Sweetest Little Sin

by Christine Wells

  Smith inclined his head. “Go on. Amuse me. I’m all ears.”

  “Your brother is alive.”

  Smith stilled, his eyes widened, his nostrils flared. “What?”

  “Your brother is alive and well.”

  “A trick. A damned lie,” muttered Smith. He shook his head, staring at Jardine as if trying to divine the truth. Then his gaze sharpened. “Where?”

  Jardine shrugged. “That, I don’t know. I know how you can find out, but the price of telling you is our freedom.”

  His sangfroid returning, Smith lifted his thick black brows. “Why should I believe you?” But he wanted to, Louisa could tell.

  Jardine shrugged, making the chains that constrained him rattle and chink. “No reason at all.”

  “Does Faulkner know about this?”

  “Now, why would Faulkner know? He would have offered your brother in exchange for the list, wouldn’t he?”

  There was a long silence. Finally, Smith nodded. “I’ll consider it.”

  At the door, he turned his head to bend his piercing stare on Jardine. “Were you aware that my brother was alive all this time?”

  Jardine shook his head. “No. And when you get him out, I’ll hunt both him and you until the day I die.”

  A grunt that was almost a laugh escaped Smith. “Oh yes, I’m sure you will. I’ll look forward to it.”

  “HE didn’t believe you.” There was a slightly fretful note in Louisa’s voice that made Jardine’s gut churn.

  “I didn’t expect him to take my word for it.” He wished he could hold her, but these damned chains kept his arms spread wide. His back ached and the muscles in his arms screamed with fatigue.

  “He’ll want to check my story, try to discover for himself where his brother is held. He’ll hunt down Faulkner.”

  “Do you think he’ll find him?”

  “That old fox? No, Smith won’t find him. But Smith will come back to talk terms.”

  “You seem confident.”

  “I am. You see, this is a gambit, but it has the advantage of being true.” He looked at her. “Come here.”

  She sidled over to him. After a brief calculation, she sat side-on, on the space of floor between his legs. She nestled into him, her good cheek resting on his chest.

  Her hand still pressed the gauze to her face. Despite their reprieve, Louisa’s entire body trembled. Again, he wondered at the courage of her, raged against his own impotence.

  Jardine muttered a foul curse under his breath. He’d tear Radleigh apart with his bare hands when he got hold of him.

  Louisa heaved a shaky sigh, and he turned his head to kiss her brow. His hands flexed with the need to touch her, but instead, all he could do was talk.

  When we get out of here . . .

  He talked and talked, painting a picture for her of sunlight, happy families, and sweet contentment, all the things she’d said she wished for in that long ago confrontation at his house. They’d live out their days together, have babies, watch them grow.

  Live in a cottage, if a vast estate and a house that could accommodate a hundred children could be termed as such.

  He didn’t believe it, not a word.

  He’d failed. Not only had he failed to put an end to Smith’s ridiculous vendetta against him and those he loved, he’d failed to protect Louisa. If he couldn’t protect her, he didn’t deserve her. It was that simple.

  But as he wove this dream with nothing to support it save the air that formed his words, he heard her breathing slow, felt her head grow weightier against him. That halcyon future became vivid in his mind.

  He wanted it. God, how he wanted to be with her, always, in peace and calm. Away from the sordid life of a spy.

  While Smith survived, neither peace nor calm were possible for them. Smith wasn’t the type to forgive and forget. In fact, it might be wise to ship Louisa off to the Continent once they got out of here, put her entirely out of Smith’s reach.

  One corner of his mouth kicked up. He could just imagine how she’d take that news.

  Twenty-three

  THE pillow beneath Louisa’s head was hard and warm. It was also moving, a slight rise and fall. A large hand stroked her hair with lulling gentleness. She sighed, not wanting it to end.

  “Jardine?” She opened her eyes to find herself dragged up a solid male chest for a soul-searing kiss.

  One side of her face throbbed with pain. She gasped and he drew back. “Christ, did I hurt you?”

  “No, no. My face, though . . .” She stopped as the horror came flooding back.

  Then, she realized. “Your hands are free.” She looked up at him in wonder. “Smith is letting us go?”

  Briefly, Jardine nodded, but he looked grim and her elation dimmed a little. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Just . . . Let’s go.”

  It must have been daytime by now but they were in the bowels of the house, the cellars, where no light penetrated. Smith must have been in an exceptionally good mood. He’d left them a lantern.

  She scrambled to her feet, stiff and sore from her extended rest in such an uncomfortable pose. She rubbed the back of her neck, kneading aching muscles. How much worse must Jardine feel?

  He was so tall, he couldn’t quite stand upright in the confined space. Bending his head so as not to hit the barrel ceiling, Jardine rolled his shoulders, evincing no sign of pain beyond a soft grunt and a flex of his hands. He picked up the lantern and started toward the door.

  Louisa followed, scarcely believing they were free.

  Jardine held the lantern high enough that it illuminated her path as well as his own. They climbed stairs, encountering no one in the cellars as they made their way through a forest of wine bottles, past a warren of storerooms alive with the scuttle of small feet. Finally, they found the entrance to the kitchens and emerged into daylight.

  The scent of yeast, beeswax, and a faint whiff of cinnamon made Louisa’s stomach clench with hunger. When had she eaten last? No time for that now. Who knew how many of his men Smith had left behind. Was Radleigh here? She shivered.

  Jardine doused the lantern and set it on the kitchen table. Clearly, the staff had not yet returned after Radleigh’s announcement that typhus had struck the village. It was strangely eerie to see the kitchen with rolling pins and bread dough abandoned, as if its occupants had vanished.

  A scuttle and squeak told her some of the kitchen’s occupants had not disappeared.

  Jardine was scanning benches and riffling through drawers. “Knives, where are the knives? It’s a kitchen, for God’s sake.”

  “Over ’ere.” One of Smith’s thugs stood in the doorway, a large knife gripped in one meaty fist. Louisa couldn’t contain her whimper of fear at the sight.

  The ruffian smiled and the fierce light of anticipation in Jardine’s eyes intensified. “Louisa. Get behind me.”

  She made no argument, backing until her hips hit the kitchen table. She gripped the edge, feeling the soft, powdery texture of flour beneath her fingertips. She ought to turn and scuttle back toward the larder like one of those rats, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off the two men.

  Taunts and filth spewed from the cutthroat’s mouth as Jardine moved slowly toward him. They both crouched a little as they circled in the confined space.

  Jardine sprang. The big ruffian lunged. They clashed together in a desperate struggle, Jardine’s hand clamped around the man’s wrist, arresting the plunge of his knife.

  His fist smashed into the ruffian’s face. The big man staggered back. Jardine’s leg kicked out but the bigger man somehow regained his feet and spun away.

  The ruffian’s hulking body brushed Louisa’s as he passed, and she shuddered at the contact, at the sour stench of male sweat and unwashed linen. He paid no heed to her; his intention was fully engaged with Jardine. The bully feinted and slashed and his blade came away bright red.

  Jardine bit out an oath, but the wound on his arm didn’t seem to slow him. Instead, he took more r
isks; Louisa feared he’d take a deeper wound before too long.

  Terror for Jardine mobilized her brain, heightened her awareness of her surroundings. Weapon. Weapon. She needed something. . . .

  Fingers scrabbling, she groped behind her on the table, encountered the cool ceramic surface of a mixing bowl, the crumbling remains of bread dough that had never made it to the oven. A rolling pin.

  She gripped the heavy wooden utensil and waited for her chance.

  The two men scuffled again, locked together in a battle for the knife. Blood dripped and smeared over the black-and-white chessboard floor. The ruffian stumbled, tripped, and fell backward. Jardine crashed to the floor with him.

  Louisa couldn’t fathom how Jardine kept going. His arms must have ached from his incarceration. The attacker was twice his size.

  Jardine straddled the big man, managing to pin one arm to the ground with his knee. He punched the villain in the face with one fist while he gripped the ruffian’s forearm in the other, holding the knife at bay. As Jardine pummeled him, blood spurted from a nose that had already been broken several times, but the cutthroat didn’t release his grip on the knife.

  In a desperate show of strength, Jardine finally succeeded in pinning his knife hand to the floor. Seeing her chance, Louisa darted forward, brought up the rolling pin, and smashed it down on the fellow’s hand.

  With a howl of pain, he dropped the knife and Louisa kicked it out of his reach. Jardine kept punching him, until the ruffian’s massive hands reached up to close around Jardine’s neck.

  Louisa cried out, but Jardine didn’t falter. He picked up that big, bald head and dashed it against the hard tiled floor. Once. Twice. On the third smash, those meaty hands fell from Jardine’s throat, and the light went out of his eyes.

  Both breathing hard, they stared down at the inert form.

  “Is he dead?” Louisa whispered. The rolling pin dropped from her fingers and clattered on the floor.

  “Yes.” Jardine sat back on his heels and nursed his fist with one hand.

  Slowly, panting hard, he drew to his feet. His eyes still blazed from the fight, and his mouth was grim.

  Once, she’d called Jardine a murderer, turned away from him in horror and disgust.

  Now, she could only be glad Jardine was capable of killing a man. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the thought of that knife.

  More than anything at that moment, Louisa wanted Jardine to hold her, but he made no move toward her. Still breathing hard, he watched her for a few seconds in silence, then he turned away, stripping off his ruined coat.

  “You’re hurt. Let me see.”

  He shrugged off her hand. “Flesh wound. Nothing to concern you.”

  “Let me bathe it at least.”

  “No. I’ll attend to it.” He eyed her from head to foot. “Go upstairs and change. We’ll need to look respectable if we don’t want to cause any fuss.”

  Why was he being so curt with her? “What is the matter, Jardine?”

  He sent her an incredulous look, then gave a quick shake of his head. “Go and get dressed. Pack everything you need into a bandbox.”

  She hesitated, and he said, “Look lively, there, Louisa. We don’t have much time.”

  WHEN he found Louisa in her bedchamber, she was dressed only in her shift. She was clean and her hair combed and dressed. She smelled of lilies and his craving for her intensified.

  But she was gazing into her mirror at the gash down her face. Guilt burned his soul like acid. When this was over, she would turn from him, just as Celeste had. And she’d be right to do so.

  “Aren’t you dressed yet?” Pain lent an edge to his tone. He didn’t want to see Louisa like this, so fragrant and tempting. Not now.

  She rose from the dressing table and walked gracefully to the counterpane, where a gown and other accoutrements were laid out. “I need help with my stays.”

  He grunted and walked forward. Snatched up the corset and fitted it around her lithe body. The delicate turn of her neck called to him, the elegant line of her shoulder blade. The exquisitely sensitive spot behind her ear.

  His hands itched to rove, but he made himself concentrate on lacing and pulling until the corset hugged her slender form.

  “Thank you.” Her voice was crisp, clipped. She didn’t, as he hoped she might, sink back against him, throw her head back, offer her throat to his lips and teeth.

  She stepped away to pick up her gown and whisked it over her head. With a twitch and a shake, she was ready.

  “Louisa.”

  She pulled on a pelisse and began to button it. “Yes?” She didn’t meet his eye.

  He looked away at the spectacular view from her window. The memory of the view Radleigh had enjoyed from the peephole opposite made his fury burn anew.

  “What is it?”

  He turned his head to look at her. “I hope you’re not going to grow soft about that fellow now that it’s over,” he said harshly. “He would have killed both of us.”

  Louisa picked up a bonnet and fitted it on her head, carefully avoiding the long gash that ran from cheek to jaw.

  “I know that, Jardine,” she said quietly. She tried to tie the wide, green ribbons at her chin and winced as one brushed against her wound. She let the ribbons flutter free.

  Louisa turned her face to the mirror again, and he realized she’d chosen a bonnet with a poke that almost entirely concealed the cut on her face.

  She’d cleaned it and it had finally stopped bleeding. Thank God it wasn’t quite as deep as he’d thought.

  She would bear a scar, though. She would bear a scar.

  Fury and remorse twisted inside him, rose in his throat, in his eyes, blinding him. He turned back to the window, bracing himself with one fisted hand against the embrasure.

  He wanted to hit something. The drubbing he’d given that bastard minion of Smith’s hadn’t been release enough.

  But he made himself think of what needed to be done. “We’ll go to a house I know. It’s not far.”

  He blew out a breath. “At least the list is safe. No one will even know it existed. Faulkner would have burned it by now.”

  There was a tense pause. “Someone else knows,” said Louisa.

  He turned. “What?”

  Louisa’s eyes were wide, uncertain. “I—I gave a letter to Harriet. I didn’t tell her what was inside it, but I asked her to post it to Max if I didn’t come back by next morning.”

  Jardine shook his head. “The letter won’t have reached Max, Louisa. Harriet’s a professional. She’d have read it and then destroyed it. It’s what I would have done.”

  “But—”

  His fury boiled over. In biting accents, he said, “The work we do is secret work, Louisa. That means we’re on our own. We don’t write to our brothers, asking them to rescue us when we’re in a tight spot.”

  “Max was one of us.”

  “Not anymore. Do you know how sensitive that information was? What if someone else had intercepted your message? Do you know what damage you could have done?”

  Her eyes flashed. “I see what this is. Your pride is hurt. You cannot accept that I went to someone else for help. I was desperate, Jardine. You were heading back into the Devil’s lair and I was about to follow. It was insurance, in case we were captured.”

  The knowledge that jealousy and shame at his own failure to protect her fed his fury enraged him even more. “This nation’s security is more important than my life, don’t you understand?”

  She gave him a long, sober look. “Not to me.”

  He broke inside, then, sundered in two, creaking and cracking open like a ship dashed against jagged rocks. She loved him. And in his love for her lay his greatest weakness.

  Smith knew that. Their present freedom was but a temporary reprieve.

  “Come on. We’d better leave this place.” He picked up the bandbox she’d packed and walked out the door, leaving her to follow.

  THE cottage was charming, a half-t
imbered house with a thatched roof, a pretty garden, and smoke curling from the stone chimney. A house straight from a fairy tale. A house from her dreams.

  At the door, a woman with shrewd eyes greeted them. Jardine exchanged a few odd sentences with her about the weather, which were patently untrue. Some sort of password, Louisa gathered. Satisfied, the old woman handed him a large bunch of keys and left.

  “The larder’s stocked and the sheets aired. I trust you’ll be comfortable.” The woman, who looked like someone’s benign old nanny, picked up her basket and bustled on her way.

  Louisa blinked. “Is she . . . ?”

  “Oh yes.” Jardine looked about him. Then he went through the house, methodically checking windows and doors.

  Louisa stripped off her gloves and carefully removed her bonnet before going in search of the kitchen. The old woman’s mention of food reminded her she hadn’t eaten for a long time. No doubt Jardine was similarly ravenous.

  As she busied herself boiling water on the range and raiding the larder for supplies, she fought to keep the hurt at bay.

  Jardine seemed more distant from her than ever. An unwelcome sense of futility pervaded her. Had all this been for nothing?

  That thought made her pause. Was that the true reason she’d accepted Faulkner’s mission? Not to save those many unknown souls on the fatal list, not even so much to save Jardine, for she’d always placed faith in his almost supernatural ability to survive.

  No, she’d done it to prove herself worthy of his love. To show him she was brave enough to share his life, not merely wring her hands on the fringes of it, waiting for him to decide when it was safe for her to join him.

  Yes, it had all been for nothing. She was not a natural at spy work like Harriet. She’d made far too many mistakes. And Jardine still saw her as the helpless damsel in distress.

  If only she hadn’t been caught. If only she’d managed to get that list and escape with it, Jardine would have to accept her as an equal, let her into his life.

  Now, he’d locked her out as he prepared to do battle with Smith. And all she could do was make sure he was fed.