“Do you think I don’t know that?” Alex’s voice was calm and soothing. For a moment Lucia wondered if he had known.
“That’s not all.” Camille glanced at Lucia, and for some reason the woman’s look made her shiver. “I was the one who shot John.”
Lucia gasped, and no longer caring about the danger, took a step forward. “Why you—”
Alex silenced her with a look, then turned back to Camille. “Put the gun down, Camille.” The husky note was back in his voice. “Let’s go into my bedroom and talk.”
Camille began to lower the pistol, and Lucia realized in her place she would probably have done the same. A woman unaffected by Alex—his godlike appearance, his velvet voice—was made of ice. Alex was beside Camille now, and Lucia knew he would take the gun from her given one more moment. But as he stepped to the side, she glimpsed the hallway, and what she saw there sent a flash of pure terror through her. In the shadows, his face a skeletal mask of rage, was Décharné. His eyes met hers, and he smiled. Slowly he raised his pistol, and before Lucia could think to scream, fired.
Alex flinched and waited for the inevitable pain. How had he failed? Why had Camille fired? Then the blood poured from Camille’s open mouth, and she tumbled forward, sending her pistol skidding across the floor and spilling the sticky red liquid onto his shirt. He caught her, breaking her fall. Behind her, Décharné emerged from the shadows, his spent pistol discarded, replaced by a medieval sword.
“I never could abide the woman,” Décharné said pleasantly and nodded at Camille. “Never trust a woman. They are far too easily swayed by their emotions. Of course, considering the performance you just put on, who could blame her?” He inclined his head at Alex in acknowledgment.
Alex could only stare at him. In his arms, Camille gurgled, taking her last breaths, and behind him Lucia was backing away. More than anything, he wanted to look at Lucia, to be certain she was safe, but he didn’t dare take his eyes from Décharné.
Décharné ran a finger along the blade of the sword. “In the end, she served her purpose. She led me to you.” Décharné executed a mock bow, waving his sword gallantly as he rose. The swish of the metal cut the air in front of Alex just as Camille exhaled. She did not breathe again, and Alex set her down gently. He had no time for grief or even to wonder how Décharné had found him. His eyes darted to where Camille’s pistol had fallen only a few feet away.
Décharné smiled, pulling another from his coat.
“How quick are you, Selbourne?” he said. “Do you think you have time to reach that pistol before I shoot Miss Dashing?”
Alex’s gaze darted to Décharné, who pulled his lips back in a thin smile. “Oh, yes, I know who she is.”
Alex froze. “What do you want, Décharné? You have me now. Let her go.”
Décharné cackled, bones protruding sharply from his thin cheeks. “From the lover to the hero, is it? Well, why not play the part of the knight in shining armor? Step away from the pistol and we shall see your skill in sword fighting.”
Lucia retreated another step, and Alex looked for a distraction, anything to give Lucia time to get away. “You have the sword, Décharné, not I,” he said.
“Miss Dashing, if you would be so kind?” Décharné pointed, and Alex turned to see a lone sword mounted on the wall behind his couch. Lucia was staring at him, trying to read his intentions. He nodded to her, and she went to the couch and reached for the sword.
A sword. A bloody sword. Alex felt like laughing. So this is what it had come to—a duel to the death. His death, for certain. He felt like laughing. He never thought he’d regret the time he’d spent with Lizzy Snell, the daughter of a local tavern owner and one of his first lovers, but for the first time he wished he’d been more interested in his fencing lessons and less interested in Lizzy’s charms. From the way Décharné held his weapon, the man was well practiced.
Alex stepped away from Camille’s discarded pistol, and Décharné lowered his own as Lucia dislodged the sword from the wall. She was shaking badly, and Alex tensed when she almost dropped it, but dutifully she held on and handed the weapon to him—Guinevere to his Lancelot. Their eyes met briefly, and he tried to smile at her but was afraid it came out as a grimace. She pressed her lips together as she sometimes did when she was trying to hide her worry. Décharné raised his sword and assumed his opening position—hand behind him, one leg thrust back, the other forward and bent at the knee.
Alex took his time, hefting his weapon from one hand to the next. The sword was heavy and fat, like something a medieval knight would own. His own experience in swordplay was limited to the foil and épée. This sword was much heavier, required more strength to wield. His eyes darted once again to Camille’s fallen pistol. Bloody hell. He didn’t have time for Décharné’s games right now. If Décharné was here, how much longer before his men or the French army would follow? Were they outside even now?
Décharné moved impatiently, and Alex had to raise his sword. Then, without warning, the skeleton lunged. His attack was rapid and wild, but it had enough strength behind it so that Alex felt the reverberations of the fierce contact between the two blades. The clash of metal on metal ricocheted off the bare walls.
Alex took a step back as Décharné veered to the left. Once again, the gaunt man attacked ferociously, but Alex was ready this time, raising the heavy weapon and meeting Décharné’s sword thrust forcefully. He hadn’t had the chance to remove his greatcoat, and the black material swung around him in a wide arc, hampering his movements. Still Décharné retreated, sidestepping a chair, and coming dangerously close to Lucia, who skirted away, closer to the window.
Alex’s eyes flicked to hers for an instant, and Décharné took advantage of his lapse to strike again. This time Alex’s reaction was too slow and Décharné’s sharp sword cut through layers of clothing and into the skin of his biceps.
“Alex!” Lucia cried, but he held up a hand to ward her off.
“Touché!” Décharné shrieked triumphantly.
Anger rising at the sudden sting of pain, Alex positioned himself to attack. Behind Décharné, he saw Lucia scoot around the chair and toward the couch. Camille’s pistol was still lying beside her lifeless body, and he wondered if the risk of snatching it was worthwhile. Décharné had tucked his own pistol into his pocket and could retrieve it and fire in seconds.
The only encouragement was that none of Décharné’s men had arrived. If Décharné had come alone, Lucia might still have a chance at escape. Alex lunged at Décharné, bringing his weapon down brutally. The swords crashed, and the two men were nearly face to face, each testing the strength of the other.
“You are better than I thought you would be, Selbourne,” Décharné commented breathlessly.
“Are you regretting your choice of weapons?” Alex growled between clenched teeth. Décharné was stronger than he looked.
“No.” Décharné let out a loud yell as he exerted more force and pushed Alex back a step. The heavy greatcoat was still an encumbrance, and it took Alex a moment to regain his balance and ready his sword. Décharné was coming for him, swinging high, so Alex ducked low, skirting around the man, and slicing his thigh as he did so.
Décharné screamed in pain, whipped around, and brought his sword down viciously. Alex rolled away just in time, the look of pure animalistic hatred on Décharné’s face searing its image into his brain. Alex was farther away from the pistol, but he fought harder, hoping to wear Décharné down. Décharné stumbled—he was breathing heavily—and Alex glanced quickly at Lucia. She’d backed into the couch, and her trembling hands were pressed tightly against her lips.
This time when Décharné attacked, Alex met him halfway. Their swords smashed together, the echo deafening. Noting Décharné’s suddenly vulnerable abdomen, Alex swung his weapon lower, but Décharné evaded him again.
“Where are your men, Décharné?” Alex panted. “Have you lost them?”
“No,” Décharné grunted, veins standin
g out under his translucent skin. “They await my command.”
Alex lunged again, and Décharné parried. The men sized each other up, moving in a circle around each other. Alex was now facing Lucia. He did not take his eyes from Décharné, but from his position he saw her reach up and soundlessly remove the shield from the wall.
Alex attacked again, pushing Décharné back toward Lucia.
“Why not bring them here and end all of this quickly?” Alex huffed. “You’re taking a risk in fighting me.”
Décharné smiled mirthlessly. “This is between you and me, Selbourne.”
That was exactly what Alex had hoped. Décharné truly was a fool.
Then Décharné brought his sword up, taking Alex off-guard. Alex jumped back, but not before the weapon’s point scraped against his chest, leaving a line red with blood showing through the new gap in his waistcoat.
Alex heard Lucia cry out as he stumbled, but he quickly regained his footing and met Décharné thrust for thrust in the next attack.
His arm was warm and wet with blood, and the stinging sensation worsened with each movement. He ignored the throb of pain as he drove Décharné to retreat farther.
Behind Décharné, Lucia was holding the heavy metal shield aloft, and Alex gave her a nod just as Décharné twisted to see behind him. With a squeal, she brought the shield down on Décharné, hitting him on the top of the head with all her strength. Décharné crumpled, dropping his weapon with a clatter.
Weak with relief and pain, Alex almost dropped his own sword.
“Alex, you’re hurt!” Lucia cried, jumping over Décharné and running to him. He caught her, propelling her away from Décharné, who was still conscious and writhing on the floor, clutching his bloody head.
She was attempting to tend to the wound on his arm, but he pulled her tightly against him, needing to feel her solid and safe in his arms. “I’m fine. It’s just a scratch,” he murmured.
She peered up at him, then clutched him tightly back. “Oh, God, Alex.” She began to shake.
“Lucia, I need you to be strong,” he said, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. “Can you stay strong for me?”
She glanced toward Camille’s corpse and the pool of red that had spread beneath it. Alex turned her face toward him, forcing her to look only at him. “Can you stay strong, Lucia?” She closed her eyes and nodded.
“Good. Go to the window,” he said, “and part the curtain. Just a sliver. Tell me if you see any men outside.”
Alex watched Décharné as she went to the window. He couldn’t bear to look at Camille’s dead body. She’d betrayed him. She’d been ready to kill him. And he’d never seen it coming. He’d trusted her with his life. He was torn between anger and anguish, but when he thought of Lucia—the danger she’d been in—anger won out.
“There are four men on the street below,” Lucia told him, peeking out the window.
“I was afraid of that.”
Décharné rolled again, and Alex kicked his fallen pistol out of the man’s reach then tucked it and Camille’s into a pocket of his greatcoat. “Go into my bedroom. In the wardrobe you’ll find papers and money. There should also be a small portmanteau. Put everything in it. Hurry.”
Lucia started toward the bedrooms, then paused, eyeing him warily. “You are not going to—to shoot him, are you?”
“No,” he answered. He wanted to. For once, he’d relish killing a man, but dispatching Décharné, a pathetic sight moaning and defenseless on the floor at his feet, felt too much like murder.
Lucia gave him one last look and hurried into the bedroom. Alex wasn’t going to shoot Décharné, but that didn’t mean he had to leave the bastard unscathed. He checked to be certain Lucia was out of sight, and then bent down and hit Décharné on the back of the neck with the sword hilt. Décharné stilled.
Alex still had a score to settle with the skeleton—for Henri’s death, his own capture, and even Camille’s murder—but it wouldn’t be this night.
Lucia emerged a moment later carrying the portmanteau. He took it from her and grasped her small, cold hand in his. “Stay beside me,” he said, opening the door.
He pulled her relentlessly through hallways and down stairwells into a dark side street. He paused only when she stumbled and then just long enough for her to catch her balance. He took her along the banks of the Seine, past Notre Dame, and down the shadowy, tree-lined avenue they had traveled by coach only hours before.
When they reached the doctor’s house, Alex pounded on the door. Joubert opened it himself, his features wan.
“I’ll need horses, Joubert,” Alex said, thrusting Lucia into the house. “There’s no point in securing a carriage. We’ll never get through the gates. Any moment, an alarm will go out through the city. The only way is on horseback. Do you think you can ride, Mr. Dashing?”
He’d seen Lucia’s brother gingerly descend the stairs. The boy looked tired but stronger than he had that afternoon. Lucia ran to him and helped him down the last few steps.
“I can ride,” Dashing panted, “but tie me onto the saddle. If I faint I won’t fall off.”
Lucia shot Alex a look full of terror, but he could offer her no comfort. He didn’t even have time for a reassuring word. Joubert ushered them to his stable, and Alex tied Dashing to a horse. Lucia was already astride, and Alex handed Joubert a wad of money before mounting a gray gelding and signaling to John and Lucia to follow.
Dashing fainted an hour outside Paris, regaining consciousness only when Lucia prodded him to drink or eat while Alex changed horses or rode ahead to scout for danger.
A day and a half later, Alex and his charges stumbled onto the road to Calais and the Good Patriot. It was midmorning, and they’d had no rest for two days. At the Good Patriot’s stables, Alex pulled Lucia off her horse, and she collapsed in his arms. Alex lifted her, but she protested. “No, I can walk. I’m fine.”
“Shh, no arguments,” he told her. Dewhurst had been waiting for them, and Alex followed Freddie, who had Dashing slung over his own shoulder, inside.
Alex and Freddie skirted the inn’s common room, ascending the servants’ stairs to the rooms Freddie had secured above. Freddie set Dashing on the bed, and Alex slipped Lucia into a chair. Lucia wanted to tend to her brother, but Alex made her drink a few swallows of brandy first.
“How is he?” he asked later after recounting the ordeals to Freddie, who then left to fetch food and drink.
“I’ll live,” Dashing murmured, and Alex grinned. The boy had spirit.
“I want to hear from your nurse,” he said.
“He seems a little stronger, but I think he’s trying to hide a lot of his pain.”
“No pain,” her brother said, and Lucia rolled her eyes.
“We’ll all feel better after some sleep. Be ready to leave at dawn for Calais.” He glanced at the sun streaming through the slats in the closed shutters of the small room. They’d sleep through the day and most of the night. “I want to be on a ship at first tide. Until then, we rest.”
Lucia nodded and scooted closer to Dashing, obviously intending to lie down next to her brother.
“No,” Alex said, pulling her up. “We have the room next door. Freddie stays with your brother.”
Lucia frowned and glanced at Dashing.
The boy tried to sit up, only to fall back again feebly. “Like hell you’re sharing a room with her. She stays with me.”
“John—” Lucia put a hand on his chest, but Alex drew her away.
“Sorry, Dashing, but you’re in no position to protect her right now. I’ve already decided.”
“No,” the boy croaked, trying to rise. “I won’t allow it.”
“John.” Lucia tried to go to him, but Alex held her back. She frowned at him before turning back to her brother. “John, I’ll just be next door, on the other side of this wall. Rest. Please. We have a lot ahead of us still.” She gave him a weak smile.
“Selbourne.”
Alex turned bac
k. Dashing was propped on his elbows, his stare hard. “Will you swear not to touch her? Give me your word as a gentleman.”
Alex regarded him coolly. “Get some rest,” he said, then closed the door.
Chapter 28
It was dark by the time Alex unlocked the door and entered the small room. He lifted the candle, and the light illuminated the figure of Lucia, curled into a ball on the bed, hand fisted under her chin. She’d shrieked and bellowed when he’d left her—accusing him of making her a prisoner and asking if abandoning her was what he considered protection, but Alex had set his jaw, shut the door, and locked it. He hated to leave her, but Freddie was in the room beside her, and Alex needed to make preparations for the trip to Calais.
She didn’t wake when he returned, so he sat on the mattress and brushed her long, golden hair from her face. Even travel-stained, she was utterly ravishing. Each time he saw her was like the first, his breath taken away. He was a fool to let her go. But he would be a bigger fool to fall in love with her.
He stroked her hair again, and she yawned, rolled onto her back, then squinted up at him. She wore only her chemise, and the thin material was nearly transparent. He steeled himself against the wave of dizzying arousal that hit him. Those exotic blue eyes were watching him, half closed, and he could not resist leaning down to taste her full lips. He told himself that in a few hours she would be on a ship for England. He told himself this was the last of the last times. After the events of the past few days, he needed her.
She tasted sweet, her lips ripe strawberries for him to sample. With his guidance, they parted for him, and he kissed her more deeply. Her arms wrapped around him, increasing the contact between their bodies, and her sleep-warmed body fired his desire.
His lips had strayed to the hollow of her throat and his hand to her calf when he heard the rapping on the door and came to his senses. Bloody hell! How did she do this to him every time?
Shana Galen Page 27