by Anne Stuart
“What’s your name?” Ellen asked, using her most soothing tone of voice to put the girl at her ease.
“Gladys, your ladyship. I didn’t mean to cause no harm, and Mrs. Rafferty’ll have my head if she knew I was here, talking to you, but the little dog got away from me, and besides, Mamzelle was kind to me, and I don’t think it’s right that they should just let that man take her away from here when maybe she didn’t want to go at all, and why would she leave Charbon behind if he was going to set her up all nice and fancy, that’s what I wants to know.” Her words tumbled to an embarrassed halt as she realized the enormity of what she’d said.
That sick, burning feeling in the pit of Ellen’s stomach exploded, and for a moment she was afraid she might throw up the sherry Tony had forced her to drink. “Are you telling me she didn’t go willingly?” she asked in a deceptively calm voice.
Gladys was still terrified by the seething emotions in the room. “I don’t know, your ladyship. All I know is that when Mamzelle took Mr. Blackthorne his dinner tray she didn’t reappear, but I heard the sounds of a fight. And while he was wandering around the house later, I was told I wasn’t to go into the room to dear away the dishes. And when I did go in, the next morning, the dishes were shattered all over the floor, and the bed was tom up something fierce.”
“I hate to say it,” Tony drawled from across the room, “but there’s a very obvious explanation for that.”
“A surfeit of passion?” Ellen shot him a furious glance. “I don’t think so. What else, Gladys?”
“I saw them when they left. He was carrying her, miss.”
“And was she struggling?” Tony demanded in a practical voice.
“Not so’s I could notice,” Gladys admitted reluctantly.
“And what was she doing in Mr. Blackthorne’s arms?” He pursued it relentlessly.
“I couldn’t see all that clearly. She was wrapped head to foot in her ladyship’s green silk cape. It looked like she had her head on his shoulder.”
“There you have it,” Tony said. “She was curled up in her lover’s arms, dressed in your pilfered cape. Off on love’s young dream, leaving her dog and you behind without a second thought. Trust the French. Any race of people who’d butcher each other so bloodily would have no compunctions at all.”
“There are times, Tony, when I don’t think I care for you very much,” Ellen said severely. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your accompanying me home in this dismal weather, and your efforts to make me dismiss Gilly’s disappearance as a Gallic freak, but why don’t you continue on to the inn? I’m currently unable to provide you with a decent meal, since my chef seems to have decamped, and I’m not in the mood for socializing.”
Tony rose, looming very large in the small, feminine room. “Take the dog back to the kitchens,” he said pleasantly enough, and Gladys scampered to do his bidding.
She paused at the door, clutching the indignant dog to her bosom. “Perhaps I ought to give you this, your ladyship,” she said, shoving one hand in her apron pocket and coming up with a crumpled piece of paper. “Mrs. Rafferty asked me to bring it to her, but since it’s from your room it must be meant for you.”
Ellen took the letter in her hand. “Citizeness Ghislaine de Lorgny,” she read. “Odd, I didn’t think they referred to each other as citizen anymore. And I thought Ghislaine’s last name was Sahut. But it’s addressed properly.”
“De Lorgny,” Tony said in a meditative voice. “I know that name. Why don’t you read it?”
“Certainly not!” Ellen said sharply. “That would be dishonorable.” She gave Gladys her warmest smile. “Thank you very much, Gladys. You’ve been very helpful.”
She closed the door behind the maid’s stout little figure, putting the crumpled letter in her own pocket before she turned to face Tony. She knew she’d have a hard time resisting his force of will and his devastating charm, but she was determined to do so.
“And now, Ellen,” he said, advancing on her, “you will tell me what’s going on in that far too devious brain of yours.”
She held her ground, but just barely. “Nothing at all, Tony. You’ve pointed out that Gilly must simply have taken off for a life of rampant sensuality, and I have decided I see the wisdom of your words. I will miss her, but there’s nothing I can do about it.” She managed to give him a demure smile.
Tony didn’t even blink. “Liar,” he said flatly. “I’ve known you since you were in leading-strings, Ellie. You can’t hope to bamboozle me. You’re more convinced than ever that she was abducted.”
She abandoned all attempts at lying to him. Tony knew her far too well. “It’s the cape,” she said earnestly. “Gilly hated that cape. It was a certain unfortunate shade of yellow-green, with puce trim, and she often told me it should be burned. She was always trying to improve my taste in clothing.” Her voice faltered on the last.
“She’s not dead, Ellen,” Tony said in a kind voice. “Even if you’d be wiser to think of her as such.”
“I can’t, Tony. She would never have taken that cape of her own accord, never would have worn it on a romantic assignation. She would have wanted to look her best if she were going off with her lover, not like a… a… sallow pea-goose.”
“All right,” Tony said. “For the sake of argument, suppose Nicholas did abduct her? Why? Your majordomo said he’d been terribly ill while he was here. Do you suppose it might have overset his mind? The Blackthornes are notoriously unstable as it is. Do you think he’s gone mad?”
“I have no idea,” she said stubbornly. “All I know is that Gilly didn’t go with him willingly.”
Tony didn’t move, didn’t even blink. And then he reached out his large hands and dropped them lightly on her shoulders. “And I don’t suppose there’s any chance at all that you’d let the matter rest there?”
“None at all. Gilly saved my life. I’m not going to abandon her when she’s in trouble.”
“What do you mean, she saved your life?” he demanded, suddenly tense. “When were you ever in danger…?”
Ellen shook her head. “It’s too complicated to explain. Suffice it to say that Gilly means a great deal to me. I’m not going to turn my back on her.”
“When I get to London I can put out inquiries,” he suggested. “They’ve been gone at least two days now—your friend has already been compromised, if you think it’s a simple question of rape. But I could see what I can come up with. There’ll be a hue and cry for Blackthorne as it is—what with Hargrove meeting his demise at Nicholas’s hands. Sooner or later he’ll be bound to turn up, and Gilly can be returned to you.”
She did her very best to put a grateful expression on her face. “That would be very kind of you,” she murmured in a neutral tone of voice.
“The hell with my kindness. You won’t be here waiting for word, will you?” he said with a wry smile. “You’re going after them.”
She considered denying it. It would be no use—Tony was right. He knew her very well indeed, and knew that she wouldn’t simply wait for word. “I’m sorry, Tony,” she said with real honesty. “I simply have to. You can tell Carmichael you tried to stop me.”
“I have no intention of telling Carmichael a thing,” he said.
“You don’t?”
“I won’t be anywhere near him to impart that information.” He sounded resigned. “I’ll be off haring after the fugitives.”
She flung herself upon him, her arms hugging him tightly. “Bless you, Tony, I knew I could count on you!” she cried. To her astonishment his arms came around her, holding her against him for a long, breathless moment.
“Don’t forget it,” he said, looking down at her, and she had the oddest notion that he wanted to kiss her.
Absurd, she thought, as a second later he released her. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you might be willing to stay behind while I go after them?” he continued in a negligent tone.
“Not a chance in the world. And don’t worry about my re
putation being compromised. We’ll take Binnie, and your valet, and no one need ever know what we were up to. We’ll catch up with them in no time—Nicholas would have no idea we’d come after her. He probably thought poor Gilly hadn’t a friend in the world.”
“You might find that it’s almost impossible to hide something from an interested society,” Tony pointed out.
Sudden doubts assailed her. “Oh, Tony, I couldn’t do that to you,” she said. “If you think we’ll be discovered, perhaps I ought to go alone. I couldn’t bear it if… well, if things transpired that you… that I…”
Gentleman that he was, Tony calmly overrode her embarrassed stammering. “Don’t give it a thought, infant. I have matters well in hand. Not a soul will hear about this that I don’t want to.”
She smiled up at him, her eyes shining with grateful tears. She could think of no greater disaster than Tony being forced to marry her. But she believed him when he said no one need ever know of their indiscretion. She believed Tony capable of just about anything.
“In the meantime,” he continued, “I’d best take myself off to the Crown and Boar and bespeak a room for the night. I’ll present myself first thing tomorrow morning, after you’ve had a decent rest, and we’ll take off after our fugitives.”
“Bless you, Tony,” she said. “I knew I could count on you.”
She watched him leave, her eyes still misting with tears. It would take her at least an hour to put together a portmanteau of sturdy, serviceable clothes. Another hour to talk Binnie into their adventure. In that time she could only hope the rain would have abated. She had a strong dislike of riding in a freezing downpour, and Binnie would prove downright obstinate.
But they had no choice. If she went meekly to bed, Tony, true to his word, would go after Ghislaine and her ramshackle half-cousin. Leaving Ellen behind to molder and wait.
Which she had no intention of doing. She was going to be waiting for him when he descended the stairs at the Crown and Boar, and if they didn’t find Gilly by sunset, at least she’d have Binnie beside her to satisfy the dictates of propriety.
And she’d have the undeniably treacherous delight of Tony’s company for at least another twenty-four hours. She could almost be wicked enough to rejoice in Gilly’s abduction.
Ghislaine expected they were heading north. Not that her nemesis bothered to converse with her. His valet-cum-bodyguard also served as coachman, so she couldn’t even glean information from their casual conversations. But she could see it in the changing landscape even though she’d never been much beyond the insular comforts of Ainsley Hall before, and she could feel it in the increasing chill of the spring air.
Spring! The cold-blooded English had little experience with the season. The icy winds and cold rain continued even into the height of summer, and early April might as well be December to Ghislaine’s chilled body. In Paris the trees would be blossoming. The air would be soft and warm. And the streets would still be stained with the blood of too many deaths.
She didn’t believe the so-called Peace of Amiens, the dubious tranquility that had settled over Europe since last March. She didn’t believe the French were ready to rebuild their lives into something more orderly. She didn’t believe Bonaparte’s promises; she didn’t believe in anything more than the moment, the hour, the day.
She was better off where she was, even imprisoned by the man she hated most in this world. His very presence was a tonic. Her hatred for him kept her alive, furious at life and at him. As long as he was in her reach, revenge was still possible. And as long as revenge was possible, life was worth living.
She hadn’t been too sure of that when she’d first been immured in that hell-bound carriage with her dissolute nemesis. The early-morning light had barely penetrated into the shadowy interior of the slightly threadbare coach, and his hands against the skin of her cheek were hard, heated, as they untied the neckcloth that had gagged her.
She’d wanted to fight him. Obviously he expected that much from her, and he hadn’t moved back, leaning across the carriage, giving her plenty of space to attack him.
“What about my hands?” she said in a small, bitter voice.
“What about them?”
“Are you going to untie them?”
He appeared to consider it. “What guarantee have I that you won’t attack me again if I’m fool enough to do so? Your word of honor?”
“I wouldn’t give it.”
He nodded, and there was a faint gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. “I didn’t expect you would. Since I’m not in the mood for another boxing match I think I’ll leave you just as you are. Unless you’ve decided to try to charm me out of my plans.”
“What are your plans?”
“I would think you of all people would understand, ma petite. You nearly killed me, not once but twice. The first time with that poisonous brew, and I owe you for two days of the worst misery I’ve ever endured in a fairly miserable life. The second when you tried to kill me with your bare hands. I swear, I bear the bruises.”
“A miserable life?” she countered, trying to control her almost frightening rage. If she gave in to it, all would be lost. “And how, pray tell, has your life been so miserable? Have you starved? Have you been beaten? Have you lost your parents to a bloodthirsty crowd? Have you…?”
“Have you been starved?” he countered. “Beaten? How did you manage to escape Madame La Guillotine’s insatiable thirst for blood?” He sounded no more than casually interested. “I was informed that your entire family perished on the block. I was charmed”—he accompanied his bald-faced lie with a faint, supercilious smile—“to discover you had escaped. How did you manage it, Ghislaine? Where have you spent the last ten years of your life?”
“In a convent,” she said flatly.
He took her at her word, a faint trace of derision on his too-handsome face. “It doesn’t appear as if you benefited from the example of Christian piety set before you. Didn’t Jesus teach about turning the other cheek? Your thirst for revenge seems exceedingly Old Testament to me. What is it you imagine I’ve done to merit such a bloody desire on your part? I wasn’t part of the mob, or the Reign of Terror. If I’d been anywhere inside the borders of France, they probably would have hauled me up there too, as a perfect example of how degenerate and profligate the upper classes really are.”
“If you’ve forgotten your culpability, then I won’t waste your time reminding you,” she said, turning her head away to face the verdant countryside.
He caught her chin in one hard, merciless hand, turning her to look at him. “Refresh my memory,” he said softly, the steel in his voice a match for the steel in his hand.
She found she had the most absurd weakness, not wanting to remember those awful moments in the garden at Sans Doute. Not wanting to remember her shame, when her innocent adoration had been flung in the mud. To remind him would be to remind herself of her own vulnerability, and to remember might be to relive it.
“You’ll find,” she said in a soft voice, “that I am quite impervious to pain. If you think you’ll find out what you want by hurting me, you’ll only be wasting your time. Unless you are one of those who receive a certain perverse pleasure in inflicting pain.”
For a moment he didn’t move. His hand on her face didn’t gentle—it still maintained its painful grip. And then his eyelids lowered as he surveyed her. “I have other perverse pleasures,” he said softly. “Allow me to demonstrate.” And to her shock and horror he leaned across the carriage and kissed her.
She could have withstood a brutal assault, his mouth grinding against her. She could have withstood a rough rape of her mouth, and she was fully prepared to disappear into that quiet place in her mind where no one could reach her.
But she was unprepared for the softness of his lips against hers. The damnable gentleness as he brushed his mouth against hers, feathering it lightly, so lightly that it was a caress. And she hadn’t been caressed in more than a decade.
If her
hands had been free she would have killed him. As it was she had no choice but to submit. His fingers were painful on her face, holding her still for the devastating sweetness of his kiss.
And then he pulled back, releasing her, leaning against the leather squabs of his faintly shabby carriage, and his eyes were speculative beneath his half-closed lids. “They didn’t teach you much in the convent,” he murmured. “I’ll have to see about improving your education.” And without another word he leaned back into the corner and fell asleep.
Leaving her to watch him in the gradually increasing light of the carriage, her hands and feet still tied, her mouth damp from his, her body shivering with rage and something she couldn’t even begin to fathom. Until she finally drifted off into a nightmare-plagued sleep, only to wake and begin the battle again.
Chapter 7
Ghislaine was used to hardship. To cold so deep, so penetrating that you could barely walk for the chilblains on your feet, cold that ate into your bones and shook you from the inside out. She’d lived through horror and the stench of death all around, through starvation and brutality. Being tossed around in an ill-sprung carriage was surely far from the worst she’d ever endured, and even with her wrists and ankles bound so that she couldn’t brace herself against the rocking and swaying of the equipage, she told herself she’d survived far worse ordeals than this dismal discomfort.
She told herself that, but she didn’t quite believe it. Particularly since those more horrific times had at least been blissfully free of Nicholas Blackthorne’s odious presence.
He slept, oblivious to the bumpings and jarrings of the coach, oblivious to the bone-numbing chill, oblivious to his hostage’s misery. He slept so soundly that Ghislaine allowed herself to hope that some errant trace of poison had surfaced to put a period to his existence. Until he started snoring.