The Beloved Scoundrel (43 page)

“Come on.” Jordan threw open the door. The corridor was empty as he had predicted and filled with clouds of black smoke. Her eyes were stinging by the time they reached the foyer, and she could barely discern the crystal chandelier that lay shattered on the floor.

Then they were outside, and clean, cold air was in
her lungs. There was smoke here also, and half the hill seemed to be in flames. The courtyard was in chaos, with panicked horses and soldiers running about shouting shrilly.

“There you are,” Gregor said, relieved, as he appeared suddenly beside them. “I was about to dash in and rescue you. It is kind of you to save me the trouble. Nebrov?”

“Dead.” Jordan’s arm tightened around Marianna’s waist as they dashed across the courtyard. “Let’s get out of here. The fire is going to break through the floor of the palace any minute. Are all the men safe?”

Gregor nodded. “Why shouldn’t they be? There was no battle. The moment the explosions started, everyone was in a hurry to get out of the palace. They thought the end of the world had come. I sent our men down the hill with the horses away from the flames.” He grimaced in disgust as he nodded at the screaming men in the courtyard. “These are not soldiers.”

By the time they were halfway down the hill, the palace was engulfed in flames. Marianna looked back over her shoulder, and sadness overwhelmed her.

“He deserved to die,” Jordan said quietly. “If you hadn’t done it, I would have.”

She stared at him in surprise. “I wasn’t thinking of Nebrov.”

“No?”

“Grandmama’s work. All her beautiful windows …”

Gregor chuckled as he and Jordan exchanged glances. “Of course, you would think of the windows instead of that vermin. It is entirely natural, eh, Jordan?”

But Jordan was no longer looking back at the burning palace but down the hill at the gaping cavity caused by the explosion. He would not let her blame herself for Nebrov’s death, but she knew he would hold her at fault for the destruction of the tunnels he had wanted for Kazan. “I had to do it.”

“No, you chose to do it,” he said grimly. “There’s a difference. You must have spread the gunpowder in those other branches of the tunnel before Niko even caught sight of Nebrov and his men.”

“Don’t you see?” she asked, desperate to make him understand. “Grandmama created the Jedalar. She was part of that horror in the tunnel, and she had to make it right. She made Mama and me promise that the tunnel would never be used to kill anyone again. She even planned exactly how it could be done. She was the one who spread the rumor about the treasure room. She knew the czar planned to use that room for arms and gunpowder and—” She stopped as she saw Jordan’s face was completely expressionless. She had not thought he would forgive her. She said wearily, “Yes, I chose to do it. Even if I had made no vow, I would still have destroyed the tunnel.”

“Why?” Gregor asked.

“Because my grandmother was right. War is evil, and the tunnel was a weapon of war. Go fight your wars with the weapons you have.” She gazed steadily at Jordan. “I’m glad I did it.”

“Well, I’m not glad. I’m furious with you.” He took her elbow and pushed her down the hill toward the waiting troop. “But I can wait to express my displeasure until we get you to the inn and see if you have any burns.”

Great heavens, she had momentarily forgotten
those flames that had nearly devoured them. “I’m not burned. It was you who—” Her glance had dropped to the hand holding her elbow, and she inhaled sharply. Angry red weals crisscrossed the back of his hand; his palms must be even worse. “You’re hurt!”

“Hurt is an accurate description.” His lips thinned. “And pain doesn’t tend to make my temper any better.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I never meant for you to suffer.”

His expression did not soften. “Then you shouldn’t have blown up that tunnel. You may have hurt a great many people with one stroke.”

She shook her head. It was useless to argue with him on a subject on which there could be no agreement.

“I have a medicinal cream in my saddlebag that will help,” Gregor said.

She again glanced back over her shoulder at the burning palace. She wished there was a medicine that would ease the pain from the wedge she had just driven between them.

Why was she mewing like a mournful cat? she thought impatiently. She had known what she was doing and what the result would be. Now, she had to accept it.

Dear God, she wished the pain would go away.

W
hen they arrived at the inn in the village, Gregor took charge. His booming voice sent the innkeeper and servants scurrying to arrange for rooms, baths, and food for all of them and clean bandages for Jordan’s burns.

Within an hour Marianna found herself immersed in a tub of hot water in a simple but pleasantly furnished bedchamber. She washed her hair three times, but it still retained a faint hint of smoke.

She leaned back in the hip bath and wearily closed her eyes. It might take a long time to rid her body of the smell of that disaster in the tunnel, but she would never recover from the tragedy itself. She had given up too much with that one act.

“We’ll have to be miles away from this place by tomorrow morning.”

Her eyes opened to see Jordan standing in the doorway. He was dressed in black buckskin trousers and a loose white linen shirt. He had worn black and white that first night at Dalwynd, she remembered. No, she must not think of Dalwynd.

Her gaze flew to his hands, which were now neatly bandaged. “How bad are they?”

“Only minor blisters.” He came into the room and shut the door. “Did you hear me? We have to leave for Kazan tomorrow.” He strode over to the tub and reached for the large toweling cloth the servant had set beside it. “I know you need time to rest, but there are fires breaking out from that burning tunnel all the way to Moscow. Czar Alexander is bound to send someone to find out the reason.” He held out the towel. “Stand up.”

She got to her feet, and he enveloped her in the towel and lifted her out of the tub.

“Your hands!”

“Be quiet.” He patted her awkwardly with the towel. “The czar is nervous now anyway, with Napoleon on the horizon. His response won’t be pleasant when he discovers he was this vulnerable to attack.”

“Then he should thank me. Napoleon can no longer attack him through the tunnel.”

“That’s going to be little comfort when he finds out he had a weapon that might have defeated Napoleon and you destroyed it. I want you on your way to the border when that happens.”

“I thought you were angry with me.”

“I am.” His tone was clipped, his expression set and hard, and the waves of frustration and displeasure he was emitting were nearly tangible.

“Then why are you trying to protect me?”

“One has nothing to do with the other.”

He was still patting her with those poor bandaged hands, she realized with exasperation. “Will you stop?” She took the towel away from him and wrapped it around herself. “You’ll hurt yourself. And why does one have nothing to do with the other?”

“I have no intention of cheating myself out of what I want because you’ve done something for which I’d happily wring your neck.” He glared at her. “No one is going to take you away from me. Not the Czar, not Napoleon, not Wellington, and not you either.”

Hope flared within her, but she was afraid to acknowledge it. “You still wish me to be your mistress?”

“Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said? We will wed as soon as we reach Kazan.” He added grimly, “If I can keep the ravin from executing you for your idiocy.”

Wed. She felt the breath leave her body. She had not permitted herself to believe him before and after what she had done. “Why?”

“Now isn’t the time to ask that question, if you expect a tender declaration of sentiment.”

“I’m not going to ask you to forgive me. I did what I had to do.”

“I know.” For an instant his expression lost a little of its hardness. “I’m not so unfair that I would fault you for something I’d do myself. I’d have taken the Jedalar away from you if I’d found a way. You did something that I find unacceptable, but that doesn’t mean you’re unacceptable. None of that has any bearing on what’s between us.”

“No?” she whispered.

“Except that it makes me angry enough to want to rip that towel off you and throw you into a snowdrift,” he said harshly. “For God’s sake, don’t you know there’s no question of forgiveness between us? I cannot think of anything you could do that would make me not want you.” He walked to the door and opened it. “Go to bed. Be ready to leave at dawn tomorrow.”

The door slammed behind him.

There had been nothing sentimental or tender in his manner or words. He had given her only anger and understanding, harshness and a promise of eternal endurance.

She stared at the door, feeling bewilderment … and the beginning of joy.

D
arkness had fallen when she turned the knob of Jordan’s door.

Jordan was lying on the bed, still fully dressed, staring out the window at the flaring fires marching across the landscape.

He turned his head toward her. “I told you to go to bed.”

She couldn’t see his expression, but his tone was not encouraging. “I had to see you. I won’t be able to sleep otherwise.” She closed the door and came toward him. “Are you in pain?”

“Yes, and I don’t take it well at all. So you’d better go back to your room and leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You’ll regret it. When I’m hurt, I have a tendency to strike out blindly.”

“Then I’ll find your conduct unacceptable.” She lay down beside him. The words she had come to say were difficult for her, and she did not want to see his face. She turned her back toward him and fitted herself spoon fashion against his body. “But I won’t find you unacceptable. Not ever.”

She felt him stiffen against her. “Those words sound vaguely familiar.”

“They’re beautiful words. You’ve never been so eloquent.”

“By God, you’re easy to please.”

“No, I’m very difficult to please. I require everything.” She paused. “But I’ll give everything in return.”

He made no motion to put his arms around her. “For instance?” he said, his words were muffled in her hair.

“I will fight any battle for you. You want this Napoleon defeated? I will help you.”

“You should have thought of that this afternoon.”

“I will give you children. I think I would be a good mother.” She said haltingly, “And I will give you my work. It is the most important part of me,
and it will be difficult to share, but I will try.” She hesitated and then said in a low voice, “And I will love you as long as I live.”

There was a silence, and then he asked politely, “Is that all?”

She started to turn to him in indignation, but his arms were suddenly around her, holding her still.

“Let me go,” she said, struggling. “I know you’re in pain, but you’re being most unkind, and I—”

“Hush,” he said thickly. “I was joking.”

“I don’t think this is a moment for amusement.”

“I wasn’t amused. I didn’t know what to say, so I—” He stopped and drew her closer. “I didn’t know what to say.”

And when Jordan was touched or moved, he hid behind that mask she knew so well. The anger flowed out of her, and she lay still. “You say, ‘Thank you, Marianna. I realize I’m not worthy of you, that I’m an insensitive, blundering cad, but I will strive to mend my ways.’ ”

She expected him to laugh, but he did not. “It won’t be easy. I’m not insensitive, but I like my own way, and there will be times when I’ll blunder and hurt you.” His voice deepened and became unsteady. “But there will never be a moment I do not love you.”

Tears stung her eyes. “And there will never be a moment I don’t love you.” She added, “Though there will be times I’ll close myself in my workroom and forget I have a husband.”

“The devil you will.”

She kissed his wrist above the bandage. “The devil I will.”

Papa would have thought this a strange declaration, she thought dreamily, and this setting just as bizarre. His romantic poet’s heart would have been grievously offended, and yet she would have had nothing different. A love that had already survived hardship and challenges did not need flowering gardens and pretty words to validate it.

They were silent, staring out at the fires.

“What are you thinking?” she asked after a long while.

His lips brushed her ear as he whispered mischievously, “I was wondering if you’d call me an insensitive cad again if I made love to you.”

“You’re not going to make love to me. I won’t have you hurting those hands.”

“No?” She thought he was going to argue, but he pulled her closer. “Very well, this is pleasant too. But I must have been a very inadequate lover, if you think I need hands.” He looked back out the window. “It’s a good thing the snows have limited those fires to the line of the tunnel. If they’d spread to the fields, it would be a hungry spring for—” He stopped, and she heard him draw a sudden breath.

She turned her head to look at him. “Jordan?”

“Nothing.” He kissed her absently. “I just had a thought. I’ll have to consider the possibilities. Of course, it will depend on when Napoleon actually arrives in this area of Russia.…”

He had trailed off, his gaze remaining on the trail of fires leading to the gates of Moscow.

He was already making plans, plotting, trying to nullify the damage caused by the loss of the tunnel. She lay quiet, letting him think. It did not matter that
he was barely aware of her presence. He would come back to her, she thought contentedly. What a wondrous and magical realization.

From this day forward he would always come back to her.

C
HAPTER
17