Love's Savage Whiplash, Chapter 16: The Death of a Parrot... and Other Surprises

In which old secrets are uncovered, new loves are strengthened
and one parrot has a Very Bad Day

“Evelyn?” Westley snickered behind them. “He is a boy, is he not?”

Quinn spun on him, the daggers in her eyes as sharp and lethal as the ones she used in combat. “If you must know, he was named for our great-great-great grandfather.”

“And what happened to him?” Ward demanded. “Tell me he lived long and prospered with a name like Evelyn!”

Quinn’s cheeks flushed as she turned back to her brother. “Actually, he was beat up after a croquet match by a group of… Morris Dancers. But never mind that.” She waved her hand and turned back to Westley. “You know, you really do look like my beloved.”

“However.” Julia stepped between them. “He is my beloved.”

“Of course,” Quinn agreed with a nod of her head. “My beloved is Colin Darcy, Duke of Earl.”

Julia’s cheeks were the ones to flush now. “My beloved is the Duke. He is…” She
turned to Westley. Actually, he wasn’t the Duke. At least, not according to Lady Chastity and Wickham. She stepped forward. “Colin? Tell me the truth. Who are you? What is going on?”

“I know everything! I know everything!” a squawk sounded from the tree branch above them.

Everyone tipped their heads back. “Pemberley?” Julia asked.

“I know the truth! Awwk! I know the truth!” Pemberley’s feathers ruffled and smoothed as he paced along the branch. “The truth! The truth!” He flapped his wings.

“He’s a bloody bird,” Westley said. “What can he know?”

“But he does know,” Ward—he refused to even think of himself as Evelyn—broke in.

“He’s told me all of it. I thought it was a bedtime story but now I realize he’s been telling me about the Duke and his brother all this time.”

Quinn looked down at Ward. “The parrot has been telling you bedtime stories?”

“Well, they’ve insisted on putting me to bed at six every night!” the boy exclaimed. “No one’s tired at six! Pemberley comes into the nursery and talks to me. He’s been telling me about the lost Duke since I was little.”

“I say.” Colin looked up at his long-time pet. “Could it be that the answers are right there?”

“Well,” Julia said to Pemberley, putting her hand on her hip. “Are you going to tell us?”

The bird stopped his pacing and flapping and ruffling and looked down upon the humans all staring up at him. He tipped his head to one side. But said nothing.

“Well, come on bird,” Westley said, stepping forward. “Spill it.”

Pemberley tipped his head to the other side. Were they actually going to listen? No, it couldn’t be. In all his years, no one but the boy had ever listened to him, and even the youngster had thought it fiction.

“Yes, yes, get on with it Pemberley. What is this truth you keep squawking about?” Colin added.

They were! They were actually going to listen. He couldn’t believe it! At last! He opened his beak… and fell from the branch, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

“Pemberley!” Julia rushed forward.

“Pemberley!” Colin went to his knees next to his pet. “No!”

“What on earth happened?” Quinn asked.

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Ward asked. “He died from the shock of having someone listen to him.” The boy added an eye roll. “Makes sense to me.”

Julia looked up at Colin as he gathered his feathered friend to his chest. “You are Colin. Aren’t you?” Only the true Colin would be so distraught over Pemberley’s demise. Which meant that her husband really was… well, not Colin.

Of course Wickham had already accused him of such, but her heart hadn’t been able to accept it. Now, though, watching her sister’s beloved shed tears over the bird, she knew it was true.

The real Colin gazed at her through watery eyes and nodded. “I am. And Pemberley accompanied me on my adventure at sea. He never left my side. And I never listened. I didn’t pay attention. I took him for granted.” A sob shook the man’s body.

Quinn knelt beside him, rubbing his back and murmuring quietly to him.

Julia reached out a hand and stroked the bird’s wing. “And now we shall never know the full truth.”

“Ahem.”

No one reacted. Colin continued to cradle the bird and sob while Quinn attempted to comfort him, and Westley wondered if Julia needed comforting, and Julia wondered if her new husband would know enough to try to comfort her.

“Ahem!”

Westley finally went to one knee next to Julia and mimicked Quinn’s actions, rubbing her back and kissing her temple.

“I say, excuse me!”

Finally they all turned their eyes upon Ward.

“Evelyn, I will absolutely not tolerate your insolence,” Quinn said. She turned to Julia. “You’ve been too soft on him, obviously. He’s clearly a brat and we will need to use a firm hand with him.”

“I’ve been too soft on him?” Julia exclaimed. “I was the one who swam to shore with only one arm because I was holding our baby brother, saving him from certain death at sea. And where were you?”

“I was… well, I didn’t know… I just had to…” Quinn blustered. “I had to save myself by clinging to a sea turtle and survive alone on a deserted island until the pirate ship picked me up! And if you think living the life of a pirate is all exciting and glamorous, you are sadly mistaken.”

“Here, here,” Colin muttered. “But ninjas… now they’re exciting.”

Quinn gave him a fond smile.

“I thought your parents died in a milking accident?” Colin said, turning his attention to his former governess.

Julia blushed. “I couldn’t risk the six-fingered man finding us. It was better to invent an entirely new identity for both of us. Poor Evelyn would have…”

“I will NOT tolerate being called EVELYN!” Ward shouted.

Everyone turned to stare at him. It was true that Ward was often cheeky, but he very rarely yelled.

“AND, I know the truths that Pemberley will now be unable to impart. If anyone cares.”

The boy wasn’t entirely upset about the parrot’s death. For one, he was an old bird and Ward was an intelligent soul— it had only been a matter of time. And Pemberley had been kind when Ward was younger, but he’d always been a bit arrogant about knowing all the Netherloin history. Then he’d just up and gone to sea with Colin, leaving Ward to go to bed at six with no stories. So, Ward wasn’t happy the old thing was gone, but he wasn’t going to be inconsolable either. Now he might actually get some of the attention due him. If the adults wanted the full Netherloin story they were going to have to listen to him for a change.

Besides, now Ward had the strange furry creature he’d found in the portrait gallery. It didn’t talk and tell him stories, but perhaps pets were best seen and not heard.

“Quite right,” Westley said, striding forward. “Let us toss the damned bird away and get on with this.”

Julia gasped and came to her feet. “Col—I mean… that is… my love! We cannot just toss him away. He was a pet, part of the family. We must give him a proper burial.”

“Can’t that wait until after we find out what in the bloody hell is going on and who the real Duke is?”

The man kneeling on the ground, sobbing over the dead duck—or whatever it was—certainly did look a lot like him. Of course, Westley would never be caught dead wearing those silly pirate breeches. But otherwise, there were startling similarities. He didn’t remember much of his very early life. Roberts had always quieted his questions with “if you think you can find a better life elsewhere, there’s the door”. And while he had never felt that he belonged with Roberts, he had never felt for certain that he belonged anywhere else, either. Hence, the life of a highwayman had seemed to fit. But now, looking at the other man, poorly dressed or not, he had to wonder…

Julia and Quinn were sisters. It was quite obvious. They were exact replicas. Yes, Quinn’s clothing revealed more of the beautiful body underneath, but he’d spent enough time with Julia’s beautiful body to know that they were identical in nearly every way.

Was it possible that the man who looked like him could be his—he almost couldn’t bring himself to think it—brother?

But how could that be?

“I know who the real Duke is!” Ward insisted.

“We have to pay our respects to Pemberley,” Julia argued.

Westley took a moment to look closely at the woman he’d made his wife. Was she stalling the conversation because she was worried about the outcome? Was she disappointed she might not be a Duchess? Worse, was she realizing that she was in love with the real Colin instead?

“Fine,” Westley said. “Let’s bury the damned thing. Then we will have the truth.”

If she no longer wanted him, he’d simply ride off into the sunset. That’s what real men did anyway. They didn’t sit around in big houses with servants tending to their every need, drinking tea and going to balls.

No matter how much they might like to.

They gathered in the rose garden. Someone was sent to fetch a container and returned with a rectangular box that once held shoes, from the looks of it. Someone else had been asked to dig a hole.

The beauty of having servants—well, one beauty of many, Westley thought longingly—was that you always had people to fetch and dig for you.

Colin tenderly placed Pemberley inside the box and lowered the lid.

“You should say a few words, my love,” Quinn said gently. “It will help.”

“Very well.” Colin bowed his head. “Here lies my friend, my compatriot, my guide, my comfort, my…”

“Alright,” Quinn said, nudging him with her elbow and cutting him off. “Anything else?”

“I’m so very sorry that I didn’t realize what counsel he could offer,” Colin went on. “I regret the time that could have been spent learning about my history and coming to know the true friendship that such a loyal and faithful companion could have bestowed upon me and—”

“Oh, Amen for God’s sake!” Westley yanked the box of bird from Colin’s hands and tossed it into the hole in front of them.

As the box hit the bottom of the shallow hole—the servant hadn’t known it had been intended as a grave—the lid tilted and they heard “Lumière! Awwk! Lumière!”

“What in the bloody—”

Colin and Westley both leaned in over the grave at the same moment that lavender feathers burst from the box.

“Dead Duke! Dead Duke!”

Pemberley shot straight upward, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes. He headed for the nearest branch in the oak tree just above them. And promptly pooped on Westley’s shoulder.

“Damned bird!” Westley exclaimed, swiping at the mess.

But no one paid him any attention.

“Pemberley!” Julia and Colin cried together.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ward said in amazement.

Quinn said nothing but crouched looking wildly from side to side, her katana drawn—her ninja reaction whenever startled.

“Dead Duke! Lumière!” Pemberley squawked from above them.

“What is he talking about?” Colin asked.

“Good heavens!” Julia exclaimed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“What Duke? Who’s dead?” Westley asked.

Quinn waved her sword from side to side.

“Ahem!”

“Lumière?” Colin repeated. “I believe that’s the name of our old valet.”

“Yes, I remember him,” Julia agreed. “Whatever happened to him?”

“What kind of name is Lumière?” Westley asked.

Quinn sheathed her sword.

“EXCUSE ME!” Ward roared.

They all turned to look at him.

“Perhaps I can shed some light on this mystery,” the boy said dryly. Damn it all, he’d been trying to tell them that he was consequential and now that the bird was alive again… or still alive… and talking, they would likely go right back to ignoring whatever he said. Unless he could tell them what he knew first.

The four adults crossed their arms and looked at him.

“Well?”

“Get on with it then.”

“Tell us what is going on!”

Quinn just raised an eyebrow.

And that was enough to make Ward sweat… and start talking.

“Pemberley used to tell me the story of the Little Lost Duke. The Duke was a spoiled young boy who was taken to the river one evening by his valet. The valet spoke poor English and believed his orders were to throw the child in the river. He did, the current swept him away and he was never seen again. His twin brother then took over his position as Duke.”

The adults were staring at him.

“Well, that could be them, could it not?” Ward asked Julia, pointing from Colin to Westley.

Julia turned to Westley. “I don’t know. Were you thrown in the river as a child?”

He lifted his shoulder. “I don’t remember much of the time before I rode with Roberts. He always claimed that he found me.”

Quinn looked at Colin. “What about you? How can you not remember having a brother?”

Colin scratched his head. “I don’t know. I remember having an imaginary friend named Firth.”

“Firth! Awwk! Firth!” Pemberley flapped his wings and ruffled his feathers as he spoke, drawing their attention.

“Firth?” Ward said. “Why, that was the name of the boy in the story. The one thrown in the river.”

“What was the other boy’s name?” Julia asked. “The one that became the Duke?”

Ward’s eyes grew wide. “Colin.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes,” the boy nodded eagerly. “I thought Pemberley used that name just because he knew it, but now I see… that truly was the little boy’s name!”

Something in Westley’s chest had tightened at the name “Firth,” and now he stared at Colin. Things started to niggle in the back of his mind. A tall, mostly-deaf Frenchman, for instance.

“Wha…?” He had to clear his throat. “What was your father’s name?” he asked Colin.

“Bronte,” Colin replied quickly.

That too caused a tightening in Westley’s chest.

“And your mother?” he asked, his voice thick.

“Emily.”

Yes. Yes. Emily and Bronte. It was so familiar. As if he’d heard it a million times. As if it was imprinted on the cover of a book—the book of his life. So sweet. So much a part of him that he felt his heart expand and fill.

His name was Firth. Firth Darcy. The son of Emily and Bronte Darcy. Brother to Colin. He stepped forward, arms outstretched to embrace his brother… and stepped in Pemberley’s grave.

He pitched forward, arms still outstretched, flailing wildly. But just as he was about to hit the ground he felt his brother’s strong arms catch him, hauling him back onto his feet.

“Oh my heavens!” Julia exclaimed, running to his side.

The concern in her eyes made his heart nearly burst. She loved him. He could tell. No matter his name.

“So Firth here is the real Duke?” Quinn asked. She actually directed her question toward Pemberley. Who was still feeling a bit overcome with surprise—and almost being buried alive.

“The Duke! The Duke!” he confirmed.

“What happened to your parents?” she asked Colin.

Colin frowned as he thought. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “All I ever remember is Uncle Willoughby. And the pressure of running the Duchy.”

“You knew it was called a Duchy, then?” Westley-Firth asked.

“Of course. What else would it be called?” Colin asked.

“What indeed,” Westley-Firth muttered. But then he brightened. He was the Duke. The real Duke. The Duke of Earl. And if he wanted to refer to his Duchy as a Dukedom, he damned well would.

“You don’t remember your parents either?” Julia asked Firth. Lord, she hoped someday soon she would be able to think of him simply as Firth, rather than as Colin and then as Westely before arriving at Firth.

“I don’t.” He shook his head. “I mean, I do. I remember them. Good things. Warm things. But I don’t remember what happened.”

“Murder! Murder!” Pemberley squawked.

All eyes turned upward. And they heard something hit the tree. It sounded like someone had thrown a rock… just before Pemberley fell from the branch. Again.

He landed in the shoebox in the grave that Firth had partially crushed.

They all gasped and moved forward to gather around their fallen friend. For the second time.

“What the—?”

Quinn had spun and was surveying the area. “There! A slingshot!” she shouted, pointing to the rise just beyond the Netherloin gate. “There’s a shooter on the grassy knoll!” She started running in that direction.

“We’ll take care of this!” Firth called back as he started after her.

“But—” Julia started to protest, but Colin put his hand on her shoulder.

“She’s a ninja. He’s a Highwayman. They’re the best to go after Uncle Willoughby.”

“It was Wickham?” Julia asked. “How do you know?”

“I saw his coat. I’m sure he was coming back to do just what he did. Pemberley never told you stories about the first Duke and his wife, did he?” he asked Ward.

The boy shook his head. “No, only the twins.”

“Wickham has been watching us,” Colin said, glancing around. “He knows Ward told us the truth about Firth and me, and he had to know that Ward didn’t know the story of my parents. But Pemberley did.” A tear fell into the bird’s box. “Pemberley knew that Uncle Willoughby did something bad. Something wicked. And Uncle had to take him out.”

“I can’t believe he shot Pemberley!” Julia cried.

“We’d best get inside. In case Wickham comes back before Firth and Quinn can find him. I’ll have the servants cover Pemberley up in a bit.”

Julia allowed Colin to turn her in the direction of the house. Through her sadness over the beloved parrot, she took note of the fact that Colin left his arm around her shoulders. It felt nice. Friendly. Brotherly. Nothing like it felt when West… Firth touched her.

She looked up at him.

He was a very handsome man, of course. But he was no Firth Darcy. The love of her life.

They arrived at the house just in time for the housekeeper to greet them with the news that they had a visitor.

They sent Ward upstairs. Together they headed for the parlor.

A strange man sat in the chair near the windows. He rose as they entered, and Julia noticed the jeweled box at his feet.

“I’m Colin Darcy,” Colin said. “And this is my sister-in-law Julia, Duchess of Netherloin.”Julia loved the title, but she liked “sister-in-law” even better. “How do you do?” she asked their guest.

“I thank you for seeing me,” the man said, taking her hand and bending to kiss it. “I have something I need to give you.”

He turned away, tugging his gloves from his hands. Then he bent and picked up the box before turning to Julia with a smile. “This belongs to your brother, Mr. Evelyn Bronte Fitzgerald. I have recently tracked him here. As his guardian, I will put this into your keeping.”

Curious, Julia reached for the box. That was when she noticed the man’s hands.
He had six fingers on his left hand.

She gasped and backed up, right into Colin. He took her upper arms and turned her, peering down into her face with concern. “Julia, what is it?”

“Six fingers,” she whispered through her fear. “He has six fingers.”

Colin pushed her behind him and withdrew a short bladed knife from near his ankle. She marveled at that. She’d never seen Colin move with such confidence and grace and skill.

“Who are you and what do you really want?” Colin demanded of the man, waving the knife in front of the man’s face.

The man had grown a bit pale. “I am Stephen. I came to return to Mr. Evelyn Fitzgerald what is rightly his.”

“You have six fingers. The man who killed Julia and Quinn’s father had six fingers. Care to explain that?”

The man looked pained now. “Yes, my brother. He was my twin. Though the evil twin, I am sad to say.”

“Was?” Julia asked. “What do you mean?”

“Your sister killed him,” Stephen said sadly. “He deserved his end. However, he was still my brother.”

“And you’re here for revenge?” Colin asked, waving the knife again.

“No, no,” the man said quickly. “I’m here to return that chest to this family. It was on board the ship that went down. We didn’t know any of the children had survived, but when we found out there was a boy, the direct heir, we had to return it.”

“Open the box,” Colin told Julia. “Let’s see if it’s worth this man’s life.”

Being a pirate had definitely changed Colin, Julia thought as she set the box on the table and tried to open it. Her fingers were shaking so badly, however, that she couldn’t.

“Let me help.” Suddenly Ward was beside her.

It was his box, after all. Julia stepped aside.

Ward made short work of the lock and lifted the lid.

They all gasped, including Stephen.

Gems and jewels of every size and color twinkled back at them.

Ward and Julia turned to face the man together. “What is this?”

“Your inheritance,” Stephen said with a lift of his shoulder. “Your father’s name and your brother’s name are inscribed under the inside of the box.”

They looked. He was right.

“Well then I suppose…” Julia looked down at her brother. “I suppose we have money after all.”
Ward was staring at the box with his mouth open. “Was Father a pirate?” he asked. The only treasure like this he’d ever seen was in picture books that featured pirates.

Julia and Colin laughed.

“No,” Julia said, patting Ward’s head.

“But pirates are smashing,” Colin added.

“Smashing pirates!” came a squawk. Suddenly a lavender parrot flew in through the window, made a circle of the room and came to rest on Colin’s shoulder.

“Pemberley?” Colin asked, stunned.

“Naked ninjas!”

Yes. It was most certainly Pemberley.

Again.

***

A Word to you, Our Dear and Gentle Readers: If you enjoyed this small offering, please do us the honor of returning to grace our humble blog with your presence one week hence, when we shall be delighted to bring to you the last installment of our little saga. And please partake of our Love’s Savage Contest. Leave a comment here or go to our Facebook page (link in the column on the right) and quote your favorite line from this week’s episode to be entered in a monthly drawing for a giftcard at the bookstore of your choice and a grand finale drawing for a signed e-reader cover.

Cordially,

The Naughty Nine

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Love's Savage Whiplash Chapter Fourteen - Divulging The Duke's Deception

In which our Newly wed pair, returning to Netherloin in triumphant bliss, find Themselves caught in a Web of deception that won't End well.

Julia placed the last of her garments in her reticule and fastened it, gazing about the room with a bit of sadness. She could not hold back the sigh that escaped her lips.

Her darling husband (husband! She had a husband!) looked up at her sad exhalation. "What is it, my duckling?"

She waved a delicate hand about, indicating the room. "It is just that I am sad to say goodbye to our little love nest," she said. "I shall miss being tucked away from the world, just the two of us. Colin and Julia."

He grimaced.

"Er, Julia and...Westley." She still did not quite understand his insistence on being called a different name. He had a perfectly good name of his own, after all.
But it was important that a wife do what she could to keep her husband happy. (Husband! She had a husband!)

"Thank you, my dearest." He took her hand and kissed the knuckles, sending a frisson of desire through her. "I shall miss our personal space as well."

She smiled. At least he'd stopped calling her that other woman's name. And, heaven forbid, the name of his ferret. She still wasn’t sure what exactly a ferret was, but she was quite sure she would not be pleased with the comparison once she did figure it out. Honoring her husband's (HUSBAND'S!) quirks was one thing; giving over her own right to keep her Christian name was another thing altogether.

She was willing to be as docile and subservient as he wanted, but that was a line she'd never cross.

"But it is time for us to return to the real world," he continued, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow and turning toward the door. "We have duties. I think. Do we not?"

She looked at him curiously. "But of course, milord," she said. "You have your responsibilities as the Duke, which you have been training for since childhood."

"Quite right," he mumbled, inspecting the doorframe with an air of indifference.

"And I have quite neglected Ward," she added.

"Oh, no, my pigeon!" Colin-Westley stopped dead in the middle of the room. "You are no longer responsible for anything related to the nursery. You are a duchess, after all!"

Julia blinked. She supposed he was right. No longer a governess - with their marriage, she'd traded in all those responsibilities for the life of a duchess.

What were her new responsibilities, anyway? She frowned. Likely hiring a new governess would be one of them.

Poor Ward. He would miss her terribly.

"Come, my dear," Westley-Colin said, steering her toward the door again. "We must return to Netherloin and share the delightful news of our nuptials."

Oh, yes. Netherloin. The idea of telling Willoughby and Lady Chastity that they'd eloped filled Julia with dread. But with her husband (yes, HUSBAND) by her side, she could face anything.

****

Westley, pretender to the, well, not really throne, was it? The seat? Yes, that would do - the seat of Netherloin, would have been happy to wait another day or two.

His time with Julia at the quaint little country inn had been truly delightful, in more ways than one. Mostly under the bedcovers. But duty called, and he was ready to respond.

Also, he was a little hungry.

And the kitchens at Netherloin were one of his favourite things about being a duke.

The carriage turned onto the long, winding road to the estate, bumping and shuddering over the rough terrain. First order of business, Westley decided, was to have the road repaired.

Or perhaps just add new springs to the carriage. That might be less dear.

Suddenly, the carriage pulled to a precipitous halt, causing his duchess (he had a duchess!) to tumble off her seat. Landing with a most unladylike “Oof!”, she glared up at him as if her current position was his fault.

Which, as far as he could tell, it was decidedly not.

Murmuring gentle words to her, much as he would have calmed Brigid in a similar state (and he certainly needed to locate his darling ferret as soon as he returned to Netherloin. Why, she must be quite as hungry as he was!), he reached down a hand and tugged her off the floor. Returning her to the cushion next to him, he said, “Allow me to determine what has interfered with our progress, dear,” and opened the carriage door to look out.

It was a most confusing scene that greeted his gaze. His driver was in a heated argument with a young boy who looked rather familiar.

“But I must speak with his Grace,” the child protested loudly. “’Tis a matter of life and death.”

Westley frowned. That certainly did not sound promising.

“Ward?” Julia poked her head out of the carriage directly below Westley’s arm and stared at the lad. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Trying to save –" Whatever he was about to say was cut off by the sound of thundering hooves as some of Willoughby’s men rode up the drive. As far as Westley could tell, Ward heaved a sigh at their appearance, which made no sense at all, for what boy didn’t love a man in uniform upon a fancy steed?

The lead horseman drew to a halt in front of the carriage and sketched a bow. “Your presence is requested at Netherloin,” he said haughtily.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Westley replied. “That’s where we were headed, after all. Lead the way, my good man.”

He ducked back into the carriage, bringing Julia with him, and after a pause Ward leapt in after them. Once they were all settled (he and Julia on one cushion, Ward on the one opposite) Westley tapped the roof of the carriage and the driver set them in motion once again.

***

“How exciting! An escort back to Netherloin.” Julia reached across the carriage and patted Ward on the knee. “And you coming to greet us as well. Thoughtful of you, my dear.”

“It wasn’t thoughtful, it was –“

“But how did you all know we were returning today?” Julia looked at Westley-Colin with an exasperated smile. “Did you set all this up, my duke-ling? A welcome home to remember?”

“No, my dearest, it was not my idea. Though I wish it had been, now that I see the delight on your face.” He winked at her. “Delight I have not seen since last night, when we tried that one thing with the feather and the –“

Julia coughed loudly. “Not in front of the children, husband!” She nodded sharply at Ward, even while her inner voice crowed once again about how excellent it was to have a husband.

“You are married?”

She looked over at Ward, who did not seem nearly as enthusiastic about their nuptials as she might have expected.

Oh, well. Perhaps he was just saddened at the loss of his governess. Poor soul.

“Please do not be inconsolable, dear Ward,” she said, patting his knee again. “Do not fret. I will still visit you in the nursery when I can. And I am sure your new governess will be almost as nice as I am.”

“That’s not what I –“

“Of course, I shall be far better dressed by then,” she added brightly. “For the wife of a duke must be clothed in the first stare of fashion.”

“And so you shall,” her darling husband interjected. “As long as we have the money for it. Which I am not quite sure we do.”

“Oh. That does present a difficulty.” Julia pondered on it for a moment. “Well, you are quite clever, my husband. I am sure you shall come up with something.”

He squinted thoughtfully. “Perhaps I could return to my former profession,” he mused. “Just for a short while, until we are comfortably settled.”

“You see!” Julia clapped her hands and bounced on the carriage cushion. “I knew you would come up with a plan.” She frowned. “Wait, what profession?”

“That’s the problem,” Ward said, a note of desperation in his voice. “They know about—“

“Err…” Westley-Colin snapped his mouth shut and gestured out the window of the carriage. “Look, our very own welcoming committee!”

“Oh, my goodness,” Julia said, leaning past him to gawk at the gathered crowd. “How excited they must be, to welcome back their duke and new duchess!”

“You have no idea,” Ward muttered, slumping back in his seat. “If only you had let me talk, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Julia patted him fondly on the head. “Oh, what silly ideas you have, Ward! Don’t you know that children should be seen and not heard? We can see you, quite well indeed, and have no need to hear you.”

“I give up,” Ward said, tossing up his hands in defeat.

Julia nodded approvingly. “That’s better, dear.”

The carriage drew to a halt in the center of the courtyard, where indeed a crowd had gathered. Julia was surprised and not a little touched that even Lady Chastity had turned out to greet them. How unchristian of her to think the lady would be still angry at the turn of events that had taken her husband away and given him to Julia, she mused. Clearly, she had set aside her disappointment to do the neighborly thing.

Their driver alighted and opened the carriage door, and Colin-Westley gestured at Ward. “Would you like to disembark first, young man?”

“Oh, no,” Ward muttered, sinking back into the corner of the carriage. “You go right ahead.”

“Very well.” Westley leapt down from the carriage, cutting quite a dashing figure as he turned and swept a bow towards the crowd. “Good day, my fine people! I have a surprise for you that I daresay you will be thrilled about. May I present to you Her Grace, the Duchess of Earl?”

Julia blushed as she put her hand in his and stepped down from the carriage. “I know some of you may be shocked at the news,” she began. “But true love does conquer all.”

“There he is!” Willoughby’s voice rang out over the courtyard. Julia stared up at him, atop the stairs to the entryway.

Really, that was quite rude, to interrupt her Speech of Triumphant Return in such a gauche manner. Didn’t everyone already know Westley-Colin was standing right in front of all of them? Honestly.

“Guards! Seize him!”

Julia’s mouth dropped open as she was rudely elbowed aside by a rather large man in uniform, who grabbed one of her husband’s arms. The other was held firmly by another large man.

“I say, chaps,” the Duke said, tugging ineffectually at his captors. “This is a passing strange way to greet your lord and master.”

“You are no lord and master,” Lady Chastity called out over the murmurs of the crowd. Her face was a twisted mask of bitterness and glee. “You are an imposter!”

“What?” Julia turned to her husband in astonishment . “My dear, refute her immediately!”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Which was also passing strange, as he did so love to talk. And talk. And talk.

“He cannot,” the uncle said with a sneer. “Because it is the truth, isn’t it, Westley?”

The Duke clamped his mouth shut again.

Julia leaned in, her eyes wide with shock. “How does he know your pet name,” she whispered fiercely.

“He is no Duke,” Lady Chastity continued in a shrill voice. “He is just a man who looks like our dear departed Duke. He has taken poor Colin’s place in the hopes of inheriting what belongs to another man.”

“What are you saying?” Julia stepped closer to her husband, or as close as she could get, what with him being surrounded by the uncle’s men. “My beloved Westley – I mean Colin –is no imposter!”

“Aha!” Lady Chastity pointed an accusing finger at Julia. “She knows!”

“Knows what?”

“His true name!”

Julia glanced up at her husband helplessly. Why was he not denying these baseless accusations?

He would not meet her eyes, instead scuffing his toe in the dirt and whistling. Whistling! At a time like this!

The uncle took a step towards them. “This pretender, this vile usurper, has taken advantage of his cunning likeness to the true duke and stepped into his place in Colin’s absence. He is no duke, but a highwayman – the dread Highwayman Roberts!”

“What?” Julia pressed one hand to her trembling mouth. It could not be true!

On the other hand, it would explain so many things…

“And what has become of the missing duke, hmmm?” Lady Chastity stomped delicately across the courtyard and stood in front of Westley – Colin – whatever his name was, hands on her hips. “What have you done with my loving fiancé, you horrible fiend?”

“I didn’t do anything to him. I’ve never met the man!” Westley-Colin clamped his mouth shut as awareness of what he’d just said descended. “I mean…”

The crack of a hand across his face echoed loudly around the courtyard, stunning everyone into silence.

Well, most everyone.

“I say, that was quite uncalled for,” the maybe-fake-duke protested. “What did I ever do to you?”

She snarled at him, “My name is Lady Chastity. You killed my fiancé. Prepare to die!”

“Pardon?”

The uncle, now descended from the stairs, stood in the center of the courtyard and raised his hands. “It is my contention that this man disposed of the true duke in order to deceive us all and take his place. Therefore, he shall be placed under arrest until such a time that he can be sentenced to hang for murder. Guards, take him away!”

All Julia could do was watch in horror as her husband, the man she loved, was summarily marched into Netherloin, likely to be placed in the dungeon. But who was that man? Was he Colin, the duke she’d loved from afar for so long? Or was he truly an imposter?

The crowd began to disperse as the excitement faded, Lady Chastity sweeping into Netherloin on the arm of Uncle Willoughby. Finally Julia was alone.

Or almost. For once the crowds had disappeared, Ward crept out of the carriage, slipping to his governess’s side.

“Oh, Ward,” she said with a sob, resting one hand on his shoulder. “What an absolute disaster! How am I to bear it? If only…”

“What?” He looked at her askance.

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I just wish we could have had some warning that this was going to happen.”

Ward made a strangled sort of sound, causing Julia to narrow her eyes at him.
Really, he needed to stop grimacing like that or his face was going to freeze that way.

To be continued...*****


A Word to you, Our Dear and Gentle Readers: If you enjoyed this small offering, please do us the honor of returning to grace our humble blog with your presence one week hence, when we shall be delighted to bring to you the next installment of our little saga, which is to be entitled, Siblings Reunited, The Forces of Phisicks O'erturned.

And please partake of our Love’s Savage Contest. Leave a comment here or go to our Facebook page (link in the column on the right) and quote your favorite line from this week’s episode to be entered in a monthly drawing for a giftcard at the bookstore of your choice and a grand finale drawing for a signed e-reader cover.

Cordially,
The Naughty Nine

To read from the beginning: Love's Savage Whiplash Prologue

To read Chapter Thirteen

Love's Savage Whiplash Chapter 13 - Out of the Mouths of Parrots

In which dark Secrets are Revealed, some True, some Less so, and in which No One is entirely Sure which is which

Colin squinted after his lady love’s luscious posterior as she strode across the deck. He scratched at the stubble on his jaw. This strange journey into the world of pirates had made a man of him, in so many ways. But sometimes his dainty darling seemed to be far ahead of him in that respect. Wasn’t he supposed to be the Lord and Master of all he surveyed? Wasn’t that his god-given right as a Duke? Dukes were one step down from royalty, after all. After Dukes came Marquesses, then Earls, or maybe he had that backwards, but both ranked below Dukes. Viscounts came in last, he was fairly certain. Dukes were at the top of the heat and saucy ninja pirate ship captains didn't even make the list.

It was high time he took a stand.

“See here,” he called after Quinn. He caught the last curvy twitch of her buttocks as she swept down the hatch. So be it. If he had to scurry after her like a footman carrying his mistresses’ hatboxes, he would. So long as he made his point clear.

He dashed down the hatch after her. She was already halfway to their Cabin of Delight. “I demand to know what’s in that mysterious message from the sea. And what you know of Netherloin.”

“Demand?” She whirled around, her eyes blazing like sea glass reflecting the sun’s rays, rendering him momentarily blind. She was splendid. Magnificent. “I’m the captain of this ship. Only I can demand.”

“But sweeting…” Was that a tear he spotted on her brave but trembling cheek?

“And I demand the truth. Colin.”

When she said his name in that tone of voice, it sounded quite criminal. He quickly checked his conscience. Had he done her wrong in some way? Other than the obvious, naturally. But she’d seemed to enjoy that, if her constant cries of “By O-Watanube, that’s-good-don’t-stop-or-I’ll-shove-my-throwing-star-in-a-very-uncomfortable-place-board-me-baby-board-me-hard…” and so forth were any indication.

Or…was it something entirely different from their illicit activities? What was in that missive in the bottle? Where had it come from? If it had mentioned Netherloin, had it mentioned … him? “Hand me that letter.”

“Not until you tell me the truth.” She held it just out of his reach, which seemed impossible considering how much taller he was, but he was becoming used to her strange and magical abilities.

“The truth?”

“The truth!”

“You can’t handle the truth!” He shouted that last bit. She flinched backwards and whirled through the door to their Nest of Paradise. He stormed after her and found himself face to face with the lavendar visage of a squawking Pemberley.

“Truth! Truth!” the bird echoed, clearly taking Quinn’s side. Even his yellow-ringed eyes looked accusing.

“Pemberly, step aside. This is between the lady and me.” Pemberley flapped in the air, a purple blur of fury, before turning up his beak and hopping back to his perch.

“Truth, truth,” he muttered. “Duke. Truth.”

Colin clamped his hands around the bird’s beak. If the truth had to be told, it ought to come from him, not a damn feather-puff. “I’m not really a pirate,” he told Quinn.

Quinn flung herself onto the bed, tossing him a look of scorn. “I’ll endeavor to contain my astonishment.”

“My full name is Colin Darcy, and I’m the Duke of Earl. Our family seat is Netherloin.”

Pemberly made a sound somewhere between a squawk and a snicker. Colin clamped his hand more tightly around his beak. “Not that kind of seat,” he hissed at the bird.

He turned back to Quinn, whose hostile expression hadn’t softened one bit. In fact, she looked positively thunderous now, the way Miss Fitzgerald used to look when Ward had put a spider in her pocket. He blinked. Really, she looked quite like Miss Fitzgerald, now that he thought about it. The fact that he’d mostly witnessed Quinn naked had thrown him off. He’d never seen the governess naked. Not that he hadn’t thought about it. A sudden vision of the two women nude flashed before him. He flung his forearm over his eyes to block it, but it didn’t seem to work. They were still there, taunting him with their sinuous blond beauty, their charms exposed to his avaricious gaze, their breasts, oh Lord their bare breasts …

“There,” he choked. “Now you know everything.”

“You lie,” Quinn hissed. He lowered his arm to peer at her. She was still clothed. And alone. But his relief was shortlived. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Did you think simply because we happen to be on a pirate ship in the middle of the ocean, thousands of miles from England, that I wouldn’t discover the truth? Did you forget about the swallows?”

“The swallows?”

“The swallow that carried the bottle with the message from my sister! Your wife!”

The Nook of Passion spun around him. Confusion made him drop his hand from Pemberley’s beak. He barely felt the subsequent angry peck. “I don’t have a sister.”

“Ah ha! So you don’t deny that you have a wife!”

“I do.” But his voice held no conviction, perhaps because her use of the double negative made his head hurt.

“You do have a wife?”

“I don’t have a wife. No, definitely not.” Even though he was thoroughly confused, he was pretty sure he hadn’t married. Hadn’t that been the whole point of taking to the high seas? He hadn’t wanted to marry Chastity.

Quinn bolted to her feet and brandished the letter in her fist. “Are you calling my sister a liar?”

He recoiled in horror. “You’re Chastity’s sister? Lady Feelsgood?”

“Who is this Chastity and how do you know she feels good? First Sidebottom, now Chastity, not to mention my sister. You …. You depraved dupirate, you!”

Colin cast a desperate glance at Pemberley, who suddenly pretended to groom his under-wing area with his beak. The idea of turning the bird into Pemberley soup was suddenly quite appealing.

“I left Netherloin so I wouldn’t have to marry Chastity.”

“So instead you married my own sister!”

“How was I to know you had a sister? I’ve barely just met you.” That didn’t seem to help Quinn’s mood. “In any case, I’m quite sure I’m not married to anyone! I do believe I would know if I were, don’t you agree?”

That logic seemed unassailable to him, but Quinn turned her face aside. Colin couldn’t abide the hurt marring her lovely features. He’d do anything to wipe it away. “If I was married, how could I possibly do the…those naughty, wonderful things we’ve done together?” He took a nervous step forward, checking for the location of her throwing stars. But this line of argument seemed to be working, and no terrifying objects sliced through the air. “How could I delve into your sweet honeypot, how could I pluck your love harp, how could I have…” Words failed him. His voice faltered. “… fallen so deeply in love with you?”

Quinn gave a sob. He took her hands in his.

“Perhaps the swallow is misinformed. Perhaps the ink got a drop of seawater on it. Perhaps the droplet made Colin out of … I don’t know, Gollum. There must be a simple explanation. What does the letter say?”

Quinn shook her head as though to clear it. She took up the letter and read aloud. “My dearest sister Quinn. In the infinitesimally small chance that this might find you, I am overjoyed to share the news that I have become the wife of my dearest beloved Colin Darcy, the Duke of Earl. You will always be welcome at my new home, Netherloin. I can only hope that you too will know this kind of happiness, and that I will someday tenderly embrace you once again. Your loving sister, Julia Fitzgerald Darcy, Duchess of Earl.”

Julia Fitzgerald!! Colin stumbled backwards. Julia and Quinn, sisters! And just moments ago he’d been indulging in a twisted, perverted, glorious fantasy of the two of them twined together, wrapping their long legs about him like nymphs around a maypole…

He flung up his arm, but yet again it had no effect. The sensual images continued to assault him. White flesh, blond hair, pink nipples -- four of them, winking at him, taunting him…

Colin groaned. He had to make it stop. Say something, anything. “Julia’s your sister?”

Quinn slapped him across the cheek. “Your wife.”

“Your sister.”

She slapped him again. “Your wife.”

“Your sister.” “Your wife.” “Your sister.”

“And your wife!”

She slapped him one more time, a stinging blow that made his eyes tear up. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them together.

“You don’t understand, Quinn! I know Julia…Miss Fitzgerald. We’re quite good friends, but she’s a governess. Why would I marry a governess? I’m a Duke!”

“Are you saying my sister isn’t good enough for you?” She pulled one hand from his grasp and poised it for another blow.

No more slapping, please. As a man, he couldn’t fight back. Although really, hadn’t he just been observing how ably she’d claimed the manly role? Did he have anything left in this relationship? “No! I’m saying she wouldn’t possess the fortune required to rescue the estate. That’s why I went to sea. I decided to make my own fortune rather than marry Chastity. And destiny brought me to you. If I were to marry anyone, surely it would be you.”

Quinn slumped onto the bed. Her face crumpled as she wailed,“But you can’t! You’re already married!” Pemberley shifted back and forth on his perch. He’d never liked hearing a woman cry. But Colin didn’t mind one bit. Finally, the tables had turned. He could do the masculine thing and comfort his tender darling. He sat next to her on the bed and put an arm around her.

“We’ll just see about that. We’ll go to Netherloin together and get to the bottom of this.”

Pemberley definitely snickered.

“Not that kind of bottom.” Colin hissed, rolling his eyes. Why must his parrot have such a dirty mind?

“But even if we do,” Quinn whispered, “It’s hopeless. You can never marry me.”

“Don’t tell me you’re married!”

“No, no, but … You’re a Duke. I’m a Ninja. It’s impossible.” She wiped a tear from her quivering cheek. Never had he seen her so tender, so … Julia-like. Really, the resemblance was remarkable.

“My love-nugget, Dukes can do anything they like. We’re one step down from royalty, don’t you know. Above Marquesses. Far above Viscounts.”

That seemed to perk her up. He had to admit he found this softer Quinn quite…arousing. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t the only thing perking up. She pushed him back on the bed and took his emboldened shaft in her hands.

“My sweet ducal dangle. My princely prick,” she murmured to his manhood. “My nearly-royal rapier. You’re the only netherloin I could ever need.”

He folded his hands behind his head and let her do as she wished to his lordly lance. A sigh of satisfaction eased from his lips.

Sometimes … it’s deuced good to be Duke.

To be continued...

*****

A Word to you, Our Dear and Gentle Readers: If you enjoyed this small offering, please do us the honor of returning to grace our humble blog with your presence one week hence, when we shall be delighted to bring to you the next installment of our little saga, which is to be entitled, Chapter Fourteen: Divulging the Duke's Deception.

And please partake of our Love’s Savage Contest. Leave a comment here or go to our Facebook page (link in the column on the right) and quote your favorite line from this week’s episode to be entered in a monthly drawing for a giftcard at the bookstore of your choice and a grand finale drawing for a signed e-reader cover.

Cordially,
The Naughty Nine

To read from the beginning: Love's Savage Whiplash Prologue

Read Chapter Twelve

Read Chapter Fourteen

Love's Savage Whiplash Chapter Twelve: The Wedding Night

In which a once-nefarious, now-restored soul deflowers his Virgin Bride and develops a Conscience

Westley opened the door and stepped into the room where his bride awaited him. He’d ensured the horse was stabled and fed and had spoken to the innkeeper about having a meal and a bottle of wine brought to the room.

Tare an’hounds, they’d done it! He’d been well and truly caught in the parson’s mousetrap, though he couldn’t be too cut up about that. Miss Julia Fitzgerald was his now, his bride, his wife, and, apparently, his duchess. He smiled, his body tightening in anticipation of their first night as man and wife.

He quietly closed the door behind him and his bride looked up at him from the small desk where she sat. Her golden hair gleamed in the lamp light like an angel’s halo lit by the sun, or perhaps by the moon, or even by both the sun and the moon. But were there a sun and moon in heaven where angels dwelled? Perhaps not. But in any case her hair was divine, her face seraphic, and her shy smile stole his breath.

“Wife,” he said, moving toward her. She rose from the chair and stepped forward, meeting him. He took her hands in his. “You are so beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Her voice quivered. “I cannot believe we are married.”

He smiled reassuringly at her. “Indeed we are. Are you hungry?”

She blinked. “Why yes, I suppose I am.”

“Good. The innkeeper’s wife is bringing us food and drink.”

“Th-that sounds lovely.” Her long eyelashes fluttered down to her peaches-and-cream cheeks.

He tipped her chin up with his fingers so he could look into her eyes. “Are you nervous, my sweet little love duckling?”

The flicker in her eyes gave him his answer. He bent his head to brush her lips with his. “There, now,” he murmured. “There is naught to be afraid of.”

“I have never...lain with a man.”

Of course she hadn’t. Satisfaction swelled inside him that he would be her first. “Thank you, my love. You will be giving me a precious gift tonight.”

“I...what is that, Your Grace?”

“Your virginity, of course.” And he kissed her again. This time he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue and when her lips parted, heat surged through him. He curled one hand around the back of her neck and the other lowered to the small of her back, pulling her closer against him. Her soft curves inflamed his lust, her kisses burned to his soul, and heat rushed through his body. Then he slid his tongue into her mouth, finding hers. He swallowed her gasp, held her tighter lest she try to pull away. Their tongues engaged in a waltz of love, forward, backward, sliding. His breeches tightened as his pikestaff swelled.

“Oh, Colin!”

He drew back and frowned. Blast it, why did she have to keep calling him that? Well, of course it was because she believed that to be his name. He bit back a sigh. If he was going to restore the Dukedom...er...Duchy he’d best get accustomed to being called Colin. But the idea that his comely, innocent bride had perhaps harbored feelings of affection for another man made his hands curl into fists.

“Call me Earl,” he said. “No. Call me Westley.”

“Westley?” She gazed up at him, a delicate furrow between her eyebrows. “But your name is not Westley.”

“No. But I like that name.” Her apparent puzzlement deepened. “And I can call you Georgina.”

“Georgina!”

“Yes.” He sought for some explanation. “Sometimes married couples have special names for each other. And sometimes you could dress in the garb of an upstairs maid—with a ruffled apron?— and I could dress as a stable boy and we could play games where I might—”

“An upstairs maid.”

“Yes.” He smiled at her, but when she continued to frown at him, his smile faded. “Well. Ahem. Never mind, then. You can call me Your Grace.”

“I want to call you Colin.” She stepped back from him and folded her arms across her bosom, her pretty mouth set in a mutinous line.

This unexpected display of spirit and stubbornness both annoyed him and aroused him. His tallywacker surged once again behind the buttons of his breeches.

At that moment a knock on the door vibrated through the room.

“Er...that will be our supper.” He walked stiffly to the door and opened it.

The innkeeper’s wife bustled in, followed closely by another young girl. They both carried dishes and a third girl appeared with a bottle of wine and goblets. “Here ye be,” the innkeeper’s wife said, her rosy cheeks plumped up in a smile. “Your supper. Some lovely mutton roasted with herbs, and a nice bottle of burgundy.” She and the maids arranged things on the small oak table in the corner of the room. “You be sure to ring if you need anything a’tall, Your Grace.”

The door closed behind them and he and his bride were left alone again.

Their eyes met. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Call me Colin. Shall we eat?”

He did not want to eat. He wanted to bed his bride, to deflower her and make her his in every way. His loins burned with a fever of desire. But she was a delicate virgin and he had to be slow and careful with her, as with a skittish horse shying away, a filly who felt vulnerable without her alpha male, her stallion. To calm her he must be calm himself and play with her until her confidence grew.

As they ate by candle light in the small quiet room, they talked about the duchy, Westley trying to glean what information he could from her without letting on his ignorance. He poured more wine for her, hoping this would relax her. Though he did not want his bride so foxed as to not be able to play pickle-me-tickle-me later.

As they talked, their eyes met. She touched his hand. His knee brushed against hers beneath the table. Heat built. The air around them fairly crackled. Then Julia laid down her fork and knife and gazed at him across the table with limpid turquoise eyes and a soft mouth

“Colin,” she said in a husky voice. “I believe I am done with this delicious meal.”

“Oh, but...” He met her eyes. “Oh.” The beat of his heart deepened into a heavy pounding in his chest.

Julia smiled at him. “Make me your wife,” she whispered. “Take me to bed.”

***

Colin rose and extended his hand to her and she laid her hand in his. He took her in his arms and smiled down at her. His dark hair fell rakishly over his forehead, his eyes gleamed and a smile touched his lips. The way he looked at her made her feel so beautiful, so cherished and loved. She’d been alone so long, after losing all her family, finding a love like this made her heart swell in her chest and her throat tighten.

“I did not want to rush you,” he murmured, brushing his lips over hers. Her lips tingled in response and her blood heated in her veins. “Do you know what it is that a man and his wife do on their wedding night? Do you know...how babies are made, my little love duckling?”

“I...I...” She trembled in his arms. Her doubts and fears returned. “I am an educated woman, Your Grace. Colin. But I did not have a mother to give me connubial counsel. I have heard talk...I have seen the horses...”

“I will teach you,” he replied, kissing her again, heating her skin, causing a queer ache to develop deep inside her. She pressed against him and his tongue probed into her mouth, tasting of burgundy and his own male essence. His kisses explored her mouth and invited her to do the same, one hand stroking her back in a lovely rhythm, the other sliding into her hair.

They kissed again and again, longer kisses, deeper kisses that made her want more and more, though she knew not exactly what she longed for. Fever built inside her, though not a dangerous fever as with scarlet fever, more of a sunburned kind of feeling, or no, rather more of a feeling of deep embarrassment, a flushed, warm feeling that started deep inside and spread outward.

She wound her arms around his neck, pressed her body against his from chest to thigh and kissed him back with enthusiasm and ardor equal to his own. As the ache deep inside her intensified, she felt his body hardening against her, almost alarmingly, but then she smiled against his mouth as she realized what she felt.

“Your Grace,” she purred.

“Hmmm?”

“I believe I have found your ferret.”

He jerked back from her. “My ferret? You...you found Brigid?” He gazed down at her with lust-dazed eyes.

She tipped her head to one side and squinted at him. “You named it Brigid?”

“Well...yes.”

She blinked at him. “Lud, you do have a somewhat odd penchant for using different names. I trust you have not named it after some other...woman. Because that would be rather...queer.”

“No, no. No other woman. But where is she? Where is Brigid?”

“Right here.” She lowered her hand to the placket of his breeches and gently squeezed his manroot.

He looked down. “Er...darling girl...my sweet love duckling...that is not my ferret.”

“It is not?” She peered up at him, stroking him. “I thought that was what you called it. When you wanted me to help find your ferret, I believed that you had some kind of plan for illicit congress in mind.”

His lips twitched. “Ah...no, my dear. But let’s not talk about Brigid right now.”

She gazed at him with affront. “Well if this is not Brigid, who is she then?”

He sighed. “I do have a ferret. It is an animal. A carnivorous mammal of the weasel family. She is my pet and her name is Brigid.”

“Did you bring this creature home with you from the high seas? That does seem unusual. I would think that a pirate might bring back something like a crocodile or a...a shark. Or a parrot! Why, what ever happened to Pemberley...remember? He was lovely and lavender and had quite an extensive vocabulary.”

“Er....yes. But perhaps we could have this zoological discussion later.”

“Yes. So. If this is not your ferret...” She squeezed again, drawing a groan from him. “What is it?”

“That, my dear, is my love truncheon. My passion prong.” He kissed her and moved her toward the bed. “My lance of love.”

“Oh.” She trembled again. “Will it...hurt?”

“It may. A little. But only for a moment. I promise I will also make you feel good. Now we must get you out of this clothing...” He slid his tongue along the side of her neck and she shivered.

“I will go behind the screen to disrobe,” she gasped.

“No.” He turned her around and began to unbutton her dress. A kiss to the nape of her neck brought forth more shudders of delight. “We are married. I want to gaze upon the perfection of your skin. The beauty of your body.”

“Colin.” His improper words made heat blossom between her legs. “Oh, Colin.”

He dragged her gown down and it puddled at their feet. Her petticoat went next and then his hands went to the ties of her corset. As he unfastened her drawers then stripped her shift off over her head, his mouth teased the skin he revealed, his tongue tasted, and his fingers caressed and tormented her heated flesh. Her eyes drifted closed with pleasure, though a lingering shyness at being naked in front of a man remained. When he stepped back and turned her to face him, then raked his gaze up and down her body, devouring her with eyes that blazed with passion, her breasts tingled and swelled with anticipation. Feminine satisfaction and joy swelled inside her. She wanted to please him so very much.

“Your body is beautiful,” he whispered. “Your skin so soft, like the skin of a peach. Your breasts are perfect globes and...” His eyes dropped. “Your tufted treasure is exquisite.”

Heat flooded from her chest up into her face at his frank words. But she wanted to feast her eyes upon his perfect skin and beautiful body. She bit her lip and peered up at him through her eyelashes. “Will you disrobe, too?”

His slow smile had her pulse galloping like the horse on which he’d carried her here after forcibly removing her from the hackney coach. He shrugged out of his coat, then unbuttoned his waistcoat. She climbed onto the bed to watch him, fascinated as he stripped down to his drawers, hesitated, and then removed them as well.

She drew in a sharp breath, taking in his broad shoulders, the sculpted muscles of his chest and arms and abdomen. And...her gaze lowered to his...er...love truncheon. Her eyes widened at the sight of that turgid shaft of masculinity, the flushed flesh and throbbing veins.

“Oh my,” she breathed. “Oh, Colin.”

He turned and moved toward the table, giving her a view of his backside that was equally as impressive, his tightly-muscled buttocks and thighs flexing as he walked. She tipped her head to one side, though, as she took in the mark on his posterior...a birthmark on his right cheek. A most unusual one. She squinted at it, then smiled, this small imperfection on an otherwise perfect body endearing him to her even more.

He returned to the bed, bringing a candle to set nearby, the room now mostly dark. In the flickering golden glow his body gleamed and emanated strength and power and...danger. That weapon of love was both intimidating and exciting. She swallowed, but inside she still ached and burned.

“You seem so different lately, Your Grace,” she whispered.

“How so, my love?”

“I never realized before how masterful you are. How...strong. How forceful. When you swept me up onto that horse and said you were taking me to the nearest parson to marry me...well, it was the most thrilling moment of my life.”

He smiled as he climbed onto the bed and moved over her. “Until now.”

She smiled back at his cocksure confidence in his ability to please her, and twined her arms around his neck. “Yes. Until now.”

* * *

Westley kissed Julia again, overcome by emotion, lust rolling through him in heated waves. He kissed her breasts, suckled at the tender berries of her nipples until she writhed and moaned beneath him. He slid a hand between them to find her Cupid’s furrow, pleased to find her soft flesh so very slick. She gasped and her thighs tightened on his hand. “Sssh, my love duckling,” he whispered, kissing her breasts. “Relax. Your love juices have begun to flow. That will make things easier for you.”

He played with her lady flower for a long time, kissing and sucking her plump bubbies, wanting her to be ready for him. Her soft whimpers and cries escalated into a symphony of seduction, a crescendo of passion, music to his ears. His body responded by hardening even more, his blood surging hotly in his veins. Then he reached for his throbbing manroot and found her entrance. He felt her tense as he entered her, her body bathing the head of his manhood with her sweet honey of ecstasy. He was going to hurt her, he knew it, and unexpected tenderness filled him.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered—then he thrust into her. She squealed like a virgin on her wedding night, which, in point of fact, she was. He swallowed her small cry of pain with his mouth, kissing her again and again, trying to remain still as her body accepted him into her bower of bliss. Then he slowly began to move inside her, fighting for control. To his delight and gratification, she moved with him. He lifted his head and gazed at her face, her aquamarine eyes shiny with tears, a small smile trembling on her lips. “There,” he whispered. “There. So beautiful.”

She nodded, her gaze fixed upon his with utmost trust and devotion, and they rocked together until he exploded like a volcano, hurling both of them into a blazing inferno, a swirling cyclone of sparks—heat and light and transcendent wonder.

They lay together for long moments, her bosom heaving, both of them panting. And then some kind of emotion he could not identify filled him...could it be...guilt? Remorse? Those feelings old Roberts had told him never to allow himself to feel?

Why? At this moment he should be reveling in the satisfaction of having deflowered his beautiful virgin bride. But no...something else gnawed at his insides.

He’d wanted to feel worthy of her affection. He’d believed he could restore the Dukedom or the Duchy or whatever it was called with her at his side. He’d thought she’d restored his nefarious soul, but the truth was...he was still a blackguard. A bounder.

Had she really loved Colin? Even though Westley believed Colin would never return, and even though she was now well and truly his, the fact remained that he was pitching the gammon. Shamming it. And that was not fair to this beautiful English rose, this sweet pea of innocence, this fair flower of womanhood. He loved her—but he was living a lie. She thought him Colin Darcy, the Duke of Earl, and he was naught but a profligate imposter.

To be continued...

A Word to you, Our Dear and Gentle Readers: If you enjoyed this small offering, please do us the honor of returning to grace our humble blog with your presence one week hence, when we shall be delighted to bring to you the next installment of our little saga, which is to be entitled, Chapter Thirteen: Out of the Mouths of Parrots.
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Cordially,
The Naughty Nine

Click to read Chapter Thirteen

Click to read Chapter 11B

Click to read from the beginning

Love's Savage Whiplash, Chapter Nine-B: The Highwayman's Runaway Bride (continued)

In which, as has been previously mentioned, the ubiquitously-aforementioned Highwayman-cum-Duke resorts to once again plying his Former Nefarious Trade in order to Reclaim his errant, though altogether entrancing, Bride-to-Be, the also many-times-aforementioned and soon (and at long last) to be former, Governess.


Julia pressed her handkerchief to her lips and leaned closer to the door of the coach, giving every appearance of a woman entranced with the passing scenery. In truth, she was merely trying to gain some much-needed distance from her fellow travelers, none of whom it seemed had ever taken the time to become intimately acquainted with the act of bathing.

The coach lurched violently as it traversed the rutted road, and Julia's stomach lurched along with it. In retrospect, she found herself exceedingly glad she'd been unable to eat a bite ever since word of the Duke's imminent engagement reached her ears. She sighed with deep melancholy, blinking back her tears and continuing to stare out the window. The English countryside flew jerkily by as the coach carried her farther and farther from Netherloin, from her home, from Ward, from the heartbreak that was Colin Darcy, Ninth Duke of Earl.

Oh, how could she have been so mistaken in his character? Or been so foolish to imagine he'd ever condescend to wed with one such as she? She was naught but a lowly governess in his eyes, never mind that she'd been raised the daughter of a nobleman! Oh, Colin! If only you knew!

She had been so certain his adventures on the high seas had left their mark upon the duke. He seemed so different than before, and when his eyes met hers above that exceedingly greasy-looking haunch of venison that had been set before him, she was sure she read something lurking in their murky depths. How was she to have known it was merely hunger?

“Find his ferret, indeed!” she muttered though clenched teeth. She'd no doubt that was just the sort of sordid euphemism gentlemen employed to describe their acts of indelicate indecency. If she ever had the ill luck to come face to face with the blackguard again, she'd tell him exactly what she thought of his libertine behavior. Then she'd...yes. She'd take her knee to his ferret—see if she wouldn't! That would make him think twice, would it not? It would certainly give him pause the next time he considered suggesting to any well-brought-up young lady that she might wish to engage with him in vulgar, disgusting pastimes.

She was so caught up in her anger—and thoughts of revenge—that the commotion outside the coach quite failed to penetrate her consciousness. It wasn't until shots were fired and the carriage pitched to a most precipitous stop that she was recalled to her present surroundings.

She glanced around her, surprised to see that the other occupants, who had all been much less distracted, it appeared, were now engaged in a most peculiar activity. To a man they were frantically rummaging through their carry on bags, pulling out gold coins and other small valuables and stuffing them into their mouths.

“Here now,” she said in alarm. “What are you all doing?” Whatever it was, it looked quite un-hygenic and likely injurious to their health!

“We've been waylaid by highwaymen!” the man beside her explained around a mouthful of Spanish dubloons. “If you've anything of value about you that you don't wish to lose, you might want to take the precaution of swallowing it.”

“It's the Dread Highwayman Roberts!” exclaimed another, turning from the window, his face deadly white.

Julia's heart began to race. “Oh, surely not?” How had it come to this? How had her calm and orderly life become so disrupted? It was the duke's fault, surely! Another black sin to lay at his door. Another very valid reason for her to knee him in the ferret. Repeatedly. As hard as she could. She only prayed Providence would allow her to live long enough to make the attempt!

“The Dread Highwayman Roberts takes no prisoners!” said another of the passengers, fairly gasping in fright.

Well, that made good sense, Julia had to admit, even as she quailed to hear it. What sensible highwayman would wish to be saddled with a great lot of unwashed and unruly prisoners, after all?

The door of the coach opened and the coachman appeared. “Miss, could I ask you to step out of the coach now, please? There's a gentleman here as wishes to speak with you.”

Julia stared at the man in alarm. “Look now, if this is about the fare I owe you...”

“No Ma'am,” the coachman replied, growing red in the face. “It's naught to do with that. It's just...well, it's the highwayman, Miss. He says as how he's willing to let the rest of us go unharmed if we turn you over to him.”

So it was the highwayman who wished to “speak” with her? Julia pressed a trembling hand to her chest in an effort to still her racing heart. She was now convinced that, truly, her day could get no worse. No doubt this accursed highwayman would also have a ferret in need of finding.

“Well, hurry up, Miss,” the man beside her urged. “You don't want to keep the man waiting, do you?”

“Have you no decency?” she demanded, glaring at each of her fellow passengers in turn. “Is there not a proper English gentleman among you, someone willing to defend a lady's honor?”

Silence met her question, broken eventually by a nervous-looking young man near the door who offered cautiously, “Women and children first?”

His pronouncement was met with nods of approval from the others.

“Hear, hear!” said one.

“Quite so!” murmured another.

“God save the King!” intoned a third.

“Well, really!” Julia exclaimed. Recognizing that there was no help for it, she gathered her things together. She exited the coach with her head held high, determined to meet her fate with dignity and bravery and all those other sterling qualities her former coach-mates so obviously lacked.

The highwayman waited, regarding her silently, his features hidden by the darkness and even more so by the mask he wore.

Julia's courage nearly failed her as she looked upon him, sitting there so tall and...and, and-- well, really, tall pretty much summed it up, upon his (also very tall) black horse.

“Hand her up to me,” the highwayman said, addressing the coachman. “Carefully, now.”

Julia stiffened. That voice! She knew that voice...didn't she? Yes. No. Yes! Well, maybe...

She barely even noticed when the coachman lifted her. Then the strong arm of the highwayman reached down and pulled her up. He seated her across his lap. His arm wrapped around her waist, securing her there. She peered anxiously at his features, concealed behind the very nicely crafted, lavender-scented mask he wore.

The coachman cleared his throat. “Uh...sir? If it pleases you...?”

“Yes, yes,” the highwayman replied, waving him away without a glance. His eyes remained fixed on Julia's face. “Off with you now!”

That voice again! Julia's breath caught. “I know you.”

“Do you?” The highwayman's smile mocked her.

Julia nodded. “Your cruelty reveals everything.”

The duke-slash-highwayman's eyes flashed angrily. “You dare speak to me of cruelty?” he asked as his hand tightened on the reins. “After the merry chase you've led me this evening?”

In answer, Julia nudged him sharply with her hip. “Tell me, your grace, is that a ferret in your pocket, or are you simply happy to see me?”

The horse stamped uneasily. Confusion stole across the duke's features—those that weren't hidden behind his mask, that is. “Why would I keep a ferret in my pocket?” he asked, his voice puzzled. Julia nudged him again, even more sharply this time. The duke jumped. “Blast it, woman, stop squirming! If you don't sit still you're liable to make my pistol go off in my bloody pants!”

“Oh, sir!” Julia's cheeks grew warm, mortification had her averting her gaze from his face. “For shame! Such vulgar language to use in the presence of a lady!”

If possible, the duke looked even more perplexed. To Julia's horror, he removed his arm from around her waist and proceeded to put his hand into his pants. Maidenly modesty forced Julia to press her hands tightly to her eyes. Feminine curiosity had her peeking between her fingers.

“This pistol,” the duke explained as his hand reappeared holding a very real, actual gun. “Which, due to Wickham-- that is, my uncle’s—criminal actions, I am forced to carry, was most precariously and uncomfortably positioned.”

Julia clutched at his arms. “But, Your Grace, why are you forced to carry a gun?”

“Because that blasted Wick— uncle of mine hid my sword.”

“But why go about armed at all? Are you in danger? Has it anything to do with your pirating adventures, the ones you can't talk about?”

“Er...yes,” the duke replied somewhat distractedly. “Exactly so.” He patted his pockets and glanced fretfully around, obviously looking for a new place to secure his pistol.

“Will this do?” Julia asked shyly, holding up her reticule.

“Capital!” the duke replied, happily relinquishing his weapon. He settled his arm around her waist again and dug his heels lightly into his horse's flanks. “Very well now, let's be off.”

“But Your Grace,” Julia demurred. “This seems highly irregular. Where are you taking me?”

“I'm taking you straight to the closest parson so that we may be married immediately—before you've a chance to run off on me again.”

“Married!” Julia stared at him in surprise. “You don't wish to be married to me! What about...Lady Chastity?”

“Lady Chastity be damned,” said the duke. “I'd have to be dicked in the nob to get myself riveted to that bit of muslin. You're the one for me, my dear, and I won't take no for an answer.”

“But you said you hadn't proposed to me!”

“Well, I hadn't a chance! I wanted to and all, but...well, it seemed somewhat hasty. We'd only just met.”

Only just met? Julia frowned. “Your Grace, I've been in your employ for some time now.”

“Again. We'd only just met again. After my er...my return from the, uh, sea. Pirates and whatnot. What you'd said before.”

“Oh, of course.” Julia nodded sympathetically. Her poor, poor duke. What he must have gone through to return so strangely changed! Maybe someday he'd feel himself able to tell her some of the horrors he'd faced. “Well, then, if you really mean it this time, I accept.”

“Capital.” His eyes gleaming, the duke slanted his lips over hers.

Julia sighed happily. “Oh, Colin,” she murmured against his lips. “I'm so very happy.”

The duke stiffened. His arms tightened viciously around her. “Forget Colin,” he growled in warning tones. “Call me Your Grace.”

Julia thrilled to the unexpected hint of danger. She nestled closer against him. “Yes, Your Grace.”

A short while later, the newly married Duchess of Earl sat at a small writing desk in one of the rooms her new husband had procured for them in a local inn. It had been a very small wedding, with no one in attendance but the parson and his clerk, but quite lovely withal. Her only sorrow was that she had no one with whom to share her joy.

Oh, of course, she'd tell Ward as soon as she returned home to Nertherloin, and she didn't doubt he'd be happy for her. But she missed her dear sister, lost now beneath the waves. As children they'd always so looked forward to their wedding days and laughingly made bets about which of them would end as an old maid.

Blinking back her tears, Julia put pen to paper. It didn't matter that her sister would never get the missive acquainting her with her Julia's joyful tidings. Julia would write her a letter just the same. Then she'd...yes. She'd place the letter in an empty bottle—there had to be one around here somewhere—and toss it into the sea. It was fitting, really. At sea was the last place she'd seen her sister, after all.

As she thought about it, she was quite overcome with emotion again. Needing some form of solace, she focused her gaze on her wedding ring. Where had Colin—His Grace—acquired it? Surely, the ducal estate could never afford anything this expensive! The gemstone, which had obviously been newly reset, looked oddly like one of the diamonds Lady Chastity had been wearing. It must be paste, she decided at last. But a sweet gesture on her husband's part all the same.

Her courage renewed, she took up her pen once more. No, sadly, Quinn would never get to read her words, but perhaps someone would. Some anonymous soul who'd happen upon the bottle and take the time to read the letter she was now about to write. It made Julia smile to think of this stranger, someone whom she'd never know yet who would, somehow, share her joy.

And so she began her letter to her unknown correspondent, “Reader, I married him...”

****

A Word to you, Our Dear and Gentle Readers: If you enjoyed this small offering, please do us the honor of returning to grace our humble blog with your presence one week hence, when we shall be delighted to bring to you the next installment of our little saga, which is to be entitled, Chapter Ten, A Conspiratorial Interlude.

And please partake of our Love’s Savage Contest. Leave a comment here or go to our Facebook page (link in the column on the right) and quote your favorite line from this week’s episode to be entered in a monthly drawing for a giftcard at the bookstore of your choice and a grand finale drawing for a signed e-reader cover.

Cordially,
The Naughty Nine

Click here to read Chapter Nine-A

Click here to read Chapter Ten

Click here to read Prologue