by Laura Landon
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017
A Kindle Scout selection
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Barnaby avoided the main roads as much as possible as he traveled west from London. It was unlikely that he’d reach his final destination in northern Devon without being seen, but the longer he could stay in the shadows, the greater his chances of staying alive.
His mission was dangerous. Major McCormick had even given him the option of refusing, which he might have considered if he would have been able to live with his decision. But he could not.
McCormick feared that Barnaby would not survive the mission, and his caution was not at all unfounded, given that he’d already lost three top agents to the task. Still, Barnaby refused to believe that he couldn’t come up with a plan to both accomplish his mission and walk out of it alive.
He headed for a small copse of trees that would hide him for at least a few more yards. He had to be getting close to the house where he was to receive instructions and meet his new partner.
This was one of the most covert assignments he’d ever undertaken. It was so veiled in secrecy that McCormick had related very little, except that the mission was extremely dangerous. The rest would be revealed once he reached the safe house. The fact that the objective of the mission was cloaked in mystery only made the assignment more appealing to Barnaby. Some operatives were averse to taking risks, but risk taking was one of the aspects of working with the government he liked most.
Barnaby pushed his horse to the edge of the trees. He’d barely moved into the shadows when a muffled pop echoed from behind him. A stinging pain grabbed him at the waist. A second shot rang out—closer now—and a fiery pain gripped his shoulder.
The sound of gunshots set several hounds barking up ahead. Their ruckus covered any sounds the attacker might be making. But that worked both ways. It also covered the agonized groans Barnaby was helpless to silence as his horse jostled him forward. Barnaby struggled to stay astride, but his aching flesh threatened to betray him. He needed to stop and stanch the blood flowing from his wounds but couldn’t risk the shooter locating him. Barnaby knew a third bullet would be his undoing.
He rode deeper into the grove, thankful that the thick stand of elms, oaks, and birches wrapped their limbs around him to conceal him from his attacker.
Finally, he stopped. All was quiet but for the harsh breathing of his mount and the even harsher breaths of air that rushed from his own lungs. He clutched at his side, and warm liquid oozed through his fingers. He waited as long as he dared, praying the shooter had gone, and then he pushed his mount onward.
The safe house should be close. According to the instructions McCormick had given him, the house should have been on the other side of the grove of trees. Or was there another grove? Barnaby prayed that when he emerged into the sunlight, the house would be there. If it wasn’t, he wasn’t sure how much longer he would survive.
He didn’t want to think that he might die before he’d even begun this mission, but the sky above him seemed to dim into darkness, and the earth beneath him faded further into an abyss.
He bent over his horse and rode on until he reached the clearing. He lifted his gaze and struggled to focus on the buildings before him, praying he’d reached the correct destination.
The world around him shifted and turned. He fought to maintain his balance but felt himself slipping from the saddle. When he could no longer find the strength to stay upright, he gave in to the darkness that was determined to consume him.
His world turned black as the earth rose without mercy to meet him.
. . .
Barnaby wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious, but when he could finally keep his eyes open, he found himself in a soft, clean bed, with pillows beneath his head and a quilted cover over his body.
If he didn’t attempt to move, he could almost pretend that he hadn’t been shot and that he was waking up in a bed in the townhouse that his brother—Alexander Linscott, Marquess of Halverston—kept in London. Or better yet, in the bed of a beautiful woman with whom he’d spent the night. Unfortunately, his body hurt too damn much for either of those possibilities to be plausible.
He kept his eyes shut a little longer, then opened them long enough to take in his surroundings.
The room was comfortable, with only a bed, dresser, bedside table, and overstuffed wing chair, all sturdy and well used. The paper on the wall was a calming shade of blue, and the curtains at the window were a darker shade and left open to let in the morning sunshine.
The cushioned chair was close to the bed, and it was occupied by a young woman so lovely that he wasn’t sure if she was real or imagined.
He tried to move his head to focus on her, but the pain was too stark when he shifted even slightly. He closed his eyes and sank back into the pillows.
“Don’t move,” she said. “You’re not healed enough yet.”
“Where . . . am I?”
“You’re safe.”
“How long . . . ?”
“Four days,” she answered before he could finish asking his question. “You landed on the ground outside our door four days ago.”
“And you’ve . . . taken care of me . . . since?”
He heard her rise from her chair and rinse a cloth in water. He sucked in a breath when the cool linen touched his fevered forehead.
“Someone had to,” she said on a sigh. “You’re no good to us dead.”
. . .
Barnaby knew before he opened his eyes that he’d find her sitting in the chair beside his bed. That’s where he always found her. “Do you ever sleep?” he asked without turning his gaze in her direction.
“I don’t require a great deal of sleep. Besides,” she said as she lifted his head and brought a glass of water to his lips, “you’ve slept enough over the last week for both of us.”
“It’s been a week?”
“Yes.” She removed the glass and lowered his head to the pillow. Before she stepped back, she placed her hand on his forehead, then touched her palm to his cheek. “Your fever broke during the night. How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been shot,” he answered.
“Then you’re improving. The last time I asked you how you felt, you answered that you thought you’d died.”
Barnaby attempted to smile but wasn’t sure he was successful. “Are we alone here?”
> “No. Sophie and Will Griffin live here. This is their house.”
“Do they work for the government?”
She hesitated a moment, but that gave Barnaby his answer. “When will I have the chance to speak with them?”
She walked to the other side of the room and pulled a bell cord. “Soon. Sophie will be bringing you something to eat. She’ll be glad you’re awake enough to enjoy her cooking.”
He got his first close look at her when she returned to his bedside. He’d realized when he’d first glimpsed her that she was young, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, and that her hair was light. He’d also noticed that she often let it hang in loose curls down her back. But nothing had prepared him for the unadorned beauty that stood before him.
Her hair wasn’t simply light, but the richest shade of gold. And it didn’t just hang down her back; it cascaded in a waterfall of shimmering light. A knot tightened in his chest, and something he wasn’t used to feeling clenched around his heart. “Who are you?”
“My name is Millicent.”
Millicent. Her name was Millicent.
Barnaby’s gaze locked with hers, and he found himself staring into eyes the deepest, most vibrant shade of blue. Her face was oval in shape, and her complexion wasn’t the fashionable porcelain so many females attempted to achieve. It was a darker hue that spoke of the out of doors.
He lowered his eyes to her mouth. Her lips were full and . . .
Barnaby stopped his imaginings and groped for his customary military manners. He afforded himself the luxury of taking in her beauty a few more breathtaking moments, then shut his eyes before she could read the effect she had on him.
“I think I hear Sophie with your tray,” she said. “Do you want to try to sit, or aren’t you able to manage that yet?”
The image of her body close to his as she fed him was more than he thought he could endure. “I think I’d like to sit.”
“Don’t move yet. Will can help me lift you when he comes,” she said.
Before he could assure her that he could manage to sit on his own, the door opened and a middle-aged couple entered. Sophie and Will Griffin, he assumed.
“Well, if you aren’t a sight with your eyes open and finally awake enough to talk,” the woman said as she carried a tray across the room. She set it on a small table that the man moved close to the bed. “I can’t tell you how concerned we were that you wouldn’t survive that fever.”
“There were times when I thought the same,” Barnaby agreed. “I believe I have you and my conscientious nurse to thank for my recovery.”
“Well, you definitely have Lady Millicent here to thank. She took excellent care of you.”
Lady Millicent.
“Before we go any further,” the man said, “I’m sure you’d like to know who we are. I’m William Griffin, but everyone calls me Will. And this is my wife, Sophie. She’s the best cook you’ll ever find.” He turned toward the beauty who’d nursed Barnaby for the past week. “And this is Lady Millicent Chandler, daughter of the late Earl of Renfrew.”
Lady Millicent Chandler.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Will. Sophie. Lady Millicent. I’m Barnaby Linscott.”
“Yes, we know who you are, Lord Barnaby. You’re the brother of the Marquess of Halverston. And you’re no doubt wondering if you made it to the right place.”
“Yes,” Barnaby answered. “The directions I received were vague, to say the least.”
“Then let me assure you. If you were sent by Major McCormick of London, you arrived at the right place. And at the right time.”
Barnaby studied the man facing him. He was a large man with rugged features and intelligence in his eyes. McCormick had told him he would be working with a partner, and Barnaby had wondered who that partner would be. He wasn’t disappointed. Will Griffin looked like he could hold his own.
“I know you have questions, my lord, but if I’m any judge, you’re probably starving. I think we should eat before you and I talk business.”
Barnaby smiled. “I take it you’re tired of hearing my stomach complain,” he said. “Besides, the smell of your wife’s cooking is making my mouth water.”
“Wait ’til you taste her cooking, then,” Will answered.
“First we need to help Lord Barnaby sit up,” Lady Millicent said, rising to assist Mr. Griffin.
“Please, call me Barnaby.”
“That we will, Barnaby,” Will said for all of them, then moved to lift him.
“You lay hold of the pillows, my lady,” Sophie said. “Will and I will lift him.”
Will and Sophie Griffin stood on either side of the bed and lifted. When they’d raised Barnaby to a sitting position, Lady Millicent propped several pillows behind his back.
Barnaby knew they were being as gentle as possible, and he’d anticipated feeling a certain amount of pain, but he wasn’t prepared for the intensity of the fiery stabbing that gripped his shoulder and side. His breath caught, and he clenched his teeth to prevent any sound from escaping.
“There you go, lad,” Will said, settling him against the pillows.
Barnaby struggled to control his breathing, slowly sucking in one harsh gasp after another. The pain gradually lessened, but not before a sheen of perspiration covered his forehead and ran down the sides of his face.
Reality slowly penetrated the foggy edges of his thinking. He was conscious of soothing hands caressing him. A cool cloth touched his forehead and cheeks. A calming voice whispered in his ear.
He was being cared for. Just as he’d been cared for from the moment he’d landed on the ground.
He cautiously opened his eyes. One of his hands clutched the bedclothes with such ferocity that his knuckles had turned white. The fingers of his other hand were wrapped around Millicent’s hand with such intensity that her fingers had lost their color.
He loosened his grip with a whispered apology but didn’t release her hand. He couldn’t. Having a connection to her was of the utmost importance at the moment. Knowing that she was with him was essential in some unfamiliar way.
He slowly lifted his head and his gaze locked with hers. The impact was startling.
An understanding passed between them that Barnaby couldn’t put into words. If he allowed it to, what transpired between them might become important. But he couldn’t allow that.
Caring for someone was a death warrant to anyone in his business.
Chapter 2
Millicent closed the door to Barnaby Linscott’s room softly, then walked to her room on legs that threatened not to hold her. She stepped into the small, cozy space and closed the door behind her, desperately trying to erase the regret she felt when she realized that Barnaby Linscott was the man assigned to the mission.
He wasn’t at all what she’d expected. McCormick had told her he was sending his most experienced agent. The most capable, qualified agent he had. She naturally assumed the man he’d send would be . . . older. Closer to living out his life. Because it was possible neither of them would survive the mission.
But she’d be surprised if Barnaby Linscott had reached his thirtieth year. And he was the brother of a marquess. What on earth was he doing working for the government?
Millicent pushed herself away from the hard, cold door and stepped across the room. She couldn’t afford reservations at this point. It was too late for doubts—or regrets. And yet . . .
She sank into the chair near the window and leaned her head back against the cushions. What choice did she have but to include him in her plan? What other options were available to her?
She could send him back to McCormick with a report that explained that he wasn’t acceptable. Or too badly injured. Or, she could . . .
Millicent struggled to come up with another idea that would change the final outcome. But she could think of nothing other than the plan that was already set in motion. The Earl of Radburn’s death was more important than her life . . . or Linscott’s. And time was running out.
Millicent was familiar with the Linscott name. Although she’d never met Barnaby, she had met his sister, Lady Claire, and knew all about the scandal attached to her. Lady Claire’s marriage was a fraud. Her husband, the Marquess of Huntingdon, was already married when he married Lady Claire. When he was killed, his first wife, a former actress, came forward to present Lord Huntingdon’s heir, causing an uproar. It wasn’t until Huntingdon’s father, the Duke of Bridgemont, publically acknowledged his grandson and presented him to Society that the story died.
But that had been more than a year ago, and the scandal involving Lady Claire had been overshadowed by a hundred different scandals since then. Which brought Millicent back to the present.
She hadn’t considered the agent McCormick would assign to handle this mission. She’d trusted McCormick’s judgment. But she hadn’t expected it to be someone so young. Someone so vibrant. Someone with so much of his life before him. Nor had she expected to feel a connection to him. She couldn’t allow herself to, because she knew how improbable it was that anyone who went into Radburn’s compound would come out alive.
Millicent was startled by a soft knock on the door and sat forward in her chair. “Come in,” she said. The door opened, and Sophie entered.
“Are you all right, my lady? I noticed you didn’t eat much.”
Millicent lifted her gaze and regretted to see that the woman’s features blurred from the wetness in her eyes. “Yes, Sophie. Just weary.”
Sophie brought a chair from the desk and placed it before Millicent. Once seated, she reached for Millicent’s hands and held them. “This isn’t going to be as easy as you imagined, is it?”
“I never imagined our mission would be easy,” Millicent answered.
“That’s not what I meant. I mean it’s never easy to accept that a person you’ve come to know . . . perhaps even care for, is walking into danger and may not survive.”