She didn’t argue. Whatever her many faults, Eloise was not stupid. It galled him to let her get away with it when he was fairly certain she was the mastermind of the entire scheme. But the scandal would be horrific otherwise.
“What is his next move?”
“He’ll look for someone to use as leverage. Either Lady Agatha or Beatrice,” she offered. “He’ll offer their safety in exchange for his freedom. But you shouldn’t believe it. He’ll kill them as soon as they’ve ceased to be useful to him.”
Those words settled over him like a cold, leaden weight. “Do not let her leave this room,” he said to Christopher. “Whatever it takes!”
Graham rose from the desk and headed toward Lady Agatha’s room, taking the stairs two at a time with Warner at his heels. They’d wasted precious time questioning Eloise. It would have been better to simply let her go and guard both Beatrice and Lady Agatha, but it was too late for second guesses. He could only hope he wasn’t too late to save them.
*
Lady Agatha had returned to her bed, exhausted from the news of Edmund’s death and the suspicious about Eloise and Christopher. It was all too much for her in her weakened state.
Gathering up the cards, the Two of Cups slipped from her hand and fell to the carpet. Beatrice stooped to pick it up and glared at the offending lovers who faced her, hand in hand.
“Don’t be so smug,” she said to the card. “He hasn’t asked and, in all likelihood, he will not.”
Placing the cards back into the drawer of the desk where she’d gotten them earlier, Beatrice turned to go back into the small sitting room. A sharp sound, the scrape of metal, stopped her in her tracks.
Crenshaw, who had been carefully mending the lace on Lady Agatha’s favorite wrapper, sat up in her chair. “What was that?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Beatrice said, “But it came from just beyond the door. Go in with Lady Agatha and lock that door behind you. Be quick!”
The maid looked ready to argue, but as the door handle began to rattle, she thought better of it. Her sewing forgotten, she darted toward her mistress’ bedchamber, slamming and bolting the door behind her. No sooner had the loud crack of that door closing reverberated through the room, than the door to the sitting room swung inward.
He did not look so much like Christopher. The similarities were there, of course, but in full view and bright light, it was apparent that he was older, taller, a bit leaner of feature. The coloring and build were nearly identical and, in time, she imagined that those similarities would be more marked. But that had been part of the plan, had it not? Christopher was sent down from school so that London society would have just enough time to forget his face.
“Miss Marlowe,” he said, the faintest of French accents coloring his words. “We meet at last.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”
He laughed. “I do have you at a disadvantage. I mean to keep it that way… you are my way out, Miss Marlowe. I do not relish the idea of causing you pain. If you cooperate, I will spare you as little of it as possible.”
It was very obvious that was a lie. From the gleam in his eyes to the cruel twist of his mouth, it appeared that inflicting pain was something he reveled in. “What does cooperation entail, sir?” she asked. It was simply a stalling tactic. Graham would come. She believed that with her whole heart.
He raised his hand, revealing a pistol. “I am going to walk out the front door of Castle Black and you will walk out with me… if Lord Blakemore is wise and if he values your pretty head still sitting upon your shoulders, he will allow me to do so. If not—well, a pistol ball in your brain will certainly curb his more amorous tendencies toward you, would it not?”
The silver-handled letter opener gleamed on the desk. It was just beyond her reach. Could she get to it before he could get to her? She didn’t fear him shooting her. He’d as much as admitted that he needed her in order to get away. Shooting her would only complicate that task for him. Regardless, she would not simply give in to him without a fight. Without giving herself time to second guess or consider the consequences, Beatrice dove for the makeshift weapon.
He cursed and sprinted toward her. His hand tangled in the loose chignon of her hair just as her fingertips grasped the elaborately carved handle of the letter opener. With little thought to aim, she drove it backward, the sharp end embedding itself into the flesh of his thigh.
The shriek of rage was nearly deafening as it roared from him. But it was the exploding pain in her head as he tossed her against the desk that made her ears ring. Her vision swam alarmingly and she struggled to remain conscious.
“You’ll pay for that,” he hissed as he loomed over her. His hand wrapped in her hair, once more, hauling her up by it. Beatrice struggled against his hold, clawing at his arm and kicking at his legs as he dragged her toward the chamber door. She grasped the frame in a futile attempt to stay him. If he managed to remove her from Castle Black, he would kill her, regardless of whatever empty promises he offered. That much she was sure of.
His hand came down atop hers and he pried her fingers from the ornately carved door frame, her nails breaking in the process. The momentum sent them both tumbling to the floor again.
Beatrice screamed as she attempted to scramble away from him, but one hand snagged around her ankle, pulling her unceremoniously toward the door. They’d no more than breeched the threshold when she heard Graham’s voice over the din they were creating.
Her relief was short lived. The heavy weight of the pistol in his hand pressed against her temple and his arm closed around her throat, squeezing so tightly she could scarcely breathe. In fact, her vision began to dim.
*
Graham shouted in protest as he watched the bastard grab Beatrice. He could see her struggling to breathe. “Do not touch her again,” he warned.
“Or what?” Alain asked. “I will shoot her where she stands if you take another step.”
Graham halted, Warner at his side. “Leave. If you leave her be, you may simply walk away from here a free man,” he offered.
“And leave as poor as I entered?” Alain laughed bitterly. “I think not, Lord Blakemore. Miss Marlowe, now that she’s been effectively tamed, will be coming with me. I imagine you’ll pay handsomely enough to have her returned!”
Graham had never felt so helpless and so angry in his life. Standing there, only yards from her, and it might as well have been miles. He could not allow Alain to take her from the house. He was not so foolish as to believe that he would ever see her again if that happened.
Graham took a step forward. “You have one shot. Shoot her and I will kill you. Shoot me and Warner will see you dead before my body hits the ground.”
Alain removed the pistol from Beatrice’s temple and aimed it directly at Graham. It was the only opportunity he would get. Rather than charge directly at him, Graham dove low and tackled him just below his knees, taking all three of them to the floor. He grasped Alain’s coat, pulling him away so that Warner could get Beatrice to safety.
They traded blows and kicks. Evenly matched physically, the battle for supremacy continued for what seemed an eternity. As they struggled, both of them vying for control of the gun, Graham’s hand encountered the discarded letter opener. Driving the instrument deep into the other man’s ribs, Alain howled in pain. Rather than weakening him, it enraged him and seemed to give him strength.
They rolled again, until they were pinned against the wall. Graham’s head banged sharply against the corner. The sound of gunfire was deafening in the small space. Graham waited for the explosion of pain, but it never came. Alain rose to his feet and backed away. Graham looked down at his bloodstained clothing in confusion.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Beatrice screamed as the villain rose and backed away from Graham’s bloodied body. Her eyes were drawn to the dark red stain that had spread over the front of his waistcoat. Higher thought was impossible. Panic in its most pure and unadu
lterated form flooded her body. Her heart raced, blood rushed in her veins and her lungs felt as if they simply would not expand and no air could enter. She couldn’t lose him, she realized. It would destroy her. In a short time, he’d become everything to her and the very idea of living in a world without him was an anathema to her.
Jerking away from Warner, Beatrice ran to where Graham had fallen. Her tears flowed unchecked.
“Graham!” she cried breathlessly as she dropped to her knees in front of him.
“I’m fine, Beatrice.” His voice was strained and breathless.
“You will be,” she said as she turned back to the doctor. “Don’t just stand there! Come help him!”
“It isn’t my blood,” Graham said softly. “I’m not hurt, Beatrice.”
She looked back at him as he pulled himself up to a sitting position. His face was bloodied, his lips split and a bruise was already forming around his eye. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Alain leaning against the wall. He clutched his abdomen and blood seeped between his fingers, his skin pale and clammy. Before her eyes, he slowly slipped to the floor.
“Should we help him?”
“It’s too late for that,” Graham said. “A wound like that… well, you saw Edmund.”
Alain opened his eyes then. With his last breath he uttered, “Bastard.” His eyes closed then and his breathing stilled.
Warner stepped forward, pressed his hand against the man’s neck to check for any sign of life. Finding none, he rose and shook his head. “I’ll have his body removed to the cellars and send for the magistrate. At least with him here, we can clear Christopher of any role in Edmund’s death. Miss Marlowe, can you help Lord Blakemore to his chamber? I’ll attend you both there as soon as I’ve dealt with this.”
Beatrice nodded. It was really all she could do. Speech was beyond her. After the fear of what Alain would do to her and literally fighting for her life, seeing Graham lying there seemingly lifeless, she simply could not process anything else. She felt numb, but also impossibly fragile, as if at any moment she might shatter into so many pieces it would be impossible to put her back together again.
Lady Agatha’s chamber door opened and Crenshaw poked her head out. “Is it all over, Miss?”
“Yes, Crenshaw,” Graham said, his worried gaze fixed on Beatrice. “Is Lady Agatha all right?”
“She’s bursting to find out what happened. I had to all but sit on her to keep her in bed and not wander out here in the thick of it… but she’s fine, my lord, and I’ll be certain to let her know that you all are fine as well!”
“Thank you, Crenshaw,” Graham said as he levered himself up from the floor. He’d taken quite a few punches to the ribs. Between that and the recoil of the pistol against those same ribs when it had gone off, he would be lucky if they were not broken. Turning his attention back to Beatrice, he spoke gently to her. “You must get up, Beatrice. I can’t lift you at the moment.”
She did so, but continued to stare blankly ahead. Taking her hand, he led her away toward the solitude of his room. Settling her in a chair before the hearth, he poured a heavy snifter of brandy and placed it in her hand. “Drink that. Every damned drop of it.”
Again, she simply did as she was told, without question. That alone was cause for concern. Beatrice was many things, but he’d certainly never counted docile among them. “Dammit, Beatrice! Stop this right now!”
“Stop what?”
“Retreating to wherever it is you’ve gone in your head! Come back to me in the here and now… scream, cry, throw something!”
The glass that was in her hand suddenly sailed through the air, shattering against the wall. “Is that better?” she asked. While her normal fire was still dimmed, he could see a hint of it in her challenging gaze.
“Yes,” he replied. “It is. I’d rather you break every glass in this house than retreat into yourself that way.” Graham paused to collect his thoughts and then approached her. Though it pained him to do so, he squatted down next to her chair. “We’re fine. We are both fine. And he cannot harm us again.”
After a moment, she looked at him and tears swam in her eyes. “I thought you were dead. I thought—” she broke off on a sob.
Graham pulled her to him. “What did you think?”
“That it was too late. That I was too late. All I’d done was tell you over and over how impossible it would be to have anything between us—I’d just wasted our time together.”
Graham held her, as much for his own comfort as hers. She wasn’t the only one who’d been terrified. As he’d raced up the stairs, he’d envisioned a dozen horrible scenarios awaiting him and all of them had involved the loss of her. “So now we know and we will not waste any more time. To be clear, I mean to marry you, Beatrice, and I don’t much care whether or not you object. I’ll drag you to Scotland and find some unscrupulous vicar who can be paid to sign the register and keep his mouth shut.”
A watery laugh escaped her. “I promise not to be so difficult about every major decision in our lives.”
It was his turn to laugh. “Don’t make promises you can’t possibly keep. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if you weren’t being difficult… and to be entirely honest, I’m not exactly the soul of amiability. We’re a matched pair, you and I.”
“So we are,” she agreed. “And there’s no one else I’d rather be matched with.”
“No more arguments about the estates and about heiresses and whether or not you’re a suitable bride?”
She leaned back. “All of those things are still true. I am an imprudent choice for you and in agreeing to marry you, I am being supremely selfish… but the last hour has prompted significant reprioritization. That all seems far less important than being with the man—”
“The man?” he prompted.
She sighed heavily. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said with a slight nod. “But if it makes it better, I’ll say it first. I love you. I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life here with you… whether I remember my past or not, I want to be focused solely on our future.”
She leaned into him, pressing her face against his shoulder and holding him tightly. “I love you. I think maybe I always have… no other man would ever do because I was waiting for you to return.”
“Even though I was a horrid little beast as a child?”
“Even though,” she agreed.
Epilogue
Beatrice swayed with the carriage as it rumbled along the road. Across from her, Graham was clearly less inclined to simply endure the journey in silence. He sighed, shifted in his seat and, in general, made his impatience known.
“We’ll reach Castle Black within the hour,” she said softly. They were returning from Gretna Green. A hasty ceremony in a small church was not what Lady Agatha had wanted them to have. She’d tried to dissuade them from getting married in what she referred to as a havey-cavey fashion but, instead, having a ceremony in the village church after the banns were read. Neither of them had been willing to wait so long.
“I’m well aware of where we are,” he said. “I am simply done with this carriage. And here I thought traveling by sea was bad!”
She laughed. “The roads are difficult at this time of year.”
He reached for her, grasping her hand and pulling her until she crossed the distance between them and sprawled across his lap. “There are things we could do to pass the time,” he said suggestively.
“In a carriage?” she asked, both scandalized and intrigued.
“It’s all about rhythm,” he offered with a teasing smile.
All thoughts of teasing fled as his lips moved along the column of her throat. He’d found her weakness. When he kissed her there, just below her ear, and followed that tender caress with the slight sting of his teeth, all of her good sense fled. It took so little to make her a slave to desire, she mused.
His hands moved to her hips, repositioning her so that she sat
astride his lap. As his mouth descended on hers, he moved against her and she could feel the hardened ridge of his manhood pressed against her most intimate flesh. Experimenting, Beatrice shifted forward onto her knees and arched against him. The resulting contact elicited a soft groan from them both.
As the carriage rolled along, the sway of it did, in fact, create a rhythm that had them both breathless and gasping. The desire was so intense that any thought to propriety simply vanished.
Beatrice reached between them and began to unbutton the fall front of his breeches. “If we’re going to be scandalous, then let us be completely so.”
“Are you sure you don’t wish to wait until we are home in the sanctuary of our bed?” he teased.
“No. I want you now,” she said. “I need to feel you inside me.”
Her words were bold and impossibly brazen. But that had been the point. She’d discovered that her husband liked it very much when she behaved as a wanton. That moment was no exception. The simple statement had elevated the tension in him to new heights. Every muscle tensed beneath her and the hands gripping her hips tightened to the point that they would undoubtedly leave marks. But he was lifting her, positioning her above him, just so.
“If you want me inside you, Beatrice,” he whispered seductively, “then take me.”
It was a dare to see just how bold she would be and she was more than up to the challenge. Closing her hand around the thick shaft of his erection, she guided it to her entrance and with careful movements, began to sink down on him.
The pleasure as he filled her was impossibly intense. Beatrice swayed, but he steadied her by wrapping one arm around her waist. With that support, she began to move, rising up and down on him in rhythm with the movements of the carriage.
Again and again, she rocked down and he filled her, the heat of him scorching her skin as she strained toward release. When at last it came, her body shuddering and her cries lost in his kiss, she was weak with it. Limp and lax, she sank against him as he thrust into her once again, pressing deep as he spilled himself inside her.
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