Microsoft Word - FortunesFool.rtf (21 page)

"What? What do you see?"

Mrs. Drummond met his eyes over their hands, "You will be

marrying soon."

Camille squealed, clapping her hands and Abby muttered, "Dear

Lord," under her breath. "Mother, Caden doesn't believe any of this."

Mrs. Drummond met his eyes and let Caden take his hand back. "He

doesn't have to, he just has to respect that I do. Now are you going to ask her?"

"I have been, ma'am. Just short of begging."

Abby sniffed.

"Abby, did you read that Caden would be marrying soon?" Mrs.

Drummond asked.

"Yes, Mother."

Caden snapped his head around so fast everything blurred. "What?

You never told me that."

Abby shrugged. "How was I to know it would be me? What if it

were someone else?"

"There is no one else." Anger smacked him like bucket of cold

water to the face, and it just as quickly left when he realized that she was justified in doubting him.

The servants and Camille's eyes were bouncing to the speakers like

they were watching a cricket match, with none of them touching their

food. He had to press his advantage now, before she regained this stupid notion that their classes were too far apart.

"I'll ask you one more time, Abby. Will you marry me?"

Now all the attention was focused on Abby, waiting for her answer.

"Yes," she said, into her plate.

The table cheered, and the wait staff congratulated each other until

the butler gathered them all to go out and clear the bowls for the next

course.

Caden squeezed Abby's hand and started to eat.

139

D'ARC, GALE, KENT, MARCH

Caden's hands ran up her ribs and cupped her breasts, lifting them to

his mouth, rolling one nipple between his fingers while he sucked the

other, then switching. Abby moaned and hung her head back, her hair

like a spider's web against the small of her back, feeling like silk against her skin. Every nerve in her body was alive and singing, not only for

being with Caden, but the emotion of her love that washed over her like

an incoming tide. How her heart hammered, how her senses rushed,

firing underneath her skin, her ears and mouth.

He let go of her nipple with a pop and trailed his mouth down her

ribs, past her stomach to the hollow of her hip. His breath teased her

curls with his fingers following, spreading her open and letting the cool hit her, making her shiver with how naked she was. She tried to stay still on the bed, but the sheets were crushed in her hands as she clenched and unclenched them. He teased and nipped, licking and sucking until she

rode an edge of pleasure that was sharp and frantic. As he darted his

tongue in and around she lifted her hips to make him fill her more, until he splayed his hands on her keeping her pinned as he pushed her off the

edge, her pussy clenching on nothing and wanting more.

"Fill me." She meant it to be a request, but it came out a demand.

"Tsk, tsk. Say please, and I just might help you."

"Horrid man. Fuck me." She tried to pull him up but he was

immoveable. "Please!"

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

She nipped him on the shoulder as he slid in and he arched his hips,

lifting her, taunting back.

He rocked into her. "Are you happy?"

"What kind of question is that?"

He pulled out and rocked back in, taking her breath away and

wiping the questions out of her mind. His questions, not hers. Hers still thrummed in her ears like a mosquito. Why her? Why did he love her,

when he could have had any other woman out there?

140

FORTUNE'S FOOL

His rocking became more steady, even and deep and he gripped her

thighs, pulling her towards him and anchoring her there. She knew he

was getting close, but he wasn't pulling out like he'd always done before.

Then as the realization dawned on her she looked at him, on his

knees on the bed, now with her thighs held up around his hips. His face

was set and he stared at her, her breasts bounced with every thrust and

she knew he knew the same thing, the intensity of his eyes burning her

with the knowledge. She could have said no, but an enormous wave of

lust and love crashed over her taking all of her words away.

The tightly sprung coil flew and he was so deep that as he followed

she felt the warm shots of liquid fill her with each spasm sending her into another shattering climax, like stars bursting inside her body.

He eased himself off to her side and wrapped a piece of hair around

his finger.

"You didn't answer me."

She curled into him. "I'm happy."

"That sounds more like a question rather than a statement."

"I am happy." She kissed his chest, his hair crisp under her lips. She ran her fingers through the hair where her lips had just been and felt his heartbeat. Time seemed to stand still while they lay in the bed, even

though shadows crept up the walls and the sun had gone down long ago.

Hazy twilight and the down quilt they lay under cocooned them and kept

the spring evening chill away. It was drowsy and safe there, lying in his arms and contentment seeped into her bones knowing that this was how

every night for the rest of her life would be. She was very happy.

"I love you, you know. I wanted to tell you before, but it sounded

trite for some reason."

When she remembered to breathe it was a gasp. The words filled her

mouth but didn't leave it. Why, when this was what she wanted could she

not just say them?

"It's fine if you can't say them back."

His words sounded flat to her though, and her heart pounded with

having hurt him. It wasn't that she didn't love him, she did. What she

couldn't understand was why he loved her.

He stopped playing with her hair and turned her around, pulling her

into him.

"Do you think you could love me, eventually?" he said, into her hair.

141

D'ARC, GALE, KENT, MARCH

How did this successful, handsome man think that she didn't love

him? She loved him enough to leave him, hoping that he would find

someone more suitable. What was remarkable was even with all his

friends, and his money, he needed her love for him. Suddenly not saying

the words seemed cruel.

"I love you," she said. "I love the way you help people without telling anyone. I love the way you're honest. How you never gave up

hope for us. That, I love most of all."

He was so quiet she thought he'd fallen asleep.

"I love you for demanding that I respect you. I loved you before, but now it's so much more." He kissed the top of her head and pulled her to him. "I grew up very poor, you know."

"I read that in your hand. One of the first times I read your palm."

"I used to find my dinners in the alley garbage," he said, muffled into her hair.

A spear of pain shot through her, but she knew one thing he'd never

want was her pity.

"But you never let that stop you," she whispered.

"No. But I still dream about it every now and then. Just in case I

scare you."

"You won't scare me. Nothing can scare me, apart from me losing

you."

"I yell sometimes when I dream that they're throwing things at me."

Her throat swelled and got raw. "How old were you?"

"Eight and nine."

"Where were your parents?"

"My mother just left one day. I think she got tired of trying to feed me when she couldn't even feed herself. One day she just never came

home."

She wanted to be angry at his mother, but she just felt sick. That a

little boy at eight had to grow up so fast. And here she thought that her childhood was hard by being her mother's daughter. At least there was

food on the table and two parents who loved her. Being a misfit seemed

nothing more than a minor inconvenience. At least she had parents who

adored her. She was ashamed of herself for not realizing there were

worse ways to suffer, and dwelling on her perceived problems.

Abby could feel the tension running through his muscles, waiting

for action.

"I understand if it disgusts you. If you want me to leave."

142

FORTUNE'S FOOL

She rolled over and took his face in her hands. "That boy who

fought to make his way is the man I love. All of that made you. Your

relentlessness and hard work. Your ability to see a person's potential and not their station in life."

He touched her forehead with his. "You still want to get married?"

"Of course I do."

She pulled his hand to her and traced the lines on his palm with her

fingertip. "You have a long lifeline and a major joining with a woman who loves you more than you understand. She doesn't love you despite

your upbringing and flaws, she loves you because of them." She kissed his fingertips and he closed his eyes. "You will have a long marriage and three children."

"Four. I want four children."

Her heart skipped. "And you will have four children," she said back.

143

D'ARC, GALE, KENT, MARCH

Flesh and Bone

Selah March

144

FORTUNE'S FOOL

Also by Selah March

Moondance

To Have and Have Not

145

D'ARC, GALE, KENT, MARCH

An artfully lit stage at the back of the club. A tall bench covered in
padded leather. The scent of cologne. Fresh sweat. Old blood.

These things never change, no matter how often Leah dreams them.

She can feel the edge of the bench digging into her diaphragm, and

the restraints around her wrists. The muscles in the backs of her legs
strain to keep her balanced on her toes. To keep her shoulders down and
her hips high, as she's been instructed. The blood rushes to her head.

Pounds in her ears, drowning the murmurs of the gathered audience. She
doesn't lift her eyes or turn her head to look at the people assembled to
watch the performance. She'll have to face them soon enough. Next time,
when it's her turn to handle the crop or the flogger. Them, or people very
much like them.

A hand descends on the back of her naked thigh. The touch is quick,

and so are the words that accompany it. "I'll make this as easy as I can."

Now she turns her head, trying to catch a glimpse of the owner of

the voice. Male, deep and warm—unusual in this place of so many

women. Men don't wield the implements here. The Madre is firm on that
point. So, tonight there is a difference in the dream.

But it hardly matters who lifts the crop over her bare ass and thighs
so long as he or she brings it down with enough force to bite. To leave a
mark. To make her flinch, then push her hips higher still in anticipation
of the next sharp strike. Because this is who she is—one who craves bliss
shot through with pain, like veins of crimson in perfect white marble.

Suffering underlined with the bold purple ink of pleasure. The shape of
the dream and her desire never changes. Only the details.

Tonight the details include this man, who applies the crop with

special attention, taking care not to strike over the same place twice. To
make the sting electric, but not overwhelming, so that her whole body
hums and tingles with sensation. Soon enough, she's fighting the need to
grind herself into the horse's padded bolster, to relieve the pulsing ache
in her cunt. But she won't because that's been forbidden, and even

146

FORTUNE'S FOOL

knowing none of this is real, she fears the consequences of disobedience
in which the pain is not tempered with pleasure, but pushed to an

extreme that would leave her broken in body and spirit.

The fortieth blow falls, and it's finished. She trembles, taut and

panting, anticipating the finale. The touch returns to her thigh. Climbs
higher. Skims over the raised welts ever so gently, making her moan. Her
legs shake, the muscles spasm with the strain of holding her hips so high.

The twisting agony merges with the thick, wet pulse in her pussy and the
pounding in her brain.

"What do you want?" he whispers. It startles her, breaking the
moment. It's not supposed to happen this way. She chooses to submit.

After that, the choice is no longer hers. She becomes an empty vessel
waiting to be filled with sensation for the entertainment of the patrons.

He moves around to stand near her head. She turns her face toward

him, but he's too close and she can't twist her neck that way. She can
only see his hands, holding the crop. Large and square, with long, blunt
fingers. A scar on the back of the right one, shaped like a crescent moon.

She closes her eyes and hears the sound of breaking glass. The shatter is
muffled by distance and time.

"Do you want this? Tell me, Leah."

The crowd mutters, displeased. They'd come to see a show. To see a

submissive pushed to her limits, made to plead and beg and cry. Maybe
with a little humiliation and loss of dignity for an encore.

Any moment now, one of the acolytes would appear to drag them

away—Leah and this unknown man—to face the consequences. The

Madre would punish her for breaking her vows. Or force her and the