Closer To Sin (21 page)

‘What is all this stuff?’

‘My guess is they’re weapons and munitions, stockpiled in preparation for Napoleon’s invasion of England.’ Sin took the lantern from her and lifted it higher to illuminate the warehouse. ‘Here, hold this, I’m just going to take a look in this one.’ He handed the lantern back to Liliane and withdrew a knife from the side of his boot. With the speed of someone who’d done this before, he levered the large crate open.

Liliane leaned in for a closer look as he brushed the straw away to reveal a gleaming bronze barrel. ‘What is that?’ she whispered.

‘A twelve-pound field cannon.’ Levering several more crates opened he revealed another, as well as three smaller artillery cannons, numerous rifles and several crates of ammunition.

The sound of doors being kicked open cut through the silence. Liliane stiffened. ‘We need to go. They’re checking each of the warehouses. They’ll be here shortly.’

***

Sinclair grasped Liliane’s hand and pulled her to the far side of the warehouse. He could feel the warmth of her body through their gloves, and his blood ran cold at the thought of how close she had come to being shot by De Bois. Damn, he hadn’t even heard the man approaching. But blast the woman for putting herself in harm’s way, even if it had saved his life. Now he just needed to get her away from here as quickly as possible. Reaching for the door he flicked the lock, swung it open and pushed her outside.

Liliane pulled away from him. ‘Give me a moment,’ she urged, before turning to race back inside.

Fuck.
What the hell was she up to now? He glanced around trying to locate their pursuers, but the mist obscured everything beyond five yards. Seconds later he heard the shatter of glass, followed by hurried footsteps.

Liliane reappeared in the open doorway and started running. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

As Sinclair caught up with her he heard the whoosh of air being sucked into the warehouse they’d just vacated.
What the hell?
He cast a look over his shoulder to see the open doorway now back-lit by an orange glow. Understanding dawned. Beside him Liliane stumbled on the uneven dock, he hooked a hand around her arm and kept her steady.

From behind, the first explosion rent the air. The sound echoed across the sleeping town and reverberated off the ancient walls. A second explosion followed, and then a third. The heat from the fire was gaining intensity. The next explosion, or the one after, would likely lift the entire warehouse from the dock. Smoke was beginning to billow towards them; they needed to move faster.

Liliane looked back over her shoulder. ‘The Hussar are right behind us, they’re getting closer.’

‘The horses are just around this corner.’

They slowed to take the turn and a succession of pistol shots tore by. Liliane staggered again, and Sinclair pulled her closer. She had done well to keep pace with him. As they gained their horses Sinclair lifted Liliane into his arms. Without breaking stride, he threw her atop her mare and slapped Satin on the rump, urging her to move.

Not bothering to grab Vulcan’s reins, Sinclair put one foot in the stirrup and signalled for the horse to go. Two more shots rent the air as he threw his leg over the beast and lay low in the saddle. Liliane, he noted, had the good sense to get low on her mount as well.

The horses’ hooves rung loud against the wooden dock and the remaining warehouses passed by in a blur. At least they were finally putting some distance between them and De Bois’s men. Sinclair looked ahead. One more warehouse to go and they would have cleared the docks and be able to disappear into the narrow alleyways of the old town.

Beside him, Satin momentarily checked her pace before surging on. He bent forward to ensure Liliane was alright when the sound of thunder tore through the night. A percussion wave rolled over them with the intensity of a runaway coach and four, and the sky glowed red.

Bloody hell.
He watched in alarm as Satin reared up, her ears flattened and her eyes bulging. Liliane was leaning forward, fighting to maintain her seating while murmuring platitudes to the horse. Sinclair’s heart lodged in his throat; she’d be damn lucky if the bloody horse didn’t dump her on her head.

Debris began raining down about them, alarming Satin further. Sinclair urged Vulcan closer to the terrified horse and lunged forward to reach for Satin’s halter. He caught the ring on her bit and hauled her back down, his bicep straining against the strength of the animal. Satin pulled against him, almost unseating him in the process. But it was enough time for Liliane to wrest back control and calm the horse. Shadows from the fire flicked across her face, her mouth was compressed into a thin line and a sheen of sweat glowed across her forehead.

‘Come on,’ Sinclair urged. ‘We need to keep moving.’

They turned away from the wharf and wove their horses through the streets until they reached the narrow alleyways and fortifications of the old town. The clanging of iron horseshoes against the cobblestones forced them to a slow walk, although they were unlikely to be noticed with the commotion down on the waterfront. All around them lights began to appear in windows and throughout the township bells clanged, alerting the citizens of a fire.

Sinclair frowned. Liliane was still laying low over her horse. He drew closer. She was breathing in short ragged breaths, barely moving. ‘What is it?’ He enquired.

‘Nothing, just a stitch,’ she reassured him.

Like hell it was nothing, the damn woman could barely speak. ‘Liliane, what’s wrong?’

She shook her head. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Lyon’s house, we can’t go back to the inn. It’s too dangerous.’

She swayed forward on her horse, gasping audibly. ‘Is it far?’

‘No, it’s—’ Sinclair cursed under his breath and lunged forward, barely catching her before she toppled to the ground. ‘Liliane,’ he demanded, ‘what’s wrong?’ Not waiting for an answer he pulled her from her horse and dragged her across his lap before him.

‘I … have a stitch,’ she managed to gasp out. ‘It hurts to breathe, it’s making me feel dizzy.’

He lifted his hand away from where he held her about the ribs, and found it was slick with her blood. His mouth dried as fear, alien and unwelcome, gripped deep in his belly. He tightened his hold on her, as much for his own reassurance as for hers. With any luck it was just a flesh wound, but the amount of blood seeping through her clothing suggested otherwise. His chest tightened to a death grip about his lungs.

He needed to get help for Liliane as quickly as possible. If the fates were forgiving, Lyon would be able to hide them and he’d perhaps know someone who could discreetly tend to Liliane. There was no way that she’d survive a night on the road in her current condition.

Her brow was damp with sweat as he caressed his hand over it. ‘Liliane, sweetheart, you’ve been shot.’ She wiggled in his arms, trying to sit up. ‘No, shh, just lie back and keep still. I’m going to take you to Lyon’s house, hopefully he will know of a doctor who can help.’

She struggled some more. ‘—not shot, just have a stitch.’

‘Damn it, Liliane, keep still. You’re hurt.’ Ignoring the trembling in his own hands, Sinclair reached and grasped Satin’s bridle. The poor mare was still skittish from the commotion on the dock and the smell of blood was doing nothing to calm her down. He kicked Vulcan in the flank and, mindless of the clatter, set the horses racing towards Lyon’s house.

Sinclair drew the horses to a halt at the rear of Lyon’s stationery shop and dismounted. Liliane was motionless in his arms; she must have passed out sometime in the last few hundred yards. Not wasting time, he mounted the stairs and kicked at the door, fumbling with the handle as he did so. The door gave way before him and he stumbled inside to the kitchen.

Henri Lyon, wiping his hands on an ink stained apron, appeared from the front of the shop and took in the scene before him. ‘Mon Dieu, what has happened?’

‘We need your help,’ Sinclair implored. ‘Our horses are outside. You need to get them hidden.’

The man stood there, uncertainty plastered on his face.

‘Damn it, man, Liliane’s been shot and the Hussar are looking for us. You need to get the horses out of sight.’

Sinclair didn’t wait for Lyon to move but cast a glance about the kitchen for somewhere to lay Liliane down. Without a second thought he crossed to the far side of the room and laid her out on a long wooden workbench. Lyon, he noticed, had disappeared from the room.

In the corner, sitting beside the range, was a cutting block. Leaving Liliane where she was, Sinclair dashed over it, looking for something with which to remove Liliane’s clothing. There was a pair of shears beside the knife block; they would have to do.

His hands trembled as he peeled away Liliane’s cloak and other outer garments, tossing them in a pile upon the wooden floor. The left side of her gown was drenched in blood, the colour almost purple against the blue of her wool dress.

Bloody hell, why had he let her go back into the warehouse? Why had he even taken her along with him tonight? A woman like her had no business being left to face danger by herself. He bent and kissed her brow. Except, she was the one to take the initiative to warn them of De Bois’s arrival. And she had been the one to destroy the cache of weapons. She was braver than any other woman he had met. And infinitely more precious.

He closed his mind to the questions and self-recriminations that assailed him and, with the shears, rent her dress open. A wide slash dissected the flesh across the left side of her ribcage. Sinclair’s throat constricted and his mouth dried. The wound continued to bleed profusely, making it difficult for him to discern whether the bullet had entered her body or simply grazed her. With trepidation he placed two fingers to the pulse point at the side of her throat, but her heart still beat strongly. That was some consolation.

From the other side of the room Sinclair registered the door closing and the latch being secured. He cast a glance over his shoulder. Thank goodness, Lyon had returned. ‘Liliane needs a doctor. I don’t know how far the bullet has penetrated.’ The words were perilously close to being caught in his throat.

Lyon moved to stand beside Sinclair and laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ve had some experience with bullet wounds. Judging by the commotion outside, I think it would be safer if we were to treat her ourselves.’

Bloody hell, how much worse was this night going to get?
Sinclair felt like he had stepped off a ledge and was free falling. ‘And what if she dies?’

‘Then we’ll have done all we can for her.’ Lyon opened the door to the pantry and grabbed a pile of clean linens. ‘But at least we’ll have avoided bring any extra trouble down upon us.’

Liliane’s pallor was tinged with grey. Sinclair closed his eyes and scrubbed the hair back from his face. Lyon’s course of action made sense. He would have said the same thing had it been anyone other than Liliane.

He turned and kicked the wall, swearing volubly. The action sent an arc of pain shooting up his leg but did nothing to alleviate the ice cold knot in his gut. This was the bloody reason why he hadn’t wanted her along. Her sable hair, sapphire eyes and guileless smile were never going to be anything other than trouble for him. The type of trouble he had spent the last five years assiduously avoiding.

Lyon, blast the man, was watching him hesitantly and waiting for his decision. ‘You’re right. Do what needs to be done.’

Lyon nodded and pressed one of the linens against the wound. ‘The kettle on the range should already be warm, just heat it up a bit and then pour it into a basin and set it to the side here,’ he instructed. ‘We need to get this cleaned up so we can see what we’re dealing with. Also, there’s a bottle of brandy in the pantry. Bring that too.’

Reluctantly, Sinclair relinquished the care of Liliane to Lyon and moved to do his bidding. ‘I’m sorry to have intruded upon you like this—it hadn’t been my intention to bring trouble to your door.’

He grabbed the brandy from the pantry; he could do with a shot of this himself right now. ‘The meeting was a bloody disaster. De Bois and his men followed Allard.’ Too late Sinclair remembered Allard’s familial connection with Lyon. He scrubbed his hand through his hair.
Blast it to hell.

He clutched Lyon’s arm, waiting for the man to look at him. ‘I’m truly sorry, but your nephew is dead.’

‘How—’

‘De Bois shot him. Liliane managed to fire a shot at De Bois, but the bullet only grazed his temple. I have no doubt that as soon as he’s conscious he’ll come looking for us.’

The colour drained from Lyon’s face and the man stood motionless, processing the information. With a shake of his head, he picked up a fresh wad of linens, and replaced the already soaked bandage being held against Liliane’s ribs. ‘And what of this young lady? How did she come to be injured?’

Sinclair leaned forward and stroked her hair back from her brow. ‘Liliane is my wife.’ The words came unexpectedly, unbidden.

‘Your wife?’

Sinclair nodded. ‘She was warning us that De Bois had followed Allard. She was shot as we were attempting to get away from them.’ Behind him, the kettle on the stove came to the boil. Sinclair brought it back to the table and poured the contents into the basin and related the story of the past two days. His voice was devoid of the emotion that continued its numbing path through his veins.

Lyon continued the laborious process of cleaning Liliane’s wound, his mouth a thin line. ‘I wish that you had told me of these events when you came to see me last night. I may have been able to forewarn my nephew of the danger.’ Beneath his hands Liliane moaned in pain and attempted to pull away from him.

‘Your nephew knew the risks he was taking. We all know the risks that come with this line of work.’

Lyon stilled and looked penetratingly at Sinclair for several long moments. ‘You’re right. We have lived with death too long now to be oblivious to it.’ He dipped a cloth into the hot water and wiped the last of the blood from Liliane’s wound. She stiffened to his touch and let out a whimper.