Ward: A Dark Romance Page 13

  With a sickening rush, the chair flipped backwards straight into the frigid water. I was completely submerged. Water surged up my nose and into my mouth as I thrashed and screamed. Then I felt tremendous pressure against my chest as the chair was once more heaved upright.

  Water surged over the edge of the tub in a whoosh as it sluiced over my body. Gagging and spurting, I started to cry as icy shards of pain pierced every muscle.

  “Once more,” said the doctor with a calm demeanor that belied what was happening to me. This may have been a common treatment for the mentally insane a hundred years ago but now we called it torture.

  “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Still giving into those flights of fantasy, I see.”

  I hadn’t realized I vented all that out loud. Before I could respond, the chair jerked backwards again. Being more prepared for what was about to occur did not make it any less horrifyingly painful or traumatic. Once more the water rushed up my nose and over my body, which now spasmed and shook violently from cold and shock.

  This time when I was pulled from the water, I remained quiet and subdued. Too shaken and beat down to react anymore.

  “There now. Isn’t that much better, Lady Larkin? I see the cold water has cooled your heated and agitated mind, as it should,” said the doctor, exchanging a pleased and knowing look with Mrs. Higgs.

  “I believe you will find her a much more agreeable patient for this next part, Mrs. Higgs.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  My head lolled to the side as I tried to clench my jaw to stop the clattering of my teeth. I was so numb from the cold, I barely felt the harsh tugs and pulls on the buckles of my restraints, freeing me from my temporary prison.

  Strong hands supported me under my arms, as my legs collapsed out from under me as I tried to take a step. I half walked and was half carried back into the other room. There they marched me over to one of the empty wooden tables. With no effort from me, I was lifted and placed face down onto the table. Some sort of balustrade was put under my hips, forcing my ass into the air. I could only manage a whimper when my arms were stretched over my head and I once more felt the familiar scrape of leather against my chilled skin as the wrist restraints were buckled tight. I felt the same tugging on my ankles.

  I was now face down on the table, half lying, half kneeling with my wrists and ankles securely bound. My body still trembled but for the first time I noticed a small wrought-iron potbelly stove in the corner closest to me. The walls surrounding it were black from coal dust. Still, comforting warmth radiated from it, bringing my body back to life.

  As I tried to focus on the warmth, I felt intruding hands pry open my ass cheeks.

  I tried to ask what they were doing but my teeth were clattering too badly for speech.

  “His grace has been remiss in his duties to your care. Every young lady, especially one with your hysterical harlot tendencies should receive a daily enema each and every morning. It is not healthy to keep all that filth and sin in your body.”

  I felt her fat finger probe and prod at my anus.

  Warm tears trickled down my cold cheeks at the humiliation of it all. I knew protest was pointless. I could only cry harder as I felt something hard and long being pushed deep inside of me.

  “Wait for the click.”

  At first it was strangely comforting as warm water rushed into my body, thawing me from the inside out.

  Then the piercing cramping pain began… my cries echoed off the chamber walls, falling on deaf, uncaring ears.

  Chapter 18

  Lizzie

  After enduring the vile ministrations of Mrs. Higgs, I was led into a sparsely furnished bedchamber. There they sat me before a small but roaring fire, as two attendants brushed my hair till it shone. Unlike the dirty and torn sackcloth the other inmates were given, I was wrapped in a fur-lined dressing gown made of gorgeous cobalt blue taffeta. On my feet they slipped fur-lined matching silk slippers with thin calves-leather soles.

  Throughout it all, I remained silent and docile, all the fight having left me.

  For the first time, I longed for the comfort and security of Richard’s estate. I wished I was snug in my bed with Parker bringing me a silver tray filled with sweets from cook and a pot of chocolate. I also thought of the beautiful, floral-filled warmth of the conservatory. Trying to imagine myself surrounded by the lush, clean smell of the greenery and flowers instead of antiseptic tile and bare walls. I couldn’t wait to return to the peace of that room where I would nap bathed in sunlight after a lazy afternoon of no more cares than whether I wanted to read or draw.

  With a shock, I realized I was thinking entirely of the new life Richard was forcing upon me and not of my real life in London. It was startling to realize in my weakest moment when I longed for the security of home, I thought of Richard’s home, not my own.

  Angrily I tried to think about the life I had risked everything to return to. I tried to think of my cramped flat in the same terms of the conservatory but it was useless. A bitter, lukewarm coffee from Starbucks in a paper cup with a cold, day-old muffin eaten out of a bag didn’t compare with hot chocolate served in delicate china cups and serving dishes filled with fresh baked poppy seed cakes and preserves.

  Sitting under fluorescent lights in a windowless classroom being forced to listen to a professor drone on and on about textile patterns from the 1970s didn’t hold a candle to drawing whatever historical fashions I wanted, as well as the idea that they would not only become a reality in all their intended glory, but that I would also be the one to wear them. It was a designer’s dream.

  And my little cramped flat with its twin bed, lumpy mattress, and shared bathroom with its view of the dumpsters from the building across the way was nothing compared to literally living on the set of a period drama, only better.

  Then there was Richard.

  That was certainly where things became the most complicated.

  I hated and despised the man. His arrogance. His cruelty. The fact that he not only kidnapped and held me captive in this world for his own amusement but had actually made me compare it to my true life and find the former lacking made me want to scratch his eyes out.

  I hated him. I especially hated how he touched me like he owned me. How he made my body respond to both the pleasure and pain he inflicted. Made my body crave it.

  I hated how he made any other guy I’d dated seem weak and sallow compared to the brutality of his masculinity. It was a force, a palatable energy every time he was near me. The air cracked with it. With the knowledge that in this world he was lord and master. In this world, there was no political correctness or feminism or girl power, or equal rights. There wasn’t even no means no.

  There was bend over, I’m fucking you whether you like it or not, because I want to and I’ll make you want it too.

  And damn him, he was right.

  He did make me want it.

  My breath came in quick gasps as I remembered all our heated exchanges. How each and every one ended with him tearing at my clothes and forcing himself on me one way or another. I remembered the unholy gleam in his eyes as he pushed the handle of his riding crop into my ass. They were lit with a dark promise that soon, it wouldn’t just be the handle.

  He was a man who took what he wanted with no apologies. Literally.

  Wrapping my arms around my middle as I waited for the attendants to finish arranging my hair, all I really wanted to do was curl in a ball under some covers and never come out.

  All of this was just too much. I didn’t want to think about any of it anymore but no, that was his trap. That was what he wanted. To wear me down, to break me. To get me to the point where all I wanted to do was feel and no longer be burdened with these chaotic and confusing thoughts. It would be so easy to give in… to allow myself to be pulled into the darkness… to every sick pleasure and luxury he dangled before me.

  To fall in love with him.

  I had to keep fighting. It was the only way to keep my sanity. Or I could see, given time, all my memories of my real life would slowly be stripped from me and I truly would become the dutiful Victorian ward of Duke Winterbourne in every respect.

  There was an attendant holding onto each arm and one before me and from the sounds of shuffling feet, another behind me as we slowly made our way down a narrow hallway. I couldn’t help but think of those death marches you see on television of the prisoner being led to the electric chair. Like with the press scenes, there was screaming by the other inmates and the clatter and clamor that comes with being surrounded by those with broken minds. All I was missing was the priest.

  Though I walk through the valley of the dead, I shall fear no evil…

  Just then, Richard stepped into focus a little further down the hall.

  My whole body began to quake. I actually started to drag my feet and pull on the hands restraining me. “Please. Please just take me back to my room,” I begged. I know I needed to keep fighting; I just didn’t have the strength to face him or his anger just yet.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but his grace has requested your presence,” said the attendant who helped brush my hair as she gave my arm a sympathetic pat.

  “I don’t know what she’s complaining about. I’d follow that man to hell and back,” quipped the other.

  “Dolores!”

  “What? He’s fucking hot and rich! And look at all the crazy things he’s willing to do to impress this chick!”

  Someone cleared their throat and each of them all exchanged worried looks. I watched as the attendant keeping the pace in front of me suddenly raised their hand to their right ear. They then quickly turned and without saying a word, grabbed Dolores by the arm and hauled her into the very first room we passed. The person behind me smoothly moved into her place and grabbed my upper arm.

  My unease increased. Something had just happened there. Something important. Dolores had just said something she wasn’t supposed to.

  Look at all the crazy things he’s willing to do.

  Everyone ready. And action.

  More evidence that none of this was real.

  It was all just a game.

  Just a game.

  None of it was real.

  At the threshold, I was given a little shove between the shoulder blades, then the door was closed behind me with an ominous twist of the lock.

  As usual, my eyes found Richard first.

  His back was to me. It looked as if he were pouring himself a drink.

  Unlike any of the other rooms I had seen in this dreadful place, this room could have been at his estate. The space radiated warmth with its large black marble fireplace and oak-paneled walls. Instead of cold white tile, the floor was covered in a large silk-embroidered rug. There were the ubiquitous gilt-framed portraits and sconces with cream-colored beeswax candles. While there were several tapestry-covered chairs placed against the wall, the center of the room was dominated by a very strange piece.

  It almost looked like an elegant gynecological table. It had a metal frame that was covered in white enamel and gold. The upper portion had a heavily padded brocade cushion covered with a floral pattern in rich golds, blues, and greens. Jutting upward near what I thought was the head part were two brass bars that almost looked like handles. Near the feet were definitely brass stirrups. Then several feet beneath was another heavy brocade cushion the length of a person, as if someone would lie below the person restrained above. As I looked closer, on this cushion directly below the stirrups were actually two brass plates in the shape of feet!

  “Siege d’amour.”

  “What?”

  “The siege of love,” said Richard as he walked toward me holding out a glass of some kind of amber liquor. I shook my head at first. “Take it.”

  Giving a little jump at the sharp bark of his words, I willed my fingers to unclench so that I could grasp the glass. Raising it to my lips, I sniffed. I was more of a white wine and Cosmo martini girl so I had absolutely no idea if this was brandy or whiskey or scotch. All I knew was that all three of those liquors were strong and burned a path down your throat to your stomach, at least if the movies were to be believed. I watched as he took a sip of his own. Still I hesitated.

  “Poison?”

  Again, I jumped at the strong sound of his voice in the small, quiet room. Trying to quell my rising anxiety, I bit my lip as I tried to focus on what he was saying.

  “Are you worried it is poisoned, my love?” asked Richard, the corner of his mouth rising with an amused smirk.

  This got a rise out of me. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” I quipped. While I was brave enough to say it, I wasn’t brave enough to boldly meet his eyes as I did so, instead keeping my eyes lowered.

  “Touché.”

  His warm fingers briefly closed over mine. I thought he was going to take the glass from me but he didn’t. Keeping his grasp on my hand, he pulled me closer so that he might raise both of our hands to his lips. As if in a trance, I watched as he tilted our hands and took a sip from the glass. A small amount splashed onto my fingers. His dark eyes stayed trained on mine as the tip of his tongue traced the top of my fingers to lick away the drops.

  I licked my own lips in response.

  Damn this man. How was I supposed to fight against this? He was too handsome. Too self-assured. Too confidently seductive.

  He then placed the tip of his tongue between my two fingers and flicked it suggestively, his meaning clear. Heat pooled between my thighs as I stifled a moan.

  With a shaking hand, I pulled away, and raising the glass to my own lips, I took a long, hard swallow. As soon as I lowered the glass, I began to choke and gasp for air as fire burned my stomach and lungs.

  A soothing hand patted my back and rubbed it in circles. “Easy, little one. One shouldn’t guzzle brandy like that. It’s meant to be enjoyed slowly, savoring each sip with pleasure.” His voice was dark honey.

  When I had regained my composure, Richard was still standing close. The spicy scent of his cologne mixed with the rich, charred scent of the burning logs a few feet away. Everything about this room radiated warmth… and danger.

  Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

  I became conscious of every harried breath I took as I waited for his next move. He didn’t keep me in suspense for long. Without saying a word, he took me by the hand and led me closer to the strange chair.

  “As I was saying, the chair is called the siege d’amour. Bertie, Prince Albert to you, designed it to the great embarrassment of our queen I assure you.”

  Richard’s hands were at the belt to my robe. He slowly pulled on the ends. It slipped open, exposing just a hint of my breasts and upper thighs between its fur-lined folds.

  He prowled around me. I inhaled sharply when I felt his hands on my shoulders, sliding on the upper slope till they circled my throat from behind. I could feel just the barest hint of pressure from his index fingers and thumb as he pressed in threateningly before slipping his fingers into the collar of the robe and pulling it off my shoulders.

  The heavy fabric slipped down my body to pool at my feet.

  After spending half the evening feeling frigid to the bone in both body and spirit, I was surprised to realize that I didn’t feel any chill. With a sinking heart, I also realized it had nothing to do with the blazing fire in the room or the brandy now coiling and unfurling in my empty stomach.

  It was him.

  It was all Richard.

  His primal energy that sucked the life force and will to resist right out of me.

  Those eyes that commanded my obedience without having to utter a word.

  Tracing a finger down my spine, his voice was menacingly low. “You were a very bad girl tonight.”

  Blood rushed in my ears. I had to lock my knees to keep myself from falling to the floor in a faint from sheer, unadulterated fear.

  His finger reached the base of my spine and continued down to slip along the crack of my ass.

  Oh, god.

  His hand then pushed between my squeezed shut thighs from behind. I closed my eyes tight as I bit my lip so hard, I tasted blood.

  A high-pitched whimper of humiliation started in the back of my throat as I knew what he would feel. The slick heat of my own sick arousal.

  “My poor little harlot, practically begging for her own punishment,” he whispered against my ear as he easily pushed two fingers deep into my cunt.

  I cried out. Without any pride, I pushed my hips back to grind against his hand like a bitch in heat.

  Keeping his hand in place, he reached his free arm around and cupped my breast. After painfully kneading it, he ruthlessly pinched my nipple till the pain became so intense I begged him to stop.

  “Oh, my poor sweet girl, this is only the beginning of the pain you are about to feel at my hands.”

  Chapter 19

  Richard

  It was my fault. My own hubris. After meticulously planning out every detail of my new world right down to the fabrics used in everyone’s attire to the type of fork to be displayed at dinner, I had forgotten one important detail.

  I had overlooked the impact of my obsession for Elizabeth.

  It seemed strange to think I would have missed any detail of what had become an all-consuming passion for me, but that was what I had done. Somehow, she shifted from a possible easy target for capture, to an ideal candidate, to a worthy adversary, to now… my love.

  At first, I was just using it as a casual endearment, with no more meaning to me than baby or sweetheart. I recognized now the truth of the words.

  And therein lay the fault of my own damn pride.

  One of the follies of having billions at your disposal is not many people tell you no. There was nothing—or no one—outside my grasp. With everyone from heads of state to owners of multinational companies bowing and scraping for my attention and approval, I could be forgiven for being out of practice in actually persuading someone to do my bidding.

  I had hoped Elizabeth, with her love of the Victorian era and history, as well as fashion design and acting, would embrace the opportunity to completely immerse herself in the era as I desired. The life she was living in London was restrictive and unimaginative.

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