The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  But so had Evan.

  That thought stole the remainder of her composure. Dropping the quilt, she burst up from the bed, intending to go toward the door. Northley’s hand snaked out with more speed than she thought the old woman possessed, snagging the back of her dress and anchoring her to the spot.

  “You’re not going anywhere, mite,” Northley stated.

  “Let me go.” Vivian slapped at her hand, attempting to walk forward. The maid hauled her back, her grip tightening on the muslin of her dress.

  “His Grace said you ought to stay here, and so here you will stay,” Northley replied, the levelness of her tone surprising Vivian. As if this was all habit to her.

  “You don’t understand,” Vivian snapped. “I have to get to him. I can’t stay in here.”

  James was out there fending off a group of armed villains because of her. How could she have been so shortsighted? In these last weeks, James had become her everything. He’d made her feel normal again.

  And she’d in turn sacrificed him for a chance at revenge.

  The snapping sound of another gunshot ripped through their chamber. Fear snatched at her gut, twisting until she felt like her entire body was being contorted and maligned. Her heart pounded furiously against her chest, her breath coming in pants instead of measured exhales.

  No, no, please no. Not James.

  He’d risked everything for her.

  She’d save him, or die trying.

  Vivian wrenched her dress from Northley’s iron grip, racing toward the door. On the way there, she grabbed the rapier James had given her. She ignored the maid’s call for her, her hand on the door. Her ears strained for any sound of the outside fray, anything that might indicate whether James was hurt.

  There was nothing. She didn’t know if she should be relieved or not. In the past year, she had come to dread the unknown. Stealing herself for whatever she might find outside this safe room, she opened the door.

  She almost slammed straight into a short, portly man with a round face and a receding hairline. His brown hair was streaked with gray, whilst his ears stuck out, seemingly too large for the rest of him. He dressed all in black—except for the white neckcloth adorning his thick neck.

  He appeared wholly unthreatening. Until his almost black, beady eyes set upon her with such coldness that it sucked the warmth from her body, leaving her frozen. Then his thin lips curled into a sneer so malevolent her grip faltered on the rapier.

  After a year and a half of searching for the man who had killed her brother, she knew without question she was now face to face with him.

  She couldn’t move. She was mesmerized, her feet pasted to this spot. For a second, she even forgot to breathe, so caught in the strange, malicious magnetism of this bastard.

  “I see you recognize me, though you did not expect to see me here. That was the plan—one your man followed perfectly, even if you couldn’t. I sent my men out front to distract him, while I crept around the back for you.” His voice was quiet, as equally unassuming as his features, yet somehow that made it more unsettling. If one did not know who he truly was, he was easily forgettable, the type of man who could slip easily through a crowd without anyone ever remembering he’d been there to begin with.

  The type of man who could stomp out her brother’s life without there being any witnesses to recall the violence.

  That thought freed her from his thrall. She raised her rapier, thrusting out. Sauveterre dashed to the side, avoiding her blade. She stepped out of the doorway, further into the hall, expecting to follow Sauveterre. But he was still in the hall—he barreled into her, using his stocky weight to his advantage.

  One minute she was standing on her own two feet, and in the next, the world spun around her. She was falling, falling. Her head crashed into the corner of the bedside table. Her hip slammed hard against the floorboard, sending a roar of pain through her.

  Sprawled out on the ground, she gasped for air. Her head thrummed fiercely, and when she laid her hand to her forehead, slick, sticky blood coated her fingertips. Sauveterre was short, but he was far stronger than she’d anticipated and he knew how to leverage his bulky mass for optimum impact. And he was fast, so much faster than she was.

  She heard the smack of Northley’s feet against the floorboards. The maid came to defend her. Northley got in a good slash of her parasol, but then Sauveterre rounded on the elderly woman, his fist driving into Northley’s nose with a revolting crack. As blood streamed from her nose, he punched her again and again, until she tumbled to the floor, no longer moving.

  “No!” Vivian screamed. Her stomach roiled, bile rising in her mouth.

  Quickly, Vivian sat straight up. Blood rushed to her head, and for a second she saw spots until her vision cleared. Northley’s chest still moved. The maid was alive, but gore flooded her wrinkled face, disguising the liver spots with a horrific mask of crimson.

  The sight of Northley’s stricken form flooded Vivian with the desperate need to stop this butcher. No more people would be harmed by his hand. She found the strength to stand, though her knees were wobbly; though ache laced through her entire body from her fall; though fear for James, for her own life threatened to immobilize her.

  She would fight, and fight again.

  Sauveterre’s sinister eyes observed her as she struggled and finally found her footing. “You are prettier than I expected, Miss Loren,” he noted, with the same cool appreciation an entomologist had toward one of his mounted specimens.

  “You’ll address me as Her Grace, the Duchess of Abermont,” Vivian sneered, jutting her chin outward, as regal as she could appear when claret trickled down from the open gash on her forehead.

  “Ah yes, that. Who would have predicted Falcon was such a white knight?” A flash of irritation lit up Sauveterre’s eyes, the first real rush of emotion she’d seen. He stalked toward her, crowding her, pushing her back against the bedside table. “Nowhere in my studies of the man did he seem gallant. He’s a murderer, Vivian, worse than I am. Do you know how many French lives he’s taken? My friend Nicodème, for instance.”

  James’s broken speech as he admitted to taking the life of his sister’s killer echoed in her ears. She couldn’t fault him for what he’d done, or for other questionable acts he’d had to perform for this country—for her—to stay safe.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the metal rapier. It had tumbled from her hand when she’d fallen. Sauveterre must have kicked it away, for now it was across the room, by the desk. If she could just get there and grab it again, she’d stand a chance at him.

  She stood stock still, keeping her eyes on him. She dared not look straight at the blade, for fear he’d sense her plan.

  “James didn’t kill my brother. You did.” She flung the accusation at him, like the bullet she wished she could fire.

  Sauveterre shrugged. “A necessary casualty. Your brother had some very important papers in his possession. I needed them. If he hadn’t fought me, he’d still be alive. Now, Nicodème, his death achieved nothing.”

  To hear him talk about Evan with such cruel nonchalance sparked the rage within her she’d worked so hard to contain. She could not be calm. She launched herself at Sauveterre in a flurry of fists and kicks. She clapped his ears, and he winced, but he was not deterred. She jabbed her elbow in his stomach, and he responded with a punch to her shoulder. Pain resounded through her, but she kept going. She aimed for his eyes, jabbing her fingers in, but he grabbed hold of her before she could do much damage. He came at her again, the sheer speed of him terrifying her.

  She remembered what Arden and James had taught her. Extending her hand upwards, she chopped him with the hard part of her wrist, hitting that carotid artery between his neck and collarbone.

  He collapsed to the floor.

  For a second, she remained stunned, staring at his downed body. When he did not move, she crossed to Northley, nudging her. “Come on, we have to go.”

  But Northley did not stir. Her br
eath flowed in and out, but her eyes were closed and she no longer remained consciousness.

  So Vivian ran, ran, ran. She ran faster than she’d ever done before, her shoes slapping the floorboards, sprinting through the hall, past every closed door until she came to the main room.

  It was not until she’d skidded to a stop at the front door that she heard Sauveterre’s approach. Unlike her jagged, loud gasps for air, he sprinted with ease. Before she could put her hand on the handle, he was upon her, slamming her into the door. Her head smacked against the wood, fresh blood oozing from the existing cut on her forehead. Black spots swum before her eyes again, and for a second she feared her knees would give out entirely.

  The rapier was still in the bedroom. She had no weapon, no way to get to a weapon, and her vision swam. Terror surged through her, white-hot and blinding. She was going to die. Killed by the same man who’d murdered her brother. Sauveterre wouldn’t need to send James her teeth—he’d force James to view her mutilated corpse as she took her last breath.

  To us, for we have survived when we wish we had not.

  James’s voice rang in her ears, powerful and reassuring. His love strengthened her. She had not survived the last year and a half to have her flame snuffed out so brutally. She wanted to live—not just for herself but for James. She’d just found him. They deserved a long life together.

  She would not be taken from him so soon.

  When Sauveterre stepped back from her, she straightened up, looking over her shoulder at him. She used the only ammunition she had on him: his dismay over the death of his friend. Her voice did not shake—no, she spoke decisively, even vehemently. “Nicodème deserved to die. He tortured and raped innocent women.”

  A dark shadow crossed Sauveterre’s face. “That is one man’s side of the story. Just because a man exhibited his basest passions around the so-called fairer sex does not mean his death is warranted. You should not speak of things you know nothing about.”

  “You disgust me,” she hissed.

  With one swift move, he spun her around so that she faced him, her back pressed up against the door. “And yet of the two of us, I’ll be the one to leave here alive. I’ll be the one to present Falcon, Songbird, and Nixon to the Talons. Me, Vivian. Let’s see them mock my plans now. I have succeeded where they failed.”

  His appreciation of his own supposed genius repulsed her. She let him ramble, offering up no resistance, trying to lull him into a false sense of security. If she could get past him, she could use the fire poker as a makeshift épée.

  “Abermont House was supposedly a fortress. Too well-guarded. They said no one could get in. They said I was fool to try.” His lips perverted into a self-satisfied smirk. “So I thought outside of the box. I sent you in.”

  She took a small step forward, then to the left. Then another. If he’d keep reminiscing, she might make it to the poker.

  But he had other ideas. He narrowed the distance between them, skimming his fingers underneath her chin, tilting her head up so that she peered directly into his black gaze. “What did Falcon see in you, Vivian?” Her Christian name from his tongue slithered down her skin, making her feel dirty. “Why couldn’t you follow the plan? It was such a good plan. If you’d found the right information, I never would have had to threaten your life.”

  She tried to look away, but his hold on her chin tightened, affixing her.

  “If you weren’t going to help me, then I had to clean house,” Sauveterre continued, his nasal voice disturbingly taciturn. “I couldn’t run the risk that you’d be tracked to me, especially if I needed to send in a new operative to do what you could not. But I was good to you. I gave you one last chance, a little warning.”

  “You call sending me my brother’s teeth being good to me?” Vivian ground out.

  Sauveterre shrugged. “I could have sent you his balls. Would you have preferred that?”

  She shuddered. “You’re revolting.”

  “A pretty little governess is supposed to distract Falcon long enough so that she can get information. Our profession depends on the lure of sluts.” His eyes left her face, trailing down her body. “But you, you must have a golden cunny to get a duke to marry your strumpet arse.”

  Vivian stiffened against his touch. “I am no man’s whore, least of all yours.”

  He sniggered. “Your British law makes a woman her husband’s slave. It is the aspect of your code that Bonaparte appreciates the most.”

  “Then Bonaparte is a sick bastard,” she jeered.

  He backhanded her across her mouth, the hit so hard she heard her own teeth rattle. “Never speak about the First Consul that way.”

  She spit out a mouthful of blood and saliva in his face. “If you wanted my loyalty, you shouldn’t have killed my brother.”

  Fury spasmed across Sauveterre’s face, altering his inconspicuous features in a petrifying manner. This was the man who’d stomped on her brother’s face, who’d beat him until only his bloody coat could identify him.

  He swiped a hand across his face, wiping off her spit. “Falcon should do better at training his bitches. Let’s tell him that, shall we?”

  As his voice became dangerously cold, she gave up any hope of subterfuge. She tried to run from him, but he rounded on her, wrapping his arms around her. He squeezed her so tight she could barely breathe. It was happening—the moment she’d worried about in training. He was taking to her another place, and she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  Sauveterre dragged her to the door, opening it. He shoved her out in front of him, hanging onto her arm in case she tried to escape. In one fluid movement he pulled a knife out from his sheath, bracing it against her throat.

  She stood on the porch, the blade poised at the sensitive skin at her throat, and she surveyed the slaughter in the yard. Three men dead. Another two writhing in pain. Arden and Nixon stared at her, their faces mirror images of shock.

  James, bruised but still standing, turned around. The color drained from his face.

  “I love you,” she gasped out, not daring to say anything more, for a trickle of blood seeped down her throat as Sauveterre dug in the tip of the knife.

  Chapter 20

  James had thought he knew what fear was. The chill down his spine at a coming attack, or the dull ache of ominous precognition he could not shake. He had dared believe he was omnipotent when it came to fear, for in his twenty-eight years alive he had poured blood, sweat and agony into his country and gotten little in return.

  He had been wrong.

  He had never truly understood fear until this instant. Real fear was the pierce through his throat, as if Sauveterre held him too at knifepoint. It was the slow slide of crimson down Vivian’s pale skin. The certainty that she would die at the hands of a madman because he had not saved her.

  This was why spies did not fall in love.

  Everything in his life turned to rot, and now she would pay for his sins with her life.

  For a full minute, he could do nothing but stare at Vivian’s face. He did not even register the spy behind her. The deadly silver glint of the blade at her throat stole his wits. He could not be the agent she needed. He could not breathe.

  Arden recovered first. “This has nothing to do with her. If you want a hostage, take me. I guarantee you I will bring you more glory with Bonaparte than she ever would.”

  He heard Arden’s voice on his left, but he dare not take his eyes from Vivian to verify her position. As if somehow, by the power of his thoughts alone, he could keep Sauveterre from cutting her.

  Tenuously, he reconstructed his grip on reality. Arden’s speech had centered him. Reminded him that he was not alone. He had two of the best agents in England on his side. His mind began to race, sifting through every possible combat maneuver he knew to free Vivian.

  “I don’t doubt that you’d be quite valuable, Songbird,” Sauveterre said with a baleful smile, the knife still poised at Vivian’s throat. “But I’ll have you too soon. All in due
time.”

  “How?” Nixon’s gruff voice broke in. The jarvey was close enough on James’s right that out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nixon gesture to the bloodshed behind them. “Three of your men are dead. The last three will die soon. You have no one.”

  Sauveterre surveyed the copse scattered with dead bodies, as if seeing it for the first time. A spark of trepidation singed his dark gaze before it was promptly smothered. “I’ll admit the circumstances are not ideal. I expected more from my fellow Talons. But life is a revolving set of disappointments, isn’t it? The plan goes on. It evolves.”

  Recognition coursed through him in an unforeseen onslaught. Several years ago, he’d encountered another French assassin who spoke reverently of “plans.” That man had been thinner; his hair was longer.

  But his voice was the same. Throaty and nasal.

  He was almost certain it was the same man. If he was right, then there was hope for Vivian.

  “Bouchard,” he called conversationally, walking forward as though they were old friends. He did not need to look behind him to know that Arden and Nixon would back his play. Now, their expressions would be blank, revealing nothing to the enemy. Their bodies were poised to attack at a second’s notice.

  Like him, they constantly looked for the angle that would allow them to capture Sauveterre without harm to Vivian.

  Sauveterre tensed, pricking the tip of the knife against Vivian’s throat again. “Stay where you are.”

  A fresh spot of blood appeared underneath the point of the blade, sopping down. Vivian’s body slackened. Her skin had become precariously white. He did not know how much longer she could stand on her own two feet.

  Stay with me, love.

  “Bouchard,” he repeated, more insistently this time. Sauveterre’s tautness reassured him he was correct in his identification. “I know it’s you. Do not pretend you were not in Calais that March night four years ago.”

  While he addressed the man who had called himself Sauveterre, his eyes never left Vivian’s face, silently willing her to believe the end had not yet arrived. He’d promised to protect her always, and he’d keep that promise with his last dying breath.