Bride for a Night (10 page)

Of course, it was the same voice that had convinced him that Talia had been as guilty as her father in trapping him in an unwanted marriage and was responsible for this mess to begin with.

For a gentleman who prided himself on his ability to confront any situation with a logic untainted by emotions, he behaved as if he were as witless as those dandies littering the London ballrooms.

The knowledge was as annoying as it was inexplicable.

“Return to the ship and ensure it is prepared to leave the moment I arrive with Talia,” he commanded, his sharp tone warning he would endure no argument.

Hugo’s jaw tightened, but he gave a reluctant nod.

“Very well.”

“And, Hugo?”

His friend frowned. “Yes?”

“If I have not arrived by dawn tomorrow you are to return to England without me.”

“No.”

Gabriel narrowed his gaze. “You gave your word you would follow my orders when I allowed you to accompany me.”

Hugo tossed his hands in the air, clearly at the end of his patience.

“I begin to wonder if marriage has softened your brain.”

Gabriel’s lips twisted. “I must admit that I wonder, as well.”

Hugo headed toward the nearby trees. “Do not miss the ship.”

“I shall do my best.”

T
ALIA’S PRIVATE CHAMBERS
were as magnificent as the rest of the palace.

The walls were covered by a pale green that matched the velvet curtains and the green-and-gold striped satin on the furnishings. A large fireplace made of white marble veined with black dominated one wall with a vast mirror framed in a profusion of gilt hanging over the mantel.

On the opposite wall a row of arched windows overlooked the sunken garden and the distant lake. While overhead a heavy crystal chandelier spilled a golden glow over the canopy bed set in the center of the room.

Still attired in her ruby satin dinner gown trimmed with French pearls at the plunging neckline and white roses along the cap sleeves, Talia sat in front of the satinwood dresser pulling a brush through her thick curls.

It had been over a week since her arrival at the palace, and while Jacques had been a charming companion when he was not meeting with the various guests who routinely traveled from Paris to speak with him, she was growing frustrated with her elegant prison.

As she should be, she acknowledged, tossing aside the brush and rising to her feet.

After accepting that she could not escape, she had in
stead turned her thoughts to the looming disaster awaiting General Wellesley’s troops.

But despite her efforts, she had yet to find the means to send a warning to those poor men who were about to march directly into an ambush. And she’d had even less luck in discovering the sort of secret information that might be used to England’s advantage once Jacques returned her to Devonshire.

She was proving to be as much a failure at being a daring adventuress as she was a society debutante.

Talia paced out the French doors that led to the balcony. She was leaning against the stone balustrade gazing at the moon-drenched garden when she caught the unmistakable sound of a soft footfall behind her.

“Jacques?” she called, a frown marring her brow. Until this moment she had never felt uneasy in these private chambers, despite being a prisoner. The various guards who roamed the palace and surrounding grounds had treated her with a wary respect that assured her that Jacques had left strict orders that she was not to be bothered. Now she realized just how vulnerable she truly was. “Who is there?”

A large, distinctly male form stepped onto the balcony.

“It most certainly is not Jacques,” a familiar voice growled.

“Gabriel?” Talia gasped in shock, half suspecting this must be a dream. It certainly would not be the first time she’d imagined her husband magically appearing to sweep her back to England. Of course, in her dreams he had spoken sweet words of regret. His sharp retort assured her that she was very much awake. “Dear God. What are you doing here?”

He prowled forward, his golden hair shimmering in the moonlight and his eyes a pure silver.

Talia shivered at the sudden danger that filled the air. How ironic that she felt perfectly comfortable with the man who had taken her captive, while her husband—the one man she should trust above all others—made her tremble with uncertainty.

“I should think that is obvious.” His hooded gaze skimmed over her stiff form, lingering on her tumble of loose curls that spilled over her shoulders and down her back. “I have come to collect my wayward wife.”

A breathless, aching sensation raced through Talia, making her acutely conscious of the vast amount of bare skin revealed by her gown and the manner in which it clung to her generous curves.

“How in heaven’s name did you find me?” she rasped.

He halted a mere breath from her, the scent of his warm male skin teasing at her nose.

“I am not without skills.”

“But…”

“Why did you assume another man would be entering your chambers?” he roughly interrupted.

Sudden fear that they would be overheard by the guards in the garden below jolted Talia out of her lingering sense of disbelief.

“Shh.” She lifted a hand to press her fingers to his lips. “Someone will hear you.”

He grabbed her wrist, his touch sending a sizzle of heat through her blood even as his eyes flashed with anger.

“Answer the question, Talia. Who is Jacques?”

She frowned in confusion. “He is…or
was
your vicar until he revealed himself as a traitor and kidnapped me.”

“Jacques…Jack,” he breathed in sudden comprehension. “Of course.”

“Yes, Jack Gerard.”

“And he is a frequent visitor?”

“I do not understand.”

She furrowed her brow, wondering why on earth he appeared to be so preoccupied with her captor. Surely they should be concentrating on escaping before his presence was noticed?

Then realization struck like a slap to the face.

“Oh, my God.” She jerked her hand from his grip. “Did you come here to rescue me or to discover if Jacques is my lover?”

His jaw clenched. “Is he?”

For a crazed moment Talia contemplated the pleasure of knocking the arrogant bastard over the edge of the balcony.

What sort of insufferable, selfish beast was more concerned with whether or not his wife might have strayed than her well-being after enduring the trauma of being kidnapped and held captive?

Then deciding his head was too thick to be harmed by a mere fall, Talia pushed her way past his large form to enter her bedchamber.

“You should leave before the guards discover you are here,” she ordered between clenched teeth.

He was swiftly in pursuit. “You wish to remain?” he demanded.

“I wish…” She came to a sharp halt near the bed, recalling her ridiculous dreams of Gabriel’s romantic charge to the rescue. “I am such an idiot.”

He grabbed her shoulder, turning her to meet his fierce scowl.

“Talia.”

“No.” Instinctively she reached up to knock his hand away. “Do not touch me.”

He froze, regarding her as if she had suddenly grown a second head.

“You are my wife.”

Her humorless laugh echoed through the room. “A wife you insisted leave town mere hours after our wedding and to whom you haven’t bothered to send so much as a note.”

A flare of color crawled beneath his skin. Talia might have suspected he was embarrassed by her accusation if it weren’t so absurd.

“And because I damaged your pride you turned your attentions to another man?” he snapped.

“I have never turned my attentions to another man.”

“No?” His gaze swept over her expensive satin gown before shifting to the opulent splendor of her room. “It does not appear that way to me.”

“Fine.” Planting her hands on her hips, she shot Gabriel a fierce glare. Something she would never have dreamed possible only a few short weeks ago. “You desire the truth?”

His chin tilted to a haughty angle. “I will accept no less.”

“Then I will admit that I found the Vicar Jack Gerard a kind and charming gentleman who treated me as if I were a true lady of quality and not a bit of rubbish that had to be buried out of sight.”

“That was not…”

“But I have never considered him as more than a friend, and not even that since he forced me to accompany him to France,” she continued without allowing him to defend the indefensible. “You may believe me or not. I do not particularly care.”

G
ABRIEL CLENCHED HIS
hands at his sides, regarding his wife with smoldering frustration.

What the devil had happened?

Everything had gone to plan as he had waited for the shadows to deepen before at last slipping through the gardens and finding an open window to enter the palace.

It had taken longer than he had expected to at last locate Talia’s rooms, and he had been forced to hide more than once to avoid passing guards, but overall he had been pleased to reach Talia without alerting the numerous French swine of his presence.

Then he had heard his wife calling out the name of another man, and his determination to collect Talia and escape with all possible speed had been forgotten beneath a tidal wave of pure male fury.

He had risked his damned life to come to her rescue. How dare she be expecting another man in her private chambers. Especially attired in a slip of a gown that would make any man fantasize of sex?

Even if she spoke the truth and the bastard was not her lover.

And to make matters worse, she did not even possess the grace to apologize, instead attempting to paint him as the villain of the piece.

He shoved an impatient hand through his hair. “Tell
me how you came to be here,” he commanded, attempting to regain command of the encounter.

“Why bother?” she mocked, her magnificent eyes flashing with a spirit that was at complete odds with the timid female who had stood at his side during their wedding. “You have obviously made your decision that I am not only a scheming peasant who forced you into marriage, but I am also so lacking in morals that I took a lover within days of becoming the Countess of Ashcombe and…” she sucked in a trembling breath that drew attention to the delectable swell of her breasts “…as the
coup de grace
I became a French spy.”

The discomfort twisting his gut could not be guilt, he attempted to assure himself.

He was the Earl of Ashcombe. He had every right to question his wife.

“Tell me, Talia,” he demanded.

Her eyes narrowed, but with a toss of her head she conceded to his demand.

“I happened to be passing by the church when I noticed two ruffians entering.” She shrugged. “I was concerned they were up to some mischief, so I slipped to the back where I could see what they were doing.”

His heart missed a painful beat at the mere thought of Talia confronting the two brutes currently being questioned by the Home Office in London.

“Damnation, woman. Have you no sense at all?” he chastised. “The Countess of Ashcombe does not walk country lanes without a servant and she most certainly does not confront…ruffians. If you have no concern for your pretty neck, then you should at least have a care for your reputation.”

She should have been cowed by his censure. Instead she met him glare for glare.

“Just as you had a care for my reputation when you publicly shunned me?”

“Dammit,” he snapped. “You should have returned to Carrick Park and sent a servant to investigate.”

“I only intended to see if they meant harm before I decided whether or not to go in search of the magistrate.”

“Instead you were captured.”

She waved a hand, indicating the palatial room. “Obviously.”

Gabriel’s frustrated fury shifted toward the man who had dared to kidnap his wife. Although he had a vague memory of a new vicar being chosen for the local church, his visits to Devonshire had been consumed by his efforts to teach his reluctant tenants the latest farming techniques as well as restoring the manor house that had fallen into disrepair after his father’s death. He had little time or interest in the spiritual welfare of his people.

Now he could only regret his failure to personally investigate Jack Gerard.

“I will kill him,” Gabriel swore. “Were you injured?”

She rolled her eyes, appearing utterly unimpressed by his concern.

“Should that not have been your first question rather than accusing me of adultery?”

He growled in annoyance at her continued defiance. He was unaccustomed to anyone daring to lecture him, let alone his own wife.

“Bloody hell, when did my mouse become a shrew?”

“When I accepted my husband intended to treat me with the same disregard as my father.”

He stiffened, deeply offended by the accusation. He had nothing in common with Silas Dobson.

He squashed the memory of standing at the window of his London townhouse, watching as Talia had entered
the waiting carriage with an air of wounded defeat. At the time, he had done what he had thought was for the best.

That did not make him an uncouth, ill-bred bully, did it?

Of course it did not.

“If I intended to treat you with disregard then I would not be risking my life to rescue you,” he pointed out in a harsh voice.

She shrugged aside his heroic deed, unconcerned that the Earl of Ashcombe would personally face hardship and peril when he could so easily have waited in London for the diplomats to attempt to gain her release.

“I am not sure why you bothered,” she muttered.

“At the moment, neither am I,” he barked before making yet another effort to regain control of his temper. Christ, this female would not be satisfied until he was fully unhinged. “Did the bastard attempt to take advantage of you?”

“No.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Jacques has been a perfect gentleman.”

He growled deep in his throat. “Perfect gentlemen do not betray their countrymen and kidnap vulnerable females,” he ground out.

She sniffed. “How did you find me?”

Gabriel had endured enough. He was not certain what had happened to his shy, properly modest bride, but now was not the time for a marital spat.

Not when they were surrounded by the enemy.

“We can discuss my methods later.” He crossed toward the door. “We must leave.”

“Wait.”

He halted to regard her with a flare of impatience. “Talia.”

Turning her back on him, Talia stalked to the satinwood armoire and began pulling out muslin gowns, petticoats and delicate stockings.

“I am not being hauled back to England without a toothbrush and a change of clothing,” she said, her tone daring him to argue.

“Bring only the necessities.” Gabriel crossed to spread one of the gowns over the mattress, then tucked her undergarments in the muslin folds before rolling it into a tidy bundle. “I have packed your belongings and have them waiting for you on my ship.”

Talia’s protest died on her lips as her eyes widened in disbelief.

“You packed a bag for me?”

He crossed to the washstand, collecting her toothbrush and tooth powder as well as the silver hairbrush and mirror, savagely promising to toss them in the rubbish the moment they reached his ship. No man would provide for Talia but himself.

She belonged to him.

Prickly temper and all.

“Actually I packed several bags since I have never before played lady’s maid and was not entirely certain what you would need,” he informed her.

“Why did you not have Mrs. Donaldson assist you?”

He snorted, recalling the wailing and handwringing that had filled his once peaceful home.

“Because the entire staff is prostrate with grief.” He gave a shake of his head, still amazed by his servants’ unashamed hysterics at Talia’s disappearance. “I fear if I do not have you returned to their tender care soon the entire estate will collapse in despair.”

Her lips tightened. “You needn’t mock.”

“I am not mocking, my dear.” His gaze lingered on
the delicate beauty of her face, before skimming down to the body that was pure perfection. A dangerous sensation gripped his heart, forcing him to accept just how much he had missed this female. It was ludicrous. She had been little more than a stranger when he’d wed her. And yet the desire to have her near was a potent ache that refused to be dismissed. Dammit. “You have earned the loyalty of all those who depend upon Carrick Park for their livelihood. It is quite remarkable in such a short period of time.”

“They are good people and I genuinely care about them,” she said. “Unlike…”

A humorless smile twisted his lips as Talia hastily bit off her words.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“’Tis nothing.”

“On the contrary. I would guess it was an insult.” He watched the color flood her cheeks, ruefully acknowledging that for all of Talia’s lack of blue blood she had already proven to be a better countess than a great many of his ancestors. Including the current dowager Countess of Ashcombe. “The only question is whether it was intended for me or my mother.”

Her blush deepened and, grabbing a shawl from the armoire, Talia headed for the door.

“I am ready.”

He hurried in her wake, catching her arm as she marched down the main corridor.

“This way,” he said, tugging her into a small salon and through a narrow doorway hidden in the wall.

In silence they navigated the smothering darkness of the secret hallway that Gabriel had discovered during his search for Talia. The lack of dust and spiderwebs had warned him that the current occupants were famil
iar with the cramped corridor, but he doubted they actually patrolled the passageway.

Not that he was willing to lower his guard.

Pulling his loaded pistol from his pocket, he led Talia through the darkness until he at last slowed and pushed open the door to the vast library. He paused, ensuring that there was no one near before crossing the
Savonnerie
carpet to pull open the door leading to the terrace.

Earlier he had used the steps leading from the garden to the terrace to enter the palace. Now, however, he came to an abrupt halt as he caught faint sounds drifting from the nearby shadows.

“Damn.”

Talia moved to his side. “Guards?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

He attempted to pull her away, but she was already peering over the edge of the terrace.

“What are they—” She gasped as she caught sight of the soldier leaning against the fountain with a maid kneeling in front of him, his low moans of pleasure filling the air. “Oh.”

He jerked her back into the library, annoyed that she had been exposed to such lewd behavior. Did Jacques have no control over his men?

Weaving a path through the gilt chairs covered in red velvet and the heavily scrolled desk, Gabriel pulled open the door to the connected room.

“Where does this lead?”

Talia shook her head. “I am not certain.”

Gabriel cautiously entered what appeared to be an antechamber with a massive black marble fireplace and brocade chairs seated near a round table that held a jade and ivory chess set.

They had just crossed to the opposite door when the
sound of footsteps in the main corridor had them both stiffening in alarm.

“Gabriel,” Talia breathed.

“I hear them.”

With long strides he crossed to yank aside the crimson curtains and pushed open the window sash.

Talia was swiftly at his side. “What are you doing?”

Gabriel leaned over the sill, surveying the garden two stories below.

“It is not far to the garden.”

“Are you mad?” Talia rasped.

“I will go first.” Gabriel tossed the small bundle he carried to the flower bed below the window before turning to grasp Talia’s hand. “Once I’m certain no one is near, I will whistle and you can join me.”

Her eyes darkened with fear. “You want me to jump?”

“I will catch you.”

“No.” She wildly shook her head, her raven curls sliding sensuously over the bare skin of her shoulders. “I cannot.”

“Look at me, Talia.” He slid a hand beneath her chin, tilting her face up to meet his encouraging expression. “You have already proven there is no challenge you cannot confront with courage. You can do this.”

“But…”

Lowering his head, Gabriel ended her words of protest with a soft, lingering kiss that only hinted at the raw need clawing deep inside him.

“Trust me,” he whispered against her mouth.

T
ALIA WAS STILL
reeling from her uncontrollable reaction to Gabriel’s branding kiss when he slung a leg over the windowsill and leaped into the garden below. She gasped,
racing forward to peer into the darkness even as she told herself she was a fool to be concerned.

She had no notion why Gabriel had taken it upon himself to rush to her rescue, but it was certainly not because he had any finer feelings for her. Or even the most basic concern of a husband for his wife.

How could he when the aggravating man had done nothing but bully and accuse and insult her since his unexpected arrival on the terrace?

She could only presume that his pride could not bear the thought that the Countess of Ashcombe was being held captive by a French spy.

Much to her annoyance, however, she could not stop herself from breathlessly waiting for his whistle to assure her that all was well. Nor could she quell the flutter of panic when long minutes passed with nothing but the distant cry of an owl to break the silence.

Gripping the edge of the window she leaned forward, her fear for Gabriel overcoming her intense dislike for heights.

“Gabriel?” she cried. “Are you hurt?”

There was a rustle from the nearby hedges, then her heart froze at the sight of Gabriel stepping into the moonlight with Jacques on one side and a French soldier on the other with a gun pointed directly at Gabriel’s head.

“Stay where you are,
ma petite,
” Jacques commanded, casting Gabriel a mocking smile. “It would be a sin to break your lovely neck just when you are about to be rid of your unwanted husband.”

“Jacques, no.” She shook her head in horror. “Please.”

“Ah, how sweetly she pleads for the husband who has treated her with less respect than he would show a stray dog,” Jacques drawled. “Do you know what I think, my lord?”

Gabriel held himself with arrogant indifference, as if he were standing in the middle of a ballroom rather than being held captive by his enemies.

“I do not give a damn.”

Jacques’s smile widened. “I think she would be far happier as a widow,” he taunted. “I know I will be.”