“Let her go,” Emory said. “You have me; that’s what you came for, isn’t it?”
“It was,” the assassin acknowledged with a tilt of his head. “But if she has managed to keep your interest up for so long...perhaps my priorities could change. You see, it works the other way too. You would be surprised how enthusiastic a young woman can be when she is bargaining for her lover’s life.”
At a signal from Emory, Anna scrambled to her feet and stood close behind him. Cipriani only laughed at the feeble gesture of protection, the sound grating enough to make Anna’s skin feel as though there were a thousand maggots crawling over her flesh.
“Let her go. Let her go now or I swear I’ll tear your heart out with my bare hands.”
The Corsican’s smile lingered as he let his thumbs caress the serpentine locks on the pistols. “Many fools have made that same promise, Englishman. I made them all eat their words as they drew their last breath.”
“Then make me eat mine,” Emory challenged quietly. “If you can.”
Cipriani pursed his lips and took a thoughtful step into the room, brushing an admiring toe across the thick pile of an Indian rug before crushing his boot over the delicate design of flowers. “You always were a thorn in my side, Englishman. I knew, you see. I knew you were not to be trusted, not from the very day you came offering your services to the empire. Unfortunately His Excellency was not so willing to discard your apparent friendship; not while he still had some use for it. We all had some use for it at one time or another, and to that end I will concede your skills at the helm of a ship are unparalleled. I cannot think of another man who would have had the audacity to sail into Elba and whisk away an emperor under the noses of a thousand prison guards. But then, you were not expecting to get away, were you?”
“What do you mean?”
Cipriani gave his grating laugh again. “Please m’sieur, do not play the innocent with me. We intercepted your messages to Whitehall. We knew you had alerted the navy to the escape and we knew you would be expecting to see one of His Majesty's warships hovering off the coast, ready to snatch back their prisoner. We knew, you stupid bastard. We knew all about you, from the very beginning. Do you think your Lord Casterleagh is the only one to have spies in high places? The delicious part now, of course, is that they are calling you traitor and sending the hounds after you. Rather an exquisite irony, do you not think? One of their best spies being hunted for treason?”
Emory felt Anna’s hand on his back, but he did not acknowledge the touch. Nor was he given much time to ponder the million questions that came with Cipriani’s confirmation that he was not a traitor.
“I am rather curious to know one thing, however,” the Corsican was saying. “Why are you still here? I would have thought you would have run straight to London.”
“Why would I go London?”
“Where else does a dog run, but to it’s master?”
“But Bonaparte is here, is he not? And so are you.”
“You did not actually believe we would allow such a great man to be led off in chains, to be executed, or kept in an iron cage as suits the mood of your Parliament?”
Emory folded his arms across his chest. “Since you obviously intend to kill us anyway, would you care to share exactly how you plan to do it?”
“Your ignorance surprises me, unless of course it is a crude attempt to stall.” Cipriani’s eyes narrowed. “Or unless you were hoping to singlehandedly spoil our plans so that you might redeem yourself in your master’s eyes. And if that is the case--” his smile, if it was possible, turned even more evil, accompanied by a hot, hissing breath-- “it means you still have the letter.”
“If I do?”
“If you do...” The slitted eyes flicked to where Annaleah was peeping around Emory’s shoulder. “It would go far easier on everyone concerned if you simply returned it.”
“Ah, well, there we have a small problem.” Emory uncrossed his arms and spread them wide, his naked body gleaming like marble in the firelight. “As you can plainly see, I do not have it on me. Feel free to search if you like. As well known as we English may be for some perversions, like honor and nobility, you French are renowned for others.”
The hooded eyes blinked once, slowly. “Tell me where it is and I make you this promise, Englishman. The moment I have it in my hand, I will kill the girl quickly and painlessly. Lie to me, play me false, and you will hear her screams all the way down in hell.”
“Kill me--or her--and you will never find it.”
“And neither will anyone else, which suits our needs just as well.”
“Then why go to all the trouble to get it back?”
“Because I dislike loose ends, and because I have never yet failed to honor one of my master’s requests. He asked me to fetch the letter back, likely for the benefit of that fool De Las Cases who insists on documenting every scrap of paper, every message, every conversation for the sake of the memoirs he is writing. This of course, being the ultimate triumph, must be precisely set down for posterity to show the utter blind stupidity--not to mention humiliation--of our enemies. Therefore--” he held out one of the guns, taking aim at Emory’s left knee-- “we shall start slowly, taking our time if that is what you prefer. You do understand if I take the precaution of crippling you first?”
“Wait,” Anna cried, stepping out from behind Emory’s back. “Please don’t shoot!”
The reptilian eyes widened slightly. “You have something to offer that might dissuade me?”
“Anna, for God’s sake--”
“No,” she said, stepping well out of range of Emory’s long arms, keeping her own clasped behind her back so he could not reach out and grab her. “Please, m’sieur. I know where the letter is. I can fetch it for you.”
“She doesn’t know,” Emory declared, clearly appalled by Anna’s actions. “She has no damned idea.”
“I do know,” she insisted and moved, seemingly through fear and feminine panic, closer to Cipriani rather than farther. “Please m’sieur. I can do this. I can help you. I have the key.”
“Key?” The Corsican did not take his eyes off Emory, but he was aware of Anna moving closer and kept one of the pistols trained on the pale blot of her shirt. “What key?”
Emory was about to shout again, but at the last instant caught a glimpse of the wine bottle she held clutched tightly in both hands. He had no idea what she thought she could possibly do against a man with two loaded pistols, but it was a chance. A slim one. And he had no choice but to take it.
He glanced deliberately at the table again. The guns he had taken from Widdicombe House were there, the barrels crossed one over the other, and lying beside them in a puddle formed by the gold chain was the iron key he had retrieved from the surf. At some point during the night, Anna had complained about being struck in the chin with the swinging key and he had removed it, only the second time he had done so in a month. The first had been when he had been dragged half conscious into an empty warehouse and hung up by his wrists to a ceiling beam. He had clutched the key in his fist, even gouged the pointed end into his palm, using the self inflicted pain to distract him from the pain of Cipriani’s carving techniques.
The Corsican followed his gaze and saw the glitter of gold, saw the key. His distraction lasted only a moment, but a moment was all Emory and Anna had. The same instant she swung the bottle around and knocked the aim of one gun aside, Emory was springing forward and diving low, his full weight and momentum cashing into Cipriani’s knees and driving him backward. Both guns exploded, the sting of gunpowder searing Annaleah’s eyes and nose, blinding her for the few moments it took for her to scramble out of the way as the two men went down in a tangle of legs and arms. She had no way of knowing if Emory had been shot, if he could even overpower the wiry assassin.
She did not credit Emory’s rage as a weapon, and he used it to good effect, planting punch after punch into the other man’s face and throat. With nothing for his opponent to grasp but s
kin, he was slippery and able to twist himself free to rise up on his knees where he smashed his fist into the long, thin nose crushing it to bloody pulp. The pistols had flown out of Cipriani’s hands in the fall, but he used his fingers to claw for Emory’s eyes and throat. Grunts and curses heated the air, punctuated by the sound of flesh pounding flesh, as the two men rolled again, the Corsican briefly gaining the advantage, dripping blood onto Emory’s face and chest from his ruined nose.
Anna searched frantically for a weapon she could use, but they were still between her and the table. She was still clutching the wine bottle and she grasped the neck tightly, bringing it down hard across the back of Cipriani’s neck, but it only thudded dully against the bone and did more damage jolting her wrist and hand than to his head. There was a long iron poker Emory had used to stir the fire and she ran for that, but by the time she brought it back, the men had changed positions again, had twisted apart and were on their feet, crouched and circling like two blooded cocks at a country fight.
They came together in a crunch of flesh and bone and Anna was close enough to feel a warm spatter of blood on her face. She held the poker in front of her but there was no clear opening. Fists drove first one man, then the other back; a chair went flying and a lamp crashed to the floor in a spray of oil and glass. From somewhere in the depths of Cipriani’s wool coat there came the glint of a knife, the blade long and thin and tapered to the width of a needle at the end. It flashed twice, leaving bloody stripes across Emory’s chest before he jumped back. The Corsican followed, the knife raised and glittering, his lips drawn back as he muttered promises and threats in a voice that spiked the hairs across the nape of Anna’s neck.
The two men moved into the darker gloom of the hallway and Anna dropped the poker and ran to the table, her hands trembling as she picked up one of the flintlocks. She was shaking so badly she needed to steady the weapon in both hands and used the pressure of both thumbs to cock the hammer. The end of the barrel wavered back and forth as she turned it toward the door, but there was nothing to see, nothing to aim at but shifting shadows in the darkness.
The panic caught in her throat, but she waited. She waited until one of the shadows hurled back through the open doorway and then she closed her eyes and fired.
The recoil jerked her arms back in their sockets, but she dropped the smoking pistol and immediately snatched up the second one, cocking it, priming it, bracing herself to fire again. She looked up in time to see the startled look on the Corsican’s face as he staggered back into the shadows, a hand held up in front of him with four fingers blown clear away. Emory plunged through the door in the next breath, his locked fists catching Cipriani low under the chin, driving his head up and back with enough force to lift the assassin bodily off the ground and send him crashing senseless onto the floor. Emory followed, crouching over him again, his fists laced together like a hammer, slugging hard left, right, left, sending more blood, spittle, and sweat across the carpet with each blow.
Anna would have been quite happy to let him beat the Corsican to death if not for the look on Emory’s face. His cheeks, his chest, his arms were splashed with blood and the lust for more was wild in his eyes. She ran up behind him, and tried catch his arms.
“Stop! Stop! You’re killing him!”
He shook her hands away with a snarl. “He deserves killing!”
“Not like this. Not like this! This is murder and it makes you no better than him!”
Emory landed one more punch, the effort causing him to sprawl half across the unconscious man’s body. His face was still contorted with rage, his chest was heaving for air, his body was gleaming wet with sweat and blood.
But he stopped.
After a moment, he pushed unsteadily to his knees, then staggered to his feet, swaying there for the two or three seconds it took for him to realize Anna was beside him, the gun still dangling limply in her hand. He looked at her, looked at the gun, then reached down and pried it gently from her frozen fingers. At the same time, and with what little strength he had remaining, he pulled her forward into his arms and held her tight.
“Never,” he gasped, “never do that again, you little fool. You damned little fool. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” she sobbed. “I just did not want him to cut you again.”
He groaned and buried his lips in her hair, drawing several deep, steadying breaths before he looked down at Cipriani’s body. Apart from the blood that flowed freely from the twitching stubs of the missing fingers, there was no sign of movement, but Emory knew his enemy as well as his enemy had known him.
“We need something to tie him up with. Some cords off the curtains.”
Anna turned her face slightly. “His hand--?”
“You’re right,” he murmured, “you shot the wrong one. The bastard did his best work with his other hand.”
Without any warning, he raised the pistol and fired it again, the bullet taking off the thumb and shattering most of the bones in Cipriani’s left hand.
Anna felt her stomach lurch and did not know if she was going to faint or vomit.
“Now get me the cords and a heavy case off one of the chair pillows.”
She moved numbly to do as she was told, fetching the long braided gold ropes that swagged the curtains, and a red brocaded pillowslip. She watched in silence as he tore strips off a linen sheet and bound wadding around the Corsican’s damaged hands, then handed him the ropes to tie his wrists and feet together. Halfway through the process, the bruised eyes shivered open and Cipriani started to gasp oaths in a language Anna did not understand. She did not have to listen to it very long, as Emory stuffed more linen between the battered lips then slipped the brocaded casing over his head. He used another length of the gold braid to tie the case around his neck, then fed the rope down and around his wrists, then down again around the ankles, pulling his body into a bent figure S. Satisfied the bindings were taut enough to choke him if he moved, he dragged the assassin into the darkest, coldest corner, leaving him in a heap against the wall.
He came back into the light of the fire, wiping the blood off his chest and face with a scrap of linen.
“Are you all right?” Anna asked. “Is any of that blood...?”
Emory checked his arms, his legs, his ribs. “He must have missed.” He looked up quickly. “You?”
“No. I’m fine. But...how did he know you were here?”
“Franceschi Cipriani could follow a black cat through a coal mine at night.” Emory spat, working a loose tooth with the tip of his tongue.
“No, I mean...how did he know you were here in Torquay? He said he heard you were here, but who did he hear it from? Who told him?”
“He could have seen the posts. He could have heard rumors on the street.”
“He said you had a letter...?”
Emory raised a hand, pressing bruised, scraped fingers against his temple and it was clear by his expression that he was as much in the dark as she. “If I do, I don’t have a clue where it is or what it contains.”
“It must have been important if he tortured you once and was prepared to kill you for it now.”
Emory waved his hand in anger. “I’m sure it is, I just...I don’t remember.”
Anna could see his frustration and bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “At least you know you are not a traitor. He as much as said you were one of England’s most valuable spies.”
“Small consolation unless I can find some way to prove it.” He started to rake his hands through his hair, but stopped when caught a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye. He snatched the iron key off the table, staring at it as if he could will it into telling him what he wanted to know. “You may not have been so far off the mark. If I do have this letter, it is as likely to be locked in the strongbox on board the Intrepid as anywhere else. But where the devil is the Intrepid?”
Anna’s teeth chattered once in response. She was cold and growing colder by the minute as the shoc
k of the recent violence began to settle into her bones.
“He mentioned Lord Wessex,” Anna said, giving her arms a little rub. “He and Father are acquainted, and I...well, his son Austin, Viscount Herford,” she offered after a brief hesitation, “offered for my hand last year.”
“And?”
“And...I refused, obviously. He was very personable, but...”
Emory tipped his head. “But?”
“I thought he had a reckless nature,” she whispered.
Emory had the grace not to point out the irony in her assessment, or that it was the height of reckless behavior to be standing here naked but for a man’s shirt, her hair a scattered testament to her lost inhibitions. He picked up the spent flintlocks and started reloading them instead.
In truth, Anna needed no one to draw attention to the obvious. She was well aware of the incongruity, although in her own defence, there was a vast difference between a man who enjoyed gaming tables and horse races to a man who defied the very devil himself. Emory Althorpe was unlike any man she had ever met before and there were no comparisons possible. The life he had been leading had made him capable of committing shocking acts of violence in order to survive--that much she had just witnessed. He was also capable of great passion and inordinate gentleness, and he possessed a certain nobility missing from most noblemen of her acquaintance--the kind that belonged to a man who did not give a damn about how things looked to others, as long as it was the right thing to do.
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