His to Have

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  His to Have

  ISBN # 978-0-85715-260-2

  ©Copyright Sable Grey 2010

  Cover Art by Natalie Winters ©Copyright August 2010

  Edited by Stacey Birkel

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2010 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom

  .

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.

  Heart of the Wolf

  HIS TO HAVE

  Sable Grey

  Dedication

  To Debra Ownbey for the all day brainstorm session that helped me fill in the plot holes so this story could come together!

  Chapter One

  “Two bottles…the strongest you’ve got.” A deep baritone voice brought Elle’s attention up from the mugs she’d been rinsing to the man who stood on the other side of the counter. He was drenched, black hair plastered across the broad planes of his face, droplets hanging from his heavy brow. His face was pale and dark circles stood out beneath his deep-set eyes. With one arm tucked beneath his heavy, damp coat, wrapped with some kind of blood stained cloth up to his elbow, the other hand brought out a water soaked purse where he emptied the contents with thick, trembling fingers.

  “I’ll send for the physician,” Lewis murmured, a scowl creasing the already deep lines of the tavern owner’s face.

  “No doctor,” that voice shook and Elle could tell the watered down stranger was in much pain by the strain on his words. “Just give me the bottles and a room.”

  Elle watched Lewis eye the coins on the counter and knew he was considering if he wanted to take the hefty amount or send the stranger away. Portsmouth, being right on the water, brought in an abundance of criminal and unsavoury clientele. The small tavern did well but sometimes a bloodied customer also brought trouble.

  When Lewis didn’t move, Elle stepped forward, wiping her soapy hands on her skirt. “I will tend to him.” She’d learned enough about tending wounds to save a few pirates and seamen over the years. “Room seven is empty.”

  Lewis merely glanced at her, then looked back down at the coins, and finally reached forward to scrape them forward. “Don’t get blood everywhere.” He pointed at the man, “And you will owe me more in the morning for the room - if you live.”

  Elle slipped around the counter to the stranger’s side and slipped an arm beneath his. “Come, I’ll take you to a room.” The man hesitated then allowed her some of his weight. He was big, hard as leather, and strong despite his condition, she realised when he grasped her shoulder. She guided him slowly to the stairs.

  “One step at a time,” she coaxed. He made it to the top without even so much as a grunt of pain. The room was tiny but was one of the few that did have a small hearth. The seaman would need it because she could feel he was chilled to the bone. He blew out a breath when she helped him ease down onto the bed.

  “Don’t move. Wait here,” she told him. His response was only a slight inclination of his dark head. She turned and left him there to collect two bottles of whisky, extra blankets, the small bag in which she kept all of her supplies for tending injuries, and clean water and linens. She instructed one of the men who worked for Lewis to start a fire in the room, and told the cook that she needed some warm broth for the stranger. When she returned, the fire had already been started and the seaman still sat on the edge of the bed just as she’d left him except he’d removed his coat and tossed it in a puddle at his feet.

  Setting everything she’d brought on the small table, she dragged it closer to the bed, then uncorked one of the bottles and passed it to him. He lifted the rim to his trembling lips and drank deeply. She watched his throat work up and down and, when he finally lowered the bottle again, she saw he’d consumed nearly half the bottle.

  “Let me tend to your arm. Have you any other injuries?” She sat beside him and reached for the bandaged limb he still had tucked against him. She could see now the large cloth was some kind of huge piece of linen wadded and wrapped around his arm. Carefully she began to pull it away. Her throat closed. His arm had been severed, just below the elbow. The sleeve of his expensive shirt was ragged around the wound. All she could do was cleanse the wound as best as she could, wrap it as tightly as possible, keep it clean, and pray that he lived.

  “It could be infected. If I could send for the physician…”

  “No,” he replied deeply and passed her the bottle. He leant down and retrieved his coat, shoving it beneath the bleeding wound, then lifted his dark blue gaze at her. She winced. It was going to hurt. When she hesitated, he gave her a small nod and reached back to hold on to the bedrail of the headboard. She took the bottle and doused what was left onto the wound. His shout vibrated around the room before he slumped sideways, unconscious. Elle quickly cleaned and wrapped the arm with strips of linen.

  She worked quietly removing the rest of his clothes. What she couldn’t pull off of him, she cut away. Other than his arm, there were no more visible injuries she could see. In fact, his large body was flawless. Dark hair swept across a deep chest, then trailed down parting once for his navel before dipping to the nest below. His legs were powerful and thick with muscle.

  Elle had seen her share of naked men but this one, she had to admit, was beautiful. There wasn’t an ounce of softness anywhere and his male parts were equally impressive. Once she’d unclothed him completely, she had to work until she broke a sweat settling him onto the bed. She covered him with the extra blankets then sat beside him, changing the linens as needed.

  He woke close to ten that evening, a fever claiming him so that his skin was hot to the touch. At first he declined the broth she spooned to his lips but, after a bit of coaxing, he took in some of it. The fever did not last and by midnight a chill had taken its place. His entire body shook from it and Elle began to worry that this handsome stranger would perish after all.

  Finally, she slipped beneath the blankets and put her arms around him. “Please, don’t die.”

  His thick arm curled around her and pulled her closer, bringing her body closer so his body could have the warmth it craved. “I can’t d-die until I k-kill the bastard that d-did this t-to me.” His deep voice shook and his teeth chattered around those violent words. They lay in silence for some time and Elle had almost drifted to sleep herself when his deep voice brought her to full wake.

  “It’s time. Leave me now.”

  She leant up on an elbow to look down at him. He wasn’t shaking anymore. She reached up and touched his cheek. His temperature was almost back to normal. Her hand stilled when he turned his face against her hand, lips brushing her palm. His dark lashes cast shadows in the dying firelight across his cheeks.

  “You need someone to tend to you. I will not leave,”
she whispered.

  “No. Leave me. Hurry.” He gave her a nudge as he turned away from her hand. He groaned then, a deep sound that shook from within his chest.

  “You are in pain.” The realisation hit her and she jerked the blanket back from his body to examine him again for other injuries.

  “Go.” He pushed her this time firmly, with more strength than she thought he should have, succeeding in nearly dumping her to the floor. She scrambled from the bed but leant towards him when his fingers curled into the linen sheets beneath him. His head thrashed back and forth as if in agony. Then he went completely still. She started to reach forward but he suddenly sat straight up, hair sliding from his face to reveal his dark blue eyes had gone completely yellow. And his voice sounded more like a beast than human.

  “Leave!”

  Elle stumbled backwards as his breath began to come in shallow rasps. Those yellow eyes glowed at her as she backed away. She reached behind her until she grasped the handle of the door. She pulled it open as he began tearing the linens from his injured arm with his hand. A low growl vibrated from him as she stepped backwards from the room and pulled the door closed quickly. She stared at the wood as the growl grew louder, followed by shouts of agony. Leaning forward she pressed her ear to the wood. From the other side there was a soft knocking noise that sounded like bones popping.

  His eyes had been yellow. Eyes of the devil. But as he continued to verbalise his pain, she felt tears wet her own eyes. She didn’t like the suffering. And he was alone. Devil or not, no one deserved to be alone.

  “Take deep breaths,” she whispered through the door. “Think of something else, something you love, something beautiful to you. Let it take away your pain.”

  His agony lasted nearly an hour and Elle stayed outside the door, whispering soothing words to him with hopes she was helping him. Upon the second hour of the morning, the room finally grew quiet. Elle released a few sobs before collecting herself and hesitantly pushing open the door. Her heart thumped as she walked to where he lay on the floor near the window.

  There was no movement in his body and finally, despite her fear, she knelt and pushed his hair from his face, so she could see him more clearly in the shadows. Her fingers trembled as she touched his face and pushed open one eyelid. Blue. Not yellow.

  Her gaze swept over the rest of his features. Cheekbones set high on his broad face, his jaw a long, masculine line of strength. His eyes were deep set beneath his heavy brow and a defined mouth with sensual lips set below a straight, prominent nose. Tall, attractive, and the coins he’d given Lewis were those of a man with wealth. Any other she might have called a peacock. But everything about him was so male, and even before his eyes had changed to those of a devil, behind the pain he’d suffered, there had been something dark in his eyes that told her, even in the finest clothes of England, this man was more dangerous than any peacock she’d ever met.

  Her attention lowered to his wide shoulders, then down to his arms. She froze. An arm now lived where but two hours before one had not. Her hand shook as she reached out and touched the flesh. Then her gaze darted to his face as his lips parted and drew a short breath.

  Seven Months later

  Michael Ashton paced the study of Ashton Manor as he lifted the glass of bourbon to his lips and downed half of the contents in three swallows. His heavy boots echoed through the room as he scowled at the walls around him. He was restless, too long cramped in one place. For months he’d done as his brother suggested, keeping a low profile and remaining in London, but with each passing week, he found himself growing more and more resentful of his imprisonment and his temper growing shorter.

  “Please, brother, sit, before you walk a hole through the floor.” Victor finally looked up from his desk then rose and stepped around it to reach for the glass in Michael’s hand, “For God’s sake slow down.”

  Michael’s scowl deepened. “I’ve run out of things to do.”

  “Then find a whore and occupy yourself.” Victor turned and set the glass aside. “The entire household is afraid of your unpredictable temper and I am weary of your scowl. You cannot leave London, but I beg you to give this house some peace.”

  Michael glared at his brother before reaching forward and swiping up the glass. He threw back the remaining contents and slammed it back to the surface of the desk. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said nothing, then turned and stalked from the room. Once through the manor and out the door, he waved away the driver, Peter, who had stepped forward. The young man lowered his gaze and quickly stepped aside, most likely relieved with his dismissal.

  The walk into the bustle of London was a short one, and as he wove his way towards the docks, he ignored those who stepped clear of his path and moved around him. Hurst had started the rumours about the Ashton family after Victor had forced him to divorce Cadence so he could marry her himself. It hadn’t helped that whispers of a yellow-eyed devil had found their way into London when Michael had left Portsmouth. By the time he arrived, Hurst had disappeared and all of London had turned a suspicious eye on the Ashton name.

  So his family had agreed to keep to London allowing those who worked for them to keep business running as usual. While his brothers seemed content with being confined to the city, Michael’s blood yearned to return to the sea. It was where he belonged—London was too tame for him.

  He continued through London until the expensive suits were replaced with the tattered worn clothes of the poor. The late afternoon darkened and the women grew less refined and rather than averting their gazes, looked him right in the eyes as they beckoned him to join them in the alleyways between the buildings. Even the smell in the air changed. He was considering a brunette who looked cleaner than the others when someone bumped into him. A hand brushed the front of his trousers, even as the soft feminine voice murmured an apology, and her other hand slid across his chest.

  Turning he stared at the woman that quickly bustled away from him, realising the lightness of the pocket inside his coat. The wench had lifted his purse. Striding after her, he watched her turn and look over her shoulder before bolting. He took chase and caught up with her just as she rounded a corner and darted through the arched entryway of an alley leading to a row of dilapidated apartments.

  He caught her arm and jerked her backwards, shoving her against the crumbling brick of the archway. “I believe you’ve something that belongs to me?” Without waiting for her response, he began searching her clothes. She tried to push at him but he ignored her attempts.

  “Where is it?” he demanded when he found nothing.

  “You are mistaken, I have taken nothing from you…” That feminine soft voice sounded vaguely familiar to him and he searched his memory to place how he knew her. The words found him, taking him back to Portsmouth. Think of something else, something you love, something beautiful to you. Let it take away your pain.

  No, he argued with himself as he scrutinised her. While he’d been in much pain those months ago, he did remember her hair, honey blonde, long and silken. The hair on the woman in front of him was so filthy he couldn’t tell what colour it was. He grasped her chin and forced her to look up at him. He saw her blue eyes suddenly widen as if she recognised him, followed by wild fear.

  “How do I know you?” he asked without releasing her. She swallowed loudly, shaking her head frantically and in doing so, that filthy hair slipped aside, revealing it was indeed part of a disguise. He reached up and swiped the wig from her head then stared at the honey gold strands that tumbled down from atop her head to fall around her thin shoulders.

  “I do remember you,” he stepped back, tossing the wig to the ground, but kept her arm in his grasp. “You would not leave me when I bid you away.”

  “You…you are mistaken, sir, it was not I. I’ve never seen you before.” Her gaze darted towards the shadows. “You are a stranger to me.” Michael turned his head slightly. He could smell the scent of the male on the other side of the archway.

>   “You took my purse.”

  “I’ve taken nothing from you, sir. You know that yourself as you have searched my person and found nothing.” She licked her lips. “I’m no thief.”

  Michael gave her arm a shake. “If you are innocent, why would you run?”

  “Because you were chasing me, sir.”

  Michael glared at her. He should hand her over to the nearest officer but had no proof that she’d stolen anything. Finally he released her arm and shoved her away from him. He turned and headed back to the main street.

  “Had you known better what to look for, you would have found a larger purse just inside the sleeve of my coat.” He didn’t look back. Not until he turned the corner and made his way around to circle back and slip between two apartment buildings on the other side of the archway where he was concealed in darkness to watch her. The man from the alley stood in front of her, scowling, and Michael recognised his pointed face as that of the tavern owner in Portsmouth.

  “Who was he? Do not lie to me, Elle.”

  “I don’t know, Lewis. He was mistaken…” she yelped when Lewis’s hand clapped the side of her face. “I don’t know who he was! He smelled of bourbon and sounded half mad!”

  “A mad man who knew you had lifted something from him,” Lewis said pointedly. “You are getting sloppy.” The woman lifted her chin, glaring back at him.

  “Not so sloppy I didn’t manage to keep what I’d lifted.” She kicked the bucket at her feet to the side revealing her booty, Michael’s purse included. Clever wench, Michael thought to himself as the man knelt and swiped up her success.

  “I want my share,” Elle demanded.

  “You get nothing from this; you were almost caught. You have to earn your share.” Lewis headed away from her, back through the archway and up the stairs to one of the apartments. Michael stepped forward the moment the door closed, eyes locked on the woman as she reached down and angrily swiped up her wig.