A Faerie Fated Forever (19 page)

He couldn’t open his eyes yet, but when he could finally speak, he said, “Just for the record, love, the graphic term for those spots on my pants is come. I’ve never come in my pants for any woman but if you hadn’t shown mercy just then, I’d have flooded the dance floor.”

She put a hand to his cheek at his words, caressing him, compelled to wipe away the pain she caused. He leaned into her soothing stroke blindly for long moments. When he finally opened his eyes she searched them, seeking the soul beneath the polished glass. The navy blue orbs seethed with need, desire, and pain underscored by flickers of resentment. Yet another emotion shaded the others, moderating their tone to allow control when none should remain. It looked a lot like love.

After a couple of minutes more he could stand erect, even though another part of him still stood erect as well. The time passed in silence as she discounted the emotion she couldn't confirm in favor of her last sight of him on Skye, which she couldn't forget.

“You’re good,” she said quietly. “I have to keep reminding myself that it’s not what it looks like.” His question was in his eyes, as he remembered she had used the same phrase earlier. Apparently, it was the key to a deeper thought.

He was about to question her when Viv wandered over with Peter. In the way of family, they decided to interfere simply for the joy of it and give the pair a hard time by breaking up their private party. Peter’s impertinent appraisal started at Nial's unkempt hair and ranged to his untucked and partially open shirt and then down to the wet spots dotting the hard that still tented his pants.

Heather flushed but Nial remained stoic. Peter quirked a brow in inquiry and the Scot simply said, “I was proving a point to your cousin.”

Viv laughed. “It must have been an interesting point, at least. Unlike this gathering.”

“A member of the nobility who is not enamored of the almighty social whirl?”

Viv’s gaze was far away as she answered. “No, I’m not and I have never been. This is not my place, I’m afraid. Well, it is, but not now, not like this.”

Geoff wandered over, intent upon trying his luck at gaining a dance with Heather. Perhaps the presence of her family would moderate the laird’s boorish behavior. Boz, seeing Geoff’s arrival, made haste to join the group. Nial stepped behind Heather to wrap his arms around her waist. The signal should have been enough, but Badgerton ignored it to press forward, extending his hand as he inquired, “May we finally have our dance?”

He pulled her closer, pressing his spiked phallus into her buttocks in silent reminder that he passed her test. He opened his mouth to answer but she placed her hands over his and squeezed. He stilled, awaiting her response. Just before she gave it, her parents joined the group, so she said, “It is nice of you to ask Geoff, but actually, I am tired and I believe that our party was about to leave. Unless you would prefer to stay at the ball, Nial?”

“You are my party love, and you know I prefer our gatherings to be smaller and more intimate.” He stepped to her side, more than ready to get out of this torture chamber.

Geoff's appraisal bore malice verging on insanity. "Son of a bitch," he said as he executed a military half turn and stalked away.

“Shall we?” Nial asked as he led their party to retrieve wraps and the carriage. The laird bit back the smile that wanted to become a laugh at the way John and Vi studiously ignored his obvious disarray. Bonnie looked from Nial to her daughter and gave a "harumph," likely meant to sound judgmental but bearing more than a trace of admiration for her daughter's daring. Carrick clapped a hand to his shoulder a wee bit harder than necessary and muttered a reminder that to a Scot a claim was a vow. Nial pacified the other laird by replying with the truth - that Heather was more than his mate, she was his life.

When the carriage drew up to the Standings mansion the others exited. Nial didn't get out, choosing not to display the erection fertilized to gargantuan proportions by hot anticipation. He kissed Heather's hand and responded quietly to her, “I’ll see you, Nial,” with a murmured, “Sooner than you think.” She didn’t quite hear him but needed to escape to the peace of her room to think about the evening too much to question him further.

After the group got out, Nial had the coachman drive him around the corner drop him off. He climbed the fence that enclosed a small garden and settled on a bench that had a view of Heather’s room. When he saw the light of a candle enter the room, he forced himself to wait several minutes longer. He circled the big tree behind the house with his legs and climbed up. He jumped stealthily onto the small balcony outside her room and peered in.

She sat on the side of her bed holding something in her hands. He identified the black and red cloth as a ladies’ lace-trimmed handkerchief, but could not understand the evil that emerged from it to batter him across the pane of glass he peered through. She shook it out straight in front of her and stared at it intently, but without seeing it. It was then that he noticed the monogram and identified the “S” as belonging to Sorcha.

It brought back part of the night that nearly ended his future. The memory had either been obscured by the witch's potion, washed away in the alcohol he tried to drown himself in or simply erased as too painful to handle. It was what he knew she saw so he forced himself to go back and stand beside her at the hedge leading into the garden. He was embedded in the witch, filling her with lust brewed by her black magic. Sorcha reached inside her bodice and drew out the cloth, this handkerchief. She bent down to where her body held his and swabbed the black fabric with the rancid refuse of their joinder. She'd tossed it to the ground at Heather's feet with a comment that it was all of Nial she'd ever have. He'd looked up as Heather bent to pick up the vile thing. As she straightened, the glint of moonlight had caught the gold of her eyes.

Heather put the handkerchief to her nose and sniffed. Nial shouted “NO” at the top of his lungs as he opened and plunged through the window in a single motion. He shouted it again, completely forgetting the need for stealth in a race to get to her before it was all gone. He stood at the base of the window with his nightmare running through his mind.

Nial advanced on her and ripped the cloth from her hands.

“No, that’s mine. Give it back, I need it,” Heather insisted, reaching for the cloth.

“Why? My love, why would you hold onto this? Why do you need it?” She jumped up to try to grasp the handkerchief he held just out of her reach. His challenge brought her temper to the fore and she spoke without thinking.

“I need it as a permanent reminder that none of this means anything except that you’re carrying a boatload of guilt and that you missed your calling as an actor.” His face colored and he gritted his jaw. Good. Perhaps she had finally reached the man beneath the pretense.

Tonight he had subjugated his manhood to her need for proof. How dare she think it all make believe? The accusation thrust him beyond control, beyond tempering his words or his actions, beyond anything but making her satisfy the craving that she had stoked so publicly. By God, she had asked for it and she was going to get it – she was going to get all of it.

As he spoke his hands ripped at his shirt, “Guilt? I felt extreme guilt, awash in guilt, love, for about two minutes. Then you bent over and the moonlight reflected the gold in your eyes and I felt nothing except the pain of the empty forever I had sentenced myself to without you.”

He ripped the shirt from his chest, but forgot that he wore a jacket and the sleeves of the jacket got tangled with the cufflinks that bore the emblem of his clan. Seething and beyond himself, he stepped on the jacket with a foot as he ripped it and the shirt off and tossed them on the floor.

Her eyes widened with momentary fear. Her actions and accusations had beckoned the male animal and now that beast stood before her. Nial had cast aside the pretensions of daily life. In the fury of metamorphosis, the beast controlled the man and it lacked the man’s capability to pretend or conceal. This was what she wanted but he responded much differently than she expected.

Buttons were beyond barbarians too, so he ripped at his pants and tore them in his eagerness to free the most beastly part of him. Now completely nude, he turned and stalked to the fireplace, holding her eyes as he waved the handkerchief before him.

“This is not the truth. This was never the truth. This was black magic, evil, lies and drugs all driven by an insane woman’s desire for power. She is gone to wherever the faeries have banished her and I wish them joy of her torment. I burned her personal belongings and this scrap of fabric is all that exists of her on this world. And now,” he said with a flick of his wrist as he tossed it into the fire, “it’s gone too.”

He turned to her only when the flames devoured the cloth. He cupped his hands around the hard that rode his stomach, holding it out for her inspection. He watched as she surveyed his turgid arousal and awaited the moment when her anger and insecurity changed to desire. Her breathing quickened, she flushed and her nipples pebbled against her gown. He had summoned the woman. Still he stood there, holding the visible proof of his desire for her inspection.

His need throbbed before her, open, unvarnished and magnetically alluring. She could not look away from it. As she watched, his hand moved up and down the organ he held, and a single drop of liquid desire emerged from the tip. “Guilt, Heather?”

She stared at the pearly drop, seeing male passion in pure undiluted form. It couldn’t be imitated or produced at will. The greatest actor on earth could not pretend the seething froth of animalistic urges that made the beast challenge her with his need and his desire. The hand holding the phallus shook ever so slightly. Her gaze darted to his eyes, which were fixed on her in an unguarded, open plea for recognition of his love.

He hadn’t expected the switch in her attention. He was a man and a Scot and he couldn’t beg for anything, even the love he needed more than life. He hadn’t been able to hide the plea from his eyes, knew it was there, but expected her attention to stay focused on his play with his manhood.

Their eyes locked and he flushed like a small boy caught in mischief. Like the plea, he couldn’t hide the flush at being caught. She was a woman and a Scot so she would scorn his weakness. Hell, she'd laugh at it. She would expect more from her man. She could never respect, let alone love, a man who would lower himself to beg for anything. He told himself that he could claim she misread his expression. He ordered himself to chase it from his gaze. But she was important to him – no she was necessary. He couldn’t live without her so his desperation overcame his will, and the plea became more open. The tremor in the hand holding his staff grew more pronounced. Then he shamed himself as badly as a Scotsman could by saying the word out loud and more than once.

“Please. Sweetheart, please, I…”

His face showed how appalled he was with himself in the instant before he turned away, dropped his hand and strode towards the window. He had to get out of her presence before he heard her laugh. He was at the window in a trice and lifting his leg to escape outside when he heard her voice instead.

“Nial, stop. Turn around.”

He stopped, but he couldn’t face her. He couldn't turn around but he couldn't leave. He stood there, gripping the window ledge with hands that trembled harder. He knew the plea in his eyes was profound and shut them, squeezing tight against the tears that threatened to emasculate him right in front of her.

She threw off her gown and ran to him. He had one leg outside the window and one inside when he felt her bare breasts at his back, “Nial, I love you. Don’t leave me. Don’t go.”

He turned but it was the beast that lunged for her. Male pretension would never have allowed the plea, and the voracious animal didn’t kiss her so much as lurch forward to seize her mouth. He pushed her backwards and fell on top of her, consumed by the thought that the woman who played him until she made him beg would pay. She'd pay right now.

The man tried to return, briefly, pausing as the beast shoved between her legs. “I can’t wait. I can’t make this good for you.” Then he thrust, impaling her with his full length in a single surge. The beast was unchained and untamable. It raped and pillaged, and he heaved and plunged berserkly, need driving him to frenzy. He came alone, in less than a half score of thrusts.

The man reappeared, collapsing against the pillows with weightless arms, acknowledging his total shame. The man arrived too late because the beast had already had his way, taking her without tenderness or consideration and most certainly without consent. He had just raped the only woman he would ever love. He forced enough strength in his arms to crawl off of her and bury his face in the sheets. He couldn’t stop the tears that trailed from his navy eyes at the knowledge that the monster had devoured his future. He could hide them.

“Nial?” She called, but there was no response. She called louder, “Nial?”

He rolled over. As he had faced her with his shame, he must now face her with his grief. He would not add to his list of sins. When her father’s blade sheered his monstrous member, leaving him to bleed to death upon the sheets where his crime occurred, he would face his due punishment with courage. He would not die a coward. His fists grasped the sheets as he widened his legs to allow her father’s sword full access to the ravening fiend between his thighs.

That brute lacked even the common decency to wither in ignominy. Monster that it was, at the sight of Heather’s bare breasts and still erect nipples, at the sight of the cream of his lust coating her rainbow of brown curly nether locks, it hardened anew. It would make a ready target for the blade.