Longmead Woods Trilogy Read online

  While the other omegas primped and preened, some tamed their hair with grease, though the odor turned Nate’s stomach. He licked his fingers as he stared into an ornate mirror and disciplined a few stray strands over his ears but gave up when they ignored his attempts at grooming and bounced back.

  Though Mr. Harvey did not provide clothing or, God forbid, a uniform, he inspected his charges as a captain would his regiment and made sure they were dressed appropriately before they were introduced to the alphas. He fussed over them, flicking specs of dust off their jackets and straightening their cravats.

  But when he scrutinized Nate with his wild hair, he rolled his eyes. “Elgin, do something with that mop on your head and straighten your necktie. You may be impoverished, but you are a gentleman.”

  Nate sighed and yanked his waistcoat a little lower to disguise the spot of gravy on his shirt. He hadn’t borrowed a horse and jacket from a friend and ridden all day yesterday only to be rejected by Mr. Harvey for having eaten at a roadside inn.

  As Mr. Harvey scurried around the room, Nate studied the scarlet velvet curtains draped over the windows and the hand-knotted carpets that spread from wall to wall. He had been born in and spent his youth in a house such as this, and the thick pile under his feet reminded him of his mother’s dressing room where he used to escape when his father was having one of his temper tantrums.

  But having been disowned by his papa, the late Marquis of Sibley, for gambling away his allowance, and thrown out by his older brother when his father died, he now slept in a friend’s dressing room and scraped a living by earning commissions for his paintings.

  And that brought him to the salon at Hammond Manor.

  Salon. Such a delicate word for an indelicate business. Pleasure house. Bawdy house. Brothel.

  He needed supplies—brushes, canvases, oils and watercolors—for two large pieces he was doing for Count Needham, and he was already behind and making excuses for the delay.

  While the count had given him a small stipend, Nate had used it for food and lodging until his friend, Tobias, took him in, but that was only temporary as Tobias’ wife complained he destroyed her furniture with oil as he cleaned his brushes.

  But after this evening, he would have enough silver to buy his supplies and finish his landscapes. And then the count would settle his final payment and Nate would be a person of means, if only for a few weeks.

  But as his lordship struggled with his financial burdens and ruminated on his various commitments, more serious thoughts intruded. He attempted to push them away by calculating how many commissions he needed to rent a studio. I need a place with excellent light and large doors leading outside and that would be how much? I-I need…

  But images of his brother’s audience with the king the previous month filtered into his head and overwhelmed his attempts at subterfuge. No. No. Think of something else, Nate. The studio will be airy and spacious and… oh god no, I do not want to recall that day.

  But as he massaged his temple and beads of sweat dotted his upper lip, he pictured being in the great hall at the palace. He had tagged along with his brother, hoping to meet a benefactor or a nobleman eager to commission a painting. He could finagle a few weeks living in the stable or servants’ quarters while he painted. But his brother, the current marquis, had ignored him and refused to introduce him to any of his friends, so Nate fleeced money from an arrogant merchant in a game of cards.

  But as he gambled, a commotion in the middle of the room had him glance over, expecting the usual scuffles as people grew weary awaiting their turn. Instead of bushy-browed squires and red-cheeked matrons, he caught a glimpse of dark gray eyes, and as they gazed at one another, the grumbling, murmuring, the whiff of unwashed bodies and sour breath and the soldiers’ rebukes faded.

  The crowd ebbed and surged and as a farmer adjusted his hat and flung a threadbare scarf around his neck, Nate lost sight of the tall stranger despite the gentleman being the tallest person in the room. His lordship stood on tiptoes with every hair on his body standing at attention. His heart sped up and he wiped his damp hands on his trousers—his only pair.

  Nate’s brother snuck up beside him bobbing his head and moaning. “Is that Longmead? What is wrong with the man? Taken to the drink, I suppose. He always was an odd fellow.”

  Gray eyes. Longmead. His father and mine were acquaintances and yet we have never been introduced.

  Nate took a step toward the duke as though an invisible thread tugged at his chest and yanked him into the center of the room. Nausea gnawed at his belly and he lurched forward as if in a stupor. But as he flung out his hands, a pair of soldiers dragged Longmead into the throne room, and tears pricked at Nate’s eyes. His brother had glared and hissed at him for making a fool of himself, so he had swept through the horde and dashed into the courtyard, gulping lungfuls of fresh air.

  A dog barking in the distance brought Nate back to the dressing room at the manor house. The nervous chatter around him ceased as a servant rang a bell and the tinkling sent a frisson of excitement spilling into the room. The omegas assembled near the huge double doors as Mr. Harvey held up his hand for silence, but Nate wrapped his arms around his waist and hovered at the rear while the man gave a short speech on decorum.

  Mr. Harvey’s droning formed a backdrop to Nate’s anxiety, and he adjusted his cuffs and rubbed the back of his neck. He is here. Gray eyes. Longmead. The duke. Damn him. Why did he choose this night? His lordship nibbled on a nail as he put his weight on one foot and then the other. I shall hang back and wait until he has chosen another omega for the evening. He will not see me here. Nate groaned and slapped his thigh in frustration. Do not be so stupid. Of course, he will bloody well know you are here. He does already.

  Not for the first time, his lordship considered his ancestors’ lives when they roamed the forests and tore through the woods with teeth bared as they stalked their prey. Was it a simpler time where they ate, slept and mated? But he had heard tales of the packs’ hierarchy and how a renegade who disobeyed their laws became an outcast. Perchance their lives were as complicated as mine.

  Mr. Harvey popped up in front of him, and Nate jerked backward. The proprietor scanned his face and Lord Elgin squirmed under the man’s probing glance.

  “Your color is high, Elgin.”

  Nate pinched his cheeks. “I wish to look my best and do you proud, Mr. Harvey.” His voice was little more than a squeak but as the proprietor’s eyes narrowed, a servant appeared at his elbow with an urgent request for more rum. After one last penetrating glance at his lordship, the man stalked off.

  As the servants parted the heavy wooden doors, the omegas entered the drawing room. Some were hesitant and paced shyly over the carpet while others held their heads high and strutted into the other room. The alphas, most of whom were a head taller than the newcomers, eyed them over the rims of their brandy glasses and stared through a haze of peppery, cloying cigar smoke.

  Frederick

  As the duke and Vulcan inched closer to the manor, he ignored what lay within its walls and seethed at his reception in the king’s throne room the previous month.

  Frederick had knelt and bowed before the king who was flanked by Princess Matilda and Sir James Clifton, his chancellor. Edmund mumbled condolences and a greeting while Sir James and the princess whispered to one another behind the throne. Clenching his jaw and gripping the hilt of his ceremonial sword, Frederick ignored the pair’s babbling and gossiping until Sir James whispered the word ‘pack’.

  The duke froze, but as the king had not given permission to rise, he could not see the chancellor’s expression. He stared at the ancient wooden floor worn smooth over the centuries by courtiers’ feet and wondered if his father had encountered the same hostility when he attended court.

  But the whispering grew louder and became a violent hissing as the chancellor stepped from the platform and stood in front of Frederick. His black leather boots, with shiny buckles embellished with gemstones, signified n
ot only his status, but also his vanity.

  As his heart hammered, the duke imagined the poor boy who had polished his master’s shoes that morning rubbing the leather until it sparkled. Sir James circled him and knocked an ivory cane on the floor. The incessant tapping combined with a sickly-sweet fragrance that wafted around him threatened to overpower Frederick, and he feared he would topple onto the floor.

  Apart from the king’s wheezing and a light patter of rain when it hit the cobblestones outside, the room was silent as the chancellor taunted Frederick with his stealthy footfalls and the constant striking of ivory on wood. The duke’s skin prickled and sweat coated his palms.

  “Where is your pack, Longmead? In the den with the pups?” The chancellor tittered at his crude joke and flicked Frederick’s jacket with his cane.

  “Sir James. The duke is recently bereaved. Show some respect.” The king’s voice was brittle and hesitant but his sister contradicted him.

  “Oh, Edmund, do be quiet. Let the chancellor have his say.” The princess’ simpering voice grated on Frederick but he kept his head down.

  “Their pack should return to the forest as their ancestors did instead of playing at gentlemen with their fine houses and cellars of brandy. I could arrange a hunting party and blast a hole in each one with my musket. And as in days past, I would gut and hang your carcass over the palace gate as a warning to your kind.” The chancellor slid the cane under Frederick’s chin and lifted it so the duke stared into his dark eyes.

  “Your kind!” Spittle dribbled from Sir James’ lips and sprayed the floor and Frederick’s face. The nobleman did not grimace or blink as the man’s hatred burned in his eyes. Without glancing at his hand, the duke sensed his knuckles were white as he clutched his sword but he fixed his glance on the chancellor’s bony fingers, spotted with age, clasped around his cane’s intricately carved handle. Is he hoping I will challenge him?

  His kind, as Sir James referred to them, were the alphas and omegas who had walked on four legs centuries before. But they had come out of the forests and were no longer part-beast part-human. For years they kept to themselves, building walls around their towns and villages. Each change of monarch brought fear of persecution but as the years passed, they flourished, though always glancing over their shoulders.

  Many became merchants and accumulated great wealth. They bought land, farmed it, and built huge houses. But with prosperity came responsibility—and jealousy. Villages were burned and farmers stabbed as militia or former soldiers resorted to violence.

  King Edmund tolerated the alphas and omegas who lived amongst them. He had spent his childhood with a tutor near the Longmead estate and was a frequent visitor to Frederick’s home. After his lessons finished, the pair staged mock battles with wooden swords and enjoyed carefree hours swiping and poking at one another with their homemade weapons.

  Edmund was eight before he discovered Frederick and his family were not like him when Frederick’s uncle bore a child. After that, the boy’s visits were less frequent and soon after, the young prince was summoned back to court. He married a princess and subsequently inherited the throne, but with no living heir, the alphas and omegas grew fearful of a possible Queen Matilda. Old tales surfaced and circulated in Frederick’s community of having their lands seized and being driven back to the forests.

  But as the duke’s eyes darted from the man taunting him to the king, blood drained from the monarch’s face and his bottom lip trembled. Instead of a weak king plagued by ill health, forced to rule a fractious divided kingdom and disrespected by his courtiers and advisers, he saw the young prince he had whiled away hours with as a child.

  “Freddie, you are lost in thought.”

  Frederick’s eyes softened at the use of his childhood nickname. “Your Majesty?” The duke glanced around the throne room as an unseen hand closed the door, and his mouth gaped as he and the king were now the room’s only occupants.

  “You must not be so willful. I cannot protect you if my sister, Sir James and their supporters make a move against you.”

  “He hates us, badger.”

  The duke, like the king, fell back into old habits and used a childhood endearment. He glanced at a small flask of honey at Edmund’s side and the trail of sticky liquid over his majesty’s breeches and fingertips. As a child, Edmund had had a passion for honey and insisted there always be a jar within reach. Frederick had teased him and affectionately dubbed him badger.

  “That much is obvious. He witnessed much horror as a child and believes the alphas and omegas were responsible.”

  “How so?”

  “His father was killed by a pack of wolves while hunting near Longmead Hall. He has neither forgotten nor forgiven your community.”

  “It is an excuse to get rid of us. We have not lived in the forests for over 200 years.”

  “He is aware of that, but he twists the facts and spreads his hatred to ignorant fools who follow rather than question.”

  “And uses his wealth to bend their will.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “And your sister?

  “Princess Matilda is rather fond of my chancellor and I fear he has poisoned her thoughts.”

  “He shares her bed?”

  “I have no wish to know the tawdry details.”

  “And you cannot get rid of him?”

  “Do not be a fool, Freddie. You know as well as anyone how kinship and the bonds of family are woven around us. They never let go and the more you wiggle, the tighter they become.”

  “Like a serpent.”

  “Enough!”

  The king glanced nervously at the door. “Choose your words carefully.”

  As the duke made to leave, the king beckoned him closer. His honey-scented breath whispered in Frederick’s ear. “If something should happen to me, please return the queen to her family.”

  Frederick recoiled at the desperation in Edmund’s voice. “What are you saying, badger?”

  The king gripped the duke’s wrist and pleaded. “Promise me, Freddie.” His voice wavered and tears pricked his eyes as his plump sticky fingers wrapped themselves around his friend’s arm.

  Fear clutched at Frederick’s insides at Edmund’s entreaty and both men’s eyes flicked to the door as footfalls pattered on the floor outside.

  “Of course.”

  The king took a deep wheezy breath and his voice was lighter. “And have you found a… mate, Freddie?”

  “You know my thoughts on that subject. Life is too precarious to consider any lifelong bond.”

  “But you may not have a choice.”

  Choice is an illusion. The poor have no choice and the rich are governed by duty.

  “Who else is being presented today, badger?”

  The king waved his hand dismissively. “I do not recall other than the ghastly Marquis of Sibley. And my sister tells me his miserable brother has tagged along. Without a summons. Ungrateful sod.”

  “Elgin?”

  “That is the one. What does his family call him?”

  Frederick ignored the king as he tore through memories trying to picture the younger Lord Elgin.

  The king clapped his hands. “I remember. Rogue.”

  “Your Grace?”

  A biting early spring breeze nipped at the duke’s cheeks and brought him back to Hammond Manor as a footman repeated his name and struggled to get his attention.

  Frederick

  A pair of hands grabbed Vulcan’s reins while Frederick strode inside the manor house. Mr. Harvey greeted him and after exchanging brief pleasantries, the proprietor led him to the drawing room crowded with alphas. The servants offered brandy and port to the gentleman and lit cigars as the noblemen milled around the opulent drawing room.

  Frederick gulped his brandy and after draining the glass, he took another and then a third as the now-familiar tempting odor swept over him. It wafted between the other alphas’ cologne and the cigar smoke. Though the scent was invisible, unlike the smoke, it
curled between the dark-clad figures and wrapped its misty tendrils around him.

  It clutched at his chest and long talons of desire became entangled in his groin. His cock was swelling inside his trousers and stretching the woolen fabric to breaking point, and he rubbed his thumb over it to ease the discomfort, praying the buttons would not pop. As he had not yet dined, the brandy—combined with his arousal—had his head reeling. He blinked, trying to focus on the room and ran his finger around his damp collar where it stuck to his neck.

  The duke grappled with his decision to enter the manor and batted a two-way conversation back and forth in his head.

  I should not have come.

  But you needed to fuck someone. Anyone.

  It was wrong of me to stay once I knew he was here. I should have gone into town.

  But that fragrance. You are powerless.

  I have always prided myself on my strength.

  Stop. You cannot withstand this.

  I must.

  It is stronger than you.

  The urge.

  Lust, Frederick. Call it what it is. It will overwhelm you. You will give in.

  The duke’s knees sagged, but he pretended to admire a painting as he adjusted his cock, now bulging and throbbing behind layers of fabric. A voice at his elbow had him glance sideways.

  “Longmead.”

  “Bolton.”

  “How is the king?”

  “Much the same.”

  “No sign of an heir?”

  “That troubles him, but there is still time. The queen is young.”

  “And his health?”

  Stop with the incessant questions. I can hardly hold myself upright with the overpowering fragrance wafting from the other room. “He is well enough.”

  The man nodded and moved on. Frederick rested his brow on the glass as he sucked air in through his teeth. No one wished to say openly how they feared the king would die childless, and the odious Princess Matilda would succeed him, but for once, the duke’s concerns were not with the precarious state of the monarchy.