“I don’t think so, One-Eye. This ledy has a price on ’er head. Ye think I’m jus’ gonna give her over t’ ye tha’ easy?”
Isabella’s forehead creased. Did he just say…? But surely he was mistaken. No one would want her. Even her own husband had left her.
She forced her eyes back open, although the darkness wanted to pull her down into its depths. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy.” The stranger cocked the pistol, the eye that was revealed narrowing menacingly. “But neither will I take no for an answer.”
She heard the sound of a matching click of a hammer. “Then it appears ye an’ I are at an impasse.”
Isabella knew she had to do something. She didn’t know why, but the thought of seeing the stranger fall to his death made her chest ache.
With all of the energy she could muster, she stumbled backward into her captor. Her momentum set him off balance, and he uttered a curse right before the pistol was discharged to the side, missing its mark completely.
The moment his grip lessened, Isabella pushed away from him. Her vision was blurry, her legs unsteady, as she stumbled away from the turmoil. She heard the sounds of a scuffle behind her, but she didn’t dare look back.
Keep moving. She kept repeating the words to herself, even when she fell to her knees and continued to claw her way forward. Every move she made was foggy and disoriented, and she feared that she wouldn’t remain conscious for much longer, but she wouldn’t give up.
But while her determination was strong, her body refused to cooperate. Her arms started to tremble with her weight, and she realized she was faltering. She collapsed onto the hard ground and realized that everything had fallen silent around her. She feared for who had won the battle, not sure if she was comfortable with either outcome, but neither could she go any farther. The sunlight on her face was warm and inviting, her every thought lethargic and displaced as she closed her eyes.
The last thing she heard was the chirp of a bird in the distance as the drug closed in and eclipsed everything else.
***
Ridge shook his hand after that last punch. While it had sent the lady’s captor into dreamland, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d broken a bone or two. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time, nor would it likely be the last. As a seasoned agent for the Home Office, he’d had his share of fisticuffs. And worse.
But instead of going down that same, dark path, he walked over to Lady Wistenberry and bent down near her still form. He knew he hadn’t made the best first impression by wearing his eye patch, for the fear in her eyes had been unmistakable. He noticed her breathing was set into an even rhythm, and he decided it was probably for the best that the ether had taken effect; otherwise, he’d likely have an overset woman on his hands.
He reached out and untied the bonnet beneath her chin then gently removed it from her head. When her brilliant copper-red hair was revealed, he swallowed hard. He’d seen many beautiful ladies in his lifetime, but she was in a class all of her own. He lightly touched her pale cheek and something clenched in his chest when he found it to be as soft as it appeared. His gaze dipped down to her pink, full lips, which looked perfectly kissable…
“Making the ladies swoon again, Claymoore?” A dry voice drawled from behind him and he stiffened. “Are you so dull that you can’t keep them interested in you long enough to stay awake?”
Ridge snorted as he lifted her into his arms and stood, turning to face off with his fellow agent, who had been on guard near the stables at the rear of the inn, in case their quarry attempted to make a run for it. “As if you have an unblemished track record with women, Montgomery.”
The reply was a devilish twinkle in Logan’s ice blue eyes as he walked over to the unconscious man and threw him over his shoulder like a limp rag doll. “Millicent’s girls would heartily disagree with that assessment.”
Ridge shook his head as they walked over to their horses. As busy as the White Horse Cellar was that afternoon, no one passing by seemed to pay them any heed as they carried their prospective bodies away. But as each year passed and London continued to grow in numbers, he’d found that most people tended to look the other way, keeping to their own business rather than get involved in something that didn’t include them.
And certainly, in all of his years as an agent, he’d never had a job quite as pleasant as this one.
Unfortunately, he had to tamp down any interest he might have otherwise had in the pretty lady in his arms. For one, he had a strict code of honor when it came to performing his missions. He wouldn’t do her the dishonor of seducing her when she was a married woman. Even if she was willing to embark on a brief liaison, he’d sworn never to allow his focus to be distracted. His line of work was too dangerous. Oil and water just didn’t mix, no matter how much one might be interested in the prospect.
Of course, there was also the small fact she was a gentleman’s daughter, while he was a common bastard born to a dockside whore and one of her many lovers, a woman who’d worked at the brothel Logan had referred to.
After Ridge’s mother had passed, Millicent had become something of a second mother to him. She could have easily cast him into the streets with the rest of the riffraff born on the wrong side of the blanket, but she’d taken a particular liking to him and allowed him to stay on as a sort of errand boy until he’d gotten old enough to make his own way. He still went back to visit from time to time, although for rather different reasons now.
“I should have warned Millicent to never to let you in the door,” he grunted. “She would have listened to me, too, if she’d known half of her girls would fall madly in love with you.”
“What can I say?” Logan shrugged. “I have a certain charm about me.”
Ridge climbed into the saddle behind Isabella, careful to cradle her sleeping form in his arms as he took up the reins, while Logan threw his charge in front of him like a sack of potatoes. “From what I understand,” he noted. “It wasn’t your charm they found so appealing.” As the other man looked particularly pleased with himself, Ridge couldn’t resist adding with a wink, “But you’re still just second best to me, old man.”
With that, he spurned his mount forward.
Chapter Two
Isabella awoke with a start, as some foul concoction was waved beneath her nose, the scent strong enough to break through the haze of the drug that had seeped into her brain.
The first thing she noticed was that she was in a moving carriage and the afternoon sun was still high in the sky, so she must not have been unconscious for too long. The second was that she was sitting across from the man from the inn, although the eye-patch had been discarded and revealed two perfectly normal brown eyes.
While it might have been rather inconsequential to say at the time, she couldn’t help but blurt out, “You don’t need the eye-patch.”
His lips quirked upward, as he stoppered the vial of smelling salts and tucked it away in his jacket. “No. But it makes a rather impressive addition, don’t you think?”
Isabella had no reply, for she couldn’t very well deny his claim. Combined with that commanding air of authority, the slight scruff on his strong jawline, and the intensity of his dark gaze and that tall, muscular build, he had been quite an intimidating sight to behold when he’d walked into the Cellar.
She rubbed her arms as gooseflesh broke out on her arms, but as before, she wasn’t sure if the chill was altogether due to fright. “What happened to the other man?”
Her companion regarded her evenly from across the expanse of the vehicle. “My associate is dealing with him.”
She could imagine what that meant. She swallowed hard. “What is it that you want from me?”
“Answers.”
She froze. “What kind of answers?”
“Tell me about your husband, Viscount Wistenberry.”
Isabella’s stomach clenched in alarm. She’d learned too late exactly how much of a scoundrel Simon was, but if he’d left her to clean up a gambling debt…�
�I don’t know how much he owes you,” she said with a sigh, “but my father is the Marquess of Ashfield. He will pay you for my release.”
He smiled in a tolerant manner. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the viscount’s markers, although, from what I understand, those are quite numerous.”
She frowned. “Then what—?”
“While you undoubtedly won’t believe me,” he interrupted smoothly, “I’m actually here to protect you.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe you.” She put a hand to her temple, her head starting to pound. “I’m sure my father can clear up any sort of misunderstanding. If you’ll just take me to number four—”
He sat forward, and she tensed. “I can’t find any easy way to say this, for I fear subtlety has never been my strong suit.” His eyes were direct and deadly serious as they met hers. “I can’t allow you to go to your parents’ home. At least… not yet. It’s too dangerous.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not sure how much you know about your husband, but other than being a known bounder, he’s also a French spy. While he might have disappeared for the moment, he will return for you. When that day comes, I intend to be waiting.” A smug, half-smile twisted his lips. “You, Lady Wistenberry, are the bait.”
Isabella blinked. And then blinked again. Surely she hadn’t heard right. “You intend to use me to coerce the viscount out of hiding?” She laughed, ignoring the fact it sounded almost maniacal. “I’m afraid your plan has a dreadful flaw, sir. Simon abandoned me. Do you not know what that means? He made it quite clear when he left for my father’s house to abscond with my dowry without returning that he would not be committing to this sham of a marriage any longer.”
The man in front of her didn’t appear to find humor in her statement. In point of fact, his jaw clenched even harder. “I’m not saying that he will look to renew your vows of wedded bliss,” he said dryly. “We believe that he means to retrieve you, because he plans to sell you to the French.”
While Isabella probably should have focused on the fact that Simon meant to hand her over to the enemy without a second thought, she narrowed her eyes and asked, “What do you mean by we?”
***
That he could easily answer. Giving her what he hoped was his most charming smile; he offered a grand sweep of his arm and said dramatically, “How remiss of me! Of course, you would want to know that you are in good hands, and I assure you I am more than capable of the task. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Ridge Claymoore, agent of the Home Office of His Majesty, King George III.”
Silence, then, “Is that supposed to impress me?”
He winced. “I had rather hoped so, yes.”
“In that case, you can keep your flattery to yourself.” She drew herself up.
He switched to a straightforward approach. “Lady Wistenberry—”
“Don’t call me that.”
The venom attached to that statement made him clear his throat. “Pardon me, Lady Isabella,” he corrected, and when she didn’t reject the name, he continued. “I want you to know that I won’t let Wistenberry succeed with his plans. You will be perfectly safe with me.”
“Is that so?” Her lovely eyes narrowed. When he nodded, she asked, “And where exactly are we going?”
“To Walmer Castle, on the coast.”
She snorted. “Isn’t that closer to France?”
He resisted the urge to shift in his seat. Was it bad that her anger both unnerved and aroused him at the same time? “It is, but rest assured, we will be in a fortified keep. It’s used as the personal retreat for Lord Liverpool, who is also the appointed Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports.” He shrugged. “However, since the earl is currently in London taking up his new post as Prime Minister following the mess regarding Perceval’s assassination, he allowed me the temporary use of the castle.”
Ridge had been rather surprised when Lord Liverpool had approached him with the idea. But then, the earl mentioned he was a close friend of Isabella’s father, Lord Ashfield, and that he would do everything in his power to see that his goddaughter was safeguarded against a criminal like Wistenberry.
However, considering the stern look on Lady Isabella’s face, something told him she wasn’t going to be convinced as easily.
“Let me get this right,” she said, holding up one hand. “I’m going to be taken, against my will, to a fort a stone’s throw away from hostile territory, where my traitorous husband intends to return and whisk me away for his own nefarious purposes.” As she spoke, she ticked the items off on her fingers. “Whereas, you are supposed to be my single defense between being a refuge or a captive in the enemy’s hands?” She shook her head. “Explain to me why the bustling streets of London, under my father’s roof with additional reinforcements, didn’t seem to be the better option?”
She sounded so condescending that he had to grind his teeth. “If I have any hope of capturing Wistenberry, we need to give him access to you. That won’t happen in London.”
She crossed her arms, and he couldn’t help but allow his eyes to be drawn to her heaving bosom. While it might sound like a terribly, overused description of a ladies’ breasts, in this instance, it rather fit. The gentle swells of flesh teased him quite mercilessly with her every determined inhale.
“Why should I trust you?”
Her query brought his focus back to her face. “Honestly? Because you really have no other choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Mr. Claymoore.” She stared at him with those wide, brown eyes. “But in my case, it appears I made the wrong one. I shouldn’t wish to entrust my life to the hands of just another deceiver.”
Great job, you inconsiderate ass. From what Ridge knew of the lady, she was little more than a spinster who had run off with the one man who had paid her any sort of attention, and now she was paying the price for that devotion.
And he expected her to trust his word without due course, when she had been fed plenty of lies from Wistenberry already?
“I apologize, Lady Isabella. My intention is not to demand your cooperation, but rather to earn it.” With that, he turned his head to stare out the window, falling silent.
After a few moments, he heard her sigh. “I’m sorry if I sounded curt, Mr. Claymoore. It’s just…” He turned and found her twisting her hands in her lap. “The past few weeks have been a maelstrom of emotions. The man I’d imagined myself in love with was paying his addresses, and I was overjoyed. When he convinced me to run away with him—” She broke off. “Needless to say, I couldn’t see through the lies until it was too late. Now he’s absconded with my dowry and left me to rot with nothing but the benefit of his sordid last name at my disposal. So if I seem a bit out of sorts, I’m sure you can understand why.”
She lifted her brown eyes, and the turmoil he witnessed swimming in those depths touched something in his chest that he thought had withered and died long ago. His brows drew together. “I do. More than you know.”
***
Isabella didn’t even try to comprehend such a cryptic statement, although she was rather curious about it. Obviously he’d suffered as much as she had, even if the cause of his past disappointments might not have been a broken heart. Then again, looking at his handsome visage, she rather thought there might have been several he’d left in his wake. What, with that strong jawline and those full, masculine lips…
Stop it right now! Her inner voice chided. It wouldn’t do to be having irrational fantasies toward another man just days after she’d pledged her loyalty to another, however misplaced those words might have been. Yes, Mr. Claymoore was handsome with his piercing dark eyes and sandy blond hair, and she could tell that beneath his simple clothing he had no need of padding, that it was muscles alone which made his poorly tailored jacket burst at the seams, but he was still a man, the one thing she should be shunning, not entertaining lewd thoughts about.
In truth, the more she studied her companion, the more he reminded
her of Simon, although it wasn’t their similarity of coloring, but rather the fact that both of them would stop at nothing to get what they wanted.
And she was stuck right in the middle.
Feeling ill all of a sudden, she put a hand out to steady herself against the rocking carriage. “Stop the coach!”
Mr. Claymoore leaned forward and regarded her with a critical eye, but her face must have appeared as ashen as she felt, for he immediately rapped on the roof. As the carriage came to a jarring halt, he wrenched open the door and climbed out. Isabella rose, but her head was spinning, and she could hardly stand upright. She didn’t have to worry about making it outside in time, though. The agent’s strong hands lifted her effortlessly and assisted her to the ground without her having to take a step on her own.
His hand continued to steady her as she took several deep, bracing breaths. Now that she was on solid ground and the motion inside the stifling carriage had eased, she started to feel better. She turned to Mr. Claymoore, who was watching her carefully.
“I think I’m revived now. We can continue on—”
He released her. “This is as good a place to stop for a light repast as any.” He glanced at the horizon. “It will be getting dark soon. Besides, something in your stomach might help combat the persistent effects of the ether.”
Isabella nodded, but she continued to be wary of her companion. She still hadn’t quite resigned herself to the fact she was traveling to parts unknown with a man she barely knew, whose sole claim of being in service to the Crown was his word. After all of Simon’s false promises, she was suspicious of men and their supposed integrity.
Mr. Claymoore retrieved a blanket from the carriage and laid it out on the ground. He then gathered a basket and began unwrapping cheese, bread, tarts, and even a cask of wine. After a moment’s hesitation, Isabella sat down, deciding that perhaps something other than the weak ale she’d had at the Cellar would be in order.
Isabella's Secret Summer Page 2