The Saint (30 page)

Alarmed, Adrian strode over to him and gestured for Vergil to come as well.

“You must not,” Vergil said. “If you do, what reason will you give? It will only feed the flames of rumor about the Foreign Minister.”

“Damn it, man—what reason will
you
give?”

“My sister's honor.”

“Hell, no one will believe that.”

“I don't care.”

“It must not be you, Your Grace,” Adrian said forcefully. “Any of us, but not you.”

“Not any of us, Adrian.
Me.
” Vergil said.

Wellington narrowed his eyes on Witherby in disgust. “If you fail, Laclere, he is mine.”

St. John had been speaking to Witherby. He came toward them. “Sabres,” he said. He reached into the carriage and retrieved two swords.

Vergil returned to Dante. “I want you to stay here with Bianca, so she is not alone. Will you do that for me?”

“Damn it, Verg—”

“I ask for my sake, Dante. Not yours.”

He did not actually agree, but he did not refuse, either. The others began walking toward the orchard. Nigel, looking shaken, humiliated, and relieved, sought the sanctuary of the cottage.

Wellington, Witherby, and the Dueling Society disappeared into the trees. Twenty paces away Bianca stood rod straight.

Forcing containment on the emotions trying to submerge his sense of justice and duty, Vergil opened his arms.

She ran to his embrace.

“Do not say anything,” she whispered, stretching up to his kiss. “Nothing. I will not lose you today. My heart knows it.”

Those big blue eyes could create a world that existed only for them. He savored the bliss that she could inspire in him. “I must speak. I must tell you how much I love you, Bianca.”

“You have told me often before, Laclere, in ways more meaningful than words.”

“I find myself thinking that if I die today, loving you will have been the best thing in my life. So it is important to me that you know that I love you, very clearly. I would never want you to wonder.”

Her lids lowered and she flushed. “As you wondered?” she whispered.

He kissed each lid and her cheek, and held her face so his lips could taste hers. “A man's pride can be a stupid thing. My heart has always understood you. I just did not want to accept what it meant for me, that is all.”

He held her to his body, trying to absorb her into his essence. He had not had time to be grateful she was safe, and relief now washed through him, shaking his soul.

She looked at him with an expression of love and trust that obscured the danger waiting.

“Go inside with Dante, Bianca.”

He walked away, but she did not go into the cottage. At the edge of the orchard he looked back and saw her still outside, watching him.

From the threshold to the cottage, Dante watched as well.

Vergil's gaze swept the cliff line and the gray void of the ocean beyond. There was something elemental about nature's forces on the coast. The violent abstractness of the sea, the bleakness of the cliffs and beaches—civilization ended where that water began, and man and his rules simply disappeared in a wave.

He joined the others. Witherby already held his sabre, and Hampton walked over to give Vergil the other one and take his coat.

“An appropriate setting,” Hampton said quietly.

“Yes, as places for dying go, a seacoast is among the best.”

Hampton gave one of his rare smiles. “I always thought so.”

St. John came up alongside him. “We seem destined to assist each other in unpleasant matters, Laclere.”

“It would appear so.”

“The chevalier is not here, so it is left to me to remind you of his first lesson. A clear head, and cold blood. The mind must rule, not the heart.”

Vergil doubted his mind would rule entirely. The justice of this course did not make it easy, and the man waiting was not a stranger, nor completely evil.

Hampton and St. John stood aside. Under the watchful gaze of Wellington and the Dueling Society, Vergil walked over to Cornell Witherby.

“Hell of a thing,” Witherby said. “To have practiced together all these years, and to now find ourselves doing it for real with each other.”

Vergil suddenly saw all those years. His mind pictured Witherby at university, always ready with a joke and indifferent to his studies. He saw Witherby excited when his first poem was published, and bringing life and humor to the meetings of the Dueling Society.

More recent memories flashed through his head too—those of Penelope, happy for the first time in years because of this man.

“You can take comfort in knowing that even if I win, I also lose,” Vergil said. “I will be the one who has to return to London and tell my sister that I killed the man she loves.”

Witherby's expression fell. In the pure, diffused light of the overcast day, he looked very young and sad. “Let us be done with this, Laclere,” he said softly. “There is nothing else for it.”

They saluted with their sabres and the roar of the surf entered Vergil's head.

“You aren't going to obey him and wait here, are you?” Dante asked as he strolled toward her.

Bianca watched the spot where Vergil had disappeared into the orchard. “No, I am not going to obey him.”

“Of course not. No reason for you to start now, is there? At least your willfulness spares me from playing nursemaid.” Dante passed her and headed into the trees. “Come on, then.”

They walked quickly through the orchard. Halfway down its path, Bianca thought she heard the faint sounds of metal on metal. She and Dante broke into a run at the same time.

They emerged onto the field of clover. Up on the rise, near the cliff's edge, the tiny dark spots of six men could be seen against the gray sky. Specks of light flickered off the slashing sabres.

Dante took her hand as they stumbled across the field. She could not take her eyes off those dark spots. Four of them stood like statues, stoic witnesses to the other two's dance of death.

“Laclere is very good at this, isn't he?” she said. “Please tell me he is an expert swordsman, Dante.”

“He is better with pistols.”

She had never seen Dante so serious. So concerned. He did not look like a man who assumed his brother would win this duel. His expression sapped her confidence and fear took its place.

She stared desperately at the distant drama and ran faster, not knowing what she rushed toward. She doubted her mere presence could stop it now.

Worse, it might even distract Vergil.

That thought made her halt abruptly in the middle of the field. She jerked her hand from Dante's. “You go. I will stay here. He does not want me there for a reason.”

Dante nodded as he turned to continue. Suddenly he stopped too. His gaze locked on the figures moving against the sky. Vergil and Witherby's expressions could not be seen, but the progress of the duel was clear.

“He does not want me there, either,” Dante said. “We will wait here together.”

He backed up and stood beside her. Shoulder to shoulder, down in the field that had ceased to exist to the men on the cliff, they watched the silent, horrible contest.

Suddenly two forms became one. Bianca's heart stopped and her breath left her. She waited, numb with shock, for one man to drop to the ground.

Beside her Dante ceased breathing too. Their hands instinctively sought each other's, and their fingers entwined with all the strength of their shared fear.

Vergil and Witherby separated. One did not drop. Instead Witherby just stood there, as still as the sentries witnessing this ancient form of judgment.

Suddenly he was gone, and only five men stood on the cliff path.

“Jesus,” Dante muttered.

It sounded more like a prayer of gratitude than a curse.

chapter
22

H
e showed some honor in the end,” Wellington said.

He was the first to speak after the silent group made their way back to the cottage.

Vergil held Bianca in his arms, not giving a damn who saw. None of that mattered now. He needed to feel her warmth and vitality and the world could go to hell if it objected.

None of the world surrounding them in the cottage did.

“I will send boats out from Cherbourg,” St. John said. “If his body is found, there will be no wounds from weapons. We can say it was an accident, that he fell from the cliff. No one will know that there was a duel under way.”

Vergil pressed his lips to Bianca's silken hair as he tightened his embrace. He closed his eyes and saw Witherby on the cliff.

The man had lowered his weapon and his defense deliberately, and exposed himself to death.

Vergil had not pressed the advantage. He had not lunged.

He doubted he would ever forget the look in his friend's eyes as they slowly met the gazes of the witnesses, and then Vergil's own. One last sad smile, and Witherby had stepped back, until his boot landed on nothing but air.

“One person will have to know,” Vergil said, relaxing his embrace of Bianca, but not letting her go. “I must speak with Pen. I will not live with a lie between us.”

“The countess is stronger than most people know, Laclere,” Hampton said. “Although, sparing the earl from the fruits of his sins—well, of all the men who were blackmailed, I did not cry for him.”

That was the worst of this business, and a miserable irony. Not only had today taken from Pen the man she loved, it had left her shackled to one she hated.

“I will explain it to her,” Dante said firmly, darting Vergil a glance that dared him to object. “That way I will be sure that she learns the
whole
truth of it.”

“It is getting late, and we should depart,” Wellington said. “There is a small matter of transportation now. What with Miss Kenwood and her cousin here, there is not enough room in the coach.”

“I will ride Vergil's horse, and Kenwood will take my place with the coachman,” Dante said. “Vergil, you and Miss Kenwood will have to wait here until we can send a carriage for you.”

Wellington's lids dropped to half-mast. He examined the embracing couple.

Everyone else assumed utterly bland expressions.

“Your Grace?” Adrian said, gesturing to the door.

“Quite.” Wellington exited, and a line of men filed after him.

“Why not make a visit to Paris, as long as you are on the Continent?” St. John said as he passed. “My sister, Jeanette, would be happy to receive you.”

“Perhaps we will do that,” Vergil said.

The rest of the Dueling Society departed, leaving only Vergil, Bianca, and Dante.

“Going to Paris may be a good idea, Verg. Do not worry about Pen. I will take care of her. It is the least I can do.”

“Thank you, Dante.”

Dante stopped at the threshold. “It may be that the carriage cannot come until the morning,” he said. “I trust that you will be a saint, Verg, and that Miss Kenwood is safe with you.”

“Of course.”

Laughing, Dante left. Vergil and Bianca followed him and watched the men climbing into the coach.

Nigel approached them. “I would like to know if you will be bringing witness against me, cousin. I should like to return to England, but obviously cannot do so if you choose to prohibit it.”

“I will not bring evidence. When the choice came, you did the right thing,” Bianca said. “The price, however, is that you not speak against Vergil, that you keep silent about what you discovered.”

“I intended to do so anyway. I find that I do not have the taste for blackmail that some others do. It brings out parts in a man that are better left buried.”

Bianca beamed with approval, but Vergil felt less sanguine. Nigel appeared sincere enough, but who knew what the morning would bring. Good sense and constancy were not this man's strongest virtues.

“Woodleigh is a good estate, Kenwood. With the right manager, it could be productive enough to keep you. Not like a duke, but well enough,” Vergil said. “When I return to Sussex I will ask my estate manager to visit you. He may have some suggestions for a good man to see to things for you.”

“I thank you for that. Perhaps it is time to put down roots back home. Maybe you were right, Bianca. Your grandfather may have had his reasons for arranging things as he did.”

Nigel walked toward the coach and climbed up with the coachman.

“What did you mean when you said he did the right thing when the choice came?” Vergil asked.

“Let us just say that I think that the devil has been fighting for his soul, but did not win.” She watched the carriage take him away. “Do you think that he will remain silent?”

“Probably. Not that it will matter, since Mrs. Gaston is certain to tell all to whoever will listen. Eventually her stories about me will get to London.”

“Oh, darling, can't we find some way to stop her?”

He placed two fingers on her soft warm lips. “I do not care. I think that I will be glad for it. I am tired of the double life, Bianca. I am tired of denying part of who I am. Doing so left my brother vulnerable, and eventually killed him, and I will not live like that. I am proud of what I have done with the mill. It is important to me, essential to me, and I am not inclined to give it up, either.”

“I think that I can understand that.”

“Yes, you can. And I can understand you. I understand that embracing your dream and your art does not mean rejecting me, even if it does mean that you cannot stay with me.”

She sank against him. It felt so good to hold her feminine warmth. However, her embrace acknowledged that it was time for decisions to be made. The beauty of her sadness made his heart shake.

“What do we do now?” she mumbled.

She was asking for help in seeing it through.

“We will visit Paris and then you will continue down to Italy. I brought a bank draft that you can take. It will see you clear until more formal arrangements can be made. We will send for Jane while we are in Paris and settling the plans for your journey south.”

Her big blue eyes widened in her erotically innocent way. “That is not what I mean, Laclere. What do we do
now
?”

His blood fired immediately in response to her quiet invitation. He pulled her to him and kissed her with a ferocity born of relief and regret. “You are a most dangerous lady.”

She backed into the farmhouse. “Only dangerous for you, my lord. You have my promise on that.”

He followed where she led, over to a sheepskin rug by the fire. With eyes speaking of the passion to come, she dropped her cloak and began to undress him.

“I thought of you often while I walked by the sea.” She slid his waistcoat off and plucked at his cravat. “The power of the waves, the rhythm and force of them, the glory of all that untamed nature—it can saturate a person the way love and passion can. Very moving. Like music, actually. Yes, a lot like music. I would watch the sea and want to make love to you and sing my heart out.”

“Then we will.” He grabbed up her cloak and threw it around her. “On the cliffs. We will make love there and you will sing for me, and we will join our passion to that of creation and remember this day forever.”

Flying on desire, they made their way to the cliffs, huddled together against the wind, almost spilling their love in the orchard when he stopped to warm them both in an embrace. They climbed up the walk to the highest point, where the western sun still gave a little warmth and an ethereal pink light bathed an outcropping.

Bianca faced the sea, so close to the edge one expected her to take to flight. The wind whipped her cloak and gown and hair until she appeared like the center of a tiny tempest. She closed her eyes and just felt it, and he felt it through her. Her voice warbled up and down the scales as she announced herself to the elements.

“It is divine,” she whispered.

He stepped close behind her. “Sing the Rossini,” he said. “Sing as you did the day at the ruins.”

“You favor that? Do you know what the words say?”

“The singer explains how she will not marry her evil guardian, but will find a way to be with her true love.”

“Very apt that day in the ruins, except that the true love was in fact the evil guardian.”

“In his heart the evil guardian wished for it.” He embraced her. “Sing it for me.”

At first he could barely hear her. The wind stole the sound out of her mouth and carried it to the clouds. But her breath and voice found its strength and the music flowed out of her, another wind blowing its passion, another force drenching his soul. He sensed her with him, pulling him into it, glorying in the elemental energy of her voice and womanhood.

He lowered her to the ground and took her while she sang. The joining left her breathless, unable to sound the notes, but the aria continued silently in his head, filling out the roar of wind and sea. Her soul sang it too. She expressed her ecstacy in her kisses and holds and cries until a completion erupted that merged them into the coast's sublime fury.

She clutched the hearth wall as pleasure of stunning intensity left her limp. Only her grip kept her upright on her knees as Laclere's tongue made her vulva throb with astonishing sensations.

He reached for her waist and brought her down until she straddled his hips on the sheepskin rug in front of the cottage's hearth. She laid against his chest and blinked her senses alert.

In that instant, with the solidity of his body beneath her and the heat of their passion burning, she saw her future. She knew how it must be. No regret tinged the joy that the decision gave her. In the years ahead she might experience some nostalgia for what she relinquished, but she would never grieve.

She felt him hard beneath her, his need intensified by the kisses he had just given her. She rose and sat back on his thighs and looked down at the man who had intruded on her plans, only to become the center of her life. “I want us to be lovers forever, Laclere.”

“We will be, darling. I will come to Italy often and the separations will not be too long.”

She caressed down his chest, wonderfully alert to the feel of his skin and body. “I want no distance. No separation. I cannot leave you, Laclere. My heart will not let me. I want to get married.”

Her declaration surprised him. He gripped her hands to stop their caresses and looked in her eyes.

There was no triumph in his expression. She saw only relief and love and astonishment.

Then a deeper comprehension shadowed the brighter emotions.

“You said that denying your dream would mean giving up half your soul. I do not want that.”

“I can sing anywhere, Laclere. In my chamber and yours. In a ruined castle. I do not need to be in Italy for my soul to be whole. I do not need to train for performances in order to have my art.”

Her capitulation appeared to trouble him. His fingertips skimmed her breast's swell while he thought, as if its shape aided his contemplations. “You must continue training, darling. When you surpass Signore Bardi's skill, we will bring another voice master from Italy, as I promised.”

He pulled her down into an embrace. He pressed a long kiss to her as he smoothed slow caresses over her body. “You will train, and then you will perform when you are ready. If I do something so outrageous as manage a mill, having a wife who performs is almost insignificant.”

It was her turn to be astonished. “It will not be so simple, Laclere. There will be a high cost if you permit this. I do not want your family hurt because of me.”

“It will be some years before you go onstage. Charlotte will be married by then, so we will not harm her future. As to Pen and Dante, they are hardly paragons of propriety themselves. Maybe everyone will just think I have become eccentric, like my father and brother. If not, I do not care. Your happiness is worth any price, my love.”

Her throat burned and her eyes misted. She loved him so much at that moment that holding the love inside her made her heart gloriously full. “Thank you for wanting to do this for me, but you are not being practical. By the time I am ready to perform, I will have children.”

“Then we will have an army of nurses and tutors go with them when you travel to your engagements. You will have your dream, Bianca. If you will stay with me, I will not allow our marriage to deny you any of it.”

She kissed him. The warmth of his lips seemed to make the sweetest connection they had ever shared. She knew with a woman's certainty that this marriage would indeed deny her part of the dream, but she did not care about that. His desire to give it all to her was what she would always remember.

“I do not expect to travel very much. I do not have to perform on the Continent. I do not want to build a career for the fame, Laclere. However, it will be nice, sometimes, to have the opportunity to sing until hundreds of people weep.”