The Sherbrooke Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 1)

“Finish bathing and don’t go to sleep again or it will be the worse for you.”

She did, quickly. It was as if he had been watching her even though she knew he was in the other room, for the moment she stepped out of the tub, he was there, and he tossed her a thin ragged towel. She quickly wrapped it around her.

“Your hair,” he said, and tossed her the other towel. “Did I tell you I didn’t like red hair on a woman?”

“Yes, you were most specific. Could you leave please, monsieur?”

“No. I must look my fill at you. It will excite me, or it should, and allow me to get this over with quickly.”

“I would prefer that you wouldn’t.”

He shrugged, an elaborate Gallic shrug that meant nothing and everything and she knew exactly what it meant.

She managed to get the towel firmly wrapped around herself, then took the other towel, more a rag really, to her hair.

He said, “Come into the other room. I’ve lit a fire. It is summer yet it is cold. I thought the fire would heat my blood as well as the room. I must try; it was my vow to myself.”

She followed him into the outer room, her eyes on the front door.

“Even if you managed to escape me,” he said dispassionately, “I can’t imagine you running down the road wearing only a towel, your feet bare.”

“You’re right,” she said and walked to stand in front of the fireplace. It was warm and it felt wonderful. She stood there, rubbing her hair, rubbing and rubbing until it hurt, wanting to put him off.

“Enough,” he said finally, but he didn’t sound or look like a man who wanted to ravish her. He sounded tired and angry and distracted.

She turned slowly and stared at him. He stared back, not yet moving. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He said something then in French and thrashed his fingers through his hair. “Well,” he said finally in English, “damn you. Why you? Douglas should have to pay, curse his foul hide, but I cannot, I—”

She wanted to defend her husband, but what came out of her mouth was a sharp cry of pain. She pressed her hands to her belly. The cramp hardened and twisted and made her stagger against a chair. She was panting when it released her, only to cry out when it struck again.

“What the devil is wrong with you? You can’t be ill. I don’t like it.”

Her face was white, her mouth twisted with pain.

“You shouldn’t have any more cramps, it’s ridiculous! You’re not on the horse. You ate only the bread I gave you. Stop it, do you hear me? I told you I don’t like this.”

The cramp eased and she felt hot sticky liquid between her legs. She looked down to see rivulets of blood running down her legs. She raised her head to look at him.

“What is wrong with me? What is happening??

?? Then she cried out, falling to her knees to the floor. Tears were hot on her face; the blood was hot on her legs. The pain was building and building.

She fell back, drawing her legs up, hugging her belly, crying, trying to control the pain, but it was sharper and harder and she couldn’t do anything save lie there.

Georges was on the floor beside her. He tugged the towel open and saw the blood on her thighs, the deep red streaks on the white towel. He swallowed. He didn’t know what to do.

The door flew open to the farmhouse and Douglas came through, pistol in hand. “Get off her, you damned bastard! I’ll kill you, you filthy sod!”

Tony was right behind Douglas. He saw Alexandra’s white body, saw Cadoudal over her and felt himself raw with fury. Had the bastard already raped her? Oh God, she was bleeding, so much blood, too much blood. Had he brutalized her?

Georges Cadoudal whipped about, saw Douglas, and relief and hope flooded his face. But he had no time to say anything, for Douglas lunged across the room, jerked him away from Alexandra, and slammed his fist into his face. Georges yelled. Douglas struck him again, pummeling his ribs. Georges didn’t fight back; he only tried to protect himself.

“Douglas, hold!”

Douglas hit him again before Tony’s voice got through to him.

“Douglas, stop it now! Alexandra, she’s hurt!”

Douglas reared up, his right fist hovering over Georges’s nose, still straddling him, but looking at his wife. She was sprawled on her back and she was panting with pain and there was blood, so much blood.