Lady Rogue (33 page)

“Damnation!” he swore, staggering. “Stop hitting me, chit!”

She stood glaring at him with her feet apart and her arms flexed, obviously ready to level him if he took another step toward her. Her green eyes snapped with anger, and he couldn’t help the relieved, appreciative smile that touched his lips at the sight of her.

“Don’t you look at me that way,” she snarled. “I told you I never wanted to see you again, Everton. I don’t know what the deuce you’re doing here, but—”

“Alexander!”

At Hanton’s bellow, the earl instinctively flung himself forward, throwing both Kit and himself to the floor as another shot thundered behind him. He wrapped her lithe body in his arms and rolled sideways with her. There were far too many pistols going off in the immediate vicinity, and he wanted her as far as possible from them. He stopped with her pinned beneath him, looked up to see Will Debner going after the third Frenchman, and returned his attention to Kit.

Her hat had come off, and wavy blond hair spilled over his arm. A scratch reddened a line across one cheek, and her lips were parted as she prepared to hand him another insult. He lowered his mouth over hers and kissed her warm, pliant lips. “You left before I could apologize,” he murmured, looking down at her.

“Get off me, you big lout,” she snapped hotly, slamming her fist into his shoulder. “I hate you! Don’t you even try to tell me you came all this way to apologize to me. You only want to arrest my father.”

He shook his head, wishing that something as simple as shaking her would convince her he was telling the truth. “Finding him was the only way I could think of to find you.” Behind them, Hanton was cursing, but when he glanced over his shoulder the Scot was grinning as he waded back into the fight, and Alex returned his attention to Kit.

“Some spy, then,” she hissed back at him. “You don’t even speak French, and you came here for
me
in the middle of a war?”

“I do speak French,” he murmured.

She narrowed her eyes to emerald slits. “No, you don’t.”

“
Je suis un bâtard, un boeuf stupide, un bravache, et un fou
,” he offered softly.

She shook her head. “You’re only repeating all the insults I handed you.”

“
Non. Ce n’est pas
—”

The muzzle of a pistol pressed against his right temple. He froze, noting her startled glance up over his shoulder.

“Get off my daughter, Everton,” Stewart Brantley said softly.

Kit’s eyes caught and held his as he slowly raised himself up on his hands and knees. Unless he was mistaken, she was worried. About him, he hoped, and not about whether she would get bloodstains on her coat.

“Don’t shoot him, Papa,” she growled, scrambling out from under him as he carefully climbed to his feet. “I’ll take care of it.”

“No, allow me,” Fouché snarled from behind her.

If she hadn’t been standing there, halfway between them, Alex would have dodged. As it was, he took the ball high in the left shoulder. The impact spun him halfway around and knocked him to the floor.

With an animal shriek, Christine threw herself at the comte. Fouché cuffed her sideways with the back of his hand, and she staggered hard into the wall and sank to the floor. “You bastard!” she hissed, turning on him again.

“Christine!” her father bellowed, and she stopped her advance. “Come away!”

Instead, pulled by fear and yearning, she scrambled forward to kneel beside Alex, who lay on his back with his eyes closed. A dark stain of blood spread from his left shoulder, soaking into the dirty peasant’s clothes he was wearing. “Alex,” she whispered, reaching out a shaking hand to touch his face. His eyes opened. Deepest azure looked up at her, and she swallowed. She had thought never to look into those eyes again.

He gave a slight smile. “
Dites moi ques vous ne me déteste pas
,” he said softly.

Even his accent was perfect, if his timing left something to be desired. “I do hate you,” she whispered. “You’ve lied to me about everything. More than I ever lied to you.”

“That’s not so.”

“Ye all right, m’lord?” the Scotsman called from across the room.

His voice sounded strained, and Kit glanced up. Beloche had a pistol leveled at the old man. Both were bloody and bruised, and if not for the weapon, Kit would have given the fight to the big Scot.

“I’ll live, Hanton,” the earl returned, and with a wincing groan, struggled to sit upright.

“No, you will not,” Fouché countered coolly. “Where are my muskets?”

“Ask my corpse,” Alex stated, and Kit looked at him in some alarm. Fouché was a killer; she’d seen evidence of it herself. Taunting him was idiocy.

“So you think to make a fool of me, eh?” Jean-Paul replied. “There are other lives you risk here.”

Alex’s back stiffened beneath her supporting hand. “They’re in London,” he ground out, his jaw clenched.

“You will get them for me.”

“I will do no such—”

Fouché grabbed Kit’s arm, dragging her away from Everton. “You will return to London and bring them to me.” His pistol aimed at Alex’s head, the comte yanked Kit to her feet. His lip was cut and bleeding from his collision with the earl, and Christine had seen the look of contempt and anger in his eyes before, when he had killed Fâlo the innkeeper over a bottle of watered-down whiskey.

“Alex,” she began, trying to warn him, but the comte grabbed her chin and pulled her face toward his. His handsome lips lowered over hers, crushing his mouth against hers in a brutal, foul kiss.

“Damn you!” Kit fought to free her arm and brought her hand up to hit him across the jaw.

In response, Fouché slapped her hard enough to make her ears ring. While she reeled, he shoved her down and grabbed her by the hair before she could scramble away. “You see, Everton,” he said leering, “I will attempt to keep myself occupied here while you fetch me my weapons, I can use her just as well as you have. Better, perhaps.”

Kit saw that Alex’s face was white, his lips compressed into a thin line of pain and fury. Even her father seemed to sense that he would be wise to stay clear of this particular argument, because for once he kept his mouth shut and only stood, watching intently, looking for an opportunity.

The earl shoved himself to his feet with his good arm. “Up until two minutes ago, Comte,” he said in a dark, cold voice she’d never heard him use before, “I would have been willing to let you live.”

“Lad,” Hanton warned from behind him, his pale eyes shifting warily between Beloche, Guillaume, Fouché, and the earl. “Don’t do anything rash, now.”

The comte gave a short, humorless grin and tugged hard at Kit’s hair again. “Empty threats do not impress me, English. You go bring me those muskets. If they arrive in the next forty-eight hours, I’ll let you have what’s left of her. If she still wants you, after she’s had me.”

“Please do as he says, Alex,” Kit whimpered, then gave a defeated sob and sagged. Alex’s eyes flicked down to hers, and she held them.

He couldn’t possibly know what she was up to, but he abruptly winced and doubled over, holding his wounded shoulder. Hoping he was faking, Kit reached down to her boot, yanked free her knife, and jabbed it into Jean-Paul Mercier’s thigh.

Warm wetness gushed over her hand, and Fouché yelped and staggered backward. Before he could regain his balance, Everton hit him, and they both went down into the dirt. After a heartbeat of surprise, both Hanton and old Debner turned on an equally startled Beloche
and Guillaume, but Christine’s attention was on the fight before her.

The comte regained his footing first. He yanked her knife free from his leg, and with a snarl slashed at Alex’s face. “You are dead,” he snarled. “
Tu étes mort, bâtard
.”

Alex ducked under the blow and slammed Fouché against the stack of crates. The top one teetered and crashed to the floor, breaking open to a pungent tumble of onions.

Outside, church bells began ringing, the sound spreading across Calais from north to south. Something exploded in the distance, coming from the direction of the sea. All afternoon she and her father had seen small groups of soldiers heading south, but he’d said they were likely deserters. Unless Napoleon was for some reason heading back to France.

Onions rolled beneath Everton’s foot, and he slipped, going down on one knee. The comte darted forward and slashed. A thin red line opened across Alex’s cheek, and Kit flinched. “No,” she whispered. She couldn’t let this go any further. Not if what he had told her was true. Not if he had come all this way for her.

She strode forward, then stopped abruptly as a hand clamped down on her shoulder.

“No, Kit,” her father muttered in her ear. “They’re distracted now. Let’s go.”

“You go,” she returned, pulling free. “I’m staying.”

Her father flung his arm out toward Alex. “With him? You’re a fool. We’ll find someone else for you.”

“I don’t want someone else, Papa,” she retorted, backing away as he stepped forward.

“An hour ago you never wanted to hear his name spoken again,” he reminded her, but stopped his advance. “He gave you a night of pleasure, and you’re ready to forget all your loyalties. You’re ready to forget how much I’ve done for you.”

“You raised me to do whatever was necessary to get what I wanted. I want him.”

“Bah,” he spat. “You’re fickle and selfish, just like your mother. I should have known better than to waste my time on you.”

Gunfire sounded close outside, and she jumped.

“Don’t lose your heart, Christine,” her father said, the anger gone from his face as though it had never existed. “It’s your mind that will win you the game, every time.”

“I don’t want to play the game anymore, Papa,” she whispered. Fouché gave a loud curse, and she whipped around. The comte slashed out at Alex, and the earl stepped back, blood streaming from his wounded shoulder. He tripped over the shattered crate, and went down backward.

“You’re dead!” Fouché snarled, and leaped, sweeping the knife down toward Alex’s chest.

Kit screamed in protest and launched herself forward, even though she knew it would be too late. Frantically Everton dug for his pocket. A thunderous report echoed through the warehouse, and the comte lurched backward. He sagged onto his knees, and then toppled over, boneless as a broken marionette, and stopped moving.

For a moment Christine stood staring at Fouché, then turned to see the smoking hole opened in the pocket of Alex’s coat. He looked at her, his face gray and exhausted, then laid his head back on the floor and shut his eyes.

Kit took a ragged, relieved breath. “I can’t stay with you, Papa.” Hopes and dreams and hard, dark reality all collided with one another in her throbbing skull. “I hope you can forgive me.” She turned to him.

“You’re a fool, Kit,” Stewart said again. He gave her a brief, unexpected hug, pulling her close, then sighed and glanced at Alex. For a moment his expression softened. “He was a wild boy, that one. Smartest thing I ever did, saving his life. You tell him we’re even.” He shrugged and eyed her for a moment. “Tell Martin the same thing.”

More gunfire, followed by angry shouting, sounded
from close by, and she looked toward the nearest shuttered window. “I’ll tell him, Papa,” she agreed, “if you’re certain you want me to speak to…” She turned back to face him, but he was gone. “Papa,” she whispered, unsurprised, and stepped over to where Hanton and Debner were dragging Alex free from the tangle of the crate. “
Au revoir
.”

“D
amnation, old man,” the earl rasped. “That hurts.”

“Then ye shouldnae have gotten yourself shot,” the Scotsman replied, as he pulled Alex’s shirt away from the bloody wound.

Kit watched the two of them for a moment, then edged closer as Alex winced again. His face was still gray, and despite his half-joking words, she knew he must be in a great deal of pain.

“You should have dodged,” she stated, the last of her anger at him draining away.

Everton and the Scot both looked up at her, deepest azure and cloudy gray. Alex’s eyes, as they always did, drew her in, stole her breath, made her heart beat faster. “I’ll remember that next time,” he returned.

“Lass,” the Scotsman commented, glancing between them, “if ye’d care to help me bind his lordship’s shoulder, I’d be obliged to ye.”

She nodded and sat on the crate beside Alex. Her thigh brushed against his, and he stirred a little, turning his head to look at her. The Scot handed her a strip of folded cloth, and carefully she pressed it over the wound. Alex hissed, but said nothing as she leaned across him. His skin felt warm under her fingers, and she wondered if he felt the same electric jolt that ran through her.

“Christine,” he murmured finally into her hair, and
lifted his hand to cup her elbow. She shivered.

“Stop it,” she said. “Sit still or you’ll bleed to death.”

“Aye,” Hanton concurred. “Listen to the lass, at least.”

“Apologies,” Everton grunted, wincing again as they began binding the cloth around his shoulder and arm. He tightened his grip on her elbow, and leaned his tousled dark head against her shoulder. “Kit, my…associate, Hanton McAndrews,” he muttered in a pained voice. “Hanton, Miss Christine Brantley. The woman who won’t marry me.”

His comment startled her. She hadn’t expected him to say anything more about it. And certainly not here, and not in front of anyone else, as though he meant it.

“Where’s your father?” he asked after a moment, lifting his head to look at her.

“He’s gone,” she returned succinctly, trying to hide her discomfiture in a last attempt at anger. “I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to arrest him, after all.”

He shook his head, something light and jubilant crossing his features for a moment before he sobered again. “I told you that wasn’t why I came here.” He shifted his good arm, leaning forward a little to brace himself upright and effectively catching her in the circle of his body at the same time. “You stayed,” he said simply.

“Someone had to look after you,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

“That’s the only reason?” he pursued softly, sliding his cheek slowly across her hair.

A cascade of shivers ran down her spine. “You…truly came for me?” she demanded. “After everything that’s happened?”

“Of course I did,” he murmured. “How could I not?”

“But you don’t have anyone to arrest now,” she persisted.

More gunfire and shouting sounded up the street. Deb
ner stood looking out the broken window slats, his expression grim.

“I imagine Prinny’ll be taking care of arresting someone when we land in Dover,” Hanton commented, his eyes on Alex.

“What did you do, Everton?” Kit asked, looking from one to the other and wondering again how, exactly, the earl had come to be in Calais.

“Leave off, Hanton,” Alex growled, slowly removing his arm from around her as they helped him on with his shirt again. “I’ve merely bent a few rules. Nothing serious.”

He stood, and swayed dizzily. Kit reached for his arm and hauled it over her shoulder, letting him lean on her. “I don’t believe you,” she said.

Alex smiled and pulled her closer into the hard line of his body. “I’ve ruined your cravat,” he noted. “I’ll have to buy you another.”

“What do you want from me, Everton?” she asked slowly.

“Only the rest of your life, Christine.”

“But I’m—”

“Shh. We’ll argue about it when we get you safely back to Dover.” The warm, wanting grip became iron and fire. “And you are coming, so don’t even think about running off again,” he said fiercely.

“I have nowhere else to go at the moment,” she returned, wondering if he could read the thrill that went through her at his words. He wanted her, still.

An explosion from very close by rocked the warehouse, and involuntarily Kit ducked as dirt rained down around their heads.

“Getting us safely to Dover may be more of a task than we thought,” Hanton grumbled.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” Everton asked Debner, taking a step toward the door.

“
Napoleon il se bat, la défaite, la défaite
,” the smuggler repeated dourly.

“Napoleon is beaten, defeat, defeat,” she and the earl
translated at the same time. As she looked up at him, surprised, he closed his eyes.

“Thank God,” he whispered.

“You
do
speak French,” she stated, not certain whether to be embarrassed or angry at the realization.

“I never actually said that I didn’t,” he pointed out with a hint of his old humor.

“I’d thank God more heartily if he’d let us get out of France first,” Hanton grumbled.

“And how were you planning on getting out of France?” Kit queried, gripping Alex about the waist as tightly as she dared.

“We’ve hired an old fishing boat, anchored out in the harbor,” he answered. “And we’d best go find it.”

They stepped out into the street, and she paused again. It was like walking into a scene from Dante’s
Inferno
. Buildings were on fire, black smoke churning up into the dark, overcast sky. Torch-carrying mobs chanted threats and obscenities at the absent British, and vented their anger and frustration on one another when there was nowhere else to turn it. Hanton, a few steps ahead of them, gestured. Alex shoved her into the shadows, stepping into the dark with her as a platoon of French regulars hurried south and east through the streets.

“They’re retreating back to Paris, no doubt,” he murmured, watching them with alert, wary eyes.

Hanton emerged from an alleyway. “Debner’n I’ll go see to getting the boat ready. Don’t want ye waiting about on the docks wounded like that.”

Kit could tell from the tight line of Alex’s jaw that he didn’t like the idea of them splitting up, but the Scot was right, and after a moment he nodded. “Be careful.”

“Always am,” McAndrews replied, and with a quick grin led Debner back into the alley and out the other side.

“You’d be safer with them,” Alex said, glancing at her.

She shook her head, far more concerned over his safety than her own. “You saved my father ten thousand pounds by killing Fouché. I’ll attempt to repay—”

He straightened and pulled away from her, his eyes almost black in the heavy shadows. “No,” he growled. “I’m tired of playing games, Christine. I love you, and I want to be with you. But not because of some obligation, or some lie. Is that clear?”

“You love me?” she repeated, whispering the words to keep their magic.

“Have ever since I set eyes on you, chit,” he said gruffly, sagging against the wall. “And I know you love me, or at least you did, because you told me so.”

“In French,” she pointed out. “I didn’t think you would understand it.”

“Yes, you did. Lies and hiding on both sides, Kit. But it’s over. We’re even all around, I’d say.” His eyes shut hard, and a small, strangled groan escaped lips compressed to a white, pained line.

“Alex?” she whispered.

He took a breath and opened his eyes again. “I’d thought to be enjoying this more,” he muttered. Everton slid his arm back over her shoulders, his touch warm and possessive. They left the shelter of the shadows, and made their way as swiftly as they dared. More people were pouring out onto the streets as news of Napoleon’s defeat spread. From the orange glow in the sky to the west, at least one of the waterfront buildings was ablaze, and they turned north in an attempt to avoid the worst of the mobs. In front of them a rabble of young men charged the front of a clothier’s shop, and hurled rocks and torches in through the windows. Almost instantly the building erupted into flames, lighting the sky and the street around them for half a block.

“Hellfire,” Alex murmured, trying to duck them back into the shadows. It was too late.

“
Vive Napoleon!
” one of them shouted, the cry taken up by the others as they swarmed toward Christine and Everton.

“
Vive Napoleon
,” she returned, fighting the well-honed survival instinct that told her to turn and run.

“
Qui est que c’est?
” one of them asked, jabbing a finger into Alex’s shoulder.

The earl winced, but made no sound other than to take a quick, pained breath.

“He is my brother,” Kit said in rapid French. “The damned English shot him two days ago, and now you fools have burned down our house.”

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” another asked.

“Do you want to see the hole in my shoulder?” Everton offered in perfect Parisian-accented French. “And you touch me again, boy, I’ll break your arm.”

“Where do you go, then?” another asked, apparently at least somewhat convinced by Alex’s show of affronted anger.

“To our uncle’s,” the earl supplied, “if you can avoid setting his home on fire tonight, as well.”

He sagged further, and as Kit braced her knees against his weight, she couldn’t tell whether it was an act or he was actually about to lose consciousness in the middle of the street. She’d never be able to drag him to the harbor on her own. “Let us pass,” she demanded somewhat frantically, trying to turn the tone to indignation. “Save your anger for the English, not those who have already bled for you.”

Apparently they believed her, for after shouting a few more patriotic and obscene slogans into the smoke-filled air, they ran off to the east, in the direction of the warehouse.

“Let’s hope they don’t find Fouché,” Alex muttered, straightening a little. “I’ve no doubt his men would be happy to identify us.”

There had been a few moments of debate over Guillaume and Beloche, but they could neither take the Frenchmen back to England with them nor kill them in cold blood. Ropes and gags would hopefully suffice until they were back out into the Channel, though with the way their luck had been running, Kit tended to doubt it. “You’re a good liar,” she complimented, leading him west toward the harbor again.

“
Merci, ma chère
,” he returned with a slight smile.

“What will happen to me in London?” she queried.
Unconsciously she reached up to cover the pouch of blunt he’d given her, the only escape she had left. It was gone. That explained her father’s unexpected embrace. He would need it to escape Fouché’s followers, anyway. “What will they do to me, after what I’ve done?”

“Nothing,” he answered flatly.

“You can’t know that,” she worried, a yearning to be away from France and a greater fear of what lay before her in London leaving her cold with dread. “Perhaps…perhaps I should wait in Dover for a ship to take me to Italy, or Spain.”

He shook his head. “We’re going to London.”

It was said with so much certainty that it would have been easy simply to give in and let him take care of everything. Except that she’d never been able to rely on anyone but herself. “I can’t go back,” she returned. “Not after what I did.”

Alex stopped so suddenly, she lost her grip on him. Before she could regain it, he had turned on his heel and begun walking back the way they had come. “Then I’m not leaving, either,” he stated.

She chased after him and dragged him to a stop by one arm. “Don’t be a fool, Everton. You’ll be killed.”

“I’m not letting you go again, Kit. I’m not.”

“Alex,” she protested. An old beggar woman hobbled by on the far side of the street and paused to eye them suspiciously. With a stifled curse, Kit turned the earl back toward the sea and shoved him forward. “Please don’t say such things. You’ll make me believe them.”

“I want you to believe them,” he murmured, allowing himself to be pushed toward the harbor. “Because they’re all true.”

She did want to believe him, with all her heart. “But my father is a traitor,” she insisted, still afraid to trust what she was hearing. He was delirious. That must be it; he was completely out of his head. “I’m the same, if not wor—”

“I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

“You can’t protect me from everything,” she pro
tested. “And Hanton said you’re in trouble now, as well.”

“Hanton’s a stubborn old goat, and it doesn’t matter anyway,” he insisted.

She would have continued arguing, but he stumbled hard on the slick cobblestones, and would have fallen if she hadn’t been holding on to him. “Do you want to rest?”

He shook his head, blinking hard. “We’ve dawdled too long as it is.”

They turned down a narrow alleyway, up another street past a mob burning a makeshift Union Jack, then finally cleared the last row of shops and stepped out onto the dock. Alex came to an abrupt halt, his angry eyes turned toward the water. She followed his gaze toward the row of fishing boats on the south side of the harbor. All of them were on fire. As she watched, the nearest of them slowly canted sideways and slid into the water, to the accompanying hiss of drowned flames and white steam and smoke.

“Our boat, I presume?” she murmured.

“Yes, devil it all,” he replied vehemently. In addition to the boats, half the dock was on fire, the heat blistering even from halfway across the waterfront. “Do you see Hanton?” he asked, leaning more heavily on her shoulder.

“No,” she answered, trying to look for the Scot amid the clutter of the abandoned dock. “Perhaps he’s looking for other transportation.”

Alex nodded and shut his eyes. “I think I’d best sit down for a moment.”

His legs gave way just as they reached a small cluster of empty crates and fish barrels. She half dragged him into their slight shelter, then crouched down beside him.

“This is a blasted nuisance,” he grumbled, leaning back and narrowing his eyes to look across the orange-flecked water.

She reached across him to check his wound, but he grabbed her hand and held it away from himself. “Don’t be so deuced stubborn,” she scolded. “Let me look.”