Flint watched Gray leave and felt a pang of guilt for putting his comrades in danger. Not that he’d lied about the bed rest, the physician had been most specific, citing all manner of complications should they attempt to move her too soon, but because he was putting the welfare of a potential traitor over that of his men. Why should he care if Lady Jessamine became ill? But he did.
Wearily he took himself back into the bedchamber and dragged the cot the innkeeper had found for him to lay it directly in front of the door, then arranged his long limbs as best he could within its confines. Unless all hell broke loose, sleep was necessary. He would need every one of his wits completely sharpened to deal with her again tomorrow, but for now, predominantly thanks to the potent sleeping draught he had insisted the physician slip her, she was wrapped soundly in the arms of Morpheus. Decisively, he closed his eyes and joined her.
* * *
The dream was as vivid as it was erotic. Sultry eyes. Long, jet-black hair. Wet limbs entwined. The Jessamine of his imagination was as passionate as she was tempestuous. Bold and wanton, her hands explored him everywhere, greedily caressing every inch of his naked skin. In the dream Flint lay beneath her, content to let her explore, watching her lips and tongue work their way up his chest, moaning his encouragement. She smiled down at him as her fingers dipped into his waistcoat pocket...
Wait... If he was naked, why was he suddenly supremely aware of his waistcoat?
Like lightning, his hand clamped around her wrist and pulled her so that she fell sprawled across his chest, his narrowed eyes inches from her shocked, wide ones in the darkness.
‘Give it back.’
‘You were having a bad dream...’ She attempted to rise on her knees, but he held firm.
‘Give me the key.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about. You were restless...’ As she spoke in uncharacteristically reasonable tones, she was also carefully arranging her legs beneath her voluminous borrowed nightgown to bolt, so he twisted sharply to unbalance her and send her sprawling across his chest again.
‘You were trying to escape.’
‘Ce n’est pas vrai!’ And she was fighting him again, tugging her arm for all it was worth. Flint wrapped his other arm tightly around her waist and rolled them to reverse their positions, only remembering that his body was hard and needy from the dream when it rested damningly against her stomach and he saw her eyes widen with surprise. He didn’t want to want her, nor to have her know it, but it served her right and might deter her from interrupting his slumber again in the coming days. Even so, he shifted position to spare them both the embarrassment.
‘I won’t ask again.’ Her trim body felt too good beneath his. Thanks to the pale moonlight bleeding through the window, Flint was forced to notice all her silky, dark hair fanned across his pillow. The beautiful arrangement of her eyes, nose and plump mouth. Feel the fevered rise and fall of her breasts against his chest. His mouth scant inches from hers. Things he didn’t want to notice. Couldn’t afford to notice. ‘Give me the key.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about!’
He reached between them to retrieve her small, clenched fist and raised her hand to lie next to her furious face on the pillow. ‘Give. It. To. Me.’ Damn it all to hell, he wanted to kiss her. Badly.
‘Abruti d’imbécile!’
It came as no surprise when she set her jaw and tried to heave him off her, but he was considerably bigger and easily used his bulk to pin her to the lumpy, straw mattress while his other hand slowly prised that determined fist apart. As Flint dislodged each stubborn finger to take back what she had stolen, she treated him to another stream of impassioned rapid French. He found himself smiling down at her, enjoying her hot-blooded spirit despite his better judgement. She was a glorious handful. Passionate and tenacious. Did those passions extend elsewhere? Best not to think about that now. Or ever.
‘This is pointless, madam, as you well know.’
Typically, the minx didn’t make it easy, nor did Flint truly expect her to, but using far more of his strength than he had ever used on a female before—including his exasperating oldest sister Ophelia—he finally managed to remove the key from her grasp.
Victorious and breathless, and shockingly aroused at the same time, Flint rolled off her and jumped to his feet.
‘Well, that was all very unnecessary.’ He pocketed the key again and she shot up from the cot like a wild cat, those vicious claws bared once again as she lunged for him. His surprisingly good mood vanished.
‘Tu ne comprends pas! I have to get away!’ Unwilling to defend himself because of that damn ingrained vein of chivalry again, he wrapped both arms tightly around her to trap her hands against the wall of his body and held on for dear life.
The insults came thick and fast, but among them she was muttering about something which Flint sensed was important, but his knowledge of French didn’t extend to translating it all so quickly. When a button pinged off his waistcoat, he held her at arm’s length and positively growled, ‘Either rant more slowly, woman, or insult me in plain English. I know you speak that just as well!’
‘He is going to kill us both!’
‘Whoever he is, he doesn’t know where we are!’
‘It will make no difference. He has people everywhere. Well connected and powerful...’ Her voice petered off as his eyes narrowed.
‘Then seeing as we are now both wide awake, why don’t we make a list of every one of those powerful names?’
Chapter Six
Jess clamped her jaw shut and stared up into his handsome face. Much as she wanted to see each and every one of those people reap the justice they deserved, naming names now would eradicate the only collateral she had should Saint-Aubin come knocking. That list might well be her curse, but it was also the only bargaining tool she had to save her from his wrath. Losing her temper after being caught red-handed was not sensible. Attacking the irksome man who held her was stupid.
She could feel the warmth and strength of his big body through her nightgown and the odd tingling on her lips from being so intimately close to his. If only he didn’t smell so wonderfully sinful, she might be able to ignore those things. Now her body hummed with an awareness she did not welcome. Insufferable man!
Although as undeniably irritating as he was, so far, he was the only gaoler who had not chained her up. If she continued to fight him, that state of affairs would swiftly change. She already bitterly knew to her cost, escaping while clapped in irons was nigh on impossible. It had taken a small and unexpected army of gnarly English sailors to liberate her from Cherbourg in the dead of night, a stroke of good fortune she still couldn’t quite believe.
A stroke of good fortune that was giving Jess her first real shot at freedom and fresh air in over a year.
She breathed out all her frustration and fury, allowing her muscles to relax in surrender. There would be another time. Another opportunity. She needed to be less opportunistic and more strategic if she was going to escape Lord Flint. ‘I don’t know their names. I was never privy to that information. I simply know that the organisation is vast.’ Because it was worth a try, she offered him one of her mother’s smiles and felt her pulse flutter as her eyes dipped to his lips of her own accord. Mon Dieu! ‘As I have said, I was just the messenger, Monsieur Flint.’
His returning scowl could have curdled milk. ‘Define messenger?’
‘Translations mostly.’ As his hold had loosened, Jess gave a dramatic flick of her wrist and shrugged. ‘I wrote what I was told to write when I was told to write it.’ Largely true. ‘I have no idea what happened to the letters afterwards.’ She did now. They killed people.
‘Then why do you claim he wants you dead, I wonder? Seems like a gross overreaction for someone so insignificant.’
Jess hated that dismissive tone, the understated English sarcasm he did so well. She wishe
d he would let go of her. Standing within the warm, inviting cage of his arms was distracting. Up close, this unusual, irritating aristocrat looked even more divine and for some reason her nerve-endings were enjoying the feel of his hands on her body. ‘Saint-Aubin does not like loose ends, Monsieur Flint. He will not rest until this loose end is securely tied.’
‘Or more likely, he will come to rescue you if you fail in your own valiant attempts to return to France.’
He thought she wanted to return to that hell hole? A team of horses would have to drag her there lashed to a cart. Death would be more welcome. But at least her performance was convincing despite her two failed attempts at grasping her freedom. Saint-Aubin’s spies might vouch for her outrage and that in turn might make him lenient. And Jess had more chance of harnessing the power of invisibility than hoping that monster might show her any mercy. If they found her here, wherever here was... ‘I do not want to hang, Monsieur Flint.’ But she would rather hang than suffer Saint-Aubin’s punishment.
Caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea. Odd—she had always wondered what that quaint British analogy meant and now, ironically, she understood it fully. Saint-Aubin was the Devil incarnate and Lord Flint the sea. Except Jess never expected she would need to actively resist the urge to dive in.
‘I doubt your dear papa wants that either.’
‘You do not know him as I do. I am better dead than in the hands of the English Crown. He will sacrifice me in a heartbeat.’ And he would enjoy it. In her mind she heard his manic laughter at her screams and shuddered.
‘A father doesn’t—’
‘He is not my father!’ She spat the words with too much venom, making the intuitive Lord Flint tilt his head and eye her in a detached, calculated way which showed him to be every bit the King’s man, out to catch a bigger fish and not at all the compassionate and reasonable man he purported to be. Whatever she said would be used against her in a court of law or at the hands of Saint-Aubin’s henchmen if they made her answer for her actions. Jess needed to play her pathetic hand of cards very close to her chest and keep her impetuous, errant mouth shut.
‘But he brought you up as his daughter, did he not? You grew up in his chateau.’ Lord Flint smiled rather smugly down at her. He had a nice smile, even smug it did peculiar things to her pulse, and she hated him for that more. ‘In Valognes. A sprawling estate, by all accounts, wealthy, too—but then Saint-Aubin is one of Bonaparte’s favourites and continues to support him despite his exile. We know that Saint-Aubin is the Boss’s supplier of brandy, just as we know that you ensured that same illegal brandy arrived safely in Britain. Dates, times, ships. You met him, didn’t you? Old Boney. You were there to see him pin a medal on your adopted papa’s chest after the Battle of Vittoria. I can assure you, our intelligence has been most thorough, Lady Jessamine. We know all about you. Which is why I fail to believe you are in any danger from Saint-Aubin. Your own dear mother is his lover and has been for twelve years.’
His intelligence wasn’t that thorough. ‘My mother is dead, Monsieur Flint. She died six weeks ago.’ Although any favour Jess had had with Saint-Aubin had died long before that. Not that he had ever showed her any real favour. That chateau had been a gilded prison which Jess had been forbidden to leave. He had tolerated his mistress’s daughter when it suited him, then grossly abused her when his mistress lost interest or was too ill to continue with his dirty work.
That answer seemed to surprise him and for a moment his handsome face clouded and his hold on her body loosened. ‘I’m sorry. It is hard to lose a parent.’ It was harder to take on the unwelcome mantle of one. ‘You have been through quite an ordeal in the last month then, haven’t you?’ He had no idea. Ordeal didn’t quite sum it all up. Jess had languished in a bottomless pit of hell. One she had clawed her way out of only to come face to face with the dreadful consequences. She doubted freedom would ever ease that new pain. ‘Her passing, your capture and now...this.’
There it was again. That deep well of compassion swirling in those hypnotic green eyes, more intense in the moonlight for some reason than in broad daylight—then it was gone like a puff of smoke in a gale. ‘How can you claim to not remember the names of your fellow traitors when each letter we have intercepted is personally addressed to them in your hand, Jessamine?’
‘If you insist on dismissing the proper formalities, my name is Jess! Jessamine was my mother.’ The mother she had once loved and now wanted no reminder of. A selfish, self-centred woman who put herself first, last and always. The mother who had willingly participated in despicable things. Forfeited their relationship for Saint-Aubin. Allowed him to treat her daughter abominably in exchange for the easier life he gave her. Flint took her outburst as grief rather than anger.
‘I’m sorry. For my inappropriate informality and for your loss.’
She wriggled out of his hold and turned her back. Gazing up at him, seeing his concern, feeling that pull of confusion weakened her resolve.
‘Tell me their names.’
‘My head hurts... I feel dizzy.’
‘How convenient.’
‘So dizzy...’ She clambered on to the bed and pulled the covers over her tightly like a shield. It did nothing to lessen her awareness of him. Jess could still smell his cologne on her nightgown. Still feel the warmth of his big hands on her skin. The untrustworthy sense of security she had simply knowing he was there.
‘We’ll save the rest of this enlightening conversation for the journey tomorrow. If you are well enough to attack me in the night, I dare say you are well enough to ride in a carriage.’ His booted feet retreated to his pallet by the door. She heard the whisper of the thin blanket as he arranged himself across the door. ‘Sleep tight, cunning Jess.’ He was smiling again. She could hear it in his voice. Picture the way those green eyes danced. ‘And to save any fruitless rummaging later, I’ve tucked the key to the window safely down my breeches. I dare you to come and retrieve it.’
* * *
She sat like an affronted statue next to him, the very picture of wounded martyrdom, staring silently at the scenery through the carriage window. She had been like that for well over an hour. The only chink in that armour had appeared as they had stepped out of the inn and she had seen the single carriage, yet instead of showing relief that she was apparently so poorly guarded, it had been fear that had briefly flitted across her features instead. Fear so visceral, he had to fight hard against the compulsion to tell her not to worry—armed men were hiding all along their route, ready to pounce on any villains fool enough to chance their arm.
That fear bothered Flint, although he was yet to put his finger on exactly why. Fear aside, she was still reassuringly opportunistic. The door on her side was locked and chained with the fattest padlock Gray could find, the key safely sat in his pocket on top of the carriage. The wily Jess had tested the lock with her fingers when she thought Flint hadn’t been looking as they had bounced over a rutted part of the road. Since then, she had cast a couple of surreptitious glances towards Flint’s door, which to rile her he had settled his back to half-lean against while he pretended to sleep at her side, his long legs stretched and folded on the opposite bench in case she got any ideas.
It was a position which also allowed him to study her unhindered. In sailor’s breeches she was stunning, but in the fashionably feminine attire his men had brought across from Plymouth, the seething Lady Jessamine was breathtaking. The beautiful hair had been pinned into a tousled chignon that suited her. Long, curling strands framed her face beneath the wide rim of her bonnet. Thanks to a decent night’s sleep, another tonic from the physician when he declared her recovered enough to travel and a couple of hearty meals, the dark shadows had lessened and there was a delightful pink bloom to her cheeks which hinted at her English ancestry beneath the French.
Flint fully intended to shake the hand of whoever had been responsible for selecting that particular
coral-striped muslin gown from whichever shop it had been procured. The instructions had been explicit, she needed to stand out, but not that noticeably. He had expected something garish and tawdry, not a confection that oozed class. The garment might have been made expressly for her, so well did it fit. The bodice hugged her curves like a second skin and displayed enough flesh to make a man look twice, but not so much as to make her obscene. Then it fell to skim her hips in a column that left one in no doubt that the body beneath it was all woman. Above the neckline was a tantalising glimpse of an impressive cleavage, something surprising when one considered her distinct lack of stature and almost painfully thin waist. She looked exactly like any other lady of good breeding, only better.
Damn her.
The sight kept making his mind wander to places it had no business going and the primary reason why he had pretended to sleep. Looking was giving his vivid imagination too many ideas and taking his mind off his mission. But he wouldn’t prove old Fennimore right. The near loss of a parent was an excellent incentive to look, but not touch. Or believe a single word she said.
‘We need to stop.’ Flint felt her finger prod him in the thigh. He cracked open one eye and feigned boredom.
‘We’ll stop when we reach our destination and not before.’
‘When will that be?’
He took out his pocket watch slowly, flicked it open and then clicked it shut. ‘Dinner time. Another hour or so.’
‘I cannot wait an hour.’
‘Ah... I see. There’s a chamber pot under your seat.’
The anger was instantaneous and, despite his better judgement, the sight of it excited him. He had to close his eyes again to stop the bark of laughter escaping his throat.
The Uncompromising Lord Flint Page 6
