The Sherbrooke Bride (32 page)

It took twenty minutes and by the end of it, Tony was chewing on an apple and Douglas was eating a carrot.

“Well, we did need to eat,” Tony said.

Douglas cursed again.

“Not long now. Er, Douglas, you're certain she will be here at this farmhouse?”

“She will be there.”

Douglas dismounted and purchased apples from a farmer. He threw one to Tony. “Eat your fill, cousin.”

They continued on their way.

 

“You will take off those clothes or I will rip them off you.”

She didn't disbelieve him, but neither could she imagine simply stripping down to her skin in front of him. He wasn't Douglas. No one was Douglas.

The tub of water was behind her, steam rising because he'd heated the water. It had taken a good half-hour but she hadn't managed to come up with a plan to escape him.

“Your face is filthy.”

“I landed on my nose when I wriggled out of that window.”

“Take off your damned clothes.”

She was mute; she just shook her head.

He actually sighed. He looked unhappy. He looked uncertain. Then, he was on her and she fought him, indeed she fought him, kicking his shin and making him grunt in pain, but in but a few minutes she was naked and trembling, her clothing shredded and strewn on the floor around her.

“There.” He lifted her under her arms and set her down into the tub of water. He handed her a cloth and a bar of soap. “Bathe. Do a good job of it.”

He seemed completely disinterested in her. She was so relieved, so surprised, she said nothing, merely stared at him. After all, hadn't her mother assured her that once men saw a female form, they went berserk? Douglas had, but it had required several viewings before he had succumbed. Perhaps it took men time to get used to her before their animal urges consumed them. She prayed it would take Georges Cadoudal much, much longer. A decade perhaps.

“Wash your hair as well. It looks hellish. I don't like red hair on a woman.”

Good, she thought and said, “All right.”

He looked at her, that brooding look that raised more questions in her mind than answered them, then left her, cursing under his breath.

Alexandra bathed.

Unfortunately she was so exhausted, she fell asleep. She awoke with a start when Georges Cadoudal said from above her, “Damn you, the water's nearly cold. You fell asleep? That isn't normal, by God. You should be scheming something, you should be terrified of me, you should be screaming, piercing screams for help. Are you finished?”

She shook her head and pressed herself deeper into the water.

He frowned down at her as one would to a child. He grabbed the wet cloth, soaped it thoroughly, flattened it against her face, and rubbed vigorously.

She tried to yell but only got soap in her mouth for her efforts. Then she felt his hands on her breasts and froze.

“L
O AND BEHOLD
,” Georges said, staring down at her breasts. He shook his head even as she was trying to shrink away from his hands, but yet he was scowling. It was as if he were forcing himself to look at her. “You are well endowed. It is amazing. I should have remarked these breasts of yours before. I am disturbed that I didn't, but I am too tired, too concerned with all my future plans, and you have been naught but a vexing burden, but still—” He shook his head, frowning at himself.

Then he appeared to get himself well in hand. He rose and tossed her the cloth.

“Finish bathing and don't go to sleep again or it will be the worse for you.”

She did, quickly. It was as if he had been watching her even though she knew he was in the other room, for the moment she stepped out of the tub, he was there, and he tossed her a thin ragged towel. She quickly wrapped it around her.

“Your hair,” he said, and tossed her the other towel. “Did I tell you I didn't like red hair on a woman?”

“Yes, you were most specific. Could you leave please, monsieur?”

“No. I must look my fill at you. It will excite me, or it should, and allow me to get this over with quickly.”

“I would prefer that you wouldn't.”

He shrugged, an elaborate Gallic shrug that meant nothing and everything and she knew exactly what it meant.

She managed to get the towel firmly wrapped around herself, then took the other towel, more a rag really, to her hair.

He said, “Come into the other room. I've lit a fire. It is summer yet it is cold. I thought the fire would heat my blood as well as the room. I must try; it was my vow to myself.”

She followed him into the outer room, her eyes on the front door.

“Even if you managed to escape me,” he said dispassionately, “I can't imagine you running down the road wearing only a towel, your feet bare.”

“You're right,” she said and walked to stand in front of the fireplace. It was warm and it felt wonderful. She stood there, rubbing her hair, rubbing and rubbing until it hurt, wanting to put him off.

“Enough,” he said finally, but he didn't sound or look like a man who wanted to ravish her. He sounded tired and angry and distracted.

She turned slowly and stared at him. He stared back, not yet moving. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He said something then in French and thrashed his fingers through his hair. “Well,” he said finally in English, “damn you. Why you? Douglas should have to pay, curse his foul hide, but I cannot, I—”

She wanted to defend her husband, but what came out of her mouth was a sharp cry of pain. She pressed
her hands to her belly. The cramp hardened and twisted and made her stagger against a chair. She was panting when it released her, only to cry out when it struck again.

“What the devil is wrong with you? You can't be ill. I don't like it.”

Her face was white, her mouth twisted with pain.

“You shouldn't have any more cramps, it's ridiculous! You're not on the horse. You ate only the bread I gave you. Stop it, do you hear me? I told you I don't like this.”

The cramp eased and she felt hot sticky liquid between her legs. She looked down to see rivulets of blood running down her legs. She raised her head to look at him.

“What is wrong with me? What is happening?” Then she cried out, falling to her knees to the floor. Tears were hot on her face; the blood was hot on her legs. The pain was building and building.

She fell back, drawing her legs up, hugging her belly, crying, trying to control the pain, but it was sharper and harder and she couldn't do anything save lie there.

Georges was on the floor beside her. He tugged the towel open and saw the blood on her thighs, the deep red streaks on the white towel. He swallowed. He didn't know what to do.

The door flew open to the farmhouse and Douglas came through, pistol in hand. “Get off her, you damned bastard! I'll kill you, you filthy sod!”

Tony was right behind Douglas. He saw Alexandra's white body, saw Cadoudal over her and felt himself raw with fury. Had the bastard already raped her? Oh God, she was bleeding, so much blood, too much blood. Had he brutalized her?

Georges Cadoudal whipped about, saw Douglas, and relief and hope flooded his face. But he had no time to say anything, for Douglas lunged across the room, jerked him away from Alexandra, and slammed his fist into his face. Georges yelled. Douglas struck him again, pummeling his ribs. Georges didn't fight back; he only tried to protect himself.

“Douglas, hold!”

Douglas hit him again before Tony's voice got through to him.

“Douglas, stop it now! Alexandra, she's hurt!”

Douglas reared up, his right fist hovering over Georges's nose, still straddling him, but looking at his wife. She was sprawled on her back and she was panting with pain and there was blood, so much blood.

His fist lowered and Georges quickly said, “No, no, don't strike me again. I can't remain defensive too much longer. I am a man, and cannot continue to allow this. Ah, but thank God it's you, Douglas. Quickly, quickly! She is having a miscarriage. Dammit, I don't know what to do. I don't want her to die. Ah,
mon Dieu!
Help me!”

“She's
what
?” Douglas's fist was not six inches from Georges's face.

Alexandra moaned and tried to draw her legs up.

“Look at her, Douglas. I didn't rape her. I swear I wouldn't have raped her in any case. Look, damn you! She is losing a child!”

Douglas took in the truth of the situation in that moment. He roared into action, rolled off Georges in an instant, and was on his knees beside his wife. “Georges, heat water and get clean clothes, immediately! Tony, go into the other room and fetch the
mattress off the bed. We'll keep her here in front of the fire.”

Both men were instantly in action although Georges did stagger a bit. Both were grateful to have something to do, anything.

Douglas was at his wife's side. She was moaning, her head thrashing back and forth as the cramps seized her. When they eased, she lay there panting, her eyes closed, gulping down deep breaths.

“Alexandra,” he said, taking her face between his hands. “Alexandra.”

She opened her eyes and stared up at him. To his astonishment, she smiled up at him. “I knew you would come. Please help me, Douglas. It hurts so very badly. Please make it stop.”

“I'll help you, love.” He picked her up in his arms and gently laid her onto the mattress Tony had laid close to the hearth.

“Now, listen to me. You're losing a babe. You are not so very far along so this will be over quickly, I promise you. Just hold on, love. Now, I'm going to press these cloths against you to get this bleeding stopped. No, don't fight the pain. That's right, hold my hand, squeeze as hard as you want to, that's right.”

He felt a shot of pain go up his arm, her grip was so hard.

He prayed it would be over soon. He knew little to nothing about miscarriage, a subject never spoken about in a gentleman's presence.

Suddenly, her body stiffened, her back arching off the mattress, and she yelled. He felt the hot blood coming from her and it soaked through the cloth and onto his hand.

She looked up at him, her eyes dumb, then her
head lolled back. She was unconscious.

Douglas kept the pressure against her.

“Here is the hot water,” Georges Cadoudal said. “God, is she all right, Douglas?”

“She'll be all right. I'll strangle her if she isn't.”

Georges looked oddly at him. “She told me you wouldn't come after her. She told me you loved her sister. She knew you wouldn't care what I did to her.”

“She's sometimes quite wrong,” Douglas said, not looking at Georges, not looking away from her face.

“I thought as much. She's unusual.” He sighed, running his hands through his hair. “I couldn't have raped her, dammit. I'm telling you the truth. Damn, I could kill a hundred men without blinking an eye, but this one . . . I'm sorry I stole her, Douglas. It was wrong of me. You didn't rape Janine, did you?”

“No.”

“The little one here was certain you hadn't. You're a man of honor, you see.”

Douglas merely smiled.

Tony brought a blanket and covered her. He laid his palm on her brow. She was cool to the touch.

Georges Cadoudal turned away. To Douglas's astonishment, he looked as if he were in pain. He said, as if in confession to a priest, “I brought this on her.”

Douglas looked at him, his mouth tight. “Tell me what happened.”

“She escaped me. I'd given her water to drink and had forgotten to tie her hands again. She disconcerted me. I don't know how she did it but she managed to wriggle through that narrow window in the bedchamber. She landed on her face in the mud outside. She ran, she really did, ran and ran,
but I chased her down. I threw her over my horse's back. She vomited.”

Tony said, “I have been told that a miscarriage is a very natural thing. If a man's seed isn't meant to remain planted in a woman's womb, her body will expel it. It just happens sometimes.”

“No, if I hadn't kidnapped her, it wouldn't have happened.”

“That's right,” Douglas said, not looking up from his wife's pale face. “I plan to beat the living hell out of you for that.”

“For God's sake, Douglas,” Tony said, “no one will ever know if he's to blame or not. You've already thrashed him. What's happened can't be changed. She will be all right and you will have your heir. Besides, if Cadoudal really is to blame for it, he will go to hell and the devil will punish him throughout eternity.”

“I doubt the devil will have time to punish Georges for this particular infraction. There are too many others.” Douglas paused, then added, “Another thing, Tony, I don't give a damn about any precious heir.” Douglas stared silently toward Georges. “If she dies, I will kill you. Then the devil can have his go at you.”

“I accept that you would have to try,” Georges said and shrugged. His left eye was already nearly closed from the blow Douglas had given him.

Tony said nothing. Georges moved over to the dirty front window of the farmhouse. Several moments passed in silence. Then Georges cursed and cursed again. Tony and Douglas looked up. Georges jerked open the front door.

Janine Daudet stood there, dusty and disheveled and alone, a pistol in her hand.

She grabbed Georges, shook him, yelling at him all the while in French. “Tell me you didn't ravish her, tell me—” Her voice dropped into stunned silence. “Douglas, you are here?”

“Yes.”

“Who is that man?”

“He is my cousin, Lord Rathmore.”

“Ah, the woman, your wife. What is wrong with her? All that blood . . . oh God, Georges, you didn't murder her?”

“No,” Douglas said calmly. “She miscarried.”

Tony watched the woman keen softly to herself, watched Georges Cadoudal gather her into his arms and attempt to soothe her. He gently removed the pistol from her hand and slipped it into his pocket. The woman was saying over and over, “It is all my fault, my fault, my fault.”

“Enough of this caterwauling!” Douglas yelled. “Be quiet, Janine. It is certainly your fault that Alexandra is here, scared out of her mind I'll wager, because Georges threatened to rape her, as revenge for what I supposedly did to you.”

“Ha,” said Georges. “She wasn't scared, Douglas. She has steel, that one, all the way up her backbone. And she talks like no woman I have ever known in my life. She made me feel like a naughty schoolboy who should have a switch taken to his backside.” But he knew he'd frightened her and he was sorry for it, but he simply couldn't bring himself to admit it aloud because that would make it real and that would make the guilt weigh so heavily upon him that he didn't think he could stand it. He didn't understand it. He'd killed with no remorse in the past and he would do whatever necessary in the future to bring the Bourbons back to the
French throne. But this one particular woman was different.

“What are you doing here, Janine?”

She raised her head at Douglas's voice. “I had to come when I realized what Georges had done. I had to stop it. I knew I had to tell him the truth.”

“And what is the truth,
chérie
?”

Janine pulled away from him, her eyes on her dusty riding boots. “He raped me—no, no, not Douglas—the general. Many times and he made me do humiliating things to him and to other men and he watched many times when he gave me to other men, and always, always, Georges, he threatened to kill my grandmother if I refused to obey him. The child I carry won't know his father for I don't know. Oh God!”

There was utter silence except for her low sobs.

“Why did you blame Lord Northcliffe?” Georges said. Tony started at the austere formality of his tone and his words.