The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2)

by Cheri Champagne

  Thankfully, Bridget acquiesced and let him lead her around the screen. When they emerged, Bridget stopped mid-step.

  Charles turned inquiringly.

  “Good heavens, Charles! What a state!”

  Indeed it was a state. The traitor had decimated what once was a fine wooden desk. Bridget’s underthings and several gowns were scattered on the floor, the bedclothes were removed, and the mattress torn mercilessly.

  Charles had witnessed such scenes before, many of which were much, much worse. But as Bridget had likely not, he could understand her shock. Now, however, was not the moment to ruminate the condition of Bridget’s bedchamber.

  “Come. We mustn’t tarry; the longer we linger the greater the chance that the traitor will see our disguises and this will all be for naught.”

  Charles clasped Bridget’s hand in his, ignoring the tingle of pleasure upon the contact, and drew her toward the hidden panel in the wall across the room.

  The panel slid open easily and they slipped through the doorway, barring the way behind them. Charles took Bridget’s trunk and began the winding path through the castle toward the stables.

  He sincerely hoped that Stevens was keeping the men busy with setting traps and colourful distractions—as they had arranged should Charles and Bridget be required to retreat—because he wanted a neat departure for Bridget and himself. He could not afford any more delays or inquiries as they entered the stables to procure their mounts.

  They reached the downstairs kitchens and Charles pressed an ear to the wall, ensuring that there were no men milling about. Silence. Confident that the way was clear, Charles led Bridget through the hidden panel and slid it silently closed behind them.

  He put an index finger to his lips, signalling Bridget for silence. He did not know who the traitor was among his men, but it would not do well for them to be seen. Word would spread of their disguise, and their efforts would be futile.

  Charles opened the back door of the kitchens and waited. He sniffed at the cool morning air, but detected nothing.

  He pressed his lips to Bridget’s ear, doing his utmost to ignore her soft skin and alluring honey scent. “When I say ‘now,’ we must run to the stables.”

  He pulled back to meet her gaze and ensure she understood. Her eyes were sure and clear. She nodded.

  With determination—and, he hated to admit, unbridled fear—in his heart, Charles tightened his grip on Bridget’s hand and whispered, “Now!”

  Hand-in-hand they ran. The distance was short, but his heart beat fast as he knew a threat could lurk anywhere.

  Relief flooded him as they reached the stable doors. They were so close to freedom; Charles could already feel their victory.

  He slid the latch and hurriedly—but silently—opened the large stable doors and ushered Bridget inside, following closely behind her.

  Two loud clicks of pistols being cocked echoed in the large space and dread settled heavy in his stomach. “I beg your pardon, sir, madam, this is a private residence. If you feel the need to steal a horse, I suggest you find another poor sod’s home.”

  Chapter 19

  Charles nearly sagged with relief as he recognized Stevens’ voice. Turning, he faced the barrels of two very finely crafted pistols. His gaze rose to Stevens’ oddly golden eyes, before doing the same with Jones.

  Charles spoke rapidly in fluent Spanish. “For God’s sake, lower your weapons.” He needed a conversation with these men, but it was information that was best left unknown to Bridget,

  Stevens and Jones did as they were told, awareness dawning. Stevens spoke first, responding in Spanish with equal ease. “My apologies, Hydra. I did not know it was you.”

  “If you did not recognize me, then my aim has been achieved.” He looked down into Bridget’s perplexed gaze, then returned his attention to the men. “We must speak quickly. I hadn’t the time to inform you upon my return from London, but this plot runs deeper than we had originally deduced. While the immediate threat of The Boss hangs over us, tactical and intelligence information—maps, lists, names and plans—have gone missing; their original owners murdered in their homes. Someone within the Home Office is working for the French, and I intend to discover who that man is.”

  Stevens’ golden eyes hardened and Jones’ lips thinned.

  “That is terrible news, indeed,” Jones responded. “We will assist in any way we are able.”

  “Continue with our Stratagem F. Assign the men their tasks and contact me when you know more.”

  “Of course, sir.” Jones gestured toward a nearby stall. “I have saddled your horse in preparation for your departure.”

  “You have my thanks.”

  His men saluted before departing the stables.

  “What, pray tell, was that about?”

  Charles put a hand to Bridget’s elbow and led her toward Riot’s stall. “Jones saddled Riot for our leave-taking.”

  “If that were true, you could have spoken in English. What is going on, Charles?”

  He stifled the urge to sigh. “I am afraid I cannot tell you, Bridget. Most especially not while we are still here.”

  Thankfully Bridget nodded her understanding, though Charles was certain he would come to regret his curt comment.

  “From this moment on,” Charles continued, his mien intent, “we are Spanish. If there is someone about, you must keep silent and allow me to speak for both of us. Our lives depend on this, Bridget; I must have your word that you will not speak or break character.”

  She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth as she considered him. “Very well. I concede that for the purpose of our escape, I must bow to your expertise on disguises.”

  With a curt nod, Charles turned to his horse’s stall.

  Riot was, as Jones had said, saddled and ready for their journey. Charles fastened the saddlebags and Bridget’s small trunk to the horse, then mounted, assisting Bridget up to sit sideways across his lap.

  Charles forced himself to ignore Bridget’s bottom shifting atop him and the arousal she stirred. He gripped Riot’s reins, and with a click and a small nudge, they were on their way to safety.

  * * *

  The side of the building was still charred from whatever fire had claimed it. The Spy put their hand on the blackened, crumbling windowsill as they watched the cluster of English spies gather in the gardens below.

  Anger scorched through the spy, for after extensive searching, no documentation had been found. Their informant had produced an abundance of material, however, which would most certainly prove useful.

  Movement in the stables caught the spy’s attention. A horse and two riders dashed away at a punishing pace. The spy frowned. The man and woman both had dark hair and donned Spanish garb; who could they—?

  The spy’s anger quickly turned to fury as realization dawned, their eyes narrowed with hatred. They spun from their perch and strode purposefully through the destroyed portion of the castle, to the newly refurbished. They would get word to their hired help and track Hydra and Lady Bridget down.

  It was time they finished this.

  * * *

  A little bell jingled as Bridget and Charles strode through the doors of the Swine and Swan Inn. Bridget’s bottom ached from the countless hours of travel since they had escaped the castle.

  Her stomach grumbled loudly and she covered it with her palm. She had not eaten since the previous day’s luncheon, and they were already nearing the evening meal.

  They approached the innkeeper and Charles requested a room and a meal in broken, accented English. The innkeeper uttered some choice words for the “idiot foreigner and his blousy wife,” causing the onlookers in the taproom to break into laughter. Charles smiled obliviously, turned to Bridget and with a string of fluent Spanish, linked her arm through his and followed the innkeeper through the taproom.

  Several bawdy and lascivious comments from the taproom’s patrons followed them to the stairs. Bridget opened her mouth to speak, but Charles cut her a war
ning glance, his arm stiffening beneath hers.

  The upper hall was narrow and smelled faintly of urine. Bridget wrinkled her nose, but kept carefully silent.

  “Yer room.” The innkeeper led them to their room, sneering at Charles as he handed him the key. He cast a longing, vulgar look at Bridget’s bosom before he returned to his post in the taproom.

  The moment the door closed behind them in their room, Charles turned to face her. “I apologize for the inappropriate comments made towards you belowstairs.”

  Bridget waved a hand through the air. “I have heard more shocking things in my life,” she said truthfully. “Do not trouble yourself.”

  She smiled at his look of bemusement. “I volunteer in the hospital, I fence, and I befriend persons of low character with the intent to lead by example. I have been exposed to rough and vulgar language of many varieties.”

  Clearly disgruntled, Charles dropped the saddlebags and trunk to the floor in the centre of their small room. “It will be several minutes before our meal is prepared. It will also likely be of poor quality, but it will satisfy our hunger for the moment.” He fingered the false moustache that graced his upper lip. “I shall leave you to freshen up, then.” Sketching an awkward bow, he turned on his heel and left the room.

  Bridget locked the door and availed herself of the chamber pot. She was entirely coated in dust; her skin itched with the need to be cleaned. Gathering her necessary requirements, Bridget prepared for her wash.

  The room was furnished sparsely but appealingly. The wooden elements added a small amount of darkness to the otherwise bright room, and the bedclothes and matching seat cushions brought a touch of colour. The room had the sense of being recently aired, as the scent was fresh and clean. It was a sight better than the hall and the rough taproom belowstairs.

  Once she had poured the water in the washbasin and found the soap and a cloth in the drawer of the washstand, Bridget began to undress. Her injured arm still ached and the stitches pulled when she moved, but she believed it was improving. She had scarcely noticed it as they rode; of course, her thoughts had been mostly consumed with not only the escape, but the hard chest at her back and the strong arm around her waist.

  She felt her cheeks warm at the memory of the previous night and that morning. She could hardly countenance how wantonly she had behaved. Charles appeared to relish her brazenness, however, and she must confess it felt pleasing, indeed, to take control of their lovemaking.

  Removing her shift, she turned her face and vigorously shook the material. She then repeated the task with all of her borrowed attire and draped them over the back of a nearby chair. Her hair still hung loose in blackened waves around her shoulders. She was sure she could never become accustomed to the colour, though it did have its appeal.

  The damp cloth was cool on her skin, but she rather liked the soothing sensation on her sore muscles. Charles was determined to ride at a punishing pace, and Bridget was disinclined to protest. At the memory of the pale faces of Charles’ fellows, Bridget knew they were in a dire circumstance. She put her faith in Charles’ ability to ensure their safety. She could only assume that he had been in similar positions in the past and knew their next course of action.

  She was not particularly fond of his methods of persuasion and demand, however. With their situation in mind, Bridget knew that she would likely not get an opportune moment to tell Charles just how dissatisfied she felt. They never did get the chance to conclude their argument.

  The slosh of her cloth entering the washbasin was masked by the cacophony of shattering glass as the one window in their bedchamber imploded with the force of its intruder’s weight. Without a second thought, Bridget charged nude across the chamber to her trunk. Heaven knew why her instincts told her to fight when anyone with sense would flee.

  She sent a hasty prayer of thanks as her nakedness stunned the large man long enough for her to unlatch her trunk and arm herself with her smallsword.

  “Well look’e what we got ‘ere.” The distasteful man licked his lips as they curled into a smile, exposing his blackened teeth.

  Bridget sidestepped around the bed and entered the en garde position as a second man climbed through the window and joined the other intruder in gawking at her.

  She scoffed at their ineptness. Her mind rehearsed her movements before she carried them out.

  Preparation. Advance.

  The second trespasser realized her intent to attack and nudged the first, sending him tumbling forward. The second reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pistol.

  Advance-lunge. Feint. Lunge.

  She drew her smallsword up, slicing through the man’s forearm. The pistol dropped to the brocade rug with a muffled thud, and the intruder’s roar rent the room. The man gripped his bloodied arm and glared at her with murderous intent. The first intruder rounded behind her, bringing his arms up to grab her from behind.

  Passata-sotto.

  She crouched, kneeling on the floor and sending her opponent toppling over her stooped form to land heavily beside her. She sent him an angry glare. “Pas de touché!”

  Recovery.

  She ignored the dizzying rush to her head as she rose quickly, and instead focused on her next move. The second man stepped over his mystified comrade and raised his uninjured arm, swinging mightily with his clenched fist.

  Beat Parry. Riposte.

  The tip of her blade sank into the man’s tough shoulder. Her opponent’s complexion reddened with rage as blood began to seep from his wound.

  Recovery.

  She retreated two full steps and entered the en garde position, her heart pounding against her ribs.

  Both enraged men stood before her and began to advance.

  * * *

  Charles slammed his cup of ale back on the roughened tabletop in the taproom and shot to his feet, ignoring the slosh of the foul liquid onto the wood. He craned his neck, staring at the ceiling as another thud sounded above him. Dread swept him as a muffled shout followed. Good God! Bridget!

  His heart thumping uncontrollably in his chest, he pushed his chair back, sending it to the floor without a thought, and ran for the staircase. At the top of the steps, he rounded the corner and sprinted down the hall, stopping at his and Bridget’s bedchamber door. He did not need to put his ear to the door to know that a scuffle was ensuing within.

  “Let me get the key.” The innkeeper and several footmen appeared beside him and Charles waved them off.

  In his Spanish accent and broken English, Charles quickly spoke. “No time. My wife has other key.”

  He stepped back several paces, until his back touched the wall opposite, prepared himself, and ran at the door. Putting all his weight into the hit, he repeated the manoeuvre, his shoulder smarting with each hit. He was certain that the innkeeper uttered something objectionable, but Charles couldn’t bring himself to care. He would get Bridget out of there before something dreadful happened.

  His heart flipped over with panic, and he ran at the door once more.

  Chapter 20

  A distant rumble barely entered Bridget’s awareness as she stared down her two opponents. They drew closer, matching scowls marring their dirty brows.

  Fear began to tickle its way up her spine, but Bridget quickly banished it. If she gave in to fear now, she would fail.

  And she would not fail.

  A thought occurred to her. These men could use further distraction.

  Appel. Her bare foot stomped the rug, drawing both sets of male eyes down to her nude leg.

  Balestra. Advance-lunge. Thrust. Feint. Lunge.

  A series of shouts echoed through the room as Bridget’s smallsword whistled through the air, making several cuts and punctures on her opponents.

  She was not desirous of having murder on her conscience, but these men had clear intent to inflict harm on her upon entering. And judging from their matching expressions of fury as she bested them, they now wished her far more than just harm. They wished for
her death.

  Parry. Redoublement. Lunge. Balestra.

  She spun, rounding behind the pair, and raised her weapon. In two quick but brutal hits, she felled both men using the smallsword’s hilt to the backs of their heads.

  With a resounding boom and the crack of splintering wood, Charles burst through the bedchamber door, pistol at the ready, and several footmen and the innkeeper close behind him. The men gathered inside the door, mouths agape.

  Bridget could not recall a more humiliating moment in her life as Charles let out a black curse in his Spanish accent, put his pistol in his coat pocket, and did his best to usher the gawping men through the doorway and into the hall.

  Bridget hastily lowered her weapon and retrieved her shift that still hung on the back of the chair, bringing it against her body with one arm, to shield her nakedness from view. She felt the heat of her blush spread over her skin until she was certain she was bright as a raspberry.

  Charles returned, having successfully removed the audience.

  He stopped before her, his brow drawn together in a concerned frown. “Good God, Bridget.” His voice was near to a whisper. “Are you well? Did these men do any harm to you?” His eyes looked over her body as if to ascertain if she had been violated in any way.

  “I…” How am I? Her fingers felt chilled and her body had begun to tremble. “I am slightly shaken and horribly mortified, but I believe I am well. These men did not physically harm me. I…I feel rather astonished, if you would believe it. I have never had an opponent that truly wished me harm.”

  * * *

  He inclined his head, returning his pistol to his pocket. “I would like to learn more about what transpired here, but we must take our leave of this place. They must have followed us from the castle, and it is possible that they were not alone.” His gaze lowered to the unconscious men on the rug then to the broken window and shards of glass scattering the floor.