‘Monster! How dare you even suggest such a thing!’ She stood and rapped on the ceiling. ‘Stop the carriage! Immédiatement!’
‘They won’t listen to you.’
‘Make them stop. I will only be a few moments.’
‘During which you will doubtless try to make a dash for it again.’ He sighed loudly as if vastly put upon. ‘All very tiresome and, if I may say, my fiery Jess, a tad predictable. I expected more imagination from you.’ For a man who claimed to loathe female hysterics, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from goading her or enjoying her reaction.
‘Ah, seigneur!’ She quickly suppressed the flash of temper. ‘Why are you always so suspicious?’
He smiled in response and watched her jaw stiffen. ‘Would it be too much trouble to pull in to the next inn? You can stand guard outside the retiring room.’
Flint glanced disbelievingly at her indignant face. ‘What part of being a prisoner are you struggling to understand? I have learned, to my peril, that you cannot be left alone for a second. Even if we stopped, which we won’t by the way, you will remain in my direct line of sight at all times. You have lost your right to privacy until I cheerfully hand you over. Not only am I in charge, I am now your constant companion. Your trusty shadow. Always there. Glued to your side. For the duration... But because I am a gentleman, I shall close my eyes.’ Some devil inside him made Flint reach down and grab the chinaware and present it to her like a gift.
He watched her mouth fall open and her dark eyes swirl with molten fury. She went to shout and he gently pressed his finger to her lips, then momentarily forgot what he wanted to say when an odd heat travelled up the digit and made his own mouth tingle. Annoyed, he snatched the offending hand away and folded it tightly across his chest. ‘You may use what has been graciously provided or you will wait till we get to Plymouth.’
‘Plymouth!’ He probably shouldn’t have said that, because her rage burned incandescent. Nor should he have touched her mouth because it apparently had the power to scramble his brains. ‘Plymouth is to the west coast, non? Why are we travelling west when London is to the east?’
‘Because we are expected at Plymouth. That was where the ship was heading before you launched yourself off it.’
‘Who is expecting us in Plymouth? My trial is in London!’
‘And we will make our way to London from there.’
‘That makes no sense! Plymouth is the complete opposite side of the country! It will take days to get to London!’ Five to be exact, on the convoluted route they had planned. ‘Je n’en crois rien! Imbéciles! Why did that stinking, floating prison not take me to Dover or Portsmouth or anywhere else sensible? This is complete stupidity...’ Her voice trailed off and Flint saw the exact moment that realisation dawned. Her hand fluttered to her face. It instantly paled. ‘You are using me? All your talk about fair trials and dignity are lies to appease me. This has all been planned.’
‘I think you are allowing your imagination to run away with you.’
‘Really?’ Proud resignation replaced the temper. Her emotions could swiftly change like the wind—if they were real. ‘Now it all makes sense. Now I understand why the navy abducted me in Cherbourg and then sat outside the harbour for days waiting. You wanted Saint-Aubin to know you had me. You wanted to taunt him by flaunting me under his nose! And now you intend to taunt him still by taking me to the capital on the slowest route possible. I am bait.’
There was no point lying, every bit of her theory was correct, so he stared at her levelly. ‘You are too valuable to both Saint-Aubin and the Boss for us not to. One or both of them will send minions who will attempt to retrieve you...’
‘Je n’en crois pas mes oreilles! I am to be sacrificed to catch a bigger traitor!’
‘There will be no sacrifice. My men are armed and...’ It wasn’t wise to tell her all the details. She didn’t need to know that during every step of their journey they would be escorted by fifty of Lord Fennimore’s finest who had arrived a while ago. Fifty crafty, invisible and highly skilled operatives who would shoot first and ask questions later. Saint-Aubin’s motley crew of would-be kidnappers didn’t stand a chance. He had blabbed enough by mentioning Plymouth and tipping her off. A stupid mistake when he knew better. A mistake he had only made once before nearly a decade ago in his career as a government agent. A career he had been born and nurtured to follow. Duty and patriotism were in his blood. One mistake didn’t erase hundreds of years of service. Two might.
‘You will arrive safely in London. Your trial will be...’ What? Quick. Decisive. Everything you suspect and more? A foregone conclusion from a frightened government baying for your blood. He couldn’t say that to her. All at once, Flint was swamped with guilt for riling her in the first place. ‘Your trial will be conducted correctly.’
‘I see.’ She exhaled and somehow became much smaller. She sat staring sightlessly at the opposite bench. Acceptance of her fate. Painful minutes ticked by, forcing him to see the unshed tears in her dark, frightened eyes and watch the erratic rise and fall of her chest as she struggled to maintain control. No tears of martyrdom. Always so proud. So brave. He wanted to loathe her, yet had to stop himself from comforting her instead. After an age, she turned to him and his gut clenched at the stark despondency in her gaze.
‘It is funny. During that long swim, I genuinely feared I might drown or be bludgeoned against those rocks. Now, Monsieur Flint, I am genuinely sorry that I wasn’t.’
Beneath the delicate skin of her neck, Flint watched her pulse beat rapidly rather than see the awful terror in her eyes. What had happened to fiery Jess? Why wasn’t she shouting and railing at him now? That he could deal with. Instead she slowly turned to stare listlessly out of the window, the healthy bloom on her cheeks gone and her proud shoulders deflated.
Chapter Seven
Jess allowed the weight of guilt and despondency to swallow her for the rest of the journey, finding it almost incomprehensible that the British government thought that she would be safe in one lone carriage accompanied by two drivers and one lying aristocrat as they attempted to draw out Saint-Aubin’s evil comrades. Her situation was indeed dire and she was out of ideas to save her skin while her current gaoler refused to leave her side. Knowing that at any point they could be ambushed, that the arrogant Flint and his men would be slaughtered before her eyes and she would be dragged kicking and screaming back to France, filled Jess with more dread than she knew how to deal with.
If they caught her, then her only hope was to plead horror at her initial abduction and reassure Saint-Aubin that every detail of her mother’s damning little book was consigned to memory. Then, if he believed her, Jess would go back to being his slave, forced to continue writing those letters and sending more innocent men to their deaths. For what? All to save her own skin—a weak and worthless skin she would despise occupying for the rest of her days.
Death was a better option.
Next to her, her unwelcome companion was feigning sleep once again. That was fine by Jess. She hated him more now. She had nothing to say to him. Instead, she focused on the blurred bushes and trees at the roadside as the carriage sped past, her heart in her mouth, searching for the men who would hunt her down. Simultaneously praying to God that he’d find a way to save her. Just this once.
* * *
By some miracle they arrived in Plymouth without issue and the carriage pulled into a busy inn in the centre of the crowded port town. Lord Flint held her arm tightly as he helped her down, then wrapped hers securely through his to lead her through the inn. She allowed it to go limp in the hope he would relax his grip, but he merely looked knowingly at her and held her tighter.
‘Would you like some dinner?’ The dining room was filled with curious travellers, any of whom could be her enemy. How dare he attempt to put her on display like a juicy maggot on a hook!
‘Go to hell!’
He turned to the amused driver who had followed them in, asked him to organise a tray to be sent to the room, then dragged her up two flights of narrow stairs at pace before depositing her in the sole bedchamber at the top of the building.
‘I hope you find the accommodations for tonight satisfactory. The trunk over there should have everything that you need—but if you require anything else I’ll send my man to fetch it in the morning before we depart.’
Jess let her eyes wander to the enormous leather trunk before piercing him with her glare. For once, she had no words, yet was content to simply allow her roiling hatred for the man to bubble openly.
‘I see you are angry at me again.’
‘An understatement, Monsieur Flint.’
‘For what it’s worth, I prefer the anger to seeing you sad.’ He huffed out a breath and raked a hand through his thick hair, the unintentional dishevelment only serving to make him more attractive, the wretch. How dare he say nice things! ‘If you need anything, I’ll be back soon.’ Then he stood awkwardly for a few seconds before clamping his hands behind his back, stiffly inclining his head and leaving her all alone.
As the key clicked decisively in the lock, it didn’t take her long to realise why her shadow felt confident enough to disappear. Despite the long drop to the cobbled courtyard below, a drop so reminiscent of the one in Cherbourg that it instantly made her queasy, the two windows were barred on the outside and although she could open the glass and let in the fresh evening air, the gap between those bars was barely enough to slide her hand through, let alone anything else. He had chosen this room on purpose.
Of course he had. Monsieur Flint had a plan, a detailed one, and Jess didn’t.
She tossed her new bonnet on the small dressing table and sat listlessly on the bed. I prefer the anger to seeing you sad. As if her misery somehow made him miserable, too! Did he think words would make up for him intentionally putting her life in jeopardy? Did he think she was a fool who would fall for such a flowery, insincere statement?
Although he had sounded sincere and his sea-green eyes had been pained.
Idiot! Stop thinking such nonsense! She shouldn’t waste her time pathetically attributing substance to a meaningless, throwaway comment when she had an escape to plan... The trouble was she had been starved of affection and friendship for too long and was now seeing flickers of those emotions where none truly existed. Jess sincerely doubted he suffered from a similar affliction.
Except... He had come to her aid more than once with the toothless sailor. He’d torn a strip off the crew for debasing her. He had brought her food and seen to her comfort. He had listened to the physician’s instructions to allow her to rest instead of pushing on with his plan to deliver her to London. He hadn’t as much as harmed a hair on her head. Irritated, Jess took in the room properly. A fresh nightgown had been laid out on the comfortable bed. There was a hairbrush, hairpins and ribbons on the dressing table. A trunk filled with more clothes she imagined were much like the fine garment she was wearing. And despite everything she had done to escape his clutches, her wrists were blessedly free of manacles. She might well be bait—but she was being treated like a lady.
Why was that?
Maybe the compassion she had seen in those compelling green eyes had been real after all? Which meant there was a chance he might have human emotions buried under all that aristocratic indifference?
An Achilles heel?
The polite tap on the door followed by the jangling of keys interrupted her train of thought and her silly pulse fluttered at the prospect of seeing him again. Only it wasn’t the arrogant and exasperating Lord Flint who carried the tray in. It was his grinning driver.
He offered her a courtly bow and proffered the tray as if it were the Crown Jewels rather than a plate piled with bread, cheese and ham. ‘Your dinner, my lady!’
She glanced past him to the tiny landing where the other coachman, a very burly fellow who looked more suited to bare-knuckle fighting than handling the ribbons, stood guard. ‘Où est Monsieur Flint? Have I scared him away?’
‘Flint is made of stern stuff, my lady. As the only brother of five troublesome sisters, there is no one better to deal with your tomfoolery than him. He has the patience of a saint. But alas, even saints need an hour or two to themselves. I’m afraid you are stuck with me until then.’ He bowed again and winked. ‘Lord Graham Chadwick at your service, mademoiselle. But you can call me Gray. Far more handsome and charming than Flint, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
Charming, yes. Handsome, too, but not in the league of her golden-haired gaoler.
‘Lord Chadwick? And there I was thinking you were naught but a simple coachman.’ She peeked up at him from beneath her lashes and was delighted to see that this lord was more than happy to be flirted with. Except flirting with him seemed disloyal, so Jess annoyed herself by changing her expression to one of openness rather than enticement.
‘Five sisters? The poor man must indeed have the patience of a saint.’ Jess picked up a chunk of bread and nibbled on it, smiling. ‘Do they run him ragged?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe, my lady.’
‘Young ladies will do that. We are all very temperamental. Non?’
‘These are all older and want him married. The poor chap can’t venture home without their aggressive matchmaking. It’s hugely entertaining to watch.’
‘I should imagine it is.’ The image of her gaoler rolling his eyes in exasperation while indulging his sisters’ machinations with good humour skittered across her mind. ‘Is he a good brother, Monsieur Gray?’ Because he was respectful, almost noble, in his manner. As if he understood women and was careful how he treated them. Even when Flint restrained her he was gentle. Jess could honestly say he hadn’t physically hurt her once. Even when he had used his body to pin her to the bed. Such an experience should have been unpleasant—but it wasn’t. A large part of her, the part she had absolutely no control of, had really rather enjoyed it.
‘I suspect so.’
‘But a committed bachelor?’
‘So many questions and all about Flint.’ He grinned and folded his arms. ‘Do you miss him already?’
‘Merely curious.’
‘Understandable. It’s good to know your enemy.’
‘That is the problem, Monsieur Gray, I am not entirely sure Monsieur Flint is my enemy. I can’t quite make him out. I have spent hours in his company and yet know next to nothing about him. I find myself wanting to trust him. Perhaps if I understood him better, I might be inclined to entrust him with my confession, but—’
Gray chuckled and held up his hand. ‘Let me stop you there. You’re good. I’ll give you that. Flint was absolutely correct. Just the right combination of beautiful and tragic to lull a man into falling for your lies. Very convincing. It’s also a good job I am not a simple coachman, else I might do something foolish and satisfy your curiosity. Even better, Flint won’t fall for it either—but I’m looking forward to seeing you try. Enjoy your dinner, mademoiselle.’ He turned and started back towards the door, only to pause, his face the very picture of mischief. ‘I shall tell Monsieur Flint you are quite taken with him and miss his presence keenly. I dare say that will give him a laugh.’ He closed the door before her chunk of bread hit him in the face.
* * *
Flint did a subtle circuit of the inn, but needn’t have worried. Gray had two-hirds of the Invisibles stationed around the perimeter, disguised as everything from ostlers to drunkards. A quick glance upwards confirmed there were also two on the roof, as they briefly poked their heads out of their hiding places and nodded in acknowledgement before blending seamlessly back into the chimneys. The rest were already in position on their route or readying the next inn they would stop at. There were eyes and pistols everywhere. If any of the Boss’s henchmen came calling tonight, they were more than ready for them. The fools would be rounded up a
nd made to talk. Hired henchmen often spilled their guts to save their own backsides. Especially if there was a King’s Pardon on offer. Flint had the papers signed and ready and sat in the same locked box as Jess’s arrest warrant. Every detail of this mission had been meticulously planned. Knowing that made him feel more in control again and served to remind him of the purpose of his mission.
Escort the traitor to London slowly. Arrest every cockroach that crawled out of the woodwork along the way. Deposit her in London and then move blithely on to the next mission.
Clear cut.
That simple.
Although getting less simple by the second.
If only he had a clear-cut plan to help him cope with tonight. The inn might well be awash with the King’s Elite, men who knew their role in this mission and would behave accordingly, but the dark-haired vixen he had to spend the night guarding was another matter. There was no telling what Jess would do and Flint was mentally preparing for every eventuality from finding the bars on the window removed using twisted hairpins or some other innocuous items she had fashioned into a tool—because she was that resourceful and determined—to wrestling the wench to the ground if she attempted to steal the keys again. Something his needy body was rather looking forward to even while his head violently castigated it for being so weak. Whatever she threw at him, he knew one thing for certain—tonight was not going to be easy. The temptation to post himself outside the door on a chair was overwhelming.
Except he didn’t trust her to be left alone too long—even with bars on the window. The two hours he had been absent were quite long enough and, despite Gray listening intently through the door, ears were no substitute for eyes. The only eyes he trusted to watch Jess properly were his own.
That was his story and Flint was sticking to it, even if he didn’t fully believe it himself.
He took a moment at the bottom of the narrow staircase to enjoy the peace and then steeled his shoulders ready for the chaos.
The Uncompromising Lord Flint Page 7
