Lizzie Tempest Ruins A Viscount (Felmont Brides Series Book 1)

by Maggie Jagger

Chapter 29

  It was not so very bad being kidnapped.

  The enormous horse had an easy gait. The viscount held her wrapped in his black cloak, in the crook of his left arm and held the reins with his right hand. Lizzie felt such relief at not being left to fend for herself in her nightrail that she did not wonder where they were going or why, until they started the climb up the fell.

  If he wanted to find a quiet place to berate her with his complaints about her treatment of him, he could not have found a more certain place not to be disturbed. The trees overhead gave way to moorland, the higher they climbed. The huge horse walked steadily on, not noticing he carried two on his back.

  Did the viscount mean to leave her up there?

  Lizzie squirmed to look up at him. Before he could open his mouth to hush her again, she blurted out, “What are you going to do with me? If you leave me up here, I shall never forgive you!”

  “Leave you, chérie? When I ’ave gone to so much trouble to steal you?” He spoke with a French accent, like that highwayman had done when he’d broken her arm all those years ago.

  Lizzie gave a great start. “Stop it, Dace! You want to frighten me half to death, I know it is you.”

  “Bien sûr, chére Elizabet’. I am your ’usband—now.” He gave the slightest of hesitations before adding with a laugh, “I vow you shall never ’ave another.”

  She could not get another word of sense from him.

  His offer to gag her again bought her silence.

  They passed the church of Saint George of Fells Mount and continued on until they turned down the path towards the hunting lodge.

  The door was unlocked, the interior clean and aired. No doubt the viscount had ordered it made ready for a shooting party.

  The blackguard made himself at home, lighting a fire in the hearth, emptying his pockets of the food he had obviously pilfered from the kitchen before kidnapping her. Sausage, cheese, rolls and what could only be one of Mrs. Comfrey’s pork pies. No wonder his pockets had bulged and that smell was now explained. Not even the soap from the Priory could mask it.

  He turned to her with the smile of a Felmont up to wickedness.

  Lizzie stamped her feet. “Stop smirking at me, Felmont! I know very well who you are.” Lizzie let him remove the cloak. She crept closer to the fire.

  “But no, you know nothing about me, my wife.” His false French accent irked her. He brought a chair close to the hearth and indicated she should sit. “If your derrière is not too painful?”

  Lizzie sat with dignity.

  He knelt in front of her, toasting himself. The floorboards boasted no carpet, a hunting lodge invited muddy boots by its very nature. The shutters were closed. It was an uncomfortable place to spend the night as it had no bed.

  “Why have you brought me here?” Lizzie liked his new hairstyle. Not that she intended to tell him so.

  “To make you my wife, chérie.” His stubborn staying in character began to unnerve her.

  “Do stop talking like that. Why are you pretending to be French?” She glared at him to hide her nervousness. “Do you think I do not know your Felmont nose? It’s too big to miss.”

  He stroked his nose. “You do not like it? Then why did you marry him?”

  Lizzie curled her legs up under her to keep her toes warm. A cold draft swept the floor. “Why did I marry you?”

  “Him, chérie. The man you have locked in your bridal bed. Why did you marry him, if you mean not to enjoy ’is beautiful body? You notice, I do not ask you to admire ’is nose.”

  She had no objection to telling him. “I was forced to marry him and I locked him up because he is depraved, debauched, immoral, and thoroughly wicked.”

  He shrugged. “You describe all men. You ’ave never enjoyed the way he touched you?”

  “Never,” Lizzie shot back. It might be a lie but he could not prove it unless he admitted who he was.

  “Good. We shall make love together.” He watched her draw back into her chair. “I know how to treat a lady. With me you shall be loved from sunset to sunrise. Shall we begin now?”

  Lizzie slapped away his questing hand. “Quentin Seraphim Dacey Felmont! Stop right now! I have had enough of your madness, of your folly. I swear you shall never touch me again. Not after what you have done.”

  “What did he do, chérie. I vow never to repeat it.”

  “He fornicated with a black-haired whore.” The look of disbelief on his face irritated her. “You were too busy with her to notice me, but I saw you.” Tears began. Lizzie curled her toes in vain. It only worked when wearing shoes.

  He waited until she searched for a handkerchief, then he offered her one of his with his sympathy. “He is the veriest blackguard! Caught fornicating. No wonder you keep him under lock and key. I shall kill him for you, chérie, and you will life ’appily with me for the rest of your days.”

  “I know who you are, Felmont. If you refuse to be locked up, then I must leave you.” More tears dripped at the thought.

  He let his hand rest on her thigh. “You have left him, chérie. Let’s ’ope he rots.”

  “Don’t say that. You wouldn’t say it if you had actually seen it happen.” Lizzie refused to think of him rotting.

  “Then he shall have a quick death. Stabbed in the heart for breaking yours.” The Beast demonstrated the stabbing movement for her.

  She sneered at him. “You did not break my heart, for I never loved you.”

  “Bien sûr, how could you love me when we ’ave never met?”

  “Annoying, dratted Beast! You are Viscount Felmont and I can prove it.”

  “Prove it, chérie? Impossible,” he said in the French way.

  “You have a wound on your shoulder from a cannonball. I have only to remove your shirt to prove you are a lying Felmont.”

  “Remove my shirt if you wish, madame. We get to know one another at last.” He was calling her bluff. “I’ll make it easy for you.” He knelt close to lean against the edge of her chair.

  Lizzie undid his black bombazine shirt. With his help she tugged it over his head. An old faded, darned undershirt covered him almost as thoroughly as before. Lizzie undid the buttons at the neck. She had to tug it free from his belt and pull it over his head on her own.

  There was his bandage, spotlessly white, wrapped around his right shoulder.

  “Proof! You may put your clothes back on.” In truth, Lizzie had to admit the sight of his chest unnerved her. Many hours she had spent next to it, on top of it or under it. She fought the urge to touch him. If he lived up to his Felmont reputation, she was doomed to be ravished by him sooner rather than later.

  “But you have not removed the bandage, chérie. What does your husband keep under his?”

  “The same thing you have and I do not want to see it.”

  “But you must, chérie. If you do not, then you admit I am your husband and I must seal our union by claiming a husband’s rights.” He stroked her knees.

  “Union! Don’t mention union to me! You are my fiendish husband, you are him! How dare you.” She stopped talking to push his hand away. The wretch! He was her damned Felmont.

  “Remove it, or I shall remove your clothes,” he warned.

  “Get away from me! Do you expect me to sit here naked?” Lizzie could neither retreat further nor get past him.

  “Remove my bandage, chérie. Or you will sit naked very soon. Or half-naked like one of those angels above the door of your ’ouse”

  “They are not–” Lizzie stopped. Dace never called them angels. How many times had she heard him say they are damned winged victories, leave heaven out of it. She trembled. “I hate you!”

  Lizzie reached for his shoulder. She did not touch his skin, except to search for the end of the bandage tucked underneath. He moved closer, leaning against her knees, placing his forearms along the armrests of her chair. His breath whispered to her.

  Gooseflesh rose all over her.

  She did not want to see his wound!
/>
  The last of the dressing slipped down. Lizzie felt it give and gave a squeal. She closed her eyes. All her blood had turned to water.

  “It is not so very bad. Look, chérie,” he urged in a low voice. He leaned closer to put his arms around her.

  Lizzie opened her eyes, afraid he’d accidentally touch her with his wound. She saw a shoulder unmarked, except for some bruising. For a moment Lizzie thought she had looked at the wrong one.

  Neither of his shoulders showed scarring or any sign of a wound, except for the bruising. His nakedness swam before her eyes.

  “Hellfire, Lizzie! Don’t faint,” he drawled like a damned Felmont.

  Her head sank onto his shoulder with a dull thud. For an awful moment, she’d been scared to death. Her breath sobbed on the way out. She hated men, all of them, except the dead ones.

  “Hush, chére Elizabet’,” he murmured. “I warned you, I am not the man you think me.”

  “Why?” Lizzie’s teeth chattered together. She could not frame another question.

  The fire shifted in the grate. A piece of burning coal flew out of the hearth onto the wooden floor. He turned quickly to brush it back onto the slate. His back showed long and lean, with a mark high on his right shoulder.

  “What is that?” Lizzie uncurled from her chair. Her legs might not be able to support her at the moment, but kicking him away might be necessary.

  He answered casually, still busy with the bright glowing ember. “A brand, chérie. They brand thieves in France.”

  For the third time in her life, all of them his fault, the floor rushed up to hit her.