by Sahara Kelly
“Right you are then.” The man named Charles bent to his task and thrust himself deep into the moaning girl on the bed.
She screamed loudly, her body going rigid as it rode the waves of pain caused by the rupture of her virginity and the penetration of a hard thick cock.
But seconds later she was doing her own thrusting, ignoring the smears of her blood that covered the cock she sought so intensely.
“Whoa, look at her go.”
There was a respectful silence as Charles pounded into his prize, her ankles locked around his back, her hands claws on his biceps.
“Fuck me, Mister.” She yelled the words. “Fuck me hard. I want it hard. God, fuck meeee…”
“I am, you whore. Shut up. I’m going to spend so deep in you you’ll choke on my cum.”
Charles was sweating, his arse thudding, his body taut, his breath grunting between clenched teeth.
With a roar he shot his load, emptying himself into the desperate wench who spasmed so violently that Granville could see her groin twitching as she too let go and came.
“More. Mister, I want more.”
Pandemonium erupted as the other men in the room leaped onto the bed and onto the girl.
One shoved his cock in her mouth, the other pushed Charles out of the way and shoved himself into her even as she leaked blood and semen.
It was a madhouse of lust and sex, unpleasant enough that Granville turned away. He headed for the other suite only to find the deed already done, the winner passed out on one side of the huge bed, and the no-longer-a-virgin on her hands and knees.
She was vigorously sucking one guest’s cock while the other prepared to thrust into her arse.
She shrieked as he did so, but immediately adjusted and went back to her energetic fellatio.
It was utterly astounding that a girl who had been a virgin no more than half an hour before, should be indulging in such practices with more enthusiasm than the most seasoned whore. It wasn’t erotic as much as distressing. Granville caught himself frowning when he should have been rejoicing at his success. But perhaps there was still some spark of concern left inside him, a tiny speck of conscience that was reminding him he had just arranged for two virgins to be sold into sexual slavery.
The fact they were enjoying it was also his fault.
He decided a drink was in order, since everyone else seemed intent on indulging their baser natures. In silence, he headed downstairs to the kitchen and that decanter of fine brandy he’d stashed away out of sight in the butlers’ pantry.
It was still there, untouched, with the snifter next to it.
Pouring a healthy splash into the heavy glass, he took an appreciative breath of the exquisite bouquet. “This is the sort of thing you can have every day now, old boy.” He toasted himself. “Got a nice little nest egg thanks to this night.”
The liquor slipped down smoothly, warming as it went and settling in exactly the right spot to drown out that tiny voice that had annoyed him earlier.
The second glass drowned out most everything else.
He savored it, thinking about the money. And wondering if he might get just a little more from Sinjin. After all, he was the one who had actually made the damn vapors. Yes, Sinjin had the connections, but then again, Sinjun had a title. He’d always had a title. Granville could never get one of those. He was owed a bigger cut, he calculated, since his contributions were—relatively speaking—greater than his cousin’s. Who had found the girls, he asked himself.
The answer merely confirmed his already decided-upon course of action. He would demand more money.
A sound surprised him and he turned—to find himself face to face with the biggest rat he’d ever seen, which stared at him from a pantry shelf. Startled out of his wits, he yelled and jumped at least a foot in the air.
His landing wasn’t graceful, since his knee caught on a cupboard handle and he stumbled—into a glass carboy.
It fell, shattering against its neighbor and cracking that vessel as well.
Horrified, Granville watched as the green gas crept slowly at first, then rapidly into the air, weaving as the drafts took it.
Right up the shaft of the dumb waiter to the second floor. And the bedrooms.
“Oh fuck.”
He stared, mesmerized, at the disaster he knew was creeping inexorably upward. Instead of succumbing to sexual satiation coupled with large doses of alcohol, the men would become crazed and deviant, desperate for any and all sexual excesses.
They might have been at the top of the social ladder, but their moral ladders had no rungs at all. If they hadn’t been filthy rich, they would have been vile pimps and seducers, or dead, murdered by their own kind.
Granville had no illusions about the human race. He was as guilty as they were, but of greed, not lust. However the deadly sins knew no distinction and they led only to pain and unspeakable horror.
Staggering from his corner, he closed the butler’s door tightly; a vain effort to stem the seeping tide of vapors. He heard a distant cry and wondered for a moment if it was one of the twins, Mary or one of the men.
He also wondered if the effects of the gas might not weaken when exposed to air. Would they be diluted?
Then he remembered the alcohol and worried anew. It would take a lot less gas to affect those already drunk on the finest of wines and brandies. God, this was a terrible mess. And where the hell was Sinjin?
He stood paralyzed, unsure of where to go, what to do, how to stop the incipient disaster. His efforts to contain the vapors had been fruitless, he saw now. A greenish film crept beneath the door he’d shut and drifted over the floor—only to vanish down some sort of grille.
He had no idea what it was or where it led, but it filled him with a great sense of relief.
Now, if questioned, he could say with complete honesty that he’d seen the gas disappearing into the ground. Perfectly harmless, he’d say. I saw it myself, he’d say.
Another scream rattled his composure and freed him from the stupor of terror. Calmly he walked out of the kitchen and into the large salon where the auction had taken place earlier. It was empty now, an evening jacket tossed on one chair and cards strewn over a small table. There were wine bottles everywhere, strewn like corpses on a silent battlefield.
Granville moved to the large desk they’d pushed to one side, and opened the drawer where Sinjin had quietly deposited their proceeds. A tidy stack of notes greeted his gaze.
How long he stood there, in silence, battling what was left of his conscience, he wasn’t sure. The notes were crisp and clean, in contrast to what he knew was going on upstairs.
Then he thought of the hours he’d spent poring over dry tomes of science, working late in the college laboratories, studying until he could read no more. And all the while Sinjun and his ilk were partying the nights away without care. It tipped the scales for him.
Dammit, he was.
He picked up the folded notes with a steady hand and counted out his share. Then he counted out more. Quite a bit more.
Stuffing his pockets, Granville walked back through the hall, in search of his thick coat and tall hat. His leather gloves were there and he was dressed to leave in mere moments.
Something smashed loudly upstairs.
Yes, it was time for him to depart. Where he would go…well that would be decided by the horse he would have to borrow. Fortunately there were several, since a few of the men had preferred to ride, regardless of the weather.
It had almost stopped snowing, he noted, and a makeshift lean-to near some evergreen bushes sheltered the horses. It was only a matter of moments before he was in the saddle and heading away from the Dower House. Whatever happened there after this moment, he wouldn’t be a part of it.
What was done could not be undone. But he refused to bear the brunt of what looked like a massive scandal in the brewing. Sinjin, with his aristocratic connections, could probably hush it up anyway.
He, Granville, wouldn’t be there. He
might be in France. Or Austria. Or in the New World across the Atlantic Ocean. Yes, that was the place to be.
He turned south outside Harbury, intent upon putting as many miles as possible between him and Harbury Hall. A few hours would see him at the coast, with luck not too far from Southampton. He could certainly find a ship there, and with his newfound fortune, he would be assured of passage to either Boston or New York.
He moved off through the snow, his mount keeping a steady pace that lifted Granville’s spirits the further down the road they traveled.
When he reached Little Harbury the moon was peeking through the thinning clouds and he realized he was in time to pop in to the Dead Boar for a last warm ale if he chose. The Dower House was a fading memory.
He smiled and turned the horse toward the light.
He never heard Mary’s screams as the men found her and preyed on her. Nor did he see her plunge a sharp dagger right into his cousin Sinjun’s heart. It might have shocked him, but he would have understood why if he’d seen what Sinjun was planning on doing with the carving knife in his hand…
Chapter 14
Deep into the small tunnel, Portia blew a piece of hair off her forehead and tried to ignore the increasing pain from her skinned palms and bruised knees.
She couldn’t stand upright and crawling was the only option. Even though this gave her plenty of room, the interior of this shaft was anything but smooth. However, the draft ruffling her hair—icy though it was—proved to be both refreshing and reassuring. There was an air circulation pattern in place, which meant that at both ends there was some kind of access to open space.
Once again she felt Devon’s mind brush hers, and smiled. “I’m coming, Devon. I’m coming.”
Saying the words out loud comforted her and she moved forward with renewed vigor. Her little pocket lantern was growing cold and giving off less and less light, but her approximation of her location put her closer to the end of the little tunnel…next to Devon’s cell.
She had no idea of how long she’d been in there, and although she’d called back a few times, she was hesitant to do so with any force, because it might alert someone else that she was there.
No, James and Charlotte would have to have faith in her, just as she had faith that this tunnel would eventually…
Ouch…
Her head hit something hard.
The ceiling had lowered and she hadn’t noticed in the gloom. She had to be nearing the end now, and she could feel that the floor was much rougher than before. Debris, perhaps?
Almost blind in the gloom, she groped forward, slowly and with great caution. Within moments she hit something solid, a barrier that was keeping her from the small space in Level Four of the Harbury laboratories.
Her heart pounded so hard she wondered if it could be heard from the other side. She’d made it. She’d traversed the length of the hillside and now, with luck, only a few feet separated her from Devon.
With eager fingers she began to explore the surface, touching it, running her forefingers along grooves and picturing it in her mind. It was definitely brickwork, and from the crumbling mortar her explorations produced, she guessed it to be very old indeed.
Scrabbling and gouging, she found several loose bricks and worked them free, growing more and more impatient as each fell to the ground. She had yet to see any light beyond, but she knew that area—Level Four—was darkened as much as possible to keep its occupants quiet.
Fortunately, at this time of night, it also dissuaded any staff from going down there. A fact that had not escaped Portia’s attention when planning this mission.
Finally, there was a sort of cracking sound and two more bricks fell, but this time they fell out instead of in toward Portia’s knees. She bit back a little shriek of glee and quickly scraped, pushed and prodded until she had a space through which she could squeeze without doing irreparable damage to anything vital.
She found herself on the dirt floor of Level Four. The dim light from the stairwell, the one she’d descended so often as Mary Jones, made the whole place seem quite bright to one who had just spent quite a bit of time in pitch blackness.
She easily found her way to Devon’s door, only to see him standing there, his eyes gleaming, the nervous agitation coming off him in waves.
“I’m here. I made it.” She whispered almost beneath her breath.
I know. I could feel you. His mind sent his words directly to hers.
“I have to unlock the door, Devon. We have to risk an alarm. As soon as it opens, follow me. On your hands and knees and into the wall.”
Got it.
Sternly telling her hands not to shake, Portia went to work on the large padlock, twisting and turning the slender tool she’d tucked into her pocket earlier that evening.
Her skills, learned at the side of the disreputable stable boy who had parted with his best breeches in exchange for a stolen bottle of her father’s brandy, didn’t let her down and suddenly there was a satisfying click and then the crack of the lock opening.
So far so good, she thought to herself.
Agreed.
Stifling a giggle, she pulled the door open, and then gasped as a light flickered above.
The alarm system had been triggered.
“Dammit.” She reached in and dragged Devon out by his ragged shirt. “We must be quick. Over here.”
Heedless of everything but the need to get him out of there, she pushed him down as he turned to the gaping hole in the wall. He stumbled but managed to make it through just as the light grew brighter. Someone with a lantern was coming down the stairs.
“Hurry.” Portia’s voice was low but there was no doubting the urgency in it. “Hands and knees. Crawl like the devil is after you. Now.” She placed both hands on his buttocks and pushed, following him as close as she dared.
Her already-bruised knees screamed and her hands were probably ripped to shreds, but she made it into the tunnel before the footsteps hit the floor of Level Four.
Then there were voices, and she panicked. How soon would they find the hole? Devon’s cell was empty…they’d follow. God. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Almost by instinct, she turned and bared her arm, taking aim with her Jallai. Since it was silent, the only effect was a cascading rumble of brickwork, filling the hole and sealing Portia and Devon in complete darkness.
“Go forward. It’s all right. I came this way.”
“All right.”
It was strange hearing Devon speak so clearly and Portia smiled as they began the long crawl back to James and Charlotte.
She wondered how it would be now. What would happen. The rightful heir to Harbury Hall and the Harbury estate had been released from his captivity. By rights, everything belonged to him now. What would he do about Randall and Alwynne? Would the authorities believe Devon’s claims?
It was an incredible tale, certainly…
Portia’s thoughts drifted and she found herself wishing Devon would stop so that she could touch him at last. See his face, touch his body…
Wait. What…
“Portia. There’s some kind of fog here.”
“Fog?” Her tongue felt thick and her body ached in strange places.
“Yes, fog. How much further? I don’t like this stuff.”
“Keep going. I don’t know. Devon, I—“ She wanted to say many things, none of which made much sense. Above all, she was starting to crave him, and she reached out, finding his leg on the ground.
She stroked it. How firm it was. A bit on the thin side, but that was understandable. It was Devon’s leg. He was free. She could run to him and hold him and press herself against him.
Her body grew warm and she felt an unusual dampness between her thighs where she ached the most.
Something was wrong. “Devon.”
“I know. Keep going. Don’t stop. And keep your head high, Portia. Don’t breath low if you can avoid it.”
Puzzled, she did as she was bid, but it got harder
all the time. Her mind was filled with yearnings she didn’t understand. All she wanted was to have Devon hold her and touch her and…and…something else she had no way to describe.
Kiss her. Yes, that would be excellent. She wanted him to kiss her. And then…
Blind in more ways than one, Portia moved as if powered by a machine, absently placing hands and knees, crawling forward, her body responding automatically to the urge to escape this place, while her mind wandered down strangely arousing paths that had nothing to do with where she was.
At long last, the two of them saw a glimmer and the air grew cold as it freshened with a touch of snow.
She drew a breath, dizzy now, and urged Devon on. “Quick. I need to get out of here. I’m not feeling quite myself.”
“I know.” It was a groan, a strange and hoarse sound that surprised her. But before she could think more on it, they were being pulled free and exclaimed over by James and Charlotte.
“My darlings, you made it.” Charlotte was beside herself, almost dancing with delight. “We have been so worried. And there was a rumble. A strange rumble.”
“Long story, Charlotte.” Portia, weary to the bone, leaned heavily against her. “And just now I’m not actually sure I can—“
Everything turned sparkly. “Oh how pretty.”
She fainted.
*~~*~~*
Alwynne Harbury was restless. Her ride with the Baron the night before had intrigued her, and started a deep need for someone to take her in his arms and make her scream out her pleasure.
Stephen, damn him, was with her husband, and would be engaged for the next few hours. She’d checked. The Baron himself had vanished into the laboratories upon his arrival, even though guest rooms had been prepared for him.
He hadn’t come to the Hall yet. She’d checked on that as well.
She was at loose ends.
Pacing her parlor, going from fireplace to window and back, she ignored the heavy snow and simply focused on her growing frustration. A couple of deep inhalations didn’t help. In fact, it seemed to make it worse.
