Shameless

by Annie Stuart

  And then he collapsed.

  34

  If he rode any other horse but Bucephalus, he would not have made it. He went hell-bent, through uneven roads in the murky darkness, and he cursed the rising of the moon, knowing it only brought disaster closer. But Bucephalus was as sure-footed as ever, with nary a misstep as he raced through the night, so fast that the spring dew had no time to settle on his shoulders.

  He pulled up short at the copse where he and Melisande had left the horses the other day, ignoring the stab of fear. It was a good thing his sister and her husband were following, though he could still wish Miranda had stayed at home. He could hardly carry Melisande home on his horse again, much as he’d like to, and there was the young girl, as well. Besides, Miranda could be very comforting to those she wasn’t related to, and annoyed with, and there was a good chance Melisande or the girl would need a woman’s care. But God, he hoped not.

  Brandon’s robe fit him well enough. They were of a height, though Benedick was broader in the shoulder, and he considered limping, pretending to be Brandon if anyone should spot him. Ah, but whoever had set his brother up would know perfectly well he wasn’t, and that was the main person he had to beware of. He contented himself with hunching slightly, to disguise his height, and moved through the night like a ghost.

  There were perhaps a dozen robed figures wandering the empty paths of Kersley Hall, but to his surprise they weren’t heading toward the entrance in the old dairy. The building was pitch-dark, the doors shut and barred. Instead they were heading toward the stable, in the midst of muffled laughter and drunken conversation pitched too low for him to hear. He had no choice but to follow them, back into the deserted stable where a man held a lantern aloft. Each acolyte who passed him and disappeared into the stall had to suffer torchlight on his face, and Benedick drew back, ducking into one of the darkened stalls. He could hardly expect to gain admittance if he had to show his face. He had no history with this new, more secretive version of the Heavenly Host, and given Brandon’s recent involvement he’d definitely be persona non grata. There were too many people around to stop him if he tried to force his way. At least he could be relatively sure that nothing had happened yet. Whoever the mysterious master was, he would wait for a full audience.

  He couldn’t imagine how people could stand by while a child was slaughtered. He recognized Elsmere’s drunken laugh, and his lady-wife’s admonition. They were hardly people he cared to spend time with in the normal run of things, but he couldn’t believe they would be a party to something so hideous. He’d believe everyone was mistaken, but he’d seen the blood on Brandon’s hands, the torn cassock on the floor with its ominous dark stains. No, this was very real.

  It seemed as if he waited forever, but in fact it was probably less than ten minutes. The slow stream of robed attendants came to a halt, and when he lifted his head there were no lights coming from outside. Only the guard at the distant stall remained.

  He moved back out of the stall, into the night air, and circled around, satisfying his suspicion that the last of the Heavenly Host had arrived. There was a door at the opposite end of the stable, near the guard, leading out toward the overgrown woods. They thought no one would approach from that side. They relied on their distance from the city for protection. They were wrong.

  He would have liked nothing more than to beat the guardian monk to a pulp, but he couldn’t afford the time. He made do with a manure shovel, smashing it over his head so the man went down in a sprawl of limbs. He recognized the face—some pimply-faced young squire up from the country, no doubt looking to join the ton. He took the robe belt off him, noticing in disgust that he was naked underneath. It only made sense—he was expecting an orgy. Benedick tied the boy’s arms behind his back, looped the rope around his ankles and left him trussed like a chicken. For good measure he took his handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it in his mouth to keep him quiet before depositing him in one of the other stalls. And then, picking the lantern up in a calm hand, he started down the steps into the tunnels.

  He held the lantern aloft, looking around him. This entrance was past the one they had used a few days ago, and he assumed they would be gathering in the large central room. He peered into the dark behind him, but there was no trace of light, and he moved forward, as quietly as he could, in case there were any latecomers.

  The tunnel opened out into a room, one they hadn’t seen before. It was lit by a few smoking torches, the shadows adding to the ominous feel of the place. The room was smaller than the gathering hall, with lower ceilings and numerous alcoves arranged for licentious purposes. Long, low tables were set out, laid with cold meats and breads, wines and ale, and another with a bizarre arrangement of fruit and vegetables as a centerpiece, consisting mainly of grapes and something pale. And then he caught his breath.

  The centerpiece festooned with grapes was indeed something pale. It was the completely nude body of a woman, a familiar, gorgeous body.

  Melisande.

  He leaped for the table, half-afraid he’d find…

  But she was alive. Breathing. In one piece. Her arms and legs were bound, tied to the table, and they’d put her on a huge platter with bits of greenery around her, and dark purple grapes placed at strategic places on her. Her eyes were open and she was staring up at him in mingled fury and entreaty, and he realized they’d gagged her.

  Never a bad thing, he thought, half-giddy with relief as he began unfastening the restraints. Melisande had struggled so hard the knots were impossible to undo, so he simply took his knife and cut through, hoping he wouldn’t slice her as he did so. The moment her arms were free she sat up, pulling the gag from her mouth and throwing it, while he cut through the leg shackles. And then she launched herself at him, ignoring the knife he still held in his hand, almost knocking him down.

  He caught her, all that lovely, naked flesh, pulling her into his arms and crushing her against him, kissing her, openmouthed and hungry. She was shaking all over, her eyes wide and shocked. “I thought you wouldn’t come,” she whispered. “I was so afraid.”

  He wanted to reassure her, but he was too busy kissing her. And she was kissing him back, her hands pushing the cassock away, fumbling with his clothing. He caught her wrists, frowning down at her, but she simply struggled.

  “I need you,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “I need you to…they touched me. They put their filthy hands on me, and I can’t stand it. I need you to wipe out the feel of those awful hands. Please, Benedick.”

  He was past rational thought. Fury at her words washed through him, as well as lust that he knew he should ignore. But her hands were desperate, and he’d been so frightened, and he pulled her back into the shadows, into the darkness, and pushed her up against the wall.

  There was no time, no need for preparation. She was wet, he was hard, and he simply released himself from the breeches, lifting her up and bracing her against the wall before he thrust into her with a grunt of satisfaction, feeling her tight around him.

  He wanted to slow down, afraid he might hurt her, but she dug her fingers into his shoulders. “No,” she whispered in his ear. “Don’t stop. I need you. Hard. I need you to take me. Harder.”

  He knew what she wanted. Something to blot out the horror of what she’d been through, something to drive her into oblivion and beyond. She had no use for tenderness right then; she needed domination, and he gave it to her, slamming into her, and she absorbed each thrust with an inner clutching, wanting more, needing more.

  He felt the climax sweep through her, hard and fast, followed by another, but he wasn’t ready to stop, wasn’t ready for her to finish. He put his hands between them and touched her, covering her mouth with his. He’d wanted to make her scream with pleasure but this was the wrong time and place. He needed to fuck her in silence, swallowing her cries, and he did, sweating, his body shaking, his legs wanting to give way, her own wrapped so tightly around him that he wanted to die from the pleasure of it.

/>   Her final climax was his undoing, and he let his seed spurt inside her, reveling in the feel of it as he had the time before, not worrying about the consequences. Breaking all the rules he held so fiercely and not caring. Needing to fill her, own her in the most primitive manner.

  Still clutching her, he collapsed against the wall, leaning his forehead against hers while he tried to get his breathing under control. Her own was coming really fast, and her heart was still slamming against his. He could feel the stray shudders dancing through her body, squeezing him, and he knew if he stayed like that he’d get hard again. And that was one indulgence he didn’t dare claim.

  He moved his mouth to her ear, biting the lobe with just a faint nip, and she came again. He wanted to laugh, lighthearted at such a desperate moment, but if he did he’d slip free from her, and he wanted to stay locked together for just a moment longer.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  He felt her momentary hesitation, but the fear had left her, the shock and disgust. “Splendid,” she said dryly. “At least, slightly splendid.”

  He smiled against her face. “I’ll never think of grapes in the same way.”

  She shoved at him then, and he withdrew, letting her down carefully. She was glaring at him, and he was relieved as well as distracted. He quickly rearranged his clothes, telling himself to stop thinking of her like that. At least she didn’t have the vulnerable, frightened expression. He much preferred her as a virago.

  “Give me your robe,” she whispered.

  “I can hardly infiltrate them dressed like this. And they’re expecting you to be naked. Of course, I can’t figure out why they would have trussed you up and just left you. An army of them must have walked by and barely seemed to notice you.”

  “They’re drugged,” she said briefly.

  “That explains it. No competent male would ignore a woman like you.”

  It wasn’t working, and he knew it. “Give me the goddamn robe.”

  He’d been about to relinquish it but her tone made him stop. “I need it more than you do. Why don’t you hop back up on the table and lie still? With luck they won’t see you on the way out, either.”

  Her hand caught the rope belt, yanking him against her. “If you think I’m in the mood for this, you’re wrong. Give me the robe.”

  He relinquished it reluctantly, not so much because he needed it but because the sight of her naked body was something normal and beautiful in this eerie, evil darkness. He was dressed in dark clothes, usual for him, and he blended into the shadows well enough. “You need to go back up. I’ll find Betsey and bring her up, as well.”

  “You don’t even know her,” Melisande whispered.

  “How many children will they have trussed up and ready to sacrifice?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  His momentary good humor, thanks to the release of sex and the assurance that Melisande was safe, vanished. He looked down at the woman who somehow mattered to him in ways he wasn’t going to think about, and frowned. “You’re not going to leave and head for safety, are you?”

  “Not when someone’s life is at stake.”

  “I assure you, the person most likely to die a horrible death tonight will be whoever started this whole mess.”

  “Wasn’t that your ancestor?”

  “The original organization was a far cry from the cruelties and mad plans of this current group. Whoever’s behind it isn’t going to make it through the night. He’s convinced Brandon he murdered a young woman. He’s done everything to push Brandon over the edge. And I’m going to kill him for it.”

  She surveyed him for a long moment, then sighed. “Lovely,” she said in a caustic voice. “Before you avenge your brother could we please rescue Betsey?”

  He’d done something wrong again; he knew it with dismal certainty but he couldn’t afford to stop long enough to figure it out. Another female on his coattails, another female he wanted safe at home, in bed, in his bed. Another female he cared too much about, try as he might to drive her away.

  “I don’t think so,” he murmured. And before she realized what he was doing he clipped her across the jaw with a perfect fist, dropping her like a stone.

  He caught her before she landed on the hard-packed floor. Years of training in the pugilistic arts had finally paid off with the best hit of his life. If she hadn’t caved, he didn’t think he would have been capable of hitting her again, even to save her life. He’d never hit a woman in his life, would never have even considered it. But to save her life he’d do anything.

  He held her in his arms for a moment, looking down into her peaceful face. “I’m so sorry, my darling,” he whispered, brushing his mouth against hers. “But I refuse to risk your life. You can kill me later.”

  Holding her tight against him, he moved to the farthest alcove, laying her down on a bunch of cushions clearly marked for more licentious activity. He should probably take back the robe, but he couldn’t see leaving her naked and defenseless. He only wished there was enough time to get her back outside again, but he daren’t take the chance.

  He took the rope belt and wrapped it around her wrists, loosely, so that she could untie herself if he didn’t come back. There was no guarantee he’d be successful, but sooner or later his sister and the Scorpion would show up with reinforcements. He might despise his brother-in-law, but he had absolutely no doubt that Lucien de Malheur would make hash of these aristocrats and their putative master.

  She looked so peaceful, and he wished to God he could just take her and run, leave the rest to Lucien. But he couldn’t. He’d promised her, and even if he hadn’t, he could scarcely leave a child to such monsters.

  He drew back. And then, before he could change his mind, he turned and strode out of the room, down the endless warren of tunnels to the quiet buzz of noise that was slowly growing louder.

  She waited until his footsteps died away, and then she opened her eyes. She knew she should be angry enough to kill, but at the moment she was past that. She sat up, reaching her bound hands up to her jaw, wiggling it a little. It hurt. He’d hit her hard, and she hadn’t been feigning her collapse. By the time he’d caught her she’d gathered her disordered senses, smart enough to know that fighting him would be a losing battle and only delay him from getting to Betsey. So she kept her eyes closed as he carried her into this place and tied her wrists. Kept her eyes closed as he’d kissed her, so sweetly, with more gentleness than he’d shown her so far.

  He’d called her “my darling.” Did he mean it? She didn’t have time to consider that, either. If he loved her, she’d forgive him for trying to knock her out. If he didn’t, she was going to kill him.

  She tugged at the rope around her wrists, then used her teeth, pulling it free with surprising ease. So he would avenge his brother and probably ruin his own life, but he didn’t give a damn about her, trussed up like a Christmas goose. She’d been forced to lie there as they pawed her, and she’d been desperate for anything to get the feel of their hands off her. He’d done the job, quite effectively, and even now, beneath the enveloping monk’s robe, she could feel his seed sticky on her legs, and she wondered if she would go through another ritual scrubbing when she finally got home. Or whether she would let it remain, knowing it was the last time he would touch her.

  She managed to scramble to her feet, only the slightest bit shaky. She knew she couldn’t indulge that shakiness, and she started after him, her bare feet cold on the hard stone floor. As she passed the table they’d trussed her to she realized she was starving, and at the last minute she plucked a bunch of grapes to take with her. No one, no one could crush her, no matter what they did. She might fall apart momentarily, but she was ready to fight once more, and she wasn’t going to let a perverted group of randy aristocrats terrorize her.

  She didn’t bother to consider why he’d come after her; she could only be glad he did. The monk’s robe still retained his body heat, delicious around her chilled skin, and his spicy s
cent lingered. She wouldn’t give this back, she thought, even though it symbolized everything horrific about the group she was determined to wipe out. It smelled like Rohan, and like a lovesick adolescent she wanted to hold on to it, cling to it for safety.

  She could hear the noise of the chanting from a distance. There was no sign of Rohan, and she felt an icy chill sweeping through her body. Had they caught him so quickly? Was he now lying trussed up as well, one more offering to whatever strange god they seemed to worship. She held her breath, praying it wasn’t too late. She’d been insane to stop long enough to…what would he call it? To fuck him, that’s what it had been, plain and simple. Well, perhaps not so plain and not so simple, but it had hardly been making love. Her fear and need had blinded her to the much more important task. Saving Betsey’s life.

  By the time she reached the hallway approaching the large gathering room the myriad candles were sending out bright pools of light into the darkened corridors, and she could see Benedick ahead of her. He’d set the lantern down, pressing against the side of the cave, disappearing into the shadows. He was so busy concentrating on the scene in the vast room beyond that he hadn’t noticed her arrival.

  She stopped where she was, flattening herself against the wall. She had to face the unpleasant fact that he was, at least this time, right. She needed to be out of the way so she didn’t distract him. The odds were bad enough without her getting in the way.

  She held her breath, waiting. And then she closed her eyes and began to pray.

  35

  Benedick leaned back, not moving. The chanting was loud and mindless, in some kind of Pig Latin. He could only hope his sister and the Scorpion had moved quickly. Things were rapidly getting out of hand, and if he didn’t get out of here alive then someone would need to rescue Melisande. At this rate time was running out.