The sense that someone was watching her was very strong. It made her so uneasy that, after resolutely traversing a few more yards, she decided that she had walked enough for that day and turned about to retrace her steps, moving quickly now where before she had merely ambled.
To her surprise, as she hurried along, she saw a man heading toward her along the cliffs. Clearly he had come from the chateau. He was too far away to have been the cause of the niggling discomfort she had felt. Indeed, the sense of an invisible presence seemed to emanate from the woods, and as she walked in the direction of the man, she glanced over at the thick wall of pines more than once. The thought of wolves occurred to her, to be firmly dismissed before she could do more than shiver.
As the man drew closer, she identified him as Bernard. Her steps lagged slightly, but still the thought of what might be watching her from the woods kept her moving toward him. Even an encounter with her husband was better than being devoured by a wild beast.
“Isabella.” Bernard greeted her without noticeable enthusiasm. Although they had spoken hardly two dozen sentences to one another during their months in Paris, he was invariably courteous to her, as befitted a gentleman toward a wife. The pattern of their relationship had reverted to what it had always been, except Bernard had made no attempt whatsoever to come to her bed, for which Isabella was thankful. She did not know what she would do if he did; thinking about it made her physically ill, so she tried not to think about it. Sooner or later, however, the situation was bound to arise. Bernard would want an heir, and she was his wife whether she loved him or not.
As weeks had passed and he had remained the courteous if remote nobleman she had been wed to for nearly seven years, it had grown increasingly more difficult for Isabella to remember that Bernard had really, truly tried to have her killed. In his soft-spoken presence it seemed more like a bad dream than reality.
“Good afternoon, Bernard.” Like him, she was polite, if cool. It had surprised her to discover, many weeks ago, that despite the fact that she positively knew he had connived at her murder, she didn’t hate him. She felt absolutely nothing for him at all save a mild wariness.
Which feeling, she thought wryly, would probably intensify once he had time to spend the money her father had settled on him. Unless and until he should find himself under the hatches again, she considered herself relatively safe.
And her father had settled a great deal of money on him.
“Will you walk with me a ways? There’s something I wish to discuss with you.”
“I was headed back to the chateau.…”
“It’s quite important, I assure you. Indeed, I came out specifically to meet you so that we might have this conversation in private.”
Bernard took her arm, drawing her along to walk with him in the direction she had been going originally, away from the chateau. Isabella bit her lip to keep from protesting. He was her husband, after all. She would not disturb the eggshell peace that existed between them over such a trifle as a few minutes’ private conversation, or a hand on her arm. They walked on in silence for some little while, until at last she could contain her impatience no longer.
“If you have something to say to me, please do so.” Despite her resolution not to disturb their fragile accord, the words were abrupt.
With the advantage of his superior height, Bernard was able to look down his aquiline nose at her. Isabella saw that his eyes had narrowed at her tone. They looked darker than usual, almost black in color instead of their normal dark brown. The cold air had brought unaccustomed color to his olive skin.
“Are you enjoying the house party?”
The question was innocuous enough, but to exchange polite small talk with her was not the reason he had braved the cold. Isabella nodded stiffly without replying.
“As am I. Heloise is a very charming woman.”
Again Isabella merely nodded.
“And a very rich one, too. No wonder she’s quite the toast of Parisian society. Like you, she’s far from a beauty, but she has a certain je ne sais quoi that you do not. One must be born with it, I suppose.” He sighed, as if pitying her lack.
Isabella stopped walking and pulled her arm from his hold. “If you have nothing of more import to discuss with me than our hostess, then I must beg you to excuse me. ’Tis chilly out, and I would return to the chateau.”
Bernard stopped walking too, and turned to face her. The silver wings in his dark hair had spread, she noticed as she looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since their confrontation in the inn at Tunbridge Wells. His hair was almost more gray than black now. Isabella remembered that he was closer to her father’s age than her own, although his slender, stylishly turned out person made him seem far more youthful than he was. As always, he was immaculately dressed. His neckcloth was snowy white and perfectly tied, his pale blue coat fit his shoulders without so much as a crease, his biscuit-colored breeches clung to his thighs as if they had been poured there, and his highly polished Hessians sported not so much as a single speck of dirt despite the fact that he had walked the same terrain she had, and her own slippers were stained with both mud and grass. Bernard was a noted Corinthian, a pink of the ton, acclaimed by many as a remarkably handsome man. And yet he left her utterly cold.
Well, no one had ever accused her of having impeccable taste.
“So you want the matter with no bark on it?” As he spoke, Bernard’s eyes darted over her shoulder and all around. Isabella looked around too, to see what he was looking at, and noticed for the first time that in the course of their walk they had rounded the small promontory that jutted out and then curved back in from the sea. The deep green of the pine forest now stood between them and the chateau.
Isabella suddenly felt uneasy. “Yes,” she said, and without even knowing precisely why she did so, took a small step back from him.
“Very well, it shall be as you wish. I have been doing considerable soul-searching over the past weeks, and I have decided that, despite your father’s pleas on your behalf, you are no longer worthy of the title Countess of Blakely. My decision cannot be unexpected; my reasons are well-known to you. Charles is a friend, but not even he can expect me to get my heirs on a female who has soiled herself beyond redemption. My son must not have an adulteress for a mother.”
The insults, if they were intended to wound, fell wide of their mark. As Isabella caught the gist of what she thought he was leading up to, she felt a vast surge of relief.
“Are you suggesting that we … divorce?”
Once the thought, with its implications of scandal and ostracism, had been frightening. Now the idea of freedom at whatever price had a dazzling appeal. Alec would care nothing for the shame that would be attached to her as a divorced woman.…
“No. I’m not suggesting that.”
“Then what …?”
His eyes met hers, held. There was an expression in them of—what? Even as she registered that it was odd, he reached out and caught her hand.
“So much scandal attaches to divorce,” he said regretfully. “And I’ve still my heir to think of, you know. Besides, there’s Heloise.”
“Heloise?” She parroted him almost stupidly, because something about the way he was looking at her was sending cold chills down her spine. Surely she was not in physical peril.… Even if he wished to harm her, he would not do it here and now. He was far too fastidious, too much the gentleman, to murder his unwanted wife himself. He would employ underlings for that. For the moment, at least, she was safe. She had only to get back to the chateau.…
“I believe she’d consent to wed me, if I was free. She’s very rich, and very exciting. And still young enough, I believe, to bear me a child.”
“Bernard …” Her certainty that he would not personally harm her was fading, to be replaced by a burgeoning fear. Something in his tone caused her blood to freeze. And his eyes—never before had she seen that particular expression in his eyes. They glittered, and she realized sudd
enly that the reason they seemed so unusually dark was the pupil had dilated until it threatened to overwhelm the encircling iris. “If you divorced me for adultery, all the onus would fall on me. No one would blame you.”
Isabella knew she had to keep calm, had to keep him the same way until she could get back to the safety of the chateau. Once there, she would pack her bags and flee to England—and Alec. Every instinct she possessed warned her that if she did not put herself quickly beyond Bernard’s reach, she would find herself in mortal danger. The thought that it might already be too late reared its ugly head, and refused to be dismissed. Isabella took a deep, steadying breath—and tried unobtrusively to free her hand from his. His fingers entwined with hers, holding them fast.
Bernard shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry about this, you know. I never disliked you, as I did my first wife.” Bernard shrugged, and smiled at her with chilling sweetness. “It’s funny, nobody suspected that I poisoned Lydia. Even her family was quite willing to put her death down to a weak heart. What a tragedy, everyone said—and how sympathetic you were then, looking at me with your big eyes when I would come to play chess with Charles. When we wed, though I needed the settlements you brought, of course, I quite liked the idea of taking you to wife. I kept thinking you might grow up into a beauty, with those big eyes and that funny little face. But you disappointed me; you never did. And then you cuckolded me—I never would have expected that from you, Isabella. No man should have to put up with an unfaithful wife. So I really don’t know why I regret having to do this. Maybe because Charles is a friend. But then, I doubt he’ll grieve for you overmuch.”
His hand slid down to encircle her wrist. His hold on her was as unbreakable as if she’d been imprisoned in an iron shackle, Isabella discovered to her horror as she tried, more urgently this time, to pull free.
“Bernard, you’re not thinking …” she said desperately, realizing finally that she had been foolishly, fatally wrong. He was going to kill her himself despite everything she had been thinking to the contrary. Indeed, it was terrifyingly obvious now that he had followed her from the chateau with just that purpose in mind. Fear threatened to cloud her mind, but Isabella forced it back. If she caved in to panic, she would be finished. He had only to lift her and heave her over the cliff to the rocks below, an easy task for a reasonably strong man when the victim was as slightly built as she. If she wanted to survive, she had to keep him talking, buy herself some time.…
“Come, Isabella; I’m sorry for it, but there’s really nothing else I can do. You’ve brought it on yourself, you know.” With an elegant little shrug he began to tug her toward the cliff edge. It occurred to Isabella to wonder if Bernard was not quite, quite mad.
“My father … If you kill me, he’s bound to know you did it. I told him how you tried to have me killed before, remember? He’ll know you did it, Bernard. And he’ll see you hang.” Her voice was hoarse as her throat went dry with fear.
“I doubt it. Think of the scandal. Charles always does.”
Bernard chuckled then, and tugged again on her hand, insistently. Despite her deliberately gentle resistance, Isabella found herself a few steps closer to the cliff edge. She took a deep, shaking breath, trying to fight down the panic, consciously biting back the scream that she feared would only precipitate his violence and ultimately her own end. Desperately she looked around, hoping against hope that someone—anyone—might have also decided to take a walk that afternoon. But the landscape was deserted. If she was to survive, she would have to save herself.
“Come along. One never knows when one’s privacy might be interrupted.” With another terrifyingly sweet smile Bernard gave a yank that propelled her at least a foot closer to the precipice.
“No!” Isabella pulled against him, trying frantically to find purchase for her slippers in the soft ground. “Bernard, wait! Think what you’re doing.…”
“You’ll not talk me out of it, my dear.” He sounded almost pitying. “Don’t worry, just a few seconds of fear and then it will be all over. Or are you going to make me hurt you? I really don’t want to hurt you, Isabella, but I will if I must.”
“Bernard, please …”
He turned on her then, the glint in his eyes telling her that she had run out of time. Abandoning all thought of restraint, Isabella screamed, shrill as a steam whistle, and dug the nails of her free hand into the hand that imprisoned her.
He cursed, and snatched his hand away.
Quick as a cat Isabella was running, running as she had never run before in her life, not even in the forest that time from Alec, because never before in her life had she been so desperately afraid. She rounded the promontory, and the chateau was once again in sight. If she could only reach it … if only someone would step outside and see …
“Come back here, you little bitch. Come back, Isabella, do you hear me? Come back!”
She’d always been fleet afoot, but he was almost as fast. In the end her billowing cloak was her undoing. He caught the end of it, yanked—and she fell screaming to her knees. Then Bernard was upon her.
“Bitch. Bitch.”
Isabella screamed again as he dragged her upright, her hands flying up to protect herself from the blow she saw coming. But it was too late. Savagely he punched her in the face with his fist. Pain exploded in the right side of her jaw. Then he was swinging her up into his arms.…
Knowing that she must not pass out, Isabella fought him like a creature gone mad, biting and scratching and kicking in a frantic effort to survive, She clawed at his eyes, and with a vicious curse he half dropped her, then forced her the rest of the way to the ground. Even as she tried to scramble away, he loomed over her again. Isabella looked up, cringing, screaming, and saw the jagged-edged rock in his hand.
Almost as soon as she saw it, he slammed it into her forehead with a sickening crunch. Isabella shrieked at the pain of it, at the knowledge that she would die, at the horror of feeling her own head burst open like a melon beneath the savage blow. The rock fell a second time. She must have blacked out for an instant, because when she became aware again, she was being carried in his arms, not more than a yard or so from the precipice.
And they were no longer alone.
“Put her down, St. Just,” Alec said evenly, and as Isabella blinked disbelievingly at him, she saw that he had a pistol pointed squarely at Bernard’s head.
LXI
“Who the devil are you?” Bernard spoke quite normally, as it he didn’t have the wife he intended to murder, bleeding and hysterical, held tight in his arms less than a yard from the edge of a hundred-foot drop.
“I said put her down. Now.”
There was blood in her eyes, and in her mouth, but Isabella shook her head to clear it and fastened her eyes on Alec. Her situation was still precarious; it was possible that Bernard might be able to toss her over the side before Alec got a shot off—if he was mad enough to sacrifice his own life to do it. But just knowing that Alec was present took some of the edge off her terror. He would keep her safe, if anyone could. She tried to say his name, but the blood in her mouth made it come out all garbled.
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” Bernard, looking faintly puzzled, had his eyes on Alec’s face rather than on the pistol.
“It’s possible. Put the lady down, and we’ll try to discover where.”
“In London, I think. A hell, maybe? I’ve got it—the Golden Carousel.”
“I said, put the lady down. I won’t repeat it.”
The pistol lifted ominously, its tiny black mouth pointed right between Bernard’s eyes. At such close range it would be impossible for Alec to miss. Isabella wondered if Bernard was too crazed to realize that.
Bernard glanced down at Isabella almost as if he had forgotten her existence. Then, with a regretful grimace, he bent and placed her gently on the ground. Relief rushed through her, and for an instant she lay there, unmoving, her eyes closing as she realized that she would not die today, after all.
“You know her?” Bernard asked with a surprised frown.
“Al-ec.” This time she managed his name. Those golden eyes flickered over her, fastened again on Bernard, the light in them savage.
“Yes, I know her, you swine.” His voice was even, but the glitter in his eyes told Isabella that he was dangerous with rage. “Step back from her. Do it!”
“But how? She’s never been to London, never been anywhere except Blakely Park and Paris. Except for …” Bernard’s eyes met Alec’s, and he seemed to realize his danger, because he retreated a few steps. Alec walked forward until he stood over Isabella. Dropping to one knee, keeping the pistol trained on Bernard all the while, he touched her face gently, his expression a grimace when the fingers he withdrew were wet with blood.
“ ’Twill be all right, love,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve got you now. ’Twill be all right.”
“Al-ec.” Blood pooled in her mouth. Gagging, she tried to spit it out, and choked. Alec’s mouth twisted savagely and he stood up.
“You bloody piece of slime, you’d better say your prayers, because you’ll not live out the hour.” Alec spoke through his teeth. The hand holding the pistol lifted.
“It was you! You were her lover!” Bernard howled, and sprang. Alec smiled, with what Isabella thought was grim satisfaction, and the pistol exploded.
The ball caught Bernard square in the throat. His hands clawed at the wound from which blood spurted as if from a fountain, pouring over the pristine neckcloth and staining it bright red. Isabella was too shocked to even breathe as he staggered backwards, clutching his throat, and then, without even a cry, he toppled over the edge of the precipice and vanished from her sight.
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