A Belated Bride (39 page)

She clenched her jaw at his tight expression. “Why have you brought me here?”

“Ah, that is an excellent question. You, my dear, are about to witness an execution.”

She could only stare at him, horrified.

“Don’t look like that; I would never let someone harm you.” He pulled a barrel beside her and sat facing her. “You look a mess. Let me remedy that.” He carefully brushed dirt from her cheek and chin and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “There, that is much bet- ter.”

It was all Arabella could do to sit still. “Thank you,” she choked out, trying to focus on her surroundings, on anything that could help her escape. “If I am not to be executed, then who is?”

“It would be best if I—” He tilted his head to one side. “Ah, here he is now.”

Francot stood as a dinghy passed through the mouth of the cave and began to cross the small lake. A man rowed steadily, his cap pulled low over his eyes, a greasy coat stretched across his shoulders. On the seat in front of him, Arabella could just make out a sack, filled with what appeared to be the outline of a man. Her whole body froze, her heart thundering in her ears.

Arabella recognized the fine black coat that showed beneath the sack. She turned wide eyes to Francot. “Lucien.”

“I’m afraid so. He stole from me, you see. I cannot allow that to go unpunished or I would lose the respect of my men.”

Fear congealed in her throat. “Your men?” she whis- pered. “Have you many?”

He smiled, a singularly sweet smile that terrified her worse than any threat. He leaned down and placed his hand on her knee, his heavy face only inches from hers. “After this next shipment, I will have money and power beyond your dreams, Arabella.”

He tipped her face up until it was even with his, his eyes clouding, the lines about his eyes deepened by the shad- ows. “Had you waited, it would have been yours, too.”

“I—I didn’t know—”

“You will not reap the bounty of my wealth now.” His hand tightened on her chin cruelly, his fingers bruising. “You have forsaken me and I cannot forgive that.”

“You can’t just kill him. He is a duke. Someone will look for him.”

“Yes, he is a duke. And you care so much for that, don’t you?” Francot sneered and he dropped his hand from her face. “Had I a title, you would have welcomed my suit. I

thought I had put an end to that despicable duke’s exis- tence once. But he outmaneuvered me.”

“Before.. .” Realization dawned and she gasped. “You set the fire in the shed!”

A grimace marred his features. “I had no idea you were in there as well, or I never would have blocked the door.” He stooped until his eyes were level with hers. “I was in agony when I heard you scream. I never would have hurt you.”

“You are hurting me now.”

Francot’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “But you are no longer Arabella Hadley, are you? You sold yourself for a title.”

“I don’t care anything for titles.”
Only for Lucien
. The thought jerked her gaze back to the boat and she pulled at her bonds.

“Don’t waste your time attempting to get free. You will only hurt yourself.”

“What do you care?”

“Care? What do I
care
?” His voice rose, stiff with fury. “I even offered to buy that pile of rocks you love so much, and all for what?” The solicitor placed a hand under her chin and jerked her face back to his. “Why would I do that? To watch you marry another man?”

“No,” she said, trying to channel her fury into cold, logical thought.

Francot’s eyes burned in his pale face, his lips quiver- ing. “Why did you do it? Why did you marry that cretin?”

Because I love him
. The truth bloomed through her heart, warming her instantly. She would have married Lucien without the title, without the money. She loved him. “You could have come to me,” Francot said. “I would have saved you. But you didn’t.” He sighed and shook his

head. “And now you will have the pleasure of watching your beloved duke die.”

Arabella drew herself up, the cords cutting into her arms. “Don’t, Steven. Please, leave him alone.”

“Sorry, my dear. But I will see you a widow before the night is through. And then . . .” He leaned forward and rested his cold cheek against hers. “And then I will have you myself.”

She jerked away, her distaste as bitter as bile.

He snarled and sank his hand in her hair, holding her face toward his own. “Don’t ever turn away from me!”

Lucien gritted his teeth against the instinct to whip out his pistol and shoot the bloody bastard from where he sat in the boat, but Arabella was too close.

He rowed faster, hoping no one noticed that Mumferd’s foul coat fit him much too tightly. When he reached the ledge, he looped the rope through the mooring, leapt out of the boat, and walked into the light from the lantern, keeping his head down and his face shadowed. But there was no disguising his height.

“What’s this?” Francot’s voice raised in surprise and he half rose from the barrel. Lucien broke into a run, his gun now drawn, but Francot yanked a knife from his boot and scrambled behind Arabella. With a vicious swipe, he slashed her bonds and yanked her to her feet. She gave a cry of pain as blood rushed into her arms. Cursing, Fran- cot jerked her in front him, his blade to her throat.

“Drop the gun, Wexford. Or your wife will die before your eyes.” Francot’s eyes gleamed with malice.

Lucien tensed, his body aflame with the need to leap to Arabella’s aid. But he dared not. Carefully, so as not to discharge the weapon, he placed his gun on the cavern floor.

“Lucien,” Arabella gasped. A drop of blood welled at her throat and fell to her bodice.

Lucien clenched his hands. “Don’t talk, Bella. Don’t.. .” Emotion choked him. He would give everything he had to free her—his fortune, his lands, his very life.

He swung his gaze to Francot. “What do you want, you bastard?”

Francot smiled, his teeth yellow in the dull light. “The jewels. Now.”

Lucien reached very slowly, very carefully into his pocket and pulled out the bag of jewels.

“Throw them over here.”

Lucien tossed the bag so that it landed halfway between the two of them.

Francot’s smirk disappeared. “You fool!” he snapped. “If you want the jewels, come and get them,” Lucien

taunted.

The smuggler’s eyes shifted between Lucien and the leather bag, then he shook his head. “No. You will slide it over here.” He angled the knife, and another drop of blood dripped slowly down Arabella’s neck. “Any more tricks, Wexford, and you won’t be the only one to pay.”

A cold rage filled Lucien. Whatever else happened here, Francot would not walk out alive. Lucien slowly approached the bag and pushed it with his foot. It moved several feet, but no more, still out of Francot’s reach.

“Damn it! Move those over here!”

Only a few more feet . . .
Lucien walked to the bag and placed his foot on it. With a sudden move, he kicked it past Francot. The bag hit the ground behind the smuggler, and a stream of glittering jewels broke free and slid across the wet rock toward the sea.

“No!”
Francot cried. He instinctively took a step

toward the treasure, his blade dropping away from Ara- bella’s neck.

With a cry, Arabella shoved Francot’s arm and pro- pelled him forward. He fell against a cask, but caught himself and turned, his knife blade clenched in his hand, an ugly snarl on his face.

Lucien dived for his gun, scrambling on the slick rock. His hands closed around the cold metal and he lifted the gun, took aim, and fired.

The blast caught Francot square in the chest. The knife flew from his hand as he staggered backward, hovering on the brink of the ledge. Hands clutched to his chest, he turned a white face toward Arabella, struggling for the breath to speak. “I—I . . .” A horrible gurgle rose from his throat, and he fell lifeless into the ocean.

Lucien caught Arabella in his arms and held her tightly. She sagged against him, her whole body trembling against his, but she was safe—safe in his arms.

Finally, when her trembling had eased, he pulled away and looked down at her. “Are you hurt?”

She offered a shaky smile. “Just my wrists.”

He lifted one of her hands and ground his teeth at the sight of the scraped, bruised flesh. Cursing softly, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and ripped it in two, then bound each of her wrists with the clean, white linen. As he did so, his gaze fell on the red stain at her bodice. He tilted her chin up and examined her throat. Two thin lines met his gaze, the delicate skin scored just enough to bring blood. Lucien closed his eyes against the fear that chilled him. “I’m so sorry, Bella. I should have—”

Her fingers brushed his lips. He opened his eyes and found her bright gaze on him. “Lucien, there is nothing to be sorry for.” A husky chuckle escaped her, though tears

shone in her eyes. “You saved my life. What more could I ask?”

He gazed down at her, wondering at her strength. He loved her so much that just looking at her made his soul sing. He burned with the need to tell her, but now was not the time. Instead, he went to collect his heavy greatcoat from the boat.

She watched him, her eyes dark with emotion. “Lucien, what about the jewels?”

“When the tide lowers, they will send someone to dive for them.”

“ ‘They’?”

He settled his coat about her shoulders. “The Home Office. I’ve been assisting them since the war began.”

She glanced toward the black water where Francot had fallen. “I cannot believe he was behind the smug- gling the whole time. I never thought he could . . .” She shivered and turned her face against Lucien’s shoulder.

He held her there, sharing his warmth. He had so much he needed to say. But before he could tell her what was in his heart, he had to get her home and into some dry clothing.

He forced himself to loosen his hold and step away. “Your family will be wondering where you are. Come. If we wish to leave while it is still light, we will have to do so now.”

When they reached the boat, Lucien looked at the cave opening and cursed. “The water is too high to use the dinghy. We will have to wait for the tide to go back out.”

Sniffling, Arabella pulled free from his arms. “There is another way out.” She pointed to the far wall where a nar- row path led to a wide crack.

Lucien grinned. “With you, there is always another

way.” He tugged the collar of his coat more securely under her chin and then collected the lantern.

Within minutes, they left the dark cave behind and were climbing the steep path to Rosemont.

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Chapter 28

L

iza stared up at the tree, whose huge branches swayed against the gray sky. The faintest hint of a

lump formed in her throat. “Are you sure it is here?” “Don’t you listen to anything, brat?” Robert asked.

“The painting led me to the book containing the family history—thus, the family tree. It took me a while, but”— he pointed to the great oak, his eyes silvered with excite- ment—“
this
is the family tree.”

“I’ve never heard of a family having their own actual tree.”

“And you know so many.”

“I know all of the best families,” she snapped, then gri- maced to hear herself utter such an empty-headed plati- tude. What was it about Robert that brought all of her worst qualities to the fore? He was rude and insufferable, wallowing in enough self-pity to destroy an ordinary man, yet she found herself seeking him out.

Since their uneasy truce yesterday, when she’d made

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such a spectacle of herself and almost ruined her brother’s chance at happiness, Robert had allowed her to assist him with his search for the Captain’s fabled fortune. Liza sighed, still not sure whether she was being punished or rewarded.

She glanced back at the house and remembered Lucien’s face when he’d entered the house carrying Ara- bella. For the rest of her life, Liza would never forget his expression—fiercely tender, his eyes haunted. She’d known then that her brother was deeply in love with his wife. He wouldn’t even let Aunt Jane and Aunt Emma tend to her, insisting that it was his right as her husband. He’d been so determined, no one had dared gainsay him.

But something was still bothering Lucien. Though Ara- bella had awoken this morning in a sunny mood, teasing Robert all through breakfast, Lucien remained quiet, his gaze never leaving her. Liza wondered what weighed on her brother’s mind. Whatever it was, her brother was not one to let anything stand between him and what he wanted—and it was obvious that he wanted Arabella.

From both her brother’s experience and the novels she’d read, Liza decided that men were much quicker to admit their feelings when faced with the imminent death of their chosen. She glanced at Robert and wondered how he would react if she were being held by a crazed smug- gler.

Robert sighed impatiently. “Well, we’ve dug all around the—”

“We?”

A reluctant grin twitched the corner of his mouth, but he ignored her. “So the treasure must be
in
the tree. There is an opening halfway up.”

She tilted her head back again and looked. Where the branches began to thin, there was a round hole in the

trunk. She blinked. Just looking up into the swaying branches made her dizzy.

Robert tucked the papers into his coat. “I suppose we shall have to go and find Ned and get him to climb the dratted thing.” He stared down at his legs with something akin to hatred. “I am no good to anyone.”

Liza had to bite her lip against an overwhelming urge to soothe his creased brow with a kiss.
Heavens, what is wrong with me?

But the rush of emotion gave her an idea, and she looked back up at the branches. Perhaps . . . She placed a slippered foot on the marble bench and stepped lightly up.

“What in the hell do you think you are doing?”

She wrapped her hands securely about a branch and pulled herself into the tree. “What does it look like?”

“For the love of— Get down from there.”

But she was too far gone to stop now. For some reason, she had to help Robert succeed at something. She grasped a thick branch with both hands and pulled herself up, kicking impatiently at her skirts. “I’ll have you know that I have climbed many, many trees.”