Lord of Fire

by Gaelen Foley

  Her eyes widened as a rider on a white horse came streaking out of the park as though he had burst out of the roaring bonfire itself.

  Lucien!

  He leaped off the galloping horse onto Bardou, tackling the big man to the ground. The rifle went off, the bullet zooming high up into the trees where it startled a hidden flock of roosting birds. They fluttered up out of the branches with indignant cries.

  Still clutching Harry tightly in his arms, Weymouth let out a shocked oath and went over to see what was happening, but Alice stood rooted to her spot, watching their fight, all of her awareness focused on Lucien. He had told her it would be a struggle to the death, and she saw now what that meant.

  They fought like two wild predators, rolling over the pavement, Lucien slamming Bardou against the ground. The Guy Fawkes illuminations gave her only glimpses of their faces, casting both men—snarling, feral—in a primal glow of firelight, molded by shadow. Neither seemed to feel the blows each rained on the other; both seemed unaware of anything else around them. Their concentration was total. Lucien pinned Bardou to the ground, punching him again and again in the face, then Bardou reached up and grasped Lucien’s throat, starting to strangle him. Lucien reached toward Bardou’s open rifle case, feeling about with his hand while the Frenchman kept squeezing the life out of him.

  When Lucien suddenly lifted his hand from the rifle case, he was grasping a ten-inch steel bayonet. Alice gasped as Lucien’s arm plunged. He drove the bayonet straight downward like a spike into Bardou’s heart.

  She was still holding her breath when the big Frenchman’s hand slithered down from Lucien’s throat and fell limply onto the pavement.

  He was dead.

  Lucien wiped his brow and rose, leaving the bayonet sticking out of Bardou’s chest. For a second, he stood over the body, looking down at it, his chest heaving; then he lifted his gleaming, silvery stare and looked at Alice.

  She let out a cry that was half a sob and ran to the gate, fumbling to let him in. She could hardly see through her tears. The moment he stepped through, he caught her up hard in his arms and held her tightly, cupping her head against his chest.

  She sobbed incoherently and held him for all she was worth.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “It’s all right now.”

  She could hear his heart still pounding from his exertions. “You’re alive,” she choked out, looking up at him. “You’re all wet.”

  He kissed her forehead, then caught her face between his hands and stared at her, his fierce, primal victory blazing in his eyes.

  She pulled him down to kiss her, and she didn’t care who saw. He was alive and he had saved her life. She ended the kiss, her hands shaking with the aftermath of shock as she clung to his lapels.

  “Lucien, you have to stop Weymouth! He’s trying to take Harry away!”

  “Oh, is he?” He glanced at the scrawny viscount, released her, and began stalking slowly toward Weymouth. His black, threatening glower made the untidy little man blanch.

  “Well, er, you know—it was just a thought. There you are. I’m sure he’ll be in excellent hands here.” Weymouth quickly thrust Harry back into Alice’s arms. “Lambkin,” she whispered, holding him tightly.

  Weymouth cast Lucien a look of terror, backing away toward his carriage. He let out a nervous little laugh. “Perhaps I’m not the, er, best guardian for Harry at this . . . time. Of course, my name is on the will, but if Harry would be happier—that is, I’m sure I only want what is—” He glanced at Bardou’s crumpled body, then at Lucien again and gulped. “—best for my little nephew. I’ll drop by and check on him—”

  “Leave,” Lucien growled.

  “Love to!” Weymouth sprang up into his carriage and rapped nervously for his driver.

  Alice hugged Harry to her, calming him. As Weymouth’s carriage rolled out of the gates, Lucien turned to her and stared at her and Harry for a moment with a quiet, solid possessiveness. Alice returned his gaze in mute adoration and bottomless thanks. Defeating Bardou might have been the harder task, but for getting Harry back from Weymouth for her, he would eternally be her hero, she thought. He walked over to them and embraced her and Harry together. He kissed her forehead; then he kissed Harry’s forehead and whispered, “Don’t cry, child.”

  “He can’t help it,” Alice started to say apologetically. Weymouth had scared the wits out of the boy, trying to steal him away, but to her surprise, Harry stopped crying abruptly at Lucien’s gentle words.

  Harry blinked and turned to Lucien, his finger in his mouth. Alice watched in wonder as Harry held out his arms to Lucien, wordlessly asking to be held.

  “I’m all wet, Harry.”

  The boy started fussing again and reached for Lucien more insistently. Lucien’s gray eyes mist briefly as he relented, taking Harry into his arms with obliging care. “There’s a brave little fellow,” he murmured, his voice gruff with emotion.

  “Come inside,” Alice whispered, tears of love shining in her eyes for both the boy and the man.

  Lucien slipped his other arm around her shoulders. Together, their arms around each other, they walked back toward the warmly lit portico and went into the house.

  Then Alice turned to him in worry. “Lucien, I almost forgot—there’s something wrong with Damien. He’s upstairs. You have to help him.”

  He had been fondly nuzzling Harry’s temple, but at her words, he stopped and turned to her with a look of concern, handing the child back to her. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m not sure. All the fireworks and cannons seemed to confuse his wits. I’m fairly sure he thought he was back at the war.”

  Lucien stared at her. With a nod, he started to go into the house when a sudden clattering of hoofbeats sounded from the street behind them.

  “Lord Lucien!”

  “There he is!”

  “My lord, you’re alive!” Marc and the other young rogues came riding up to the gates and swung down from their horses.

  Lucien waved to them, but she knew he was anxious to go to Damien. “Tell them to see to Bardou and to notify the constable. Marc knows the procedure.”

  Alice nodded. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, then went inside and climbed the stairs to see if he could help his brother. She followed him as far as the entrance hall, bringing Harry in from the cold night air. Her nephew had settled down to quiet sniffles, resting his head on her shoulder. She rubbed his back as she waited for the young men to join them. Peg walked over to her and caressed Harry’s head, then glanced into her eyes.

  “Bad salmon, eh?” Peg asked softly, giving her a chiding look.

  Her eyes widened in sudden alarm, and a scarlet blush filled her cheeks; but when Peg smiled knowingly, tears misting her eyes, Alice broke into a smile from ear to ear.

  “Oh, Peg, I love him so much,” she choked out. “I couldn’t help it!”

  “Dearie,” Peg scolded, laughing softly. The old woman embraced her and Harry both in her motherly arms. “I thought you’d never find the right one.”

  With victory and the jittery aftermath of rage still coursing through his veins, Lucien walked down the dim corridor to Damien’s room. Bruised, bleeding, miserably cold and wet though he was, he felt none of it. He’d be sore tomorrow, no doubt, but for now, his aches and pains were entirely cancelled out by the exhilaration of his savage triumph. He did not want to think about how close that had been.

  The terror he had felt when he had seen Bardou take aim at Alice would haunt him for the rest of his days. By the grace of God, he had arrived in time to save her. He knew that she and Harry both belonged to him now, and he was ready for it.

  It was only his poor, battle-scarred brother that worried him. He knocked softly on Damien’s door. “Demon, it’s me. Let me in.”

  When no reply came, Lucien tried the door. It wasn’t locked. He opened it cautiously and looked in.

  The room was dark. The only light came from the window, where the cold, wintry moonlight angled in, outli
ning his brother’s silhouette in silver. Damien was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, his elbows resting on his bent knees as he held his head in his hands. There was a pistol lying on the floor beside him. Lucien felt his blood run cold at the sight of it. Damien didn’t move or respond when he walked in and closed the door behind him. He took a few cautious steps into the room. Even when he picked up the gun and unloaded it, his brother still didn’t react.

  “Are you all right?”

  Damien didn’t look up, but when he spoke his voice was low and gravelly, quietly racked with pain. “I’m losing my mind.”

  Lucien crouched down slowly beside him and studied him.

  “What the hell is happening to me? You’re smarter than me, Lucien. Tell me what to do, because I’m lost.”

  “Perhaps I should call the physician—”

  “No. What for? To give me laudanum to calm me? Already tried it. Doesn’t work. It merely fills my brain with even worse visions than I’m already having. Jesus.” He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes with a look of exhaustion.

  “How long has this been going on?” Lucien asked.

  “A while.” Damien was silent for a moment. “I swear I can see the face of every soldier I ever lost, and they want to know why I got to come home and they didn’t. Why I get a title and the nation’s thanks when all they got was a grave in the dust of Spain.”

  Lucien swallowed hard, shaken by his brother’s words.

  Damien looked at him starkly, dried tears staining his rugged cheeks in the moonlight. “Do me a favor. If I do go completely lunatic, put me out of my misery. You’d do that for me, wouldn’t you? I don’t care how. Poison me; shoot me; just don’t put me in an asylum, because they really can’t cure you, and I don’t want people coming to look at me for their amusement, laughing at me. Anything but that.”

  “Shh.” Lucien cut him off, putting his arm around him in a brotherly half hug. He held him like that for a long moment, his mind going back to when they were children and Damien would comfort him after the terror of one of his asthma attacks.

  He leaned his head against Damien’s and willed him to be all right. “You’re not going mad. It’s just going to take you some time to get used to civilian life again. Lord, Demon, you were in nearly every major action that was fought. You can’t expect to come out of that entirely unscathed. It will pass.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Do you want me to send for some of the chaps from your regiment? Sherbrooke? He’s always good for a drink.”

  “God, no. I don’t want them to see me like this.” Damien let out a low sigh. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” he asked in a stoic tone deadened by despair. “I’ve served my purpose, and now it’s done. There’s only one thing I know how to do anymore, and that’s kill.”

  Lucien sat down on the floor next to him, watching his face in worry. “Maybe you should get away from London for a while. Go somewhere peaceful. Perhaps a few weeks up at Hawkscliffe Hall would help clear your head.”

  “Before I hurt someone, you mean?” He dragged his eyes open and looked at Lucien with a cynical smile. “Don’t worry; I’ll be all right. It’s passed now. I just need to get laid,” he added wryly. “Good night for it. I’m sure the girls are out in full force, ready for business.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Works better than the bloody laudanum.” He climbed to his feet and stood up straight, shrugging the tension out of his shoulders.

  As Lucien rose stiffly, as well, he could almost see Damien donning his mental armor, becoming once more the famed colonel, proud as ever, totally in control of himself and the world around him, as though none of this had ever happened. It saddened him, but at least Damien seemed to be feeling stable again. Damien opened the window and inhaled a few breaths of the chilly night air. He avoided Lucien’s gaze. “Please tell Miss Montague I am sorry for frightening her.”

  “No apology necessary. Alice merely wants you to be well, as do I.” Lucien shook his head. “God, Damien, don’t take out your sidearm when you’re in this state. You scared the hell out of me. I’m your twin brother. I should have realized something was wrong. Usually I don’t even need to be in the same country as you to know how you’re doing, but here we are, both in London, living under the same bloody roof, and I had no idea.”

  “I didn’t want you to know.”

  “Because you’re angry at me?”

  “I’m not angry at you.”

  “What?” Lucien demanded. “You’ve been treating me like a bloody leper.”

  Damien’s glance swung to him. “Yes, because I just wanted to ignore this—problem—and I knew you wouldn’t let me. Nobody can hide any damned thing from you. It’s vexing.”

  “Do you mean to say you’re not bitter toward me for leaving the army?” he exclaimed.

  “No, Lucien. I was glad you left. If you would’ve gotten killed, like so many of our friends . . .” His words trailed off, grief hanging upon the air between them.

  Lucien’s voice was quiet, thunderstruck. He shook his head dazedly. “I thought you hated my choice of professions.”

  “Part of me dislikes it. It’s a dirty job, but as Wellington says, a necessary one. I couldn’t do it, I freely admit that. I don’t have the skill. I tell you, Lucien, I had to respect you for following your conscience after Badajoz. That took bottom.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Lucien said, laughing quietly in amazement. “You had me utterly fooled.”

  “Did I? Well, that’s something.” Damien’s wistful smile faded. “I suppose the charade’s over now.”

  “Well, don’t worry. I keep a secret pretty well. But listen to me. You’ve got to quit worrying about your men and take care of yourself for a while. You’re not indestructible, contrary to popular opinion. There’s no shame in it.”

  “The hell there’s not. You’re not the one going mad. By the way,” he said, changing the subject, “I do hope you’ve come to your senses about marrying Alice. You’re a fortunate man to have found someone so loyal. She is pure sterling. Turned down my offer, you know. She told me in no uncertain terms that she’s in love with you.”

  Lucien grinned as he sauntered to the door. “So I’ve heard, so I’ve heard! I assure you, the sentiment is most ardently mutual, and marry her I shall—which reminds me. Will you stand as my groomsman?”

  Damien cast him a wry look. “If you don’t mind having a lunatic in your wedding party, I’d be honored.”

  Lucien paused in the doorway and gave him a look of reassurance. “We’re all a little mad, my friend. Keeps life interesting. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

  “Thanks,” he said softly.

  Lucien nodded and left the room. He walked down the corridor to his bedroom, savoring his victory. When he opened the door, he found his dim chamber glowing intimately with candles. The bed had been turned down, and Alice was waiting for him over by the smoldering fireplace, scantily clad in her thin cotton chemise. Her glorious hair cascaded over her shoulders as she bent down, swirling her hand in the steaming bathing tub, which she must have had prepared for him, he realized, while he was talking with Damien.

  Ah, it was good to be a man, he thought, casting her a devilish smile as he pushed the door shut soundly behind him—and locked it. “Well, well, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “I think I shocked your butler when I asked him to show me to your room,” she said, blushing prettily as she dried her hand on her hip. “I tried to explain we are engaged, but he looked, well, doubtful.”

  “Did he?” He just stared at her, feeling his very soul well with love as she padded toward him, barefooted. He loved her eyes; he loved her smile; he loved her pale, slender arms. He loved her dainty ankles, skimmed by the hem of her chemise. He loved her gliding walk and the way her long, thick hair swung around her waist as she hurried toward him. God help him, he was her slave.

  He lowe
red his chin, mute with adoration, as she came to stand before him. Laying hold of his still-damp lapels, she lifted up onto her tiptoes and kissed his lips, then passed a wifely, assessing gaze over him, her Chartres-blue eyes full of youthful earnestness. It made him smile faintly.

  “How are you?” she asked soberly.

  “Wet.”

  “So you are. What did you do? Fall in the river?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Come.” She took his hand and pulled him toward the bed, then pushed him down to sit on the edge of it, nudged in between his thighs, and began undressing him.

  “How efficient you are, my lady.”

  “I want you out of these wet clothes and into that hot bath before you catch cold.”

  “Only if you’ll join me.”

  She smiled at him as she unbuttoned his sodden waistcoat, blushing prettily. “I don’t see why not. Peg put Harry to bed, so you have me all to yourself.”

  “That, Miss Montague,” he said, smiling as he pulled her into his arms and deftly tumbled her onto the bed, “is my definition of heaven.”

  Epilogue

  They were married two weeks later by special license in the village church at Basingstoke with a grand reception afterward at Glenwood Park. Alice’s mantua-maker had hastened to fashion her exquisite blush-satin bridal gown, while Lucien had searched for the most obscenely large diamond he could find for her ring. This had permitted time for Their Graces of Hawkscliffe to return from Vienna along with Lady Jacinda and Miss Carlisle. Now the Knight family, with the exception of the black sheep, Lord Jack, was gathered in the crowded, cheerfully noisy drawing room at Glenwood Park.

  Alice was enchanted with her new brothers- and sisters-in-law.

  The handsome duke, Robert, and his ravishing bride, Bel, had announced that they expected a blessed event in the spring. Alice found Robert, the patriarch of the family, a bit intimidating, though it was clear that he doted shamelessly on his wife. She had adored the witty, down-to-earth Bel from the moment the woman had hugged her in greeting and called her “sister.”