Willing by Michaela Wright Page A

and holding her breath, reached between Alisdair’s legs to feel him through his robe. He was as hard as the altar beneath her.
    He shuddered just as she did, stifling an almost whimper as he pulled from her reach. She screamed, quivering against the hungry mouths that attended to her, then gasped, panting over and over as the wave crested and finally subsided.  Each of the robed men relinquished their hold on her, the last turning her on the altar, laying her lengthwise again beneath Alisdair. He returned to her side, his face flushed now, the goblet in his hands. He didn’t look at her this time as he slid his fingers between her legs, then into his mouth. Then as the circle went silent, he drained the contents of the cup. He stood silent a moment, then laid his hands on the altar.
    Constance gasped. Though it was subtle, almost indecipherable, the altar beneath her began to hum. She sat up halfway, pressing her hands to the stone. It was growing warm, then hot. She slid across the stone toward Alisdair, ready to leap from atop it. He did not move. She met his gaze, the stone warming her skin beneath her.
    He smiled. “Don’t be afraid, love. You are safe.”
      The words were meant for only her to hear. She swallowed and he lifted his hands from the stone. The humming ceased.
    Alisdair turned for the footmen, let the first take the goblet from him, then ordered the second to take his robe. He was wearing black trousers and a white button down shirt beneath, the sleeves rolled up enough to show the chiseled shape of his forearms. He turned from the altar, looking foreign as he approached the robed figures behind him.
    “Roman?”
    One of the men perked up to the sound of his name just in time to take Alisdair’s right hook directly to the jaw. He dropped like an overripe apple. None of the other figures moved to his aide as the footmen offered their arms to Constance, helping her down from her perch.
    “You ever behave in such a manner again, I will exile you from the circle. Am I understood?”
    He didn’t speak, but simply rubbed his sore jaw, nodding. Constance watched Alisdair washing his hands in a nearby basin, his black suspenders causing the fabric of his shirt to puff out at his waist. He looked like a regular man, as though he could be a clerk or a doctor, not this high born Lord she knew him to be. The footmen wrapped the robe around her, and tied it snugly at her waist. She didn’t take her eyes off him.
    “Did it work, Ali?”
    This was a woman’s voice, chiming in from the figures in the circle. He turned to face the masked crowd and grinned. Then he gestured to the footmen and they quickly led Constance out of the ballroom. She could hear their muffled voices as she was led back to the dressing room.
     
    Roger greeted her from the carriage with a scowl. “Jaysus, anover one? Ow many dresses a girl need, den?”
    Constance climbed into the carriage wearing a new red satin dress with full skirt, her silver one now tucked into a leather travel case that the blond footman tucked into the carriage beside her. She settled next to Roger, feeling strangely giddy, and stopped the door before the footman could shut it.
    “What is your name, may I ask?”
    The light haired footman looked startled. “Uh, it’s George, miss.”
    She leaned out to look at the second footman. “And yours?”
    He turned his eyes to the gravel beneath his feet. “Thomas, miss.”
    “George and Thomas. Thank you for taking such good care of me.”
    They both bowed, bending their knees in an almost curtsy. “Madam.”
    Then they shut the door, banging a fist on the carriage wall to signal the driver.
    “Goh, miss high and mighty, ae?”
    Roger was in rare form. He’d been sitting there for well over five hours, waiting for her. Clearly he’d recovered from his hangover, but not his usual disposition. It does take a certain kind of fellow to work in a brothel day in and day out. Constance turned to Roger and offered him a