Chapter 24 #2
His smile spread as he recollected the last time he’d been with Alix when she’d had too much wine.
She’d been in a fine passion then, recalling the wineglass that had just missed his ear.
It had been the first time he’d kissed her, really kissed her, and he felt his blood begin to heat as more than his mind remembered her passionate response.
He felt himself grow hard as images of Alix’s lithe body flooded his mind.
He needed to be with her. He was tired of watching her from across crowded rooms and from the distance of windows.
He’d been too long without the taste of her mouth and the silken touch of her skin.
She was his wife, damn it all. She belonged with him, in his arms and in his bed.
He leaned out the coach window, told his coachman to take him a bit farther up the street, and then to let him out.
“You needn’t wait, Harris,” he said as he climbed out.
“You may take the horses back to Moreham House.” He watched until his coach had disappeared, then turned and began to walk purposefully towards the back of Melbourne House.
He’d agreed they would spend their days apart for two months, he reasoned with himself, but he’d said nothing about how they would spend their nights.
And if his little hoyden chose to start tossing glasses at his head, well then, he had a fair idea of how to distract her.
Dropping her domino on the floor, kicking off her shoes, and beginning to pull the pins from her hair, Alix noticed that Ginny had left precious few candles burning this evening.
Two branches of candles burned on the mantelpiece of the sitting room, but her bedchamber was completely dark.
Ginny, she thought, and a hiccup escaped her, was no doubt distracted by Jervis again.
Should she ring for more light and help with her stays?
Or leave the lovebirds to themselves? She heard a noise—a soft footstep, in her bedchamber.
“Ginny?” she called softly, peering into the bedroom.
The curtains near her desk had been drawn open slightly, and moonlight spilled across its cluttered surface and onto the floor.
She didn’t recall leaving it such a mess, she thought hazily.
She caught a whiff of musk that was teasingly familiar.
Standing at the threshold of her room, Alix had a prickling sense that she should go no farther, but before she could take a step back, she was grabbed by the arm and yanked forward.
She stumbled and the grip around her arm tightened. A man’s voice hissed into her ear.
“The titles, Mademoiselle de La Brou, where are the titles?”
She flung up an arm and raked her nails down his face. She heard him snarl as he wrenched her arm up behind her back and then shoved her hard against the marble fireplace. Her cheek hit the carved edge of the mantle and she slid to the floor.
Pain blossomed in her face and her shoulder.
She shifted her limbs, wincing with the effort, trying to determine if anything was broken.
As she did so, her attacker stepped closer and knelt on her outspread skirts.
She felt something cool and sharp press against the exposed flesh of her neck.
Arching away from the knife, she found herself looking up into the pallid face of Robert Lamartine.
“You?” she said, in stunned confusion.
“You are surprised to see me, mademoiselle? As surprised as I was to discover you had made it safely out of France?” His small teeth glittered in the moonlight as his lips parted in a smile.
“I should have known when I saw your arrogant friend at your mother’s apartments in Paris that you had found a way to save yourself.
Such a shame your father didn’t live to see his aristocratic daughter turned whore.
Not that he should have been surprised with a mother like yours.
As he was so fond of pointing out, breeding always tells. ”
Lamartine turned the knife so that the blade cut into her skin. “Alix,” he purred, “I have come a long way for those titles, and I would like them now.”
As if sensing the resistance in her body, he slid the knife down and Alix felt the wetness of blood on her neck. “I killed your father for those titles, Alix. Don’t think for a moment I won’t do the same to you.”
Her mind raced frantically, she needed time, just a fragment, to think what to do.
“The peasants killed my father,” she croaked against the blade.
A look of contempt flickered over his pallid features.
“The peasants may have done the deed, but where do you think the idea came from? I was the one who created the rumors that your father was sending money to the Royalists, and it was my hirelings who raised the mob and encouraged them to attack Valcour.”
A shudder of revulsion swept through Alix.
“You were supposed to die with him, but you escaped. You’ve proven quite an annoyance, mademoiselle.” He gazed down upon her neck fondly. “The peasants cut off your father’s head, you know. Quite the stain on the Aubusson carpet.”
Pain lanced through her that had nothing to do with the knife at her throat, “But then you wouldn’t have the titles,” she managed to gasp.
“Quite true,” he agreed, “tell me where they are.”
“In the desk.”
Lamartine’s eyes narrowed and Alix felt again the razor’s edge of the knife. “Don’t play me for a fool, mademoiselle. I’ve already searched your desk.”
“There’s a secret drawer in the desk, at the bottom, the engraved base slides out.”
“How does it work?” he snapped.
“There’s a catch but it’s too difficult to describe. If you let me up, I’ll open it for you.”
Alix felt the pressure of the knife ease. Lamartine rose from his knees, motioning with his knife. “Show me, mademoiselle.”
Alix got to her feet, resisting the urge to touch her throat, sensing it would only bring Lamartine pleasure and heighten her fear if she felt the blood she knew was there.
Walking slowly to the desk she scanned the top, desperate for something to fight him with, her eyes racing over so many useless items, paper, wax seals, a delicate china bud vase, quills set in a glass holder, ink bottles on an ornate marble tray.
She caught sight of a heavy candelabrum, but as if reading her mind, Lamartine swept out of her reach.
“Don’t even think of trying to fight me, Alix,” He whispered in her ear. “Just get the titles.”
“I won’t,” she said, hating how her voice sounded strained and thin.
“I’m just trying to find the right rosette.
” She slid her hands along the elaborately carved garlands at the base of the desk, making a show of fumbling her hands along the woodwork.
“It’s back here somewhere,” she muttered bending to one side and placing a hand on the desk.
Lamartine peered around to see where Alix was looking as her hand connected with the marble inkstand. Grasping the cool, heavy stone, she swung around and slammed it hard against his head.
There was a sickening crack, a splatter, and the sound of glass shattering.
Bottles and quills rolled across the floor.
An outraged cry escaped from Lamartine. Alix swung again, this time with all the force and rage she could muster.
Lamartine went down. She stood over him, her breath coming fast, waiting to see if he would move, trying to find the voice to scream.
She stared at his prostrate body, saw his chest rise and fall in the moonlight, but his limbs were mercifully still.
Alix whirled around, the marble tray still clutched in her hand, as she heard the sound of footsteps crossing the sitting room.
In the flickering candlelight saw the familiar tawny hair and tall frame of Rafe Harcrest. The tray slid from her grasp as she ran across the room. She hurled herself against his chest, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck, and clung to him, her body shaking with tremors of delayed fear.
“Hush, sweetheart,” she heard him chuckle against her hair, as his arms solidly enfolded her.
“I hoped you’d be pleased to see me, but I never thought your greeting would be so enthusiastic.
” He gently tilted her head back to kiss her, then froze as he caught sight of the bruise swelling on her cheek and the smears of blood on her neck.
An unintelligible oath escaped him. He caught her face in his hands.
“God in heaven Alix, what’s happened to you? ”
Shivering, Alix turned and pointing wordlessly to the bedroom and the crumpled form by the desk.