“Why, I believe it was Celeste.”
Celeste? How? The shock, the swift anger at her betrayal must have shown on Jardine’s face. Smith looked like a man savoring a fine wine.
“Never underestimate the fury and resourcefulness of a woman scorned,” said Smith. He jerked his head at his henchmen. “Take them down.”
Here was Jardine’s only chance. The curiosity cabinet was a small room. Only one person might pass through its doorway at once, creating a bottleneck. Jardine waited, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet as the dirty great brute stepped forward, directly into Smith’s line of fire.
Jardine sprang, yelling, “Drop! Louisa, drop!”
He ducked the man’s fist, drove his own into his stomach, then kneed him in the groin. Catching the howling oaf off balance, he shoved him into Smith and barreled his way toward Louisa, who was on the floor, scrambling for the door with the second thug lunging for her.
Jardine booted the thug’s arse, sent him flying into a display case full of Indian treasures. Glass shattered, showered around them as Jardine reached down, grabbed Louisa’s hand, and ran for the stairs.
A shot rang out, too late. They flew down the staircase, ran across the hall, and burst through the front door.
“Good man!” yelled Jardine at Ives, who held his horse, waiting patiently outside.
Jardine swung himself up and pulled Louisa up behind him. She accomplished the ascent without fuss, and he gave her a hard, desperate, thankful kiss as her arms wrapped around his waist. With a swift kick to the flanks, he spurred his mount onward, leaving Ives to vanish in a cloud of gravel dust.
Ives would win to safety. He was like a rat. Survival was second nature to him.
Instead of heading down the drive, Jardine steered his horse west, into the forest, as more shots rang out.
Smith’s ruffians would be in pursuit. Did they have shot-guns? He and Louisa would be out of pistol range by now.
Exhilaration and terror shot through him in a heady rush. First, he needed to get Louisa to safety. He had an escape mapped out.
But he still didn’t have that list.
“I have to go back,” he shouted to Louisa, as the wind whipped through them, as a low-hanging branch brushed its leaves over his face.
He shook his head and pressed on, aware that the crack of gunfire had resumed.
Louisa’s arms tighten around him. “Not you,” she called, breathless, but determined. “We have to go back. It’s my mission, too.”
Stubborn chit! Brave, too, and he was proud of her, but he’d rather die than subject her to the possibility of recapture.
He made a quick decision. “You take the horse and ride south to the next village. Don’t go to Faulkner. Take the first conveyance you can find and get yourself back to London.”
Her arms tightened around his torso and he wished circumstances were far different.
“I won’t leave you.” Her words were hot in his ear. “You can’t ask me to leave you now.”
“Listen, Louisa. Part of being a good agent is to know when you have to retreat, regroup. Ives will bring reinforcements.”
That was a bare-faced lie, of course. When Ives returned—if he returned—he would come alone. The situation was far too sensitive to involve the local militia. Besides, Smith was Jardine’s and no one else’s.
His jaw hardened. “You don’t have to worry about me. Get to safety, that’s all I ask.”
They flew out of the forest, jumped a low wall, and galloped across country toward a stand of trees. Jardine risked a look over his shoulder. No one had yet followed them out of the wood.
He halted them and turned. Louisa’s blue eyes were fierce with tears that shimmered in the pale moonlight.
“I won’t leave you,” she whispered, but he knew she’d do the sensible thing.
“Head west to Barsby and hire a carriage there.” He thrust a small purse of coins into her hand. “Don’t go back to the village.”
“I love you, Jardine.” In her voice there was mettle and terror and a distinct challenge. “Don’t you dare get yourself killed.”
He gathered her to him and kissed her, and the kiss was hard and fierce and strong, everything they were together. His heart burned in his chest, a fiery agony, a glory that transcended life and death. There was no term in any lexicon for what he felt. Love was too tepid a word.
Ah, Louisa. You shouldn’t love me. Look where it’s brought you.
But he couldn’t deny her any longer, couldn’t hold back any of himself from that kiss. It might be the last one they ever shared. She understood. For this moment, at least, there was honesty between them.
She pulled away first, her breath coming in sobbing pants. With a brave jut of her chin, she said, “Go. If we delay any further, it will be for naught.”
He gripped the back of her head and brought it close to his own, so that their gazes locked, their faces almost touching. “I will come back for you. Nothing will stop me from coming back.”
Handing her the reins, he slid down. The stallion was a brute and he wouldn’t trust any other lady to handle him, but Louisa, as in everything, was exceptional.
“There’s a pistol in the holster. Use it if you have to.”
“What about you?”
“Never mind about me.” He slid a knife into his boot.
Jardine slapped the stallion on the rump and the horse started forward.
She was a straight, elegant figure on his big horse, despite the awkward hike of her skirts rucking above her knees. With a quick, staccato salute, Louisa cantered off.
Jardine grimaced, beating back the pain in his chest. He watched until she disappeared, swallowed by darkness. Then he began the solitary walk back.
Twenty-one
“HARRIET.” Louisa touched the sleeping woman’s shoulder.
The gray eyes snapped open. Automatically, one small white hand dived under the pillow and brought out a pistol.
It seemed Harriet had recovered somewhat. Louisa raised her hands, palms outward, in a conciliating gesture. “Don’t shoot. It’s Louisa.”
The pistol didn’t lower. The hand that held it shook. Harriet’s chest rose and fell quickly. She licked her cracked lips but said nothing.
“Where’s Faulkner?” said Louisa.
Harriet’s eyes flickered but she still didn’t reply.
Couldn’t she speak? “Oh good God, what did he do to you?” whispered Louisa. “My dear, I mean you no harm.”
Cautious, careful not to make any sudden movement, she edged toward the far side of Harriet’s bed. Jardine’s pistol rested deep in the pocket of the cloak she had bought from the landlady with the money Jardine had given her. It hit her thigh as she sidled one hip onto the hard mattress.
Slowly, she put out a hand, intending to touch Harriet’s cheek, but the girl flinched back, gripped the pistol with more determination.
Stupid! Badly done, Louisa. She ought to have known Harriet would still shy away from touch.
In a low voice, she said, “You must help me. There isn’t much time. I have written a letter that I want you to post if I don’t return by tomorrow afternoon.” She bent a little to look into Harriet’s eyes, trying desperately to make out if she understood. “Yes?”
Louisa held out the letter, a hastily scribbled note to her brother outlining the situation. If the worst occurred, Max would come for them.
Jardine would be furious. He wanted her to stay out of it. But how could she simply ride off and leave him? She didn’t trust Ives to bring help. She needed to do something to make sure Jardine came back alive. How could she bear to lose him now?
Harriet took the letter with the tiniest nod and slipped it under her pillow. Louisa prayed that meant she understood, that she agreed to do as Louisa asked. Harriet’s muteness tore at Louisa’s heart. The courageous, clever, slightly contemptuous young woman was gone.
Would Harriet regain the power of speech? Or had the treatment she’d suffered somehow turned her b
rain?
The door opened, making Louisa jump. Faulkner seemed unsurprised to see her there. Someone must have told him.
She straightened, her heart hammering against her ribs. The fact he remained here told her he hadn’t retrieved the list by any other means.
She started up. “Mr. Faulkner. I have bad news.”
The bulldog face displayed no surprise at her appearance. Did he ever show emotion?
She quickly explained all that had happened. “I fear for what they’ll do to Lord Jardine if you don’t help him.”
His eyebrows climbed. “He went back, you say?”
“Yes, to get the list. He is but one man against at least four. They have weapons.”
Faulkner watched her with a hard, searching expression. He clenched his fist and lightly tapped his other open palm with it. “Very well. I’m going in for him. But I’ll need your help.”
Louisa’s entire body clenched with fear. Go back there? Her gaze flickered to Harriet. Much as she had faith in Jardine, she did not want to suffer Harriet’s fate.
Taking her silence as acquiescence, Faulkner said, “I’ll get my coat.”
Louisa’s overwrought senses nearly crumbled. Go back? Did she have that much courage in her? She didn’t think so. She was almost certain that she did not.
What help could she be, anyway?
She turned back to Harriet. “Do not forget the letter. Please.”
Warmth crept into the gray eyes like the flicker of fire-light in winter. Harriet put on the safety catch and turned the pistol in her hand so that she gripped the muzzle. She held it out to Louisa.
Louisa hesitated.
“Take it. I have another.” Harriet’s voice was a dry rasp, barely audible, but hope for her eventual recovery blossomed in Louisa’s heart. She gripped the pistol butt with a murmur of thanks.
Harriet would recover from Radleigh’s barbarism. She was strong. If it came to it, could she, Louisa, be equally strong?
Faulkner returned, raised his brows. “Ready?”
“I don’t know what you think I can do.” She felt craven admitting it. The need to do something to help Jardine battled with common sense. Jardine had a plan. He didn’t want her there. It was smart to stay away, not cowardly. But what if—
Impatiently, Faulkner said, “This is spy work, Lady Louisa. Secret. There is no cavalry riding over the hill to save the day. There’s only us.” He fixed her with his perceptive stare. “You and me.”
Swallowing hard, Louisa nodded. She forced herself to move to the door and down the stairs, out to the stable yard, where their horses awaited them. A pistol jostled against each leg as she walked.
When they’d mounted their horses and cleared the busy inn yard, Louisa said, “What am I to do? How are you planning to rescue him?”
“That depends on what I find,” said Faulkner. He looked sideways at her. “Have faith, Lady Louisa.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to know exactly what her role in this maneuver would be. She didn’t like the unpredictable nature of this work. Once again, it was borne in upon her that she was not cut out for the life of a spy. What the Devil had ever made her think she might be?
Faulkner remained resolutely silent for the rest of the ride back to the house. Without conversation to distract her, Louisa tried to calm herself. She was frightened, nauseous with it. Her stomach pitched so hard as she bobbed in time with the horse’s trot, she clamped her mouth shut, willing the sick feeling away.
Soon, they came upon familiar territory, the edge of the estate.
“We should approach from this direction.” Louisa indicated the path through the woods that ran past the Hindu temple, but Faulkner turned his horse toward the temple itself.
“Our meeting place is the temple, not the house. It’s all been arranged.”
Louisa gave a swift look over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t we conceal ourselves?”
“I’ve not the slightest need to scurry around in the shadows. Smith knows he can’t touch me.”
She wasn’t so certain about that. Smith seemed to believe he was invincible. Why would he give up a sensitive document for the mere asking?
They drew rein outside the house, and a surge of terror shot through her. She slid down from her horse and tethered him with shaking hands.
“This way,” said Faulkner, starting up the hill.
Louisa nodded. As she followed, she put her hand in her cloak pocket and felt the reassuring shape of a pistol butt.
JARDINE swore silently and viciously from his hiding place. The full moon had risen, flooding the landscape with light. He could pick out every detail on Louisa’s damnably in-the-way form. The proud tilt of her head, her straight carriage, the tall, slim elegance of her, as she approached the temple.
A lamb to the slaughter.
Fury boiled over again. He raised the shotgun to his shoulder, squinted, and took aim.
But Faulkner moved into his line of sight, damn him. So this was what Smith and his cohorts had adjourned to the temple for. A meeting with the head of the secret service. Faulkner must be desperate for that list if he’d risk coming here openly.
Desperate enough to sacrifice Louisa?
Jardine looked around for a better position but there was none. The temple stood alone on this hill beside the stand of shrubbery in which Jardine now hid. He’d have to break cover to get a clear shot.
Smith appeared at the temple entrance, but Louisa and Faulkner both stood in front of Smith. There was no way to eliminate him from this vantage point.
A document changed hands. Then, events seemed to accelerate. Louisa stepped back, simultaneously producing two pistols and pointed them at Smith and his men.
Jardine was already on his feet, crouched low, running, when Faulkner suddenly dropped to the ground, rolling toward the hill’s descent.
There was a blast of gunfire and one of Smith’s thugs fell.
Jardine hissed through his teeth. He couldn’t approach, or she might turn, lose her focus, and be overpowered.
“Easy, there, sweetheart,” he muttered, easing forward. “Save your last shot.”
But another explosion rang out. The second henchman reeled backward. There was only Smith left, and Louisa turned to run, but Smith dived and caught hold of her skirts, dragging her down.
Dammit to hell but he couldn’t get a clear shot. Jardine bit out an oath and broke cover, running for the struggling pair.
“Get away from her!” Jardine aimed the shotgun, but Smith grabbed Louisa by the hair and jerked her head up, holding a knife at her throat.
“Put the gun down, Jardine,” he said, breathing hard. There was a fierce grin on his face.
Dimly, through the pound of fear in his head, Jardine registered that Faulkner was on his feet now, slipping and sliding down the hill. He had what he came for. No help there.
The document wasn’t important. Getting Louisa away from Smith was the only thing that mattered.
“You won’t do that,” he said to Smith, taking one pace forward. “You want me to see her suffer. Slicing her throat now would be far too quick.”
“You’re right,” said Smith. “And if I kill her, you’ll tear me to pieces.” He gripped Louisa’s hair harder, yanked her head so her face tilted up toward him.
Jardine’s insides cringed at her ragged cry of pain, at the wild fear in her eyes.
“What if I use my knife on this strong-boned face?” He held the point of his weapon a mere inch from her cheekbone. “Eh, Jardine? Seems a shame to mar such perfect—”
“Stop.” The air hissed between Jardine’s teeth. He put down the shotgun, slowly, at his feet.
Smith looked up, beyond Jardine, and smiled. “Ah. Here’s Radleigh. Just in time.”
JARDINE groaned as he woke. They’d bloody well had their fun, hadn’t they, before throwing him into this anachronism of a dungeon. Lord, it could have starred in a play from Shakespeare with its dank, dripping walls and its rats and its god-awful st
ench.
Reality hit him, and the roaring started in his ears. They meant to torture Louisa while he watched.
He had no illusions about his own courage. No man clung to his principles when he was roasting over a fire or his balls were ceremoniously crushed.
How much worse would the torture be when he was here, whole and unharmed, watching Louisa slowly and thoroughly maimed?
This was the calamity he’d spent eight years apart from her to avoid. Eight years wanting her, starving for her touch while he hunted the man who threatened to rip their world apart. By pushing her away to protect her, he’d somehow led her straight into the danger he most feared.
The exquisite bloody irony of it made him want to howl.
Footsteps and a desperate scuffle sounded on the stairs. Someone snarled an oath and then the footsteps continued toward Jardine’s cell.
One of the apes who guarded him unlocked the cell door and flung it wide.
A bedraggled creature stumbled inside, blond hair hanging in tangles about her head.
Louisa. Oh God, Louisa.
The cell door slammed shut, leaving them alone.
She stood there for a moment, her hair falling down around her face, obscuring her expression. Then her chin lifted.
Those blue eyes were solemn, haunted. “I’m sorry.” She drew her bloodied lip into her mouth and sucked, wincing a little. Releasing, it she said, “Faulkner has the list. At least he got away.”
“I know.” When Jardine got out of here, he’d find the head of operations and hack off the man’s balls with a blunt cleaver.
“Smith says he’s going to let Radleigh have me.”
She shuddered, and Celeste’s bloody, mauled face rose before his mind’s eye.
Ives. Ives was at large still. Jardine had sent him to that cottage in the woods, but he’d be back by first light. Ives would find a way to get them out, but would he be in time?
“I told you to go home.” He couldn’t believe how even his tone was. He wanted to wring her neck. He wanted to kiss her.
Kiss first, wring later.
Bloody hell.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I was stupid. But Faulkner said he had a plan. And . . . I couldn’t leave you. Never again.”
Sweetest Little Sin Page 20
