“I’ve known him for more than twenty years, love. I know what he will and will not do. They’ll be happily romping in their marriage bed and he won’t thank me for dragging her three brothers up there to interfere. ”
“I need to see her as well,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s not that I don’t take your word for it. But I want to say good-bye before we head for Scotland. I want her to meet you. ”
“Then we’ll go,” he said, kissing her again. And he only hoped his faith in his old friend wasn’t misplaced.
The late afternoon sun was shining brightly, casting long shadows on the wide front lawns. They were going to have to be cut, Lucien thought absently, staring out through the Palladian windows on the landing.
He could see her walking out there, the sun gilding her rich brown hair he’d once thought quite ordinary. She was walking toward the dock, and he knew a moment’s disquiet. She wouldn’t make the mistake of walking out there again, would she? Not when she’d almost fallen through.
But no, she walked on, her arms filled with daffodils, down to the old boat that had been pulled up on the shore, and sat. Waiting for him.
His relief was so strong he was almost weak with it. He should have known a leech like St. John would be easy enough to deal with. The kind of money he’d asked for was merely a pittance in the scheme of things, and he’d happily pay ten times that amount to know that Miranda need never discovered the depths of his perfidy.
Sooner or later he’d probably have to have the man killed. Once a blackmailer started he never stopped, and it went against Lucien’s grain to let a little worm like St. John think he’d gotten the better of him. But for now he was gone, and when the time came Jacob would know someone who could handle it, neatly and quietly. It wasn’t as if St. John was any boon to this world.
No, everything was going to be fine after all. Whether he liked it or not he was tied to the woman who was waiting for him down by the lake. The Rohans had gotten their revenge instead of the other way around, and he no longer cared. As long as he had Miranda, then nothing else mattered.
It was a beautiful day, Miranda thought absently. The kind of day to fall in love. Scarcely the kind of day to discover that the man you were going to marry was even more of a toad-licking, worm-kissing, putrescent arse of a skunk. Scarcely the kind of day to commit murder, but one had to start somewhere.
There were daffodils everywhere, and she began to pick them for lack of something better to do. She’d dressed once he left her, and gone looking for him. He wasn’t in his very pink rooms, and she’d been half tempted to take off her clothes and climb into his bed to await him. He’d find her soon enough.
But she didn’t have the patience for it. So instead she went looking for him, finding him closed up in the green parlor, in low conversation with someone. She was about to push open the doors when she recognized the second voice, and she froze.
Silly, of course, she was imagining things. She put her hand on the doorknob, about to push it open, and then she heard the word “blackmail” in the voice she’d once hated most in the world.
No, Christopher St. John’s voice wasn’t the one she hated most. It was the drawling, mocking voice of the man who lay in her bed just hours ago and told her he loved her. The man she had every intention of killing.
Stabbing was too good for him. She’d done a frenzied search for pistols among the walls of weapons that made the gloomy old house so cozy, but apparently the de Malheurs gave up war when guns were introduced. And no wonder. They were much better at stabbing people in the back.
She looked at the lake. The old rowboat sat there, no longer seaworthy but with a good solid seat, and she headed toward it, her arms filled with daffodils. She dumped them on the ground, crushing them beneath her feet as she climbed into the beached boat and picked up the oar. It was still solid and heavy, and she climbed out, carrying it up and onto the dock. The sun had dried some of the slime, but she could see the broken board where she’d nearly gone through. He’d saved her then. She almost wished he hadn’t.
She was halfway down the length of the dock when he began shouting at her, but she kept her back to him, pretending she couldn’t hear. Her face was set in stone. Swill-sucking bastard. To think that she’d loved him. After all the things he’d done, he’d threatened to do, and she’d forgiven him.
Not anymore. She gripped the oar more tightly, keeping her back to him, and waited.
The weak old dock bounced when he climbed up, and he was starting toward her. She turned, and she knew her face was cold and terrible.
Unfortunately he didn’t. He was too busy haranguing her for being foolish enough to put her life at risk by going out on the dock again, after the close call last time. She didn’t move, waiting as he negotiated the missing plank. He hadn’t brought a cane with him. Good thing—it would make his balance even more precarious. It wouldn’t take much to make him go over.
She waited until he was almost in reach. Not close enough to grab her, but close enough for the old oar. “Stay there, my darling,” she said in a silken voice.
Finally he caught on. He jerked his head up, looking at her. “What are you doing out here?” he asked in a steady voice.
“Waiting for you. The water is ice-cold, you said. ”
He watched her warily. “Yes. ”
“And very, very deep?”
“Yes. ” She could see the tension radiating through him, the same tension that ran through her. “You must have run into St. John. ”
“Not exactly. I listened at the door. ”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said lightly.
“No, it didn’t. It killed you. ”
And she swung the old oar at him with all her strength.