by Anne Stuart
"Would you? And you still deny you love her? What kind of bond could you possibly have that would allow for you to know any such thing?"
"I need to find her. We can argue about whether I love her or not once she's safe," Adrian snapped.
"Well, at least that's a step in the right direction. You're allowing for the possibility, when any fool can see you're totally besotted with the girl. Which gives me much greater hope for your future. In the meantime, there are any number of places Etienne might have taken her. He may have driven her back to London—she'd probably go with him willingly enough in her need to escape your ham-handed behavior. Or he could have taken her to the ruins. There's lots of privacy there. Send Dodson to me and I'll have him organize a search party."
"I can't—" Their conversation was interrupted by one of Monty's beautiful footmen.
"Excuse me, my lord, but a gentleman left a message for you."
The fear suddenly went bone deep, and when Adrian held out a hand for the folded scrap of paper he could see it shake slightly.
He recognized Etienne's scrawl immediately: Your bride awaits you at the Chapel of Perpetual Erection. I suggest you come at once, and alone.
He looked up, meeting Monty's gaze. And then he walked out without another word.
24
At first Charlotte was aware of nothing but darkness and the smell of what seemed uncomfortably close to fire and brimstone. Her recollection was hazy— she'd been running from something, hadn't she? And why couldn't she seem to move? There was something over her head, blocking out the light, and she tried to shake it off.
She squirmed, and heard a low, evil chuckle, the same sound she'd heard in the maze at Ranelagh Gardens. Memory came flooding back, along with a full-blooded fury. She tried to speak, only to discover something was tied around her mouth, silencing her. She tried to shake it off, furious, when she heard the laugh again.
"You don't like that, do you, my pet? If you'd had the sense to hit your head on a rock when I shoved you down the cliff you wouldn't be going through this now.
Eiienne, she thought. Elienne had pushed her. She allowed herself a brief moment of relief. She thought she'd long ago dismissed the idea that Adrian had tried to kill her, but there must have been a lingering doubt, now vanquished.
She was good and trussed, like an angry chicken, she thought. Her legs and arms were tied to a chair, and she struggled, wildly, the chair tipping when a heavy hand clubbed her across the face. The hood over her head muffled the blow, and she struggled, desperate for a way out of the darkness. She didn't like being tied up.
"If you're going to behave yourself I'll let you see where you are." He pulled the hood off, and she blinked, looking around her. She appeared to be in some kind of church, and for a moment she wondered if Etienne was in league with Adrian, if he'd brought her to the village church to force a marriage upon her.
And then she noticed that the cross was inverted, the altar was a bed, and the leaded glass was patently obscene. There was a brazier nearby, a fire burning, taking some of the damp chill off the air. Fire and brimstone. She must be in the blasphemous chapel of the Heavenly Host. The Church of Perpetual Erection, Lina had told her. Wishful thinking on someone's part.
She turned her head back, her eyes settling on Etienne de Giverney's bulky form. She glared at him.
but he merely watched her, unmoved, one leg swinging negligently as he perched on the edge of a table. Names for him swirled inside her head, and her inability to spit them out at him was almost worse than being tied up.
"Don't worry, mademoiselle. You won't be in this deplorable condition for long. Your noble knight will be rushing to your rescue momentarily, and you will have the chance to die in his arms like a true heroine. Just be patient, or I'll be forced to hit you again."
She ignored him to look around her, her vision somewhat encumbered by her restraints. The chapel was a new construction, made of wood. Ecclesiastical-type hangings lay across the low-slung altar, blasphemous ones, and she wandered what Simon Pagett would say if he saw this place.
There were piles of wood set at intervals around the sides of the small church, and she could smell the resin scent of pitch. The place was set to go up in flames, and there was a certain poetic justice to it. A chapel dedicated to the fires of hell succumbing to a conflagration.
Her eyes met de Giverney's expressionless ones, but his smile was eerily affable. "Yes, mademoiselle, there will be a sad accident. You and your lover will die in afire. It will be a very great tragedy, do you not think? No? You look as if you were quite desperate to tell me something, but I think I will leave the gag in place for the time being. I'm afraid I have a very hard heart, and your tears and pleading will leave me completely unmoved. They will only annoy me."
She'd been frightened and angry, now her fury overwhelmed any lingering fear. As if she was so poor-spirited as to beg for mercy! She glared at him, trying to put all her anger and contempt into her gaze, but he remained completely unmoved. "It won't be long, mademoiselle. I expect him to come charging up on a white horse—oh, no, he won't be able to do that, will he? He'll have to use the ornamental canal to get here, which will cut the drama. But I expect him to make any number of heroic declarations before I kill him. In fad, I think I hear him coming now."
Charlotte's fear escalated, and she began to struggle anew, to warn him, when de Giverney's low, eerie laugh sent chills along her spine, and he called out, "We're here, dear boy. Your lady love awaits."
She half expected Adrian to charge in, as he had into her bedroom earlier in the day, full of rage and demands, and she braced herself, ready for rescue.
Instead he pushed the door open and strolled in, seemingly at ease. "Etienne," he said in a charming voice. "What is all this?"
The comte laughed, amused. "Oh, I think you know, dear boy," he replied. "It should come as no surprise lo you. If you'd listened to your father's warnings you'd know that I never give up on what I want. But then, what headstrong young man ever listens to their elders? I suggest you put that pistol down on the chair. I have one trained on Mademoiselle Spenser, and she would be dead before you managed to get off a shot."
Adrian's wry smile was all charm as he removed the dueling pistol from inside his riding coat and set it down carefully. "Of course, you knew I would have to try."
"Of course," Etienne said with equal courtesy.
"So how can I convince you to let Miss Spenser go? She has nothing to do with what lies between your family and mine."
"Ah, but she does. You think I don't know that she's carrying a possible heir? The moment you became infatuated with her I knew she was a potential problem, and I tried to dispense with her earlier. If I let her go now, not only would your father contrive to have your child inherit, but it would leave a witness. And they're much more likely to believe a silly English girl than a despised Frenchman, don't you think?"
Silly English girl, Charlotte thought, fuming. Now she was truly angry.
Adrian must have sensed her rage because he glanced over at her. "You've already tormented her enough. Trust me, being unable to talk is sheer torture for her. I know she's dying to tell you what she thinks of you."
"Dying is. I'm afraid, the operative word," Etienne said, trying to sound regretful and failing utterly. "Go over there and untie her, but don't let your body get between her and the gun, please."
"You're letting her go?"
"Don't be stupid, Adrian," Etienne said wearily. "Move slowly. I would prefer not to have to shoot you, but I'm willing to take the chance."
Charlotte looked up at him as he towered over her. His back was to Etienne, and the expression on his face was startling, filled with regret and guilt and longing. "Am I allowed to talk to her?"
"Feel free," Etienne said grandly. "I'm afraid she won't answer. My tolerance for romantic declarations is minimal.”
He knelt in front of her, his hands on her ankles, and began to untie the ropes that bound her there. "I'm so
rry I got you in this mess, sweet Charlotte," he murmured. "If I had any idea there was insanity in the family I never would have come near you."
Etienne made an angry sound, then managed a laugh. "Unlikely. You are too much like me, Adrian. You take what you want and be damned to the consequences."
Her feet were loose, and he reached for her bound wrists. "I'm nothing like you. I'm not some pathetic old man whose empty life needs to be filled with other people's titles and money." He dropped his voice to only a breath of sound, and if she hadn't been staring up at him she wouldn't have heard it. "When I turn, drop to the floor and stay there."
At least, that's what she thought he'd said. His coat hung open, and she could see a tiny pistol tucked inside, and she let out a muffled sound of protest. That small gun would be useless against the firearm Etienne carried, and Adrian would die in front of her, and she couldn't bear it. She loved him—it was too late to deny it any longer. She'd been an idiot not to take whatever he offered—it was more than most people got in this life.
"What's she fussing about?" Etienne demanded sharply. "You wouldn't be planning anything, would you? Move to one side so I can see her clearly."
Adrian did as he was told, keeping his back to Etienne, one hand working on the knots at Charlotte's wrists, the other reaching for the tiny pistol.
She lifted her gaze, turning to look at Etienne, and froze in horror. He'd lifted the gun and was pointing it straight at Adrian's back.
It was shadowed, gloomy, and there was no way she could see him depress the trigger, but she moved anyway, surging to her feet, driving her shoulder into Adrian's belly to knock him out of the way just as the small area exploded in sound, and they both went down, hard. She felt an odd burning in her arm, a strange pressure as she landed on top of Adrian. He shoved her off him, and when he rose he had that tiny, useless gun that was almost swallowed up by his long-fingered hand.
She thought she heard another shot, but her ears were still ringing from the first, and he'd used his other hand to shove her down onto the floor, keeping her there. She felt his body jerk slightly, and she knew he was shot, knew Etienne had killed him, and she screamed behind the gag, despair washing over her. She would kill him, she would...
She tried to scramble to her feet, but she was feeling oddly weak, and strong hands shoved her down again. Adrian's hands. The small building was filled with smoke from the pistol fire, and she could hear nothing but a loud ringing in her ears. She lay on her back, stunned, staring up to see Adrian rise, limber and graceful as always, and she wanted to scream at him to get down.
She could smell blood. Adrian's? Or Etienne's? Worse than blood, an indescribable stink on the air, one of violent death. But Adrian was still moving. Adrian still moved.
She managed to get her bound wrists under her and push herself up to a sitting position. Etienne de Giverney lay splayed out on the floor, a tiny, thoroughly effective bullet wound in the middle of his forehead, his discarded gun at his foot Adrian picked up the gun and stood over his cousin's body, kicking him with his booted foot just to make certain, kicking him hard. And then he turned back to Charlotte, and she'd never seen such rage on anyone's face in her life.
"How dare you!" he shouted at her. "That's my child you're carrying—how dare you put yourself in danger."
She reached up and pulled the gag free, even with her wrists still bound, and struggled to her knees.
"Bastard," she said succinctly. "It would be nice if you cared whether I died, but instead you just don't want your precious heir put in danger. Well, to hell with you, you bloody-minded, pig-swiving, ridiculous man! I was trying to save your worthless, damnable life."
Apparently he realized there had been something missing in his protest. "Why?"
"Why what?" She tried to stand up but instead fell back again. She felt weak, her shoulder was paining her damnably and she was tired of fighting him.
"Why were you trying to save my worthless, damnable life?"
She considered passing out, just to avoid coming up with an answer. After all, she was pregnant—she no longer had any doubt about the truth of it—and she hadn't eaten, and being kidnapped by a madman and nearly murdered was surely enough justification for even the most stalwart of females, which she hoped she was, to faint. But where was light-headedness when you really needed it? she thought.
"Because I love you," she shouted back at him, furious. "You do not deserve it. You're almost as worthless as your murderous cousin, and I still refuse to marry you, but whether I like it or not, I don't want you dead. I'm in love with you, but I imagine it's simply because pregnancy disarranges women's minds, and I plan to do everything I can to get over it as quickly as I can."
He stared at her. It would make life so much simpler if he wasn't so damned beautiful, she thought. She was really pathetically shallow, because looking at him made her heart melt. Her only choice was to close her eyes as she repudiated him, but that made the room swim, and she decided she really didn't want to faint after all. She summoned up a suitably truculent expression, glowering at him.
"You're bleeding. Goddamn it, Charlotte, the bastard shot you.”
"Oh," she said faintly. In that case it was perfectly all right to swoon. It would have been nice if she'd known mat a little sooner and avoided having to tell him she loved him. But at least she needn't say anything more.
And she happily slipped into darkness.
25
As if things weren't bad enough, Adrian thought, facing the tribunal that sat across from him in Montague's library. Even Monty seemed to have rallied enough to be carried in, though Adrian suspected he'd come more for amusement's sake than anything else.
He'd been carrying Charlotte's bleeding, unconscious body toward the landing when he saw them running toward him: Pagett, Dodson, half a dozen footmen and, to his utter and complete horror, his father. He hadn't wanted to let go of Charlotte's limp body, cradling her tightly in the boat as Pagett ripped away the sleeve of her dress to expose what was, in fact, nothing but a graze. If his father hadn't been watching him out of cool, assessing eyes he might have started crying. Instead he just held her closely, letting her bleed all over him as they made it back to estate.
They were wailing for her with a litter, and by this point he relinquished her. He knew when she'd regained consciousness—sometime in the boat—but she'd elected not to let anyone know. He couldn't blame her. If he could manage to fate a fainting spell he would, anything to avoid his father's icy rage.
Even now she was tucked up into bed, a hot-water bottle at her feet, his mother sitting in a chair beside her. At least she wasn't here in the library, ready to have his liver served up to the wolves.
He surveyed the grim-faced row of judges. The only one who terrified him more than his father was Lady Whitmore, who would have most definitely gutted him on the spot if she could. She was sitting as far away from the vicar as she possibly could, which didn't fool most of the people there. Monty was right—they wanted to shag each other silly, and he wondered if he could deflect attention from his own transgressions by pointing this out, then thought better of it.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Adrian?" His father was quite a remarkable old man, considering he'd spent a life of debauchery that presumably put Adrian's career in the shade. Adrian could thank his godfather for his parents' unwanted appearance. No sooner had Adrian taken off with his special license in hand, when the bishop had sent a message out to Dorset, informing his parents of their son and heir's upcoming nuptials. He should never have told his godfather where he was going, but he'd just escaped from Etienne's paid assassins, and he wasn't thinking too clearly.
"If I'm supposed to apologize for blowing Etienne's head off then you'll have to excuse me," he said stiffly. Never in his life had he wanted a drink more, but no one seemed to be offering.
"You didn't blow his head off with that tiny peashooter," his father said with a genteel snort.
“Well, I'm sorry that
I didn't have a bigger gun," Adrian retorted.
“I'm sorry you didn't as well. I regret even more that you didn't listen when I warned you about him," the marquess said in icy tones. "If you had kept your distance in the first place this might never have happened.”
"If you've brought me in here to say 'I told you so' then I have more important things to do," Adrian said, starting to rise.
His father didn't need to say a word, he simply looked at him, and Adrian sat back, restless. He hadn't seen Charlotte since the doctor had patched up her shoulder and pronounced her fit and pregnant. His mother had taken over from Lady Whitmore, and he'd been shut out, away from her, with no chance to hold her as he so desperately needed to do, to assure himself she was safe.
He needed to tell her the truth, that he was a worthless idiot, blind and stupid and shallow, but that despite all that he loved her.
They wouldn't let him.
It was a conspiracy, he thought grimly. He was going to have to take his punishment before they'd let him go to her.
"I want to know what you intend to do about the situation."
He deliberately chose to misunderstand. "About your cousin, sir?" He let the deliberate emphasis be his one form of fighting back. "I'll have to deal with the local magistrate, I expect."
"I'm the local magistrate," Montague said with a trace of his old energy. The doctor hadn't wanted to leave him, but Montague had sent him away with a querulous wave of his bony hand. "I declare you innocent of any wrongdoing. As for de Giverney, I imagine there's space in the village graveyard to dump him.”
"Presumably he's Catholic," the vicar said. "If he's buried in Protestant ground he'll go to hell."
"Oh, let's, then," said Lady Whitmore. "I'll be happy to help dig."
"I mean, what's to be done with the young woman you ruined?"
With anyone else Adrian might have taken issue with the term ruined. Ruined her for any other man, perhaps, which was just what he wanted. "In case the others haven't told you, I've been trying to get her to agree to marry me. You know that I have the special license, and Pagett there could perform the ceremony. But she won’t agree.”