One Wicked Night (34 page)
Authors: Shelley Bradley
If she lived, she would never feel that uncertainty again, he vowed. They would reside in civility, without acrimony for a past that could not be altered. Lucien doubted he would ever be able to trust her completely, nor had he any intent to give her his heart, but they would no longer be wedded enemies.
On day four, he sent for Doctor Thompson, who, after another examination, proclaimed that Serena would indeed live. He also declared that her “delicate condition” was not in jeopardy. But, as for when Lady Daneridge would awaken . . . he could not comment.
On the fifth day, Lucien woke in the Sheraton chair by Serena’s bedside. A quick glance confirmed no change had occurred overnight, and he began to wonder if she would ever awaken. For the first time since Chelsea’s death, Lucien sank to the carpet on his knees and prayed.
As if divinely inspired, as if God had truly been listening to his prayers for once, Serena moaned and rolled toward him. Lucien sprang up from the floor and hovered over her. He clutched her salved and bandaged hand between his.
Pushing her hair from her cheeks, he said, “Serena, wake up. Open your eyes.”
An instant later, her brown lashes lifted to reveal her blue eyes, sleepy and confused.
“Where am I?” she croaked, her voice hoarse.
Relief crashed through him as he stroked her hand. “In my bedroom. How do you feel?”
She frowned. “As if I’ve been beaten.”
Lucien stroked his palm across her forehead. “Breathe in and tell me how your lungs feel.”
She did so and a coughing spell seized her. Once recovered, she answered, “Burned. It hurts.”
“But you can breathe fairly well. That is a good sign.” He rubbed his thumb along her forearm.
The skin beneath his touch was the only part of her that wasn’t filled with pain. “What happened?”
“Tell me the last thing you remember,” he said.
Caffey delivering calling cards while she was in her bath. Lady Bessborough and her grandmother were supposed to call and— “A note,” she blurted, her voice gaining strength. “I received a note instructing me to go to the summer house if I wanted to know more about Cyrus’s death.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Who signed it?”
Serena thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No one. It was anonymous.”
“And you chose not to tell me about it?” His expression went tight with anger.
She coughed again, then cleared her throat. “I . . . The note said to go alone. Its writer said he feared for his life. I felt certain that if I told you, you would demand to go.” She paused. “Where did you come by those cuts on your face?”
He stared at her. Serena noticed the exhaustion and anxiety etched around his eyes and mouth, along with a puzzling collection of cuts, scrapes and bruises.
“Sweetheart, do you remember the fire?” he asked.
She didn’t recall anything of the sort. With his various scratches and contusions, he looked as if he had been caught in it. Had she? Confused, she shook her head.
“What do you last remember?” he prompted.
She hesitated. “I went to the summer house. The door was ajar.” She coughed. “I went inside to look for the person who had written the note, but didn’t see anyone about.” Her eyes widened with remembrance as she said, “Then I heard something behind me and I tried to turn, but...my head hurt. Back here.” She lifted her fingers to her wound, wincing when she touched it.
Quickly, Lucien pulled her hand back into his. “Alastair or one of his henchmen hit you, then locked you in the summer house while you were unconscious. They set the building on fire.”
Serena gasped, then succumbed to another coughing fit. Once recovered, she asked, “How did I get out?”
She fixed her gaze on his familiar, now battered features. Again she noted the small cuts slashed across one cheek, visible even through several days’ growth of beard. A glance down told her his hands were bruised, covered with small scabs and painful-looking blisters. Reality dawned. “You saved me?”
“Holford thought you might be inside.”
Her mouth fell open. “You went into a burning building on the chance I might be there?” Bewilderment tinged her voice. “Why?”
Lucien glanced away, leaving Serena to realize he would not expound on the event or his heroics, but the fact that he’d risked himself to save her flooded her with warmth. But she dropped the subject for now. “You’re sure Alastair set the building aflame?”
“Who else would do this?”
She nodded. “He’s serious about killing me.”
Grimly, Lucien nodded. “Until he is caught, I want you to spend your mornings, afternoons, and evenings with me. If I cannot be with you, someone will watch over you. I promised you protection before we wed. I intend to make certain you get it.”
She stared anxiously into his implacable face. “Do you think Alastair would dare to come into the house?”
“At this point, I think Alastair would dare almost anything. He’s already had the audacity to torch a building on my grounds, with you in it. Nothing stops him from gaining entrance but the guards I’ve placed at each door and the protection of my presence. And I will protect you, with my life, if necessary.”
She didn’t disagree with his caution, but spending every day and evening with her handsome husband would take its toll on her resistance. If she wasn’t careful, she would end up in his bed all too soon. Yet with her life and the babe’s in danger, she had no choice but to agree to his plan.
“Of course,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
“I will catch him,” Lucien vowed. “Niles and I will continue to search for clues . . . someone who knows something. Though Alastair’s hired killers are dead, it’s only a matter of time before I find enough evidence to prove his crimes.”
He was still willing to risk his life to prove Alastair’s guilt and save her skin? Maybe he had been searching for clues during his evenings out, instead of bedding another woman, as she had assumed. Maybe he truly did care about her.
Lucien Clayborne was becoming more of an enigma each day.
Grandy’s voice sounded in Serena’s head, reminding her that a good marriage consists of respect, the ability to forgive, trust, and love. Did she hold those emotions for her husband?
She respected him, she realized an instant later. He was intelligent and brave. He no longer appeared to be a manipulative cad, as she had told Grandy. Her discovery of Chelsea’s death gave her an understanding of his reasons for forcing this hasty marriage—and the ability to forgive him.
But trust? That was harder to give. Perhaps he had not been dallying with other women. God, how she wanted to believe that was true, yet the hope he had been playing detective during all his nights out on the town seemed far-fetched. Besides, how many men would have remained chaste when an angry wife refused them and easy comfort awaited elsewhere?
She tried to conjure up what Cyrus would advise, but found his memory was dimming each day, replaced by images and feelings Lucien inspired. Did she care for the husband she had sworn so recently to despise?
Yes, and perhaps admitting to herself that she harbored feelings for Lucien wasn’t so terrible or dangerous. After all, he was her child’s father. So long as he never learned that a sinful part of her yearned for his fiery touch. He need never know she missed his handsome face when he was gone. Or were her feelings more?
Had she, by chance, committed the most foolish sin of all and fallen in love with him?
****
Three days later, Lucien entered Serena’s bedroom with flowers in hand after a perfunctory knock. “How do you feel?”
Serena glanced up from her morning chocolate. Her heartbeat accelerated at the sight of Lucien’s smile, at his dimples prominent above the firm angle of his jaw.
“I am well now.” She smiled shyly in return.
His eyes were the color of summer grass. His powerful shoulders, branded in her memory, fit the seams of his soft gray coat to perfection. The waistcoat surrounding his broad torso and lean waist was a deep, exotic blue trimmed in opulent gold thread. Black pants hugged narrow hips and long, muscled legs.
She feared the catch in her heart had more to do with her emotions than the desire he roused within her.
He sat on the edge of the bed. She couldn’t ignore the small thrill at his nearness, yet he made no move to touch her.
Dropping her gaze to her lap nervously, Serena tried to slow her rapidly beating heart. The base side of her wondered if he longed to repeat their lovemaking once she had healed completely. She could no longer deny that she wanted to relive the splendor of their ecstasy, yearned to become his wife again in every way.
Yet another part recalled her confession and Lucien’s resulting contempt.
“Here,” he said, handing her the bouquet. “I brought these for you.”
She put her nose to the flowers. Her senses lit upon smelling a familiar scent. “Gardenias. My favorite.”
“Their smell reminds me of you.”
That anything at all reminded Lucien of her astounded Serena. But something as beautiful as a tiny white gardenia?
Inhaling a shaky breath, she took in the sultry scent of the flower once more. It swam inside her head, making her dizzy with a longing she wanted desperately to ignore.
She clutched the bouquet closer to her chest. “Thank you. They are lovely.”
“You’re welcome.”
He rose from the bed and stepped away. “Your grandmother called on you yesterday while you slept.” He paused, appearing to choose his next words. “We had an interesting talk.”
“What about?” Serena bit her lip. There was absolutely no telling what Grandy had said, how many secrets she had revealed. “What did she tell you?”
“That she has waited a long time for great-grandchildren from you.”
“Oh, yes. And she never tried to hide her impatience. I do not understand, really; Catherine gave her a second great-grandson in May.”
Lucien nodded. “She said so, but I think she’s particularly anxious for your confinement because you hold a special place in her heart.”
With a shrug, Serena said, “I suppose you’re right.”
“She also said that you possess a voracious appetite for strawberries. Is that true?”
Feeling color crawl up her cheeks, Serena answered, “Yes.”
“You’ll enjoy breakfast then. Mildred?” he called.
The older maid entered a few moments later bearing a tray—and a platter full of strawberries and bowl of cream.
“Here ye are, me lady.” Mildred set the tray in her lap, then left on Lucien’s dismissal.
Serena turned her puzzled expression to Lucien. “How? Where.... Strawberries are so rare. How did you find these?”
He waved her question away. “A trivial detail. Come on. Eat up. You need your strength, and the baby needs nourishment.”
Serena realized that was the first time he’d mentioned her pregnancy beyond the confines of an argument. Looking up to him, she asked hesitantly, “Are you happy . . . about the child?”
His warm gaze caressed her. “Yes. I will not lie and tell you I’m completely happy with the circumstances. To the law, the child will always be Warrington’s. But we know the truth, and someday, I think the babe should know, too.” He nodded in her direction. “And what of you? Are you happy about the babe?” he countered. “I know you have long wanted children, but will you be content to have mine?”
“Children are a gift from God. I shall be happy to bear any babe God sees fit to give me.”
“That is not what I asked, Serena, and you know it.”
After a hesitant pause, she admitted. “I am pleased. No matter what you think, I have no doubt you were a good father to Chelsea, and will be to this babe, too.”
Lucien drew his brows furrow into a painful frown. “Time will tell.”
Tentatively, she reached for his hand. “You’re strong and protective, and you care so much for this babe already, you cannot be anything but the best of fathers.”
As his fathomless gaze delved into hers, he rested his other hand against the almost indiscernible curve of her abdomen. “I hope you’re right.”
A long pause ensued. Serena hardly knew what to say without shattering the tender moment she so wanted to cling to her heart. In the last week she’d seen such a gentle side of her husband, a side she would never have dreamed existed the evening they had exchanged vows.
She hung her hope on the possibility that the future of their marriage wasn’t as bleak as she had once thought.
****
Seated at her dressing table, Serena looked up from the letter she penned to her sister, Catherine, to find Lucien striding into her bedroom. A quiver of longing passed through her before she looked away, pretending concentration on her correspondence. But his image stayed with her, the dark sweep of his hair, the green flash of his eyes, the breadth of his hard shoulders.
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” he asked with a scowl. “I will wake you for dinner in an hour.”
She frowned. “I have been resting faithfully for days now. I feel much improved.”
As if to prove her wrong, her cough asserted itself. She hacked noisily into his disapproving silence.
“Yes, you sound much improved,” he drawled.
“I am,” she insisted. “Besides, I received a letter from my sister yesterday. Catherine and her family wish to visit next month. Would you mind very much?”
