To Desire a Devil (36 page)

God! Oh, God! He was going to lose her. Reynaud felt the burn of tears on his cheeks. The dawn was coming soon. He urged the
gelding on, hearing the rasp of the horse’s breath, the jingle of the tack, and his own desperate heartbeat in his ears, knowing
it was too little, too late. He wasn’t going to make it in time.

He’d kill the bastard, the murderer of his wife. He’d take his revenge in blood and pain, and then he’d end all this himself.

If she was dead, he’d have nothing to live for.

All night Princess Serenity journeyed. As the sun’s first rays blessed the earth, she came to the place where a year ago she
had met Longsword. It was a barren spot, devoid of trees or even grass. The princess looked about her but could see no other
living thing. Just as she began to wonder if she’d come in vain, a crack appeared in the dry ground. Wider and wider it grew
until the Goblin King rose from the depths of the earth.

His orange eyes glowed bright at the sight of her, and he smiled with yellow fangs as he said, “And who might you be?”

“I am Princess Serenity,” she replied. “And I have come to take my husband’s place in the kingdom of the goblins. . . .”

—from
Longsword

It was dark, so dark, and she’d lost track of the time. She could’ve been standing here for minutes or hours, her arms wrenched
painfully behind her, her eyes straining uselessly in the blackness. Every now and again she’d nod off despite the pain and
fear, but as her body sagged forward, her shoulders would be yanked by the chain on her wrists, and she would startle awake.
At first she’d thought the dungeon was silent as well, but as she stood there, she began to hear things. Small rustlings.
The scrape of a tiny claw against stone. The slow drip of water somewhere. In the dark, all alone, the sounds should have
frightened her more. Instead they were almost comforting. She wasn’t sure she could’ve remained sane if her hearing had been
taken away as well as her eyesight.

Finally she heard footsteps, distant but drawing nearer. She straightened, trying to look serene, trying to be brave. Reynaud
had been brave in captivity and so could she. She was a countess. She wouldn’t meet death weeping.

The door to the dungeon was thrown open, and she flinched away from the lantern light.

“Beatrice.”

Oh, dear God, it couldn’t be. She squinted and saw her husband’s broad shoulders blocking the light from the lantern. He was
hatless, his boots muddy and scuffed, and he carried a full saddlebag over one shoulder. She jerked forward, her throat working,
trying to say something. To warn him. Lord Hasselthorpe had ranted for nearly an hour when first they entered the carriage
about the revenge he would inflict on Reynaud.

“Don’t touch her,” Lord Hasselthorpe said, and Reynaud stepped aside. Behind him was Lord Hasselthorpe, a gun pointed firmly
at Reynaud. “Here she is. You can see that no harm has come to her. Now give me the money.”

Reynaud didn’t look at the other man. His eyes were on hers, blazing, black, and dangerous. “Take off her gag.”

“You’ve already—”

Reynaud turned his head and hit Lord Hasselthorpe with a stare. “Take it off.”

Lord Hasselthorpe frowned, but he stepped forward, keeping his eyes on Reynaud. He fumbled, one-handed, with the cloth tied
at the back of her head, and then the binding fell.

Beatrice spat out the wadded cloth in her mouth. “Reynaud, he’ll kill you!”

“Shut up,” Lord Hasselthorpe said.

“Don’t.” Reynaud took a step toward the other man, seemingly oblivious to the raised gun between them. He stared at Lord Hasselthorpe
a moment, then looked at Beatrice, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “Has he hurt you?”

“No,” she whispered. “Reynaud, you
cannot.
”

“Hush.” He shook his head slightly and almost smiled. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

“She’s alive and I want the money,” Lord Hasselthorpe said impatiently.

“What guarantee can you give me that she’ll go free?” Reynaud was staring at her, as if memorizing her features.

Beatrice felt ice begin to form at her center. “Reynaud,” she whispered, pleading now.

“My wife is in residence,” Lord Hasselthorpe said. “She has nothing to do with this. I’ll put Lady Blanchard into her care
and send the both of them to London. I’ve already sent a footman to bring Adriana here.”

“You don’t intend to take your wife with you?” Reynaud’s eyes were horribly gentle, and though he spoke to the other man,
his gaze never left her face.

“Why should I?” Lord Hasselthorpe replied impatiently.

The corner of Reynaud’s mouth twitched. How could he find any of this amusing? “A certain sentimentality, perhaps?”

“I haven’t time for sentimentality or your wit,” Lord Hasselthorpe snapped. “If you want your wife to live to see the dawn—”

“Very well.” Reynaud threw the saddlebag at Lord Hasselthorpe’s feet just as Lady Hasselthorpe appeared in the doorway to
the dungeon.

“Why, my lord, you didn’t tell me we had guests,” Lady Hasselthorpe exclaimed as if being woken before dawn to greet callers
in the dungeon was perfectly normal. She seemed not to notice that her husband held a gun on one of her “guests.”

She made to step into the dungeon, but the burly footman by her side prevented her. “Best not, my lady. ’Tis dirty down here.”

Lord Hasselthorpe nodded to the man. Despite the footman’s words, his real reason for stopping her must be so that she wouldn’t
get too near Reynaud.

“I’d like you to take Lady Blanchard to London, my dear,” Lord Hasselthorpe said. “She’s ill and Lord Blanchard and I have
business to discuss.” He reached behind Beatrice with one hand and unlocked the chains about her wrists.

Beatrice’s heart sank. “Reynaud, I can’t leave you here.”

Lord Hasselthorpe gave Reynaud a hard look. “It matters not to me, but you know the alternative.”

Reynaud’s mouth thinned. “Let me talk to her.”

“As you wish.”

Reynaud bent to her ear, his face against hers. Beatrice’s hands were still tied behind her back. She wished they were free
so she might feel his dear face.

“You must leave with Lady Hasselthorpe,” he whispered in her ear.

She felt hot tears overflow her eyes. “No. No, you said you would never put yourself in another man’s power again.”

“I was wrong.” His breath caught on a quiet laugh that blew against her cheek. He smelled of horse and leather and her husband.
“So very wrong. I was foolish and vain, and I nearly didn’t realize it in time. I nearly lost you. But I didn’t.”

“Reynaud,” she sobbed.

“Shh,” he whispered. “You asked me if I loved you. I do. I love you more than life itself. Nothing matters in this world but
that you live. Can you do that for me? Can you live?”

What could she say? He was sacrificing himself, she knew that. Sacrificing himself for her and he wanted her to just walk
out of this room and leave him here….She shook her head, her throat swollen shut with grief.

He took her face between his palms and looked at her, and for the first time since his return, she saw the laughing boy of
the portrait in his black eyes. They stared at her, confident and whole, with the hint of a mischievous gleam.

“Yes, you can,” he said in that low, deep voice she loved so much. “For me. Live for me.”

“I love you,” she whispered, and she saw gladness in his eyes.

She turned, stumbling, and walked from that hellhole. Lord Hasselthorpe said something, and Lady Hasselthorpe babbled and
chirped, but she heard none of it, because she was leaving Reynaud behind. She turned one last time at the door and looked
over her shoulder.

Reynaud was kneeling next to the stone wall where she’d been chained. She saw that there were three iron rings set in the
stone wall. She’d been chained to the middle one, but now iron links were threaded through the two outer rings. Reynaud’s
strong arms were outstretched wide, and Lord Hasselthorpe was watching as the burly footman fastened chains to his wrists.
The cold stone floor must’ve been hard against Reynaud’s knees, and she knew the chains were painful, but he met her eyes
and smiled at her.

Smiled as they chained his arms in a cross.

W
HEN HE’D ESCAPED
from captivity, so many months ago now, he’d vowed that he’d never let himself be caught alive again. He’d sworn to himself
that he’d die before being taken by an enemy. And he’d meant that vow, truly.

But now Reynaud broke that vow. He kneeled at the feet of his foe, his arms stretched wide and chained to the wall, helpless,
and he was glad. None of it mattered as long as Beatrice was alive. He could face this and worse as long as she lived.

Hasselthorpe bent and opened the saddlebags. Mater’s sapphire necklace spilled into the lantern light. Hasselthorpe grunted
and picked up the jewels.

“Very nice.” The dark blue stones sparkled as he examined them. “The Blanchard jewels, if I’m not mistaken.” He grinned at
Reynaud.

Reynaud shrugged. “You’re not.”

“Very nice indeed.” Hasselthorpe shoved the necklace back in the leather pouch and began tying the cords as he spoke to the
brute of a footman. “See that my horse is ready and my bag brought down. The boat sails in two hours, and I must be away to
meet it in time.”

For the first time, the big servant showed signs of independent thought. He hesitated, glancing at Reynaud. “An’ him?”

Hasselthorpe looked at the footman coldly. “That’s none of your business.”

The man shifted from one foot to the other. “But, see, they’ll blame me.”

“What?”

“For him.” The footman jerked his chin in Reynaud’s direction. “You’ll be gone and I’ll have a dead aristocrat on me hands,
and the first one they’ll be looking at will be me.”

Reynaud grinned. The man had a point.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Hasselthorpe burst out just as the door opened to the dungeon.

Lady Hasselthorpe entered with Beatrice behind her.

Christ!
Reynaud lunged against his chains, but the thick iron links held. Hasselthorpe swung toward the door, his gun pointed at
Beatrice.

“Get out!” Reynaud ordered. Beatrice was looking at him, her sweet face set in mulish determination. He pulled at the chains
with all his strength and felt a slight give.

Hasselthorpe turned toward him as the chains clanked. The lantern’s light glinted off the barrel of the pistol in his hand.
Hasselthorpe raised it as Reynaud bared his teeth in defiance.

“No!” Beatrice screamed.

Lady Hasselthorpe rushed toward her husband. “Richard! Have you lost your mind?”

“Beatrice!” Reynaud lunged again, and the iron ring holding his right wrist burst from the wall.

Hasselthorpe swung toward him with the gun, but Lady Hasselthorpe was there, and Beatrice, damn her,
Beatrice
threw herself against the man.

The gun exploded with a deafening thunderclap, echoing off the stone walls and ceiling. For a moment, everyone froze.

“Beatrice,” Reynaud whispered.

She looked at him, her eyes puzzled, and raised a hand toward him.

Blood streaked her fingers.

S
HE’D BEEN NEARLY
deafened by the pistol’s report, but Beatrice still heard Reynaud’s angry roar. He sounded like an enraged lion, like some
fiery archangel come from heaven to wreak vengeance on a mortal man. He leaped forward, his freed right hand outstretched
toward Lord Hasselthorpe. The chain shrieked against the iron ring, and he jerked back, his fingertips brushing Lord Hasselthorpe’s
sleeve.

“Dear God!” Lord Hasselthorpe exclaimed. He fell against Beatrice, grasping at her arm.

It was the wrong thing to do.

Reynaud roared again and lunged. The other iron ring exploded from the wall. He was on Lord Hasselthorpe in one bound, tearing
the man away from Beatrice.

Lady Hasselthorpe screamed.

Reynaud hit the other man in the face with a horrible smacking sound, and Lord Hasselthorpe fell to the ground. Reynaud followed
him down to the stone floor, kneeling above him, his balled fist driving again and again into Lord Hasselthorpe’s face.

“Stop him!” Lady Hasselthorpe clutched Beatrice’s arm. “He’ll kill Richard.”

He would, too. Reynaud showed no signs of halting, though the other man had long since ceased resisting.

“Reynaud,” she said. “Reynaud!”

He stopped abruptly, his chest heaving, his hands, bloody, hanging by his sides and the chains still dangling from his wrists.

Beatrice went to him and hesitantly touched his short, black hair. “Reynaud.”

He turned suddenly and laid his face against her stomach, his big hands grasping her hips. “He hurt you.”

“No,” she said, stroking his dear head, feeling his warmth beneath her palms. “No. The blood was his. The bullet must’ve hit
him somewhere. I am not hurt.”

“I could not bear it,” he said against her. “I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt.”

“I wasn’t,” she whispered. She took his hands, large and bruised, in hers and drew him up. “I’m whole and safe. You’ve rescued
me.”