Regency Rogues Omnibus

by Shirl Anders

  Darth’s fingers clenched into tight fists as Crom’s words registered fully in his mind, and a startling wave of absurd longing rushed through his tall frame. It was unbidden, and it was shocking.

  “You intend to wager her?” Robert gasped. “That is just not done! I do not know where you hail from, sir, but this is England!”

  Victor Crom’s dark eyes grew adamant. “Damnation man, we bond people into servitude all the time. What do you call that? But it is Lord Peregrine’s decision. What say you, my lord?”

  Darth did not have a choice — the entire investment was too weighty to be lost. Yet, he did instruct himself adamantly that when he did win, he would simply refuse ownership of the woman. That settled in his mind, he realized that he was curious. The lushly-figured young woman still produced no cringing or disgust at the sight of him. Was she simply brave or perhaps dull-witted? God, he did not think so there was light and intelligence in her golden eyes.

  Arabella stared at Lord Peregrine, finding that she could not look elsewhere. She decided instantly that he was truly fearsome looking. But more than that, he was overpoweringly masculine. His hair was a thick mane of the deepest blue-black coloring, which also shadowed his square chin and hard jawline. His nose was harsh with masculine flared nostrils and the portion of his lips that was not sliced by the scarring ran an arched line. His gray eyes were hooded and the scar on his raw masculine face branded the length of his features.

  The top and widest part of the scar started hidden beneath his hairline, to slash an angle across his right eyebrow. Then it continued downward across his eye socket and lower along his honed cheek bone at the side of his nose. Here the scar thinly severed his upper and lower lip, to lacerate a deeper cleft into his chin than would have been there without its presence. The word “savage” ran through Arabella’s thoughts, and then the word “powerful” because Lord Peregrine was the most powerfully built man she had ever seen.

  He had broad two-foot wide shoulders and thickly muscled legs. The look in his heavy-lidded gaze was meant to devour her. Her body, suddenly a unique stranger to her flushed with warmth spreading over every inch of her skin, firming her breasts and excreting dewiness between her thighs. She was shocked and fearful at her own body’s reaction to this man’s mere presence, his mere threatening and predatory gaze.

  Suddenly, Lord Peregrine stood, revealing his tall muscular figure as he stalked with an uncommon grace to the coat rack, where he unhooked a heavy black cape.

  “Now just a moment. You’ll not leave!” Victor challenged.

  Darth did not offer the villainous slave trader an answer as he turned back with his cape in hand. He walked over behind the young woman, where he deftly swung the cape around her slender shoulders, wrapping her thinly-clad and shivering body within its heavy folds. He realized then that she did not even sport any shoes as he placed his hand to the top of her shoulder. He expected her to at least shudder in distaste at his touch. However she did not, to his amazement, as he pulled out a chair and ordered curtly, “Sit.”

  Arabella instantly obeyed Lord Peregrine’s bass-toned command, grateful for the support to her wobbling knees. Nonetheless, she did not look up again at the dark and powerful earl. His entire presence was too formidable to her as he returned to his seat and retrieved his cigar.

  “What is your name?” Darth noticed now that the nubile innocent was so close to him, she kept her eyes averted from his face and he felt a twinge of regret.

  “Surely that does not matter,” Crom started.

  Darth cut him off harshly. “Hold your tongue.” His splintered brow swooped downward unpleasantly. “We will do this after my fashion or not at all!”

  Darth watched Crom grow red about the face, however the man sat, placing his hand firmly to the young woman’s left arm. Crom must have squeezed that same arm, for she winced and cast a repellent look at him. Some unknown battle waged between them, until she lifted her chin, and then she turned her gaze to look squarely into his gray irises. Surprising, him once again.

  “My name is Arabella and I would gladly be your bond’s maid, your lordship, as is my duty.” Darth experienced a sharp pang of dark and unreasonable excitement. How could she utter such a statement, while gazing at him fully in the face? He raised his split black eyebrow to her pronouncement, considering that Arabella did not sound like a lower class name, and then he observed another pinch, which made Arabella offer a highly strained smile.

  “Truly, your lordship, I would do anything you asked of me.”

  It was as if she did not see his tragic deformity and he was no man’s fool, something was undeniably amiss. “Where are you from, Arabella?” he asked with a sharp voice.

  Arabella continued her steady gaze of his face, as she answered, “Jamaica.”

  “And you fully agree that Mister Crom has the right to do this?” Darth felt his heart thudding in absurd anticipation.

  Arabella nodded her head mutely with her lush bottom lip beginning to tremble once again. The sight of its trembling damp plushness did him under and he had a wicked image of owning the wild-haired beauty. Those indulgent thoughts of dark and forbidden yearnings produced deep rumblings in his throat. He had been too many years without a woman and now at this moment he was becoming a lecherous fool over just one well-caught look. And he recognized abruptly ... that was the entire point. Wasn’t it?

  His eyes narrowed to a dangerous slant, as he decided that Crom was shrewd, and he had nearly fallen into Crom’s trap. Victor Crom wanted him addled brained over Arabella. She must have been forewarned about his appearance. Of course she had. No wonder she did not cringe, but looked at him with boldness. It was all a ruse, however try as he may, he could not fathom the exact trick. The cards where already dealt and there could be no switches made, he had no choice but to accept the ante. So what was their game?

  “I accept the wager, Mister Crom,” Darth finally stated, hearing Robert’s sharp intake of breath. However, he did not spare his associate a glance — he was too busy judging the other two’s reactions. Nor, he decided, would he take his eyes off either one of them, until this was finished.

  Arabella felt faint. Somehow before Lord Peregrine’s acceptance of the terms, she thought there could be a chance. Of what she did not know, nevertheless, it is forever human to be hopeful. Lord Peregrine’s kind gesture of the cape and his questions to her had given her the impression of the remotest of compassion on his part. Surely it was a sign of charity? Nonetheless moments ago his maddened growl and the deepening of his already fearsome countenance had warned her. Then, Lord Peregrine’s words washed over her and she realized once and for all that he saw her as no more than a possession to be bartered ... A true and helpless slave!

  “Show your hand,” Darth ordered with a clip and arrogant voice as he swung his powerfully-built body away from Arabella, to glower across the table at Victor Crom. Darth watched through hooded eyelids as Crom began to slowly reveal each card. Then it was his turn as he picked up his first card and unhurriedly turned it over. He made the unsavory Crom agonize over each card as he took his time showing each one of them. Darth knew the man’s fate would not be sealed until the last card showed and he made certain to catch Crom’s gaze with a snide grin. It had the intended effect, making Crom pale, and then curse profusely when he saw the suit.

  However, it was Arabella who startled everyone by leaping to her feet with a wail as her chair clattered backward and she fled from the room. So much for how it would please her to be mine, Darth thought acidly, as a wave of shame skewered his gut with the fact that he could be so fooled into thinking any woman could want the mangled man that he’d become.

  Then, Darth watched Crom run after Arabella.

  Chapter Three

  “Pick up our winnings,” Darth hissed toward Robert, then he stood to follow Crom, who had not been quick enough to catch Arabella at the door. Darth was unsure why he moved to follow, yet it seemed that he could not help himself. Just as he reach
ed the doorway, Darth heard two solid bumps vibrate through the wall, then he heard a woman’s shrill screams, ending abruptly into silence. His motions were rapid and fluent taking him quickly into the hallway, where he witnessed Crom bending over a black shadowed heap upon the floor. And, Victor Crom had a knife.

  “Damn you!” Darth shouted. The shout and audience appeared to be enough to send the blackguard Crom fleeing to the end of the hallway, and then out the back door at the rear of the inn.

  Darth halted over Arabella’s supine body, then he knelt beside her to check for a pulse, afraid Crom had killed her. He experienced an overwhelming rush of relief, when he felt the steady beat of her heart.

  “What happened?” Robert exclaimed as he arrived at Darth’s side.

  “That damn slave trader had a knife,” Darth explained, in the process of tugging the cape aside to check for signs of blood.

  “Is she dead?” Robert asked with concern.

  “No, she has a strong pulse, however she does have a nasty bump on her temple. There is no other blood that I can see.” Darth wrapped Arabella back into his warm cloak. “Judas, Robert, there is no hope for it now, we simply cannot leave her here. That blackguard Crom could come back to finish this foul deed.” Darth realized that he was provoked beyond reason and suddenly consumed with an absurd protectiveness for the young woman. Sweet Arabella who had run from him, he tried to remind himself.

  “Bloody hell, Darth, you own her now or did you forget that?” Robert admonished, with notable distaste coloring his voice.

  Darth wiggled his hands underneath Arabella’s inert form, then he lifted her easily into his arms to stand. “I never intended to keep her; nonetheless, I had to win back the money that you lost last evening.” Darth moved then, striding down the hall.

  “What will you do with her?” Robert asked following Darth’s longer strides.

  “Take her to Lee, what other choices do I have. She needs to be looked after,” Darth answered over his retreating shoulder. Then he said, “Now, Robert, go and retain one of the inn’s carriages. I will have to tie my stallion off behind. I cannot possibly attempt to carry the girl by horseback in this weather. And make certain the carriage has blankets or she will freeze.”

  Darth wondered, as he stood in the back stairway of the inn waiting for Robert, why he was arranging this? It was not like him to offer aid in just this fashion, especially to the female gender. Better to explain the entire preposterous circumstances to the inn keeper and leave Arabella in his care. However, he found himself strangely concerned about Arabella and he could not seem to convince himself to let her go. The vision of Victor Crom’s knife held over her was enough of an urge to keep him moving forward with his plan of action.

  The carriage arrived with his stallion Raven tied unhappily behind it, and Darth stepped out into the chilly weather of drizzling rain, as Robert dismounted his own steed.

  “Has she wakened?” Robert asked with concern edging his voice, and Darth shook his head grimly, while they proceeded to the carriage door with Robert explaining. “I have given the livery ten pence to drive you to Lee. As much as I would like to see this through, Darth, you and I both know that I need to get these funds to Bristol.”

  Robert opened the carriage door, as Darth stepped up into the carriage asking, “I do not have to remind you of the importance of the full amount reaching the shipping company, do I?”

  Robert took a step backward shutting the carriage door, then holding his hands aloft in a gesture of appeal. “I have learned my lesson, dear friend … For life. If ever there is any more wagering to be done, you are the man for it. This is the new Robert Drake you see standing before you. You have my solemn oath on it.”

  Darth’s black eyebrows rose with speculation as he adjusted the light burden more firmly on his lap. “Then I will hold my further sermons upon proof of it,” he muttered.

  “I only pray the woman is all right, Darth. Did you see the color of her eyes? My God, they are exquisite. Keep her warm, Darth, it’s the bastard’s own chill out tonight.” Robert delivered a solid slap on the door, letting the livery on top know he could proceed.

  Darth tried his best to keep Arabella warm with two blankets and his own fur-lined cape. But it wasn’t long before she was shivering in his arms. He cursed beneath his breath as he rearranged the coverings, opening his finely tailored jacket, so he could bring Arabella more into the warmth of his body. He felt her sigh and nestle closer to him, resting her face in the crook of his neck. He was glad for that small sigh, believing it showed some consciousness on her part, as he pondered how long it had been since he had held a woman in his arms. Too long to even consider, he judged, however he had dreamed about it. What man would not, who lived under the imposed celibacy that he did?

  Darth spread his fingers through the strands of Arabella’s hair. God did not instantly strike him dead for his audacity, so he delved deeper to feel the full weight of the luxurious mass lifted up and across his palm. He was alone now, he reminded himself. No one would see his weakness as he lifted the thick rich tresses, pressing them to his nostrils to inhale deeply. The scent of jasmine, light and exotic, wafted his senses. So unexpected was the fragrance that he nearly growled his pleasure. He could feel the sound buried deep in his chest as he let a few strands of Arabella’s mahogany shaded hair slide over his lips, tasting them with his tongue. How many tormented nights had he dreamed of such a simple action?

  He could feel the sweet buxomness of Arabella’s breasts compressed onto his chest and he experienced the beguiling roll of feminine flesh each time the carriage jostled. The silk of his shirt and the linen night shift she wore were no barrier when she shivered against him and the tips of her nipples hardened into fat circular buds, prodding his chest like fiery brands.

  He was instantly staggered, sinking his face into the scent of jasmine with soft tendrils of hair skimming along the texture of his jaw. One of his arms supported Arabella’s back as his other hand searched for her small bare feet to make certain they were covered as well. With that same hand he began to rub their creamy texture, exploring little toes, soft arches, and how they fit into the palm of his hand. It was another area on a woman that men would not generally consider giving much attention too.

  Only a man such as him, who was left with only his dreams, and therein laid his insanity.

  Less than halfway to the estate, Arabella began to moan, muttering the name Nicholas several times and bringing Darth out of his revere. The man’s name from her lips seemed to burn him, causing a black cloud to descend in his mind. Who was this Nicholas she called out for in her helplessness, he wondered, as envy stoked his passions and he found himself growling, “She is mine.”

  In that moment, Darth considered the papers stating Arabella’s ownership to him, which were still in his pocket where Robert had shoved them. He had not seriously considered any notion of slavery or an utterance like the one he had just made. It had simply come to him as he was blinded by the unreasonable jealousy he felt over another man’s name on Arabella’s lips, while he was the one who held her so closely in his arms. What was happening to him, over just holding a woman in his lap?

  He knew the answer with an anguished feeling that turned into disgust at how lowly he had fallen into the pit of his own making.

  Chapter Four

  Within a mile of his estate Darth felt Arabella’s chill turn into a radiant heat and he realized with alarm that a fever had set in. He wondered once again how he found himself in this most unusual situation as he recognized that he was worried. The carriage finally pulled up to his Tudor styled manor house and he sighed in audible relief. He wasted no time getting down out of the carriage — his long strides took him quickly to the immense sewn oak door, which opened heavily upon his arrival.

  “Quickly now, Chicery, I have an injured party here,” Darth stated firmly upon entering the manor with his black covered bundle.

  “Your lordship, what is this?” Chicery, Lord Pere
grine’s valet, exclaimed shutting the door and looking up to see his master taking the staircase steps two at a time.

  “I hope the fire in my bedchamber is full-blown, Chicery. She has acquired a nasty fever,” Lord Peregrine called over his shoulder, as Chicery sniffled at the belittling of his skills. Then he realized what his lordship had said, and further what his lordship intended to do. He hastened up the steps exclaiming, “Sir, surely not your own bedchamber! I will ready another one, quick as a whip. She, sir, did you say she?”

  Chicery reached his lordship, who was glaring down at him in his own frightful way. “There is no time for other rooms, Chicery. Open this door! Did you not hear me say fever? We must keep her warm.”

  Chicery opened the door quickly and followed the earl inside, mumbling as he went. “But we have no proper lady’s maid, sir. And you know Mrs. Wellborn, the housekeeper, lives off the estate.”

  “Get over your proper societies bashfulness, Chicery. After all these years together you should know that I of all people hold no store in it. Now pull down those bed covers,” Darth order none too kindly in his rising concern, because Arabella had begun mumbling fiercely and was thrashing her head about in his arms.

  “Your own bed, sir! What would your dear departed mother say and with no proper lady’s maid?” Chicery asked, but still did as he was told.

  “She would smile her kindly smile at my extreme chivalry. Now go and brew some of that concoction you gave my little niece Victoria last spring for her fever. It worked wonders.” Darth put one knee to the bed as he leaned over and laid Arabella in its center. Without hesitation he began to unwind his black cloak from around her slender form. This sent Chicery into another string of worried muttering as he turned to leave the room.

  “Come, little dove, you must fight this,” Darth murmured as he realized Arabella’s night dress was soaked through with her climbing fever. Her delicate cheek bones and smooth temple had acquired a ripe peach-tinted appearance and she kept tossing her dark head from side to side in the early stages of her delirium. Darth knew there was no other choice, the nightgown had to be removed, and he went to fill a china basin with water. Then he grabbed a linen cloth along with the basin and brought it back to set it on the cherry wood night stand by his bed. Gazing down at Arabella, he realized that she was as good as naked already with her sodden gown clinging to her flushed skin. He found that he could not help himself now. Not sure if he wished to. It had been too long since he had experienced a woman’s naked flesh.