Breathless (27 page)

H
e was holding her bare hand, Miranda realized belatedly. He would be able to feel the cold sweat on her palms, the faint tremor. She pulled her hand away, surveying the room with a critical eye.

At one end of the huge hall there was a dais, which one might purport to be an altar, albeit one dedicated to the darker arts. She was marginally relieved to see that instead of a sacrificial stone there was a low bed. Not that she'd ever believed the stories about sacrifice. Her father and grandfather had been far from proper gentlemen but their wickedness didn't go the way of murder.

She glanced around her. People were wearing all sorts of strange garments, from nuns' habits and priests' robes to the simple, enveloping dominos that left one with no idea who they were. Little wonder, if the members of the Heavenly Host were as august as she'd heard.

A short, slightly rotund man approached, and she could only guess he was the host of this particular gathering. He, too, was wearing classical costume, with a
laurel wreath on thinning hair styled à Brutus and the mask of a goat on his face.

“We call you all to witness the marriage made in hell of our dear brother Lucien the Scorpion and his chosen lady, and we ask you all to partake of the chalice that will sanctify this unholy union…”

He was carrying some kind of glass vessel, and it took her a moment to identify it. It was a goblet shaped like a phallus, though admittedly more like Lucien's impressive appendage and less like St. John's tiny stub. She supposed before the night was over she would have knowledge of any number of penises, and would be able to judge what was normal and what was not. A grim shiver of amusement ran over her.

It was cold in the room, even though she could see the sweat stand out on the foreheads of some of the people who pressed around them. Or perhaps she was simply nervous. Lucien stood beside her, silent. Damnably silent.

She reached up, unfastened the domino and let it fall to the floor. She could feel Lucien's start, as the assemblage roared in approval.

The man, whom she presumed was Lord Bromley, held the obscene glass up to her. “Take of our communion, my dark lady, and we shall…”

“I think not,” she said in a cool voice. “It looks most unsanitary, and I have grave doubts as to what's inside.”

The room was struck silent, as if the devil himself had suddenly appeared. The goat lord seemed nonplussed. “Er…all right.” He handed the goblet to a waiting minion, then turned back to her, trying to regain his
concentration. “We call upon the powers of darkness, Beelzebub and his angels, to curse this union…”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You don't seriously expect to conjure up the devil, do you? I doubt you even believe in the devil. This is all extremely tiresome—could we get on with it?” Cheery good humor was beyond her at this point, but she could manage bored annoyance quite well. Even if she thought she heard a muffled snort of laughter from the man who brought her.

The man in front of her looked aggrieved, but he wasn't to be deterred from his course. “First you must be judged worthy. Take your chosen bride to the marriage bed.”

At least he didn't call him the Scorpion again. It would have made her giggle. Perhaps she shouldn't have indulged in the glass of wine, but she could have barely faced all this sober, could she?

For a moment Lucien didn't move. And then he put his hand beneath her arm and led her toward the altar. She might have thought his hand was like ice beneath her skin, but she was too cold to be certain. She allowed herself one brief glimpse at him. He looked like a wax figure, expressionless, emotionless.

He stopped in front of the bed. The portly goat-man had been following, and as Lucien turned her to face the crowd the man said, “Do you join us of your own free will, my lady? Is it your wish to be one of us?”

The silence in the room was so complete one could have heard a stray mouse. She glanced at Lucien, his cold, pale face. “Not exactly,” she allowed in a carrying voice. “It appears to be my lord's wish, and my wish is to make my lord happy.” It felt like it was the last smile
she would ever have the strength to summon, and she flashed it toward him, hoping he would miss the bleak misery in her eyes.

Another murmur of conversation from the crowd, but apparently it was agreement enough. “My Lord Scorpion, you may retire,” said the man, and took her cold hand away from the man she was fool enough to love.

For a moment she lost sight of him, as the avid crowd pushed closer, and the pudgy man led her toward the bed. Bloody hell, she thought. Clearly she'd played this wrong. At every minute she'd expected Lucien to renege, to pull her back, but he'd done nothing. This was his will.

And she was half tempted to go through with it, just to spite him.

She glanced down at the bed. Did they really expect her to disport in public? Clearly they did. Would Lucien watch, unmoved? Clearly he would.

And what would happen if she suddenly screamed no and smacked the little toad beside her? And what was keeping her from doing so?

Hope? Surely that was long gone. Pride? That couldn't be worth this kind of shame, to stand here practically naked in front of all these people. Why the hell had she dumped her domino? She was a fool and a half to put up with this nonsense. It was past time to put an end to it.

The toad was intoning something about the bonds of submission but she was paying no attention, and she opened her mouth to tell them all to sod off, when a velvet scarf was yanked around her mouth, effectively silencing her, just as someone else tied her wrists together.

She panicked then. She'd waited too long. They placed a hood over her head, and she felt herself lifted and placed on the bed, and no matter how hard she struggled there seemed to be hands everywhere, holding her down.

“Do not worry about her struggles,” she heard the voice say, as she tried to scream against the gag. “It is simply part of the ceremony. She has given us her word free and clear that she wishes to participate, and we will…”

“Get your hands off her.”

She heard those words, loud and clear, and she fell back against the bed, no longer struggling. The hands were still holding her down, hands on her shoulders, hands on her legs. “You heard me.” Lucien's voice was cold and clear, murderous. “If anyone touches her I'll kill them.”

All the hands immediately left her, and she tried to sit up. She felt dizzy, her terror making her light-headed in the muffled darkness, and she felt Lucien approach her, knew him by the feel of him, the warmth of him. He took her bound hands in his and cut the ties, so that they fell apart. He pulled the hood from her head and she blinked in the now bright candlelight as he reached behind her and unfastened the gag, letting it drop to the floor.

“I find I'm more possessive than I realized,” he said, and took her arm and pulled her to her feet. He whipped off his own black domino and covered her with it, shielding her from the avid eyes.

She was trembling, afraid she wouldn't be able to stand, but she refused to show weakness in front of these pathetic creatures. He put his arm around her waist,
ostensibly out of affection, but she could feel his silent support, just as she'd helped him up to the house a few short days ago. And she wanted to weep.

But she kept her face stony cold as he led her down the long walk to the door. He paused, for one brief moment as he glanced into the crowd, and she could feel shock vibrate through his body. And then he moved on, leading her from the hall in grim silence.

There were curious eyes on them as they descended the staircase, but he simply scooped her up in his arms and she instinctively put her head against his shoulder, hiding her face. He didn't pause, didn't speak to anyone, and she could feel his body tremble as he carried her. She wasn't sure if it was from anger or her weight, and she didn't care. She wished she weighed five stone more. It would serve him right.

To her astonishment he placed her in a waiting carriage, settling her gently on the seat, and for a moment she dazedly wondered whose carriage he was stealing. And then she recognized his own, from the softness of the squabs, the faint scent of sandalwood and Lucien, a dark, spicy scent that had once seemed like everything she had ever wanted.

She knew it, now that it was too late. She'd loved him, and he betrayed her. It made no difference that in the end he'd recanted. He could have a thousand reasons for that.

He'd thrown her away, and he'd lost her.

She would have hoped he had the decency to let her ride alone. He had little decency, if any. He climbed in beside her and tried to pull her into his arms.

She kicked him to get away, ending up on the opposite seat in a far corner. He wouldn't be able to see
her face. He should have known that she wasn't to be touched.

But he said nothing. The carriage moved forward a moment later in the cool night air, and she felt the rich fur throw tossed over her in the darkness, without a word.

She would have liked to have thrown it on the floor and stomped on it, but she was too cold in the ridiculous clothes he'd made her wear. So she simply wrapped it around her, pulling it up around her ears, and closed her eyes, shutting him out completely.

Still, she thought. The carriage had been ready and waiting this entire time.

 

Well, how extremely interesting, Christopher St. John thought, moving away from the crowd. The future countess of Rochdale had certainly told off the Heavenly Host quite nicely. And Rochdale himself had been as cold-blooded as ever, offering up his future wife as if she were a decent bottle of port to be shared.

But even more interesting was the fact that he'd changed his mind, stopped them, carried her out of there like some noble knight.

He'd gone out of his way to make certain Rochdale would see him, standing at the edge of the crowd, and his reaction was all St. John could have asked for. He would have thought he was still on the continent, where he'd fled after the debacle with Rochdale's mistress. But he was back, and it was clear from the expression on the earl's face that the woman had no idea he'd hired him in the first place.

And if it was something he'd kept secret then he'd most likely continue to do so. And be willing to pay
a comfortable sum of money to ensure St. John's discretion.

Life certainly took the damnedest turns.

He would find where Rochdale was staying and pay him a little visit, when his mistress was nowhere around. Blackmail was always better than revenge, but he'd take the latter if Rochdale refused to pay. Rochdale had always had the ability to terrify him, but this time he held all the cards.

In the meantime, he was going to enjoy himself. And he turned back and moved into the crowd.

 

Jacob wouldn't have woken Miss Jane Pagett if he could have helped it. When the carriage came to an unexpected stop he carefully disentangled himself from her sleeping body and opened the door as quietly as he could, jumping down into the cool night air. After consulting with Simmons, the best driver in half of London, if not all, he tried to climb back in as quietly as he had left, but she was already wide-awake, staring at him out of sleepy eyes.

God, he loved the look of a woman as she was just waking up. There was something so blissfully erotic about it, the softness of her mouth, the vulnerability in her eyes. A vulnerability that suddenly disappeared as her eyelashes swept down.

“What's happened?” she asked.

He'd been hoping not to have to tell her, but his Jane was just a bit too sharp. “The left leader's thrown a shoe. We're almost at the next posting house, but we may be facing a bit of a delay.”

There was no missing the alarm that swept through her. “But what if we're too late?”

“Hush, lass,” he said in a soothing voice as the carriage started forward, this time at a snail's pace. “Scorpion's more than capable of seeing after his woman. He's more dangerous than you might think, and he's not about to let anyone touch her. He'll have changed his mind, you'll see.”

She didn't look reassured. He started to cross the carriage, to sit beside her again, when she held up a restraining hand. “You don't need to comfort me, Mr. Donnelly. I'm not a child. I'm simply worried about my friend.”

“I know you are, lass. And I…”

“You m…may call me Miss Pagett.” Her voice was high and nervous, and she didn't meet his eyes. “And I don't care how angry that makes you.”

He cocked his head. “It doesn't make me angry,
Miss Pagett,
” he said with faint ironic emphasis. “It just puzzles me. Have I done something to offend you?”

“Of course not,” she said in an aggrieved voice, and it was a good thing she couldn't see in the dark, because his smile widened.

Women really were the damnedest creatures. He'd been so very careful not to frighten her, simply holding her carefully in the crook of his arm while she slept. He knew the rules of decent behavior, even though he seldom chose to follow them. For all that he wanted nothing more than to push Miss Jane Pagett down on the narrow seat of the carriage and find his way beneath her skirts, he knew that sort of thing wasn't done. Any more than visiting her room at the inn, or taking her on the floor in her own salon by the side of her unconscious fiancé, even though he'd briefly considered all those things.

He wasn't quite sure when or how or if he could have her. She was a proper young lady, despite what that bastard had yelled at her, and she deserved a proper husband. If he'd ruined things for her by taking her off like this then maybe he stood a chance.

But if she somehow managed to squeak through with her reputation intact then he'd stand aside. The kind of life he offered was much too rough for the likes of her, though she was more resilient than she seemed. And for her to have a chance at that proper life she needed her virginity intact, as well.