by Shana Galen
“How are you feeling?” Lady Ravensgate asked.
“A little better. I must have dozed off.”
“Poor dear. Shall I fluff your pillows?”
“No! I mean, no thank you.” The last thing she wanted was Lady Ravensgate fussing with any of the bedclothes or asking her to sit up or move in anyway. The paper wedged between her knees would rustle and that would be the end of everything. “I think I will just go back to sleep.” She closed her eyes again, hoping the lady would take her cue and depart. Collette heard no sound for a long moment and then the lady’s slippers shushed on the carpet again. Cracking her eyelids, Collette saw she was straightening a pile of books that had been knocked over when Beaumont had put the ink on the nightstand. That accomplished, the lady moved around the rest of the room. It was small and Collette did not have much, so the room was neat. Fortunately, the prevailing wisdom was that cool air and sunlight were to be avoided if one was ill, so Lady Ravensgate had no reason to open the windows or the curtains. But the longer she tarried, the more nervous Collette became.
Finally, Lady Ravensgate went to the door. “I will have a maid bring some supper a little later.”
“Thank you,” Collette said, not opening her eyes.
“Just sleep for now.”
Collette nodded and pretended to fall more deeply asleep. Then the door closed. Collette did not dare move for fear the lady would return to impart some forgotten words of wisdom. Finally, she heard the curtains swish and Rafe moved across the room. “Easy enough,” he said.
Collette wanted to strike him. She hadn’t stopped shaking. When he reached the bed, he began to lift her skirts, presumably to retrieve the book and paper, but she swatted his hands away. “Don’t touch me.” She had to whisper it because the servants might have been outside her door, but she managed to slap his hand hard enough that he frowned at her and shook it. “Let me have the ink and quill. I want to finish this before someone else interrupts.”
He produced the items again, and she hastily scrawled the note. She waved the paper, waiting for the ink to dry. “Midnight in the garden. Do not come in my bedchamber again.”
“That’s the first time a woman has ever said that to me.”
“I hope it’s not the last. All I want is to help my father and go far away from you.”
“Again, that’s not a sentiment I usually hear from—”
She shoved the paper at him. “Take it. I’ll see you at midnight.”
He bowed. “I look forward to it.” And then he pushed the curtains aside, opened the window, and slid out. She didn’t know how he managed to make it to the ground. Perhaps there was a tree he used or he’d found a trellis to climb? She didn’t care. She would have rather he’d fallen and smashed into a thousand pieces. Her head rather hoped he would.
Finally, she rushed to the window, but there was no sight of Rafe Beaumont. He’d made it away, apparently unscathed. Her heart, curse it, rejoiced.
Twelve
Rafe didn’t like this part of the plan. He didn’t like leading Collette to danger, even if the danger was minimal and he’d be right there all the time. But there was nothing for it. As Jasper had reiterated, she must be the one to give the intermediary the letter. Rafe would have to allow her out of his sight, but not for long. It had been hard enough not seeing her the past two days, but now that she was here, walking beside him along an alley that would take them to Bond Street, it would be even harder to allow her to take the risk—as small as it was.
“How much farther?” she asked, her voice muffled inside the cloak she wore. He’d insisted she pull the hood over her head. Any number of dangerous men were out on the streets at night, and they didn’t need a reason to accost someone they encountered. Better to stay in the shadows and keep one’s head down.
“Not far. It would have been faster to take a hackney or the main streets, but I don’t want to be seen.”
“You still have the letter I penned?”
“Yes.” He’d held on to it even after they’d met in the garden. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just given it to her when she’d first asked for it. Perhaps he wanted to make sure it wasn’t lost or perhaps he felt he needed to give her a reason to stay beside him.
“What if the bookseller doesn’t believe the letter?”
“It’s not for him to believe or not believe. He just delivers the letters.” Rafe had thought about how this was possible and determined the man must have dealt in books from all over the world. He either traveled back and forth to France or had the letter sent along with orders to French merchants for volumes in demand in England. The answer would be known soon enough. Once the Foreign Office knew about the man, he’d be taken into custody and all his secrets revealed.
The alley forked into two streets, and Rafe took Collette’s arm, leading her toward the left. As soon as she understood the direction he wanted her to go, she yanked her arm away. “I can walk on my own, thank you.”
She was colder than the Frost Fair of ’14. He couldn’t really blame her, and it surprised him that he minded so very much. Once he’d taken a woman to bed, Rafe had usually felt as though the chase was over. That didn’t mean he ignored her or spurned her. He wasn’t a scoundrel. But he didn’t often have the urge to have her again.
And he never lost sleep wishing she had stayed the night. Women never stayed the night. In fact, he preferred to go to a woman so he could be the one who left and not face the awkwardness of having to, in essence, ask her to leave. But when Rafe had finally shoved Jasper out the door and lay down to sleep, he hadn’t been able to. Her scent had lingered on his pillow and his sheets, the faint fragrance of juniper mixed with the scent that was Collette. Every time he’d breathed, he’d remembered flashes of the night they’d spent together. He’d relived the thrill of kissing her and running his hands over her soft skin and silky curves. When those thoughts had driven him all but mad, he’d retreated to the drawing room to sleep on the couch, but when he’d closed his eyes, he’d imagined her naked. He’d imagined the feel of her sex closing around him as he’d thrust into her.
Finally, he’d given up on sleep and chosen a book to read. But he hadn’t even finished a page. He couldn’t stop smiling as he remembered things she’d said and done the past few weeks. He had enjoyed their time at the theater and the museum. He’d enjoyed dancing with her and walking with her. And yes, he’d enjoyed taking her to bed. If all went as planned, she would be out of his life forever before long. And Rafe was torn between wanting things to go as planned so she would be safe and wanting everything to go wrong so he could keep her with him longer.
He had those same divided feelings tonight. He wanted everything to go as planned, but if the letter was lost or the bookseller not at home, or if something else went wrong, then he would be able to meet her again and soon. He would have another chance to make amends for having to lie to her.
Then all of those thoughts faded as he heard the echo of footsteps fall in behind them. At first Rafe thought he had imagined them. A glance at Collette showed her face, though somewhat hidden in shadow, didn’t appear concerned. Feeling his gaze on her, she glanced at him, her brows arched in question. The footsteps grew closer, and he saw the moment she heard them as well. Her eyes widened and she twisted to look over her shoulder. Rafe caught her arm as they walked and leaned close so only she could hear. “Follow me and don’t look back.”
“I will,” she murmured. Then he thought he heard something that sounded like Contrary to Aristotle’s claims, hedgehogs adopt a rear-mounting position during copulation. She must have been nervous.
Rafe quickly scanned their location. They’d emerged from the alley, but they were still away from the main roads, where carriages and people might spot them. If they had been able to walk another few blocks, they would have reached Bond Street. As it was, the deserted gardens at the back of rows of terraced housing lay on one
side and mews lay on the other. Rafe might not have been a skilled fighter like Ewan or a veteran soldier like Neil, but he knew when the odds were against him.
He often bemoaned the fact that he was never included in any of the exciting missions. He was always the one to stay back or rendezvous with the others when all was clear. But now that danger was right behind him, Rafe didn’t feel nearly as confident. What if he couldn’t protect Collette? What if Draven’s men had been right and all he was good for was bedsport?
Rafe pushed the idea away. He could play the role of hero. He’d been waiting for his chance, and now he had it.
The footsteps grew closer, and Rafe could either turn and face their pursuers or run. There was no shame in running—Draven’s men had done it when necessary—but there was no glory in it either. Rafe grasped Collette’s hand and spun around. Two men were quickly approaching. One was older with stringy gray hair that hung long over his collar and framed his thin, leathery face. The other was a good deal younger. His dark hair was held by a piece of cord into a queue and the brim of his hat was pulled low over his forehead. He slapped a wooden stick about the length and thickness of a walking stick in his hand.
“Can I be of some assistance, gentlemen?” Rafe asked, giving his most charming smile. It worked best on women, but men were not immune.
The men halted—that was a good sign—and gave each other amused looks. “’E thinks we’re gentlemen.” That from the younger man.
“I am a gentleman,” said the older man. This caused both men to erupt into a round of chuckles.
Rafe laughed too, edging himself in front of Collette as he did so.
“You’re a rum duke,” the younger man said. “Give us yer coin and the moll, and ye go on yer way.”
“That hardly seems a fair trade.”
“We can split your skull and then take yer coin and yer moll,” said the older man.
Rafe scratched his chin. “I don’t like that option either. How about this? You turn around and walk the other way, and I won’t shoot both of you with my pistol.”
The two thugs looked at each other, then back at Rafe. He was a good card player. He could bluff his way through most any game, but as the seconds crept by, Rafe began to think these two might just have been better at this game than he.
“You don’t have a barking iron.” The younger man crossed his arms over his chest.
“So sure, are you?” Rafe drawled. He did have a pistol. He might not have had it with him, but he owned one. At least he had owned one at some point in time.
“Let’s see it,” demanded the older man.
“You want to see it?” Rafe reached beneath his coat. Apparently, he wasn’t as good at bluffing as he’d thought. “How’s this?” he bellowed, flinging the ink pot still pocketed in his coat at the two men. The stopper popped off and ink sprayed in an arc over both men. They held up their hands and yelped. Glory be damned. Rafe took advantage of the distraction and ran, pulling Collette along with him.
“This way!” he called, heading for Bond Street. The busier the street, the better.
She stumbled, gathered her skirts in her hand, and was right on his heels.
“Faster!” Rafe called, dragging her around a corner.
“They’re right behind us,” she warned.
“Hell’s teeth!” Would his luck ever change? Shoving Collette behind him, he motioned for her to keep running. Then he crept closer to the corner and as the first man—the younger one—came around it, Rafe stuck out his foot. The man never even saw the obstacle, and he flew forward, landing with a thud on the ground. The older man was wise enough to avoid his friend’s mistake. He plowed into Rafe, sending them both sprawling. Rafe hit the hard ground, and his first thought was for his greatcoat. He’d paid a fortune for it. He didn’t have a second thought because the older man’s fist slammed into his cheek.
It would have been his nose, but Rafe had turned his head at the last second. Blinding pain exploded in his head followed by a sprinkle of stars.
“Get her!” the older man screamed as he straddled Rafe and held him down.
Rafe shook the stars off and smashed his fist into his assailant’s jaw. He heard a satisfying pop, and the man fell sideways. From the pain in his hand, Rafe wasn’t certain if the sound was his own hand breaking or the impact of fist on face, but he didn’t waste time finding out. He shoved the man off and staggered to his feet. The earth tilted like a ship in a storm at sea, and Rafe fell against the wall of the building he’d rounded. He heard the thunk of boots as the younger man pursued Collette, and Rafe shuffled after him. This is no time to fall over, he chided himself. Stand up and save her.
“Rafe!”
He recognized Collette’s voice and kicked up his pace, weaving as he ran but staying on his feet. The dizziness was passing, and he was able to make out Collette just ahead. The younger thug had hold of her arm, and she was kicking and scratching wildly. The thug reached for her other arm and pushed her against the wall. She struggled, pushed away, and he knocked her back. Another hard shove like that and he’d bash her senseless.
“Rafe!”
Rafe jumped, knocking the man back and away from Collette. He kicked out, but the man caught his boot and pushed, sending Rafe sprawling. From the ground, Rafe blinked. That move seemed to always work when Ewan used it. The assailant reached for Collette again, but she was quick. She ducked under his arm, circling him and causing him to turn to follow her. Rafe took advantage of the man’s inattention, leaped (very well, crawled) to his feet, and jumped on the man’s back.
It wasn’t the most elegant fighting move he’d ever seen, but when the man slid to his knees, Rafe judged it one of the more successful. He wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and squeezed until the man clawed at him. Fortunately, the greatcoat was made of thick wool and his efforts were largely ineffective. When the man slumped, gasping for breath, Rafe stood and, panting, held out a hand to Collette. “Mademoiselle.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and his glove came away bloody. “Shall we?”
Her eyes widened when she caught sight of his face, but she took his arm without hesitation. “Thank you, sir.” And the two of them strolled away.
* * *
Rafe walked confidently enough, but Collette couldn’t stop darting glances at him. She’d never seen him look less than perfect. Now his hair was disheveled, his cheek red and swollen, and his lip bled. His coat was torn and dirty, and his eyes glittered with anger. He looked dangerous.
Each time she looked at him, her heart pounded so hard in her chest that she caught her breath. She wanted him. She wanted to push him against the wall of one of the shops right here on Bond Street and kiss him until neither of them could breathe. His gaze met hers, held, and then she was off her feet and being carried into the doorway of what smelled like a bakery. Under the shelter of the doorway’s canopy, Rafe pinned her to the wall and bent his head to hers. “Are you hurt?” His voice was husky and low, almost breathless.
“No,” she managed. “But your cheek…” She lifted a hand to touch the swollen skin, but he caught her. Slowly, he pressed her hand back against the building, just above her head.
“I thought… I didn’t think…”
She understood what he couldn’t find words to say because she felt the same way. He had almost lost her. She had very nearly lost him. “You won’t be rid of me that easily.”
“I won’t be rid of you at all.”
She looked up at him to ask what he meant, but his mouth closed over hers, hot and demanding. She lost any thought of anything other than kissing him back. Their tongues tangled and dueled, and his hard body pressed against her soft one. When he would have gentled the kiss and possibly drawn back, she lifted her free hand and fisted it in his hair, pulling his lips back to hers.
“Oy! You there!” The man’s voice slowly penetrated the haz
e of arousal. “None of that here or I’ll have you arrested, I will!”
Collette loosened her grip on his hair, and Rafe looked up. He let out a disbelieving breath. “It’s the Watch. Why don’t you go chase a real criminal!” he yelled back.
“Wot was that?”
“Now you’ve done it,” Collette muttered as the Watch, a man three stone overweight and at least fifty years old, lumbered toward them. “Come on!” She tugged at Rafe’s coat, but he hesitated. She could tell he was spoiling for a fight. She’d seen this sort of reaction before. Emotion ran high—fear, anger, pain—and a man needed somewhere to put it. Based on her behavior just now, she was not immune to that impulse either. But they didn’t need any trouble from the Watch. She grasped Rafe’s hand and tugged.
“We’ll be on our way,” she called to the approaching watchman. “Which way to the bookstore?”
“This way.” Rafe quickened his step, and when they were far enough away that the Watch would have been forced to run, he gave up the chase. “Useless coward,” Rafe grumbled.
“Do you still have the letter?” she asked. He felt in his battered coat and then nodded.
“I have it. And this is the shop.”
She paused and stared at the small shop with a black sign displaying the drawing of a book and the words W. Morgan, Bookseller. The shop was dark, of course, but in the window a selection of bound volumes was on display behind the thick glass.
“The entrance to the living quarters are around back,” Rafe said. She followed him past another few shops and then down an alley and around the back of the businesses. After their interactions with the thugs, she didn’t particularly want to stand around.
“Shall we go up and knock on the door?” She indicated a wooden staircase leading to the first floor.
“You go. I’ll wait here.”
“You want me to go alone?”
“No, but there’s no other way. It’s better if he doesn’t see me. If we make him nervous, he’s likely to flee the city, and then we’ve lost our only means of contacting your father’s captors. If he asks, tell him you took a hackney and gave the driver a ha’penny to come back in a quarter hour.”
