Surrender (The Spymaster's Men)

by Brenda Joyce

  “You will tell them that you haven’t seen me, Lady D’Orsay,” he said softly.

  “Should I expect a visit from the authorities?”

  “I think so. They will advise you to contact them the moment you have seen me. And those are games best left to those who wish to play in very high stakes.” He paced past the sofa. “Do you want me to light a fire? You are shivering, still.”

  She was trying to absorb what he had said, and she faced him, distracted. She wasn’t shivering, she thought, she was trembling. “You have obviously just come in out of the rain, so, yes, I imagine you would enjoy a fire. And I would, too.”

  He shrugged off his damp wool coat. “I assume you do not mind? As the attire is so casual tonight?”

  Was she blushing yet again? Was he mocking her again? Somehow she walked to him and took the jacket. The wool was very fine, and she suspected the coat had Italian origins. “Hopefully this will dry before you leave,” she said, although the rain was pounding the house again.

  He eyed her, then removed a tinderbox from his waistcoat, knelt and started a fire. The kindling quickly took. He poked the logs with the iron poker until the wood was burning. Standing, he closed the grate.

  Evelyn stepped beside him, holding his coat up in front of the warm fire. He glanced down at her. As they were standing so closely now, she saw a somewhat intent gleam in his eyes. It seemed suggestive and it felt seductive—like a raw male appraisal.

  “Would you care for a glass of wine?” he asked, softly. “I so dislike drinking alone. That Bordeaux is excellent. And I hope you do not mind, I helped myself.”

  His tone had become soft, raising goose bumps on her skin. “Of course I do not mind. It is the least I can offer you. But, no, thank you. I cannot imbibe on an empty stomach,” she said truthfully.

  He turned and moved one of the salon’s two chairs to the front of the fire. Then he took the coat from her and hung it on the back of the chair. “I remain curious about your desire to speak with me. I have not been able to imagine what the Countess D’Orsay wishes of me.” His stride unhurried, he walked to the bar cart and retrieved his glass of wine.

  She watched him, knowing she must not be distracted by his tone, his proximity, not when she had to make her case. “I have a proposition, Mr. Greystone.”

  He stared over the rim of his glass. “A proposition… I am even more intrigued.”

  Had he just looked through her robe and nightgown? Evelyn walked over to the sofa and sat down, still unnerved. She reminded herself that the cotton was far too tightly woven for him to be able to look through it, but she felt as if he had just taken a quick glance at her naked body.

  “Countess?”

  “It has come to my attention, Mr. Greystone, that you are probably the best free trader in Cornwall.”

  His dark brows lifted. “Actually, I am the best smuggler in all of Great Britain—and I have the accounts to prove it.”

  She smiled a little; she found his arrogance attractive, his confidence reassuring. “Some might be put off by your bravado, Mr. Greystone, but bravado is exactly what I require now.”

  “I am now entirely intrigued,” he said.

  She met his probing gray gaze and wondered if he was intrigued with her, as a woman. “I wish to hire a smuggler, and not just any smuggler, but someone who is skilled and courageous, to retrieve family heirlooms from my husband’s château in France.”

  He set his glass down and said slowly, “Did I just hear you correctly?”

  “My husband died recently, and those heirlooms are terribly important to me and my daughter.”

  “I am sorry for your loss,” he said, without seeming to mean it. Then, he said, “That is quite the task.”

  “Yes, I imagine it is, but that is why I have been seeking to locate you, Mr. Greystone, as surely you are the man capable of accomplishing such a mission.”

  He stared for a long time, and she was becoming accustomed to being unable to discern even a hint of his thoughts or emotions. “Crossing the Channel is dangerous. Traveling within France now is madness, as it remains in the midst of a bloody revolution, Countess. You are asking me to risk my life for your family heirlooms.”

  “Those heirlooms were left to me and my daughter by my recently deceased husband, and it was his greatest wish that I retrieve them,” she said firmly. When his expression did not change, she added, “I must recover them, and your reputation is outstanding!”

  “I am certain they are important to you. I am certain your husband wished for you to have them. However, my services are quite expensive.”

  She wasn’t sure what his stare meant—but he had said the exact same thing to her four years ago. Intending to offer him a share of the gold once it was in her possession, she said carefully, “The heirlooms are valuable, sir.” She did not think it wise to tell him that Henri had left her a chest of gold.

  “Of course they are.... This isn’t about nostalgia, or sentiment, obviously.” He nodded at the barely furnished room.

  “We have fallen into very strained circumstances, sir. I am desperate and I am determined.”

  “And I am neither desperate nor determined. I prefer to preserve my life, and would only risk it for a great cause.” His gaze was piercing. “One with just compensation.”

  “This is a great cause!” she gasped.

  “That is a matter of opinion.” He was final.

  He was going to refuse her? “I have hardly finished making my case,” she said swiftly.

  “But haven’t you? My services are very costly. I do not mean to be rude, but it is obvious that you cannot afford them. I would need a great incentive to risk my life for you.” His stare locked with hers. “You are hardly the only impoverished widow in Cornwall. You will surely find a way into a better fortune.”

  She wet her lips, shaken by the realization that their discussion would soon be over—and she would not have achieved his help. “But those heirlooms are very valuable, and I am prepared to offer you a very fair share,” she said quickly.

  “A share?” He laughed. “I am always paid in advance, Countess. And how would you do that?” His smile vanished. His stare hardened. It slipped down her robe and nightgown. Then he turned away, his expression grim. His head down, he began to pace, wine in hand.

  She trembled, watching him. She must focus now. When they had fled France, she had paid him with rubies—in advance. Now, she had very little jewelry left. She could not imagine using her last pieces now.

  “Clearly, you are in some financial straits,” he said, finally looking at her. “Unfortunately, it is a common practice to take payment in advance—and it is good business. I am not interested in ‘fair shares,’ after the fact.”

  She stared, dismayed. Of course he wanted an advance payment—what if he went to France and failed to retrieve the gold? Or was hurt during the voyage? So much could go wrong, preventing him from attaining a successful conclusion.

  But she could not pay him in advance. So now what was she to do? The only thing that Evelyn was certain of was that she could not give up.

  “Can you not make an exception?” Evelyn finally asked slowly. “For me and my daughter? We have fallen on terrible times, which you can see. I am desperate—because I am a mother! If all went well, you would be handsomely rewarded, just not in advance, and I am vowing it!”

  He slowly turned and looked at her, his gray eyes dark. “I am not prepared to risk my life for you, Countess.”

  Her mind raced frantically, as he was denying her—denying Aimee. “But I can promise you that there will be just compensation—I give you my word! Surely you have the heart to make an exception now, not for me, but for my daughter!”

  He lifted his wine and finished it. “Do not try to use your daughter to play me,” he warned.

  She didn’t mean to do any such thing—but he was about to walk out her door—she simply knew it! She was desperate, and impulsively, she moved to stand in front of him—to bar his way. “
Please, do not dismiss my proposal. How can I convince you to at least consider it?”

  He looked very directly at her now. “I have considered it.”

  She trembled, taken aback as never before. A terrible silence fell. It was thick with tension—and his relentless stare never wavered.

  Couldn’t she convince him to help her? Men were always rushing to her side, to help her across the street, to open doors for her, to see her into her carriage. She had never paid much attention to her power as a beautiful woman before, but she was not a fool—Henri had fallen in love with her because of her beauty. It was only after he had become further acquainted with her that he had loved her for her character and temperament.

  Greystone hadn’t recognized her, but she was certain of his interest. When he looked at her directly, it was a glance any woman would recognize.

  Her heart lurched. Henri was surely turning over in his grave now! Going into this man’s arms would be the last recourse! “Mr. Greystone, I am desperate,” she said softly. “I am begging you to reconsider. My daughter’s future is at stake.”

  “When I set sail, I not only risk my own life, I risk those of my men,” he spoke, now seeming impatient.

  She could barely breathe. “I am a widow in great need, without protection, or means. You are a gentleman. Surely—”

  “No, I am not.” He was abrupt and final. “And I am not in the habit of generously rescuing damsels in distress.”

  Did she have any other choices? Aimee’s future was at stake, and he did not seem about to bend. She had to get that gold; she had to secure a bright future for her daughter! Evelyn lifted her hand; somehow, she touched his jaw.

  His eyes widened.

  “I am in mourning,” she whispered, “and if France is as dangerous as you claim, then I am asking you to risk your life for me.”

  His thick, dark lashes lowered. She could not see his eyes, and another silence fell. Evelyn dropped her hand; it was trembling. He slowly lifted his lashes and looked at her.

  “Aren’t you curious, Countess? Don’t you want to know why I came here?” he asked very softly.

  She felt her heart slam. “Why?”

  “You have a reputation, too.”

  “What does that mean? What reputation could I possibly have?”

  “I have heard it said, often enough, that the Countess D’Orsay is the most beautiful woman in all of England.”

  It was suddenly so silent, that she could hear the rain, not just pounding over their heads, but running from the gutters on the roof. She could hear the logs and kindling, crackling in the hearth. And she could hear her own deafening heartbeat.

  “And we both know that is absurdly false,” she said thickly.

  “Is it?”

  Evelyn wet her lips, oddly dazed. “Surely you agree… Such a claim is absurd.”

  He slowly smiled. “No, I do not agree. How modest you are.”

  Evelyn did not know what to do, and she couldn’t think clearly now. She had never been in any man’s arms except for Henri’s—and he hadn’t been young or good-looking or sensual. Her heart raced more wildly. There was alarm and confusion, there was even some dismay, but mostly, there was excitement.

  She hesitated. “I was sixteen when I married my husband.”

  He started. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  She had been trying to tell him that she wasn’t really experienced, but now, it didn’t seem to matter. Jack Greystone was the most attractive man she had ever come across, and not just because he was so handsome. He was so utterly masculine, so brazen and confident, and so powerful. Her knees were buckling. Her heart was thundering. Her skin prickled.

  She had never felt this way before.

  Evelyn stood up on her tiptoes and as she prepared to kiss him, their gazes locked. His was wide, incredulous. But then it blazed.

  Her insides hollowed in response and she brushed her mouth once upon his. And the moment their lips met, a shocking sensation of pleasure went through her.

  Standing there with her mouth open was like being on fire!

  He gripped her shoulders and kissed her. Evelyn gasped, because his mouth was very firm and even more demanding; he began kissing her with a stunning ferocity.

  And Evelyn kissed him back.

  Somehow, she was in his arms. Her entire body was pressed against his, enveloped by his, her breasts crushed by his chest. For the first time in her life, she realized she was in the throes of desire. It was maddening—senseless.

  And then he stepped back and pushed her away from him.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped.

  He looked at her, breathing hard—his gray gaze on fire.

  Evelyn clutched her robe to her body. She reached for the sofa so she could continue to stand upright. Had she just been in his arms? The arms of a veritable stranger? And since when did anyone kiss that way—with such hunger, such intensity?

  “You are trouble, Countess,” he said harshly.

  “What?” Evelyn cried. Some sensibility was returning, and she could not believe what she had just done!

  “I am sorry you are desperate, Countess. I am sorry you are destitute. But one night in your bed isn’t enough to entice me to France on your behalf.” His eyes blazed with desire, but she saw anger, too.

  Evelyn started. She had kissed him—she hadn’t suggested an affair. “I do need your help,” she heard herself cry.

  “You are a dangerous woman. Most men are fools. I am not.” Giving her a grim look, he strode past her. At the door he paused. “I am certain you will find someone else to do your bidding. Good night.”

  Evelyn was so bewildered that she could not move, not until she heard the front door slam. She collapsed upon the sofa. She had found Jack Greystone. She had dared to kiss him, and he had kissed her back, with fervor. And then he had refused her pleas and walked out on her!

  She told herself that she was crying for Aimee—and not because Jack Greystone had had her in his arms only to reject her.

  * * *

  JACK WAS STILL IN A VERY foul mood. The sun now high, he slid from his mount, tied it to the rail in front of the inn and patted its rump. He had just dropped anchor on one of the beaches below the village of Bexhill, and as it was half past noon, he was late.

  The Gray Goose Inn was a dilapidated white stucco building with a shingled roof, a dusty courtyard, and a great many suspicious patrons. Just north of Hastings, set in rolling green meadows, it was his preferred meeting place because he did not wish to pass through the Strait of Dover, just in case he was boxed in there by his enemies. He could outrun a naval destroyer and a revenue cutter, and he had, but there was not a great deal of room to maneuver in the Straits.

  He sighed as he entered the dark, somewhat malodorous and smoky public room. It had stopped raining well before dawn, when he had been hoisting sail and leaving the cove near Fowey, but he was somewhat chilled from the entire damp, cold night. At least it was warm inside the inn, but it was a far cry from his uncle’s home on Cavendish Square in London, where he would greatly prefer to be now.

  The bounty on his head had begun to truly restrict his movements. He had been amused when he had first learned of its existence a year and a half ago. But instead of meeting his brother and uncle in the comfort of the Cavendish Square townhome, he was confined to a clandestine meeting in the cramped back room of a foul, roadside inn. It wasn’t as amusing now.

  Jack had been engaged with smugglers since he was a boy of five years old, when he had insisted on standing watch with the village elders, on the lookout for the preventive men. Nothing had pleased him more than to watch the smugglers drop anchor in Sennen Cove and begin to unload their wares, except when the night was lit up with the torches carried by the revenue men as they rushed down the cliffs and invaded the beach, guns blazing. Casks would be dragged into secret caves, while others were left behind for the authorities. Some smugglers would turn tail and flee, others would fire back at the cust
oms agents. He would join in the fighting—until an adult would espy him and drag him, protesting, away.

  At seven, he had been dragging ankers filled with brandy across the beaches at Sennen Cove, as he was too small to carry them upon his shoulders. At ten, he had put out to sea with Ed Lewes as a cabin boy, at the time one of the most notorious and successful Cornish free traders. At twelve he had been a rigger, at fourteen, first mate. At seventeen he had become captain of his own ship, a fore and aft rigged sloop. Now, he captained the Sea Wolf II, an eighty-gallon frigate built just for the trade, her hull so skillfully carved that she cut the water like a dolphin. He’d yet to be caught when challenged.

  He had spent most of his life outwitting and outrunning the revenue men, the customs agents and now, the British navy. He was accustomed to the danger and pursuit, and he was thrilled by both. He especially loved being hunted, and then tacking across the wind and becoming the hunter. How he loved chasing his enemies and driving them aground—he enjoyed nothing more.

  He was also used to lying low, or going into hiding. He had no intention of going to prison, being transported, or now hanging for the acts of treason he was charged with committing.

  He did not think his life would have changed as much, if it were only for the bounty. But both of his sisters had married into the highest echelon of British society, marrying the earls of Bedford and St Just, respectively. And he had become a subject of fascination for the ton.

  Gentlemen admired him at their dinner tables, while ladies swooned over tales of his exploits on their shopping expeditions. There was gossip, rampant speculation and even some idolatry. There were a dozen debutantes calling upon his sisters, in the hopes of soliciting his attentions!

  As such, the authorities had placed him squarely in their targets. He was, without a doubt, the one smuggler the Admiralty most wished to catch and hang.

  He hadn’t been to London in at least six months. His brother, Lucas, was staying at the Cavendish Square flat, and the house was frequently watched. Apparently lookouts were occasionally stationed at Bedford House and Lambert Hall. A few years ago, he could come and go in broad daylight, he could shop on Pall Mall, he could attend supper parties and balls. Even a year ago, he could enter London to visit his sisters, as long as there was no fanfare. Not anymore.