Total Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  He commenced down the lengthy corridor, leaving the serving facilities and proceeding toward the more social sections of the house. Passing the library, he paused and observed—unnoticed and unseen—the decadent revelry going on inside.

  Pamela contributed the site for all of them to act out their lewd fantasies, but she never joined in, and he wondered if she realized the undignified level to which her parties sank in the dark of night. Early in the morning, her competent, efficient staff cleaned and tidied, affording no clue that anything indecorous had occurred. Perhaps she wasn't aware of how rashly events were wont to spiral.

  Heavy, pungent smoke from a Chinese pipe swirled through the room, painting a grotesque, unreal scene. Two women were naked and embracing on one of the sofas while several gentlemen watched. The men were in a state of half-dress, and one of them walked over and began fondling, then fucking, the woman who was on top. Another man rose and mixed with the trip, taking the second woman in her mouth. Roughly, he proffered more of his cock than she could tolerate, but she was inebriated, lethargic, and thus compliant to his demands.

  Michael stared, as did the others, as though it was the most common of sights. The four lovers were degenerately

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  displayed, a ribald tableau of sex and sin mat appealed to the onlookers' base desires.

  How had his life sunk to such an appalling low? He'd exposed himself to degradation for so long mat his moral compass was broken.

  When had he become this callous and detached? He— who had formerly carried on with such fierce enthusiasm—could only scrutinize with an abstract, isolated disinterest.

  The man came in the woman's mouth, holding her down until she swallowed, then he removed his wilting phallus and straightened his trousers while his companion continued to saw away between the thighs of the other woman. The male audience was laughing, spewing crude remarks, as a third man decided to sample of the orifice mat had just been filled to overflowing, and Michael departed, unable to further bear the spectacle.

  At the main foyer, he climbed the grand staircase, feeling unclean, sullied, and craving a bath. From past experience, he appreciated that the hot water would wash the taint on his body, but it would do little to cleanse the stains on his soul.

  He was just about to reach the landing on the second floor, when he was jolted by a woman's soft cry of alarm. Her plea was cut off before the word help could be completely uttered.

  Crude and harsh, a man's voice followed. "You like it rough, do you? Excellent."

  A couple was struggling, their clothing in stark outline against the white of the wall. He could smell the odor of strong drink on the man's breath, and an earthy, familiar, unmistakable scent emanating from the woman. A sensation of inevitable destiny surged over him, and he sighed, then rushed to the pair, grabbed the man and, with hardly any effort, flung him aside.

  "What the devil!" the scoundrel muttered as he stumbled to his knees.

  Shielding Sarah from the man's furious regard, Michael inserted himself between them and glared at the cowering

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  nobleman, recognizing him as one of the scores of debauched rakes of the ton who enjoyed the excuse to inflict himself on unsuspecting women.

  "Good evening, Brigham," he menacingly articulated.

  "Stevens!" Brigham griped. "I might have guessed." Wobbling, he rose to his feet, striving for bravado as he spat out, "Bastard!"

  "Careful now," Michael cautioned. "Don't forget how much money you owe me. I might decide to call in your markers." He moved closer. "You've upset the lady. Apologize."

  Brigham scoffed as if Sarah was a whore. "Bloody asshole, why don't you mind your own damned business?"

  Brigham was a coward and a bully, so if he'd exhibit any sort of bluster, he was abundantly foxed. Michael clutched the front of his shirt and yanked him up, showering him with a close-up view of blazing temper.

  "Last chance," he threatened.

  Despite Brigham's level of intoxication, he possessed enough of his wits to recall Michael's pugilistic abilities, and he grasped that Michael was ready to tear him to pieces. Tentatively, he eased back, hastily shedding his confrontational mien.

  "I apologize, milady."

  The supplication was lukewarm, and he didn't so much as glance in Sarah's direction, but Michael let the slight pass. Later on, he'd deal with the contemptible swine. For now, he had to get Sarah back to the safety of her room.

  "I'm positive you mistook her for another. Isn't that right?"

  "Absolutely," Brigham concurred.

  "You've got exactly five seconds to disappear." Michael hurled Brigham toward the stairs. "One ... two ..."

  Michael's skills as a brawler were renowned, so Brigham needed no second warning. He scurried away like the rat he was. Michael waited until he'd vanished, then he turned, the voluminous force of his concentration falling on Sarah.

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  Brigham was notable in his reputation for violent and obscene fornications, and Michael shuddered at what might have happened. Why was the insane female wandering the halls? Did she think he was joking in his admonitions?

  "Who was that loathsome individual?" she inquired, possessing a mere inkling of her usual vigor. She was trembling and distressed, but blessedly, appeared uninjured.

  "Be silent!" he tersely counseled, as he tucked her hood over her auburn curls and clutched her arm. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  Lest they encounter other guests, he spurred her along, scanning alcoves and doorways, but no one witnessed then-passing. Briskly, he wound them through the maze of corridors until they arrived at their own secluded wing of the mansion, and he ushered her to her door, his lips pressed to her ear. "Go inside and secure the lock. I'll be with you momentarily."

  Without affording her the opportunity for debate or dissent, he pushed her through the portal and shut it behind. Pausing until the lock clicked, he shook his head in dismay over the predicament in which she'd deposited them.

  Didn't she comprehend that he'd have to call Brigham to account for his behavior?

  He prowled around the corner and entered his own bedchamber, advancing to the door that separated their suites. Since his initial foray into her territory, he'd kept it barred, a signal to himself that he dare not submit to another rendezvous with the exotic meddler. Jerking it open, he sped through to her main sleeping chamber, first taking a quick inventory to assure himself that the peephole he'd previously blocked remained covered, then he marched over to her in the center of the room.

  "What were you thinking, being unescorted like that?" He quizzed her softly, in case anyone was strolling by.

  The hood of her cloak was down, and she quavered slightly. She looked young, confused, lost.

  "He knew who I was." She was baffled and perplexed by the information. "He followed me."

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  "Of course he did!" He seized her by the shoulders, but handling her was a mistake. As if he'd burned his hands, he instantly dropped them. "Haven't you listened to a word I've said? About this gathering? About these people?"

  "He wanted to have his way with me; because of my brother."

  Michael could barely force the question past his clenched teeth. "Did he hurt you?"

  "No. There wasn't time."

  She shivered with distaste and, to his horror, tears welled into her pretty eyes. In his ragged state, he'd failed to reflect on how overwhelmed she'd be. He'd only contemplated his own frenzied reaction. Not hers. Very likely, she was stunned to the core, yet he was reproaching and scolding her as though she was a child. It seemed a madman had invaded his body, but he'd just been so upset at witnessing her abuse.

  What if he hadn't chanced by? What then?

  An alluring tear fell and slid down her cheek, and she swiped it away. "He scared me."

  A low grumble—whether of disgust or resignation, he wasn't sure—erupted, and he snuggled her against his chest. The top
of her head tucked neatly under his chin. Her rounded breasts, the two beaded nipples erect and alert, poked into his ribs. Her stomach gently cradled his phallus. Despite his recent exploits with Pamela, his body sizzled to attention, wild to dabble with a new partner.

  He was a wretched excuse for a man! A detestable human being! She'd been tossed about, violated, and, even as he smelled of the sex he'd just had with another, he could only ponder what a precious carnal haven she would be.

  At a previous time in his life, he could have promptly curbed his libidinous proclivities, but no longer. He was out of control, incapable of curbing his conduct, and he was afraid of what he might initiate. Not willing to risk alarming her further, or accomplishing something he oughtn't, he set her away, putting plenty of space between them.

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  Not comprehending why he'd declined to render consolation, she gazed up at him, making him yearn to comfort and soothe, which was terrifying.

  Never before had he been compelled to offer solace to a distraught female. The women with whom he typically consorted didn't generate concern for their predicaments or woes. In contrast, he recognized Sarah as a dangerous adversary, for she instigated all manner of appalling sentiment, until he yearned to protect and revere, to treasure and nurture.

  He didn't want to be ensnared by her dilemma or problems, yet here he stood, rabid for the slightest excuse to furnish assistance.

  What a precarious path he'd trod!

  "It is the middle of the night." He fought to remain calm. "Why were you out in the hall?" Lord help her if she'd been sneaking to an assignation with a lover. He really wasn't certain what he might do if that was her response.

  "I was looking for you."

  "Me?" Again? Why on earth... He bit off a curse. "I apprised you of the hazards of this house. Why didn't you heed me?"

  His temper flared, but he effectively reined himself in. Not intending to be acrimonious. Not planning to lambaste her with his furious comments. He'd just been so ... so ... bloody frightened when he'd seen the mess into which she'd stumbled, and he'd been deliriously and foolishly anxious to charge to her rescue.

  "I didn't mean to cause any bother," she quietly declared. "I simply had to find you."

  "With all the blackguards residing under this roof!" He repressed a quiver of abhorrence. "What was so idiotically consequential?"

  Glancing at her feet, she was suddenly shy and embarrassed. "I didn't want you to keep your appointment."

  "What appointment?"

  "The one scheduled for two o'clock in the hidden room where you ... where you ... dally with those women while

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  others spy on you." Avoiding him, she went to the corner, untying her cloak and hanging it on a hook. Her back to him, her shoulders sagged. "I couldn't stand for you to meet with another lover tonight. It seems terribly wrong. When you behave so, I fear for you; I really do. I had to stop you."

  He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. She knew about the Viewing Room? Frantically, he tried to recollect his current misdeeds. In the preceding days, he'd cavorted there on at least a dozen occasions. Had she beheld every episode?

  "How ..." he sputtered.

  "There's a peephole. In my dressing room."

  Feeling ill, treading like an automated machine he'd once viewed at a museum, he walked to the smaller chamber, casting about to get his bearings. Then he noticed the footstool, the visible dark hole with its shaft of light shining through.

  As opposed to Sarah who was shorter, he didn't need the stool, and he toed it away, then flattened his eye against the opening. The room was empty, but a lamp still burned, the wick turned down. Barely breathing, he surveyed, letting the sordid surroundings register, remembering how he'd performed with the women who'd deigned to frolic.

  The vista was tawdry, sleazy. What must Sarah have thought? He felt soiled, impure, unworthy to be in her company, yet in a daze, he blundered to her bedchamber. She was perched on the edge of the bed, patiently awaiting him, and though he'd resolved to keep his distance, declining to approach and sully her further, he couldn't stay apart. He loitered at the foot of the bed, using one of the frame's carved poles for balance.

  What could he say to justify his actions? Why was an interpretation necessary? She was a stranger, an irritation, who'd been nothing but trouble from the minute he'd met her, so where did this overpowering desire spring from to mitigate and account?

  He swallowed. Swallowed again. "How many times?"

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  "Three."

  "Oh, God..." He leaned against the bedpost and stared at the floor. Flushing, he felt the wave of heat flash in his nether extremities and fling upward. His cheeks were tinged red with unaccustomed chagrin and something else. Shame, perhaps. Or guilt. "I'm sorry you saw."

  "I'm sorry you were there!"

  "You don't understand."

  "No, I don't, and you could never rationalize it for me."

  "I wouldn't even try."

  He heard her arise, and he wished he could simply vaporize. Then she was directly confronting him, her skirts twirling about his legs, her body leaning into his. "Don't go again. Promise me!"

  "Sarah..."

  'Is it a manly wanting? Is that the reason?"

  "No ... no..."

  "Then, why?"

  "I couldn't begin to explain." His focus flitted to the. wall, the ceiling. Anywhere but into those shrewd, verdant eyes.

  "You're searching, and I'm not sure for what, but you won't discover it in that room."

  "I'm not searching for anything." He was just fervid to achieve some peace!

  "Come to me, instead. Let me be the one to love you."

  Her unruffled entreaty obliged him to meet her gaze, and the intensity with which she regarded him was acute. "I've advised you before that there can never be a relationsbip between us. We've a strong physical attraction, you and I, and—"

  "More man just physical."

  "Perhaps," he ultimately allowed, the indications Of their ardent connection too clear to deny. "But we dare not act on our impulses. We would be reckless to pursue such a passionate course."

  Her hand was on his chest, and he couldn't locate the strength required to remove it. He was tempted to hug her

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  tightly, once more, but Pamela's scent hovered over him, the evidence of his doomed moral character hanging about him like a damning cloud.

  "You won't be intimate with me. Why? Is it that you think you're not respectable or reputable enough?"

  "Yes, that's exactly what I think."

  Detecting what he hoped was a safe harbor, he gripped her waist, and she responded warmly, wrapping her arms around his back and distending herself so that their bodies melded. He cherished having her so near, even as he ordered himself to ignore her marvelous presence. "You are so fine, so rare, and what am I? A man without honor or scruple. You observed my true nature."

  "That's not who you really are. I'll never believe it."

  Then, she did the very worst thing he could possibly imagine. She tenderly kissed the middle of his chest, over the spot where his heart ached so intolerably, and he lurched away, her affectionate position agonizing to endure. Accusingly, she stared up at him.

  "The scent of a woman is on me," he mentioned baldly, constrained to display the extent of his failings. "I've just lain with another; I've just come from bedding her."

  "I don't care."

  "I do."

  "Then wash yourself; return to me."

  Oh, that he could obey her command! That he could have her in all the ways a man covets a woman! To his very marrow, he cried out to redeem himself in her arms, but how could he befoul her with his attentions when he thought her so extraordinary?

  "I can't."

  "Can't or won't?"

  "Won't." His rejection of her overture pricked painfully, like a stab from a sharp knife.

  "You'll dally with the others at the
drop of a hat. Why not with me?"

  "It is different with them."

  "Different how?" A hint of ire flared.

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  "They don't matter. Not in the least."

  Skeptical, she chuckled disdainfully. "And you're saying I'm important to you as they are not?"

  "Aye."

  His admission shocked them both. He was fascinated and surprised that he'd reveal so much. She was dubious, distrusting of his motives, and she released him and slipped away. Immediately bereft without her, he was impelled to hasten after her, to hold her close where she definitely seemed to belong, but he restrained himself.

  She went to the window and studied the night sky, and he fought the urge to talk, to join her. He suffered the strangest compulsion to beg her forgiveness for being the man he was, for not being more suitable or more worthy, but he couldn't confess what was in his heart. Silenced by impossibilities and remorse, he was transfixed, powerless to make amends, incompetent to alter events. He could only impotently watch as she grappled with the quagmire in which his irresponsible conduct had landed them.

  "I'm twenty-five years old," she finally said. "I've never had a beau. Never been kissed, or strolled in the moonlight with a handsome swain. My family's situation is a mess, so my future is very unsettled; I don't know what the impending months will bring."

  At the veiled reference to her brother, he shifted uncomfortably but offered no comment. There was nothing to be gained by reviewing her wayward sibling.

  "What are you implying?" he queried instead. "That your personal life is a muddle so you'd like to complicate it further by consorting with me?"

  "No." She turned to face him. "I'm saying that I'll be here for two more weeks, and then I journey home to odious alternatives and extreme choices"—she stalwartly mastered a wave of emotion that made her eyes glitter with what he suspected were unshed tears—"... and I am so desperately unhappy."