by Deana James
"Glad to see you're more the thing, Larne. Felders said you wanted to see me immediately."
The earl swallowed. His mouth moved soundlessly in his initial effort to speak. Saliva drooled onto the pillow. His skewed ravaged face contorted. At last he managed to form the words. Piers bent forward to hear. "Span-niss Gir-r—”
The viscount's eyes widened. He shook his head, depressed and disgusted. Even in dire straits, perhaps dying his father was more concerned about the smuggling operation than anything else. Heaving a sigh, he draped an arm along the headboard and leaned over the earl. "What about Spanish Girl?"
"Span—iss Gir-rl."
"What about it?"
The earl lifted his right fist toward his son's face.
"Spaniss Girl." The words were stronger now, expelled with urgency. The last fire from the dying frame.
"All right! Spanish Girl!" the viscount exclaimed. "Larne, why don't you just forget about the family business. That's behind us now. You should concentrate on getting well."
Irritably, the earl stirred in his bed. "Not behin'. Go," he whispered. "Mee' Beddoes."
"Beddoes is dead, Larne. The business is finished."
The skull-like visage rolled from side to side. The long hair, yellow with perspiration, stirred lankly. "No."
Piers bent low until he could look directly into the demon eye. "Larne. Jack Beddoes is dead. The Riding Officers trapped us. He was standing right by the lantern when they opened fire."
The earl's mouth twisted wildly. "Comin' in," he insisted. He could not hold his eyes open. The lids like sheets of lead slid down, shutting out the light, leaving him alone in hateful, pain-wracked darkness. He tried to scream for help, but he had no voice. No voice. No voice.
The burning eyes closed. Patting his father's twisted left hand, Piers shuddered. It was cold and blue, the nails purplish. Lifting it in his own, he tried to straighten out the fingers, but they were stiff, curled hke the talon of an eagle. It felt like the hand of a man already dead.
"Larne," he whispered. Then to the valet, "Keep him comfortable and call me at any time."
In the hall outside the chamber, he drew a deep breath of cool air after the sickening heat and odor of the sickroom. What had Larne said when Piers's mother had died? "Sickrooms develop the odor of the disease and the medicine to cure it."
He could almost pity his father at this moment. What torment of spirit for his hell-bound pride! Weakness had always been anathema, and now Larnaervon was weak. In the past month Piers himself had had more than enough of lying helpless in a too-hot-sour-smelling room unable to move. He knew firsthand the indignity of being turned and bathed and wiped by a servant. The thoughts that burned in his father's brain could only be guessed at by the rage in the volcanic eyes.
Piers lifted his arm to test the shoulder joint. It still pained him, and he still could not raise it above his head, but movement would come in time. He had begun using it more and more, setting himself tasks to gradually stretch the arm above his head. Eventually, the whole ordeal would be a shadowy memory.
The valet followed him out into the hall. Dark circles showed under the man's eyes. His face was gaunt with strain. "Milord seems a bit better today, sir."
Piers nodded, then stared at the man. "Mackery, how long has it been since you've been relieved?"
"Quite a while, sir. I leave the room for a short while when Mrs. Felders comes in. But I try to hurry back. For propriety's sake, y’know."
Piers laughed dryly. "The hell with propriety. When she's there, go and take your rest, man. Bathe, eat, take walks." He clapped the man on the shoulder. "Can't have you getting ill yourself. You're the mainstay."
The valet smiled. "Rather thought Lady Polwycke was that, sir."
"Indeed. She is that. She certainly is that."
Alone in the hall, the viscount found he could pity the earl. Even though he could not love him, he could pity the man alone, cared for only by servants. Bought and paid for. Without money, he would be deserted, left to die in a dark room.
Then he thought of the earl's command to meet the Spanish Girl. Now as never before he could believe his father was bent on destroying him.
Even the procuring of Vivian for his wife had been for the express purpose of getting another heir. At that time he, Piers, would become unnecessary. He shuddered at the thought of such cold-blooded manipulation.
Casting his gloomy thoughts aside, Piers strode down the hall toward his room where he would find his wife. She would be waiting for him there, her body warm and willing, her responses vitally exciting. If he were asked, he would say she was more exciting, more loving than a woman who could speak because she responded with her whole body.
With every breath she took, she communicated her pleasure and her desire to give pleasure. Her long slender fingers had learned the things he had taught her and had invented more.
This morning in the library, he had threatened her with love, and-wonder of wonders-she had tempted him shamelessly. Tonight. He felt his blood surge with excitement thinking of the dance they would perform together. He would love her as she had never been loved before. He would love her until—
Would they make a baby together? Would they make the heir his father wanted? The thought of a son-or a daughter-sent a wave of incredible emotion surging through him. Heat coursed through his veins, his heart pounded. He wanted to make this baby. He wanted to put it inside her in a burst of incandescent passion. He wanted to watch it grow beneath her stark, white skin and to put his hands on her belly day by day and feel it kick and turn.
He came to a halt blinking, his breath coming fast. His fantasies were out of control and they were all her fault. He smiled. What a pleasant fault to have. All husbands should be so lucky.
He was halfway into the room before he realized something was wrong. His wife sat bolt upright in her chair. Her eyes were frightened; her mouth set in a grim line. Emma Felders hovered malevolently behind her, her hand curled around Vivian's shoulder.
"What the hell-?"
From the shadows behind the door a sneering voice interrupted him. "What kept y' so tardy from yer lady, yer bleedin' lordship?"
Piers spun around in amazement. "Jack Beddoes!"
"We’ll, now, ain't you glad to see me? I don't think." The smuggler stepped out of the shadows. In his hammy fist he clutched his duckfoot volley gun primed and cocked. "Just sit yerself down in that chair while we have a talk. I want y' rested for tonight."
Piers gathered his muscles to attack, but Beddoes didn't miss the swelling of his shoulders. "Uh-uh! Don't try it, yer bleedin' lordship, or the bird gets it."
He waved the vicious weapon in Vivian's direction. "And I won't even have to pull the trigger."
Emma Felders smirked as she raised. Jack's horse pistol from behind the chair.
"Just put it right back down, Emma, me darlin'." Beddoes grinned at Piers. "Don't figure that chair's more'n an inch thick behind her lung," he commented conversationally.
"Beddoes. You're a dead man." Piers separated each word with peculiar emphasis.
"Everybody's got to die." The smuggler shrugged as he directed the four ominous barrels back at Piers. "V might jump me before I could do more'n just pink y'. 'Course with this thing, it'd most likely be a sizable hole, with three bullets left over for her. On the other 'and, might be y'd kill me, and Emma might hit a rib instead of a lung. Everything's chancy like that. But do y' really want to take the chance?" He grinned maliciously.
Piers slowly unclenched his fists.
"Smart. Didn't want 'er to get stuck, did y*? Real smart. Bleedin' makes such a mess."
"What do you want?"
"Good man. Get right to the point. I figured y'didn't want no trouble. So that's why I'm 'ere. Want to make a little deal."
At the mention of a deal, Piers knew why the man had come. A muscle jumped in his cheek, but otherwise he managed to conceal his anger. Ignoring the menacing pistol in the other's hand, he strolled to
the chair opposite Vivian and lowered himself into it. His eyes met hers, trying to instill some confidence in her.
She managed a small courageous smile though her face was white to the lips.
"Sorry to have these moments of inconvenience, m'dear. We will settle these people's grievances and send them on their way." Crossing one long leg over the other, he spoke as if they were in the room alone rather than both sitting with guns trained on them.
"Watch him, Jack," Emma Felders warned, her fingernails digging into Vivian's shoulder. "He's not as stupid as he acts."
The smuggler laughed. "Maybe not. Maybe so. What d’y’ say to that, bucko?"
"I say, get to the point," the viscount grated. "My wife is tired and I'm still exhausted from the last expedition. I'm sure all of this could have waited until tomorrow."
Beddoes gestured coolly with the pistol. "No way, yer bloody lordship. Spanish Girts down in the cove. I talked to the earl real private like not more'n a couple o' hours ago."
Piers glared at the housekeeper. "So well you take care of your charge, Felders."
A dark flush rose in her cheeks. "It didn't hurt him to talk to Jack. He was glad to see him as a matter of fact."
"Yea. ‘E was really 'appy t' see me. And from what I can tell, real un'appy with you."
"Then you meet the Spanish Girl and take the cargo." Piers made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I give it all to you. My wife and I are leaving here as soon as the earl's health improves. The business is yours, Jack."
"We’ll, I thank y' kindly for that," Beddoes sneered, "but the truth is I need yer connections, mlord. If y' was to see yer way clear to make the run, leadin'us like. We didn't make no profit on the last run. Fact is, as y' know, we didn't make nothin'. Some of the boys didn't even make it back. We need to make one more. Sort of break even, don't y' know?" The man leered evilly, all mocking subservience in his turn.
Piers shook his head deliberately. "Sorry, old man. Not a chance. The game's up. If we went down there tonight, the Riding Officers would be all over us."
"Yer not thinkin' as usual, y' bleedin' coward," Beddoes snarled. "They think we're all dead. It's a sweet arrangement for another run. He’ll, we might make a whole new start, bucko."
Piers shook his head. "Then start it somewhere else. I'm telling you, the operation is over. May I suggest that you men take what you want from Spanish Girl and then return her to her usual fishing activities?"
Mrs. Felders snorted. Beddoes's smile disappeared. "We’ll, now, mlord, if y' don't do like I tell y', I'm mightily afraid I’ll be forced to put a bullet in y' where it'd do the most good." He aimed the pistol threateningly at Piers's middle. Vivian started from her chair only to be pulled back roughly by Mrs. Felders's hand on her shoulder.
Beddoes swung the pistol in her direction menacingly. "Keep yer seat there. I ain't gonna "urt 'im if he does what I tell 'im."
Piers waved a casual hand. "Don't be a damned fool. You're not going to shoot that thing off in here. You're just as liable to hit your accomplice as your target. Use your head, man."
His words uttered with such cool unconcern drove Beddoes to lower the pistol instantly. The smuggler reddened, then raised his pistol again, careful to train it on Piers, who continued.
"You, my friend, have reached a stalemate, as we say in chess. You cannot shoot me because dead, I certainly cannot make a connection. The earl can no longer order me to go because, as you have seen, he is ill- probably dying. If he survives it will still be weeks, even months before he can assume any kind of position as intermediary. Your rash-er-demonstration will leave many impoverished men unable to care for their families. Your best bet is to take the cargo and sell it for what you can get."
Beddoes wavered. Much as he hated to admit it, the viscount made sense. The volley gun sagged in his hand.
Furious as she felt the tide beginning to turn, Mrs. Felders leaned forward, her strong grip bruising Vivian's shoulder. "Don't let him talk you out of our profit, Jack. Remember this is the last haul."
Beddoes rallied. "Mlord, she's got the right of it. This one more run and we'll be leavin' the country." He shot a fierce look in Emma's direction. "The missus and I.”
Piers said nothing, but his muscles tensed in anger. The scent of treachery and double-dealing was strong. Suddenly the origin of the earl's smuggling activities became clearer. Felders-as his sometime bed partner—had made the connection for the two men. Her relationship to Beddoes must have been a closely guarded secret.
"Make him take you, Jack. He can't do us no harm without harming himself. We need that money after all we’ve done for them." She set her mouth, her dark eyes blazing. "Tell him that if he doesn't do what we say, I’ll make sure this bead-rattler doesn't ever have the heir the earl wants."
Beddoes hesitated, then lapsed into a relaxed grin as he recognized the solution to the problem. "Right y' are, Emma. She's right more times than not," he confided to Piers. "And when she says she's gonna do somethin', by God, she does it. So, bucko, we need y' one more time. And we can't shoot y' t' make you lead us. But I'm thinkin' y’ll do what we say with a pistol at yer wife's heart. How d' y' like this?" As he spoke, he glided across the room. Almost casually, he pressed the duckfoot against Vivian's breast.
She flinched aside, but the muzzle followed her and the pressure never slackened. Emma Felders stepped out from behind the chair, her pistol trained on Piers, her eyes lighted with unholy triumph.
Piers sprang to his feet, his face white with emotion. "Get away from her!"
"Ah, mlord, that got y' off y'r bloody bum, didn't it? But don’t come one step closer, or this pretty little bird gets it. Don't say much, does she?" He laughed and nudged her breast with his pistol.
Her eyes flashed fire and she clenched her fists on the arms of her chair.
"That's good, Jack." His wife jeered at the crude joke.
Piers cursed. He clenched his fists at his sides and spoke through gritted teeth. "I warn you. Take that pistol away from her person, or—”
Beddoes leered grimly and punched the barrel again. "Get y'r coat."
The viscount was pale with anger, his dark eyes burning like anthracite above his white lips. Vivian's peril had touched a nerve that destroyed his control. An icy fist tightened on his gut, leaving him trembling in pain. The sight of her body threatened by this vermin brought a taste of bitter bile to his mouth. He swallowed convulsively. For several seconds he could not move. He was held captive by his fierce desire to kill the man who leered at him so callously. Coupled with that was the tumultuous emotion he felt for the slim, silver-haired girl, his wife.
“Now!"
The single syllable barked by the villainous Beddoes unlocked Piers from his frozen posture. Nodding coldly, he strode to the door. "Let's be about it then." He looked back over his shoulder at the housekeeper. "If you harm her, remember you won't have just me to contend with. Larne will destroy you as easily as he would kill a fly."
He had sounded the right note. The mention of the earl's power wiped the smile from her face.
"The earl ain’t gonna t' do nothin'. Once we make the run, 'ell be satisfied to live an' let live." Beddoes stuck the duckfoot in his belt and tipped his hat mockingly to Vivian. "Watch this bird until we get back, love. With ‘is bleedin' lordship 'ere t' lead us t' 'is connection, well be back by noon tomorrow."
Piers opened his mouth to protest as he remembered the extent of the housekeeper's hatred of Vivian. A second later he closed it, realizing that any plea would be futile.
Beddoes chuckled. "Thinkin' about 'ow m' dear wife feels about yers, are y? Best not be delayin' a minute then. Emma's finger might jus' get too itchy and that'd be a pity. Seein' yer wife s' young and pretty and all." He grinned at his wife who laughed in return. "Any trouble, love, and y' know what t' do."
With a hoot of laughter Beddoes pushed rudely against Piers's shoulder making him stumble into the hall.
Within the chamber Vivian faced her a
dversary, a cold shiver wracking her body. Never had she been in such deadly danger.
Felders did not have the easy, unemotional determination of evil action that motivated her husband. This woman hated her with a jealous hatred that bordered on the deranged. Her hand clasped the pistol with an eager caress. The pinch-purse mouth had spread into a gloating smile. In the silence that followed the closing of the door, Vivian knew that she would not leave this room alive unless she exerted all the wits of which she was capable.
Keeping the gun trained on her captive, Emma swayed across the room in an exaggerated imitation of a lady and lowered herself daintily in Piers's chair. "Now, my fine lady, we'll just get comfortable for the night. Later on I'll tie you up so you can't move a muscle, but for right now I think I'd enjoy having a drink from a fine crystal decanter and watching you pour it and bring it to me."
Vivian forced her fingers to relax their death grip on the chair arms. If she were allowed to move around the room, she would have a better chance of surprising her captor and escaping than if she were forced at gunpoint to sit in the chair all night.
Felders brandished the gun. "Get it," she commanded. "Get it right now and be quick about it."
Vivian had no trouble pretending to be afraid as she pushed herself up on trembling legs.
"I told you to leave here. I did everything I could to get you out of this house, but would you listen? Not you. Now it's too late. I’ll have that glass of sherry," she mocked.