To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2)

by Kristen McLean

  “Now what?”

  “We wait,” she said. “Marcel has been tossing back the contents of that bottle rather quickly. Eventually, he will need to relieve himself. I hope you will feel well enough to travel by then.”

  Céleste doubted he would do his business right in front of the door. At least, she hoped he wouldn’t. Otherwise, she would have to resort to plan B, which was to throw something very hard at his brain locker. She knew it was a weak plan. Even slightly drunk, he would be uncommonly strong, and any attempt at physical force did not look promising.

  André regarded her as though she had lost her mind. He might be right.

  “When he steps away, we shall run,” she explained.

  “There are more of them outside.” André rubbed his head and winced. “They stalk the forest. Even if we cut through the field, they will easily see us.”

  It seemed André had already tried that route and failed. Despite that, they stood a far better chance out there than they did waiting around in here.

  “It’s not ideal, but it is all we have,” Céleste reasoned. “The alternative is accepting our fate, which I refuse to do.”

  Reluctantly, he nodded.

  * * *

  When it was time to start cutting through the fields, Nick had to grind his teeth with the effort it took to leave the road. He wanted to race after Céleste. She would have nearly a full day’s head start, but he could ride all night to catch her before the sun rose. He knew where the carriage would stop for the night, and he knew he could convince her to refuse Béarn’s suit. Theirs wouldn’t be a love match. It would be a political alliance, and she deserved more than that. She deserved more than to marry a man who loved another, but who would choose his career over love.

  She deserved happiness, something Nick couldn’t offer her.

  Yes, they had made love. Yes, he had fallen in love with her. Yes, he wanted to marry her. He was obviously three times an idiot. He might take a mistress, but never a bride, much less Lady Dumonte. She tolerated his touch because she had gone without affection for eight years. She would never love him, and he would no longer settle for anything less, even if she were to agree to be his mistress, which he highly doubted.

  He rode into the fields, doing his best to chase her from his mind. He needed to focus on his strategy to save André.

  Nick had a feeling Renaud would be watching the forest. In fact, he was sure of it. It was thick, dark, and the only way to get to the shack unless one wanted to be a sitting duck and cut through the field. Nick was in no hurry to get himself shot, so he and Saint Brides tied their mounts nearby and continued through the trees on foot.

  Throwing a knife would be the easiest and most permanent way to be rid of Renaud’s watchdogs, and ten years ago, that was precisely what Nick would have done. Ten years ago, Nick hadn’t been fed up to his ears with death and beginning to wish he had gone into a different profession. Therefore, instead of pulling out his knife when he heard leaves rustling and twigs snapping up ahead, he crouched down and began searching for a good-sized rock. He found one quickly enough.

  Saint Brides was regarding him as though he belonged in Bedlam. Perhaps he did. Fortunately, Saint Brides didn’t question him, only silently looked on with a tensed jaw.

  When the target stepped into range, Nick pulled back his arm and let the rock fly. It caught the henchman square in the forehead with a loud thud, hitting hard enough to knock him down and out of his senses.

  Saint Brides blinked. Then his lips curled in a small smile. Nick would have to congratulate himself later for the monumental feat of amusing Saint Brides. For now, he had to keep alert for more of Renaud’s henchmen wandering about.

  And find a few more rocks.

  Six successfully incapacitated villains later, they were at the forest’s end. The shack was in sight, sitting amidst the sitting-duck field and barely fifty yards from the beach.

  Marcel stood just outside the door. He was the only one in sight, but there must be more of them inside where they would be keeping André.

  Nick needed to get rid of Marcel without alerting anyone else.

  As though granting his request, the hulking man threw an empty bottle into the field and began stepping farther from the shack.

  Then the hair on the back of Nick’s neck stood on end.

  “Saint Brides,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Pst, Steel Breeches. This is our chance.” Nick’s vision turned red and hazy when he turned around.

  “I knew you could not resist me, mon cher.”

  Renaud.

  Never once since André had been taken had Nick allowed himself to consider this moment. He had hoped he would be able to see her as the cold-hearted villain she was, not André’s kidnapper. He had hoped he would be able to swoop in, eliminate the threat, and complete the mission without making things personal or getting overwrought.

  He had been a fool. He was already thinking up in detail all the painful ways he could send her to the devil.

  Renaud stood with her knife to Saint Brides’s throat. He was at least a foot taller than her and several stones heavier, but he stood obediently still with a disapproving scowl; otherwise, he was seemingly unbothered.

  She wasn’t even looking at him, as though he posed no threat at all. It was almost comical.

  “Renaud, kindly remove your knife from my friend’s throat,” Nick said, masterfully hiding his murderous inclinations behind indifference. “He is a powerful man, and killing him would be like killing the king.”

  Renaud laughed, and Saint Brides raised a questioning brow.

  “It is you I want,” she said. “Still, I should like to kill a king. It would make me famous.”

  “Yes.” Nick nodded. “You would be the most famous person alive the whole way to the gallows. Or the guillotine. I suppose that would depend on who wanted you more: England or France.”

  “Oh, you wicked man,” she purred with a pout. “You speak so cruelly to me when you know I love you.”

  “You love no one but your knife and what you can do with it.”

  She smiled. “You know me so well. We were made for each other.”

  “If that were true, I should gladly let you cut me to ribbons,” Nick said easily. “I would even sharpen your blade first. Hell would be kinder than life with you.”

  “Blast,” Saint Brides muttered with a wince, a drop of blood trailing to his cravat.

  She could slice his throat at any moment. There would be no warning.

  Nick stepped forward. “Renaud, wait.”

  Suddenly, she was propelled forward, dropping her knife and stumbling toward Nick. Saint Brides must be touchy about his linen.

  Nick caught her before she fell into him, but she swiped her nails at his face and soon slipped out of his grip. Then she lunged to the ground to pick up her knife before advancing on Saint Brides.

  “Bastard!” she cried.

  To his credit, Saint Brides didn’t flinch at the sight of a blood-crazed woman coming at him with a knife. He held the same expression when cowing an irrational Parliament or giving a lecture on the importance of filing reports. It was the only indication he was a bit more irritated than usual, and it was known to cause some to lose the will to live. On Renaud, however, it had almost no effect at all.

  “Woman, drop your weapon,” Saint Brides said coolly.

  “Not before I slit your throat from ear to ear,” she seethed.

  Saint Brides caught her wrist and twisted until she screeched and let go of the knife. Then he kicked it to Nick.

  “Stop your struggling, or I shall strike you, you wretched female,” Saint Brides said, trying to grasp her other wrist as she hit and kicked.

  Nick might assist, but she was unarmed now, and Saint Brides was stronger than she was. She would tire out, or he would hit her. Nick rather hoped it was the latter, as ungentlemanly as it was. He was overwrought. He was allowed to be ungallant for once.

  Nick bent to pick up the blade, but it w
asn’t what he expected. Odd. She normally favored the one with her name engraved on it. This one was unmarked.

  “She is still armed!” Nick warned.

  Renaud twisted from Saint Brides’s grasp, and a second later, she was holding the knife Nick had expected. It was the one she had used to leave the scar under his left ear, barely hidden by his cravat.

  This knife was much larger and much sharper.

  She swung it at Saint Brides who took a quick step back, catching his foot on a fallen tree branch. In an instant, he crashed backward, and she went after him.

  “Only a coward would fight a man who cannot even stay on his feet,” Nick taunted, grabbing her attention. “It’s pitiful. If it’s a challenge you want, then come after me.”

  Renaud turned to look at him over her shoulder.

  “Unless you are afraid,” Nick added with a smile. “It’s understandable. I am rather intimidating, am I not?”

  Her eyes narrowed before she started toward him.

  They circled each other as she lunged and he dodged. More than once, Nick found himself within an eyelash of being sliced open, but despite still having her other knife, he didn’t strike back. He didn’t want to kill her. He wanted her to face the consequences of her crimes legally.

  “I enjoyed your brat,” she said with a sickening smile. “I sliced him up and put him in pretty packaging for you.”

  She was lying, she had to be, but Nick’s jaw still tensed with emotion. She was making it very difficult for him not to kill her.

  “He screamed for you the entire time,” she went on. “So did your little trollop.”

  Nick felt Saint Brides watching him, but all he saw through the red haze obscuring his vision was Renaud and how easily he could squeeze the life out of her with his bare hands.

  “Now I know you are lying,” Nick said, his icy gaze fixed on Renaud. “She left for Paris this morning.”

  “Did she?” Renaud laughed. “Even had the innkeeper not sent her off in my carriage with my men, we would easily have intercepted her.”

  Nick felt his face drain of all color. God, no. What have I done?

  “Pembridge,” Saint Brides said warily. “If you let her get to you, she has won.”

  “Hear that, Renaud?” Nick growled. “You have won.”

  Nick’s hand tightened around the knife, and he lunged.

  She gasped as a line of crimson appeared on her arm. A murderous light came to her eyes then, and her stance changed slightly. Now, when she swung, it was more calculated than before. He had upset her.

  His lips curled into a dangerous smile.

  This time, as they circled, she drew blood. His arm and waist each had a long, bloody trail. They weren’t deep enough to do any serious damage, but they stung like hell.

  “I shall make you pay,” she said through gritted teeth. “I shall make you watch what I do to the boy and the whore. You are a fool to want her; you will see. You should have loved me.”

  “I loathe you,” Nick returned icily. “If you thought it could be otherwise, then you are as dumb as you are hateful.”

  Her scowl darkened as she rushed after him. Had she not given into her anger, she might not have lost her footing. But she was blinded by rage, and her feet tangled beneath her, pitching her forward. She had stumbled on the same fallen branch as Saint Brides had.

  Nick stepped back to avoid her as she fell, folding her arms and the knife underneath her. Then she was still.

  Nick watched the blood pool around her with not even an ounce of regret or pity. She deserved death. She deserved worse for the horrific things she had done.

  “We have a problem.” Saint Brides’s voice pulled Nick from the grim sight of his fallen enemy.

  “Yes?”

  Saint Brides pointed toward the shack. “Marcel has disappeared.”

  * * *

  As soon as Marcel threw the bottle and started to walk away, Céleste grabbed André’s arm and went to the door. She saw no one other than Marcel, and he was several yards away.

  She turned to André. “Ready?”

  He shook his head, but she squeezed his hand encouragingly, and when she began skirting along the outside of the shack, he followed, holding her hand tightly.

  Céleste’s legs were trembling, and her breath was coming in shaky pants, but finally, they made it to the other side, out of Marcel’s view.

  Since the grass was only three feet high, they stooped to make themselves less visible, moving through the field one step at a time. The shack stood between them and Marcel, but André had said there were others in the trees.

  Céleste’s heart was pounding, refusing to contemplate failure. They could not be caught. They must not!

  The farther they moved from the shack, the faster they went until they were running. Eventually, Marcel would be done with his business, and then he might want to check on his prisoners. They needed to be out of sight before that happened.

  She heard André yelp from behind her and looked back, dread filling her chest and coating her throat with bile.

  “André!”

  Marcel had caught up with them and had André by his collar. Céleste cursed herself. She should have been looking, but she had let fear control her.

  “Madame!” André called, reaching out for her with a look of horror on his face.

  “Let him go!” Céleste ran at him and began prying the giant hand from André’s collar. His hand was too strong for her, so she scratched and clawed. “Brute! He is just a boy!”

  She didn’t see his other hand rising until it was too late. He swung, striking her face with the back of his hand and knocking her to the ground. It stung, and she was dizzy, but she pushed herself back up. She couldn’t let him have André.

  “Let him go!” She turned and came at him again. She would die before she let him hurt André.

  “Bitch!” Marcel threw André to the ground, then wrapped his meaty hand around Céleste’s throat. “If Renaud didn’t want you for herself, I would happily squeeze until your head popped off!”

  Céleste felt like he was already doing that. She was gasping for breath, clinging to his wrists, kicking, and scratching as the world began to fade. She was vaguely aware of André jumping on Marcel’s back and jamming his fingers into the hulking man’s eyes. However, she knew it was only a matter of time before she lost consciousness, time she did not have, time a boy like André couldn’t afford her.

  Then the pressure on her throat fell away, and she dropped into darkness.

  * * *

  The one door was the only entrance and exit to the small shack. The window was too small to do much other than poke a head out of and then only if it were a very small head.

  Nick had listened carefully, hearing nothing before he cautiously peeked inside. Even with the lack of noise, he was expecting Marcel and at least two others to be standing guard. However, the room was empty. No Marcel, no henchmen, no André, and no Céleste. They must have been taken by boat while he had been fighting Renaud. He would never have expected them to leave without Renaud, though. It didn’t make sense.

  Nick fought to control his breathing as panic filled his chest. He looked at his hands. They were shaking.

  Saint Brides stepped inside. “We need to find a boat.”

  A logical solution.

  “A boat,” Nick repeated, fisting his hands and forcing himself to focus. It was a long shot now that they were on open water, but there was still a chance. “Yes, a boat. We can still catch them.”

  As he turned to leave, a familiar cry caught his attention. A second cry had his heart racing.

  Both men rushed outside, searching for the source. They turned in every direction. The water was quiet. There was nothing stirring in the trees. They saw nothing.

  “Again,” Nick muttered, clenching his jaw. “Come on… one more time.”

  As though answering his plea, the cry came again.

  “It’s coming from the field!” Nick launched into a dea
d sprint, rushing into the high grass with Saint Brides falling in behind.

  He ran, seeing no one, but he ran like the devil was at his heels. Then he noticed a dark contrast popping up from the tall grass up ahead. As the figures came into view, Nick watched as Marcel backhanded Céleste and knocked her to the ground.

  Céleste!

  The brave, stubborn woman came at Marcel again as he tossed André aside to grab her by the throat.

  Nick was closing the distance, but not fast enough. Céleste was going limp, and André had jumped on Marcel’s back by the time Nick finally got to them.

  He pulled André off and, in the next instant, drove his fist square into Marcel’s jaw with all the force he could muster, which was a lot considering how angry he was. He wanted to kill the bastard.

  A normal-sized man would have been knocked out cold, but Marcel only staggered, dropping Céleste before turning to Nick with an angry growl.

  Nick backed away to take stance and catch his breath while he watched Marcel. He was dangerous. If Nick’s ribs took another of his strikes, it could incapacitate him, so he would have to fight defensively.

  Marcel took stance, as well. It seemed the bruiser knew how to fight. No surprise there. The first time they had met, Nick had thought he looked like a professional pugilist. Apparently, he had been one at some point, because his form was flawless.

  “Have not had enough, have you?” Marcel growled. “Need another beating?”

  “This is a fair fight. There is no one to hold me down this time,” Nick pointed out. And no one to stop him from beating Marcel until the light went out from his eyes. Saint Brides was too smart to dare get in Nick’s way.

  Marcel swung and Nick dodged, making sure to keep up his defenses. Nick wouldn’t strike unless he knew he would land the blow. He couldn’t chance it. Marcel would take the opportunity to strike back fast and hard.

  Nick landed a few, but Marcel was a controlled fighter. He didn’t let down his guard or make rash, wild attacks as Renaud had done. Nick needed to rile him up a bit, make him lose his restraint.

  “I don’t believe you have touched me once,” Nick commented lightly, though his breath was coming hard. “If only Renaud were still alive to witness my besting you… in fisticuffs, of all things!”