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  “I’m big enough to be alone out here, but Dad thinks I’m a baby.” He looked up at Martha and cocked his head to the side. “You’re really tall for a lady. I like your hat.”

  Martha laughed. “I suppose I am, and thank you.”

  “Do you really get sick too?”

  “Yes.” She held out her arms and displayed her wrist bands. “But these help.”

  The boy frowned. “How?”

  “They press on a spot that helps keeps the sick feeling away. Hold out your arm.”

  He held out his arm, and she pointed to the gap between his glove and jacket sleeve and a spot on his wrist. “Measure down three of your fingers and press there with your thumb.”

  The boy did. “How long does it take?”

  “It’s not instant, and it works better if you put pressure on the spot before you start feeling sick.”

  His brow furrowed as he concentrated. After a few minutes he smiled. “It works.”

  Martha smiled back. She glanced back at the window. The man was focused on the baby, feeding her a bottle. What is the story here? Why is he traveling alone, and how much farther do they have to go?

  The boy tugged her sleeve. “Where ya going, lady? We’re going home. I’m getting a puppy. Do you have a dog? Do you like the ferry? I like it even if I get sick.”

  Martha numbered her answers on her fingers. “Italy. I have a horse and some cats but no dog. And yes, I like the ferry.”

  “You should get a dog. They’re the best.” He looked back and waved at his father. The man waved back.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  A gust of wind blew over the deck, and Martha held tight to her fedora. The boy pushed closer to her, leaning his body into her, and shivered.

  “Are you cold? Do you want to go inside?” Martha looked down at him.

  “No. I like it out here. Look at the clouds. Do you think we’re halfway? Look, the gulls are following us. Do you like birds? I like birds.”

  They spent the rest of the trip with the boy talking and asking questions without waiting for answers. Martha was grateful for the distraction, marveling at the way seeing the world through the observations of a small boy made the excursion wondrous. They docked, and she waited with the boy until his father arrived. The baby was sleeping now.

  “See, Dad. I told you I could do it.” The boy’s color had improved. His cheeks were a bright pink.

  The man ruffled his hair. “You did. I saw.” He looked at Martha. “Thank you. It was so nice of you to help. My wife does this by herself all the time. I don’t know how.”

  The boy took his hand. “Look, Dad, there’s Mom. Let’s go. See ya, lady.” He pulled his father through the crowd. A small part of her, the part that wondered what it would have been like if her parents had survived the accident, grieved for the normal life she’d never known. Boarding schools and caretakers had been her world.

  She waited until the crowd cleared and made her way off the ferry. Millie was waiting for her. She opened the door, and Martha slid into the warm comfort of the car.

  Millie met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Do you want to stop at Fort William, Ma’am? For something to eat?”

  “No. Unless you need something.”

  “I’m good, Ma’am.” Millie pulled the car onto the road, and Martha focused her gaze out of the window and settled in for the ride.

  Chapter Two

  HER WOOL COAT, so practical on Skye, was ridiculously hot for Lake Como. Martha placed it beside her on the seat. The flight had been as rough as the ferry trip, and she wanted nothing more than to be out of a moving vehicle. The driver was quiet on the ride from Malpensa airport to Madame’s villa. The limousine was appointed in white leather, impractical as hell but stunning.

  The slight headache that had started on the ferry was now a ripping pain, and she wanted to curl into a ball in a dark room. Great way to meet Madame. So stupid not to pack my medication. Or sunglasses. She rubbed her neck, trying to ease the tight tendons along her spine. I miss Octavia’s hands. Damn if I don’t miss all of her, not only her hands. Robin. Where did Cook find her? I’d have passed. Too whorish. We’ll have to work on her demeanor. Our customers won’t like it. She looked out of the window, grateful to see the familiar unmarked drive of Madame’s home. Finally. I hope I can rest before I see her.

  The car glided to a stop in the formal drive. The white pavers leading to the front of the house gleamed. The housekeeper, Alicia, stood waiting on the steps. The driver opened her door, and she stepped out and pulled her hat down to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun. Her mood lightened as she walked up the familiar path.

  Alicia smiled at her. “Buongiorno.” She embraced Martha and kissed both cheeks. “Madame sarà così felice di vederti. I’m happy to see you too.”

  A tall woman in black slacks and a starched white shirt appeared. Alice pointed at the car waiting in the driveway and inclined her head at the woman. “Get her luggage.” She clasped Martha’s arm. “Let me take you to your room.”

  “Are the others here?”

  Alicia looked down. “It is only you. Madame only asked for you and Ms. Abiola, who sends her regrets.” She looked up and met Martha’s eyes. “She is—Madame is tired.”

  The sadness in her voice undid Martha. She placed her hand on top of Alicia’s hand. “Should I go to her now?” Martha wanted to see her, touch her forehead to her feet, let her command of her whatever she needed.

  Alicia tilted her head, her lips pressed in a firm line. “No. She’s napping and would never forgive me if I did not let you recover from your trip so you could present yourself properly.” She guided Martha up the stairs to her room.

  Alicia opened the door and pushed it wide. The room was bright. Fresh flowers graced the table, and the bed was turned down.

  “I’ll send Gia up with some coffee. Would you like something to eat?”

  Martha’s stomach turned at the idea of coffee and food. “Could I have some tea, please? Ginger tea if you have it.”

  “As you wish. Dinner is at eight. I laid out your gown and your collar.”

  Martha toed off her shoes. “Thank you.”

  Alicia smiled, her gaze steady, and she touched Martha’s cheek. “Gia will bring the tea. If you need anything else, let me know.”

  She closed the door behind her, and Martha stripped out of her suit jacket. She opened her suitcase and retrieved her toiletries bag.

  A sharp rap on the door made her jump. She opened it to find the woman Alicia had sent to get her luggage standing in the hall with a tray. “Come in.” She stepped aside, and the woman placed the tray on the desk.

  “You’re Gia, yes?”

  “Si. Do you require anything else, Miss?”

  Martha smiled at her. “It’s been years since anyone has called me Miss.”

  Gia blushed. “No offense, Miss.”

  “None taken. Call me Martha.”

  Gia smiled back. “Will I see you at dinner—Martha?”

  “Yes.”

  “See you then, Martha.”

  She closed the door softly. Martha sipped her tea. The ginger worked its magic and her stomach settled. She undressed, her nipples pebbling in the cool breeze from the window. She took her tea into the bath. The tub was deep, and she filled it as full as she dared. She added lemon-scented bath oil before she lowered herself into the soothing heat of the water. With a sigh she leaned back and closed her eyes. Nap. Dinner. My collar.

  She thought over what Alicia had said, as the light citrus smell surrounded her, soothing her body but not her heart. Why only me and Vivian? Fine time for Vivian not to show up.

  The water cooled, and she heaved herself out of the tub. She dried herself and brushed her teeth before she lay down on the crisp white sheets and pulled them over her. She closed her eyes. I should text Elaine. Later. I’ll text her later. She turned to her side and gave in to sleep.

  THE FORMAL DINING room was set for two places. Empty chairs gr
eeted her, and a silence hung over the room like a shroud. Martha clasped her worn and faded collar tight in her hands to stop them from shaking. Her sheer gown hugged her curves. The fabric rubbing against her nipples kept them half-hard. She looked up when the door clicked open. Madame Givernay stepped through the double doors.

  A wide white scarf covered her head. She had never been a large woman, but now her cheekbones stood out, her face all dark hollows and sharp angles. Her clothes hung loosely on her body.

  So thin. So frail. No. Oh no. Martha bit her lip and suppressed a gasp. Gia stood next to Madame, letting her lean on her arm as she assisted her to the chair at the head of the table. Martha waited until Madame was settled and Gia had left them before she approached. She knelt next to Madame’s chair. She lowered her head and held her collar out with both hands. The brush of Madame’s fingers against her own as she took the collar from her made her shiver. Madame placed the collar around Martha’s neck and buckled it. A firm hand on her chin pulled her head up.

  “Eyes to me.” Madame’s voice, silk over steel, was loud in the quiet of their intimate dinner.

  Martha raised her gaze and looked into Madame’s deep-brown eyes. The light was there, her spirit strong, tempered but present.

  “You look like you’re afraid I’ll break if you breathe.” She patted her lap. “Lay your head here, pet. I’ve missed you.”

  Martha rested her head on Madame’s lap, the soft folds of her skirt soothing on her cheek. Madame carded her fingers through Martha’s hair before she traced her cheekbone with the sharp edge of her nail. Martha’s tension melted away under Madame’s touch. She always knows what I need. In her twenties and thirties, Martha would have been anxious for Madame to have her, to punish her, to beat her until Madame and her wishes were her world. But as Madame had aged, and Martha turned forty, she understood pacing, and the pleasure of serving, of simply sitting at her Mistress’s feet waiting on her will, focusing all her attention on attending her.

  Madame cleared her throat. “I’m dying, pet. I won’t live to see the end of the year.” She wrapped her hand in Martha’s hair and tugged hard. The sharp pull on her scalp focused Martha. “No tears. I want no tears of pity, or of sadness.”

  Martha bit her lip, pushing away the emotion that dried her throat and made it hard to swallow. “Yes, Madame, as you command.”

  The hand in her hair tightened, and her head was pulled back. Madame grasped her chin. “I do. I command it.” She kissed her forehead and took her mouth, kissing her, lips fierce and demanding. Martha trembled in her grip, surrendering herself to Madame’s mouth. Madame released her before she rapped on the table with her knuckles. Martha knelt next to her chair, eyes down, hands resting on her thighs palms up. The sensation of Madame’s kiss lingered on her lips and filled her body with longing.

  The door opened, and Martha watched from under her lashes as Gia brought in the meal. Madame rested her hand on the top of Martha’s head. “Rise, pet. Eat with me. I’ve not the strength to feed both of us.”

  Martha rose and took the seat next to Madame’s chair. The delicate scent of saffron wafted from the soup placed before her.

  “Eat.” Madame took up her spoon and Martha did the same. They ate their soup, the silence heavy between them with unasked questions and answers Martha didn’t want to hear. Martha shifted in her seat and rested her spoon on her soup plate.

  Madame finished, and Gia cleared their plates. She returned with the main course.

  Madame leaned back in her chair. “I am disappointed Vivian would not join us.” She picked up her glass of water and took a sip. “I wanted you both to act as executors of my will.”

  Martha dropped her fork, and it clattered on the table. She raised her eyes to her Mistress’s face. She held her gaze. No words passed between them. Madame pulled the scarf from her head. The sight of her bald scalp made Martha bite her cheek to keep her tears back and honor her promise to Madame.

  “I’ve exhausted all treatment options.” She turned in her chair and motioned to Gia. “Bring me the package on the sideboard.” Gia brought an overstuffed folio to Madame and presented it with both hands. Madame took it, her arms trembling with the weight of the folder. She dropped it on the table.

  Martha wiped her mouth and sat back. Grief stifled her appetite. She picked up her wine and gulped half the glass.

  Madame eyed Martha’s glass. “Go ahead, pet. I can’t drink wine anymore, but I like to watch other people enjoy my cellar.”

  Martha picked up her glass and drained it. Gia moved quietly and refilled it with the bottle from the sideboard. She turned to go, and Martha grabbed her wrist.

  “Leave the bottle.”

  Gia inclined her head at Madame, who nodded her agreement. She placed the bottle on the table and left them.

  Madame rested her hand on the thick burgundy leather brief folio. “Here are my instructions. I want you to read them. We will discuss them tomorrow.” She grabbed Martha’s hand, her grip surprising in its strength. “Know if I could I would take you back to my room and spend the night listening to your sweet screams of surrender. I’m so sorry to not be able to attend to you as I should.”

  Martha leaned over and kissed the back of her Mistress’s hand. “It is enough to be here with you.”

  Madame squeezed her hand. “You never disappoint me, my pet. My love.” She pulled her hand free. “Eat. Drink. I want to watch your wonderful mouth while you eat. Everything has lost its flavor for me.”

  Martha ate because she knew her Mistress deserved her best behavior. Deserved her obedience. Deserved everything Martha wanted to give and more.

  “YOU’VE READ THROUGH my instructions?” Madame looked at Martha from over the top of her glasses. “Are the directions clear?”

  “Yes, Madame. Very clear.” Martha knotted her hands together. “But there is one thing…”

  “Out with it. I don’t have time for chitchat. Imminent death focuses you as much as pain.”

  “Am I to understand you are giving me a person? A Lucia Coruso?”

  Madame narrowed her eyes. “Not giving. I want you to provide a place for her. She has been with me for the last fifteen years. I want to provide for her.”

  Martha frowned. “I understand. But why do you think Rowan House is the right place for her?”

  Madame sat back in her chair and raised her chin at Martha. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

  “No. I just…I’m not sure I’m the right person to be her Mistress.”

  Madame laughed. “Whatever gave you the impression that’s what I intended? Lucia will make her own decisions. I simply want you to provide a place for her to live. My house in Givernay reverts to my niece. Lucia inherits the bulk of my estate here. Everyone else will share in what’s left after the sale of the house. They have families to return to if they choose. The Onyx ends with me, but for those who have developed a taste for what we have had here, there are very few places to go. Lucia has no family. Rowan House will be perfect for her.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to go? Skye is a far cry from Lake Como. And our clientele tends to desire more physical forms of entertainment.” Martha sipped her coffee. “Has she agreed to your plan?”

  Madame pursed her lips, her eyes dark. “She will. Just as you will.” She exhaled forcefully and sank back in her chair. She waved her hand over the documents. “Any more of my decisions you want to question?”

  Chastised, Martha bowed her head. “No, Madame.” She placed her cup on the table. “I’ll do as you ask, Mistress. She’ll have a place at Rowan House for as long as she desires. I will provide for her as you request.”

  “LUCIA CORUSO, THIS is Martha MacLeod.” Madame sat back in her chair. “Lucia recently returned from Japan.” She rested her hands in her lap, a half smile on her face as she observed them.

  Madame’s demeanor as she watched them raised the hairs on Martha’s arms. The woman who stood before her was as tall as Martha. Her thick dark-brown should
er-length hair hung in loose curls around her face and brushed the tops of her broad shoulders. Her skin was medium brown. Corsican? Sicilian? She was dressed in black trousers and a sharply tailored white shirt. The top three buttons of the shirt were unfastened, giving Martha an unfettered view of her collarless neck and ample cleavage. Martha caught herself staring, and she forced herself to look at Lucia’s face. Her eyes were a bright blue-green. Those eyes. Like the sea at Amalfi. Oh, Madame, you know me well.

  Lucia looked into Martha’s eyes and inclined her head. “Madame has told me so much about you, Martha.”

  The cool edge in her voice cut through Martha’s fog, and she extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Martha caught the delicate scent of Lucia’s perfume, sandalwood and jasmine, a subtle blend of spice and sweet.

  Lucia took her hand and squeezed hard. Her grip firm, she kept her gaze on Martha’s eyes. “And you as well.”

  The effect of her touch and the hard edge to her voice had Martha clenching her jaw. Trying to top me? What the hell? Martha returned the firm grip and her sharp gaze. Does she think I’m a sub outside of here? She’s a Mistress? What the hell is Madame up to?

  Lucia let go of Martha’s hand and turned to face Madame. “I take it you’ve not changed your mind, Madame?” She pursed her lips. “You want me to go with—” she nodded toward Martha “—her.”

  It was the disdain in her voice and the failure to use an honorific that set off the Mistress in Martha. Oh, fuck her. She doesn’t want to go to Rowan House. I don’t want her either. She and Elaine will be at each other’s throats. Damn, this is awkward. That’s all I need—another bitter, disgruntled Mistress in the house. Fuck.

  Madame snapped her fingers. “Come here, Lucia.”

  Lucia lowered her chin to her chest and walked over to Madame’s chair. She sank to her knees. Madame reached out and grabbed her chin. “You will not disrespect her. She was making subs beg for her touch when you were in grade school.” She released her, and Lucia sat back on her heels. “It is my final wish you go to Rowan House. What transpires after you are there is your business. I won’t be here to care.”