“Renshaw!” Sinjon’s voice echoed back at him through the empty rooms. “I have something you want.” He pulled the gonfalon out from under his coat, ignoring the pain. “A trade, Evelyn for the flag.”
Renshaw stared at the gonfalon as he came forward, holding Evelyn by the arm. Her mouth was bleeding, her face was bruised, and her eyes were pools of hell. Sinjon grinned at her, but she sobbed, not trusting he’d be able to rescue her this time. Renshaw snatched the gonfalon from Sinjon’s numb fingers and stepped back.
“How very convenient,” he said. “But I’ll take both, I believe.” He pointed a second pistol at Sinjon.
“No!” Evelyn screamed, careening against her husband. The shot went wide, hit the wall beside Sinjon’s head. Shards of plaster stung his cheek.
“The French are coming, Renshaw.” He was surprised at the calm in his tone, and by the effort it took to speak at all. He wasn’t sure Philip heard him, but Evelyn gasped, either from pain or surprise as Renshaw dragged her away. Sinjon fought the urge to sink into blackness. The room wavered around him, and he put his hand inside his coat, feeling the wet heat of blood. He had no idea how bad it was. Chest wounds were always fatal in Spain, but he couldn’t die yet.
Evelyn needed him.
Chapter 51
Philip forced her up a steep set of circular stairs, and she wondered if he knew where he was going. The steps ended abruptly, and she stumbled out into bright sunlight at the top of an ancient tower.
The chateau’s crumbling battlements framed a magnificent view of fields and woods. He forced her to the edge and pushed her between the thick blocks of yellow stone until she dangled over the drop.
“Everything you can see is my land, wife, my kingdom. You might have lived like a queen here.”
All Evelyn could see was a sixty-foot drop. She shut her eyes, feeling dizzy, waiting for the final push that would send her over the parapet. Sinjon was hurt, perhaps dying. She had so much to say to him. She said it in her mind like a prayer and stared at the horizon.
A movement in the distance caught her eye, a plume of dust coiling in the air behind a column of riders.
“The French are coming!” she croaked. She willed Sinjon to hang on, to let someone rescue him for a change.
Philip let her go and began reloading the pistols. He didn’t even glance at the advancing soldiers. “It doesn’t matter. I have the gonfalon.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t make myself clear downstairs, Renshaw. You can have the gonfalon, but Evelyn comes with me.”
Evelyn turned. Sinjon was leaning against the doorpost. He was pale and sweating, and blood dripped from his sleeve to patter on the thirsty stone, but he had his sword in his hand, and he was glaring at Philip like one of the avenging angels on the flag. Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat, half in fear, half in love. He looked magnificent.
Philip raised his pistol and cocked it.
Evelyn leapt between Philip’s pistol and the man she loved. “Sinjon, the army is coming. Go back down and wait for them, if you please,” she ordered, lady of the manor again. “You’re bleeding.”
“Did you hear that, Renshaw? The French are coming for you,” Sinjon said, ignoring her. Philip sighed. “God, how I hate heroes! You are all so tiresome, and predictable. You won’t leave her, will you? It’s some ridiculous code you live by. You’ll stand there and let me shoot you before you’d even think of abandoning her. I have the flag, Rutherford. I’m invincible. You, however, will still die, and you won’t have saved anyone.”
Evelyn could hear the pounding of hooves now, and the shouts of men below. Philip jerked the pistol toward the stairs. “Evelyn, go and see what’s happening, or I’ll shoot him between the eyes.”
She didn’t move.
Sinjon smirked. “Let me describe what’s happening. The officer is Colonel Jean-Pierre d’Agramant, Renshaw. He has orders to shoot you on sight. He commands a unit of crack shots, personally chosen by Napoleon for their skill.”
A bead of sweat rolled down Philip’s cheek, but he threw back his head and laughed.
“Napoleon? I’m emperor here!” He unfurled the gonfalon and wrapped it around his shoulders like a royal robe. “When they see the gonfalon, those crack shots will kneel to me. They will not shoot me, or dare to raise a hand against this blessed scrap of cloth.”
Evelyn’s ears pricked at the sound of boots on the stone steps. Sinjon kept his eyes on Philip, who drew himself up to full height and waited, the gonfalon billowing around him, gleaming in the sun.
The first soldier appeared in the doorway. He stopped and stared at the flag for a moment before he dropped to one knee and crossed himself. His fellows followed, and Philip laughed.
“You see, Rutherford? As I said, they are kneeling to me.”
“Not to you, Renshaw. Never to you,” Sinjon growled.
D’Agramant arrived and stood behind his men, regarding the situation.
“Order them to fight!” Evelyn cried desperately. “He’s a traitor! Will they allow such a man to hold such a holy object?”
“Return the gonfalon, Lord Renshaw, and you may walk away,” d’Agramant bargained.
Philip smiled. “You aren’t kneeling, Colonel. Are you not a believer? I could walk through fire unscathed, wrapped in this flag. Ask your men. Order them to shoot. They won’t do it. I will leave, but the gonfalon comes with me. I’ll ride through the streets of Paris with it around my shoulders and shame Napoleon before God and man.” He held out his hand. “Come, Evelyn, we’re leaving.”
She hesitated.
“You didn’t think I’d leave you here with him, did you? Winner takes all, my dear. The loser gets nothing.”
Evelyn looked at Sinjon. He would die if his wounds weren’t tended. With Philip gone, the colonel could bandage him, get him safely home to England. She told him with her eyes that she loved him, and took a step toward her husband.
Sinjon caught her hand with more strength than she thought he had left. “No. If you go, Renshaw, you will relinquish your claim on Evelyn. You will swear never to come near her again.”
Philip tilted his head, amused. “Are you in love with my wife, Rutherford?”
Evelyn held her breath, but Sinjon didn’t reply.
“Apparently not. Poor Evelyn,” Philip mocked. “Do you love him, or was he just a roll in the hay to satisfy the itch in my absence?”
“I did not miss you at all,” she said. “I wished you were—” Sinjon’s grip tightened on her hand before she could say the word.
“Indeed.” Philip frowned. “With such tender feelings involved, it will be all the more amusing to kill you, Rutherford.” He waved a hand at the kneeling soldiers. “There’s not a man here who’d stop me. Not because of the gonfalon, but because adultery is a sin.”
He let his eyes bore into Sinjon’s. “Imagine this man with your wives, mes amis, and I’m sure you’ll agree to kill him for me. You!” He pointed to the first man. “In the name of the holy Gonfalon de Charlemagne, I order you to kill my wife’s defiler.”
Evelyn watched in disbelief as the soldier crossed himself and reached for his sword.
“You see, Evelyn? With this flag, I can do anything. Now watch your lover die.”
Behind her, Sinjon’s breathing was ragged. He would not survive a long fight.
“Put down your weapon,” Colonel d’Agramant ordered the soldier, but the man shook his head and crossed himself again.
“Evelyn, move,” Sinjon said. He pushed her aside and raised his sword, facing his attacker. Philip was smiling, smug, sure of the situation. He wouldn’t stop. He’d kill them all for his amusement.
“Stop!” she pleaded as Sinjon parried the first thrust. On the second, his opponent knocked his sword from his hand, and Sinjon swayed.
Only Evelyn was watching Philip, saw him raise his pistol and point it at Sinjon, his finger curling on the trigger.
She grabbed for Sinjon’s sword and lunged at her husband with a cry of r
age as the gun fired.
The shot went wide, and Philip screamed as the sword sank into his flesh. Evelyn felt it press home, shudder in her hand. She let go, her shock mirrored in Philip’s eyes. He clutched the blade, staring at her in horrified surprise. He backed away and hit the edge of the parapet. For a moment he cartwheeled in space, trying to save himself. The gonfalon floated free, caught by the wind, unfurling over the rooftop to hover above the fray. Philip’s eyes were fixed on the flag as he toppled backward.
Sinjon reached for her, tore the sword from her hand and gathered her to his chest, trying to keep her from seeing Philip’s death, protecting her even from that.
“I’m all right,” she said, her voice quivering.
He touched her cheek. “No you’re not,” he said, but his eyes rolled back as she watched, and his body sagged.
“Colonel!” she screamed, holding her lover, and d’Agramant caught Sinjon and lowered him gently.
Evelyn dropped to her knees beside him and tore open his coat and his blood-soaked shirt.
“Retrieve the gonfalon,” the colonel ordered his men, then came to Evelyn’s side. “How bad is it?”
“Flesh wound,” Sinjon muttered through clenched teeth.
But d’Agramant drew a sharp breath. “We’ll need to get him back to my home,” he said.
Sinjon shook his head and began to get up, grunting at the pain. “There’s a ship waiting, and they’ll hang me if I’m not on it. I must get Evelyn home.”
The colonel regarded her soberly. “The coast is four hours from here. My home is only two.”
“Home,” Sinjon insisted weakly.
“I’ll see to him,” Evelyn said quickly.
D’Agramant indicated that several of his men should carry Sinjon down to the coach. Then he bent and picked up Sinjon’s sword, looking down at it for a moment. “I gave this sword to Captain Renshaw for rescuing my wife,” he said to Evelyn. “It has been in my family for many generations. It has always been used honorably, and I thank you for what you did here today. It can’t have been easy.”
“I couldn’t let him die,” Evelyn murmured, staring at the bloody blade.
“You are a remarkably brave woman, a woman worthy of a man like Captain Rutherford.” He bowed and held out the sword to her. “Will you return this to him with my thanks?” She took it gingerly, and nodded.
The colonel’s men poured brandy over Sinjon’s wound, and a good deal down his throat to dull the pain. They found clean bandages, and warned her again that the injury would need stitching as soon as possible.
Sinjon looked at her with glazed eyes. “You’re free, Evelyn,” he murmured before he fell asleep in her arms.
She was free. Just what did that mean?
Chapter 52
Sinjon awoke to the sound of the waves slapping against the hull of the ship. Evelyn was close to him. He could smell the faint sweetness of her skin before he’d even opened his eyes. He felt the tickle of her hair against his chest.
Was he naked?
He opened his eyes as something sharp stabbed him.
“Ow!” he protested.
She didn’t flinch. “Hold still.”
“What the devil are you doing?”
She looked up at him, her green eyes luminous in the lamplight. “Stitching your wound. It should have been done hours ago.”
“Stitching—” He gasped as she jabbed him again. “Have you ever done this before? Isn’t there a ship’s surgeon?”
She raised her brows. “I have embroidered all my life. I have even sewn for soldiers.”
“But never on soldiers!”
She sent him a quelling look. “I’m almost done. If you lie still, I’ll finish all the faster. Surely you’ve had worse wounds than this. Like this one.” She ran a gentle finger over the scar that crossed his collarbone. It was a light, intimate caress, but she ruined the moment with another stitch.
“How bad is it?” he asked, gritting his teeth.
“The bullet nicked a rib and grazed your flesh. It didn’t hit anything vital.”
“Are you a doctor as well as a tailor?” he asked. The light from the swinging lantern turned her hair a dozen shades of copper and gold.
She sent him another speaking look. “The surgeon told me.”
“Then there is a ship’s surgeon?”
She grinned. “No, the colonel insisted a doctor examine you before he’d let you leave. He didn’t want France’s newest hero dying of a flesh wound.”
Sinjon frowned. “You make it sound so inconsequential.”
She met his eyes again. “Inconsequential? No, never that. You saved my life, and the gonfalon, and Philip is dead. You’re a hero in two countries. It’s not inconsequential at all.”
“Evelyn,” he said, touching her face, seeing the tears glittering like molten gold in her eyes. She hadn’t mentioned her role in Philip’s death. She pulled away, rejecting comfort.
“Let me finish this,” she said, and pushed the needle into his skin again. He lay very still and watched her. Her face was bruised and scratched, and there were shadows on her throat where Philip had held her. His stomach clenched. She should be curled in a corner, sobbing, but she was clear-eyed, sewing his wounds, tending to him.
“Evelyn, how badly are you hurt? Did the surgeon see to you as well?”
She got up to fetch a bundle of white cloth without answering. She tore it into bandages with a deft ferocity.
“You’ll need to sit up so I can bandage you,” she said crisply, no hint of sorrow or weakness in her eyes.
He let her help him, feeling weak as a child. He leaned on her, buried his face in her neck as she wrapped his ribs tightly.
“Evelyn, I’m sorry.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “Do you think I regret that Philip is dead?”
“Do you?” he asked, touching her face, running his fingers carefully over the cuts and scrapes. She let her cheek rest in his palm for a moment, let her eyes drift shut.
“Perhaps it should matter more to me.”
“It may be shock. You’ll feel it later.”
She looked at him, bereft and afraid. “I don’t want to feel it or think about it. I just want it to be over.”
He wanted to drag her into bed beside him, comfort her, but she stood apart from him, her expression unreadable, and he didn’t have the strength to reach for her.
She was brave, beautiful, and everything he’d ever imagined in a lover. He wanted to keep her safe, love her, honor her and keep her.
Except he didn’t have a penny to his name. Or a home. Or a family. He was still a wanted man, a traitor, despite the letter O’Neill had given him.
And she was a new widow, a woman who had endured kidnapping, lies, brutality, and had killed her husband to save him. Was he worthy of such a sacrifice?
She began to wind the bandages around him again.
“So what will you do now?” she asked. “Where will you go?” He saw tears in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. He read the hope there too.
The words hovered on his tongue, but he had no right to say them.
Instead he grinned at her, the most roguish, devil-may-care smile he could manage.
“I never plan that far ahead.”
Chapter 53
Evelyn hovered as the sailors carried Sinjon off the ship. She had let him sleep once she bandaged him. She sat beside him, watching his face, memorizing it. He’d woken as they reached London, found her lying beside him, touched her face. She’d burrowed carefully against his side until the captain knocked on the door to tell her they’d arrived. She rose from the bed, and he clutched at her hand, squeezing it, thanking her wordlessly. For what? Bandaging him? He pulled her against him in the coach, which conveniently awaited them at the pier, held her. Dawn was breaking over the city as they drove through the empty streets.
Sinjon lifted her chin gently, careful of her bruises, and kissed her. His lips clung to hers, roamed over every scra
tch and bruise, a blessing.
Or farewell.
He kissed away her tears too, but didn’t ask why she was crying. Perhaps he assumed it was shock at last. She kissed him back, silently, letting her touch speak for her, knowing if she spoke now, she’d beg him to stay with her, embarrass them both. He didn’t want a future with her. For him, their affair was over. She ran her fingers through the silk of his hair, over the stubble of his jaw, breathed him in, memorizing him, because for her there would never be anyone else.
Her heart was breaking as they pulled up at Renshaw House. He’d given the coachman orders to bring her home before taking him to De Courcey House. He wasn’t staying. She moved out of his arms, suddenly chilled without his warmth.
“Evelyn, would you come and see me tomorrow?” he asked. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
She swallowed. “What more can there be to say?” She did not want to hear any more admissions. If he had a wife, a fiancée, a good reason why they could never be together, she didn’t want to know.
He winced as he sat up, and she feared he’d open the wound. “You’ll tear the stitches!” she said. He let her press him back against the squabs, gasping at the pain.
“Tomorrow,” he murmured. “I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”
Her heart clenched in her chest.
“But I want—” She paused. What did she want? She wanted him to get out of this coach and walk up the steps with her. She wanted to sleep beside him, and wake up knowing they were both alive and Philip was gone forever.
The door of the vehicle swung open.
“Welcome home, my lady, I trust all is well?” Starling asked, offering his hand as if Evelyn had merely been out dancing the night away at a ball, or visiting a friend for tea, instead of kidnapped and taken to France where her life had changed forever.
Philip is dead, she longed to say, there is nothing more to fear, but the coach jerked forward, pulling away, taking Sinjon with it, and she couldn’t speak a word.
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