Sweet as the Devil (36 page)

Stopping before the two guards who viewed him with suspicion, he murmured with unctuous servility, “A gift for the lady—by order of your master.” Glancing up, he smiled slyly. “His Excellency wishes to especially please his lady this evening.”

“We know nothing of a gift,” one guard gruffly retorted, scowling.

“Here, see for yourself. It’s a most magnificent gift.” The Albanian advanced closer and offered up the box with a graceful gesture. “His Excellency has engraved the pretty toy with the words of a devoted lover.” He began lifting the lid on the coffer.

Intrigued by the sexual innuendo in the remark, both guards leaned in more closely to examine the contents.

Hajdu dropped the box, and naked steel flashed from under his robes. Two long-bladed yataghans drove upward expertly and so fast they were propelled by instinct alone. The swift, slashing steel sliced both men’s throats clean through to the spinal column.

The guards died with blank surprise on their faces.

Jamie and his men rushed in, the two guards were carried away, and with a glance at his watch, Jamie murmured, “Andor should be out now.” He spoke over his shoulder to the men behind. “Make sure Katia knows when she’s taken away.” Then with a glance up and down the hallway, Jamie gave a nod to Douglas and the Albanian at his side. “Ready?” Or more to the point,
At last
.

His slender fingers closed on the door latch and he quietly opened the door.

The foyer was empty. As expected.

Katia had said Von Welden insisted on privacy.

But one never knew when the game rules might change, and Jamie crossed the small space with soft-footed caution. The subdued resonance of conversation was audible as they reached a short corridor, and he moved down the carpeted hall toward the sound. Arriving noiselessly, the men paused outside a door that separated them from the muted voices and automatically checked their weapons.

Jamie stood utterly still for a moment, resisting with steely resolve the exhaustion that suddenly threatened to swamp him. The moment passed. Once again under control, he opened the door into a well-appointed, candlelit dining room with two occupants.

Von Welden was facing the door, and he half rose from his chair when Jamie walked in only to sit back down and turn ashen when he saw the Albanian.

“No need to get up,” Jamie said in a soft, almost disinterested tone. Without turning, he said to the men who’d appeared on the threshold behind him, “Take away the lady, although I warn you, my dear, if you scream, we’ll kill you.”

“You’re mad, Blackwood. You won’t get away with this,” Von Welden threatened, flicking a glance at Katia as she was being dragged from her chair by two of Jamie’s troopers.

“Of course I will.”

“I have men everywhere,” the minister of police said with unassailable arrogance, his nerve restored after the initial shock. “And believe me I’ll take great pleasure in seeing you die.”

“Perhaps not,” Jamie said briefly. “You
had
men everywhere. How many were there, Douglas?” Jamie asked without taking his gaze from Von Welden.

“Eighteen.”

“Did we miss any?” Jamie lightly inquired.

Von Welden blanched again, his skin chalky against the black of his military tunic.

“Ah—apparently not,” Jamie murmured. “Now then, you presumably know why we’re here,” he said, his voice unhurried, his face calm. “You shouldn’t have killed Rupert. He was like a brother to me. There was no need to murder the young boy when he had his whole life ahead of him.” Jamie drew in a small breath and his expression changed, a cold-blooded look entering his eyes. “So I am come to deal out justice, retribution, and I’m afraid,” he gently added, “some personal vengeance.”

“Wait,” Von Welden quickly said, his eyes wild with fear. “Surely we can come to some agreement.” His voice was shaking, his frightened glance flicking back and forth between Jamie and the Albanian, who stood motionless and expressionless at Jamie’s side. “I have money, land, power. The emperor and I are on friendly, friendly terms.” He was half-breathless with fear, his words tumbling over themselves in his panic. “You have only to name your price, Blackwood. Anything, anything at all!” His voice had risen at the end, his panic escalating at the total indifference of his audience.

“Unfortunately,” Jamie said, his unforgiving stare resting on Von Welden, “I promised myself I’d send you to hell.” He caught his breath as a spasm of pain tore through his gut and a moment of helplessness threatened to topple him. But he marshaled his strength by will alone and said with a serenity won at grievous cost, “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Take off his clothes.”

“No, no! God, please no!”
Von Welden shrieked. He’d hired the Albanian himself on more than one occasion—and watched. “Please, I beg of you! I’ll give you everything I own!” he screamed. “I’ll sign everything I have over to you, I swear! Bring me some paper and pen! Listen to me!
God in heaven, please!
”

“Muffle him.” A whisper of sound, taut and strained.

Jamie’s men cast a quick glance at their leader, saw his bloodless face, and leaped to the task.

“We dinna have to do this, Jamie,” Douglas quietly said as the men manhandled Von Welden from his chair. “It doesna matter how he dies so long as he dies.”

“No.” The snarl from deep in Jamie’s throat was more animal than human, a pure bestial rage. Focused solely on seeing this through so far as was humanly possible and running with sweat, Jamie held himself upright by sheer force of will. “Goddamn it, do it.”

But by the time Von Welden was strapped to the table, his mouth stuffed with an embroidered table napkin, his splayed body the open palette for the Albanian’s art form, Jamie was shivering violently. As Hajdu made the first sweeping cut up Von Welden’s inner thigh so he could peel the skin from his leg in one piece, Jamie’s mind slipped briefly from its shackles and he swayed unsteadily. Catching himself, he braced his feet like a sailor on a stormtossed vessel and dragged himself erect.

Willing to discharge his duty up to a point—one that didn’t include watching his pigheaded commander die—Douglas grabbed Jamie, shoved him into a chair, jammed his face up to Jamie’s, nose to nose, and growled, “Open your eyes, damn it, if ye can.”

The struggle was enough to put fear in everyone’s heart.

Jamie finally managed to open his eyes the merest slits, although his face was sweat sheened, his hands twitching, and he was gasping for air.

“There’s no goddamn point in having Von Welden die if ye die with him,” Douglas said flatly. “I’m finishing this. Stop me if ye have the strength.”

His breathing was very fast, and dark head bent, Jamie put his hands on the chair arms and tried to rise.

“It’s over now, leave it,” Douglas said, curtly.

“It’s not over.” Jamie’s voice was even and low. He’d managed to manhandle himself steady for a moment, his whole consciousness reduced to a single focus, a single thought—Von Welden’s splayed body in the narrow lens of his vision. His eyes blazing, driven by pride and temper, he commanded his body one last time and hauled himself to his feet. But dogged will alone no longer sufficed to force his body to move, and he gasped and doubled over as great waves of cramping pain nearly brought him down.

Breathing hard himself, Douglas said grimly, “You damned fool. Enough,” and walked straight for Von Welden.

Jamie’s head came up as though struck, and with stark fury in his eyes, he watched Douglas stride to the table where Von Welden had fainted away and with one powerful stroke of his saber sever the head from the body. Jerking his blade out of the table, Douglas grabbed the flamboyant, overlong hair, swung the cleaved head up, and flung it at Jamie’s feet. “He’s in hell now. Are ye satisfied?”

“Damn you,” Jamie said so faintly only those closest to him heard.

Then his eyes misted over, nausea rose in his throat, and he collapsed, his body wasted, his intellect exhausted, his tenacious strength of will played out.

T
HE TELEGRAM REACHED Blackwood Glen a week later.

No one in Vienna had had time to consider anything more than seeing Jamie back to Dalmia where he’d said he wished to die. He’d been conscious only once briefly when they’d carried him into his palazzo—perhaps the familiar scent roused him—and he’d whispered, “Let Sofia know she’s safe.”

A servant had seen to the message.

No one else had time for such mundane matters with Jamie battling for his life.

Sofia’s telegram had merely stated, uncoded and plain,
Von Welden dead. Safe to go home.
She asked Robbie afterward whether he knew anything more, and most important, whether Jamie had recovered from his gunshot wounds.

“As far as I know,” Robbie evasively replied, “he’s home in Dalmia.” If Jamie had wished her to know more, he would have had the information relayed to her. His message from Douglas had been more explicit; Jamie was barely alive.

Two days later, Sofia was home in London.

She should have been more cheerful, more satisfied and content. Her ordeal was over, she was once again in the city she loved, and she could plunge wholeheartedly into her busy career and convivial social life. As for the uncommunicative Jamie Blackwood, she’d always known that their amorous liaison was of the most transient nature. Why had she expected anything more from him? It was over. And that was that.

Which was exactly what she said her first day back when Rosalind asked her the obvious question. “Jamie was quite lovely in every way,” Sofia urbanely said, smiling at her friend as they sat in a shaded pavilion in the rose garden at Groveland House. “I enjoyed myself immensely. But all good things must come to an end,” she airily noted. “Especially with men like Jamie, who are always on some intrepid mission.” She smiled. “Although he heroically threw himself in the way of a bullet meant for me before he left.”

“My goodness!” Rosalind exclaimed. “Was he badly hurt?”

“He was in a deal of pain at first, but he said he healed quickly. He left soon after so I’m not entirely sure. But I assume he’s fine. He’s back in Dalmia.”

Sofia’s replies were a trifle brittle, Rosalind thought, or perhaps only less dégagé than usual. “Do you miss him?” Her gaze on Sofia, she was startled to see a blush color her cheeks. “Or are you still tired from your adventure?” she tactfully added, not wishing to embarrass her friend.

“To be perfectly honest—both,” Sofia replied, surprising herself with her answer; she didn’t as a rule miss men. Shrugging away the anomaly, she sensibly added, “He’s an exceedingly charming man. Why wouldn’t I miss him?”

“You’ve known any number of charming men and never given them another thought once they were gone.” Rosalind’s gaze was amused.

Sofia sighed. “Perhaps I’m a little infatuated with the man. He’s quite extraordinary.” Another sigh, a grimace, and the shocking words, “Not that it’ll do any good if I’m infatuated or not. He’s clearly moved on.”

The women had been friends a long time; Rosalind had never seen Sofia sigh like some smitten young maid. “Could it be you’ve finally been struck by cupid’s arrow?” she gently observed.

Sofia snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who falls in love in a few days?” She’d had time in the ensuing interval to come to her senses apropos the distinctions between love and sex.

Rosalind leaned back against her cushioned chair, her smile amiable. “I was enamored of Fitz from the first.”

“If only I was a wild-eyed romantic like you,” Sofia dulcetly said.

“Maybe you’ve become one.”

“I
most
certainly have not. I am a rational female, no offense, darling,” she added with a grin. “Now pass that cake plate. I do so adore coconut and pineapple together. And hand over the champagne bottle, too.” Leaning over, she plucked the two items from Rosalind’s hands. “Now then, my dear, could life be any better? I’m back in London having champagne with my best friend, the scent of roses is in the air, and all’s right with the world.”

“You should go and visit him.”

Sofia sloshed champagne over the edge of her glass. “Are you mad?” she said, setting the bottle down. “Can you imagine what he’d say if some woman came uninvited to his house? Especially all the way from England?”

“He might say,
How nice to see you. Come in
.”

“Or he might say,
What the hell do you want?
” Sofia retorted.

“And you who prides herself on her nerve,” Rosalind mockingly observed.

“Be serious.” Sofia directed a hard, pointed look at her friend. “It’s all well and good to be nervy in fashionable circles where everyone expects flirtatious repartee and a fleeting night of pleasure is nothing out of the ordinary. But it’s something else entirely to hie oneself all the way across Europe for a romp in the hay.”

“I’m just saying you should think about it.”