A Rose at Midnight Page 33

  Nicholas turned his horse without a word, thundering back down the narrow footpath with a complete disregard for safety. “Blackthorne, wait!” Tony called after him, but Nicholas had already disappeared, riding like the very devil.

  Tony turned back to his wife. “We’ll have to leave his body to the good brothers,” he said. “They’ll find him in the morning and do what’s proper. Come along, darling. We have to make sure that fool doesn’t let his fury override his talent with a sword. If he dies rescuing Ghislaine, I doubt she’ll care whether she lives or not.”

  There was no way they could catch the carriage, Nicholas thought in fury. Their horses were winded from the breakneck pace they’d been keeping, and Tony’s large roan had the added disadvantage of Ellen’s weight. Nicholas made no gentlemanly offer to take her, or to slow the pace. In fact, he barely noticed their presence behind him as he pushed onward, determined to catch up with Malviver’s coach.

  The Frenchman showed no inclination to stop for the night, an act which would have sealed his fate. They continued on after him through the darkness, the horses winded and blown, kept going until Nicholas’s driven mount collapsed underneath him, sending his rider tumbling into the roadway.

  “Have some sense, man,” Tony said. “You won’t help anyone if you break your neck.”

  “Give me your horse,” Nicholas said, his voice dangerous.

  “And leave us stranded? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Give me your horse, damn it, or I’ll run you through,” he cried.

  “Listen to me, Blackthorne, my horse isn’t in any more fit state than yours. We need to get to the nearest town where we can secure fresh mounts. My horse won’t be able to go much further, no matter how determined you are. As long as they’re in the carriage she’s safe from him…”

  Nicholas’s laugh was mirthless. “You should know better than that.”

  “Then you’ll simply have to kill him. You’re good at that, aren’t you,” Tony said coolly. “Stop having a tantrum and be reasonable. We’ll walk our mounts to the next town. The longer we stand about arguing, the longer it will be till we catch up with them.”

  “Damn you,” Nicholas said, yanking his horse’s reins and hauling it down the road toward the dimly lit village. His rage was blinding, mixed with panic. The thought of Ghislaine, his fierce, magnificent Ghislaine, at the mercy of the monster who’d sold her into prostitution, made him shake with impotent fury. He wanted, needed to kill him. But first he needed to make sure she was safe. And then he’d beat her within an inch of her life for running away from him.

  Just one tiny piece of luck, it was all he needed. Not a lame horse, not two people holding him back. Not a villain driving breakneck with no stops, not a rage so all-encompassing that he made a fatal mistake. For the first time his life had started to mean something. He wanted to live; he wanted to live with Ghislaine. He wanted to marry her, make her pregnant, watch her grow old and wrinkled. He wanted the dubious peace that life with her would bring. If he couldn’t have that, he wanted nothing at all.

  The next village was larger, boasting two inns. When they arrived at the nearer of them, sometime after midnight, Nicholas didn’t even notice the discreet black carriage parked in the yard until Ellen’s soft voice arrested him, just as he was about to demand a fresh horse.

  “I think that’s the carriage.”

  Nicholas paused, the fiery rage in his veins turning to ice. “Why?”

  “I saw one very like it in Lantes. I might be mistaken…”

  “I doubt it,” he said. “This will be the one. I’ll need your help, Tony.”

  “You have it.”

  “It’s simple enough. Make sure Malviver’s men don’t interfere. I have no idea whether he comes with an armed guard or something as simple as a coachman. I don’t want them anywhere near me.”

  “You’re going to rescue Gilly?” Ellen breathed, sliding down from Tony’s mount into his waiting arms.

  “I’m going to rescue her, cousin. And then I’m going to skewer Malviver.”

  “Good. I hope you make him suffer,” Ellen said flatly.

  A last, desperate trace of humor flashed over his face, “It must be proximity to Ghislaine,” he remarked. “She seems to make everyone bloodthirsty. Don’t worry, cousin. He shall suffer exceedingly.”

  It was simple enough to find them. The inn boasted only one private parlor, and that was already bespoke by a high government official and his cloaked companion, the innkeeper informed them, wringing his hands. “If monsieur would care to enter the taproom…”

  Monsieur had no intention of doing any such thing. He simply shoved the innkeeper into Tony’s waiting arms and took the steps two at a time, sword drawn.

  The two occupants of the room looked up when he flung the door open, and for a moment rage blinded him. She looked cozy enough, a half-drunk glass of claret in her hand, sitting across from the man who’d taken her, and for a moment he wondered if he’d been mistaken in her. And then she turned to him, and there was such despair and joy in her eyes that he felt his heart twist inside.

  Malviver rose, shoving the table away from him, and Nicholas took the time to school his runaway emotions. If he let himself hate too much, it would weaken his defense. The man standing too near Ghislaine was a dangerous one—only a fool would miss that. He was almost as tall as Nicholas, and more broadly built, with large, ham-like hands that might be clumsy with a rapier. Then again, they might not.

  “I wouldn’t drink that wine if I were you,” Nicholas drawled, lounging against the doorway. “She’s adept at poison, and she’s already had a fair amount of practice on me. I assure you, it’s not a pleasant way to die. You’d prefer my sword.”

  Malviver looked down at his glass of wine, then at Ghislaine’s still expression. He threw the glass away, smashing it against the fireplace. “I’m not going to fight you,” he sneered. “I’m not one of your fancy gentlemen, with time to play with swords. If you want her, you’ll have to fight like a man.”

  The blood sang through Nicholas’s veins, and he smiled. “How would you define fighting like a man, monsieur?”

  “With knives,” Malviver said flatly.

  “No!” Ghislaine gasped.

  “Your lady doesn’t seem to have much faith in you,” Malviver sneered. “I can be generous. Go away, leave us, and I won’t have you arrested.”

  Nicholas sheathed his sword. “You can provide the knives, I presume?” *

  “Nicholas, don’t,” Ghislaine whispered. “He’ll kill you.”

  “Not likely.” He caught the wicked-looking knife Malviver tossed at him. “Tony?”

  “I’m here,” Tony replied from the doorway.

  “Make sure no one interferes.”

  “Afraid you might lose, monsieur?” Malviver mocked him.

  “Afraid you might cheat, Malviver.” He stripped off his jacket, watching his opponent with great care. The bastard had chosen wisely. No ordinary English gentleman was adept at fighting with knives. But then, Nicholas was no ordinary English gentleman.

  It was an ugly fight, with none of the grace of a swordfight, none of the skill of pistols. Not even the dubious elegance of fisticuffs. It was a bloody, dirty, sweaty affair, shocking in its savagery, and when Nicholas finally had Malviver pinned, his knife at Malviver’s throat, blood was dripping from a gash on Nicholas’s cheek, his breath was gone, and his arm was numb.

  “Give me one good reason to spare your life, you bastard,” he said in a hoarse voice. ‘Just one.”

  Malviver’s eyes were narrow slits of rage. “Because if you don’t, you’ll be hounded, you’ll be hunted down like dogs, and you’ll end on the guillotine, where all your kind should be. If you let me live I can guarantee you safe passage. You know as well as I do the peace is collapsing. It was nothing but a farce from the beginning, as anyone but the stupid English would have realized. You’ll never make it out of France without my help.”

  Nicholas sat back, haul
ing Malviver upright. “It might be worth it,” he spat. Then he released him, dropping him back on the hard floor. “Watch him, Tony,” he ordered, and, rising, he turned to Ghislaine. “You don’t want me to kill him, do you?” he said softly. “I give him his life, as a wedding present to you. But you’ll have to promise to marry me.”

  She smiled then, a pale, lost smile. And her eyes fluttered closed, and she slumped to the floor in a gentle, graceful slide.

  “Wouldn’t have thought a proposal would make her faint,” Tony drawled, but Nicholas was already by her side, pulling her limp body into his arms.

  “She didn’t faint, damn it,” he said grimly. “She’s taken the poison herself.”

  Her eyes opened for a moment, and she managed a weak smile. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t think you’d get here in time.”

  He pulled her body against him, howling in rage. “Get a doctor, damn it!” he thundered. “She’s dying!”

  Ellen appeared in the doorway, her face white with shock. “What’s happened? Gilly…?” The words were cut off as Malviver leaped for her, a burly arm around her white throat. Nicholas couldn’t, wouldn’t move from his spot on the floor where he cradled Ghislaine’s limp body.

  “And now, messieurs, I think I will choose this moment to depart,” Malviver said in a rasping voice. “This one can serve as a hostage. I will release her in Paris, and perhaps she’ll find her own way back to England. Assuming we aren’t at war by then.”

  “Let her go, you bastard,” Tony said, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.

  Ellen’s eyes were wide with shock as she stood pressed against the Frenchman. “Tony?” she whispered beseechingly.

  It was over so quickly. With an inhuman roar the indolent, Honorable Sir Antony Wilton-Greening leaped for Malviver, ripping him away from Ellen. She fell against the door, watching with a bloodthirsty fascination as Tony grappled with Malviver, rolling on the floor, one evil-looking knife between the two of them.

  And then Tony rose, his huge height towering over Malviver’s limp body. He looked down at the man, and spat, then held out his arms to Ellen.

  She ran to him, clinging tightly for a moment, then turned to look at Nicholas.

  He was still kneeling on the floor, uncaring of Malviver’s fate, and his hands were tight on Ghislaine’s shoulders. “Don’t you dare die, Ghislaine!” he shouted. “You can’t die. You can’t leave me. I love you, damn it. If you die, I’ll kill you. For God’s sake, don’t die!”

  Ghislaine was so cold, so weary. It seemed as if once more she’d find that dark, safe place, deep inside, where no one could reach her. That empty place that had once held her hopes, her dreams, her innocence. Her heart.

  But it was no longer empty. It was full to overflowing, bursting with love and hope and a thousand possibilities. There was no place to escape from the insistent voice that was threatening, cajoling, dragging her back. I love you, the voice said, a voice that had never said those words before. Come back to me.

  And she had no choice.

  She opened her eyes, very carefully. Her eyelids ached. Every part of her body ached. She remembered being sick, horribly sick, for endless hours, worse even than seasickness. She remembered the hands, holding her, walking her up and down, never letting her rest. She remembered the voice.

  There was a dim gray light coming in the window, but whether it was dawn or dusk she had no idea. She lay on a bed, and the cover was heavy on her body, painfully so. She turned her head, to see Nicholas, a stubble of beard on his beautiful, dissolute face, his hair long and tangled. Somehow it seemed more streaked with gray than when she’d first encountered him. Had she done that to him?

  He looked exhausted. She wanted to touch him. Using all her strength she lifted her hand to brash it lightly against his rough cheek. His eyes flew open, and he was staring at her in wonder.

  “So you decided to live after all,” he said, his voice not much more than a croak, ruining the cynical effect of his words.

  Her mouth felt dry, horrible; her head pounded; and her skin hurt. She found she could smile. “I believe you told me you’d kill me if I didn’t,” she whispered.

  He cursed then, pulling her into his arms, holding her tightly, so tightly that she could feel the trembling in his body, a trembling that matched her own. “And so I would. You’ll marry me as well.”

  She lay very still in his arms. “I don’t blame you anymore, Nicholas,” she said. “I no longer have any need for revenge.”

  “But I do. I’m going to marry you, woman, and keep you with me for the rest of your life. I’ll make your life a living hell, chained to the last of the mad Blackthornes. If that’s not revenge I don’t know what is.”

  She found she could smile against the wrinkled whiteness of his shirt. “Didn’t you tell me something else last night?”

  “I told you a great many things last night, most of which you wouldn’t have heard. If you’re by any chance referring to what I said to you before you passed out from the poison, that was two days ago.”

  She pushed away from him. “Two days? I’ve been sick that long?”

  “You’ve been hovering between life and death, damn it. It’s about time you made up your mind.”

  “What about Malviver? Are we safe here?” she asked anxiously.

  “Your friend Malviver is no longer among the living.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, searching his face for the bleakness she expected to see. Instead he looked both exhausted and curiously Joyous. “Did you kill him?”

  “You seem troubled by his demise, considering you were doing your best to poison him,” he pointed out.

  “But I didn’t want you to kill him,” she said. “You have too much blood on your hands.”

  “As a matter of fact, Tony did the honors. Your friend Malviver made the very dire mistake of thinking he could use Ellen as a hostage. It was very tidy. I’m quite respectful of Sir Antony’s talent. I didn’t know he had it in him.”

  “But how will we get out of France?”

  “As fast as we can. Do you think you’re up to riding in a carriage?”

  “Oh, God,” she moaned. “It seems I’ve spent half my life in a carriage.”

  “Don’t worry, my love. Once we return to England we can stay put. Tony’s promised to speak for me, and he’s such a respectable gentleman I have no doubt my name will be cleared. At least in the matter of the late Mr. Hargrove. If you wish, we can live a comfortable enough life.” He seemed almost diffident, and she knew the sudden, shocking truth. The dear man was actually afraid that she wouldn’t want him.

  She reached up and stroked his stubbled skin. “What else did you say when I collapsed?” she whispered. “Besides threatening to beat me?”

  Her fierce demon lover actually looked abashed. “It doesn’t bear repeating.”

  “It does if you expect me to marry you. I love you too much to let you throw your life away on me.”

  “My life isn’t worth anything.”

  “It is to me.”

  He stared at her in mute frustration. “All right, I love you, damn it,” he snapped. “Does that satisfy you?”

  She considered it. “It’s a start. But you’ll definitely need more practice. You haven’t learned the proper intonation. You need—” He silenced her, efficiently and swiftly, his mouth covering hers.

  When he lifted his head they were both breathless. “I love you,” he said again, this time a little more softly.

  She smiled up at him. “Much better,” she whispered. “I accept.”

  Epilogue

  The smell of fresh wood mixed with the rich scent of herbal tea. Ghislaine sat at the well-scrubbed table and inhaled the aroma, looking about her with simple pleasure. Charbon lay at her feet, sleeping soundly.

  It was autumn in Scotland, and the ruined hunting lodge of the mad Blackthornes was slowly being put in good heart once more. She’d insisted on the kitchen first. Nicholas had held out for the bedroom, but she
’d been firm. They could sleep and make love anywhere, and had proven that to their own mutual satisfaction. Cooking was more of a challenge.

  The new roof was complete, the west wing almost closed in, and if the laborers thought it odd that Blackthorne worked side by side with them in the brisk autumn air, they ascribed it to the oddities of the gentry. They were even more taken aback when Tony and Ellen visited for a week in August, and the honorable Sir Antony Wilton-Greening had carted lumber and bricks, but Ghislaine decided it was all for the best. She’d suffered through some of the worst the revolution in France had to offer. She could manage to glean the best too, and she was determined to be very democratic. Nicholas was too self-absorbed to care one way or the other.

  She spooned honey into her tea and thought about the upcoming winter. The house would be snug by then. She would cook, and Nicholas would continue with his plans to make the place self-sufficient. Sheep, he’d decided, and longhaired cattle, and his enthusiasm was boyish and heartbreakingly wonderful.

  “What are you doing, ma mie?”

  She looked up. He stood in the doorway, his rough shirt open to the waist, his shoulders broader from the hard labor, his skin tanned by the weather. She loved him so much, from the top of his gray-streaked black hair to his work-roughened hands that were so deftly erotic.

  “Having tea.”

  He strolled into the room, sniffing. “Looks lethal to me,” he murmured, picking up her cup. “You haven’t decided to poison anyone, have you?”

  “Not at the moment,” she replied in a tranquil voice. “Just stay on my good side.”

  “I wouldn’t think of doing otherwise. I just wondered what you were doing, drinking tea instead of your beloved coffee? You can’t be turning English on me?”

  “Not likely.”

  “And I don’t believe I’ve seen you sitting still in the middle of the day before,” he added, a frown creasing his face. “Are you feeling all right? I’ve always said you have the weakest stomach imaginable.”

  “I’m feeling fine. I have something to tell you.”