Irresistible (3 page)

The revelation of his quarry's gender had knocked Hugh back on his heels. He was supposed to interrogate and kill a
woman
? Hildebrand hadn't told him that. But then, Hildebrand was a master at keeping certain select facts to himself when it suited him. He certainly knew that Hugh would have balked at doing violence to a woman, war or no war.

But, having acted in the teeth of the cosmos's repeated attempts to dissuade him, here he was, saddled with the mission. Now, in the interests of his country's security, to say nothing of his own, he had no choice. Hildebrand would have known that, too.

Damn Hildebrand. And Boney. And all the bloody Frogs. And the woman before him, unconscious and curled childlike into a ball in the bottom of the gig that was even now taking them back to the ship, where his job would be to relieve her of the incriminating letters she had stolen, discover what had prompted her to steal them and other details surrounding the crime, and then, when he knew enough to plug the leak at both ends, dispose of her like so much garbage.

Hugh hadn't realized that he was cursing aloud until James, seated tailor-style on the woman's other side as he shuttered the lantern he had just used to signal that all was well to the woman's erstwhile companions, met his gaze and nodded agreement.

"Aye, and damn this bloody weather, too. We're like to be frozen through before we get back to the ship—
if
we get back to the ship, that is."

This dark afterthought was in apparent reference to the swelling waves that pitched the longboat up and down. Spray showered them like rain; the bottom of the craft was awash.

"We'll not be lettin' ye drown, Colonel, don't fash yerself about that." The nearest of the men working the oars addressed this remark to Hugh, shouting to be heard over the roar of the sea.

The fact that the sailor knew his military rank did not really surprise him. In another ringing endorsement of War Office security, all aboard the
Nadine
seemed to know that he was a British intelligence officer on a
very important mission,
as had been made clear to him from the moment he had set foot on the ship. Fortunately, the French vessel that had been scheduled to make this pickup had, thanks no doubt to the good offices of Hildebrand, not yet put in an appearance at the rendezvous point, and the escort that had accompanied Miss Towbridge to her destiny was now well out of earshot, which made discretion a little less imperative than it otherwise would have been. Still, he had lived in the shadows for so long that the fact that the sailors, seasoned smugglers all, seemed to a man cheerily cognizant of every detail of his mission made the hair rise on the back of his neck.

"Blimey!" James said as the little boat slid down the back of a wave into a trough as deep as a canyon.

With the plunge, Hugh's thoughts were diverted to concerns of a more immediate nature. Glancing up, he saw the ship that was their destination rearing high above them like a spirited horse. Seconds later, the longboat shot up the back of another rolling wave. The sea was worsening, no doubt about that. He was glad that they would be back aboard the
Nadine
before the storm he feared was in the offing struck in earnest.

"Mmm."

With his hand on the woman's head, he felt rather than heard the soft sound she made. Glancing down, he watched her stir as more icy water sloshed over the side of the boat, soaking her anew. She was already lying in an inches-deep puddle. Hugh knew just how cold and deep it was, because he was sitting in it himself, cross-legged, one hand exploring her scalp to determine the extent of her injury, while with the other he held on to the side of the boat for dear life.

"Is she dead then?" James asked without noticeable regret, apparently having just then noticed Hugh's digital exploration of their prisoner's skull.

It was James who had clouted her over the head with his pistol when Hugh had walked up behind her on the beach.

"Not dead." If Hugh's tone was wry, James appeared not to notice.

The woman's hair beneath Hugh's fingers was wet, cold, and fine textured. It had fallen from its pins to straggle over her face like long tangles of silk thread, and in the darkness looked as black as the sea. She was both nicely shaped and easy to carry. He knew that too, almost strictly from touch, because after catching her as she collapsed he'd reflexively put his shoulder to her stomach and lifted her over it— only to have his ribs exact a teeth-gritting price by the time he reached the gig.

He'd had to steel himself to ignore the knifelike sensation in his midsection as he had bundled her into the rowboat that, as the extraction had been accomplished so quickly, the sailors had still been in the process of securing. If the distance had been much farther he was very much afraid he would have been forced to let his pride go hang and pass the wench off to James, who'd been clucking like an old hen beside him for fear he'd do himself an injury all the way. He would have hated like the devil to pass the wench off to James.

The
traitorous
wench.

Hugh reminded himself of that deliberately, dwelling on the word with grim determination in an effort to steel himself for what he had to do. The slight body curled with helpless vulnerability before him belonged to one who was a danger to them all, a danger to England.

He would not even think of her as a traitorous wench. Just a traitor, gender immaterial.

The thought performed the necessary function of hardening his heart. Nevertheless, he could not help but be aware that her skull felt unmistakably feminine beneath his hand, her skin was soft, and her hair had a disconcerting tendency to curl around his probing fingers. Dammit to bloody hell, she felt like a woman.

Ignoring that as best he could, he continued the search. His efforts were rewarded when he encountered a warm stickiness just behind her left ear: blood.

"She's bleeding." His tone held no inflection. That it cost him some degree of effort to keep the label "traitor" rather than "woman" at the forefront of his mind was something that only he needed to know. Having determined that the injury did not appear to be life-threatening, he disentangled his hand from the clinging tresses. A glancing blow to the head would be the least of what would befall her now that she'd been apprehended, he reminded himself grimly. If the notion made him secretly queasy, then it was time to remember that he was, first and foremost, a soldier in time of war. No one had ever promised him that the things he would be required to do for his country would be pleasant, or easy.

"Aye, well, I'm not surprised. I hit the beldame bloody hard."

James, who seemed to suffer none of his own qualms about the gender of their prisoner, was twisted around, looking over his shoulder at the
Nadine
, which was so close now that when they reached the crest of the wave her starboard side loomed above them like a giant black wall. Faces illuminated by the flickering glow of lanterns could be seen on her deck as half a dozen or so men massed at the rail, making ready to bring them up. The schooner's sails were down, leaving her bare masts to thrust through the darkness like skeletal fingers reaching toward the storm-heavy sky.

"Pull hard to port!" someone yelled. The men complied, and the longboat's stern swung around.

Braced against the pitching waves, one hand now pressed flat against the woman's back to keep her secure, Hugh watched as a rope ladder unfurled down the
Nadine
's side. The first part of his task was complete: He had the traitor in his possession. In a few minutes they would be safe— from the sea at least— on deck. Then the second part of his task would begin.

Thinking about what that might entail, he set his jaw in a grim expression.

"Come about!" a sailor cried.

The sailors pulled hard at the oars once again, bringing the longboat alongside and parallel to the
Nadine
. And just in time, too. The storm was coming on fast. The waves were taller now, closer together, frothing white at the tops with mounting anger. Even as Hugh registered that, another powerful swell caught the longboat up, carrying them high and away from their goal as it sprayed its freezing spittle over them.

He grasped a handful of frock— it was fine cloth, expensive— between the woman's shoulder blades to keep her safe as the longboat slid down from the peak and inconveniently away from the
Nadine
. She stirred a little, moaning. Again he felt rather than heard the small sound she made. There was a helpless quality to it, and to her as she lay curled now against his bent legs, that made him want to ram his fist through something— preferably Hildebrand's face.

He was many things, most of them thoroughly dissolute, as he would be the first to admit, but he had never in his life physically harmed a woman.

Now, for his country, he would have to possibly torture and certainly kill this one.

Christ.

Her back arched up against the flat of his hand as she inhaled. That he was touching a feminine form was unmistakable. Flexing his fingers in silent protest, Hugh thought again, grimly, that Hildebrand had made a bad choice: He was not the man for this job.

Although in the end he would do what he had to do, as he always did.

Hildebrand would have known that, too, Hugh reflected bitterly. Damn him.

Chapter 3

Floating around just on the edges of consciousness, Claire felt the shock of an icy shower pelting her and opened her eyes. They immediately stung. Blinking rapidly, she realized that the reason they stung was because they were awash with salt water, and the salt water came from the sea. The sea was, of course, the bucking, heaving beast upon whose back she now seemed to be riding. Instinct warned her not to reveal that she was once again aware; she curled her fingers into fists to resist the impulse to rub her burning eyes, and continued, discreetly, to blink until the worst of the pain went away. Wet to the skin and so cold that she felt rather like a fish laid out for sale on a slab of ice, she was, she realized, huddled in the bottom of a heaving small boat that was being rowed, in the teeth of foaming black waves and a blowing wind, on a steady course that doggedly kept putting more distance between them and shore.

Soon, when they were far enough out, she would be tossed overboard.

They had caught her.

The thought made her forget all about her physical misery: her stinging eyes, her aching head, her frozen fingers and toes. Her heart raced. Her stomach churned. Her throat went dry. Fear instantly tightened her muscles, sharpened her senses, brought her to hair-trigger alertness where only seconds before she had been struggling with the last remnants of grogginess.

Drown her like a mewling kitten
— she could almost hear the cruel nonchalance in the leader's voice. It was her kidnappers' plan— the plan they were at that very moment in the process of carrying out. Quickly, convulsively, she moved her hands, her feet. They were not bound. After knocking her out, had they decided not to bother tying her up? Or had they merely forgotten— and if so, would they remember before they threw her overboard? Of course they would. She dared not gamble that they would not. Her life was the stakes in this desperate game, after all.

A hurried, slightly blurry glance around told her that there were six men: four at the oars, two seated in the bottom of the boat trapping her between them, guarding her. Six men whose goal was her murder.

How could she get away?

A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach as she faced the truth: This time, escape looked all but impossible. Rather than face one oaf, as she had in the farmhouse, she now had to outwit six, with no hefty chamber pot at hand. And instead of a window opening onto the firmness of earth, the only place she had to go if she should manage to break free of her captors was the sea.

On the other hand, however bleak the prospect for success, she had to do something. If she did not, and pretty quickly too, she was going to die.

A whimper crept into her throat. She swallowed it with difficulty before it could make itself heard. Every instinct she possessed urged her to jump to her feet, to fight, to flee. But her instincts were worse than useless under the circumstances, she realized. She resisted them, forcing herself to lie perfectly still while she took stock of the situation.

She could swim, after a fashion. Her monster of a father and his equally debauched friends had, one summer, passed several afternoons of sport in which they had tossed her and her younger sister, Beth, from a sailboat into a lake near their Yorkshire home, betting on which girl would make it to shore first and never mind the fact that both children were terrified and screaming as they were thrown from the deck. She and Beth had survived then against the odds and their own expectations, and now, amazingly, Claire thought that those hellish swimming lessons might stand her in good stead.

Another surreptitious glance around dashed even that faint hope. She could not swim in this— this seething caldron of wind-whipped waves. Her skills were no match for the sea's savagery.

But she feared that it was swim— or die.

Fighting against the rising terror that threatened to render her immobile, Claire carefully took stock one more time. The boat was long, narrow, and open to the elements, rolling and sliding as it attacked the waves. Crowded closely in that confined space, the men were little more than shadowy shapes against the shiny blackness of the water and the more amorphous darkness of the foggy night. The rumbling sky was nearly as black as the sea; the moon was now completely obscured by clouds. The hiss of the sea was punctuated by the rhythmic sound of dipping oars.

A man's knuckles pressed uncomfortably between her shoulder blades. Claire frowned over that, considering. Her back was curled against his hard shins; he was, she realized, holding on to a handful of her frock as insurance against losing her prematurely to the heaving sea. She could feel the shape of his fist like a large rock digging into her flesh, its only positive attribute being that it faintly warmed the point of contact. Not that his grip on her was reassuring; not when she thought about it. With terrible clarity, she foresaw that as soon as they reached whatever spot they were making for— presumably somewhere well beyond the breaking waves, so her body would not immediately be carried back to shore— he would use that grip against her. It would serve to prevent her escape while they bound her hand and foot and threw her over the side.