Her fear crouched with him.
Fear of being hanged, fear of leaving Anne. She had lived with this fear as a girl, lived with it when Henri had discovered her. It was worse now. If she was arrested for treason, Anne would be left alone with Marchand. He might kill her, or train her, or give her to Lessard.
Or sell her to the highest bidder.
So Vivienne did not fight. That would be unpardonable in Henri’s eyes, and she would die. She would accept anything, any punishment, to keep Anne safe.
“What game are you playing?” he whispered, bending over her and setting his mouth against her ear. Whiskers brushed against her cheek like so many thorns. His breath was hot, his body smelling of eau de cologne and angry sweat.
“I am not playing any game, Henri.” The scent of him sickened her. “I am only trying to protect your interests. Protect England.”
“Liar.” His mouth touched her cheek. A kiss that was not a kiss. “You lie, Vivienne. Do not think I can’t see it.” His voice was cold in her heart, harsh on the air. “I don’t take betrayal kindly.”
“Not betrayal.” She remained on her hands and knees, hunched over like a dog who had been kicked. Her eye would swell soon. Even now, she could feel it begin. He would take pleasure in this. She kept her face averted, let her loose hair hang like a curtain to block him out. “I would not betray you,” she lied.
“I had not expected you would—but that’s my mistake. I saved you once from death. I trained you. Kept you. I demanded and expected loyalty. And yet, you met with Lessard.”
He moved so that he crouched in front of her now, strong and sure before her abject pose. A long, long moment passed. A long moment when all she could see was the shine of his boots, her fingers curling into the wood floor, and her hair curtaining her face.
He set his hand on her uninjured cheek and deliberately, slowly, turned her face up to look at him. He gave her time to look away, to fight, but she knew he would use it as a reason to kill her. Death shone in the cold, cold light of his eyes.
She would not survive this night. He would not trouble to send her for trial. He would simply kill her. He only wanted an excuse.
“You met with Lessard,” he whispered again, still tipping her face up so he could see it. “You accepted his note, and you delivered it. If it had not fallen out of Lynley’s toga after he tupped a whore at the masquerade, I would not have known. The prince himself saw it fall.”
Despair choked her. She could not defend herself. She had delivered the note, as he said.
“Nothing to say, Vivienne?” Henri gripped her chin, fingers biting into her flesh. “Do you know, I could break your neck. In one motion—in one second—I could break your pretty, lying neck. Then you would be gone, with nothing to show of this life but petty thievery.”
No! Her mind screamed it. Her heart echoed it. Anne! Maximilian! Terror immobilized her. Too long, she had lived in fear of Henri. Of imprisonment, of death. This fear was so huge, so ingrained, it consumed her.
So cold it had frozen her courage.
Henri leaned down, a mocking smile curving his lips. “Instead of breaking your neck, my disloyal Flower, I shall turn you over to those who excel in the torture of double agents. They will make the closed bud bloom and reveal her secrets.”
She did not think beyond a single word.
Life.
Jabbing an elbow into Henri’s ribs was satisfying and terrifying and liberating. His gasp of pain was an aria in her ears. Spinning on her knees, she attempted to smash the heel of her hand into his nose. Such a move should have incapacitated him, but he jerked away at the last moment and her blow glanced off his cheek.
Still, it sent him over backward.
Vivienne scrambled up and leaped away—only to be felled by a foot sweeping along the floor to topple her. Landing on her back pushed the air out of her lungs. Without breath, she forced herself to roll over and pushed to her feet.
And so they faced each other. The trainer and the trainee. The spymaster and his pawn.
His eyes—they glittered in the light of the single candle he had lit. Bright and hard.
“There will be no agents who excel at torture, Vivienne. You will not be afforded life for that long.” Breathless words. Furious words. “I shall kill you myself.”
“So be it.” She accepted his vengeance. Expected it—but she would not bow to it. “Another day, perhaps.”
He lunged, and though she moved back, the blow still landed in her belly. With a cry she doubled over but used the pain to fuel her. She rammed her shoulder into his chest, then twisted so her back pushed him toward the ground.
It was only a moment of advantage. So she leaped, breath heaving, to straddle him, and plowed her fist into his face. Cartilage crunched beneath her knuckles. She hit him again and dimly felt the skin of her knuckles split. She could not separate that pain from the pain of her cheek, her belly.
Nor could she keep Henri down. He was twice her weight and stronger. He bucked her off and backhanded her again. She tasted blood, sickeningly metallic, as her head snapped back.
Henri pounced. Some part of her brain recognized this, but he seemed to move slowly, his body light in the air instead of a dangerous weapon. He was large, larger than she could ever remember him being. He filled her vision. Her consciousness.
She could not imagine her body moving quickly enough, but it did. One booted foot slammed into his ribs, then, quickly, she sent the other foot high. Higher. It connected with Henri’s now bloodied face. There, at his temple, as Henri had taught her. A woman’s feet, he had said, were her strongest body part.
And Vivienne was a dancer.
His eyes rolled back. His body went limp. The floorboards shook beneath her as he fell. How long would he be unconscious? Ten minutes? Twenty? Forever?
A dead woman. This was what she would be if she stayed in England now. She had done the unforgivable—but she had planned for escape. Had practiced for years. If someone came for them, if they had to leave quickly, she would be ready.
She didn’t roll up the rug but kicked it aside. She winced as pain rushed through her belly, throbbed in her face, but the loose floorboard moved silently. She had made it so. Money was hidden there. Small bags of it that could be tucked into boots and pockets and bonnets and bodices. Knives were concealed there. Pistols, a musket—she left that, as it was too difficult to carry—and even small vials of poison. All were packed in a drawstring bag. Clothes were already packed in another bag. One gown for Anne, one for Vivienne.
Henri did not move. She did not check for his breath. It would not matter. If he lived, he would look for her. If he died, someone else would. And she could not take a man’s life when he could not defend himself. A mistake, perhaps, and the cost could be her own life, but she could not do it.
She would leave him and let fate take its course.
Stepping over him, she moved quickly to the door and the darkened hall. She must remain calm. There was no other way to survive.
It was only minutes before she limped into Mrs. Asher’s room. A silent walk to the bed, a quiet hand on the housekeeper’s shoulder. She came awake almost instantly.
“Shh.” Vivienne set a finger to her mouth. “You must go. Hide.”
“What?” Mrs. Asher sat up, her cap shifting over long gray-blond braids. Vivienne had not known Mrs. Asher braided her hair at night. It made her seem younger. “Your eye, Miss Vivienne! Your face!”
It throbbed, more than she’d expected. “I have run afoul of Henri. He is upstairs, perhaps dead. Perhaps not.”
“What’s happened?” Mrs. Asher asked, her tone brisk now. She pushed the covers back and swung plump feet over the edge of the bed.
“It is too complicated to be explained.” Vivienne pulled out one of the money purses tucked into her waistband and ignored the sharp pain in her side as she mov
ed. “Take this. Run. To Scotland or Wales. Perhaps Ireland. Take Thomas with you and look after each other. It is not safe in London for either of you—not even in England.”
“Oh, God.” Mrs. Asher took the purse. The whites of her eyes shone in the dark as she pressed her lips together. Vivienne would take that image with her. Always. “When can we come back?”
“I don’t know.” Vivienne’s stomach roiled and pitched, adding to the ache of Henri’s punch. “When you find a place to start over, to hide, send a note to Monsieur Westwood of your location and I will get it from him in time.” She swallowed hard. “He can be relied upon.”
Whatever was not between them any longer, she could rely upon him to keep Mrs. Asher and Thomas safe. Maximilian was everything that was honorable.
The housekeeper was already moving about the room to gather items. Vivienne realized she, too, had a bag already packed to flee.
“Mrs. Asher.” She could barely whisper the word beyond her aching and bloodied lip. “I will miss you.”
The housekeeper’s eyes were very large but very sure. “We will find each other again. Make no mistake of that.”
Vivienne did not have this hope, and it was drowning her. “But—”
“We will. The gods or the fates or what have you wouldn’t have brought us this far only to cut us loose.” Mrs. Asher tossed the clothing bundled in her arms onto the bed and bundled Vivienne into her arms instead. They were sturdy and steady arms, her soft body a comfort. “It’s not an easy thing to hold the fate of nations in your hands, which is what you do. It’s not an easy thing to hold lives in your hands, which you also do. And it is not an easy thing to protect everyone.”
“I don’t—” She could not finish. Mrs. Asher was too reassuring. Too motherly.
“You will succeed, child. I’ve never known you to fail.” Mrs. Asher gave her shoulder a little pat, the easy gesture warming Vivienne. “If you find Anne, and if you can bring her to me, I’ll care for her. Don’t even question that.”
“Thank you,” Vivienne whispered, so desperately grateful she could barely speak.
“What of you?” Mrs. Asher asked, arms dropping away. “What will you do?”
“I will find Anne.”
After that she did not know.
Chapter Forty-Two
One foot in front of the other.
Yes, this would take her somewhere, if she just continued. One step, two steps, three steps. Somehow, her journey would end.
She was not exactly certain where. Or how fast she was moving. The star-studded skies had given way to a rain-soaked dawn that pelted her with tiny, cold daggers of water. Uncomfortable on her back, but relief on her hot and throbbing face.
The feet below her continued to move. One in front of the other, in a rhythmic pattern to match her heartbeat. This beat—it also matched the throbbing of her face, and even the ache in her belly. But she had survived. She had faced Henri and won.
It was a hollow victory. The cost might be her freedom, and Anne, and—
She looked up and into the cold rain. A drop fell into her lashes and clung there. Blinking it away, she stared through the gray morning light at Maximilian’s front door.
Not intending to arrive here, she had done so nonetheless. A moment later she was huddled in the small threshold between Maximilian’s front door and the steps. She was afraid to step inside, and just as afraid to leave. Yet there was nowhere else she could go—even Jones could not help her now.
She leaned against the door, let the solid weight of it press against her back. The thought of meeting Maximilian’s eyes again was terrifying. What would she say? He had turned away from her because she had not given him the truth.
Her chest ached. Tears clogged her lungs, pressed against her heart. She needed to move. To hide or run, but she could not. Her ribs ached. They were not broken, she thought, but they were bruised. She tasted blood on her lip and knew it was swollen. Every part of her was abused and sore.
She slid to the ground on Maximilian’s front step, set her forehead on her knees—her last uninjured body parts—and let the sobs take her.
The door to the town house opened. Thank the fates she was sitting now and not leaning against that solid door. She would have fallen onto the front rug. She was humiliated enough without that.
But she still had to look up at Maximilian with her tearstained face.
His scowl was ferocious, and very, very dear.
“God’s teeth, you are loud when you cry. It’s also past breakfast, I’m hungry, and it’s raining.” He reached out his hand to help her stand. Strong, dependable fingers, there for the taking. “Come in, Flower. You look like hell.”
Just like that. No hesitation.
Her heart filled nearly to bursting, expanding and expanding until, suddenly, there was nothing inside her but love for him. Terrifying, frightening love.
His hand was the most comforting thing she’d ever held onto—an offer of assistance, given without reserve, though with exasperated affection and scowling eyebrows. This was her Maximilian.
She wanted to cry all over again.
The door closed behind her, shutting out the rain and the day. She started to speak, and she was sure the words were important, but Maximilian’s arms were around her, drawing her in. He was so male, so large. So comforting. Burrowing into him, she tried to hold back the horrible sobs rising in her chest.
He rested his cheek against the top of her head. “What has happened?” he murmured. “Your face is damn near ugly this morning.”
She almost laughed, but not quite. “Everything has gone wrong. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Then this seems like a good place, mademoiselle.” From down the hall, Daggett cleared his throat.
She raised her face from Maximilian’s shoulder to eye the inimitable Daggett. Dressed with careful precision, he carried a single candle to ward away the rain.
“You will not chase me out?” she asked.
“No, mademoiselle.” He stopped, cleared his throat again. “You did come in through the front door, after all.”
“You’ve given Daggett fits coming in the windows, Vivienne.” Maximilian’s lips pressed against her hair, softly. The sweetness of his gesture made her soul shiver. “As you’ve used the door—and there’s that ugly face, of course—I know something’s wrong. Daggett, bring liniment and something cold for her eye. That thing is going to swell shut soon. Vivienne, into the study.”
And so she was in the study with a piece of raw beef pressed against her eye, her shirt and coat removed, and Maximilian spreading liniment over the bruises blooming along her ribs. His fingers did not linger over her torso or breasts, though they were bared for him. Still, he looked with that dark intensity that so excited her.
She was so tired, so bone-weary and exhausted, that she let him look and felt only the stirrings of desire.
“Why did you let me in, Maximilian? After I angered you?”
“I can be angry at you and still care, Vivienne.” With efficient movements he spread the liniment over the first and second ribs as she reclined on the chaise. “Just like I can desire you when you are promised to another man and respect you despite you being a spy. You are different than your actions. Now, what has happened?” he asked again.
“Henri believes I am a double agent.”
“Are you?” No emotion in those words or change in his expression. Just slow circles rubbing liniment into her flesh.
“Close enough. I delivered a letter for Lessard to Viscount Lynley earlier tonight, right under Prinny’s nose at a masquerade. I could not read it, but Mrs. Asher could. It was about women and gambling and money owed.”
He was silent and his gentle touch did not change, causing almost no additional pain on the already painful bruises. Cool air raised gooseflesh and puckered her nipples. Maximili
an’s eyes flickered up to her breasts, then back down to the bruises. Still, he did not speak.
“It was coded,” she continued, watching him carefully. The muscle in his jaw jumped. “It seemed innocuous, but it was coded. Prinny found the note, and I must have been suspected, as I was recognized at the masquerade. The letter was decoded—”
“I decoded it.” The words were harsh, almost guttural, but his fingers were still tender in their ministrations. “Wycomb brought it to me. It wasn’t about money or gambling, but an offer of money to assassinate Prinny. It also indicated you would be the assassin’s courier. Lynley, by the way, has already been arrested.”
“Mon Dieu.” It was true, then, Henri’s charge of treason. Emotion churned in her as she stared at Maximilian. Anger, though not at Maximilian, and a thin trail of horror at her own actions. “I did not know.”
“No?”
“I did not. I only had until midnight to deliver the note for Lessard, and it was already dusk. If I succeeded, then Lessard would tell me where Anne was being held.” Vivienne pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I was afraid to come here to have it decoded first.”
“I would’ve done it, Vivienne, even if I were angry with you.” He did not look at her face, but took her hand and examined her knuckles. They were split and sore, and he began to rub the liniment there as well.
“Yes.” She should have known this, but hurt and fear had colored that knowledge. Now the damage could not be undone. “If Prinny knows I delivered an order for his assassination, it is too late for me.”
“Without doubt.” Most matter-of-fact, her Maximilian, even when death hovered over her.
Her Maximilian. He still knelt before her, the mouth she so enjoyed turned down in a frown as he studied her torso. She almost expected him to put on his spectacles, he was so focused on assessing her injuries.
Love burned fiercely in her, hot and bright.
He feathered his fingers over the darkest of her bruises. “How did these injuries happen, Vivienne?”
She looked down at his thumb. Ink stained the tip of it. The dark blot made her heart ache. All he wanted was to be left alone with his books and ledgers and words, but she had drawn him in, again and again.
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