Cheryl Holt (16 page)

Without speaking, they dressed and prepared to exit. The woman donned her cloak, then delayed to carefully inspect him.

“Will you be all right?” she gently interrogated.

“Of course.”

“You have another appointment scheduled at two. Will you keep it?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll need to think about it.”

Evidently cognizant of his dark secrets, she assessed him scrupulously, then ultimately admitted, “I hate seeing you like this.”

“I’m fine.”

“You could come to me later.”

“I won’t.”

“My door will be unlocked. Just in case.” Sighing, she brushed another kiss across his lips, then swirled away and was gone.

Michael sat on the edge of the bed, his head down, arms on his thighs. Regret weighed heavily; Sarah could sense it as clearly as if he was articulating aloud.

Whatever foul incident had driven him to Bedford, with its hidden room, and the decadent females with whom he philandered, he found no solace. Not even the present encounter, and a lover he obviously cherished, brought contentment.

Sarah spied on him for as long as she could tolerate the scene, when it dawned on her that she had to find him. She
couldn’t allow him to debase himself with another paramour. He had to abandon his plans for a subsequent tryst.

Without pausing to reflect, or to heed his warnings about the nocturnal proceedings in the house, she grabbed a cloak and a candle, then crept to the door and peeked out. The corridor was dim and deserted, and she tiptoed away.

She was going to locate that accursed secret room if she had to tear the mansion apart brick by brick!

At the end of her own hallway, she commenced her investigation by feeling along the walls, the floorboards. She even tugged at a window and poked her head out, wondering if there was an exterior stairwell, but no entrance was discovered. Retreating to the stairs, she descended to the second floor.

As she started down, she thought she might have heard a door shutting, and she glanced over her shoulder, but there was no one behind her.

Hesitating, she was overcome by the strongest sensation that someone had been lurking and awaiting the moment she would leave her room. Which was nonsense. She’d only been at the party for a limited time, had hardly met any of the guests, and it was after midnight. Who would expect that she might be up? That she might be roaming about?

Still, with those devious musings swirling, the shadows seemed inordinately sinister. Hurrying to the next landing, she was certain a footfall sounded behind her, and she tarried again, listening, but no one approached.

Chastising herself for being foolish, she went directly to the rear of the passageway and persisted with her examination. As she passed bedchambers, no light emanated, yet in one, a woman moaned. In another, a man was groaning as if in repressed pain. The noises were unnatural, and made her flinch nervously.

It’s just the dark, playing tricks
.

She’d always detested the dark. The fear had blossomed after her mother’s funeral, when she’d been a tiny girl. Night terrors had originated and had never completely disappeared
but, as she was now an adult, she refused to have the old dread ruling her behavior.

Noticing no dubious signs that she had company, she returned to the landing, determined to proceed to the first floor, just as a man emerged out of the stairwell, impeding her progress. Fleetingly, she conjectured that it might be Michael but, as he neared, she could instantly ascertain that it wasn’t he. The interloper was shorter, wider across the middle, and he smelled different.

Wary, she moved back, and her heart pounded as he moved with her. She narrowed her eyes, seeking evidence that might help her distinguish who he was, but nothing about him seemed familiar.

“Good evening, Lady Sarah,” he crooned softly.

A chill ran down her spine. Her hood was in place. But for her candle, the area was black as pitch. How had he guessed her identity?

“You’ve mistaken me for another, sir.” She ventured to elude him by shifting toward the steps, but he effectively blocked her escape either up or down.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” His words seemed full of furtive significance and purpose. “Ever since you arrived, I’ve been waiting.”

“I have no idea to what you refer. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Struggling to seem brave and in control of the situation, she shoved at him, but he was large and immovable.

“So . . . that’s your game.” He chuckled menacingly. “You act the innocent most credibly. Well, I enjoy it, too. We’ll have some enormous fun, you and I.”

Abruptly, he pinned her against the wall, circling her waist and binding her arms at her sides, and her candle dropped and flickered out. Their positions were angled so that her body was stretched out, her breasts mashed to his. Disgustingly, he’d insinuated his thigh between her own, and he pressed at her core, rocking toward her in a foul rhythm.

“Release me, or I’ll scream.”

He pushed her hood off her head and jerked his fingers
through her hair. “I don’t mind a little commotion.”

“I’ll call for help,” she threatened.

“But you shouldn’t expect anyone to come to your aid. Should others happen by, I’m quite sure they’ll delight in the spectacle. There are several here who’d love to watch while I give it to Scarborough’s little sister.”

His vulgar breath swept over her cheek, and he covered her mouth, muzzling her, as he reached under her wrap and fondled her breast. Wildly, she battled against his abominable groping, but he was too big, and she was obstructed by his excessive bulk.

“Such a pretty, pretty girl.” His fingers fumbled with her skirts and began inching them up.

Sarah bit him as hard as she could, but she didn’t have sufficient leverage to inflict significant damage. Still, he momentarily loosened his hold.

“Help!” she shouted just as he gagged her, again. He leaned nearer, his mouth at her ear, his hand laboring to insinuate itself between her legs.

“You like it rough, do you? Excellent.”

Michael stepped through the secret door and into the pantry. A candle had been left in a holder for him, and he thought about lighting it but, after glancing out into the kitchens, he deemed it unnecessary. The moon was high, shining in the windows, and he could easily make his way.

He commenced down the lengthy corridor, leaving the serving facilities and proceeding toward the more social sections of the house. Passing the library, he paused and observed—unnoticed and unseen—the decadent revelry going on inside.

Pamela contributed the site for all of them to act out their lewd fantasies, but she never joined in, and he wondered if she realized the undignified level to which her parties sank in the dark of night. Early in the morning, her competent, efficient staff cleaned and tidied, affording no clue that anything indecorous had occurred. Perhaps she wasn’t aware of how rashly events were wont to spiral.

Heavy, pungent smoke from a Chinese pipe swirled through the room, painting a grotesque, unreal scene. Two women were naked and embracing on one of the sofas while several gentlemen watched. The men were in a state of half-dress, and one of them walked over and began fondling, then fucking, the woman who was on top. Another man rose and mixed with the trio, taking the second woman in her mouth. Roughly, he proffered more of his cock than she could tolerate, but she was inebriated, lethargic, and thus compliant to his demands.

Michael stared, as did the others, as though it was the most common of sights. The four lovers were degenerately
displayed, a ribald tableau of sex and sin that appealed to the onlookers’ base desires.

How had his life sunk to such an appalling low? He’d exposed himself to degradation for so long that his moral compass was broken.

When had he become this callous and detached? He—who had formerly carried on with such fierce enthusiasm—could only scrutinize with an abstract, isolated disinterest.

The man came in the woman’s mouth, holding her down until she swallowed, then he removed his wilting phallus and straightened his trousers while his companion continued to saw away between the thighs of the other woman. The male audience was laughing, spewing crude remarks, as a third man decided to sample of the orifice that had just been filled to overflowing, and Michael departed, unable to further bear the spectacle.

At the main foyer, he climbed the grand staircase, feeling unclean, sullied, and craving a bath. From past experience, he appreciated that the hot water would wash the taint on his body, but it would do little to cleanse the stains on his soul.

He was just about to reach the landing on the second floor, when he was jolted by a woman’s soft cry of alarm. Her plea was cut off before the word
help
could be completely uttered.

Crude and harsh, a man’s voice followed. “You like it rough, do you? Excellent.”

A couple was struggling, their clothing in stark outline against the white of the wall. He could smell the odor of strong drink on the man’s breath, and an earthy, familiar, unmistakable scent emanating from the woman. A sensation of inevitable destiny surged over him, and he sighed, then rushed to the pair, grabbed the man and, with hardly any effort, flung him aside.

“What the devil!” the scoundrel muttered as he stumbled to his knees.

Shielding Sarah from the man’s furious regard, Michael inserted himself between them and glared at the cowering
nobleman, recognizing him as one of the scores of debauched rakes of the
ton
who enjoyed the excuse to inflict himself on unsuspecting women.

“Good evening, Brigham,” he menacingly articulated.

“Stevens!” Brigham griped. “I might have guessed.” Wobbling, he rose to his feet, striving for bravado as he spat out, “Bastard!”

“Careful now,” Michael cautioned. “Don’t forget how much money you owe me. I might decide to call in your markers.” He moved closer. “You’ve upset the lady. Apologize.”

Brigham scoffed as if Sarah was a whore. “Bloody asshole, why don’t you mind your own damned business?”

Brigham was a coward and a bully, so if he’d exhibit any sort of bluster, he was abundantly foxed. Michael clutched the front of his shirt and yanked him up, showering him with a close-up view of blazing temper.

“Last chance,” he threatened.

Despite Brigham’s level of intoxication, he possessed enough of his wits to recall Michael’s pugilistic abilities, and he grasped that Michael was ready to tear him to pieces. Tentatively, he eased back, hastily shedding his confrontational mien.

“I apologize, milady.”

The supplication was lukewarm, and he didn’t so much as glance in Sarah’s direction, but Michael let the slight pass. Later on, he’d deal with the contemptible swine. For now, he had to get Sarah back to the safety of her room.

“I’m positive you mistook her for another. Isn’t that right?”

“Absolutely,” Brigham concurred.

“You’ve got exactly five seconds to disappear.” Michael hurled Brigham toward the stairs. “One . . . two . . .”

Michael’s skills as a brawler were renowned, so Brigham needed no second warning. He scurried away like the rat he was. Michael waited until he’d vanished, then he turned, the voluminous force of his concentration falling on Sarah.

Brigham was notable in his reputation for violent and obscene fornications, and Michael shuddered at what might have happened. Why was the insane female wandering the halls? Did she think he was joking in his admonitions?

“Who was that loathsome individual?” she inquired, possessing a mere inkling of her usual vigor. She was trembling and distressed, but blessedly, appeared uninjured.

“Be silent!” he tersely counseled, as he tucked her hood over her auburn curls and clutched her arm. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Lest they encounter other guests, he spurred her along, scanning alcoves and doorways, but no one witnessed their passing. Briskly, he wound them through the maze of corridors until they arrived at their own secluded wing of the mansion, and he ushered her to her door, his lips pressed to her ear. “Go inside and secure the lock. I’ll be with you momentarily.”

Without affording her the opportunity for debate or dissent, he pushed her through the portal and shut it behind. Pausing until the lock clicked, he shook his head in dismay over the predicament in which she’d deposited them.

Didn’t she comprehend that he’d have to call Brigham to account for his behavior?

He prowled around the corner and entered his own bedchamber, advancing to the door that separated their suites. Since his initial foray into her territory, he’d kept it barred, a signal to himself that he dare not submit to another rendezvous with the exotic meddler. Jerking it open, he sped through to her main sleeping chamber, first taking a quick inventory to assure himself that the peephole he’d previously blocked remained covered, then he marched over to her in the center of the room.

“What were you thinking, being unescorted like that?” He quizzed her softly, in case anyone was strolling by.

The hood of her cloak was down, and she quavered slightly. She looked young, confused, lost.

“He knew who I was.” She was baffled and perplexed by the information. “He followed me.”

“Of course he did!” He seized her by the shoulders, but handling her was a mistake. As if he’d burned his hands, he instantly dropped them. “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? About this gathering? About these people?”

“He wanted to have his way with me; because of my brother.”

Michael could barely force the question past his clenched teeth. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. There wasn’t time.”

She shivered with distaste and, to his horror, tears welled into her pretty eyes. In his ragged state, he’d failed to reflect on how overwhelmed she’d be. He’d only contemplated his own frenzied reaction. Not hers. Very likely, she was stunned to the core, yet he was reproaching and scolding her as though she was a child. It seemed a madman had invaded his body, but he’d just been so upset at witnessing her abuse.

What if he hadn’t chanced by? What then?