The Theft (Thornton 2)

She felt the knife ease, ever so slightly, and thanked God for it. Time. She had to buy time. Sooner or later her parents would miss her, go to the kitchen, and find her note. And then they'd come for her.

They … and Ashford.

"Are you saying you'd choose to go away with me?" On the heels of his question, bitterness tightened his mouth. "What about Lord Tremlett?"

Don't underestimate him, Noelle, she warned herself. He's crazy, but he's clever. He'll know if you're lying. Stick as close to the truth as possible.

Swiftly, she evaluated André's priorities. His twisted actions were motivated by a sense of betrayal, justified or not. He wanted exclusivity, faithfulness. Very well, that's precisely what she would display.

"I won't lie to you, André. Lord Tremlett is a very charismatic man. Only a passionless woman would think otherwise. And as you well know, I'm not passionless. Nor, however, am I duplicitous. If the earl is to be my husband, I mean to keep only unto him. And that is why I showed him the affection you witnessed. Could I desire him? Yes. Could I desire him as much as I do you? Never. André, I want you—too much. But my future is spoken for and my affections must follow suit—even if you do make my pulses quicken like no other man ever has. If I'd had a choice, if my parents had listened to reason…" She broke off, gave a tiny shrug. "But they didn't. The peerage is very important to them. And I'm hardly in a position to rebel. So I resigned myself to a lesser passion rather than the ultimate one."

Throughout her speech, André had watched her, his gaze speculative, probing. "Faithfulness—an admirable quality in a woman. Also a rare one. I'm pleased to hear I wasn't completely wrong about you, chérie. But let me understand this—if you'd had a choice as to your one and only lover, this man you intend to commit yourself to for life, that choice would have been me?"

Noelle swallowed, felt the edge of the blade. "Yes," she whispered. "Without question."

"Perhaps all is not lost, then," André muttered, more to himself than to her. Another penetrating stare. "Have you given yourself to Tremlett yet?"

This time Noelle knew a lie was her only option. André wanted her pure, untouched by anyone other than him. If she told him the truth, he'd kill her on the spot. And, she realized, an icy chill of resignation shivering through her, if he carried out this defilement long enough to discover her lie firsthand, she'd want to die anyway.

"No," she replied, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "I was taught to save my innocence for the marriage bed."

A slow smile curved André's lips, and for a moment he looked like the handsome artist who'd come to paint her portrait weeks ago.

But he wasn't, she reminded herself. That had been a facade. André Sardo was a lunatic and a murderer.

"Then consider this our marriage bed, chérie," he murmured, lowering his mouth to hers.

Oh, God, how can I do this? Noelle thought frantically, willing her lips to soften beneath his.

She must have been at least minimally convincing, because André made an appreciative sound and deepened the kiss.

Noelle knew in that instant she couldn't successfully execute this charade, not even to this extent. The invasion of André's tongue, his breath as it filled her mouth—this was repulsive, unendurable.

She tried to twist away, but he tangled his fingers in her hair, held her in place, and continued kissing her.

Why? Why? she wanted to scream. He had to feel her body stiffen, feel her tongue instinctively recoil from his. So why did he continue to woo her, to kiss her as if they were both willing participants?

"Don't be frightened, chérie," he murmured, providing the answer to her question. "Get used to feeling me inside you. I'm going to possess you everywhere."

Noelle had to fight to keep from gagging. André had noticed her reticence, but he'd attributed it to a case of maidenly nerves.

She squeezed her eyes shut as André tugged her gown apart, and she nearly wept with relief when his mouth left hers.

Her relief was short-lived.

Rather than abandoning her, his lips moved to her neck, her throat—the only reprieve being that his movements shifted the knife from her throat to alongside her head, then to the pillow beside her. Still, it was only inches away, and André's thighs were locking her into place. Bolting would be akin to suicide.

"Don't be nervous, chérie," he breathed, kissing the hollow between her breasts. "You're going to belong to me."

Noelle heard the muffled footstep outside the bedchamber door a split second before it burst open.

It was time enough for her to prepare.

"Let go of her, you bastard!" Ashford commanded, exploding into the room like cannon fire, her father and a uniformed detective at his heels.

André jerked about, his expression stunned, disbelieving. Ashford aimed his pistol at André's head, and Noelle could see him hesitate, gauging the distance between Sardo and her to ensure he had a clear shot.

He didn't.