His Lady Spy (The Star Elite Series)

by King, Rebecca

  “You don’t know that,” Archie warned, oblivious to her thoughts. Shaking his head, he drew her back into the darkest corner of the stable. “I’ll be the one to check.” He didn’t wait for her to agree, merely placed his fingers on the beam supporting the roof and drew himself bodily upward to peer through the narrow gap between wall and roof. Two of the men were walking rapidly toward the far end of the field. With his view of the rest of the field reduced, Archie couldn’t take the risk that the third Frenchman was waiting outside for them. Cursing his luck, he eased back onto his feet and turned toward her.

  “Two have left but a third is missing. You stay here and I’ll go and see where he is. Stand here, in the darkest part of the stable, and don’t move. If you stay still, he won’t hear you,” Archie whispered directly into her ear. He wanted her to feel a little frightened and unnerved, especially if it meant that she would obey orders. He wasn’t asking for her agreement, but didn’t expect an argument either. Desperately trying to ignore the fact that the top of her head reached his chin, he sternly reminded himself that if he didn’t focus on the task at hand they could both end up dead. He didn’t want to add that if he had to take the man out with the knife in his boot, he would prefer the young woman not to watch her second killing of the afternoon.

  “I’m not -”

  “Shh.” Archie scowled, lifting one finger to his lips in silent warning before touching his ear. He knew she wasn’t used to the hand signals the men in the Star Elite used when they weren’t in a position to talk to each other, but could only hope that he had been clear enough for her to understand. Until they were outside and he could get a proper look at her, he had no idea how much control fear had over her decisions and couldn’t run the risk that she would do something stupid.

  Portia sighed and bit back an uncharacteristic growl of impatience. It wasn’t lost to her that for each moment she remained confined in this stable, her sister was a minute closer to leaving the church. She couldn’t bear the thought of Cecily, dear Cecily, being mistaken for her and paying for it with her life.

  Archie eased to one side and peered cautiously out of the door. He couldn’t see anyone, but could feel the menace that hung in the air. One of them was still outside, he was sure of it. Moving back to Portia, he bent down to whisper into her ear and tried to ignore the delicate scent of apple blossom that assailed his nostrils. He fought hard not to inhale too deeply and alarm her, but the gentle scent of summer reminded him so much of home that he had a strange yearning to be back in Gloucestershire again.

  “Tell me – quietly,” he issued her with a pointed look, “about the area around here. Does the churchyard that backs onto this field have a gate?”

  Portia shook her head and pointed to the far corner of the stables. “The fence runs at the back of here is solid. The gate is at the top, a few feet from the main doors,” she breathed, unsure if he had heard her. “My sister -” Portia began, pausing when Archie nodded.

  “At the church, I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do,” Archie sighed, impatient to get her to safety and out of the stable before he did something they would both regret. “We have to get out of here and go and fetch your sister as quickly as we can, Portia.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I can’t go into that now, just trust me, and I assure you that I will do everything I can to get you out of here alive.”

  Portia knew she didn’t really have a choice. If the man who had already committed one murder today was still outside, she would undoubtedly be his next victim. If this man before her, whoever he was, thought he could keep her alive, then she had no choice but to accept his help. Especially if that meant she could get to Cecily and warn her of the danger of leaving the church.

  “I’ll go out first, you stay in here. Do you know what to do with one of these?” Archie asked hopefully as he lifted his gun. He saw her gulp and step backward, a look of abject horror on her face. Briefly wondering if she was going to faint on him after all, he watched as she stared at his pistol, shook her head and took a deep breath before squaring her shoulders. “What do I do with it?”

  Ignoring the frisson of awareness that swept through him, he picked up her delicate hand and showed her how to hold the heavy pistol, inordinately proud of her stoic calmness in the face of such dire threat to her life.

  “Point it like that but, for God’s sakes, don’t pull this trigger until you are sure you know who you are shooting,” Archie mentally prayed she was listening to him. He had spent many years battling many different enemies and had lived to see another day. It would be galling now to fall at the hands of a beautiful female who had no idea what she was doing, or what she had just landed herself in the middle of.

  “What about you?” Portia gasped, lifting her eyes from the heavy weight in her hand.

  Archie smiled at her and gave her a cheeky wink. “I’ll survive,” he replied ruefully, glancing at the gun in her hand. “Just make sure you are careful with that thing. Only shoot Frenchmen, understand? Wait here until I get back. I’ll whistle when I approach, so listen for me. Whatever you do, don’t venture outside until you hear me whistle,” he warned.

  “But where are you going?”

  “Hunting,” Archie replied and in an instant, vanished outside.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Portia stared blankly at the wall opposite, straining her ears for any sound of his footsteps. Silence settled over her so quickly that she began to feel her palms sweat. She had entrusted her life to him, and here she was standing scared and alone in a stable, with an unfamiliar gun in her palm, meekly following his orders without question. But what proof did she have that he was not a Frenchman himself? After all, he hadn’t even given her his name. Not that they had any opportunity to be formally introduced, and he had saved her life, but something buried deep within her objected to being ordered about by a veritable stranger. What was it about men that made them think they had the right to order a woman about? She had a brain. She could think for herself. At that moment though, she could not think of anything else to do except walk out of there with the gun in her hand and take her chances. It wouldn’t help Cecily one bit if she got herself murdered in the process. With little else to do, Portia stood in silence, and began to pray.

  Archie crept forward, his knife between his teeth. He had been through this scenario so many times that he had stopped counting years ago. Every sense was tuned into the area around him, and on the man just a few feet away. For the last few yards, Archie had dogged the man’s every footstep, creeping quietly closer until they were a safe enough distance from the stables. He had heard enough of the man’s conversation with his comrade to know they were headed toward the churchyard to search for Archie and Portia. It was now a race against time to get to Cecily before the Frenchman decided to enter the church.

  A furtive glance around him told him everything he needed to know. Taking his knife from between his teeth, Archie lunged to his feet, lurching onto the man’s back before he could issue a grunt. The knife to his throat did the rest, and the Frenchman dropped to the ground without a murmur.

  Wiping his blade on the grass, Archie crouched low for several moments, scanning the churchyard surrounding the church itself. He could see the door to the rear of the church that stood partially open. It would be enough. Within minutes he was walking steadily toward the stable block, his low whistle as drawn out as he could make it.

  Although it never showed on his face, Archie was shaken by the strength of the relief that swept through him when Portia cautiously appeared in the doorway of the stable. Holding his hand out, he relieved her of the heavy pistol and pocketed it with a silent prayer of thanks. He wasn’t lost to the abject relief that was clearly evident on her face, and wondered if the strong emotion was for him or being able to hand his gun back.

  His cool gaze flickered over her from head to toe. Apart from the edges of her skirts being a bit more soiled, she was relati
vely unharmed by the last few minutes.

  It was the first time he had managed to get a proper look at her up close, in the daylight, and he took advantage of it. Of average height, she was curvaceous yet not overweight. The delicate black curls bounced against her almond-shaped face. Her eyes were catlike and so green that he was sure he could see his reflection shining back at him. He almost groaned when the pink tip of her tongue licked the delicate curve of her lips before disappearing between her straight, white teeth, and he clenched his fingers against the urge to slide his hands into her hair and sink into her moistened lips.

  “We have to get your sister,” Archie whispered hoarsely, abruptly turning his thoughts away from the mental images that arose at the thought of what he could do with those delicious lips. He pointed to the hedge and the sound of footsteps on the other side. Although he remained quiet, he didn’t miss Portia instinctively sidling closer to his bulk. At any other time, he would have been happy to give her the reassuring warmth of a supportive arm around her waist, but not now. He wanted to be able to leave her in the stable while he went to collect her sister, but was aware that Cecily had no idea who he was and would be terrified. By having Portia with him, Cecily would be more amenable to leaving the area as quickly and quietly as possible.

  A small voice asked him what he planned to do then. After all, he could hardly escort them home and leave them on their doorstep with a mere goodbye. He knew enough about the smugglers to understand that they were smuggling spies in and out of the country with a ruthlessness that had left many innocents dead. They would leave no stone unturned in their need to ensure that all witnesses were silenced, and that included Cecily and Portia. They might come up empty handed in the stables and church, but they would scour the village until they found either, if not both of the ladies. Unfortunately, by that time, Archie wouldn’t be around to protect them.

  Puffing out his cheeks when the answers wouldn’t come forth, Archie nodded toward the church. “You need to come with me because your sister doesn’t know me. I don’t want her getting scared and letting them know of her whereabouts by screaming, or doing anything stupid.”

  “I don’t know who you are,” Portia pointedly reminded him.

  “Later,” Archie replied, giving her a warning look. “I’ll do introductions later. Right now, we must get your sister and get out of here. I don’t know about you but I have no intention of dying today.”

  Grabbing hold of her wrist, he helped her clamber through the fence into the churchyard. He was glad that she wasn’t some vapid young miss who was going to squeal at the state of her skirts, and relieved when she made no noise at all at the sound of her skirts tearing on the coarse wooden fence.

  “The back door is always open,” Portia gasped, crouching low behind a particularly high gravestone. It wasn’t lost to her that she was once again cowering behind him like some frightened animal and, although she was still struggling to absorb the events of the afternoon, a small part of her was getting tired of being dragged around like a sack of flour.

  She had after all wanted an adventure, just once in her life, but this was taking it just a step too far. She wasn’t certain what kind of adventure she had been expecting, but witnessing the death of an unknown stranger, being chased by several Frenchmen and spending the afternoon in fetid stables certainly wasn’t it. She was unsure if life could get any stranger, and didn’t know how to stop it, or even if she really wanted to. Her thoughts turned back to the man who had been so brutally killed and quickly felt a pang of guilt for her selfishness. A few hours in a smelly stable was nothing given that a man had just been murdered. At least she was alive and for that she should be grateful.

  She thought briefly of her father who was waiting for their return at home. He would be apoplectic at their tardiness by now, but she felt no fear. A small measure of satisfaction swept through her instead, and she wondered if she really had to return there at all.

  “Follow me, Portia, and don’t do anything that I don’t.”

  Portia gasped, and frowned at the man’s back. How did he know her name? He had said that they would do introductions later, so how did he already know her? She frowned at thought about the feeling of being watched she had experienced earlier. Had he been there?

  Now that she had the opportunity to studying him closely in daylight, she knew he was someone she hadn’t met previously. The man before her wasn’t someone you could ignore, or forget in any hurry. He was taller than average, with gentle curls running through dark blond hair that touched the collar of his rough work shirt. Although his clothing was cheap and serviceable, his voice held the cultured tones only heard in aristocracy. He had glanced at her briefly, several times, leaving her with the distinct impression of warm chocolate coloured eyes that could be hard and calculating one moment, and soft and gentle the next. The man was by far the most handsome man Portia had ever seen; breathtakingly so, and that unnerved her. In normal circles, he would be a rake of the worst kind. So what was he doing carrying a loaded pistol and hiding in stables, chasing after Frenchmen? Who was he? Moreover, who were the Frenchmen and what were they doing in England?

  She was positively bristling with questions she struggled to contain as they scurried across the churchyard. She was so engrossed in her thoughts, that she almost squealed when his firm fingers grabbed hold of her wrist and dragged her down beside him.

  “Wait,” Archie whispered, looking toward the small metal gate leading onto the narrow lane. They watched as two men walked quietly into the churchyard before splitting up. The smallest man headed toward them, while the other headed around the far side of the churchyard. Archie drew his knife out of his boot once more and wondered if he should just throw it. His aim was accurate enough to make sure that the blade was effective, but he was strangely reluctant to allow Portia to witness more death.

  He didn’t want her to see what he was capable of; what he had spent most of the last few years doing. Something inside him wanted to protect her; protect them, from the cold blooded horrors of war in this small town in rural Devon.

  Heaving a sigh of impatience, Archie picked up one of the small pebbles from the grave beside them and threw it as far as he dared toward the far corner of the graveyard. He watched the Frenchman hurry in that direction. Dragging Portia behind him, Archie raced toward the vestry door. Within seconds they were closing the heavy wood behind them. Archie took a moment to slide the bolt across and stood with one ear at the door, listening for footsteps. Lifting one hand, he halted Portia’s instinctive movement toward the chancel and the sound of movement within.

  “Wait! Let me check that she is alone first,” Archie whispered, moving to stand in front of her. Easing open the door, Archie peered through and waited. He wasn’t lost to the fact that the room behind them had no shutters or curtains. Anyone looking in would have seen them, especially Portia’s distinctive dark head. Archie stood back to allow Portia into the nave where Cecily was still arranging the flowers at the altar.

  It was only when they were inside that Archie realised that something was wrong – very wrong. He briefly closed his eyes, and cursed his luck, realising that his care of Portia had only delayed the inevitable.

  Although Cecily was standing at the altar arranging flowers, her movements were jerky and furtive. Her back was ramrod straight which in itself wasn’t anything to worry about, but it was the wide, terror filled eyes she turned on him that warned him of the dangers waiting for them that were already inside the church.

  “Well, well, my comrade, I am glad you were able to join us at last,” Manton sighed, propping his feet up on the pew before him with slow and deliberate movements.

  “I wondered when you would show up, Manton,” Archie replied, his mind frantically searching for a way out of the current mess as he turned toward the Frenchman. Manton was tall and lithe, and very, very dangerous. His knife skills were legendary, and Archie knew he could flick the wicked looking blade he was twirling in his hands in the
blink of an eye. The recipient would never know what hit them.

  Keeping his face impassive, Archie waited for the scene to play out.

  “So you know who I am,” the Frenchman replied.

  Archie flicked a quick warning glance at Portia, who stood in frozen horror beside him. She had picked up on the Frenchman’s accent and fully understood their predicament. He fervently hoped she was logical enough to stay out of the conversation, and was relieved that her attention seemed to be focused on her terrified sister rather than Archie, and the man sitting in the wooden pews.

  Archie heard Cecily let out a cry of relief and practically ran the few feet across the chancel toward her sister. The ladies now stood with their arms wrapped round each other as if in mutual support. Even from a few feet away, Archie could see the wracking shivers that swept through Cecily and hoped that Portia would be able to keep her sister from doing anything that would heighten the danger they were in.

  “You know that I cannot allow you to leave here,” Manton declared flatly, turning the wicked looking knife in his hand over and over, one finger resting on the tip of the sharp, pointy blade as he twirled it around. The silent threat wasn’t lost on the ladies, although Archie was not one to be bothered by such trivialities and instead stared dispassionately at the Frenchman, his stance as relaxed as he could make it.

  “Do you really think you are that good? You know that you won’t get very far,” Archie replied, keeping his eyes firmly locked on Manton as the two Frenchmen who had been searching the graveyard entered the church through the main door. Archie sighed at the sight of the French guards, and knew the odds had just been stacked well and truly against them. Manton’s guards were almost feral in their determination to carry out Manton’s orders. They were well paid, well fed and lived in fear of their boss, and would have no hesitation in fighting to the death.