Lady Rogue (28 page)

“Yes.”

“And you wouldn’t be bribed.”

“So why Reg? Or was it supposed to be me, after all?”

She shook her head tightly. “No, no,” she whispered brokenly. “Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know. I never told anyone about you.”

“You expect me to believe that?” he hissed. “After this?”

Kit blinked. “Papa hates the English. I always did, too…until I met you. I…I didn’t want him to know I thought it was you.”

“So you told him about Hanshaw, instead. Sweet—”

“No! I didn’t! Please, Alex. I know all about you and Reg and Augustus. But I didn’t say anything. I should have. But I couldn’t.”

The desire to believe her was almost overwhelming, but with the last of his willpower he shook her again and shoved her away from him. “Another lie!”

Kit flung herself back at him. “No! I know there’s more to this than Papa will tell me, but I swear to you, Alex, I did not tell Fouché, or anyone else, what I know.” Alex tried to shove her back again, but with a wrenching sob she grabbed on to his coat, pulling herself against him. “Please, Alex. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I want to believe you,” he whispered raggedly, clutching at her arms. “God, I want to believe you.”

“Then believe me,” she returned, and closed her mouth fiercely over his.

If she truly didn’t know what was being smuggled, and if she hadn’t given their names to Fouché, there was still a chance. For her. For them. He slid his arms around her slim shoulders, pulling her tighter against him, and kissing her as desperately as she was kissing him. She lifted herself across his thighs, curling into him as though trying to get inside of him, to get as close to him as he wanted to be to her.

The ill-sprung coach lurched to a halt, and the coachman rapped on the door with his crop. “We’re here, gov,” he called.

Alex lifted Kit to her feet, though he didn’t want to let go of her. Irrational though it was, he knew if he let
go of her, he would lose her. He was certain of it. She held on to the lapel of his coat as she climbed down from the coach, him right behind her. He flipped a coin at the coachman and followed her up the steps. Wenton pulled the door open for them, but he might as well have been a stump for all the attention they paid him.

Kit, her hand still wrapped through his coat, pulled him toward the nearest door, the morning room. He balked at the doorway, but she wrapped an arm about his waist and leaned up to kiss him, and he stepped inside with her. He slammed the door shut with the palm of his hand, ignoring Wenton’s stunned expression behind them, and locked it, while with his other hand he undid her breeches and tugged them off her legs.

Her mouth hungry against his, she backed with him toward the couch and pulled him down on top of her. Still without saying anything, Kit reached between them and freed him from his own leggings. Alex spread her legs apart with his knees, lowered himself down over her, and thrust forward. She gasped, lifting her hips to meet him, as he entered her hard and deep. Christine wrapped her long legs about his thighs, to pull him deeper inside, closer to her hot, tight center, closer to her soul. They took their release together, and for a moment, were one.

For a long time after they made love, Alex lay with his head upon her shoulder, and Christine softly stroked his hair. She had told him the truth, finally, and he hadn’t turned her out, and he hadn’t turned away. More than anything else, that was what she had been afraid of, that he would hate her.

Finally he lifted his head to look at her face. “I think we surprised Wenton,” he murmured, laying his head down again.

She chuckled then, and a moment later his deep chuckle joined hers, resonating against her breastbone. “Good,” she replied.

Alex was quiet again for a few moments, then shifted to raise up on one elbow beside her on the deep couch.
He reached out and tucked a straying strand of blond hair behind her ear. “You have to marry me now,” he said, his beautiful eyes serious and worried.

Worried because of her. “No, I don’t.”

“Christine, do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? Smuggling during wartime?”

She held his gaze, looking for an answer in his eyes. “So you want to protect me.”

“Of course I do.”

“I can take care of myself, Alex. I told you before, I am not going to trap you into any—”

“Would you rather I arrested you? I could, you know.”

“For smuggling vegetables and blankets?” she returned sharply, though she knew it wasn’t about that. “Is that your idea of doing your duty to Prince George?”

He scowled. “You don’t know everything that’s going on.”

“So tell me.”

Alex shook his head. “No.”

“You still don’t trust me,” she whispered. She could understand why, after all the lies she’d told, but it hurt, nevertheless.

“I want to, Kit. But if you don’t know, it’s safer for you, for everyone concerned.” He ran the palm of his hand under her shirt, along her flat belly.

“So what happens now?” she asked slowly, studying his face.

Very softly he touched his lips to hers, again the gentle, controlled lover, as though the mad passion of a few minutes ago had been someone else entirely. “We keep you here. Safe.”

“Will you tell Reg and Augustus about me?”

He frowned. “Hanshaw doesn’t need to know right now. Eventually, maybe. Augustus can go to hell before I include him in any of this.”

That sounded a bit odd, whatever their personal animosities. “Why not Aug—”

“He doesn’t concern me, or this, Kit.”

That made no sense. Of course, Augustus was a spy. She’d seen him. Perhaps not going off to meetings, but sneaking about at night, as though he didn’t want even his friends to know what he was up to…“Alex,” she whispered, her blood freezing. She hadn’t told Fouché about Reg and Everton, but someone had. “I think you’re wrong about Devlin.”

“Why so obsessed with Devlin now?” he asked, heat coming into his expression again.

Looking at his distrustful, jealous gaze, she realized that he would hardly listen to her suspicions about his former brother-in-law. If their positions had been reversed, she would think him merely trying to distract her. “I’m not—”

Alex touched her lips with his fingers and took a slow breath. “Not now. I want you to promise me one last thing.”

“What?” She would let Devlin go for the moment, but if he was helping Fouché, then Alex was still in danger.

“Promise me you won’t go back to Paris with your father.”

Kit looked at him. “You just don’t want to lose track of him!” she snapped, trying to shove him away. “How dare—”

He shook his head, pinning her down with his shoulder and arms. “Don’t turn the subject,” he countered, grabbing her jaw so she had to look at him. “You know this has nothing to do with that. Just promise me that you’ll stay. No obligations. Just stay.”

He wasn’t simply asking that to keep her safe, she sensed. He wanted her to stay in London with him. Only he couldn’t ask it that way, because he was a man, and because he was likely worried that she would turn him down again. “All right,” she whispered.

At two in the morning someone began pounding on the door downstairs.

“Sweet Lucifer,” Alex snarled, while Kit sat bolt upright beside him. “Not again.”

“It can’t be Papa,” she said, looking over at him. “I doubt he’d make such a ruckus.”

That made sense, and it was something of a relief, as well. She might have agreed to stay, but Alex doubted she could stand by and see her father arrested. He wasn’t certain he could put her through it. “It’s not bill collectors,” he ventured, sitting up beside her. “Unless you’ve been using my note of credit again.” He slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her back down beside him. “Let Wenton see to it.”

“Alex!” Gerald Downing’s voice came a moment later, and feet hammered on their way up the stairs.

“Good God,” he grumbled, and grabbed for his nightshirt. “Stay here, chit.”

Yanking the shirt on over his head, he strode for the door, pausing to retrieve his robe and pull it on. Gerald reached the door at the same time he did, but Alex managed to step out into the hallway and shut it before his cousin could see inside the bedchamber. “What in damnation is going on?”

James Samuels reached the top of the stairs behind Gerald. Alex glanced between the two of them, uneasiness tugging at him. There was news, and it wasn’t good.

“Napoleon’s less than a hundred leagues from Belgium,” Gerald announced.

“And you were right, m’lord, about the crates going north,” Samuels added. “Hanton spotted ’em two days ago.”

“He’s picking up supporters along the way,” Gerald continued.

Two simultaneous conversations in the middle of the night was rather disconcerting, particularly when most of his thoughts were behind the closed door and in the warm bed behind him, but Alex found himself shocked into alertness. “He’s trying to cut off Wellington, then.”

Gerald nodded grimly. “If he can run Blücher and the Germans down, Wellington doesn’t stand a chance.”

“That would depend on how well armed Bonaparte’s soldiers are,” Alex mused darkly.

“Which would depend on how quickly we can snap up those damned weapons,” his cousin snarled.

“Keep your voice down, if you please,” Alex returned, glancing unconsciously toward his bedchamber door.

Gerald followed his gaze. “Kit?” He read the answer on his cousin’s face. “Damnation, Alex! You know better than that.”

“Leave off, Gerald,” the earl warned.

“No, I won’t,” Gerald hissed, flushing. “I don’t know much about her, but I do know she’s no common bit, cousin. You will do right by her.”

Apparently Kit had made yet another conquest. “I know,” Alex muttered, “you’re right. But it’s more complicated than you realize.”

“Enlighten me,” Gerald demanded.

Alex took a breath. “Her father is our weapons smuggler.”

Gerald opened his mouth and then slowly shut it again, myriad emotions, including sympathy, running across his face. “Is she aware of that?” he finally asked.

“I don’t know,” Alex said quietly, his heart beating a painful, hollow tattoo against his ribs. At least Gerald hadn’t asked how deeply she was involved, because he was swiftly reaching the point where further lies would gain him enemies.

“Sweet…Damnation, Alex, are you trying to get yourself hanged?” his cousin pursued.

“Oh, they almost never do that to nobles any longer,” Alex returned tiredly, rubbing at his temple.

“Well, what—”

“Listen to me,” Alex interrupted, glancing at Samuels. “I’m going north with James to confiscate those bloody weapons before they reach the coast.”

“No you’re—”

“I’ll send the lot I arrest, along with the guns, down to Prinny. That should keep him satisfied for a few days, until I can…settle this.”

“And how do you plan to do that, pray tell?”

The earl looked down. “I have an idea.”

“Unless you tell me exactly what you’re up to, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Ah. And you can stop me, of course?”

“I don’t wish to inherit Everton because you did something stupid,” Gerald snapped back at him.

Alex paused to rub at his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “You were right about Kit not being common. Her father is Stewart Brantley. Furth’s brother.”

Gerald actually paled, quite a feat given the overheated flush of his cheeks. “Martin’s brother? She’s…” he said, pointing toward the closed door, “she’s his niece?”

“Well, that would follow,” Alex said dryly, reaching for what remained of his sense of humor. “And that does not go beyond us,” he stated, his gaze taking in James and his cousin. When they both nodded, he took a breath. “So you see, this is a bit stickier than I’d originally anticipated.”

“Furth needs to be told.”

“I know.”

“And—”

“And so I’ll take care of it, Gerald. All you need do is tell Hanshaw and Furth that I’m going to retrieve those guns.” As for the rest, although Christine continued to refuse his protection, he had no intention of seeing her hang. Furth’s name would shield her, if Martin would agree to take her in. And if that was the only chance she had, Alex would see that she took it—whether she wanted to or not. However she might end up feeling about him, he didn’t want her left with nowhere to turn.

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave,” Gerald muttered, apparently reading his expression.

Alex glared at him. “Yes, we’re a vipers’ nest of deceit in this house,” he growled. “James, have Tybalt saddled and get yourself a fresh mount.”

“Aye, milord.”

“Gerald, wait downstairs a moment.”

Alex took a deep breath and pulled open his bedchamber door again. Kit sat on the edge of the bed, her
slim body wrapped in the sheet, her expression as tense and serious as he had ever seen it. She was so beautiful.

“What’s happened?” she asked quietly.

Alex wished with all his heart that he could tell her. She might very well be as enamored of him as he was of her, but she also had the makings of the perfect decoy. For all he knew, she might have been distracting and delaying him on purpose. “Nothing serious,” he soothed. “I need to leave London for a few days.”

“You’re not going to Belgium to fight Napoleon,” she stated, her face growing so pale that for a moment he was concerned she might faint.

“No. Of course not. But I need to leave immediately.”

“Then I’m going with you,” she said stubbornly, standing and running her hand down his arm to clasp his fingers.

Damnation, he couldn’t resist her at all. Except in this one thing. He squeezed her hand, then released her. “No. You’ll stay with Gerald and Ivy.”

“You’re going after my father, aren’t you?” she whispered.

He shut his eyes for a moment. “I’m going after his shipment, yes,” he answered slowly. Fast as he and James Samuels would be moving, she’d never be able to get word to Stewart Brantley first.

“They’ll try to kill you,” she said almost soundlessly, her eyes holding his with an intensity he’d never seen in her before.

Alex shook his head. “You’ve already told me your father’s in Calais, and Fouché’s back in France, as well.”