And what would happen to Sinjon?
Marielle’s bright blue eyes demanded an answer. “Lord Philip is my husband, but I have not seen him in many months. In fact, there are rumors that he is dead.”
Marielle looked dubious. “Since you are not wearing a wedding ring, I assume you believe those rumors. Or you have stopped thinking of yourself as his wife.” Evelyn blushed, and Marielle laughed. “Oh, I have no objection. He is a traitor to both our countries, a wanted man here as well as in England. I was simply surprised to see you here, since Elenoire is nearby.”
“Was he here in France, all these months?” Evelyn asked, breathless. He was in England now, wasn’t he? She swallowed, but she had nothing to fear. He had no idea where she was.
“No one has lived at Elenoire for many years. It is a ruin.” She took Evelyn’s hand. “I can also see that you fear what I will do, but I assure you, you are quite safe. Or is it your husband that you are afraid of?”
Evelyn bit her lip, and Marielle sighed.
“I know the feeling of fear. I was with my husband, at war, in Spain. You could not have a better champion than Captain Rutherford. If all men had such honor as he, this war would not exist.”
Evelyn looked at her in surprise. “Are you the colonel’s wife he stands accused of raping?”
Before Marielle could reply, there was a knock at the door. A parade of servants carried steaming buckets to the copper tub, and Marielle opened a jar and sprinkled dried lavender into the water. The fragrance filled the room. The maid set a screen around the tub for privacy, and took her leave.
“I suppose you’d like to know what happened,” Marielle said from the other side of the screen as Evelyn slipped into the delicious hot water. Was it an imposition to want to know? She’d asked Sinjon to reveal his secrets and he had refused.
“I do,” she said.
“My coach broke down in the Spanish hills. I had been to a local church, and thought I would be safe without an escort, which was foolish. Only my maid and my coachman were with me.”
Evelyn’s heart climbed into her throat as she listened. She heard the floorboards creaking as Marielle paced. “A British patrol found us, and still I thought I might be safe, counting that the officer was a gentleman and would not harm a lady alone. But I was wrong. I’d sent my coachman for help, but he had not yet returned. The officer gave my maid to his men, and saved me for his own pleasure.”
Evelyn shut her eyes. Sinjon could not have been that man, surely. He would never harm a woman.
“Captain Rutherford arrived then. I feared the worst, but he rescued me, an enemy, from his own kind. He stood alone against a superior officer and a dozen British soldiers. He covered me with his coat, protected me. The officer ordered his men to shoot Captain Rutherford, and I believe they would have if my husband had not arrived. There was shooting, and the British soldiers were killed, all but two of them. The officer escaped, and the last man was wounded. Captain Rutherford would not allow my husband’s men to kill him, though they wanted to. My maid was dead, you see, and I was covered in blood. Mostly Captain Rutherford’s blood.”
Evelyn rose from the bath and wrapped a towel around her body. She came out from behind the screen. Marielle d’Agramant had tears streaming down her cheeks.
“The soldier was Sergeant O’Neill, wasn’t it?” she asked, her heart pounding.
“Yes.”
Evelyn gripped the towel tightly. “And the officer?” she asked, breathless. “What was his name?”
Marielle d’Agramant’s face twisted. “His name was Creighton.”
How could she have been so wrong about Major Lord Creighton? He was famous in London as a hero who had captured a traitor, a rapist, a liar. She had thought that he somehow made a mistake, arrested the wrong man, but had not even considered he might be guilty of the crime himself.
She shuddered in the bright sunlight of Marielle’s rose garden, and paced along the path, needing solitude, time to think.
It was another secret Sinjon had kept from her. He’d told her he was innocent of the charges, but not that it was Creighton, the ton’s favorite hero, who had committed the brutal crime.
A dozen soldiers and a maid had died. If Sinjon had not been there—
Her whole body shook. She recalled the scars that covered his body, and his reluctance to speak of how the injuries had happened.
Marielle had told her that Creighton tried to kill Sergeant O’Neill as well, and the sergeant made his way to the French camp, surrendered himself, and begged Colonel d’Agramant for help, both for himself and for Sinjon. There was nothing the French officer could do, but Marielle had insisted that O’Neill accompany her home to France in hopes they’d find a way to help Sinjon eventually by saving the last witness to Creighton’s crime.
Evelyn let out a sob of disgust. She had danced with Creighton, trusted him.
She owed him money!
More than anything else, she owed Sinjon an apology.
“How picturesque—an English rose among the French,” a familiar voice drawled, and Evelyn spun in horror.
Philip stood on the path behind her. He looked older, his skin sallow, as if he’d spent too much time indoors, hiding. His eyes were the same, though, filled with pride and icy hatred.
She backed up until she bumped into a bench and could go no farther. How was it possible he was here? He was supposed to be in England, being arrested and hanged. Sinjon had promised she would never see the traitor again.
Desperation made her angry, incautious. “And there’s a snake among the blossoms too,” she dared.
His eyes narrowed. “How bold you’ve become, Evelyn. You used to be such a mouse. Come here. It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen you.”
She held her ground, her mouth filled with bitterness. “I’m done with you, Philip. Go away.”
His eyes flashed fury, and she flinched instinctively. He stepped forward, grabbed her by the hair and jabbed a pistol under her breast. She could smell the familiar heavy cologne he favored. Nausea rose in her gut.
“We’re going to leave in the coach you came in, and you’ll do it without making a sound, is that clear, wife?” He spat the last word in her ear, made it an insult.
She felt the chill of the gun on her skin as he dragged her toward the coach. This was Philip, the traitor, the man who had terrorized her for four years of marriage. She could not speak, or scream. She could only stumble forward at his command. She prayed they did not meet anyone on the path who Philip might harm, yet hoped someone would see and run for help, fetch Sinjon.
Disappointment bloomed in her chest as they came around the corner of the house. The courtyard was empty. Philip shoved her onto the driver’s perch and climbed up beside her. He whipped the horses to a hard gallop.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked. The pistol lay in his lap, and she wondered if she could grab it, stop him, but the look in his eyes froze her with fear.
“You’re the comtesse d’Elenoire. It’s time you started acting like it.”
She cast a desperate glance over her shoulder at Chateau Agramant, silently bid Sinjon farewell, and prepared herself to die.
Chapter 49
“I need another favor,” Sinjon said.
“Oh?” d’Agramant asked, pouring more apple brandy into Sinjon’s glass. “Surely Sergeant O’Neill’s written statement will assist you, but he refuses to return to England until Creighton is in prison or dead.”
“I’m hoping it will. You have my thanks for keeping him safe, but I’ve brought something with me.” Sinjon unfolded the gonfalon. The colonel stared at it.
“Mon Dieu, Rutherford, where did you get this? Our troops believe it was lost, and think that is why they are losing every battle.” He spread it over the surface of his desk and regarded Sinjon with a bemused frown. “Why return it to me? Surely your own army could make use of it, if only to frighten the French.”
“I believe that’s what some in England
have in mind. Philip Renshaw stole it. I found it.”
D’Agramant shook his head. “I am not a superstitious man, but this is a holy relic, touched by Charlemagne, and Jeanne d’Arc. It belongs in Reims Cathedral, not in battle. Thank you for returning it to France. Once again I owe you my thanks. I think I can promise the flag won’t be used in this war again.”
“Where is Sergeant O’Neill?” Sinjon asked, rising. “I’d like to thank him.”
D’Agramant smiled. “In the orchard, I believe. He is learning the secrets of making apple brandy. He still fears French troops will arrest him, or Creighton will find out he’s here and murder him. I will send someone to fetch him.”
The sound of feet on the steps brought both gentlemen to their feet. Sinjon found himself anxious to see Evelyn, anticipating the sight of her, but only Marielle entered the room.
“Where’s Evelyn?” he asked.
“She said she wished to go for a walk in the garden. She was quite upset when I told her—”
A man limped in, and Sinjon recognized Patrick O’Neill, even with the grievous scar across his throat and lower jaw. “Colonel, there is trouble, I think,” he said, his eyes wide. “A man and a woman just left in a coach. The man had a gun!”
“Was it Creighton?” the Colonel demanded.
O’Neill shook his head painfully. “I’d recognize him. This man was older, mean looking.”
“Renshaw,” Sinjon growled as he ran for the door. The coach he’d arrived in with Evelyn was gone.
D’Agramant was right behind him, issuing orders. “If it is Renshaw, he may head for the Chateau Elenoire. It’s only a few miles away. I’ll call out the militia.”
“I’ll go on ahead, try to stop the coach,” Sinjon insisted as a groom came around the side of the house, leading the colonel’s saddled horse. “Colonel, I need the gonfalon back again. Forgive me for bringing it back and taking it away again, but it may help stop Renshaw and save Evelyn’s life.”
“I cannot allow it to come to harm, Captain. It is a holy object. There must be another way,”
Marielle laid her hand on her husband’s sleeve. “Jean-Pierre, give it to him. He saved me for you, and you must help him rescue the woman he loves. It’s time the gonfalon served love instead of war.”
“It’s not like that,” Sinjon objected. “She’s in danger, and Renshaw is a dangerous man.”
Marielle smiled. “I can see it in your eyes, Captain, and in hers. It’s very much like that. Take the gonfalon, and go and save her.”
Sinjon didn’t argue. He tucked the flag under his coat and set off on the wildest, most desperate charge of his life.
Chapter 50
If Chateau d’Agramant was a jewel in the French countryside, Chateau d’Elenoire was a bunion. It crouched in ugly decay, the crumbling yellow stone sallow and sickly in the hot sun.
Evelyn watched Philip glower at his ancestral home. He’d spent a fortune in England to prepare a palace fit for a king in exile, and this, a hovel not fit for a beggar, was all that he had left.
“Is this what you betrayed your country for?” she asked.
He puffed like an adder. “The servants will answer for this. I hired twenty gardeners, a full household staff—” He stopped, and his face reddened dangerously as he read her expression. “Don’t you dare pity me!”
He dragged her off the coach and frog-marched her up the broken stone steps. She wondered if he’d set her to work, sweeping and scrubbing.
The front door stood open, and inside was worse than out. A startled flock of birds took flight through a glassless window, and Philip swung the gun in surprise.
Evelyn snatched herself out of his grip, tried to run, but he caught her easily. He slapped her for her audacity, and she felt her lip break against her teeth, tasted blood.
“I will make Elenoire a palace to rival Versailles or Fontainebleau,” he snarled, pushing her against the wall, holding her there. “Do you doubt me? I am the comte d’Elenoire, kin to royalty. I will not be disobeyed or mocked, especially not by you.”
He held her against the wall and squeezed her throat. She shut her eyes against the pain, refusing to scream or panic. Philip enjoyed causing suffering.
She let her face go blank, the way she used to, but it wasn’t enough. He curled his fingers around her jaw, digging in until it hurt. Tears filled her eyes, blurred his hate-filled face. She ground her fingernails into the crumbling plaster of the wall behind her and bore it silently.
“Where is the gonfalon, Evelyn?” he demanded. “What did you do with it?”
The pain he was inflicting weakened her knees, made her eyes water, reminded her of her terror when the French spy demanded the same thing in Hyde Park. Sinjon had found her that day, rescued her. She glanced at the empty doorway, but now she was on her own. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
He shook her so hard her head banged against the wall and she saw stars. “I left it in my house, the house you despoiled. It’s a flag, made of silk, very old. It was in my private dressing room.”
“I don’t know,” she gasped. She wondered if Philip would kill her now. She shut her eyes against the pain, prayed for strength, but he grabbed her chin again, made her open her eyes and look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed hollows of fury. She wondered when he’d last slept or eaten. The cruel, cold, aristocrat had been replaced by a madman, ruined, driven by desperation.
“No? Then where are my paintings, my clothes, my books? Do you know where they are, wife?”
“Sold.” She choked out the word, not bothering to lie. There was no point. She clawed at Philip’s hand as the pressure on her throat increased and the pain burned white hot in her head.
“You had no right,” he growled. “You are my wife!” He flung Evelyn away so suddenly that she fell to the floor. Putting a hand to her bruised face, she felt the cuts and welts he’d left. She let the sharp sting fuel fury instead of fear.
“I had no choice, Philip. You left me without any money, and the Crown froze your assets.”
“Why? What did you tell them? Did you play the loyal wife and swear I was innocent?”
Her eyes burned into his. “They did not even ask me. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind of your guilt. Even the French are hunting you. They’ll come here, Philip, find you, and you’ll hang.”
Mirth lit in his eyes for a moment as he grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her upright. “You know nothing! I am a friend of the Emperor’s!”
“And an enemy of the king!” She had never dared to fight back, to rebuke him, but if he was going to kill her, she would not die silently.
“Where is the gonfalon?” he demanded again, sounding desperate. He slapped her, making her head ring. “You must have seen it. It was silk, embroidered with angels, Evelyn.”
Angels.
She remembered angels on the shawl Sinjon had put around her shoulders. It couldn’t be— She looked away, but not in time. Philip let out a long breath, a hiss from hell.
“Ah, so you know something after all.”
She shook her head, but it was too late.
“That man with you, Rutherford, who is he?”
“N-No one,” she said. “A footman.”
“A footman,” he mocked her. “Handsome, young, virile. He doesn’t look like a servant. What else is he to you, wife? Why did you come to France? Did you come looking for me, bring him here to kill me for you?” He pushed his face into hers, pressing her to the wall with the weight of his body. “I’m alive, Evelyn, and I intend to stay that way.”
A wave of revulsion swept through her. “Get off me!” she said, and shoved him. He caught her, pulled her, laughing.
“You are my wife, Evelyn. My property. I can do as I like. Has your footman taught you anything new? I’m surprised. You never liked sex.” He curled his hand around her breast, a painful, ugly parody of Sinjon’s caresses, and squeezed. She felt a scream gather itself in her throat. She wanted to fight, but he
held her against the wall, unable to move or even breathe. Tears stung her eyes. She went limp, and he chuckled in her ear, and ground his erection against her hip.
“That’s better. You can fight if you want to. It won’t change a thing. Do you remember what it was like, in your bed, my hands on you? Fight me, Evelyn, I dare you.” He grabbed her skirts in his fist, yanked the delicate muslin upward as he forced his knee between her legs.
Rage filled her. No, she thought. She knew what love felt like, what kindness and honor looked like. She kicked him, her knee connecting with his crotch. He grunted a curse and slapped her, but he did not let go. She raised her hand, tore at his face with her nails, but he grabbed her wrist, twisted her arm behind her and tugged. The pain was excruciating. A moan of agony escaped from her lips.
“There, that’s better,” he hissed. “Moan for it, Evelyn.” He twisted her arm again, and the room blurred. As he reached down to undo his flies, she kicked him again, harder this time, with every ounce of fear and determination she possessed. He dropped to his knee, and she ran.
Sinjon didn’t give the horse a chance to slow as he dismounted at the front steps of Chateau d’Elenoire. The coach was there, proof enough that Evelyn was inside.
He took the steps two at a time. A single scream ended abruptly, and he followed the sound down the corridor, peering into each ruined room he passed, but they were all empty.
Evelyn burst out of a doorway on his right. Running blindly down the hall, straight toward him.
“Evelyn!” Relief surged as he opened his arms to catch her.
The roar of a pistol drowned her reply. He felt the ball punch into him, saw her eyes widen, watched her lips peel back in a scream as the breath left his body and he fell. Philip stood behind her, the gun still clutched in his hand. The pain was instant and white hot, burning like the Spanish sun. Philip dragged Evelyn backward, away from him.
“Sinjon!” Evelyn screamed, trying to reach him, her white hand outstretched, but Philip struck her with the butt of the pistol.
The Price of Temptation Page 27