Bridget felt herself returning his smile with one of her own. It felt good to allow the resentment and hurt of the past months slip from her shoulders.
It opened her emotions to rather more pressing matters, however.
“Tell me, Charles, why we are fleeing when we should be seeking out The Boss and turning him over to the Home Office?”
“I plan to get you to safety while my men set a trap for The Boss’ network of spies. Once they have news, they will contact me. I have discovered that there is a French intelligence agent within the Home Office. It is not safe for us to remain in contact with the men there.”
“I am confused. If there is a spy within the Home Office, how are you so certain that your ‘men’ will set the traps for The Boss? If you will recall, there was someone—presumably a spy—in my bedchamber this morning. What if that individual puts a halt to the plans to set a trap, leaving the Boss and his men an open opportunity to overtake the Home Office?”
The expression on Charles’ features told her that he had not thought of that possibility.
“Damnation.” He raked a hand through his blackened hair. “You are correct. It is entirely conceivable that the agent in the Castle would ensure that any plan of setting a trap is terminated, or at the very least, sabotaged.”
A wonderful thought occurred to her. Bridget moved to sit up, but quickly thought better of it when a gust of cold air wafted under the wool blanket. “We should set a trap ourselves! I am fully prepared to use my fencing abilities in our defence, and should you teach me to shoot a pistol, I am certain I would warm to it enough to use one for protection—though I would prefer to keep it in a holster, unlike your apparent preference.”
Charles’ eyebrows rose, his eyes widened, and the blood drained from his face at her suggestion.
“I’ve shocked you,” she observed.
Her heart beat excitedly as she thought of the possibility.
“Consider it, Charles! My position as a governess was a deception, and could no more fill the void within me than my visits to the hospital, or befriending persons of ill repute. I truly believe that I can help you succeed in your quest!”
Her stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation. She had been morose for far too long, it was high time that she returned to feeling like herself.
Once the threat to her life was extinguished and The Boss and traitor were captured, Charles would have the comfort of knowing that there was no immediate danger in their being together intimately. She was still angry and had no desire to have her heart broken, but perhaps she could become his mistress.
Excitement wove through her. Charles would observe her skill at fencing and understand that she was fully capable of defending herself should another threat appear. It was the perfect strategy.
Charles recovered from his shock, his mien dark and scowling. Her smile slipped, and her stomach dropped.
He spoke in a deadly undertone. “Bridget, under no circumstances will I allow you to become acquainted with those murderous scoundrels. If you had any notion of how very dangerous those men are, you would not even think such thoughts.”
Chapter 22
Charles shifted his position on the frost-dampened leaves, his gaze scanning the clearing for any movement. Bridget had been sleeping for just over two hours, but her words still filled Charles’ thoughts.
He shook his head and huffed a misty breath of self-derision. How could he not have solved this mess by now? How could he not have seen that the castle was the flame to the proverbial moth? And of course, the mole within his network of spies would do their utmost to hinder his original plans to capture The Boss and the traitor in the Home Office. How could he have been so blind?
Bridget’s suggestion, that the two of them work together to bring down The Boss, nearly caused him failure of the heart. Her skill with her sword may have bested two burly fools who were clearly distracted by her nakedness, but she could most assuredly not out-fence the most skilled of assassins and spies.
Regardless of her skill—or lack thereof—with a sword, Charles would most definitely not allow a repeat of history. His last assignment on the continent had been an unmitigated disaster. This assignment meant all the more to him because not only did he have someone’s life to guard once again, but he also had his heart. His Bridget.
He would follow through with his plan to secret her away in his hidden hunting cabin. Bridget required his protection.
A chill travelled up his spine and gooseflesh bumped his skin as a frigid breeze blew over him. His gaze travelled across the fire to Bridget’s sleeping form. She seemed so delicate in the firelight. A shiver wracked her frame and Charles rose, shifting his pistol from one hand to his other. He walked around the fire to Bridget’s improvised bed and knelt down. Her breath came in quavering gasps and the sounds of her teeth chattering were audible through her closed lips.
“Oh, hell.” His gut twisted uncomfortably. Her lips had a light blue tinge and she was shaking from head to foot.
Without hesitation, Charles placed his pistol on the leaf-covered grass beside Bridget and removed his coat, draping it over her.
His failure to provide enough warmth to the woman he has promised to protect was yet another mark against his adeptness in his profession of late. The years he had spent in the army and his time in reconnaissance work for Wellington had conditioned him for the cold. He had slept many a night in naught but what he wore on his back, and in colder conditions than this. Bridget had never slept in anything but a warm, comfortable bed with a warming pan and a fire blazing nearby.
Charles lifted Bridget’s blanket and slid beneath, pressing himself close behind her, and wrapping an arm around her waist. It took a great amount of restraint to keep his stubborn body from reacting to Bridget’s feminine figure touching his. Now was most definitely an inopportune time to give in to his cravings. Bridget needed the warmth of his body, not his untimely desires.
Bridget’s quaking soon settled and Charles allowed himself to nuzzle his nose into the back of her neck and briefly close his eyes.
* * *
Bridget woke to the rumbling of thunder. She opened her eyes to the predawn light and moved to sit upright, but was unable to. Alarm spread through her chest when she realized that a log had somehow fallen over her in the night.
Another rumble vibrated through her and she turned her head toward the sound.
“Oh, thank goodness!” Bridget released a sigh of relief as she saw Charles’ slumbering form beside her. His leg lay across her hip, and his arm wrapped snugly around her waist.
She carefully slid out from beneath Charles’ limbs. An early morning fog had settled low to the ground, and the chill caught Bridget off guard as she exited the warmth of the blanket. She quickly turned to retrieve her shawl, which had bunched beneath her as she had slept, and wrapped it about her shoulders.
The beautifully crafted cream-coloured shawl had elaborate, swirling burgundy embroidery. She traced a finger along the ridge of the design. It reminded her of a peafowl feather she had seen in a book once, naturally detailed and remarkably beautiful.
She was surprised—and flattered—that Charles had put such thought into purchasing the gifts for her while he was in Spain. But while she would love to admire it in greater detail, she had pressing needs to address.
Bridget traversed the clearing in the light of pre-dawn to where the brilliantly coloured autumn trees grew dense. She ducked in-between the trunks and low-hanging branches of vibrant red, orange, and yellow, and took care of her personal needs.
The sound of trickling water drew her to the stream. She hastily removed her boots and stockings, lifted her skirts, tucking them about her waist, and stepped into the shallow water. Her startled gasp at the sudden chill reverberated through the tall trees around her.
“Bloody hell!” she cursed soundly, her breaths coming rapidly.
While the water was bracing, it was also refreshing. She made quick work of her ablutions, f
or she daren’t tarry. Once she was back on the stream’s bank, Bridget shook free of the icy water droplets and hurriedly righted her attire.
She took her time returning to their makeshift camp, her mind wandering and her gaze scanning the idyllic scenery. Pride might be a sin, but Bridget found she was inordinately proud of herself. Here she was, on a grand adventure, doing things that no proper lady would ever consider, and yet as she’d done them she hadn’t even thought twice.
A smile settled on Bridget’s lips as she strode through the clearing to sit on the cool, damp ground beside their things. She reached into Charles’ saddlebags in search of some cheese and bread. But her hand knocked a wooden box. She wrapped her fingers around it and pulled.
Her mouth dropped open in shock when she realized what it was. It was her box with Charles’ torn letters inside!
With shaking fingers, Bridget unlatched it.
Charles snored, causing Bridget to jump. She quickly snapped the lock shut and placed it back in the saddlebags.
Her heart beat rapidly in her chest. How had Charles found her box of letters? What did he plan to do with them?
She cursed her curiosity as she reached for the box once more, sending a furtive glance in Charles’ direction as she did. The latch undone, she peered inside. What she saw astonished her.
Lifting the lid, she pulled out one full letter and examined it closely. How was this possible? She gazed in shock at the pile of flawless letters. She could not even see where the tears had been! Had Charles repaired them somehow? If so, how had he done it? What reason had he for mending them?
Countless questions flowed through her mind as she ran her fingers over the pages.
She looked through the hazy morning fog to where Charles lay. She hadn’t the faintest notion of what to think. What more did she not know of him? Was this something he was hiding from her, or was it to be a surprise?
Bridget was torn between letting her heart open to him, trusting that his good intentions and kind heart would lead them to a happy future, and closing herself off and protecting herself from further heartache.
Was Charles the kind-hearted, attentive, thoughtful, and passionate man that she sometimes saw in him and remembered from before he left for war, or was he the hardened, secretive, jealous, and demanding man that he more often became?
She returned the letters to the box and placed it in the saddlebags.
Her mind and heart warred within her. Her mind urged her to re-erect her walls, but her heart… The dashed hopeful romantic organ simply wished to be a part of Charles’ life. To be—
Bridget’s thought was cut off as her keen ears unexpectedly heard a distant rumbling—in addition to Charles’ snoring. She tilted her head toward the sound and quickly guessed its source.
Before she truly realized her intent, Bridget had opened her trunk, retrieved her smallsword, and rushed to Charles’ side.
“Charles!” She hissed in his ear. “Charles! Up with you!” She picked up her burgundy sash, quickly looping her sheath onto it, and tied it around her waist. “Charles, for heaven’s sake!” She nudged his side as she slid her smallsword into its sheath at her hip, and his eyes snapped open. “We must leave,” she said tersely. “Now.”
He did not require more encouragement. He threw the cover aside and leapt to his feet.
Bridget bunched the blanket and stuffed it in the saddlebags as he put on his coat and placed his pistol in his pocket.
“They’re coming closer!” The low rumbling grew steadily in volume, lending truth to her words.
Charles took the bags and trunk from her and spread the ashes of their fire with his foot. “Run!”
Bridget picked up her skirts and fled to the trees, her sword bumping her thigh comfortingly. Charles matched her pace, running beside her with their cumbersome belongings weighing his arms.
The ground vibrated beneath her feet and she glanced over her shoulder in time to see the two ruffians from the previous evening, riding into the clearing. Their clothing and skin still bore the marks of her blade. Oh dear. They appeared incensed, indeed.
The tremendous crack of a pistol being fired drew a squeak from Bridget. The bark of a nearby tree splintered.
Charles yelled from beside her, “Weave!”
Of course! The two villains were on horseback. The narrower the route in which she and Charles ran, the more difficult it would be for the men to chase them. And shoot them.
She immediately followed Charles’ lead and wove back and forth between the trees.
She felt as though time itself slowed. Her heart pounded frantically in her chest and her breath came in rapid, billowing puffs. The dried leaves crunched noisily beneath her feet. The tree branches pulled at her skirts, her blouse, shawl, her loose hair, and left thin scrapes on her exposed skin. The gentle slapping of her smallsword against her leg with every step was a constant reminder that she had bested them once before, and could do so again, if only the cowards would dismount.
She sucked in cold air, burning her lungs with each breath. Her joints and muscles ached, but she pushed herself faster.
The men on horseback came closer upon them as each second passed.
Another crack sounded and Bridget ducked her head instinctively.
The heart-wrenching whinny of a horse penetrated her focus. She looked over her shoulder as one horse and rider fell to the forest floor. Oh, the poor horse!
She looked at Charles, who had fired the shot, and saw him attempt to step backwards over a log. He fell hard on his backside.
Bridget stopped in her tracks, her lungs labouring. Her gaze darted back and forth between the one oncoming rider and Charles scrambling to his feet, her heart stuck in her throat.
The rider approached Charles with a gleam of malicious satisfaction in his eyes. He slowed his mount and raised his pistol, aiming it directly at Charles’ chest.
“It is time, Hydra,” the man crowed.
Bridget drew her smallsword and charged. A scream of rage escaped her as she drove the tip of her blade into the scoundrel’s shoulder. The man howled in pain and his pistol fired into the air. Bridget pulled her tip out of his shoulder, staggering backward, as he jumped to the ground.
“Well if it ain’t the pretty li’l miss wot fights like a demon. I’m gonna enjoy this.”
She took several steps back. Oh dear. It would appear that she had merely garnered his full attention.
“Bridget!” Her gaze flicked to Charles’ ashen complexion; the adhesive used to fasten Charles’ false moustache had lost its potency during their flight, for it hung loosely by one corner of his mouth.
She ruthlessly squelched her mirth and turned her attention to the large man advancing toward her.
Be brave, Bridget. You have bested this man before. You can do it again! Think of all that Oliver has taught you.
A smile of confidence broke across her face as she entered the en garde position.
Chapter 23
Charles watched, with his stomach in knots, as the rogue approached Bridget. He could not let her be hurt!
He swiftly rounded the villain’s horse, but before he could acquire the man’s attention, the snap of a stick sounded behind him.
Charles whirled in time to see a meaty fist as it connected with his jaw. He reeled backwards, his feet stumbling. He took a few steps back, quickly righting himself. His eyes narrowed in a menacing glare at the blackguard. It was time to make quick work of these hired thugs.
Taking two long steps forward, he connected his right fist with the man’s jaw while his left made impact with his gut. Charles winded the bastard long enough for him to steal a glance at Bridget.
Her sword flew through the air in fluid motions. Her stance was impeccable. Her hits were accurate. Her expression composed.
She was remarkable.
His opponent recovered and swung his thick fist once more. Charles evaded the hit. In addition to the villain’s injuries sustained from his fall from the horse, his
gunshot wound left him with one lifeless arm, giving Charles a distinct advantage over the sluggish giant.
Charles lifted the heel of his palm and drove it into the man’s nose, breaking it instantly. His foe howled, the hoarse sound rising high into the trees and earning a bird’s call in return.
With a quick flip of his hand and some upper body strength, Charles had the man flying over his shoulder and knocking against a nearby tree. The hollow thunk of the man’s head bouncing off the trunk echoed around them before the man fell unconscious to the forest floor.
Bridget’s shout seized Charles’ heart in panic. He spun around to come to her aid, but instantly knew that his assistance was unnecessary. Bridget’s red-faced opponent was on his knees, both hands clutching his ballocks.
“That was extraordinary, Bridget,” he admitted.
“This is not the time for flatteries.” She slid her sword into its sheath under her sash and grabbed the horse’s reins. “Get the saddlebags and my trunk and put them on the horse.”
Stunned mute, Charles did as Bridget bade while she soothingly patted the horse’s neck. Who was this woman? He did not recognize the strong, confident Bridget taking charge of the situation.
He had not once seen a woman not of the spy world engage in a fight with a man nearly three times her size, let alone one who was victorious in the undertaking. Perhaps Bridget was more adept in her skill of fencing than Charles had thought.
As much as he despised being wrong, Charles had to admit that Bridget surprised him with her skill. Frustratingly, it made him begin to question his own logic.
Something tickled his lip as he finished securing their things to the horse, and he tugged at the false moustache, slipping the annoying thing in his pocket.
One of the ruffians moaned as Charles accepted the reins from Bridget. With some soft-spoken words to the horse, he leapt up into the saddle, and reached out to Bridget. “Come.” She accepted his hand and he pulled her up in front of him.
The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2) Page 19
