by james
Thomas seemed to grow impatient, for he lost his subservient demeanor and turned without asking for leave, speaking over his shoulder as he left the room.
"Apparently not, My Lord."
The door clicked shut, and Vincent ran his hands over his face. The last thing he needed tonight was an encounter with an inebriated imbecile. He had several muscular servants on duty specifically to handle such matters. Marie knew that as well as anyone. So why was she bothering him?
He strode from the room, his fists clenched at his sides. With a still-rational portion of his mind, he could almost pity the poor sot who'd chosen tonight to over-imbibe. Vincent had found a target for his wrath.
When he reached the door of the library, he scanned the crowd, looking for any obvious signs of disturbance. To his surprise, all seemed normal. Had his sister come to her senses and sought help from more obvious quarters? He turned to go, when he noticed her out of the corner of his eye. She stood near the doors to the terrace, gesturing wildly in his direction. Her face was pale, and she appeared to be very agitated. Incredibly, no one else seemed to notice her odd behavior, and he started toward her, hoping to handle whatever plagued her before his guests realized something was amiss.
The minute he got within arm's length, she grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him outside.
"What the... Marie, what has come over you?"
"Shush! They'll hear you!" Her whisper held a note of panic.
"Who will hear me?" What in God's name was this about? He looked around, but the terrace appeared empty.
"Bridgett and Jonathan."
At the mention of her name, Vincent turned away. "I'm not interested, Marie."
His sister grabbed his arm and jerked it hard, causing him to stumble backwards. "I think she's in trouble, Vincent, and it's all your fault!"
Regaining his footing, he shot Marie a contemptuous glare. "She looked perfectly content not an hour ago, my dear. What makes you think she's in trouble, and how in God's name is it my fault?"
"I saw them go out here, and followed them. He took her around there, Vincent, and she did not appear to go willingly." Marie pointed toward the far end of the terrace, where the wide, stone walkway seemed to end. In actuality, it turned the corner and ran for several hundred yards in the other direction.
"Judging from their behavior earlier, I would say she is getting exactly what she wanted." He didn't want to deal with the way those words, that thought, made his hands shake with rage.
"Are you truly that feeble-witted, or merely blinded by jealousy?"
He bristled at her tone. "Jealousy implies feelings I do not hold, Marie. She can do as she pleases."
"I thought she belonged to you?" His sister gave him a knowing look. "I've had just about enough of your male ego, Vincent. Whether you care for her or not, you are still responsible for her. You brought her into this; it's up to you to keep her safe from those of your ilk. She isn't prepared to deal with the likes of Jonathan Wilder."
He stared at her for a moment, contemplating her words. She had a point. Despite the difficulties between them, Bridgett was still his responsibility. Like it or not, he would have to see to her safety.
"I will check on her," he agreed. "But God help them both if I find what I believe I will find when I round that corner."
Bridgett took several steps backwards, which only served to put her deeper in the shadows. "Sir Jonathan, please. Remember where we are."
He stalked her, his smile both seductive and predatory. "We're perfectly secluded here, my love. Very few people realize that the terrace extends beyond the corner of the castle."
"But... What of Lord Renault? I thought he was your friend!" She spoke in a rush, suddenly panicked by his aggressive behavior.
"And I thought he was your betrothed, but that did not stop you from declaring your interest in me. Come, my dear, let us stop playing these silly games. We both know what it is we desire." He moved closer, backing her against the wall and placing his hands on each side of her face, effectively caging her in.
"I spoke without thinking, My Lord." She put her hands on his chest and tried to push him back. "Please. Let me go."
"Not until I've had a sample of what you've been offering me all evening."
He lowered his head, and she turned away at the last minute so that his lips brushed her cheek. He ran his tongue down her neck, and she closed her eyes against the tingling chill that raced up her spine.
Whore.
"Kiss me," he whispered, and she turned to face him.
She saw his smile of triumph just before he captured her mouth in a searing kiss. Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to his expertise, and waited.
He teased her with his tongue, nudging her lips apart and pulling her into his arms. His hands were everywhere - at her back, in her hair, at her hips, then lower – cupping her buttocks to bring her up against his hardness.
She did not attempt to stop him when he dragged at the neckline of her gown, exposing her breasts to the cool night air. She stood submissively while he fingered her nipple. His deep groan of desire left her empty.
Empty.
She snapped her eyes open and broke their kiss. The extraordinarily handsome man before her drew a ragged breath and bent his head, capturing her nipple between his teeth and drawing it in to suckle it deeply.
Bridgett stared at the top of his golden head and felt…nothing. Nothing at all. No passion, no desire, not even the slightest hint of excitement.
"Have you found that for which you search, bella mia?"
The steely voice penetrated her wall of detached observation.
She sucked in her breath and looked up, straight into the gleaming dark eyes of the Count.
Chapter Thirteen
Bridgett pushed frantically at Jonathan’s chest. He looked up, and she caught a glimpse of the fear in his eyes just before he was dragged backwards and flung against the wall.
“You couldn’t resist, could you?” Vincent had Jonathan by his coat, their faces only inches apart.
“Let him go!” Bridgett tried to make her voice firm, but her words came out in a ridiculous squeak.
“I will take great pleasure in ripping your head from your neck.” Vincent shifted his hold, wrapping his fingers about Jonathan’s neck. His victim gave a strangled gasp of surprise and began to struggle in earnest.
Bridgett rushed forward. “My Lord! You’ll kill him!”
She pulled at his arm in vain. The Count behaved like a man possessed. Jonathan’s face turned from bright red to a deep, ugly blue and his mouth worked frantically but no sound came forth.
“Vincent! Stop this instant!”
Bridgett breathed a sigh of relief as Marie came running around the corner, followed by two burly servants. Each man took one of the Count’s arms, and after a brief struggle, managed to pull him back.
Marie glanced at Bridgett, her eyes glittering with anger. “Adjust your gown, madam, and go inside.”
Bridgett tugged at her bodice. In that instant, she realized the gravity of the situation. If Marie hadn’t interrupted, the Count would have committed murder. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I didn’t think… I didn’t want…”
Finally free of the Count’s vice-like grip, Jonathan took several steps backwards, gasping for breath. “Shut up, you whore. You wanted everything I was giving you.”
The Count uttered a curse and lunged forward, but the servants held him back.
“Jonathan, I want you to leave here right now, and I don’t ever want you to come back.” Marie stepped between the two men. “Go now, before I order my brother’s release and let him beat some sense into you.”
Bridgett saw the glaze of hatred in the man’s ice-blue eyes and feared he might argue, but he merely brushed past them and disappeared around the corner.
She looked at the Count, and saw that he was staring in her direction, his mouth twisted in contempt. She took a step back.
“Release me this minute.” He wren
ched his arms loose, but his eyes never left her face. “Leave us.”
“Vincent, I don’t think…” Marie placed her hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t even glance at her.
“I said, leave us!”
“But…”
The Count whirled around. “Go, Marie. I’ll tolerate no more of your interference. I’ve tried it your way, and look where it got me.”
Bridgett watched the play of emotions that crossed her friend’s face, and silently prayed for a reprieve.
Marie cast a questioning look in her direction, but Bridgett dared not speak.
“I’ll wait for you inside.” Marie turned, indicating for the servants to follow, and Bridgett bit her tongue to keep from calling her back.
The minute they were alone, the Count grasped her arm and pressed her back against the wall, effectively cutting off any route of escape.
Without warning, he grabbed the front of her gown and ripped it from neck to waist. He buried one hand in her hair and kissed her savagely, while brutally fondling her breast with the other.
She tried to twist away, but there was nowhere to go.
He broke their kiss, but kept his hand wrapped in her hair, holding her still while he lifted her skirts. She felt him release the front of his breeches, and a bubble of terror rose in her throat. She could hear herself babbling, begging him to stop, the words rushing out in broken sentences punctuated by sobs of fear.
She felt herself being lifted from the ground, the stone wall cutting into her back, and then she was slipping down as he drew her legs about his hips.
He grabbed her face and forced her to look into his eyes. “You are mine, bella mia, and mine alone.” He pressed
upwards and she stiffened against the impending pain. “No other man will ever touch you again.”
With a wild thrust, he filled her. She uttered a strangled cry and dug her nails into his shoulders. Closing her eyes, she held on as he battered her body against the castle wall. Tears trickled through her lashes, burning hot trails down her cheeks.
The Count lowered his head and flicked her nipple with his tongue. Fiery threads of pleasure spiraled downward from breast to belly.
There is a fine line between pleasure and pain.
She clutched at his head and he suckled her harder. He bucked his hips, plunging deeper with each upward thrust. The hard length of him slid across the sensitive nub of her clitoris and she gasped.
The Count raised his head. “Were you hot for him, bella mia? Did he make you wet, with his kisses and sweet words?”
He’d slowed his pace, punctuating each sentence with a long, slow thrust. He pulled her close, shielding her back from the sharp hardness of the wall, his hands cupping her buttocks.
Bridgett tried to concentrate, tried to answer, but the tight heat in the pit of her stomach seemed to demand her attention. She shook her head and bit her lip, losing herself in the passion she read in his smoke-gray eyes.
“Answer me, Bridgett. Did you find your answer?”
With sudden clarity, she understood what he was asking her. It was the same thing she’d been thinking, just seconds before he’d appeared on the terrace.
“Yes, milord,” she whispered, “I found my answer.”
He studied her face, but continued his languid strokes. “Tell me.”
“I am doomed.”
He raised a brow and cocked his head. “Doomed?”
“I felt nothing. Nothing at all.”
He remained silent for a minute, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “And now? Do you still feel nothing?”
“Now?” Bridgett gave a harsh, strangled laugh. “My breasts seem to reach for you of their own accord. The juices of my desire are even now dribbling down my thighs. My heart thumps within my chest so rapidly, I fear it might burst.” She paused for breath, and closed her eyes against his piercing stare. “Oh, I feel, milord. I feel a great deal.”
His deep growl of pleasure echoed in the darkness. He bucked his hips, and she sucked in her breath. He gripped her hips, digging into the soft flesh to force her hard against him.
Bridgett panted and her legs began to tremble. The tightness in her loins seemed to send her entire body to quivering and she whimpered against his neck. Something was happening. Something both wondrous and frightening, something she both sought and tried to deny.
“No!” The Count gave a final thrust, holding her close and grinding against her with his groin, then went completely still.
Realizing what he’d done, Bridgett pummeled his chest with her fists. “I hate you!”
She sobbed her frustration. “Damn you! Damn you to hell…”
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “There is no need to damn me to hell, bella mia. For that
is certain to be my final destination.”
His soft voice at her ear, his tone so full of self-recrimination, had a sobering effect. Bridgett drew a deep, shaky breath and pulled back.
“Put me down.” She wondered at the empty detachment that had replaced the passion of moments before, but did not pause to consider its implication.
He lifted her away from him, and she suddenly found herself on her feet. Her legs gave way, and she would have fallen if he hadn’t reached out to steady her.
Reluctantly, she allowed him to help her regain her footing, but pulled away as soon as she could stand of her own accord.
She turned away, unwilling to look at him any longer. “I would like to go to my room.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
She swung back, ready to do battle. “What do you mean?”
“Our situation has changed. I can no longer trust you with your freedom.” The Count did not even have the good grace to look at her when he spoke, choosing to adjust his clothing, instead.
Bridgett didn’t hesitate. Pulling the tattered remains of her bodice together, she fled around the corner and down the length of the terrace. She heard him shout her name, but did not pause. She ran past the doors to the library and continued past several other entrances before she reached the far end of the castle. There, just before the walkway ended, was a final set of doors.
She could hear him, somewhere behind her, his footfalls echoing in the still night air as he raced toward her. She lifted the latch, praying it would not be locked, and pressed forward. The door swung open and she slipped inside, slamming it closed and fumbling in the darkness for a lock.
Her fingers slid across the smooth surface, and she choked on a sob when they failed to encounter any sort of catch. She waited, certain the Count would burst in at any moment. The seconds stretched into minutes, and still she stood with her back against the door.
Before her, the darkness was complete. Not even shadows pierced the inky blackness, and she shuddered as her imagination began to conjure up all sorts of horrid images. Her skin crawled at the thought of the spiders and other creeping creatures that likely lurked in the corners of the room.
When something scurried across the floor near her feet, she knew she would never have the courage to go forward.
Where was the Count? Surely he’d seen which door she had entered. Or had he? She tried to think where he’d been – how far behind her – when she’d dodged inside. Was it possible he’d made a mistake? That even now, he was searching for her in some other area of the castle?
As the minutes ticked by, she grew more certain that she’d somehow managed to elude him. Finally, she gathered the nerve to turn, intending to peek out and make her escape, should it be safe to do so.
“Oh, no.” She pulled at the door, but it did not budge. “Oh, God, please no.”
Gripped by an almost insane fear, she pounded on the solid panels until the skin of her knuckles grew raw.
“Let me out!” She screamed over and over, until her voice grew hoarse with the effort.
Finally, exhausted and sore, she sank to her knees, resting her head against the wall. Around her, the darkness seemed alive, reaching out
to enfold her in its evil embrace.
Bridgett buried her face in her hands and cried silently, paralyzed by her fear.
* * * * *
Vincent slipped past the library doors, intent on reaching his destination without attracting the attention of his guests. He needed to be sure that Jonathan Wilder had been escorted from the premises before he focused on other, more pressing problems.
He quickened his pace. A stroke of luck had led Bridgett to choose that particular entrance, but he dared not leave her alone there too long.
It had been a year since anyone had entered that area of the castle, a year since he’d locked it off and forbidden his servants from venturing beyond the heavy oak doors that led to his father’s chambers. He’d completely forgotten about the small door that led to the terrace. From the inside, it was hidden beyond a silk screen and not easily noticed. Like all the entrances to that particular wing, the outside door locked from both sides with sliding bolts situated near the top of the frame. When Bridgett had entered, he’d automatically thrown the lock, effectively cutting off her escape. She would be safe there for a few minutes, at least.
“Vincent!”
He turned and stopped.
“Where are you going?” Marie panted, out of breath from her headlong dash down the corridor.
“To ascertain whether you made sure our friend actually left the property.”
His sister bristled, throwing her shoulders back and glaring up at him. “I watched him leave, myself.”
“Very good.” He turned to walk away, but she grabbed his arm.
“Where is she, Vincent? What have you done to her?”
He whirled around. “No less than she deserves, I assure you. I meant what I said, Marie; I’ll tolerate no more interference from you. The girl is mine.”
“Yours?” Her voice turned icy. “She is a human being, Vincent. A flesh and blood woman, not some object for you to use as you please.”
Guilt tickled the edges of his conscience, but he pushed it back. “Marie, I…”
“Ah, there you are. What luck, finding you here, unarmed and essentially walled in.”
Vincent instinctively propelled his sister behind him.
