The Wicked One (29 page)

He had just reached the door when out she came, stiff, erect, a riding crop in her hand and a worried groom trailing behind her, leading a saddled mare and protesting that it was no night for Her Grace to be traveling.

"Her Grace
isn't
travelling," Lucien bit out through clenched teeth.

Her head jerked up and she saw him standing there in the sleet.  Something passed over her face, settled in her beautiful slanting eyes — and in that moment Lucien knew he'd made a grave mistake.

Her mouth curved in a poisonous little smile.  "I should have known you'd interfere," she murmured, her voice colder than the sleet that beat down against their faces.  She no longer radiated the furious temper he had left her in; now, there was nothing but resentment.  Loathing.  "Even now you try to control my destiny.  My fate.  You despicable wretch."

"You are not going out on a night like this."

"Ah, listen to you, Blackheath . . . ever the dictator, aren't you?"  She shook her head.  "You just can't let a person control their own destiny, can't allow them their God-given freedom of will.  How can you, when you think you rank right up there with the Creator himself?"  She took the mare's reins from the groom.  "You just don't learn.  I suspect you never will."  She led the mare to the mounting block, gathered the reins and swung neatly up onto the horse's back, where she sat staring down at him in disdain, the sleet beating down around her face.  "I am well rid of you, Blackheath.  Just remember, things
could
have been different . . . if only you'd been able to relinquish some of that precious control you value so highly."

She put her heel to the horse's flank; the mare began to move.

Lucien stepped in front of the animal.  "Eva, I beg of you, don't go."

"You
beg
of me?  You, the mighty Blackheath, reduced to begging?"  She gave a high, mocking laugh, though he saw the pain in her eyes, the wounds that he had torn in her soul.  "Oh, you can beg all you like, but it's not going to get you anything but humiliation.  I think I would like to see you humiliated, though.  It's nothing less than you deserve.  Now out of my way.  I am through with you."

Lucien caught the mare's reins as Eva tried to get past.  The sleet was pelting his face now, running through his hair and down the back of his neck, the wind knifing through the thin shirt that was all he had against the elements.  "For God's sake, woman, if you insist on leaving in this weather, at least let Rothwell drive you into the village.  I don't want — that is, you can't be out riding in this sort of storm.  Let Rothwell take you in the coach — if not for your own sake, then for that of the child."

She glanced down at him, weighing his words against her own fierce pride.  Then she jerked her gaze up and away, glaring out into the silent darkness.  Around them, the sleet hissed down, caking the mare's neck with ice, tracking down her thick winter coat in dark rivulets, making her lay her ears flat against her head.  The cobbles upon which they stood were growing slick.  The wind was picking up.  A short distance away, a worried Rothwell stood shivering.

"Eva —
please
."

She swung back to face him, her eyes burning with something like hatred as her gaze met his.  Wordlessly, she stared down at him through the stinging sleet; then, she kicked free of the stirrups, swung down from the saddle before he cold step forward to assist her, and stalked back into the stable.

Rothwell looked toward Lucien for instruction.

But he was still staring into the black rectangle of darkness into which Eva had disappeared.

"Hitch up a team and see her safely into the village," he bit out.  "There's an inn on the High Street.  Deliver her safely to the door, and do not leave until you have the landlord's assurance that she will have a room for the night and all the comforts she desires."

And with that, Lucien turned on his heel and stalked back through the worsening weather toward the house, his last words still stinging his tongue, his heart sitting like a ball of lead in his chest.

They were the hardest words he'd ever had to utter in his life.

Chapter 24

He slammed into the house, ice melting from his hair and sliding down the back of his neck as he stalked back toward the study.

He was so angry he couldn't even think.  Never — not since he'd found his father all those years ago, lying dead on those cold stone stairs with a broken neck — had he felt so out of control, so near to . . . tears.  He seized the bottle of brandy, got another glass, and immediately tossed it back, uncaring that he was soaked through to the skin and shaking with cold.  He was too distraught to seek the warmth of the hearth.  Instead, his gaze, of its own accord, jerked up and found the window, hidden from his blazing eyes by thick, pulled-shut drapes.

Only supreme force of will kept him from getting to his feet, yanking the drapes aside, and getting a last glimpse of her as she came back out of the stable and entered the coach.  In fact, he could envision it now; Eva, his wife, his duchess, pacing back and forth as she waited for it to be readied, her eyes like two chips of emerald, the riding crop still in her hand, no doubt, and impatiently slapping her thigh.  It was all he could do not to go to her — again — and infuriate her all the more with his bungled attempts at stopping this nonsense, at trying to reach an understanding, a reconciliation.  But he had tried that once and failed; all he'd succeeded in doing was making her hate him all the more.

To hell with her, then.  He'd lived without her for nearly thirty years, he could live without her now.  He could.  Damn it, he was the Duke of Blackheath and he didn't need to be chasing after a woman's skirts, making a fool of himself and losing his own self-respect in the bargain!  God above, if his friends could see him now . . . how they would be laughing!

He downed the brandy, turning his back on the window so he could not be tempted to observe her departure.  But the brandy would not dull the churning, writhing torment that made him unable to sit still, unable to rein his thoughts into some semblance of order, unable to do anything but pace back and forth and curse her for her stubbornness and inability to see reason.

He was just reaching for the bottle once more when he heard hoofbeats and the jangle of harnesses just outside the window.  His insides tensed; he froze, jaw clenched, shutting his eyes against the emotions that threatened to consume him, willing himself to stand right where he was until the vehicle was long past the window.  The noise peaked, then diminished, soon lost to the howl of the wind.  Lucien finished the glass of brandy, and then, his face set and cold, stalked to the window and finally ripped open the drapes.

There, fresh tracks through the crusted ice that covered the ground, leading off toward the road.  He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.  Heard his heartbeat echoing in his ears.

There was nothing out there now but beating-down sleet, and vast, empty darkness.

She was gone.

~~~~

It was freezing cold in the coach.

Inside, Eva sat as stiff as a corpse, willing her body not to shiver, staring straight ahead as she tried to banish that last sight of Lucien stalking back toward the house like a sullen, angry wolf.

She wanted to cry.  To give lease to the tears that stung her eyelids, rose up in the back of her throat, threatened to reduce her to contemptible, pathetic weakness.  It was her own fault, of course; she had trusted him, a man.  As soon as she'd begun to trust, he had betrayed her. 
She
didn't seem to learn, either.

She was no better than he was.

She settled back against the seat, burying her hands within the heavy folds of her cloak, watching the needles of sleet streaking the dark window.  She could hear the wheels crunching through the icy crust that now covered the ground.  They had left the drive now, were on the road that led to the village.  Was Blackheath giving chase?  She resisted the urge to look out the back window.  She rather hoped that he was . . . she needed him as the target for her fury, needed her fury to chase away the niggling thought that maybe, just maybe, he had come back outside not in order to control her, but because he truly did care about her safety.

About their marriage.

About her.

Codswallop!  He didn't care, didn't care one jot; all he cared about was his precious dukedom and the power he wore about him like a mantle, power that he, in all his aristocratic arrogance, expected to exert upon everyone whose lives touched his.  Control.  It was all about control, wasn't it?

The bastard!  She was well rid of him!

She heard Rothwell shout something to the horses, and then the vehicle veered left, the wheels sliding for a heart-stopping moment as they crossed the bridge, frozen now, that spanned the inlet.  A moment later they were turning south, following the coastal road.  The wind began to pick up as they neared the sea.  Already Eva could feel it rocking the coach, could sense the difficulty the horses were having in keeping their footing on sleet-covered ice.  A prickle of unease chased up her spine, and she hastily banished it.  She was safe and dry in the coach; she could, at least, thank Blackheath for insisting she take it.

She settled back against the seat, staring into the darkness. 
Go back.
   She shut her eyes, pushing her fingertips against them and trying to ignore the persistent little voice. 
Go back, talk to him, try to see things from his side . . .

No!  She would not humiliate herself so, she would not give him another opportunity — not one! — to have the upper hand, the mocking triumph, the victory that would be his if she went slinking back to him with her tail between her legs.  She would go to the inn, sleep on her troubles, and maybe in the morning, when her head was cooler, when she could think instead of just feel, she would consider what to do next.  For now, she only wanted to escape —

Again the wheels slid on ice, and Eva's hand shot out, her heart banging as she steadied herself against the door handle.  She looked out the window.  They were very near the sea; she could see its dark, almost frightening expanse out there beyond the edge of the land, could feel the wind that drove ruthlessly off the long, endless waves, buffeting the coach, rocking it on its axles.

Her uneasiness built.  Her hands were sweating now, despite the chill inside the vehicle.  Perhaps she ought to tell Rothwell to turn around and take the longer road into the village.

Perhaps she ought to consider going back to Blackheath.

Perhaps she ought to —

She cried out as the coach skidded dizzyingly hard to the left, unable to find purchase on ice.  She heard Rothwell's desperate shouts, the frightened whinny of a horse, and then, in slow, sickening motion, her world went awry as the vehicle, still moving, hit the frozen verge and careened over.  Eva was hurled from the seat.  Glass broke all around her and there was a horrible screech of metal.  Her knees shaking, she got to her feet — and reaching up, found the door where the roof had been just a moment before.

The coach was on its side.

Her knees gone to jelly, she pushed the door open.  Immediately the wind caught it, ripping it back on its hinges, nearly crushing her fingers and sending sleet driving into her face as she looked out into the night.  Rothwell, who must have been flung from the box, was trying to calm the horses, one of which was down, the other, wild-eyed with fright, rearing and ready to bolt.  Eva's relief turned to angry frustration.  This was just what she should have expected would happen.  Just what she should have predicted, given that she'd taken Blackheath's advice and allowed Rothwell to drive her when she would have fared much better on horseback.  Men.  Stupid, impossible,
men
!

The hell with this.  She'd
walk
to the village before she suffered another minute in the company of a male.  Hooking her hands around the sill, she pulled herself up through the door.  Instantly the wind blew her hood back, slinging sleet and salt spray into her face and knifing through her cloak.  She drew herself up farther until she was balanced on the edge — and what she saw filled her with horror.  Not ten feet to her left was the edge of the cliffs, and beyond them, several thousand miles of ocean.  And there was Rothwell, who'd just freed the standing horse and was now trying to calm the downed one, still tangled in its harness and thrashing wildly as it tried to get to its feet.

He looked up and saw Eva poised atop the coach, ready to leap down — and flung his palm out, trying to stay her.

"Your Grace, please don't move!  I'll help you down as soon as I free the horse!"

But Eva had had enough.  More than enough.  She began to straighten in preparation to jump down — just as the horse, still writhing on the ice, managed to gain its feet — and bolted.  The overturned vehicle jerked forward.  Eva's feet went out from under her, and she was pitched over its side.

Straight toward the cliff.

She careened through space, only to hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash, feet scrabbling for purchase, hands flailing as she tried to slow her fall.  But it was no use.  Her fall had momentum.  And it was taking her straight down the cliff.

She screamed.  Her fingernails tore as, sliding feet first on her belly, she clawed at icy outcroppings.  Rocks broke loose, charging past her on her downward slide, bump, bump, bumping around her, racing her toward the sea that boiled and thrashed so far below.  She groped frantically for a handhold; kicked her feet, raked furrows in the ice with what remained of her nails.  Rubble tore at her legs, bruised her knees, sent her skirts riding up around her waist as she belted down the slope on a toboggan of loose stone and ice, falling ever faster, ever downward —

Bang.

She slammed against a rocky outcropping in a brilliant explosion of agony.  Agony that burst from her pelvis, from her midriff, from the lowest region of her belly.  The pain tore at her consciousness, at her ability to even draw breath.  Far below, the ocean boiled.  A few last pebbles skittered past.  She lay there, the sleet stinging the back of her bare legs, feeling herself bleeding in a hundred tiny places . . .