The Seduction (57 page)

"I will not hear this!" Lucci shouted, shaking his head in denial. "She was hysterical when she told me what you had done. She was crying. Her clothes were torn. She showed them to me."

Trevor took a small step forward. "It's easy enough to rip your own clothes, fake a few tears, act out a few hysterics. Did she have any bruises?"

"They were gone by the time I got home."

"In three days?" Trevor watched a glimmer of doubt cross the other man's face, and he pressed his advantage. "Bruises may fade, but they don't disappear in that short a period of time. She must not have fought me very hard."

"Of course not. She's a woman. How could she? She was afraid."

"For God's sake, Lucci! Open your eyes. Your wife has had dozens of lovers, and none of us have ever had to use force. What are you going to do—kill us all?"

"Silence!" The pistol trembled in
Lucci's
hand, and he lowered it slightly, pointing it directly at Trevor's groin. "My wife is a virtuous woman, and I'll not believe your lies. You've defiled her body, but you'll not slander her name."

He knew he was pushing Lucci over the edge and the other man might just shoot them all, but he had no other options. "Virtuous? How virtuous can a woman be when she's slept with half your business associates? Her exploits are legendary. Even you must have heard the rumors about her long before I ever met her."

"Lies!" he cried. "It's all lies."

"The only one who has lied is Isabella. She told me herself how you would believe anything she told you. She bragged about it." He took another step forward. "She probably discovered the necklace gone after I left. Yes, I stole it, I confess that—you knew I would try. Can you imagine what she must have felt? I left a paste copy, but it clearly didn't fool her, and she must have known it wouldn't fool you. How else could she explain the disappearance of the necklace? How else could she revenge herself on me for making such a fool of her? She probably sobbed out the story to you, and begged you to avenge the wrong I had done her."

All the color drained from
Lucci's
face, and Trevor knew he was on the right track. "Lucci, she's your wife. You love her, and you would do anything she asked you to do. But she's not worth it. She's spiteful, she's a liar, and she's slept with half the men we know."

The Italian shook his head. "No, no, I won't hear this."

"Everyone knows what she is, Lucci," he said quietly. "Everyone but you."

"I won't listen to your lies! I'll kill you!"

Lucci lifted the gun as if to carry out his threat. "No!" Margaret cried and jerked violently in the chair to which she was tied. The chair toppled over, careening into Lucci and knocking both of them to the floor.

Margaret landed heavily on top of Lucci, and Shelton's men burst into the room as a gun went off.

Trevor dove for his gun and came up, pistol in hand, as Shelton's men surrounded the two bodies on the floor. Lucci pushed at the woman on top of him,
rolling her body away from his, but before he could get to his feet, the magistrate's men seized him.

Trevor shoved his way through the men crowding the room as Lucci was dragged away, his only thought to reach Maggie. Suddenly, he noticed the dark trickle that was seeping from beneath her body and staining the dusty wood floor.

"Christ, no!" he shouted and fell to his knees beside her. "Edward, help me!"

She was lying on her side, still tied to the chair, unmoving and silent. He pulled out the knife he'd concealed in his boot and cut the ropes at her wrists. Then he handed the knife to Edward.-Trevor pressed his fingers to Margaret's neck, feeling for a pulse as Edward finished freeing her.

She was alive, but her pulse was weak. "Maggie!" he cried, rolling her onto her back, "Christ, Almighty! Maggie, say some—" He broke off at the red smear across her ribs, right breast, and shoulder. The blood had soaked completely through her wool traveling dress. Her eyes were closed and her face was ashen gray. No, he thought frantically. No, no, no.

"Oh, my God," Edward whispered. "She's been shot."

Trevor yanked at his shirt, tearing it off. "Take my horse and get Dr. Travers," he told Edward, pressing the shirt to the wound beneath her breast. "Ashton Park is halfway between here and his surgery. I'll take Maggie and meet you there."

"Right." Edward ran out of the room.

Trevor slid his arms beneath his wife and lifted her gently. The magistrate stepped forward. "We'll take her ladyship in my carriage," he said, and Trevor followed him. The men parted to let them
pass, men who only six weeks before had hailed the arrival of their American countess with songs and cheers and smiles. Now their faces were grim, their voices silent.

Trevor carried her out of the house and into the woods, where the magistrate's carriage was tucked away in a clearing. He laid her gently across the seat, then climbed in to kneel beside her. As the carriage jerked forward and started for the road, Trevor held his shirt pressed against his wife's body, feeling the blood seep through his fingers. With his free hand, he touched her face, her round, cherub's face, and could only think of one thing. It pounded through his brain in time with his heart.
Don't die, my love. Don't die.

Margaret felt as if she'd been trampled by a runaway horse. Her whole body hurt. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids felt so heavy. Her chest burned with a searing pain that made it hard to breathe. She could feel softness beneath her, and she knew that she wasn't lying on the floor of that deserted house any longer. She was in a bed.

All around her, she could hear sounds. Cornelia snapping out orders about boiling water and rags. Maids sniffling and sobbing and carrying on. Doors slamming and footsteps pounding. And sudden silence.

She wondered where Trevor was. The horrible thought that she'd been too late and the Italian had shot him flashed through her mind. But then he spoke, his voice low and soft and very close beside her. She focused on it, listening intently.

"Maggie, Maggie, you're going to be all right. Cornelia and I have stopped the bleeding, and the doctor will be here any minute. You'll be fine. You'll be fine."

His voice was so low. Margaret strained to listen, astonished to realize she had been wounded. She vaguely remembered a gun going off, but then she'd blacked out. She must have been shot.

"Oh, God," he groaned. "I wish you'd open your eyes, your bourbon whiskey eyes, and look at me. I didn't mean all those things I told Lucci. You know I didn't. I just said them as a way to stall for time."

His fingers touched her face. She could feel them gently touch her cheek, her chin, her lips. She wanted to tell him that she'd known what he was doing with Lucci, but she couldn't seem to find the strength to open her mouth. She felt so weak, she couldn't find the strength to move.

"I want to tell you so many things," he said hoarsely. "It was the money at first. I wanted you from the minute I met you, but it was the money that made me decide to marry you. I didn't think love mattered, you see. I'd never been in love, never in my life, and I didn't even think it existed. I told you that, remember?"

She remembered. It was the night they played chess.

"I've known lots of women. You know that. But none of them ever really meant anything to me. I enjoyed their company, but it was never anything but a fleeting desire, fine while it lasted, but soon over. With you, it was different. I know you won't believe me, I know I've shattered your trust. But I swear I'll make it up to you. I will."

Margaret knew he was holding her hand. She felt his fingers tighten suddenly in a hard grip around hers. And she waited for him to speak again, hoping this was not a dream.

"Maggie, you can't leave me. You're my wife, and I won't let you die." His voice rose to an angry shout. "Do you hear me?"

She wanted to tell him that yes, she could hear him, and so could the rest of the house.

"I know you can't hear me," he went on urgently, "but if you could, I'd tell you I love you. And I wouldn't say it just because it's what I think you want to hear. I'd say it because it's true. I love you."

Margaret could feel him brush the hair back from her forehead. He kissed her cheek.

"I never knew what love was until I met you," he whispered into her ear. "I never felt it for any woman, and I never thought it was real or that it could ever last. You kept talking about true love, and I didn't believe you. I thought you were just naive. But I was wrong. Now I know what true love is, and I'm afraid Maggie. For the first time in my life, I'm afraid. I'm thinking maybe it's too late. I’m thinking that you'll die and I'll have to go on without you. And if that happens, my life is going to be so dull and colorless. Empty. And I wouldn't even be able to kill myself to be with you in the classic romantic tradition, because you'll be in heaven, and, well, we both know that's not where I'll go when I die."

Hid voice rose again in desperation and he pulled back. "
Dammit
, Maggie! If you die, who's going to go on adventures with me?" he choked. "Who's going to fence with me and make me laugh and challenge me the way you do? Who's going to call me a hero?"

Margaret struggled to open her eyes. When she did, she saw him kneeling beside her bed, not looking at her, his head hung low.

"If you die," he said in an agonized voice that touched her heart, "I'll never be able to show you Egypt. I'll never be able to take you up in a hot air balloon. I'll never be able to tell our daughters they don't have to learn to sew, and I'll never be able to tell our sons they can play in the dirt any time they want. I'll never be able to take you to that Greek island and paint you in the moonlight. I was going to take you to Capri in the autumn for a honeymoon. Maggie—" His voice broke, and he let go of her hand. His powerful shoulders slumped as if there was no strength left in them, and he laid his forehead against the bed beside her. "I love you, and if you die, I'll never have the chance to prove it to you."

Margaret felt a joy so powerful, so overwhelming, she wanted to shout it to the heavens. Straining for all her strength, she lifted her hand to touch his hair. "I'm not. . ."

He straightened, turning his head to look at her. Her hand fell away and he caught it in both of his. "Maggie?" He leaned closer to her, looking at her as if hardly able to believe she had spoken.

"I'm not. . . going to die," she whispered. "I hate it when the . . . heroine dies
at. . .
the end."

"So do I," he answered tenderly and moved closer to kiss her.

She swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment. "Do something for me," she said, opening them to look at him again.

"Anything."

"Tell me you love me again," she whispered. "I love a love scene."