A Belated Bride (24 page)

The picture of outraged gentility, Arabella tilted her chin and sniffed. “I should hope not.” Though her tone was firm, Lucien noticed a quiver of emotion in her face, a slight crack in the veneer she so desperately presented.

He moved to stand beside her, placing one hand on the small of her back. The muslin clung to his fingers and he had to fight the urge to place an arm about her and hold her to him.

He settled for training a hard gaze on the constable. “I assume you’ve evidence for this arrest?”

Constable Robbins eyed him for a meditative moment before saying bluntly, “Aye.”

Harlbrook snorted derisively. “Enough to hang the old goat.”

“Indeed?” Lucien slid his hand in a slow circle on Ara- bella’s back. The warmth of her skin began to seep through the material. “Think very carefully, gentlemen, before you make accusations you cannot prove. You are talking about a servant of the future Duchess of Wex- ford.”

Beneath his hand, Arabella stiffened and lifted her gaze to his face, but Lucien kept his gaze on Constable Robbins.

A look of acute relief spread over the constable’s face, but Harlbrook turned a vivid red.
“Wh-what?”
he sput- tered. “I don’t believe it!”

“Don’t you?” asked Lucien in a gentle tone.

“I—I—” Harlbrook turned an angry face to Arabella. “Is it true?”

She clasped her hands, her gaze on the ground.

Lucien waited for her answer, his throat painfully dry.
Forget your damnable pride and say yes,
he urged silently, holding his breath until his ribs ached.

Finally, after an interminable moment, Arabella nod- ded. Lucien swallowed a sigh of relief.

The constable made a disgusted noise. “Of course it is true! Why would the dook lie ’bout such a thing.” He turned toward Arabella and offered an apologetic shrug. “Don’t mind Harlbrook. He’s not been the same since the innkeeper at the Roarin’ Lion refused to serve him, sayin’ as how he was havin’ to pay double because of His Lord- ship’s interferin’ with the free traders.”

“That has nothing to do with it!” Harlbrook glowered at Lucien. “When is this marriage to take place?”

“In a week. At Christmas. You are, of course, invited to the wedding.” Lucien turned his head away and yawned. “Pardon me. It has been a long day and it is quite late.”

Constable Robbins took the hint. He tugged urgently on Harlbrook’s arm. “There, now, I don’t think we need to be stayin’ any longer. The dook has answered all of our questions. Mayhap we should ask some more questions of our witness. It
was
dark when he saw the men leavin’ the ship.”

Though Harlbrook continued to protest, the constable led him firmly from the room, stopping at the door only long enough to give Lucien a sharp glance. “It will be sev- eral days afore we’re able to return and ask questions.”

Lucien didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Thank you for your assistance.”

The constable sent a hard glance at Arabella, then left. As soon as the latch clicked into place, Arabella pushed away from Lucien and walked stiffly to the fire.

She stared into the flames, her arms crossed over her chest as if to ward off a deep, penetrating chill.

Lucien watched her, his mind a turmoil of facts and emotions. “Bella, tell me about the smuggling.”

She turned her head slowly, her eyes unfocused. “What?”

“I have seen the cave. In fact, I just returned from there.” He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I know what you are doing.”

Her mouth trembled for an instant, then she drew her- self up. “You don’t know anything.”

Lucien crossed the space that separated them in three wide strides. He gripped her arms and yanked her around to face him. “You little fool! Do you realize the punish- ment if you are caught? Do you know what they do to smugglers? To traitors?”

“Traitors? I am not a traitor!” “Don’t play the innocent, Bella.”

“How could I?” Her mouth curved in a bitter smile. “I lost my innocence ten years ago, Lucien. Or don’t you remember?”

Oh, yes, he remembered. He remembered the scent of her hair and how it entangled his hands like a silken net. He remembered the taste of her skin beneath his seeking tongue. He remembered sinking into the very center of desire, his body burning so hotly he’d thought he would die. He remembered every nuance, every shadow, and every perfect inch of her body.

It was the one thing he’d clung to through the years as his life disintegrated, as he realized the price he had paid

when he’d married Sabrina, as he struggled to make his own way to save his family from ruin.

Now, staring down into Arabella’s upturned face, her wide brown eyes meeting his unflinchingly, he could see her as she was last night: her eyes dark with excitement, her hair damp and curling about a face flushed with passion. She was everything he desired. Everything except his.

He released her and rubbed his neck wearily, so tired he could hardly think. He was emotionally stretched, his body weary, and his arms ached from rowing the dinghy. They had so much to overcome, so much at stake, and the smuggling was only a small facet of the barriers between them.

He sighed. “I am too tired to think about this anymore this evening. Tomorrow we will decide—”

“
We?
Tomorrow
I
will decide what I am going to do. I agreed to say we are to be wed only to remove that fool from my house. There must be a better way to handle this situation.”

Frustration, hot and bitter, boiled through him. “Bloody hell! What do you think will happen if Harlbrook discovers we are not to be wed after all? He will see to it that Wilson hangs.”

She whirled away to pace, her movements desperate. “I can protect him. All I need is some time and I will—” She came to an abrupt halt, her back stiff. A sob wracked her body and she clenched her eyes closed, pressing a fist to her mouth.

Lucien was beside her in an instant. He pulled her close and held her tightly, cupping her head to his shoul- der and resting his cheek against her hair. She stood within the circle of his arms, her head bowed as she cried. Though she made no move to break the embrace, neither did she soften in his arms.

Lucien pulled her tighter, stroking her back, her shoul- ders. “Ah, love, we’ll find a way through this,” he whis- pered, his cheek against her curls. “I promise.”

She had borne so much, carried so many people in the only way that she knew how. And now she faced the great- est injustice of all—and it wasn’t gaol; it was the thought she might not be able to take care of those who needed and counted on her.

He waited quietly for her to regain control, murmuring words of comfort against her hair. God, it felt good to hold her, her heart beating against his, knowing that for this moment, she was safe and in his arms.

As her sobs quieted to hiccups, she tried to pull away. But Lucien refused to loosen his grip, cupping a hand behind her head and holding her against his shoulder. His shirt was soaked, his jacket wrinkled beyond even Hast- ings’s ability to straighten, but Lucien did not care. All he cared about was that for once, he was right where Arabella needed him to be.

After a moment, he turned her face to his. Tear-spiked lashes framed chocolate-colored eyes full of pain. But he needed the truth, needed it more now than ever. “Tell me, Bella,” he whispered. “Tell me about the smuggling.”

She stared up at him and her mouth trembled. For an instant he thought she would yield, but her mouth firmed and she jerked herself free. “There is nothing to tell.”

Lucien sighed, every ounce of his tiredness returning. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bundle. He laid it in his palm and unwrapped the ends of the hand- kerchief until a small pile of brooches glittered in the lamplight, one long ruby necklace threaded between his fingers. “I found these in the cave, Bella.”

Her eyes widened. “You found them
where?
”

Every instinct he possessed told him that she was sur-

prised, shocked even, at the discovery. Lucien closed his hand over the jewels and he retied the handkerchief. “They were inside a cask.”

She stared at the small bundle, her breathing ragged, a slight crease between her brows. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she raised her gaze to his. “I didn’t know, Lucien. I swear it.”

He accepted her word without question, not knowing if he believed her because she was indeed innocent, or because he couldn’t bear the thought that she was guilty. “I need to know about the smuggling.”

Arabella swallowed, her throat working before she nodded. “I will tell you everything, but . . . can we wait until tomorrow? I am so tired. I—I need to think.”

Had it been anyone else, he would have refused, demanded on the spot to be informed of every last detail. But he was not immune to the shadows beneath the haunted eyes, nor the tremor that shook her ever so slightly. “Very well, I won’t tax you anymore tonight. But tomorrow, we will have an accounting.”

She nodded, then turned to leave the room, walking slowly, her slippers moving silently on the carpet. She halted as she reached the threshold and looked over her shoulder. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell my aunts what has occurred.”

“About the smuggling or that we are to be married?” “Both.”

Now, more than ever, Arabella needed the protection of his name and title, but all he said was, “As you wish.”

Her eyes sought his and she gave an uncertain smile.

Then she left, closing the door softly behind her.

Lucien let out his breath in a long, weary sigh. Prickly and defiant, stubborn and unyielding, she would be any-

thing but an accommodating wife. He thought of her frosty demeanor in dealing with Harlbrook and he smiled wearily. One thing was certain—come what may, Arabella Hadley would make one hell of a duchess.

nm

Chapter 17

A

rabella closed the barn door and went to pat Sebas- tian, finding solace in his familiar presence. As if sensing her disquiet, the old horse blew out, his breath frosting the air to a cloud of silver. It was cold this morn- ing, a deep, bitter cold that slipped between her layers of clothing and stole away whatever warmth it found

hoarded there.

She sighed and rested her forehead against Sebastian’s bony neck, staring out at the white-tinged morning. For the last half hour, snow had powdered the air, falling softly on the harsh edges of the house until it looked fresh and white, like an iced cake.

“I suppose I should just tell him everything and get it over with,” she muttered. Did she really have any other choice?

Sebastian shook his head and managed a shuffle that might have been a prance in a younger horse.

Arabella managed a weak chuckle. “Stubborn to the

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end, aren’t you? He already knows enough to send us all to gaol, but he didn’t.” She pursed her lips and frowned. He had even tried to help. “Lucien is a surprising man.”

Hearing his master’s name, Satan dipped his head over the stall door and watched her with liquid eyes.

“I would pat you, too, but I need all of my fingers, thank you. You are as quarrelsome as your owner.”

Satan sniffed and then ducked his head back into his stall as if affronted.

Arabella smiled. Last night, after her confrontation with Lucien, she had fallen into bed and slept until dawn. Now, refreshed and dressed in Robert’s old clothes, she felt some of her strength returning. She had allowed Harl- brook’s malice to shake her confidence. Never again, she decided.

She leaned over Sebastian’s stall door and held out her hand. When the horse shuffled closer, she pressed her cheek against his neck. It was so peacefully silent here.

Arabella closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of hay tinged with the fresh smell of new-fallen snow. Sooner or later she would have to explain to Lucien just how and why she’d become a smuggler. Somehow, it had seemed a less disreputable decision when she didn’t have to say it aloud.

Sighing heavily, she picked up a shovel and hefted it over her shoulder. Before she met with Lucien, she would reorganize the shed. The task needed to be done, now that the door had been repaired. Besides, it wasn’t cowardly to merely postpone a conversation that she was fully com- mitted to having.

Reassured at her reasoning, she walked out of the barn and into the silent snowfall. The shoulders of her coat col- lected a heavy dusting of snow as she went, each flake a sparkling diamond.

Diamond
. Like those that had winked in the palm of Lucien’s hand. No wonder Bolder had been so desperate to keep the casks. She stopped and stared at the door of the shed. The brash smuggler would return for his ship- ment, she was sure of it. With such a priceless cargo hid- den in the caves below Rosemont, he’d have no choice.

The thought tightened her throat.
Heavens, what have I gotten myself into?
Bolder was not the kind of man one simply apologized to. He would want more than the return of his merchandise; he would want something to make up for the humiliation of being bested.

She opened the shed door and carried the shovel to the back wall, where all the tools hung in a row. She had just lifted it above her head to hang it in place when a dark shadow flitted across the wall. Images of the weaselly smuggler flashed before her eyes and she whirled around, the shovel falling to the floor, her heart thudding against her ribs.

Lucien stood in the doorway, his hat and black coat lightly dusted with snow. “Sorry to frighten you, but I thought we would have more privacy out here.”

He stepped into the shed, the small building instantly seeming half its normal size as he brushed snow from his shoulders. “It looks as if we’ll have a white Christmas, after all.”

She tried to regain her breath, but all she could do was stare at him.

He crossed the small space that separated them. Look- ing far too handsome for his own good, he smiled, a strange glint in his eyes. “Where have you been all morning?”

“I am going to clean out the shed. It needs it.” But not as badly as she needed to get some room between her and Lucien. She cleared her throat. “I try to keep this place in order, but it never stays that way.”