In Bed with the Duke (31 page)

She came again and again, crying out in ecstasy, filled with him and with satisfaction, yet always wanting more, wanting him.

The rhythm grew faster, the sensation more intense.

She watched his face, saw his eyes glitter with heat, his muscles grow taut with desperation. She was going to die of this pleasure, so much like agony. She was going to kill him, if he didn’t kill her. She wanted it to end. She wanted it to go on forever. . . .

And then he convulsed, pouring himself into her, thrusting in a fury and groaning, “Emma. Emma.”

The wildness of him poured into her, and she came, too, one final, glorious release that carried her from one peak to the other until she fell, broken and healed, into his arms.

He sank down atop her. They breathed together, heavily, recovering and returning, becoming two people again, Michael and Emma, complete and whole in themselves.

She remembered—he had insulted her. He had forbidden her. He had taken her.

And he would pay.

“Did you tear open your wound?” She pushed at him.

“What?” He lifted himself onto his elbows and looked down at her.

She was pleased—no, delighted—to see that he looked dazed. “Did you tear open your wound?” More forcefully, she shoved at him.

He let her, rolling onto his back and taking her with him. “I don’t think so.”

She slid his shirt off his shoulder and looked. No crimson stained the white bandage. “You’re sure you didn’t hurt anything?”

“I’m fine!”

Taking both sides of his shirt in her hands, she ripped it apart. “Stay absolutely still and I won’t hurt you now.” Putting her mouth to his, she kissed him hotly, deeply, and when he groaned, she knew she was going to win this time.

They were both going to win this time.

 

As they dressed, she couldn’t meet his gaze. She had been wild with him, taking charge, riding him hard, riding him fast, making him carry her where she wanted to go.

She needed to remember more than those moments. She needed to remember what had come before, in all the days of their acquaintance, and what he’d done to her—seduced her with a lie, laughed at her behind her back.

But this didn’t feel like a lie, like seduction, or like laughter. It felt like . . . union. It felt like a meeting of souls.

“Emma?”

His deep voice made her want to hide. “Yes?”

He put one hand on her shoulder, used the other to tilt her chin until she
had
to look at him. “Marry me.”

“What?” She looked at him now, all right. Looked to see if he was serious.

Her shock must have been all too apparent, for he laughed reluctantly, and repeated, “Marry me. Please.”

He looked serious. And she couldn’t figure out why he would propose as a joke. After all, he’d already done with her what he wanted . . . what they both wanted. A little curl of panic started in her belly, so she took a moment to hide her face, and pulled her dress on over her head.

He moved behind her and started fastening her buttons.

Briskly and sensibly, she said, “I’m a paid companion. A rector’s daughter. I can’t marry the heir to the dukedom of Nevitt.”

“What a snob you are.” Using his fingers, he combed the hay out of her hair.

“A snob!” His casual dismissal of her background took her breath away. She twisted around to face him. “I assume that someday you want to return to England?”

“Someday very soon.” She heard the hitch of homesickness in his voice.

Homesickness was catching, apparently, for she felt it, too. But that made his proposal even more ludicrous. “I remember England if you don’t. I’d be shunned. You’d be embarrassed!”

He drew himself up, and for the first time she saw the visage of the nobleman that lay at his core. “I would not be embarrassed, and you would not be shunned. You would be a Durant.”

His arrogance took her breath away. But when she got it back, she retorted, “Not for long. Your father would have the marriage annulled.”

“My father would joyously click his heels to know I was marrying at last.”

She laughed reluctantly.

But he looked more and more earnest. “More important, when he got to know you, he would slap me on the shoulder and tell me you were too good for a wastrel like me.”

“You’re not a wastrel,” she said automatically.

“Not any longer. But I was. I was a lot of things. A spoiled brat, a wastrel, and an adventurer. Then a prisoner.” His eyes grew dark. “Nothing more. Even after I was released, my soul still cowered behind bars and in the dark. Until you came, Emma, and rescued Elixabete. Then I saw kindness still existed in the world, and it was the start of healing.”

“No one can stand by while a child screams in pain!”

“Actually, most people can. Then you saved me from Prince Sandre and his thugs. Well”—he waved a dismissive hand—“not me, really, but the Reaper.”

“You saved me first!”

He viewed her as if he saw something in her she couldn’t imagine. “You repay your debts, even to a crazy man in a costume, and you kiss him in gratitude. Both parts of me—Michael Durant and the Reaper—fell in love with you.”

Love.

No, not really. He was still suffering from prison-induced delusions.

She didn’t believe him. Or rather, she didn’t dare believe him. “You’re insane.”

He laughed a little. “Possibly. But what I want to know is, who are you, Emma Chegwidden? What will you do with your life? Become the princess of Moricadia?”

“No!” She shuddered in revulsion. “No.”

“You could do a lot of good here, use your influence on Sandre to soften his policies. Sacrifice yourself for the good of others.”

“No. I won’t!”

“Or you could be the Duchess of Nevitt.”

“You taunt me.”

“Do I look like I’m taunting you?”

She turned her head away, because the idea of being his wife, at his side for his whole life . . . It pulled at her with all the power of the North Star to a magnet. How she wanted him!

“Or you could do whatever you want.”

She looked back at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not the same timid little companion who came to Moricadia and got lost in the woods. You’ve had a rebirth, Emma Chegwidden, and now you’re an Amazon, doing what you believe is right no matter the opposition.”

Was that how Michael saw her? As an Amazon? Right now, she didn’t feel like an Amazon. Her legs felt like noodles from riding as the Reaper, and from riding Michael, and from orgasms so intense she cried with joy.

“Think about it. You are afraid of nothing, and you can be whatever you want. So be mine.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead, on the cheek, on the lips. “Marry me.”

“T
his was my father’s.” Aimée showed Elixabete the small figure of a horse, intricately carved and polished. “One of our Moricadian workers made it from an oak stump, and Father bought it from him. The family had been turned off their land by . . . well, you know.”

“By the de Guignards.”

“Yes. Look at the workmanship on this.” Aimée held the statue in the sunlight coming through the window. “Moricadians don’t get to ride anymore, most of them. They don’t have the money to feed and stable their horses. ”

“I love them,” Elixabete said fervently.

“Yes, Moricadians have a feel for horses, and the horses know it. In this piece, you can see respect and adoration for the beast.” Aimée stroked it affectionately, taking pleasure in the smooth ripple of bone and muscle.

Her bedchamber, the whole house, was draped in sheets. The servants had been dismissed. The cart was coming for Aimée’s last load before she closed the house and left.

She hadn’t told anyone, most certainly not her dear friend Eleonore, but Rickie’s death had freed her. She wasn’t ever coming back.

Impulsively, she handed Elixabete the horse. “You keep it.”

“No. No, it’s yours. Your father gave it to you!” Elixabete tried to hand it back.

“I’m going to Italy, and a Moricadian horse belongs in Moricadia with a Moricadian child.” Aimée ruffled the girl’s hair. “Keep it in memory of me.”

A thump toward the front of the house rattled the windows, and the lady and the girl looked at each other in alarm.

“There’s no one here,” Elixabete whispered. “The house is empty.”

“Fanchere’s men were supposed to bring the cart for my last load. Do you suppose they drove it into the foyer?” Aimée crinkled her nose in disgust. “That would make a mess, and I don’t want to stay to take care of it.” She looked at the last trunk. “I’m almost done here. Dear, go and look for me.”

“No. Please, Lady de Guignard.” Elixabete huddled close, clutching the horse to her skinny chest. “I don’t like this place.”

Aimée looked around at her washed-out bedroom. “But why, child?”

“There are ghosts here.”

Aimée laughed, then realized she was being heartless. Elixabete was truly frightened. So in a comforting tone, she told her, “No, I swear, there are no ghosts here. No one has died in any of the rooms. The house is new, and even when we lived here, no one
lived
here.”

Again they heard a thump from the front of the château.

“It’s the house itself then,” Elixabete whispered. “The house is
bad
.”

“Darling, that’s not the house that’s making all that noise. That’s not ghosts. Either they drove the cart into the foyer, or”—Aimée brightened as another option occurred to her—“or someone’s out there trying to get our attention. Go see why and let me know.”

Elixabete stared in wide-eyed fright.

“Go on now.” Aimée patted her bottom. “I promise no one will jump out and say, ‘Boo!’ ”

Elixabete curtsied and sidled out the door.

Aimée finished packing and looked around the room, and chuckled. Elixabete was frightened by the spirits in this house. Aimée had been frightened by the man who dwelled here with her, and now that Rickie was gone, Aimée knew the place was safe.

When she thought about Italy, about the sun and the grapes and the art and the music, she wanted to cry for joy. She wanted to kiss Emma for thinking of it, and embrace Fanchere for making it possible. Mostly she wanted to hug Eleonore and pray she could keep her illusions about Sandre and Moricadia, because if Eleonore ever found out what her dear cousin was truly like . . . Well, Eleonore was too kindhearted and didn’t deserve that kind of upset.

Aimée glanced toward the door. She had thought Elixabete would be back by now.

Had the child fallen and hurt herself?

Aimée frowned.

And what
was
that thumping they’d heard? It wasn’t . . . She hadn’t sent Elixabete out into the hands of thieves?

“Oh, Aimée.” She walked out into the corridor, scolding herself all the way. “You are such a silly fool. Why didn’t you think of that first?” She hurried toward the stairs that curved down toward the main floor. As with the Fancheres’, this house had a long, high gallery overlooking the marble-floored foyer.

Unlike the Fancheres’, everything here was white, unmarked, colorless.

Ah, when Aimée got to Italy, she would have color everywhere. Lavender blossoms in her vases, walls painted terra cotta and gold, curtains of rich crushed velvet in royal blue. She would be warm and she would be happy. . . .

A child’s body lay facedown on the gallery floor.

Elixabete’s body.

“My God!” Aimée ran to her. “What happened? Did you fall? Can you speak?”

Elixabete groaned. Her eyes fluttered open.

Blood oozed from a crescent-shaped wound on her forehead.

Aimée traced it with her finger. It looked almost as if the child had been hit.

Elixabete gazed at the horse still clutched in her hand and frowned, her eyes unfocused and confused.

“Do you remember what happened?” Aimée asked.

Elixabete looked up. “Lady de Guignard . . . where did you come from? How did I get here?” Her eyes shifted, focused on something over Aimée’s shoulder. Giving a scream, she struggled to sit up.

Aimée half turned. She caught a glimpse of someone—a man, strong and tall.

He grabbed her from behind by her collar and her waist.

She yelped. He had her hair. “What are you doing?” she shouted, twisting, trying to get a good look at him.

Elixabete gave a grunt like a dog about to sink its teeth into a bone, and grabbed his boot.

He kicked the little girl in the head, knocking her backward across the floor.

Aimée shrieked. She fought.

He lifted her up and over the balustrade.

For one terrifying moment, she stared down at the marble floor so far below.

He let her go.

And she screamed all the way down.

Jean-Pierre heard her land, heard a single groan, and looked over the edge.

Aimée had landed facedown, her hands outstretched in a futile attempt to catch herself. Blood sprayed across the floor and stained the white marble. She didn’t move. She was dead, and could no longer fuel the fire of scandal surrounding the Reaper.

That was a job well-done.

He’d found that once he’d shot a few women and children, murder wasn’t so hard anymore.

L
ady Fanchere drove up to the front of Aimée’s château, stopped the pony cart, and lifted the picnic basket out of the back. Aimée would be so glad to see her, and this was the least Eleonore could do—help Aimée with the final closing of the château she had shared with Rickie, and wish her Godspeed as she left to start the rest of her life.

The place was quiet. Too quiet. No birds sang in the trees. Nothing moved in the landscape.

No one came out to welcome her, and no servant came to assist her, because Aimée had dismissed them all. She’d given them money, good wishes, and recommendations, and sent them on their way.