Bride for a Night

by Rosemary Rogers

  “Jacques,” Sophia protested, attempting to wiggle out of his arms.

  “Non, do not struggle,” he commanded as he charged toward the trees, half expecting a bullet to pierce his back with every step.

  “But…”

  “Shh.”

  He refused to acknowledge her frustrated glare, keeping his gaze trained straight ahead. Did the silly fool truly believe he would leave her behind?

  Reaching the edge of the small clearing, Jacques waded through the thicket of underbrush that ripped at his pantaloons and ruined the gloss of his boots. At last he entered the narrow band of trees, and one of the soldiers stepped forward to offer a shallow bow.

  “I will need your horse,” he informed the young soldier who looked barely old enough to be out of the nursery.

  “Of course.”

  Obeying with admirable eagerness, the soldier darted deeper into the trees before he reappeared, leading a chestnut mare by the reins. Two mounted soldiers followed behind them, both as young as the first.

  “Do you wish us to capture the English swine?” a dark-haired soldier demanded, his avid expression revealing his innocence. A man who had killed another was never eager to repeat the experience. “Non. We could not reach them without casualties, and we shall soon be outmanned by Ashcombe’s crew.” With one smooth motion, he lifted Sophia into the saddle of the waiting horse, then sliding one foot into the stirrup, he grasped the horn and pulled himself up to swing his leg over the horse and settle behind her. The mare skittered to one side, but with a firm hold on the reins he swiftly brought her back under control. “We will return to Calais and alert the soldiers. They can send a warship in pursuit.”

  “As you command.”

  The dark-haired soldier did not bother to hide his disappointment, but trained to obey his superiors, he gave a nod of his head and turned to urge his horse toward the path leading back to Calais.

  Jacques waited as the second mounted soldier paused to allow his compatriot to leap onto the saddle behind him and disappeared into the trees before he urged his own horse into a steady trot.

  “Hold on tight, ma belle,” he murmured, not bothering to glance behind him.

  To hell with the Earl of Ashcombe and his damnable brother. If there was any justice the pair of them would drown on their journey back to England.

  “Forgive me, Jacques.” A soft female voice broke into his pleasant imaginings of Gabriel sinking to the bottom of the Channel.

  With a frown he glanced down, studying the regret that darkened Sophia’s eyes.

  “Forgive you?”

  “This entire…” she searched for the proper word “…debacle is my fault.”

  Debacle was an apt description, Jacques had to ruefully agree, but there was no one to blame but himself.

  “What is your fault?”

  “I should never have assisted Lord and Lady Ashcombe in escaping from the palace.”

  With gentle care he cradled her against his chest, savoring the beauty of her pale face in the cresting dawn.

  “That is in the past,” he assured her. “We will not speak of it again.”

  “And tonight?” she persisted, almost as if she needed to punish herself. “If I had not intruded, they would not have been allowed to escape yet again.”

  The path led them beyond the trees and between the rolling fields that were bathed in a glistening dew.

  “You were concerned for me.”

  “Only in part.” She heaved a sigh. “I knew you were in your private chambers with Talia and when I heard the sound of crashing glass I used it as an excuse to interrupt. I was afraid…”

  “And you were afraid of what?” he prompted as her words faltered.

  “I was afraid that you intended to take her to your bed.”

  “And you thought you could prevent the seduction?”

  “I was not thinking,” she professed huskily. “I was following my poor heart that could not bear the thought of you with another.”

  He slowed the pace of his mount at her unexpected confession. The beautiful actress had always been successful in keeping her feelings hidden even as she pandered to his needs. Now he found himself instinctively shying from the emotions that smoldered in her dark eyes.

  “Sophia.”

  She averted her face to stare at the passing fields, effectively hiding her expression.

  “I know you do not wish to be burdened with my unwanted affections, Jacques.” The words were so low he could barely catch them. “But I very nearly lost you this evening and I could not bear the thought of you dying without knowing that I love you.”

  “I…” He shifted in the saddle, shying from her blunt confession. “We will discuss this later,” he muttered.

  He felt her stiffen in his arms. “There is no need for discussion, chérie.”

  But Jacques found himself annoyed by the stark resignation that hardened her profile. A preference to discuss such a…delicate subject in the comfort of his home rather than on the back of a horse when they were both so weary was considerably different than hoping to ignore it altogether.

  “Are you so certain?”

  “Oui.” She turned back to meet his gaze, understandably confused by his unpredictable reactions. “I comprehend that I have overstepped the boundaries of our liaison.”

  “I was not aware our liaison had boundaries.”

  Her brows jerked together. “Do not mock me, Jacques.”

  “That was not my intent—”

  “A courtesan’s first lesson is never to allow her emotions to become entangled,” she interrupted, a faint color staining her cheeks. “Gentlemen seek our companionship for pleasure, not duty.”

  Duty? His blood heated at the mere thought of their time together.

  Both in and out of bed.

  “Well, it is certainly true that I have never considered you a duty, ma belle,” he said wryly.

  Her expression remained bleak. “And you never shall.” She tilted her chin. “It was not my place to interfere in your relationship with Talia. She is obviously a lady of quality and if you desire to claim her as your own then I shall wish you happiness.”

  “Will you? You do not sound particularly happy,” he teased softly.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Please, Jacques.”

  “No tears, Sophia,” he commanded gruffly, startled by her vulnerable state.

  Over the years he had become accustomed to females who sought to sway him with tears and tantrums, but never, ever Sophia.

  “There are no tears,” she ridiculously denied. “I never cry.”

  Tenderness surged through him as he studied the female who snuggled against his chest, her dark hair spilling over his arm that he had circled around her shoulders. She appeared oddly fragile.

  “Another lesson of courtesans?”

  She blinked, giving a delicate sniff. “Oui.”

  “I have no desire to claim Talia, ma belle,” he said, realizing as he said the words that they were true. He had enjoyed the thought of rescuing Talia from the cruel hands of her neglectful husband. And savoring the knowledge that he was striking a painful blow at the English nobles by stealing a countess from beneath their arrogant noses. But his heart had already been stolen by another. “I have no desire to claim any woman but you.”

  She flinched, almost as if he had slapped her. “Do not say such a thing.”

  He barely noticed as they trailed ever farther behind his guards, the steady hoofbeats the only sound to stir the early-morning air.

  Was the female being deliberately difficult?

  She had just professed her love for him, had she not?

  Now that he had admitted to his own desire, she was behaving as if he had threatened to drown her in the nearest well.

  “Even if it is the truth?” he growled.

  “It cannot be.” Her lips flattened as she battled to conceal the emotions that smoldered in her dark eyes. “You wish for a proper female who you will be proud to have stan
ding at your side. Not an aging actress who was born in the gutters.”

  He lifted a brow. “You seem to forget that my mother was an actress.”

  “And you were forced to suffer because of her,” she reminded him in raw tones.

  He lifted his head sharply, his gaze shifting toward the distant silhouette of Calais.

  As difficult as it was to admit, even to himself, there had always been a treacherous part of him that held his mother to blame for his father’s death. Insanity, of course. His mother was not responsible for her haunting beauty. Or his father’s volatile reaction that had ended with him locked within the Bastille.

  But as a young man forced to mature without his beloved papa, he had been unable to keep from wondering how his life might have been different had his mother not captured the roaming eye of a lecher.

  Was it possible that he had held Sophia at a distance precisely because she reminded him of his mother?

  The thought was enough to send a jolt of shame through his heart.

  “Non,” he roughly denied. “I suffered because of a depraved scoundrel devoid of morals or honor. A nobleman who is now as dead as my father.”

  “But not forgotten,” she said softly.

  “He will never be forgotten. And I will never halt my efforts to be rid of men like him,” Jacques swore, returning his gaze to meet her guarded expression. “Will you fight at my side, Sophia Reynard?”

  She paused, clearly sensing that he was asking for more than just another ally in the war against the tyrannous ruling class.

  “I will be at your side so long as you desire me, but—”

  He bent his head to crush her lips in a passionate kiss.

  “That is all I need.” He pulled back to peer deep into her wide eyes. “You are all that I need, ma belle.”

  “Jacques,” she breathed in surrender.

  Hunger speared through him, and tightening his grip around her slender body, he urged his horse into a faster pace.

  “It is time we were home.”

  IN SOME DISTANT part of his mind Gabriel was aware of Jacques escaping along with Sophia and his guards. Even more distantly he could hear the fading sound of Hugo rowing Talia toward the yacht, his mate obviously having the good sense to cast off the moment he heard the gunshot.

  His concentration, however, was utterly absorbed in his foolish brother.

  Christ.

  What the devil was the matter with Harry? He should have scurried behind the protection of the carriage the moment the bullets had started to fly. Instead, the impulsive idiot had launched himself forward, taking a bullet that surely would have killed Gabriel.

  “Dammit, Harry,” he muttered, arranging his brother flat on his back so he could run his hands down his limp body. “What were you thinking?”

  With a grimace, Harry lifted his lashes to reveal pain-glazed eyes.

  “Clearly I was not thinking at all,” he muttered.

  Unable to find any obvious injuries, Gabriel attempted to tug aside Harry’s tightly fitted jacket.

  “Where were you hit?”

  “Leave it be, Gabriel.” Harry weakly knocked aside Gabriel’s hand, pulling the jacket over the blood that was already staining the white linen shirt beneath. “There is nothing you can do for me here.”

  Gabriel settled back on his heels, conceding Harry’s point. He had no supplies that would assist in tending to a wound, even if he possessed the skills to do so. His only comfort was the hope that the bullet had caught Harry closer to his shoulder than his heart.

  “Hugo has taken Talia to the yacht, but the captain will have sent a boat when we first arrived,” he said, attempting to comfort his brother. “It should arrive at any moment.”

  “What of Jacques?”

  Gabriel glanced across the clearing, realizing that dawn had well arrived, spreading a rosy light across the landscape.

  “He has bolted.”

  Harry attempted to lift his head, as if not trusting Gabriel’s word.

  “You are certain?”

  “Hold still, you foolish cub,” Gabriel commanded urgently, a fear clenching his heart at the ashen pallor of his brother’s face. Bloody hell. Just hours ago he had been determined to turn his brother over as a traitor to his country. Now he would give his own life to make certain Harry lived. “Jacques and his men are gone,” he rasped. “Although I do not doubt they will send soldiers to search for us.”

  Accepting they were out of danger for the moment, Harry lowered his head back to the ground with a heavy sigh.

  “I do not suppose you managed to wound the bastard?”

  Gabriel shook his head in regret. He had managed a shot in the direction of the Frenchman, but before he could even consider reloading his pistol Harry had been hit, and he had forgotten everything but carrying his brother out of the line of fire.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “A pity.”

  It was, of course, but not as great a pity as witnessing his brother stretched on the ground with a bullet lodged in his flesh.

  “Why did you do it, Harry?” he demanded.

  “Do what?”

  Gabriel hissed out a painful breath. Never so long as he lived would he forget the sight of Harry leaping in front of him.

  “Take a bullet that was intended for me?”

  Harry turned his head, remaining silent for so long Gabriel thought he might ignore the question. At last he heaved a sigh and turned back to meet Gabriel’s worried gaze.

  “Do you remember the Christmas morning that I slipped away from my nurse so I could show father I was old enough for the new pair of skates you had given to me?”

  Gabriel shuddered. It had been a Christmas he had never forgotten. He had purchased the ice skates from a local craftsman, never considering the notion his father might consider Harry too irresponsible to own a pair. Of course, the moment the earl had forbidden his youngest son to keep them, Harry had taken off with the intent to prove his father wrong.

  Gabriel had followed him, but he’d only arrived just as Harry skated toward the center of the lake where the ice was the weakest.

  “You fell through the ice,” he said, vividly recalling the terror that had seared through him as his brother disappeared from sight.

  “And you pulled me out.” Harry managed a tight smile. “You saved my life that day. Tonight I repaid my debt.”

  “There was no debt.” Gabriel frowned. “You are my brother. It is my duty to protect you.”

  “You have always done your best.” Harry’s smile became oddly wistful. “But, you could never protect me from my own demons, Gabriel. They are mine to battle.”

  Gabriel tensed. God almighty, how many endless, miserable years had he waited for his brother to take responsibility for his failures? To at last realize that his troubles were of his own making? And yet, now that Harry had spoken the words he had waited to hear, he felt none of the satisfaction he had anticipated.

  Hell, they only managed to make him feel more guilty.

  “I should have done more,” he muttered.

  “The fault was not yours.” Harry reached to squeeze Gabriel’s hand, genuine regret adding a hint of maturity to his slender face. “It has never been yours.”

  Gabriel shook his head, refusing to debate the issue. Not when his brother was wounded, perhaps even dying, and they were trapped in enemy territory.

  “Now is not the time for this discussion,” he said gruffly, a surge of relief racing through him at the soft call from the distant shore. Obviously his captain had indeed seen his signal and sent a boat. “Thank God. We shall soon be safe.”

  Harry grimaced, his hand lifting to press against his injured shoulder.

  “I will never make it down the cliff.”

  “There is no need to worry. I will return in a moment with one of my crew to carry you down to the shore.”

  As Gabriel began to straighten, Harry’s grip tightened on his arm with surprising strength. “Wait, Gabriel.”
<
br />   “Harry, we must not delay,” he growled, his brows drawn together with impatient concern. His captain was not a trained surgeon, but he was capable of tending to most wounds. “Your injury…”

  “No, this must be said now.”

  Gabriel sank back to his knees, unwilling to struggle with his brother and risk further injury.

  “What?”

  “I am sorry.”

  Gabriel’s heart twisted at the raw guilt that shone in his brother’s eyes.

  “I know, Harry, but we can finish this once we are aboard the yacht.”

  “No, it must be now.”

  Gabriel nodded reluctantly. “Very well. What do you wish to tell me?”

  “My relationship with Jacques all began so innocently,” Harry said, his voice thick with self-disgust.

  “Somehow I do not associate Jacques with innocence.”

  “True, but it seemed so at the time. Jacques and I were schoolmates.”

  “So he said,” Gabriel confessed, condemning to hell whatever ill fate had crossed Harry’s path with the damned Frenchman. “I cannot imagine the two of you having had much in common.”

  Harry snorted, his hand lifting to impatiently brush back the brown curls that had tumbled onto his forehead.

  “No, he was far too somber and studious for my taste, and of course, he did little to disguise his revolutionary tendencies.” Harry’s expression was distant as he became lost in his memories. “But he came upon me one evening while I was in the midst of a nasty disagreement with several upperclassmen. They were under the impression I owed them a great deal of money.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “No doubt because I did.”

  Gabriel was not surprised that his brother had started his career of living in dun territory at such a tender age. Or that he had incurred the wrath of his fellow students with his blithe disregard in accepting responsibility.

  “What did he do?”

  “He not only paid my debt, but he carried me back to my rooms and tended to my numerous bruises.” Harry’s lips twisted. “I thought he must be my guardian angel.”

  “A clever means to earn your loyalty.”

  “Jacques was never stupid.”

  Gabriel had to agree. The Frenchman was cunning and ruthless, with the instincts of Machiavelli.