Further Than Passion Read online

Kate sat in her room, staring out at the night sky. Rain was falling, hitting the ground in muted thumps, the flowers in the garden drooping. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a cold breeze fluttered by, cooling her heated skin.

  While she was trying to be glad for Selena and Christopher, their news had her so unhappy that her heart ached. Their joy illuminated the poor choices she'd made in her life. The dissatisfaction that bubbled below the surface was leaking out, inundating her in misery.

  She had nothing and no one to call her own. Why hadn't she demanded more for herself? Why hadn't she picked a different path?

  As she looked down the road to her return to Don-caster, it was such a grim, forlorn vision. Was this all there was? Would she putter away forever little more than Regina's unpaid servant?

  On Kate's dresser, she espied the bottle meant to hold a love potion. In case Melanie ever asked for it, it

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  now contained red wine. But Kate had drunk the original. Had it been magic? Could it have caused so much despair?

  Lying next to the vial she could see the note and single pink rose Marcus had had delivered. His ring was on her finger.

  Come to me at midnight, the message read, and he'd signed it with the initial 5.

  Her time with him was condensed to minutes and hours, her imminent departure looming like a black hole, yet for once, she couldn't go upstairs.

  He seemed to realize that she wouldn't visit of her own accord, that she'd need to be cajoled, although his coercion hadn't worked. In a subtle fashion she didn't understand, the events of the afternoon had changed things between them. A veil had been lifted, revealing her actions for what they were. She'd been operating in a trance, mesmerized to folly, not thinking clearly or making sound decisions.

  Why had she been fornicating with him? Her conduct violated every tenet she believed, everything she valued about herself.

  By running into him in the light of day, in his elegant foyer, a shift had been created in their relationship. It was obvious they didn't belong together, that they had naught in common, and she had to extricate herself from the conundrum into which she'd leapt.

  She'd wandered far outside of the bounds of her humble existence, and she had to find her way back, so that when she quit London and went home she could reestablish herself in the country with a modicum of contentment. If she didn't, her quiet routine at Don-caster would slowly drive her mad.

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  Long before he arrived, she heard his footsteps approaching. She hadn't locked her door, for she couldn't keep him out if he was determined to enter. He would never allow her to ignore his summons, so she'd been expecting him to appear. It was beyond him to let her go until he was good and ready. He was powerful and stubborn, a selfish, omnipotent king, and the mere thought of defying him made her tired.

  Flouting his wishes was like sailing into a hurricane. It was impossible to weather the experience unscathed.

  He didn't bother to knock, but spun the knob and marched in. She stood, dreading the confrontation, but prepared for it nonetheless.

  "What is your sister's name?" he challenged.

  Feet braced, hands on hips, he was livid, condemning her, which was so absurd. About what did he have to be furious? She'd complied with his every request, had raced to ruin, had enthusiastically tried each decadent, wicked behavior he'd suggested. What more could he want? How much more had she to give? She felt ravaged, as if he were the devil who'd pilfered her earthly remains and who was now extorting her immortal soul, too.

  "Why this abrupt interest in me and my family? Have you discovered that you're human?"

  The slur slid by him. "Tell me."

  "How can it matter?"

  'Tell me!" he snapped, beyond patience.

  "Selena Bella."

  "How old is she?"

  "Sixteen."

  "Why didn't you confide in me about her?"

  "What purpose would it have served?"

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  "Perhaps I want to know."

  "Other than my foolish and misguided attempts to please you in bed, when have you evinced the slightest curiosity about me?"

  "Who was your mother?"

  "A rash, impetuous fallen woman, who shamed everyone who cared about her."

  "And your father?"

  "A man of absolutely no consequence, at all."

  She wasn't about to discuss her father, wasn't about to divulge that he'd been the Earl of Doncaster, that she'd once been treated like a princess and because of her mother's recklessness, and her father's weakness, she'd been left alone in the world to fend for herself. She'd choke to death before she'd explain any of it!

  "So ... you were born on the wrong side of the blanket."

  "Only you would reach such an insulting conclusion."

  "What do you mean?"

  "My mother was wed too young, to a man she despised, and she craved an excitement my father couldn't furnish. When I was eight, she ran off with her paramour, and I never saw her again."

  "Selena is her illicit child?"

  "My mother birthed no bastards, so you can put your suddenly pious mind to rest."

  "Your mother married her lover?"

  "After my father's death. Will there be anything else? Is there any other detail of my most private and personal affairs that you must probe?"

  "I've advised Regina that I won't choose Melanie. I've told her to pack up and depart."

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  "Bully for you."

  Quite sure he was lying, she studied him. Earlier in the evening, she'd spoken to Regina, and she had mentioned no such thing. In fact, Regina had claimed he was coming around. Those were her very words: that they'd conferred over terms and he was coming around.

  Regina wasn't prone to fantasy or delusion. If she said he was about to marry Melanie, then he was. Why would he deny it? Or was he simply endeavoring to spare her feelings?

  Had he considered, for one measly second, what their lives would be like when he became Melanie's husband? She had a vision, of them ensconced at Don-caster, enjoying Sunday dinner, Marcus seated at the head of the table, and she felt ill.

  If he could wound her so deeply, she would never forgive him. Never in a thousand years.

  "Why are you angry with me?" he queried, which had her supposing that he was the most dim-witted individual she'd ever met. Couldn't he recognize how his very presence cut like a knife to the bone?

  "Why are you angry with me?" she countered.

  He crossed to her, so that they were tangled together. His hands were in her hair, pulling at the strands so that she winced at the pressure.

  "You didn't come to me as I asked."

  "I'm certain you'll survive."

  "Don't ever tell me no."

  "I'm not doing this with you anymore!" she wailed. "Can't you get it through your thick skull?" She was so forlorn, so depressed, her emotions scraped raw. She'd never loved before, so she hadn't grasped how painful it could be, how draining and exhausting. It hurt to

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  look at him, and she ached as if she was being lashed by his nearness. "I just want to go home. I want my life to return to normal."

  "I can't let you. Not yet."

  Anchoring her to him, he wrapped her lengthy tresses around his fists, and started kissing her.

  She'd planned to resist, but as with the other occasions she'd been with him, she couldn't. With a groan of dismay, she relented, folding her arms around him and hugging him close. He was a poison in her system, and she'd been contaminated by her desperate desire for him, but her addiction had to be purged.

  He picked her up, spun her, and deposited her on the bed. She could have fought to escape, but what was the point? She was incapable of fending him off.

  She'd heard that there were animals who would walk peacefully to their doom, who would jump off a cliff or perish in a swollen river, so long as the trusted beast leading the herd guided them to destruction. Now, she comprehended precisely how those poor creatures
felt as catastrophe approached. She wasn't afraid or alarmed, but resolved to follow wherever he went.

  He yanked on the straps of her negligee, and when he couldn't remove it fast enough, he clasped the neckline and ripped it off, shredding it to the hemline. The pieces fell away, and she was naked and prostrate before him.

  Not even the obliteration of the prized garment, one of the few items she possessed that had been her mother's, disturbed her. She was on a slippery slope, careening downward, and she had no idea what would transpire when she hit bottom.

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  "You can't stay away from me," he insisted. "We shouldn't be separate. We shouldn't be alone."

  "But this is killing me. I can't bear much more."

  "I won't permit you to avoid me. There's too little time remaining."

  "I can't keep on. You want too much from me. More than I am, more than I have inside me. When you're through, there'll be nothing left."

  "Yes, I want it all! Give yourself to me. Don't hold anything back!"

  "I love you," she blurted out, shaming herself even further. "How stupid is that?"

  Her declaration stunned him, but he didn't offer a similar sentiment. Though she hadn't expected him to. He was who he was: a solitary, influential man, who— for reasons she still didn't understand—had focused his potent attentions on her.

  He dallied with women for one purpose, and one purpose only, and that was sexual congress. He'd never concealed his intentions, or professed that their conduct had a loftier objective. His goal was physical satisfaction, as quickly and as often as he could manage it, and any hopes she might have had to the contrary were idiotic.

  This fleeting, brief affair was all she would ever have of him, and the bleakness of her situation overwhelmed her. Tears surged and coursed down her cheeks.

  Why had no one ever loved her? Why couldn't he?

  He was stricken by her maudlin exhibition, detesting that he had to witness it, but she was beyond caring. Had she asked him to barge in? He could deal with her upset or go!

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  "My beautiful Kate," he murmured, "you can't be sad."

  "I hate you."

  "No, you don't."

  "Yes, I do," but they both knew she was lying.

  How could she hate him? He was the sole ray of sunshine in her dreary existence.

  "I've never been loved before, Kate." The admission shocked her, not so much that he'd voiced it, but because he'd confessed such a personal detail. She'd never encountered anyone who so meticulously guarded his thoughts.

  "Well, I wish I hadn't been the first."

  "Let your affection rain down on me. Drown me with it, so that I can reminisce after you leave."

  "Oh, Marcus."

  Perhaps he didn't cherish her, but she could act as if he did. A bit of pretending would make her own circumstances less dismal.

  He kissed away her tears. "Show me how much I mean to you."

  She couldn't refuse his request, for she, too, wanted him to recollect. She was so weak, so pitiful, in her need to please him! Yet she relished the embrace, her busy fingers stripping him of his clothes, until he was as naked as she, and she stretched out, their nude torsos melded.

  He was hard, eager, and she moved down, to his belly, his groin. His cock extended out to greet her, and she stroked him; then she sucked him into her mouth.

  This was what she craved, this mindless, uncontrollable spiral where there was just pleasure. She had no extra energy to worry about Melanie or Regina, Selena

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  or Christopher, or to grieve over Marcus and how she would carry on without his bittersweet company.

  Rapidly, he was at the edge, prepared to leap over, and he drew her up and rolled them so that she was beneath him. He smiled, what minimal fondness he possessed flickering through.

  "I will always love you," she told him. "Never forget."

  "I never will."

  "No matter what happens. No matter where I end up."

  "Hush. Don't let's talk about the future."

  He was correct to ignore their pending separation. Why lament? He would never beg her to stay, and if he did, she'd never accept. Their fates were sealed, their destinies dragging them down different roads.

  He entered her, and she arched up, wrapping her legs around him, needing to take him as deep as she could.

  There was a finality and graveness to their actions that they both sensed. Each touch, each caress, held a significance it hadn't before. They were building memories, storing them away.

  Her orgasm was imminent, and she shattered, losing herself in the wildness of the exploit. He joined her, and they hurled over the precipice together, tensing and crying out as the inferno swept through.

  To her surprise, he didn't extricate himself, as he had in the past. His phallus throbbed inside her, his seed spewing into her womb, and the feeling—the rightness—increased her gratification, and she soared higher than ever.

  She didn't know why he'd been so reckless, yet she wasn't sorry. Not at the moment, when he was still

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  buried within her, when he was still shuddering with the throes of passion.

  In the morning, she imagined she'd panic, that she would rue and curse his name, but for now, she was elated.

  Their ardor waned, and he slid out of her and spooned her to him, her backside nestled to his front. He tugged a blanket over them and snuggled with her, but he didn't speak, choosing not to mention what he'd done, so she didn't raise the issue, either.

  Her heart was heavy with mixed emotions, the silence so acute, the impression of conclusion so intense, that she was left to wonder if this wasn't farewell, but he was unable to tell her so.

  He draped his arm across her, patting his thumb across her knuckles and stumbling on his signet ring. When he'd arrived in her room, she'd been wearing it and had forgotten that she was, and he chuckled.

  "You can't have this, my little thief."

  "I didn't—"

  "I know; I know. You didn't steal it."

  She sighed. Any defense was a waste of breath. How could she explain that it kept popping up, despite her best efforts to be shed of it? If she babbled a word about love potions or unseen forces, he'd deem her a lunatic.

  He took the ring off her finger and put it onto his own, curling his hand into a fist as if he suspected she'd filch it again the instant he wasn't watching.

  "I have another ring for you," he said.

  "I don't want it."

  "I'm giving it to you anyway, It will be a gift from me, something to remember me by."

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  She rubbed her abdomen, speculating as to whether he hadn't already bestowed a gift, and trying to decide what she would do if catastrophe arose, and she was sure it would. Since she'd met him, her life had been one disaster after the next, so she was positive that the worst was bound to transpire.

  "You're a tyrant."

  "Yes."

  "You never listen to me."

  "Why should I, when you're being silly?"

  "What will I do with a fancy piece of jewelry? How will I account for it to others? Will I say that I found it on the street?"

  "Kate!" She'd exasperated him. The lesser mortals who inhabited his world never quarreled with his edicts, or declined to obey his orders, and he was aggravated mat she would. "I want you to have it."

  And that was that. He wouldn't take no for an answer, so she'd have to agree. She'd keep it hidden, but it would be a memento that she could sleep with under her pillow. If calamity struck, and there was a babe, she could sell the ring for the money she would need after Regina branded her a harlot and banished her from Doncaster.

  He linked their fingers, squeezing tight, and she felt as if they were the last two people on earth, as if she was tethered to him and if he released her, she might float away.

  "I'm going to stay with you tonight," he declared.

  It was pointless to argue. "All right."

  "Let's res
t a bit, and then I'll love you again."

  "I'd like that."

  Was it to be their final rendezvous? As he reposed, as he slumbered, she closed her eyes, noting every

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  detail. She focused solely on his large, warm body cuddled to hers and refused to ponder the morrow or what it would bring.

  ******************

  Pamela lurched down the hall, frantic to locate her bedchamber, but not certain where she was in the huge mansion. Her head pounded as if there were a blacksmith with a hammer inside it, her stomach roiled with nausea, and she hoped she wouldn't vomit on the priceless rugs.

  What had happened? She'd been in Christopher's room, had slipped him the drugged wine, which they'd both drunk. She'd pulled the towel from his loins and...

  She had a hazy memory of being on her knees, of having him in her mouth, but she couldn't determine if it was a dream or reality. What had occurred—or not— after that was a mystery, but it must have been exquisite. She'd been transformed by a new and formidable affection.

  A vision of her beautiful Christopher flashed, so blond and radiant—like a god—with his smooth boy's torso, his lean, lanky physique. She ached with loving him. It was a living, fomenting beast inside her. She was consumed by a yearning so potent, and so severe, that she didn't know how she would cope with it simmering inside her.

  Chris... Chris... Chris... His name echoed through vein and pore. She couldn't wait to be with him, once again, so that she could show him how desperately she cared.

  She'd awakened on a sofa in the main parlor, though she had no recollection of how she'd come to be there. Freezing, and with a cramp in her neck, she'd staggered

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  up the stairs. Dawn was breaking, and she was anxious to be sequestered in her suite before any of the staff saw her.

  But where was she? And why couldn't she get her bearings?

  That blasted potion! It had to have been much more powerful than she'd been led to believe. She felt as if she was suffering from a near-fatal hangover.

  Down the corridor, a door was furtively opened, the occupant creeping out, and Pamela halted, huddling in the shadows, terrified she might be observed in her deplorable condition. Who—besides herself—could possibly be wandering about at such a hideous hour?