“Are you mad?” She pulled away and cried, “If this is your idea of a jest, I find nothing about it amusing.”
“It is no jest.” He took her by her wrist, bringing her to face him. “You need not accept my words as the truth, but I know they are true. You may be in great danger.”
“From whom? Why?”
He sighed. Releasing her, he stared about the small garden that was sepulchral in the moonlight. “The answer to those questions, my dear wife, remain two things I cannot tell you. What I can tell you is that I have information that makes it impossible for me to believe that the attack by Duffie and his lads upon you was happenstance.”
“What?” She slowly sat on the cool stone bench. “Tell me you are jesting with me, James.”
“I wish I was.” Taking her hands in his, he scanned the garden and the windows overlooking it. She followed his gaze and saw no one, but he must have noticed something she did not because he said, “I cannot explain more here and now, but I can tell you that Montcrief’s survival does nothing to change my mind, for it proves only that the reason your carriage was stopped was because of you.”
“That is madness,” she said to his back. “There is no reason anyone would want me.”
“There must be.” He put his hands on her shoulders again. “And, Romayne, I must find out what it is before your enemy makes another attempt on your life.”
Romayne bent closer to the lamp as she worked on the intricate pattern. The fog had swallowed any sunshine today, so she had no choice but to sit and endure the needlework that Grange insisted every lady must do. Not that she disliked embroidery, but she was tired of being imprisoned in the house for the third day in a row.
With a sigh, she owned she had to be glad for one thing. James was not confined with her. After his outrageous comments at Bradley’s party, she had avoided him, which had not been difficult because each morning he had left the house at dawn and had not arrived back until after she had gone to bed.
She looked up, startled, when she heard the familiar sound of James’s footfalls entering the room. She had been certain he had already departed on whatever errands kept him occupied. Enveloped in a greatcoat that reached to the top of his boots, he held a tall beaver in one hand and his gloves in the other.
“Romayne, I need you to come with me this afternoon.”
She winced as she stuck her finger with the needle she had jabbed through the fine linen. A tiny bead of crimson appeared on her skin, but she ignored it as she looked up at James. Each time he spoke in that imperious tone, she knew he was Major MacKinnon.
“Where?” she asked simply.
“To a place called The Three Stags on the Dover road.”
“What is The Three Stags?”
“You would call it a house of waste.”
Dropping her needlework onto her lap, she gasped, “You wish me to go to a low tavern? Isn’t it enough that you threaten my reputation with this marriage? Must you guarantee its desolation?”
He folded his arms on the back of her chair and leaned forward so his lips were only a wish away from hers. All she needed to do to make that wish come true was … Hastily she looked away.
“Romayne, I would not ask you to enter such a place. I thought you might wish to join me and Cameron on the trip. So often you have said that you long to return to grassville, and this is a chance you may not have again soon.”
“You think your man has left London?”
“No.” His fingertip under her chin tilted her face back toward him. “Dearie, I would not endanger you by having you join us if we were about to set chase after the knave. We go only to collect some information that has been gathered for us.” His finger wandered along her lips as he murmured, “I have missed being with you these past few days. I miss the way your tongue lashes me with harsh words and with sweetness.”
His mouth captured hers, his tongue darting between her parted lips. Clenching the sleeves of his greatcoat, she did not resist as he leaned her back toward the arm of the chair. She was surrounded by him, his strength, the rich taste of the coffee he had had with breakfast, the scent of dampness from his wool coat, and the musky aroma of his male body.
“I have missed you, dearie,” he whispered.
“I have missed you, too,” she said, unable to speak anything but the truth when he was bringing her to her feet and into his arms.
“Come with me today, away from this city and its complications. Let us enjoy a glorious day in the country together.”
She laughed. “Glorious? It is foggy and damp and cold.”
“It will be gloriously warm when you are in my arms.”
“You have a facile tongue, Scotsman.”
Mirth twinkled in his eyes as he whispered, “You have yet to learn how facile, dearie.”
She answered him with a kiss that sent shimmering warmth to her very center. Maybe today was the day they could forget his mission and their lies and just be happy. No, she wanted more than happiness. As she gazed up into his handsome face, she knew she wanted ecstasy.
As always, James was as good as his word. He had Thatcher ride with Cameron in the box of the closed carriage, which would protect Romayne from being seen. Once they left Grosvenor Square behind them, no one would be able to guess the granddaughter of the Duke of Westhampton and her husband were seeking a vile tavern on the road leading south to Dover. Thatcher had been shocked by the directions James gave him, but had said nothing as James handed Romayne into the carriage. She wished to share the truth with the groom and vowed that she would ease his curiosity as soon as she could.
James insisted she remain inside the carriage while he and Cameron went into the tumbledown shack to do his business. On the box, Thatcher waited with a loaded pistol balanced on his knee. Barely five minutes passed before James returned, a broad smile brightening his face.
“Did you obtain the information you need?” Romayne asked when he was sitting beside her and the carriage was bound north for London through the thickening fog.
“It is a beginning.”
“You have been at this for a long time to be only at the beginning.”
He laughed as he settled his arm on the back of the seat. His fingers reached around her bonnet to brush her cheek. “There is only a beginning and end to this sport; Nothing in the middle matters.”
“You expect the end to come soon?”
“Yes, within days, if fortune shines on us more than the sun has.”
She closed her eyes. How thrilled that answer would have made her weeks ago! Then she had been secure in knowing that she could never love anyone as she loved Bradley. That still remained true, because the love she wished to offer James was unlike that pallid emotion she had deemed love. Grandfather had been right again when he had told her that she had not worn the glow of love in her eyes when she was with Bradley.
But that had changed. This craving to be with James, to touch him, to have him caress her, to delight in the sound of his voice, and to be more furious with him than with any one other person—this must be love.
He brought her face toward him. “Open your eyes, dearie.”
She obeyed, hoping they did not glitter with the tears filling her throat.
“I thought you would be happy for me.”
“I am happy for you.”
“But not for us?”
“There is no ‘us’, remember?” she returned. “We are living a lie.”
“Aye, that we are.” His arm around her shoulder contracted, bringing her to him. “And it’s time for the truth that—”
James cursed as the carriage rocked wildly. He shouted to Thatcher. The horses whinnied a warning. Something struck the carriage. She heard the horses screech like frightened children. She grabbed for James. Her hands found nothing.
“Romayne!”
Screaming his name, she slid from the seat. The sound vanished as the carriage tilted. She was thrown against the door. Pain erupted up her arm, then through her head. The c
arriage tumbled from the road.
She tried to grasp onto the seat or anything. She was tossed about like foam on the sea. The door flew open, and she slammed into the ground. Her breath exploded out of her as everything vanished into a darkness deeper than the fog.
Voices intruded into the silence. Romayne tried to make sense of the words, but she heard only gibberish. Hands touched her, rupturing the velvet blanket of senselessness. Pain rushed through her, and she moaned.
“What is her name?” asked a brittle voice.
“Lady Romayne MacKinnon.”
“Romayne,” demanded the first voice. “Open your eyes, Romayne. Show us you are all right.”
She tried. She wanted to do as he wished, because she yearned to escape the terrifying world of agony.
“Romayne, open your eyes.”
A slit of light burned as she obeyed. Blinking, she tried to make the faces in front of her take shape. They remained just colorless blobs.
“Drink this.”
Again she obeyed. The ale burned in her throat, scratching it raw. She grasped onto this fresh pain and used it to pull herself out of the deep well of nothingness. Beneath her, she could feel the cold of the bare earth. The sky above was lost to the gray swirls of fog, but around her were a half-dozen people. She recognized only one face.
“Cameron!” she tried to say, but only a groan issued from her lips.
He patted her hand. “Rest easily, Lady Romayne. We had quite a ride.” Rising, he motioned with his head to his left. “We should see to the others.” He walked away as someone covered Romayne with a musty cloak.
“James! Where is James?”
No one heeded her moan. Somehow she found enough stamina to turn her head. Horror clamped its grip around her throat, choking her, as she stared at the remains of the carriage. It looked as if a giant foot had stamped it into the earth until it barely resembled the fine vehicle which had driven out of Grosvenor Square.
“James …” she whispered with the last of her waning strength. When the scene faded into blackness, she did not fight it, hoping when she awoke the nightmare would be over and James would be holding her safe in his arms.
Something warm and damp was placed on Romayne’s forehead, and she sighed as the pain focused directly beneath the cloth. Opening her eyes, she smiled when she saw her abigail’s lined face leaning over her. Beyond Grange was her bedchamber on Grosvenor Square. She was home. She was safe. Everything was as it should be.
“Waken slowly,” Grange murmured. “You have had quite a day, my lady.”
“I’ve had the most amazing dream, Grange,” she whispered. “We went to Scotland, of all places. Sit, and let me tell you of it.”
“She is awake,” her abigail said to someone she could not see, “but I think she has jostled her mind.”
A rustle of soft footsteps from the other side of the bed coaxed Romayne to turn her head. Her gaze rose along a ripped waistcoat, over a sling that had been made from a torn sheet, to a scratched face that she had seen in her dream.
“James!”
“I am afraid it was no dream you have enjoyed. You did come to Scotland,” he said softly. “How do you feel?”
Memory was rushing back into her head, adding to her misery, but she answered, “I will be fine soon. You should be resting. How badly are you hurt?”
“I wrenched my dashed shoulder again, but that will heal quickly.”
“Cameron?”
“He is a bit battered, but he should be on his feet again tomorrow. The three of us were luckier than we deserved to be.”
“Aye,” she breathed. She grasped his hand. “The three of us? What of Thatcher?”
He shook his head. “He was thrown from the box. He died instantly.”
Tears slid along her face as sobs burst from her lips. Dear Thatcher! He had braved the Lowlands storm and her grandfather’s wrath to bring her home. Not once had he thought of anything but her comfort and security. Now he was gone.
James said nothing but to thank Grange when she brought a chair to the side of the bed for him. The abigail put another damp cloth on Romayne’s head, then slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.
“She is going to assure your grandfather that you have not cocked up your toes,” he said into the silence.
“I cannot believe that Thatcher would have miscalculated where the road was even in such a fog.”
“This was no accident,” he replied grimly. “Do you remember the thump on the side of the carriage just before our outer wheels left the road? Someone rammed us.”
“It could have been an accident. The day is thick with fog.”
“Was.” He smiled gently. “It is past midnight, dearie.”
“The information. Was it lost?”
“It is in a safe place.”
“Here?”
“No.”
With a sigh, she relaxed into the pillows. She did not want to risk her grandfather being attacked as they had been.
He laced his fingers through hers. “This was the danger I tried to warn you of. Dearie, I have been straining my head to think of a place to send you that would be safe, but I own to failure. Scotland was precarious for you. Westhampton Hall was breached by whoever set the fire. There is no question but that London poses a threat to you as well. I had hoped to keep you protected from another incident by watching over you.” Glancing with a wry smile at his sling, he said, “You can see how admirable a job I did of that.”
“No one would want to kill me. I have no enemies.”
“You have at least one.”
“Who? Bradley? Mr. Boumphrey? Lord Culver?” Sarcasm crept into her voice. “Why not say even Grandfather?”
“Your list, dearie, not mine, although I have no doubts that your grandfather thinks only of your welfare. Of the others, I cannot be as sure.”
She shook her head, then, putting her fingers to it, wished she had not. The pain was like mercury, rolling about each time she moved and forming into a cold, liquid ball that bounced off her skull.
“James, you are suggesting one of my friends wishes me dead. I tell you that is absurd. You were with me each time there had been an incident—as you call them—if you discount the attack on Bradley’s carriage.”
“Which I cannot. That, I know for a fact, was arranged.”
“Why won’t you tell me who?”
“Because I do not know. Duffie never came face to face with the rake-jakes who hired him to halt Montcrief’s carriage.” Lifting her hand from her bed, he turned it and pressed his lips to her palm. The succulent warmth drifted along her arm and into her aching body, sweeping the pain away before the longing. “My dearest wife, I vow that I shall discover who wants to hurt you and why. Then the scoundrel will answer to me for everything you have suffered.”
“James, be careful.”
“I make this vow on my life, dearie, and I intend that neither you nor I lose our lives before that blackguard pays.” His lips stretched in a fearsome grin. “And pays with his life.”
Chapter Sixteen
Cameron grumbled, “Not a dashed stick in the place that’s worth anything.”
James smiled as his sergeant paced the narrow stable behind the duke’s house. Cameron picked up a length of wood and snapped it in two before tossing it aside. After nearly a week, the inactivity was maddening for both of them. More so for Cameron, because James had been able to sit by Romayne’s bedside while she recovered and chat with her to help ease his ennui and frustration at being bested by their quarry yet again.
“The French spy has been detained in Brighton, but the man refuses to name his contact here in London.” He opened a slip of paper and held it out to Cameron. “This is what Whalen gave me at The Three Stags.”
His sergeant squinted at it and frowned. “You know I can’t read Frenchie talk, Major.”
“Let me.” He took the page. “Ma chère amie, je suis arrivé. Attendez-moi à—”
“In English!
” groaned Cameron.
James chuckled and said, “It says only that the spy has arrived and intends to wait as planned for our traitor on Thursday at a stall in Covent Garden. The information shall be passed there.”
“Thursday?” He swore under his breath. “That was the day the carriage was upset.”
“Aye, we missed another opportunity to snare the blackguard.”
“But there’s nothing in the note to identify the traitor?”
“Whalen told me it was to be delivered to Brooks’s. We cannot accuse each of the members of the club of treason. After all, the person receiving it at Brooks’s might have been no more than a courier—an unknowing one, mayhap. That clue tells us nothing that we already did not know. Our quarry is here among the ton.”
Cameron cursed as he flipped his knife into the stable wall. “We will not have long before another Frog spy is sent to arrange another meeting. If we do not get wind of that meeting, everything could be lost.”
“You need not remind me of that.”
“So what do we do now, Major?”
James sighed. “I wish I had an answer to that, Cameron. I truly do.”
“Come in, my boy, come in!”
James chuckled under his breath at the hearty greeting, but walked into the small parlor where the Duke of Westhampton was sitting in a chair by the window overlooking the square. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
He liked the comfortable room, which was not as grand as the rest of the town house. The pale blue walls were the perfect foil for the dark furniture. He guessed the pieces had been brought from Westhampton Hall to allow the duke to feel at home.
“What are you about, MacKinnon?”
“I thought to check on Romayne to see how she does.”
Rising, the old man frowned. “Give the girl a chance to recover from that horror.” His eyes focused on the sling James still wore. “I do own she looks better for the experience than you. I have seen toms after a night of cat-fighting look better than you.”
The Smithfield Bargain: A Regency Romance (The Wolfe Family Book 1) Page 21