The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

  “You’re having a vision about Rhys?”

  Larissa laughed. “No, I literally see him, crossing the lawn. And I am returning to the house so I won’t have to watch you fawning over each other.”

  Emme turned her head in the direction Larissa had indicated. As always, the sight of her husband stole her breath away and left her pulse racing. He was truly magnificent. When he reached her, he leaned forward and kissed her tenderly, placing his warm hands on her swollen belly.

  “It is too cold out here for you,” he said.

  “I’m pregnant, Rhys. There could be two feet of snow and it wouldn’t be too cold for me. With the fire going in the hearth, it’s all I can do not to walk around naked in the house.”

  He laughed. “Winstone would be scandalized. Maybe we’ll restrict your naked rolls to our chamber, hmm?”

  “Larissa told me that she’s leaving after the baby comes.”

  He nodded. “She needs to find her place. But she will always be welcome here and she knows that.”

  Emme sighed. “I had hoped that she and Michael might develop closer feelings for one another, but he treats her like a sister.”

  Rhys shook his head. He’d known all about her hopes on that front.

  “And she treats him like a brother. Like Larissa, Michael needs to find his place, as well. No more matchmaking.”

  Emme shrugged noncommittally. “I simply want all of the people I love to be has happy as I am.”

  He picked her up, scooping her into his arms.

  With a wicked grin, he said, “Concentrate on making me happy, at least for the next hour or so.”

  She laughed, the sound carrying across the lawn. “I adore you. I love you so much.”

  He kissed her, and when he drew back his eyes were filled with tenderness. “I love you. You are my life, my world. We will have a wonderful life here along with the half dozen children we will have.”

  “Half a dozen?” she all but screeched, panic in her voice.

  He chuckled. “Larissa isn’t the only one who can make predictions.”

  He silenced her further protests with kisses, and carried her to their room.

  THE END

  Part I

  The Redemption of a Rogue

  Chapter One

  She awaited him in the woods. Dark had fallen, but the light of the moon filtered through the branches, gilding her. Her dark green cape blended with her surroundings, but he saw movement as she stepped forward from between the trees. With the hood pushed back, her gold mask glinted in the dim light. Proudly and without any shame she tossed her cape open, revealing nude perfection — lush breasts and a tiny waist that flared into wide hips left him breathless.

  “Goddess,” he said.

  “Priestess,” she corrected gently, a flirtatious smile curved her lips beneath the mask. “Have you come prepared for your initiation?”

  He trembled slightly as he produced the blade. The hilt had been carved to resemble a phallus, and the blade itself was made of bone rather than steel.

  It had not been an easy thing to liberate the blade from his father’s collection, but with the promise of such pleasure, he would have braved any difficulty. He presented it to her, and his gut clenched as her delicate hand swept over the hilt, caressing it gently. His body responded as if her hand had touched him similarly. “It is as you requested, my priestess.”

  “You have done well, and you shall be rewarded,” she said, her perfect lips shaping each word seductively. “Come with me.”

  He followed her deeper into the woods, away from the path. The trees broke into a small clearing, and a fire burned at its center. On the periphery of the clearing, he noted the large stones forming a perfect circle. It was a place of great power—ancient and primal. Excitement coursed through him, but it wasn’t merely sexual. He could feel the charge in the air, the portent of something beyond their world.

  There were others present, wearing capes and masks as his priestess was, though their masks were less elaborate. They mattered little. Like him, they were there only to serve her. In the center of the clearing, closest to the fire, was a large flat rock that covered with cloth. When he’d been told of the initiation rites, of what would occur, even his most erotic fantasies had paled in comparison.

  “Remove all your clothing and lie upon the altar,” she instructed, her own hands toying with the ties of her cape.

  He did so without question. Under the gazes of the five women, his already erect sex thickened further. These women were not unknown to him, in spite of their masks. He had desired them all at one point over the years, but they had never given him a second glance. Now they would all pleasure him in this mystical place.

  He smiled as he stretched out on the altar, looking up at the moon and stars through budding branches. A sigh escaped him at the feel of soft hands gliding over his flesh. They caressed his chest and shoulders, his thighs and his belly, moving outward toward his limbs.

  A moment’s panic swept through him when the silken cords went around his wrists and ankles, but he knew that it was all part of the initiation ritual. He was a supplicant to them, and in return they would bestow upon him the greatest of pleasures, just as the priestess had promised him.

  The priestess rose above him then, until she straddled his hips. The heat of her pressed against him intimately and set him ablaze. He wanted to grip her hips and thrust into her, but with his hands bound, he was at her mercy, waiting for her to take pity and offer him the solace of her body. It was equally arousing and frustrating.

  Her hands stroked over his chest, down his heaving sides. His heart thundered in his chest, the anticipation burning inside him. How often had he dreamt of having a woman like her touch him? Beautiful, wanton and completely depraved…she was perfection.

  Her dagger-like nails raked over his skin and his breath escaped on a sharp hiss. In the moonlight, he could see her lips quirk in a satisfied smile. It was a small enough price to pay for the pleasure she promised.

  The other women moved around him, touching him, their soft hands and fluttering touches adding to the carnality of the moment. He wanted to urge her to hurry, to take him inside her, but he knew that was not part of the arrangement. She was in control of the situation, which provided its own enticement.

  Those soft touches had enflamed him. The priestess then lifted herself from him, rising onto her knees. Another of the women gripped him firmly, guiding him into the warmth of the priestess’ welcoming sheath.

  It felt that it went on forever, the slow, languorous slide of her silken flesh over his. In truth it was a very short time before the familiar tightness settled low in his belly, tension gathered in him as he was poised on the cusp of ecstasy.

  One of the other women kissed him, her lips pressed firmly against him as another reveler kissed the priestess with equal ardor. His body tightened like a bowstring, every muscle flexing as he climaxed, hot seed rushing into her body. The second woman continued kissing him, stroking her tongue softly into his mouth, swallowing his hoarse cries of pleasure. So intent was he on that kiss, on the feel of the priestess’ body gripping his, milking him, he did not see the ancient blade. He never heard the hiss of air as she brought it down in a vicious arc, the sharpened bone piercing his belly.

  Now the truth of the kiss was apparent to him. It was not his cries of pleasure she had intended to silence, but his cries of agony. Blood poured from the jagged wound, and the women exulted in it. The priestess and her minions stroked it, coaxing more from the wound. He wanted to howl with agony as they prodded and tormented, but soft lips covered his, masking every sound. His bound hands clenched, struggling against silken ties but there was no escape.

  As his life’s blood flowed freely from his wound, his struggles slowed and then halted altogether. He could only lay there as they touched their bodies and pleasured themselves with blood soaked hands. He met the priestess’ gaze one last time before his eyes closed. She was smiling wickedly beneath the mas
k, her gaze fixed on something beyond the clearing. “Thank you,” she said to him, “You have done very well.”

  From the shadows of the trees beyond, the cloaked figure of a man observed the ritual and smiled. She had done well for him, but then he'd never expected less of her. Her devotion to him had always been complete.

  Watching the women revel, he smiled. Most of them believed it to be nothing more than a game. The promise of eternal youth and beauty lured them, but they were not true believers. In spite of their lack of real faith, they had thrown themselves wholeheartedly into their roles. Some thought the female to be the weaker sex, but he'd learned they could be just as vicious and bloodthirsty as their male counterparts. The difference lay in their motivation for violence.

  A wave of dizziness swept through him, cold sweat breaking out on his skin. He leaned against the tree and waited for her to come to him just as she always had.

  Chapter Two

  Lord Michael Sutherland, Viscount Ellersleigh was not a man given to the vice of gambling. He loved brandy, and he loved women, given a choice between the two, he would always take the women. But of late, he had been overwhelmed with ennui, with a strange sense of disquiet that even the most skilled lovers could not overcome. It was that which had led him into a card game with Lord Allerton, and it was that card game which had led him to the dismal property he could now call his own.

  Blagdon Hall rose before him, a crumbling ode to a harsher time in Britain’s history, when Viking raids and other threats had marred her beautiful shoreline. It might have been a fierce stronghold once, but now it looked as if a good gust of wind could send it toppling into the sea beyond. A quaint place in the country, Allerton had called it, “quaint and charming.” Belatedly, Michael recognized that quaint and charming were merely euphemisms for small and decrepit.

  As properties went, it was not overly large, it was not especially profitable, and it was not aesthetically appealing. Even the land surrounding the hall appeared to be derelict.

  But it was an escape from London, however, and his most recent paramour who could not read the writing on the wall. A lovely widow, Lady Westerbrook was quite enchanting, but incredibly demanding. She had begun to treat him more as a husband than a lover, prompting his hasty withdrawal from the field. Now, with the deed to Lord Allerton’s forfeited property burning a hole in his pocket, he stared up at the ancient Norman tower and wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

  A wizened old man at the gate eyed him suspiciously. “Who be ye?” he growled.

  Michael was reminded of the ancient but vicious lapdog that his grandmother had always kept. The old man appeared to have maintained more of his teeth, however. “I be Lord Ellersleigh, your employer.”

  “Lord Allerton is me employer,” the man groused.

  Under other circumstances, needling the man could be entertaining as he was so delightfully put out with the world in general. Tired from the journey, covered in dirt from the road, Michael desperately wanted a meal, a bath, and a bed; provoking the curmudgeon would simply have to wait.

  “Lord Allerton was your employer, until he lost Blagdon Hall to me in a game of Faro.” Michael produced the deed from his pocket, but the old man just looked at it blankly, then back at him.

  “Can’t read or write,” he said. “Take yerself up to the house then, m’lord, and let Miss Abigail sort it out.”

  Had a man in his employ really just granted him permission to pass onto his own land? It was hardly a gracious invitation at any rate. Perhaps it was exhaustion, but he simply didn't have it in him to be put out with the man. It was, he realized, the most entertaining thing that had happened to him in quite a while.

  Michael was still chuckling under his breath when he reached the house. The drive was short but steep, carrying him to the top of the hill, where the Hall perched on a cliff high above the sea. It wasn’t beautiful. It never had been and never would be, but it was striking. He could easily envision knights in armor.

  Shoving aside romantic notions, he dismounted. As there was no one about, he looped the reins about a post in the yard and approached the massive front door. He would see to the horse after finding out what the devil he'd gotten himself into.

  Michael lifted the heavy knocker which appeared to be a carved dragon’s head with a ring hanging from its mouth. It thumped heavily against the dark, aged wood when he let it drop.

  After only a moment, a wrinkled face peered at him through a small door set within the larger door. “What do ye want?”

  Was there not a servant in the house that was under the age of eighty, he wondered? Rather than enter another exchange like the one with the gatekeeper, he said, “I am Viscount Ellersleigh. I need to speak with Miss Abigail.”

  The face disappeared. There was a great deal of rumbling and what sounded like the movement of furniture or possibly the placement of cannons. One seemed as likely as the other given the strange nature of the servants he'd encountered thus far.

  The heavy door finally opened, creaking ominously as it shifted inward. As he peered into the hall, it was clear to him the woman whose face had appeared in that tiny opening in the door was more than a foot shorter than the small window. The chair placed haphazardly by the door showed him precisely how she had reached it. The door at least opened on a pulley system, so he didn’t have to feel responsible for the crone injuring herself by opening the monstrosity. The very thought of a woman that old climbing onto a rickety chair had him shaking his head.

  “She’s in there,” the woman said, pointing to a door off the great hall before promptly disappearing.

  Bedlam. He was in Bedlam, surely, Michael thought, torn between amusement and fatigue. The notion of both a meal and a bath seemed to be growing further away than nearer. He'd hardly ask the aged crone to lug buckets of water for him. Even if he did, it was unlikely she'd do more than cackle at him as she walked away.

  Of the two he'd met thus far; they were the worst trained servants he had ever encountered. If Miss Abigail, the erstwhile housekeeper was responsible, she would be the first to go, he decided. He would hire someone who could at least make the place seem hospitable. As for the cranky and ancient pair he’d already encountered, they would be pensioned off. With that thought firmly in mind, he made his way to the small room indicated, prepared to confront and fire his first servant.

  Abigail Barrows glared at the offending animal. The cat hissed in return, its back arched, ears flat, and teeth bared. Between its jaws was the last quill from her desk. “Blast you, you insufferable creature! You did not kill that bird and that particular feather is not your trophy!”

  Determinedly, she reached for the quill but drew back when the cat’s claws sank firmly into her hand. The cat then retreated behind the chair, the quill hanging proudly from his mouth. Had she any idea that someone was observing her, she would never have knelt on the floor with her bottom in the air, peering under a chair and cursing the fiendish creature that plagued her endlessly.

  But her attention was focused on the account books on the desk that needed her attention and the last quill, now conquered by a cat that had surely come from Hades.

  “You wretched, vile, hell-spawned beast! I hope the hounds get you, ” As curses went, it was relatively mild but as a lady, her knowledge of swearing was limited. A menacing, growling yowl was the only response she received.

  “Had I known the view in Bedlam would be so entrancing I would have committed myself years ago.”

  The rich, masculine voice tinged with sardonic amusement prompted Abigail to hasten to her feet. In the process, she stepped on the hem of her gown. The garment, well worn, could not tolerate the abuse and the seam gave with a ripping sound. She also managed to bump her head on the edge of the desk with such force that she saw stars. She swayed alarmingly, her hand pressed to her head, as tiny lights danced and flickered before her eyes.

  The man rushed forward, a look of concern and contrition crossing what was surely the mos
t handsome visage she'd ever seen. She would have the bump on her head to blame for her dizziness, at the very least, but simply looking at him was enough to make one's head spin.

  “My apologies for alarming you so,” he said, helping her to the chair. A demonic growl issued from beneath the chair, and a black and white blur shot out from behind it, making straight for the open window. The cat looked back briefly with what appeared to be a smirk, the quill hanging from its mouth. Blasted creature, she thought again. She'd never get the dratted account books balanced now. Not that one could ever apply the term balanced to something that was always in the negative.

  The man took a step back from her; his brows furrowed as he looked at her with concern. Pasting a reassuring smile on her face, Abby wondered why she bothered. Surely he was a creditor come to take anything of value still left in the home, though he was dressed a bit too fine for that. A gambling debt then, she thought. Her smile vanished. Let him worry, she decided. She stopped just short of wishing him to perdition along with the cat.

  Michael continued his perusal of the woman who could only be Miss Abigail. She appeared to be fine, the bump on her head having merely disoriented her for a moment. She was a young woman, though not in the first blush of youth. He would guess her to be in her very early twenties, rather than fresh from the schoolroom.

  Her dark hair had been braided tightly and pulled back into a chignon of interwoven braids. He imagined it was done more out of necessity than vanity as it looked to be impossibly thick. One strand had escaped and curled becomingly at her neck. With pale skin and wide brown eyes, she was pretty but not necessarily beautiful. If there was one feature, aside from her charming derriere that was utterly enchanting, it was the lush lips that formed a perfect cupid’s bow, dark and cherry red, they were a perfect foil to her porcelain skin.