Andrea Kane (50 page)

“Tremlett.” Eric’s voice was close behind. “Noelle is my daughter. I’m coming with you.”

Ashford never turned. Nor did he hesitate. He simply nodded. “We’ll go by foot. It’s faster and quieter. Bring a pistol.”

Noelle shifted on the bed, wincing as the knife nicked her skin. The flat was cast in darkness—as it had been from the moment André dragged her inside, taken her directly to the bedroom.

“Stay still,” André ordered, looming over her as he slowly unbuttoned the front of her gown. He’d already torn off her mantle, discarded his own coat and shirt. But his trousers were, thankfully, still in place—probably because in his delusionary mind what was transpiring here was a seduction rather than a rape.

He leaned forward to turn up the lamp until a dim glow filled the bedchamber. “There.” He straddled her, locking her in place with the powerful columns of his thighs. “Much better. I want to see you when I finally make you mine.”

He frowned, studying the stark terror on her face. “Stop looking at me like that. I want to see passion in your eyes, not fear.” He abandoned her gown, grabbed her face between his fingers in a biting grip. “Show me your passion, dammit.”

Fighting back dread, Noelle swallowed. “How can I feel passion when you have a knife at my throat? Remove it and I’ll gladly comply.”

André’s eyes narrowed. “Is this your attempt to trick me? Are you hoping that if I remove the knife, it will enable you to escape?” he demanded, releasing her face but making no move to withdraw the blade. “Because it won’t work,
chérie.
That I can promise you. You’re mine now. And if you try to run away, all you’ll succeed in doing is making your death more painful. On the other hand, cooperate and your final moments on earth will be sheer ecstasy.”

Silently, Noelle prayed for strength. “I won’t try to run,” she vowed. She gazed up at him, feigning a quizzical expression. “I don’t understand you, André. I’ve dreamed of us being together. But I always thought that when we finally were, you’d want me to desire you as much as you desire me, not fear you.”

His fingers paused on the final button of her gown. “You’ve dreamed of us being together?”

She forced a smile to her lips. “Of course I have. Surely you guessed that. I made no secret of my attraction to you.” She reached out, tentatively caressed his sleeve.

His gaze shifted, watching her stroking fingers. “You’re baiting me.”

“No, I’m not. Why would I? It would only enrage you. And I have no desire to die an excruciating death. Nor, in truth, have I a desire to escape. If I did, I would have screamed while I was still in my house and there was a better chance of rescue.” She settled back against the pillow. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t want to be rescued?”

She felt the knife ease, ever so slightly, and thanked God for it. Time. She had to buy time. Sooner or later her parents would miss her, go to the kitchen, and find her note. And then they’d come for her.

They … and Ashford.

“Are you saying you’d
choose
to go away with me?” On the heels of his question, bitterness tightened his mouth. “What about Lord Tremlett?”

Don’t underestimate him, Noelle,
she warned herself.
He’s crazy, but he’s clever. He’ll know if you’re lying. Stick as close to the truth as possible.

Swiftly, she evaluated André’s priorities. His twisted actions were motivated by a sense of betrayal, justified or not. He wanted exclusivity, faithfulness. Very well, that’s precisely what she would display.

“I won’t lie to you, André. Lord Tremlett is a very charismatic man. Only a passionless woman would think otherwise. And as you well know, I’m not passionless. Nor, however, am I duplicitous. If the earl is to be my husband, I mean to keep only unto him. And that is why I showed him the affection you witnessed. Could I desire him? Yes. Could I desire him as much as I do you? Never. André, I want you—
too
much. But my future is spoken for and my affections must follow suit—even if you do make my pulses quicken like no other man ever has. If I’d had a choice, if my parents had listened to reason …” She broke off, gave a tiny shrug. “But they didn’t. The peerage is very important to them. And I’m hardly in a position to rebel. So I resigned myself to a lesser passion rather than the ultimate one.”

Throughout her speech, André had watched her, his gaze speculative, probing. “Faithfulness—an admirable quality in a woman. Also a rare one. I’m pleased to hear I wasn’t completely wrong about you,
chérie.
But let me understand this—if you’d had a choice as to your one and only lover, this man you intend to commit yourself to for life, that choice would have been me?”

Noelle swallowed, felt the edge of the blade. “Yes,” she whispered. “Without question.”

“Perhaps all is not lost, then,” André muttered, more to himself than to her. Another penetrating stare. “Have you given yourself to Tremlett yet?”

This time Noelle knew a lie was her only option. André wanted her pure, untouched by anyone other than him. If she told him the truth, he’d kill her on the spot. And, she realized, an icy chill of resignation shivering through her, if he carried out this defilement long enough to discover her lie firsthand, she’d want to die anyway.

“No,” she replied, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “I was taught to save my innocence for the marriage bed.”

A slow smile curved André’s lips, and for a moment he looked like the handsome artist who’d come to paint her portrait weeks ago.

But he wasn’t, she reminded herself. That had been a facade. André Sardo was a lunatic and a murderer.

“Then consider this our marriage bed,
chérie,”
he murmured, lowering his mouth to hers.

Oh, God, how can I do this?
Noelle thought frantically, willing her lips to soften beneath his.

She must have been at least minimally convincing, because André made an appreciative sound and deepened the kiss.

Noelle knew in that instant she couldn’t successfully execute this charade, not even to this extent. The invasion of André’s tongue, his breath as it filled her mouth—this was repulsive, unendurable.

She tried to twist away, but he tangled his fingers in her hair, held her in place, and continued kissing her.

Why?
Why?
she wanted to scream. He had to feel her body stiffen, feel her tongue instinctively recoil from his. So why did he continue to woo her, to kiss her as if they were both willing participants?

“Don’t be frightened,
chérie,”
he murmured, providing the answer to her question. “Get used to feeling me inside you. I’m going to possess you everywhere.”

Noelle had to fight to keep from gagging. André
had
noticed her reticence, but he’d attributed it to a case of maidenly nerves.

She squeezed her eyes shut as André tugged her gown apart, and she nearly wept with relief when his mouth left hers.

Her relief was short-lived.

Rather than abandoning her, his lips moved to her neck, her throat—the only reprieve being that his movements shifted the knife from her throat to alongside her head, then to the pillow beside her. Still, it was only inches away, and André’s thighs were locking her into place. Bolting would be akin to suicide.

“Don’t be nervous,
chérie,
” he breathed, kissing the hollow between her breasts. “You’re going to belong to me.”

Noelle heard the muffled footstep outside the bedchamber door a split second before it burst open.

It was time enough for her to prepare.

“Let go of her, you bastard!” Ashford commanded, exploding into the room like cannon fire, her father and a uniformed detective at his heels.

André jerked about, his expression stunned, disbelieving.

Ashford aimed his pistol at André’s head, and Noelle could see him hesitate, gauging the distance between Sardo and her to ensure he had a clear shot.

He didn’t.

Noelle gave him one.

The instant André turned, she brought her knee up—hard—slamming it into his groin with all the strength she possessed.

He shouted with agony, doubling up as every fiber of his being focused on the pain in his loins.

Noelle acted while he was off balance, shoving him off her, wriggling away and stumbling to her feet.

Realizing she was on the verge of escaping him, André lunged for her. He grabbed her arm a split second before she eluded his reach, clutching her wrist as his other hand groped for, and found, the knife. “Bitch!” he screamed, pulling her towards him, that wildness raging in his eyes as he dragged her towards her death: “Lying, wanton bitch!”

Ashford’s shot rang out.

André jolted, his head lurching sideways as the bullet penetrated just above his ear.

For the space of a heartbeat, time stood still.

Then, André’s eyes widened, the madness transforming to astonishment, then glazed nonreality. A stream of blood flowed from his wound, trickling down his neck and onto his bare shoulder.

Slowly, he collapsed, slumping over onto the bed, his fingers going lax around Noelle’s wrist before falling away entirely. He dropped heavily onto the sheets and went utterly still, his body twisted in an unnatural, distorted form.

Shocked and dazed, Noelle stared at him, watching the stream of blood ooze onto the sheets, its red stain spreading out across the stark whiteness of the linen.

He was dead. She knew it, and yet she felt unable to truly grasp that fact. Actually, she felt unable to fully fathom the entirety of what had transpired this past hour, wondering in some detached part of her mind if, in fact, it had been some heinous nightmare.

The shock abated when Ashford’s arms closed around her.

“It’s over, sweetheart.” He turned her away from Sardo’s body, gently drawing the sides of her gown together and gathering her against him. “He’ll never hurt you—or anyone—again.” His arms trembled, and a harsh sound vibrated from his chest. “God, I was so terrified, so afraid I wouldn’t reach you in time.” He sucked in his breath. “You have no idea how much I love you.”

With a choked sob, Noelle buried her face against Ashford’s coat, wanting to lose herself in his love, to warm away the chill that seemed to permeate her body, inside and out. “I love you, too.” She began to tremble with reaction. “You found me,” she whispered inanely. “You saved my life.”

“You’re the one who ensured that.” Her father’s unsteady voice came from behind her, and she felt his reassuring hand as it stroked her hair. “If it hadn’t been for what you said in your note … if Chloe hadn’t recognized your message …”

His voice broke, and Noelle eased away from Ashford long enough to give her father a fierce hug. “I’m all right, Papa,” she murmured. “Thanks to you and Ashford—and not surprisingly, Chloe.” She leaned back, summoning enough strength to try to ease the torment she saw on her father’s face. “He didn’t hurt me,” she said, smoothing away the grim lines around his mouth. “You got here in time.”

“Thank God,” he managed, kissing her brow before returning her to Ashford’s waiting arms.

Ashford enfolded her against him, caressed the nape of her neck, her face, her hands—needing to touch her, to assure himself she was unharmed. He threaded his fingers through her hair, brought strands of it to his lips.

For the first time, Eric voiced not even a token protest at the intimate contact. He simply met Ashford’s gaze over his daughter’s head and said, “Tremlett, there aren’t words enough to thank you.”

“None are necessary,” Ashford replied simply.

Flanked by these two men she loved, Noelle felt a resurgence of strength, a sense of lightness and well-being. The past hour’s ordeal was over, as was the investigation that had bound them to the past. Finally, finally, all would be as it was meant to be.

From the corner of her eye, she spied the detective as he crossed over, pistol in hand, to examine Sardo’s lifeless body. She leaned back and glanced at Ashford, her brows knit in question.

“Detective Conyers, I’d like you to meet my fiancée.” Ashford supplied the introduction.

Satisfied that Sardo was indeed dead, Conyers looked up, bowing slightly and giving Noelle an amused, admiring look. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady. And forgive me for sounding too familiar, but you’re quicker and smarter than any woman I’ve ever known. Not to mention the fact that you’re more courageous than most men. If you decide not to marry this rogue, Scotland Yard could use you.”

For the first time that night, Noelle felt herself smile. “Thank you, Detective Conyers. But I happen to be looking forward to marrying this particular rogue.” She gazed up at Ashford, love shining in her eyes. “Very, very much.”

“Not nearly as much as this rogue is looking forward to marrying you,” Ashford assured her, bringing her fingers to his lips. “The first week of April can’t come fast enough for me.”

The future—at last they could plan for it.

Which brought to mind the crux of their investigation, the man whose apprehension Ashford had staged so masterfully.

“Did you get Baricci?” Noelle asked.

“We did.”

“How? Did it go as planned? Did he confess? Is he the one who led you to Sardo? Did he know Sardo was a murderer?” Noelle paused to breathe, her natural curiosity recovering swiftly as her numbness faded. “I have so many questions,” she declared.

That elicited a chuckle from her father who, up until ten minutes ago, thought he’d never laugh again. “How unusual,” he remarked. “Can they wait until we get home? Chloe and your mother are frantic.”

“Of course.” Chloe and her mother. Noelle could hardly wait to hug them, to show them she was fine—and to thank her sister for reading between the lines, answering her prayers.

“Yes, go on home,” Conyers advised. “I’ll take it from here.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Consider yourself off duty, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Noelle smiled back. Then, with a slight shudder, she averted her eyes from Sardo’s body, fastening her gown and gathering up her mantle. “I’m more than ready.” She waited while Ashford wrapped the mantle around her. Then she looped one arm through his, the other through her father’s, giving silent thanks to the heavens. Baricci was in custody, André was dead—the nightmare was over.