In Bed With the Duke Page 22

  Emma stashed her bag under the table, cast a long glance at the bandage around Brimley’s finger—she hated leaving it in such an unfinished state—and proceeded upstairs to grab a book at random and take her place in the library.

  Just in time—Henrique opened the front door and intoned, “Please come in, Mr. de Guignard.”

  Jean-Pierre came in, his boots stomping fiercely on the marble floor. “Where is she? Where’s Miss Chegwidden?”

  Emma watched out of the corner of her eye as he stormed past, hat pulled low, black cape fluttering behind. He didn’t look like the devil’s spawn.

  “She’s in the library, sir, and if you will allow me to announce you—”

  She heard his cloak crack as he whirled around, and she looked up with simulated surprise.

  Jean-Pierre stood in the doorway, examining her up and down, and Cook was right—his eyes were pale, with dark pupils in the center that looked like holes. “Miss Chegwidden?” He didn’t remove his hat.

  “Yes, but I’m not acquainted with you, sir,” she said.

  “I’m Jean-Pierre de Guignard.”

  “Prince Sandre’s cousin?”

  “I’m flattered that you’ve heard of me.” He couldn’t have made his sarcasm and contempt clearer. “What are you doing?”

  She turned the book over and glanced at the spine—she was holding something called When the World Was Young: A History of the Chosen Ones—then looked at him as if concerned about his powers of observation. “I’m . . . reading?”

  “I was told you were taking care of someone who was hurt in this household.”

  So Brimley’s report was right. “I did. I am. Our butler, Mr. Brimley, was injured this morning. At this moment, he requires none of my services.” She put down the book, rose, and paced toward him.

  He smelled of absinthe. He’d been drinking, and in her experience, drink made a man unstable and explosive.

  She kept her tone firm. She maintained eye contact. She did not retreat. “Why this cross-examination, Mr. de Guignard? What is the problem?”

  “Show me this injury you stayed home to tend.”

  “As you wish. This way.”

  Henrique moved into place, and led them down the stairs and into the kitchen at a pace so solemn Emma hid a grin and Jean-Pierre snarled, “Hurry up!”

  “There’s no rush,” she told him. “I don’t believe Mr. Brimley will be going anywhere soon. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  The kitchen, when they entered it, smelled, sounded, and looked exactly as the kitchen of a château should look—pots bubbling on the stove, Cook yelling at her underlings, supper well in hand.

  But in the trash can, Emma was glad to see, bloody rags peeked up, and the scullery maid still hadn’t removed the stains from the table.

  Brimley sat exactly where Emma had left him, drinking a cup of tea. He looked up inquiringly when they walked in. “Sir!” He tried to rise, then sank back down. “Pardon my dishevelment. I never expect to receive guests in the kitchen.” He glared balefully at Henrique as if he were at fault.

  Henrique bowed. “I apologize, Mr. Brimley. Mr. de Guignard insisted he see you at once.”

  “I was told you were injured.” Jean- Pierre’s eyes glowed with frustration.

  “I’m afraid in a misguided attempt to show Cook the correct way to cut up a chicken, I removed my little finger with the meat cleaver.” Brimley held up his bandaged hand.

  Jean-Pierre walked close. “Your finger looks fine to me.”

  “That’s because I have hopes that it will reattach. If you insist, I can unwrap it. . . .” Emma started to move toward the table.

  “Never mind. I can do it myself.” Reaching out, Jean-Pierre ripped the bandage away.

  Blood spurted.

  Cook screamed.

  Two squeamish scullery maids fainted.

  With the first moan Emma had heard, Brimley doubled up in pain.

  “Mr. de Guignard!” Emma ran to Brimley, pulled rags out of her bag, and attempted to stem the flood. “Have you lost your mind? What have you done?”

  Jean-Pierre examined Brimley’s finger, then tossed it back on the table. “It’s true then. Pardon me, Miss Chegwidden, for doubting you. And you, Mr. Brimley”—he bowed slightly—“my apologies for the pain caused. I was just doing my job.”

  When he had walked out, Brimley said faintly, “As was I.”

  “I would say you did your job above and beyond the call of duty,” Emma told him; then to Cook, she said, “Get me some strong young men. We need to put Mr. Brimley to bed.”

  To her surprise, the strong young men immediately appeared—gardeners, for the most part. Maids and footmen trickled in. Henrique and Elixabete took their places among the crowd. By the time Emma had the bleeding under control, the kitchen was as full as it had been when she had first entered. She exchanged a bewildered glance with Brimley, then turned to face them.

  “If you, either of you, ever need anything, you ask any Moricadian,” Cook said, her voice hoarse with sincerity. “We will do anything for you. It will be our honor to save your lives as you have saved our hero, and our country.”

  And as one, the maids curtsied and the men bowed to Brimley and to Emma, heartfelt tributes that left Emma blinking back tears.

  For the first time since she had left England, she was at home.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Although Brimley stoically objected, he was swiftly taken to his room on the servants’ level and placed on his bed. Emma sewed his finger into place, bandaged it again, gave him a sleeping powder, and told Henrique to make sure someone was with him at all times.

  “We will,” Henrique said, and for the second time she heard the phrase, “He’s one of ours now.”

  “Good.” It had taken the sacrifice of a finger, but Mr. Brimley had achieved what he sought—his place as integral head of the Fanchere servants.

  And she . . . she was no longer a pariah and the prince’s whore. She had earned her place of respect in Moricadia.

  She headed downstairs to make sure Jean-Pierre de Guignard was out of the house, because if he wasn’t, she was going to kick him out herself. Or just kick him, she didn’t know which.

  But as she descended to the main level, she heard male voices from the library, a deep rumbling that sounded as if Jean-Pierre was speaking with . . .

  But no. That was impossible. Because Michael was asleep in the dowager house, used up and weak with fever, not sitting in the study chatting.

  Stepping carefully, making no sound, she sneaked over to the door and peered in.

  Jean-Pierre sat in a chair opposite a casually dressed and laughing Michael Durant, seated on a long couch.

  “Do you want to see them again?” Michael was saying. He slipped first one shoulder free of his shirt, then the other. “See? No bullet wounds.”

  Jean-Pierre shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it.

  So did Emma. Because she’d seen Michael over and over for the past six days, and he definitely had a nasty red divot between his neck and his shoulder joint. Where had it gone?

  “Are there any other parts of me you want to see?” Michael grinned nastily at Jean-Pierre, doing a good imitation of an angry and insulted lord. And maybe it wasn’t an imitation. “You want to see a rib or a thigh? I know—let me drop my pants and show you my buttocks.”

  “No. That won’t be necessary.” Jean- Pierre stood. “I’ll leave you now. Enjoy your evening.”

  “I intend to.”

  With not nearly the confidence and fury with which he had entered the house, Jean-Pierre walked past Emma. He bowed, started to speak, then bowed again. Still he didn’t move.

  “Yes?” she asked frostily.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go kill a child.” A footman, not Henrique this time, opened the door. Jean-Pierre strode out, mounted his waiting horse, and rode away.

  She stared, wondering if the madness she’d glimpsed in him was caused
by more than drink.

  Then a faint call from the study made her forget all about Jean-Pierre de Guignard.

  “Emma?” Michael’s voice was faint.

  She hurried in. “How did you do that? Where’s your wound?” she demanded fiercely, and, “What are you doing up? And dressed?”

  Michael smiled up at her. “Rubio is a genius with wax, clay, powder, and color. He makes my face into a skeleton, and he made my bullet hole disappear. And I may be dressed, but I’m not up.” The color slid from his face, and he slithered sideways on the couch to lie prone.

  “Blast you, Michael.” She had forgotten her lady-like language. She forgot she had sworn to keep him at a distance and called him by his Christian name. She forgot everything that was right and proper around Michael Durant . . . but she didn’t forget how angry she was at him. It was hard to forget when she knew he’d been using her for a trollop, and laughing all the while.

  Still she put her hand on his forehead and was thankful to realize it was cool and unfevered.

  “Is he all right?” Rubio stood in the doorway.

  “So far.” She bit off the words in irritation. “Why did you let him do this?”

  “He heard Elixabete tell you Jean- Pierre was here hunting for the Reaper. He decided he needed to put in an appearance to calm Jean- Pierre’s suspicions. Do you think I can stop Durant when he’s resolved to do something?” Rubio summoned the half dozen broad-shouldered young men who had transported Brimley up to his bed. They now lifted Michael and carried him out of the study, out of the house, and down to the dowager house. When they placed him on the bed, he was trembling with exhaustion, and by the time Rubio was finished removing the wax from his wound and Emma had rebandaged it, lines of pain bracketed his mouth. She gave him a glass of willow bark soaked in water, and expected him to go right to sleep.

  But when she would have walked away, he caught her hand. “You’re angry with me for being the Reaper. You must forgive me for my deception of you. I couldn’t tell you the truth.”

  She didn’t care how sick he was; she refused to allow him his pretense of innocence. “You couldn’t tell me that you were the Reaper. I understand that. But after that first night when I hid you in my bed, you didn’t have to return to me. You didn’t have to show me the meaning of romance.”

  “I didn’t mean to take it so far.” He tried to look boyishly mischievous, but he was long and lean beneath the sheet. His shoulders were bare and muscled.

  And she remembered far too well the power of his body as it moved on hers. “You are a cad and a despoiler, and I’m embarrassed I was fool enough to fling myself at your head.”

  “You’re mad about that bit of fun in the palace, are you?”

  “You ass.” She yanked her hand away from his. Was that all he thought she was mad about? Was he really so insensitive?

  “I might have enjoyed fooling you a little too much,” he acknowledged.

  She stormed toward the door.

  “No, Emma.” He struggled to escape the bed and come after her. “Listen.” He thrashed around.

  She heard something hit the floor, water splash, glass break. Turning back, she realized he had fainted.

  She liked him better this way.

  Rubio came running, and with a grimace of disgust, he said, “He’s knocked his recovery back a week.”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone needs to ride,” he said again.

  “Yes.” Because no matter how angry she was with Michael, the Reaper had advanced the Moricadian cause. Emma had a responsibility to Elixabete, to Henrique, to Tia, and to Cook—a responsibility to continue his work. They had sworn to serve her, and she was now bound to them. “Prepare a costume. I ride tonight.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The costume was too big. The saddle was too big. The horse was too big. All Rubio’s assurances that Old Nelson was a broad-backed, gentle gelding whose main desire was to carry his rider didn’t help when Emma faced riding astride for the first time in her life, not that she had ridden that often. She cantered out of the cave beneath the dowager house—wine cellar and stable in one—and onto a path that wound through the darkened woods.

  Rubio stood in the doorway. “Give Old Nelson his head,” he shouted. “You’ll be fine.”

  Rubio was the genius behind the Reaper’s costume and makeup. To fit her into the clothes, he had cinched up the trousers, stitched up the sleeves, found her a pair of white leather gloves, and made a mask—and he’d done it in an afternoon. He had painted her face with such skill, she had gasped at the stranger in the mirror, and he’d hoisted her onto the horse while keeping up a patter of advice and praise.

  But where was he now?

  Back in the stable, making his slow and painful way up into the house.

  Meanwhile, she was alone. Branches slapped her. In the woods, wild animals cawed and howled and watched. She couldn’t see anything but starlight through the trees. For all she knew, Old Nelson might be carrying her to face off with another wolf. Who would rescue her with Michael upstairs suffering a recurrence of his fever? And . . . and—Oh.

  She broke off her fretful litany.

  Old Nelson slipped out of the woods and onto a road.

  She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know where the road would go. But Old Nelson seemed to. He trotted, bouncing her up and down until her teeth rattled. Then his gait smoothed out, and he was running, running through the moonlight.

  She clutched his reins and his mane, terrified she would fall the long, long way to the ground. She closed her eyes, hung on to the saddle with her butt cheeks. His hooves struck the road in a soothing rhythm.

  And still she was in the saddle, while cool night air rushed past her.

  Taking a breath, she opened her eyes.

  The moonlit landscape spread before her, forest on one side, cliff on the other.

  She shut her eyes again. Opened them again.

  The road was a pale ribbon ahead. A billion stars illuminated the velvet sky. The road curved and turned into the depths of the forest, and as they passed a meadow, she saw a deer lift its head and stare, saw an owl swoop out of the trees and soar on midnight’s breeze.

  She passed a carriage and waved, and laughed at the terrified faces pressed to the window, then leaned into Old Nelson’s neck, urging him on. Because it was beautiful, and she was alone with the horse and the night and the wild that permeated her soul. . . .

  When she finally returned to the stable near dawn, she told Rubio she was late because she got lost.

  Old Nelson had always known the way home, but in a way, she was telling the truth.

  For the first time in her life, she had been lost in freedom.

  “She rode out as the Reaper?” Michael held Rubio’s collar and stared into his eyes, and wished Rubio had both arms.

  “Three times in the past four days,” Rubio said with pride. “With no problems at all.”

  Because as it was, Michael couldn’t pound him to a pulp. And that was what he wanted to do. Pound Rubio.

  He’d woken this morning with the strong sense that something was wrong. Emma hadn’t come to him in the night to see if he was still breathing. When he’d been really sick, her touch had been the only thing that soothed him. Then he realized she hadn’t come on any of the recent nights, and when she did come, it was early in the morning, and she had smelled like . . . like leather, like horse, like . . . the Reaper.

  Why it all clicked in his brain now, he didn’t know. Maybe because he felt well enough to discover the truth. Maybe because something about her pink cheeks and bright jewel-toned eyes had put him on alert.

  So he had thrown on trousers and a shirt, his scarf and a cloak, and come down to the stables to find Rubio awaiting her return.

  “Someone had to ride as the Reaper while you were down. The Moricadians were getting anxious and Jean-Pierre was getting suspicious.” Rubio spoke with great conviction.

  “She could get hurt.”


  “No.” Rubio scoffed. “You know Old Nelson is a sensible horse.”

  As if that were going to calm Michael’s ire.

  “She could get killed. The prince’s guard is on the hunt!”

  “She hasn’t had a lick of trouble, and because of her, there have been Reaper sightings. The tourists are fleeing Moricadia, and rumor says Prince Sandre is going mad with fury.” Rubio jiggled Michael’s hands. “You want to let go of my collar now?”

  Stunned and appalled, Michael loosened his grip, walked to the door of the stable, and looked out at the dim path winding its way through the forest and, he knew, onto the road that ran past châteaux and the palace on its way to Tonagra.

  He wanted to pound Rubio for encouraging her with this madness almost as much as he wanted to chase after Emma. Chase after her and teach her that a woman’s proper place was in the home, because she didn’t seem to realize she wasn’t supposed to put herself into danger and make him worry like a parent with a truant child.

  But he couldn’t chase her—Old Nelson was his, and the only horse to which he had access.

  Rubio came to stand at his side. “She’s returned every time before dawn, looking all happy. That Emma, she’s a smart one.”

  “It’s getting light.” Michael turned on Rubio. “So where is she now?”

  “Ah. Dunno. Well.” Rubio scratched his stubbly cheek. “As long as you’re here and feeling as well as you are, I suppose I don’t need to stay to help Miss Chegwidden groom Old Nelson and change out of her costume—”

  Michael bared his teeth.

  Rubio started backing away. “—so I guess I’d better go see what Cook has for your breakfast. You know you’re her favorite.”

  “Where’s Emma?” Michael shouted after Rubio’s limping, fleeing figure.

  “Breakfast!” Rubio shouted back. “Need to keep up your strength! Her, too!”

  Devil take him! Devil take them all! Michael paced into the stable, then out.

  He had plotted his revenge on Rickie, and when he hanged him, he’d exacted retribution for countless other lives lost.