Surrender (The Spymaster's Men)

by Brenda Joyce

  Still holding his hand, she stroked his brow with her other one. His gray gaze flew open. “You are so concerned.”

  She trembled. “I am very concerned.”

  “Why?”

  She was disbelieving. And she began to flush. “I believe you know why.” She felt her color increase.

  “No…I don’t.” He lifted his hand toward her face, and suddenly dropped it, groaning.

  Not for the first time, she wished she had laudanum in the house. “Do you want some brandy?”

  He was pale now; clearly, a simple movement was intolerable. When he did not answer, she realized he was struggling not to faint. Evelyn leaped up to bring him a glass, which she had ready. Trim had suggested he would need the liquor when he awoke. She was using the fine French brandy that Henri had kept, both for their own use and for entertaining guests.

  She sat on the bed now, by his hip. He was lying prone, and she hesitated. He would not be able to sip unless he sat up. Yet she knew that moving him would hurt.

  “Help me…to sit.”

  Evelyn set the glass down on the bedside table and put her arm beneath him, under his shoulders. He cried out.

  She was dismayed and afraid—as she hadn’t even moved him, yet. His eyes were tightly closed now, and sweat shone on his brow. He was panting.

  A long moment passed. Jack inhaled and looked at her, his face hard with determination. “Help me sit, Evelyn,” he said, and it was an order.

  Afraid to hurt him, Evelyn began to lift him. He grunted, biting off a groan, now sweating, leveraging himself up. He finally cried out, seated upright, and very abruptly, she jammed two pillows behind him.

  “Bloody damn hell.” Jack sat there panting, his eyes closed, fighting the pain. Evelyn wiped away her tears and then picked up a damp cloth and wiped the sweat from his brow and temples. His lashes lifted and their gazes locked.

  It was inappropriate, she thought, to be seated so closely on the bed beside him, but Trim would never walk in on them, and Laurent knew the truth. She smiled slightly and slid the washcloth over his upper chest. Then she laid it aside and put the glass to his lips. She helped him take a sip.

  And when she began to remove the glass, he said, “I need a great deal more…than one sip.”

  “Of course you do.” Evelyn helped him drink the entire glass.

  When it was empty, she set it down. Jack remained seated against the pillows, his eyes closed again, sweat upon his temples and forehead. Sipping the brandy was an act of exertion for him. She wanted to question him, but talking would tire him, too.

  She took up a damp cloth and laid it on his brow. After a moment, she removed it, and returned to her chair.

  He opened his eyes and looked directly at her. “Thank you.”

  “Did the brandy help?”

  “I’d like another glass.”

  She helped him drink another glass, in silence. When he was done, she finally saw the brandy taking effect. His mouth softened for the first time. The glazed look that had been filling his eyes faded. “Is that better?” she whispered.

  He smiled slightly, his gaze going over her features, one by one. He stared at her mouth for a moment. “Did Trim bring me here?”

  “Yes.” She set the mostly empty glass down and clasped her hands in her lap. “What happened, Jack?” she asked, wondering if she was insane now. Had she imagined a new tension? Because Jack was injured, and surely, he was not thinking of kissing her now.

  His gaze shifted past her, as if he was fascinated by the small room’s bland decor. “I was attacked when I left Trim’s inn.”

  Evelyn sat down in the small wooden chair. “Who did this?”

  His gaze returned to hers. “I don’t know.”

  She gaped. “You didn’t see your attackers?”

  “No, I did not. I was struck from behind, Evelyn.”

  She shuddered, staring. Jack was the most intelligent man she had ever met. She did not believe that he did not know who his attackers were—even if he hadn’t seen them. “Trim said you argued with Whyte.”

  “Yes, I did. But Whyte would not have the courage to do this.” His stare was so familiar now—unwavering, relentless. “Have you been caring for me by yourself?”

  “Trim bandaged your ribs. They are probably broken. I did not know how to wrap them, but otherwise, I have been here with you since just before midnight.”

  He stared back. “My ribs aren’t broken.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “They aren’t broken.” He was firm. He then said softly, “You seem frightened. Are you frightened for me?”

  She nodded slowly, the urge to cry arising yet again. “Of course I am frightened for you.”

  “Do not cry for me,” he said softly. “I am fine.”

  She swatted at her tears. “You are hardly fine! You have broken ribs! Your head was bashed in. You could have been killed!”

  “I will soon be fine,” he said firmly. “Gashes heal—so do ribs.”

  She wiped away more tears. “I must know the truth, damn it. If you know who did this, I must know!”

  His eyes widened slightly. “I do not know who did this, Evelyn, and why would you want to know? Haven’t you learned enough of my secrets?”

  She thought about his greatest secret—his being a French spy. And how she wished she did not know that secret. But it was too late. She was involved in his war games. She thought about being assaulted and threatened in her own home. She could hardly tell Jack about the incident now. “Was this savagery related to your war activities?”

  His smile was amused, but it was also affected, Evelyn was certain. “I am a smuggler, Evelyn, and I live dangerously. Even without the war—even before it—I have had my life threatened a great many times. There is no reason to think this is related to the war.”

  She thought about LeClerc. “There is every reason to think so!”

  “I have made many enemies over the years.” He was final.

  She was breathing hard. Their gazes were locked. “What if the British have learned about you?”

  “They would hang me, not beat me.”

  She sat upright, hugging herself. “That is very reassuring!”

  He reached out, wincing, took her hand and tugged it away from her body. He lifted it to his mouth and said, “You are so concerned about me.” He kissed it. Softly, he said, “I thought you hated me.”

  She could not believe the shocking desire that burned through her. She stared. Jack could have been killed last night. He lived so dangerously. He could be killed on any given day. “I could never hate you.” Just then, she had nothing to hide. She leaned close, clasping his jaw gently. “My feelings haven’t changed. I am afraid for you…because I love you.”

  He stared, his eyes darkening. “Bastard that I am, I am glad.”

  Evelyn searched his eyes, wishing he would give her some sign that he cared—that his feelings for her were far greater than a raging physical attraction. But he only smiled, and as he did, he murmured, “Come sit by me again.”

  She knew she should refuse. But he tugged slightly on her hand and she slid onto the bed. Her pads and bustles pressed against his hip. His slight grasp deepened. She found herself leaning over him, her silk-clad bosom against his bare arm.

  “I have missed you,” he said.

  Her heart slammed. “I have missed you, too. But, Jack—”

  “No. I am too tired to discuss this anymore.” He turned his face and pressed a kiss against the side of her breast, in lieu of being able to rise up and kiss her properly. And then he sank back into the pillows, his eyes closed, his hand still closed on her wrist.

  Her heart thundered with frightening force. He was weak, injured and exhausted, and she was overcome—with fear, with desire, with profound love. And as he finally began to breathe deeply and evenly, now asleep, she leaned close and kissed his unblemished temple. “I am afraid, Jack,” she whispered. “I am so afraid, for us both.”

  * *
*

  “CAN I TAKE THAT FOR YOU?” Laurent grinned.

  It was the next day, and Evelyn held a luncheon tray, and was about to go up the stairs. Jack had been sleeping for the past day and a half, and she imagined he would awaken soon. “I do not mind.”

  Laurent laughed at her. “You haven’t left his side, madame, except to attend Aimee!”

  “He will be hungry when he awakens!” she tried, flushing.

  “You are smitten, and I approve,” he said. But his smile faded. “But you refuse to discuss the real matter. You have been acting oddly—nervously—ever since that thief got into the house. I know when you are dissembling, if you beg my pardon, Countess.”

  She smiled grimly. “First a thief in the night, then John Trim—why wouldn’t I be nervous?” She started past him, tray in both hands.

  “I only wish to be of help!” he called after her.

  On the stairs, Evelyn turned. “Laurent, I would tell you everything if I could—but I cannot.” With that, ignoring his dismay, she hurried upstairs.

  She had begun the habit of leaving Jack’s chamber door open, so if he awoke when she was not with him and called for her, she would be able to hear him. She glanced into the small room as she approached and instantly saw that his bed was empty. Her heart slammed and she faltered, her gaze veering to the window where he stood.

  He was awake; he was even standing. She was thrilled, as he shifted slightly to glance at her.

  Her pleasure faded. He wore only his tan wool knickers, and his back remained bruised, with several large purple spots. Seeing those bruises hurt her terribly. But his gold-streaked hair was disheveled and hanging just past his shoulders. His gray gaze was lucid, sharp. He was tall, broad-shouldered, impossibly muscular—impossibly masculine—he was the epitome of a beautiful man.

  For a few seconds she watched him with appreciation. “You are awake!” she finally cried softly. But her heart was racing uncontrollably. Her mouth was even dry.

  “I am most definitely awake,” he said very softly, not smiling.

  “And you must be feeling better, to be up and about.” His stare was so direct. He had looked at her that way so many times, the night they had shared supper—the night they had become lovers.

  He turned to face her fully, his gray gaze sliding from the tray she held down to her toes, and then back up to her face. “You are staring—as if you have never seen me without my clothes.”

  She flushed. She came into the room, placing the tray on the chair she had been using. She would not respond to his entire remark! “I did not know you would be up. You have been sleeping so soundly. It is three o’clock.” Had his tone been seductive? It had certainly been intimate! And she was babbling. Why was she nervous now?

  But it almost felt as if they were still lovers.

  Jack took one last glance out of the window. “From this window, one can see for miles.” He left the window, moving slowly, with care, clearly trying to avoid jostling his ribs. He walked to the bed and grasped the footboard, as if for support. He winced. “How long have I been here?” he asked, the foot of the bed between them.

  She now became aware of the fact his powerful presence filled the tiny room. “John Trim brought you here the day before yesterday, just before midnight.”

  His gaze was searching. “I vaguely recall being outside his inn, after having been attacked.”

  “He said you fainted almost immediately after demanding to be brought here. Do you recall the carriage ride?”

  “No.” His gaze sharpened; his stare intensified. “Are you all right, Evelyn?”

  She started. “Why on earth would you ask after me? You were beaten, Jack, and the attack was ruthless, I might add.”

  His gaze had narrowed. “I take it all is well, then?”

  Uncertain of his meaning, she slowly said, “Yes, all is well.” She thought about the intruder who had threatened her—LeClerc’s crony. She would tell Jack about that incident when he was stronger. “You should not be out of bed!” she cried.

  “I was testing myself,” he returned grimly. “Where is my gun? My knife?”

  She was taken aback. Clearly, the slightest movement hurt. But he was worried that, if his attacker returned, he could not defend himself. “Downstairs.”

  “Could you retrieve them, please?” Then he smiled, as if to soften his words.

  “Are you still in danger?”

  “I am always in danger. There is a bounty on my head.”

  She could not decide whether to believe him or not. Did he think he might be attacked again? “I will be right back.” She ran from the room, her mind racing, and took up the gun, the powder and his knife from where the items had been left in the front hall. She hurried back upstairs. Jack had returned to the window and was staring outside to the south. Of course, the coast was not visible from the moors there.

  Evelyn set the arms and powder down on the bedside table as he came back slowly to the bed. “Thank you.”

  “You are worrying me,” she said. Was he staring outside—in case someone might be approaching?

  “That is not my intention.” He suddenly sagged, as if his knee had buckled, and he reached for the bedpost. He had paled.

  Her alarm was immediate—he was still gravely injured. “You need to rest! Can I help you back into bed?” She hurried over to him and took his arm, determined.

  “You can always help me to bed, Evelyn.”

  She flushed. “Jack.”

  He finally began to smile. “I’m sorry—I could not resist.” He allowed her to guide him slowly around the bed. When he sat, he cursed, but indecipherably and under his breath.

  “Can I help you eat? You must be ravenous.”

  He shook his head, his face hard, not even looking at the tray. “How many people know that I am here?”

  She started. “My servants, Trim, Will Lacey, the Bodmin blacksmith.” But now she realized the trouble he could be in—no one should know he was at Roselynd. “However, Trim and Lacey know better than to discuss your whereabouts.”

  “Everyone gossips. Hopefully, they will refrain.” He studied her. “You know Evelyn, we have never discussed it, but you are a widow, living alone with a single manservant—in a time of war.”

  She was even more alarmed now. “The war is hundreds of miles away.”

  “Last year French deserters landed at Land’s End—and they took a farmer and his wife hostage.”

  She hugged herself. “I am hardly on the coast.”

  “There are food riots everywhere.”

  She had not heard of any food riots in Cornwall, but she decided not to rebut. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I am not sure a widow with a small child should live alone on the moors, as you are doing.”

  She was very grim, thinking about LeClerc’s threats. “This is my home! We have nowhere else to go.”

  “You should think about returning to your uncle’s—at least temporarily.”

  She cried out. “You have never said such a thing before! Do you want me to move away because of the attack upon you?”

  His gaze flickered. “I want you to move for the reasons I have stated, Evelyn.” He now looked at the luncheon tray. “Actually, I am very hungry.”

  She remained very alarmed—he was obviously changing the subject. But she managed a smile that felt grim and said, “Can you use a fork and spoon?” She placed the tray by his hip, on the bed.

  He eyed her. “I am not an infant. I have had bruises and gashes before.”

  She sat down on the chair, folding her arms, even more determined now to find out what had happened and why—and if they might be in more jeopardy than she knew. She let him eat for a moment. “Do you recall the beating?” She hoped that today, as he was far more lucid and in far less pain, he would remember the assault—and who his attacker had been.

  “No.” He did not look up.

  “Do you have any idea who would do this—and why?”

  “No.”
He set his fork aside, having finished half of a bowl of beef stew. “But I vaguely recall your having already asked me these questions. Did you?”

  “Yes, you awoke briefly yesterday morning. I don’t believe you, Jack.”

  He slowly smiled. “Really?”

  She hadn’t meant to issue such a challenge, but she pressed on. “I think you know who attacked you.”

  He studied her, his eyes watchful, but not hard. “Evelyn, even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you. When we were on my island, I said that I did not want you involved in the war, and what I meant is that I don’t want you involved in any aspect of my life that might be dangerous.”

  She thought about how he had insisted she was in danger after having overheard him speaking with LeClerc, and she thought about the threats issued by LeClerc’s crony. And now there was this beating—which was not related to his smuggling activity. She was already very, very involved in dangerous affairs, she thought uneasily.

  “Why do you seem alarmed?”

  She jerked. “I am very alarmed, Jack—you were brought here in the worst of conditions! Two weeks ago, I overheard that terrible conversation! Yesterday you tried to tell me that the beating was related to the free trade. But it was not, was it? This has something to do with your wartime activities.”

  “What a conclusion to draw!” he exclaimed, eyes wide with feigned innocence.

  “You do not deny it?”

  “You are too stubborn. I deny it, Evelyn.” He did not bat an eye.

  Yet she knew—she just knew—he was lying boldly to her now! “I wrote Lucas. I told him you had been assaulted and badly beaten.”

  He shrugged. “And did you tell him I am alive and well, anyway?”

  “Of course!”

  “He will probably show up at your door. As an older brother, he can be annoying. Sometimes, I think he has forgotten that I am a grown man.”

  “If he does come, I intend to ask him the same questions I am asking you.”

  “He will undoubtedly answer as I have.” Jack shrugged and paled.

  Evelyn leaped to her feet, then realized there was nothing she could do to ease his discomfort. She clasped her hands, when she wanted to clasp his. “Why did you send him here? I did not think you would, not after we had such an argument on the island.”