Against the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 2)

by Regan Walker

  “A fabulous tale with exciting twists and turns reflecting a little-known event in England’s history, and at its heart…a wonderful love story.”

  —New York Times Best-selling Author Shirlee Busbee

  A RISING STORM

  “Is making love something you do not wish to do?” he said. “As I recall, you seemed to enjoy it as much as I did.” Then, more tenderly: “Besides, I have missed you, Kitten.”

  “No…I cannot. I am not your…your…” She could not bring herself to say the word. Their one night together had been a wonderful, amazing, and yes, passionate experience, but it could never happen again. She had escaped for one dreadful night into a dream. Into his arms. As much as she wanted those around her again, wanted to lie with him, she could not allow it. This was not who she was. Not who she was raised to be.

  Placing his hands on her waist, he pulled her against him. The heat from his broad chest overwhelmed her as she stared into indigo eyes now stormy with desire. “You opened a door, Kitten, I’m unwilling to close.”

  AGAINST THE WIND

  Book 2 in the Agents of the Crown Trilogy

  Regan Walker

  www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

  AGAINST THE WIND

  Copyright © 2013 Regan Walker

  All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

  Digital edition created by Maureen Cutajar

  www.gopublished.com

  ISBN 978-1-938876-46-2

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Synopsis

  Prologue

  Paris, 1812

  Sir Martin Powell dragged his fingers through his hair and poured himself a glass of brandy, the only luxury his small office afforded. Though he loved his work and never questioned his duty to the Crown, the last few days had not been pleasant.

  For days he’d watched the soldiers stumble into Paris from the Russian warfront, gaunt, pale men, their uniforms in tatters and their faces reflecting the gruesome deaths they witnessed. Many more—hundreds of thousands from Napoleon’s Grande Armée—would never be coming home. Though almost all of England would rejoice, the slaughter sickened Martin. But the Crown expected him to wait and watch. And to send reports of all he observed.

  It was nearly Christmas, and to cheer his wife Elise he’d promised a drink to celebrate with their good friend Ormond, another Englishman serving the Prince Regent through espionage in France. Martin hated to be late for anything, so he hastily finished his brandy, shoved back his chair and grabbed his coat. An hour later the three were seated in their favorite café, crowded and noisy on this frosty December night. All around, returning soldiers sought solace in drink. Martin scanned the room, studying the men’s faces. After all these years it was second nature to be aware of those he might have to face in a skirmish, their weapons, and the exits he might need for escape.

  Tossing back her head of dark curls, Elise laughed at something Ormond said. The sound always reminded Martin of bells tinkling. How he loved her smile, so openly displaying her love of life. He had married her too young, he knew, and it had been taking a serious risk given his situation, but one day he would return to England and he wanted Elise with him. She was like a fresh wind off the sea, a soothing balm to his oft-troubled soul.

  As they always did in public, they spoke in French.

  “I understand there is more to celebrate tonight than Christmas, my good friend.” Ormond followed these words with a wink.

  “You told him?” Martin asked, turning to face his wife and seeing her mischievous smile.

  “Oui, I did. Ormond is like a brother; I could not keep it from him. He was happy to share our joy.”

  She beamed, and Martin could not be angry. Elise was right. His colleague and good friend did need to know, and Martin was pleased as well, though he was reticent to bring a child into the world during a time of war.

  “Since we’ve shared the news, let’s share a toast to the babe!” exclaimed Ormond, calling for champagne. Soon their three glasses were raised in celebration. “What are you wanting, you two? A boy or a girl?”

  “I am hoping for a boy—for Martin,” Elise said. “One with his blue eyes.”

  “And I will take whatever you give me, my love,” Martin reminded her, leaning over to bestow a kiss that brought a smile to her sweet face and to him a feeling of contentment. He’d known little enough of it until the day she came into his life.

  Downing the last of his drink, Martin kissed his young wife again on the cheek and the three rose to leave. There was much yet to do.

  The night air was wintry as they exited the crowded café. The cold felt good, invigorating. Martin had just taken a deep breath when several soldiers emerged from the café behind him, swearing and complaining amongst themselves about Napoleon deserting his troops in his haste to return to Paris. One of them was defending his emperor. The men were drunk, angry and looking for a fight. The warning sounded in Martin’s head, but this was a night for celebration, not war, so he shrugged and walked on, his hand under Elise’s elbow.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a brandished pistol. A man shouted, followed by an explosive shot, and Elise slumped to the ground. In the light from the tavern Martin saw a circle of blood widening on her chest.

  “Elise!” he cried, dropping to his knees beside his wife. “Dieu, no. Mon amour.”

  A terrible anger filled his soul like a gathering storm. Maddened, he rose and spun, pulling his knife. He struck out toward the throat of the man who had fired the pistol. The soldier was an easy target, too stunned by what he had done to move, but before Martin’s blade could fall the two other soldiers attacked him, one swinging a fist into Martin’s ribs and the other holding a knife to his throat.

  Instantly Ormond was there. He leveled a pistol on the soldiers. “Laissez-le aller!”

  Seeing the weapon, the soldiers let Martin go. Though he fired no shot, Ormond’s pistol never waver
ed and the soldiers fled into the night.

  Martin reached for his wife, taking her into his arms. He cradled her close to his chest as he rocked back and forth, saying her name over and over. “Elise…Elise…Elise….”

  Ormond knelt beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Martin felt his friend’s touch, but there was no comfort to be had. There was no bringing back the girl whose vacant brown eyes stared up at him.

  “Under cloak of darkness, love will find you. Fearing the dark, you will never find love.”

  —Unknown

  Chapter 1

  London, April 1817

  She is dead.

  Katherine, Lady Egerton, stared at the still form lying on the bed. Beloved sister, friend of the heart…Anne was gone. One minute she was struggling for breath, the next she lay silent and still. The only person in the world Kit loved more than life had left her.

  They are all gone now. The sudden solitude tore at her heart.

  Kit smiled sadly, gazing through eyes filled with tears at the frail body lying before her. The brown mouse. Anne’s name for herself. Delicate even as a child, she had not long survived her marriage to the cruel Earl of Rutledge. Kit knelt at her sister’s bedside, assailed by grief and guilt, and reached for Anne’s hand. Could she have done more to save her sister from the dread disease? Could she have done more to protect Anne from the heartless man who was her husband?

  Pale in death, Anne was still beautiful. Kit had often sketched that heart-shaped face. Not a mouse, but a much-loved sister with a kind, unselfish heart.

  Kit had seen the end coming in the last few months, months through which she’d faithfully cared for Anne. The coughs that wracked her sister’s slight frame had grown worse as Anne seemed to fade before Kit’s eyes. Kit knew she was losing her even as she willed that weak body to heal. The physician said he could do nothing; each time he left shaking his head and telling Kit to make “the poor girl” comfortable as best she could. Kit had tried to save Anne, doing the only thing she knew by giving her syrup of horehound and honey. But such a small measure was not enough. Then, too, her sister had seemed to welcome death.

  Suddenly, the room grew cold. Kit felt his presence, a looming evil behind her. She took a deep breath and summoned her strength.

  “Leave her and come to me.” Rutledge’s tone was harsh and demanding. Kit had no need to see him to know his face would be twisted in an odious scowl, his lips drawn taut. “It is time.”

  “I must see to my sister.”

  “You need do nothing. I have arranged for the burial. Come away now.”

  Kit knew what he wanted, for she had seen the lust in his dark eyes. What at first had been sideways glances became leers and unwanted touches. Though she’d lived in his home since the death of her husband the baron, Kit had avoided the earl, rarely leaving her sister’s bedside. She had been thinking of a way to escape, but her exhaustion in caring for Anne these last days left those plans incomplete. With meager funds, her options were few.

  When she failed to rise at the earl’s direction, his hand roughly gripped her shoulder. She stiffened at the pain of his fingers digging into her skin.

  “I have waited long for you, Katherine, enduring that mockery of a marriage to your sister while all the while it was you I wanted, you I was promised. Now I shall have what is mine.”

  “No!” She rose swiftly, stepping back as she turned to face him. Revulsion rose in her throat. What did he mean by those words? She never had been promised to him!

  His smirk transfigured what many thought of as a handsome face. Hadn’t Anne at first been fooled by his aristocratic features and wavy brown hair? One had only to look closely to see his nature reflected in those thin lips and narrow eyes now focused on Kit. A deep furrow between his brows bore witness to his long having insisted upon having his way. When Kit sketched him, it had been as an attacking hawk.

  “What will you do?” he asked smugly. “Where will you go, m’dear? You are alone and without funds. I am the one who has provided food and shelter for both you and your weak sister, though I wanted only you. You are mine, Katherine, and I will have you.”

  Terror seized her. Cornered, her eyes darted about like an animal snared in a trap. His tall figure blocked the door to the corridor; the only way out led through his adjacent bedchamber. She fled toward it.

  She hastened into the room as he stalked after her, knowing she had but seconds, and her eyes searched for a weapon, something to hold him at bay. At the side of the fireplace were tools, short bars of iron that could fend off a man. But could she reach them in time?

  He lunged for her just as she ran toward the fireplace. His body collided with hers, and she fell upon the wooden floor with a thud. Pain shot through her hip. His body crashed down upon hers, forcing the air from her lungs. She gasped a breath just as his mouth crushed her lips, ruthlessly claiming dominance.

  Tearing away, she pushed against his shoulders with all her might, but his greater strength held her pinned to the floor. His hand gripped one breast and squeezed. She winced at the pain, but that was quickly forgotten the moment a greater terror seized her: His aroused flesh pressed into her belly.

  Violently she struggled, but to no avail. His wet lips slid down her throat to her heaving chest as his fingers gripped the top of her gown and yanked at the silk. Kit heard the fabric tear as he ripped her gown and the top of her chemise, and she felt the cool air on her naked breasts. Frantic, she mustered strength she did not know she had. Twisting in his grasp, she reached for the iron poker now a mere foot away.

  His mouth latched onto her breast where he voraciously sucked a nipple. Lost in his lust, he did not see her grasp the length of iron, raise it above him and bring it crashing down on his head. Stunned by the blow, he raised up, his eyes glazed. Kit let the bar fall again, this time with greater force. Blood spattered her chest and face as his body went limp. He slumped atop her.

  Kit’s heart pounded in her chest like a bird’s wing beating against a cage. Frantically she shoved his face from her breast and rolled his body to the floor.

  Unsteady at first, her breath coming in pants, Kit rose and looked down at the crumpled form lying before her, every nerve on edge as she gazed into that evil face, now deathly pale. Blood oozed from a gash in the earl’s left temple. There was no sign of life, no movement.

  I have killed him!

  Fear choked off her breath as she wiped blood from her face with a sleeve, and with one last look toward her sister’s bedchamber she raced from the room. Footsteps sounded down the hall. Alarmed at the prospect of encountering one of the earl’s servants who would summon a constable, Kit knew she must find a place to hide, and there was nowhere to hide in the house. Quietly stealing into her bedchamber, she grabbed her cloak and reticule, stuffing inside it the one piece of her jewelry that could be sold to sustain her, and fled the dwelling.

  Out on the street, she paused to draw her cloak tightly around her, desperate to cover her torn and bloody gown. Where could she go? Who would shelter her in the state she was in, given the deed she had done?

  Only one name came to her.

  Willow House.

  Chapter 2

  His collar turned up and his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, Martin braced himself against the unusually bitter April wind and stepped off the gangplank onto the London dock. He was happy to at last set foot on English soil. It had been a cold crossing from France.

  Glancing at the young man who’d followed him off the ship, Martin spoke his thoughts aloud. “It’s been ten long years since I left for France, John. So much has happened in that time. Who would have thought Napoleon’s war on a ‘nation of shopkeepers,’ as he called us, would end the way it did?”

  “Aye, sir. Though I only saw the last of it, and that from Calais, I know ’twas a long and hard-fought victory. But we sent the Corsican running in the end, didn’t we?”

  “That we did. We certainly did.”

  The English tongue
felt foreign to Martin’s lips, like exercising a stiff leg after long holding it still. He would lapse into French at times, he was certain, but it was best to try and return himself to the language of his countrymen. He had no desire to cross the Channel again anytime soon.

  The cold wind off the water blew a lock of dark hair across his forehead, and Martin brushed it from his eyes as he studied the merchant ships lined up in the Thames. The cluster of tall masts stood like a forest of swaying trees bare of leaves, stark against the cold blue sky, but the familiar sight warmed his soul. His senses embraced the familiar smells of the river, the wood of the ships and the dock, salted sails waiting to be mended, sour ale from the taverns and the stench of sewage. One never forgot the smells of home even if they were not always pleasant. The sounds of the busy river, men shouting instructions while they loaded and unloaded cargo, captains calling to their crews and gulls shrieking as they vied for scraps of garbage were the sounds of his youth. The Powell family of merchant seamen had grown wealthy in the trade both war and peace had brought them. Of the four Powell sons, he was the only one who had left the sea. The only rebel. Oddly enough, after choosing to leave it, he missed that life and was looking forward to a return.

  Why, at thirty-two, did he feel so old? Perhaps, he considered, it was because in the last decade he had lived another life, a life that was now coming to an end. As the Frenchman Martin Donet, he’d been England’s eyes and ears in Paris during the war with Napoleon. A spy for the Crown. But that was done. With the battle at Waterloo and the Bourbon king restored to the throne, by Prinny’s order Martin was coming home. Not that there wouldn’t still be English spies in France, he mused; the allies had little trust for each other. But Martin would no longer be one of them.

  He watched John studying the ships in the river, excitement causing the young man’s brown eyes to glitter. The boy looked younger than his twenty years, but trained as he was in both weapons and stealth that youthful appearance was deceptive. Like Martin and the others who’d served the British Crown in France, John Spencer was more than he seemed.