Bride for a Night

Harry stepped forward in puzzlement. “What the devil is happening?”

Gabriel did not allow his attention to stray from Hugo. If his friend refused to cooperate, then his hasty scheme would be ruined before it could be given an opportunity to succeed.

“I have already warned you I will not leave without Talia,” he reminded the nobleman.

Hugo shrugged. “Then we will all go together to rescue her.”

“No, I will not argue.” Gabriel stubbornly refused to consider the offer. “You will accompany Harry to the cellars and wait for us there. If we do not arrive within half an hour, then the two of you will escape to the yacht.” He pointed a finger in Hugo’s face. “And this time, old friend, you will ensure that it sails.”

Hugo stiffened in outrage. “I most certainly will not.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Harry snapped. “We are all going to end up dead if we stand here like a gaggle of fishwives.”

“You would be eager to save your own neck,” Hugo muttered.

Harry stabbed him with an exasperated glare. “As any man of intelligence would be, but it is my familiarity with my brother’s arrogant belief he was born for the sole purpose of ordering others about that resigns me to the inevitable.” He pointedly glanced toward Gabriel, who made no effort to hide his stubborn determination. “Our choices would seem to be standing here and arguing or heading to the cellars so Gabriel can go in pursuit of his wife.”

“He is right,” Gabriel said, pushing his friend toward the opening in the bookcase. “Go with Harry and I will join you as swiftly as I can.”

“Fine.” Hugo reluctantly headed toward the passageway, glancing over his shoulder to reveal his disgruntled expression. “But, I make no promises that I will not have strangled your charming brother by the time you arrive.”

Gabriel paused long enough to snatch a candle from the nearby candelabra before following Hugo and his brother into the musty tunnel.

“Just so long as you do not alert the guards.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

TALIA FELT no guilt as she pressed her ear to the door and eavesdropped on the heated argument between Jacques and Sophia.

Her numerous governesses had never trained her in the proper manners of being held prisoner by a French spy, but her rare afternoons among the dockhands had taught her that a young female must be willing to toss aside polite manners when necessary.

Besides, she continued to hold on to the hope that the Frenchwoman could convince Jacques to release his prisoners and return to his palace. It did not matter to Talia why Sophia was desperate to be rid of her, only that she managed to convince Jacques he was better served by leaving them behind in Calais while he returned to his duties elsewhere.

It was a hope that died a swift death as she heard Jacques storm from the room and cross the corridor. He was headed directl

y toward the door where she was leaning.

Scrambling to tug the small cudgel from her reticule, Talia pressed herself against the wall, once again thinking back to those dockhands who had tutored her in defending herself. She would have only one opportunity to overcome a larger opponent. Once she lost the element of surprise, she was defeated.

Barely daring to breathe, she lifted her arm as the door was thrust open. Then, forcing herself to wait until Jacques had stepped fully into the room, she lunged forward, swinging the cudgel downward.

It would have been a successful attack if not for the full skirts that wrapped about her ankles at precisely the wrong time. A risk that the men who had taught her that particular attack never had to take into account.

Tripped off balance, her swing went wide, and with a muffled curse Jacques was turning to wrap her tightly in his arms, her weapon dropping to the carpet.

“Sacré bleu,” he breathed, his eyes glittering with irritation. “Is that any way to treat a gentleman who has treated you as an honored guest?”

She stood stiffly, meeting his chiding gaze without apology. Perhaps Jacques had been charmingly polite as he had escorted her into the townhouse and directly to these private chambers. But that had not deterred him from locking the door when he had left, nor from threatening to kill her husband and Lord Rothwell.

“An honored guest is not locked in her rooms.”

His brows lifted. “Would you have preferred that I tied you to the bed?”

“I would have preferred that you had allowed me to bash you in the head,” she retorted.

With an exasperated shake of his head, Jacques dropped his arms and stepped back.

“What have I done to be plagued with such troublesome females?”