* * *
Jess’s head was spinning so fast it almost drowned out the sound of the hammering pulse in her head. Each time she looked down, fear paralysed her, yet she had to look down to find Saint-Aubin among the thronging mass of men directly below. She could feel his presence, sense his fury. It did not take long to lock with his icy, malevolent eyes.
He was stood directly below her, staring up with such raw, unadulterated hatred she almost wavered and fled back into the tunnel, but then some sixth sense made her feel Peter close by, feel his love for her, his belief in her innocence, and that gave her all the strength and resolve she needed.
The courtyard fell eerily silent as close to a hundred pairs of eyes all came to rest on her. She could feel Peter’s willing her to look at him and allowed herself one last indulgence, ignoring the desperate plea in his gaze with a tiny shake of her head. He wanted her to save herself. How could she? Not when only she held the key to everyone else’s survival. His survival. Decisively she looked away, leaned out and spoke directly to her tormentor in French.
‘There is a passageway behind me that leads well away from the castle. If you climb up here, I can take you through it to safety. Hurry.’
Saint-Aubin laughed. ‘I am not a fool, Jessamine. Why would I trust you when you have betrayed me?’
‘I didn’t. I wouldn’t dare.’ Jess forced herself to look beaten. ‘I am too frightened of you to betray you. I told them nothing. I swear.’
‘Liar!’
‘They knew about Deal already. It was only a matter of time before they linked him back to the Grubbenvorst. I kept trying to escape. I managed twice to stall them. You know that. You traced me back to the inn at the fishing village.’ And almost beat the poor innkeeper to death. ‘When they discovered you were in Plymouth they brought me here instead of London, thinking they were clever—but I knew you were cleverer and I knew you would come.’
‘You stole from me!’
She shook her head vehemently, allowed the very real fear she felt for Peter to show on her face to allow Saint-Aubin to revel in his perceived power over her, realising at last that now she had something she loved more than her own life he no longer held that power. ‘I had to destroy Mama’s ledger—I knew it would ruin everything if the British got hold of it. But it is all right.’ She tapped her temple. ‘It is all here. I memorised it all. They know none of it, I swear it. Aside from Deal, they know nothing else. But they are not stupid either. A battalion of Royal Marines are due here at any moment...’ She allowed that to sink in, hoping his desire for self-preservation would play into her hands. ‘So we must leave immediately!’
‘Jess, stop!’ Peter pushed through his men at the front, oblivious of the line of guns which suddenly pointed at him. By the look on his face he was going to do something selfless and heroic and she couldn’t let him.
‘I am not your prisoner any more, Monsieur Flint.’ She hoped the love and utter devastation at fate’s cruel joke did not show on her face for all to see. ‘I am no longer your responsibility. Thank God.’
‘I will not let you do this!’
‘Stand down, man! That’s an order.’ Lord Fennimore’s voice came clear from his perch a few feet away, yet so hopelessly out of reach. His eyes darted to Jess’s and she got the distinct impression he understood what she was doing even if she hadn’t fully thought it through herself. ‘I won’t waste a good man for a traitor! We’ll get them, lad. If the Marines don’t get here in time, we’ll get them another day. You’ll still see them both swing.’
But typically, her vexatious protector refused to step back. Jess turned her head to avoid his unwavering stare, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to hide her grief if she allowed herself to see his face. She had memories. Beautiful, precious memories which would sustain her for as long as she was allowed to breathe. That had to be enough.
Saint-Aubin ordered the men surrounding him to aim their guns at Peter and the silent English, then instructed his marksman to climb. Once the man reached Jess’s narrow ledge, he stood behind her, his gun pressed into her neck. Only then did Saint-Aubin begin his assent up the ruined tower, keeping his body carefully within the sheltering confines of the outer wall.
The closer he got, the more the icy tentacles of fear crawled up her spine and suffocated her organs. By the time the gunman stepped aside to allow Saint-Aubin to press his blade into her throat, she was shaking with fear, yet oddly accepting of her fate. At least she could live with herself now, even though her life was destined to be short and painful. Secure in the knowledge that, thanks to her testimony, his days were numbered, too.
‘Be in no doubt you will pay for your defiance once I get you home! But first, I shall allow you to watch that poor, deluded brave Englishman down there die.’
‘No—please! No more killing! I beg you!’
She watched his expression change, his dead eyes amused. ‘You care about him.’
‘I don’t!’ But she knew she had given the truth away.
‘Ki...’ As hard as she could, Jess plunged her teeth into the hand that held the knife. His grip loosened, not enough to escape, but enough to let her turn around to spit in his face.
‘Salaud! Go to hell!’
She braced her hands on his chest, ready to push them both over the edge to protect Peter, when Saint-Aubin reeled backwards in a spray of crimson blood.
* * *
Flint started running the second Hadleigh’s pistol unexpectedly fired, ignoring the hail of bullets Lord Fennimore and his men mercilessly pelted into the remaining startled smugglers in the courtyard. He trampled over their dead and dying bodies, his sword cutting down anyone who dared to be in his way, then he scrambled up the walls towards her, pausing only long enough to check that Warriner’s bullet had killed the sniper.
Oblivious to the new battle being waged below them as Leatham and the rest of the King’s Elite charged the now scattered militiamen towards the drawbridge, he scaled the haphazard ruin to the top like a man possessed. All that mattered was getting to Jess and never letting her go again.
She was sat on the ledge, hugging her knees, her wide eyes staring straight ahead. Flint came to stand next to her, tugging her gently to her feet towards him and gathering her tightly in his arms.
‘Is he dead?’
Flint leaned over to check Saint-Aubin’s twisted, blood-soaked body on the unforgiving flagstones below. ‘Completely.’
‘Does it make me a bad person to be happy he is dead?’
‘Of course not. He had it coming.’ Although he still wished he’d had the pleasure of doing the deed himself. But Hadleigh had gone against his own directive and for that alone he would be in the lawyer’s debt for ever. ‘It’s over, Jess. You are safe now.’
‘I feel a bit dizzy. This tower is very high.’
‘It is, sweetheart. Let’s get you back on the ground, shall we?’
She allowed him to lead her back into the dark tunnel, through the narrow damp passageway, never once letting go of his hand. By the time they arrived back at his bedchamber, Lord Fennimore had reopened the concealed entrance and they emerged blinking into the light and saw a line of concerned faces who were there to greet them.
‘There you are!’ His mother bustled forward, pushing her to sit on the bed, using a handkerchief to dab ineffectually at the cobwebs and dirt marring Jess’s lovely face. ‘I had quite the fright when I realised you weren’t behind us! What were you thinking?’
‘She wasn’t thinking. She was being selfless and typically maddening!’ Just two of the many things he loved about her.
‘He was going to kill you. I couldn’t let that happen.’
‘You didn’t need to risk yourself—we had everything under control.’
‘We didn’t.’ This came from Hadleigh. ‘Your bravery saved us all, my lady. On behalf of his Majesty’s government, I should li
ke to offer our sincerest thanks. We are indebted to you, for both today and for your valuable testimony. I am dropping all charges against you. Something I had already decided upon last night when...’ He paused, then glanced awkwardly at his feet. ‘When new and conclusive evidence was presented to me. Your efforts on England’s behalf today merely cemented my certainty of your innocence.’
Tears gathered in her dark eyes and her voice trembled. ‘I am no longer a prisoner?’ She gazed at Flint for confirmation.
‘You are free to go whenever you want—although I hope you choose to stay. With me. I’ve grown rather accustomed to your presence.’ Unashamedly, he sat next to Jess on the mattress and gathered her into his arms. She happily nuzzled against his chest, her hand resting perfectly over his heart.
‘Oh, he loves you!’ His mother clasped her hands to her bosom and sighed dramatically. ‘All’s well that ends well. I knew he wasn’t arrow proof... Of course I saw it straight away. It was blatantly obvious he adored you the moment he brought you home. I said as much to the girls. He’s so like his father—’
‘The marines are here!’ a voice shouted from the hallway below, interrupting his mother’s effusive ramblings. ‘And they have Gray and the family.’
‘Better late than never—although rather a case of closing the stable door after the horse has bolted. I suppose I should go and see to them. It’s a long march from Plymouth and they are probably hungry. And at least all that bacon won’t go to waste.’ Nothing galvanised his mother quicker than a house full of mouths to feed. ‘Come along, everyone. Poor Jess is exhausted. She needs some hot tea, a warm bath and some sleep. Shoo, the lot of you.’
Unceremoniously, Hadleigh and Lord Fennimore were batted out of the door. Before she closed it behind her she turned back and pierced her son with a glare that could curdle milk. ‘And while I’m on the subject of stable doors, don’t get any funny ideas, Peter. I will be back in less than five minutes. There will be no more tomfoolery before the legalities!’
‘Legalities?’ Jess was staring up at him. ‘But I thought Lord Hadleigh said all charges have been dropped?’
‘She means the wedding. Our wedding. Assuming you’ll have me.’
She relaxed against him, her hand snaking around his waist. ‘Was that a proposal?’
‘A very bad one, but no less heartfelt. Please say yes.’
‘Oui.’ She kissed him, smiling against his mouth and sending him tumbling back on to the mattress surrounded by the glorious riot of her hair. ‘Define tomfoolery.’
‘It can’t be defined.’ He rolled her to lie beneath him, pouring all the love he felt into a kiss that left them both laughing and breathless. ‘But if you’ve got all night, my love, and I can find a way to slip my irritating and interfering mother a sleeping draught, I’ll happily show you.’
‘Non, Monsieur Flint...’ She twisted to reverse their positions, her beautiful hair falling to form an intimate cocoon around their heads. ‘You are not in charge any longer. Show me now. Tout de suite... Mon chéri.’
Her kiss was passionate and earthy and perfect. Just like her. He didn’t need further encouragement to do exactly as she commanded and probably never would. Against her smart, sultry mouth he found himself smiling at the excellent choice his heart had made. Lord save him from troublesome women...
* * *
If you enjoyed this story
don’t miss the first instalment of
The King’s Elite miniseries:
The Mysterious Lord Millcroft
And while you’re waiting for the next book
why not check out Virginia Heath’s
The Wild Warriners miniseries?
A Warriner to Protect Her
A Warriner to Rescue Her
A Warriner to Tempt Her
A Warriner to Seduce Her
Keep reading for an excerpt from A Marriage Deal with the Viscount by Bronwyn Scott.
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A Marriage Deal with the Viscount
by Bronwyn Scott
Chapter One
London—May 1854
Men reveal themselves the most in the least of their actions. In this case, it was the failure to offer a drink. On that omission alone, Conall Everard knew he was going to be refused. He’d learned to look for meaning in the smallest of gestures—or the lack of them. Today, he’d been in the Duke of Cowden’s study for precisely one and a half minutes and he already knew the interview would go poorly. This afternoon, the Duke had not offered him a drink, only a seat in a maroon, Moroccan-leather chair designed for style over comfort, a sign he was fortunate to get an appointment with the Duke at all no matter how short the audience. Longer audiences got more comfortable chairs. It affirmed his earlier assumption of bad news. The Duke was a busy man. Most of tonnish London wanted a moment of the man’s time, a place in his deep pockets or a whisper of his wisdom. This audience had been granted out of remembrance for the Duke’s friendship with Conall’s father rather than any desire to do business with his late friend’s son. Unless...
Unless Conall could change the conversation. The Duke might intend to refuse him, but Conall had persuaded hard hearts before, usually of the feminine variety and usually for business of a different sort, but, none the less, persuasion was persuasion and Conall Everard, the newly inherited Viscount Taunton, was as persuasive as they came. Conall leaned forward, as if he were oblivious to the Duke’s oversight on the drink. ‘I appreciate your time today, your Grace, the alpaca has much to recommend it: the waterproof layering of its wool, even the feel of the wool, which is far softer than our sheep.’
The Duke cut him off with a wave of his hand and the tired sigh of a man much beset. ‘I read the report, Taunton.’
‘Alpacas can be raised in England,’ Conall pushed on, ignoring the pain that still stabbed at him whenever someone called him that. Taunton. The title was his now and with it went the reminder that his beloved father was dead. After a year, he was starting to think he might never recover from the blow. He might not have if it had been up to him. But it wasn’t up to him. Nothing would ever just be about him again. A viscount had to put his family first, his people first, all of whom who were counting on him to make the Viscountcy viable again. He’d had to shelve his grief and shoulder his responsibilities. He could not fail today. ‘Imagine what it would mean, your Grace, if we had direct access to the wool source without the complications of importing.’
‘We know what it would mean.’ Cowden’s p
atience was thin. ‘The board read the report, all seventy-two pages of it.’ The board being the Prometheus Club, a group of wealthy, titled gentlemen with a knack for profitable investments—such a knack, in fact, that a single word from them could make or break an entire venture. A word would be nice, as long as it was the right word, Conall thought. A word would be imperative, even. But today he was here for much more than garnering verbal endorsements. Before words could matter he needed money and a lot of it. Soon. His alpacas were already here. It was a gamble he’d had to take to have them here before the summer shearing. But it had cost him the liquidation of every asset he’d been able to lay his hands on. Now there were no funds to develop the project. What good would the alpaca be to him if he could not buy the mill? He pressed on, ignoring the warning signs from Cowden.
‘Then you already know how immediate access to the wool could reduce costs by having the supply for our mills on our own land.’
The Duke’s greying eyebrows lifted as his gaze flicked to the long wall of windows revealing the outside, no doubt imagining alpacas with their shaggy coats trotting around his immaculate gardens. Conall stopped, recognising his mistake. It was a poor choice of words. ‘Figuratively speaking, of course, your Grace,’ Conall hastily amended. ‘Americans dominate the cotton market at present and, by doing so, they hold us hostage. We have to pay their prices in order to meet our mills’ needs.’ He shook his head. ‘That situation can’t go on for ever. The slavery issue will tear that country apart in a few years, mark my words, and then where will we be? Our supply will be cut off. But if we had alpacas, now that would be real leverage, real control.’
Cowden was not impressed. ‘We have Scottish sheep and we are developing cotton in our other colonies like Egypt. I think we will survive if the American market goes under.’
‘We should strive to do more than survive, your Grace. Alpaca wool is better quality in all ways.’ Warmer and softer, it lacked the itchiness of sheep’s wool. Surely, the Duke saw the benefit in that? Women would go wild for it. It would make beautiful scarves, blankets, and shawls, to say nothing of its practical uses. As a luxury item alone it would command a certain market.
The Uncompromising Lord Flint Page 24
