His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3)

by Joanna Maitland

  The man was shorter than Jack, but much heavier. He was trying to use his free arm to fight. But Jack was behind him and he still had the man's arm locked against his back. He pushed it even higher. A loud gasp of pain. The villain must yield now, surely?

  Jack tried to push the man face-first into the wall, but he continued to struggle. And then he kicked over the lantern. Everything went dark.

  Jack swore. Fighting this man in the dark was no easy task, especially as he seemed to be able to ignore the pain of the armlock. He tried to trip Jack's feet from under him, but Jack was wise to that. He had wrestled too often with his brothers. Then, without warning, the man used his free hand as leverage to propel his weight backwards into Jack's body. Taken by surprise, Jack staggered, letting go of the armlock. Now he had lost his advantage, and he could see nothing. He heard, though. There was a low growl and a filthy curse. "I'll have 'ee now," the voice said.

  At that moment, a light flared. The woman appeared in the open doorway, holding a tiny candle high with her left hand.

  Jack saw the scene like a tableau vivant, his attacker crouching, ready to spring, and now with a small, wicked knife in one hand. Behind him, in the doorway, stood the woman in a pale wrapper, the light held high in one hand and a brass candlestick in the other, her bare feet planted firmly on the wooden boards.

  Jack took a defensive stance, waiting. In the flickering light, his assailant's advantage was lessened, but he still had that knife.

  The man risked a quick glance over his shoulder towards the light. He saw the woman, the light and the candlestick, and for a moment, his attention wavered. Now was Jack's chance. He launched himself at the man, determined to wrest the knife from his grasp. He grabbed the man's wrist with one hand, and his neck with the other, trying to half-throttle him to make him drop the knife.

  It took only a second. The man groaned and collapsed in a heap on the floor. The knife clattered against the wall and was still.

  Jack gasped in relief. "Thank God." He had never known any man to succumb so quickly. He threw himself to his knees and pinioned both the man's arms behind his back.

  The woman's bare feet edged a step nearer. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack registered that they were small, and fine-boned. He looked up. Even in the half-light, she was very pretty, with a mass of fair curly hair and delicate features. Jack found himself trying to judge the colour of her eyes. Madness. This was no time for such idiocy.

  The woman had put the candlestick on the floor and was undoing the belt of her wrapper. "Perhaps you would tie him up?" She offered it to Jack.

  He took it, instantly conscious of the fact that she now had to hold her wrapper closed with her free hand. What glories was she concealing underneath? He remained stock still for a moment, his mind full of lustful imaginings.

  "Sir?"

  Her slightly testy tone brought him back to earth with a jolt. She had every reason to be cross. His behaviour was inexcusable. He hurriedly used the belt to tie the assailant's arms behind his back, making sure the knot was good and tight. The man would have severely bruised wrists, to add to his damaged shoulder, which was little enough by way of punishment for such a dastardly attack.

  Jack had himself back under control by the time he stood up, though he was increasingly conscious of his half-naked state. It was no way to appear in front of a lady. And this fair-haired girl was definitely a lady.

  "It is generally best, ma'am," he said seriously, "to keep your bedchamber door locked when travelling." The implication was clear. She had put herself in danger, and unnecessarily.

  "And I would do so, sir, but it is a little difficult at present." She picked up the candlestick, took a step backwards into the room and gestured at the floor. There was another body lying there.

  "You did that, ma'am?" he said in wonderment. She had taken on two assailants, at least one of them armed, and she with only a candlestick? This lady was an Amazon.

  She nodded, weighing her candlestick in her hand. "I hit him very hard. I hope I have not killed him." There was a slight tremor in her voice. "But I was alone, and afraid."

  Jack knelt by the second man and checked for a pulse. It was there, and surprisingly strong, considering what had been done to him. Jack rose to his feet. "Have no fear, ma'am, he is alive."

  She smiled then, for the first time. Even in the relative gloom, he could see that it lit up her face, and her eyes. But he still could not make out their colour.

  "Do you have something else we can use to tie this one up? I have nothing, I'm afraid." He gestured towards his makeshift attire.

  She gave a low laugh. "I should prefer if you did not remove your sheet for that purpose, sir." She turned back into her chamber.

  Jack took a step after her to find that the room was piled with packages. He watched as the woman ripped one open and took out some material. It shimmered as it caught the faint light from the candle. There was a ripping noise, loud in the sudden silence.

  "Here." She offered him the piece she had torn off. "It's silk. Stronger than the best rope. It will certainly hold him."

  Jack took the delicate fabric and began to twist it. Yes, it was strong, but it also felt wonderful against his skin, slippery, soft, sensuous. It was the sort of fabric that should embrace a beautiful woman, not tie up a ruffian. But it was all they had, and he used it. Then he hauled the body over the threshold and dumped it in the corridor.

  "Thank you, sir." She was making to shut the door on him.

  He held up a hand. "A moment, ma'am. Would you be so good as to tell me what happened? I cannot understand why you would have opened your door to such villains."

  She frowned, possibly a little crossly. "It would require a complete ninny, sir, to do such a thing without cause. Those men were trying to break into my room, to steal my goods, I imagine." She gestured to the piles of parcels. "I had a choice. To lie in my bed and wait to be robbed, even murdered. Or to confront them on my terms." She raised the candlestick. "Would you have had me do otherwise?"

  Jack was not absolutely sure, but he thought her eyes might have flashed with anger as she spoke. His Amazon was certainly challenging him. He had been wrong about her, and he would have to apologise. "Your reactions were admirable, ma'am, and very courageous. If I have seemed to suggest anything else, I apologise."

  She softened a little then. Jack could see it in the slight relaxation of her shoulders. And she lowered the candlestick, too.

  He peered past her into the room. "You have no maid, ma'am?"

  She shook her head. "A manservant only. He sleeps in the carriage."

  "It might be safer to have him sleep outside your door."

  She seemed to consider that for a moment. "You may be right, sir. I will remember your advice. And now, if I may impose on you a little more, I should be most grateful if you would arrange for these two would-be thieves to be taken to the authorities."

  He could not leave them as they were. Since only their hands were tied, there was a danger they might escape. "Might I have two more pieces of your silk, ma'am? I think their legs need to be bound while I go for the constable." He knelt once more by the two unconscious bodies.

  At that moment, the knife man groaned. "I should have hit him harder," she said, before turning away to fetch more silk.

  Jack sat back on his heels. So much for his choke-hold. He owed his deliverance from the knife, not to his own quick wits and fighting skills, but to a brave Frenchwoman and a brass candlestick.

  Chapter Two

  Ben dropped his valise, groaned and put a hand to his head. Even the weak spring sunshine must be too strong for him, for he was trying to shade his eyes.

  "Don't expect any sympathy from me, Ben," Jack said. "In this part of the world, the wine is remarkably strong and pure hangover juice. It's nothing like the fine champagnes we were served in Vienna."

  Ben groaned again. "I'll know better next time."

  "And perhaps, next time, you'll be awake enough to help. If that
Frenchwoman hadn't been so handy with her candlestick, I could have been sliced up like a prime ham." He smiled softly to himself at the memory of his Amazon. A pity they'd had to leave the inn so early. He would have welcomed a chance to see her again, if only to ask after her well-being. And finally to see the colour of her eyes. "That ruffian certainly meant business," he added, forcing himself to put the fair Frenchwoman from his thoughts.

  "Yes, I'm sorry. What will happen now? You don't have to stay to give evidence against those fellows, do you?"

  Jack shook his head. "No. The innkeeper is used to such starts, it seems. He said he would deal with them. No need for me, or the lady, to remain. I must say I am glad of it. If I'd had to give evidence against those two, I might have been forced to say more than is wise. Indeed, I think it's best if we leave Marseilles immediately." He bent to pick up Ben's valise as well as his own. He might not offer words of sympathy, but he could provide practical help for his friend's pounding head.

  "But aren't we supposed to find out about the Bonapartists in Marseilles? Wellington suspected—"

  "And he was right. I went out on to the quay earlier, while you were still snoring." He grinned wickedly and started slowly along the harbour side. "There's lots of talk about the Emperor and how he promised to return with the violets. Lots of treasonous muttering against King Louis, too. Must say I was surprised at how open it was. They knew I was near enough to overhear, but they didn't bother to lower their voices."

  "Sounds bad."

  "Yes. There are always troublemakers on any dockside, even at home, but Englishmen would have taken care not to be overheard. I had the impression that these Frenchmen are beyond caring, that they see Bonaparte as their last, desperate hope."

  Ben shook his head and made a noise in his throat.

  Jack could not be sure if the moan was a result of Ben's hangover or his concern about the risks of rebellion. "Best if we make our way to the coaching inn. There must be some kind of diligence to take us north, especially this early in the day. And if the coach is full of passengers, we may glean some useful information by listening to what they have to say. You'd best go back to being mute, I suppose."

  Ben nodded. They both knew it was safer that way.

  "Never mind, old fellow." Jack grinned. "Shouldn't be for long, and then—"

  "It doesn't matter." Ben leant across to take his bag from Jack's hand. "It's for the mission, remember?"

  "Ah, good. You're feeling better."

  Ben nodded again. This time he smiled. "Let's go."

  They quickened their pace along the side of the harbour. The ship that had brought them from Genoa was still lying at anchor, waiting for the tide. Her decks were swarming with Italian sailors. One or two of them shouted a greeting. Jack waved a hand, but did not pause. There was too much to do. "We should be able to—"

  A loud shout stopped them in their tracks. Jack spun on his heel. A group of burly men had appeared from the inn where they had lodged overnight. Two of them had dirty grey bandages round their heads, and they were pointing at Jack and Ben.

  Jack gasped. "Those are the two ruffians from last night."

  Ben looked back. "The men with them don't look anything like constables, either."

  As they watched, the group of Frenchmen split into two. The two bandaged men remained by the inn door, but their fellows were striding up the quayside towards Jack and Ben. A sudden shaft of watery sunlight caught the gleam of knife blades against dark clothing.

  "Dear God. The landlord must have been in league with them. And now they're after us. I don't like the odds, with five of them and two of us."

  "We'd better run for it." Valise in hand, Ben started for the end of the harbour.

  "You go on. I'll follow." Jack was digging into his pocket as Ben took to his heels. Then he yelled at the sailors on the Genoese ship. "Hey, you fellows! This is for you, with our thanks." He flung the handful of coins high in the air, right into the path of their pursuers. Without waiting to see the reaction from the ship, he turned and hared after Ben.

  Behind him, Jack heard shouts in a mixture of languages. The sailors must be scrambling on to the quayside and fighting the Frenchmen for the coins. He and Ben had time to escape. They would—

  Ahead of him, Ben had stopped and turned, foolishly waiting for Jack to catch up with him. A moment later, the sharp crack of a pistol echoed round the harbour. Ben cried out and fell to the ground.

  He had been shot.

  In seconds, Jack had caught up with Ben and was hauling him back to his feet. He was conscious, though very pale. He had dropped his valise and was clutching at his shoulder. Jack put an arm round his waist. "Come on. Let me take your weight. We can get away."

  Ben gritted his teeth and did his best to run.

  "I will mind the horses, Guillaume, if you fetch the provisions."

  "But, mistress, it's not safe to leave you here alone with the coach and all the silk. You know what happened last night."

  Marguerite shook her head. "It will not happen again. Look." She took a step forward so that the folds of her skirt moved. They had been concealing her hand, and the pistol she had taken from the coach. "No one will try anything. If anyone should accost me, I will shoot him. Now, fetch the provisions, Guillaume, and be as quick as you can. We will have precious little time to stop on the road, and even you cannot manage without food."

  He nodded and hurried across the Place du Cul de Boeuf to the baker's on the corner of the Canebière, the long, wide street leading up from the port to the main part of the city.

  Marguerite sighed and buried the pistol more deeply among her skirts. She refused to be afraid, even though they were still all too close to the port and the ruffians who frequented it. Last night had been dangerous, terrifying even, but it had been her own fault for sleeping without a guard. She would not make such a mistake again. On another occasion, she might not be lucky enough to have a gentleman come to her aid. He had been most courageous, launching himself into the fray with no thought for his own safety. And covered by only a thin bed sheet, to boot. She should have been embarrassed, but she had been too intent on dealing with the attackers.

  Now she remembered that her rescuer's naked torso had seemed shapely and well muscled, like a classical statue. She fancied his hair had been dark. And he was tall, too. But what she remembered most clearly was his voice, its strong, rich tone inspiring confidence and helping her to overcome her terror. She would treasure the memory of that voice.

  It was a pity she had not had a chance to thank him properly, or even to ask his name. Everything had happened so quickly. As soon as both men were securely bound, he had disappeared to arrange for them to be taken to gaol. Marguerite had been left alone to sleep, if she could. And she had, soothed by the memory of that remarkable voice.

  This morning she had rid herself of such missish fancies. As a matter of courtesy, she would have liked to seek him out, but it had been much too early. She had not left a note. How could she, for a man with no name? But she now felt more than a little guilty. It was a breach of good manners to have failed to thank him. If she ever saw him again, she would remedy that, but the chances were extremely slim. She walked thoughtfully to the leader's head and raised her free hand to stroke his neck.

  And then she heard the sound of running feet.

  She tightened her hold on the butt of the pistol, and turned. Two men had rounded the corner from the Quai du Port. One, a fair-haired stranger, was leaning heavily on his darker fellow. Why, it was the gentleman who had come to her rescue only hours before. She stepped quickly away from the horses. What was happening? What should she do? The men looked to be in some distress. The fair-haired one seemed to be struggling to stay upright. Without the support of his friend, he would probably have fallen to the ground.

  Marguerite knew she had to help her rescuer as he had helped her. It was a matter of honour. She owed him. She hurried forward, still gripping the pistol. "Sir, what is the matter?"

>   "My friend has been shot," the darker man gasped, "by a gang of villains. They are just behind us."

  Marguerite did not hesitate. "Quickly. Inside my coach." She ran forward to fling open the door, scrambled inside and began throwing most of the parcels of silk to one side. "Lay him here." She pointed to the floor where the seat had been removed to make room for her stores.

  The two men did not speak. They simply acted. The dark man threw his valise into the corner of the coach, then half-pushed, half-lifted his injured fellow into the space Marguerite had cleared. In seconds, he was lying on a bed of packaged silk.

  "You, too." She gestured urgently. There was room for both of them.

  The dark man nodded and lay alongside his fellow.

  Marguerite quickly heaped all the remaining packages on top of them. It was a ramshackle pile, but there was nothing to betray what was hidden underneath it. She jumped quickly to the ground and closed the door at her back. She took a deep breath, looking round. There was no one, yet, but she could hear running feet again. And this time, there were more of them. She swallowed hard, pushed the pistol more deeply within her skirts and straightened her shoulders.

  She was about to move back to the horses' heads when she noticed a bloodstain on the ground by her foot. Dear God, that would give them away. She moved to cover as much of the stain as possible with her boot, hoping the shadow of her long skirt would hide the rest. Provided she did not move—and she had no intention of doing so—the blood would not be seen. Guillaume would return soon, and then there would be two of them to outface whatever scoundrel was prepared to shoot an unarmed man in broad daylight.

  She did not have long to wait. Barely seconds after she had hidden the bloodstain, five dirty and sinister-looking Frenchmen rounded the corner at a run and skittered to a stop, one of them slipping on the gravelly surface of the square. They were all looking about them suspiciously, clearly wondering where their quarry had gone. She heard disjointed words in the local thieves' cant. She did not understand them all, but enough to make clear that the two fugitives were in real danger. As was she, for hiding them.