Tainted Love: Tainted Love, #1

By Louisa Trent

The year 1887, Bar Harbor, Maine.

 

This is a dark and brooding gothic mystery featuring a terrified heroine, a morally ambiguous hero, an isolated setting, an eerie house, and layers of old family secrets.

 

Lily Hill's sexual odyessy begins when she returns home to untangle the lies and distortions of her past, a past involving a lurid sex scandal, a suspicious death, and the very angry man she once loved and wronged, Doyle Donovan. Despite annonymous threats warning her to stay away, Lily is resolved to make reparations to Doyle ...

 

in every manner he desires.

 

And Doyle is a man of many shocking desires.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trent Publications
• Release date: Apr 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533725356

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

The year 1889, Bar Harbor, Maine…

These various symptoms you describe – in my professional opinion, they exist only in your own mind.

Damn and blast her esteemed Boston physician anyway, Lily Hill raged to herself in memory. Did a caustic stench steal his breath away? Had he removed a bloodied corpse from a barrier reef, where the battered body lay impaled like a wiggling fish on a hook? How dare that supercilious doctor gravely denounce the state of her mind without knowing what frightful recollections played out in her head?

For all she cared, he could stick his useless diagnosis up his esteemed arse. His professional opinion mattered not one whit to her.

To prove her complete lack of concern, she skipped town the day following her delusional diagnosis. All things considered, a fortuitous escape.

Or so she had thought at the time.

Her confidence had slipped a bit since. Now that her stagecoach skirted the rocky Maine coastline, returning her to the place where she had first taken leave of her senses, doubts assailed her. Would her homecoming result in a cure or a further descent into madness?

In her unqualified opinion, the patient’s prognosis looked grim. Not that she foamed at the mouth or talked aloud to herself…

Well, not yet anyway.

Lily covered her mouth with a gloved hand. Had her fellow passengers overheard her outburst, had they started to stare?

The man in the corner. The fidgeting one scratching his snout. He had definitely gazed in her direction. Under the guise of pulling an ear and other assorted twitches, several more wayfarers also cast her suspicious glances.

Unless – was she imagining those furtive looks? Were those shifty gazes symptomatic of her recurring hallucinations?

Lily sat up straighter on the bench. Oh, God. How had she come to this? Could she no longer differentiate what was real from what was false, no longer tell who meant her well from who meant her harm?

Calm. She must stay calm. She would feel more herself, more rational, after disembarking.

The Concord Coach held three rows of benches, all snugly filled, cheek-by-jowl. When the driver reined in his team, swung open the door, and unfolded the stairs – heralding the arrival of her destination – the blessed release from the close confines came not a moment too soon. Still she hesitated, delaying her departure in favor of leaning forward in her cramped seat and peering outside.

A green sweep of century-old pines partially diminished her perspective. A cloak of silvery mist obscured the rest. No matter. Off in the distance the windswept cottage waited, a sad recluse teetering on a stone precipice high above an unforgiving sea. Isolated. Lonely. Cut off from everyone by both nature and design. Though windswept, though battered and bruised, the creaky structure had withstood the test of time and the harshness of Maine weather.

Lord. But she had missed every tarnished shingle, every distorted wave in the eighteenth-century glass windows, every lovely warped imperfection that transformed an aging house into a much beloved home.

Curious, Lily mused, how people – herself included – oft times came to resemble the houses they inhabited. More curious still why some places inspired longing in the breast while other locations provided only fodder for conspicuous forgetfulness. Oh, who knew why shiny-new buildings left no imprint at all on her heart while this broken-down relic of the past remained forever fixed in her soul? The hows and whys of such obsessions were best left to poets –

And to those over-rated Boston physicians who specialized in the treatment of madness.

Irrational or not, the cottage had tangled itself up inside her, as much a part of her being as her own name, as essential to her survival as the very veins coursing under her flesh. That admitted, she entertained no illusions about this trip. Just as surely as ten long years of exile equaled a decade of longing, this homecoming would be far from easy.

Like unaccustomed rains to parched desert sands, tears suddenly moistened her dry eyes. In response, Lily dug an upper tooth into her bottom lip. Hard. Not enough pressure to break the skin, the subsequent bloodletting prompting intrusive questions, but close.

Her anguish clawed for escape. If not for her gloves, she would have scraped the underside of her wrists raw with her fingernails. Self-inflicted pain invariably prevented a breakdown in her composure.

She had to do something, did she not?

Quite bad enough succumbing to bouts of melancholia in private without spreading the dreary doom and gloom about in public too. Apart from that consideration, any untoward show of emotionalism while subject to the scrutiny of others would only call notice to herself, a dangerous circumstance for a woman in her position.

Oh dear. Now she had done it. A low mumble had broken out in the coach as her fellow passengers dispensed with irritated silence to complain amongst themselves over her delay in disembarking.

No question, she really should leave. The lathered horses were growing restive and the much put-upon coachman, impatient to be off, had already deposited her carpetbag on the ground. Like it or not, the time had come to face her past.

Lest she discomfort her companions en route to the door, she murmured a perfunctory Excuse me in advance of plowing through the sea of outstretched limbs before her. Fair warning given, she vacated her corner seat at the rear of the vehicle, stiffened her spine and proceeded to bypass retracted feet, while deliberately stomping on those extended to trip her up.

Really, who could resist?

Perhaps someone saner than she might have refused the allure. Alas, armed with her recent madwoman diagnosis, she trod on every leather boot in her path.

Damn judgmental hypocrites, the lot of them. They deserved their crushed toes.

Enjoy the remainder of your journey, she called gaily over her shoulder, and alighted the coach, exposing not so much as a hint of ankle in her descent. A dismissive wave to the driver, a firm grasp on her retrieved carpetbag and Lily was off, hastening through the cottage’s rusted front gates, her stride purposeful yet decorous…

Until the coach bumped and groaned around the bend in the lane and disappeared down the treacherous hill, taking the disapproving passengers with it. Then, her purposeful stride screeched to a halt.

Safe from prying eyes, she practically inhaled the red petals right off her grandmother’s prize-winning climbing roses. The faint cinnamon fragrance bringing back thorny memories, she chucked her horribly frumpy, but-oh-so-practical, traveling bag in the tall grass. A patch of thistle received her dumped black reticule.

A fine spot for it too!

Next to go was her dull, navy-blue bonnet. This, she launched skyward. When the hideous hat landed, resembling a misshapen tulle toadstool on the overgrown walk, she kicked the flattened monstrosity out of sight, out of mind.

Good riddance to it!

Her dove-gray wrap followed suit. The conservative mantle flew not nearly as high, nor did it land nearly as far, but hers was a valiant effort if she did say so herself.

Inspired – actually, as rash as a case of poison ivy – she shed her tasteful but detested gloves. A toss later, the black kid decorated a nearby trumpet vine.

Heavens. Whatever would the good people of Bar Harbor say if they could see her now? Why, her actions were quite, quite scandalous.

Though not nearly as scandalous as that time she danced naked under the moon. Now there was scandal.

She sighed. It might have happened yesterday, the incident was so clear in her mind: her tangled red hair tickling her sublimely bare bottom; a dark brooding gaze making her flesh burn. She set out to tease the somber owner of those dark brooding eyes and had succeeded admirably.

Laughing, Lily spun in a giddy circle, just as she had back then.

Crushed stones scattered under her eminently serviceable leather boots. A gray dust tornado whipped into a billowing frenzy. The gritty cloud gradually settled, coating the bombazine skirts of her traveling gown.

Too, too terrible. She reaaaalllly should control her unseemly urges. But ever mindful that a nice, long, pointy hatpin waited in the wings to puncture her euphoria and drop her back down to earth with a resounding swoosh, she said to hell with propriety and spun all the faster.

Dizzy as can be, she gazed at her grandmother’s perennial garden, all her crazed spinning blending the harmonious hues into a discordant jumble. Disliking the muddy color mix, Lily finally stilled. With her equilibrium restored, she identified each plant individually, finding not one sweet, safe pastel in the bunch.

None of those pale flowers for her grandmother. Oh, no. Pastels bleached out in the afternoon sun. Victoria Hill planted vibrant tones. Juicy colors. Sensual colors that brought a blush to the observer’s cheeks. A sensory orgy sprawled before her like a bed of languid lovers –

Juicy. Sensual. A sensory orgy. Sprawled languid lovers.

Hisssss!

The pointed hatpin did its work. Not a clean merciful pop, but a slow, flattening leak.

A hot air balloon losing its hydrogen – best not strike a tinderbox nearby – her homecoming giddiness deflated. Much sobered, Lily concentrated on the scene before her.

The kitchen garden was unchanged; the pungent scent of aromatic plants still filled the warm air. Her industrious grandmother had already harvested some herbs; these hung upside down from the porch rafters to dry. The neat bunches, tied with brown-corded string, swung back and forth in the ocean breeze.

Biting her lip against the tears sneaking up on her again, Lily recalled all those long ago summer days spent churning up and planting this sun-kissed earth, loam so rich and fertile anything would grow in it.

On the left, a clump of wooly thyme dominated an entire corner of the garden. Given free rein, the invasive creeper would take over everything in its path, even spilling out over the walkway to grow between the driest and most inhospitable cracks in the porous stones.

Once upon a time, she had been wild too.

No more. Experience had trained her well, pruned her hard. Now her behavior was as tame and mannerly as the great drifts of lavender that softened the cottage’s fieldstone foundation. And like those showy plants, she had become self-contained and self-consciously ornamental, essentially attractive and entirely superficial – a damn fashion accessory draped on the arm of a certain wealthy and prominent Boston banker.

Charles. She would not think of her fiancé now.

Instead she glided to her knees. Dislodging long-rooted dandelions, digging out stubborn crab grass, while leaving behind fledgling seedlings – volunteers, her grandmother called them – to grow on without competition, she lost herself to the mindless occupation. Faster and faster, plucking and yanking, she discarded the garden tyrants, the weeds forming a wilted pile in no time at all.

Digging in the dirt was far more therapeutic than swallowing the laudanum her esteemed Boston doctor had prescribed to aid her troubled sleep and calm her frazzled nerves. If only sunshine and warm earth came in medicinal form…

A snap of a twig. The crunch of footsteps. The steady drone of bees and birds gone suddenly quiet.

Wait! Over there – did someone watch her from behind the dense cover of trees?

Her nape prickling, she drew her soiled and fluttering fingertips up her thighs. From the force of recently acquired habit, she clasped her white-knuckled hands in her lap – to mask any remaining unsteadiness – while she awaited the appearance of another aberration. Or apparition. Or figment of her imagination. Of late, they had all become too frequent visitors.

Is anyone there? she called on the outside chance that perhaps, just perhaps, this time her tormentor was flesh and blood.

Did I frighten you? asked a disembodied voice.

Not only was that warm baritone real, its owner was instantly recognizable as he stepped out from behind his green cover.

His presence did nothing to reassure her. Quite the opposite. She trembled at the sight of him.

She said what sprang to mind. Yes! You did frighten me!

Unfortunately, with spontaneity came honesty – not the best method of dealing with Doyle Donovan. The truth would give this man too much power over her. Too much control.

The truth might very well get her killed.

Chapter Two

Dressed in a countrified linen shirt and rough wool trousers, Doyle resembled a common laborer. An Irish ditch-digger, perhaps, lucky to have a day’s pay lining his patched pockets. But outward appearances were wont to deceive. Yale educated, Doyle had once worked as an architect for a prestigious New York City partnership.

Credentials made him no less the renegade. Not in thought. Certainly not in behavior.

Never one to observe the social conventions of dress or practice the affectation of toilette, Doyle had always eschewed both haberdashers and barbers. Rebelliously bareheaded, he had habitually worn his dark hair at least two inches too long for whatever the current whim of fashion.

Some things never change.

Today, Doyle’s hatless head revealed a haircut months overdue. And, as always, she found his lack of conceit far too appealing.

She murmured a desultory, You startled me.

Then I must apologize, Lily.

Despite the intervening years, Doyle used the shortened rendition of her first name, his treatment of those two small syllables utterly, shockingly, masculine. His voice still attracted her. As did his ruggedly careless good looks.

To mask Doyle’s impact on her, Lily examined the surrounding plants at root level. Under the guise of restoring a few stray wisps of hair to their rightful place within her severe chignon, she kept her lids lowered.

Until Doyle spoke again.

Get up, Lily, he demanded rather than asked.

At his damnable arrogance, she lifted her jaw and sent her pointed chin jutting. Unable to meet his dark eyes, though, she raised her sights only so far.

Directing her reply to his extended hand, she answered a question he had never posed. No thank you.

Intend to suck me off, then?

Lily gasped, horrified. Not at his words. Oh no. At the pleasant image his coarse phrase conjured in her thoughts. For there was nothing she wanted more than to feel the hard thrust of his cock in her mouth again.

Hanging onto prudence for dear life, she said nothing. Far safer that way.

Sorry. That remark was uncalled for, he offered, filling in the silence with yet another uncharacteristic apology. Your positioning on your knees before my boots brought the thought to my lips. A lack of gentlemanly restraint let it go.

So like Doyle to offer a straightforward acknowledgment of his shortcomings. And so like herself to hide her own waywardness.

Some things never change.

He wiggled his thick fingers toward his corded wrist. Allow me to assist you.

Alas, sir, I must decline your kind offer, she grated out, if not exactly graciously, not exactly boorishly either. I have no wish to sully you. Palms up, she offered her shaking evidence. See? Quite filthy.

His own outstretched palm never wavered. Soap will fix the problem in short order.

Of course he trifled with her. They both knew the dirt on her hands was not the washable kind.

She tottered unaided to her feet. All the same, I can manage very well on my own, Mr. Donovan.

"Mister Donovan, is it? After all that has gone before, do you actually propose we return to the preposterousness of calling one another by our surnames?"

Under the circumstances, a certain formality would serve us both well. Only a fool overvalues decorum. Her tone struck just the right prim note. As well it should. She had practiced the damn scales often enough to sing prissy by rote; unlike Doyle, who had always allowed passion to conduct him all over a musical score.

His voice escalating from pianissimo to fortissimo in just one short breath, he blasted, You never observed social etiquette in the past!

To my lasting detriment, Mr. Donovan.

Very well. If you insist, we shall play out this absurd charade. He bowed. "Miss Hill, your attendance in these gardens took me unawares."

In a renewed flurry of nerves, Lily felt herself blush. In the intervening years since leaving Bar Harbor, she had become somewhat of an expert at controlling her features. However, she had yet to master the hot blushes that gave her innermost thoughts away.

Hoping to mask the flush behind busyness, she wiped her grimy fingers on the finely twilled fabric of her skirts. I was weeding.

Obviously. And that is not at all what I meant.

She opened her mouth to protest his mocking tone. Only to snap it shut again.

What was the use of defending herself? Once again, they both knew she deserved his sarcasm, his derision, his – loathing.

Go ahead, he ordered. Say it.

At his goading, she recovered, and tongue-tied turned spiteful. "Nothing was ever obvious to you, Mr. Donovan!"

Doyle’s dark eyes turned to onyx.

Some things never change.

His pupils had always glinted like black jewels when he edged toward anger.

A man’s variable eye color was difficult to forget no matter how hard she tried. While a wronged man’s rage was best left alone. And long buried recriminations should, for safety’s sake, remain interred. Obviously, she had never learned any of those lessons.

Much to his credit, he banked his fury.

I should have expected your arrival, Lily. For the past month, Mrs. Hill has talked of little else but your visit.

A visit her grandmother was supposed to have kept secret. Especially from Doyle. Why was he here?

Caught between a rock and a hard place, she made a feeble attempt at olive branch waving. Far better for us to have run into each other in private.

Why?

Leave it to Doyle to ignore the weak peace offering. Leave it to him to force her to say the words. W-w-why? she stammered. Well – I suppose – what I mean is – now that we are reacquainted, we can act civilly to one another should we happen to meet again by chance in public.

Something flickered behind his dark eyes and he gave a harsh bark of laughter. "Act is right! It would take a fucking command performance to pull off that result. Do you really think we can behave civilly toward one other after all that has transpired?"

A crisp retort moved to the outermost tip of her tongue. She willed the sharp words to dissipate. That is entirely up to you, sir. Coolly, pleasantly, her outward poise belying her inner turmoil, she smiled.

As did he, an unconventional man’s crooked smile.

Or, was that rather, a crooked man’s unconventional smile?

Whatever came closer to the truth, Doyle’s smile still hung lopsided on his firm lips, a picture frame defying adjustment. His features, when analyzed separately, should not have been handsome. But handsome they were, nevertheless. His face added up to so much more than the sum of its parts; his motivations ran so much deeper than what appeared on the surface. How many times as a girl had she asked herself why an asymmetrical face like his should give the impression of perfect balance? How many times in the present had she asked herself why it was so difficult to dismiss a man who had so easily dismissed her? Where was the balance there?

Or, the justice?

He spoke low, You are just as beautiful as ever.

Her hard-won composure slipped then, and she frowned, but could not quite manage to look away. Horrified, she continued to regard him in a kind of macabre fascination. Please. Do not.

No cause for concern. I can admire your beauty as I would a work of art, distant and removed from it. Unlike the rest of your male admirers, I am immune to your charms.

How nice for you, she snipped with a show of her old girlhood defiance.

While turning to leave – to escape, actually – she accidentally brushed his arm with her left hand. Only the briefest of contacts to be sure and yet the touch left her far from unscathed.

She quaked all over again. And this time her shaking had nothing to do with frazzled nerves.

Doyle had always made her tremble. At eighteen, she had been aware of him as a woman is aware of a man; the slow burn of carnal heat was all they ever really had in common.

After that, her defiance died a quick death. No longer could she pretend to fearlessness, for she was afraid. Very afraid.

Of him.

Of herself too, and to a greater degree.

If you will excuse me? she asked.

Do I look like I am fucking standing in your way?

Despite his words to the contrary, Doyle most definitely did stand in her way. Deliberately? Tauntingly? Did his stance threaten her in some undefined manner? Or, did he block her escape route simply because he had no place else to go?

The garden path narrowed at the cottage entrance, and Doyle was a large man. Clearly, he had no plans to budge, and stubbornly, she refused to ask him to step aside. He was an immovable wall around which she would need to tread.

Warily.

Could she do it?

Locking her lips together in an obstinate line, she cold-shouldered her way past. Pardon me?

I wish I could. Unfortunately, pardoning you requires a nobility of character I lack.

She froze. Nothing quite like a chilly confrontation with the truth for raising goose bumps despite the heat of the day. It happened long ago –

Ten years this summer to be exact.

Here I thought you immune to me, she said sweetly, coyly – disingenuously. And yet – you sound hostile.

Not me, he spat, nothing coy, sweet, or disingenuous about his vocal cords. Want to hear how I really feel?

Not particularly. I never partake of melodrama until late afternoon tea.

Boston was invariably steamy during the summer, and the day she left town had proven no exception. Still, she had not given up even one of her horsehair petticoats. The hired carriage had been as hot as Hades, and though she had longed to undo her gown’s top button, she had done nothing of the kind. But she had discarded her cloak at the garden gate, and now there was no hiding the rapid lift and fall of her breasts.

Already achy, the tips jutted within the confines of her linen chemise well beyond the bounds of good taste. Her corset, laced far too tight for her small bosom, only served to accentuate her unchaste response to the man whose gaze raked her figure. As she attempted to circumnavigate Doyle’s hard body, he had to notice the two conspicuously raised points on her bodice, where her tingling had increased by a few hundred volts of carnal awareness.

And, of course, he hid notice. Doyle eyed her bosom openly, keenly observing her elongated breasts as no gentleman ever would. Then again, by his own admission, Doyle had never professed to be a gentleman.

And she had never behaved as a lady ought to behave when she was with him.

Do your nipples still redden with your excitement? he asked.

She worked on placing one foot before the other. Five more steps and she would reach the cottage’s front door. Surely, she could wait a few more paltry feet – before she fainted.

Go ahead! Fucking escape, he called after her. You were always real good at running away.

Pride kept her from doing just that.

Forcing herself to take a shallow breath, she schooled herself to keep moving. Slowly.

"Miss Hill…"

Yes?

Now that you have returned home best take care.

Regardless of his proper address, regardless of the heat of the day, his warning sent a shiver down her spine.

* * * * *

Is that you, dear?

Yes, Grandmother. Lily closed her eyes tight to prevent the betraying moisture from leaking.

What is taking you so blasted long to get in here?

I caught my heel in the carpet.

Well, get yourself uncaught! Mary baked your favorites – cinnamon rolls. And we are holding tea.

Lovely! Just give me a moment, Lily called gaily, as though she had not a care in the world. Her feelings about returning home, ambivalent or otherwise, hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. For the first time ever, a proud gentleman, a portrait painter she and her grandmother both loved, had requested a special favor of her and she was not about to disappoint him. She had disappointed far too many people in her life.

Not this time. Not this man.

She had come home to enable the failing artist to complete what might possibly be his last work. She had given her word to do so, a promise she was determined to honor...

...if it were the last thing she ever did.

Anthony Camaro loved life. He certainly lived each moment to the fullest, even now when his health had begun to fail. And because the artist would bristle if glum faces and sickbed whispers surrounded him, her grandmother and she had made a secret pact – one of the many secrets they shared – to shield their concern from him. During her visit, there would be no sorrowful expressions, no coddling, no hovering and absolutely no moping. Tony just hated moping. They would go on much as they always had done, keeping their true selves hidden away.

Squaring her shoulders, Lily quit her stalling and pushed off against the peeling white woodwork, nodding as she passed Mary in the hall. The village girl came daily to help with the heavier household chores. For the most part, though, Victoria Hill lived informally. At her advanced age, she still did much of her own domestic work, having always considered a live-in servant