“More,” she urged. “Let me feel you.”
He groaned. “You’re making it very difficult for me to say no to you.”
Abbi smiled and, with a boldness that mere weeks ago would have shocked her, she wrapped her legs around him, lifting her hips against him in an entreating invitation. “Then don’t. Give me what we both want.”
“Minx,” he whispered.
Abbi sighed in relief as he moved, unbuttoning his breeches. Then he was stroking her, his fingers gliding sensuously over the damp folds between her thighs, before parting them to touch her. A broken sob escaped her as his fingertips traced tight circles around the small, swollen nub nestled between her thighs. The tension built, her muscles quivering, her belly tightening in anticipation of the pleasure.
She sobbed his name. Both of her wrists were captured in one of his large hands. With nothing to cling to, no way to alleviate the burning need, she trembled beneath him. His breath fanned over her breasts. His tongue followed, tracing a delicate pattern over her skin. He moved lower, capturing one furled nipple between his lips. If the hand that moved between her parted thighs was masterful, then the touch of his mouth was the most gentle of caresses in comparison.
Her breath caught her lungs refusing to work as every muscle coiled tightly in her body. Arching into his touch, seeking the release that seemed just beyond her grasp, Abbi gasped soundlessly.
It happened suddenly. The deluge of pleasure, the rippling waves of her release washing through her, carrying her over the edge. Her eyes fluttered closed and soft sob escaped her, the relief so intense, so earth shattering, it was as if the entire world had fallen away. Nothing existed at that moment beyond the two of them, beyond the points of contact between their bodies. His hands on her flesh, the weight of his body on hers, and the exquisite sensations that he had wrung from her were the entirety of her existence.
Abbi hadn’t recovered her breath, much less her senses, when his mouth moved from her breast. He traced a fiery path over her chest and neck until once again he was claiming her lips in a drugging kiss. His hands coasted over her thighs, sliding behind her knees and lifting her legs to wrap around him. Languid with her own pleasure, Abbi sighed into his mouth.
At the first touch of his rigid flesh nudging at her damp folds, her pleasure spiked anew. He moved deeper, spearing inside her, and she felt the now familiar tension coiling inside her again. His hips flexed against her and he surged into her with one long, slow stroke. That movement was then repeated, a slow and easy rhythm established. It left her straining against him. Still, there was no hurry from him, no mad rush towards the pinnacle. He was patience personified as he stoked the fire between them.
“Look at me, Abbi,” he urged. His movements were controlled, his body held fiercely in check. But his voice was not. It was raw with emotion, with a need that went far beyond the physical.
Meeting his gaze, Abbi was stunned by the wealth of emotion in his eyes. Connected to him physically and, with their gazes locked, emotionally, Abbi was caught up in the storm of passion. The moment was so beautiful, and yet so intimidating. She didn't want to be so connected to him, she didn't want to give him the power to hurt her any more than she already had. Yet, she felt herself falling into his gaze, falling into him. It was inevitable to fall in love with a man like Michael. It was just as inevitable that he would ultimately break her heart.
Pushing those thoughts aside, forcing them from her mind, she let the storm take her. The sensations sweeping through her body, the all-consuming fire that burned between them, swept her away and she eagerly let it.
~*~*~
Michael couldn’t put into words the fear that had consumed him, the dread that had filled him when he found her stumbling from the woods. The very idea of something happening to her, of something taking her from him was too much. So instead of telling her, he tried to show her, to use the passion that always flared between them to convey just how much she’d come to mean to him.
Thrusting into the welcoming heat of her body, forging the bonds between them, it was as much a claiming as their wedding had been. She was his. It was both simple and infinitely complicated. He hadn't the words to express it. Or perhaps he didn't have the courage to voice those words.
Somehow, she’d gotten past his many defenses and had reached a part of him he’d thought gone forever. Not being able to say it, to confess something that would make him so incredibly vulnerable, didn’t change one thing. He needed her to know, and he craved some confirmation that it was the same for her. He needed her to need him, to crave him in return.
As she strained against him, her body tightening, coiling with pleasure, he staved off his own. Through sheer force of will, he held it bay, drawing out the climb for them both. When she was finally quivering beneath him, her belly and thighs trembled as she gave in to the ecstasy. Only then did he allow himself to follow her over that precipice, to lose himself in the welcoming heat of her body.
Shuddering against her, holding her closer, tighter than necessary, he whispered. “I need to keep you safe. I need you to let me do that… please.”
She said nothing in response, but pressed her face against his chest and clung to him.
~*~*~
Rupert walked into the local tavern. No one blinked. It wasn't an unusual occurrence for him to have a pint with the Squire. He didn't speak to the villagers and likewise, they avoided him. It was a mutually agreeable circumstance.
Taking a seat at the table in the back, he signaled the tavern-keep for a pint of ale. When it was deposited in front of him, he waited until the man had once again walked away before addressing his companion.
“I've had a change of heart, Blevins,” he said.
“What about?” the man asked, taking a long draw from his own tankard.
“Ellersleigh needs to die... Painfully. Horribly.”
Blevins' bushy eyebrows shot up. “You said it was too risky because he's a peer!
“So am I! It wasn't a request, Squire. It was a decree. Ellersleigh will die.”
“After your failed attempt in London, this will raise questions.”
Rupert nodded. “So, it will. The attempt in London was generic enough. One black coach in a sea of others... It never would have happened at all if Lavinia hadn't lost her temper with that bloody shopkeeper.”
The Squire sighed. “Lavinia does not lose her temper. She does occasionally find it. She's a violent streak in her, your wife. She enjoys meting it out as much as she enjoys taking it.”
Rupert smiled. “So she does. She's a rare bird... don't think I've forgotten your little display the other day. It's one thing to be rough with her, it's another to threaten permanent damage. Do not do that again.”
The warning held little threat as Blevins knew precisely how incapacitated he was by his illness. If not for the mixture of opium and herbs that he inhaled, now on an almost daily basis, he would no longer be able to function at all.
“Certainly, my lord,” the Squire said, though there was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
“Find someone to take him out, Blevins. I want him gone.”
“Lady Whitby will not be pleased.”
Rupert nodded, a smile curving his lips. “No. She won't, and that is precisely the point... I've been placating Lavinia for far too long. It's made her complacent. My darling wife is addicted to sensation. She craves it like a drunkard needs spirits. Good, bad, pleasurable, excruciating... It matters little to her what she feels so long as she does. She wants Ellersleigh, but I've decided to deny her in this instance. Her grief and disappointment will serve her well.”
Blevins shook his head. “You'll have to find someone else. I'll not do it... Too risky.”
Rupert sneered at him. “Of course not. I wouldn't dream of asking you to dirty your hands... lest it be with small girls who can't fight back. Not so risky then, is it? Holding them down, beating them, raping them while they scream for help?”
Blevins' face purpled wit
h rage. “You did the same, when you could!”
“And I will again... as soon I get the chalice!”
Blevins slammed his tankard down on the table. “You've said that about a dozen different objects that we've broken every law of the land to possess and not one of them has worked!”
“They have worked,” Rupert insisted. “If not, I'd have been reduced to dust in the churchyard by now. But this one is different... I know it is. So help me get him out of the way and then we'll make Abigail forfeit our prize!”
“What is it your after, then?” the Squire demanded.
“A name... someone who might be willing to take care of this little problem for us. And once it's done, we'll have a grand party with the merry widow.”
“You think we'll get the chalice from her, do you?”
Rupert chuckled. The sound was so cold and merciless that several people in the tavern rose from their seats and beat a hasty exit. “Oh, I think by the time we're done with her, she'll give us anything we ask for.”
Chapter Sixteen
Abbi was in the library, reading the letter that Michael had discovered. Recalling how her stepmother had suffered and then her father, she couldn’t fathom that Lavinia could have been so cruel. She’d thought that it was Rupert who had negatively influenced her stepsister, but given the timing, she had to wonder if perhaps the reverse weren’t true. Which of the two was really the mastermind?
She had hoped that reading the letter or looking through the ledgers her father had kept in the day to day running of the Hall would help to stir her memory in regards to the map. But it was not to be. She’d never seen the item they referred to, certainly never realized that her father had owned anything that would be considered valuable enough to kill for. Another thought had crept into her mind while reading it. What if Lavinia had already found the map? What if, she thought, in the confusion after her father's death and with Allerton taking over the estate, that he'd already turned the map over to her? It was something she'd have to discuss with Michael.
Frustrated and more than a little disappointed, she closed the journal and leaned back in the chair, contemplating the strange turn of events. It wasn’t just the revelation regarding her father and stepmother’s death. Part of her strange mood could be laid squarely at her new husband’s feet. She didn’t understand him. Charming at times, bullish and domineering at others, then sweetly tender, he left her reeling and she didn’t like the feeling of being so off balance.
The door to the library opened. Michael entered with Spencer close behind him. They were dressed for riding.
“Where are you off to?” she asked, having a sneaking feeling that Michael was once again trying to shield her from perceived dangers.
“We're going to the stone circle,” Michael replied, evenly. “And before you ask, no, you are not going with us.”
Abbi shivered. She didn't want to go there. The place had always been unsettling, but in light of recent events, the place was even more intimidating than usual. Frowning slightly, she replied, “Be careful what you say... don't mention it where Sarah might overhear.”
Michael nodded. “Of course. We will be quite discreet... no arguments about accompanying us?”
Abbi smiled sweetly, but her glare was icy. “No. I do not argue for argument's sake and I have no wish to go to that foul place. I had thought to remain here and see what I can find out about this map they are so interested in.”
“Come on! Let's get this over with,” Spencer said. “I'm sure Lady Ellersleigh will be quite relieved to be rid of us for a few hours.”
“Certainly, she'd be glad to be rid of you... I've managed to work my way back into her good graces.” Michael turned to her then, a wicked gleam in his blue eyes. His lips curved upward ever so slightly as his gaze roamed over her in a knowing fashion. “Haven't I love?”
Abbi felt the blush heating her cheeks. Of course, Lord Wolverston couldn't see how Michael was looking at her to know just how inappropriate he was actually being, but that did nothing to ease her embarrassment. “Go. Now. Please. And do not feel compelled to hurry home.”
Michael chuckled as he leaned over the desk and pressed a kiss to her cheek. He whispered softly in her ear, “And yet last night you urged me to hurry... quite vehemently.”
Her response was uttered low and between clenched teeth. “It is utterly impossible for you to behave appopriately!”
He relented then, offering her his most charming of smiles. “You are entirely correct. It is impossible... and when I return, I shall endeavor to show you just how enjoyable inappropriateness can be.”
Abbi was still pretending not to be amused by his scandalous behavior as the two men left the library to seek out answers in the woods beyond the estate. Determined to find answers of her own, Abbi decided to tackle some of the upper rooms that had been closed off the longest. She could search and clean.
~*~*~
Michael worked quietly in the stable, saddling his horse as Spencer did the same. He watched the other man surreptitiously. Spencer was still an ass at times, dogmatic and pompous, but he was a good friend. The years of animosity between them weren't simply forgotten, but the rift was slowly mending. “It's bloody ridiculous!” he said. “Remind me that I need to see to hiring some lads to take care of the stable. We have a servant here, but he's old as Methuselah... Also, he doesn't like me much.”
Spencer cocked an eyebrow at that. “Blagdon appears to be rife with people you can't charm. Or perhaps you're losing your golden touch?”
It was a valid point, Michael realized. He'd used charm most of his life because it simply made his life easier. Abbi wasn't immune to his charm, but she wasn't overly swayed by it either. Mrs. Wolcott eyed him as if he'd come straight from Hades. Her brother wasn't much better. “I'll take that into consideration...In the meantime, we've work to do.”
Spencer placed the saddle on his horse's back, positioning it just so. “What are we looking for exactly?”
“There's a stone circle in the woods, an ancient place, where apparently the Whitby's and their cohorts are carrying out these barbaric rituals. We need to scour that area for anything that might tie them to the crimes... Also for any indication of what their ultimate goal might be.”
“Is it safe to leave Lady Ellersleigh here alone?”
Michael had worried over that. “I don't know what we'll encounter in the woods—or who. I think having her remain in the house is the best option. Mrs. Wolcot is there. No one will get into Blagdon Hall unless she lets them in and she's been instructed the premises are off limits to everyone but us. It may be the only order I've given her that she will actually comply with.”
“And yet you haven't sacked her and sent her packing,” Spencer observed. “Do you still have that odd menagerie of strays at your London house? The pickpockets and prostitutes rescued from the gutters and rookeries and turned into the worst servants in Christendom?”
“What of it?”
Spencer chuckled. “I always thought it odd... a rakehell to end all rakehells, and yet you played nursemaid to the impoverished and destitute. Why?”
Michael mounted his horse, swinging easily into the saddle. “Why not?”
Spencer climbed atop his own mount. “Why not, indeed... though it hardly fits your profligate image.”
“And mooning over a young girl who's reputation hangs by a thread is hardly fitting to your image... Is that why you're reluctant to pursue her? Because of what happened to her at Lord Moreland's hands? Surely you can't hold her accountable for that!”
Spencer's hands tightened on the reins. “Will you not leave this alone?”
Michael shrugged, one eyebrow quirking upward in challenge. “You've made free to meddle in my romantic relationships. I don't see why I shouldn't be permitted the same privilege.”
Spencer sighed wearily in response. “No. I will not pursue Larissa, but it has nothing to do with Lord Moreland. My reasons for not pursuing her are my own.”
&
nbsp; Michael noted the tightened jaw and the tension in his friend. “But you do have feelings for her.”
“Even if it's true, nothing can come of it. Just leave it be, Ellersleigh... Haven't we enough to occupy our time? Or should we forgo looking for evidence of murder in order to continue discussing my romantic affairs or lack thereof? Perhaps afterward we can discuss my tailor and compare notes on how to tie a cravat!” By the end of his rant, Spencer's voice was caustic and overly dry, a sure sign that he'd been goaded to anger. Anything that rattled Spencer's enviable control was of note.
Michael chuckled. “Fine. The matter is dropped, at least from me. But if Abbigail noticed, then Emme will have, as well... Be prepared for the meddling of others, my friend.”
Spencer ignored the comment and instead directed his horse toward the woods behind Blagdon Hall. Michael fell in behind him wondering at what appeared to be tormenting his friend.
They rode on in silence, Michael taking the lead as they entered the woods. There was a trail, albeit not much of one. It didn't take to reach the clearing, but it was dark in the woods. The thick overgrowth of trees blocked out much of the weak winter sun. Dismounting, he tethered his horse to a low hanging branch and Spencer followed suit.
The stone circle was just ahead of them. Approaching it on foot, Michael was uneasy. The place felt wrong. He searched for a better word to describe it, but nothing else came to mind. A dark pall hung over it and it was no stretch of the imagination to picture wicked deeds occurring within the ancient ring.
“Well, this is cheerful,” Spencer mumbled under his breath. “God's blood. Why the bloody hell would anyone want to spend time here?”
“Bloody hell could be their ultimate goal,” Michael replied with more nonchalance than he felt.
Michael walked the area carefully, looking for anything, any sign of who had been present or what had taken place there. As he paced the perimeter of the stones, he ignored the uneasy feeling that settled on him. It felt as if a thousand eyes were upon him. The weight of it, the oppressive heaviness of the area dragged at him. His blood raced in his veins and he felt much as he had on the eve of battle. The surge of energy in his body, the prickling awareness of danger—it was all too familiar.
The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) Page 18
