Sweetest Little Sin

by Christine Wells

  From the ground, he sent a shot in the direction from which the enemy fire had come. No time to find more ammunition. He threw down the spent rifle and drew his pistol.

  Then he took his chance and ducked around the side of the cottage.

  A shot whistled so close, he imagined he felt its tail wind brush his ear. But he reached safety, crouching behind a large beer barrel. Smith, or one of Smith’s minions, would have to come out in the open to rescue his brother. Jardine would pick them off, one by one.

  “My lord Marquis.” The deep, resonant voice sounded close by. Smith emerged from the thicket, holding his hands up high.

  “Don’t move.” The need for information warred with the impulse to simply kill Smith and be done.

  Smith spoke again. “I sent Radleigh after your sharp-shooter, Jardine. Judging from the lack of fire from that direction, it seems he must have caught him.”

  Rage roared in Jardine’s ears. Louisa! No, Louisa had a gun and she knew how to use it. He had to put his faith in her. He must.

  He heard scuffles, then, coming from within the cottage. The back door . . .

  A swift glance toward the sound, that moment’s inattention, brought Smith into action.

  As Smith whipped his own pistol from his pocket, Jardine’s instincts kicked in. Without hesitation, Jardine fired. The villain’s entire body jerked and flailed as he fell.

  Smith’s pistol went off, and the barrel beside Jardine split. Beer gushed from the hole in the barrel’s side, the scent of hops mingling with the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood.

  Jardine dropped to his knees beside the dying man and gripped his lapels. “The list. Who wrote it? Who gave it to you? Tell me!”

  Smith’s response was a choked laugh. “That, my dear Jardine,” he panted, “is the cream of the jest.”

  The crack of wood splintering caught Jardine’s attention. He dragged Smith toward the back of the house, but he was too late. A man, presumably Elias Smith, shot out of the door, stumbled, regained his feet, and kept running.

  “Elias! Elias, help me!” Smith’s hoarse cry arrested the fellow in his tracks. He looked back, hesitating but an instant, recognition illuminating his thick features. Then he turned and kept running.

  Jardine took one look at Smith’s stunned, ashen face and gave a grim smile.

  Twenty-five

  “RADLEIGH.” It amazed Louisa that she could speak at all, yet her voice held not a tremor.

  The taste in her mouth was an acrid mix of gunpowder and fear. The only sound she heard was her own heart’s frantic beat.

  There was a brilliant, excited look in Radleigh’s eye, the one she’d seen shortly before he’d cut her. Only, now she held a gun on him and all he had was that pathetic little knife. He hadn’t even bothered to arm himself with a pistol. That oversight infuriated her.

  “You look awfully cocky for someone who is about to die.” Her finger caressed the trigger. The butt of the gun felt solid and sure against her shoulder.

  “Ha. You won’t kill me. Even if you could hit a barn at ten paces with that thing, which I doubt, you wouldn’t have the mettle to kill me.”

  His words touched a chord of doubt. This confrontation was far beyond the range of her experience. Hunting was one thing. Could she shoot a man?

  He stepped closer. She had to act. One step more and he’d reach out and take the gun.

  One more chance. She threw as much authority into her voice as she could. “Stop now. Turn and lie facedown on the ground. Or I will kill you.”

  He paused, tilted his head. “I’ve never met a woman like you. The others . . . they all sniveled and cried. Except the last one, and Smith put an end to my fun with her far too soon. But you, my dear. You are strong. And I’ve learned I like strong women. They’re so much more amusing to break.”

  Fear reached up to grab Louisa’s throat. Despite the fact that she was the one holding the gun, she was petrified.

  She made herself speak. “I don’t want to hear this. I might shoot you just to stop your mouth.”

  “You know, I really don’t think you would.”

  Could she? Before this moment, she hadn’t doubted she could pull the trigger to defend herself, to end a life force as evil as Radleigh.

  But her body was cold with fear, paralyzed with it. The same feeling of helplessness when he cut into the tender flesh of her cheek pervaded her now.

  “See? You can’t shoot me. Despite your courage, you’re a woman, and women’s hearts are too tender for killing. Now.” He smiled. “I’m going to tell you all about what I did to your little friend.” He took a step, reached out. “And then I’m going to do it to—”

  The shot blasted, obliterating his final word. Louisa had no memory of pulling the trigger, but she must have, because the stench of gunpowder filled her nostrils and the recoil of the shotgun knocked her off balance. As she regained her feet, Radleigh staggered back, crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud.

  She watched him, saw the stain of blood spread over his chest. He didn’t move.

  Louisa swayed, put her hand out to clutch the tree next to her to hold herself steady.

  Her mind was blank. Breathe, she told herself, but she felt as if she were sinking beneath water, suffocating, drowning.

  Gunfire cracked below.

  Jardine.

  Her numb mind snapped into action. She fumbled in her pouch for a powder cartridge, took it out, and ripped it open with her teeth. Her hands were shaking; it took too long to load the gun, but finally, she was ready, stretched out at her vantage point.

  She could make out nothing at first. The two guards lay dead in front of the cottage. Jardine was nowhere to be seen.

  Footsteps running toward her along the ridge caught her attention. She scrambled to her feet and aimed, ready this time to shoot without hesitation.

  “Louisa.” Jardine erupted into her hiding place, grabbed the shotgun from her, turned, and fired. She couldn’t even make out a figure, but an agonized cry told her he’d found his mark.

  He gripped her hand and yanked her along, and they ran full tilt through the wood. She stumbled over her skirts, and he jerked her upright, giving her no quarter until they came to their horses.

  “Up with you.” He threw her into the saddle and mounted his own horse.

  “Smith?” She choked out the word.

  “Dead. I think we’ve accounted for the rest. We’ll make for the cottage. Come on.”

  JARDINE doubted Smith’s remaining henchmen would follow once they realized their master was dead, but he took no chances, riding across country most of the way, eschewing major thoroughfares and high streets.

  Finally, they arrived back at the cottage, weary, their horses blown. They stabled the horses and walked toward the house. Neither spoke, but anticipation crackled between them like twigs in a bonfire.

  Jardine breathed in the soft summer air with a sense of freedom he hadn’t experienced in eight years. The twilight had all but softened into night. Birds still twittered madly in the trees.

  He stopped and turned to Louisa, drew her into his arms.

  She clung to him, shaking. “I killed him, Jardine. I shot him and I—He’s dead.”

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Not sorry he’s dead, not that. Sorry that you had to be the one.”

  Violently, she shook her head, shuddering again. “I’m glad he’s dead. I don’t feel one speck of remorse.” She lifted her face to look at him.

  He regarded her with understanding. “It is no small thing to kill a man.” He thought of Smith, of the look on his face when his brother turned his back and left him to die. The brother he’d waited eight years to avenge. “Not even to me.”

  “I know.” She swallowed hard. “Jardine? I—”

  “Never mind that now.” He slid an arm around her waist and they walked together toward the cottage.

  At the door, Jardine halted, frowning. He thought he’d seen movement within. A flutter of curtains.


  Louisa stopped also, tilting her head. “Ives?” she mouthed.

  “Perhaps.” But he didn’t think so. He didn’t think he’d mentioned the location of this house to Ives.

  Maybe it was their friendly landlady, come to see that they had everything they required. But she was in the service’s employ. She ought to know better than to enter the house when it was in use.

  A face appeared at the window. Louisa gasped. “It’s Faulkner.”

  Of course. It had been Faulkner who had told him of this place, after all. Grimly, Jardine said, “He’s got a hide showing up here.”

  “I suppose I ought to be glad that he got the list, even if he did leave me for dead at that confounded temple.”

  Grimly, Jardine jerked his head, opening the door. “Come on. By the time I’m through with that bastard, he’ll . . .”

  Left her for dead . . . Jardine froze on the threshold. He had wanted to tear Faulkner apart with his bare hands for that piece of callous stupidity. Why bring someone like Louisa into the middle of that business? Why ask for her help in the first place?

  Faulkner always had a reason for everything. Nothing he ever did was on a whim.

  What if involving Louisa in this mess hadn’t been stupidity at all? What if . . . ? What if Faulkner had delivered them both to Smith in exchange for that list?

  “Jardine, what is it?”

  Smith’s final words, his smug laughter. That’s what he’d meant. Lord, why hadn’t Jardine seen it for himself? Faulkner had involved himself personally in this business because that list was his death warrant. He’d written it. He’d been one of the few men in a position to know the information it contained.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “What?” Louisa stopped, and Jardine turned her in his arms so that he was between her and the small entryway.

  He pretended to kiss her, whispering in her ear. “Faulkner betrayed us all. He wrote that list. He’s here to find out what we know. He might be here to kill us.”

  A rumbling cough sounded from beyond the open doorway. “When you’re quite finished, Jardine, I’ll have my report.”

  So this was how he was going to play it. Jardine took his time finishing the kiss. Then he lifted his head. Ignoring Faulkner, he said to Louisa, “I’m famished. How about some more of that soup, darling?”

  His voice was light but his eyes were fierce on hers.

  For once, she obeyed him, moving quickly toward the kitchen.

  With a short exhalation of relief, Jardine turned and went to lean on the doorjamb of the small parlor where Faulkner sat.

  The place no longer seemed cheerful and cozy; the lengthening shadows as much as the man who sat there in the semidarkness made Jardine’s hackles rise.

  Faulkner’s brows lifted. “It seems you and Lady Louisa are better acquainted than I was aware.”

  You know exactly what our relationship is, you bastard. Jardine had had enough of talking. He went to Faulkner, picked him up by his shirt, and planted him a facer that sent the older man hurtling back into his chair.

  Hell, but Jardine wanted to kill the traitor then and there. But all he had was suspicion, circumstantial evidence. Without proof, he had no recourse against Faulkner. Better to let him think them both ignorant, then Louisa would be safe.

  He gripped Faulkner’s coat in his fists. “You took Lady Louisa into a hopeless situation and left her there. What the hell were you thinking of?”

  Jardine saw the exact moment when Faulkner registered that Jardine had failed to make the connection between him and that list.

  Satisfaction burned in those hard gray eyes. “You, of all people, know that we do what must be done, no matter what the personal cost.”

  Not anymore. With a contemptuous sneer Jardine loosed his grip on Faulkner’s coat and let him fall back in his chair.

  The older man warmed to his theme. “The trouble with most failed operatives, Jardine, is that they want a private life. They want family, a safe haven from the ugliness of corruption and betrayal. You and I both know that simply isn’t possible. Once you have soiled your hands with the blood of your own countrymen, you can never live in innocence again. Everyone you love leaves, or is lost, or damaged or tainted.” Faulkner smiled grimly. “Just look what happened to Lady Louisa.”

  Rage boiled inside Jardine at this blatant attempt at manipulation. Corrosive remorse and anger had been wearing at his soul ever since Radleigh had made that terrifying incision on Louisa’s face. Faulkner sought to capitalize on that weakness, just as Jardine had taken advantage of Radleigh’s social ambitions to bargain for the agent list.

  But for the first time, underlying all the guilt and self-recrimination was a sweet, wholesome sense of certainty. Louisa had not only survived the past few days but emerged stronger, his wonderful warrior woman. Strong and steadfast. She would not fail him. Her innocence was gone, and he would never forgive himself for it. But while she loved him, he had hope of forging something good and lasting between them.

  Faulkner gave a snort and half closed his eyes. “Ah, you’re all the same.”

  That cynical complacency galled Jardine so much he wanted to rip the man apart. Quietly, he spoke. “Do not rest easy, old man. For what you did to Lady Louisa, I will make it my life’s work to bring you down. Now get out.”

  Faulkner sneered. “Might I remind you that this house is Crown property—”

  “I said get out!”

  Louisa returned at that point with brandy and glasses. She handed a glass to Jardine and glanced inquiringly at their unwanted guest.

  Faulkner rose a little unsteadily, but Jardine just knew the bastard was dancing a jig inside.

  The old man gave one of his rare smiles. “That’s quite all right, Lady Louisa—or should I say, Lady Jardine? I have what I came for.”

  He left the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

  Jardine hurled his glass at the wall.

  LOUISA left the mess. She poured a brandy for herself and sank into an armchair, took a long, fiery gulp, and rested her head back against the chintz-covered cushions.

  She ached in every conceivable part of her body. The wound in her cheek throbbed like the Devil. At least she seemed to have escaped infection. That was a boon, indeed.

  Her mind drifted, and the events preceding this night seemed to haze and blur into unreality until her brain couldn’t grasp even the merest wisp of reason. She needed to think, but that required too much effort. She needed to talk to Jardine, too, but he’d gone off somewhere, too furious for company, even hers.

  Perhaps he was avoiding her. It was possible, after all, that he still thought they had no business being together. How like him to withdraw from her after they’d faced such a danger, even though they’d won.

  But she was tired, battle-weary, and sore, and she couldn’t deal with him now. It was getting harder to think every moment.

  She closed her eyes, and at the last instant before she slept, Louisa knew a deep satisfaction.

  Everything would be all right. This time, she would fight for him. This time, she’d win everything she’d dreamed of for so long.

  WHEN Louisa roused, there were hands on her body. Large, elegant hands, gentle hands, smoothing away her clothing, releasing her torso from stays, easing her shift over her head.

  She lay on sheets that smelled of sunshine. She murmured and turned her face into the pillow. Strong arms dug into the ticking beneath her and lifted her up, and her heart swooped and soared.

  She opened her eyes and saw a steaming hip bath before the fire. Turning her head, she looked up at the stern, troubled face of her bearer and couldn’t stop her smile bursting forth.

  He’d done this for her. While she’d slept he’d built a fire, drawn water and boiled it, carried it to the bedchamber so she could sink into this delicious bath.

  A lift of his lips acknowledged her smile, but his eyes remained dark and bleak.

  He lowered her gently into the bath, wetting his own
cuffs as he did. He was travel-stained and rumpled, yet he exuded masculine beauty so vivid and powerful that it hurt her to look at him. Yet, she couldn’t look away.

  “Soap,” he muttered, hunting around in her discarded garments. “Here. I couldn’t find a flannel or a sponge.”

  She thought he’d give her the soap, but instead, he dipped the small cake in the water and lathered it between his hands.

  “Hold this.”

  She took the slippery cake and watched as his hands slid over her, giving particular attention to her breasts, laving their peaked nipples, skating over their swells, palming them, squeezing gently.

  She arched back with a cry, her lips parted and moist. He touched her, skillfully, sinfully. He parted her legs and used his fingertips inside her and out until she shuddered and gave a gasping cry.

  Later, warm and dry in those sun-drenched sheets, she felt the mattress depress as he climbed in next to her.

  She ran her hand over his chest. My love. She smiled. You don’t have to be alone anymore.

  He rolled toward her and sighed, and he slept in her arms like a dead man until morning.

  JARDINE woke and found himself staring directly into a pair of startling blue eyes. No matter how often he looked at her, every time, those eyes pierced him anew.

  They were fierce, those eyes, and he couldn’t quite believe he was waking up with them and the person who owned them next to him. Perhaps it was selfish, but nothing would stop him claiming her now.

  “I owe you an apology,” she said, and with delight, he realized why she looked particularly fierce this morning. Louisa hated to admit she was wrong.

  He lifted himself on one elbow, and his gaze dipped. For a moment, he was distracted by the lushness of her mouth. Her lips pressed together in a determined line.

  Jardine forced himself to raise his eyes to hers, dutifully ignoring the stir in his nether regions. He didn’t want to miss this. “Yes?”

  “I—I never quite understood what it was that you did. When he forbade us to marry all those years ago, Max told me you were a cold-blooded killer.” Her brow puckered. “But that’s not the case, is it?”