The Uncompromising Lord Flint

by Virginia Heath

  * * *

  Jess did her level best to keep up with Lord Flint’s long-legged strides, but the uneven nature of the rutted moorland he was striding across and her own significantly shorter, tired limbs made it virtually impossible. Clearly he was on a mission to put as much distance between them and Saint-Aubin as possible, something she absolutely applauded, but as they had been walking at this blistering pace since they had alighted the ferry at a place called Cremyll over two hours ago—nor had seen anything not resembling a sheep or rocks in the last hour—it felt unnecessary. They were in the middle of nowhere. Just the two of them.

  Of course, there was also the chance that he wanted to put some distance between the two of them now that they were out of harm’s way. He had been standoffish since the oddly charged moment when she had thanked him for catching her.

  Perhaps he had an inkling that she had rather enjoyed being sprawled across him? Jess had lingered unnecessarily much longer than good manners dictated, but it had felt glorious being held by those strong arms and her mind had gone a little woolly almost the second her body had realised it was deliciously intertwined with his. Or perhaps it was simply gratitude at being alive when for the last few days she had felt so guilty and selfish for surviving at all?

  A little woolly! Ah, Seigneur! At least to herself she should call a spade a spade. All rational thought had evaporated at the precise moment of contact and she had wanted nothing more than to be close to the bothersome man! For a second, she had foolishly thought he might want to kiss her because he was gazing at her lips and beneath her fingers she could feel his heart beating faster, exactly as hers was—then he had scowled in disgust and knocked Jess sideways in his hurry to get away. He had barely said a civil word in the hours since.

  Even when they had clambered down from their safe perch on the rooftops, his behaviour had been abrupt. Despite finding the perfect building to ease their descent, an old warehouse that had been added to so many times they were able to use each new addition almost like stairs, there had been the one drop too steep for Jess’s legs and nerves to cope with. Lord Flint had reluctantly taken her hands and lowered her, but she had seen the way his fists had clenched the second she had let go and he had scowled as if he found the merest touch offensive.

  Which probably meant he knew what her inexperienced and foolish heart had responded to in that fraught moment and was royally offended by the prospect. In turn, his blatant offence offended, because she wasn’t a traitor no matter how much the possibility that she might be still nagged and that had soured her mood towards him as well. That would teach her for lowering her guard and mistaking practicality for kindness. Sweetheart! Trust me! The conniving, duplicitous wretch had used exactly the right words to get her to comply. He might have saved her life in the short term, but only to preserve it long enough for her trial. Men were intrinsically untrustworthy. Jess kept forgetting that. He would say or do whatever suited him to successfully get his way. Therefore, she would use him, too, for as long as it suited her. Right now, it suited her not to be all alone when she was practically dead on her feet, sad and alone—and to be with a resourceful, capable man who was duty-bound not to want her dead just yet.

  They crowned the top of an incline and Lord Flint stopped abruptly, pointing to the ruins of what once had been a cottage. ‘It will be dark soon. We can bed down there for a few hours and set off again at dawn. It’s not sensible to try to navigate the moors at night.’

  Jess didn’t argue. All of a sudden she was exhausted as the toll of the last few fraught days seemed to weigh down her limbs and her shoulders. Wearily she traipsed several feet behind him to the building. By the time she got to the derelict single-storey dwelling, he was unpacking the sack he had continued to carry after he had abandoned the sweep’s brush as soon as they were out of sight of the ferry.

  Apparently, he had come prepared. Blankets and a tied parcel of food were soon unwrapped and laid out on a surprisingly intact yet chilly stone floor. It was a shame the ancient roof hadn’t fared as well, but at least there was enough of it to shelter under if the heavens opened. At a push. She stared through the two remaining rotting beams to the waning sky above.

  ‘I’ve never slept outside before.’ Or this close to a man, although Jess kept that to herself. Admitting she was inexperienced with men in general and nervous at the prospect of lying next to one gave him the upper hand.

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers and we certainly resemble beggars and the moor is reassuringly desolate. But even so, we must be pragmatic. We daren’t risk an inn.’

  The remote ruin was tiny. There was what was left of one room no bigger than eight feet across and six feet deep. She sat down heavily and tugged off her cap.

  ‘I wasn’t complaining—merely making an observation.’

  Jess began tugging at the multitude of hairpins which had been required to hide all her hair from the world, then sighed in relief as it finally loosened and she massaged her aching scalp briskly with her finger tips. ‘But I shall complain about the hairpins. Who knew my head would tire through wearing them?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Her hair fell to touch the floor beneath her bottom like a black silk cape, making Flint’s mouth go dry as he watched her close her eyes, toss her head back and sigh. Instantly, in that seemingly innocent, unconscious gesture she transformed from the androgynous creature he had convinced himself he could blot out of his vivid imaginings for King and country to a seductive siren who tormented his thoughts in seconds. It was hard to remember the mission when his entire body yearned. Intentional. No doubt.

  ‘Should we light a fire?’ She hugged her arms, a tiny crease forming between her eyes as she shivered. ‘It is surprisingly cold in here.’

  Not for Flint. The sight of all that hair had suddenly made his temperature soar. ‘The moors can be a bit chilly even in May—but, alas, we daren’t light a fire in case it arouses suspicion.’ He found himself draping one of the coarse blankets around her shoulders before sitting back and busying himself by breaking off a huge chunk of bread. Bread he was fairly certain he would now struggle to swallow against errant thoughts of snuggling beneath that same blanket with her later.

  ‘Ah well, I have slept in worse. At least the air is fresh and the sky clear.’

  She broke her own bread and chewed, seemingly content to allow the companionable silence to hang. However, all that did was make Flint more aware of how intimate it all was. The spring sunset, the confined area of the cottage and her damned hair tormenting him close enough that it wouldn’t take much effort to reach out his hand and run his fingers through it as they ached to. He needed to do something to break the cosy mood and remind himself of his mission.

  ‘Define worse.’

  ‘That stinking brig for starters. Mon Dieu...so filthy it was like a pig sty.’ Those little sprinkles of breathy French in her conversation played havoc with his senses. Tingles danced along his spine at the sound, making him yearn more rather than distracting him. ‘Mind you, the pension in Cherbourg was no better. At night, I could feel the rats scurrying over my bedding.’ She shuddered at the memory. ‘This is a palace compared to those.’

  ‘But I thought you lived in Saint-Aubin’s chateau?’ The run-down hostel the navy had captured her in was surely just the place where the smuggling business was organised?

  ‘Not at the end. Although chateaux can be prisons, too, Monsieur Flint.’

  At his sceptical expression she gave a matter-of-fact Gallic shrug. ‘I doubt you will believe me, but as much as I loathed him and despaired of my mother’s attachment to him, I had no idea what the pair of them were embroiled in. I assumed the suffocating manner in which we lived was symptomatic of the loss of the war and Saint-Aubin’s close connection to Bonaparte. I stupidly thought every former officer of the Grande Armée had to live ensconced behind high gates with armed guards out of necessity. What a fool I was. So na
ïve.’ A charming wrinkle emerged between her brows as she appeared annoyed at herself. ‘As the years went by, our claustrophobic existence became normal. I grew up with that and stupidly never questioned it. But I rebelled. Repeatedly. And soon I was watched and escorted around the very same grounds I was forbidden to leave. It was cloying, but again, I didn’t realise it was out of the ordinary. In many respects, I lived a very sheltered life, Monsieur Flint. Until my mother fell ill and needed assistance with her work, I was ignorant of their involvement with the smugglers. By the time I found out, it was too late to flee.’

  ‘You’re right. I don’t believe you.’ But his gut wanted him to. ‘You never overheard anything suspicious? Nothing was ever let slip over a family dinner?’

  ‘Dinner? I am not sure what you imagine my family was like, Monsieur Flint, except to tell you my mother and Saint-Aubin had a very exclusive relationship. A relationship which occurred to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. He controlled her and she allowed him to do so unquestioningly because he was the sun and moon to her. I always thought it unhealthy, her intense dependency on him alone, yet she couldn’t see his cruel and callous nature and refused to hear a bad word against him because he flattered her ego. But he was cruel and he was callous and I hated him from the outset.’

  ‘Define cruel and callous?’

  ‘For a man who has murdered so many, I dare say I got off lightly.’ That hand flapped again dismissively, although he was sure the question made her uncomfortable. Especially as the fingers of that hand unconsciously settled to soothe the scar around the wrist of the other, making him believe whatever personal truth she had let slip, she was not inclined to confide it fully yet. ‘Suffice it to say, my intense dislike of Saint-Aubin—and his of me—drove a wedge between my mother and I long ago. She preferred to be estranged from her only child than believe any criticism of her lover or incur his wrath. We rarely spoke, let alone shared our meals together. I was moved to the furthest wing of the chateau from their apartments at sixteen. Weeks would go by when I never saw either of them or enquired after them. We all preferred it that way.’

  An existence which must have been lonely. As much as Flint’s family drove him to distraction with their meddling, he had never been lonely. If anything, his house was filled with too much love. Something he should perhaps make more effort to be thankful for going forward. Jess’s solitary existence sounded miserable. ‘After my mother fell ill, the illusion of my freedom was soon stripped away.’ Unconsciously she rubbed her wrists once, making Flint instantly queasy at the unmentioned implications.

  ‘It was Saint-Aubin who chained you.’

  ‘He found me a challenge.’ Something that wasn’t surprising, but again her eyes refused to meet his. ‘Especially after my mother fell ill.’

  ‘You tried to escape?’

  ‘You know me well already, Monsieur Flint. Many times. I am not inclined to be controlled and dictated to.’ Her mouth curved into a mischievous smile. ‘And, of course, I almost burned his precious chateau to the ground within days of my mother’s death, so he had me removed to the hovel in Cherbourg. Despite the rats and the guards, I preferred it there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The guards were...illiterate.’ An odd answer.

  ‘And that was a good thing because...?’

  Her expression closed. ‘Is this a conversation or an interrogation, Monsieur Flint? And if it is the latter, will my answers prevent me from standing trial or am I to be thrown to the wolves regardless as soon as we get to the capital?’

  Flint winced inwardly and sat staring at her for ages. Eventually, he dropped his gaze and raked his hand through his hair impatiently. ‘I cannot make promises... There will have to be a trial...’ He clamped his errant mouth shut to prevent him from making promises he couldn’t guarantee and certainly shouldn’t be making, then huffed out a long, guilty sigh. ‘The truth is, against all of my better judgement and despite the fact that I still don’t trust you as far as I can throw you... I am prepared to... What I mean is...’ Prudence dictated he didn’t reveal his hand or display his softening towards her lest she use it against him; reality prevented him from offering her false hope. Ultimately it didn’t matter what his gut told him. Only the courts could decide her fate. ‘If viewed pragmatically, assuming you collaborate fully with the investigation and help us to bring down the smuggling ring, then I am hopeful your sentence will be...lenient.’

  ‘Lenient?’ Her eyes hardened like the cold granite walls that surrounded them. ‘Define lenient, Monsieur Flint.’

  * * *

  She had fumed then. The anger had shimmered off her in waves even as she had lain with her back to him and pretended sleep, and really Flint couldn’t blame her. In her shoes, he would have been as heartily unimpressed with his lacklustre explanations and clumsy backtracking, but what choice did he have? If he divided his body into fractions, then three-quarters screamed at him to admit he believed she was telling the truth and firmly believed that she wasn’t a traitor. His gut told him she was more an outraged victim than wilfully complicit. Why would Saint-Aubin bother chaining a compliant woman? That didn’t make sense. Why would he persist in being both cruel and callous?

  However, that was a feeling—not fact. The remaining quarter, the pragmatic and sensible agent of the Crown, knew he needed more proof than merely her word and that he had a proven weakness for attractive damsels in distress. That part had to guide his actions and he had to temper his need to give her assurances he couldn’t yet guarantee. She certainly didn’t need to know he fully intended to exert all his influence on Lord Fennimore and the lawyer, Lord Hadleigh, to make them properly listen to her. Nor should he mention he was sorely tempted to move heaven and earth to get her acquitted of any wrong-doing based solely on the existence of those damning scars on her wrists. She didn’t deserve to spend another day imprisoned. He felt that deep inside. Did he trust that feeling enough to risk his reputation for her?

  His head, filled with nearly ten years’ experience of dealing with criminals, said no.

  By the time Gray and the rest of the King’s Elite made it to Cornwall, Flint hoped he would have prised every detail out of the minx lying next to him, uncovered the truth—whatever that might be—and then the focus of the investigation might shift and her fate could be very different. Or not.

  If she was telling the truth, which was a very big if indeed, and if she complied.

  Right now, he didn’t dare sleep in case she bolted again. Another thing he wouldn’t blame her for. In her shoes he’d be plotting the same, lulling his guard into a false sense of security and biding his time for the right moment to run.

  But if Jess was feigning sleep, it was convincing. She was huddled in a tight ball under her blanket with her back to him, the dappled moonlight shimmering off the curtain of hair that covered her face and her breathing deep and steady. Occasionally she murmured something, appearing agitated and afraid, and he ached to comfort her. He had since they had arrived at this ruined, sorry excuse for a cottage and he had seen the fatigue and worry etched in her lovely face. Despite all her stubborn, dogged strength to escape and survive, and despite her giving as good as she got over their meagre dinner, he could see that her reserves were severely depleted. His troublesome charge was exhausted.

  She muttered something incoherent again and whimpered and his heart broke for her. He couldn’t get the image of her shackled wrists and the rats clambering over her blankets out of his mind. The depth of her suffering horrified him and those recent scars bore testament to the truth of it. What sort of a monster treated a woman like that? Once Flint got his hands on Saint-Aubin...

  Was she shivering?

  Gently he reached a hand out and touched what he assumed was her arm and felt her trembling beneath his fingers. It was cold here on the moors. Not bitter by any stretch this late in spring, but the temperature had dropped enough that
the air was damp with mist and the granite she lay on wouldn’t help keep her warm. If one ignored the obvious curves sent to torture him, there was hardly any meat on her. Flint had felt her ribs and the way her tummy had concaved when he had wrestled her in the sea and seen with his own eyes that she had needed to cinch the cord tight around the scruffy boy’s trousers she wore to keep them up. He removed his own blanket and draped it over her, then huddled into his ragged coat to watch her, praying that would do the trick.

  After what he assumed was a good fifteen minutes, and when he heard her teeth begin to chatter, he knew he couldn’t watch her suffer any more—even if that meant he was doomed to suffer in her stead. Clenching his teeth, he shuffled over and curled his body around her back to warm her, mindful of maintaining enough distance that they didn’t exactly touch.

  She sensed the heat and instinctively pushed her body back against him, sighing something nonsensical, accented in sleepy French. The hair that taunted him tickled his nose, forcing him to brush it away. Typically, it felt like spun silk and his fingers lingered in the ridiculously long strands far longer than was necessary and certainly far longer than a man in his position should.

  Scars aside, she still might be a traitor. Flint was a devoted agent of the Crown. He gritted his teeth and focused on what he had been tasked to do. What England expected him to do. These odd feelings were transient. He’d experienced similar before...although different. Very different... His career was his life. Focus. Focus!

  When her delicious peach of a bottom nestled itself comfortably in his lap, Flint almost groaned aloud at his body’s instantaneous reaction, but she was cold and she needed him, so like the imbécile she accused him of being, he wrapped his arm around her and let her gratefully absorb his heat. As he expected, it was torture. Then he squeezed his eyes closed, tried to banish all carnal thoughts from his mind and replace them with sensible reminders of his sworn duty, praying for strength and the swift onset of dawn.