A Promise of Love by Karen Ranney

second or third sons, or like he and Anthony, the only sons of a minor peer. The ranks of English officers, therefore, were less concerned with changing the world for the better than simply staying alive. They led their men the way a hundred generations of gentlemen had before them, with haughty superiority and an inbred belief in the rightness of themselves and England, if not their cause.
    If the Scots suffered for their invasion, it was because the upstarts had the audacity to challenge the world's greatest power. If fields were burned and houses razed, and babies slaughtered and women raped, it was no less deserving of their insurrection and rebellion.
    Bennett no longer bothered to listen to his companion's conversation, his attention on the ashes of the fire, allowed to grow cold not because the air was less chilly than before, but because none of their group would stoop to refuel it.
    Bunch of trailing sycophants. But they too, had their place in the world, he thought with a smile. It was not a warm or a comforting smile, but one that held a hint of rapaciousness to it, a tinge of cruelty to the upper lip, a mocking derision in the ice blue eyes. It was, a casual observer might feel, a look to cause one to wish his doors locked firmly, his windows shut tight against the evil night air.
    “Where is dear Lawrence, that he has not refueled our fire?” In his voice was more than question, it was an invitation, a luring finger beckoning all who would be led toward the most immoral carnality.
    As obtuse as the group was, they caught his meaning well enough.
    The young subaltern was terrified.
    The pitiful mewling of his approach made Bennett Henderson smile. Two of them divested the poor fool of his uniform without haste, their tender strokes and intrusive touch softening the edge of his fear. His arousal was a pitiful thing, half masted, more pulled from him than generated by true lust. He was too frightened to feel anything but the spiking of his fear.
    But his buttocks were so beautifully round, their whiteness only newly marked. Dear Lawrence was an apt plaything for when the storms of this godforsaken place precluded their patrols, when the rain promised only floods and Scotland’s eternal chill.
    Bennett lounged in his chair, watching as his companions kissed and readied their victim. He flicked his fingers, and the instrument of his choice was placed upon his palm. Standing, he surveyed their prize, the trembling young he-goat, nearly hairless, frightened, so afraid that the air was colored red with it.
    He breathed it in deeply, the stench of this fear and smiled.
    Without subtlety, Bennett swung his arm and the whip sliced through the air, the keening sound seeming to strip the tint from the young man's face until it was whiter than parchment, paler than a winter's moon.
    He relished these moments, craved them the way some of his brother officers lusted after virgins. When he tasted blood, it was of his own making, and the anticipation of it was almost as heady as the deed itself.
    Almost.
    His smile was sharp, grinning, his feet wide spread, his stance poised and in control. Bennett opened the placard of his pantaloons, prepared himself. But for the state of his rampant arousal, he would have been mistaken for a victorious soldier, exhilarated from a battle hard won. This was a battle of sorts, he supposed, but there was never a question of victor.
    He moved closer, near enough to see the tears coursing down the young man's face, close enough to smell the cloying sweet scent of terror that jerked his arousal even tighter, harder. He bent, tenderly placed the young man into position, and flicked the whip gently, almost lovingly across the spread buttocks. His companions merely laughed, ennui giving way to anticipation, buggery an apt sport for a wet night in the Highlands.
    At the bellow of pain, he nearly laughed, so great was his euphoria at this moment. But the scream was almost too guttural, too masculine,