The Charleston Chase (Phantom Knights Book 2) (2 page)

Gripping the dagger, I pushed myself to my feet,
gritting my teeth against the pain in my side.

“Raven?” said a deep voice from
behind me. My eyes slid closed as unpleasant flutters came alive
inside my stomach. I knew who stood behind me.

Seven months ago, Samuel Mason and I had ‘met’ under
mysterious circumstances when his uncle George Crawford had been
captured by a corrupt secret society and I had broken into George’s
house, searching for clues as to his whereabouts. It was while I
was there that I was set upon by a masked man. He attacked me, and
when he had me restrained, he kissed me. That we were on his
uncle’s bed, and I was dressed as a man only added mortification to
the memory. I would have been able to forget all about it if it had
not been for the letter. Later that night after I returned home
from a party, it was to find my pistol that he had stolen from me
and a mocking, detestable, atrocious insult of a letter. Since I
had been masked as well and dressed as a man, I had thought that he
did not know me, for I had never met him. Then came the letter and
the realization that he knew that not only was I Raven, leader of
the Phantoms in Philadelphia, but that I was also Bess Martin,
heiress and debutante.

I had hoped that I could break into his house, find
whatever information he had on the Holy Order, and escape the city
without ever having to see his lying, deceitful, rag-mannered,
annoyingly handsome face again. On the ship to Charleston, I had
thought too many times about that interlude and his perfect
kiss.

Knowing I could not run if I tried; I slowly opened
my eyes and turned. The cavity around my heart that had felt
nothing but a dull ache for the past month, filled with an alarming
amount of warmth. My mouth dipped open slightly as my gaze took in
all of him. I was gawking, but truly it was not fair.

The man was not only handsome as I
remembered. He was an
intensely,
poetically soul-burning Adonis. His honey brown hair was pushed
back with perfect wavy curls falling to his nape. His gray eyes
traveled the length of me while his lips curled up in the way I
remembered all too clearly.

“Just so.” He murmured the word, but I knew he was
mocking me, for he had said that after he had kissed me.

My breath hitched as he advanced toward me, stopping
much closer to me than was proper. He held out his large, strong
hand. “Miss Martin, I presume.”

My mouth snapped closed as my common sense flooded
back like a wave striking a ship. With seven months of
mortification backing the action, my hand flew up and struck his
cheek hard enough to make his ears ring.

Bess

H
e
winced, much to my gratification, and stepped back as his large
hand came up to protect his reddened cheek.

His eyes met mine and his mouth
drooped open. His eyes were such a pale blue that they appeared
gray, and the look he was giving me was nothing short of intense.
His brown hair was slicked back but in a way that sent his curls
tumbling down behind his ears. His straight nose was rather—ideal.
Trimmed hair ran around his mouth and down his jaw, but it was much
too short to be a true beard.

He blinked with a smile on his firm mouth. “I
suppose I deserved that.”

“You deserve that and worse!” I
held his gaze, though his gray eyes unnerved me,
the wretch!

His smile widened, and I felt a strange fluttering
in my stomach again. I hated fluttering of any kind, especially the
kind that meant attraction, which in my life had never proved
successful.

“Ah, but the experience was beneficial to us both.”
Before I could retort, he stepped to my side and gripped my elbow.
“Whatever you are going to say may wait until we are in a less open
area. Come.”

He did not give me much of a choice but to walk with
him as he guided me across the street to his house.

At the stairs, I winced as I took
the first two, but the remaining stairs were taken slowly as Samuel
had noticed my pain. When we reached the top of the seven steps, he
led me to the door, but it had opened before he touched it. A tall,
lean man dressed in a dark suit and
with
skin the color of coal was before us.

“Jeffrey, please fetch some water, cloths; the
usual, and bring it into the book room.”

I was guided through a spacious foyer with blue silk
wallpaper and a wide staircase into the book room that still had
the effect of making me gawk. It was truly a magnificent room.
Samuel helped me to sit on a chair before his large desk then he
sat on the edge of his desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

“As delighted as I am to see you again,” his eyes
looked into mine, and one corner of his lips tilted up in nothing
short of a roguish expression, “I do not flatter myself that you
came all this way only to deliver that slap.”

The man had charm; I would grant him that, but he
was a rogue if ever I met one. “Not for that, though the prospect
did make my journey more tolerable. I am here for another matter
entirely.”

Jeffrey the butler came in carrying a bowl, a cloth
draped over his arm, and a glass decanter in his hand. He set all
three down on the desk and left the room without glancing at me,
closing the door behind him. I had a suspicion that he had seen
much while working for Samuel Mason.

Samuel dipped the cloth in the
bowl and leaned forward as if he were going to press it against my
face. I leaned away from his outstretched arm, wincing at the
sudden movement. He held the cloth out to me. I snatched it away,
but did not press it against my cheek that Guinevere had slapped. I
pushed up the sleeve of my jacket and pressed it again the claw
marks that were now
a bloody mess.
Something in the cloth caused a slight burning sensation against my
skin, but I did not remove it.

Samuel moved around his desk and pulled open a
drawer. He produced two glasses and poured out what looked like
brandy. One of the glasses he held out to me. Without hesitation, I
took the glass.

“Would you like to tell me what you are doing in
Charleston, or perhaps whom you were fighting?” he said after he
had taken a sip.

“Her name is Guinevere Clark,” I said, seeing no
reason to lie. I did not expect him to have heard of her. I was not
sure what she was doing in Charleston. The last time I saw her was
in the throne room of Levitas after I received a brand on my
back.

Samuel set his glass down with a look of
astonishment on his face. “Indeed, and were you trying to beat
information about the Holy Order from her, or do you strike every
person you meet?” There was a small note of humor in the words.

Scowling at him, I raised my chin
higher. So he did know who she was. “She deserves much worse than
the blows I dealt her,” I felt my eyes narrow, “as do you, I will
remind you.”

He grinned, the teeth-flashing kind that revealed
perfect white teeth. He moved to sit in his desk chair. He said
nothing, but I saw the moment his smile faded, and he stiffened
slightly. I moved the cloth from my one arm to the other, shifting
straighter in the chair. When his eyes flicked to mine, he was
silently furious. If eyes could blaze fire, I would be aflame.

“Do you also make it a habit of breaking into houses
and stealing people’s correspondence?”

A pang of regret struck me, but it was momentary.
“If it is necessary to my investigation, yes.”

“Your investigation?” He leaned
back in his chair crossing his arms. “Do not you mean
our
investigation, Miss
Martin?” When I did not respond, he smiled, but it was not a
pleasant one. “You see, I know why you are here.” He picked up a
letter from his desk. “My uncle did not send you trusting that you
would come to me for help. He sent a letter that arrived on the
same ship you did. A porter delivered it while you were no doubt
fighting in the field.”

George
would
do that, vexatious man! I
wanted to snatch the letter away from him and to read what George
said, and then burn the letter.

Samuel raised the letter, saying,
“Uncle George writes that he has sent you to join my team. That
together he knows we will be successful in destroying the Holy
Order.” He refolded the letter and tossed it on his desk. “I am
curious, Miss Martin. Are you capable
of
following orders?” Samuel’s voice was calm, but his eyes were gray
storm clouds threatening thunder and possibly some
lightning.

“Yes, sir,” I replied without emotion.

“Then why, Miss Martin?” He did not need to say
more; I knew he wanted to know why I broke into his house, stole
his letter, and had no intention of approaching him for help.

“George has no authority to order me to do
anything,” I informed him.

“True, but then you have no authority to go after
the Holy Order. You are no longer a Phantom.”

I wanted to stand and walk out, but he would never
let me leave with the stolen letter. My investigation would be back
to nothing without that letter unless Guinevere could be found and
forced to give me the information I needed.

When I did not reply, Samuel was out of his chair in
an instant. Leaping to my feet, I barely held in a cry at the
sudden burst of pain. Rounding the chair, facing him and ready for
a fight, I would not give him the higher ground.

It was a lesson that my father
taught me. I made him angry once—well, more than once—but one
significant time. He made me sit in a chair while he paced before
me in brooding silence. The silence was meant to make me squirm.
When I showed signs of being truly intimidated, he would let me
have the full force of his anger in his words. I remember shivering
with my shoulders hunched over in defeat, regret, and a little
fear. But, when I chanced to glance up into his eyes, he was
waiting for me to react. He was teaching me a
lesson. I straightened in my chair and listened until he was
finished, and then I stood, rendering a formal apology with my
shoulders squared, holding his gaze. We stared at each other until
my father broke a smile. He told me that unless it was him or a
person that I looked upon as my authority, never was I to cower or
to give up the higher ground. I would face my adversary and never
let my emotions show on my face.

Watching Samuel’s every movement
and keeping my breathing even was all pretense. Inside, I was not
feeling confident at all. He took slow steps toward me; his eyes
moving over all of me. It was as if he were sizing up a horse
instead of looking upon a respectable, well,
almost
respectable female. A piece
of my ground was taken away as he stopped before me, and I had to
look up to see his eyes.

“Do you want my help, Miss Martin?” He asked
softly.

Did I? No, not truly, but what other choice was open
to me? He held the power. He could turn me over to the constables
if he liked, but I did not think that was what he wanted. He wanted
to hear me ask for his help. “Yes,” I said with a firm voice that I
inwardly congratulated myself on.

“Then why steal from me?” I hesitated to reply, and
he frowned. “You do not mean to tell me? I could order you to do
so, you know.” There was no threat in his voice, only fact.

“Yes, sir, and as the leader of the team I am
wishful to join,” I would not give him the satisfaction of hearing
me call him my leader, “I would be coerced to tell you.”

His eyes were staring
penetratingly into mine, then, slowly they dropped to my lips. My
body stiffened all over.
That
would not happen again. When the moment passed,
his gaze flicked back to mine.

His voice dropped as he said, “It is not my will to
coerce you, Miss Martin. I believe you stole my letter because the
Holy Order is in some way connected to why you are here.”

Being a spy, confession was foreign to me, but I was
feeling guilt again over having stolen the letter from him, and my
guilt made me want to confess. He did not give me a chance.

“Will you follow every order that I give you?” His
gray-blue eyes bore into me, searching through the files of my soul
for every crime I had ever committed.

My shoulders straightened. “To the best of my
conscience.”

His dark brows shot up causing three lines to form
on his forehead. “What may that mean?”

“Only this; I have been working
this job for a long time. I have been trained by the best and have
the highest perception in the field. I know when to follow orders,
and I know when to make my own decisions.”

“Indeed,” he stepped nearer, his legs brushing the
front of the chair, “and can I trust you, Miss Martin?”

“Of course,” I replied with
outward calm, though inside I was a hurricane of emotions, none of
them positive. Before he could speak again, I asked, “Can I
trust
you
, Mr.
Mason?”

His eyes searched mine. He was so close that I could
see the lighter flecks in his eyes that looked light white
lightning. “I will never lie to you.” He did not look away; he did
not hesitate. He was completely honest. Drat the man!

I wanted to test his honesty—to
see how far it reached. “Are you a libertine?” I asked before I
could stop myself.

There was no flicker of surprise in his eyes. His
chest rose and fell as he stared at me. If he expected me to back
away, to give up, he would be disappointed.

He sighed but did not look away from me. “When the
job requires, yes. But, my heart and will are pure, and I have
never purposefully hurt someone when in those situations.”