“Of course,” Rupert said, regarding her a little too keenly. “That must have been uppermost in your mind.”
“Well, that and curiosity,” Anna admitted. “We’re all agog to discover the lady brave enough to marry into our family.”
“She only married me,” Rupert retorted, unexpectedly possessive. Normally, he shared his good fortune. “Not the rest of you.”
“Don’t be inhospitable, Tamar,” Serena reproved, and then, as if she could no longer contain herself, blurted out, “But what were you saying about an escaped prisoner?”
“A French officer at the fort. Never gave them any trouble before, apparently, but when the gate was opened yesterday morning to admit a supply cart, he took the opportunity to lay out one of the guards and bolted. Took everyone by surprise.”
“Did they catch him again?” Serena asked. Usefully, she was asking the questions Anna needed answers to.
“Not yet. One of the guards shot him, but he just got back up and ran on. They reckon he’ll head for the coast, if he isn’t dead yet. The soldiers are already watching Blackhaven and the nearby ports.”
“Goodness,” Anna murmured. “Are we all in danger for our lives from this monster?”
“I imagine he just wants to go home,” Serena said with more than a hint of compassion. “And will avoid people rather than seek them out to murder them in their beds—although I’ll wager the gossips in Blackhaven are already scaring each other witless with such wild imaginings.”
Rupert cast his wife a quick grin, allowing Anna a glimpse of genuine intimacy between them.
“All the same,” he added with a frown. “You probably shouldn’t go walking or riding alone until the fellow is caught. I expect he must be desperate.”
*
Her brother’s advice was no doubt good for his wife and servants, but Anna had no intention of taking it. Before luncheon, thanks to the tour of the castle provided by her sister-in-law, she knew all the exits. By midafternoon, alone in the castle’s fine library, she had poured over all the old and new maps of the Braithwaite estate and the surrounding countryside as far as the Black Fort.
She then drifted up to the well-appointed bedchamber prepared for her and ordered a cold collation to be sent up. She bade the maid who brought it to explain to Lady Tamar that she was overcome with exhaustion and was going to lie down. “Give her my apologies for missing tea and say that I hope to rise for dinner. But if I do not, I am merely sleeping through until the morning and am best left alone. By tomorrow, I shall be quite myself again.”
Since they knew she had travelled from London to Carlisle in the fast but exceedingly uncomfortable mail coach, they would not be surprised by her tiredness. Though she might need better excuses in the future.
Left to herself, Anna changed into her old, dark navy riding habit, complete with her favorite stiletto tucked away in its purposely-sewn pocket. She packed the food and a few surgical necessities into a small canvas bag. After all, she was looking for a wounded man. She then slipped out of one of the several side doors and made her way to the stables unseen.
Serena’s brother, the Earl of Braithwaite, kept an excellent stable at the castle, even when he was not in residence. Anna, who preferred dogs and horses to people, spent some time there, getting to know the horses and easily charming the stable boy who was the only other person around. Deciding on a spirited but affectionate chestnut mare, unimaginatively named Chessy, she bribed the stable boy to keep her departure a secret and rode out of the castle grounds.
By then, daylight was fading, and she carried a lantern as well as her canvas bag tied to the saddle.
One of the reasons she had chosen the mare, was that the animal knew the terrain, according to the stable boy, and was sure footed over the roughest ground. When darkness fell, she was even more grateful for that, and for the lantern which she held in one hand to light her way, while she controlled the reins in the other.
Beyond the boundary of Braithwaite lands, she made no effort to be silent or to avoid people. However, two hours after she had set out, the only person she had encountered was an elderly man with an injured goat at the edge of the forest. He was carrying the poor creature home and told Anna sternly that she shouldn’t be out alone in this country at this time of night. Anna agreed with him and rode on, deeper into the forest. When she emerged at the top of the hill, if she found no trace of the escaped prisoner, she intended to ride the quicker way back to Braithwaite Castle. She might even make it in time for dinner.
However, before she reached that far, the mare suddenly veered to the left, winding through the trees to a more open space. A stream trickled down the hill, forming a pool that gleamed in the cold moonlight. More than that, a man crouched at the water’s edge. He appeared to be quite alone.
Anna’s heart beat faster. She let the mare walk on, out of the cover of the trees and into the open.
The man had light hair and his coat dangled off one side of his body. He was shaking violently as he used his cupped hand to splash freezing cold water over his shoulder. Perhaps the sounds of the stream and his own washing disguised those of Anna’s approach, for he appeared quite oblivious to her presence. Until the mare tossed her head and snorted.
The man sprang up like a startled crow, his worn military overcoat flapping as he swung around, fists raised to defend himself.
Anna allowed herself a small cry of alarm—which was natural enough since his speed of movement had taken her by surprise. She raised her lantern, urging the mare forward with her heels so that the bright light fell full upon him.
His hair was a dark blond, his face lean and far from ill-looking, even with several days’ growth on his jaw. He might have been thirty years old, or a little more. His eyes, an intense, piercing blue, darted to all sides before returning to her. Blood stained his coat and his shirt. A lot of blood.
Slowly, his hands fell to his sides. Then, clearly irritated, he waved her away, almost shooing her as though she were a gaggle of geese or an importunate dog. And any young woman alone in the woods in the dark, close to where a dangerous enemy had recently escaped, would have followed his urging and fled. But Anna could barely believe her luck. It could have taken her days to discover him.
“Goodness, you are hurt!” she exclaimed, springing from the saddle. He scowled warningly as she rushed toward him, her lantern in one hand, reins in the other. He even backed away from her, forcing her to seize his arm before he fell into the water. For an instant, he stared down into her face.
Something jolted, deep within her. Surprise, perhaps. She had been prepared to see in his eyes the violence and plain nastiness of his profession. But there was only darkness so deep one could drown in it. He was too weak, surely, to be a threat to anyone. He blinked rapidly and then sagged to the ground, all but dragging her with him as he fell face first.
He was heavy, but Anna sank with him, breaking his fall and turning his face to the side on the rocky ground. She set the lantern down beside him. Beneath the grime and the stubble on his jaw, his features were unexpectedly refined.
He appeared to be out cold, which at least gave her time to tend his wound. He had been shot in the back of the shoulder, no doubt as he ran from his prison, and the ball, presumably, was still lodged inside him. She could only hope it had damaged no vital organs. If it had, she doubted he would still be alive.
At least he had been keeping the wound as clean as he could without being able to reach it properly. He had torn his shirt trying to get at it, so at least she could see it clearly. Peeling off her gloves, she gathered up the bloody rags he had been using in the stream. Then she crouched down at his side once more and set about a more thorough cleansing of his wound.
She found the ball quite easily. Fortunately, it had not penetrated too deeply and did not seem to have damaged any bone, for she could see no splinters. Holding her tweezers in the lantern flame for a moment or two, she hoped he would not come around while she extracted the ball. She
had never performed such an operation before. But she had steady hands, and the spy, if such he was, made no movement beyond the involuntary trembling of his body.
She was able to extract the ball quickly and cleanly, after which she took the flask of brandy from her bag and poured some over the wound. She thought he tensed, whether in his sleep or otherwise. She did not pause to check. From common humanity, she needed to get this over with.
She took out the needle and thread, heated the needle in the lantern flame, and sewed up the wound as through it were a torn gown. She had done something similar for Rupert when he had laid his leg open on a scythe blade. And when Sylvester had fallen out of a tree and ripped his arm on a jagged branch. But she had never tended a stranger before.
After she had stitched the wound neatly closed, she applied some of Christianne’s healing ointment. She was winding bandages around him when she realized his eyes were open and watching her.
Deliberately, she finished tying his bandage and pulled his ripped shirt and coat back around him. He was shivering more violently from the cold and, no doubt, from the pain.
“Come,” she said. “You need warmth and shelter…though I’m not sure there’s anything here except an old shepherd’s hut.” She had passed one just before entering the forest, By the look of it, it had been abandoned for many years.
She rose to her feet, and pulled on her gloves, steeling herself to help him rise, but somehow, he sat up and stumbled to his feet without her aid. The lantern threw deep shadows beneath his high cheekbones, giving him an alarming, cadaverous look. His eyes remained steady on her face, but he made no move toward her.
“Come,” she repeated. “Wherever you’ve been hiding, it’s too cold.”
The man, who was surely one of her country’s most dangerous enemies, perhaps even the most dangerous after Bonaparte himself, regarded her without a visible trace of either hope or suspicion. She had never encountered eyes so opaque. It entered her head that, fully fit, he would be her worthiest opponent yet. Even wounded, possibly mortally, he would require all her skill.
Her heart drummed loudly. Her success or failure surely depended on whatever he did now.
Chapter Two
She would have liked to turn and walk away. But she had no idea if he would follow her. If he could follow her. Bracing herself, she took his arm. “Lean on me. I know where to find shelter.”
He appeared to hesitate. Then again, he might merely have been forcing his tired body to work. He had lost too much blood and had already spent two days and a night in the northern winter without care or shelter.
He lurched forward, and she steadied him. He straightened, making a clear effort to walk without leaning on her, but they made slow progress through the wood, Anna leading both horse and man. She had steeled herself to accept his nearness, his weight. But as they walked and stumbled on their way, it wasn’t as difficult to bear as she’d expected—perhaps because he was so helpless. Or perhaps because whenever he began to lean on her, he pulled himself away again. And he said nothing to annoy her. In fact, he said nothing at all.
Nevertheless, it was a relief when they finally reached the hut. The door gave easily to reveal one room, bare save for a small, broken bedstead and a mattress. She hadn’t held out much hope for a stove, but at least there was a hearth and a chimney.
Leaving him propped against the wall, Anna set down her lantern and hauled the mattress off the broken bed to the floor, close to the hearth. The man watched her without even trying to help. Perhaps he knew he couldn’t.
She gestured to the mattress and walked past him, out the door to the tree where she’d tied up the mare. Untying the blanket and her canvas bag, she patted the mare and returned to the hut.
The stranger sat on the mattress, propped up against the wall. Anna shook out the blanket and placed it around his shoulders. A frown tugged at his brow and vanished. Before he could speak, if he truly meant to, she left to gather firewood. This turned out to be easier than she expected, for behind the hut was a lean-to beneath which she found a heap of abandoned logs and kindling. Judging by the wildlife residing amongst it, it had been there for several years.
Having lived for many years without servants, Anna built and lit the fire in the hearth quickly and efficiently. She was pleased to see the smoke drawn up the chimney. When it began to burn merrily, she blew out her lantern to save it for the return journey.
Sitting back on the hard, stone floor, she delved into her canvas bag and brought out the water bottle and the napkin in which she had wrapped her cold meal from Braithwaite Castle. She unfolded it, pushed it across the floor to the wounded man, and set the water bottle beside it.
Throughout it all, he watched her in silence. He hadn’t even spoken to her. But, isolated in the warm glow of the fire, the scene was strangely intimate. The firelight flickered across his face, lending it a hard, almost dangerous look. That, she had expected. And yet she wasn’t afraid.
He was, after all, weaker than a kitten.
He stirred, and spoke for the first time, his voice quiet and slightly hoarse. “Do you know who I am?” His English was perfect, although his accent was unmistakably French. Which was as well. She’d have hated to have gone to all this trouble if he wasn’t the escaped prisoner. Indeed, she could not be sure the man who’d escaped the fort was the same man she’d come to Cumberland for, but it seemed likely.
“Of course not,” she said wryly. “We have not been introduced.”
His lips quirked with a hint of tired amusement. “Then you really are English.”
“Did you imagine I travelled from France on the faint chance that I could save you?”
His eyes remained steady, giving nothing away. “There are many reasons to travel from France.”
“And back again. They’re looking for you all along the coast.”
The news did not appear to surprise him.
Anna smiled. “That was your plan, was it not? To hide here, close to the fort while they scour the ports until they’re forced to give up and admit you eluded them?”
“Something like that.”
“I imagine you even led them in that direction before you doubled back.”
He smiled faintly. “You have a good imagination. Aren’t you afraid to be alone with such a devious enemy?”
“Not until you’ve regained some strength by eating, drinking, and sleeping.”
He leaned forward without obvious effort and snagged the water bottle. He took a long drink, then replaced the stopper and reached for the crumbling but still dainty pie. “Why are you helping me?”
She shrugged. “You appear to need it.”
“You know I’m French. You know I escaped from the fort.”
“The war is nearly over. Besides, I have family and friends in our own army and navy. I hope some French man or woman would be kind to them in similar circumstances.”
He swallowed his pie and picked up all the cold meat together in his fingers. “But the circumstances are odd,” he pointed out. “You are riding in the woods alone, in the dark. With bandages, blankets, and an al fresco supper.”
“Tea, actually,” she corrected. “I brought it with me and got lost. I haven’t been in the area very long. In fact, I only arrived today.”
“Why?” he asked and bit a huge chunk out of the meat. He might have been trying to look savage. Or he might just have been ravenous. She doubted he had eaten in two days.
“Visiting my brother.”
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Anna.”
He regarded her as he raised the water bottle to his lips once more. “Just Anna?”
“I think so. My family would not approve.”
He nodded and drank.
But she would not let him away with silence. “And your name?” she prompted.
“Don’t you know?”
She shrugged. “No. No one told me. The excitement is all in your being French and escaping. No one cares about yo
ur name.”
His lips curved before he pushed a whole handful of nuts and dried fruit into his mouth.
“Louis,” he said, when they were gone.
So, he was not admitting to being Captain Armand L’Étrange. Had he plucked the name Louis from the air? No one appeared to know the Christian name of Colonel Delon.
“Just Louis?” she mocked.
“I think so. Will you tell them?”
She blinked at the sudden change of subject. “Who?”
“Your family. The soldiers, guards, magistrates, whoever is looking for me.”
She looked away from him into the flames. “The war is ending. I don’t want anyone to suffer more.”
“What a noble sentiment,” he mocked, though he seemed to be deriding himself rather than her. Which was interesting.
“I won’t tell,” she said. “If you promise to stay hidden and not to hurt any of my countrymen.”
“I can’t stay hidden forever,” he pointed out. “Neither can I promise not to defend myself. However…” He waved a deprecating hand over his person. “I’m not exactly capable of a great deal of violence right now. An average puppy could bring me down without a scratch on him.”
She thought that wasn’t so far from the truth. But at least he had stopped shaking, and the food had nearly all vanished.
“I’ll bring you more tomorrow,” she promised. “Can you put more wood on the fire when it burns down?”
“Of course. You brought plenty inside. You are something of a puzzle, Miss Anna.”
“I am?”
“You speak like an English lady of quality, but you sew up wounds like a surgeon and build fires like a servant.”
So, he had been aware of everything. She smiled wryly. “I had an odd upbringing. Perhaps I shall tell you about it tomorrow.”
“Why not tonight?”
She allowed a trace of regret into her voice. “Because I have to go home. And because you have to sleep and heal.”
She began to rise, but he moved suddenly, leaning forward and catching her hand. There was no time to steel herself. His bare skin touched hers and she could not prevent her flinch. There was an instant of confusion when the physical revulsion did not strike, when the intense, ugly memories kept their distance. Instead, it was his presence which rolled over her, vital and compelling, rooting her to the spot.
The Wicked Spy Page 2