In Bed With the Duke Page 28

  He took the first step down the stairs. He wasn’t even to the first gate, yet the familiar scent of dirt and mildew filled his lungs. He could scarcely breathe, yet he took another step, and another.

  Emma was down in this place, in this dungeon where hope had died.

  Would she be alive?

  Of course. Sandre took no pleasure in killing. He lived to torment, and he had his special pets. For them he reserved the royal cell, and Michael knew that was where he would find her.

  Slowly he descended, down, down, finally reaching the first level, where Gotzon sat dozing, a hound of hell.

  Michael leaned over him, shook his shoulder, said, “Gotzon, let me in.”

  Gotzon snorted and woke, stared at Michael, and grinned. “I knew you couldn’t stay away. Not with that pretty girl in the dungeon.”

  “That’s right.” Michael lifted Sandre’s keys. “I’ve come to take her.”

  Gotzon laughed, a big, jolly laugh, like some perverted St. Nick. “You can’t. Tomorrow she’ll marry Sandre or she’ll hang. Tonight, if she doesn’t yield to Sandre, I get her. We all get her. It’ll be a lovely party, and I’m not going to miss it by opening the door to—”

  Michael stuck his knife into Gotzon’s soft belly.

  Gotzon’s mouth moved and his eyes bugged in surprise.

  Michael pulled his knife free and wiped it on his handkerchief.

  Gotzon collapsed on the floor. “You,” he whispered. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he died at Michael’s feet.

  Justice done.

  Michael stepped over the body and took the ring of a dozen keys off the wall. He tested the largest; the third opened the first gate. He started to discard them. But no. He dared not take the chance someone would come behind him and lock him in.

  So with Prince Sandre’s personal keys in one hand, and Gotzon’s keys in his pocket, he descended.

  Torches smoked on sconces set high on the walls. He grabbed one and walked along the dark steps, the puddle of feeble light moving with him valiantly battling the grim darkness. Dampness dripped from the ceiling. Panic closed Michael’s throat, making it hard for him to breathe, to swallow. Each step echoed along the stone walls, and landmarks appeared and disappeared like truth encased in nightmares.

  There. Sandre had placed the brand on his shoulder.

  Michael’s steps slowed.

  There. Rickie had lashed him with a whip until blood ran down his legs.

  This place reeked of horrors.

  There. Gotzon had wrapped a rope around his neck, flung it over the rafters, and hanged him. Sandre and Rickie laughed while Michael kicked and clawed at his throat. Then he passed out. Then when he awoke, they did it again. And again. And again.

  In all the time since he’d left the dungeon, he had been focused on his corrosive hatred of Sandre. He hadn’t realized that the place where he’d been imprisoned still held his soul in thrall.

  The dungeon was too deep for any but the most loathsome insects, and not even the largest palace cats would attempt to kill one of the rats that slid furtively along the walls.

  Emma was down here. Down here somewhere.

  Still the corridor extended downward into the depths, and he walked in an unending nightmare.

  “Michael.” A soft voice whispered his name. “Michael?”

  With a start, he turned toward that beloved sound. “Emma?”

  “Here!”

  Her voice, so eager, yet so quiet, rasping as if . . . Dear God. Had they hanged her, too? Cut her down and hanged her again?

  “Say more.” He waved the torch down the row of bars and doors.

  “To your right and back. Please. Please, Michael. This time, don’t be a dream.”

  He followed the sound of her desperation, thrusting the torch at the bars until the feeble illumination touched her, a small, dim figure huddled on a cot against the far wall.

  The sick bastard had placed her in the royal cell—the same cell Michael had inhabited for two long, despairing years.

  Using Prince Sandre’s keys, he thrust first one, then the other into the lock. The second turned; the door opened with a creak. He beckoned her. “Come on. Hurry!”

  Chains rattled. “I can’t.”

  They had shackled her. Of course they had.

  He closed his eyes in a single moment of anguish for her. For her helplessness.

  Then he opened them. The anguish remained, tasting sour in the back of his throat.

  It tasted like fear.

  “Michael?” Her voice trembled. “You have the keys.”

  “Yes.” He held Sandre’s keys in his hand. He pulled Gotzon’s iron ring from his pocket. They were heavy and cold in his hand, and he was in the grip of such horror he couldn’t move.

  How could he walk into this dark womb of earth where hour followed hour, day followed day, without light, without heat, without the sound of a human voice or the warmth of a human touch? Where every moment dragged on for an eternity, until all too soon, Sandre came and had him dragged out, and gave him to Rickie like a mouse to a cat?

  “Michael. I need you.” Emma’s voice was barely a breath.

  Emma. Unless he moved, she would die.

  He took a step into the cell. Terror brushed his skin like cobwebs. Another step. The familiar smell of mold and damp filled his head. Another step. His mind shouted, This is a trap. A trap!

  Then the torch flame illuminated Emma’s upturned face. She looked thin and tired, but she watched him, eyes shining, as if he were brave and strong.

  “Stop,” he muttered.

  “Stop? Stop what? I can’t move.” Her wrists were chained to the wall, her ankles chained together, then chained to her wrists.

  Falling to his knees, he carefully placed the torch on the floor and used its light to search for a smaller key on Gotzon’s ring, a key that would fit her shackles. “Stop looking at me like that. Like I came fearlessly to save you.” He found the key and tried to fit it into the lock at her ankles.

  His hands shook, and the key clinked against the metal.

  “Sandre told me this was your cell. He told me what he did to you. Oh, Michael.” Her hand lifted. She tried to touch his cheek, but the chain clinked as it reached its limit inches from his face. “You knew when you came down here what they had done to you. You knew you could be captured and tortured once more. You knew you could be killed. Yet you came anyway. I hope you came for my sake, but also—I know you came because you always do the right thing.”

  Once again he tried to put the key in the lock, but his tremors were too violent. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t make the final gesture to free her.

  He was a failure.

  “I don’t do the right thing,” he said in a low voice. “I do what I have to.”

  She laughed. She actually laughed—a sound that had never been heard down here before, a sound that chased away the darkness. “You didn’t have to do any of this. After you were released from this dungeon and discovered your way out of your cell at Lady Fanchere’s, you could have gone home to England. Who would have blamed you? Instead, you donned the costume of the Reaper and rode for justice. When you discovered I had been captured—captured after you told me not to ride—you could have let me take the punishment meted out to me. Instead you faced this horror. Right now, you have to be petrified, yet you came in; you came after me. Honor is a choice. Bravery is a choice. And you are the bravest man I know!” She tried to touch him, but again she reached the end of the chain. “I wouldn’t have stayed sane, but I always knew you were coming after me.”

  As she spoke, the shaking of his hands eased.

  He opened the shackles, her feet first, then her hands.

  He wrapped her in his arms for one minute, only one, for he kept in mind the barred door on the cell, the long corridor they had to traverse, the stairs, the gate, and the palace full of the prince’s servants and the prince’s soldiers.

  He and Emma had to get out of here before the prince
was served.

  But, oh. That one minute when he held her and she held him . . . it was life and light and love renewed.

  “Can you stand?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She hobbled to her feet. “I just . . . When I fell off Old Nelson I bruised myself, and I haven’t healed well.”

  “Of course you haven’t.” He kept his voice soothing, but if he had known . . . would he have been able to restrain himself? Or would he have killed Sandre when he had the chance?

  He picked up the torch, moved to help her, but the iron rings with their heavy keys hindered him. He stared at them, wanting to fling them away, knowing such a move would be stupid. Before he and Emma were out, he might need them. . . .

  “Here.” She lifted the dirty, thin mat that Sandre mockingly called a mattress. “Put them here.”

  The bed frame was constructed of rusty iron pipes and twisted metal wires—wires easily twisted into hooks for the keys. He handed her the torch and, in moments, the keys were hidden, yet accessible to them and perhaps . . . to some future prisoner?

  Taking the torch, he wrapped his arm around her waist and helped her to the door.

  She was limping, favoring one hip. “I’ll work it out,” she assured him. “It gets better when I walk.”

  She did seem to improve as they moved along the midnight corridor.

  With his hands around her ribs, he discovered how very thin she’d grown, and his temper sizzled. “Did he starve you?”

  “If he did, it’s my fault.” She stopped him on the first step of the stairs. “I can’t go on without begging you to forgive me. All I could think, during the dark days and nights, was that you and Lady Fanchere would do whatever it took to save me. And it was my fault that I was here. I lost my temper and I rode stupidly, without thought to anything but my own satisfaction. It was one thing for me to pay for my thoughtlessness, but to put you in danger . . . Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry.”

  He felt . . . well, he felt sheepish. “I can’t believe you’re asking forgiveness after I deceived you so terribly.”

  “But I don’t want to forgive you.” Her voice rang with sly humor, and she kissed him once, just once, with all the passion in her soul. “I want to make you pay for the rest of your life.”

  He chortled, then caught his breath. “So you’re going to marry me?”

  “If you still want me. Michael . . .” She stroked his cheek. “I love you.”

  That was all he needed to hear. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here. This is no place to make love.”

  She was laughing as he half carried her up the stairs. They went through the top gate; she didn’t even glance when Michael dropped the torch beside Gotzon’s body. A row of torches lit the next flight of stairs, and at the top he could see the softer candlelight of the palace.

  They were moving faster now, almost out of the dungeons. They reached the top step. . . .

  And Jean-Pierre stood there, sword in hand, blocking the way.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Michael’s hands were empty of weapons—because he’d been helping her, Emma, up the stairs.

  Now they were helpless, facing the pale, lethal gaze of Jean-Pierre and his sharp, well-honed sword.

  Jean-Pierre glanced at her and dismissed her. He focused on Michael and asked, “Where is my cousin? Where is Prince Sandre?”

  Michael widened his eyes. “How would I know?”

  That tone would never convince Jean-Pierre.

  “You did something with Sandre?” she asked.

  Michael glanced at her and inclined his head.

  “I hope it’s something awful.”

  The faintest smile played around Michael’s lips.

  “His study is a wreck. There’s blood on the carpet.” Jean-Pierre straightened his arm and pressed the tip of his sword into Michael’s breastbone. “Tell me before I skewer you—where is my cousin?”

  Michael replied with an insouciance that took her breath away. “If you’re going to skewer me anyway, I’m not telling you a thing.”

  She wanted to fall to her knees, to beg for Michael’s life, when Jean-Pierre pulled the sword back and asked in frustration, “How did you do this? Make up a party, send out invitations stamped with the prince’s own seal?”

  “It was not the prince’s own seal,” Michael said gently. “It’s the seal of the family de Guignard. You probably have one somewhere yourself.”

  “You threw a party for the prince? You threw a party so you could rescue me?” Emma could scarcely believe the cleverness of the ruse.

  “You lived with the Fancheres—and you stole Eleonore’s seal?” Jean-Pierre’s voice rose.

  “I didn’t have to steal it.” To Emma, Michael said, “I didn’t even come up with the idea. The party, the masquerade, all of it was Lady Fanchere’s idea.”

  Emma laughed, low and long. “I knew when she discovered who had killed Aimée . . . I knew she wouldn’t allow Sandre to escape unscathed.”

  “She coordinated everything—the food, the decorations, and the orchestra. She instructed the prince’s servants. She wrote out the invitations with her own hand. She heated the wax. She sealed the invitations with her own seal.” Michael sounded cocky, and stood with all the confidence of a young stud rooster. “She is gone now, she and her husband, gone to stay in the Italian villa Fanchere rented for Aimée—and their money went with them. A sad loss for Moricadia, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Eleonore betrayed us,” Jean-Pierre breathed.

  “No. She discovered the truth. About you, and about Sandre,” Michael said.

  “You should never have killed Aimée.” Emma’s anger rose, as fresh and clean as the first moment she’d heard the news.

  Jean-Pierre’s gaze shifted from Emma to Michael and back. “He demanded that I do so.”

  “When the devil commands, you don’t have to listen.” She tried to spring at Jean-Pierre.

  Michael restrained her. “You’re going to hell, Jean-Pierre, and you’re carrying Sandre on your back.”

  Jean-Pierre’s sword flashed up toward Michael’s throat.

  Emma screamed.

  A flash, a sharp explosion, and Jean- Pierre staggered back. He dropped his sword, and clasped his bleeding hand.

  Three men stepped forward, hats pulled low, scarves wrapped around their faces, and pistols clasped in their hands.

  From one, the faintest curl of smoke rose.

  Although Emma had never met any of them, she recognized two. They both had blue eyes, and the younger had brown hair that swept his collar, but something about these men—the way they moved, or perhaps their cool attitude—reminded her of Michael.

  His brother. His father, the marksman who had shot Jean-Pierre.

  The other man resembled no one here. He was a man at home in the shadows . . . and a man used to being in charge.

  Regardless of their disguises, Michael obviously knew who they were. He whooped; then in tones of delight, he said, “Father! Throckmorton! Jude!”

  The man he called “Throckmorton” never allowed his cold gaze to wander from Jean- Pierre. Keeping his pistol aimed at Jean-Pierre, he said, “Disarm him.”

  “I’ll do it.” Clumsily, slowly, using his left hand, Jean-Pierre pulled a pistol from his belt and placed it on the floor.

  “He’ll have a knife, too,” Michael said. “Perhaps more than one.”

  Jean-Pierre pulled a knife out of his sleeve and one out of his boot, and dropped them on top of the pistol.

  “Tie him up,” Throckmorton ordered.

  Jean-Pierre cast Throckmorton a loathing glance.

  The atmosphere grew dark, tense, reckless.

  Emma could barely breathe as she waited to see if Jean-Pierre would attack like a rabid dog.

  But no. He turned with his hands behind his back.

  Jude used the coil of rope at his belt to secure Jean-Pierre’s hands and tie him to the bars over the window. “More?” He raised an eyebrow at Throckmorton.

 
“That’ll keep him.” Throckmorton turned away. “Let’s go.”

  “Yes.” Michael put his delight on hold and pulled Emma close. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He led the way with Emma. The other men closed ranks behind, and right before they turned the corner, Emma glanced back.

  Blood soaked the handkerchief Jean- Pierre had wrapped around his hand. He twisted in the restraints, and those pale eyes turned toward them and shone like beacons of pure malice.

  She shivered and walked with increased speed.

  They rushed down the corridor and toward the kitchen.

  “How is Mum?” Michael spoke as he walked. “And Adrian?”

  “Both well. Both waiting for us to return with you,” Nevitt answered.

  “They’ll be pleased to find there’s a bonus.” Jude glanced at the hold Michael had on Emma.

  “Yes,” Michael said. “They’ll like my Emma.”

  Emma wanted to tell him he was saying too much, too soon. If they were going to do this properly, she should put on her best clothes, go to visit the Duke of Nevitt and his family, and be introduced in a drawing room in England.

  But perhaps it was too late for that. Perhaps it had always been too late for that.

  “How are we getting out of here?” Michael asked.

  “The same way we came in,” Michael’s father said. “Through the front gate.”

  “Of course.” Michael laughed. “You’re the Duke of Nevitt. Where else would you enter and exit?”

  “Exactly.” Nevitt pulled the scarf away from his face.

  Jude did the same, and Emma saw the striking resemblance between the father and his sons.

  Liveried servants bustled past, carrying platters of food and bottles of wine up to the next level. Emma expected one of them to speak, to ask where she and her four rescuers were bound, or perhaps to direct them elsewhere, or to call for help because one of the prisoners had escaped.

  Instead, they seemed oblivious to Michael, to Emma, to the other men.

  Prince Sandre’s servants were preparing for a party . . . and they were smiling.