Jill Noelle - The Dark Count (Ellora's Cave)

by james

  “You watched him leave yourself, hmm?” He muttered under his breath before calmly turning to address the intruder. “You were instructed to leave. You should have kept going.”

  Jonathan laughed, a wild sound that matched the insane gleam in his eyes. “You’re hardly in a position to make threats, old boy. As you can see, I do have the upper hand.”

  He waved the pistol in the air and took a step forward.

  “What do you want?”

  “Why, to finish what I started. I’ve never left a woman unsatisfied, Renault. You, of all people, should know that’s not good form.”

  Vincent wanted to laugh at the irony of such a statement. Bad form to leave a woman unsatisfied? Bridgett would most likely agree whole-heartedly.

  Common sense told him to let it go, but he couldn’t resist a bit of goading. “I’m afraid you are too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve already finished what you started, Wilder. Your…services…are no longer needed.” Behind him, Marie gasped and poked him in the ribs, but he ignored her.

  Jonathan paled, and Vincent experienced a rush of satisfaction that his jibe had hit its mark.

  “You son of a bitch.” Jonathan took another step forward and took aim. His lips curled in the semblance of a smile. “You think you’ve won again, but this time you’ve pushed me too far. Take me to her. Now.”

  Vincent glanced past his opponent and his heart skipped a beat. At the far end of the corridor, someone had slipped into the shadows of a doorway. Vincent struggled to stay focused on the conversation at hand, hoping to hold Jonathan’s attention long enough for whomever it was to creep closer.

  “Why? I told you, she doesn’t need you.”

  “Oh, she’ll need me, all right. After a few nights in my keeping, she’ll forget all about you, Renault. It will be my cock she craves, my name she screams in ecstasy, have no doubt.”

  Vincent clenched his fists and started forward, but Marie had hold of his coattails and she pulled him back.

  “Enough talk! Let’s go.” Jonathan brandished the gun in the air, indicating for them to move.

  At that instant, Thomas rushed forward, a long metal poker held in both fists. He raised the weapon over his head, wielding it like a club.

  Jonathan started to whirl about, but it was too late. Thomas brought the poker down hard. Seconds later, it was over.

  Vincent stooped to retrieve the pistol, which had flown through the air to land at his feet.

  “Is he alive?”

  Thomas looked up from where he knelt beside Jonathan’s prone body. “He is, My Lord. What shall I do with him?”

  “Take him outside and tie him to his horse. I want two guards assigned as escort. This time, I want it seen to that he makes it all the way to London.” He paused.

  “When he comes to, give him this warning. Tell him if I ever see him again, I will slit his throat.”

  Marie stepped forward. “Are you not going to summon the magistrate?”

  “What on earth is going on here?”

  The shrill question rang from the end of the corridor. Vincent sighed and moved around Jonathan to approach his guest.

  “Madam White, everything is fine, I assure you.” He turned back to Thomas. “Take care of it. Now.”

  “I heard shouting, and thought something might be amiss.” The gray-haired woman glanced at the still body on the floor. “Is he dead?”

  Vincent took her hands and tried to turn her, to head her back toward the library before she could cause more of a stir, but already other guests were coming out to investigate. He continued on, hoping that Thomas would listen and remove Jonathan before anyone else caught sight of him.

  “No, of course he’s not dead! He just had too much to drink, that’s all. Thomas will take him upstairs to sleep it off.” He spoke solicitously, patting the old woman’s hand and giving her his most innocently charming smile.

  They’d reached the crowd of onlookers, and the explanation was as much for their benefit as Madam White’s. Vincent spread his arms and ushered them back into the library, closing the doors behind him to block off the scene in the corridor.

  “Everything is fine, ladies and gentlemen. He’ll suffer from a headache come morning, but he’ll survive.”

  Several people chuckled at that, and Vincent joined in before adding, “Enjoy yourselves, everyone. The night is young.”

  The curious dispersed, leaving him alone near the door. He breathed a sigh and made his way along the wall to the entrance of the dining room. Several people looked at him oddly, but he ignored them and headed toward a table laden with refreshments.

  He needed a stiff drink. His hands shook and the decanter clattered against the side of the glass as he poured himself a hefty portion of sherry.

  He downed it in one gulp, refilled, and then drained the glass a second time.

  “What will that solve?”

  “I don’t need a keeper, Marie.”

  He felt her move up behind him and stiffened when she placed a hand on his shoulder. She was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “I suppose you deserve it. It’s not every day one looks in the face of death and lives to tell about it.”

  Her words made him feel guilty, and he turned to face her. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” she murmured, but her eyes were troubled. “It is I who should apologize. I thought he’d gone, Vincent, truly I did.”

  “It’s not your fault. If I hadn’t allowed myself to become, distracted, earlier, this wouldn’t have happened.” He paused, a sick feeling clenching his gut.

  Marie cocked her head. “What wrong? You look positively ill.”

  “Bloody hell, I forgot all about her.” He thrust his glass into Marie’s hand and ran from the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bridgett sniffled and raised her head, peering into the room. Gathering her courage, she sat up. “I’m going to kill you for this.”

  She spoke aloud, comforted by the sound of her own voice. The darkness, so complete, seemed less threatening somehow when she did not have the silence to deal with as well.

  Her legs tingled and she shifted, moaning as needles of pain prickled her skin.

  “I can’t sit here all night,” she muttered, struggling to her feet.

  She focused on the inky blackness before her, taking a step forward. A shuffling sound came from somewhere in front of her and she stopped dead. She waited, straining her ears and holding her breath. Her over-active imagination conjured up the image of a threatening specter, angered by her invasion of its abode.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” she whispered, and gripped the torn of edges of her bodice, as much to hold it together as to keep her hands from shaking. “Just take tiny steps. There has to be another door here somewhere.”

  She inched forward, one foot, two, then ran headlong into what felt like a stiff curtain. Reaching out tentatively, she ran her fingers along its surface until she found an edge. Her brow wrinkled in concentration as she examined the obstruction with her hands. A screen of some kind?

  Adjusting her course, she continued on, praying she’d make it to the far wall without tripping over something and breaking a leg. She’d gone perhaps fifteen feet, when off to her left a door suddenly banged shut.

  Panicked, she lifted her skirts and ran. Her knee struck something solid and she pitched forward. She landed with a thud, the air rushing from her lungs on impact.

  Rolling onto her back, she lay still. She gasped for breath and stared up into the darkness as the unmistakable sound of footsteps drew near.

  Suddenly, light filled the room. She blinked rapidly, temporarily blinded, and waited for her vision to clear.

  “Are you all right?”

  She closed her eyes, briefly. “No.”

  He came to stand above her. “Where are you hurt?”

  Bridgett ignored him, staring at the shocking images above her head. A mural covered the entire ceiling. Voluptuous
women and well-endowed men frolicked across the surface, engaged in every conceivable – and some not-so-conceivable – sexual activity.

  Her skin heated with embarrassment, but she could not tear her eyes away from the morbidly fascinating scenes. Her gaze fell on one, in particular, that made her heart race and her mouth go dry. A man and a woman, positioned with their mouths to each other’s groins, their lips and tongues seeking, tasting. A peculiar sense of excitement rushed through her veins.

  “The one above the bed is my favorite.” He’d dropped to one knee, his expression amused.

  Bridgett looked without thinking, then jerked her gaze back to his face, both appalled and humiliatingly intrigued. She’d only caught a glimpse, but what she’d seen made her shiver. She closed her eyes, but the image seemed burned in her mind. One man. Two women. Their bodies entwined, their rapturous expressions captured forever by the stroke of the artist’s brush.

  “Would you like me to help you rise?” The Count interrupted her musings, his words a soft caress.

  Struck anew by the anger that had sustained her for the last hour, Bridgett frowned. “Don’t you dare touch me, you cur. Don’t you ever touch me again.”

  She sat up and he rose, standing above her. She drew her legs beneath her and tried to gain her footing, only to fall back with a surprised cry as pain sliced up her leg.

  The next instant, she found herself lifted by strong arms as the Count cradled her against his chest and carried her to the bed.

  “Don’t put me there.” She struggled furtively in his embrace.

  He dropped her unceremoniously on the mattress, and dust billowed into the air. Bridgett sneezed and her eyes teared.

  “I apologize for the sorry state of your bedding,” he brushed his hand over the quilt, “but no one has been in here during the past year.”

  Bridgett scooted back against the headboard, carefully keeping her gaze away from the ceiling. Belatedly, she remembered the condition of her gown, and crossed her arms over her chest. “What is this place?”

  “The locked wing.”

  She sighed. Did he truly think her simple? “I assumed as much, milord, but what is it?”

  “These rooms belonged to my father. He spent most of his time in here, up until the day of his death.”

  She looked around. Tapestries covered the walls. Like the mural on the ceiling, each one depicted an explicit erotic scene. These pictures, however, were different. The expressions on the faces of the participants looked pained; several had their mouths open, as if they were screaming or crying out.

  There is a fine line…

  Bridgett shivered and returned her gaze to the Count. “I don’t want to stay here.”

  “I’m afraid you have no choice.” His eyes held a strange, far off gaze, and his lips were set in a thin, stubborn line. “You went too far tonight, bella mia. You can no longer be trusted.”

  Why, she wondered. Why must you always put this wall between us? She stared at him for a moment, then sighed.

  “Why not just release me? You can’t keep me locked up forever.” It seemed they talked in circles, never achieving any level of understanding, and the effort made her weary.

  “Impossible,” he told her. “You are mine.”

  This last was said with such feeling, a passionate declaration of truth, and Bridgett caught her breath.

  “You may as well accustom yourself to the fact,” he continued, “for I have no intentions of letting you go.”

  He stalked to the door, and Bridgett bit her lip, fighting the urge to hurl insults at his stiff, unyielding back. She couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t remain under his control, a victim of her own traitorous reactions to his touch. She’d never be able to resist him; even now, she didn’t want him to leave her alone. If she remained within his reach, she’d never regain whatever dignity, whatever self-respect she’d once had.

  “I’ll send for some water and fresh clothing,” he told her. “Right now, I must see to my guests.”

  He turned, his lips curling into the semblance of a smile. “But do not fear, bella mia, I’ll be back. Meanwhile, please, make yourself at home.”

  He slammed the door in his wake, the sharp click of the lock sliding home echoing through the cavernous chamber.

  Bridgett leapt from the bed, gasping as white-hot pain sliced from her knee up through her thigh.

  She adjusted her stance, tentatively placing weight on her injured leg, testing its limits. Carefully, she limped about the chamber. There had to be another way out. If the Count thought she’d sit quietly, awaiting his pleasure, he had another thing coming.

  But as she inspected the confines of her cell, her anger subsided, only to be replaced by an intense curiosity. Though obviously untended for many months, the room had an opulent, hedonistic beauty. Rich velvet curtains, the color of blood, covered the floor-to-ceiling windows and puddled on the floor. A large, intricately carved table stood in the center of the room, surrounded by eight tapestry-covered high backed chairs. An enormous armoire graced the far wall. As tall as a man, and twice as wide, it dominated the room.

  Bridgett rounded the table. She pulled at the latch on the cabinet, and the large door swung open on silent hinges. The heavy odor of cedar filled the air, tickling her nose.

  “What in the world?” She scanned the shelves in confusion. Unlike the room itself, the interior of the cupboard was immaculately clean. Each shelf held half a dozen or more red silk pillows. And each pillow held a different . . .what? She stuck her head in for a better look, then jumped back.

  “Good God,” she whispered. “They look like . . ..”

  Blushing, but unable to resist another peek, she took a tentative step closer. Curiously, she examined the cabinet’s contents, her eyes wide. Lying on each pillow, like precious gems on display, were what appeared to be replicas of a man’s penis. All different shapes and sizes, some more intriguing than others, many of them frightening in their size.

  She raised on tiptoe, examining the items on the top most shelves, her anxiety rising. There were small whips and other leather items, and a rope with tiny knots tied every few inches. Bridgett stepped back, slamming the cabinet door.

  She turned, scanning the tapestry-covered walls with new understanding. Each heavy cloth panel depicted a different sexual scenario, and in each, at least one of the items from the cupboard was being…used.

  “My God,” she whispered, crossing her arms to ward off a chill. She tried to imagine her Count as a young boy, growing up in a home where such items – such behavior – existed, but the thought made her stomach churn. She shook her head. Surely the room had always been off-limits, even back then. No parent would subject a child to such…such depravity.

  She turned away, forcing her thoughts back to her original intent, scanning the room for a means of escape. Crossing to the outside wall, she pulled back the draperies, then let them fall back when she realized the windows were solid glass panels. Other than the two doors, the one leading to the terrace and the other to the hall, there appeared to be no other way into – or out of – the room.

  Her injured knee throbbing, she limped back to the bed. As she crawled onto the thick mattress, her gaze went to the headboard. Two iron rings hung from each solid post, a length of chain slung between them. Heart hammering, she curled into a ball in the middle of the bed, closing her eyes against the sights and images surrounding her. Concentrating on the steady beat of her heart, she prayed for a means to escape, if not in earnest, then at least into sleep.

  * * * * *

  Vincent shifted the bundle of bedding into one arm and paused outside the door, holding up a hand to the servants behind him, indicating they should wait. He cocked his head, intent on catching any sound that might indicate she waited for him, just inside, ready to make her escape. He listened to the silence for a few minutes, then slowly lifted the latch, pushing open the door a few inches at a time.

  She lay on the bed, curled up like a child, one fist tuck
ed beneath her chin.

  He drank in the sight of her, a rush of warmth spreading through his chest at her innocence, her exquisite features so lovely in repose. All night he’d battled with his demons, fought the urge to leave his bed and go to her. At first light, he’d given in, no longer able to resist her siren-like pull.

  Turning to the servants, he waved them inside before placing his bundle on a nearby chair. “Set the bath up over there, near the hearth,” he whispered. “And be quick about it.”

  While his men did his bidding, Vincent occupied himself with laying a fire, coaxing the tiny sparks, fanning them into a bright orange flame.

  “Where would you like me to put these, milord?”

  Vincent looked up from his task into the wide-eyed stare of a young serving wench. She held a tray of food in shaking hands. Draped over her arm were the gowns he had ordered made the day after Bridgett had unleashed her fury on her wardrobe.

  “Put the tray on the table,” he ordered her, “and the gowns on a chair.”

  He turned to the other servants, who had finished setting up the bath and stood staring about the room, their mouths hanging open.

  “Get out of here, all of you!” Vincent stood, pointing toward the door.

  The servants moved en masse, quickly making their exit. Vincent followed, bolting the door behind them.

  He turned, leaning against the solid oak panel, and surveyed the room. And like a dog trained to the hunt, his body reacted instinctively. His cock stirred, growing painfully stiff within the confines of his breeches. Memories, swift and clear, flooded his mind. How old had he been? Eight? Ten? The first time he’d seen his father’s private chamber, he’d reacted much as his servants had. Stunned. Frightened. And the fear had turned to terror, then later – much later – to an obsession he could not control.

  His gaze drifted back to the bed, where Bridgett slept on, blissfully unaware of her surroundings. Her torn dress hung open, exposing her breasts to his view. Vincent licked his lips, a sheen of sweat coating his brow, and stepped away from the door.

  He stood over her, never taking his eyes off her face, as he disrobed. She had the longest eyelashes. His gaze drifted lower. And the fullest, most delectable lips. As he watched, those lips parted and she sighed in her sleep.