“What are you going to do with me now, Stephen?”
She let a few tears trickle from the corners of her pale grey eyes. Coldness encased his heart. “I am going to lock you in the cellar.”
“But surely not with my hands and feet tied?”
“Barnet did just that to Rebecca.”
Shrewdness entered her eyes. “But you’re not like Barnet.”
Her comment caught him by surprise. Her look was so assessing, so bone deep. In the wake of Rebecca’s comments about the same topic, it made him pause.
He felt the stirrings of mercy.
And it was not a novel sensation. The urge to be compassionate had always been there. But before, he had pushed it under the surface in order to function in his work. But by doing so, he had denied his own humanity
Yet admitting the feeling didn’t make Maria any less evil or any less culpable in the situation. It was about the conflict between being an agent of justice and his own human heart.
No, he wasn’t like Barnet. Just as Rebecca had said, he could feel compassion and guilt for his targets, no matter the government’s sanction or the target’s blameworthiness in their own demise. But duty was duty and must be endured. And he must keep Rebecca safe.
Cool determination swept through him. He could admit the inner conflict and still act as needed.
With a stout yank on the ropes binding her ankles, testing the fastness of the knot, he regarded her steadily. “You’ll be fine. I’ll check on you often and, unlike in Rebecca’s case, I shall bring you food and drink.”
* * * *
The clock chimed in the parlour, shaking Stephen out of a half-sleeping state. He didn’t catch how many chimes. However, several hours had passed since dawn and he found himself slipping into a malaise for long stretches of time. The despondency of his spirit would not ease.
Rebecca lay in the bed, her eyelashes like golden-brown fans on her porcelain-pale skin. Her lips looked dry, lacking their normal vibrant rose colour. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
Yes, she awoke and took some drink or watery gruel from time to time. But she said little and spent most of her time sleeping.
God. How long would it be until she showed some sign that she had passed the window of danger? When would he know for certain that she was safe? If only he could have taken the bullet. She was an innocent, she did not deserve this. She had been caught in the middle of a dastardly situation and had borne the brunt of Maria’s revenge for what he had done.
Restlessness surged in his blood, a drive to take action. But what action could possibly help this situation? Frederick said that they must simply wait.
Wait. Bloody hell. Wait for what?
Fever. Infection. Signs of permanent damage to her heart, lungs or some other vital organ.
She’d lost a good deal of blood and Frederick had said, in a reluctant, halting tone, that her mind could even be damaged. She hadn’t wakened fully enough for them to be certain yet.
He took a deep breath and leapt to his feet. Damn it. How did one bear a situation like this?
He went to the washstand and poured water into the basin. Then he splashed his face several times before scrubbing it dry with a coarse towel.
It helped some.
What he wouldn’t give for a cup of strong black tea. Or something stronger.
But he wouldn’t cheat on his diet. He must stay healthy for Rebecca’s sake.
He went to the parlour. Frederick had been called away to tend another patient and it was quiet in the cottage. Stephen sat in a chair and tried to focus on the papers that his valet had brought from London a couple of days before.
But he couldn’t concentrate. Having decided to return to the bedchamber, he was halted by a knock on the door.
From beneath a black, low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat, hazel eyes peered over a pair of silver framed spectacles. “Good day, Stephen.” The man was Charles Addison, Stephen’s superior with the Home Office. “You have a parcel for us?”
Stephen answered in the affirmative but all the while his mind spun. Yes, he had asked for assistance to transport Maria Seymour, now known as Sally Johnson, a former lady’s maid who had gone soft in the head and believed herself to be nobility, to his agent in London. His agent would handle all the unsavoury particulars of her journey to be sold into slavery and disappear. But he had expected some other agent to arrive. Someone on par with himself or lower in the ranks.
Not his superior.
He invited the elder man into the parlour. Whilst the burly coachmen came and took custody of Maria, Stephen busied himself with brewing tea in the kitchen. And when she passed by, her screams coming as muffled sounds through the gag she wore, he didn’t turn to see her go. Finished business.
The tea brewed, Stephen set the tea tray on the table in the parlour and sat opposite Addison.
He found himself the object of those cool hazel eyes. “We were surprised to hear of the Earl of Barnet’s passing.”
Stephen faced the faintly disapproving stare with a steady gaze.
With his hat removed, the elderly man smoothed a hand over hair that glinted like fresh fallen snow in the waning afternoon sun from the parlour window. This sign of hesitation, perhaps of nervousness over what he must say, made Stephen uneasy.
“He was a target. I hadn’t received any instructions indicating that status had changed,” Stephen said.
“It was so soon and certainly not done in the manner we had expected.”
“It created a public scandal,” Stephen said.
Charles Addison made a wry expression. “Yes, it certainly did. All of London is consumed with the story. Quite a lively little drama, worthy of the best playwrights. But we had hoped for a political downfall, not a personal one.”
Stephen reached beside him for the stack of papers and journal books. “Maybe these will help. They can be released to the gossip papers. The cartoonists.” Stephen spent several moments relating all he knew about the Earl of Barnet’s political manoeuvring and plotting.
Addison took the stack and put it into his satchel. He nodded. “Yes, maybe our people can do something with that. But something more public would have been better.” He gave Stephen a stern look over his spectacles. “We gave you a title to make this mission easier for you. It was an important assignment. You’re one of my best. I trusted you to fulfil the needs of the mission.”
“Things became complicated.” Stephen paused and frowned. “I had to reconsider my course of action.”
“Yes, the comely little commoner who got herself caught in between.”
Something in Addison’s tone caused Stephen’s hackles to rise.
“I saw her.” A wisp of a smile passed over Addison’s lips. “I can understand the temptation.”
“I have married her,” Stephen said stiffly.
“Yes, I know.” Addison pursed his lips and steepled his hands. “I hope for your sake that she proves worthy of your risk. Your sacrifice.”
Even though he’d been expecting it, Stephen was surprised by the sense of loss. He knew what was coming.
“You’ve been ill.”
“Yes, I have been inconvenienced by illness.”
“Your ability to make rational judgements has been compromised by this illness. You need a rest, a long one.” Addison put his hand on his cane and pulled himself up. “In light of all of this, we have decided to not assign you any further targets for the time being. We may reassess the situation at some point. Or you may wish to consider an administrative position. Then again, you’ve a wife now. And you have amassed a respectable fortune, as I understand it, to go with your title. You may find retirement a more desirable option.”
Stephen stood.
Addison waved him off. “I can see myself out. You look a bit peaked, I think you should rest.” The elderly man paused, studying Stephen with what could only be termed concern. It touched Stephen.
He stood and ushered his former superior to the door.
“Godspeed to you, Stephen,” Addison said. “You’ve done your duty and then some, for the crown.”
Then he was gone.
Stephen closed the door and waited for the sense of loss to grow stronger.
But it didn’t. And he was puzzled.
He went in to check on Rebecca and found her resting quietly.
She was awake.
He rushed to her side and took her hand. “Rebecca!”
He heard the joy in his voice. Joy because her eyes were clear and alert.
She smiled at him. “I heard visitors.”
He nodded. “That was my superior from the Home Office.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
He smiled at her, wondering if he should give in to the urge to kiss her or if he should force himself to wait. He felt helpless, as though she were as fragile as spun glass and he were all clumsy thumbs and heavy boots.
He pressed her hand to his cheek. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded and he made to leave. She held out a forestalling hand. “But wait…”
“Yes?”
“What did he say—your superior?”
“He dismissed me from the service.”
She gaped at him a moment and then her face contorted with sympathy. “Oh, Stephen, I am so sorry.”
Confusion made him frown. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
“Yes, if you hadn’t felt the need to kill Barnet early before you had the chance to bring him down politically, they wouldn’t have released you.”
“That was not your fault. Nor was it mine. I had no choice but to protect you. I knew when I did it that I would be dismissed for it. Or maybe worse; I suspect I’ve come away lucky.” He twisted his mouth in a wry expression. “It was a sacrifice willingly made. And it was my decision to make it. You’ve nothing to apologise for.”
He arose and went to fetch some of the cold chicken stew along with hot tea. After he’d watched her eat it, he peeled an orange and gave her one segment at time, his mouth watering at the sharp, aromatic fragrance. His stomach had not bothered him for days. Now he wondered how long it would be until he could eat such acidic fruit again. Nevertheless, he was getting a good deal of vicarious pleasure out of seeing her enjoyment of the treat.
He was getting a good deal more pleasure from watching her lovely face. Yes, she was still quite pale, her lips still dry and a bit cracked. The fine lines across her forehead and at the corners of her eyes seemed more prominent in the sunlight from the window. Her hair was lank from her illness and needed a good washing, something he’d enjoy helping her with later today.
Yes, all those things were true. And yet, she’d never looked lovelier to him.
He became aware of something else. He hadn’t noticed until just this very moment how utterly relaxed he felt. How warm inside. This was what? Contentment? Happiness?
Never before had he felt so at peace. At peace because he was at her side.
I never have to leave her again.
He had almost lost her. Now he would be able to stay with her forever. But what about his own illness?
Anger swept through him. Hard, cold, determined anger, such as he’d previously applied to the fulfilment of his duties.
No, he would never again admit defeat. He was healing now, growing stronger each day. And he would continue to take excellent care of himself. He would follow his diet, take daily exercise in the fresh air and sunlight, get adequate sleep, and do whatever else the doctors deemed necessary. He would not leave her so quickly.
He took another glance at her face, taking in every line of her delicate features. Warmth melted away the cold anger but left the determination to take firm root.
Astonishment hit him. Earlier, his dismissal from the secret service had left him struck dumb, not knowing how to feel.
Now he knew exactly how he should feel. How he did feel.
Relieved. Happy. Joyful.
He bent close to her and cupped her face. “I am not sorry to have been dismissed from the service.”
Her mouth dropped open and a rush of orange-scented breath wafted over him. “You’re not?”
He came closer to her and kissed her, tasting the tangy-sweet fruit on her lips. Her mouth opened and she was sweeter than a thousand oranges. Sweeter even than strawberries in spring. He slid his tongue over hers again and again, savouring her.
After several moments, he raised his head. “I am not sorry because now my life is my own. I can choose how and where to live.”
She smiled.
“My life is my own and my heart belongs to you.” He gave her a quick kiss. “You are my life now. And my place is at your side.”
She touched his face. “I am yours, heart, body and soul. I am yours completely.” She frowned. “I only wish that I had realized earlier—”
He put two fingers on her lips, to silence her. “No, don’t. Never look back. The future is ours and it shall be wonderful.”
The End
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Would you like to check out some of my other stories right now?
Please keep reading. I have included excerpts from two of my other works, A Measured Risk and Her Mystery Duke.
A Measured Risk by Natasha Blackthorne
A MEASURED RISK features a shy, intellectual, strong-willed widow with real life curves (Rubenesque/BBW) and a protective, possessive Dominant, alpha male hero. This is a story of Dominance and submission with light BDSM, emotional healing, trust and love.
He is her most dangerous temptation and now he is demanding her submission. Dare she take the risk?
Book one in the Regency Risks Series
Emotionally scarred in the horrific accident that took her husband's life, Lady Cranfield is imprisoned by her lingering terror of horses and carriages. She longed to be closer to the fascinating Earl of Ruel. She sensed intuitively that he could teach her how to overcome the terrors that held her in bondage.
And now she's willing to risk almost anything-her reputation, even her virtue-to find out. But what he proposes startles her.
When the shy, studious and socially awkward young widow approached him, Ruel instantly sensed she would be the sweetest, most submissive experience of a lifetime-if only he can gain her total and complete trust. He makes her a non-negotiable offer. His help in return for her submission and obedience.
But Lady Cranfield grew up neglected by her ducal parents, raised by servants and then later ignored by her handsome, charming husband. She's learnt to protect her heart at all costs and she trusts no one but herself.
How can the jaded Earl of Ruel break through her self-protective defenses and show her how to love when he has spent his lifetime avoiding that tender trap?
Reader Advisory: This is a BDSM romance. This book contains anal sex, spanking, light bondage, D/s themes and brief F/F touching.
This is a work of historical fiction, it is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of or guide to how people recover from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. As a work of historical erotic romance, it is also not intended to portray modern BDSM or D/s lifestyles.
A Measured Risk is published in British English and uses British Spelling.
Excerpt from A MEASURED RISK
Copyright © Natasha Blackthorne, 2012, 2013
“Why did you run away?” His deep
voice settled in her belly, rich and warm, like crème brûlée on a cold winter’s night.
“Because I wanted you to follow.” She tried to sound sophisticated and seductive, but her voice choked off on the last word.
Ruel placed his hand on the shelf above her head and blocked her path to the door. His tall, solidly muscled body leaned over her, surrounding her with the sumptuous, sinful scents of tobacco, Scotch whisky and something masculine and undeniably dangerous. A slow, sensual smile stretched his hard mouth.
He appeared different. Softer. More approachable.
At the change, her insides seemed to flip over.
“Well, sweeting, getting us off alone was a very inspired idea.” He touched one of her fallen ringlets. “I am bored to distraction with endless hunting and fencing.”
As he slowly wrapped the curl around two fingers, he brushed her collarbone. Fiery sparks tingled down her spine, so intense that she shivered and her nipples beaded, pressing against her stays. By some instinct she hadn’t even known she possessed, she arched her back, presenting herself for his assessment.
His eyes shone so vividly blue against his bronzed face that they resembled cornflowers. She swallowed tightly and wished for a long drink of claret. This more personal side of him suddenly seemed far more hazardous than his usually fierce exterior.
Well, no matter. There was nothing to fear. She would allow only as much contact as need be to get to know him a little. Since being torn from her lonely yet secure life in Ireland and thrust into society at age sixteen, she’d spent her time allowing people only as near as was comfortable. She was an expert at emotional evasion.
It should be easy to regain her control.
But now, as late afternoon sun rays played over his pale hair, turning it to the colour of winter wheat, all her carefully rehearsed words flew away.
Perilous Risk Page 36
