To Desire a Devil

  And still it didn’t seem to matter. Beatrice had discovered that one’s love needn’t be reciprocated in order for it to thrive. It seemed her love was perfectly happy to grow and even bloom in the complete absence of his. There was no controlling it.

  The carriage jolted, and Beatrice wasn’t quite quick enough to brace herself entirely. Her shoulder hit the side painfully.

  “Ah,” said Lord Hasselthorpe. It was the first time he’d spoken in hours. “We’re here.”

  Beatrice craned her neck, trying to see out the window, but what she could see was mostly black. They rounded a curve, and she braced her feet against the floorboards.

  And then the carriage stopped.

  The door was opened by a footman, and Beatrice tried to catch the man’s eye to perhaps gain his sympathy. But he kept his gaze fixed downward, save for one darted glance at Lord Hasselthorpe. There would be no help from that quarter.

  “Come, my lady,” Lord Hasselthorpe said rather nastily, and yanked her to her feet.

  He pushed her ahead of him, out of the carriage, and for a moment she feared she’d fall headlong down the steps. The footman caught her arm to steady her, though he just as hastily let her go. Beatrice looked at him again and saw a faint frown between his brows. Perhaps there was hope of help from him after all.

  But she hadn’t time to consider the matter further, for Lord Hasselthorpe was marching her toward a great mansion. Even in the dark she could see it was a huge building with but one light in one of the lower windows. As they neared the front doors, one was flung open and an ancient manservant stood to the side, holding a candelabra that looked too heavy for his thin wrist.

  “My lord.” He bowed his head, his expression serene enough to make Beatrice wonder if Lord Hasselthorpe often brought bound-and-gagged ladies to his doorstep.

  Her captor made no acknowledgment of the butler but dragged her up the steps and into the hall.

  It was only after they’d passed the old manservant that the man cleared his throat and said, “Her ladyship is in residence, my lord.”

  Lord Hasselthorpe stopped so suddenly that Beatrice stumbled over her own feet. He absently held her up as he glared at the butler. “What?”

  The old man appeared unperturbed at his master’s ire. “Lady Hasselthorpe arrived yesterday evening and is even now upstairs asleep.”

  Lord Hasselthorpe scowled at the ceiling as if he could see his wife in bed several floors above. Obviously his wife’s presence at his country estate was a surprise. Beatrice’s heart leaped a little in cautious optimism. Lady Hasselthorpe was not known for her intelligence, but surely she’d protest her husband bringing home kidnapped countesses?

  If Lady Hasselthorpe was ever allowed to see her, that is. For now Lord Hasselthorpe was trotting her quickly toward the back of the house. He turned down a dark passage so narrow that he had to push her ahead of himself, for they would not fit abreast. This ended in a steep flight of stairs that spiraled downward into the depths of the mansion. Beatrice felt sweat start at the small of her back as she descended. The steps were bare stone, well worn and slippery. A fall here might break her neck. Was that what Lord Hasselthorpe intended? Would he kill her out of some strange revenge for Reynaud’s win on the parliament floor? But then why bring her all the way to his country estate merely to murder her? Surely that made no sense.

  Beatrice clung to that minuscule hope as they descended farther into the depths of the mansion. They reached an uneven stone floor at last, and she saw that it was a kind of dungeon. The house above must be built on some type of older fortification. Hasselthorpe backed her into a stone wall. She heard the clank of chains and then felt cold metal against her wrists.

  He stepped away and nodded. “That’ll hold you until your bastard husband comes to take your place.”

  Beatrice strained, trying to say something, anything to get his attention, but he simply walked away, taking the light with him. She was left in cold, dank darkness. She pulled hard on the chain, hoping the anchor might’ve rotted, but it held fast. And then she could only stand and wait, for the chain would not let her sit. Would she die here, alone in the blackness? Or would Lord Hasselthorpe or one of his servants rescue her? She thought of Reynaud, his angry black eyes, his confident hands, his gentle mouth, and she wept a little, wondering if she’d ever see his dear face again. She knew he wouldn’t come for her, though.

  He’d told her already. He’d not put himself into the power of another ever again.

  REYNAUD’S FISTS SLID against the horse’s sweaty neck. He bent low over the animal, his hands on either side of the beast’s neck, a rein in each hand. He’d traded in his own horse two hours ago when it’d begun to lag, throwing an exorbitant sum at a sleepy innkeeper for his best horse. The gelding was a great bony animal, not pretty, but he had stamina.

  Stamina and speed were all that mattered now.

  Bulging saddlebags were tied behind him. They held a small fortune—every bit of gold he could find in the house, as well as his mother’s jewelry. He’d stuck a pistol in each coat pocket before he’d ridden out of London, though it was mainly his speed that deterred robbers.

  The horse’s gait jarred him with each leap of his great legs, but Reynaud no longer cared. His arms and legs and arse ached, his hands had gone numb, his fingers were stiff with cold, and still he urged the beast on. He rode through black night, hell-for-leather, not caring of potential holes or unseen barriers in the road, endangering both the horse’s neck and his own.

  It didn’t matter. If he wasn’t in Sussex at Hasselthorpe’s door by dawn, that madman would kill Beatrice, and he wouldn’t have a reason to live anyway. It was ironic, really. All this time he’d thought only of what he’d lost and never of what he’d gained. He’d wanted his title, his lands, his money, when all along they meant nothing without her by his side. Those calm gray eyes watching him curiously, showing no fear and no illusion as to who he was. That sweet, amused smile in an otherwise tart expression when she ticked him off for being an ass. The erotic surprise on her face when he entered her, her mouth opening in wonder.

  God! Oh, God! He was going to lose her. Reynaud felt the burn of tears on his cheeks. The dawn was coming soon. He urged the gelding on, hearing the rasp of the horse’s breath, the jingle of the tack, and his own desperate heartbeat in his ears, knowing it was too little, too late. He wasn’t going to make it in time.

  He’d kill the bastard, the murderer of his wife. He’d take his revenge in blood and pain, and then he’d end all this himself.

  If she was dead, he’d have nothing to live for.

  Chapter Nineteen

  All night Princess Serenity journeyed. As the sun’s first rays blessed the earth, she came to the place where a year ago she had met Longsword. It was a barren spot, devoid of trees or even grass. The princess looked about her but could see no other living thing. Just as she began to wonder if she’d come in vain, a crack appeared in the dry ground. Wider and wider it grew until the Goblin King rose from the depths of the earth.

  His orange eyes glowed bright at the sight of her, and he smiled with yellow fangs as he said, “And who might you be?”

  “I am Princess Serenity,” she replied. “And I have come to take my husband’s place in the kingdom of the goblins. . . .”

  —from Longsword

  It was dark, so dark, and she’d lost track of the time. She could’ve been standing here for minutes or hours, her arms wrenched painfully behind her, her eyes straining uselessly in the blackness. Every now and again she’d nod off despite the pain and fear, but as her body sagged forward, her shoulders would be yanked by the chain on her wrists, and she would startle awake. At first she’d thought the dungeon was silent as well, but as she stood there, she began to hear things. Small rustlings. The scrape of a tiny claw against stone. The slow drip of water somewhere. In the dark, all alone, the sounds should have frightened her more. Instead they were almost comforting. She wasn’t sure she could’ve remaine
d sane if her hearing had been taken away as well as her eyesight.

  Finally she heard footsteps, distant but drawing nearer. She straightened, trying to look serene, trying to be brave. Reynaud had been brave in captivity and so could she. She was a countess. She wouldn’t meet death weeping.

  The door to the dungeon was thrown open, and she flinched away from the lantern light.

  “Beatrice.”

  Oh, dear God, it couldn’t be. She squinted and saw her husband’s broad shoulders blocking the light from the lantern. He was hatless, his boots muddy and scuffed, and he carried a full saddlebag over one shoulder. She jerked forward, her throat working, trying to say something. To warn him. Lord Hasselthorpe had ranted for nearly an hour when first they entered the carriage about the revenge he would inflict on Reynaud.

  “Don’t touch her,” Lord Hasselthorpe said, and Reynaud stepped aside. Behind him was Lord Hasselthorpe, a gun pointed firmly at Reynaud. “Here she is. You can see that no harm has come to her. Now give me the money.”

  Reynaud didn’t look at the other man. His eyes were on hers, blazing, black, and dangerous. “Take off her gag.”

  “You’ve already—”

  Reynaud turned his head and hit Lord Hasselthorpe with a stare. “Take it off.”

  Lord Hasselthorpe frowned, but he stepped forward, keeping his eyes on Reynaud. He fumbled, one-handed, with the cloth tied at the back of her head, and then the binding fell.

  Beatrice spat out the wadded cloth in her mouth. “Reynaud, he’ll kill you!”

  “Shut up,” Lord Hasselthorpe said.

  “Don’t.” Reynaud took a step toward the other man, seemingly oblivious to the raised gun between them. He stared at Lord Hasselthorpe a moment, then looked at Beatrice, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “Has he hurt you?”

  “No,” she whispered. “Reynaud, you cannot.”

  “Hush.” He shook his head slightly and almost smiled. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

  “She’s alive and I want the money,” Lord Hasselthorpe said impatiently.

  “What guarantee can you give me that she’ll go free?” Reynaud was staring at her, as if memorizing her features.

  Beatrice felt ice begin to form at her center. “Reynaud,” she whispered, pleading now.

  “My wife is in residence,” Lord Hasselthorpe said. “She has nothing to do with this. I’ll put Lady Blanchard into her care and send the both of them to London. I’ve already sent a footman to bring Adriana here.”

  “You don’t intend to take your wife with you?” Reynaud’s eyes were horribly gentle, and though he spoke to the other man, his gaze never left her face.

  “Why should I?” Lord Hasselthorpe replied impatiently.

  The corner of Reynaud’s mouth twitched. How could he find any of this amusing? “A certain sentimentality, perhaps?”

  “I haven’t time for sentimentality or your wit,” Lord Hasselthorpe snapped. “If you want your wife to live to see the dawn—”

  “Very well.” Reynaud threw the saddlebag at Lord Hasselthorpe’s feet just as Lady Hasselthorpe appeared in the doorway to the dungeon.

  “Why, my lord, you didn’t tell me we had guests,” Lady Hasselthorpe exclaimed as if being woken before dawn to greet callers in the dungeon was perfectly normal. She seemed not to notice that her husband held a gun on one of her “guests.”

  She made to step into the dungeon, but the burly footman by her side prevented her. “Best not, my lady. ’Tis dirty down here.”

  Lord Hasselthorpe nodded to the man. Despite the footman’s words, his real reason for stopping her must be so that she wouldn’t get too near Reynaud.

  “I’d like you to take Lady Blanchard to London, my dear,” Lord Hasselthorpe said. “She’s ill and Lord Blanchard and I have business to discuss.” He reached behind Beatrice with one hand and unlocked the chains about her wrists.

  Beatrice’s heart sank. “Reynaud, I can’t leave you here.”

  Lord Hasselthorpe gave Reynaud a hard look. “It matters not to me, but you know the alternative.”

  Reynaud’s mouth thinned. “Let me talk to her.”

  “As you wish.”

  Reynaud bent to her ear, his face against hers. Beatrice’s hands were still tied behind her back. She wished they were free so she might feel his dear face.

  “You must leave with Lady Hasselthorpe,” he whispered in her ear.

  She felt hot tears overflow her eyes. “No. No, you said you would never put yourself in another man’s power again.”

  “I was wrong.” His breath caught on a quiet laugh that blew against her cheek. He smelled of horse and leather and her husband. “So very wrong. I was foolish and vain, and I nearly didn’t realize it in time. I nearly lost you. But I didn’t.”

  “Reynaud,” she sobbed.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “You asked me if I loved you. I do. I love you more than life itself. Nothing matters in this world but that you live. Can you do that for me? Can you live?”

  What could she say? He was sacrificing himself, she knew that. Sacrificing himself for her and he wanted her to just walk out of this room and leave him here….She shook her head, her throat swollen shut with grief.

  He took her face between his palms and looked at her, and for the first time since his return, she saw the laughing boy of the portrait in his black eyes. They stared at her, confident and whole, with the hint of a mischievous gleam.

  “Yes, you can,” he said in that low, deep voice she loved so much. “For me. Live for me.”

  “I love you,” she whispered, and she saw gladness in his eyes.

  She turned, stumbling, and walked from that hellhole. Lord Hasselthorpe said something, and Lady Hasselthorpe babbled and chirped, but she heard none of it, because she was leaving Reynaud behind. She turned one last time at the door and looked over her shoulder.

  Reynaud was kneeling next to the stone wall where she’d been chained. She saw that there were three iron rings set in the stone wall. She’d been chained to the middle one, but now iron links were threaded through the two outer rings. Reynaud’s strong arms were outstretched wide, and Lord Hasselthorpe was watching as the burly footman fastened chains to his wrists. The cold stone floor must’ve been hard against Reynaud’s knees, and she knew the chains were painful, but he met her eyes and smiled at her.

  Smiled as they chained his arms in a cross.

  WHEN HE’D ESCAPED from captivity, so many months ago now, he’d vowed that he’d never let himself be caught alive again. He’d sworn to himself that he’d die before being taken by an enemy. And he’d meant that vow, truly.

  But now Reynaud broke that vow. He kneeled at the feet of his foe, his arms stretched wide and chained to the wall, helpless, and he was glad. None of it mattered as long as Beatrice was alive. He could face this and worse as long as she lived.

  Hasselthorpe bent and opened the saddlebags. Mater’s sapphire necklace spilled into the lantern light. Hasselthorpe grunted and picked up the jewels.

  “Very nice.” The dark blue stones sparkled as he examined them. “The Blanchard jewels, if I’m not mistaken.” He grinned at Reynaud.

  Reynaud shrugged. “You’re not.”

  “Very nice indeed.” Hasselthorpe shoved the necklace back in the leather pouch and began tying the cords as he spoke to the brute of a footman. “See that my horse is ready and my bag brought down. The boat sails in two hours, and I must be away to meet it in time.”

  For the first time, the big servant showed signs of independent thought. He hesitated, glancing at Reynaud. “An’ him?”

  Hasselthorpe looked at the footman coldly. “That’s none of your business.”

  The man shifted from one foot to the other. “But, see, they’ll blame me.”

  “What?”

  “For him.” The footman jerked his chin in Reynaud’s direction. “You’ll be gone and I’ll have a dead aristocrat on me hands, and the first one they’ll be looking at will be me.”


  Reynaud grinned. The man had a point.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Hasselthorpe burst out just as the door opened to the dungeon.

  Lady Hasselthorpe entered with Beatrice behind her.

  Christ! Reynaud lunged against his chains, but the thick iron links held. Hasselthorpe swung toward the door, his gun pointed at Beatrice.

  “Get out!” Reynaud ordered. Beatrice was looking at him, her sweet face set in mulish determination. He pulled at the chains with all his strength and felt a slight give.

  Hasselthorpe turned toward him as the chains clanked. The lantern’s light glinted off the barrel of the pistol in his hand. Hasselthorpe raised it as Reynaud bared his teeth in defiance.

  “No!” Beatrice screamed.

  Lady Hasselthorpe rushed toward her husband. “Richard! Have you lost your mind?”

  “Beatrice!” Reynaud lunged again, and the iron ring holding his right wrist burst from the wall.

  Hasselthorpe swung toward him with the gun, but Lady Hasselthorpe was there, and Beatrice, damn her, Beatrice threw herself against the man.

  The gun exploded with a deafening thunderclap, echoing off the stone walls and ceiling. For a moment, everyone froze.

  “Beatrice,” Reynaud whispered.

  She looked at him, her eyes puzzled, and raised a hand toward him.

  Blood streaked her fingers.

  SHE’D BEEN NEARLY deafened by the pistol’s report, but Beatrice still heard Reynaud’s angry roar. He sounded like an enraged lion, like some fiery archangel come from heaven to wreak vengeance on a mortal man. He leaped forward, his freed right hand outstretched toward Lord Hasselthorpe. The chain shrieked against the iron ring, and he jerked back, his fingertips brushing Lord Hasselthorpe’s sleeve.