Pale Moon Rider (39 page)

He crowded closer instead. “In two days’ time we will be man and wife.”

“I am well aware of that, m’sieur.”

“Since you will have to thaw to me then, mademoiselle, might it not be … advantageous … to show a little warmth, possibly even a little gratitude, sooner, rather than later?”

Some small spark of defiance caused her to raise her eyes above the level of his cravat. “Advantageous to whom, m’sieur: you or me?”

He leered and blew another hot, stinking breath into her face. “To both of us, of course. You won’t have to spend another cold night alone in this big bed, and I won’t have to wear myself raw thinking about you up here all alone.”

“But I am not alone, m’sieur. As you can see”—she glanced pointedly at the door where Antoine and Jenny stood rooted to the spot—“I have all the company I care to have for the time being.”

She started to brush past him but his fist closed around her arm and twisted her back around to face him.

“You might think your blood is better than mine,” he said in a snarl, “but it’s all the same color when it comes out of the vein, and if you don’t want to see proof of that, you won’t ever turn your back or push me away again.”

His face was mottled and his eyes were blazing and Renée had but a moment to realize it would be foolish— stupid, in fact—to anger Vincent or Roth or anyone in the house tonight. She bit down hard on her lip and lowered her lashes before she turned her face shamefully to the side.

“You must forgive me, m’sieur,” she whispered. “Everything has happened so quickly, and I have had no one to turn to for help. The highwayman almost raped me. I was very nearly shot by mistake. Colonel Roth acts as if it was my fault his trap failed, and my uncle still refuses to believe it was not Antoine who shot him.” She looked up and her eyes swam with silvery tears. “Believe me, m’sieur, when I am your wife and you have taken me away from this terrible place, I will not push you away. I will not
want
to push you away. I will want your strong arms to hold me close and make me feel safe and protected again. You will … keep me safe, will you not?”

The anger in his eyes wavered a moment, then mellowed completely when he saw the single bright teardrop that trickled down her cheek.
“D
o you really mean that?”

“I swear it. As soon as we are wed—”

“We don’t have to wait,” he said huskily, leaning closer. “I will gladly hold you now, by God, and if Roth or anybody else so much as looks at you sideways, I’ll rip his lungs out through his throat.”

“No. No, we must wait, m’sieur,” she countered with a piteous sob, as much for the lie as for the sudden, eager look on Vincent’s face. “We must have the blessing of the church. I am … am Catholic, and a—a virgin, and … it would be a sin before God.”

“You let me worry about God,” Vincent stated flatly. He started to lean forward to mash his lips over hers, when Antoine nudged his foot against the door, causing it to bang on the wall behind him.

“We should not keep our guests waiting any longer,” Renée gasped. “My aunt has gone to a great deal of effort to make this a special evening.”

She dashed away the wetness on her cheeks and hurried to the door. Antoine’s face was chalk white as he fell into step beside her.

“Mon dieu”
she whispered, “the man is a
cochon.
A pig. I feel the need for another bath.”

We will be free of him soon. Then Finn and I will protect you.

She attempted a smile. “I know you will,
mon coeur.”

They followed the main hallway to the central staircase and Renée was forced to wait at the top for Vincent. His eyes were still hard and cold as he extended his arm, and she tried to look calm as she descended the stairs at his side, but her stomach was in her throat and her skin was crawling everywhere he touched her. The sounds of noise and laughter were coming from the main drawing room and a couple of the guests were standing out on the landing, enjoying a glass of punch and quiet conversation. One of those guests, who could barely contain his excess of emotion, stood frozen in place, his cheeks inflamed with ardor. Renée, in dire need of a friendly face, saw Corporal Chase Marlborough and smiled, hoping he would take it as an invitation to approach.

He did so with such pathetic eagerness, she suffered a small pang of guilt for the torment she had been putting him through the past few days. Since he and his dragoons had been ordered to Harwood to “guard” her, she had treated him to little more than cold stares and icy silence. Her mind, of course, had been too preoccupied with her own troubles to sympathize with those of a lovesick soldier. Now, however, she used the excuse of his approach to disengage her hand from Edgar Vincent’s arm and extend it in a friendly greeting to the corporal.

“Miss d’Anton. May I say … may I be permitted to say how extremely lovely you look tonight.”

“Of course you may,” she said with a small, forced laugh. “I am happy you could be here in an unofficial capacity.”

He blushed and while it appeared obvious he would have liked to keep her fingers pressed against his lips the entire night, he was forced to give way as a small commotion in the lower landing, followed by quick and angry bootsteps ascending the stairs to the second floor, announced Colonel Roth’s arrival. He was in full uniform, with ropes of gold braid at his shoulders and trimming the wide lapels of his jacket. He wore his own flame red hair dressed in precise curls above his ears, with short wings brushed forward in an effort to conceal or at least lessen the ugliness of the wound on his cheek. Much like the damage he inflicted on the torn and savaged flesh around his fingernails, he had obviously been picking at the scab and there were spots of fresh red-raw skin showing through gaps in the dried crust.

“There you are,” Vincent scowled. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to join us at all.”

“Forgive my tardy arrival.” Roth offered a polite bow to Renée, his tawny eyes glittering as he admired the rubies against the shimmering white silk. “We took a man into custody early this morning and have been attempting all day to question him.”

“Attempting?”

Roth nodded at Vincent. “He was gravely wounded when my men brought him in and has had only brief periods of lucidity.”

“And?”

“And”—Roth let out a small huff of air—“it was another false alarm. I am seriously contemplating declaring it a crime in itself to possess a greatcoat and tricorn. At least this one had the height and breadth for it, though, as it turned out, he was a Scotsman on his way home to
Glasgow
and so blind he could barely see a candle held in front of his nose.”

“A blind Scotsman from
Glasgow
, y’ say?” The high-pitched query came from another guest leaning casually against the banister behind them. “And y’ thought he might be masquerading as the r
ogue Starl
ight?”

Renée could barely believe her ears or her eyes as she turned and saw Tyrone Hart strolling over to join their group. He was the image of startling elegance in buff and green striped satin. The collar of his jacket rose incredibly high around his neck, framing a cravat knotted in a bow as wide as the foolish grin he was wearing as he addressed the colonel.

“I say again, a blind Scotsman from
Glasgow
? What did they expect he was out to steal? Lamp oil?”

Roth forced a polite smile. “My men are still under strict orders to arrest anyone who has no good reason for being out alone on the roads late at night.”

“Yaas, well, dash me if I can see why should it matter to a blind man what time of the day or night he travels.” The cool gray eyes sought Renée. “A very great pleasure to see you again, Miss d’Anton. Might I say”—he executed a formal bow over her hand then raised her fingers and pressed them to his lips—“I find m’self agreeing with the corporal. I vow I have quite lost m’ appetite in light of such a
glittering
feast for the eyes.”

It should not have surprised her that he was there. Nothing about Tyrone Hart should have surprised her, least of all that he would come to her house bold as brass, taunt the man who had shot him, and openly admire the jewels he had been formerly hired to steal. The fact he
was
admiring them caused her to take an involuntary step back and pull her hand out of his with more force than was intended. A rough link of gold snagged on the extravagant fountain of lace on his cuff and the ruby bracelet became entangled, a situation which allowed him to catch her hand in his and hold it tighter than before.

“Allow me,” he said, raising her hand and angling it into the light that he might locate the errant link.

Beside them, Vincent started to step angrily forward, but Roth halted the movement with a quick frown. He watched Tyrone closely, his eyes narrowing when the bewigged and powdered fop continued to turn the bracelet and examine the rubies after they were released.

“Positively exquisite, m’ dear,” he pronounced. “Yet their beauty does you no justice.”

A slow, smug smile curled Roth’s lip as he met Vincent’s gaze again, but there was only confusion in Renée’s as she reclaimed her hand and stared wordlessly up at Hart.

The fact she had spent all day worrying about him, wondering if he had made it safely to Coventry, if his wound had caused him pain on the ride home, or if the boat had overturned and he had drowned … none of that had probably occurred to him. Nor would it follow that he would be the slightest bit aware that each time she looked at him she would see the gloriously naked lover she had assumed she had bid her final farewells to in the tower room last night.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” she murmured, “I—I should see if my aunt and uncle are looking for me.”

She whirled away before any of them had a chance to object and made her way numbly along the hallway, barely able to see where she was going through the pressure squeezing on her temples. At the entrance to the drawing room she realized her aunt and uncle were the last people she wanted to see at that moment, and she veered away before she reached the door. She kept walking, her shoulders stiff, her hands held rigid by her sides. She did not know where she was going until she found herself inside the music conservatory with her back pressed against the wall and her eyes closed tight against the emotions swirling inside her. Thankfully the room was empty. Chairs were arranged in a semi-circle facing the piano, suggesting there would be entertainment later in the evening, but for the time being she was alone.

She stood in the shadows, gulping at deep lungfuls of air to calm herself, and was not aware of anyone beside her until she heard the door click shut behind him.

“Are you mad,” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“We have, I believe, already established the fragile nature of my sanity,” Tyrone said. “And as it happens, I was invited. A card was waiting for me when I arrived home, requesting the pleasure of my company to help celebrate the marriage of Lord and Lady Paxton’s niece to a
London
fishmonger. It did not say the fishmonger part, of course. A mild embellishment on my part, but—”

“Tyrone—”

“Ah, you remember my name!”

“Your wound—!”

“My wound only hurts when I laugh—which I have not had much occasion to do today. On the contrary, I have been scowling a great deal, shouting at Robbie and the servants, kicking occasional pieces of furniture—”

“What if someone comes in?”

“If they do, we will be standing here in rapt awe, admiring”—he looked above their heads and saw a particularly uninspired oil of a woman playing a lute—“this. It rather begs for comment, do you not agree? The artist must have painted it while taking poison and suffering cramps.”

She raised her hand, resting it briefly over the cold breastplate of rubies, but finding no comfort there, let it slip down by her side again. “You could have refused the invitation.”

“To be honest, mam’selle, I almost did. It is a cold and damp night and you are probably right: I should be at home in a warm bed with a hot snifter of buttered brandy.”

“Then wh—why are you here?”

His jaw clenched grimly. “I am here to rescue you, of course. Is that not what all heroes are supposed to do?”

“Rescue me?” she whispered.

“Noblesse oblige.
The obligation of the nobility, is that not what they call it?”

“You are not of the nobility,” she reminded him through a tremor. “You have no obligations to me or anyone else.”

“True enough,” he admitted. “There isn’t an ounce of noble blood in me, nor do I harbor any vast admiration for the principles of honor unto death or the battlecry of the doomed:
l’audace, toujours l’audace
! But alas, you seem determined to make of me more than what I am, so”—he spread his hands and shrugged—“I am come to offer my services, common though they may be.”

His perceived mockery was cruel and she turned away. “I do not want or need your help, m’sieur.”

“No? You were planning to steal the rubies all by yourself? Pack them up in a bag and heigh away with a thirteen-year-old boy who can’t speak to defend himself and a sixty-year-old manservant who creaks when he walks? Just how far do you think you would get? And what do you think those two vultures out there would do to you when they got you back?”