The Knight; His secret author

A small surprise

His mouth left mine to glide slowly and provocatively along the column of my throat, leaving heated dew in its wake. Farther down he went, until he reached my decolletage and the shallow swells. As he skimmed his warm lips over them, he released a soft purr. It was a sound of satisfaction and approval. At that moment, I did not feel at all lacking in any manner. It was an incredibly liberating sensation. And rewarding. To know within his eyes, I was perfection.

She-wolf, the Alpha of my Desires, A Memoir

Back to now:

*Knightley*

I urge my horse into a more urgent gallop, a punishing pace, because I possess an obsessive need to outrun the past. Odd that, as I am, in fact, heading straight for it.

I have left Blackrock City behind, traveling a route I have journeyed along countless times, when good folks including Althea’s chaperone were abed. When she would slip out of the residence to meet with me for a midnight stroll into the forest where I would lay her down on a bed of moss and leaves...

Although on some nights, when I was feeling particularly bold and daring, I would climb the towering elm outside her bedchamber window and tap on the glass until she scurried over and released the latch, inviting me in. On the most wicked of nights, I would take her to Blackrock City, to my bed.

I have spent five years striving not to think about her, but ever since our encounter at the Wolves, every rendezvous, every caress, every whispered word, sigh, and groan had flitted through my mind over and over. Reading the bloody book certainly haven't helped.

I near the property, enclosed by a tall wrought iron fence. The gate is open, an indication she might have gone out in the car. No matter. I will wait for her return, whether it be today, tonight, or tomorrow. I will confront her and get the truth from her if it kills me.

I slow my gelding to a trot, then a walk. No need for Althea to witness my desperation to set eyes upon her, should she be about. Besides, I need a few more minutes to regain my calm, my control. I'm not quite certain what game she is playing, but I will figure it out and determine the best way to win.

Strategy requires clear thinking, and I have long ago mastered it. It's part of the reason I'm so very skilled at investing. Emotion is never part of the process. I have become more successful since I'd been forced to betray her because I had buried all sentiment completely. I exist to make sound business decisions, to make amends for what I am and what I have been given.

The manor comes into view, and I fight not to remember my first visit, and how she had captured my interest. And eventually my heart.

I bring my horse to a halt near the steps, dismount, and secure the reins through the metal ring hanging from a post with a black iron horse's head to clarify, unnecessarily, the object’s purpose. After striding up the steps, I grab the knocker and use it to make my arrival known. A few minutes later, the butler who’s greeted me numerous times in the past opens the door, and I formally present my card, even though I'm known here. “Alpha Knightley to see Miss Leyland.”

“She is not at home.”

To you, I can almost hear the man mumbling beneath his breath. “Then I’ll wait.”

I give the butler a stern look until the gent finally relents and steps back. I edge past him and march into the drawing room, aware of the echo of the butler’s retreating footfalls as he no doubt went to tell the She-wolf who is ‘not at home’ that they had a visitor.

I come to a stop beside the rust-shaded velveteen sofa where I once sat while she served me tea. A proper afternoon visit with a proper gentleman. An indication I had been calling upon her. We had a few respectable meetings to distract others from suspecting we were having several disreputable ones.

Odd thing, that even when we weren’t engaged in doing what we ought not, I enjoyed being with her. Quiet conversations about mundane matters, shy smiles, reading to each other. The rainy afternoons were the best, when we would sit by the window in silence, watching the droplets roll down the pane, our fingers interlaced, while a contentment I have never known...

A scuffling sound catches my attention and has me jerking my head in the direction of the far side of the large room, where a wall of books provides a pleasing backdrop for a rosewood desk. Between its curved, intricately carved support, a small girl, resting on her stomach, is busily scratching pencil over paper. Her legs are bent at the knees, her feet sticking up and swinging back and forth so the skirt of her blue dress no longer properly covers her, and yet her innocence makes it not matter. Her dark hair is a wild abandonment of curls.

After taking a few quiet steps nearer, I crouch. “Hello.”

She looks at me, her brilliant blue eyes huge and her smile bright. “Hello.”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Ari. I wrote a story. Do you wanna read it?”

She apparently has no misgivings when confronted by a stranger. Because she believes her world is safe? Because an unknown gentleman appearing in the parlor is not an odd occurrence?

I have a thousand other questions. What is a child doing here? To whom does she belong? The shade of her eyes is mine, but the oval shape of them is all Althea. Coincidence? How old is she? Three, four, five? Not as much as six, I don’t think, but I pay little enough attention to children and haven’t the slightest talent for adequately ascertaining an age. However, I am very much aware that I don’t wish to disappoint her. “Yes, I would very much.”

She pops up, grabs her piece of paper, crouches, and waddles beneath the desk until she reaches me. Then she promptly plops down onto her bottom, which I suppose means we aren’t going to move to more comfortable furnishings, so I lower myself to the floor, reach into my jacket pocket, remove my spectacles, and settle them into place. I hold out my hand and marvel at how small hers is when she gingerly places her treasure on my palm.

Her story is nothing but lines and scribbles, curls and loops.

“Oh, dear,” I say gravely. “I brought the wrong spectacles. These aren’t able to read writing as elegant as yours.”

“I can read it to you.” She says.

“Thank you. I would enjoy that.” I return it to her. Then, to my surprise, she scootches nearer until she is nestled against my side, warm and tiny, and yet remarkably overwhelming, as though she encompasses all the space around me, claims it, and makes it hers.

“The dog was lonely. He wanted a friend. The she-wolf was lonely. She wanted a dog.” She looks up at me expectantly.

I smile.“Does she get a dog?”

Mulishly she presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Not until she’s six.”

“How old is she now?” I ask.

She holds up four fingers, then pushes her tiniest one down. “This many.”

“Three.”

She nods, before grinning mischievously and letting the tiny finger pop back up. “Until next week.” She frowns as though trying to determine precisely when that was, perhaps because she has merely repeated by rote what she has been told.

Then her face becomes illuminated as if the sun had shifted out from behind dark clouds for the sole purpose of shining upon it. “Do you wanna come to my cel-bration?”

I’m not quite certain how to respond to that, especially as I’m occupied running months and numbers through my head, calculating the passage of time and the possibility that my not going through with the wedding may have been a far graver affront to Althea than I could possibly have imagined.

Although it seems the little sprite doesn’t need a response. She jumps up and returns to where I had first seen her. With pencil in hand, she begins scribbling on another bit of foolscap. When she’s finished, she rushes back to me and holds it out proudly. My invitation, I assume, although it very much resembles the story she had written. Taking it, I carefully fold and tuck it inside my jacket. “Thank you very much.”

“We’re gonna have cake with strawbries.”

“Do you like strawberries?” I ask.

She nods. “And dogs.”

I grin. “You seem rather obsessed.”

“Arianna!”

Somewhat guiltily, both the child and I swing our heads around to be greeted by Althea trudging toward us like a warrior marching into battle.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you, young lady.” The tone is implacable, and I have the absurd notion that I wouldn’t mind her directing it at me, ordering me into her bed, but then I had always been at her beck and call until I wasn’t. Unfolding my body, I rapidly shove myself to my feet.

“I wrote a story, Mum.”

At her address, at the implication that tiny word confirmed, my gut tightens and clenches, nearly dropping me to my knees. Althea has a child. I had suspected but hadn’t truly wanted to believe the reality of it. I had once dreamed of a future with her that included children.

The lass races to the she-wolf with the mien of an avenging angel and offers in tribute the original piece of paper she had shown me. With a soft smile, Althea lowers a hand to the dark curly head. “We’ll read it later, shall we? Now you need to go with Nanny.”

Only then do I realize another she-wolf has entered the parlor. Easing forward, the servant curls her fingers over the girl’s slender shoulder and begins guiding her toward the doorway. The lass turns and waves at me. “Don’t forget my birthday.”

It takes every bit of training I possess to force out the words without giving away the varied emotions rioting throughout me, causing strange sensations to rampage my entire being. “I won’t.”

Once the girl and her nanny have disappeared into the hallway, Althea turns her attention back to me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Her curt, accusing tone implies she is not at all pleased by my presence. Not that I had expected her to be, but still reeling from the revelation that she has a child, I feel like everything is coming to me from a great distance through a thick fog. “She read me her story.”

Her features soften slightly. “About a dog, I imagine.”

“Is she mine?” I hadn’t meant to ask so bluntly or abruptly. I had planned to work my way around to it. But I had been unable to contain the words when they had been bombarding me, insisting on being set free.

“Since she apparently shared with you that her birthday is coming, I would think you could do the calculations based upon the last time we were together, which was also in June. I assure you that I didn’t carry her for twelve months.”

“She has blue eyes.”

“You don’t believe yourself to be the only man with blue eyes, surely.”

“Considering my . . . lack of carrying through on a promise, I would have thought you would have avoided them.”

“Have you avoided she-wolves with brown eyes?”

At first, I drowned myself in them, searching for the adoration, love, and admiration I saw in hers. Then I began to eschew them like they carried the plague because they do nothing to diminish the memories of hers that haunt my dreams. “Who is her father, then?”

She shrugs. “Could be the Southern Isles matador, I suppose. Or the painter or sculpture from the Winelands. The clockmaker from the Winter Isles.”

With each mention, my jaw clenches tighter, and I have to force it to relax so I can speak, striving for a neutral tone so she won’t realize her words have any effect on me, and are in fact painful blows. “I have heard the rumors that while you were abroad you sampled as many men as you did the variations in cuisine.” Each tale is a slice to my heart, and I believe with enough of them that I can eliminate my heart completely. Without it perhaps I would at least find peace.

She gives me a smile, the sort a well-sated she-wolf delivers in bed as her lover rolls off her. Triumphant and knowing. Fully aware, however, that in this case, I have suffered. Greatly. And she is glad of it. Not that I blame her. I deserve whatever punishment she metes out. “Why are you here, Knightley?”

“I know, without reservation or any doubt, you’re ‘She-wolf’, that you wrote the blasted book.”