He groaned under his breath. “What I wouldn’t give to fuck you. To stop your teasing and use you like you want me to.”

Everything inside me charged, ignited, spindled out of control.

The thought of having him inside me both repulsed and enticed. The mental image of us fighting this unknown battle while our naked bodies fought for domination sent scorching thrills through me.

My breathing turned to pants. “Why haven’t you?”

Damn, the words fell from my lips before I had time to censor them.

Jethro’s hips twitched harder against me. He didn’t reply.

The question hung like a flag fluttering in the lust-thick breeze. I couldn’t take it back, and Jethro wouldn’t answer it.

Pulling his body heat away, he shoved his hands through his hair and paced the room. “Time for your history lesson.”

I wriggled against the pole, dreadfully uncomfortable and vibrating with anger and desire.

I hated the wetness between my legs. I hated that whenever he touched me, I would rather kiss then kill him, rather than flat-out destroy him.

My body was hot and confused. Desperate for freedom. Ravenous for lust.

“In 1460, the Hawks were nobodies. We had no land, no titles, no money of any kind. We were the lowest of the low and survived on the generosity of others. Luckily, after years of begging and living on the streets, my ancestor and his family managed to find employment in a household who were the opposite of everything they were.

“At the beginning, it seemed like luck had finally shone upon them, and their days of thievery and struggles were at an end. What they didn’t know was it marked the end of their freedom, and, ultimately, their lives. They became slaves—available at the Weavers’ every beck and call for every frivolous demand. Not only did my ancestor work for the family, but his wife became their kitchen maid, his son their stable boy, and his daughter their scullery underling. A family of Hawks working for a family of Weavers.”

Jethro’s voice was hypnotic, whisking me away from the greenhouse to a time where sewage flowed in busy streets and rat meat was as common as chicken in the slums of London.

Jethro never stopped his tale. “They worked every hour—cooking, cleaning, fetching—ensuring the Weavers lived a life of well-tended luxury. Nothing was too much for them—they were the cogs that made the household run.”

“So they were employees,” I butted in. “They were hired to look after my forefathers and no doubt given room and board as well as food and clothing.”

Jethro stalked toward me. Fisting my hair, he snarled, “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? A fair trade for the amount of hours they slaved. But no. The Weavers didn’t believe in fairness of employment. They didn’t pay a cent—not to those who came from the gutter. But you’re right—they did provide board and lodging, but they taxed it so heavily, my family existed in the Weavers’ cellar with scraps from their table. Every year their unpayable taxes grew higher.”

Sickness swirled in my stomach. “How do you mean?”

Jethro let me go, continuing his stroll around the room. “I mean that every year they were worse off, not only working but paying their employers for the chance. Every year at Christmas, they were ordered to pay back their taxes of being privileged enough to live in the graces of the Weavers, and every year they couldn’t pay it back.”

That’s awful.

My heart hurt for such unfairness, of such unnecessary brutality. It can’t be true. No one could be that horrid. Then again, it happened so long ago. It was still insanity to make me pay for it.

I gritted my teeth, fortifying myself against Jethro’s brainwashing. I couldn’t believe my forefathers were tyrannical employers. There would’ve been rules—even then. Surely?

It’s sad, but it’s also hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Get over it.

I said with half-hearted conviction, “They could’ve left and found other work. They didn’t have to put up with that treatment, even if it was true.”

Jethro laughed coldly. “Seems so simple to you, doesn’t it, Ms. Weaver? Inhumane treatment, so leave.” He glowered. “Not so easy when your ancestor was raping my ancestor’s wife every night, and the mistress of the house had turned every law enforcer in the county against them. She spun such an elegant tale of espionage and thievery; no one would listen to the truth. Everyone believed the Hawks were cold-hearted criminals who were unappreciative of the generosity of the upstanding Weavers.”

Jethro crossed his arms. “Can you believe the Weavers even managed to coerce the police to issue a standing warrant, stating if ever a Hawk stopped working for the Weavers, they would be punished? The law said they’d be thrown into the keep and tortured for their crimes, then murdered as an example to other misbehaving working class.”

My stomach twisted into knots. I wished my hands were untied so I could clamp them over my ears and not listen to Jethro's lies.

This was sick. Terrible. Woefully unjust.

Jethro moved closer, no sound, just like his beloved silence. “Needless to say, they were very unhappy. The wife tried to commit suicide, only for her daughter to find her and the Weavers’ best physician to bring her back from the dead. She couldn’t escape the nightly exploits of the man of the house, and day by day, her children starved from lack of proper care and nutrition.

“So, one day Frank Hawk waited until the Weaver bastard had raped his wife for the second time that night and put her to bed with her ailing offspring. He waited until the house was quiet and everyone rested, before sneaking from the cellar and into the kitchens.”

The image Jethro painted drove needles deep and painful into my heart. I couldn’t think of such horrible people or such a sorry existence. How could my ancestors have done such a thing?

“He should’ve snuck up the stairs and slaughtered his employer while he slept, but his inner fire had been well and truly beaten out after years of abuse. He had no other drive but to stay alive in the hope redemption would save him.

“That night, he only took enough to keep them alive, because no matter their rancid living conditions, he wasn’t ready to die. He wasn’t ready to permit his children to fade away. He was ready to find his self-worth again and fight. To find the rage to commit murder. And to do that, he needed strength.

“Tiptoeing back to the basement, he and his family had their first good meal in years. Scotch eggs, crusty bread, and anything else he managed to pillage.” Jethro smiled, before continuing, “Of course, their meal didn’t go unnoticed.”