Dark Regency: The Redemption Of A Rogue Part 11

"It's merely warm inside the carriage... Perhaps when we stop, I will get a bit of air."

"Or perhaps you are too warmly dressed. If you were to remove some clothing-"

"You are incorrigible! Lord Wolverstone is right outside."

So he was. Michael knew already that Spencer admired Abbigail. He'd spent a great deal of time with them over the past few days and had remarked to Michael about how charming he found her, and how lovely she was. He'd never been a jealous man, but he'd wanted to plant his fist firmly into Spencer's face every time he'd caught him smiling at Abbi. The last thing he wanted was to listen to a lecture from Spencer about how to treat his wife like a lady, or worse, to add fodder to any wayward fantasies Spencer might have about her.

"I concede the point. I am utterly incorrigible and selfish enough not to want Spencer picturing you without your clothes on."

"Not every man is as obsessed with the female form as you are, husband," she admonished, though her blush deepened.

Michael quirked an eyebrow at her. "You saw the Elgin Marbles yourself, not to mention some of the other statuary at the museum last night. Do you really want to argue the point of how obsessed men are with the female form?"

"Yes, but your interest is hardly artistic."

"On the contrary, I consider myself a skilled master." His eyes traveling hotly over her, making her feel as naked as if he'd stripped the clothing from her body right there. "Art is only great when it moves us, when it elicits a visceral response from us...And I would argue, my dearest Abbigail, that when you are writhing beneath me, calling out my name, or perhaps even calling out to G.o.d that I have moved you."

"Blasphemer," she scolded.

"I would say that's more your area of expertise, dear wife. You take his name in vain with both frequency and volume," he replied smoothly.

Her lips firmed disapprovingly. "We've already agreed that you are utterly incorrigible. There is no further need to prove your point," Abbi said hotly. The truth of the matter was conversing with him could drive her to l.u.s.t filled distraction. With his voice pitched intentionally low, so that it shivered over her skin and resonated within her, it was simply too much to take.

He smiled, appearing concillitory if not contrite."If I were an artist," he continued, "I cannot imagine that I would ever have a more inspiring subject. There is nothing about you that I would change."

Abbi considered his statement for a moment. She could find no hint that he was speaking facetiously. There was a seriousness in his tone that she rarely heard. For the most part when Michael spoke he tended to be teasing or flirtatious. It was rare to hear him sound so earnest. "I think that may be the prettiest compliment I have ever received, my lord."

"It is simply the truth," he said. Though the conversation had grown more serious than he liked, he felt the need to continue. "I had not given much thought to marriage. I had, in fact, done everything to avoid it. If the choice had remained with me, I would have continued to avoid marriage for as long as possible, but now I find that I am glad the decision was not left to me... otherwise, we would not be here together."

Abbi's heart was thundering in her chest. It was not an admission of love, but it was both heartening and frightening. His admission only magnified her growing feelings for him, forcing her to look more closely at them than she was ready to. It was fear that prompted her to ask, "And what will happen when marriage ceases to suit you... or when I cease to satisfy you?"

Michael stared out the window for a moment longer. He had never promised fidelity to anyone, except as a boy. Then, he hadn't known what he was offering to give up. He supposed that technically, his wedding vows included that promise, but that was different somehow. Those were words spoken by every married couple in the kingdom, and they rarely held true for anyone.

"I have no intention of having a typical society marriage with you. You and I will not live separate lives, and neither of us will entertain other lovers," he said.

"You, the greatest rake in all of England, are swearing to be faithful to your wife?"

He met her dubious gaze, his own eyes blazing with sincerity and revealing more of his inner turmoil than he wished to share. "Yes. I have no reason to stray. There is no idle curiosity burning in me about the pleasures that I have yet to explore. I am not some callow youth to be easily led astray, either. You are my wife, and I will take no other lovers."

Fear pushed her, boiled inside her. She said it knowing that it would anger him, asked only because she knew that it would sever the unbearable intimacy of the conversation, "What about my curiosities? Perhaps I want the opportunity to explore other avenues of pleasure, and to take other lovers."

It happened so quickly that neither of them could fully attest to how she wound up sprawled across his lap, crushed tightly in his arms. His hands were in her hair, tilting her head back less than gently.

"There is no pleasure that I cannot show you, and I will kill any man who thinks to have you." Even as the words escaped him, he knew they were the height of hypocrisy, but he couldn't have cared less.

The kiss wasn't romantic or seductive. It held none of the playful coaxing or the compelling skill that marked most of their encounters. It was a branding. With his lips on hers and his tongue stroking commandingly into the soft heat of her mouth, he staked a claim on her.

Without conscious thought, she melted into that kiss, melding her body to his. She had pushed him to that point, driven him to anger and jealousy. The idea that she held so much power over him left her reeling. It also heightened the desire that burned inside her. His famous control was nowhere to be found. The man who held her was not the skilled, practiced lover. He was not the world-weary rogue. She had broken through the armor and had finally touched the man beneath. But it wasn't enough. She wanted more.

It took a great deal of willpower and all the strength that he possessed to break that kiss, but he did. He eased his lips from hers and looked down at her expecting that she would be repulsed or angered by his brutish acts. Instead, her eyes were dewy and her lips parted on a sigh. She didn't pull away but ran her hands over his shoulders, and into his hair. He saw the kiss had been bruising. Her soft lips were swollen, and the rasp of his whiskers had abraded her sensitive skin. "I've been too rough with you."

"No. You haven't," she replied, smiling slightly, her lips curving into that coquette's smile that drove him mad. "I prefer you this way, when I know precisely what you are thinking and feeling. If you want us to have a true marriage, then it requires more than physical intimacy, Michael. We will have to confide in one another and trust one another... If not, the pa.s.sion you feel for me will fade just as quickly as the pa.s.sion you had for your past lovers."

He couldn't respond to that. His throat closed as the truth of her words settled in him. Sharing her with anyone else was not something he would ever permit, but he did not know that he would ever be capable of opening himself up again to that kind of pain. He didn't want to need her. With his thoughts mired down in the past and his own fears, he moved her off him and back onto the seat. "We will be stopping for the night soon."

A chasm had opened between them and the intimacy, the connection that had bloomed between them, was now lost within it. Abbi sighed and turned her head to once again stare out the window. The distance between them was greater than ever.

It was hours later when they stopped for the night. Michael procured a room for them at the inn. Abbi and Sarah went up the stairs while he and Spencer remained in the taproom. "What the devil did you do to her?"

The question had been posed by Spencer. Michael met his gaze with a level one of his own. "Spencer, my marriage is not your concern."

Spencer procured two gla.s.ses of the innkeeper's less than stellar ale before speaking, "Look, I've admitted to being an a.s.s. The least you can do is the same."

"The difference between us, Spencer, is that I have never denied being an a.s.s."

Spencer sighed, sipped his ale and then said plainly, "You could be happy with her if you let yourself."

"I am happy with her, Spence. Now mind your own b.l.o.o.d.y business."

"You enjoy her, and she enjoys you, but your prowess with the opposite s.e.x has never been in question. That isn't happiness, at least not of a lasting sort. I'm talking about love, Michael."

Michael bit back a curse. "Leave it alone, Spencer."

Spencer shrugged and tossed back his ale. "Fine, but could you at least tell me why the h.e.l.l you are here in the taproom when you could be upstairs with your very lovely wife?"

"We're close enough to Blagdon that gossip will have traveled this way. I want to know what the locals have heard."

"In that case, I'll get us more ale and ask a few questions of the innkeeper while I am at it."

Michael watched Spencer walk towards the bar and turned his attention toward a group of men huddled near the fire. He didn't really want to talk to them. He wanted to be upstairs with Abbi, but he doubted that she would be welcoming. Not after the debacle in the carriage, he thought. He strode towards the group of men.

"Good evening, gentlemen... We're on our way to Blagdon and heard there had been some troubles there," Michael said, and it was all the invitation that was required.

"Oh, aye, m'lord. Blagdon is a dangerous place now to be sure... 'Tis the cult."

"The cult?" Michael asked, and gestured toward Spencer, who pa.s.sed another coin to the innkeeper to keep the ale flowing for the locals, as well. Nothing liberated the tongue as well as ale.

"Yes, m'lord. Cults have been in Blagdon for as long as men have been there. It's the stone circle that draws them," the old man continued, his rheumy eyes lighting on the tavern wench who had come forth carrying tankards of ale. "But what's happening there now, it's like what happened when me father was a young lad. He told me of it when I was a boy. The cult members would gather in the woods, at the stone circle, and make sacrifices...human sacrifices."

"So there have been many deaths in Blagdon, then?"

"Hard to say, m'lord. Most of them just disappear. There's talk of young girls running off to London or running away with their beaus, but who's to say that hey haven't been offered up?"

Rounds of ale continued as did the stories. Every man and woman in the taproom offered up their own stories of dark deeds in Blagdon Village. When all was said and done, Michael had a wealth of stories that were just that, stories. He was also well and truly foxed.

Excusing himself from his newfound friends who were also well into their cups courtesy of Spencer's generosity, he made his way up the stairs to the room where his wife awaited him. He fumbled with the key for a moment before managing to unlock the door. The clumsiness of his movements was not lost on him.

He stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind him. Abbi was awake, sitting before the fire. She glanced at him when he walked in and her lips firmed. "You're drunk!"

"Quite," he said. "The innkeeper was generous with the ale and the locals were generous with gossip."

Abbi took in his disheveled appearance and while his movements were far from clumsy, they lacked his usual ease and grace. He disrobed quickly, heading for the bed.

"I hope you at least learned something useful as you will undoubtedly pay a higher price in the morning."

"Yes," he agreed, and his speech was slightly slurred. "I will undoubtedly have an aching head and a miserable gut... but for now, dear wife, I only wish to sleep."

"You never wish to talk to me when you've learned something useful."

Sighing, Michael sat up in the bed, the sheet falling to his waist. "Fine, I learned that the incidents occurring at Blagdon are not new. People have been disappearing from Blagdon for decades at least, and it is apparently related to some cult activity. That cult apparently is seeking a series of ancient artifacts of an erotic nature to use in their rituals and they are willing to kill to get them... they are willing to kill for a lot of reasons, up to and including their rituals."

"I've lived in Blagdon all my life and I've never heard such!"

"You wouldn't. These cults engage in orgies that are usually accompanied by some sort of sacrifice, which in this case, happens to be human. At any point in your life as a young, unmarried woman, no one would have dared discuss such topics with you."

She couldn't deny the truth of his words. "And if Lavinia is part of this cult, I can't imagine that she would be eagerly discussing it."

He was reminded of the conversation he'd overheard between Rupert and Squire Blevins. "Lavinia and Rupert are dangerous. They intend to use you in one of their rituals. You must not leave Blagdon Hall alone. Promise me."

Abbi's blood ran cold, but with a bravado that was entirely false, she said, "If you're my protection, then the very least you could do is stay sober."

Michael chuckled in spite of everything. The tension between them, the danger that awaited them, and the questions and demands surrounding their relationship all faded to nothing at that moment. "Very succinctly put, Abbigail. Now please get your lovely a.r.s.e in the b.l.o.o.d.y bed."

Abbi climbed into the bed, but when his arms snaked around her waist and pulled her close, she smacked his hand. "You could barely unlock the door, you're so foxed!"

He smiled against her ear. "But I have greater incentive to fit my key into your lock."

Abbi rolled her eyes, "Go to sleep, Michael. You're too drunk by far."

He pressed a kiss to her neck where it joined her shoulder, "I've never been that drunk."

"Yes, but I am that tired. It has been a long and challenging day and we have another one ahead of us tomorrow. Sleep."

Relenting, Michael settled more comfortably into the bed. He did not relinquish his hold on her, however. He had found that holding his wife through the night, and waking with her pliant form in his arms, was one of the greatest benefits of marriage. He was still musing on it when sleep claimed him.

Chapter Fourteen.

The journey back to Blagdon Hall the following day was a tiresome one and it was late afternoon before they arrived home. An accident on the road blocked their path for much of the day, necessitating taking a longer and more circuitous route.

With both men recovering from their excesses and Abbigail trying to process the information that Michael had shared with her the night before, they were quiet inside the coach. She couldn't imagine that he would have willingly imparted such information had he not been so deeply in his cups. Michael was a natural protector and it frequently frustrated her that he seemed determine to keep information from her simply because he thought it was in her best interest. Being ignorant of pertinent facts, to Abbi's mind, was never in anyone's best interest.

She spoke quickly to Mrs. Wolcot about the arrangements for dinner and the fact that new servants would be arriving from London over the next few days. She had no idea where they would put them, but it was a matter of necessity. The Hall needed a thorough cleaning and Mrs. Wolcot herself was simply unable to do so alone. Michael and Spencer had gone to the library, undoubtedly to hide out and recuperate from their night of excess.

Abbi felt unsettled. There were too many secrets being kept by her husband. She didn't like it, but short of airing her grievances in front of Viscount Wolverston, there was little enough to be done about it. Deciding that some crisp, clear air would help to clear her head, Abbi said, "I'm going out to the garden, Mrs. Wolcot. I'll see if there are any vegetables or herbs that can be salvaged for dinner."

The old woman nodded sagely, offering a knowing look. Abbi ignored it. The last thing she wanted was to get lulled into discussing her marital issues with the housekeeper.

Donning her smock and grabbing one of the baskets from the hook by the door, she headed into the garden. She'd pull a few weeds while she was out there and perhaps work out some of her frustrations.

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to alleviate the pounding of his head. It didn't help. Of course, he had consumed more ale the previous night than he had since his days at Cambridge. "Remind me to never do that again," he said.

Spencer nodded then winced. "If you'll promise to do the same. Did we actually get any useful information? I can't recall."

"Apparently that whatever activity, cult or otherwise that is taking place in the stone circle in the woods between Blagdon and Whitby Hall is not a new thing. It's been going on for decades if not centuries."

Spencer sighed. "I don't mean to be insulting when I say this, but it bears considering. I understand that Lavinia is beautiful and that she shares in Rupert's perversions. Those are fine reasons to choose her for a mistress or lover. Those are not reasons to choose her for a wife, specifically if Lord Whitby's coffers are as depleted as we're imagining."

Michael didn't take offense, though he understood that Spencer's a.s.sessment of the Whitby's marriage in some ways mirrored his own marriage. Abbi was far enough beneath his station that had he chosen not to marry her, it would have been accepted. Some eyebrows might have been raised and he would certainly have been cut by many hostesses but not by everyone. "No offense taken. It's a valid. Perhaps Lavinia had something beyond her beauty and proclivities to recommend her?"

Rising from his chair, Michael moved toward one of the larger bookcases. Retrieving the older account ledgers that had been kept by Abbi's father, he returned to the desk with them. "Artifacts, any antique texts that might relate to their activities... That's what we're looking for."

Spencer picked up one of the books but fumbled it. The ledger fell to the floor and the binding split. "Dammit."

Michael looked down at the book. "It's no matter. I don't think these books have been very well maintained. The entire house is coated with a layer of dust, possibly the housekeeper, as well."

Spencer retrieved the damaged book, and when he picked it up, a piece of paper hidden behind the front endpaper had become dislodged. Tugging at the corner, the letter slipped free. "I'll let you take a look at that. Someone went to great lengths to hide it."

Michael opened the folded letter and scanned the contents. What he read left his blood cold. "This is not good."

Spencer frowned at him. "What is it?"

"It's a letter from Rupert. Claiming that the illness that befell Abbigail's stepmother was in fact poison. The antidote will be provided only if he is given an antique map of the area that includes points of supernatural power."

"How would Rupert have poisoned his mother in law?"

Michael shook his head. "He didn't. It would have been Lavinia. And if it's true, Abbi said her father died of the same illness that took her stepmother... She has no idea that Lavinia and Rupert may very well have murdered her parents."

Spencer appeared utterly horrified. "I don't envy you the telling of that."

Michael cursed. "Keep looking. See if you can find any other references to the map."

In the garden, Abbi worked furiously. After unearthing some parsnips and leeks, she began weeding. It was hard work. Her hands, even in the thick work gloves she'd donned, were filthy, but she felt she was making progress and that was always welcome.

Between the weak winter sun and the enthusiasm with which she'd attacked her task, she'd grown quite warm. Stopping for a moment, she removed her gloves and wiped the sweat from her brow, sweeping back the damp tendrils of hair that had escaped her chignon.

The unsettling feeling of being watched crept over her. The hair at the nape of her neck stood on end and the sweat that trickled between her shoulder blades cooled as a chill swept through her.