He looked around the cabin, at the wide bed made up with fine linens, at the embroidered draperies that framed the windows. “I should’ve known it would be a floating palace,” he muttered.
Her skin prickled. Philip created a palace for his last victim. She drew back, afraid. “What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means that you’ll be extremely comfortable while you’re on board. There’s a trap being laid for Philip. When he returns to Renshaw House, they’ll arrest him. By the time you return home in a few days, it will be over.”
Evelyn swallowed. “And then what?”
He concentrated on ladling stew onto a plate for her. “You’ll be free. You can leave London and do whatever you want.”
She sat down heavily and stared at a chunk of carrot in glossy gravy.
“And you? What will happen to you?” she asked.
He placed a bit of warm bread on a plate, using tongs as if he was still her footman. “This trip should sort things out for me.”
“And after?” she persisted.
He took his seat across from her, his smile roguish but not quite meeting his eyes. “I never plan that far ahead.”
In other circumstances the meal would have been intimate and romantic, but they ate in tense silence, and she wondered if the future felt as bleak and friendless to him as it did to her. She couldn’t guess his thoughts by reading his face. They might have been sharing supper at a ball, or a last meal before his hanging.
“How will this trip exonerate you?” she asked.
He smiled, and she wondered if he’d fob off her question with a glib half-truth or another blatant lie. She held his eyes. “I deserve the truth, Sinjon. You said that much yourself.”
He put his spoon down. “I’m going to France to find a British soldier who can tell the truth of what happened on the road in Spain that day. A court-martial is hardly likely to take the word of the French colonel who was there, or his wife.”
“Patrick O’Neill,” she muttered.
“Now how did you know that?” he asked in surprise.
“Lord Creighton warned his sister you’d come looking for Patrick. She said you wanted to kill him so he couldn’t give evidence against you.” She read the indignation in his eyes, the anger at the false accusation. “How is Creighton involved? Why would he make such terrible accusations if they aren’t true?”
He didn’t answer. He got to his feet, tossed his napkin on the chair and crossed to the window, his back to her. His black silhouette was outlined by starlight.
“Isn’t it dangerous, going to France?” Evelyn asked. “We’re at war. If Major Creighton is mistaken, then surely you could speak to him—”
He turned to look at her, his eyes icy, freezing the words on her lips. “It shouldn’t take me more than a day or two to find O’Neill. You’ll be safe here. The captain has orders to get you home if anything goes wrong. But whatever happens to me, Evelyn, stay away from Creighton.”
“If anything goes wrong?” she repeated, ignoring the rest, trying not to picture him dead, his sightless eyes open, blood spilling from a final, fatal wound. She’d seen the scars on his body, knew he’d faced danger before. This time there was someone to care if he lived or died. Her throat closed. The corners of the cabin were in shadow, and they shared the ring of yellow lantern light, a safe haven against the darkness that was closing in on him.
He’d tricked her and lied to her. He’d kept her safe, made her feel loved.
He’d kidnapped her. To protect her from Philip.
Her heart opened like a rusty music box.
“Do you even speak French?” she asked.
He frowned. “Un peu,” he said. “A little. Why?”
He came back and sat down, and she watched him swallow another spoonful of stew.
“I speak fluent French,” she said.
“Do you?”
“Indeed. Shouldn’t you have someone with you who speaks proper French?” she asked, her eyes on his. “Just in case?”
She watched understanding kindle in his eyes. He dropped the spoon with a clatter.
“Oh, no. You’re staying here, on this boat, where it’s safe, Evelyn. This isn’t a game.”
She leaned toward him. “Ship,” she corrected. “And we’ve been playing a very elaborate game from the first moment I saw you. You pretended to be a footman. You played hide and seek with the authorities under my roof. You pretended to be my lover, and now you are playing a deadly version of blind man’s buff with Philip. I’m one of the major players, and you still owe me five hundred pounds, if nothing else. I must insist on going with you when you leave this ship.”
“I never pretended when I was your lover,” he said, trying to distract her. “That was honest.”
She forced a smile, as if it meant nothing to her. “Only the names were wrong,” she quipped. “Well, yours was.” She swiftly changed the subject back to the matter at hand. “Since the French are our enemies, I will do the talking if we are stopped. I can answer in French. You will play the role of my servant, so no one will expect you to say a word.”
She read the bemused refusal on his face and refused to accept it. “I am still the comtesse d’Elenoire while Philip keeps breathing. A French comtesse. No one will question a noblewoman traveling with a servant boy.”
His brows rose at the rude description. “No one will question a single man riding fast either.”
“Do you have a horse?” she asked.
He looked away. “I planned to borrow one.”
“You mean steal one.”
He didn’t reply. Nor did he look ashamed.
“We’ll rent a coach and four. Where are we going? Is it far?” She leaned forward, excited now. For the first time in months, years, she was free, and she meant to make the most of it.
“Evelyn, you can’t—”
“Have you got French coins?”
There was a knock on the door. “Entrez,” she said in lilting, perfect French, and grinned at Sinjon.
“No,” he said.
“I insist,” she replied.
The captain entered and swept off his hat, bowing over Evelyn’s hand before turning to Sinjon. “We’ll be off the coast of Normandy within the hour. Are you ready?”
Sinjon nodded.
“We’ll row you in and leave you on the beach. If there’s any sign of trouble, we’re leaving immediately. I have orders to send a man in if necessary to bring you back alive, but I’m confident you won’t make me risk the life of one of my men on a fool’s errand. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly. Thank you, Captain,” Sinjon said. “I’ll meet you on deck shortly.”
“Captain? I’ll be going as well,” Evelyn informed him, looking past Sinjon’s shoulder.
The man’s eyes popped and he glanced at Sinjon. Evelyn pinched him.
“I suspect the lady will swim to shore if we do not give her room in the boat,” Sinjon said.
The captain sighed. “His lordship said to be ready for trouble. Now I can see why. Still, knowing Countess Marianne, I’ve learned not to dispute a determined woman. I only hope she’ll make you more careful and I’ll not have to rescue both of you. She’s in your care, then. Best of luck. I suspect you’ll need it.”
Philip took his place in the launch with the rowers, a cap pulled low over his forehead, the collar of his coat standing high around his chin.
He watched as Rutherford tossed a bundle into the bottom of the boat.
His mouth twisted as Rutherford positioned himself behind his wife on the ladder, protecting her. Evelyn’s bottom swayed against Rutherford’s hips, and Philip let his hand stray to the pistol hidden in his coat. As soon as he had her in his clutches, he’d make her watch as he put a ball between her lover’s eyes.
He wondered if Rutherford was one of Westlake’s agents, since this was Westlake’s ship. If this was a mission, how did it involve Evelyn—how could it? She wasn’t a spy. She was stiff and dignified, and the dullest wo
man alive.
But here she was, landing in the dead of night on the unfriendly shores of enemy France.
Philip studied Evelyn’s profile in the darkness. Even now, her dress was prim and tidy, and she didn’t have a hair out of place. She settled herself on the narrow seat, close to Rutherford. Philip bristled as she leaned even closer to whisper in his ear.
A hard elbow jarred him back to the moment. “Row, damn you!” the sailor next to him hissed, and Philip gripped the oar and put his back into the cover of the task.
His hands were blistered and his shoulders burned long before the bottom of the boat finally scraped gravel. He leapt over the side with the others, and the icy water soaked him to the waist. Rutherford lifted Evelyn as if she weighed nothing and carried her to shore on his shoulder.
Philip reached into the boat and slung the bundle at him, just so Rutherford would be forced to unhand his wife. He caught it easily.
Philip fingered the gun again. It would be easy to shoot her now, but he was curious, and he wanted answers to some very important questions before Evelyn died. He slipped into the shadows, his eyes burning into Rutherford’s back as he watched the launch retreat.
Chapter 47
“What’s in the bundle?” Evelyn asked him as they walked up the beach toward a small inn. He glanced at her, noted her flushed cheeks, the shine in her eyes. She still imagined this was just an adventure. He swept the dark beach for signs of the local militia, but aside from the man following them, they were alone.
Probably a sailor, assigned to keep an eye on him. He damned Westlake and his spies, but if anything happened to him, the sailor would see Evelyn safely home.
He knelt and untied the pack, answering her question by showing her. “My sword, a purse, and my livery.”
“You kept it?”
He let her imagine he was sentimental. “You did say you wished me to play your servant, did you not?” He took her elbow to help her up over a lip of wet pebbles, and realized her skin was icy under her fashionable spencer.
“Put this on,” he said, holding out the livery coat.
“You’re supposed to be the servant, not me,” she objected, though her teeth were chattering.
Sinjon hesitated. He could let her shiver, wait until they reached the inn and purchase a blanket, or he could take another risk entirely. He withdrew his knife and slit open the lining of the coat. He draped the gonfalon over her shoulders like a shawl.
“Where on earth did you get this?” she asked, fingering the silk.
“Just don’t lose it.” He started walking again. “Are you warmer?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said crisply, her half boots slipping on the pebbles. “You’re very resourceful, aren’t you? You seem to have a plan for everything. Escaping, hiding, and subterfuge seem to be your greatest talents. Were you a spy in Spain? Is that why you refused to tell me about your past?”
“I was just a soldier,” he said. “I ran into a little trouble and needed to get myself out of it, so I left.”
“Rape is hardly a ‘little trouble.’ I’m surprised they didn’t hang you on the spot.”
“If they want to hang me, they’ll have to catch me.”
“Is that why you came to France? To escape?
“I come to France annually for the wine,” he quipped. “If you hurry along, I’ll buy you a cup.”
“To keep me quiet? I could simply go into the inn and tell them you kidnapped me, that you’re a wanted man,” she threatened.
He laughed. “You asked to come ashore, Evelyn, remember? Before you denounce me, remember you’re an English lady in France, and as much an enemy here as I am.”
She sniffed. “You should be grateful for my company. You said yourself your French is atrocious.”
“Poor, not atrocious,” he muttered.
“Bad enough that you’d do well to hold your tongue and let me do the talking!”
There was laughter in her voice. She was enjoying this. He wondered if she realized that this little excursion could get them both killed. But then, a ride in the park had nearly gotten her killed in London. He gripped the sword in his hand. He’d protected her then, and he’d keep her safe now.
There was no point in telling her that he was in command. Once again he was her servant.
“We need directions to Louviers,” he instructed her as they neared an inn.
“Why are we going there?”
“We aren’t, but it’s in the right direction. Tell them you’re going to visit your sister, if they ask.”
“And what should I say her name is?”
He gritted his teeth. “Evelyn, you won’t need to tell them a long story. Hand them a coin for the coach, buy some provisions, and we’ll be on our way.”
She stopped. “I have three sisters, Sinjon. They are always curious. If the innkeeper has a wife, she’ll ask questions. The less we say, the more she’ll wish to know. One does not simply walk in out of the night and rent a coach.”
There was a certain logic in that. “Tell the innkeeper’s wife that yours broke down on the road and you are in a hurry.” He shrugged. “A damaged wheel, perhaps? Your coachman is fixing it, but you cannot wait.”
“Because my sister is ill, near to death, and I must get to her at Louviers,” she finished happily.
Frustration nudged him. It would have been so much easier to steal a horse. He’d be halfway to Agramant by now. Instead, he was facing a long conversation about an imaginary sister. Given the sisters Evelyn already had, he was surprised she’d want to invent another one.
He shrugged out of his own coat and into the livery. “Why can’t I play the role of your husband instead of your servant?”
She looked at him as if he were the village idiot. “Because my husband would speak for me, while my servant wouldn’t dare, compris?”
She didn’t wait for a reply, but took a breath and opened the door of the inn.
Sinjon’s gut clenched as the conversation inside stopped. He felt for the pistol hidden under his livery, and prayed no one noticed that Evelyn was wearing the sacred Gonfalon of Charlemagne as a shawl.
Evelyn waved her supposed footman to a halt by the door as she approached the sleepy innkeeper, but he ignored the command, as stubborn now as he had been in her service in London. He stood behind her, ready to get her out of harm’s way if he had to.
She sent him a glare of warning, but he stood his ground, his gaze as stubborn as hers.
Giving up the battle, she turned to smile at the innkeeper. The man’s wife also rose from her chair, set her knitting aside, and glared at Evelyn suspiciously.
Evelyn took a breath and began her performance. She fixed her eyes on the proprietress and described the inconveniences and terrors of her imaginary carriage accident with vivid detail. By the time she described her poor sister’s desperate illness and her haste to reach her side, the inn wife had tears in her eyes. Even the innkeeper turned away to ply his rumpled handkerchief.
The sympathetic couple sprang into action, and within the hour Evelyn was safely ensconced in a carriage, with a basket of bread, cheese, and wine by her side, and a small gift of strawberry preserves for her ailing sister.
She gave Sinjon a bright smile as he closed the door of the coach, her mission accomplished.
Sinjon climbed up on the driver’s seat and nodded farewell to the innkeeper’s wife, who tearfully waved her handkerchief and wished them luck. He didn’t need luck. He had Evelyn. It couldn’t have gone better, he thought with a swell of admiration. He was tempted to pull off the road, climb inside and kiss Evelyn senseless, make love to her until they were both sated and breathless, but there wasn’t time.
She continued to surprise him, even when he thought he could not be more in awe of her, more in love.
Perhaps when he had O’Neill’s confession in his hand, and they were safely back in London, laughing over the perils of this adventure, he’d tell her. Westlake would have Philip in custody by then, and E
velyn would be free.
Sinjon frowned. She hadn’t forgiven him, and he was a long way from free himself.
Chapter 48
Evelyn stared at the magnificent chateau as Sinjon drove through the wrought-iron gates. Fragrant lilacs and roses, heavy with early morning dew, flanked the long driveway beside the coach, escorting them to the front door.
A lady was waiting when they pulled up. She smiled warmly at Sinjon and kissed his cheeks. Evelyn felt her skin heat, and she ran a hand over her hair. She untied the tattered silk shawl and straightened her bonnet and her spencer. There was no hope for her wrinkled muslin gown.
Sinjon seemed to be explaining who she was. The woman turned to look at her in surprise as she stepped out of the coach.
“Lady Evelyn Renshaw, may I introduce Madame Marielle d’Agramant?” Sinjon said, as if they were meeting at a garden tea, and their countries weren’t at war. The Frenchwoman assessed her boldly as they made their curtsies, and Evelyn wondered how Sinjon had explained her presence. She looked at him quickly, but his eyes were on the Frenchwoman.
“The captain tells me you came as an interpreter,” Madame d’Agramant said as she led the way to the house. An interpreter. It was not as bad as being described as a traitor’s wife, nor so possessive as being called his lover. It was polite, cool, and tidy.
Her stomach tightened and she clasped her hands together, stilling the desire to reach for Sinjon, cling to his arm, and feel the reassurance of his eyes on her.
“My husband is in the study, Captain Rutherford. He will be pleased to see you immediately. I’ll take Lady Renshaw upstairs so she may bathe before luncheon.”
Sinjon bowed and turned to follow a manservant down the corridor.
Marielle d’Agramant showed Evelyn to a comfortable bedroom. She rang for her maid and ordered a bath and fresh clothing.
“I hope you’ll forgive my curiosity, but are you related to Philip Renshaw, the comte d’Elenoire?” Marielle asked, and Evelyn’s stomach dropped to her ankles. Would the colonel arrest her in Philip’s place? She pictured being dragged through the streets to the guillotine like Marie Antoinette.
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