Sally MacKenzie Bundle (260 page)

“Ah, very good, dear. I think you are likely correct.” Maria dropped the blanket back into place and smiled at Stephen. “Thomas suggests you might try Baron Sambleton’s house in Richmond.”

“Sambleton? I thought he was forced to go abroad after Lord Dashling’s daughter was discovered with him at an orgy in that house.”

“Yes, and he’s still abroad,” Maria said. “But he left Brentwood a key to the place, so he could host smaller gatherings from time to time or use it for his own private enjoyment.”

“Splendid.” Stephen knew exactly where to find that house. Last year he’d gone with Baron Tynweith to see if Sambleton’s parties were as bad as they were rumored to be. They were, and he and Tynweith had left quickly. Funny how straight-laced Tynweith had become now that he was a husband and father. “I will be on my way then and let you and young Puddington get back to what you were doing when I so rudely interrupted.”

“Thank you,” Maria said. “And I do wish you luck, Stephen.”

“And thank you for not telling Mama,” the lump said.

Stephen closed the bedroom door and ran down the stairs. He paused for a moment to dash off a note to Damian, asking him to meet him at Sambleton’s house. Damian would be an excellent ally if Brentwood proved difficult.

“Send someone running to deliver this to Lord Kenderly, if you please, Wentwood,” he told Maria’s butler as he strode out of the house. He threw a coin to the stable boy holding his horse and leapt into the saddle.

He could make it to Sambleton’s in less than half an hour going cross country. The carriage had a good start on him, but, if he pushed his horse, he should arrive only shortly after it. At least he hoped so.

Anne’s well-being might depend on it.

“Milord, ye promised us our coin when we delivered the gentry mort.” The unpleasant man who’d shared the coach with Anne spoke with bravado, but Anne thought she heard a thread of fear in his voice. Clearly, he would not defend her against Brentwood.

“Very well. Hold her while I get my purse.”

Brentwood shoved her into the man’s grasp. Anne screamed as loudly as she could.

“Feel free to muffle her,” Brentwood said.

“She bites.”

“Does she now?” Brentwood looked her over, making her flesh crawl. She screamed again. “Well, she’ll soon tire of making a racket. It’s not as if anyone but us can hear her.” He pulled out his purse and extracted a few coins. “Here you go.”

The man holding her pushed her back into Brentwood’s grasp and counted the money.

“Is it all there, Ned?” the coachman shouted down from his perch on the box.

“Aye.” Ned tied the coins in a dirty handkerchief and leapt up to join his companion. As soon as his arse touched the seat, the coach thundered away down the drive.

“And now, Lady Anne,” Brentwood said, smiling in a most revolting manner, “time for a little fun, hmm?”

He had his hands wrapped firmly around her upper arms, but if she was going to escape, she’d best make her attempt now before he managed to drag her into the house. She jerked her knee up, but he’d anticipated that move. He blocked her with his thigh.

“Tsk, tsk, my love. That’s not very polite, is it?” He chuckled, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “You were much more eager for me in Gedding’s garden, but no matter. I like a bit of a struggle before I have my prize.”

“You are disgusting.”

“Perhaps. Do come inside now.” He jerked her toward the front door. “I may as well tell you there are no servants to look to for help. It is just you and me, my dear.”

Anne dragged her feet, trying to slow her forward progress. “I thought you were giving me to the end of the week. That was our bargain.”

“Regretfully, I don’t have until the end of the week. I leave England on tonight’s tide, right after I have my wicked way with you.”

Her damn heart leapt into her throat. She couldn’t afford to panic, least of all now. They were almost to the door. Brentwood might be ten years older than he’d been at Baron Gedding’s and have let himself go to fat, but he was still stronger than she. She could not stop him.

“You may have a terrible reputation, but I’ve never heard you abducted your bedmates.”

He shrugged. “There’s always a first time.”

“You won’t be able to show your face in society ever again.”

“I won’t be in England to care, my dear.”

She tried one last time to jerk herself free. “Mr. Parker-Roth will save me.”

“Oh, I doubt that. This isn’t my house; I can’t see how he could guess I’ve brought you here.”

He swung open the door and hauled her into the entryway. “I’d intended to hold you for ransom,” he said, almost conversationally. “Parker-Roth has all my blasted vowels, you know. But upon further reflection, I concluded he and his powerful friends and relatives would make my life hell as long as I remained in England. So if I had to say farewell to my native shores, I might as well soil them quite thoroughly first.” He grinned horridly. “And I shall oh so thoroughly enjoy getting my revenge on your bloody betrothed.”

He slammed the door closed behind them, locking it and slipping the key into his waistcoat pocket. “I do wish I could stay to watch him struggle with what I’m leaving him, though. He’s so damned honorable, I wager he won’t put you aside, but he’ll have to wait to have you to see if my seed has taken hold.” He chuckled. “Or, even better, if he’s sown in your field since last I saw you—you
were
absent from Palmerson’s do last night and he left early—he’ll spend his life wondering if his firstborn is his . . . or mine.” He laughed. “Oh, I do hope it’s a boy.”

“You can’t do . . . that to me.” Anne wasn’t above lying. “I have my courses.”

“Do you?” He shrugged. “That’s not a problem—I’m not especially fastidious.”

Anne looked away from him and finally noticed her surroundings. Dear heavens! There were manacles hanging from the walls and a basket of what looked like whips where an umbrella stand should be. “What is this place?”

“Have you heard of Lord Sambleton?”

“No.”

“No, I suppose you haven’t. I’d forgotten you were such a country mouse. This is his house—he used to give wonderful parties here.”

Anne could not imagine a wonderful party that included manacles and whips.

“His house is quite delightful. Would you like a tour?”

“No, thank you.”

Brentwood laughed. “That was a rhetorical question, my sweet. Come along.” He pulled her into a large room that looked somewhat like the harem room at Crane House, except the walls were covered with mirrors instead of paint or paper—and the obscene statuary was larger and more abundant. She stumbled over the edge of a carpet and reached out to steady herself, grabbing hold of a long, smooth—

“Eep !”

“Like that, do you?”

Anne shook her head. She stared at the enormous penis and the statue of Pan to which it was attached.

“I gave that to Sambleton. Got it from Griffin after Lord Wolfson died. Griffin had scores of them, and with Wolfson gone—” He shrugged. “Not that it makes a difference to you. I had it affixed to this pedestal so it wouldn’t tip over—the huge cock makes it a bit unstable.”

Anne thought an organ that size would make anyone unstable.

“The ladies are especially fond of it. The cock twists off”—Brentwood dropped his hold on her to remove Pan’s member—“and makes a splendid dildo.”

She’d never heard the term, but she could guess its meaning as Brentwood flourished the phallus under her nose.

“It is too bad Sambleton had to flee to the Continent. His gatherings were so . . . stimulating. They were almost as good as Griffin’s—would have been better, but Sambleton wouldn’t allow animals in the house.”

Anne hoped she wasn’t following Brentwood’s meaning. She began to edge as stealthily as she could toward the door.

“All these couches were covered with naked men and women in all possible combinations and positions. It was a rare sight to behold.”

“I’m sure.” Anne took another step closer to escape. The front door was locked, but there must be another exit.

“We will have to imagine it while we—or at least while I do my poor best to recreate the proper licentious atmosphere.” He grinned. “I will begin by divesting you of that lovely outfit.”

“No!”

Brentwood’s grin turned darker. “Will I have to chase you and strip you? That could be fun.”

He would have to if she couldn’t come up with a better plan. “No, I mean why do I have to go first? I think it would be much more exciting if you shed your clothing before me.” She swallowed and tried to sound enthusiastic. “I can’t wait to see you naked.”

Brentwood’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“Really.” Anne swallowed again and hoped she wouldn’t choke on the lie. “I’m sure your . . . appendage must be so much more impressive than Pan’s.”

He looked at the disembodied penis in his hand. “Well . . .”

“It certainly felt more impressive in Baron Gedding’s garden.”

“Thought about our tryst often, have you?”

“Daily.” Unfortunately, that was not a lie.

“You gave me the very distinct impression—flat out said it, I believe—that you weren’t interested in repeating the experience.”

Anne shrugged. She would lie until her tongue shriveled up and her nose grew as long as Pan’s member if it would save her from Brentwood. “I was betrothed to Mr. Parker-Roth—what else could I say?”

“Hmm.”

“I’m not an idiot; I realize you have me trapped. I may as well enjoy the encounter.”

“Well . . .”

“And as you say, this room is quite inspiring.”

“True.” Brentwood grinned. “I believe women are more randy than men by nature, you know. You are not the first one to be overtaken by lust here. Quite amusing, really, how the most meek and proper miss becomes a lusty, panting fornicator with the right stimulus. And you do have the hair—and perhaps the soul—of a whore.” He gave her a speculative look. “Hot for me, are you?”

“Oh, yes.”
May God—and Stephen—forgive her.
“I am desperate to see you naked. You kept all your clothes on last time.”

“So I did. I trust you will give me some good bed play if I humor you?”

Anne nodded. The bile rising in her throat precluded speech.

“Very well, I will grant you this boon.” He began to unbutton his coat. “I think Parker-Roth must have had you last night. Did he teach you some amusing tricks? I will want you to show me them all.”

“Of course.”

Brentwood removed his coat and waistcoat. She was tempted to bolt when he had his shirt up over his head, but she made herself stand where she was and try to look expectant.

His chest was nothing like Stephen’s. It was pasty white with thick black hair that covered it like a rug and appeared to continue on over his back. If he had any muscles, they were well hidden. His belly, not his erection, strained against his breeches.

He opened his fall and his pitiful male organ flopped out, dwarfed by his stomach. How could that little thing have hurt so much?

She tensed. In a moment . . .

He got his breeches down to his knees—and realized he’d forgotten to take off his boots.

She took off running.

“Hey, you—ack!”

There was a delightfully solid thud behind her—Brentwood must have hit the floor—and then a stream of curses.

She checked the front door quickly, just in case a miracle had occurred, but sadly, it was indeed locked.

“I’ll get you, you bitch.”

She glanced behind her—Brentwood was rolling around on the floor, trying to get his clothing to rights. She picked up her skirts and ran again.

She tried every window she came to—they were all shut tight. Lord Sambleton’s staff was to be commended; they had closed the house up exceedingly well when the man took off for the Continent.

Perhaps she would have more luck in the kitchen. There must be a door there.

“Tally-ho!” The cry rang through the hall. Brentwood must have untangled himself from his clothing.

She fled to the back of the house. Yes, here was the kitchen with . . . a securely locked door. Damnation. Where was the key? Could it be hidden in one of these drawers? She pulled them out randomly. Knives, forks, spoons, ladles—no keys.

Was that the crack of a whip she heard?

She shot out of the kitchen and through the breakfast room. It looked like the library lay ahead. Perhaps she’d find French windows to a terrace there.

Behind her she heard a slap, slap, slap against the kitchen floor. Was that the sound of bare feet? Surely the man had pulled his clothing on, not off?

She darted into the library. Yes, there were French windows. She tugged on them, but they refused to budge even an inch.

“I’ve got you now!”

She looked over her shoulder. Brentwood, stark naked, was running toward her, snapping a long coach whip. She slammed the library door. She needed a weapon of some kind. What?

A heavy book would have to do. It was all she had at hand. She grabbed the largest one she could reach as Brentwood burst in. She swung it below his huge belly at his puny private parts. Desperation gave her strength. He howled with pain and doubled over, dropping the whip and stumbling toward the French windows.

She followed and swung the book at his head. It was too heavy for her to lift high enough to hit him squarely on the crown, so she smacked him on the ear. He lost his balance and crashed into the windows.

Glass shattered, wood splintered, and then Brentwood lay naked on the floor, still as death.

Chapter 21

Anne held the book ready to bash the bounder if he moved. He didn’t. In fact, he looked most unwell. All the color had drained from his face.

Frankly, he closely resembled a corpse.

Dear God, had she killed him?

She dropped the book and backed away, horrified. She’d never killed anything in her life. Not that she’d had a choice in this instance nor did she wish Brentwood alive, but to be the one who had . . .

She slapped her hands over her eyes so as not to see the body and started to shake uncontrollably.

“Anne.”

Someone touched her; she screamed. She would run; she’d find a place to hide; she’d—