“One’s a Bow Street Runner. The other two are retired Marines.”
“Do you know of a place where she can stay where she can be protected?”
Grant nodded slowly. “I’m surprised you didn’t take her to Tarrington House when you arrived in London.”
“If the husband knows she’s with us, he’ll easily learn where our properties are located.”
Grant lifted a brow. “Astute of you, I must say.”
He ground his teeth at the constant barbs Grant threw at him. Grant watched him with that penetrating stare that used to make Christian squirm. At the moment, he was too tired to care. Or simply immune after a lifetime of Grant’s onslaughts.
“Yes, I know of a few places. I’ll make the arrangements.” He rose and gestured for Christian to follow.
In the foyer outside the sitting room, three men stood silently. Two looked like pugilists. The third was leaner, taller, but equally formidable. Christian’s step faltered as he recognized the taller one. Connor Jackson, a Bow Street Runner. Christian had encountered him a few years ago. He exchanged a brief nod with Jackson. All three men carried enough visible guns and knives to arm a small military regiment.
“Christian Amesbury, meet Connor Jackson, Sean McCullen, and John Barrow.”
Christian inclined his head in greeting and motioned to them to enter the sitting room. Once they entered, he closed the door.
Grant began briefing them. “Your charge is Lady Wickburgh. Her husband is ruthless, cunning, and resourceful, and wants her dead. He’s already told the world she’s dead, so he has nothing to lose by killing her. You are not to allow anyone to approach her unless my brother or I give approval. We’ll divide up time to be on guard while she’s here. But when she leaves the premises, at least two of us will accompany her at all times. And we must assume anyone with her is also a target.”
As the others nodded, Christian asked, “How soon can we secure the house?”
Grant’s silver gaze flicked to him. “We can move her tonight once I’ve finalized the arrangements. You rest.”
Christian stared at the rare gesture of humanity from the brother who’d always hated him. Too tired to needle Grant about it, he nodded and led the guards upstairs.
In the corridor, he gestured to Genevieve and Rachel’s room. “Lady Wickburgh and my sister are in there.”
Jackson took up post outside the door and gave Christian a reassuring nod. McCullen and Barrow disappeared in opposite directions down the corridor.
Christian stepped closer to the Runner and lowered his voice. “I didn’t know you were back in England or I would have asked for your help directly.”
Jackson glanced at Grant as if to say Christian was right to send for Grant. “I’m here now.”
“I have a special assignment for you.”
Jackson raised his brows.
“Find a replacement for this position and get hired on as one of Lord Wickburgh’s bully-boys. Wickburgh is bound to show up in London sooner or later, and when he does, I want you already in place.”
Jackson nodded slowly. “Word on the street is that he hires pugilists and former military men.”
“You’ll be perfect, then.”
Jackson glanced behind Christian at Grant briefly before his gaze returned to Christian. “I know someone who can take my place. I’ll send word to him and then apply for employment as a Wickburgh thug.”
It never ceased to surprise Christian how Jackson spoke like a well-born gentleman when he clearly came from the streets. One of these days, he’d learn the man’s history.
Christian stepped inside the bedroom with Grant following him. A tiny smile tugged at one corner of his brother’s lip.
“You know Jackson, then?” Grant began a methodical search of the room to be sure it was secure.
Grimacing at the way Grant always moved like some kind of heathen assassin, Christian sat on the edge of the bed and struggled to remove his boots. “He helped me with something in the past.”
Grant raised his brow but didn’t comment on that. “It’s a good plan, having Jackson on the inside.” He grabbed Christian’s boot and twisted it off. Then the other. “Sleep. We’ll keep watch.” Silent as a ghost, he stepped through the door and closed it.
Christian fell backward onto the bed without arguing. It seemed only moments later when he awoke with a start. He bolted up, listening. All remained still. Outside the windows, the setting sun cast the room in deep shadows. The usual street noises of Town tickled his ears—carts, horses, the clang of a bell. Still fully clothed, he climbed out of bed and opened the door. In the corridor, Grant and Jackson stood together talking quietly.
Grant turned. “We’ll take the three of you to the secure house when you’re ready. Barrow and McCullen are there now.”
“All of us? I had thought to take up residence at my usual bachelor’s house.
“It would be easier to guard you if you are all in the same place.”
Christian stiffened. “I don’t need a guard.”
“Everyone needs someone to watch his back. If you split up, he might target you.”
Speechless at Grant’s concern for him, Christian stared. For years, he half expected Grant to shoot him in the back. To have Grant protecting him, was beyond strange. Then again, they were brothers. Apparently that meant something to Grant, regardless of their estrangement. Or maybe this was just business to him. And the thought of staying close to Genevieve to ensure she was safe held great appeal.
Jackson glanced at Christian. “My replacement will arrive tomorrow.”
Rachel opened the door and blinked at them. “Grant? What are you doing here?”
Grant’s mouth pulled into a semblance of a smile. “Protecting you and your secretary, as it were.”
Rachel gave him a doubtful smile before launching herself at him and throwing her arms around him. “You’re always there when we need you.”
Grant patted her back, cleared his throat, and stepped back as soon as he could disentangle himself from so much sisterly affection.
The door opened wider and Genevieve looked out, her eyes round. She’d bathed and changed from the boy’s breeches she’d worn during their flight to London into a simple cotton gown. Lines of worry cut underneath her eyes.
Christian held a hand out to her. “Genevieve, come meet my brother Grant. He and some friends are helping us.”
Grant, to his credit, affected a respectful bow. “My lady.”
Christian introduced her to Jackson who kept his expression schooled in respect, but the light of appreciation shone in his eyes as he gazed at her. Christian gave him a warning stare, and Jackson pointedly removed his attention from Genevieve.
Christian squeezed Genevieve’s hand. “We’re moving to a secure location. How soon can you leave?”
“In a few moments.” Her voice sounded steady, filled with quiet determination.
After returning to his room, Christian threw his few belongings into a bag. He ran his fingers through his tangled hair and wished for a shave but had no time for grooming. Less than ten minutes later, the women emerged wearing hooded cloaks and carrying valises. Genevieve glanced at Christian with wide, frightened eyes.
He squeezed her hand and whispered, “Everything will be all right.”
Followed by a watchful Grant, a porter took the bags and placed them into a waiting hackney coach outside the hotel. Christian gave an arm to each of the ladies and led them out. Jackson and McCullen followed behind, their stances tensed, their eyes watchful.
Outside, they descended the hotel’s steps as fog rolled in. It roiled knee-high as they moved, muffling the clatter of coaches and the clopping of horse hooves. Lamplights cast an eerie glow over the scene. A group of men laughed raucously on the opposite side of the street. A breeze carried the pungent odors of the Thames and piles of manure in the streets that had yet to be cleared away. Genevieve held onto Christian so tightly that her fingers dug into his arm.
In silence, they crowded together inside the coach. The warmth of Genevieve’s body next to him and her fragrance taunted him as if to remind him of what he couldn’t have. He pushed that back. He needed to focus on keeping her safe.
The coach wound through the streets and stopped in front of an understated townhouse. Grant and Jackson leaped out of the coach before it had even stopped. They prowled around and looked up and down the streets. McCullen disappeared into the fog. Christian paused, the hackles of his neck standing up. Surely Wickburgh hadn’t arrived yet; the decoy carriage he sent from Rachel’s house would have led him to Wales. But he couldn’t shake the dark urgency that whispered Genevieve was in danger, and Rachel, too, by association.
After settling into their rooms and enjoying a well-prepared dinner, they met in a cozy library but the conversation lagged.
Grant arose. “I’m going to sleep now. I’ll relieve McCullen in a few hours.”
Rachel, too, mumbled a good night and left Christian alone with Genevieve. She sat hugging herself, staring into the fire. Unable to resist, Christian moved to the settee and sat next to her.
“Don’t worry. Grant and his lads know what they are doing. And I’m here. Wickburgh won’t get near you.”
“But for how long? How long can we keep this up?”
“Until we can make him see that he needs to let you go.”
“He won’t.”
“He’ll have to.”
“He’ll hurt you and anyone who stands in his way.”
Lightly, he traced her cheek. She looked up at him with trusting eyes. Her mouth parted slightly and her gaze turned intense. Hot need burned through his defenses. He brushed a finger across her cheek and traced the delicious curve of her lower lip. He leaned in, his hungry gaze fixed upon her mouth. His hands cradled her face, lifting her chin up to him. Her hand touched his chest and slid upward to rest on his heart. Raising her chin toward him she leaned in. Then she caught her breath and her body went rigid. She pushed him away
Her reaction snapped him out of his fog of desire, and stark realization knifed through him. He couldn’t dally with Genevieve. She deserved better. And it went against his principles to touch a married woman. He dropped his hands and leaned back.
Letting out her breath, she also moved away. He swore under his breath and dragged a hand through his hair. He’d almost made a mistake. She was not free to pursue a relationship. And she was clearly afraid to be touched by him or anyone. No telling what her husband had done to her to make her flinch each time he got close to her. But he had a pretty good idea.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “That was inappropriate.”
She offered him a pained smile. Slowly, he raised her hand and pressed his lips against the soft skin. He feathered gentle kisses all across the back of her hand, her fingers, her palm. She held her breath, her eyes wide and watchful, cautious, wary.
Would she ever trust him? He touched her cheek gently as a craving, burning need to protect her and love her as a man flamed brighter and hotter while another, even less honorable emotion joined in. Wickburg had stolen the only girl Christian had ever loved, and abused her. The passion coursing through him flowed into a lake of anger filled with the uncharacteristic desire to find her husband. And kill him.
CHAPTER 21
In a sunny sitting room, Genevieve set down the book she’d been trying to read but her thoughts swirled too loudly in her head, drowning out everything she tried to read. She felt safe here, but it was only temporary. Soon this standoff with Wickburgh would have to end. She only hoped it didn’t end with Christian dueling him. They’d fight to the death, of that she had no doubt. Though Christian excelled at both swords and pistols, the idea that he’d put his life in such danger for her made her blood chill. She couldn’t lose him, not again.
Christian strode in. Her heart gave an excited little leap. Despite the danger looming over all of them, seeing him never failed to warm and calm her. She could no longer deny that she loved him as much today as she loved him in Bath—perhaps even more now that she knew him better and had seen the lengths he went to protect her.
Pausing at the doorway, he scanned the room until his gaze fell on her. Though he smiled, something serious simmered behind his eyes.
He closed the door and took a seat next to her. “If I ask you a direct question, will you give me an honest answer?”
Her mouth went dry. He wanted the truth—all of it. “If I can.”
For a moment, the only sound came from the ticking of the clock and the street noises outside as he visibly tried to organize his thoughts. “We had something in Bath. Something real.”
Indeed it was real. Her memories of his love got her through the dark nights as lord Wickburgh’s wife. And she’d thrown such love away. But she’d done it to save her family. As much as it pained her, and obviously hurt Christian, she’d made the right choice. Still, the ache of losing him never went away. A hard knot formed in her stomach at all their lost opportunities.
He opened his hand out to her in a gesture of supplication. “I know you made some kind of vow of silence, but I need to know what we’re facing. How did he force you to marry him? What was his leverage?”
Her voice froze in her throat. “I …” weariness tugged at her resolve. She’d carried this secret for so long, and the burden had been so heavy that she ached to let Christian share the load. But her father’s reputation was at stake, even his very life.
“Jen?”
She let out a labored breath. If she told him, what would be the worst he’d do? Despite her earlier fears, he’d never report her father’s crime to the admiralty or tell anyone else. Nor would he use the information to hurt or harass their family. And marrying him was out of the question, so she had no need to fear he’d reject her.
He leaned in. “You can trust me, you know.”
A sob tore out of her and she put a hand over her mouth. Of course she could trust him. No more honorable man ever lived. He’d never hurt her. He’d take her secret to the grave. She took a shaking breath, and rubbed sweaty palms on her simple muslin afternoon gown. She kicked off her borrowed, too-big slippers, and tucked her feet underneath her. Finally, she met his gaze. His intensely focused stare remained fixed on her, pleading, coaxing.