He’d obviously been managing them well, she thought as she surveyed the tasteful foyer. Better than his father, whose main interest, or so she had heard, was disgracing his wife by engaging in one licentious affair after another. Alex was a rake, but she could not imagine him shaming his wife or the Selbourne name as his father had.
Bestowing another approving look over the decor, she caught her reflection in the mirror and stepped closer, adjusting her soiled cloak over her gown. She began to pull the hood around her face, then paused, glanced quickly about, and leaned into the mirror.
She studied her familiar reflection. Did she look any different now that she was no longer a virgin?
No. She looked the same.
Perhaps the color in her cheeks was a little higher and her lips were swollen, but she was the same old Lucia. Actually, she thought, peering closer, she looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes and lines of fatigue around her mouth. She yawned and pulled the hood up, then jumped when a hand clamped on her shoulder.
“Alex,” she chided, turning, then screamed. The man holding her was not Alex. Behind him four other men were rushing into the foyer. Lucia screamed again and wriggled out of the man’s grasp.
Cold fear, like the damp morning air, closed around her, and she slid across the slick marble floor in her scramble to get away. She spotted Alex running down the hallway. Oh, thank heaven! She changed the angle of her skid and headed toward him, a bubble of hope rising within her.
It burst when the excruciating pain shrieked through her scalp. “Alex!” she screamed, but her oxygen was cut off as her head was yanked back by her long hair. She slipped and stumbled and was hauled against a mountain of foul-smelling flesh, then hissed, scratched, and clawed at her captor. Her scalp burned with the knifelike pain shooting through it, but she ignored it, shaking her head wildly in an attempt to dislodge the man’s grip. Her captor grunted, and his grip seemed to ease. She fought harder, flailing against him, biting and tearing and kicking.
Until she felt the cold pistol press against her temple.
And then her heart lurched into her throat. Even in her haze of terror she knew what it was. She went absolutely still and only then realized she’d been screaming.
The foyer was suddenly deathly silent and, careful to move only her eyes, she sought Alex. He’d come to a halt in front of the grand staircase. Under the glittering chandelier, his face was calm and deadly.
And just like that, Lucia’s panic seeped away. It burned off like the morning mist on a sunny day. In that moment, she knew Alex would protect her.
“A pleasure to see you again, De´charne´,” Alex said in flawless French. The tone of his voice suggested he was greeting a guest at a dinner party. Bored. Polite.
“Bonjour,” a man on her right answered, and Lucia twisted slightly to see him. He was small—smaller than Francesca even—with dark hair and a trim mustache. His face was thin and pale, his body so gaunt it was almost skeletal. He seemed wildly out of place. In stark contrast to the ragged, burly men with him, De´charne´ was neat and trim. “I had hoped to catch you in this morning,” De´charne´ said. His voice was high and clear, every word enunciated perfectly. “It does not appear as though you expected me.” He grinned, and his cheekbones jutted from his face.
Alex waved a careless hand. “I was just on my way out. If you’ll excuse us?”
“Not this time.” De´charne´ reached into his coat, and two of his men stepped forward. “You and I, monsieur, have an appointment.”
He aimed a pistol at Alex, and Lucia gasped, a trickle of fear breaking through her trust.
“Tie him up, Pierre.” De´charne´ waved the gun at Alex. “And make sure it’s tight.”
Alex cocked a brow but made no protest.
“I advise you not to attempt any heroics, monsieur,” De´charne´ went on, nodding at Lucia. “I remind you the odds are not in your favor. Five to one, and we are all armed.”
“Was it something I said?” Alex spread his arms, then held his hands behind his back as Pierre, a man with a jagged scar across his forehead and right eyelid, bound him.
Lucia winced as Pierre wound the rope around Alex and yanked it viciously. She stared at Alex for some sign of reassurance, but try as she might to catch his eye, he didn’t look at her.
Her captor pressed the gun to her temple harder, and she blinked back tears. The cold of the metal gun barrel skittered through her, making her arms and legs feel like icicles. She tried to take a deep breath and found that the air had frozen in her lungs.
“I almost had you in Paris, monsieur,” De´charne´ continued, when Alex was bound. He sauntered through the foyer, eyeing the furnishings and examining the knickknacks on the satinwood side table with two fingers. “It was Camille Chevrier who saved you.” He darted a glance at Alex. Alex blinked, showed no response. De´charne´ lifted a small Se`vres bowl. “The documents you were carrying must have been very important for her to compromise her position like that.”
Alex shrugged, and Lucia saw De´charne´’s mouth tighten. He wanted a reaction, and Alex wasn’t giving it to him. Her eyes darted rapidly back and forth between the two men, the speed of her heart now rapid as well.
“And your friend Henri.” De´charne´ set down the porcelain bowl. “Such a tragedy! We found him just after you’d sailed. I’m afraid he had to be disposed of, but not before he told us your identity. I tried to coax more out of him, but he was quite a mess by then.” He swaggered to a stop in front of Alex, confident with his adversary bound and flanked by Pierre and another man. “Broken fingers. Broken nose. Blood everywhere. Very messy.”
Alex shrugged. “One does what one must, De´charne´.”
Lucia shut her eyes. Lord, why was he baiting the man? Why not just give him what he wanted? She tried to breathe again, but bile rose in her throat, choking her. She coughed, and her captor shoved the gun at her harder.
De´charne´’s eyes flicked to her and then back to Alex. “You are a cold bastard, monsieur. But not to worry.” He smiled. “Once I get you to Paris your execution will be swift. Perhaps the fires of hell will warm your heart, eh?”
“Not likely.”
