A Belated Bride

  Lucien didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  The constable sent a hard glance at Arabella, then left.

  As soon as the latch clicked into place, Arabella pushed away from Lucien and walked stiffly to the fire. She stared into the flames, her arms crossed over her chest as if to ward off a deep, penetrating chill.

  Lucien watched her, his mind a turmoil of facts and emotions. “Bella, tell me about the smuggling.”

  She turned her head slowly, her eyes unfocused. “What?”

  “I have seen the cave. In fact, I just returned from there.” He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I know what you are doing.”

  Her mouth trembled for an instant, then she drew herself up. “You don’t know anything.”

  Lucien crossed the space that separated them in three wide strides. He gripped her arms and yanked her around to face him. “You little fool! Do you realize the punishment if you are caught? Do you know what they do to smugglers? To traitors?”

  “Traitors? I am not a traitor!”

  “Don’t play the innocent, Bella.”

  “How could I?” Her mouth curved in a bitter smile. “I lost my innocence ten years ago, Lucien. Or don’t you remember?”

  Oh, yes, he remembered. He remembered the scent of her hair and how it entangled his hands like a silken net. He remembered the taste of her skin beneath his seeking tongue. He remembered sinking into the very center of desire, his body burning so hotly he’d thought he would die. He remembered every nuance, every shadow, and every perfect inch of her body.

  It was the one thing he’d clung to through the years as his life disintegrated, as he realized the price he had paid when he’d married Sabrina, as he struggled to make his own way to save his family from ruin.

  Now, staring down into Arabella’s upturned face, her wide brown eyes meeting his unflinchingly, he could see her as she was last night: her eyes dark with excitement, her hair damp and curling about a face flushed with passion. She was everything he desired. Everything except his.

  He released her and rubbed his neck wearily, so tired he could hardly think. He was emotionally stretched, his body weary, and his arms ached from rowing the dinghy. They had so much to overcome, so much at stake, and the smuggling was only a small facet of the barriers between them.

  He sighed. “I am too tired to think about this anymore this evening. Tomorrow we will decide—”

  “We? Tomorrow I will decide what I am going to do. I agreed to say we are to be wed only to remove that fool from my house. There must be a better way to handle this situation.”

  Frustration, hot and bitter, boiled through him. “Bloody hell! What do you think will happen if Harlbrook discovers we are not to be wed after all? He will see to it that Wilson hangs.”

  She whirled away to pace, her movements desperate. “I can protect him. All I need is some time and I will—” She came to an abrupt halt, her back stiff. A sob wracked her body and she clenched her eyes closed, pressing a fist to her mouth.

  Lucien was beside her in an instant. He pulled her close and held her tightly, cupping her head to his shoulder and resting his cheek against her hair. She stood within the circle of his arms, her head bowed as she cried. Though she made no move to break the embrace, neither did she soften in his arms.

  Lucien pulled her tighter, stroking her back, her shoulders. “Ah, love, we’ll find a way through this,” he whispered, his cheek against her curls. “I promise.”

  She had borne so much, carried so many people in the only way that she knew how. And now she faced the greatest injustice of all—and it wasn’t gaol; it was the thought she might not be able to take care of those who needed and counted on her.

  He waited quietly for her to regain control, murmuring words of comfort against her hair. God, it felt good to hold her, her heart beating against his, knowing that for this moment, she was safe and in his arms.

  As her sobs quieted to hiccups, she tried to pull away. But Lucien refused to loosen his grip, cupping a hand behind her head and holding her against his shoulder. His shirt was soaked, his jacket wrinkled beyond even Hastings’s ability to straighten, but Lucien did not care. All he cared about was that for once, he was right where Arabella needed him to be.

  After a moment, he turned her face to his. Tear-spiked lashes framed chocolate-colored eyes full of pain. But he needed the truth, needed it more now than ever. “Tell me, Bella,” he whispered. “Tell me about the smuggling.”

  She stared up at him and her mouth trembled. For an instant he thought she would yield, but her mouth firmed and she jerked herself free. “There is nothing to tell.”

  Lucien sighed, every ounce of his tiredness returning. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bundle. He laid it in his palm and unwrapped the ends of the handkerchief until a small pile of brooches glittered in the lamplight, one long ruby necklace threaded between his fingers. “I found these in the cave, Bella.”

  Her eyes widened. “You found them where?”

  Every instinct he possessed told him that she was surprised, shocked even, at the discovery. Lucien closed his hand over the jewels and he retied the handkerchief. “They were inside a cask.”

  She stared at the small bundle, her breathing ragged, a slight crease between her brows. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she raised her gaze to his. “I didn’t know, Lucien. I swear it.”

  He accepted her word without question, not knowing if he believed her because she was indeed innocent, or because he couldn’t bear the thought that she was guilty. “I need to know about the smuggling.”

  Arabella swallowed, her throat working before she nodded. “I will tell you everything, but…can we wait until tomorrow? I am so tired. I—I need to think.”

  Had it been anyone else, he would have refused, demanded on the spot to be informed of every last detail. But he was not immune to the shadows beneath the haunted eyes, nor the tremor that shook her ever so slightly. “Very well, I won’t tax you anymore tonight. But tomorrow, we will have an accounting.”

  She nodded, then turned to leave the room, walking slowly, her slippers moving silently on the carpet. She halted as she reached the threshold and looked over her shoulder. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell my aunts what has occurred.”

  “About the smuggling or that we are to be married?”

  “Both.”

  Now, more than ever, Arabella needed the protection of his name and title, but all he said was, “As you wish.”

  Her eyes sought his and she gave an uncertain smile. Then she left, closing the door softly behind her.

  Lucien let out his breath in a long, weary sigh. Prickly and defiant, stubborn and unyielding, she would be anything but an accommodating wife. He thought of her frosty demeanor in dealing with Harlbrook and he smiled wearily. One thing was certain—come what may, Arabella Hadley would make one hell of a duchess.

  Chapter 17

  Arabella closed the barn door and went to pat Sebastian, finding solace in his familiar presence. As if sensing her disquiet, the old horse blew out, his breath frosting the air to a cloud of silver. It was cold this morning, a deep, bitter cold that slipped between her layers of clothing and stole away whatever warmth it found hoarded there.

  She sighed and rested her forehead against Sebastian’s bony neck, staring out at the white-tinged morning. For the last half hour, snow had powdered the air, falling softly on the harsh edges of the house until it looked fresh and white, like an iced cake.

  “I suppose I should just tell him everything and get it over with,” she muttered. Did she really have any other choice?

  Sebastian shook his head and managed a shuffle that might have been a prance in a younger horse.

  Arabella managed a weak chuckle. “Stubborn to the end, aren’t you? He already knows enough to send us all to gaol, but he didn’t.” She pursed her lips and frowned. He had even tried to help. “Lucien is a surprising man.”

/>   Hearing his master’s name, Satan dipped his head over the stall door and watched her with liquid eyes.

  “I would pat you, too, but I need all of my fingers, thank you. You are as quarrelsome as your owner.”

  Satan sniffed and then ducked his head back into his stall as if affronted.

  Arabella smiled. Last night, after her confrontation with Lucien, she had fallen into bed and slept until dawn. Now, refreshed and dressed in Robert’s old clothes, she felt some of her strength returning. She had allowed Harlbrook’s malice to shake her confidence. Never again, she decided.

  She leaned over Sebastian’s stall door and held out her hand. When the horse shuffled closer, she pressed her cheek against his neck. It was so peacefully silent here.

  Arabella closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of hay tinged with the fresh smell of new-fallen snow. Sooner or later she would have to explain to Lucien just how and why she’d become a smuggler. Somehow, it had seemed a less disreputable decision when she didn’t have to say it aloud.

  Sighing heavily, she picked up a shovel and hefted it over her shoulder. Before she met with Lucien, she would reorganize the shed. The task needed to be done, now that the door had been repaired. Besides, it wasn’t cowardly to merely postpone a conversation that she was fully committed to having.

  Reassured at her reasoning, she walked out of the barn and into the silent snowfall. The shoulders of her coat collected a heavy dusting of snow as she went, each flake a sparkling diamond.

  Diamond. Like those that had winked in the palm of Lucien’s hand. No wonder Bolder had been so desperate to keep the casks. She stopped and stared at the door of the shed. The brash smuggler would return for his shipment, she was sure of it. With such a priceless cargo hidden in the caves below Rosemont, he’d have no choice.

  The thought tightened her throat. Heavens, what have I gotten myself into? Bolder was not the kind of man one simply apologized to. He would want more than the return of his merchandise; he would want something to make up for the humiliation of being bested.

  She opened the shed door and carried the shovel to the back wall, where all the tools hung in a row. She had just lifted it above her head to hang it in place when a dark shadow flitted across the wall. Images of the weaselly smuggler flashed before her eyes and she whirled around, the shovel falling to the floor, her heart thudding against her ribs.

  Lucien stood in the doorway, his hat and black coat lightly dusted with snow. “Sorry to frighten you, but I thought we would have more privacy out here.”

  He stepped into the shed, the small building instantly seeming half its normal size as he brushed snow from his shoulders. “It looks as if we’ll have a white Christmas, after all.”

  She tried to regain her breath, but all she could do was stare at him.

  He crossed the small space that separated them. Looking far too handsome for his own good, he smiled, a strange glint in his eyes. “Where have you been all morning?”

  “I am going to clean out the shed. It needs it.” But not as badly as she needed to get some room between her and Lucien. She cleared her throat. “I try to keep this place in order, but it never stays that way.”

  “How inconvenient.” He lifted a hoe from a corner where it had been propped for so long that cobwebs clung to it, then he hung it on the back wall. The front of his greatcoat opened to reveal an impeccable black waistcoat, his starched cravat tied in an intricate weave, one lone emerald shining in the folds.

  Arabella looked down at the loose breeches she’d borrowed from Robert, her coarse shirt, and dull gray coat. For some reason, the contrast between their stations had never been more obvious. It was the reason he would never think to marry her—unless she were on the verge of being hauled to gaol. Damn his chivalrous instincts. They made it all the more difficult to dislike him.

  She tilted her chin to a pugnacious angle. “Let’s not prolong this. What do you want to know?”

  His smile faded, but he shrugged, his gaze intent. “Everything.”

  Somewhere beneath her embarrassment, she was conscious of a feeling of obligation mingled with a torrent of other, unnamed emotions. She shoved her fists into her coat pockets. “When my father died, he left us with bills we could not pay. We were destitute. Unknown to me, Wilson had been dabbling in free trading. When I found out, I helped him.”

  “How?”

  She glared at him. “Within three months of my becoming involved, we began to supply twelve more inns, added almost eighteen casks per month to our shipping total, and tripled our income.”

  He swore softly. “Which would only make you more visible to the authorities.”

  She’d known that, of course. But by that time she’d been struggling to pay Lord Harlbrook and the risk had seemed worthwhile. Still, those were things she’d never admit, especially not to Lucien. “We had no trouble until you came.”

  The hard line of his jaw told her what he thought of such poor reasoning. “What of the jewels?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. How did you find them?”

  “The cask was separate from the others, and it was somewhat smaller, too.”

  Her brow cleared, the corners of her mouth turning downward. “I should have known. We had a dispute with our supplier and we ended up with part of someone else’s shipment.” She looked up at him. “Lucien, I didn’t know about the jewels until you showed them to me. I swear it.”

  His gaze flicked across her, then he sighed and yanked off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket. “Who else is involved besides you and Wilson?”

  “His nephews, Lem and Twekes.”

  “Anyone else?”

  She shook her head. Embarrassment heated her cheeks; her throat clogged with unshed tears. But she would not cry. She wouldn’t give Lucien Devereaux that much satisfaction, damn his judgmental soul. What did he know about true poverty? About the pain of trying to provide for loved ones who were unable to provide for themselves? When his pockets had been to let, all he’d had to do was ride to London and sell his title to the first heiress who came along. She hadn’t had such a luxury.

  Her clouded gaze fell on the dropped shovel and she bent to retrieve it just as Lucien did. His large, warm hand brushed Arabella’s and for one burning instant they stood, fingers overlaid.

  Arabella withdrew her hand and tucked it behind her. “Why do you want to know about the smuggling?” She managed a tiny smile. “Thinking of going into the trade yourself?”

  He was slow to answer, his gaze touching her brow, her eyes, her mouth. “Let’s just say that I have interests.” His lips quirked in a lopsided grin. “We are betrothed, you know.”

  “A betrothal is a commitment.” She let her disdain show. “What do you know about commitment?”

  His face closed. “Neither of us have led blameless lives, Bella.”

  “I want you to understand, Lucien: my family was destitute. Rosemont was crumbling about our heads. I had no choice.”

  “Then we are even: neither did I.” Lucien watched as she frowned, weighing his words, wondering if he told the truth. He reached out and gently brushed a stray tendril of hair from her forehead. “But we both have a choice now. Arabella, marry me.”

  A fierce, almost martial light brightened her gaze. “I do not need your charity. Unlike you, I will not sell myself.”

  Lucien hated it when she was like this, all outraged fury, her eyes blazing contempt. He especially hated it when she was right, in the bargain. “Had I been more prepared to assume the duties of my title and less swayed by the opinions of others, I might have found another way out of my difficulties just as you did.”

  “Others? What others?”

  He didn’t reply; the answer would only infuriate her. But he’d had enough—enough accusations, enough useless anger. And enough hurt. Every time her brown eyes flashed with pain, his own heart bled. He’d just offered to share his fortune, his home, and even his name with her, and she’d scoffed as if he’d tried to pass
a false coin.

  But no matter her feelings, she couldn’t deny their passion. It was the one weapon he possessed. Lucien reached out and pulled Arabella against him, lowering his mouth over hers before she could protest. Her mouth was berry-sweet beneath his; her swift breaths mingled fury and raw need.

  Heat built between them and her arms crept about his neck. Lucien moaned against her mouth, his hands moving over the curve of her back, her hips, and lower. God, but she tortured him with the potency of her ardor, her unrestrained responses pushing him higher and higher, until he lost his own control.

  Behind them, a loud bang rang out and then the shed was plunged into darkness. Lucien raised his head to look at the shed door.

  “What was that?” Arabella’s voice trembled the tiniest bit.

  She tried to step away, but Lucien tightened his hold. He could just discern the oval of her face in the darkness. “The wind must have blown the door closed.”

  “Perhaps it was the illustrious Captain,” she said, a quirk to her lips that made him want to kiss her yet again.

  “Aunt Jane seems to think he is a bit of a matchmaker.”

  “Aunt Jane also thinks he can eat,” Lucien returned roughly. She still stood within the circle of his arms and he was afraid to move, afraid she’d never return. “We need to talk about the smuggling, Arabella. It must stop.”

  For a moment he thought she’d deny him, but she nodded. “I know. I let it continue far too long. I will tell Wilson today.”

  She removed her hands from his shoulders and Lucien reluctantly allowed her to step away. “Who is your supplier?”

  “A little weasel by the name of Bolder.”

  “How can I find him?”

  “We contact him by leaving word at the Red Rooster with a man named Mumferd.”

  Things suddenly became all too clear.

  Unaware of his thoughts, she continued, “He is a cringing little creature. Lem and Twekes dislike him.”

  So Bolder was the mastermind of the smuggling outfit, slipping in whatever illegal merchandise he could, while Mumferd bated well-monied purchasers to the sale.