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 assessment 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.
Turning her head, she peered over her shoulder toward the woods beyond the garden. She could see nothing. Rising to her feet, she moved toward the garden gate and then beyond it.
“Is someone there?” She hated that her voice trembled as she called out.
There was no answer. Not quite able to dismiss her earlier feelings as just a foolish flight of fantasy, she moved closer to the edge of the woods, peering between the trees. It was then that she heard it—the barest of whispers asking for help.
Recalling the horrible damage that had inflicted on poor Sarah, Abbi dropped her gloves and scrambled over tree roots as she went in the direction she believed the voice had come from.
Through the thick tangle of oak and rowan trees, she emerged into a small clearing. On the ground, there was a scrap of white cloth. Stooping to pick it up, she noted the blood that dotted the fabric.
The sound of breaking twigs elicited a gasp from her. Turning, she scanned the woods but again saw nothing. Immediately, she realized that she’d been lured into the woods. She was alone, unprotected and no one knew where to look for her. Moving quickly, she made her way back toward the small opening in the trees. Before she reached it, a figure emerged from within the trees, blocking her exit.
Clad in a green robe, the face hidden behind a golden mask, she couldn’t tell who it was, only that the figure was male. Dodging to the left, she tried to go around him, but a pair of strong arms closed around her, hauling her backward and down toward the hard packed earth. The wind rushed from her lungs and the back of her head connected painfully with an exposed tree root.
Her vision dimmed, but Abbi battled it back. She couldn’t lose consciousness. Her only chance would be to fight, to run. Rolling onto her side, she crawled a few feet away. The man chuckled, the sound muffled behind the mask. His hand closed around her ankle, dragging her backward.
Abbi reached into the pocket of her smock and retrieved the small spade she’d been using in the garden. Keeping it concealed until he’d dragged her close enough to him, Abbi turned quickly, driving the spade into the soft flesh at the bend of his knee. The man howled, falling forward. Scrambling to get away, Abbi left him there, moving quickly through the trees and toward the safety of Blagdon Hall.
~*~*~
Spencer had retreated to the hall’s only guest chamber, the room that had once been Abbigail’s. The fact that a night of ale consumption and local gossip had put both of them under was a testament to the fact that age was catching up with them.
Mrs. Wolcot was in the hallway, polishing a piece of furniture. “Where is Abbigail?” he asked
Mrs. Wolcot, who was still obviously not quite sure of him, gave him a hard look. “She was in the garden,” the old woman finally said.
For some reason, the news instantly left him unsettled and worried. Quickening his steps, Michael moved toward the kitchen and stopped immediately. The Grey Lady stood in the doorway, her face a mask of tragic sadness. She extended one hand in that familiar gesture, but she wasn’t pointing toward the garden, but to the woods beyond.
Fear coiled inside him. Moving past the apparition, ignoring the cold chill of the air where she stood. He’d just reached the garden gate when Abbi staggered from the woods. Her clothes were dirty and torn, and she appeared none too steady on her feet. But she was alive and unharmed, at least for the most part.
Michael step
ped forward, catching her as she stumbled. “What happened?”
She shook her head, gasping and breathless. “Someone was in the woods.”
“Are you hurt?” he asked, lifting her up into his arms.
“He was wearing a mask,” she said.
Michael didn’t ask any more questions. Abbi’s eyes had fluttered closed, her head lolling to one side. Blood had begun to dry just behind her ear. Alongside the fear that still bubbled inside him, anger burned in equal measure. It would end. Whatever Rupert and Lavinia had put into motion, it would end.
Chapter Fifteen
Abbi awoke with an aching head and the unpleasant odor of smelling salts. In an effort to escape the offending smell, she smacked at the hands waving the bottle beneath her nose.
“There you are,” Michael said, his voice clearly relieved. “You took a rather nasty bump on the head. Want to tell me how?”
Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she surveyed him critically. “I thought I heard someone asking for help and I went into the woods…but it was a ruse.”
“And this?” he asked, touching the spot behind her ear where the bruise had begun to form. His voice was deadly quiet, but it only made him sound more dangerous.
“I tried to move around him, to get away, but he pushed me… I hit my head on either a rock or a tree root. I don’t know really. When I was on the ground, I was moving away from him and he grabbed my ankle… pulling me toward him.” She stopped, shivering as she recalled the events.
Michael could see the fear in her eyes, see the chill bumps rising on her skin. Rather than let her dwell on what might have happened, he directed her to what did happen. “How did you get away?”
“The spade… I had one of the small garden spades in the pocket of my smock. I drove it into the soft flesh just at the bend of his knee.”
Remarkably pleased at her ingenuity and praying for maximum damage, he asked, “Did you break the skin?”
“Probably,” she said. “I didn’t stop to inspect his wounds. I just ran at that point.”
Michael hoped she’d broken the bastard’s skin and possibly even bone or two. He hoped an infection would maim the bastard permanently. At the very least, he hoped the injury would leave the man limping long enough for his tell-tale gait to identify him. “You are not to leave this house alone. Even just to the garden… and I swear, if you even step foot near those woods again, I will turn you over my knee.”
Her look was mutinous. “I am not a child to be scolded!”
“No, but you are in danger! The fact that you were well aware of and ignored as you made off into the woods without a thought to the consequences!”
Michael stopped. He was shouting. He had never raised his voice to a woman in his life. He’d spoken firmly to them in the past, he’d been angry with them before. Never had he screamed at one like a madman. She would be the death of him, he thought.
“It isn’t safe for you, Abbigail,” he said when he trusted himself to speak more calmly. “Rupert has had his eye on you for some time, and he is far more ruthless than we could’ve hoped to realize.”
She stared at him quizzically for a moment. “What are you not telling me, Michael?
It hadn’t been his intent to tell her yet, but given the circumstances, she needed to know just how dangerous Rupert and Lavinia truly were. “I found a letter from Rupert addressed to your father, indicating that your stepmother was not dying of an unknown illness, but poison. He also intimated in the letter that should your father fail to comply with his demands, namely relinquishing an antique map of the area, he would meet a similar fate.”
“Rupert would never have been close enough to my parents to be able—.”
The look of dawning horror on her face as the gravity of what she’d just said sank in was something he would have spared her. “I am sorry… Rupert and Lavinia must be stopped before they harm anyone else in their mystical pursuits. But in order to stop them, I need to know that you are safe. I can’t do what I need to if I’m worried about your getting hurt or… worse,” he finished lamely.
“I’m not entirely worthless. I have been taking care of myself for some time,” she replied hotly “Marrying you doesn’t change that.”
For a brief time, Michael had forgotten about the general misery of his night of drunkenness His lovely wife was reminding him of it as his headache was now returning full force. “It most assuredly changes that and everything else! You were not taking care of yourself! You were eking out a meager existence and clinging to your virtue by hiding on balconies in the the dead of winter! We won’t even discuss today’s idiocy.”
“Idiocy! Perhaps you can get an annulment, my lord, as you've saddled yourself with someone so deficient!”
Michael exhaled a heavy sigh, his head falling back as he gazed up at the ceiling and wondered where things had gone so horribly wrong. “I did not say you were an idiot, merely that your behavior, in this instance was... as for annulment, we both know that's an impossibility. Late as it may have been, our marriage has nonetheless been well consummated!” He heard the biting tone of his voice, the condescension that sounded painfully like his father. Striving for a calm that she had robbed him of, he continued, “I know little enough of being a husband, Abbigail, much less being a good husband. But I do know that part of my duty as your husband is to protect you, even from yourself if needs be.”
Her eyes narrowed at him and when she spoke, she practically hissed at him like a spitting cat. “Until you started treating me like a lack wit, you were doing passably well in the husband department! I will not have it, Michael. I will not be shut up in here like some helpless child while you rush off to play hero! It was my family they took! Not yours!”
Michael rose, at his wit’s end with her. “You will remain in this house until I can be certain it is safe for you to leave it. So help me, if I must lock you in, I will! Do not test me and do not think to defy me!”
“Defy you! You are my husband, not my keeper!”
“I am both when you display so little sense!” he shouted back, before storming from the room. The door slammed behind him with such force that it clattered on its hinges.
Spencer stood at the end of the hall, eyeing him skeptically. “I do believe that is the first time I have ever known you not to be capable of charming a woman into doing your bidding.”
In no mood for his friend’s needling, Michael replied coolly, “I thought you were napping like all the good little boys do.”
Spencer smiled. “You and the missus make it damn hard to sleep around here. I wager there are quieter rooms to be had in Cheapside.”
“Then perhaps you should find one!” Michael said, storming past him and down the stairs. The quiet of the library would be his only solace.
Lingering in the hall, Spencer eyed the door to the master chamber as a slow smile spread across his face. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered and with a shake of his head went back to the guest room and his interrupted nap.
~*~*~
Squire Blevins limped up the stairs to the master chambers at Whitby Hall. The bitch had maimed him. Entering the rooms, he saw Rupert lying on the bed, inhaling the burning herbs that he was beginning to use with more and more frequency. Lavinia sat her dressing table, idly brushing out her blonde curls. She wore a nightrail so diaphanous she might as well have been nude. He sneered thinking that if she meant to entice her limp husband, it would take a sight more than simply her bared breasts. Rupert hadn't managed to sustain a cockstand in more than a year.
Rupert's valet stood beside the bed, attending to his master's needs. Frustrated, furious at having been outwitted by the bitch, he threw down his cloak and mask. “Don't just stand there, you worthless, old fool! Get your supplies to treat the wound!”
“Did my dear, sweet stepsister not play nice?” Lavinia asked, her voice pitched in a childish sing-song, her words shaped by the pretty pout she wore.
“Leave me be, Lavinia! You'll find I'm in n
o mood for your antics! ”
Lavinia moved deeper into the room, her hands sliding over his back, around his waist. “Rupert, our dear Squire is in such a foul mood! What should I do to cheer him up? Perhaps you could punish me in lieu of my sister? I know how you like that.”
“It isn't punishment if you enjoy it,” he retorted. Lavinia did enjoy it. Every spanking, every bruise he'd left on her pampered flesh had sent her to the heights of ecstasy. The more he hurt her, the more pain he inflicted, the more she asked for. At one time, her depravity had excited him, but it had grown old. The bloom had worn off that particular rose.
She was too demanding, at times child like and at others a harridan. How Rupert stood her all the time, he had no idea. But it seemed that the man actually enjoyed his wife's vagaries. But, with the echoes of Abbigail's cries of fear still ringing in his mind, the feel of her lush body pressed against him, Lavinia left him cold. He didn't want her feigned fear or her token protests. If there was thing he'd learned about himself during their games at the circle, it was that he enjoyed inflicting real fear and pain. There was no greater pleasure than taking his release while they screamed and begged.
Shoving her away from him roughly, he screamed, “Get off! You're incessant clinging disgusts me.”.
Lavinia attacked then. Her dagger-like nails clawing at his skin, digging into his flesh. On the bed, Rupert laughed as if the entire thing were simply a grand farce Stalking towards her, he wrapped his hand in her hair, tugging her up from the floor by it. She shrieked in protest, her hands wrapping around his wrist as he dragged her by her hair from his chamber back to hers.
“You forget yourself,” he said, shoving her towards the bed. He spun her so that she landed with her face pressed into the mattress, next to her husband who watched with avid glee. With his knees wrapped around hers and one hand pressing against the back of her head, she was helpless. He rather liked her that way.
The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) Page 16
