by Lara Archer
She glared at him, daring him to find her anything but masculine. And yet her heartbeat kept losing its rhythm every time she looked his way.
“Well,” he said, “if we’re lucky, no one’s going to see us, except from a distance. Especially with the horses. They’re thoroughbreds, both, and I don’t think there’s mud and blankets enough in Spain to hide what fine goers they are.” He stopped, offering a small smile that seemed all irony, and entirely at her expense. “At least those pants are sturdy; you’ll be saddle-sore enough as it is.”
She shot him a skeptical look. She’d never so much as sat on a pony, and now he wanted her to trust her spine to some temperamental hussar’s mount, which no doubt would be expecting her to leap fallen tree-trunks, charge into cannon fire, and ride breakneck at all hours of the day and night.
But it didn’t matter.
She’d come all this way to get to the place Sarah had considered her home for many years, and she’d cross those mountains dressed in chain mail if she had to. While riding a rhinoceros.
So she endured Lord Gargoyle’s badgering about walking as a man would walk, as he gave her a quick lesson in the art of swinging her arms instead of keeping her elbows tucked in ladylike against her waist, and swinging the legs parallel to one another with no roll of the hips. An ironic task, that, considering the hours he and Jenny had spent teaching her to sway like a courtesan.
At last Sebastian dropped one final stack of his mysterious papers into a leather pouch and tucked it into his vest. He picked up a deadly-looking pistol as well, and secured it to the same strap that held his spyglass. “It’s time we left,” he announced. “Our Corunna agents will have our traveling supplies ready near the edge of town. The horses should be powerful mounts, if the names are any indication: Fortress and Mountain, prized possessions of two hussars who jumped at the chance to keep them alive.”
He took a battered black leather hat from a peg on the door and clapped it on his head. It was low-crowned and wide-brimmed and definitely disreputable.
Instantly, he was a lowborn highwayman, a look of rakish danger in his eyes. Hard and spare and lean—no trace of a soft-living aristocrat in any lineament of his body. A man who lived on the edge of a knife.
Very, very male.
Thankfully, he turned and headed down the steps without another word.
She followed then, and he led her at a brisk pace through the winding, cobbled streets of Corunna. He took up a position just slightly ahead of her and further into the street, trying to shield her from view. Instinctively, she kept her head down, ignoring the occasional curious glances she got from passing British troops. Perhaps she hadn’t quite mastered the masculine walk just yet.
About a block into their journey, Sebastian paused by a small stand of orange trees growing in earthenware pots beside a house. Stooping, he scooped a bit of soil with his fingers, and, not bothering to so much as warn her, smeared it over her cheeks and jaw line.
“There,” he said, inspecting his handiwork, his hand lifting her jaw. “Marginally better. But damn that little elfin chin of yours.” His eyes blazed at her, shifting from her chin to her own eyes, and then down to linger on her lips, and for a moment she almost thought he was about to kiss her. But then he reached up and tugged the brim of her hat down hard.
The impulse to kick him was almost ungovernable, but he was already striding away. She had to scurry to catch up.
“What about the way you look?” she asked in a low voice, as close to a baritone as she could manage, and pitched for no one but him to hear. “What would your fashionable London friends say if they saw you now?”
His palm clapped the thigh of his leather breeches. “I prefer these clothes to London finery, as it happens.” He flashed a quick look at her, a reminder she’d said nearly the same words to him the night he’d walked in on her when she was wearing the plum silk gown.
Her cheeks heated. “Do you, indeed? You have a taste for leathers and coarse flax?”
He flexed his shoulders, gave them a backward roll. “At least a man can move in them. Nothing from my London tailor gives more than a quarter-inch in any direction.” He tipped his head towards her, his whispering mouth perilously close to her ear. “And fashionable boots are the devil’s own work. The moment I get a pair properly broken in, my valet whisks them away to donate to some under-footman. Apparently, I may only wear boots that make me feel I’m encased in oak.”
“Surely you could order your valet to leave you your broken-in pairs.”
“Surely I could. But I don’t. What you fail to understand, ma nonnette, is that the clothes I wear serve their purpose.” His breath brushed against her cheek. “To be thought a fribble is a great advantage for a man in my profession. Most of my social acquaintance amongst the beau monde assume I’d weep if I found a scuff on my dancing slippers, and take to my bed for days if ever I lost a cufflink.”
She couldn’t resist a small smile at that. “Yet you let them know your skill with a sword.”
“Well, I must display at least some manly prowess. How else could I inspire ladies to share my bed?”
“Trollop.”
“Still, if you were to suggest to anyone in London that I use my leisure time crawling over Spanish mountaintops or knifing French agents in back-alleyways in Cheapside, they’d laugh in your face.”
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “And have you knifed many French agents in back-alleyways in Cheapside?”
“One or two, perhaps.” He offered a bland smile. “My lips, generally speaking, are sealed as to the details of any particular mission.”
She let that information turn over for a beat or two in her mind. “And do you enjoy yourself when you do that sort of thing? Killing, I mean? Like you do when you fence?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s . . . horrifying.”
He shrugged. “Better than the alternative.”
“Which alternative?”
“Almost any alternative you could mention. Getting knifed, for one. Or sitting about a ducal drawing room, listening to some doddering old codger complain of his kidneys.”
She pursed her lips. “So that’s what you do all this for? For excitement?”
He gave her an odd look. An unusually thoughtful one. “Hard to say. Perhaps. Not as noble as your motive, but I suppose it serves well enough.”
“You don’t even know why you do it?”
“Well, I did it originally because I was asked. By a man I owed a very serious favor.”
“What man?”
“A great master of spies. You’ve met him—he was one of Helm’s two companions when you were brought to my house that first day.”
“Oh! That terrifying giant fellow with the black hair!”
Sebastian seemed amused. “No, not him. The other. The handsome one.”
Her mouth gaped. “Mawbry? The one with the charming smiles and all the cologne? Isn’t he a bit silly to be a spymaster?”
“That misjudgment has cost many enemies their lives. Mawbry’s one of the most dangerous men in Europe, when he chooses to be. When he doesn’t, the smiles are real enough. Espionage is a long Mawbry family tradition, as I understand it.”
“It must have been quite the favor he did you. You’ve been at this for years. Hasn’t your debt been well paid?”
“Hmm. The Game is . . . rather hard to leave once you’ve begun to play.”
“The Game?”
“It’s what we all call it. It’s what Sal called it.”
“It hardly seems like a game,” she said. “But if that’s what it is, I assure you I intend to play to win. And Victoire de Laurent will lose, with a knife in her back.”
Sebastian lengthened his stride for several paces, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his hat hiding his face from view. The set of his shoulders was tightening visibly, as if he were tensing to lift a heavy weight, or as if one were pressing on him from above.
Abruptly, he stopped. He turned, and
looked her full in the face. “This Game is not so easy. It takes years of training.”
“We haven’t got years.”
His expression was implacable. “You need to know how to kill a man. It doesn’t require a gun. A writing quill, or a brooch pin, or even the handle of a spoon can be all the weapon you need—you set the point into the cavity of the ear with one hand, and with the palm of the other hand, drive it straight and deep into the brain—”
“That’s hideous!” she said. “I don’t want to know about that!”
“I assure you, the time may come when you’ll be glad of it.”
“I could never be glad about driving a quill into a man’s brain!”
“Other points on the body are vulnerable, too,” he said, talking right over her objections. “A broken bottle, drawn across the neck–”
“Stop!”
“Why? Do you think our enemies will be kind and gentle?” He stepped very close to her, and she caught his scent again, that edge of leather and musk.
Despite the subject they were discussing, heat flushed through her.
“Do you think the French will hesitate to kill you,” he said, “any way they can? The French army will march on Vigo, mark my words, as soon as Corunna’s secured. And it’s not just men in uniform you’ll need to watch out for. It’s those who look like bakers, and carriage drivers, and priests—the more harmless-seeming, the more dangerous. Beware women most of all. Anyone can be your enemy. Anyone. You must be ready to fight, with any weapon you can reach.”
“Did Sarah think like this?”
“She learned to, yes. And you must do the same, if you’re to live. Think of men in terms of hard and soft spots. If you have a knife, aim for the belly, the groin, the cheek, the soft flesh up and underneath the jawbone.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!”
He showed no sign of stopping. Some cold fury drove him on. “If you have only your hands, try to break an attacker’s nose. Use the base of your palm and hit like you’re trying to drive the bridge of the nose straight out the back of his skull.” He gripped her forearm with one hand, gave it a hard shake. “Are you hearing what I'm telling you?”
“I can’t help hearing!” She glanced down the street they’d been walking up, almost hoping to see someone else coming, so Sebastian would have to cease his tirade and start moving again.
“One blow will seldom kill a man—you have to hit, and hit again, and again. If you can’t kill outright, aim for maximum pain. Debilitate him long enough to get away. Stamp your foot into his instep, hard enough to snap the tendons there. Bite, use your nails. Gouge at his eyes, and then run, and kept running, without looking back, until you’re somewhere safe.”
“I’ll gouge at your eyes right now if you don’t stop.”
He paused then, at last, and the familiar supercilious came over his features once more. “Why such squeamishness, sweetheart?” he drawled. “Your beloved Greeks and Romans worshipped bloodshed. They flayed their captives alive. Wiled away their afternoons watching gladiators hack one another to bits.”
“I’m well aware. But it’s a rather different prospect to imagine actually doing such things myself.”
“Funny how that works,” he said, and his eyes were almost cruel. “The messy difference between reading and real life.”
Real life, indeed. His body so close beside hers, his long thigh muscles nearly brushing against her legs, was all too real. Every nerve in her body prickled.
It was Sebastian who scanned the street now, and though she still saw not a single soul, he suddenly grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her into a rapid pace uphill.
“There’s something you should know about Victoire,” he said, and his tone was darker than ever. “She had reason to want Sarah dead, beyond just the possession of that book. You know Sarah broke French ciphers, several of them.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, one of them revealed an entire cadre of French spies in Madrid. Mawbry led a team who surrounded them at night, and shot them all in a back alleyway. Not time even for confession.”
“And?”
“And Victoire’s father and two older brothers were among that lot.”
She nearly stumbled on the cobblestones. But she wasn’t going to let that little piece of news frighten her. “Good,” she said, lifting her chin. “Then we both have a personal stake in this.”
“Not good.” His eyes as they glanced over at her were unusually bright, and not with humor. “It means she doesn’t just want to kill you, she wants to hurt you.”
“I can’t see how that makes any difference.”
“You’ll know the difference if she gets her hands on you, believe me.”
“I don’t care. Not if I also have a chance at hurting her.”
At that, Sebastian grunted irritably, and gripped her elbow once more, pulling her off into a tight alleyway between two houses. She nearly slammed into him as he stopped dead, towering over her and glaring down at her with a look harsh as acid.
“Listen to me, Rachel,” he said. “Even if we succeed, this mission won’t give you what you want. Nothing can bring your sister back, you know that. And, trust me, revenge is nowhere near as satisfying a dish as most people imagine. I’ve dispatched the killers of fellow agents before, and it does little to ease the anger one feels.”
She stared down at the damp stones beneath their feet. He was trying to discourage her again. Why now, for God’s sake? When they’d come this far?
His hands settled hard on her shoulders. “Captain Whitmore is still in port. We can turn around right now. You can get back on the Calliope. You can still return to England.”
Without him, he meant.
Without avenging Sarah.
Everything inside her went cold and flat and heavy as mud. “No.”
“Rachel, do you understand, truly, what happens from here on in?” Though she wasn’t looking at him, she could tell his head had lowered enough for his eyes to be level with hers. He wanted her to look at him, she could feel it in the way his hands tightened on her arms. “It’s kill or be killed, and even if you succeed, you’ll get nothing from it, nothing at all. There’s no peace. Every minute you live from now on, you’ll live in fear. Do you understand that?”
“I understand. I don’t care.”
“Well, I wish you’d go home.” His voice was a low growl. “You should go home.”
“I don’t have a home, remember?”
He paused. “You can go somewhere safe. Places can be arranged, for those the government wishes to protect. There are options. Things are worse here than I thought they’d be. Much worse.”
“Isn’t it a bit late to be having this conversation?”
“Not yet. Not quite. But once the army withdraws, and those ships are gone, it will be.”
She gave him a skewering glance. “You don’t think I can do this.”
“Oh, you’re wrong about that—I know you can.” His brow contracted, as if he were in sudden pain. “That doesn’t mean I want you to.”
Her heart lurched now, seemed to slide dangerously in a direction she did not wish for it to go. She wanted him to stop talking to her like this, stop looking at her like this, stop gripping her shoulders as if he actually cared what happened to her.
It wasn’t fair of him. She’d been charging ahead these past few days, deliberately not letting herself think. Thinking was . . . grief and hurt. And loneliness. Thinking was more terrifying than any of the dangers he could warn her of.
“Why shouldn’t I risk everything for this?” she asked. “What else is there for me?”
“You must have liked Rookshead well enough.” His mouth looked hard again, tight. The frost was back in his eyes. “You stayed there while your great aunts lived. You didn’t run away.”
A sharp ache stabbed through her chest. “How could I run away? After Sarah left, how could I?”
“What do you mean? Of course you could. Surely there was nothing
left for you there.” His expression became stone. “Unless—unless it was that pretty tutor of yours, that Mr. Rapson, you couldn’t leave.”
“What? No! You don’t—” She shook her head quickly, feeling an old desperation course through her. “If I’d left, how could Sarah ever have found me again? If I went anywhere else, she couldn’t have found me. If she ever came looking. I’d never—” She broke off again, and all the muscles of her face pulled together, and she felt the humiliating rise of tears.
Sebastian’s palms squeezed her shoulders even harder than before. “Rachel.” His voice rasped, low and dark; she couldn’t have named the emotion in it. It could have been anger. Frustration, maybe. Or pity. So hard to tell with him.
“Don’t you understand?” she said. “When Sarah first ran away, I should have followed her then. I should have run right out that door after her, and made my life with her.”
He looked horrified. “Surely not. Not that life.”
“I should have! Come what may! But I wasn’t brave enough. I stood there just long enough to think about consequences—and then it was too late. And I’ve lived with the regret every day since.” She scrubbed fiercely at her eyes with the sides of her hands. “So this danger you’re warning me about is no sacrifice at all. There’s nothing left in my life to sacrifice. If safety means misery, what’s the point in being safe?”
Sebastian drew a deep breath, and stared at her quietly as long seconds ticked by, until she thought he wouldn’t say anything more. But then he heaved the breath out again. “Living in regret,” he said. “I see. Perhaps we understand each other better than I thought.”
She blinked back at him. What did he mean by that?
The air hung heavy between them for a seeming eternity. The weight of it grew until she felt sure something would crack.
And then something did: before either of them could say another word, a heavy boom split the quiet of the day.
The stones beneath their feet shuddered.