by Devilish
“Go piss yourself.”
Diana glanced at Bey wondering what he planned, and how he was going to enforce his will. He simply looked at the younger man, and after a time of silence that seemed almost unendurable, Lord Randolph staggered toward the bed. “What are you going to do?” he asked, but in a broken whine.
Bey pushed him quite gently on the shoulder so he sat, then again so he was lying. “I have no designs on your beautiful body,” he said, picking up a strip of cloth. “Stay still.” He began to tie Lord Randolph’s wrists to the bed. “Diana, if you wish, you may do his feet.”
Diana put down her pistol, appalled by this calm application of terror. It didn’t stop her fierce satisfaction at tethering her tormentor’s trembling feet to the bed so he ended up as helpless as she had been, his floppy private parts exposed by his open breeches.
“What are you going to do?” he asked again, white-edged eyes darting around the room. “For God’s sake, Rothgar, Malloren …”
Bey looked down at him. “I am going to do nothing. We men are going to leave you at Lady Arradale’s mercies. If you survive, I will send people at dawn to cut you free and put you on a boat for the Americas. Your father has property there, I believe. Do not return.”
“No! Look, I never meant her any harm. We were to be married! You know what women are like … !”
The door shut behind the two men, and Lord Randolph stared up at her. He tried a weak smile, fighting his bonds. “You don’t want to hurt me. I didn’t really hurt you.”
She leaned forward and slapped him, just hard enough to sting.
He grinned a bit. “There, see. You feel better now, don’t you? Hit me again if it helps.”
She thought of fondling him, but whether he’d like it or hate it, she couldn’t bear to touch him there. She remembered her need to kill him, but now he was a broken, pathetic thing, her loathing had shrunk to a nugget. He wasn’t worth it.
She picked up the knife still lying on the floor, and laid it against his flaccid penis.
“No,” he choked. “Don’t. Don’t …”
“Just remember,” she said, looking into his terrified eyes, “for the rest of your life, remember that any woman you meet might be like me. We’re clever at hiding our strengths, we women, so you’ll never really know. And no man can guard himself day and night forever, especially not from a lover or a wife.”
She stroked the tip of the blade up and down him. “If you’d completed what you planned, I would have killed you at the first opportunity. But before I killed you, I would have gelded you. Remember that. Remember me, and treat all women with the fearful respect we deserve.” She pressed the blade into his flesh, then, just enough to cause blood to run.
He cried out and twisted up to look at himself, then collapsed back again, weeping. Probably with relief.
She dropped the knife on the floor. “Goodbye, Lord Randolph.”
With that, she left the room.
Bey was waiting and she went straight into his arms.
“How is he?” he asked, as if it was of little concern.
“Intact. Are you disappointed?”
“Not unless you were merciful out of weakness.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t want anything about him to linger on me, not even his death. Can we go now?”
“Of course.” He made a gesture and a man rode forward and dismounted to offer his horse.
She saw that as he’d said, there were men around on guard.
Even so, she said, “I think I was bait. I think de Couriac’s out here, trying to kill you.”
“I suspect not, or not yet. I was supposed to be here much later. But we should leave. Can you ride?”
“Of course.”
Bey helped her mount, adjusting the stirrups and arranging her skirts as decently as possible, then he mounted his own horse.
“Slow or fast?” he asked.
“Fast. Fast riding makes a poor target, and it’s what I need.”
Chapter 29
She kicked her horse hard and it took off, thundering down the lane, the wind whipping through her hair. Dangerous in the dark in unknown territory, but she wanted this, needed this. In moments he was by her side, guarding, but not controlling.
She grinned for him and watched ahead, blessing the moonlight. They’d been on a road before turning into this lane, so there must be a turning soon. A signpost helped, and she swung the horse around the bend, hardly slackening at all. Then she headed flat out for London, the dome of St. Paul’s a dark silhouette in the distance against the paler sky.
Illegally, she jumped the toll gates, not allowing anything to get in her way. She wanted to fly, and she wanted to carry him beyond danger.
He stayed with her, but a glance back showed their escort falling behind. Not wise, perhaps, but speed was better. And she needed the blood rushing through her body and the power of the horse between her thighs, the wind against her skin, and the target growing closer and closer.
She almost went down twice on the rough road, but she held the horse up and he was strong and gallant. As fields became town, the road improved, and as the way became easier her madness eased. She slowed to a canter, and then down to a walk, patting her horse and murmuring praise, so he arched his steaming neck with pride.
Bey slowed beside her, and side by side, they walked the horses along streets silent except for the drumming hooves of the escort trying to catch up.
If de Couriac had been around, he could not be here now.
“Was that ride wisdom or folly?” she asked.
“Who can tell? We seem to have survived. If I had been more careful, it would not have been necessary at all.”
“I believe I commented on this illusion that you’re God.”
He didn’t smile. “There were a number of things I could have done to prevent this.”
“Bey, if you take any injury to me as a wound on your soul, I cannot bear it!”
“A dilemma, is it not?”
He was in a damnably strange mood, and she couldn’t deal with it now. “Should we let Lord Randolph live, even abroad? He might hurt others.”
“We are not God,” he said dryly. “And it was your choice.”
She glanced over at him, white shirtsleeves and skin cool and pale in the moonlight.
“I could not kill him,” she confessed, “and now I don’t know whether it was strength or weakness. I’m even weak enough to feel a bit sorry for him, tied up there. What if someone comes across him. Or rats … ?”
He did laugh then. “A tender heart after all. The man whose horse you ride stayed behind to make sure he doesn’t get badly nibbled. Bryght’s gone to organize his escort to a ship.”
“Have you arranged my return to the Queen’s House so efficiently?”
“Don’t sound disgruntled. I may not be omnipotent, but I can at least be efficient.”
The pounding hooves grew louder, and then his men were there, ranking on either side, horses steaming in the night air.
“I’m inclined to believe the omnipotence,” she said. “How did you come to rescue me in time, and with armed guards?”
He said something to the nearest man, and soon he and another were riding ahead, scouting as if this was the wilderness rather than a quiet London street.
“I took five minutes to gather them,” he said flatly. “It could have been five minutes too long.”
“No, you were right! Madness to ride off alone.”
“And I am definitely not mad, yes?”
Damn him and his mood, and the fact that even with moonlight she couldn’t really read his features.
“You said you were supposed to arrive later?” she asked. Too late, she thought, shuddering at the malicious planning that lay behind this. Who hated her enough for this?
D’Eon? She would never have imagined it.
“One of the men who captured you was in my pay,” he said. “He had no notice, or he would have warned me. It was what he was there fo
r. As it was, he had to go through with it.”
“The Englishman. The one who didn’t want me hurt.”
His head turned. “You were hurt?”
She wished she’d held her tongue, but she said, “De Couriac. He hit me.”
He made no comment, but continued, “It was sheer luck that Stringle was given the job of telling me where to find you.” Sheer luck, it was clear, was intolerable. He hadn’t changed. He was still stuck in bleak perfection. “He was to get the message to me at midnight. Instead, of course, he found me immediately.”
At that moment, a nearby clock began to strike midnight, with others near and far picking it up. Diana shuddered at the thought of being in Lord Randolph’s hands until now.
Then she realized that if she’d not screamed, if Lord Randolph had not gagged her and enjoyed watching her struggle for breath, Bey would have been far too late. Dear heaven, but it would have destroyed him.
“You hired this Stringle,” she offered. “Your watchfulness did save me after all.”
“There was too much luck involved, and even with luck, we were almost too late. And I wasted that five minutes.”
She didn’t know what to say, for now she realized how he felt. It was offensive that his sanity had been preserved by chance. Delayed shock and the night air set her shivering, despite his coat.
They were into fashionable streets now, but it was Sunday and quiet, though one coach did rattle past, a pale face peering out nervously at them.
What did that traveler think of the strange group? What would they think if they knew who it was?
Midnight, she thought. “Will de Couriac be there now, do you think?”
“I hope so. I left two men in addition to the one watching Somerton. They’re to take him alive if possible.”
The chill was setting in, and she suddenly desperately wanted to be home. Though she didn’t know where home was. “You didn’t tell me how you were getting me back into the Queen’s House with no one the wiser.”
He glanced across at her. “A wave of my sorcerer’s wand…. In fact, we’re going to Malloren House.”
“Why?”
“Because of the difficulties of returning you to the Queen’s House.”
“But … Clara won’t have raised the alarm.”
“Will she not?” He sighed. She heard it. “I can’t let you out of my sight, Diana. Not yet.”
She inhaled in surprise, and then again to savor it, like perfume. Some of the chill in her melted to warmth. He was in a strange state, but this might also be the first step to capitulation. To a chance for them.
When he said nothing more, she asked, “What will we tell the king?”
“The truth, of course, but that’s for later.”
They were entering a wider street lined with grand houses. They must be close to Marlborough Square.
“What was the plan?” she asked. “Is the Chevalier D’Eon truly involved in such a sordid affair?”
He turned to look at her. “That, I intend to find out.”
Fear stole her breath. “Don’t fight him.”
“Don’t give me orders. Unless, that is, you reciprocate, and let me order your every step for my comfort.”
“Damn you.”
He turned to look forward again. “Hell and I are old familiars.”
That didn’t sound like capitulation.
“Won’t taking me to Malloren House make it difficult for us to stay unwed?” she asked, hearing a touch of bitterness she could not suppress.
“Portia’s there. She and Bryght turned up not long ago, pushed to racing back south by Elf’s instincts.”
“Instincts about tonight? That’s impossible.”
“Instincts about you and me.” He glanced at her. “She warned me off at Arradale.”
“Damn her.”
“You want the whole Malloren family consigned to hell?”
“At times, yes.”
“She was right. I should never have let you close when I knew I could not give you all you deserve.” Voice cold as moonlight, he added, “It’s true, is it not, that now you will have no other?”
“When we first met, I was determined to have no one at all. Wanting no other is progress of sorts. What of you? Have you made any progress?”
“Three steps closer to hell,” he said, and turned into a lane. The lane must run behind Marlborough Square. Weariness sank over her. How could she fight him if fighting pushed him closer to hell?
Soon they were in a mews, and grooms hurried out. “All’s well, milord?” asked the one taking Bey’s horse. He didn’t seem surprised to see his master in shirtsleeves, or Diana riding beside him in Bey’s coat.
“Yes, thank you, Bibb.” Bey slid off and helped Diana down. She half expected him to move away from her once she was on the ground, but he put an arm around her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Gratefully, she moved close to his warmth, and to hope that would not be suppressed.
Was she to return to court? Suddenly, all those days locked in unnatural restraints, constantly observed, apart from him, became intolerable. Come what may, she would not return.
Why should she and Bey let themselves be tormented this way anyway? For what?
For duty, and honor, and responsibility …
She sighed, and slid an arm around him, feeling spine, and muscles, and strength. Duty, honor, and responsibility could not be shrugged off like a garment that had become uncomfortable. They ruled still. Ruled both of them.
Perhaps he heard the sigh. His arm tightened as he took a lantern and led her down a path toward the back of the house. She half expected servants up and waiting as in the stables, but he used a key to open a small side door, and inside, though a candle waited, the house lay silent.
If Portia was chaperon, she wasn’t present to perform her duties. The one flickering flame created an intimacy in the dark, even when they went through a door into the glory of the owner’s side of the house.
Her heart began to speed and she shivered in a different way. Up till now, safety had been enough. His presence had been enough. Now, however, his strong, warm body against her stirred other needs.
True needs. She needed him to wipe away everything that had happened. To promise it would never happen again.
She’d have to fight him, though, to get what she longed for, and she wasn’t sure she could do that anymore.
Would it be another step toward hell?
She let him lead her upstairs and into a room, a grand bedroom where he lit two branches of candles. Thick carpet and rich rose-pink hangings. He moved away, and to her shame, she clung. It could cause scandal and make matters cruelly worse, but suddenly she couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.
“It’s all right,” he said, gently untangling her fingers from his shirt, and sitting her on the big bed. “Wait there. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She began to shake. Fighting a weakness and dependence she despised she shed his coat, but a prick startled her. It was his pin, still holding together the cut edges of her bodice.
Abruptly, she hurried to the washstand, pulling out the pin.
Water in the jug.
Lukewarm, but that didn’t matter.
She splashed it into the bowl, lathered the cloth, and washed her breasts. Washed them over and over, trying to scrub away even the memory of Lord Randolph’s hands there. His eyes on her—
Suddenly aware, she turned, clutching her bodice back together, and found Bey watching her.
He came over, a white garment in his hand. He worked it over her head so it covered her, arms and all, with soft cotton fresh with the scent of washing and blowing in the wind.
She relaxed her grip on the bodice. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why—”
“Hush.” He turned her, and beneath the cloth, undid the fastenings down the back of her gown. He stepped away then, and she stripped it off herself. Did he think she didn’t want him to touch her?
&nbs
p; With an inward shudder, she realized that in a way, he was right. Her skin felt all awry, and she didn’t know what she wanted.
“Do you want a bath?” he said.
In a way she did, but she didn’t want servants. She didn’t want to be looked at yet.
“No.” She untied her petticoat and let it fall. Then she shed the last soiled and ruined layer, the shift, and put her hands into the sleeves rolling up the cuffs.
Only then did she turn to him.
“Better?” he asked, standing a surely precisely judged distance from her.
It was one of his shirts, and it hung to her knees protectively. “I’m being silly, I know—”
“No. Except in saying that. Allow yourself to be weak, Diana.”
I wish you would.
Aloud, she said, “I can’t. I mustn’t be weak. That gives him a victory of sorts. That washing was a victory for him. A bath would be a victory for him. If I act like that, I’m admitting he dirtied me. That he changed me in ways that will linger.” She raised her chin. “I’m braver and stronger than that.”
“Ironhand. But you leave me adrift. What can I do for you?”
“Bey, don’t! Don’t ask me to be weak for you.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “Do I need people to be weak?” he asked, as if truly adrift. “I didn’t think so.”
His distress burned away hers. He was deeply shaken, far more deeply than she’d guessed. He needed to care for her as much as he’d needed to kill Somerton, but it was something else he would sacrifice for her if she needed it.
Oh God, she felt as if she held crystal in her hands, impossibly thin and fragile crystal that could be shattered by the slightest thing.
Wise or not, she stepped forward and took his hands. “Take me to bed, Bey. I need you to hold me.”
After a moment, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
He couldn’t know, even he could not know, that Lord Randolph had carried her to that awful bed, but it was like the beginning of a perfect realignment. “I do need this,” she whispered.
“You shall have everything you need,” he promised. “And no more.”
At the bed he paused, holding her to him for a heart-stopping moment, then he laid her down carefully as if she were the fragile crystal, and filled to the brim with water.