Wicked Lady Read online

  “Wicked Lady”

  by

  Nia Farrell

  WICKED LADY

  by Nia Farrell

  Copyright 2017 by Nia Farrell

  Edited by Anita Quick

  Cover Design by Crystal Visions

  Stock Photography from pixabay.com

  Formatting by Anita Quick

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used without the written consent of the author, except for brief quotes in reviews. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. Such action is in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law.

  Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Release Date July 1, 2017

  Length 5,147 words

  ASIN: B072KFNBGD

  Long Branch Books

  Shattuc, Illinois

  Disclaimers

  This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The use of any real company, organization, and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.

  Titles

  by Nia Farrell

  SOMETHING ELSE

  (The Three Graces Book One)

  SOMETHING DIFFERENT

  (The Three Graces Book Two)

  SOMETHING MORE

  (The Three Graces Book Three)

  Finalist, Best BDSM Book of the Year, Ménage Category,

  2016 Golden Flogger Awards

  THE THREE GRACES TRILOGY

  SOMETHING SPECIAL

  (The Three Graces Book Six—sequel to SOMETHING ELSE)

  Nominated for Best Erotica and Best Romance,

  2016 Summer Indie Book Awards

  Winner, Favorite Audiobook,

  EskieMama & Dragon Lady Reads Midyear Awards 2017

  DARK MOONS RISING

  REPLAY BOOK 1: VIKING RAID

  Nominated for Best Erotica,

  2016 Summer Indie Book Awards

  AS WICKED AS YOU WANT

  (FOREVER OURS BOOK 1)

  Voted #1 Erotica and #10 overall,

  The 50 Best Indie Books of 2016

  Nominated for Best Historical, Best Erotica, and Best Romance,

  2016 Summer Indie Book Awards

  REPLAY BOOK 2: TRIPLE PLAY

  REPLAY BOOK 3: HONOUR BOUND

  REPLAY BOOK 4: HOOKED

  Winner, Favorite Leading Lady,

  2017 Our Book Stars Awards

  REPLAY BOOK 5: NIGHT MUSIC

  REPLAY BOOK 6: HIGHLAND FLING

  Keeper—The Avenging Angels MC Introduction

  Find Her

  (Avenging Angels MC Book 1)

  Titles

  by Nia Farrell and Jane Austen

  PRIDE AND PUNISHMENT

  An Erotic Retelling of Jane Austen’s Beloved Classic

  Voted Best Historical Romance,

  2017 Ménage Romance Readers Favorites

  Nominated for Best Historical, Best Erotica, and Best Romance, 2016 Summer Indie Book Awards

  and by Nia Farrell writing as Erinn Ellender Quinn

  RIDE THE WIND

  TOUCH THE WIND

  REAP THE WIND

  DARE THE WIND

  Winners, Favorite Historical Heroine

  and Favorite Historical Hero,

  EskieMama & Dragon Lady Reads

  Midyear Awards 2017

  DEDICATION

  To my genealogist aunts and great-aunts on both sides of my family who taught me to view history through lenses of personal experience. Seeing through the eyes of my characters helps to bring the past to life.

  ~ Nia

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Author Bio and Links

  Previous Releases

  Chapter One

  Hertfordshire, England

  Friday May 1, 1676

  From behind her mask, Lady Catherine Fanshawe scanned the crowded ballroom, guessing at identities, judging costumes, and—last but far from least—apprizing wealth. Married at fifteen and widowed soon after, she had a rare independence but had been left without the means to support it. Driven by desperation and inspired by her namesake, she had decided to emulate the female highwayman that Katherine Ferrers Fanshawe was believed to have been, God rest her troubled soul.

  Tonight, the “Wicked Lady” would ride once more.

  Catherine had chosen to target the masked Beltane Ball because of one man said to be attending. Lord Leighton was a scandalous bounder, handsome as sin, and rich as Croesus. With King Charles’s ear and a similar lack of moral compass, rumors that he had second pick of the willing females—single and married—in the Merry Monarch’s court were very likely true.

  He was also bloody late.

  Not that he would notice her when he came. She had purposefully dressed to discourage masculine attention. Her mannish riding outfit covered those feminine attributes so amply displayed by the other female attendees. Mistress Beauchamp’s pendulous breasts made her easy to name despite the full mask that she wore.

  A half-hour passed, and another, before Lord Leighton deigned to grace the residents of Hertfordshire with his presence. From the moment he entered the room, sans mask, he commanded it. A queue formed, comprised of lesser men willing to pay homage and women who were simply willing. She curled her lip to see what fools Lord Leighton had made of them. Really, where was their pride?

  She could only take so much. Tired of the groveling, disgusted with watching the women titter and preen, Catherine plucked up a glass of wine and blended into the shadows.

  “May I join you?”

  The masculine voice made Catherine bolt awake. “Judas!” she snapped, wondering how it was possible to fall asleep standing. Evidently she’d been holding up a wall before he came.

  Used to the darkness, she had no problem identifying her interloper. What the devil was Lord Leighton doing here, with her? “Pardon me, but I would prefer not. I cherish the quiet, and you, sir, attract chaos.”

  He shrugged a shoulder and crooked a smile, white teeth gleaming below his neatly trimmed moustache. She had thought, from a distance, that he wore a fine wig. This close, she realized the long, chestnut curls were his own. His eyes were an unusual shade of blue, pale like a wolf’s.

  How fitting.

  “That is God’s truth.” He sighed and leaned his back against the wall anyway.

  Damn him. He’d ruined it. And if he would not go, she should not stay. She could not risk recognition, if she were to proceed with her plans.

  Catherine pushed off the wall and straightened, intent on escape. Quick as a snake, he reached out and caught her arm, pulling her back into place.

  “Stay,” he whispered, his voice oddly pleading. If she found it strangely satisfying, how much better would it be to hear him beg? “Please. You know not how welcome is the change, having someone who wants nothing from you.”

  She nearly smiled. He had no clue of what she wanted, what she would demand.

>   Catherine peeled his fingers from her forearm and tossed his hand aside. “Just keep your distance, and you may stay. Touch me again, and you shall suffer for it.”

  “Oh, ho!” He chuckled. “The lady has claws.”

  “And teeth and tongue, and a knee that, well-placed, has sent as big a man to the floor. My brothers made certain I could defend myself, even when the restoration of the king made such attacks unlikely.”

  He nodded his approval. “A Royalist, then.”

  “Mayhap. Perhaps not.” She’d already said too much with the mention of her brothers. She refused to say anything more.

  Lord Leighton fell blessedly silent.

  Eventually he was discovered, of course, and was forced by societal conventions to return to the fold, a wolf amongst sheep. He danced with some, flirted with countless more, casting an occasional look into the darkness where she stood as witness to his mastery of others.

  Let him have them.

  He would never master her.

  Chapter Two

  To James Devereaux, the current Lord Leighton, it seemed as if the evening would never end. He had dreaded attending the rustic ball—only his King could have made him go—but he’d nearly thought the evening salvageable when he’d spied her.

  A woman watching from the shadows, her heart-shaped face obscured by the simplest of masks, her body hidden beneath her clothes. On closer inspection, he had noted she was dressed to ride.

  He had hoped it would be his cock.

  But, alas, she would not have him. Her loss, to be sure. And his, he suspected. She had spirit, and bravado, however false it might be. She’d refused to let him close, and now he could not free himself of her memory. He was quickly finding himself obsessed, wondering who she was. What she was.

  A lonely wife? The more fool her husband.

  A rare bird who refused to be trapped in a marriage and caged? Mayhap.

  Then again, she could be a widow still grieving…or perhaps she was celebrating his loss?

  No matter. His mystery woman belonged to the wilds of Hertfordshire. He belonged in the halls of the palace—so much so, he had ordered his coach to drive through the night to get back.

  Mellowed by wine, James settled in for the journey. Finding the pillows that he used for such occasions to lessen the jolt of the wheels, he cushioned his head and shoulder and closed his eyes, drifting into an uneasy slumber, haunted by memories of the one who had slipped away.

  As if his dreams were not exasperating enough, his sleep was rudely, abruptly interrupted when the carriage stuttered to a halt. He reached for the door, only to have it jerked open and flung wide. Three days past the fullness of the moon, there was more than enough light to see the end of the pistol aimed at his chest, a gloved hand, a dark cape, a highwayman’s mask.

  A robbery.

  “Do you know who I am?” he demanded. “How dare you accost an officer of the King!”

  A small shoulder shrugged. “You came from dust. To dust thou shalt return, milord,” rasped the voice, disguised as clearly as the brigand before him. “Unless you wish it sooner than later, you would do well to stand and deliver. One way or another, I will have what is yours.”

  Impudent slug! Armed only with pistol holding a single shot. Odds were in his favor that he could make him miss. Overpower him. Rip off that disguise and discover the face of one destined for the hangman’s noose. But he needed to see if there were others. Make certain that his driver was unharmed. For now, he must obey.

  James felt the seat across from him, opened the chest, and drew out only the purse, leaving the rest of his treasury untouched. With luck, the highwayman would assume it held all his monies and be gone. With better luck, he would find a way to wrest it back.

  “Here.” He tossed it deliberately high, hoping the brigand would attempt to catch it. But the outlaw saw through his ploy to distract the aim of his pistol and let it fall to the ground.

  “Now, now. I thought you brighter than that. For underestimating me, I fear that you must pay more, milord. Driver! Come down and make yourself useful.”

  The highwayman’s steed was at his back, kept close to make a swift escape. Keeping the pistol trained on his chest, he felt blindly with the other hand, found several coils of rope, and pulled one of them free. He pointed to a nearby tree.

  “Lord Leighton, you shall sit on the ground, with legs straight before you and your back flush against the tree. Driver, you shall tie him to it. Do it well, or both of you will suffer the consequences.”

  Though it went against his nature, James obeyed, sitting against the tree while Saunders bound him to it. He puffed his chest, of course, to give the appearance of snugness when tested, hoping it might make the difference and aid in his escape.

  The brigand had Saunders hobble the horses, then make a slip knot to bind his wrists, ordering him to thread the rope through the front wheel on the far side of the carriage. Taking up the slack in the rope, the highwayman had his driver trussed in short order.

  The brigand entered the carriage and emerged with a pillow and his chest. The wooden box and his purse disappeared into a bag hung from the saddle. The pillow came to where he sat, bound and seething.

  Setting his pistol aside, the highwayman pulled James’s feet apart, dropped the pillow between his thighs, and knelt between his knees.

  “Wh-What do you think you are doing?” he croaked, unable to accept what was happening.

  “I said I would have what is yours. Time to pay the piper, milord.”

  “But—but you cannot force a man!” he cried. “It is not possible!”

  The brigand grabbed his cock through his breeches and ministered to it. “Then you must want this too,” he murmured, “else why would your rod rise in my hand? I promise to be gentle. I take it this is your first time, not having control? Frightening, is it not? And yet how many women experience it daily? Bound by marriage. Bound by society. At the mercy of those in power, whether a lawful husband or the confidant of a king. How many women have you taken, who believed they must perform for you, simply because you wished it?”

  The highwayman rose abruptly. Balancing on one leg, he pulled off a boot, then the other. His stockings stayed on but beneath the folds of his cape, his breeches fell down. James sucked in his chest and worked the knot wildly, desperate to deny what the brigand had in mind.

  He pulled the pillow to his side and sat himself upon it. One gloved hand reached over and touched him. His traitorous cock swelled in response.

  Two hands made quick work of his buttons, freeing his length in the cool midnight air. The leather-clad fingers wrapped around his girth and stroked it, bringing it fully erect.

  Dear God.

  He prayed as he had not in years. Prayed for deliverance. Prayed for escape. Vowed that he would never again approach a woman unless she was more than willing to submit to him.

  And then it happened. A shift of weight, the cape parting, the unmistakable smell of feminine arousal.

  The highwayman was no man at all.

  Thank you, Jesus.

  Female she may be, but she was still a thief bent on robbing him of his money and his dignity. Whatever it took, he would not let her go unpunished, even if he took the law into his own hands and exacted retribution.

  He continued working on the knot, no longer as concerned about how soon it came undone. The game had changed, now that he knew. Yes, he supposed he was that shallow, but coupling with this masked lady would at least assuage the hunger he’d felt since the ball.

  She pulled off her gloves, thrust a hand between her legs, wet it with her juices, and smeared them on his cock. “Are you ready for me, milord?” she rasped. “I do hope so.”

  The next thing he knew, she planted her feet by his hips, bent her knees, and impaled herself on his rod. No small task, that. She worked his length inside her, using him like a dildo, a tool for her pleasure, with no thought to his own.

  But, dear Lord, she felt like heaven. Unbelievably
tight and incredibly wet. If she’d been at court, the King would have made her his mistress, and James would never have known the perfection of her form. He got glimpses of it as the cape parted and closed, shifting with her movements, revealing less, then more in turn. What he would not give for the tables to be turned, to have her bound and writhing beneath him, her arse red from the heat of his hand, her mouth swollen from his use!

  He groaned, thinking about it.

  “Yes,” she breathed, raising up and slamming down on him. “That’s it. Give it to me. Give it!”

  She took one hand from his shoulder and burrowed it beneath her cape, finding her pearl and cherishing it. Her breath quickened, deepened. She panted, fanning her fingers, until she suddenly stiffened and heaved, climaxing, her walls tightening around him, spasms gripping, rippling, milking his length.

  And then, nothing.

  No no no!

  She dismounted and left him with no more thought than she would give a horse gently ridden. Except there had been nothing gentle about her claiming, and no release had he found.

  Of all the things she could have done, that was the worst. To be teased, stimulated, fully aroused, to be used to her satisfaction and be denied his. Whatever she stole from him would be would be nothing to the pounds he would take from her flesh, the next time that they met.

  And they would meet again.

  He would not rest until he found her.

  Chapter Three

  London, England

  Saturday, October 31, 1676

  Catherine adjusted her jeweled and feathered mask and waited her turn to be announced at the King’s ball. She’d been summoned to Court—or rather Lady Donnelly had been ordered to appear before King Charles earlier today and make her obeisance. Her late cousin William’s allegiance to Cromwell had called the whole family’s loyalty into question. Now she must appease.