All Men Are Rogues

by Sari Robins

  The tension fled his body. His head rolled to one side, and he appeared to doze.

  Raising her hand to her mouth, she let out a long, shuddering breath. Swallowing hard, she gathered the bowl and cloth, intent on getting more cold water from the stream. And getting away from Justin Barclay. She felt raw, her insides glaringly exposed during the awful incident.

  Not wanting to rouse Shah, Evelyn quietly donned her cloak and left through the kitchen door. Crickets chirped merrily in the brush, and the birds began their morning song. The first golden rays of dawn gave the hint of a glorious day to come. Evelyn barely took it in as she stumbled toward the stream.

  Inhaling the woodsy scent of oak trees and green shrubs, she tried to ignore what had just happened in the cabin, instead focusing on the fact that Justin had finally wakened. Well, not quite wakened, but certainly showed some signs of life. An ostensible miracle, one for which she needed to be thankful. Yet, the memory of Justin’s passionate embrace and her wanton response made her belly turn over with mortification.

  She rubbed her hand over her eyes. She must be well and truly exhausted. Drained to the point of losing her sense of reality. That must have been it. She’d been so tired, unable to help herself. It had been a natural response to a virile male. She was not to blame, nor was he. He had been out of his mind, and, in some sense, so had she.

  The air was crisp and damp with the dew shimmering off the mossy ground. As her shoes crunched along the rocky path, she tried to make sense of her world and exactly how to deal with the mystifying marquis and her traitorous body. All business, that was the ticket. He was her prisoner…well, her patient, and needed to answer all of her questions. Answers. They would finally have the answers they needed to help Sully. To help her and those she cherished out of this horrid mess. The thought reignited her sense of purpose.

  “In my business, clear thinking, keeping your eye on the prize, that’s the way we win,” her father had explained. “Emotions muddle one’s perceptions and are a luxury a good emissary cannot afford.”

  She needed to keep her mission foremost in her mind. To take the passion and emotion Justin evoked in her and set it aside forever. Well, perhaps not forever, but as something to ponder on in her dotage, if she ever made it that far. For all her protestations about wanting to be free of her father’s world, it looked as if becoming part of it was necessary in order to survive. She needed to be like her father—coolheaded and willing to do whatever was required.

  Feeling back on track, she paused to watch two russet-bellied birds playfully circle and dive. They twittered with cheer. She felt as if the dark clouds hanging overhead had split and a ray of sunlight had pierced through the gloom. A small glimmer of hope, but a glimmer nonetheless.

  “But there’s a problem with hope,” she whispered to the wind. “With it comes the distinct possibility of disappointment.”

  A crow squawked in the distance in apparent agreement.

  Chapter 19

  Shah raced in from Justin’s chamber, a hunk of cheese and a knife still in her hands. “I heard him. Allah be praised. He’s awake.”

  Evelyn rushed into the room, praying he would not recall anything about the prior night.

  She and Shah clutched hands as they stood over him, waiting breathlessly for another sign.

  He licked his dry lips.

  Evelyn sat beside him. “Bring me some water, Shah.”

  The trusty maid raced from the room to return a moment later with a pitcher and a cup of water.

  “Drink, my lord.” Evelyn and Shah gently propped him up, and he sipped from the mug she held for him.

  He shuddered and slowly opened his eyes a red-rimmed slit. He looked at her and then Shah, speaking slowly, “Who are you?” His voice was thick and scratchy.

  Evelyn blinked. This was the last thing she’d expected. “You don’t recognize me?” she asked, uncertainly.

  “What happened to me?” he asked slowly. “My head’s pounding and my chest is on fire.” His glassy eyes traveled the stark room, then locked with hers. His gaze filled with alarm.

  Suspicion kept her voice flat. “We’ve been praying for your recovery, my lord.” Her answered prayers did not mean that she was about to fall for another of his ploys.

  Slowly raising his hand to his bandaged head, he watched the women warily. “Who are you?”

  “I’m hard-pressed to believe you so conveniently lost your memory when it’s finally time for you to speak the plain and naked truth.” Her cheeks warmed as she realized what she’d said.

  Something flickered in those gray-green eyes. Awareness, perhaps? Fear of being forced to spill the ugly facts? She hoped he was not remembering anything about the night before.

  “Tell me who you are, at once!” he demanded hoarsely, but he winced in pain, seemingly from his own raised voice.

  If he kept up this nonsense she was going to tear every hair from her head. Or better yet, from his.

  Ignoring him, she held out the cup. “Here, drink more,” she urged.

  Licking his lips, he accepted more water from the cup and then dropped his hand palm upward, seemingly exhausted from the limited exchange. His lids lowered, and in a moment he appeared to be asleep.

  Evelyn watched him for long moments. Was it her imagination, or was there more color in his sculpted cheeks? His golden-brown beard blanketed his jaw and dimpled chin, and with his head bandaged, he appeared almost like a dashing pirate. She mentally shook herself. Coolheaded business. Answers. That was his only role in her life. She forced herself to recall that this was the man who had given her the taste of forbidden pleasures, granted her the dream of a saner future, only to dash her hopes against the jagged shards of his betrayal. She needed to keep that in the forefront of her mind.

  She turned to Shah. “Let’s cook him some soup. He’ll be hungry when he wakes again.”

  The twittering of birds nagged at Justin’s consciousness, along with the undeniable scent of…cooked onions? Raising his hand to his aching temple, he eased off the bandage and gently traced his fingertips over the egg-sized bump adorning his head. It was tender to the touch. What the hell had happened to him?

  He peeled open his eyes, but the bright light of an afternoon sun glaring through a small window caused him to cover his face with his hand. Lord, just moving hurt like the dickens. His breath caught at the searing pain that felt like a heated poker jamming into his chest. He repressed a groan; he felt so bad he’d have thought he was ready for the undertaker.

  Trying to force his memory to resurface, he could only recall the hazy specter of George eating lamb with mint jelly. Now he knew he was going daft. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if that were really true? He pushed away the pathetic musing, focusing instead on determining how he had been injured and come to this forsaken place.

  The room was sparse, with his single bed, two side tables, and a rickety wooden chair against the unadorned wall. The floorboards were swept clean, and a straw broom sat in the corner by the door. He listened but heard no voices, just the clattering of dishes and the movement of people. How many were they, and were they friend or foe? Even with the door and the small window as possible means of escape, he doubted his wretched body would be able to get the job done.

  His belly growled, and he chastised it to silence. Food would have to wait. He swallowed, feeling more parched than any desert. A jug sat on the table beside him, adjacent to a ceramic cup. Out of the shadow of his recollection formed the memory of a stout, dark-skinned woman and her blond-haired, blue-eyed companion. They had given him water to drink. Were they the servants of his enemies?

  He was loath to make a sound, but the water beckoned. First, he needed to assess his injuries. Taking a deep breath, with his fingertips he felt the wraps around his torso. They were neatly done. He could smell linseed and mint. Likely a concoction for treating a gunshot wound. He’d been shot and had had his head banged in. But by whom? A memory beckoned but drifted out of his grasp. The lovely mi
ss golden hair and her companion? It seemed as if they’d been treating him, but appearances could be deceiving.

  Frustration brimmed forth. He was useless without his memory or a weapon. He was alarmed by how weak he felt and how little he recalled. He could remember nothing of a pistol confrontation or of the women ministering to him. He closed his eyes, trying to force his memory to return. The horrific pounding in his head intensified, clamoring to a crescendo loud enough to make his teeth clench.

  “Are you alright?” came a melodic voice.

  He slowly opened his eyes. A robin’s egg blue gaze met his own. A recollection brushed the edges of his vision. Moonlight on golden hair. The sounds of a waltz in the distance. Small pebbles underfoot. And a deliciously sweet kiss.

  “I kissed you,” he murmured.

  Her porcelain cheeks reddened, and she eyed the door nervously. “Nonsense. You must have been dreaming.”

  “It was at a ball. You were wearing…black.” His gaze traversed her dark, tattered gown.

  Relief flooded her features. “Oh, yes, that. At the Coventry Ball. But that was ages and ages ago.”

  A faint bouquet of lavender reached his senses, and sudden insight flashed through his mind. “You’re Evelyn.” He smiled, quite proud of himself.

  Crossing her arms, she asked dubiously, “So now you remember?”

  This was not exactly the welcome he’d hoped for. “You are Evelyn Amherst?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where are we?”

  “Reading is the closest town.” She met his eyes. “How far is your estate in Bedford from Reading?”

  “Two days’ ride.” With a change of horses and no bullet wound.

  “We’ve made you some soup. I’ll be back in a thrice.” Frowning, she turned and abruptly left the room.

  We. He took a deep breath, letting the images come to him. He was remembering, and it was not at all pleasing. Not by half.

  Squaring her shoulders, Evelyn carried the soup and bread into Justin’s chamber. He was wrestling with the covers, and the covers were winning.

  “Lie still or you will loosen your bandages,” she chastised. “Or worse yet, injure yourself further.”

  He inched himself up on the bed, exposing the white wrappings encircling his broad chest. A small oval of red stained the snowy bandages. He fell back into his pillows, seemingly exhausted. But peach colored his chiseled cheeks, and his gray-green eyes sparkled. The man was unquestionably on the mend. He demanded testily, “How about telling me how the hell we got here?” Recovering indeed.

  She placed his soup bowl and bread plate in his lap, careful not to touch him. “My, aren’t we snippy upon awakening.” She sent a cynical prayer of thanks that she’d never had the opportunity to slumber with the bastard.

  “Sorry,” he replied, scowling. “But between the aches in my body and what I am finally recalling, I’m feeling a bit put out.”

  The floorboards creaked as Shah entered and moved to the corner. Wringing her hands in her stained apron, her eyes flew from Justin to Evelyn and back again, concern warming her dark brown gaze.

  Between bites he motioned to her. “You are Shah? Turkish, right?”

  Shah beamed at him. “We have prayed for your recovery, and Allah has answered.” She nodded. “Can I get you anything else, Sahip? More water?”

  Evelyn waved her off. “He seems fine for now. Certainly well enough to eat and answer some questions.”

  “He only just woke,” Shah countered, eyeing her reprovingly.

  “We’ve waited long enough for this lying turncoat to tell us everything he knows.”

  He grumbled, “I’m no turncoat and I’d appreciate a bit of water.” He nodded to Shah. “Yes, please.”

  Shah poured him a cupful, and he drank it down like a man who’d just traveled the desert. He helped himself to two more cupfuls before consuming every drop of the soup.

  “Are you ready to talk now?” Evelyn asked evenly, standing at the foot of his bed with her arms crossed. She was chomping at the bit to get down to business. The sooner she exposed the facts and got away from Justin Barclay, the better off she would be.

  He nodded and set down the empty bowl on the side table. His spoon clattered loudly in the tense silence.

  Leaning back against the covers with a sigh, he stated, “I was not lying, Evelyn. And I will answer any of your questions. Although I have a few of my own.” Shifting the bedclothes around his bare waist, he looked up, saying, “If I recall correctly, I was shot and the bookcases fell on top of me. I assume a doctor examined me. I’d like to know what he said about my injuries.”

  She had to begrudgingly admit that it was not an unreasonable inquiry. “He said it was fortunate we got the bullet out. He said you’d be weak. That if we were lucky you’d avoid infection. And it looks like you have, so far. But you did have a fever and were a bit delirious.” She tried to stop her faithless cheeks from heating.

  “Did I say anything terrible?”

  She couldn’t help herself. “Who is Rachel?”

  He chuckled. “I really must have been fevered.”

  “Well, who is she? An agent? Mistress?”

  Shah slipped out the door. “I go cook.”

  “My old governess.” Shaking his head, he commented wistfully, “I haven’t seen her in years. She was my very first—” His words abruptly stopped and his brow puckered. Tilting his head, he studied Evelyn.

  Suddenly a loose thread that needed snipping on her sleeve drew all of her focused attention. She rolled its end in her fingers and pressed it down. “Well, no matter then.” She cleared her throat. “So how are you feeling now?”

  He seemed to consider her a long moment, finally speaking slowly. “Well, there’s the carriage rolling over my head. And the gaping hole in my chest.” He licked his lips. “But they are nothing compared to the ache in my heart.”

  “You can stop pretending now.” Her hands clenched. “You’ve accomplished your goal; Sully was taken, I am completely alone.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I know I’ve wronged you, Evelyn. But if you only knew how much I care—”

  Ignoring his declaration, she let out a long breath. Making certain to stay at arm’s reach away from him, she turned and dragged the wooden chair from the corner to the side of the bed.

  “Does my remorse count for nothing with you?” he asked roughly.

  She adjusted her black skirts, noticing how dirty and drab they had become. She was having trouble looking at him. You would think he’d at least want to don a shirt. “We need to know why you trapped Sully. Why do you want him?” Sudden insight dawned on her. “For that matter, why did you have my father murdered?”

  “I did not kill your father, Evelyn. How can you believe that?”

  She met his gaze levelly. “I don’t know what to believe where you are concerned.”

  “Well, let me tell you the truth.” He implored with his eyes. “For all of the convoluted plotting and scheming to entrap you and Sullivan, you cannot understand how much you’ve come to mean to me.”

  She set the information aside as one would a trivial letter. “Your feelings are neither here nor there. I need to know who you work for and what is your intent. That is your only usefulness.” The words sounded harsh even to her own ears, but her anger made them feel justified.

  He pursed his lips. “Do you have any feelings for me at all, Evelyn?”

  “Emotions are immaterial. Sully is in trouble and that is my only concern.”

  He nodded slowly. “So you claim.” He said it as if he did not believe it or was unwilling to. Well, it was not her problem. Getting answers was.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “The Foreign Office.”

  “What is your immediate mission?”

  “To stop a conspiracy targeting our monetary system.”

  “Connived by whom?”

  “Supposedly Napoleon,” he paused, “and your father.”

  “Stuff
and nonsense. Father would have rather slit his own throat than bring harm to his country.”

  “What was he working on when he died?”

  “When he was murdered”—she let the word hang in the air—“Spain was firmly committed to the alliance. So he was bolstering the bonds with Prussia, Russia, and Sweden. Napoleon’s spies were everywhere, trying to ignite discord. We were based in Sweden, and he traveled frequently between the three countries, keeping everyone steadfast, unswervingly devoted to the campaign.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about Sullivan?”

  “You are barking up the wrong tree, I tell you!” Her patience was growing thin. “My father would’ve given up his life a thousand times for his king! The fault lies with your masters, not my family!”

  “I fear you might be correct,” he stated quietly.

  She hid her surprise; she’d finally gotten through to him. Rubbing her hands over her eyes, she asked quietly, “So what do they want from us?”

  “I don’t know. I was supposed to get you to spill your father’s secrets. Or get Sullivan to come out of hiding.”

  “You se—” She swallowed hard, ignoring the pain perilously near her heart. “Seduced me to get my defenses down so I would tell you…what? What secrets could I possibly hold?”

  He studied his fingernails. “Supposedly you knew of the plot against the Crown.” He looked up. “Do you?”

  She laughed. She would not have thought it possible just a moment before. “If only you knew how preposterous that sounds. The last thing in the world I want to do is become part of my father’s horrid world.” Staring out the window, she became serious. “I’m running from it just as fast as I can, Justin. Except it seems to hound my every step. Oh, I understand the dirty business is necessary for the health of the nation. But it’s certainly not good for my own health. I’d like to live to see my twenty-third birthday.”

  “On that point we can wholeheartedly concur.” Rubbing his hand against his temple, he stated quietly, “This means I’ve been duped into placing Sullivan in Wheaton’s hands—but for what? If not for the French plot, then what were you supposed to know? Or what were you supposed to reach for if all of your resources were seized?”