by C. J. Archer
“I’ll kill you,” Barker snapped.
“Not if I kill you first.”
“Is that what those bricks are for? To weigh down my body after you stab me?” It was too dark to see the detail of Barker’s expression but Rafe could hear the bitter sneer in his voice.
“It seems fitting to drown you a second time.” Rafe kept his voice light, but all he felt was heaviness. While Barker hadn’t been a friend like Cole, Orlando, or Hughe, they’d been on missions together. They’d fought alongside each other. They’d killed together. Nothing forges a link between men like living through danger and depending on each other to come out the other side with all limbs and lives intact. Nothing.
Barker had broken that link by threatening to sell the names of Hughe’s guild of assassins to their enemies. Hughe was understandably angry and wanted him stopped in the most permanent way possible. Still, Rafe wished Hughe hadn’t chosen him for the task. He respected Barker. At least, he had. Not anymore.
“I was relieved to learn you hadn’t drowned in Cambridge,” he said.
Barker said nothing and it was too dark to tell what he was thinking. Most likely his face would give nothing away. Barker was like that. Whereas the others in the guild could shut down their emotions when necessary, Barker was winter-cold all of the time. He never joked, never mocked the others about a woman, rarely shared anything about his life outside of the band. He’d mentioned a sister once, and it was to this sister that Rafe had given all his savings upon Barker’s death. Or what should have been Barker’s death.
“I’m sure you were,” Barker said. “As relieved as I am to have you thrusting a blade between my legs.”
“I never wanted you dead.”
“Then why try to kill me in Cambridge?”
“Orders.”
“And you always follow orders,” Barker said. “Hughe has you twisted around his little finger. If he asked you to turn those blades on yourself, you’d do it and not ask why.”
“You’re a fool, Barker. Hughe saved you. He saved all of us. If it wasn’t for him, I’d have gone out of my mind by now or I’d be dead.”
“Saved you? Ha! I didn’t think you such a fool, Fletcher.”
“Whether you like to believe it or not, he saved you too. He saw something redeemable in you when he took you in. And you betrayed him. He has a right to want your head on a pike.”
“A right?” Barker scoffed. “By whose authority? He’s an outlaw, Fletcher. We all are. The law would string us up by our necks in no time if they knew what we’ve done.”
He was right, of course. The authorities wanted to catch them. Some of Rafe’s missions had ended the lives of those very authorities who’d literally gotten away with murder, or worse, because of their powerful positions.
“Go on then,” Barker said. “Kill me here, now. I know you want to.”
Yes, Rafe wanted to. It was the only way out of the mess Barker had created. But no matter how fast Rafe was, Barker was equally fast. Rafe could not kill him without first distracting him.
“You know I’ll go after your sister when I’m done with you,” Rafe said. “An eye for an eye. You hurt the people I care about and I’ll hurt the one person you care for.” The night closed in, smothering the splash of fish and chirps of insects so that the wherry was surrounded by a disorienting silence. Rafe held his breath. He’d gone too far. Not even he would believe such a threat; Barker surely wouldn’t.
“She was a nice girl,” he said casually before Barker could doubt. “What was her name again? Meg? Mary?”
“You’re mistaken,” Barker said in a voice as thick as the windless air. “I care for no one. I also know you gave my sister money, and I can’t see the man who did that going after her for revenge. That’s the problem with you, Fletcher. The problem with all of you—too much conscience. It makes you weak.”
So much for using her as a distraction. Rafe had to keep him talking, had to wait until he let his guard down. “Why are you doing this, Barker? I don’t believe it’s for money. Hughe paid us well.”
“You’re right, it’s not for money. It’s for revenge. As soon as my identity was compromised, Hughe wanted to cut me loose. He wanted to forget about me. So much for the savior you paint him as,” he spat. “He’s not interested in saving anyone except himself. Why do you think he never undertakes any of the missions personally?”
“He can’t. He’s too recognizable. Everyone in England knows Lord Oxley.”
“You’re his tool, Fletcher, nothing more. You do the work Hughe won’t because his head’s stuck too far up his own arse.”
Rafe would have laughed except it was no joking matter. “He had to cut you loose from the guild. With your identity compromised, our enemies would come after you. They find you, they find all of us.”
Barker gave a humorless chuckle. “The amusing thing is, it seems my identity wasn’t compromised after all. No one has tried to arrest me.”
“Not yet, but when the kinsman of your last target saw you, you opened yourself up to the possibility. It’s only a matter of time before he discovers your identity. You need to lay low, Barker, and we had to distance ourselves from you.”
“Bah! He saw my face only. He’ll never link what he saw to my name.”
“Perhaps. So why haven’t you followed through on your threat and sold our names? As far as I know, I’m being pursued for the murder of Walter Gripp only.”
“Because it occurred to me there would be questions about how I came to know of Hughe’s guild of assassins. I would throw suspicion on myself. This way, I am an innocent bystander who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and I get the satisfaction of seeing you truly suffer.”
Rafe wanted to wipe that smugness out of his voice with his fist. “You did do it, didn’t you? You killed Gripp? That’s low, Barker, even for you.”
“He had no wife, no children, no siblings, or parents living. He was a petty-minded man, and not well liked.”
“You think that justifies it? We had more reason than that for every life we took. Much more.” When Barker didn’t respond, Rafe said, “So that is all the reason you’ll give? You have nothing more to add?”
“I do, actually. I want you to know that I’m going to ruin you. All of you. One by one, starting with you of course, since you tried to kill me. I think I’ll end with Hughe. Let him watch his beloved friends fall first.”
A flash of red flared before Rafe’s eyes, not blinding but blanking out a part of him so that all he could think of was silencing Barker’s sneering mouth. Hurting him. His fingers twisted on the knife handle. He could feel his own fingernails digging into his palms but he couldn’t help it, couldn’t control the fierce anger raging inside like a monster. Didn’t want to.
“You do realize killing me won’t set you free,” Barker said. “My witness account has been written down. In the event of my death, it stands.” His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “What a dilemma facing you. What will you do?”
Kill you anyway and worry about the written account later.
“There!” came a shout from the waterstairs on the northern bank. “Treece, they’re on the river!”
Rafe glanced at the men silhouetted on the bank. A foolish mistake.
Barker caught Rafe’s hand and snapped it back. Pain shot through Rafe’s wrist, up his arm, but he held onto the knife.
Then more pain, white hot, ripped through his side. Burning, burrowing deeper. He touched his waist and his hand came away sticky. He registered the twisted smile of satisfaction on Barker’s face, the knife in his hand, and wondered where it had been hidden.
He fought the pain, tried to stay in control, but his side felt like it was on fire and his mind drifted.
Focus.
Lizzy.
He set his feet apart to steady himself in the rocking wherry but then Barker shoved him and Rafe fell into the ink-black water.
CHAPTER 13
It was cold. So bloody cold and w
et, like he was falling through crushed ice. It seeped into Rafe’s bones, wrapped itself around his body, filled him up.
But it was the cold that saved him. It woke him with a jolt. He kicked out, instincts pulling him to the surface. He fought the instincts like he’d fought to survive and swam straight ahead, not down or up, just kept going forward in the freezing blackness. His chest burned. The desire to take a breath was the most painful thing he’d ever experienced. Worse than the pain of his side, which had gone numb.
With his body screaming for air, he finally surfaced. Slowly, carefully, just his nose, mouth, and eyes poking above the water. He sucked in wonderful, delicious air and got his bearings. The reedy bank was surprisingly near and Barker’s wherry far away, farther than he’d hoped. Barker was standing and seemed to be peering into the water. In the distance, someone shouted but it was too far for Rafe to hear the words.
Barker shouted back, “No!” in answer. That meant Rafe was on the opposite bank to Treece and his men. Another blessing. He was out of immediate danger and closer to home. Closer to Lizzy.
He wanted to see her so much, needed to see her. The need overrode everything else, even the ice in his veins. He had to get back to the house.
Lizzy had never felt so powerless. She hated it. It was dark and Rafe still hadn’t returned, but worse than that, she didn’t know where to begin looking for him. He’d not given her any clue as to his route. That didn’t stop her from trying. She wandered around the streets in her disguise, but there was no sign of him, so she returned to the house and waited. Waited and hoped and worried.
What if he did not return?
The thought nibbled at her but she did her best to ignore it. No easy task when there was nothing to do. She’d already cleaned the house from top to bottom. She was contemplating scrubbing the floor again when Rafe stumbled through the back door.
“Rafe!” She caught him but his weight was too much for her and they both landed inelegantly on the kitchen floor, his head in her lap. “You’re wet.” And exhausted and—covered with blood! “Dear lord, you’re hurt! What happened? Where is the wound?”
He answered with a grunt and opened his palm to reveal a small earthen jar and a rolled-up cloth.
She took them. “What are these for?”
He pulled away the tatters of his disguise, red from his blood, to reveal a gash in his side.
Lizzy swallowed her gasp. The wound was puckered but had been washed clean and the bleeding seemed to have stopped, a small mercy.
She touched the skin near the wound and he sucked in air between his teeth. He felt as cold as a lump of ice. “Did Treece do this?” Her voice shook.
“No.”
She didn’t press him for details. That could wait until later. She opened the jar and sniffed the paste. It contained marigold and rosemary and other herbs she couldn’t identify. “Where did you get it?”
Keep him talking, don’t let him fall asleep, or she might not be able to wake him. Talking also kept her mind off the horror and fear creeping insidiously through her, threatening to turn her into a blathering mess. She had to be strong for him, had to take care of him.
“An apothecary…on High Street.” Another shiver racked him—she could feel it through her own body.
“Well he could have helped you warm up before sending you on your way.”
“He…wasn’t there.”
So he’d stolen it. Goodness knows how he’d managed that without making a sound in the condition he was in. She gently applied the paste to the wound. He winced and shivered again but made no sound as she wrapped the bandage around his middle.
Now came the difficult part. “We have to warm you up.”
She added more logs to the fire then fetched the blankets from the bedchambers. The kitchen was already warmer when she returned but Rafe was still pale, still shivering. He lay on the floor, his eyes closed, his arms folded around himself. She helped him to sit, propped him against the wall, and tore the remnants of the wet bodice and shift off and threw them away. They landed with a splat but she had no idea where. She was much too distracted by the sight of Rafe’s bare chest and shoulders to notice or care.
Magnificent.
All those muscles gently undulating across his shoulders and down his arms. Thick and powerful. Smooth, except for the occasional scar. She had a strong urge to trace them with her fingertip, especially the one that disappeared beneath the waistband of the skirt he wore.
Her mouth dried. She licked parched lips.
Rafe’s mouth quirked up on one side. His eyes fluttered closed and his breathing became heavy but regular. “Now for the skirts,” he mumbled.
“Um…” She sounded like a half-wit.
He shivered again and his lips were a dangerous shade of blue. She wrapped one of the blankets around his shoulders, covering up all that lovely skin and much of his lower body. For a moment she just held the blanket there, held him against her, comforting him as he had comforted her many times. It felt so good to be close to him, to feel his life force, to know he was safe, and it took all her strength of will not to kiss him with the sheer, heady rush of relief.
She tore herself away and together they managed to get his skirts off without her seeing more than his muscular calves.
He shuddered again and she forced herself to think of his well-being and not about the way he looked. He lay down and she tucked another blanket around him. “Better?”
“No,” he mumbled, sleepily. “Cold.”
She placed another blanket over him, the last, and went upstairs to fetch the pallet from his bedchamber. She laid it on the floor in the kitchen and helped him onto it. At least the straw would offer some protection from the cool flagstones. But it didn’t seem to be enough. He was still cold to the touch and his body shook uncontrollably.
“We need to get you warm,” she said.
His eyes were closed and he didn’t respond. He was unconscious. It took her all of a moment to decide to remove her clothes, except for her shift, and slip under the blankets alongside him. He was asleep and would likely remain that way well into the morning, giving her enough time to dress before he awoke.
She lay carefully down behind him. His buttocks nestled against her thighs, silky smooth yet firm. Her breasts pressed against his shoulder blades and she circled her arms around him, just above the bandaged wound. A tremor coursed through him and she tightened her hold, soaking up the chill and drawing it into her own body. She was warm enough for both of them. Indeed, heat rolled through her, pooling between her thighs. She pressed her lips to his shoulder and managed to refrain from sinking her teeth into him like she wanted to. He sighed a deep, satisfying sigh, and his muscles unclenched as he relaxed.
Lizzy sleepily nuzzled the back of his damp head and closed her eyes. Her fingers crept down. Just an inch or two past the bandage, locating that scar. The smooth line traversed taut muscle and sinew and disappeared into a thatch of hair where it seemed to stop. What lay below was not affected.
What lay below…
Her fingers reached lower. Lower. And then she felt it. The thick root of his appendage, buried in the wiry hair. She felt along it, marveled at the smoothness, the ridges, and the size. It was bigger than she expected. And getting bigger.
Oh my!
She withdrew her hand to his waist and held her breath. He was still breathing evenly, still unconscious. She buried her face in his neck again and thanked heaven he hadn’t woken, that he didn’t know how much she wanted to touch him down there again. It would be utterly humiliating. Yet she could endure any kind of humiliation now that she had him back, safe and alive. She’d been sick with worry, but he’d come home and all was well again.
Home.
It was not home. The house was a temporary haven from their pursuers, nothing more. But it felt like a home because Rafe had returned. She was going to take care of him until he was well again.
Rafe awoke as dawn cast a golden glow through the kitchen. I
t took a moment before he registered that he was lying on a pallet on the floor, wrapped up in blankets and…Lizzy.
They faced each other, her head cushioned on his upper arm, her eyes closed in deep sleep. She wore only her shift, bunched up to her thighs. Her breasts were squashed into his chest and he silently groaned with the agony of not looking down.
Bloody hell, how was he expected to control himself with her lying almost naked beside him? He was no saint.
He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep to avoid any awkwardness when she awoke. But she didn’t wake.
He tried thinking about his injury. It still ached but no longer throbbed. The paste in the jar labeled WOUND HEAL had worked better than he expected. As long as it didn’t become infected, he wouldn’t be hindered in any way. Lizzy had done a good job of bandaging it and taking care of him. He remembered being bone-cold, which explained why she’d joined him on the pallet in nothing but her shift.
It had worked. He’d warmed up. Indeed, he was on fire. Particularly in the groin. On fire and getting hotter and harder every time she drew breath and her breasts pressed against his chest. The cotton of the shift was so thin it might as well not have been there at all. He could feel every contour of her body, the smooth skin of her bare thighs, the curve of waist and hip, the heat of her—
Christ. So much for not thinking about her.
He opened his eyes but that was equally futile because he found himself staring at her pretty face. She had long, sweeping lashes, fair like her hair, and creamy skin that begged to be nuzzled. She sighed and stretched her head back, exposing her throat. It looked so soft, so warm, he just wanted to bury himself there, kiss her, lick her…
So he did.
A voice in the back of his head told him to stop, to not touch, but it was small and easy to ignore. Besides, Lizzy tasted too good to stop. Like the first strawberries of summer. No, better than that. Strawberries in midwinter. A delicious impossibility that he must devour because he was incapable of doing anything else.
