Rustling from within penetrated the haze of anguish coating her heart. She rushed back to the door, hoping to glimpse the foreign stranger. But her view was limited to the half of the room containing her father and—she gulped for air—her mother’s prone body.
Her father fought the bindings holding him. “I told you I know nothing about a deployment of troops!” he snarled.
“So you have said a hundred times, and yet, I have intelligence that tells me otherwise. Very well,” the Frenchman said. “Since you cannot provide the information I need…”
Inches before her eyes, a black-gloved hand holding a gun materialized from the wall, its owner out of sight. The shiny barrel pointed directly at her father’s chest, and then an explosion pierced her eardrums.
A hand wrapped around her mouth, pulling her away from the door. She glanced over her shoulder to see a twelve-year-old Jack. His frightened gaze locked with hers. He urged her away, pulling her hard when she refused. Unable to battle his greater strength, she stumbled away. Hand in hand with Jack, she escaped all the way up to the attic. To Winnie-the-Chair and safety.
Another demand for information brought Cora back to the present. After fleeing the murderous scene, she and Jack had huddled in Winnie’s red depths for what seemed like hours, waiting for the murderers to leave. Not until the house grew eerily quiet had they been brave enough to venture out of their hiding spot.
The jeweled pendant hanging about her neck burned a reminder against her chest. She wrapped her fingers around the cameo, drawing strength from its reassuring presence. When they tiptoed into the library, they had found several of her father’s books and important papers littering the floor. And the pendant.
She would never forget how the cameo lay forlornly on the carpet not far from her mother’s grasping, claw-like fingers. Remorse for her parents’ stolen moment still sat heavily on her heart. Had the killers interrupted a tender time between her mother and father? Had her father given the beautiful cameo to her mother for a secret celebration? Cora feared these answers would remain forever unanswered.
Tears clogged Cora’s throat. If only she had gone for help rather than run for safety. There was a chance—a small possibility—that her father had not died right away. Instead of sniveling in a chair, she could have gone downstairs and untied the servants, escaped to a neighbor’s house, screamed all the way down the street… anything but hide.
She had deserted her parents all those years ago, and that poor choice would haunt her always. Tonight, she would not bury her face in plush red comfort. Tonight, she would act. Instead of desertion, she would employ coercion. She would do anything—everything—but hide.
Swiping the tears from her face, Cora stormed into the adjacent room and hurried to the desk. She rummaged through several drawers, taking precious minutes to find a suitable weapon she could conceal in her sling. Then she found it. After testing its mettle, she slid the slender object into the tight space under her forearm for easy access.
When she rounded the desk, a second item caught her attention. She picked up the round crystal paperweight, testing its heaviness and her ability to grip it well. The cold mass fit perfectly within the palm of her damp hand. After a second’s hesitation, she secured it inside her sling, this time resting the piece on top of her forearm before rushing from the salon.
Standing outside the drawing-room door, Cora drew three deep breaths to help steady her nerves. She had one chance. One chance to convince Valère that Guy meant nothing to her. She must smother the truth into the depths of her soul. Would Guy recognize her subterfuge or be wounded by her perceived betrayal? She could not warn him of her intent, and she may never get a chance to explain, if things went awry.
So much was at stake—Guy, Ethan, Grace—they all needed her to succeed. She could not fathom the loss of any one of them. However, losing Guy would be like erasing her future. Without Guy, nothing but a never-ending wall of darkness towered before her.
Focus on the goal and move forward without hesitation, Cora. If you falter, even for a moment, all could be lost. She heard Somerton’s voice as if he stood by her side, both of them staring at the formidable door separating her from Guy. She had called on his words of wisdom many times over the years. Not once had he failed her. Not once.
She checked to make sure her little arsenal was secured in the depths of her sling. Satisfied all was as it should be, she lifted her chin and pushed open the door.
Thirty-Seven
Guy’s mind reeled from the blows Valère delivered. The Frenchman’s relentless demand for information hammered against every sinew in Guy’s already weakened body.
It was his sheer unfortunate luck that the two guards, who had ambushed him the moment he had emerged from the forest, had been carved from the Rock of Gibraltar, and neither evidently imbibed. Not even a sip.
Dammit, his head hurt. The back of his skull felt as if it were cleaved in half, laid open for the world to see the source of his stupidity. What the hell had they used on him? The blows suddenly halted, and Guy’s head sagged to his chest, a prayer of thanks whispering between his split lips.
Then he heard her voice.
“What is going on here?” Cora asked in a tone that reeked of indolent boredom.
Guy’s head snapped up, taking in her bandaged arm and languid stride. She looked incredibly beautiful with her hair curling softly around her face and her nightdress molding the curves of her body with each step. The bandage supporting her injured arm and the faint bruises smudging her skin presented a delicate contrast. But her eyes, her Raven eyes, conveyed a completely different message.
Determination. Hatred. Sacrifice.
His relief at seeing her alive was overshadowed by a gut-burning rage and a mind-numbing helplessness.
“Ah, the Raven emerges from her nest,” Valère said with acid disdain. He rubbed his bloodied knuckles against the remaining guard’s coat.
“You left my bed for this?” Cora asked.
Valère studied her. “Your lover came to fetch you home, ma belle.”
Guy’s gaze flicked between the two while applying pressure to his restraints. They did not stretch so much as a hairsbreadth. Damned efficient guards.
“Really?” she said. “I made it quite clear to him that our liaison was over. If not for Somerton’s insistence that I have a bodyguard”—she sent Valère a cross look—“I would have been quit of the wretch days ago. It takes some men longer than others to understand such things.”
“You wish me to believe you do not welcome his interference?”
The skepticism in Valère’s voice set Guy’s teeth on edge. From the way his cold gaze regarded Cora, he did not completely believe her lack of interest. The Frenchman was obviously suspicious and seemed to be waiting for her to make a misstep.
Cora moved to stand behind Guy, draping her arm over his shoulder in a negligent and highly sensual fashion. He stiffened, not knowing where she was going with this new tactic. With her defiant gaze on Valère, she stroked Guy’s swollen jaw so dispassionately one could almost label the intimate action a mockery.
“Lord Helsford is a childhood friend and a man I slept with for a few unremarkable nights—nothing more.” She rubbed the backs of her fingers down his throat, and Guy clenched his teeth against her impersonal touch. Her caress made his blood run hot and cold in equal parts.
“Please tell me that it is not jealousy sparkling in your eyes, monsieur.” She shifted around until she appeared on his left. “I find such sentiments tedious.” She smoothed her hand down his front, all the way until she covered his crotch. “Don’t you?”
The impact of the hard, slender object sliding against his spine turned his tense muscles to impenetrable granite. His fingers latched onto the object as it made its slow descent into his palm. After a few exploratory twists and turns of the item, a flush of excitement gripped his chest when he realized Cora had slipped him a knife.
The Raven had come through for them again.
Guy took a moment to assess the weapon. Latymer’s cutler did an excellent job curving the haft to fit a man’s hand. Approximately four inches in length, the smooth handle connected to a much shorter blade. Likely one of Latymer’s penknives, used for mending quill nibs.
Guy glanced up at Valère, certain the man would be furious over Cora’s bold display. Instead, the Frenchman watched her hand with a burning intensity that made Guy’s stomach knot with revulsion. If he were not so terrified for her safety, he would be in awe of her cunning ploy.
With a jarring abruptness, Cora straightened and sauntered to where Valère leaned against the back of a sofa. She draped herself around the Frenchman, her fingers smoothing across his blood-splattered shirt. “Perhaps we could convince him to join us upstairs. You may keep him bound, if you like.”
Predatory interest gleamed in Valère’s dark eyes. “You think to control the both of us, ma petite?”
The corners of Cora’s mouth turned up into a confident smile filled with knowing secrets. Her hand hooked around the Frenchman’s neck, and she answered his challenge with an ardent kiss to the bastard’s lips. With his role now reversed with Valère’s, Guy followed her beguiling movements much as the Frenchman had moments ago, but with none of Valère’s lust.
Guy turned away, resentment and a maddening fury choking the air from his lungs. He could not watch her debase herself to save his miserable hide. If he had not gotten himself captured, she would have been spared this humiliation. Twisting the penknife around, he made his first ineffectual slice to his bindings.
“So very convincing,” Valère said. “Perhaps I should take you right here in front of your childhood friend.”
The husky menace in Valère’s voice brought Guy’s gaze back to the entwined couple, and his stomach cringed with dread.
Valère clasped Cora’s throat in a viselike grip with one hand and ran his index finger, sticky with Guy’s blood, over the pale surface of her cheek. Cora did not so much as flinch. She merely regarded the Frenchman with an air of patience, almost as if she had expected his response.
Guy tried to increase his efforts, but the guard had done his job well. The tight restraints allowed for little maneuvering.
“Tempting, mon loup.” She peeled Valère’s fingers from around her throat. “But I am well enough now to see to your… needs. Why waste your host’s special room upstairs?”
The Frenchman considered her for a long moment, his aroused breaths reaching Guy’s ears.
“Alas,” Valère said. “I must disappoint you. The place I have in mind is far superior to Latymer’s red room.” He seized her upper arm and headed for the door.
Cora’s confident expression cracked, and her gaze slashed to his. That one brief glance was all it took for him to see her fear. Not for herself, but for him.
To the guard, Valère said, “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Do not let the prisoner out of your sight.”
“Yes, my lord.” The guard uncoiled his massive arms.
With every desperate stroke of the small blade, Guy ripped through flesh. The blood from his wrist trickled into the hand holding the penknife, making it difficult to retain his grasp. He tested his bindings again and felt the tension give. His pulse leapt, not only because of his progress but because he had run out of time.
“Valère, you bastard,” Guy yelled. “Where are you taking her?” He could not let them leave the room.
The Frenchman turned his gaze, so filled with hate and malevolence, on him. “She will be in good hands, monsieur. You should be more concerned about your own fate.”
“Goddamn it! Do not touch her.” Guy came to his feet—chair and all. Sweat and blood seeped into the corner of his eye, and the damn bindings tightened with the weight of the chair pulling on them.
Valère smirked at Guy’s rash act. “Make sure Lord Helsford is secure before my return. Break his ankles, if you must.”
The guard grabbed Guy’s arm, intending to follow his master’s orders. Guy shrugged him off, his gaze never leaving Cora’s retreating back.
“Hold on, Cora,” he demanded.
She turned, sending him a tremulous smile, and then she mouthed the three most beautiful words in the English language.
Valère jerked her forward, the door slamming behind them.
Silence flooded the room.
I love you. He had not imagined the words. Her beautiful mouth had formed the words with perfect clarity. She loved him. A tide of helpless wonder crashed into his stomach while he stared at the wooden barrier separating him from Cora.
This was not the time for him to act like a besotted idiot, nor was it the time for him to rejoice in the knowledge that his efforts to draw forth his old friend had netted results far greater. And much more precious.
He blinked hard to clear the bloody sweat from his swelling eye and began tearing at his bindings in earnest.
Pain shot through his midsection when the guard’s beefy fist connected with his stomach. Guy staggered, and the chair bounced into the backs of his knees, buckling them. He fell to the ground in a heap at the guard’s feet, his arms pinned beneath the chair.
“Now look at what you’ve done.” The guard drew a two-foot-long wooden club from his leather belt. Made of what looked to be solid English oak, the weapon could kill a man with a single crushing blow to the throat.
Guy swallowed and then lifted his hips up to take the pressure off his hands. And that’s when he realized he no longer held Cora’s knife.
Thirty-Eight
Cora focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Leaving Guy bound to the chair was an unbearable decision, but she knew he had a better chance of freeing himself with Valère absent. Dear Lord, she hoped the penknife was strong enough to cut through his bindings.
Hold on, Cora. Guy’s agonized expression and wrenching plea haunted her as she trudged toward her destiny. It had taken every last ounce of courage she possessed to face Guy and to reveal her true feelings when he must surely hate her after witnessing such a disgusting spectacle.
Even she was repulsed by her own behavior.
Valère stopped in the middle of the entrance hall, and he clamped his hands around her face with brutal force. “Stop thinking about him.” He devoured her lips in a raw attempt to force her compliance, until the metallic taste of blood reached her tongue. He finished the kiss by sucking her bottom lip between his teeth, and then bit down hard until a fresh wave of warm liquid spread into her mouth. She was unable to contain her gasp of pain.
“If you continue thinking of the Englishman while in my possession, I will kill him.” He caught a droplet of scarlet liquid on his thumb before it beaded off the edge of her bottom lip. “I should think that knowledge would provide proper motivation, no?” His sneering lips encircled his blood-slicked thumb.
“As always, monsieur, your logic is sound.”
Her satiric response was not lost on him. “Your mockery will be short-lived.”
Instead of continuing up the grand staircase as she had suspected, he pulled her deeper into the lower level of the house. They passed the formal dining room, with its elaborate mural-covered ceiling and large, richly decorated table, before traipsing down a long, dank corridor and a set of narrow stairs. They emerged into a large kitchen stocked with hanging herbs and pots of various sizes. Propped against an immense wooden table stood another hale guard, although this one looked as if he could benefit from a hearty meal or two.
The table drew Cora’s gaze, and a flush of heated dread scoured her body. A fortnight of memories crowded her mind, many spent shackled to a similar structure in Valère’s dungeon. Without conscious thought, she began backing away.
Valère glanced at her, a scowl on his face as he finished whispering unintelligible instructions to the guard. She could hear nothing beyond the furious pounding in her ears. Before darting out of her line of sight, the guard grabbed a nearby lantern and retrieved a burlap sack stored beneath the table. She backed up another step,
and Valère’s hold tightened. He followed the direction of her gaze and chuckled low.
“No, ma petite.” He nudged her toward a low-framed door. “I have much more sumptuous accommodations planned for you.” He swung open the door to reveal another set of narrow stairs, only these emptied into absolute darkness.
No! Cora dug her heels into the floor, knowing exactly where those steps led. Cold sweat saturated her body, and her limbs began to tremble.
Valère glanced down at her; a knowing look danced across his rat-bastard face. “Why do you hesitate?”
She tugged on her arm. “I’m not going down there.”
His fingers bit into her flesh. “You make it sound as if you have a choice, ma petite.”
Cora wrenched free of Valère’s grasp and jammed the heel of her hand into the black patch covering his damaged eye. He roared, and she bolted for the stairs leading up to the first floor, her feet slapping a desperate tattoo across the wood planks. Her only sane thought—Guy!
She made it as far as the dining room before powerful, claw-like fingers snagged her by the hair, stopping her flight in an instant. She cried out and then pressed her lips together, unwilling to show him any more weakness.
Valère yanked her back, her body plowing into his solid chest. She used the momentum to jab her elbow into his ribs and slam her foot into the inside of his knee.
Air burst from his lungs. “Salope!” he hissed, grabbing a handful of hair. Her eyes pricked with tears.
“Do not do that again.” His harsh breaths beat against her ear. The arm he clamped around her waist felt more like a steel rod against her injured ribs than a human limb.
Slowly, inexorably, he tilted her head back until she could see nothing but Valère’s harsh face and a single trail of blood escaping from beneath his black eye patch. She experienced a moment of pride until she tried to swallow and could not. The severe angle of her neck held her completely at his mercy. Cora tried to tamp down the panic bubbling deep inside, and failed.
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