“Gor’, mistress,” he whispered hoarsely. Eyes wide, he held out his hand.
Blood glistened on his fingertips.
Wilson blanched as Arabella pushed Ned aside and climbed onto the seat. She fumbled with Lucien’s great- coat, tugging at the heavy material. Ned hurried to assist her, and between them, they removed it and the tight-fit- ting coat beneath.
From the snug fit of his breeches to the intricate folds of his cravat, Lucien Devereaux looked every inch the
Duke of Wexford. Only the rip in his shirt and the blood- stain around it marred the perfection.
Ned shook his head, disgust wrinkling his nose. “Ne’er knew a duke to bleed so. Must not eat much bread pud- din’.’ ”
From the door, Wilson watched as Arabella struggled to undo the mother-of-pearl buttons on the waistcoat, his face pale with anxiety. “If’n he dies, they’ll hang me.”
“He will not die,” Arabella said sharply. “I’ve waited ten years to tell this pestilent cad what I think of him and I’ll not wait longer.”
Wilson managed a weak chuckle. “Aye, that’s the way to talk him into livin’, missus. Ye jus’—” He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What’s that?”
Above the sound of the wind came the baying of dogs on the hunt. The howling echoed across the mist-shrouded moor and dissipated into the black night.
Wilson turned a white face to Arabella. “Constable Robbins’s dogs.”
Not now. Please, God, not now
. She had been so care- ful, so cautious that no one learn the reason for her late- night jaunts. Heaven help them all if she was discovered.
Unaware of the tension, Ned rubbed his chin where a small layer of red fuzz had lately begun to grow. “He’s probably out lookin’ fer smugglers. I heard tell he’s made a vow to catch ’em all afore winter.”
Wilson swallowed noisily. “Perhaps we should be get- tin’ under way, missus.”
The dogs bayed again, the sound bone-chilling and ominous. Arabella turned back to Lucien. “To Rosemont, Wilson. And quickly.”
She heard him barking orders to the hapless Ned. The stable hand scurried off, Wilson hard on his heels, and
within seconds the coach was careening down the road at breakneck speed.
The lantern swayed, the light flickering across Lu- cien’s pale face. Arabella set to work loosening his cra- vat, but the stubborn knot held. Frustrated, she shoved it to one side and pulled his shirt free, ripping it open when it resisted her efforts. She faltered at the expanse of naked skin.
He was more muscular than she remembered. Not that he’d ever been anything other than fit and beautiful. But the Lucien Devereaux she had known had been a self- indulgent viscount kicking his heels in the country while waiting for the season to begin.
Wildly handsome, he had been a shameless hedonist and a Corinthian of the highest sort, excelling in every sport from fencing to riding. Still, he hadn’t possessed the raw strength and power evinced by the man bared before her.
She used the edge of his torn shirt to wipe the blood from his shoulder so she could see the wound. The tree branch had inflicted more damage than a bump on the head. A long, jagged gash followed the curve of his shoul- der across sinew and muscle. Though it bled steadily, it didn’t appear to be very deep. Relieved he was not mor- tally wounded, she looked about for something to serve as a bandage, but found nothing.
“Wonderful,” she muttered. “I suppose I shall have to use my new petticoat. I should have left you in the road, Lucien Devereaux, and let the mice have you.”
Scowling fiercely, she lifted the edge of her skirt and ripped a long strip free. Then she folded it into a neat square and strapped it into place with the thick muffler, tying the ends as tightly as she dared.
“There. That should hold you until we get to Rose- mont.” Arabella pulled the heavy carriage blanket from beneath the seat and tucked it around him, more for her peace of mind than for his comfort. It was disconcerting to sit in the same carriage with all those rippling muscles and smooth, golden skin only an arm’s length away.
Holding her cloak closer, she sank into the corner of the carriage and fervently prayed that a rabbit would cross the path of Constable Robbins’s well-trained hounds.
A faint smile tugged her mouth at the thought, though it did little to untie the knots in her stomach. She was so close to success. If things continued to progress, every- thing would be taken care of within the next year—her father’s debts, Robert’s doctor bills. She might even have enough left to complete the improvements on Rosemont. All she needed was time. Time and a little luck.
Of course, luck did not seem to be favoring her just now. She stole a glance at Lucien from beneath her lashes. He lay sprawled in the corner, muttering restlessly at each bump and dip. Though she knew it was childish, Arabella only wished he were fully conscious so she could enjoy his discomfort.
The lumbering coach struck a particularly deep rut and Lucien let out a low groan, his hand reaching for his wounded shoulder. Arabella dived across the coach just as his fingers settled about her hastily tied dressing. His brows lowered and he struggled to free himself from the bandage.
Refusing to give way, she held tight, wrapping both of her hands about his. After a moment, he subsided and slipped sideways until his head rested in her lap, his breathing shallow but steady.
Arabella waited until his brow had smoothed before she carefully pulled the blanket back into place. He
looked peaceful, his thick lashes resting on his cheeks, as innocent and guileless as a boy.
But she was not fooled. She knew him too well. Leaning forward, Arabella whispered into his ear, “If you live through this, Lucien Devereaux, I just may kill you myself.”
nm
Chapter 2
L
ucien awoke slowly, adrift in muted sensations. His head lay nestled in a warm, soft cushion while the delectable scent of raspberries sparked visions of lazy
summer days.
Except for the occasional sway and creak of a poorly sprung coach, he could almost believe himself to be ensconced in a wondrously soft bed, suffering from no more than an enthusiastic night of brandy.
He shifted and an icy cold stab dispelled his pleasant fantasy. No night of overindulgence had ever hurt this much. He raised a hand, his fingers instinctively reaching for his shoulder.
“Be careful how you move,” commanded a feminine voice. Husky and low, the faint Yorkshire accent sparked a distant memory. For an instant, Lucien had a clear vision of warm brown eyes and petal-soft lips.
Distracted from his pain, he forced his eyes open. A
10
sweet, heart-shaped face stared down at him, the delicate sable brows lowered.
His heart thudded an extra beat. He knew those eyes, had felt those rosebud lips beneath his, long, long ago. His gaze dropped to the soft, rounded breasts that loomed above him. “Bella.”
Her hand, once lying so trustfully beside his cheek, balled into a fist. “Perhaps Your Grace would find it more expedient to address my face and not my bosom.”
Frost crackled along the prim voice and Lucien winced. Steeling himself, he dragged his gaze to hers and offered an apologetic grin. But he knew there would be no forgiveness; he had sinned against her in ways much worse than a thoughtless comment.
She pointed to the opposite seat.
“Move.”
There was nothing for it but to comply. Lying with his head in her lap was not an advantageous position from which to argue; not to mention the effect her nearness was having on his unsteady senses.
He levered himself upright, faltering against the sea of black spots that swam before his eyes and the pain that laced through his shoulder. “Good God,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “What in hell happened?”
She leaned as far away as possible, unmoved by his agony. “You don’t remember?”
“No.” At least, not anything that made sense. The images of a cliff in the chill night air, the tang of the ocean so strong he could taste it, slipped through his muddled brain. He’d been on his way . . . somewhere.
Lucien rubbed a hand to his temple, wincing when his fingers brushed a knot the size of a walnut. “Did I fall?”
“Your horse reared, and you hit your head on a tree branch.” She stopped as if uncertain how to proceed, then
retreated behind a severe frown. “My groom may have been traveling a bit fast for such a narrow road.”
Her glare implied that he was somehow guilty of the deed himself. Lucien touched his forehead, where the dull ache seemed to grow by the moment. “It hurts like hell.”
“You’ll live. It would take more than an oak to dent that hard head.”
His lips quirked. Somewhere along the way, his Arabella had developed a sarcastic wit. He regarded her with a nar- rowed gaze. She sat as rigid as a board, her hands clasped in her lap, color staining her cheeks, a hint of tiredness mak- ing her eyes appear even darker. With her tousled honey and brown curls and large dark eyes, she appeared younger than he’d remembered. Younger and even more beautiful.
His chest tightened, his amusement fading. Damn the Home Office for sending him to Yorkshire. He’d refused to go when they’d first told him of the assignment. He was needed in London while his sister prepared for her first season, but they’d brushed aside his objections.
Left with no recourse, he had planned to arrive under cover of night, discover what he could, and leave without anyone the wiser. Of course, that was before Arabella’s coachman had seen fit to run him down.
He moved his shoulder and winced at the sparks of pain that shot through it. “Bloody hell. It feels like I’ve been shot.” He caught her gaze and lifted a brow. “You didn’t by chance put a ball in me?”
“If I had shot you, Lucien, you would not be here now.” No, had Arabella shot him, he would be stretched out on the ground, a hole through his forehead while she danced around his lifeless body in wild celebration. He had taught her the rudiments of gunplay when she was fif-
teen, and she’d had an uncanny ability even then.
Lucien placed a hand on the makeshift bandage. Neatly tied, it bound him so tightly he could scarcely breathe. He forced a smile. “I suppose I have you to thank for—”
The coach hit a rut. Thrown back, Lucien’s shoulder slammed against the cracked leather squabs. Spots of color exploded as coal-hot agony lanced down his arm. Gasping for breath, he fell forward, almost tumbling to the floor before Arabella caught him. Her arms encircled him and held him close.
The coach continued to sway while his breathing slowed to a more normal pace. As the pain subsided, Lucien realized his cheek rested against Arabella’s breast, the soft swell made all the more beguiling by its proximity to his mouth. The heady scent of raspberries once again drifted to him and he savored the contact, soaking in her warmth and remembering all that should have been.
“If you cannot sit on your own, I will have the footman come and hold you upright.” As brisk as a mountain spring, her voice yanked him rudely into the present.
Unable to resist the challenge, Lucien lifted his head to look into her eyes. A scant inch of charged air separated their lips. Her eyes darkened; the chocolate depths swirled with mysterious gold flecks. He leaned closer, his gaze drifting to her plump lower lip.
He should have forced himself to walk out of her life yet again. But his body burned with a demanding heat that left him dizzy, as punch-drunk as a youth sampling his first mug of ale. Every sensation seemed amplified—the cadence of her voice, the beckoning curve of her breasts, even the outraged whisper of her starched skirts. A light sheen of moisture glistened on her lips and he would have traded every shilling he possessed to taste her then and there.
God help him, he’d spent his entire life running from this woman. What was he doing, subjecting himself to such unbearable pleasure, such exquisite torture?
Yet he could no more stop reaching for her than he could cease breathing. Without releasing her from his gaze, he brushed a stray chestnut curl from her cheek, his fingers entangling the silken hair. Her eyes widened in alarm, her mouth parting in murmured protest.
Then he kissed her, slanting his mouth hard across hers. Pleasure swirled and built until he was drowning in sensation. It was all he could do to keep from crushing her to him, demanding more and more until she cried out with the need for her own release.
With a muffled protest, Arabella broke free and slapped him, her hand cracking sharply against his cheek, jerking his head sideways.
Agony screamed down his neck and pooled in his shoulder. “Bloody hell!” he ground out, clutching his arm. “Your base passions do not interest me, Your Grace. I am no longer a green girl of sixteen.” Distaste laced each
word with prim poison.
Unwilling to let her see his disappointment, Lucien sneered. “More’s the pity.”
She gasped in outrage, but he ignored her, moving his jaw gingerly. Thank God she hadn’t thought to double up her fist. He caught her wary gaze and forced a cold smile. “I understand you quite well, madam. I shall stay on my side of the carriage.”
And after this evening, out of your life
.
A dangerous light sparkled in her eyes. “I am sure your
wife
will appreciate your noble efforts.”
The words penetrated his brain like shards of glass. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. If Arabella thought Sabrina would have disapproved of his actions, she was wrong. His wife would have laughed long and hard to see him so
overset with passion that he forgot everything but the woman he was with.
But Sabrina was not here. Guilt simmered in his belly, hot and bitter. “My wife died three years ago.”
Arabella’s gaze widened, then she retreated into her corner, unconsciously pulling her skirts back so that they no longer brushed his knee.
He watched her without comment. It was what he expected, what he deserved. Thankfully, he no longer pos- sessed any illusions about who or what he was. Sabrina’s death had taken care of that. He leaned his aching head against the seat and closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Arabella’s voice drifted to him, as soft as an angel’s breath.