In Bed with a Spy (28 page)

S
HE WAS ALMOST
flattened by Grant’s horse as she ran through the alley leading to the mews. The animal reared up, hooves pawing at the air. She jumped back, skidding over uneven cobblestones.

Grant met her gaze as the animal’s hooves clattered back to the stones. She saw the desperation in his eyes. He was running. Trying to save his hide before the British government arrested him.

She wasn’t going to let him.

He wheeled his horse around and Lilias ran toward the open stable door. The place was empty, the grooms no doubt being dismissed with the rest of the staff. Still running full tilt, she grabbed her horse’s bridle from its peg on the stable wall. There was no time to waste on a saddle. It would take too long to put it on properly. She could thank the long army marches for the ability to ride bareback and astride. It was ironic she could thank her assassin husband for that skill as well.

In seconds she’d looped the bridle over her mare’s head and was leading the animal into the alleyway. Using a mounting block, she threw her leg over the horse and sent the animal down the alley. When they reached the street, she looked around. Which way did he go? She saw Angel’s horse tied to a nearby iron fence, but no other movement on the street.

Then Grant and his horse flashed through the light of a window at the end of the street and disappeared again in the shadows on the other side. Well ahead of her, but at least she knew which way he’d gone.

—

B
Y ALL THAT
was holy, Lilias was a stubborn woman.

Angel struggled to keep his eyes open. He rolled to the side, the pain excruciating in his shoulder. But he could flex his fingers. The rest of the arm was still useless, but by God, his fingers could move.

He didn’t know how long he had before the poison took its toll. How long had he been unconscious? Not long judging by the melted candle wax. Minutes, perhaps. He pushed himself up to sitting with his good arm. Dizzy, he gulped in air, waited for the spinning room to slow.

God, he wanted nothing more than to lay down and sleep. But that damn fool woman of his had gone after an assassin.

He made it to his knees, breathing hard through his teeth, and looked around for his pistol.

Damn if she didn’t steal it from him.

—

M
IDN
IGHT WAS NO
time for a horse chase. Especially in the driving rain. It was like riding through soup.

Lilias gripped the mare’s broad back with her thighs
.
Wind rushed in her ears. In the dim light, she could see Grant ahead of her, bent low over his horse’s neck. Gritting her teeth, Lilias did the same and was shocked by the metallic taste in her mouth.

It seemed determination tasted of blood and hate.

The mare’s hooves thundered on the street beneath her, a rhythmic beat that echoed the wild beat of her heart. Beyond that she could hear the hooves of Grant’s horse. They were louder now and he was closer.

She was gaining on him.

He was on Park Lane now. He wove through the few carriages bearing the ton to their social engagements. Lilias cut off a hackney and had the driver swearing at her. She ignored it, looking only at Grant’s back.

Where was he going?
Was he taking a packet to the Continent? Had he booked passage on a ship? Worse, what if she lost sight of him? He could disappear into the bowels of London or the green expanse of England’s countryside. Urging the mare to move, she flattened herself against the horse’s neck.

“Come on. Faster.” The mare heeded her, and Lilias was grateful. But she couldn’t keep the horse running at this pace for much longer.

Then again, neither could Grant’s horse continue. It was already tiring, its pace beginning to slow.

Surprise swamped her as Grant made a sharp turn into Hyde Park. She followed, guiding the mare with her knees as much as the reins, and set her path at an angle to Grant’s to head him off. She cut through a stand of trees, jumped the horse over a line of low bushes. She slid on the horse’s back and struggled to keep her seat. Cold rain showered her body with icy, stinging darts.

Grant was just in front of her, his mount’s hooves flying over the grass. He turned his horse so it followed the bank of the Serpentine. Ahead of them was a short bridge spanning the length of the river. Her mare moved up beside him, inch by inch. Grant glanced over his shoulder, and she saw eyes full of wrath and snarling lips.

She was nearly level with him now. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. She didn’t think. Couldn’t. There was nothing but anger in her, a cold fury that had buried itself deep.

The leap was desperate, an action that had no basis in thought. Her body slammed into his, stealing her breath and sending them tumbling to the ground. The hard earth jarred her bones and her head snapped back. Pain blossomed in her ribs, tearing a short scream from her throat.

Dimly she heard the horses’ hooves still pounding, the sound of Grant’s sharp, ragged breaths.

Circling an arm around her rib cage, she rolled and sent fresh pain singing through her chest. Pushing up on one arm she surveyed the ground for Grant. He was scrabbling forward on his hands and knees, trying to reach something on the bank of the river. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she squinted into the dark. Moonlight glinted on metal and she recognized the object.

The pistol.

Fresh terror rolled through her, but she forced it down and rose to one knee, then the other. She pressed a hand against her ribs.
Not broken.
The pain was already fading. She took a deep breath. The pain sharpened again, but the sight of Grant’s hand closing over the pistol had her staggering to her feet.

Again, she didn’t think, but dove through the air and used her body momentum to shove him back. They both toppled into the river. Water closed over her head, filled her mouth, before she landed hard on the shallow bottom. Scrambling to her feet, she coughed it out as the current sucked at her knees. Yanking the pistol from her waistband, she tossed it onto the shore. It was useless wet—but so was Grant’s.

She fumbled for the hilt of her sabre, felt the familiar grip. The steel sang as she pulled it from the scabbard and raised it. Ignoring the dull ache of her ribs, Lilias bared her teeth in a vicious grin and eyed Grant’s single knife. “It looks like my blade is bigger than yours, Grant.”

“Magnificent.” Grant smiled as he faced her. He crouched slightly in the water, the knife clutched in one hand. “All that hair. All the feminine glory. I imagine this is what you looked like at Waterloo, my dear Lilias.
L’Ange de Vengeance
.”

“It’s too bad you weren’t there. I could have cut you down in the heat of battle with no one the wiser.”

“And now you’ve been forced to resort to cold-blooded murder.” He clucked his tongue. “Do you see what depths espionage has brought you to?”

The knife arced fast, a sharp and wicked crescent. She could barely see it in the near darkness, but she felt the wind rush past her, heard the
whoosh
of Grant’s breath as he lunged and the splash of water. She leapt backward, instinct propelling her.

Block!
Her mind screamed it. She should have blocked the knife with her own sabre. Instead, her weapon was clutched uselessly in her hand. Water slicked the hilt and her palm slid. Gripping it tight, she lunged forward, thrusting the sabre.

He moved back easily and she fought the need to simply strike out at him.

“This is Jeremy’s cavalry sabre.” She spoke calmly even as she raised the weapon. “Fitting that I use it to kill you, yes?”

Grant’s movements faltered, just a touch. She saw it, and satisfaction curled in her belly.

“He was a coward, Lilias. He never quite understood the beauty of what we were doing.”

“The beauty?” She sent her feet splashing right, left, lashed out with the sabre. Grant dodged the blade and Lilias gritted her teeth. She should have had an advantage. Even if his reach was longer than hers, her sabre was longer than his knife. And she knew how to use the blade.

A few steps forward, a flash of the metal. She felt the tip of the sabre brush something and knew she at least caught his clothes, if not flesh. He made no sound, only circled to her left. She turned instinctively, following the sound of his feet in the shallow water.

But he fooled her, moving back just enough that she had turned too far. She felt the knife graze her ribs, sucked in her breath at the burning line that spread across her ribs.

Jeremy’s training came back to her, a quiet voice in her ear. She’d been his sparring partner on those long marches when he needed something to do—when they both needed something to do. Then Angel’s voice echoed in her heart.
Deceive your opponent, and do not be deceived.

“First blood, my darling.” The taunt hung on the rain-soaked air.

“Luck, Grant,” she hissed at him, retreating slightly. “Remember, I have experience on the battlefield. You are only a puppet master that sits in the shadows and lets others do the work.”

“Perhaps.” But he lunged again, quick as lightening.

She spun away, skidded on rocks on the edge of the bank. She fell on one knee, rocks tearing through fabric and stinging flesh. But she brought her blade up in time to block Grant’s knife from cutting across her breasts. Springing up, she used the momentum to push him away.

Not enough strength
. She only saved herself because he was toying with her. She recognized he hadn’t used his full force.

He stepped back and onto the grassy bank, then tossed the knife to his other hand. “Another wound, and I didn’t have to do any work. The river did it for me.” His grin was feral.

“Typical,” she snorted, trying to catch her breath.
She would not show weakness.
She clambered up the bank and out of the water, her eyes never leaving him.

“You’re a poorly trained spy, my dear. Did the estimable Marquess of Angelstone leave his untrained pupil alone to battle the enemy?” He clucked his tongue. “A shame.”

Her heart was thudding hard and she could feel the warm blood soaking her clothing and trickling down her stomach. A small flesh wound, she knew. The pain had lessened to little more than a light burning, though she knew she’d feel it later.

If she lived.

The edge of despair crept in, a little black cloud to cover her heart. She could not beat Grant. She would not win. Her ribs, her knee, the thin knife wound. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps. Pain was beginning to fog her brain.

It was Angel she thought of now.
Alastair.

Raw fury swelled, burning bright and harsh and hot. Then it was gone, and all that was left was cold hate and the need to finish what she had started.

“I swear to you, Grant, that I will kill you. If I die as well, so be it.” She spoke in a low voice, devoid of any emotion. Then she smiled. One slow, cunning smile. “Good-bye, Grant.” And she let the rage fill her.

The sabre swung up, was blocked. She rose on the balls of her feet, pushed forward. He was bigger, stronger, but she was faster. She ducked beneath his arm, spun away. As she turned she struck out with the sabre, felt it slice something unyielding.

Grant grunted, his hand pressing against his side.

“Is there such a thing as third blood?” She laughed and shook back her hair, though it cost her some energy.

Jumping forward she thrust again, was blocked. Again she thrust, and again. He lost ground dancing away from her and she could hear his breath wheezing out. The sound was music to her aching soul. The wound must have been deep. It was tiring him.

But then it happened. He struck out, fast as a snake, slicing the knife across her arm. The white-hot burn spread, thin and sharp. She stumbled back, shock running through her.

He pounced.

The weight of him knocked the breath from her. The ground was as hard as a stone wall when she slammed into it. Then his hands were around her throat. Tightening, squeezing. She clawed at him, kicked her feet. But he was pressing in on her, straddling her as she flailed. All she could see was his grin; all she could hear was the blood roaring in her ears.

As the world went black, she swore she heard the voice of an angel.

S
HE WAS SO
pale, her face a white beacon in the dark, her hair spilling over the wet earth. Her face was all Angel could see as he flung himself off his horse, the poison and the wound still slowing him. Lilias’s legs were kicking, her torso bucking against Fairchild. Her hands were scrabbling in the dirt, trying to find her sabre.

Except she stood no chance against Fairchild’s wide, tough hands. No chance against the man ranged above her, squeezing the life from her.

But by God, he wasn’t too late.
Not this time.

He saw Gemma’s plain, well-loved face in his memory. He heard Lilias’s gasping breath.

End it.

The dagger had been hidden beneath his coat in a plain leather scabbard. Now it was in his hand. He tested the weight a moment, gripped it. The poison still coursed through him. His body wasn’t obeying the orders from his brain. His hands were stiff, his fingers clumsy.

But he had no choice.

The dagger flew through the air, not as straight and true as he hoped. It rotated, over and over, and in another second, it was buried in Fairchild’s side.

Angel dropped to his knees, all the strength in his legs gone.

—

G
RANT’S HOWL RANG
in Lilias’s ears, competing with the ringing already there and harsh breath in her throat. The thumbs around her throat fell away and the pressure eased. She bucked, hard. Grant reared up, and she used all of her remaining strength to dig her fingers into the dirt and fumble for her weapon.

She coughed, winced at the blinding, burning pain in her throat.

Above her, Grant snarled, a wild, bestial sound. He yanked a dagger from his side and raised it up into the air. Fear coursed through her as she saw that blade arc down. Her chest felt tight, her skin crawled with the need to run. She nearly screamed—but her fingers closed over the hilt of the sabre.

She didn’t hesitate. She swung the sabre up and slashed it across his chest. Then again. When he toppled, she rolled over, turning away from the man, from the sound and look of death. She could not bear to watch it.

Crawling through the dirt, Lilias inched her way up the bank, little mewling sounds erupting from her throat. The tip of her sabre scratched a rivulet in the earth behind her. Her hair hung down in wet, dirty ropes.

But she raised her face up to the rain and saw him. He was struggling to stand. His gold hair blew around his face as the wind plucked at it. He’d never looked so dear to her.

“Angel.” The word was nearly a whimper. “Alastair.”

The sabre fell completely into the dirt now. She rose to her knees, then her feet, and limped forward, her arms reaching for him. He folded her in, burying his face against her neck. He smelled of rain and himself. She lifted her lips to his. He didn’t ravage them, but kissed her as a man in the darkness might worship the sun. His lips were warm, and oh, it was like finding home.

“If you’re going to be poisoned,” she said against his lips, “then have the decency to do it right, so I don’t have to sit in suspense of the final moment.”

—

T
H
E PHYSICIAN CLOSED
his bag and set the latches. Two brisk, irritated snaps.

“Accosted by thieves,” he muttered beneath his breath. Bushy white eyebrows came together over kindly eyes. “Then I’m the king of England.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Lilias murmured. The chair back was a solid resting place for her head, so she left it there.

“Impertinent chit.” But she heard the laughter in the physician’s voice.

“I would disagree with you, but since you gave me an excellent prognosis, I’m willing to overlook that comment. Bruised ribs are much better than broken ribs.” She sighed and winced at the aching pain in her chest. She would have to remember not to breathe too deeply. The medicinal scent of liniment rose from beneath the tight linen bandage. “Thank you.”

“Knife wounds. Poison. Bruised ribs and throat. A dead man I ought to report somewhere—”

“But you won’t.” She angled her head. “Will you?”

“No.” He yanked his old-fashioned breeches up over a substantial stomach. She liked the laugh lines that fanned out from his eyes. “But mind that cut of yours doesn’t become infected, miss.”

“She’ll mind.” Angel’s lazy voice drifted up from the nearby settee. “I’ll see to it.”

“You’ll be lucky if you see to yourself for the next month. How you managed to run around with a shoulder wound contaminated with laurel water, I’m not sure. If the bullet hadn’t gone straight through, you’d be dead from the poison instead of just groggy.”

“Luck, doctor.” Angel’s eyes cracked open the slightest bit. A gold gleam shown from beneath his lashes and warmed her heart. “Sheer luck.”

“Well, the two of you are full of luck. The other man wasn’t so lucky.” A frown settled on his pursed lips. “I really should report—”

“We’ll notify his family. We’ve already taken steps.” An outright lie. It was Sir Charles they had sent a message to. The commander would have to find an appropriate lie for the death of a peer of the realm.

Lilias pushed up from the chair she was sitting in and gasped as her ribs protested.

“Don’t bother seeing me out. Just rest, for heaven’s sake!” The physician waved her away and left the room a moment later. She could hear Jones in the hallway, giving the doctor his hat and greatcoat.

Lilias looked at Angel’s lean body, sprawled on the settee. His eyes were closed again, his breath even. He appeared to be healthy, if weary and pale from loss of blood. The clod.

“I thought you were dead.” She limped over to him, ignoring the pain in her side, and smacked her hand against the side of his head.

“Ouch!” He rubbed his abused head with his good arm. His fingers were still awkward, as though he couldn’t quite bring them under his control. The sight made her swallow hard. He opened his eyes to look at her. His hand came up to briefly run fingers over her bruised throat. “We’re a mess, we two.”

“But alive.” Her legs simply wouldn’t hold her up any longer. She slid to the floor beside the settee and laid her forehead against the rough brocade. His hand tangled in her hair.

“Marry me, Lilias.”

Her head jerked up, stared at him. “What?”

“Marry me. Be with me. I’ll be a horrible husband. Running off whenever I receive orders—”

“Oh, be quiet.” She couldn’t think beyond the pounding of her heart. It would be a uncertain life. There would be nothing simple or normal about it. She would never know if she could travel with him, or if he would come home. A life of instability.

“Yes.” She must be crazy, but she wanted nothing more than to live that uncertain life with him. “Yes, I’ll marry you. To my everlasting regret, I’m sure.” She launched herself at him as well as her ribs would allow. “But I forbid you to go up against an assassin with a poisoned bullet.”

Gold eyes gleamed as a self-satisfied smile curved his lips. “Is that all I had to do to get you to love me? Be shot by a poisoned bullet?”

She lay atop him, pressed against his body. Long and lean and male. And he belonged to her. She framed his face with her hands and touched her lips against his. “You only had to be yourself.”