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Authors: Nathalie Dae

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His Beautiful Wench

BOOK: His Beautiful Wench
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His Beautiful Wench

Natalie Dae

 

Drawn to the attic in her new home, Amelia finds a saucy nineteenth-century wench dress. At first glance, it’s just a dress, but once she dons it, desire streaks through her and she’s transported to the past. Overwhelmed by lust, she is caught pleasuring herself, discovered by the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen, who turns out to be—
her lover?

Amelia and Emmet join in an explosive sexual union, erasing the months—or is it centuries?—they have been apart as though they never existed. But suddenly Amelia awakes—alone.

Until the dress calls again.

Emmett’s not the only one lusting after Amelia. Lord Graham wants her and he doesn’t fight fair. He kidnaps her, sends Emmett on a deadly errand and forces Amelia to participate in his voyeuristic games. Although Amelia’s body betrays her, she vows to remain true to Emmett, but will he return? And can she escape the clutches of Lord Graham’s debauchery? Amidst subterfuge, treachery and murder, Amelia and Emmet’s love grows and they reach new heights of carnal passions.

 

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

 

 

 

His Beautiful Wench

 

ISBN 9781419929519

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

His Beautiful Wench Copyright © 2010 Natalie Dae

 

Edited by Jillian Bell

Cover art by Dar Albert

 

Electronic book publication November 2010

 

The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

 

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

 

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.  (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

 

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

His Beautiful Wench

Natalie Dae

 

Chapter One

 

Unpacked boxes and bulging refuse sacks filled Amelia’s new living room. She stood in the aisle space the movers had left and tapped her foot. The sound reverberated and she glanced at the restored oak flooring. An ugly gouge marred one plank. Her tapping grew in tempo. Amelia sighed, blowing out her frustration through pursed lips. The morning had been long and tiring and she wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and sleep.

“No chance of that,” she muttered, eyeing the boxes. Which one should she empty first? Her black leather sofa looked all too inviting against the back wall and she stifled the urge to flop down on it. “No. I’ve
got
to stick to my plan. Get everything unpacked today. Tomorrow I can lounge about. No more putting things off. That’s what got me here in the first place.”

This is a new start. New place, new town, new everything. You can do this. You’re strong, right? A twenty-something woman and you’re going to let insecurities win?

She huffed out a wry laugh and inhaled. The cottage smelled of recently applied paint and new carpet. She remembered the day she’d painted this room, how her back had ached by the time she was done, and a stripe of cream paint had given the illusion of a gray streak in her long brunette hair. She fingered the curls, reminding herself to tie it back before she attempted the daunting task of unpacking, a job she didn’t relish one bit. She’d bought everything new, throwing out all reminders of a past she couldn’t wait to forget. One of failed relationships and never being able to get anything right. But setting up a DVD player and tuning in a TV from scratch didn’t appeal.

I’m not even sure I know how to do it
. She grimaced.
Of course I can. I have to. I’m a modern American woman, for God’s sake!

She turned to inspect the stairs behind her, pleased with her choice of thick cream carpet. Shrugging her insecurities away, she kicked off her flat pumps and climbed the steps, her toes sinking into the fibers. The mahogany banister rail was smooth beneath her palm. When she reached the top she veered right. Three doors lined the short hallway and another stood at the end—the only door she hadn’t walked through on her first inspection of the cottage all those weeks ago when she’d made up her mind to come here. To leave behind the old Amelia and spend time getting to know herself.

She clamped her jaw. No point in entertaining the past. She had a new future ahead of her, a business to run from the cottage, where she’d meet a variety of people who loved music as much as she. Already since she’d advertised her services, folks had called and booked slots for her music lessons. A new piano would be arriving soon, purchased from a lovely woman named Matilda who ran the music shop in town. The redhead had been the only person so far who had shown Amelia kindness. They had hit it off right away, Matilda taking her for coffee when Amelia had paid for the piano a few weeks before moving in. Since then, they had spoken over the phone daily, their friendship growing.

Things will be all right. You can do this
.

She padded to the attic door and clasped the handle. It warmed beneath her palm and her skin tingled, a faint buzz zipping up her arm. With a gasp, she snatched her hand away and massaged her wrist.

What the hell was that?

Grasping the handle once more, she turned it. A surge of energy infused her body and she flung the door wide. Butterflies danced in her belly and her heart rate quickened. Old, narrow wooden stairs stretched upward, the white walls on either side uneven with slight swells and dips. She looked to the top. A swath of sunlight cut across the opening, catching the cobwebbed, sloping rafters and glancing off the back wall. Dust motes swirled and the scent of years gone by wafted toward her. She placed her foot on the first step and it creaked as though groaning from her weight. Her pulse thrummed in her neck, the sound loud in her head. Curiosity consumed her and all thoughts of unpacking left her mind.

Amelia climbed quickly, the need to get into the attic intense. Breathless with an anticipation she hadn’t felt in a long time, she stood at the top and gazed around. Two large windows to her right admitted the sunshine, the glass panes misty with dirt. The view of the bay and the spread of ocean would be stunning from up here. A pile of swept-up dust sat in the far right corner, the bare floorboards unvarnished but clean. The air encompassed her, almost as though it was a palpable thing able to shroud her, blanket-like and warm. The hairs on her arms rose and she rubbed them, a sense of well-being infusing her.

There’s something…right about this room. It’s…it’s like I’ve come home
.

She walked toward the window and pulled her shirtsleeve over her hand to wipe a porthole in the dirt. Arm raised, she neared the glass, but a twinkle in her peripheral vision caught her attention. She lowered her arm and turned her head to the right. Peering into the darkened corner, Amelia held her breath and waited for the twinkle to reappear. Long seconds passed, her heart thudding, and she released the air and shook her head. There it was again, a burst of light, and she moved toward it. Darkness dwelled in the corner, thick and solid, and she hunched over the closer she got, the ceiling lowering in a sharp slope. She blinked, waiting for her eyes to become accustomed to the pitch—a pitch at odds with the rest of the attic. Amelia glanced behind her. The other half of the attic remained lit by sunlight, yet here… She started back to the corner and, once there, kneeled. Hands clasped in her lap, she waited.

The darkness appeared to move, swirling around her, embracing her with its ebon arms. Far from being frightened, Amelia felt at peace for the first time in months. Her breathing evened out as her heart stopped pumping so harshly. A sense of being at one with herself, at ease in her own skin, coursed through her and she smiled in wonderment. All worries and insecurities drifted away, leaving her with the sensation of floating. She placed her hands on the floor, certain she’d find nothing but air, yet the floorboards, hard and real, met her fingertips.

Again, that sliver of light winked. Before it disappeared, she reached forward to touch it. Her hand came into contact with something hard. A cocktail of awe and pleasant trepidation sped through her, coupled with lust that set her clit to throbbing. She gasped, unaccustomed to the raw desire inside her. The solidity beneath her hand warmed and she ran her fingers along what felt like a wooden edge. Exploring further, she smoothed her hand across the surface. A large box?

Energized, she gripped the rear corners and pulled, shuffling backward as the heavy box moved. A vision of spiders scurrying from their disturbed homes flickered through her mind, so she doubled her efforts and drew the box out quickly. Standing, she patted the shape, fingers finding a handle on one side. She grasped it and heaved the weight into the sunlit part of the attic. Sweat dripped down her temples and her stomach contracted, excitement gripping her. She stared down at a large, polished wooden chest, the lid’s surface inlaid with intricate carvings. The attic darkened a little and she turned to look at the windows. White clouds scudded across the sun for a moment before dull beams shone through the glass again. Amelia returned her attention to the chest. A gold clasp kept the lid closed and she went down on her knees, eager to inspect the contents.

With shaking fingers, she lifted the clasp, once again entertaining thoughts of spiders. She swallowed, steeled herself for a fright and raised the lid. It creaked, the sound so loud she winced. Black silk lined the top, the edges frayed and worn from many years of use. She gazed inside. What appeared to be a dress from the nineteenth century lay in the bottom, its flowery blue bodice boned like that of an olden-day garment. The low neckline would show off ample cleavage and she automatically placed her hand to her chest. Her heart thumped beneath her palm and her head lightened.

I need fresh air. It’s so cloying up here
.

Still she didn’t move. Instead, she reached into the chest and picked up the dress. A shock of lust winged through her body and she reared backward onto her ass, the material in a heap on her legs. Her cunt ached so much it bordered on pain. Stunned, she stared at the dress, confused at her state.

What the hell is going on here?

Amelia exhaled a shaky breath and staved off the desire to snake her hand inside her jeans and touch herself. She laughed, the tinkle of it carefree. Tentatively, she ran her hands over the bodice. Her nipples perked and lust sped through her veins again, growing more urgent with every thud of her pulse. She stood, kicking the dress away, and looked at it, arms across her midsection.

I haven’t felt like this…ever
.

Emotions assaulted her—the need for something she couldn’t explain, the desire for strong arms about her, the touch of soft skin on hers. She lifted a hand to her mouth, explored her lips with her fingertips and dashed her tongue out. A groan left her. She shook her head and bent to pick up the garment. Holding it by the cream sleeves, she shook it out, the blue velvet skirt swishing against her legs. An unexplainable need to undress gripped her and, without questioning her actions, she draped the dress over the box and yanked down her jeans. Her fingers stumbled on her shirt buttons, but she had to undress,
had to

In her bra and thong, she scooped up the frock and slid her hands inside the skirt, slipping it over her head. Arms stretched upward, her hands found the sleeves and she shimmied the garment down, inhaling the musky scent of dust, stale beer and a hint of lavender, then poked her head through the neck. Fuzziness covered her, spread through her limbs and torso, making her giddy. Her clit throbbed harder and her breasts tingled, nipples so taut pleasure-pain radiated from them. She palmed her breasts through the fabric and her breath caught as the onset of an orgasm swirled in her center. Suddenly desperate for air, she stumbled over to the window, disoriented by the fast arrival of a desire so vast it rendered her faint.

She pinged the lock back and pushed the window up, the rush of fresh air bringing instantaneous relief. Amelia glanced down at the sill and frowned at carved straight lines on the edge, surely not made for decorative purposes. Another jolt of longing ripped through her and she gave in, drawing up the skirt and bunching it at her waist. Her fingers rubbed her mound, her thong giving her clit beautiful friction. She closed her eyes, unable to stop the need to touch herself, and covered one breast with her free hand.

A gusty breeze sifted through the window and cooled her hot cheeks. She rubbed faster, bliss burgeoning. Someone called her name. It sounded far away and she snapped her eyes open, stilling her movements. Stuttered breaths gusted through her lips and she listened to her pulse, her beating heart and the sound of birds twittering in the trees and hedges bordering her front yard.

“Amelia…” There it was again, a male voice, her name spoken from a distance, the tone pleading, heartwrenching.

She stared through the window, embarrassment heating her face as her gaze alighted on a man standing on her garden path and looking up at her. She snatched her hand away from her cunt and let the skirt fall about her legs. Both hands covered her mouth and she gasped in shock, pivoting and pressing her back firmly against the wall beside the window.

Who the hell is that?

Amelia worried her bottom lip with her teeth and lowered her hands, smoothing out the dress as if doing so would erase what the man had undoubtedly seen. Should she wait for him to go or peek outside again? Gathering her resolve, she stepped to the window, leaned her palms on the sill and stuck her head out.

The man had stayed his position, legs clad in old-fashioned black breeches, feet planted apart on the gravel path. A white shirt hung out of his waistband, molded to his chest and biceps, suggesting he worked out or worked with his body. His thick neck, tanned from the sun, boasted a prominent Adam’s apple, a smattering of dark hair rising from his chest. Her gaze rose to his face and she held her breath. Black hair flopped over his forehead. Blue eyes on either side of a slender nose regarded her and a knowing grin tweaked one side of his mouth. His eyebrows arced in question and heat infused her cheeks.

Damn! Of all the things I could have been doing when I had my first visitor, it had to be that!

A memory filled her mind, one she hadn’t lived but somehow knew intimately. Hot skin on skin, bodies tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. Breaths hard and fast, her chest heaving, her fingers exploring every part of his body. His hand in her hair, bringing her mouth to his, tongues entwined, the wet heat of their kiss sending a wave of lust to her slit. She knew him yet she didn’t. He belonged here yet he didn’t. She was afraid of him yet she wasn’t.

Amelia cleared her throat, shoving the images away. “Umm, can I help you?”

He threw his head back and laughed, baring straight teeth. She wished the ground would swallow her up or that he would go away, never to return, but…no, she didn’t really want him to leave. While his rich bellow increased her embarrassment, she eyed the windowsill. Those carved lines, stark and proud, seemed to mean something, their reason for being there nudging at the recesses of her mind, yet her rational side butted in. How could she know what they meant? And why should she care?

She glanced at the road that wound to the right and led the long way into town. Asphalt had been replaced by a dirt track.
What the hell?
She stared at the man again.

BOOK: His Beautiful Wench
10.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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