by Darcy Burke
Sauveterre said nothing. But his left eye twitched and his nostrils flared, signs of indignation he could not contain under James’s watchful gaze.
James had two options: either he could goad Sauveterre further in hopes that the man would become flustered and exhibit a weakness he could utilize, or he could back off and try to find another way to save Vivian.
God, what if he made the wrong choice? He risked her life on the chance that he was as good at reading people as he thought. He wished with all his will that he could turn back time, keeping her from this position.
She was so very still in Sauveterre’s arms. Shoulders tight, knuckles white at her side. Her only movement was her rapidly blinking eyes as she stared straight ahead, her eyes appearing damp and excessively bright.
He could practically feel her terror, emanating off her in waves that threatened to drown him too. Though Sauveterre had ceased pressing the tip of the blade into her throat, the knife remained a threat. The wound on her forehead concerned him. She needed medical attention, not a continued stalemate.
None of them were close enough to rush Sauveterre—the bastard would slit Vivian’s throat before they made it to the porch.
James sent up a silent prayer that the Lion was watching over them, guiding his actions to a fortuitous end. He lifted his gaze to Sauveterre, arching a brow at the Frenchman.
“You must remember,” he urged, keeping his tone level while his mind plotted seventy different ways to kill the blackguard. “It was not the best time for you, was it? If I recall correctly, you’d just finished telling me all about where the Talon’s latest cadre of weapons was located. Isn’t that right, Bouchard?”
Sauveterre sucked his cheeks in, his brows lowering. “Don’t call me Bouchard. That is not my name.” The spy’s grip appeared to slacken on the knife for a moment.
James’s eyes widened in faux innocence. “My apologies. Is that not what they call you now? I distinctly remember LeGrand deeming you ‘Big Mouth.’”
“Because of you,” Sauveterre spat. “Because of you they refused to call me by my true alias.”
Behind him, he heard a guffaw. Nixon, he was sure. Arden was too dignified.
Sauveterre flinched. The tiniest movement, barely perceptible, but enough that his hand went limp again for a second. Vivian sucked in a hasty breath, her eyes shining with gratitude. She still could not risk speaking—not when the blade came back against her throat, tight again.
If he could get Sauveterre to loosen more…
“Your own people don’t respect you,” James said. “You’re going to be the cautionary tale they tell new spies. ‘Don’t be like Big Mouth. He died in a draw match because he was too foolish to realize he was outmanned.’”
Sauveterre’s craggy face reddened. “There may be three of you, but I’d say my odds are good. After all, I have your little whore here.” With his right hand, he burrowed his fingers into the hollow above Vivian’s hip.
She whimpered, her cry splintering her heart in two. There would not be pieces large enough to bury when he was done with Sauveterre.
“You see, I don’t need a knife to inflict pain upon your lady love,” Sauveterre said. “But I have waited a long, long time for this moment with you, Falcon. I will not wait longer. You took something from me—my friend, Nicodème. So I will take something from you.”
Vivian’s eyes bulged, her pupils becoming smaller, making her appear half-mad. The terror, combined with her blood loss, was becoming too much. At any minute, she might faint, risking the nick of the knife as she collapsed.
James let the full force of his wrath glide onto his features, his voice ice-cold. Sharp as the blade Sauveterre held. “You kill her and you sign your death warrant. Do you think there is a country you can flee to where I will not find you? I will hunt you to the ends of the Earth.”
“I suggest you let her go,” Arden commanded, her voice steely. “Or I will make damn certain you regret it.”
“And I’ll help,” Nixon added.
“She isn’t part of this.” James took a step forward, emboldened by the cagy way Sauveterre’s gaze flicked between him, Arden, and Nixon. “You want to fight with me, then fight with me. Not her. Or are you so little of a man that you must hide behind a woman?”
Arden—and Vivian, if he was lucky—would slap him later for that comment, but it had the desired effect on Sauveterre. He hesitated. His gaze drifted downward, head bowed. His fingers slid on the knife.
Vivian must have felt the blade relax, for the fear splashed upon her face tapered in accordance. Her lip no longer trembled. When Sauveterre looked toward Arden, James met Vivian’s gaze, her blue eyes clear.
“I love you,” he mouthed.
Her lips curled in a tiny smile, a bit of color coming back to her ashen cheeks.
“Little man, big mouth,” James called, mocking Sauveterre. “Let’s see if you can fight me without that albatross around your neck.”
He looked directly at Vivian, praying she’d understand his hint.
She grabbed onto Sauveterre’s knife arm to keep the blade steady as she flung her head back, her skull slamming into his chin with a sickening crack. Sauveterre fell back, the knife sliding ineffectively off her throat. She punched back, connecting with his groin, hitting him again and again, until finally he wilted, his knees giving out. Taking off at a gallop, she jumped off the porch and did not stop running until she was in James’s arms again.
She’d saved herself when he could not save her.
He held her close to him as Arden and Nixon went for Sauveterre, crossing his hands and feet and then binding them. The bastard let out a pitiful groan, but James spared him no mind. This time, he would gladly leave his agents to dealing with the enemy—the most important person in their mission was already with him, snuggled up against his coat.
He pulled her closer to him, hunching over her to hide her eyes from the butchery around them. But instead, she lifted her head up from his coat, refusing to be shielded.
“You don’t have to protect me anymore,” she murmured. “You made sure I could protect myself.”
“I will always—” He’d been about to tell her he’d always protect her. But he’d just watched her fight through hell and come out on the other side. He looked down at her, a proud smile on his lips. “I solemnly swear to never underestimate you again, my brave survivor.”
“Your brave spy,” she corrected.
He released her, his mouth agape. But before he could question her, she rose up on her tiptoes, kissing him. She drew him closer to her, anchoring her hand on his neck. He let her steer the kiss for a minute. Then he took over, claiming possession of her, plundering her mouth. He kissed her until every bit of her body was imprinted again upon his mind, until he slowly said goodbye to the guilt that had consumed him in this last year.
When they finally broke apart, it was because they could no longer spare their breath. Still she stayed in his arms, her head nestled against his chest. He knew that for the rest of his life, he’d want her by his side. She was a fierce minx. A damnably aggressive, impossible woman.
She was all his. Forever.
Approximately an hour later, Vivian sat on the settee in the main room of the cottage, a lukewarm cup of tea cradled between her hands. James had poured it for her, insisting that it would help her get her strength back, but she couldn’t summon up the energy to lift the cup. She leaned her head back against the settee, shuddering.
Arden watched her from her perch across the room. She’d come to sit with Vivian after helping Northley into bed. The maid would mend from Sauveterre’s blows, but she needed rest and relaxation to speed along the healing process.
“It will take some time to recover,” Arden said, her quiet words a balm to Vivian’s tired soul. Everything today had been too loud, too rough. “The first time you’re taken hostage is always difficult.”
“The first?” Vivian turned her head toward Arden, her brows arched. “How many tim
es exactly have you been taken hostage?”
“Seven,” Arden said, said after a moment of reflection. “But five of those times, it was a tactical move on my part to catch the enemy off-guard. The other two…well, I prefer to think of them as mistakes to learn from.”
“I see,” Vivian said, her head beginning to spin again. “I have much to learn about spycraft.”
Arden smiled. “You have the best teacher in James.”
Vivian looked toward the end of the hall, where James and Nixon had moved Sauveterre for a preliminary interrogation. She hadn’t heard anything from that side of the house since they’d closed the door. Either the walls were thicker than she’d assumed, or they’d found a way to make the bastard talk without needing to inflict pain. Since all of his men were now dead, she suspected it was the latter—above all else, Sauveterre seemed to value his own life.
The door to the back room opened and James emerged. He started down the hall, his strides quick. Dirt and blood streaked his breeches. Stained his skin. His white shirt was ripped, and a pool of crimson stained his chest from where a knife must have nicked him. He came to a stop at the edge of the parlor, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck. His knuckles were raw and bloodied.
But he was alive.
And he loved her.
He crossed the room, coming to sit next to her. His baritone was the most welcome sound in the world. “We’ve finished with Sauveterre, at least for now.”
“Good,” Arden said.
“Did he tell you much?” Vivian asked.
“A few things.” James did not expand on that thought further, and she did not ask. He would share what he could. “Arden, do you think you might give us a moment?”
Arden nodded. “I should go check on Northley anyhow.” She stood, laying a hand on Vivian’s shoulder as she passed by the settee.
Once she was gone, James turned to face her. “We have just barely started with Sauveterre. I believe that back in headquarters with our best people, we could obtain much more information from him.”
“You mean you could torture it out of him,” she supplied.
He blenched. “I was hoping for a more delicate phrasing, but yes.”
“I no longer harbor any illusions about your work.” Her smile was bittersweet. “It’s bloody and distressing, but it keeps men like Sauveterre from harming innocent people.”
“About what you said outside,” James said. “Did you mean it? You want to be a spy?”
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “I want to be a part of the Clocktower. I need to be a part of it.”
“I was not expecting that response.” He took her hand in his, the warmth of his palm steadying her rapid heart. Everything made more sense when he was around. “Though I am glad.”
“But I want to do it on my terms,” she said. “You told me you’d assign my missions. After today, I know that there are some lines I’m not willing to cross.”
James clasped her hand tighter. “I wanted to speak to you about that. With what he knows, we might be able to shut down the Talons permanently.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“It would be a huge blow to Bonaparte’s government. Without his team of assassins, we stand a much better chance of unseating him.” James pursed his lips. “But...”
She tilted her head toward him. “But what?”
James sighed, taking in a deep breath. Whatever he was about to say weighed heavily on him. “But with everything you went through to find this bastard, I can’t take away your chance at revenge. Not after he hurt you like this.”
“You’re offering me the chance to kill Sauveterre?” She blinked, unsure she’d heard him right. “After everything you said before?”
“Perhaps I was wrong,” James hedged. “Perhaps I had no right to tell you what you needed to grieve.”
It was her turn to squeeze his hand now. “Or perhaps you were correct all along.”
His jaw dropped.
“All this time, I have thought only of vengeance for Evan,” she said. “As if that was the only way to ever make things right after his death. But I see now that I should have been looking for a way to honor the life he led.”
Understanding crossed James’s scratched face. “You did what you thought was needed.”
“Perhaps it was Sauveterre’s blasé justification of Evan’s death.” Her gaze drifted toward the back room. “He didn’t care who he had to kill to achieve his goal. Evan. Me. Even Northley. I don’t ever want to view human life as collateral damage.”
“You could never be the horror that Sauveterre is,” James assured her, his faith in her supporting her.
“Maybe not,” she mused. “But I don’t want to take that chance. When I looked into Sauveterre’s eyes, I saw nothing but coldness. No feeling. If I take his life, then maybe that coldness settles in me too. I choose not to take that chance.”
A wave of relief spread across James’s face. His posture relaxed. Were it not for the dried blood clotting on his face, he would have looked truly happy.
In that moment, she knew she’d made the right decision. “If you can shut down the Talons, then Evan’s death wasn’t for naught.”
The best way Vivian could think to carry on his legacy was to continue his work.
But she also never wanted to be a victim again. For too long, she’d put control of her life in the hands of other people. Going forward, she would control her destiny. James’s instruction here had given her the preliminary resources, but it was not enough. The more she learned, the more she realized that this was where she was supposed to be: protecting people who couldn’t help themselves. Who didn’t even know that a threat was coming—and if they succeeded in keeping the nation safe, they never needed to know.
“Then I will tell Nixon to ready Sauveterre for transport. We’re going back home.” He released her hand, pushing himself up from the settee.
“One moment.” She held up her hand, and he plopped back down. “Sauveterre isn’t going anywhere. Could we just…sit here for a minute? You and me.”
“Absolutely.” He pulled her toward him, and she laid her head down on his shoulder.
They’d weathered the storm. They’d faced an assassin. The terrors of their past. And they’d come out stronger, better versions of themselves.
Together.
Epilogue
Three months later
“I’ve found it,” Vivian whispered, waving for James to come over to her. As soon as he slid into place next to her, she shone her candle on the slip of paper, tapping her thumb on the postmark on the letter.
“Very good,” James praised.
She’d expected that after three months of heavy training with the Clocktower, his commendations would begin to matter less to her. Yet with every new achievement, she still loved to hear him extol her success. He supported her, giving her enough free rein that she felt independent on missions, but he was still always there for her if she needed him.
“Now what do we do?” she asked, careful to keep her voice quiet.
They’d snuck off at a soirée hosted by a wealthy magnate, Mr. Samuel Rivers, who apparently owned half of Bristol. But more importantly, James had received a tip from one of his assets in France that Mr. Rivers had been seen last month with several key members of the First Consul’s government.
James took the letter out of her hands, slipping it in his coat pocket. “We filch the letter and run like hell.” He motioned toward the door.
She blew out the candle, dropping it in her reticule. Her new lady’s maid, Kinsey, would decry the waxy residue, but desperate times called for desperate measures. She certainly couldn’t leave the candle behind, nor could they risk anyone seeing the light. Moonlight already streamed in through the big windows, a spy’s worst enemy.
But the risk was worth it. That piece of paper contained tangible evidence that Rivers conspired with one of Napoleon’s top generals to provide him with several shipments of arms.
Besides, in the past three months, she’d grown accustomed to stalking about in the dark. Sometimes, she even preferred it now, for she no longer feared for her life when a shadow crossed her path. Sauveterre was heavily guarded in gaol, awaiting execution for his crimes. As James had predicted, he’d given them a list of all the people he’d personally known in the organization, including several names neither James nor the rest of his agents recognized.
She followed James, her slippers making no sound on the floor as she crept toward the entrance of the library. Every part of her body was on alert, ready to act.
Footsteps sounded outside the door, and James signaled for her to take cover. She ducked, scurrying behind the couch. She held her breath. The footsteps continued, past the library door and down the hall.
Vivian exhaled, her heart beat returning to normal. James stopped at the door, holding up five fingers. She should wait five minutes before exiting after him. He opened the door, glancing around to make sure no one was coming. Then he stepped out. He’d meet her in the music room, where some of the ton’s most eligible debutantes were performing a set of staid classical numbers, each one more boring than the last.
Yet the rest of the guests clapped eagerly, as though this night was the highlight of their lives. She couldn’t help but pity them. They all turned up their noses when she entered a room, but she did not need their approval. She was the Duchess of Abermont. Their existences were sedate, a strict adherence to social strictures.
Her life was not summed up by the title, but in the thrilling missions of the Clocktower and the adoring embraces of her husband.
She knew real excitement, and she would never trade that.
The minutes passed. She peeked at the pocket watch she’d slipped into her reticule earlier in the evening. Five minutes were up. Time to meet James, and hopefully retire early from this dreadful party. Provided they weren’t waylaid by any of his seemingly endless circle of acquaintances, they should have several hours to themselves at home before any of his sisters came home to the townhouse. Lord Thomas would already be asleep. Though she loved having his family near, she did cherish the alone time she spent with James.