He pulled back and gazed into her face, triumph flaring in his eyes. "I love you, my darling." He raised an expectant brow.
"As I love you," she said with barely a quaver.
A low growl issued from deep in Lucas's chest. His eyes blazed fury.
Her knees buckled.
François caught her around the shoulders, cradled her against him, and guided her back the way they had come like a lover.
"You did well, my sweet," he whispered in her ear.
Numbness enveloped her. If Lucas did not recognize her signal, if he believed the kiss and her words, he would hate her forever.
The corner and the welcoming dark seemed so terribly far away. She wondered if her legs would collapse before ever she reached it.
Lucas watched her swaying form depart, the train of her gown shimmering in candlelight. A voluptuous Venus deeply in love with another.
If he believed her words.
Had he really said those dreadful things? Judging from her anger and the underlying hurt, he must have. He shook his head. They were words taken out of context, spoken in heat. His heart twisted, a sharp pain nothing like the dull ache in his ribs. He deserved every excruciating moment.
She'd tapped her nose twice. That meant follow my lead, but she'd also tugged her ear. What the hell was that? Nerves? It had to be one of the other signs she and Matthew Grantham had created for their game of spies one summer, the summer when he began to feel too old to play with the younger set.
"I don't see why I have to be the French spy and be captured," Caro said, her round face serious. A ray of sunshine streamed between the old Folly's Romanesque pillars and flashed off the spectacles perched on the end of her nose.
"That's the game," Lucas said. He probably shouldn't have agreed to join them. He was getting too old for such things, according to Cedric. But it had felt just like old times.
He turned back to the task of laying the ropes straight across the round rickety wicker table next to the rusty seventeenth-century sword he'd borrowed from the attic. "Besides, you are French."
"Half French," she snapped as usual.
He tried not to smile. "I wouldn't mind," he said, only a little surprised to discover he meant it, "but the triplets would never allow a girl to win."
A shout came from outside. Caro pushed her spectacles up her nose and ran to look out. "Here they come on the barge now."
"Hurry up," Lucas said. "Sit down and I'll tie you."
She dashed to the table and snatched up one of the ropes. She gave him one of those funny teasing smiles that these days always made him feel too hot under the collar. "The French spy captures the English nobleman, but then gives him the secret code so that he can escape. Come on, Lucas. Let me rescue you. It is only fair."
The appeal in her golden eyes shook his resolve. He fought the desire to make her happy. The triplets would be furious and would probably want to fight him for real. And he wasn't allowed to hit them back because they were younger. "Why would a French spy turn against her country?" he asked, settling on logic as a diversion.
Her eyes turned smoky. "They could fall in love. Perhaps he kisses her and changes her mind about the revolution."
The vision she invoked gave him a stirring pleasurable sensation in the pit of his stomach. He remembered their bungled kiss in the boat the week before and felt his face go red and his yard swell and harden. He couldn't charge out and meet the triplets in that state. They'd never let him or Caro forget it. God knows they'd snickered about her overlarge bosom often enough this summer. Perhaps the erection would go away in a minute or two. It usually did, if he didn't let his imagination wander.
"All right," he said. "But no kissing. I'll just convince you that revolution is wrong."
He plunked into the garden chair.
Rope in hand, she knelt at his feet. The sight of her nape, bare all but a few tendrils of brown hair, while her hands fumbled with the knots at his ankles, made his mouth dry. He reached out and touched the soft golden skin with a fingertip.
She shivered and glanced up, with lips parted and pink cheeks.
In the gap between her dress and her throat, he glimpsed a full creamy rise of flesh. Was it as soft and smooth to the touch as it looked? He swallowed.
Something must have shown on his face because she tilted her head in question. "Is the rope too tight?"
"No," he said, his voice raspy.
She nodded and rose to her feet and bound his wrists in front.
All he had to do was loop his hands over her head, pull her onto his lap, and feel her soft rounded bottom against his very ready dick. He almost groaned out loud.
She raised her gaze to his face, looking like one of those angels in a religious picture, all chubby cheeks and huge-eyed innocence—a cherub or a seraph or something.
"Are you sure you don't want me to kiss you?" She smiled a far-too-knowing smile for his peace of mind. The twin spots of color in her cheeks made him think she guessed at more than she should, in which case, she was nothing but a little flirt. His cock gave a happy little pulse of hope.
Oh, yes, he wanted a lot more than a kiss.
Hell's teeth. This was Caro Torrington, his friend and an innocent, despite her burgeoning curves. He grabbed a breath of air and tried to distract his thoughts. "Are they almost here?"
She blinked as if she'd forgotten about their game, but then dashed to the window. "They are right outside. Now you have to convince me to set you free."
What he had to do was get out of here, before he did something they'd both regret. "Tell me the secret code, French spy."
"No, Lucas, not like that. You have to be more . . . heroic." She blushed again.
He tested the ropes, struggled against their bite, and felt them loosen. Just as he expected, she'd tied granny knots, and they slithered undone. He lunged for the sword hilt and waved it in her direction. "Tell me the code—now, or you will breathe your last, wench."
She looked so forlorn his chest hurt. "A tug on your earlobe," she muttered.
"Good girl." He gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Follow me, and I'll get you to England, safe from the mob outside."
The hero-worship rekindled in her eyes as she realized he was going along with her idea. Suddenly, he felt taller, more of a man, as if he could take on the world. With her close on his heels, he charged down the steps.
A tug on the earlobe was the password to freedom, his freedom no doubt. It would be just like her to sacrifice herself to save him. Bile rose in his throat. Cedric clearly had no intention of letting that happen, but Lucas would not let Cedric win, not with Caro at risk. Somehow he had to put a stop to that wedding.
He returned to his slow torturous rocking.
Ah, hell. More footsteps heading his way. Had all his luck disappeared? He rocked faster, racing the oncoming sounds. He had to get to the table and the candle flame. The chair teetered on its back legs, and his heart lurched. He leaned forward, halting the dangerous tilt. Careful. No! Too far. The chair crashed to the floor. Cold stone slammed against his cheek. Every bone in his body vibrated. His ribs hurt like the devil. He was done for. Once more, he'd failed Caro.
The heavy steps broke into a run.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Lucas shook his head clear and gazed at the toes of a pair of scuffed brown boots inches from his nose. He squinted up a pair of sturdy legs in nan keen trousers to a broad chest topped by a brutal face. It was the beefy fellow who had charged out of the chateau last night.
"'Ad a bit of a haccident, did you, yer lordship?" He was an Englishman.
Lucas concentrated on breathing through his nose.
Beefy cut him loose from the chair, and he fell on his chest with a groan. Slowly, he flexed his hands and then pushed painfully to his knees. His ribs screamed agony.
The guard knocked him flat on his back with a swift knee to the gut and then tied his wrists. This cur certainly knew his business. Was this his executioner? He wasn't ready
to die. Not with Father and Caro facing very real danger.
The brute dragged him through a series of cavernous chambers to a door beneath a set of wide stone steps.
"In yer go," Beefy muttered and pitched Lucas to his knees into a small square room with stone walls and floor.
More dizzying pain. Lucas took an easy breath. He couldn't breathe too deep, or it hurt too much. No execution yet, then. Just new quarters. He rolled on his back.
Beefy tugged the handkerchief out of his mouth and tossed it to one side.
"These too," Lucas said, holding out his wrists.
"Sorry, mate, those yer gotta keep." He went out and slammed the door behind him. The lock clicked loudly.
Lucas took stock of his prison. A smudge of daylight entered through a dirty window near the ceiling, an opening far too small for his shoulders. The plank door had solid iron hinges set in the stone wall. His situation suddenly seemed worse. He no longer had a plan.
He struggled to his feet, fighting waves of pain and nausea. Devil take it, but he hurt everywhere. It didn't matter. To have any chance of escape, he had to get his limbs moving. He paced the perimeter of his cell, flexing his bound hands, inspecting every nook and cranny and crack.
Hopeless.
The door crashed open. Accompanied by a delicious aroma of stew, Beefy marched in.
Lucas leaned one shoulder against the wall and raised an eyebrow at the sight of a tray and a chamber pot. "How considerate."
Beefy grunted. "Every prisoner is entitled to his vittles and a piss."
"It sounds as if you speak from experience?"
"Never you mind." He placed his burden on the floor and pointed to the steaming dish and hunk of bread. "With all the servants busy for the wedding, that's likely all you'll get for a while. Make the most of it."
"When is it?"
"What?"
"When is the wedding?"
"Couple of hours from now."
Two hours. He'd never get out in time. "I'll pay you to set me free. Name your price."
The man paused, his beady eyes glinting, and then shook his head. "I wouldn't cross Mr. Rivers, not fer nothin'." He left.
It would take a brave man to cross this new incarnation of Cedric. Why had he never seen what lay behind those gentle expressions of sympathy? "You are probably right, my friend."
The lock clicked into place.
Lucas's stomach growled. He strolled to the tray and slid down the wall beside it. The food looked dismally appetizing. At least he would meet his maker well fed. How bloody ironic.
With nothing else to do, he fell to with a will, tearing at the bread as best he could with bound hands and dunking it in the gravy. The lack of cutlery made it decidedly inelegant, but the food assuaged the gnawing in his belly. It did nothing to ease his fears for Caro.
He pushed the tray to one side and, offering silent thanks to Beefy, made use of the chamber pot. He tucked it under the tray.
Less than two hours. He returned to his pacing. No inspiration struck him from the blue. Caro's bitter words echoed around his brain, diverting his thoughts. If she wanted a divorce, he'd happily oblige. But he would not allow Cedric a free hand with her or his father, not now that he knew the truth. He could not let others suffer because he had been a fool.
Damn it. There had to be some way out. He slammed his fists against the wall as if by some miracle it would crumble.
Perhaps he could pick the door lock. Hampered by his bindings, he fumbled through his pockets. Any self-respecting dandy would have a quizzing glass or a nail file. He didn't even have a hoof pick, confound it.
Steps sounded in the hallway outside. More trouble. Think, he said to himself. It was too early for Cedric. It must be Beefy coming back for the tray. This might be his only fighting chance.
He flattened himself against the wall behind the door and raised his clenched fists, gasping at the stab of pain. One blow was all he asked. A bitter smile curved his lips. This was going to hurt him as much as it hurt his jailor.
The key turned. The door swung open.
Steady. Wait for it.
"Milor'?" a soft voice whispered.
Lucas's mouth dropped open. "Henri?"
A grinning face popped around the edge of the door.
"By God, man, you are a welcome sight," Lucas said, releasing his breath. He drew his sleeve across his sweating brow.
"I followed the man with the tray from the kitchen. I took the key and his weapons when he passed me on the way back.
Henri pulled Beefy's knife from his belt and sawed through Lucas's ropes. "You are hurt?"
"Never mind me. Where's the man who brought the tray?"
"On the stairs. He won't wake up soon."
"You are a bloody wonder, my lad. Can you get him in here? We can't risk him raising the hue and cry."
Moments later, he helped Henri drag Beefy's limp form over the threshold.
"With a bit of luck, they won't discover him before tonight," Lucas said, breathing harder than he cared to acknowledge. "You have my undying gratitude, my friend."
Henri grimaced. "I had no choice, milor'. Miss Lizzie said she will cut out my heart if I come back without you."
His morose tone forced a painful chuckle out of Lucas. "Quick then. We have a wedding to attend."
* * *
"Try to look happy, Carolyn. After all, it is your wedding day," Cedric murmured in her ear. Just a whisper of his breath on her skin sent shudders down her spine. Of the two of them, he scared her most. The avariciousness in his gaze sucked the strength from her bones.
Having agreed to their demands, why should she to pretend to like it? Because she'd given her word. For Lucas's sake.
A pang of sorrow pierced the numbness she'd drawn around her. He'd never forgive her. Or perhaps he'd be only too happy to wish her well.
She forced a halfhearted smile and almost choked on a breath of incense-perfumed air. She'd get through today, but she never wanted to set eyes on either one of them again.
Heavenly music soared to the rafters, and the congregation, a sea of faces and waving feathers, rose in unison.
"Walk," Cedric muttered.
"I can't see without my spectacles." They'd taken them in case she tried to run away again.
"Just follow my lead, and all will be well." He hooked his arm in hers and started walking
By all, he meant Lucas. She clung to that hope, but niggling doubt slid around in the pit of her stomach. She didn't trust them an inch, but nor could she think of any other course of action. Smiling faces emerged from the mist on both sides as they traveled down the aisle. She didn't recognize a single soul, not one person she could ask for aid. A figure in front of the altar moved forward to greet her.
She squinted. François, her groom, with a gargoyle grin. Had she really thought him handsome and charming? More proof she should have stayed in Norwich. She bit her lip to still its tremble and curled her fingers around her bouquet. She must do this right, or Lucas would suffer.
The organ crashed out a crescendo loud enough to shake the roof, and absolute silence followed. The sound of her own rushing blood filled her head.
The priest flowed down from the altar in a white surplice. She knelt beside François on the cassock, and Cedric hovered at her back. The priest spoke in Latin. She tried to follow his words, waiting for her turn to answer. Vibrant colors from the stained-glass rose splashed across his pristine robe. It reminded her of Ashbourne village church and long-ago Sundays listening to her father's sermons.
The priest asked a question. She opened her mouth. François shook his head. Of course. The impediment question. With the faintest of hopes, she glanced over her shoulder.
Cedric glowered. She flinched and faced forward.
"I know a reason." Lucas's deep tones rang out from the shadows. "This woman is my legally wedded wife."
A sharp gasp escaped François. The priest's jaw dropped. Caro swung around. Somehow Lucas had set himself free! Reli
ef flooded through her. She didn't have to go through with this. She smiled a welcome.
A little scream issued from Tante Honoré. Her tall feathers bobbed dismay on their snowy mountain of hair.
Cedric muttered an oath. "Ignore him. He is mad."
No Regrets Page 28
