The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2)

The Redemption of a Rogue

by

Chasity Bowlin

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination, or they are used fictitiously and are definitely fictionalized. Any trademarks or pictures herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored by or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks or pictures used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.

©January 2015, Chasity Bowlin

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form (electronic or print) without permission from the author. Except for excerpts embodied in reviews.

Chapter One

She was waiting in the woods for him. Dark had fallen, but the light of the moon filtered through the branches, gilding her. Her dark green cape blended into the surroundings, but he saw movement as she stepped forward from between the trees. With the hood pushed back, her gold mask glinted in the dim light. Proudly and without any shame she tossed her cape open, revealing nude perfection. Lush breasts and a tiny waist that flared into wide hips left him breathless.

“Goddess,” he said.

“Priestess,” she corrected gently, a flirtatious smile curved her lips beneath the mask. “Have you come prepared for your initiation?”

He trembled slightly as he produced the blade. The hilt had been carved to resemble a phallus, and the blade itself was made of bone rather than steel.

It had not been an easy thing to liberate the blade from his father’s collection, but with the promise of such pleasure, he would have braved any difficulty. He presented it to her, and his gut clenched as her delicate hand swept over the hilt, caressing it gently. His body responded as if her hand had touched him similarly. “It is as you requested, my priestess.”

“You have done well, and you shall be rewarded,” she said, her perfect lips shaping each word seductively. “Come with me.”

He followed her deeper into the woods, away from the path. The trees broke into a small clearing, and a fire burned at its center. On the periphery of the clearing, he noted the large stones forming a perfect circle. It was a place of great power—ancient and primal. Excitement coursed through him, but it wasn’t merely sexual. He could feel the charge in the air, the portent of something beyond their world.

There were others present, wearing capes and masks as his priestess was though their masks were less elaborate. In the center of the clearing, closest to the fire, was a large flat rock that covered with cloth. When he’d been told of the initiation rites, of what would occur, even his most erotic fantasies had paled in comparison.

“Remove all your clothing and lie upon the altar,” she instructed, her own hands toying with the ties of her cape.

He did so without question. Under the gazes of the five women, his already erect sex thickened further. These women were not unknown to him, in spite of their masks. He had desired them all at one point over the years, but they had never given him a second glance. Now they would all pleasure him in this mystical place.

He smiled as he stretched out on the altar, looking up at the moon and stars through budding branches. A sigh escaped him at the feel of soft hands gliding over his flesh. They caressed his chest and shoulders, his thighs and his belly, moving outward toward his limbs.

A moment’s panic swept through him when the silken cords went around his wrists and ankles, but he knew that it was all part of the initiation ritual. He was a supplicant to them, and in return they would bestow upon him the greatest of pleasures, just as the priestess had promised him.

The priestess rose above him then, moving so that she straddled his hips, the heat of her pressing against him intimately. He wanted to grip her hips and thrust into her, but with his hands bound, he was at her mercy, waiting for her to take pity and offer him the solace of her body. It was equally arousing and frustrating.

Her hands stroked over his chest, down his heaving sides. His heart thundered in his chest, the anticipation burning inside him. How often had he dreamt of having a woman like her touch him? Beautiful, wanton and completely depraved. She was perfect.

Her dagger-like nails raked over his skin and his breath escaped on a sharp hiss. In the moonlight, he could see her lips quirk in a satisfied smile. It was a small enough price to pay for the pleasure she promised.

The other women moved around him, touching him, their soft hands and fluttering touches adding to the carnality of the moment. He wanted to urge her to hurry, to take him inside her, but he knew that was not part of the arrangement. She was in control of the situation, which provided its own enticement.

Those soft touches enflamed him. The priestess then lifted herself from him, rising onto her knees. Another of the ladies gripped him firmly, guiding him into the warmth of the priestess’ welcoming sheath.

It felt that it went on forever, the slow, languorous slide of her silken flesh over his. In truth it was a very short time before the familiar tightness settled low in his belly, tension gathered in him as he was poised on the cusp of ecstasy.

One of the other women kissed him, and another one kissed her. His body tightened like a bow string, every muscle flexing as he climaxed, hot seed rushing into her body. The second woman continued kissing him, stroking her tongue softly into his mouth, swallowing his hoarse cries of pleasure. So intent was he on that kiss, on the feel of the priestess’ body gripping his, milking him, he did not see the ancient blade. He never heard the hiss of air as she brought it down in a vicious arc, the sharpened bone piercing his belly.

Now the truth of the kiss was apparent to him. It was not his cries of pleasure she had intended to silence, but his cries of agony. Blood poured from the jagged wound, and the women exalted in it. The priestess and her minions stroked it, coaxing more from the wound. He wanted to howl with agony as they prodded and tormented, but soft lips covered his, masking every sound. His bound hands clenched, struggling against silken ties. There was no escape.

As his life’s blood flowed freely from his wound, his struggles slowed and then halted altogether. He could only lie there as they touched their bodies and pleasured themselves with blood soaked hands. He met the priestess’ gaze one last time before his eyes closed. She was smiling wickedly beneath the mask, her gaze fixed on something beyond the clearing. “Thank you,” she said to him, “You have done very well.”

From the shadows of the trees beyond, the cloaked figure of a man observed the ritual and smiled. She had done well for him, but then he'd never expected less of her. Her devotion to him had always been complete.

Watching the women revel, he smiled. Most of them believed it to be nothing more than a game. The promise of eternal youth and beauty lured them, but they were not true believers. In spite of their lack of real faith, they had thrown themselves wholeheartedly into their roles. Some thought the female to be the weaker sex, but he'd learned they could be just as vicious and bloodthirsty as their male counterparts. The difference lay in their motivation for violence.

A wave of dizziness swept through him, cold sweat breaking out on his skin. He leaned against the tree and waited for her to come to him just as she always had.

Chapter Two

Lord Michael Sutherland, Viscount Ellersleigh was not a man given to the vice of gambling. He loved brandy, and he loved women. Given a choice between the two, he would always take the women. But of late, he had been overwhelmed with ennui, with a strange sense of disquiet that even the most skilled lovers could not overcome. It was that which had led him into a card game with Lord Allerton, and it was that card game which had led him to the dismal property he could now call his own.

Blagdon Hall rose before him, a crumbling ode to a harsher time in Britain’s history, when Viking raids and other threats had marred her beautiful shoreline. It might have been a fierce stronghold once, but now it looked as if a good gust of wind could send it toppling into the sea beyond. A quaint place in the country, Allerton had called it. Quaint and charming. Belatedly, Michael recognized that quaint and charming were simply euphemisms for small and decrepit.

As properties went, it was not overly large, it was not especially profitable, and it was not aesthetically appealing. Even the land surrounding the hall appeared to be derelict.

But it was an escape from London, however, and his most recent paramour who could not read the writing on the wall. A lovely widow, Lady Westerbrook was quite enchanting, but incredibly demanding. She had begun to treat him more as a husband than a lover, thus prompting his hasty retreat from the field. Now, with the deed to Lord Allerton’s forfeited property burning a hole in his pocket, he stared up at the ancient Saxon tower and wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

A wizened old man at the gate eyed him suspiciously. “Who be ye?” he growled.

Michael was reminded of the ancient but vicious lapdog that his grandmother had always kept. The old man appeared to have maintained more of his teeth, however. “I be Lord Ellersleigh, your employer.”

“Lord Allerton is me employer,” the man groused.

Under other circumstances, needling the man could be entertaining as he was so delightfully put out with the world in general. Tired from the journey, covered in dirt from the road, Michael desperately wanted a meal, a bath, and a bed. Provoking the curmudgeon would simply have to wait.

“Lord Allerton was your employer, until he lost Blagdon Hall to me in a game of Faro.” Michael produced the deed from his pocket, but the old man just looked at it blankly, then back at him..

“Can’t read or write,” he said. “Take yerself up to the house then, m’lord, and let Miss Abigail sort it out.”

Had a man in his employee really just granted him permission to pass onto his own land? It was hardly a gracious invitation at any rate. Perhaps it was exhaustion, but he simply didn't have it in him to be put out with the man. It was the most entertaining thing that had happened to him in quite a while.

Michael was still chuckling under his breath when he reached the house. The drive was short but steep, carrying him to the top of the hill, where the Hall perched on a cliff high above the sea. It wasn’t beautiful. It never had been and never would be, but it was striking. He could easily envision knights in armor.

Shoving aside romantic notions, he dismounted. As there was no one about, he looped the reigns about a post in the yard and approached the massive front door. He would see to the horse after finding out what the devil he'd gotten himself into.

Michael lifted the heavy knocker which appeared to be a carved dragon’s head with a ring hanging from its mouth. It thumped heavily against the dark, aged wood when he let it drop.

After only a moment, a wrinkled face peered at him through a small door set within the larger door. “What do ye want?”

Was there not a servant in the house that was under the age of eighty, he wondered? Rather than enter another exchange like the one with the gatekeeper, he said, “I am Viscount Ellersleigh. I need to speak with Miss Abigail.”

The face disappeared. There was a great deal of rumbling and what sounded like the movement of furniture before the door finally opened. Immediately, he realized why. The woman whose face had appeared in that tiny opening in the door was more than a foot shorter than the small window. The chair placed haphazardly by the door showed him precisely how she had reached it. The door at least opened on a pulley system, so he didn’t have to feel responsible for the crone injuring herself by opening the monstrosity. The very thought of a woman that old climbing onto a rickety chair had him shaking his head.

“She’s in there,” the woman said, pointing to a door off the great hall before promptly disappearing.

Bedlam. He was in bedlam, surely, Michael though abysmally. The notion of both a meal and a bath seemed to be growing further away than nearer. He'd hardly ask the aging crone to lug buckets of water for him. Even if he did, it was unlikely she'd do more than cackle at him as she walked away.

Of the two servants he'd met thus far; they were the worst trained servants he had ever encountered. If Miss Abigail, the erstwhile housekeeper was responsible, she would be the first to go, he decided. He would hire someone who could at least make the place seem hospitable. As for the cranky and ancient pair he’d already encountered, they would be pensioned off. With that thought firmly in mind, he made his way to the small room indicated, prepared to confront and fire his first servant.

~*~*~

Abigail Barrows glared at the offending animal. The cat hissed in return, its back arched, ears flat, and teeth bared. Between its paws was the last quill from her desk. “Blast you, you insufferable creature! You did not kill that bird and that particular feather is not your trophy!”

Determinedly, she reached for the quill but drew back when the cat’s claws sank firmly into her hand. The cat then retreated behind the chair, the quill hanging proudly from his mouth. Had she any idea that someone was observing her, she would never have knelt on the floor with her bottom in the air, peering under a chair and cursing a fiendish creature that plagued her endlessly.

Focused only on the account books on the desk that needed her attention and the last quill that was now conquered by a cat that had surely come from Hades, she cursed. It was a mild oath, but as a lady, she had never been given opportunity to learn stronger ones.

“You wretched, vile beast! I hope the hounds get you!” A menacing yowl was the only response she received.

“Had I known the view in Bedlam would be so entrancing I would have committed myself years ago.”

The rich, masculine voice tinged with sardonic amusement had Abigail scurrying to her feet. In the process, she stepped on the hem of her gown, ripping the seam. She also bumped her head on the edge of the desk with such force that she saw stars. Placing her hand to her head, she swayed alarmingly as tiny lights danced and flickered before her eyes.

The man rushed forward, a look of concern and contrition crossing what was surely the most handsome visage she'd ever seen. At least she would have the bump on her head to blame for her dizziness. Simply looking at him was enough to make one's head spin. 

“My apologies for alarming you so,” he said, helping her to the chair. A demonic growl issued from beneath the chair, and a black and white blur shot out from behind it, making for the open window. It looked back briefly, with what appeared to be a smirk, a feather hanging from its mouth. Blasted creature, she thought again. She'd never get the bloody account books balanced now. Not that one could ever apply the term balanced to something that was always in the negative. 

The man took a step back from her; his brows furrowed as he looked at her with concern.. Pasting a reassuring smile on her face, Abbi wondered why she bothered. Surely he was a creditor come to take anything of value still left in the home, though he was dressed a bit too fine for that. A gambling debt then, she thought. Her smile vanished. Let him worry, she decided. She stopped short of wishing him to perdition along with the cat.

Michael continued his perusal of the woman who could only be Miss Abigail. She appeared to be fine, the bump on her head having merely disoriented her for a moment. She was a young woman, though not in the first blush of youth. He would guess her to be in her very early twenties, rather than fresh from the schoolroom.

Her dark hair had been braided tightly and pulled back into a chignon of interwoven braids. He imagined it was done more out of necessity than vanity as it looked to be impossibly thick. One strand had escaped and curled becomingly at her neck. With pale skin and wide brown eyes, she was pretty but not necessarily beautiful. If there was one feature, aside from her charming derriere that was utterly enchanting, it was the lush lips that formed a perfect cupid’s bow. A dark, cherry red, they were a perfect foil against her porcelain skin.

“Who are you, sir, and why have you come?” she asked.

The question was blunt and direct. Her tone was mild, unlike the servants who had greeted him, but it was far from welcoming. “I am Viscount Ellersleigh,” he responded. “I am here to claim ownership of this demesne.”

“Faro?”

Michael’s easy smile transformed into a grim expression as he nodded. “It appears you know Lord Allerton quite well.”

“He is my cousin, my lord. I should.”

Michael didn’t react outwardly, though he was quite stunned by the admission. He hadn’t been aware that Lord Allerton had close relatives much less that he was responsible for their care. Of course, responsible appeared to be a subjective term. She’d never had a come out or been introduced to society. He would have remembered her; he was sure. Not only was she not out in society, but now her home had been wagered out from under her. “Did he inform you that he no longer retained ownership of Blagdon Hall?”

From the blank look on her face, it was obvious that he had not. Michael grimaced. Informing a young woman that she’d just been divested of her only home, assuming it was her only home, was not how he’d planned to spend his day. His reprieve from London was turning out to be anything but relaxing. Tired, dirty, hungry and now guilt-ridden. The litany of his discomforts was growing at an alarming rate. Damn Allerton!

After a moment, she spoke softly. “Lord Allerton, as you have surmised, can be somewhat lax about providing pertinent information. I assume, Lord Ellersleigh, that you were unaware you would find Bladgon Hall inhabited?”

“Indeed, Miss. Have you other relatives to see to your care?” The complications he now faced at this unforeseen turn of events had him reeling.

Her emotions flashed over her face like quicksilver; Michael thought as he watched her. Horror, shock, and finally resignation played over her lovely features before she spoke. “I do have family in the area, my lord. My stepsister and her husband live close by.”

Michael felt like the worst sort of villain. Displacing young women from their home was not something he had ever thought to do. He wanted to call Allerton out for being so callous and so careless with his relative’s life and reputation. It was a quandary for him. He could return to town and allow the young woman time to make other arrangements, but permitting her to remain in a house that he owned would ruin her.  Remaining in the house with her was entirely out of the question. Even if his own reputation had been spotless, it would have set tongues wagging. “Forgive me, but I do not know your name.”

“Miss Abigail Barrows.”

It suited her; he thought. Old fashioned, lovely, and bespeaking pragmatism and good sense. She appeared to have both qualities in abundance, regardless of his first impression of her. “Miss Barrows, I apologize for this difficult situation. Had I known that you were here, I would have written first and made appropriate arrangements, but as your cousin failed to inform me of your presence, we are now in a difficult situation…When can you be ready to remove to your other family?”

“I will leave this afternoon, my lord.”

“How will you get there?”

“You needn’t worry, my lord. My brother in law and stepsister, Lord and Lady Whitby are neighbors to us. It is only a short ride to their estate.”

Michael was alternately relieved and horrified. It was wonderful that she had relatives close by but that her relatives were such notorious high flyers was not. Lord and Lady Whitby were known for their quite liberal views on sexual pleasure. “If I may be of assistance—“

Miss Barrows stood, “No, thank you, my lord. I appreciate your kind offer, but I will be quite fine without further assistance. I simply need to collect my things.” She paused for a moment. “Assuming, I will be permitted to. You undoubtedly won the house and all of its contents.”

Michael raised an eyebrow at that. “I'm not a villain, Miss Barrows. It was not my intent to evict you from your home. I have no need of your personal items, nor am I such a hateful person that I would deprive you of them for spite.”

She nodded. “It's an unfortunate fact of being a woman that we own nothing. Our every possession is at the whim of men. It was not my intent to insult you, my lord. My apologies.”

Michael sighed. “Forgive me, Miss Barrows. I am cross from the journey and from discovering the unfortunate predicament that your cousin has created for us here.”

Another brief nod, the pale sunlight coming through the windows cast her skin with a soft, golden glow. The effect was entrancing.

She spoke again. “There are things you should know about the house. If I may be so bold, I should advise you that the servants are quite old and rather set in their ways. In spite of that, they do a wonderful job of maintaining Blagdon Hall with the very limited resources that are available to them. I should also warn you there will be much talk of ghosts. You should simply ignore it. The legends of Blagdon Hall are quite old and have been retold for generations, growing more gruesome with each retelling...Regardless, you won't be able to hire from the village. They're quite superstitious. If you intend to staff the hall, an agency from London would be your best option.”