A Belated Bride

by Karen Hawkins

  He levered himself upright, faltering against the sea of black spots that swam before his eyes and the pain that laced through his shoulder. “Good God,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “What in hell happened?”

  She leaned as far away as possible, unmoved by his agony. “You don’t remember?”

  “No.” At least, not anything that made sense. The images of a cliff in the chill night air, the tang of the ocean so strong he could taste it, slipped through his muddled brain. He’d been on his way…somewhere.

  Lucien rubbed a hand to his temple, wincing when his fingers brushed a knot the size of a walnut. “Did I fall?”

  “Your horse reared, and you hit your head on a tree branch.” She stopped as if uncertain how to proceed, then retreated behind a severe frown. “My groom may have been traveling a bit fast for such a narrow road.”

  Her glare implied that he was somehow guilty of the deed himself. Lucien touched his forehead, where the dull ache seemed to grow by the moment. “It hurts like hell.”

  “You’ll live. It would take more than an oak to dent that hard head.”

  His lips quirked. Somewhere along the way, his Arabella had developed a sarcastic wit. He regarded her with a narrowed gaze. She sat as rigid as a board, her hands clasped in her lap, color staining her cheeks, a hint of tiredness making her eyes appear even darker. With her tousled honey and brown curls and large dark eyes, she appeared younger than he’d remembered. Younger and even more beautiful.

  His chest tightened, his amusement fading. Damn the Home Office for sending him to Yorkshire. He’d refused to go when they’d first told him of the assignment. He was needed in London while his sister prepared for her first season, but they’d brushed aside his objections.

  Left with no recourse, he had planned to arrive under cover of night, discover what he could, and leave without anyone the wiser. Of course, that was before Arabella’s coachman had seen fit to run him down.

  He moved his shoulder and winced at the sparks of pain that shot through it. “Bloody hell. It feels like I’ve been shot.” He caught her gaze and lifted a brow. “You didn’t by chance put a ball in me?”

  “If I had shot you, Lucien, you would not be here now.”

  No, had Arabella shot him, he would be stretched out on the ground, a hole through his forehead while she danced around his lifeless body in wild celebration. He had taught her the rudiments of gunplay when she was fifteen, and she’d had an uncanny ability even then.

  Lucien placed a hand on the makeshift bandage. Neatly tied, it bound him so tightly he could scarcely breathe. He forced a smile. “I suppose I have you to thank for—”

  The coach hit a rut. Thrown back, Lucien’s shoulder slammed against the cracked leather squabs. Spots of color exploded as coal-hot agony lanced down his arm. Gasping for breath, he fell forward, almost tumbling to the floor before Arabella caught him. Her arms encircled him and held him close.

  The coach continued to sway while his breathing slowed to a more normal pace. As the pain subsided, Lucien realized his cheek rested against Arabella’s breast, the soft swell made all the more beguiling by its proximity to his mouth. The heady scent of raspberries once again drifted to him and he savored the contact, soaking in her warmth and remembering all that should have been.

  “If you cannot sit on your own, I will have the footman come and hold you upright.” As brisk as a mountain spring, her voice yanked him rudely into the present.

  Unable to resist the challenge, Lucien lifted his head to look into her eyes. A scant inch of charged air separated their lips. Her eyes darkened; the chocolate depths swirled with mysterious gold flecks. He leaned closer, his gaze drifting to her plump lower lip.

  He should have forced himself to walk out of her life yet again. But his body burned with a demanding heat that left him dizzy, as punch-drunk as a youth sampling his first mug of ale. Every sensation seemed amplified—the cadence of her voice, the beckoning curve of her breasts, even the outraged whisper of her starched skirts. A light sheen of moisture glistened on her lips and he would have traded every shilling he possessed to taste her then and there.

  God help him, he’d spent his entire life running from this woman. What was he doing, subjecting himself to such unbearable pleasure, such exquisite torture?

  Yet he could no more stop reaching for her than he could cease breathing. Without releasing her from his gaze, he brushed a stray chestnut curl from her cheek, his fingers entangling the silken hair. Her eyes widened in alarm, her mouth parting in murmured protest.

  Then he kissed her, slanting his mouth hard across hers. Pleasure swirled and built until he was drowning in sensation. It was all he could do to keep from crushing her to him, demanding more and more until she cried out with the need for her own release.

  With a muffled protest, Arabella broke free and slapped him, her hand cracking sharply against his cheek, jerking his head sideways.

  Agony screamed down his neck and pooled in his shoulder. “Bloody hell!” he ground out, clutching his arm.

  “Your base passions do not interest me, Your Grace. I am no longer a green girl of sixteen.” Distaste laced each word with prim poison.

  Unwilling to let her see his disappointment, Lucien sneered. “More’s the pity.”

  She gasped in outrage, but he ignored her, moving his jaw gingerly. Thank God she hadn’t thought to double up her fist. He caught her wary gaze and forced a cold smile. “I understand you quite well, madam. I shall stay on my side of the carriage.” And after this evening, out of your life.

  A dangerous light sparkled in her eyes. “I am sure your wife will appreciate your noble efforts.”

  The words penetrated his brain like shards of glass. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. If Arabella thought Sabrina would have disapproved of his actions, she was wrong. His wife would have laughed long and hard to see him so overset with passion that he forgot everything but the woman he was with.

  But Sabrina was not here. Guilt simmered in his belly, hot and bitter. “My wife died three years ago.”

  Arabella’s gaze widened, then she retreated into her corner, unconsciously pulling her skirts back so that they no longer brushed his knee.

  He watched her without comment. It was what he expected, what he deserved. Thankfully, he no longer possessed any illusions about who or what he was. Sabrina’s death had taken care of that. He leaned his aching head against the seat and closed his eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” Arabella’s voice drifted to him, as soft as an angel’s breath.

  Lucien refused to look at her, to see the pity he didn’t deserve. “Don’t be. It was mercifully quick. For both of us.”

  The coach swayed around a corner and slowed. Lucien glanced at the covered windows. “Where are we?” His voice sounded cool even to his own ears.

  “On the cliff road to Rosemont.”

  “And my horse?”

  “He bolted across the moors. I will send Ned to look for him as soon as we are home.”

  Then he would be free to complete his mission. Lucien placed a hand over his greatcoat and rested his fingers across the heavy leather packet that weighed down the pocket. Thank God it had not come dislodged during his fall.

  He slid his hand away and almost laughed at his furtiveness. Who would have imagined that he, Lucien Devereaux, the sixth Duke of Wexford, was one of the Home Office’s most prized infiltrators? He fixed his gaze on his companion, wondering if she suspected anything. “Arabella, why are—”

  “We will arrive at Rosemont shortly.” She kept her gaze fixed on the swaying curtain, her tumbled curls at odds with the prim line of her mouth. “It would be best if you sat quietly and rested your head.”

  Disappointment soured his curiosity. So that was the game she wished to play. Very well. He owed her that much, if not more. “Of course. As soon as my horse is found, I will be on my way.”

  The thick crescents of her lashes shadowed her eyes to black. “If it is the lack of a mount that k
eeps you here, I would be more than happy to loan you one. It may not be of the quality to which Your Grace is accustomed, but it will serve the purpose.”

  Lucien scowled and slumped against the seat. He hated the way she called him “Your Grace” as if he were some kind of toplofty lord. Yet despite his dissatisfaction, he found himself noting the way her hair curled about her face and framed her determined chin and the smooth, untouched line of her cheek and throat.

  God, how he had loved her—loved her with the undisciplined passion of a willful twenty-year-old, spoiled by his family and his circumstances. He had loved her, but then been forced to turn and walk away.

  He rubbed his aching shoulder absently and wondered about her life in the years that had passed. Had she wed a local gentleman? Or a farmer, perhaps? A big, bumbling Yorkshireman with rough, callused hands and a broad, simple face?

  The idea of such an unappreciative clod touching Arabella made his stomach roil. Lucien shook his head at the sudden rise of nausea. He must be more severely wounded than he thought. Indeed, his whole side burned, while his mouth felt as dry as a coal bin.

  The carriage suddenly jolted to a halt. Arabella frowned and pulled back the edge of the leather curtain. “Wonderful,” she muttered under her breath, her face pale as she dropped the curtain back into place. “It is Constable Robbins and his men.”

  “What do they want?”

  She hesitated a second before answering. “My coachman believes they are out searching for smugglers.”

  Lucien leaned past her to lift the edge of the curtain. He could barely make out a large group of horsemen in the pale moonlight. “A dark night like this is perfect for moving shipments inland.”

  Clear brown eyes met his. “You sound as if you know a great deal about the smuggling trade.”

  Damn it, what was wrong with him? He rubbed a hand across his eyes and wondered why he felt so light-headed. “I know a good deal about a lot of things.”

  “I’m sure you do,” she replied in an indifferent tone, peering out the window once again.

  He should have been glad for her disregard, but it stung nevertheless. A voice arose from outside and Lucien realized there could be serious consequences for Arabella if she were discovered alone with him. He had dishonored her once; he would not do it again.

  The unmistakable sound of an argument lifted over the wind, then the altercation ended abruptly, followed by a tense silence. Lucien struggled to stay upright, but his head pounded mercilessly. He pulled a flask from his coat pocket and tried to undo the stopper, but his hand seemed leaden, his arm weighted and numb.

  Swearing under his breath, he handed the flask to Arabella. “Open it.”

  Arabella regarded the flagon with disapproval. How could he even think of imbibing at a moment like this? Of course, he could not realize how much was at stake. She forced a frozen smile to her lips. “It would be better if you—”

  “Arabella.” His eyes narrowed unpleasantly, his mouth white. “Open it.”

  A shiver lanced up her spine at the implied threat in his voice. There it was, that indefinable difference from the Lucien of her childhood. This Lucien was older, harder, and more dangerous than ever. Even the air about him hummed razor-sharp and deadly.

  From outside, a gruff voice called for assistance. Footsteps came toward the door, halting at Wilson’s loud protest. Arabella hurriedly undid the flask, wrinkling her nose at the cloying odor of brandy.

  Lucien swallowed the burning liquid with a murmur of approval. Arabella sniffed and he cast her an amused glance, the green of his eyes shimmering unnaturally in the lantern light.

  She tried not to watch as he tugged at his cravat, revealing his muscular bronze throat. The sight triggered a flood of hot memories. Arabella clasped her hands together and said, “Pray lace up your shirt. It wouldn’t do for the constable to see you thus attired.”

  “Of course,” he murmured in reply, then downed the rest of the brandy, his gaze never leaving hers. The corded muscles of his throat rippled as he swallowed and Arabella warmed as if she were the one imbibing the potent drink. Handsome and dissolute, Lucien Devereaux was lethal.

  Only this time, she would not weaken. She determinedly held each painful memory to her, a shield against his seductive power. “I will tell Constable Robbins you are a friend of Robert’s and have sustained a fall from your horse. That will explain why I am here, without a chaperone.”

  “It won’t be enough.”

  “It will be if you close your eyes. You can hardly seduce me if you are asleep.”

  His gaze locked with hers for an agonizing moment before he glanced away, the lines about his mouth deepening. “I will do this only to save you from embarrassment.” Though it must have pained him, he tugged his coat back into place and pulled the carriage blanket over his shoulder. He closed his eyes just as the door swung open.

  Reeking of garlic, Constable Robbins thrust his lantern into the doorway. “Good evening, Miss Hadley.”

  “Good evening, Constable. Is anything wrong?”

  His suspicious gaze raked the interior. “Who is this?”

  “A friend of my brother’s. He arrived this afternoon.”

  “Did he, indeed?”

  “Yes. My aunts and I hope he will be leaving soon.”

  The constable brightened at the mention of her aunts.

  “Lady Melwin promised me a tonic fer my sheep. Said it’ll make them produce twice the lambs.”

  “I’ll be sure to ask her when it will be ready.”

  “There’s no need. I can ride over and ask myself.” Before Arabella had time to properly digest this unwelcome bit of news, he sniffed the brandy-soaked air and eyed Lucien with a lifted brow. “Ape-drunk, is he?”

  She cast a repulsed glance at Lucien. “Fortunately, he will be leaving tomorrow.”

  Constable Robbins shook his head like a big bear. “Like that, is it? Your brother should mind which of his friends he invites to Rosemont.”

  Arabella mustered a brave smile that seemed to meet the constable’s approval, for he stopped his perusal of Lucien and smiled back at her with evident admiration.

  “Your concern is such a comfort,” Arabella said.

  “Things have been so difficult since my father died, and then Robert returned to us, and…” She fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief, but found none.

  The constable dug in his pocket and triumphantly produced a wrinkled scrap of linen.

  She held the dubiously clean kerchief between two fingers. “Oh, thank you. You are too kind.” Arabella bit the inside of her lip until a tear welled in her eye.

  “Now, now! No need to get in a bother,” he said hastily, looking wildly about for help. “I wouldn’t have stopped you at all except there’s been a report that a shipment of brandy…” His voice trailed off, his attention fixed on Lucien’s still form.

  She followed the constable’s gaze. The blanket had slipped from Lucien’s shoulder, where a large patch of red showed clearly against the snowy white linen. Arabella’s hands clenched about her skirts, her fingers sinking into the sticky fabric. She looked down at the red smear with relief. “Jam.”

  The constable’s thick brows lowered.

  “Raspberry jam.” Arabella gestured to the floor, where a large red stain gleamed wetly in the lantern light. Part of the smear was indeed caused by the raspberry jam, but more of it came from Lucien’s wounded shoulder.

  She wiped her jam-smeared fingers on the constable’s handkerchief and hoped he did not notice how her hands trembled. “A rabbit leapt in front of the carriage and startled poor Wilson. It caused the horses to rear and the basket slipped from the seat.”

  “Did it, now?”

  “Oh, yes.” She handed the handkerchief back to the constable. “We were splattered head to foot.”

  He took the sticky handkerchief and sniffed, his brow clearing as he gave a little chuckle.

  “Have you found something?” came a strident voice from outside
the carriage.

  The constable gave Arabella an apologetic shrug. “Lord Harlbrook,” he said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “He demanded to come. He’s sure some smugglers are usin’ the Red Rooster to hand off their goods.” The constable leaned forward to whisper loudly, “I’m thinkin’ he’s jus’ angry to miss his share of the profits.”

  Harlbrook’s voice raised again. “Robbins! What is it?”

  The constable grimaced, but replied dutifully, “No one but Miss Hadley and a friend of her brother’s who is covered in raspberry jam.”

  A fleshy figure pushed Robbins from the doorway. “Young Hadley has no friends.”

  Arabella had to grit her teeth against the urge to plant her foot squarely between Lord Harlbrook’s narrow eyes. “I don’t believe you’ve met all of Robert’s acquaintances. Perhaps—”

  “I’ve told you to call me John, my dear,” he said with pompous civility. His thick mouth pursed in disapproval as he caught sight of Lucien’s prone form. “Who is this ruffian?”

  A wave of ire strengthened her resolve. In as haughty a tone as she could muster, she announced, “This is Lucien Devereaux, the Duke of Wexford.”

  “Duke?”

  “The sixth duke, to be exact. Of course, you are but lately arrived to the neighborhood and wouldn’t know that he and his family often came during the hunting season years ago. Robert and Lucien have corresponded regularly ever since.”

  Lord Harlbrook’s disbelief was palpable. Arabella gave a silent prayer of thanks that they had not stumbled upon her two hours ago, when the carriage had been loaded with casks of prime French cognac.

  As if aware of her relief, Harlbrook asked, “If this man is a friend of Robert’s, then why are you escorting him?”

  “We were visiting our tenants, the March family, when Robert took ill. He returned home earlier.”

  “And left you alone? I shall have a word with him about this.”

  The proprietary tone stiffened Arabella’s back to ramrod straightness. “I assure you, that will not be necessary.”