Lord of Fire (16 page)

Alice Montague was that rarest of flowers, a beautiful woman of integrity. Someone he might even be able to trust, in time. He had searched the world for such a creature. He had her in his grasp. How could he possibly let her slip through his fingers?

He could not. He could not help himself. By God, he was not letting her go. Exultation surged through his veins, but he had no idea what the hell he thought he was doing.
This is foolishness,
his better sense rebuked him. He had a job to do. Was not Claude Bardou alive and at large? She would only be a distraction.

But it was the news of Bardou’s resurrection and the horror of his own excruciating memories that had weakened Lucien, made him reach for the girl. He could no longer face it alone. From the moment he had looked into her heaven-blue eyes, he had been possessed by a burning neediness for something pure and good and clean. The only desperation that even came close to it had been the thirst he had suffered when Bardou’s men had denied him water for two days in that black hellhole.

He was no prisoner now. He was free to act, to save himself by whatever means availed—even if it meant damning himself, throwing what remained of his honor into the flames. Winning her, body and soul, would be worth it.

To assuage his conscience, he decided that if he could not do it in a week, he would let her go then. He was, of course, a shrewd enough negotiator to ask for much more than he really expected to get. “I will send her home in my carriage after a fortnight, quite unharmed.”

“Two weeks!”
Alice gasped in horror. “Absolutely not! One day at the most!”

Lucien turned to her. “Ten days.”

“Two!”

“Oh, come. It will be fun,
chérie
. Stay for eight days.”

“Three, not an hour more!” she cried in fright.

“One week, then—and I won’t try very hard to seduce you,” he offered with a wicked half smile.

“A week?”
Alice echoed, gazing at him in despair.

“You’d best take it, dear. When he puts his mind to it . . .” Caro sighed meaningfully.

Apparently incensed by her glib tone,
Alice turned on her. “You find this all very amusing, don’t you?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t ask you to come here. You shouldn’t have done it.”

Alice
stared at her, clearly incredulous. “I came to help you!” she exclaimed in shock.

“Well, you only managed to embarrass us both.”

“How can you let him do this to me? You should be the one to stay!”

“Perhaps.” Caro glanced at the ceiling, as though choosing her words with care. “But frankly,
Alice, as your elder and your chaperon, I find you lack a proper respect for me. It is extremely irritating, and I cannot think of a better person to teach you your place than Lucien Knight. I’m sick to death of you walking around putting on airs like some kind of plaster saint. You think you’re so much better than me, but we’ll see how high and mighty you are by the time he is through with you.”

“You—I—you’re worse than he is!”

“Am I? Well,” Caro said blandly, “let’s not forget who puts a roof over your head and food on your plate, sweet.” She glanced at Lucien. “As for you, darling, tinkering with people’s lives is one matter, but let us get one thing perfectly clear.”

“What is that,
ma chérie
?” he asked, turning to her with an expansive smile.

“If you send her back pregnant, you
will
marry her.”

His smile faded. His heartbeat roared in his ears. He stared intensely at Caro for a heartbeat, holding on hard to his facade of jaded nonchalance. “Fair enough,” he replied.

His lack of hesitation shocked him and apparently horrified
Alice.

She gasped so hard he worried she’d faint. When he glanced cautiously at her, she spun around, picked up her skirts, and fled him, pounding up the stairs past the smirking portrait of the marquess, whose gray eyes, so like his own, seemed to dance with devilish congratulation, as if to say,
Well done, my boy.

Lucien couldn’t have agreed with him more. Caro gave him a disparaging look and walked away, calling her carriage, but Lucien slid his hands into his trouser pockets and peered uncertainly up the staircase in the direction Alice had gone, discreetly jubilant at his triumph and rather amazed, in all, that he had gotten away with it.

 

CHAPTER
FIVE

Running all the way back to her room, Alice slammed the door, locked it, then further barricaded it with a wooden chair. Her heart thumping, she ran her hands through her hair and paced in agitation.
This can’t be happening! What am I going to do?

“Damnation!” she cried, hot tears of fury rushing into her eyes. She stalked to her pillow and punched it in most unladylike wrath, half wishing it was Lucien Knight’s smug, handsome face.
Cruel, ruthless, wicked man!
Pacing a few times back and forth across the room, she finally stopped and rested her forehead against one of the bedposts, struggling for equilibrium.
How could he do something so scandalous?
But what else should she have expected from “Draco”? A thousand questions whirled through her mind.
If you send her home pregnant, you will marry her. . . . Marry her . . .
The dire words re-echoed in her mind like her death knell.
Fair enough,
he had dared to say.
Fair enough! To whom?
she thought furiously. She wanted to have a child someday, yes, but not with the prince of the underworld!

Hearing a carriage rattling over the cobbles below a few minutes later, she lifted her head and ran to the window, bracing her hands on the sill. With a stricken expression, she watched her carriage rolling away through the iron gates of

Revell Court

. Her driver, Mitchell, looked over his shoulder with a worried frown as he drove off.
Alice tried waving to flag his attention, but he returned his gaze to the road before him. She could only wonder what fairy story that the traitor, Caro, would tell the servants to account for her absence.

She stared out the window in distress until the carriage had crossed the wooden bridge over the river and started up the hill, disappearing from view among the trees. When it had gone, she still stood there, slowly becoming aware of the profound silence of

Revell Court

, alone in its hidden valley. The guests had gone. The halls were quiet. The efficient army of servants moved soundlessly throughout the Tudor manor. Now it was only Lord Lucifer and her. A tremor ran through her. She looked around uneasily, rubbing her folded arms. How she missed Harry’s babbling. Even her nephew’s worst temper tantrum was preferable to this eerie stillness. She went over to the bed and sat down, leaning against the headboard. Drawing her knees up, she wrapped her arms around her bent legs, resolved to stay in her room until that silver-eyed devil lost interest. With any luck, she could find some way to escape.

A sudden noise in the corridor made her gaze zoom to the door of her bedchamber. Her heart skipped a beat. Heavy footfalls pierced the deafening silence in a swift, relentless rhythm, approaching from down the hallway.
So soon he comes.
She knew she could not lock him out forever. She eased silently off of the bed, casting about for a weapon with which to defend her virtue, if need be. She tiptoed over to the hearth and picked up the fire poker, brandishing it, then crept over to the furniture-barred door as the footsteps drew nearer. She held her breath as he rapped softly on the door.

“Oh,
Alice, my pet, come out and play,” he called urbanely.

She clutched the fire poker harder in her sweating hands. “Go away! I don’t want to see you!”

“Tut, tut, my dear, I know you are cross, but—”

“Cross?” she cried, taking an angry step toward the door, emboldened by the fact that he could not get to her, or if he did somehow, she would brain the cad. “Cross does not begin to describe my sentiments, Lucien Knight! What am I to think of you? One minute you are pointing a gun at me, the next you are reading me poetry!”

“But I thought you liked the poetry.”

“You know full well that is not the point. You usurp control of my life and expect me to swoon at your feet?”

“Why, swooning would be perfectly acceptable—”

“How dare you make a joke of this?” she roared, her face turning red with fury.

A pause.

She heard his vexed sigh. “Are you going to hide in there like a coward for the next week?” he inquired in a tone gone suddenly flat with boredom.

“I don’t care what you say, you odious cad. I am not staying here for a week.”

“I see. Well, if you are going to insult me, darling, in addition to breaking your oath, at least come out here and say it to my face.”

“Ha!” she retorted. “Do you think I’m fool enough to fall for that trick? I know exactly what you want of me. If I open this door, you’ll ravish me!”

“Now, look here,” he said crossly. “I have never touched a woman against her will in all my life—or is that what you’re afraid of? That it won’t be against your will? That you’ll want me?” he suggested in a silken tone through the door.

“You are shocking, sir! You must know I
despise
you.”

He laughed idly and let out a sigh. “Ah, well. Be that as it may, have pity on me, Alice. Come out. I’m not going to bite you. Better yet, let me in.”

“In here?” She gasped. The two of them, together, in a bedroom? How could he even suggest such a thing? What did he take her for? She did not allow her suitors even to touch her bare hands. She decided on the spot that she would not have permitted Lucien Knight to court her if he begged on his hands and knees.

“Come out to me, sweeting. I promise I’ll be good,” he cajoled her through the sturdy oaken door. She glared at it. “Walk with me on the grounds. There won’t be many days as warm and fine as this before the cold sets in. Have you looked outside? The leaves are ablaze, the grass is emerald, and the sky is as blue as your eyes. Does it not beckon to you?”

Not like your voice does,
she thought with a small quiver, for his satin murmur was pure temptation.

“We are free here,
Alice. Totally free.”

Free?
she wondered.
What is that?
She fought the dangerous magic of his charm and glanced behind her at the window, then had a sudden inspiration. “Perhaps if you have a horse for me we could ride?”

“Very crafty, my dear,” he chided with a soft, rich laugh. “If I put you up on a horse, you’ll be racing back to Hampshire like a jockey in the Royal Ascot.”

The corners of her mouth strained to frown, but she could not help but smile at the image. She shook her head in dismay at her own traitorous desire, for a part of her actually wanted to be with him. She clung to her resistance. “You know,” she said in defiance, “there is something I have been meaning to tell you regarding our conversation of last night.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. We were discussing the people who care for us. Do you recall?”

“Ah, yes—or the lack thereof.”

She rested the poker, tip down, on the wooden chair, her eyes gleaming. “For your information, I have a number of beaux who are entirely smitten.”

There was a pause.

“I’m sure you do,
ma chérie,
” he said, his tone gone bland and superior.

She smiled heartily, glad to have made a dent in his arrogance. At last, it was her turn to taunt him! “First, there’s Roger Manners, a nephew of the duke of
Rutland. He has proposed to me on three separate occasions. His excellences of character are too many to name and he has such beautiful dark eyes—they quite melt me. Then there’s Freddie Foxham, who is a tulip of fashion and terribly droll, and a very close friend of Beau Brummell—”