Shana Galen (25 page)

Décharné screamed in pain, whipped around, and brought his sword down viciously. Alex rolled away just in time, the look of pure animalistic hatred on Décharné’s face searing its image into his brain. Alex was farther away from the pistol, but he fought harder, hoping to wear Décharné down. Décharné stumbled—he was breathing heavily—and Alex glanced quickly at Lucia. She’d backed into the couch, and her trembling hands were pressed tightly against her lips.

This time when Décharné attacked, Alex met him halfway. Their swords smashed together, the echo deafening. Noting Décharné’s suddenly vulnerable abdomen, Alex swung his weapon lower, but Décharné evaded him again.

“Where are your men, Décharné?” Alex panted. “Have you lost them?”

“No,” Décharné grunted, veins standing out under his translucent skin. “They await my command.”

Alex lunged again, and Décharné parried. The men sized each other up, moving in a circle around each other. Alex was now facing Lucia. He did not take his eyes from Décharné, but from his position he saw her reach up and soundlessly remove the shield from the wall.

Alex attacked again, pushing Décharné back toward Lucia.

“Why not bring them here and end all of this quickly?” Alex huffed. “You’re taking a risk in fighting me.”

Décharné smiled mirthlessly. “This is between you and me, Selbourne.”

That was exactly what Alex had hoped. Décharné truly was a fool.

Then Décharné brought his sword up, taking Alex off-guard. Alex jumped back, but not before the weapon’s point scraped against his chest, leaving a line red with blood showing through the new gap in his waistcoat.

Alex heard Lucia cry out as he stumbled, but he quickly regained his footing and met Décharné thrust for thrust in the next attack.

His arm was warm and wet with blood, and the stinging sensation worsened with each movement. He ignored the throb of pain as he drove Décharné to retreat farther.

Behind Décharné, Lucia was holding the heavy metal shield aloft, and Alex gave her a nod just as Décharné twisted to see behind him. With a squeal, she brought the shield down on Décharné, hitting him on the top of the head with all her strength. Décharné crumpled, dropping his weapon with a clatter.

Weak with relief and pain, Alex almost dropped his own sword.

“Alex, you’re hurt!” Lucia cried, jumping over Décharné and running to him. He caught her, propelling her away from Décharné, who was still conscious and writhing on the floor, clutching his bloody head.

She was attempting to tend to the wound on his arm, but he pulled her tightly against him, needing to feel her solid and safe in his arms. “I’m fine. It’s just a scratch,” he murmured.

She peered up at him, then clutched him tightly back. “Oh, God, Alex.” She began to shake.

“Lucia, I need you to be strong,” he said, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. “Can you stay strong for me?”

She glanced toward Camille’s corpse and the pool of red that had spread beneath it. Alex turned her face toward him, forcing her to look only at him. “Can you stay strong, Lucia?” She closed her eyes and nodded.

“Good. Go to the window,” he said, “and part the curtain. Just a sliver. Tell me if you see any men outside.”

Alex watched Décharné as she went to the window. He couldn’t bear to look at Camille’s dead body. She’d betrayed him. She’d been ready to kill him. And he’d never seen it coming. He’d trusted her with his life. He was torn between anger and anguish, but when he thought of Lucia—the danger she’d been in—anger won out.

“There are four men on the street below,” Lucia told him, peeking out the window.

“I was afraid of that.”

Décharné rolled again, and Alex kicked his fallen pistol out of the man’s reach then tucked it and Camille’s into a pocket of his greatcoat. “Go into my bedroom. In the wardrobe you’ll find papers and money. There should also be a small portmanteau. Put everything in it. Hurry.”

Lucia started toward the bedrooms, then paused, eyeing him warily. “You are not going to—to shoot him, are you?”

“No,” he answered. He wanted to. For once, he’d relish killing a man, but dispatching Décharné, a pathetic sight moaning and defenseless on the floor at his feet, felt too much like murder.

Lucia gave him one last look and hurried into the bedroom. Alex wasn’t going to shoot Décharné, but that didn’t mean he had to leave the bastard unscathed. He checked to be certain Lucia was out of sight, and then bent down and hit Décharné on the back of the neck with the sword hilt. Décharné stilled.

Alex still had a score to settle with the skeleton—for Henri’s death, his own capture, and even Camille’s murder—but it wouldn’t be this night.

Lucia emerged a moment later carrying the portmanteau. He took it from her and grasped her small, cold hand in his. “Stay beside me,” he said, opening the door.

He pulled her relentlessly through hallways and down stairwells into a dark side street. He paused only when she stumbled and then just long enough for her to catch her balance. He took her along the banks of the Seine, past Notre Dame, and down the shadowy, tree-lined avenue they had traveled by coach only hours before.

When they reached the doctor’s house, Alex pounded on the door. Joubert opened it himself, his features wan.

“I’ll need horses, Joubert,” Alex said, thrusting Lucia into the house. “There’s no point in securing a carriage. We’ll never get through the gates. Any moment, an alarm will go out through the city. The only way is on horseback. Do you think you can ride, Mr. Dashing?”

He’d seen Lucia’s brother gingerly descend the stairs. The boy looked tired but stronger than he had that afternoon. Lucia ran to him and helped him down the last few steps.

“I can ride,” Dashing panted, “but tie me onto the saddle. If I faint I won’t fall off.”

Lucia shot Alex a look full of terror, but he could offer her no comfort. He didn’t even have time for a reassuring word. Joubert ushered them to his stable, and Alex tied Dashing to a horse. Lucia was already astride, and Alex handed Joubert a wad of money before mounting a gray gelding and signaling to John and Lucia to follow.

Dashing fainted an hour outside Paris, regaining consciousness only when Lucia prodded him to drink or eat while Alex changed horses or rode ahead to scout for danger.

A day and a half later, Alex and his charges stumbled onto the road to Calais and the Good Patriot. It was midmorning, and they’d had no rest for two days. At the Good Patriot’s stables, Alex pulled Lucia off her horse, and she collapsed in his arms. Alex lifted her, but she protested. “No, I can walk. I’m fine.”

“Shh, no arguments,” he told her. Dewhurst had been waiting for them, and Alex followed Freddie, who had Dashing slung over his own shoulder, inside.

Alex and Freddie skirted the inn’s common room, ascending the servants’ stairs to the rooms Freddie had secured above. Freddie set Dashing on the bed, and Alex slipped Lucia into a chair. Lucia wanted to tend to her brother, but Alex made her drink a few swallows of brandy first.

“How is he?” he asked later after recounting the ordeals to Freddie, who then left to fetch food and drink.

“I’ll live,” Dashing murmured, and Alex grinned. The boy had spirit.

“I want to hear from your nurse,” he said.

“He seems a little stronger, but I think he’s trying to hide a lot of his pain.”

“No pain,” her brother said, and Lucia rolled her eyes.

“We’ll all feel better after some sleep. Be ready to leave at dawn for Calais.” He glanced at the sun streaming through the slats in the closed shutters of the small room. They’d sleep through the day and most of the night. “I want to be on a ship at first tide. Until then, we rest.”

Lucia nodded and scooted closer to Dashing, obviously intending to lie down next to her brother.

“No,” Alex said, pulling her up. “We have the room next door. Freddie stays with your brother.”

Lucia frowned and glanced at Dashing.

The boy tried to sit up, only to fall back again feebly. “Like hell you’re sharing a room with her. She stays with me.”

“John—” Lucia put a hand on his chest, but Alex drew her away.

“Sorry, Dashing, but you’re in no position to protect her right now. I’ve already decided.”

“No,” the boy croaked, trying to rise. “I won’t allow it.”

“John.” Lucia tried to go to him, but Alex held her back. She frowned at him before turning back to her brother. “John, I’ll just be next door, on the other side of this wall. Rest. Please. We have a lot ahead of us still.” She gave him a weak smile.

“Selbourne.”

Alex turned back. Dashing was propped on his elbows, his stare hard. “Will you swear not to touch her? Give me your word as a gentleman.”

Alex regarded him coolly. “Get some rest,” he said, then closed the door.

I
t was dark by the time Alex unlocked the door and entered the small room. He lifted the candle, and the light illuminated the figure of Lucia, curled into a ball on the bed, hand fisted under her chin. She’d shrieked and bellowed when he’d left her—accusing him of making her a prisoner and asking if abandoning her was what he considered protection, but Alex had set his jaw, shut the door, and locked it. He hated to leave her, but Freddie was in the room beside her, and Alex needed to make preparations for the trip to Calais.

She didn’t wake when he returned, so he sat on the mattress and brushed her long, golden hair from her face. Even travel-stained, she was utterly ravishing. Each time he saw her was like the first, his breath taken away. He was a fool to let her go. But he would be a bigger fool to fall in love with her.

He stroked her hair again, and she yawned, rolled onto her back, then squinted up at him. She wore
only her chemise, and the thin material was nearly transparent. He steeled himself against the wave of dizzying arousal that hit him. Those exotic blue eyes were watching him, half closed, and he could not resist leaning down to taste her full lips. He told himself that in a few hours she would be on a ship for England. He told himself this was the last of the last times. After the events of the past few days, he needed her.

She tasted sweet, her lips ripe strawberries for him to sample. With his guidance, they parted for him, and he kissed her more deeply. Her arms wrapped around him, increasing the contact between their bodies, and her sleep-warmed body fired his desire.

His lips had strayed to the hollow of her throat and his hand to her calf when he heard the rapping on the door and came to his senses. Bloody hell! How did she do this to him every time?

“I ordered some water for a bath.” He pulled away from her quickly, jerking the sheets over her. She blinked at him, then nodded. Reaching for the pistol in his tailcoat, he opened the door.

“Here you are, sir.” A large man and an equally hefty woman lumbered into the center of the room carrying a brass tub. They dropped it with a thump. A serving girl followed and poured several pitchers of steaming water into it.

“Would ye like me to light a fire?” the woman asked when the girl had finished with the water. Alex nodded, paying her a few francs after she had done so.

“No more interruptions,” he told the woman as she left. Lucia was standing near the tub, sheet clutched around her, and poking at the soap and towels with her toe. She was also frowning. Now what?

“Why did you kiss me just now?” she said, not looking at him.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “I don’t know,” he answered finally.

“Is it because I was convenient?”

“Convenient? What does that—” Then he remembered. Camille. “Lucia, don’t tell me you’re angry about what I said to Camille.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” She poked the towels with her foot again.

“If I’d meant it, but I was saying what she wanted to hear.”

“And do you do that often?” She gave him a penetrating look.

“Do what?” The sheet she’d draped over her shoulders had fallen open, and the creamy white skin of her breasts and the light pink of her nipples was visible through the gauzy material of her chemise.

“Tell women what they want to hear.”

He scowled. “Are you are implying I’ve done so with you?”

“No. I asked for nothing, and you’ve given nothing. We should leave it at that.”

“I agree.”

“Good. Then don’t touch me again.”

“Fine,” he said, but was vaguely aware that her dictate irritated him. “The water’s getting cold.” He nodded to the tub. “Take your bath.”

Lucia looked at the water and then at him. “And where will you be while I bathe?”

Alex started to feel slightly less irritated. “I’m staying right here.” Watching was not touching. He strode to the bed and, crossing his arms, lay back, resting his shoulders against the wall.

Lucia shook her head. “You can’t stay.”

“Lucia, I’ve seen you naked before.” His eyes slid
over her in blatant perusal, and she pulled the sheet tighter.

“That was different, and it was days ago.”

“You think I’ve forgotten what you look like?”

She frowned and bit her lip, apparently at a loss for words. He liked her speechless—liked it even more when he’d made her so. It was no use. All her dictates and his resolutions were for nothing. They were going to make love. It seemed an established fact, something neither could control or decide. It
would
happen.

And he needed her tonight. Needed her innocence and her openness. With Lucia he could forget the world he lived in—the rank deceit and betrayal, the murder and ruthlessness. With her he was the man he wanted to be, not the man he so often played. He could almost forget his cynicism and believe in love. Sitting forward, he reached out and took her hand, pulling her to him.

“I haven’t forgotten, you know. I remember the little mole you have on your hip here.” His hand caressed her hip lovingly. When he looked up, she was watching him intently, her pupils wide. His hands skimmed over her stomach, and he felt her shiver. Her arms were still crossed over her breasts, so he stroked her shoulders. “And the color of your nipples, pink like the dress you wore that night.” Lucia swayed as his hands descended. “And the inside of your thigh—” His hands were creeping up her thighs, and she jumped.

“Stop!” She sounded breathless. “I believe you remember.”

“Good.” He grinned. “Now get in the water.” He gave her a little push toward the tub.

“Are you going to
watch
?”

“Oh, yes.”

Her face flooded with color.

“But—but—”

“But?” he said coolly.

She seated herself regally beside him. “I think you should go first,” she announced.

He arched a brow. “The water is clean and warm
now
. You should go first.”

“Thank you for the courtesy, but I’ll wait.” She jerked her chin.

He shrugged. “Very well.”

Standing up, he quickly undid his shirt and tossed it on the bed next to her. He felt the strength and heat of her gaze on him. He continued to face away from her as he reached for the buttons to his trousers, but when he began to unfasten them, he tossed her an invitation over his shoulder. “Would you like me to turn around?”

“No,” she said quickly, looking away. “Of course not.” She swallowed hard, looking at everything but him. “I will—I—I’ll lie here and rest!” She smiled. “When you are done, let me know, then I’ll bathe.” She flopped down and closed her eyes tightly.

Alex smiled. Her response to him hadn’t changed. She wanted him, and his own desire had begun the moment he’d seen her again in the Pools’ garden. She was like a drug, subtly addicting him, until, before he knew it, he was craving her. He could not exist without her.

He removed the rest of his clothing, and though she must have heard the rustle, she kept her eyes firmly shut. But when he put one toe in the water, splashing purposely, her eyelids opened just a crack. He grinned.

Alex lowered himself into the tub, flexing his arms as he did so. He heard her take a long, shaky breath.
Moving slowly, aware she was watching him, he waited for her to give in.

The tub was small, and his knees barely fit. He had to pull them up almost to his chest, and the water slipped out of the tub as he dunked his head under. When he came up, he slicked his wet hair back.

She was watching him unabashedly now, apparently having forgotten to feign sleep. As he reached for the soap on the floor, he turned to look at her. She snapped her eyes shut.

“By all means, if you want a better view, come closer.”

“I wasn’t watching,” she squeaked, shutting her eyes again.

“Of course not.” He soaped his arms and legs, the water rolling down his skin in rivulets. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her peek again.

“Lucia,” he said, his voice low, seductive.

“I wasn’t!”

“Come here.”

“No, Alex. My brother is just next door!” she hissed.

“I just want you to wash my back.”

“Wash your—” She sat up. “Men!”

He grinned and waited for her to protest further, but instead she rose, leaving the sheet behind, and stomped over to kneel beside the tub.

“Oh, all right. Give me the soap,” she said huffily. He chuckled, handing it to her.

Lucia rubbed the soap across her palms, lathering it richly, then glossed her slippery hands across Alex’s back. He leaned forward, and her knees were instantly soaked by the discharge of water. She ig
nored it, running her hands over his muscles, then massaging his shoulders.

He groaned in response, and she liked that.

Lucia massaged his back, spreading the soap down to his waist, then dipping her hands in the water and rinsing it off again. She saw his muscles tense at her light touch, and she was intrigued at the effect she had on him.

She ran her fingers lightly down his back, and when she had made her way up again, marveling at the way his muscles flexed under her strokes, he caught her hand, jerking her forward so she was pressed tightly against his back.

“You are killing me.” He pronounced each word acutely. “If you don’t stop now, I’ll have to throw you on the floor and make love to you.” His voice was strained and husky, and it sent spirals of pleasure swirling through her. It made her bold, too.

Her face was next to his, and she turned to kiss his ear. It drove her wild when he did it to her, and she wondered if it would have the same effect on him.

Apparently it did.

His whole body tensed, his hands gripping the sides of the tub, his jaw clenched tightly. Finally he seized her chin and kissed her properly, his tongue meeting hers and thrusting deeply. She sighed with pleasure, matching his every erotic effort.

Her breasts were pushing against his back, and under the wet chemise her nipples were hard and sensitive. She rubbed tentatively against his back, and his fingers spread over her cheeks, cupping her head so that he could kiss her more deeply. When the kiss ended and he pulled away, she scanned his gray eyes, then allowed her gaze to slide down his body toward his hard member.

He watched her, the heat in his look searing her. Shakily she retrieved the soap and lathered her hands with suds. His back was unarguably clean, so she scooted to the side of the tub and ran her hands over his chest, careful of the fading red gash from Décharné’s sword.

His hands tightened on the sides of the tub again, and when she followed his hungry gaze, she saw he was staring at her wet chemise. The material clung to her breasts, outlining every curve.

Lucia’s hands stroked his stomach, then moved lower. With a jerk Alex grabbed her wrist, and their eyes met.

“I want to touch you,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Lucia—”

“Let me touch you.”

After a long moment he released her wrist, and she smiled at the battle-ready position he assumed: eyes shut tight, body tense, hands fisted.

She stroked his chest, then slid her fingers down his hard abdomen, whisper-light, then skimmed lower.

He groaned, but she hardly noticed. He was silky and hard, firm and yielding, alive beneath her touch.

Finally, with a shudder, he caught her wrist and kissed her palm.

“It’s your turn.” His eyes glinted.

The next moment he was standing, dripping wet, pulling her beside him. Without releasing her, he stepped out of the tub and tugged her hard against him. He leaned down to kiss her neck, his face and hair tickling her cheek.

“Get in the tub,” he whispered.

Lucia’s heart hammered in her chest as she felt his hands strip away the chemise. His body was moist, and her own seemed to cling to it. The feel of his bare
skin against hers aroused her further, and she luxuriated in the feeling.

All too quickly, he moved away. Lucia sat down abruptly, feeling lost without his body touching hers. She reached for the soap, but Alex already had it in his hands and was moving behind her.

With exquisite slowness, he brushed her hair aside, and his slippery fingers caressed her back. She shivered at his gentle touch when he massaged her muscles, kneading his hands into her sore shoulders and arms. Lucia closed her eyes and sighed.

Without a word, he directed her to dunk her head under the water. She soaked her hair, and when she came up, Alex put his hands in the long, tangled tresses. Tingles raced through her as his firm fingers began to massage her scalp. He worked the lather of the soap through her heavy mane, kneading the last of her tension away.

When she opened her eyes again, he was kneeling in front of her. He gave her a seductive smile, then lifted one of her feet. Lifting the foot to his bare chest, his fingers pressed firmly against the tender, swollen pads of her heel and arch. He even rubbed each toe gently between his fingers. Lucia had not realized how sore her feet were until his ministrations began. He repeated his actions with the other foot, finally rinsing it clean. She wiggled her toes against his smooth muscles, and he kissed each one, lingering until her legs began trembling.

Then his hands glided over each of her legs, spreading the silky soap over her calves. When he’d finished, he propped her foot on his shoulder and lathered her knee, then her thigh, reaching higher until his hands grazed the juncture between. She was trembling violently.

His fingers brushed against her, and Lucia
couldn’t suppress a moan. The pressure coiled inside her, growing when he reached deeper to caress the small nub at the center of her folds. She bit her lip hard to keep from crying out.

And still the torture continued.

He stroked her until she was writhing and pushing against him. Then his fingers entered her. She let out a gasp, and when he slowly, tantalizingly withdrew, she took her opportunity. She grasped his shoulders and rose to her knees, kissing him ravenously, biting his lips, rubbing her breasts against the hardness of his chest.

She didn’t know how, but a moment later they were in bed, hot and wet, and Alex’s body was wonderfully heavy above her. He was kissing her, stroking her, touching her in ways she never could have imagined. Then he stopped, and when she opened her eyes to look at him, he was staring at her face.