Masked Kisses: Love is in the Air: Book

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MASKED KISSES
LOVE IS IN THE AIR
BOOK 3
CHASHIREE M.
M.K. MOORE
BREEDING NATION PUBLISHING
Copyright © 2023 by ChaShiree M. & M.K. Moore

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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 CONTENTS

Blurb

Prologue
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Epilogue

Ready for more Love Is In The Air?

About the Authors
 BLURB

Scarlet wants love. Scarlet craves that deep emotional connection with another person. The problem
is she has no time for it when she is stuck at work all hours of the night, dealing with her grumpy,
growly, overly inquisitive boss.
Then she receives an invitation she can't refuse. It leads to a night she won't ever forget.
What will she do when she finds out it was planned? Orchestrated. By the one man she can't seem to
get away from?
Fall in love, of course.
Duh. It's written by us, silly!
Sit back and enjoy.
PROLOGUE
 SCARLETT

“WHAT DID YOU GUYS DO ?” I am staring at the most gorgeous, obscenely expensive, so unlike me,
dress I have ever seen.
“We did something we knew you wouldn't do?” Hope says, yawning on the other end.
“Are you not sleeping?” I ask her, wondering why she is so tired. She says nothing at first before
smiling.
“I’m pregnant.” She blurts out, smiling as wide as the milky way. Ayerton pops up on the screen,
waves at us, and kisses her cheek, so damn proud of himself.
“Oh my God!” We all shout various versions of the same thing. She laughs at the in unison
outburst and then giggles.
“Hope, that is so wonderful.” I tell her, genuinely happy for her. She spent about a week or so
running from her feelings for her now fiancé Ayerton when all of us knew from the moment she told us
about him that she was head over heels. Thank God he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Thanks guys. Can you believe it?” She asks, shaking her head but still smiling so brightly.
“I can. You were meant to be a mom, Hope.” It is true. She is so caring and nurturing.
“Thanks. But don’t try to change the subject. Do you really like the dress?” I look at it once more,
noticing the intricate details of the web-like design on the back, which is the only fabric on the back,
if I am being honest. The back of the dress is absolutely bare otherwise, but it gives off this goth
meets sultry vibe that I am digging. The front of the bodice is completely covered up sans a heart-
shaped keyhole cutout. The truth is I love it. I just never would have bought it for myself. I am too shy
and self-conscious.
“I love it. Thank you guys so much. I just..”
“Nope. Not listening to any arguments, missy. We got you a mask to go with it. Put your hair up,
do your makeup and enjoy yourself for once. Be someone else for a night. Be the you we know you
are on the inside.” Of course, Rose would say something like that. She thinks of everything in terms of
characters. She is an independent book author, and in her mind, everyone has another side of them.
“Yeah. I guess you're right. Thank you ladies so much.”
“We love you, Scarlett. We would do anything for you.” Sassy says, munching on caramel
popcorn. The rest of the girls echo her words, and then it is time for the call to be over. Biting my lip,
I see I have two hours to make this work.
My boss Samuel Rawlins is the grouchiest, most genuinely frustrating man I have ever met. He is
complicated, brooding, and smart as heck, and he is difficult to figure out. But he is also a great boss
and compassionate. He is known as the ‘Viper’ in the business world, and it shows in his fortune.
 The day he hired me, I thought the interview was a bust. He was so stoic the entire time. He didn’t
smile, and he barely asked me anything. He simply stared at me like I had something on my face. I
was shocked as all get out when he stood, shook my hand, and offered me a job. I took it, of course,
needing one desperately that paid enough so I didn’t have to work three jobs anymore like I was.
I have worked for him for almost two years, and this is the first party he has thrown, and a formal
masquerade ball at that. On New Year’s Eve. Fancy. The girls in the office are speculating he has a
woman in his life he is trying to impress. I don’t know about any of that, but if he does, I hope she
makes him happy. Maybe he will smile every once in a while. Oh well. Time to get dressed.
One hour and fifteen minutes later, I am dressed and in an Uber on my way. I had an entire pep
talk with myself about how I am going to be someone else for tonight and not overthink everything. I
am going to go with the flow, wherever that leads, and just enjoy it. Besides, no one is going to know
it is me. I hope.
“Welcome to the Midnight Masquerade Ball, Miss.” A gentleman at the door greets me, helping
me walk the red carpet that is laid out. Wow. Sam really went all out. As soon as I enter the room, I
gasp. Everything is simply exquisite. There is some sort of gothic-like circus performing all over the
room. Jesters and women on ropes performing some sort of air acrobatics. The room is decorated in
reds and black, with dancing pink flames. Crystals adorn the tables, and some are scattered on the
floor.
“Holy moly.” The opulence is unlike anything I have ever seen.
“May I have your coat?” A young lady asks me.
“Oh yes, please.” Looking around, everyone is in some sort of disguise, and I am happy to report I
recognize no one. Especially with the dimly lit room and orchestra playing. Making out voices is
going to be difficult as well.
Feeling more confident about not being noticed, I move to the bar needing a little more liquid
courage. “Champagne, ma’am?”
“Yes, please.” He hands me a glass, and I feel a little giddy. I have never had alcohol before.
“Make that two, Lionel.” A man sits in the seat next to mine and turns towards me. Half of his face
is obscured by some sort of Phantom of the Opera mask. But I can see his mouth. His eyes are dark,
and with the lighting in here, no luck in gauging their color.
“Good evening, beautiful.” He holds his hand out for mine. I hesitate for a moment but decide
what the hell. When his lips touch my skin, I feel ripples of nerves doing a jig on my body.
“Hi.” Really? Hi, Scarlett. That’s all you have to say? Geesh. I mentally scold myself. He
chuckles and moves closer to me. I am assuming it is so I can hear.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I just got here. But everything looks beautiful.” I tell him, still looking around in awe. When I
turn back to face him, his gaze is still on me, and I can feel my face heating up. “Are you enjoying
yourself?” I ask him, trying not to feel the awkwardness I am feeling.
“I am now. Do you like to dance, gorgeous?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t tried yet.” he nods and stands up.
“Dance with me. Please.” remember you are someone else tonight, Scarlett. Just say yes and do it.
“Okay. Sure.” I place my hand in his, put my champagne glass on the counter, and follow him to
the dance floor.
“Just follow my lead. I won’t let anything happen to you.” I nod, slowly believing him for some
reason.
“Okay.” I don’t recognize the music, and none of the others are in attendance. All I know is right
now, at this moment, I feel happier and more alive than I ever have.
For what feels like hours, we dance, looking into each other's eyes, not talking but saying a lot. I
lay my head on his chest and inhale his scent of lemon and sandalwood. I think. His hands stay firmly
on my waist, but I swear a few times he kissed the top of my head and whispered the word mine. I
know I sound crazy, and it could have totally been my imagination, but I want it to be true this time.
“Spend the night with me.” He asks, lifting my chin to look at him.
“I don’t… I am only here because I can be hidden. I don’t want to…”
“We can keep our masks on if you want.” I can see the hurt in his eyes at my hesitance, but his
willingness to give me this security makes me say yes. “I can’t let you go yet, and I want to ring in the
new year with you, worshiping you as you deserve.” Oh my. My eyes begin to water at his sweet
words, and I swallow them, letting them sink into me, praying for the strength to either walk away or
see this through in the morning. But for right now, I answer him.
“Yes. Yes I want to be with you. Tonight.”
No time wasted; he takes me with him to the bank of elevators. Once on it, he pins me to the side
and sweeps his tongue across my lips. I am so stunned I don’t respond until he growls at me. “Open
your mouth, Red. Kiss me back.” Oh hell. His growly command does something to my body, and I
immediately do what he orders.
I have no idea where we are or where we are going. All I know is I don’t want this moment to be
over. Far too soon, the doors open, and we have to stop to walk into the room. Soon, my dress is on
the floor, and I’m lying in the middle of the bed, wearing only a face mask. There is something
scandalous about kissing a man and not knowing his name or what he looks like. Scandalous but hot
as hell. Then he’s naked and between my thighs. When he kisses me, I feel like my whole body is on
fire. He moves down my body with a skill that scares me. Before I know it, his face is buried in my
pussy. He’s licking, sucking, and biting me in the best way. A feeling of euphoria washes over me, and
I come hard.
When he comes up, his chin glistens with my juices. He smiles at me before leaning down and
kissing me again. I can taste myself on his lips, his tongue. It’s wrong, but oh so right.
I watch as he grasps his cock and strokes it while looking down at me.
“You ready, Red?” he asks, his voice raspy and… familiar, maybe? I don’t know, but then he
touches me again, and all thoughts of his voice are gone. All I can think about now is a pleasure. Pure
pleasure.
“Yes, Phantom,” I murmur.
“Phantom?”
“Your mask,” I say, reaching up and touching it.
“Right,” he says, leaning down and kissing me again. God, I could live on this man’s kisses. “I’ll
ask you again. Are you ready for my cock?”
“Yes,” I breathe, and he slowly enters me, breaking my cherry. “Oh, God.”
He feels so good inside of me, and I never want it to end.
PROLOGUE
 SAMUEL

S HE DOESN ’ T KNOW who I am, but I sure as fuck know who she is. I’m not ashamed to admit that I am
obsessed with this girl. My first thought in the morning is of her and my last thought at night is of her
in my bed. It’s a vicious fucking cycle that has to end soon. One way or another.
Scarlett is my executive assistant, but tonight, she’s all fucking mine. Watching her walk into that
ballroom, wearing that blood-red dress, bursting with confidence, I knew I was doing the right thing
here. I’ve earned this. I’ve dreamt of this moment for far too long, and now, I’m taking it. Taking her.
Worshiping her.
Finally, the wait is over; I think as I look down at her beautiful body, spread open for me. She’s
gorgeous, but she doesn’t know it. She’s also adorable. She’s a fuzzy, sock-wearing, romance book-
reading, Twizzler-loving nerd. I love that and every damn thing else about her. To be with her, like
this after two years of fucking my hand to the thought of her, is surreal.
I groan as I sink into her. Two long, desperate years have culminated in this one moment. I never
expected her to be a virgin; she’s too goddamn beautiful, but fuck. Sinking my bare cock into her hot
cunt and being the first man to do it? It’s an intense privilege I’ll never forget as long as I live. She’s
so wet and tight; I’ll never last. I give her a moment to adjust, and then I move. Slowly at first, then
faster and faster until I’m pounding into her with wild abandon. Her moans of pleasure spur me on.
How can they not? They are all I’ve wanted to hear since the day I hired her. I could barely fucking
speak to her because I was imagining what it would be like to spread her out on my desk and lick
every inch of her body. She’s all curves with pale skin and freckles. I am hooked on her.
I tried to keep it professional. I swear I did. HR horror stories were going through my mind every
time I tried to ask her out. As the owner of The Rawlins Corporation, I have thousands of employees
who depend on me. I’ll admit, the thought of them had me stopping in my tracks, but enough was
enough. I fucking made up a holiday masquerade ball in order to pursue her discreetly, but that was a
mistake. One time will never, ever be enough.
Her legs are wrapped around her waist as she meets me thrust for thrust. I kiss her lips before
dragging my tongue down her neck to her chest. Her nipples are raspberry-colored perfection. I wrap
my lips around her tight peak, sucking and biting it. Her fingers nails score down my chest.
“Come for me, Red,” I growl, needing her release before I find mine. Her little pussy clenches
around my cock, and she screams out. My balls tighten, and I fill her with my seed. An image of her
round with my child flashes in my mind.
I pump my hips into her a few more times and then pull out of her. She cries out again at the loss. I
lie down beside her and pull her close to me.
 “I don’t know what to do now,” she says.
“Just sleep.”
“I should go,” she says, that shy girl from work returning.
“Rest, Red,” I say, grabbing her hand and lacing my fingers with hers.
“Your cock is still hard,” she says, surprising the hell out of me. Cock is a filthy word coming
from her, and said cock just got a little bit harder at hearing that. Then she surprises me again when
her tiny fingers wrap around my shaft, and I am about to die. She jerks my cock, until I can’t take it
anymore.
“Are you sore?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head.
Grinning, I lift her up and sit her on my lap. I guide my cock into her pussy, watching it disappear,
inch by inch. Fuck…. She moans loudly as we become one. Her head is tossed back, and her hair
teases my thighs.
“Don’t stop, Please don’t stop,” she begs as I grip her hips, guiding her as she rides me. I strum
her clit with my thumb until she comes again. I wanted to make this time last, but my need for her is
just too strong. Rearing up, I suck on her nipple as I fill her again.
Fuck. If I was gone for her before, now it’s even worse. No matter what it takes, I’ll make her my
wife. As soon as fucking possible. She climbs off of me and drops down on the bed beside me. We
are both breathing heavily. No words are needed now. I’ve never been as happy as I am now, though.
Trust me.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I woke up, she was gone.
Good fucking thing I know where to find her, and by God, do I have plans for her.
On Tuesday, she comes into work, looking like the world's sexiest librarian. She flips on the light
at her desk and puts her purse into the drawer, giving me the perfect view of her ass as she bends
down. Then she sits at her desk, beginning her day. The cameras I have out there are supposed to be
for our protection, but all I do is use them to stare at her. All damn day, when I should be working.
“You have a conference call with Tokoyo in eight minutes, sir. I’ll patch it through,” she says after
setting my coffee down on my desk.
“Thank you, Scarlett.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
I should have told her right then and there, but now I want her to fall in love with me. I don’t want
to be a one-night mistake for her. I don’t want her to hate me when she finds out what I did. I really
didn’t think past my cock on this one. I’ll make it up to her, I swear it.
CHAPTER 1
SIX WEEKS LATER
OH, God. This sucks balls. The sound of more vomit hitting the toilet does nothing but make my
stomach turn more, and then more comes out. It is like a never-ending cycle. I feel like Vince Vaughn
on Four Christmases when he says, “Imma do it too.” Only I can’t take the source of the offending
action away because it is me. Well, me and the invader in my belly. Yep. I am pregnant. One freaking
night of being someone else, and poof, consequences. Just my luck.
When I feel like I can stand and maybe be normal for a second, I wobble to the sink, wash my
face, and brush my teeth. “Whoa!” I grip the sink and try to steady myself. I am so dang dizzy, but
what do you expect when everything you eat flies right out of your mouth?
Grabbing a brush, I attempt to brush my hair and make myself look normal, so I can try to get to
work on time. My complexion is absolutely ghastly lately, and I have been applying way too much
foundation to hide it. The truth is, the vomiting is ruthless and supremely unlikable, but I am also not
sleeping. How could I? Whenever my mind goes over how in the hell I wound up in this situation, I
feel ashamed and stupid. I told myself this would not be happening to me, but here I am. Just like my
mom.
My entire name is Scarlett Sunrise Moonblood. Yeah, you heard me. My mom was a forever
hippie named Sacred Star Moonblood. I don’t know if it was her birth name, but it is the name I grew
up knowing her by. I never knew my father. My mom simply referred to him as Joe Spirit. I grew up
with my mom, moving from one hippie commune to another, dragging me behind her. I watched her
take one lover, then three, then six before she found Gillespie, and we settled in a house. That was the
first time I went to school, at ten years old. It was then I learned the life we led wasn’t normal, and
neither was she.
When I was sixteen, my stepfather died, and my mother fell back into her old habits. So, when I
turned eighteen, I walked away from her and never looked back. I put myself through college with
loans and jobs, met my six best friends, and never looked back. I stayed a virgin to stop myself from
ending up like my mom, alone with a child, depending on a man to make me happy and take care of
me. “A fat lot of good that did me, huh, alien?” I rub my non-existent belly before getting dressed.
Walking out the door, I know I should eat, but I am too scared to, so I don’t. The car ride is
plagued with fear now that it hit me. See, I have known about the baby for about two weeks, but I was
feeling fine, and nothing had changed, so I could ignore it. Then, the floodgates opened Saturday
morning, and all hell broke loose. I have been trying to cope all weekend and find a solution or
something to help, so I can make it through work without anyone finding out. Nothing has worked.
Crackers, ginger ale, nothing. The thing is, I don’t know how my boss would react to this. This will
undoubtedly interfere with my job, and right now, I cannot afford to lose it. So yeah. I am terrified.
“Shoot!” I look at the clock and realize I am late for the first time ever. “No. No. No.” I call out
when I hit another red light. Oh my God. I can’t believe this. Hurriedly, I turn the corner and hand my
keys to the valet. Sprinting to the elevator, I hit the button for the top floor over and over like that is
going to make a difference. Never mind that there are two of everything because I ran to the building,
and now I am dizzier than ever. “Not now. Mama needs a break for a few hours.” I whisper to my
belly, hoping like hell the baby understands me.
The elevator opens, and I power walk to my desk. Five minutes late is not so bad. Right? “Miss
Moonblood. My office.” Okay. I guess I was wrong. I cringe at the use of my last name so loudly, and
with the tone he is currently using. Sagging my shoulders, I drop my purse at my desk and walk into
his office. “Shut the door, please.” Turning, I try to discreetly wipe my face before turning back
around. “You are five minutes late.” Yep. I know.
“Yes, Sir. I am so sorry. I was… I was..” I am trying to explain when I feel like I am going to
faint. I feel myself teeter a bit; then, suddenly, he is at my side. I feel myself moving, but I can only
focus on not hitting the floor. Then, he sits, and I realize I am on his lap. Wiggling, I try to get down,
but he tightens his hold.
“Please stop moving.” He demands in his grouchy voice. But there is something else in it. I stop,
not sure what the hell to do right now. “Thank you. Now tell me, are you ill?” I nod my head slowly,
not looking at him. “May I ask why you came here then? You should have told me you were not
feeling well so I could have taken care of you.” He says the last part so low I think I misheard him. I
turn to look into his eyes, and they are soft. Softer than normal, but the clinching of his jaw says
something else entirely.
“I have never missed work and you have a busy schedule. I didn’t want to...”
“You need to go home and rest. You keep clutching your stomach. Are you nauseous?”
“Yeah. I think it is something I ate.” His gaze narrows on me, but then it clears.
“I will call for Benjamin.” His driver? Why?
“No, I drove here. I can…”
“I will be escorting you home, Scarlett. It is obvious you need someone to take care of you.”
I nod, unsure what to say, but seriously, what the heck is going on?
CHAPTER 2
 SAMUEL

THE GRIM LOOK on her beautiful face makes me worried. I get her up to her apartment and help her to
bed. Not two seconds later, she’s running for the bathroom. I hold her hair back while she casts up
what seems like everything she’s ever eaten. She rests back on her knees by the toilet while I
hurriedly wet a washcloth from the basket on the counter with cool water.
“Those are decorative,” she says.
“I apologize,” I say, looking around for another.
“I’m just kidding, Mr. Rawlins.”
“I think, considering the circumstances, that you should call me Sam.”
“Sam?” she questions.
“Yeah. That is my name.”
“Right. Of course,” she says, taking the washcloth from my hands and putting it on her forehead.
“Thank you, Sam.”
“You think you are good for now?” I ask, helping her to her feet.
“I think so,” she replies.
I lead her back to her bed. When we arrived here, I took a cursory look around her kitchen and
found nothing suitable for her nausea. After a quick text to Benjamin, ordering supplies, I went back
into her bedroom. She’s lying with the cloth over her eyes, and her bare feet crossed at her ankles.
She managed to change into some pajamas. Nothing scandalous, but they appear to be silk Hello Kitty
shorts and a short sleeve pajama top. Fuck, I am too far gone for this girl if I think her Hello Kitty pj's
are sexy as hell.
I drag a chair from the corner of her room over to her bedside. She’s sleeping, but I can’t bring
myself to leave her. Other than my Aunt Penelope, there hasn’t been anyone in my life. My parents
died over twenty years ago, leaving me in my aunt’s care. I used the money I inherited upon their
deaths to start my company, but there hasn’t been a day where I haven’t felt their loss. I reminded
every day that life is short, and at thirty-one, I am ready to settle down and start a family, but only
with Scarlett.
Scarlett groans in her sleep, and then she’s suddenly awake, rushing to the bathroom again. When
she emerges again, she’s paler than usual, and I feel terrible for her.
“I’m going to call the doctor.”
“There’s no need. Just a stomach bug. I’ll be fine, I promise. I just need to sleep. Everything will
be fine in the morning.”
“If it’s not, then the doctor.”
 “Right. Sounds good. Um… can you see yourself out?” she asks, and I can take a hint even though
I definitely don’t want to leave her like this.
“I’m staying for a little while. Benjamin has gone to the store for you. You know there was nothing
in your fridge but half-drunk diet cokes and celery stalks?”
“I did. I haven’t had a chance to go to the store this week.”
“You know you shouldn’t drink diet sodas. It’s not good for you.”
“Thank you, Dr. Sam. Nothing is good for you these days, might as well eat and drink what we
enjoy.”
“That’s a cynical way of looking at things,” I say, chuckling.
“It’s not. It’s just honest.” I watch as she pulls the covers down and crawls under them this time.
She brings the blankets all the way up to her chin and closes her eyes.
“Rest, Scarlett. I’ll wait for Benjamin and then bring you some ginger ale.”
“Thank you.”
I stay and take care of her for the rest of the afternoon, but then I know it’s time to go when an
alarm goes off on her phone. It’s six o’clock at night, and immediately I get jealous because my mind
goes right to her getting ready for a date with someone who isn’t me, and I don’t fucking like that one
bit.
“Thank you for your help today. I’ll pay you back for the groceries.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I tell her.
“Well, thanks again,”
“Don’t forget you promised to call me if you feel sick again.”
I stand and make my way toward the door.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
CHAPTER 3
 SCARLETT

“DON ’ T FORGET you promised to call me if you feel sick again.” I nod my head, getting dizzy from his
behavior. Who is this man? “I can’t hear you, Scarlett.” Oh boy. His bossy tone feels different in my
apartment, and I am reacting to it. This is freaky stuff.
“Yes, Sam.” It feels so weird not calling him by his last name. “I promise I will call you if I need
you. And yes, I know I cannot come to work tomorrow.” I repeat everything he has said to me, hoping
he will leave. He hasn’t been unbearable. Actually, the opposite. He has been sweet and attentive,
dare I say a bit possessive and demanding. I could get used to it. Read more into it; that would not be
good for him or me. So, I need him to leave.
“Are you in a hurry to get rid of me?” He asks, smirking. His thumb brushes against my cheek, and
I barely stop myself from leaning into him.
“I-I have a phone call date.” It is my day to talk to the girls.
“A date?” He growls, his grip tightening on my arm. “Who the fuck is it?” I step back, sort of
confused and a bit more turned on than I want to admit about his blatant jealousy.
“It is really none of your business, but it is a phone call between me and my best friends." I don’t
know why I feel the need to soothe his ire, but I do it. He visibly releases and then walks to the door.
“Enjoy your call, Scarlett.” As soon as he is out and the door is locked, I am leaning against it,
breathing hard, trying to stop the shivers going through me. Holy crap! What was that? Why was he so
jealous and handsy, and why did I like it? My tea kettle goes off at the same time as my phone.
Running, I grab the phone first.
“Hi, ladies.”
“Scarlett. How’s it going? Are you feeling better?” Jinny asks.
“Uh yeah. How are all of you?” Great job changing the subject. I scold myself because we tell
each other everything, but here I am, trying my best to keep it to myself. I listen while the other girls
take and give updates about their lives. I am so busy pouring the ginger tea Sam ordered and
delivered to me this afternoon that I apparently miss them calling my name until Sassy blows a
whistle on the phone. “Ouch. Hey! What was that for?” I ask, sipping the tea.
“We have been calling your name for minutes and you have been zoned out. What is going on,
Scarlett?” Shoot. Now I have two options. I can lie or just tell them. “Scarlett. Seriously. We are
worried about you.” And now I feel guilty. Oh well. Here goes.
“So, do you remember that New Year's Eve masquerade ball I went to?” Everyone nods their
heads. “What I didn’t tell you ladies is that I met a man, and we slept together.”
“What!? You slept with him? Holy shit Scarlett! Good for you girl.” They all have various forms
of support.
“Yeah, well, it felt good, that’s for sure. But now… umm… I’m pregnant.” There is silence.
Crickets.
“Wow.” Comes from Hope. “So that is why you have been sick. Why didn't you tell us, Scar?” I
knew they were going to ask that. I have asked myself that for weeks, but I know the answer.
“I was ashamed. I still am. I slept with a man I don’t know and now I am having a baby. Alone.”
The tears come within seconds, and I am on the phone, balling my eyes out to my friends.
“You are never alone, Scarlett,” Summer says. Her genuine smile, the same as the rest, makes
tears fall down my face.
“Oh crap. Don’t cry, please. Then I am going to cry and so is Hope because of the hormones.”
Candy laughs and wipes her face.
“I’m sorry, guys. I just love you all so much.” I really do. They are the best friends ever.
“We are going to be the best damn aunties ever.” Cheryl puts her hand in the air like she is a
champion. I laugh and wipe my face.
“I love you guys so much. Thank you.” We talk for a few more minutes before we hang up,
promising to talk in a week.
Once I shower, put on clean pajamas, and calmed myself, I lay in bed thinking about Sam. My
final thoughts are about how sweet and caring he is.
“Too bad he is not your daddy, huh.”
That would be amazing.
CHAPTER 4
 SAMUEL

S CARLETT IS BACK at work today after a few days off and I can’t help hovering over her. I can tell
she’s annoyed by me, but I can’t make myself go into my office and do work as I would normally do.
She’s like oxygen to me at this point and I just want to make sure she’s okay.
“Why are you just standing there, Mr. Rawlins?” she asks after about fifteen minutes.
“Just checking on you. And I though we settled on Sam?” I say. She rolls her eyes.
“Not at the office. And thank you very much for checking on me, but I have a lot of work to do due
to my absence. Don’t you have a conference call to prepare for?” she asks after checking the calendar
on her desk.
“You’re right. Of course,” I reply, taking my leave. For the first time, I leave my office door open.
Merely watching her on camera won’t do anymore.
After a tedious conference call, my cell rings.
“Ticiano? How’s the wife?” I ask. My newly married friend has been missing in action for weeks
now, understandably. Ticiano and I met years ago, when he was still in Cuba. My company did some
investing for his family and we’ve been friends ever since.
“She’s excellent. Better now.” After the incident at the mall, of all places, he was more shaken
than she was.
“Good. Good. What’s up?”
“I was calling to see if you were interested in a tasting at Orecchiette? Ana and I can’t make it.”
Dinner out with her may be just thing to get the ball rolling in the right direction.
“Yeah. That sounds amazing, Ticiano. Thanks.”
“I forward all the details. Gotta run, and sorry about this weekend, I can’t make it to the game.”
I have season tickets to the Lightening up in Tampa.
“No worries. I didn’t expect you. You’ve been preoccupied lately.”
“I’ll let you know when I can hang out again. Just got a lot going on these days.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for the dinner reservations.”
“Enjoy. Talk soon.”
He hangs up before I can say anything. I get up from my desk and walk out to Scarlett’s.
“How was the call?”
“It went as expected.”
“Good.”
“I have a client dinner meeting tonight. I need you to join me.” It’s not the first time she’s done, but
it will be the first time the client doesn’t show.
 “Which client? I don’t have anything on the books?”
“A potential client,” I clarify.
“Got it. Where should I meet you?”
“No need for that. I’ll pick you up at your place at seven-thirty.”
“Okay,” she says, turning back to her computer. I watch as she finishes up an email to the
production team and then shuts her computer down. “Alright. I see you later then. Have a good
evening.”
“Until then, Scarlett.”
What the hell am I going to do for two and half hours?
Finally, the time comes and I knock on her door. She opens it and I about swallow my tongue.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her.
“Thank you, Mr… Sam,” she says.
As soon as we get into the car and start down the street. I tell her there is no client.
“The client canceled,” I tell her. “I hope you’ll still join me.”
“Uh… yeah of course, a girl’s got to eat, doesn’t she?”
“Right,” I say, grinning.
It’s time to make Scarlett Moonblood mine forever.
Finally.
CHAPTER 5
 SCARLETT

WHY AM I going to dinner with my boss? Why did I say yes? “Are you alright, precious?” Why is he
confusing me with his actions and words?
“Uh, yes, I guess. I’m just not sure what is happening.” I decide to go for honesty. He nods his
head and moves some hair out of my face.
“I know. I’m sorry.” That’s all he says before opening the door and helping me out of the car.
Looking around, I notice we are at the back entrance of some posh restaurant. I know I have seen it
before, probably in a magazine.
Samuel tucks my hand in his arm, his other arm anchored to his waist as if he thinks I am
somehow going to be wrenched from his grasp. As soon as we walk in, the smell of pasta sauce
makes my mouth water, and then it hits me. “Oh my gosh. Are we at Orecchiette?” He smiles and nods
his head, continuing us down a long corridor.
We stop at an opening, which has a curtained-off room straight ahead. “Mr. and Mrs. Rawlins,
right this way.” My heart begins to pound when she says our names like we are married. I like it. Too
much, if I am being honest. So much so that I feel the need to correct her so I can bring myself back
down to earth.
“Oh Umm… no, we are not…” I stutter, but Samuel cuts off my protest.
“We are dining in private, precious.” I look at him, startled that he is not telling her about the
discrepancy. He shakes his head no like he is telling me to keep it to myself. But why?
The curtained-off room opens, and my hand covers my mouth. “Wow,” I say, looking around. The
room is decorated with roses of all different colors. Pink, red, white, and even a beautiful Fuschia.
Candelabras are everywhere with glowing lights with pink sconces, giving the room a soft, elegant
glow. “This is beautiful.” I release his arm and hold in a giggle when he growls. I spin in a small
circle, slowly, ever cautious of my condition, and take it all in.
“I would give anything to see that every day.” He says, hands in his pocket. I stop and look at him.
“See what every day?” he moves towards me and stops just a finger touch away.
“That smile on your face.” Shocked and unsure how to respond, I drop my head also to hide the
blush. He has been doing that a lot lately. Shocking me and making me blush. Who is this man?
We walk to the table, and a waitress appears right away like they have been watching us. “What
can I get you two to drink?”
“I will take some water,” he says before looking at me.
“Do you have lemon ginger tea?” I don’t look at him, hoping he doesn’t pick up on the
significance of the request.
 “Yes, ma’am. Right away.” When she leaves the room, and we are finally alone, I turn to him and
ask the questions burning my tongue.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” His head jerks back like I have punched him. His face
scrunches up, and he looks almost distressed.
“Am I normally mean to you, Scarlett?” Panic has stricken his face like he will jump off a cliff if I
say yes. Placing my hand on his, I answer him softly and honestly.
“No, Sam. You are never mean to me. I am sorry I made you think that.” He takes a deep breath
and exhales before turning his hand over and gripping mine. “But, lately, it has been different.”
“It was always different.” He answers back without looking up. “For me, anyway.” What the heck
does that mean? Before I can ask him, the waitress comes back with our drinks and a tray.
“Since you ordered the sample feast for tonight, I will be bringing your courses out in six phases,
starting with our from the sea platter. For a starter, we have a crouton cracker with a piece of fried
sea bass and a Chilean salsa on top. We also have a salmon spread on a rosemary focaccia and a
garden salad with strawberries. Enjoy.” When she leaves, Samuel looks at me and lifts his eyebrow.
“Shall we?” he asks, pointing to the covered dishes. I nod, excited because everything sounds so
delicious. He lifts the tops, and I squeal at how adorable it looks. I am so excited that I forget about
my condition and lean over to smell it. Big mistake. Standing and stumbling back, my hand shoots
over my mouth. “Scarlett? Are you alright?” I shake my head frantically, looking overhead for a sign
for the restroom. Spotting one to the left, I turn and sprint there as fast as I can. Barely make it to the
toilet before the nothing I ate today comes up. “Oh, precious. It’s okay. I’m here.” I am startled that he
followed me, but I am too busy to care. He pulls my hair back and holds it for me, rubbing my back
while I curse this invader and my stupidity.
Finally, when all the life has drained from my body, I sit back, sagging and wind knocked from my
sails. I hear water running somewhere in the distance, and then a cold cloth touches my face. I moan,
grateful for this man who has taken it upon himself to be my support right now, even though he doesn’t
know the truth about my condition.
Opening my eyes after a few minutes, I just stare at him, allowing myself to wonder what it would
be like to be loved, cherished, and wanted by a man like him. Someone strong, loyal, and capable.
Someone who would allow me to follow my dreams but keep me protected. Someone I can depend on
and not have to be out here in the world alone. I let myself float it around like a fantasy, except, no
matter what, I will never be alone again. Will I?
He stops whipping my face and smiles at me. “So fucking beautiful,” he says before lifting me in
his arms. “Even your damn hair smells sweet.” I don’t have the energy to unpack any of this right now.
So, I lay my head on his chest and let him carry me away. Too bad it can’t be like this forever.
CHAPTER 6
 SAMUEL

ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT . I lift her into my arms and carry her out of the bathroom and through the
restaurant, the other patrons stare at us as we go by, but I don’t give a flying fuck about them. I hand
my valet ticket to the attendant and wait for my car with her still in my arms.
“You can put me down, Sam,” she says, clinging to my neck like a scared kitten. I don’t hate it.
“I will, precious. I will,” I tell her, but hold onto her tighter. Finally, my car pulls up. “Do you
want to lie down, or do you want to sit next to me?” I ask.
“Sit,” she says, and the attendant opens the passenger door, having overheard her. I deposit her in
the seat and buckle her seatbelt for her. The waitress runs out of the restaurant and hands me her
purse.
“Your wife forgot her purse, Mr. Rawlins,” she says, looking worried.
“Thank you. Please let Pierre know I will call him tomorrow to settle the bill. I must get my wife
home now.” Wife. Fuck. I love the sound of that.
“Of course, sir.” I hand her a hundred-dollar tip and move around to the other side of the car,
where the valet attendant is waiting.
“Thank you, kid,” I say, peeling another hundred out of my wallet and handing it to him.
Thank you, sir,” he says, grinning at me. I get into the car and pull into traffic after buckling my
seatbelt.
The drive to my neighborhood, South of Fifth, is blessedly short and much closer than her place. I
pull into my driveway. She pops her eyes open.
“This is where you live?” she asks, confused. It’s a new place for me, and she’s never been here.
“Yes.”
“I thought you had a condo downtown.” She’s had to go to my place on more than one occasion,
all work-related, unfortunately.
“I sold it about a month ago and moved out here.” It was a nice place, but a bachelor pad through
and through. Once I set my plan into motion, I knew I’d need a bigger place. This is a five-bed, three-
bath property with a pool and a guest house. It’s perfect for a future family.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asks, wringing her hands in her lap.
“You need to rest, and I am calling a doctor. You need medicine for this stomach bug, Scarlett.”
“No doctor, please. I just need to rest. I promise I’ll rest.”
Then it dawns on me. She’s pregnant. I got her pregnant. It all makes sense now. That has to be it.
“Fine, no doctor,” I say, instead pulling out my phone and texting my aunt to stop by. She’ll know
what to do. Getting out of the car, I move over to the passenger side and help her out.
 “Thank you, Sam. You’re being really nice.”
I don’t say anything as I take her into the house through the garage. I deposit her in my room and
tell her to rest. “I’ve asked my aunt to stop by. Maybe she can help you. She’s a nurse if you recall.”
“I remember, thank you,” she says, offering me a weak smile.
“Help yourself to anything you like. My clothes are in the closet, all labeled. I have an extra
toothbrush in the drawer in the bathroom.”
“Thank you, Sam.” She sounds like she’s about to cry. Her tears would do me in, I already know
it.
I close the door and await my aunt in the living room. Not ten minutes later, she’s there.
“Aunt Pen,” I say, kissing her cheek.
“What’s the problem?” she asks, hugging me in return.
“It’s Scarlett.”
“Your assistant?”
“It’s more than that and you know it,” I tell her, chuckling.
“That I do, my boy. That I do. Where is she?”
“My room,” I tell her, and then she’s gone, already closed into my bedroom with Scarlett. I love
that woman. She put her dreams on hold in order to take care of me; now, I take care of her. She just
enrolled in law school at thirty-eight. She was my father’s younger sister, barely eighteen, when my
parents died. They’d be in their late forties now, my dad was my age when he died. Aunt Pen and
Scarlett are in there for a long time, and I can do nothing but pace the hallway and wait for them to
come out.
What the hell could they possibly be talking about for so long, I wonder after the hour mark. I can
hear sniffles but nothing else.
Fuck. I wish Scarlett would just talk to me, but I guess I can’t be too mad. There is so much I have
to say to her myself.
CHAPTER 7
 SCARLETT

OH MY GOSH. His aunt is lovely. She is so sweet and kind. Her spirit reminds me of Samuel’s. Well,
the part of him he is letting me see. “So,” she says as she starts coming into the sitting room, “you are
giving my nephew a run for his money.” She winks at me, forcing me to hide the smile, trying to come
out. “Good. Make him work for it. But, I do agree. Something with you is off. I just met you and I can
tell something is bothering you. Eating at you makes you miserable, and it might feel good to get it
out.” Oh, God. Why did she have to say that? I talked to my friends, but I still feel alone. Maybe it is
because they are all away, not here with me.
“I just… I just don’t know what to do?” Folding over, hands wrapped around my stomach, hoping
to convey the apology to the little invader inside of me, about how sorry I am to not be more excited
about its pending existence, and weep. I cry for the girl who failed to keep her promise not to turn into
my mother and for the child who is going to grow up like me without stability and a father. A hand
comes to my back, and I hear sweet, whispered words.
“Oh, sweetie. Just tell me. Let it out. I swear you will feel better. And who knows. Maybe we can
come up with a solution.” Yeah. The only possible solution to this makes my heart break to even think
about it. But she might be right. It might help to speak to someone who is not so far away. Adoption is
something I have been thinking about at night when I am alone. Maybe she can help me with that.
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out, biting my lip. She purses her lips in shock, and then something in her
eyes twinkle.
“Oh my. Is it…?” Crap. I should have started with that.
“Oh goodness no. It’s not Samuel’s. He and I are not… I mean, we haven’t… He is just being nice
to me. The truth is, I don’t know who the father is. I was dumb and reckless for one night on New
Year's Eve, and well… surprise. A party favor followed me home,” I say, patting my stomach.
“Well, now I see why you are so distressed. Can you find this gentleman?” I shake my head no.
“We did not exchange names or numbers. It was sort of a silent agreement that it was for one
night.”
“I see. Can I ask why you haven’t told Samuel?” Oh God, panic starts rising in my throat. Why
didn’t it hit me until right now that her loyalty is to him? I should have said nothing. Scrambling from
the seat, I begin gathering my phone and purse, ready to flee. “Scarlett, darling, I am not going to say
anything. Please calm down. I was just wondering because he is extremely understanding and
compassionate.”
“I know that,” I tell her, trying to calm down so my stomach does not turn on me. “He has been
amazing and I could easily let him take care of me. But what happens when he finds out I am
pregnant? I am worried about my job. If I decide to keep this baby, I need my job. I have been sick
and it has interfered with my job. What if finding out the reason why, makes him realize it is not going
to get better?” She nods her head and walks towards me.
“I see. I understand your hesitance. But, sweet girl, whether you keep the baby or not, he is going
to find out when you start to show. My advice would be to tell him so he doesn’t find out another way.
Okay?” Well heck. She is right. I have been so worried about right now that I haven't thought about the
future much. Pulling me into a hug, she kisses my cheek and moves me back. “Everything will be
alright, sweet girl. I promise.” From her lips to God’s ears.
She walks out of the door, and I continue standing there clutching my stuff, unsure which way to go
yet. I know she is right. I need to tell him, but I am scared. The last few days have been confusing but
amazing. I haven’t been as worried. There has been someone else looking after me for once. I have
been able to sleep and relax. Albeit for short timeframes before the truth sinks in, still, it felt
wonderful. But let’s be honest. Once he finds out about the baby, what are the odds he will stay this
protective and attentive? I guess it doesn’t matter. I was always going to end up alone. Knock. Knock.
I hear his taps on the door and take a deep breath. I guess now is as good a time as any.
CHAPTER 8
 SAMUEL

F INALLY, my bedroom door opens, and Aunt Pen comes out. Alone.
“What did you guys talk about?” I demand as soon as she shuts the door behind her.
“You’re going to have to talk to Scarlett, Sammy. I promised her I wouldn’t say a thing.”
“Why would you do a thing like that?” I ask, shocked. She’s always been on my side.
“Because it’s not my place, and if I find out you’ve fucked this up, I’m going to beat your ass.”
“I’m a grown man, Aunt Pen.”
“Not that grown,” she says, laughing as she walks out the door. I shake my head at her nonsense.
She’s always been the cool aunt, the life of the party, but then again, I never gave her a reason to have
to be the disciplinarian.
I grab Scarlett a ginger ale from the kitchen and then I knock on the door and wait for her to
acknowledge me.
“Come in,” her sweet voice finally says. As soon as I open the door, the first thing I notice is her
sitting on my bed with her legs crossed, but she’s wearing my Miami Dolphins jersey… and nothing
fucking else, at least that I can see. Her dress is draped over the back the chair in the corner.
“What’s going on?” I ask her, sitting on the bed beside her. I hand her the ginger ale which she
sips slowly.
“Thank you. I don’t know if I’m ready to tell you or nor.”
“I’d like for you to tell me. You can tell me anything, Scarlett,” I say, grabbing her free hand.
She thinks for a minute, takes another sip of ginger ale, and then takes a deep breath.
“I’m pregnant,” she says softly. Fuck yeah, I tell myself. I was right. I know this is my moment to
tell her everything but I can’t. Not until she’s so fucking in love with me that the things I did don’t
matter. Game on.
“That certainly explains things,” I say, squeezing her hand.
“You’re not mad?”
“Mad?”
“Like you’re not going to fire me?”
“Well, no. First of all, I am pretty sure that’s entirely illegal, not to mention, I’d never fire you.
You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.
“You don’t have any follow up questions? You don’t want to know who the father is?” she blurts
out. I smile. I already fucking know who the father is.
“No, Scarlett. I’m not concerned about that at all. Are you healthy? Is your baby healthy?” I ask.
“Yes, we’re both fine.”
 “Then that’s all that matters,” I say.
“Is it? What if I had a boyfriend waiting for me at home?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask, insane with jealously at the mere thought of her having a
boyfriend, one who isn’t me.
“Well… no, but I could have. Babies just don’t make themselves.”
Just then her stomach rumbles and I spring into action.
“Let’s find something for you to eat,” I say standing. I take her hand and help her up. She looks
amazing in just my jersey. Who am I kidding? She looks amazing in anything. In nothing at all. My
cock is instantly hard and I have to force myself to think of anything else in the world, instead of
sliding into her hot, wet pussy again. I growl.
“What’s wrong,” she asks as soon as we get into the kitchen.
“Nothing, Scarlett. Nothing at all.”
“People don’t growl for no reason, Sam.”
Turning, I face her and step closer to her.
“You’re so beautiful, Scarlett. I can’t help myself when I am around you,” I say and then my lips
touch hers.
“Oh, my,” she says, when I let her go. I don’t want to scare her and move to fast. I am more than
content with just her kisses.
For now.
CHAPTER 9
SCARLETT
ONE WEEK LATER
THIS IS INSANE. I have been here for a week. An entire week was spent sleeping in his bed, wrapped
in his arms every night. Nothing has happened but a few stolen kisses that always take my breath
away, but other than that, nothing.
Slowly, I have noticed things from my apartment show up here. Like clothes, my bathroom
products, and even some foods that I like being stocked in the house. I ignored it for a while, sure, it
would stop, and he would get sick of me, but now it is just downright weird, and it is starting to piss
me off. Now weird in a run away sort of way, but like, in a frustrating way. He won’t talk to me about
the baby. Hasn’t said anything since I told him a week ago. He simply just keeps the house stocked
with ginger ale, crackers, and ginger lemon tea. Sweet I know, but it is making my head spin.
Yesterday, we drove to work as we have been doing since two days after he brought me to my
house that first morning. Normally, I am able to find some excuse, a reason not to go up with him.
Luckily we park in a private garage, so no one sees me get out of his car, but that is where the privacy
stops. Once we are out of the car, everyone can see everything.
So, I tried to get him to let me go up after him, and he pouted like the most adorable, big kid ever.
It was so stinking cute that I giggled before the snotty chick in circulation gave me the stink eye. When
I told him people will think something is going on between us, he looked at me, smiled, and said,
“There is something going on, precious. Now let’s go up before we are both late.” Then he winked at
me, and that was the end of the conversation.
I tried bringing up the baby, the situation, anything to elicit a conversation, but he either shuts me
up with a chaste yet hot kiss or shrugs, tells me to get used to it and changes the subject. I found it
endearing for a few days, recognizing he was trying not to stress me out, but now, as I watch a baby
bed being carried into the house, it is getting out of hand. “Don’t you just love it?” he says, walking
into the room I am assuming is supposed to be the temporary nursery.
“Well, it is definitely something,” I mumble under my breath. Once the delivery guys leave, I
storm into the bedroom. “What the hell is going on, Sam?” he stands up, mouth open, shocked at the
curse word leaving my mouth.
“Scarlett, what’s wrong?”
“I want to know what all of this is. Why is my stuff here? Why are you buying baby things, and
having them delivered here like I am not leaving? Why won’t you let me sleep in the guest room? I
mean I could see if there was something going on with us, but I have been in your bed for a week, and
other than a few kisses, nothing has happened. I mean God, you are driving me crazy. You're being so
sweet and caring and even jealous and protective, but when I try to talk to you about it, you change the
subject. Hell, you won’t even mention the baby, but your buying cribs? Samuel, I need to know what
is happening.” His hands are in his pocket, and he is looking at me like I am crazy. I can understand it.
I certainly feel like I am crazy.
“I…” He stops and swallows, visibly unsure what to say. His eyes become soft, and I swear in
them, I see something that looks like pity, and it pierces me. It slides through my gut, cutting me open
from the inside out. I am nuts. I have allowed all of this to happen, secretly praying he was feeling a
fraction of what I am. Letting myself believe that he could want a pregnant woman who got knocked
up in a one-night stand.
 I have been resisting myself this entire time, reminding myself this was nothing and that he felt
only pity, but every time my mind would win, he would call me ‘precious’ or kiss me. Carry me
somewhere, whisper something teasing in my ear, anything, and my heart would take over the war. But
I finally see the pity on his face, and I can’t ignore it anymore. “Oh my god. Do you feel sorry for me?
Is that it? You think I need someone to take care of me and this baby? Well newsflash, I am probably
not keeping it, so I don’t need you, your cribs, your kisses or your pity.” Turning from him before the
tears begin to fall, I run to his bedroom, the room he has been making me sleep in since I got here, and
start ripping clothes from the closet.
I make quick work of grabbing the clothes I owned before he started pity purchasing on my behalf,
the entire time leaking shame and embarrassment in the path of my feet. Making sure to pull the
adoption papers I had a lawyer Hope knows, draw up for me so that if it is the decision I choose,
everything is in place. I place it in my work bag and throw it over my shoulder.
I can’t help but stop and look around this room I have come to love. It has only been a week, but I
have felt protected in this space and loved in this space. Well, I thought it was love, but now I know
the truth. Deciding that everything else can just stay, especially since I don’t know what I am going to
do now. I mean, there is no way I can go back to work for him, right? Feeling defeated and alone once
again, I grab the one bag I was able to fit my clothes into and walk toward the bedroom door. Hand on
the knob, I take a deep breath, ready to face him when the door comes flying open. Luckily I move fast
enough, so it misses my face.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” he asks, filling up the doorway.
“I am leaving. I am going back to my place to figure out what I am going to do.” I tell him,
squaring my shoulders back. His gaze burns my skin as if I have somehow offended him. That’s rich.
“You are not going any fucking place.” He rips my bag from my hands and flings it across the
room. I am so shocked I say nothing, mouth opening and closing like a guppy. “Except for right in my
arms and in my bed.” What is he talking about? My mind blanked out when he said in his bed. I mean,
I have been in his bed for a week, but something about the way he is staring at me and the thick air in
the room, I know he means something else.
Shaking my head, I take a step back but not fast enough. He pulls me into his arms and slams his
mouth onto mine. His tongue peeks out, wet and warm, licking the seam of my mouth. Whimpering,
pussy throbbing and putty, I open for him, and holy moly, I almost pass out. “Does this feel like pity,
precious?” Gripping his shirt, I held him to me, wanting to climb him like a tree. “You will never be
anywhere but with me, baby. Never.” God, how I hope it’s true.
I feel us moving, but I am too busy swallowing his tongue, trying to keep it inside of my mouth.
When my ass hits the bed, I cry out at the loss of his mouth on mine. “Sam,” I whine, not wanting him
to change his mind.
“Don’t worry, precious, I am not going anywhere.” If he keeps making me feel like this, me
neither.
CHAPTER 10
 SAMUEL

F UCK. It’s been too damn long since I’ve been inside of her. Kissing her isn’t enough, but it feels real
now that I’ve got her in my bed. More real than the first time. When I claimed her cherry and made
her mine. This time, she’ll know it’s me. It’s fucking insane how jealous I am of myself. I rip myself
away from her lips and pull her shirt over her head, getting my fill of her curves. She tries to cover
herself in modesty, but I push her hands away. I want to see what’s mine. What will be mine for-
fucking-ever.
“Don’t hide from me, Scarlett,” I tell her. “I want to see you. I want to touch every inch of your
body with my tongue, lips, and cock. Let me in, Scarlett.”
“You can see me,” she says, laying her hands flat on the mattress as a blush begins to creep down
from her cheeks to the tops of her breasts. The pale pink that rises there reminds me just how virginal
she was the first time I took her, but it’s not lost on me how fucked up this whole thing is. She doesn’t
even know I was the man who took her virginity. That I am the man who wore her fucking blood like a
trophy. The irrational jealousy from before flares up again. Fuck, think of something else, dickhead,
I tell myself as I run my hands over her body.
Pulling the cups of her bra down, I suck one of her nipples into her mouth. She tastes like vanilla,
something that is all her, something I can’t put my finger on. I swirl my tongue around her nipple until
it is a stiff peak, then I bite it. She cries out and grinds her body against me. It’s the best feeling in the
world, one I can’t do without any longer.
“You are so fucking beautiful, Scarlett. Tell me you know that.” She doesn’t respond with anything
other than a moan. Fuck, that sound goes straight to my balls. She doesn’t know what she does to me,
but I will be telling her very fucking soon, but this can’t happen again. She has to be in my bed every
night from this moment forward. I won’t be taking no for an answer.
“Sam. Please… please don’t stop,” she begs, and my cock is harder than it ever has been before.
I’m leaking precum like it’s going out of style just from kissing her. I move over to her other nipple
and suck it hard, then I move down her body, pulling her leggings down as I go. Then her pretty pussy
is in my face; I can’t help it; I have to taste her. I lick her slit up and down before sliding two fingers
into her and continue lashing my tongue across her clit. She grabs a fist full of my hair and pushes her
pussy harder into my face. This is what Heaven tastes like, for sure.
“Come for me, Scarlett,” I demand, my voice no more than a growl. My thoughts run rampant with
my wild desires for her. I want it all with her. A family with her is a necessity at this point. I’ve
craved it since the moment I saw her.
“Sam!” she screams as I am rewarded with a flood of her sweet cream. I lap it up and move back
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neither the one nor the other, even on land which is, as was
remarked before, capable of yielding a handsome revenue! And here
let it not be supposed that I am speaking of extreme cases only, or
that there are but few woods in this state: the cases are numerous: I
have seen, and could point out many, but this I shall not do: I rather
choose to leave these observations with “all whom they may
concern,” to work conviction where they are seen to be just, quite
indifferent as to the effect which they may produce on the minds of
any who may oppose them.
And now let me ask—if this be the state of many woods—if neither
a crop of timber nor of underwood is found—to what is it owing? the
reply is not difficult: it is mainly attributable to proprietors themselves,
and to their agents: to woodmen in a subordinate degree. In proof of
my first position, I would respectfully remark, that if a gentleman
chooses to sacrifice every thing to the idea of having good covers;
and, supposing that any thing which interferes with the primeval
state of his woods, is incompatible with this object, refuses to do any
thing at them, the woodman may not bear the blame. Again: if a
proprietor happen, unfortunately, to have such an aversion to felling
timber—and there are many such—that he will sooner let it rot down,
or allow one tree to destroy another; or again; suffer the timber trees
to stand so thickly that they not only totally destroy each other, but
the underwood below also, the woodman ought not to be censured;
except indeed, he have advised such a course, which I can hardly
think any man accustomed to woods could do, in the present day.
Once more; if gentlemen lack the moral courage—and I have met
with some of this description—to treat with the contempt which it
deserves the vulgar meddling, the idle tattle of those who are ever
ready to say, when timber is felled, that the owner’s poverty, and not
his will, consents to the deed, we are furnished with abundance of
reasons for the serious waste of property that is going on, but the
woodman is not in fault, neither ought he to be blamed. Lastly: if
proprietors commit the management of their woods to persons who
are wholly incompetent—as is too often the case—to discharge the
duties confided to them, I cannot see that the men are to be
condemned, but rather their employers. Wherever such
“mismanagement” prevails as I have attempted to describe, and
have seen so much cause to lament, it may generally, I think, be
traced, either to ignorance on the part of woodmen, or inattention on
the part of their employers: but it will be quite clear to all, who will
allow themselves time to think on the subject, that the grossest
mismanagement is to be met with, not on first, nor even on second,
but on third, and fourth-rate estates, where regular woodmen are not
kept, and below that grade downwards, to property which is in the
hands of Trustees, or mainly under the control of Solicitors, or
Corporate bodies; or, which is probably worse than all, under the
supreme direction of men who having, during the whole of their
business life, had too many Stewardships, &c. for any human being
to look after and manage well, cannot of course be deemed capable
of judging rightly on a subject which requires the closest possible
attention, the nicest discrimination, and an extended and varied
experience.
Much mischief has also arisen from the employment by
gentlemen, and by their agents, of persons, who, while they may,
usefully and creditably, fulfil their duties as village carpenters and the
like, cannot possibly possess those enlarged, comprehensive views,
which are necessary to the proper management of timber generally,
and Ancient Woods especially. I must here protest against the
conclusion being drawn, that I am doing injustice to any class of men
in remarking, as I have done, on their manner of discharging the
trust committed to them. As to the professional gentlemen, either
their engagements, their position, or their habits, interpose an
insurmountable difficulty, and relieve them from the charge of wilful
neglect: and as to the others it is no injustice to them to affirm, as I
do most positively, that there are principles and considerations
involved in this subject, which they can, in no wise, grasp or
comprehend: and so perfectly clear is this to me, so fully am I borne
out by a long course of “observation and experience,” that I have
never yet seen one solitary instance, where the timber taken down in
thinning, either in woods or plantations, when in such hands, has
been properly done; and in very few cases indeed, either here, or
higher up the scale, without the most serious blunders. One case
has fallen under my observation this Winter, (1842,) where oak
timber trees were selected and marked for sale, which were exactly,
in every respect, such as a good judge would wish to see in every
wood; and not only, not too thick, but, from the same injudicious
mode of selecting and marking at previous auctions, much too thin.
They were also in a state of high vigorous health, and moreover,
there was no underwood which could be benefited! I admit that this
was a more flagrant outrage against the principles which ought to
rule in selecting, than is usually committed, but the work is hardly
ever done as it ought to be.
But whatever difference of opinion may arise among practical
men, upon the points now under consideration, and on whomsoever
the blame may rest, it is unquestionable that the actual state of a
large proportion of our Ancient Woods is very bad indeed: they are
either crowded with inferior oak timber, along with the most
miserable rubbish as underwood; or, if they contain any thing
valuable in either the one or the other, no principles, or rules of any
kind, are applied in the management of them; and, consequently,
they are, on some account or other, and of course more or less
rapidly, passing through the stage of deterioration, and are annually
losing to their owners, a heavy per centage on their value. In many
cases, the oak, from ages of “mismanagement,” is stunted in growth,
and of a form, and shape, totally unsuited to the place where it
stands; and the underwood consists of that alone which is
indigenous to the soil, and which, therefore, no neglect can destroy,
nor any culture improve: in addition to all this, they are often, nay
almost always, on clayey, retentive soils, ruined with water: they are
periodically shut up, for from eighteen to twenty-five years, during
which time, it is impossible to do any thing at them; and, when they
are cleared of the underwood, instead of the opportunity being
gratefully seized, for the purpose of effecting those operations which
can only be carried on at such a time, they are shut up again, and
left in their original state—except indeed they may have been
despoiled of some of their oak—nothing being done at them, or, if
any thing, probably so little, or so ill done, that no good result is
produced. But what ought to be the course pursued at such a time?
Why, as it is only during the year of “hagging,” and the following
season, that any work of magnitude, any improvement worth
mentioning, can be carried on; a proprietor should more carefully
examine his woods when they have been cut, than he would any
other description of property: he should himself, if he understand it—
which, however, is very seldom the case—or if he do not, by a
person who is conversant with such matters, make a most rigid, and
particular survey, in order to satisfy himself as to what ought to be
done; and this he must do immediately when the underwood is cut,
or rather, as soon as any considerable portion is done, so that he
may have before him all the time which he can possibly command,
for carrying on, and completing, his improvements. He must not be
deterred from commencing them by any consideration of the
remoteness of the prospect of return upon his outlay; but, instead of
visiting the sins of his fathers upon the generations following him, he
must, if the case demand it, make a present sacrifice, for the benefit
of his posterity: I say if the case demand it, but this will not very
frequently happen, as there are very few instances of
“mismanagement” where the fear of cutting timber has not been one
of the principal causes of that mismanagement; and where this is so,
there is at once found a source from whence may be obtained the
means of amply paying for any outlay that may be required. I have
thus far remarked only on what may, and what ought to be done,
when Ancient Woods come to be felled in the regular way, and at the
usual time and age; but there are vast numbers of cases where, first,
the condition of the woods is so bad, that all considerations about
the usual time, are merged in the necessity for immediately
commencing the work of renovation; and, secondly, the instances
are not few, where the same course is desirable, in order that a more
profitable way of disposing of the produce may be introduced, to
supersede the old jog-trot mode of getting rid of it.
With regard to the first, it will at once be perceived, by a practical
eye, and a sound judgment, whether a wood is in such a state, as to
the prospect of a crop, that it is the proprietor’s interest to make a
sacrifice in the underwood and cut it, although it may sell for nothing
but faggots, rather than finish, or run out, the term, at the end of
which it would be cut in the usual course. I have seen hundreds of
such cases: there are many in almost every neighbourhood where
woods exist at all; and I confidently ask, what would be the use, or
how would it be possible to show the propriety, of completing the
term of the cycle, if, first, the wood contained nothing valuable as
underwood; and if, secondly, it contained a considerable portion of
timber that required immediate attention, on some account or other?
I should, for instance, instantly determine to cut, where I found a
wood crowded with a class of unhealthy oaks, or other timber: but it
is not necessary to particularize, as I would not pretend to give such
directions here as would enable a gentleman to decide, for that could
only be done after inspection. So many points have to be
considered, that a careful survey of a wood must be made. This
done, fortunately there is no difficulty in coming to a correct
conclusion upon such a question as this. A practical man, who
understands what he is about, will be in no danger of committing an
error in the decision to which he will be led, for these are not
subjects on which a difference of opinion might naturally arise upon
an examination taken. The various considerations for cutting, or
forbearing to cut, would so certainly present themselves to the mind
of a person really competent to judge, that I should say there would
be no doubt whatever, of his deciding correctly, if he were not
interfered with by the personal wish, or taste, of his employer. It is
with this as with most other subjects:—wherever men understand
what they are about, and are guided and governed by fixed
principles, matters go on well; but the misfortune, with regard to
woods, is, that ages of “mismanagement,” and other causes,
interpose obstacles and difficulties which it will be no slight task to
overcome. To give a brief summary of my views upon this important
point, I would remark, that no wood ought to be allowed to run out its
term which is not stocked as it ought to be, or which, if stocked
tolerably well, is suffering injury from imperfect drainage. As I have
just said, these points must be determined by an examination of the
wood by some person whose judgment may be relied upon; but any
gentleman may see at once, if he will, that if a wood is really in the
state which I have supposed, viz., without either timber or
underwood worth standing, &c. it would be perfectly absurd to let it
stand; for at the end of the cycle it would be very little better than at
the beginning, and so much more time would be irrecoverably lost.
As to the second point—the improvement of revenue to be derived
from a different mode of disposing of the produce, I am of opinion
that much might be done, in many places, without laying an
increased tax on the local buyers, who are generally either farmers,
or their tradesmen, the wheelwrights and carpenters of every
neighbourhood, and who already pay quite enough for what they get;
and especially the former, to whom I would much sooner
recommend their landlords to allow an abatement, as an
encouragement to them to keep their fences, gates, &c. in good
order, than any thing in the shape of an advance. But still, much may
be done to increase the returns from woodland property, by an
improved system of management, and, first, I should advise a careful
assortment of the stuff after it is felled: I would here, as in every thing
else, classify, by which means, the different kinds, as well as the
different sizes, and shapes, will come into the hands of such persons
as they may exactly suit, instead of jumbling all sorts together, so
that a buyer is obliged to purchase that which he does not want, in
order to come at another portion of the same lot which he is desirous
of having.
Secondly: There is room to doubt, I think, as hinted before,
whether mistakes are not often made, in not adapting the produce of
woods better as to its age, both to the local demand, and the
interests of the proprietor.
Thirdly: So numerous are the facilities in the present day, to what
they used to be, for the transmission of produce of every kind from
one place to another, and so many demands have, by commercial
enterprize, been opened out, which were altogether unknown a
quarter of a century ago, that it may, even as to heavy produce, like
that of woods, be always questioned, when the demand is slack, and
when prices are low, whether the local market be indeed the best
market, or whether the produce may not be much better disposed of
in some other way. That this sometimes occurs, I can prove from my
own experience in many cases, but I will mention only one, which
was that of an Ancient Wood, a twentieth portion of which was felled
every year, and in which, from “mismanagement,” a large quantity of
the stuff was annually left unsold, but where, after the introduction of
a better system, the whole was disposed of without difficulty.
 Fourthly: A great increase of revenue may be derived from a better
mode of managing the stock, both of timber and underwood: the
latter may, by timely and judicious pruning, by a proper attention to
draining, &c. be brought to maturity at a much earlier period than it
has hitherto been done in many places, and thus, of course, be
made to return a greater rent.
It is incredible how little is done to Ancient Woods compared with
what ought to be done, in the way of draining, pruning, stubbing up
rubbish, and filling up with young plants; although it is manifest that,
whenever a wood is opened, these important operations should
claim the very particular attention of the proprietor or his woodman.
But they do not receive it; and hence one cannot wonder at the
stunted, unhealthy appearance, which many woods exhibit. They are
almost always without any effective drainage, it being generally
thought quite sufficient to open out a few paltry drains, which the
falling leaves of the first Autumn will choke up. It will indeed very
seldom be found, that even the outside ditches are well looked after:
whereas it should always be the anxious concern of the woodman to
provide, as well as he possibly can, for the effectual drainage of a
wood after being felled, not only during a year or two, but for the
term of the whole cycle. Of course I am aware that the leaves must
fall, and, consequently, that the free egress of the water must, in
some degree, be impeded, but, nevertheless, it is in the power of the
woodman to provide, in a great measure, if not wholly, against this
contingency, by making a sufficient number of ditches, of ample
capacity, and by putting them in the best direction. But instead of
this, it will very rarely be found, as I have just now said, that even the
outside ditches are properly attended to. The consequence is, that
the oaks, and our best underwood, the ash, not liking too much
moisture, become diseased, and make comparatively slow progress:
in fact, their existence is shortened by it, as the former will be found
upon cold clay land, having a strong subsoil, to be very stunted and
sickly in their appearance, and ultimately to die at the top, when, of
course, they must be cut down; while the latter will much sooner
become hollow, and they too, will finally perish. A small outlay in
draining, if judiciously expended, would, in most cases, prevent
these effects, and as it would only require to be done once in fifteen
or twenty years, it could not lay more than a trifling charge upon the
land.
Pruning is also a very necessary operation in Ancient Woods, both
of the oak and of the underwood. I shall not here enter upon an
inquiry into the general question of pruning, but, continuing to treat
my subject practically, venture to remark, that, as our woods are now
circumstanced, pruning, of some kind or other, is, as far as the oak is
concerned, quite indispensable. Whether it should be by fore-
shortening, close pruning, or some other method, must be
determined upon an examination taken, but I do not hesitate to
express my belief, that the pruning of oak trees in woods, may be
almost wholly dispensed with, after the few first years, if they are well
trained from the beginning; but that being the case with very few,
pruning must be resorted to. And as to the underwood, the question
has still less difficulty in it. When a wood is well stocked with
underwood of the right sort, the object to be aimed at by the
woodman is to bring it to maturity as soon as possible, and one
means which he possesses, if he will make use of it, is pruning;
which he should commence, after one year’s growth, and
occasionally repeat—say on the fourth and sixth years, allowing the
intervals to pass without interfering with it. If this operation be
performed as it ought to be, the stools will have a number of poles
proportioned to their size and capacity of supporting them, and the
poles themselves will not only be more of an uniform size, but they
will be much straighter, and on every account better adapted to the
use for which they may be intended. But if a wood be stocked with
nothing but rubbish, such as hazel, birch, alder, &c. it will not be
worth pruning, and the best course to take with it, would be to stub it
up, and get rid of it altogether.
Finally, on this point, and more particularly with reference to
timber, if the pruning be judiciously done, it will tend greatly to
improve the health of the wood, but the indiscriminate use of the
pruning knife might do much harm, it should, therefore, only be done
under the most careful direction.
Stubbing up rubbish, such as thorns, briers, birch, and, in many
places, hazel, is much to be recommended, as by this means, light
and air will be admitted more freely, and the health of the wood
promoted, and, of course, its growth facilitated. It is perhaps just
possible, that there may be a few cases where the demand may be
such for birch, hazel, or alder, as to warrant a woodman in keeping
them as a part of his stock; but I have generally found, upon inquiry,
that they have fetched such a miserable price, as to yield very little
more than would pay expences.
The absolute necessity of filling up with young plants must be
universally admitted, although in practice, it is very rarely done, or, if
done at all, it is very generally so ill done, as to produce no
perceptible improvement in the stock.
It too often happens that sufficient care is not bestowed in
selecting the plants. They are frequently put in too small, and when
they are long enough, they are often deficient in thickness. All plants
put into old woods, should be of good size, stiff, and well rooted.
Again: it will be admitted, that they are often planted in a most
slovenly and careless manner.—The following is a specimen of what
I have seen. The workman takes his spade, and inserts it in the
ground as far as it will go, in a sloping direction; he then raises it to a
perpendicular position, which, of course, produces a “nick,” into
which he thrusts the plant, and having put his heavy foot upon it,
there and thus, he leaves it to its fate, and pursues his ill-directed
labour, without a gleam of light breaking in upon him, as to the
possibility of his being more usefully employed, or doing his work in
a more effective manner! In this way, or in some such way as this,
thousands of acres of Ancient Woods are treated every year; but it
must be clear to every one, that such a practice is a disgrace to
those who pursue it. If the workmen are asked their opinion of it, they
will, in most cases, assure you, that the plants will “all grow,” but the
misfortune is, that experience is against them. Both theory and
practice are directly opposed to their view. But independently of
facts, which every where condemn such methods, no one
acquainted with the rudiments of the subject, needs to be told, that it
is utterly unlikely that either an oak or an ash plant should grow,
under the manifest disadvantages in which it is placed, when its
roots are thus jumbled together, and forced into a “nick” fit only for a
willow set; and when, moreover, it has to commence its course in
competition with other underwood, which has already possession of
the ground. It is absurd to suppose that it should succeed.
I do not presume to say that some woods do not receive different
treatment, in all respects, to that which I have denounced: that would
not be true; but these are the exceptions, and even where the
management is best, there is much to complain of.
In commencing the subject of Planting, I am impressed with a
sense of the importance which should be attached to it in such a
work as this. I mean planting by way of filling up, in Ancient Woods. I
am quite aware that it demands such a largeness and
comprehension of view, that it might well be supposed likely to
discourage one of stouter nerves than mine. It is important because,
first, every wood in the kingdom ought to be well planted, whether it
is or not: It is so, secondly, because there are very few that are
properly planted.
As I have stated before, the infancy of a wood, or plantation, is the
only time when it cannot be expected to pay. After it has arrived at a
certain age, say from fifteen to twenty years, it ought to begin to
make some return. In woods, if they are properly planted, it will
necessarily be small during the first two cycles of twenty years each.
It must be observed, that I am here speaking of the first forty years of
an Ancient Wood, supposing it to have been thoroughly purged of its
rubbish, retaining all the valuable stock, and to have been re-
planted. The return must be small, because the oaks will have been
planted thickly, in order that they may acquire great length of bole:
and this being the case, whatever underwood may have been put in,
it will be treated with direct reference to the health and prosperity of
the entire class of timber trees. After the expiration of the first cycle,
that portion of the stuff put in for underwood will be cut over, and
such pruning of the oak as may be required (which will be very
slight) will be done, care being taken never to lose sight of the
principle of classification of the oaks, into certain families of larger or
smaller size, according to the term which a skilful woodman will allot
for their entire existence. This is of immense consequence, and will
embrace calculations, and a knowledge of the habits of trees, which
can only be acquired by “close observation and long experience.”
Where a sufficient number of oaks have been introduced, the
underwood will yield very little return per acre, even at the end of the
second cycle; but if the wood has been well managed, it will have
been kept alive and tolerably healthy; and when it is cut, at the end
of forty years, a considerable number of oaks of a useful size for
farmers, wheelwrights, &c. will be taken down: this will admit light
and air, and in a slight degree, perhaps, improve the position of the
underwood during the course of the third cycle.
I need not pursue the subject farther here, having, I trust,
succeeded in opening to the reader a general view of the plan which
should be pursued. But there are other woods where a larger
portion, both of oak and of underwood, will be found, and where,
consequently, it will be more the object of the woodman to improve
by less extensive measures than would be adopted in such a case
as the one just referred to. It will mostly be best to do this by pruning,
stubbing, and planting—always supposing that an effectual drainage
has been secured—and here I would remark, that whenever planting
is done in a wood, it should be as well done as circumstances will
possibly allow. Instead of the “nick” system, or any similar plan, the
woodman should dig holes for the underwood in the Autumn, and
plant in February, or early in March. For oak, he should dig a larger
hole, in the Autumn, give it a Summer fallow, and put in a vigorous,
stiff plant, the Autumn following, or in the February next but one. If
some such plan as this were pursued, there is not much fear but the
plants would grow, and in this way woods may be gradually brought
into a prosperous state, instead of their being, as they now are, in
the aggregate, a comparatively valueless property to their owners.
I may here illustrate my view by a reference to a particular case,
which came under my professional notice. It was a wood held on
lease by a gentleman, under an ecclesiastical body, the lease being
for a certain number of years, renewable upon the payment of a fine
every seven years. Some dissatisfaction was felt by the lessee at the
amount of the fines demanded, and the lease was permitted to
lapse, at which time the intrinsic value of the stock, whether of timber
or underwood, was literally nothing. The oak was all gone, as it was
quite natural that, with a lease so framed, it should be, and the
underwood, instead of being usefully and beneficially occupying the
ground, of which it then had entire possession, was not worth the
trouble of cutting! How different would have been the position of the
lessors in this instance, I need not say, if, during the two last cycles,
when the oaks were becoming very thinly scattered, the underwood
had been cherished, as it most undoubtedly ought to have been. The
neighbourhood was one where there was plenty of demand for the
produce of woods; the particular wood referred to, would have been,
on every account, as good a cover, and all parties would have been
alike interested in the continuance of the lease.
But as I must now very shortly bring such of my “Remarks” as
refer to “Ancient Woods,” to a close, it may be as well just to run over
the whole subject in a recapitulary form, so as to present it to the
reader in a sort of bird’s-eye view.
I have, then, endeavoured to show, that the present state of the
Ancient Woods of this kingdom is very far from what it ought to be,
and fully proves that their owners have paid little attention to them:
that they are almost valueless to them, simply and only for want of
better management: that they are capable of such a degree of
improvement as would insure from them a fair, reasonable return: I
have endeavoured to show this by contrasting the plans of
woodmen, if they can be said to have any, with those which, in my
judgment, ought to be pursued; and I am not aware that I have, upon
any one point, exposed the errors of their course, without suggesting
that which I conceive would be the right one. It is quite impossible,
however, to lay down in a book like this, or in any other, specific rules
or directions which shall constitute a sufficient guide for the manager
of woods, out of the difficulties of a false position, or enable him to
reform the errors of a vicious practice: for, first, not one woodman in
fifty would be convinced, by any process of reasoning, that the
present state of woods is so bad as I have described it to be; and if
they would not admit the existence of the evil, they would not be
likely to perceive the value of any remedial measures that might be
recommended. Next: a difficulty would every where present itself, if
woods were improperly treated, from the woodman feeling that the
introduction of any new plans would, necessarily, involve the
condemnation of his own. Besides all this, as I have remarked
before, so many things have to be considered as to the state of a
wood, before a safe opinion could be given as to the best course to
be taken with it, that nothing less than a minute examination,
affording the opportunity of duly weighing all the circumstances of
each particular case, would justify any man in suggesting a specific
course.
In proof of this, I would offer the example of a wood which I will
suppose to be of forty years standing, and to have been started with
as many oak plants as would suffice to insure a sufficient number of
timber trees, possessing ample length of bole, or stem. Upon the
plan of management which I have suggested, there would be, at the
second cutting of the under wood, a certain number of oaks to cut
out also, and from the stools of these, there would start young
shoots, which, if properly dealt with, would, with those which would
spring from every subsequent cutting, furnish a succession of timber
trees; but if no care were taken in nursing them, the probability is,
that they would be unfit for timber, and that it would therefore be
necessary, occasionally, to introduce a small number of maiden
plants, even as early as the expiration of the second cycle.
 CHAP. II.
PLANTATIONS.

In order to afford some facility to the reader in perusing what I may

write, I shall divide what I have to say into several distinct heads;
and, first, as to the

Present Modes of Planting.

Much may, and probably ought, to be said, on the errors of bad
planters: it is indeed a prolific, as well as an important subject; and if
there were any solid ground on which to rest a hope that an
exposure of all the mistakes which are made in planting, would lead
to the abandonment of such plans and practices as would be shown
to be wrong, it would be a duty worthy the exercise of talents of the
highest order. It does not, however, absolutely require the aid of
brilliant talent, or fervid eloquence, to place these matters in their
proper light before those who are most concerned; a plain reference
to facts will be quite sufficient for that purpose.
The case of an Ancient Wood in an unthrifty and unprofitable
condition, does not stand out so prominently—it is not so glaringly
discreditable to its owner, as is a Plantation in the same state, which
has been made by himself; for as to the former, the fact that “it
always was so,” is, to a certain extent, an excuse for bad
management; and in truth, it will generally be found a very difficult
affair, as I have hinted before, to establish a new system where the
prejudice of ages, in favour of an old one, will meet the person who
may attempt it, at every turn; but it is not so as to Plantations; when,
therefore, a gentleman decides to plant, and has himself to do with
the work from the beginning, both his interest, and his duty, point out
the necessity of his seeing that it be well done; but the very reverse
of this, is the average of the general practice, as I shall presently
show. It would be quite foreign to my purpose, to refer to the minor
shades of difference which exist in the practice of planters: such
difference indeed may be met with, between plans which are each in
themselves excellent; I shall content myself, therefore, with referring,
and that in general terms, to the most glaring mistakes which are
committed, giving a few examples.
To an eye that can take in the whole, it is lamentable to see the
effects of ignorance and neglect, in the original formation, as well as
in the subsequent treatment, of Plantations! With many, it seems to
be expected that they will thrive and prosper, no matter how they
may be put in, whereas the very contrary is the fact. With many
planters there is a vague, indefinite notion—of course there is no
calculation—that when once they are planted, trees will grow, not
only without labour or culture, but under such adverse circumstances
as at once convince the experienced planter of the utter impossibility
of their doing so. As I have elsewhere said, a young child, a young
animal, and a young tree, all require the greatest possible attention,
and the tenderest treatment; and the blighting effects which must
result, and which do result, from the absence of early attention, are
to be seen quite as strongly marked in the last, as in the other two.
In numerous instances—and this I shall call mistake the first—the
trees are put in without any previous preparation of the soil. It is not
possible, in the ordinary run of cases, to commit a greater error than
this. It is, emphatically, to build upon a bad foundation, and it is very
rarely indeed that Plantations, so commenced, ever make any thing
out. When I say this, I do not mean to assert that they never become
trees of any size: unfortunately they do, in some situations, and men
are so ignorant—there is so little real scientific knowledge of the
subject to be met with anywhere—that the most erroneous
conclusions are drawn from this fact. The question as to what a
Plantation might have done, or what it would have done, if it had
been properly treated, is never thought of! No one ever dreams of
instituting a comparison between such a Plantation as it is, and as it
ought to have been. And yet this is the very first question which
should be asked, or rather which should be anticipated.
But the majority of Plantations, which are commenced without any
preparation of the soil, are complete failures, as may be seen by any
one who chooses to take the trouble to examine for himself.
Influenced by a most mistaken notion of economy, many persons
plant their trees on land which is already fully occupied—it may be,
by ling, by bracken, or by long grass, or twitch—and in most cases of
this sort, the greater number die; but there may probably remain a
few which sustain a feeble existence, so as just to make a show of a
Plantation, and the owner seldom gives himself the trouble to
attempt to ascertain why it is no better. The method usually adopted,
when planting is done in this way, is, to dig small holes at fixed
distances, into which the plants are put by the workman in the best
manner that he can, and they are left to fight their way as best they
may.
Mr. Withers, of Holt, in Norfolk, has ably, and indignantly,
denounced the hole-digging system, and has shown, most clearly,
the advantage of “the highest degree of culture,” for raising timber,
whether as a pecuniary question, or where it is wanted for merely
ornamental purposes. It is true that an opinion at variance with his,
has been given by some, but every practical man will, at once,
perceive where the truth lies; nor will he be at any loss, whether, in
the preparation of a field for planting, to follow the directions of Sir
Henry Steuart, or those of Mr. Withers.
It was the practice of the latter gentleman, to trench his ground
from “fourteen to eighteen inches deep,” and on poor land, to “put on
as much manure as if turnips were intended to be sown,” and to hoe
and keep clean the land, for seven years after planting. The results
were, extraordinary rapidity of growth, and a consequent early and
ample return upon the capital invested, in addition to the full
accomplishment of an object, which is, of course, ardently desired by
every planter: viz.: the pleasure of seeing rapidly rise up before him,
a healthy and most promising race of trees.
The second mistake which I shall notice is a very common one;
and is committed by those who prepare the land well, but, by a bad
selection of plants, either as to age, or kind, or both, render success
impossible. The error as to age consists, most frequently, in their
being too old: that as to the kind, in not choosing such as are
adapted to the nature of the soil.
A third class of planters may be met with, who, to a certain extent,
avoid all the mistakes previously referred to, but who commit the
unaccountable blunder of throwing the various kinds promiscuously
together, without any regard to congeniality as to the plants; and in
this case, the trees that are really valuable are overtopped, and
mastered by a set of worthless trash, which, when full grown, are
hardly worth the trouble of cutting down. When a Plantation is made
in this barbarous manner, and left in this state for twenty years, or
even less, no subsequent efforts, however sound the judgment
which is exercised may be, can wholly repair the mischief which is
done. By this mistake, an immense loss of property accrues to the
proprietor, and the worst of all is, that the trite consolation is not left
him, that what is “his loss, is another’s gain,” for here nobody is
benefitted; while to himself there is superadded the mortification of a
loss of time, “which no man can restore.”
That the strong language which I have here employed is fully
justified, will at once be admitted by every reflecting person, who has
any acquaintance with these matters; for it will appear at the outset,
that if a slow-growing tree is planted close to one which will grow half
as fast again, and if the slow grower is the tree intended for timber,
the latter must inevitably be so much damaged as to affect its health
for ever, if something be not done to relieve it.
I shall not, in this place, “remark” more particularly on this point,
than to say, that I have often seen the oak in this relative position,
with the alder, the birch, the poplar, the larch, and other trees.
To imagine that a comparatively slow-growing tree can be placed
in near contiguity with another whose rate of progress is much
quicker, without receiving injury, is to manifest a want of knowledge
of the habits of trees, which may be excused in an amateur planter,
but which cannot be overlooked in a practical man, who is well paid
for his services.
A fourth error which is committed, is one upon which I have slightly
touched already, and refers to the question of adaptation of the kind
of tree planted, first, to the nature of the soil planted upon, and next,
if the object of the planter be profit, to the local demand.
Most serious mistakes have been committed upon both these
points, even by men whose writings have procured them a niche in
the Temple of Fame. Under this head a few cases will now be
referred to.
It is impossible, at this distance of time, to fix the exact amount of
blame, or responsibility, which of right attaches itself to the name of
Pontey, for instance, who planted an immense tract of land near
Lincoln, belonging to that splendid charity, Christ’s Hospital: tradition,
which, however, may do him injustice, accuses him of having
contracted to plant with Larch and Oak, and having, on some
pretence or other, substituted Scotch Fir.
Whatever was the precise amount of responsibility attaching to
him, I know not; he might be following out the letter of his
instructions, for ought that I can tell, but it is quite certain that, even
with the then imperfect knowledge which was possessed of the value
of larch, a very great mistake was committed, in planting nearly a
thousand acres of land, which was well adapted both for oak and
larch, with profitless rubbish like that which is now seen upon it. A
work of that magnitude ought not to have been intrusted to any one
who, either from mercenary motives, or from limited views, was
capable of falling into such a gross error, as to the interests of his
employers. It is no exaggeration to say, that if the Skellingthorpe
Plantation had been planted, as it ought to have been, with oak and
larch, together with a few spruce firs, and if Pontey had left suitable
instructions with those who had to take care of it, after his
superintendence had ceased, it would now have been, at the most
moderate computation, fifteen hundred per cent. more valuable than
it is!
If it were private property, I should not presume to add what I now
feel myself at perfect liberty to do, with reference to its present
condition, and the future prospect respecting it.
It is at present, almost universally, a Scotch Fir Plantation: these
are of a most miserable size, compared with what they might have
been, under good management, and they are withal very coarse.
There may be seen amongst them, just Larches enough to
perpetuate the folly of the original planter; and to excite, at his
periodical sales, the keen regret of the present Steward, that he has
not more of them to sell. There are also a few oaks, of such quality
as fully to prove that they would have thriven well—had they been
planted. Further: the Scotch firs are so thick, and they are feathered
down so low, that the Plantation is not healthy. It is true that, under
the present much improved management, an attempt is being made
to remedy this evil, and it is quite clear, that the condition of the trees
will gradually be bettered, but the misfortune is—and here I come to
speak of the prospects of the Plantation—that they are not worth
culture. I have no hesitation in stating this to be my deliberate
opinion. The timber, if timber it can be called, is worth almost nothing
now, and, in such a locality, I can see no probability of its ever
realizing, so as to justify those in whose care it is placed, in
continuing it as it is. The plain and obvious course of the managers
of this fine estate, then, is to stub up the Scotch fir, and replant the
land with oak and larch.
In further proof of the propriety of this opinion, I would remark that,
in this locality, both oak and larch fetch very high prices, and there
are probable grounds for expecting that they always will do so; while,
if the present race of Scotch firs should stand as long again as they
have already stood, they will make comparatively little.
It is not too much to say, that if this Plantation were the property of
a private gentleman, the Scotch firs would be extirpated as speedily
as possible, and a systematic plan, providing that a certain number
of acres should be stubbed and re-planted every year, would at once
be laid down; but public bodies are not so easily moved, and it is
therefore to be feared, that, in this case, the public will not, for some
time to come, derive that benefit from the property, which would
certainly be the result of proper management.
The whole might be re-stocked with suitable kinds of trees, without
any considerable outlay to the hospital, if arrangements were made
with a party capable of carrying out some such comprehensive plan
as the following; viz.: An agreement with a responsible person,
carefully worded, providing that he should stub, or grub up, a
stipulated number of acres at the commencement of a sort of lease,
taking the stuff, either in part payment, or wholly, if it were sufficient:
and that he should, on such terms as could be agreed upon,
continue to grub up, and plant, a specified number of acres every
succeeding year.
In twelve years, if the work were well done, there would be some
return from the thinnings of the piece first planted; and the rate of
return and profit, would, from that time, continue to increase every
year, until an amount would be realized which would much more
than equal the largest expectations of the Governors.
I shall only mention one case more, as to the want of adaptation of
the kind of tree to the soil, and to the local demand, and that is a
wood belonging to the Right Honourable Lord Middleton, at
Stapleford, near Newark, and which, some years ago, consisted
almost entirely of Scotch fir. It is now of an age and size that enables
me to cite it in proof of the opinion which I have given, relative to the
prospect for the Skellingthorpe Plantation. The timber has arrived at
a good marketable size, and is sold at as high a rate as there is any
reason to suppose would be made of the Skellingthorpe Scotch,
when it shall have reached to the same size. That price is apparently
moderate, but it is so inferior in quality, or, perhaps, it is more correct
to say, such a bad opinion is formed of it, by most people, that when
it is converted into boards or scantling, the price it fetches is so low
as to hold out little inducement to Timber merchants to purchase it.
And as to the grower, I am persuaded that, if simple interest upon
the original investment were to be calculated, up to the time when
the wood first began to clear its own expences, and added to the first
cost, it would not be found that there is much surplus over the
necessary expences of management. At all events it would be seen
there, as well as at Skellingthorpe, from the little Larch and Oak
which they have had to sell, that the returns are comparatively small
to what they would have been, if Larch had first been planted along
with Oak. This large Plantation will, in the course of a few years,
under the present enlightened and skilful management, to a great
extent, be cleared of the Scotch firs; in place of which, the noble