Hero, Come Back

by Stephanie Laurens

  “We’re leaving. Don’t pack anything”—his gaze swept her absolutely charming outfit without a fleck of interest—“just wear your traveling clothes. Before you open the door, be sure it’s me. If someone comes begging for your help, deny them. If someone shouts the inn is on fire, climb out the window, but not before you see the smoke and feel the flames.”

  She stared at him, wondering if he’d run mad.

  “Promise me.” His voice was deep and vibrant with demand.

  But no. He was the sanest man she’d ever met. Later she’d demand explanations and make demands. For now…“I promise.”

  He pressed the key into her hand. “Lock it behind me.”

  She did.

  “He went out. He went out.” Frank cleared the plates from the dining room and watched Mr. Windberry’s advance. “Toward your cottage. Toward your cottage.” He whispered the words under his breath, committing them to memory, trying to convince himself they were true.

  Mr. Windberry leaned across the table at Frank, and his clear gaze looked different from Lord Granville’s—and yet, somehow the same in intent. “Lord Granville is not in his room. It’s imperative I speak to him. Do you know where he went?”

  “He went out, sir.” The crockery rattled in Frank’s hands—a betrayal. A confession. “I believe he went out. Toward your cottage.” He spoke too quickly. He had not been bred for lying.

  “My cottage?” Mr. Windberry looked out the window at the fog. He glanced up the stairway. “My cottage?”

  “Yes, sir. Your cottage. He left…he left ten minutes ago.” There. Frank gasped with relief. He had said it all.

  “Very well. Thank you.” Mr. Windberry moved purposefully toward the door.

  Frank put his hand in his pocket, pulled out the guineas, and recognized them for what they were. They were damned coins, and he was damned with them.

  Knife in hand, Harry strode stealthily toward his cottage, listening for footsteps muffled by the damp fog, wondering if the supposed Lord Granville was lurking in the fog, waiting to attack. For there could be no doubt; it was Harry he sought. This villain must have tracked Jessie through the betrothal announcement in the Times to his mother, and from there to the resort. He planned to take Harry’s fiancée captive and use her as bait, and neither Harry nor Jessie would survive such a scheme. Harry needed to get her out tonight.

  Beneath the blackguard’s British accent, Harry heard the faint meter of the Russian tongue. Harry had had a piece of luck when the fake Lord Granville hadn’t recognized the real Lord Granville, and he’d thought he would be able to take the impostor unaware, find out who had sent him and why. But somehow Lord Granville must have discovered the truth. Why else would he have gone to Harry’s cottage?

  Harry hurried a little faster.

  Dehaan was famous in the intelligence community. Dehaan could fight with a knife and advise his attacker on his wardrobe at the same time. He had an uncanny ability to sense trouble, and although many a spy had tried to obtain his services, he was dedicated to Harry. Dehaan always took precautions to warn of intruders, but one thing always distracted Dehaan—romance. And what had Harry been indulging in? Romance.

  Blast it. He should have known his habit of evasiveness would catch up with him eventually. If only he’d told Jessie the truth about himself sooner… He glanced back at the inn. Jessie would obey him, he felt sure. Last night he had placed on her the bonds of the flesh. She was his. He had made her his.

  Harry’s lips curved bitterly. Had he imagined he could leave his past behind? Take up his life as before? Take a wife and live happily ever after? This proved that no matter what Harry did, he would be stalked. His past would always remain close at hand, waiting to pounce on all he held dear.

  Yet for all his good sense, he didn’t know if he could let Jessie go. Not after what they’d shared. His conscience warred with his desire. He adored her as he had never adored a woman before. He had thought he would marry her, for with her sweet love she’d brought him a joy he had never experienced. Now he had to give it up? No. No, it wasn’t possible! He’d find a way to keep her.

  Reaching the cottage, he circled the exterior. The windows were open, the curtains hung limp. Surely as the fog thickened, Dehaan would have shut them. This was a bad sign. A very bad sign. Harry had chosen this cottage because the ground fell away from the cottage, leaving the windows in the bedchamber high above the ground and relatively safe. Placing his knife in his teeth, Harry leaped up, caught the sill, and silently pulled himself up to peer inside.

  The room looked normal. Like a snake, he slithered in, pausing, checking for movement, for ambush. Nothing moved. Once inside, he stood and took the knife in his right hand. Moving along the wall, he listened for the creak of a floorboard, looked for a sign of life. Nothing.

  Where was Dehaan?

  The door that entered the sitting room was ajar, and with a surge of power, Harry kicked it open. It hit the wall hard, rattling the windowpanes. Still nothing moved, but he saw a body. Dehaan’s body, unmoving, stretched out across the table.

  Blood covered his face and puddled beneath his cheek. His nose was broken, his eyes were blackened and shut. Dead? No, Harry saw the lift of his breath, and controlled the surge of his rage. The outer door stood open. This room showed the evidence of the fierce struggle. Chairs were overturned, vases shattered, the sofa cushions tossed aside.

  Harry sidled across to the smaller bedchamber. No one. To the kitchen. No one. Going at last to his valet, his friend, Harry leaned down to turn him.

  Dehaan’s eyes sprang open, his hand shot out and he grasped Harry by the throat. Then recognition struck. His hand dropped away. His eyes, so swollen they scarcely opened, slid closed. “I’m sorry,” Dehaan whispered. “I saw him too late.”

  “And I am a fool.” I thought only of protecting Jessie.

  Dehaan echoed Harry’s thoughts. “Is Lady Jessica hurt?”

  “She’s secure.” But I can only protect one person at a time.

  “Good. Better I am harmed than her.” Slowly, shaking, Dehaan sat up, touched his battered face, and winced. “He’s good. I was careless.” He glanced about at the wreck of the room. At the hiding place beneath the sofa cushions where the lockpick kit was visible, at the overturned chair where the knife had once been hidden. “Be wary. He knows who you are.”

  Harry helped him off the table. In the doorway of the bedchamber, Dehaan’s knees collapsed, and Harry was forced to carry him. Because of Harry’s past, his strong, annoying, romantic, vigilant valet had been attacked and brutalized. Harry hoisted him on the bed. “Rest. I’ll take care of matters.”

  Dehaan watched as Harry retrieved a loaded pistol from the dressing room and a small sword from the desk. “Lady Jessica,” Dehaan said.

  “I’ll make sure she’s safe.” Harry tied a dark cloth around his throat to cover the white of his cravat, tied so precisely and with such hope just an hour ago.

  “My lord…” Dehaan groaned, for he saw the harsh truth on Harry’s face.

  “Rest.” Harry went swiftly into the fog. He couldn’t bear for Jessie’s joyous spirit to be exposed to the ugliness of the world. He was part of that ugliness.

  After this was over, he would never see her again.

  Nine

  Jessie paced across to her closet. When Harry came back for her, she must be ready to go. When Harry came back for her…

  She tried not to wonder where he had gone, how long he would be gone, why he was acting so mysteriously, who he really was…

  No. No, she couldn’t think of those things now. She needed to prepare for… for what? Travel, he said. Flight, she guessed. She stripped off the light blue lawn morning dress, and donned her dark wool traveling clothes. She removed her beribboned, satin slippers and laced on her black, ankle-high boots. She pulled on her plain dark bonnet and her sturdy black riding gloves.

  After her flurry of activity, she had nothing to do. So she sank down on a chair, picked up her book
, and stared blindly at the lines of black letters marching across the white page.

  What had happened in the dining room this morning? She didn’t understand. Harry hadn’t liked Lord Granville, and surely that was good. After all—the letters grew blurry as she remembered—she’d just spent the night in Harry’s arms. Which had not ended in a marriage proposal. Not that she wanted or expected one, but—she snapped her attention back to the present. Had she heard something outside the door? Yes, the rustle of petticoats.

  Her chaperone rapped on the door. “Jessica, are you in there? Lord Granville is waiting for you on the veranda. He wishes to escort you for a walk.”

  Jessie remained still, frozen by the memory of Harry’s warning.

  “Jessica? Remember, your father wants you to get married, and the other two suitors are gone.” Miss Hendrika knocked harder. “You must admit, Lord Granville is quite handsome.” She thumped at the door. “He is your last chance.”

  Jessie put her hand over her mouth. Lord Granville was her last chance. What was she doing?

  Miss Hendrika snuffled about, and Jessie imagined her looking in the keyhole, imagined opening the door and having her fall in, imagined her own satisfaction…and Harry’s displeasure. Jessie hunched her shoulders and sat still, out of the line of sight.

  “Where is that girl?” the old woman muttered, and shuffled away.

  Jessie thought it was foolish for her heart to pound so hard at the sound of Miss Hendrika’s voice. The woman meant her no harm, yet Harry had been so precise in his instructions. Perhaps the one she should be afraid of was Harry.

  She rubbed her fingers over her forehead. She was so confused!

  What could be wrong with Lord Granville? Her father had sent him as a suitor, and Harry was acting as if Lord Granville were a villain. She stood up. She ought to go down to the veranda right now, place her hand on Lord Granville’s arm, and walk with him!

  She sank back down. Except she’d promised Harry she would remain in her room, and she wouldn’t break her promise.

  A single, quiet knock sounded at the door. “Jessie? Come out.” Harry’s voice.

  She rushed to the door, put her hand on the key. Yet he had spooked her. Or perhaps she sought a little revenge for her fright. “How do I know it’s really you?” she asked softly.

  He had the nerve to sound amused. “I know the location of the mole on your thigh.”

  Turning the key, she flung back the door. The corridor was empty except for her Harry, grim faced and intent, yet still she had to say, “Shh!”

  With a single glance, he encompassed her change of clothes, and warmed her with a nod of approval. “I won’t tell anyone. Do you know how to shoot?”

  “No.”

  “Can you use a knife?”

  Irritated, she snapped, “No. But I know how to needlepoint!”

  “Very useful if we needed chair covers. You can ride?”

  “Like the wind.”

  “Then we’ll ride. Go down the back stairs to the stable.” Harry shut her door and locked it, then pocketed the key. “Quietly now.”

  She went, trusting him like the lovesick fool she was. “Lord Granville is waiting for me on the veranda.”

  “Good. He’s out of the way. Lord Granville is an impostor.”

  She stopped short, then moved on with Harry’s hand in her back. “An impostor? What do you mean, an impostor?”

  “Quietly,” he warned again as they hurried down the stairs. Before they reached the bottom, he moved in front of her. He looked both ways, then led her out of the stairwell and through the servants’ quarters to the outer door. “I mean, I know Lord Granville, and that’s not Lord Granville.”

  Jessie hurried after him, indignation bubbling over—but quietly, as he had instructed. “You know Lord Granville? And you let me discuss him in such a manner?”

  Again Harry looked out before he allowed her to descend the stairs to the ground and into the foggy air. “I didn’t say I liked him.”

  Harry sounded slightly ironic, and that infuriated her all the more. “That man on the veranda is so Lord Granville. He looks very like him!”

  Taking her arm, Harry set a pace that was almost a run. “On Lord Granville’s behalf, I am insulted.”

  She trotted at his side like a faithful dog and wondered if she hated him. “I have never heard anything so outrageous.” The mist curled between them, and she could see nothing of the cottages. She could hear nothing but the waves, eternally grinding at the shore. For all she knew, the two of them were alone—and she was in peril. From whom, she didn’t know. From Lord Granville, or from Harry? “Where, pray tell, is the real Lord Granville? Are you saying he is such a weasel he couldn’t bear to come down to court me himself and so sent an emissary?” An idea that infuriated her.

  “Shh,” Harry hushed her soothingly. His own voice was deep and calm, pitched to reach her ears and no farther. “Nothing quite so bad. You see, the real Lord Granville didn’t know that his mother—”

  From inside the inn, she heard the report of a gun. She jumped violently, clutched at Harry. “Wha…? What was that?”

  He didn’t pause, but pulled her along even more quickly. “It’s not good.”

  Jessie tried to turn back. “Miss Hendrika?”

  “She’s not worth a bullet. Probably the lock on your door.”

  “Are you saying he wants to shoot me?”

  “Just your door. He wants to take you hostage.”

  She assimilated that. “Why does Lord Granville—”

  Harry shot her a glare.

  “What would an impostor want with me?”

  As the stable broke through the fog, Harry said, “Damn!”

  The door stood open, the damp ground trampled by a dozen hooves. “The horses are gone,” she whispered.

  “Mischief, indeed.” Harry’s nostrils were white and pinched.

  For the first time, a real chill struck her. This was not a distant gunshot. This was destruction and possibly harm, for the hostler would not have allowed the horses to go without resistance. “Did he do this?”

  “Unless he has an accomplice. All right. We’ll walk.”

  “Where?”

  “Where he isn’t.” Harry urged her along the top of the cliffs.

  Fear closed in on her. Truth to tell, she hated the fog, clinging so close around them. Yet Harry allowed her no pause. Silent now, he concentrated on their steps, glancing at each stone and bush, stopping and listening.

  His silence deepened her dread. She wished she could see or hear anything. Then a faint gust of wind touched her cheek, and she breathed in, grateful for the fresh, salt-scented air.

  Harry felt his gut tighten. “Damn it again. Our luck didn’t hold.”

  “What luck?” Jessie asked, and she sounded truly puzzled.

  The sea, which had so kindly gifted them with the blessed fog, was now whisking it away, tearing at their cover, gradually revealing Harry and Jessie to any watching eye. “What luck, indeed?” he repeated. For not a damned tree or a bit of cover was anywhere in sight. As he glanced up the hill, he saw the inn, then he saw it disappear in a puff of fog. No one had stood on the veranda; the inn might have been empty, but Harry knew the servants must be cowering in their hiding places, frightened by the gunshot. And the villain… ah, he was undoubtedly on their trail.

  This morning, when Harry had dressed, he’d hoped to propose to her. Now he just wanted to keep her alive.

  Turning toward the cliffs, he said, “Softly, now.” Just yesterday, he had fallen down the cliff onto a narrow, winding path. It was not visible from above, and the rugged boulders along the way provided cover from any watching eyes on the beach. He would hide Jessie there, then go back and find the so-called Lord Granville.

  The first step was long, waist-high on him, and he slid down, then turned and held up his hands.

  She peered over and turned a pale green.

  “Make haste. I won’t let you fall.”

  �
��I know that,” she said in a peevish tone. Then she took a breath and slithered over. Before them the vista opened up to the horizon. Wisps of fog smudged the ocean. Black boulders pocked the sandy beach below. She said, “This is not a reassuring sight for a gently bred young lady.”

  “Truth to tell, it’s not a reassuring sight to me.” If he were alone, he wouldn’t think of the danger, but having to protect Jessie…yes, he’d made the right decision. He couldn’t ever see her again—if they came out of this alive.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Jessie asked.

  He didn’t answer. Pressing himself against the wall, he took her hand and led her along. Their feet dislodged bits of gravel, and she pressed herself against the rock as if she could meld with the stone.

  “You never told me you were afraid of heights,” he murmured.

  “I’m not. I’m cautious.”

  She sounded snappish, and for some reason, that cheered him. “Very wise,” he murmured.

  “Where are we going?”

  Yes, definitely snappish. “To hide you, then go after this Lord Granville.” A movement on the beach caught his eye.

  The impostor stood on the beach, scanning the cliff with a spyglass.

  Harry pushed Jessie down so she was bent double, then pulled her toward the shelter of a large boulder along the path. When they were crouching behind it, he cautiously looked out.

  The impostor still surveyed the cliff.

  “He’s rather casual, isn’t he?” Jessie spoke in his ear.

  Harry glanced around to see her peeking over his shoulder. “Get down!”

  She ducked behind him, but seemed unrepentant. “Can you shoot him?”

  “It’s too far.”

  “Can he shoot us?”

  “Only if he has a rifle, which he does not. Now, listen. I’m going to have to leave you here.”

  He was on his knees. She was on her knees. But she faced him without flinching. Her head was tilted, and her wide eyes watched him inquiringly. If she was frightened, she didn’t show it, and his heart squeezed with the pain of knowing he must save her today and abandon her tomorrow.

  She would face disgrace and ruin, he knew, but better that than death.