The Dove Formatted

  Contents

  Copyright

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  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  EPILOGUE

  Free Book Offer

  Submitting to the Marquis

  More by Victoria Vale

  About the Author

  The Villain

  Victoria Vale

  Copyright 2018 by Victoria Vale

  Edited by Zee Monodee (Divas at Work Editing)

  Cover Art & Formatting by Victoria Vale

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, laces, or people, living or dead, is coincidental.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  London 1819

  he sting of cold stones against the bottoms of her bare feet reverberated up her legs, the frigid air lashing at her calves as she held her skirts aloft and ran. Her heart thundered, and her lungs burned as she struggled to breathe past the knot of fear lodged in her throat. The surface of her skin fairly tingled with awareness, the hairs on the back of her neck rising to stand on end. Glancing over her shoulder, she kept going, desperate to outrun the monster chasing her through the winding corridors of the dark, ominous castle. Torchlight cast shadows against the walls, and behind her, the hallway loomed like a never-ending tunnel with no bends nor turns.

  Her eyes told her that nothing chased her, that the corridor behind her remained empty. Yet, her body, her very soul, told her something else.

  He was coming.

  The beast who had tormented her for weeks, torn her apart and made her like it … he was on her heels, breathing down her neck, snorting fire and ash. He delighted in torturing her, toying with her like a cat playing with a mouse before sinking its teeth in and ripping it to shreds.

  Fear twisted in her gut, even as anticipation flooded her senses, her lips parting to allow the taste of the pursuit to dance upon her tongue. His scent clung to the air around her, the constant reminder of his presence unrelenting. Cedar … smoke … masculine musk. She could smell him, taste him, hear his voice in her head.

  “Yes, little dove,” he rasped in the dark, his words echoing down the corridor. “Run! You know how I love to chase you.”

  His demented laughter echoed from the walls around her, vibrating through her entire being. A desperate cry fell from her lips—part fear, part arousal. Her palms were as damp as the mound between her thighs.

  Something slammed into her from behind, and she was thrown forward, face first onto the unrelenting stone floor. She gasped, struggling to recapture the breath that had been knocked from her. Kicking and flailing, she fought against the hands clutching her ankles and dragging her back into the darkness … into the jaw of the beast.

  “No,” she whispered, even as he climbed over her, pinning her to the floor with his hard, massive body. “Please … no!”

  Her lips protested, but her body surrendered, her back easing into a deep arch when he grasped a handful of her hair and yanked. She cried out, her scalp stinging and her shoulders aching, her cunt pulsing with need and her nipples going to stiff points. She could not see him, but she felt him, his thighs straddling her hips, the press of his chest against her back, the rasp of the stubble on his jaw against her ear, the sweep of his long, dark hair falling around her like a curtain. The hard ridge of his thick cock resting against her buttocks.

  She heard him, his breath heavy and rasping from the exertions of the chase, his deep, resonant voice when he spoke.

  “Mine,” he grunted in her ear.

  Then, he was pressing her head against the stones, holding her captive with a brutal hold on her hair as he began snatching her skirts up. She squirmed beneath him; yet, he only laughed again, shoving a rough hand between her legs. Her screams of terror melted into whimpers of delight as he stroked her, invaded her with his fingers.

  “Please,” she moaned, lifting her hips to invite him in deeper, the salt of her tears flooding her mouth as she wept. “Please … just let me go!”

  The blunt tip of his prick touched her entrance, his mouth grazing her neck as he poised to enter her. His teeth scraped her earlobe, sending a shudder through her.

  “Never,” he rasped, just before shoving the full length of his cock inside her sheath.

  Lady Daphne Fairchild awoke with a jolt, her lips parted on a cry that echoed through her bedchamber. As her mind slowly floated up out of her vivid dream, she absorbed her surroundings.

  The mauve damask canopy and sheer white curtains surrounding her bed tinted the light of the morning sun, turning the air around her into a soft pink haze. The matching sheets and counterpane were soaked with her sweat while dampened strands of hair clung to her face and neck. Her nightgown adhered to her skin, and the cool air caused by a waning fire made her break out in goose bumps. She would have liked to blame her hard, aching nipples on the chill in the air, but her yearning cunt proclaimed the truth.

  As frightening as her dream had been, her body had become aroused.

  With a heavy sigh, she plopped back onto the pillows and closed her eyes, slowing her breaths and trying to bring her galloping heart down to a normal cadence.

  Behind her lowered eyelids, remnants of the dream flickered and flashed. Her nipples tingled as she remembered the feel of Adam’s chest against her back, his breath in her ear. Her inner channel clenched at the memory of his cock shoving into her. Whimpering, she bit her lower lip, squeezing her legs together to try to stifle the pounding between them … to smother the unrelenting desire that seemed to plague her day and night.

  The sensation only increased, her depraved longing becoming too strong to ignore.

  Releasing a frustrated huff, she reached beneath the bedclothes and lifted the hem of her nightgown. She would never be able to leave this bed until she did something about the agitation overwhelming her entire body. Tossing the bedclothes aside with one hand, she palmed the mound between her legs with the other, hissing from between clenched teeth on contact. She was swollen, aching, pulsating in time with each beat of her racing heart. Sinking a finger between her lower lips, she encountered her engorged clit and started agitating it with slow circles. Staring at the canopy hanging overhead, she released a sigh of relief, allowing her legs to fall open and her body to relax into the mattress.

  Self-pleasure was not something she had done often before the thirty days and nights she had spent in Scotland, entombed in Castle Dunnottar. Now, however, she could hardly go two days without the need to climax, without relief from the longing that gnawed at her gut.

  In truth, there were many things she’d never done before entering her ill-fated agreement with Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor. She had never allowed a man to shove his cock down her throat or penetrate her every orifice. She had never delighted in being spanked, or choked, or debased in the countless ways he had thought to use her. Yet, not only had she allowed it all, she had enjoyed it all. Every unseemly act.

  Another sound of impatience simmered in her throat, and she quickened her strokes, the soft pads of her fingers hardly affecting her
. She needed calloused hands and a commanding touch. She needed a rough, masculine voice in her ear and the brutal clench of a hand on the back of her neck.

  She needed dominance.

  Closing her eyes once more, she did something she had promised herself she would never do again … She thought of him.

  Raising her hips from the bed, she slipped two fingers into her sheath, then a third, trying to fill herself the way Adam did. A moan fell from her as she ground against her own hand, imagining his large body on top of her, his fist wrapped around her hair and bending her neck to near-impossible angles. She slammed her fingers into herself, the heel of her hand making contact with her clit with each thrust.

  She became the wanton he’d often accused her of being, forgetting the risk of her lady’s maid walking in on her, not caring that her small household staff might hear her moaning and panting as she pleasured herself. All that mattered was easing the ache, scratching the itch, finding a moment of perfect oblivion.

  It was not the same; yet, her body fed off her memories, hurtling toward climax. Her breath came out on a sharp cry as release unfurled from her center, light spasms gripping her fingers while her clit pulsed and fluttered against her palm.

  Her tense muscles relaxed as she used shaking hands to lower her nightgown back over her legs. Her breath had slowed a bit, but her pulse still raced. The heady feeling that typically followed an orgasm faded swiftly … much faster than it ever had, leaving her bereft. Biting her lip, she blinked back tears, the moment of pleasure not near enough to ease the ache in her heart, the pain caused by waking up the same way she had each morning for the past three months. Cold, shivering, and alone.

  One of the tears splashed her cheek, tracing a hot path toward her hairline. Shaking her head, she tried to get a hold of herself. It was ridiculous, really. She mourned the presence of a man who had not only callously used her, but who had tossed her aside when he’d finished.

  When Daphne had left London, riding off to Scotland in search of answers, she had never expected for things to turn out the way they had. She had hoped to confront the man who’d spent five years ruining her family, to demand an explanation for Lord Hartmoor’s vendetta against her father, uncle, and brother.

  She had gotten those answers—in exchange for her maidenhead. Thirty days and nights in his bed had been the price she’d paid for the truth … yet, she had lost so much more than that. Not only had she surrendered her virginity, but she had also been robbed of her innocence. She’d ridden to Dunnottar to confront the villain who had been plaguing her family, only to find he was not the villain, after all … but a black knight seeking vengeance for the things her family had done to his.

  She had paid the penance for them all, letting Adam use her body and destroy her reputation. He had done much more than that, however. He had also exposed her innermost longings, giving her a taste of the sort of pleasure she had once been afraid of, but had begun to crave at his hand. He had even led her to believe that he might care about her, regardless of the evils her family had committed against his. Despite knowing she should guard her heart from him, she had let her guard down and given freely of herself. While one part of her had never forgotten who and what he was, some other part—a foolish, reckless part—had let him in.

  Now, despite the hundreds of miles separating them, or the amount of time they’d been apart, she was hard-pressed to remove him from her mind. Even her body still echoed with the resounding effect of his touch.

  “You bloody fool,” she chastised herself with a sob. “He achieved his aims and is now finished with you. It is over.”

  A fresh wave of tears welled in her eyes, the feeling of betrayal lashing against her like the blow of a whip. During her last night at Dunnottar, he had used her, brutally and exquisitely. Then, he had bathed the sweat and stains of his seed from her body and carried her back to his bed, laying her down and making love to her, his tenderness at odds with his earlier treatment. He had kissed her and held her and whispered in her ear—words that had given her hope … that had made her believe there could be more between them than hatred, pain, and vengeance.

  Yet, the following morning, she had awakened alone, greeted by a servant who would prepare her for the journey home. He had not even come out of his study to see her off, to say good-bye, to …

  “What did you expect?” she groused, dashing her away tears with angry swipes of her hands. “He was never going to ask you to stay.”

  Sitting up in bed, she gathered the strength to stand, to put aside her depressing thoughts. She would not allow herself to sink into melancholy or to mourn the touch of a man who would rather kill her than kiss her. He had used her, yes, but she had gained something from him, as well. Independence. Money. Freedom.

  She was now a wealthy woman, in possession of a fortune even greater than what her dowry had been. The funds had been meant for her family, to set right the debt that they had incurred. She could even have used part of it to buy back Fairchild House, the Grosvenor Square townhome her father had been forced to sell.

  Yet, the things Adam had revealed to her about her family had changed everything. She would not give her father or her brother, Bertram, a single cent. They had turned out to be the worst sorts of men—the kind of men who destroyed the lives of others without a second thought, without a bit of remorse.

  Throwing aside her bed curtains, she stood, her gaze darting about the chamber. This bedroom, with the lovely mauve, white, and pale pink décor, was her own, inside a townhome that she’d purchased for herself on Half-Moon Street. There was a housekeeper, butler, trio of footman, lady’s maid, cook, and a handful of women who functioned as both chamber and scullery maids … all of whom were in her employ. The dressing room adjoining her bedchamber was filled with modest but well-made clothing from one of London’s most talented modistes. She had her eye on a pair of beautiful black bays at Tattersall’s, and hoped to own a barouche and team soon.

  Everything inside this home belonged to her free and clear. And she’d gained it all without having to marry someone she did not love … without having to share any of it with her undeserving father or brother.

  And so, the man who had been the bane of her existence had also become her savior, opening the door of her gilded cage and setting her free.

  Squaring her shoulders, she shrugged off the remnants of sadness, the fear and lust her nightmare had inspired. She was free and would not wallow in self-pity. The world sat in her palm, hers for the taking. The time had come for her to start enjoying the things she had gained, the things that were now hers without the obstruction of the men who had once controlled every aspect of her existence.

  Nodding resolutely, she then crossed to the painted screen concealing her washstand. The clean rosewater she used to wash her hands and face had gone cold, but it still went a long way toward relieving her flushed skin and tear-stained cheeks. She took her time grooming herself, removing her nightgown—a lilac satin affair that she would never have worn as a debutante—and washing with the rosewater and a cake of soap that smelled like orange blossoms. Finding a clean chemise hanging over the screen, courtesy of her maid, she pulled it on, then swiftly made use of the tooth powder and brush arranged neatly beside her hairbrush, comb, and the various vials and jars of cosmetics.

  She came out from behind the screen to find that the maid had entered the room and begun making her bed.

  “Good morning, m’lady,” the young woman murmured, giving Daphne a wary smile.

  Her household staff were polite and diligent in their duties, but stiffly formal. They did not know her, and what little they’d heard of her reputation was unsavory. Despite enjoying certain aspects of her newfound freedom, one thing she did miss was the comfort of a familiar home and the friendly warmth of servants who knew her. However, the staff of Fairchild House would likely be retained by whomever owned the property now.

  She was loath to admit it, but she would even settle for the friendly smiles of Ma
eve and the surly disposition of Niall—the two servants she had encountered most often during her stay at Dunnottar. It did not matter that they’d worked for him; she had forged a kinship of sorts with the woman who had served as her lady’s maid. And Niall … well, Adam’s stoic butler had made no secret of the fact that he despised her because of her surname. However, his brusque nature had become a part of the castle’s appeal for her, as darkly charming as the overgrown courtyards and ancient stone facade.

  “Good morning, Clarice,” she replied.

  “Will you spend the morning at home, or do you have plans to go out?” the maid asked. “It is a lovely day for a stroll, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  Parting the drapes of a nearby window, she found Clarice’s claim to be true. The past few days had been dreary and cold, with a damp fog in the air. Today, the sun shone brightly, and the feel of the glass beneath her palm proved slightly less frigid than yesterday.

  “I believe I shall take a walk … perhaps have breakfast and coffee while I am out,” she replied. “Tell Cook not to bother with a meal for me after you set out a walking dress.”

  “Right away, m’lady.”

  Daphne busied herself at her vanity table, unbraiding her hair and running a brush through the snarled locks. Some of the auburn strands waved softly around her face, the rest of it falling down her back in a thick mass. She’d been told the shade made her blue eyes appear darker … so dark, one might think them brown or black until they drew closer. She wrinkled her nose, noticing a few new freckles along with the others smattered over the bridge. Her mother would lecture her on the merits of wearing a hat when out of doors to keep them from spreading.

  Her mother … she had not seen the woman in weeks.

  Daphne had returned to London from Dunnottar to find that Lady Fairchild had taken residence in the home of her sister. She had gone to find her after leaving Bertram and her father—who lived together in a tiny flat in a questionable part of the city.