The Hawk and Sparrow.
He reached up and thumped the ceiling of the coach with his fist. If nothing else, he thought with a grim smile, one thing was undeniably different tonight.
Him.
Last time, he had come here nervous and sweating and unsure of himself; tonight he felt an almost uncanny cool. A certainty of purpose that steeled his courage far more than the array of pistols and blades he carried. It seemed almost strange that he could feel so calm.
Perhaps it came from the change that was the simplest and yet most significant of all: he knew who he was now. And exactly what he wanted. And he was willing to do whatever was necessary to accomplish that goal.
To protect the woman he loved.
He drew his twin-barreled dueling pistol—the very same weapon he had carried on his last visit here. The same gun that had taken a life in Loiret. He smoothly flicked the locking mechanism into firing position.
If he had any advantage over his opponents, it might lie in a subtle element of surprise: though he looked the same, he was no longer what they expected him to be.
And the men with him, though dressed as a hackney driver and footman, were also not what they appeared.
The man in the driver’s seat took the coach to the far end of the street—as Max had instructed—turned at the corner, then turned again, pulling into an alley behind the row of shabby buildings that included the Hawk and Sparrow. He reined the team to a stop.
Keeping the gun hidden within his greatcoat, Max rose as the “footman” opened the door. He stepped down into the darkness, glancing left and right along the cramped passageway. Dull light glimmered through windows here and there. The alley was deserted.
And the alehouses and gin shops in this part of town were built one on top of another, so tightly packed that there were no spaces between them—no crevices where an assailant might hide.
“Ten minutes,” he said under his breath.
The man gave an imperceptible nod, shut the door, and returned to his position over the rear axle of the coach. With a flick of the reins, the driver sent the vehicle clattering onward to the far end of the alley. Where it would be in position to break away into the adjoining street.
Max tightened his grip on the pistol. His men would wait with the coach for ten minutes. If he had not returned by then—either for a fast escape or to report that all was well—they would join him inside the tavern. With guns drawn.
A little trick he had learned from the French. Rather fitting, he thought as he stole across the alley, to turn their own tactics against them.
If Wolf was indeed the traitor.
If he wasn’t, he shouldn’t mind finding himself the target of the two English marksmen’s expert aim. Just for a minute or so. Max flattened himself against the rear wall of one of the buildings and edged his way toward the Hawk and Sparrow. The tavern sat squarely in the middle of the block.
When he reached it, he cautiously neared the windows that flanked the back door, avoiding the meager candlelight that eked out through the dirt-smudged glass. He darted a look inside.
The place was more crowded than it had been the last time: at least a dozen seamen were gulping down the local brew or making grabs at local doxies. He couldn’t see anyone who even vaguely resembled Wolf—but the corners of the room remained in shadow.
A quick glance in the opposite window provided no clearer view. He would have to take his chances.
He moved closer to the door and reached for the handle.
A whispered voice came from the opposite end of the alley. “D’Avenant! Don’t!”
Max fell back against the building and aimed his weapon into the darkness, finger tight on the trigger.
A tall shape appeared from the shadows—just close enough to the dim light that Max could make out his features.
Fleming.
“One more step and it’ll be your last,” Max warned in a thunderous whisper.
Fleming raised both hands. “I’m not here to kill you,” he hissed. “Wolf’s invitation is a trap. He has men on the other side of that door waiting to blow your head off! He’s a traitor. A Frenchman. He’s been working with them from the start.”
Max didn’t move. His hand was still on the door latch, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Don’t be a fool,” Fleming urged. “If you open that door, we’re both dead.”
“And if you’re the traitor and I trust you I’m dead.”
“If I had wanted to kill you, I would have shot you where you stand. I’ve got a coach—”
“And you might have men in it waiting to blow my head off.”
“I’m trying to save your life! And the girl’s. Wolf believes I’m dead. That’s why he risked printing that notice in the papers. He disappeared and tried to have me kil—Behind you!”
Max heard the footfall a second too late. He whirled to find himself facing a dark form. A raised pistol.
Before he could take aim a shot rang out from behind him. He heard the bullet sing past. His assailant shouted in pain and crumpled in the doorway where he’d been hiding just a few yards away.
Fleming ran up, swearing, a smoking pistol in his hand.
In the same instant, the door of the Hawk and Sparrow flew open. Light spilled into the alley—and a trio of gunmen came out shooting.
Max spun to face them, firing back as he dropped into a crouch. He emptied one barrel of the pistol at point-blank range, flicked it to the left, and emptied the second. Two of the assailants fell.
The third exchanged fire with Fleming—who couldn’t draw another pistol fast enough. A bullet struck him and he doubled over with a cry of pain, dropping his empty gun.
Max whipped a dueling pistol from his boot and felled the third man with one shot. His two guards came running down the alley toward them.
“We have to get out of here,” Fleming groaned, leaning against the wall, holding his wounded right arm. “There may be more!”
Max hesitated only a second. There was no sign of Wolf—only the sailors and doxies crowding the door of the tavern with startled expressions—but he wasn’t going to wait around to see who or what else might be lurking nearby.
He grabbed Fleming by his left arm and gestured the two guards back toward the coach. “Let’s go.”
Fleming cursed. “I said I’ve got my own coach—”
“We’ll take mine.”
“Suspicious to a fault,” the older man complained with a sidelong glower. “I just saved your life!”
“And I’m returning the favor.”
The four of them ran to Max’s coach at the end of the alley, Fleming breathing heavily.
“I’m getting too bloody old for this rubbish,” he choked out as they tore open the door.
They climbed inside as the driver vaulted into his position. The other guard reclaimed his post over the rear axle. A shout and a crack of the whip sent the horses away at a gallop.
Max shut the door and took the seat opposite Fleming, lighting one of the coach lamps. Fleming untied his cravat to bandage his wound.
Max shoved his empty double-barreled pistol into a pocket of his greatcoat and drew a small gun from inside his waistcoat. “Looks serious.”
Fleming’s sleeve was soaked with blood. “Hurts like hell.” Grimacing, he knotted the cravat tightly. “But I’ve had worse. What’s important now is—” Glancing up, he went silent, his eyes on the pistol in Max’s hand. “Good God, man. I just saved your life and you still don’t trust me?”
“You taught me well,” Max replied evenly. “There are a few questions I would like answered.”
“There are three of you and one of me,” Fleming pointed out dryly. “And I don’t believe your driver and footman have ever spent a day of their lives working as a driver and a footman.”
Max kept the pistol trained on the wounded man. “Why would Wolf want me killed? It wouldn’t get him what he wants. Which is Mademoiselle LeBon.”
“And we had bet
ter get to her soon. Because he’s on his way to take what he wants even as we speak.”
Max felt a stab of alarm. “He couldn’t possibly know where she is.”
“Don’t be so certain,” Fleming said tightly. “The turncoat who’s working for him—a man named Holcroft—is one of the best hunters I’ve ever seen in my life. And I’m not talking about fox hunting. He picked up your trail soon after your arrival and he’s been tracking you ever since. Wolf wanted you to leave the girl unprotected.”
Max fought the fear clawing at his heart. “And how do you know all of this?”
“This is how I know.” Fleming unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. There was a cloth bandage beneath. He unwrapped it to reveal a jagged red wound. “Wolf sent men to kill me—with a garrotte. The traditional French method of assassination. He couldn’t resist an ironic twist to my death. Unfortunately for him, the garrotte may be dramatic but it’s not always effective. And his men were a bit too talkative. I overheard some of what they said before I slipped into unconsciousness.” He rewound the bandage around his neck and fastened it in place. “That’s why Wolf risked placing that notice in the papers. He knew that only you and I would understand it—and he was under the impression that I was already dead.”
Max digested all of this with a growing feeling of dread. “If what you’re saying is true, Wolf and Holcroft might be—”
“At your hiding place even as we speak,” Fleming confirmed impatiently. “If they haven’t taken Mademoiselle LeBon away already. D’Avenant, I don’t give a damn whether you trust me or not—we’ve got to get to her before they do. Wolf has betrayed twenty years of my trust and friendship and I don’t want the bastard to win.”
Max didn’t waste another moment weighing the unpleasant possibilities at hand. He opened the hatch in the roof of the coach and stood on his seat, shouting to the driver. “Back to the cottage—get us there now!”
“Yes, sir!”
He slammed the hatch shut and reclaimed his seat, jaw clenched, his stomach churning.
And he still kept his gun trained on Fleming.
The older man shook his head, gingerly. “By God, I did train you well.” He was frowning but his tone held approval. “You don’t have to explain how you made it out of France, D’Avenant—I can see for myself. Though I must admit, I thought you were done for until I overheard Wolf’s men. I was about to send condolences to your family.”
“Your confidence in me is heartening.”
Fleming laughed, then winced, touching his throat. “It seems I misjudged you.” He settled more comfortably in his seat, wiping sweat from his brow. “Bloody hell, there’s actually a chance you and I might pull this off yet. Does the girl have her memory back?”
“No. And I have a few conditions to discuss, Fleming. Certain terms I want met before I turn her over to you.”
Fleming’s blue eyes widened. “What the devil are you talking about? What conditions? You have to turn her over at once. We need that chemical formula or—”
“She doesn’t remember her chemical formula. And I won’t have her harmed by whatever heavy-handed measures you might use to get it.”
Fleming regarded him with a look of astonishment.
Then, slowly, understanding dawned on his face.
“You’ve come to have feelings for the chit.” His gaze narrowed with angry accusation. “After what she’s done? She’s the enemy! You can’t tell me you care for—”
“She’s not what you think, Fleming. As for what she’s done, that’s a matter for dispute—”
“The only matter for dispute here is whether you intend to do your duty and turn her over at once or face the consequences. I don’t care about your influential family. One hint of interference and I’ll have you brought up on charges of treason.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. You asked me once before to name my price for taking on this mission. Well, I’m naming it—I want Mademoiselle LeBon. Unharmed. And I’m sticking by her side every second. Like it or not.”
Fleming gritted his teeth. “I’m not in a position to make bargains, D’Avenant. I’m responsible to the Crown—”
“So am I. I fully intend to do my duty to king and country. But wherever the mademoiselle goes, I go. Consider us a matched set.”
Fleming massaged his wounded arm. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”
They glared at one another for a long moment.
Then the older man smiled—a slow, grudging smile. “I must say, D’Avenant, it’s rare for a man like me to experience a genuine surprise. This is the last thing I expected to happen. Should have known better than to send an amateur, I suppose.”
“You didn’t send an amateur,” Max said with a slow smile of his own. “You sent a D’Avenant.”
Fleming nodded, sinking more deeply into the plush cushions, obviously in pain. They passed the rest of the journey in tense silence as the coach sped out of London and south through the Sussex countryside.
It was less than an hour later when they slowed down. Max threw open the window curtains as they approached the cottage. Nothing seemed out of place. The guards still patrolled outside.
He exhaled deeply in relief as the coach rolled to a stop. “You first, Fleming.” Max motioned with the gun. “Out.”
Scowling, the older man rose to comply. “Suspicious to a fault.” He waited for one of the guards to open the door, then went out first.
Max got to his feet.
“But,” Fleming said as he stepped to the ground, “not quite suspicious enough!” He whirled suddenly, the unexpected silver flash of a pistol in his left hand.
For a single horrifying second that brilliant, deadly brightness imprinted itself on Max’s brain.
Then the sound of the gun exploded through the night—and a pain hotter than fire slammed into his chest and knocked him down.
Marie came awake with a start, her heart pounding.
She sat up, staring toward the windows through the gauzy curtains that surrounded the bed, not sure what had awakened her. A noise. Had it been real? Or only a dream?
There it was again—a pistol shot!
Not one this time, but a storm of gunfire.
The French military had found them. She scrambled out of the bed, fighting her way through the clinging draperies. Where was Max? Why was she alone? Then she remembered…making love with Max in the library, him carrying her back here to their bed, holding her in his arms, stroking her back soothingly and whispering words of love until she must have fallen asleep.
He had gone to see his friend in London. He wasn’t here. He was safe.
How had the French managed to find them? Finally free of the sheer curtains, she stumbled away from the bed. She was barefoot, wearing only her nightdress. And she didn’t know which way to run.
She had felt so certain they were safe here!
What should she do? Hide? Stay here? Escape?
The pistol fire continued outside. And she heard shouts. Men shouting. Panic closed off her throat. She raced to the door—then stopped as a shiver of cold and dread ripped through her.
Pistol shots in the night. Escape. Screams. Fire.
She couldn’t move. For one horrible moment, the room around her faded and she was outside…on a grassy hill…somewhere else, somewhere familiar…with a fire lighting up the night sky.
Swooning dizzily, she shut her eyes and clung to the door handle. The feel of the metal against her palm brought her back to where she was. The bedchamber. The cottage. Yet the image of the fire remained. And another vivid picture flashed into her mind—a face. A young woman.
A beautiful, blonde young woman.
An uncomfortable tingle ran down Marie’s neck and shoulders. Her stomach lurched. What was happening?
She fought to control her terror. To think. She had to think. To run. She couldn’t let their enemies capture her. If they took her hostage, Max had said they would use her to get to him. They were ruthless killers. Who
would stop at nothing until they had what they wanted—her husband.
She yanked open the door and rushed into the dark corridor.
Where to run? Where could she hide? Most of the cottage wasn’t finished yet—it was a huge collection of empty rooms.
There was only one place she might be safe.
She turned to the right and raced through the dark, empty house. Her heart pounded as hard as her feet pounded against the marble tile. She ran through the west wing. Into the main entry hall.
And finally reached the metal door that led into the east wing. The greenhouse. She searched for the handle in the darkness. The door wouldn’t open. Panicked, she tried again and this time the latch moved.
She pushed at the huge metal panel, threw all her weight against it. Squeezing through the opening, she slammed it shut behind her, leaning back against the solid steel, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
There was no moon tonight. Only a few flecks of starlight shone through the glass ceiling high overhead. Each struck the dozens of small panes and splintered into a sparkling shower—shards of light that fell onto the dark foliage all around her, eerie and stark.
Trembling, she stepped away from the metal door. She didn’t know how to lock it behind her.
The greenery was so thick, so tall, that she couldn’t see through to the outside. But the gunshots had stopped. She didn’t know what that meant. Had their guards overcome the intruders or—
She heard the front door of the cottage open.
Someone came into the main entry hall, shouting something.
In French.
She inhaled sharply. One of them was inside. And there might be no one left to protect her. Shaking with fear, she forced herself to move. Walking swiftly, she took one of the three paths that cut through the humid jungle.
How long would it take her pursuer to deduce that the cottage’s empty rooms offered no place to hide?
She hurried forward. Seconds passed. Minutes. Over the hammering of her heart, she could hear the stream burbling, the birds chirping noisily overhead.
A Scoundrels Kiss Page 26