No Regrets (38 page)

   Even as Lucas's mind registered relief, his heart faltered. Caro's lips were blue. It might be too late.

   "She needs a physician," he croaked and fell to his knees, laying her on the cobbles. He ripped off his coat and placed it under her head and pressed against the bloody bandage. Nothing seemed to staunch the horrid flow.

   The officer turned away. "Is there a doctor present?" he bawled.

   The soldiers formed a ring around Lucas and Caro, a red barrier against the resentful muttering crowd emerging from the church into the square. A small man in a black coat shouldered his way through the burly hussars.

   "Doctor," he said at Lucas's scowl.

   Unable to utter a word for the painful lump in his throat, Lucas nodded permission. He sat back on his heels, sweating and shaking like a horse ridden too hard.

   The doctor moved with swift assurance, checking the wound, rebandaging. He glanced up at Lucas. "She has lost a good deal of blood. The bullet, it goes through. It hits nothing vital, but she does not look good."

   "What the hell do you mean, not good? You're a doctor—do something." Lucas couldn't contain his snarl.

   "I know my business, monsieur. We need to get her to bed."

   "We'll take her to the Valeron chateau," Lucas said.

   "Milor', Milor'!" The cry came from a group of liveried men being loaded into a carriage by some of the soldiers.

   Henri. Lucas signaled to the captain. "A friend."

   "Yes, sir." The captain turned smartly to his sergeant. "Have that man released."

   By the time Lucas turned back, the doctor was pointing to a nearby carriage and attempting to direct two privates to lift Caro. The men stared blankly. Common English soldiers didn't speak much French.

   Lucas waved them off. He knelt at her side, drawing her unresisting body into his arms. Too still. The acid of fear burned his gullet. Didn't she know women weren't supposed to go around tackling murderers—or galloping horses down St. James? He choked on a laugh that turned into something hot and moist behind his eyes. Damn it. He'd been such a fool, and her life was too high a price to pay.

   He plodded to the carriage. "I'm sorry, Caro," he said. Her lashes formed stark crescents against her dead white skin. He touched the pad of his thumb to her bloodless bottom lip and sensed as much as felt a faint breath. "Hang on."

   His voice caught, his eyes burned, and he dragged his next words from the depths of his soul.

   "I swear, when you get well, I will make this up to you."

Lucas thrust his hat at the hovering lackey in the entrance to the chateau and turned to greet Madame Valeron. A tributary of wrinkles crisscrossed her pallid, sunken cheeks. She appeared to have aged twenty years. Another of Cedric's victims. Regret dampened his simmering anger, and a deeper emotion, one he did not care to examine, crushed in on him. He preferred anger.

   He sketched a cool bow. "Good afternoon, madame."

   "My lord Foxhaven," she murmured while curtseying, her purple gown and plumed turban a pathetic brave show in the harsh light from the high windows.

   "Madame Valeron, let us not stand on ceremony. How is Lady Foxhaven?"

   A weary smile hovered on the old lady's rouged lips. "She has great resilience. She recovers, my lord."

   He bit back his impatience. "The doctor sent daily reports, but I am glad to have them confirmed. I must thank you for your care."

   "It is no more than anyone would do," the old lady murmured. Her eyes brightened a little. "When she heard of your visit, she insisted on coming downstairs to the drawing room. Please, come this way."

   The ton weight on his chest lightened an ounce. At least she hadn't refused to see him. "Thank you."

   He followed the drooping feathers down the cool lofty passage. At the drawing room door, he halted her with a touch, the question burning his tongue. "How are her spirits?"

   "She is quiet. The doctor calls it English phlegm." Her expression tensed. "I hesitate to ask, my lord, but do you bring us news from Paris?"

   Damn, he'd forgotten the letter. All he could think of was Caro and what she might say at how he'd bungled things, getting her shot and her beloved cousin sent to prison.

   He withdrew the note from his inside coat pocket. "From the Chevalier, madame." He handed it to her. "I am not privy to the details, but I understand he has made a full confession to the authorities. Now the matter rests in their hands."

   She clutched the paper to her bosom. "I must express my gratitude at your forbearance, my lord. I understand you spoke for him. You saved his life."

   He forced civility into his tone. "Your nephew was not the only one duped by Cedric Rivers. It would do none of us any good to have more scandal in the family."

   Her old head inclined graciously. "Your generosity does you credit, my lord. Come, we must not keep our patient waiting any longer."

   He squared his shoulders, ready to meet his fate, holding fast to the thought that Caro had been on her way to find him when Cedric spirited her away.

   Madame Valeron preceded him through the door.

   Caro reclined on a chaise lounge angled toward an open bank of French windows. A light breeze stirred the air. The late afternoon sun gilded her creamy skin and glittered in her tawny curls.

   "Look who is here,
cherie
," Madame Valeron crooned in the hearty tones always demanded by a sickroom.

   Caro turned her head. Bandages swathed her shoulder beneath her loose robe. Lilac shadows painted half-moons below the large amber eyes in her pallid oval face. His heart bumped erratically. He had never felt this uncertain.

   Madame Valeron surged forward and straightened the embroidered rug over Caro's lap. "His lordship brought a letter from François." She waved the paper.

   "That is wonderful news, Aunt," Caro said.

   It seemed he'd done something right, even though it left a bitter taste.

   "I will leave you to talk," Madame Valeron said. "I will be outside if you need me." She drifted through the balcony door.

   Caro gestured toward the gilt chair beside her couch. He gave thanks for the delicate tinge of color in her cheeks. Surely a good sign? A small smile curved her lush lips. "Welcome, my lord. Please, be seated."

   My lord. It was to be formal, then.

   "How do you do?" He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

   A faint wince flickered across her expressive features.

   Clumsy fool. "Forgive me. I did not intend to hurt you."

   "No, no. It is nothing." He saw the lie in her eyes.

   "You look wonderfully well." He lowered himself into the chair and hoped she didn't see the truth in his.

   "Indeed. I am much improved."

   "I'm sorry I couldn't stay." He glanced over at the open French doors and lowered his voice. "It was such a mess. The officer in charge insisted I return to Paris with François under guard the moment the doctor said you would recover. Audley needed me to explain the presence of troops in the Champagne to the Ambassador and the French authorities. I never expected to be gone so long, but with a British subject dead and a Frenchman arrested for abduction and fraud, it turned into a bureaucratic nightmare."

   "I'm glad you went," she said. "Without your intervention, my cousin might have faced more than a few months in prison." She shuddered. Unshed tears turned her eyes to liquid honey. "I have to thank you, Lucas. I don't think I could have borne it if François had been . . ."

   His chest constricted. He'd been wrong about her signal. Until now, he had hoped she'd been forced to say the words of love she'd spoken in the cellar to Valeron, another man, then, who had used and abused her.

   Hell, he should have killed the blackguard on that nightmare carriage ride to Paris. Mad with worry about Caro, he didn't know why he hadn't choked the slimy bastard with his bare hands. Except Caro would not have been pleased.

   "It was my duty," he said.

   "Thank you." She smiled at him.

   His heart seemed to fill his throat at the sheer beauty of that curve to her lips. He'd bring her the Chevalier garlanded in flowers for the favor of such a smile.

   "What are your plans?" he asked.

   "My plans?"

   "Yes. When you are well?" Did she intend to stay here with Valeron?

   "I would like to go home to Norwich."

   He let go a breath. He liked this plan.

   She smiled sadly. "It has been a long time since I last saw my sisters. Their letters are full of worry. And you?"

   "I am needed in London." Dear God, could he be more blunt?

   Her translucent fingers entwined in strands of blanket fringe. Her arm had lost its pretty dimples. Had she been so ill?

   "Your business affairs call you home, I expect," she said, her voice barely audible.

   "My father fell into a decline at the news of Cedric's death. His man of business wrote to say there seems to be some misappropriation of funds. Things are in pretty serious case, I believe. I must leave as soon as you are well enough to travel."

   She glanced up, her expression instantly sympathetic. "Your poor father. He set such store by Cedric. And his mother. Poor Aunt Rivers. The loss must be devastating. You must go to them at once."

   His stomach dropped. She couldn't wait to be rid of him. "I cannot let you travel alone." His voice sounded harsher than he intended.

   "I insist. Your father needs you."

   And she didn't. Had he really expected she would ask him to stay? Not expected. Hoped. He thought he might shatter if he said a word, so he nodded.

   "You promised to heal the breech with your father. Families are all we really have."

   The concern in her voice sparked to life a smidgen of hope that she cared about him after all. But he could not lie. "I'm not sure it is possible after what has happened." He saw her chin lift and managed a shaky laugh. "I will do my best."

   "That is all anyone can ask."

   He wanted her to ask for so much more, but he didn't have the right. "I will post up to Norwich at the first possible moment. Your sisters will want a firsthand account of how you do." Hell, now he was using a hearty sickroom voice.

   "It is good of you to think of them," she murmured. Her chest rose and fell on a sigh.

   He forced himself not to look at the tempting curves beneath her flimsy gown, even as her body called to his basest nature, the desire to brand her as his own, to claim her as his wife in truth. The instinct was so basic, so visceral, he shook with the effort to hold it in check. Only his admiration for her courage and loyalty gave him the strength to resist.

   "If only I had listened to your advice after that dreadful race and gone home to Norwich," she said. "None of this would have occurred."

   "Not so. I left you to face the scandal alone. I was wrong. And besides, you always wanted to meet your French relatives." Not to mention Valeron's promises of an annulment. His stomach hit bottom. "It is over and done. We need to discuss the future."

   She stared down at her fingers and released them from the knotted threads as if she had only just noticed them. "Yes. We must."

   Why did she have to remain so quiet, so still? He wanted her to fight him as she had in Paris, to tell him what she wanted. He had sworn not to influence her decision in any way—not to beg, or make a case for remaining married, or use his charm.

   The choice had to be hers.

   God, he wanted her to choose him.

   "We can continue our arrangement, if you wish," he said casually, too casually. He winced. "Remain married, I mean. It would forestall any unpleasantness. I promise not to trouble you." At least not without permission, maybe a hint of permission.

   "I don't think that is such a good idea, do you?"

   The words knifed deep. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly. He hadn't expected to feel so much pain as his hopes drained away. Nothing mattered except her happiness. "Probably not. I can only say, I am sorry I forced you into marriage. You didn't even need my money. You were an heiress in your own right." He swallowed a bitter laugh.

   She stared out of the window. All he could see was her beautiful profile, the elegant line of her neck, the swell of her magnificent bosom. He longed to press his lips against the tiny pulse beneath her ear.

   "Did you know? When you asked me, I mean?" she asked.

   "No." The word exploded from him. He softened his tone. "I swear I knew nothing of your fortune until after we were married."

   She turned her face toward him. Her eyes were like gold medallions, flat and shiny and for once completely unreadable. Her lips curved in a wry little smile. "If I recall, you made no secret that you were not terribly keen on the idea of marriage."

   He couldn't open his mouth. He shifted his gaze to the vines on the distant chalky hills, to the fingers of afternoon shadow stretching out to clutch the meandering valleys. He felt trapped in the bottom of one of those dark crevasses, fighting to reach the light with nothing to guide him.