In the distance, an old, square watchtower stood guard on the mountainside over the only pass where a northern enemy could approach. Por Dios, how many times had he paced that tower, dreaming he was a warrior grown?
Two men approached, driving a half dozen fat blond cattle with the ancient local breed’s curving horns. The senior was a tall man of more than thirty years, with dark hair, olive skin, and dark brown eyes. The other was his teenaged counterpart, dressed in the same sturdy, though not rich, clothing. The adult looked them over curiously, assessing their obviously Spanish clothes and equipment, and nodded politely.
“Bon día, señor,” Rodrigo greeted him, automatically falling back into his native tongue despite centuries away.
The other’s face lit up. “Bon dia! Benvido a San Leandro!”
Rodrigo grinned back. Welcome to San Leandro, indeed.
Rodrigo, Sara whispered, using the mind link they shared as hijos of the same creador, he could be your older brother.
I know. Rodrigo’s throat was as dry as dust. Madre de Dios, how completely had his family established themselves in this mountain fastness?
“You haven’t seen anyone else?” Sir Andrew asked quietly.
“No, sir,” Jean-Marie answered for the third time, keeping well back in the shadows. His intuition was kicking him like an angry mule, insisting he leave immediately.
Behind them rose the great Mudéjar tower, its square bulk marking a medieval Spanish church built on a mosque’s foundations. Before them, a narrow street led to a broad avenue in the distance, every inch of it overlooked by layers of balconies.
Why the devil were they still standing about, chattering like friends in a London club? Madrid was a lawless city, only barely controlled by its new French masters. If any French soldier or sympathizer happened to overhear a whispered conversation in English, there’d be hell to pay.
Even more damning, there were four of them here: himself, Sir Andrew, Wade—his second and a prosaico, plus Celeste, a young vampira.
Sir Andrew was still silent, one finger tapping the small, leather-bound marine dictionary. It was the British code book, which Jean-Marie had only delivered after a series of challenges and counter-challenges. Its owner would be able to read British Secret Service messages throughout Spain and Portugal. Jean-Marie heartily admired how closely Sir Andrew held it.
What he didn’t understand—or approve of—were Sir Andrew’s companions.
Jean-Marie scanned his surroundings once again with all his senses, this time letting them linger on Sir Andrew’s companions.
Sir Andrew was an impressive man, who looked fully capable of living up to his legend as one of the longest-living, British vampiro field agents. Yet he was accompanied by a prosaico—the embodiment of clumsiness compared to a vampiro, no matter how competent—to this meeting, when the utmost secrecy and speed were required.
He’d also brought a vampira, a female who reeked of men’s lust, as if they’d spent days doing nothing but enjoying her carnal favors. Despite that—despite her heavy eyes, swollen mouth, and the odors of stale musk and sweat rising from her flesh—she still eyed them hungrily, gliding her tongue over her lip and flashing a bit of teeth in a vampira’s invitation to party. No wonder the prosaico sported an erection which made him walk stiff-legged!
Worst of all, Sir Andrew leered at her, too—staring at her mouth or her breasts when she let her cloak fall open. Every time she stretched or arched her back, he’d lose his thread of thought and have to begin again.
He’d introduced her as his hija. As her creador, she should be helplessly in thrall to him—not the other way around.
Jean-Marie shifted, ready to slip away. Thankfully, the vampira had paid no attention to him after her initial inspection. Perhaps there was something good to be said for his hair turning salt-and-pepper in the past two weeks, no matter how bleak it made his future. Obviously, appearing forty had removed him from her list of eligible men.
The vampira and prosaico obviously came to the same conclusion and began to walk off, their heads close together to enable a whispered conversation.
Sir Andrew’s gaze returned to Jean-Marie. “London’s orders are to carry out our mission immediately, regardless of anything else. How much longer will you remain here?”
“Sir?” The unusual question flummoxed him. Frankly, it was none of the man’s business.
“We’re missing one of our team.” For the first time, Sir Andrew’s voice was crisp and professional, albeit edged with worry.
How the hell had one of his people disappeared? Was that a euphemism for a worse fate?
“I don’t believe Hélène’s dead.”
Hélène? Could it be his Hélène? No, surely there had to be more than one Hélène. He had to stop coming on guard every time anyone mentioned a woman named Hélène.
“The French would be more likely to try to capture—and turn her.”
“Her?” Jean-Marie came alert, instinctively sliding his dirk into his palm. A woman in danger from the French? Or the French sympathizers, who’d be more vicious?
“A vampira—and a firestarter.” Sir Andrew’s voice was softer than an owl’s wing, relying on Jean-Marie’s compañero hearing to catch it—and keep it from prosaico eavesdroppers.
Merde, the greatest of all weapons that could be employed against vampiros, especially in wartime. A firestarter could light gunpowder as easily as any artilleryman—or incinerate a vampiro with a thought. Only they could act faster than a vampiro could move, which made her the only truly terrifying opponent.
His lips tightened, pulling back into a snarl. She had to be found, and quickly, before the French destroyed her.
But could his Hélène have become a vampira? No, that would be too much to ask for, to have her gain such a long life.
“I’m glad you recognize her importance,” Sir Andrew commented dryly. “We had to dodge some French sentries, on the Valencia road just outside Madrid. We didn’t see her when we took shelter, and we haven’t seen her since. I don’t believe they have her—but I don’t know where she is.”
“Any ideas?” His throat was sandpaper dry.
“Hélène knows how to contact you, since she too can read the message. I argued against it, but my superiors insisted.”
Indeed? Both of Jean-Marie’s eyebrows flew up. She wasn’t just a weapon—she was considered smart and tough enough to be trusted with codes and contact information. Quite remarkable.
“Or she may be hiding from the sun. She’s only a year older than Celeste as a vampira—and not as well fed.” Regret flitted through his voice.
Jean-Marie’s hands clenched into fists. The selfish fool had been enjoying himself, while not seeing to the health of his best asset? How the hell could such an idiot call himself a professional?
“Poor Celeste. She’s been very brave and hasn’t said a word about it.” Sir Andrew watched his lover’s hips sway invitingly beside Wade’s, highlighted in a patch of moonlight. He swallowed before going on. “We’ve tried to distract her, of course.”
“Excuse me?” Why would the slut feel any need to be brave?
“You don’t know? Well, of course I haven’t mentioned their full names.”
A frisson sparked through Jean-Marie’s skin, painful as an electrical charge. Hélène? Surely it couldn’t be…
“Celeste de Sainte-Pazanne is the younger sister of the Marquise Hélène d’Agelet.”
Hélène d’Agelet? Here—and possibly captured by the French? Jean-Marie’s core promptly slammed itself into a lava pool, hotter than all the fires of hell and more painful than a sword thrust through his gut. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to regain control. Nobody else would help her if he didn’t.
“Thank you.” Sir Andrew squeezed his shoulder. “I won’t mention this to Celeste; don’t want to bring the darling’s hopes up too high, lest they be dashed.”
Darling? The bitch had shown no signs of being interested in anything except men an
d pleasure. Something rang false, very false in any expressions of concern, given her behavior.
May God help this mission, because the Devil certainly seemed to be enjoying himself among it.
“Good luck.”
“And to you, sir.”
They shook hands before Sir Andrew loped after his team members.
Jean-Marie turned his back on them without a second thought.
London had arranged two methods for contacting him. Sir Andrew had used the first—and more cautious—approach, which could only be initiated during daylight. The other was for crises and assumed the contact point was constantly manned.
He stepped back into the shadows, counted to thirty, lest they’d been watched, and took off. He’d plotted a dozen routes between the two points months ago, as soon as they’d reached Madrid, just in case something like this happened.
Even as he kept watch for the unusual, a back corner of his mind considered the worst case. The Valencia road came in from the southeast. He needed to plan how to search it tomorrow, if he didn’t find her tonight.
He’d meant to leave tomorrow for Galicia, after delivering this message. He’d have to wait, even though he was growing old far faster than he’d hoped.
Hélène shrank deeper back into the shredded shrubbery, away from a French sentry’s crisp tread, while the lights of Madrid shimmered invitingly far below. If the London idiots had paid more attention to the actual conditions in Spain, she would not have needed to hide herself in the midst of French fortifications.
Arranging the alternate meeting point for the public gardens at Buen Retiro, near the Observatory, might have seemed a good plan for a city at peace, especially when it was so close to the Valencia road’s end. It was a damn risky one when the buildings and grounds had clearly been torn apart by professional troops. She hoped the city’s people would see it return to its former glory, when all these piles of rubble and shattered trees stood tall and proud again.
Even more, she prayed her contact would see the chalk marks she’d left on the designated convent wall and come quickly, even though it was now hours later. It was also two days, almost three, since she’d last tasted the life-giving cocktail of blood and emotion. She was starting to stagger, even though she’d slept undisturbed yesterday in the abandoned wine cellar.
She’d actually considered sidling up to a drunken muleteer she’d seen, hideous thought! Thankfully, no man was handsome when compared to Jean-Marie St. Just, and she’d turned away.
But, parbleu, the fellow’s bulging muscles had almost made him look acceptable…
She shuddered and rubbed her forehead, trying to force her abominable headache away, along with any chance she might actually carry out such an ill-advised, humiliating activity.
“Hélène!” A sibilant whisper reached her ears. A man and unmistakably French, even familiar. Jean-Marie? Could her exhaustion and loneliness be making her fantasize?
“Hélène.” Callused fingertips brushed her arm as lightly as swan’s-down.
“Jean-Marie!” Totally ignoring any need for stealth and uncaring what had brought him here, she flung herself at him. His arms closed hard around her, bringing her breathtakingly close to a solid masculine chest. She clung, most satisfactorily cozy.
He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, caressing her hair. She sniffled happily, glad she’d stuffed the damn veil into her pack.
“We need to leave. Where are your things?”
“Only this leather pack.” She pointed at it, forgetting he probably couldn’t see anything in the dark. Although his scent wasn’t exactly like any other prosaico she’d ever met.
He picked it up without so much as a fumble.
She gawked but told herself he must have spotted it in a patch of moonlight or starlight.
He caught her by the hand and guided her from the thicket, carefully leading her past the worst of the ensnaring branches and twigs. Within minutes, they were weaving through Madrid’s archaic warren of streets, rarely stopping even to catch their breath.
Celeste stumbled and fell to the ground. The stupid Wade was on her in a moment to help her up—but she’d already seen what she needed: two horsemen watching them from a distance, with moonlight glinting on a spyglass.
In an impoverished land whose people could barely afford donkeys, much less mules, horses were a great rarity and usually had to be imported. But even at this hour and upwind from the beasts, she could tell the difference between horses and mules.
They were French soldiers or sympathizers, it didn’t matter which. Nobody else would have the arrogance to display such valuable beasts so close to Madrid, when open war was about to break out between the so-called Patriots and Napoleon.
But why the devil had they shown themselves?
She stretched her memory back, struggling to remember her French master’s hasty words during those few snatched minutes back in Portsmouth.
There were only two of them, both men, with no sign of a woman.
Merde! The fools hadn’t captured Hélène. The self-righteous bitch who always succeeded in every mission, just as she’d killed Raoul with little more effort than snapping her fingers.
Celeste ground her teeth, fighting not to scream out loud. How could they have been so inept? She’d walked Hélène straight past their ambush. All they’d had to do was have their powerful vampiro bind her mind and grab her. Then take her back to France for questioning, which would end up with her alive and in the service of the Emperor—or dead.
Celeste truly didn’t care which. The first would relieve her of the sin of fratricide, something she wasn’t sure she could explain to Raoul in the hereafter. It might even stop her from ever seeing Raoul again, in this life or the next. But the second would be the proper penalty for Hélène’s murder of Raoul.
Her fingers curled into claws, longing to rip out her sister’s throat. She forced them to relax, one by one, and went back to considering the horsemen.
What would they say—they hadn’t seen her in the darkness? She snorted in disgust and quickly covered it with a bout of coughing.
Now what?
Mercifully, she’d managed to cloak her true feelings for her sister well enough that Hélène still believed they both thought of each other as family. Celeste had given the excuse she didn’t like to think or talk about any reminders of life in France.
Protocol dictated missing team members would rendezvous with the others at predetermined points. The first one was in Salamanca, northwest of Madrid and past the tall Guadarrama mountains. Hélène, the noble bitch—and murderess—would no doubt make every effort to rejoin them there.
Celeste would have to let her French masters know somehow. There should be something in those signs they’d taught her.
She’d have to keep Sir Andrew from suspecting anything. Given his propensity for thinking with his dick, the wonder would be if he had a coherent thought on any subject!
She snickered privately.
Maybe she could even lift that codebook Sir Andrew was clutching so closely and slip it to her friends soon.
Hélène hesitated when Jean-Marie opened the side gate into an elegant house’s garden. “Yours?”
“Yes, of course. Don’t worry—you’ll be safe here.” His hand tightened on hers, urging her forward.
“But will you be?” She fumbled for words to describe his danger, without saying she was a spy.
“Hélène.” To her shock, he chuckled slightly. “I’m sorry, I forgot we haven’t been properly introduced yet.”
He released her, gave her a neat bow, and declaimed,
“And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountain green?”
He waited expectantly, one eyebrow visibly arched in the light from the kitchen window.
She stared at him, her jaw dropping open. Him? Jean-Marie was the brilliant, long-lasting, British spy resident in Madrid? How had he swallowed his distaste for the Hanoverian kings and their
minions long enough to serve them? Quite possibly for the same reasons she had.
She managed to recover herself, curtsy, and respond with the correct countersign, also taken from Milton.
“And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?”
Jean-Marie threw back his shoulders and cleared his throat.
“I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem…”
He cocked an eyebrow at her.
“In England’s green and pleasant land.”
She finished for them both, feeling definitely stunned. He was definitely the British spy she’d been seeking.
“Now will you come inside? Perhaps I should have mentioned I’ve already met Sir Andrew and his companions. They’re all quite well, by the way, but have already followed their orders and left town.”
“Orders? Left town?” Mon Dieu, how she’d hoped to be reunited with her sister and creador.
“Very clear and emphatic orders.” He sounded completely sympathetic to her discouragement. His hand rested on the small of her back, gently urging her up the stairs to the kitchen. He rapped lightly and swung the door open. Two servants were revealed, an older but still vigorous couple, who promptly swung into action, fussing over her as if she was a lady of the house.
An hour later, Hélène belted the dressing gown closer around her, muttering possible conversational gambits to toss at Jean-Marie. She’d bathed in hot, gardenia-scented water and knew herself clean from head to foot, even if she wore only this soft velvet and the thin silk nightgown underneath. The maid had carried off her clothes to be washed, clucking over their condition, a summary with which she could hardly argue—even if it did leave her at a disadvantage in facing her host.
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