The Rogue's Revenge

by Lucy E. Zahnle

  Her heart pounded as she tried to quell the wild excitement his touch occasioned. She felt herself weakening, surrendering to his silent demands and her own unfulfilled yearnings. Again, she was slipping beneath his spell, that glorious illusion of love he knew how to weave so artfully. It was so easy, so blissful to be with him, to please him, to love him...

  "Let me go!" She spoke sharply, forcing herself to remember who and what her husband was, to recall every barbaric moment she'd spent in his thrall.

  "I will never let you go, Lucia!" Robin swore with muted fury. "You are my wife and I'll no longer accept the muslin set as a substitute!" He pulled her roughly into his arms. "I told you I'd kiss you whenever I pleased and I meant it."

  Her hands pushing ineffectually against his chest, she steeled herself to withstand the devastating effect of his caress. She dared not surrender or even let him suspect that she was not indifferent to him. If he discovered how weak her resolve against him really was, he would gleefully crush her beneath his heel and take every opportunity to use her love for his own ends.

  His mouth gliding over hers, his tongue teased her lips with feathery touches until they opened. Then it darted inside to dance and frolic with hers, inviting her ardor to rise and unite with his own.

  All her determination to stand fast, to resist the impetus of his embrace, vanished. Hating herself, she melted into his arms as intoxicating passion flowed through her like a sweet, heady wine. She allowed herself to dream, for a brief eternity, that the man who made her feel this way was her fairy tale knight and not a ruthless villain seeking to subjugate and humiliate her. His burning lips and questing tongue demanded ever more of her and she gave it willingly, responding to his urgent caresses with wild, sensuous kisses of her own.

  Robin's arms tightened around her, his blood blazing hotter as he savored her sweetness. He brought one hand up to cup her breast as he deepened his kiss, exploring the velvet heat of her mouth with his tongue. Mon Dieu, but he needed her so much!

  He'd never grown accustomed to his empty, aching desire for her and now that she was in his arms again and that pain so sweetly assuaged, he knew he could not bear to lose her a second time. He allowed his love for her ...the love he had been fighting for so long... to engulf him, to consume him with its overwhelming strength.

  He, too, let himself dream... that Lucia had forgiven him the past... that she would never want to leave him... that she loved him as much as he loved her... that their lives together held no hatred or anger or distrust, only warmth, laughter, and extraordinary happiness...

  "No!" Lucia struggled against his embrace. "No, I-I can't! It isn't... You aren't..."

  His arms opened and she stepped back, peering up into his face. Love and desire warred with loneliness and despair in his eyes. The desperate need in his voice tore at her heart as he whispered, "Lucia, please...!" He reached out to her and she backed further.

  "Keep your hands off me, sirrah!" she spat, forcing anger to crush an almost overwhelming urge to throw herself into his arms again.

  Robin stiffened.

  "You inflict some sort of witchery on me with your kisses, Robin! Almost I believed that you... that we... But it's all an illusion, isn't it? A trick you use to break women... to break me! ...to your will. You befuddle me and beguile me until I will do anything... until I will be anything you desire! And when I cease to be useful, or to amuse you, you'll crush me and cast me aside like a bit of rubbish!" Her chin lifted and she squared her shoulders. "But I am strong, Robert Amberley, and I won't let you hurt me anymore! I'm certain you have plenty of women awaiting your amorous whim. Go find one of your ladybirds and let me be!"

  As Lucia watched, Robin's silver eyes, vibrant with passion, hardened and faded to icy granite. His heavy lids drooped to half- mast and his habitual expression of insolent disdain slid like a comfortable mask across his features.

  "You credit me with far too much guile, ma douce," he drawled, carefully lightening his tone, "but I shall not 'inflict my witchery' upon you any longer. Vraiment, I shall undertake to force my unwelcome presence on you as little as humanly possible in the future. Bonne nuit, madame." He bowed with impersonal precision, turned on his heel, and left the room. A few minutes later, Lucia heard the front door slam and knew he was gone.

  Silence settled upon the house. Lucia curled up in a chair before the dying fire, tears flooding down her cheeks. Robin was a heartless scoundrel! A black knight! She should never love such a man, but she could not explain to her tormented and confused mind how, in spite of his wicked ways and against all logic, he had still managed to capture her, body and soul. She only knew that, as foolish as it was to do so, she loved him passionately.

  After awhile, unable to solve her heart's dilemma, she dried her tears and forced her mind onto more immediate problems. She was still determined to get that letter and clear Robin's name. She had promised Rochedale the full five thousand at dawn and she must consider how to acquire the rest of it.

  Obviously, she could not ask Robin for a loan and she dare not turn to anyone else, lest he get word of it. She would have to fall back upon her past and use her gaming skills to raise the funds she needed.

  She had once overheard Lord Bellefield mention a place called 'Randall's' to Robin. Tony had described the quiet hell in Clarges Street as extremely popular and Lucia was certain that she could find a few innocents ripe for fleecing there.

  Going up to her bedchamber, she allowed Anne to help her into a nightgown, then dismissed the maid. After Anne retired, Lucia opened her old valise and took out the case that held her father's dueling pistols. She opened the case and stared at the weapons, wondering if it would be wise to go armed to her meeting with Rochedale. She made a sudden decision and, snapping the case shut, set the pistols aside.

  Tossing everything else out of the valise, she took her gentleman's clothes from the secret compartment and carried them to the bed. She threw off her nightgown and cut a strip of linen from a petticoat. Winding the cloth tightly around her breasts, already tender, she flinched at the exquisite pain such cavalier treatment caused. She donned her masculine attire, grimacing in frustration as she buttoned her knee breeches. The material strained against the gentle swell of her belly as it had never done before.

  When she was dressed save for her coat, she went over to her vanity and, picking up a pair of scissors, grabbed one lock of ebony hair. She hesitated, mindful of Robin's displeasure at what he would undoubtedly consider a sacrilege. She met her own gaze in the mirror and shrugged.

  The silver blades sliced through her curls, leaving a relatively straight, shoulder-length line of hair. When she was finished, she brushed out her dark mane, swept the loose hair off her clothes and donned her coat. She caught up her shorn tresses in a black riband tied in a bow at the nape of her neck and pocketed the money she had stolen from her husband.

  As she turned to go, her hand brushed the pistol case and she stared down at it for a long, tense moment. Memories of the nightmarish months she had spent as Rochedale's captive flooded her mind. With sudden alacrity, she opened the case, loaded the pistols, and slipped one into her empty pocket. She secreted the other one in a hidden pocket beneath her coat skirts. Finding the weapon bulky and difficult to conceal, she longed for the small pistol she had been accustomed to carrying there in the old days. Knowing that Rochedale would expect her to carry some sort of protection, she hoped that he would be satisfied with the obvious and readily accessible gun in her pocket and search no further.

  She threw the voluminous black driving cloak Robin had given her around her shoulders and stepped back to survey herself in the mirror. Satisfied with her appearance, she collected her hat and strode out of the room, adopting a masculine swagger.

  The house was dark and silent as she descended the stairs and slipped out into the cool night air. She hailed a hackney a few blocks from Lynkellyn House and gave the driver a discreet address in Clarges Street.

  ***

 
Furious pounding upon the front door of Lynkellyn House awakened Laddock in the early morning hours and he was not entirely able to hide his disapproval as he greeted Viscount Norworth and Lord Malkent, both extremely agitated.

  "We need to see Her Grace immediately. It is an emergency!" Tracy demanded.

  Laddock sent the dark sky a martyred look. In his opinion, four o'clock in the morning was a most improper time to call on a lady, no matter what the reason might be. Deciding not to disturb the entire household, he said resentfully, "Their Graces are not at home."

  When he started to close the door, Norworth placed his foot firmly in its path. "Perhaps you could tell us where we may find them?" he suggested with subtle menace.

  Laddock drew himself up to his full height and stared down his nose at the importunate callers. "Their Graces are not accustomed to..."

  "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" A rotund man with a thick, bushy black moustache emerged from the back of the house, wearing a long, white cotton nightshirt and carrying a wooden tray piled high with food.

  Laddock looked over his shoulder in irritation. "Are you eating again?"

  "I am 'ungry, no?" the other man said indignantly, his accent heavily French. "To starve...c'est très tragique!"

  "Who is that?" Tracy peered into the shadows behind Laddock.

  "That is His Grace's valet. He's like to eat us out of house and home," Laddock said as the Frenchman came to stand beside him, beaming good-naturedly at the gentlemen. "Go to bed, Hercules! This does not concern you."

  Hercules's eyebrows snapped together angrily, then his open smile dawned once more. He shrugged and turned away.

  "No! Wait!" Malkent said, pushing past the butler. Hercules returned to the small group as Tracy said, "Look you, Hercules, do you know where Her Grace is?"

  The valet tore off a bite of bread and chewed with maddening deliberation. "Non! Me, I 'ave nothing to do with 'er Grace."

  "The duke, then," Norworth insisted. "Surely you must know where His Grace has gone?"

  "Ah! As to that, 'is Grace 'as never been-'ow you say?-a talking man, héin? 'e tells me nothing. I dress 'im for the ball tonight and il est magnifique, n'est-ce pas? Une pièce de résistance! But I do not see 'im after this."

  Laddock cleared his throat, blushing. "Have you tried the clubs and the local...er...sporting houses, my lord?"

  "We have already tried those places," Tracy said. "Can you think of anywhere else he might go?"

  Laddock shook his head, but Hercules said, "The docks, messieurs."

  The gentlemen stared at him blankly.

  "When 'is Grace 'as a...'ow you say?...a blue devil, he goes to the docks and looks at the boats. They make 'im 'appy again for a time. Always when we live near the water, 'e goes to the docks when 'e is thinking of leaving and 'e 'as seemed restless of late...ready to start anew in another place. Me, I cannot wait to see my so beloved Paris again. The English do not know 'ow to cook."

  ***

  To the unenlightened, the soberly dressed young gentleman lounging outside Newgate Prison just at dawn appeared nonchalant, even jaunty, but beneath this casual exterior, Lucia seethed with a combination of soaring hope and writhing fear. The nausea of pregnancy only added to her inner turmoil and she maintained her appearance of unruffled calm through sheer strength of will.

  The night just ending had left her exhausted physically and spiritually. She tried not to think of Robin and his last tormenting kiss. Even if she did love him, he cared nothing for her. To him, she was, as he had once phrased it, 'a means to an end'.

  At least she hadn't lost her ability to make her own way in the world. Her evening at Randall's had been an unqualified success. Gaining entry to the place was easier than she had expected. The mere mention of Bellefield's and Malkent's names opened the door for her. After circulating for perhaps a quarter of an hour, she was convinced that no one, not even those who had met the Duchess of Lynkellyn, recognized her and she relaxed in the role of Brandon Killian, Esq., newly come to London from Ireland. Choosing her marks carefully, she quietly bested one opponent after another, winning a small amount from each man until she had enough to make up the five thousand guineas that Rochedale required with some thirty pounds to spare.

  When Norworth and Malkent strolled into the club and scanned the crowd, it took every ounce of her control to play at cards as if she were unaware of their scrutiny. Their eyes rested on her for a few eternal seconds, leaving her slightly ill, then swept on. How, she wondered, had she ever pursued such an existence as a matter of course for twenty years?

  When Lucia heard rumbling carriage wheels, she straightened abruptly, all illness and fatigue vanishing. She slipped one hand into her pocket, touching first the money, then the pistol.

  A dilapidated coach halted before her and Rochedale jumped out. Lucia hurried toward him. "Do you have the letter?" she asked, staring uneasily at the coachman who was dismounting from his perch to stand behind her as she faced Rochedale. Her eyes darkened with anger and her stomach tied itself into a hundred knots. Instinct told her she had walked into a trap.

  Sir Winston's eyes raked her with a predatory gleam. "You always did make a charming young man, dear girl, but I fear you have become too...er...well-endowed to pass close scrutiny."

  "I have brought the money, Gaston. I want the letter."

  "Yes, well, I do have something for you." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pistol, cocked it, and pointed it at her. "I am sorry to disappoint you, but there is no letter."

  Lucia heard the telltale click of a second pistol cocking and glanced over her shoulder at the coachman who also had a weapon trained on her. She edged her hand toward her pocket and her own weapon, saying, "You can have whatever you want, Gaston! His Grace will pay you any ransom you desire!"

  "Perhaps he might, but too often I've come away the loser in my dealings with Golden Gus. You are much easier to manage." He noticed her hand slipping into her pocket and leveled his pistol at her heart, saying, "Hands up, dear girl!" Feeling the mouth of the coachman's weapon against the side of her head, she jerked her hands into the air. "Brought some protection, did you?" Sir Winston surmised with an ugly grin. "Empty her pockets, Bertie."

  Lucia stood very still as the coachman pushed away the drapery of her cloak and rifled her pockets, passing the contents to Rochedale. "A single pistol is all you brought to defend yourself against me?" Sir Winston laughed, pocketing the gun. "You're slipping, my dear girl!"

  Lowering his weapon, he opened one of the heavy purses Bertie had handed him and stared at the golden guineas gleaming dully in the early morning light, then grinned at her. "I salute you, Lucia. I never thought you would come up with the entire five thousand! But you have always been resourceful, haven't you?"

  As Rochedale pocketed her money, Lucia said, "If it isn't ransom you want, Gaston, what is it?"

  "Why, only your sweet company on a voyage to Araby, dear girl. Unlike the repressive laws of Europe where one must lurk in the shadows to sell a woman, in Araby they have huge market places where slave girls are routinely auctioned off. Golden Gus could tell you all about them. He certainly did his share of the selling...as well as a little buying!" Sir Winston cackled. "Get into the coach!"

  "I'm not going anywhere with you, Gaston!"

  "Don't be difficult, dear girl! You really have no choice in the matter after all." When she did not move, he said, "I had not planned to end your pregnancy until we were at sea and I had hoped to use a little more finesse, but...a blow to the stomach might not be amiss if you continue to defy me."

  "I would rather die and take my babe with me to heaven than become your prisoner, Gaston! I have not forgotten Copenhagen!"

  "Copenhagen! A delightful interlude, wasn't it? Get her into the coach, Bertie!" While Sir Winston held his pistol on her, the huge coachman scooped her into his arms. Her hands flew to his face, scratching and gouging until he dropped her to clutch at his torn and bleeding countenance. She scrambled to her feet and ran, ign
oring the threat of Sir Winston's weapon.

  "Damn it! She's getting away!" Rochedale screamed. "If you want to be paid, you'd better catch her, Bertie!"

  Bertie charged down the road after her. Coming upon her from behind, he locked his tree trunk arms around her and half- dragged, half-carried her, kicking and screaming, back to the carriage.

  "Up you go!" Rochedale urged as Bertie tried to lift her into the coach. Bracing her feet against the bottom of the doorframe and her hands against the upper part of the carriage, she locked her knees and elbows as her abductors pushed and shoved and struggled to force her into the coach

  "She's a real fighter!" Bertie grunted with grudging admiration as he rammed his shoulder against her back.

  "This is one battle she will lose," Rochedale said, cracking Lucia over the head with the butt of his pistol. Her body arched, then wilted. Catching her as she fell, her abductors shoved her into the coach. Sir Winston climbed in after her while Bertie mounted the box. The carriage rolled and in a few minutes the area was deserted.

  Chapter 25:

  In Which His Grace Scours London

  At sunrise, Peter and Tracy found Robin sitting on a wharf, watching soft grey fog blanket the Thames. Still in his ravaged ball clothes, his unbound hair splaying like a coppery mantle across his back, he had removed his shoes and stockings to trail his toes in the river's cold, dirty water.

  "Here you are, Rogue! We've been looking everywhere for you." Malkent's hearty voice shattered the quiet calm.

  Robin scowled as they approached. "How did you find me?"

  "Your valet told us you might be here," Peter said. "We need to speak to your wife, Your Grace, but when we called at your house a few hours ago, the butler said she was not at home."

  Robin's eyes narrowed. "Why do you want see Lucia?"

  "'Tis Concordia, Rogue!" Tracy said. "She's disappeared. The last time anyone remembers seeing her was when she was speaking with Lucia last night. We were hoping Lucia could shed some light on the mystery."