Lust

Also by

CHARLOTTE FEATHERSTONE

SINFUL ADDICTED

And watch for the first novel in Charlotte Featherstone’s

new historical romance series

SEDUCTION & SCANDAL

CHARLOTTE FEATHERSTON

THE SINS and THE VIRTUES

LUST

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To Grannie MacAlpine,

whose stories of the dark and mysterious Fey did not have the intended effect.

I wasn’t scared in the least that a Faery would come and pluck me out of bed

because I was up after I had been safely tucked in. I was entranced.

And inspired! Thank you for those stories,

and for shaping my love of Faeries, and faerytales.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

THANK YOU TO KATHLEEN OUDIT, FOR ONCE again spoiling me with a gorgeous cover. It’s everything I wanted and more!

And to my fantabulous editor, Susan Swinwood, who most definitely lives up to the adage Patience is a virtue! Thank you for that!

THE CURSE OF THE UNSEELIE COURT

IT IS SAID THAT THE FEY HAVE ALWAYS LIVED amongst mortals, their world lying parallel to ours. They live in two courts; the good faeries belong to the Seelie Court, where gaiety and light reign. Opposite to the Seelie Fey are the Dark Fey, those who live in the Unseelie Court, or the unholy court as it is known. These dark faeries are mysterious and sensual, well versed in pleasures of the flesh. It is said that to look upon them and their beauty is to be drawn into their erotic, voluptuous world, and once there, your fate is sealed, your body and will no longer your own.

And this is precisely what happened once, long, long ago, to a beautiful queen of the Seelie Court, who had the misfortune to catch the eye of the Dark Fey king.

Immediately, the king was besotted with the queen, driven to possess her at all costs. Queen Aine was all the king could think about, but Aine spurned him, forcing King Duir to steal her away from her golden court as she slept. Like Persephone taken to the underworld, Duir brought Aine to his dark court, plying her with his erotic skills. The Unseelie king was certain he could win Aine, but the queen despised Duir. Long had she plotted against her captor, vowing to leave the king and his court behind, but Duir kept her prisoner, a concubine for his dark pleasures.

The queen’s loathing of the king festered, until she could think of nothing but revenge. Fueled by hatred, Aine searched for a way to break free—all to no avail. Until one day, she was delivered of the king’s twin sons. Enraptured by his progeny, and grateful to the queen for giving him such a gift, Duir became less watchful, allowing the queen new freedoms, and it was then that Aine found a way to leave his court.

One night she stole away, taking with her one of her sons, the golden-haired child who was the image of her Seelie self, leaving behind his dark-haired brother who bore his father’s resemblance. As she fled, Aine placed a spell on the Unseelie Court, that it whither away, never to thrive again until the Dark Fey could make a woman give herself to him of her own free will. As well, she cursed the sons of Duir’s siblings—and any future male children of the king—with each cardinal sin, further destroying her own dark son’s chances of finding a virtuous woman who would give herself willingly.

To this day, the queen’s spell holds strong. The Unseelie Court is dying. There is but one hope for the court—to find the seven women who represent the virtuous aspects of humanity. Seven women who embody chastity, temperance, charity, diligence, patience, kindness and humility. Women whose very being calls to the sins deeply buried in each prince, sins that are eager to corrupt, through erotic pleasure, their virtues.

If the court is to survive, the fey princes will have to find a way to make the virtues follow them willingly, while satisfying the basic needs of their sins. Sins of which, perhaps, each virtue is ready for a taste.

PROLOGUE

Dear Diary,

Born of a higher power—gifted, favored … cursed. I am all of these things. It is said that not only my conception, but those of my sisters as well, was an auspicious event. Like the visit from the angel Gabriel to Mary, my father was visited in his slumber from the faery queen, who foretold the coming of our births and the importance of not only myself, but my three sisters. In his dreams, it was whispered to him the part we would play in a world that we had not yet seen—a world, it seems, we will never really become a part of.

Like the spirit of Christ to the Virgin, the queen infused within my father the qualities that all humans wished to possess—attributes that many sought through absolution at church, and monies given away to pardon them for any trespass. Through his seed, our virtues were passed on, each daughter possessing the moralities that would define her—humility, kindness, temperance and chastity.

We are bound to these virtues as surely as we breathe. They define us, our personalities, our hopes, our desires. They enslave us. Chain us, until the day our purpose in this small, confined world is revealed.

It is our lot in life. Some would say that others have endured far worse than what we have. After all, we were born into the Lennox dynasty—a family whose powers stretch from the southwest of England into the wild beauty of Scotland. A family whose riches have flourished. A family who is revered, and just a touch feared, for the four daughters who were born within minutes of each other.

While some fear that we’re witches, others eager to possess wealth and power fear not the mysterious happening of our birth, but the fact that we are beyond possessing. We are made for something else, something beyond the pleasures and ambitions of men.

We are made pure. Righteous. Virtuous. Lonely.

Imagine, as I have, going through life and never experiencing all it has to offer. Imagine what it is to dream—and dread—a future which you know nothing about, because, as my sisters and I know, we were not created for such mundane purposes as tending home and hearth, but for some other mystical, and I fear sinister, reason.

Imagine if you can bear to, never feeling the touch of a man or desire spear your loins. Imagine listening to your friends speak of the beaux they dance with and the shirtless laborers who toil the soil, their perspiration trickling between muscles, a sight that you’re afraid you will never understand the power of, or feel your own cheeks heat with a rush of physical longing at such a masculine, virile sight.

Picture, if you can, never feeling any heat warm your blood when a man’s gaze caresses you, lingering on breasts that should make you feel womanly, but instead, from which you feel disconnected. Indifferent. Sexless …

High and mighty they call me. Frigid. But I am neither of those things. I am Chastity—my name, and my virtue. It is who I am, my entire being. It, I fear, is my prison.

ONE

“YOUR HIGHNESS, THE TIME HAS COME.”

He knew it. Heard the wails for what seemed like days now, the resonance ringing in his ears. Not even here, in his private solar, was he free from the cries that seemed to haunt his court. Another howl, worse than the keening of a banshee, echoed through the castle, whispering through his blood and settling deep within his black soul.

The curse was upon them.

Niall, king of the Unseelie Court, son of Duir and the most powerful of the Dark Fey, stood before the enormous hearth with legs braced wide and hands clasped behind his back. Unblinking, he watched the orange flames engulf a blackened oak log, sending sparks sizzling up the flue and into the chamber. Another female scream rent the air; its chilling sound found its way once more inside him as he fought to show no outward emotion.

“Your Highness—”

“Who is the maid who struggles to bring her child into the world?”

“Gertrude, female of Irian.”

Niall shut his eyes against the pain of knowing his cousin would suffer this night. Irian, despite his Elvish blood, or perhaps because of it, was his best warrior at court. It did not matter to Niall that his cousin was a Half ling Fey. Irian was loyal and trustworthy, and like a brother to him. More than the blood brother whom Niall had shared a womb with. Irian’s mixed blood had never been of consequence to Niall, until now.

“It was a mistake to allow him within the inner sanctum,” the seer of the fey growled. “He has incurred the Mother Creator’s wrath, and now we shall all suffer.”

Niall held himself still, breathing deep, willing his anger to tether. “It is not the Mother Creator who has cursed us, Gwynad, but my mother.”

He heard the seer growl behind him. The tip of the old man’s yew staff slammed against the gold tiles, but Niall ignored Gwynad’s theatrics—no one cowed him, especially this wizened old mage.

“How did the female come to be at our court?” he asked, grasping at anything at all that might tell him she and her babe would be spared from his mother’s hatred and the curse that shrouded his court.

Gwynad sighed and rustled forward, his velvet robe whispering against the floor. “The girl was a servant. Irian purchased her from a mortal. Thirty pieces of silver, and a blessing on the mortal’s child.”

“It seems an even transaction,” he grumbled, despite the growing unease in his belly. The woman—Gertrude—had not cried out in the last few minutes.

Gwynad pressed closer, his voice a hushed whisper. “She did not want to come to the Unseelie Court despite Irian’s assurance she would be treated like a princess. She tried to persuade the mortal to take her back, but then Irian and his crazed Elvish blood took over and he stole her, carrying her here as though he were god of the underworld and her an innocent maid.

“She was not willing, nor has she softened,” Gwynad hissed, reminding Niall, not so subtly, of the curse his mother had placed on his court.

Irian loved the mortal. Niall knew that. But he also knew that Gertrude had never grown to love Irian. They were doomed, as was their babe. As was the Unseelie Court.

Suddenly the door to the solar was thrown wide, the thick oak ratcheting off the wall. Behind him, Niall heard the enraged breathing, smelled the scent of sorrow mixed with the sweet smell of death.

“She’s gone.”

Two words filled with gut-wrenching agony. Niall closed his eyes against it, steeling himself in opposition to the pain he heard in Irian’s voice.

“Damn you, she’s gone!”

Slowly Niall turned, bracing himself for what he would face. Draped over Irian’s arms was Gertrude, limp and pale—lifeless. She was dressed in a white gown, from the waist down the snowy fabric was coated red. His lover’s lifeblood dripped onto Irian’s boots and puddled between his feet.

“She will be afforded a fey burial as though she were your wife, Irian. As you are a prince of the Dark Fey, she would have been your princess. She will be buried as such.”

Niall looked up into the anguished face of his brother of the heart, willing Irian to look at him, but the warrior was consumed now, and the only thing Irian saw was his dead mate lying in his arms.

“What of the babe?” demanded Gwynad.

Irian growled, took a menacing step toward the seer, but caught Niall’s eyes and steadied his raging blood.

“It is a boy. He’s … alive. I do not know for how much longer. The mortal midwife says he has been born too early.”

“Gwynad,” Niall commanded, “fetch a woman to feed the child.”

The old man looked at him as though he were mad. “We have not had a child born to this court in years, Your Highness. There is no milk to be had from our women.”

“Then you have my permission to steal a wet nurse from the mortal realm.”

“And bring more disaster down upon us?” the seer thundered. “Your Highness, I beg you. There can be no more stealing from the mortals. Our court is dying! We must find a way to break your mother’s spell—”

“And what do you think I have been doing since I claimed the throne?” Niall roared in frustration. “Sitting on my arse, having a merry party? Is that what you think I do in here all damn day?”

The seer bowed and took a step back. “I know you have been searching for a way—”

“Enough!” Niall barked. “Gwynad, you will order two servants to take milk from the cow Farmer Douglas leaves out in the pasture for us to avail ourselves. I gifted him and his wife with a child through my magic. The cow is a tithe. Go now.” He turned his gaze to Irian. “Let us bury her in our way, my friend.”

A sob escaped Irian as he looked down into his dead lover’s face. “She didn’t want that, to stay here with me and our court. She begged me, Niall, as she saw her impending death, to free her. I … promised her I would.”

Swallowing hard, Niall watched Irian sink to his knees, weeping over Gertrude’s lifeless body. Not for the first time, Niall cursed his mother, the queen of the Seelie Court, for the spell she had cast. He cursed his father for allowing decades to go by without bothering to search for a way to lift the spell. But most of all, he cursed the day his mother had taken his twin and left him at this court to watch his people dwindle and die.

“Irian,” he murmured, resting his hand atop his cousin’s shoulder. “We will avenge her death. I promise you that. I will find a way to break this curse. You will find another woman, Irian—you will. And she will want you and desire you as fiercely as you desire her.”

Irian looked up at him, his black eyes glowing like onyx through a veil of anguish. “We are all cursed, Niall. The court is dying. Despite the riches we have and the bounty of food in our trenchers and the comforts of our chambers, we are cursed. We have every material thing a fey could desire except the love of a woman and children to see to the survival of our race.”

“I will break this damnable curse, Irian. I will do whatever it takes. I vow that.”

Irian’s face twisted from sorrow to anger. “Who will want us, Niall,” he sneered, “when we are condemned by sin?”

Standing in his father’s bedchamber, Niall pushed aside the cobwebs that had grown in the years since Duir’s death. Inside this room, the secret to lifting the curse was hidden, Niall felt sure of it.

A shiver of abhorrence slithered along his spine as he looked around the untouched chamber. The room was cold and oppressive, like the man who had once occupied it. Despite its warm jewel-colored bed hangings and lavish pillows in velvets and silk, the bed, indeed, the entire room, felt like a tomb. This room had also born witness to the rape of the Seelie queen, as well as the conception of him and his brother and their subsequent births. These walls had witnessed the night his mother had fled the Unseelie Court, taking with her his twin who was the image of her Seelie self, leaving him, the image of his father, to grow up in the care of a man who became nothing short of a raving madman.

In this room was the tainted past, and hidden amongst its dark secrets was the way to end the curse.

He glanced at the massive bed, its ivory sheets twisted and trailing to the floor, and saw the image of the king, dying. Leaving Niall to rule over a court that had no hope. A court tainted by the sins of his father.

As if whispered through the threadbare bed curtains, he heard the curse murmuring around him, a reminder of what he already knew—the legacy of his mother’s wrath. They might as well have been inked onto his skin, for those words and her spell were embedded into every facet of his being.

His mother. He looked to the portrait that hung above his father’s bed. Aine was silver haired and violet eyed—he had her eyes. She was from the court of sunlight and gaiety, and his father, from the court of night and carnal sin. Duir’s was a world of dark beauty and erotic sensuality, and his mother had been repulsed by it. His father hadn’t cared. His lust was too strong, so he had stolen her from her bed while she slept and forced her to accept him. His father, in his misguided Unseelie ignorance believed that he could make her love him through sex.

But his mother had never softened. Just as Gertrude had never softened with Irian.

Aine’s hatred and vengeance was complete against the dark court. No mortal or immortal could be brought to the court against their will and made to love a fey. They had to come of their own volition. They had to give their body and soul willingly. And it was for certain that no female would want him, or the other Dark Fey, once they discovered who they really were. Beyond their faery beauty lay the sins of the world. Lust, vanity, envy, gluttony … all seven consumed in each fey prince. Wrath was Niall’s sin, and tonight it was simmering beneath his flesh. He wanted revenge—bloody and merciless—against his mother, his twin and the entire Seelie Court.

“Tell me how,” he whispered hoarsely. “How do I make this right?” He hoped the spirits, either malicious or benign, who haunted this chamber would hear him. “Tell me how to lift this bloody curse and save my court from this black spot.”

A whisper, barely audible, brushed past him. Movement near the bookshelf caught his attention. The fluttering of vellum edged in gold leaf flittered to the floor, making him press closer. By magic, the image of words in the ancient fey tongue appeared before his eyes, giving him hope for the first time since he had assumed the throne of the Unseelie.

Some by sin rise, and some by virtue fall.

TWO

Glastonbury, Somerset, England 1789, the Eve of Beltane

THE TOR ROSE ABOVE THE VILLAGE LIKE A MEGA-lithic warrior, glinting in the sunlight. Atop the mysterious mound, like a stone needle penetrating the clouds, towered the remnants of St. Michael’s Church. For centuries the villagers had said that Arthur and Guinevere were buried there. But others believed most steadfastly that the faery folk dwelt deep beneath the rippling green grass that resembled layers of plush velvet. It was said that underneath the grass, beneath the tor itself, lay a labyrinth of winding crypts—the magical path to the Faery.

On certain nights of the year, like tonight, the Eve of Beltane, the veil between the immortal and the mortal realm was thinned and the fey and all their beauty and magic walked unknowingly amongst man. But Beltane was not until twilight. Hours away, yet. They were free from the faeries. At least for now.

Casting an admiring glance at the mysterious and striking tor, Chastity, of all people, knew to believe in the tales of the Daoine Side. The Faery People.

Drawn to the tor as she was, Chastity gripped the handle of her wicker basket tighter in her gloved hands, as if grounding herself against the luring beauty that tried to bewitch her. The tor, it was believed, was the site of the Unseelie Court—the unholy court of the fey. Dark faeries, the Unseelie were. Enigmatically erotic, haunting, beautiful fey that corrupted a soul with all the unearthly, sinful pleasures that any human could ever desire. The Dark Fey and their wicked enchantments were everything that Chastity stood against. The deep-seated virtue within her balked at everything they were: lustful, tempting creatures who stole virgins away from their beds and ravished them.

She should not be intrigued by the tor, or the tempting idea of a magical netherworld that was the Unseelie Court. She should be repulsed. Terrified for her mortal soul. Yet the only time she ever felt the slightest bit of tingling in her woman’s body occurred when her gaze lingered upon the sacred mound. Even now, as she strolled down the high street of Glastonbury with her sisters, her gaze was fixed on the tor. There was the faintest tingling in her body. She felt a touch warm, her thighs quivered slightly. Only the tor and the thought of the Dark Fey made her feel this way. Perhaps she felt the prickling awareness because they represented danger. They were the opposite of her in every way. To her virtue, they were sin incarnate. Yet, she could not discount the way her blood grew warm whenever she thought of them. It was only thus, she thought sadly, with the fey. Mortal men provoked nothing in her but bland conversation and an absurd impulse to hide beneath her cloak of chaste piety.

As if to prove her thoughts, Caleb Graham, a baronet in the village, passed her on the street, shooting her a most amiable, handsome grin.

“Goody day, ladies,” he murmured, his voice pleasing in a masculine way. “Lady Chastity,” he said as he removed his tricorn hat and bowed before her. “How lovely you look this morning. The walk has added an invigorating glow to your skin.”

Nothing. Not even the faintest fluttering in her belly. She had heard the other village girls—most of them older women—talk of Caleb Graham’s handsomeness. His desirability. Chastity saw it perfectly well. He was a handsome man, and his broad shoulders and chest belied a virile manliness that attracted the fairer sex. But nothing feminine stirred within her.

“Good day, sir,” was all she replied, for she was unable to make any idle or pleasant conversation with the opposite sex, however much she longed to possess the ability.

Chastity could not help but notice that his eyes had darkened as he replaced his hat atop his brown hair. Her aloofness was not what the baron was used to when he chatted with females. But Chastity was not blessed with the gift of artful flirtation. She didn’t know how. Didn’t understand it. Hers was a purity of the mind, soul and body. A paragon above the temptations of mortal man.

“Shall you attend the green this evening?” Caleb’s query was directed at her, while his gaze was firmly fixed upon her ample décolletage, which she discreetly covered with the corner of her silk shawl.

“I am afraid not. Do excuse us, sir, for we must be on our way.”

The censure in her voice startled him, causing an expression of maligned vanity to cross his features. “Well, then, good day,” he grumbled, and Chastity heard him mutter, “Frigid shrew” beneath his breath as he stabbed the ground with his walking stick and proceeded up the high street.

“Pay him no heed,” Prudence whispered next to her. “He doesn’t know a thing about you, and his assessment is wrong. Besides, I’ve heard stories about him. He’s not the sort you’d wish to set your heart upon.”

With a nod and a sigh, Chastity continued to stroll with her sisters down the cobbled street, taking in the bustling activity of the May Day preparations as she forced the interaction out of her mind. Caleb was handsome, so why couldn’t she bear to look at him, much less converse with him? Chastity feared she was the oddest female in Christendom. She most certainly was unlike any of the other young ladies of her acquaintance.

“You have such a way with the opposite sex,” her sister Mary chortled. “Would it hurt to bestow a smile upon one?”

Chastity did not take the bait. What did Mary know, she thought savagely. Mary didn’t realize the mental anguish Chastity suffered, the pain that came from knowing she wasn’t like other women. How would Mary feel if she were to discover that the desires of man and woman would never be hers to experience?

“Come, Chastity, you could have offered him a bit of encouragement. Caleb Graham has been hungering for you for a year, at least. Give the poor fellow a smile, or heaven forbid, a dance at the assembly rooms. Who knows, perhaps you might even enjoy shedding your mantle of purity.”

“Leave off, Mary,” Prudence demanded. “You’re just being hurtful and spiteful. Besides, it’s not done to stop in the middle of the road and talk to a man. It looks gauche and common, and Chastity was quite right to rebuff the baronet’s presumptive behavior.”

Mary sent Prudence a horrid glare. “A tip of the hat and a bland ‘good day’ is presumptive? Dear me, Prudence, you must come down from your tower room and live amongst the real world. I vow, you would have a fit of apoplexy at some of the things that have been whispered to me by the opposite sex.”

“Well, then,” Mercy said cheerily, changing the course of the conversation. “Shall we stop at the baker’s and have a Bakewell tart? I will buy them, for I have brought my pin money.”

Chastity glanced at her youngest sister. Mercy. The virtue of kindness, trying her utmost to make her sisters the best of friends, not to mention lessening the sting of Baron Graham’s painful assessment of Chastity.

“Come,” Mercy pleaded, “we shall all have a little sweet for the walk home.”

“We really shouldn’t dally,” Chastity replied. “Although, a quick stop for a tart to eat on the way wouldn’t be a bother, would it?”

Prudence, the second eldest, who was always restrained and temperate, declined. “None for me, thank you. But naturally the three of you may indulge.”

Chastity nodded in understanding before fixing her gaze on her three sisters. They were paragons. Everyone thought them utterly perfect. Yet each of them knew of the other’s desire to be anything but what they were. On the outside, they were ethereal models of the womanly ideal. Inside, they were empty vessels, trapped by the virtues they were born to embrace and embody.

“Well, come along, then,” Mercy said as she held her bonnet in place with her hand as a stiff wind gusted up, threatening to take it from her flaxen curls. “My mouth is positively watering at the thought of a tart.”

Within minutes they were in the cramped little baker’s, inhaling the fresh aroma of pastry and almonds and sweet-cream icing. “Oh, heavenly,” Chastity found herself murmuring. Her stomach rumbled in response to the scents. Or perhaps, she thought, glancing over her shoulder at Prue, who waited by the door, it was her sister’s long-denied belly she heard. She could see the hunger in Prue’s eyes, and Chastity tilted her head, indicating the wooden shelf where countless treats awaited them. Typical of Prudence, she pinched her lips and shook her head. Denial was all Prue knew.

“There,” Mercy announced, passing them each a tart as they stood outside the baker’s. She had bought one for Prue, but she refused it, so Mercy handed the tart to a small child who stood beside her mother, who was busy selling irises from a wicker basket.

“Oh, thank you, luv,” the woman said gratefully as her daughter reached for the tart and shoved it hungrily into her mouth.

“'Tis no trouble. The eve of May Day,” Mercy replied, “is not complete without a Bakewell tart.”

As Chastity smiled at the little girl, her gaze caught something radiant in the middle of the road. A man riding a pure white horse that was adorned with a glimmering gold bridle.

He was handsome, more striking than any man she had ever seen. He was tall and fair-haired, and his clothes appeared as though they were spun of gold gossamer threads. His tailoring was richly embroidered, embellished with layers of lace and cloth-covered buttons. He did not resemble a puffed-up peacock like so many gentlemen did in the current fashion. He was every inch a man, a feat nearly impossible to achieve considering his elaborately embroidered frock coat and waistcoat.

As his white horse trotted elegantly by, his eyes caught Chastity’s stare. The stranger inclined his head and moved along, forcing Chastity’s gaze to follow him as he made his way through the carts and carriages that littered the high street.

Who was he? she wondered, still entranced by the stranger. He didn’t live in the village. She would have seen him before now. Heavens, all the village women would have been talking about him. She would have seen him at the assembly rooms, or at a tea or luncheon or something.

As he made his way up the steep incline of the road, he glanced back at her once more over his shoulder. He did not stare at her like other men did, with a mixture of intrigue and lust. He was a gentleman. A polite gentleman.

But then he was gone, and Chastity realized that she had fallen behind her sisters. Catching up, she stayed to the rear of them, content to eat her tart and contemplate the stranger on horseback. He carried himself as though he was a prince. An ancient prince, she mused, the kind who had also been a knight, leading his men into war.

Fanciful thinking, she reflected. But what more in life did she have to do than think whimsical thoughts as she waited for the future to unfold?

“The village green looks remarkable, does it not?” Mercy said. “I adore Beltane. One day I would love to take part in the festivities. I wish it could be tonight! The weather is very fine and the moon is full.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you had a dance around the maypole,” Prudence murmured.

“You know what will happen if I go to the green,” Mercy replied as she tied the long pink satin ties of her bonnet. “Everyone will run away as though I have the plague.”