So having disposed of irksome doubts and reservations, he immediately slept, waking an hour later by his internal clock—a skill acquired long ago as a subaltern in the field. Quietly slipping from Sofia’s embrace, he quickly dressed and ignored his men’s smirks when he walked out into the hall and shut the door behind him.
“Good mornin’, sair.”
“Morning. I’ll be back soon. No one’s to leave.”
“Right nice mornin’, sair,” the other trooper brightly noted.
“Yes, it is.” Jamie exhaled softly, knowing what both his men wished to ask. “I’ll send someone up so you two can breakfast before we leave.” And he walked away, wondering how the hell he was going to deal with Miss Eastleigh. His pattern with women didn’t included being sociable much beyond the morning after. Occasionally he shared breakfast with some inamorata, and on rare occasions the morning after included a visit to a dressmaker or jeweler; he might tarry longer with Flora, but they were friends.
He blew out a disgruntled breath.
And now it would be five days or more before they reached his Scottish estate and his precedents of a lifetime were under assault.
Merde and every other bloody expletive known to man.
Out of temper though he was, he sensibly dismissed future unknowns and on reaching his room, concentrated on the present. He swiftly bathed, dressed, breakfasted alone, and tracked down a dressmaker before returning to Sofia’s suite.
Two new guards greeted him, although their expressions were as droll as the previous troopers’.
“You find this entertaining?” Jamie grumbled, coming to a stop at the door.
“No, sair,” one guard replied, his lips twitching.
“Been shoppin’, sair?” the other man queried, nodding at the wrapped package Jamie carried.
“Would you like to know what I bought?” Jamie asked in a dangerous voice.
“No, sair,” the young man crisply replied. “Not on yer life, sair.”
“I need not remind you that the lady is to be treated with respect, do I?” Jamie’s warning glance shifted from man to man.
Both men shook their heads, their expressions somber.
But after the door shut on Jamie, they looked at each other and grinned.
“Himself’s different. Protective, I ken.”
“Might be nothin’ .”
“Could be, though.”
“Nah—ye’ll see. ’Tis no more than sport.”
BUT IT WAS at least noticeably different, for Jamie was standing motionless in the doorway to the bedroom as his men discussed him, enthralled by the enticing image before his eyes. Sofia was sleeping curled up like a kitten, the counterpane tucked under her chin, a tumbled mass of flaxen hair falling over her cheek. He was surprised at the raw emotion she provoked, for she was neither kittenlike nor docile as she was now in sleep, and her lush form, which could conceivably trigger a powerful response, was completely concealed. There was no logical reason why he should feel this fierce, raging desire to mount her.
He softly swore at the same time his fingers closed on the package in his hands.
Sofia came awake at the sounds, quickly scanned the room, and smiled as she caught sight of Jamie. “You’re dressed.”
“It’s half past six. I’ll draw your bath.”
She stretched lazily. “Will you join me?”
He shook his head.
“Have you come to wash my back?” Her question was playful.
He shook his head again. “We have to leave in half an hour.” He swiftly strode across the room and entered the bathroom, his self-discipline sorely taxed. He was fighting the impulse to chuck everything for a quick fuck. Christ—as if he should be thinking of sex now, with Von Welden’s dogs on their heels.
A dash of proverbial cold water—that reminder.
His composure restored, he turned on the water in the tub, left the package on the dressing table, and returned to the bedroom, his libido in check.
“I have to talk to my men. You have”—he glanced at his wristwatch—“twenty-five minutes. There’s a dress of sorts in that package in the bathroom. We’ll stop this afternoon and find something better. This village is too small for fashionable shops. I apologize for the unstylish garment, although the dressmaker was kind enough to open her door at this early hour, so.” He shrugged. “I tried.”
“I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.” He was restless, but then she didn’t live a soldier’s life. Apparently timetables mattered. “I’ll hurry.”
He’d been expecting dissent; he was relieved. “Thank you,” he said, with a small courtly bow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to. I’ll have breakfast sent up. The guards outside your door will see you to the carriage once you’re ready.” He smiled suddenly. “I appreciate your cooperation.”
She laughed. “Were you worried?”
“A little.”
“I appreciated your cooperation last night,” she said with a teasing grin. “Surely I’d be remiss to refuse your simple requests this morning.”
“Thank you again,” he urbanely replied. “And please keep an eye on the time. My men will be mounting up soon.”
“Then I must rush.” She threw back the covers and leaped from the bed.
It was all well and good to intellectually overrule the notion of fucking Miss Eastleigh with time so limited. But her voluptuous body manifest in all its glory as she bounded from the bed was something else entirely.
Her plump breasts bounced provocatively.
Her pale pubic hair glistened even more provocatively.
Torrid memory flooded his brain, the feel and scent and smell of her drumming through his senses, his erection rising to conspicuous attention.
Softly swearing, Jamie beat a quick retreat.
CHAPTER 17
SOFIA WAS LATE coming down.
Jamie sent most of the troop ahead. He didn’t wish attention drawn to such a large a group of mounted men. They could wait outside the village where their presence would be less noticeable.
Meanwhile, the carriage was at the door and Jamie was leaning against a porch pillar, checking his watch from time to time and becoming increasingly annoyed. Why can’t women be on time?
He was just about to go and fetch Sofia when she exited the hotel, flanked by two troopers dressed in casual sporting garb.
When Jamie’s men saw him push away from the pillar, one of them grasped Sofia’s elbow and brought her to a halt.
On his approach, Jamie politely dismissed his men. “Duncan has your mounts. We’ll be right with you.” He turned to Sofia. “I’ll take that.” He nodded at the package in her hand.
Conscious of the slight curtness in his voice, Sofia quickly handed over the package with her clothes from the previous day rewrapped in the paper from the dress shop. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I hurried, I really did—and thank you for the dress, the brush and comb, et cetera.” She wasn’t about to mention the lingerie. “You’re ever efficient.”
Jamie smiled politely, not about to argue over thirty minutes that couldn’t be recalled in any event. “That color becomes you.”
“Thank you. I rather think I look like a schoolmistress.” The tailored frock in cerulean blue messaline was primly cut; she’d pinned her damp hair in a coil at her nape.
“It fits,” Jamie said, his smile warming. “The dress, not the schoolmistress role.”
“It does fit rather well, doesn’t it? I commend your eye.”
“Did you enjoy your breakfast?”
Such extreme urbanity; he must be every hostess’s dream. “Yes, it was delicious. Even fresh strawberries. You think of everything.”
“The cook was pleased to accommodate you.”
She flashed him a smile. “Was he indeed?”
“As we all are,” he said with well-mannered grace. He held out his arm. “We stop again in Bolton. We’ll find you a wardrobe there.”
She placed her hand on his forearm. “Are yo
u riding with me?”
“I will later,” he said as they moved toward the stairs.
In a splendid mood after Jamie’s exemplary attentions last night, Sofia didn’t press him. Not only had he given her enormous pleasure the past many hours, but he’d also left her eagerly anticipating further gratification tonight and in the future. “I want to thank you again for everything,” she said in a voice that didn’t carry.
“You’re very welcome. It was my pleasure.”
He could have been giving thanks for a pleasant afternoon tea so impersonal was his tone. A mildly vexing phenomenon for a young woman familiar with male adulation.
On reaching the base of the stairs, he handed her up into the carriage, set the package on the seat, and tapped the small compartment nearest the door. “I washed the dildo myself.” He smiled. “In the event you can’t wait.”
How sweet, how thoughtful. “I’d much rather wait,” she said with an answering smile, her vexation instantly dispelled.
“Until later then.” With a graceful bow, he shut the door, slapped his gloved palm on the lacquered carriage wall, and signaled the driver to set off.
As the carriage drew away from the hotel, Sofia leaned back against the cushions and basked in a delicious content. James Blackwood had been irresistible last night—part rogue, part diplomat, wholly male, and obscenely sexual. He’d been alternately autocratic and gallant, sweetly considerate—as in the washed dildo—and at times forcibly selfish.
That last quality she’d found most pruriently aphrodisiac.
But then she was intimately acquainted with men she could manipulate; Jamie Blackwood was different. And that difference, she’d discovered, was deeply arousing.
While Sofia pleasantly reflected on the events of the previous night, Jamie moodily watched the carriage drive away.
There went heaven and hell and everything in between, he grudgingly thought. And damn it all—he didn’t have time to deal with a seductive temptress or his outrageously primal response to her. They were two days out of London, which meant pursuit was in full cry. Even Von Welden, inefficient or not, had men in England by now.
With a muttered expletive, Jamie spun around and strode to his waiting mount. Vaulting into the saddle, he nudged the powerful black stallion into a trot, then a canter, and as soon as the village was left behind, he loosed the reins and let the sleek thoroughbred stretch his legs.
Once everyone was reunited several miles beyond the village, the troopers fell into place, before and after the carriage. Two scouts rode ahead, reconnoitering, while a small rear guard served as deterrent against pursuit.
Riding with Douglas in the vanguard of the convoy, Jamie contemplated an uneventful journey to Bolton. While everyone was on alert, realistically, they should still be ahead of whomever Von Welden had sent over. Several hours of peaceful riding lay before them. Time enough, Jamie decided, to resolve the unresolvable or at least rationalize away his unwanted feelings—that a more likely possibility.
He’d also have the opportunity to catch some much needed sleep. As an experienced campaigner, dozing in the saddle was as natural to him as breathing.
He glanced at Douglas, who rode beside him. “I’m going to sleep for a few minutes. Wake me—”
“Dinna worry, sair. Take yer time. Nither hide nor hair o’ foreigners are in sight.”
Jamie smiled. Six generations of Blackwoods had lived abroad and yet Douglas still referred to Austrians as foreigners. Then again, the clan had always fostered their Scottish heritage, generally married other Scots, and perceived their role as mercenaries for hire. “Wake me in twenty minutes anyway.”
“Yes, sair,” Douglas crisply replied.
But a Scot rarely took orders with good grace; it was an inborn conceit. Douglas didn’t argue with Jamie. He just didn’t wake him. The bonny lad needed his rest after last night.
CHAPTER 18
WHILE JAMIE, SOFIA, and the rest were traveling north at a brisk pace, Von Welden was sitting at his desk in the ministry building in Vienna with a cable in his hand and a scowl on his face. The cryptic cable message read, Tom and Ned missed breakfast. Advise.
No Tom or Ned existed, of course, although the men using those names did, or had. They’d both failed to arrange their morning rendezvous in London.
Tapping his fingers on his desktop, Von Welden softly swore, knowing full well neither man had chosen to neglect the meeting. He turned toward the open door leading to his outer office. “Krauss!” he bellowed.
His secretary appeared at the run, his epaulettes glittering in the morning sunlight, regimental uniform de rigueur for the police ministry staff.
Von Welden waved his hand. “Shut the door.” Shoving the cable aside, he leaned back in his chair. “As you saw, we have a problem.” His ADC handled all his correspondence.
“Not entirely unexpected,” Ludwig Krauss drily said. “Blackwood’s resourceful.”
Von Welden grunted. “More’s the pity. You know I tried recruiting him right out of Theresienstadt Military Academy, he was so clearly more gifted than all the rest of the aristocratic sprigs and scholarship wunderkinder. But the bastard refused me. He wasn’t interested in working for a decaying institution, he said,” Von Welden bitterly noted. “I should have imprisoned him on the spot for treason.”
“His father might have taken exception to his imprisonment,” Krauss sardonically observed. “The Blackwood troops are talented professionals and, more importantly, ruthless.” Krauss was stout, bald, red faced, entirely loyal to the minister, and privy to Von Welden’s various machinations. He had leave to speak bluntly. He was also a meticulous manager, preferred his mistress to his wife, and was consequently more available when Von Welden required his services. The secret police wasn’t a bureaucracy that observed normal business hours. “It seems to me that the question is not whether Blackwood is competent—he is—but rather how many more men you need in England to accomplish your mission.”
Von Welden shut his eyes for a moment. Then, raising his lashes, he spoke, slowly and deliberately. “Since we’ve lost two in as many days, I’d say six more at least. Eight perhaps if you think we’d be better served. Arrange for the new recruits as quickly as possible. Then send Latour a cable informing him that additional teams will soon arrive.” An acid note entered the minister’s voice. “Fucking Blackwood.”
“You knew it wouldn’t be easy, sir,” his secretary observed in a commiserating tone. “Battenberg’s men are firstrate. A bloodthirsty lot, most say.”
“Plainly. I wonder they missed Latour.”
“Perhaps they didn’t dare murder a nobleman.”
“I doubt it.” Von Welden briefly stared into space. “I expect they’re playing some game with him. Perhaps,” the minister said in a musing tone, “we should treat Latour’s mission separately.”
“An excellent idea, sir. In the event he’s being watched.”
Von Welden suddenly sat up and placed his palms on his desktop. “Very well. Send out the crews. The best you can find. Cable Latour to continue as previously ordered. He’ll be advised later to any change in plans. That’s all.” Von Welden waved his hand in a dismissive gesture but then a thought struck him. “Wait.”
Krauss turned back.
“Have we any word of where Battenberg or this mysterious daughter of his might have gone?” They’d received news last night that the prince had disappeared from his London home, along with the unwelcome information that he may have an heir after all.
Krauss shook his head.
“They both have to be eliminated—understood? No excuses,” Von Welden growled. “Heads will roll if they’re not dispatched,” he warned.
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure everyone understands.”
“Yes, sir.” Although Krauss knew better than to relay such information to the assassins he was sending to England. Warning killers that failure meant death would be witless. Anyone whose loyalties were for sale to the highest bi
dder was by definition corruptible. If threatened, they’d either sell out to the opposition or disappear.
After the door closed on his ADC, Von Welden leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh. The degree of professionalism required—particularly when sending men to a foreign land—was difficult to muster these days, even with adequate funds. In many respects Latour von Metis was eminently more suitable than common killers. As a nobleman he was well-known and accepted in fashionable circles; he’d have access to any gossip pertaining to Prince Ernst or his recently acknowledged daughter.
Which pertinent thought suddenly brought Von Welden upright in his chair. He shouted for Krauss.
When his secretary appeared in the doorway, Von Welden briskly commanded, “Send additional funds to Latour. He’s the best resource we have at the moment, and knowing him, he’s probably already gambled away what we’ve furnished him. I want to make certain he’s welcome in the best clubs where gossip abounds, and if he owes gambling debts, he won’t be able to show his face. I want him to have enough money to assure his acceptance in society.”
“How much, sir?”
“Five thousand English pounds.”
Krauss’s eyebrows rose into his nonexistent hairline.
“Just do it, Krauss,” Von Welden snapped. “If he finds Ernst and whatever her name is, it’ll be worth every shilling.”
LATER THAT MORNING, Count Johan Latour von Metis was pleasantly surprised by the cable he received in his suite at the Ritz: Continue as before with your visit to Auntie May. Additional funds are available at Lloyds Bank. Love, Uncle George.
A very welcome surprise indeed. He’d lost heavily at White’s last night. He also preferred working alone. The two men sent over with him were contemptibly common, their accents were terrible, and he rather thought their shoes gave them away at first sight. Not that he was about to tell Von Welden how to conduct his business. But it was clear something had happened to his two colleagues. They were to have contacted him this morning by phone at eight to set up a meet. He suspected they were lying on the bottom of the Thames—a convenient graveyard for the world’s largest metropolis.
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