“Monsieur, did you learn their direction?” the gentleman’s manservant asked.
The old man’s stooped shoulders gradually rose to their full, broad width, his droopy eyes turned to steel cold awareness, and his slackened lips lifted into a feral smile.
“Oui.” Valère kept his eye on the inn’s front entrance. “They are headed back to his country estate.”
“The other will not follow.”
“No.”
What Marcel lacked in birthright, he made up for with his keen mind. The manservant’s talent for detecting artifice made him an indispensable interrogator, and his ability to anticipate his master’s next step saved Valère a great deal of time and inconvenience.
“Lord Helsford’s decision displeases me. However, if our positions were reversed, it is exactly what I would do.”
Marcel readjusted his low-brimmed hat. “Monsieur, shall we follow them or travel on to our final destination?”
“A moment.”
Cora finally emerged from the inn, carrying a burgundy and gold portmanteau. Fury and desire wiped away his admiration of her lover’s strategic acumen.
When he had overheard her discussing marriage with the earl, he’d had to restrain himself from turning around and plunging a knife into the witch’s black heart. She was lucky he had sensed discord between them. Otherwise, he would have shot Helsford between the eyes and spirited her away. If not for the ensuing manhunt, the rash action would have perhaps enabled him to reach his goal more expeditiously but with far less stealth. Or enjoyment.
When Cora stepped into her carriage, Valère signaled his readiness to move on. He waited until Witney was a speck on the horizon before tearing off the itchy gray wig and accepting a damp cloth from Marcel to remove the actors’ face paint he had used to age himself. He gloried in the fact that he had sat within striking distance of Cora, close enough to catch the faint whiff of her floral scent, and she had remained oblivious to his presence.
A surge of power pulsed through his body, replacing the fury. He liked holding her fate in his hands, knowing she lived by his beneficence alone. God was not the only one who had control over life and death. His chest expanded upon envisioning his emperor’s pride once he learned of Valère’s success. Napoleon’s generosity would know no bounds, and Valère’s ruthless ambitions would finally be realized.
He reached for the jasmine-scented handkerchief resting in his pocket, wanting to share this pivotal moment with Cora, but his manservant’s presence stopped him. “I believe the driver requires your assistance.”
Marcel peered at the passing landscape. “Of course, monsieur.”
Valère watched his obedient manservant open the door and gracefully maneuver to the top of the moving carriage, shutting the door behind him. When Valère was alone, he pulled the ruffled handkerchief from his coat pocket and laid it unopened on his thigh.
A faint buzz of anticipation started low in his stomach. He looked forward to their next meeting, could imagine it already. Having Cora under his control again released feelings of ungovernable desire. Only she knew how to tame the raging beast within. The one that screamed for domination; the one that lashed out if a woman failed to feed his secret need. Nothing gave him greater release than being on the receiving end of a confident woman’s riding crop.
He flinched and then shuddered with ecstasy, as if feeling the first slap of leather.
The sable curl beneath his finger felt like the finest silk from the Orient. He couldn’t wait for her hair to regain its full glory, so he could see it draped around her flushed face and straining breasts. The scar on her temple and the brand on her thighs would take their love play to extraordinarily new heights.
Once he had completed his charge, he would see exactly how high they could fly.
Twenty-Two
A few days later, sleepy contentment enfolded Cora as she lazed against one of Herrington Park’s enormous trees. The rhythmic creak of its branches in the breeze lulled her into a deep well of blissful oblivion.
Finally.
Ever since she had fallen asleep in Guy’s arms at the inn, sleep had come more easily. She was still plagued with nightmares but could generally get several hours’ rest despite them.
She scratched between Scrapper’s shoulders, prompting him to wiggle around and hang from her arm like an Amazonian sloth—only sloths did not use their long nails as tiny weapons of destruction. Cora clenched her teeth and disengaged her arm from the kitten’s painful hold. The tiny dents left in her skin were a small price to pay for escaping Guy’s persistent attentions.
“He watches me constantly, Scrap.” The kitten cocked his head as if comprehending her words. “Everywhere I turn, his eyes follow me.”
After their harsh words at the inn, she had avoided him whenever possible. The possibility of discussing her marital prospects—or lack of—was not a topic she wished to broach with him again.
She could blame only herself for arousing his curiosity. If she had stopped to think for a moment, it would have been obvious to her why the innkeeper and his daughter thought they were married. Their reference to her as his “missus” had caught her off guard. The title had felt foreign, yet its use had awakened a long-abandoned dream, catching her unawares.
Not even after their mind-shattering lovemaking at the Golden Duck and his insistence that she would never attend another man’s bed but his, had marriage entered her mind. She would not dare allow her thoughts to travel that far. The most she had hoped for was Guy’s love and affection—in whatever form he could share it. His name was far too much to hope for, but that did not stop her female need to now test it on her tongue.
“Lady Helsford. Countess Helsford. Cora Trevelyan.” She enjoyed the lyrical quality of the syllables twining together to form each grouping. If she’d had a quill and paper handy, she might have resorted to a more visual form of disillusionment.
After they had made love at the inn, she had forced herself to leave their bed. She had needed time to think and could not do that with the drugging effects of his sandalwood scent and musky, sleep-warmed skin taunting her to stay.
The few hours of contemplation away from him had helped her to see past the immediate needs of her body. As much as she adored him, she realized how their lovemaking had unbearably complicated their situation. She could not be his mistress and share him with a wife. Even the thought of such an arrangement caused her stomach to churn. And if Guy took it into his gentlemanly head to ask for her hand in marriage, she would refuse him. She must, because being the object of his social ruin would place an intolerable strain on her, and it would eventually be the death of their marriage.
She tickled beneath the kitten’s chin, and he promptly sank his razor-sharp teeth into her fingertip. “The ton would eat him alive,” she said, tugging her finger away. “They have a knack for sniffing out the sordid areas of one’s past. If they ever learned of my activities in France, Guy would most assuredly suffer for it, as would any of our children.” And they would find out. It wasn’t as if she had gadded about Paris under an assumed name. Her exploits would soon follow her to London. She had no doubt. “I won’t let him suffer for my decisions. He deserves so much better than a life of mockery.”
Since they had arrived at Herrington Park, Guy’s eyes and tone of voice had remained seductively warm, but his body withdrew into cool formality. He kept himself near but at a discreet distance, touching her only when necessary. While he physically pulled away from her, she was more drawn to him than ever, like a sweet pea vine reaching for the support of its trellis.
She knew her behavior at the inn’s breakfast table confused him, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to care. Her damaged body and worry for her brother had sapped all her strength. She didn’t have the fortitude to explain the obvious to him. He would eventually figure out why marriage was dead to her. Her fingers pressed against both of her eyelids to rub the sting away.
“God, I hate this,” she swore ben
eath her breath. Hated this feeling of helplessness. Of hopelessness. She had always been strong, even before she had sailed to France. This yearning to lean on Guy battled viciously with her drive for self-reliance.
She buried her face in Scrapper’s soft fur. On one level, Guy’s protectiveness drove her to fits of temper, and on another level—one where she kept her deepest desires hidden—he exhilarated her. That’s why she had requested a few hours to herself each morning after returning to the country. She needed to reestablish her independence, and she couldn’t do that with Guy constantly underfoot.
Scrapper’s little body vibrated with happiness, making her smile. She lifted her head, and her gaze drifted around the sun-dappled glade. She hadn’t wanted to return to Herrington Park. She would rather be in London, helping Somerton find Ethan, instead of in the country doing nothing but strolling and sleeping and thinking. Always thinking. But she was glad to return to the tranquility of this hidden paradise. It was the perfect spot to perform her Tai Chi each morning.
She glimpsed her servants’ bobbing heads in the distance. While keeping a keen eye on her, they collected greens and berries for their luncheon salad. Bingham’s low grumblings and Dinks’s snappish retorts carried across the distance of the small lake. A wave of nostalgia gripped her insides, causing her nose and eyes to sting.
She would never have survived France without them. Never. Their unflagging loyalty, strength, and friendship had kept her motivated and focused on her one true goal: finding the man who murdered her parents.
Horrific scenes from that fateful night flashed before her eyes. Scenes that over a decade later had the ability to slice open her chest, exposing her terror, her mortification, her shame. She curled her fingers into Scrapper’s soft fur.
“Mrrreow.”
The kitten’s cry of distress forced her to ease her grip. “Sorry, Scrap.” She rubbed along his tiny back, hoping to soothe any hurt she had caused, but tension still thrummed through his quivering body.
Then his claws pierced the linen covering her left breast, hooking into her tender flesh. She sucked in a breath and tried to disengage his hold. “Scrapper, what’s wrong—?”
“Mrrreow!” He hissed and made to bolt. She caught him by the scruff of his neck and pressed him against her body.
“What’s the matter?” She cradled his small head and noticed his big green eyes were almost entirely black… and they were focused on something beyond her shoulder.
Like the kitten’s stinging claws, dread curled around her heart, squeezing away the last of her contentment.
“Your kitten doesn’t appear to like me, mon coeur.”
Cora’s pulse stuttered to a halt. She reached for her skirt pocket, but Valère’s gun barrel rammed into the pit of her arm, stopping her cold. A killing shot, one that would rip her life’s blood out of her body in a matter of minutes.
“If you scream, my men will cut down your servants before you can catch your next breath,” Valère said. “Keep your hands wrapped around that gray vermin where I can see them, and leave them there. Understood?”
She glanced at Dinks and Bingham, finding no discernible threat near them. The fact that she had missed Valère’s approach forced her to keep her mouth shut and her senses open.
She nodded.
“Good. Now rest your head against the tree and close your eyes.”
No. A cold sweat coated Cora’s palms.
“Are you testing me, Cora?”
The same helplessness she had experienced in his dungeon pervaded her body now. Her strong-willed defiance had bought her time while imprisoned, where she was alone, but that tactic would not work in this instance.
She peered at her friends, knowing they would observe only what Valère wanted them to see—their mistress resting beneath a large tree.
Valère had discovered her weakness for her servants and was now using them to his advantage. Another failure on her part. Something else to regret.
“Bastard.”
“On occasion. Now do as I say.”
Cora eased her head back. No matter how hard she tried to see Valère out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t. The strange condition of conversing with a bodiless voice heightened her unease. There was no way to judge his mood or his next action. No way to defend herself.
Guy’s image flitted through her mind. He would blame himself for what was to come, believing he shouldn’t have left her in the care of others. He wouldn’t understand that he couldn’t be with her every minute of every day, no matter how hard he tried.
Her enemy would always find that one moment, that fragment of a second that would distract her protector, pulling him away.
Valère jabbed her with the muzzle of his gun. “Do not test me, ma chère.”
Releasing an unsteady breath, she closed her eyes and waited for the blow.
Instead, he slid the gun barrel along the side of her breast. “Good girl.” His breath fanned over her neck as he spoke. “Speaking of obedience, why do you keep that mewling footman around? The boy betrayed you.”
“You kidnapped his sister,” Cora said. “He had few options.”
“He could have told you the truth. Does he not love you as he loves his sister?”
Disappointment pierced her heart, tightening the walls of her chest. She knew he baited her, but the wound was still fresh, and her affection for Jack spanned many years. “And risk losing the only family he has left? You are a cold-blooded bastard, Valère.”
The barrel dug into her ribs, and Cora gritted her teeth, wishing she hadn’t forsaken her stays since coming to the country. “What do you want? Why not kill me and be done with it?”
He laughed low. “I will. However, right now, I must keep you alive for my emperor. Once he has no further use of you and I have sated my own desires, I will make a gift of you to Marcel. What do you think of my plan?”
“Sounds like you’re still relying on your servants to do your dirty work.”
Cora braced herself for another vicious thrust, but he replaced his gun with something sharp. Sharp enough to slice through the fabric of her dress and pierce the tender skin of her lower back. She recoiled, but the motion was halted by four sets of barbed feline claws embedding themselves in her upper arm. She bit her lip against the pain while she eased Scrapper’s claws from her skin.
“Sit back,” he demanded. “You think to amuse yourself at my expense, ma chère?”
Calming her wild breaths, she resumed her position against the tree.
“Because of you, my superiors now question my loyalty to the emperor. Mine.” He punctuated the word with the point of the knife. “One of his most loyal of subjects. My appointment as Maréchal de France is all but gone, thanks to you.”
“Marshal of France?” Cora snorted. “Where is your army, Valère? Only the finest military men are appointed to such a prestigious position.”
“My army surrounds you.” The blade burrowed deeper into her back, slicing through flesh. “Can you not feel their presence?” She gritted her teeth and arched her spine.
She wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t cry out. If she did, Dinks and Bingham were as good as dead. Much to her disgrace, she couldn’t stop her breaths from bellowing through her nostrils in her bid to remain quiet. Where were Somerton’s men?
“I will collect my apology,” he continued in a lethal voice, “while you are taking me into your body.”
A violent tremor shook her core. “Never.”
“You think not?” Valère’s sudden burst of movement and the feel of his fingers wrapping around her neck triggered years of disciplined training.
She swept around and threw the only weapon she had readily at hand—right into his arrogant face.
Scrapper’s claws sank into Valère’s flesh, piercing his cheeks and throat. “Ahhh!” He grabbed the kitten by the neck and made to yank him away, but Scrapper refused to release the Frenchman and grasped for a better hold, connecting with Valère’s right eye.
“Fils de pute!” Valère pried the kitten’s front paws off and flung him away with a vicious twist of his wrist.
Cora fumbled for the knife in her skirt pocket, staring at the spot where Scrapper’s little gray body disappeared inside a cluster of leaves and spindly branches. One lone yellow leaf dangled above the dark opening. She couldn’t see a single gray hair.
In the distance, she heard a feminine scream and a baritone yell, and then nothing. Dinks. Bingham. Oh, God.
Valère swiped his coat sleeve over the lines of blood trickling down his face; his right eye squeezed shut. “English whore.” He scanned the ground around them. “I’m going to rip the skin from your bones and feed it to my men.”
Ignoring his threat, she crouched into a battle stance, her knife extended. To her astonishment, Valère appeared to have lost his weapons during his scuffle with Scrapper.
Blood pumped more richly through her veins, for her odds of surviving this encounter improved tenfold, a hundredfold if she counted his half-blind status.
At least that was the case until she heard the swoosh of low-hanging branches and the pounding of feet off to her left, reminding her that Valère wasn’t the only threat lurking in the woods. Cocking her head slightly to the side, she bided her time.
“Lose something, Valère?” Scrapper had not only gouged holes in the Frenchman’s eye, he had shredded the man’s face in several places. Cora fought the impulse to touch the scar near her temple.
Thank you, Scrap.
Another disturbance behind her, closer now. She couldn’t tell how many were approaching, but the sickening smile stretching across Valère’s mouth didn’t bode well.
Five.
Four.
“Not for long,” he said.
Sweat trickled down the center of her back, joining the growing patch of blood. A wave of light-headedness struck her, and she drew in a deep breath to conquer its effect.
Three.
Two.
The whir of air nearby propelled her into action. She spun, slashing her blade against the back of the man’s knee and followed through with a jab to his temple with the heel of her hand. He fell to the ground, roaring in agony.
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