She was silent for a moment, considering. When she spoke, the question was asked in a soft voice. “If I admit it, will you let me go?”
“Yes.” It would be the most difficult thing he'd ever done in his life, but he would abide by his word.
Exhaling harshly, she offered up her reluctant confession. “Yes, I thought of you.”
Michael groaned, the agony of his desire for her rekindled to a fever pitch. Stepping back, he let her go, every fiber of his being protesting that he should simply take what he wanted, what she'd just admitted that she wanted. But he'd never forced a woman in his life, and if he couldn't bloody well seduce her then he didn't deserve to have her. With a muttered curse, he strode from the room swiftly and didn’t look back.
~*~*~
Abby had avoided Michael for the better part of the day. Following their discussion that morning, she simply felt off balance with him. He could be the dangerous and seductive rogue one minute and a charming, strangely vulnerable man the next. Perhaps more frightening was her response to him. He made her yearn for things that simply terrified her. It wasn't the physical intimacy of marriage that she feared so much; it was all that followed. She understood only too well that for most women, giving their bodies ultimately preceded or followed giving their hearts. Her heart was not something she wished to trust him with.
That in mind, while she joined him for dinner, she remained distant, cool and kept her responses so succinct, he eventually gave up conversation altogether. Afterward, she retreated to her room again. When the knock sounded on the door, her heart sank. She had known, of course that he would claim his ten minutes. The question that burned in her, of whether or not she would be able to walk away again., hung heavily in the air as he entered her small chamber. “Yes, my lord?” she queried haughtily, as she opened the door.
He sighed, “Are you trying to test my patience? My name is Michael.”
“Very well, how can I help you, Michael?” she replied, and her tone was hardly dulcet.
Michael noted that she was still dressed from dinner; her hair still tightly pinned in place. He had reevaluated his strategy during the course of the day. In her own room, she might be more comfortable; she might feel less threatened, and she might, he prayed, be more easily led astray.
“I thought we might have a conversation about our delayed wedding night and all that it implies.” He watched the tension creep into her face. Her chin lifted, and her shoulders squared. Before she could unleash her temper on him, which he suspected could be formidable, he continued,. “I need you to answer honestly… Is there anything that I did, any touch or caress that you did not enjoy last night?”
Abbi didn’t quite know what to say. It was not at all what she had expected to hear from him. “This is hardly a proper subject--“
He chuckled. “No, it isn’t proper. It isn’t proper that we’ve been married for nearly two full days, and you have yet to share my bed. Propriety was forfeit, my dear, the moment I peered into your window and saw your worthless brother-in-law and assisted you in your escape.” He paused then, his smile broadening as she blushed beneath his heated gaze. “Propriety is not for us, Abigail.”
She had no argument for that. According to the church, she should not deny him at all as his wife. It was too confusing by far. “There was nothing you did last night that I found unbearable.”
He smiled, “Good, because I plan to repeat most of it tonight.”
Abbi mentally girded herself for that. She knew what to expect, though, in some respects that did not help. Her mind had continuously wandered to those eight and a half minutes. She’d lost count of the minutes she’d spent revisiting them in her mind. The result was that she already felt hot and achy, and he had yet to even touch her. Her alarm grew as she watched him move more fully into her room, and then stretch out on the bed. Her bed, her haven, and he invaded it. Claimed, conquered and ruined, she thought, for she'd never look at her bed again without seeing him in it. Blast the man!
“Join me,” he said simply.
“There’s no clock,” she protested mildly.
Michael pulled the watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and held it out to her. “You may time it to the second,” he said, “But I want every one of them tonight.”
Abbi swallowed convulsively. He looked predatory, which did not lessen his appeal at all. With a bravado that she did not feel, she approached the bed and took the watch from his outstretched hand, touching him as little as possible. It didn’t matter. She still felt the spark as their fingers brushed. “Then let us get it over with.”
Michael grasped her wrist, pulling her down so that she tumbled into his lap. His lips were on hers immediately, hot and hungry. Abbi tried to steel herself against the sensual onslaught, but failed miserably. He was too persuasive, too masterful. She sighed, unable to do anything else as she gave herself up to the seduction of his mouth on hers.
His hands traced a familiar route, caressing her shoulders, her breasts, the length of her legs. He didn’t rush, but he’d learned the previous evening where she was the most sensitive. He’d created an erotic map of her in his mind, knowing exactly where to touch her to make her sigh, which spots would make her moan. The pressure of his hands was measured to a science. Firm but gentle, it left her shivering, her nerves awakened in such a way that everything was heightened, more intense and more compelling..
She could feel the heat gathering inside her, the desire that burned as he stoked the flames higher. The watch was forgotten and tumbled from her fingers. It bounced on the faded rug, ignored. It mollified her somewhat to know that he, the great seducer, was not unmoved. There was an urgency in the way he touched her that could not be denied. Whatever insanity burned between them, they were both its victim. Their senses were consumed with one another and the desire that had flared so hotly between them.
Michael had been systematically removing her clothes while doing everything in his power to leave her mindless with passion. Every touch had been premeditated to inflame her, and as she melted against him, an armful of lush, pliant, feminine curves, he knew he’d succeeded. He didn’t gloat. He was too far gone himself for that. This untried innocent inflamed him in a way that the most skilled of courtesans, that the most debauched and libidinous society wives had never matched. Every breath in his body, every beat of his heart was focused solely on her, on winning her, claiming her, keeping her. At some point, a possessiveness that was heretofore unknown to him, had settled deep inside him. Abigail was his to keep, if only he could convince her of it!
With that thought uppermost in his mind, Michael set himself to the task at hand. He continued to focus his energy, his attention, and all of his skill on keeping her lost in the maelstrom. Awakening her passion was the only way for both of them to get precisely what they wanted. If she turned him away—he couldn’t even conceive of it. The very idea of the repeated misery of the previous evening was unthinkable to him.
When the gown slipped from her shoulders, baring her lush breasts entirely to him, he couldn't resist the temptation of warm, satiny skin. He shifted her from his lap to the bed, coming down on top of her, continuing his campaign of seduction. He used his mouth to seduce and cajole.
Every sigh, every moan, and soft cry was like a song to him. When she touched him, when her hands slid over his shoulders and around his neck of their own accord, he wanted to shout with joy. She toyed with his hair; her hands roamed over his shoulders, his back. Those innocent touches made him burn.
But there was a part of him that needed more from her. He needed to hear it from her directly. It wasn't enough to simply seduce her and perhaps have her cry foul afterward. Or perhaps it was his cursed ego that demanded the admission of desire from her. Drawing back from her, from the heated kiss and the conflagration of everything that had bloomed between them, Michael stared down into her bewildered brown eyes. “It has been more than ten minutes... I am many things, Abigail, which have been deemed less than honorable.
But I am a man of my word. This only continues if you wish for it too.”
Abbi stared up at him. He wanted an invitation from her, an admission. It went against every belief she had about men, and every doubt she had about her marriage to issue it. Men were not to be trusted. Her father's ineptitude and Rupert's immorality were proof of that. A man of Michael's reputation—giving ground to him would perpetually place her at a disadvantage, she knew. The other option would be to push him away, to let him walk out of her room that night. It was lowering to admit that she couldn’t. Denying herself what he offered, what he'd incited her yearnings for, was simply impossible.
“I don’t care,” she said, “I want you to stay.”
Michael wasted no time in claiming her lips again, even as he stripped the gown entirely from her body. She was lying back on the bed, wearing only her chemise with stockings and garters. The chemise was askew, revealing dusky peaks that tempted him. Her ribs tapered down to a narrow waist and flared again into wide hips that beckoned to him. Beneath the fine linen, the dark thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs lured him.
He stroked his hands up her legs, raising the hem of the chemise until she was bared before him. His fingertips skated over soft skin, tracing the muscles of her thighs, the arc of her hip bones, before brushing against the velvety curls.
Abbi closed her eyes, reveling in the sensations he provided. It wasn’t quite enough. She wanted to see him, to feel his naked skin against her. She reached up, sliding her hands between his coat, over the fine linen of his shirt. Something over his shoulder caught her eye, and she let out a yelp of shock. The Gray Lady stood near the foot of the bed, weeping silently and pointing towards the window. “Michael!”
He kissed her neck, reveling in the feel of her hands on him. The sound of his name on her lips spurred him on, even if it did sound more strident than passionate. When she repeated it again, and yanked painfully at his hair, he raised himself up on his elbows and met her gaze. “Have you changed your mind, then?” He sounded like a man going to the gallows.
“Michael, she’s here!” Abbi said in a stage whisper and pointed to the room behind him.
Michael cursed his luck, cursed the ghost of Blagdon Hall and cursed the woman in his arms that had driven him to the point of madness with lust. He rolled off of her and turned to face the spirit that had just interrupted what could well have been a momentous occasion.
As always, it was jarring to see her. It wasn’t like when he had seen Melisande. She had appeared solid, almost corporeal to him. The Gray Lady shimmered before him, nearly translucent, a pale shadowy figure who emanated sadness. She carried an air of tragedy about her that radiated outward. Once again, she raised her arm and eerily 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.
Rising from the bed, he 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 for the door, without saying a word to Abbi.
For a second, Abbi lay there stunned. But there had been something in Michael's expression, the shock and horror that had been etched on his handsome face that spurred her to action. Abbi rose, righting her clothes as she did so. She struggled back into the gown that he had stripped from her, a feat as he had managed it without her even being aware.
Abbi was all but running to catch up to him as he exited through the kitchen door and then through the garden gate. 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 Abbi’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, “In my chamber, in the wardrobe is a medical bag.”
Abbi rushed ahead of him to gather the necessary items. Mrs. Wolcot was already in the kitchen heating water. By the time Abbi 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 Abbi’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?” Abbi 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.”
Abbi 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 viciousness and licentiousness of others. Ignoring that 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, Abbi 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 Abbi 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 it was only minutes, in truth.
Abbi 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 feeling even more unsettled than their earlier encounter had.
Chapter Eight
Hours later, with their patient identified as Sarah Collins from a neighboring village, Abbi 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 insensible, a product no doubt of her fear and the trauma she had suffered.
Given what Michael had already seen, and the condition the poor young woman had been in, they had little enough reason to doubt her. With her 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 Abbi. 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. That meant little. Few women would admit to such a thing, especially if it 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 evening.Though there were other chambers in Blagdon Hall, on the upper floors, they hadn't been used in a decade and would undoubtedly be crumbling. 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 Abbi’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 sickened.
With his hands on her shoulders, he turned Abbi away from him and loosened her gown, helping her to strip the now soiled garment from her body. Her chemise remained, but only because she grasped it and refused to let him strip it from her. Both garments were hopelessly ruined, covered as they were with dirt and blood. He would have washed her, but she batted his hands away and took the damp cloth from him, blushing furiously all the while.
The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) Page 7