The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) (16 page)

“You’ll not distract me so easily,” she snapped and stepped back from him. “Tell me what you found today.”

Michael loosened his cravat and shrugged out of his waistcoat. “I promise to tell you everything in the morning. I’d prefer to engage in other forms of communication tonight.”

Abbi watched him, the confident movements, the heated gaze of his eyes, the sensual curve of his lips. He was truly a magnificent sight. “Your word?”

“On my honor, little of it that there is,” he said, his shirt falling to the floor.

She simply couldn’t get enough air. Abbi watched the play of muscles as he moved, remembering the springy texture of the light dusting of dark hair on his chest, the hardness of his body against hers. She was simply unable to draw enough breath into her lungs to function.

Even as she watched, he tugged off his boots. Then his hands were at the fall of his breeches. The hard ridge of his arousal was plainly visible to her, even through the fabric. With each button that was released, she grew hotter. Her face was flushed, her breathing ragged, and her body aching for him without even a touch.

As his breeches and small clothes fell to the floor, he walked toward her completely naked. Abbi leaned against the dressing table, no longer trusting her own legs to support her weight, shaking as they were. She had never thought a man would be beautiful, but he was.

“You are wearing too much,” he said, whispering hotly against her neck. With deft fingers, he unlaced the back of her gown, her stays, within seconds he had her stripped to her chemise, still wearing her evening slippers with her stockings and garters. His dipped his head, closing his mouth over the hardened bud of her nipple.

Abbi’s head fell back and a moan escaped her. The heat of his mouth, the rasp of his tongue and the added friction of the linen chemise were unbearably erotic. His hands cupped her thighs, lifting her so that she was settled more firmly on the dressing table as he continued to ravish her breasts with his mouth.

Her hands slid into his hair, holding his head in place, reveling in each stroke of his tongue, each hot pull of his skilled lips. The scrape of his teeth over one distended nipple had her crying out, arching against him. There was an edge of danger to him that night. This was not the gentle lovemaking they had shared before. He was taking her on a journey and she was not only willing, but eager to explore with him.

“Do you know,” he asked, “How beautiful you are? How the very sight of you can drive a man mad with lust?”

“Show me,” she said, with a challenge.

Michael gripped the neckline of the chemise and with one swift motion, ripped it from her. The sound of tearing fabric echoed through the room. He glanced up, and her gaze on him was hot, without fear. He pulled her to her feet and turned her so that she faced the mirror, with him at her back. The silk stockings still covered her long legs and the prettily embroidered garters flashed at her thighs.

With the height of her evening slippers, his shaft nestled into the cleft of her lush bottom. It was the sweetest hell he’d ever known. Taking her hands in his, he brought them up, sliding her silken fingertips and his own callused ones over the soft skin of her belly, up to her breasts.

He molded her hands around those tender globes, shaping them with his own. The hard buds of her nipples were visible between their fingers, and in the mirror he met her gaze. He removed his own hands, but by unspoken agreement hers remained. “Show me what you like,” he said, “Touch yourself for me.”

Abbi was dying. Embarrassment warred with desire and with the need to please him, to see his blue eyes darken with lust. As always, desire won. Her gaze fastened securely upon his in the mirror, she moved her hands over her breasts, her fingers caressing the pebbled peaks of her own breasts while he watched with hooded eyes.

She could feel the hard pulse of his erection, could feel him thickening and lengthening against her. She fought the urge to press against him, to plead with him just to take her. His gaze was hot, roving over her. It was almost like a touch. Her fingers kneaded the soft globes, plucking at the distended nipples. His hands tightened reflexively on her hips. She smiled, a coquette’s smile, as she heard the slight hitch in his breathing.

“Minx,” he murmured softly.. “Where else do you like to be touched, Abbigail?”

She couldn’t say it, and in all honesty, had no words for it. “Michael—“

“Show me,” he whispered, insistently. “Let me see you.”

Embarrassed, but eager, aching with anticipation, she trailed her right hand over her body, down to the juncture of her thighs. He didn’t speak, but his heated gaze communicated everything she needed to know. Parting her legs slightly, her fingers slid through the thatch of dark curls and over the weeping cleft. She leaned back, her back pressing against his chest. She could feel his heart beating a strong tattoo. “I can’t do this, Michael…It’s too much.”

He kissed her neck, his teeth scraping lightly over, then soothing with his tongue, “You have no idea,” he said, “What a vision you are. There is nothing more beautiful, more erotic than watching you…seeing your delicate hands move over your flesh.”

The words bolstered her confidence, battled back the doubts and insecurities that had claimed her. With his hot mouth trailing fire over her neck and shoulders, Abbi parted the folds of her sex and slid the tips of her fingers over her own moist flesh. The pleasure was intense, as much from the weight of his gaze as from the tentative caress. His hands slid over her hips, over her belly, and he covered her hand with his, pressing deeper, increasing the pressure of her fingertip on the pearl of her sex. Her hips rocked forward, arching into that touch as a harsh gasp escaped her parted lips.

Michael couldn’t wait any longer. The damp heat of her body called to him. Gently he pulled her hands up, placing them flat on the surface of the dressing table, leaning her forward slightly. Instinctively, she parted her legs a bit wider. He’d never seen anything as glorious, as lust inducing as her narrow waist flaring out into the lush curves of her hips and her magnificent heart-shaped bottom.

He trailed hot kisses from the back of her neck, along the column of her spine, delighting in her shivering response. With a groan, he guided his shaft to her entrance, pausing there, teasing them both with the anticipation of pleasure. She made a small sound of protest, moving against him entreatingly. One day, he thought, he would be able to resist her, but not yet.

He pressed forward, flexing his hips so that he filled her with a slow, sure stroke. She gasped beneath him, crying out with pleasure. Closing his hands over the curve of her hips, he held her still as he began to move, setting a rhythm that would drive them both to the brink of madness. He moved slowly, pressing in with deep, commanding thrusts and then withdrew just as slowly, relishing the drag and resistance of the tight muscles of her sheath. 

In the mirror, above them, he watched, and when he met her gaze in the glass, he knew that she did, as well.  It was unbearably erotic, unbearably intimate. He didn’t increase the speed or the intensity, but kept to that same maddening pace, until he could feel her thighs trembling against him. Her soft moans had become demanding cries.

Michael shifted slightly, pressing deeper still. She strained against him, rising on her toes, pressing back against him. “Please, Michael, please,” she cried, all but insensible with need.

It was all the prompting he needed. He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her more firmly against him. His thrusts became faster, harder, as he pressed into her more deeply. He could feel her clenching around him, her release imminent. He moved his hand over her belly, down to the nest of dark curls and slid one finger inside her, teasing the small, hooded bud that would make her shatter. He pressed against it lightly, massaging gently as he thrust again and again. He felt her shuddering beneath him, gloried in the harsh sounds of pleasure that escaped her. Every quiver of her belly, every quaking muscle in her thighs, spurred him on, until he was lost to his own release. He met her gaze in the mirror, taking note of the sleepy and sated expression on her face. Gently he withdrew from her and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the bed.

Her body still trembling in the aftermath, Abbi said, “Don’t think you’ve completely succeeded in distracting me. I still want to know everything you discussed with Lord Wolverstone.” She could feel the rumble of his answering laugh against her.

“I will tell you everything,” he said, “As soon as I can remember my own name.”

Chapter Thirteen

Three days later, Abbi and Michael were back in the carriage heading for Blagdon Hall. Spencer was riding along side on horseback. Though Abbi had not seen much of the city, Michael had taken her to see the Elgin Marbles. Recalling them made her blush, as did the events that had unfolded after.

As they’d lain in bed, panting and breathless, Michael had told her he would have had replicas installed in their bedchamber had he known what her response would be. As if he’d guessed what she was thinking of, he grinned at her from across the seat.

“What wayward thoughts have brought you to blush, wife?” he asked teasingly.

“It’s merely warm inside the carriage… Perhaps when we stop, I will get a bit of air.”

“Or perhaps you are too warmly dressed. If you were to remove some clothing—“

“You are incorrigible! Lord Wolverstone is right outside.”

So he was. Michael knew already that Spencer admired Abbigail. He’d spent a great deal of time with them over the past few days and had remarked to Michael about how charming he found her, and how lovely she was. He’d never been a jealous man, but he’d wanted to plant his fist firmly into Spencer’s face every time he’d caught him smiling at Abbi. The last thing he wanted was to listen to a lecture from Spencer about how to treat his wife like a lady, or worse, to add fodder to any wayward fantasies Spencer might have about her. 

“I concede the point. I am utterly incorrigible and selfish enough not to want Spencer picturing you without your clothes on.”

“Not every man is as obsessed with the female form as you are, husband,” she admonished, though her blush deepened.

Michael quirked an eyebrow at her. “You saw the Elgin Marbles yourself, not to mention some of the other statuary at the museum last night. Do you really want to argue the point of how obsessed men are with the female form?”

“Yes, but your interest is hardly artistic.”

“On the contrary, I consider myself a skilled master.” His eyes traveling hotly over her, making her feel as naked as if he’d stripped the clothing from her body right there. “Art is only great when it moves us, when it elicits a visceral response from us…And I would argue, my dearest Abbigail, that when you are writhing beneath me, calling out my name, or perhaps even calling out to God that I have moved you.”

“Blasphemer,” she scolded.

“I would say that's more your area of expertise, dear wife. You take his name in vain with both frequency and volume,” he replied smoothly.

Her lips firmed disapprovingly. “We’ve already agreed that you are utterly incorrigible. There is no further need to prove your point,” Abbi said hotly. The truth of the matter was conversing with him could drive her to lust filled distraction. With his voice pitched intentionally low, so that it shivered over her skin and resonated within her, it was simply too much to take.

He smiled, appearing concillitory if not contrite.“If I were an artist,” he continued, “I cannot imagine that I would ever have a more inspiring subject. There is nothing about you that I would change.”

Abbi considered his statement for a moment. She could find no hint that he was speaking facetiously. There was a seriousness in his tone that she rarely heard. For the most part when Michael spoke he tended to be teasing or flirtatious. It was rare to hear him sound so earnest. “I think that may be the prettiest compliment I have ever received, my lord.”

“It is simply the truth,” he said. Though the conversation had grown more serious than he liked, he felt the need to continue. “I had not given much thought to marriage. I had, in fact, done everything to avoid it. If the choice had remained with me, I would have continued to avoid marriage for as long as possible, but now I find that I am glad the decision was not left to me… otherwise, we would not be here together.”

Abbi’s heart was thundering in her chest. It was not an admission of love, but it was both heartening and frightening. His admission only magnified her growing feelings for him, forcing her to look more closely at them than she was ready to. It was fear that prompted her to ask, “And what will happen when marriage ceases to suit you… or when I cease to satisfy you?”

Michael stared out the window for a moment longer. He had never promised fidelity to anyone, except as a boy. Then, he hadn’t known what he was offering to give up. He supposed that technically, his wedding vows included that promise, but that was different somehow. Those were words spoken by every married couple in the kingdom, and they rarely held true for anyone.

“I have no intention of having a typical society marriage with you. You and I will not live separate lives, and neither of us will entertain other lovers,” he said.

“You, the greatest rake in all of England, are swearing to be faithful to your wife?”

He met her dubious gaze, his own eyes blazing with sincerity and revealing more of his inner turmoil than he wished to share. “Yes. I have no reason to stray. There is no idle curiosity burning in me about the pleasures that I have yet to explore. I am not some callow youth to be easily led astray, either. You are my wife, and I will take no other lovers.”

Fear pushed her, boiled inside her. She said it knowing that it would anger him, asked only because she knew that it would sever the unbearable intimacy of the conversation, “What about my curiosities? Perhaps I want the opportunity to explore other avenues of pleasure, and to take other lovers.”

It happened so quickly that neither of them could fully attest to how she wound up sprawled across his lap, crushed tightly in his arms. His hands were in her hair, tilting her head back less than gently.

“There is no pleasure that I cannot show you, and I will kill any man who thinks to have you.” Even as the words escaped him, he knew they were the height of hypocrisy, but he couldn’t have cared less.

The kiss wasn’t romantic or seductive. It held none of the playful coaxing or the compelling skill that marked most of their encounters. It was a branding. With his lips on hers and his tongue stroking commandingly into the soft heat of her mouth, he staked a claim on her.

Without conscious thought, she melted into that kiss, melding her body to his. She had pushed him to that point, driven him to anger and jealousy. The idea that she held so much power over him left her reeling. It also heightened the desire that burned inside her. His famous control was nowhere to be found. The man who held her was not the skilled, practiced lover. He was not the world-weary rogue. She had broken through the armor and had finally touched the man beneath. But it wasn't enough. She wanted more.

It took a great deal of willpower and all the strength that he possessed to break that kiss, but he did. He eased his lips from hers and looked down at her expecting that she would be repulsed or angered by his brutish acts. Instead, her eyes were dewy and her lips parted on a sigh. She didn’t pull away but ran her hands over his shoulders, and into his hair. He saw the kiss had been bruising. Her soft lips were swollen, and the rasp of his whiskers had abraded her sensitive skin. “I’ve been too rough with you.”

“No. You haven’t,” she replied, smiling slightly, her lips curving into that coquette’s smile that drove him mad. “I prefer you this way, when I know precisely what you are thinking and feeling. If you want us to have a true marriage, then it requires more than physical intimacy, Michael. We will have to confide in one another and trust one another… If not, the passion you feel for me will fade just as quickly as the passion you had for your past lovers.”

He couldn’t respond to that. His throat closed as the truth of her words settled in him. Sharing her with anyone else was not something he would ever permit, but he did not know that he would ever be capable of opening himself up again to that kind of pain. He didn’t want to need her. With his thoughts mired down in the past and his own fears, he moved her off him and back onto the seat. “We will be stopping for the night soon.”

A chasm had opened between them and the intimacy, the connection that had bloomed between them, was now lost within it. Abbi sighed and turned her head to once again stare out the window. The distance between them was greater than ever.

~*~*~

It was hours later when they stopped for the night. Michael procured a room for them at the inn. Abbi and Sarah went up the stairs while he and Spencer remained in the taproom. “What the devil did you do to her?”

The question had been posed by Spencer. Michael met his gaze with a level one of his own. “Spencer, my marriage is not your concern.”

Spencer procured two glasses of the innkeeper’s less than stellar ale before speaking, “Look, I’ve admitted to being an ass. The least you can do is the same.”

“The difference between us, Spencer, is that I have never denied being an ass.”

Spencer sighed, sipped his ale and then said plainly, “You could be happy with her if you let yourself.”

“I am happy with her, Spence. Now mind your own bloody business.”

“You enjoy her, and she enjoys you, but your prowess with the opposite sex has never been in question. That isn’t happiness, at least not of a lasting sort. I’m talking about love, Michael.”

Michael bit back a curse. “Leave it alone, Spencer.”

Spencer shrugged and tossed back his ale. “Fine, but could you at least tell me why the hell you are here in the taproom when you could be upstairs with your very lovely wife?”

“We’re close enough to Blagdon that gossip will have traveled this way. I want to know what the locals have heard.”

“In that case, I’ll get us more ale and ask a few questions of the innkeeper while I am at it.”

Michael watched Spencer walk towards the bar and turned his attention toward a group of men huddled near the fire. He didn’t really want to talk to them. He wanted to be upstairs with Abbi, but he doubted that she would be welcoming. Not after the debacle in the carriage, he thought. He strode towards the group of men.

“Good evening, gentlemen… We’re on our way to Blagdon and heard there had been some troubles there,” Michael said, and it was all the invitation that was required.

“Oh, aye, m’lord. Blagdon is a dangerous place now to be sure… ‘Tis the cult.”

“The cult?” Michael asked, and gestured toward Spencer, who passed another coin to the innkeeper to keep the ale flowing for the locals, as well. Nothing liberated the tongue as well as ale.

“Yes, m’lord. Cults have been in Blagdon for as long as men have been there. It’s the stone circle that draws them,” the old man continued, his rheumy eyes lighting on the tavern wench who had come forth carrying tankards of ale. “But what’s happening there now, it's like what happened when me father was a young lad. He told me of it when I was a boy. The cult members would gather in the woods, at the stone circle, and make sacrifices…human sacrifices.”

“So there have been many deaths in Blagdon, then?”

“Hard to say, m’lord. Most of them just disappear. There’s talk of young girls running off to London or running away with their beaus, but who’s to say that hey haven’t been offered up?”

Rounds of ale continued as did the stories. Every man and woman in the taproom offered up their own stories of dark deeds in Blagdon Village. When all was said and done, Michael had a wealth of stories that were just that, stories. He was also well and truly foxed.

Excusing himself from his newfound friends who were also well into their cups courtesy of Spencer’s generosity, he made his way up the stairs to the room where his wife awaited him. He fumbled with the key for a moment before managing to unlock the door. The clumsiness of his movements was not lost on him.

He stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind him. Abbi was awake, sitting before the fire. She glanced at him when he walked in and her lips firmed. “You’re drunk!”

“Quite,” he said. “The innkeeper was generous with the ale and the locals were generous with gossip.”

Abbi took in his disheveled appearance and while his movements were far from clumsy, they lacked his usual ease and grace. He disrobed quickly, heading for the bed.

“I hope you at least learned something useful as you will undoubtedly pay a higher price in the morning.”

“Yes,” he agreed, and his speech was slightly slurred. “I will undoubtedly have an aching head and a miserable gut… but for now, dear wife, I only wish to sleep.”

“You never wish to talk to me when you’ve learned something useful.”

Sighing, Michael sat up in the bed, the sheet falling to his waist. “Fine, I learned that the incidents occurring at Blagdon are not new. People have been disappearing from Blagdon for decades at least, and it is apparently related to some cult activity. That cult apparently is seeking a series of ancient artifacts of an erotic nature to use in their rituals and they are willing to kill to get them… they are willing to kill for a lot of reasons, up to and including their rituals.”

“I’ve lived in Blagdon all my life and I’ve never heard such!”

“You wouldn’t. These cults engage in orgies that are usually accompanied by some sort of sacrifice, which in this case, happens to be human. At any point in your life as a young, unmarried woman, no one would have dared discuss such topics with you.”

She couldn’t deny the truth of his words. “And if Lavinia is part of this cult, I can’t imagine that she would be eagerly discussing it.”