment, it was all too much: the hot satin of Roy’s cock in his mouth, leaking readily onto his eager tongue, combined with his hand on his exposed cock. Ash had never done anything so wanton nor felt so free.

  Roy grasped the back of Ash’s head firmly and set up a rhythm of rough thrusts, fucking Ash’s willing mouth. Ash found the rhythm and stroked himself to match, marveling at the twinned sensations setting him alight, burning eagerly toward his core.

  Roy’s grip tightened, and he shoved his cock deep into Ash’s throat, loosing jets of seed with a muffled grunt. Waves of pleasure rushed through Ash, and his own cock responded in kind; warm, slick juice slipped over his fingers as he spoke his groans to Roy’s quivering member.

  Then the moment passed.

  Roy released his hold on Ash and, after tucking himself away, tugged Ash to his feet. As Ash sought to set his dress to rights, Roy slipped a calloused palm along Ash’s jaw and drew him into a kiss, tongue flickering over Ash’s, light and teasing. For a moment, it was all Ash could do not to slide down the side of the house, this new sensation driving him even farther over the edge. He was conscious of his cock giving a weak spurt between them, then of Roy’s dry chuckle. The man leaned in close, lips brushing Ash’s ear. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Ash closed his eyes, feeling as much as hearing the shape of those words next to his ear, nearly more erotic than what had just transpired between them.

  He opened his mouth to respond, but with a rustle of vines, Roy disappeared.

  Ash listened to his footsteps recede along the veranda and tried to catch his breath. He waited a seemly amount of time, then emerged from the makeshift bower and made his way back through the silent house to his bedroom, as quietly as he dared.

  Ash crawled under the mosquito netting covering his bed and slid gratefully between the cool sheets, conscious of how close loomed the morning and the dreaded lion hunt. He wondered for a few moments about Roy, about who he was, who his people were, and what he was doing at Thornside.

  Of all the things Ash had expected from this trip to Rhodesia,
a furtive and phenomenal assignation with a mysterious stranger had not been one of them. Grinning, Ash fell into a deep and satisfied slumber.

  Chapter Two

  Natives scurried about in the indigo predawn carrying sacks, baskets, and stakes, making final preparations for the day’s hunt. Gerald Haywood strode between them, barking orders and fingering a coiled bullwhip at his belt.

  Sir Roland stood on the step, puffing on his morning pipe and surveying the bustle with good-humored approval. “Quite a business, this, old man,” he called out.

  “Certainly is, Rollie.” Gerald walked back toward the house. “These jolly blacks can’t be left unsupervised or they leave things half done. I tell you, they’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “Discipline, that’s the ticket.” Sir Roland gesticulated with his pipe as Ash tried to stand downwind of the smoke. “Does a man good to see discipline in action. How long till we set off?”

  “We’re nearly ready, old chap. Twenty minutes? Oh! I’ve assigned you a native each to act as your loader and your personal bearer. Peter! Paul!” Gerald called into the bustle, and two young, wiry black men bounded toward them. “Here we are,” Gerald said, giving Ash a brief nod and turning back to Sir Roland. “Peter and Paul will do everything you require today.”

  “Their names are Peter and Paul?” Ash asked.

  “I named ’em,” Gerald said crisply, tugging at his mustache. “Heathenish, the names they’re born with, and I won’t use ’em. They soon learn to answer when I call them.”

  Ash stared at his uncle in disbelief, but at a look from his father, he said nothing.

  The hunting party set off just as the sun crept over the horizon, casting eerie shadows on the vast expanse of veldt. Spirit-shapes flitted before and behind them, changing before Ash’s eyes from rock to bird to nightmare beast and back again.

  A rough scream split the dawn. Ash glanced up in alarm.

  A huge black eagle circled the hunting party, great dark wings spread wide. The native bearers mumbled low incantations, drawing signs in the rapidly warming air. Gerald’s horsewhip lashed out mercilessly, and the bearer nearest him sank to his knees on the sandy ground with a cry of pain.