Regency Rogues Omnibus

by Shirl Anders

  Saxon snatched Joelle’s cry of pain back into the depths of his mouth. He felt the barrier press free and he felt the tense and wet softness of Joelle’s woman’s sheath suck him to the hilt of his penis. The way was tight. He was too enlarged for her virgin haven, yet the dripping blood of her rented maidenhead made the impossible, barely possible.

  Tears stung his clenched eyelids at the tragic sacrifice, taken so shabbily from a young, brave, and beautiful woman who had deserved the full artistry of lovemaking that a man could command. But now she was left bereft and hurting with physical pain and without the knowledge of the pleasure-soaked intimacy the moment could have been.

  They were still desperate captives and Saxon damned the sinister cultist to hell as his manly penis shriveled beneath what had been done, and with the edge of fear of what was yet to come. Joelle lay limp upon his chest with the dampness of their ordeal clinging, flesh to flesh. It clung in perspiration from her bare breasts to his bare chest and lower in virgin’s blood cleaving to their latched genitals. Then, he felt it. It was a kiss of promise, honor, or courage. The kiss of Joelle’s tear-stained and tender lips pressed to the left side of his chest, just above his heart.

  They might have spoken then, in the unreality and desperation of the situation they had been hurled into. But a painfully loud squeaking sound of a heavy door being open on rusty hinges clattered into the stone bowels of the dungeon. Saxon heard Joelle’s anxious cry of distress and urgency at the same moment that she shoved against him, struggling to rise. He was destitute of words to offer her as his wet, flaccid penis fell free of her womb and she tossed the ends of the cloak hanging from his shoulders to cover his stomach and groin. Then, she managed to hastily stagger back to the cot, where she lay down quickly.

  Saxon wondered if he had imagined the whispered plea for forgiveness that he’d heard as he bowed his head with any answer he might have given, remaining clogged in his throat.

  Chapter Seven

  The two attendants that came to retrieve Saxon and Joelle were the images of twisted and debauched cult fanatics. If Saxon had one note of disbelief before seeing the two herculean black men, it was swept away upon their arrival in the cell. Both men were nude, but for lewd adornments, and their flesh appeared oiled, shining with slick ebony sheens. Their huge bodies were bulky chunks of muscle with gold pins pierced through their nipples and gold chains harnessed around their obese cocks. Then there were other long chained adornments dangling from their rear quarters, and Saxon would not venture a guess as to how they held these in place.

  He told himself that he had three purposes, to get unchained, to thwart the cult lunatics, and to find escape. And perhaps on the way, to discover where the missing hook that he used as a partial hand was. A person had to hold out hope otherwise nothing was ever accomplished, he told himself dutifully as the black devotees, devoted to what, he did not know, unchained him. They took off the chain holding him to the iron bars and left a heavy chain around his neck that they had somehow twisted around his upper arms, then looped around both arms to nearly his wrists, behind his back.

  Two things he concluded from this action, they knew the drug had worn off and his missing left hand had caused some ingenuity as to how to restrain him. Because a simpler binding of his wrists would have fallen off his left side. He had no sword, no hook, no pistol, and since losing his hand he had lost the ability to box or use hand to hand fighting techniques with any success. He was defenseless but for his wit, and he had never considered himself intrinsically witty. Drummond or Radford, two of his former spying companions, they were the brains. He on the other hand, followed, listened, and melted in. Those were not high recommendations for escaping his diabolical situation.

  Nevertheless, he had only to remember Joelle’s striking courage and quick wit. As a tactical partner, he could do no better. He simply prayed that the loss of her virginity, which he comprehended these lunatics coveted, would gain her rejection and not her death. He also understood that her need for angry defiance were part of her drastic scheme. It was as though she was spitting at them in the face, as it were. He had the same demand inside of him, and if he had possessed something like Joelle’s virginity to thwart the madmen with, he would have done the same. But he also knew that different contrasts played better in the field of dangerous adventure. Different attitudes and approaches could cover more bases and possibilities, therefore, he would try his best to play contrasts to Joelle, because they were partners in this, and he believed they were now bonded beyond the villains’ preconceived understanding.

  The two naked guard-devotees-guides were completely silent and used only their greater strength to lift, shove, and guide. Saxon noticed immediately that Joelle had shed her pretense of being still drugged as her guard shoved her out of the cell. He caught her gaze for one quick moment before she was forced ahead of him and in that searching glance between them, he felt the sealing of their commitment to each other.

  Just as with the Archangels spying group, that he was a former member of, it was all for one and one for all. It was better than being alone, he reflected, but it also added more anxiety and the worry about another person. And . . . a woman at that. Men could garner such courageous intentions where the harming of women was concerned. He thought he knew what tortures and humiliations he could rightly deal with and what others perhaps he could not overcome, but another personality in the mix, that cast it all into uncertainty.

  Saxon realized that his natural male instincts would be to try to protect Joelle at every turn, no matter how impossible or foolish that might be to accomplish. That was not good. A more cunning man would control his instincts. The fact of the matter was they had already harmed Joelle and the possibility that they were both headed toward greater harm was undeniable. He could not let that unhinge him, in fact the least visibly he acted toward her and her circumstances the better. He simply wondered whether he could possibly manage that. However, his will-nilly plans fled his contemplation abruptly, when he realized they were turning to enter a room within the castle . . . and he fully expected to finally be meeting, the one, ominously titled, Lord Hellion.

  Nevertheless, right before the heavy block of wood that served as a door opened before Joelle, who was ahead of him, Saxon looked down the long corridor. In the distance, at the very end, he could see a multiple pane window that reached from the floor to the ceiling. He firmly calculated the route. There was the dungeon stairs, with its door unlocked, but with the ability to lock from the outside, and two four-way corridors leading to a stairway of fifty-three winding steps. Then, four more two way corridors with two doors on one side and three doors on the other, a right turn at a four-way corridor, and six closed doors beyond that was where they now stood.

  Then, recollecting the route he’d taken from his entrance into the castle, until this route now, he predicated they were on the south side of the castle and that window at the far end of the hall overlooked the front drive-through and portico. Remembering his first sight of the castle, he surmised that above that particular set of windows, a gargoyle was mounted. It was on the third floor and at the highest reaches of the castle other than the circular tower. And, he expected that the lord of the domain would reside above all else.

  Joelle forcefully calmed her strong urges. She knew that to struggle or try to run was futile. She reasoned to save her strength and determination for other battles she might have a chance of winning. She also stoically ignored the two guards, with their alarming nakedness and primitively adorned appearances, and what that forewarned.

  Instead, she tried to think of any possible way to steal the set of keys dangling from a thin gold chain at her guard’s waist. Nothing like trying to attempt nude pickpocketing, Joelle thought in disgust. It would be impossible to take the set of keys without the guard noticing. Because it jangled so obviously out in the open with each movement and step forward, and Joelle resolutely did not glance with any focus beyond the dangling keys to what lay so nakedly
exposed below. She had thought she was quite worldly in sexual matters for a young woman, however the meaning and uses of the two black attendants’ adornments were beyond her comprehension or her wish to understand. She never wanted to know about it . . . ever.

  One key, she thought, bringing her mind forcefully back from dark and tawdry places. She could not steal the whole set, but she could get one key. And, she thought that she knew which key was the key to the cell. It would take several more moments of contact to lift only one key from the set and the thought of having any physical contact with the large nude guard was distasteful.

  Nevertheless, she ignored that emotion and picked her timing when they came to the door of a room they obviously intended to enter. Then, the guard was on her left side and just as he reached for the iron door latch, she stepped back, drawing his hand clamped to her arm with her. Instead of opening the door and pressing her through the entrance at the same time, he was left with the door swinging open and revealing the room beyond.

  Joelle paid no attention to the inner room as the guard’s fingers tightened painfully on her arm and she began to pretend panic at having to enter the room, which was in reality not far from the truth. She had no idea what horrific circumstances lay waiting in the room, only that there would be another set of horrible circumstances. She shook her head, dragging her body backward, making negative sounds of refusal. The guard chose to haul her forcefully forward. One brush with the keys. She allowed herself to collide more fully. The guard hissed, shaking her by her arm as she made her knees wobble, while she whimpered a few times. “No. No.” Second brush with the keys. She wobbled against the guard and he stepped more firmly against her, reaching out his other hand to keep her upright, while tugging her forward. She nearly collapsed against him then. Third contact with the keys. It was the longest contact, as she cried. “I do not want to go in there!”

  While her theatrics were in play and the guard was physically holding her upright dragging her forward, she lifted the key. Success! Quickly, she dropped it into a small hole that she’d torn on the inside of her cloak. The key fell free to the bottom hem of the cloak where it caught and she felt elation for a brief moment, before she finally allowed herself to look at the room and the man waiting within.

  “Come here, my darling beauties. I have waited so long to meet you.” The voice was so resonate in cultured and deep tones, and the enticing strength and quality of the sound instantly filled Joelle with the desire to find its source. She remembered thinking that the man behind that voice had to be extraordinary, right before she gasped, thinking the man was a ghost.

  Joelle tried to see beyond the light of candles placed in the otherwise dark room, with heavy drapery clinging in blackness around the edges. The man’s image seemed to waver behind the light of the flickering candles as the guards herded her and the Marquis forward. Joelle would always think of the man thereafter as, “the voice,” and the glimpse she caught of him standing in the darker recesses, beyond the candles, was of a ghostly quality. It was obvious that he had long white hair. His hair was so long, the snow-white strands appeared to trail nearly to his waist. His silhouette looked tall and thin and he wore a large piece of glinting jewelry that hung in the middle of his chest. But that was the only glimpse of him she obtained before the guards halted their forward advance, and then both guards spoke for the first time.

  “Kneel before your master, Lord Hellion!” Both guards pressured she and the Marquis down onto their knees, barely using the corded muscles bulging around their arms.

  Joelle fought to keep the key from clanking on the stone floor as she was forced downward unexpectedly. She succeeded, but her gaze was lowered when Lord Hellion spoke next.

  “Ah, there is the hair of fire and the hair of earth, this pleases me. Giver of the red hair I bestow the christening name, Ardente, on you and giver of the earth shades of hair I bestow the christening name, Seducteur, on you.”

  Giver? Joelle thought, captured by the mellifluous tones of Lord Hellion’s voice. This man, she realized suddenly, could shape legions of people with his voice alone. Alarmed, Joelle fought the urge to look at the Marquis for strength, at the same time she challenged herself not to gaze upward at the carrier of that, “voice.” Somehow, she knew Lord Hellion expected his voice to entice her gaze to turn to him, more than her natural curiosity.

  Chapter Eight

  Saxon’s gaze was fathomless as he looked into the face of pure white evil. Lord Hellion was an albino, with his chest bared in pastel white flesh, pink eyes, and the voice of the devil. Saxon let none of his surprise show at Hellion’s venomous and unnatural appearance. Saxon kept his gaze sultry-lidded with flecks of interest as though he was instinctively trying to hold it back, but not succeeding. He saw immediately that it worked as Hellion’s pink-veined eyes purred back at him. Saxon’s flesh itched with distaste, yet he knew Hellion was slightly surprised, because Hellion seduced with his voice, not his looks.

  Hellion wore white britches and a white fur-edged cloak draping back on his shoulders, leaving his chest and arms bare. His flesh appeared ashen and his sparse lips looked bloodless. His structure was nearly skeletal, while his face was concave, with sharp ageless qualities. Had Hellion had any color to draw upon one could deem him partially handsome, if not for being so thin. Suppressed demonic energy shown from his eyes, and the voice of mastery came from those eyes. Saxon was certain that Hellion could call God vile and his listeners would hear the honeyed tones of righteousness in Hellion’s voice.

  “I have waited eternity for you, Seducteur.” Hellion moved forward as though he flowed and Saxon caught a glimpse out of the side of his gaze of Joelle raising her head as she knelt beside him. Saxon heard her small gasp, then Hellion’s voice thundered as though in ecstasy, shouting, “You!” Then, Hellion shocked Saxon, and Saxon nearly cringed backward as Hellion dropped to his knees before him. “You will make me a God!” Hellion’s vociferations came with his white face twisting at odd angles.

  Saxon hastily bowed his head before showing any outward reaction as his heart hammered unreasonably. He had no clue as to what to do. How to proceed. How to gain the best advantage over a madman with the voice of a God. Joelle’s hiss of fear beside him sounded like repercussions inside his ears and inside himself. Voicing things, he fought to control. Joelle’s sounds obviously turned Hellion’s attention.

  “And you, Ardente, you will anoint and consecrate the last limb I need to rise up to my rightful place and forever will your hair be intertwined with this young vision of the deity Bacchus!”

  Joelle made a strangled sound, causing Saxon to raise his head, as he heard her crying in outrage, “Are you utterly insane? Just listening to you is like watching a bad play! If you are going to kill us or rape us at least make some sense!” One of her hands emphasized her statement by slashing in front of her. “I wager you have people groveling at your feet with that undecipherable drivel. God at least made sense when he spoke!”

  At this turn of events, and unrestrained, Joelle chose to lurch to her feet as though her fury’s heat lifted her upright. The guard, several steps behind her, came forward to roughly clasp her arms from behind, while Hellion rose with deep and charismatic laughter. Saxon stayed kneeling, silently applauding Joelle, while he took the free moments given him to quickly calculate the perimeters of the room. When confused, shaken, and uncertain, he thought dimly, fall back on what you know.

  “Your fire will sustain me,” Lord Hellion chuckled, stepping toward Joelle. Joelle fought her instinct to cringe away from Hellion’s unappealing visage. “You are intelligent and I will feed on that,” Lord Hellion said, with his chalky hands, carrying long and claw-like fingernails toward her. Suddenly, he grasped her jaw, forcing her head back harshly against the guard’s chest behind her. “But,” Lord Hellion hissed. “In the end you will worship your Master and God. You will be a play thing for his pleasure!”

  Hellion’s fingers dug painfully into her jaw, straining he
r neck as she fought the clutching fingers, working her mouth against them. “If I saw a God,” Joelle sputtered through the press of her lips. “I might worship him!”

  Joelle cried out at the slashing pain of one of Hellion’s nails slicing down her cheek. She saw the Marquis rise, but the other guard quickly clasped his arms. Joelle felt blood welling on the laceration as Hellion held up a hand toward the Marquis, with his gaze turning to him also.

  “It is good, Seducteur, that you wish to protect your future voluptuary slut. Possessiveness is a raw emotion and you have such seething emotions inside you.”

  Hellion released her jaw then, and he moved toward the Marquis, with his upper torso and head undulating slowly, like a seductive dance, half circling from one side of the Marquis to the other. Joelle saw the beauty and underlying carnal virility of the Marquis also as she watched the serpent trying to tempt the beauty.

  “Passions buried deep, my sultry Seducteur. So deep inside you.” Lord Hellion’s voice was like the lowest honeyed notes of a violin.

  Joelle saw the cherry-brown color of the Marquis’ eyes deepen as he remained unnaturally quiet and accepting. She wanted to rail at the Marquis, to tell him to rise and challenge the evil. Yet, the Marquis merely stood, appearing to be a supplicant, with his long hair falling loosely around him like a rich curtain of brown and his black eyelashes covering his heavy-lidded irises. The Marquis’ gaze looked more attracted to the odd jewel in the medallion on Hellion’s chest. It was large and multifaceted with colors that changed with the light. Looking at it made Joelle feel strange, especially with Hellion’s undulating motions and she forced her gaze away from it.

  “Your hair, Seducteur, is a talisman of your desires and of the erotic passions you can barely contain.” Hellion’s voice wove seductive tones as his body snaked in slow motion.