His Counterfeit Condesa (Historical Romance) (16 page)

‘You play me for a fool, monsieur, and that is most unwise.’ Machart nodded to the guards. Several more blows thudded into the prisoner’s midriff, doubling him over. ‘Tell me the truth and spare yourself more pain. What were you doing at Aranjuez?’

‘You know. You were there.’

‘What is your relationship with De la Torre?’

‘He is my cousin.’

Machart’s lip curled. ‘Do you know I don’t believe you?’

A heavy fist smashed into Falconbridge’s jaw. He felt warm blood trickle from the resulting cut.

‘No, I think you are a spy,’ the Frenchman continued.
‘I think your reason for visiting Aranjuez was something other than a social obligation, and I mean to find out what.’

The reply was an insolent stare. It drew down on the prisoner several more hard blows. He bit back the cry of pain that rose to his lips unbidden. This was just the softening-up process. Machart hadn’t really got started yet. When he did, Falconbridge wondered how long he could hold out.

‘Perhaps a flogging would help to loosen his tongue,’ said a voice from across the room.

Falconbridge registered the rodent face of Jean Laroche. As soon as he had set eyes on the intelligence chief he knew his presence here meant serious trouble. Did they already suspect De la Torre of subterfuge? Had they been keeping an eye on him anyway? Or was this interrogation merely because Machart’s memory had returned? He hoped for De la Torre’s sake it was the latter.

‘Not yet,’ replied Machart. ‘I have a better idea.’

‘What?’

‘We’ll ask the woman.’

Cold dread congealed in Falconbridge’s gut. ‘Leave her alone. She’s done nothing wrong and she can’t tell you any more than I can.’

Machart regarded him speculatively for a moment. ‘We shall ascertain that soon enough.’ He looked beyond the prisoner to the guards. ‘Bring her here.’

S
abrina heard boots on stone in the outer passageway and got to her feet, hoping it was Falconbridge returning. Her heart leapt as the key turned in the lock. However, it wasn’t her companion who entered the cell. Seeing the two guards she lifted her chin, eyeing them with distaste.

‘What do you want?’

‘Someone desires a word with you, madam,’ replied the first.

Her heart sank but there was no possibility of refusal. They took hold of her arms and escorted her out of the cell and back towards the stairs. She took a deep breath, resisting panic. It was happening, the thing she had subconsciously been dreading. From somewhere she dredged up the remains of courage, praying it would not be she who broke under questioning and so betrayed her companions.

She was taken along another corridor and brought at length to a wooden door. The guards knocked and a familiar voice bade them enter. The hairs on the back
of her neck stood up. Then she was drawn across the threshold to be confronted by Machart and Laroche.

‘Ah, Condesa, what a pleasure.’

Machart’s greeting went unheeded. All her attention was on Falconbridge, her shocked gaze taking in the details of his battered face.

‘What have you done to him?’

‘Nothing much—yet,’ replied Machart.

The pleasant tone sent a shiver through her. Unwilling to let him see her fear she faced him, forcing herself to meet his eye.

‘By what right do you hold us here? By what right have you assaulted my husband?’ It surprised her how naturally that word had tripped from her tongue.

‘By the authority of His Majesty King Joseph. Your husband is an English spy.’

‘That is nonsense.’

‘Is it? We shall see.’

She darted a swift look at Falconbridge and met his steady gaze. In that instant she understood her own heart. If this was the end of the road she would die with him, and gladly, too. He would have no cause to be ashamed of her at the last.

‘I have brought you here to help clarify a few points that have eluded us so far,’ Machart continued.

He moved closer, his predatory gaze lingering a moment on her face. One hand stroked her cheek. Sabrina jerked her head aside. Machart bared his teeth in a smile.

Falconbridge glared at him. ‘Leave her alone.’

‘If you wish us to leave her alone you will tell us what we want to know,’ said Laroche. ‘It would be a pity to spoil such beauty.’

‘You cowardly scum.’ The defiant tone gave no hint of the sick dread that gripped him now.

‘Oh, I don’t think it will be necessary to go to such extremes,’ said Machart. ‘I believe I know what will work just as well, and will be infinitely more enjoyable.’ He turned to the guards. ‘Tie him to that chair.’

Falconbridge struggled but it was a token resistance only. Two minutes later he was securely bound. The sick feeling in his gut intensified but his fear was not for himself.

Laroche frowned. ‘What do you intend?’

‘To discover the truth,’ replied Machart. ‘If you will permit me some time alone with madam, I believe we shall arrive at it very soon.’

‘As you will.’ Laroche rose from his seat. ‘Just don’t take too long.’

‘Not long at all, I assure you.’ Machart glanced at the guards and jerked his head towards the door. ‘Get out.’

When they and Laroche had left, he turned back to Sabrina. ‘Now, madam, you are going to help me discover what I wish to know.’

‘I will never lift a finger to help you.’

‘On the contrary, I think you will be invaluable.’ He glanced at the bound figure across the room. ‘And you will do everything I demand.’

Falconbridge fought the restraining cords but they held fast. ‘If you harm her, you filth, I’ll kill you.’

‘It seems to me that you are not in a position to make threats,’ replied the Frenchman. ‘Besides, it is not my intention to harm the lady.’

Sabrina gave him a cold stare, though her heart was thumping in her breast. ‘Then what do you intend, Colonel?’

‘I’ve been looking forward to renewing our acquaintance, madam. I intend us to forge a more intimate bond.’

Her jaw tightened as the import of the words became clear. ‘Never.’

Machart seized hold of her waist and dragged her up against him, bringing his mouth down hard on hers. Taken by surprise, sickened and half-stifled by fetid breath, she struggled hard. It availed her nothing. He took the kiss at leisure before allowing her to come up for air. Furious she struck out at him, the slap ringing loud in the quiet room.

‘Let go of me, you oaf! ‘

The response was a chilling smile. Without warning a large hand shot out and closed on her throat. She gasped, her hands clawing, trying to break his hold, but he held her easily. Through the drumming blood in her ears she heard Falconbridge’s shouted protest; then the Frenchman’s face was thrust towards her own.

‘Looking forward to renewing the acquaintance and intending to make the most of it,’ he continued.

His hold never slackened as he forced her backwards across the room to the desk. With his free arm he swept everything from its surface, scattering documents, sending paperweight, blotter and pens flying. Then he forced Sabrina down, pinning her against the wood with his weight.

‘Soon now your husband will tell me everything I wish to know.’

Across the room, Falconbridge fought his bonds, unaware of the blood that trickled over his wrists. ‘Let her go, you blackguard.’

‘After going to such trouble to find her again? I think not.’ Machart released his grip on her throat and reached
for the fastenings of her breeches. Gasping for breath Sabrina tried to rise. A slap across the cheek sent her reeling back. Then he resumed, accomplishing the task with little trouble. ‘No, I have other plans entirely.’

Sabrina felt her clothing loosen and then coarse hands sliding beneath her shirt to her breasts. She tried to scream but her bruised throat permitted only a faint croak. Frantic hands clawed at the face looming over hers. He slapped her again. Moments later her wrists were imprisoned and clamped to the desk. Then his mouth closed over hers, hot and hard, forcing her jaw open, his tongue thrusting in. She could feel his erection against her thigh. Sick with horror she writhed beneath him.

Machart released her mouth and looked into her face. ‘Believe me, madam, when I’ve finished you will not think of your husband’s embraces again, I promise you.’

‘No!’ Sabrina thrashed. ‘Please, no! Let go of me!’

‘Let go?’ His smile mocked her. ‘Later perhaps, but first your husband is going to watch while I take you.’

Falconbridge’s grey eyes locked with the Frenchman’s for a moment. ‘You cur! You filthy little cur!’

‘Jealous, monsieur? You should be. Watch and you will learn.’ He leaned closer and spoke to Sabrina. ‘You are about to discover what it is that you’ve been missing.’ He paused. ‘Don’t you want me to tell you?’ Leaning forwards he murmured words for her ear alone. Their effect was to make her struggle harder. Seeing her desperation increase, he smiled. ‘I’m going to give you the time of your life.’

Suddenly four years rolled away. Machart’s face blurred and dissolved until all she could see was Jack Denton’s leer, hear his mocking tone as he held her
down:
Like it rough, do you? Well, by God, Jack’s your man.
The memory brought welling fury and disgust that overrode fear. Her current persecutor was strong, too, but she knew she would rather die than submit.

Machart reached for the fastenings of his own clothing. She felt him shove her thighs apart. In desperation she brought her knees up, hand groping along the top of her boot, seeking the blade concealed there. He misinterpreted the movement and smiled.

‘Not so reluctant after all then? Be assured,
ma chère,
you’ll get what you want.’

Sabrina stifled a sob, her fingers scrabbling against leather. Machart fumbled for the last buttons on his breeches. They held. She heard him curse softly, saw him look away, intent on the task. It was enough. She darted a glance towards her boot and located what she sought. Her fingers closed round the hilt of the knife. The last buttons released their hold and Machart leaned forwards, his weight crushing her against the desk. Sabrina took a deep breath and drew the blade, bringing the point up under his ribs in one swift movement and driving it in as hard as she could. Flesh proved more resistant than she had imagined. For a few seconds he froze an expression of sheer astonishment on his face as he took in the knife.

‘You bitch!’

With a sharp indrawn breath he pulled it out and clapped a hand to his side.

Feeling the warm blood on his palm he glanced down and his expression became murderous. Then he lunged for her. She rolled to evade the groping hand and tumbled over the edge of the desk to land sprawling on the floor amid the strewn stationery. Her fingertips brushed something small and solid, a glass paperweight. She
grabbed it just before Machart’s fist seized her jacket and hauled her upright. Swinging round, Sabrina struck out. The paperweight caught him across the side of the head and sent him staggering backwards. He lost his balance and fell, hitting the floor with a heavy thud, and then lay still. Trembling with revulsion she stared at the silent form, unable to believe what she had done. Then her horrified gaze turned to the other occupant of the room. His eyes spoke of pity and anger and pride.

‘Oh, my dear, brave girl.’

The words were softly spoken and they recalled another man in another place, another witness to her humiliation. She had been much younger then but all her former sense of shame and fear returned. For a moment she thought she might be sick. With shaking hands she hurriedly reordered her clothing, appalled to the depths of her soul that he of all men should have observed the scene, and wanting nothing so much as for the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

‘Sabrina, can you find the knife?’

She took a deep breath and looked about distractedly. The blade lay just feet away beside the desk. With a grimace of distaste, she bent and retrieved it. Moments later Falconbridge was free.

‘Good girl.’

He staggered to his feet, stifling a gasp. Instinctively she reached out to steady him. Then his arms were round her, warm, protective, holding her close. For a while her body shook with reaction. Unable to speak she drew in long sobbing breaths, her face white. Its deathly pallor shocked him to the core.

‘My dearest girl. I’m so sorry. So very sorry.’

At last she found her voice. ‘I think I’ve killed him,
Robert.’ She ought to have been glad but the feeling engendered was one of sick horror.

‘If you have, no man deserved it more.’ He drew in a sharp breath, dreading to ask the next question. ‘Sabrina, did he.?’

‘No.’

His throat tightened and he knew a moment of relief more intense than any in his life before. Silently, he thanked God. ‘I never saw anything so brave as you this day.’

Tears flowed down her face unbidden. ‘I did not feel brave, only frightened.’

‘That is scarce to be wondered at.’ He held her gently at arm’s length. ‘Let us not waste the chance you have won for us.’

Suddenly the wider peril impinged upon her thoughts once more. ‘What are we going to do, Robert?’

‘Get out of here,’ he replied.

She looked at his cut and swollen face. ‘You’re injured. They must have hurt you terribly.’

‘I’ve known worse.’

He released his hold and crossed the room. His bruised ribs protested as he bent to retrieve the Frenchman’s sword. Then he hurriedly checked the drawers in the desk. One side proved quite useless, the other revealed a pistol which he lost no time in appropriating.

‘Machart dismissed the guards but the chances are they haven’t gone far,’ he said. ‘We need to take care of them first. Then we can set our companions free.’

‘Tell me what I must do.’

‘Take this.’ He handed her the pistol. ‘If you need to use it, shoot to kill.’

Her stomach wallowed at the thought, but she nodded. Quietly, he opened the door and glanced out. The
corridor was empty of other human presences. Clearly the guards had taken Machart at his word. Sabrina’s heart thumped and with every step she expected to hear a shouted challenge. However, none came. Not until they reached the stairs leading to the underground vault did they see any sign of life, one man on duty. Falconbridge ducked back out sight.

‘Can you distract his attention while I come up behind him?’

Dumbly, she nodded assent. Shaking her hair loose over her shoulders she opened the front of her shirt to reveal the upper curves of her breasts. Then, assuming what she hoped was a provocative stance she summoned all her courage and strolled forwards. The guard turned, regarding her with astonishment; then he reached for his musket, levelling it at her.

‘Who goes there?’

She surveyed him coolly, praying her voice would not shake. ‘I am the Condesa de Ordoñez y Casal.’

‘The Condesa is Colonel Machart’s prisoner.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘As from now, his mistress.’ Seeing him hesitate she forced a smile. ‘The Colonel really knows how to appreciate a woman, doesn’t he?’