Circle of Spies (51 page)

“Shh.” He held her close and stroked a hand down her back. “It wasn't your doing, Yetta. Perhaps you did wrong, perhaps the Lord would have judged you for those thoughts had you not asked forgiveness of them, but Dev's actions are his own. Not yours.”

She buried her face in his chest and wished she could let the tears rage, that they could wash it all away. But they couldn't. “I thought I loved him. To my shame, when Lucien still lived. I grieved for him, but not enough. Because of Dev. And now to realize…how could I have been so foolish?”

“You didn't know.”

“I should have. I should have realized the kind of man he is. He plotted his own brother's murder.”

She felt him shift and then saw the way the lantern light flickered through his eyes. The pain and guilt in them. “No.” She tightened her hold so he couldn't pull out of her embrace. “You are nothing like him. You defended yourself against Ross. He was the one who plotted murder.”

“I still killed my brother.” His hand, splayed on the small of her back, flexed with that agony.

Agony so very different from Dev's cold satisfaction. She touched a hand to Slade's cheek and stretched up to kiss him. “You are a good man, Slade Osborne, and I love you. You are doing all you can to undo—wait.” Now she pulled away so she could glare at him. “You should be in Washington stopping Booth. What are you doing here?”

The agony faded as his lips turned up. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Just jumping onto moving trains. Stopping a villain. Rescuing the girl.”

“Fool.” She slapped at his chest and then curled her fingers into his lapel to hold him close. “You cannot be wasting time on the girl, especially when the villain will kill us both if he sees you. You need to get off this train and to Washington.”

His eyes glinted black as hardened steel. “Your grandfather promised they could handle that. Hughes has to be stopped too. But you're right about the danger. The next time the train slows, you jump.”

Of all the idiotic suggestions. “Absolutely not.”

“Soon, before we reach the mountains.” As if he actually thought he would talk her into it, he strode over to the large side door, slid the latch, and pulled it open a few feet. The thunder of the mechanical beast rushed in, along with a gust of air. “The ground is still relatively flat here. When we slow for the next town—”

“I said no.” She sat defiantly upon a barrel…until she saw that it said
gunpowder
. Then she jumped back off. “We are in this together.”

“Yetta.” He came back over and framed her face in his hands. “Kitten, listen. I know you feel guilty for what he's done, but this isn't your fight.”

But it was. Dev and the KGC were trying to undermine her country. The one her brother had fought and died for. The one her family had risked their lives for throughout the generations. She gripped his wrists. “Yes, it is. Slade…I knew who you were before you arrived. I knew what you were about. I was charged with helping you.”

A breath of laughter puffed from his lips, though it faded as he gazed into her eyes. His hands slid down to link with hers. “What do you mean?”

“Granddad. He…he was an intelligencer in the War of 1812. His mother before him in the Revolution. He has kept the group active through the years. We call ourselves the Culper Ring.”

“We.” Now he sat on the barrel and didn't seem to care that it could
explode with a random spark. “Are you trying to tell me that you're a…a spy?”

“A spy too, don't you mean, Detective?” She gave his hands a squeeze. “Why is that so shocking after all I've done to help you?”

He blinked, his gaze on her chin rather than her eyes. “You're talking about an organized group of them.”

“They are just my family. Doing what they can for the country they love, as everyone should do.”

“Just your family.” He freed one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. When he lowered it again, he revealed a small smile. “You really are something else, kitten. Come here.”

She hesitated a moment, but what did it really matter if the gunpowder spontaneously exploded? At least they would go up together, and perhaps take Dev out with them. She perched on his knee and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He anchored her with a strong arm. “Listen, if we live through this…”

She tightened her arms, knowing exactly what he would ask and biting back a
yes
. Yes, of course she would marry him! But she would let him get the question out first.

He grinned and ran his nose down her cheek. “I could put in a good word for you with Pinkerton. Get you a job using these skills of yours.”

A job? He was proposing a
job
? The laughter started deep in her stomach and felt like heaven in her throat. She gave it rein and then rewarded him with a sound kiss.

When finally their lips broke apart, he tucked her head to his shoulder and held her close. She felt his sigh building before she heard it ease out. “I don't know what our odds are here, and I hate that. I want to think we can stop him. I have to think that, have to believe it. I just don't know what the cost will be.”

The lamp sputtered. Marietta felt for the necklace she had scarcely taken off since Grandmama gave it to her, and found it under the collar of her dress. A legacy, she had called it.
Their
legacy, not just of the Lanes and Arnauds, but of the Culpers. A legacy of secrets and whispers and spies…a legacy of failures and successes. Of faithfully doing what they could, when they were called to do it, no matter the cost.

She closed her eyes against the dying flame. “I believe, my love,
that all our chips are already on the table. The hand has been dealt. There is no point in worrying over which cards might be turned up…we have only to play. And to pray.”

His hand slid into her hair and pulled loose the lace snood, spilling the curls down her back. “Listen to you, using gambling language. Have I mentioned that I love you?”

She breathed in his citrus scent. “Only twice now, which isn't nearly sufficient. We had better pray hard, because I need to hear it thousands more times.”

“Hmm. Guess we had better do this right then, so I have some time for all those words.”

She smiled into his collar and turned her head into his hand. “I figure it'll take you years. Decades, even.”

“Probably. And that's if we're together more often than we're apart. So I guess we should get married or something.”

She chuckled and pulled away enough to look him in the eyes, to see the pure love shining there. “What a romantic you are.”

He grinned, though the lamp sputtered again. At his urging, she stood so that he could check its fuel level.

“Is there more?”

“Logically somewhere, but…” He shrugged and headed for the door. When he slid it wide, precious little light came through. Gray clouds blanketed the sky. “Looks like rain in the mountains.”

“Good. That should make it more difficult for him to move this to wherever he's going to hide it.” She came to his side, gripping his hand as she watched the fields roll into hills. “We could dump it out along the way.”

“Tossing all those weapons and powder into the hands of strangers? Not wise.”

“Have you a plan, then?”

“Not yet. None of them felt right. But that was when you were in there with him.” Turning away from the door, he sat on a crate, pulled out his revolver, and set it beside him. “You know how to use this?”

Able only to nod, she sat too, on the other side of the weapon. “If necessary.”

“I'm hoping it won't be, but let's be cautious. He doesn't know I'm here, and he won't expect you to be armed when he comes back for you. Two advantages to us. But right now, let's focus on the most important one.”

He extended his hand, palm up, and closed his eyes. Marietta put her fingers in his, bowed her head, and turned her heart to prayer.

Thirty-Three

W
ith the mountains came darkness, more from the moaning clouds than the descent of the sun. Thunder had been rolling for the past twenty minutes, and flashes of lightning danced around the hilltops.

Marietta scooted closer and closer to his side, which Slade accepted with nary a complaint. He might only have another hour with her, so he would savor every moment.

“How long until we get there, do you think?” Her words were muffled against his chest.

Slade smiled and coiled another scarlet strand around his finger. “I'm not sure. We haven't been stopping the way passenger trains do.”

He had no idea where they were now. In West Virginia, somewhere—whenever Marietta released him long enough to move near the door again, he could see the Potomac winding its way through the valleys.

They had decided after prayer that they should wait until they were on solid ground before taking any action. Mrs. Hughes could too easily be injured in any fray they took to his private car, and Marietta insisted they spare her whatever fresh pain they could. So when the train slowed, Slade would close the door again and hide. Marietta
would go with Hughes when he came for her—with Slade's revolver; he had liberated another from the crates—and pretend to be repentant.

Hughes might believe her for a few minutes, anyway. Long enough for her to get the mother separated from the son. Slade would give himself enough time to see how many cronies the man had recruited and do what was necessary to stop them.

Another tongue of electricity flashed through the sky, and Marietta scooted closer. “That seemed close. What if it strikes us, or sends a tree onto the tracks? What will we do then?”

“Just what we planned, kitten. With a few modifications.”

She shuddered when the thunder rolled over them, loud as a cannon. “I'm sorry I'm such a ninny about these stupid storms.”

His chuckle disappeared into a gust of wind that sent the sliding door banging. “You can snuggle up to me anytime you want. In fact.” He shifted, tilted her face up toward his. “What was the ‘best distraction' you had in mind a couple weeks ago?”

“Hmm. I can't recall.” She pressed a hand to the back of his head. “Let's see if a kiss refreshes my memory.”

Did she use phrases like that just to sound like an ordinary person? Maybe someday, if they had a someday, he would ask her. For now, he touched his lips to hers, intending to keep the kiss sweet and soft. She would remember this forever, and if it were their last embrace, it should tell her always how much he loved her.

Marietta must have had different ideas. Her lips tasted of urgency and moved with purpose over his.

That was all right too.

His eyes slid shut, but he still saw the next flash through the lids, and no thundering pulse could drown out its electric snap. They were in the heart of the storm now. The door crashed again—he would have to secure it in a minute. Rain lashed the floor of the car, and they would do better to stay dry than to have the evening's meager light.

But that would require releasing Marietta, and his arms refused. Better to hold her tight, to meet her kiss for kiss.

There was a roar—human, not heavenly—and then the world shifted. A sturdy boot connected with his ribs, and his eyes flew open to see the devil himself towering over him. Hughes had Marietta by
the torso, pinning her left arm to her side and pressing her legs into one of the barrels.

Slade hit a crate, fell to an empty section of floor, and slid through the puddle as the train raced around a curve.

Hughes, shrouded largely by shadow, snarled. “Exactly how many ways have you betrayed me, Osborne?”

“Me?” Guns—he needed one of the guns. “I haven't done any betraying.” There, still on the crate. He levered himself up, though the chances of getting to it before Hughes could act were slim.

Where was Marietta's?

“Haven't done any—” Hughes spat out a curse, his voice venomous. He must have made some move, because Marietta whimpered. “You are in my train when you should be in Washington. With your
hands
on my
woman
.”

Lightning flashed, and in its light he saw the flash of metal. Her gun—in her right hand. Praise to the Almighty.

His praise turned to silent plea when he saw that Hughes's hand was clasped around hers on the weapon. And that he was forcing her arm up, inch by inch.

She whimpered again, her arm shaking.

Images flashed before his eyes. Fire spitting from the barrel of his revolver, aimed at his heart. The cylinder turning, another bullet sliding into the chamber. Hughes turning the gun—Slade's own gun—on Marietta.

“No!” Whether it was fear, premonition, or prophecy, he didn't know, but he had to stop it one way or another. He had to save her. He tried to take a step, but the wet floor beneath him sent him slipping. He grabbed at anything he could.

Wind whipped his back. His fingers had found purchase, but not until he reached the door.