A Lady's Revenge (33 page)

Tears clogged Cora’s throat. If only she had gone for help rather than run for safety. There was a chance—a small possibility—that her father had not died right away. Instead of sniveling in a chair, she could have gone downstairs and untied the servants, escaped to a neighbor’s house, screamed all the way down the street… anything but hide.

She had deserted her parents all those years ago, and that poor choice would haunt her always. Tonight, she would not bury her face in plush red comfort. Tonight, she would act. Instead of desertion, she would employ coercion. She would do anything—everything—but hide.

Swiping the tears from her face, Cora stormed into the adjacent room and hurried to the desk. She rummaged through several drawers, taking precious minutes to find a suitable weapon she could conceal in her sling. Then she found it. After testing its mettle, she slid the slender object into the tight space under her forearm for easy access.

When she rounded the desk, a second item caught her attention. She picked up the round crystal paperweight, testing its heaviness and her ability to grip it well. The cold mass fit perfectly within the palm of her damp hand. After a second’s hesitation, she secured it inside her sling, this time resting the piece on top of her forearm before rushing from the salon.

Standing outside the drawing-room door, Cora drew three deep breaths to help steady her nerves. She had one chance. One chance to convince Valère that Guy meant nothing to her. She must smother the truth into the depths of her soul. Would Guy recognize her subterfuge or be wounded by her perceived betrayal? She could not warn him of her intent, and she may never get a chance to explain, if things went awry.

So much was at stake—Guy, Ethan, Grace—they all needed her to succeed. She could not fathom the loss of any one of them. However, losing Guy would be like erasing her future. Without Guy, nothing but a never-ending wall of darkness towered before her.

Focus
on
the
goal
and
move
forward
without
hesitation, Cora. If you falter, even for a moment, all could be lost.
She heard Somerton’s voice as if he stood by her side, both of them staring at the formidable door separating her from Guy. She had called on his words of wisdom many times over the years. Not once had he failed her. Not once.

She checked to make sure her little arsenal was secured in the depths of her sling. Satisfied all was as it should be, she lifted her chin and pushed open the door.

Guy’s mind reeled from the blows Valère delivered. The Frenchman’s relentless demand for information hammered against every sinew in Guy’s already weakened body.

It was his sheer unfortunate luck that the two guards, who had ambushed him the moment he had emerged from the forest, had been carved from the Rock of Gibraltar, and neither evidently imbibed. Not even a sip.

Dammit, his head hurt. The back of his skull felt as if it were cleaved in half, laid open for the world to see the source of his stupidity. What the hell had they used on him? The blows suddenly halted, and Guy’s head sagged to his chest, a prayer of thanks whispering between his split lips.

Then he heard her voice.

“What is going on here?” Cora asked in a tone that reeked of indolent boredom.

Guy’s head snapped up, taking in her bandaged arm and languid stride. She looked incredibly beautiful with her hair curling softly around her face and her nightdress molding the curves of her body with each step. The bandage supporting her injured arm and the faint bruises smudging her skin presented a delicate contrast. But her eyes, her Raven eyes, conveyed a completely different message.

Determination. Hatred.
Sacrifice.

His relief at seeing her alive was overshadowed by a gut-burning rage and a mind-numbing helplessness.

“Ah, the Raven emerges from her nest,” Valère said with acid disdain. He rubbed his bloodied knuckles against the remaining guard’s coat.

“You left my bed for this?” Cora asked.

Valère studied her. “Your lover came to fetch you home,
ma
belle
.”

Guy’s gaze flicked between the two while applying pressure to his restraints. They did not stretch so much as a hairsbreadth. Damned efficient guards.

“Really?” she said. “I made it quite clear to him that our liaison was over. If not for Somerton’s insistence that I have a bodyguard”—she sent Valère a cross look—“I would have been quit of the wretch days ago. It takes some men longer than others to understand such things.”

“You wish me to believe you do not welcome his interference?”

The skepticism in Valère’s voice set Guy’s teeth on edge. From the way his cold gaze regarded Cora, he did not completely believe her lack of interest. The Frenchman was obviously suspicious and seemed to be waiting for her to make a misstep.

Cora moved to stand behind Guy, draping her arm over his shoulder in a negligent and highly sensual fashion. He stiffened, not knowing where she was going with this new tactic. With her defiant gaze on Valère, she stroked Guy’s swollen jaw so dispassionately one could almost label the intimate action a mockery.

“Lord Helsford is a childhood friend and a man I slept with for a few unremarkable nights—nothing more.” She rubbed the backs of her fingers down his throat, and Guy clenched his teeth against her impersonal touch. Her caress made his blood run hot and cold in equal parts.

“Please tell me that it is not jealousy sparkling in your eyes, monsieur.” She shifted around until she appeared on his left. “I find such sentiments tedious.” She smoothed her hand down his front, all the way until she covered his crotch. “Don’t you?”

The impact of the hard, slender object sliding against his spine turned his tense muscles to impenetrable granite. His fingers latched onto the object as it made its slow descent into his palm. After a few exploratory twists and turns of the item, a flush of excitement gripped his chest when he realized Cora had slipped him a knife.

The Raven had come through for them again. Guy took a moment to assess the weapon. Latymer’s cutler did an excellent job curving the haft to fit a man’s hand. Approximately four inches in length, the smooth handle connected to a much shorter blade. Likely one of Latymer’s penknives, used for mending quill nibs.

Guy glanced up at Valère, certain the man would be furious over Cora’s bold display. Instead, the Frenchman watched her hand with a burning intensity that made Guy’s stomach knot with revulsion. If he were not so terrified for her safety, he would be in awe of her cunning ploy.

With a jarring abruptness, Cora straightened and sauntered to where Valère leaned against the back of a sofa. She draped herself around the Frenchman, her fingers smoothing across his blood-splattered shirt. “Perhaps we could convince him to join us upstairs. You may keep him bound, if you like.”

Predatory interest gleamed in Valère’s dark eyes. “You think to control the both of us,
ma
petite
?”

The corners of Cora’s mouth turned up into a confident smile filled with knowing secrets. Her hand hooked around the Frenchman’s neck, and she answered his challenge with an ardent kiss to the bastard’s lips. With his role now reversed with Valère’s, Guy followed her beguiling movements much as the Frenchman had moments ago, but with none of Valère’s lust.

Guy turned away, resentment and a maddening fury choking the air from his lungs. He could not watch her debase herself to save his miserable hide. If he had not gotten himself captured, she would have been spared this humiliation. Twisting the penknife around, he made his first ineffectual slice to his bindings.

“So very convincing,” Valère said. “Perhaps I should take you right here in front of your
childhood
friend
.”

The husky menace in Valère’s voice brought Guy’s gaze back to the entwined couple, and his stomach cringed with dread.

Valère clasped Cora’s throat in a viselike grip with one hand and ran his index finger, sticky with Guy’s blood, over the pale surface of her cheek. Cora did not so much as flinch. She merely regarded the Frenchman with an air of patience, almost as if she had expected his response.

Guy tried to increase his efforts, but the guard had done his job well. The tight restraints allowed for little maneuvering.

“Tempting,
mon
loup
.” She peeled Valère’s fingers from around her throat. “But I am well enough now to see to your… needs. Why waste your host’s special room upstairs?”

The Frenchman considered her for a long moment, his aroused breaths reaching Guy’s ears.

“Alas,” Valère said. “I must disappoint you. The place I have in mind is far superior to Latymer’s red room.” He seized her upper arm and headed for the door.

Cora’s confident expression cracked, and her gaze slashed to his. That one brief glance was all it took for him to see her fear. Not for herself, but for him.

To the guard, Valère said, “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Do not let the prisoner out of your sight.”

“Yes, my lord.” The guard uncoiled his massive arms.

With every desperate stroke of the small blade, Guy ripped through flesh. The blood from his wrist trickled into the hand holding the penknife, making it difficult to retain his grasp. He tested his bindings again and felt the tension give. His pulse leapt, not only because of his progress but because he had run out of time.

“Valère, you bastard,” Guy yelled. “Where are you taking her?” He could not let them leave the room.

The Frenchman turned his gaze, so filled with hate and malevolence, on him. “She will be in good hands, monsieur. You should be more concerned about your own fate.”

“Goddamn it! Do not touch her.” Guy came to his feet—chair and all. Sweat and blood seeped into the corner of his eye, and the damn bindings tightened with the weight of the chair pulling on them.

Valère smirked at Guy’s rash act. “Make sure Lord Helsford is secure before my return. Break his ankles, if you must.”

The guard grabbed Guy’s arm, intending to follow his master’s orders. Guy shrugged him off, his gaze never leaving Cora’s retreating back.

“Hold on, Cora,” he demanded.

She turned, sending him a tremulous smile, and then she mouthed the three most beautiful words in the English language.

Valère jerked her forward, the door slamming behind them.

Silence flooded the room.

I
love
you.
He had not imagined the words. Her beautiful mouth had formed the words with perfect clarity. She loved him. A tide of helpless wonder crashed into his stomach while he stared at the wooden barrier separating him from Cora.

This was not the time for him to act like a besotted idiot, nor was it the time for him to rejoice in the knowledge that his efforts to draw forth his old friend had netted results far greater. And much more precious.

He blinked hard to clear the bloody sweat from his swelling eye and began tearing at his bindings in earnest.

Pain shot through his midsection when the guard’s beefy fist connected with his stomach. Guy staggered, and the chair bounced into the backs of his knees, buckling them. He fell to the ground in a heap at the guard’s feet, his arms pinned beneath the chair.

“Now look at what you’ve done.” The guard drew a two-foot-long wooden club from his leather belt. Made of what looked to be solid English oak, the weapon could kill a man with a single crushing blow to the throat.

Guy swallowed and then lifted his hips up to take the pressure off his hands. And that’s when he realized he no longer held Cora’s knife.

Cora focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Leaving Guy bound to the chair was an unbearable decision, but she knew he had a better chance of freeing himself with Valère absent. Dear Lord, she hoped the penknife was strong enough to cut through his bindings.

Hold
on, Cora.
Guy’s agonized expression and wrenching plea haunted her as she trudged toward her destiny. It had taken every last ounce of courage she possessed to face Guy and to reveal her true feelings when he must surely hate her after witnessing such a disgusting spectacle.

Even she was repulsed by her own behavior.

Valère stopped in the middle of the entrance hall, and he clamped his hands around her face with brutal force. “Stop thinking about him.” He devoured her lips in a raw attempt to force her compliance, until the metallic taste of blood reached her tongue. He finished the kiss by sucking her bottom lip between his teeth, and then bit down hard until a fresh wave of warm liquid spread into her mouth. She was unable to contain her gasp of pain.

“If you continue thinking of the Englishman while in my possession, I will kill him.” He caught a droplet of scarlet liquid on his thumb before it beaded off the edge of her bottom lip. “I should think that knowledge would provide proper motivation, no?” His sneering lips encircled his blood-slicked thumb.

“As always, monsieur, your logic is sound.”

Her satiric response was not lost on him. “Your mockery will be short-lived.”

Instead of continuing up the grand staircase as she had suspected, he pulled her deeper into the lower level of the house. They passed the formal dining room, with its elaborate mural-covered ceiling and large, richly decorated table, before traipsing down a long, dank corridor and a set of narrow stairs. They emerged into a large kitchen stocked with hanging herbs and pots of various sizes. Propped against an immense wooden table stood another hale guard, although this one looked as if he could benefit from a hearty meal or two.

The table drew Cora’s gaze, and a flush of heated dread scoured her body. A fortnight of memories crowded her mind, many spent shackled to a similar structure in Valère’s dungeon. Without conscious thought, she began backing away.

Valère glanced at her, a scowl on his face as he finished whispering unintelligible instructions to the guard. She could hear nothing beyond the furious pounding in her ears. Before darting out of her line of sight, the guard grabbed a nearby lantern and retrieved a burlap sack stored beneath the table. She backed up another step, and Valère’s hold tightened. He followed the direction of her gaze and chuckled low.

“No,
ma
petite
.” He nudged her toward a low-framed door. “I have much more sumptuous accommodations planned for you.” He swung open the door to reveal another set of narrow stairs, only these emptied into absolute darkness.

No!
Cora dug her heels into the floor, knowing exactly where those steps led. Cold sweat saturated her body, and her limbs began to tremble.

Valère glanced down at her; a knowing look danced across his rat-bastard face. “Why do you hesitate?”

She tugged on her arm. “I’m not going down there.”

His fingers bit into her flesh. “You make it sound as if you have a choice,
ma
petite
.”

Cora wrenched free of Valère’s grasp and jammed the heel of her hand into the black patch covering his damaged eye. He roared, and she bolted for the stairs leading up to the first floor, her feet slapping a desperate tattoo across the wood planks. Her only sane thought—
Guy
!

She made it as far as the dining room before powerful, claw-like fingers snagged her by the hair, stopping her flight in an instant. She cried out and then pressed her lips together, unwilling to show him any more weakness.

Valère yanked her back, her body plowing into his solid chest. She used the momentum to jab her elbow into his ribs and slam her foot into the inside of his knee.

Air burst from his lungs. “
Salope!
” he hissed, grabbing a handful of hair. Her eyes pricked with tears.

“Do not do that again.” His harsh breaths beat against her ear. The arm he clamped around her waist felt more like a steel rod against her injured ribs than a human limb.

Slowly, inexorably, he tilted her head back until she could see nothing but Valère’s harsh face and a single trail of blood escaping from beneath his black eye patch. She experienced a moment of pride until she tried to swallow and could not. The severe angle of her neck held her completely at his mercy. Cora tried to tamp down the panic bubbling deep inside, and failed.

“You don’t want to miss the best part,
mon
ange
.” He nipped her neck hard enough to make her flinch. “Do you not wish to see your friends?”

She tried to look at his expression, to check his sincerity, but she could no longer see his face. Was he speaking of Ethan and Grace? Or had he imprisoned Dinks and the others, too?

Oh, God.
Nausea roiled deep in her stomach.

“What have you done, Valère?”

One side of his mouth curled into a cruel smile. “Come with me, and you will find out.”

She shook her head, fear consuming her mind.

He regarded her for a moment. “Because you are my favorite pet, I shall be generous and tell you this. If you refuse to follow me below, I will reenact on your friends some of the more interesting aspects of your previous stay in my dungeon.” He glanced at the drawing-room door. “
All
of them.”

Cora drew in a ragged breath and closed her eyes. The thought of walking into the cellar, into the darkness, and into all the evil that awaited her there, made her stomach heave.

How would she find the strength? For her friends and brother? For Guy? Their lives depended upon her cooperation with this monster, unless she killed him first. Could she set aside weeks of remembered torture and isolation to save them?

A shudder of terror turned her bones to jelly, and she sagged against Valère. God forgive her, she was not strong enough. She did not have the courage to face her greatest fear. Not even for those she loved.

“Go to hell, Valère.”

Rage burned across his features, contorting his once-handsome face into a thing of ugliness and evil.

“You shall regret your decision.” He raised his hand.

Noise from down the hall caught their attention. The drawing-room door muffled what sounded like a drunken brawl. Then a loud pop resounded through the house, followed quickly by an awful silence.

Cora had heard that sound once before, many years ago, when an unknown gunman murdered her parents.

“No!” she cried at the same time Valère muttered a foul French curse.

She heaved against his iron grip, ignoring the excruciating pain of ripping hair and bending ribs. She had to help Guy. He would not have had enough time to cut his bindings.

“Let go of me, you bastard.”

“You will forget him soon enough.” Valère picked her up and carried her toward the cellar. “I vow it.”

She kicked at his knees again and head-butted his nose.

“Ahhh,” he growled, his grip loosening. But he regained his bearings and, after a hard shake that rattled her teeth, he threw her over his shoulder.

The paperweight shifted, and she made to catch it, giving up her ability to brace herself against the shock of his shoulder punching into her ribs. Unlike last time, she managed to stay conscious and save her weapon. But not without consequences.

Darkness dimmed her vision, and her head swirled until the pain of impact receded. When Cora’s wits returned, she pounded his back with all her strength. “Let me go, let me go!”

In answer, he whipped around, the movement throwing her off-balance and into the kitchen’s door frame. Her head cracked against the solid wood, and her vision dimmed once again. By the time she could regain her equilibrium, Valère was descending into the cellar.

She daren’t put up a struggle now for fear of Valère’s missing a step and breaking both their necks. She stared up at the door’s rectangle of light while pitch black enfolded her, pulling her farther into its inky depths. She imagined Guy lying on the floor, with a gaping hole in his chest, his eyes staring sightlessly toward the door, toward her retreating back.

She shook her head.
No!
He was alive, and he needed her. Over the years, she had made a point to learn all she could about gunshot wounds and their care. But all her knowledge was for naught if she could not see the patient and assess the damage.

Valère reached the bottom of the staircase and rounded the corner, snuffing out the light, the window to her sanity.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought to hold on. She had to work through her fear, hold on until an opportunity of escape presented itself. She would not desert Guy as she had her parents. She. Would. Not.

“Guard,” Valère called.

“Here, sir,” With a lantern held aloft, the thin guard scurried out of a room.

“Is all in readiness?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cora glanced around, looking for Dinks and the others. The mixture of rotting food and cold, damp air made her skin crawl. The absence of her friends sent terror ripping through her. “Where are my friends?”

“Patience,” Valère said. “After your poor behavior, I should not allow you to see them. But I am feeling magnanimous at present and will honor my promise.”

Taking the lantern from the guard, Valère made his way across the cellar, weaving around casks, bins, and sacks of God-knows-what, until he drew even with a walled cell. It looked to be an exact replica of the cell she had inhabited in France, except it lacked Boucher’s blood-soaked table and lethal devices.

Cora, hanging from his shoulder, had to swallow hard to keep the bile down. As she had done with the giant who had kidnapped her from the Rothams’ ball, Cora arched her back and put the full force of her weight behind her elbow.

Anticipating her move, Valère dropped his shoulder and released her legs. She tumbled to the hard-packed dirt floor. The force knocked the air from her lungs, and bright spots whirled before her eyes. She was starting to question her ability to survive. One more knock to the head, and it was certain to explode.

“I am through being a gentleman.” He grabbed a handful of hair and dragged her backward into the cell.

She clawed at his hand, and her feet fought for purchase, trying to mitigate the excruciating pain driving into her scalp.

He flung her against the rough stone wall, her back smacked the surface with a dull thud, and she slid to the reeking floor like a ball of mud sliding down a fence post. She barely had time to get her bearings when his hand clamped around her throat and drew her battered body up, inch by slow inch. Her head scraped against the uneven surface until they stood eye to eye.

Her neck stretched tight, and her slippered toes ached from the weight of her body. Her hold on the heavy paperweight tightened. She must not drop it—no matter what. Given the grim condition of the cell, the paperweight would likely be her only salvation.

A glowing lantern hanging from a wrought-iron hook cast wavering light over Valère’s face. His chiseled features were cold, his eyes hollow with vengeance.

“Do not be frightened,
ma
petite
. Your friends will soon be here to keep you company.” He released her. “In the meantime, turn around.”

Cora’s breath hitched at his quiet command. She had sworn to remain vigilant around him after her lack of focus at Herrington Park. Presenting her back to him was out of the question. In a pathetic attempt to shield herself with something—anything—she scanned the room once more and found it still devoid of furnishings. No bed, no cot, no mound of straw. Not even a bedpan.

His eyes narrowed when she did not immediately comply. “You think to challenge me? Shall I bring your pitiful friends in here and kill them one at a time? Perhaps the sight of your brother would provide more incentive?”

A well of grief opened up inside her. The French had stolen so much from her. Monsters like Valère, who believed they could determine another’s destiny with a single word. Her hand inched toward her only weapon. She would not lose any more of her loved ones to the French, especially not this fiend.

The skinny guard stepped into the room. “Where would you like the sack, my lord?”

Cora’s hand returned to her side.

“Anywhere.” Valère’s jaw clenched at the interruption. “Except by the door. Did you get the bucket?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Place it near the sack, and get out.”

Cora angled her head to see past Valère’s broad shoulders, but he moved to block her view. With unexpected swiftness, he twirled her around and ripped open the back of her borrowed nightdress. She stared at the stone wall as the rose-colored silk sagged around her shoulders. If not for her sling, she would be standing in nothing but a thin shift, for she wore no corset.

The cool air penetrated the fine material, and her body began to quiver inside. That small movement pierced the fog of her shock, and her muscles coiled for action.

Sensing her intention, he forced her against the wall, pressing his forearm against her neck, the rough stone cutting into her cheek.

Cora gulped for air. There was none to be had.

“Do not test my patience. When I remove my arm, you will get rid of that damn sling and drop your garment. Understood?”

Unable to speak, she nodded.

He stepped away, and Cora’s reeling mind searched for a means of escape. She needed the Raven’s keen wit, and she needed it now.

When the Raven refused to surface, Cora pulled in a shuddering breath and drew the sling from around her neck. She crouched low, stripping the garment from her shoulders and piling everything, including the paperweight, in a crumpled heap at her feet.

She turned to face her captor.

A deluge of vile-smelling liquid hit her in the chest, splashing her face and stinging her eyes. Her breath lodged in her throat. Cold, fat clumps ran down her body, coating her from head to toe. The filth dripped like fat raindrops from her fingertips.