Michael pointed to a spot on the map. “There appears to be an underground spring or well, here.” The writing beside it was small and difficult to read. Squinting, he managed to make it out. “The Spring of Bacchus.”
“If that is what they are looking for,” Abbi said, “I don't know how they mean to access it. From what my father told me, those tunnels are horribly unstable. Even the slightest disturbance could be catastrophic.”
Michael glanced at Spencer. “If you were dying, would you risk it?”
Spencer shrugged. “If I were dying, it wouldn't be much of a risk at all.”
“Precisely,” Michael agreed. “With Rupert's illness, he has nothing left to lose, Abigail. That is why he is so dangerous... and your stepsister—.”
“I know what Lavinia is,” she said. “For a long time, I didn't want to believe that she was so utterly without conscience, but I know that now. How do we stop them?”
“We don't,” Michael stated firmly. He took the package Spencer had placed on the desk, unwrapping the ancient cup. It was large, the metal pocked in places, but the explicit carvings on the side still very clear. “We won't give them the chalice... But if they want this map and the death that will accompany it, so be it. Tomorrow morning, you will leave for London with Spencer.”
“Absolutely not,” she replied. “You are not well enough to face them alone!”
Spencer hoisted himself up from the ottoman. “She's right. You're too slow right now, too weakened from your injury. If you attempt to face them, you'll die... So tomorrow, you and Abigail will leave for London and I will arrange a meeting with the Whitby's in a public place. I will arrange a drop for the map, and follow you to London.”
“I can't allow you to do that,” Michael insisted. “You have no way of knowing how vicious these people really are.”
“On the contrary. I carted your bleeding arse through those woods, didn't I? I'm quite well aware... But they have no quarrel with me. I have not snubbed them, nor have I taken from them something that they wanted.”
Abbi clutched at Michael's arm. “Please listen to him. You can't do this now. Not yet.”
“Fine,” he agreed. “We all leave for London tomorrow and then we send word to them of where to find the map. Maybe they'll get themselves buried in those bloody tunnels and save us the effort.”
“I'll go pack.”
After she had left, Spencer spoke. “You know they won't just let us all leave here. They had someone watching the house, Michael.”
“Did you see them?”
Spencer shook his head. “I didn't have to. I could feel it.”
Michael didn't question that. During the war, Spencer had an uncanny knack for such things. “Why the hell wasn't your sixth sense firing in the woods a week ago?”
Spencer shrugged, “I imagine because I wasn't their target.”
Michael sighed. “So we leave tomorrow, or attempt to, armed to the teeth.”
Spencer sighed. “We need a contingency plan.”
“We fall back to the house at the first sign of danger and we send word to them that we're ready to negotiate.”
“Ambush?”
“I'm sure of it. Lavinia and Rupert will try every dirty trick they can... and Squire Blevins will be in the thick of it with them.”
“How many weapons do we have here?”
Michael sighed. “Not nearly enough.”
“You're not letting her go, are you?”
Michael laughed. “Not bloody likely. I'll convince her. I'll make her see reason... you and I will lead them away and she will remain safely here. I'll dispatch a letter to Rhys in the morning. He can come down in all his ducal fury and play the hero.”
Spencer nodded thoughtfully. “It might work. It might also get us all killed. Either way, best to end it. Now, go to your wife. I'll find that crone of a housekeeper and have her show me the store of weapons... I'll ready them for tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Spencer.”
“Don't thank me until we all get out of this alive.”
Michael left the library and climbed the stairs. He leaned heavily on the cane and by the time he reached the top, he was exhausted. It pained him to admit just how weak he still was, but it was a liability and would have to be addressed. Moving down the hall towards their chamber, he found Abbigail still placing items in her valise.
“I packed a few of your things, but you may want to see if there is anything else you'll need,” she said, pointing the small bag she'd already prepared for him.
“I'm sure it's fine. If not, I'll have whatever I need when we reach London.”
She paused, a chemise draped over her hands. “You say that is if you don't think we'll reach London.”
“I have my doubts. I expect that we'll meet with some sort of accident on the road that will force us to turn back. Or perhaps, we'll be set upon by armed bandits who will take you, the map and the chalice... So my plan is to have the map with me. The chalice hidden somewhere here and you locked up safely in this house..”
Abbi sat down on the edge of the bed. “I've brought you nothing but trouble since you met me.”
“You didn't bring this... Yes, you're related to it through no fault of your own, but Lavinia sent Allerton after me. She wanted me here because she wanted that chalice. I would be tangled up in this mess regardless,” he said, sinking down onto the bed beside her. Absentmindedly, he began to knead the muscles of his thigh that had tightened so painfully after climbing the stairs.
“Do you need anything for the pain? A few drops of laudanum?”
“No. I need a clear head,” he replied. “Also I have plans tonight that do not involve falling into a drugged sleep.”
“What plans?” she asked, placing the undergarment she'd been folding into the bag beside her.
He smiled. “Take off that gown and I'll show you.”
“Michael! You know that you can't! If that wound reopens—.”
He kissed her, his mouth firmly over hers. Her lips parted beneath the pressure and he slipped his tongue inside. Slow, languorous strokes, gliding gently in before retreating to play at the soft plump curves of her lips. When he pulled back, she was breathless.
“I hate it when you do that!” she cried.
“Really?” he asked, with one arched brow.
“I can't think!” she protested.
“Then perhaps I should do it again,” he said with a chuckle. Even as he leaned toward her, she placed a hand in the center of his chest, halting his progress.
“You cannot do this now! You'll injure yourself!”
“It will be worth it,” he said. “But what if I can promise you that I won't?”
“I would say that is a promise you cannot keep!”
He chuckled again. “Ye of little faith and little imagination.”
She eyed him dubiously for a moment. “Fine. How?”
“Take off that gown and I will demonstrate to our mutual delight.”
“You really could tempt the devil.”
“As long as I can tempt you, I'll be content,” he replied, even as he tugged at the laces of her gown. He smiled again when she brushed his hands away and took over the task. Watching Abbigail remove her clothes, watching the blush that still colored her skin as she revealed herself to him, was a joy in and of itself. When finally she stood before him, divested of everything but her chemise, he tugged her forward and onto the bed with him.
When she was lying on her side, he moved behind her. Pressing his chest to her back, he allowed his greedy hands free rein. They moved over lush, supple flesh with determination. One hand played at her breasts, teasing her nipples to taut aching peaks while the other hand stroked her thighs with slow, drugging caresses.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked.
“I'm not. I'm passably pretty at best,” she replied.
He chuckled. “You would argue anything with me, wouldn't you?”
“Only when you say such fool
ish things!” she chided.
“Hardly foolish,” he said. “First, there are your legs... long, smooth, supple and yet so strong when you wrap them around me.”
“The things you say!” she protested again, but her voice held a breathlessness that told him she was hardly unmoved.
“And your hips,” he continued. “This curve, that fits my hands so perfectly, that all I can think of when I look at them is having my hands on you, of having you naked before me while I explore every treasure your body has to offer.” As he said it, he trailed his hands over that curve, tracing the arc of her hip bone, before trailing his hands further, to her lush, rounded bottom.
“And if I were a poet, I would write a sonnet to this,” he said, punctuating the statement by gripping one cheek firmly, squeezing it as she squealed in protest.
“You are too wicked for words!” She slapped at his hand, but he could hear the amusement beneath her scandalized tone.
“Shall I continue to enumerate all the many parts of you that I find to be perfection?” he asked. “Or should I simply show you?” Even as he said, his hand was once again traveling, this time sliding between her silken thighs to tease the soft curls at her mound. “Part your thighs for me, Abbi.”
She did, opening to him eagerly, as greedy for the pleasure as he was. They had both been too long denied. Slipping one finger between those damp folds, he moved unerringly to that tiny nub of flesh that would have her gasping and writhing. Stroking it gently, teasing her to a fevered pitch, he savored every cry, ever soft moan that parted her lips. Kissing her shoulder, he deepened that caress, moving lower to press his fingers deep inside her. She cried out, her flesh clutching tightly around him.
Unable to deny himself the pleasure any longer, he hastily unfastened his breeches. Draping one of her legs over his, he entered her from behind as she shuddered.
“Michael!” she cried out.
With his hand still stroking her deftly, he moved inside her. Gently flexing his hips, he pressed deeper, and then withdrew just a bit, only to repeat it again. One of her hands tangled in the sheets, clenching the fabric so tightly that her knuckles went white. Her other hand clutched at his wrist, holding his hand to her as if he might stop.
It was not the fast and furious couplings that they had so frequently engaged in. Limited by his injury, it was slower and infinitely more gentle, but nonetheless powerful. Perhaps it was the sense of impending doom, the idea that the encroaching danger had somehow placed limits on their time together. But as he surged into her again and again, her body opening to accept him each time, it felt like nothing he'd ever experienced.
He felt her body tighten, her muscles tensing as she climbed toward the peak of her pleasure. He kissed her neck, her ear, and whispered hotly against her, “There is nothing more beautiful, more precious to me than you are.”
She shattered then, her belly quivering as her flesh tightened around him, the rhythmic pulsing of her pleasure luring him to his own climax. Holding her tightly, Michael shuddered as his release claimed him.
Even after the quaking of his body had subsided, after the sweat had dried on their skin, he held her as if he meant to never let her go.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “Spencer and I will leave here, but you will stay behind, with as many locked doors between you and the outside world as possible.”
“Michael, you can't expect me—.”
“I do expect it. I am already at a disadvantage. I don't have the speed or agility at this time to look after us both, and Spencer, skilled as he is at combat, cannot take care of us both... I'm sending a letter to Rhys in the morning asking him to come for you, in case... If it should be necessary.”
“I don't want to be separated from you.”
“I don't want it either, but it's the only way I can think of to keep you safe. We can lure them out into the open and perhaps, put an end to all of this... This is what we did, Abbi. During the war, Spencer, Rhys and I, we didn't just fight on the battlefield. It was all strategy and misdirection. Rupert and Lavinia will not believe that I left you alone here... They will come after the carriage and Spencer and I can take care of them.”
“I don't like it. I could help you.”
“You already have. More than you can know. Please do as I ask... Trust me in this.”
She snuggled against him, “I do trust you. And I'll agree to this, but if you don't come back to me—.”
“I will... I promise,” he said, and prayed fervently that it would be a promise he could keep.
Chapter Nineteen
As the carriage rumbled along the line, Michael grimaced. The jostling of the coach was making his leg ache. They were less than a quarter mile from Blagdon Hall, they had just passed through the gates when they encountered the large wagon full of hay that blocked the road. As they approached, a man began to run from behind the vehicle as it burst into flame.
“Dammit!” Spencer cursed.
“Quite theatrical,” Michael said as he produced one of his pistols and a small box containing extra ammunition and powder.
Spencer already had his weapons drawn as well, loaded and ready to be fired.
Turning the carriage around, they began the trek back to Blagdon Hall, but the gates were closing even as they approached them. Two men stepped forward. Michael recognized one as Squire Blevins. The other was unknown to him and clearly not part of the social circle that the Whitby's would typically engage with. The far door of the carriage opened and the terrified Mr. Wolcot ambled in. Even in fear, his age would let him travel only so swiftly.
“Didn't you hire other servants?” Spencer asked.
“They've never arrived... I'm afraid my instructions to Mrs. Fillings might have been too specific.”
“What the devil were they?”
Michael shrugged. “Strong, could handle firearms if need be, and no fear of spirits.”
Spencer rolled his eyes. “Good god! No wonder your wife is still laundering your shirts!”
“Can we not attend to the matter at hand?” Michael asked, peering through the narrow opening of the window. “I imagine that's the bastard they hired to kill me,” he mused.
“Shoot him first would you?” Spencer asked as he checked the crossbow he'd unearthed the night before.
“Gladly,” Michael said. They had the interior of the carriage well padded against any shots fired. Blagdon Hall's library was devoid of all books, each of them stacked and tied with ribbon to provide a buffer between the coach walls and the inhabitants within. With only a small window through which to peer, Michael leveled his shot and squeezed the trigger.
The ball found its mark. The hireling clutched his shoulder, his weapon dropping to the ground.
“Blevins!” he called out. “Give it up now, and you won't have to die here today!”
“You think taking out one man is enough to stop us? Rupert has hired dozens and they are scattered about the countryside! Hand over Abbigail and you can leave!”
“I really want to shoot him with this,” Spencer said. “Mrs. Wolcot dipped the arrow tips into horse manure to be certain that he'd die of infection if the strike itself doesn't end his worthless life.”
Michael grimaced. “Good lord. Maybe she likes me after all... If not, I definitely need to work on it. Please, feel free. I'd rather like to see him writhing in agony.”
Spencer leaned toward the window and took aim. It had been some years since he'd used a crossbow, but it was a skill he'd mastered early on in his life. The arrow grazed the heavier man, ripping through his jacket and taking a chunk out of his upper arm.
“I guess I'll have to satisfy myself with killing him slowly.”
“Do you miss it? The rush of battle and the danger?” Michael asked. Spencer had thrived in the war, finding a purpose he'd never before had.
Spencer shrugged. “At times. I never had the qualms about killing that you did... and it was exciting in a way that life here isn't. Or at least it hadn't been until recently.
Thank you, by the way, for marrying into such a cracked family.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Anytime. Glad to be of service.”
A pistol ball slammed into the side of the carriage but had no hope of penetrating the stacks of books. Spencer chuckled as he placed another of the arrows into the notch of the crossbow. He fired again and this time, it landed more solidly, piercing the Squire's other shoulder. The man fell backward and with his weight awkwardly distributed on the horse's back, the animal pranced in protest. After a moment of struggle, the Squire tumbled to the ground.
Spencer climbed out, leaving the elderly coachman inside the carriage. “I'll take the box and get us back to the house.”
“You're welcome to it,” the elderly man said, sagging against the seat as if he'd just run a race.
“Watch out the other side of the windows and at least make yourself useful,” Michael said to the man as he set himself to watching from his own side.
The carriage lurched forward, heading back toward the closed gates. He had to wonder if Blevins was telling the truth. Had Rupert truly amassed a force to be reckoned with? It didn't matter, he decided. It was time to cut the head off the serpent.
~*~*~
Abbi paced the bedroom. The gates were locked and the doors, as well. From the window, she could see smoke in the distance and knew that something had happened. It was maddening not to know what. From the moment he'd left the house, she'd regretted her concession to Michael's demands. She should have gone with them, she thought.
A strangled cry erupted from somewhere in the house. She glanced at Sarah who cowered beside the bed. “Stay here,” she commanded as she took one of the pistols Michael had left for her. She only had the one shot, so surprise would be her greatest asset. Keeping the weapon concealed in the folds of her skirt, she stepped out into the hallway.
“Mrs. Wolcot!” she called. There was no response, but she heard a noise from the third floor. There was no reason for anyone to be up there. Her heart pounding in her chest, Abbi climbed the stairs, staying close to the wall and moving as quietly as possible.
When she reached the landing, she saw the door to the roof and the battlements beyond was open. It swung with the breeze, banging loudly against the exterior wall. The door itself was so heavy it could not have opened on its own. Which meant that someone had gotten past the locked doors. It could only be Lavinia. Her father had once threatened to lock Lavinia in her room, Lavinia's response hadn't been what she'd expected. She'd merely laughed and told him to go ahead, that there were always ways around it.
The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) Page 22
