“I don’t know what I did,” Miranda whispered against Eugenia’s bosom.
“You saved my life,” Eugenia answered softly. “You were a brave and wonderful girl. You are very special, my dear.”
She tried to make it sound simple and matter-of-fact for the child, but Eugenia knew it was anything but. Her niece possessed magic that made demons and vampires look like fumbling amateur mesmerists.
Now she knew what her mission must be. What would happen to Miranda as her dear niece grew up with this astonishing magical power? She might belong to the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena, but Eugenia knew exactly what the men of the Royal Society would want to do—either destroy Miranda or hold her captive to study her. The girl needed to be protected from that. Miranda would need a great deal of help. She must learn to fit into society while keeping this power a secret. And Eugenia knew how great and dangerous a task that was.
“Dear sweet girl,” Eugenia whispered, stroking her niece’s slender back, “I will take care of you. Always.”
1
Captured
From the diary of Miss Miranda Bond
1 March, 1819
There is nothing more exasperating than the sound of a woman in pleasure if that woman is not you and there is very little hope that the woman will ever be you.
It is said, I think, that momentous journeys begin with the smallest impetus…. Well, perhaps it has been said only by me, but it sounds very well, so I shall use it as my motto, my mantra, my slogan for the campaign I am about to embark upon.
That cry of pleasure was my impetus.
To save my debt-ridden family, I will race to the windswept moors—to the estate of the mysterious and notorious Lord Blackthorne. Rumors of his strange, erotic tastes abound, but I believe not one of those salacious tales is true. Blackthorne saved my brother’s life on the bloody battlefield of Waterloo, and I know him to be a true hero.
It is more than the necessity of saving my family. From the letters we have exchanged for a precious, glorious year now, I know I love him.
So I must go to him, seduce him, and marry him.
Assuming I do not get lost, robbed, or murdered on the way….
15 March, 1819
“I want to plunge deep inside you, angel. I want to make you scream.”
Miranda shut her eyes and felt a shiver of anticipation tumble from her bare nape to her low back. He was here, again, hidden in the shadows behind her. His voice was purely erotic—the sound of it low and deep, rich and sexual. Completely male—both lusty and unapologetic.
It isn’t real. It is a dream, Miranda, her inner thoughts warned.
How could she know that? She was part of the dream—lost in it—but somehow she knew it was just a fantasy, and that if she forced her eyes to open, this exquisite moment would disappear.
His large hand settled on her neck. Skin-to-skin. No gloves. She was feeling a slightly roughened, long-fingered gentleman’s palm caressing her nape.
To have a man’s bare hand touch her flesh? It was exotic. Forbidden. Fire sizzled down her spine.
Miranda arched her back and daringly pressed her derriere against the man standing behind her.
Proper ladies did not do such things.
But the whole point was she could not be a proper lady anymore.
Tall. She knew he was tall. She couldn’t see him, but she could sense his head above hers. His long hair hung loose, and silky strands teased her skin above her bodice. She couldn’t hear him breathe, and when he didn’t speak, there was no sound at all.
She was staring into a cheval mirror, seeing nothing but her own reflection and the darkness surrounding her. She could never see him at first. Slowly, her dream world would reveal him to her.
His finger lazily drew circles on the back of her neck. “Do you want me deep in you, angel?” His voice held a wry, teasing note. “I can’t enter you—unless you tell me ‘yes.’”
Something hard—and thick—poked against her rump.
She knew what it was. Each night her dreams had become more daring. Last night, her last night spent in her own bed before leaving her home, she’d lost her virginity in her dream.
Not in reality, though. And in her dream world she had never seen the face of the man to whom she’d surrendered.
Was he Lord Blackthorne? Did she never see the man in her dreams because she had never seen Blackthorne?
Yet the scandalous, shocking, carnal things he did to her in her dreams felt so real.
Suddenly, her clothes fell away. The weight of gown and skirts simply dropped to the floor, though no hand had unfastened them. Her corset unlaced by itself, compelled by the magic in her dream.
“Y-yes.” She spoke on a tremble, her voice filled with passion, nerves, and frustration. “I want you inside.”
His hand skimmed along the round curve of her rump to cup the underside of her thigh. He coaxed her to raise her leg and perch her foot on a silk-cushioned stool. It opened her nether regions to his hands, and his fingers invaded.
She was so wet, drenched with juices.
“This is how I like you, angel. Slick and wet and open for me.”
He never used her name. But she was certain she knew his—that her fantasy was indeed Lawrence Adrian Phillip South-wick, the Earl of Blackthorne.
Miranda tensed, then moaned with delight as he opened her wider. All she could think of was his fingers: two inside her, spreading her open; then three—impossibly, he slid three fingers deep into her core, and flicked his thumb back and forth over the most sensitive spot at the junction of her nether lips.
“You belong to me, love.”
She did. From the moment she had opened his first letter, she had.
“You belong to me,” she said in return; though in her dreams, she took action more than she spoke. She did things like saucily turn to try to see him while she licked her lips. “And I want you deep.”
She couldn’t see him. Darkness slanted over his face. All she could see was his wide chest—all ridged muscle and hard nipples and rippling skin. Then he gripped her hair, yanked it free from her pins, wound the length of it around his wrist. Holding her like his captive, he surged into her.
It felt so good. Good enough to melt her like chocolate in the sun.
How she did scream. And, oh, but he did go deep. Right to her womb, and delicious agony spiraled through her. How could it feel so good when it made her sob and whimper and howl?
But the very exquisite agony of it was so…addictive.
