Tender Torment (40 page)

“I promise you before this night is over, you and your husband will be reunited.” He kissed the hand she laid on his and spurred
his horse toward the mountains again.

Marisa watched him go, praying fervently that he was right.

A thundering roar of explosions ripped apart the descending darkness just as Colonel Dubois was settling himself at a dining
table laid with breast of capon and a bottle of chilled Chablis Blanc.

As soon as he heard the noise Straeford went to work in his cell. He poured the black powder from his boots into a hip flask
and stuffed his silk handkerchief
into the neck of the silver container. Extracting a length of rope from beneath the lining of his jacket, he tied the flask
to the padlock on the cell door and inserted a fuse into the flask which he trailed along the floor to the opposite end of
the cell. Then he overturned the cot and crouched behind it while he lighted the fuse and waited until the lock blew, taking
most of the door with it.

The guard, who had run down the hall at the noise of the first explosion, missed the effects of the blast staged by his captive,
for his life was soon dispatched by the sudden thrust of Straeford’s knife between his ribs. Snatching the soldier’s pistol
and sword, the earl raced to find Dubois. It was the colonel’s frantic shouts that identified his whereabouts to Lord Straeford.

“Sacré bleu! Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
the stunned Dubois shouted, but his shout was drowned out by further blasts that seemed to mount in crescendo to the alarming
accompaniment of ungodly screeches. Frenzied voices of French soldiers bellowing their shock and dismay filled the corridors
inside the abbey while the courtyard outside echoed to the sounds of gunfire and the clatter of running feet. Two of Dubois’s
officers broke into the room raving in confusion that the garrison was under attack from the north, east and west. Sentries
were dead; fires were burning and the situation was desperate.

“Impossible!”
screamed Dubois.

“Not as impossible as it seems, my dear colonel.” This last was spoken by the Earl of Straeford who stood in the doorway pointing
a glinting pistol directly at Dubois’s heart. The pandemonium caused by the explosions and guerilla style screechings of the
British soldiers had thrown the French into a total rout.

“Diable!”
Dubois roared, beside himself with rage.

“Do not fret yourself unnecessarily,
mon ennemi
—that score you desire to settle is no less desired by me. Stand aside,” Straeford commanded the other two French officers.
“Throw your weapons to the floor—now!” Straeford demanded as they hesitated, looking to the colonel for guidance.

“Do as he says,” Dubois ordered.

Just as the men were divesting themselves of their
swords and pistols, Garcia appeared in the doorway behind Straeford in the company of Harding and two men in British uniform.

“The fort is taken, Senhor Straeford,” Garcia exulted.

In the split second that Straeford’s attention was diverted, Dubois lunged for a pistol and took aim at Straeford.

“Look out, Justin,’ Harding yelled, and there ensued a mad scramble in which both French and English were firing at each other
at close range, filling the room with the crackle of gunfire and a blue haze of smoke. Dubois’s aim was off and the ball merely
creased Justin’s left arm. The earl threw himself on top of the colonel and the two rolled together in mortal combat amidst
a melée of flailing bodies and shouted curses. Dubois heaved himself above Straeford and clenched his hands around his enemy’s
throat, attempting to throttle the life out of him. Summoning superhuman strength, the earl maneuvered his knee into the colonel’s
chest and pushed with a force that threw Dubois onto his back. With a lightning thrust, the earl plunged his knife through
the heart of his nemesis.

It all took less than five minutes. Dubois lay mortally wounded, and beside him lay two others dead—one French and one English.

“Deus,”
Garcia breathed in horror, while Straeford swore a string of oaths.

“Damn his soul to hell,” Straeford ended grimly. “My only regret is that I was denied the pleasure of killing him in a duel
of honor.” He paused. Then he knelt beside the body of the British soldier. “How many have we lost altogether, Lieutenant
Garcia?”

“Two others, sir.”

“What about the French?”

“Ten dead and two wounded—counting these.”

“What about the woman? Did you find her?”

“Sim,
she is being held with the others.”

“We have a total of twenty-five captives, Justin.” Ed Harding offered this information. “We’re holding them in the chapel.”

For the first time in days, Lord Straeford allowed himself to smile. “At their last prayers, eh?” He turned to
Lieutenant Garcia. “Raoul, I’ll leave you in command. You have proven yourself a first-rate leader, and I shall recommend
you for a promotion when I return to headquarters. However, I have business elsewhere that I would not put off any longer.
And I advise you to release the woman. She can do nothing further to harm us.”

“Sim, vossa Senhoria.
I will take care of everything here for you.”

“Adeus,
my friend. Come on, Ed. I need you to show me the way.”

It was on the stroke of midnight that the earl once more enfolded his wife in his arms and showered her tear-stained face
with kisses, their tender torment over at last.

“Oh, my darling Justin. I have prayed so hard.”

“Did I not tell you to trust me, my dearest?”

“But the odds were so great.”

“Hush, my heart. You are safe in my arms and it shall remain so as long as we both shall live, my sweet, sweet salvation.”

Her family craved nobility, his desperately needed wealth.

So Marisa’s moneyed father arranged to wed one of his daughters to the brooding, mystery-shrouded Justin St. Clare, Earl of
Straeford, soldier and woman-hater.

For although the Earl’s dashing good looks attracted every coquette in England, his mother’s secret and terrible deeds had
driven him to total disdain for the opposite sex. Only to save his beloved Straeford Park—and to acquire an heir, would the
Earl consent to marry.

But to Marisa Loftus, the Earl was more than a purchased title. He was her lord—and even as Napoleon’s armies battled Europe’s
bastions, so would she storm the armored fortress of his sealed heart to fight for their growing love, the love that was such

Tender Torment