The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) (23 page)

“I told him,” Abbi confessed. “I told him that I sent you for it and why. If you're up to it, you can go see him. He's still awake and brooding in the library.”

Spencer moved toward the library with trepidation.. As he neared the door, he paused, taking a deep breath, before knocking and entering in one smooth motion. Upon entering, he said the first thing that came to mind. “It was not my idea.”

Michael was seated at the desk, dressed in a pair of breeches and a shirt. He leveled an unyielding stare at him. “It wasn't a good idea regardless of its origin. The thing they want, the thing that will make the ritual they want Abigail for a possibility, is now within their reach.”

Spencer stepped deeper into the room, and seated himself on an ottoman before the fire. He was tired, filthy and needed a bath in the worst of ways. “Initially, I tried to dissuade her. But I believe that she is right, Michael—Hear me out!” he said as his friend began to interrupt him. “Lavinia and Rupert are growing more desperate by the minute. This may be the only way to get them to show their hand and to finally gain some advantage. They've been one step ahead of us all along because they've been making up the rules. This will change things.”

Michael shook his head, rising from his chair, he leaned heavily on a cane. “But at what cost?”

Spencer shrugged, “I cannot say. But for now, we keep it quiet and say nothing until you are fully recovered, or near it at least. Then, we may strike a devil's bargain with them.”

Michael grimaced as he moved, obviously in pain. “I don't like it. Why haven't they acted? I've been a bloody invalid for a week and yet they have done nothing. What are they waiting for?”

“I think I have the answer to that,” Abbi said, standing in the doorway and holding a piece of rolled parchment. “I didn't want to say anything until you were feeling better and until Spencer had returned. The day that you were injured—.”

“Nearly murdered,” Spencer corrected.

“Just so,” Abbi concurred. “I found the map. It was hidden in an armoire on the third floor, behind a false back.”

“Let me see it,” Michael said.

Abbi moved forward and presented it to Michael, who unfurled it carefully with her help. Using objects littered on the desktop, he weighted the corners to hold it in place.

“It's a very strange map,” she explained. “The landmarks are easily recognizable, but there are no roads in Blagdon to match what they have documented.”

Michael studied the map for a moment, puzzled, then he cursed. “They aren't roads... The perspective is off on the drawing, but if I'm not mistaken, these appear to be passages or tunnels that are underground.”

Abbi frowned and then exclaimed, “Oh! The mines!”

Spencer shook his head, “There is no mining in this community. Or at least I have seen no evidence of it. It's all farmers!”

“Well, not now there isn't. But there used to be,” Abbi stated. “Salt mining was a staple of life here, but over time the caverns and mine shafts became too unstable to be viable. There were collapses and accidents, one after the other. It became so fraught with danger that they couldn't find workers willing to risk it, so the mining company simply abandoned Blagdon for other areas.”

“How long ago was this?” Michael asked, his gaze focused intently on one particular area of the map.

Abbi thought for a moment before answering. “It was at least seventy years ago. My father had told me about it when I was a child because I had wandered into one of the caverns just off the beach beneath the Hall. He warned me of the dangers and briefly described the history... If I'm not mistaken, Rupert's grandfather was involved with the mining company. He'd invested heavily in it and lost a large chunk of his fortune when the mines here failed.”

“So there's something down there that they want... the question remains, what is it?” Spencer asked.

Michael shifted his weight, wincing as he did so.

“Be careful,” Abbi scolded. “You'll reopen the wound!”

“No. It's fine. Just a bit stiff from laying about for so long,” he replied. “Can you turn up the lamp?”

Abbi did so, moving it to the edge of the desk where he could see better.

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 foolish 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.”