Bride for a Night (11 page)

Even from a distance Talia could feel the tangible fury that filled the air as Gabriel glared toward the smirking Frenchman.

“She is mine,” he rasped.

“Non.”
Jacques shook his head. “She might legally be the Countess of Ashcombe, but you have yet to earn her as a wife.”

A chilling expression hardened Gabriel’s face. “You are no doubt right, but I can assure you that I will see you in hell before you lay a hand upon her.”

“I intend to lay more than a hand—”

“Jacques,” Talia interrupted in sharp tones, knowing the Frenchman was simply attempting to goad Gabriel.

“Forgive me,
ma petite,
” Jacques apologized, glancing over her shoulder as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed behind her. “André will escort you to your room.”

Talia did not bother to glance at the man at her side. She was familiar with the slender young soldier who had often paused to speak with her during her walks through the gardens. He had always been gracious, but Talia had never doubted his utter loyalty to Jacques.

“What do you intend to do with my husband?”

Jacques shrugged. “For now he will enjoy the delights of my cellar.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “You swear he will not be hurt?”

“There will be no injuries that will not heal.” Jacques
regarded Gabriel with blatant disgust. “At least for now. I make no promises for the future.” Lifting a slender hand, he motioned toward the hovering soldier. “André, ensure our guest is made comfortable.”

“No…wait…”

Talia’s words of protest went unheeded as André grabbed her around the waist and with one smooth motion yanked her out of the window and slung her over his shoulder.

Her last sight was that of Gabriel struggling against the soldier and Jacques, who had wrapped his arms behind him, his face twisted in lethal rage.

“Get your hands off my wife,” he shouted. “Talia!”

B
LINDED BY
his violent fury at seeing Talia manhandled by the damned soldier, Gabriel struggled against the arms that held him captive, refusing to calm until he felt a gun pressed to his temple.

“Do not be an idiot, Ashcombe,” Jacques rasped. “She is beyond your reach.”

With an effort Gabriel leashed his primitive compulsion to battle his way to Talia. Damnation, how could he rescue his wife if he were dead?

Ending his struggles, he stood rigid as Jacques and the soldier warily released him, shifting the gun to aim it at his heart.

For the moment the damned Frenchman held the upper hand, but soon…soon he would find the means to reverse the situation. And then he would take vicious delight in destroying Jacques Gerard before collecting his wife and returning her to Carrick Park.

And his bed.

“If she is harmed…”

“Thus far I am the only gentleman of her acquain
tance that hasn’t offered her harm,” Jacques pointed out in silky tones, waving his hand toward the nearby path. “This way.”

Gabriel clenched his teeth, unable to deny the charge, damn the bastard.

Even when he had come to rescue his wife from the clutches of the evil French he had managed to insult her with his accusations. And why?

Because she stirred feelings inside him that were as incomprehensible as they were unwelcome?

Forcing himself to follow at the Frenchman’s side, he wrenched his tangled thoughts from his wife, concentrating on the dangers at hand.

“A charming home for a vicar,” he drawled.

“Oui.”
A smile of bleak satisfaction curved Jacques’s mouth. “It once belonged to the gentleman who condemned my father to death. Ironic, is it not?”

“There is nothing ironic in countrymen slaughtering one another.”

“So speaks the pampered nobleman,” Jacques said and sneered. “You would not be so smug if you were forced to watch your children starving in the gutters.”

Gabriel arched a brow, deliberately allowing his gaze to skim the vast gardens and sprawling palace that surrounded them.

“Instead you drown your citizens in blood while you take comfort in the luxury you profess to detest. How many have died since your grand revolution?”

With the typical conceit of a zealot, the man shrugged aside the thousands of deaths suffered since the assault on the Bastille. Deaths that only continued beneath the rule of Napoleon with his insatiable lust for power.

“Freedom is not without cost.”

Gabriel snorted in disgust. “Is that what you tell your orphans?”

“They will understand that sacrifices were necessary when Napoleon is victorious.”

“More likely they will return to starving in the gutters when the Corsican monster is destroyed and his allies scurry away like the pathetic cowards they are.”

Gabriel enjoyed a stab of satisfaction as Jacques’s expression tightened, but with admirable control the Frenchman smoothed his features.

“Time will tell which of us is correct.” Altering his course, Jacques led Gabriel through a low archway. He paused to retrieve a lit torch from a bracket on the stone wall before he pulled open a door that led to a stone staircase cut deep into the ground. Behind them the French soldier held his gun at the ready, preventing Gabriel from any foolish hope of a swift escape. “Although it is questionable whether or not you will live long enough to enjoy France’s inevitable triumph,” Jacques continued in smug tones.

Gabriel refused to be goaded, instead distracting himself by memorizing the path through the narrow tunnels that had been chiseled beneath the palace.

“You might be an arrogant bastard who is willing to sacrifice his honor for a futile war, but not even you would be foolish enough to murder the Earl of Ashcombe,” he challenged.

“Who would know?” Jacques waved a hand to indicate the damp passageway. “I possess a convenient talent for making bodies disappear.”

Gabriel forced a stubborn smile, as his companion pushed open a heavy wooden door and waved him inside the cavernous room that had obviously been a wine cellar before being emptied of its shelves of bottles. Now there
was nothing more than a few narrow cots and a meager washstand to fill the emptiness.

“You do not think I traveled here alone, do you?” he demanded, stepping into the room and turning to regard his captor with a nonchalance he could only hope would fool the Frenchman.

He refused to consider what would happen if it were discovered that his only ally was already headed back to his ship.

“We shall soon discover. I have my soldiers searching the area.”

“My men are wise enough to avoid capture,” Gabriel drawled.

Jacques chuckled. “A pity their master was not so wise, eh Ashcombe?”

Gabriel fisted his hands, battling back the desire to throttle the conceited fop.

Patience,
he sternly reminded himself.

Soon enough he would manage to escape, and then Jacques Gerard would learn the meaning of regret.

For now he had to content himself with banishing that annoying smirk from his overly handsome face.

“I was wise enough to outwit you,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.

The taunting edge in his voice had the desired effect as Jacques slowly narrowed his gaze.

“An odd boast considering you are the one being locked in the cellars.”

“Perhaps, but I have the pleasure of knowing that I have ruined your attempts to lead Wellesley’s men into an ambush.”

A thick, explosive fury trembled through the air.

“How very clever of you,” Jacques snarled. “Do you mind sharing how you managed to discover…” He bit off
his words with a sudden hiss. “Ah, Henderson and his brother.”

Gabriel savored the man’s biting disappointment. “Yes, your partners were quite forthcoming with a bit of encouragement.”

It took long moments before the Frenchman heaved out a sigh, his ire replaced with derisive resignation.

“A pity, but I always knew they were immoral wretches who would betray their own mother if they could make a profit,” he admitted. “I trust they will be suitably punished for their treachery?”

“Of course.” Gabriel twisted the knife. “As will their accomplice in the Home Office who has also been captured.”

A muscle knotted in Jacques’s jaw as he considered the various repercussions at the discovery of his conspirators.

“I presume Henderson also gave you the necessary information to find me?”

“Yes.”

“Merde.”
Jacques shook his head. “It was a risk to reveal my destination, but they had promised to continue our rather profitable arrangement.”

Gabriel growled low in his throat at the man’s casual words. The
profitable arrangement
had no doubt cost the lives of dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of British soldiers over the past year.

“I assure you that your arrangement is at an end,” he snapped.

The mocking amusement returned to Jacques’s face. “True, but thankfully they were not my only associates and I do have Talia to offer me comfort.” His smile widened. “And speaking of your beautiful wife, I truly should
ensure that she has not been unduly disturbed by your unwelcome arrival.
Bonsoir,
Ashcombe.”

Gabriel rushed forward just as the door was slammed in his face. With a curse he pounded his fist against the thick wood.

“Touch her and I will kill you, you bastard.”

I
T SEEMED AN ETERNITY
had passed before Talia heard the sound of approaching footsteps, although she knew it had been less than an hour since André had returned her to her luxurious chambers and firmly locked the door.

Anxiously pacing from one end of the room to the other, Talia came to an abrupt halt as the key was turned in the lock, and the door was pressed open.

“Jacques,” she breathed, pressing a hand to her quivering stomach as the Frenchman strolled to the center of the carpet with his usual grace. “What have you done to my…” As always she stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “Gabriel?” she instead muttered.

A hint of satisfaction touched Jacques’s handsome features.

“You cannot even bear to claim him as your husband, can you,
ma petite?
”

Her chin tilted. She was tired, frustrated and terrified that Gabriel might be seriously harmed or worse, all because of his impetuous urge to rescue her.

“Do not presume that you comprehend my feelings for Gabriel,” she warned. “The truth is that I do not understand them myself.”

“He does not deserve your loyalty.”

Talia’s lips twisted. Jacques did have a point.

Gabriel had hardly been a doting husband. Not even
when he had arrived to heroically sweep her back to England.

But the mere thought of the irksome fiend being hurt was enough to make her stomach heave and her heart ache.

“That is for me to decide.”

Jacques shook his head ruefully. “So forgiving.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “You are avoiding my question.”

“His lordship is comfortably settled in the cellars.” Jacques looked as if he had just bitten into a lemon. “For now at least.”

“What do you intend to do with him?”

With a restless motion Jacques moved toward the mantel to arrange the delicate porcelain figurines.

“I will admit I am greatly tempted to tie him to the nearest tree and use him as target practice for my soldiers.”

“Dear God…no.”

He turned back to meet her horrified gaze. “Fortunately for your husband, I am not a self-indulgent aristocrat who thinks of nothing beyond his own pleasure.”

“What do you mean?”

Jacques shrugged. “The Earl of Ashcombe is an arrogant
cretin,
but I do not doubt his mother will be willing to offer a tidy sum of money for his return. I intend to send a demand for his ransom tonight.”

Talia bit her lower lip, torn between relief that Gabriel was to be spared and dismay at the thought of his mother being subjected to the terrifying ordeal of knowing her son was being held captive by French spies.

“You cannot be so cruel.”

“It is what must be done.” Jacques did not even bother
to appear apologetic. “I have hungry mouths to feed and dangerously empty coffers.”

“Tell me how much you will request for Gabriel’s release and I will ensure that it is delivered to you,” she countered. “There is no need to bully an old woman.”

His brows snapped together. “Have you forgotten that old woman has publicly shunned you since your marriage?”

Talia flinched. Of course she had not forgotten. Nor was she naïve enough to imagine that the dowager countess would ever consider her as anything other than an embarrassment that should be hidden from society.

But, while the Ashcombes might not consider her worthy, Talia was now a member of the family, and she would do whatever was necessary to protect them.

“What does it matter so long as you have the money to feed your children?”

“You…” Jacques gave a shake of his head, regarding her with an odd expression. “What?”

“I have forgotten there are still truly good people in this world.” He stepped forward, gently brushing her heavy curls from her cheek. “You terrify me.”

She shifted with unease beneath the intensity of his stare.

“Now you are taunting me.”

“Non.”
His fingers brushed down the line of her jaw. “You are one of those women who tempt a man to reform his sinful ways. Dangerous.”

Talia frowned at the absurdity of his claim.

She had been at the mercy of men since the day she’d been born. Her father. Harry. Gabriel. And now even Jacques. All of them had forced their will upon her.

“Very charming, but if I have discovered nothing else
it is that no man is willing to reform his sinful ways for a mere woman. Or at least, not for me.” She scowled as Jacques’s laughter rang through the room. “What is so amusing?”

His eyes shimmered with a rueful humor. “I have devoted my entire life to gaining freedom for the French people, even when it meant returning to England and deceiving those neighbors who trusted me. And yet I have risked everything to bring you with me rather than disposing of you as I should have.”

“You could never kill an innocent,” she protested.

“I have done far worse,
ma petite.
” A wistful smile curved his lips. “But when you look at me with those beautifully trusting eyes, I long to be the man that you see.”

“Jacques.”

“And what you have done to me pales in comparison to the destruction that you have wrought in your poor husband,” he continued.

“That is not amusing.”

Jacques clicked his tongue. “Surely you must be aware that before your marriage the Earl of Ashcombe was notorious for being an arrogant, overly proud gentleman who remained aloof from all but a few privileged friends?”

“I suppose he was considered aloof,” she grudgingly conceded.

“He was a coldhearted bastard,” Jacques corrected in dry tones, “but within a few weeks you have reduced him to a possessive barbarian who recklessly charged into danger the moment he realized that you were missing.”

“That is…” She sucked in a deep breath. “You are being absurd.”

“The poor man is currently roaring like a demented madman in my cellars.” His smile held an edge of satisfaction. He was evidently pleased by the thought of Gabriel suffering. “What further proof do you desire?”

For a moment of utter madness, Talia allowed herself to believe Gabriel had come to consider her as more than a burden that must be suffered for the sake of his family pride. But she hastily squashed the ridiculous notion.

This was not the time or place for absurdities.

“All I desire is to be allowed to return to England with my husband.” She pulled from his lingering touch. “How much money do you require?”

He folded his arms over his chest, regarding her with a brooding gaze.

“I said that I would be willing to trade the Earl of Ashcombe for a sizeable donation to my orphans. I did not include you in the bargain.”

A chill settled in the pit of Talia’s stomach. “You promised to release me once the battle with Wellesley had begun.”

“Perhaps I find that I cannot.”

“Jacques.”

“You are weary,
ma petite,
” he muttered, moving to brush a light kiss over her lips before crossing firmly toward the door. “Go to bed and we will discuss this in the morning.”

Talia watched him leave the room, closing and locking the door behind his slender form.

Surely he must be teasing her?

For all of his charming flirtations, he could not truly desire to keep her in France. Could he?

Chewing her bottom lip, Talia paced the floor, shifting through her limited options.

For once she did not intend to sit idly by and wait to discover what new disaster fate had concocted for her.

On this occasion she intended to take command of her own destiny.

S
OPHIA
R
EYNARD
moved through the sleepy palace with a proud grace that had once made her the toast of the Parisian stage and had captured the adoration of her vast audience.

Although some would claim it was the beauty of her pale ivory features contrasted with her auburn curls that had earned her fame. Or her expressive eyes that were closer to black than brown. Or even her tall, willowy form that appeared elegant whether in rags or, as it was now, draped in a sapphire silk dressing gown with black velvet bows begging to be undone.

Sophia, however, had always known it was her acting skills that had catapulted her from her mother’s fetid rooms in
Halles,
near the old Cemetery of the Innocents to the finest mansions in
Chaussée d’Antin
and the
Faubourg Saint-Germain.

Onstage she could capture the humor of Molière or the tragedy of Racine. And offstage…well, that was where her genuine talent was revealed.

With the skill that only the finest courtesans were able to acquire, she was capable of becoming any gentleman’s deepest desire.

She could be shy or naughty. Timid or daring. Sweet or vulgar. She could converse with the most celebrated intellectuals or tell jokes that would make a sailor blush. And most important of all, she could make a man feel as if he were without equal when he pulled her into his arms.

It was those talents that had allowed her to survive the
revolution even when her aristocratic lovers were being slaughtered. And eventually to capture the interest of Napoleon for several months after his rise to power.

She was a born survivor.

Unfortunately, she was not always wise.

She had met Jacques Gerard in Paris five years before and for the first time in her thirty years she had been immediately bewitched.

It went beyond a predictable attraction to his handsome face and fine form, although she was not yet so jaded she could not appreciate the flutters of excitement that raced through her when he glanced in her direction. Indeed, she had suddenly been transported back to the long-ago days when she’d still been young and naïve enough to believe in love.

But it was more his restless intelligence and the ardent intensity that simmered about him.

He was radiant, incandescent.

Whether he was plotting war strategies with Napoleon or seducing her into his bed, he was driven by passions that set her body and her heart—her very soul—on fire.

Within a few days she had fallen deeply in love with the elusive man, remaining faithful to him despite their long times apart, as Jacques spent months and sometimes years in England.

Not that she was foolish enough to assume he was equally celibate. He was a man, after all. Who of them was not swift enough to expect loyalty from a woman while they happily bedded every maiden willing to lift her skirts?

Still, Jacques had never displayed any affection or lingering interest for any other female.

Until now…

Pausing to smooth her expression into one of pleas
ant anticipation, Sophia stepped into Jacques’s private chambers, her heart missing a painful beat at the sight of him leaning against the windowsill, a half-empty glass of brandy in his slender hands.

He appeared remarkably suited to the lavish gold-and-ivory room with his elegant beauty and his slender body attired in a brocade robe. In truth, she had always wondered if he had more noble blood running through him than he wished to admit. He looked far more like an aristocrat than a peasant.

It was a suspicion she was careful to keep to herself. He would find nothing amusing in the notion there was blue blood running through his veins.

Especially tonight, she ruefully acknowledged, noting the tense set of his shoulders and his grim expression.

She faltered momentarily. She had sought out Jacques to demand explanations.

But did she truly desire to hear what he might say?

The cowardly part of her was not at all certain she was prepared to discover the truth. Not if it were destined to crush her stupid heart.

But she had not survived for thirty years by being a coward. Sucking in a deep breath, she forced herself to cross past the gilt beechwood chairs and the oval parquetry table inset with Sevres porcelain that was placed near the white marble fireplace. She had nearly reached the scrolled rosewood desk that groaned beneath the maps, stacks of waiting messages, journals and scribbled notes when Jacques sensed her presence and whirled to regard her with a scowl.

Sophia kept her smile intact as she came to a smooth halt. “Am I intruding?”

Just for a heartbeat an emotion perilously close to regret touched his handsome face, as if she had reminded
him of something he preferred to forget. Then, with his usual charm, he stepped forward to lift her fingers to his lips.

“Sophia, you are a vision of loveliness as always,” he murmured, speaking in French with a hint of an English accent that always sent a tingle of pleasure down her spine. “Is that a new dressing gown?”

“
Oui.
I discovered a very talented
modiste
in Paris while I counted the days until your return to France.” She deliberately lowered her voice to a sensuous invitation. “I have been anxiously awaiting an opportunity to reveal my treasures.”

“The treasure is not to be found in silks or satins. It is you,
ma belle.
” His dark gaze ran an appreciative survey down her body. “You would be breathtaking in a sackcloth.”

“A treasure that is easily forgotten, it would seem.”

She instantly regretted her impetuous words as he released her hand and took a step backward, his expression guarded.

Sacré bleu.
What was the matter with her? She had once been a master of such games.

“Ah, you have come to chastise me for having neglected you,” he accused.

“I would hope I am not so foolish as to chastise my lover. There is no more certain means to tarnish a man’s affection.” She sought to keep her tone teasing. “I will admit, however, that I am curious as to what has kept you so occupied that you cannot spare so much as an hour to spend in my company.”

“Forgive me,
ma belle.
” He waved a hand toward the nearby desk. “I fear that I had no notion that organizing a handful of spies could be so time-consuming.”

“So your distraction has nothing to do with your English guests?”

A surge of anger hardened his features. “Of course it does. The black plague—”

“Black plague?” she interrupted in confusion.