In Bed with the Duke (37 page)

The bed frame was constructed of rusty iron pipes and twisted metal wires—wires easily twisted into hooks for the keys. He handed her the torch and, in moments, the keys were hidden, yet accessible to them and perhaps . . . to some future prisoner?

Taking the torch, he wrapped his arm around her waist and helped her to the door.

She was limping, favoring one hip. “I’ll work it out,” she assured him. “It gets better when I walk.”

She did seem to improve as they moved along the midnight corridor.

With his hands around her ribs, he discovered how very thin she’d grown, and his temper sizzled. “Did he starve you?”

“If he did, it’s my fault.” She stopped him on the first step of the stairs. “I can’t go on without begging you to forgive me. All I could think, during the dark days and nights, was that you and Lady Fanchere would do whatever it took to save me. And it was my fault that I was here. I lost my temper and I rode stupidly, without thought to anything but my own satisfaction. It was one thing for me to pay for my thoughtlessness, but to put you in danger . . . Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry.”

He felt . . . well, he felt sheepish. “I can’t believe you’re asking forgiveness after I deceived you so terribly.”

“But I don’t want to forgive you.” Her voice rang with sly humor, and she kissed him once, just once, with all the passion in her soul. “I want to make you pay for the rest of your life.”

He chortled, then caught his breath. “So you’re going to marry me?”

“If you still want me. Michael . . .” She stroked his cheek. “I love you.”

That was all he needed to hear. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here. This is no place to make love.”

She was laughing as he half carried her up the stairs. They went through the top gate; she didn’t even glance when Michael dropped the torch beside Gotzon’s body. A row of torches lit the next flight of stairs, and at the top he could see the softer candlelight of the palace.

They were moving faster now, almost out of the dungeons. They reached the top step. . . .

And Jean-Pierre stood there, sword in hand, blocking the way.

M
ichael’s hands were empty of weapons—because he’d been helping her, Emma, up the stairs.

Now they were helpless, facing the pale, lethal gaze of Jean-Pierre and his sharp, well-honed sword.

Jean-Pierre glanced at her and dismissed her. He focused on Michael and asked, “Where is my cousin? Where is Prince Sandre?”

Michael widened his eyes. “How would I know?”

That tone would never convince Jean-Pierre.

“You did something with Sandre?” she asked.

Michael glanced at her and inclined his head.

“I hope it’s something awful.”

The faintest smile played around Michael’s lips.

“His study is a wreck. There’s blood on the carpet.” Jean-Pierre straightened his arm and pressed the tip of his sword into Michael’s breastbone. “Tell me before I skewer you—where is my cousin?”

Michael replied with an insouciance that took her breath away. “If you’re going to skewer me anyway, I’m not telling you a thing.”

She wanted to fall to her knees, to beg for Michael’s life, when Jean-Pierre pulled the sword back and asked in frustration, “How did you do this? Make up a party, send out invitations stamped with the prince’s own seal?”

“It was not the prince’s own seal,” Michael said gently. “It’s the seal of the family de Guignard. You probably have one somewhere yourself.”

“You threw a party for the prince? You threw a party so you could rescue me?” Emma could scarcely believe the cleverness of the ruse.

“You lived with the Fancheres—and you stole Eleonore’s seal?” Jean-Pierre’s voice rose.

“I didn’t have to steal it.” To Emma, Michael said, “I didn’t even come up with the idea. The party, the masquerade, all of it was Lady Fanchere’s idea.”

Emma laughed, low and long. “I knew when she discovered who had killed Aimée . . . I knew she wouldn’t allow Sandre to escape unscathed.”

“She coordinated everything—the food, the decorations, and the orchestra. She instructed the prince’s servants. She wrote out the invitations with her own hand. She heated the wax. She sealed the invitations with her own seal.” Michael sounded cocky, and stood with all the confidence of a young stud rooster. “She is gone now, she and her husband, gone to stay in the Italian villa Fanchere rented for Aimée—and their money went with them. A sad loss for Moricadia, wouldn’t you say?”

“Eleonore betrayed us,” Jean-Pierre breathed.

“No. She discovered the truth. About you, and about Sandre,” Michael said.

“You should never have killed Aimée.” Emma’s anger rose, as fresh and clean as the first moment she’d heard the news.

Jean-Pierre’s gaze shifted from Emma to Michael and back. “He demanded that I do so.”

“When the devil commands, you don’t have to listen.” She tried to spring at Jean-Pierre.

Michael restrained her. “You’re going to hell, Jean-Pierre, and you’re carrying Sandre on your back.”

Jean-Pierre’s sword flashed up toward Michael’s throat.

Emma screamed.

A flash, a sharp explosion, and Jean- Pierre staggered back. He dropped his sword, and clasped his bleeding hand.

Three men stepped forward, hats pulled low, scarves wrapped around their faces, and pistols clasped in their hands.

From one, the faintest curl of smoke rose.

Although Emma had never met any of them, she recognized two. They both had blue eyes, and the younger had brown hair that swept his collar, but something about these men—the way they moved, or perhaps their cool attitude—reminded her of Michael.

His brother. His father, the marksman who had shot Jean-Pierre.

The other man resembled no one here. He was a man at home in the shadows . . . and a man used to being in charge.

Regardless of their disguises, Michael obviously knew who they were. He whooped; then in tones of delight, he said, “Father! Throckmorton! Jude!”

The man he called “Throckmorton” never allowed his cold gaze to wander from Jean- Pierre. Keeping his pistol aimed at Jean-Pierre, he said, “Disarm him.”

“I’ll do it.” Clumsily, slowly, using his left hand, Jean-Pierre pulled a pistol from his belt and placed it on the floor.

“He’ll have a knife, too,” Michael said. “Perhaps more than one.”

Jean-Pierre pulled a knife out of his sleeve and one out of his boot, and dropped them on top of the pistol.

“Tie him up,” Throckmorton ordered.

Jean-Pierre cast Throckmorton a loathing glance.

The atmosphere grew dark, tense, reckless.

Emma could barely breathe as she waited to see if Jean-Pierre would attack like a rabid dog.

But no. He turned with his hands behind his back.

Jude used the coil of rope at his belt to secure Jean-Pierre’s hands and tie him to the bars over the window. “More?” He raised an eyebrow at Throckmorton.

“That’ll keep him.” Throckmorton turned away. “Let’s go.”

“Yes.” Michael put his delight on hold and pulled Emma close. “Let’s get out of here.”

He led the way with Emma. The other men closed ranks behind, and right before they turned the corner, Emma glanced back.

Blood soaked the handkerchief Jean- Pierre had wrapped around his hand. He twisted in the restraints, and those pale eyes turned toward them and shone like beacons of pure malice.

She shivered and walked with increased speed.

They rushed down the corridor and toward the kitchen.

“How is Mum?” Michael spoke as he walked. “And Adrian?”

“Both well. Both waiting for us to return with you,” Nevitt answered.

“They’ll be pleased to find there’s a bonus.” Jude glanced at the hold Michael had on Emma.

“Yes,” Michael said. “They’ll like my Emma.”

Emma wanted to tell him he was saying too much, too soon. If they were going to do this properly, she should put on her best clothes, go to visit the Duke of Nevitt and his family, and be introduced in a drawing room in England.

But perhaps it was too late for that. Perhaps it had always been too late for that.

“How are we getting out of here?” Michael asked.

“The same way we came in,” Michael’s father said. “Through the front gate.”

“Of course.” Michael laughed. “You’re the Duke of Nevitt. Where else would you enter and exit?”

“Exactly.” Nevitt pulled the scarf away from his face.

Jude did the same, and Emma saw the striking resemblance between the father and his sons.

Liveried servants bustled past, carrying platters of food and bottles of wine up to the next level. Emma expected one of them to speak, to ask where she and her four rescuers were bound, or perhaps to direct them elsewhere, or to call for help because one of the prisoners had escaped.

Instead, they seemed oblivious to Michael, to Emma, to the other men.

Prince Sandre’s servants were preparing for a party . . . and they were smiling.

How strange. She had never seen any of them smile before.

“Throckmorton arranged for the stable boy to hold our horses,” Jude said. “There’s something odd about this palace and this party. And this country, for that matter—they’re having some kind of weird costume party. They’re all dressed as ghosts or something.”

Emma realized what Michael and Lady Fanchere had done, and chuckled deep in her throat.

Michael grinned down at her.

“I don’t suppose you know anything about that, Michael?” the other man asked.

“Yes, Throckmorton, I might.” Emma loved the way Michael’s voice sounded while he was smiling: warm, amused, smug.

They reached the massive front door. The men placed their pistols in holsters strapped to their sides, a futile attempt at discretion, and walked out into the courtyard.

The night air was smoky; torches lit the perimeter of the walls.

Carriages were rumbling across the cobblestones and up to the steps. Men and women dressed as Reapers were descending, stopping and mingling with the other guests, then laughing as if they all enjoyed this masquerade more than they should.

No one seemed at all interested in four men dressed as travelers and a young woman in damp, dirty clothes.

“An odd and peculiar place you chose to inhabit, Michael,” Nevitt snapped.

“A good part of the time, sir, it was not a choice,” Michael said firmly.

“Over here.” Throckmorton led them toward the stables, then beckoned, and a boy came forward, leading two horses. He handed reins to Throckmorton and to Jude, and went back for the other two horses tethered nearby.

“I’ve got another mount below,” Michael said. “We can stop and get him on the way.”

“Old Nelson.” Emma sighed with delight. “I’m so glad. I would hate to leave him behind.”

“In the meantime, can the young lady ride with you, Michael?” Throckmorton asked.

“Throckmorton, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Michael flashed him a grin.

Emma didn’t like being demoted to mere saddle luggage. “Or perhaps, Mr. Throckmorton, Michael can ride with me.”

“Who is this saucy wench?” The Duke of Nevitt sounded stern, but one side of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting a smile.

“Let me introduce you.” Michael took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the Duke of Nevitt. “Father, this lady is Miss Emma Chegwidden.”

She curtsied as correctly as she would in any ballroom.

Michael continued. “She saved my life when it was in danger. She saved my heart when I thought it was broken. She saved my sanity . . . for what that is worth.”

Jude snorted.

Michael never turned his gaze away from his father, but his fist flew out and punched Jude in the arm. As calmly as if nothing had happened, he continued speaking to his father. “She has consented to be my wife, and I’m going to marry her as soon as I can. Pray give us your blessing.”

Nevitt accepted the reins, put his boot in the stirrup, and lifted himself into the saddle.

Emma tensed.
Oh, God.
He was going to refuse.

He looked down at them. “If she did all those things, then she’s more than you deserve, boy. Of course you have my blessing.”

Emma almost collapsed with relief . . . and surprise.

“Father recognizes an Amazon when he sees one,” Michael said in her ear.

“I’ll help you up, Miss Chegwidden.” Jude put his hands on her shoulders. “Michael, hurry up.”

Michael mounted and held out his hand.

Emma put her hand in his, her foot in Jude’s cupped palms, and scrambled into the saddle behind Michael, flashing, she was sure, bare legs as she wrapped them around the horse.

She had been the Reaper; she was
not
riding side-saddle.

The men noticed, of course. They were men. But there was no censure in their gazes.

Nevitt wheeled his horse away, then wheeled it back. “Michael, you should worry more about Miss Chegwidden’s father’s blessing.”

“My father is deceased, sir,” she said.

“I always said Michael had the devil’s own luck,” Nevitt said gruffly. “But I’ll stand in for your father and tell you—you don’t have to marry this reprobate. You’ve saved his life and I owe you for that, and I can settle a sum on you that would enable you to be an independent woman.”

“Father, for the love of God, shut up!” Michael pulled her arms tightly around his waist. “She
wants
to marry me.”

Jude laughed and mounted his horse. “Probably just for your position as the future Duke of Nevitt.”

Throckmorton chuckled, but his gaze wandered, scrutinizing the gate and the guards, before he also mounted his horse.

“I don’t care why she wants to marry me,” Michael said. “She can have my every penny; she can flaunt the title when she gets it, as long as she stays beside me and keeps the darkness away.”