Surrender (The Spymaster's Men)

by Brenda Joyce

  Lucas hesitated. “He might. But he could have returned to Looe Island.”

  “No.” She shook her head, standing. “He would come to me, I am certain.”

  Julianne took her arm. “But he doesn’t know about the child. His men have families in Looe.”

  “Can we send word?”

  Lucas patted her shoulder. “I am on my way to Quiberon Bay now. I intend to stop at the island briefly. If you wish to compose a note, why don’t you do so now? If he is there, I will give it to him.”

  “And if he isn’t there?”

  “Then I will surely see him in France,” Lucas said.

  And suddenly Evelyn knew he was still in France—he would never abandon the émigré troops and the rebels now. He would be in the midst of combat, fighting alongside them for their freedom. He would be there not just because he was so reckless with his life, and so enamored with danger, but because he was a man of honor, a patriot, a hero.

  Evelyn closed her eyes. If he came home alive, it would be enough, and she would not ask him for anything more. Then she looked at Lucas. “When you find him, tell him that I love him,” she said.

  Lucas smiled. “I will…but I am sure he already knows.”

  * * *

  THE DAYS PASSED WITH excruciating slowness. Evelyn stared grimly out of a salon window at Lambert House. Outside, in the gardens, Aimee was playing tag with William and John, Grenville’s sons, with Jolie racing madly about them. In a moment, they would all troop over to the stables to ride Grenville’s ponies.

  She could not smile. Her heart felt frozen over with fear, with dread. Lucas had sent a brief message to them, a week ago—Jack was not at Looe Island. In fact, he hadn’t been in residence since the third week of June. Evelyn was not surprised. Of course he hadn’t been there—he was at Quiberon Bay.

  If she did not have a child to care for, she would shout and scream, rant and rave, and allow herself to become a madwoman. But Aimee must never suspect how frightened she was. And there was her unborn child to care for.

  And of course, neither Amelia nor Julianne would leave her alone for very long. Both sisters recalled the time in their lives when they had been separated from their husbands during the war, and what it was like to live with the fear of the unknown. Amelia and Julianne were determined to preoccupy and distract her with the family’s many affairs. Every day she went with Julianne, Jacquelyn and Aimee to Lambert House, and every evening there was a family supper. If she dared retire to her chamber for a moment of privacy, a knock would sound on her door and either Amelia or Julianne would inquire after her to make certain she was well.

  And Evelyn did not mind. They had all grown so close. She knew that Amelia and Julianne merely wished to comfort and reassure her—even if that task was an impossible one.

  Because the invasion had failed.

  The French had recaptured Fort Penthievre the other day, shocking London with the news. And to make matters worse, the British émigrés and Chouan rebels had been routed. Thousands had died or had been captured, while thousands more had been pushed from the beaches into the sea. And gale winds had prevented the British navy from rescuing the troops.

  She hated the damned war!

  And she was sick, because she knew Jack had been among the rebels. Now, she did not know if he was one of those captured, or if he was even alive.

  Looe Island

  August 3, 1795

  JACK LIMPED SLOWLY INTO his bedchamber, ripping off his bloody and dirty shirt. He was so exhausted, he could barely stand, and he collapsed into a chair to take off his riding boots.

  He threw them aside. Then he slumped in the chair, eyes closed, sitting motionless.

  Images from the various land battles he had been in assailed him yet again—men in red and blue slashing at one another with their bayonets, human blood spurting, spraying, men screaming, as cannons boomed, as smoke filled the air, as horses whinnied in terror....

  Would he ever forget those battles on the peninsula?

  He dreamed of the wounded and the dying at night, and in the day, the ghastly images haunted him, too.

  He opened his eyes and stared across the bedchamber, but he did not see the four-poster bed he slept in, or any other accoutrement.

  Help! Help!

  Aidez-moi! Aidez-moi!

  They bobbed in the gale-driven ocean, waving frantically, screaming for help. Dozens of heads and dozens of arms were all that could be seen of the drowning troops, begging to be rescued. It was a horrific sight, one he would never forget.

  Abruptly, Jack flinched and forced his vision to clear. He made himself identify the furnishings of his bedroom. And while he stared at the dark four-poster bed with its gold-and-red coverings, he still saw those bobbing heads and flailing arms.... He thought he might live with the gruesome memory until he died.

  Hot tears filled his eyes.

  He had been setting sail for Britain, having stayed along the French coast to help with the invasion. As it turned out, the delay had been timely; he was just in time to rescue one hundred and three of the drowning men, mostly émigrés, but a few had been former French prisoners of war. He wished he had been able to save more of them, but by the time he had dragged the last survivor aboard his ship, the ocean had been silent, the cries for help having ceased, and when he had looked out over the water, there had been no one left....

  He had the terrible urge to weep.

  God, he was so sick and tired of war and death!

  He stood, cursed at the pain in his knee and limped over to the bureau and poured a stiff drink. He had been in other battles, but never had he planned for and fought in a cause like this. He had truly believed they could liberate Britanny from the French. Instead, thousands were dead, as many were captured and General Hoche was rampaging across the countryside, exacting vengeance upon anyone and everyone associated with the Chouans.

  He slammed down the entire glass of brandy. At least LeClerc was dead. His French master had died from the wounds inflicted during the first attack upon Fort Penthievre. Jack had run past him, too, as he was leaving the fort. He had taken one look at LeClerc, who lay bleeding upon the ground, shot in the chest, and he had known he would not survive.

  He hadn’t felt satisfaction, and he hadn’t felt remorse. He hadn’t felt anything at all, but now he was grateful that he had been spared the ugly task of murdering his enemy.

  Evelyn’s enemy.

  His hand shaking, Jack poured another drink. Not a day had gone by in this past month of hell that he hadn’t thought of Evelyn and Aimee, that he hadn’t been aware of the depth of his yearning and love for them. Just then, he would give his soul to have her in his arms, so he could hold her tight.

  He continued to tremble. The dreams about the battles and the drowning men were bad enough, but he had other dreams, as well: of being in prison. Almost nightly, he was trapped behind stone walls and iron bars, the sound of cannons booming, exploding. In those nightmares he knew he would never escape the French prison and the French wars. LeClerc came to leer at him. So did Warlock.

  He was furious, he was frustrated and he was desperate. He would beg to be set free—so he could return to Evelyn. But no one ever answered his pleas. Instead, he would awaken, aware that even though he was not behind bars now, he was still a prisoner of the war, and shaken to the core because of it.

  It was said that war changed a man. So did prison. One was bad enough—both were sheer madness.

  He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but he was done—with the war, with Warlock, with spy games. He would never take his life or his liberty for granted again. And he never intended to be a prisoner of war again, either. Not due to incarceration, and not due to these war games.

  He had given Britain everything he had—he had almost given her his life. And for what? He, Jack Greystone, could not save Europe from the French Revolution. He had done his best to play his part in the effort; let someone else save Britain and her Allies from the French now. E
veryone who was anyone in the world of intrigue knew he had been playing the French, so he was useless to Warlock in continuing to play both sides. There could be no better time to get out.

  And even if it were a bad time to stop spying, he didn’t care.

  He cared about Evelyn and her daughter.

  Jack turned slowly. He almost cringed when he faced his reflection in the mirror. He was unshaven, bruised, battered and shirtless. He looked as disreputable as a fifteenth-century pirate. He did not appear to be a gentleman, or at all good enough for the Countess D’Orsay.

  She was a great lady. He was just a smuggler and a rogue.

  But he was a soon-to-be-free smuggling rogue; Admiral Hood thought him a hero. He had invited him to dine aboard the Channel fleet’s flagship after the rescue of the drowning men. Jack had accepted.

  And it was probably the most fortunate invitation he had ever received. They had drunk a great deal of wine and shared a great many stories and secrets. Jack had told Hood almost everything about the spy games he had been playing. He had also pointed out that his government had a price on his head. Hood had been furious.

  And he had promised him that he would be a free man again—before the summer was over. He had stated it was his personal mission.

  Jack stared at his dirty, battered reflection. He had never cared about that bounty, until recently. For a long time, he had enjoyed the notoriety of being wanted by not just one government, but two. It had been an amusing game, avoiding the authorities on both sides of the Channel.

  And he knew exactly when he had grown tired of the game; he knew exactly when it had begun to hamper and hinder him, when it had become frustrating. When Captain Barrow had come looking for him at Roselynd, something within him had snapped. Every urge he had—and had always had—was to protect Evelyn, not to put her in more danger.

  The truth was, he wanted to be a free man again—he wanted that damned bounty gone. He wanted to go to London and visit his sisters and their children whenever he felt like it. He wanted to come and go at Cavendish Square, where his brother so often resided, as anybody else could. He even wanted to return to Greystone Manor, his family’s home, so he could restore it to the glory it had once enjoyed centuries ago.

  Generations of Greystone men and women had been smugglers, of course. The manor had been built above Sennen Cove long ago, because it was the perfect location from which to smuggle goods between Britain and France. It remained an ideal haven now.

  He might be done with spying, but smuggling was his life. He could no more give up the free trade and his life at sea than he could give up Evelyn. If he became a free man, would Evelyn really wish to remain with him? Would she be willing to embark upon a future together? Would she consider becoming a smuggler’s wife?

  His heart was thundering. He missed her desperately and had a terrible need to be with her now, to hold her, make love to her and forget the hell of war. Jack walked over to the small wood box that was on top of the bedroom bureau. He flipped open the lid. The ruby necklace Evelyn had given him to pay for her passage from France, four years earlier, was inside.

  He had never sold it. He had buried it along with some other valuables in one of the caves used by generations of Greystone smugglers behind the cliffs at Greystone Manor. At the time, he hadn’t thought much about it, he had simply stashed the valuable necklace away. Now, in hindsight, he knew he hadn’t sold the necklace because he had been so smitten with Evelyn from the very start.

  It had taken him an extra day to sail to Sennen Cove to retrieve it, another day to return to Looe Island. He hoped Evelyn would comprehend the gesture when he returned the necklace to her. He hoped she would be thrilled when he brought it to her—when she realized he hadn’t ever been able to part with it.

  Jack slowly closed the lid. Evelyn was a very intelligent woman. She knew she could do far better than him. And she had Aimee to think of. She loved him, but he did not know if she would accept his suit.

  He intended to do whatever he had to in order to convince her to become his wife.

  * * *

  EVELYN PAUSED BEFORE climbing into the Bedford coach, with Aimee, Julianne and Jacquelyn, and the two children’s maids behind her. Today, Julianne had decided they would take the children for a picnic in the park, skipping their reading and arithmetic lessons. Amelia was meeting them in Hyde Park with Will, John, her tiny stepdaughter, Lucille, and baby Hal.

  It promised to be a wonderful afternoon. But Evelyn did not want to go. She did not think she could feign another moment of happiness. A list of survivors had been posted at the Admiralty, and she happened to know that Jack’s name was not on that list. Now, she was waiting for her brothers-in-law to obtain highly classified information—a list of the British prisoners languishing in France.

  She realized a small carriage drawn by a single bay horse had turned into the drive. It was obviously a hired hansom.

  “Dom must have a caller,” Julianne said brightly. “Aimee, Jackie, do get in, or we will be starting our picnic at suppertime!”

  Evelyn realized she was paralyzed, staring at the approaching vehicle. It was an open carriage, and a gentleman sat in the back, in a dark jacket and hat. She could not take her eyes off of him.

  The gentleman was tall, dark, elegantly clothed, but as he stood to get out, she saw his golden hair beneath the black felt bicorn hat. And he was staring intently—relentlessly—at her.

  It was Jack.

  And Evelyn knew there had to be a mistake. She must be staring at Lucas. Jack would not drive through town in an open vehicle, or so casually appear at the house in the broad light of day!

  He jumped down from the carriage, never taking his gaze from her.

  She was not mistaken! “Jack!” she gasped.

  He strode to her with long, hard, determined strides and pulled her into his arms, kissing her fully on the mouth, deeply, with heat.

  Evelyn began to cry. She held on to him, hard, as he kissed her again and again.

  And finally, he ended the kiss. “Hello, Evelyn.” He was hoarse—and his eyes glistened.

  She clasped his face in her hands. “You are alive! You are home!” But her vision was blurred with tears.

  “I am alive....” He smiled now. “I am home.” He put his arm around her and pulled her to his side and smiled at his sister.

  Julianne ran to him and hugged him, then cried, “Why are you standing in my driveway like this?”

  “Surely we must rush inside?” Evelyn asked. But as she met his gray gaze, as she saw the softness in his eyes, so much hope began. What was happening? Jack would never be standing outside like this as an outlaw!

  “We do not have to rush anywhere.” He now turned and smiled at Aimee. “Hello, Aimee. Have you been enjoying your stay in town?”

  Aimee smiled bashfully, nodding.

  Julianne stepped forward. “Why don’t you go inside with Evelyn, Jack, and I will take the children to the park, as planned.” Then her gaze became direct. “I am so glad you are safe—and home.”

  He smiled at her. “So am I.”

  Evelyn realized she was shocked and dazed, her heart thundering, her mind nearly shut down. She hurried to Aimee. “Would you mind if I stayed behind today? Aimee, I have so much to discuss with Mr. Greystone.”

  Aimee was solemn. “I don’t mind, Mama. I know you love him.”

  Evelyn started, genuinely surprised. “Have I been so obvious?”

  Aimee smiled. “He is so handsome…and I like him, too.”

  Evelyn hugged her, and then helped her into the carriage. She was acutely aware of Jack standing behind her, and now, she had a hundred questions! The driver carried his baggage past them, as Julianne was the last to get into the coach.

  Evelyn seized her hand, suddenly near tears. “He is home.”

  Julianne was also misty-eyed. She smiled and kissed her cheek. “He is home and I am so happy for you both!”

  Evelyn stepped back as the footman closed the door.
Instantly, Jack took her hand.

  She turned and behind them, the Bedford coach pulled away. “Is this a dream?”

  “No, it is not.”

  “Jack! What has happened? You never use the front door!”

  He began to smile, a smile she had never before seen. “The bounty has been removed, Evelyn. I am a free man.”

  She cried out, thrilled. Putting his arm around her, he walked her into the house. “You are free,” Evelyn whispered. “Oh, God, I had hoped that one day you might be a free man—but I never dreamed it would happen so soon—like this!”

  “We have Admiral Hood to thank,” Jack said softly as the doormen closed the front door behind them. “There is more. He has recommended a medal of honor for me. Next month, I am to be knighted.”

  Evelyn realized she held both of his hands in hers. “You are to be recognized as the hero you truly are!”

  “Yes.” He swept her suddenly into his arms, holding her tightly against his strong body. “I have missed you terribly.” He was rough. “When I was in prison, my greatest fear was that I would never hold you again.”

  Tears came. “Jack, I have missed you, too. I have been living in a state of terror—I was afraid you were dead!”

  “I had no plan to die—because that would mean leaving you.”

  She basked in his burning gaze. And Evelyn had no doubt then about the depth of his love for her. No words could be as romantic. “We have so much to discuss,” she began, thinking of his child, which she carried.

  “Later!” He lifted her into his arms—both doormen gaping—and started for the stairs. Evelyn touched his beautiful face, having no desire to protest. Upstairs, he kicked open the door to her bedroom, closed it, carried her to the bed and laid her down on it. And as he shrugged off his jacket, Evelyn saw dark, terrible shadows flitting through his eyes. Jack was so adept at hiding his feelings, but then, his expression was utterly ravaged.

  She knew the war had scarred him.

  And a moment later he was joining her in that bed. “I need you,” he said thickly. “But I love you—so do not think I am a terrible cad.”