Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) (41 page)

Lucian gripped her hands. Arabella was surprised when she didn’t recoil. His hands were big, warm, and strong. He gripped her hands tightly. “No,” he said, staring into her eyes. “I promise you, Arabella. There has been nothing else of this sort. Ever. You have my word.”

Arabella searched his eyes: searched his soul. And she saw the truth. He looked at her with sincerity in her eyes. “I believe you,” she said. “Yes, Lucian, I believe you.”

“What does this mean?”

Arabella took a deep breath. This was, without a doubt, the most emotional moment in her life. And yet she was able to withhold tears. She smiled warmly at him. Slowly, a smile lifted his lips. Confidence returned back to his countenance. Illness fled it. Live coursed through it.“It means,” she said, turning her face slightly upwards, “that you may kiss me now.”

He kissed her. It was long, hot, passionate. She fell into the kiss, gave herself to it. When it was done, she and Lucian were panting like tired wolves, hunger glinting in their eyes.

“Then you will marry me, Arabella?” he said, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing her fingers.

“I will,” Arabella said. “Yes, Lucian, I will!”

*****

The wedding night was here. After the rigmarole of the ceremony – after giving her soul to Lucian – she was ready to give her body to him, too. All thoughts of his secret were gone from her mind as they lay in bed together. “Are you ready?” he whispered in her ear.

She nodded. “Yes, Lucian. I am ready.”

He undressed her slowly until she was naked. She lay on her back with her legs parted, her womanhood facing him. He regarded her for a few
seconds
and then began to undress. Arabella was more nervous than she had ever been. Her heart was a hammer in her chest, cracking against her ribcage. Lucian leaned over her and kissed her neck, her cheek, her lips. She kissed him
back
and felt a hunger rise in her.

She reached down as they kissed and found his manhood. It was
huge
and hard. She squeezed
it
and then rubbed it up and down. He moaned through the kiss. His hands were on her: on her breasts, and then her belly, and then tickling her womanhood. She closed her legs around the hand, trapping it there. He rubbed her womanhood fast, and she moaned loudly.

Then he parted her
legs
and shifted his hips. His manhood brushed her lips. She let out a long moan. Her body was alive to his; each touch sent reverberations through her. He stared into her eyes, and she stared back, and she knew that something incredible was about to happen.

He thrust himself inside of her.

For the first few
minutes
there was a
pain
. And then pleasure began to replace the pain. He thrust into her slowly, easing her into it, and then she lifted her legs and moved with the rhythm of him. “Your Grace,” she moaned in his ear, her hands on his muscular back. “Yes, yes, Your Grace.”

He pushed deeper into her, hitting a spot inside her womanhood she had not known existed. And then he made love to her faster, and harder. She bounced up and down on his manhood, moving with his passionate thrusts. He went in and out, in and out, in and out, harder with each thrust.

Arabella was on the edge of something. She could feel it coming like a stampede moving through her. She closed her eyes and bit her lip and for a moment everything went dark, and then she was thrown bodily into otherworldly pleasure. It wracked her body, threw her around. She gyrated and screamed. She couldn’t help but
scream
. Her womanhood went tight around him, and soon he was moaning, too.

They fell into the abyss of pleasure together.

When they were done, she lay with her head upon his chest.

“That was—”

“Incredible.”

“It was,” Arabella said. “Was it like that—”

“No,” Lucian said, touching her face. “Not even close. Not even a little bit.”

“I am sorry to talk
of
it,” Arabella said. “I just need to know that you are
mine,
and
only
mine,
and that I am yours.”

“You are, I am,” he assured her, kissing her forehead. “Forever, you will be mine, Arabella. Even after this life. You are my wife, now. I can’t believe it! The beautiful, stoic lady in London is
my
wife! I feel like the happiest man alive.”

“You
are
a flatterer, husband,” Arabella said.

“Oh, say it again,” he said, his voice more boyish than Arabella had ever heard it.

“Husband.”

“Again.”

“Husband.”

“Again!”

“Husband.”

“Again!”

*****

Arabella could not bear to have little Victoria away from her for long. She and Lucian sat on the porch, passing her between them. It was May, and the first day of glorious sunlight was upon them. Victoria grabbed Arabella’s finger,
cooed
, and squeezed it. Arabella stroked the little baby’s
head
and then passed her to her father.

“She is amazing,” Lucian said. Her husband had grown a
moustache
. He looked even more dashing than their wedding day. “Amazing,” he repeated. “She had everything of
yours,
and nothing of mine. How lucky. Yes, don’t look at me like that, she does! Look at her! What a beauty!”

Arabella was filled with a warm glow whenever Lucian took hold of the baby. There was something primitive and soothing in it, watching her man hold their baby, proclaiming his love. She never felt safer than when Lucian was holding Victoria. “Do you think she’ll love me?” Lucian said. “Of course, she will love you more. You cannot forsake a daughter that. But do you think she’ll love me, too?”

“You
are
silly today, my love,” Arabella said. “She loves you already.”

“The next will be a boy, I wager,” Lucian said, smiling over Victoria’s head.

“The next, Your Grace!” Arabella cried, slapping him playfully
upon
the arm. “You will insult a lady with such talk.”

Lucian bobbed Victoria up and down on his knee. “You will harm a man, with such talk,” he retorted. “Of course, I have no dominion over you.”

“You
are
progressive.”

“Ha!” Victoria giggled with him. “War does that to a man, my love. No, but if you do not wish to have another child, I will understand. I am no brute, to use you as a brood—”

“Hush, sweet man,” Arabella said. “The next shall be a son.”

“Arabella,” Lucian said, at length.

“Hmm?”

“Will you sing it?”

“Again?”

“Yes, the baby does love it. And so do I. I can still remember
it,
like it was yesterday. Back from war, robbed of hope, and then I see this lady, a lady like no other, singing a simple, yet beautiful tune.”

“There are not even words,” Arabella said. “I fear it
is
simple.”

“It is, but it is perfect.”

He kissed Victoria on the head. “You want to hear it, don’t you, sweetness?”

The baby cooed.

“Fine,” Arabella said, laughing. “But just once!”

She sang the tune for her family: the tune that had
traveled
with her from ruin in London to contentment in Lucian.

LollieMcArkam had always been skeptical about the local legend. Spend some time of Finger Rock, they said, and good fortune will be granted to you
upon
your wedding day. Lollie was of marriageable age, though she had no suitor. But Father had demanded that she fulfill tradition. Finger Rock was named for the way it jutted from the ocean floor like a defiant finger. Father rowed her out to it. The Scottish winds were high, and the mountainsides that bordered the out-of-the-way isle of Karankaywas blasted by the wind. Father said nothing as he rowed. His brow was creased, and every so often he wiped sweat and sea water from his face. Lolli was bored. This was a waste of time. But tradition was not to be ignored.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Father said, as Lollie stepped upon the rock.

“Okay, Da,” Lollie said.

Father rowed away, and Lollie was left alone. A mist had descended upon the ocean, and Lollie could not see very far ahead. She sat
upon
the rock and waited—waited for what? She knew nothing would happen. The kelpie was a legend that had persisted in this nowhere place for hundreds of years. Lollie had grown up with it. And yet she doubted it. As she grew, she had observed. She had seen a
woman
who sat upon the rock fall into loveless marriages. The MacNeill woman had sat upon this rock. Now she lived alone in the shack, and her husband wandered the mountains, only returning once a week to bring her game. What power could this rock hold, if it set matches like that?

But Lollie was not about to dive into the wild ocean and swim back to the isle. She was here for the night. She had brought a blanket. She pulled it tight around her. It did little to protect her from the frigid gales. She tucked her hands into her waistband and tried not to shiver. Once the shivers set in, danger started. She breathed deeply of the sea air. The clouds were a thick shield above her, blocking all light. No merman climbed upon the rock.

Time was hard to tell. She thought she had been here for hours, but it could’ve been less than an hour. The sky didn’t change its hue, and the coldness that crept into her bones didn’t get any warmer. She shivered, and waited for morning, when this tradition would be fulfilled. And she could get on with her life.

What a silly tradition,
she thought wanly.
What a silly thing for a woman to have to do. Oh, well, it is what they want.

She peered into the mist. Part of her hoped that something would happen. It would break the monotony of her life. It would soothe the boredom that sometimes threatened her. But nothing came. She just waited, and shivered, and stared. And then she waited some more.

“Morning will be here soon,” she muttered, reassuring herself. “Morning, and rest.”

&

There was no rest for Elias Taylor. He and his crew had sailed north, far north, and now they were lost in this blasted storm. “Fix those leaks!” the captain roared above the gale. “Taylor, get on them!”

Elias, mason-turned-carpenter-turned-general-craftsman, ran across the decks and leapt down the stairs to below decks. All around him, his shipmates were tying things down. The last thing you wanted
in
a storm was things rolling about, tipping the balance. Fish flew all over the deck, where it hadn’t been properly packed. Cases rocked from their bindings and crashed into the wood. Elias ignored all this and began patching the leaks, working quickly, expertly. He lost himself in his work. He patched, and patched, carrying his tool case around with him. He stopped the ship’s boy and sent him scuttling for supplies, and then continued with his work.

After a long time – Elias couldn’t say how long – the storm quieted. Elias climbed above decks. The captain slapped him on the arm. “Good man,” he said. “She didn’t sink this time.”

“Aye, captain.”

“Taylor,” the captain said, as he was about turn.

“Aye, captain?”

“Take a rowboat and go to yonder isle, will you? I want to see if there are people there.”

“Why me—”

The captain pulled him close. “You know why,” he whispered. “You’re the only man I can trust on this vessel. You’re the only learned, upstanding man. You can read. That seems like magic to most of these men. Come on, do me a favor, please.”

“And if there are people there?”

“A place to dock.” The captain slapped his forehead. “Look for a place to dock, first. If there is a place to dock, row back and tell us. We’ll rest up there. If there is no place to dock, but there
are
people, see if you can’twrangle some food out of them. I’m getting tired of fish and bread.”

“Aye, captain,” Elias said. In truth, he was looking
forward for
a chance to get out of the ship for a few hours. He had been locked up here for months. He was beginning to go a little sea-crazy. He had joined the
Swan
because his family was in ruin. He was the eldest son, and he needed to make his own way. Father had gasped in shock when he told him he was going to take on as a carpenter. He’d been a sculptor, and when his art couldn’t support him, a stone-mason. Father had not even known that he’d been secretly studying carpentry all the while. “I’ll leave presently.”

A rowboat was lowered for him, the anchor was set, and Elias climbed into it. The captain was an eccentric man, but the sky had cleared as though the heavens had opened, the wind had died, and the morning sun was just beginning to show on the horizon, lighting the sea a dull orange.

He began to row, checking his direction every so often, for the small isle in the distance.

*****

The storm had stopped suddenly. Now the morning sun was beginning to show. Lollie hadn’t guessed that it was morning. She must have fallen asleep. Her clothes were soaked through, and she was shivering. Father should be here soon to collect her, though the tradition was that the woman
stay
until just before midday, so she had some time yet. At least she didn’t have to contend with the elements anymore. She rose to her feet and began jumping up and down on the spot, forcing life back into her stiff, cold limbs. She was looking away for the isle when she saw him: a lone man rowing toward her.

She squinted, unsure of what she was seeing, and realized that her first assessment had been correct. In the water there was a man – alone – rowing before her. Lollie felt a lurch within her. This had to be part of the legend, the kelpie. It had to be. She couldn’t see what the man looked like, but it hardly mattered. She waited for him to approach. He looked up, started, and then adjusted his course. He was a strong-looking man, with sandy blonde hair and a wild-man beard. His arms were ripped with muscle and his shirt showed the very top of his muscular chest.

He stopped beside the rock and looked up at her from the row boat. “My lady,” he said, “is there something wrong? Why are you up there all alone?”

Lollie did not know how to reply to this. She assumed that anyone who the kelpie sent would know why she was up there. She hadn’t foreseen the need for an explanation. “It is the tradition,” she said. The man looked no less confused. “Of the kelpie,” she went on. “Didn’t it send you?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that, my lady,” he said. “But you look awfully cold and hungry. May I come up, and we can see to that?”

“Please, do,” Lollie said, without thinking. The thought of warmth and food pushed all other concerns aside. She
was
ravenously hungry, and thirsty. Her belly grumbled at her as the man tied his boat and climbed up Finger Rock.

He stood over her and then looked around. “Are you hurt?” he said.

“No,” Lollie replied. “I’m quite well. Except for the cold, and the food, and the water.”

The man grinned. “Care to give an explanation, my lady? It is no everyday one finds a lady upon the rocks. Some of my more superstitious shipmates would take you for a siren.”

“It is tradition,” she said. “I live over there.” She pointed to Karankay. “On our isle, when woman
come
of marriageable age, they sit upon Finger Rock for one night. It is meant to bring good fortune
with
the opposite sex.”

The man laughed. “My,” he said. “I am sorry for laughing. But—my. That is some tradition. A dangerous tradition, at that.What would possess a perfectly sane woman to sit
upon
a rock in the middle of a storm? I apologize, I am from England. I did not mean to insult your customs.”

“So the kelpie did not send you?” Lollie was beginning to realize how foolish she sounded.

“I’m afraid not,” the man said. “I work as a carpenter of the
Swan
. It is anchored a few miles to the west. My captain sent me out here to see if I could see anything. May I sit?”

She nodded, and the man sat
upon
the rock next to her. He hefted a bag from inside a blanket and laid it
upon
the rock. Form it he took some kindling, a half-loaf of bread, and a jug of water. He ripped the bread in half and handed the bigger half to her. Lollie took it eagerly from his hands and ripped it apart with her teeth. It tasted like heaven. She didn’t even care that it was stale and hard. She chewed it apart as a starving woman, and then drank desperately from the jug of the water.

“My name is Elias Taylor,” the man said, as he set the kindling.

“LollieMcArkam.”

He nodded, and then began to rub at the kindling. In a moment, a small fire started. He took dry wood from his bag and laid it upon the fire. Then he arranged some rocks around it, to shelter the nascent flame. In a few minutes, warmth bloomed through Lollie’s body. Her clothes began to dry, and she felt like
return
to her. She wiped her face and smiled. “It is amazing what food, water, and warmth can do. Thank you, Elias.”

&

She was clearly not versed in high-society decorum. She had used his Christian name without asking. And she seemed to think nothing of it. But it didn’t offend him. If anything, he found it endearing. He had experienced his fair share of high society, with ladies who bowed and scraped before him. And then cast him aside when Father had lost his inheritance.

“You are welcome, Lollie,” he said.

She had bright ginger hair and freckles upon her face. Her limbs were long and lithe, and looked strong. Her breasts were small and pert, showing slightly through her soaked shirt. She smiled at him, which made her all the more beautiful. Elias felt lust rise within him. He hadn’t seen a woman in eight months, let alone a woman so wildly beautiful.

“That is quite a tradition,” he said, meaning to distract himself from his lustful thoughts.

“Yes,” she said, finishing the last of her bread. “It is. Da says that the villagers think it’s important, so I have to do it. Ma said the same, before she died of the cold. I never thought much of it.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “There are women who sit on this rock and then get hit by their husbands. How is that for magic?”

Elias laughed, and she laughed with him. “I admit, I never expected to find a lone lady when I rowed this way.”

“Well, here I am,” she said, spreading her arms. “For a moment I thought the kelpie had really sent you. Hmm, maybe he did, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it a coincidence that the storm stopped just as you rowed this way?”

“I was rowing this way
because
the storm stopped, Lollie.”

“Aye, but who stopped the storm? Maybe it was the kelpie.”

Elias laughed. “Maybe.”

“You think it’s funny!” she cried, slapping his arm.

“It is just that a moment ago you were disbelieving it, and now you are entertaining the possibility.”

“Why can’t I do both?” she said. “Just because I think it’s silly, it doesn’t mean it might not be true.”

Elias nodded. “Okay, then.”

“You think me a fool?”

“No,” Elias said. “You live here and you speak English. You are no fool.”

“Oh, that,” she said, in her deep Scottish accent.
Oh, tha’.
“Da spent some time in England when he was younger. He taught me when I was a girl. Said I should know how to speak it, because you ruled half the world. Weren’t happy about it, but taught me all the same. I haven’t had reason to speak it for a long time though.”

Elias didn’t know what to say next. If he had been in a drawing-room, he could’ve discussed some scandal or other. But here, with this woman, all of that was stripped away. It was just her and him, with nothing in between. He could not stop looking at her breasts. He knew it was wrong. He was no brute. And yet he could not. Her eyes were earth-brown. Everything about her spoke of nature. It was as though a long-dead demigoddess had risen from the ocean to greet him.

She smiled at him, and then averted her eyes. “I’m having a bad thought,” she said.

“What kind of bad thought?” Elias said. His throat was dry. He sipped from the jug of water. His heart pounded in his ears. “Lollie?”