To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(88)

Smiled as they chained his arms in a cross.

WHEN HE’D ESCAPED from captivity, so many months ago now, he’d vowed that he’d never let himself be caught alive again. He’d sworn to himself that he’d die before being taken by an enemy. And he’d meant that vow, truly.

But now Reynaud broke that vow. He kneeled at the feet of his foe, his arms stretched wide and chained to the wall, helpless, and he was glad. None of it mattered as long as Beatrice was alive. He could face this and worse as long as she lived.

Hasselthorpe bent and opened the saddlebags. Mater’s sapphire necklace spilled into the lantern light. Hasselthorpe grunted and picked up the jewels.

“Very nice.” The dark blue stones sparkled as he examined them. “The Blanchard jewels, if I’m not mistaken.” He grinned at Reynaud.

Reynaud shrugged. “You’re not.”

“Very nice indeed.” Hasselthorpe shoved the necklace back in the leather pouch and began tying the cords as he spoke to the brute of a footman. “See that my horse is ready and my bag brought down. The boat sails in two hours, and I must be away to meet it in time.”

For the first time, the big servant showed signs of independent thought. He hesitated, glancing at Reynaud. “An’ him?”

Hasselthorpe looked at the footman coldly. “That’s none of your business.”

The man shifted from one foot to the other. “But, see, they’ll blame me.”

“What?”

“For him.” The footman jerked his chin in Reynaud’s direction. “You’ll be gone and I’ll have a dead aristocrat on me hands, and the first one they’ll be looking at will be me.”

Reynaud grinned. The man had a point.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Hasselthorpe burst out just as the door opened to the dungeon.

Lady Hasselthorpe entered with Beatrice behind her.

Christ! Reynaud lunged against his chains, but the thick iron links held. Hasselthorpe swung toward the door, his gun pointed at Beatrice.

“Get out!” Reynaud ordered. Beatrice was looking at him, her sweet face set in mulish determination. He pulled at the chains with all his strength and felt a slight give.

Hasselthorpe turned toward him as the chains clanked. The lantern’s light glinted off the barrel of the pistol in his hand. Hasselthorpe raised it as Reynaud bared his teeth in defiance.

“No!” Beatrice screamed.

Lady Hasselthorpe rushed toward her husband. “Richard! Have you lost your mind?”

“Beatrice!” Reynaud lunged again, and the iron ring holding his right wrist burst from the wall.

Hasselthorpe swung toward him with the gun, but Lady Hasselthorpe was there, and Beatrice, damn her, Beatrice threw herself against the man.

The gun exploded with a deafening thunderclap, echoing off the stone walls and ceiling. For a moment, everyone froze.

“Beatrice,” Reynaud whispered.

She looked at him, her eyes puzzled, and raised a hand toward him.

Blood streaked her fingers.

SHE’D BEEN NEARLY deafened by the pistol’s report, but Beatrice still heard Reynaud’s angry roar. He sounded like an enraged lion, like some fiery archangel come from heaven to wreak vengeance on a mortal man. He leaped forward, his freed right hand outstretched toward Lord Hasselthorpe. The chain shrieked against the iron ring, and he jerked back, his fingertips brushing Lord Hasselthorpe’s sleeve.

“Dear God!” Lord Hasselthorpe exclaimed. He fell against Beatrice, grasping at her arm.

It was the wrong thing to do.

Reynaud roared again and lunged. The other iron ring exploded from the wall. He was on Lord Hasselthorpe in one bound, tearing the man away from Beatrice.

Lady Hasselthorpe screamed.

Reynaud hit the other man in the face with a horrible smacking sound, and Lord Hasselthorpe fell to the ground. Reynaud followed him down to the stone floor, kneeling above him, his balled fist driving again and again into Lord Hasselthorpe’s face.

“Stop him!” Lady Hasselthorpe clutched Beatrice’s arm. “He’ll kill Richard.”

He would, too. Reynaud showed no signs of halting, though the other man had long since ceased resisting.

“Reynaud,” she said. “Reynaud!”

He stopped abruptly, his chest heaving, his hands, bloody, hanging by his sides and the chains still dangling from his wrists.

Beatrice went to him and hesitantly touched his short, black hair. “Reynaud.”

He turned suddenly and laid his face against her stomach, his big hands grasping her hips. “He hurt you.”

“No,” she said, stroking his dear head, feeling his warmth beneath her palms. “No. The blood was his. The bullet must’ve hit him somewhere. I am not hurt.”

“I could not bear it,” he said against her. “I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt.”

“I wasn’t,” she whispered. She took his hands, large and bruised, in hers and drew him up. “I’m whole and safe. You’ve rescued me.”

“No,” he said as he stood. “I am the one who is rescued. I was lost and broken, and you saved me.” He bent and whispered against her lips, “You have redeemed me.”

He pulled her close, and she came willingly, happily, into the arms of the man she loved.

And who loved her in return.