"The Times called again,” Gabrielle said as she stood in the doorway of Mona’s office.

"What do they want this time?” Mona asked, barely glancing up from her auction catalog.

"They say they wish to run a feature on the gallery for the Society page. I think you should do it, yes?”

Mona looked up at her assistant. Gabrielle was tall and shapely and black and had the loveliest French accent that made every word sound like it had been dipped in silver. "Society” was Zociety and "yes” was yezz. The combination of her beauty and her accent had made Gabrielle the perfect hire for The Red. No one could tell this woman no when she said, "You wish to buy it, of course. I will wrap it up for you.”

"I suppose we ought to say yes,” Mona said. "The Times has given us good free press.”

"I’ll call them and let them know tomorrow morning. It’s good to let both men and newspapers sweat a little before you tell them yes.”

"Good advice,” Mona said. Gabrielle smiled and strode from the doorway in her black suit and towering black high heels. It was so nice to be able to afford employees again. Since the discovery of the paintings rolled up and hidden in the brass bed, The Red Gallery’s telephone had been ringing day and night with buyers, reporters, and all the curious. Mona had found two paintings hidden in the bedposts, though the art world only knew of one—a lost Picasso, a painting of one of his many mistresses. The second painting she told no one about. She’d had it framed and hung in a place of honor in The Red Gallery with a tag that read "Unknown Man, 1938, artist Anthony Devas.”

The Picasso she’d had authenticated, and, despite the lack of provenance, the art world had gone mad over it. Mona had lent it to an art museum which could provide the best security, cleaning, and crowds to see it. She was entertaining offers from buyers for the Picasso and all the sketches and etchings Malcolm had given her, but she didn’t want to sell them quite yet. The Picasso had been Malcolm’s parting gift to her. Since he’d left her without giving her the child she’d wanted from him, she was reluctant to give up anything associated with him. Every single day she thought of him. She woke up remembering him. She fell asleep and dreamt of him. She pleasured herself fantasizing of him. And every day she came to The Red, unlocked the door, pushed back the curtains, and stared into his dark smiling eyes that stared back at her from inside the gilt frame. She’d hung the portrait of Malcolm where she’d once hung The Fox Hunt by Morland. In her mind, Malcolm was standing there staring at that painting, one hand on his hip, the other on his chin. In her heart, he would always be there. It was in her body where she wanted him, but that wasn’t possible. If Malcolm had been forty or so in 1938, then he would be over one hundred now, making it unlikely he was still alive. Had it been his ghost that had come to her? Had he somehow traveled through time, or otherwise found a way into her in dreams? She didn’t know; she would, most likely, never know. But he’d kept one part of his promise. He’d saved The Red. After the Picasso had been appraised in the millions of dollars, the collections agencies had stopped calling. The bank restructured her loan and she’d been able to take out a line of credit again, hire Gabrielle, have the gallery painted and repaired, and once more the art world was calling. She should have been so happy…

And yet.

Malcolm.

He’d said she could keep him and so she had. She kept him in a frame on the wall. It wasn’t what she wanted, but it would have to do, wouldn’t it?

Mona sighed. A tear fell from her eye and landed onto the auction catalog. Silly girl, crying over a man who’d paid her to have sex with him. Nonsense. She should act like the grown woman she was and not a lovesick schoolgirl. She yanked open her desk drawer to fetch a tissue and found a book of art she didn’t recall putting in there. She took it out and found a page marked with a red velvet ribbon.

Malcolm?

She couldn’t breathe. She had to force herself to inhale and exhale as she extracted the book from inside the drawer and laid it atop her desk. She opened the page to the ribbon and gasped.

A Rubens painting. The Rape of the Sabine Women, 1637.

Shivering in fear and shock, Mona stared at the famous painting. She knew it well. They’d studied it in one of her many art history courses. The painting, a riot of movement and color and light, depicted the famous abduction of the daughters of the Sabine men who had refused to allow the Roman men to marry into their families. Mona’s mother had hated that the word raptio—meaning "abduction”—was translated into English as "rape.” She said it made the women sound like victims, when in fact they bravely intervened during the subsequent war between the Sabines and the Romans to put a stop to the killing of their husbands by their fathers and the killing of their fathers by their husbands. But that was the sort of thing her mother would take issue with. Mona had reminded her that even if they hadn’t been raped, they had been kidnapped and forced into marriage. Her mother waved the objection off and told Mona they’d been veritable prisoners of their fathers anyway, so it wasn’t as if life was sunshine and roses before they were abducted. Mona accused her mother of applying her "beauty over truth” standard to history. Her mother had only scoffed and said, "You’ve never heard of the Holy Sabine Empire, have you? The Romans won for a reason.” Mona had let the subject drop and had given the painting little thought since then.

Until now.

Mona rose from her chair and ran to the back room. She threw open the door and found…nothing. Nothing but paintings, sculptures, boxes, and supplies. Mona had moved the brass bed to her apartment. The back room was nothing but storage now. Malcolm certainly wasn’t there. She’d half-expected to find him in a Roman centurion’s uniform ready to throw her over his horse’s saddle and ride off with her to his home where he would make her his wife. A nice fantasy, but only a fantasy.

Someone was playing a cruel trick on her. Mona closed the door to the back room behind her.

"I’ll lock up now if you like,” Gabrielle said in the office doorway.

"Yes, thank you,” Mona said.

"Are you working late again?”

"Always.”

"You work too much,” Gabrielle said. "You should take time off. You know I can watch The Red for you and Tou-Tou. You haven’t taken a day off since I started.”

Mona smiled. Gabrielle was kind and they got along well, but Mona had never worked up the courage to tell her lovely assistant that she came to The Red every day because of Malcolm—because she missed him, because she was certain he wasn’t quite done with her yet. How do you tell a woman as rational and intelligent as Gabrielle that you were in love with a man who was most likely a ghost? You didn’t, of course. So Mona kept her secrets to herself.

"I’ll think about that,” Mona said. Perhaps she would take some time off. She couldn’t be held hostage by a memory all her life, could she? "Although I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”

"You will figure that out.” Gabrielle turned to leave. "Or not.”

"I won’t figure it out?”

"No, I won’t lock up.” Gabrielle looked at Mona over her shoulder. "He’s still here.”

She whispered the last words and Mona narrowed her eyes at her assistant. Gabrielle crooked her finger at Mona and Mona walked over to the door.

"Who is that?” Gabrielle whispered. "He’s been here for over an hour.” Mona peered into the gallery. A man stood in front of the portrait of Malcolm, one hand on his hip, the other in his pocket. "Tou-Tou likes him.”

The little black cat sat on the floor at the man’s feet. They both seemed to be staring at the painting.

"I don’t know,” Mona said.

"He’s terribly handsome,” Gabrielle whispered.

Mona couldn’t deny it. She straightened her red skirt and black blouse. "You can go out the side door,” Mona said. "I’ll lock up after he’s gone.”

Gabrielle smiled. She unbuttoned one button on Mona’s blouse, revealing the lace edge of her black bra.

"You’ll thank me later,” Gabrielle said before leaving Mona all alone in the gallery with the man in the suit.

After Gabrielle was gone and the gallery empty but for her, Tou-Tou, and the man, Mona forced herself to go out to him. She almost buttoned her blouse up again but didn’t. Why bother?

"Sir? We’re closing,” she said. The man didn’t look at her, nor acknowledge that she’d spoken. He had reddish brown hair, wavy and rakish, and his eyes were very dark…but unmistakably blue. Midnight blue. Lean but broad-shouldered, strong nose and strong chin and strong jaw, he was more handsome than any man had a right to be.

He looked very familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place him.

"Sir?”

"I need to speak to the owner of this establishment,” the man said in a crisp English accent.

"I’m Mona St. James. I’m the owner.”

"Well, Miss St. James, how much for the painting?”

"It’s not for sale,” she said.

"Everything is for sale. Name your price, I’ll pay it.”

"This painting is priceless.”

He scoffed. "Priceless? I refuse to believe it means anything to you. You don’t even know who he is, do you? Besides, your card is wrong.”

"I disagree,” she said. "My assistant is very thorough in her research. The painting is clearly marked 1938 and the artist is undoubtedly Anthony Devas.”

"That’s not what’s incorrect. The subject of the painting is the problem. He’s not an ‘unknown man.’ I know that because I know him.”

"You know him?”

"His name is Malcolm Arthur Augustus Fitzroy, thirteenth Earl of Godwick.”

Mona covered her mouth with her fingers, silencing her gasp. Finally. At last. She knew his name. Malcolm Arthur Augustus Fitzroy. The Earl of Godwick.

"You know this for certain?”

"I know this for certain,” the man said.

"How?”

He turned and looked at her directly in the face. He had a commanding air to him. Commanding and powerful. A man used to having his way.

"Because my name is Spencer Arthur Malcolm Fitzroy, and I’m the fifteenth Earl of Godwick. That ‘unknown’ man on your wall is my grandfather.”

"Malcolm is your grandfather?”

"He was, yes. Although he died long before I was born.” The man’s handsome brow furrowed. "Did you say your name was Mona?”

"Yes,” she said. "You’re Malcolm’s grandson.” She knew she was repeating herself, but she was in too much shock to stay silent.

"How did you come across this painting?” the Earl asked.

"How did you know I had it?” she asked.

"I asked you first.”

"I won’t answer until you answer,” she said.

"The Sunday Times had an article about a lost Picasso painting found in America. A painting of a woman in red and blue. There was also a photograph of the interior of The Red, with a familiar painting in the background…a painting that once hung in Wingthorn Hall, my family’s ancestral home.”

"I found it rolled up in the post of my bed,” she said.

"A brass bed. An antique brass bed.”

"Yes, it is. But how—” She hadn’t told the newspapers the bed was brass. She’d only said "my mother’s old bed.”

"My grandfather was the last of the great English rakes. His sexual appetite was legendary and his prowess even more so. He refused to marry, to settle down, to do his duty by his name and family. Instead he spent nearly every night in brothels with ‘his darling whores,’ as he called them. That’s all he spent his money on—prostitutes and art.”

"I can think of worse ways to waste one’s fortune.”

"Hardly wasted. The art he purchased saved the family fortune. The economy was in tatters after the war. But art—great art—always goes up in value. Only the Queen has more money than we do now.”

"Malcolm was a very wise man then. And I have to admire an art lover.”

"Oh, he was an art lover, all right. He and his girls would put on plays for the other brothel patrons. They’d reenact scenes from paintings, the more erotic the better. His exploits were legendary. Not too many earls performed in near-public orgies.”

"A pity,” Mona said. "They should have.”

"Yes, a pity indeed. The family was always trying to tame him. Just when they thought he’d settled down after he turned forty, he fell madly in lust with an eighteen-year-old prostitute named Mona Blessey. He showered her with gifts.”

"Art,” Mona said.

"Art, indeed.” The Earl nodded. "Sketches—Degas among them. Paintings, including the Picasso you found. And even his own official portrait he ripped off the wall in Wingthorn. At age forty-one, he finally gave in to his mother’s begging and married a girl with no money who would put up with his rakish ways and not make too much of a fuss. The very day he learned she was pregnant, he left her for Mona. An Earl’s wife is a countess. My rather foul-mouthed grandfather called Mona his—”

"His cuntess,” Mona said.

"Exactly. How did you know?”

"An educated guess. Go on.”

"When Mona Blessey’s father learned where they were holed up, he traveled to Scotland and found my grandfather in his daughter’s bed. He ordered my grandfather to return to his wife and unborn child in England and let his daughter go. My grandfather refused. So the man shot him.”

"In the chest,” Mona said, remembering her dream of The Bleeding Man.

"Yes, in the chest,” the Earl said. "Do you know—”

"Keep talking. Tell me everything.”

"He bled out quickly, but he lived long enough to cough out his last words to her father. He said, ‘If I must sell my soul to the devil to do it, I will find a way back into Mona’s bed. A whore will reign as Countess of Godwick. You’ll see...’ ”

The Earl paused. "He died laughing in Mona Blessey’s arms.”

Mona turned her back on the Earl. She covered her face with her hands and breathed.

"Hounded by reporters and vilified in the papers, Mona Blessey left for America the very next week. She had the bed my grandfather died in shipped along with her things. I thought that sounded awfully sentimental for a teenage prostitute. I should have known she was using the bed to smuggle the artwork out of the country. Somehow that bed ended up in your possession.”

"My mother bought it nearly thirty years ago at an estate sale. She told me that’s where my name came from—Mona was the name of the woman who’d owned the bed. Mother said she’d been a courtesan in her youth, and I didn’t believe it. Mother could stretch the truth every now and then. But in this case she was right, wasn’t she?”

"She was,” the Earl said. "And now you know the story of the painting. It belongs to my family. I’ll have to ask you to return it.”

"No,” she said, facing him.

"No? No isn’t an option. It’s my family’s painting.”

"It’s my painting. Malcolm was the rightful owner and gave it to Mona Blessey. Mona put it in her bedpost for safe-keeping. My mother bought the bed. I was conceived in the bed your grandfather died in. The bed is legally mine. The painting was in the bed and therefore the painting is mine and always will be. No court of law in America or the United Kingdom would disagree. And you know it,” she said. "Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me how much I was willing to sell it for.”

"I was hoping to avoid a legal battle.”

"I’ll allow a professional to make a copy of the painting, if you like. But the painting is mine.”

"He’s my grandfather, not yours. He’s nothing to you.”

"He’s not nothing to me, not by any stretch of the imagination. You’ve never met him.”

"Neither have you.”

"I know him,” she said. She walked to the painting of Malcolm and stood before it, staring into his gleaming dark eyes. He’d told her of a deathbed promise and that she was his way of fulfilling it. How could she have known it was his own deathbed promise he spoke of? Her mother had named her after Mona Blessey, the whore he’d loved. She’d been conceived in that bed, had slept in it all her life. She’d lost her virginity in that bed and had taken Ryan’s there years later. All the while Malcolm’s spirit or soul or whatever it was that survived his death, was tied to that bed or perhaps tied to the painting in the bed. When the time came when she was at her most desperate, her most vulnerable, her most willing to sell herself to save The Red, Malcolm came to her in the flesh even though he’d been dead for decades. He’d come to her in the flesh because he’d sold his soul to the devil to do it. And the devil had smirked, not smiled, because the devil does not smile.

"Malcolm…” she breathed.

The Earl came to stand behind her. She felt uncomfortably aware of his body so close to hers, the subtle heat of him, his looming height, the power of him barely restrained by a suit and good breeding.

"You know him,” he said. "You mean that, don’t you?”

"I do.”

"Dreams?”

She turned and faced him. "Something like that.”

He sighed, nodded. "I have them too. Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind, they’re so vivid, so powerful.”

"Malcolm comes to you in your dreams?”

"Once a year. At most twice a year. We talk. He…guides me, I suppose you could say. He says I take after him. I shouldn’t take that as a compliment but I do. Two years ago I almost married someone, and I had a dream that the old Earl told me not to do it. We broke up and later I found she had only pretended to be in love with me. She wanted the title, not me. He saved me from a bad marriage—all from within a dream.”

Mona remembered something Malcolm had told her, that he was fond only of his youngest offspring, the one who took after him. That had to be the Earl. Spencer Arthur Malcolm Fitzroy, the youngest child in his bloodline.

"Another time…” The Earl’s voice trailed off. "I can’t remember much of the dream. But there was a girl in it with hair as red as fire and apples. Like yours.”

So that was why he seemed so familiar. The Earl of Godwick—this arrogant man—was her dream lover, the man with the midnight eyes. He looked different without the beard, but it was him. Right here before her in the flesh, with blue eyes so dark and cold that she shivered as if submerged in the deepest coldest ocean.

"They’re only dreams,” he said, and it sounded as if he were telling that to himself, that he needed to believe they were only dreams when he knew otherwise.

"Not only,” Mona said. "Not only dreams.”

"Don’t say such things,” he snapped.

"If you insist.” She could have told him more. She could have recounted their "luncheon on the grass” together; she could have told him about her other nights with Malcolm, and the all too real stains on the sheets every morning after. But no. A serious, stern man like the Earl would probably go mad to know that life and death weren’t as absolute as they seemed.

"I have to have the painting,” he said. "I simply have to have it. There is a blank space on the wall that’s been waiting since 1938 for my grandfather to come home. I won’t leave here without him.”

"You’ll have to. The painting is mine. He wanted me to have it.”

"You say these dreams are more than dreams? Tell me then why in my last dream of him, he made me promise that I would do anything to bring it home? Anything.”

"I’m afraid Malcolm is playing one last little trick on us.” She sympathized with the Earl, but Malcolm had told her to keep the painting, no matter what.

"Any price.”

"I won’t sell it,” she said. "It’s mine. It goes where I go and that’s the end of it. I’m sorry, but my decision is final. If you want to sue me for the painting, you may. I’ll win, but if you feel you must, you must.”

"You have no idea how much money I could pay you for that painting.”

"This has nothing to do with money. I have a Picasso in my possession that’s been appraised for thirteen million dollars. And now that you’ve given me impeccable provenance, it will fetch even more.”

"I could give you more than thirteen million dollars for my grandfather’s painting.”

"I told you, it’s not about the money. No amount of money in the world would buy that painting from me. It’s not for sale. As we say in this country, sir, no means no.”

The Earl seemed to ponder that for a good long time. Mona meant every word. Had he pulled out his wallet and written her a check for one hundred billion dollars she would have torn it into pieces and scattered it on the floor like confetti.

"It goes where you go,” the Earl said.

"As I said, I won’t part with the painting as long as I live. And I plan on living a good long life.”

"I see.” He put his hand on his hip again, his other hand on his chin. He stared at Malcolm and Malcolm returned the gaze. "There’s a story they tell of him in the family, one we have never made public. Mona Blessey wasn’t a prostitute. She was the respectable daughter of the family steward—respectable until my grandfather took an interest in her, that was. One night her father lost everything at the card tables, ruining the family and Mona’s prospects for marriage. My grandfather offered to make her his mistress. She warned him her father would kill him if they were caught together. My grandfather kidnapped her anyway and spirited her off to Scotland.”

"Why do I think she didn’t put up much of a fight?”

"Because you know my grandfather. His ‘victim’ had her bags packed the night he stole her out of her bed. He did whatever he wanted and cared nothing for what anyone thought of him. He died laughing in his lover’s bed. He took what he wanted and asked no man’s permission. What a way to live. A better way to die. Wouldn’t you agree?”

"Yes,” she said. "The world needs more men like Malcolm, more women like Mona Blessey.”

"I’m glad to hear you say that,” he said. "I couldn’t agree more.”

The Earl stepped forward and plucked Malcolm’s painting off the wall. Mona lunged forward to rescue it but the Earl wrapped his other arm around her hips, hoisted her over his shoulder, and carried her out of the gallery and into the back seat of a long black town car waiting in the alley out back.

"You planned to steal my painting, didn’t you?” Mona demanded as he threw her down onto the supple leather seats.

"It was Plan B,” he said. Then he called up to the chauffeur with a haughty "Drive.”

"You could be arrested for this,” she said.

The car rolled out of the alley and onto the street. She tried the doors but they were all locked. Mona knew she should have been panicking, but she wasn’t afraid at all. Only furious.

"Arrested? For what? For eloping? It’s not a crime. Would you rather be married in Scotland or America? I’ll let you make that decision. Marriage, I hear, is all about compromise.”

He propped the painting up on the bench seat across from them. If it were possible—and now she believed anything was—Malcolm’s eyes seemed to be laughing.

"Married? Have you lost your mind?”

"Only my inhibitions,” he said. "And you did say the painting goes where you go and that you’d never sell it. If we marry, it becomes half mine. And half is better than nothing. You’ll love Wingthorn. The most beautiful home in the country. Lady Mona has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

"Look, Lord Godwick or whoever the hell you are—”

"Call me Spencer, love. We are going to be married, after all.”

"Turn this car around right now and take me back to my gallery, Spencer.”

"You can return to the gallery once we’re married. If you wish. Although I’d rather keep you at Wingthorn with me. Ever seen a Wingthorn rose? White petals, red thorns big as knife points. Beautiful and dangerous, my favorite combination.”

"The minute you turn your back on me I’m calling the police,” Mona said.

"I won’t turn my back then,” he said. "I’d rather look at you anyway.”

He raised his hand to touch her face, and she tried to slap it away. He caught her by the wrist and yanked her to him, capturing her in his arms and holding her against his chest.

"Aren’t you a darling,” he said as he subdued her with his vastly superior physical strength. He clasped the back of her neck with his hand and she gave up the fight. He looked at her face, at her lips, at her neck. In her struggle against him, her blouse had opened, revealing the swell of her breasts. Gently he touched her panting chest with his fingertips. "How old are you?”

"Twenty-six,” she said.

"I’m thirty-seven. Time to settle down, I’ve been told.”

"This is how you settle down? By kidnapping me and forcing me to marry you for a painting? I won’t do it. I have a cat to take care of.”

"Surely your exquisite assistant can care for him until we can bring him over. I like pussies of all varieties. He’ll be our little lord of the manor.”

"I don’t even have my passport, you bastard.”

"We’ll go and fetch it.” He lowered the window an inch between the back seat and the front. "Driver? Swing up by Miss St. James’s flat.” He rolled the window back up again and smiled at her. "Not a problem.”

"You’re mad.”

"And you’re lovely when you’re furious. I can’t wait to make you furious for years and years to come.”

"Take me back to the gallery this instant. I will not marry you.”

"Won’t you?” he asked, tilting his head to the side, his tone taunting.

"Never,” she said.

"Most women of my acquaintance would kill to be a wealthy countess.”

"Marry one of them then.”

He traced the lace at the edge of her bra and her skin prickled with pleasure.

"Where’s the fun in marrying someone who wants to marry you? I prefer a challenge.”

"I’m a person, not a challenge. This isn’t a game.”

"It is a game, and I’m going to win. See?” He pressed his lips to hers and she pushed back away from him, or tried to. He let her go only so far before he forced her to return the kiss. With his hand on the nape of her neck and his other arm pinning her against him, she could do nothing but surrender to the kiss.

But she refused to enjoy it.

Spencer lips moved over hers with surprising softness that left her breathless and warm. His tongue darted out from his mouth and licked the bow of her bottom lip. It shocked her into opening her mouth and the second she did, his tongue slipped inside. His mouth was hot against her and insistent. Every time his tongue touched hers, a current of pure erotic electricity shot through her body and into her loins. She tried to hate him and hate the kiss and hate what was happening to her, and perhaps she would have had she never known and loved Malcolm. But he’d trained her to submit to the lusts of powerful men. Trained her to do it and trained her to like it. No, not to like it. He’d trained her to love it. She hated Spencer, this arrogant Earl who acted as if he already owned her. But she couldn’t hate his kisses, try as she might. God help her, she might even love them.

Spencer reached into her blouse and slid his hand under the lace cup of her bra. He found her nipple and pinched it lightly. She flinched and her nipple hardened instantly. Spencer chuckled softly at her arousal and she tried to push away from him again.

"Oh no, you’re not going anywhere,” he said, pinching the nipple again, harder this time. She struggled against him again but Spencer was far too strong. He pushed the lace cup down, baring her breast. She stilled in his inescapable grasp. He looked down at her breast, caressed the soft flesh and smiled. He lowered his head and licked her nipple before taking it into his hot mouth.

Mona’s head fell back in ecstasy but Spencer caught her and held her against his shoulder. As he suckled her breast, he slid his hand under her skirt, found the edge of her black panties and pulled them down. He brought his hand between her thighs, cupped her sex, and inserted a finger into her. He moaned softly against her body. She was wet inside and burning hot. He pushed a second finger in, a third, and all the way up to the knuckles. He fucked her with his hand as he sucked her nipple and there was nothing she could do but take it. He was going to make her orgasm, force her to orgasm. She didn’t want to, she didn’t. Once she did she would be his, all his, forever his.

"The things I will do to you…” he murmured against her skin.

"What things?”

"I’ll keep you a naked slave chained to my bed. I’ll show off your cunt to every man who crosses the threshold of my house so they can see my prized possession and envy me. I will fuck beautiful women in front of you and send them home right after, still dripping my seed, so you will know that I can have any girl I want but you, you’ll be the only one I’ll keep. I will tie you to the dining room table and drink my wine out of you. I’ll let my dearest friends bend you over the billiard table and fuck your pussy and ass while I sit in my favorite club chair, sipping Scotch and watching you writhe for my entertainment. Then later when I’m fucking you in our bed, you will tell me in exquisite detail how much you prefer my cock to theirs. You’re a magnificent whore and I will wrap you around my cock every day for the rest of your life…”

Mona couldn’t hold back anymore. She came with a cry, muscles going wild all around Spencer’s fingers buried deep inside her. He swore violently as she came, seemingly shocked by the force of her orgasm. Slowly her eyes opened and she looked at him, blinking and spent.

"Scotland,” she said. "Let’s be married in Scotland.”

Her mother would have approved this match.

"Lovely little girl,” Spencer said, smiling. "Though it’ll kill me, I won’t stick my cock in you until after the ceremony if only so we can tell our children someday how their mother and father waited till marriage. They won’t need to know I kidnapped you and forced you to marry me the day we met.”

"Our little secret,” she said. She would never tell Spencer they’d met once before, made love once before. To him it was nothing but a dream, but she knew. She and Malcolm knew. Their little secret…

"You’re going to make me a marvelous countess, I can already tell,” he said, tenderly caressing her swollen clitoris under her skirt. "A fine lady by day, a better whore by night. My whore.”

"Your whore,” she said, sighing. Spencer kissed her again and she let him. Why not? She was his now and always would be. This is what Malcolm planned, this is what he wanted to bring about, and in a day or two it would be done. Malcolm wanted her to have his heir, he had said, and now she would indeed have his heir—she would have Spencer for a husband and Spencer would have her for his lover and his slave. She would have Spencer’s children, the next heirs. And Mona, the whore, would reign as the Countess of Godwick.

From inside his frame, the portrait of Malcolm smiled.

Or was it a smirk?

---