A Belated Bride

  Arabella’s gaze narrowed on his face. “What is it? You look upset.”

  Before Lucien could answer, an acrid odor wafted upward. “What’s that?” Arabella asked.

  The darkness around them thickened with a ghostly gray haze as a crackling sound began.

  “Bloody hell!” Lucien whirled to catch a glimpse of a dull red glow. Someone had stuffed hay beneath the shed door and set it ablaze.

  He crossed to the newly built door, lifted a booted foot, and kicked with all his might. It didn’t budge an inch.

  The fire lapped hungrily at the walls. The ancient boards creaked and popped, surrendering themselves to the blaze until the flames climbed to the framing above.

  Within minutes, one whole wall was aflame. Smoke boiled through the tiny room, burning their eyes and lungs.

  Coughing, Lucien grabbed Arabella and pulled her toward the back of the shed. He slammed his hand along the wall, looking for a weak spot. But like all of the buildings at Rosemont, it was solidly built—there was no breaking free.

  Each breath was a labor, the heat searing the air with a fiery haze. Like malevolent fairies, the fire danced across the dry wood, crackling with evil laughter. Smoke billowed white and thick, visible even in the darkness of the shed. Lucien pulled Arabella to the floor and unwrapped the muffler from his neck and looped it about her own. “Put this over your mouth.”

  “No,” she cried hoarsely. “You take it!”

  “Damn it, Bella! Don’t be a fool! I can—”

  With an almost human roar, the thatch roof burst into flames, bits of burning twigs showering them. Arabella screamed in pure terror. Lucien was glad she was wearing breeches and not a dress with yards and yards of material. The idea of flames curling about Arabella’s legs fanned Lucien’s fear. He pulled her against him and covered her body with his.

  She pushed at him and tried to say something, but the smoke choked her words. The smoke roiled thicker and Lucien cursed his luck, cursed his poor timing, cursed everything and everyone that seemed determined to keep Arabella from him. But he would beat this. Beat it as he had beaten everything else.

  Eyes burning, his throat afire, he reached across the dirt floor, his fingers grasping for something to use to break through the wall.

  “Lucien.” Arabella’s raspy voice cut through the maniacal crackle of fire. “The shovel.”

  “What?”

  A cough raked her and she barely managed to croak, “Get the shovel.”

  Of course. He leaned farther out and his fingers brushed something cold and hard. With superhuman effort, Lucien grabbed the shovel and scrambled to his feet. He turned to the wall and swung it over his head like an ax, hitting the wall with all his might.

  The welcome sound of splintering wood greeted him and he swung the shovel again and yet again. A small opening appeared in the wood, the smoke pouring out.

  Lucien threw the shovel aside and kicked the loosened wood until the boards split wide. But still the opening was not wide enough.

  He took two steps back, fighting for breath. Then, head bowed and teeth clenched, he threw himself against the weakened boards. Pain shot through his shoulder as the wall gave way with a splintering crash. Lucien fell to the blessedly cold ground and gulped frozen air into lungs that burned, then, staggering to his feet, he headed back into the fire.

  Strong hands stayed him. Lord Harlbrook’s red face appeared through a tear-stained blur. “Easy, Wexford! You’ve had too much smoke.”

  “Bella!” Lucien gasped, wiping his streaming eyes. “I must—”

  “Francot’s already gone for her.”

  Lucien turned to see the solicitor pulling Arabella from the opening. Francot assisted her to where Lucien sat and gently laid her down on Harlbrook’s spread coat.

  She curled onto her side, gasping for air. Oblivious to their audience, Lucien gathered her close. She grasped his shoulders, her face smudged with soot, tears streaking from eyes reddened by smoke.

  Never had he seen a more beautiful sight. He brushed some of the soot from her face, watching as the snow gently fell to wash her black-streaked skin.

  Harlbrook rocked back on his heels, his brows lowered. “Good thing for you that Francot heard Miss Hadley shouting for help.”

  The solicitor shuddered, his face pale. “I—I heard her scream and I…Oh, my God. It was horrible.” He dropped to his knees beside her. “I was afraid…so afraid I might be too late.”

  Harlbrook placed a beefy hand on the solicitor’s shoulder. “There, now. She’s fine, as you can see.”

  Mr. Francot nodded, his eyes wet.

  Air had begun to return to Lucien’s lungs and he lifted himself on one arm and looked down at Arabella. “Are you hurt?”

  A glimmer of a smile touched her lips and she managed to say between breaths, “Just…my pride.”

  Lucien chuckled. “I rather thought I heard it crack.” He stood, then reached down and helped her to her feet, wincing when an unexpected pain shot up his arm.

  Her eyes searched his anxiously. “Your shoulder?”

  “I seem to have the devil of a time staying in one piece around you, sweetheart.”

  An unexpected gurgle of laughter spilled from her lips.

  The sound of a harness jingling to a halt made Lucien turn. Wilson hopped down from the cart, his shocked gaze going from the shed to Lucien and Arabella. “Lord, what’s happened now, missus?”

  “The shed caught on fire,” Arabella said. “We have Mr. Francot to thank for his timely intervention.”

  The solicitor’s face reddened. “No, no. It was nothing. Really.”

  Arabella stepped forward and caught his hand, holding it between hers. “We owe you our lives.”

  He almost snatched his hand away. “No, I didn’t do anything. Really I didn’t. I—I should never have—I must leave.” He gave a jerky bow, spun on his heel, and ran to his horse.

  Lord Harlbrook sent a hard, puzzled look after the solicitor. “Strange. When I arrived, I thought…” He stopped, then shrugged and placed his hat on his head and gathered his coat. His small eyes darted uneasily at Arabella. “I came to tell you that Constable Robbins is questioning each and every innkeeper. We will have proof enough for an arrest by this evening.”

  Lucien had to admire the way Arabella’s gaze never wavered. She even managed a smile as cold as the snow that drifted all around them. “Thank you for the information, Lord Harlbrook, though I’m not sure why you think we would be interested.”

  His face tight with disapproval, he gave a short bow, then strode to his horse.

  Arabella watched the scowl deepen on Lucien’s face. The scent of wood smoke clogged her dry throat with tears. It had been so close. Too close.

  “I think ye’d both best come and flash yer peepers at this,” Wilson said from near the shed.

  Lucien released Arabella and she shivered. An instant later, she was enveloped in his greatcoat, the warm wool covering her from neck to heel. Lucien smiled down at her, his fingers brushing against her neck as he pulled the collar tighter about her neck.

  She swayed toward him, burrowing her face into his shoulder. She had found him, only to come so close to losing him again.

  Wilson’s voice drifted through the snow. “I don’t know what ye are goin’ to think of this.”

  Lucien’s hand strayed from Arabella’s collar to her chin. He lifted her face to his and smiled down at her, his teeth white in his soot-streaked face. “Easy, love,” he whispered. “Come. Wilson is calling for us.”

  She managed a shaky smile and, hand warmly enveloped in his, followed him to where Wilson stood by the remains of the burning shed. It had collapsed inward and only parts of each wall remained standing, flames still crackling among the smoking pile.

  Lucien stared where Wilson pointed. “Bloody hell.”

  “What is it?” Arabella asked.

  Wilson spoke over his shoulder. “The door was blocked shut from the outside. Whoever it was pushed a cart aga
inst it.”

  “Maybe it rolled there by accident.”

  Lucien’s green gaze flickered to her. “Whoever moved the cart also stuffed straw under the door to make sure it would burn quickly.”

  The old groom spat, then cast a sideways glance at Lucien. “Looks to me as if someone was tryin’ to kill ye.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill the duke?” asked Arabella.

  Lucien frowned. “I don’t know.”

  Arabella looked at the blackened hull of the shed and a tremor shook through her. “Perhaps they were not trying to kill the duke. Maybe they were trying to kill me.”

  Wilson’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “Who would want to kill you?” Lucien asked, his brows drawn.

  “Bolder. He was so angry when we made him renegotiate the shipment, and—”

  “Here, now, missus,” said Wilson, sending a startled glance at Lucien. “There’s no need to tell everythin’.”

  “I already know about the smuggling,” Lucien said. “I followed you and your nephews from the Red Rooster two days ago.”

  “Ye did, did ye?” Wilson said, obviously affronted.

  “The duke is not threatening to turn us in, Wilson. He wants our help in discovering something else. There were jewels in one of the casks.”

  Wilson’s eyes widened. “Jewels?”

  Lucien nodded. “Apparently Bolder has been dabbling in something far more serious than cognac. From what I can discover, he plans on selling them to fund an effort to free Napoleon.”

  “Gor’! No wonder he was so brash wif us.”

  “Wilson,” Arabella said, “we must stop free trading.”

  “Oh? And jus’ what made ye decide that?”

  Arabella tilted her head toward Lucien.

  Wilson eyed Lucien with new respect. “I’ve been tryin’ to tell her it ain’t the thing fer a gently raised lady, but she’d none of it. If ye’ve got her to agree, ye’re a better man than me.”

  Arabella sniffed. “I am not admitting any such thing. But with things the way they are…” Her gaze drifted to the smoking shed and she shivered.

  Wilson rubbed a gnarled hand along his unshaven jaw and sighed. “These are havey-cavey times, they are.” He sent a concerned look at Lucien. “But there’s more. Someone found the cave last night and took every last cask.”

  The news just got worse and worse, Arabella thought bleakly. Not only was her profit gone, but her entire business. How would she ever make Harlbrook’s last payment? She dashed a hand across her eyes and turned to Lucien. “I need to go. I promised Aunt Jane I would visit one of the tenants today.”

  Lucien nodded. “I’ve an errand to run this morning, but I should return by noon. We’ll go then.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll take Wilson with me.”

  He slid a hot green gaze across her. “We’ll go when I return.”

  Without quite knowing how, Arabella found herself bustled into the house and delivered into the safety of her aunts’ arms. Aunt Jane took one swift look at Arabella’s soot-covered face and ordered a long hot bath. Aunt Emma bustled to the kitchen to see to the preparation of some nice hot soup. Arabella was too shaken to do more than agree, her mind churning as she sat in the gently steaming water.

  No indolent lord would bother to investigate a smuggling operation, especially one as small as the one she and Wilson ran. No, Lucien had been after something more valuable.

  Arabella soaped one of her legs, her movements slowing as her tumbled thoughts finally locked into place. He put the answer in front of me last night. The jewels. It was the only thing that made sense.

  Perhaps they were also the reason someone had tried to kill her and Lucien. But how had Lucien known to look for the jewels in Yorkshire? Perhaps he was helping the owner? The thought reassured her and she almost smiled until she remembered where he had found the gems—in her cave.

  She slid further into the tub and sighed heavily. A month ago, she had been ready to swear everything in her life was finally heading for the better. Now…

  Damn Lucien. Whatever his reason for returning to Yorkshire, he wasn’t leaving until he’d thoroughly explained himself to her. That decided, she rose, dried herself, and dressed.

  Chapter 18

  Arabella rested until noon, waiting impatiently for Lucien to return. Her mind too fraught with the occurrences of the day, she finally rose and went downstairs. After assisting Mrs. Guinver darn linens for a desultory half hour, she went in search of her aunts to see if they had any commissions for her while she was visiting the tenants.

  Lucien had told her to wait until his return, but she had a pressing need to do something, anything. She was just walking through the vestibule when the murmur of voices halted her. Low and feminine, they drifted up the steps from below.

  Strange. What were Aunt Emma and Aunt Jane doing in the storage hall? Frowning, Arabella descended the stairs, pausing on the last step when she heard Aunt Emma speaking.

  “Oh, Jane! What will you do now? We are sunk. Not even the Captain can help us now.”

  Arabella peered around the corner to the old storeroom. Emma was perched on a barrel of flour while Jane paced up and down the narrow aisle between the salted pork and dried herbs.

  “I hate Sir Loughton!” exclaimed Jane, her arms crossed beneath her sparse bosom as she marched. “The lecher.”

  “It was most ungentlemanly of him,” agreed Emma, swinging her feet to and fro, her heels thudding against the wood.

  “I’ve known that bounder was not a gentleman from the first day I met him.” Jane’s booted feet clipped a steady beat as she paced. “That…rapscallion! If I were a man, I would call him out.”

  “Yes, but if you were a man, he would not have offered to dismiss your gaming debts for a quick roll in the hay.”

  Arabella almost lost her balance, catching the railing just in time. Gaming debts? A roll in the hay? She tried to imagine gruff Sir Loughton making such an improper proposition, but could not.

  “Ha!” Jane’s voice rang out. “If that man thinks I will allow him to so much as kiss my hand after such a request, he has another think coming.”

  “There’s no need to get so upset,” Emma said, tilting her gray head to one side, her face taking on a dreamy look. “If you feel you cannot make such a sacrifice, then I will…” She stopped and cleared her throat before saying in a brave voice, “Jane, if you think it will help, I will sleep with Sir Loughton.”

  Jane halted in her tracks. Arabella could not see her face, but her back was ramrod stiff. “And just what,” said Jane in a thinly stretched voice, “do you mean by that? You have a tendre for that lecher, don’t you?”

  “Oh, no! Please, Jane! I can see that you are upset. If I had realized you meant to accept him, I never would have said a word.”

  “Of course I am not going to accept him! Do you think I have taken leave of my senses?”

  “If anyone has taken leave of their senses, it is Sir Loughton,” said Emma stoutly. “You are perfectly sane.”

  Jane resumed her pacing. “I was a fool to think I could talk that man into coming to a genteel settlement on the notes he won from me last month.”

  Arabella leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Just how much did Jane owe?

  “Yes, but…” Emma’s voice clouded with doubt. “Do you think it was wise to wager him double or nothing on a single card?”

  “You do not understand the rudiments of the game,” Jane said in a haughty voice. “Furthermore, you do not understand the code of conduct expected in such circumstances. I could not, in all honor, refuse such an offer. I mean, double or nothing!” She slashed through the air with her hand. “I could have wiped out the entire debt in one fell swoop.”

  “Yes, but now we owe twice as much and I don’t know where we are to get it. Ten thousand pounds is a great deal of money.”

  Ten thousand pounds. Arabella sank to the top step, dazed.

  “Maybe t
here is one thing we can do,” Emma said.

  “What does Sir Loughton want more than anything else?”

  Jane stiffened and Emma added hastily, “Besides you.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “The sheep tonic. Maybe he would trade us your notes for the sheep tonic.”

  For an instant, Arabella’s heart took flight. But then Jane sighed and resumed her pacing. “No, we cannot. While I don’t mind making a small batch of tonic now and then for our particular friends, it would be an error to think of Sir Loughton in such a way. His sheep compete against ours at market. If both of our farms produced an excessive amount of lambs, the prices would fall immediately.”

  “Then we would be right back where we started from.” Emma gave a heartfelt sigh. “I suppose our only hope is that the duke will see his way to win Arabella.”

  “It is just a matter of time,” Aunt Jane said firmly, “before they realize what nodcocks they’ve been. I’m sure of it.”

  Blindly groping for the railing, Arabella rose and made her way back to the foyer. Once there, she sank into the first chair she found and sat staring straight ahead. Ten thousand pounds. Arabella pressed her hand to her forehead. It was yet another care, another impossible feat she had to accomplish. But whatever happened, she could not allow Aunt Jane to exchange her virtue for a few notes.

  Within the space of one short day, her smuggling venture had collapsed about her ears, threatening Wilson’s welfare, if not her own; someone had tried to kill her and Lucien by setting the shed on fire; and now Aunt Jane had been lured into wagering a staggering sum to Sir Loughton. Arabella rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and covered her eyes. What on earth was she to do now?

  A knock sounded at the door and Mrs. Guinver bustled forward from the hallway. She stopped when she saw Arabella. “Heavens, missus! What are you doing sitting here in the foyer?” Concern shadowed the housekeeper’s plump face. “Are you ill?”

  Arabella gathered herself as best as she could. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”