Prelude to Heaven

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  He felt her stiffen. She went still for just a moment, and then, she was shoving his hand away and turning to reach for her chemise. “It’s nothing,” she muttered and pulled the chemise over her head, her movements quick, almost furtive. “I fell.”

  She was lying. He knew the truth even before she gave him the lie. “He hit you.”

  She didn’t reply, but she didn’t have to. He knew it was true, for everything fell into place and perfect, awful sense. Her reasons for running away, for going back and leaving Suzanne behind, for her illnesses and her unhappiness. It was all so obvious now, and yet, all this time, it had never entered his head that Nigel had beaten her. It was incomprehensible to him as a man that another man would strike a woman, any woman, with his fists.

  He fell to his knees, shoving up the hem of her chemise to take a closer look, ignoring her protests, and as he studied the fading yellow and purple marks against her skin, rage swept through him, consumed him, threatened to burn him alive. “Don’t tell me you fell,” he said and looked up. “Tell me the truth. He did this, didn’t he?”

  She gave a soft sigh, a sound of pain and despair. “Yes.”

  Never before had Alexandre felt the urge to kill. He felt it now. He let the chemise fall into place and stood up. He cupped her cheek and lifted her face to look into her eyes. “He never will again.”

  Alexandre turned away, reaching for his trousers and boots. “I want you to get dressed. Then I want you to take your horse and go to the inn. Wait for me there.”

  “What are you going to do?” she cried.

  He didn't answer. He yanked on his trousers, socks and boots, then retrieved his shirt. “Wait for me at the inn,” he repeated.

  “Alexandre?” Her voice rose with alarm. “Tell me what you’re going to do.”

  “You told me you love me,” he said and pulled his shirt over his head. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then trust me.”

  She shook her head violently, not seeming reassured. “You don't know him as I do! Don’t you understand what he’s capable of?” He didn’t answer, and she went on, “If you think this will rid you of your misplaced guilt over Anne-Marie—”

  “Is that what you think?” This time, he did stop, and he stared at her in disbelief. “That my reason for confronting your husband is to ease my conscience?”

  “Not solely for that reason, of course not, but perhaps it plays a part.”

  He shook his head, knowing otherwise. He and Anne-Marie had fought tooth and nail all their lives, and a quarrel between them had brought about the tragic accident that had ultimately caused her death, an accident for which he still felt responsible and probably always would. But this, this was something else entirely. “Anne-Marie has nothing to do with this.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. Because even if Anne-Marie had never existed, I’d still want to kill that bastard you married.”

  She gave a cry of alarm. “Kill him? What are you thinking? A duel?”

  “Murder did cross my mind, but a duel is probably better.” He moved past her to reach for his coat, and she grasped his arms.

  “Alexandre, don’t do this. If you challenge him, he is given first shot, and he has excellent aim. He’ll kill you, and I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you.”

  Alexandre already had a plan, and it didn’t involve being shot. “Trust me, petite. I have no intention of dying.” He pulled her to him and kissed her. “I have too much to live for.”

  ***

  When Nigel came to the gamekeeper’s cottage, the horses he saw tied there confirmed his theory that this was their little meeting place. He halted his horse nearby amid the trees, waiting for them to come out, and as he thought of them inside, as he imagined that Frenchman making love to his wife, Nigel’s anger grew. She was the daughter of a dead vicar, she was nothing; he’d married her, elevating her to a position far beyond her birth, and this was how she repaid him.

  And with a French artist. God, that she would cuckold him was bad enough, but with a Frenchman? It was an insult to him and to all his ancestors.

  The door opened, and Nigel saw Teresa emerge from the cottage, and when Dumond followed her out, the sight of the pair caused his seething rage to explode. He’d already loaded the pistol; now, he pulled it from the holster on his saddle and raised it, waiting for the perfect opportunity to send it straight into Dumond’s skull.

  They both mounted their horses. Teresa turned hers in the direction of the village. Dumond, however, did not go that way. Instead, he turned his horse the other way as if to go back to Aubry Park, and as he did, he caught sight of Nigel directly in his path with a pistol pointed at him. Before the Frenchman could even blink, Nigel cocked the pistol and fired.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A gunshot whistled through the still air of afternoon. Tess turned on her mount just in time to see Alexandre’s horse, startled by the sound, rear up and toss him, and she watched his body fly through the air. He landed hard, and she saw the crimson red stain of blood on his white shirtsleeve as he lay, unmoving, on the ground.

  “Alexandre!” she cried and urged her horse toward him even as she glanced at the woods from where she thought the shot had been fired. When she saw Nigel emerging from the woods on horseback, she urged her mare faster, but Nigel cut her off before she could reach Alexandre. Coming alongside, he grabbed her horse's reins, tearing them from her grip and bringing both horses to a halt.

  She started to dismount, but Nigel was too quick. He wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her from her horse onto his. She landed hard across the front of his saddle.

  “Out for a ride, my dear?” he asked.

  She struggled, but his arm was like a steel band around her. She glanced at Alexandre, who still lay where he had fallen some twenty yards away. “Oh, God, you killed him. You shot him in cold blood.”

  “Not at all. Your lover was trespassing on my land after I ordered him to leave. At least, that is what I will tell the authorities when they come for his body.”

  She struggled again against his hold, trying to get down, but his arm tightened, squeezing her until she couldn't breathe. “If you move an inch, I'll break you in half. Is that clear?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned his own mount in the direction of the estate, leading her mare by the reins. As they rode toward the estate, she twisted in his grip, trying to look back over his shoulder for one last glimpse of Alexandre, but Nigel’s arm was like an iron band across her chest, and she couldn’t move. Not that it mattered, she realized, heartsick. Nigel was an excellent shot, and Alexandre was probably dead. Nigel probably intended to kill her, too, but curiously enough, she wasn’t afraid. She had lived long enough with fear at her elbow.

  When they came to the stable and dismounted, Nigel dragged her to the house. “What do you intend to do, Nigel?” she asked as he dragged her across the wide foyer toward the library. “Punish me? Beat me?”

  “Don't you think you deserve it?” he shouted, coming to a halt. He let go of her, but only long enough to seize both her arms and shake her hard enough to rattle her teeth. “How many lovers have there been, Teresa? One? Two? A dozen?”

  When she didn’t answer, he let go of one of her arms and lifted his hand to strike her, but a voice from the doorway into the library stopped him.

  “Nigel, no!” Margaret cried. She stepped forward as if to intervene, and her son turned on her.

  “Stay out of this, Mother,” he said savagely. “This is not your concern.” He glanced toward the stairs, where several servants had come down in response to his raised voice. “What are you looking at? Get out!”

  Chilton and the two maids on the stairs scurried back up, and Nigel returned his attention to Tess. “How long did you think you could carry on your affair with that Frog before I found out?” he demanded. “Or were you planning to run away with him?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I was leaving you.�
�

  He turned with a roar, kicking a nearby table and sending the bric-a-brac on it crashing to the marble floor. His rage should have made her afraid, but it didn’t. In fact, it had the curious effect of making her more and more calm.

  “If you intend to kill me,” she said with studied boredom, “I do wish you’d get on with it.”

  “I ought to kill you! It’s no more than you deserve.” He caught her by the wrist and dragged her toward the library.

  “Nigel, stop!” Margaret cried, trying to block his path, but he pushed her aside.

  “I told you, Mother, don't interfere, or by God, you'll regret it.”

  He pulled Tess into the library, and despite her struggles, he was able to keep hold of her, slam the door in his mother’s face and turn the key that was in the lock.

  “I will not be cuckolded!” he shouted, twisting her arm behind her. “So I killed your French lover.”

  At the mention of Alexandre, her calm almost deserted her, but Tess kept control of herself with an effort. She’d been prepared for Nigel to kill her for a long, long time now, but if it happened, she wanted to find a way to take him along with her. She spit in his face.

  Surprised, he loosened his grip, and she was able to jerk free. There was no way she could escape, for even if she darted around him, he’d be on her before she could open the door,

  “Ah, yes, my lover,” she said, taunting him with words as she began walking backwards, her gaze darting about the room in a frantic search for a weapon. “That is the lowest blow, isn’t it, Nigel? I took a lover. It haunts you now, doesn’t it? And it always will.”

  “You bitch. You unfaithful, conniving bitch.” He kept coming, his blue eyes glittering, his handsome face convulsed with fury. Behind him, Tess could hear Margaret, pleading with Nigel as she pounded on the door, but Tess knew her mother-in-law’s pleading could not save her. She kept backing up, her mind working feverishly. Nigel had a pistol on him, she knew that, but he’d already fired it and she’d never have the time to reload, even if could manage to take it from him.

  “Yes, I took a lover,” she repeated, stalling, striving to think. Her gaze moved to the pair of rapiers over the fireplace, but she knew she’d never manage to get past Nigel to reach them.

  “>From now to eternity,” she said, “you'll imagine me in another man's arms, and every time you do, you’ll wonder if he was a better lover than you. Let me end your suspense. He was.”

  Nigel lunged for her, but she was just out of reach, and as he stumbled, she took another step back and hit the desk behind her.

  “I love him, and he wanted to take me away,” she said, reaching behind her, her fingers fumbling in a desperate search, her words coming faster now in a desperate effort to keep him distracted. “I hadn’t intended to go with him because I was afraid you would follow us. I was afraid you would hurt him. And you did. He was unarmed, and you shot him.”

  “Damned right, I shot him!” he roared, coming closer. “And I’d do it again.”

  “Of course you would. You wouldn't have fought him in an honorable way because you are afraid of him, aren't you, Nigel? It's easy to shoot an unarmed man, just as it’s easy to beat a defenseless woman.”

  Her fingers curled around a steel letter opener, and she felt a surge of triumph. Not so defenseless, after all. Her fingers tightened around the steel and she smiled, pushing her husband over the edge of reason. “Do you know what you are, Nigel? You're a coward.”

  He moved to strike her, and she knew this was her only chance. She brought her weapon up, lunging with all her strength. But he must have caught the flash of steel in her hand, for he jumped back just in time to avoid being stabbed in the abdomen. She pulled back, but he was on her before she could try again, his hand closing over her wrist, twisting her arm. When the letter opener fell from her fingers, Tess knew she’d lost, but though she’d provoked him on purpose and he’d surely kill her for it, her only regret was that she wouldn’t be taking him with her.

  When she felt the first blow, Tess sucked in her breath, closed her eyes, and thought of all the colors of Provence.

  ***

  Alexandre’s horse took the jump at a run, easily clearing the last hedgerow with room to spare. No further barriers stood in his way as he raced the gelding across the turf toward Aubry Park.

  Aubry had shot him. He knew that, for he’d seen the bastard skulking in the woods with a pistol pointed straight at him. Le bon Dieu had been watching over him, however, for the bullet had only grazed his arm, tearing his shirt and drawing a bit of blood, but nothing more. The sound of the shot had spooked his horse; he remembered how the animal had thrown him, and he also remembered a smashing pain in his head and seeing stars, and how he’d woken with a view of the trees overhead and a devil of a headache.

  Aubry was gone, and Tess, too, when he’d woken. The other man must have taken her by force, for Alexandre knew that without force, she never would have left him there. Thankfully, his horse had not deserted him, but had been standing nearby, pawing the ground as if impatient that he wasn’t getting up fast enough. He didn’t know how much time had passed before he’d come to his senses. Not too long, he judged with a glance at the sun overhead, but any moment Aubry had with Tess was a moment too long, and he could only pray that the earl had taken her back to the house.

  When he arrived at the stables, he didn’t stop there. He couldn’t be sure about it, but he guessed that if a man intended to punish his wife for her infidelity, he’d want to do it in private, which meant that Aubry had taken her either to his library, or his bedchamber.

  He raced on, circling the south face of the house and stopping his horst at the closest entrance to both Aubry’s library and the main staircase. He dismounted, raced up the wide front steps and entered the house, and the moment he did, he knew he’d guessed right. The shouting told him that—a woman's frantic voice and a man's enraged one. He paused a moment, listening, and once he was satisfied that the voices were coming from the library, he started across the foyer in that direction. He glanced up at the servants huddled on the landing as he passed the stairs, and though he felt a flash of anger at how they stood by doing nothing, he did not stop. Instead, he turned to enter the corridor, and found Margaret standing outside the double doors into the library, pounding on the door. “Stop, stop!” she was shouting. “Nigel, stop! Don’t do this, I beg you!”

  Through the doors, he could hear Nigel raging and cursing, but he couldn't hear Tess's voice, and he went cold. His fear for her safety and his wrath at her husband fused within him to an icy calm as he stepped up to the door.

  Margaret turned, sagging with relief at the sight of him. “You must stop him. He'll kill her this time. I’m sure he will! I tried to stop him, but he locked me out.”

  “Stand away,” he ordered, and when Margaret stepped aside, he slammed the heel of his boot against the latch that held the French doors together. The bolt splintered from the wood and the doors gave way, swinging wide and hitting the walls on either side.

  At the other end of the long room, Aubry whirled around as the doors crashed open, revealing Tess to Alexandre's gaze. She was on her knees, her arms above her head to ward off her husband's blows.

  Alexandre looked back at Aubry. The other man’s face was twisted with fury, but that was nothing compared to what he felt. He felt as if rage were erupting inside him as he started down the long length of the library.

  “Get out, Dumond!” Aubry shouted. “This isn’t your affair.”

  Alexandre kept coming, and he saw something flicker in Aubry’s expression, something that made his lip curl with contempt, for what he saw was fear.

  “I told you to get out!” Aubry shouted as he drew closer. “It is not your business how I discipline my wife.”

  Alexandre ignored him. Instead, he spoke to Tess. “Move out of the way, petite,” he said.

  Nigel reached for his wife as she struggled to her feet, but Alexandre was prepared for that. He
lunged forward, catching the other man by the collar and hauling him back before he could pull Tess between them and use her as a shield. She scrambled out of the way, and Alexandre spun Aubry around to face him. Then he did what he'd been itching to do for weeks. He slammed his fist into the other man’s face.

  He followed it with a blow to the ribs, and the earl doubled over. “How does it feel, Aubry?” he taunted. “How does it feel to have a taste of your own discipline?”

  Aubry lashed out in retaliation, a wild strike that somehow hit the mark, catching Alexandre squarely under the chin. His grip loosened, but not enough for Aubry to break free, and the pain in his jaw only increased his fury. This was what Tess had felt, he reminded himself. This was what she had suffered.

  “Chilton!” the earl screamed, struggling violently to free himself. “Chilton, by God, get in here!”

  Alexandre shoved Aubry back, releasing him, and as the earl staggered back against the desk behind him, Alexandre saw his furtive glance about the room. “There's no one to help you,” he said. “No one to save you. You’ll have to fight your own battle.”

  “And so I shall!” The earl flung himself at Alexandre. “I'll kill you, you French dog,” he shouted, pummeling Alexandre's face and body with his fists. “I'll kill you.”

  Aubry was lean and wiry, but he was also strong and quick. Several of the blows found their mark before Alexandre managed an answering blow, one to the jaw that sent the earl staggering sideways. He tripped over a book on the floor, but he regained his footing and once again started for the door, but he stopped again at the sight of Tess.

  She stood in the doorway, a long, shining steel rapier in her hands. “There’s nowhere to run, Nigel,” she said.

  Alexandre thought Aubry would go after Tess, try to take the weapon from her, but the other man surprised him. He darted around Alexandre, lightning quick and managed to pull the other rapier from its place above the mantel before Alexandre could stop him. He turned, weapon in his right hand, his desperation turning into triumph as he pointed the steel blade at Alexandre’s chest.