Chapter Eighteen
It was the thirst that woke him. His throat felt as it were on fire, and his mouth filled with sand. He slowly became aware of his surroundings, of the cool cloth moving over his skin, of the burning pain in his thigh. Memory returned more slowly of the events that had precipitated his injury. The stone circle, the shots that had rang out. He remembered how freely the blood had flowed from his wound.
Forcing his eyes open, he saw Mrs. Wolcot leaning over him. “And this is my hell,” he muttered.
The old woman grimaced at him, or perhaps that was simply her natural expression.
“Mouthy as ever, I see. You'll be fine,” she mumbled.
“How long have I been unconscious?” he asked.
“Four days... put my dear Miss Abigail through all manner of misery, you did!” she said accusingly.
“In the future, that will be my very best reason to avoid being shot,” he replied caustically.
When she didn't respond, just continued to glare at him. He decided he'd find a more sympathetic ear. “I need to get out of this bed.”
“Not bloody likely,” the old woman answered.
Michael ignored her and attempted to sit up. He managed it, but only barely and with her assistance. By the time he'd achieved a somewhat vertical position with multiple pillows propped behind him, he was sweating profusely and the room was spinning. “This is lowering,” he groused.
She cackled. “Oh, I'm sure 'tis. The strapping lord is as weak as a kitten.”
“Mrs. Wolcot!”
The mild scold had come from his wife who stood in the doorway. Turning toward her, Michael's frown deepened. She looked awful. Dark hollows had formed beneath her eyes and it appeared she'd lost a considerable amount of weight in the four days she'd been caring for him. “Go to bed,” he said.
“Pardon me, my lord, but if you're going to give orders you should be able to enforce them,” she fired back. “I'll go to bed when I'm ready. At the moment, you've been receiving round the clock care from myself, Sarah and Mrs. Wolcot. It appears to be my turn again.”
Mrs. Wolcot was still cackling as she exited the room.
“That old woman despises me,” he said, trying valiantly not to sound like a whining child. He succeeded marginally.
“She doesn't despise you,” Abbi said, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. “Considering that you're male, she's actually quite chipper with you.”
“If that's chipper, I'd hate to see her in a foul mood.”
She smiled at him, her lips lifting. It eased the tension in her face, but did nothing to alleviate the look of exhaustion that clung to her. “I'm sorry to have worried you so,” he offered. “You should sleep, Abigail. You don't look well.”
“You're a fine one to talk. You're whiter than the sheets you're laying upon and we'll need your razor sharpened twice just to shave you once.”
Michael reached up and rubbed the whiskers on his cheeks. It was a far cry from his usually well groomed appearance. “Maybe I'll grow a beard. I'd look rather fearsome, don't you think?”
“Ask me again how fearsome you look when you can stand up.”
He noted that Abbi was fidgeting and ,more tellingly, refusing to make eye contact with him. “Where is Spencer?” he asked.
Immediately, her gaze snapped toward him, before she looked away again quickly. Whatever had happened during his convalescence, he wasn't going to like it. “Tell me, Abigail! Where is he?”
“I sent him to Wilhaven to get some things that we need,” she replied, her tone vague and somewhat defensive.
“What things?” he asked, a frown furrowing his brow. He very much feared that he knew the answer to that already.
She shrugged, as if it was of little importance. “This thing that Lavinia and Rupert want—we need to strike a bargain with them and for that to happen we must have something to bargain with.
Michael sighed heavily, leaning back into the pillows propping him up. It was a disastrous move on their part. “If it were that simple, I would have simply given them the bloody thing myself, Abigail! They don't just want the item... Rupert wants you. Whatever ritual it is that he feels compelled to complete, he means for you to be a part of it! And if not you, then some other young, unsuspecting woman! They must be stopped before they hurt anyone else!”
She rose from the bed, pacing the room nervously. “Does that include you? Because this is the second time they've tried to kill you! I couldn't bear it—.”
The abruptness of her silence alerted him more than anything else to the fact that she'd already said things she hadn't intended to. Abigail, he had learned, kept her emotions quite guarded. It was something he understood all too well as he'd been guarding his own just as closely for decades.
“You couldn't bear it if what?” he prompted. He needed her to say it, to give him some inkling of what was going on inside her head, or heaven help him, in her heart.
She lifted her chin and spoke in a falsely dulcet tone. “If your arrogance and conceit were to continue their unfettered growth!”
He laughed in spite of himself, the sound fading on a wince. How the bloody hell could a bullet in his thigh make him hurt everywhere? “That isn't what you wanted to say... I know what you intended to say. You couldn't stand it if something were to happen to me.”
A noncommittal shrug preceded her response. “It doesn't matter.”
Michael held his hand out to her. “Come sit beside me. I can't chase after you and the closer you get to the door the more inclined I am to believe you mean to bolt.”
“Perhaps I do... For four days you were unconscious and now I can't get you to stop talking.” In spite of her grousing, she once again seated herself on the edge of the narrow bed, but this time she faced him.
When he'd been shot, before the blackness had claimed him, he'd thought of her, of things he should have said to her. His regret in that moment, when he'd thought death imminent, had not been for all the things he had done, but for the things he had yet to do, and for the life he would not have with her. She was his prickly and thorny rose, never allowing him to sway her with charm, but always demanding more of him, probing into the very recesses of his soul. It was something he'd resisted his entire life, and yet with her, it only seemed right.
“I've been saving up my words.” Hoping to prod her into opening up more, he added, “I understand how you feel, Abigail. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you either.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. We've had that discussion. I'm your wife, your responsibility as my husband is to see to my safety—.”
Seeing no other way to do it, Michael shut her up by kissing her. It was chaste enough as kisses went. He certainly wasn't capable of following through on anything more than that at the moment. Pulling back from her, he said firmly, “No.”
“No?”
“Well, in part, yes. But, tt isn't simply because you're my wife, Abigail... From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I could think of nothing else. You invaded my mind, tugged at my conscience and my consciousness in a way that no woman ever has.”
“I make you feel guilty?”
He laughed again, though it ended with another pained wince. “Not precisely. You make me want to be better... You make me want to be worthy of you, and that isn't something I've felt in a very long time.”
~*~*~
Abbi knew that it was probably a mistake, but she couldn't not ask the question. “Not since Melisande?”
Immediately his gaze shuttered and he pulled back. “I see Spencer has been very informative.”
Abbi skewered him with a glance. “Yes, he was... Because when he brought you here, half-dead and bleeding everywhere, the name you uttered was not mine... but hers.”
He still held her hand, his fingers laced with hers and his thumb tracing distracting circles of her the back of her hand. “It isn't like that. I was a child, and I loved her... With all the innocence and with the wholeheartedness that only a child can.”
It was lowering to be jealous of a long dead girl, and yet she was. That child who had suffered so still held a part of him that she never would. “And if she'd lived, you would have married her... and you would have been very happy with her.”
He didn't speak for the longest time, a pensive expression on his face. Finally, after those interminable minutes, he said, “Perhaps... That's something I cannot say. That future died with her, Abbi. Whether it would have fully matched the idyllic vision we all harbor is beyond my ability to guess.”
She spoke haltingly, the words bubbling up from her in fits and starts, and each one so agonizing to say. “I know shouldn't feel this way. Spencer told me what happened to her, and it's a horror that no one should have to endure. But, I feel like this—our marriage, if it can be called such a thing—will never be what you wanted, what you envisioned with her... and I know that this isn't a love match, regardless of what the gossips will say. I'm not a fool. But I had hoped that we would be happy with one another, eventually. Yet, I find myself wondering if you will ever be happy with anyone who isn't her.”
He tugged her closer, until they were eye to eye. “What I can say, unequivocally, is that I have no regrets about where I am now. I did love her, and we did not wed for the reasons others might guess at or gossip and I couldn't give a bloody damn what anyone says, regardless. I am here with you, because there is no place on this earth, or beyond, that I would rather be... Other than the murderous in-laws. But every couple has their struggles.”
At that, she laughed, but the sound gave way to a sob. “I'm so sorry for what they've done to you.”
He kissed her hands, each in turn. “I've done far worse to myself over the years... Now, down to the business at hand. How long has Spencer been gone?”
“He left three days ago. He should return tonight, I hope.”
“Good. Once he's here, he can help get me upstairs and we can give Mrs. Wolcot back her room... She likes me little enough already.”
Abbi leaned forward, her head resting against his bare chest. Hearing his voice, the gentle teasing that was simply part of his innate charm, those were the things she'd thought she might never experience again. The relief was overwhelming. It was that which prompted her to finally let go and to utter a truth that she had feared so profoundly. “I shouldn't say it. It gives you too much sway over me, but I thought you were dying and it nearly broke me—I love you.”
He stiffened beneath her, his muscles tensing for just a moment. Then his arms closed about her. “You had to steal the thunder and say it first, didn't you? I love you, Abigail, and I'll do everything in my power to keep us both very much alive.”
She closed her eyes tightly, an effort to keep her tears of relief at bay. It was what she'd longed for but had feared to hope. It was not guarantee of a happy ending, however, but it certainly upped the stakes. “What do we do now?”
“I'm hardly recovered enough for the activities that would normally follow such an admission, but if we're creative enough—.”
“Be serious! I meant about Lavinia and Rupert!” she protested.
“Were you aware that Rupert has consumption?”
Abbi gasped. “No. He had a lung ailment a few years ago, but he went to Bath with Lavinia and they took the cure. They both claimed he was fully recovered!”
He shook his head. “They lied or were mistaken. I've seen signs of it, but until the night of the house party, I didn't know for certain. He has numerous medications and remedies on hand for it. Then there's his cough... And he's thin, Abbi. Painfully so. If you look at his face and hands, a good tailor can only camouflage so much,” Michael explained. “There is no man more dangerous than one staring death in the face. He has little enough to lose.”
“And Lavinia?”
Michael shrugged. “I've seen no signs of illness in her, but she's mad. Completely so, though, apparently she has been thus for some time.”
“There is certainly truth in that. I fear she's only grown worse over the years... Rupert has fostered that madness in her, cultivating it to degrees I'd never imagined.”
“We will wait for Spencer to return,” Michael suggested, “And when I am well enough, we will deal with this. In the meantime, we will stay to the house and not put ourselves or anyone else in harm's way. Agreed?”
Abbi nodded against his chest. “Yes. Agreed.”
“I do love you... And as soon I can, I mean to show you.”
“You've already shown me!” she protested with a blush.
He smiled and held her closer. “There is always more, love. Always. We've merely scratched the surface!”
~*~*~
It was another two days before Spencer returned, knocking heavily upon the doors of Blagdon Hall at nearly midnight. He looked worse for wear, road-weary and covered with dirt. Abbi met him in the great hall. “Thank goodness you've returned!”
Spencer sank down onto one of the hard chairs, clearly exhausted. “How is he?”
Abbi smiled. “More cooperative when he was feverish and bedridden. Now, he's up and making a nuisance of himself.”
Spencer dropped his head into his hands. “He'll bloody well kill me for this.”
“I told him,” Abbi confessed. “I told him that I sent you for it and why. If you're up to it, you can go see him. He's still awake and brooding in the library.”
Spencer moved toward the library with trepidation.. As he neared the door, he paused, taking a deep breath, before knocking and entering in one smooth motion. Upon entering, he said the first thing that came to mind. “It was not my idea.”
Michael was seated at the desk, dressed in a pair of breeches and a shirt. He leveled an unyielding stare at him. “It wasn't a good idea regardless of its origin. The thing they want, the thing that will make the ritual they want Abigail for a possibility, is now within their reach.”
Spencer stepped deeper into the room, and seated himself on an ottoman before the fire. He was tired, filthy and needed a bath in the worst of ways. “Initially, I tried to dissuade her. But I believe that she is right, Michael—Hear me out!” he said as his friend began to interrupt him. “Lavinia and Rupert are growing more desperate by the minute. This may be the only way to get them to show their hand and to finally gain some advantage. They've been one step ahead of us all along because they've been making up the rules. This will change things.”
Michael shook his head, rising from his chair, he leaned heavily on a cane. “But at what cost?”
Spencer shrugged, “I cannot say. But for now, we keep it quiet and say nothing until you are fully recovered, or near it at least. Then, we may strike a devil's bargain with them.”
Michael grimaced as he moved, obviously in pain. “I don't like it. Why haven't they acted? I've been a bloody invalid for a week and yet they have done nothing. What are they waiting for?”
“I think I have the answer to that,” Abbi said, standing in the doorway and holding a piece of rolled parchment. “I didn't want to say anything until you were feeling better and until Spencer had returned. The day that you were injured—.”
“Nearly murdered,” Spencer corrected.
“Just so,” Abbi concurred. “I found the map. It was hidden in an armoire on the third floor, behind a false back.”
“Let me see it,” Michael said.
Abbi moved forward and presented it to Michael, who unfurled it carefully with her help. Using objects littered on the desktop, he weighted the corners to hold it in place.
“It's a very strange map,” she explained. “The landmarks are easily recognizable, but there are no roads in Blagdon to match what they have documented.”
Michael studied the map for a moment, puzzled, then he cursed. “They aren't roads... The perspective is off on the drawing, but if I'm not mistaken, these appear to be passages or tunnels that are underground.”
Abbi frowned and then exclaimed, “Oh! The mines!”
Spencer shook his head, “There is no mining in this community. Or at least I have seen no evidence of it. It's all farmers!”
“Well, not now there isn't. But there used to be,” Abbi stated. “Salt mining was a staple of life here, but over time the caverns and mine shafts became too unstable to be viable. There were collapses and accidents, one after the other. It became so fraught with danger that they couldn't find workers willing to risk it, so the mining company simply abandoned Blagdon for other areas.”
“How long ago was this?” Michael asked, his gaze focused intently on one particular area of the map.
Abbi thought for a moment before answering. “It was at least seventy years ago. My father had told me about it when I was a child because I had wandered into one of the caverns just off the beach beneath the Hall. He warned me of the dangers and briefly described the history... If I'm not mistaken, Rupert's grandfather was involved with the mining company. He'd invested heavily in it and lost a large chunk of his fortune when the mines here failed.”
“So there's something down there that they want... the question remains, what is it?” Spencer asked.
Michael shifted his weight, wincing as he did so.
“Be careful,” Abbi scolded. “You'll reopen the wound!”
“No. It's fine. Just a bit stiff from laying about for so long,” he replied. “Can you turn up the lamp?”
Abbi did so, moving it to the edge of the desk where he could see better.
Michael pointed to a spot on the map. “There appears to be an underground spring or well, here.” The writing beside it was small and difficult to read. Squinting, he managed to make it out. “The Spring of Bacchus.”
“If that is what they are looking for,” Abbi said, “I don't know how they mean to access it. From what my father told me, those tunnels are horribly unstable. Even the slightest disturbance could be catastrophic.”
Michael glanced at Spencer. “If you were dying, would you risk it?”
Spencer shrugged. “If I were dying, it wouldn't be much of a risk at all.”
“Precisely,” Michael agreed. “With Rupert's illness, he has nothing left to lose, Abigail. That is why he is so dangerous... and your stepsister—.”
“I know what Lavinia is,” she said. “For a long time, I didn't want to believe that she was so utterly without conscience, but I know that now. How do we stop them?”
“We don't,” Michael stated firmly. He took the package Spencer had placed on the desk, unwrapping the ancient cup. It was large, the metal pocked in places, but the explicit carvings on the side still very clear. “We won't give them the chalice... But if they want this map and the death that will accompany it, so be it. Tomorrow morning, you will leave for London with Spencer.”
“Absolutely not,” she replied. “You are not well enough to face them alone!”
Spencer hoisted himself up from the ottoman. “She's right. You're too slow right now, too weakened from your injury. If you attempt to face them, you'll die... So tomorrow, you and Abigail will leave for London and I will arrange a meeting with the Whitby's in a public place. I will arrange a drop for the map, and follow you to London.”
“I can't allow you to do that,” Michael insisted. “You have no way of knowing how vicious these people really are.”
“On the contrary. I carted your bleeding arse through those woods, didn't I? I'm quite well aware... But they have no quarrel with me. I have not snubbed them, nor have I taken from them something that they wanted.”
Abbi clutched at Michael's arm. “Please listen to him. You can't do this now. Not yet.”
“Fine,” he agreed. “We all leave for London tomorrow and then we send word to them of where to find the map. Maybe they'll get themselves buried in those bloody tunnels and save us the effort.”
“I'll go pack.”
After she had left, Spencer spoke. “You know they won't just let us all leave here. They had someone watching the house, Michael.”
“Did you see them?”
Spencer shook his head. “I didn't have to. I could feel it.”
Michael didn't question that. During the war, Spencer had an uncanny knack for such things. “Why the hell wasn't your sixth sense firing in the woods a week ago?”
Spencer shrugged, “I imagine because I wasn't their target.”
Michael sighed. “So we leave tomorrow, or attempt to, armed to the teeth.”
Spencer sighed. “We need a contingency plan.”
“We fall back to the house at the first sign of danger and we send word to them that we're ready to negotiate.”
“Ambush?”
“I'm sure of it. Lavinia and Rupert will try every dirty trick they can... and Squire Blevins will be in the thick of it with them.”
“How many weapons do we have here?”
Michael sighed. “Not nearly enough.”
“You're not letting her go, are you?”
Michael laughed. “Not bloody likely. I'll convince her. I'll make her see reason... you and I will lead them away and she will remain safely here. I'll dispatch a letter to Rhys in the morning. He can come down in all his ducal fury and play the hero.”
Spencer nodded thoughtfully. “It might work. It might also get us all killed. Either way, best to end it. Now, go to your wife. I'll find that crone of a housekeeper and have her show me the store of weapons... I'll ready them for tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Spencer.”
“Don't thank me until we all get out of this alive.”
Michael left the library and climbed the stairs. He leaned heavily on the cane and by the time he reached the top, he was exhausted. It pained him to admit just how weak he still was, but it was a liability and would have to be addressed. Moving down the hall towards their chamber, he found Abbigail still placing items in her valise.
“I packed a few of your things, but you may want to see if there is anything else you'll need,” she said, pointing the small bag she'd already prepared for him.
“I'm sure it's fine. If not, I'll have whatever I need when we reach London.”
She paused, a chemise draped over her hands. “You say that is if you don't think we'll reach London.”
“I have my doubts. I expect that we'll meet with some sort of accident on the road that will force us to turn back. Or perhaps, we'll be set upon by armed bandits who will take you, the map and the chalice... So my plan is to have the map with me. The chalice hidden somewhere here and you locked up safely in this house..”
Abbi sat down on the edge of the bed. “I've brought you nothing but trouble since you met me.”
“You didn't bring this... Yes, you're related to it through no fault of your own, but Lavinia sent Allerton after me. She wanted me here because she wanted that chalice. I would be tangled up in this mess regardless,” he said, sinking down onto the bed beside her. Absentmindedly, he began to knead the muscles of his thigh that had tightened so painfully after climbing the stairs.
“Do you need anything for the pain? A few drops of laudanum?”
“No. I need a clear head,” he replied. “Also I have plans tonight that do not involve falling into a drugged sleep.”
“What plans?” she asked, placing the undergarment she'd been folding into the bag beside her.
He smiled. “Take off that gown and I'll show you.”
“Michael! You know that you can't! If that wound reopens—.”
He kissed her, his mouth firmly over hers. Her lips parted beneath the pressure and he slipped his tongue inside. Slow, languorous strokes, gliding gently in before retreating to play at the soft plump curves of her lips. When he pulled back, she was breathless.
“I hate it when you do that!” she cried.
“Really?” he asked, with one arched brow.
“I can't think!” she protested.
“Then perhaps I should do it again,” he said with a chuckle. Even as he leaned toward her, she placed a hand in the center of his chest, halting his progress.
“You cannot do this now! You'll injure yourself!”
“It will be worth it,” he said. “But what if I can promise you that I won't?”
“I would say that is a promise you cannot keep!”
He chuckled again. “Ye of little faith and little imagination.”
She eyed him dubiously for a moment. “Fine. How?”
“Take off that gown and I will demonstrate to our mutual delight.”
“You really could tempt the devil.”
“As long as I can tempt you, I'll be content,” he replied, even as he tugged at the laces of her gown. He smiled again when she brushed his hands away and took over the task. Watching Abbigail remove her clothes, watching the blush that still colored her skin as she revealed herself to him, was a joy in and of itself. When finally she stood before him, divested of everything but her chemise, he tugged her forward and onto the bed with him.
When she was lying on her side, he moved behind her. Pressing his chest to her back, he allowed his greedy hands free rein. They moved over lush, supple flesh with determination. One hand played at her breasts, teasing her nipples to taut aching peaks while the other hand stroked her thighs with slow, drugging caresses.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked.
“I'm not. I'm passably pretty at best,” she replied.
He chuckled. “You would argue anything with me, wouldn't you?”
“Only when you say such foolish things!” she chided.
“Hardly foolish,” he said. “First, there are your legs... long, smooth, supple and yet so strong when you wrap them around me.”
“The things you say!” she protested again, but her voice held a breathlessness that told him she was hardly unmoved.
“And your hips,” he continued. “This curve, that fits my hands so perfectly, that all I can think of when I look at them is having my hands on you, of having you naked before me while I explore every treasure your body has to offer.” As he said it, he trailed his hands over that curve, tracing the arc of her hip bone, before trailing his hands further, to her lush, rounded bottom.
“And if I were a poet, I would write a sonnet to this,” he said, punctuating the statement by gripping one cheek firmly, squeezing it as she squealed in protest.
“You are too wicked for words!” She slapped at his hand, but he could hear the amusement beneath her scandalized tone.
“Shall I continue to enumerate all the many parts of you that I find to be perfection?” he asked. “Or should I simply show you?” Even as he said, his hand was once again traveling, this time sliding between her silken thighs to tease the soft curls at her mound. “Part your thighs for me, Abbi.”
She did, opening to him eagerly, as greedy for the pleasure as he was. They had both been too long denied. Slipping one finger between those damp folds, he moved unerringly to that tiny nub of flesh that would have her gasping and writhing. Stroking it gently, teasing her to a fevered pitch, he savored every cry, ever soft moan that parted her lips. Kissing her shoulder, he deepened that caress, moving lower to press his fingers deep inside her. She cried out, her flesh clutching tightly around him.
Unable to deny himself the pleasure any longer, he hastily unfastened his breeches. Draping one of her legs over his, he entered her from behind as she shuddered.
“Michael!” she cried out.
With his hand still stroking her deftly, he moved inside her. Gently flexing his hips, he pressed deeper, and then withdrew just a bit, only to repeat it again. One of her hands tangled in the sheets, clenching the fabric so tightly that her knuckles went white. Her other hand clutched at his wrist, holding his hand to her as if he might stop.
It was not the fast and furious couplings that they had so frequently engaged in. Limited by his injury, it was slower and infinitely more gentle, but nonetheless powerful. Perhaps it was the sense of impending doom, the idea that the encroaching danger had somehow placed limits on their time together. But as he surged into her again and again, her body opening to accept him each time, it felt like nothing he'd ever experienced.
He felt her body tighten, her muscles tensing as she climbed toward the peak of her pleasure. He kissed her neck, her ear, and whispered hotly against her, “There is nothing more beautiful, more precious to me than you are.”
She shattered then, her belly quivering as her flesh tightened around him, the rhythmic pulsing of her pleasure luring him to his own climax. Holding her tightly, Michael shuddered as his release claimed him.
Even after the quaking of his body had subsided, after the sweat had dried on their skin, he held her as if he meant to never let her go.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “Spencer and I will leave here, but you will stay behind, with as many locked doors between you and the outside world as possible.”
“Michael, you can't expect me—.”
“I do expect it. I am already at a disadvantage. I don't have the speed or agility at this time to look after us both, and Spencer, skilled as he is at combat, cannot take care of us both... I'm sending a letter to Rhys in the morning asking him to come for you, in case... If it should be necessary.”
“I don't want to be separated from you.”
“I don't want it either, but it's the only way I can think of to keep you safe. We can lure them out into the open and perhaps, put an end to all of this... This is what we did, Abbi. During the war, Spencer, Rhys and I, we didn't just fight on the battlefield. It was all strategy and misdirection. Rupert and Lavinia will not believe that I left you alone here... They will come after the carriage and Spencer and I can take care of them.”
“I don't like it. I could help you.”
“You already have. More than you can know. Please do as I ask... Trust me in this.”
She snuggled against him, “I do trust you. And I'll agree to this, but if you don't come back to me—.”
“I will... I promise,” he said, and prayed fervently that it would be a promise he could keep.