Shana Galen (21 page)

“We’re almost there.”

Dewhurst was striding toward them, a waiting carriage behind him. “Where the devil have you been? I’ve had to take on half the French army.”

“We’ve got the other half inside,” Alex retorted, dragging her toward Dewhurst and the carriage.

Lucia scanned the conveyance quickly. It was a cheap coach and four with curtains that could be pulled for privacy. The door was flung open in readiness, but there was no driver. “Who’s going to—” she began, then squeaked as Alex pushed her inside and slammed the door. A moment later she heard a thump as Alex mounted the perch next to Dewhurst. She was barely seated when the carriage jerked forward, throwing her across the squabs. Behind them, shouts rang out in angry French.

She crawled back to a sitting position and peeked out the back window. As the carriage careened around a corner, her last glimpse of the brothel was Décharné’s ominous glower.

She sank back down. They would never get out of this. This heavy coach could not possibly outrun trained men on horseback.

The coach rounded another corner, and she was thrown against the wall as two wheels left the ground. Lord, but she was a fool for even worrying about the soldiers. The two lunatics driving the coach would kill her long before Décharné’s men caught up. She had just climbed onto the seat again,
her body jouncing painfully, when the first shots rang out. Screeching, she dropped to the floor again and covered her ears. Oh, God, please let Alex be all right.

The noise of their pursuers grew louder, and Lucia peered through the swinging curtains of the carriage at a soldier on horseback beside them. She squeezed her body against the floor, yelping when she heard another gunshot. When she next looked up, the soldier was gone.

Just as quickly, another took his place, galloping ahead of the window. The carriage rocked and bounced, then she heard a thump and cursing from the driver’s box. She climbed to her knees, cringing when a dull thwack echoed from the perch, then tried to sit up again. The wheels rolled over something and she bounced a foot in the air and came crashing down to the floor. Lucia didn’t want to contemplate what the carriage had run over.

They took another corner on two wheels, and a moment later, the sounds of pursuit quieted, then ceased. She frowned. Had they gotten away that easily? Cautiously she peered up at the window, but there was no sign of soldiers. The coach began to slow, and she took a relieved breath when she heard Alex say, “Whoa.”

Putting a hand to her racing heart, she scraped herself from the floor. She was barely on her knees when the door flung open, and Alex pulled her out and into his arms.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, running his hands over her quickly.

“I’m fine,” she managed.

He cupped her face, staring at her as if he didn’t believe it. The look in his eyes was so tender, so full of love and concern, she forgot to breathe.

Then, with a quick kiss, he released her and went to Freddie. She leaned against the carriage, cursing her wobbly legs as Alex and Freddie nimbly unhitched the horses. The men worked rapidly, and Lucia looked about for signs of Décharné’s men. They had pulled into a small deserted alley, but she didn’t think it would be long before the soldiers found them.

As if reading her mind, Alex said, “We’ve only escaped the two soldiers that mounted the fastest. There were more behind them, and it won’t take long for them to find us.”

Lucia took a shaky breath, her ears straining for the sound of hoofbeats.

Alex was beside her a moment later, lifting her onto one of the horses he and Dewhurst had unharnessed. There was no saddle, and she gripped the reins tightly. He grabbed another horse and led it beside hers. But instead of mounting, he turned to Dewhurst, who was readying a third animal.

“I’m taking her to Paris,” Alex said, nodding to her. “There’s no possibility of making it to the docks now.”

“There’s plenty of—” Freddie began, then seemed to think better of it.

“Have you been identified?” Alex asked.

“No.” Dewhurst shook his head. “Whoever tipped Décharné off didn’t know about me. They were only looking for you two.”

“How did they know where to find us?”

“I don’t know. Sophie?”

“No. She sent Brigitte to warn us.”

Dewhurst pulled on his cuffs, and Lucia could almost read his thoughts. He was searching his mind desperately for any piece of information that would point to the traitor.

“See what you can find out,” Alex ordered. “And be careful. Meet me in five days at the Good Patriot on the outskirts of Calais. You know the place?”

“No. But I’ll find it.”

“And arrange passage on a ship back to England.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” The two men shook hands, and Alex mounted his horse. He spurred the horse forward and Lucia followed, glancing back to see Dewhurst riding in the opposite direction. In the alley, the carriage and one horse stood forlornly in the empty darkness.

A
lex had pushed their horses hard the first few hours, trying to put as much distance as possible between them and Décharné. Now that they were out of immediate danger, Alex had slackened his pace, and for the first time Lucia took stock of herself. She was cold, dirty, and every inch of her felt as though it had been pummeled with rocks—mostly her head.

Steadying herself on the jouncing horse, Lucia released the reins with one hand and gingerly rubbed at the lump sprouting from the back of her skull, where it had hit the wall during the scuffle in Madame Loinger’s kitchen. Though she had barely felt it at the time, her panic masking every other feeling, now she was all too aware of every discomfort.

It was almost dawn, and they’d been riding since eleven the night before, with only one brief stop to change horses at a small inn outside Calais. Alex hadn’t allowed her to go inside with him, insisting
that she hide in the trees nearby, crouching in the damp, scratchy grass. It was the first and last time he’d spoken to her in the last six hours.

She tried to initiate conversation several times, only to be met with surly stares or glowering silences. She didn’t know why he should be so angry with her.
He
was the one who’d decided to take her to Paris. Not that she would have agreed to going home with Dewhurst. Her brother needed her. But despite his decision, Alex obviously didn’t want her with him. He’d be rid of her at the first opportunity.

As the sun rose before them, Lucia forced herself to accept her next realization. Not only did Alex not want her with him on this mission, he wanted her out of his life. From the beginning, he’d made it clear he wanted no entanglements, and what was she if not an entanglement? She’d fallen for a rake. Everyone knew rakes didn’t fall in love. Love was a game for a rake. They pursued women, seduced them, and abandoned them, ruining their conquests in more ways than one.

Lucia clutched her reins more tightly and stared at Alex’s back. Had she really meant no more to him than Amelia Cox? She didn’t believe that. Couldn’t believe it. There was something extraordinary between them.

But he was fighting it with everything he had. She narrowed her eyes at his broad back as he hunched to avoid a low-hanging branch.

What was Alex afraid of?

As if hearing her thoughts, Alex turned to her, the golden sunrise glinting off the tawny streaks in his hair. With a wave he motioned for her to follow him down a small slope where a cold, clear brook gurgled over stones, then disappeared again in the undergrowth. He dismounted and caught her by the
waist so she could do the same. As soon as her feet touched the ground, he released her and walked away. Lucia huffed in indignation, but inside the pain ripped at her heart.

While the horses drank, Lucia studied Alex from the corner of her eye.

He’d shaved while at Madame Loinger’s, but now the stubble had returned, making his features shadowed and foreboding. His gray eyes were hard pewter, determination and intent reflected in their steely gaze. He glanced at her, and she saw a flicker of the Alex she loved before the steel wall rose again.

“I’m not to blame for this, you know,” she said, thrusting her hands on her hips. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped acting as though I were.”

He raised his eyes again to meet hers, piercing her with his steel daggers. She half expected him to walk away, but instead he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at her. She clenched her hands on her hips and prayed for control. She could feel her temper rising. “Tell me what you’ve planned, what you’re thinking. I want to help find my brother.” Her words were clipped but even.

Alex shook his head. “This isn’t a game.”

Lucia’s jaw dropped, and she eyed several large stones near her feet. Maybe a good knock on the head would rid him of some of his monstrous arrogance. She took a deep breath. “You are the most arrogant, most insufferable man I have ever met,” she said through clenched teeth. “If you would stop treating me like a child for
one minute
, you would see that I might actually be able to help you.”

“Help me?” he said and barked a laugh. “Sweetheart, with you by my side we’re virtually assured of capture. I can disappear, but you—you with your bloody beautiful face and temptress body—draw
more attention than batty King George would if he marched up to the doors of Notre Dame at high noon.”

Lucia stared at him, her fingers itching to pick up one of the stones and hurl it right between his eyes. Instead she took a step forward and jabbed a finger at him. “Well, perhaps you should concentrate on disguising me rather than chastising me for something I have no control over.”

Alex frowned and turned away. “Dammit, Lucia. I should have put you on that ship for England.” He ran a hand through his hair. “After what happened at Sophie’s, I can’t trust anyone. Paris is the worst place for us right now.”

Lucia frowned. “What do you mean, after what happened at Sophie’s? Do you think someone betrayed you?”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “There’s no other explanation. I was betrayed and by someone who knows me, knows my contacts and my safe houses.”

“Who?” Lucia asked, her anger subsiding. “Another spy?”

“It has to be. No one but the Foreign Office’s most trusted operatives knew about Sophie. There’s Henri, but he’s dead. Wentworth.” He shook his head. “Out of the question. Dewhurst. Winterbourne.” He ticked off two fingers. “Your brother.” His eyes flicked to hers.

“No, Alex.” She shook her head vehemently. “John would never betray you—or England.”

Alex walked a few paces and turned, bracing his hand on a tree. “Too many coincidences, Lucia,” he said. “Dashing disappears, and I’m called in to find him.”

“By my father and your own
brother
!” Lucia started forward. “Surely you don’t suspect either of them.”

Alex frowned and gave a wave of concession. “All right. But it doesn’t absolve your brother. We know he was staying at Sophie’s, and as soon as we show up, we’re met by Décharné and his men. Almost like someone knew we would go there. Knew where we’d be hiding.”

“It’s impossible, Alex,” Lucia argued. “You wouldn’t even be in Calais if Décharné hadn’t abducted us in Town. How could John have known about that when he’s been in Paris?”

Alex frowned, and Lucia knew what he was thinking. He suspected John of helping Décharné plan the abduction and then, when they had escaped, of giving Décharné Madame Loinger’s address. The very idea was ridiculous. John, a traitor? Never. She licked her dry lips. Then who had betrayed them? And had that same person betrayed John as well?

Her heart seized as it always did whenever she thought of her brother in danger.

“Whoever the traitor is,” Alex said. “Décharné doesn’t need him now. All of France is looking for us, or they will be soon. After losing us twice, Décharné can’t afford to do so again. He’ll have his soldiers scouring the countryside, and word will spread fast. Our saving grace is that Décharné can’t be certain we’ll go to Paris. He’ll have to spread his men out, and that may slow them down. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it to Paris before the news of my identity does.”

He strode to his horse, and as Lucia watched him ready the animal for travel, she had the sinking feeling she wouldn’t get any more rest that day.

She was right.

They rode hard, changing horses twice more, finally reaching Paris at sunset. They crept through the alleys and avenues until they reached a building
in the Latin Quarter where Alex kept an apartment. Christophe Homais had a comfortable town house in Paris, and Lucia would have loved to see it, but it would have been suicide to go there.

Lucia noticed immediately that although the Latin Quarter apartment was dusty and neglected, it was also comfortable. It was small with two bedrooms and a central room down the hallway. Alex showed Lucia to the larger bedroom, then, leaving her alone in it, disappeared into the room across the hall and shut the door. Reluctantly Lucia closed her own door. She took in the details of the room quickly, somewhat disconcerted to note the place boasted a woman’s touch.

It would have made the perfect residence for a mistress, and it probably had been. She didn’t see any evidence of one now, but the small bed with the lacy white coverlet and curtains to match, the dainty dressing table, and the pretty armoire bespoke a woman’s presence. The last rays of the setting sun filtered through the lacy curtains, and Lucia sank onto the bed, watching the light fade. She would lie down just for a moment, then go across the hall and ask Alex about his plan to find John.

A woman’s voice pulled Lucia out of her deep, dreamless sleep. She stared into the heavy blackness of the room, struggling to remember where she was—London? Tanglewilde?

Then she heard Alex’s velvety baritone rising and falling in soft French, and the past few days rushed back to her. She rose and padded to the door of the room to peer out.

Squinting into the light shining from the drawing room, she caught a glimpse of Alex moving back and forth, gesturing to someone out of her line of vision. He moved with the easy grace she’d always ad
mired, looking rested and at ease, as if he’d been lounging about for days instead of riding like a madman for Paris through a sleepless night.

He paused, and one of the lamps bathed his features in pale light. He’d shaved, and the light emphasized the hard planes and angles of his face. His wavy hair, always a little long, was now past his collar, and he’d tied it at his neck with a strip of black. He’d changed clothes, his new garments a little worn and snug. When he moved again, his black trousers molded to his legs, while his white shirt, open at the collar, shifted to reveal a patch of bronze skin.

As though he’d felt her stare, he turned and looked directly at her. Heat coiled in her belly, spreading through her as his smoldering gaze roved her body. She was still clad in the scanty gown provided by Sophie, and his mouth curved in the ghost of a smile before he turned back to his guest.

The woman’s voice had faltered when Alex looked away, but now that she’d regained his attention, she continued in rapid French, “Listen to reason, Alex. I know a place we can hide, away from all this. Just you and I.”

“I have to find Dashing,” Alex said with another glance at Lucia. She stepped into the hallway, wondering if she’d been wrong in assuming the mistress was no longer in residence.

“Forget him,” the woman said. “He’s probably dead anyway. But you and I are
alive
. We can—”

Lucia stepped into the drawing room opposite Alex. His gaze fastened on her, and the woman spun around. Lucia blinked in surprise as the petite, olive-skinned woman with large brown eyes stared at her.

Camille. Of all people, it had to be Camille—the
woman in front of whom she’d humiliated herself at Alex’s London town house.

Unadulterated jealousy jumped into the French woman’s face, forcing Lucia to take an involuntary step in retreat. Then just as quickly, Camille’s face transformed into a mask of politeness, and Lucia wondered if she had only imagined the jealousy.

“Why, Alex,” Camille said sweetly—too sweetly. “You did not tell me we had guests.”

“I thought you knew. You said everyone in Paris was looking for Christophe Homais and his blond companion.”

She waved a hand, her attitude light and flippant. “Naturally I assumed you had left her in Calais.” She flicked her wrist at Lucia. “Lucia, isn’t it?” Camille interrupted the silence.

“Yes.” Lucia stepped forward again. “It’s my brother we’re looking for.”

“I know,” Camille replied. “I’m sorry if I seemed callous just now in speaking of him, but I’ve searched the city for days and found nothing.”

Lucia narrowed her eyes. “Why are you searching for him? Even Alex didn’t know John worked for the Foreign Office.”

“Camille’s a courier, Lucia.” Alex jammed a shoulder against the wall. “She delivered several of John’s messages for us.”

“When was the last time you heard from John?” She turned back to Camille. “When did you receive his last message?” she said, heart beating faster.

“Right after he arrived in Paris. Over a month ago.” Camille’s face filled with pity.

Lucia shook her head. “He’s alive,” she said firmly, meeting Alex’s eyes. “I’d feel it if things were otherwise.”

Alex frowned. He probably thought she sounded ridiculous.

“Besides,” Lucia added, “your search can’t have been exhaustive. You were at Alex’s town house the night before we were abducted.”

“How very observant.” Camille’s voice was glacial.

“But Camille was in Paris before that, and up until now she’s had the advantage of more freedom of movement since she is not being actively sought.”

It wasn’t what Lucia wanted to hear, and she swallowed hard. Alex shoved away from the wall, giving her a sympathetic look. “I’m not ready to give up yet. If he’s here, I’ll find him.”

“Or I,” Camille added.

“No,” Alex said. “Now that Décharné knows who you are, I want you in hiding. You’ll leave Paris as soon as possible.”

“But I’ll go with you tonight to make inquiries,” Camille said, and Lucia heard the plea in her voice.

Alex shook his head. “Stay here with Lucia. I’ll feel better knowing you’re both here and safe.”

But that would make Alex vulnerable. “Isn’t it dangerous for you to go out, Alex?” Lucia asked.

“I can’t find your brother if I stay here all night,” he answered, retrieving a greatcoat and hat from the chair where he had left them.

Lucia bit her lip. Her lover or her brother. She couldn’t bear to lose either, and she very well might lose them both. How had it come to this?

Alex strode out the door, closing it behind him, and Lucia stared at it for a long time. Behind her, Camille was still sitting on the couch, and Lucia noticed a pair of crossed medieval swords and shield mounted behind her, a nod to the masculine owner amid the otherwise feminine furnishings. Lucia almost chuckled seeing Camille under them; they
were only too appropriate for the battle she knew was coming. With women it was usually a battle of words.

Camille made the first move. “However did you manage it?” She smiled, her eyes wide and innocent.