Under a Christmas Spell. Barbara Monajem

on Lord Westerly would not be obvious. If she sent him sensual dreams, too, it might suffice. There would be good food and drink, and festivities to keep her mind off things she preferred not to think about. And best of all, nothing to remind her of the game.

      * * *

      It was only a mile or so, but by the time Lord Valiant reached Westerly House, he didn’t have to feign feeling a trifle under the weather. Strange how the lack of any real danger robbed one of the usual grim control.

      He urged his horse up the drive to where a gentleman and two ladies hovered outside a coach while footmen unloaded trunks and bandboxes. It seemed an ideal moment for a dramatic arrival until he glimpsed a familiar pair of wide violet eyes. He blinked, so astonished and overwhelmed by memory that he swayed in the saddle.

      He stared. It was truly Lucie. Damn and blast the master. What was she doing here? A surge of rage sent him into wartime mode. This wasn’t what it seemed.

      Back into the game.

      As he slid off the horse, people hurried around the coach. “Highwaymen,” he croaked, grasping his injured arm and stumbling to one knee, sensing without seeing the contempt in Lucie’s gaze. “Winged me.”

      “Heavens, how dreadful!” The other lady rushed forward—an ordinary-looking Englishwoman, not a conniving succubus. “Lord Westerly, send a man for the doctor,” she ordered. “James, Charles, help this poor man into the house.”

      “Lord Valiant Oakenhurst?” said Lord Westerly as two footmen set down the trunk they carried and hurried around to help. “What the deuce are you doing in Hampshire?”

      “Getting shot,” Valiant mumbled. “It’s only a scratch.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if in agonizing pain—actually, the throbbing in his arm was nothing compared to seeing Lucie again—and reopened them. “I could ask the same of you.”

      “I live here,” Lord Westerly said.

      “The devil you say.” Val infused surprise tinged with distaste into his voice, slung his good arm across the shoulders of one of the footmen, and made the most of staggering into the house.

      * * *

      What in the name of God and all the saints was Val doing here?

      Lucille watched aghast as one footman helped her former lover into the house, while the other ran to the stables to send a groom for the doctor. She’d always wondered about his background, which could have been anything judging by the many roles he had played. Now she knew, and a cold trickle of fear invaded her gut. Oakenhurst was the family name of the Marquis of Staves. Val was not only a spy and assassin, but a man of power and influence in England.

      Whereas she was a traitor to both France, the country of her birth, and England, which had given her sanctuary, and Valiant Oakenhurst was the only one who knew. What an unusual name Valiant was, but appropriate. She’d known him by several names, but during their intimacy he’d been simply Val.

      But why would a man of high birth use a desperate ploy to gain entrance to Westerly House? The last time he’d shot himself in the arm, he had nearly bled to death. Lucille knew because she had been the one to save his life.

      She’d caught that flicker of rage in his eyes. He still hated her, even though the war was over and France had gone down to bitter defeat. He had followed her for months after the betrayal and had had her watched during Napoleon’s first exile. She had lived in daily expectation of violent death. After Waterloo, she’d hoped it was all over. Lately, she had almost begun to believe she was safe.

      Evidently not. None of it should matter anymore, but he would never understand, brutal, uncomplicated Englishman that he was. He had surely come here because of her, but how had he known she would be here? And what did he intend to do?

      A ghastly question yawned chasm-like before her. Was she prepared to take his life to save her own?

      * * *

      Valiant hadn’t killed anyone for several months. With the war over and done he shouldn’t have to, but he knew a brief, furious urge to return to London and murder the master. He didn’t want to deal with Lucie.

      Except to bed her. He didn’t think he would ever stop wanting that. An incubus should have a certain amount of natural resistance, but when it came to Lucie he was as susceptible as any other man. More so, because he’d fallen hopelessly, idiotically, in love with her, and then been devastated when she’d ruined his mission by warning a French spy, thus aiding the man’s escape.

      Compared to that pain, the hole in Val’s arm was a mere twinge, and yet he had protected Lucie from the death she’d deserved at the risk of his own life. Did the master know about any of this? Had Val been sent here as some kind of test?

      He lay back on the pillows, fuming. He didn’t give a damn about the master’s reasons. His life was his own now, but if he’d known Lucie would be here, he would have sought a less hazardous method of getting into the house party. He had already refused to let the doctor bleed him. His gunshot wound was a mere scratch—he’d done the job much better this time—but he couldn’t afford to handicap himself further. The mission had suddenly begun to matter.

      By a stroke of good luck, Miss Southern, the capable lady who had ordered even Lord Westerly about, had designated herself mistress of the sickroom. This surprised him; he’d expected a manservant at best or a slattern at worst, since everyone knew about his reputation with women. He lay back on the pillows, hoping he looked harmless, and tried to mask the throbbing in his arm with erotic thoughts.

      Theodora Southern wasn’t the sort of woman who appealed to him. She was pretty enough, but matter-of-fact and entirely without guile. Maybe she didn’t find men sexually attractive. He could probably change that temporarily, but it seemed as pointless now as it had in the office of the Master of the British Incubi. Rebellion simmered within him. He’d had enough of being manipulated...but for the moment, until he knew what was going on, he might as well do as he’d been told.