by C. J. Chase
This winter past. According to Kit DeChambelle, the ship had patrolled the coast of France until she was tasked with conveying the Treaty of Ghent to America.
Her brother had been murdered—after the signing of the treaty.
“Miss? Ye did promise—” A pistol shot split the air.
Chapter Ten
“Mattie!” Nicky’s scream pierced Mattie’s ears above the reverberations from the explosion.
She whirled to see the little boy racing toward her.
No! Right in the path of the shooter.
“Nicky, stop!”
A second blast thundered through the mist.
“Get down!” Mattie yelled, scarce able to hear her own voice above the pounding in her head.
She dashed toward him, sliding on the wet, uneven grass. If only she could reach him before the shooter reloaded—
Something walloped her, pitching her off her feet. Down, down she fell, until her back smacked against the grass.
“Oomph.” Stunned, she sprawled on the ground. She tried to find the breath that had been knocked clear of her lungs, but a great weight pressed against her chest. Still, her scattered wits focused on one overriding concern.
Must. Get. Nicky.
She tried to rise, only to realize that the something still pinned her down.
A living, breathing someone.
Frantically she shoved at the hard, heavy body atop her but the solid form crushed her against the ground.
“Mattie!” Kit DeChambelle’s voice roared in her ears. He shifted ever so slightly, allowing her to breathe again. “Are you hurt?”
“You!” Sharp pains radiated from her side as she sucked great gulps of air into her lungs. Had she been shot? No, that felt like a mere bruise—a London-size bruise—from her fall. She twisted her head and peered through the gloom, but saw only the bare bark of the tree trunk where Soggy had stood. Had he fled, or …? And worse, where was Nicky? He was only a few feet from her when she toppled—or rather, was attacked. He should be here, near her. Unless …
“Are you hurt?” Mr. DeChambelle repeated. The spectacles had fallen off her rescuer’s face, leaving her an unobstructed view of the blazing blue eyes.
“Only by you. What are you doing here?”
“I saw you leave so I followed you. What are you doing here, Miss Fraser? Must I lock you in a room to keep you from danger?”
“I told you it would be better for all concerned were I to stay at an inn.”
“With what funds?”
What funds, indeed. Suspicions raced through her mind. She no longer had any money other than what he had provided. She was completely dependent on the DeChambelles’ charity.
By deliberate arrangement?
His brother?
Cold dread congealed the blood around his heart as Kit waited, the interminable moments ticking off, to see if her assailant reloaded and returned. The ominous quiet minced his nerves almost as much as the shooting. Did the villain lurk around a tree, waiting for them to arise?
As the agonizing seconds passed, he strove to determine the origin of the shots but his rage-filled mind could not identify the location. How could he capture the assailant when he didn’t know where to look?
“I’ve got to find him.” The mouth two inches from his puffed sweet air against his face.
Him? The shooter? Kit peered through the encroaching darkness as he pushed his weight onto his arms. No bullets grazed his head, so he turned his stare to Mattie’s face. “Find whom?”
Her lips pressed together in a flat line of distrust below eyes glimmering with fear and … accusation?
Find whom? His mind leaped across his terror and focused on the seconds before the shot, to the small form in green with its familiar, high-pitched voice. Mattie’s little friend, the boy from the Captain’s Quarters. Frustration melded with the danger and violence. The anger simmering below his skin threatened to explode to the surface—at her for her heedless escape, at the man who wanted her dead. He shoved it aside for another time and focused on his fear for her. So close. So frighteningly, awfully close. He brushed the hair from her face, savoring the warm, soft skin against his fingertips.
She grabbed his wrist and held it at bay. “Don’t touch me.”
He yanked his hand away, stung by the harsh words. Her dark eyes aimed anger, even repulsion, at him. The freckles sprayed brown against her pallor, and she rubbed her cheek as if his touch—his rescue—had lacerated her skin. Then the fire in her eyes dimmed and behind their depths flickered shadows of … vulnerability Grief. Loss?
Simple shock? Or did she lay the blame for her troubles at his feet?
Now that the imminent danger had passed, a crowd of the curious, drawn by the gunshots and a taste for the macabre, swelled around them. Would such a gathering make her safer? Or put her more in jeopardy? He rolled over and rose to a crouch beside her, searching for any telltale red but he beheld only the mud pasted to her hair and clothes.
“You there,” he called over his shoulder towards the boldest member of the gathering rabble. “Was anyone injured?”
The man muttered something incoherent and shook his head.
“Did anyone see what happened? Where the scoundrel went?”
Unwilling to become involved, the more cowardly of the spectators began to dissipate into the shadows.
To hunt the shooter now would leave Mattie exposed and alone, but by the time he escorted her home and returned, the trail would be colder than the North Sea in February. He clenched his fists in frustration, imagining for a moment the villain’s neck between them. “Come, let us get you home.”
“But I must—”
“Now, Mattie! There is nothing to be gained by staying here any longer. If your friend was here—injured—we would know by now. Obviously he fled for safety, and you should, too. It is too dark to find anyone without knowing where to look—we would only further endanger you.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and knotted around their entwined hands. Those fragile fingers chilled his palm, as if the icy dread that tightened around his gut circulated to her. She shook with shock—the full reaction to her near death only now settling in her.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She tried to pull away—as if she found even this touch distasteful—but her unsteady legs gave way and nearly felled her. He caught her and pulled her close. She dragged another shuddering breath into her lungs, reminding him anew that his two-second miscalculation had nearly cost her life. Without the poise so much a part of her, she seemed so delicate, a shell of the uncompromising woman he admired.
Even the deepening darkness could not disguise the water, mud and debris that marred her coat. If anything happened to Mattie, he would lose the opportunity to save Julian. Indeed, he would lose his last chance to save his soul from the dark despair that so often shadowed his steps and threatened to obliterate his future.
Her shudders increased until at last he scooped her in his arms and ran until he reached the edge of the park. Frantically he searched for a hackney but the residents here mostly traveled in their own curricles, carriages and coaches.
Where was Baxter? Had he run after Mattie’s assailant? Or did he yet stand in the rain in front of his parents’ house, watching the front door? But who would have expected Mattie to escape via a rear window? Certainly not Kit, who had seen the maneuver by merest chance when he happened to glance out his chamber window.
Two streets later, Kit finally spotted a cab parked in front of a townhouse. He ran to its side and yanked open the door. “Ayton Street.”
“Blimy! Ye can’t do that!” The wet driver raised his whip. “I’m waiting for a fare.”
“I’ll pay you double. Triple if you hurry.” Kit shoved Mattie onto the seat and jumped in after her.
The cab shot forward like another pistol shot. The suddenly eager driver pushed his nag into breakneck speed, the hackney wheels frequently parting company with the wet bricks
as they careened around people, carts and an occasional dog.
Kit had followed Mattie hoping to discover the evidence he needed to absolve Julian of treason. Now, it seemed, someone wanted her dead.
Cold. Mattie was so cold. So cold, she couldn’t stop shivering. The wet chill saturating her clothes penetrated all the way into her bones. She hated the feeling of helplessness, of weakness, but after the horror over George’s fate and her angst over Nicky’s disappearance her mind had numbed to match her knees.
The hackney driver whipped around another turn, propelling her across the seat and against him. She wanted to sob, to shout, to shove him away. And yet the rational part of her mind gently admonished her against holding him responsible for another’s crime.
Kit DeChambelle wrapped his arm around her, pressing her shivering form to his warmth. Pinned against him, she felt the hardness of his strength—the strength that had knocked her from a bullet’s path. She raised her chin and stared into his eyes while the air around them crackled with the tension.
“Kit.” Her voice was but a ragged whisper, scarcely audible over the pounding of her heart. “I—I didn’t thank you—”
He stopped her with a finger to her lips. “I thought he had killed you, and that nearly killed me.” His rapid, exhausted gasps—earned when he carried her from danger—wafted across her cheeks as his blue eyes stared at her across an impenetrable gulf of class, country and kin.
Intertwined families and divided loyalties.
She’d been alone so long. So long. Longing welled within her and splashed across her mind—the old familiar yearning for someone, anyone who cared about Mattie Fraser’s fate, who would offer to shoulder some of her burdens or push her from the path of a bullet.
Then his lips brushed hers.
Her eyes drifted shut to block all but the sensations that flooded her being—unfamiliar sensations almost frightening in their intensity. Her misgivings melted like so much ice under the ache of yearning.
The hackney lurched to a halt before the Earl of Chambelston’s mansion. She snapped her eyes open and stared into the midnight sky of Kit DeChambelle’s gaze. Was that regret that so quickly shadowed the depths of his stare? Confusion befuddled her mind, but she summoned her pride and stiffened her spine.
He pulled away, leaving her suddenly bereft for something that couldn’t be. After he paid the driver the promised sum, he reached for her.
Mattie stopped him with a hand. She couldn’t bear it if he held her again. “I—I can walk.”
Doubt twisted his mouth but he assisted her without comment, then ushered her to the house, his hand again anchored to her back in a manner at once presumptuous and protective. Higgins hovered by the door, his face impassive despite her wild hair and soiled, rent clothes.
“Higgins, is my mother about?”
“I’m afraid she is out, sir.”
“Out?” A frown creased his brow. “She hadn’t planned an excursion today. Where did she go?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. Would you like me to check with one of the grooms?”
“No, that isn’t necessary. Inform Mrs. Parker that Miss Fraser needs a warm bath and a hot toddy.”
The butler nodded. “Very good, sir.”
Kit waited until the butler strode away, then turned to Mattie. Water darkened his hair and plastered it to his forehead, and grass stains streaked his rumpled cravat. “You need dry clothes.”
“I need to find Nicky. To know if he is harmed.”
He folded his arms across his chest, his stare level. “I’m going out to make inquiries. I’ll see what I can learn.”
“Thank you.”
The silence stretched for several moments while they gazed at each other across a rift of distrust, reluctant respect and undeniable attraction. “Mattie, have you considered a workhouse for Nicky?”
“I can’t send him anywhere against his wishes.”
“You could suggest it to him. He’d listen to you.”
“And what happens to the children in those places?” Rumors about the conditions at England’s poorhouses had reached even Mattie’s ears during her two weeks at the Captain’s Quarters.
Kit’s hesitation confirmed the reports’ accuracy. “He’ll die on the streets.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“They are fed. Clothed. Educated in a trade.”
“Would you ever send Caro to such a place?”
A tic throbbed on the edge of his jaw. “To save her from starvation, yes.”
“Nicky isn’t starving.”
“Because he steals. Do you realize what will happen to him when he is caught? Mattie, if you truly care for the boy you must convince him to end his life of crime.”
“I—I’ll speak to him.” If she ever saw him again. A chill rippled up her back. From her exposure to the cold rain or contemplation of Nicky’s likely destiny?
“You’re freezing.” Concern etched circles under Kit’s eyes. “If you don’t remove those wet clothes, you’ll catch your death of cold. Do you need me to assist you to your chamber?”
“No, I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
Indeed, she needed to get away to think without the disruption of those perceptive eyes peering into her thoughts, or that concern—for her!—chipping away her resolve.
She trudged up the stairs, the water on her coat trickling onto the stair treads. At the door to her chamber she paused, hand on the knob. Her chamber? Or her prison cell?
But she was destitute, dependent on the charity and good graces of the one family in England she most wanted to hate.
She opened the door and slipped into the room, dripping more water onto the fine carpet.
The reflection that stared back from the mirror looked much the same as before. Wet, lank hair had escaped its pins and her cold lips stood out in relief against her pale face. She touched her fingertips against her so-recently-kissed lips, wanting desperately to believe she could find a future, comfort, a cure here. With Kit DeChambelle. But already, cold reality had begun to settle in.
Someone had delivered those notes to her room at the Captain’s Quarters. To here.
And then there was her able collaborator who’d so recently saved her from gunfire. Kit DeChambelle had seen Nicky with her but once, at the Captain’s Quarters. Yet despite the gloomy skies and the legion of orphans that roved London’s streets, he’d recognized the boy again today.
The door squeaked as Mrs. Parker entered. “Your hot toddy, Miss Fraser.” Steam swirled from the liquid in a display of warmth and comfort. Mattie tore her gaze from the solace of a hot drink, to the housekeeper.
“Thank you.”
“Betsy will bring your hot bath.”
Despite the warm cup in Mattie’s hand, a chill coiled through her as the housekeeper strode out of the chamber. She knew little of Kit DeChambelle, only that his brother had ordered George’s death. Indeed, she had only Kit’s word he was Andrew Harley-Smith’s friend. The threats had begun immediately after her first meeting with Kit, shortly before he’d arrived in the nick of time to rescue her from her eviction.
How convenient, that. Where had he been during her aborted meeting with Soggy? How much had he heard?
She slipped her hand into her pocket, expecting her fingers to brush the barrel of the pistol she’d brought from America. It was gone.
Kit raked a hand through his sodden hair, his mind roiling with the implications of his actions. The taste of Mattie yet lingered on his lips, defying him to regret his impulse. He’d kissed a woman whose loyalties lay with an enemy country. A woman whose brother had conspired to sully the reputations of Kit’s brother and king. A woman who perhaps, even now, schemed to retrieve stolen orders and convey them to American officials.
But if she were innocent?
So much the worse.
Ironic, but it seemed a few scruples yet lurked inside him. He’d taken advantage of a scared and lonely woman, one with neither protection nor provisions. Alderston mi
ght be appalled by Kit’s show of conscience, but then Alderston would seduce a woman for mercenary advantage without qualm.
He’d have to apologize—even if he wasn’t quite sorry for his behavior. Even if he was secretly glad she hadn’t pulled away. Nothing worked quite like fear to compel a man to face his feelings. He stripped off his ruined clothes and forced his mind away from their kiss to the most important matter of all.
Mattie’s life.
An image niggled in the back of his mind. He was missing something. Something important.
His valet slipped into the room and retrieved a dry shirt.
Kit did not so much as glance at it, but held out his arms. “I need my spare spectacles.”
“I’ll get them for you.”
Every time he closed his eyes he imagined Mattie’s contorted body lying in a pool of blood. That it had transpired otherwise, that Mattie was unharmed but for a few scrapes and bruises would not assuage his nightmares.
The woman he had placed in his parents’ house could bring danger to them all unless he could determine the secret Mattie knew—or had the potential to learn. And Mattie had been as unforthcoming about her involvement as his brother had. But how could he ask for her trust when he used her for his own ends?
At this moment Kit wanted nothing more than to consign Julian to his fate. His brother was a man full grown. Let him fight his own battles. But an image of Caro ever hovered at the edge of Kit’s thoughts, reminding him that battles oft caused casualties beyond the principals involved. As he well knew.
He relived the moments just prior to the shooting, when Mattie stood by her purse-thieving friend and a menacing hulk of a man. In the distance loomed a fourth figure, his features obscured—other than the pistol the specter raised and aimed. Kit let his eyes drift shut and focused on the shooter. Would he see his brother’s features in his dreams tonight?
But that made no sense. War had been Julian’s livelihood for two decades. He was a crack shot—as evidenced by his very survival. Either Julian was not involved, or else he was not trying to hit his target. And couldn’t the same also be said of Fitzgerald?