The Theft by Andrea Kane
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.
Noelle gave him one.
The instant André turned, she brought her knee up—hard—slamming it into his groin with all the strength she possessed.
He shouted with agony, doubling up as every fiber of his being focused on the pain in his loins.
Noelle acted while he was off balance, shoving him off her, wriggling away and stumbling to her feet.
Realizing she was on the verge of escaping him, André lunged for her. He grabbed her arm a split second before she eluded his reach, clutching her wrist as his other hand groped for, and found, the knife. "Bitch!" he screamed, pulling her towards him, that wildness raging in his eyes as he dragged her towards her death. "Lying, wanton bitch!"
Ashford's shot rang out.
André jolted, his head lurching sideways as the bullet penetrated just above his ear.
For the space of a heartbeat, time stood still.
Then, André's eyes widened, the madness transforming to astonishment, then glazed nonreality. A stream of blood flowed from his wound, trickling down his neck and onto his bare shoulder.
Slowly, he collapsed, slumping over onto the bed, his fingers going lax around Noelle's wrist before falling away entirely. He dropped heavily onto the sheets and went utterly still, his body twisted in an unnatural, distorted form.
Shocked and dazed, Noelle stared at him, watching the stream of blood ooze onto the sheets, its red stain spreading out across the stark whiteness of the linen.
He was dead. She knew it, and yet she felt unable to truly grasp that fact. Actually, she felt unable to fully fathom the entirety of what had transpired this past hour, wondering in some detached part of her mind if, in fact, it had been some heinous nightmare.
The shock abated when Ashford's arms closed around her.
"It's over, sweetheart." He turned her away from Sardo's body, gently drawing the sides of her gown together and gathering her against him. "He'll never hurt you—or anyone—again." His arms trembled, and a harsh sound vibrated from his chest. "God, I was so terrified, so afraid I wouldn't reach you in time." He sucked in his breath. "You have no idea how much I love you."
With a choked sob, Noelle buried her face against Ashford's coat, wanting to lose herself in his love, to warm away the chill that seemed to permeate her body, inside and out. "I love you, too." She began to tremble with reaction. "You found me," she whispered inanely. "You saved my life."
"You're the one who ensured that." Her father's unsteady voice came from behind her, and she felt his reassuring hand as it stroked her hair. "If it hadn't been for what you said in your note … if Chloe hadn't recognized your message…"
His voice broke, and Noelle eased away from Ashford long enough to give her father a fierce hug. "I'm all right, Papa," she murmured. "Thanks to you and Ashford—and not surprisingly, Chloe." She leaned back, summoning enough strength to try to ease the torment she saw on her father's face. "He didn't hurt me," she said, smoothing away the grim lines around his mouth. "You got here in time."
"Thank God," he managed, kissing her brow before returning her to Ashford's waiting arms.
Ashford enfolded her against him, caressed the nape of her neck, her face, her hands—needing to touch her, to assure himself she was unharmed. He threaded his fingers through her hair, brought strands of it to his lips.
For the first time, Eric voiced not even a token protest at the intimate contact. He simply met Ashford's gaze over his daughter's head and said, "Tremlett, there aren't words enough to thank you."
"None are necessary," Ashford replied simply.
Flanked by these two men she loved, Noelle felt a resurgence of strength, a sense of rightness and well-being. The past hour's ordeal was over, as was the investigation that had bound them to the past. Finally, finally, all would be as it was meant to be.
From the corner of her eye, she spied the detective as he crossed over, pistol in hand, to examine Sardo's lifeless body. She leaned back and glanced at Ashford, her brows knit in question.
"Detective Conyers, I'd like you to meet my fiancée." Ashford supplied the introduction.
Satisfied that Sardo was indeed dead, Conyers looked up, bowing slightly and giving Noelle an amused, admiring look. "It's a pleasure to meet you, my lady. And forgive me for sounding too familiar, but you're quicker and smarter than any woman I've ever known. Not to mention the fact that you're more courageous than most men. If you decide not to marry this rogue, Scotland Yard could use you."
For the first time t
"Not nearly as much as this rogue is looking forward to marrying you," Ashford assured her, bringing her fingers to his lips. "The first week of April can't come fast enough for me."
The future—at last they could plan for it.
Which brought to mind the crux of their investigation, the man whose apprehension Ashford had staged so masterfully.
"Did you get Baricci?" Noelle asked.
"We did."
"How? Did it go as planned? Did he confess? Is he the one who led you to Sardo? Did he know Sardo was a murderer?" Noelle paused to breathe, her natural curiosity recovering swiftly as her numbness faded. "I have so many questions," she declared.
That elicited a chuckle from her father who, up until ten minutes ago, thought he'd never laugh again. "How unusual," he remarked. "Can they wait until we get home? Chloe and your mother are frantic."
"Of course." Chloe and her mother. Noelle could hardly wait to hug them, to show them she was fine—and to thank her sister for reading between the lines, answering her prayers.
"Yes, go on home," Conyers advised. "I'll take it from here." A corner of his mouth lifted. "Consider yourself off duty, my lady."
"Thank you." Noelle smiled back. Then, with a slight shudder, she averted her eyes from Sardo's body, fastening her gown and gathering up her mantle. "I'm more than ready." She waited while Ashford wrapped the mantle around her. Then she looped one arm through his, the other through her father's, giving silent thanks to the heavens. Baricci was in custody, André was dead—the nightmare was over.
"Come, love," Ashford murmured, as if reading her mind. "It's time to bid the past good-bye."
* * *
Chapter 19
« ^
The wedding was the grandest event of the season.
All fashionable London abandoned their Town houses that misty April morning to ride to Northampton and celebrate the marriage of the Duke of Markham's son and the Earl of Farrington's daughter.
Markham's enormous chapel was filled to capacity, and its ballroom spilled over with the hundreds of guests who attended the lavish breakfast. Everyone agreed that the bride and groom made a breathtaking couple—she clad in yards of satin and lace, he dressed in a formal black frock coat and cashmere trousers.
The gossips stood off to one side, whispering about how shocking the newlyweds were in their open displays of affection, their sinfully suggestive glances. The Earl and Countess of Farrington and the Duke and Duchess of Markham stood off to another side, watching their children's unmistakable love and desire with the gratitude of parents and the joy of couples who know firsthand how rare and irreplaceable those feelings are.
Off near the table of refreshments, Chloe was having a most interesting time holding court with the Thornton grandchildren—other than Laurel's brand new son who was asleep upstairs in the nursery—and listening to Ashford's sisters and brothers in heated debate.
"Ten more minutes at the most," Blair stated, watching Ashford stare across the room at his bride.
"Thirty," Laurel disagreed. "Give them credit for some self-restraint."
"Ashe—self-restraint?" Juliet laughed aloud. "No, Laurel, never. I'd say twenty minutes," she added, assessing Ashford's obvious impatience but factoring in Noelle's breeding. "Not because of Ashe's endurance," she clarified wryly. "The man is about ready to erupt. But Noelle is holding her own nicely, despite her eagerness to leave."
"You're all wrong," Sheridan concluded, gazing shrewdly from Ashford to Noelle. "Our new sister-in-law is as restless as our brother—and equally as heedless of others' opinions. Five minutes. If that."
"I agree," Chloe inserted with an emphatic nod. "Knowing my sister and her feelings for Ashford, I'm surprised the two of them are still here now."
All four adults whipped about to stare at her.
A corner of Sheridan's mouth lifted. "Thank you, Chloe. I appreciate your vote of confidence."
Blair was gaping. "How old did you say you were?"
"Thirteen," Chloe supplied helpfully, tickling Cara as she dashed by.
"Thirteen." Blair gave an amazed shake of his head. "Very well, we've all made our guesses. Now, how much are we betting?"
"How about five hundred pounds?" Juliet suggested. "That should make a nice donation."
"Fine with me," Laurel agreed.
"Done." Sheridan winked at Chloe. "I'll share a portion of my winnings with you."
"That's not necessary, my lord. Since you're obviously donating the money to charity, please include my portion along with yours."
"Gracious as well as smart," Sheridan praised.
"Are you sure you're thirteen?" Blair asked again.
Chloe grinned. "Quite sure." Abruptly, she looked past him, pointing across the room. "Look. We're about to get our answer."
All four Thorntons followed her gesture, spying Ashford as he made his way towards Noelle. Intently, they watched the bride and groom.
Noelle and Ashford saw only each other.
"How much longer do we have to stay here?" Ashford muttered in his bride's ear after he'd finally reached her side, eased her off to a relatively private spot.
Trailing her finger down the lapel of his coat, Noelle laughed up at him, her face radiant with happiness. "I was ready to leave an hour ago, my lord. But I know how bound to protocol you are."
One dark brow rose. "Say your good-byes, Mrs. Thornton. And make them brief."
"Yes, sir." Her grin turned impish. "As promised, I shall be a dutiful wife." A seductive pause. "Very dutiful."
Ashford's eyes emanated a fierce heat that singed her down to her toes. "On second thought, forget the goodbyes," he commanded. "They take too much time. I want my bride. Now. Even the ride to London is going to be far too long."
Noelle's smile vanished, and she gazed up at her new husband, her heart in her eyes. "In that case, let's just advise our parents. They can announce our departure to the others, after we've gone." Her fingertips grazed his jaw. "I never did see your bedchamber, you know."
"You'll be in it in two hours," he vowed. "And you'll have plenty of time to scrutinize it. You won't be seeing anything else until we leave for our wedding trip next week."
Capturing Noelle's arm, Ashford eased their way through the crowd until they reached their parents.
"We're leaving," Ashford stated bluntly. "I hope the four of you understand."
"We understand." Brigitte inched a sideways glance at Eric. "Don't we, darling?"
Eric gave a resigned sigh. "Yes, I suppose we do." He pressed his lips to Noelle's forehead. "Be happy."
"I will, Papa."
Eric turned to Ashford. "You're a fine man, Ashford. Be good to my daughter."
"Always. You have no worries on that score," Ashford replied as Noelle hugged her mother, exchanged a woman-to-woman glance with her that said more than words ever could.
"Welcome to our family, Noelle," Daphne Thornton said, seizing Noelle's hands and giving her a radiant smile. "We're proud that Ashford was smart enough to choose you."
"I agree," Pierce added. "You're exactly what our son needs."
"Thank you," Noelle answered, hugging first Daphne, then Pierce. "You won't miss Ashford's contributions," she whispered fiercely as she embraced Pierce. "As it happens, my new husband simply cannot beat me in piquet. And I intend to save all my winnings in a symbolic tin cup. By year's end, the bandit will be able to feed an army, I promise you."
Pierce released his daughter-in-law, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "I'm sure the bandit will be grateful," he whispered back. "I'll be sure to give him your message when I see him." He gave her a swift, unobtrusive wink.
"Go," Daphne urged her son, biting back a smile. She wasn't sure which she found more amusing: Noelle's fervent vow to Pierce or Ashford's blatant impat
Neither Noelle nor Ashford needed further encouragement.
With a torrid glance and a murmured, "Come, Mrs. Thornton," Ashford ushered Noelle out the door and towards the privacy that awaited them.
Across the ballroom, three disgruntled siblings rolled their eyes and began muttering.
Sheridan's face split into a broad grin, and he gave Chloe's hand a congratulatory shake. "Four minutes—as Chloe and I suspected. That will be five hundred pounds apiece, please."
"Fine," Juliet grumbled. "Don't start your customary gloating. We'll pay you later."
"Good." Sheridan nodded. "In the meantime, I'll go share the happy news with Father."
So saying, he crossed over, catching Pierce's eye and motioning him into the hallway.
Once both men were outside hearing range, Sheridan murmured, "Good news. I've just won fifteen hundred pounds. I'll have it this afternoon—in pound notes, not a bank draft."
Pierce's brows rose. "Just how did you win this money?"
"On an infallible wager with Laurel, Juliet, and Blair." Sheridan's grey eyes twinkled. "I bet them that Ashford and Noelle wouldn't last another five minutes in public. Chloe agreed wholeheartedly. Good odds, wouldn't you say?"
"Excellent, I'd say." Pierce's lips twitched.
"In any case, I'll give you the money when all the guests have gone home. I'll even add five hundred pounds of my own, on Ashe's behalf. When you see him, tell him it's my way of easing whatever unwarranted guilt he might still be harboring."