To Desire a Devil (9 page)

“No, no. Don’t fuss, Bea, dear.” Jeremy took a breath, and she knew that he was in pain even though he denied it. His face
had gone a little gray, save for those ever-present flags of color on his cheeks.

“Here, let me help you sit up so you can take some water.”

“Dammit, Bea.”

“Now, don’t you fuss, Jeremy, dear,” she said softly but firmly as she took his shoulders and helped him to sit. Heat radiated
off him in waves. “I’ve earned this right, I think.”

“So you have,” he gasped.

She poured water into a small cup and held it out to him.

He sipped some and gave her back the cup. “Have you thought what it would mean if Hope becomes the Earl of Blanchard?”

She set the cup on one of the crowded tables, frowning. “I just told you, Uncle Reggie and I will have to move out of the
town house—”

“Yes, but beyond that, Bea.” Jeremy waved aside her loss of a home. “He would replace your uncle Reggie in the House of Lords.”

Beatrice slowly sank back into her seat. “Lord Hasselthorpe would lose a vote.”

“And, more importantly, we might gain one,” Jeremy said with significance. “Do you know what Hope’s political leanings are?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“His father was a Tory,” Jeremy mused.

“Oh, then he probably is, too,” Beatrice said, disappointed.

“Sons don’t always follow in their father’s political footsteps. If Hope votes in favor of Mr. Wheaton’s bill, we may win
at last.” The high color had spread over Jeremy’s face in his excitement, so now he glowed as if he were being consumed by
a fire within. “My men—the soldiers who served and fought so valiantly under me—would get the pension they deserve.”

“I’ll find out which way he leans politically. Perhaps I can convince him to our side.” Beatrice smiled, trying to share Jeremy’s
enthusiasm, but inside she was doubtful. Lord Hope seemed solely focused on his own affairs. She’d seen nothing so far to
make her think he would care one way or the other about common soldiers.

F
IVE DAYS OF
a sickbed had made Reynaud damnably restless. Annoying as Miss Corning’s regular visits to his room were—she seemed to think
it normal to simply swan in without inquiring first if he wanted her company—the fact was that he’d grown used to her. Used
to teasing her and arguing with her. And where was the woman today? He’d seen neither hide nor hair of her.

Reynaud dragged himself from the bed, pulled on his old blue coat, and snatched up his knife before throwing open the door
to his room. A young footman was stationed outside his room—presumably to keep him from running amok in his own house.

Reynaud glared at the fellow. “Tell Miss Corning I’d like a word with her.”

He started to close the door, but the man said, “Can’t.”

Reynaud paused. “What?”

“Can’t,” the footman said. “She’s not here.”

“Then when is she expected back?”

The footman stepped back nervously before catching himself and straightening. “Not too long, I expect, but I can’t say for
sure. She’s visitin’ Mr. Oates, and sometimes she stays there a fair while.”

“Who,” Reynaud inquired gently, “is Mr. Oates?”

“Mr. Jeremy Oates, that is,” the man said, becoming chatty. “Of the Suffolk Oates. Family with quite a bit of money, or so
I’m told. ’E and Miss Corning have known each other a long, long time, and she likes to visit ’im three or four times a week.”

“Then he’s an aging gentleman?” Reynaud asked.

The footman scratched his head. “Don’t think so. A young, ’andsome gentleman, so I hear.”

It occurred to Reynaud at this point that although he’d seen Miss Corning every day since his return to England, he didn’t
actually know much about the woman. Was this Oates—this proper English gentleman—a beau? Or a fiancé? The thought spurred
a primitive part of him, and he blurted the next question.

“Is she engaged to him?”

“Not yet,” the footman replied, winking cheerfully. “But can’t be long, can it, if she visits ’im so often? ’Course, there
is the matter of ’is—”

But Reynaud wasn’t listening anymore. He pushed past the ass and started for the stairs.

“Oy!” the footman called from behind him. “Where’re you goin’?”

“To meet Miss Corning at the door,” Reynaud growled. His legs were shakier than he’d realized, and it only made him more irritable.
He gripped the banister with one hand as he descended slowly. He moved like a goddamned old man.

“I’m not supposed to let you leave your room,” the footman said, suddenly beside him. He took Reynaud’s elbow to help him,
and so weak was Reynaud that he didn’t even protest the familiarity.

“Who ordered you to keep me in my room?” Reynaud demanded.

“Miss Corning. She was worried you might injure yourself.” The footman glanced at him sideways. “Don’t suppose I can get you
to go back, m’lord?”

“No,” Reynaud replied shortly. He was panting, dammit. Only a month ago, he’d walked all day without wearying, and now he
panted descending a damned staircase!

“Didn’t think so,” the man said matter-of-factly. He didn’t say anything else until they made the entrance hall. “Would you
like some water, m’lord, while you wait?”

“Please.” Reynaud leaned against the wall until the man disappeared in the direction of the kitchens. Then he went to the
front doors and pulled them open.

The wind caught his breath as he went out on the step. The day was gray and cold, winter spreading her wings on London. There’d
be snow on the ground north of Lake Michigan now, and the bears would be fat and slow, preparing for their winter sleep. He
remembered how Gaho had loved to eat bear meat fried in its own fat. She would smile when he brought her a freshly killed
sow or boar, the wrinkles in her brown cheeks deepening, her eyes nearly disappearing in her happiness. For a moment, his
former life and his present merged and wavered in front of his eyes, and he forgot where he was. Who he was.

Then the Blanchard carriage pulled up in front of the town house.

The footman jumped down and set the step. Reynaud straightened and started for the carriage. The door opened and Miss Corning
descended the steps.

Her brows snapped together when she saw him. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I’ve come to meet you,” Reynaud said, his voice hard. “Where have you been?”

She ignored his question. “I can’t believe you’re so silly as to stand outside in the cold. You must go in at once. Arthur”—she
beckoned to the carriage footman—“please take Lord Hope in—”

“I’m not going to be taken anywhere,” Reynaud said with deadly calm. The carriage footman took one look at him and found a
consuming interest in putting away the step. “I’m not a child or half-wit to be taken care of. I repeat, where have you been?”

“Then you must allow me to help you inside.” Miss Corning dismissed his growing anger with a wave of her hand.

He gripped her arms, making her end her sentence on a squeak. “Answer me.”

Something green flared within her eyes, a surprising spark of iron will. “Why should I answer to you?”

“Because.” His entire vision was filled with her eyes, sparkling gray and meadow green intermixed. The combination was absolutely
fascinating.

She stared back at him and said, low, “And, anyway, why do you care where I’ve been?”

He’d faced capture and torture and the imminent prospect of his own death for years on end, but for the life of him, he hadn’t
a clue how to reply to this small slip of a girl.

So it was perhaps just as well that the shot rang out at that moment.

Longsword could find no reason this stranger might want a lock of his hair, even for a penny, but he could see no risk to
himself, either. So thinking to humor the other man, he took his great sword, cut off a lock of hair, and gave it to the Goblin
King.

The Goblin King smiled and held out the penny. But the moment Longsword grasped the coin, the ground opened in an enormous
crack beneath him. The earth swallowed both Longsword and his sword, and he fell far, far below until he landed in the Goblin
Kingdom.

There he looked up and saw the Goblin King throw off his velvet cloak. Now were revealed his orange glowing eyes, lank green
hair, and yellow fangs.

“Who are you?” Longsword cried.

“I am the Goblin King,” replied the other. “When you accepted my coin for your lock of hair, you sold yourself into my power.
For if I cannot have the sword alone, then I will have both you and the sword. . . .”

—from
Longsword

Surrounded. The enemy on both sides, shooting from hidden positions, his men screaming as they were picked off. He couldn’t
form a line of defense, couldn’t rally his troops. They were all going to die if he—

The second shot rang out. Reynaud found himself on the ground against a carriage, Miss Corning’s sweet, warm body under him.
Her gray eyes stared up into his, no longer green with anger but only terrified.

And the screams—the screams were all around him.

“Descendez!”
Reynaud roared to a soldier sitting in the carriage box looking stupidly around. “Form a line of defense!”

“What—” Miss Corning began.

But he ignored her. A man had been hit and was writhing on the top steps of the town house, his blood staining the white stone.
It was the young soldier, the one who’d been walking with him. Dammit. It was
his
man.

And he was still exposed.

“Stay with Miss Corning,” he ordered a nearby soldier.

The soldier in the box had finally dropped down and lay beside them as well. Where was the sergeant? Where were the other
officers? They’d all be killed here in the open, caught between the cross fire. Reynaud’s temples throbbed with pain; his
heart thundered. He had to save his men.

“Do you understand?” he yelled at the soldier near him.

The soldier blinked at him, dazed.

Reynaud took the man by the shoulder and shook him. “Stay with Miss Corning. I’m counting on you.”

Something in the soldier’s face cleared. His gaze locked on Reynaud’s, just as they always did, and he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good man.” Reynaud eyed the soldier on the steps, judging the distance. It had been at least a minute since the last shot.
Were the Indians still lurking in the woods? Or had they crept away again, silent as ghosts?

“What are you going to do?” Miss Corning asked.

Reynaud looked into her clear gray eyes. “Get my man. Stay here. Take this.” He pressed the hilt of his knife into her palm.
“Don’t move until I tell you.”

And he kissed her hard, feeling life—his and hers—coursing through his veins. Dear God, he had to get her away from here.

He got up before she could voice her protest and ran to the steps, keeping his upper body low. He paused by the moaning soldier
only long enough to grab the man under the arms. The boy screamed as Reynaud pulled him to the front door, the sound high
and animal, a cry of primeval agony. So many were in agony. So many were dead. And all so young.

The third bullet hit the door frame as Reynaud yanked his man through, splinters of wood exploding against his cheek.

Reynaud was panting, but the boy was out of the line of fire at least. The bastard couldn’t shoot him again, couldn’t scalp
him as he lay dying.
Her brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood, dull and lifeless.
Reynaud shook his head, wishing he could think through the blinding pain. Something… something wasn’t right.

“What is this?” Reginald St. Aubyn, the earldom thief, cried, his face red. He started for the door.

Reynaud shot out his arm, barring the way. “Snipers in the woods. Don’t go out.”

St. Aubyn jerked back his head, staring at him as if he were insane. “What are you babbling about?”

“I haven’t time for this,” Reynaud growled. “There’s a shooter, man.”

“But… but, my niece is out there!”

“She’s safe at the moment, sheltered by the carriage.”

Reynaud assessed the crowd of soldiers gathered by the commotion in the entry hall. Except… except they didn’t look like soldiers.
Something was wrong. His head was splitting with pain, and he hadn’t the time to figure it out now. His back crawled with
the knowledge that the Indians were still out there, waiting. The lad moaned at his feet.

“You.” He pointed at the oldest. ”Are there any guns in the house? Dueling pistols, birding pieces, hunting rifles?”

The man blinked and came to attention. “There’s a pair of dueling pistols in his lordship’s study.”

“Good. Get them.”

The man whirled and ran down the back passage.

“You two”—Reynaud indicated two practical-looking women—“fetch some clean cloth, linens, anything we can use for bandages.”

“Yes, sir.” They went without a word.

Reynaud turned to the boy but was stayed by a hand on his arm.

“Now, see here,” St. Aubyn said. “I won’t let my servants be ordered about by a raving lunatic. This is my house. You can’t
just—”

Reynaud spun and in the same motion took the older man by the throat and shoved him into the wall. He looked into watery brown
eyes, suddenly widened, and leaned close.