The Uncompromising Lord Flint

by Virginia Heath

  Saint-Aubin.

  Himself.

  Que faire, mon Dieu!

  Chapter Nine

  The woman sitting next to him in the carriage seat was most definitely not the same woman he had left the inn with. Flint had no idea what had changed, but something had and it was making him uneasy. One minute she had been unconsciously smiling wistfully at the hustle and bustle of the courtyard, the next she was scrambling up the steps to the carriage and eager to be on their way. Now, his maddening prisoner was as white as a ghost, her small fists were clenched, and there was a tension and fragility about her as she peered out of the window that he had not seen before. It was worse even than when he had tracked her down after her dramatic and fearless escape from the ship—the rapid transformation bothered him.

  In the two minutes since they had left, he had watched her intently, curious to see if the change in her character was all part of her act. But as each second ticked passed, she seemed to become more and more distressed. Shrinking into herself. Or he was an idiot for falling for it? Of course.

  ‘All right, Jess. I’ll play along. What’s the matter?’

  Silence. Almost as if she hadn’t heard him. Without thinking, Flint reached out his hand and touched her arm. Her hand came up to grip his.

  ‘I saw him.’ Her usually bold voice was very small. Something about it didn’t sound right, but as she still had her back to him he couldn’t see the truth—or the lies—in her eyes. ‘He was there. At the inn.’

  ‘Who was there?’

  ‘Saint-Aubin.’

  ‘Saint-Aubin?’ The mere suggestion was laughable. French war criminals didn’t dare set foot on British soil. They certainly didn’t set foot on British soil when they had a perfectly robust criminal network in place to do their dirty work for them. She was playing him again and that grated. For show he chuckled, shook off her hand and settled back in the seat comfortably. ‘The Comte de Saint-Aubin-de-Scellon is here. In Devon. Risking his neck, his entire lucrative smuggling operation and the future freedom of his beloved Emperor Napoleon simply to retrieve the daughter of his mistress, when he could just as easily get the Boss to do it for him? I’m sure he loves you like one of his own, Jessamine...’

  ‘He hates me.’ That small voice again. ‘He hates me with a vengeance. Because I have given him good reason to hate me.’

  Flint was tired of talking to the back of her head. If she wanted to play games and spin yarns, she could do it straight to his face. ‘Yes, I’m sure...’ His hand reached around to cup her chin to turn it and the words stopped dead in his throat.

  She was crying.

  Not the preferred, single, stoic tear he had seen before. Not done in a becoming and suitably heart-wrenching fashion designed to manipulate. These were proper tears. Flint had seen enough fake ones to know the real thing when it was presented to him. Her contorted face was awash and more spilled silently over her lashes like a waterfall before she succumbed to them fully and crumpled over her lap.

  Numerous years of female histrionics at home had hardened him to tears, or so Flint thought, but these—these were something entirely different. These physically hurt. He had never witnessed utter despair and hopelessness before. It was as if she had given up and he hated it. She didn’t deserve that.

  He knew that in his heart.

  Which had clearly gone quite mad.

  Impotently he observed, no knowing what to do or say and not trusting his visceral response any further than he trusted her, until he could stand it no more and hauled her into his arms. Immediately he regretted it. She burrowed into his chest, her small shoulders quaking with the exertion, and all he wanted to do was take away her pain.

  ‘There, there...’ Pointless words, but all he had. He couldn’t tell her it would all be all right, because it wouldn’t. Ultimately, she was destined to be executed and he was tasked with delivering her to the executioner. A mission which was getting harder and harder the more time he spent with her.

  Because he wanted to believe her, damn it. Not her words or her practised deceptions. He believed the emotions swirling in her dark eyes. Trusted the nagging instinct which told him she was intrinsically good despite the mountain of evidence to the contrary. Was his usually impeccable judgement now so hopelessly clouded with lust and...whatever else this odd connection he felt for her was, stronger now that he held her than ever before. Whatever it was, it was unwelcome and stupid. Flint was allowing himself to be dragged into her web. She was probably no better than the woman all those years ago who had bewitched him, lain with him, then used Flint’s own pistol to shoot his father as she had tried to escape. Thankfully, the bullet sailed straight through, missing all his vital organs. But the subsequent infection...

  Flint still hadn’t forgiven himself for allowing her to seduce him when he knew, deep down in his gut, he was being played. Although this time, his gut told him differently. Should he trust it? And so soon? The last thing he should be doing was displaying his weakness and comforting her, yet he knew he couldn’t stop. Not now that her face was tucked against his heart and her hands were clinging to him like he was the only piece of driftwood after a shipwreck.

  It seemed more appropriate to hold her tightly and rock her gently, something he had discovered worked exceptionally well with infants, although this grown woman felt nothing like his assorted nieces and nephews. Just as precious, or indeed more so, and his solemn duty to protect regardless of her crimes. ‘Let me help you, Jess.’

  ‘If only you could.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ As he said it, Flint realised he would likely do whatever it took to take away her sadness, because her sadness hurt him, too. ‘Trust me to help you.’

  Miraculously, the racking sobs turned to less worrying hiccupping as she forced herself to breathe. Her face tilted up and she searched his face. ‘I want to believe I have a life to live. I want to trust you.’

  ‘You can.’ The pain in his own chest was yet to lessen so he found his nose buried in her riot of loose hair and nuzzled.

  Nuzzled!

  This had gone far too far. The vixen had bewitched him. He needed to let go!

  ‘I’m s-sorry. I d-don’t cry. I n-never let m-myself cry, but...’ The rest of the sentence was swallowed by ugly snorting and moaning of the like he had never heard before and prayed never to hear again; the truth of the tears leaking through his waistcoat, shirt and piercing his heart through his ribs like a dagger.

  ‘Better out than in.’

  Were any more inane platitudes going to spill from his mouth? More importantly, why was he incapable of letting go? That the latter might have something to do with the icy tentacles of dread which had snaked up his spine and kindled real fear on her behalf was a worry. In his line of work, Flint had learned to trust his instincts. They hadn’t truly failed him yet. However, those same instincts were screaming at him to trust her and listen. Properly.

  ‘Why does Saint-Aubin hate you?’

  She stilled in his arms. ‘Because I did something very bad.’

  ‘Define bad?’

  ‘Something catastrophic. I—I...’ She lifted her face to meet his and allowed him to search her eyes. ‘I t-took something valuable...then I destroyed it. On purpose. He will stop at nothing until he gets it all back.’

  She was talking in riddles. ‘If you destroyed it, how can he get it back?’

  ‘B-because it is all in here.’ She tapped her head. ‘Every name. Every contact. Every ship he uses. Now that my mother is dead and her precious notebook is at the bottom of the sea, only I know it all. He will stop at nothing to get it all back. N-nothing...’ She crumpled again and buried her head in her hands, rocking herself in the loose cage of his arms while the full extent of her confession sunk in.

  Did she really hold that much power? This tiny, unpredictable, maddening woman? ‘What are you saying, Jess? I thought you w
ere just the messenger?’ They all had. A knowledgeable one who would be eminently useful to their cause, but not the font of all knowledge. The linchpin.

  ‘Oui. That is true. But after the war my mother helped Saint-Aubin build his network. He entrusted her with the organisational details he had no patience for.’

  ‘And since your mother’s death, that notebook and that task was yours?’

  ‘I helped her. I had no choice. When she passed he forced me to continue. He was cruel. Ruthless. And I was...’ Her eyes lifted to lock with his, then immediately dipped as if ashamed suddenly. ‘When the navy came and dragged me to the ship, the opportunity presented itself to destroy that book and all it stood for—and foolishly I took it...’ She dissolved again, disappearing into her hands, leaving Flint reeling. Was she suggesting that Saint-Aubin was too detached from his business? Too focused on raising Napoleon’s new army to concern himself with the details? Surely not—because if she was, then it meant the information she held inside her stubborn and brilliant head was more than damning. It was essential.

  ‘I thought he would hire men to drag me back to France... Ah, mon Dieu! Je suis perdue—c’est la fin! Of course he—he has come here himself! It is all too valuable. He doesn’t trust another soul to hear it!’

  And only she knew it all.

  The gravity of the situation made the carriage suddenly oppressive. Jess was the solution. With her testimony, they could crush the entire smuggling ring to dust in one fell swoop.

  Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as she stared up at him beseechingly. ‘Promise me—if he finds me—I beg you, Monsieur Flint...kill me! Kill me before Saint-Aubin gets his hands on me!’

  In that moment, Flint had an epiphany. She wasn’t desperate to escape in order to get back to France. Jess was running away from it.

  For her life.

  The rag-tag group of opportunist kidnappers the King’s Elite had been expecting were more likely to be an organised battalion of criminals fighting for their lives, too. Powerful men with powerful connections and the resources to enact a devastating revenge rather than hang for treason themselves. They needed an entire legion of soldiers armed with cannons, not fifty of Lord Fennimore’s finest!

  There was so much more he still needed to understand. Gaps in his knowledge that would take hours to fill and get straight. So many moving parts and details he would need to prise out of her, the full extent of her treachery for which she would still need to answer. But if what she was saying was true—and God help him, but he believed her—then the woman they were stupidly using as bait was the miracle they had been waiting for. The weapon to bring down the whole of the Boss’s vast and devastating smuggling ring. And they had made her a sitting duck. His first priority now had to be to undo the damage before it was too late. The second they left Plymouth and hit the open road...

  His fist pummelled the ceiling of the coach. ‘Turn around! Take us back to the inn as quick as you can!’

  She flinched, betrayal etched on her lovely features as the carriage instantly veered at speed. ‘You said you would help me!’

  His finger touched her lips again while his other hand cupped her cheek tenderly, willing her to understand he had meant what he’d said. ‘I know. He’s there. But so are some of my men. If we stay on the road...’ Flint didn’t want to think about the awful possibilities. ‘Back at the inn you’ll be secure in the short term while I figure out a way to get you out safely.’ Where he could draft in the Excise Men and every Royal Navy sailor docked in Plymouth to guard her and her valuable secrets.

  * * *

  The next ten minutes were the most fraught of Jess’s life. The carriage sped back to the inn, turning sharply to enter the courtyard while Gray bellowed. In response, men came from every direction, pistols raised, though not at them. They surrounded the carriage, looking out, while Gray poked his head in and Flint issued a stream of orders. Jess couldn’t help peering out of the window, but the glossy carriage carrying Saint-Aubin was nowhere to be seen.

  Using his body as a shield once more, Flint rushed her inside with the small army of armed men ringing them. She was ushered briskly back to the solitary bedchamber at the very top of the inn again, only this time the door remained blessedly open and the small landing and narrow staircase were crammed full of guards.

  ‘I’ll be back.’ He squeezed her hand reassuringly, then did something incomprehensible. He pressed his own pistol into it. ‘Just in case.’ And then he was gone, pushing past his men and disappearing back downstairs, leaving her all alone but oddly touched.

  He must believe her. He must see something worth saving.

  For the first time in for ever Jess wasn’t all alone.

  Beneath the floor, she heard the disgruntled sounds of the patrons and staff being evacuated as his men commandeered the inn. Doors opened and slammed and furniture moved as every guest room was thoroughly searched. When the all clear was shouted, Jess finally breathed. Then promptly stopped when at least twenty horses galloped into the courtyard. As none of her guards appeared perturbed by this, she went to the window and sagged in relief when she saw Flint directing a stream of reinforcements. He was clearly in charge, yet not one of his men wore a uniform. Farmers, ostlers, the man who swept the bar, the bare-knuckle driver who had sat atop the carriage, even Gray—all of them snapped to attention at the sound of Flint’s voice.

  The frenzied activity was followed by an eerie calm. When it should have been the busiest part of the day, the inn stood silent. No longer an inn, more a fortress. Despite everything, Jess began to feel safer. Someone brought her tea. She sat on the bed to drink it. As soon as she had finished, she kept her finger on the trigger and simply stared at the open door, waiting.

  Chapter Ten

  By late afternoon, Jess found herself dressed in rags, her face smeared in soot and her hair pinned tightly to her head and hidden under a boy’s peaked cap. Gray had personally issued her the disguise a few minutes before and administered the soot himself, but had yet to explain why she was wearing it. Apparently, the fewer people who saw her transformation, the better. The bedchamber door was now firmly shut.

  ‘Do you not trust your own men?’ A worrying thought, especially as she had trustingly lain the pistol down to change and had not seen it since.

  ‘With my life, mademoiselle, but if one of them is captured and tortured this is the only way we can all be certain they won’t confess what they know.’ At her sharp intake of breath, he shook his head, but his normally cheeky smile had vanished. ‘Hopefully, I’m being pessimistic, something I am prone to in moments of stress. The truth is they’ll all feel better knowing nothing and it is the usual way we do things.’

  ‘I know nothing and I don’t feel particularly good about it.’

  ‘Flint will explain.’ He tidied up the cloth he’d been using to dirty her face and stuffed it in the sturdy large box he had brought in with him. ‘It’s his plan.’

  She would have probed more, but it sounded as if an army was marching outside. Many boots thudded in unison and seemed to be headed to the inn. Taking her lead from Gray, Jess tried not to feel disturbed.

  ‘The cavalry’s here. Or, in this case, the Royal Marines. A few Excise Men and there might be some navy there, too.’ Motioning for her to stay back from the window, Gray looked out and smiled in relief. ‘There’s at least seventy uniforms down there. Not a bad effort for such short notice, but one of the few benefits of being here in Plymouth. There’s barracks aplenty. Flint wanted to put on a show. I dare say they’ve scared off Saint-Aubin for the moment.’

  ‘Are they to be my escort?’

  ‘No. I am.’ Lord Flint strode through the door and closed it behind him. ‘They are a decoy.’ He pulled at his cravat and shrugged out of his coat, then began to briskly unbutton his waistcoat, while Jess tried to concentrate on the ramifications of his words. Not easy to do when
it was obvious he was undressing.

  ‘But there are about a hundred armed men down there. Surely some of them will be accompanying us to London?’

  ‘We’re travelling alone.’ He gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. Instantly her silly pulse fluttered as she drank in the sight of his broad chest. The perfectly formed muscles on his arms and shoulders. The intriguing dusting of dark golden hair that arrowed downwards and disappeared beneath the waistband of his snug breeches. Breeches that hugged a very pleasing behind. Mon Dieu! Very nice indeed.

  Gray tossed him a dingy garment and he effortlessly caught it in one hand. ‘We’ll continue to head west out of Plymouth, but with some skilful misdirection, Saint-Aubin and his henchmen will believe you are headed east.’

  The magnificent chest disappeared under the tatty, long, grey shirt and to her shame she mourned the loss of it. Why should she feel bad for that? Jess had promised herself to fully enjoy all of life’s tiny pleasures going forward and the sight of that handsome man’s chest was wholly pleasurable. As long as he had no idea that it affected her, what was the harm of looking her fill? ‘Are they going to march all the way t-to...London?’ Mon Dieu! He had dropped his breeches with no warning. Toned, golden legs were clearly visible beneath the irritatingly long shirt which hung to mid-thigh. Where was a gentle breeze when you needed one? The needy woman inside her was desperate to feast her eyes on that derrière. Gray’s knowing smirk suggested he suspected she was drooling, so Jess tore her gaze away and forced herself to wander back to the bed to sit in a manner she prayed made her appear nonplussed rather than considerably warmer than she had been five minutes before.