Breathless (30 page)

St. John eyed him carefully. He would want to come up with the perfect number, Lucien thought. Too little and he'd appear a fool, too much and Lucien would balk.

“Let me make this easier for you,” Lucien purred. “I would think five thousand pounds would keep you out of England and living quite well for the rest of your life.” He didn't for one moment believe that. St. John would be back within the year, wanting more. He was a man with expensive tastes.

St. John looked torn. On the one hand that was clearly more than he'd been planning to ask for, on the other, if that was the offer then more was always possible.

“I suggest you take it,” Lucien said gently. “Before I change my mind and put a bullet in you.”

“You wouldn't do that. How would you explain me to your lady?”

“With great difficulty, I have no doubt. However, do you really think I wouldn't be able to bend her to my will?”

St. John was looking uncertain. Fear was beginning to gather in his shallow eyes once more, and Lucien knew he'd won. At least for now.

St. John tried bluster. “Well, there's no guarantee of that, now is there, my lord? And I'm thinking…”

“I'm thinking you should stop thinking, take it and be gone, before I change my mind.”

“And you're going to tell me you have five thousand quid in cash just sitting around?”

“In fact, I do. Small change, my boy.” He tossed the small satchel at him, and St. John fumbled for a moment, then clung tightly.

He rose, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “Pleasure doing business with you, my lord,” he said with a final show of bravado.

“I don't think so,” Lucien said gently.

St. John fled.

J
acob awoke, wrapped in Jane's sweet arms, and groaned. He wanted to lie in bed with his darling girl, kiss her into arousal, take her again, very gently given that he'd already had her twice and she was doubtless tender, but he couldn't resist. Except some bloody idiot in the taproom below thought normal conversation was carried on in a modified bellow, and there was no way he could woo his beloved with those voices echoing through the small inn.

Her eyes opened sleepily, and he smiled down at her. “Go back to sleep, love,” he said softly, kissing her eyelids. “I'll see about some tea and breakfast for you.”

“And a bath?” she murmured sleepily. “Or is that too much to ask for?”

“Nothing's too much to ask for, my girl,” he said. If the innkeeper didn't have the means to provide a hip bath for his patrons he'd scour the neighborhood until he found one.

Fortunately it didn't have to come to that. The host most certainly did have a hip bath, and it wouldn't take
above ten minutes to get it up to the young miss, full of hot water.

Satisfied his job was momentarily done, he headed into the taproom and a morning mug of ale.

There were three young men there, toffs by the look of them. Old money, old blood—he knew the type well. He'd need to warn Jane to stay out of sight, just in case she knew these three young bucks, but the chances of that were so slim he stayed put.

The moment he entered the room they lowered their booming voices, talking amongst themselves like conspirators, and he smothered a snort of disgust. The fools didn't realize their voices carried throughout the inn, or they would have kept their bloody voices down earlier and let him enjoy his first morning in bed with his heart's love.

“We'd best be going,” the oldest of the three said, and he realized they must be brothers. Not so much by the look of them, though there was some similarity, but they way they held themselves. “But remember, if this is to be a killing matter then it's on my head as the eldest. The grudge is against me, and it's my responsibility to deal with it.”

Shit, Jacob thought, taking another lazy drink of ale. If they thought someone needed to be killed it was doubtless Scorpion—he had only to meet people to turn them murderous. The question was, how was he going to distract them without compromising his time with Jane.

“She was mad, Benedick,” the youngest one said. “She threatened you with a gun. She said she was going to kill our parents—you could scarcely be expected to marry a madwoman.”

“I should have seen to her, Charles. At least made certain she was no danger to herself and others. I'll never forgive myself for that.”

Damn it all to hell. Apparently his Jane wasn't the only one bent on rescue. These could only be Lucien's future brothers-in-law, and future family gatherings were not looking promising.

He was just trying to decide what to do when Jane came down the stairs, looking rumpled and decidedly well-tupped.

“Good God, Jane, what are you doing here?” The youngest of the three who addressed his Jane,
his Jane
, in a peremptory manner was running a very great risk, until Jane put a calming hand on his arm. He didn't like that much better but he bided his time, rather than rip the lad's arm off.

“I imagine the same thing you are, Brandon,” she replied calmly. “Trying to save your sister. Hullo, Benedick, Charles.”

The other two were staring at her in disbelief. The eldest one pulled himself together. “Surely you're not out here alone, Janey?” he said, his voice a rumble of disapproval, and Jacob's irritation spilled into possessive rage. Who was he to call Jane, his Jane, Janey? And to set himself up as protector? He heard a soft, growling noise and realized, to his astonishment, that it had come from his own throat as he pushed away from the bar.

But Jane, his Jane, smiled at him, her dear, sweet face mischievous. “I'm very well taken care of indeed. My dear Benedick, allow me to introduce you to my fiancé, Mr. Jacob Donnelly. Mr. Donnelly, these are Miranda's brothers and my childhood friends. Benedick, Charles and Brandon Rohan.”

There was a dead silence as the three surveyed him, knowing from one glance that he wasn't of their world. Finally the youngest spoke. “Your fiancé, Jane? That's not Mr. Bore-well!”

“No, it isn't, is it?” Jane said in a tranquil voice.

“Well, thank God for that,” the young one said. “Your servant, Mr. Donnelly.”

“King Donnelly?” the eldest, Benedick, inquired in an icy voice.

“The same.” Was he going to have to fight these three? Well, at least two of them. The youngest was looking at him with approval.

Lord Benedick was glaring at him. “And why, may I ask…?”

“No, you may not ask,” Jane said with more courage than he'd heard from her before. “We may have grown up like brother and sister but my marriage is none of your business.”

“I thought you said you were only engaged.”

“That won't be for long,” Jacob said quietly. “Do you want to make something of it?”

Benedick appeared more than ready to, when Jane once more intervened. “Stop it, you two. I'm not some bone for you two to fight over. We need to be rescuing Miranda, not arguing. At least, I presume that's why you're here.”

“Lord, Janey, why else would we be at the back end of nowhere?” the middle one demanded, and Jacob decided he really didn't like strange men, even if they'd grown up with her, calling her Janey. “It's been more than ten days since she was taken, and I don't know how long the family can keep it quiet.”

“There's no need for you all to go racing up to Ripton
Waters,” Jacob said in a calm voice. “Jane and I were headed there ourselves. But I don't think we're going to be needed. I expect they'll be happily married by now and not wanting their honeymoon interrupted.”

Benedick Rohan cast him a long, speculative look. “Ripton Waters, is it? And how do we get there?”

“Oh, Christ,”
his
Janey said. “Jacob is right. And I don't imagine Miranda wants you three great loobies bursting in on them. We could send word…”

“We're not going anywhere until we're certain our sister is all right,” Benedick said, still eyeing Jacob with profound distrust.

There was a reason he'd spent his adult life robbing the peerage. They were a royal pain in his backside. “I can take you to Ripton Waters. I'm the only one around here who knows where the house is.” He smiled politely. “If you promise to leave them alone once you've satisfied yourself that she's happy.”

“I find that unlikely. Our sister has a profound distrust of men, for very good reason. She's hardly likely to relax her guard with someone known as the Scorpion,” Benedick said.

“Will you leave her be if she tells you to?” Jacob said.

Benedick glanced at his brothers for agreement, then nodded. “Agreed.” He started for the door, turned back and gave them all a peremptory look. “Well? What are we waiting for?”

The quality, Jacob thought wryly. If this was the price he had to pay for Jane, then he'd do it. But he didn't have to like it.

Jacob sighed, glancing down at Jane. “We'll be with you in a moment.”

He waited until they were alone, and then he pulled her to him and kissed her, full on the mouth, not caring if any of the Rohans came storming back into the inn. “She's all right, you know? Scorpion wouldn't hurt her. He might come close, but in the end he's not nearly as bad as he likes to think he is.”

“I hope you're right,” she said doubtfully.

“I've known him for more than twenty years, love. I know what he will and will not do. They'll be happily romping in their marriage bed and he won't thank me for dragging her three brothers up there to interfere.”

“I need to see her as well,” she said in a quiet voice. “It's not that I don't take your word for it. But I want to say good-bye before we head for Scotland. I want her to meet you.”

“Then we'll go,” he said, kissing her again. And he only hoped his faith in his old friend wasn't misplaced.

 

The late afternoon sun was shining brightly, casting long shadows on the wide front lawns. They were going to have to be cut, Lucien thought absently, staring out through the Palladian windows on the landing.

He could see her walking out there, the sun gilding her rich brown hair he'd once thought quite ordinary. She was walking toward the dock, and he knew a moment's disquiet. She wouldn't make the mistake of walking out there again, would she? Not when she'd almost fallen through.

But no, she walked on, her arms filled with daffodils, down to the old boat that had been pulled up on the shore, and sat. Waiting for him.

His relief was so strong he was almost weak with
it. He should have known a leech like St. John would be easy enough to deal with. The kind of money he'd asked for was merely a pittance in the scheme of things, and he'd happily pay ten times that amount to know that Miranda need never discovered the depths of his perfidy.

Sooner or later he'd probably have to have the man killed. Once a blackmailer started he never stopped, and it went against Lucien's grain to let a little worm like St. John think he'd gotten the better of him. But for now he was gone, and when the time came Jacob would know someone who could handle it, neatly and quietly. It wasn't as if St. John was any boon to this world.

No, everything was going to be fine after all. Whether he liked it or not he was tied to the woman who was waiting for him down by the lake. The Rohans had gotten their revenge instead of the other way around, and he no longer cared. As long as he had Miranda, then nothing else mattered.

 

It was a beautiful day, Miranda thought absently. The kind of day to fall in love. Scarcely the kind of day to discover that the man you were going to marry was even more of a toad-licking, worm-kissing, putrescent arse of a skunk. Scarcely the kind of day to commit murder, but one had to start somewhere.

There were daffodils everywhere, and she began to pick them for lack of something better to do. She'd dressed once he left her, and gone looking for him. He wasn't in his very pink rooms, and she'd been half tempted to take off her clothes and climb into his bed to await him. He'd find her soon enough.

But she didn't have the patience for it. So instead
she went looking for him, finding him closed up in the green parlor, in low conversation with someone. She was about to push open the doors when she recognized the second voice, and she froze.

Silly, of course, she was imagining things. She put her hand on the doorknob, about to push it open, and then she heard the word “blackmail” in the voice she'd once hated most in the world.

No, Christopher St. John's voice wasn't the one she hated most. It was the drawling, mocking voice of the man who lay in her bed just hours ago and told her he loved her. The man she had every intention of killing.

Stabbing was too good for him. She'd done a frenzied search for pistols among the walls of weapons that made the gloomy old house so cozy, but apparently the de Malheurs gave up war when guns were introduced. And no wonder. They were much better at stabbing people in the back.

She looked at the lake. The old rowboat sat there, no longer seaworthy but with a good solid seat, and she headed toward it, her arms filled with daffodils. She dumped them on the ground, crushing them beneath her feet as she climbed into the beached boat and picked up the oar. It was still solid and heavy, and she climbed out, carrying it up and onto the dock. The sun had dried some of the slime, but she could see the broken board where she'd nearly gone through. He'd saved her then. She almost wished he hadn't.

She was halfway down the length of the dock when he began shouting at her, but she kept her back to him, pretending she couldn't hear. Her face was set in stone. Swill-sucking bastard. To think that she'd loved him.
After all the things he'd done, he'd threatened to do, and she'd forgiven him.

Not anymore. She gripped the oar more tightly, keeping her back to him, and waited.

The weak old dock bounced when he climbed up, and he was starting toward her. She turned, and she knew her face was cold and terrible.

Unfortunately he didn't. He was too busy haranguing her for being foolish enough to put her life at risk by going out on the dock again, after the close call last time. She didn't move, waiting as he negotiated the missing plank. He hadn't brought a cane with him. Good thing—it would make his balance even more precarious. It wouldn't take much to make him go over.

She waited until he was almost in reach. Not close enough to grab her, but close enough for the old oar. “Stay there, my darling,” she said in a silken voice.

Finally he caught on. He jerked his head up, looking at her. “What are you doing out here?” he asked in a steady voice.

“Waiting for you. The water is ice-cold, you said.”

He watched her warily. “Yes.”

“And very, very deep?”

“Yes.” She could see the tension radiating through him, the same tension that ran through her. “You must have run into St. John.”

“Not exactly. I listened at the door.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said lightly.

“No, it didn't. It killed you.”

And she swung the old oar at him with all her strength.

It hit with a great
thwack,
splintering in two, and he
went over the side, into the dark, cold waters of the lake, sinking like a stone.

It took her two seconds. And then she let out a scream for help, tossing the broken oar away from her, and jumped into the water after him.

It was very cold, numbingly so, and as it closed over her head she grabbed for him, wrapping her arms around his body, ready to sink to the bottom with him.

Instead he kicked, pushing them up so that they broke the surface, his arm clamped around hers as she struggled. “Jesus, woman!” he snapped. “When did we have to become Romeo and Juliet?”