by Adele Clee
"Are you comfortable?" Tristan asked gazing up into her dazzling blue eyes.
"I am now. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Wells."
She gave another one of her precious smiles, and Marcus groaned inwardly.
Feeling something he could only define as irritation, Marcus edged his horse forward. "I'll meet you back at the monastery." He dug his heels in, didn't bother to wait for a reply and cantered away without a nod or a word.
It was rude of him.
He should have waited.
But damn it all, he didn't like the sense of vulnerability he felt in her presence.
Tristan would watch over their guest. He would keep Miss Sinclair company with his witty quips, pristine clothes and fine noble features. Marcus had more important things to attend to. He needed to alert Coombes as soon as the smugglers prepared to set sail. Either the revenue ship would capture them off the coast and seize the contraband or his man from the Custom House would be ready as soon as they landed on English soil.
Upon his return to the monastery, Marcus stabled his horse and marched towards the chapter house. When the time was right, Lenard's men would move quickly. Marcus needed to be ready, and so he sat behind his desk with the intention of writing a letter to Coombes.
As he scrawled his missive, his attention was drawn to the eerie silence pervading the room. Ironically, he found it far too distracting.
He glanced at the clock on the mantle. Tristan and Miss Sinclair should have been back by now. Perhaps they had decided to stop and admire the scenery or wander down to the coastline to paddle their toes in the ice-cold water. He imagined her screaming and laughing as the waves chased her heels. Resentment roused its ugly head again, goading his mind to conjure a whole host of illicit images.
Jumping out of the chair as though the thing had caught fire, he brushed his hand through his hair.
Bloody hell.
He would punch Dane firmly in his gut when he saw him next. Never in his life had he experienced such inner turmoil.
Part of him wanted to put the delectable Miss Sinclair on the next ship back to England. Part of him wanted to cover her sweet body with his and forget the rest of the world existed.
Striding from the chapter house and through the garth, he made his way out of the door on the west side and scoured the lush green landscape.
Damn it. He would have to go back and search for them. By God, if he found them happily at their leisure he would unleash the Devil's wrath on the pair of them.
Pacing back and forth for a few minutes, he decided to walk as far as the gate. When he reached the gate, he decided to walk for another five minutes. That's all the time he would give them.
As he strode along the dusty road, mumbling and cursing at his own stupidity, he spotted their horses. Breaking into a jog, he raced down to the grassy verge to find Miss Sinclair sitting on the ground, leaning back against a tree. With her face white and ashen he knew something was wrong.
"What the hell happened?" He struggled to hide the panic in his voice.
"I … I came off my horse," Miss Sinclair said, wincing as she tried to move her leg.
Guilt stabbed a sharp spear into his chest.
"We were trying to keep pace with you," Tristan said, his tone revealing his reproof.
Marcus knelt down beside her, torn between wanting to pat her legs and being too damn scared to touch her. "Is anything broken?"
"No." She shook her head. "I'm just a little bruised. It's my fault. I haven't ridden in years and should not have pushed myself so hard."
Marcus sighed. It was his fault for listening to the jealous jibes of his inner voice. "I should have waited. I'm sorry."
Even Tristan's eyes widened at the sound of his apology. And by God, his friend would take great pleasure in teasing him for it later.
"Can you stand?" Marcus asked showing genuine concern.
"I don't know." She shuffled forward a touch. "Could you lend me your arm for a moment?"
"Of course. Tristan, take Miss Sinclair's other arm." When his friend made no reply, Marcus glanced back over his shoulder to find Tristan examining her saddle. "Tristan!"
"Sorry, what did you want me to do?"
"Can you take one arm and I'll take the other. We'll support her weight until we know for certain nothing is broken."
Tristan nodded and came to stand at Miss Sinclair's right side. With them both kneeling beside her, she draped her arms around their shoulders as Marcus slid his other arm around her waist.
"On the count of three?" Tristan suggested.
Marcus nodded, and they lifted her up to her feet.
"It's my right leg," she said hopping as she attempted to place her foot flat on the ground. "I'm certain it's not broken. It just feels a little tender that's all. See, I can hobble on it."
"Still, it's best not to take any chances." Marcus jerked his head towards the horses. "Tristan, if you lead the horses back, I'll carry Miss Sinclair."
"Carry me?" she gasped. "No, no, it won't be necessary. I can manage."
Marcus did not give her another chance to argue. As Tristan stepped away, he hauled Miss Sinclair up into his arms despite her squeal of protest, taking care not to hold her right leg as he did so.
As soon as he'd done it, he knew it was a mistake. Left with no choice but to wrap her arms around his neck, she pressed her supple body into his, and it took a tremendous amount of effort not to groan. Tristan seemed oblivious to his predicament as he took the reins and led the way back.
"You should put me down," she said, her face so close to his that he could feel her breath breeze over him. "I'm too heavy to carry all the way back to the monastery."
"Nonsense." His masculine pride refused to accept her reasoning. "I've carried a man twice your weight two miles or more through terrain far more unstable than this."
Perhaps fearing she might fall from his grasp, she tightened her grip around his neck. "Am I hurting you?"
"No." He was too busy worrying about the burning heat racing through his body; he was too busy imagining a scene where he carried her up to his bed. "But you don't have to hold me so tight. I'm not going to drop you."
When they came upon the old rusty gate, he breathed a sigh.
As soon as they'd crossed the bridge, Tristan stopped. "I'll take the horses round. But when you've got a moment, can I speak to you in the stables?"
"I'll help Miss Sinclair to her room and then I'll be right down."
Tristan's brusque tone disturbed him. Perhaps his friend intended to berate him for leaving them behind. Perhaps he wanted to confess to there being more to his relationship with Anna Sinclair than simply friends.
"You don't need to carry me upstairs," Miss Sinclair said as they stopped at the bottom step. I need to use my leg else it will only pain me all the more."
The woman's words were logical, and besides, carrying her to her chamber filled his head with thoughts of seduction.
"I'll put you down. Keep one arm around me for support until you feel ready to stand on your own."
She nodded, wincing as she anticipated the movement causing some pain.
"It's not as bad as I thought," she said placing her foot on the floor, "although I'll probably have an ugly purple bruise on my thigh."
Marcus closed his eyes briefly and inhaled. Why did she have to mention her thigh? An image of him examining the bruise while her lithe leg hung over his bare shoulder, burst into his mind.
"How … how did you come to fall?" He coughed to clear his throat as his voice sounded strained.
"I don't know. We were riding rather fast." She managed to climb the next step with a little more ease. "And then I just slipped from the saddle."
By the time they reached the top, she could walk without support. He opened the door to her chamber and stepped back to allow her to enter. "When Selene returns I'll get her to make a poultice to help reduce any bruising. Do you need any help getting into bed?"
"No." As she shook
her head, her blue eyes flashed with a mild look of panic. "And thank you for your help. I think I'll walk around the room for a while to ease the stiffness."
Marcus would need to walk five miles or more to reduce the stiffness in a certain part of his anatomy. He inclined his head. "If you need anything, I shall be downstairs."
She smiled, and his heart lurched. "Thank you, Mr. Danbury."
Tristan was waiting for him in the stable, sitting on a wooden crate and staring at the floor. He looked up and jumped to his feet as Marcus entered.
"Look, I know what you're going to say," Marcus began, "and you're right. I should not have ridden off like that. I should have done the gentlemanly thing and waited."
Tristan snorted. "Since when have you been known to do the gentlemanly thing?" He strode over to Miss Sinclair's horse and ran his hand down over the girth strap. "But here, you need to see this."
Marcus walked over to examine the tack. Where the strap ran under the barrel of the horse's chest, the leather had split. The two pieces were only held together by the line of stitching on the outer edge. "It looks as though it's been cut through with a knife or a similarly sharp object."
"That is my theory," Tristan replied. "But why not cut through the whole strap?"
Marcus put his hands on the saddle and tested the manoeuvrability. "Because we would have noticed the strap hanging loose. This way the saddle is stable enough to sit on but unstable when riding at speed."
Tristan shook his head. "It still doesn't make any sense. Do you think the culprit knew it was Anna's horse? And if so, what reason would he have for hoping she would fall?"
Marcus drew his hand down his face, massaged his jaw with his thumb and forefinger. "It has to be connected to Lenard. Someone must have overheard our conversation. Perhaps the groom led them to our horses. I'm certain the purpose of the act was merely to frighten us."
"I find it hard to believe Lenard knows of our involvement. Or that he even had time to tamper with the strap." Tristan paused for a moment. "What of this Victor fellow? I assume he's the reason Dane sent Anna here."
"Victor is dead." Marcus refused to reveal he had met his demise by Miss Sinclair's hand. "And I do not believe his accomplice, if such a man exists, is searching for Miss Sinclair."
Tristan shrugged. "So what do you propose we do now?"
"We will tell Miss Sinclair what we suspect and continue with our assignment."
"Tell her? Surely she will only worry."
"She is stronger than you think." Marcus suspected her life with Victor had been far from pleasant. Miss Sinclair was one of the world's survivors. "We will tell her the truth. Dane would not have sent her to us if she was not to be trusted."
Tristan nodded. "I would trust you with my life, Marcus. And I shall trust your decision in this."
Marcus grabbed his friend's shoulder: a masculine gesture of affection. "Miss Sinclair has been sent to us for a reason." Yes, to torture him with her luscious body and kind overtures. To force him to lie awake in bed each night with a throbbing cock and a guilty conscience. "Perhaps she could work with us. After all, she has some skill when it comes to distracting the hearts and minds of men."
Of that he was certain.
Chapter 8
Despite pleading with Mr. Danbury to allow Tristan to accompany him on his nightly reconnaissance, he had insisted on going out alone.
The hollow feeling in Anna's chest, which she attributed to fear, did not subside. After all, someone had deliberately cut through the strap on her saddle. Someone lurked out there in the shadows ready to wreak mischief or exact their revenge. Anna had heard tales of smugglers dragging loose-tongued witnesses from their beds and stringing them up from the highest bough. Whether the mysterious culprit was guilty of smuggling casks of brandy or innocent women from the streets of London remained to be seen.
For once, Tristan's jolly countenance did not alleviate her melancholic mood. Feigning a throbbing ache in her thigh, the bruise being less painful than she had anticipated, Anna went up to her bedchamber to watch from the window until Mr. Danbury returned. If he insisted on going out again tomorrow night, she would demand Tristan went too.
Minutes stretched into hours.
What on earth was he doing out in the darkness?
With her head resting on her arm, she heard the sound of horse's hooves clipping over the bridge before she saw him approach. Whistling a tune as he rode past her window, she scanned his muscular form. He sat straight, not hunched forward or clutching his side. And so, convinced he had not come to any harm, she breathed a sigh and settled into bed.
When she eventually fell asleep, her dreams were plagued by terrifying visions of a brutal sea battle. She fled to the upper deck just as heavy cannon fire hit the wooden boards, splintering them easily upon impact. The floor beneath her tipped, tilting to the right, so she was forced to hold her arms out to steady her balance.
Victor's hideous form appeared through the billowing smoke. The smell of charred wood reminded her of the cheroots he puffed on daily. He strode over to her in his usual pompous way, grasped her chin with his bony fingers and pushed her backwards. She tumbled into the sea, sinking into the icy depths, her long hair fanning out in the water like a peacock's tail feathers, her wide eyes sad and soulless as she clutched at nothing.
Anna woke with a start.
The morning sun streamed in through her window, heralding the start of a new day and an end to the torturous nightmares. Thank goodness she had no mirror in her room as her lids were surely puffy and swollen from lack of sleep.
Throwing on her clothes and washing in the cold water left in the bowl, she made her way downstairs. With the refectory deserted, Anna knew Selene would not be far away.
"Good morning, Selene," Anna said finding the woman making bread in the kitchen. "Did you enjoy the fair?"
Selene's curious gaze drifted over her. "Oui, madame. How is your leg? Did the poultice help?"
"It did," Anna nodded. "Although the smell was rather unpleasant, something akin to rotting leaves and wet grass. But it took the swelling down and now I hardly know the bruise is there."
Selene raised her chin in acknowledgement. "Did you come to eat?" she said turning back to knead the dough.
"Yes. But don't worry. I'll help myself to bread and some of your strawberry preserve."
"No," Selene cried meeting Anna's gaze. "Mr. Danbury will think I am lazy. He will not like guests serving themselves."
"I am hardly a guest," Anna chuckled. "Mr. Danbury has me digging the flower beds until my hands are blistered and sore. I'm sure he won't mind me cutting a slice of bread."
Selene tutted, sighed and turned back to her dough. "Very well. But you must be quick."
Feeling as though she was intruding, Anna hurried about cutting the bread, eager to leave the kitchen. She wondered if Selene knew of her life back in London. Perhaps the woman disapproved of how she'd made her living and used her inexperience with the language to hide her disdain.
If Anna continued to feel uncomfortable in her presence, she would broach the subject.
After eating her breakfast and finishing her chores, she washed her hands and headed out into the garth. She longed to sit and feel the warm rays of the sun touch her cheeks and treasured the hour she spent there every day.
Anna's cheerful smile faded when she spotted Tristan slumped forward on her favourite bench, his head buried in his hands.
"Tristan." She approached with hesitant feet. "Are you well?"
He glanced up, a mop of golden hair hindering his vision. "No, Anna, I am not well at all," he said in a tone as solemn as his countenance.
"Can I get you anything? A tonic, or something cold to drink?"
"There is no cure for what ails me," he replied cryptically.
Anna had never seen him look so distraught. "May I sit or would you prefer I left you alone?"
Tristan straightened, brushed his hair from his brow and shuffled further along the be
nch. "Please sit. Perhaps you will be able to offer words of encouragement, know of a way to soothe my wounds."
"I do not wish to pry." She sat at his side. "But you know you may speak freely to me. You know I would never break a confidence."
"You have been a good friend to me these last weeks, and I am grateful for it. Marcus will need a friend too. Promise me you will take supper with him, that you'll keep him company."
Anna snorted. "You make it sound as though you're leaving."
The drawn-out silence gave weight to her flippant comment.
Tristan swallowed visibly. "I must return to London as a matter of urgency." In a sudden outburst, he jumped up from the bench and swiped the air with his clenched fist. "Damn it all. I vowed never to return. It's all a bloody mess." He glanced at her with sad eyes. "Forgive my rants and curses. But you don't know what this means."
Struggling to follow his train of thought, Anna reached up and grasped his elbow. "Sit down, Tristan." She spoke softly. "Sit down and tell me what troubles you. Tell me what's so awful about going home."
With a heavy sigh, he dropped back into the wooden seat. "It's Isabella," he said, shaking his head, his eyes wide in disbelief.
Anna threaded her arm through his and hugged it. "Is she your sister, a friend or something more?"
"Some would say she is all of those things." He gazed up at the cloudless sky and sighed wearily. "As far as my father was concerned, she was a sister. But I have never seen her as such. She became his ward after losing her parents. And I have loved her for as long as I can remember."
Love existed in varying degrees and depths.
"When you say love, do you mean you love her as a man would a woman?" Anna clarified.
Tristan nodded. "She has claimed my heart and soul. She should have been my wife, but my father forbade it. Now, she is married to another, and I swore I would rather die than bear witness to her betrayal."
