There was a long silence, broken by intriguing rustling sounds and Annique grunting from time to time. Her footsteps, when she walked toward him, were sure and unhesitating. She came in a straight line across the cell as if it were not dark as a tomb.
“What did you do to Henri?” The issue, he thought, had never really been in doubt.
“I hit him upon the head with a sock full of rocks.” She seemed to think it over while she sat down beside him. “At least I am almost sure I hit his head once. I hit him many places. Anyway, he is quiet.”
“Dead?”
“He is breathing. But one can never tell with head wounds. I may have yet another complicated explanation to make to God when I show up at his doorstep, which, considering all things, may be at any moment. I hope I have not killed him, quite, though he undoubtedly deserves it. I will leave that to someone else to do, another day. There are many people who would enjoy killing him. Several dozen I can call to mind at once.”
She baffled him. There was ruthlessness there, but it was a kind of blithe toughness, clean as a fresh wind. He didn’t catch a whiff of the evil that killed men in cold blood, from ambush. He had to keep reminding himself what she was. “You did more than knock him over the head. What was the rest of it, afterwards?”
“You desire the whole report?” She sounded amused. “But you are a spymaster, I think, Englishman. No one else asks such questions so calmly, as if by right. Very well, I shall report to you the whole report—that I have tied Henri up and helped myself to his money. There was an interesting packet of papers in a pocket he may have thought was secret. You may have them if you like. Me, I am no longer in the business of collecting secret papers.”
Her hands patted over him lightly. “I have also found a so-handy stickpin, and if you will lift your pretty iron cuff here. Yes. Just so. Now hold still. I am not a fishwife that I can filet this silly lock while you wriggle about. You will make me regret that I am being noble and saving your life if you do not behave sensibly.”
“I am at your disposal.” He offered his chained wrist. At the same time he reached out and touched her hair, ready to grab her if she tried to leave without freeing him.
She put herself right in his power—a man twice her size, twice her strength, and an enemy. She had to know what her writhing and whispering did to a man. Revenge and anger and lust churned in his body like molten iron. The wonder was it didn’t burn through his skin and set this soft hair on fire.
“Ah. We proceed,” she said in the darkness. “This lock is not so complicated as it pretends to be. We are discussing matters.”
She edged closer and shifted the manacle to a different angle, brushing against his thigh. With every accidental contact, his groin tightened and throbbed. All he could think of was her soft voice saying, “I will oil my body and dance in the firelight.” He was no Henri. He wasn’t going to touch her. But how did he get a picture like that out of his head?
“And . . . it is done.” The lock fell open.
She made it seem easy. It wasn’t. He rubbed his wrist. “I thank you.”
He stood and stretched to his full height, welcoming the pain of muscles uncramping. Free. Savage exultation flooded him. He was free. He bunched and unbunched his fists, glorying in the surge of power that swept him. He felt like he could take these stones apart with his bare hands. It was dark as the pit of hell and they were twenty feet under a stronghold of the French Secret Police. But the door hung open. He’d get them out of here—Adrian and this remarkable, treacherous woman—or die trying. If they didn’t escape, it would be better for all of them to die in the attempt.
While that woman worked on Adrian’s manacle, he groped his way across the cell to Henri, who was, as she had said, breathing. The Frenchman was tied, hand and foot, with his stockings and gagged with his own cravat. A thorough woman. Checking the bonds was an academic exercise. There was indeed a secret pocket in the jacket. He helped himself to the papers, then tugged Henri’s pants down to his ankles, leaving him half naked.
“What do you busy yourself with?” She’d heard him shifting Henri about. “I find myself inquisitive this evening.”
“I’m giving Henri something to discuss with Leblanc when they next meet.” It might buy them ten minutes while Henri explained his plans for the girl. “I may eventually regret leaving him alive.”
“If we are very lucky, you will have an eventually in which to do so.” There was a final, small, decisive click. “That is your Adrian’s lock open. He cannot walk from here, you know.”
“I’ll carry him. Do you have a plan for getting out of the chateau with an unconscious man and no weapons and half the Secret Police of France upstairs?”
“But certainly. We will not discuss it here, though. Bring your friend and come, please, if you are fond of living.”
He put an arm under Adrian’s good shoulder and hauled him upright. The boy couldn’t stand without help, but he could walk when held up. He was conversing with unseen people in a variety of languages.
“Don’t die on me now, Hawker,” he said. “Don’t you dare die on me.”
From the author of The Spymaster’s Lady
JOANNA BOURNE
THE
Forbidden Rose
The only person she can trust with her life . . . is a man who trusts no one.
Marguerite de Fleurignac, once a glittering aristocrat in a world of privilege, is on the run, disguised as Maggie Duncan, British governess. Penniless and alone, cornered by fanatics of the revolution, she falls into the hands of a compelling stranger. There’s no chance this menacing rogue with the rough voice and the sinister scar is an innocent bookseller. Why does he risk his life to save her?
Are his secrets as desperate as her own?
Praise for Bourne’s Spymaster novels
“Distinct, fresh, and engaging.”
—Madeline Hunter, New York Times bestselling author of Dangerous in Diamonds
“What a terrific story!”
—Diana Gabaldon, New York Times bestselling author of An Echo in the Bone
penguin.com
M908T0611
JOANNA BOURNE
presents her stunning and award-winning debut novel
THE (Spymaster’s Lady
She’s never met a man she couldn’t deceive ... until now.
She’s braved battlefields. She’s stolen dispatches from under the noses of heads of state. She’s played the worldly courtesan, the naive virgin, the refined British lady, even a Gypsy boy. But Annique Villiers, the elusive spy known as the Fox Cub, has finally met the one man she can’t outwit.
“A FLAT-OUT SPECTACULAR BOOK.”
—All About Romance
“Love, love, LOVED it!”
—Julia Quinn
Now available in trade paperback
penguin.com
M626T1209
Berkley Sensation Titles by Joanna Bourne
THE SPYMASTER’S LADY
MY LORD AND SPYMASTER
THE FORBIDDEN ROSE
THE BLACK HAWK
The Black Hawk Page 35
