Surrender (The Spymaster's Men)

by Brenda Joyce

  He jerked his arm away from her, his gaze hard, meeting hers. “It isn’t safe,” he warned.

  He was crumbling! “I did not even think that you would still go to France today,” she whispered. “Not after last night.”

  He looked away grimly.

  What did his silence mean? But she knew his resistance was easing. “I will not be any trouble—I will be helpful, Jack.” She wet her lips. “And perhaps, I can explain why I became such a coward last night. I want a chance to explain. You are so angry this morning.”

  “I am not angry, Evelyn. Not with you—and you do not need to explain while I am crossing the Channel. I would not allow such a distraction.”

  “I will not be a distraction—I promise. And if that is what you want, I will wait to explain my actions to you another time.”

  His stare sharpened. “I cannot believe your gumption. We will miss the tide—and the winds are perfect.” He cursed again, staring right at her, but she knew she did not blush. “Very well. You may take a berth in my cabin, but be forewarned—I have no time for discussions, no time for distractions and you will not be going ashore with me. If I encounter any problems, we will discuss them on my ship, if I think it necessary.” He was grim and she knew he disliked taking her with him.

  But she had won somehow. She was jubilant, though she hid it. She turned, to call down the plank and tell Laurent to get the disguises. Jack seized her hand this time. “Do not bother.” He leaned close, but only to take her small bag from her. “You will do as I say, Evelyn, while aboard my ship.”

  “Yes, I will do as you say.” She spoke meekly, still fighting to hide her satisfaction.

  His gaze moved over her features. Then he gestured to the other sailors. “You will also distract my men, so I suggest you retire to my cabin directly. And do not think I am fooled. You are gloating.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, biting back a smile.

  He ignored her, gesturing at Laurent to leave, then striding past her, calling for the mainsail to be hoisted.

  * * *

  EVELYN STOOD AT THE CABIN’S porthole, staring out into the night. It had been a bright, cloudless night, and the sky overhead had glittered with stars until an hour ago, when it had begun to slowly lighten. The new day would be sunny and bright. These were not the best conditions to be attempting to steal into France.

  They were close to land; she could feel it. That would have meant a very swift crossing, but she knew the winds had been exceptionally good for them. And just as she had that thought, a pair of gulls could be seen outside, overhead, wheeling about.

  She briefly closed her eyes. She had not been allowed on deck even once, and she probably knew every inch of Jack’s cabin. She had made certain not to pry amongst his charts or his personal things, never mind that she was curious, and the cabin’s single large chest had attracted her attention, time and again. But she hadn’t opened it.

  The time had passed with agonizing slowness. She had allowed herself the liberty of looking at his collection of books. Most were histories. He was surprisingly well-read, if those volumes were any indication, and familiar with the history of China, India, Russia, France, the Hapsburg Empire and even the West Indies. But there was also a novel amongst his books. She was not familiar with its author, but it seemed to be a medieval romance of some sort.

  He had, once, called on her, to see how she was faring. A seaman had been with him, and she had been given some bread and cheese.

  She had managed to sleep for an hour or so in his bed, but restlessly. She kept thinking about the other night, their conversation the previous dawn, and what the fate of her French home might be. She hoped it was still intact. Somehow, she thought that would please Henri.

  And it was too unnerving to stay in his bed for very long. His scent was everywhere; she thought she could even feel his presence. And she kept thinking about being in his arms, being overcome with desire and then succumbing to confusion, morality and even fright.

  Just then the cabin door opened and Jack stepped into the small chamber.

  Evelyn turned fully toward him. He was wearing a dark coat, dark breeches and his riding boots. She knew he was armed. And his expression was dangerous. “We are making land,” she said.

  “Yes, we are.” He left the door open, and he did not come into the cabin. His gaze skidded over her, then he glanced at his bed, with the slightly disturbed sheets. “Did you get some rest?”

  “I am worried,” she said. “Sleep is impossible.”

  His gaze flickered. “In the end, it is only some heirlooms.”

  She hesitated. “I am also worried about you.” And she meant it. She was sending him into danger. If anything happened to him, it would be her fault.

  His stare slammed to hers. “At the very best, I will be back within three hours. But do not be surprised if I am gone most of the day.”

  “What could possibly take so long?” she cried, instantly distressed.

  “If we alert suspicion, we might have to delay—we might even have to hide. There are troops everywhere. La Vendée is in rebellion. General Hoche has been waging a campaign to bring the Loire valley down. Although he now thinks to end the conflict by allowing the Vendéans to reopen their churches, and he is seeking various agreements throughout the Loire, my sources tell me passersby are suspect.”

  “I should come with you!” She started forward.

  He held up his hand. “I would not allow you on land, under any circumstance.”

  She halted halfway across the cabin. His face was hard, his regard uncompromising. There was no point in arguing, even if she knew she could help him get to her home more swiftly. He had a gallant streak, she thought, no matter how he might insist otherwise.

  She wondered if she should make her own way onto dry ground and follow him, but instantly dismissed the thought. She was not a fool and she had no wish to cause more problems.

  “Do I have your word that you will stay in my cabin? I don’t want my men looking at you. They are hardened sailors and you might cause some unrest.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Try to get some rest. Even if I return within a few hours, we have to complete the voyage back, and the French navy is at Le Havre.”

  Le Havre was just north of Nantes. Evelyn finally said, “Then Godspeed.”

  “There is one more thing. There is a carbine beneath my bed, and a pistol in the desk drawer, with powder. My men have been ordered to guard you—and if they are discovered, they will set sail. Still…you should have a means of defending yourself.”

  If his ship was remarked, they would sail off without him? She was aghast.

  “I can always find passage home.” He gave her one last look and turned. He strode out, closing the door behind him.

  Evelyn inhaled, the sky outside now the color of shallow waters. She rushed to the porthole, but it clearly faced the channel. Still, there was no mistaking that the ship was slowing. And then she felt it lurch as an anchor was cast overboard.

  There was nothing she could do now but wait and pray. She glanced at the gilded clock, glued to his desk. It was almost six in the morning. How was she going to get through the next few hours, much less an entire day?

  She was sending Jack Greystone into France, a country torn by revolution and uprisings. And the Loire Valley, where they were, was in the midst of rebellion. As he had said, there were troops everywhere.

  If anyone could succeed in this mission, it was Jack. But she was afraid for him. She did not want any harm to befall him, and for the first time, she truly began to calculate the risks involved in his attempting to retrieve the gold. Hadn’t he insisted, from the very start, that the mission was simply too dangerous?

  And why had he only now confessed that his ship could return to Britain without him?

  Evelyn began to pace wildly. Suddenly she regretted the entire scheme. Yes, she was destitute, and, yes, she had to provide for Aimee, but surely, she could have found another w
ay—or she could have sent someone else to France, anyone other than Jack. She sat down hard on his bed, terribly frightened now.

  If anything happened to him, it would be her fault.

  She was so concerned. First there was the attraction that raged between them—the kind of attraction she had never before felt. Now there was her vast concern. Evelyn became still. Could it be that she harbored genuine feelings of affection for him?

  She had been infatuated once. But that had been out of gratitude, and it had been understandable. Being interested in him—being romantically inclined—was not sensible now. He found her attractive but he didn’t have a romantic interest in her, didn’t love her. Even if she were not in mourning, he would not be courting her. He was an adventurer—he would not court any woman.

  If she were beginning to care, she might be setting herself up for more heartbreak.

  The hours passed with agonizing slowness. Evelyn watched the sun rise. At noon, the same sailor brought her a luncheon—more bread and cheese, this time, with some brandy. She couldn’t touch a thing.

  She lay down on his bed, staring up at the cabin ceiling, praying he would be all right. She realized she was exhausted, having stayed awake for most of two nights, but she still couldn’t sleep. Even when she closed her eyes, her mind raced impossibly. If only the château were whole, and if only Jack found the gold… If only he returned to his ship, alive!

  Thud.

  Evelyn jerked, realizing she had dozed off, and that her door had been thrown open. Her eyes widened as a chill rushed into the cabin. Outside, it seemed to be late afternoon, one gray and wet with an incoming fog.

  She saw his silhouette first. Evelyn sat up as Jack stepped into the doorway, his hair loose and windswept.

  The ship was rocking in the wind. And her first reaction was one of wild relief. He was grim, but he was clearly in one piece—he did not even appear tired. Jack had returned—he was all right.

  Then she realized he was very grim, and her heart lurched, all relief vanishing. “Jack?”

  He stepped inside the cabin, closing the door behind him. “We found the house. I am sorry, Evelyn, it has been gutted.”

  She nodded, clenching the sheets. The château had been destroyed. Poor Henri… “And?”

  “We tore up the area between the trees—there was no chest, I am sorry.”

  She felt herself still. “That is impossible.”

  “We spent five hours digging up the area. We could not have missed a buried chest.” His gaze held hers as he braced against the rocking ship.

  There was no gold?

  “I am sorry,” he repeated more softly.

  That gold was her daughter’s entire future. “It has to be there,” she said harshly, standing.

  “It isn’t.”

  She looked at him, reeling, but still in disbelief. Aimee would grow up impoverished? And she would be left penniless? There would be no dowry, no future?

  “You will find a way to make ends meet, I am certain,” he said, his tone odd—as if he meant to be kind.

  She sank back down on the bed, barely having heard him. How could the gold be gone? Henri had left it for them! “I don’t believe you,” she gasped, panic rearing up. Aimee could not be left with nothing! “It has to be there!”

  This time, he regarded her with what could only be compassion.

  And his look of sympathy undid her. She began to shake as her sense of panic escalated. She tried to rein it in. She knew she had to be calm, she had to think. If the gold was truly gone, she would find other means!

  Oh, God. There was no gold. She was going to leave her daughter with nothing!

  “Evelyn?”

  Evelyn’s father had left her with nothing. As a child, left behind with relations who did not care for her, she had never been able to understand why she was with her aunt and uncle, and not with him. She could not understand why her clothes were used, or why she spent half of her time in the kitchen. Every time he had come to visit, as infrequently as that had been, he had promised her a future—one only a dowry could buy. Every time he had promised her the life of a princess, she had believed him. But he had been killed and his promises had been empty.

  How often had she reassured her daughter that all would be well? How many promises had she made to Aimee?

  Evelyn began to shake more fiercely.

  Jack was sitting beside her, trying to hand her the brandy she had not taken with her lunch. “You need a drink.”

  She swatted the glass away, spilling some of the amber liquid. “No!” She looked at him, aware of the tears filling her eyes and blurring her vision. Desperation began. “Henri left us a fortune.”

  “If he did, it is gone now. Stolen. Here. Take a sip.”

  She shoved the glass violently away, against his chest, leaping to her feet.

  There was no gold. The promises she had made to her daughter were as empty as the ones her father had made to her.

  Oh, God.

  She was no different than her own father—she was leaving Aimee with nothing.

  “Evelyn, you should lie down.”

  “No!” She looked wildly at him. “My daughter is my life. She means everything to me! Did you know that my own father left me with nothing? That I was a penniless orphan? That if Henri hadn’t married me, I would have been a governess, a seamstress, a housemaid?”

  He was pale.

  “Now I am leaving my daughter the very same way—as if I don’t care!” She choked on a harsh sob.

  And it was as if her entire life flashed before her eyes, a life in which she had been abandoned and left penniless, not once, but twice. And now her daughter would suffer the same fate....

  “Damn him!” she cried, thinking of Henri. She knew it was wrong to curse him, but she did so again. “How could he do this to us? Damn him, damn him, damn him!”

  “You have had a shock,” Jack said softly.

  “He is exactly like my father,” she shouted. And she was furious. Evelyn covered her eyes with her hands. There was no gold—Henri had left his own daughter with nothing. Vaguely, she heard Jack leaving the cabin. She cried harder.

  * * *

  EVELYN OPENED THE CABIN door and shivered, greeted by the silence of the night. The moon was full, and a few stars were scattered in the night sky, but clouds scudded there, too, occasionally crossing the moon. It was so serene. Canvas flapped, rigging rustled, wood groaned. The sea lapped against the ship’s great hull. Evelyn trembled and she stared at the ship’s helm, where Jack Greystone stood.

  He was looking over his shoulder at her.

  She didn’t even try to smile at him now, acutely aware that she did not wish to be alone. Had he been kind to her, when she had lapsed into hysteria? She seemed to recall so.

  She had wept for a long time—for the first time since Henri had died. She hoped that she had been grieving properly, at long last, but she knew better. She had been so furious with her deceased husband.

  And then, as the tears had subsided, childhood memories had filled her mind, as had recollections from the past nine years of her marriage. She had begun to genuinely see her husband as a weak man—as someone very much like her own father.

  And if she did not know better, she would almost think the bout of tears some kind of pent-up expression of a lifetime’s worth of anguish.

  She was exhausted, but the need to weep and shout was gone. The panic had dulled, too. She would find a way to provide for her daughter and give her a bright shining future—nothing would stop her now. However, she was aware of being entirely on her own for the first time in her life. It was frightening, but she forced herself to ignore the fear.

  The first order of business would be to stop feeling sorry for herself. Henri had failed to provide for them—therefore, she would find a way to do so. The mine was a possible source of revenue for them. She would restore the mine, if it really needed maintenance. She would borrow the funds to make whatever repairs were necessary.

&nb
sp; And there was the possibility of remarriage. Of course she would consider that option, not immediately, but when the time was right.

  She stared across the deck. Jack had turned back to face the ship’s prow, his hands on the huge helm. He was such a powerful man, such a reassuring figure. He had been kind to her, when he had never been kind before. She hoped he did not think badly of her for her inexcusable bout of tears and self-pity.

  She hadn’t been invited on deck, but she had come up to find him. Maybe it was his recent kindness, or maybe it was that being near him always made her feel safe and protected. He was the kind of man who could weather any crisis, the worst storm. Instinctively she knew he was her safest harbor.

  Besides, she had been in that cabin for a day and a half! She closed the cabin door and crossed the deck, pausing beside him. “May I join you?”

  His gaze was searching, moving slowly over her face. “Of course.”

  She did not remind him that she had not been allowed on deck until then. “I must look a fright.”

  “You could not look poorly.” He faced forward again. His profile was stunning, but his expression was solemn. His hair was loose now, a shoulder-length mass of tawny waves.

  “You are being gallant.”

  He glanced at her, almost smiling. “Perhaps.”

  She smiled ever so slightly back. “I wish to apologize.”

  His eyes widened. “There is no need.”

  “There is every need. I exposed you to the worst case of feminine hysteria—I am sorry.”

  He studied her. “You had every cause to weep. I do not blame you.”

  “You have never been kind to me before!” she exclaimed, studying him closely. “If you don’t think poorly of me, are you feeling sorry for me?”

  He seemed to be intrigued with his ship’s bow, staring ahead at it now. “I am not allowed to have some sympathy for you?” he finally asked softly.

  “I think you told me that I will find a way to make ends meet, and I intend to do just that.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you do not need—or want—my sympathy?”

  She felt a genuine smile begin. “No. I actually like your sympathy.”