Regency Rogues Omnibus (71 page)

“Does your cunt throb, Rosebud?”

“Yes,” she panted. “Just as your cock throbs for it, Raven.”

Chloe shocked herself with her own blurted words, being more defiant than she’d ever been before. She expected Raven’s swift, sure punishment, yet his hand did not squeeze tighter over her throat, while he pressed the back of her knees to the side of their bed. When she dared to peek upward, she was surprised to find a hint of amusement mixed with lust in his ebony eyes. Then, she felt the rope loosen around her wrists freeing them as Raven propelled her backwards onto the bed, rasping, “Let’s see who wins, my love.”

Chloe gasped as her spine fell against the soft mattress. However, before she could gasp again, Raven’s hand had clasped one of her ankles, lifting it until her knee yielded and bent. Then, in the blinking of her fluttering lashes, he had her ankle bound to her wrist. She tugged, darting her gaze to him. The only way her body could accommodate this was with her bent leg fallen outward, stretching her inner thigh muscles, while her other leg dangled down over the side of the bed.

Raven straightened, standing between the V of her thighs, at the end of the bed. “Raise your other leg, Chloe.”

Chloe? Raven never called her Chloe during their intense sexual play, and now he waited for her to submit willingly to him, to show him that she desired this as much as he did. She would be completely vulnerable to him, and the promise on his shadowed and arrogant face showed that he intended to feed on her without remorse. Yet, she could only think that if she sated the demons, then she could perhaps get through to him, even as her pussy welled in arousal.

Raven’s body shifted with a deep and harsh chuckle. His nostrils flared, and she knew he smelled the heady vapor of need drizzling in her pussy. Then, he began to take his shirt off, arrogant again, in confidence ... as her knee bent upward.

Harrison had used ropes on Chloe once before, yet never to the extent he seemed compelled to now. Before, he’d tied her to the bed. This time he tied her to herself, wrist to ankle on both sides. Just the sight of the ropes around her delicate and glistening ivory flesh was nearly more arousing than the splayed V of her thighs exposing her cunt. It was more than exposed though, it was split wide open, sopping wet and red. Her sheath was a dark circle, unprotected and inciting his cock to engorge more and stretch the flesh so tightly that it was painful. Chloe’s protruding clit, stripped away from the folds around it was fat and sassy with need. Yet as always, it was the rosebud of her anus that jerked his cock in his britches. The perfect pink pucker spread open, exhibited and flaunting his senses.

Yes.
This is what he needed. This is what the animal demanded. More! He brought the loose frayed end of the rope forward again, brushing it over his wife’s aroused clit as she panted with her dark irises shifting to an unfocused quality. He knew the rope was rough on her delicate flesh as her ass undulated and her breasts heaved.

“More?” he hissed through his sneer.

“Raven,” she moaned, not answering, not admitting to him how much she craved this and more.

“You must always answer me,” he rasped, leaning over her, nearly as though he leaped, while he began to roughly tie the rope around one of her beautiful breasts, then the other. He did this in a circle around each mound, repeatedly winding the rope, pressuring the inner mass outward, crossing over her cleavage to bind each breast, until only one half of each globe protruded outward with scarlet nipple points jutting. Chloe’s belly rolled in tremors as her wrists twisted against her ankles.

“How does it feel?” he demanded.

“I’ve n-never,” she panted. “N-never felt...”

Her head was thrown back with her entire body flushed with light perspiration. The animal within him was pleased that she was incoherent. He stood back to view his lewd, lusty, and carnal masterpiece. It was part of the lust to see it and appreciate it. He took his pants down, tossing them aside. His cock was thick and tinged nearly purple with engorged blood as he stroked it, watching Chloe bound and writhing on his bed, waiting for her to beg.

“Raven, you never have to kill again! Never!” Chloe’s sudden cry ripped the air.

Damn her!
Damn her! Harrison leaped, and then his cock was thrust into Chloe’s slick sucking cunt before he realized it.

“
Yes,
” she cried out passionately. “Yes, my love!”

“Christ ... you!
Ah!
Christ, you!” Harrison spat, grasping Chloe’s hair, dragging her head back as his lips descended. “I love you!” The damning proclamation wrenched from Harrison’s throat as his lips fell over her lips and his cock pumped into her sweet and wet pussy.

Chloe arched to meet Raven’s cock, pulling against the bindings to take as much of his girth as she could. Her love had triumphed over mere insane lust, and she had shown Raven the strength of her belief.

Chapter Six

“Och, lass, what can it hurt if I have another look at your records? The ones a few months passed the last ones I looked at before.”

Kit stopped walking down the ill-lighted hallway inside the Commissionaire de Police building. She instantly recognized the voice. Then, she heard the tenor, Scottish burr sound again.

“Just the missing people, lass, no harm in that.”

A woman’s voice replied in French and partial English, as Kit inched forward toward the open doorway, she could detect the woman’s reluctance.

After an hour waiting, Kit had been directed to a door at the end of the hall, to see someone official from the Paris police. Because of her brother’s disappearance, two things struck Kit’s curiosity with alarm. The fact that in a city the size of Paris she would see Scottish man twice and now the same man would be asking Paris police about missing people. She wondered about the coincidence of seeing him at Clay’s apartment building and that alone drove her to peek around the edge of the open doorway to get a good look at him.

She immediately noticed that her original impression of largeness, she’d first felt in his presence, was quite accurate. The Scot stood over six feet to her mere five-foot-eight. He appeared attractive and was not above using his pleasing looks as he tried to charm the petite French woman. It appeared that the woman was glad there was a counter between them. As Kit watched their exchange, she couldn’t help assessing the Scotsman’s physical presence, for he had a certain charisma. He was not classically handsome in features it was more in expression and presence. His nose was a bit too large and set slightly off the center as though it could have been broken once. His hair was auburn, with coppery highlights, and it was tied back with a very short stub of hair hanging down his neck as though he were trying to grow it out or had just cut off a longer tail of it.

Kit imagined when loose and not slicked back and tied that his hair would fall to his neck, but not his shoulders. She fancied it was quite a hairy vision, with his full reddish brown beard and moustache. He had a big chest and long legs, and he was wearing more casual riding attire. His white linen shirt was tied up, and over it he wore a brown cutaway jacket, brown, buff riding pants, and nearly knee-high boots. It was obvious that the Scot was interested in people reported missing in Paris within the last year. He had managed it well, charmed the woman into showing him the records. Why? Why was he interested? Who was he? Maybe someone he loved was missing?

The Scotsman had an odd way of turning his head when the woman spoke to him, and Kit wondered about it, even as she itched to see those records as well. There could be something in them. Maybe, her brother’s name was already written there, but she was cautious about letting the Scotsman know she was watching him or had recognized him. The entire revelation of Clay’s disappearance had her on edge, scared, and apprehensive. It would be unwise to trust anyone at this point and better to look at everyone with a jaundiced eye. It simply set her instincts on alert that the Scotsman was somehow connected.

“Here they are, Monsieur Duneagan, more of zee records. You must be quick,
ǹest-ce pas
.”

Duneagan,
well at least she had part of his name, Kit thought. However, she was not willing to let him see her, and she pondered how she would pass the doorway without being seen.

“Are you lost, mademoiselle?”

Blast! Kit flinched, then she turned toward the man’s voice, and saw him coming up behind her. How had she not heard the little Frenchman? He looked like a civilian worker and not the police. Kit realized that she had no choice but to answer him. “No, the door I want is at the end of the hall,” she mumbled, moving forward as she spoke.

Kit hoped to get past the open doorway without the Scotsman seeing her, and if she was quick and if he had his head down looking at the records she might manage it. Then, she did the unthinkable, even as she fought not to do it ... but she failed. She looked into the room as she passed with just a blink of her eyes. She simply had to know if he would see her. But their gazes collided! And then, she was beyond the open doorway. She nearly stumbled, but she managed to keep moving in spite of his vivid green irises branded in her mind. Her only solace was her veil. Perhaps, he’d not gotten a clear look at her?

Brynmore maintained his pretense of gazing out the window. He stood near a partially open door at the end of the hallway near the Records Office. Who the hell was the woman? Coincidences were never just that, not just accidents or occurrences. It was never simply fate. Brynmore listened to what he could hear of the conversation going on in the room the woman had entered.

“Mademoiselle Montoya, zees things are seldom solved, most regrettably.”

Montoya? The woman was American or her husband was. Brynmore filed that information away as he settled his hands into his pockets, continuing his contemplative gaze out the window. The missing man that he’d gone to investigate, the one with the American sounding first name, but French sounding last name, that’s where he had first seen Miss Montoya.

“So many of zee men wander off to a new woman without thinking.”

“But my brother was not interested in w- ... Never mind, please take my word that he has not wandered off to another woman or man. Clayton is not like that . . . too as you say, wandering off, and if you see his apartment you will realize...”

There was some sort of movement that cut off Brynmore’s hearing for a moment and he lost what the man said when he interrupted Miss Montoya. She had a clear voice, better for his one good ear. It was times like this that Brynmore cursed the loss of hearing in his left ear. Of course, he knew what the Paris official was saying. He was doing a jig to the tune of sidestepping all the lass’ concerns.

“I do have this one name, Marco Remior, if you will only speak to him,” Miss Montoya said.

Wait now! Brynmore had heard that name before, during his investigation of men missing in Paris. The threads of coincidence had just collapsed. Now, Brynmore needed to decide if Miss Montoya was a player or a victim. Nevertheless, his adrenalin surged for the first time days since he’d arrived in Paris and found all traces of The Order of the Satyr gone.

Not that the Archangels had but a smidgen to go on to begin with. When whittled down to the bare facts of Saxon and Joelle’s terror driven experiences, they only had one Paris country chateaus and fairly detailed descriptions of the bloody villains, but with fictitious names. Neither, Saxon nor Joelle had been kidnapped from a point of reference one could back-track from. Nevertheless, Brynmore would bet his balls in the end that a freak albino would not be impossible to find.

His first step upon arriving in France had been to go straight through Paris to the chateaus. Saxon had given him detailed directions. It had not been hard to find, but proved to be deserted. It was not a normal leave taking, but a thorough one. Something had the cultists’ backsides on alert. It could have been losing Saxon and Joelle. Although, his other comrades in the Archangels had speculated together the cult would have picked people that appeared to have no connections for their nefarious deeds and enslavement. They would choose people without close family ties or relatives. Otherwise, it would be a bold venture to choose a nobleman like Saxon. Drummond had thought it was likely this Hellion had craved noble blood. Yet the theory of no ties was holding. It was the one thing Joelle and Saxon had in common upon first glances. Of course, the cult could not have found out about Saxon’s immersion in the Archangels spying ventures. That was a seriously well-kept secret.

After visiting the chateaus without finding even a smidgen of a clue, Brynmore had gone on the assumption where one person was missing from Paris there would be others. That was a common thread with Saxon and Joelle — they’d both been kidnapped from Paris, leading to the assumption that Paris had been the cults feeding grounds. Brynmore vividly remembered Saxon’s description of the altar and how Hellion had taken appendages from different human sacrifices and sewn them together, all appearing to be male parts. This was the strongest clue, and was what had led him to start looking for missing men in Paris and any link he could follow that would lead him to the cult or at the very least, a cult member.

Now, the name Miss Montoya mentioned had come up again, and Brynmore knew if Miss Montoya did not, that her brother’s name Clayton Charette was in the Paris police records linked to someone reporting missing less than two months ago. There was no reference to who had initiated the missing person record on Clayton Charette. It was an anonymous request.

“I need to see your records,” Miss Montoya stated clearly. Brynmore thought he could hear her tone of voice better than any other.

“I am sorry, Mademoiselle, this is impossible.”

“But I just saw someone-!” Miss Montoya began to exclaim, and Brynmore stiffened. Then her voice halted with sharp arrest. She began again, “What assurances are you going to give me about this?”

Brynmore listened to the official blarney that the man gave Miss Montoya. Somehow his intuition told him that she understood what the man was trying to do was placate her without substance behind it. She was firm though, responding to every avenue a person in her position could imagine. She ended their conversation with a promise to return the next day to see what progress they had made. The French constable hastily tried to dissuade her, however Miss Montoya assured him that she would return tomorrow, and every day thereafter, until news of her brother was found.

It showed spirit, Brynmore thought, and he silently applauded her. She would be leaving the constable with a clear vision of her visiting and taking up his time, nagging him every day. Brynmore also wagered his best claymore that Miss Montoya’s next two stops would be the record’s office down the hall, and then on to find the man called, Marco Remior.

He needed to find Marco Remior also, and he decided that Miss Montoya needed further investigation herself. Victim or player? He would bet his second best claymore Miss Montoya had Remior’s address.

Chapter Seven

“Bolton, tell my wife that I have returned and will be in the study,” Wyndham said, tapping his riding gloves against his thigh before he handed them to Bolton, his middle-aged butler. He had just walked into the front foyer of his London townhouse, back from his early evening boxing exercises, which he attended thrice weekly. He had to admit, after a year of parrying, bobbing, and weaving about in a boxing ring that his war-injured leg was much stronger, coupled with the hikes through the countryside that he and his wife Orelan regularly enjoyed. He could say with confidence that his leg had returned to more than half of its normal capacity.

“My Lord Hawkenge, your wife is not in residence,” Bolton offered with solemn gray eyes.

Wyndham’s head hiked upward at this. Bolton would have mentioned where Lady Orelan had gone, if he had known. Wyndham would not suffer asking the man, or reveal the fact that he was unaware of Orelan’s plans.

Damnation. Wyndham nodded to Bolton and headed to his study with only a slight limp. He had watched Orelan closely these two weeks since he’d returned from Drummond’s after hearing of Saxon and Joelle’s dangerous encounters. That same night he knew Orelan had heard the tale also, all the wives and lovers of the Archangels had.

Wyndham well remembered returning home that evening. He’d not pretended, not eluded or sidestepped the fact that he had a new mission he would be going on soon. And the fact that Orelan would not be involved. He had known immediately by her reaction that something was amiss. She had demurred to him like a timid flower, when he’d proclaimed, “You will not be going with me. Do not even consider it!”

He’d known the moment his spirited and vivacious wife had accepted that without argument that he was in trouble. Yet, he had been quite clear. Glaringly so! There was no room for any false misunderstanding that she could fall back upon to defy his command. That was a favorite method of hers, and he predicated with a smile, more to find her turned over his knee for a sound spanking as punishment, than any other reason she had to defy him.

But he was the master of his domain! Correction, their domain, and he had one hell of a time convincing his wife of that. Which, not adversely, led them into urgent passion, still burning like a tempest bonfire after all this time married. Considering it, Wyndham realized it had been a while since he had spanked his wife’s sassy bottom, which turned his wife from purring into a wildcat spitfire.

Arriving at his study, Wyndham went straight to the daily posts. He was not a retired spy for nothing. Wyndham immediately noticed the top card left open, with the note only partially back inside the envelope. It was an invitation to an international dinner with accompanying musical soirées. Wyndham saw the implications at once. There would be ambassadors and other officials from varied countries attending. It just happened that his wife was the surviving daughter of a well renowned ambassador.

“Hell!” he cursed as he turned from within his study back to the foyer. He would wager his prize stallion that either the French ambassador or other French officials were expected to attend the gathering. Further, he would ante up the title to his baronage that his lovely and precocious wife, knew of this and was there at this moment trying to play wife-of-a-spy-proves-she-is-needed-to-help-on-a-new-mission. Thereby, directly defying his clear command and putting herself into danger, and more than likely mudding up the entire venture by not following proper plans and time lines . . . and what about stealth!