fanzine novel : His to hold by Mirtai
here I am posting an excerpt out of the newest novel by Mirtai.
She gave me the permission to post it for my friends to read, so that if you are unsure about whether to buy it or not, you can have a taste of her writing style in this story.
you can order the zine here:
http://www.agentwithstyle.com
HIS TO HOLD
$32.00 (US) * $36.00 (Can/Mex) * $37.00 (overseas)
Type: slash
London, England, 1821. When jaded aristocrat Lex Luthor encounters fresh-faced country gentleman Clark Kent under dramatic circumstances, neither young man can begin to imagine what the future holds for them. The path of true love, however, never does run smooth - where would be the fun in that? Meet your Smallville favourites (and others) in disguise, in this Regency-style masquerade; a tale of Clark and Lex in different times; a light fantasy where everything, you may be sure, works out all right in the end. A brilliant novel by Mirtai, with a lovely color cover by KAM.
Lex was to meet up with Mr. Kent sooner than he could have anticipated.
If Lucas had been his first visit, on his return home, he was certainly not the last. From Lucas’ breakfast table, Lex went to ride in the Park, thereby making his return widely known, and accepted lunch and dinner invitations from friends for that day. In between the two, he went to the salle he frequented to spar a little, and after dinner, went to his club. All in all, he set foot in his home that day only to change clothes, and it was well nigh 4 a.m. before he was ready to return to his bed.
He had sent his groom on home hours earlier, preferring to be alone in the small hours, so there was no other pair of eyes working for him as he tooled gently down the Embankment, mind only half on his horses, the other half on all the news he had received that day, and his burgeoning plans for the season. When the two footpads suddenly sprang up from the shrubbery, he was genuinely taken by surprise, and was unable to retain a hold on the reins. The surprise was only momentary - even before one of his assailants could threaten him with a weapon, he had reached for the pair of pistols kept concealed in pockets to the side of the seat, and fired swiftly. One bullet landed squarely. The other went wide, Lex’s aim fouled by the jolting of the carriage, but the second footpad, the one who had taken the reins, was too terrified at the abrupt felling of his comrade, and took to his heels.
Had Lex been on horseback, that would have been an end of it; he would have regained command of his mount, and been on his way after contacting the Runners. However, he was in his perch-phaeton, with a new pair of matched bays he had brought back from France. They were fine animals, but a little nervy, particularly after the long journey over from the Continent, and having two gunshots fired at very close quarters, was rather more than they were prepared for. They bolted, out of step, dragging the curricle in a chaotic fashion, and without the reins in his hands, there was little Lex could do to control them. He held his balance for a moment, then gripped the rim of the curricle with one hand, and reached out as far as possible to try to grasp the loose reins. They had been taken from him high up, over the foot guard, and still lay just within his grasp, as long as he could catch them before the jerky movements of the pair could dislodge them completely. Abruptly, though, for some reason Lex could never fathom, the pair took a turn onto the bridge, too tight and too fast, and the phaeton struck the kerb. The left wheel cracked under the impact, tipping the curricle over. His grip on the rim of the carriage was only single-handed, and Lex went flying, pitched forward, over the parapet and into the dark waters of the Thames.
Shocked by the impact, he had inhaled a lungful of water before fully realising what had happened, and then his greatcoat had become instantly waterlogged, dragging him downwards, even as the slow, strong current of the river pulled him along too. He struggled feebly for what felt like an eternity, losing strength every second, unable to unfasten the clasp of his coat to relieve him of that burden at least. He was just about ready to give up, succumbing to the depths, when he felt strong arms around him, and an irresistible upwards tug. He did not try to fight that either, but it was only when he found himself on the bank, half on his side, coughing water painfully from his lungs, that he realised someone had risked the river’s heavy pull to drag him from its embrace. One arm held his waist, supporting him still, and he was aware, despite his waterlogged chill, of a great warmth behind him, another body radiating heat to an extraordinary degree.
“What…” he croaked, but there was still too much water, and he retched violently.
A broad hand rubbed comfortingly between his shoulder blades. “Rest easy,” came a soft, earnest voice. “You’re safe now. Just breathe; not too deep, slow and steady.”
His greatcoat was pulled from his shoulders; his rescuer had found the clasp and undone it, and Lex breathed easier without that heavy weight of sodden wool around him. He coughed and retched a moment more, then, with an exhausted sigh, relaxed back against his rescuer’s warm body. The comforting hand on his back did not cease its soothing moments, until both heard a shrill whistle nearby.
“The Runners,” the stranger said, with a note of relief. “Thank God for that.” He moved away, standing up, Lex guessed, and a moment later there was a shout from above him. “Down here!”
His spasms calmed, Lex levered himself up a little from the grassy bank, to see a figure standing over him, waving to figures scurrying about on the bridge.
“Down here!” the stranger shouted again. Within minutes, there was a scuffle of steps, and more hands reached down to help Lex to his feet and up the bank to the road. Some sharp commands were barked out, and a couple of minutes later, he was bundled in somewhat scratchy, but blessedly warm blankets. It was April, and though the days were turning softer, the nights were still very fresh, and a dip in the Thames was never advisable at any time. Blearily, he looked around, and saw the other man, very tall, also being wrapped in blankets.
The regular patrol of Bow Street Runners had heard the shots and hastened to investigate, calling up reinforcements from adjoining streets by their whistles. Lex vaguely heard his rescuer say that he had heard the shots, but not seen an attack. He had, however, seen a carriage capsize and catapult its driver into the river, and had jumped in to rescue the unfortunate man. After a moment, Lex was ready to fill in the gaps to another officer, giving his identity at the same time, which brought him a considerable degree of deference.
“Aye, m’lord,” the senior officer present was telling him, his expression sour, “it’s a new gang running out o’ Blackfriars. That’s why we’ve doubled the patrols both sides of the river this last couple of months, but they’re bold beggars, no doubt about that. Might set ‘em back a bit, your marksmanship, m’lord,” he added, with a note of relish. “Not used to folks so quick to defend ‘emselves.”
“I’m only sorry I didn’t get both,” Lex said dryly. “What of my phaeton and pair?”
“The coach is badly damaged, m’lord, you’ll need a wheelwright at the very least. We have the horses safe.”
“Good. If you’d be kind enough to find me a hansom to take me home, we can attach the horses to run alongside. I’ll send someone out for the curricle as soon as possible.”
“Very good, m’lord.”
Lex turned to the stranger who had dragged him from the river. The light was still dim, and the street lamps did not cast their glow far, so he could not make out much in the way of detail, just that the man was several inches taller than Lex himself, broad-shouldered and slim, and seemed very young.
“Sir,” he addressed the stranger, “I owe you a considerable debt of gratitude. My home is not far. I beg you will allow me to offer you hospitality for the next few hours, at least until we can send someone around to your residence for a change of clothes for you. I’d offer you some of my own, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t serve at all,” he added, with a note of self-deprecating humour, as he looked the tall figure up and down.
The other made a small gesture back down-river. “I stay only as far as Adam Street,” he began.
“Pray do not disoblige me on this. I would make acquaintance with my rescuer.”
“I - Thank you, sir, it is most kind of you,” he accepted after a brief hesitation, ducking his head shyly.
The hansom had been summoned, and Lex gestured towards it. A few minutes later, they were descending again in front of Lex’s town house, while the cab driver descended and attached Lex’s bays to the railing. The night porter, eyes wide at the dishevelled state of his master and his companion, had the door open for them.
“Get Simmons, and my valet,” Lex commanded crisply as they entered the house. “Send them to me in the library, and then light the fire there. As you can see, we are a trifle damp. And get the ostler to see to the horses.”
Lex himself took a taper from one of the hall lights, and nursed it into the library where he began to light the candles. The other man had followed him, a little helpless, and Lex was aware of this. When he had a couple of branches lit, he extinguished the taper, tossing the spill lightly in the fireplace, and turned towards his guest, with his most charming smile.
“Forgive me, but I think we are both anxious to get warm and comfortable again.”
As he spoke, he took in the appearance of his guest, and his breath almost failed him. Even wet and bedraggled, the boy was quite entrancing. Damp cloth clung to a powerful chest and broad shoulders, tapered waist and strong thighs. Black hair was already drying out into loose waves, with just a hint of natural curl. Luminous, aquamarine eyes framed with sooty lashes watched him with a hesitant look in them, and the full, soft lips were moist, and parted a little, almost inviting.
Lex took a bow at a venture. There could not possibly be two men in London matching Lucas’ description so closely. “Mr. Kent, is it not?”
His surprise was unfeigned. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met before?”
“No, we haven’t.” Lex chose not to explain how he had come to identify the other man, but came forward, hand outstretched. “Alexander Luthor.”
Recognition dawned, as Kent shook the proffered hand. “You’re Viscount Rutherford.”
She gave me the permission to post it for my friends to read, so that if you are unsure about whether to buy it or not, you can have a taste of her writing style in this story.
you can order the zine here:
http://www.agentwithstyle.com
HIS TO HOLD
$32.00 (US) * $36.00 (Can/Mex) * $37.00 (overseas)
Type: slash
London, England, 1821. When jaded aristocrat Lex Luthor encounters fresh-faced country gentleman Clark Kent under dramatic circumstances, neither young man can begin to imagine what the future holds for them. The path of true love, however, never does run smooth - where would be the fun in that? Meet your Smallville favourites (and others) in disguise, in this Regency-style masquerade; a tale of Clark and Lex in different times; a light fantasy where everything, you may be sure, works out all right in the end. A brilliant novel by Mirtai, with a lovely color cover by KAM.
Lex was to meet up with Mr. Kent sooner than he could have anticipated.
If Lucas had been his first visit, on his return home, he was certainly not the last. From Lucas’ breakfast table, Lex went to ride in the Park, thereby making his return widely known, and accepted lunch and dinner invitations from friends for that day. In between the two, he went to the salle he frequented to spar a little, and after dinner, went to his club. All in all, he set foot in his home that day only to change clothes, and it was well nigh 4 a.m. before he was ready to return to his bed.
He had sent his groom on home hours earlier, preferring to be alone in the small hours, so there was no other pair of eyes working for him as he tooled gently down the Embankment, mind only half on his horses, the other half on all the news he had received that day, and his burgeoning plans for the season. When the two footpads suddenly sprang up from the shrubbery, he was genuinely taken by surprise, and was unable to retain a hold on the reins. The surprise was only momentary - even before one of his assailants could threaten him with a weapon, he had reached for the pair of pistols kept concealed in pockets to the side of the seat, and fired swiftly. One bullet landed squarely. The other went wide, Lex’s aim fouled by the jolting of the carriage, but the second footpad, the one who had taken the reins, was too terrified at the abrupt felling of his comrade, and took to his heels.
Had Lex been on horseback, that would have been an end of it; he would have regained command of his mount, and been on his way after contacting the Runners. However, he was in his perch-phaeton, with a new pair of matched bays he had brought back from France. They were fine animals, but a little nervy, particularly after the long journey over from the Continent, and having two gunshots fired at very close quarters, was rather more than they were prepared for. They bolted, out of step, dragging the curricle in a chaotic fashion, and without the reins in his hands, there was little Lex could do to control them. He held his balance for a moment, then gripped the rim of the curricle with one hand, and reached out as far as possible to try to grasp the loose reins. They had been taken from him high up, over the foot guard, and still lay just within his grasp, as long as he could catch them before the jerky movements of the pair could dislodge them completely. Abruptly, though, for some reason Lex could never fathom, the pair took a turn onto the bridge, too tight and too fast, and the phaeton struck the kerb. The left wheel cracked under the impact, tipping the curricle over. His grip on the rim of the carriage was only single-handed, and Lex went flying, pitched forward, over the parapet and into the dark waters of the Thames.
Shocked by the impact, he had inhaled a lungful of water before fully realising what had happened, and then his greatcoat had become instantly waterlogged, dragging him downwards, even as the slow, strong current of the river pulled him along too. He struggled feebly for what felt like an eternity, losing strength every second, unable to unfasten the clasp of his coat to relieve him of that burden at least. He was just about ready to give up, succumbing to the depths, when he felt strong arms around him, and an irresistible upwards tug. He did not try to fight that either, but it was only when he found himself on the bank, half on his side, coughing water painfully from his lungs, that he realised someone had risked the river’s heavy pull to drag him from its embrace. One arm held his waist, supporting him still, and he was aware, despite his waterlogged chill, of a great warmth behind him, another body radiating heat to an extraordinary degree.
“What…” he croaked, but there was still too much water, and he retched violently.
A broad hand rubbed comfortingly between his shoulder blades. “Rest easy,” came a soft, earnest voice. “You’re safe now. Just breathe; not too deep, slow and steady.”
His greatcoat was pulled from his shoulders; his rescuer had found the clasp and undone it, and Lex breathed easier without that heavy weight of sodden wool around him. He coughed and retched a moment more, then, with an exhausted sigh, relaxed back against his rescuer’s warm body. The comforting hand on his back did not cease its soothing moments, until both heard a shrill whistle nearby.
“The Runners,” the stranger said, with a note of relief. “Thank God for that.” He moved away, standing up, Lex guessed, and a moment later there was a shout from above him. “Down here!”
His spasms calmed, Lex levered himself up a little from the grassy bank, to see a figure standing over him, waving to figures scurrying about on the bridge.
“Down here!” the stranger shouted again. Within minutes, there was a scuffle of steps, and more hands reached down to help Lex to his feet and up the bank to the road. Some sharp commands were barked out, and a couple of minutes later, he was bundled in somewhat scratchy, but blessedly warm blankets. It was April, and though the days were turning softer, the nights were still very fresh, and a dip in the Thames was never advisable at any time. Blearily, he looked around, and saw the other man, very tall, also being wrapped in blankets.
The regular patrol of Bow Street Runners had heard the shots and hastened to investigate, calling up reinforcements from adjoining streets by their whistles. Lex vaguely heard his rescuer say that he had heard the shots, but not seen an attack. He had, however, seen a carriage capsize and catapult its driver into the river, and had jumped in to rescue the unfortunate man. After a moment, Lex was ready to fill in the gaps to another officer, giving his identity at the same time, which brought him a considerable degree of deference.
“Aye, m’lord,” the senior officer present was telling him, his expression sour, “it’s a new gang running out o’ Blackfriars. That’s why we’ve doubled the patrols both sides of the river this last couple of months, but they’re bold beggars, no doubt about that. Might set ‘em back a bit, your marksmanship, m’lord,” he added, with a note of relish. “Not used to folks so quick to defend ‘emselves.”
“I’m only sorry I didn’t get both,” Lex said dryly. “What of my phaeton and pair?”
“The coach is badly damaged, m’lord, you’ll need a wheelwright at the very least. We have the horses safe.”
“Good. If you’d be kind enough to find me a hansom to take me home, we can attach the horses to run alongside. I’ll send someone out for the curricle as soon as possible.”
“Very good, m’lord.”
Lex turned to the stranger who had dragged him from the river. The light was still dim, and the street lamps did not cast their glow far, so he could not make out much in the way of detail, just that the man was several inches taller than Lex himself, broad-shouldered and slim, and seemed very young.
“Sir,” he addressed the stranger, “I owe you a considerable debt of gratitude. My home is not far. I beg you will allow me to offer you hospitality for the next few hours, at least until we can send someone around to your residence for a change of clothes for you. I’d offer you some of my own, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t serve at all,” he added, with a note of self-deprecating humour, as he looked the tall figure up and down.
The other made a small gesture back down-river. “I stay only as far as Adam Street,” he began.
“Pray do not disoblige me on this. I would make acquaintance with my rescuer.”
“I - Thank you, sir, it is most kind of you,” he accepted after a brief hesitation, ducking his head shyly.
The hansom had been summoned, and Lex gestured towards it. A few minutes later, they were descending again in front of Lex’s town house, while the cab driver descended and attached Lex’s bays to the railing. The night porter, eyes wide at the dishevelled state of his master and his companion, had the door open for them.
“Get Simmons, and my valet,” Lex commanded crisply as they entered the house. “Send them to me in the library, and then light the fire there. As you can see, we are a trifle damp. And get the ostler to see to the horses.”
Lex himself took a taper from one of the hall lights, and nursed it into the library where he began to light the candles. The other man had followed him, a little helpless, and Lex was aware of this. When he had a couple of branches lit, he extinguished the taper, tossing the spill lightly in the fireplace, and turned towards his guest, with his most charming smile.
“Forgive me, but I think we are both anxious to get warm and comfortable again.”
As he spoke, he took in the appearance of his guest, and his breath almost failed him. Even wet and bedraggled, the boy was quite entrancing. Damp cloth clung to a powerful chest and broad shoulders, tapered waist and strong thighs. Black hair was already drying out into loose waves, with just a hint of natural curl. Luminous, aquamarine eyes framed with sooty lashes watched him with a hesitant look in them, and the full, soft lips were moist, and parted a little, almost inviting.
Lex took a bow at a venture. There could not possibly be two men in London matching Lucas’ description so closely. “Mr. Kent, is it not?”
His surprise was unfeigned. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met before?”
“No, we haven’t.” Lex chose not to explain how he had come to identify the other man, but came forward, hand outstretched. “Alexander Luthor.”
Recognition dawned, as Kent shook the proffered hand. “You’re Viscount Rutherford.”