The Courtesan's Bed (28 page)

Beaucaire followed, fumbling in his pockets. Once they were inside the kitchen, the cook stared at them in curiosity, but didn't make a sound. Perhaps she thought they were more of her master's more eccentric guests coming through the back door to surprise everyone. While Darius debated knocking the woman over the head with a frying pan, Beaucaire smiled charmingly and offered her a gold Louis. When the woman took it with an appreciative grin and slipped it in her apron pocket, Beaucaire put one finger to his lips for her silence. She winked, then ignored them obligingly and went back to rolling out pastry crust.

“In my business,” Beaucaire whispered, “a little bribery goes a long way.”

“Let's hope you're right or we're in trouble.”

They took the door that led to the servants' stairs, and he and Beaucaire headed upstairs, walking softly and swiftly, their pistols drawn.

Sweat ran down Régine's face, mingling with helpless, uncontrollable tears, and her breath came in great, ragged sobs. He must've been beating her for hours.

At first Dragomilov had given her time to recover between each blow of his belt, but her strength and stubbornness had angered him, and now he didn't give her enough time to draw breath between one strike and the next.

Finally, she couldn't take anymore. If he strapped her one more time, she'd die.

“Stop!” she screamed, struggling against her bonds like a wild woman. “I'll do anything you want, just stop!”

Darius and Beaucaire had just emerged from the stairs and were hurrying down the hall, on the alert for stray Russians, when they heard Régine scream.

They exchanged panic-stricken looks.

“Dear God,” Beaucaire whispered, turning paler. “What's he doing to her?”

“Something very painful.” Darius thought of the wooden frame and its sinister purpose. “Two doors down. You guard, I'll go in.”

A grim Beaucaire nodded.

They reached the room. Darius prayed that Dragomilov was the only one in there. Then he opened the door and strode in. A surprised Dragomilov froze, his belt raised in midair. Darius almost faltered as well when he saw the woman he loved naked and bound helplessly, her backside crosshatched with angry red welts from a beating he'd interrupted.

“Régine!” he cried, his voice ragged with anguish as raw fury welled up inside him and exploded. He almost charged the Russian, wanting to beat his face into a bloody pulp. But he stopped himself in time and forced himself to focus because imprudent actions could result in failure and possible death for them all.

“Drop it,” Darius snarled before his opponent could recover, aiming his pistol with a steady hand at the Russian's heart, “or I will kill you.”

Dragomilov hesitated while he assessed the threat. He prudently dropped the belt.

Régine was staring at Darius as if he were a ghost, but he concentrated on her torturer.

“Release her,” he said. “Start with her feet.”

“You are very stupid, Englishman.” Dragomilov bent down and unbuckled the cuff that held Régine's left ankle. “My friends are downstairs. You will never get out of here alive.” He undid the right cuff and straightened.

Régine brought her legs together.

“Now her wrists.” Darius kept far enough away from the Russian in case he lunged and tried to disarm him.

Dragomilov unbuckled Régine's right wrist. The minute her arm was free, she suddenly turned as quick as a striking cobra and, despite suffering in obvious pain, swung her arm, smashing her fist into his face with a sickening crack of flesh hitting more flesh and bone. His head snapped to the side. Before he could recover and step out of her way, Régine uttered a chilling feral snarl and followed up the disorienting blow with a vicious kick to his balls that made Darius wince.

Dragomilov gasped in astonishment and agony, turned green and clutched his groin. He doubled over and sank to the floor in a helpless pile, groaning and writhing in pain.

“How do
you
like it?” Régine freed her own left wrist. “You sadistic son of a bitch.”

When she was finally free, she just stood there staring at Darius in wide-eyed shock. “I can't believe you came back.”

“Why? I told you I'd always protect you.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I have a lot to say to you, Régine, but now's not the time. Hold this gun on him while I put our friend here out of commission.”

He handed Régine the pistol, then smashed his own balled fist into Dragomilov's jaw. Satisfied that he'd knocked him out cold, he dragged the incapacitated man over to his own device and bound his wrists with the cuffs that had once restrained Régine's ankles. Then he took his handkerchief, stuffed it in Dragomilov's mouth and secured it in place with the man's own belt. “The prick doesn't look particularly fearsome now, does he?”

“Rather pathetic.” She kicked him in the ribs for good measure.

Darius removed his coat. “Beaucaire is standing guard outside the door. We've got to get away before any Russians see us. I don't particularly want to have to shoot our way out like some damned cowboy in an American dime novel.”

Régine walked around Dragomilov, grimacing with every step, and gave Darius back his gun. She was trembling, and he felt red-hot rage when he noticed her jaw was bruised where the Russian must've struck her. He set the pistol on a nearby table and helped her slip into his coat to cover her nakedness. Then he couldn't help himself. He had to take her in his arms and kiss her, if only on the forehead.

When he released her, he said, “If it hadn't been for Mademoiselle Doucette…”

“So she did help me in spite of being terrified of Serge.” She looked at the connecting door. “Where is she?”

“I don't know, and we don't have time to find her. She's an enterprising young lady who can take care of herself quite nicely.”

“I'm sure she can.” Régine looked up at him with love shining in her eyes. “Then let's get out of here.”

When she saw Beaucaire, she smiled. “You're a sight for sore eyes, my friend.”

“So are you.” He made a gallant bow. “I've always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress.”

“Save the reunion speeches for later, you two,” Darius said. “We're not out of the woods yet.”

No one accosted them in the hallway, or on the servants' stairs. When they reached the kitchen, Darius opened the door a crack and saw one of the other Russians talking to the cook. He waited and readied his pistol. A minute later the man left. They emerged slowly and carefully, looking to their right and left. When Régine saw the cook, her eyes widened in fear and panic, but the woman turned her back and deliberately ignored them, allowing them to leave the house unnoticed.

Outside in the moonlit darkness, Darius slipped his arm around Régine's waist and supported her as they ran for the main gate. She hobbled along, obviously in great pain, but managed to keep up.

Darius was relieved to see Beaucaire's carriage still standing where they'd left it.

Once they were inside, Darius slid across the seat to the farthest corner. “I suspect it's painful for you to sit,” he told Régine, “so lie across the seat on your stomach.”

“Always so thoughtful.” She eased herself down with a hiss of pain, resting her head in his lap. She uttered a grateful sigh. “That's better.”

Beaucaire crossed his arms and scowled. “You should've let me shoot the bastard. No French court would ever convict me.”

“At least we got her away from him.” Darius stroked her damp hair and longed for the moment when they could finally be alone. “That's more humiliating than death for a proud man like Dragomilov.”

“Good point,” Beaucaire said.

As the carriage got underway, Beaucaire leaned forward toward Régine. “I know this has been a terrible night for you, and all you want to do is go home and put this behind you, but I think we should drive to the nearest police station and file charges against Dragomilov for kidnapping and assault.”

She nodded. “I will. For Odile. For myself. For all of the courtesans of Paris.”

Ivy stood with her ear pressed to the connecting door, expecting to hear more raised, angry voices.

Nothing but silence.

She opened the door just a crack. She peered through it, relieved to see the boudoir was empty. Lord Clarridge had come for the woman he loved, and despite the danger to himself, rescued Régine from her horrible fate. Since she hadn't heard any shouts or gunshots, she assumed they had escaped the notice of Serge's three friends downstairs.

Feeling more confident, she opened the door all the way and strode into the boudoir.

She was startled to see the powerful Russian lying helpless and unconscious on the floor, his wrists bound to the foot of the device and a gag in his mouth.

She tried to muster a grain of sympathy for him, but after the way he'd tortured Régine and so callously cast Ivy aside, not one ounce of compassion remained in her heart.

She didn't even stop to untie and revive him, but eagerly went to the very bureau where he'd kept the amber jewelry. She opened the drawer, praying her hunch was right.

There lay the same flat jewel case that had been in his desk at the townhouse. He hadn't locked it in a safe. He had brought it to his boudoir and stuck it in the bureau drawer as if the stones were worthless paste, intending to fasten the jewels about Régine Laflamme's neck after he'd broken her spirit.

Her heart hammering with anticipation, she opened the case.

The glittering fire of diamonds cooled with large green emeralds blazed up at her.

She snapped the case shut and hugged it to her chest like a lover. Taking the jewels was not stealing. She had earned them. They were payment for services rendered.

Ivy turned, blew the unconscious Serge a contemptuous kiss, and left him to his well-deserved humiliation.

Ivy had Serge's driver drop her off at the townhouse, and when he had driven away, out of sight, she came back out and hailed a cab to take her to a small, unfashionable hotel where no one would ever think to look for her, should Serge decide to hunt her down for taking the jewels.

He had given her enough gold Louis to buy a transatlantic ticket to New York City, where she'd sell off the diamonds and emeralds stone by stone to finance her exciting new high life in the New World.

Never again would she let any man control and debase her. She would rather live alone as her own woman, enjoying her wealth.

The following morning at the crack of dawn, she left Paris and never looked back.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A week later Régine still couldn't believe she was safe in her own home, imprisoned not in Dragomilov's country house, but in the warm, protective circle of Darius's arms as they lay propped up against a bank of pillows in the courtesan's bed. All of her physical wounds had finally healed.

During her convalescence, Darius had spread her soothing salve on the painful welts until they faded and lost their sting. He fed her Molly's hot, nourishing beef soup, and let her sleep for as long as she wished, saying nothing about the events leading up to their parting.

Until now.

He tucked her head beneath his chin and drew her as close as he could. “Why didn't you tell me that Kate had come to see you?”

“She convinced me that if you knew, you'd dismiss her concerns and refuse to leave me. And if that happened, her chances with the Duke of Sefton would be ruined. She was so upset, she was crying her heart out. I couldn't bear to think that my little Katie would lose the man she loved because of my selfishness.”

“She had no right to ask you to make such a sacrifice without consulting me,” he said.

“For your father's plan to succeed, Kate had to convince me not to tell you. And much to my shame and regret, she played on my sympathies and succeeded.” She snuggled even closer, treasuring the reassuring warmth of his skin against hers.

“I was furious with her for letting our father use her as a pawn,” he said, “especially since Sefton ultimately asked her to marry him in spite of her brother's liaison with a notorious Parisian courtesan.”

“So her fears turned out to be groundless. That's wonderful. I'm so happy for her.”

“When she realized how much I was suffering without you, she confessed everything.” He chuckled. “Sefton's marriage proposal didn't hurt, either.”

She rested her head against his chest. “I'm so thankful your father's plan didn't succeed because I love you with all my heart, Darius Granger, and I can't live without you.”

“The afternoon that I saw you and Villemessant together in your drawing room, my world ended.”

“I had to flaunt my new protector to convince you that I was cold and heartless, unworthy of you. By letting you catch me embracing Villemessant—”

“You were very convincing.
Too
convincing. I knew I had lost you.”

“I'm so glad you didn't give up on me.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I do love you, my Queen of Fire.” He gently disengaged her, sat up and turned to face her. “I want to be more than your protector, Régine, and I want you to be more than my mistress.” He gazed so deeply into her eyes, he reached all the way to her soul. “I want you to become my wife.”

Her heart sank. “You're an English peer, and I'm a harlot.” Her frank words made him stiffen. “Don't scowl and dismiss it. That's exactly what I am. I'm not respectable and wouldn't fit into your world.”

He ran his fingers down her silken cheek. “You won't have to worry about that because I won't be living in England. I'm selling my townhouse and moving to Paris. Permanently.”

Shock caused her to rear back. “But what about Kate and Emma?”

“As long as they respect my wife, they may visit as often as they like.”

“What about any children we might have?” she said anxiously. “How would your heirs feel knowing their mother once was a notorious courtesan?”