In Bed with the Duke (38 page)

Emma realized she needed to make her position clear now, before they rode away and conversation was no longer possible. In her firmest tone, she said, “I intend to marry Michael, and squander all his money and run his life, and make sure he never again consorts with wicked women or gambles with licentious men. I promise I will henpeck him until he has no life beyond what I allow him, and when we die, I will lie in his arms through all eternity.”

For a moment, the men were silent.

Nevitt took out his handkerchief and blew his nose with a honk.

“There you go. I’ve lost all control of my life.” Michael sounded cheerful, and he picked up her hand from around his waist and kissed it.

“It’s about time. You were never good at control, anyway,” Nevitt said.

“Bravo, Miss Chegwidden!” Throckmorton urged his horse forward. “Well said. Now let’s go.”

Michael replaced her hand on his waist. “Hold me tight. Never let me go.”

He and Emma followed Throckmorton out the gate and down the steep road. Nevitt and Jude followed them. They avoided oncoming carriages, riding into the darkness and the forest below.

Michael led them into the woods to Old Nelson.

As Michael adjusted the stirrups, Emma greeted the gelding with delight, then mounted him and sighed with relief. Now she felt at home. She felt free.

Michael looked up at her. “You can’t ride the roads of England righting wrongs, you know.”

“No?” She smiled down at him. “I can’t?”

“You’re going to lead me a merry chase, aren’t you?” He sounded resigned. And delighted.

Nevitt watched and announced, “We’d better get these two married in Spain. Michael was always an impatient lad.”

Emma glanced at her future father-in-law in dismay. How much had they betrayed with a glance and a few words?

Nevitt chuckled. “Don’t worry, lass; the first child can come at any time. The rest of them take nine months.”

Michael mounted his horse. “Father, stop embarrassing Emma and
ride
. We want to be well away from Jean-Pierre by morning.”

“He’s a coward,” Jude said.

“He’s not a coward.” Michael led the way back to the road. “He is the most dangerous man I know. Throckmorton’s right: We should get out of Moricadia as fast as possible—before he discovers what I did with Sandre, and before all hell breaks loose.”

“So my sources are right?” Throckmorton asked. “Trouble is about to visit the de Guignards?”

Michael’s gaze grew cold with satisfaction. “Sandre should have paid attention. The appearance of the Reaper was a sign. The king has returned.”

 

The party at the palace was in full swing. Guests dressed as the Reaper danced with abandon, disguised by their masks, their makeup, and their costumes. When asked, they said they were half- mad with the joy of knowing the Reaper had been captured and tomorrow would hang.

Jean-Pierre believed they behaved like children let out of school because Prince Sandre was nowhere in sight.

Jean-Pierre stood on the balcony, his hand wrapped in a bloody napkin, his wrists torn from his wrestling with the ropes, watching the crowd and wondering where that cursed Durant had hidden Sandre. He’d sent the guard everywhere, into every room, every closet, every cupboard. They hadn’t found him . . . or they said they hadn’t.

He didn’t trust them. Their hatred had gone beyond fear. If one of them had found Sandre bound and gagged, Jean-Pierre was sure that guardsman would have slit Sandre’s throat without compunction.

Jean-Pierre didn’t trust the servants, either. They set up a long table on the edge of the dance floor and filled it with dishes of exquisite taste—a peacock with its tail feathers attached, an aspic in the shape of a red rose—and while they did, they smiled. Smiled! That wasn’t the way Sandre’s servants behaved.

And where were the keys to the dungeon? Sandre’s keys had disappeared. Gotzon’s keys had disappeared. Were there more? Jean- Pierre didn’t know.

Curse Durant all to hell.

The small orchestra stopped in the middle of the dance, and blew a fanfare.

Jean-Pierre leaned over the railing.

Two hefty men carried out a huge covered silver salver. Pleased chatter swept the dance floor.

“The pièce de résistance!”

“A whole roasted pig!”

The guests crowded around.

The men hoisted the platter onto the table.

Jean-Pierre’s eyes narrowed on them.

Those guys looked more than just strong. They were rough, bearded, and neither of them wore the palace livery.

His gaze fell on the dome-covered salver again. He realized the contents. He straightened. He shouted, “No!”

The men glanced up. They met his gaze—and grinned. They whipped off the lid, stepped back—and there was Prince Sandre, naked and trussed up like a chicken, his butt in the air and a lit candle between his hairy cheeks.

A moment of shocked silence. Then—a hundred Reapers roared with laughter.

Jean-Pierre sprinted down the stairs, shouting at the men who had carried Sandre to remain where they were. He would get to the bottom of this, he shouted.

The Reapers laughed harder.

Jean-Pierre pulled his pistol and pointed it at one of the intruders who had carried in the prince.

The man froze.

Then Sandre screamed.

The candle burned down; Sandre’s butt hair was on fire.

Jean-Pierre forgot the laughing guests, forgot the treacherous men. He raced to Sandre’s side and blew out the candle and the other burning parts, and when he straightened, the crowd had vanished as if it had never been.

The party was over.

The laughter was ended.

Prince Sandre’s much-cherished pride was ground into dust.

From a dark corner, Raul Lawrence watched and smiled, then turned away to go back to his home, to his people . . . and to the secret he had hidden so well.

The rumors were right. The true king had indeed returned to Moricadia.

Read on for an excerpt of
New York
Times
bestseller Christina Dodd’s
sparkling new historical romance
coming in March 2011.

“S
o, Grimsborough, this is your little bastard.”

Eleven-year-old Saber stood on the thick rug in the middle of the big English room in the big English manor. He glowered at the tall, elegant, older woman with the sneering mouth and the pale yellow hair. She stood in front of tall shelves filled with more books than he had ever imagined, and she dared to insult him. In his native tongue, he said, “In Moricadia, I kill people who call me names.”

“What?” The woman frowned, angry and alarmed. “Grimsborough, what did he say?”

The shadowy figure behind the wide polished desk did not look up from his writing.

Five brightly dressed girls, ages five to twelve, stood lined up by the fireplace, and one of them, the skinny one in the middle, said in awestruck tones, “He’s so dirty.”

“And skinny,” said another.

Saber shifted his attention to them.
Soft, silly English children.

They stared at him as if he were a trained dancing bear, and when he scowled, the littlest’s eyes filled with tears; she popped her thumb into her mouth, and slid behind her sisters’ skirts.

“Look, he’s tired.” The oldest spoke with authority. “He’s swaying on his feet.”

Then in unison, the four biggest girls smiled at him. Kindly, sweetly, as if nothing ugly or brutal ever touched their lives.

Saber hated them. He hated the lady, hated the tutors assembled to meet him, hated the uniformed servants standing at attention, hated them all. Most of all, he hated the evil man in charge, the man behind the desk, the one he knew must the English viscount . . . and his father.

Again in his native tongue, Saber spat, “Stupid English wenches.”

“What did he say?” Again the sneering English lady looked between Saber and the viscount. “What did he mean?”

For the first time, the man spoke. “Bring him to me.”

Two of the man’s absurdly dressed servants grabbed Saber’s arms and propelled him around the desk to face the man.

Grimsborough gestured the candelabra closer, and when the light played across his face, Saber thought he looked like the older woman. Not in his features, which were sharp and strong, but in his attitude: in the aristocratic lift of his chin and contemptuous curve of his mouth.

The English lady drew in a sharp breath. Because although Saber didn’t realize it, he and Grimsborough looked alike, also.

Grimsborough examined the skinny, filthy, tired child as if he were a bug to be squashed beneath his shoe. Then he reached out a pale, long- fingered hand and slapped Saber across the face with his open palm.

The sound of flesh against flesh echoed like a gunshot.

At the impact, Saber fell sideways.

One of the girls gasped. One whimpered.

The woman smiled in satisfaction.

And, cheek stinging, Saber lunged for Grimsborough.

The servants caught him, dragged him backward.

The viscount waved him forward again.

The servants didn’t let go of his arms this time.

Grimsborough brought his narrow patrician nose so close it almost touched Saber’s, and his soft, deep, menacing tone raised prickles of fear up the back of Saber’s spine. “Listen to me, lad. You are nothing. Nothing. My bastard by a foreigner, and if I had had another son, your filthy feet would never sully the floors of my home. But God in His infinite wisdom has blessed me with nothing from this marriage but
daughters
.” He glanced at the girls, so colorfully clothed, so sweet in their innocence, and he despised them with his gaze. “Five
daughters
. So you will live here until you’re fit to be sent to school. And never again will you speak of your betters in that insolent manner.”

Saber shook his head, shrugged and gestured helplessly.

“Don’t pretend with me, lad. Your mother spoke English. So do you.”

Saber didn’t quite have the guts to swear at Grimsborough, but he spoke Moricadian when he said, “English is for the ignorant.”

Again Saber didn’t see the blow coming, but the impact of Grimsborough’s palm against his cheek snapped his head sideways so hard, his neck cracked and his ear rang.

“Never let me hear you speak that barbaric tongue again.” Grimsborough’s voice never lifted.

Saber lifted his chin. “I hate you,” he said in clear, plain English.

“I hate you,
sir
.” Grimsborough said with chilling precision.

Saber loathed him with his gaze.

“Say it.” Grimsborough’s frigid eyes held nothing: no spark, no interest . . . no soul.

Saber glanced toward the elegant, sneering woman. She stood terrified, looking at her husband the way a mouse looked at a snake.

Saber glanced at the girls. Four of them stood with their heads down. One, the middle girl, stood with her hands clasped at her skinny chest, staring at him, and when their eyes met, her lips moved in appeal. “Please.”

He looked back at Grimsborough. This man who was his father scared him—and he wasn’t afraid of anything. But he couldn’t give in. Not quite. Straightening his shoulders, he said, “I hate you,
sir
, but my grandfather told me I had to come to this damp, cold island and learn everything I could in your savage schools about mathematics and languages and statesmanship so I could go back to Moricadia to free my people from cruel oppression.”

The oldest girl stepped forward as if he interested her. “If you want to free your people, shouldn’t you learn how to fight?”

He swung a contemptuous glare on her. “I already know how to fight.”

“You’ll need an army. Do you know how to lead an army?” She looked him right in the eyes, not at all impressed with his bravado.

“I know how to lead,” he retorted; then grudgingly he added, “But I will have to learn military tactics.”

“Then we are in accord in one thing—you will cease to be a little beast and become a civilized gentleman.” Grimsborough gestured to the servants. “Take him away. Clean him. Give him over to the tutors, and tell them to use any means necessary to teach him what he needs to know. I will see him here in six months. Please note, I expect an improvement, or I will be unhappy.”

Saber felt the little shiver that raced through the room at the idea of incurring Grimsborough’s displeasure.

Picking up his quill, Grimsborough turned back to his desk and his papers, and ignored the servants, his wife, his daughters, and Saber.

“We will begin with a bath,” Lady Grimsborough said decisively.

At the mere idea of this woman seeing his naked body, Saber struggled, lunging against the grips of the servants.

The second to the oldest girl, a pale, soft, silly thing dressed in pink and ruffles, begged, “Mama, he’s so skinny. Please, can we feed him first?”

“Do you not have a nose? Can you not smell him?” Lady Grimsborough waved her lace handkerchief before her face.

Saber had learned to fight in a hard school, and he swung on one servant’s arm, knocked the feet out from beneath the other, broke free and raced toward the door.

The head servant, the one who was dressed in black and wore white gloves, tackled him around the knees. The two footmen leaped on top of his back, crushing him into the flowered carpet.

His father’s unemotional voice intoned, “A few good canings are in order. Thompson, I trust you’ll handle the matter.”

The man in black and white helped haul Saber to his feet, then dusted his white gloves. “Yes, my lord. Immediately, my lord.”

“Clearly, the little bastard will survive without a meal for a few more hours.” Lady Grimsborough eyed Saber as if he were a plucked chicken ready for the pot.

Grimsborough’s cold, clear, emotionless voice intoned, “As of now, his name is Raul. Raul Lawrence.”