The Deepest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  However, past experience demonstrated that Spencer was nothing if not a practical man. “It is not her continued well-being that concerns us, Archer. Let me make that plain.” He was not sending in a knight errant to protect a woman in distress. “Faron is obsessed with Lady Woolcott, a situation which presents us with an opportunity I should not like to miss. We would like nothing more than to flush the Frenchman out. If he is still alive.”

  “He’s dead,” Archer said flatly. “Lord Rushford made sure of it and witnessed his drowning in the Channel off the coast of France.”

  Spencer arched his brows. “So your old friend and colleague maintains. However, no one need tell you of Rushford’s uneven history and divided loyalties.”

  Archer said softly, “I would suggest that you not cast aspersion on Lord Rushford, who has served the Crown admirably for most of his life. And certainly more consistently than I have. If you do not agree”—he flicked a glance at the dossier on the desk—“I shall like nothing more than to take my leave.”

  The mastermind who had catapulted his way to the upper echelons of Whitehall with little more than razor intellect to recommend him wisely changed tactics. “Let’s set aside the subject of Rushford for the moment, then,” Spencer said, all too aware that Archer would leave him in the dust if the mood struck him. As an agent to the Crown, the man sitting across from him was highly effective, if entirely uncontrollable. A ridiculously large fortune, coupled with peripatetic leanings, allowed Archer any number of options. He’d been known to disappear for months sailing into uncharted waters in his sloop, The Brigand. As well as appearing out of thin air to rescue agents of the Crown, including his friend Rushford, from the tightest of spots. His was a daredevil’s temperament that had been effectively, if inconsistently, leveraged on Whitehall’s behalf.

  “Also be aware of Giles Lowther, whom we suspect is still lurking about.” Faron’s shadow was known to execute his master’s wishes to the letter and to a fault. “He’s gone to ground since the Frenchman’s alleged death.”

  “Strange. An Englishman in league with a French peer.”

  “Nothing more than a guttersnipe and petty thief, we’re told, saved from the gallows by Faron himself. And eternally grateful as a result.”

  “A dangerous combination, unthinking loyalty.”

  “Indeed. He was behind most of Faron’s maniacal assignments, the Rosetta stone only one of many.”

  “All very interesting, Spencer, but I don’t recall agreeing to take this on.”

  “We are simply asking you to keep Lady Woolcott well within your sights.”

  Archer asked abruptly, “Why me?”

  Spencer shrugged. “You met at her ward’s marriage to Rushford. So it would not appear suspicious to her or anyone else if you were to seek her company from time to time in the more exotic climes you seem to favor.”

  “To what end?” he asked abruptly, chiding himself for asking when the answer was obvious.

  “No need to be disingenuous, Archer.” Spencer folded his hands on the top of the highly polished desk. “We use Lady Woolcott as the draw. To get to Faron, if he still lives.”

  “Even if he gets to Lady Woolcott first,” Archer said, suddenly uncomfortable. He rose from the chair.

  Spencer’s smile was serene. “Precisely.”

  Now in the cooling heat of the desert air, Archer watched the retreating figure of Lady Woolcott, her long strides outstripping the pace of her Arab guide. He stared hard, taking in her bright hair and supple figure before he glanced down, realizing that he was still holding the silver flask. He tossed back more of the water, the taste metallic.

  Despite his height and muscled breadth, he had learned to move silently as a shadow. He edged out from behind the low wall to follow the two figures approaching the mounts waiting for them under the sycamore trees to the south of the fortress. Lady Woolcott untied a bonnet from her saddle, along with a leather flagon. Filling a cupped hand with water, she offered both horses a drink, her movements graceful and assured.

  Once again he found it difficult to drag his eyes away. He was getting too old for this. A sudden rush of air announced the flight of a dark raven and broke his focus. The glistening black wings streaked against the sky, but Archer was already searching the horizon, every instinct on the alert. He took the pistol from his belt, the barrel glinting as the sun caught it and danced along its polished surface.

  The Egyptian guide swung up on his mount just as Archer heard the clattering of hooves pounding in the dust.

  Meredith stared wide-eyed at the three robed men looking down at her from horseback. Hawks looking for carrion. Her breath caught in her throat, her lips trying to form Murad’s name. But her guide had disappeared, along with his horse, in a cloud of dust. One of the men urged his mount forward, close enough that she could see the curve of a pistol gripped in his right hand. As long as she held his gaze, he wouldn’t shoot, she thought illogically. He was savoring the moment, looking down upon her.

  The afternoon sun threw a strange light over the trio, casting shadows in odd places, making it impossible to see beyond the slits in the fabric over their heads that revealed obsidian eyes and little else. The customary fear that had been her companion for too long seized her chest like an old familiar. Despite the dry heat, she felt suddenly damp inside her clothes, the voluminous fabric of her trousers clinging to her legs, a trickle of sweat meandering down the length of her spine.

  The man with the pistol barked a word in Arabic that she couldn’t understand, intended for the men at his side. Meredith thought she detected a smile beneath the fabric that obscured his lips and chin. “You are not afraid?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm as his tongue wrapped around the English words.

  “Afraid?” Meredith felt the warmth of her mount at her back, giving her false courage.

  He didn’t respond except to indicate with the pistol that she should move. When she failed to comply, she watched as one of the men maneuvered behind her, tethering her horse to his own saddle.

  Even if she managed to escape, where could she go on foot? Meredith felt the fear in her chest harden as she willed the world around her to return to normal. But what was normal? The few months that had seemed to her a liberation already felt like a dream. She lifted her head higher, willing that world to continue. Her hands clenched at her sides and her breath clawed at her throat. Where was Murad? He’d been right beside her ... but here she was now alone. Her heart hardened.

  “You clearly have the wrong woman, sir. But if it is money you wish—” She gestured to the horse’s saddle with an arm that already felt like someone else’s.

  He shook his head and motioned again with the pistol, urging his horse closer, a dull anger radiating from him like a banked fire.

  Meredith placed one hand on her waist, as though to steady herself. It was not impossible to reach into her trousers, down in the pocket that rode against her hip. Her own pistol waited there, loaded, ready to use. She was not a novice, her aim practiced from skeet shooting on the grounds of Montfort under Mclean’s watchful eye. “If you would give me a moment, I may actually have some sterling at hand.”

  He slid from his horse and closed the space between them with one stride, lowering his pistol as he took hold of her arm with his free hand. The men behind him moved their mounts closer until they surrounded her, all but blocking out the late-afternoon sunlight, the heavy air redolent of sweat and exotic oils.

  “If it’s not money that you want—” she tried again. His grip tightened, fingers digging into her, pressing down on the bone. She held her breath, refusing to wince.

  He shook his head. “No, madam. It is not money that we want.”

  Meredith went cold. This was not happenstance, that they had come upon a lone woman in an abandoned fort, deserted by her guide. She did not believe in coincidence, never had. These three men surrounded her with intent. Montagu Faron. The name pulsed in time with her heart. Why did everything in her life coil back t
o that man who was now dead, carried away by the Channel’s currents months ago?

  “See here,” she said, her voice deliberately low. Immediately, he dropped her arm and pushed against her, hard enough to send her to the ground. Her head cracked against an unforgiving knot of rock, her vision blurring and then swimming as the sunlight danced overhead. She was in a sprawl on her back, her hair tumbling around her shoulders.

  Her face was hot, inflamed beyond the heat of the day. Digging her nails into the sand, she tried to ignore the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth. Struggling to rise, she slid her hand under her leg and close to the pocket of her trousers. Her assailant bent over her again, the cotton of his robes fluttering before her vision. Meredith scuttled backwards like a crab, lashing out with one foot, missing her target entirely. The man seized her ankle, his hard fingers like manacles against her skin and bone.

  Her head hit the stone again. Her vision melted away just as her ankle was released and she heard the staccato shots of gunfire.

  Chapter 2

  Meredith Woolcott lay still on the ground, enveloped by a screen of dust left in the wake of horses’ hooves. Two of the assailants galloped away from the fort and Archer wagered he’d clipped at least one of them. He could have killed both, but that was not his intent, despite the fact he hated loose ends unless they could be tied up in an eventual knot. The men were more useful to him alive, and he would get to them eventually, he thought idly.

  He did not feel particularly generous toward the bastard releasing his hold on Meredith Woolcott’s slender ankle. In a blur of movement, Archer grabbed the man from behind, neatly wrenching the pistol from his grasp before hurling him to the other side of the sycamores, where he landed with a grunt followed by silence.

  Her face streaked with sand, Meredith was shaken but alive. Fury combined with fear etched her features as she tried to stand, swaying on her feet. Archer made a move towards her, but she held up a palm to stop him. Her eyes flashed with recognition and then widened, her gaze swinging from his toward the copse of trees. “He has another one ... a pistol... .” she said on a ragged breath, pointing towards the tree where her assailant lay tangled in his robes with a weapon still clenched in his hand, his arm raised.

  Archer shook his head, anger flushing through him, blood rushing past his ears. He flexed his hands, imagining them around the other man’s neck. This rage was unusual for him, he thought somewhere in the back of his mind, as though witnessing the scene from a distance. He watched as the man’s arm straightened, the gun steadied. His own arm followed suit, his unerring aim fixed on the target lying beneath the sycamores, coiled like a snake ready to strike.

  The crack of a shot broke the silence. The man crumpled without a sound, simply folding in upon himself, the loose fabric of his robes fluttering out, settling around him like a shroud. Archer turned to Meredith, who stood stiffly in the heat, a smoking pistol in her hand and her gray eyes blazing.

  “You may put away your weapon now, Lord Archer,” she said in that low voice that he could not have forgotten if he’d tried. She was breathing hard but there was little else to indicate her distress. Taking a last look in the direction of the sycamores, she bent over to straighten a fallen stocking, then bundled the tumble of her hair back into its knot, all with the pistol still gripped in her hand. Unorthodox though it was, Archer had never seen a more feminine sight. Her masculine garb was unable to disguise the swell of her breasts and gentle flare of her hips, the slender ankles just below the hems of her trousers.

  Her eyes met his and despite the recent events, she didn’t appear pleased to see him. “Don’t look at me like that, my lord,” she said, tense as a feral cat, her animosity towards him seemingly unabated. “I have never killed a man before, but I refuse to dissolve into a heap now that the deed is done.”

  Archer inclined his head, ever so slightly. “Lady Woolcott. I wish the circumstances were different.”

  “Hardly,” she said, “or we’d both be lying dead.”

  Archer smothered a grin. Lady Woolcott glanced briefly toward the ruins, her expression guarded. “Why are you here?” she asked, suspicion in her voice. “I shouldn’t think that moldering ruins would hold any interest for you.”

  “In turn, I shouldn’t think you know enough about me to judge, Lady Woolcott. Besides which, you are pale and we should return to the fort, where we may renew our acquaintance, rather than standing here ...” He closed the distance between them, taking her by the elbow, his eyes on the horizon, which seemed to stretch towards infinity.

  “Out in the open, you mean,” she finished with her usual directness. Given their proximity Archer did his best to keep his gaze from locking on her mouth. He hadn’t forgotten that she was so tall he would have to do no more than bend his head to kiss her, the plumpness of that full lower lip of hers beckoning him, even in the heightened circumstances in which they found themselves.

  She didn’t move away, but looked pointedly at his waist. “If it isn’t too much to ask, I am positively parched... .”

  Archer kept his expression neutral as he handed her the flask. Outrageous was what she was. She’d been attacked, had killed a man and now found herself alone with a near stranger in a colonial outpost. Yet she stood next to him with the assurance of a seasoned general. She tucked the pistol into her trousers before taking the flask. Her fingers brushed his, and his body tightened with anticipation, the heavy air around them thickening in the heat.

  “I expect you will explain what you are doing here,” she said, taking a drink. It was a demand, not a question.

  “There’s not much to explain,” he said shortly, releasing her elbow, making a bid to mask both his annoyance and attraction. He shifted his weight to his other leg, ruthlessly ignoring the way her presence pulled at him. It was positively risible that he found himself aroused in the presence of this woman.

  “Indeed,” she acknowledged while taking another drink with her eyes closed. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a small smile, relief perhaps, flickering across her lips. Most women of her class and background were studies in comportment, stiff and rigid or deliberately louche, every movement designed to attract and ensnare. Meredith Woolcott was something else altogether, although Archer couldn’t decide what at the moment.

  She turned and walked away from him, taking first small steps and then longer strides, testing her resilience. Glancing at the still body beneath the sycamores, she took another short drink from the silver flask, then strolled back to Archer, her shoulders straightening beneath her riding jacket. Light and shadow played across her skin, the clean line of her collarbones and the hollow of the throat.

  Archer made a mental review of all the women he’d known over the years. He was nearing his fourth decade, yet it had been all he could do not to make a fool of himself since he’d first met Lady Woolcott at Montfort. He’d expected a woman of a certain age, if not precisely a dowager, but not this amazon, with her long legs and hair lit by fire and a gaze that refused to look away. He’d tried to charm her at the wedding, at least in the manner he was accustomed to using with women, but it obviously had not worked. Flattery had utterly failed to win her. He’d tried on numerous occasions, in the small medieval chapel, in the banquet hall, in the library with its roaring hearth, to inveigle her in conversation. And all to no avail. He remembered the wedding supper, an ocean of silver and china separating them, his wineglass emptying and refilling as if by magic while he tasted not one drop. He had heard her laugh, low and throaty, drawing the entire table’s attention to her. Her dress had been plain and unadorned gray velvet with long, tight sleeves, not designed to call attention, unlike the woman herself. He’d narrowed his eyes, glancing quickly down the gleaming expanse before forcing his attention back to his dinner. And she hadn’t come near him, hadn’t so much as looked his way that he could tell. As they had passed in the long corridor to the salon for after-dinner drinks, her eyes had met his only once and raked him with cool disr
egard. He would have preferred annoyance.

  Her head high, she had passed him with Julia and Rowena on each arm, her glow incandescent as she bent toward her young wards, in whom she had invested everything she had. She had nearly lost them to Faron and then won them back in a twist of fate. Archer had learned from Rushford and Rowena that the specter of loss had taken almost everything from her.

  But it had also brought her here, to the desert, which now began to pulse with the oncoming darkness, the sky purpling like a bruise. Meredith pushed back the hair from her forehead, arching her neck, easing the tension from her muscles. There were far more beautiful women, Archer reminded himself, surveying the boldness of her features, the mouth that was too wide and the cheekbones too sharp, the body a juxtaposition of angles and curves. He took a breath of the rapidly cooling air, then let it out slowly, his gaze roaming over her. No, not a classic society beauty, but striking in the manner of a Greek goddess, elegant and strong, with an allure just as dangerous.

  The woman made his brain misfire. All he could think of was how it would be to kiss her. To drag her back to the fortress and take her up against a wall, to engender a response to his own desire and watch it catch fire in those cool gray eyes of hers. She was, after all, hardly the spinster she played at, he thought uncharitably. Faron’s former lover.

  She took another long draught from the flask, swallowing slowly. She sighed and bit her lower lip, thinking, collecting herself. Her eyes were shadowed, almost vacant.

  Breaking the silence, he said, “It’s getting cooler quickly. As happens in the desert when the sun goes down.”

  She looked up and smiled, not so much at him but at something else, somewhere in the far distance. That curve of her lips was not for him, although it had ensnared him months ago, at Montfort, when she’d bestowed it so brilliantly upon Rowena and Rushford, paired as man and wife at the simple chapel altar. The smile was a rarity and he knew then that he would have done anything to see it again.