Gallant Match

by Jennifer Blake

  Jean Pierre would never agree. He was satisfied with matters as they were, thought he would have everything his way in the end. But the end was not yet.

  She brought her arm up, knocking his hand away from her body. “It will matter to you when my aunt comes at you with her hat pin again.”

  Jean Pierre stiffened, stepped back a pace. “Interfering old witch,” he growled, his face suffusing with dark color in the uncertain light. “I should have locked her up for attacking me. I may yet if she dares come between us again.”

  “Touch one hair on her head, and I’ll never be your wife.” Sonia lifted her chin as she spoke, her gaze hard on his face.

  “That may be, but you’ll still warm my—”

  “Good evening. Fine night, isn’t it?”

  The greeting came from the shadows farther back along the gallery. Tremont strolled into view a moment later, one hand in his coat pocket and the other holding a cheroot to his mouth while the tip glowed red. The smoke left his lips, drifting away in a fine gray cloud as he came up to them.

  “Tremont.” Jean Pierre’s acknowledgment of the greeting was surly.

  “Monsieur.” Sonia’s cool greeting covered her fervid appreciation for his timely appearance.

  “We missed you at the supper table, mademoiselle. I trust you have recovered from our ride?”

  “Quite.”

  “I regret that it had to be undertaken, but it was necessary to reach here in haste.”

  He was watching her with narrow interest, or so Sonia thought, though he might just as well be squinting against the smoke that made a gray veil around his head. The look she gave him in return was hardly cordial.

  “Not forgiven, I see.” His smile turned wry. “Ah, well, it’s hardly to be expected.” When she made no answer, he ground out his cheroot on a nearby post, inspected the end then tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. “I believe I heard you mention dessert. Allow me to escort you to the dining room. A dish of flambéed bananas over ice cream was carried up from the kitchen just now. It should not be wasted.”

  She murmured her thanks, the words only a shade less frigid than the promised treat. She put her fingers on his arm and moved closer to his side. Accepting his offer was far better than staying behind with Jean Pierre.

  Her fiancé took a hasty step after them. “Just a minute here.”

  Tremont paused, looked over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  Jean Pierre stared at him. It was no wonder, perhaps, for the American’s voice carried an unexpected note of steely impatience. Sonia looked from one to the other, her attention caught by the tension that vibrated between them. At the same time, she realized she had heard nothing from the dark storeroom since Tremont’s arrival.

  “I will join you upstairs shortly,” Jean Pierre said, his voice stiff, almost petulant. “We will talk again later, Sonia, ma chère.”

  She made no answer. There would be no opportunity later, not if she could help it.

  They moved along the lower gallery without speaking, she and Tremont. When they passed the open door of the kitchen, crossing the rectangle of light that lay on the stone walkway, he put his hand on her fingers where they lay on his arm. “An impulsive man, your betrothed,” he said in tones too low to be heard behind him. “First he sends for you based solely on past infatuation, and now he can’t wait to claim you.”

  “Infatuation?”

  “So he has said.”

  “And you believe it.”

  He smiled down at her. “Don’t you?”

  “I think it was for spite, and balm for his pride that I wounded by refusing to dance with him.”

  “Men survive such slights. They don’t, as a rule, take retribution for them.”

  “Not most men, no.” She went on before he could comment. “Who are you, really? I mean, you sound as if you barely know Jean Pierre, certainly never mentioned the acquaintance on the ship, yet here you are with him.”

  A grimace crossed his features. “I knew interfering back there was a mistake.”

  It was a reminder, if she needed one, of how much she owed him. “I’m grateful you did, and sorry if you object to the questions, only—”

  “Only you are curious? Say your fiancé and I are recent acquaintances then.”

  “Because of money, I suppose, and the traffic in rifles.”

  He stopped, staring at her with a frown between his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “You needn’t pretend. Kerr saw you in the ship’s hold when you checked on them.”

  “He saw but didn’t tell Captain Frazier.”

  “Perhaps he thought it none of his business.”

  Tremont began to walk again. “It’s a good thing he kept the information close to his chest or I might have been in the brig when the Lime Rock went down. I suppose I owe him for that.”

  “If you feel any obligation, then I beg you will help him,” she said, halting and turning toward him. “He’s being held in that storeroom back there, I’m almost sure of it. It would be—”

  “Impossible.”

  “But why? It’s such a small thing.”

  “It isn’t small at all. Don’t ask it. Please.”

  The hard finality in his voice cut deep, the more so because she had allowed herself to hope. Sonia snatched her hand from under his, releasing his arm. The main staircase lay ahead of her. Picking up her skirts, she ran toward it.

  On the second step, she stumbled, half blinded by a film of tears. Blinking hard, she went on. Even as she climbed toward the dining room, however, she listened again for some sound, some evidence that she was right, that Kerr was in the dark storeroom below. Some proof that he was alive.

  There was nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  Twenty-Six

  Kerr drew his first easy breath as he heard Sonia’s footsteps recede along with those of that bastard, Tremont. God, the raging fear of being forced to listen to Rouillard accost her while powerless to stop it. He’d been sure he meant to rape her there outside the door. He’d tried to tear the chain out of the wall, wanted to rip the door off its hinges with his bare hands. He was still shaking with fury, certain in the knowledge that Rouillard had wanted him to hear, had meant him to taste the fear.

  It was to be his punishment for taking Sonia back there in the jungle. Only, she was the one meant to pay.

  This was the bastard she was to marry, an immoral cretin who held nothing sacred, cared for nothing except what he wanted. A small man who needed to lord it over everybody around him so he could feel big. An idiot who could not be grateful for the lovely bride given to him, but had to punish her for not wanting him. Worst of all, he seemed set on enjoying his revenge.

  From what he’d heard, Kerr thought the wedding must still be going to take place. That meant his offer had been rejected. Rouillard had said so before, but this was final confirmation.

  Good enough. He was now under no obligation to spare Sonia’s promised husband. Nor would he, not when it meant a lifetime for Sonia with such a man.

  Backing to his cot, Kerr sat down on it. He ran his hand over his head, probing gingerly at his skull. Hard-headed, he’d been called more than once, and a damn good thing he was, too. His scalp was sore, the hair stiff with dried blood where the rifle butt had hit him, and he still had a headache, but the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was gone. He thought he would be all right.

  The question was, would Sonia? She was at Rouillard’s mercy here in his house. He did not have the look of a man used to controlling his appetites. Soon he would simply kick down her door and take her.

  Kerr’s hope was that he’d decide to settle with him first. He was waiting for that moment. It would be his chance, maybe the only one he’d get.

  All was quiet now out in the courtyard. Kerr turned to the wall that held his chain. Winding the links around his wrist, he swung it, wearing on the bolt, trying to loosen it from the rock wall as he’d been doing most of the day. It was disheartening work, especia
lly in the dark; he had only a small pile of rock dust to show for his labor. Keeping at it relieved some of the rage inside him. Besides, what else did he have to do?

  It was a quarter hour later, possibly less, when he realized he was able to see what he was doing. Lamplight was approaching, showing through the cracks around the door. Seconds later, he heard the rattle of keys and the creak of the bolt.

  The door swung open. Kerr was on his feet with the length of chain draped in his hands. The captain of the guard stepped inside, preceded by his shadow cast by the lantern left on the stone floor outside. He was followed by a detail of six men.

  For a fleeting moment, Kerr met the gaze of the man who had clubbed him. Wariness flickered across the captain’s face. He rapped out an order, and two of the detail raised the rifles they carried, sighting on Kerr’s chest.

  “Step aside. We are ordered to release you and deliver you upstairs.”

  That sounded a vast improvement over his current occupation, Kerr thought. Could be it was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He gave a nod and moved to one end of the bed to allow access to the chain’s wall bolt.

  He wasn’t to be set free of his chain. It was left connected to his left ankle. The extra length dragged along behind him, rattling on the stones of the courtyard as the detail advanced on the staircase to the main floor. It trailed, banging on every step, as he climbed upward, made a high-pitched clatter on the tile floor as they entered the dining room.

  He saw Sonia at once, seated on Rouillard’s right where he held pride of place at the head of the table. She turned ghostly pale and half rose from her chair as the detail crossed the threshold with him a prisoner among them. Rouillard seized her arm, dragging her back down beside him.

  She shimmered in the candlelight, a vision in silk and lace and with flowers nestled against the coiled coronet of her hair. The consummate lady, refined, delicately scented compared to his vinegar-and-corn-husk smell, his bearded face and ragged hair. She was so far above him that he grew dizzy from the height. Nevertheless, the longing to take her somewhere, hold her close against him, skin to skin, heart to heart, slammed into him like a sledgehammer blow. The sight of Rouillard’s hand on her arm, holding tight around pale skin that already carried bruising, was a knife thrust to his vitals.

  Kerr knotted his fists, took a step forward. Crossed rifles came up to block his way. It was the reminder he needed to lock down his rage, to wait, to plan.

  Across the space that separated them, he met Sonia’s eyes. For that moment, she was the only thing that existed in his world. No one else mattered, not Tremont who sat on the other side of her, not her tante Lily next to him. No, there were only her eyes, wide, dark, filled with a thousand memories.

  Those same moments bombarded him like so many thrown stones in that instant: her tears in the rain, the moment when she slid down a drainpipe and into his arms; a kiss with fury and desire behind it; the swim to shore after the shipwreck; the deathly stillness of the jungle as she let him cut the thorn from her foot; her surrender upon an ancient altar, her riding him with the fierce pleasure of a Valkyrie. Memories to last a lifetime, or reason enough to die without regret.

  “Well, look what we have here.” Rouillard released Sonia and pushed back his chair, slouching down in it. “The entertainment of the evening.”

  Kerr fastened his gaze on the man’s face. He wanted to wipe the snide smile from it, smash his loose, wet mouth that might have touched Sonia’s lips, grind him into the dust.

  “What do you mean?” he heard Sonia ask, the words even enough though he could hear the dismay that lay beneath them.

  “Why, just what I said, chère. You ought to find it amusing since it was this man who forced you to board the ship that brought you. I should be grateful to him for that much, and would be if he had not forced so much more upon you.”

  “No,” she whispered, a strangled sound.

  “Monsieur!” Tante Lily said in protest, while Tremont, next to her, looked grim.

  “No?” Rouillard shook his head. “You’ll have to be more explicit, I think. Are you saying no force was required, that unlike with my invitation to dance, you did not refuse this barbarian?”

  “Leave her alone,” Kerr said in a warning so gruff it hurt his throat.

  Rouillard turned his bulbous gaze on Kerr. “But how can I? These things must be made clear before marriage. A man should know what kind of woman he’s taking to wife.”

  Kerr couldn’t stand this deliberate humiliation for Sonia. “You know or you wouldn’t have demanded she be sent to you. Let it be.”

  “But her condition is not the same as when she left her father’s care, now, is it? I want to know the extent of it, and whether she went willingly to your bed or was hauled there.”

  Sonia drew a sharp breath, a perfectly audible sound in the quiet.

  “Mon Dieu,” Tante Lily whispered.

  If he said she had come to him willingly, Kerr saw, she would be branded a wanton. If he said he had taken her against her will, he could be hanged out of hand for it. The law might wink at such summary justice by a wronged fiancé in the United States. How likely was it to notice such a thing here in a Latin country like Mexico?

  Once more, he met Sonia’s eyes, saw the terror that had surfaced there, half drowned by tears. He chose his course in the blink of an eye.

  “Mademoiselle Bonneval is without fault.”

  “Stop this, monsieur, stop it at once,” she cried, turning on Rouillard. “You have no cause to hold Monsieur Wallace. Release him now, tonight, and I give you my word I will speak my marriage vows at your side tomorrow.”

  Her terror had been for him, Kerr realized. So was this greatest of all sacrifices. It was the most precious gift he had ever received. It heated his heart, closed his throat so he could find no words for the protest inside him.

  It also set his brain in fierce motion. It gave him the bare glimmer of a way out.

  Triumph spread over Rouillard’s face. “How magnanimous of you, my own Sonia. I am delighted. Tremont, my friend, you heard the bargain.”

  Tremont waved a hand, though his distaste for the scene did not leave his features.

  “There, that’s done.” He gave Sonia a snide smile. “Shall we plan the nuptials, you and I, and the breakfast afterward? Or should I leave it to you and your aunt?”

  “Not so fast,” Kerr said, his voice carrying the lash of a whip. He went on at once in the manner prescribed by the code duello. “You have impugned my honor, sir, and that of the lady. I demand satisfaction.”

  Stillness pervaded the room. The guard next to Kerr sent an uneasy glance across him to his counterpart.

  “You demand?” A guffaw broke from Rouillard. “In case you haven’t noticed, Wallace, you’re in no position to demand anything.”

  “Meet me or stand recognized as a coward before every man in this room, and also before the lady you are to marry.”

  Craftiness appeared in the other man’s face. “You’re a master swordsman. It would be legal murder.”

  “Leave on the chain.” He gave it a contemptuous shake, making it rattle as it trailed behind him on the floor. “That should even the odds.”

  “No,” Sonia whispered, a mere zephyr of sound as her gaze lingered on the blood-stiffened area of his hair. “Not now, not after—”

  “Wait, chère,” her aunt said, her fine eyes narrowing as she looked from Kerr to her niece and back again.

  “It’s a start,” Rouillard drawled.

  “What more could you want?” It should be enough, Kerr thought, given the headache that had returned to pound across the top of his head. Apparently, he had not allowed for the depth of the man’s self-interest.

  “It’s my privilege as the challenged party to propose the terms of this duel. I claim the right to choose a champion to fight in my place.” Rouillard waved in the direction of the dark-haired man on Sonia’s right. “My friend here has some skill with a blade, I believe. I choose Mo
nsieur Tremont.”

  Kerr’s gaze flashed to that of the other man. Tremont appeared thoughtful, almost as if his mind was elsewhere.

  “Well, monsieur,” Rouillard asked, “do you accept the substitute?”

  It wasn’t what Kerr had intended. His idea, as far as it went, had been to convince Sonia’s fiancé of the stupidity of moral blackmail in persuading a woman to become his wife or, at the very least, injure him so badly it would be some time before he could perform the duties of a husband. That was, if he didn’t kill him.

  The last was his preference.

  None of these aims applied to Tremont, yet the man had stopped the diligence and carried off Sonia. It would be no hardship to give him reason to regret both moves. Any meeting was better than none.

  He still didn’t like it.

  “Hiding behind Tremont, Rouillard?” he queried.

  The man grunted. “Call it what you will. I freely admit to a lack of skill with the sword, and you’re far taller than I so have an advantage in reach. It would be suicide to face you.”

  The admission was a good move; Kerr had to give him that. It even sounded reasonable to him. The arrangement seemed as much as he was going to be allowed under the circumstances, especially when he had expected to be refused any chance at all. At least he would have a sword in his hand, which was the main point.

  “I accept your terms,” he said with a hard nod. “That is, if the meeting can take place at once.”

  Rouillard smiled, his eyes gleaming. “I see no objection.”

  It was what the man had intended, Kerr thought. Why was that, unless he wanted Sonia to see what he expected to be her lover’s defeat? Kerr glanced around, weighing the lighted room with its limited space as a venue against the open courtyard with limited visibility. The room would suffice. First things first, however.

  Turning toward his countryman, he sketched a truncated bow. “Sir?”

  “As you will.” Tremont sighed, then straightened and pushed back his chair. The answering bow he gave then was a model of grace and resignation.