Authors: Diane Whiteside
A strong man ripped her away and swung her up before him, without checking his horse. A single glance over her shoulder confirmed Raoul’s ghost had vanished.
Tears blurred her eyes.
Sir Andrew?
Hélène was speaking again.
There are French Chasseurs à Cheval from the Imperial Guard nearby…
Hélène. He smiled grimly. His little firestarter. Damned if he’d ever valued her gift quite so much before.
They’re already here, my dear. Napoleon sent the best cavalrymen in his army. Where are you?
On top of the ruined castle about a day’s journey back. St. Just is leaving now…
There’s no time for that.
The French were circling the hut, closing off his avenues of escape although disinclined to come too close. Smart lads.
He slipped into the stables and untied the mules, giving them the freedom to run as he could not.
How close do you have to be in order to set something on fire?
He cursed the sexual folly that had kept him in a woman’s bed, rather than overseeing his
hija
’s training. His
hija
who was Britain’s greatest weapon.
Within eyesight. But you know my accuracy decreases with distance, sir. I’d be likely to burn everything within a couple of yards.
Her voice wavered before she brought it back under rigid control.
Who else is with you?
Wade is dead.
He made a quick decision.
The French destroyed Celeste, too.
No
creador
could directly lie to an
hija
in the mind link, although they could stretch the truth. His words weren’t enough of a lie to poison the link. After all, the vicious immoralities of the Revolution and Napoleon’s empire were what had destroyed Celeste’s oaths to the British Crown.
Hélène’s answering scream was soundless and heart-wrenching.
He gritted his teeth, praying the Lord would bring Hélène safely home without encountering her treacherous sister and the French army. At least he’d kept Hélène from hunting for Celeste and getting herself captured.
Thankfully, an
hija
couldn’t forcibly question her
creador
through the mind link, so she’d never know how much he hadn’t told her.
You have to set this hut on fire
, he ordered.
I can’t kill you!
She was almost sobbing for breath but somehow coherent. Damn fine fighter, she was, to rally her thoughts after these shocks.
Better my death than having Boney’s lads get their hands on this codebook—along with every other British spy in Spain and Portugal.
She continued to hesitate.
But…But…
The wind changed, bringing a new reminder of his greatest danger. Metal clanked, and a horse whickered softly. The French
vampiro mayor
had started to move in.
You must.
He sharpened his tone, desperate to bring this to a quick end.
It is the only way to ensure the marine dictionary—the all-important codebook—is completely destroyed. Do not think of anything except the book.
She was silent, agony roiling her thoughts.
Hélène! As your
creador,
I command you to set fire to the book!
He slammed his will into her, weighting it with memories of all the oaths she’d sworn, all the deaths which had driven her to pledging her own life.
Her breath caught, and he sensed strength flowing into her from someone else. St. Just, of course; good man.
I can’t see the book with my eyes, sir,
she said with a return to her usual crisp logic,
not with the village and trees in the way.
He would have preferred them to be properly green English trees instead. But he’d always known, as Charles II had warned him, he was unlikely to find rest on the western side of the Channel. He blew out his breath and shoved away memories of swans floating on the River Avon under the verdant willow trees.
Use my eyes instead. I’ll return to the front of the hut and hold up my arm.
Very well.
He prayed God would see Hélène and St. Just safely home.
On the count of three, then.
God be with you, sir.
And with you, little one. I wish I’d done better by you.
We’ll stick it to Boney for you
, she assured him stoutly.
Despite himself, he laughed at her unusual vulgarity.
Three, two, one…
Andrew jackknifed to his feet, holding his hand aloft with the codebook. He stared at it, picturing every detail for her as they’d taught him in that very secret spy school. Bullets thudded into the hut and tore at his greatcoat, trying to tear him down quickly before he could complete the image.
For King and country…
Light blazed, more brilliant than the sun, and he knew nothing more.
CASTRO SANCHEZ, EAST OF BENAVENTE, TWO DAYS LATER
Jean-Marie and Hélène were studying the bridge at Castro Sanchez, east of Benavente. The weather was abominable, with either snow and ice covering the roads or torrents of rain falling to turn the execrable tracks into bottomless troughs of mud. Jean-Marie almost envied those who lacked money and had to remain close to home.
Hélène had walked in a rigid haze ever since her sister and
creador
had died, where sobbing and brooding over revenge were her only true emotions. Even feeding seemed to be done by rote.
They’d searched the hut’s ruins, but found nothing except charred ashes and a man’s skeleton. They’d had Wade properly buried in the local cemetery, of course, and said their own prayers over everything else.
Vampiros
left nothing behind but fine powder, so there was no point in looking for any remains belonging to Sir Andrew or Celeste.
He regretted Sir Andrew’s death but hardly Celeste’s, not that he’d ever say so to Hélène, of course. A small voice in the back of his head wondered if the little slut had actually done anything so convenient as to perish.
Jean-Marie smiled wryly and focused the spyglass yet again on the bridge.
He and Hélène had already studied the impressive stone structure, looking for the best spots to attack it. She’d been well trained by both her husband and the British in how to use munitions. But this job looked trickier than most, thanks to the very narrow, deep gorge and two massive piers rising from the riverbed far below. A sturdy tower rose on one side, flanked by the old medieval town, emphasizing the imposing mountain behind them. Unless executed properly, any explosion could be magnified by the chasm into unpredictably larger effects.
Napoleon’s vanguard was no more than a day away, giving them little time to carry out the attack. It also brought the risks of being captured or killed—and possibly finding out if Celeste had truly been destroyed.
Hélène was pacing the room behind him, far enough away from the window that the dawn’s first light would illuminate the bridge, not herself. They’d rented an apartment on the top floor of a wool warehouse, giving them a sturdy and well-locked building. The rooms were very private with a few pieces of old-fashioned, well-made furniture. Every window had strong iron shutters, of course.
“What do you think of it?” She paused, tapping her toe.
“It’s very promising.” He swung his spyglass again, checking a few last details. “This bridge is on the main road, cuts through a deep gorge with no convenient alternate routes, and it’s overlooked by a sturdy tower. Is that where you plan to get the gunpowder from?” He swung around to look at her.
She nodded. “The warden is very old, and I’ve already teased his mind into telling me the sentries’ schedule. He truly wants to be relieved of any responsibility before the professional armies arrive.” She silently ticked items off on her fingers. “Can you pick the locks here?”
“Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed.” He smiled at the prospect.
“Naughty boy.”
His smile deepened to a totally unrepentant grin. Damn but he liked seeing her come alive again, even if it was for destroying things. “Do you want to demolish only the roadbed or the arches, too?”
“If we destroy just the roadbed, Boney can have it back in use within days, correct?”
“Or hours, for infantry.”
“That won’t do!” She glared at him, her hands on her hips. “We’ll blow up everything we can.”
“Now you’re starting to sound like a man.” He managed to sound heartily approving.
“I was not!” Sheer horror washed over her face.
“Of course you were.”
“Was not!” She was behaving like a woman again.
“Perhaps I need to look more closely—at your hands and your throat—to be certain.” He lounged against the desk and considered her, lingering on her feminine assets, concealed though they were under layers of widow’s clothing. The weather was so nasty she could almost go out in daylight, given the amount of clothes she wore. “Or those skirts could be hiding a great deal, which would warrant a detailed investigation by my tongue…”
His voice deepened into a purr.
Realization of how she was being teased began to dawn. She blinked, a multitude of expressions rapidly crossing her face from bafflement to anticipation, before cautiously settling on flirtation.
He concealed a hopeful grin, never having seen that particular gleam in her eyes before.
“Indeed?” She pursed her lips and looked him over thoroughly, lingering on his groin.
His blood stirred eagerly.
“Can I be certain that any man as blind as you are has a mouth capable of discernment?” She sniffed and tilted her nose up in the air. The effect would have been more dismissive if the tip of her tongue hadn’t swept out across her lips. “But, since we’re to be members of a
team
, I suppose a little
mutual
exploration might be beneficial.”
“Mutual? My dear partner, I am the one who called into question your identity.” He lifted her chin with a single finger. “After all, you could be a captain—or a colonel—of engineers, given the way you discuss gunpowder so expertly.”
She gaped at him for a moment before breaking into peals of laughter.
He silenced her by the simple expedient of kissing her thoroughly. She flung her arms around his neck and returned the salute, her mouth opening immediately so their tongues could twine together.
Long moments passed before he lifted his head. He caressed her cheek, sliding her veil back from her hair. “Hélène,
chérie
, if we closed the shutters, we could satisfy our curiosity in a much more direct fashion.”
“You’re trying to distract me,
mon cher
.” She played with his cravat’s knot, her slender fingers teasing the sensitive nerves and muscles in his neck.
His breath caught, and he had to swallow before he could speak. “Would I do such a thing, when we are two servants on a mission?”
“Of course,” she answered simply. The linen strip fell away, opening his throat to her touch. She delicately rubbed the back of her finger up and down the long muscle on one side.
He tilted his head happily, trying not to purr.
Fair was fair, though.
He bent his head farther and kissed her neck, tasting the small patch of skin below her ear and above her dress’s high collar.
She moaned sharply and surged up to meet him. He nuzzled and licked, lavishing attention on both her ear and the pulse hidden behind it until she lay shaking against his shoulder.
“Perhaps another kiss,
chérie
—to your wrist? Or to that most intriguingly hidden zone above your boots?”
“Jean-Marie…” Her luminous green eyes blinked, trying to focus.
He put a stop to that nonsense by lifting her onto the immensely sturdy dining table.
He pressed a kiss into her palm and lightly scraped his teeth over her wrist, teasing her senses in the fashion he’d learned would drive her wild.
“Jean-Marie!”
His breath hitched at the passion in her voice. Her free hand wrapped around his head and pulled him close, her fingers tangling in his hair.
He needed to pause for a moment until he recovered a little discipline. She didn’t help him by caressing his head and whispering his name. Nobody had ever made those simple syllables sound exotic before.
He licked the delicate skin, sensitizing it. He kissed and nibbled—and blew lightly.
She moaned, her head arching back.
A hunter’s smile of masculine triumph touched his lips. His chest tightened, and his heart beat faster, but he forced his body’s demands back. Not yet, not yet.
He gathered her other hand in his and courted it, as he had the first.
She swayed, moaning softly, her eyes heavy-lidded with lust. Good; she wasn’t thinking about yesterday’s losses or the coming night’s dangers.
Unable to stop himself, he kissed her sweet mouth again, savoring every delicious thrust and parry of their tongues as they tangled to taste more and more of each other. She pushed at his coat and somehow it vanished, together with his waistcoat.
He laid her backward onto the table. Hélène,
chère
Hélène, the most adored, the most perfect of all women. The one who made his heart sing and his breath rasp in his throat, until the frustration in his cock at being locked behind his trousers meant nothing compared to her pleasure.
Her legs opened, her woolen skirts tumbling across the glossy wood. He eased them farther upward, letting his fingers brush her stockings—so fragile compared to her heavy outer garments!
“Ah,
mon coeur
.” She gasped and writhed against him, sobbing his name when he fondled her knee.
He would not take her like a boar rutting in the fields. She would have her pleasure first. He had made himself that promise, and he would carry it out. He gritted his teeth yet again and wondered if there had ever been a vow more difficult to carry out.
His thumb stroked the inside of her thigh—and she moaned, a sound coming from deep within her soul.