Chapter Twenty-six
Jeremy walked beside Betsy, the splitting pain in his head not helped by the loud sound of her boots. It felt as if Grégoire’s valet had slammed him with a brick.
He was beginning to wonder just how far Grégoire had gone to put Jeremy in situations where he might die. Wrapped in a straitjacket, drugged, with no one knowing any better? People died all the time in Bedlam.
He pushed the thought away. His father and Lady Knowe would discover the truth. There was a time when he would have demanded to question the valet and his cousin, trusting no one but himself.
But now he had family.
Betsy pushed him down onto the side of the bed and then kicked off her boots and clambered up onto the bed to sit beside him. “How badly does your head hurt?”
“Like the devil. Betsy—”
“I don’t care how much of a gentleman you are,” she flashed, interrupting. “You’re not allowed to push me away. You would never injure me. In fact, there’s something very odd about his entire story.”
Her eyes were wide and strained. Jeremy reached out, meaning to pull her into his lap, but she shook him off.
“Listen to me,” she said fiercely. “You will never injure me. I won’t allow it. I’ll throw sausages at your head, if that’s what’s needed to wake you up.”
Something resembling laughter rose in his chest.
“You offered for me and I shall hold you to it.” She sounded confident, but a tear slid down the curve of her cheek.
“Bess,” Jeremy said, his throat tight, but she didn’t let him finish. Instead she pounced on him. Clamped her mouth onto his.
He should . . .
The thought slid away. Her tongue slipped into his mouth. She kissed him with heart-aching tenderness.
Betsy put her love, her belief, and her loyalty into that kiss. And her courage, because her heart was hammering a fearful rhythm. “I won’t let you go,” she gasped, between kisses. “Don’t throw me away.” Tears stung her eyes. “You won’t hurt me.” She stopped, unable to find the right words. “You won’t,” she whispered, her throat raw.
“It would rip me apart if I injured you,” Jeremy said. One hand caressed the curve of her cheek. “You understand, don’t you?”
“You would never hurt me if you were in your right mind. If you thought I was an enemy soldier, you might try. I would stop you.” Her voice broke. “I promise that.”
He swooped down, kissing her with so much passionate intensity that a tingle of hope went through her. “I told you that the gentleman in me was burned away by the war,” he growled.
She hadn’t believed him then or now.
He nipped her lip. “For God’s sake, Bess, I’m sitting in the bedchamber of a virgin whom I deflowered before marriage.”
Sure enough, the man looking at her was burning with primitive, raw desire and possession. “I mean to keep you,” he said harshly.
A smile broke out on her face.
“I’ll keep drinking Lady Knowe’s tisanes, and I’ll avoid whisky, and I’ll spend my life in the stables, but I won’t give you up.”
She sighed into his mouth, her breath joining his. “Truly?”
“Not until your life or mine comes to an end.”
“Not even then,” she whispered. “Promise?”
Jeremy managed to smile at her.
Love flooded through him, changing his very essence, making him new. “I promise,” he said huskily. “And beyond.”
Betsy pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “We’ll have to start going to chapel on Sundays,” she said, the love in her voice settling on his skin like a caress.
“We could simply act like the angels we saw,” Jeremy murmured, tipping her backward. “Bess, I don’t think I will injure you. I don’t believe I ripped Grégoire’s shirt.”
She nodded. “That was odd, wasn’t it? It ripped along the collar.”
“As if the stitches had been previously loosened,” he agreed. “I don’t believe I would become violent even if fireworks went off under my chair. I know myself a hell of a lot better than I did before I went to war.” He brushed a kiss across her lips.
“If you had become violent,” Betsy said, “Grégoire would have been the one lying on the floor immobile, wouldn’t he?”
Jeremy nodded. His eyes were unapologetic. “I was trained as a warrior, and hardened under hellish circumstances, Betsy. If I become violent, it won’t be pretty.”
“But that means . . .”
“It calls into question the story I was told about Bedlam,” he agreed. “I can’t say that I really care, though, as long as you don’t.”
“I do,” Betsy said fiercely. “Your cousin is . . . I don’t have words for what he is!”
“My cousin is being questioned by my father and your aunt,” Jeremy said, his eyes laughing. “‘In mortal danger’ might describe Grégoire.”
“He deserves it,” she said stoutly.
“He’s a fool,” Jeremy said, nudging her with his hips.
“Your head?” Betsy asked.
“It hurts,” Jeremy admitted. He rolled his hips again. “I can be distracted.”
Betsy grinned. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Grégoire bribed the colonel to flee,” the marquess declared, fury nearly choking him. “The man wasn’t a coward, as the ministry thought: He was a criminal who took a bribe!”
Jeremy narrowed his eyes. “How was that possible?”
“Grégoire sent a man to the colonies with money and a mandate to put you in danger. The same man followed you after you returned to London,” Lady Knowe said. “He took advantage of the fireworks episode to have you whisked off to Bedlam, drugged to the gills, and bound in a straitjacket. Meanwhile, Grégoire stayed far away in case your unfortunate demise was ever questioned.”
Jeremy nodded.
“How can you be so calm?” his fierce warrior queen demanded. Betsy’s hands were on her hips, as she scowled at him. “That man tried to take your life! He’s almost a murderer.”
“Grégoire refuses to admit it, but he is a murderer,” Lady Knowe put in. “Grégoire’s wish to ensure that Jeremy died on the battlefield led directly to the death of many men.”
“I was furious when you told me that the general had decided to excuse your colonel’s cowardly behavior. Now I’ll have the colonel court-martialed,” the marquess growled. “The man has no honor. None.”
Jeremy didn’t care.
Oh, he cared for his men; it felt like a physical blow, knowing that their lives were lost owing to one man’s greed for a title.
But he didn’t care what happened to the colonel. What’s done was done.
His father didn’t agree. “I’ll see your reputation restored if I have to rip the War Office apart brick by brick,” the marquess hissed.
“Good!” Betsy said. “What about Grégoire?”