by Gayle Callen
These accusations had even cost her her brother. They’d never been close, but she’d been certain he would answer her letter, do all within his power as a general in the queen’s army to discover the true criminal. Instead, he must have believed the lies, because he’d never responded.
Her only visitor was the man who’d put her in jail.
Julia looked at the incongruous basket that perched on the cot. She shouldn’t eat anything Sam had brought. He was only appeasing his guilt.
But surely good food shouldn’t go to waste. She removed the cloth spread on top, surveyed the contents appreciatively, and bit into a cake dripping with a sweet glaze. She even licked her dirty fingers when she was done. There was more to eat, but her belly was already growling a warning, so she’d better take her time.
Her mind went immediately back to the things that haunted her. She’d spent her hours in jail fighting the encroaching sense of defeat by trying to figure out who had framed her for such a terrible crime. Who could hate her enough to want to see her executed? But her thoughts had gone around and around, disjointed and confused.
Had her behavior in Afghanistan made her an enemy she didn’t even know about? She had lost more than her inhibitions in that foreign country. She’d forever lost Sam.
In a childhood filled with duty and distance and indifference, her only true friend had been Sam, the gardener’s son, and her escape had been the gardens. He came from a large, loving family she’d envied, had sisters she enjoyed playing with.
But it was Sam himself she’d always been drawn to. Though he was six years older, he’d always treated her with respect and friendship. But then he’d joined the army, followed soon by her brother. Her parents had died of the fever, and she was alone at fourteen years of age with only the servants, soon forgotten by even the villagers.
She had always known she wasn’t like other women. Though she’d lived on a large estate, it had always felt like a prison to her. There had been no one but the servants who pitied her, yet they could not cross the boundary that divided their classes. She grew used to being alone, but gradually the restrictions chafed at her. She’d ridden her horse across streams, through forests that she pretended went on forever. But the end of her family property was as solid as an invisible boundary. She could never go farther, restricted by her age—but mostly because of her gender. Freedom had always called to her, had beckoned to her from across oceans. The globe in their family library had constantly twirled under her hands as she saw the continent her brother traveled, traced with her finger the paths he wandered.
Not that he ever sent letters himself, even then. She was just his sister, a nuisance—a dependent. But he was the key to her freedom, and she focused on him with single-minded determination, hoarding every shilling in pin money and in unused household budget which the sympathetic housekeeper passed on to her.
When she turned eighteen, nothing could stop her. She bought a ticket to the East, and even through a miserably long voyage, her excitement could barely be contained.
When she’d arrived in India, her brother had disapproved, but he hadn’t sent her home. That would have meant sparing time and thought—and money—on her. Instead he made sure she knew she was always a guest, never a part of his household. She’d finally realized that her last hope of belonging to her own family—a real family—would never happen. She gave up that dream, determined to exchange it for the freedom a woman in England never had. And it had seemed to work for many years, years of travel and adventure and new cultures to explore. But even the ability to do as she pleased paled after a while when she had no one to share it with. The price for freedom—loneliness—sometimes grew too much to bear. Her disappointment occasionally made her cross the line of propriety into places she wasn’t proud of.
When Lewis had been recalled to England, she’d tried to look at it as another adventure, the chance to find the companionship that had always eluded her.
With a heavy sigh, she dug into the basket and bit into a flaky meat pie.
Were her present problems punishment for the things she’d done in her past? Had God played the ultimate joke on her, allowing her to draw the notice of the Duke of Kelthorpe, only to see her chance at a family crash about her? Why had she been foolish enough to believe that she wouldn’t have to pay a price for her willfulness? Even if she was proved innocent, the duke could never welcome her again. His abandonment hurt, though she hadn’t loved him. She had no one left to help her—
No one but Sam Sherryngton, who’d disapproved of her in Afghanistan, who’d helped to arrest and imprison her. He might as well be a stranger now. His brown hair had just a touch of red, and she used to imagine he hid a fiery personality. But he’d always been calm and deliberate with her, even when confronted by her misdeeds. His golden brown eyes, which she’d once thought held the secrets of the earth, now betrayed only icy indifference. When he and his fellow spies had captured her, he’d remained in the background, letting Nick Wright lead in her questioning.
The shock of the arrest still hit her like a blow, and knowing Sam believed it all made nausea roil inside her. He’d believed the lies someone had woven about her. He’d helped track her down across England, instead of helping her. She’d spent the past ten days with his face emblazoned in her mind, full of bitterness that he’d rather see her dead than listen to the truth.
She’d been unprepared for the sight of him here in her cell, bearing food, full of questions. There’d been doubt in his eyes. Dare she hope that he would help her? Or did he want her to take him into her confidence so he could betray her?
Sam took out his frustration on Edwin Hume’s door as he pounded on it for a second time. Nothing. Edwin’s horse was in the stable behind the house, and he wasn’t at his favorite tavern across the street. Urgency overtook Sam, making his stomach tighten, making the world around him suddenly sharp and clear. And as usual, he felt the thrill of the hunt.
He stepped behind the shrubbery and peered in the front window, shielding his eyes with his hand. He could see the deserted parlor and a corner of the dining room, and spotted the one inconsistency: a boot on its side, just in the line of his vision in the dining room.
Was there a leg attached?
He walked around the house at a quick pace until he reached the back, facing an alley. The door was ajar and so he slid his pistol from his pocket, cocked the hammer, and slowly stepped inside. The kitchen was a cluttered mess, more with empty liquor bottles than food.
And then through the kitchen door he saw Edwin Hume lying on the dining room floor, unmoving, a wide swath of blood across his chest.
Sam gritted his teeth, holding back his curse. Though he assumed Hume’s assailant was gone, he went through the house quickly, methodically, until he knew he was alone. Then he stood over the body, his mind already sifting through motives and meanings.
Hume gave a soft cough, and Sam dropped to his knees in astonishment.
“Edwin?”
He shook the man’s shoulder, then ripped open his shirt. Just beneath his heart, a hole in his chest oozed blood with every beat of his pulse. Sam pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it over the wound.
“Edwin!” he said with more urgency. “It’s Sam Sherryngton. Open your eyes!”
The man’s eyelids fluttered, but never fully opened.
“Who did this to you?”
Hume coughed again, weaker this time. His lips parted, and Sam leaned over him to catch his words.
“Lewis…Reed…”
Sam stared at the dying man. “Julia’s brother was here? He did this to you?”
With only the barest shake of his head, Hume whispered, “Paid…someone. Just like he…paid me. He’s—” A coughing fit made blood trickle from his mouth. Arching his back with a gasp, he finished with, “—the real traitor. Tell Julia that—tell Julia—”
His body slackened as he died. Swearing, Sam sank back on his heels.
General Lewis Reed? The man
had betrayed and framed his own sister?
Chapter 2
A wave of guilt made Sam close his eyes with regret. Julia was innocent. And he had helped hunt her down and put her in jail. She’d stared at him with wounded, disbelieving eyes as he let them take her away. He hadn’t trusted his instincts, hadn’t given weight to his doubts. Though her outrageous behavior in Afghanistan had opened her up to this kind of trouble, he should have remembered the little girl who’d shared his garden. He’d betrayed her.
A loud pounding rattled the front door until it burst open and slammed against the wall. Sam stood up as two constables entered, dressed in navy coats and top hats.
“You’re too late,” Sam said wearily. “The murderer already escaped.”
But they drew their wood truncheons out of their coats and held them menacingly before him.
“Don’t move,” said the one with the extra stripe on his sleeve. “Kick the pistol away.”
Sam looked down at his own weapon, which he’d surprisingly left on the floor beside Hume. Frowning, he held up both hands. “I’m no threat to you, gentlemen. I’m one of the arresting officers in the treason case this man was a witness for.”
“We know all about you, Sherryngton,” said the other constable, his mustache twitching, his eyes darting to the pistol. “There were rumors that you might want to help the wench, but the chief constable didn’t think you’d go this far.”
“And I didn’t.”
“The blood on your hands says otherwise.”
“I was trying to stop the bleeding, for God’s sake!” Sam was still too astonished to feel truly threatened.
“Maybe you were trying to clean up the evidence against you. Now kick the pistol toward me!”
Sam complied, and as the men watched it skitter toward them, he continued the kick into the one constable’s face, knocking him off his feet. After blocking the blow of the other constable’s truncheon, Sam punched him hard in the stomach and face. When both policemen were unconscious at his feet, he picked up his pistol, feeling his usual calm enveloping him. Keeping behind the draperies, he looked out each window, but could see no reinforcements. He left the house through the back door and mounted his horse, guiding him down the alley, toward the river and the poorer sections of Leeds—and the jail.
Julia was innocent, he thought again with a renewed sense of relief. Sam had spent over a year on the case along with Nick Wright, and they’d both been played by a master—Lewis Reed, a general in the queen’s army, a man who had access to every secret the Russians needed. And he had made sure every damning clue had pointed to Julia. Sam remembered Lewis as a childhood bully, his nemesis—but a traitor?
Sam’s vaunted prowess had deserted him. He’d allowed Julia to be imprisoned for her brother’s crimes. And now that Sam was her only chance at freedom, he was about to be the subject of an intense manhunt.
He wasn’t as worried about the Leeds constabulary as he was about his own ability to prove that Lewis Reed was a traitor while remaining in hiding. Following Lewis’s trail would take time, and Julia didn’t have it. She’d already been bound over for trial, and once the bill of indictment was written, she’d be taken to London—for a swift execution.
Julia was awakened from a troubled sleep by the sound of a key turning in a lock. She opened her eyes, blinking, expecting morning and a meager—though welcome—breakfast, and instead caught a glimpse of the moon between her window bars.
The door gave the softest creak as it slowly opened.
Her body went cold. Had the last of her luck run out? Did the jailer mean to force himself on her after all?
She opened her mouth to scream just as a man’s hand clamped over it. With a wordless cry, she reached up to pull the hand away, and his body blocked her.
“Julia!”
The whisper froze her.
“It’s me—Sam.”
She sagged back with relief and his hand slid away. Though he was a vague shadow, she could see him glance at the door.
Coming up on her elbows, she softly asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you. Don’t I always?”
There was a hint of truth in his sarcastic words that offended her, but then he was pulling her to her feet. She fought to pull away, but he held her too tightly.
“Wait!”
He frowned down at her, and she lowered her voice. She shouldn’t still care about him, but she couldn’t help herself. “You can’t do this! They’ll assume the worst of you.”
“They already do. Now let’s go.”
“But—”
“I’ll explain everything later,” he said impatiently. “Just trust me.”
“Trust you!” she echoed, her voice almost a hiss. “Is this just another attempt to solidify your case? If I escape, I’ll look guilty.”
“The evidence is overwhelming. If you don’t escape, you’ll die.”
She knew he didn’t care that she was innocent—he must not want her blood on his hands. And that was fine by her. In her desperation, she would take even Sam’s help, and then leave him at the first opportunity. Without another word, she crept behind him into the corridor, noticing that the lamps were conveniently dark. She could hear the snores of the other inmates, but not the usual sounds of the jailer and his guards laughing over their nightly card game.
The three guards were sprawled across the front room, their hands and feet bound, and she found herself relieved to see that they all still breathed.
“Did you think I’d killed them?” Sam whispered.
The voice that used to be so kind now sounded flat, cold.
“After everything you’ve done in the last few weeks,” she said, “I could believe anything of you.”
He stared at her with eyes that betrayed no emotion, then turned away. She continued to follow him, stepping over the jailer’s legs. Outside, the air was still heavy with late summer heat, and the moon made her feel strangely vulnerable in the dark shadows of the alley. A horse was tethered nearby, weighted down across his haunches by bulging saddlebags.
She looked around. “Did you plan ahead and bring me a horse?”
“My intentions would have looked a bit obvious. You’ll ride behind me.”
She still heard that undercurrent of anger in his voice. He was risking his life for her, but only with reluctance. She had once thought she knew him well, down to his soul. But she’d been a child then. Years and lives now separated them. He had hunted her down, imprisoned her, and believed the worst of her.
He handed her a cloak, and she wrapped it around herself. After mounting the horse, he reached down for her hand. From the doorstep, she balanced on his boot in the stirrup, then swung her leg over the horse’s back, fitting herself between Sam and the rear of the saddle. Without her layers of petticoats for protection, she felt ridiculous with her legs spread wide, her hips pressed to his backside. He was warmer than the night air, and suddenly she was uneasy about touching him further.
The horse broke into a trot, and she was forced to wrap her arms around Sam or risk a fall. Beneath his coat, his back stretched wide and hard. With her breasts pressed against him, she felt their peaks harden, and hoped he couldn’t feel it. The hard muscles of his stomach clenched beneath her hands.
But he said nothing, only guided the horse down the alley at a brisk pace.
“We need to talk,” she said.
He glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
As she leaned closer, her lips brushed his hair. A spark of electricity seemed to jump between them, and she tried to keep her voice from shaking. What was wrong with her? “We have to talk. You need to know my plans.”
“Your plans?” he called back with obvious disbelief. “You’re under my command now, Julia.”
She stiffened and sat up straighter, wishing she could pull away from him. “I’m not one of your soldiers.”
“If you were, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Before she could protest, he
put a hand on her thigh. “Be quiet. There are people in the streets.”
There would always be certain people who needed the darkness, and now she was one of them.
“I’ve thought of a place we can briefly hide,” he whispered.
She raised herself up and looked over his shoulder. By the light of a dim lantern, she could see the narrowness of the street and the way the houses sagged toward one another, and smell the stench of moldering fish. Beneath the lantern, a door was yanked open, and the laughter of drunken men spilled out. This was a tavern.
Never taking her eyes off the small number of customers gathered outside, she said, “We can’t go in there. I’ll draw too much attention dressed as I am.”
“I don’t know what we’re doing yet. Whatever I have to say, play along with me. And make sure to hide that distinctive hair.”
She didn’t like the sound of this, she thought, pulling her hood forward. The cloak smelled of Sam. Not so long ago, that would have made her feel safe. Not anymore.
Suddenly his hands drifted down her legs, and she felt her skirt slide up. A warm breeze touched her bare calves.
“What are you doing?” she hissed into his ear, wishing she could kick his offending hands away.
Before he could answer, one of the men leaning against the tavern wall suddenly lifted a hand and called a greeting out to them.
Sam pulled on the reins, even as Julia was tempted to kick her heels in the horse’s flanks to escape.
Suddenly, beneath her hands she felt the change in Sam’s posture. He slouched back against her, let his hand come to rest brazenly on her thigh. By the lantern light, she noticed he was wearing a plain, working-class coat and trousers, unobtrusive in this section of town.
Rubbing her leg, he said in a casual, friendly voice, “Well, men, ye know where there’s a tavern with rooms to lend around here? The kind ye don’t need for more than a couple hours? I picked me up somethin’ pretty on me way home.”
Julia felt the shock clear down into the icy pit of her stomach. Surely she could have devised a better plan than pretending to be a prostitute around a bunch of unscrupulous men. But Sam’s hand slid up her thigh, over her skirt, and the tips of his fingers curled beneath her backside. She wanted to squirm away from him, but she remained still, playing her part beneath the lecherous, knowing stares of three strangers.
