Julia London (42 page)

“You were right about me, Darfield. It
is
a forgery,” Galen muttered, looking over his shoulder. Michael’s gaze did not waver from his face, but Alex and Sam exchanged startled glances. Simultaneously, the two men sat up and leaned forward.

“The devil you say. What a surprise,” Michael mocked.

“Do you want to hear this or not?” Galen demanded.

Michael paused, considering whether he did or not, and finally, motioned the man to a seat. Galen sat gingerly, shook his head at the brandy a footman offered him, and clapped his hands on his knees, bracing himself. With a deep breath, he began speaking. In a calm monotone, he related a story of fantastic proportions, one that involved Michael’s worst enemy, forgery, murder, and a scoundrel’s change of heart.

His audience of three was completely absorbed by his tale. Occasionally one would ask a question, which Galen calmly answered. He made it very clear that Abbey had known nothing about his ruse but had simply tried to help him, a cousin for whom she held a special fondness. Galen’s earnest entreaty did not fully exonerate her for Michael, because she had lied to him, but it went a long way toward healing an open wound. When Galen finished, he slid his gaze to Michael.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Michael demanded.

“Abbey discovered my scheme. She sent me a note, insisting I meet her here, and then demanded I confess. And as I was leaving to find you, I encountered Routier. I told him I
would not go through with it. He was exceedingly angry, I am sure you can imagine, and I thought you should know—”

Michael was on his feet immediately. “Routier is here?” he asked with deadly calm.

“Yes, somewhere.”

Michael did not say another word but turned abruptly and marched from the library. With a quick exchange of glances, Galen, Sam, and Alex followed him.

Abbey followed Routier’s lead along the terrace, enjoying the cool breeze. Her companion was oddly quiet. “The air is refreshing, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” he remarked, his voice strangely cool.

Abbey glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “You seem tense, Mr. Routier.”

“Perhaps I am,” he said curtly. A warning bell, so faint as to be ignored, went off in Abbey’s head, but he looked at her and smiled. “Then again, perhaps not. Have you seen Lady Wilmington’s maze? It is supposedly the grandest in London.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Now that’s a sight you will not want to miss,” he said, and began to lead her down the flagstone steps.

“But Mr. Routier, it’s dark!” She laughed.

“There is plenty of light, I assure you. They post torches inside in case one is lost.” Abbey felt an odd sense of foreboding as they strolled toward the maze entrance. “I don’t think we should go inside. It hardly seems proper.” She laughed nervously.

“Proper? Since when have you been bothered by propriety, Lady Darfield?” He smiled so strangely that her skin crawled.

She frowned at him, uncertain as to what he meant by that remark. “I believe the maze is reserved for lovers, Mr. Routier. Not casual strollers such as ourselves.”

“I think it perfectly suitable for us,” he muttered.

“I beg you pardon?”

“I am quite certain you understood me,” he said sharply.
They were almost to the maze entrance; he gripped her elbow and walked briskly toward the hedge, propelling her with him. Momentarily confused, the warning that went off in Abbey’s head was as loud as belfry bells but, unfortunately, woefully too late. She tried to pull away from him, but he shoved her toward the narrow entrance cut into the hedge, then crowded in behind her, his frame filling the narrow opening. Once inside, he pushed her forward.

Abbey stumbled, then whirled to face him, walking backward as she stared at him in astonishment. “Mr. Routier, what on earth has come over you? I do not want to explore the maze!”

“But I do,” he said casually, advancing on her. Alarm coursed through her veins. Routier’s face was cast in stone, and his yellow eyes had hardened so that she suppressed an involuntary shiver. He smiled at her obvious alarm—a thin, faintly snide smile.

“If I have given you cause to believe my friendship was any more than just
friendship
, I am truly sorry. I am a married woman, sir, and not the least bit interested in any assignation.” She stepped backward, knocking up against the hedge.

“You are an incomparable beauty, do you know that?” Routier said softly as his eyes languidly perused her, his tongue flicking across his bottom lip.

She quickly brought her arm up, outstretched, in a vain attempt to hold him at bay. “I will thank you to step away, sir. Your advances are most unwelcome,” she said bluntly.

Routier’s lips curled in a lecherous grin. “Resistance. That’s the way I like it,
ma belle
.”

Dear God, he had been her
friend
. How could he possibly intend what she was interpreting? “I
don’t
. I think you take my meaning,” she insisted.

“I do not think you take mine.” He laughed balefully. “Oh, come now, Lady Darfield. Surely you would enjoy a tryst with someone other than Darfield? Really, you should have convinced him to give over your dowry and left that bastard. He’s not good enough for you, can’t you see that? You don’t understand how he cheapens you. He does not
know how to love a woman, not like I do,” he muttered thickly.

Abbey’s entire body reacted violently to his words. Nothing or no one could be more repulsive. She closed her eyes for a brief moment to fight back a spasm of fear and loathing, when she opened them a second later, Routier was upon her. Abbey threw up her hands and hit his chest.

“Pretend if you must, angel, but I know a woman like you appreciates something hard between her thighs,” he murmured, breathing heavily.

Abbey’s heel came down hard on the soft leather of his shoe. Routier froze, his eyes narrowing to malicious slits. Abbey recoiled, backing farther into the hedge and effectively trapping herself. Dear God, what was happening? Was the entire populace of England insane? She swallowed past a crippling fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She did not move as he coldly studied her face. She barely breathed. She prayed. Fervently.

A grotesque smile that caused Abbey to shudder convulsively snaked across his lips. She had never seen a look quite like it, but she knew what it meant. She could not, would not, let him touch her.

“Darfield will not want you if you are ruined, will he? Is that what is worrying that pretty little head of yours?” He did not wait for an answer. He grabbed her around the waist with one arm and clamped a hand over her mouth. Then he picked her up as if she weighed little more than a feather and hauled her deeper into the maze. Abbey struggled helplessly; Routier merely laughed at her efforts.

“You are right to be concerned, my dear. Darfield will never touch you again if he thinks
I
have had you. And I will have you, every delicious inch of you.” He stopped in a small clearing and grinning lecherously, ran his tongue over his lips as he looked down at her. With his hand covering her mouth, Abbey could hardly breathe. “What a wonderful dilemma for the marquis. A pretty little wife, compromised by Malcolm Routier. But he will never be quite certain it wasn’t consensual,
will he? He does not easily believe you, I think.” He chuckled.

Abbey struggled furiously; Routier’s hand slipped from her mouth. “Please do not do this,” she gasped. Routier answered by grabbing her hair and yanking her head backward. Somehow Abbey managed to wrench free from his grasp and, whirling, started to run. But Routier caught her around the waist and jerked her to his chest so hard that it knocked the air from her lungs.

“Don’t fight it, darling. There is no pleasure in fighting,” he muttered into her ear. Hysteria mounted swiftly and Abbey screamed. Routier cut it off by clamping a damp hand over her mouth and forced her around to face him.

“Do not scream again, bitch,” he said angrily, removing his hand from her mouth, only to replace it with his lips.

His kiss was brutal. When she would not part her lips, he bit her. Her reflexive gasp allowed him entry, and his tongue plunged into her mouth, sickening her. Abbey pushed against his chest, sought his feet with hers in an attempt to strike his instep. Routier only laughed against her mouth and deepened the kiss. She tried to turn away, but he was so much stronger, and with one arm around her waist anchoring her to him, he used the other to force her face to him. He pushed her up against the hedge and trapped her beneath his hard frame, then shoved his hand into the bodice of her gown and maliciously squeezed her breast.

Hysteria pounded in her neck and chest. She continued to struggle, but she knew she was at a great disadvantage, and had never felt more helpless. She could not stop him from assaulting her. When his hand began to claw at the skirt of her gown and drag it upward, Abbey screamed against his mouth.

He would have succeeded in raping her had someone not ripped her from his arms. She was not sure how, but she had the sensation of being shoved aside. The heel of her shoe caught her hem, and she tumbled backward, landing solidly on her rump. Stunned, it took Abbey several moments to focus on the tussle on the grass in front of her. Someone
grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and hauled her to her feet.

“God, are you all right?” Lord Southerland was looking down at her with grave concern. She nodded dumbly as her fingers came up and lightly fingered her lip where Routier had bit her. Disgust glanced the duke’s features, and he jerked his head to where the two men scuffled.

Abbey dragged her gaze back to the ruckus, her heart skipping several beats. Michael, his face dark with fury, was wrestling with Routier. She stifled a scream when Routier stepped forward and quickly delivered a blow to Michael’s jaw that snapped his head backward. Michael stumbled, and Routier advanced on him, swinging. But Michael managed to sidestep him and Routier’s fist slammed into the hedge.

Michael leapt through the air and knocked Routier to the earth with a thud, pinning him on his back. He pounded his fist into the man’s face and quickly followed it with another blow. Routier tried to get his hands up, but Michael was too intent on killing him. It was Abbey’s anguished cry that filtered into his consciousness, and he paused for a split second, but it was enough. Routier leveled an almost lethal blow, knocking him from his perch on his chest.

Before Routier could pounce, Sam grabbed him from behind, locking his arms behind his back. Alex quickly grabbed Michael and likewise locked his arms behind his back.

“Gentlemen,” Alex said roughly. “You can settle this at dawn in an
affaire d’honneur
.”

Michael angrily shook Alex off as he brought a hand to his jaw and moved it gingerly from side to side, testing it. “Gladly,” he spat out. “Consider this your challenge, Routier, if you are man enough.”

Routier laughed. “I can hardly wait. If there was light, I’d suggest we finish this now.”

Abbey gaped in horror as she listened to the exchange. A
duel?
“Oh, God,
no
!” She moaned.

Routier looked at Abbey and smiled wickedly. “That’s right, Marchioness. I intend to kill him. I should have killed
him when I had the chance at Blessing Park, but unfortunately, at that time you seemed to be the better target.”

“Pistols or swords?” Michael roared as Sam stepped between them.

“Swords,” Routier shot back. Michael nodded and stepped away from Alex, his eyes riveted on Abbey. Without a word, he marched toward her, removed his coat, and placed it around her shoulders. His dark expression made her shiver. He turned her away from Routier, and for the first time, she saw Galen standing at the entrance to the little clearing, glaring at Routier.

“Sam, will you act as my second?” Michael asked in a low tone. Sam must have nodded. “Carrey, get my coach. I’ll take her around the side of the house.” He threw his arm around her shoulders and hauled her closely into his side. He started out of the maze, never looking back.

There was silence in their coach as the vehicle hurtled through the fog-enshrouded night to the Audley Street mansion. Michael dragged his gaze from the window to Abbey, who, with cheeks stained pink, was looking down at her torn bodice. As if feeling her eyes on him, she glanced up. A longing clouded her violet eyes for the briefest of moments, then faded rapidly as she cast her eyes to her lap.

He felt so goddammed responsible. He should have been looking out for her, protecting her. He should have never let her leave the house. It was not as if he had not been warned her life was in danger, a fact driven home quite roundly when Routier had confirmed Abbey had been the target of that shot. But even that was eclipsed by his stupidity for having believed she was part of Carrey’s scheme.

When the carriage reached the town house, Michael jumped down, then grabbed Abbey by the waist and wordlessly lifted her down. Neither of them said a word until they reached the foyer.

“Go to bed,” he said softly, afraid anything more would betray his dark emotion. Abbey did not argue. She ran up the
stairs and disappeared from view. Michael turned on his heel and marched for the main drawing room. He could not think of her now. After he killed Routier, then he could decide how to repair the damage between them.

Sam and Alex joined him to wait for dawn, and despite their best efforts, he was not able to keep Abbey from his thoughts. Shortly before the appointed hour, he made his way to her room and opened the door, his only intent to look at her before he went to meet Routier. Abbey bolted upright at the sound. Obviously she had not slept; wearing a silk wrapper, she was lying on top of the counterpane. Michael stepped across the threshold, holding his candle high. Abbey swung her legs over the side of the bed and gripped it on either side of her knees.

“Is there anything I can say that will keep you from this?” she whispered hopelessly.

Almost afraid to speak. Michael shook his head and slowly crossed the room. He gazed down at her, his eyes sweeping her face, the swell of her breasts, taking in every detail of her. God, but she was beautiful. With dark hair spilling all around her, her violet eyes vivid and clear, he realized it was an image he might carry to his death. His gaze slid to her abdomen and the life she carried there. Her hand—unconsciously, he thought—slipped protectively across her middle. Michael went down on his haunches next to her. There was so much to say, simply too much, and he had no idea where to begin. Did he say he was sorry? That he was wrong? Did he tell her he loved her? Time was running out.