Surrender (22 page)

“If LeClerc is betrayed, you and your daughter are the ones who will pay.
Comprenez-vous?
”

She was pressed even more tightly against his body now. Evelyn was afraid to nod. She whimpered.

“Comprenez-vous?”
he demanded, jerking on her. “Betray us and you both die!”

“Yes,” she sobbed, “Yes!”

She was released and Evelyn fell, clutching her moist throat. She heard him running out of her bedroom and down the hall. Downstairs, she heard a door slam closed. Jolie began to bark.

She gasped, struggling to stand, and then she staggered across her bedchamber and into the hall. She was ready to scream for her daughter, but if Aimee was asleep, she did not want to awaken and frighten her. She rushed into her bedroom, which was entirely in darkness. Aimee was soundly asleep in her bed.

She sagged against the bed, then fell to her knees on the floor, choking on fresh sobs. Aimee was all right. She thanked God.

And Jolie had stopped barking. Did that mean the intruder was gone?

She now touched her throat. How much blood was there? If Aimee awoke now and saw her this way, she would be terrified.

And as she had that thought, she heard footsteps in the hall. She rushed from the chamber, closing the door behind her, and almost collided with Laurent, who held a taper high.

He turned white.
“Mon Dieu! Qu’est-ce que c’est passé? Evelyn! Vous êtes d’accord?”

“Shh! I have been attacked, but I am fine.” She collapsed against the wall.

“You are hardly fine!” he gasped. He shoved his arm around her and dragged her into her bedroom. There, she sank down on the bed. He set the candle down, found a handkerchief, and quickly inspected her throat. “It is only a cut! Who did this?”

Evelyn stared at him, dazed. How had that intruder gotten in? He must have broken a lock. The lock would have to be fixed. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

“You don’t know?” he cried. “Who would do this? What did he want? Was he a thief?”

Evelyn hardly heard him. The man had broken into her home, cut her and threatened her and Aimee. He could come back at any time, and he had implied that he would do so. She did not know what to do. Change the locks, get another dog, start guarding the house… And what if, dear God, LeClerc was betrayed—not by her, but by someone else? Would she and Aimee be hunted down anyway? Would the intruder come back? Would he kill her? Kill Aimee?

This is war, damn it, and this is a war game.... The stakes are life and death.

I do not want you to be another damned victim of this war—I am trying to protect you.

Jack had tried to warn her—and he had been trying to protect her! He might be a spy, but he had known what she had not, that she was in danger the moment she had overheard that conversation between him and LeClerc. God, that was so clear now.

“Yes, it was a thief,” she lied to Laurent. She had to, for his own protection. “He wanted jewels.”

Evelyn reached for a pillow and hugged it. What should she do now? Because she had to protect Aimee, and she was involved in these war games, when she did not want to be!

They could go to London—except, they had no funds to spare for a room!

Evelyn trembled. It felt too dangerous, to stay at the house now. But she had nowhere else to go.

She wanted to ask Jack what she should do. He might be a spy, but she believed he wanted to protect her and Aimee—now she believed it with all of her heart.

“I am getting my pistol and locking the house,” Laurent cried. “Will you be all right?”

Evelyn did not know if she would ever be all right again, but she managed to nod. He left, determinedly. Evelyn took a few deep, calming breaths, got up and took out her own pistol from beneath the bed. It was loaded, of course, but she checked it anyway. Then she took up a taper and went downstairs to help Laurent secure the house.

* * *

J
ACK
HALTED
HIS
gray stallion abruptly. It was late afternoon in early May, and spring had finally arrived in Cornwall. The sky was blue, the clouds white, the sun bright. A few wildflowers and gorse had begun to bloom, turning the moors purple. And for the past hour or so, since leaving the outskirts of Bodmin, he had been the only traveler on the road.

The Black Briar Inn was ahead. He stared, aware of his tension, and too late, annoyed with himself for choosing Trim’s tavern for his meeting. He had already run to Roscoff and delivered an entire shipload of fine Chinese silks. He had decided to make another run for more of it, and he was meeting an investor. He hadn’t thought about it when he had sent Thomas Godfrey a note, suggesting Trim’s establishment as the place to meet.

He was thinking about it now.

He nudged his stallion forward, but at a walk. Unlike the road, the inn was busy—a dozen horses and carriages were parked outside. He preferred a crowded establishment; it was easier to escape notice. Just as he preferred an isolated, untraveled road—it was impossible for anyone to follow him without his being noticed, not once he left the vicinity of the city.

And Roselyn was about a half an hour’s ride away.

He was grim. Evelyn had been haunting his thoughts—and not happily. He was angry every time he thought about making love to her. Not because he regretted it, but because he hadn’t been able to control his urgency, because his passion had been frantic and frenzied, as never before. He did not want to have experienced such desire, not then—and not now.

For he remained heavily in lust; his damned desire had not abated.

He could manage unrequited desire. However, he was furious when he recalled her accusations against him.

Of course, he was a spy—for both sides. So in a way, she was right. But damn it, she was also very wrong. For in the end, he would put his country first, above even his own life.

How ironic it was, he managed to think sourly. Jack Greystone, the mercenary, was a patriot at heart!

He had no intention of explaining himself to her or telling her about his role in the war. He would not tell her about his activities because he did not want her involved.

I love you.

This is not about love. It is about lust.

His dark mood had never been worse. She could not love him. She did not even know him. But if she
did
love him, she would believe in him, never mind the rumors, the gossips, his notoriety and the damned bounty that was on his head.

Like the whole damned country, she thought him an outlaw.

He had to stop thinking about Evelyn. In a way, he was her first lover. She was a mother and a widow, but as inexperienced and naive as a debutante. The one night they had spent together had proved how innocent she was. He had been savagely thrilled to be the one to show her true passion.

He remained in lust—not love, he insisted to himself—as never before, and why not? She was also gentle and kind, determined and intelligent, and brave. He cursed again. She was, most definitely, a very beautiful and very extraordinary woman. The affair they had begun should have been full-blown by now. Instead, it was over, just like that, and he could hardly stand it. The attraction raged, disturbing him to no end. But there was more.

She did not deserve to be a part of this goddamned bloody war. No one did. He wanted her out of it. He would even admit he had the frank urge to protect her now—but, then, hadn’t he always had that instinct, since first meeting her in France? So much for his lack of a conscience or a soul. The gallant lived within him, still.

He truly hoped she had forgotten the conversation she had overheard. He had meant every word when he had told her that if she spoke of it to anyone, she could be putting her life and her daughter’s in the gravest jeopardy. Since leaving Bodmin, he had begun to consider calling on her—to make certain she was keeping his secrets.

He trotted his stallion into the inn’s courtyard and dismounted, tying him to the porch railing, some distance from the other horses. Jack strode up the front steps, pushed open the tavern door and paused, quickly scanning the entire public room.

A dozen tables were occupied. He saw Godfrey, seated alone at a table, not far from the counter behind which Trim and a tavern wench were pulling ale. There were no red uniforms present; he had discerned that instantly, and now, more carefully, he looked for suspicious patrons—officers in plain clothes and other spies.

His glance slammed onto Ed Whyte, who sat with two men, who seemed equally scurrilous, and they were playing cards. Whyte was not in the British armed forces, but once in a while he ferried information about the British navy and British fortifications to the French. As a French agent, he was at the lowest end of the scale, and insignificant.

But Jack thought of Evelyn, who had been robbed, and his heart began a slow, dangerous thudding.

Smiling to himself, Jack walked over to Trim. “Good afternoon, John. You are doing a good business today.”

Trim beamed at him. “I am so pleased to see you! It has been some time. What can I get you?”

“Is there any news out of Roselynd?” He had not premeditated the question, and he could barely believe he was asking.

“The countess’s servant was in a couple of weeks ago with her daughter. They took one of my mastiff pups.” He was proud.

Jack kept smiling. “That is a pretty child,” he said. “She looks so much like her mother.”

“Yes, she does. My wife has been meaning to call on the countess. Perhaps I will send her to do so. Oh, I did hear some odd gossip—that she was at several banks, seeking credit.”

Evelyn would find a way, Jack thought, to get through her dire financial situation. Hopefully Lucas would be able to turn the tin mine into a profitable enterprise. “It is too bad that her husband failed to provide for her and their daughter.”

“Yes, and I heard the banks might not advance her any funds, but Lord Trevelyan was in the other day. He told me to advance her credit if she ever comes in here, and he will pick up the bills.”

Jack remained impassive, though inwardly enraged. But of course Trevelyan was pursuing Evelyn, and he would make such a handsome, noble gesture. “He will probably advance her whatever she needs,” he said grimly.

“I am hoping he will court her, when she is out of mourning,” Trim said. “She needs a husband and he is a fine gentleman.”

Jack turned away. “How right you are,” he said, his back now to Trim. And John Trim was right. He knew it—but he couldn’t be happy for her or them. “Excuse me, Trim.”

Jack walked toward Godfrey’s table. He was a short, portly man, in a curly white wig and a teal satin coat. “My God,” Godfrey said. “What a place!”

Jack glanced past him at Whyte, aware of being even more annoyed now than when he had first walked into the inn. “It suits my purposes,” he said. Pulling out a chair he swung it around backward and straddled it. “How are you?”

Godfrey slammed down the dark amber contents of a glass. “Eager to hear what you plan next.”

Eyeing Whyte again, Jack told Godfrey about the Chinese silk. “I would have to run for Roscoff immediately, otherwise, the silk will have been sold. I am offering you a 50 percent share, Tom. My profits from the last run were thirty-five hundred pounds—and I had the silk sold before it ever reached our shores.” As he spoke he thought of Evelyn.

I am offering you a fair share. How am I going to pay you?

You decide....

“I am in. How much do you need?” Godfrey’s question interrupted his thoughts.

Jack was relieved. He told him, and Godfrey assured him he would leave a check at the bank in Fowey, where Jack had his accounts, in the same name as the deed to Looe Island. Godfrey then said, “Are you having a drink? If so, I will join you, otherwise, I am getting back to London.” He grinned. “I have a new mistress, Jack. An opera singer from Venice. And she is only twenty!”

Jack laughed. “I would go back to London if I were you,” he said, thinking again of Evelyn. Was he ever going to forget how she looked at him with such passion, when she lay beneath him in bed?

Godfrey agreed, pumped his hand and left.

Jack did not move, still straddling the turned-around chair. He stared across the crowd at Whyte.

That bastard had robbed Evelyn…. Evelyn, who claimed to love him but had no faith…. Evelyn, whom he could not stop thinking about, whom he still wanted—and whom he was worried about.

He seethed, staring.

Whyte looked, saw him and started.

Jack felt a savage pleasure begin. Oh, how he meant to pick a fight! He stood, kicking his chair aside. It fell over.

The tavern became silent.

Paling, Whyte stared as Jack sauntered over. “Hello, Ed.”

Whyte leaped to his feet. “What is wrong? Greystone, if I have crossed you, it was a mistake!” There was alarm in his high tone.

Jack laughed without mirth, and slammed his fist into Whyte’s face.

The man crashed backward into an adjacent table, the patrons there leaping up and rushing away.

Jack seized him before he could get up and landed another blow to the other side of his face. Whyte choked in pain.

Then Jack pushed him down on the table and straddled him, his dagger now pressed fully, sharp edge of the blade first, to his throat. “I want the Countess D’Orsay’s sapphires.”

Whyte sputtered. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t do this?” He drew a fine line across the jugular, only nicking the skin.

Whyte shouted. “All right! All right!”

“Like hell it is all right. You stole from the countess. That is not all right, Whyte.” He took his knee and placed it on Whyte’s groin.

Whyte turned red, choking on the pain, his eyes bulging. Jack released his knee, bent close, and still holding the dagger to his throat, whispered, “Where are the jewels?”

Whyte managed, “In my saddlebags!”

Triumph seized him. Jack slid his arm around him and let him stand, still holding the blade to his throat, Whyte now in a viselike grip. “Trim,” Jack called. “Get his saddlebags.”