by Hatch, Donna
Christian moved to Genevieve where she’d sprawled on a wingback chair. In sleep, her head lolled to one side, her face serene, her dark lashes kissing the smooth ivory skin of her cheek. Even with her hair flattened out by the man’s hat and with strands that had worked loose from her chignon to lay in disarray, she was lovely. His fingers itched to touch her face. Emotions that he’d locked away when she’d left him pounded on the door to his heart, demanding to be set free. At that moment, he couldn’t remember why letting them out to run their course would be wrong. She sighed in her sleep and her hand twitched. He really ought to wake her and get her to bed rather than let her sleep in such an uncomfortable position.
He touched her arm and whispered, “Jen.”
She stirred and blinked up at him. “Is it morning already?”
He whispered, “No. Go sleep on the bed.”
“Mmhmm.” She yawned but made no move, and within seconds, her eyes fluttered closed again and her breath deepened.
She looked so small and vulnerable that his heart squeezed. “Jen.”
She stirred, but this time, didn’t wake. He should leave her there. He shouldn’t touch her. Each time he did, he risked opening up his heart to her and releasing all those old feelings. But if she stayed in that position, she’d be stiff and sore in the morning. Besides, he wanted to hold her, if for but a moment.
Sliding his hands under her, he carefully lifted her into his arms. She snuggled in against him. He carried her to the bed and lay her next to Rachel.
Her eyes fluttered and she caught his hand. “I love you,” she murmured. “Always loved you…” She snuggled into her pillows and slipped into the rhythmic breathing of a deep sleeper, her face serene.
Christian stood with fists clenched. His world tilted and he struggled to find his place in it. She loved him. He fought to bring air into the void in his lungs. She loved him. The locked door in his heart burst open and all the passion, protectiveness, and love he’d ever felt for her came pouring out like an ocean wave.
She loved him.
And he loved her. He’d always loved her.
He’d get to the bottom of whatever had coerced her into marrying Wickburgh and find a way to free her. Most of all, he’d make sure Wickburgh got what he deserved.
Christian lay in front of the window, tensing at every sound. But no one molested them. He finally slept.
When they left at first light, Rachel sidled her horse up to his. “What are you planning on doing in London?”
“Let a house where she’ll be safe and hire a garrison of men to help me protect her.”
“That’s not a permanent solution.”
He said nothing.
Rachel searched his face and drew in her breath sharply. “You’re going to challenge him, aren’t you?”
He glanced back at Genevieve next to Harrison. She rode with her head bowed, her eyes shadowed with lack of sleep. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. But I’m not convinced it was I who was his target. I think he was shooting at her.”
“Why? Doesn’t he want her back?”
“I think he’s realized he’s lost her. And he’s decided that if he can’t have her, he won’t let anyone else have her, either. If he wants me dead, it would only be to torture her first.”
“He knows about you two, then?”
“He knows we were all but engaged in Bath. He must have assumed she came to me when she left him and knew to follow us.”
“Chris, I know you and Grant are barely on speaking terms ….”
He tensed, anticipating her next words.
“… but I really think you should ask for his help.”
He shook his head. The idea of asking Grant for anything made him want to smash something. “I can protect her. And I’ll hire help. I know men whom I can trust.”
“Grant has contacts in the underworld and he may already know of a safe place where she can stay. It will take time for you to find help, but he can get men together on a moment’s notice.”
“No, Rachel. I am not asking that churlish, earth-vexing cretin—”
“Not even to protect her?”
Every nerve in his body skidded to a stop. Protecting Genevieve was more important than anything. But he could keep her safe. He didn’t need help from Grant.
“He’s the best, you know he is,” Rachel said softly. “And despite all that’s passed between you, you managed to work together to save Jared. Won’t you work together again?”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He didn’t dare risk both Rachel’s and Genevieve’s safety merely to spare his pride. Rachel was right; Grant had so many contacts that he could probably raise a small army in an hour. Christian should know better than to cause delays that might risk their lives because of his bone-deep animosity toward Grant. Perhaps he should enlist Grant’s help.
But could he trust Grant? He dabbled so much on the wrong side of the law, not to mention his already dark nature, that he might have become the kind of criminal he helped track down. Add to the mix how much Grant and Christian despised each other, and he wasn’t sure Grant wouldn’t just as soon put a knife in Christian’s back or hurt Genevieve just to spite him.
No, that was unfair. Grant and Christian had worked together to help Jared only a few weeks ago. Ultimately, it was Grant’s final intervention that saved Jared more so than Christian’s. Moreover, his sisters and his sisters-in-law seemed to trust Grant, and Christian had learned long ago to trust feminine intuition. He couldn’t really believe Grant would hurt any woman, despite his grumbles about the worthlessness of the fairer sex. Nor did he truly think Grant meant Christian any real harm. At least, not anymore.
He gritted his teeth and made up his mind.
“Very well,” he said to Rachel. “I’ll send word to Grant the moment we arrive in town.”
She nodded, satisfied and slowed a bit to ride next to Genevieve.
Christian let out his breath slowly, vowing to set aside his life-long feud with Grant. Protecting Genevieve was worth any cost.
CHAPTER 20
Christian paced in a private sitting room of the Nerot’s Hotel in London. Grant’s reply had promised he’d meet Christian at the hotel at five o’clock that afternoon. Though Grant was not technically late, it irked Christian to wait. But then, almost anything involving his brother irked him. Grant seemed to bring out the ire in most people. It might be Grant’s smug superiority. Or his lack of a heart.
The mantle clock ticked, each second an invisible predator watching for a moment to strike out at Genevieve. The carpeted floors muffled his footsteps as he paced. He paused, his gaze resting on a rather good oil painting. Christian noted the techniques used, criticized the lighting, and then resumed his pacing. Filtered sunlight slanted in through the lace curtains at the windows where dust motes twirled. Where the devil was Grant?
Genevieve and Rachel slept upstairs, guarded only by Harrison. Every minute Christian waited downstairs left them vulnerable with only one man to guard them from Wickburgh. He glanced at the clock again. His brother was now two minutes late. It was just like Grant to torment him even now when the situation was so grave. Christian rubbed his hands over his face, the stubble on his unshaven jaw making a scraping noise. Fatigue taxed his patience. Each second, Christian’s ire rose until he thought he’d explode.
Christian turned to glare at the door and then jumped. Grant stood in the doorway, utterly still, wearing that familiar, taunting expression that shouted he scorned everything about Christian.
“I hate when you sneak up on me like that,” Christian grumbled.
Grant eyed him. “You look terrible.”
Christian let out a weighty breath. “No doubt. We rode hard.”
“If you’re worried about security, you should be; even dressed like this, I got in without trying.”
“It’s a hotel, you fool, not a secured house.”
Still, Christian chilled at the thought. All in black and cut from cheap cloth,
Grant’s clothes were more fitting for chasing footpads and cutthroats in the seedier parts of London than calling upon family in a respectable hotel. The long, ragged scar down the side of Grant’s face only added to his fearsome appearance. All he needed was an eye patch to make a convincing pirate. And Grant was right; if a man dressed like a thug got in, surely Wickburgh or his lapdogs could, too.
“That’s why I asked you to come,” Christian said. “I need a safe place and some guards.”
“How kind of you to bestow your righteous presence upon me. Decided to associate with the devil today, did you?” Grant taunted.
“No, just his favorite minion,” Christian shot back, his temper rising. Why had he thought asking for Grant’s help would be a good idea?
“Flatterer.”
“There’s something terribly wrong with you. Besides your taste.”
Grant looked bored. “Oh, a fashion insult. I’m wounded. Truly.”
“Are you going to help me or not?” Christian snarled.
Grant snapped into business form. “I am. Three of the best have agreed to guard her. I assured them you’d be most generous.”
Christian waved away the cost. “Of course. But it will need to be round the clock.”
“Which is why I’ve hired three.”
“And I’ll be with her constantly.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Constantly?”
“Well, no, not at night.” Heat rose up Christian’s neck.
“No, of course not. Not you.”
Christian glowered at the inferred insult regarding his purity. Grant knew nothing about him, but Christian wasn’t about to enlighten him. “She’s a lady,” he ground out.
“Uh-huh.”
“And she’s married.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I am not having this discussion with you!”
“What discussion?”
Christian let out a sound of exasperation. “How soon can your men come?”
“They await you in the foyer.”
Christian cursed him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
One corner of Grant’s mouth twitched in suppressed amusement, or at least as close to amusement as Grant ever got. Tormenting younger brothers seemed the only thing Grant found amusing.
“Perhaps you should tell me the whole story rather than the cryptic message you sent me.” Grant poured himself a drink and gestured to a chair.
Christian sat, too weary to argue. With a glass in his hand, Grant sat across from him and studied him with a disconcertingly piercing manner.
Beginning with seeing Genevieve throw herself into the river, and ending with their arrival in London, Christian told him the tale. Grant listened without expression or comment until Christian finished with, “… we came here to find a place where she can be secure until I can deal with Wickburgh.”
“So, despite the news of her death in the papers, Lady Wickburgh is alive and in hiding.”
Christian paused. “Her death was in the newspapers?”
“Only last week. Apparently, they had enough evidence that she perished in a river near Castle Tarrington to declare her dead.”
Christian turned over the implications. “He decided to announced her death only after he learned she was with Rachel and me.” Which meant, Wickburgh had nothing to lose by killing her. He rubbed his hands over his face. He’d have to act quickly to save her.
Grant’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Where is she now?”
“Upstairs with Rachel.”
Grant straightened. “You dragged Rachel into this?”
As his fatigue and tension sapped his control, Christian fought to keep from shouting. “What do you think I should have done? Leave her all alone in that cottage? Wickburgh might have gone after Rachel out of revenge.”
The brow quirked again, and a light of approval shone in Grant’s cold, gray eyes. Christian almost choked. Approval? That had to be a first.
Grant’s mouth lifted up on one corner. “I didn’t suspect you capable of guessing what a dangerous man might do in retaliation.”
“Yes, yes, I know; you think me too stupid to have considered it.”
“Not stupid. Just naïve.” His condescending tone twisted Christian stomach.
Christian glowered at him. “You know nothing about me.”
“If he’s that dangerous, do you want me to kill him and be done with it?”
Christian choked at Grant’s flat tone. He was serious. “What the devil …? No, Grant. You can’t just kill him, sorely as I’m tempted. And yes, I’m very, very tempted.”
“It would solve everyone’s problem.”
Slowly, Christian shook his head in disbelief. “You are a scary, scary man.”
“Thank you.”
“Besides, he’s a peer. One can’t go about murdering peers without attracting attention.”
“He sounds like something that lives under a rock.”
“That’s far too flattering for what he is.”
Grant turned thoughtful. “This all started a year ago … is he responsible for the scar?” He tapped his temple and made a loose gesture to Christian’s face.
Christian touched the mark on his own temple. “He hired some ruffians to give me a warning. One stuck a knife in my ribs and they left me for dead.”
Grant swore and made a reference to Wickburgh’s questionable parentage. The idea that Grant would be angry for his sake left Christian off balanced. They fell silent and Christian almost wished he could follow Grant’s idea of simply killing Wickburgh; Genevieve would be safe. He shivered, appalled at himself for having even considered murder. Of course, it wouldn’t be murder if he followed the Gentleman’s code and dueled him. Wickburgh might simply refuse, of course, but if he called him out in a public place, say White’s, he’d have witnesses and Wickburgh would be branded a coward if he refused.
Grant watched him. “I could make the murder look like a robbery.”
Christian gaped at him.
Grant laughed darkly. “You actually thought I was in earnest.”
“I’ve never pretended to understand you. I always assume you’re evil personified. It simplifies everything.”
“Indeed.” He smirked and Christian braced himself for whatever was coming. “It is rather delicious that the ‘perfectly perfect Christian’ has fallen for a married woman. Of us all, you are the last one I expected to be contemplating adultery.”
Christian growled, “Are you finished interrogating me? I’d like to meet your fellow cutthroats.”
“One’s a Bow Street Runner. The other two are retired Marines.”
“Do you know of a place where she can stay where she can be protected?”
Grant nodded slowly. “I’m surprised you didn’t take her to Tarrington House when you arrived in London.”
“If the husband knows she’s with us, he’ll easily learn where our properties are located.”
Grant lifted a brow. “Astute of you, I must say.”
He ground his teeth at the constant barbs Grant threw at him. Grant watched him with that penetrating stare that used to make Christian squirm. At the moment, he was too tired to care. Or simply immune after a lifetime of Grant’s onslaughts.
“Yes, I know of a few places. I’ll make the arrangements.” He rose and gestured for Christian to follow.
In the foyer outside the sitting room, three men stood silently. Two looked like pugilists. The third was leaner, taller, but equally formidable. Christian’s step faltered as he recognized the taller one. Connor Jackson, a Bow Street Runner. Christian had encountered him a few years ago. He exchanged a brief nod with Jackson. All three men carried enough visible guns and knives to arm a small military regiment.
“Christian Amesbury, meet Connor Jackson, Sean McCullen, and John Barrow.”
Christian inclined his head in greeting and motioned to them to enter the sitting room. Once they entered, he closed the door.
Grant began briefing them. “Your charge is Lad
y Wickburgh. Her husband is ruthless, cunning, and resourceful, and wants her dead. He’s already told the world she’s dead, so he has nothing to lose by killing her. You are not to allow anyone to approach her unless my brother or I give approval. We’ll divide up time to be on guard while she’s here. But when she leaves the premises, at least two of us will accompany her at all times. And we must assume anyone with her is also a target.”
As the others nodded, Christian asked, “How soon can we secure the house?”
Grant’s silver gaze flicked to him. “We can move her tonight once I’ve finalized the arrangements. You rest.”
Christian stared at the rare gesture of humanity from the brother who’d always hated him. Too tired to needle Grant about it, he nodded and led the guards upstairs.
In the corridor, he gestured to Genevieve and Rachel’s room. “Lady Wickburgh and my sister are in there.”
Jackson took up post outside the door and gave Christian a reassuring nod. McCullen and Barrow disappeared in opposite directions down the corridor.
Christian stepped closer to the Runner and lowered his voice. “I didn’t know you were back in England or I would have asked for your help directly.”
Jackson glanced at Grant as if to say Christian was right to send for Grant. “I’m here now.”
“I have a special assignment for you.”
Jackson raised his brows.
“Find a replacement for this position and get hired on as one of Lord Wickburgh’s bully-boys. Wickburgh is bound to show up in London sooner or later, and when he does, I want you already in place.”
Jackson nodded slowly. “Word on the street is that he hires pugilists and former military men.”
“You’ll be perfect, then.”
Jackson glanced behind Christian at Grant briefly before his gaze returned to Christian. “I know someone who can take my place. I’ll send word to him and then apply for employment as a Wickburgh thug.”
