Mary Jo Putney (56 page)

* * *

Behind her, Veseul was panting, no longer suave. His hissing threats had deteriorated into a string of French obscenities, words that mercifully she did not understand. Another turn, then ahead of her lay the circular heart of the maze.

Light-footed, she plunged into the clearing. When she was halfway across, she heard the sibilant voice exult, "Now I have you, little whore!"

She hurled herself forward with all her remaining strength, but just as she reached the far exit a hard blow between her shoulder blades knocked her to her knees, leaving her gasping for breath. Veseul had hurled his cane at her, and from the corner of her eye she saw the golden serpent's head shining bright and evil against the green grass.

For a moment she was too spent to move. Then she scrambled frantically to her feet.

Before she could flee again, before she could even reach down for her knife, he had crossed the clearing and seized her.

Chapter 24

Grim and uncompromising, Francis waited for Gervase to speak. Though a hum of conversation came from behind the door to the salon, they were alone in the soaring two-story entrance hall, joined by blood and divided by tension.

Not knowing where to begin, Gervase examined the fourteenth-century suit of armor standing by the wall and wondered why the devil it was there. His grandfather must have liked it. Or maybe his great-great-grandfather.

He laid one hand on the visor, and without looking at Francis, he said haltingly, "I'm sorry for... what I said earlier. It was unpardonable."

"Yes, it was."

Francis would not make this easy for him. Blindly staring at distorted reflections in the polished helmet, Gervase forced out the words: "What I said... had nothing to do with you, or with Geoffrey. Only with me."

This time, there was an arrested quality to his cousin's silence. Gervase turned to face him.

Francis watched him with an uncomfortable amount of perception, and with diminished hostility. His cousin undoubtedly saw more than Gervase would have wished, but said merely, "Consider it forgotten. The news I gave you would shock anyone out of good sense. But surely you know"—his voice dropped as he glanced around to be absolutely sure of their privacy—"I would no more molest a young boy than you would rape a young girl."

Gervase flinched. Geoffrey would be far safer with Francis than the young Diana had been with Gervase. Trying to conceal his reaction from those too-watchful blue eyes, he said, "I doubt you will ever be able to match me for disgraceful conduct."

Francis chuckled, lightening the atmosphere. "We'll have to get together at my club one night before I leave and trade lies about our wickedness."

This part of his life, at least, could be mended. Gervase offered his hand. "I'm going to miss you."

"And I, you. I will come back to England occasionally. You can visit me as well when we have settled somewhere." Francis clasped Gervase's hand in both of his and they stood locked together for a moment, joined not only by blood but also by happy memories, from the time Francis had shadowed his large cousin's footsteps, to this moment of poignant acceptance.

Geoffrey hurtled into the hall, pelting across the polished marble floor before skidding into his father as he tried to stop. The boy was coatless and dirty, with a bleeding scratch across one cheek and frantic eyes. "Please, Mama!" he gasped. "She's in the maze and there's a bad man after her."

Gervase froze for a moment as lingering remnants of jealousy made him wonder if his wife had met a lover and the boy had misunderstood.

Suspicion dissolved when Geoffrey grabbed his hand, shaking it in his frenzy. "Veseul, she said. She sent me for help. Mama screamed. He wants to hurt her."

Then, to the horror of the two men, the boy's eyes rolled back and he pitched to the hard marble floor in the first stages of seizure, his breathing a harsh rattle in the empty hall.

Swearing, Gervase knelt by his son, pulling off his coat and shoving it under the boy's head for whatever protection it might give. Frightening as the seizure was, Geoffrey needed him far less than Diana did.

Fragments of information clicked into a terrifying new pattern. It wasn't spying that had brought Veseul to loiter near Diana's house, but her extraordinary beauty and her closeness to Gervase. The Frenchman had been barred from London brothels for his violence. He would not dare attack Diana here unless he intended to leave no witness to his crime.

Springing to his feet, Gervase said in staccato sentences, "The fit will be over in a minute or two. Make sure he doesn't hurt himself. Send for his nurse, Madeline. She'll know what to do. Then send help to the maze. Veseul is dangerous."

As he tore across the hall toward the door, Francis knelt by the convulsing child, his hands gentle and a glowing warmth in his heart in spite of the circumstances. By the simple act of entrusting his son to his cousin, Gervase had atoned for his earlier insult in a manner far more meaningful than any spoken apology.

* * *

Veseul grabbed Diana in one powerful hand, looming over her in all his broad muscular strength. He was panting, the wildness of his eyes showing the beast that had always lurked beneath his polished surface. He used his other hand to give a hard, open-handed blow to the side of her head. "That should take some of the fire out of you, little bitch."

Diana's head snapped sideways and she nearly blacked out. She was helpless as a doll as he lowered her to the ground and straddled her body, immobilized by his heavy weight on her thighs. Ignoring the feeble brushing motions of her hands, he laid one heavy palm against her cheek and crooned, "So exquisite, so entirely perfect. If you had only been more accommodating, I could have shown you delights you have never reached with an Englishman. Cold of heart, cold of hand, the English."

The fingers of one hand slipped into her hair and his other palm cupped her breast. "Silk and softness... everything a woman should be. In one way, it's a tragic waste to kill you, but destroying beauty is a high, pure art, and I will draw strength and power from the destruction. No one else will ever know, which will give me all the more power."

His madness was nearly as paralyzing as the weakness of Diana's body. Almost casually Veseul ripped the bodice of her gown, exposing her breasts to his touch. As his hand moved back and forth, he sighed, his lower body beginning a slow, voluptuous pulsing against hers.

"A pity there is so little time, but it will be enough," he said in the same eerie, conversational tone. "I am an artist of destruction, you know. Today I will destroy you, the purest essence of woman I have ever seen. Then I will go to London and weave a web of brilliant lies that will destroy Wellesley, the purest warrior of our age after Bonaparte himself. And the destruction of the first two will destroy your husband, the purest form of cold, hard Englishman."

All her life Diana's beauty had attracted unwanted attention and violence, but never had she felt so helpless and victimized as she did now. As she struggled, Veseul easily caught both her wrists and pinned them to the ground above her head with one of his hands. He wore a faint tangy cologne that turned her stomach with nausea, and the serpent-quick tip of his tongue darted out to lick his lips. Her legs numbed beneath his weight, and his bright, blank eyes bored into her with hypnotic intensity.

"And when I have accomplished all that, perhaps I shall destroy myself," he said reflectively. "For the rest of my life will be anticlimactic, and I abhor anticlimax."

Diana began to scream, hoping that someone, anyone, was within earshot. She had scarcely begun when he bent over and forced his mouth on hers, smothering her gathering voice easily with his thick lips and pointed tongue. She was far too thoroughly caught to fight free. For all the good her struggling did, she might as well be lying utterly passive.

Hopeless with despair, she felt the demon of violence that had stalked her for a lifetime closing in for the kill.

* * *

The maze had been his playground and retreat as a child, and Gervase forced himself to slow down to remember the route so he wouldn't waste precious seconds on dead ends. For the whole of his relationship with Diana, he had gone down blind alleys, running in fear from what was so freely and generously offered. He would not let himself do that again at this moment of greatest crisis.

Even though he knew the path, his progress seemed slow as he raced between the tall hedges, hurtling around the corners. He was halfway through when he heard Diana's voice raised in a scream that was suddenly, terrifyingly, cut off.

Gervase froze, paralyzed with anguish at being too late. Lost in the selfishness of his guilt, he had rejected his salvation, and the one bright light of his life was extinguished. He had failed Diana, himself, and their son, and for his sins he was cursed to spend eternity in darkness.

In the aftermath of catastrophe, there was nothing left except the absolute need to avenge her.

When Gervase burst into the clearing at the heart of the maze, in the gathering dusk he saw the Count de Veseul's broad body pinning Diana to the cold earth. So total was Gervase's certainty that she was dead that at first he disbelieved the evidence of his eye. When he saw her move, still struggling against her attacker, joy lanced through him. This time he had not failed. Redemption was still attainable.

He did not pause to savor the exultation of his relief. In three strides he crossed the clearing, bellowing a wordless challenge to Veseul.

The Frenchman knew who came without even looking, and he leapt to his feet. He kicked Diana in the ribs to weaken her so she would not interfere, then he turned to face his attacker. His burly frame crouched in the stance of an experienced fighter.

Gervase recognized that skill and slowed, knowing that a headlong assault would put him at a lethal disadvantage. He had perfected his knowledge of hand-to-hand fighting in the unforgiving school of combat, and his eyes narrowed in concentration as he circled sideways, watching for a weakness. To test his opponent, he threw a single blow with his left hand.
 
Veseul easily blocked it, so Gervase riposted with a sharp blow with his right hand.

To Diana, dazed and gasping for breath on the soft turf, there was a nightmare silence as Gervase and Veseul circled each other, each probing the other's defenses before risking an all-out attack. A swift punch smashed Veseul's face, opening up his cheek and rocking him off balance. Before Gervase could follow up his advantage, the Frenchman responded with a kick that clipped Gervase's knee and sent him staggering.

In the advancing darkness they began to close with each other, their blows beginning to do damage. Diana saw how equally matched they were, Gervase lighter and quicker, Veseul with a bearlike power that would be disastrous if he got a firm grip on his opponent.

Doubling over after a pulverizing blow in the ribs, Gervase faltered in his defense, his arms dropping. Veseul moved in for the kill, aiming a granite fist at the Englishman's jaw, but Gervase's weakness was a feint. Seizing Veseul's forearm in a wrestling hold, he levered the larger man from his feet and sent him spinning to crash heavily onto the ground.

As the Frenchman lay in stunned silence, Diana managed to regain her feet, her ribs aching with pain. Gervase turned toward her, taut and muscular. Even across the width of the clearing she could see the desperate love and concern in his gray eyes.

As their gazes locked and held, Diana could actually feel the breach between them close. Like a rainbow of love, the emotional bond that connected them sprang to full shimmering life once again, joining them heart toheart.

"You're all right?" he asked urgently, his dark hair in disarray, his chest heaving from exertion.

Unable to speak, she nodded. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw that Veseul had fallen by his cane. In the brief moment that Gervase's attention was on her, the count unscrewed the serpent's head, revealing a wicked blade, bright and deadly in the fading light.

Diana shouted out a warning as Veseul leapt to his feet and lunged at Gervase, his sword aimed directly at the Englishman's heart. Seeing his danger, Gervase dodged, but he was too close to the thick hedge and it blocked his retreat. Off-balance, he flung himself sideways, Veseul's blade pursuing him.

There was no time for thought, only instinct. With the skill born of hundreds of hours of practice, Diana lifted her hem and drew her knife from its sheath. Then she hurled it across the clearing with all her trained strength.