Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(119)

“You are—you’re part of her,” he contradicted, and his eyes closed as he moved his pelvis against her. “You feel like her. By God, you feel like Lucy.” He groaned and pressed his mouth to hers, seeming not to notice that her teeth were tightly clenched. “I’ve looked for you ever since I lost Lucy,” he muttered. “I’ve known about you all these years, ever since I saw her in France, swollen with you. Little whore, her belly full with Brummell’s bastard when she was promised to me!” He kissed her neck and muttered Lucy’s name again, his coarse hair brushing against her cheek. Suddenly Rosalie could not stand it any longer and screamed, trying to strike him. He caught her wrists easily, his grip so tight that her fingers went numb.

“You’d bloody well better enjoy this,” she said thickly, barely recognizing her own voice. “Because you’ll pay for it with your life, and if I don’t find a way to kill you first, someone else will.”

“You mean your lover,” Rotherham said, his fingers delving into the valley between her br**sts. “You will never see him again. You will never lie with him again.

And if you ever escape from me, I’ll have him killed within an hour of your disappearance.”

“No!”

She fought him in blind panic, squirming away from his engorged manhood and managing to wrench one hand away from his grip. Flailing at him in a desperate attempt for freedom, Rosalie managed to strike him in the throat. Immediately her other hand was released as he choked for air. Running to the door, she scrabbled at the knob and sobbed in gratitude as it opened. She could hear him behind her, his heavy footsteps seeming to thunder in her ears. A silent scream echoed through her insides, and she ran like a mad, wild creature, into the cavernous main hall and toward the endless slope of steps that led to the front door. The scene was a mere blur before her eyes, the paralyzed figures of a manservant and a maid barely impinged on her mind as she passed by them. Rosalie half-fell, half-ran down the steps, her thoughts in a tumbling whirl as instinct took over her body, forcing her feet to move faster and pumping adrenaline through her veins. Halfway down the stairs she fell on the landing, her palms hitting the hard marble with a loud smack. Every bone in her body was jarred. Behind her, the sound of Rotherham’s boots came closer. With a harsh breath Rosalie picked herself up and prepared to run down the remaining stairs, when suddenly a dark shape obstructed her path. Helplessly she collided with it, her feet slipping on the marble. In a fraction of a second she knew that she was going to fall and die. No one could survive a tumble down those hard, gleaming steps.

Shocked, she felt herself being snatched from the fall, pulled upright and held lightly, securely against a hard body. Dumbly she quivered and remained there, gripping her rescuer’s coat lapels in a desperate bid for protection.

“Rosalie. Be still, my love, and don’t tremble so.” She heard Rand’s voice, and uncomprehendingly she looked up at him. “Have you been hurt?” His hazel eyes moved over her face in careful assessment.

Collecting her wits in a fumbling attempt, Rosalie stared up at him with dilated eyes. “Rotherham . . .table. . |. Guillaume |. .” she stuttered, trying to tell him | everything in a confused flurry.

He cut her off by placing a forefinger on her lips. “I understand.”

He was so calm, so wonderfully calm and strong. Rosalie hid her white face against his coat. Rand looked up at Rotherham, who was only a few feet above them on the stairs.

“My greatest pleasure,” Rand said to him evenly, “would be to kill you with my bare hands. If you have a preference for any other method, I’ll be glad to oblige you.”

Equally controlled, Rotherham cast him a slight smile. “Are you competent with a straight saber?”

“I am considered to be.”

“By your fledgling contemporaries?” Rotherham questioned. “Or merely by yourself?”

“Why, both.”

“The weapons are downstairs in the first room. If you care to follow me . . .”

“Of course,” Rand said politely, a frosty, feral gleam in his topaz-shaded eyes. He shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Rosalie, who clutched the garment in . a death hold. The saber, she thought numbly, was probably the best weapon for them to duel with, for it would ensure that the contest of abilities would be finished quickly. It possessed a blade of triangular section, wickedly sharp on the front edge. Requiring strength as well as skill, it weighed more than a pound and tired the forearm easily.

Fear-stricken about what might happen, she wanted to beg Rand to take her away from here and forget about Rotherham, yet she knew that he would have refused her. She did not speak to him, biting her lower lip as he walked down the steps after Rotherham. Rand paused and turned back to her with a mocking, “Hold the railing as you come down.” Rosalie nodded, meeting his quick glance and abruptly seeing all that she had missed before. In his eyes burned a stark blend of love, pain, and fury, but he dared not relinquish his control or he could not accomplish what he had to do.

Both men had removed their coats but not their boots, each seeming to be satisfied with the handicap as long as the other was equally encumbered. Afraid of being a distraction to Rand, Rosalie stayed almost out of sight, remaining at the bottom of the stairs to catch what glimpses were available through the open doorway.

“A good piece,” Rand commented after pulling a saber off the wall.