Michael didn’t take offense, though he understood that Spencer’s assessment of the Whitbys’ marriage in some ways mirrored his own marriage. The daughter of country gentry, Abby was far enough beneath his station that had he chosen not to marry her, it would have been accepted. Some eyebrows might have been raised and he would certainly have been cut by many hostesses but not by everyone. “No offense taken. It’s a valid point. Even as the daughter of an impoverished Marquess, Lavinia must have had something beyond her beauty and proclivities to recommend her?”
Rising from his chair, Michael moved toward one of the larger bookcases. Retrieving the older account ledgers that had been kept by Abby’s father, he returned to the desk with them. “Artifacts, any antique texts that might relate to their activities… That’s what we’re looking for.”
Spencer picked up one of the books but fumbled it. The ledger fell to the floor and the binding split. “Dammit.”
Michael looked down at the book. “It’s no matter. I don’t think these books have been very well maintained. The entire house is coated with a layer of dust, possibly the housekeeper, as well.”
Spencer retrieved the damaged book, and when he picked it up, a piece of paper hidden behind the front endpaper had become dislodged. Tugging at the corner, the letter slipped free. “I’ll let you take a look at that. Someone went to great lengths to hide it.”
Michael opened the folded letter and scanned the contents. What he read left his blood cold. “This is not good.”
Spencer frowned at him. “What is it?”
“It’s a letter from Rupert claiming that the illness that befell Abigail's stepmother was in fact poison. The antidote will be provided only if he is given an antique map of the area that includes points of supernatural power.”
“How would Rupert have poisoned his mother-in-law?”
Michael shook his head. “He didn’t. It would have been Lavinia. And if it’s true, Abby said her father died of the same illness that took her stepmother… She has no idea that Lavinia and Rupert may very well have murdered her parents.”
Spencer appeared utterly horrified. “I don’t envy you the telling of that.”
Michael cursed. “Keep looking. See if you can find any other references to the map.”
In the garden, Abby worked furiously, taking out all of her worry and fear on the forgiving soil. After unearthing some parsnips and leeks, she began weeding. It was hard work. Her hands, even in the thick work gloves she’d donned, were filthy, but she felt she was making progress and that was always welcome.
Between the weak winter sun and the enthusiasm with which she’d attacked her task, she’d grown quite warm. Stopping for a moment, she removed her gloves to wipe the sweat from her brow, and swept back the damp tendrils of hair that had escaped her chignon.
The unsettling feeling of being watched crept over her. The hair at the nape of her neck stood on end and the sweat that trickled between her shoulder blades cooled as a chill swept through her.
Turning her head, she peered over her shoulder toward the woods beyond the garden. She could see nothing. Rising to her feet, she moved toward the garden gate and then beyond it.
“Is someone there?” She hated that her voice trembled as she called out.
There was no answer. Not quite able to dismiss her earlier feelings as just a foolish flight of fantasy, she moved closer to the edge of the woods and peered between the trees. It was then that she heard it—the barest of whispers asking for help.
Recalling the horrible damage that had been inflicted on poor Sarah, Abby dropped her gloves and scrambled over tree roots as she went in the direction she believed the voice had come from.
Through the thick tangle of oak and rowan trees, she came to a small clearing. There was a scrap of white cloth on the ground and she stooped to pick it up, she noted the blood that dotted the fabric.
Abby heard the sound of breaking twigs and branches and gasped as she turned to scan the woods but saw nothing. Suddenly, she realized that she’d been lured into the woods. She was alone, unprotected and no one knew where to look for her. Moving quickly, she made her way back toward the small opening in the trees. Before she reached it, a figure emerged from within the trees, blocking her exit.
Clad in a green robe, the face hidden behind a golden mask, she couldn’t tell who it was, only that the figure was male. As he reached for her, she dodged his grasping hands and slipped past him, but did not get very far. He caught up to her quickly, his strong arms closed around her from behind and dragged her down toward the hard packed earth. The breath whooshed from her lungs as the back of her head connected painfully with an exposed tree root.
Her vision dimmed, but Abby battled it back. She couldn’t lose consciousness, her only chance would be to fight, to run. Rolling onto her side, she crawled a few feet away. The man chuckled, the sound muffled behind the mask. His hand closed around her ankle, dragging her backward.
Abby reached into the pocket of her smock and retrieved the small spade she’d been using in the garden. Keeping it concealed until he’d dragged her close enough to him, Abby turned quickly, driving the spade into the soft flesh at the bend of his knee. The man howled as he fell forward. Scrambling to her feet, Abby left him there and moved quickly through the trees to the safety of Blagdon Hall.
Spencer had retreated to the hall’s only guest chamber, the room that had once been Abigail's. The fact that a night of ale consumption and local gossip had put both of them under was a testament to the fact that age was catching up with them.
Mrs. Wolcot was in the great hall, polishing a piece of furniture as Michael left the library. “Where is Abigail?” he asked
Mrs. Wolcot, who was still obviously not quite sure of him, gave him a hard look. “She was in the garden,” the old woman finally said.
For some reason, the news instantly left him unsettled and worried. Quickening his steps, Michael moved toward the kitchen and stopped immediately. The Grey Lady stood in the doorway, her face a mask of tragic sadness. She extended one hand in that familiar gesture, but she wasn’t pointing toward the garden, but to the woods beyond.
Fear coiled inside him at the sight of her. Michael broke into a dead run as he flew past the apparition, ignoring the cold chill of the air where she stood. He’d just reached the garden gate when Abby staggered from the woods. Her clothes were dirty and torn, and she appeared none too steady on her feet. But she was alive and unharmed, at least for the most part.
Michael stepped forward, catching her as she stumbled. “What happened?” he demanded, his tone sharp and his face etched with tension.
She shook her head, gasping and breathless. “Someone was in the woods.”
“Are you hurt?” he asked as he began checking her for injuries. The anger was still there, the fear riding beneath it, but until he knew she was unharmed, he wouldn't give in to either.
“He was wearing a mask.” She muttered, her words slurred and confused.
Michael didn’t ask any more questions. Abby’s eyes had fluttered closed, her head lolling to one side. Blood had begun to dry just behind her ear, the nasty gash undoubtedly the cause of her current state, fainting was simply not something his stubborn and reckless wife would ever do. Sweeping her up into his arms, he marched toward the house with a quick, angry stride. He would tend her wounds first, and when she awoke, he would address her willfulness. Then he would do whatever was necessary to ensure her safety. The twisted games Rupert and Lavinia had put into motion would end.
Chapter Fifteen
Abby awoke to an aching head and the unpleasant odor of smelling salts. In an effort to escape the offending smell, she smacked at the hands waving the bottle beneath her nose.
“There you are,” Michael said, his voice sharp . “You took a rather nasty bump on the head. Want to tell me how?”
Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she surveyed him nervously. His expression, so closed and tight, clearly indicated his displeasu
re.. “I thought I heard someone asking for help and I went into the woods…but it was a ruse.”
“And this?” he asked, touching the spot behind her ear where the bruise had begun to form. His voice was deadly quiet, but it only made him sound more dangerous.
“I tried to move around him, to get away, but he pushed me… I hit my head on either a rock or a tree root. I don’t know really. When I was on the ground, I was moving away from him and he grabbed my ankle… pulling me toward him.” She stopped, shivering as she recalled the events.
Michael could see the fear in her eyes, see the chill bumps rising on her skin; rather than let her dwell on what might have happened, he directed her to what did happen. “How did you get away?”
“The spade… I had one of the small garden spades in the pocket of my smock. I drove it into the back of his knee as hard as I could. Contrary to what you believe, I am not entirely helpless.”
Remarkably pleased at her ingenuity and praying for maximum damage, he asked, “Did you break the skin?”
“Probably,” she said. “I didn’t stop to inspect his wounds. I just ran at that point.”
Michael hoped she’d broken the bastard’s skin and possibly even bone or two. He hoped an infection would maim the bastard permanently. At the very least, he hoped the injury would leave the man limping long enough for his tell-tale gait to identify him. “You are not to leave this house alone. In fact, you'd agreed to that at the inn only last night!”
“I only went into the garden! I'm not a prisoner here!” she protested.
His patience was at an end, “Not even just to the garden… and I swear, if you even step foot near those woods again, I will turn you over my knee.”
Her look was mutinous. “I am not a child to be scolded!”
“No, but you are in danger! The fact that you were well aware of and ignored as you made off into the woods without a thought to the consequences!”
Michael stopped. He was shouting. He had never raised his voice to a woman in his life. He’d spoken firmly to them in the past, he’d been angry with them before, but never had he screamed at one like a madman. She would be the death of him, he thought.
“It isn’t safe for you, Abigail,” he said when he trusted himself to speak more calmly. “Rupert has had his eye on you for some time, and he is far more ruthless than we could’ve hoped to realize.”
She stared at him quizzically for a moment. “What are you not telling me, Michael?
It hadn’t been his intent to tell her yet, but given the circumstances, she needed to know just how dangerous Rupert and Lavinia truly were. “I found a letter from Rupert addressed to your father, indicating that your stepmother was not dying of an unknown illness, but poison. He also intimated in the letter that should your father fail to comply with his demands, namely relinquishing an antique map of the area, he would meet a similar fate.”
“Rupert would never have been close enough to my parents to be able—.”
The dawning horror on her face as the gravity of what she’d just said sank in was something he would have given anything to spare her. “I am sorry… Rupert and Lavinia must be stopped before they harm anyone else in their mystical pursuits. But in order to stop them, I need to know that you are safe. I can’t do what I need to if I’m worried about your getting hurt or… worse,” he finished lamely.
“I have been taking care of myself for some time with a good deal of success despite my worthless cousin and lecherous brother-in-law! I'm not entirely worthless. Marriage does not change that” she replied hotly
For a brief time, Michael had forgotten about the general misery of his night of drunkenness, now the argument with his lovely wife was reminding him of it as his headache had now returning full force. “It most assuredly changes that and everything else! You were not taking care of yourself! You were barely eking out a meager existence and clinging to your virtue by hiding on balconies in the dead of winter! We won’t even discuss today’s idiocy.”
“Idiocy! Perhaps you can get an annulment, my lord, as you've saddled yourself with someone so deficient!”
Michael exhaled a heavy sigh, his head falling back as he gazed up at the ceiling and wondered how the conversation had gone so horribly wrong. She was overwrought and while he would never have applied that term to himself, he wasn't at his best. When she'd collapsed in the garden the fear had been unbearable. He wanted to protect her and she was determined not to allow him to do so. The most painful moments of his life had been the direct result of failing to protect someone he loved.
Loved? The word left him reeling, the fact that it had risen, unbidden to his mind when thinking of her left him shaken. Affection for one's wife, attraction, that was one thing. Love was entirely another and it was terrifying.
He needed to end the conversation and he needed to be away from her, at least for a bit, to collect his wits. “I did not say you were an idiot, merely that your behavior, in this instance was... as for annulment, we both know that's an impossibility. Late as it may have been, our marriage has nonetheless been well consummated!”
He could hear the frustration in his voice, the lack of patience, and in that moment, he sounded shockingly as his own father had. Striving for a calm that fear had robbed of him, he continued, “I know little enough of being a husband, Abigail, much less being a good husband. But I do know that part of my duty as your husband is to protect you, even from yourself if needs be.”
Her eyes narrowed at him and when she spoke, she practically hissed at him like a spitting cat. “Until you started treating me like a lackwit, you were doing passably well in the husband department! I will not have it, Michael, I will not be shut up in here like some helpless child while you rush off to play hero! It was my family they took—not yours!”
Michael rose, at his wit’s end with her. “You will remain in this house until I can be certain it is safe for you to leave it. So help me, if I must lock you in, I will! Do not test me and do not think to defy me!”
“Defy you? You are my husband, not my keeper!”
“I am both when you display so little sense!” he shouted back, before storming from the room. The door slammed behind him with such force that it clattered on its hinges.
Spencer stood at the end of the hall, eyeing him skeptically. “I do believe that is the first time I have ever known you not to be capable of charming a woman into doing your bidding.”
In no mood for his friend’s needling, Michael replied coolly, “I thought you were napping like all the good little boys do.”
Spencer smiled. “You and the missus make it damn hard to sleep around here. I wager there are quieter rooms to be had in Cheapside.”
“Then perhaps you should find one!” Michael said, storming past him and down the stairs. The quiet of the library would be his only solace.
Spencer eyed the door to the master chamber as he lingered in the hall. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured as a slow smile spread across his face and with a shake of his head turned back to the guest room and his interrupted nap.
Squire Blevins limped up the stairs to the master's chambers at Wilhaven. The bitch had maimed him. Entering the rooms, he saw Rupert lying on the bed, inhaling the burning herbs that he was beginning to use with more and more frequency. Lavinia sat her dressing table, idly brushing out her blonde curls. She wore a nightrail so diaphanous she might as well have been nude. He sneered thinking that if she meant to entice her limp husband, it would take a sight more than simply her bared breasts. Rupert hadn't managed to sustain a cockstand in more than a year.
Rupert's valet stood beside the bed, attending to his master's needs. Frustrated, furious at having been outwitted by the bitch, he threw down his cloak and mask. “Don't just stand there, you worthless, old fool! Get your supplies to treat the wound!”
“Did my dear, sweet stepsister not play nice?” Lavinia asked, her voice pitched in a childish sing-song, her words shaped by the pretty pout she wore.
�
�Leave me be, Lavinia! I'm in no mood for your antics! ”
Lavinia moved deeper into the room, her hands sliding over his back, around his waist. “Rupert, our dear Squire is in such a foul mood! What should I do to cheer him up? Perhaps you could punish me in lieu of my sister? I know how you like that.”
“It isn't punishment if you enjoy it,” he retorted. Lavinia did enjoy it. Every spanking, every bruise he'd left on her pampered flesh had sent her to the heights of ecstasy. The more he hurt her, the more pain he inflicted, the more she asked for. At one time, her depravity had excited him, but it had grown old; the bloom was off that particular rose.
She was too demanding, at times childlike and at others a harridan. How Rupert stood her all the time, he had no idea. It seemed that the man actually enjoyed his wife's vagaries. But with the echoes of Abigail's cries of fear still ringing in his mind, and the feel of her lush body pressed against him, Lavinia left him cold. He didn't want her feigned fear or her token protests. If there was thing he'd learned about himself during their games at the circle, it was that he enjoyed inflicting real fear and real pain. There was no greater pleasure than taking his release while they screamed and begged.
Shoving her away from him roughly, he snarled, “Get off! You're incessant clinging disgusts me.”
Lavinia attacked, her dagger-like nails clawing at his skin, digging into his flesh. On the bed, Rupert laughed as if the entire thing were simply a grand farce. Stalking towards her, Blevins wrapped his hand in her hair and tugged her up from the floor by it. She shrieked in protest, her hands wrapping around his wrist as he dragged her by her hair across the width of the chamber.
“You forget yourself,” he said, shoving her towards the bed. He spun her so that she landed with her face pressed into the mattress next to her husband who watched with avid glee. Pressing his hand to the back of her head as he straddled her legs, she was helpless. He rather liked her that way.
The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set Page 43