One Wicked Night (39 page)
Authors: Shelley Bradley
Even if she survived this night by some miracle, she was doomed to marriage with a man who would never love her.
But she was going to die. Fear and pain would be her last emotions. A shout lodged in the back of her throat, begging release, at the realization that the child she had created with Lucien would die with her.
Alastair laughed. “Ravenna is such an accommodating bed mate. I am surprised he stayed away from her this long. But I have no doubt she’ll seduce him with ease.”
“Seduce him? Aren’t they already conducting a liaison?”
He shot her an ugly smirk. “Ravenna has no need to bed a man she considers a cripple when she has so many other options.” His thin lips twitched in amusement. “Of course, she promised to make this exception a favor to me.”
“But she told me that Lucien has been spending time in her bed already,” Serena said.
“I’ve kept her too busy for that recently. Besides, she only offered her . . . companionship to your husband since she’s in need of funds. She seemed surprised that he turned her away.”
Serena allowed herself a moment of joy, despite the danger. Ravenna had lied to her just for spite. Elation cut through her fear for a moment, followed by hope. Now she could only hope Lucien would not succumb to his ex-wife’s seduction today. Maybe then he would find her.
“You know,” Alastair said, “I shall be most interested to see which of Clayborne’s wives is the better whore.”
Serena struggled against him. “Don’t touch me!”
“I’ll do that, and much, much more.”
Alastair yanked on the chain around her and dragged her inside the cabin, slamming the door behind him. When he turned to face her once more, his dark eyes were alight with lust and vengeance.
Feral anticipation crossed his face as he advanced toward her. Serena wanted to scream, but her instincts told her a display of fear would only incite him further.
“Now, you little slut, I’m going to find out why old Uncle Cyrus thought bedding you was worth a fortune. He was certainly eager to give up his last shilling after a tumble between your legs. What is it you have down there?” he asked, his hand fondling its way down her breast, past her waist, to grope the juncture of her thighs. Serena twisted away. Alastair brought her closer with the imprisoning chain. “Do you have a wet, golden treasure? Is that it?
“You are repulsive.”
With a short, sharp yank, Alastair dragged her closer still. “Well,
Aunt
Serena, because of you, I’ve been subject to humiliations you haven’t the experience to fathom. Tonight, you will gain that experience. I will humble you until you beg me for mercy.”
“You shall burn in hell for this!”
His smile was flat and evil. “I already have. Now it’s your turn.”
Alastair shoved Serena to the crude dirt floor, dragging her down with the aid of the chain. With a cry, she fell on her shoulder and hip with a thump. Lying atop her, Alastair used his weight to force her to her back.
“When did you start letting Clayborne bed you? Before old Uncle Cyrus died? Is that Clayborne’s bastard in your belly?”
“No.” Her voice trembled.
“You lying bitch.” He struck her across the cheek.
With a gasp, more of anger than pain, Serena kicked out at him, her feet connecting with his stomach. He grunted.
“You will regret that,” he swore.
He raised his knife above her. Serena screamed, fearing Alastair planned to end her life now. A hundred regrets rose to her mind, crowded by her chilling fright, the strongest that she should have told Lucien how much she loved him.
“A pity I didn’t slice you open at Vauxhall before Clayborne saved your pretty hide,” Alastair jeered.
Incredulity and icy anger permeated her every pore. “That was you?” At his grin, she snapped, “You bastard.”
“No, Uncle Cyrus only treated me like one,” Alastair returned. “That was one reason I had the old man killed; I hated him. And you’re next, but not yet. You owe me too much for a quick, merciful end. I want you to beg me for death first.”
“I will never beg you for anything. I despise you.”
“The feeling, my bit of muslin, is mutual.”
To her horror, Alastair reached beneath her skirt, insinuating the blade of his knife under the top of her bodice. With an evil laugh and several thrusts upward of the knife, the fabric of her bodice gave way in a ragged fray downward. Serena struggled until Alastair swept the knife up to her throat. The blade pricked her skin. Serena had no doubt each wound was intentional, meant to teach her to lie still or invite death.
Trembling, Serena lay beneath Alastair, hearing his harsh breathing. With a mad glare, he cut away the short, full sleeves of her dress, then tossed the garment away. Next, he severed the waist-ties of her petticoats before turning her over to make short work of her corset strings. Clad only in her chemise, Serena snapped her eyes shut. A moment later, she heard the hiss of Alastair’s blade again, this time slicing through the thin lawn material.
A moment later, she felt a rush of cold air against her bare breasts and abdomen. She cried out in horror, feeling Alastair’s eyes crawl over her exposed flesh. He laughed at her discomfort.
With the dagger at her throat, Serena could not struggle while Alastair unfastened his trousers.
“Finally, I get some of this tight, wet flesh Uncle Cyrus threw away his fortune for and Clayborne guards with his life.” He reached for her feminine folds. Serena clamped her legs together, denying him.
“Get off me!” she demanded, panting in fear and fury.
“Shut up and spread your legs! And I warn you,” he took her face between cruel fingers, “you had better be good.”
Alastair tried to force her legs apart. Serena remained stiff, resisting, but felt the blade at her neck inching forward, pricking her skin.
A gunshot sounded outside. Alastair paused and cursed.
The door burst open, swinging back on its hinges to slam against the wall. Serena gasped as Alastair jerked his gaze around to the intruder.
Lucien stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders dominating the portal. He pointed a gun at Alastair’s head.
“Get off my wife.”
His voice was level and deadly. Even in her shaken state, Serena didn’t miss the barely-leashed rage in his command.
Slowly, Alastair rose to his feet.
“I should shoot you now,” Lucien said, eyes narrowed with hate. “I should pull the trigger and watch you die.”
Alastair’s smile was rife with challenge. “You won’t. You’re hardly the kind to shoot a man unable to defend himself.”
“That’s not it at all. I simply want to see you die a humiliating public death.” Glancing at Serena, he asked, “Did he hurt you, sweetheart?”
“No,” she breathed. “But Caffey.... Those men took her—”
“Vickery’s got her. She’s safe.”
Glaring at Alastair, Lucien said, “Sweetheart, wrap yourself in one of those blankets and come here.”
She fetched a blanket from the pallet in the corner. After wrapping it about her body, she crossed the room to Lucien’s side, restraining an urge to hurtle herself in his arms. “Thank God, you came.”
“Thank God, you’re alive.” He risked a glance at her. His eyes were as dark as the sea—and held infinite relief. His brief glance reassured her.
“My, how touching,” Alastair mocked. “You appear quite the couple in love.”
Serena risked another glance at her husband. His gaze touched her again, filled with an outpouring of emotion she had never seen. Tears welled in her eyes as she met his.
In that second, Alastair charged forward. He collided with Lucien, pounding her husband against the wall. The gun fell from Lucien’s grasp and landed on the dirt with a sickening thud.
As the men grappled, Serena knelt and grabbed the cold weapon. She aimed at Alastair, but hesitated. She had never fired a gun, and the combatants moved so quickly—against the wall, across the room, to the floor.
As if her worst fears had become real, Serena saw the blade of Alastair’s knife gleam in the candlelight as he held it above Lucien’s heaving, unprotected chest.
“Lucien!” she screamed.
He only grunted as he grappled to push Alastair away.
Blind to all but her fear, her fury, Serena aimed and pulled the trigger.
The gun exploded, kicking back in her hands. The sound made a deafening reverberation in the small cottage. Then came a gasp. She opened her eyes to find Alastair slumping to the ground, the white of his shirt front rapidly turning crimson. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, he looked stunned as he fell. Within seconds, the absolute still formed an eerie silence.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Lucien knelt before Alastair and tested his pulse. He sighed and rose. “He’s dead.”
“I killed him.”
“He deserved to die for what he did to Warrington and you.”
She nodded slowly, taking in Lucien’s words, and drew in a deep breath. Killing him might be a sin, but . . . “You’re right. I’m not sorry.”
He crossed the room to gather her in his arms. Tears stinging her eyes, Serena flung herself against his chest, reveling in his size and strength, so representative of the security he gave her.
His relief was visible. “I worried about you, what he could do to you. I thought I had lost you.”
“His note said you were here. I feared he had killed you already.”
Vickery stepped inside the crude cabin then, then glanced at the body. “Is Marsden dead?”
Slowly, Lucien lifted his head from her shoulder and nodded.
“Are you all right, Lady Daneridge?”
Serena turned to the Runner. “Yes, thank you.”
“Good. My lord, I’ve rounded up the other culls. I’ll take them and Marsden’s body to the Magistrate. I’m certain they’ll send someone round later for a statement.”
“Fine. Thank you for your help, Vickery.”
He waved Lucien’s thanks away. “Only doing my job.”
With that, Vickery turned away. Lucien wrapped his arm about Serena’s waist, clutching the quilt to her, and led her through the darkness to his waiting carriage. Tenderly, he tucked her inside, then settled himself beside her.
The door had barely closed before Serena threw her arms around him. He felt as strong and solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. She clung to him; he stroked her hair, her back, and the hideous memories of Alastair and his threats were gradually replaced by the here and now of Lucien’s soft touch.
Neither moved for the span of a heartbeat, as if doing so would end the purity and reverence of the moment. The scent of dirt mingled with the smell of impending rain in the air. The clippity-clop of the horses’ hooves provided a steady backdrop to their even breathing.
Serena eased away finally, bringing her face inches from his. His green gaze slid over hers, distinctly concerned and laced with tenderness. He was her husband, she his wife. No one, least of all Alastair, could come between them now. And nothing, not the unfounded fear that her mother’s blood had tainted her, nor mistrust, would keep them apart.
She wanted Lucien in every way, in every facet of her life. The broad shoulders and inky hair were hers to touch every day. His smile, his grief, his joy and his emotions were hers to tap into, if she had the courage.
Serena pressed her lips to his. He welcomed her kiss with his own, a gentle affirmation of life and breath. He held her closer, sliding his arm about her.
Serena clutched his face, holding his mouth to hers as if he were her lifeline. He didn’t let her go.
The coach stopped. The door opened, and Lucien stepped down. With an ironic smile, he turned and extended his hand to her. “Come inside the house, sweetheart. It will be heaven. I promise.”
His words sent her memory careening back to their first night together, when he’d made love to her tenderly and they had conceived the child she carried. She yearned to experience the joy and fire of his touch now.
As she did that first night, Serena touched his fingers, then placed her trembling hand in his.
Inside, she gathered the blanket about her ankles and led Lucien up the stairs, past the shocked servants, to his room. Shaking with both uncertainty and desire, she closed the door behind them.
With a puzzled frown, he said, “Sweetheart, wouldn’t you . . . ”
Lucien fell silent as Serena unwrapped the blanket and let it drop to the floor, exposing her nakedness.
“Oh, dear God,” he breathed as he took one step toward her, then another. As he reached her, Lucien drew her into his arms. The confusion on his face said what he did not.
“Touch me,” she whispered. “Make love to me.”
He held her close against him and exhaled raggedly into her ear. “Are you certain?”
“Please.” She kissed her way up the strong column of his neck, nipping at his jaw.
With a shiver, Lucien wrapped his arms about her. I can think of nothing I want more.”
As one, they made their way to the bed, a tangle of arms and lips, to experience the ecstasy of their union. Lucien’s touch and gaze cherished her with each caress. Serena, in turn, displayed the depth of her love with her welcome as he entered her, and with every frantic, possessive thrust, they soared closer to the peak of pleasure. Serena found a satisfaction greater than ever before because it came without guilt or worry, stemmed purely from love.
