The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [113]
And all the time the dearest person in his life was back there on a foreign shore without him, guarded only by two exhausted and trembling soldiers.
Damn, but he must love her to—
The thought cracked like thunder in his head. He froze, noting that Rupert had stopped breathing again, but he’d done that before . . . Love?
His mother had told him when he was only a child that love . . . what had she said about love?
That it was dangerous and not for people of their rank. That it was impulsive and the sign of someone foolish and ill-bred.
But . . . when did she say that he wasn’t able to love?
He loved Olivia, more than life, more than light, more than . . . anything.
The analytical part of his brain, which had been counting silently, spoke up, suggested that the bird was winging its way through some other sky, a silent sky.
Quin looked down and saw that it was true.
Rupert was gone. Gently, Quin disengaged his hand and tucked Rupert’s sheet more securely about him.
Lucy was curled next to her master’s body. She lifted her long nose and looked at Quin, whimpering a little. He couldn’t fix Rupert, the way she was asking him to. And it didn’t seem right to leave her next to her dead master. So he plucked her up, stashed her inside his coat, and ran up the stairs.
Once in the water, he set himself to the oars faster than he should have, catching the water, sending it arcing . . . He had time. He still had time. His heart beat the same sentence over and over. The eastern sky wasn’t yet turning pink. It wasn’t dawn. He had time.
He tried to slow down, make the oars quieter . . . couldn’t stop himself, rowed as fast as he possibly could.
He was still too late.
Twenty-eight
One Putain, Two Putain . . .
After Quin left, Olivia waited outside the hut, her cloak wrapped close and the hood up, head tipped back against the rough planks. A light wind drifted by, carrying the scent of rotting fish and the peppery, sweet smell of crushed strawberries.
The stars seemed too bright for spring. They should have been so distinct, so clear, only on the coldest of winter nights. Minutes passed . . . until finally she knew for certain that Quin had not come straight back, that he was waiting at Rupert’s deathbed.
The stars wavered above her, but tears never fell. That was a point of pride. No crying. Instead, to distract herself, she watched for a falling star, though she knew it was a foolish superstition to think it proclaimed the creation of an angel.
And all the time she listened for the tramp of soldiers’ feet, for a burst of French jests. The men who had guarded Rupert had fallen asleep on the floor, telling her to rouse them if she heard anything.
“The battalion marches at the same time every morning,” Togs had told her, his voice raspy with the relief of giving over Rupert’s care. “Still hours from now.”
No stars fell, but she was still watching for them when a hand clapped over her mouth and pulled her into the woods. She was too shocked even to scream.
It wasn’t dawn! There wasn’t even the faintest hint of light, and there had been no cheerful French badinage, no tramp of boots to warn her.
By the time she gathered her wits and began to struggle, it was too late. With one swift movement she was pushed down and flipped onto her stomach. All those years of French tutoring stood her in good stead, though: “Aidez-moi!” she shrieked when the hand left her mouth. “Lâchez-moi immédiatement! Coquins! Vermines!” The only response was a foul-smelling scarf, tied so tightly around her mouth that it jerked her head back.
Still shouting, though her words were muffled, Olivia twisted, trying to kick the man pinning her to the ground. But her captor swiftly wound a rope around her wrists, hauled her upright, and gave her a rough shove.
“Allez!” The word sounded with the ping of a fat hailstone striking a window. Then a poke between the shoulders forced her forward. “Avance!”
She walked, telling herself that Quin would be there any moment, that the