An Irresistible Alliance (Cynsters Next Generation Novels Book 5)

by Stephanie Laurens

  Initially, he’d been puzzled by the old man’s plan—the barrels had surely been safe where they were—but once he’d learned of the next and final act in this second stage of proceedings, all had made irrefutable sense, as everything the old man planned always did. In his earlier life, before he’d become chair-bound and had worked within the government, he’d been a force to be reckoned with. Clearly, he hadn’t lost any of the acumen with which he’d long been credited. It was almost a pleasure to follow such carefully crafted plans.

  The rider glanced ahead to the left, to where the lane joined the open area before the river. The fog lay thicker there. Nothing moved in the gloom.

  The first cart had cleared the corner. The second cart jerked into motion again.

  The rider faced forward and nudged his horse to keep up. As he started moving again, to his right, from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a flash of brightness.

  Gold satin. A sliver revealed—just for a second—as the clouds scudded overhead and moonlight briefly shone through.

  He had the presence of mind not to turn his head and look. As the second cart slowed again to negotiate the turn and he kept his horse close, he tried to fathom what the damn female thought she was doing, wedged into that nook in the dark.

  Was she spying on them?

  But how could she have known they would go that way? Admittedly, she’d seen them loading up, but if she’d decided to follow them—why, he couldn’t imagine—wouldn’t she have assumed they would go up the lane, not down?

  Regardless, she’d been there and had seen them leave.

  Perhaps she was simply curious.

  Or perhaps she was a spy.

  As he steered his horse toward the corner, he reflected that, if she continued following them, it would be easy to find out.

  * * *

  Cleo had held her breath when, instead of going up the lane and away, the two drays had rumbled down the lane and past her position.

  She hadn’t dared breathe when the horse had walked past, and the rider had pulled up just a yard farther along from where she stood. With her cloak wrapped about her, her head down, and her hood well forward, shielding her face, she’d told herself he wouldn’t see her even if he looked.

  She had no idea if he had glanced her way; she’d been able to see only his horse’s legs and hadn’t dared raise her head and risk looking directly at him.

  Finally, after what had felt like agonizing minutes but likely had been less than two, the drays had rolled on, and the rider had followed without any worrying pause. Without any sign whatever that he’d spotted her.

  She raised her head, breathed deeply—and wondered why the drays had gone the wrong way. The unexpected way.

  Michael’s men were stationed all around the area, so the drays couldn’t leave it without being seen and followed, but why were they taking such a route? One that led deeper into the warren of narrower lanes and alleyways.

  Drake’s comment, repeated by Michael, replayed in her mind—that so much about this plot hadn’t followed any predictable pattern…

  What if they lost sight of the barrels inside the warren? What then?

  Was there some other way of transporting barrels they hadn’t thought of and so hadn’t blocked?

  She could hear the slow, muffled clop of the rider’s horse—he was still in Morgan’s Lane and hadn’t yet turned the corner. She didn’t dare lean forward and peer out; as he went around the corner, if he glanced up the lane, he would see her.

  For the moment, she was stuck, but the instant the rider was around the corner, she would be free to slip out and creep along the buildings on this side of the lane until she could peek after the drays. Michael, in the doorway on the other side of the lane and much farther from the corner than she, would be forced to remain where he was until the rider was a good deal farther along the secondary lane—just in case the man glanced back.

  If the rider and drays turned this way or that before Michael reached the corner…

  The tone of the muffled hoofbeats changed. Dragging in a breath, she eased forward and looked out of the ginnel—and through the thickening murk, saw the rear of the rider’s horse pass slowly into the narrower lane.

  She didn’t wait to think further; she slipped out and, holding her cloak tightly about her, quickly crept along the front of the buildings.

  They—she or Michael—had to keep the barrels in sight.

  And he would come after her the instant he could.

  * * *

  He was going to lose his mind.

  His heart in his mouth, Michael watched the dim figure that was Cleo reach the end of Morgan’s Lane where, a block back from the river, a narrower lane led east.

  From scouting the area, he knew the lane led to the north end of Black Lion Court—a place notorious because of the many ways in and out; thieves on this side of the river regularly used its mazelike qualities to lose pursuing constables.

  He had no idea why the villain had chosen that as his route, but at that moment, he really didn’t care.

  What he did care about was Cleo, but the damned rider was moving so very slowly, still keeping at the rear of the second cart, that even with the distraction of the fog, Michael didn’t dare risk breaking from the shadows.

  His gut tightening and tying itself in knots, he watched Cleo inch to the corner, then carefully peer around.

  He could still see the rider—just. The man didn’t turn, didn’t glance back—didn’t see her.

  Finally—finally!—the rider moved on, farther down the lane, and Michael could quit the alcove.

  With swift strides, he crossed the lane and headed for Cleo. Courtesy of the uneven cobbles, he didn’t dare run. His men were well positioned; he could leave watching and following the barrels to them.

  He would follow Cleo; she was his to protect.

  Chapter 14

  The lane the drays had taken wasn’t that long. Cleo peered through the increasingly dense, sulphurous fog and watched the second dray lumber to the right around the next corner—turning toward Tooley Street, although that thoroughfare was quite some way away. The rider followed without glancing back.

  Cleo turned her head, looked up Morgan’s Lane, and saw Michael striding toward her. Reassured he was following and accepting it was critical that they kept the barrels in sight, she turned and hurried around the corner and on along the short, narrow lane.

  Somewhere ahead along the next lane, she could hear the low-pitched rumble of the drays’ muffled wheels. With so many alleys and lanes leading this way and that, they couldn’t afford to allow the little cavalcade out of their sight—or at least, out of their hearing.

  There was no streetlamp in the narrow lane. What moonlight there had been had largely been obliterated by the thickening clouds and the fog.

  She reached the next corner and paused. She could still hear the wheels rumbling, but the sound was fading. Were the drays turning again? She glanced back along the lane, but Michael hadn’t yet appeared.

  Increasingly dense, the fog was funneling up from the river, finding its way through every space; the chill dampness brushed her cheeks with icy, clammy fingers, but it would give her some cover until Michael reached her.

  She drew in a breath and quietly edged around the corner. Hugging the front of the buildings along that side of the slightly larger lane, she crept forward. Dimly through the fog, she could see the rear of the second dray fading into the murk.

  She quickened her pace. Farther along, a single streetlamp glowed a faint, sickly yellow; all its light seemed to achieve was to turn the shadows a deeper shade of dark.

  Where was the rider? The fog was dense enough to obscure shapes, but she didn’t think he was following the dray—perhaps he was now between the drays or even leading them.

  She blinked. The drays seemed to be vanishing up ahead. She hurried on.

  An arm snaked out of a gap between two buildings, circled her waist, and yanked her off her feet—clamping he
r against a rock-hard body. She opened her mouth, but before she could scream, a gloved palm slapped over her lips.

  She flung her head back—connecting with a hard shoulder—and caught a glimpse of the brim of a hat. The rider! She struggled furiously, fighting to get free.

  A deep, low chuckle sounded in her ear. “You can scream all you like, my lovely, but trust me, in this place, no one will come to your aid.”

  That’s what you think.

  But given help was near, and she knew it…

  Slowly, she stilled—until she stood unmoving in his hold.

  “Good to see you’re not without intelligence. So”—the hand covering her lips lifted away—“you may now tell me who you are and why you’re here. Who are you working for? My cousin, perchance?”

  His cousin? Cleo frowned. “I have no idea who your cousin is.”

  The rider sucked in a breath. Then his every muscle tensed.

  The arm about her waist tightened, and in the next blink, his other hand returned, this time brandishing a knife. He laid the blade against her throat as he snarled, “Tell me—who sent you? Who knows about…our little enterprise?”

  Her head pressed against his shoulder in an instinctive effort to get away from the knife, Cleo struggled to breathe. She could hear the panic reverberating in his voice. Her accent! He’d realized she wasn’t some doxy happening to wander by.

  The blade of the knife felt cold and sharp. Carefully, she swallowed and, with her pulse thundering in her ears, managed to get out, “I’m not working for anyone. Women like me don’t work for others.”

  The words had tumbled out without any real thought, a simple statement of fact.

  The rider cursed. Abruptly, the arm at her waist vanished, and instead, he grabbed the top of her hood, his fingers sinking into her hair beneath. Shifting the knife from her throat, he used his grip on her hair to swing her around so he could look into her face.

  Cleo forgot about the knife he still held. Her lips setting grimly, she stepped forward and kneed him hard between his legs.

  Her aim was slightly off, but the blow was sufficient to make him freeze and suck in a tortured breath. His grip on her hood eased.

  She jerked free and quickly took several steps back.

  Teeth gritted, he raised his head. His gaze pinned her, and with a low growl, he came for her; the knife blade flashed in his right hand.

  She didn’t have time to scream before she was shoved aside, and Michael was there.

  He caught the man’s wrist and twisted it sharply. The man uttered a harsh sound, and the knife clattered to the cobbles.

  The man swung a fist at Michael’s face—which he half dodged. Then Michael struck back with a punishing blow to the man’s stomach.

  But the man wasn’t going to go down without a fight. He swung again, and Michael blocked the blow.

  Cleo stepped back, giving them space. Through the wreathing fog, she watched as they traded punches. To her educated eyes—she had three brothers—Michael definitely had the upper hand, but the other man wasn’t a novice, either. He got in a succession of blows that forced Michael to regroup.

  The man seized the moment to step back—but not to flee. Instead, he reached beneath his greatcoat and drew out a sword.

  Cleo’s eyes grew round. Her father had a sword like that—a long, curved, cavalry saber.

  The man grinned evilly and slashed.

  Michael leapt back.

  Cleo remembered that he always carried his cane-cum-swordstick. Always; he’d even had it in the lane the other night. Against a saber, it wouldn’t be much, but it would be better than nothing. He must have set the cane down. Frantically, she searched the cobbles where he must have paused before pushing her aside…there!

  The cane lay on the ground on the other side of the two men.

  The villain was grinning from ear to ear and making a great show of slashing his saber through the air. He advanced one step, still limbering up. “I’m going to enjoy slicing you to ribbons.”

  Michael, his gaze locked not on the swinging blade but on the man’s face, retreated a step. His expression was set, graven. Without glancing at her, he grated, “For God’s sake, Cleo—run, damn it!”

  There was no way she was leaving him. She’d never reach Tooley Street in time to summon his men to help him; he would be dead long before she got back.

  She set her jaw and did as he’d ordered.

  She grabbed up her skirts and ran straight toward the pair of them.

  Her sudden rush shocked them both; both shifted back—and she pelted between them.

  She skidded to a halt on the slimy cobbles and, her back to both men, scooped up Michael’s black cane. A quick twist of the head and she pulled the concealed rapier from its sheath—in the same instant, she smoothly turned and flung the hard sheath directly at the villain’s head.

  Instinctively, he ducked.

  She continued her pivot and tossed the rapier, hilt first, to Michael.

  Michael could barely believe what she’d done, but he didn’t have time to roar at her. He seized the hilt, settled his hand about the stag’s head, and before his opponent could recover and launch an attack, lunged straight for his chest.

  The man got the saber up just in time to parry the thrust.

  Michael inwardly swore. That had been his best chance to do serious damage. Now…

  He feinted and thrust, parried as best he could. Although he’d carried his grandfather’s swordstick for years, who the devil fought with a sword these days?

  Cavalrymen. He would take an oath this man had been one—hence the sword and the ability to use it.

  He was in deep trouble. A rapier against a saber was not a winning proposition. He had to find some opening or some way to tip the scales. The only reason he’d managed to hold the man at bay thus far was his years of no-holds-barred sparring with Sebastian.

  He spared a fleeting thought for this unanticipated benefit of having an older brother who was a touch taller, had a longer reach, and happened to be an expert fencer. In order to hold his own, Michael had learned every underhanded trick in the book.

  He used them shamelessly. Kicking, lashing out, and doing everything he could to keep his opponent off balance.

  But he didn’t know for how long he could keep the dance going, not without sustaining major injury. He’d already taken several cuts, but as far as he could tell, none were yet bleeding badly.

  He knew Cleo was somewhere near, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his opponent long enough to find her in the gloom. He knew she hadn’t run; he hadn’t heard her footsteps retreating.

  He wished she would go; this wasn’t going to end well, and if he had to die, he didn’t want her dying, too—

  A silver flash whizzed past him.

  The man’s face registered shock, and he pulled back. His left hand rose toward his upper right arm—to the slash that had appeared there.

  Damn—she’d thrown a knife! And she’d nearly pinked the bastard, even though he’d been moving at the time.

  What other weapons did she have?

  Michael launched a fresh strike, pressing whatever advantage he might now have even though he didn’t expect that to be much, but it was soon apparent that Cleo’s strike had done enough damage for the man to have lost telling strength in his sword arm—although he retained enough to keep Michael at bay.

  Gritting his teeth, Michael searched for an opening, found it, and tossing caution to the winds, closed, and ran the rapier’s blade beneath the saber’s hilt until the rapier’s hilt hit the saber’s blade—then quick as a thought, he twisted the stag’s head and locked it over the edge of the other blade, stepped back, and with an almighty wrench, hauled the saber from the man’s grasp, and with a flick of his wrist, sent the saber flying into the darkness.

  Michael sucked in air; he was close to winded, and so was his opponent.

  But the man flashed a sickly smile, and as Michael straightened, the bastard stepped back
, reached into his coat, and pulled out a pistol.

  Cleo already had her fingers wrapped about the ivory grip of the American pistol concealed in her skirts. She whipped the gun out and pointed it at the villain.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Michael’s hand clearing his pocket, a pistol gripped tightly.

  The man had his barrel leveled on Michael’s chest. The man’s trigger finger was already flexing.

  “No! Here!” Cleo fought not to close her eyes as she pulled the trigger.

  Three shots rang out, virtually simultaneously. The combined sound was deafening in the enclosed space, ricocheting off the walls all around them.

  The fog swirled as if in reaction, suddenly thickening to the point that they were only shadowy figures to each other.

  She peered through the murk and saw their adversary slowly crumple, then he collapsed in a heap on the cobbles.

  Then Michael loomed beside her. His face a graven mask, he took one raking look at her, then he hauled her into his arms.

  He clutched her to him. “Tell me you’re all right.” The harsh demand was muffled in her hood.

  “I’m entirely unharmed.” She tried to pull back to examine him, not that she could see much in the foggy gloom, but he hugged her tight, tighter, then he eased his hold, raised his head, and put her from him.

  She looked at his face, then followed his gaze to the figure on the cobbles.

  They approached cautiously.

  Michael bent and removed the man’s pistol from his now-lax grasp and slipped the weapon into his own pocket. Inside, he was still reeling, feeling hot one minute and chilled the next, with more emotions than he’d known he possessed buffeting him, desperately clamoring for release.

  Straightening, he looked down at his erstwhile opponent. The man’s hat had tipped back, revealing features that declared their owner was probably English and, almost certainly, well born. His greatcoat had fallen open during the fight; two holes, both dark with blood, decorated the left side of his chest.