In Bed With the Duke

  He looked serious. And she couldn’t figure out why he would propose as a joke. After all, he’d already done with her what he wanted . . . what they both wanted. A little curl of panic started in her belly, so she took a moment to hide her face, and pulled her dress on over her head.

  He moved behind her and started fastening her buttons.

  Briskly and sensibly, she said, “I’m a paid companion. A rector’s daughter. I can’t marry the heir to the dukedom of Nevitt.”

  “What a snob you are.” Using his fingers, he combed the hay out of her hair.

  “A snob!” His casual dismissal of her background took her breath away. She twisted around to face him. “I assume that someday you want to return to England?”

  “Someday very soon.” She heard the hitch of homesickness in his voice.

  Homesickness was catching, apparently, for she felt it, too. But that made his proposal even more ludicrous. “I remember England if you don’t. I’d be shunned. You’d be embarrassed!”

  He drew himself up, and for the first time she saw the visage of the nobleman that lay at his core. “I would not be embarrassed, and you would not be shunned. You would be a Durant.”

  His arrogance took her breath away. But when she got it back, she retorted, “Not for long. Your father would have the marriage annulled.”

  “My father would joyously click his heels to know I was marrying at last.”

  She laughed reluctantly.

  But he looked more and more earnest. “More important, when he got to know you, he would slap me on the shoulder and tell me you were too good for a wastrel like me.”

  “You’re not a wastrel,” she said automatically.

  “Not any longer. But I was. I was a lot of things. A spoiled brat, a wastrel, and an adventurer. Then a prisoner.” His eyes grew dark. “Nothing more. Even after I was released, my soul still cowered behind bars and in the dark. Until you came, Emma, and rescued Elixabete. Then I saw kindness still existed in the world, and it was the start of healing.”

  “No one can stand by while a child screams in pain!”

  “Actually, most people can. Then you saved me from Prince Sandre and his thugs. Well”—he waved a dismissive hand—“not me, really, but the Reaper.”

  “You saved me first!”

  He viewed her as if he saw something in her she couldn’t imagine. “You repay your debts, even to a crazy man in a costume, and you kiss him in gratitude. Both parts of me—Michael Durant and the Reaper—fell in love with you.”

  Love.

  No, not really. He was still suffering from prison-induced delusions.

  She didn’t believe him. Or rather, she didn’t dare believe him. “You’re insane.”

  He laughed a little. “Possibly. But what I want to know is, who are you, Emma Chegwidden? What will you do with your life? Become the princess of Moricadia?”

  “No!” She shuddered in revulsion. “No.”

  “You could do a lot of good here, use your influence on Sandre to soften his policies. Sacrifice yourself for the good of others.”

  “No. I won’t!”

  “Or you could be the Duchess of Nevitt.”

  “You taunt me.”

  “Do I look like I’m taunting you?”

  She turned her head away, because the idea of being his wife, at his side for his whole life . . . It pulled at her with all the power of the North Star to a magnet. How she wanted him!

  “Or you could do whatever you want.”

  She looked back at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not the same timid little companion who came to Moricadia and got lost in the woods. You’ve had a rebirth, Emma Chegwidden, and now you’re an Amazon, doing what you believe is right no matter the opposition.”

  Was that how Michael saw her? As an Amazon? Right now, she didn’t feel like an Amazon. Her legs felt like noodles from riding as the Reaper, and from riding Michael, and from orgasms so intense she cried with joy.

  “Think about it. You are afraid of nothing, and you can be whatever you want. So be mine.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead, on the cheek, on the lips. “Marry me.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “This was my father’s.” Aimée showed Elixabete the small figure of a horse, intricately carved and polished. “One of our Moricadian workers made it from an oak stump, and Father bought it from him. The family had been turned off their land by . . . well, you know.”

  “By the de Guignards.”

  “Yes. Look at the workmanship on this.” Aimée held the statue in the sunlight coming through the window. “Moricadians don’t get to ride anymore, most of them. They don’t have the money to feed and stable their horses. ”

  “I love them,” Elixabete said fervently.

  “Yes, Moricadians have a feel for horses, and the horses know it. In this piece, you can see respect and adoration for the beast.” Aimée stroked it affectionately, taking pleasure in the smooth ripple of bone and muscle.

  Her bedchamber, the whole house, was draped in sheets. The servants had been dismissed. The cart was coming for Aimée’s last load before she closed the house and left.

  She hadn’t told anyone, most certainly not her dear friend Eleonore, but Rickie’s death had freed her. She wasn’t ever coming back.

  Impulsively, she handed Elixabete the horse. “You keep it.”

  “No. No, it’s yours. Your father gave it to you!” Elixabete tried to hand it back.

  “I’m going to Italy, and a Moricadian horse belongs in Moricadia with a Moricadian child.” Aimée ruffled the girl’s hair. “Keep it in memory of me.”

  A thump toward the front of the house rattled the windows, and the lady and the girl looked at each other in alarm.

  “There’s no one here,” Elixabete whispered. “The house is empty.”

  “Fanchere’s men were supposed to bring the cart for my last load. Do you suppose they drove it into the foyer?” Aimée crinkled her nose in disgust. “That would make a mess, and I don’t want to stay to take care of it.” She looked at the last trunk. “I’m almost done here. Dear, go and look for me.”

  “No. Please, Lady de Guignard.” Elixabete huddled close, clutching the horse to her skinny chest. “I don’t like this place.”

  Aimée looked around at her washed-out bedroom. “But why, child?”

  “There are ghosts here.”

  Aimée laughed, then realized she was being heartless. Elixabete was truly frightened. So in a comforting tone, she told her, “No, I swear, there are no ghosts here. No one has died in any of the rooms. The house is new, and even when we lived here, no one lived here.”

  Again they heard a thump from the front of the château.

  “It’s the house itself then,” Elixabete whispered. “The house is bad.”

  “Darling, that’s not the house that’s making all that noise. That’s not ghosts. Either they drove the cart into the foyer, or”—Aimée brightened as another option occurred to her—“or someone’s out there trying to get our attention. Go see why and let me know.”

  Elixabete stared in wide-eyed fright.

  “Go on now.” Aimée patted her bottom. “I promise no one will jump out and say, ‘Boo!’ ”

  Elixabete curtsied and sidled out the door.

  Aimée finished packing and looked around the room, and chuckled. Elixabete was frightened by the spirits in this house. Aimée had been frightened by the man who dwelled here with her, and now that Rickie was gone, Aimée knew the place was safe.

  When she thought about Italy, about the sun and the grapes and the art and the music, she wanted to cry for joy. She wanted to kiss Emma for thinking of it, and embrace Fanchere for making it possible. Mostly she wanted to hug Eleonore and pray she could keep her illusions about Sandre and Moricadia, because if Eleonore ever found out what her dear cousin was truly like . . . Well, Eleonore was too kindhearted and didn’t deserve that kind of upset.

  Aimée glanced toward the door. She had t
hought Elixabete would be back by now.

  Had the child fallen and hurt herself?

  Aimée frowned.

  And what was that thumping they’d heard? It wasn’t . . . She hadn’t sent Elixabete out into the hands of thieves?

  “Oh, Aimée.” She walked out into the corridor, scolding herself all the way. “You are such a silly fool. Why didn’t you think of that first?” She hurried toward the stairs that curved down toward the main floor. As with the Fancheres’, this house had a long, high gallery overlooking the marble-floored foyer.

  Unlike the Fancheres’, everything here was white, unmarked, colorless.

  Ah, when Aimée got to Italy, she would have color everywhere. Lavender blossoms in her vases, walls painted terra cotta and gold, curtains of rich crushed velvet in royal blue. She would be warm and she would be happy. . . .

  A child’s body lay facedown on the gallery floor.

  Elixabete’s body.

  “My God!” Aimée ran to her. “What happened? Did you fall? Can you speak?”

  Elixabete groaned. Her eyes fluttered open.

  Blood oozed from a crescent-shaped wound on her forehead.

  Aimée traced it with her finger. It looked almost as if the child had been hit.

  Elixabete gazed at the horse still clutched in her hand and frowned, her eyes unfocused and confused.

  “Do you remember what happened?” Aimée asked.

  Elixabete looked up. “Lady de Guignard . . . where did you come from? How did I get here?” Her eyes shifted, focused on something over Aimée’s shoulder. Giving a scream, she struggled to sit up.

  Aimée half turned. She caught a glimpse of someone—a man, strong and tall.

  He grabbed her from behind by her collar and her waist.

  She yelped. He had her hair. “What are you doing?” she shouted, twisting, trying to get a good look at him.

  Elixabete gave a grunt like a dog about to sink its teeth into a bone, and grabbed his boot.

  He kicked the little girl in the head, knocking her backward across the floor.

  Aimée shrieked. She fought.

  He lifted her up and over the balustrade.

  For one terrifying moment, she stared down at the marble floor so far below.

  He let her go.

  And she screamed all the way down.

  Jean-Pierre heard her land, heard a single groan, and looked over the edge.

  Aimée had landed facedown, her hands outstretched in a futile attempt to catch herself. Blood sprayed across the floor and stained the white marble. She didn’t move. She was dead, and could no longer fuel the fire of scandal surrounding the Reaper.

  That was a job well-done.

  He’d found that once he’d shot a few women and children, murder wasn’t so hard anymore.

  Chapter Forty

  Lady Fanchere drove up to the front of Aimée’s château, stopped the pony cart, and lifted the picnic basket out of the back. Aimée would be so glad to see her, and this was the least Eleonore could do—help Aimée with the final closing of the château she had shared with Rickie, and wish her Godspeed as she left to start the rest of her life.

  The place was quiet. Too quiet. No birds sang in the trees. Nothing moved in the landscape.

  No one came out to welcome her, and no servant came to assist her, because Aimée had dismissed them all. She’d given them money, good wishes, and recommendations, and sent them on their way.

  So there was no reason to feel unease.

  Eleonore lugged the basket to the front door, opened it, and walked in. “Aimée!” she called. “Elixabete!” Her voice echoed up and down the stairways and throughout the empty house.

  She was so preoccupied with that stupid basket that at first she didn’t see what was there in the middle of the floor.

  Then she did.

  A body, shattered by the fall, lying there in Aimée’s gown, with Aimée’s bright ribbons threaded through the bloody hair and the broken skull.

  Eleonore screamed and ran, picked up Aimée, and cradled her in her arms.

  The body was still warm.

  She screamed again.

  “Eleonore, why have you come here?” Fanchere hurried to catch up with her as she strode through the palace toward Sandre’s office.

  She didn’t glance at him. He was her husband, and for the first time in her life, she was embarrassed to have him know her.

  She was, after all, a de Guignard.

  But he must have caught sight of her expression or her bloody hands or . . . or other things, for he forcefully stopped her, looked her over, and asked, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Aimée was killed. Aimée was killed.” Eleonore repeated it as if that would somehow make her realize that it was true.

  “Are you sure?” Fanchere shook his head as if embarrassed by the question.

  Eleonore’s gown, after all, still bore the stain where Aimée’s shattered skull had rested against her bosom. “Aimée was killed, and I’m going to report it to Sandre. He’s going to want to catch the killer. I know it.” And she started for Sandre’s office again.

  Fanchere didn’t try to dissuade her. But he kept pace with her.

  The double doors to Sandre’s office were closed, with guards on either side.

  Eleonore didn’t care. She looked at them and, in a tone she’d never used in her life, she said, “I am the prince’s cousin Eleonore. I’m going in.”

  They moved to stop her.

  “Do you really want to be responsible for forcibly restraining me from entering Sandre’s presence?”

  The guards moved aside.

  Fanchere opened the doors for her.

  She entered without hesitation.

  Sandre was sitting with one hip on his desk, talking to Jean-Pierre, laughing.

  They were both laughing.

  When they saw her, they stopped.

  “What happened to you?” Sandre asked, but he didn’t sound surprised.

  So she told him, told them both what she’d found in Aimée’s house.

  Aimée’s body, smashed on the marble floor.

  Elixabete, her skull creased by a nearby silver candlestick and her nose broken by a boot.

  Sandre gave a good imitation of grief. “Poor Aimée,” he said. “I was afraid of this. She couldn’t live without Rickie, so she tried to kill this Elixabete, then flung herself off the gallery.”

  “Aimée would never hurt a child!” Eleonore said.

  “She really believed the Reaper was a ghost. She was haunted by fear. She went mad!” Sandre acted as if he believed it.

  Did he? Eleonore was hard-pressed to believe him, and she fought against the fountain of invectives that threatened to pour forth. That would never convince Sandre of the justness of her suit.

  But she knew him. Sandre was logical. So she possessed herself of patience and tried to explain the truth in a way he would comprehend. “Do you remember when we were children together?”

  “Of course,” Sandre said.

  “For fun Rickie used to pull one leg off a frog and let it go, and wager on whether it would die before a predator ate it.”

  “Boyish mischief.” Sandre dismissed it with a wave.

  Vehemently, she said, “He got worse as he got older, not better. Aimée was not mourning Rickie’s death. She did not go mad with grief. Someone killed her!”

  “We will of course bury her next to him,” Sandre said. “It’s what she would have wanted.”

  “No, she wouldn’t! What she wanted was to go to Italy.” Eleonore couldn’t believe Sandre could be so blind. “She was murdered!”

  “You’re distraught. It’s your condition.” Sandre came to her, tried to make her sit in his chair.

  She resisted, her arms stiff and her fists clenched.

  Still in that soothing tone, Sandre said, “We are so pleased that at last you’re increasing, and you know how dangerous this fretting can be to your health and the health of your child.”


  “I am not fretting.” Her voice rose. “I’m telling you one of Rickie’s comrades killed your cousin by marriage. You’re the prince. Seek justice!”

  “Yes, of course I will.” He took her hand, her fist, and led her toward the door. “Now, you go home and rest. Fanchere, you take her. Eleonore, when you come back, make sure you bring Miss Chegwidden. It has been far too long since I’ve gazed upon her face. I would hate to think she was avoiding me.” He patted Eleonore on the shoulder, then turned to his desk.

  He was dismissing her.

  And she realized . . . he had done it.

  He had murdered Aimée.

  Maybe he’d thrown her over the balustrade himself.

  Maybe he’d had his men throw her.

  But he had murdered her cousin and his, a silly woman with a kind heart, because Aimée believed the Reaper had the power to topple his regime and spoke of it too freely.

  Aimée was right: The boy Sandre, Eleonore’s play-mate, was gone forever, replaced by the venal creature hated across the length and breadth of Moricadia.

  For possessing that knowledge, Aimée was dead—and for that, Eleonore was responsible.

  Her head swam. Her knees collapsed.

  Fanchere put his hand around her waist and supported her into a quiet library down the corridor from Sandre’s office. He found her a seat and brought her a glass of water.

  She sipped it, wishing it could wash away the taste of murder. “I can’t raise our child here. I can’t.”

  Quickly he stood, shut the door, turned the key, and came back to her side.

  “I know how much you value the de Guignard connection, but I can’t live in a land where murder is winked at and corruption stalks the streets.” She blinked, trying to clear the tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” He went down on one knee before her and chafed her hands. “I have a confession to make. When you told me about the baby, I surreptitiously began moving our money out of Moricadia and into foreign banks—the Bank of England, Banque de France, even an American bank. Because I knew this baby would sooner or later force you to face what you didn’t want to see, and I knew we would want to go somewhere where we can raise our child without fear.”