Mission to Love (Brothers in Arms Book 14)

by Samantha Kane

  Mission to Love

  Samantha Kane

  SK Publishing, LLC

  Are two men who love the same woman one step away from falling in love with each other?

  Simon Gantry has done it all. He’s handsome, sophisticated, a lethal spy, and a war veteran. And he’s broken inside. A tragedy when he was young has kept Simon from ever truly giving his heart to anyone, until he met Christy Ashbury.

  As a constable dedicated to the rule of law, Robert Manderley has always preferred order to chaos, logic to intuition, facts to fantasy. Yet when he met Christy Ashbury—a woman who lied to him about everything—he gladly forgot all of that.

  Christy fell in love with both Simon and Robert at the same time. Now married to Robert, Christy pretends to be the woman she thinks he wants. When Simon reappears in their lives the real Christy—the woman only Simon knows and the one he still loves—reveals herself to Robert. Her passion and strength captivate Robert more than ever even as he watches her and Simon fight their rekindled love.

  Robert and Simon must work closely together on a grisly murder case that escalates into a terrifying threat to London, and to Christy. The two men overcome their jealousy to find a bond growing between them, as well as an unexpected passion. Is Christy all that binds them together, or are two men who love the same woman one step away from falling in love with each another?

  All Simon wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. Was that too much to ask for a poor man who’d been kidnapped, beaten, tortured and rescued?

  Alas, it was not to be…

  Copyright © 2019 by Samantha Kane

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my Family~First, Last, Forever, and Found

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Samantha Kane

  Chapter 1

  Simon hesitated at the step off the gangway onto the quay. It had been less than two months since he’d last set foot on English soil, yet it seemed like years. A Barbary Coast prison could do that, he supposed.

  “I’m starving,” his oldest friend Daniel Steinberg said peevishly from behind him. “Hurry up, Simon. Between the weather and Harry getting me shot, I never thought we’d make it back from this voyage. Whenever I set foot on a ship it turns into a disaster.” Despite the bullet wound in his thigh, Daniel still looked as smart as always, trim and fit and dressed tiptop, only a slight limp giving him away. Simon, on the other hand, looked like something the cat had dragged in after mauling it.

  “Why,” Simon, said, rounding on Daniel, “did you have to bring Harry? Just because you’re shagging him does not mean that he has to go everywhere with you.”

  “Yes, actually, it sort of does,” Harry Ashbury said smoothly from behind Daniel. “And, also, it’s my ship.” He was annoyingly tall, and still looked annoyingly rugged and good-looking despite a torturously rough crossing. The eye patch he wore from a decade-old injury made him more appealing than not.

  Focusing on Harry rather than how wonderful the rather dark and dingy quay looked kept Simon’s emotions from overwhelming him. He was quite sure he’d ever seen a more wonderfully dilapidated, decaying, moldering piece of brilliance in his life. Every piece of rank grayish-green, sway-backed, slime-encrusted board announced he was home. And there were even a few pieces of new timber here and there where repairs had recently been made to this section of the wharf. No doubt Ashbury’s doing. His trading company offices were along this section if he remembered correctly.

  “But he is so annoying,” Simon said to Daniel, ignoring that it was Harry who actually responded to him. “Was he this annoying during the war?”

  “You have always been annoying,” Harry said, impatience finally creeping into his tone. “I remember that quite clearly.”

  “Yes,” Daniel agreed, switching allegiances as quickly as a debutante changed dance partners. “I’m beginning to wonder why I was in such a lather to rush off and rescue you. Everyone was in tears over poor Simon’s fate. I pity your poor jailors. You most likely annoyed them to death.”

  “Really?” Simon asked with exaggerated interest, gritting his teeth against the memories of exactly what his jailors did to him in the few weeks before Harry and Daniel showed up to rescue him. Peckish or no, Simon wasn’t going to put up with Daniel’s notoriously sharp tongue. “Do you think so? Did they look annoyed to death when they shot you? I wish I’d annoyed them into shooting you both.”

  “Stop it, both of you,” Harry said, his voice cracking like a whip. “I have put up with your bickering for the last week because you were both suffering from your injuries. But even I have a limited store of patience.” He sighed. “Simon,” he said in that quiet, soothing tone Simon really hated, as if he were speaking to a bedlamite. “I know you’ve been through a great deal and this is difficult—”

  Simon cut him off. “Don’t be tedious,” he snapped. He stepped onto the quay, ignoring the shiver that raced down his spine as the fresh brand on his back tightened and stung painfully. The unusually hot weather intensified the brackish smell of the water and he gratefully took a deep breath of the rank perfume. He would have preferred cooler weather. He’d had enough of the heat in Africa.

  He waved down a hackney with a stiff arm and limped toward it.

  “Where are you going?” Daniel asked in alarm, grabbing his arm.

  “Home,” Simon said, shaking his hand off. “I still have one, don’t I?”

  “Of course. As far as I know.” Daniel didn’t sound as confident as his words would indicate. “You were paid up before…” He trailed off.

  “Before I was kidnapped?” Simon finished for him. “Yes, I was.” He climbed up into the hackney, refusing to show how tired he still was, even after a week of lying about the ship’s cabin.

  “Come home with us,” Daniel urged, refusing to let Simon close the door. “Let us take care of you.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Simon told him firmly, tugging the door. “Contrary to popular opinion.” He got the door closed and called his destination to the driver, and the carriage took off with a lurch that nearly left his stomach on the wharf.

  He had to close his eyes on the ride. For starters, he didn’t have his land legs back and was quite queasy. He was tired of casting up his accounts
across the English Channel, so he was determined to hold onto them across London. And he really couldn’t handle being home again. He could admit it now that he was alone. Finally. At last. He truly loved Daniel, and he found Harry to be a more than tolerable companion, but all he’d wanted for the last week and a half was to be blessedly, quietly, alone.

  He hadn’t been alone since he’d been thrown into the hold of a stinking ship with a sorry lot of other kidnapped bastards on their way to slavery—if they were lucky—on the Barbary Coast. Most had been snatched to be sold and then hopefully exchanged for ransom. A practice that had all but died out among the Barbary pirates thanks to the efforts of the Royal Navy and the Americans.

  But there were still a few who dallied in it. The truth was that the victims taken with Simon weren’t the kind who would fetch a high ransom, or any ransom at all, most likely. Which meant slavery. They had to earn their price somehow.

  He’d lived with a background symphony of hopeless sobbing, painful cries, grunts, groans, begging, weeping, cursing, beatings, rapes, and all manner of violent trespasses day and night for almost two months. He’d had to defend himself countless times—an almost impossible feat after he’d been beaten by his jailors for imagined transgressions several times. And after Daniel and Harry had rescued him, he’d had to listen to Daniel’s apologies and recriminations and platitudes. Which had been all well and good for the first day or two, but by day three Simon had been ready to jump ship, or throw Daniel overboard. And Harry knew it. Damn Harry and his all-seeing eye. The fellow was far too observant.

  All Simon wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. Was that too much to ask for a poor man who’d been kidnapped, beaten, tortured and rescued?

  Alas, it was not to be.

  Chapter 2

  “Oh, Christ on a crutch, not you,” Simon complained when he saw Sir Barnabas James sitting on the uncovered sofa in his apartments. Seeing his former commander from his military days dampened his joy at being home again, but only slightly.

  “It is good to see you, too,” Sir Barnabas said with that slight crook to his upper lip that could pass for a smile, but could also be interpreted as a smirk. Simon had never been able to read him well. Not like Daniel. But then, Daniel and Sir Barnabas had been lovers for years. Even a spy as gifted in subterfuge as Sir Barnabas couldn’t contain all his secrets in the throes of passion, Simon supposed. Or perhaps he could and he only let Daniel know what he wanted him to know.

  The rest of the furniture had been uncovered as well, although there was still an air of disuse about the room. Sir Barnabas had opened a window, but it remained miserably hot and stuffy. Simon sat down hard on his favorite chair and put a hand on his aching forehead. Dust motes flew into the air around him from the neglected, well-worn cushion. His apartment wasn’t palatial by any means, but it suited him well. Comfort meant more to him than status. It always had. It was why, of course, he had never pursued a career or played the market for longer than it took to make enough money to live satisfactorily, if not well. What use did he have for useless objects and closets of unworn clothes? He just needed rooms that weren’t drafty, a trusty stove, a soft mattress, and a fine jacket or two. All right, and several pairs of good boots. A man had priorities, didn’t he?

  Anyway, when he wanted gilt and fine furnishings he only had to go to Daniel’s, or Freddy’s, for heaven’s sake. After all, Freddy was a duke. Simon practically choked on the gold dust in the air at his ducal estate, Ashton Park.

  “Given yourself another headache with too much thinking again, have you?” Sir Barnabas asked with feigned concern. Simon didn’t need someone to interpret that for him.

  “You’d think you’d have some sympathy for a man in my condition,” Simon whined. He dropped his head back to rest on the chair.

  “What condition?” Sir Barnabas asked, crossing his legs.

  Simon lowered his hand and stared at Sir Barnabas incredulously. “Just released from forced captivity? Kidnapped by Barbary pirates?” he reminded him. “Beaten? Tortured?”

  “Hmm, tortured, were you?” Sir Barnabas said, his brow furrowing in what appeared to be real concern. “The cat o’nine? Fingernails all pulled out? The rack?” He leaned from side to side, observing Simon up and down. “You don’t look any taller.”

  “You should see the brand on my back,” Simon told him wearily. “I’m tired, Barnabas. I haven’t the energy or, frankly, the wits to play guessing games with you, so just tell me why you’re here.”

  “Did they really brand you?” Sir Barnabas asked, and this time the concern was unmistakable. Simon tipped his head to the side as he met the other man’s gaze and he was touched by what he saw there.

  “Yes, they did. And no, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I wasn’t going to take the blame,” Sir Barnabas said, surprise on his face. “I certainly didn’t tell them to kidnap or brand you. I’m very sorry it happened, however, as you were doing me a favor at the time.”

  “Most sympathetic human beings would feel a bit guilty about that,” Simon explained to him, rolling his eyes.

  “Would they?” Sir Barnabas said, mere curiosity in his tone. “How utterly foolish of them. Although I do find guilt a great motivator in my line of work.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Sir Barnabas was in charge of a shadowy department at the Home Office, although the favor that Simon had been doing for him had been personal. “How is Mrs. Jones?” he asked, using the pseudonym Barnabas had given to his lover when she came to work for him as his housekeeper and was trying to keep her identity a secret. She insisted on continuing to use the name for reasons known only to her, and Barnabas supposedly. Simon squirmed a bit, trying to get more comfortable. His back was hurting like the devil tonight after that carriage ride from the quay.

  “Brilliant, of course,” Sir Barnabas said with satisfaction. “She refuses to marry, naturally, either myself or Lord Wetherald. Considering her last husband was a treasonous abuser and whoremonger, I can’t blame her. We are content with our present arrangement.”

  Simon was surprised Sir Barnabas had revealed so much personal information, and it must have shown on his face. “As you said,” Barnabas told him, “you were kidnapped doing us a considerable favor in an effort to bring about the capture and ruin of her late, unlamented husband. If nothing else, I felt you deserved to know the results of your efforts.”

  “Ah, yes. Daniel told me that Lord Wetherald killed him. That must have hurt. I’m sure you wanted the satisfaction.”

  “Trust me, satisfaction was achieved.” The smile Sir Barnabas sent his way made it clear the double entendre was intentional. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Now?” Simon asked in confusion. “As in, right now? This moment? Sleep, I should think. The passage over was rough; my back is aching; Daniel, as you know, talks far too much, and he got shot again, so I haven’t gotten much sleep since I was rescued.” He put undue emphasis on the last word.

  “Yes, I heard about that,” Sir Barnabas said. This time Simon was quite sure it was a smirk and not a smile. “Harry is good in a fight, but he never did that sort of thing in the war.”

  “No, thank God,” Simon said, “or we’d all be dead and it’d be King Boney of England, wouldn’t it?” Sir Barnabas actually laughed. “Daniel had to spend more time rescuing Harry than rescuing me. Although Harry did dispatch his fair share of pirates, I’ll give him that. But he’s a battering ram when a lock pick would have been more efficient.”

  “Did you really blow up Menard’s compound?” Sir Barnabas asked. “Professional curiosity. I would be greatly obliged not to have to waste manpower on that particular threat anymore.”

  “Consider your manpower saved,” Simon said, waving his hand negligently. “I blew the power kegs meant for the mines. Menard and most of his minions are dead.”

  “Well done,” Sir Barnabas said, and Simon got that same thrill he used to get during the war when his superior praised him. He silently scolded
himself for being a ninny. He didn’t work for Sir Barnabas now.

  There was a loud knocking at the door and a flurry of activity as it was thrown wide. Several men Simon hadn’t noticed before materialized out of the shadows in the hallway, but Sir Barnabas waved them back as Mrs. Veronica Tarrant came bursting into Simon’s apartment.

  “You’re back!” she exclaimed as she flew across the room. Right before she threw her arms around him he saw a trail of people following her through the door. “We thought we’d never see you again!” she exclaimed tearfully. Everything Very said seemed to end in an exclamation point.

  “Simon, old man,” her husband, Wolf, said, offering his hand in greeting. Simon had to reach around Very to shake it since she wasn’t letting go. Simon and Wolf had worked together during the war, both of them spies in Sir Barnabas’s network.

  “Sir Barnabas,” Wolf said coolly, turning to the other man who was already at the door, hat and gloves in hand. Wolf had never forgiven Sir Barnabas for the things he’d done under Barnabas’s orders during the war. Sir Barnabas accepted his resentment with the stoicism peculiar to command, as if it was a requirement of his position to bear the blame for his men’s misdeeds.

  “Ladies,” Sir Barnabas said, bowing his head respectfully. “Mrs. Tarrant.”