Shana Galen (15 page)

A
few moments later, Alex lay on his back, trying to catch his breath and his reason. His lungs were cooperating, but not his mind. The image of Lucia’s eyes—violet, almost black at her climax—was imprinted on his mind. He’d known those eyes would be the end of him. Known the first time he’d seen her in the Pools’ garden that life was never going to be the same. Bloody hell, he’d known the first time he’d
ever
seen her, when she was a giggling schoolgirl he’d much rather have scolded than kissed. And perhaps that was why he’d kept his distance. It was inevitable that if he saw her again, saw those azure eyes light on his face as they had that first time, he’d fall. And he
was
falling, drowning in the deep uncharted waters of her eyes—an ocean he neither understood nor wanted to understand.

He reached for her, pulling her close, breathing her in. She murmured, fluttering her eyelids, then closing them. Her breathing slowed, and she fell
into a light sleep. For a long, long time, he watched her.

“Alex?”

He was moving. The earth was shaking beneath him.

“Alex?” a female voice hissed. “Get up.”

He opened his eyes, and Lucia punched him in the ribs. He scowled. “What the bloody—”

“The door,” she whispered with a terrified look in that direction.

“Selbourne!” Pounding sounded on the other side. “Open the door before Hodges here throws me out. Dash it, Hodges, if you so much as lay one scrawny finger on this tailcoat, I’ll throw
you
out.”

Alex groaned and tried to pull the sheets over his head, but Lucia beat him to it, fastening them just under her chin.

“Lord Dewhurst has arrived, my lord,” Hodges called from the hallway. “Do you still wish to speak with him?”

“No,” Alex mumbled, gaze still on Lucia. Her azure eyes were dark and huge, glorious hair in a tangle from sleep. He started to reach for her.

“Alex, my brother,” she said. “The note.”

“Selbourne!” Freddie called, and Alex swore.

“If your valet wrinkles this tailcoat, I cannot be held accountable for my actions.”

“Stubble it, Freddie,” Alex called, moving away from Lucia. “I’m coming.”

“Wise decision,” Freddie said from the hall. “Step back, Hodges. I’m giving you fair warning.”

Alex rose and scooped his trousers from the floor and yanked them on. Lucia gasped. “What am I going to do? Should I hide?”

Alex laughed. “No.” He crossed to his clothespress
and extracted a robe. “Put this on.” He tossed it to her, but she made no move to take it. Instead she stared at him—panicked, vulnerable, beautiful.

“Dash it, Selbourne. What is taking so long?”

Alex clenched his jaw, and Lucia jumped in alarm, looking wildly about. Alex went to her, draping the robe around her shoulders. “Relax.”

“But—”

“Freddie’s not going to talk. You can trust him.”

She blinked. “But—but what will he think of me? I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.” She pulled her arms through the sleeves of the robe, then cinched it tight, clutching the collar closed at the neck.

“Good,” Alex said, heading for the door. “I don’t want you looking at him.” Reluctantly he turned away from her. He liked seeing her bundled in his robe, her hands swallowed in the sleeves and the hem trailing on the floor. With a shake of the head, he chalked up another broken rule. Sleeping together, waking together—these were intimacies too domestic for his taste. He’d intended to take her home long before now.

Annoyed with himself, Alex yanked the door open, not trying to hide the tousled covers or the fetching picture Lucia made, sleepy-eyed and rosy-cheeked, sitting on his bed.

“Dewhurst,” Alex nodded to his friend. “Thank you, Hodges.” He dismissed his man, who looked just as perturbed as Alex felt. “You may go.”

The stiff-necked valet bowed and turned away.

“Meddlesome old
frump
,” Freddie said and sauntered through the doorway. “Ah, good evening, Miss Dashing.”

Alex shut the door, and while Lucia turned a
shade of purple, Freddie settled himself in the armchair by the fire. “Got any gin?”

“No. Let’s go downstairs. I have something to show you.”

Freddie peered about the room. “Brandy will do.”

“Dewhurst.”

Freddie tossed him a look full of meaning, and Alex paused. Despite his nonchalance, Freddie’s appearance wasn’t up to his usual standards. Two buttons on his waistcoat were open, and his cravat dangled sloppily down his white lawn shirt. His wavy blond hair was mussed, and there was a look of fatigue in his eyes and strain in his voice.

Alex crossed to a side table, poured a hefty dose of gin in a glass, and handed it to him. “Downstairs,” Alex said, inclining his head toward Lucia.

“Alex, I deserve to know what’s going on.”

Freddie took a swallow of gin. “I agree. This concerns Miss Dashing as well.”

“But how do you know?” Lucia squeaked. “You haven’t even seen the note.”

“I know where your brother is,” he said.

“You do?” Lucia jumped off the bed. “Is he still in France?”

Alex handed Freddie Dashing’s note. Freddie skimmed it. “This confirms it.” Freddie pulled on the lace of his sleeves and returned the note to Alex. “He’s staying at Madame Loinger’s in Calais, or at least he was. One of my sources heard he’d gone to Paris. And, as you know, my sources are always correct. Well, almost always. There was that one time—”

“Shut up, Freddie!” Alex ran a hand through his hair. “I know he’s in France, but what the bloody hell is he doing there?”

“What else?”

Alex stilled, and his blood chilled in his veins. He shook his head. No.

Freddie nodded, the look on his face grim.

“What?” Lucia asked, watching the exchange. “What’s wrong?”

“Wentworth, that bastard,” Alex said. “What’s he thinking sending a boy over there?”

“Then John is in France, but why? We’re at war with France.”

Dewhurst rose. “I’ll leave you now.”

Lucia turned to him, fear and uncertainty etched on her face. “Thank you, Lord Dewhurst. It’s not good news, but I feel better knowing where he is.”

Freddie bowed. “My pleasure, Miss Dashing. Good evening.”

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Alex said. “Wait here. I mean it, Lucia.” In the hallway he said, “Freddie, send a message for my ship to be readied. I want to leave at the first possible—”

Freddie held up a hand. “It’s already been done. You can go now, if you wish. It looks as though you have a few other matters to attend to first, however.” Freddie arched a brow at the door behind them.

“I’ll take care of Lucia.”

“I’m sure you will,” Freddie said with a grin.

Alex took a step forward. “You’re a dead man if this gets out.”

“What do you take me for?” Freddie said, looking hurt. “But I’d be remiss in my duty as a gentleman if I didn’t warn you that if you hurt her, I’ll have to kill you.”

“So she got to you, too.” Alex shook his head. “Well, get in line.”

“Just be gentle, Alex. For once.”

Alex turned back to his room. “I know what I’m doing, Freddie.”

“Famous last words.”

He shut the door on Freddie’s admonishment. Lucia was perched on his bed, hands at her neck clutching his robe closed. Her face, flushed with pleasure earlier, was now pale and drawn.

“I have to see Wentworth directly.” He tossed her gown and chemise to her from the pile of discarded clothing at the foot of the bed.

“Alex, what’s going on? Why is John in France?”

“Get dressed. I’ll take you home, then call on Wentworth.”

“Then you know this Wentworth? The same one in John’s note?”

“Yes.”

He pulled on his shirt.

“Who is he? Will he see us this late?” She hadn’t moved, hadn’t touched her dress.

Alex glanced at the clock and immediately wished he hadn’t. It read nearly four. “You’re not going.”

She crossed her arms. “Oh, yes I am. This is my brother.”

“Dammit, Lucia.” He sat down to tug on his boots. “Don’t argue. I’m taking you home.”

“Well, at least tell me who this Wentworth is and why John is in France. I need to know that much.”

He lifted his other boot. “No. You don’t.” He pushed her chemise toward her. “Get dressed.”

“Very well.” She snatched up the garment. “But we’re not done discussing this. I—” Her voice frayed and broke off.

Alex stared at the stain on the bed that had been covered by Lucia’s chemise. The small patch of scarlet stood out starkly on the white bedsheets. Guilt
smacked him in the face. Damn, he didn’t want to think about her lost virginity right now. That he had taken it.

“Alex, I—” she began, holding a hand out to him.

He evaded her grasp, rose, and walked into his dressing room. There he poured water from a pitcher into a bowl and retrieved a towel. “Use this to wash away the blood,” he said. Thank God she had the chemise on. He set the bowl on the nightstand beside her and handed her the towel. She took it without looking at him.

“You needn’t feel bad about…what happened.” Her fingers clenched around the towel as if it might give her courage. She looked him in the eye. “I take full responsibility for my part.”

He stared at her. She never failed to astonish him. The little fool actually thought she’d ever had a choice once she entered his bedroom. He’d known he’d have her the first time he’d seen her.

“The responsibility is mine,” he said. “No one would blame you, least of all me.”

“Blame?” Her voice was weak, and her eyes downcast again. “Is blame to be assigned then? As if—as if what we shared was a crime.”

He reached out to her, tipped her chin up with his hand. Tears pooled in her eyes. “No,” he said. “You’re right.
Blame
is the wrong word. It implies regret, and I find myself in a position without regret.” He smiled wolfishly. “How can I regret something that gave me so much pleasure?”

“I suppose that’s the rake in you talking.”

He grinned. “That’s the man in me talking.” He nodded to the bowl of water. “Get dressed. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He withdrew to his dressing room, more to give
her privacy than anything else. But the moment he was away from her, the guilt gripped him again. He leaned against a wall to steady himself from the onslaught of feeling. No, he didn’t regret her—regret their lovemaking. But he knew she would. In time she would view tonight differently, and she would resent him. Resent him for taking her virginity and leaving her to fend for herself with her bumbling fiancé and his dictatorial mother.

“I may have to sail for France this morning,” Alex said when he entered the room again.

Lucia almost dropped her gown she was holding in front of her. “You’re going after John?”

“Yes.” He sat on the edge of the bed next to her. “He may need assistance.”

Lucia clutched the bedpost. “Do you think he’s in prison? Is that what they do to Englishmen found in France?”

They did that and a lot worse to
spies
in France, Alex thought. “I’m sure he’s fine, but I’d like to see for myself. Freddie’s information is several weeks old, but Madame Loinger is an old friend. She can probably help.”

Lucia scowled and gripped the post until her fingers were white. “I’m sure she’ll be more than eager to
help
.”

“She’s a friend,” he said vaguely.

“And is that what I am now, Alex? A friend?”

He ran a hand through his hair. It was starting already. Bloody hell. Maybe it was better to end this with her angry. It would be easier for both of them to walk away.

“I noticed Lord Dewhurst wasn’t very surprised at finding you with a woman tonight.” Her voice was acid.

“I imagine he wasn’t.”

“A common occurrence, is it?”

His arm shot out, and he grasped her hand. She tried to tug it away, but he held on. “You knew who I was when you came here, and I’m not going to start apologizing for it or for who I am and what I’ve done in my life. Besides, there’s a long line of malcontents ahead of you.”

“I see.”

“Is that what you want?” He gripped her arm more tightly. “An apology?”

Her gaze met his, and the tension ebbed out of her. “No. No, you’re right. You have nothing to apologize for. In fact—” She squeezed his hand. “
I’m
sorry. I’m just tired and…worried.”

And beautiful, he thought. With the firelight behind her, he could see through the thin material of the chemise. The luscious curves of her hips and breasts caused the blood to roar in his veins. The tension crackled between them.

He wanted her. One last time. The last. And he was in no mood to debate with his conscience. “Come here, Lucia.”

She raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“I thought we were leaving.”

“Come here.”

Her eyes warming to indigo, she moved between his legs. Reaching up, he took two fistfuls of her hair in his hands, wrapping his fingers in it. “One last time,” he murmured.

She sighed as he drew her forward, lowering her head to kiss her, then releasing her hair and circling her waist. He pulled her against him, his mouth making a wet circle around her nipple through the sheer fabric of her chemise.

“Alex,” she breathed. “My brother. You said you had to see Wentworth.”

He pulled the straps of the chemise down, his fingers caressing her bared breasts, rolling her hard nipples over his palms.

“I do.” He kissed her rounded stomach, hands moving to lift her chemise over her knees, then her thighs.

“I thought it was a matter of some urgency,” she panted.

“I
do
feel a sense of urgency,” he murmured against her navel, his fingers stroking her inner thigh and then entering the cleft between her thighs.

She moaned. “So do I.”

He tossed her chemise on the bed and knelt before her.

“Then come here,” he said.

For once, she seemed only too happy to comply.

A
n hour later, Lucia and Alex came down the grand staircase. Alex took no care to muffle his footsteps, and Lucia frowned at his broad back. She still had difficulty believing only Hodges, Alex’s valet and butler, resided in the town house. She could only imagine the debauched picture she would present to poor old Hodges. Her rose dress was ruined, wrinkled and torn, her ball slippers were soggy and mud-stained, and she’d forgotten her gloves at home.

She’d tried to repair some of the damage the night’s activities had wreaked on her appearance, and Alex had even offered to help. She shivered. Once again, he’d played hairdresser. His warm hands cupping her head, his skillful fingers running through her tangled curls, and the brush of his breath on the nape of her neck had aroused them both, causing yet another delay. Finally Lucia had settled for scrubbing her face and tying her heavy
locks back with a pink ribbon she’d stashed in her reticule. The style was simple but functional.

At the foot of the staircase, Alex said, “I’m going to order the carriage and speak to Hodges. Wait here for me.”

She nodded, descending the last of the stairs.

“No creeping out of windows,” he lectured, a glint of amusement in his gray eyes. She huffed and tossed her hair, the effect ruined by the simple style. He grinned at her and disappeared down the hallway. She hadn’t yet persuaded him to allow her to accompany him to this meeting with Wentworth, but she was working on a plan. After that, Alex would sail for France, and even Lucia realized that trip was beyond her reach. She shivered and remembered that she’d left her cloak on the bush outside the library window. She went to retrieve it, and it wasn’t until she was back in the foyer that she began to wonder if she’d latched the window. But Alex would return in a moment, and he’d lecture her if she wasn’t waiting
right here
.

She didn’t have time for an argument, especially not now that Alex was finally acting with some urgency in the search for her missing brother.

She was contemplating another sense of urgency when she caught her reflection in the large gilded mirror hanging near the foyer’s door. Unlike most bachelor residences, it seemed everything in Alex’s house was either gilt or crystal. His preferences were tasteful and expensive. Her own family was well-to-do, but she knew the Dashing family fortune paled in comparison to those of the brothers Selbourne and Winterbourne.

They were two of the wealthiest men in England. Half brothers, Ethan had inherited his wealth from their mother’s first husband, the Marquis of Winter
bourne. When the marquis had died, Lady Winterbourne married the Earl of Selbourne and bore Alex. Selbourne had died about ten years before, leaving Alex to take possession of the beleaguered Selbourne fortune and estates.

He’d obviously been managing them well, she thought as she surveyed the tasteful foyer. Better than his father, whose main interest, or so she had heard, was disgracing his wife by engaging in one licentious affair after another. Alex was a rake, but she could not imagine him shaming his wife or the Selbourne name as his father had.

Bestowing another approving look over the decor, she caught her reflection in the mirror and stepped closer, adjusting her soiled cloak over her gown. She began to pull the hood around her face, then paused, glanced quickly about, and leaned into the mirror.

She studied her familiar reflection. Did she look any different now that she was no longer a virgin?

No. She looked the same.

Perhaps the color in her cheeks was a little higher and her lips were swollen, but she was the same old Lucia. Actually, she thought, peering closer, she looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes and lines of fatigue around her mouth. She yawned and pulled the hood up, then jumped when a hand clamped on her shoulder.

“Alex,” she chided, turning, then screamed. The man holding her was not Alex. Behind him four other men were rushing into the foyer. Lucia screamed again and wriggled out of the man’s grasp.

Cold fear, like the damp morning air, closed around her, and she slid across the slick marble floor in her scramble to get away. She spotted Alex running down the hallway. Oh, thank heaven! She
changed the angle of her skid and headed toward him, a bubble of hope rising within her.

It burst when the excruciating pain shrieked through her scalp. “Alex!” she screamed, but her oxygen was cut off as her head was yanked back by her long hair. She slipped and stumbled and was hauled against a mountain of foul-smelling flesh, then hissed, scratched, and clawed at her captor. Her scalp burned with the knifelike pain shooting through it, but she ignored it, shaking her head wildly in an attempt to dislodge the man’s grip. Her captor grunted, and his grip seemed to ease. She fought harder, flailing against him, biting and tearing and kicking.

Until she felt the cold pistol press against her temple.

And then her heart lurched into her throat. Even in her haze of terror she knew what it was. She went absolutely still and only then realized she’d been screaming.

The foyer was suddenly deathly silent and, careful to move only her eyes, she sought Alex. He’d come to a halt in front of the grand staircase. Under the glittering chandelier, his face was calm and deadly.

And just like that, Lucia’s panic seeped away. It burned off like the morning mist on a sunny day. In that moment, she knew Alex would protect her.

“A pleasure to see you again, Décharné,” Alex said in flawless French. The tone of his voice suggested he was greeting a guest at a dinner party. Bored. Polite.

“
Bonjour
,” a man on her right answered, and Lucia twisted slightly to see him. He was small—smaller than Francesca even—with dark hair and a trim mustache. His face was thin and pale, his body so gaunt it was almost skeletal. He seemed wildly out
of place. In stark contrast to the ragged, burly men with him, Décharné was neat and trim. “I had hoped to catch you in this morning,” Décharné said. His voice was high and clear, every word enunciated perfectly. “It does not appear as though you expected me.” He grinned, and his cheekbones jutted from his face.

Alex waved a careless hand. “I was just on my way out. If you’ll excuse us?”

“Not this time.” Décharné reached into his coat, and two of his men stepped forward. “You and I, monsieur, have an appointment.”

He aimed a pistol at Alex, and Lucia gasped, a trickle of fear breaking through her trust.

“Tie him up, Pierre.” Décharné waved the gun at Alex. “And make sure it’s tight.”

Alex cocked a brow but made no protest.

“I advise you not to attempt any heroics, monsieur,” Décharné went on, nodding at Lucia. “I remind you the odds are not in your favor. Five to one, and we are all armed.”

“Was it something I said?” Alex spread his arms, then held his hands behind his back as Pierre, a man with a jagged scar across his forehead and right eyelid, bound him.

Lucia winced as Pierre wound the rope around Alex and yanked it viciously. She stared at Alex for some sign of reassurance, but try as she might to catch his eye, he didn’t look at her.

Her captor pressed the gun to her temple harder, and she blinked back tears. The cold of the metal gun barrel skittered through her, making her arms and legs feel like icicles. She tried to take a deep breath and found that the air had frozen in her lungs.

“I almost had you in Paris, monsieur,” Décharné
continued, when Alex was bound. He sauntered through the foyer, eyeing the furnishings and examining the knickknacks on the satinwood side table with two fingers. “It was Camille Chevrier who saved you.” He darted a glance at Alex. Alex blinked, showed no response. Décharné lifted a small Sèvres bowl. “The documents you were carrying must have been very important for her to compromise her position like that.”

Alex shrugged, and Lucia saw Décharné’s mouth tighten. He wanted a reaction, and Alex wasn’t giving it to him. Her eyes darted rapidly back and forth between the two men, the speed of her heart now rapid as well.

“And your friend Henri.” Décharné set down the porcelain bowl. “Such a tragedy! We found him just after you’d sailed. I’m afraid he had to be disposed of, but not before he told us your identity. I tried to coax more out of him, but he was quite a mess by then.” He swaggered to a stop in front of Alex, confident with his adversary bound and flanked by Pierre and another man. “Broken fingers. Broken nose. Blood everywhere. Very messy.”

Alex shrugged. “One does what one must, Décharné.”

Lucia shut her eyes. Lord, why was he baiting the man? Why not just give him what he wanted? She tried to breathe again, but bile rose in her throat, choking her. She coughed, and her captor shoved the gun at her harder.

Décharné’s eyes flicked to her and then back to Alex. “You are a cold bastard, monsieur. But not to worry.” He smiled. “Once I get you to Paris your execution will be swift. Perhaps the fires of hell will warm your heart, eh?”

“Not likely.”

And then Alex grinned. And she saw Décharné’s hands tighten on the pistol aimed at him. Alex kept smiling. Lord, was the man insane? Did he
want
to die?

She speared Alex with her eyes, but though he must have felt the intensity of her stare, he still didn’t acknowledge her. She’d begun shaking now, the trembling starting in her legs and working its way up until she couldn’t control it. Her captor felt her move and locked his arm around her neck to hold her in check. The action only increased her fear, and she gulped for air, then coughed violently. Obviously the barbarian wasn’t a devotee of Brummell and his dictates on cleanliness.

She sputtered and took a shallow breath, willing herself not to faint. If she fainted, she couldn’t help Alex, and what she needed to do now was to come up with a plan.

“Now the lady, Pierre,” Décharné said, and Lucia jerked. Her coughing had drawn his attention.

“Tie her.” The skeleton waved his pistol at her, and Pierre grinned, his jagged scar standing out brightly under the glare of the chandelier.

Lucia dragged her eyes back to Alex. Alex sighed, inconvenienced. “There’s really no need to bring this whore along. I assure you that if you give her a few shillings she’ll keep silent enough.”

Lucia blinked and almost glanced about for the strumpet in question. A second later she realized he was speaking of her. Her jaw dropped at the insult, but she closed it quickly. All eyes had turned to her, and she stared haughtily back. Alex’s gaze did meet hers then, and she saw in his face a plea for cooperation.

Her shaking stilled. Thank God! The man finally had a plan.

Décharné’s shoes clicked on the marble as he approached her, scrutinizing her features just as he’d appraised the Sèvres bowl. Lucia tried to play her part—a difficulty considering that at that moment she couldn’t remember ever having seen any prostitutes. The barbarian loosened his grip, and Décharné caught her chin with his bony white hand, twisting her face to and fro. Perhaps if she schooled her face to resemble a loose woman, Décharné wouldn’t order her bound. Being tied would certainly be a hindrance in a plan—hers or Alex’s. It took all of Lucia’s willpower not to curl her lip in disgust.

“I do not think so, monsieur. She is no whore. A courtesan, perhaps.” Décharné released her chin and turned to Alex. “More likely your mistress. She could be of some use.” He nodded to the foul-smelling man holding her.

The barbarian snatched her hands behind her and another of the men bound her wrists. Alex’s expression remained blasé, and though she understood the reason for his seeming lack of interest, she really could have used one reassuring glance.

And then even that hope was lost when everything went dark. Lucia stiffened and bit back a scream. A moment before she’d been scared; now she was blind and helpless as well.

She let out a squeak of distress as one of the men hefted her and tossed over his beefy shoulders. Oh Lord, she hoped Alex was coming with her.

She heard the door open, and the next thing she felt was the damp morning air. The hood was definitely going to be an obstacle to the plan. Her whole body convulsed, and she began shivering from fear and cold. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath as she was jounced down the walk, and she let out a ragged gasp when she was dropped on what must
have been the floor of a carriage. Several of her abductors crawled in after, and Lucia had to squelch cries of pain when they stepped on her or kicked her out of their way.

Something hard and bulky was beside her. She fell against it when the carriage jolted to a start.

“Alex?” she whispered, but there was no response. Her body shook harder.

The brief carriage ride was bumpy, and it seemed they tore around every corner at a frightful speed. She was disoriented and overwhelmed after a few moments, only vaguely aware of the sounds of the waking city and the muffled voices of her captors.

Time and distance blurred. Lucia could hardly remain upright. She was weak from the lack of sleep and food, her legs had begun to cramp, and she’d lost all feeling in her arms. If only she knew where Alex was. If he was beside her, she might be able to still her trembling and concentrate on forming a plan.

Once again she tamped down her rising panic, made worse by the dark, stifling hood, and took a ragged breath. She had to think of a way out of this, some means of escape. What were these men planning to do with her? Where were they taking her? She had to think, to pay attention.

She straightened, and every muscle screamed in agony. She tried to ignore her discomfort, concentrating instead on the sounds of the city.

The muffled noise of the carts and hawkers, babies crying, and men arguing were familiar and indistinct, giving her no indication where in London they were being taken.

She’d just about given up, resigned to the inevitability of death and ready to succumb to the tears running down her cheeks, when the smell assaulted her. Lucia gagged, sobs forgotten.

At first she was afraid she’d inadvertently leaned against the man who had held her in the town house. But this smell was actually worse. It was a rank mixture of dead fish, excrement, and, underlying it all, decay. Perhaps she was dead already, and this putrid assault on her senses was her punishment for all her foolish, impulsive choices in life. Oh, Lord! If only someone had warned her that hell wasn’t torture by fire but by rank odor, she might have behaved better.