Whether it was his curt tone or her abrupt descent, she was shocked into silence or sanity or both. Gulping hard, she drew in a breath and looked up at Jamie. “Oh God, you’re shot,” she whispered, wide-eyed.
“It’s nothing—a flesh wound,” Jamie muttered, ignoring the fact that he was bleeding all over the carpet. “Ben, could you let Douglas in?” He nodded toward the window where Douglas was about to break the glass with his rifle butt. He’d been outside, far enough away not to be seen, his rifle scope trained on the room, serving as backup should things go wrong.
His men would be in the hallway by now, standing guard at the door. Jamie had talked to everyone last night after Sofia had fallen asleep. They knew what to say or do to keep people out.
Sofia pointed a shaky finger toward the dead man. “Who is that?”
“One of Von Welden’s men. We’re fine now, you’re fine, don’t worry. Stay there, I’ll be right back,” Jamie added, moving toward the door and letting in two of his men.
Douglas was already rolling the carpet around Von Metis’s body, and the two troopers bent to help him, one of them uncoiling a looped rope he’d carried in. Douglas had stripped the body of weapons, wallet, and passport, placed them on Ben’s desk, and in short order the count was wrapped, tied up in the carpet, and carried out the door. Turning back from shutting the door behind the two men, Douglas looked at Jamie. “We’re ready whenever you are.”
In the process of searching through Von Metis’s wallet, Jamie held up one hand, fingers splayed.
“That shoulder needs looking at,” Douglas observed.
“In a minute.”
“I’ll leave two men outside.”
Jamie nodded and, moving from the desk, tugged off his cravat, pulled up a chair near Sofia, and sat. “I’m afraid we have to leave now,” he said, looping his neck cloth tightly over his shoulder and around his arm to stop the bleeding. “There’s no telling if Von Metis was operating alone or not.” He knotted the makeshift bandage with his teeth and looked up. “He usually works alone, but we can’t be sure.”
Sofia was trembling faintly. Ben was perched on the arm of her chair holding her hand. “Why can’t we protect Sofia here?” he asked.
“If full-scale hostilities break out, some of your friends could get hurt. There’s no point in jeopardizing others when my Highland estate is impenetrable. Also, the constabulary might want to become involved if reports of gunfire reach them.” His brows lifted slightly. “Not a good idea.”
“I’ll go with you,” Ben said.
“That’s not necessary. I’ve twenty troopers with me and two score more in the Highlands. In fact, I’ll leave some of my men to protect you and your friends.”
“He’s right,” Sofia said. “Stay with Mother. The sooner we leave, the sooner everyone here will be safe.”
Jamie didn’t have time to explain all the ramifications and possibilities of Von Welden’s mad pursuit, all that could go wrong and might. “I’m sorry, Ben. You’d just be in the way. And,” he more kindly added, “Amelia needs you. You know she does.”
Ben softly exhaled, well aware that Jamie’s troopers were thoroughly professional. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to argue.”
Jamie shook his head. “Give Amelia my regards. I don’t want her to see me like this.” He came to his feet and held out his good hand to Sofia. “We have to go. You have fifteen minutes to talk to your mother. Don’t mention any of this. Tell her I’m being difficult”—he smiled—“like men are. I’ll wait for you in the stables.” He pushed her toward the door and turned back to Ben as she left. “The men I’m leaving behind will clean up this mess. They know what to do. If you don’t want Amelia to know they’re staying behind, they can bivouac outside. They’re used to it. They won’t mind.”
Ben nodded. “Keep Sofia safe.”
“I will.”
“If possible, let us know when you’ve reached safety.”
“I’ll send word.” Jamie walked to the desk, picked up Von Metis’s belongings, and turned to the window. “I’ll go out this way so I don’t leave bloody footprints all the way down the hall.” He smiled, an automatic civility, a quick flash of white teeth. “Ciao.”
CHAPTER 24
VON METIS’S BODY was buried where it would never be found, Sofia performed her part well and lied to her mother like the worst Judas, Jamie’s shoulder wound was hastily cleaned and bandaged, and the troop minus eight men were on the road within the half hour.
Jamie sat beside Sofia, holding her with his uninjured arm. His booted feet were braced against the drift and sway of the carriage; Sofia’s slippered toes just brushed the floor.
“It fits.”
She shot him a puzzled look.
“Your dress. Puffy sleeves and all,” he added, flicking the ruched organza on the fashionable leg-of-mutton sleeve. “I like it.” She was wearing one of Mrs. Lynne’s dresses.
“Thank you.”
Her reply was automatic and detached. “Are you tired?”
She nodded, rather than try and explain that she couldn’t so easily turn to idle chatter after all she’d seen.
“Sleep if you like. We won’t be stopping for several hours.”
And then, like intimate strangers thrown together by circumstance, they both fell into a ruminating reverie.
Sofia was struggling to reconcile the violence of the scene she’d just witnessed against the normalcy of her former life. An impossible task with the image of the ravaged man haunting her. The savage finality of death was etched on her retinas; the expanding pool of blood on the carpet replayed endlessly in her mind, what had once been a living man lying there spiritless and still.
She understood how narrow her escape. Jamie had thrown himself into the path of the gunshots meant for her; she owed him her life. Yet, she wondered how he could live in such a bestial world, how he remained human himself when he did what he did. And she wondered most how she could care for a man who so easily took another life. He’d shown no remorse, nor a scintilla of concern for the dead man, his attention focused instead on the disposal of the body and the speed of their departure.
How many people had he killed to be so hardened and inured to the act?
How skilled in the murderous arts did one have to be to discharge one’s weapon in a tight, methodical pattern while hurtling through the air? Such clinical expertise took practice.
She shuddered, assailed by doubt and fear.
Jamie drew her closer. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “If it helps, he was a cutthroat many times over; he deserved it.”
“There’ll be more like him, won’t there?” Despite her ethical reservations, she understood the life-and-death issues facing them.
“I’m afraid so, although once we reach Blackwood Glen, we’ll be safe.” He rested his head against the padded seat, the morphine he’d taken for pain beginning to tranquilize his senses.
“You’ll stay there with me, won’t you?”
“Of course.” A necessary lie.
“Good.” Shifting slightly, she turned into the warmth of his body, and setting aside her misgivings, yielded to his strength and power. He was her port in a storm, her unshakeable protector, the man who stood implacably between her and death. In a life less fraught with danger, perhaps she could afford a conscience.
But not now.
Not until their enemies were vanquished.
Shutting her eyes, she abandoned issues of right and wrong and concentrated instead on the peaceful life awaiting them at Blackwood Glen.
Surrendering to the palliative morphine, relieved of his pain, Sofia consoled for the moment, Jamie turned to the knotty, unresolved perplexities troubling him.
He was unsure whether definable limits to personal loyalty existed, but if they did, he’d reached that extremity. Ernst was sailing south on Antonella’s gunboat, out of danger and probably fucking his brains out—not that he gave a damn one way or the other. But what he
did care about was Sofia’s safety, and ultimately, with her future assured, he found himself harboring a novel impulse to consider his own future.
Something he’d never consciously regarded before.
Something that had always been inevitable and beyond dispute, the orthodoxy long established that the eldest Blackwood son follow in his father’s footsteps. Five generations of Blackwoods before him had served the Battenberg princes; his destiny was foreordained.
Or was it? he wondered for the first time in his life.
Certainly, he’d long been conscious of the changing world and increasingly edgy about the obsolete monarchy currently wielding power in Austria. He’d been conscious as well that the myth of aristocratic exceptionalism was rotten to the core. Trained as a soldier, though, he’d resisted debating philosophical issues, giving his allegiance instead as his family always had to the princes of Battenberg.
And now, resist or suppress as he might, circumstances had brought him to this point of personal decision.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have the leisure to debate his options at the moment. Von Welden would continue sending out killers because that’s what he did—like some goddamned demented Caligula with grandiose plans and no fucking soul.
So, the only question was: should he wait to be attacked or take the offensive? And the answers were all unpleasing.
Their party wouldn’t reach Blackwood Glen for three more days; another four or five would be required to return to Vienna—provided luck was on their side and they met no interference. The determining factor, however, was the increasing pain in his shoulder that suggested he didn’t have time to wait. If the wound festered, it could incapacitate him, possibly kill him, although he could probably last a week before collapsing. If he wanted to see Von Welden on his way to hell, he could hope for the best in terms of healing, but it would be better to prepare for the worst.
That worst-case scenario allowed only a narrow window of opportunity.
So then, first things first: a good supply of morphine and coca leaves from their traveling pharmacology was in order—morphine for the pain, cocaine to counteract the opium sleep. He needed all his mental faculties operating at full capacity in order to slip into Vienna undetected, contact Katia, find the Albanian, and see Von Welden dead.
Christ—a daunting task even under the best of conditions with the city crawling with secret police. And his arm semiuseless.
Fortunately, he was ambidextrous.
He’d flay Von Welden with his left hand if he had to.
And afterward, if he lived, he could afford to be human.
Perhaps even consider a future.
THAT EVENING, THE troop stopped in a forest clearing invisible from the road and set up camp. After a tasty meal was prepared and eaten, a night guard was posted and everyone retired to their tents. Jamie and Sofia’s accommodations were simple but comfortable; the ground was covered with a carpet, and a large camp bed held center stage, flanked by a folding washstand and two chairs. Dropping into a chair, Jamie visibly winced as he bent over to pull off his boots.
“Oh dear,” Sofia cried, moving toward him. “Let me help you.”
“Be a good girl and bring me another draught of morphine,” he said, nodding toward the washstand.
He was white-faced and resting against the chair back, his boots off, when Sofia returned with the uncorked bottle. Taking it, he poured a large dose down his throat, handed it back, murmured, “Thank you,” and, shutting his eyes, sat very still as the harrowing pain washed over him in waves. Hours of jostling in the carriage had been hell on his shoulder.
“Could I help you into bed?” Sofia whispered, terrified to see him in such agony.
His eyes opened marginally. “Give me a minute.” He smiled faintly. “If you’ll excuse me tonight. I’m afraid I won’t be much good to you.”
“Heavens, I’m not so unfeeling. Your dressing really should be changed.” It was wet and bloodstained, the bleeding having resumed whenever he moved too much. “Let me do that for you.”
He shook his head. “Douglas will. He’s better than any surgeon. But thank you. It should be much improved by morning. I heal quickly.”
“Oh, good,” she said with such obvious relief he would have chuckled if he’d dared. “It looks ever so painful.”
“The first day’s always the worst. Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be fine soon.”
“I never did properly thank you for saving my life. Thank you a thousand times. You were enormously brave.”
“My thanks as well, darling.” He grinned. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”
“Don’t tease. I’m serious. You saved my life.”
“Allow me to say in all sincerity then, you’ve brought me great joy.”
“As soon as you’re mended, I’ll see that I bring you additional joy,” she brightly said, charmed and smitten, her heart filled with tenderness.
Jamie smiled. “Now there’s incentive.”
BUT WHEN MORNING came, she woke up alone and immediately knew Jamie was gone. Quickly dressing, she flew out of the tent and tore into Robbie, who’d been left in charge and was calmly waiting for her.
He faced her furious displeasure with unvarying courtesy, meeting her angry barrage of questions with polite evasion, deflecting her insistence on following Jamie with a mild, repetitive refrain. “Sorry, miss, I have me orders.”
Finally, after ten minutes of overwrought female rage and affront while her tent was being disassembled behind her, Robbie quietly said, “If ye’d be so kind, miss, as to climb into the carriage, we’ll be off.”
“And if I don’t!” Frustrated and cross, choleric at having been left behind, her scream rose into the trees.
“I have me orders, miss.” Those orders clearly defined by Jamie last night before he and Douglas had ridden cross-country to catch the night train to London.
Her temper at fever pitch when faced with such obstinacy, Sofia swore like a fishwife while Robbie stood motionless, his face a mask. “Jamie’s going to pay . . . for this outrage . . . damn him!” Sofia finally gasped, bringing her tirade to an end out of sheer necessity, like a child who’d screamed too long.
“Yes, miss.” Robbie glanced at the open door of the carriage, drew in a breath of restraint, and said, “If ye please, miss.”
She flounced toward the carriage, knowing she was being childish and pettish, well aware that Jamie was only doing what he considered his duty. But the sad, awful truth was she already missed him terribly for no good reason and a thousand innocuous reasons. It suddenly felt as though the sun had gone out of her life, her world was utterly cheerless, and what was worse, she had to worry about Jamie dying not just at the hands of some murderer but possibly from his wound. It had taken a terrifying amount of morphine last night to bring him relief.
The moment Sofia entered the carriage, Robbie slammed the door shut as if having lured a wild beast into its cage.
Quickly shoving down the window, Sofia said, “I know Jamie’s gone after Von Welden. You don’t have to tell me, just nod your head. He can’t chastise you for that.”
Robbie didn’t answer for a moment, then he nodded and immediately signaled the driver to move off. He didn’t want to chance it that the rash young lady might take it in her head to bolt. He had his orders and he’d discharge them if it meant tying her hand and foot until they reached Blackwood Glen.
But he breathed more freely as he threw himself into the saddle; the carriage was bowling away at a good clip.
Huddled in the corner of the seat, Sofia could feel her heart beating wildly against her ribs. She was terrified for Jamie’s safety—although she’d probably known all along or suspected at least that he’d turn and fight. Pray God he had sense enough to summon his men from Dalmia before he faced Von Welden with only Douglas at his side—or better yet, he should rouse an army to face the evil fiend.
She silently bewailed her fate, trapped in a carriage, surrounded by armed men, bein
g hied off to Scotland like so much baggage. It was grossly unfair, completely unjust, and flagrantly discriminating. Why should men make all the rules and expect women to simply comply? Why couldn’t she have gone, too? She could ride, she could shoot—well maybe not very well, despite Ben’s tutelage when she was a child—but certainly, she could be plucky and brave.
Although, in all honesty, she had to admit that she’d rather fallen apart that first night at Ernst’s in London; she hadn’t been particularly valiant screaming her head off in Ben’s office yesterday either. Faced with the unflattering truth, she made a wry face. Perhaps, she conceded with a sigh, there were some things men could do better than women. Or at least men like Jamie Blackwood who were resolute and bold and about to fearlessly walk into the cannon’s mouth.
Her tears spilled over in dribbling drips and drops at first, sliding down her heated cheeks, splashing onto the printed linen fabric of her gown, unbidden and unwanted. Just like a woman, she thought, quietly sobbing. Like a stupid woman, fearful of losing the man she loved. At the word love, the floodgates inexplicably opened and the drizzle turned into a veritable deluge.
Could it be? Is this love?
Sniffling and sniveling, she soon decided it really couldn’t be. She’d known Jamie so few days and so slightly—sex aside, of course. Furthermore, she wasn’t inclined to fall in love. In fact, she didn’t actually believe in love beyond those commonplace endearments men were likely to utter in the midst of passion.
And sex surely wasn’t love.
There, that was better—reason was restored.
She drew in a calming breath.
But emotions weren’t so easily repressed or dismissed, she discovered, and as the advancing miles separated her from Jamie, her fondness and affection, her lovesick longing only intensified.
Dear Lord, keep him safe, she prayed when she hadn’t prayed since childhood. Heal his wounds, merciful God, bring him back to me—don’t let him die. That she prayed for most.
And she couldn’t stop crying despite her disgust of weeping females.
Sweet as the Devil Page 24