No Regrets (36 page)

   A low growl issued from deep in Lucas's chest. His eyes blazed fury.

   Her knees buckled.

   François caught her around the shoulders, cradled her against him, and guided her back the way they had come like a lover.

   "You did well, my sweet," he whispered in her ear.

   Numbness enveloped her. If Lucas did not recognize her signal, if he believed the kiss and her words, he would hate her forever.

   The corner and the welcoming dark seemed so terribly far away. She wondered if her legs would collapse before ever she reached it.

   Lucas watched her swaying form depart, the train of her gown shimmering in candlelight. A voluptuous Venus deeply in love with another.

   If he believed her words.

   Had he really said those dreadful things? Judging from her anger and the underlying hurt, he must have. He shook his head. They were words taken out of context, spoken in heat. His heart twisted, a sharp pain nothing like the dull ache in his ribs. He deserved every excruciating moment.

   She'd tapped her nose twice. That meant follow my lead, but she'd also tugged her ear. What the hell was that? Nerves? It had to be one of the other signs she and Matthew Grantham had created for their game of spies one summer, the summer when he began to feel too old to play with the younger set.

   
"That's
the
game,"
Lucas
said.
He
probably
shouldn't have agreed to join them. He was getting
too old for such things, according to Cedric. But it
had felt just like old times.

   
He turned back to the task of laying the ropes
straight across the round rickety wicker table next
to the rusty seventeenth-century sword he'd borrowed
from the attic. "Besides, you are French."

   
"Half French," she snapped as usual.

   
He tried not to smile. "I wouldn't mind," he said,
only a little surprised to discover he meant it, "but
the triplets would never allow a girl to win."

   
A shout came from outside. Caro pushed her spec
tacles up her nose and ran to look out. "Here they
come on the barge now."

   
"Hurry up," Lucas said. "Sit down and I'll tie
you."

   
She dashed to the table and snatched up one of the
ropes. She gave him one of those funny teasing smiles
that these days always made him feel too hot under
the collar. "The French spy captures the English
nobleman, but then gives him the secret code so that
he can escape. Come on, Lucas. Let me rescue you.
It is only fair."

   
The appeal in her golden eyes shook his resolve.
He fought the desire to make her happy. The triplets
would be furious and would probably want to fight
him for real. And he wasn't allowed to hit them back
because they were younger. "Why would a French spy
turn against her country?" he asked, settling on logic
as a diversion.

   
Her eyes turned smoky. "They could fall in love.
Perhaps he kisses her and changes her mind about
the revolution."

   
The
vision
she
invoked
gave
him
a
stirring
pleasurable sensation in the pit of his stomach. He
remembered their bungled kiss in the boat the week
before and felt his face go red and his yard swell and
harden. He couldn't charge out and meet the triplets
in that state. They'd never let him or Caro forget
it. God knows they'd snickered about her overlarge
bosom often enough this summer. Perhaps the erec
tion would go away in a minute or two. It usually did,
if he didn't let his imagination wander.

   
"All right," he said. "But no kissing. I'll just con
vince you that revolution is wrong."

   
He plunked into the garden chair.

   
Rope in hand, she knelt at his feet. The sight of
her nape, bare all but a few tendrils of brown hair,
while her hands fumbled with the knots at his ankles,
made his mouth dry. He reached out and touched the
soft golden skin with a fingertip.

   
She shivered and glanced up, with lips parted and
pink cheeks.

   
In the gap between her dress and her throat, he
glimpsed a full creamy rise of flesh. Was it as soft and
smooth to the touch as it looked? He swallowed.

   
Something must have shown on his face because she
tilted her head in question. "Is the rope too tight?"

   
"No," he said, his voice raspy.

   
She nodded and rose to her feet and bound his
wrists in front.

   
All he had to do was loop his hands over her head,
pull her onto his lap, and feel her soft rounded bot
tom against his very ready dick. He almost groaned
out loud.

   
She raised her gaze to his face, looking like one of
those angels in a religious picture, all chubby cheeks
and huge-eyed innocence—a cherub or a seraph or
something.

   
"Are you sure you don't want me to kiss you?" She
smiled a far-too-knowing smile for his peace of mind.
The twin spots of color in her cheeks made him think
she guessed at more than she should, in which case,
she was nothing but a little flirt. His cock gave a
happy little pulse of hope.

   
Oh, yes, he wanted a lot more than a kiss.

   
Hell's teeth. This was Caro Torrington, his friend
and an innocent, despite her burgeoning curves.
He grabbed a breath of air and tried to distract his
thoughts. "Are they almost here?"

   
She blinked as if she'd forgotten about their game,
but then dashed to the window. "They are right out
side. Now you have to convince me to set you free."

   
What he had to do was get out of here, before he
did something they'd both regret. "Tell me the secret
code, French spy."

   
"No, Lucas, not like that. You have to be more . . .
heroic." She blushed again.

   
He tested the ropes, struggled against their bite,
and felt them loosen. Just as he expected, she'd tied
granny knots, and they slithered undone. He lunged
for the sword hilt and waved it in her direction.
"Tell me the code—now, or you will breathe your
last, wench."

   
She looked so forlorn his chest hurt. "A tug on your
earlobe," she muttered.

   
"Good girl." He gave her an encouraging pat
on the shoulder. "Follow me, and I'll get you to
England, safe from the mob outside."

   
The hero-worship rekindled in her eyes as she real
ized he was going along with her idea. Suddenly, he
felt taller, more of a man, as if he could take on the
world. With her close on his heels, he charged down
the steps.

   A tug on the earlobe was the password to freedom, his freedom no doubt. It would be just like her to sacrifice herself to save him. Bile rose in his throat. Cedric clearly had no intention of letting that happen, but Lucas would not let Cedric win, not with Caro at risk. Somehow he had to put a stop to that wedding.

   He returned to his slow torturous rocking.

   Ah, hell. More footsteps heading his way. Had all his luck disappeared? He rocked faster, racing the oncoming sounds. He had to get to the table and the candle flame. The chair teetered on its back legs, and his heart lurched. He leaned forward, halting the dangerous tilt. Careful. No! Too far. The chair crashed to the floor. Cold stone slammed against his cheek. Every bone in his body vibrated. His ribs hurt like the devil. He was done for. Once more, he'd failed Caro.

   The heavy steps broke into a run.

   Damn. Damn. Damn.

   Lucas shook his head clear and gazed at the toes of a pair of scuffed brown boots inches from his nose. He squinted up a pair of sturdy legs in nan keen trousers to a broad chest topped by a brutal face. It was the beefy fellow who had charged out of the chateau last night.

   "'Ad a bit of a haccident, did you, yer lordship?" He was an Englishman.

   Lucas concentrated on breathing through his nose.

   Beefy cut him loose from the chair, and he fell on his chest with a groan. Slowly, he flexed his hands and then pushed painfully to his knees. His ribs screamed agony.

   The guard knocked him flat on his back with a swift knee to the gut and then tied his wrists. This cur certainly knew his business. Was this his executioner? He wasn't ready to die. Not with Father and Caro facing very real danger.

   The brute dragged him through a series of cavernous chambers to a door beneath a set of wide stone steps.

   "In yer go," Beefy muttered and pitched Lucas to his knees into a small square room with stone walls and floor.

   More dizzying pain. Lucas took an easy breath. He couldn't breathe too deep, or it hurt too much. No execution yet, then. Just new quarters. He rolled on his back.

   Beefy tugged the handkerchief out of his mouth and tossed it to one side.

   "These too," Lucas said, holding out his wrists.

   "Sorry, mate, those yer gotta keep." He went out and slammed the door behind him. The lock clicked loudly.

   Lucas took stock of his prison. A smudge of daylight entered through a dirty window near the ceiling, an opening far too small for his shoulders. The plank door had solid iron hinges set in the stone wall. His situation suddenly seemed worse. He no longer had a plan.

   He struggled to his feet, fighting waves of pain and nausea. Devil take it, but he hurt everywhere. It didn't matter. To have any chance of escape, he had to get his limbs moving. He paced the perimeter of his cell, flexing his bound hands, inspecting every nook and cranny and crack.

   Hopeless.

   The door crashed open. Accompanied by a delicious aroma of stew, Beefy marched in.

   Lucas leaned one shoulder against the wall and raised an eyebrow at the sight of a tray and a chamber pot. "How considerate."

   Beefy grunted. "Every prisoner is entitled to his vittles and a piss."

   "It sounds as if you speak from experience?"

   "Never you mind." He placed his burden on the floor and pointed to the steaming dish and hunk of bread. "With all the servants busy for the wedding, that's likely all you'll get for a while. Make the most of it."

   "When is it?"

   "What?"

"When is the wedding?"

"Couple of hours from now."

   Two hours. He'd never get out in time. "I'll pay you to set me free. Name your price."

   The man paused, his beady eyes glinting, and then shook his head. "I wouldn't cross Mr. Rivers, not fer nothin'." He left.

   It would take a brave man to cross this new incarnation of Cedric. Why had he never seen what lay behind those gentle expressions of sympathy? "You are probably right, my friend."

   The lock clicked into place.

   Lucas's stomach growled. He strolled to the tray and slid down the wall beside it. The food looked dismally appetizing. At least he would meet his maker well fed. How bloody ironic.

   With nothing else to do, he fell to with a will, tearing at the bread as best he could with bound hands and dunking it in the gravy. The lack of cutlery made it decidedly inelegant, but the food assuaged the gnawing in his belly. It did nothing to ease his fears for Caro.

   He pushed the tray to one side and, offering silent thanks to Beefy, made use of the chamber pot. He tucked it under the tray.

   Less than two hours. He returned to his pacing. No inspiration struck him from the blue. Caro's bitter words echoed around his brain, diverting his thoughts. If she wanted a divorce, he'd happily oblige. But he would not allow Cedric a free hand with her or his father, not now that he knew the truth. He could not let others suffer because he had been a fool.

   Damn it. There had to be some way out. He slammed his fists against the wall as if by some miracle it would crumble.

   Perhaps he could pick the door lock. Hampered by his bindings, he fumbled through his pockets. Any self-respecting dandy would have a quizzing glass or a nail file. He didn't even have a hoof pick, confound it.

   Steps sounded in the hallway outside. More trouble. Think, he said to himself. It was too early for Cedric. It must be Beefy coming back for the tray. This might be his only fighting chance.

   He flattened himself against the wall behind the door and raised his clenched fists, gasping at the stab of pain. One blow was all he asked. A bitter smile curved his lips. This was going to hurt him as much as it hurt his jailor.