Jill Noelle - The Dark Count

THE DARK COUNT

An Elloras Cave Publication, December 2003

Elloras Cave Publishing, Inc.

Hudson , OH 44236-0787

ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-696-8

Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

THE DARK COUNT 2003 JILL NOELLE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.

Edited by Sheri Ross Carucci

Cover art by Darrell King.

THE DARK COUNT

Jill Noelle

Acknowledgements:

A special thanks to my online critique group, LHRC - Anne, Gina, Gina B., Barb, Elinor, Christina, Claire, Kathie, Sue, Beth and our missing Crystal -- you ladies are the best!

For his supportiveness and work on my website, a big hug and thank you to my dad.

Dedication:

For always seeing the best in me, this ones for you, Mom!

And In Loving Memory of Christopher Dean Noble - my friend, my champion, my brother. Im still working at it, every day. Miss you...

Chapter One

Oh, no ye dont. Yer no takin all me money an walkin away. I can meet yer bet with somethin more precious than gold.

Vincent Renault scraped his winnings into a pile on the scarred plank table, ignoring the drunken ramblings of the man across from him. More precious than gold, indeed. Of course the old man would say so, after losing every last guinea hed brought to the game.

A filthy, callused hand fell on his arm. Vincent looked up, checking the impulse to fling it off.

Harold Morton leaned across the table, his alcohol-laden breath fouling the air. More dear than all England s treasures is me Bridgett.

Vincent raised a brow and sat back in his chair, his silence an invitation for the man to continue.

Er hairs the color o spun gold, n er eyes is the color o a summer sky. Shes a true beauty, is me Bridgett.

And who, pray tell, is me Bridgett?

A young chit whose beauty is beyon compare.

So youve said, but who is she that you feel free to wager her on a hand of cards? Vincent watched the man closely, his stomach clenched in anger. In his mind, he pictured another young girl, another golden child, whose innocence had been stripped from her by a depraved adult. He blinked, clearing his thoughts. Perhaps Bridgett would have something to say about the matter?

Bridgetts a good girl. Shell do as I tell er.

Because?

Cause a good daughter always obeys her Papa, thats why!

His suspicions confirmed, Vincent struggled to keep his anger in check. Shes your daughter?

Aye, n a virgin, to be sure.

Vincent took the mans measure. Was it liquor talking, or did this gluttonous fool actually mean to risk his child to Lady Luck?

Well, be ye acceptin me bet, or should I seek another taker?

A murmur rippled through the crowd of onlookers surrounding their table, and several men stepped forward, jostling their companions for room.

Ill take yer bet, Morton, if the dandy here dont, came a response from behind Vincents chair.

Vincent tightened his grip on his cards and made an instant decision. My wager has been met. What are you holding?

The inebriated man grinned, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth, and placed his cards on the table. Straight flush. Lets see ye beat that!

The sounds of drunken revelry that surrounded them in the smoke-filled tavern seemed to recede. Vincent held the old mans gaze as he showed his cards, revealing them one at a time until they lay fanned out before him. Royal flush.

His opponent paled and stumbled up from his chair. Ye got the Devils own luck, ye do.

Morton shuffled backwards, his gaze darting about the room. Ill jus be goin now.

I think not. Vincent stood and quickly blocked the mans escape. You havent turned over all of my winnings.

Ah, but surely ye wont hold me to it. Me Bridgetts all I got left o any worth.

Ignoring the half-hearted plea, Vincent stepped aside, leaving a clear path to the exit.

Ill follow you home, he murmured, to collect my debt.

Morton spread his hands in an entreating gesture. At least let me go n tell er meself. Break the news real gentle like.

Vincent frowned. He had no desire to spend another minute in this hellhole that attempted to pass for a tavern. Only a powerful thirst and a desire for diversion had caused him to stop in the first place.

You wagered your daughter on a hand of cards. Its a bit late to start worrying about her feelings.

Still n all, its me right as er Papa to tell er whats what.

The man puffed out his chest and inserted a wad of chewing tobacco. He spit a stream of black juice on the floor near Vincents feet, a cock-sure look upon his face.

Vincent glanced at the puddle of spittle and grimaced. If the fair Bridgett were anything like her father, he might do well to leave her to her fate. He shook his head. No, an innocent little girl did not deserve such a future, no matter how uncouth she may be. He could only hope that she wouldnt be too horrible to tolerate. Perhaps he could put her to work in his stables, tending the horses. At least she would be safe there.

He sat back in his chair and signaled for the barkeep to send over another mug. You have one hour, but Im warning you, dont try anything stupid. If you do, I promise youll regret it.

Morton swallowed hard and nodded. If ye follow this road, youll come up on me land. Theres a lane jus at the point where the fence ends.

Vincent inclined his head, and then turned his attention to his ale. For the next hour, he would concentrate on reining in his anger.

God fashioned Hell for the inquisitive.

Bridgett Morton suffered a pang of guilty conscience as the childhood admonition ran through her head. She could almost hear her mothers voice, picture the expression on her lovely face as she issued the warning. The bittersweet memory gave Bridgett pause, and she started to pull away from her stepsisters room, but a low moan from within made her freeze. She bent forward, peeking through the partially open door, careful to keep her breathing shallow so as not to make a sound. She knew it was wrong, spying like this, but she simply couldnt resist the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity. Edward Remy had come to call on Melanie as soon as Papa had left that evening and Bridgett, tired of being chased from the house every time Edward popped by for a visit, had slipped back inside once she was sure they were otherwise occupied.

This was the second day in a row she had watched them, fascinated and a little ashamed at the exciting feelings their actions evoked within her. The limited view from her spot on the floor in the hallway only allowed her to see half of what occurred, but her imagination filled in the rest. Shed grown up on a farm, and had a vague notion of the mechanics of such things. It was the emotions, the sounds that were a strange mixture of pain and pleasure, which intrigued her. The way her stepsister would cry out Edwards name. The way he would speak roughly to her, and yet she would respond to him in such a way that indicated she enjoyed his attentions. What drove them to do such things? What was it about their actions that brought a blush to Melanies cheeks and had her simpering like a young girl each time Edward came to call. So far, from what Bridgett had observed, her stepsisters reactions were inexplicable.

A soft, feminine giggle drew her attention, and she squinted into the dim interior of the room. If only theyd left the door open a little wider! She gave a light push, holding her breath, praying it would not squeak. It swung silently on its hinges, opening nearly a full foot. A ray of light from the hallway brightened the shadows within, though neither of the rooms occupants appeared to notice. Bridgett crept forward, hands clenching the doorjamb, eyes widening with wonder at the scene being played out before her.