Shameless (28 page)

“Who’s this?” Miranda said, hopping off her husband’s lap with surprising grace. The Scorpion rose as Mrs. Cadbury entered the room, ever polite.

“You don’t need to introduce me, my lord,” she whispered. “I know I shouldn’t have come here, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do.”

“I would suggest you leave it up to me to decide who I introduce my sister to,” he said acidly.

“Let me solve the problem and do the honors,” Lucien said smoothly. “My dear, I presume this is Mrs. Emma Cadbury, formerly one of the most notorious madams in all of London. Mrs. Cadbury, this is my wife, the Countess of Rochdale.”

Miranda gave her a dazzling smile. “But you’re so young. That’s quite an achievement for one of your youth. And I collect you’ve retired?”

“Miranda!” Benedick groaned.

“She married me, Rohan,” the Scorpion said. “She’s used to all sorts of bad hats.”

“Is that what I am?” Mrs. Cadbury said wryly. “It’s better than some other things I’ve been called. But Lord Rohan, I really must speak with you.”

“You may as well do it in front of my sister and her wretched husband. What has Lady Carstairs done now?”

“That’s the problem, my lord. She’s gone missing.”

T
he day had gone from incomprehensibly bad to cataclysmic, Benedick thought with almost absent precision. What had started with worry over his brother and annoyance with his sister had flipped over into a kind of focused panic. They had Melisande, God help her.

And God help them.

He managed to keep his voice under control. “What makes you think I know anything about it?”

Emma Cadbury gave him a look of withering disdain, something he deserved. “I was hoping you would, sir. I was truly hoping she’d been fool enough to spend the night with you again and simply hadn’t bothered to let us know.”

“I could only wish,” Miranda said wryly.

“But since she’d gone out in search of young Betsey, who disappeared, and she promised she was coming to ask you for help, it seemed odd that she didn’t send any word back to us. She never would
have abandoned Betsey for some shallow affaire with a hardened rake,” she said bitterly.

She certainly had the hard part right, even if the shallow affaire and rake part were far and away off. “I never saw her,” he said. “Haven’t seen her since two mornings ago.”

“When she left here in tears,” Emma Cadbury said bitterly. “You bastard.”

He blinked in astonishment. He wasn’t used to being called a bastard by anyone, much less someone so far beneath him in rank.

Miranda jumped in before he could respond. “Not precisely, but close enough. To make things worse, the damned fool’s in love with her and refuses to admit it. I am so weary of pigheaded men and their stubborn natures.”

Lucien de Malheur laughed.

“
You’re
not exempt, either!” she snapped.

Emma Cadbury looked at Benedick with skepticism. “I don’t see any signs of love, my lady. I see a cruel, heartless pig of a man who used her and then sent her away, and…”

“Enough!” he thundered, and all was mercifully silent. “I do not appreciate being called names in my own house. I am not a bastard, a rake, a pig or anything else you women might think of. My love life is not open for discussion, no matter how interested you two are.”

“Make that three,” the Scorpion tossed in, and Benedick sent him a bitter glare. He should have
known someone like Lucien de Malheur would offer no loyalty, no male solidarity.

“And beyond that, I believe we should be more concerned about Lady Carstairs. Explain to me what happened,” he demanded in a peremptory tone.

“But first, please take a seat,” Miranda broke in.

“You don’t offer a seat to a brothel-keeper, Miranda,” Benedick said.

“But she’s retired.”

“I don’t want a seat. I want to find Melisande and make sure she’s safe. I’m afraid she’s gone after those men, and she doesn’t even have your doubtful company to protect her.”

He ground his teeth at the word
doubtful
but let it pass. “When did she leave?”

“Yesterday, in the late morning. She took a hired coach, and the monk’s robe we’d made for her, and she said she was bringing Betsey home. And that’s the last we’ve heard of her, or Betsey for that matter.”

“You could have come to me sooner,” he snapped, a dozen horrifying scenarios racing through his mind.

“I assumed she was with you. That’s what she told me. I should have realized that something was amiss. Particularly when you consider how distraught she was when she returned home from here the last time.”

Another stab to the heart, but he ignored it. “Yes, you should have,” he said icily. He glanced at Lucien. “I need to leave. She must be at Kersley Hall, and
it’s growing late. I don’t know if they intend to use her for their nasty ritual.”

“I gather she’s…er…not a virgin,” Miranda offered.

“That’s not my fault,” Benedick snapped. “She was already a widow.”

“Your lordship.” Richmond was at the door, a pile of cloth in his hand. “I thought you might be needing this.”

“What?” he demanded irritably.

“A monk’s robe. I found it among Master Brandon’s things and removed it, hoping it might stop his current activities. Not that it did any good.”

He wanted to hug the old man, but he simply grabbed the cloth and threw it over his arm. “I have to go,” he said again.

“Then go,” Miranda said, waving an arm. “Lucien and I will be close behind as soon as our carriage is readied, and I’m certain he can summon some of his less savory acquaintances to assist.” She turned to her husband. “Do you know where Kersley Hall is, darling?”

“Generally. We’ll find it,” he said. “Do you know when this supposed ritual is going to take place?”

“Midnight. And don’t even think of bringing Miranda. She’s pregnant, for God’s sake!”

“You’ve known her all your life,” Lucien retorted. “Do you really think I have a chance in hell of keeping her home?”

“Oh, you’re a fearsome creature, indeed, Scorpion.”

“Stuff it. Your sister is enough to terrify anyone.”

Benedick ignored him, turning to his sister. “Someone needs to look out for Brandon. I don’t know that Trudy will be fully up to it.”

“Mrs. Cadbury can do it. You don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Cadbury? The doctor assures us he’ll simply sleep the next twenty-four hours, but we’d feel better if someone was keeping an eye on him.”

Emma Cadbury looked like a cornered doe. “I shouldn’t even be here… Really, I must go. They’ll be worried…”

“You can send word home. And really, don’t you think Lady Carstairs will want to see you first thing when Benedick brings her safely home? And he will. Won’t you, Neddie?”

He had no choice. “Yes, please stay, Mrs. Cadbury. It would be a kindness.”

She nodded, giving in.

“What are you waiting for?” Miranda demanded, in full warrior mode. “We’ll be there before midnight. How will we find you?”

There was no way to stop her, any more than he could stop the incoming tide. “Make a commotion. Some kind of distraction that will draw the attention away from whatever this so-called master has planned. I suppose your sources didn’t figure out yet who’s running the Heavenly Host?” he asked his brother-in-law.

The Scorpion shook his head. “I’ll keep my wife
safe. Mrs. Cadbury will look after Brandon. The rest is up to you.”

“God help us,” Benedick muttered.

The house was silent. Emma Cadbury sat alone in the Viscount’s library, a tea tray by her side. She’d managed to drink a cup, but the sight of the tea cakes, so beloved by Melisande, had her on the verge of weeping with fear, and she had never been a woman to give in to tears. She’d simply covered the plate with a serviette.

He was above stairs, sleeping. Lady Rochdale had assured her that he would be fine—a servant would fetch her if he awoke, but that was very unlikely. She had the direction of a doctor, if he should suddenly get worse, but in truth, all she had to do was wait.

As if things weren’t bad enough, she thought, trying for a wry smile and failing. On top of everything else temptation was thrown in her face. She’d wanted to see him so many times in the past few months, ever since they’d whisked him away from the hospital, but there’d been no chance. She’d told herself it was for the best. And now here he was, sick, wretched. Unconscious.

He wouldn’t know that she’d looked in on him. He was a boy, despite all the horrors he’d been through, despite the determination with which he was trying to destroy himself. She could pray over him, but she never prayed anymore. She was frightened, more frightened than she’d been since the night she’d run away, terrified that Melisande would have finally
walked into a danger she couldn’t escape, terrified that poor little Betsey would be slaughtered.

Surely she deserved the one sweet respite of a look at Brandon Rohan’s sleeping face? Just to reassure herself.

She moved quietly up the stairs. It was growing dark outside, the late-spring evening coming on quickly. The servants were out of sight, as good servants were supposed to be, even the kindly old man who’d brought her the tea had told her he was going down for his own supper but all she had to do was pull the bell if she needed assistance.

It was as good a time as any.

She moved up the stairs quite slowly, half hoping she’d think better of it, but the closer she came the more she knew she couldn’t turn back. His room was at the end of the hallway, and while the door to the hallway was closed, she could see dim light coming from under the door. Lady Rochdale had told her a maid would be stationed outside, but the chair was empty.

She moved up and pressed her ear against the door, only to hear absolute silence. And then a hideous thump.

She slammed the door open in time to see Brandon Rohan hanging from his neck in the center of the room, the chair he’d been standing on kicked over.

She rushed to him, holding him up so the strain on his neck was eased. “You
stupid, stupid
fool!” she cried. “Damn you to hell! Stop this immediately.”

He’d fought her for a moment, kicking at her im
prisoning arms, and then he stopped moving, and she had the horrifying thought that his neck had already been broken. She looked up, tears streaming down her face, to find he was looking down at her, his dark eyes puzzled, the noose loose around his neck.

She reached out with her foot, blindly, catching the edge of the chair and pulling it over. It took her three tries to get it upright, and she set his feet on it, relinquishing her hold as she pulled out the knife she always carried with her. She climbed onto the chair with him, reaching high over his head to cut the rope, and suddenly realized his arms had come around her, and he was looking at her as if he’d seen a ghost. “My harpy,” he whispered.

And then he collapsed.

I
f he rode any other horse but Bucephalus, he would not have made it. He went hell-bent, through uneven roads in the murky darkness, and he cursed the rising of the moon, knowing it only brought disaster closer. But Bucephalus was as sure-footed as ever, with nary a misstep as he raced through the night, so fast that the spring dew had no time to settle on his shoulders.

He pulled up short at the copse where he and Melisande had left the horses the other day, ignoring the stab of fear. It was a good thing his sister and her husband were following, though he could still wish Miranda had stayed at home. He could hardly carry Melisande home on his horse again, much as he’d like to, and there was the young girl, as well. Besides, Miranda could be very comforting to those she wasn’t related to, and annoyed with, and there was a good chance Melisande or the girl would need a woman’s care. But God, he hoped not.

Brandon’s robe fit him well enough. They were
of a height, though Benedick was broader in the shoulder, and he considered limping, pretending to be Brandon if anyone should spot him. Ah, but whoever had set his brother up would know perfectly well he wasn’t, and that was the main person he had to beware of. He contented himself with hunching slightly, to disguise his height, and moved through the night like a ghost.

There were perhaps a dozen robed figures wandering the empty paths of Kersley Hall, but to his surprise they weren’t heading toward the entrance in the old dairy. The building was pitch-dark, the doors shut and barred. Instead they were heading toward the stable, in the midst of muffled laughter and drunken conversation pitched too low for him to hear. He had no choice but to follow them, back into the deserted stable where a man held a lantern aloft. Each acolyte who passed him and disappeared into the stall had to suffer torchlight on his face, and Benedick drew back, ducking into one of the darkened stalls. He could hardly expect to gain admittance if he had to show his face. He had no history with this new, more secretive version of the Heavenly Host, and given Brandon’s recent involvement he’d definitely be persona non grata. There were too many people around to stop him if he tried to force his way. At least he could be relatively sure that nothing had happened yet. Whoever the mysterious master was, he would wait for a full audience.

He couldn’t imagine how people could stand by while a child was slaughtered. He recognized
Elsmere’s drunken laugh, and his lady-wife’s admonition. They were hardly people he cared to spend time with in the normal run of things, but he couldn’t believe they would be a party to something so hideous. He’d believe everyone was mistaken, but he’d seen the blood on Brandon’s hands, the torn cassock on the floor with its ominous dark stains. No, this was very real.

It seemed as if he waited forever, but in fact it was probably less than ten minutes. The slow stream of robed attendants came to a halt, and when he lifted his head there were no lights coming from outside. Only the guard at the distant stall remained.

He moved back out of the stall, into the night air, and circled around, satisfying his suspicion that the last of the Heavenly Host had arrived. There was a door at the opposite end of the stable, near the guard, leading out toward the overgrown woods. They thought no one would approach from that side. They relied on their distance from the city for protection. They were wrong.

He would have liked nothing more than to beat the guardian monk to a pulp, but he couldn’t afford the time. He made do with a manure shovel, smashing it over his head so the man went down in a sprawl of limbs. He recognized the face—some pimply-faced young squire up from the country, no doubt looking to join the ton. He took the robe belt off him, noticing in disgust that he was naked underneath. It only made sense—he was expecting an orgy. Benedick tied the boy’s arms behind his back, looped the rope
around his ankles and left him trussed like a chicken. For good measure he took his handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it in his mouth to keep him quiet before depositing him in one of the other stalls. And then, picking the lantern up in a calm hand, he started down the steps into the tunnels.

He held the lantern aloft, looking around him. This entrance was past the one they had used a few days ago, and he assumed they would be gathering in the large central room. He peered into the dark behind him, but there was no trace of light, and he moved forward, as quietly as he could, in case there were any latecomers.

The tunnel opened out into a room, one they hadn’t seen before. It was lit by a few smoking torches, the shadows adding to the ominous feel of the place. The room was smaller than the gathering hall, with lower ceilings and numerous alcoves arranged for licentious purposes. Long, low tables were set out, laid with cold meats and breads, wines and ale, and another with a bizarre arrangement of fruit and vegetables as a centerpiece, consisting mainly of grapes and something pale. And then he caught his breath.

The centerpiece festooned with grapes was indeed something pale. It was the completely nude body of a woman, a familiar, gorgeous body.

Melisande.

He leaped for the table, half-afraid he’d find…

But she was alive. Breathing. In one piece. Her arms and legs were bound, tied to the table, and
they’d put her on a huge platter with bits of greenery around her, and dark purple grapes placed at strategic places on her. Her eyes were open and she was staring up at him in mingled fury and entreaty, and he realized they’d gagged her.

Never a bad thing, he thought, half-giddy with relief as he began unfastening the restraints. Melisande had struggled so hard the knots were impossible to undo, so he simply took his knife and cut through, hoping he wouldn’t slice her as he did so. The moment her arms were free she sat up, pulling the gag from her mouth and throwing it, while he cut through the leg shackles. And then she launched herself at him, ignoring the knife he still held in his hand, almost knocking him down.

He caught her, all that lovely, naked flesh, pulling her into his arms and crushing her against him, kissing her, openmouthed and hungry. She was shaking all over, her eyes wide and shocked. “I thought you wouldn’t come,” she whispered. “I was so afraid.”

He wanted to reassure her, but he was too busy kissing her. And she was kissing him back, her hands pushing the cassock away, fumbling with his clothing. He caught her wrists, frowning down at her, but she simply struggled.

“I need you,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “I need you to…they touched me. They put their filthy hands on me, and I can’t stand it. I need you to wipe out the feel of those awful hands. Please, Benedick.”

He was past rational thought. Fury at her words
washed through him, as well as lust that he knew he should ignore. But her hands were desperate, and he’d been so frightened, and he pulled her back into the shadows, into the darkness, and pushed her up against the wall.

There was no time, no need for preparation. She was wet, he was hard, and he simply released himself from the breeches, lifting her up and bracing her against the wall before he thrust into her with a grunt of satisfaction, feeling her tight around him.

He wanted to slow down, afraid he might hurt her, but she dug her fingers into his shoulders. “No,” she whispered in his ear. “Don’t stop. I need you. Hard. I need you to take me. Harder.”

He knew what she wanted. Something to blot out the horror of what she’d been through, something to drive her into oblivion and beyond. She had no use for tenderness right then; she needed domination, and he gave it to her, slamming into her, and she absorbed each thrust with an inner clutching, wanting more, needing more.

He felt the climax sweep through her, hard and fast, followed by another, but he wasn’t ready to stop, wasn’t ready for her to finish. He put his hands between them and touched her, covering her mouth with his. He’d wanted to make her scream with pleasure but this was the wrong time and place. He needed to fuck her in silence, swallowing her cries, and he did, sweating, his body shaking, his legs wanting to give way, her own wrapped so tightly
around him that he wanted to die from the pleasure of it.

Her final climax was his undoing, and he let his seed spurt inside her, reveling in the feel of it as he had the time before, not worrying about the consequences. Breaking all the rules he held so fiercely and not caring. Needing to fill her, own her in the most primitive manner.

Still clutching her, he collapsed against the wall, leaning his forehead against hers while he tried to get his breathing under control. Her own was coming really fast, and her heart was still slamming against his. He could feel the stray shudders dancing through her body, squeezing him, and he knew if he stayed like that he’d get hard again. And that was one indulgence he didn’t dare claim.

He moved his mouth to her ear, biting the lobe with just a faint nip, and she came again. He wanted to laugh, lighthearted at such a desperate moment, but if he did he’d slip free from her, and he wanted to stay locked together for just a moment longer.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

He felt her momentary hesitation, but the fear had left her, the shock and disgust. “Splendid,” she said dryly. “At least, slightly splendid.”

He smiled against her face. “I’ll never think of grapes in the same way.”

She shoved at him then, and he withdrew, letting her down carefully. She was glaring at him, and he was relieved as well as distracted. He quickly rearranged his clothes, telling himself to stop thinking
of her like that. At least she didn’t have the vulnerable, frightened expression. He much preferred her as a virago.

“Give me your robe,” she whispered.

“I can hardly infiltrate them dressed like this. And they’re expecting you to be naked. Of course, I can’t figure out why they would have trussed you up and just left you. An army of them must have walked by and barely seemed to notice you.”

“They’re drugged,” she said briefly.

“That explains it. No competent male would ignore a woman like you.”

It wasn’t working, and he knew it. “Give me the goddamn robe.”

He’d been about to relinquish it but her tone made him stop. “I need it more than you do. Why don’t you hop back up on the table and lie still? With luck they won’t see you on the way out, either.”

Her hand caught the rope belt, yanking him against her. “If you think I’m in the mood for this, you’re wrong. Give me the robe.”

He relinquished it reluctantly, not so much because he needed it but because the sight of her naked body was something normal and beautiful in this eerie, evil darkness. He was dressed in dark clothes, usual for him, and he blended into the shadows well enough. “You need to go back up. I’ll find Betsey and bring her up, as well.”

“You don’t even know her,” Melisande whispered.

“How many children will they have trussed up and ready to sacrifice?”

“I really don’t know.”

His momentary good humor, thanks to the release of sex and the assurance that Melisande was safe, vanished. He looked down at the woman who somehow mattered to him in ways he wasn’t going to think about, and frowned. “You’re not going to leave and head for safety, are you?”

“Not when someone’s life is at stake.”

“I assure you, the person most likely to die a horrible death tonight will be whoever started this whole mess.”

“Wasn’t that your ancestor?”

“The original organization was a far cry from the cruelties and mad plans of this current group. Whoever’s behind it isn’t going to make it through the night. He’s convinced Brandon he murdered a young woman. He’s done everything to push Brandon over the edge. And I’m going to kill him for it.”

She surveyed him for a long moment, then sighed. “Lovely,” she said in a caustic voice. “Before you avenge your brother could we please rescue Betsey?”

He’d done something wrong again; he knew it with dismal certainty but he couldn’t afford to stop long enough to figure it out. Another female on his coattails, another female he wanted safe at home, in bed, in his bed. Another female he cared too much about, try as he might to drive her away.

“I don’t think so,” he murmured. And before she realized what he was doing he clipped her across the jaw with a perfect fist, dropping her like a stone.

He caught her before she landed on the hard-
packed floor. Years of training in the pugilistic arts had finally paid off with the best hit of his life. If she hadn’t caved, he didn’t think he would have been capable of hitting her again, even to save her life. He’d never hit a woman in his life, would never have even considered it. But to save her life he’d do anything.

He held her in his arms for a moment, looking down into her peaceful face. “I’m so sorry, my darling,” he whispered, brushing his mouth against hers. “But I refuse to risk your life. You can kill me later.”

Holding her tight against him, he moved to the farthest alcove, laying her down on a bunch of cushions clearly marked for more licentious activity. He should probably take back the robe, but he couldn’t see leaving her naked and defenseless. He only wished there was enough time to get her back outside again, but he daren’t take the chance.

He took the rope belt and wrapped it around her wrists, loosely, so that she could untie herself if he didn’t come back. There was no guarantee he’d be successful, but sooner or later his sister and the Scorpion would show up with reinforcements. He might despise his brother-in-law, but he had absolutely no doubt that Lucien de Malheur would make hash of these aristocrats and their putative master.

She looked so peaceful, and he wished to God he could just take her and run, leave the rest to Lucien. But he couldn’t. He’d promised her, and even if he hadn’t, he could scarcely leave a child to such monsters.

He drew back. And then, before he could change his mind, he turned and strode out of the room, down the endless warren of tunnels to the quiet buzz of noise that was slowly growing louder.

She waited until his footsteps died away, and then she opened her eyes. She knew she should be angry enough to kill, but at the moment she was past that. She sat up, reaching her bound hands up to her jaw, wiggling it a little. It hurt. He’d hit her hard, and she hadn’t been feigning her collapse. By the time he’d caught her she’d gathered her disordered senses, smart enough to know that fighting him would be a losing battle and only delay him from getting to Betsey. So she kept her eyes closed as he carried her into this place and tied her wrists. Kept her eyes closed as he’d kissed her, so sweetly, with more gentleness than he’d shown her so far.