by Amy Jarecki
God save her, with his every shocking word, her need ratcheted higher. Her body arched, her thighs spread wider. Unable to wait a moment longer, she sank her fingers into his bottom and demanded he enter her.
Fiercely he plunged inside, so deep, the last vestiges of her control exploded into pure passion as together they bucked and rode the wave like never before. As she reached her peak, John threw his head back and roared like a savage.
In each other’s arms, they collapsed together, panting. It had never been like this before—rough, fast, and passionate. Every time she made love to this man it was different than the last.
Still trembling, Evelyn gazed into John’s eyes. A hundred emotions passed through those silvery blues, still guarded. The same man hovered above her, yet his lovemaking had been different in every way.
She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “You took me like a Highland barbarian.”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Did I?”
“What happened at court today?”
Before he looked away, the aggressive slash to his brows deepened. “I suppose it was just another day like all the rest.” He kissed her forehead, then slid to her side. “’Tis late. You must sleep.”
As Evelyn reached out for John and met with cold bed linens, her eyes flew open. She bolted upright, wiping the sweat from her brow.
The window!
Good gracious, Mr. Dubois never should have asked her to unlock it. The very idea was treachery. She needed to inform him at once that she in no way would ever be used like that again. What if someone came into the house for more sinister reasons?
She darted out of bed, pulled on her shift and her robe, and lit a candle. The mantel clock read seven minutes past four. Thank heavens there was still time to lock the window before the servants began to stir. She tiptoed to the dining hall, dashed across the floor, and turned the latch.
But her trepidation didn’t ease. Had Mr. Dubois’s spy already come and gone? What about the urgent correspondence Mar had to take care of on the queen’s behalf? Is that what had made him so distant, so savage?
Taking her candle, she tiptoed to the library and hastened to Mar’s writing table. Odd, a missive from the Duke of Argyll sat atop, the seal broken. Tempted, Evelyn rubbed the tips of her fingers together. Should she read it?
Why not? What if it contained something critical for the cause? Besides, she’d read Mar’s correspondence before. Why should this be any different?
She chewed her bottom lip. But things were different now. She had committed to give her husband a chance to prove himself. Further, she must distance herself from Mr. Dubois—at least until she understood why John disliked the French emissary so vehemently.
Perhaps there is an answer in Argyll’s missive.
She snatched the letter from the table and unfolded it.
A traitor?
Evelyn clutched the letter to her chest. Who?
Worse, May twenty-third was on the morrow. Regardless of whether she agreed to allow Mr. Dubois’s spy into the house, he most certainly needed to know about the meeting at Black’s.
She refolded the missive, hastened up to her chamber, and put the sunflower in the window. But there was not enough time to wait. Dashing to her writing table, she scribed a missive, rang for Lucinda, and instructed her to hire a coach and deliver it to Mr. Dubois’s residence immediately. No matter how much Evelyn wanted to obey Mar’s wishes, this information was too important to ignore. She absolutely must meet with the French emissary once again—but this would be the last time.
Chapter Eighteen
John looked twice at Argyll’s missive. He had placed it with one end barely touching the inkpot. During the night the letter moved a quarter inch south. His gut squeezed.
Evelyn was no traitor. He knew it in the depths of his soul.
But was she the conduit for information, as Argyll suspected?
If she was innocent, then why did she snoop through his missives?
When they’d argued, she’d made it clear she scorned his reputation as Bobbin’ John. Evelyn also accused him of being indecisive. Oh, how little his wife knew of what truly went on behind closed doors in the queen’s antechamber. If it weren’t for John, Scotland’s people would be oppressed to the point of starvation. Anne didn’t care about Highlanders. They were merely minions in the distant north whose only purpose was to fill out the numbers of Britain’s army.
But there was no time to wonder how or why Evelyn had been misled. John intended to uncover the truth when he confronted her. And if he had to tie the woman to a chair and wait two days for her confession, he would do so. Clenching his teeth, he climbed the stairs, strode down the third-floor corridor, and stood outside her chamber with his fist ready to knock.
Forget pleasantries.
Making his decision, he burst through the door. “We need to talk about that bloody letter from Ar—” John stopped beside the bed and turned full circle. “Evelyn?”
Where the devil has she gone?
His gaze rested on the sunflower, now displayed in the window. Damn, he ought to burn the bloody Jacobite symbol.
“Evelyn?” he shouted, running for the stairs.
He stopped at the drawing room on his way down. She wasn’t there, either.
“Swenson, where’s the dog!”
The butler looked up from the bottom of the servants’ steps. “Brutus is in the kitchens.”
John hastened toward the man. “Have you seen Her Ladyship?”
Shaking his head, the butler ran a hand over his hair while Lucinda crossed through the corridor beyond.
“Wait!” John hastened after her. “Where is Lady Mar?”
The lady’s maid looked up clutching a feather duster in front of her chest, her face turning red. “I beg your pardon?”
John held up his palms. “You’re in no trouble, lass, but I believe your lady is in grave danger.”
“W-what kind of trouble, my lord?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, but I can disclose that if I do not find her within the next five minutes, she may end up locked away in the Tower. Am I clear?”
Lucinda nodded.
“Did she tell you where she was off to?”
“No. I had no clue she was stepping out th-this morning.” Something about the maid’s stutter gave John pause. What was she hiding?
“Haven’t you been accompanying her when she walks Brutus?”
“I have. Often, anyway.”
John glanced back to Swenson. “And she didn’t take the dog?”
“No, m’lord.”
What the devil? How could Evelyn disobey him and slip out of the house as if she were a spy?
God’s bones. She cannot possibly be…
He grasped the maid by the shoulders. “Lassie, I need you to tell me where Her Ladyship usually goes when she walks her dog—and if you wish to remain in my employ, you’d best not say the park.”
“To be honest, most of the time we do go to the park, b-but occasionally she makes me wait on Bourdon Street while…”
“Och, lass. I haven’t all day.” John squeezed his fingers. “What does Her Ladyship do whilst you’re waiting?”
Cringing, Lucinda looked to Swenson.
“Tell him,” said the butler.
“She has never explained why, but she takes Brutus down the alley and visits a coffeehouse called the Copper Cauldron.” Stepping back, the lady’s maid brandished her duster. “’Tis a tottering hidey-hole if you ask me, but Her Ladyship rarely spends more than a few minutes inside.”
John pounded his fist against the wall. “She frequents a bloody coffeehouse in an alley?”
“Yes, well, that’s why she takes the dog.”
“Och aye, an overweight, aged Corgi is guard enough against a mob of miscreants in an alley?” John asked, starting for the mews. “Holy everlasting hell, I should have put a stop to her jaunts the day she brought that flea-bitten hound into this house.”
Swenson kept pac
e beside him. “Shall I reprimand the lady’s maid, m’lord?”
“Of course not. Tell her I appreciated her candidness and give her a half-holiday—just not today. Perhaps in a month after I’m finished murdering my wife.”
“Very well, m’lord.”
John stopped and glanced to his dirk—the only weapon he wore when at leisure. “Go fetch my sword and pistol. Haste!”
“Straightaway, m’lord.”
Pushing outside, John raced to the mews and headed for the tack room.
“Shall I saddle your mount, m’lord?” asked the stableboy.
“No time.” John grabbed his bridle. “I’ll ride bareback.”
By the time John mounted, Swenson appeared, huffing and wheezing, weapons in hand.
“Good man,” John said, taking the sword belt and buckling it, then arming himself with his damned dueling pistols.
As he cantered over the cobbled streets, the tightness in his chest crushed him. What had she been thinking by going out alone? Hell, she hadn’t even taken her dog. She might be hurt. Worse, the woman was meddling in things she couldn’t possibly understand.
Evelyn glanced over her shoulder before she continued to relay her news. “Argyll’s note said the officer was to meet with the duke’s man at Black’s Tavern at one o’clock this very day.”
“One?” Mr. Dubois removed his pocket watch and tapped it. “I must make haste. I only have two hours to intervene.”
“But I thought James had decided to wait until the queen—” She cringed, not wanting to hex the woman by saying died. “You know—and then he’d take the throne peaceably, Lord willing.”
Dubois’s eyes slanted aside while he pushed his chair back. “Alors, I must go,” he said, not answering her question.
The door swung open so violently, it nearly came unhinged. “I should have kent you were behind this treachery!”
As Evelyn turned, ice coursed through her veins. How could she ever explain?
But Mar wasn’t looking at her as he strode forward, murder in his eyes and sword in his hand. His gaze honed on the Frenchman. “I always suspected your motives were sinister.”
Beads of sweat trickled from Dubois’s temples. “You are sorely mistaken. I—”
“I ken the truth now. You’re funneling information to King Louis—setting the stage for his plot to invade Britain and claim the throne for himself.”
“What?” Evelyn sprang to her feet. “That’s a lie! Mr. Dubois is a Jacobite.”
John looked at her as if she’d just flung hot coffee in his face. “You cannot be serious. Dubois has no love for James. In fact, the only reason the queen hasn’t booted his arse out of London is because he’d like to see the Old Pretender exiled from France as well as Britain.”
The Frenchman scooted around the table, sliding a hand inside his doublet, his eyes shifting from side to side. “I-I do not recall ever having said that.”
“No?” Evelyn flattened her hands on the table to steady her trembling legs. By the holy cross, she’d been fooled. Clear to her bones, she knew John spoke true. She gulped against the bile burning her throat. “What about the others you’ve tricked?” she demanded, looking the traitor in the eye. Dear God, she’d trusted him more than her own family. “What about Seaforth, Cameron, and Tullibardine, to name a few? Do they realize you support Louis’s plot to invade Britain?”
Just as Dubois drew a dagger from his coat, John pushed Evelyn toward the wall, away from danger. “Get back!”
Stumbling, she tripped over a chair. With a swing of John’s sword, he knocked the knife from Dubois’s hand, sending it clattering to the floorboards. Lunging in, he struck the Frenchman in the temple with the weapon’s pommel.
His head bloodied, Dubois stumbled but grabbed a chair, using it like a shield. John’s sword hissed through the air as the two men circled.
Slashing a quick strike, Mar hacked off a wooden leg. “I will see you hung for your deceit.”
Mr. Dubois scurried around a table as he squealed. “My deceit? Look in the mirror. You only care about yourself—you bend with the wind.”
Rage blazed in his eyes as John smashed the table into smithereens. “You have no idea, ye traitorous bastard.”
Evelyn gasped aloud when the door clattered and the Duke of Argyll stormed inside with a dozen dragoons. “I always kent you were a traitor, Mar. And now you’ve embroiled your wife in your crooked dealings.” Argyll thrust out his finger. “Arrest them!”
“Stay back.” Lunging for her, John grabbed Evelyn’s arm and tugged her behind him, drew a pistol, and pushed the muzzle flush against Argyll’s head. “That foul-smelling Frenchman is the traitor you’re looking for. Not me. And not my wife. But if you insist on pursuing me, you’ll not live another day to tell tale about it.”
Argyll raised his hands, a bead of sweat dribbling from the steel point of Mar’s pistol. “Throw down, men.”
“Wise call.” His finger on the trigger, John skirted around the duke, taking Evelyn with him. “I am the one wronged here, and if you do not see it, you are a greater fool than Dubois.”
With a snarl, he pushed the duke to the floorboards and hoisted Evelyn under his arm.
“I can run!” she shouted as he dashed outside.
He set her down, took a flying leap, and landed on the back of a saddleless horse. Taking up the reins, he offered his hand. “I’ll pull you up.”
As Evelyn grasped his palm, he hoisted her off her feet and deposited her across the horse’s withers. “Get down!”
“After him!” the duke shouted, holding his sword aloft.
John cued the horse to a gallop, taking the corner to the racket of musket fire behind.
Clutching the horse’s mane in her fists, Evelyn fought to keep from falling to her death while the cobbles passed in a blur beneath. John steadied her with his forearms as he leaned forward, keeping a loose rein to allow the horse more speed.
She chanced a backward glance. “I don’t see them.”
“They’ll follow soon enough,” he growled.
Quickly, they turned down the close behind the town house.
“What are you planning?” she asked.
The horse skidded to a stop outside the mews.
“Stay here. I’ll fetch the lads.” John jumped down and helped her dismount. “Tell the grooms to rig the coach. Say there’s no time to spare.”
She squeezed his hands before he pulled away. “Hurry!”
Chapter Nineteen
Swenson!” John bellowed as he raced for the stairs. “Where are my sons?”
The door to the butler’s rooms opened and the man stepped out. “They’re in the nursery with Mrs. Kerr.”
“Shutter the house. Ready the servants.” John ascended two steps at a time while Swenson followed. “Take everyone to Alloa via merchant ship. I’ll meet you there.”
“What the devil has happened?”
“There’s no time to explain. Gather our cloaks and meet me at the mews.”
“Straightaway, m’lord.”
It took less than a minute to race to the nursery.
“Da!” the boys shouted in unison, running for him.
“Quickly fetch your traveling gear.” John looked to the governess. “Mrs. Kerr, I entrust you with packing my sons’ effects. Swenson will be taking the serving staff to Alloa forthwith.”
“My heavens,” she said, drawing her palm to her chest. “This is abrupt. Has something happened?”
“It will if I do not spirit my family out of London directly.” As the lads returned, he took them by the hands and continued, “Do not worry. Swenson kens what needs to be done.”
“Where are we going, Da?” asked Oliver.
“Home.” To the tune of their shouts of joy, John lifted the youngest onto his hip and hastened back to the mews. “Climb into the coach with your stepmother.”
“Countess,” Thomas corrected.
John ignored the lad as Evelyn approached. “Everything is r
eady,” she said.
A tic twitched at the corner of his eye. The woman had no idea as to the extent of his anger. “You’d best alight.”
She took Oliver by the hand. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Do as I say.” John didn’t offer assistance. If the lady was capable of taking herself to a dingy coffeehouse in a London alley, she could bloody well climb inside a coach without his help.
“The team is ready, m’lord. Where to?” asked the driver.
John ushered the man aside. “Take us to the Pool of London. Use the byways. Keep an eye out for redcoats.”
“The queen’s dragoons?”
“Aye.”
Huffing, one of the housemaids dashed up. “M’lord—Redcoats are pounding on the door! Swenson said he’d stall as long as possible, but you must go.”
“Thank you.” John motioned to the coachman to alight. “Quickly now…turn left in the close instead of right.”
John followed his damned wife into the coach. God save her when he finally got an opportunity to speak to the woman alone. What had she been thinking? How long had she been meeting with Dubois? And who else knew the Frenchman was part of a plot for King Louis to invade Britain, assume the throne, and make the kingdom a French colony?
John sat across from Evelyn and the boys and glared.
She fixated on her hands. Aye, the woman knew she had crossed the line.
“What is wrong?” Thomas asked while the coach rattled along at a steady trot.
John shifted his gaze to his eldest. “Nothing.”
Oliver peeked from beneath his woolen cap, the band almost covering his eyes. “Then why do I feel like I’m in trouble?”
“You’re not in trouble,” John barked.
Evelyn pulled the youngest onto her lap. “I’m the one who’s in trouble.”
“What did you do?” asked Thomas.
“I trusted someone I shouldn’t have.” She looked John in the eye. “And I’m very sorry for it.”
Snorting, he crossed his ankles as well as his arms. Now she understands the gravity of her errors? She should have thought about the effect of her actions afore she went to the Copper Cauldron.