Rose: The Blooming Collection

By Louisa Trent

His early years in Ireland spent in shackles as a brothel slave, forced to perform carnal acts on demand, Amaurus the Moor now craves the delights of dark carnality. His unwillingness to inflict his unnatural desires on a woman he loves condemns him to the solitary life of a nomadic mercenary. No home. No wife. No children.

 

Then he's seduced by a fair maiden whose illicit passions match his own.

 

Disenchanted with her many spell-casting screw-ups, the Council of Immortals strips Treasa of her magical powers and erases her memory. However, the gods and goddesses are not without mercy. In their infinite wisdom, they give the shallow and vain witch a second chance, a quest to redeem herself. To accomplish the feat, the virgin Treasa must employ her vast store of womanly wiles on Amaurus the Moor...

 

...while she is disguised as a lad, hampered by amnesia, and without knowing her simple quest was a complicated ruse all along.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trent Publishing
• Release date: Feb 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507031810

Louisa Trent

Louisa Trent has been published in ebook format since 2001. Her erotic romances have been with Ellora's Cave, Liquid Silver, Loose Id and Samhain. Refusing to be "branded" ( Louisa has a rebellious streak ) she writes across the genres -- contemporary, historical, paranormal, multi-cultural, and sci-fi. Basically, she writes whatever piques her interest, and she is a writer of many passionate interests. Readers can reach Louisa through her website: www.louisatrent.com .

Book preview

Chapter One

Ireland, the year 845…

Amaurus the Moor tightened his grip on the reins. Hold, Zuberi. Pull up, I say.

At his command, the galloping Arabian stallion slid to an obedient halt. Initially a volley of loosened rock and dirt obscured Amaurus’s view of his immediate surroundings. Only when the gritty cloud settled did he spy the spiny creature crossing the riding path directly in front of him. One more step taken and his steed would have trampled the hedgehog to death. Hardly a catastrophe. After all, ‘twas only a beastie and an ugly-tempered one at that, with a prickly nature and spiked barbs that kept enemies at bay…

Hmm. A fine defense strategy, Amaurus mused leaning forward in his warrior's high cantled saddle to sooth his startled mount with a pat. Strike a hedgehog, Zuberi, and risk calling forth a vexed witch. Or so say local superstitions. Though no believer in sorcery am I, caution does have its place in the grand scheme of things.

Amaurus allowed his gauntlet-covered hand to linger on his stallion’s sleek roan coat whilst he watched the uninjured hedgehog wiggle out of harm’s way. Wholly amused by the beastie’s antics – the creature scampered beneath a hedgerow, its round bottom bouncing – he laughed out loud. Once the animal had disappeared from sight, he eased up on his charger's bridle.

Immediately Zuberi snapped to attention, eager to follow his rider's next directive. With a goodly distance to travel before reaching his destination and scores of sea pirates to slay upon his arrival, Amaurus knew he should leave.

And yet…and yet…something prevented him from kneeing his warhorse onward. Rather than do as sound sense bade him, he tarried atop the ordinary hillock overlooking an inconsequential hamlet. Casting his gaze over the herd of woolly sheep grazing on the rocky slope, he harkened to the sounds of music floating upward from the festival below.

Witless Irish tribe! Amaurus shook his head until his helm's metal shield clunked the crooked bridge of his nose. "Look at those fools down there, Zuberi, singing and dancing in celebration of Lughnasadh. Whilst Vikings attack their shores, peasants and nobility alike make merry."

Zuberi whinnied in disgust, and Amaurus rolled his eyes for the same reason. Paying homage to their Celtic solar god, Lugh. Bah! More like an excuse for the pious to turn heathen on the first full moon of each new season.

All manner of excess and gluttony went on at these festivals. And the games. Allah be praised! The Irish did so love their games. Equestrian races, naturally, but they also played carnal games that brought a rosy blush to even his dark-skinned cheeks.

He clucked his tongue. Why did these people practice such perplexing customs? Their stubborn adherence to pagan and druid rituals alongside Christian rites created naught but chaos in the land.

And too many damnable rulers to count. High and low chieftains. An assortment of kings. A vast hierarchy of clerics…

Enough witches, goblins, demons, and elves to sink this small country to the bottom of the ocean.

The amount of faeries alone gave him the megrims. Then there were the changelings, banshees, leprechauns, shape-shifting púcas, and so on and so forth. How could anyone keep track of them all?

To complicate matters further, each ruling body kept its own council. The sheer quantity of hot air expelled in Ireland made his head spin. Little wonder maintaining order here was a Herculean feat.

In the name of peace and harmony…and his pounding head…he proposed that the populace adhere to one way of life or the other. Civilized or barbaric. Christian or pagan. Scholarly or ignorant. Optimistic or melancholy.

As to the concept of loyalty – in defiance of all logic and explanation, clan allegiance hinged on how the winds blew. And on this stormy isle, sea breezes shifted daily. Consequently he never knew which side would next lease his lance or at whom to shoot his arrows. Enemies one day became fast allies the next.

In such a warring clime as this, he prospered either way.

A yen for adventure had brought him across the waters to Ireland as an orphan lad, but a full coin pouch kept him here as a grown man. How else to explain why a displaced Ethiopian such as himself, who practiced no religion, followed the dictates of no leader, and longed to feel the sun's warmth on his face, would live in a land of gloom and doom among such quarrelsome and complicated people?

‘Twas most definitely the money. There was no other reason for him to stay. And that was why he should not tarry here on the hillock. For the sake of replenishing his coin pouch, he should continue his journey to the monastery of Clonmacnoise.

So many Vikings to slaughter, so many silver pieces to make.

And yet…and yet…something compelled him to dismount, tie his trusty steed to the stout trunk of a hawthorn bush, and race down the hill toward the Lughnasadh celebration, where Irish peasants and nobility alike made merry.

Not even a well-paid mercenary like himself could live by bloodletting alone. ‘Twas past time for him to make merry too.

Chapter Two

Treasa thumbed her only slightly pointed chin.

So Amaurus talked to his steed, did he? And not just a random word here or there.

She snorted. "Everybody does that."

The big bad Moor droned on and on. Blather, blather, blather. Bor-ing.

Amaurus was lonely. Big snouting deal. As it so happened, she had just the cure. All he needed was someone to talk to, someone who would listen to his cares and woes, a sympathetic ear.

Her!

Save for the sympathetic part – because, really, she had problems aplenty of her own without taking on his – and the listening part – because, really, who gave a snout. Other than that, she would make him an excellent companion. And, she was a barleycorn prettier than the horsey-faced Zuberi.

Zuberi. Hell of a foreign-sounding name for a good Irish steed. And the way the Moor pronounced it too, all warm and affectionate, put her nose out of joint. What a waste of tenderness.

Verily Amaurus the Moor needed a woman, not a horse. And what a coincidence, she was available. He was snouting lucky to get her. Now to wend her way down the hill to the Lughnasadh celebration before some other curvy wench cut in on her action…

Ouch. She rubbed her nape. A pox on it! What pricks me?

Her plait covered the offending spot. Bristling, she dropped her jaw to her chest, tossed the long braid to one side, and gingerly fingered the sore area.

Ugh! A telltale spine pierced her sensitive skin.

Gritting her teeth, she yanked the barb free lest the all-knowing Council of Immortals saw the pointy hedgehog quill protruding from her silky flesh and jump to the right conclusion, which was…

Wolf’s paw, she had bungled another spell.

Her shape-shifting had not gone smoothly. Not smoothly at all. The spine sticking out of her nape testified to an incomplete transformation. Under the circumstance, there was only one honorable thing to do – own up to her error.

She coughed. Like that was happening.

After digging a hole in the dirt, she buried the proof of her boo-boo from prying eyes.

Sure, she made mistakes. The trick was not getting caught in the act and covering them up afterwards. Why arm certain people with more so-called facts to use against her? Despite how it looked, despite what certain people decreed, she was not a hopeless failure as a witch.

None of this is my snouting fault. Pursing her lips, Treasa blew out an irritated breath.

At her gusty exhale, the tall blades of grass surrounding her rattled their seed pods, as if in disapproval.

Bugger off, she bellowed, before I spell cast a scathe-wielding reaper to mow you all down.

Dumb grass. What did it know?

No one understood her. That was the whole snouting problem. What the Council of Immortals termed obnoxious, bratty misbehavior she called taking creative liberties with established protocols. There were extenuating circumstances behind all her botched magic. But had anyone bothered to ask her to explain?

Naaaaaay.

Take now, for instance. Was it her fault Amaurus the Moor went bounding down the hill? Was it her fault he had given her insufficient time to change from hedgehog to human?

Naaaaaay. A thousand times nay.

Short of a tree branch falling on his thick skull naught would have slowed the warrior's long stride.

Yazooks! A tree branch? Falling on his skull?

A grand delaying tactic. Organic to the situation and with just a touch of whimsy – her witch signature. Whilst still in her hedgehog state, she could have climbed a tree, jumped up and down on a loose limb, and sent the wood bouncing off the mercenary's pate.

Of course, for that scenario to have worked, the Moor would have had to remove his helm. Easily accomplished. An irritating itch – a conjured louse, mayhap – would have done the trick there. Once Amaurus was bareheaded, she could have lowered the boom.

Treasa looked to the stars, whence all the gods and goddesses doubtlessly frowned down upon her in mystical condemnation. Cease glaring at me like that! A goose egg only. Not large enough to concuss the big bad brute.

She was not an evil witch. Her motto was to do no harm, the same as 'twas for all practitioners of sorcery. 'Twas only that, from time to time, jealousy or spite – or any number of bad humors – interfered with her good intentions and resulted in itsy-bitsy errors in judgment.

Her mouth twisted. All right. All right. Gigantimous errors in judgment. I admit it – I should have found a way to waylay the Moor. But darting out in front of his steed in my hedgehog form was all I could come up with on such short notice.

Would the gods and goddesses buy that excuse?

Naaaaaay. Naaaaaay. A million times nay.

In bad-tempered aggravation, Treasa kicked the dirt at her feet. Why, oh why had she not clobbered the Moor over the head with a tree branch and had done with it when she’d had the chance? Just let him have it. The spell would have been as easy as screeching raven pie to cast. If she had thought of it. Which she had not. Not until right now. When 'twas too late. Afterthought was the bane of her existence. Oh, she had the sight, all right.

Hindsight.

Snout. What she needed right now was a self-pitying pout. On that note, Treasa plucked a tuft of grass – roots, disapproving seed head and all – and ripped the green vegetation to shreds. She felt sooo much better afterwards.

Oh well. There was no undoing her mistake now. Best she move on and shake her tail…

As a witch, she was an utter misfit. But only as a witch. As a female, she had it all going on. Her shapely posterior turned many a male head. And not so their noses faced in the opposite direction either. Any sorceress could do that. What she did was far more awesome. Without resorting to spells, using only a well-placed wiggle, she could make a young swain levitate.

At least, she could make a specific part of a young swain levitate. Hear ye! Hear ye! Cocks a-rising.

When she walked by a group of males, her rear end in motion, she left erect penises in her wake. Now there was a talent beyond compare. How many warty-faced witches could do the same?

Not many, she wagered. Her friends said her tail was her best attribute. Then again, all Immortals, including her, lied through their teeth.

Once more she glanced skyward. "I suppose I could have been a better witch. Now are you satisfied? Is that what you wanted to hear, Immortals?"

A wind blew up and turned every leaf within spitting distance upside down.

All right. All right. I get it. I feel you. Henceforth, I promise to keep my mind on my duties. And if I forget, feel free to remind me.

Prophetic words. After tonight, the Council would have to remind her of literally everything, because after tonight, she would have no memory. No magic either. Until…

Only the gods and goddesses knew when, if ever again.

The Council had placed her on official disciplinary action. One too many spell casting boo-boos had landed her arse deep in a bubbling cauldron of trouble, and there her arse would remain until she performed a quest.

So unfair. Over and over again, she performed feats of mythological proportions. But did she get credit for any of those good works?

Naaaaaay. Naaaaaay. Naaaaaay. A trillion times nay.

'Twas all about what she had done for the Immortals lately. Busy seeing to everyone else's needs, she had let herself go. Her long blond tresses?

A raggedy mess.

Her last appointment at the Mount Olympus Day Spa with Fergus, faery hairdresser extraordinaire, had been positively eons ago. And it looked like her split ends would be waiting again for their long overdue trim.

A small blunder involving Bessie the bovine, a bitch of a buxom milkmaid, and a benevolent bean farmer had proven too much for the Immortals. Somehow, who knew how, the hex Treasa had cast to teach the insulting bitch a lesson had overshot its intended target and hit the cow the buxom maid had been milking at the time.

Oopsie. Udder shrinkage.

Too sad about the cow. The farmer as well. But that buxom bitch had needed someone to take her teats down a jiggle or two, and Treasa was just the witch for the job. The colossal nerve calling her flat of chest! There was a huge difference between being small of chest and flat of chest.

A distinction Dagda, the Druids' father god who protected the Irish tribe, and Morrigan, the mother goddess who protected her people in battle, failed to appreciate.

Pointless to argue her innocence with all the mammary evidence stacked against her. Namely the formerly buxom milkmaid and the farmer's now utterly udderless cow.

Six teats in total, all deflated, because of her.

When the gavel came down, the Council pronounced Treasa guilty of witchcraft abuse and sentenced her to hard labor. In other words – community service. As if she had naught better to do.

But that was that. The Immortals had spoken. No use crying over spilled…er…milk, she had another snouting quest to perform, the pesky details of which the gods and goddesses, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to withhold from her. All she knew was this: she must contact the Moor tonight.

Contact. She knew what that meant.

With a sniff, Treasa wiggled to her feet and tapped her only slightly pointed chin with a finger.

What to wear? What to wear for this contact?

Mayhap a little number with scads of embroidery. In crimson! Had to be red. All males went wild for the hue. Cinched with a girdle a-sparkle with lustrous gems to show off her teeny-tiny waist, the tunic would be worthy of making a grand entrance.

Treasa shut her eyes tight – better to conjure – mumbled the appropriate words, and stuck out her arm in readiness.

She cracked her lids.

Uh-oh. She winced. A homely rag dangled from the ends of her fingertips.

Had she wished for a blah pauper's sack, she would have spelled for a blah pauper's sack. Fabulous, not flatulence was what she had conjured.

She tried again, this time concentrating with all her might.

Focus. Focus.

Naught happened! Her spell went from pop to fizzle.

You jumped the bow and arrow, she whined to the all-knowing, all-seeing Council of Immortals. My powers are supposed to wane mid night.

The witching hour was always midnight. Everyone knew that. Puff! Farewell magic at midnight. And this eve was yet young.

She stamped her foot. Snout. Snoutsnoutsnout. SNOUT!

To calm herself, Treasa slid a hand between her shapely thighs and strenuously rubbed her happy-happy spot.

Ohhh, ayyyye. Lovely.

A gentle touch rarely did it for her. But spank her shapely bare bottom if a harsh stroke did not suit her better than fine. In fact, spank her shapely bare bottom regardless. Climaxes, not methodology, were what counted. Different strokes for different folks and all that. For her, carnal pleasure came with a liberal sprinkling of the owies.

Tossing her head, her plait keeping time to her diddling, Treasa pictured Amaurus the Moor. His ebony coloring. Wide white smile. Large, black, expressive eyes. Strong jaw and handsome, if not quite straight, nose.

Goddess! His body. Hubba. Hubba. Big all over, he dwarfed her. So nice to feel dainty for a change. The male elves and pixies of her acquaintance were lamentably short, with teeny-tiny boy parts.

The Moor's male member was absolutely huge!

Having never actually seen that part of the Ethiopian up close and personal, she was naturally paraphrasing here. But her source was perfectly reliable as the inside dope was delivered to her straight from the horse's mouth.

Oisín, a gossipy púca who shape-shifted into a golden-eyed stallion, had told her so. If it took a handsome stud to know a handsome stud, then the Moor was not only good-looking but well hung.

And there was more to the Moor than his moreness. She had a thing for a man’s hands. Almost a fetish. Their size. Their shape. Their callused roughness. The way those hands were used.

She shivered. Oh, my. The Moor held the reins in his massive hands in a way that stirred her, disquieted her, had her longing for him to guide her with the same disciplined strength he employed on his steed.

Forget the horse, Moor. Mount me.

And though she made fun of his talking aloud, the authoritative quiet of his voice tickled her fancy. Tickled her other places too. His raspy yet calm timbre had rippled through her when she was in hedgehog form, sent her quills to vibrating.

She vibrated still as she stroked herself. Ripples still raced through her.

Tensing her belly, clenching her thighs, she lost sight of everything. Save Amaurus.

Ah, ahh, ahhh. The naughty delights that awaited her. With him. Only with him.

Her new quest portended to make her happy-happy spot very happy-happy indeed. Just speculating about him…his caresses, his softly spoken demands during coupling, the determined way he would