LITMIR.BIZ

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no longer. The key turned. The door cracked open by the smallest angle, letting in the candlelight of the well-lit landing. Lucien was looking right back at her. The piercing gaze of his eyes blasted away any remnants of sleep from Madeline’s mind. She said nothing, just opened the door wider and watched with a beady eye while he entered. There was only one bed: Madeline waited to see what her husband intended.

      He locked the door before moving to the chair by the glowing hearth. First his coat was discarded, followed closely by his neckcloth and waistcoat. The bottom drawer in the chest opened to reveal a blanket. Lucien extracted it, kicked off his boots, sat himself down in the chair, and pulled the blanket over his body. All in less than two minutes.

      Madeline’s toes were cold upon the floor. She still lingered beside the door.

      ‘Goodnight, Madeline,’ he said and, leaning back in the chair, closed his eyes.

      Her mouth opened, then closed. ‘Goodnight.’ She climbed back beneath the covers, looked again at the figure of her husband slumped awkwardly in the small chair. The bed was spacious and warm. Madeline bit at her lip. Offering to share the bed might be misconstrued. And he could have taken two rooms for the night instead of only one. Madeline stifled the guilt and closed her eyes against the discomfort of the chair, only to open them several times to check upon Lucien’s immobile figure. Sleep crept unobtrusively upon her and Madeline’s eyes opened no more.

       Chapter Seven

      ‘Madeline.’ His voice was honeyed, but beneath the sweetness she knew there was venom. ‘My love,’ he whispered against her ear. His lips, hard and demanding, trailed over her jaw. ‘Did you think that you could escape me, my sweet?’ Bony fingers clawed at her arms, raking her flesh, tearing at her dress. ‘There’s a name for women like you.’

      ‘No,’ she whispered.

      ‘I know the truth,’ he said, his mouth curving to reveal those small sharp teeth. She looked up into the eyes of Cyril Farquharson. ‘And I’m coming to get you. Tregellas cannot stop me from taking what is mine.’

      ‘No.’ Madeline shook her head, denying the words she dreaded so much. Nausea churned in her stomach. Fear prickled at her scalp and crept up her spine.

      The blow hit hard against her cheek. Breath shuddered in her throat. She staggered back, searching for an escape, running towards the door. Her skirts wound themselves around her legs, contriving to trip her, pulling her back to him. She fought against them, reaching out towards the doorknob. Her fingers grasped at the smooth round wood. Turned.

      Pulled. The door held fast. The handle rattled uselessly within her clasp. Panic rose. She wrenched at it, scrabbled at it, kicked at the barrier. And then she felt the hot humid breath against the back of her neck and the gouge of his nails as he tore her round to face him.

      ‘No, please, Lord Farquharson, I beg of you. Please do not!’

      Cyril Farquharson only laughed and the sound of it was evil to the core. He was laughing as he ripped open her bodice to expose her breast, and still laughing as he raised the dagger ready to plunge it into her heart.

      ‘No!’ Madeline screamed. ‘No! No!’

      ‘Madeline.’

      Madeline’s eyes flew open with a start to find herself sitting up in the bed with a man’s strong arms around her. Fear surged strong and real. Farquharson? She struggled against him.

      ‘It’s all right.’ The voice was calm and soothing. ‘You’ve had a nightmare.’ Cool fingers stroked at her head and then ran over her cheeks to gently tilt her face round to look at his. ‘Farquharson isn’t here. It’s just a bad dream.’

      ‘Lucien?’ The word trembled, as did the rest of her. Her heart still kicked in her chest and her throat felt like its sides had stuck together. Slowly she remembered the room in the White Hart and saw the dying embers of the fire across on the hearth.

      Firm lips touched to her forehead, murmuring words of comfort. ‘Go back to sleep, Madeline. I’m here, nothing can harm you.’

      The darkness was so thick as to mask him. Just the hint of the angle of a jaw and the suggestion of a nose. She moved her hands up to his face, lightly caressing his features. ‘Lucien?’ she said again, touching her fingers against the stubble on his chin.

      ‘Yes,’ came the deep reassuring voice that she had come to recognise. He eased her back down against the bed, pulling the covers up and tucking them around her. ‘You should go back to sleep. You’re safe. I’ll be watching over you.’ His fingers trailed a tender caress against her cheek as he moved away.

      His skin had felt cold against hers. Madeline sat back up, peering towards the fireplace. ‘Lucien?’

      ‘Mmm?’ There was the sound of a woollen blanket being arranged and the creak of the wooden chair beneath his weight.

      The air within the room was not warm. Madeline shivered against its chill. No wonder he was freezing, sitting in that uncomfortable little chair all night with just one thin blanket against the plummeting temperature. ‘You … you could come and sleep over here.’

      Silence. As if he hadn’t heard what she’d just suggested.

      But Madeline had felt his weariness and the chill in his limbs. ‘There’s plenty of room for us both and it’s nice and warm. Much better, I’d guess, than that chair.’

      A moment’s hesitation and then from the other side of the room, ‘Thank you, Madeline, but my honour does not allow me.’

      Madeline stifled a snort. Lord, but he had the pride of the devil. She dozed for what was left of the night, stealing looks into the darkness, guarding against the return of Farquharson, even if it was in her dreams.

      The next day both Lucien and Madeline were tired and wan-faced. A hasty breakfast and then their journey resumed, moving slowly, increasingly closer to Cornwall and the Tregellas country estate. They travelled along the Dorchester Road, making good progress despite the chill wind. A brief stop at the Three Swans in Salisbury for lunch and then they pushed on, travelling further south as the daylight dimmed and the dark clouds gathered. The rain, when it started at first, was a collection of a few slow drops. But each drop was heavy and ripe, bursting to release a mini deluge. One drop, then another, and another, faster and faster, until the road was a muddied mess of puddles, and the rain battered its din against the coach’s feeble body. They put up for the night at The Crown in Blandford, a coaching inn that had none of the welcome of the White Hart, and was filled with travellers wishing to escape the worst of the downpour. Only the production of several guineas served to procure them a room for the night and the shared use of a small parlour. They ate hurriedly, exchanging little conversation, listening to the hubbub of noise that drifted in from the public room, and the batter of wind and rain against the windows.

      Lucien downed the remainder of the brandy and scanned the faces around the room. Old men, young men, peasants, servants, farmers and gentlemen. The weather was an effective leveller of class. Even the odd woman, hag-faced, sucking on a pipe, or young with an obvious display of buxom charm. But thankfully the face that Lucien sought was not present. He wondered how long it would be before Farquharson would come after them, for he had not one doubt that he would. Now he knew that Farquharson would never call him out. The weasel wasn’t man enough to face him again across an open field. Farquharson would use different methods altogether. The lure had worked, just not in the way that Lucien might have imagined. Farquharson would be part of the gossip: an object of ridicule, someone to be pitied. That was not something that Cyril Farquharson was likely to suffer for long. With cold and deliberate calculation Lucien had unleashed the demon. Farquharson would come for him now, at long last. Finally, after all these years. The satisfaction was tempered by the knowledge that he would not be Farquharson’s only target.

      He remembered the expression on Farquharson’s face the last time he had looked at Madeline, when he had spoken so cruelly to the woman who was now Lucien’s wife. She was a softer, easier target for revenge and one that

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