by Zoë Archer
“These are blackmail payments,” Marco said.
Bertrand nodded. “Maslin paid. Until he decided to stop. Refused to give Les Grillons another sou.”
“So Les Grillons took the … pictures … to Maslin’s superiors,” Bronwyn concluded.
But Bertrand smirked. “Nothing to gain by actually carrying through with the threat. When they saw they weren’t going to get any more money out of him…” He drew his finger across his throat.
“They killed him?” Bronwyn asked, her voice thin and strained.
“Ambushed him when he went to one of those whores. Then threw his body into the river. It made the papers. Hold a moment.” Hauling himself up, Bertrand trundled into the bedroom and rifled around inside a wardrobe. He returned with a stack of yellowed newspapers bound with twine, and tossed the bundle toward Marco.
Untying the string, Marco thumbed through the newspapers, until he came to the one with this headline: GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL’S BODY DISCOVERED IN SEINE—ANARCHISTS SUSPECTED.
The article went on to detail how Maslin had been shot at point-blank range, and his disappearance was brought to the police within a day by his adoring wife.
“How … sordid.” Bronwyn shuddered.
“But exactly what we’re looking for,” Marco noted. “Our insurance against Les Grillons.”
“The police,” Bertrand said, lowering himself back into the chair that held the deep impression of his body, “they’ve been trying to build a case against Les Grillons. But they never have enough. Slippery bastards,” he muttered before taking another drink. Presumably he meant Les Grillons, not the police.
Marco turned to Bronwyn. “This ledger links Maslin’s death to Les Grillons. It’ll put two of their bosses in prison.”
“How?”
He pointed to names written in the margins: Reynard and Cluzet. “These names appear again and again, but they aren’t listed as payors. They’re the ones being paid.”
Her eyes narrowed. “If we take this ledger to the French police, it’ll be enough to at least imprison Reynard and Cluzet.”
At the mention of those names, Bertrand gave another snort. “Those sons of whores. The worst of them. If you can get either of them thrown behind bars, you’ll be sodding national heroes.”
“Don’t want to be a national hero.” Marco rose, and offered his hand to Bronwyn. It felt fitting and right, the slide of her palm against his as he helped her to stand. “I just want to get her money back.”
But the Nemesis operative in him couldn’t help but relish the thought of sending scum like Les Grillons to prison. Striking at these two men could be the key to his and Bronwyn’s safety. Provided, of course, that he succeeded.
TWELVE
It didn’t surprise Bronwyn that Bertrand was even less likely than Giovanni to be hospitable. Besides, she wasn’t certain she wanted to stay with that callous drunkard, even if he had more than one bed. So it was with some measure of gratitude that she and Marco left that infernal little set of rooms—ledger in hand, with promises to return it as soon as it had served its purpose—to find a pensione somewhere in town.
Once they’d located a small place to stay, they went up to their room. Bronwyn sat down on the bed, sighing. The day had been incredibly long and tiring, and despite her brief nap on the train, she ached with weariness.
“Stay here,” Marco directed as he headed toward the door. “Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
“Where are you going?”
“Running a quick errand. When I return, we’ll find somewhere to dine.”
She was too weary to demand more of an answer. Only yawned and nodded. He made it to the door before turning back and striding to her on the bed. He tipped up her chin, but instead of kissing her mouth, he kissed her forehead.
“You played Bertrand almost as well as your violin,” he murmured.
“You sound nearly proud of me,” she said sleepily.
“Don’t believe in feeling pride for someone else’s accomplishments,” he answered. “It takes away from them, makes their achievements mine, not theirs. But what you did … it was damn fine work.” In the lamplight, with his morning shave all but a memory, he was the picture of dangerous elegance.
“Sprezzatura,” she said. The word leaped into her mind suddenly.
He looked startled. “What?”
“I think that’s how you say it.” She rubbed at her eyes.
“It is. Why do you say it now?”
“Because”—she stifled another yawn—“it makes me think of you. I read it somewhere, an English translation of an Italian book.”
“Castiglione’s Il Cortegiano. The Book of the Courtier.”
“Yes … that’s right. The word means, damn, I’m too tired to think of what it means, but it made me think of you.”
“Studied carelessness.” His voice sounded odd, far away, his expression equally withdrawn.
“Right again.” She smiled at him, drunk with weariness. “To work very hard to make it seem as though you aren’t working hard at all. What was it that it said in that book? ‘To conceal all art and make whatever is done or said appear to be without effort.’” She tapped him in the center of his chest. “Like this. Like everything you do. You think I don’t know. But I do know.” She waggled her finger at him. “I. See. You. Marco … Whoever-You-Are.”
He pulled away. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes. And—”
“Don’t let anyone in who isn’t you. Yes, you said so already.”
With an abstracted look on his face, he left the room, locking the door behind him. She stared at the door for a minute, wondering what it was she’d said that had disturbed him so much. A small debate sallied back and forth in her brain as to whether or not she had the wherewithal to stand and splash some water on her face. But the pillows on the bed looked large and fluffy as clouds, and she was just so very tired. Perhaps if she closed her eyes for just one moment …
A second later, she opened her eyes. The room was dark now, and she lay in bed. Under the covers and undressed. How…?
A warm, solid form nestled close behind her, one masculine arm wrapped around her waist, the palm spread against her belly.
Marco. He must have come back to the room and found her asleep, then somehow managed to strip Bronwyn without waking her. Then gotten to bed himself and, if his breathing was any indicator, fallen asleep himself.
“Are you hungry?” he rumbled.
Of course he wasn’t actually sleeping. Or, if he had been, she’d woken him.
“Not enough to get out of bed,” she answered.
“Good. Because the shops are all closed and I’m not in the mood for breaking in anywhere.”
She smiled into the darkness. “Glad that I kept a crime wave from erupting in Montepulciano.”
“Oh,” he said, yawning, “I’d leave money behind.”
“Naturally.” Heaviness weighted her limbs. He felt so good—his body hot and concrete and lightly dusted with hair. A man’s body. Pressed snug against hers. Desire stirred … softly. She craved his intimate touch, but this was marvelous, too. It held another kind of intimacy, one she missed. In truth, had never actually known.
After their honeymoon, she and Hugh hadn’t shared a bed. When the mood was upon him, he’d visit her bedroom, and they’d make love. But she always fell asleep alone, always awakened alone.
Yet these past days, she’d fallen asleep and woken up with Marco. And while the lovemaking had been passionate and primal, it was these moments that wrapped themselves around her heart as well as her body.
Marco stirred behind her, pulling her closer. He was most definitely naked. And aroused.
Yet he didn’t do anything more than brush her hair aside from the nape of her neck and press a kiss there. “Sleep now,” he murmured. “We’ve got more long days ahead of us.”
“But you—”
“Sleep.”
As if obeying a mesmerist’s command, she did e
xactly that.
* * *
“I will be heartily glad not to see another train for a good long while.” Bronwyn didn’t like to complain, especially about things that couldn’t be changed. They’d taken a freight train again over the border from Italy to France, and switched to second-class compartments for the other legs of the voyage.
They didn’t speak of it, but they knew—now that they were back in France, the home of Les Grillons, spying eyes would be everywhere. Danger was heading their way, and more to come as she and Marco worked to retrieve her stolen fortune. They would have to tie the two Grillons operatives to the government man’s death.
As she and Marco disembarked in a small French town in order to change trains, she was quite ready to never board another coal-powered vehicle again. Until she had to return to England.
First, they had to reach Paris. And the train they planned on taking was due in fifteen minutes. Enough time to stretch their legs after hours and hours of travel.
“My bones are done with rattling,” he agreed. “Don’t plan on taking an assignment out of London for a few months.”
She cradled her violin case against her chest. It was only natural that he’d think of his next mission, just as she thought about going back to England. Eventually—soon, hopefully—all this would be over. She’d have her fortune back, and she and Marco might have an amorous liaison. One that would have a limited life span. Then he’d be gone from her life.
The thought sounded like a requiem, one she had no desire to play or hear.
This wasn’t just desire she felt for him. She … cared. Deeply.
It almost felt like …
Like love.
Her mind reared back from the thought. Not love itself. But to love him, a man who could shut her out so easily. Who already had one foot out the door. Could she allow herself to walk that path that surely led to heartbreak?
Did she have a choice?
“In fact, next time I—” He suddenly took hold of her arm and led her quickly down the platform. The absolute stillness of his expression meant only one thing: danger. Close at hand.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice pitched low.
“Two Les Grillons men. Don’t look back. We don’t want them knowing we know they’re following us.”
Cold fear clasped the back of her neck, but she kept walking. Their bags were still on the train platform, but that didn’t matter. To her surprise, Marco walked right past a gendarme.
“We could ask for help…”
But Marco shook his head. “They’ve surely already paid the local law to look the other way. Only thing we can do now is outrun them. Soon as we leave the station, they’ll know we’re on to them, so move fast.”
He hastened them down the steps of the station and led them into the outer edge of the town itself. The pair of footsteps behind them picked up their pace, as well.
“Ready to run?” Marco whispered. He threaded his hand with hers.
She nodded.
“Now.”
Then they were off, speeding down the narrow lanes of the town. They threaded their way past carts and pedestrians, men driving wagons and women carrying baskets. She heard cries of outrage behind them as the Grillons men collided with some unlucky passers-by.
A train whistle sounded.
“That’s ours,” she gasped as they continued to run. “We need to get back.”
“This isn’t a footrace to our train,” he said, leading them down an alley. “The Grillons men will do anything to keep us from getting on. We’re running as far as we need until we’ve got a good spot to turn and fight.”
A chill swept down her sweat-slicked back.
“But—”
“No talk. Just run.”
To her surprise, he took them through one of the gates of what had been the medieval wall surrounding the town. It opened onto a dirt path, and farmland. Beyond the fields, she could just make out the train track leading north to Paris. Hayrolls were scattered around the field. Marco ran straight for one of them. There was a cart also in the field, but for some reason, Marco seemed to reject that as a place of cover. They had fifty feet of open ground to traverse before reaching the first hayroll.
She gasped but didn’t slow when the first shot rang out. The ground just to the side of them exploded in a small hail of dirt.
Dear God, she was being shot at.
It seemed an eternity, but she and Marco finally reached the hayroll. At which point, he pushed her into a crouch behind it, then crouched down himself. Her heart thudded even harder when he pulled out his gun and took aim at the pursuing Grillons assassins.
Another whine and small explosion of dirt as one of the Grillons men fired. She winced and pressed close to the tightly packed hay. When a moment had passed, she peered out from behind the hayroll to see that the Grillons assassins had tipped over the cart and were using that as their shelter in between shots.
But Marco didn’t shoot back. He seemed to be waiting for something. Then she realized—their bags were back at the train station, and that likely meant that most, if not all, of Marco’s ammunition was in his gun. She counted the chambers in the cylinder of his weapon. He had five shots total, if he wasn’t carrying any bullets in his pockets.
Every one of his bullets were going to have to count.
He waited until a Grillons thug fired, then Marco shot back. Judging by the curse in French, Marco’s aim had been very good—but not quite good enough as two sets of bullets were discharged from the Grillons’ guns.
Four bullets left in Marco’s weapon.
She didn’t have a gun of her own—and wouldn’t know how to fire it anyway, never having had any experience with firearms in her life. And she doubted, even in these circumstances, if she could actually shoot at another human being. But there had to be something she could do.
Her gaze fell on an empty bottle lying in the hayroll’s shadow. The remains of some farmer’s lunch, no doubt. She grabbed the bottle, not entirely certain what she planned to do with it. Impossible to sneak around behind the Grillons thugs and hit them with the bottle—she didn’t have enough cover, and would likely be riddled with bullets halfway before she reached the men.
Yet there was some way to use the bottle …
She waited for a pause in the assassins’ shots, then poked out just enough from behind the hayroll to throw the bottle up into the air.
Just as she’d hoped, one of the killers thought she and Marco were attacking. The man broke cover and shot the bottle as it arced in the air—leaving himself exposed.
Marco fired. His bullet pierced the assassin’s chest. The thug went down before the last pieces of broken glass hit the ground.
Both she and Marco retreated behind the hayroll. While illness clogged her throat at seeing another man killed, logically she understood that if the thug hadn’t been brought down, he would’ve killed both her and Marco. It was a difficult rationalization, but she clung to it in the midst of terror.
Marco nodded at her.
Another train whistle sounded. It would be leaving for Paris in just a moment. Yet she and Marco were still pinned down by the other Grillons assassin, who fired now with greater speed.
She looked around for something else to throw at the thug and serve as a distraction. But a handful of hay wasn’t going to do much.
Down the slope of the field, the train started to leave the station, slowly at first. Soon, it would pick up speed.
She watched as Marco shot once at the remaining Grillons assassin. And as soon as the man returned fire, Marco let off another round. The man screamed.
“Time to run again,” Marco said. He grabbed hold of her hand once more, and together, they ran down the field toward the train tracks leading out of town.
She jumped when more bullets whizzed past. A glance back revealed the Grillons thug kneeling on the ground, one hand clutching his wounded thigh, and the other pointing his gun at them as they fled.
Tuckin
g her violin case under her arm snugly, she ran full out toward the tracks. She tore her hand out of Marco’s grasp to pull up her skirts and give herself more freedom of movement. She ran faster over the fields, Marco just steps ahead of her. More gunfire exploded.
None of the enemy’s bullets hit. Yet she didn’t feel comfortable until they finally reached the low fence between the farm and the tracks. Marco leaped the fence and helped her over just as the train began to gain speed. Marco jumped up onto the small platform between cars, then pulled her up.
She bent over, gasping, but lifted her head enough to see the field vanish, leaving one dead and one wounded Grillons assassin behind.
He guided her into the seating compartment, tucking his gun away. They received some curious looks from the other passengers, what with both she and Marco panting and windblown, and probably smelling of gunpowder. She didn’t care. They’d gotten away. For now.
“It isn’t going to stop, is it?” she asked once they sat.
He didn’t insult her by telling her everything was going to be fine, or feed her some other palliatives. Instead, he said, “Not until the job is done.”
The fuse, which had been lit long ago, was burning lower and lower. Until the inevitable explosion. She had to wonder if she and Marco would be safe, or if they’d be caught in the blast.
* * *
Odd to be back in Paris again. It felt as though she’d been gone for an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than a few days. Yet while the city was as glamorous and grimy as ever, everything had changed.
The last time she’d arrived in Paris, a powerful crime syndicate hadn’t wanted her dead. Now danger crept in every shadow, in each alley, in every sudden movement she caught from the corner of her eye. She’d thought she’d entered a new world with Nemesis, but this was far beyond even that. Her only constants were her violin and Marco.
But he, too, unbalanced her. Now they were more than client and Nemesis agent. They were lovers for now, and perhaps when they returned to London. And they were something else—though what, exactly, they were to each other, she couldn’t fathom.
And her heart, her traitorous heart, that murmured to her of feelings he couldn’t reciprocate.
