by Diana Quincy
“Spectacular, isn’t it?” There was very little left of the original castle, just a few stone walls and a beautifully arched entranceway that hinted at the structure’s majestic past. Sparrow’s shadow fell over her as he examined the sketch. She didn’t look up, but her blasted heart moved a little faster at his nearness. “Where did you get that sketch pad?”
“I found it on one of the shelves in the study.”
“Hmmm. I suppose it belonged to someone associated with the former viscount.”
He bent even closer, close enough for the scent of his shaving soap to drift over her. His jaw was as clean and smooth as cut glass; his overall appearance and demeanor hinting at none of the rough, restrained danger he’d exhibited with Trudy last night.
“Remarkable,” he observed. “You ably capture the sense of serenity that falls over this place in the morning.”
“I’m surprised you would notice.”
“Why? I do have eyes, you know.”
Oh, she knew. Those sparkling blue pools, which had recently wandered impertinently over Trudy’s perky bosom, were almost mesmerizing in their intensity.
“I’d forgotten you dabble in drawing and painting,” he added. “You’re quite good at it.”
She bit back a retort. She did more than dabble in art. She practically lived and breathed it. Drawing and sketching took up almost all of her time when she wasn’t eating or sleeping. Her parents dragged her along to social events every now and again so she wouldn’t appear the recluse, but she loved nothing more than to be before a blank canvas, filling it with the images in her mind. “Thank you. When I finish up here, I’d like to return home. I can only imagine what my parents are going through.”
“I sent a note to your father last evening to inform him of your whereabouts.”
Her charcoal pencil stilled and she finally looked up at him. “Did you? And how did he respond?” The sun behind him set his magnificent profile in relief: the strong, beautiful nose, the firm contour of his angular jaw. She resisted a sigh of pure admiration.
He pitched a pebble in the direction of the cliff’s edge. “I haven’t had a response as of yet. I sent the message quite late last night.”
Maybe now Father would see Sparrow for the cad he was. For some inexplicable reason, her father adored the man, even though he’d cried off from St. George’s only daughter. Repaying the jilt with devoted admiration certainly didn’t seem like a fitting punishment to her.
She had to admit Papa’s feelings might have been slightly influenced by Emilia herself. She had always pretended that Sparrow’s last-minute defection hadn’t affected her in the slightest. During their betrothal, he was always kind and polite, but she’d sensed his general indifference to their match, and pride had made her behave in a similar fashion.
“Of course, it’s fine, Papa,” she’d said after being jilted. “After all, it isn’t as though Hamilton was my choice. You and Mama are the ones who arranged it. Now I can choose my own husband.” In truth, she would have chosen Sparrow a thousand times over. She’d never met any man who compared.
Even now, her chest ached when she thought of the devastation that had swamped her when he’d walked out of her life. She’d been dazzled by him for almost as long as she could remember, since she was six years old, when her teenaged neighbor had rescued her from the shallow, dry well she’d fallen into after accidentally dropping her dolly inside.
Well, it hadn’t been entirely by accident; she had wanted to see what it sounded like when Dolly hit the bottom of the well. Sparrow had managed to rescue her and Dolly, forever stealing her heart with that simple act of gallantry and kindness. It seemed as though she’d loved him forever.
Trying to ignore the lingering sense of loss in her heart, she concentrated on her sketching. Loving Sparrow was all in the past, a girl’s youthful folly and nothing more. She’d chosen her husband—if Edmund would still have her after yesterday’s debacle.
“I’m pleased you’ve attempted to ease Papa and Mama’s worries,” she told him, “but I’d still like to return to Town today. St. George’s is likely booked, but we can find another venue if need be.”
“That determined to marry Worsely, are you?” She registered the sarcastic undertone in his question.
“Of course.” At four-and-twenty she wasn’t getting any younger, not that he would bother to notice. She’d been promised to Sparrow for so long that, by the time he broke things off, she’d lost precious time on the marriage mart.
“Why St. George’s?” he asked.
“What?”
“Why wed at St. George’s at Hanover Square?”
“Why not?” she answered with some exasperation. “All of the important society weddings are held there.”
“Exactly, I would have thought those sort of airs hold no appeal for you. When we were to be wed, you chose the small village church near your father’s estate.”
“I’m surprised you remember.” For years she had dreamt of marrying him in the quaint old stone church, with its weathered pews and the inscribed Roman stone embedded in its walls. Until Sparrow had destroyed her dreams and strolled away from their planned future together without a second glance.
“Of course I remember.” He perched one lean hip on a boulder a couple of feet from her. “You loved that old church. I thought you would choose something similar for your nuptials.”
“Well, if you must know, Edmund has his heart set on marrying at St. George’s. It’s where all of the Worsely family nuptials are held.”
He snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”
She speared him with a look. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just that your dearly beloved is a bit high in the instep.”
“He is the grandson of a duke.”
“And has the airs to prove it.” The words died on his tongue. He stilled, except for his eyes, which darkened while scanning the area around them.
She followed his gaze, noting nothing of interest beyond the castle ruins and the crystalline shimmer of the sea beyond them. “What is it?”
He stood and held up a silencing hand, as though he were listening for something. She could hear nothing except the chirps of early-morning birdsong above the gentle swoosh of the sea.
“Graves,” he said.
Something rustled behind one of the castle’s far walls. “You always did have an uncanny ability to sense people before they appear.” A slender man of middle age emerged from the ruins. “That worked in my favor when we were on the same side.”
“There is nothing for you here.” Sparrow shifted so that he stood between Emilia and the new arrival.
“I have heard you are a viscount now. An interesting diversion.”
She couldn’t see Sparrow’s face, but his voice was a hard, low vibration. “Move along and we shall part as friends.”
Graves took a soft step closer. “Unfortunately, I am not a man who looks favorably upon leaving loose ends untied.” He was of medium height with dark hair graying at the temples, but something about the way he carried himself, with a dogged sense of purpose, sent rivulets of foreboding through her.
“Who sent you?”
He laughed as though honestly amused. “I am more discreet than that.”
“A private client, then.”
“They do tend to be more profitable.”
“Miss St. George’s father is richer than Croesus. He can compensate you far more handsomely than your current patron.”
“My client is most determined.” Graves took another casual step closer. “And I am as good as my word once I take on a job.”
Sparrow moved toward the other man. “Not even for old times’ sake then?”
“I’m afraid not. Although I grant that we did have some amusing times in Paris. I will regret killing you.”
Both men ignored Emilia’s soft exclamation of shock. Her heart pounded so hard she could scarcely hear anything else. This man was no figment of Sparrow’s ove
ractive imagination. He was very real, flesh and blood, and had just confirmed his intention to kill both her and Sparrow. She threw down her pencil and looked around frantically for anything she could use as a weapon.
“Emilia.” Sparrow spoke in a strong, sure voice. “Go back to the cottage.”
“But—”
“Now. I’ll join you shortly.”
She stumbled to her feet, barely noticing the twinge in her ankle. Hugging the sketchbook to her chest, she started in the direction of the cottage, not daring to look back, but half expecting Graves to be upon her at any moment.
Behind her, Graves gave a quiet huff of amusement. “You’re an optimistic fellow.”
“Not really.” Sparrow’s words were cloaked in icy courtesy as though he were talking to an acquaintance at a ball. “I will not regret putting a period to your sorry existence. And make no mistake, I shall persevere.”
Terror gripped her. Emilia’s quick steps hastened to a run, her feet slipping and stumbling along the uneven grassy cliffs. A gunshot sounded from the ruins, followed by another. She cried out, the sound guttural and terrified. Sparrow. She halted, unsure of what to do. He’d told her to return to the cottage. But what if he needed help?
She peered back in the direction she’d come, confused and uncertain. She couldn’t see the men. They were on the other side of a rising she’d just crossed. If Graves prevailed, he would come after her. If she assisted Sparrow, they’d both have a better chance of survival.
Her mind made up, she dropped the sketchbook and ran back in the direction she’d just come from.
—
Bloody hell. Graves was proving stronger than Sparrow had previously given him credit for. Exhaustion weighted his limbs as he and Graves rolled perilously close to the cliff, locked in a vicious struggle for survival.
And for Emilia’s life. He couldn’t leave her to face Graves alone. A renewed sense of vigor shot through him. With a grunt, he slammed his fist into Graves’s already bloody face. But his energy ebbed as the agony from the bullet that had ripped through his arm moments earlier twisted through him.
Graves rolled on top of him, and something glinted in the sun. A knife. His blood pumping hard, Sparrow gripped Graves’s wrist with all of the strength he had left, hoping to force his adversary to drop the knife. Suddenly, the blade fell to the ground and Graves collapsed, inert, beside him. A shadow silhouetted by the sun stood over him. When he rubbed the blood and sweat out of his eyes, Emilia came into focus.
“Judas!” Her eyes were very round. “You’re bleeding.”
He blinked. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Saving our lives.” Indignation rang out from her like a church bell. “What do you think I’m doing? Having a tea party?”
His gaze dropped to where she held a massive rock streaked with blood in both of her hands. Her spine straight, resolve sparkled in her eyes and the breeze off the water had her extraordinary hair whipping about her shoulders.
It occurred to him then, while he lay sweaty, exhausted, bleeding, and in pain, that he’d been wrong about Emilia. This proud, indomitable woman was no Titania, queen of the fairies. This Emilia, who had fierce determination stamped all over her face as certainly as that charming smattering of delicate freckles, was Boadicea, the avenging Celtic warrior queen, a formidable female if there ever was one.
Boadicea dropped the rock with a hard thud and nudged Graves’s still form with the point of her soiled white satin slipper. “Is he dead, do you think?”
He tore his rapt gaze away from her to assess the lifeless form crumpled next to him. “I hope not.”
“What?” She stared at him as if he’d sprouted horns. “Why?”
“Because he’s the only link we have to whoever is trying to harm you.” He struggled to his feet, a fiery pain coiling in his arm, making all of his other aches and more minor injuries pale in comparison.
She came quickly to his uninjured side and hesitated for just a moment before wrapping a firm arm around his waist. “Lean on me.”
His pride wanted to say he didn’t need her help, but that wasn’t entirely true. He felt the energy quickly draining from him. He propped his good arm around her shoulders. She felt soft and feminine but also dependably sturdy. He only hoped he’d manage to make it to the cottage before collapsing.
She glanced back at Graves, the sun catching the glimmers of gold in her splendid copper hair. “We cannot just leave him there. What if he escapes?”
“He isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. You made certain of that.” Despite the throbbing in his arm, the thought of Boadicea taking down Graves, a hardened professional assassin, made him smile. “I’ll send some of the grooms back for him once we get to the cottage.”
She didn’t seem convinced. She peered back over her shoulder and a shiver wracked her body. He felt a pang of regret that she’d been exposed to such a sordid business.
“Why did you return?” he asked. “I told you to go to the cottage.”
“It’s well and good that I didn’t,” she said unapologetically, “or we might both be in a great deal of trouble.” He couldn’t deny it. She continued in a softer tone, “You saved my life more than once, even though I certainly haven’t made it easy for you since you snatched me away from St. George’s. I am in your debt.”
“I owe you my thanks as well.” His throat felt embarrassingly sore. “Since you returned the favor and saved my life today. It seems we make a good team.”
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose we do.”
They continued on in silence until the cottage came into view. They arrived to find Jed had returned with a message from Thomas St. George demanding the immediate return of his daughter.
Chapter 4
“Murder, you say?” Emilia’s father stared at Sparrow. “You’re certain they were after my daughter.”
“I have no doubt.” Ensconced in a comfortable chair in Thomas St. George’s London study, Sparrow nodded. “There were two men. One is dead. The other is under lock and key at my property in Hastings.”
“The one who shot you.” St. George splashed port into two glasses and crossed over to hand one to Sparrow. “How is your arm, by the way?”
“Fine.” He accepted the glass. “The bullet just grazed it.”
“What do you plan to do with him?”
“With Graves?” He took a deep swallow from his drink. “My staff at the cottage is looking after him and will alert me immediately should he regain consciousness.”
St. George leaned his hips against the front edge of his massive oak desk. The entire room was done up on a grand scale, from the soaring ceilings to the large, valuable paintings stacked one atop the other up the deep green walls. “Why haven’t you turned this man in to the authorities?”
“I’d like to keep whoever hired Graves off balance. No one else knows where Graves is, and I’d like to be the first to question him should he awaken.” He took a long drink, relishing the fiery trail the liquid blazed down his throat. “It’s possible, of course, that he will not wake at all.”
“Thank you, Hamilton,” St. George said quietly. “You saved my daughter’s life.”
He shifted in his seat. St. George’s praise made him uncomfortable. “It was my duty to protect her once it became clear she was in danger.”
“No longer your duty.” St. George sampled his port. “Although I would have been most proud to call you my son.”
Sparrow knew there was a time St. George had wanted nothing more than for him and Emilia to wed. “I would have liked the same.”
The older man moved to take the seat opposite Sparrow’s and settled heavily into it. “Did we make the right decision, do you think?”
Sparrow thought back five years ago to the morning St. George alluded to, when the two of them had met privately and agreed that, given the circumstances, it would be best for Sparrow to call off the wedding.
When he’d spoken to Emilia afterward, he hadn’t sh
ared the specifics of why he couldn’t marry her. Mercifully, there’d been no dramatics. Their betrothal hadn’t been an affair of the heart and, to his relief, she’d been politely indifferent when he’d ended things.
“I’ve always thought we chose the best path,” he said in answer to St. George’s question. But now he wasn’t so certain, especially when the image of the indomitable Boadicea, standing tall and proud on the cliff’s edge with her flaming hair streaming behind her, came to him.
A pensive look came over St. George’s face. “Sometimes I wonder.”
“That is in the past.” Sparrow spoke decisively, forging ahead to the business at hand. “It is the present that must concern us. Emilia needs our protection.”
“Indeed.” St. George’s brisk tone mirrored Sparrow’s. “We’ve put the word out that Emilia has taken ill and the nuptials are regrettably postponed. As far as anyone knows, she’s been abed since yesterday morning.”
“Thusly her reputation is spared.”
“Indeed. Worsely remains anxious to marry her.”
Sparrow eddied the amber liquid in his glass. “Do you approve of her choice?”
St. George barked a laugh. “I presume that you do not.”
He studiously avoided the man’s gaze. “I did not say that.”
“You most certainly implied it, given the nature of your question.” He sighed. “It’s true that Worsely’s a pompous ass, but he is my daughter’s choice.”
“I’m rather surprised you trust the man enough to deliver a quarter of your fortune to him immediately after the nuptials.”
St. George cocked his head. “Emilia told you about that, did she?”
He nodded. “You must have great confidence in Worsely. That’s a significant amount of coin.”
St. George shot him a knowing look. “A man in my position learns to trust very few people. Emilia is a great heiress and unscrupulous fortune hunters abound. Consequently, certain safeguards are required.”
