The Devil's Waltz

by Anne Stuart

  She turned her head slightly. She looked exhausted, which was no wonder. Had it only been the night before when they’d been entwined in the one bed at Wynche End? “What problem?”

  “I can escape easily enough. Trying to get you out as well makes it a great deal more difficult. You really are the most tiresome creature.”

  He was hoping to goad her formidable temper, but she simply closed her eyes again. “Then leave me. When Chipple fails to show up they’ll probably just head out to sea and forget about me.”

  “When Chipple fails to show up they’ll rape and murder you, my pet.”

  “Better than Chipple’s plans. He was going to sell me to a brothel and that would have lasted a great deal longer. I warned him I wouldn’t fetch much of a price, but he said he didn’t care.”

  “True enough. Is that when you killed him?”

  She opened her eyes to glare at him, her first sign of life. “If escape is such an easy matter, why don’t you go ahead? Just leave me. I’m capable to taking care of myself.”

  His laugh was without humor. “Of course you are. And if you think I’m going to endanger myself because of your half-brained notion of rescuing me then you are deluded.”

  “I have no delusions about you,” she said wearily. “If you’re leaving, go.”

  “Who hit you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He’d managed to slide the thin blade from behind his back, and he began sawing away at the ropes. “Not particularly. I was just curious.”

  “The man who dragged me in here. I gather I’m to be his reward if things go well. Not that he seemed particularly gratified at such a boon, but I guess I’m better than nothing.”

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. It’s tedious.”

  She jerked her head up to glare at him. “I have every right to feel sorry for myself!” she snapped. “I’m about to die in a very unpleasant manner, and you’re not even grateful that I was fool enough to come to try to warn you. I made the colossal mistake of falling in love, and not only that, I destroyed my reputation for no other reason than wanton lust.”

  He didn’t smile, much as he wanted to. He wasn’t in the mood to make her feel better. He kicked free of the ropes, tucking the knife into his boot, and rose, towering over her.

  “Are you just going to leave me here?” she said, trying not to sound pathetic.

  “It’s the practical thing to do. If I try and take you with me they’ll catch up with us, and I can’t risk that. This is your fault—you’ll just have to live with the consequences. When I reach the nearest town I’ll send help. They might make it here in time.”

  “Lovely,” she murmured. “You worthless, donkey-loving whoreson,” she added in French.

  At another time he might have laughed—or kissed her. Instead, he simply shrugged, stepped past her and out of the mouth of the cave.

  The moon had risen, and he could see them all quite clearly while he remained in the shadows. They had two longboats, and even on such a still night it would be rough going on the open channel.

  He could escape quite easily, scrambling up the side of the cliff before they even noticed he was gone. As long as he didn’t have the substantial weight of a tall woman dragging him down.

  She didn’t make a sound behind him in the cave. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, and turned back to where Annelise was huddled, yanking her upright and slicing through her bonds with a little less care than he should have used.

  As he suspected, she was none too steady on her feet, and she swayed for a moment, looking at him through dazed eyes. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Saving your goddamned life,” he muttered. “Though I have no earthly idea why. I’ll probably die doing it.”

  “Because you care about me?”

  He managed a totally derisive laugh before slinging her over his shoulder. Why the hell did he have to get saddled with such a tall woman? he thought. Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with a—

  He almost dumped her over the side of the path as that unwarranted thought popped into his brain. As if he needed more irrational complications at that moment. He growled, low in his throat, and started up the narrow pathway.

  He’d waited too long, of course. The moon moved from behind a cloud, illuminating them far too clearly, and he heard a shout from the shoreline, followed by the crack of a rifle. “He’s getting away!” someone shouted. “Damn you, get after them.”

  There was no mistaking Josiah Chipple’s booming voice. “Killed him, did you?” Christian muttered, dumping Annelise onto the ground without ceremony. She let out a muffled oof. “He seems to have survived quite handily!”

  “I did my best,” she said in a sulky voice.

  “You can’t get away, Montcalm!” Josiah shouted from the shoreline. “If you come down without any trouble we’ll let the girl go.”

  Not bloody likely, he thought, glancing down at Annelise. She was pale and silent and he cursed again, wishing he still had at least one of his pistols.

  “Stay here,” he whispered.

  “No! Don’t believe him!” she cried desperately, clutching his boot.

  He helped her into the undergrowth with the vain hope of hiding her, when all hell broke loose from the beach below them. There were suddenly three times as many men on the beach, and it was all-out war.

  “Don’t move or I’ll come back and strangle you,” he said, half wishing he meant it, and then he raced down the twisted path to the beach, charging into the midst of the fray, allowing himself only a brief moment to wonder whether he’d ever have a chance to threaten the dragon again.

  26

  The Honorable Annelise Kempton couldn’t believe the situation she was in. She’d been shoved, punched, slapped, tied up, had filthy inappropriate hands all over her. Riding astride on Gertie’s broad back hadn’t helped the general achiness between her legs, and remembering why hadn’t helped her state of mind. She’d pounded through the countryside on the back of a horse for the first time in years, clinging for dear life, terrified that she’d be too late only to realize that she was worthless against a gang of smugglers and simply an inconvenience for Christian.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, she told herself, crawling out of the underbrush. And even now, amidst the noise and gunfire, he might be killed. It would serve him right, and she would go down and pick up his limp body and tell him so, just before she walked into the sea.

  Damn him, anyway. She shouldn’t have bothered—after all, she was never going to see him again anyway. Whether he was dead or alive shouldn’t have made any difference.

  But it did. Because no matter how cruel he was, Christian Montcalm couldn’t make her stop loving him. Idiot that she was.

  She struggled to her knees, looking down at the carnage below. In the bright moonlight she could see Christian quite clearly. He was astride some man, beating him, and for a moment Annelise assumed it was Josiah Chipple. But Chipple was standing to one side, between two uniformed soldiers, and most of the fighting had stopped. A few bodies littered the beach, a familiar-looking carriage waited off to the side, and as Annelise stumbled to her feet she recognized who had come to the rescue.

  Her sister, brother-in-law and William Dickinson, accompanied by a troop of soldiers, one of whom was pulling Christian off the unconscious man he’d seemed determined to kill.

  And then it was very still, only the sound of the surf breaking the silence. They were talking down there, and she called out, but her voice was cracked and dry and no one seemed to hear her. She started down the path, slipped and went down on her rump, letting out a cry of protest. As if her poor body hadn’t been through enough. At this rate she wasn’t going to sit down for days.

  By the time she reached the end of the trail she was ready to cry from sheer frustration. The sight that met her at the bottom was far from reassuring—instead of carting Chipple off, the soldiers were standing by while the smugglers climbed into their boats, with the addition of th
e man Christian had beaten and Mr. Chipple.

  “What in the name of God are you doing?” she called out in a cross voice. It came out as little more than a croak, but at least someone heard her. Eugenia turned her head, a disapproving expression on her face, and strode across the sand.

  “You’ve made quite the mess of it this time, my girl,” she scolded. Eugenia was the bossiest female on the face of the earth, and Annelise hadn’t the slightest expectation of sympathy. “At least you managed to have the good sense to send someone to warn us while you went haring off like an absolute hoyden, nearly getting yourself killed. And a good thing we were already coming after you to rescue you from that den of iniquity. Not that I blame you entirely. Mr. Montcalm has a great deal to answer for, and so I told him, and shall elucidate more clearly once we get off this dreadful beach and—”

  “Why are they letting them go?” Annelise broke through her sister’s diatribe. Eugenia was several inches shorter than she was and a great deal stouter, but she still managed to make Annelise feel like a naughty child.

  “Because there’s no way of seeing Mr. Chipple brought to justice without ruining both his daughter and you, my dear. He’s off to France with those disreputable smugglers with the stern warning not to return. In my opinion he probably won’t make it as far as the coast. The smugglers don’t seem to have a very high opinion of him, and he’s done nothing to endear himself to them.”

  “They killed a man,” Annelise said. “They shot a man in cold blood, and they were going to kill Christian and me. How can they let them get away with it?”

  “Mr. Montcalm,” Eugenia corrected primly. “The fact is, both you and Mr. Montcalm are perfectly all right, except for those horrid bruises on your face, and it sounds as if the late Mr. Crosby Pennington was no great loss to society. One must be practical about such things, Annelise. I thought I taught you to be practical above all things.”

  “I try,” she muttered.

  “Joseph and William are taking care of any details. Right now I want you to accompany me back to the carriage, and you are not to speak to Mr. Montcalm or even glance his way. Do you understand?”

  She’d been glancing his way intently since she’d reached the bottom of the path, but he seemed totally oblivious to her. “I need to—”

  “You don’t need to do anything at all but come back to Marymede and keep me company while we attempt to repair your good name. Clearly the man has no proper interest in you, and all you have of value is your reputation, thanks to our father’s fecklessness. We can repair it, but you’ll have to do exactly as I say.”

  Eugenia always wanted people to do exactly as she said, and there were very few brave souls who attempted to defy her. Perhaps when she felt stronger Annelise would put up a fight. Right now she was too weary. And there was nowhere else to go—Christian’s back was to her now, as he looked out to sea and the boats disappearing on the glassy surface. She could almost imagine he had gone, as well—out of her life, across the clear blue sea.

  Eugenia took her silence for assent—she could imagine no other response to her orders. “Come along now, Annelise. The sooner we get you away from this place the better.”

  “What about Gertie?”

  “Your old horse? What about her? She was sold along with the rest of the property.”

  “She’s mine now. I tied her up at the top of the bluff, and I’m not leaving without her.”

  “But where did she come from?”

  “She’s mine,” Annelise said stubbornly. If Christian wouldn’t give her up then he’d have to face her and talk to her. Otherwise Gertie was coming back with her, where she belonged.

  Eugenia let out a long-suffering sigh. “You are the most uncooperative of females. I’ll see what Joseph has to say.” She turned her back on her bedraggled sister and made her way across the pebbled beach with all the aplomb of a duchess.

  This left Annelise with two choices. To run across the beach to Christian and to force him to face her. Or to head straight back up the cliff to Gertie and wait for them to reach her. In one direction was disdain and rejection and in the other was the unquestioning love of an animal. The cliff wasn’t that steep.

  She started up it. Her feet in the unaccustomed boots were killing her, her thigh muscles ached, her head throbbed and her throat was tight with unshed tears. She climbed higher and higher, holding on to wind-warped branches as she made her way. Staying with Eugenia was the best thing possible, she told herself. She deserved her improving lectures, and Eugenia was so firmly above reproach that her exceptional reputation would hopefully spread a bit to her wayward sister.

  She found she could smile. The very thought of the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton being wayward was curiously cheering. Within a short time she would settle back into her cool, disapproving spinsterhood. She’d replace her spectacles, order a new set of lace caps and prepare for a quiet life in the country.

  But for this last day she could revel in being the wanton who lived in her heart. The wanton who belonged only to Christian.

  She was out of breath when she reached the top of the bluff where Gertie was patiently waiting. She sank down on the ground, looking out over the moonlit ocean. The boats were almost out of sight now, and she thought she saw a splash to one side, as if something large and unpleasant was being thrown overboard. Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

  The wind had picked up. Her hair was a tangled mess, blowing in her eyes, and as she pushed it out of the way she ran her hand over her damp face. She had no idea why it was wet—the climb hadn’t been that strenuous. Perhaps it was simply a reaction to all the high drama. After all, she’d nearly been killed tonight. It was understandable that she’d feel a bit overwrought.

  She sat for a long time, the wind whipping her hair. The moon set, the boats had long disappeared across the horizon, and the first rays of sunlight appeared in the east. A new day, she thought wearily. A new life.

  She’d drawn her knees up, her arms clasped around them, and she put her face down against the soft torn wool of the ancient riding habit, wishing she could sleep, wishing she could cry, wishing a thousand things that she couldn’t have. And when she lifted her head he was standing there in front of her. Alone.

  She looked at him. His hair was loose, blowing in the wind, as well. His shirt had been torn open, he had a bruise across his cheekbone, and his hands…

  “There’s blood on your hands,” she said in a hollow voice.

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Who?” Chipple had seemed remarkably intact as he’d climbed into the boat. She wondered if he’d been so when he’d gone over the side.

  “Our friend Hoskins. He hurt you.”

  She blinked. Why he should care one way or another was beyond her comprehension. “Chipple hit me, too. I’m afraid it’s too late to go after him but I appreciate the thought.”

  The ghost of a smile danced across his mouth. “There’s my dragon. Though I may have to revise my opinion of you. Your sister is enough to put the fear of God into any man.”

  “She’s a real corker, isn’t she?” Annelise said wistfully. “I wish I had half her strength of character.”

  “You have far too much already.”

  “Flattering as always, Mr. Montcalm.”

  “They live too close to Wynche End.”

  “They’re at least two days away! The only reason they got here so quickly is they’d come to rescue me. And I’m sure they won’t be any trouble to you—they’d have no reason to try to pursue the acquaintance, given the circumstances.”

  He ignored her little speech. “Your brother-in-law seems like a decent enough man, however. Long-suffering, poor soul, to put with a creature like his wife, but then, I can understand that kind of torment. He’s probably not any worse off than me.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  He stared at her in silence for a moment, as if he was at a loss for words. But the charming Christian Montcalm had
never been at a loss for words in his life—not for long.

  “In truth their proximity is a fortunate thing. No one will have any idea you spent the night at Wynche End. People will believe the worst, of course, but in the end most everyone will accept that you spent a chaste week at your sister’s house, spending a great deal of time in bed getting over an unpleasant illness.”

  “I did spend far too much time in bed,” she snapped. “And ‘unpleasant’ is too mild a word.”

  He laughed, when she thought she would never hear him laugh again. “So you’re free and clear and I owe you nothing.”

  “Indeed,” she said in an acid voice. “You may rejoice at your lucky escape. As may I.”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. He reached down for her hand, but she had no intention of giving it to him. He had no intention of not taking it, and a moment later she found herself hauled to her feet in front of him.

  “It’s a good thing you’re an aging orphan,” he murmured, gently pushing the hair away from her face. “I don’t have to wait around to get anyone’s permission.”

  “Permission for what, you rat bastard?” she said.

  “Such language, dragon. I’m afraid you’re going to have to marry me.”

  Her eyes widened in outrage. “You just told me that my reputation is intact. My sister will ensure it. And if you’re worried about any issue from that night of total debauchery you can set your mind at ease. I had just completed my menses and the likelihood of becoming pregnant is almost nil. If by any chance I’m mistaken I’ll be certain to let you know.”

  He put his other hand on her cheek, cupping her face gently, careful not to touch the bruises. “I am a rat bastard,” he acknowledged genially. “I deserve a lifetime of torment and repentance. You’re the most qualified person I know to deliver such a punishment.”

  “You have no right to mock me!” she said. “I’ve had a very difficult few days.”

  “As have I. Don’t be tiresome. I’ve already abducted one bride, I would have no qualms about abducting another. And we wouldn’t have as far to travel.”