The Defiant One

by Danelle Harmon

  "Place seems rather empty," Lucien mused, his voice echoing through the nearly bare room. He bent to retrieve a forlorn scrap of paper covered with Andrew's scribblings from the floor. "I'll miss you, little brother."

  "Yes, well, you can't be missing me too much, otherwise you wouldn't have moved hell and high water to get me married and out of here," Andrew snapped, shutting the cabinet. "I'm sure your triumph would be complete if only I'd admit that I expect Celsie and me to be perfectly miserable together, but that's not going to happen. Your machinations have gone awry, Lucien, because I realize now that I would have been far more miserable staying here under your roof than I'll ever be under hers."

  Charles winced. Celsie's hand flew to her mouth. But Lucien never moved. He just stood there holding the scrap of paper, looking, for once, as if he had nothing to say.

  Andrew brushed past him, indignantly snatching the piece of paper from his hand and stuffing it into his own pocket.

  "Really now, Andrew," said Lucien, recovering. "I never had any wish to make you miserable."

  "Well then, thank God for that, because you made me perfectly miserable without the wish. Heaven help me had you really decided to put your mind to it, eh?"

  Celsie, seeing something in the duke's dark eyes that troubled her, caught her husband's arm before things could get any worse. "Andrew, please," she said gently. "I think your brother is trying to apologize in the only way he knows how."

  "Lucien, apologize? Ha, that will be the damned day!"

  Andrew would have said more, but at that moment he caught the warning in Charles's cool blue gaze, the barely perceptible shake of his head, and relented. He shoved his hair off his brow, his anger needing a channel and finding none. He turned away and threw a few last sketches into a box.

  Charles pulled out his watch. "Well, we really need to go if we all expect to get home at a reasonable hour. What do you say there, Andrew? Celsie?"

  "What, are you going with us?" Andrew asked, frowning.

  Charles smiled in mild amusement. "I can assure you, Andrew, that Amy and I have no wish to spoil your wedding night by inviting ourselves to Rosebriar Park. But it's getting late, we want to get back to our daughter, and since Rosebriar is on the way to Lynmouth —" he grinned — "I thought you wouldn't mind a little military escort."

  Andrew put the vial he'd been holding on the worktable and shoved an empty box out of the way with his foot. "Well, we're nearly finished in here. Let me just get the rest of the aphrodisiac and we'll be ready to leave."

  Lucien frowned. "I think it best if you leave it here with me."

  "Are you bloody joking? I need it. 'Sdeath, I'll be the laughingstock of the scientific community if word gets out about that damned stuff unless I can figure out what the devil I put into it and duplicate it accordingly. Oh, no, I'm taking it."

  Lucien's eyes went hard. "No."

  Andrew's went equally hard. "Yes."

  Now even Charles, normally mild-mannered and reasonable, was beginning to look irritated. Spotting the vial that Andrew had retained and not realizing it was only part of a much larger store, he stepped forward, plucked it from the table, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his scarlet coat. "There. I think it is quite safe where it is. Now, finish up in here, Andrew. Fifteen more minutes, and we're leaving without you."

  "'Sdeath, I hate when you use that officer voice," Andrew complained.

  Charles levelled a quelling, big-brother look on him. "And I hate when you don't watch your language in front of the ladies. Fourteen minutes. I'll see you downstairs."

  Charles bowed to Celsie, turned smartly on the heel of one impeccably shined boot, and went out.

  Lucien looked at Andrew.

  Andrew returned that mild look with a mute glare.

  "So, are you going to surrender the rest of the aphrodisiac or do I have to go get it myself?" he finally challenged.

  Lucien pursed his lips, considering the matter. His inscrutable black gaze held Andrew's for a long moment before he finally sighed dramatically and allowed a little smile to touch his mouth. "I suppose I'd better," he mused. "Otherwise, you'll only waste more time trying to figure out where I put the key to the safe, and out of respect for Charles, who has every right to want to get home, I won't keep him waiting any longer than he's already waited. I fear he's growing most impatient."

  He bowed to Celsie and then turned and left the room — leaving Andrew surprised, and a little deflated, that he'd won the battle without even a fight.

  What on earth was wrong with Lucien?

  ~~~~

  Everyone was waiting.

  The house servants all stood lined up at attention on the stairs, the blushing young maids misty-eyed at losing yet another handsome de Montforte brother, the bewigged footmen well-turned out in the duke's livery, the butler and housekeeper quietly watching as the Defiant One prepared to depart for his new life. Outside, Nerissa stood beside a stony-faced Lucien, trying to feign happiness for the sake of the newlyweds but looking as though she was ready to start weeping at any moment. Charles and Amy's coach, a driver on the box and a footman riding behind, waited on the drivem as did Celsie's carriage, filled to the roof — and beyond — with Andrew's clothes, possessions, and those contents of his laboratory which couldn't fit in the wagon which would make the journey to Rosebriar tomorrow.

  Celsie's heart went out to Nerissa, who looked forlorn as she stood beside Lucien. She knew that Nerissa and Andrew were close, and almost felt as though she were taking her brother away from her. Impulsively she embraced the other woman, hugging her tightly. "Please don't be sad," she said. "I know you'll miss Andrew, but you must come visit us at Rosebriar as often as you can." And then, for Nerissa's ears alone, she whispered, "I promise I'll take as good care of him as I do my dogs."

  Nerissa gave a watery smile. "I know you will. Otherwise, I would never let you take him away."

  A groom came up, leading Andrew's gray thoroughbred, Newton, in one hand and Charles's tall, strapping Contender in the other. The big stallion had carried Charles into battle near Boston when he had been a captain in the Fourth Foot, and served him just as proudly now that he was a major stationed at Horse Guards in London.

  Good-byes were said, embraces exchanged, tears held at bay. Andrew helped Celsie into the coach, hoisted Freckles up onto the seat beside her, and whistled for Esmerelda, who bounded eagerly up after the older dog. He stood waiting as Charles handed Amy into the vehicle. Then the two brothers mounted their horses, Charles touched his hat to the duke and Nerissa, and a moment later, the procession was heading off around the big circular drive, the two riders flanking the coach, the setting sun turning everything to gold.

  Hundreds of voices called out all around them as Celsie and Amy leaned out the windows, waving.

  "Good-bye!"

  "Godspeed!"

  "God be with you . . . good-bye!"

  They crossed the moat, passed hundreds of cheering, waving villagers, and once out onto the Ravenscombe road, let the horses have their heads.

  Celsie, with Freckles leaning heavily against her and a lovelorn Esmerelda on the floor trying to attract his attention, settled herself into her seat and thrust her toes against the warm brick, wrapped in a blanket, at her feet. Her mind was still whirling over all the events of the last fortnight, let alone the last few hours. I am a married woman, she thought, in some disbelief. But she didn't feel any different than she had before.

  On the opposite seat, Amy was leaning her head back and sighing with relief that they were finally on their way. Fearful of the effects of travel on their infant daughter, she and Charles had left little Mary behind in the care of a wet nurse. Celsie knew that both were eager to get back to her. Now, Amy opened her dark eyes and looked across at Celsie, her brow creased thoughtfully. "Do you know, I don't think I've ever seen Lucien looking quite so . . ."

  "Lost?" Celsie supplied.

  "Yes, lost. Preoccupied. I can't put my finger on it. He was that way
all afternoon."

  "Maybe he has regrets about playing Andrew and me like puppets."

  "Oh, I doubt that," Amy said, with a faint smile. "Funny, but when I first met him, I didn't think him capable of the scheming manipulations that everyone blamed on him. And once I found that he schemed and manipulated Charles and me into getting married, well, I really couldn't be angry with him. He gave me a new life, a new identity, respectability in society — and his brother. But tonight . . . he just didn't look himself. I wonder if he's feeling a little bereft at having nobody left to manipulate."

  "If he is, it's his own bloody fault." Celsie moved over to give Freckles more room. "So he manipulated you and Charles as well, then?"

  "Oh, yes." Amy grinned. "And Gareth and Juliet, too."

  "Well, I don't feel so singled out, then," Celsie allowed, returning Amy's smile. "Did you and Charles have a love match?"

  "Yes, but our love was already strong when Lucien pushed us into marriage. Gareth and Juliet, however . . . well, they had their own share of problems. But Lucien knew what he was doing when he brought them together. Eventually, they came to love each other" — she reached out and touched Celsie's hand — "just as you and Andrew will."

  A lump caught in Celsie's throat and she looked away, out the window. "You think so, do you?"

  "Oh, Celsie," said Amy, laughing and leaning forward. "Did you see the way Andrew kept looking at you during the ceremony? And the way he was beaming when he first introduced you to his brothers? Trust me, you did the right thing. I know it in my heart. And let me tell you, there is nothing in this world to equal being loved by a de Montforte. Andrew will make you a fine husband. His love will be worth waiting for."

  "But his moods are so unpredictable, and he gets surly and standoffish whenever I think he's starting to warm up to me. I just don't understand him."

  Amy eyed her gravely. "You mean he hasn't told you?"

  "Told me what?"

  Amy pursed her lips, as though she'd said too much. "He has — well, let's just say there are some things in his life that he has a hard time adjusting to." She smiled, apologetically. "But with your help, I'm sure he will."

  It was obvious that Amy was reluctant to carry the conversation in that direction. Though her curiosity was aroused, Celsie brought the topic back to the duke's manipulations out of respect for her sister-in-law. "So what about Nerissa?" she asked. "Why is it that Lucien has tampered with his brothers' fates, but has left his only sister alone?"

  "Oh, she's already as good as affianced to Perry, Lord Brookhampton. He's the duke's neighbor, and as handsome and dashing as the day is long."

  Celsie grinned. "As handsome and dashing as the de Montforte brothers?"

  "Well now, I think our two are awfully hard to beat!"

  They laughed, and Celsie moved further over to make more room for Freckles. The dog groaned, stretched, and tried to claim even more space as he laid his noble old head across her lap, his eyes closing. He didn't mind that his mistress was now crushed against the leather squab. And he was totally oblivious to Esmerelda. The setter eyed him longingly, then, casting a hopeless glance at Celsie, lay down on the floor of the coach, put her head dejectedly on her paws, and stared unblinkingly at the door, her thoughts, like Celsie's, her own.

  I know how it feels, girl. It's hard to find yourself thinking you could fall in love with someone, only to have him withdraw into himself whenever you want to get close to him.

  Dear God. Did she want to get close to Andrew? Did she want to have the sort of relationship with him that Amy and Juliet had with their de Montforte men?

  Yes.

  She leaned her cheek against the squab. Oh, yes . . .

  Opposite, Amy reached for her sewing, though the light was starting to fade and her time on such a pursuit would be limited. The two fell into easy conversation, talking about the things they admired about their husbands, the similarities of their respective childhoods, the baby that Amy had and the babies that Celsie hoped Andrew would give her.

  Presently the shadows became oppressive gloom. Amy put her sewing aside. At a coaching inn near Maidenhead, they stopped to change horses and take a quick meal and decided to press on toward Rosebriar.

  The lights of the coach were lit, and before long, the sway and rock of its movement made them both drowsy. Celsie looked out the window at the stars riding high over the dark rolling hills. She felt content. At peace. The ever-present threat of highwaymen didn't worry her; not with the dogs here with them, and Andrew and Charles, both of whom were well armed, flanking their coach. Andrew was a peerless swordsman. And no road robber in his right mind would dare harass a stern, competent army major with a sword and two pistols at the ready.

  She had just closed her eyes when a sudden stop jolted her awake. Freckles raised his head from her lap, lifting his floppy ears. Esmerelda woofed and got to her feet, tail stiff. Celsie sat up, exchanged glances with Amy, and tried to see outside, where they could hear Andrew talking with Charles. A moment later, Charles rode Contender up to the window.

  "Forgive us for stopping," he said with an easy smile, his cool blue eyes warming as they briefly rested on Amy. In the darkness, he looked handsome and reassuring in his uniform. "There's a coach just ahead that's gone off the road. We think they might have broken an axle. If you don't mind, Andrew will stay here with you while I ride ahead to offer our help in speeding the poor folks on their way."

  "I don't mind," said Celsie, shrugging.

  "Neither do I," added Amy. "I feel sorry for anyone left stranded out on these lonely roads." She leaned out the window and kissed her husband. "Go, Charles. And if their coach is broken down, I'm sure we can make room in ours so they can at least get to the next coaching inn."

  He touched his hat to them and rode off.

  "That's my Beloved One," Amy said, smiling as she settled back down in her seat. "Always thinking of others before himself."

  As indeed Charles was. He waited while Andrew moved Newton up to the window and then, one hand on his pistol in case of a cleverly laid trap, urged Contender toward the stricken coach. It had been drawn just off the road so as not to impede other travelers, its team unhitched and tied to a tree. Charles frowned, for beside it sat a burly young man with his head in his hands, obviously drunk, obviously unable to deal with such a demanding situation, while nearby, a young peasant woman in tired brown rags struggled to single-handedly push the heavy vehicle against a tree, presumably in hopes of getting the wheel off.

  There was no way in God's heaven that she was ever going to succeed.

  Charles released his hold on the pistol. His mouth grim with sympathy, he urged Contender, who had begun to fret, toward the coach. Immediately the stallion shied sideways, head flung high as he faced the stricken vehicle and blowing hard through his nostrils.

  "Easy, boy," Charles murmured, patting the sleek neck and coolly assessing the situation. He was nothing if not confident, and he was well used to dealing with demanding situations. This, however, did not look like a demanding situation at all.

  "Good evening," he said pleasantly, removing his tricorne in respect to the poor young woman who had given up trying to lift the coach and was now on her hands and knees beneath it, peering up at the axle, a lantern glowing on the ground beside her. "We couldn't help but notice your rather unfortunate predicament. Perhaps I can be of some assistance?"

  At the sound of Charles's calm, reassuring voice, she crawled out from beneath the coach, fat tears of relief rolling down her dusty cheeks when she saw his uniform.

  "Oh, sir, any assistance ye could be givin' us would be much appreciated! Me 'usband's as soused as a fox and these roads are crawlin' with highwaymen and Oi'm scared to death we won't get 'ome without gettin' murdered! It's the axle, I think — or maybe the wheel. Oi just don't know . . ."

  "Well then, let me see what I can do here," Charles soothed, instinctively taking control of the situation. But as he slipped his boots from the irons and prepared to
dismount, Contender snorted and shied hard once more, nearly unseating him. Growing impatient with the normally unflappable horse, Charles vaulted from the saddle and approached the vehicle.

  "You don't know how glad I am to see ye," the peasant woman said, getting to her feet. She wiped her eyes with the back of a grimy hand and brushed the dust from her ragged skirts. "I think the problem's with the other wheel, or up underneath. There don't seem to be anythink wrong on this side, least, not to me unknowin' eye." She picked up the lantern, its light catching her full in the face and revealing vivid red hair and slanting green eyes, before she turned and led him around to the other side of the coach.

  "Here. Allow me." Charles took the lantern and calmly surveyed the coach. It wasn't a large vehicle; between him, Andrew, and the servants, they should be able to lift it in order to make whatever repairs the situation demanded. He knelt, peering up underneath it and inspecting the undercarriage with a critical eye. "So what seems to be the problem?"

  "Oh, it's probably this silly wheel . . . we just 'ad it replaced, and now there's this awful rumblin' noise comin' from up underneath and I'm a'scared to droive it any farther for fear it's going to come loose and make us 'ave an accident!"

  "I see," said Charles, going down on one knee beside the wheel and taking off his gloves. "Well, if you could just hold the lantern so I could have some light, I'll see what I can do." He smiled reassuringly. "Probably just needs a little tightening, and then the two of you can be on your way."

  Her eyes gleaming, Eva de la Mouriére picked up the lantern and watched as he began to examine the perfectly fine wheel and axle. Ah, yes, she thought in satisfaction, as she gazed haughtily down at his pale, wavy hair, so neatly caught in its tidy black queue. Every man had a weakness, and she had correctly discerned this one's. The gallant Lord Charles de Montforte was too much of a gentleman to pass a hapless traveler without stopping to offer his help. He was too unimaginative in his thinking to ever even consider that danger might come in the form of an apparently helpless young woman.

  And he was going to have one hell of a headache when he woke up.