by Sophia Nash
“You are adorable.”
“Really?” Her heart overflowed and she kissed him back. “I’ve never felt adorable. Only awkward and too tall and . . . Oh, enough. Now look, we must form a plan to—”
“I agree,” he interrupted.
“You do?”
“Absolutely. First, I am going to tie you to the headboard of this monstrous bed. Then I’m going to take a feather from one of my valet’s ridiculous hats and use it to tickle you. And then . . .” The rest of his words were muffled as she began to kiss him for all she was worth.
Oh, they were in love. Truly, madly, deeply. This was what it felt like. And it was not a love that was the work of a minute—a fast spark that would fizzle. It was the love of a lifetime.
Well . . . at least she would have this moment for the rest of her life no matter how short it might be.
There was no more talk of schemes the rest of the predawn hours they shared intimately together. It was as if the two of them did not dare mar a moment of the time they had to give to each other without reservation.
And so they made love to each other. Repeatedly. Desperately. Slowly during some moments, and furiously the rest of the time. He murmured incomprehensible phrases in French that sounded unbearably erotic and all the while he challenged her to do things she did not know could be done to drive one another to distraction. And she delighted in his every groan and mutterings as she dreamt up ways to deepen his own rapture.
Many times he made her cry while she laughed, or perhaps . . . she laughed while she cried. It was only when he fell asleep with her cradled in his arms that she sensed true doom. And worse.
They had managed to push away the reality that awaited her in this time out of time. But now it was rushing toward them, like the never-ending tide.
But she reminded herself that at least she had had this one night with him. She was a romantic and would go to her grave a romantic. Was it not better to be so—than to be a realist?
As the night lightened to dark blue, then lavender, she forced herself to face the harsh truths that awaited them. They might not be able to avoid a cruel future. Pale pink, and orange limned the great chamber and she slipped out from under his heavy arm draped over her and tiptoed from the huge bed.
“Where are you going?” he rumbled. His brown hair was tousled and his great bronzed chest bare.
“To make myself presentable. My gown is in Isabelle’s chamber.”
“Come back here and keep yourself warm while, instead, I find a gown in your chamber.”
She returned to him and snuggled into his warm embrace. Within moments he was hovering over her, his arms straining. “You must be sore, my darling. I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.
“No,” she whispered. “I want you. I will always want you.”
And he kissed her just like he had a thousand times during the night, and drove his hard length inside her. She matched him movement for movement, wishing she could turn back time forever and a day as they stared at each other with the knowledge of all the love being forged between them.
The memory seared into her mind as they soared together.
Roxanne only allowed herself to surrender to lassitude when Alexander unwound his large form from her reluctantly, and pulled himself free of the mound of bedclothes. He dragged a hand through his disheveled hair, and yawned. When she thought of all they had shared, and of what he had caused her to feel, a well of happiness overflowed in her heart.
He disappeared beyond the door, but for a moment and then reentered with a pitcher of steaming water and placed it on a washstand. He poured out half and splashed himself before using a clean length of cloth, and then in that amazingly short time only gentlemen need, dressed himself in his usual impeccable attire.
“The rest of the water is for you, cherie.”
When he disappeared, she quickly made use of the soap and water and then stepped into her chemise. She couldn’t find her stockings . . . until she looked up and saw one caught in the gilded chandelier. The second was under his armoire. He loved to throw her clothes across the chamber in wild abandonment. It was a habit of his of which she could grow quite fond.
She could not stop the smile spreading over her face despite the worry that darted between every other thought. The curtain fluttered in the breeze and a small shard of dawn’s first light fell upon her. Roxanne moved toward the curtain, drew it back, and halted.
Oh, God.
A troop of three dozen or more horsemen were trotting toward the Mount.
She ran out of the chamber and didn’t care about the spectacle she was making. She called to the footman at the end of the hall, alerting him to wake the ladies.
She was looking over her shoulder as she ran in the other direction, and collided into a hard object . . . Alexander.
“They . . .” she stuttered. “They’ve come. And they have torches.”
When he heard that last word, his heart hardened to stone. He could not feel anything beating in his chest. Roxanne’s hands cupping his face did not even register.
“Hey . . .” she said worriedly.
“Mon Dieu,” cried Mémé, clutching her robe together as Isabelle guided her. The four of them stood in the hallway as the Cossack came up behind them.
“You want I shoot them?” The huge footman said the very thing Alex wanted to do. It was the first time Alex had heard the man say a full sentence.
“Absolument,” Mémé replied.
“No,” Isabelle said at the same moment.
“Alex?” Roxanne asked.
He said not a word as he turned on his heel and took the stairs two at a time, leaving everyone behind him scrambling to dress.
It was time for him to do what he should have done long ago.
Not a quarter hour passed before a disorganized crowd stood just outside the entry to the Mount’s great hall. By then, Roxanne, Isabelle, Mary, Mémé, the archbishop, the Cossack, the new housekeeper, even the French cook, and an assortment of maids and kitchen underlings had assembled behind him.
Alex stood rooted in the entryway, scanning the crowd of nobles and not so nobles outside. At least a dozen of them appeared to be pirates or smugglers. “I told you that you’d best have a writ from the House of Lords before you return,” he said loudly.
The barrel-chested Ramsbothem, whose ire Alex had obviously inflamed, stepped forward. “So you did, Kress. You, we shall return for soon enough. But we need not wait to arrest the common tinner hiding here with you.”
“Unless you enjoy eating your own teeth for breakfast, Ramsbothem, I suggest you consider rephrasing your last comment. Lucky for you, I’m certain I did not correctly hear you. And I always like to think I’m fair-minded, and will always give a man a second chance. You know very well that a countess, just like a duke, does not answer to a common magistrate—only to the House of Lords.”
The lord’s face became mottled with purple patches. “We’re taking the murdering tinner. We have our own set of rules in Cornwall for upstart commoners who murder one of our nobles. We’re taking her now.”
“I think not.” Alex showed his pistol and the Cossack did the same.
Ramsbothem looked behind him, and jerked his head toward the door. A dozen firearms rose in response. At least none of them was foolish enough to use them. Instead a fury of fisticuffs, and the occasional flash of a blade erupted. Alex’s faithful servants, and all the others, even blind Mémé, held them off for as long as they could, but the numbers were against them. Two dozen poorly armed men and women were no match for twice as many carrying pistols and swords.
In the end, there was no question that Alex would surrender along with her, despite Roxanne’s soft plea to the contrary. He had sworn never to leave her side, and he would not.
Ever.
Unless . . .
Chapter 20
And just like he had always said, it did not go according to his plan or hers.
Roxanne and he were torn apart and w
restled over the shingle path to waiting carriages in Penzance. All the residents of the Mount, who were able, scrambled after them. Alex cringed as he heard Mémé’s impassioned pleas followed by elegant French curses calling their handlers every animal name his great-aunt knew.
The primitive nobles of Cornwall were an altogether different species than any Alex had ever known. They were not English. They were not Welsh. They obviously prided themselves on being an amalgamation of pagan natives who thrived on superstition and ritual. And, God, how they loved ritual. It was unnerving how much they reminded him of the savage commoners of the French Revolution. The thought made the ice melt in his veins.
He tried unsuccessfully to enter the same carriage as Roxanne, but was blocked by Ramsbothem, Milford, Crosby, and three oafish-looking men who smelled of the salty smuggling trade.
The carriage holding Roxanne started forward and Alex was finally able to shrug off the arms holding him back. He shouted to the Cossack to bring him a horse, but before the loyal footman could move, Alex found himself shoved into the second carriage and an ominous sound proved the door had been barred from the outside.
Hang it. They were such idiots. Did they not know he wanted to go wherever they were taking her?
He had a long time to contemplate where they might be going, every possible way this disaster could unfold, and every action to stop it. And for once in his godforsaken life, he knew he would not rest until he had freed her, and he could return her to where she belonged.
By his side on St. Michael’s Mount.
The last shred of his cynical self fell away. He would not fail. He knew it. He had paid the price and now he had earned happiness. He only needed to yank it away from the evil in the world which had so far prevailed.
He leaned his aching head on the cracked black leather squabs of the poorly sprung carriage. God, he prayed she was not now suffering overmuch with worry. And he prayed she had not been harmed in the melee. He would break apart any man limb from limb if they had dared harm a hair on her head. His last view of her tore at his heart. She was pleading with them not to take him. She was the bravest female he had ever known.
The ritual began on the border of Cornwall and Devon in the small town of Lamerton. A magistrate waited on them in a huge town hall half filled with curious, gossiping friends and neighbors from both counties.
Alex, walking between Ramsbothem and Milford, made his way down the center aisle of the main chamber. Behind him, he heard the sound of many footsteps. He glanced over his shoulder only to find the giant Cossack making a path through the throngs for Isabelle, Mary, Mémé, John, and even Monsieur le Pique, the chef. Behind them, the gaunt, dignified frame of Mr. Dickie Jones led a group of mining families in his wake.
By the time Alex was jostled into a seat on the bench in front, the entire chamber was filled to the brim, and many voices erupted in a fever pitch of arguments for and against punishment. Vile suggestions of retribution contributed to the ugly scene.
Alex ground his teeth and forced himself not to spring up as soon as Roxanne was led into the chamber from a side entrance.
She was in shackles. Shackles, for Christsakes.
Her eyes were downcast.
Behind him, he could hear Isabelle weeping, and Mary trying to hush her. Mémé said not a word, but he knew she was there with them. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he peered sideways to see John Goodsmith’s face, which appeared oddly calm. The Cossack, twice John’s size, was beside the lad and he nodded.
The amity he shared with these two men was unparalleled, he realized absently—aside from his friendships with his valet still in London; his oldest friend, Roman Montagu, now nowhere to be found; and Alex’s brother, William, whom he rarely saw. And hang all the other dukes in the royal entourage. Where were they when one needed them? Alex reverted his attention to Roxanne.
Her head was held high, but she still refused to meet his gaze. He knew she had seen him. She was escorted to the lone chair in front of the ancient, shrewd-looking magistrate, his white wig of the last century slightly askew. Roxanne descended onto the hard seat as elegantly as the heavy manacles on her wrists allowed.
“Roxanne Newton,” the magistrate stated with a pronounced accent from the south. “You are charged with the murder of the Earl of Paxton. What have you to say in your defense?”
Alexander immediately stood up. “You will not answer him, Lady Paxton. A peeress only answers to the House of Lords.”
The older man’s jowls flapped as he pounded the gavel loudly to silence Alex as well as other outbursts in the chamber. “There shall be order. No one shall speak out of turn unless they are prepared to be removed from here.” The magistrate pointed his gavel at Alex. “Do you understand, Your Grace? Unless of course, you want to come forward and sit beside the accused murderess?”
He immediately stood up and came forward. A bailiff brought forward a second chair and he sat down next to her.
Roxanne still refused to look at him.
“You asked me a question, sir,” she said, staring straight ahead. “May I answer it now?”
“No,” Alex said under his breath.
She ignored him. “I did not kill Lord Paxton. It was the other way around. He saw me fall from Kynance Cliff and left me to die. He—”
The magistrate cut her off. “Yes, yes, I know all about your unfounded claim. But your assertion could very well be lately fabricated since you did not come forward sooner. We do not stand by allegations without evidence in my chamber. Do you have proof that Lord Paxton tried to harm you?”
Alex knew it would not help either of them, but he refused to let her go down this path alone. “I do.”
The magistrate raised his bushy white brows. “I have not given you leave to speak, Your Grace, but I am a tolerant, patient man. You have something to say?”
“I found Lady Paxton clinging to the side of the cliff, just as she stated. I was witness to Lord Paxton’s criminal behavior that day.”
The older man scratched the stubble on his chin. “Criminal behavior, you say, Your Grace? So you saw Lord Paxton watch her fall and leave her? Or are you merely taking the word of this woman who was born a commoner? I shall warn you that if you do, you would be supporting her ill-founded claim over that of the Earl of Paxton. His lordship went to Lord Ramsbothem, Lord Milford, and Mr. Crosby the afternoon before he died to inform them that his wife was alive and was conspiring to kill him.”
“Lady Paxton speaks the truth,” Alex stated.
The rumble in the chamber grew and again the magistrate pounded his gavel.
“Well,” the gentleman chuckled. “We can all guess why you are willing to defend her, now can’t we, Your Grace? No. Don’t answer that. Let’s start over shall we? For I have testimony, and I must disclose that this testimony is from my third cousin four times removed, Cynthia Leigh, Lady Roth of Devon, just twenty miles north of here.”
Alex wanted to explode from the insanity of it.
“Did you or did you not, Roxanne Newton Vanderhaven, suggest to Lady Roth that her daughter, Lady Katherine Leigh, should ride the duke’s horse, Bacchus, when all the while you knew the stallion was a most dangerous creature?”
She answered truthfully. “No. I suggested Lady Katherine should ask His Grace to show her Bacchus, not ride him.”
“And did you not arrange for the stable hand to saddle this same horse for Lord Paxton, knowing the tide was coming in?”
“No!”
The magistrate adjusted his spectacles and reviewed the long set of notes in front of him. “Did you not deface the tombstone your husband, Lord Paxton, had made for you?”
“Yes, of course. I was not dead, you see. It was a tombstone for my hat and—”
The magistrate interrupted. “Did you not go to your husband’s estate to haunt him?”
“Well, not precisely . . . All right, yes, I did,” she said resolutely. “He left me to—”
“Did you or His Grace, the Duke of
Kress, strike a near mortal blow to Lord Paxton’s head?”
Roxanne would not stop. “It was a book about cows, sir. Not very thick and certainly not—”
“Did you not pretend your own death, Lady Paxton?”
“No!”
“And did you not steal Lord Paxton’s dog, Your Grace?”
“It was my dog!” Roxanne interrupted Alex when he opened his mouth to finally speak.
“Madam,” the magistrate said, “as a wife, you have no possessions. Any dog residing on the Paxton estate belonged to Lord Paxton. Even you belonged to him, or did you not know that?”
“Yes,” Alex admitted. “I stole the dog. His baptismal name is Edward von Dogged, by the way. Eddie is his preferred name. And Paxton succumbed to my murderous book, Cows of Southwest England, quite satisfactorily.”
The magistrate stared at him, dumbfounded.
Alex continued. “You have forgotten to ask about Paxton’s gardens. About how I set loose a clutch of moles on his prized lawn and falsified information about where Lady Paxton’s father might have hidden a fortune from the lazy dolt of an earl.”
A new roar erupted within the chamber. Another pounding of the gavel, which had less of an effect than before. The crowd finally quieted themselves to hear more of the words they would repeat for the entertainment of generations to come.
“Did you not concoct a scheme with Roxanne Newton Vanderhaven to blackmail Lord Paxton? Going so far as to threaten him with a trial in London? Did you dare to suggest he had murdered his wife all without a shred of proof, Your Grace?”
“Uh, I didn’t have proof of her death because, you see, she is still very much alive,” Alex retorted. “You forgot to call Lady Paxton his “beloved” wife, by the way,” Alex added caustically.
“And did you not have an adulterous liaison with Lady Paxton?”—a raw outburst of shock erupted and the magistrate boomed louder—“Did she not convince you to go after Lord Paxton and put a bullet through him?”
“No,” Alex said, jumping to his feet. Except for one lone cough, the chamber quieted to hear his retort. “There was no intercourse.” He’d be damned if he would admit to what had happened after the lecherous swine had died. “And no, I know nothing about how the ass managed to acquire the bullet he richly deserved.” He snatched a glimpse of Roxanne’s profile and she was as white as parchment. She appeared close to fainting.
