Ransomed Jewels

by Laura Landon

  She crawled to the nearest chair and somehow managed to get to her feet. Her left arm was of no use. She had to hold on to the arm of the chair with her right hand to steady herself, but she refused to let the pain control her. She turned her head and watched the Russian frantically rummage through the desk drawers. She knew he didn’t have any better chance of finding the necklace than she. And she’d had four months since Hunt’s death to search for it.

  As if realizing the necklace wasn’t there, he threw an empty drawer against the wall. Claire saw the wild look of fury in his eyes as the first thud pounded against the door. The Russian reached for the knife at his waist as if debating whether or not to take the time to kill her, then dropped his hand and darted toward the doors that led out onto the terrace.

  Claire stumbled to the desk and searched frantically beneath the strewn papers for the pistol. She couldn’t let him escape. The intruder was her only link to Alex.

  She found the pistol before he reached the door. Using every ounce of energy she had left, she lifted the gun and turned to face him. Then stopped short. The Russian glared at her with a malevolent gleam in his eyes and a raised pistol in his own hand.

  Before either of them could pull their triggers, the door behind her crashed open. A loud, booming explosion rent the air.

  The Russian stopped, his eyes wide with surprise, then she heard his last gasp of air before he fell to the floor.

  Claire sank to her knees as her legs gave out beneath her. Blood streamed down her arm, dripping from her fingers onto the gray-and-rose Turkish carpet. Hot, fiery waves of pain assaulted her, and she closed her eyes against the burning agony. When she could no longer stand the pain, she crumpled to the floor.

  Hunt’s handsome face appeared in her mind’s eye, his noble features, the sparking humor in his eyes, his ever-ready smile. Suddenly Claire was angrier than she’d been since the day they’d brought his lifeless body home. He’d left her to face this alone. To face his deception and the risks that came with a mission she still didn’t understand.

  He didn’t think she knew what he was. But she wasn’t a fool. She’d known for years that he was a spy. She’d lived with his deep devotion to his country and fellow Englishmen since they’d married. His commitment to everyone but her.

  Claire listened to the strangely distant sounds around her. With each passing second, she felt further and further removed from what was happening. Until a deep, demanding voice pulled her back from the quiet place where she’d been going.

  “Lady Huntingdon?” he said, his hand covering hers reassuringly. “It’s over. You’re safe now.”

  Claire thought she should react with some emotion. Wasn’t that normal for people when a horror was at an end? But she couldn’t. She couldn’t feel relief or make an effort to open her swollen eyes. And she wasn’t sure this horror would ever end. Roseneau had Alex and the only person who knew where they’d taken him was dead.

  “Honeywell!” the man yelled, and a second man appeared. “Hold this light. I need to see how badly she’s hurt.”

  The man called Honeywell lifted the lantern and the other man pulled at her bloody gown.

  “Ah, hell, Major,” the man called Honeywell whispered. “Look what the bastard did to her.”

  Claire wanted to turn her face from them but didn’t have the strength. Instead she kept her gaze focused on the man hovering over her. The man who gently brushed her hair back from her face. The man who softly pressed a wet cloth someone handed him to her cheek and made the pain seem bearable.

  She’d never seen him before. She was certain she’d remember if she had. His hair was dark and his eyes the color of worn silver. He wore the look of intelligence and command. Claire wondered how he’d gotten there.

  “I’ve got to move you. It’s going to hurt.”

  His words registered in bits and pieces, but not fast enough to prepare her for the pain. She sucked in a deep breath when he gently picked her up. She tried to be brave, but the pain was too great. A loud moan echoed inside her head and she knew he’d heard it, too.

  “Get me some cloths,” he said to the servants who’d gathered in the doorway. “And some water and salve and bandages. And get her room ready upstairs. Now!”

  The servants scattered to do his bidding.

  “Honeywell,” he said, issuing orders as he carried her out of the room and up the stairs, “see if he has any papers on him. Anything to identify him.”

  The man, Honeywell, left them and came back before they’d reached the upstairs landing. “He’s Russian, Major.”

  Claire saw the muscles at the major’s jaw clench. “Get rid of him.”

  “Yes, sir. Where do you want me to take him?”

  “I don’t care. Someplace where no one is likely to find him.”

  “Right, Major.”

  “Then find Bronnely and tell him to get over here. Fast.”

  The man nodded and disappeared. The major carried her down the hallway and into her room, where a servant stood outside the door.

  “Who . . . are . . . you?”

  “Major Samuel Bennett,” he replied, his face grim. “Your husband and I were . . . friends.”

  “You’re . . . a spy,” she whispered, ignoring the arch of his brows and the dark look in his eyes.

  “How did he get in?” the man asked.

  “The . . . roof.”

  Claire thought she spied a flash of guilt before he masked it.

  The major laid her on the bed and rinsed out a cloth, then placed it on her face. The cool wetness against her burning flesh was a jolt and she sucked in a quick breath.

  “Lie still. You’re still bleeding.”

  Claire shivered; he reached for an extra blanket and put it over her. She felt its warmth almost immediately but still couldn’t seem to stop trembling. She closed her eyes and shuddered. When she opened them again, Tilly, one of the upstairs maids, was there with a fresh basin of water.

  “Maude’s on her way up,” the trembling maid announced.

  “Who’s Maude?” he asked the maid before she left the room.

  “The mistress’s old nurse. She sleeps in a room off the kitchen,” the maid said, then left the room.

  The major brushed back a strand of hair from Claire’s forehead and pressed a cloth against the cut on her shoulder.

  “Your face is bruising already. I’m afraid you’re going to be sore for a long time.” He lifted the cloth from her shoulder and placed another one on the cut. “The Russian came for the necklace,” he said, as if to inform her he knew about the necklace, too.

  He kept his gaze on her, the hostile look in his eyes as rigid and unyielding as his military stance. His words were soft and gentle, but what they implied was anything but.

  He leaned down over her. His movement brought the sharp, chiseled planes of his face closer to her. The steel gray of his eyes was frigid, his look harsh and removed. An unmistakable warning pelted her with a fresh wave of pain and she sucked in a breath.

  “They won’t give up until they have it back.”

  Claire closed her eyes to block out the pain, and the truth of the major’s words.

  This wouldn’t end . . . until they’d killed her, too.

  Chapter 2

  Sam brushed back a strand of golden hair that had fallen over her forehead and placed another cool cloth against her cheek. He thought maybe she’d lost consciousness, and secretly hoped she had. The less she remembered of this night, the better.

  She was paler than when he’d first found her, and the grimace on her face indicated she was in pain. The sticky wetness seeping through the makeshift bandage on her shoulder told him she was still bleeding, although not as badly.

  A twinge of guilt touched him when he saw what the Russian had done to her, but it didn’t stay long. Only long enough for him to admit that some of what she’d suffered was his fault. He should have anticipated the Russian would climb in from the roof. But he hadn’t. He’d expected to catch t
he bastard before any harm came to her. Unfortunately, he hadn’t realized his mistake until he’d heard the gunshot.

  The shuffling of aged feet tore his attention to the door. A plump, gray-haired woman in a thick, quilted wrapper rushed into the room. It was impossible to determine her age, but her eyes were sharp and her movements spry.

  “My lady,” she said as she moved from the door, fussing with the practice of a woman who’d taken care of Lady Huntingdon in her youth. “What has happened—?”

  The woman’s wrinkled hands covered her mouth the minute she saw her mistress’s blood-soaked gown and bruised face. “Ah, sweetling,” she whispered, wringing out a fresh cloth and placing it on Lady Huntingdon’s face.

  “Maude?” Claire whispered.

  “Yes, my lady. I’m right here. Maudie will take care of you now. There’s naught to fear.”

  Sam glanced over his shoulder to where the butler stood. “What’s your name?”

  “Watkins, Major.”

  “Watkins, get a bottle of brandy and bring it up. Then go back down and wait for the doctor to come.”

  The butler darted from the room and came back with a bottle. After he handed it to Sam, he left to wait for the doctor.

  Sam poured a small amount of the brandy into a glass, then lifted Lady Huntingdon’s head and held the glass to her lips. She hesitated a moment, and he knew she wanted to refuse. He also saw she was desperate for anything that might ease the pain. She took a small sip.

  “Drink some more of it,” he urged, but she shook her head and turned away from him.

  Sam wanted to argue with her, but the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall stopped him.

  “The doctor’s here, Major,” Watkins announced, ushering the surgeon into the room.

  Sam cast a glance over his shoulder as his longtime friend and fellow agent entered.

  Silas Bronnely’s hair was still slightly disheveled and the buttons of his waistcoat not all fastened, indicating Honeywell had roused him from his bed and not given him much time to dress.

  “What trouble have you gotten yourself into, Sam?” he said as he crossed the bedroom floor, his long, gangly legs covering the distance in few steps. “Honeywell said you have someone that needs my—”

  Bronnely stopped short, his gaze darting from the bed to Sam’s face, then back to the bed. “Well, well,” he said to Lady Huntingdon. “Well, my lady. You look as if you’ve gotten yourself in a bit of a fix.”

  “A . . . bit,” she answered on a gasp, her eyes wary.

  “Don’t worry about talking just yet, my lady. You have nothing so important that has to be said this minute.”

  Sam watched her face as her gaze lifted to his, and he felt a stab of something close to anger. Bronnely didn’t realize the lady had something very important to say.

  Bronnely turned her head to the side to check the knife cuts on her neck, then pushed aside her bloody gown to look at her shoulder and arm. “Whoever got a hold of you was quite handy with his knife. I’m going to have to put in a few stitches. But if I do my best needlework, I can almost guarantee, in time, no one will ever notice.”

  Sam took in the serious frown on Bronnely’s face as he studied the long ragged gash across her flesh and knew it would take more than a few stitches. A hell of a lot more.

  Bronnely straightened, then reached into his bag and handed Sam a small brown bottle of laudanum. “Put a few drops in a glass and fill it half full with wine.”

  Watkins rushed from the room again and came back with a decanter of wine. Sam filled the glass as Bronnely had instructed, then handed it to him.

  “Major,” Bronnely said without looking at Sam. He was busy cleaning the wounds as he prepared to sew her flesh together. “Why don’t you leave us for a while? We can take care of this, can’t we?” He looked at the servant.

  “Maude. My name’s Maude. And of course, doctor,” Maude said, rinsing more cloths in the fresh water one of the maids had brought up. “I’ve taken good care of the mistress from the day she was born.”

  “Just leave that glass,” Bronnely said, holding out his hand to Sam. Sam handed it over. “We’ll call you when we’re finished.”

  Sam watched Bronnely lift Lady Huntingdon’s head and put the glass to her lips; then he turned his back and walked to the door. “Here,” he heard his friend tell her. “Drink some of this. It will help with the pain.”

  Sam waited to make sure she followed Silas’s order, then froze with his hand on the knob when he heard her weak answer.

  “No.”

  He spun to face her. Their gazes locked, and he saw the pain in her eyes. Her face was void of all color except the deep purple bruises growing darker by the second, and a thin film of perspiration that dotted her forehead. Her defiance was unmistakable.

  “Drink it,” Sam ordered, as if he had the power to make her obey his command.

  “I don’t . . . need . . . it.”

  “The hell you don’t. I said, drink it.”

  Her eyes brimmed with pain and still she issued him a challenge she should not have been strong enough to muster.

  “I’ll not make it . . . that easy for you . . . Major. I know why you’re . . . here. I know what you . . . want.”

  He glared at her with all the anger he’d felt since he’d held Hunt’s lifeless body in his arms, and realized that one of the reasons his friend had taken the necklace was because of his infatuation for this woman.

  What kind of woman was she that she could bewitch a man as honorable as the Marquess of Huntingdon into betraying his principles and stealing a fortune in jewels to buy her love? What kind of woman could contemplate keeping the necklace that had cost her husband his life?

  Only one without a conscience or a shred of decency.

  “As you wish, my lady. Far be it from me to force an unfair advantage.”

  Bronnely gave him a warning look over his shoulder. “Major, why don’t you leave now so I can attend Lady . . . ?”

  “I’m sorry, Bronnely,” Sam said, casting a glance to the doctor. “How remiss of me. Allow me to present Lady Huntingdon. The Marquess of Huntingdon’s widow. Please do your best to help her so she’ll be healthy enough to face the hangman’s noose.”

  Without another glance at her, he opened the door and left the room.

  Chapter 3

  Sam stood in the large, masculine study that once belonged to the Marquess of Huntingdon, keeping his gaze focused on the deserted street from the window. For more than a week, he and Honeywell had taken turns watching Hunt’s town house.

  Sam had secretly hoped Roseneau would come to get the necklace himself, and Sam could catch him. But that hadn’t happened. In fact, no one had heard from Roseneau in the four months since Hunt had been killed, which meant Roseneau was still in hiding. But time was running out, and he had to make his move soon.

  So did the Russians.

  They only had weeks left. Sevastopol was in jeopardy of falling, and representatives from Britain and France were to meet informally to discuss the terms for the conclusion of a war that had gone on far too long. The necklace was a key negotiating tool. It was possible that the British negotiators could use it to convince the Russians to bring about a quicker end to the war. Tsar Nicholas was dead, and his son, Alexander I, was less inclined to continue a war that was increasingly unpopular. The offer to return the necklace might be the one advantage that would tip the balance in favor of declaring peace.

  But Sam knew Roseneau would do everything in his power to get the necklace first. The only chance he had of getting out of this alive was to bargain for his life in exchange for the necklace.

  And there were, of course, the papers that were hidden inside the pouch.

  Sam swiped his hand across his jaw. He wouldn’t let Hunt’s sacrifice be for naught. He wouldn’t let one hint of dishonor tarnish his name.

  Sam rolled his shoulder, still stiff from the bullets he’d taken the night Hunt had died. He’d nearly died, too.
He should have. Even Bronnely thought he wouldn’t live, but Sam knew he had no choice. He’d vowed over Hunt’s lifeless body to avenge his friend’s death. Even the raging fever that had set in just days after Bronnely had dug the bullets out of his flesh couldn’t stop him from his promise to get the necklace from Hunt’s widow.

  He thought of the woman upstairs. The woman Hunt had loved so much he’d betrayed every principle by which he’d lived. And a small part of him wanted to make her suffer for the price her husband had paid to keep her love.

  He braced his hands on either side of the paned window and listened.

  Although it hadn’t been that long, it seemed like hours since Bronnely had started to work on her. Only in the last fifteen minutes or so had it been deathly quiet. Sam prayed Bronnely was finally finished.

  He threw the remaining liquor down his throat and braced his hands again, then hung his head between his outstretched arms. A feeling of dread caused the minutes to stretch by in agonizing slowness. Bronnely should have been down long ago. How much time did it take to put in stitches?

  Sam refilled his glass, then stared back out through the window into the darkness. He’d give him another five minutes and then he’d . . .

  Sam released a steady breath. He knew the instant Bronnely entered the room. A surprising surge of relief washed through him, but he tamped it down. “Are you finished?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  Bronnely walked to the sideboard and filled a glass with brandy. “It could have gone easier.” He took a long swallow, then sank down on the burgundy settee against the wall. “She refused to take the laudanum.”

  “That was her choice.”

  “Because you forced it. She doesn’t trust you, Sam.”

  “Then I’ll give her credit for not being a fool.”

  Bronnely rubbed his temples, then closed his eyes and dropped his head against the back of the settee. “She was in an immense amount of pain.”

  “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, it isn’t working.”

  “I thought for a moment we might lose her. She was weak enough before this happened.”