Shana Galen - [A Lord & Lady Spy Novella] (8 page)

He touched a thin bone and though panic threatened to take over, Blue released the bone and groped again. Purple exploded behind his eyes and his body all but gasped for air. Blue’s hand touched a thick, heavy bone. A thigh bone perhaps, or part of a long dead man’s upper arm. He willed his fingers to close over the smooth surface and lift the bone from the floor. His body kicked of its own accord now, making him flop like a fish newly pulled from the sea. He lifted the bone higher and brought it down with all he possessed on Reaper’s head.

With an
oof
, Reaper fell back, his grip loosing just enough for Blue to gulp in a breath.

But it wasn’t enough. The bone fell away, and Reaper’s fingers closed on Blue again. This time the dots and stars were indigo. Blue knew this was it. He could all but see Melbourne’s stricken expression when he learned Foncé and the Maîtriser group had claimed yet another agent.

The Barbican’s best agent, even if Blue did say so himself.

His life eked out of him, a situation Blue had imagined many times. When his time came, he always thought his failed missions would flash before his eyes. He would think of all the traitors who had eluded him, all the double agents he had not spotted, all the friends he’d held as their lifeblood flowed through his fingers.

But he thought of none of those things.

Only Helena’s face rose in his vision. Her generous lips, curved with that secret smile of hers, the way the sun glinted off the coppery strands of her hair, the softness of her skin under his hand, the sweet, clear innocence of her voice as she sang “
Non
mi
dir
” from
Don
Giovanni
. Too late, he realized he did not care one whit for the Barbican group. It was Helena he would regret losing.

“Buona sera,” Reaper hissed as blackness, like the smothering of a heavy blanket, descended.

“Not so fast.”

***

Helena brought the heavy hilt of the sword down on the crown of Reaper’s head. The reverberation from the impact ricocheted up her arm, jarring her all the way to her shoulder, but the man released Blue and fell to the side. He tried to rise once, and Helena tipped the sword tip against his throat. She knew the weapon was little more than a prop and the end blunted, but it was a realistic prop, and Reaper could not see the blunted end.

“Stay down, or I’ll run you through.”

His glazed eyes rolled back, and his head lolled to one side. Helena’s gaze flew nervously to Blue. His hands were at his throat and he was doubled over, coughing.
Oh, God, please don’t let him pass out too. I need someone to help me.

And then Blue looked up at her, his vivid eyes pained but clear. “I thought… I told… you to run.” His voice was a rasp and he wheezed in each breath.

“You know me. I have to be in the center of any drama.”

He laughed, the sound full of life. Something inside her eased. Blue was going to live. He was going to make it.

“I do know you,” he growled, struggling to his knees. “And that… is not who… you are at all.”

Helena did not know what she had thought would happen next. Certainly she had not imagined Blue would send out a missive calling half the agents for the Crown to him. But less than two hours after she’d slammed the prop sword into the back of Reaper’s head, the assassin was trussed up and escorted out of the theater by a man Helena thought looked more than a little scary. It was clear Blue did not know most of these men personally, but they were obviously men he trusted. His critical eyes observed them keenly, but more often than not, she found his gaze on her.

Finally, the last of the agents stood before them. He spoke to Blue rapidly in a language she thought might have been Portuguese. Blue nodded and answered him in the same language. The man withdrew, glancing over his shoulder as he opened the theater door. The brief glimpse of the outside world showed her that dawn was upon them, crisp and cold and white.

Blue took her hand, and she looked at him. She could see it in his face, and she knew, before he even opened his lips, what he would say. She put a finger to his lips. “Don’t say it.”

“Helena—”

“No!” She sprang away from him, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over. “Do not say it, Ernest Bloomington. I don’t want to hear your lies and platitudes.”

“I’ve never lied to you.”

She glared at him.

“I will admit to the occasional platitude. Disappointing, I know. I shall endeavor to be more original.”

She laughed in spite of the tears. She laughed, even though she knew he was leaving, even though this was the end.

Again.

He pulled her into his arms, and she resisted but only for an instant. And then she drank him in, the hardness of his body, the warmth of his embrace, the smell of home that always managed to cling to him, no matter where in the world they might be.

“This is not good-bye,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose lightly. “We will see one another again.”

She nodded, knowing that to hold out that sort of hope would only drive her mad in the end.

“It’s a good-bye nonetheless,” she said. He nodded, an apology in his expression. He was going back to his Barbican group, back to his life as a spy. She wanted to tell him there was no need to apologize. She’d always known where she ranked on his list of priorities.

He stroked her hair. “Good-bye, fair Helena.” He bent, brushing his lips over her mouth in a sweet kiss that left her wanting more. But then he could not have bestowed a kiss that would not have left her replete with longing. Gently, he released her and stepped back. And then he turned, striding away so quickly that his cape swelled out behind him.

He did not look back.

Helena was dizzy at the quickness with which life returned to normal. At the theater everyone was surprised at the abrupt departure of Herr Hoch, but then artists were transitory by nature. Herr Hoch was quickly and easily replaced. Rehearsals continued, and when no further unlucky incidents occurred, everyone, including Helena, began to relax.

At home, Helena finally hung the last pictures on her walls, and she spent time at Mr. Bowden’s store, helping return it to its original form. When she was not rehearsing, Helena reshelved books, sipped tea, and smiled vaguely when Mr. Bowden inquired about her blue-eyed friend.

Blue disappeared so completely, so quickly, that it was almost as though he had never been there at all. Some days, Helena thought she had imagined the whole thing. It was like a bad dream that seemed real even when one woke. But though her mind would have liked to forget him, her body could not. Her lips still tingled from his kisses, her breasts still ached for his touch, and her body still hungered for the feel of him pressed hard against her.

She had left England and their home together because everywhere she turned she was reminded of Blue. Now Naples had those unwanted memories too. She began to think about leaving when
Don
Giovanni
ended.

Thank God there was work to keep her occupied. She loved singing the part of Donna Anna. She loved Mozart, and she was able to immerse herself in the music of the opera. The rest of the cast was superb. Damiano and Andre sang better than she could ever remember. When they were on stage together, nothing but the music and the blending of their voices mattered. But when she was not singing…

She should have known it would end. She should have known the peace and calm would not last. It all came to a fiery end one night, a few weeks after the show’s opening, when screams of “Fire!” rent the quiet after a performance. She had stood beside her fellow performers, with the cold, wet snow seeping into her slippers, and watched the theater burn. The sight itself did not shock her. Theaters burned all the time—too many lights, too many candles, too many people not paying close enough attention.

But she’d known this had been no accident. She stood next to Carolina, who wept, and stared at Signor Pacca. The man looked grim, as though he had been expecting this and more. Helena began to tremble. She did not wait for the more Pacca expected. She walked away.

Snow still dusted the streets, but the cold was no longer bitter, and the cool air felt blissfully refreshing after the heat from the fire. As she walked, the distance between her and the theater, her and the life she’d had in Naples increasing, her thoughts returned to the performance, to her brief glimpses of the audience. She had not seen anyone suspicious. The audience had given them a standing ovation and thrown flowers. Admirers had lined up outside her dressing room to compliment her. Foolishly, Helena had looked for Blue, hoping he might make an appearance. He had not, and she directed the men to fawn over Carolina. Now, on the snow-swept streets, she felt like a complete idiot. Why had she thought Blue would come to the performance? He had probably forgotten all about her. She should do the same. She had no reason to stay in Naples now. She wanted out of this place. She wanted distance from the persistent memories of her husband.

She turned onto the last street en route to her flat, hurrying now because she was shivering and she suspected poor Tommaso was hungry for his dinner. But as she turned the corner, a man stepped in front of her. “Scusi,” she said, trying to move around him. He didn’t budge, and the skin on the back of her neck prickled.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, his voice low and deep and familiar.

She took a sharp breath, the cold air closing her throat. It was not possible. But then again, with Blue anything was possible. She swayed forward. “Blue?” she croaked.

“You were expecting someone else?”

She couldn’t speak. He’d angled his head so the street lamp lit his face, and she was struck, once again, by how incredibly handsome he was—how aristocratic the lines of his face, how elegant the arch of his brow, how warm his gaze as it feasted on her. “I was not expecting you.”

“I was not expecting me either.”

Before she could ask what he meant by that cryptic statement, he took her elbow. “Shall we walk? It’s freezing, and I imagine your cat is missing you. Lovely performance tonight.”

She stumbled. “You were there?”

“How could I miss it?”

Very easily. He’d missed so many others. And then she had another thought. “The theater burned tonight. I don’t know for certain if—”

“Shh!” He turned to her in the doorway of her building, placing his gloved hand against her lips. His finger was warm against her cool flesh. “Remember Signora Giansante. We shall speak in your flat.”

Helena was not so certain she wanted him in her flat, but she didn’t argue. He was here. He was touching her, speaking to her, looking at her with undisguised desire. She would decide if that was enough in a moment, when she was in her room and able to think more clearly.

She unlocked the door to her room, and he entered first. She would have thought him presumptuous if she didn’t know it was because he always liked to search for enemies before entering any room. She followed, closing the door silently behind them.

He turned to her, removing his gloves efficiently. “I took a leave of absence from the Barbican group—rather, it starts now.”

She’d been in the process of removing her cloak, but now her fingers stilled and she gaped at him.

“Melbourne is angry. They need me, but I tracked… Suffice it to say, the fire was no accident. That’s for another agent to deal with now.” He stepped closer and slid the cloak from her shoulders. She shivered when his fingers brushed the bare skin of her upper arms. He shook his head as though trying to clear it. “I cannot stop thinking about you. I don’t want to be away from you.”

Helena blinked. He’d never spoken to her like this before. He’d never chosen her over his work. “You aren’t going back to the Barbican group?”

“I’m staying with you.”

She didn’t mention that was not a definitive answer, but she understood his meaning. She came first. She took priority over his work.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’ve been trying for… too long to remember what it was that made me fall in love with you. Was it your smile?” He brushed bare fingers against her lips. “Or your taste in fashion?”

She couldn’t help but raise her brows. He’d unfastened his greatcoat, and she could see the green coat and pink waistcoat underneath. If he thought her fashion sense appealing, she might need to change it.

“Or was it your body?” His fingers slid from her lips to her neck. “Or your quick mind?”

“It was none of those things,” she told him, her voice breathless and the little bubble of happiness inside her expanding. “Don’t you know why you fell in love with me?”

He shook his head. “Tell me.”

“Because I see you.” She tapped his chest, her finger over the spot where she could feel his heart beat hard and fast. Her own heart beat equally so. “I see past those beautiful eyes. Through that handsome facade. Around all your carefully cultivated personas. I see
you
, Ernest. And I love you.”

He grinned, pulling her into his arms. “In spite of what you see.”

“Because of it.”

He ran a finger lightly over her lips, making her whole body tingle. “You’re right. That is why I fell in love with you. But your wit, your generosity, your strength are why I’m still in love with you. Marry me?” he whispered, his lips against hers.

“We are already married,” she murmured, closing her eyes and allowing herself to sink into his warmth.

“Good. That means I don’t have to wait to do this.” And he lifted her in his arms, kissed her, and carried her to bed.

READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT

AVAILABLE SEPTEMBER 2013 FROM SOURCEBOOKS CASABLANCA

A spy torn between love and duty… Baron Winslow Keating has been living a double life. Winn, a spy for the elite Barbican group in England, keeps his identity as a spy a secret from his wife—until he’s forced to bring her into his latest mission.

Winn would have liked five minutes alone with the puppy dancing with his wife. The man—boy—was ogling her as though she were a candied violet offered on the supper table. And what man wouldn’t ogle her? He hadn’t even recognized her for a full five minutes, and he had been searching for her. He’d never seen her wear red before. He’d never seen her color so high or her hair in such fetching disarray. This was not entirely true. He had seen her looking thus once or twice.

But not lately. Not in a long, long time.

The shot of lust he felt when he saw her all but knocked him over. And before he had the chance to feel guilty for lusting after a woman who was not his wife, he realized it was indeed his wife, and then anger quickly replaced lust. What was she thinking, coming to the Ramsgate ball with her bosom all but on display? Whom was she trying to seduce? Not him, obviously. Clearly, she hadn’t known he was coming, and she never wore seductive gowns when he accompanied her. Usually she wore… well, he could not remember what she wore, because he had not accompanied her for some time, but he was certain it was something far more subdued.

He would have gone after her, dismissed the puppy and danced with her himself, but he spotted the man in black entering through the French doors, which were open to the garden. Winn swore. He was going to have to deal with the thug, and he couldn’t do it in the middle of the ball. He would have preferred to return to the garden, but the man in black had spotted him and was making his way across the crowded room.

Lady Ramsgate was a close friend of his wife’s, and Winn had been in the Ramsgate town house on several previous occasions. He knew the layout and made for the servants’ stairs. The top floors of the house should be deserted. The servants were likely to be busy with all the ball entailed and would not be moving to the upper floors at present. Winn moved slowly, wanting to ensure the man in black saw where he was headed and followed. When he felt certain he had been spotted, Winn raced to the third floor, exited into a corridor leading to the bedrooms, and glanced about for a spot to hide.

There was nothing. No potted plant, no chair, no Chinese folding screen. He tried the door nearest him then cursed when it was locked. He raced to the next one. Locked, of course. Where the devil was his luck tonight? He was awful at picking locks—hands too big—but he could use brute force. He took three large steps back, inhaled slowly, then ran for the door, leading with his shoulder. He rammed it, bounced back, and shook his head. His shoulder throbbed, reminding him no part of him was as young as it used to be. Winn examined the frame, saw he’d done some damage, and stepped back again. He eyed the servants’ door to the stairwell, knowing he was almost out of time.

With a groan of dread, he rammed the door again. This time he separated it enough to kick it in. He was inside the room and stumbling about in the darkness, leaving the door open a sliver. He stepped behind the door and waited for the man in black to find him.

Winn heard him before he saw him. He was moving quietly down the corridor, approaching the open door. Winn held his breath and prepared to strike. The door opened slowly, the creak of the hinges like a scream in the silent darkness. Someone peered into the room. “Is anyone there?”

Too late, Winn realized it was a servant and not the man in black. He tried to pull his punch, but it struck the man on the side of the head and brought him down. The servant muttered an
oof
and went slack.

“Bloody hell.” Now where was the man in black? Winn bent, checked the servant, and was relieved he was unconscious. The last thing he needed was a servant reporting that Baron Keating had attacked him on the night of the ball. He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him, hoping the man would awake before he was found.

If the man in black hadn’t followed him upstairs, he must still be downstairs. With the Ramsgate’s guests.

With Elinor.