Lucas fixed his gaze on the wedding party bathed in light, on Caro's welcoming smile. Aware of shocked stares and not giving a damn, he strode out of the shadows and down the center aisle. "I'm mad—I'm furious," he called out. "There isn't an annulment, is there, Valeron?"
"Continue," Cedric shouted at the priest.
"Monsieur, I cannot," the priest intoned. "God's law demands that I hear him."
An usher grabbed Lucas's arm.
People pressed forward, preventing his progress. A finger wagged in his face.
He dodged around them. More crowded in, clucking like hens. "Blast you, get out of the way." He scattered them with a thrust of his arm. Just a few more feet, and he would put a stop to this nonsense.
Cedric grabbed Caro around the waist.
She shoved him aside. "It is Lucas."
Lucas fixed his gaze on her face. At least she sounded pleased to see him.
Cedric staggered back but recovered, pulling a pistol from his pocket.
Lucas's heart thudded, sick and slow. No more was it a simple matter of stopping a wedding; this looked damned dangerous. "Cedric, give up. It is all over," he yelled and lunged forward.
A hellish expression twisted Cedric's face. He cocked his weapon. "You cannot stop me. Not now."
Caro grabbed his arm.
Panic stirred in Lucas's chest. What the hell did she think she was doing? "Caro, stay back!" he shouted, pulling his pistol from his pocket.
She planted herself in front of Cedric, hands on hips. "I will not let you shoot him."
He pushed her.
A thunderous roar filled the church. A woman screamed.
Time slowed to a crawl. Scarlet bloomed on Caro's shoulder, a flower of blood on cream fabric, spilling down her back in a gory river. Her knees buckled.
"No!" The word ripped Lucas's throat raw. He threw himself forward sliding on his knees, catching her to his chest before she hit the floor.
"Someone get a doctor!" he yelled. He thought he yelled, but his throat seemed too dry to utter a sound.
Shiny black shoes trampled Caro's gown at the corner of his vision.
"Get away from her," Cedric said through his teeth.
Hands shaking, his chest as tight as a noose, Lucas pulled his handkerchief from his coat pocket. "Don't be an idiot. Get a doctor."
The noise from the congregation broke over them in disjointed waves. Shouts. Conversation. People trying to see.
Lucas glared around. "Give her air."
Her amber eyes huge, she gazed up at him. "Cedric hit me." She glanced down and frowned. "Oh."
"Don't look," Lucas said. "It's nothing." God, he hoped so.
Cedric crouched beside him and picked up Lucas's discarded weapon. He pointed it at Lucas's head. "Step back. The wedding goes on. François, get the damn priest over here."
"It's too late," François said in a strangled voice. "The gendarmes will come."
"And he's the one they'll blame," Cedric said. "Don't be a sniveling coward."
Blood oozed dark and sticky through Lucas's fingers. He pressed the gaping wound harder. "Valeron, fetch a doctor. If she loses much more blood . . ." He choked on the words as her eyes widened with fear. He swallowed a groan. "You are going to be fine." The words were as much for him as for her.
She placed her hand over his. "Lucas."
"Hush. Everything will be all right. Cedric, give me your handkerchief and your neckcloth."
"Lucas, please," she whispered. "Take care of my sisters."
"Damn it, Caro. Don't." His hands shook. He tried to smile. "You'll be seeing them yourself soon enough."
Cedric dropped the requested items at Lucas's side.
Sweating, with short breaths tearing at his chest, Lucas wadded the handkerchief up and jammed it into the bloody rent in Caro's gown.
She gasped and bit her lip.
"I'm sorry. This is going to hurt some more. Scream all you want." Her smile shattered his soul.
He raised her. She moaned and then closed her eyes. Her body went limp. She'd fainted, thank God.
He bound the neckcloth tight around her chest. His heart pumped hard, and blood roared in his ears. Too much time was passing. "Where the hell is the doctor?" he yelled.
Her eyes fluttered open. Her fingers plucked at his sleeve. "Lucas, listen," she whispered, so low he had to lean close to hear. "I want you to make amends with your father. Families are important."
Not relatives like Cedric and his father.
"Promise me," she urged.
He gazed into her eyes and saw pain and worry—worry for him when he'd almost got her killed, when she needed all her strength just to survive. Oh, God, what if she didn't make it?
"Please, Lucas."
"Of course, pigeon. How can I refuse when you ask so sweetly?"
Her eyes drifted closed.
He looked up. A circle of horrified faces stared back at him. "Will no one get a doctor?" Damn them all. He'd find one himself.
"Get back," he growled and stood up with her in his arms. He staggered at the surge of pain from his ribs. He shook his head to clear it of dizziness.
Cedric blocked his path, his face a mask of rage, the pistol pointed at Caro.
"Haven't you done enough?" Lucas roared. "Let me pass."
"She's mine," Cedric said. "I will not let you have her."
Devil take it. They weren't fighting over some trifle the way they had as boys. A life was at stake. "Please, Cedric," he whispered, so he wouldn't scream like a banshee. "Not now." He glanced into Caro's blanched face. "Let me get help."
"Yes." Cedric licked his lips. "We will leave here, but you will obey me. I will not let you snatch her from under my nose."
Winning didn't matter. "Get Caro to a doctor; then we will talk."
Cedric scowled over Lucas's shoulder. "Valeron, make sure no one follows."
Swinging his pistol in a threatening arc, Cedric glared around him. The onlookers gasped and muttered.
"Get out of the way," Lucas roared.
The guests shuffled back, muttering and cursing. If only one of them would jump Cedric from behind.
"Her English lover," someone muttered in French, and Lucas realized he'd been speaking English. Their faces turned ugly. They blamed him for this. As well they might.
Lifeblood, warm and sticky, oozed between Lucas's fingers against Caro's back, while Cedric, with the eyes of a trapped and desperate animal, backed slowly toward the church door. One wrong move, and he'd send them all to hell.
In Lucas's arms, Caro lay far too still. His heart twisted until it was squeezed so hard it hurt to breathe. She must live. He stared at her throat, at the fluttering pulse there beneath her skin. How much longer could she survive without help? Faster, he wanted to urge, but he kept his steps steady and smooth. A jolt might be fatal. His was the blame if she died. He would not let it happen.
He increased his pace a fraction, pushing Cedric as hard as he dared.
Nervous steps trotted behind him. Valeron, no doubt. To his right, in a parallel aisle, the shadowy figure of Henri kept pace with the strange procession.
Cedric glanced around, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"Easy, Cedric," Lucas murmured. "We are almost there."
At last they reached the iron-studded doors. Lucas shifted his grip, cradling her cheek against his shoulder. "Hang on," he murmured in her ear. "We will find a doctor. We must."
François scuttled around them and pulled open the great door.
Cedric backed into brilliant sunlight. He jerked his chin. "Put her in my carriage."
Lucas blinked and squinted into the dazzle. A sharp breath filled his lungs. He clamped his jaw to prevent its escape.
The sound of fifteen muskets cocked in unison by a troop of England's finest broke the silence.
Cedric spun around.
"Drop your weapon," the infantry officer rapped out.
Cedric's shoulders tensed. He swung back to face Lucas, his lip
s drawn back in a death's head grimace, his pupils blazing hatred. Lucas turned, curling his body around Caro, shoulders braced in anticipation of a bullet. He would not let Cedric hurt her again.
A shot sundered the air.
Lucas felt nothing.
Cedric crumpled at his feet in a puff of dust, a neat hole in his temple.
"Captain MacKay at your service, sir. Lord Audley thought you might need a hand," the officer said. He glanced up at the roof of a nearby house and back at Cedric's body. "Sharp-shooter. He should have dropped the pistol."
"Thank you."
One of the soldiers pointed a musket at François, who dropped his weapon and raised his hands.
Even as Lucas's mind registered relief, his heart faltered. Caro's lips were blue. It might be too late.
"She needs a physician," he croaked and fell to his knees, laying her on the cobbles. He ripped off his coat and placed it under her head and pressed against the bloody bandage. Nothing seemed to staunch the horrid flow.
The officer turned away. "Is there a doctor present?" he bawled.
The soldiers formed a ring around Lucas and Caro, a red barrier against the resentful muttering crowd emerging from the church into the square. A small man in a black coat shouldered his way through the burly hussars.
"Doctor," he said at Lucas's scowl.
Unable to utter a word for the painful lump in his throat, Lucas nodded permission. He sat back on his heels, sweating and shaking like a horse ridden too hard.
The doctor moved with swift assurance, checking the wound, rebandaging. He glanced up at Lucas. "She has lost a good deal of blood. The bullet, it goes through. It hits nothing vital, but she does not look good."
"What the hell do you mean, not good? You're a doctor—do something." Lucas couldn't contain his snarl.
"I know my business, monsieur. We need to get her to bed."
"We'll take her to the Valeron chateau," Lucas said.
"Milor', Milor'!" The cry came from a group of liveried men being loaded into a carriage by some of the soldiers.
Henri. Lucas signaled to the captain. "A friend."
"Yes, sir." The captain turned smartly to his sergeant. "Have that man released."
By the time Lucas turned back, the doctor was pointing to a nearby carriage and attempting to direct two privates to lift Caro. The men stared blankly. Common English soldiers didn't speak much French.
Lucas waved them off. He knelt at her side, drawing her unresisting body into his arms. Too still. The acid of fear burned his gullet. Didn't she know women weren't supposed to go around tackling murderers—or galloping horses down St. James? He choked on a laugh that turned into something hot and moist behind his eyes. Damn it. He'd been such a fool, and her life was too high a price to pay.
He plodded to the carriage. "I'm sorry, Caro," he said. Her lashes formed stark crescents against her dead white skin. He touched the pad of his thumb to her bloodless bottom lip and sensed as much as felt a faint breath. "Hang on."
His voice caught, his eyes burned, and he dragged his next words from the depths of his soul.
"I swear, when you get well, I will make this up to you."
Nineteen
Lucas thrust his hat at the hovering lackey in the entrance to the chateau and turned to greet Madame Valeron. A tributary of wrinkles crisscrossed her pallid, sunken cheeks. She appeared to have aged twenty years. Another of Cedric's victims. Regret dampened his simmering anger, and a deeper emotion, one he did not care to examine, crushed in on him. He preferred anger.
He sketched a cool bow. "Good afternoon, madame."
"My lord Foxhaven," she murmured while curtseying, her purple gown and plumed turban a pathetic brave show in the harsh light from the high windows.
"Madame Valeron, let us not stand on ceremony. How is Lady Foxhaven?"
A weary smile hovered on the old lady's rouged lips. "She has great resilience. She recovers, my lord."
He bit back his impatience. "The doctor sent daily reports, but I am glad to have them confirmed. I must thank you for your care."
"It is no more than anyone would do," the old lady murmured. Her eyes brightened a little. "When she heard of your visit, she insisted on coming downstairs to the drawing room. Please, come this way."
The ton weight on his chest lightened an ounce. At least she hadn't refused to see him. "Thank you."
He followed the drooping feathers down the cool lofty passage. At the drawing room door, he halted her with a touch, the question burning his tongue. "How are her spirits?"
"She is quiet. The doctor calls it English phlegm." Her expression tensed. "I hesitate to ask, my lord, but do you bring us news from Paris?"
Damn, he'd forgotten the letter. All he could think of was Caro and what she might say at how he'd bungled things, getting her shot and her beloved cousin sent to prison.
He withdrew the note from his inside coat pocket. "From the Chevalier, madame." He handed it to her. "I am not privy to the details, but I understand he has made a full confession to the authorities. Now the matter rests in their hands."
She clutched the paper to her bosom. "I must express my gratitude at your forbearance, my lord. I understand you spoke for him. You saved his life."
He forced civility into his tone. "Your nephew was not the only one duped by Cedric Rivers. It would do none of us any good to have more scandal in the family."
Her old head inclined graciously. "Your generosity does you credit, my lord. Come, we must not keep our patient waiting any longer."
He squared his shoulders, ready to meet his fate, holding fast to the thought that Caro had been on her way to find him when Cedric spirited her away.
Madame Valeron preceded him through the door.
Caro reclined on a chaise lounge angled toward an open bank of French windows. A light breeze stirred the air. The late afternoon sun gilded her creamy skin and glittered in her tawny curls.
"Look who is here, cherie," Madame Valeron crooned in the hearty tones always demanded by a sickroom.
Caro turned her head. Bandages swathed her shoulder beneath her loose robe. Lilac shadows painted half-moons below the large amber eyes in her pallid oval face. His heart bumped erratically. He had never felt this uncertain.
Madame Valeron surged forward and straightened the embroidered rug over Caro's lap. "His lordship brought a letter from François." She waved the paper.
"That is wonderful news, Aunt," Caro said.
It seemed he'd done something right, even though it left a bitter taste.
"I will leave you to talk," Madame Valeron said. "I will be outside if you need me." She drifted through the balcony door.
Caro gestured toward the gilt chair beside her couch. He gave thanks for the delicate tinge of color in her cheeks. Surely a good sign? A small smile curved her lush lips. "Welcome, my lord. Please, be seated."
My lord. It was to be formal, then.
"How do you do?" He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
A faint wince flickered across her expressive features.
Clumsy fool. "Forgive me. I did not intend to hurt you."
"No, no. It is nothing." He saw the lie in her eyes.
"You look wonderfully well." He lowered himself into the chair and hoped she didn't see the truth in his.
"Indeed. I am much improved."
"I'm sorry I couldn't stay." He glanced over at the open French doors and lowered his voice. "It was such a mess. The officer in charge insisted I return to Paris with François under guard the moment the doctor said you would recover. Audley needed me to explain the presence of troops in the Champagne to the Ambassador and the French authorities. I never expected to be gone so long, but with a British subject dead and a Frenchman arrested for abduction and fraud, it turned into a bureaucratic nightmare."
"I'm glad you went," she said. "Without your intervention, my cousin might have faced more than a few months in prison." She shuddered. Unshed tears turned her eyes to liquid honey.
"I have to thank you, Lucas. I don't think I could have borne it if François had been . . ."
His chest constricted. He'd been wrong about her signal. Until now, he had hoped she'd been forced to say the words of love she'd spoken in the cellar to Valeron, another man, then, who had used and abused her.
Hell, he should have killed the blackguard on that nightmare carriage ride to Paris. Mad with worry about Caro, he didn't know why he hadn't choked the slimy bastard with his bare hands. Except Caro would not have been pleased.
No Regrets Page 29
