A Belated Bride (25 page)

“How inconvenient.” He lifted a hoe from a corner where it had been propped for so long that cobwebs clung to it, then he hung it on the back wall. The front of his greatcoat opened to reveal an impeccable black waistcoat, his starched cravat tied in an intricate weave, one lone emerald shining in the folds.

Arabella looked down at the loose breeches she’d bor- rowed from Robert, her coarse shirt, and dull gray coat. For some reason, the contrast between their stations had never been more obvious. It was the reason he would never think to marry her—unless she were on the verge of being hauled to gaol.
Damn his chivalrous instincts
. They made it all the more difficult to dislike him.

She tilted her chin to a pugnacious angle. “Let’s not prolong this. What do you want to know?”

His smile faded, but he shrugged, his gaze intent. “Everything.”

Somewhere beneath her embarrassment, she was con- scious of a feeling of obligation mingled with a torrent of other, unnamed emotions. She shoved her fists into her coat pockets. “When my father died, he left us with bills we could not pay. We were destitute. Unknown to me, Wilson had been dabbling in free trading. When I found out, I helped him.”

“How?”

She glared at him. “Within three months of my becom- ing involved, we began to supply twelve more inns, added almost eighteen casks per month to our shipping total, and tripled our income.”

He swore softly. “Which would only make you more visible to the authorities.”

She’d known that, of course. But by that time she’d been struggling to pay Lord Harlbrook and the risk had seemed worthwhile. Still, those were things she’d never

admit, especially not to Lucien. “We had no trouble until

you
came.”

The hard line of his jaw told her what he thought of such poor reasoning. “What of the jewels?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. How did you find them?” “The cask was separate from the others, and it was

somewhat smaller, too.”

Her brow cleared, the corners of her mouth turning downward. “I should have known. We had a dispute with our supplier and we ended up with part of someone else’s shipment.” She looked up at him. “Lucien, I didn’t know about the jewels until you showed them to me. I swear it.” His gaze flicked across her, then he sighed and yanked off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket. “Who else is

involved besides you and Wilson?” “His nephews, Lem and Twekes.” “Anyone else?”

She shook her head. Embarrassment heated her cheeks; her throat clogged with unshed tears. But she would not cry. She wouldn’t give Lucien Devereaux that much satisfac- tion, damn his judgmental soul. What did he know about true poverty? About the pain of trying to provide for loved ones who were unable to provide for themselves? When his pockets had been to let, all he’d had to do was ride to Lon- don and sell his title to the first heiress who came along. She hadn’t had such a luxury.

Her clouded gaze fell on the dropped shovel and she bent to retrieve it just as Lucien did. His large, warm hand brushed Arabella’s and for one burning instant they stood, fingers overlaid.

Arabella withdrew her hand and tucked it behind her. “Why do you want to know about the smuggling?” She managed a tiny smile. “Thinking of going into the trade yourself?”

He was slow to answer, his gaze touching her brow, her eyes, her mouth. “Let’s just say that I have interests.” His lips quirked in a lopsided grin. “We are betrothed, you know.”

“A betrothal is a commitment.” She let her disdain show. “What do
you
know about commitment?”

His face closed. “Neither of us have led blameless lives, Bella.”

“I want you to understand, Lucien: my family was des- titute. Rosemont was crumbling about our heads.
I had no choice
.”

“Then we are even: neither did I.” Lucien watched as she frowned, weighing his words, wondering if he told the truth. He reached out and gently brushed a stray tendril of hair from her forehead. “But we both have a choice now. Arabella, marry me.”

A fierce, almost martial light brightened her gaze. “I do not need your charity. Unlike you, I will not sell myself.” Lucien hated it when she was like this, all outraged fury, her eyes blazing contempt. He especially hated it when she was right, in the bargain. “Had I been more pre- pared to assume the duties of my title and less swayed by the opinions of others, I might have found another way

out of my difficulties just as you did.” “Others? What others?”

He didn’t reply; the answer would only infuriate her. But he’d had enough—enough accusations, enough use- less anger. And enough hurt. Every time her brown eyes flashed with pain, his own heart bled. He’d just offered to share his fortune, his home, and even his name with her, and she’d scoffed as if he’d tried to pass a false coin.

But no matter her feelings, she couldn’t deny their pas- sion. It was the one weapon he possessed. Lucien reached out and pulled Arabella against him, lowering his mouth

over hers before she could protest. Her mouth was berry- sweet beneath his; her swift breaths mingled fury and raw need.

Heat built between them and her arms crept about his neck. Lucien moaned against her mouth, his hands mov- ing over the curve of her back, her hips, and lower. God, but she tortured him with the potency of her ardor, her unrestrained responses pushing him higher and higher, until he lost his own control.

Behind them, a loud bang rang out and then the shed was plunged into darkness. Lucien raised his head to look at the shed door.

“What was that?” Arabella’s voice trembled the tini- est bit.

She tried to step away, but Lucien tightened his hold. He could just discern the oval of her face in the darkness. “The wind must have blown the door closed.”

“Perhaps it was the illustrious Captain,” she said, a quirk to her lips that made him want to kiss her yet again. “Aunt Jane seems to think he is a bit of a matchmaker.”

“Aunt Jane also thinks he can eat,” Lucien returned roughly. She still stood within the circle of his arms and he was afraid to move, afraid she’d never return. “We need to talk about the smuggling, Arabella. It must stop.”

For a moment he thought she’d deny him, but she nod- ded. “I know. I let it continue far too long. I will tell Wil- son today.”

She removed her hands from his shoulders and Lucien reluctantly allowed her to step away. “Who is your sup- plier?”

“A little weasel by the name of Bolder.” “How can I find him?”

“We contact him by leaving word at the Red Rooster with a man named Mumferd.”

Things suddenly became all too clear.

Unaware of his thoughts, she continued, “He is a cring- ing little creature. Lem and Twekes dislike him.”

So Bolder was the mastermind of the smuggling outfit, slipping in whatever illegal merchandise he could, while Mumferd bated well-monied purchasers to the sale.

Arabella’s gaze narrowed on his face. “What is it? You look upset.”

Before Lucien could answer, an acrid odor wafted upward. “What’s that?” Arabella asked.

The darkness around them thickened with a ghostly gray haze as a crackling sound began.

“Bloody hell!” Lucien whirled to catch a glimpse of a dull red glow. Someone had stuffed hay beneath the shed door and set it ablaze.

He crossed to the newly built door, lifted a booted foot, and kicked with all his might. It didn’t budge an inch.

The fire lapped hungrily at the walls. The ancient boards creaked and popped, surrendering themselves to the blaze until the flames climbed to the framing above.

Within minutes, one whole wall was aflame. Smoke boiled through the tiny room, burning their eyes and lungs.

Coughing, Lucien grabbed Arabella and pulled her toward the back of the shed. He slammed his hand along the wall, looking for a weak spot. But like all of the buildings at Rosemont, it was solidly built—there was no breaking free. Each breath was a labor, the heat searing the air with a fiery haze. Like malevolent fairies, the fire danced across the dry wood, crackling with evil laughter. Smoke bil- lowed white and thick, visible even in the darkness of the shed. Lucien pulled Arabella to the floor and unwrapped the muffler from his neck and looped it about her own.

“Put this over your mouth.”

“No,” she cried hoarsely. “You take it!” “Damn it, Bella! Don’t be a fool! I can—”

With an almost human roar, the thatch roof burst into flames, bits of burning twigs showering them. Arabella screamed in pure terror. Lucien was glad she was wearing breeches and not a dress with yards and yards of material. The idea of flames curling about Arabella’s legs fanned Lucien’s fear. He pulled her against him and covered her body with his.

She pushed at him and tried to say something, but the smoke choked her words. The smoke roiled thicker and Lucien cursed his luck, cursed his poor timing, cursed everything and everyone that seemed determined to keep Arabella from him. But he would beat this. Beat it as he had beaten everything else.

Eyes burning, his throat afire, he reached across the dirt floor, his fingers grasping for something to use to break through the wall.

“Lucien.” Arabella’s raspy voice cut through the mani- acal crackle of fire. “The shovel.”

“What?”

A cough raked her and she barely managed to croak, “Get the shovel.”

Of course
. He leaned farther out and his fingers brushed something cold and hard. With superhuman effort, Lucien grabbed the shovel and scrambled to his feet. He turned to the wall and swung it over his head like an ax, hitting the wall with all his might.

The welcome sound of splintering wood greeted him and he swung the shovel again and yet again. A small opening appeared in the wood, the smoke pouring out.

Lucien threw the shovel aside and kicked the loosened wood until the boards split wide. But still the opening was not wide enough.

He took two steps back, fighting for breath. Then, head bowed and teeth clenched, he threw himself against the weakened boards. Pain shot through his shoulder as the wall gave way with a splintering crash. Lucien fell to the bless- edly cold ground and gulped frozen air into lungs that burned, then, staggering to his feet, he headed back into the fire.

Strong hands stayed him. Lord Harlbrook’s red face appeared through a tear-stained blur. “Easy, Wexford! You’ve had too much smoke.”

“Bella!” Lucien gasped, wiping his streaming eyes. “I must—”

“Francot’s already gone for her.”

Lucien turned to see the solicitor pulling Arabella from the opening. Francot assisted her to where Lucien sat and gently laid her down on Harlbrook’s spread coat.

She curled onto her side, gasping for air. Oblivious to their audience, Lucien gathered her close. She grasped his shoulders, her face smudged with soot, tears streaking from eyes reddened by smoke.

Never had he seen a more beautiful sight. He brushed some of the soot from her face, watching as the snow gen- tly fell to wash her black-streaked skin.

Harlbrook rocked back on his heels, his brows low- ered. “Good thing for you that Francot heard Miss Hadley shouting for help.”

The solicitor shuddered, his face pale. “I—I heard her scream and I . . . Oh, my God. It was horrible.” He dropped to his knees beside her. “I was afraid . . . so afraid I might be too late.”

Harlbrook placed a beefy hand on the solicitor’s shoul- der. “There, now. She’s fine, as you can see.”

Mr. Francot nodded, his eyes wet.

Air had begun to return to Lucien’s lungs and he lifted

himself on one arm and looked down at Arabella. “Are you hurt?”

A glimmer of a smile touched her lips and she man- aged to say between breaths, “Just . . . my pride.”

Lucien chuckled. “I rather thought I heard it crack.” He stood, then reached down and helped her to her feet, winc- ing when an unexpected pain shot up his arm.

Her eyes searched his anxiously. “Your shoulder?”

“I seem to have the devil of a time staying in one piece around you, sweetheart.”

An unexpected gurgle of laughter spilled from her lips. The sound of a harness jingling to a halt made Lucien turn. Wilson hopped down from the cart, his shocked gaze going from the shed to Lucien and Arabella. “Lord, what’s

happened now, missus?”

“The shed caught on fire,” Arabella said. “We have Mr.

Francot to thank for his timely intervention.”

The solicitor’s face reddened. “No, no. It was nothing.

Really.”

Arabella stepped forward and caught his hand, holding it between hers. “We owe you our lives.”

He almost snatched his hand away. “No, I didn’t do anything. Really I didn’t. I—I should never have—I must leave.” He gave a jerky bow, spun on his heel, and ran to his horse.

Lord Harlbrook sent a hard, puzzled look after the solicitor. “Strange. When I arrived, I thought . . .” He stopped, then shrugged and placed his hat on his head and gathered his coat. His small eyes darted uneasily at Ara- bella. “I came to tell you that Constable Robbins is ques- tioning each and every innkeeper. We will have proof enough for an arrest by this evening.”

Lucien had to admire the way Arabella’s gaze never wavered. She even managed a smile as cold as the snow

that drifted all around them. “Thank you for the informa- tion, Lord Harlbrook, though I’m not sure why you think we would be interested.”

His face tight with disapproval, he gave a short bow, then strode to his horse.

Arabella watched the scowl deepen on Lucien’s face. The scent of wood smoke clogged her dry throat with tears. It had been so close. Too close.

“I think ye’d both best come and flash yer peepers at this,” Wilson said from near the shed.

Lucien released Arabella and she shivered. An instant later, she was enveloped in his greatcoat, the warm wool covering her from neck to heel. Lucien smiled down at her, his fingers brushing against her neck as he pulled the collar tighter about her neck.

She swayed toward him, burrowing her face into his shoulder. She had found him, only to come so close to los- ing him again.

Wilson’s voice drifted through the snow. “I don’t know what ye are goin’ to think of this.”