Lady Rogue

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Well, if you’re that determined,” he murmured. “But do get off my hand.” She complied, and he tilted his head back against the barrel, surrendering.

  It was the most intimate she’d been with him in close to a week, and it was a blasted pity they were in the middle of packs of rioters on a burning pier. She took a breath, then carefully peeled back the collar of his shirt to look at the wound beneath. Blood had soaked through the folded layers of cloth, oozing sluggishly from the ragged hole in his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “You didn’t do it,” he said quietly.

  “It’s my fault you’re here.”

  He opened his eyes to look into hers. “I’d have gone through far worse to find you, chit.”

  She sat across his hips, gazing at his exhausted, handsome face, then leaned down and very gently touched her lips to his. “I love you, Alex,” she whispered.

  “Then stop being so damned stubborn and say you’ll go back to London with me,” he insisted.

  She nodded, not speaking, not wanting to be forced into promising more than that. Not when she didn’t know what might happen. She would return with him, but she wouldn’t tell him she would stay. Because she would never lie to him again.

  He reached up his good hand to gently twist one of the straying strands of her hair around his fingers. Another building exploded into flames just to the south of them, and she jumped.

  “We’re in a shocking lot of trouble, I think,” she stated.

  He nodded, his eyes glinting in the reflected firelight, and pulled her face down to kiss her roughly. Careful of his wounded shoulder, she reached up to grasp the lip of the barrel on either side of his head and leaned into him. All of the loneliness and hurt and longing of the past weeks melted out of her bones, out of her soul, as she kissed him over and over again, hungry for his mouth, for his touch. Nothing, nothing, mattered so much as being with him.

  After an eternity of moments, shouting slowly penetrated her hearing over the crackle of burning timber. She broke their kiss and sat back a little. Alex leaned forward, pursuing her, and captured her lips again. “Alex…Alex,” she managed breathlessly, pulling back reluctantly. “Listen!”

  He turned his gaze from her face to look up along the waterfront.

  “Trouvez l’Anglais! Tuez l’Anglais!” rose from behind the nearest of the warehouse buildings. Find the English. Kill the English.

  “Stubble it,” he grunted as she scrambled off his legs.

  “Fouché’s men,” Kit suggested grimly. “I told you we should have shot them.”

  “We may still have the chance.”

  She helped pull him to his feet, but he immediately doubled over, and would have fallen if not for her arms about his waist. “Everton?” she murmured, holding him tightly.

  “I’m all right,” he said after a moment. “Just dizzy.” He turned north toward the shops that covered the end of the waterfront, tugging her after him. “Let’s get you hidden.” He pulled out his pistol and carefully reloaded it, his left hand clumsy.

  “Let’s get you hidden,” she countered, glancing at his grim face in some alarm. “You’re in no condition to be a damned decoy. Papa and I have a room just to the north.”

  “Someone has to watch for Hanton,” he insisted stubbornly.

  “I’ll watch.”

  The shouting abruptly became very clear, and she looked south. Beloche and Guillaume came out onto the waterfront, a mob of Frenchmen streaming behind them. They immediately spied her and the earl, and the yelling took on a bloodthirsty timbre that sent a chill down her spine.

  “Tuez l’Anglais!”

  “Get behind me!” Alex growled, and yanked her closer. “Into the alley!”

  A musket ball tore into the barrel right beside her, and she involuntarily shrank against him. In all her escapades, she’d never actually been shot at before.

  “Go, Christine!”

  “I won’t leave you!” she returned, grabbing on to his sleeve as he tried to shove her toward the alleyway.

  “Kit, don’t be a f—”

  “Everton!”

  The voice wasn’t Hanton’s. Kit whipped around toward the north end of the dock.

  “Reg!” Alex called back, exhausted relief edging his voice.

  He pushed her toward Hanshaw. A pair of men pounded behind the baron, Hanton and one other, as he charged forward to meet them.

  Reg fired past her, and someone behind them screamed. She and Everton dodged past barrels and crates and burning debris, making their way north. Hanton gave a Scots battle yell and discharged his musket.

  The third man fired off a shot from a pistol. She’d thought him Will Debner, but as the groups neared one another it became obvious that he was not. Christine balked. Alex slammed into her from behind, cursing as he wrenched his shoulder.

  “Go!” he ordered, turning to fire his own pistol.

  “It’s Furth,” she returned, pushing back against him.

  “I don’t care if it’s the devil himself!” he said. “They’re the ones who aren’t shooting at us. Go!”

  The mob was close behind them, and they weren’t slowing even with the return fire eating into their ranks. She hauled Alex’s arm over her shoulder, clasped his waist with her other hand, and began running.

  “Can you shoot?” the Duke of Furth bellowed at her above the din as she and Alex reached them.

  “Yes!”

  He finished reloading a pistol and tossed it to her. She winced at the spent heat of the barrel, flipped it around, aimed at Beloche, and fired. The smuggler went down on his face, heels over head, and stopped moving. The rest of the mob didn’t. Hanton pulled Alex away from her, and they started out along the narrow, northernmost pier. A private yacht was tied at the end of it, she realized, a fourth figure waving them on from beside it.

  Reg gestured with his pistol for her to precede him, then dumped a substantial pouchful of powder onto the center of the pier. Kit turned and ran. The explosion behind her made her stumble, and she glanced back to see a good twelve feet of pier vanished. Hanshaw and Furth pounded behind her.

  Hanton was helping Alex up the wildly swinging rope ladder when she reached them. A pistol discharged directly in front of her, and she flinched, surprised. The ball that passed through the Scotsman’s hand and flung him backward onto the slick pier also grazed her temple, and she slammed into one of the pilings. Fire erupted in her skull, and she staggered to one knee.

  “Kit!” Alex roared, dropping back down to the pier.

  “Don’t bloody move!”

  Alex skidded to a halt as Augustus Devlin stepped away from the shelter of the hull. Silently he pulled a second pistol from his belt, and leveled it at the earl’s back.

  “Christine,” Alex murmured, his expression unnervingly grim, his eyes on the blood trickling down one side of her face.

  “I’m…I’m all right,” she gasped, holding on to the piling to keep from pitching into the water.

  “Turn around, Everton.”

  “Devlin, put that away,” Furth ordered from behind her. “We’ve no time for this. Have you gone mad?” To add an exclamation to his sentence, a pair of musket balls tore into the stern of the yacht with a hollow thunk.

  “Completely,” Augustus agreed calmly, his gray eyes burning. “Turn around, Alexander.”

  With a last look at her, Alex did as he said. Christine hauled herself upright, her head throbbing. Hanton knelt opposite her, cradling his left hand in his right, his eyes narrowed points of fury directed at Viscount Devlin. Reg and Furth stood behind her, and beyond them the mob continued to shout obscenities and fire in their direction.

  “Augustus,” Alex said, his voice tight, “put it down. Now.”

  “You should have listened to Kit,” Devlin returned evenly. “She knew.” His eyes flicked in Kit’s direction, and the madness there stilled her heart. “You killed my sister, you bastard,” he continued. “My only family. And now you go on, find yours
elf another little bit to rut with, and leave me dying. I’ll have my vengeance, Everton, cold and bloody.”

  Kit released her hold on the piling and slid one foot carefully forward. Devlin’s eyes remained locked with Alex’s. She dared not protest; if she spoke and Everton broke his gaze, Devlin would fire. She was certain of it. And it would be her fault, and she couldn’t live with that.

  “I did not kill her, Augustus,” Alex said. “I’ll not lie. I didn’t love her, but I did not want her dead.”

  Augustus shook his head slightly. “And I say I’ll not go to hell alone. I want you there first, Alex, to guide my way.” His hand jerked, his fingers tightening on the trigger.

  Kit took a swift breath, shut her eyes, and stepped in front of Alex. The pistol thundered, followed in echo by another. A hot rush of wind lifted her hair at her neck, and then Alex slammed into her from behind, throwing them both to the hard wood. Something fell heavily into the water before her. She twisted her head to see Hanshaw lowering a smoking pistol, his face white. Augustus was gone.

  Alex pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her tightly. “Christine,” he rasped, his voice nearly a sob.

  “I’m all right,” she returned shakily, grabbing on to his coat and pulling him closer with frantic fingers. “I’m all right.” Tears spilled from her eyes as she folded herself up against him. He was alive. He was alive and Augustus was dead.

  “By God, lass,” Hanton muttered. “Sweet Jasus.”

  “We have to go,” Furth’s deep voice came, subdued and tense. “Tide’s nearly out, and they’ve almost got the pier planked.”

  Reg helped them both to their feet. His expression was hard and grim, his eyes on hers. “He said he wanted to help,” he said tightly. “You were right. I should have listened to you.”

  Everton grabbed her shoulder and jerked her around to face him. “Never,” he hissed, his face whiter than Hanshaw’s, “never do that again.”

  “In a heartbeat,” she said, her voice breaking, covering his hand with hers. Never had she felt that way before, that she would die to protect another’s life. It was frightening and comforting at the same time, to know deep inside her that he felt the same.

  “Let’s go,” Furth ordered again, hauling Hanton to his feet and helping him up the ladder. The rest of them climbed onto the deck. Hanshaw and the duke released the guide ropes, and the yacht drifted out into the harbor. Devlin had locked Debner and the crew below, and the baron freed them. Once safely out of musket range, they unfurled the sails, and the wind and tide pushed them north and west toward Dover.

  Kit found herself crowded into the main cabin with Everton, Reg, and the Duke of Furth. Alex sat her down on a bench and pressed a cloth against her temple, his expression so worried that she had to smile. “Let go,” she complained, trying to take the compress from him. “I can hold it, thank you very much.”

  “I will hold it,” he stated, refusing to relinquish his grip.

  “You’re wounded more badly than I am,” she retorted.

  “Despite every effort on your part,” he added darkly. “That was worse than foolish, chit.”

  “Next time perhaps you’ll listen to me when I tell you one of your cronies is a spy,” she sputtered. She could feel Furth’s eyes on her from across the cabin, but refused to look in his direction.

  Everton’s expression became still. “I never knew he hated me so much,” he murmured, so that only she could hear.

  “Oh, Alex,” she whispered.

  The Duke of Furth stirred, hesitated, and then took a step forward. “Can I offer anyone a brandy?” he queried.

  Alex kept his eyes on Kit for a moment, then handed her the cloth and turned to the duke. “I owe you a debt of thanks, Your Grace,” he said. “You have impeccable timing.”

  “It was half blind luck,” Reg offered. “His Grace figured out where you’d gone, and Gerald found me, but we foundered about the harbor all evening before I spied Hanton trying to steal a boat.” He paused. “We weren’t certain you’d even be here. It was suggested you might have gone on to Paris.”

  Alex gave a quick glance at Kit. “We nearly did.”

  Furth cleared his throat. “Any word about my brother?” he asked slowly, his gaze flicking between her and the earl.

  “He’s gone,” she said brusquely when Alex chose to remain silent.

  “He left you?” the duke asked more sharply.

  “I wouldn’t go with him,” she corrected, and Alex stirred beside her.

  “Christine,” Martin Brantley said, taking a breath, hesitant and unsure. It was so different from anything her father had ever exhibited that it caught her attention. “I…know you believe some awful things about me. I may not be able to change your mind, but I’d like, very much, the opportunity to tell you my side of the story.”

  Kit didn’t want to listen to him. It must have shown on her face, for Everton leaned sideways. “Hear him out, at least,” he said quietly. “I’ve known him to be a fair and honest man. But you never need to see him again after tonight, if you don’t wish it.”

  Furth didn’t like that; she could see it in the tight set of his jaw. Apparently, though, he considered it wiser to be silent and let her make up her own mind. That silence, the willingness to wait, was what decided her. “I’ll listen to you,” she conceded. “And that’s all.”

  Reg stood. “I should go check…on something. On Hanton,” he offered, and stepped quickly from the room, shutting the cabin door behind him.

  “Do you wish me to leave?” Alex asked her.

  She shot him an annoyed look, for this reunion was all his fault, after all. “Don’t you dare,” she growled.

  He gave her a brief smile. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”

  Furth looked between the two of them for a moment, then took a seat opposite. Rubbing his hands together, his gaze directed downward, he inhaled deeply. “I don’t know how to begin this,” he said, lifting his head to look at her again.

  “Do whatever you please,” Kit replied sharply, trying to hide her nervousness in her temper.

  “Very well.” He cleared his throat again. “Your mother, Anne, died of pneumonia. I did not harm her in any way. I couldn’t have. I was…very fond of her.” Christine squirmed, wanting to protest that she had heard all of this before, but the look in his eyes stopped her. Whatever it was he had to say, it was something that had been eating at him, perhaps as much as it had eaten at her father, and at her. “My first years of marriage to Constance were difficult,” he continued. “It was arranged by my father, and I knew little more about her than her name and the size of her dowry. When I met your mother, she was betrothed to Stewart. And I was dumbstruck.”

  “You go too far,” she burst out, standing. Alex climbed stiffly to his feet beside her, evidently to leave with her if she chose to do so.

  “Christine,” the Duke of Furth pressed, “I do not mean to hurt you. But you need to know this. And I need to tell you. Finally. Stewart left England after Anne died because she finally at the last moment told him—confessed to him—that you were not his daughter.” He bowed his head. “You are mine.”

  A rush of ice swept through Kit, freezing her down to the marrow of her bones. “No,” she whispered.

  “Good God, Martin,” Alex growled angrily, “you might have done that with a little more finesse.”

  “You knew?” she demanded, whipping around to face him. If he had lied about this, it was one lie too many.

  He shook his head wearily. “I suspected that part of the tale was missing. I had no idea what, though.”

  “You believe me, then,” Martin cut in, clenching his hands together, but making no move to close the distance between them.

  “I don’t know why I should,” she stated, abruptly tired and hurt and wanting to go somewhere very quiet and think.

  “Stewart was furious…understandably so, at the news. He thought, I suppose, that I had taken the last thing he had of Anne away from him. So
he took you away from me.” Finally he took a step forward. “I looked for you for quite a long time. I tracked the two of you to Spain, then lost you somewhere in Italy. I would hear rumors and set out after you again, only to find no trace. And Caroline was growing into a spirited young lady, and I had other duties…” He looked down, then met her eyes squarely with his light green ones. “But I never gave up hope of finding you.”

  “I—” Kit began, then stopped. It made sense. The different places they’d lived, her father’s hatred of everything English, and especially his brother, his plan of dressing her as a boy to keep her safe. She looked up at Alex, to find him gazing at her, sympathy and compassion in his eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed.

  “I’ll give you time, of course, to consider what I’ve said,” Furth offered, unexpectedly understanding. “I know it’s not an easy thing.” With a last hesitant look in her direction, he turned and left the cabin.

  Christine stared after him for a long time. “Not an easy thing,” she muttered. “Not an easy thing.”

  “Bit of an understatement, under the circumstances,” Alex commented, echoing her thoughts.

  She turned to face him. “What am I going to do?” she asked, reaching a hand out. He took it in his own. “This is too much. It’s too much.”

  “It’s piffle, compared to what you’ve been through,” he said flatly. “You’ll manage.”

  “But he’ll want me about now, dutiful whatever it is I am to him, and I don’t want to live with him.”

  “That’s simple,” he murmured, and touched her cheek with his fingers. “Live with me.”

  “As Kit Riley? I don’t think—”

  “As the Countess of Everton, Christine,” he interrupted.

  “I can’t marry you,” she returned, wishing for nothing more than to be able to say yes. A storybook maiden would have been able to say yes, but she would never have a smuggler for a father—an uncle—and she would not be illegitimate or a spy.