The Dove Formatted Read online

  He wanted her on edge and off-balance. Not because it brought him joy to torment her … but because he knew that in the darkest corners of her soul, she secretly liked it. She might never admit it aloud, but their time together at Dunnottar had opened his eyes to her true nature. Just like it came naturally to him to dominate and rule, it seemed to be part of her nature to fight and run, enjoying the chase right up until the moment he disarmed her.

  Then …

  Releasing a ragged breath, he pressed a hand against his aching cock. Just thinking of what came next had him throbbing, pushing against the placket of his breeches.

  Because, then, she surrendered. Willingly. Beautifully. Perfectly.

  Adam had discovered his penchant for control in the bedchamber during his days a young man about town, frequenting whorehouses near every night. From the first time he’d ever experienced the twinge of desire and taken his own cock in hand, he’d been insatiable—craving things he did not fully understand. A part of him had seemed to know what it was once he’d encountered it. And encounter it he did, in a little brothel in Edinburgh, a few short months before his Grand Tour.

  The little lass he had paid to bed for the night had barely stood as high as his chest, with a sinfully curvy body and hair like flaxen gold. Gazing up at him with deceptively innocent green eyes, she had sunk to her knees on the rough, wooden floor. She had reached for him, wrapping her arms around his leg and rubbing against him like a kitten seeking the hand of its master. Nuzzling his erection through his fall and murmuring to him, she had given him his first taste of true submission.

  “What do you want, m’laird?” she’d whispered in a low, sweet voice that had added fuel to his ardor, lengthening and thickening his cock to near unbearable limits.

  During his past encounters, he had been accustomed to taking the lead, moving his bedmate into the positions he wanted, pinning her beneath his big body, perhaps taking hold of her wrists so she could not move. The women he’d fucked had liked it, the displays of his strength and power. They’d even seemed to expect such from a young, titled bachelor.

  But this—what the little blonde whore offered him—had proved far different than what he’d previously experienced. It would change him for life.

  He was not certain what had prompted him to answer the lass with, “Everything … all of it.”

  She had nodded as if understanding what he said, as well as what he did not say. Wrapping her body around his leg, she had squirmed against him, agitating her pelvis on the gleaming, polished boot reaching up to his knee.

  “Tell me,” she had moaned, clinging to him and getting herself off with the simple act of rubbing against him. “Tell me what you’re going to do to me.”

  It had felt like the most natural thing in the world to reach down and grab a handful of her hair, yanking until her neck arched and she gazed up at him—to tighten his hand until her eyes watered and she winced from the undoubted sting in her scalp. To whisper every filthy, depraved fantasy she inspired, wrapping herself around him and rutting on him so shamelessly. She had gasped and moaned as he’d given voice to his dark desires, climaxing as she’d ground her mound against his shoe.

  “Yes, m’laird,” she had whimpered, falling slack and holding on to his leg as if for dear life. “Take me … take it all.”

  That night, in the little brothel room in Scotland, he had done things he could never have imagined himself capable of. Things that should have made him feel ashamed. Things that had satisfied the part of him he had not quite understood as a young man taking his first few tastes of a woman’s cunt. He had become even more insatiable than usual, unable to use the little whore enough.

  He had fucked her mouth as she’d knelt on the dirty floor, spilling his seed over her breasts. He had thrown her facedown onto the bed, his cock already beginning to harden again as he’d climbed over her. He’d fucked her for what had felt like hours; from behind as she lay flat, then rose up onto her hands and knees, on top of her with her legs pushed back so far, they touched her shoulders, against the wall with her hair fisted in his grasp, on the floor with the rough wood abrading his knees. He’d spent and he’d spent, until he was certain there could be nothing left inside him … until he’d penetrated the tight passage of her arse. Then he’d fucked her some more, slamming into her like a madman while biting her shoulder and holding her hips so tight, he’d left his fingerprints behind.

  As dawn had approached and he’d collapsed into the little bed beside the whore, Adam had slept like the dead. None of his past sexual encounters had left him so satisfied. He had often walked away from his previous bedmates with a lingering desire still simmering in his groin. For so long, he’d supposed there must be some sort of defect that made him this way … some reason he could come with a woman, but never enough to completely soothe the hunger that seemed to constantly claw against the inside of his gut.

  Now, he knew better. Yes, he required something a bit different … and from then on, he’d known what that ‘something’ was and that he could only find it with a certain type of woman. For months, the little whore in Edinburgh—Fiona—had taken the brunt of his pent-up lust. She had seemed to like their arrangement just as it was, with him paying to have her as often as he pleased, ensuring she was well-compensated for the strenuous demands he made of her body. He’d even enjoyed falling asleep beside her, her ripe little body nestled against his—naked and ready for him at all times.

  Then, he had left for his Grand Tour, and from there, an entire world full of women who craved what he could deliver had become open to him. He’d found them in the bordellos of Paris, in the opera houses of Italy, where the beautiful singers often proved even more insatiable than the whores. In Spain, Portugal, Venice, and Rome … he’d found them, women who wanted to bend to his will. There had even been a charming little signora in Venice who had enjoyed fighting him. Screaming, clawing, and writhing in his hold, right up until he penetrated her—after which she would melt like a bit of ice on his tongue, arching her back and surrendering.

  The Tour had been one of the greatest experiences of his life—for the exposure to culture, arts, and cuisine as much as for the various pleasures he’d learned.

  Running a hand over his face, he scowled, remembering how it had all come to a screeching halt when a letter had reached him through the British envoy. The man had searched for him for a fortnight before finding him in Venice, delivering the missive from his stepsister’s cousin. He’d frowned upon seeing the seal on the envelope. Olivia had been writing him for weeks, her letters taking ages to find him, but still welcomed all the same. The cousins from Olivia’s mother’s side of the family should not have contacted him unless something terrible had happened.

  His heart had pounded, his mouth going dry as he’d torn open the envelope to reveal a lengthy letter. The first bit of news had hardly surprised him. The earl had finally died, succumbing to some defect of the heart. Just another run of the bad luck the Callahans were known for, his father would say. He was now the Earl of Hartmoor, inheriting all the lands and titles that his father had carried.

  He had been annoyed, infuriated that his Tour would have to be cut short. The former earl had berated him for hours when he had insisted upon making the journey.

  “The Tour is a waste of time and money,” his father had argued. “You should be here, preparing to take your place after I have died … which could be any day now, you know.”

  That had been another weapon of his father … guilt. He’d never stopped reminding Adam that his mother had died and left him alone, that he would be soon to follow. Adam was unfit to be the earl and would continue to be until he began taking his impending duties more seriously. Drinking, gambling, whoring … all of it was frivolous, and so was he for indulging. He was spoiled, selfish, and vain … and the thousands of pounds it would cost to send him on a Grand Tour was too much to ask, despite the fortune the Callahans had amassed over the past half a century or so.

 
“It is only a few years,” he’d argued. “How can you expect me to take my place among the other lords, if I haven’t been exposed to the things they have? It is a learning experience—”

  “It is an excuse for young bachelors to overindulge!” the earl had insisted. “If you do not drink yourself to death, you’ll return with the Pox or some other foul disease. I will not allow it, Adam … and my money will not pay for it. Your place is here.”

  “I do not need your permission, or your money,” he had snapped.

  Not for the first time, Adam had done as he pleased, flagrantly disobeying his father’s orders. He had his own money—an inheritance left behind by his mother, a small fortune her father had bequeathed upon her. The money had become his after he’d completed his education at Oxford. He’d used part of those funds to cover his expenses and had left less than a sennight after his father’s ultimatum without looking back.

  So, when he’d received the news of the earl’s death, he had been so bloody annoyed. Even in death, the man managed to spite him, taking away from him the one thing he’d been able to enjoy in the years since the death of his mother. Freedom. Independence. The ability to go where he pleased and do whatever he wished without his father gazing over his shoulder. The old fool had gone and died and ruined it.

  However, his irritation had given way to horror as he’d continued reading the letter—the second matter at hand making his blood run cold. His sister, Olivia, had gone missing. By the time he’d received the letter, she had been gone for weeks.

  Adam had set out for London immediately, praying that the letter was wrong, that she was not missing. Or, if she’d gone missing, she had turned up married to the man who had run off with her. He’d convinced himself it must be true. Olivia was impressionable and guileless. Some man had likely seduced her to the altar … but so long as he’d done the respectable thing and married her, all would be well.

  After Adam wrung the idiot’s neck first, of course.

  However, after the long sea voyage back to England, he had made his way to London only to learn that she still had not been found. In his ignorance, he had taken Lord Bertram Fairchild at his word when he’d told Adam that he had not seen Olivia in months, that their courtship had never led to anything serious.

  He’d scoured every inch of London looking for her, before discovering an acquaintance who had told him the truth. A young lady whom Olivia had taken into her confidence—telling her how Bertram had ruined her, how she feared she might be with child and must find some way to convince his family to help her. The chit had told Adam that Olivia had arranged to meet William Fairchild, Bertram’s uncle, in order to be secreted away to a country estate where she could hide her condition. She’d been led to believe that Bertram could be brought to heel, that he could be convinced to marry her and claim the child. Despite the warnings of her friend, Olivia had gone through with it, desperate to avoid public ruination and certain her cousin would turn her out if he knew.

  He’d spent several more weeks retracing her steps, following her trail clear across England to some far-flung asylum. It was there William Fairchild had deposited her without so much as a look back, leaving her in the hands of self-righteous old nuns who had treated Olivia no better than they might a dog.

  By the time he’d reached her, it had proved far too late. The babe, a girl, had been born, and Olivia had been lost … not to death, but to something far worse. Madness. It had consumed his sister, her mind torn asunder from the strain.

  Five years had passed since the day he had wrapped her and the babe in his coat and carried them both away from the asylum, promising to take them home, to make it right. Five years since he’d vowed to see the Fairchild family destroyed in every way possible.

  A sudden bright light invaded his thoughts, bringing him back to the present. His carriage had come to a stop, and a footman had opened the door for him, placing the steps so that he could alight from the vehicle. The man stood peering at him with concern scrunching his brow, leaving Adam to wonder how long he’d sat here without responding. Heaving himself out of the carriage, he did his best to school his face into a passive mask, to loosen the tight set of his jaw and the curl of his fists.

  His wandering thoughts had brought forth unpleasant memories, conjuring the rage he’d been trying to squelch from the moment he had laid eyes on Olivia in the asylum, dressed in a blood-splattered shift and shivering from the cold, her eyes unfocused and glassy. He had promised her retribution, and he had delivered, systematically tearing apart anything even remotely attached to the Fairchild name.

  As he left the carriage behind and approached the Mayfair hotel he had taken a suite of rooms in, he reminded himself of his true reason for coming to London.

  Daphne.

  He had opened the cage and set his little dove free, not realizing until it was too late that thirty days and nights had not been enough. Of all the women he’d had since coming to understand his predilections, none of them had affected him the way Daphne had. None of them had looked as beautiful with tears in their eyes or their bodies twisted in his hands. None of them had broken so exquisitely or bent with such grace. Like him, she was different, special … and had not even been aware of it until he’d forced her to confront her true nature. She was the prey to his predator, the submission to his dominance. The taste of her he’d gotten had done nothing to sate his hunger, so he would now do what he always did—reach out to take what he wanted and damn anyone who would tell him he could not. Even Daphne herself would not stop him. He had taught her the hard way that he only liked it more when she fought him. In truth, he hoped she would try to deny him, making the moment he claimed her all the better.

  Nodding cordially to the liveried footman in the hotel’s small vestibule, he made his way inside, locating an elegant, curved staircase that would lead him to his suite. Pushing the door open, he found the only servant he had traveled to London with seated at a table near the hearth, a tea service and freshly ironed copy of the London Times resting before him.

  A match for Adam in size, Niall easily dwarfed the Queen Anne chair he sat in, making the china resting on the table look ridiculously fragile. He’d only worked as a butler for the past five years—since just after Adam had purchased Dunnottar and had it renovated. It had given him great pleasure to remove the stodgy, stiff-backed curmudgeon who had served under his father and replace him with a man who had worked primarily with horses for most of his life. Niall had grumbled and growled, but because he and Adam were friends, and the position offered more pay and a bevy of benefits to be enjoyed in his old age, he had accepted. It amused Adam to no end to see people react to Niall—the way he made them uneasy with his large frame, dark hair and darker eyes, and the jagged scar marring one of his cheekbones.

  Niall glanced up at him and scowled, flicking a hand at the newspaper. “Here less than a sennight, and already the papers are full of news of your arrival. A dozen invitations arrived in your absence, as well as several personal messages. Pray, tell me why we took up at an inn instead of the fancy townhouse you now own, if all the bloody city knows you’re ye’re here, anyway?”

  Giving the man a little smirk, Adam joined him at the table, snatching the paper up and propping his feet on one of the empty chairs. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it is bad form to read a gentleman’s newspaper before he’s had a chance to open it?”

  Niall scoffed, taking up a biscuit from the plate resting before him and biting into it with relish. “Is there a gentleman here? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Adam laughed. Niall was the only servant—the only person, really—who could get away with speaking to him that way. They’d been ribbing each other this way since they were young—Adam sneaking off to the stables to play with Niall when they were lads, then running off to chase after pretty maids together once they’d begun approaching manhood. Being of an age, they became closer than a lord and his servant ought to, but Adam would not have it any other way.

  E
ven if the man often vexed him to no end.

  “I like it here, don’t you?” he murmured while absently scanning the Times. “A staff who caters to our every whim—”

  “Yer townhome came with a staff,” Niall muttered.

  “The food is decent,” Adam went on.

  “Yer townhome came with a French chef.”

  “Niall …”

  “Ye have lost sight of why ye are here,” Niall snapped, slamming his palm down upon the table.

  Adam lowered his paper and peered at the other man over the top of the page, narrowing his eyes. “You go too far.”

  “You have gone too far,” the butler fired back, one big hand curling into a fist upon the table. “Ye told me we were comin’ to finish the job … to strike out at Fairchild through her. Yet, all ye’ve done since we arrived is hide from her. Do you s’pose I don’t ken what ye’re doin’ here in a hotel … trying to spare her precious feelings?”

  The paper crumbled in his hands as his grip tightened, his teeth grinding together in the face of Niall’s accusations. The man had not been shy about making his displeasure known concerning the way Adam had gone about Daphne’s ruination. He’d thought Adam too kind, too soft … too merciful. His love for Olivia had turned him into an insatiable beast, as hungry for vengeance as Adam had been.