by Deb Marlowe
“Don’t say Italy,” he interrupted crossly.
Joy erupted inside of her. Heat rushed over her. She lifted her chin. “Or what?”
He glared down at her.
“What will you do?” She couldn’t help herself. She had to poke him a bit. “If I say . . . Italy?”
His confusion cleared. His brow lifted and the scorching look he gave her curled her toes. “I’ll kiss you senseless,” he threatened.
“Italy,” she breathed.
His arms went around her and he pulled her in tightly against him. His kiss was hungry and rough, and then tender and loving. His tongue caught and tangled with hers and she kissed him back, fierce happiness fizzing through her veins like champagne bubbles.
He was here! And she knew what that meant. How difficult it had been for him to make the choice. But he had—and her heart sang with it.
“Are we going?” Miss Smythe asked, sounding puzzled.
Francis pulled away. “Thank you,” she breathed.
“For that kiss?” he grinned.
But he knew. Just as she did.
“For crossing the line.”
His head shook. “I crossed it long ago, truthfully, and I was too daft to realize it. But I’m over now,” he said frowning down at her. “And it’s unfamiliar territory. I’ll need your guidance. So don’t you dare leave me alone out here.”
“I never will. I promise.”
“Fine. And I know now that you will not jump lightly or without thought into difficulties—but you should know—you won’t do it alone. I’ll always be with you. And I promise to only haul you out of trouble if you need it.”
“Why don’t we concentrate on getting all of us out of this predicament, right now,” said Hestia.
Francis felt Rhys tense as his mother eased past Miss Smythe and laid a hand on his arm. She saw the tiny tremble move through her mentor and saw her much-vaunted serenity waver as a raft of emotion moved behind her eyes. “And then, I think, we should all talk.”
Rhys nodded. Francis stepped back and they all grew serious.
“I let loose the horses,” he said.
“Yes, I thought you smelled of stables.” Francis leaned toward him and sniffed. “Not even a hint of linseed oil.”
“I’ve been here, waiting, working in the stables. I heard what happened in the parlor this morning.”
“Outside the window. I knew someone was there,” Hestia murmured.
“I wanted to create a distraction and reduce the number of Marstoke’s men around here. But I didn’t count on your brilliant maneuver. It worked a treat. They are out there chasing horses and looking for you, but it got them all riled—and even the horses I had kept back for us were found and confiscated.”
Francis took his hand. “We have two mounts hidden down the road. We were going to go out the back and strike out through the woods to get to them.” She glanced at Hestia. “But where is Isaac?”
“And the innkeeper—has anyone seen him, either? Have Marstoke’s men locked them in somewhere, too?”
Rhys was thinking, she could see. “Yes. Our first thought must be to get all three of you out of here. We’ll get you to those mounts and then you can all head out. Don’t go east or south, instead head west for Underbarrow. It’s a scant three miles.”
“But there’s nothing there,” objected Miss Smythe. “Just a bridge and some farmhouses.”
“But they won’t be expecting us to head there. They’ll think we’ll ride hard south.” Hestia nodded her head.
“Yes. And I’ll come back here, as if I’ve been out searching for the lost mounts, and I’ll see what I can discover about Isaac and the innkeeper, and then I’ll steal away a carriage. I’ll meet you at the bridge, as soon as I can.”
“It will work,” Hestia said with a nod of approval. “If we can get safely out of the inn.”
“We will.” Francis stood. They were not going to be defeated now. “Let’s go.”
Rhys’ every nerve stood on edge. He’d been in a thousand scrapes before—but he’d never had so much to lose. Francis, and his admiration, affection and this aching need of her, had awakened something primitive in him. He pulled her close as they cracked the door and listened.
And Hestia. His mother. He kept looking at her and sliding his gaze away. There was too much there, most of it uncomfortably intense and not all of it pleasant. No time to think about it now, in any case. Francis had to be his focus.
Silence reigned outside the door. Many of the men had been lured away by the combination of their two subterfuges. Hestia and the woman who had accompanied her here slipped out into the passage, but Rhys grabbed Francis’s hand and held her back a moment.
Cupping her face, he kissed her, quick and hard. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love your biting wit and your changeable hazel eyes. I love your smart mouth and your fiery strength and your honesty and even your ridiculously long eyelashes. It’s a damned idiotic time to tell you, I know, but it also the perfect time. Because we are going to get through this today—we’ll get everyone out safely.” He shot her a wry grin. “It doesn’t even feel hard to do, after the difficulty I had getting here.”
“Rhys—”
“No. The hard part is over. Behind me. We’ll get out today—and then we’ll have the future—and each other. You will marry me, Francis Flightly Headley, and I am going to take you to Florence. To Paris. To my home in France. I am going to paint you in every one of those places and a thousand more. You can wear breeches, if you like and you can rescue troubled women in every country, and I’ll help. I like the way you see, Francis—as if everyone could be a friend and deserves your best. And I am going to go to sleep every night with your laugh to soothe me and wake every morning to your smile.”
Francis, his direct, forthright girl, grasped his wrists and said, “Yes, to all of it. And more.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “I’ll give you all of the details on more when we are safely away.”
He nodded and opened the door for her. “It’s a bargain.”
He held her hand as they eased out and toward the stairway. They all moved silently downward and he kept her hand in his when he called a halt on the last landing. The entry hall and main corridor below lay empty.
“The doctor is at work in the private parlor,” he whispered. “The door is closed, so we should be able to move toward the back of the house unseen. Follow the passage that leads back the way we came.” He gestured above. “In the middle, you’ll find a door that leads to the outside—to a covered utility porch where they store firewood and empty kegs.”
They all stepped quickly and quietly down the stairs—and they all froze as one when voices sounded in the courtyard outside. Several male voices, all coming closer.
Francis’s grip tightened suddenly. “There, too,” she whispered. She nodded toward the parlor door at the back of the house. The click of the latch sounded loud in his ears.
Rhys made a split decision. No time for anything else. “In here.” He pulled Francis into the taproom, and then hustled them all into the small pantry behind the bar. Along with the shelves and pints there was a door to a narrow, turning stairway leading to the storage room.
A pounding echoed in, coming from the entry hall. “I locked the door to slow them down,” said Francis.
It didn’t last. Shouts followed.
“Search the place!” It was Cade’s voice. “Every room. Every nook.”
Rhys pulled open the door. “Let’s go.”
The storage room was crowded and dim. He led them toward the high window he’d unlatched the other day. “Let’s move quickly,” he urged. “We can get away outside while they are searching inside.”
“Boost me up,” Francis ordered. “I’ll help pull Miss Smythe through.”
Rhys lifted her and she propped the window open. Scrambling up, she turned around and peered back in. “It’s good—the utility porch shields us from anyone in the direction of the stables.” She held out her
hands. “Send Miss Smythe up.”
The other woman went up and Francis poked her head back in. “Your turn, Hestia!”
Rhys gazed up at her, his heart full. “I’m going to paint you like that,” he told her. “Peering in, with your eyes full of excitement and that mischievous smile on your face.”
She grinned and started to answer, but then her gaze went wide. “Shadow on the wall behind you,” she whispered. “Someone’s coming. Hide!” She pulled away and lowered the window back into place.
Hestia was already moving toward the darkest corner. Rhys followed and they crouched in behind a stack of brandy barrels.
“There’s no one down here.” The complaint came in before the man who made it.
“It’s a waste of time,” his companion agreed. “You saw where I found that bonnet, nearly to the stables. They stole the bloody, damned horses. I’ll put paid that they crossed the River Kent and are headed south on Aynam Road.”
A few footsteps sounded, but none drew near. “Let’s get this farce of a search finished, then go after them,” the first one said.
Their voices faded as they climbed the stairs.
He and Hestia stayed put, waiting. After a moment, Hestia reached over and placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you for coming,” she said softly.
He didn’t quite meet her gaze. “I wouldn’t have, had it not been for Francis.” His shoulder lifted. “I would not have been able.”
Slowly, she nodded. “I understand.”
He ducked his head. “She did it for you, you must know. Came looking for me. She told me all that you have done for her.”
“Then we have that in common, at least. For I can see how much you have also done for her.”
Francis stuck her head back in before he could answer. “Come along,” she called. “I’ll take Miss Smythe to the woods now, before any of those lackeys decide to come back out. Be careful when you cross the open space between the end of the inn and the trees.” She twinkled at him. “And don’t forget to duck when you go past the windows.”
It nearly went just as she said. Rhys and Hestia climbed easily out of the window. Crouching, Rhys ran along behind her, away from the stables toward the other end of the inn. He saw Francis and the other woman dart into the copse ahead and breathed easier when they disappeared into the wood.
He slowed as they approached the corner—but then plowed into Hestia as she skidded to a sudden stop.
And then he saw the reason for it.
Cade had stepped around the corner. He had a pistol aimed straight at her heart.
“Enough,” the dour man said on a sigh. “Enough. I am beyond weary of these theatrics. I—we—so many of us—were lured to Marstoke’s service by talk of change. Of revolution. There is serious work to be done.” He sneered. “A broken and antiquated regime to pull down. A new one to build from the ashes. And yet, we are continually derailed by these personal vendettas.”
Hestia, straight as a poker at Rhys’ side, shook her head. “I am sorry you have not yet discovered it, Mr. Cade, but Marstoke is naught but a personal vendetta on two feet.”
“Which is why you will come smartly along with me. We can finish this and move on to important business.”
“You might be surprised to find that I am eager to put an end to this, as well, sir.”
“Good.” Cade nodded. “Then come along.” He waved the pistol at Rhys. “You too, prodigal son. I have conflicting orders concerning all of you, so I’ll just cart the lot of you to Marstoke and let him sort it out.” He aimed his scarecrow’s grin at them both. “It appears he’ll have his family reunion, after all.”
“If you didn’t have that pistol, I’d snap you in half,” Rhys growled.
“Fortunately, I do have it. And I will shoot your whore of a mother myself, and be rid of Marstoke’s biggest distraction, if you do not do just as I say.”
Rhys’ fists clenched, but Hestia held out a hand, preventing him from moving forward. “No. Let’s see to this the end, at last.” She turned and raised the brow that Cade could not see.
He tensed.
Turning back, Hestia stepped forward, moving past the man—but she stopped suddenly and reached up to grab his pistol hand and push it high. With her hip, she rammed him into the corner of the building.
Rhys jumped forward, but not before Cade raised his other fist and slammed Hestia a hard blow to the head. She crumpled, and Rhys stepped in, smashing the pistol out of his grip.
Cade tried to go after it, but Rhys drew back and delivered a massive blow to the man’s jaw. He held nothing back. Cade’s head bounced off of the corner behind him. Rhys struck again and the man’s eyes rolled back in his head. With a moan, Cade slumped down to land at his feet.
Rhys took a moment to toss the pistol farther away, then rushed to help Hestia sit up.
“Thank you.” She smiled. “I knew you’d know what to do.”
“Are you all right?”
“Of course.” She allowed him to help her to her feet—and then she kept a hold of his hand. “I’ve suffered worse.”
“I know.” He looked down and placed his other hand on hers. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about, Rhys Caradec,” she said, abruptly fierce. “It’s true that I endured much at your father’s hand, but I would have withstood far more in order to bring you into the world.”
He frowned and searched her face. He thought of Francis and her bravery, the way she faced the most difficult problems head on, flinging her all into the resolution.
Breathing deeply, he allowed his love to inspire him. He asked the hardest question. The one that had formed the foundation of every wall he’d ever erected around his heart. “Then . . . you don’t hate the sight of me? Seeing me doesn’t . . . bring it all back?”
“Oh, Gods above. No, Rhys!” She touched his face. “You’ve always been the only one that could chase all of that darkness away.”
Emotion washed over him. Something hard and ugly and tight inside of him just . . . loosened and slipped away. He straightened—and caught sight of Francis—flying toward him out of the wood. “Rhys!” she shouted. “Hestia! Behind you!”
He turned to see Cade pulling himself up, his nose bleeding freely and another, smaller pistol in his hand. Again, he had it pointed straight toward Hestia.
It was not a conscious choice. It came as naturally as drawing his next breath. He heard the report as Cade fired at the same time that he stepped in front of his mother, pushing her away.
The impact hit, hard and low. His left side jerked backward. Off balance and dazed, he fell.
“Rhys!”
He found himself staring up at Francis and Hestia. Both looked a little fuzzy around the edges.
“Rhys?” Tears flowed down Francis’s face. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.” He tried to reach up to wipe the tears from her face, but his arm fell back. “It doesn’t even hurt.” Gathering his willpower, he tried to sit up. Damnation. Pain erupted in his hip, shooting down his leg and across his back. “Oh, hell. There it is.”
“Just lay back,” Francis insisted. “We’ll get help.”
“The gun,” he gasped through the rising red haze. “The other gun.” He looked beseechingly at Hestia.
She understood. With a nod, she rose and ran to fetch it. Through the fog he saw her point it at Cade.
“Don’t let her.” He grasped Francis’s hand. “Not worth . . .”
“Hestia!” Was that panic in his love’s tone? His calm, capable Francis? He must be worse off than he thought.
“There’s too much blood, Hestia!”
Someone fumbled with his breeches. He winced as someone sawed at the fabric.
“Pull the edges together. Press down tight and don’t let up.”
Hestia sounded tense, too.
He reached for Francis. “Love,” he whispered.
Then the pain flared again and his head spun and darkness rose to pull him in.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In the end, I did what I had to do, to keep my child from ever falling into a monster’s hands. Monsieur and his daughter and her husband moved back to France, to a farm bought with money I gave them. And then I had to say goodbye. For good. I could not leave breadcrumbs leading back to him. I have never felt such pain. Torment that never ends, never fades. But there were no tears, this time. I was beyond them.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
He woke to silence and a soft bed beneath him. Fatigue felt like a hook, dragging at the center of his chest.
His left hip throbbed, but the pain was manageable. His other side, however—his other side was warm and comfortable and damned lucky to have Francis Headley curled up against it.
Stirring a little, she glanced up at him—then sat bolt upright. “You’re awake!”
Rhys nodded. “Thirsty, too.”
“Yes.” She rolled out of bed and bustled about, pulling a kettle from the fire and propping him up on pillows. “Drink this tea. Yes, I know it is very sweet, but the local doctor has a very good nurse and she insists you must have it.” She heaved a sigh once he’d finished, a satisfied look on her face. “You are going to be fine, you know.”
“Good to hear,” he said, tired from only taking a drink of tea. “How bad is it?”
“The bullet entered in the front, ricocheted off of your hip bone and went out the side, opening up a large wound and nicking an artery. You lost a lot of blood, more than the doctor likes, but we were very lucky he was so close. He closed it off quickly enough.”
Rhys looked about the empty room. “Hestia?”
“It is late. Isaac finally convinced her to go and rest.”
“You found them, then. Good.” He settled back, already feeling drowsy.
“He rode in just after you passed out. He’d informed the innkeeper of the situation and they rode out to fetch some local reinforcement.”
His eyes snapped back open. “Did Marstoke’s men fight back? Was anyone hurt?”