“Well, I hope Brantley comes soon,” Hanton grumbled, “because win or lose, I don’t want to be about when the Frenchies hear the news. They’re agitated enough, not knowing. And either way, they’re likely to skewer us for amusement.”
“I told you to leave when the ship did,” Alex reminded him darkly.
“I couldnae abandon ye, lad,” the Scotsman said. “Damn me if I ever did.”
Alex cleared his throat, moved despite himself. “Thank you, Hanton. But I want you to know, if Stewart Brantley doesn’t appear in the next twenty-four hours, I’m heading for Paris to look for her.”
Finally McAndrews looked annoyed. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord, but are ye completely mad?”
“As a March hare,” Alex agreed mildly.
“I ain’t going to Paris,” Debner grumbled.
The earl ignored him. He’d known from the moment he’d decided to go after Christine that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop his search until he found her. Not until he’d fallen in love with Kit had he realized what the word meant, how much it meant. And he was absolutely certain he would never feel this way again. She was the one. If he couldn’t make her forgive him…He shook his head. He would make her listen. There was nothing else he could contemplate.
The Scot sighed. “Then I suppose I’ll be going with ye, lad.”
As it turned out, they didn’t need to travel to Paris. It had been dark for a few hours, and already two separate crowds of marchers had stormed past, shouting slogans and damning the English as they went. It would only get worse, Alex knew, and he sent up a quick prayer that Kit was somewhere safe. At half past ten, Hanton, gazing outside from between the warped shutter slats, straightened and gestured at him. “Wagon stopped outside,” the Scot murmured at him as he approached. “Two men, heading this way. One of ’em has a pistol.”
He stepped aside as, heart hammering against his ribs, Alex took his place at the window. Through the gaps in the shutters he could see only parts, but he had memorized all of her, and it was enough to know. The side of her face with her high cheekbones, her left hand and slender, graceful fingers, her thigh in the blue breeches he’d had made for her. “Thank God,” he whispered.
“That them?” Hanton muttered at his shoulder.
“Yes.”
“We’d best get you hidden then, m’lord.”
Reluctantly Everton turned away from the window. McAndrews was already across the room, kneeling in front of Will Debner and slitting the ropes that bound his legs. “You remember our agreement,” Alex warned, stopping before the smuggler. “You assist us, and we’ll lose you somewhere on the road back to London.”
Debner groaned and climbed to his feet. “Aye, my lord.”
With another glance at the door, Alex made his way across the uneven floor to the stack of crates. Swiftly he clambered up the boxes and edged out onto one of the wide beams supporting the roof. Debner and Hanton could pass for smugglers, but both Brantleys knew him. He would have to wait, and watch. A pistol rested in his greatcoat pocket, but he had no intention of shooting either of them, and he left it where it was.
Only secondarily was he concerned over her reasons for being there, and the realization surprised him. It was as if his heart had somehow grasped how desperately unhappy and lonely he would be in a lifetime without her. If she was a spy and a traitor to England, they wouldn’t return there. He owned a small estate in Spain, thanks to his grandmother, and the crown could never touch either of them there.
Hanton returned to the door, while Debner moved over to the crates and Everton settled himself carefully along one of the dusty beams. A fist rapped softly at the door, and Alex fanned a cobweb from his face and forced himself to take a slow breath.
With a glance up at him, Hanton nodded and pulled open the door. Alex found himself holding the breath he had taken as Stewart Brantley and his daughter greeted Debner and, more cautiously, Hanton, and strolled into the warehouse. Christine glanced about, her eyes tired and uninterested as they took in the dirty surroundings. It seemed a lifetime longer than a day since he had last beheld her, and the defeated resignation in her eyes was heartbreaking.
“Apologies for the delay, Mr. Debner,” Stewart Brantley said, as he walked over to nudge one of the crates with the toe of his boot, “but I’ll make it worth your time.”
The smuggler nodded. “Not as though there was anywhere I could go with them, anyway.”
“Oh, there’s always somewhere one can go,” Brantley returned with a cynical half smile, obviously pleased with himself. He toed the crates again. “Well, let’s open one and check my wares, and then get them loaded. They’ll be starting for Belgium tonight.”
Hanton and Debner dragged the crate off the stack and onto the floor. Kit stood behind the men, her expression altering a little as she looked at the mound of crates. She shut her eyes for a moment, then stepped over beside her father.
“Papa,” she said quietly, so that Alex had to strain to hear the familiar low lilt, “please don’t do this. We can hide them until after the war, and then sell them to whomever we wish.”
A brief look of impatience crossed Stewart’s face. “For half the profit.”
“What if I had the means to support us for a time?” she offered.
“Do you have ten thousand pounds?” he queried, lifting an eyebrow. “Because that is what we owe the Comte de Fouché.”
“But you’re killing men,” Kit insisted. “It’s blood money you’ll be making.”
“Not our blood,” he returned shortly, and stepped away from her.
She’d been telling the truth, then, about the weapons. She hadn’t known. A smuggler, she might be, but not a traitor. Just barely, Alex resisted the urge to jump down from the rafters and pull her into his arms. He dared not, though, until he found time and a quiet place to convince her that he was merely an idiot, and that he loved her. She’d trusted him, far more than he’d allowed himself to trust her, and that was a great deal to make amends for.
They pried the lid off the crate. Brantley leaned forward and pushed the top layer of straw aside—and cursed, the gaze he shot toward Debner hard as winter. “What the devil is this?”
A faint, pungent odor drifted up toward the rafters. Kit stepped forward to peer over her father’s shoulder. A stunned expression crossed her sensitive features, suspicion swiftly following. Her expressive lips twitched, and she sent a glance in her father’s direction. “Onions, smells like.” She took a step backward and looked about the warehouse again, her gaze lingering this time on Hanton McAndrews, who was busily looking puzzled.
You’re not the only one who can play games, Alex said to himself, resting his chin on one hand as he gazed down at Stewart Brantley’s infuriated expression. Let’s see how much you like being played for a fool.
Her father spun around to glare at her. “Did you know about this?”
She frowned and returned her attention to him. “How could I have?”
“You knew I was shipping weapons! How?”
She hesitated. “He told me.”
“Who, Furth?” he demanded.
“Everton.”
“Ev…Sweet Lucifer,” her father murmured, looking at her intently. “It was him all along.”
She folded her arms, defiant and uncertain. “Yes, it was. And I knew he was after you, but I didn’t know he’d found your shipment.” Kit drew a breath. “But if this was his doing, I’m glad of it.”
“So now, after everything I’ve done for you, you turn on me?” Brantley asked cynically. “What a shame, then, that you left your lover in London.” He leaned forward, taking her chin in his fingers. “And you’re in France, with a shipment of onions and a debt of ten thousand pounds to the Comte de Fouché. It seems, my dear, that the Earl of Everton has saved some English soldiers and gotten both of us killed.”
“A shame indeed,” a third voice said in French, and Jean-Paul Mercier stepped through the doorway. “Especially considering that the muske
ts were meant for French reinforcements even now gathering at the Belgian border.” The comte’s jaw clenched. “And someone will pay, believe me.” Two other men stepped in behind him, both armed. Fouché moved sideways and pulled a brace of pistols from his belt.
From up above, Alex tried to attract Hanton’s attention, but it was already too late. The Scot grabbed the crate lid and swung it into the stomach of the nearest of Fouché’s men. The wood split with a loud crack, and the gunman dropped to the ground without so much as a grunt. The comte and the other man both turned on McAndrews. With a quick curse, Alex drew himself up onto his haunches and leaped. He hit Fouché in the chest, his momentum knocking both of them to the floor.
A pistol went off, close enough that stinging powder burned the side of his face. He rolled sideways and came to his feet to find himself looking straight into Christine’s beautiful, astounded gaze. “Hello, my love,” he said jauntily.
Her eyes flicked sideways, and he threw himself in the opposite direction as Fouché’s man came at him, swinging the spent pistol like a club. Alex ducked and threw a quick, hard jab. With a windless curse, the smuggler hit the floor on his backside.
Hanton was doing a fine job of keeping his own opponent leveled. Fouché remained crumpled against the wall. Everton turned to find Kit again. A fist flew at his face, catching him flush on the jaw before he could dodge.
“Damnation!” he swore, staggering. “Stop hitting me, chit!”
She stood glaring at him with her feet apart and her arms flexed, obviously ready to level him if he took another step toward her. Her green eyes snapped with anger, and he couldn’t help the relieved, appreciative smile that touched his lips at the sight of her.
“Don’t you look at me that way,” she snarled. “I told you I never wanted to see you again, Everton. I don’t know what the deuce you’re doing here, but—”
“Alexander!”
At Hanton’s bellow, the earl instinctively flung himself forward, throwing both Kit and himself to the floor as another shot thundered behind him. He wrapped her lithe body in his arms and rolled sideways with her. There were far too many pistols going off in the immediate vicinity, and he wanted her as far as possible from them. He stopped with her pinned beneath him, looked up to see Will Debner going after the third Frenchman, and returned his attention to Kit.
Her hat had come off, and wavy blond hair spilled over his arm. A scratch reddened a line across one cheek, and her lips were parted as she prepared to hand him another insult. He lowered his mouth over hers and kissed her warm, pliant lips. “You left before I could apologize,” he murmured, looking down at her.
“Get off me, you big lout,” she snapped hotly, slamming her fist into his shoulder. “I hate you! Don’t you even try to tell me you came all this way to apologize to me. You only want to arrest my father.”
He shook his head, wishing that something as simple as shaking her would convince her he was telling the truth. “Finding him was the only way I could think of to find you.” Behind them, Hanton was cursing, but when he glanced over his shoulder the Scot was grinning as he waded back into the fight, and Alex returned his attention to Kit.
“Some spy, then,” she hissed back at him. “You don’t even speak French, and you came here for me in the middle of a war?”
“I do speak French,” he murmured.
She narrowed her eyes to emerald slits. “No, you don’t.”
“Je suis un bâtard, un boeuf stupide, un bravache, et un fou,” he offered softly.
She shook her head. “You’re only repeating all the insults I handed you.”
“Non. Ce n’est pas—”
The muzzle of a pistol pressed against his right temple. He froze, noting her startled glance up over his shoulder.
“Get off my daughter, Everton,” Stewart Brantley said softly.
Kit’s eyes caught and held his as he slowly raised himself up on his hands and knees. Unless he was mistaken, she was worried. About him, he hoped, and not about whether she would get bloodstains on her coat.
“Don’t shoot him, Papa,” she growled, scrambling out from under him as he carefully climbed to his feet. “I’ll take care of it.”
“No, allow me,” Fouché snarled from behind her.
If she hadn’t been standing there, halfway between them, Alex would have dodged. As it was, he took the ball high in the left shoulder. The impact spun him halfway around and knocked him to the floor.
With an animal shriek, Christine threw herself at the comte. Fouché cuffed her sideways with the back of his hand, and she staggered hard into the wall and sank to the floor. “You bastard!” she hissed, turning on him again.
“Christine!” her father bellowed, and she stopped her advance. “Come away!”
Instead, pulled by fear and yearning, she scrambled forward to kneel beside Alex, who lay on his back with his eyes closed. A dark stain of blood spread from his left shoulder, soaking into the dirty peasant’s clothes he was wearing. “Alex,” she whispered, reaching out a shaking hand to touch his face. His eyes opened. Deepest azure looked up at her, and she swallowed. She had thought never to look into those eyes again.
He gave a slight smile. “Dites moi ques vous ne me déteste pas,” he said softly.
Even his accent was perfect, if his timing left something to be desired. “I do hate you,” she whispered. “You’ve lied to me about everything. More than I ever lied to you.”
“That’s not so.”
“Ye all right, m’lord?” the Scotsman called from across the room.
His voice sounded strained, and Kit glanced up. Beloche had a pistol leveled at the old man. Both were bloody and bruised, and if not for the weapon, Kit would have given the fight to the big Scot.
“I’ll live, Hanton,” the earl returned, and with a wincing groan, struggled to sit upright.
“No, you will not,” Fouché countered coolly. “Where are my muskets?”
“Ask my corpse,” Alex stated, and Kit looked at him in some alarm. Fouché was a killer; she’d seen evidence of it herself. Taunting him was idiocy.
“So you think to make a fool of me, eh?” Jean-Paul replied. “There are other lives you risk here.”
Alex’s back stiffened beneath her supporting hand. “They’re in London,” he ground out, his jaw clenched.
“You will get them for me.”
“I will do no such—”
Fouché grabbed Kit’s arm, dragging her away from Everton. “You will return to London and bring them to me.” His pistol aimed at Alex’s head, the comte yanked Kit to her feet. His lip was cut and bleeding from his collision with the earl, and Christine had seen the look of contempt and anger in his eyes before, when he had killed Fâlo the innkeeper over a bottle of watered-down whiskey.
“Alex,” she began, trying to warn him, but the comte grabbed her chin and pulled her face toward his. His handsome lips lowered over hers, crushing his mouth against hers in a brutal, foul kiss.
“Damn you!” Kit fought to free her arm and brought her hand up to hit him across the jaw.
In response, Fouché slapped her hard enough to make her ears ring. While she reeled, he shoved her down and grabbed her by the hair before she could scramble away. “You see, Everton,” he said leering, “I will attempt to keep myself occupied here while you fetch me my weapons, I can use her just as well as you have. Better, perhaps.”
Kit saw that Alex’s face was white, his lips compressed into a thin line of pain and fury. Even her father seemed to sense that he would be wise to stay clear of this particular argument, because for once he kept his mouth shut and only stood, watching intently, looking for an opportunity.
The earl shoved himself to his feet with his good arm. “Up until two minutes ago, Comte,” he said in a dark, cold voice she’d never heard him use before, “I would have been willing to let you live.”
“Lad,” Hanton warned from behind him, his pale eyes shifting warily between Beloche, Guillaume, Fouché, and the
earl. “Don’t do anything rash, now.”
The comte gave a short, humorless grin and tugged hard at Kit’s hair again. “Empty threats do not impress me, English. You go bring me those muskets. If they arrive in the next forty-eight hours, I’ll let you have what’s left of her. If she still wants you, after she’s had me.”
“Please do as he says, Alex,” Kit whimpered, then gave a defeated sob and sagged. Alex’s eyes flicked down to hers, and she held them.
He couldn’t possibly know what she was up to, but he abruptly winced and doubled over, holding his wounded shoulder. Hoping he was faking, Kit reached down to her boot, yanked free her knife, and jabbed it into Jean-Paul Mercier’s thigh.
Warm wetness gushed over her hand, and Fouché yelped and staggered backward. Before he could regain his balance, Everton hit him, and they both went down into the dirt. After a heartbeat of surprise, both Hanton and old Debner turned on an equally startled Beloche and Guillaume, but Christine’s attention was on the fight before her.
The comte regained his footing first. He yanked her knife free from his leg, and with a snarl slashed at Alex’s face. “You are dead,” he snarled. “Tu étes mort, bâtard.”
Alex ducked under the blow and slammed Fouché against the stack of crates. The top one teetered and crashed to the floor, breaking open to a pungent tumble of onions.
Outside, church bells began ringing, the sound spreading across Calais from north to south. Something exploded in the distance, coming from the direction of the sea. All afternoon she and her father had seen small groups of soldiers heading south, but he’d said they were likely deserters. Unless Napoleon was for some reason heading back to France.
Onions rolled beneath Everton’s foot, and he slipped, going down on one knee. The comte darted forward and slashed. A thin red line opened across Alex’s cheek, and Kit flinched. “No,” she whispered. She couldn’t let this go any further. Not if what he had told her was true. Not if he had come all this way for her.
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