No, maybe she couldn’t manage that. It was far too overwhelming. In fact, she hadn’t quite made up her mind about the whole thing. With Christopher St. John it had simply been nasty. With Lucien it was…demoralizing. Upsetting. All-consuming. It stripped her soul even as he stripped her body, leaving nothing left. Both times she’d somehow had to pull herself back together, and each time it had been harder.
It had nothing to do with the emptiness she’d felt after Christopher St. John had taken her to bed.
With Lucien, she felt too full, too overwhelmed, in a very real sense. She could shrug off St. John’s clumsy pawings, the hurt he’d dealt her.
Lucien would be a different matter entirely.
She ran her fingers over the keys, launching into a Bach prelude she’d memorized last year. She loved Bach, the mathematical precision of him, the joy and lightness. She played with great force, hoping to annoy Lucien wherever he was in the house. It was a challenging piece, and she tended to miss notes, but she still enjoyed herself tremendously.
“Please stop.”
She let out a shriek, crashing her hands onto the piano and turning to glare at him. “You frightened me,” she accused him. “Must you sneak up on one like that?”
“You were playing so loudly I doubt you would have heard a dragoon of soldiers if they marched in. If you must torture a composer why don’t you choose one of his more lugubrious pieces—perhaps a fugue? Surely your repertoire must include pieces that don’t have to be played quite so loudly? One that you might, perhaps, know better?”
He was dressed in black, as always, and sunlight shone in on his scarred face. His pale eyes were unreadable as he watched her, and she could only hope she was equally inscrutable. Because she looked at his ruined beauty and her heart ached.
“I’m afraid it’s not the knowledge that makes me hit wrong notes, it’s the level of skill,” she managed to say sweetly, pulling herself together. “People say I play with great abandon.”
“Yes. Abandoned to all sense of musicality.”
“I suppose you can do better?”
“I can. I won’t. Please yourself, but a little more quietly, if you will. I have the headache.”
She hit a chord on the piano, quite loudly, one note deliberately off, watching him wince before she left off and rose from the bench. “So tell me, at what time are we leaving for our visit?”
“As soon as you’re ready. I assume you’re longing to get away from here and back into company—you should enjoy yourself extremely.”
That soon. “Actually I’ve been very happy here,” she said brightly. “I like having my own house, and I enjoy having it to myself. But I’m perfectly happy to go wherever you wish. I’m looking forward to meeting your friends.” She summoned her dazzling smile, the one that didn’t reach her eyes. “My darling, I’ll do absolutely anything you wish me to.”
His expression, cynical as always, did little to ease her anxieties. “I was hoping you’d say so, my dearest. I have great plans for you.”
She could stab him, she thought dreamily. If he thought she was going to have anything to do with his nasty little friends she would have to disabuse him of the notion, but she didn’t quite believe he meant to go through with it. He was a man who valued his possessions, and a wife was, unfortunately, a possession, assuming he still meant to marry her. She couldn’t see him lending her out to his friends.
Could she? For the sake of the revenge he held so dearly?
She would stab him.
She smiled sweetly. “Will we arrive in time for dinner? Otherwise I’ll have Mrs. Humber make us up a basket.”
“We don’t eat formal meals. Don’t worry your head about such things—Mrs. Humber will take care of it. All you need to do is smile and be pretty.” After a moment he lifted a well-shaped eyebrow. “What was that, my love? Did I hear you growl?”
Miranda’s fingers had curled into claws, and she quickly relaxed them. “Not at all, my darling. I’m looking forward to this.” Bloody hell, he was good at this. What was the line? “That one may smile and smile and be a villain.” He wasn’t Richard the Third, he was Hamlet, out for revenge.
Except it had been Hamlet speaking, had it not? She looked at him, wondering just how villainous he truly could be. Stab him, she thought, marshalling her courage.
“What are you thinking, my pet? Your lovely brow is now furrowed.”
“I was thinking about Hamlet,” she answered with absolute truth.
“My lovely classical bride! Of course you were. ‘O smiling, damned villain,’” he said, and she jerked at how close he was to her thoughts. But then, that had been the way during the short, sweet time they had been friends. They had been curiously in tune with each other. He went on, “But even Claudius repents. I’ve already told you, the closest I can come is Richard the Third.”
On impulse she reached up and touched the scarred side of his face. “Caliban,” she said softly. “Are you going to tell me how this happened?”
He didn’t move for one breathless moment. And then he flinched, pulling away from her. “I don’t think it would entertain you, my lady,” he said, suddenly formal. “There are far more interesting ways to spend our time.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “You try so hard to convince me how evil you are,” she said softly, dropping her overbright smile. “Don’t you tire of it?”
“Trust me, my love, it’s effortless.” He was cold, withdrawn, his pale eyes wintry. “We’ll be leaving within the hour. I’ve left instructions with your so-called maid. Be ready.”
They rode in grim silence. Jacob had changed his clothes, and apart from asking her if someone had brought her some food he said nothing, leaning back on the opposite seat, his long legs propped on the floor beside her, and he slept.
She wished she could do the same. She felt as if she’d spent her life in a carriage, and while she still loved the idea of travel, she wouldn’t have minded a more leisurely pace or time off between trips in the best of all situations.
This was far from the best. She glanced over at her companion, frustrated. She was frightened for Miranda, who seemed surrounded by enemies. Her closest friend had accepted her dismissal and in fact had been so busy becoming enamored of a thief she’d forgotten all about her. After all, Jane had seen the way Rochdale had looked at her. She knew what love looked like—she’d seen it often enough between her parents, and she was sure she’d recognized it without question.
But it seemed as if she was wrong. Not if he was going to offer her up to the Heavenly Host as some sort of gift, or sacrifice, or plaything. She shuddered.
Jacob Donnelly slept on, impervious to worry and the racketing of the carriage, impervious to everything. She might just as well be alone in the coach, she thought, much aggrieved. If he didn’t wake up and set her mind at ease she would be tempted to go into strong hysterics.
They hit a bump, and she almost flew off the seat. Her companion barely moved, and enough was enough. They’d been in the carriage almost twelve hours, stopping only to change horses, and the morning sun was coming up. If her companion was really that sound a sleeper then she pitied the poor woman who married him.
Of course she did, she mocked herself. Poor, shy, pitiful Jane. She reached out and kicked him.
He didn’t move, continuing to sleep soundly as the coach tore onward. She wondered what would happen if she pinched him. She reached out to kick him again when his quiet voice reached out through the dawn-lit carriage.
“Don’t kick me, lass,” he said quietly.
“Mr. Donnelly,” she said, hating the sound of her high and nervous voice. “Do you think we’re going to get there in time to dissuade Lord Rochdale from taking Miranda to his evil friends?”
He opened his eyes, looking at her with a lazy appreciation that startled her. What was there about her skinny, plain figure that was worth appreciating? “Now, Miss Jane,” he said, “you’ll find that most things aren’t quite as bad as they seem. The Heavenly Host are no more than a bunch of spoiled, gormless aristocrats with more money than sense, and they try to keep themselves entertained by playing at being wicked. It’s mostly harmless, if not particularly sanctioned by the church, and some of the things that go on there might be against the law, but I always hold with the fact that if the two or three or more people involved want to do it then it’s no one else’s business.”
“Two or three or more…?” That was something she didn’t care to think about. “So there’s no blood sacrifice or anything?”
“The only thing that gets sacrificed is some fools’ dignity.”
Jane concentrated on making pleats in her poor abused traveling dress. “And have you ever been to one of these gatherings?”
“Oh, they’re not for the likes of me. For one thing, I’ve never been particularly interested. For another, only a favored few are allowed to join, and those are of the upper crust. Your fiancé was rejected.”
“What?” she stared at him in shock. “My boring, stiff-necked, straitlaced fiancé wanted to be part of their disgusting group?”
“Maybe he wasn’t so boring as you thought.”
“Trust me, he was,” she said. “One can be perverse and still be boring.”
He laughed. “Very true. And being a member doesn’t mean you’ve lost your soul. Your own…” He stopped abruptly, as if realizing he’d said too much.
But Jane, for all her shyness, had never been particularly slow. “‘My own…’ what? Never mind, I know the answer to that. My father told me he spent many years as a total wastrel. It shouldn’t surprise me in the least that he was part of them.” She looked at his impassive face. “You did mean my father, didn’t you?”
“Ask him if you dare,” he suggested affably. “I’ve said too much.”
“You don’t know my father, do you? I can ask him anything.” She sat back on her seat, fidgeting. “Do you think we’ll get there in time to keep them from going?”
“Don’t worry, lass, we’ll get to Ripton Waters in plenty of time, but it wouldn’t do to underestimate Scorpion. He’ll more than likely realize he’s a flaming idiot and stop before he goes through with it.”
“A flaming idiot?”
“You and I both know he’s mad for her, something I never thought I’d see. I’m more than happy to take you up there, just to set your mind at ease, but he’s in love with her, and I suspect she feels the same way.”
“And yet he’s serving her up to the Heavenly Host,” Jane said with some asperity.
“You’ve seen Scorpion, Miss Jane. You’ve spent time with him. Do you really think he’s the kind of man who’d share the woman he’s fallen in love with? His problem is he doesn’t seem to realize it just yet, and he won’t listen when I tried to point it out to him. But he’ll come to it soon enough when he sees another man put a hand on her.”
“If she’s really safe then why are you willing to race up north to rescue her?” she said, unconvinced.
His smile was slow and charming. “Maybe I just wanted the chance to spend time with you.”
She allowed herself an inelegant snort. “I own a mirror, Mr. Donnelly.”
His smile vanished. “Perhaps you do, lass,” he said finally. “But you must be half blind. And the name’s Jacob.”
And before she realized what he’d intended, he’d moved across the carriage and sat beside her, his warm, big body pressed up against her, and he’d taken her nervous hand in his.
She’d done her best, played her cards well, but she had to face facts. She had lost. Lucien always held the stronger hand, and there was only so much skill could do against a master player. He was taking her to his degenerate friends, the final proof of how little she truly mattered. Any hopes she’d had of a real connection had finally died.
He rode outside, a good thing. She would have had a hard time keeping up her bubbly conversation during the ride, which he’d told her would take most of the day. Instead she could try to think if there was any way of escape.
He’d told her it would never be rape. Perhaps he only meant with him. He would offer her up to his friends, and she had no idea what would happen if she struggled. Perhaps it would only sweeten the game for them. She’d refused to struggle with St. John—she would hardly give a bunch of jaded aristocrats that pleasure.
She could escape, perhaps. She’d given Lucien every sign that she was cowed—if he glanced away for even a minute she could run.
Her chances of success would be slim. She had no money, and he would find her easily enough, and then all he had to do was lie if someone tried to help her. Tell them she was a runaway bride. Or a madwoman. Or he could simply kill anyone who offered to assist her—she had no real knowledge of the depths his infamy could go. So the only people who could truly help her would be her family, and they had no idea where she was.
Even Jane didn’t know exactly where they were headed. She could direct her family north, but Lucien had taken back roads, and Jane would have little information.
Oh, they would find her eventually. But not soon enough.
If he’d joined her in the coach she might have been able to make him change his mind. Perhaps he knew that, and stayed outside for that very reason. It was just as well. Pulling up her skirts, she took out the knife that was strapped to her calf.
It was a nasty-looking weapon, part of a display of armory used during the Civil War, though she wasn’t sure if it was by the Roundheads or the Royalists. Either way, it was about a foot long with a nice point, even if the blade was sadly dull. She’d slipped it out of the display in the third-floor hallway. It hadn’t been dusted in what looked like decades, and there were so many weapons adorning the walls that Lucien would never realize something was gone.
If worse came to worst, she’d stab him.
Oh, no place on his body that would actually kill him. In the arm or leg or something, just enough to shock him and hurt like hell and give her time to get away. She’d considered smashing a ewer on his head as she had with St. John but Lucien probably had too hard a head to make that work. But he could bleed if she stabbed him, she had no doubt.
She tucked the blade back in the garter. Getting into the carriage had been tricky, as dismounting was bound to be, but the groom had handled the honors and Lucien would be busy with other things. Like planning her total subjugation by deviates.
The Heavenly Host! Heaven spare her. She had no fear of blood sacrifice or black masses. She’d heard the stories, much expurgated, from her own family. Both her father and grandfather, the notorious Francis Rohan, had been active in the Heavenly Host, and unless they’d greatly changed in the last twenty years they were nothing but a group of bored aristocrats playing games with God and sex, dressing in outlandish costumes and cavorting. She had no quarrel with their silly doings, as long as they kept their grubby hands off her.
She considered the vain hope that her brothers had lied to her, that they had followed in the family footsteps and joined that group of degenerates, and would, upon discovering her identity, rescue her, but she doubted it. She knew them too well, and none of them would have any patience with that kind of playacting. The Heavenly Host would hold no interest for them. Benedick and Charles were happily married, and Brandon was such a prig he’d be horrified.
So she could fight, she could run, or she could stab Lucien. While that was definitely the most appealing, she somehow doubted she’d have the courage in the end. Because, appalling, toad-sucking, slime-dwelling bastard that he was, she…
She what? Didn’t want to hurt him? That certainly wasn’t true—she’d like to bash him in the head. She was fond of him? Hardly. One couldn’t be fond of someone who skulked around like a Shakespearean villain. Pitied him? Not likely. He was much too strong to be pitied.
Lusted after him? Perhaps she would say yes, if she were to be honest with herself, but she was fighting it, fighting her own weaknesses. So he was good at making a woman shiver and tremble and dissolve. It was a skill and nothing more. She needed to remember that.
But she could also remember the way he held her as she cried. The expression on his face when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way they were so oddly in tune, when they weren’t at war.
If he’d just stop being such an arrogant bastard she might start to care for him. Might stop wanting his head on a platter.
But she was much too wise a woman to fall in love with a man who was only intent on vengeance against her family and thought of her as nothing but a weapon. She was too smart to love a man who couldn’t love her back, no matter how easy it was to fall under his spell.
Wasn’t she?