Surrender (The Spymaster's Men)

by Brenda Joyce

  He turned to her, his gaze becoming speculative. “You are a strong woman—I see you have bounced back.”

  She felt her body tighten in response to the light in his eyes. She wondered if it would always be this way, if he would look at her so frankly, and she would desire him in return.

  She lifted her face to the night’s soft breeze, its scattered stars. “I am not all that strong. I have been dependent on one person or another my entire life. Now, my daughter is dependent on me—and I must depend only on myself.”

  He looked away again, guiding the ship slightly, as the helm moved in his hands. “As I said, you are strong.”

  It was so pleasant, to be thought of so highly now. It felt like a miracle, considering that, two nights ago, she had been in his arms, and he had been angry with her. She gazed openly at him. It was enjoyable being with him when he wasn’t accusing her of manipulation, when they were not arguing over one thing or another. How had they reached this new ground? she wondered. “Have we finally arrived at a truce?”

  His smile was brief. “Were we at war?”

  “There were certainly several battles.”

  “I owe you an apology, Evelyn, for making the wrong assumptions when we first met—for being terribly rude.”

  She was stunned. “You are forgiven.”

  “That was too easy, surely, I must redeem myself in a more exemplary manner.”

  He was serious, she realized. “You risked your life for me,” she began.

  “I did not bring you the gold.”

  Her eyes widened at his mention of what was truly inside the chest. “You knew?”

  “Yes, your uncle assumed you had told me about it.”

  “And you do not think that I wished to cheat you?”

  “No. I think only a very foolish woman would have told someone she wished to hire for this run that a pot of gold was its objective.”

  She wondered if she were lucky now. Somehow, she did not think that he would have been so understanding a day or two ago. “I will not be chasing any more pots of gold,” she said slowly. “Do you know anything about mining?”

  He started. “No. But my brother does.”

  “My tin mine needs repairs before it can be profitable—or so I have been told. But I was also told that the previous manager was stealing from us. I don’t know what to believe, but that mine could be the source of revenue I need for my daughter to have the future she deserves.”

  “The Greystone estate is a small one, and most consider us an impoverished family, but it isn’t true. There is a tin mine and an iron quarry, and both are highly lucrative. Lucas took over the reins of the estate when he was still a boy. He probably knows as much about tin mining as anyone.”

  “If I could speak to him,” she cried in disbelief, “I would be so grateful!”

  “I will make certain he helps you,” Jack said. “I will see that he visits your mine, speaks with the manager and goes over your books. If that mine can produce revenue, Lucas will determine that.”

  Evelyn was thrilled. She also realized that Jack thought very highly of his brother. “I will look forward to meeting him,” she said, “and not just because he can help me with the mine.”

  The wind had picked up. She shivered a little as a peaceful silence fell. “Tell me about your father,” Jack said softly.

  She started, surprised. “That is an odd request.” But hadn’t he heard her damning her own father?

  “Is it?” He smiled. “We may have more in common than you think. My father left my family when I was six. He was a wastrel, and he went off to Europe, preferring its gaming halls and brothels to Greystone Manor. He never returned, not even once, and he never wrote, not a single time. He died of syphilis within a few years.”

  She was aghast at such a story, but Jack seemed entirely indifferent. “I am sorry! How terrible for you.”

  He shrugged, without releasing the helm. “I do not remember him, and I do not recall being distraught when he left, probably because he was never at home anyway—he was always in a tavern, or so I am told. I do believe it hurt my brother, who is three years older than me, and my older sister, Amelia. But he wounded my mother the most. She took to her bed, and began to lose her grasp on sanity even then, when she was so young. I remember her thinking he was coming home, when he was already dead. To this day, she confuses the past with the present.” He shrugged calmly. “Fortunately, she lives with Amelia and Grenville, and she has her lucid moments.”

  Evelyn released the rigging to lay her hand on his strong forearm and grasp it comfortingly. He glanced at her hand, and then at her face—very briefly looking at her mouth. “Tell me about your father,” he repeated quietly.

  Evelyn dropped her hand, her heart skidding. She knew what that direct look meant. And it warmed her entirely. He could not forget kissing her, either.

  “He was a rogue, Jack, entirely so—but a dashing one with great charm. I adored him. And when he left me at my uncle’s when I was five, I wept and begged and screamed. I did not want to be abandoned! However, I know now that he could not have raised me without my mother. He was correct, sending me to my aunt and uncle after she died.” She realized that the hurt was gone. Had she wept it away that afternoon?

  “Your uncle is fond of you. He also admires you.”

  She laughed, a bit mirthlessly. “I realize that now, but he rarely said a word to me when I was a child, not even during meals, when he let my aunt and Lucille direct every conversation.”

  “Some men do not have the inclination to contest their spouses,” Jack pointed out.

  “Yes, I understand that now. In any case, my father did write to me, and he did visit me, once or twice a year. I lived for his letters, his visits. And he always came with gifts, tall tales and promises.” She had stopped smiling. “His promises were empty ones. He promised me a great future, but he was killed in a duel when I was fifteen, and I learned then that I did not have even the smallest dowry.”

  “Henri must have stepped into your life shortly thereafter—if you married him at sixteen.”

  “Yes, he came to stay with us four or five months after my father’s death, and he fell in love with me immediately.” She regarded Jack carefully now. “I did not expect his attentions. Lucille was being groomed to receive him, not I. Aunt Enid had made it clear that as far as marriage went, I could do no better than a farmer.”

  Jack stared ahead, into the night. “Of course he fell in love with you,” he finally said. “I am beginning to realize how modest you are, but you are unusually attractive. You would catch any man’s eye, instantly.”

  She did not believe him, but that was how she had caught Henri’s attention. “A great many have accused me of being a fortune hunter. I am used to the criticism. But because I did not expect his attention, it was some time before I realized that Henri really meant to marry me—that he was not going away.”

  “Did you fall in love with him?”

  She stared. “I loved him—he became my closest friend.”

  “That isn’t what I asked. Falling in love is not the same as loving someone.”

  She hugged herself. “I was overcome with gratitude, Jack. He gave me everything—a home, a family, respect, love and trust.” When he kept staring, she cried, “No, I did not fall in love with him! But I cared, deeply. And he was elegant and dashing, before he became ill.” But now, she thought about the revelations she had just had. He had been an irresponsible aristocrat.

  “He was ill the night I took you from France. How long was he like that?”

  She wondered at his questions. “He seemed entirely healthy until Aimee was born. Gradually there were signs of trouble—mostly, his difficulty breathing, especially after walking or riding. His doctors advised him to take care, to rest, even then.”

  His gaze was piercing. “So he was ill for most of your marriage.”

  He was wondering about her relations with Henri, she simply knew it. She glanced away, shivering. “Yes.�
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  “Are you cold?”

  She half turned. “The wind has changed.”

  “Yes, it has picked up. We are now making ten knots. We will be home before dawn.”

  And he would send Lucas to her, to help her with the mine. But then what?

  “Come here,” he said softly.

  She started as he continued to grasp the helm, which he nodded at. “Surely you do not wish for me to guide the boat?” she asked.

  “It is a ship, and, yes, you may steer her briefly.” He reached for her and pulled her to stand before the helm, which Evelyn instantly grabbed. And she knew what he intended as he shrugged his jacket off and laid it carefully about her shoulders. His hands lingered there. “Is that better?” he asked.

  He stood very close behind her, his hands on her shoulders, his breath on her cheek, and she was enveloped in his body’s heat. “Yes.”

  He slowly took the helm—which had the effect of practically placing her in his embrace, from behind. She was spooned against him. “I doubt we should stand this way for long,” he murmured.

  She did not want to move. Evelyn leaned back against him, closing her eyes. She had just pressed against him, and she was very much enveloped by his body, his arms around her, and it felt perfectly right.

  “Evelyn,” he said roughly.

  She could not answer, and she did not want to—afraid it would break the magical moment. Her heart thundered now. Surely he could hear it.

  He pressed his mouth against her cheek.

  She shuddered, with desire, not cold. “Did I catch your eye that way?” He had probably forgotten their discussion, but she hadn’t—and she wanted to know if he had wanted her from that first moment of their meeting.

  He became still, his mouth on her jaw. “Yes, Evelyn, you did.”

  Her heart thundered harder. Evelyn released the helm and slowly turned—now standing in his arms as he steered the ship.

  She looked at his mouth, overcome with the urge to stand on tiptoe and kiss him wildly, deeply, impossibly....

  “I know my ship is quiet,” he said, “but there are two watches in the forecastle, and my other four hands are also on deck.”

  She leaped away, hit the helm and he dropped one arm to let her by. Blushing, she somehow said, “It is just such a beautiful night.”

  “No. You are the beautiful one.”

  She had never wanted his attentions more—but she also wanted his affection—oh, she knew that now. “There is more to beauty than meets the eye.”

  “Yes, there is.” He did not elaborate.

  She would leave it alone, she thought, because this was a new beginning—it had to be. She whispered, “I will never forget how we first met. I knew who you were, even though you denied it. I was desperate. And there you were—so calm, when it was such a dangerous night, so confident—when Henri was dying and Aimee’s life was at stake. It was as if I knew you would save us.”

  His gaze locked with hers. A long moment passed, and Evelyn wondered why he didn’t respond. And then the watch cried out, loud and shrill, his meaning indecipherable to her ears. But she knew it was a warning. “Jack?” she cried.

  He had seized a spyglass and was training it over the port railing. Suddenly he shouted, “Hoist the topsail, furl the gallant! Evelyn! Go below!”

  She was in absolute shock as his men appeared in the rigging, as one sail was dropped, another opening with a huge whoosh. And the ship lurched hard, changing course. “What is it? What has happened?”

  His gray eyes flashed. “There is a French destroyer on our portside, and she has the wind at her back.”

  Her eyes widened. Her mind raced. But the French navy allowed him to pass, did it not?

  Impatiently, he cried, “She is in hot pursuit. Being as you are on board, I will not exchange fire—therefore, we must tuck our tail between our legs and run.”

  Evelyn took one look at his fierce expression and rushed below.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “EVELYN.”

  She started, her eyes opening—she had fallen asleep—and instantly, her gaze met Jack’s.

  She was curled up in his bed, atop the sheets; he sat beside her hip, his hand on her shoulder. He smiled a little and released her, standing. But his gray gaze skidded over her from head to toe, before he glanced away.

  Too late, she had seen the appreciation in his eyes. She had also seen the speculation. She sat up, glancing past him at the portholes. Her tension was replaced by surprise. It had to be close to noon! “I fell asleep,” she cried. “What happened?”

  Last night, before dawn, she had actually heard a cannon being fired, but in the distance. She hadn’t known if they were being fired upon, but it had seemed likely. There had been no response from Jack’s ship, and eventually, she had sat down on the bed, only to doze off.

  “We had to run south, as far south as Penzance, but they are long gone.” He smiled, as if cheerful. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, just his ruffled shirt, which was open at the neck. He wore his pistol and his dagger, of course. His hair was now entirely loose. He hadn’t shaved in two days—and the effect was that he appeared entirely disreputable.

  “It was a French destroyer, and had you not been on board, I would have loved to engage her.”

  There was actually a wistful look in his eyes. He would have enjoyed a battle, she realized, not certain if she should admire him, or be appalled.

  “I am pleased you got some sleep,” he said.

  “I did not know what was happening.” Evelyn stood up, her legs feeling terribly weak. She was exhausted. She had been at sea for two entire days—actually, if it were close to noon, for more than forty-eight hours—and she doubted she had slept more than a few hours, if that. She hadn’t eaten much, either. In fact, just then, she realized that she was hungry—when she rarely had any appetite.

  Jack did not look tired. To the contrary, he was smiling, as if jovial, and his eyes were bright. Clearly, he was in high spirits.

  He loved the sea, but mostly he loved the danger of his activities.

  But the French navy had been chasing them. Comprehension suddenly claimed her. She was now entirely awake. Didn’t that mean that he was not a French spy? “Jack, I am bewildered. Everyone claims you run the British blockade. Why would the French navy pursue you?”

  He slowly smiled and shrugged. Then, he said, “We are at my island home, but I have yet to drop anchor. If you wish to go home directly, it will take us less than an hour to reach Fowey. But I was wondering if you would care to come ashore and share some supper with me. I realize you are exhausted, and I can offer you a night’s accommodations, and then take you to Roselynd tomorrow.” His expression never changed, remaining bland.

  Evelyn realized she was holding her breath. Under normal circumstances, such an invitation should have been refused, but these were hardly normal circumstances—they were allies of sorts, if not partners in crime, and they were both exhausted. Of course she needed to return to her daughter, as soon as was possible. But was it fair to ask him to sail on, when he hadn’t closed his eyes for forty-eight hours—or not that she knew of? And she was so exhausted—she thought she could sleep for a solid twelve hours, if given a proper bed.

  And they were at his secret island home. She was so curious to see it!

  Their relationship had changed last night. They had truly put their past misunderstandings and differences aside. So much tension remained between them, but the run to France had changed everything. A friendship had begun. She was fiercely glad.

  How could she go home now?

  In that moment, her decision was made. “You do not appear fatigued, not in the least, but I am frankly exhausted. I am even hungry! I would love to take supper with you, and if it truly isn’t trouble, I would accept your offer of a night’s accommodations, too.” She felt her cheeks warm as she spoke. She was going to spend the night as his guest. She so hoped they would have another frank and prolonged conversation. She so wanted to con
tinue down this new path.

  He finally looked at her. “Good. You will stay the night, then.”

  Evelyn hesitated. Her heart was racing. His glance had been direct and masculine. They might be on a new path, but that did not mean that the smoldering attraction they shared had changed. She meant to dine with him, and share an enjoyable evening, before getting some sorely needed rest. She was not going to think past that. She did not think he was, either. Somehow, she was certain she had gained his respect.

  He glanced at her again, but in a sidelong manner. “You will like my chef…. He is French.” With that, he strode from the cabin. “Furl the aft sail,” he ordered.

  Evelyn shivered, and not because it was a chilly afternoon.

  She followed him on deck and stopped suddenly, surprised. A small island was within two stone’s throws of the ship. The island was mostly dark rock, a small white beach facing them, a grassy ridge in its center. The ridge was high enough that it might take a good hour to climb it. She could also see a part of a large country house, its pale stone making a stark contrast to the island’s black rocks.

  She studied the view. The island was treeless, windswept, barren—so stark and desolate. She wondered how he could live there. It had to be lonely—wasn’t it an exile, of sorts?

  Jack was standing by the railing. He swept her a bow. “Welcome to Looe Island, Countess.”

  * * *

  EVELYN STARED OUT OF HER bedchamber’s window. Her room was on the second floor, and she gazed down upon a dark stone tower that was on lower ground. The island had an interesting history. Her host had told her that the tower was all that remained of the island’s original Elizabethan home. It had been gutted, Jack had said, by a series of attacks and fires. Looe Island had been used as a home and safe haven for pirates and smugglers for centuries.

  They had arrived a few hours ago. They had taken a small dinghy from the ship to the beach, and then had walked, on foot, up a sandy path to a rocky road that led to the house. Because the island was so barren, its location so remote—although Britain’s shoreline could be seen from the cove—she had not known what to expect. And then the handsome country house built from pale stone had appeared, as if rising up out of the island’s sand and rocks.