Hart: A Villainous Short Story Read online

  Contents

  The Villain

  Hart

  Victoria Vale

  Copyright 2018 by Victoria Vale

  Edited by Zee Monodee (Divas at Work Editing)

  Cover Art & Formatting by Victoria Vale

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, laces, or people, living or dead, is coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  1814

  Closing his eyes, Lord Adam Callahan pressed his fingers against the keys of the pianoforte, each flex of his digits creating a note of music. He depressed them two and three at a time in rapid succession, creating layers of notes; chords, his mother had called them. The pianoforte had rules, she’d said the first time she had sat him upon this very same bench to teach him how to play. Notes, keys, chords … all of them working together in harmony to make music. She’d tried to teach him the rules—to show him the way that sheet music spelled out the parameters for him to follow.

  But, as in most things, Adam had found his own way. Ignoring the sheet music, he had allowed his ear to guide him … his fingers … his soul. If someone had asked him to explain how he could play a single composition perfectly after having only heard it a handful of times—and without the benefit of sheet music—he would have been at a loss. He could not explain how. It seemed a simple facet of his existence, in the same way that his hair was dark brown and his eyes a confused muddle of colors his mother had called ‘hazel’. Music was a part of him, some innate thing that flowed through his veins, a part of his lifeblood.

  His mind, his ear, and his fingers understood strings as well as keys, and over the years, he’d become proficient with the violin, cello, and harp. However, none of them spoke to him the way the pianoforte did—the way this particular pianoforte did.

  It was the instrument he had learned on, the first thing he’d ever touched that had spoken to his soul. The grand, elaborate thing had been a wedding gift from the earl, his father, who had been besotted with his first wife. Custom-made, it stood apart from any other instrument in all of Scotland—even rivaling some of the decadent creations gracing the drawing rooms of London. Lacquered mahogany wood boasted fine marquetry—the depictions of Greek gods and goddesses etched into the lid top, with carvings of mythological creatures along its curved legs. Centaurs, sphinxes, and sirens, all paying tribute to the images of Zeus, Aphrodite, and Apollo. As if the piece weren’t elaborate enough, it had been finished with gold and mother-of-pearl trimming, the Callahan family coat of arms displayed proudly on the inside of the lid top. A bit ostentatious, but fitting for a countess.

  His mother, who’d been fascinated by all things Grecian, had loved this piano, and he could not recall a day when she was in residence at Dunvar House that passed without her laying her hands on it. He would often sneak away from the schoolroom just to seek her out, joining her on this very same bench and watching her play. He was only five years of age when he felt the urge to reach out and touch one of the keys … when the memory of watching her play began to translate into making his own music.

  “I thought I might find you here.”

  His fingers went still, pressing heavily on the chord he’d just played. They stayed there, causing the notes to hit a sharp crescendo before fading swiftly into silence.

  Clenching his teeth, he turned to glance over his shoulder at the person who had interrupted his solitude.

  He’d been told often that he was made in the earl’s image … and he’d always found the people who said such things to be idiots. As if possessing the same hair color and eyes as someone made you like them. It was there the similarities ended—with the earl possessing a face composed of all hard, cruel lines and a mouth that seemed chronically twisted into a scowl.

  “And here you find me,” he said drily, swiveling on the bench to face his father.

  He had hoped to avoid the man until he would set off on the first leg of his journey to the Continent. Alas, when it came to his father, he never got what he wanted.

  “Impertinent,” the earl scoffed as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame.

  “And irresponsible,” Adam supplied, rolling his eyes. “As well as foolish, frivolous, and shallow. Does that about cover it?”

  If at all possible, his father’s countenance grew even more thunderous, the flecks of green in his eyes flashing like lightning. Even from this distance, Adam could see it, the changing of his gaze windows into a turbulent soul. The man had suffered much in his five decades of life … yet Adam, too, had suffered. Could his father not see that?

  “If you wish me to change my opinion of you, then perhaps you should consider your own behavior,” the earl snapped.

  Rising to his feet, Adam ran a hand through the shoulder-length hair framing his face in bedraggled waves—yet another thing his father hated about him. He’d been told it marked him as a man of ill-breeding, his wild, untamed hair … even though his bloodline suggested otherwise. It brought him no end of satisfaction to let it grow, combing it just enough to free it of snarls, but otherwise allowing it to fall where it may. Anything that set his father’s teeth on edge made him happy.

  “I beg to differ,” he countered. “It has become increasingly clear that nothing I do will ever be enough to please you.”

  It was true. His stellar performance at Oxford had not been enough, nor had any of his other accomplishments. Upon asking to be allowed to manage one of his father’s estates in order to prove himself worthy, he had excelled even beyond his own expectations. The earl had simply shrugged when presented with the evidence of his son’s success, remarking that there was nothing impressive about a man taking an interest in his inheritance. It had been his duty, nothing more.

  Adam had long ago given up trying to please the earl, having decided that the only person worth pleasing was himself. And if chasing pleasure vexed his father … well, all the better.

  “Perhaps that is because you take nothing seriously,” his father replied. “You have proven that with your complete disregard of my wishes concerning this Grand Tour.”

  The fragile thread of his control began to fray, and he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from wrapping them around the man’s throat.

  “I am going, and that is the end of it,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “I would think you’d be glad to be rid of me.”

  “The Tour is a waste of time and money,” the earl argued. “You should be here, preparing to take your place after I have died … which could be any day now, you know.”

  It lay on the tip of his tongue to taunt his father for being so dramatic. Not the first time the earl had tried to use what he referred to as the ‘Callahan misfortune’ as a form of guilt. Every earl in their bloodline had died young, and their countesses had not fared much better. Despite having lost his mother as a boy, then going on to watch his father remarry and lose his second countess, as well, Adam did not place much stock in his father’s paranoia. People lived and they died, and there was rarely any fairness concerning who, when, or how.

  Still, his words died on his lips when he noticed the sheen of sweat on the earl’s forehead, the pallor of his skin. Was it his imagination, or had his father lost at least a stone of weight? A large man like Adam, he’d always boasted an athletic figure, thick with muscle and brawn.

  Shaking his head, he told himself not to be ridiculous. He wouldn’t let paranoia plague him the way it did his father. He�
��d probably only burdened himself to the point of sickness—something Adam refused to do.

  Instead of feeding into this notion that his father stood at death’s door, he latched onto his assertion that the Grand Tour was some frivolous thing. The experience was one most men of power and influence underwent as a way to learn about culture, art, and life in places outside the limits of England.

  “It is only a few years,” he argued. “How can you expect me to take my place among the other lords, if I haven’t been exposed to the things they have? It is a learning experience—”

  “It is an excuse for young bachelors to overindulge!” the earl insisted. “If you do not drink yourself to death, you’ll return with the Pox or some other foul disease. I will not allow it, Adam … and my money will not pay for it. Your place is here.”

  He could not help a laugh at that. While he had not yet inherited the earldom, or the lands and money that came with it, he was no pauper. An inheritance left by his mother meant he did not need to rely upon his father’s charity. It had never occurred to him to ask the earl to finance the trip.

  Rising from the bench, he stormed toward the door, brushing past his father. “I need neither your money, nor your permission.”

  He felt the gaze of his father, hot on his back, could practically hear the words the earl wished to lambaste him with. However, the man remained silent and watched him go. Perhaps, he had finally realized that Adam would do what he pleased, with no thought to what anyone might think. After all, he had made it more than clear that nothing Adam did was ever good enough.

  As he stormed through the house, his hands clenched and unclenched in a restless rhythm, irritation making the surface of his skin flame hot. He hated this feeling—almost as if something inside him might burst through the seams, rip apart his outer shell, and obliterate him. The feeling had grown worse the older he’d gotten—old, festering wounds constantly reminding him of pain and loss. He often wondered how much more he could take before all those hurts finally scabbed over, leaving him rough and brittle. Maybe then, he wouldn’t feel things so deeply … wouldn’t feel the need to go running to a completely different continent to escape the source.

  Tearing through the corridors toward the entrance, he didn’t bother with a coat or hat. Where he was going, no one would care how he was dressed, and he wouldn’t have his clothes on for long, anyway.

  A warm, summer breeze rustled his hair and caressed his face as he threw open the front doors, charging down the stairs two at a time. When he began to feel this way, there were only a few things he could do to temper the flames—drink, fight, or fuck. He had no wish to awaken with a pounding headache in the morning, and the only person he wished to engage in a fight would be his father—another thing he had no desire to indulge in.

  That left him with no other recourse. Reaching down to adjust the half-hardened organ in his breeches, he quickened his steps toward the stable.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Less than an hour later, Adam was ushered into the small, sparse room sitting over the tavern—just one of many where men like him came to escape their wives, their professions, or their overbearing fathers. It held everything he required to ease the tension winding in his belly like a spring: a bed with clean sheets, a washstand, and a willing woman.

  Said woman had been informed of his arrival and had prepared herself accordingly.

  Adam smirked as he closed the door to the little room behind him and leaned against it, studying the petite lass before him.

  If Fiona stood, the top of her head would barely reach his chest. However, she knelt for him, legs curled beneath her, back erect to display her body to its advantage. Plump breasts tipped with succulent pink buds, a smooth, soft belly, and flared hips that could cradle a man so perfectly, he would forget his troubles for as long as he was inside her. White-blonde hair spilled over her shoulders in disarray—always looking as if it had been mussed by the fingers of a lover. The sight of her brought him levity … not because of love or another soft emotion such as that, but because she’d been created for men like him; men who liked to dominate and control. Men who preferred a woman strong enough to endure their wicked urges.

  “Good evenin’, m’laird,” she purred, her husky tone mingling with her thick, Scottish brogue in a way that made more blood pool in his groin.

  At the sight of her, docile on her knees and ready for him, his need had increased tremendously. He would not be able to leave this room without sating it.

  He took his time approaching, savoring the way his cock throbbed in tandem with the tap of his boots against the rough floor, the way she gazed up at him with those open green eyes—eyes that showed him her every debauched desire.

  “Did you miss me, kitten?” he murmured, reaching down to stroke her hair, her jaw, swiping a thumb over her lips.

  Like the kitten he’d named her, she lapped at the pad of his digit, then nipped at it with her teeth. “Hmm … always, m’laird.”

  She reached up to grasp his leg, running a hand over his thigh and up to the bulge presenting itself at the front of his breeches.

  “So tense, m’laird,” she murmured. “Would ye like to tell me what’s troublin’ ye?”

  He braced a hand against her head, pulling it to rest against his thigh. She nuzzled him and sighed, seeking comfort while also serving as his succor. It seemed something she did without second thought, an instinct that called to an answering urge in him. In his experience with women, she’d been the only one thus far to cater to this need of his. In truth, he hadn’t even understood it fully until the first time she had knelt for him, offering submission.

  “Don’t feel much like talking,” he replied, giving her hair a tug and tipping her head back so she looked up at him.

  She gazed into his eyes for a moment without speaking, seeming to read his thoughts before nodding decisively. “I know just what you need.”

  Rising to her feet, she beckoned for him to follow her before turning to saunter toward the bed.

  He bit his lower lip and trailed her with slow steps, enjoying the way the soft tendrils of her hair caressed her back, the way her hips swayed with each step. She climbed onto the bed, facing the wooden rails making up her headboard. Attached to them were the straps they made frequent use of. They had appeared here after he’d expressed in interest in rendering her motionless for him. A matching pair had been affixed to the footboard for when he wanted to stretch her out wide.

  She faced the headboard and rested her hands on one of the wooden rails, knees bent beneath her, back arched. He came closer, swiftly enclosing her wrists with the shackles, then pressing a hand to her head, easing it down to the mattress. Grasping her hips, he gave her a few tugs, positioning her the way he wanted—arms stretched taut, head down, back arched, hips and arse tilted skyward.

  His shirt already hung half-open, so he was able to make quick work of snatching it off over his head. Tossing the garment aside, he climbed onto the bed, coming up on his knees behind her. She remained passive before him, not daring to move, even when he took hold of her hips and pressed himself against her. Grinding the hard ridge between his thighs against her hot center, he issued a hum of approval. Even through the fabric of his breeches, he could feel her arousal, the heat emanating from her, as well as the dewy moisture that had begun gathering there.

  He trailed his hands up her back, then stroked downward, repeating the motion over and over again to warm her skin. She swayed back into him, sighing and allowing her spine to relax, her legs to widen. Her scent invaded his nostrils, adding more to his arousal and need.

  “I am in a particularly foul mood this evening,” he warned her before lifting one hand and bringing it down against one of her buttocks.

  The creamy flesh quivered under the blow, flushing pink, and she gasped, trembling beneath him.

  “I do not have it in me to go easy on you, kitten.”

  Wiggling her hips and lifting her arse higher in invitation, she whimpered.
“I dinnae want you easy, m’laird.”

  He did not need her permission … had never before asked for it, simply understanding that her need was the counterpoint to his. Yet, her words freed him, and he raised his hand once more, cracking his palm against her arse again … with more force this time, and landing on the exact same spot. Then again, and again.

  He punished her buttocks until he’d worked up a sweat, his hair clinging to his forehead and neck, his body shaking with the rush of his blood through his veins. He used both hands, striking one cheek, then the other, then both in tandem. Her skin flushed an angry red, her shoulders and back tightening, her arms pulling at the shackles. She squirmed and writhed beneath him, crying out in pain but never asking him to stop. He would if she did, and the little lass seemed to understand this without being told. But this was why he came to her and no one else—because she took whatever he chose to give her, and never once had she asked him to stop.

  Adam was not certain how much time passed, but by the time he’d finished, every welt on her skin, every inch of redness, carried his inner pain, his frustrations, and his longing for things he’d never have. Though her breathing had quickened, panted out between whimpers and sighs, his had calmed, finding a steady rhythm while his entire existence narrowed to this moment. The tension in his body had begun to ease, his tight jaw loosening and the furrows in his brow smoothing out.

  Palming her buttocks, he kneaded them, rubbing his agony into her flesh. He spread her wide, revealing the tight pucker he’d penetrated more times than he could count, and below it, the slick path into her cunt. Despite his abuse, the proof of her arousal smeared her thighs, the pink inner folds glistening in the candlelight.

  “Such a good kitten,” he whispered, cupping her mons and stroking with gentle pressure, letting his middle finger probe between her lower lips to find her clit. “Letting me put all of that on you.”