Bride for a Night

“No. I do not want this.” Harry tugged at his rumpled cravat, as if it was choking him. “You ask too much.”

“I do not ask, Harry,” Jacques corrected in soft, lethal tones. “I am informing you what is to occur.”

Harry’s throat convulsed as he struggled to swallow his swelling panic.

“You cannot force me to take the title,” he blustered. “If you kill my brother I will refuse to return to England.”

Jacques gave a grunt of disgust. “I notice you do not threaten to expose yourself as a traitor to your country. That, of course, would put any end to my hope of using you as a spy, but then you would have to face the consequences of your sins, would you not?” He watched the fear darken Harry’s eyes, sensing that he had the fool precisely where he desired. “Something you have never been willing to do.”

“Say what you will, I refuse to become the Earl of Ashcombe,” Harry warned, but his swagger had been reduced to a childish whine.

Jacques stepped close enough to grasp the lapels of Harry’s tailored coat, his expression merciless.

“Careful, mon ami, the moment you cease to be of use to me is the moment I lodge a bullet in your heart.” He smiled at the sound of Harry’s tortured struggle to breathe. “And make no mistake the pleasure it will give me to rid the world of your worthless presence.”

The pale eyes glittered with hatred. “Damn you.”

Jacques thrust Harry toward the door, weary of the sordid business.

“Return to your foolish entertainments while the men tend to business, Harry,” he commanded. “I shall let you know when I have need of you.” He waited until the Englishman had stumbled across the room. “Oh, and Harry,” he drawled.

Grasping the doorjamb, Harry glared over his shoulder. “What?”

“Do not stray far.”

He jerked as if he had been slapped. “I am a prisoner?”

“Calais is surrounded by French soldiers who are eager to spill English blood.” Jacques grinned. “Only a fool would willingly become their target.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WAITING UNTIL HE heard the sounds of Harry slamming the front door of the townhouse, Jacques heaved a sigh and headed out of the study.

He intended to return to the library and finish the nasty duty awaiting him there. After all, Lord Rothwell would soon awaken. It was imperative that he had them quietly…exterminated…before they could cause more trouble.

The sooner he was finished with the task, the sooner he could have Harry returned to London and the sooner they could discover what the British military was planning.

His feet, however, refused to obey, and rather than leading him downstairs, he found himself headed for his private chambers.

Perhaps he should ensure Talia was still locked in his bedchamber, he argued with the voice of reason in the back of his mind. The last thing he desired was for her to sneak out of the room and witness the death of her husband.

It was bound to be difficult enough for her to accept becoming a widow.

Refusing to contemplate Talia’s reaction once she realized Gabriel was dead, Jacques was distracted by the slam of drawers coming from the bedchamber directly across the hall.

With a frown he pushed open the door to watch as Sophia stormed from the cherrywood armoire to shove a satin gown into a case lying open on the canopied bed.

Wise enough not to enter a room with a furious woman who had an artillery of crystal perfume bottles and heavy silver candlesticks at her disposal, Jacques instead leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb.

“You are displeased with your chambers?” he demanded.

With a small gasp, Sophia whirled to confront him, her midnight eyes flashing fire.

“I could hardly admit to being displeased when it was I who insisted it be refurbished to suit my taste,” she muttered, casting a glower about the room dramatically decorated in black and gold to emphasize Sophia’s own exotic beauty. Even the fireplace was made of black marble to contrast with the bed that was draped in a shimmering gold satin.

He briefly recalled Sophia’s p

leasure as the last of the workmen had left, and they had christened the wide bed in a storm of passion. By the time they had finished, his cravat had been dangling from the gilt chandelier and trousers tossed on the window seat.