by james
THE DARK COUNT
An Ellora's Cave Publication, December 2003
Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.
PO Box 787
Hudson, OH 44236-0787
ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-696-8
Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):
Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML
THE DARK COUNT © 2003 JILL NOELLE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Edited by Sheri Ross Carucci
Cover art by Darrell King.
THE DARK COUNT
Jill Noelle
Acknowledgements:
A special thanks to my online critique group, LHRC - Anne, Gina, Gina B., Barb, Elinor, Christina, Claire, Kathie, Sue, Beth and our missing Crystal -- you ladies are the best!
For his supportiveness and work on my website, a big hug and thank you to my dad.
Dedication:
For always seeing the best in me, this one's for you, Mom!
And In Loving Memory of Christopher Dean Noble - my friend, my champion, my brother. I'm still working at it, every day. Miss you...
Chapter One
“Oh, no ye don’t. Yer no takin’ all me money an’ walkin’ away. I can meet yer bet with somethin’ more precious than gold.”
Vincent Renault scraped his winnings into a pile on the scarred plank table, ignoring the drunken ramblings of the man across from him. More precious than gold, indeed. Of course the old man would say so, after losing every last guinea he’d brought to the game.
A filthy, callused hand fell on his arm. Vincent looked up, checking the impulse to fling it off.
Harold Morton leaned across the table, his alcohol-laden breath fouling the air. “More dear than all England’s treasures is me Bridgett.”
Vincent raised a brow and sat back in his chair, his silence an invitation for the man to continue.
“’Er hair’s the color o’ spun gold, ‘n ‘er eyes is the color o’ a summer sky. She’s a true beauty, is me Bridgett.”
“And who, pray tell, is ‘me Bridgett’?”
“A young chit whose beauty is beyon’ compare.”
“So you’ve said, but who is she that you feel free to wager her on a hand of cards?” Vincent watched the man closely, his stomach clenched in anger. In his mind, he pictured another young girl, another golden child, whose innocence had been stripped from her by a depraved adult. He blinked, clearing his thoughts. “Perhaps Bridgett would have something to say about the matter?”
“Bridgett’s a good girl. She’ll do as I tell ‘er.”
“Because?”
“’Cause a good daughter always obeys her Papa, that’s why!”
His suspicions confirmed, Vincent struggled to keep his anger in check. “She’s your daughter?”
“Aye, ‘n a virgin, to be sure.”
Vincent took the man’s measure. Was it liquor talking, or did this gluttonous fool actually mean to risk his child to Lady Luck?
“Well, be ye acceptin’ me bet, or should I seek another taker?”
A murmur rippled through the crowd of onlookers surrounding their table, and several men stepped forward, jostling their companions for room.
“I’ll take yer bet, Morton, if the dandy here don’t,” came a response from behind Vincent’s chair.
Vincent tightened his grip on his cards and made an instant decision. “My wager has been met. What are you holding?”
The inebriated man grinned, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth, and placed his cards on the table. “Straight flush. Let’s see ye beat that!”
The sounds of drunken revelry that surrounded them in the smoke-filled tavern seemed to recede. Vincent held the old man’s gaze as he showed his cards, revealing them one at a time until they lay fanned out before him. “Royal flush.”
His opponent paled and stumbled up from his chair. “Ye got the Devil’s own luck, ye do.”
Morton shuffled backwards, his gaze darting about the room. “I’ll jus’ be goin’ now.”
“I think not.” Vincent stood and quickly blocked the man’s escape. “You haven’t turned over all of my winnings.”
“Ah, but surely ye won’t hold me to it. Me Bridgett’s all I got left ‘o any worth.”
Ignoring the half-hearted plea, Vincent stepped aside, leaving a clear path to the exit.
“I’ll follow you home,” he murmured, “to collect my debt.”
Morton spread his hands in an entreating gesture. “At least let me go ‘n tell ‘er meself. Break the news real gentle like.”
Vincent frowned. He had no desire to spend another minute in this hellhole that attempted to pass for a tavern. Only a powerful thirst and a desire for diversion had caused him to stop in the first place.
“You wagered your daughter on a hand of cards. It’s a bit late to start worrying about her feelings.”
“Still ‘n all, it’s me right as ‘er Papa to tell ‘er what’s what.”
The man puffed out his chest and inserted a wad of chewing tobacco. He spit a stream of black juice on the floor near Vincent’s feet, a cock-sure look upon his face.
Vincent glanced at the puddle of spittle and grimaced. If the fair Bridgett were anything like her father, he might do well to leave her to her fate. He shook his head. No, an innocent little girl did not deserve such a future, no matter how uncouth she may be. He could only hope that she wouldn’t be too horrible to tolerate. Perhaps he could put her to work in his stables, tending the horses. At least she would be safe there.
He sat back in his chair and signaled for the barkeep to send over another mug. “You have one hour, but I’m warning you, don’t try anything stupid. If you do, I promise you’ll regret it.”
Morton swallowed hard and nodded. “If ye follow this road, you’ll come up on me land. There’s a lane jus’ at the point where the fence ends.”
Vincent inclined his head, and then turned his attention to his ale. For the next hour, he would concentrate on reining in his anger.
God fashioned Hell for the inquisitive.
Bridgett Morton suffered a pang of guilty conscience as the childhood admonition ran through her head. She could almost hear her mother’s voice, picture the expression on her lovely face as she issued the warning. The bittersweet memory gave Bridgett pause, and she started to pull away from her stepsister’s room, but a low moan from within made her freeze. She bent forward, peeking through the partially open door, careful to keep her breathing shallow so as not to make a sound. She knew it was wrong, spying like this, but she simply couldn’t resist the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity. Edward Remy had come to call on Melanie as soon as Papa had left that evening and Bridgett, tired of being chased from the house every time Edward popped by for a visit, had slipped back inside once she was sure they were otherwise occupied.
This was the second day in a row she had watched them, fascinated and a little ashamed at the exciting feelings their actions evoked within her. The limited view from her spot on the floor in the hallway only allowed her to see half of what occurred, but her imagination filled in the rest. She’d grown up on a farm, and had a vague notion of the mechanics of such things. It was the emotions, the sounds that were a strange mixture of pain and pleasure, which intrigued her. The way her stepsister would cry out Edward’s name. The way he would speak roughly to her, and yet she would respond to him in such a way that indi
cated she enjoyed his attentions. What drove them to do such things? What was it about their actions that brought a blush to Melanie’s cheeks and had her simpering like a young girl each time Edward came to call. So far, from what Bridgett had observed, her stepsister’s reactions were inexplicable.
A soft, feminine giggle drew her attention, and she squinted into the dim interior of the room. If only they’d left the door open a little wider! She gave a light push, holding her breath, praying it would not squeak. It swung silently on its hinges, opening nearly a full foot. A ray of light from the hallway brightened the shadows within, though neither of the room’s occupants appeared to notice. Bridgett crept forward, hands clenching the doorjamb, eyes widening with wonder at the scene being played out before her.
Her stepsister leaned over the back of a chair, her skirts flung up over her back. Behind her, his pale buttocks in plain view, stood Edward. His breeches around his ankles, and his hands at Melanie’s waist, he moved steadily back and forth, back and forth. From her vantage point, it was difficult for Bridgett to see exactly what was happening, but she had a pretty good idea. She’d seen their stud, Moses, approach a mare in just such a fashion. Was this what sent Melanie to simpering and swooning each time she spied Edward strolling up the lane?
She watched, fascinated, as Melanie began to moan and utter words of encouragement, begging Edward to move “faster”, and “harder”.
A strong arm wrapped about Bridgett’s waist, lifting her to her feet, and a large hand clamped across her mouth, stifling the scream that nearly erupted from her throat.
“Yer big sister’s always hungerin’ fer a man’s cock a’tween ‘er legs.”
Bridgett recognized her stepfather’s voice and relaxed, but then stiffened again when she realized they’d all been discovered. Panicked, she struggled for release, but he held her fast.
“Look it ‘er, Bridgett. She sure knows how ta take a man.” He whispered against her neck and his moist breath stank of ale and tobacco. Stunned by the bizarre nature of his words, she could only stare at her stepsister’s contorted features as her stepfather continued his monologue.
“I taught ‘er everythin’, ya know. She come to me a year ago, askin’ all kinds ‘o questions ‘bout men ‘n women ‘n such. What’s a man ta do, ‘er bein’ so hot ‘n ready for it.” His arm at her waist drifted upwards, until it brushed the bottom of her breasts. “How ‘bout you, me girl? You here spyin’ on ‘em whiles they’s fuckin’. You hot ‘n ready, too?”
Bridgett tried to speak, to deny his allegations and his lurid suggestions, but his beefy hand still covered her mouth. Bile rose in her throat and she nearly gagged.
Before her, Edward continued to pound against Melanie’s backside, his guttural moans filling the air. The whole scene took on a surreal feeling, as if Bridgett were disconnected from it all in some way.
“C’mon, me girl, our time’s runnin’ short.” Her father pulled her down the hallway to his room, dragging her inside and kicking the door shut with his foot.
Bridgett trembled, a tumult of thoughts and emotions running through her mind and body. Melanie and Edward. Melanie and Papa. Her stepfather’s obscene confession and suggestions.
“You’ll be leavin’ me soon, but first I think I’ll be samplin’ some o’ your charms.”
He released her suddenly, and she stumbled away from him.
“What…what do you mean?”
Her stepfather took a step toward her and chuckled. “Come now, girlie, you know yer curious ‘bout what goes on ‘atween a man and a woman, else you wouldn’t be spyin’ at the door.”
Bridgett’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. She had been curious, but this… this was wrong. What Melanie and Edward did was one thing, but what her father was suggesting was purely evil.
His hands moved to the hook at the top of his breeches and Bridgett spoke quickly in an effort to distract him. “You said I would be leaving you soon. What did you mean?”
“You said I would be leaving you soon. What did you mean?”
Bridgett cringed at his attempt to mimic her speech. He’d always hated it. Her mother had taught her the proper way for a lady to speak, and even though that had been many years ago, Bridgett still tried not to fall in to the uncouth language spoken by both her stepsister and stepfather.
“Yer as uppity as he is.” A look of intense rage crossed his face and he uttered a string of curses. “Blasted Count, thinkin’ he’s better ‘n everyone else. Thinks he’s won hisself a real prize, he does. Too bad he’ll be receivin’ soiled goods.”
“Prize?” Bridgett retreated further into the room as he began to advance upon her.
“Ye belong to ‘im now, me girl. He won ye fair ‘n square. Who would ‘a thought he’d be holdin’ a royal flush.”
Realization crashed down upon her like a load of stones. “You wagered me in a card game?”
He was within a foot of her now, and he reached to caress her bare arm with a grimy hand. “’Fraid so, me girl. I always hoped ‘ta keep ye fer meself. I was lookin’ forward ta teachin’ ye so many things.”
Anger and revulsion bubbled up, constricting her throat. She struggled for breath, and watched, as if from a distance, as he placed his sweaty palm on her breast. At his touch, something within her snapped and she jerked away, dashing toward the door. She heard him call her name, but did not stop, did not look back. As she flew down the staircase, she nearly collided with Edward, but pushed her way past him and headed for the door. Flinging it open, she ran, straight into the arms of a tall, dark stranger who immediately pushed her behind him.
Vincent had reacted on instinct, putting himself between the girl and whatever had caused her to flee. He looked into the dark interior of the house, body tense, waiting for the threat to reveal itself.
“’’Scuse me.”
A blonde, giant of a man ambled into view. Vincent took his measure, wondering if he could take him in a fight if it became necessary to do so.
“That’s Edward,” came a whisper at his back. “Let him pass.”
Slightly amused, yet sensing something nefarious underfoot, Vincent stepped aside, shadowed by the girl behind him, to clear the exit. The big man slipped past and trotted down the lane without a backward glance.
“Bridgett! Where ye be hidin’ girlie?”
He heard the girl’s sudden intake of breath, and immediately realized whom she feared. He waited for her father to appear at the door.
“Oh, it be ye already. Couldna’ been an hour since I left ye at the tavern.”
Vincent took in Harold Morton’s disheveled appearance, his open shirt and partially opened breeches, and clenched his fists against the fury that burned low in his gut.
“I gave you an extra few minutes,” he replied, gritting his teeth in an attempt to maintain a civilized tone. “Apparently, that was a mistake.”
“Is that me girl hidin’ behin’ yer back there?” Morton took a step forward, but Vincent held up a hand in warning.
“Stay where you are,” he told him. “We’re leaving. I suggest you go back inside.”
For a moment, Vincent thought her father would press the issue. The man’s face turned a molten shade of red, and he tightened his jaw, his anger apparent in the way he glared from across the threshold.
Vincent waited in silence, unwilling to turn his back until there was a door between them.
“Ye won yerself nothin’ but a whore. Good riddance to ‘er, I say.”
He slammed the door, the sound reverberating through the still night air. Behind him, Vincent heard the girl release her breath, and he finally turned to face her.
What he saw nearly knocked him off his feet.
“You are Bridgett?” He looked her up and down, trying to reconcile this gorgeous young woman with the child he’d pictured in his mind.
“Yes.” She spoke softly, staring at her feet. Her long hair fell forward, masking her face from his view.
Vincent had a moment of
awkward uncertainty, damning the impulse that had made him stop at the tavern, and that had made him accept Harold Morton’s obscene wager. Vincent had stayed in the game, intent on saving the man’s child from a fate of debauchery.
But this was no child.
He studied her intently, fighting the urge to brush back the veil of wavy blonde tresses that shielded her angelic face from his view. Should he take her with him, as he’d planned, or leave her here? Judging from the scene he’d walked into, he doubted she’d go willingly back inside. But would she feel any differently about coming with him?
An owl hooted in the distance, and he suddenly felt very foolish, standing with her on the doorstep like a man turned to stone. There’d be time enough to figure out what to do with her once they were on the road.
She stood quietly, her pale hair glowing in the moonlight, her lithe form barely concealed by her threadbare gown. Nothing more than a rag, really, but it did not detract from her essential beauty. Her father had been correct, damn his soul to hell. His Bridgett was fair, indeed.
She looked up. A small frown creased her forehead, and she bit her lower lip with small, white teeth.
“Do you know why I’m here, bella mia?” He did not take his eyes from that full, wide mouth. No child, indeed. The fact complicated matters in ways that he hadn’t yet fully explored. In ways that made him question his control, and that fueled his fury.
She averted her gaze and nodded. “Yes, milord. My…father…explained it to me in great detail.”
“Then you know that you belong to me? That he wagered you, and lost you, in a game of cards?”
She looked up at him, and even in the darkness her hostility was evident. “Must you repeat it? Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough for one day?”
Vincent muttered an oath of frustration.
“Come.” He turned on his heels and started down the steps, expecting she would follow. Instead, she streaked past him and took off across the yard toward a copse of woods near the lane.
