Unfettered

Unfettered

By

Caitlyn Willows

Copyright: 2016 Caitlyn Willows

Cover Artist: Dar Albert

Editor: Ann Curtis

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published in the United States.

Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Warning

This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. The author’s books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in BDSM titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. The author is not responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

About The Author

Chapter One

Isabelle looked up at the old Victorian house centered on the grassy, oak-shaded hill. She’d always been fascinated by this place. Built post-Civil War, the history surrounding it was sketchy. Rumor had it the original owner was the widow of a wealthy collector who had made the home into a museum in homage to her husband.

She wasn’t so certain, since she’d found no documentation to back up that story. There were plenty of tales of it being haunted as well. Someone always claimed to know someone who knew someone who had experienced ghosts in or around the place. Isabelle had spoken to several old-timers in the area. They all agreed the stories were true, and that they’d heard them from their parents and grandparents.

The moon glinting off a window caught her attention. Isabelle often wondered if the tale of ghosts had been generated by one of the loose ladies of the house during its presumed brothel period and perpetuated by adults since then to keep adventuresome kids away from the property. The brothel rumor held some weight. Ghosts...she wasn’t so sure. She’d experienced no hauntings in all the times she’d been there.

Spanish moss draped among the ancient tree limbs waved a greeting to her on the summer breeze. Its presence helped lend a sense of spookiness to the area, as did the cemetery, whose ravaged marble tombstones no longer bore the names of those buried there.

A winding cobblestone driveway large enough for two cars to pass threaded its way up the sloping rise to the house. A more direct stairway built into the lawn from the road also led straight to the driveway.

Isabelle slung her backpack over her shoulders and took the steps two at a time. She’d planned this night for months, counting the days until school was out and she had no responsibilities to take up her time. And no parents hounding her every step to talk about their darlings. Light from the full moon guided her way.

For some reason, upkeep on the property had ceased about twenty-five years ago. She’d toiled to keep the stairs and the driveway accessible, had even hired someone to come by once a week to trim the lawn and someone else for pest control. A house this beautiful deserved care, and she’d been doing that in some fashion for thirteen years now—ever since she was twelve years old.

She knew everyone thought she was nuts. As the years passed, the comments and the weird looks that came her way died off. Everyone seemed to accept that she’d become obsessed with the place. A few family members, even some friends, had tried to find out who owned the property so she could purchase it. Isabelle sighed. That would have been a dream come true. But the aloof owner—the mysterious Daniel Braddock Estate—wasn’t interested in selling. Odd that her attempts to purchase it never brought him—or her, or them, or any representative thereof—around to investigate her handiwork on the place. She’d always fantasized the owner would be so grateful for her meticulous and loving care that he would have no choice but to grant her the deed. After all, she visited it nearly every day and had yet to see another soul there besides the handyman and exterminator. Even her hope to snatch it up in a tax-lien sale hadn’t come to fruition. The taxes were always paid on time, in full, every year by the estate. She looked around as she crossed the lawn. If they loved it so much, why did they stop taking care of it?

Trying to find out was driving her nuts. What little information she could find only led to more questions. Upon the wealthy widow’s death, the house had passed into the hands of Penelope Marsden, a single woman of presumably ill repute. She’d owned and operated the Victorian around 1880. Upon her death eighteen years later, it had passed into the hands of Thomas Braddock. He seemed to have disappeared around 1900—no record of death, just disappeared. He did, however, have the foresight to deed the house to his younger brother Daniel...who’d also disappeared two years later. That didn’t help the house’s reputation any. Given the house’s scandalous reputation, its lack of repair, absent owners, and the missing prior owners—it all coalesced into tales of murder, mayhem, and all manner of nefarious doings, which added even more grist to the rumor mill.

Isabelle scrunched up her nose as she puzzled through her thoughts. People didn’t disappear without a reason. Although, considering what she’d found in the basement... She shook her head. No. They had moved away, died, procreated. The Daniel Braddock Estate was evidence of that. Someone had obviously planned for something, had an heir or heirs. Someone somewhere had answers, and they were being very tight-lipped about it. She shook her head again to get rid of the rambling thoughts. Her mind needed to be clear tonight, not jumbled with a puzzle that had thwarted her for years.

She paused at the edge of the lawn. Moonlight bathed the three-story house in a wash of silver that was almost magical. She took that as a sign, a blessing for what she was about to do. At night, the wear on the place wasn’t as apparent as it was during daylight. Alas, her expertise and pocketbook only went so far. She could keep the interior clean and pest-free—quite a feat when there was no running water or electricity—but outside, the best she could do was keep the yard up, brush the cobwebs from the shingles, and nail the loose shutters back into place. Oh...and keep the windows sparkling, at least the ones she could reach. She’d even replaced those broken by time and hurled rocks.

Determined, she refused to give up. One day this house would be hers. Her efforts had to win her that right. She refused to entertain the possibility of failure or how illogical her actions might seem. She was desperate. Where else could she turn except to the house she’d loved all these years? She’d cared for it as if it were her very own, loved it as no one else did. Surely that devotion would be returned.

Isabelle crossed the cobblestone drive and retrieved the skeleton key from beneath the garden rock where she’d first found it thirteen years ago. Her parents would have had a fit had they known she’d been inside the house back then. She never told them, although they knew she frequently visited the place. She’d seen them follow her a time or two, but they’d never stopped her visits.

She trotted up the marble steps and, once she stood on the old wooden porch, she paused to look back. In its heyday, she imagined it was quite impressive to see carriages dispelling visitors at these steps. Day or night, it would have been wondrous.

The creak of the slowly rocking swing in the corner of the porch caught her attention. How many lovers had sat there? She could almost imagine their ghostly presence as they watched her. In all the years she’d been coming here, no spirit had ever made its presence known.

Isabelle shoved the key into the lock. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges. Amazing what two cans of WD-40 could do to make the squeals and groans disappear. She wished she could have done something like that about the wooden floors. They creaked with every step she took. But at least they were