Dark Regency: The Redemption Of A Rogue Part 18

"Take off that gown and I will demonstrate to our mutual delight."

"You really could tempt the devil."

"As long as I can tempt you, I'll be content," he replied, even as he tugged at the laces of her gown. He smiled again when she brushed his hands away and took over the task. Watching Abbigail remove her clothes, watching the blush that still colored her skin as she revealed herself to him, was a joy in and of itself. When finally she stood before him, divested of everything but her chemise, he tugged her forward and onto the bed with him.

When she was lying on her side, he moved behind her. Pressing his chest to her back, he allowed his greedy hands free rein. They moved over lush, supple flesh with determination. One hand played at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, teasing her nipples to taut aching peaks while the other hand stroked her thighs with slow, drugging caresses.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" he asked.

"I'm not. I'm pa.s.sably pretty at best," she replied.

He chuckled. "You would argue anything with me, wouldn't you?"

"Only when you say such foolish things!" she chided.

"Hardly foolish," he said. "First, there are your legs... long, smooth, supple and yet so strong when you wrap them around me."

"The things you say!" she protested again, but her voice held a breathlessness that told him she was hardly unmoved.

"And your hips," he continued. "This curve, that fits my hands so perfectly, that all I can think of when I look at them is having my hands on you, of having you naked before me while I explore every treasure your body has to offer." As he said it, he trailed his hands over that curve, tracing the arc of her hip bone, before trailing his hands further, to her lush, rounded bottom.

"And if I were a poet, I would write a sonnet to this," he said, punctuating the statement by gripping one cheek firmly, squeezing it as she squealed in protest.

"You are too wicked for words!" She slapped at his hand, but he could hear the amus.e.m.e.nt beneath her scandalized tone.

"Shall I continue to enumerate all the many parts of you that I find to be perfection?" he asked. "Or should I simply show you?" Even as he said, his hand was once again traveling, this time sliding between her silken thighs to tease the soft curls at her mound. "Part your thighs for me, Abbi."

She did, opening to him eagerly, as greedy for the pleasure as he was. They had both been too long denied. Slipping one finger between those damp folds, he moved unerringly to that tiny nub of flesh that would have her gasping and writhing. Stroking it gently, teasing her to a fevered pitch, he savored every cry, ever soft moan that parted her lips. Kissing her shoulder, he deepened that caress, moving lower to press his fingers deep inside her. She cried out, her flesh clutching tightly around him.

Unable to deny himself the pleasure any longer, he hastily unfastened his breeches. Draping one of her legs over his, he entered her from behind as she shuddered.

"Michael!" she cried out.

With his hand still stroking her deftly, he moved inside her. Gently flexing his hips, he pressed deeper, and then withdrew just a bit, only to repeat it again. One of her hands tangled in the sheets, clenching the fabric so tightly that her knuckles went white. Her other hand clutched at his wrist, holding his hand to her as if he might stop.

It was not the fast and furious couplings that they had so frequently engaged in. Limited by his injury, it was slower and infinitely more gentle, but nonetheless powerful. Perhaps it was the sense of impending doom, the idea that the encroaching danger had somehow placed limits on their time together. But as he surged into her again and again, her body opening to accept him each time, it felt like nothing he'd ever experienced.

He felt her body tighten, her muscles tensing as she climbed toward the peak of her pleasure. He kissed her neck, her ear, and whispered hotly against her, "There is nothing more beautiful, more precious to me than you are."

She shattered then, her belly quivering as her flesh tightened around him, the rhythmic pulsing of her pleasure luring him to his own climax. Holding her tightly, Michael shuddered as his release claimed him.

Even after the quaking of his body had subsided, after the sweat had dried on their skin, he held her as if he meant to never let her go.

"Tomorrow," he said, "Spencer and I will leave here, but you will stay behind, with as many locked doors between you and the outside world as possible."

"Michael, you can't expect me-."

"I do expect it. I am already at a disadvantage. I don't have the speed or agility at this time to look after us both, and Spencer, skilled as he is at combat, cannot take care of us both... I'm sending a letter to Rhys in the morning asking him to come for you, in case... If it should be necessary."

"I don't want to be separated from you."

"I don't want it either, but it's the only way I can think of to keep you safe. We can lure them out into the open and perhaps, put an end to all of this... This is what we did, Abbi. During the war, Spencer, Rhys and I, we didn't just fight on the battlefield. It was all strategy and misdirection. Rupert and Lavinia will not believe that I left you alone here... They will come after the carriage and Spencer and I can take care of them."

"I don't like it. I could help you."

"You already have. More than you can know. Please do as I ask... Trust me in this."

She snuggled against him, "I do trust you. And I'll agree to this, but if you don't come back to me-."

"I will... I promise," he said, and prayed fervently that it would be a promise he could keep.

Chapter Nineteen.

As the carriage rumbled along the line, Michael grimaced. The jostling of the coach was making his leg ache. They were less than a quarter mile from Blagdon Hall, they had just pa.s.sed through the gates when they encountered the large wagon full of hay that blocked the road. As they approached, a man began to run from behind the vehicle as it burst into flame.

"Dammit!" Spencer cursed.

"Quite theatrical," Michael said as he produced one of his pistols and a small box containing extra ammunition and powder.

Spencer already had his weapons drawn as well, loaded and ready to be fired.

Turning the carriage around, they began the trek back to Blagdon Hall, but the gates were closing even as they approached them. Two men stepped forward. Michael recognized one as Squire Blevins. The other was unknown to him and clearly not part of the social circle that the Whitby's would typically engage with. The far door of the carriage opened and the terrified Mr. Wolcot ambled in. Even in fear, his age would let him travel only so swiftly.

"Didn't you hire other servants?" Spencer asked.

"They've never arrived... I'm afraid my instructions to Mrs. Fillings might have been too specific."

"What the devil were they?"

Michael shrugged. "Strong, could handle firearms if need be, and no fear of spirits."

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Good G.o.d! No wonder your wife is still laundering your s.h.i.+rts!"

"Can we not attend to the matter at hand?" Michael asked, peering through the narrow opening of the window. "I imagine that's the b.a.s.t.a.r.d they hired to kill me," he mused.

"Shoot him first would you?" Spencer asked as he checked the crossbow he'd unearthed the night before.

"Gladly," Michael said. They had the interior of the carriage well padded against any shots fired. Blagdon Hall's library was devoid of all books, each of them stacked and tied with ribbon to provide a buffer between the coach walls and the inhabitants within. With only a small window through which to peer, Michael leveled his shot and squeezed the trigger.

The ball found its mark. The hireling clutched his shoulder, his weapon dropping to the ground.

"Blevins!" he called out. "Give it up now, and you won't have to die here today!"

"You think taking out one man is enough to stop us? Rupert has hired dozens and they are scattered about the countryside! Hand over Abbigail and you can leave!"

"I really want to shoot him with this," Spencer said. "Mrs. Wolcot dipped the arrow tips into horse manure to be certain that he'd die of infection if the strike itself doesn't end his worthless life."

Michael grimaced. "Good lord. Maybe she likes me after all... If not, I definitely need to work on it. Please, feel free. I'd rather like to see him writhing in agony."

Spencer leaned toward the window and took aim. It had been some years since he'd used a crossbow, but it was a skill he'd mastered early on in his life. The arrow grazed the heavier man, ripping through his jacket and taking a chunk out of his upper arm.

"I guess I'll have to satisfy myself with killing him slowly."

"Do you miss it? The rush of battle and the danger?" Michael asked. Spencer had thrived in the war, finding a purpose he'd never before had.

Spencer shrugged. "At times. I never had the qualms about killing that you did... and it was exciting in a way that life here isn't. Or at least it hadn't been until recently. Thank you, by the way, for marrying into such a cracked family."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Anytime. Glad to be of service."

A pistol ball slammed into the side of the carriage but had no hope of penetrating the stacks of books. Spencer chuckled as he placed another of the arrows into the notch of the crossbow. He fired again and this time, it landed more solidly, piercing the Squire's other shoulder. The man fell backward and with his weight awkwardly distributed on the horse's back, the animal pranced in protest. After a moment of struggle, the Squire tumbled to the ground.

Spencer climbed out, leaving the elderly coachman inside the carriage. "I'll take the box and get us back to the house."

"You're welcome to it," the elderly man said, sagging against the seat as if he'd just run a race.

"Watch out the other side of the windows and at least make yourself useful," Michael said to the man as he set himself to watching from his own side.

The carriage lurched forward, heading back toward the closed gates. He had to wonder if Blevins was telling the truth. Had Rupert truly ama.s.sed a force to be reckoned with? It didn't matter, he decided. It was time to cut the head off the serpent.

Abbi paced the bedroom. The gates were locked and the doors, as well. From the window, she could see smoke in the distance and knew that something had happened. It was maddening not to know what. From the moment he'd left the house, she'd regretted her concession to Michael's demands. She should have gone with them, she thought.

A strangled cry erupted from somewhere in the house. She glanced at Sarah who cowered beside the bed. "Stay here," she commanded as she took one of the pistols Michael had left for her. She only had the one shot, so surprise would be her greatest a.s.set. Keeping the weapon concealed in the folds of her skirt, she stepped out into the hallway.

"Mrs. Wolcot!" she called. There was no response, but she heard a noise from the third floor. There was no reason for anyone to be up there. Her heart pounding in her chest, Abbi climbed the stairs, staying close to the wall and moving as quietly as possible.

When she reached the landing, she saw the door to the roof and the battlements beyond was open. It swung with the breeze, banging loudly against the exterior wall. The door itself was so heavy it could not have opened on its own. Which meant that someone had gotten past the locked doors. It could only be Lavinia. Her father had once threatened to lock Lavinia in her room, Lavinia's response hadn't been what she'd expected. She'd merely laughed and told him to go ahead, that there were always ways around it.

Another m.u.f.fled scream brought her cras.h.i.+ng back to the present. Easing toward the door, she peered out but saw nothing. Stepping through the doorway, she fought back the panic and fear that clawed at her.

"There you are! I was wondering how long it would take you to find us up here!"

At the sound of Lavinia's voice so close behind her, Abbi s.h.i.+vered. Turning, she saw her stepsister standing near the edge of the battlements just behind the door. Mrs. Wolcot was at her feet, clutching her arm to her chest. "What have you done to her?"

Lavinia gave a breezy shrug. "It's only a broken arm. It will heal," she said. "But that is not what I have in mind for you! You see, I knew your darling husband would try something brave and heroic. He simply can't help himself. When Rupert and our bull-headed Squire went on and on about how they were going to rid themselves of Ellersleigh and get their hands on you in one fell swoop, I knew better... he would do anything to keep you out of their hands, even leaving you behind."

The last was sad with a lilting laugh, as if it were all some parlor game she were playing. She giggled behind her hand like a naughty child.

"You've gone completely mad! The quirks and eccentricities of your youth have given way to complete and utter madness," Abbi said.

Lavinia's smile twisted into a grotesque mimicry of one. "Always so judgmental! My dear, sweet sister. My sister who helps the villagers. My sister who takes care of aging servants! My sister who nurses our parents through their illness!" By the end of it, Lavinia was shouting.

Abbi fired back at her immediately. "Our parents were ill because you had poisoned them!"

Lavinia shrugged. "They wouldn't let me have what I want."

"Let Mrs. Wolcot go, Lavinia. There's no need for you to harm her any further," Abbi urged.

Lavinia smiled. "Oh, but there is! It isn't so much fun to hurt her. She's very old and doesn't put up much of a fuss. But you watching me hurt her, seeing the awful things I'll do to the poor old dear while you are utterly powerless to stop it... That, Abigail, is too divine to pa.s.s up!"

Lavinia raised the heavy stone she'd been holding in her hand, the one she'd used to break the elderly servant's arm and the same one she'd used to smash the lock on the door. She hoisted it over her head, preparing to bring it cras.h.i.+ng down on the woman who'd cared for them as children.

"Lavinia, stop!" Abbi shouted, even as she lifted the pistol she carried.

Lavinia sneered at her. "You won't shoot me, sister dear. You don't have the stomach for it!"

Abbi steadied her hand, took a deep breath and as Lavinia tensed, prepared to bring the rock cras.h.i.+ng down, she squeezed the trigger.

The report of the gun was deafening, but not nearly so much as Lavinia's scream. The stone tumbled from her hands, narrowly missing Mrs. Wolcot, who scrambled away. Lavinia's hand was pressed against her cheek, blood oozing from between her fingers.

The pistol ball had done something far worse than kill her. It had taken her beauty. The ball had left a long furrow along her cheek, from the crest of her cheekbone to her ear. As she looked at her blood soaked fingers, realizing what had happened, her screams of horror and pain became shrieks of rage.

Abbi had no ammunition to reload, and no time. As Lavinia charged toward her, her hands outstretched like the claws of a beast, she moved aside at the last second. Lavinia's momentum carried her forward, over the battlements, and onto the slanted roof, but she scrambled for purchase, her hands twisting in the fabric of Abbi's skirts as she went.

Tumbling down to the slate roof, there was nothing for Abbi to grab hold of. Even as she dug for purchase, her fingernails broke against the tiles and she continued sliding, pulled downward by Lavinia's weight. As Lavinia disappeared over the edge of the roof, Abbi managed to grasp the gutter. It bit painfully into her fingers, but with by twisting to the right, she managed to press her feet against the side of a chimney, wedging herself in.

She let out a gasping sob or relief, but she was not safe yet. Lavinia still tugged at her skirt, using the bundled fabric to pull herself up. Abbi's arms ached from the strain of supporting both their weight. How long would the gutter hold?

Even as the thought occurred to her, the stone beneath her hand began to s.h.i.+ft. The mortar was old and cracked from years of rain sluicing past. It was not intended to hold the weight of two grown women.

The carriage halted in the courtyard before the house. Michael was out of it, moving forward as quickly as he could, leaning heavily on the can. He heard the scream and stopped. Looking up, he scanned the roofline and his heart stuttered in his chest. He would never get to her in time.

"Spencer, go!" he shouted. "Get her!"

"What about Rupert?"

Michael's lips firmed into a harsh line. "If he's here, I'll deal with him."

Spencer rushed past him then, up the stairs and towards the roof. Michael moved more gingerly, entering the house and heading for the library. Light flickered beneath the closed door and he knew that Rupert would be in there, gloating over his perceived victory.

Inside the room, Rupert sat behind the desk. Two men stood behind him having the large chests and well muscled of arms of laborers, they were probably ill-trained in fighting techniques, but no less menacing for it. He smiled as Michael entered, the expression chilling.

"I knew you'd find it, Ellersleigh," he said pointing to the map tucked beneath Michael's arm.

"For that victory, you'd need to thank Abigail," Michael replied. "I had nothing to do with it."

Rupert chuckled softly, the sound rasping. "Hand over the map, Ellersleigh. If my friends here have to take it from you, it won't be pleasant."

Michael realized that his illness had progressed over the last week. The other man's face was gaunt. Dark hollows had formed beneath his eyes and cheekbones. His skin was so white it was nearly translucent, but his eyes were yellowing. The medications he'd been using to keep the consumption in check were damaging his other organs.