A Lady's Revenge (21 page)

“Somerton acted appropriately.” Her tone was stiff, defensive. “I was the lead agent for the region. Keeping intelligence of that magnitude a secret could have gotten me killed.”

“Telling you nearly got you killed.”

She studied him for a long, careful moment. “But it didn’t. Thanks to you.”

He closed his eyes. Gratitude was the last thing he deserved. He should tell her about the dispatch. Now was the perfect time. He could never hope to win her full affection with this kind of deception between them.

His eyelids were heavy, oddly sluggish when he lifted them. “Cora, I—” He swallowed back the thick knot clogging his throat. The confession was there, right on the tip of his tongue.
If
not
for
me, you would never have spent time in Valère’s dungeon.
She would be upset, at first. Maybe even hate him. But he could win her over, as he always had. She knew him well enough to understand that he would never intentionally hurt her.
Say
it, Helsford!
“Cora, I-I almost left you.”
Bloody
coward.

“Pardon?”

“In the dungeon. I came close to leaving you behind.” Every word he said was the truth, but nothing more than a skirt to hide behind. He had missed his opportunity, the ideal time to remove this hidden barrier. Now he must prepare himself for the ultimate sacrifice of losing her. Forever. “We were there to retrieve a female spy, the Raven. Spread out as you were on that bloody table, with shorn hair, filthy limbs, and a swollen face, I thought you were a boy.”

“Yet you still saved me.”

He leaned forward, humiliation packing his voice with an uncalled-for roughness. “Stop making me sound like a goddamned hero. I’m the furthest thing from it.”

“Perhaps in your mind.” She reached up to pull the filmy veil down, but before she did, Guy caught the shimmer of tears in her beautiful eyes. “In my heart, you shall always be my savior.”

Before he could say a word, a new voice intruded. “There now, Miss Cora.” Dinks padded to their table. “The innkeeper’s daughter packed a right big basket for our trip back to—?”

“Herrington Park,” Cora finished.

Guy’s heart lurched at her capitulation. Despite all the warning bells sounding in his head, he asked, “You’re sure?”

She gathered her gloves and reticule, and then stood. “Yes.”

He made to join her, but she placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. Her fingers felt confident and calm. Not at all like the mass of earthquakes ricocheting through his body.

“One more thing.” She bent forward so only he could hear. “Did you tell the innkeeper that I was your wife?”

“No.” He hated that damned veil, wished he could see her expression.

“Then why are the Malones referring to me as your ‘missus’?”

“Might have something to do with my carrying you through the inn and sleeping in your room.” God, he would kill to go back to that moment.

She nodded and straightened. “Yes, of course, that would make sense.”

“Does it bother you?” Guy cursed his idiocy. Why ask a question whose answer might carve a section from his heart?

Her silence drew the first cut.

“Does it?” he pressed.

“I don’t know how to answer such a question,” she said in a low tone. “I have not contemplated marriage to any man.”

He slid his hand over and curled his fingers around hers. They were cold now, trembling. “Do you find the idea distasteful, Cora?”

“No.”

“Then why haven’t you ever considered it?” He rubbed warmth back into her fingers. “I thought all females dreamed about being swept off their feet by a handsome prince and living happily ever after.”

By the tilt of her head, she appeared to be staring at their entwined fingers. She said nothing for several seconds.

“No, Guy.” She gently disengaged her hand. “Not all girls have the luxury of believing they will have a happily ever after. I’ll meet you at the carriage in ten minutes.”

He reached for her. “Cora—”

She swept out of the room, leaving him with his barely touched plate of breakfast and a gut full of regret. Dinks sent him an unreadable look before following her mistress, an enormous basket laden with food hanging from her capable arm.

Guy shoved the plate away, wondering, if she ever
had
dreamed of a happily ever after, whom she would have picked for her handsome prince.

His heart skipped a beat when he imagined himself in the role. He might not be princely material, not after the grief he had caused her, but he could make sure she got her happy ending. She deserved so much more—
like
the
truth, you idiot
—but he would begin by removing Valère from her life.

I’ll meet you at the carriage in ten minutes.
An eternity.

To take his mind off the slow tick of time, Guy pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and smoothed it against the table. The cipher was never far from his thoughts. Such was the case any time he began a new assignment. Number and letter combinations constantly flowed through his mind until repetitions became apparent and patterns surfaced.

For certain, the message was short, decisive, and likely deadly, as indicated by the two blocks of numbers. Two words. One command.

78325026 2722153134012223

As with any cipher, he searched for the most common letter arrangements like
th
,
ing
,
er
, and a few others. When they reached the house, he would have to start graphing different possibilities. The code was far too complicated to unravel with mental willpower alone.

The crackle of paper struck the air. Guy looked up to see the older gentleman folding the daily news in half before tossing it on the table.

Turning, the gentleman caught Guy’s eye and rasped, “Good morning.”

Guy kept his greeting short, not interested in conversation. “Sir.” He slid the missive back in his coat pocket.

With considerable effort, the gentleman levered himself from the bench. “The way these old bones are creaking, I daresay it’s going to rain today,” the stranger said. “Do you have far to travel?”

“A fair day’s ride, sir.”

“You and your lady wife take special care, then. One can never tell what perils await us when traveling nowadays, especially with those daft, careless hunters running about.”

Guy’s gaze narrowed. Something about the man’s tone struck a discordant note with him. “Thank you for the warning, sir.”

He studied the old man’s features, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary except a bad haircut and the frailty of a man beyond his prime. He released an irritated breath. He was now seeing threats where none existed. “We shall stay extra vigilant.”

The gentleman tipped his hat and shuffled out of the common room and labored down the two steps leading to the inn’s courtyard. His manservant assisted him into the waiting carriage and shut the door behind them after he settled a blanket across his master’s legs.

“Monsieur, did you learn their direction?” the gentleman’s manservant asked.

The old man’s stooped shoulders gradually rose to their full, broad width, his droopy eyes turned to steel cold awareness, and his slackened lips lifted into a feral smile.

“
Oui.
” Valère kept his eye on the inn’s front entrance. “They are headed back to his country estate.”

“The other will not follow.”

“No.”

What Marcel lacked in birthright, he made up for with his keen mind. The manservant’s talent for detecting artifice made him an indispensable interrogator, and his ability to anticipate his master’s next step saved Valère a great deal of time and inconvenience.

“Lord Helsford’s decision displeases me. However, if our positions were reversed, it is exactly what I would do.”

Marcel readjusted his low-brimmed hat. “Monsieur, shall we follow them or travel on to our final destination?”

“A moment.”

Cora finally emerged from the inn, carrying a burgundy and gold portmanteau. Fury and desire wiped away his admiration of her lover’s strategic acumen.

When he had overheard her discussing marriage with the earl, he’d had to restrain himself from turning around and plunging a knife into the witch’s black heart. She was lucky he had sensed discord between them. Otherwise, he would have shot Helsford between the eyes and spirited her away. If not for the ensuing manhunt, the rash action would have perhaps enabled him to reach his goal more expeditiously but with far less stealth. Or enjoyment.

When Cora stepped into her carriage, Valère signaled his readiness to move on. He waited until Witney was a speck on the horizon before tearing off the itchy gray wig and accepting a damp cloth from Marcel to remove the actors’ face paint he had used to age himself. He gloried in the fact that he had sat within striking distance of Cora, close enough to catch the faint whiff of her floral scent, and she had remained oblivious to his presence.

A surge of power pulsed through his body, replacing the fury. He liked holding her fate in his hands, knowing she lived by his beneficence alone. God was not the only one who had control over life and death. His chest expanded upon envisioning his emperor’s pride once he learned of Valère’s success. Napoleon’s generosity would know no bounds, and Valère’s ruthless ambitions would finally be realized.

He reached for the jasmine-scented handkerchief resting in his pocket, wanting to share this pivotal moment with Cora, but his manservant’s presence stopped him. “I believe the driver requires your assistance.”

Marcel peered at the passing landscape. “Of course, monsieur.”

Valère watched his obedient manservant open the door and gracefully maneuver to the top of the moving carriage, shutting the door behind him. When Valère was alone, he pulled the ruffled handkerchief from his coat pocket and laid it unopened on his thigh.

A faint buzz of anticipation started low in his stomach. He looked forward to their next meeting, could imagine it already. Having Cora under his control again released feelings of ungovernable desire. Only she knew how to tame the raging beast within. The one that screamed for domination; the one that lashed out if a woman failed to feed his secret need. Nothing gave him greater release than being on the receiving end of a confident woman’s riding crop.

He flinched and then shuddered with ecstasy, as if feeling the first slap of leather.

The sable curl beneath his finger felt like the finest silk from the Orient. He couldn’t wait for her hair to regain its full glory, so he could see it draped around her flushed face and straining breasts. The scar on her temple and the brand on her thighs would take their love play to extraordinarily new heights.

Once he had completed his charge, he would see exactly how high they could fly.

A few days later, sleepy contentment enfolded Cora as she lazed against one of Herrington Park’s enormous trees. The rhythmic creak of its branches in the breeze lulled her into a deep well of blissful oblivion.

Finally.

Ever since she had fallen asleep in Guy’s arms at the inn, sleep had come more easily. She was still plagued with nightmares but could generally get several hours’ rest despite them.

She scratched between Scrapper’s shoulders, prompting him to wiggle around and hang from her arm like an Amazonian sloth—only sloths did not use their long nails as tiny weapons of destruction. Cora clenched her teeth and disengaged her arm from the kitten’s painful hold. The tiny dents left in her skin were a small price to pay for escaping Guy’s persistent attentions.

“He watches me constantly, Scrap.” The kitten cocked his head as if comprehending her words. “Everywhere I turn, his eyes follow me.”

After their harsh words at the inn, she had avoided him whenever possible. The possibility of discussing her marital prospects—or lack of—was not a topic she wished to broach with him again.

She could blame only herself for arousing his curiosity. If she had stopped to think for a moment, it would have been obvious to her why the innkeeper and his daughter thought they were married. Their reference to her as his “missus” had caught her off guard. The title had felt foreign, yet its use had awakened a long-abandoned dream, catching her unawares.

Not even after their mind-shattering lovemaking at the Golden Duck and his insistence that she would never attend another man’s bed but his, had marriage entered her mind. She would not dare allow her thoughts to travel that far. The most she had hoped for was Guy’s love and affection—in whatever form he could share it. His name was far too much to hope for, but that did not stop her female need to now test it on her tongue.

“Lady Helsford. Countess Helsford. Cora Trevelyan.” She enjoyed the lyrical quality of the syllables twining together to form each grouping. If she’d had a quill and paper handy, she might have resorted to a more visual form of disillusionment.

After they had made love at the inn, she had forced herself to leave their bed. She had needed time to think and could not do that with the drugging effects of his sandalwood scent and musky, sleep-warmed skin taunting her to stay.

The few hours of contemplation away from him had helped her to see past the immediate needs of her body. As much as she adored him, she realized how their lovemaking had unbearably complicated their situation. She could not be his mistress and share him with a wife. Even the thought of such an arrangement caused her stomach to churn. And if Guy took it into his gentlemanly head to ask for her hand in marriage, she would refuse him. She must, because being the object of his social ruin would place an intolerable strain on her, and it would eventually be the death of their marriage.

She tickled beneath the kitten’s chin, and he promptly sank his razor-sharp teeth into her fingertip. “The
ton
would eat him alive,” she said, tugging her finger away. “They have a knack for sniffing out the sordid areas of one’s past. If they ever learned of my activities in France, Guy would most assuredly suffer for it, as would any of our children.” And they would find out. It wasn’t as if she had gadded about Paris under an assumed name. Her exploits would soon follow her to London. She had no doubt. “I won’t let him suffer for my decisions. He deserves so much better than a life of mockery.”

Since they had arrived at Herrington Park, Guy’s eyes and tone of voice had remained seductively warm, but his body withdrew into cool formality. He kept himself near but at a discreet distance, touching her only when necessary. While he physically pulled away from her, she was more drawn to him than ever, like a sweet pea vine reaching for the support of its trellis.

She knew her behavior at the inn’s breakfast table confused him, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to care. Her damaged body and worry for her brother had sapped all her strength. She didn’t have the fortitude to explain the obvious to him. He would eventually figure out why marriage was dead to her. Her fingers pressed against both of her eyelids to rub the sting away.

“God, I hate this,” she swore beneath her breath. Hated this feeling of helplessness. Of hopelessness. She had always been strong, even before she had sailed to France. This
yearning
to lean on Guy battled viciously with her drive for self-reliance.

She buried her face in Scrapper’s soft fur. On one level, Guy’s protectiveness drove her to fits of temper, and on another level—one where she kept her deepest desires hidden—he exhilarated her. That’s why she had requested a few hours to herself each morning after returning to the country. She needed to reestablish her independence, and she couldn’t do that with Guy constantly underfoot.

Scrapper’s little body vibrated with happiness, making her smile. She lifted her head, and her gaze drifted around the sun-dappled glade. She hadn’t wanted to return to Herrington Park. She would rather be in London, helping Somerton find Ethan, instead of in the country doing nothing but strolling and sleeping and thinking. Always thinking. But she was glad to return to the tranquility of this hidden paradise. It was the perfect spot to perform her Tai Chi each morning.

She glimpsed her servants’ bobbing heads in the distance. While keeping a keen eye on her, they collected greens and berries for their luncheon salad. Bingham’s low grumblings and Dinks’s snappish retorts carried across the distance of the small lake. A wave of nostalgia gripped her insides, causing her nose and eyes to sting.

She would never have survived France without them. Never. Their unflagging loyalty, strength, and friendship had kept her motivated and focused on her one true goal: finding the man who murdered her parents.

Horrific scenes from that fateful night flashed before her eyes. Scenes that over a decade later had the ability to slice open her chest, exposing her terror, her mortification, her shame. She curled her fingers into Scrapper’s soft fur.

“Mrrreow.”

The kitten’s cry of distress forced her to ease her grip. “Sorry, Scrap.” She rubbed along his tiny back, hoping to soothe any hurt she had caused, but tension still thrummed through his quivering body.

Then his claws pierced the linen covering her left breast, hooking into her tender flesh. She sucked in a breath and tried to disengage his hold. “Scrapper, what’s wrong—?”

“Mrrreow!” He hissed and made to bolt. She caught him by the scruff of his neck and pressed him against her body.

“What’s the matter?” She cradled his small head and noticed his big green eyes were almost entirely black… and they were focused on something beyond her shoulder.

Like the kitten’s stinging claws, dread curled around her heart, squeezing away the last of her contentment.

“Your kitten doesn’t appear to like me,
mon
coeur
.”

Cora’s pulse stuttered to a halt. She reached for her skirt pocket, but Valère’s gun barrel rammed into the pit of her arm, stopping her cold. A killing shot, one that would rip her life’s blood out of her body in a matter of minutes.

“If you scream, my men will cut down your servants before you can catch your next breath,” Valère said. “Keep your hands wrapped around that gray vermin where I can see them, and leave them there. Understood?”

She glanced at Dinks and Bingham, finding no discernible threat near them. The fact that she had missed Valère’s approach forced her to keep her mouth shut and her senses open.

She nodded.

“Good. Now rest your head against the tree and close your eyes.”

No.
A cold sweat coated Cora’s palms.

“Are you testing me, Cora?”

The same helplessness she had experienced in his dungeon pervaded her body now. Her strong-willed defiance had bought her time while imprisoned, where she was alone, but that tactic would not work in this instance.

She peered at her friends, knowing they would observe only what Valère wanted them to see—their mistress resting beneath a large tree.

Valère had discovered her weakness for her servants and was now using them to his advantage. Another failure on her part. Something else to regret.

“Bastard.”

“On occasion. Now do as I say.”

Cora eased her head back. No matter how hard she tried to see Valère out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t. The strange condition of conversing with a bodiless voice heightened her unease. There was no way to judge his mood or his next action. No way to defend herself.

Guy’s image flitted through her mind. He would blame himself for what was to come, believing he shouldn’t have left her in the care of others. He wouldn’t understand that he couldn’t be with her every minute of every day, no matter how hard he tried.

Her enemy would always find that one moment, that fragment of a second that would distract her protector, pulling him away.

Valère jabbed her with the muzzle of his gun. “Do not test me,
ma
chère
.”

Releasing an unsteady breath, she closed her eyes and waited for the blow.

Instead, he slid the gun barrel along the side of her breast. “Good girl.” His breath fanned over her neck as he spoke. “Speaking of obedience, why do you keep that mewling footman around? The boy betrayed you.”

“You kidnapped his sister,” Cora said. “He had few options.”

“He could have told you the truth. Does he not love you as he loves his sister?”

Disappointment pierced her heart, tightening the walls of her chest. She knew he baited her, but the wound was still fresh, and her affection for Jack spanned many years. “And risk losing the only family he has left? You are a cold-blooded bastard, Valère.”

The barrel dug into her ribs, and Cora gritted her teeth, wishing she hadn’t forsaken her stays since coming to the country. “What do you want? Why not kill me and be done with it?”

He laughed low. “I will. However, right now, I must keep you alive for my emperor. Once he has no further use of you and I have sated my own desires, I will make a gift of you to Marcel. What do you think of my plan?”

“Sounds like you’re still relying on your servants to do your dirty work.”

Cora braced herself for another vicious thrust, but he replaced his gun with something sharp. Sharp enough to slice through the fabric of her dress and pierce the tender skin of her lower back. She recoiled, but the motion was halted by four sets of barbed feline claws embedding themselves in her upper arm. She bit her lip against the pain while she eased Scrapper’s claws from her skin.

“Sit back,” he demanded. “You think to amuse yourself at my expense,
ma
chère
?”

Calming her wild breaths, she resumed her position against the tree.

“Because of you, my superiors now question my loyalty to the emperor.
Mine.
” He punctuated the word with the point of the knife. “One of his most loyal of subjects. My appointment as
Maréchal de France
is all but gone, thanks to you.”

“Marshal of France?” Cora snorted. “Where is your army, Valère? Only the finest military men are appointed to such a prestigious position.”

“My army surrounds you.” The blade burrowed deeper into her back, slicing through flesh. “Can you not feel their presence?” She gritted her teeth and arched her spine.

She wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t cry out. If she did, Dinks and Bingham were as good as dead. Much to her disgrace, she couldn’t stop her breaths from bellowing through her nostrils in her bid to remain quiet. Where were Somerton’s men?

“I will collect my apology,” he continued in a lethal voice, “while you are taking me into your body.”

A violent tremor shook her core. “Never.”

“You think not?” Valère’s sudden burst of movement and the feel of his fingers wrapping around her neck triggered years of disciplined training.

She swept around and threw the only weapon she had readily at hand—right into his arrogant face.

Scrapper’s claws sank into Valère’s flesh, piercing his cheeks and throat. “Ahhh!” He grabbed the kitten by the neck and made to yank him away, but Scrapper refused to release the Frenchman and grasped for a better hold, connecting with Valère’s right eye.

“
Fils
de
pute!
” Valère pried the kitten’s front paws off and flung him away with a vicious twist of his wrist.

Cora fumbled for the knife in her skirt pocket, staring at the spot where Scrapper’s little gray body disappeared inside a cluster of leaves and spindly branches. One lone yellow leaf dangled above the dark opening. She couldn’t see a single gray hair.

In the distance, she heard a feminine scream and a baritone yell, and then nothing.
Dinks. Bingham.
Oh, God.

Valère swiped his coat sleeve over the lines of blood trickling down his face; his right eye squeezed shut. “English whore.” He scanned the ground around them. “I’m going to rip the skin from your bones and feed it to my men.”

Ignoring his threat, she crouched into a battle stance, her knife extended. To her astonishment, Valère appeared to have lost his weapons during his scuffle with Scrapper.

Blood pumped more richly through her veins, for her odds of surviving this encounter improved tenfold, a hundredfold if she counted his half-blind status.

At least that was the case until she heard the swoosh of low-hanging branches and the pounding of feet off to her left, reminding her that Valère wasn’t the only threat lurking in the woods. Cocking her head slightly to the side, she bided her time.

“Lose something, Valère?” Scrapper had not only gouged holes in the Frenchman’s eye, he had shredded the man’s face in several places. Cora fought the impulse to touch the scar near her temple.

Thank
you, Scrap.

Another disturbance behind her, closer now. She couldn’t tell how many were approaching, but the sickening smile stretching across Valère’s mouth didn’t bode well.

Five.