The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set
Page 34
As always, it was jarring to see her. It wasn’t like when he had seen Melisande at Briarleigh. The phantom of his childhood love had appeared solid, almost corporeal to him. The Gray Lady shimmered before him. Nearly translucent, she carried an air of tragedy that radiated outward from her pale, shadowy form. Once again, she raised her arm and pointed toward the window. Even as he looked at her, he knew that she would not be satisfied until he followed her silent command and investigated.
Michael rose from the bed, reluctantly, and walked toward the window, ignoring the chill that crept through him as walked past her. He peered out the window and what he saw made his blood run cold far more than the phantom had. He turned away, heading and bolted for the door, without a word to Abby.
For a second, Abby lay there stunned. But there had been something in Michael's expression, the shock and horror etched on his handsome face spurred her to action. Abby rose, righting her clothes as she did so. She struggled back into the gown that he had stripped from her, quite a feat as he had managed it without her even being aware.
Abby was all but running to catch up to him as he exited through the kitchen door and then through the garden gate. Flying down the stairs, nearly tripping in her haste, she finally caught up to him in the garden. As she moved closer to him, she could hear faint cries coming from just beyond the walls. His long legs ate up the distance until he stopped suddenly. When she reached him, she understood why.
The young woman was lying on the ground, wearing only a thin shift. She was bloodied and battered, barely conscious. The sounds she made were those of a wounded animal, and they raised chills on Abby’s skin. “Good lord! What has happened to her?”
Michael looked at her scant clothing and the terrorized look on her battered face. “Something horrible… Let’s get her inside.”
The girl whimpered brokenly as Michael lifted her gently. He began moving towards the house, and said, “Go to my chamber, fetch the medical bag from the wardrobe.”
Abby rushed ahead of him to gather the necessary items. Lifting her skirts, she sprinted up the stairs. Michael's ascent would be much slower. The stairs were too narrow to allow for speed with his fragile burden. Mrs. Wolcot was already in the kitchen heating water. By the time Abby was rushing back down the hall to her chamber, used by default as it was the closest one, Michael was depositing the young woman on the bed.
In the light, her injuries appeared even more grievous. Her hair was an indeterminate color, matted as it was with blood. Bruises marred her face and to Abby’s horror; the young woman’s wrists were bound. Her feet were bruised and cut from running barefoot over cold, rocky ground. “What happened to her?” Abby asked with dawning horror.
Michael’s face was a grim and formidable mask when he replied, “I believe we now know what nefarious deeds occur by torchlight in the woods.”
Abby looked back at the young woman. Anger and fear mingled inside her, as she realized that this young woman had not fallen prey to an accident, but to the savagery and licentiousness of others. Tamping down her response, she moved to the bed and helped Michael as he cut away the clothing and began to gently dress the various wounds on her body.
Looking down at her with dawning horror, Abby realized she wasn’t a woman so much as a girl. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Slight of frame, her figure had not quite gained the full flower of femininity. Her entire body appeared to be a mass of scrapes and bruises.
As Abby looked on, she saw Michael studying the pattern of bruises on the girl’s thighs. He placed his hand over them, and with his fingers splayed, as if gripping her; they were a perfect match. It left little doubt as to what had happened to her.
The girl awoke instantly. The reality of her situation intruded with swift alacrity, and the girl began to struggle and scream. Michael didn’t grasp her newly unbound wrists as they were horribly abraded, but hauled the girl tightly against him, robbing her blows of power by preventing her leverage. He held her as one would hold a frightened child.
His voice was a soft whisper as he muttered over and over again that she was safe. No one else would hurt her. She was at Blagdon Hall and would be helped. The litany seemed to last for hours, though in fact it was only minutes.
Abby felt tears sting her eyes as the girls screamed faded to broken sobs, and her struggles ceased. Michael continued to hold her, speaking soothingly, his touch gentle as she sobbed against him like a babe. Of course, she thought, at that moment, the girl had undoubtedly regressed to such a state. Regardless, her husband’s tender care of the young woman left her feelings about him even more unsettled than had their earlier encounter.
Chapter Eight
Hours later, with their patient identified as Sarah Collins from a neighboring village, Abby retired to the master chamber with Michael. The young woman, once she'd calmed somewhat, had divulged a halting, but wild tale of masked and hooded people having dark rituals in the woods. Parts of her story were simply beyond belief and had they not been witness to the severity of her injuries and privy to the nature of certain local residents, they might have doubted her. It would have been easy to pass her nearly hysterical ramblings off as a product of her fear and the trauma she had suffered.
Given the state she'd been in when Michael found her, Abby could only surmise that every terrifying word was completely true. With the young woman’s wounds treated, and the worst of her fright abated, she’d recounted the details of her abduction to them in great detail.
What she had described was not entirely unfamiliar to Abby. She’d managed to avoid being dragged into her stepsister’s debauchery over the years, but that did not mean she was entirely unaware of what it entailed. In fact, it was telling that her immediate suspicions had turned to Lavinia and Rupert. Those sorts of twisted games seemed well within character for them, though to her knowledge, she was the only unwilling participant Rupert had ever pursued. Now she realized that meant nothing, few women of any station would admit that such a thing had happened, especially if meant leveling accusations at a lord.
Entering Michael’s room with him seemed perfectly natural to her, given the events that had unfolded during the night. Though there were other chambers in Blagdon Hall, on the upper floors, they hadn't been used in a decade or more and would undoubtedly be uninhabitable. As her chamber was now occupied, there was nowhere else for her to go.
Although, she thought grimly, it would have been nice had the realization dawned on her sooner rather than later as she did not have a nightrail to don. From what she knew of her husband, she couldn't imagine him donning such a garment. The man was an absolute heathen. As if sensing her dilemma, he went to the wardrobe and retrieved one his shirts for her, tossing the garment at her carelessly.
“It seems our wedding night is to be delayed yet again…You look exhausted,” he said, concern creeping into his voice.
Michael stared at her, noting the unnatural pallor of Abby’s face and the blue shadows beneath her eyes. It had been a difficult evening for them both. Taking care of young Sarah had brought back painful memories of Melisande and the horrible way she had suffered at the hands of her murderer. Had Sarah not escaped her captors, he did not doubt that she would have shared the same fate, her young life snuffed out for the amusement and convenience of others. It left him shaken and sick at heart.
It stirred older feelings in him as he recalled the fear and panic of that fateful day at Briarleigh. On the heels of the fear, came the quiet fury. It rocked him how deeply he still felt it all after so many years. He'd mourned Melisande for longer than she'd lived, but the well of pain and anger never seemed to run dry.
Even as the memories crept in, he pushed them away, beating them back into the dark recesses of his mind. Thinking of Melisande and the horrors she had suffered, of the things he hadn't been able to save her from, was futile. If the recent exposure of her killer had done nothing else, it had taught him that living in the past carried its own brand of danger and destruction.
All but nude, in her nearly transparent chemise, she washed quickly. He appeared unconcerned as he went about his own business. Without any of her modesty or shyness, he stripped to his smallclothes and with another cloth began to wash himself.
Abby had just donned his shirt and he a dressing gown, when Mrs. Wolcot came to the door. The old women ambled in, bearing a fresh pitcher and basin, leaving them near the hearth to keep the water from chilling during the night. When she left, and they were once again alone, Michael turned to Abigail and saw her eyeing the bed with concern. He had no intention of resuming their earlier activities. Neither of them had the energy for it at the moment. Still, sharing a bed, regardless of how platonic it might be, was an intimacy that she would never before have encountered.
In spite of his assertions that his motives were pure, Michael's gaze traveled over her, savoring the way his shirt molded to her body. It was long enough to cover her to her knees, but the fabric draped over her form, clinging to her hips and the rounded curve of her bottom. She did truly have a delightful bottom; he thought. It was a perfect, inverted heart, full and lush. He wanted to fill his hands with the firm globes, but that was for another time, when they weren’t exhausted and traumatized, and he didn’t have an equally traumatized patient just down the hall.
He strode toward her, and with first one of her arms then the other, rolled up the sleeves of the shirt. “It lacks a bit of tailoring for you.”
Abby blushed. “It’s a bit indecent, as well.”
It was. The fabric was far too thin for modesty's sake, revealing more than it would ever conceal. With the deep V of the neck, it bared much of her breasts to him, as well. In spite of his best intentions, his body stirred. “So, it is. Come to bed, pull the covers up, and no one shall ever know.”
“You’ll know.”
He nodded. “Yes, but I intend to see you in even less, as soon as it can be managed without killing us both… Sadly, that will not be tonight. So, again, come to bed. We are both tired, and we have all the time in the world for our amorous pursuits with one another.”
With her hand clasped in his, Abby allowed him to lead her to the bed, where she climbed in, and he was right behind her, sans dressing gown. She could feel his hair roughened legs against her smooth, the crisp hair on his forearms where he held her against him. His sex was a hard ridge pressed against her bottom, but as he seemed perfectly willing to ignore it, she decided to do the same. He kissed her shoulder and whispered good night against her ear. Within minutes, he was asleep. In the circle of his arms, she remained awake for some time, marveling at the sort of man she had married.
Who was he really? The Devil’s own, the scoundrel described by the gossipmongers, or the gentle and caring man who soothed a battered girl? The question plagued her endlessly, and sleep, even in her exhausted state, was hard won.
When Abby awoke the next morning, it was far later than she was accustomed to. Michael was gone, and she was stranded without clothing. Her only option was to wander the halls in his shirt, which was no option at all. It had barely covered her in the darkness. In the bright light of day, it would conceal nothing.
So she remained abed, staring up the ceiling and contemplating her husband. Having gone to sleep thinking of him and woken up still thinking of him, Abby knew she was treading dangerous ground. But the man was such an enigma, his behavior and his reputation so often at odds. Electing to forgo what others had said of his character and focus only on what she knew of him, she realized that it was very little.
Prior to his treatment of Sarah, she’d had no idea that he was a physician. Recalling the scar on his shoulder and the other one on his side, she knew that he’d been wounded in battle. He was a notorious seducer according to town gossip gleaned from Allerton and Lavinia, and yet never once had he been linked to the ruin of an . He had always restricted his activities to married women and widows, along with the occasional demirep and opera dancer. He was not a saint by any stretch, but he was not the devil the world portrayed him to be. He was most certainly not the devil that he appeared to imagine himself.
The chamber door opened, and the subject of her musings entered. He wore only breeches and a shirt identical to the one that covered her. Even as he crossed the room, he was stripping it from his magnificent body. His boots and breeches followed. She closed her eyes and tried not to shriek in embarrassment when he doffed his small-clothes.
He truly had no modesty, but as she peeked at him beneath her lashes, she knew that he had no reason to be modest. His body was perfect. Broad shoulders tapered to a well-defined chest and taut stomach. As he moved, she could see the rippling of the ridged muscles of his abdomen. She had no idea what the muscle was called, but there was a perfect line at the top of each hip, demarcating his upper body from his lower body. His lower body proved to be even more distracting.
The dark hair that curled on his chest tapered to a thin line that bisected his ridged stomach, and arrowed down to the juncture of his thighs. The hair grew thicker there, surrounding his sex, which under her shuttered gaze, seemed to thicken and grow longer.
“If your eyes were truly closed, you’d have no reason to blush,” he said. Even as the flippant words escaped his lips, he was climbing back into the bed, heedless of his nudity.
It was a far different experience to in bed with him, knowing he was naked and now appreciating exactly what that looked like. “You are incorrigible.”
He smiled against her ear, kissed it, and in a whisper laced with humor, said, “I’m not a peeping tom. That would be you, dear wife.”
Wife. The word hung in the air. She wasn’t a wife yet, not truly. Desperate to think of anything else, she asked, “How is Sarah this morning?”
He sighed. “She’s still frightened, though less so in the bright light of day, but about the same as last night— bruised, battered and has seen the worst of mankind. Also, she's no wish to return to her family. She said that her father would never permit her back in his home, given that she has been ruined.”
It could have been her, Abby thought. How many times had she fended off Rupert's clumsy advances? How many times had she hidden from him when he was not so drunk that his advances were tempered by his inebriation? She shuddered softly, her empathy for Sarah growing exponentially. “What will happen to her?”
He sighed wearily. “As of this morning, she’s taken the position of lady's maid to you.”
Of course, she thought. She was quickly beginning to realize her husband had a very soft heart. “Thank you… for helping her, and for helping me. You seem to rescue people quite frequently.”
Michael felt the burden of her praise. It was heavy on him, so he shrugged it off quickly, “Need I remind you that you are the one who rescued me? Were it not for your willingness to corroborate my alibi at the cost of your own reputation, I would more than likely be swinging at Tyburn Hill now.”
“Don’t joke about that. It’s horrible.”
“Then let’s talk about something else,” he suggested as he stroked her back, his hands moving in deceptively lazy circles. With each pass, his touch grew bolder, more insistent, and more far reaching. At last, his hands were coasting over her shoulders and arms, over the swell of her hips and down her thighs.
Abby continued her questions, though her voice quavered tellingly. “How is it the son and heir of a viscount is trained as a physician?”
Michael had no wish to delve into his past, not even for her. But putting her off would only encourage distance between them, and distance was the last thing he wanted at that moment. It
was time to consummate their union, to claim her as his wife. He didn't acknowledge that there was an element of fear to his intense desire. The thought of going back into the vipers den of Wilhaven with their relationship not fully bound in the eyes of the law was too dangerous, by far. He had other reasons for wanting their marriage consummated, and not all of them were based solely on desire. He wanted her like he'd never wanted another woman in his life, but the possessiveness that he felt toward her surprised him. She was his, simply put, and anyone who dared challenge that would pay the price.
Answering her question as succinctly as possible and avoiding the disturbing nature of his own thoughts, he replied, “I became interested in medicine because someone dear to me died, and I could do nothing to help them. I remained interested in medicine because my father despised it and felt that what I was doing was little better than going into trade.”
“And when you joined the army, was that also to irritate your father?”
She was worse than the bloody masters at Cambridge. Why, when, where, who—it was endless! The demarcation of his life, before Melisande's murder and after, left little room for happy reminiscing. There was certainly nothing in his relationship with his father that bore discussion. The man had been a prig who’d hated his son and questioned his paternity at every opportunity, and Michael had exulted in finding unique ways to repay the misery. It wasn't a flattering picture of him. Petty, self-pitying with a dose of melancholy—hardly the traits he wished for his new bride to discern in him. “No. That was because I couldn’t allow my best friends to run off to war without me. We managed, though just barely, to keep one another alive and reasonably in one piece. Can we not talk about my past anymore?”