Read Raine: The Lords of Satyr Online
Authors: Elizabeth Amber
Tags: #Erotic fiction, #Italy, #Erotica, #Historical fiction, #Fiction
Raine: The Lords of Satyr (26 page)
J
ordan woke slowly. Her cock was stiff and her pussy was wet. She’d had a new dream during the night as she lay in bed beside her husband of only three days. A wonderful dream. It was the kind that was so rich in color and detail that it was difficult to believe it hadn’t actually occurred.
But she knew it would one day.
It was the sort of dream that she had now. No longer were her dreams full of obscure hints of doom. Now they foretold of joyful fates and destinies. Of her future.
Under Raine’s continued tutelage, she’d learned to filter the visions that came to her in the hours of darkness. Nightmares were kept leashed and at bay.
The dream that had visited her this night had come in three parts. The first had begun on the morning of her next birthday—her twentieth, only eight months from now…
In the dream, she’d awakened, sitting up in bed with a gasp. It was morning. Her birthday. Her heart pounded in her ears and dread prickled over her body. Salerno would be here soon. She pulled the bedcovers aside, preparing to run. She wouldn’t go with him this time, she swore to herself. She wouldn’t subject herself to the degradation of another birthday spent pinned by a thousand eyes and lashed by the curious tongues of strangers.
Then Raine’s arms had come around her waist, pulling her back into the haven of his muscled chest. She’d slapped and clawed him at first, still caught in the grip of old fears. Then she recalled where she was and who held her. The tattoo of her heart had slowly calmed and she’d relaxed into his strength.
He’d stroked her hair and kissed her, murmuring sweet love words. With his touch, he’d soothed and softened the horror and humiliation of all the other birthdays that had come before.
Then, in the way of dreams, she’d unexpectedly found herself in the midst of a different scene—the second in the dream sequence.
It had been a celebration that same day, held outside on the lawn of Raine’s home. Hers and Raine’s home now.
And the whole Satyr clan had been there. Jane and Nick had their son Vincent in tow as well as Jane’s sister Emma, who had grown half a foot taller and was looking quite the lady.
It had been a festive occasion marking Jordan’s twentieth birthday. And Jane’s, as well. And that of yet a third sister. All had been born within a year of one another and of the same father—an ElseWorld king. With each birthday, revelry commenced for all three daughters regardless of whose factual birth was being marked, so it was almost as though each had three birthdays a year.
Lyon had been in attendance, along with his new bride—the third FaerieBlend sister. She was feminine and petite with polished manners and a lustrous mane of hair the color of almonds. Her vocabulary had been sprinkled with French, and her easy laughter and temperament seemed well matched to Lyon’s. It pleased Jordan to note that he stayed by her side, unconsciously touching her now and then as though to reassure himself this confection of womanhood was real and his.
In turn, his wife had seemed equally smitten, feeding him bits of cake as though he were a favored, overgrown pet. She’d been affectionate toward Jordan and Jane as well.
There had been mountains of gifts for all three sisters, all expensive and innovative as each brother vied to top the other with his extravagance. Wine and laughter had flowed freely. There had been no room for sorrow on this birthday.
Then the dream had shifted again to yet a third and final scene.
It had been that same night, in the sacred glen. Raine had taken her there for a more private sort of celebration. She wore a frothy nightgown of Florentine design, one of his many gifts to her that day. He was already naked, his clothing scattered on the moss around them. Overhead, the moon was a three-quarter slice and diamond stars glittered and winked.
His cock was thick and ruddy with desire, and it pressed urgently against her belly as he drew her close. Moonful would come just days later, and his passions were building in preparation.
In one hand, he held a precious silver box carved with ancient designs and words that told her it had originated in ElseWorld.
“Another gift?” she’d asked when he offered it to her.
He’d only nodded, but his eyes told her this gift would be the most important of all those he’d given her that day. Solemnly, she’d opened the hinged silk-lined box and lifted out a single strand of satin coiled within. A gold ribbon.
When she’d looked at him in question, Raine had held his hands out to her, with the insides of his wrists pressed together.
In the pitch velvet of night, he whispered to her. “Happy birthday, my love.”
And then she’d understood that he hadn’t just gifted her with a single ribbon. It was more. Much more. For this one night, he was giving her the gift of sexual control. A chance to exercise her male side.
“Oh, Raine,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. Silver and black met and held.
He watched as she took the yard-long ribbon, wrapped it around his wrists several times, and then tied it off, leaving the long ends to dangle. She brushed a hand over the bond, enjoying the sight of the fragile satin tethering his masculine strength.
Glancing around the ring of statues and altars, she searched for a place to begin. “Where?” she asked him, anxious now.
“You choose,” he told her. His voice was low, his passions stirred.
A thrill slipped up her spine.
She led him by the arm to a circular altar with three statues standing at its far side and an unencumbered slab of granite occupying the front half of its circumference. It had been her favorite of those in the glen ever since she’d first seen it. All three figures were nymphs, dressed in frothy veils. But unlike many of the other female statues here, these nymphs worshipped no one. They were hermaphrodites, their bodies shaped like hers.
Raine knelt before her, his face turned up to hers. She parted the front of her gown for him and his eyes found her cock. His head jutted forward and his tongue lashed out, licking upward from its root with one long, slick stroke until he had her plum. How easily it slipped inside the juicy, hot cavern of his mouth.
She cradled his jaw gently in her palms, feeling the muscles and tendons at work as he suckled her. Her head fell back and her hands curved around his neck, brushing under the fringed length of his hair. If he kept this up, she was going to…
He stood and presented her with his back. Hands outstretched, he bent at the waist to lie chest-down over the altar with arms loosely extended overhead. With shaking fingers, she tied the ends of the ribbons that bound him around a slender stone ankle of one of the hermaphrodites. She glanced up into its knowing eyes, sensing that it would enjoy what was to come almost as much as she would.
Jordan tested his bonds. They were delicate against his strength and something he could easily elude if he chose to. But he wouldn’t try, she knew. That was part of his gift to her. For this special night—to celebrate her birthday and her freedom from domination—he was hers to command.
She found a position behind him and smoothed her palms over the taut muscles of his buttocks. She parted the front of the lacy, feminine nightgown and her cock peeked out, intrigued.
A fierce need to take him in this way swelled her shaft thicker than it had ever been. She slicked a finger with her mouth, then rouged it over the crinkled brown aperture within the crease of his rear. She tucked the finger inside, testing the firm grip of him. The muscles of his buttocks clenched and he shuddered. Her rod twitched with anticipation.
“Relax,” she told him, in much the same way he’d once instructed her.
She braced a hand atop the altar alongside his rib and pressed her groin high between his legs, coddling his balls with her own. She drew back slightly and with her hand directed her cock to his threshold.
Holding his hip bone with her other hand, she parted his inner thighs with her knees. Then slowly, slowly, she pressed forward. Inward. Deeper. Deeper still. Until her mound met his ass.
Raine exhaled on a hoarse groan and his hands clenched on his golden bonds. Muscles flexed and rippled over his back.
She withdrew and pierced him again. “You’re tight,” she told him. “Good.”
“Bacchus. Yesss,” he agreed. His voice was choked, fevered.
She reached under his belly and found his hard, throbbing cock. She stroked it from root to crown in time with each thrust she administered.
Their breathing turned harsh, synchronized. She let go of his shaft and gripped his hips, losing herself in the ecstasy of the moment…
There, she lost the dream as well.
Blinking awake, she stared at Raine’s handsome face asleep on the pillow next to hers. Whisper soft, she caressed his stubbled cheek, careful not to rouse him. When she looked at him on the morrow, her eyes would hold a precious, sweet, thrilling secret—the knowledge of what was to occur between them on the night she reached the age of twenty.
This would be one birthday that could not come soon enough.
She looked forward to it.
Grape phylloxera is a tiny aphidlike insect that feeds on the roots of grapevines, stunting their growth or killing them. The pest was accidentally imported to England and France on American vines around 1862. It reproduced with devastating speed, and by the end of the 19th century, phylloxera had destroyed two-thirds of Europe’s vineyards.
The destruction was eventually halted by the discovery that this nearly microscopic insect does not attack the roots of American grapevines. By grafting the rootstock of European vines onto American ones and replanting vineyards with the new grafted stocks, Europe’s wine grape industry was saved.
For the purposes of this story, the date of the infestation is set at approximately thirty-nine years prior to the actual date. In addition, the account of how the phylloxera problem was solved has been fictionalized in the series, and all characters involved in that process herein are products of the author’s imagination.
This book is a work of fiction. Dialogue and events are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, groups, or individual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Cumberland, England, 1800
S
weet mother! What a blunder she’d made! Jane’s hand shot to her mouth, and she bit the skin of her palm.
Jonathan had never loved her. He lied.
Tears blurred her vision and streamed down her cheeks. She tripped and stumbled, barely seeing the wooded trail before her. The flesh of her sex burned, and her legs ached. How she needed a nice long soak in a tub and time to sort this out. Dash it!
When had she misunderstood his intentions? They had been secretly touching and kissing behind his tavern for months. The whole town thought they would marry. Then, today at the fair, they’d snuck into the woods.
“Lovely, lovely Jane, ye give me a tickle, won’t ye, love?” The smell of the ale from his breath wafted about her.
She shouldn’t, but how she fancied him. What could it matter?
“You will marry me?” she breathed into his hair, her head spinning in aroused bliss.
He grunted as her touch ran down his muscled back.
He’d grunted! Her teeth ground together as she ran without seeing the trail before her. Sweet mother! He had never said he would wed her. She had craved his touch and the feelings he created in her so madly she’d mistook the grunt as an affirmation of his designs.
She’d given her innocence to a man who had no intentions of wedding her. Her fingers clutched her stomach. She could be with child, and she had no way to take care of a babe nor herself. Daft, truly daft.
Her head spun. She gasped for air as her legs tangled in her skirts, and she tripped, landing, limbs spread wide on the hard, damp earth. Oh. She lay, lungs burning, unable to breathe, and closed her eyes. Her entire life had changed in one act of wanton misdeed. She would pull herself together. She would find a way if she carried a child, but for now…she would grieve while no one could see her.
“Lovely Jane.” He buttoned up his trousers as he inhaled a deep breath, the crisp air clouding as he exhaled. “Not bad for a green tickle, and no worries about the clap.”
The clap. He’d rutted with her like she was no better than a tavern wench. He loved her. He said he loved her. Her eyes closed as tears welled.
“’Twas a lovely, Jane. Ye have a sweet little honeypot. Take good care of it and we’ll come out here again sometime.” He turned and headed off into the trees.
By God. What had she done?
With her face down in the dirt, tears silently ran down her face. Her limbs trembled, and her head spun. She hadn’t cried in an age. The act depleted and exhausted her.
Pull yourself together, Jane.
With a sob, she straightened and got to her feet on shaking legs. She was a wealthy merchant’s daughter. He was friends with her pa. How dare he treat her ill?
Panic grabbed at her heart.
This act ruined her prospects of a normal life and brought shame on her family name. Her father’s business would suffer. How could she be so selfish? Her family, she held dear.
Frantic, her gaze darted around the forest. Nothing but trees.
Think, think, you fool….
Her fingers pinched the bridge of her nose. She would go to Jonathan and beg him not to say a word. Dash it all. Her eyes squeezed shut.
If she could only figure a way out of the woods. She held her breath, listening for any sounds from the fair. Nothing. What is the rule? Follow the sun and it will lead you to the north…. No…. Sweet mother, she should have listened to her father when he talked about directions.
She stepped toward the setting sun; pain spread through her ankle and up her leg, and her temples throbbed. Ouch! She put weight on her leg and swayed. She could limp but not far.
The forest grew darker. Where was she? She hobbled up the path. Dash it all. Lost, that’s where. She picked up her pace. Frost eased up around her heart, and she pushed aching dreams down. Just ahead, a road loomed, and the sun dipped below the horizon. The lane, rutted and ill used, surely led somewhere….
Thunder cracked in the distance as she stared up at the large wooden door. Darkness brewed, and she passed not a soul on the road to this place. The house stood four stories tall, with huge spires that reached to the sky. She had resided in Cumberland for five years, and not once had she heard of an estate such as this. Lifting her hand, she knocked as rain plummeted to the earth in large wet thunks behind her.
She knocked again; shivers raced over her skin. The door creaked open.
“May I help you, ma’am?”
“Oh, indeed.” She practically jumped at the man sticking his head out of the small crack. “I’m lost and injured.” She pointed to her ankle. “And, well, you see, it is beginning to rain. Would it be possible for me to stay here this night? I could sleep in the kitchen or…or…the barn. I shan’t be any trouble.”
The man’s eyes went wide behind his round spectacles, and his face twisted in what looked like horror.
“I…I…know this is highly irregular, but please?”
He schooled his features back to a serious line. “I’m sorry, ma’am. There is no safe way for you to stay here.”
Safe? “Pardon?”
Oh, please just let me in.
The wind whipped up and blew down the last of her pinned-up hair. A shiver racked her body, and her teeth chattered.
“Oh…Oh…” He glanced into the house. “Very well, ma’am. You will do as I say, do my bidding exclusively. Without fail. Women should not be in this house.”
He was concerned about propriety? What a jest! She was ruined. Tears touched her eyes in shame, and she shook them away. What silliness! This man possessed no way of knowing that.
“I will do as you wish, sir.” She had no choice. Either she stepped into this house and escaped drowning in one of Cumberland’s deluges, or she would try to find her way back in the dark and probably die. She cringed. That was a bit too pessimistic, but she just couldn’t go another step this night.
He hesitated and then opened the door just enough to admit her. She slid into the darkened hall and glanced around. A grand staircase stood twisting up to the roof. Dim light shone through a window above the door and illuminated the entry and the paintings that covered the walls. Where did the stair lead? An eerie chill raced up her spine, and she stepped forward, eager to see what lay at their end.
“This way, miss.”
Startled, she spun around and followed the servant down a hall that went off to the left of the entry.
“I will put you in the east wing. You will lock your door. Every bolt. I will bring you warm water to wash. After, admit no one to your room.”
A bit protective for a servant, but then again, maybe his master was a real curmudgeon. The last thing she wanted was to end up back out in the rain now. “Very well, sir. I have no wish for you to lose your post. I can surely sleep in the kitchen.”
“No!” His voice was a sharp shrill.
Her brows drew together as her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the hall they trod down. Why was he so nervous?
“Until I tell Lord Tremarctos you are staying with us, you will stay out of sight.” The man swallowed hard. His hand moved upward as though to tweak his collar and then stopped midair as he glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
Odd! Surely she had nothing to fear. Besides, tiredness ruled her, and the events from the day shook her so terribly it would be no problem to stay locked behind a door in this house.
This house…. Her gaze darted around the hall, and she almost stopped and spun on the spot. What a beautiful house! The floors shone of a dark, polished marble. The doors stood floor to ceiling with massive iron hinges bigger than anything she had ever seen.
In the dim light she could tell that the house shone with delights she would never see again. Truly a pity. She wished she could see every detail. They turned a corner, and she followed the man up three flights of narrow servants’ stairs. At the top of the hall another male servant approached, and the man who let her in waved his hand, calling him to them.
“Bring me hot water, a pitcher, and have Jack send up tea with cheese and biscuits.”
“Sir.” The man inclined his head and stared at her as she passed.
Her attire was a mess! Nevertheless, politeness dictated that he shouldn’t stare. Her fingers picked at the mud that covered her dress, and her gaze settled on her dirt-splattered hands. She rolled her eyes. Just her luck! Finally she saw the inside of a fancy house, and she looked as if she’d spent the day gathering greens from the garden.
Halfway down the hall, they stopped and he pushed open a door. She stepped across the threshold and stopped. Her eyes widened, settling on the well-appointed room. “Oh, sir, a servant’s room will suffice.”
“No, ma’am. None of the servants’ rooms have doors. And…well, you promised to lock yourself in.”
She turned as he bent to light the fire in the grate. The sputtering flame cast more light into the dark room. Oh, how she wanted to get warm, wash the filth from her body, and curl up in that huge, heavenly bed. Her mouth dropped open. My goodness, the mattress was enormous; the posters were carved but with such dim light she couldn’t see the design.
The linens looked a scrumptious deep shade, too dark to discern in the glow from the fire. The image of her lying on deep scarlet silk, naked, flashed before her. Her hair spread across the pillows as a lover caressed her thighs, his head between her legs, licking the entrance to her womb. Her knees wobbled as tingles scorched through her sex. Oh, my! Her hand shot to her mouth in shock, and she shook herself, trying to erase the image from her mind.
Never in her life had such thoughts entered her head. When she imagined the act with Jonathan, loving never involved a bed, and never with his mouth there. Her hand smoothed down the front of her dress to the apex of her thighs. Would kissing there be pleasurable? Her cheeks flushed warm, and she snatched her hand away. Thank goodness no one could see her thoughts!
She was tired; that was all. The man who had passed them brought up water and filled a tub for her to wash in; he was followed by a gentleman with a tea tray. She waited until they left, bolted the door as requested, and then sat down on the chair by the fire. Tears trickled down her face; they were the last she would allow because of Jonathan. Tomorrow would be a new day, and she would find a way out of this mess. But tonight…she let herself cry once more.
A noise pierced her slumber. What was that?
The sound increased as her eyes fluttered open to darkness. The fire in the fireplace burned no more, and the rain outside fell in a deafening pour.
Crack.
Lightning lit the edges of the curtain as a scratching from the other side of the door grew louder. Her heart increased to a fast beat. What was that? A dog?
She pushed back the covers, scrambled to her feet, and crossed the icy room to the door.
She shivered as she stood before the white painted wood. Her gaze scanned the line of eight locks the servant had requested she bolt. She had felt silly when she listened to him, but his nervousness about letting a woman stay here made her wonder what lay beyond that door. Leaning toward the door she placed her ear to the crack.
Sniff, sniff
. A low rumble of a growl came from the opposite side. “I can smell you.”
Sniff.
“The virgin’s blood, the semen, dripping from you.”
She jumped and scrambled back, an arm’s reach from the door in outrage. How…how could anyone know what she did today? She had washed…thoroughly. There was no possible way anyone could smell her folly. Was this a dream?
“Who…who is there?” Her voice wavered as she reached out and touched the bolts she had thrown that night.
“Let me in.” The growl, so low and throaty, made the hairs on her neck stand. “Let me taste what you have so freely given to another.”
She continued to stare at the door; shame and panic boiled through her body until her body shook. The scratching increased. The sniffs echoed as if the person outside her door stood beside her. “Let me in…. Let me in….” the raspy growlrang, and sweat slid down her back.
It would not give up. Somehow she sensed it.
The sound of something dragging widened her eyes, and with a bang, the door shook on its hinges. “Let me in, damn you!” It howled in outrage. “I will have you. There will be no denying me.”
“No…. go. Leave me be!” She yelled into the blackness and stepped back from the door as the wood once again shook and creaked with the weight of the pounding.
This surely was a dream. Nothing like this could be real.
Her body shook, her gaze stuck on the door.
Please let the locks hold firm.
A sharp cry of pain came from the other side of the door, and a breath tickled her neck. Her hand shot to that spot as she spun, expecting to see someone there. Nothing. The curtains blew, and the window snapped open with a crack.
Dash it all! She jumped and hurried for the window. The wind howled, blowing her hair back from her face in a gust. She grasped the sodden wood in her hands and tugged; She stared out at the night. Rain came down in sheets, and as the wood frame clicked shut, lightning lit up the gardens below.
A figure clung to the wall at the base of the building. Crimson eyes stared up at her. She gasped, bolted the window, and pushed away from the glass, the curtain falling back as—she swore—the eyes emerged above the edge of the sill.
The cry rang in her head once more. Her heart pounding, she spun and stared at the door.
Nothing. Not a sound except the pounding in her heart. Her body shook uncontrollably as every shadow in the room moved, alive and coming for her.
This is just a dream.
Close your eyes and things will all get better.
She jumped, nerves taut as she stumbled back to the bed and crawled up on the mattress. Her eyes darted back and forth between the window and the door, searching for anything she could make out in the black, but all stayed still.
Just close your eyes and things will be well. In the morning you can leave this place for home.
