by Jun, Kristi
Enemy’s Kiss
Kristi Jun
www.KristiJun.com
Enemy’s Kiss
Copyright © 2015 Jinhee Jun
This is work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser.
Dedication
For Dad: A dedicated Zen monk and a wonderful father.
You have given me the strength to follow my dream.
We miss you.
(August 25, 1950 ~ April 20, 2004)
PROLOGUE
London, March 1814
Michael Whitfield, the second son of late Earl of Chatham, was a sucker for a lost soul—always had been, like a damned fool. He’d sensed that in Emma Willoughby from the moment he laid his eyes on her three weeks ago at Bond Street.
He shoved his hand inside his coat pocket and pulled out a platinum ring with a large emerald mounted in the center. It had been Ashley’s favorite family jewel, he thought with tightness in his chest. It should be only fitting Emma should have it; a woman he intended to marry.
Call him a fool; mad even. He’d never done anything without the calculated moves of a trained assassin. Never set foot in a territory without surveying what he was getting himself into. One mission after another, only to wake up either in enemy territory or at home with yet another mission at hand.
In the last three weeks, he’d seen her six times—just six. In each of the six instances, he’d been a perfect gentleman. Each time he watched her depart the cottage, he found himself eagerly looking forward to their next meeting. None of this was rational, especially what he was about to do, but hell with it—it felt right.
The familiar sound of the carriage alerted him, and his heart pounded in his chest. Christ, man, ease up. But he could not deny how happy he’d been the last three weeks, especially today.
Emma’s carriage approached the cottage and it slowly came to a stop right in front of him. He opened the door, expecting her to jump into his arms as she had done many times, but she didn’t.
Not this time.
He saw her in the dimness of the interior, gesturing for him to join her inside. Stepping in to the carriage, the familiar fragrance of citrus and fresh earth lingered in the air between them. He touched her rosy cheek and smiled. “You’ve been in the orangery again, haven’t you?”
The mood between them suddenly shifted and he felt her uneasiness “What is wrong, my sweet?” He took her hand in his and kissed it, as if to soothe away whatever troubled her.
She touched his cheek with her bare hand and looked deep into his eyes. “I can’t stay long tonight, but I wanted to come…to see you. I was nearly discovered by my uncle when I left the house. I think he suspects something.”
“I believe it’s time I met your uncle.” Her uncle was his superior: Lord Tomkin, the Home Secretary. Still, he was more than ready to speak to him about his intentions. After all, he had the ring ready in hand.
She shook her head. “Please I need more time. My uncle will be furious when he discovers I’ve been lying to him for the last three weeks.”
Michael had intended to call on her uncle tomorrow but he could wait another day or two. While their first meeting at Bond Street was of chance and their personal lives that dealt with their families were kept veiled by her insistence, he knew they would have an entire lifetime to get to know each other. Once she accepted his proposal; he intended to introduce her to his family. “I will give you two days to get things settled with your uncle.”
Her brows drew together in a frown. “Two days? I need more—”
“Two days, Emma. I intend to call on him soon after.”
“I should be able to convince my uncle, but I cannot guarantee he will be happy.”
“I don’t care if I make your uncle happy,” he admitted. “I want to make you happy, that is all I’m concerned with.”
“Really? Do you mean it?” she said, tearing up. “Oh, Michael…I know we both agreed to not speak of our families and our pasts, but once everything is settled with my uncle, I hope to remedy that.”
He had no right to force her to reveal to him anything she wasn’t comfortable with. After all, he was an assassin, a spy, and had enough secrets to last several life-times. “We will have a lifetime to get to know each other, Emma.”
“I want to make you happy.”
He wiped her tears away. “You already have.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Go and speak with your uncle. I’ll meet you here in two days.”
When she agreed, he released her with another kiss before stepping out of the carriage. When the conveyance finally disappeared beyond the horizon, Michael went back into the cottage and looked at the two candles and the flowers he’d picked earlier from the field on the table.
Two more days, you fool; you can wait two more days he thought sweetly.
CHAPTER 1
East End, London
February 1815
A sudden, cruel death was inevitable in this business.
Michael stepped out of the Black Cat Tavern and into the dark labyrinth alley, the smell of sewage bombarding him. The chilly breeze felt rather good on his face. When the tavern door jerked open behind him, Geoffrey Kenton, his friend since Eton, stepped out and the scent of boiled cabbage, mutton, and cut-rate gin spilled out into the alley.
Geoffrey frowned. “I still can’t get used to that monstrous beard.”
Glancing at the perimeter, Michael rubbed his itchy beard. “Anonymity, my friend. I can’t afford to be recognized,” Michael said. “Where’s the man you are to meet?” He slid his arms through the sleeves of his greatcoat.
Geoffrey frowned, looking deep into the alley for several seconds. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps he’s delayed?” Michael said. Geoffrey never mentioned who this man was, or the nature of their dealing. It’d been long since they’d both accepted the fact that certain aspects of their lives were to remain discreet in their respective occupation as spies.
“Perhaps….” Looking around the outer limits, he frowned. “Let’s change the subject, shall we? I have good news.”
“Oh?” Michael said.
“Emma and I have agreed on a date for our wedding.”
Michael tensed—damn her. There were three incidences he’d like to strip from his mind with regard to Emma Willoughby. The first time he laid his eyes on her in a shop at Bond Street a year ago. The second time when the viper failed to show the night he’d planned to propose to her (a mistake he intended to never repeat) and third when she resurfaced nearly a year later from bloody nowhere as Geoffrey’s betrothed. She had regarded him with such cool indifference and he’d thought for a second he’d mistaken Emma for someone else. With the sobering slap to his face, he vowed he’d never let that deceitful bitch vex him again.
Not that it mattered now.
His friend had been so damned happy to introduce Emma to him when he returned from Spain that he didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth about what had transpired between them. She was like a spiky thorn on a beautiful rose pricking him deep with her beguiling presence in his life. He’d be smart to stay away from them for a while now that it seemed the wedding was inevitable.
“In a fortnight, my friend,” Geoffrey said with a wide grin. “She’ll be my wife.”
“Tha
t soon, huh?” Frankly, he didn’t want to talk about the wedding but what kind of a friend would he be if he wasn’t happy for Geoffrey? By God, the woman whose lips he’d tasted would soon be his friend’s wife. A sense of twisted guilt pumped through him. He felt Geoffrey watching him so he forced a grin.
“If I didn’t know you any better, I’d be quite offended by your tone.”
The alley opened to a street and they walked toward the carriage. The street lit up from the dim lights that spilled out from the second-floor windows above the shops. “You’ve wanted a wife since you were yea high.” Michael gestured to the height that reached his waist. “Are you certain she is the one?”
Geoffrey chuckled. “Just you wait. One of these days she’ll come along and wipe that look of indifference off your face, my friend.” His smile grew wide. “I fear I will wake one morning and find all this a dream.”
Still, didn’t he owe it to tell him the truth about her? Leave it be.
“She makes me very happy, Michael.”
“You really do love her, don’t you?”
His friend nodded. “I do.”
Despite his feelings about her, his friend was in love and who was he to stop them? In truth, Geoffrey’s happiness was all that really mattered in the end. “So you’ve said on multiple occasions. I wish you—”
A sudden whistle alerted them. Both men looked on and saw the lanky man standing several yards away at the end of the tavern building.
“Is he the one?” Michael questioned. He was wearing a large brim hat, so it was difficult to make out his face.
“Yes. Give me a moment.” Geoffrey gaped at the lanky cull before he walked over to join him in the alley about ten yards away.
Michael moved to get a little closer, but kept his distance. Leaning against the cold brick wall, he kept his eyes on them for a bit. They were conversing now. He looked on for several more seconds. A sudden shout punctuated the air and no sooner an argument commenced.
“This was not part of the agreement,” Geoffrey said.
“It is now,” the stranger said.
Michael felt uneasy so he slowly inched closer. When the cull saw him approach, he took no time and took off in the opposite direction where the alley ran deep and dangerous. Geoffrey sprinted after him and Michael quickly followed.
Damn they were fast.
Michael turned the corner and leapt over a fallen barrel. With a sharp, quick breath he sucked in a lungful of putrid air and sprinted faster through the dark passage. His shoulder grazed the weathered brick wall with another quick turn. The recent rain layered the cobble like ice, but he didn’t slow down.
Where the hell are you, Geoffrey?
The narrow passage opened to an empty street. Michael came to a dead stop when he spied the lanky cull standing in front of Geoffrey with a flintlock pointed at his friend. He heard the drop of a hammer, then the acrid smell of gun powder. A cloud of smoke thickened around them and he saw his friend topple to his side. Quick footsteps faded in the distance as the shadowy figure ran off and disappeared into the desolate alley. Michael made to run after the killer, but halted when Geoffrey called out to him. Michael dropped on his knees beside his wounded friend.
“Curse it, Geoffrey. Who the devil was that?” Michael questioned. His friend’s arms were spread out, blood soaking through his white shirt. Eyes wide open, his friend struggled to speak but nothing came out except the hissing of his ragged breath.
Michael’s gut turned to lead. He recognized that sound. Damn it. No. “Never mind. Don’t talk,” Michael said. He had to get help. Looking around, he spotted a prostitute across the street nearby. “I’ll pay you a quid if you can fetch a doctor within five minutes.”
She nodded and scrambled away.
Geoffrey clung to Michael’s hand. “Didn’t mean…for this.” He paused for a shallow breath, “Meadow…tree—”
A meadow? “Don’t worry about that now,” Michael said, puzzled at Geoffrey’s nonsense. “Hang on. A doctor will be here soon.”
The long forgotten images of their youth flooded Michael. Confound it. They hadn’t survived Eton and the bloody battles to have it end like this. Years ago, his friend had nearly taken a bullet for him at Vimeiro. Michael would have died if Geoffrey hadn’t pushed him aside. Now he was bleeding to death because of some worthless vermin.
“Find Hanss…,” he said, struggling to speak.
Michael nodded, impending fate immobilizing him. Another slow, tattered breath escaped and then it ceased.
Dead.
Michael slumped and his world stilled around him.
He fisted his hands; rage and uncertainty throbbed in his veins. He looked at the lifeless body again, the rain pelting down on him. Then he recalled the words: Didn’t mean for this….
“What the bloody hell have you done?”
CHAPTER 2
Emma Willoughby awoke in the library to the sound of deafening thunder outside. One hand was instantly on the hilt of the knife next to her, the other on her chest. For several seconds she was disoriented, then reality set in.
Her chest rose and fell and she willed her breaths to slow. She shamefully wiped her lips with her fingers, the memory of Michael arousing her senses. She fell asleep reading in the library and dreaming of him—again.
She scanned the dimly lit room; the stale scent of old books, the crackling fire in the hearth subdued her. Her dreams often left her wanting the one man she could never have. Of course, these dreams only confirmed what she already knew about him, that she couldn’t trust herself to be around him.
Lord Tomkin was right. She needed to obliterate whatever feelings she had left for him. Yes, she needed to remain focused and stay true to the mission and find the killer who had murdered her parents. Nothing could deter her from her goal.
A loud knock at the door alerted her once more. She put the book on the table and stilled for a moment. Observing the small clock on the marble mantle above the fireplace, it read eleven fifty. Who could be calling at this late hour?
She ran her hand down her celestial blue muslin dress, pulled the unruly hair back in its place and stood. Knife in hand, she rushed to the front door. She pulled the curtain aside from the window and peeked outside. From her angle, she caught a glimpse of a long overcoat and a lowered head drenched in the falling rain.
Her heart leaped—Michael.
The knot in her stomach stiffened. Hoping he’d go away, she stood motionless by the door. Another knock, this time it sounded quite insistent. She tucked the knife in her garter under her dress and slowly opened the door.
Their eyes met and for a single moment, it seemed the memories she fought so hard to remove from her mind all came back as if they never left her for a single moment. Something odd pricked her when Michael didn’t speak. He looked tired. Weary. What has brought him here?
“What can I do for you, Mr. Whitfield?” she said carefully, widening the door.
“Might I have a word?” Michael asked.
“It’s late and I don’t—”
“Please, it’s important.”
She hesitated, but he looked so desperate standing there in the rain. She hoped to God this wasn’t about her breaking her promise to him that day. How absurd. He hadn’t mentioned a single word about it so why would he be compelled to do so now?
Looking up at the sky, she saw no reprieve in sight. She said, “It seems I have no choice but to let you in.” She led him to the library where she had fallen asleep earlier. It was the only room lit and the fire still burned hot enough to warm him. Michael followed close behind her. The sound of his footfalls made her uneasy and very aware of him.
As soon as they entered the library, she stepped aside to allow him through. “The fire still burns hot,” she said to him. “You may warm yourself there if you wish.”
Instead of walking over to the hearth, he just stood there looking at her in a quite unnerving way. My goodness, the man looked painfully distraught. She felt a sudden
primal urge to soothe his troubles, whatever they may be, but she knew she couldn’t allow herself to feel anything for this man. Not again.
“What did you want to speak to me about?” she said. The first time they met, he’d smiled at her and her heart fluttered like a green girl. She’d felt alive then. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time.
“Geoffrey….” He stopped, as if he was searching for the right words.
“What about him?” When he hesitated, she continued. “What’s happened?”
“There was an accident and….” His words died in his throat.
“Accident?” she said. “I don’t understand. What accident?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Geoffrey is dead.”
She felt as though someone had knocked all the air out of her. He can’t be dead. No, this can’t be true. “Surely, you must be mistaken.” Her voice trembled. Michael reached for her and she backed away. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “He called this afternoon. He was perfectly fine. You must have mistaken him for someone else.”
“Emma,” he said, softly, reaching for her. “I was there.”
It came all of a sudden and she could not prepare for the impact it had. In that instant, he pulled her in his arms and gently held her. The warmth of his hold shattered the armor she had built up for the last two years—the unwept tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
She wept and she didn’t care to stop, allowing his strong frame to absorb her pain. Tonight she’d find solace in his arms. Tomorrow, he’d continue to despise her until his last breath on this earth.
CHAPTER 3
Hyde Park
Next day….