Bride for a Night

by Rosemary Rogers

  “Dammit, Ashcombe, we cannot linger here. The French soldiers might be as ignorant as they are incompetent, but they will eventually stumble across us. Besides, neither of us is as young as we used to be. Crouching in the bushes is damned uncomfortable.”

  Hugo grimaced as he glanced down at his ruined breeches covered in mud and his once glossy boots that were now scratched from the past hour of tromping through the thick forest surrounding the palace. Gabriel was equally rumpled, his jade coat ripped in several places and his cravat wrinkled from the late-summer heat. Even his hair was mussed and the stubble on his jaw revealed he was twelve hours past the need for a shave. A considerable change from the elegant image he was always careful to portray to society.

  “I have no intention of leaving here without Talia,” he growled.

  Hugo shook his head. “Do not be a fool, Ashcombe.”

  “There is nothing foolish in rescuing my wife from the bastard who kidnapped her.”

  “You cannot simply charge into that nest of vipers,” his friend persisted. “You would be shot before you ever reached the gardens.”

  Gabriel made a sound of impatience. He’d already accepted that he could not reach Talia.

  Not yet.

  “There will be no charging.”

  “Then what do you intend to do?”

  “Once it grows darker I will be able to slip past the guards and find her.”

  Hugo’s fingers dug into Gabriel’s arm with a punishing grip. “No.”

  “This is not open to debate, Hugo.”

  “I will not allow you to commit suicide for a woman who is not worth—”

  Gabriel barely realized he was moving before he had his friend pinned to the back of the conservatory. The savage fear that had haunted him since discovering Talia’s absence was finally boiling over.

  Christ. He’d been through hell imagining the various horrors that his bride might have endured. And now, being able to catch a glimpse of her in the distance, and yet knowing she was still out of reach, was torture.

  “I warned you when you insisted on joining me that I would not endure insults to my wife,” he seethed.

  Predictably Hugo refused to give ground. The damnable man was one of the few whom Gabriel could not intimidate.

  Which was no doubt the reason he was one of Gabriel’s rare friends.

  “And I will not willingly allow my friend to walk into danger,” Hugo said between clenched teeth. “I have too few of them as it is.”

  With an effort, Gabriel regained command of his frayed temper, releasing Hugo and taking a jerky step backward.

  “There will be little danger.”

  “Little danger?” Hugo scowled, waving a hand toward the distant gardens. “Perhaps you failed to notice the battalion of French soldiers milling about the palace?”

  Gabriel shrugged, catching sight of two soldiers leaning against a broken fountain and flirting with a buxom maid.

  “It is obvious that they are more interested in their entertainment than in keeping watch.”

  Hugo remained unimpressed. “That does not mean they will not eagerly shoot an intruder.”

  “Only if they realize there is an intruder,” Gabriel countered, shrugging aside his friend’s concern. He did not care if Napoleon and his entire army made a sudden appearance. Nothing was going to prevent him from retrieving his wife. “If you will recall, I managed to slip beneath the nose of our headmaster for years without being caught.”

  Sensing Gabriel’s determination, Hugo muttered a vile curse. “I do not like this.”

  “Neither do I, but there is no choice.”

  “There is always a choice,” Hugo argued. “As you have pointed out with revolting frequency, Talia is now the Countess of Ashcombe. All we need do is to locate the closest British troops and they will…”

  “I have no intention of leaving my wife in the hands of the enemy another night and certainly not the days, or even weeks, it would take to gather an army,” Gabriel ground out. “Besides, I will not risk Talia in the midst of a battle. We both know it is often the innocents who are injured in the heat of war.”

  “If she is innocent…”

  “Enough,” Gabriel snapped.

  Hugo made a sound of impatience. “Would you listen to me, Ashcombe?” he rasped. “You have only the word of two traitors that she was taken against her will. What if you manage to approach her without being caught and she refuses to leave with you?” He paused. “Or worse, what if she reveals your presence to the French?”

  Gabriel gritted his teeth, refusing to admit that Hugo’s accusations struck a nerve.

  In the back of his mind, however, a treacherous voice reminded him that he had sent a young, beautiful woman into the isolated countryside without so much as a companion to keep her occupied. Would it be so astonishing that she would turn to a handsome and charming vicar to ease her loneliness? Or even to fulfill the needs of her body that he had stirred to life on their wedding night?

  Of course, it was the same voice that had convinced him that Talia had been as guilty as her father in trapping him in an unwanted marriage and was responsible for this mess to begin with.

  For a gentleman who prided himself on his ability to confront any situation with a logic untainted by emotions, he behaved as if he were as witless as those dandies littering the London ballrooms.

  The knowledge was as annoying as it was inexplicable.

  “Return to the ship and ensure it is prepared to leave the moment I arrive with Talia,” he commanded, his sharp tone warning he would endure no argument.

  Hugo’s jaw tightened, but he gave a reluctant nod.

  “Very well.”

  “And, Hugo?”

  His friend frowned. “Yes?”

  “If I have not arrived by dawn tomorrow you are to return to England without me.”

  “No.”

  Gabriel narrowed his gaze. “You gave your word you would follow my orders when I allowed you to accompany me.”

  Hugo tossed his hands in the air, clearly at the end of his patience.

  “I begin to wonder if marriage has softened your brain.”

  Gabriel’s lips twisted. “I must admit that I wonder, as well.”

  Hugo headed toward the nearby trees. “Do not miss the ship.”

  “I shall do my best.”

  TALIA’S PRIVATE CHAMBERS were as magnificent as the rest of the palace.

  The walls were covered by a pale green that matched the velvet curtains and the green-and-gold striped satin on the furnishings. A large fireplace made of white marble veined with black dominated one wall with a vast mirror framed in a profusion of gilt hanging over the mantel.

  On the opposite wall a row of arched windows overlooked the sunken garden and the distant lake. While overhead a heavy crystal chandelier spilled a golden glow over the canopy bed set in the center of the room.

  Still attired in her ruby satin dinner gown trimmed with French pearls at the plunging neckline and white roses along the cap sleeves, Talia sat in front of the satinwood dresser pulling a brush through her thick curls.

  It had been over a week since her arrival at the palace, and while Jacques had been a charming companion when he was not meeting with the various guests who routinely traveled from Paris to speak with him, she was growing frustrated with her elegant prison.

  As she should be, she acknowledged, tossing aside the brush and rising to her feet.

  After accepting that she could not escape, she had instead turned her thoughts to the looming disaster awaiting General Wellesley’s troops.

  But despite her efforts, she had yet to find the means to send a warning to those poor men who were about to march directly into an ambush. And she’d had even less luck in discovering the sort of secret information that might be used to England’s advantage once Jacques returned her to Devonshire.

  She was proving to be as much a failure at being a daring adventuress as she was a society debutante.

  Talia
paced out the French doors that led to the balcony. She was leaning against the stone balustrade gazing at the moon-drenched garden when she caught the unmistakable sound of a soft footfall behind her.

  “Jacques?” she called, a frown marring her brow. Until this moment she had never felt uneasy in these private chambers, despite being a prisoner. The various guards who roamed the palace and surrounding grounds had treated her with a wary respect that assured her that Jacques had left strict orders that she was not to be bothered. Now she realized just how vulnerable she truly was. “Who is there?”

  A large, distinctly male form stepped onto the balcony.

  “It most certainly is not Jacques,” a familiar voice growled.

  “Gabriel?” Talia gasped in shock, half suspecting this must be a dream. It certainly would not be the first time she’d imagined her husband magically appearing to sweep her back to England. Of course, in her dreams he had spoken sweet words of regret. His sharp retort assured her that she was very much awake. “Dear God. What are you doing here?”

  He prowled forward, his golden hair shimmering in the moonlight and his eyes a pure silver.

  Talia shivered at the sudden danger that filled the air. How ironic that she felt perfectly comfortable with the man who had taken her captive, while her husband—the one man she should trust above all others—made her tremble with uncertainty.

  “I should think that is obvious.” His hooded gaze skimmed over her stiff form, lingering on her tumble of loose curls that spilled over her shoulders and down her back. “I have come to collect my wayward wife.”

  A breathless, aching sensation raced through Talia, making her acutely conscious of the vast amount of bare skin revealed by her gown and the manner in which it clung to her generous curves.

  “How in heaven’s name did you find me?” she rasped.

  He halted a mere breath from her, the scent of his warm male skin teasing at her nose.

  “I am not without skills.”

  “But…”

  “Why did you assume another man would be entering your chambers?” he roughly interrupted.

  Sudden fear that they would be overheard by the guards in the garden below jolted Talia out of her lingering sense of disbelief.

  “Shh.” She lifted a hand to press her fingers to his lips. “Someone will hear you.”

  He grabbed her wrist, his touch sending a sizzle of heat through her blood even as his eyes flashed with anger.

  “Answer the question, Talia. Who is Jacques?”

  She frowned in confusion. “He is…or was your vicar until he revealed himself as a traitor and kidnapped me.”

  “Jacques…Jack,” he breathed in sudden comprehension. “Of course.”

  “Yes, Jack Gerard.”

  “And he is a frequent visitor?”

  “I do not understand.”

  She furrowed her brow, wondering why on earth he appeared to be so preoccupied with her captor. Surely they should be concentrating on escaping before his presence was noticed?

  Then realization struck like a slap to the face.

  “Oh, my God.” She jerked her hand from his grip. “Did you come here to rescue me or to discover if Jacques is my lover?”

  His jaw clenched. “Is he?”

  For a crazed moment Talia contemplated the pleasure of knocking the arrogant bastard over the edge of the balcony.

  What sort of insufferable, selfish beast was more concerned with whether or not his wife might have strayed than her well-being after enduring the trauma of being kidnapped and held captive?

  Then deciding his head was too thick to be harmed by a mere fall, Talia pushed her way past his large form to enter her bedchamber.

  “You should leave before the guards discover you are here,” she ordered between clenched teeth.

  He was swiftly in pursuit. “You wish to remain?” he demanded.

  “I wish…” She came to a sharp halt near the bed, recalling her ridiculous dreams of Gabriel’s romantic charge to the rescue. “I am such an idiot.”

  He grabbed her shoulder, turning her to meet his fierce scowl.

  “Talia.”

  “No.” Instinctively she reached up to knock his hand away. “Do not touch me.”

  He froze, regarding her as if she had suddenly grown a second head.

  “You are my wife.”

  Her humorless laugh echoed through the room. “A wife you insisted leave town mere hours after our wedding and to whom you haven’t bothered to send so much as a note.”

  A flare of color crawled beneath his skin. Talia might have suspected he was embarrassed by her accusation if it weren’t so absurd.

  “And because I damaged your pride you turned your attentions to another man?” he snapped.

  “I have never turned my attentions to another man.”

  “No?” His gaze swept over her expensive satin gown before shifting to the opulent splendor of her room. “It does not appear that way to me.”

  “Fine.” Planting her hands on her hips, she shot Gabriel a fierce glare. Something she would never have dreamed possible only a few short weeks ago. “You desire the truth?”

  His chin tilted to a haughty angle. “I will accept no less.”

  “Then I will admit that I found the Vicar Jack Gerard a kind and charming gentleman who treated me as if I were a true lady of quality and not a bit of rubbish that had to be buried out of sight.”

  “That was not…”

  “But I have never considered him as more than a friend, and not even that since he forced me to accompany him to France,” she continued without allowing him to defend the indefensible. “You may believe me or not. I do not particularly care.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GABRIEL CLENCHED HIS hands at his sides, regarding his wife with smoldering frustration.

  What the devil had happened?

  Everything had gone to plan as he had waited for the shadows to deepen before at last slipping through the gardens and finding an open window to enter the palace.

  It had taken longer than he had expected to at last locate Talia’s rooms, and he had been forced to hide more than once to avoid passing guards, but overall he had been pleased to reach Talia without alerting the numerous French swine of his presence.

  Then he had heard his wife calling out the name of another man, and his determination to collect Talia and escape with all possible speed had been forgotten beneath a tidal wave of pure male fury.

  He had risked his damned life to come to her rescue. How dare she be expecting another man in her private chambers. Especially attired in a slip of a gown that would make any man fantasize of sex?

  Even if she spoke the truth and the bastard was not her lover.

  And to make matters worse, she did not even possess the grace to apologize, instead attempting to paint him as the villain of the piece.

  He shoved an impatient hand through his hair. “Tell me how you came to be here,” he commanded, attempting to regain command of the encounter.

  “Why bother?” she mocked, her magnificent eyes flashing with a spirit that was at complete odds with the timid female who had stood at his side during their wedding. “You have obviously made your decision that I am not only a scheming peasant who forced you into marriage, but I am also so lacking in morals that I took a lover within days of becoming the Countess of Ashcombe and…” she sucked in a trembling breath that drew attention to the delectable swell of her breasts “…as the coup de grace I became a French spy.”

  The discomfort twisting his gut could not be guilt, he attempted to assure himself.

  He was the Earl of Ashcombe. He had every right to question his wife.

  “Tell me, Talia,” he demanded.

  Her eyes narrowed, but with a toss of her head she conceded to his demand.

  “I happened to be passing by the church when I noticed two ruffians entering.” She shrugged. “I was concerned they were up to some mischief, so I slipped to the back where I could see what they
were doing.”

  His heart missed a painful beat at the mere thought of Talia confronting the two brutes currently being questioned by the Home Office in London.

  “Damnation, woman. Have you no sense at all?” he chastised. “The Countess of Ashcombe does not walk country lanes without a servant and she most certainly does not confront…ruffians. If you have no concern for your pretty neck, then you should at least have a care for your reputation.”

  She should have been cowed by his censure. Instead she met him glare for glare.

  “Just as you had a care for my reputation when you publicly shunned me?”

  “Dammit,” he snapped. “You should have returned to Carrick Park and sent a servant to investigate.”

  “I only intended to see if they meant harm before I decided whether or not to go in search of the magistrate.”

  “Instead you were captured.”

  She waved a hand, indicating the palatial room. “Obviously.”

  Gabriel’s frustrated fury shifted toward the man who had dared to kidnap his wife. Although he had a vague memory of a new vicar being chosen for the local church, his visits to Devonshire had been consumed by his efforts to teach his reluctant tenants the latest farming techniques as well as restoring the manor house that had fallen into disrepair after his father’s death. He had little time or interest in the spiritual welfare of his people.

  Now he could only regret his failure to personally investigate Jack Gerard.

  “I will kill him,” Gabriel swore. “Were you injured?”

  She rolled her eyes, appearing utterly unimpressed by his concern.

  “Should that not have been your first question rather than accusing me of adultery?”

  He growled in annoyance at her continued defiance. He was unaccustomed to anyone daring to lecture him, let alone his own wife.

  “Bloody hell, when did my mouse become a shrew?”

  “When I accepted my husband intended to treat me with the same disregard as my father.”

  He stiffened, deeply offended by the accusation. He had nothing in common with Silas Dobson.

  He squashed the memory of standing at the window of his London townhouse, watching as Talia had entered the waiting carriage with an air of wounded defeat. At the time, he had done what he had thought was for the best.