Bride for a Night

CHAPTER EIGHT



GABRIEL CLENCHED HIS hands at his sides, regarding his wife with smoldering frustration.

What the devil had happened?

Everything had gone to plan as he had waited for the shadows to deepen before at last slipping through the gardens and finding an open window to enter the palace.

It had taken longer than he had expected to at last locate Talia’s rooms, and he had been forced to hide more than once to avoid passing guards, but overall he had been pleased to reach Talia without alerting the numerous French swine of his presence.

Then he had heard his wife calling out the name of another man, and his determination to collect Talia and escape with all possible speed had been forgotten beneath a tidal wave of pure male fury.

He had risked his damned life to come to her rescue. How dare she be expecting another man in her private chambers. Especially attired in a slip of a gown that would make any man fantasize of sex?

Even if she spoke the truth and the bastard was not her lover.

And to make matters worse, she did not even possess the grace to apologize, instead attempting to paint him as the villain of the piece.

He shoved an impatient hand through his hair. “Tell me how you came to be here,” he commanded, attempting to regain command of the encounter.

“Why bother?” she mocked, her magnificent eyes flashing with a spirit that was at complete odds with the timid female who had stood at his side during their wedding. “You have obviously made your decision that I am not only a scheming peasant who forced you into marriage, but I am also so lacking in morals that I took a lover within days of becoming the Countess of Ashcombe and…” she sucked in a trembling breath that drew attention to the delectable swell of her breasts “…as the coup de grace I became a French spy.”

The discomfort twisting his gut could not be guilt, he attempted to assure himself.

He was the Earl of Ashcombe. He had every right to question his wife.

“Tell me, Talia,” he demanded.

Her eyes narrowed, but with a toss of her head she conceded to his demand.

“I happened to be passing by the church when I noticed two ruffians entering.” She shrugged. “I was concerned they were up to some mischief, so I slipped to the back where I could see what they were doing.”

His heart missed a painful beat at the mere thought of Talia confronting the two brutes currently being questioned by the Home Office in London.

“Damnation, woman. Have you no sense at all?” he chastised. “The Countess of Ashcombe does not walk country lanes without a servant and she most certainly does not confront…ruffians. If you have no concern for your pretty neck, then you should at least have a care for your reputation.”


She should have been cowed by his censure. Instead she met him glare for glare.

“Just as you had a care for my reputation when you publicly shunned me?”

“Dammit,” he snapped. “You should have returned to Carrick Park and sent a servant to investigate.”

“I only intended to see if they meant harm before I decided whether or not to go in search of the magistrate.”

“Instead you were captured.”

She waved a hand, indicating the palatial room. “Obviously.”

Gabriel’s frustrated fury shifted toward the man who had dared to kidnap his wife. Although he had a vague memory of a new vicar being chosen for the local church, his visits to Devonshire had been consumed by his efforts to teach his reluctant tenants the latest farming techniques as well as restoring the manor house that had fallen into disrepair after his father’s death. He had little time or interest in the spiritual welfare of his people.

Now he could only regret his failure to personally investigate Jack Gerard.

“I will kill him,” Gabriel swore. “Were you injured?”

She rolled her eyes, appearing utterly unimpressed by his concern.

“Should that not have been your first question rather than accusing me of adultery?”

He growled in annoyance at her continued defiance. He was unaccustomed to anyone daring to lecture him, let alone his own wife.

“Bloody hell, when did my mouse become a shrew?”

“When I accepted my husband intended to treat me with the same disregard as my father.”

He stiffened, deeply offended by the accusation. He had nothing in common with Silas Dobson.

He squashed the memory of standing at the window of his London townhouse, watching as Talia had entered the waiting carriage with an air of wounded defeat. At the time, he had done what he had thought was for the best.

That did not make him an uncouth, ill-bred bully, did it?

Of course it did not.

“If I intended to treat you with disregard then I would not be risking my life to rescue you,” he pointed out in a harsh voice.

She shrugged aside his heroic deed, unconcerned that the Earl of Ashcombe would personally face hardship and peril when he could so easily have waited in London for the diplomats to attempt to gain her release.

“I am not sure why you bothered,” she muttered.

“At the moment, neither am I,” he barked before making yet another effort to regain control of his temper. Christ, this female would not be satisfied until he was fully unhinged. “Did the bastard attempt to take advantage of you?”

“No.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Jacques has been a perfect gentleman.”

He growled deep in his throat. “Perfect gentlemen do not betray their countrymen and kidnap vulnerable females,” he ground out.

She sniffed. “How did you find me?”

Gabriel had endured enough. He was not certain what had happened to his shy, properly modest bride, but now was not the time for a marital spat.

Not when they were surrounded by the enemy.

“We can discuss my methods later.” He crossed toward the door. “We must leave.”

“Wait.”

He halted to regard her with a flare of impatience. “Talia.”

Turning her back on him, Talia stalked to the satinwood armoire and began pulling out muslin gowns, petticoats and delicate stockings.

“I am not being hauled back to England without a toothbrush and a change of clothing,” she said, her tone daring him to argue.

“Bring only the necessities.” Gabriel crossed to spread one of the gowns over the mattress, then tucked her undergarments in the muslin folds before rolling it into a tidy bundle. “I have packed your belongings and have them waiting for you on my ship.”

Talia’s protest died on her lips as her eyes widened in disbelief.

“You packed a bag for me?”

He crossed to the washstand, collecting her toothbrush and tooth powder as well as the silver hairbrush and mirror, savagely promising to toss them in the rubbish the moment they reached his ship. No man would provide for Talia but himself.

She belonged to him.

Prickly temper and all.

“Actually I packed several bags since I have never before played lady’s maid and was not entirely certain what you would need,” he informed her.

“Why did you not have Mrs. Donaldson assist you?”

He snorted, recalling the wailing and handwringing that had filled his once peaceful home.

“Because the entire staff is prostrate with grief.” He gave a shake of his head, still amazed by his servants’ unashamed hysterics at Talia’s disappearance. “I fear if I do not have you returned to their tender care soon the entire estate will collapse in despair.”

Her lips tightened. “You needn’t mock.”

“I am not mocking, my dear.” His gaze lingered on the delicate beauty of her face, before skimming down to the body that was pure perfection. A dangerous sensation gripped his heart, forcing him to accept just how much he had missed this female. It was ludicrous. She had been little more than a stranger when he’d wed her. And yet the desire to have her near was a potent ache that refused to be dismissed. Dammit. “You have earned the loyalty of all those who depend upon Carrick Park for their livelihood. It is quite remarkable in such a short period of time.”

“They are good people and I genuinely care about them,” she said. “Unlike…”

A humorless smile twisted his lips as Talia hastily bit off her words.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“’Tis nothing.”

“On the contrary. I would guess it was an insult.” He watched the color flood her cheeks, ruefully acknowledging that for all of Talia’s lack of blue blood she had already proven to be a better countess than a great many of his ancestors. Including the current dowager Countess of Ashcombe. “The only question is whether it was intended for me or my mother.”

Her blush deepened and, grabbing a shawl from the armoire, Talia headed for the door.

“I am ready.”

He hurried in her wake, catching her arm as she marched down the main corridor.

“This way,” he said, tugging her into a small salon and through a narrow doorway hidden in the wall.

In silence they navigated the smothering darkness of the secret hallway that Gabriel had discovered during his search for Talia. The lack of dust and spiderwebs had warned him that the current occupants were familiar with the cramped corridor, but he doubted they actually patrolled the passageway.

Not that he was willing to lower his guard.

Pulling his loaded pistol from his pocket, he led Talia through the darkness until he at last slowed and pushed open the door to the vast library. He paused, ensuring that there was no one near before crossing the Savonnerie carpet to pull open the door leading to the terrace.

Earlier he had used the steps leading from the garden to the terrace to enter the palace. Now, however, he came to an abrupt halt as he caught faint sounds drifting from the nearby shadows.

“Damn.”

Talia moved to his side. “Guards?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

He attempted to pull her away, but she was already peering over the edge of the terrace.

“What are they—” She gasped as she caught sight of the soldier leaning against the fountain with a maid kneeling in front of him, his low moans of pleasure filling the air. “Oh.”

He jerked her back into the library, annoyed that she had been exposed to such lewd behavior. Did Jacques have no control over his men?


Weaving a path through the gilt chairs covered in red velvet and the heavily scrolled desk, Gabriel pulled open the door to the connected room.

“Where does this lead?”

Talia shook her head. “I am not certain.”

Gabriel cautiously entered what appeared to be an antechamber with a massive black marble fireplace and brocade chairs seated near a round table that held a jade and ivory chess set.

They had just crossed to the opposite door when the sound of footsteps in the main corridor had them both stiffening in alarm.

“Gabriel,” Talia breathed.

“I hear them.”

With long strides he crossed to yank aside the crimson curtains and pushed open the window sash.

Talia was swiftly at his side. “What are you doing?”

Gabriel leaned over the sill, surveying the garden two stories below.

“It is not far to the garden.”

“Are you mad?” Talia rasped.

“I will go first.” Gabriel tossed the small bundle he carried to the flower bed below the window before turning to grasp Talia’s hand. “Once I’m certain no one is near, I will whistle and you can join me.”

Her eyes darkened with fear. “You want me to jump?”

“I will catch you.”

“No.” She wildly shook her head, her raven curls sliding sensuously over the bare skin of her shoulders. “I cannot.”

“Look at me, Talia.” He slid a hand beneath her chin, tilting her face up to meet his encouraging expression. “You have already proven there is no challenge you cannot confront with courage. You can do this.”

“But…”

Lowering his head, Gabriel ended her words of protest with a soft, lingering kiss that only hinted at the raw need clawing deep inside him.

“Trust me,” he whispered against her mouth.



TALIA WAS STILL reeling from her uncontrollable reaction to Gabriel’s branding kiss when he slung a leg over the windowsill and leaped into the garden below. She gasped, racing forward to peer into the darkness even as she told herself she was a fool to be concerned.

She had no notion why Gabriel had taken it upon himself to rush to her rescue, but it was certainly not because he had any finer feelings for her. Or even the most basic concern of a husband for his wife.

How could he when the aggravating man had done nothing but bully and accuse and insult her since his unexpected arrival on the terrace?

She could only presume that his pride could not bear the thought that the Countess of Ashcombe was being held captive by a French spy.

Much to her annoyance, however, she could not stop herself from breathlessly waiting for his whistle to assure her that all was well. Nor could she quell the flutter of panic when long minutes passed with nothing but the distant cry of an owl to break the silence.

Gripping the edge of the window she leaned forward, her fear for Gabriel overcoming her intense dislike for heights.

“Gabriel?” she cried. “Are you hurt?”

There was a rustle from the nearby hedges, then her heart froze at the sight of Gabriel stepping into the moonlight with Jacques on one side and a French soldier on the other with a gun pointed directly at Gabriel’s head.

“Stay where you are, ma petite,” Jacques commanded, casting Gabriel a mocking smile. “It would be a sin to break your lovely neck just when you are about to be rid of your unwanted husband.”

“Jacques, no.” She shook her head in horror. “Please.”

“Ah, how sweetly she pleads for the husband who has treated her with less respect than he would show a stray dog,” Jacques drawled. “Do you know what I think, my lord?”

Gabriel held himself with arrogant indifference, as if he were standing in the middle of a ballroom rather than being held captive by his enemies.

“I do not give a damn.”

Jacques’s smile widened. “I think she would be far happier as a widow,” he taunted. “I know I will be.”

Even from a distance Talia could feel the tangible fury that filled the air as Gabriel glared toward the smirking Frenchman.

“She is mine,” he rasped.

“Non.” Jacques shook his head. “She might legally be the Countess of Ashcombe, but you have yet to earn her as a wife.”

A chilling expression hardened Gabriel’s face. “You are no doubt right, but I can assure you that I will see you in hell before you lay a hand upon her.”

“I intend to lay more than a hand—”

“Jacques,” Talia interrupted in sharp tones, knowing the Frenchman was simply attempting to goad Gabriel.

“Forgive me, ma petite,” Jacques apologized, glancing over her shoulder as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed behind her. “André will escort you to your room.”

Talia did not bother to glance at the man at her side. She was familiar with the slender young soldier who had often paused to speak with her during her walks through the gardens. He had always been gracious, but Talia had never doubted his utter loyalty to Jacques.

“What do you intend to do with my husband?”

Jacques shrugged. “For now he will enjoy the delights of my cellar.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “You swear he will not be hurt?”

“There will be no injuries that will not heal.” Jacques regarded Gabriel with blatant disgust. “At least for now. I make no promises for the future.” Lifting a slender hand, he motioned toward the hovering soldier. “André, ensure our guest is made comfortable.”

“No…wait…”

Talia’s words of protest went unheeded as André grabbed her around the waist and with one smooth motion yanked her out of the window and slung her over his shoulder.

Her last sight was that of Gabriel struggling against the soldier and Jacques, who had wrapped his arms behind him, his face twisted in lethal rage.

“Get your hands off my wife,” he shouted. “Talia!”



BLINDED BY his violent fury at seeing Talia manhandled by the damned soldier, Gabriel struggled against the arms that held him captive, refusing to calm until he felt a gun pressed to his temple.

“Do not be an idiot, Ashcombe,” Jacques rasped. “She is beyond your reach.”

With an effort Gabriel leashed his primitive compulsion to battle his way to Talia. Damnation, how could he rescue his wife if he were dead?

Ending his struggles, he stood rigid as Jacques and the soldier warily released him, shifting the gun to aim it at his heart.

For the moment the damned Frenchman held the upper hand, but soon…soon he would find the means to reverse the situation. And then he would take vicious delight in destroying Jacques Gerard before collecting his wife and returning her to Carrick Park.

And his bed.

“If she is harmed…”

“Thus far I am the only gentleman of her acquaintance that hasn’t offered her harm,” Jacques pointed out in silky tones, waving his hand toward the nearby path. “This way.”

Gabriel clenched his teeth, unable to deny the charge, damn the bastard.

Even when he had come to rescue his wife from the clutches of the evil French he had managed to insult her with his accusations. And why?

Because she stirred feelings inside him that were as incomprehensible as they were unwelcome?

Forcing himself to follow at the Frenchman’s side, he wrenched his tangled thoughts from his wife, concentrating on the dangers at hand.

“A charming home for a vicar,” he drawled.

“Oui.” A smile of bleak satisfaction curved Jacques’s mouth. “It once belonged to the gentleman who condemned my father to death. Ironic, is it not?”


“There is nothing ironic in countrymen slaughtering one another.”

“So speaks the pampered nobleman,” Jacques said and sneered. “You would not be so smug if you were forced to watch your children starving in the gutters.”

Gabriel arched a brow, deliberately allowing his gaze to skim the vast gardens and sprawling palace that surrounded them.

“Instead you drown your citizens in blood while you take comfort in the luxury you profess to detest. How many have died since your grand revolution?”

With the typical conceit of a zealot, the man shrugged aside the thousands of deaths suffered since the assault on the Bastille. Deaths that only continued beneath the rule of Napoleon with his insatiable lust for power.

“Freedom is not without cost.”

Gabriel snorted in disgust. “Is that what you tell your orphans?”

“They will understand that sacrifices were necessary when Napoleon is victorious.”

“More likely they will return to starving in the gutters when the Corsican monster is destroyed and his allies scurry away like the pathetic cowards they are.”

Gabriel enjoyed a stab of satisfaction as Jacques’s expression tightened, but with admirable control the Frenchman smoothed his features.

“Time will tell which of us is correct.” Altering his course, Jacques led Gabriel through a low archway. He paused to retrieve a lit torch from a bracket on the stone wall before he pulled open a door that led to a stone staircase cut deep into the ground. Behind them the French soldier held his gun at the ready, preventing Gabriel from any foolish hope of a swift escape. “Although it is questionable whether or not you will live long enough to enjoy France’s inevitable triumph,” Jacques continued in smug tones.

Gabriel refused to be goaded, instead distracting himself by memorizing the path through the narrow tunnels that had been chiseled beneath the palace.

“You might be an arrogant bastard who is willing to sacrifice his honor for a futile war, but not even you would be foolish enough to murder the Earl of Ashcombe,” he challenged.

“Who would know?” Jacques waved a hand to indicate the damp passageway. “I possess a convenient talent for making bodies disappear.”

Gabriel forced a stubborn smile, as his companion pushed open a heavy wooden door and waved him inside the cavernous room that had obviously been a wine cellar before being emptied of its shelves of bottles. Now there was nothing more than a few narrow cots and a meager washstand to fill the emptiness.

“You do not think I traveled here alone, do you?” he demanded, stepping into the room and turning to regard his captor with a nonchalance he could only hope would fool the Frenchman.

He refused to consider what would happen if it were discovered that his only ally was already headed back to his ship.

“We shall soon discover. I have my soldiers searching the area.”

“My men are wise enough to avoid capture,” Gabriel drawled.

Jacques chuckled. “A pity their master was not so wise, eh Ashcombe?”

Gabriel fisted his hands, battling back the desire to throttle the conceited fop.

Patience, he sternly reminded himself.

Soon enough he would manage to escape, and then Jacques Gerard would learn the meaning of regret.

For now he had to content himself with banishing that annoying smirk from his overly handsome face.

“I was wise enough to outwit you,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.

The taunting edge in his voice had the desired effect as Jacques slowly narrowed his gaze.

“An odd boast considering you are the one being locked in the cellars.”

“Perhaps, but I have the pleasure of knowing that I have ruined your attempts to lead Wellesley’s men into an ambush.”

A thick, explosive fury trembled through the air.

“How very clever of you,” Jacques snarled. “Do you mind sharing how you managed to discover…” He bit off his words with a sudden hiss. “Ah, Henderson and his brother.”

Gabriel savored the man’s biting disappointment. “Yes, your partners were quite forthcoming with a bit of encouragement.”

It took long moments before the Frenchman heaved out a sigh, his ire replaced with derisive resignation.

“A pity, but I always knew they were immoral wretches who would betray their own mother if they could make a profit,” he admitted. “I trust they will be suitably punished for their treachery?”

“Of course.” Gabriel twisted the knife. “As will their accomplice in the Home Office who has also been captured.”

A muscle knotted in Jacques’s jaw as he considered the various repercussions at the discovery of his conspirators.

“I presume Henderson also gave you the necessary information to find me?”

“Yes.”

“Merde.” Jacques shook his head. “It was a risk to reveal my destination, but they had promised to continue our rather profitable arrangement.”

Gabriel growled low in his throat at the man’s casual words. The profitable arrangement had no doubt cost the lives of dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of British soldiers over the past year.

“I assure you that your arrangement is at an end,” he snapped.

The mocking amusement returned to Jacques’s face. “True, but thankfully they were not my only associates and I do have Talia to offer me comfort.” His smile widened. “And speaking of your beautiful wife, I truly should ensure that she has not been unduly disturbed by your unwelcome arrival. Bonsoir, Ashcombe.”

Gabriel rushed forward just as the door was slammed in his face. With a curse he pounded his fist against the thick wood.

“Touch her and I will kill you, you bastard.”