Bride for a Night(48)

“Stay where you are, ma petite,” Jacques commanded, casting Gabriel a mocking smile. “It would be a sin to break your lovely neck just when you are about to be rid of your unwanted husband.”

“Jacques, no.” She shook her head in horror. “Please.”

“Ah, how sweetly she pleads for the husband who has treated her with less respect than he would show a stray dog,” Jacques drawled. “Do you know what I think, my lord?”

Gabriel held himself with arrogant indifference, as if he were standing in the middle of a ballroom rather than being held captive by his enemies.

“I do not give a damn.”

Jacques’s smile widened. “I think she would be far happier as a widow,” he taunted. “I know I will be.”

Even from a distance Talia could feel the tangible fury that filled the air as Gabriel glared toward the smirking Frenchman.

“She is mine,” he rasped.

“Non.” Jacques shook his head. “She might legally be the Countess of Ashcombe, but you have yet to earn her as a wife.”

A chilling expression hardened Gabriel’s face. “You are no doubt right, but I can assure you that I will see you in hell before you lay a hand upon her.”

“I intend to lay more than a hand—”

“Jacques,” Talia interrupted in sharp tones, knowing the Frenchman was simply attempting to goad Gabriel.

“Forgive me, ma petite,” Jacques apologized, glancing over her shoulder as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed behind her. “André will escort you to your room.”

Talia did not bother to glance at the man at her side. She was familiar with the slender young soldier who had often paused to speak with her during her walks through the gardens. He had always been gracious, but Talia had never doubted his utter loyalty to Jacques.

“What do you intend to do with my husband?”

Jacques shrugged. “For now he will enjoy the delights of my cellar.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “You swear he will not be hurt?”

“There will be no injuries that will not heal.” Jacques regarded Gabriel with blatant disgust. “At least for now. I make no promises for the future.” Lifting a slender hand, he motioned toward the hovering soldier. “André, ensure our guest is made comfortable.”

“No…wait…”

Talia’s words of protest went unheeded as André grabbed her around the waist and with one smooth motion yanked her out of the window and slung her over his shoulder.

Her last sight was that of Gabriel struggling against the soldier and Jacques, who had wrapped his arms behind him, his face twisted in lethal rage.

“Get your hands off my wife,” he shouted. “Talia!”



BLINDED BY his violent fury at seeing Talia manhandled by the damned soldier, Gabriel struggled against the arms that held him captive, refusing to calm until he felt a gun pressed to his temple.

“Do not be an idiot, Ashcombe,” Jacques rasped. “She is beyond your reach.”

With an effort Gabriel leashed his primitive compulsion to battle his way to Talia. Damnation, how could he rescue his wife if he were dead?

Ending his struggles, he stood rigid as Jacques and the soldier warily released him, shifting the gun to aim it at his heart.

For the moment the damned Frenchman held the upper hand, but soon…soon he would find the means to reverse the situation. And then he would take vicious delight in destroying Jacques Gerard before collecting his wife and returning her to Carrick Park.