The Redemption of a Rogue (Dark Regency Book 2) (8 page)

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.

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.

Abbi 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 stretched tightly over 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.”

Abbi blushed. “It’s a bit indecent, as well.”

It was. The fabric stretched taut around her hips, revealing far 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, Abbi 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 roughed legs against her smooth ones, 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 scoundrel the gossipmongers described, 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 Abbi 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, Abbi 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, and yet never once had he been linked to the ruin of an innocent. 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; Abbi 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 inebriated state? 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.

Abbi 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 Rupert and Lavinia's home with their relationship not fully bound in the eyes of the law was too dangerous, by far.

Answering her question as succinctly as possible, he said, “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 professors at Cambridge. Why, when, where, who—it was endless! “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?”

“What should we talk about then?” Abbi asked though she was fairly certain she knew what his answer would be. The lazy strokes of his hands, soothing at first, had taken on a very different tone. They had become more insistent, more deliberately arousing. Even as the thought entered her mind, his hands were sliding over her ribs and up to her breasts.

“I don’t think we should talk at all,” he said. “I want to make love to you, and regardless of any nervousness you may feel, I believe you want that too.”

There was no denying it. He was right. She had wanted him the night before, when the Gray Lady had warned them, before they had rescued Sarah. After watching the way he had cared for Sarah—his gentleness with her, his fierce anger at what had happened to her—Abbi only wanted him more.

With a boldness that surprised them both, she turned in his arms, coming to face him, and pressed her lips against his. It was the first time she had ever initiated a kiss between them, and while her efforts were slightly clumsy, they were also greatly appreciated.

Michael’s response was immediate. He claimed her mouth hungrily in return; tasting and teasing her until they were both breathless. His clever hands were at her breasts, delving beneath the thin fabric of the simple shirt she wore.

The sensation of his fingertips moving so skillfully over her tender flesh, cupping and shaping the softness of her breasts while artfully teasing the furled peaks, had her straining toward him. She cried out softly, the sound lost in a kiss.

When he pulled his mouth from hers, and trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses over her neck and down to her breasts, she moaned. Her hands threaded into the silken hair at the nape of his neck, holding him to her. The intensity of her desire for him, the rapid ascent of passion should have frightened her. It would have frightened her had she not been robbed entirely of the ability to think. She could do nothing but feel and revel in the sensual onslaught.