The Wicked One (32 page)

He charged down the bank, seizing his brother's hands and hauling him out of the water.  Instantly Gareth and Andrew were there, helping him, until they had Lucien safely up on the sandy, ice-strewn bank.

"Oh, God," Andrew choked out, seeing the duke's still, pale face.  "Is he —"

"Dead?" Gareth whispered.

Charles refused to speak; he merely ripped open Lucien's drenched shirt and put an ear to his chest.  In the darkness, his brothers knelt in stricken horror, watching the snow sifting down upon Charles's pale lashes, Lucien's still face.  Neither spoke.  Neither dared to breathe.

Charles straightened.  "No.  Not dead.  Hurry, let's get him wrapped in a blanket and onto Newton's back.  You two bring him back to the house and get him warmed up.  Don't let him try to come to Eva's rescue when he wakes up. 
If
he wakes up," he added darkly.  "Christ, he reeks of brandy."

Gareth and Andrew exchanged glances; Lucien had never been one to overindulge.  But there was no time for speculation.  They all knew that something horrible indeed must have happened to bring their brother to such a state, and all of them knew that in all likelihood, the duchess was dead.

"Come on, Luce," Gareth said, trying for bolstering cheer as together they rolled their unconscious brother in the thick wool blanket and carried him back toward the waiting horses.  "You're going to be all right."

Lucien stirred just as they managed to get him across Newton's back.  "Eva . . ."

Charles, grim-faced, leaned close.  "Lucien, where is she?"

"Taverton Bend . . . left her with the coach.  You must save her, Charles.  I . . . am depending on you."

Charles was used to people depending on him — indeed, he thrived on it — but he had no more power over life and death than anyone else.  Still, for his brother's sake, he would give it his best effort.  He squeezed Lucien's hand.  "I will bring her back to you, Lucien.  I promise."

And then, his face grave and his heart full of dread, he ordered Gareth and Andrew to take Lucien back to the house and, swinging up onto Contender's back, sent the big horse galloping off into the snowy darkness.

~~~~

Hoofbeats.

She heard them above the wind, the thundering roar of the sea, which had tried, ever since Lucien had left her, to lull her into the sleep of death.  But she had made a promise to him.  She had not gone to sleep, and now she could hear a horse, coming up fast from out of the night, ever closer, ever louder.  Someone was coming for her.  Her eyes stung with tears. 
Oh, Lucien.

Eva, shivering, huddled deeper into the blanket.  It took all her strength just to turn her head.  Sure enough, a rider was approaching, heading her way with relentless purpose; he held a lantern high, its light a beacon of hope that cleaved the night.  Eva began to shake; help had come. 
He
had come.

Except it wasn't him.  Something was familiar but not right about the rider in the sweeping greatcoat, and as he pulled the horse up before her and swung down in the same motion, the lantern shone full in his face and she saw who her rescuer was.

Saw it, at the same time she remembered that same face in the light of another lantern when she had ruthlessly struck him down as he had tried, then as now, to help her.

Eva began to cry.

"Your Grace."  He was there before her, all kindness, all concern, all stern, trustworthy competence.  "I have come to take you home."

"Lucien —"

"He is unwell.  He needs you."  He knelt before her, brusque, efficient, and yes, worried.  Worried, when he should feel nothing but hatred for her.  "Will you allow me to take you?"

She heard the benevolence in his voice even as she reached out and placed her icy hand within his own.  "You mean you will not order me, then?"

He smiled gently.  "No, your Grace.  You outrank me now."

His kindness overwhelmed her.  Kindness, when she had treated him so despicably.  When she had hurt him.  Fresh tears tracked down her cheeks.  She was so unworthy.  Unworthy of his kindness, unworthy of anyone's love, unworthy of anything but death.

He was gentleman enough to allow her the dignity of her tears without calling attention to them.  She tried to get up.  Couldn't.  She had no strength left.  He saw it and, reaching down, gathered her up in his arms and, keeping her wrapped in her cloak and blanket, carried her to the waiting horse.

She didn't know how he did it, but somehow, he managed to get her up into the saddle, bracing here there while he swung up behind her; then, holding her against his chest, he turned the big horse's head for home.

He was warm and solid beneath her ear.  She could smell the dampness of his wool greatcoat, the hard strength of his arm holding her safely close.  His nearness did not fill her with lust, but with comfort — the sort of comfort she might seek from a brother.  And he was a brother now, wasn't he?

A brother. 
 She did not deserve this; oh, God, she didn't deserve it.  As he sent the horse moving slowly across the icy terrain so as not to jar her pain-wracked body, great, gulping sobs claimed her and she cried like a baby in his arms, no longer caring what he might think, no longer trying to maintain an illusion of femininely-superior strength.

He didn't say a word.

"I'm so sorry, Charles," she choked out.  "How can you be so kind to me after what I did to you?"

"I believe in giving everyone a second chance."

"But I hurt you . . .  I struck you down and humiliated you and this is how you repay me, by saving my life.  Oh, God . . . I'm sorry."  She started crying again.  "I'm so sorry . . ."

"It is all right, Eva.  I have forgiven you.  Now hush.  Save your strength.  My brother needs you.  We all need you."

She spoke no more, and as her brother-in-law held her tight and safe, she shut her eyes, realizing, as the fog of oblivion began to close around her, that she had been wrong all along.  Wrong about men.  Wrong about Lucien.

Wrong about everything.

If she survived this, she had a lot of catching up to do.

A lot of amends to make.

Her head fell back against the strong arm that held her, the tears still wet upon her cheeks.

Chapter 27

They were a family, and they rallied around her.

Not just because of what she meant to Lucien — but because she was now one of their own.

In the days that followed, Nerissa took over the duties of hostess with a brisk and inborn efficiency.  The best doctors were sent for.  Charles, Gareth, and Andrew took turns trying to keep Lucien off his injured leg — with little success — and Lucien never left the bedside of his duchess, now delirious with fever and, according to the doctors, quite unlikely to survive.

But they were only doctors, he thought savagely.  He was the Duke of Blackheath, and he knew the power of his own will, the lengths to which it would go to serve him, and he had no patience for the dire predictions of the medical profession.

"I am sorry, Your Grace — unless we bleed her, she probably won't last the night."

"Bleed her?" 
Bleed her?
  She's spent the last two days bleeding!  Now get out," he snarled, glaring at the hapless fool who'd dared make such a ridiculous suggestion.

The physician fled.  Another was brought in his place.

"Even if she survives, she is unlikely to ever conceive another child.  You would do well, Your Grace, not to expect her to give you the heir you seek —"

One look from Lucien had frozen the man in mid-sentence.  "Get out!"

And then a third doctor, full of his own importance, arrived.  He bent over the duchess's battered body, his self-confidence rapidly draining as the duke loomed over him, not saying a word, not needing to, his eyes black and savage and cold.  Finally he, too, had straightened, shaking his head.  "I am sorry, Your Grace.  There is nothing I can do for her except make her comfortable."

Lucien threw him out, too, and went into such a rage that even the servants steered clear of him.

He paced the floor, using his walking stick as a crutch, roaring at anyone who dared tell him he'd best stay off his leg until it healed.  He refused meals, refused sleep, and existed on black coffee.  He lost track of time.  He forgot what day it was.  He knew nothing except the shallow rasp of his duchess's breathing, the hot brow he continuously bathed, the scalding bath of his own bitter anguish.

It was obvious, of course.  He loved her.  He loved her, and he wasn't afraid or too proud to admit it.  She had slipped under his defenses and claimed his heart, and now here she was, fading away before his eyes, taking his heart right along with her.  Leaving him.  Damn the fates that had done this to him!  Damn the fates that had done this to
her
!  He wanted his wife back; he wanted his duchess with her rare and beautiful courage, one of the few people on earth who wasn't afraid of him, the only woman who would ever be his match.  But the woman who lay in the bed before him was no more than a pale, silent shell of what she had been, her hair caught in a single girlish braid over one shoulder, her skin as white and fragile as tissue.

She was dying.  And it was all his fault.  By trying to control her life he had killed her, just as he had probably killed Perry, just as he had certainly killed any chance Nerissa had for happiness.  He had wrought unforgivable damage in the lives of other people; people who were not pawns to be moved about a chessboard, nor puppets to dance to his bidding — but people he cared about.  People he loved.  People who had the right to make their own choices, live their lives as they pleased, decide their own futures . . . without his interference.

He looked at the woman in the bed, and felt his chest constrict with grief.  How colossal his arrogance now seemed, in light of what it had cost him, might still cost him.  Even now her words came floating back to him, torturing him with their prophetic accuracy:

You need to consider the consequences of governing other people's lives, of making their choices for them, of imposing yourself upon their free will.

The consequences.  Well, she was living — dying — proof of the consequences, wasn't she?  He had imposed his will upon hers, with no respect for her thoughts, feelings, and wishes.  He had imposed it because he had been supremely confident that he had known best, that his way was the only way, that nobody was as capable as he was of handling responsibility.  And he had done the same thing with his siblings' lives — every one of them.  His clever manipulations had all seemed like a game to him.  How he had prided himself on his successes, the ease with which he'd ordered their lives!  But now, with bitter remorse, he realized that life was no game.

And neither was death.  He looked down at Eva's still, pale face.

I have learned my lesson.
  He buried his head in his hands, dragged them down his face, then hooked them around the back of his neck, elbows on his knees.  He sat watching her with a brooding stare.  Her ribs rose and fell beneath the coverlet, and he willed each laborious breath not to be the last. 
I have learned my lesson, Eva, and never again will I try to play God with other people's destinies.  If you live, my dearest, I will make it up to you.  If you want your freedom, I will set you free.  Whatever I can give you is yours.  I swear it.

Someone knocked gently at the door.

"Lucien?"

He unhooked his hands from his nape and looked up, blinking the fatigue from his eyes.  It was Charles.  He pushed the bedside candle back so his brother would not see glaring evidence of the agony that ravaged him.  "Come in."

His sibling entered the room with a tray.  "Would you like me to sit with her for a while?  You really ought to get some sleep."

"I cannot sleep.  I will stay with her."

I will stay with her because I am terrified of leaving her.  Terrified that if I leave her, even for a moment, she will leave me and die, just like Father did.  Just like Mother did.  I cannot allow it.

Charles nodded and, pulling up a table, set the tray down.  The scent of strong coffee filled the air.  He poured them each a cup, stirred milk and sugar into his, and, carrying it, went to stand before the fire.  "I have been speaking with Nerissa," he said, sipping the steaming brew.  "She's most distraught about Perry — and furious with us for waylaying her in Southampton, I'm afraid.  I know you intend to resume the search for him, but at the moment, your going to France is out of the question.  I will go in your stead."

"We are on the very brink of war with France, Charles.  It is unsafe."

"I know.  But some things must be done.  This is one of them."

"When do you plan to leave?"

"In the morning."

Lucien opened his mouth to protest; he had spent his life protecting his siblings, making choices for them,
ordering their lives
.  Charles wanted to go to France. 
Who am I to prevent that?

He took a deep, bracing breath, and clenched the protest between his teeth, giving his more-than-capable brother the respect he deserved, hating the out-of-control sensation of letting go.  God, it was hard . . .  So very hard.

"How's the leg?"

His leg?  Yes, of course.  His leg.  Lucien absently massaged the bandaged ankle and calf.  "On the mend."  He took another deep breath, then bent his head to his hand, kneading his brow and trying to find the right words.  "Charles, I have an apology to make to you.  To all of you.  An apology that is many years overdue."

Charles turned and arched a pale brow.

"I want to say I'm sorry," Lucien continued gruffly.  "Sorry for orchestrating your lives, imposing my will upon yours, stripping you all of the respect and dignity of making your own choices in life.  I will not do so again.  I have . . . I have learned my lesson, I think."

Charles merely looked at him, his pale blue eyes unreadable.  And then he turned back to the fire, cradling his cup in his hands and watching the flames with a little smile.  "Ah.  That explains, then, why you didn't give me grief about going to France."