Page 116 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
Alexandra helped him to his feet only to shake him. “Where is Redmayne?” she cried, not caring that she sounded just as hysterical as Julia. “Where is my husband?”
Slowly, as though he had trouble understanding her, Forsythe looked to the man-sized pile of stones at his back. “He… was right behind us. Wasn’t he?”
“No,” she whispered. Or screamed. “No, no, no.No!”
Forsythe caught her as she shot past him, gripping at her arms. “Alexandra, don’t. It’s too dangerous.”
She struggled against his grip. “He is still in there. I have to get him out.”
Forsythe held fast. “If I know Redmayne, I know he wouldn’t want you to put yourself in harm’s way, not on his account.”
“You don’t know him. I do. He’s myhusband!” She wrenched away from him. “Either get a shovel and help, or get out of my way!”
She joined the men, grabbing and shoving at a rock she had no hope of budging.
A gentle hand landed on her shoulder, and she turned with her teeth bared, ready to do battle with anyone who might drag her away from the catacombs.
Jean-Yves’s concerned gaze didn’t hold the comfort it might once have, but she didn’t have time to dwell on her suspicions about him.
“I must find him,” she panted, unsure of why her lungs still felt tight, or why her heart might burst open. “Imust. He’s my husband. He’s my… husband.”
Sobs drowned the word she could no longer say. A foreign word only a week ago…Husband. And now, she’dthe luxury of one. A good husband. A kind husband. A wounded heart and a generous man. Over the course of eight days, he’d become so much more to her than she’d ever imagined. A mentor. A protector. A knight in tarnished armor. One who rode an unruly, disobedient horse and tamed both predator and prey alike.
He was supposed to father her children.
He’d teased her only seconds ago. Twinkled playful blue eyes at her. Dear God, if she never saw those eyes again. If she never… what if he…?
A little despondent noise escaped her, warning of a deeper hysteria threatening to overflow her barely contained panic.
“Petite duchesse.”Jean-Yves used the voice one did with the enraged or the infirm as he squeezed her shoulder. “Mon petit oiseau blessé.” My little wounded bird. “Cecelia led me to believe… that is…” His face twisted uncomfortably. “I was not given to think this man, your husband, means anything to you.”
Alexandra shook her head violently. “I… I can’t lose him, Jean-Yves,” she sobbed. “He brought me to Normandy to be kind. Because he thought I’d find it enjoyable. I can’t be the reason he… Oh, God… He can’t die…”
Jean-Yves gazed at her with sheer disbelief crinkling the deep groves branching out from his weathered eyes. “This hard man you have only known for days. This duke with a terrible name. You would remain married to him, even after all that has happened to you? You… care for him?”
“I… I do!”She did.Godhelpher, but she did.
“Then.” He ripped off his jacket, trading it for a shovel someone was handing to the laborers. “Let us dig.”
Alexandra let out a grateful sob, snatching a shovel of her own.
How could she suspect dear Jean-Yves? When he was so good. So steadfast. He always seemed to be there in her darkest hours, this enigmatic Frenchman.
Digging into the earth for her.
This time, not to bury a body, but to reclaim one.
Alexandra pried as many boulders away from the entrance as she could, digging trenches beneath them so larger men could roll them away. She broke her nails clawing at the smaller stones that acted like mortar between the large ones. Eventually the straining and burning in her arms gave way to exhausted trembling. Sweat curled the wisps of hair at her temples, trickled down her back and between her breasts. Stones crushed her toes. Blisters smarted her palms. And still she would not stop digging.
Not until she reached him.
Someone called his name. Chanted it. Sobbed it at a frantic decibel that threatened to break her heart. It took her several moments, not to mention the astonished stares of the other laborers, to realize that someone was her.
Beside her, right in front of where Jean-Yves toiled, a stone, triple the size of any man’s head, shuddered as though a great weight slammed against it. The masculine bellow from behind it was like a beam of sunlight piercing her panicked desolation.
“Piers?” she called, clawing at the boulder. “Piers, is that you? Answer me. Are you there?”
The earth muffled his reply, as did the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears, but she was certain he’d barked a surly directive of some sort.
