The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) (24 page)

With one last furious glare, Victoire turned and swept out the far door.

As soon as Victoire was clear, Sebastian burst into the room, dropping his pistol back into his coat and seizing Rachel around the waist. He clamped one hand over her mouth so her cries wouldn’t give them both away. “It’s me, damn it!” he hissed in her ear, pulling her back into the comparative darkness of the room he’d been watching from.

Some sensible part of his mind told him to leave her there and chase after the Frenchwoman before she disappeared for good, but the idea of leaving Rachel alone again drained his will from him.

Feeling her safe and warm against him, knowing how easily Victoire might have put a bullet through her, how easily Rachel might have died—it sparked a kind of madness in him.

He turned her in his arms and replaced the hand over her mouth with his own mouth.

She made a noise of sheer surprise, and stiffened, but he didn’t care. His mouth plundered hers, tasting the soft flesh inside. He couldn’t have explained what drove him. All he knew was that he needed to do this. He was searching for something in her response, seeking, sealing her against him. Binding her to him.

The muscles of her back tightened as he held her, tension building, until at last, with a violent shake, she wried loose from his arms, shoving him away with both hands against his chest. “What do you think you’re doing?” she spat.

He was nonplussed for a moment. “I honestly have no idea.”

“And why did you come running in like that? Grabbing me? You terrified me!” she hissed at him—impressively, still with a flawless French accent. “I’d just avoided being shot, and thought I was about to be stabbed!”

“You could have been!” His relief had ebbed; now anger began to pulse beneath his skin. “What would you have done if I’d been an enemy, and had a knife?”

“Bled profusely, I expect.”

“That’s not funny!” He gave her a shake. “Damn it, what were you doing here tonight? How did you even find this place?”

“Emilio told me where the carriage driver said you had gone. I had them bring round the other carriage, and drive me here.”

“They listened to you? Took orders from you?”

“They took orders from
Sal
. I must say, it was quite delightful to have others jump at my commands.”

“You risked your life, coming here without me. Without protection. And you threatened Victoire. What were you thinking, cornering her like that?”

“I had her quite distracted. I might have been able to take hold of her before she could get away.”

“
Take hold
? What, you planned to snatch her up like a—like a stray kitten? She’s a viper, I told you that! You should have known she’d try to take your head off.”

“Well, she didn’t, did she?”

“No, but she got away. Now you’ve ruined my best chance to seize her: I could have tracked to her to whatever lair she’s been hiding in. Sal could have been avenged—maybe tonight.”

“Damn you, Sebastian—it was my mission to show myself to her.”

“Circumstances change.”

“Victoire can’t have left this house yet. We’ll follow her together.”

He shook his head. “She’ll have a secret way out, and she’ll already have gone to ground. She’ll probably spend tonight with some lover or other, far from her headquarters.” He knew he was being unfair, especially in light of what they’d learned from Victoire tonight, but he couldn’t seem to rein in his temper. “Now that you’ve shown yourself, she’ll hide, at least until the French army takes Vigo. We may not have another chance to find her.”

“She’ll come out again. She wants the
notebook
. And she wants to see me suffer.”

His stomach clenched. “Let’s deny her that pleasure, shall we?”

Chaotic thoughts whirled through his head—angry, fearful, desperate. Victoire had been here, within his reach, and now she was gone. But, try as he might, he couldn’t make himself regret his choice not to stay with Rachel rather than chase her.

What in God’s name was wrong with him?

He gripped Rachel’s upper arm, hard enough to bruise. “Put your mask up,” he commanded. With a hard tug, he began to march her at a brisk pace towards the door and his carriage, which waited a few safe blocks away.

He didn’t ease his grip the entire ride home.

And when they got there, he tossed her in her room and turned the key from the outside, dropping it into his own pocket. She’d just have to deal with being locked up.

At least she’d be safe for a few hours. Perhaps for the whole of the next day, if he so chose.

Chapter Fourteen

By the time the morning sun came up, Rachel was ready to set fire to the house to get out of the locked room. She’d pounded on the door for at least an hour last night, until she’d split the skin on two knuckles, but no one seemed willing to countermand Sebastian’s orders and open it.

What had she done that was so terrible? He’d been the one to lie to her and sneak around. He could have told her he was going after Victoire de Laurent that night.

Besides, she’d done rather well for herself. She’d found Victoire, got her alone, got her talking—and revealing more, no doubt, than the French spy intended. And Sebastian acted as if she’d done nothing but blunder.

And then he’d kissed her—which she didn’t understand at all.

And he’d hurt her, dragging her out of there.

And terrorized her, locking her in for the night like a misbehaving child.

This morning, the house was almost eerily quiet. She pulled a lacy mantilla over her head, concealing her face, and went out onto the little balcony at the front of her room; at least that door wasn’t locked. In the street, a few stragglers still in evening finery staggered by, while peasants loaded carts for market or dumped out filthy buckets on the paving stones.

The ground, unfortunately, was a fifteen-foot drop below.

A band of sailors spilled from a nearby alleyway, their gaits bowlegged as if they hadn’t walked on dry land in months. The sheer size of one of them caught her eye: a huge man pulling the harness of a crusty-looking mule. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her. It couldn’t be the man she thought it was.

In place of an elegant black cape, he wore the filthy clothes of a peasant—scuffed leather breeches and a shirt that might have been used to mop a barn floor. A broad-brimmed leather hat concealed his face. Yet, she couldn’t imagine there were many men of those proportions in the world. With such huge shoulders and long jet-black hair.

The Black Giant.

She stared at him hard, willing him to look up.

As if with the instincts of a wild creature, he did look up, and she was gratified to recognize the obsidian eyes, and the hook of his nose. She raised the mantilla just long enough for him to get a glimpse of her face. He showed not a flicker of surprise at seeing her. A quick negative shake of his head, though, warned her off any public acknowledgement.

But he passed the reins of the mule to one of his comrades, and slipped neatly into another alley at the side of Rosa’s villa.

By the time she’d crossed back through her room to the porch over the rear gardens, the Giant was vaulting over the back fence, landing silently amidst the jacarandas. In two great strides, he reached the posts that held up the balustrade, and, despite his great weight, shimmied up as agilely as any monkey.

He swung his legs neatly over the rail, landed soundlessly, and executed a surprisingly gentlemanly bow. “Mademoiselle Mirabeau,” he said in the low, dark bass she remembered from Sebastian’s drawing room. “A pleasure to see you here, alive and well. Though perhaps we might retreat to your chamber before some member of the household sees me with you.”

As he entered her room, the Giant let his shoulders slump, apparently trying to reduce his extraordinary height. He let his hair spill forward as if his hat brim weren’t sufficient cover. “Sebastian will be expecting me shortly,” he told her. “He and I must exchange reports.”

“When you do, will you give him a punch in the nose for me?”

The one bit of the Giant’s mouth she could see quirked up. “I wondered why you were on the balcony. Your door’s locked from the outside?”

“How did you guess that?”

“I’ve known Sebastian for years. Since we were quite young. His methods of persuasion can be . . . well, less than subtle. But I’m sure he thinks he’s doing it for some noble purpose.”

“Noble? He’s the least noble aristocrat I’ve ever met. And that’s saying something.”

The Giant’s head tilted as if he were caught in some internal debate. “Do you have a free hour, Miss Covington? There’s something in town I think you ought to see.”

She glanced meaningfully towards the door. “I am not precisely
free
at the moment, no.”

“I can take care of that.”

“Nor am I here as a tourist, sir.”

“This is not a sight for tourists. It’s something Sebastian would prefer you not see.”

That
decided her. “In that case, I should love to go.”

“You have a choice, then, mademoiselle. Shall I pick the lock and protect you during the ensuing melee when you appear in the hall below? Or would you prefer to have the marquess believe you remain locked safe up here, while you accompany me down the balustrade and over the fence?”

“Balustrade and fence, if you please, sir.”

He nodded, and without further warning, he scooped her up unceremoniously, her bottom pressed to his enormous forearm. The man was muscled like a bull. She’d have made a squawk, but she was sure Sebastian would hear her if she did, and then he’d come running and lock her up in chains.

The Giant stepped up with one boot onto the railing, and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“Don’t take offense,” he whispered. “I’ll set you back on your feet once we’re down.”

He leapt over the balustrade, and hung with one hand before dropping straight to the ground. To her amazement, he kept his footing, and immediately sprang for the fence. She’d read once about tigers in India who terrorized villages by leaping over fences eight feet high, seizing goats in their jaws, and bounding nimbly away. At the moment, she understood exactly how the goats must have felt.

The instant the Giant’s boots struck the dirt of the alleyway, true to his word, he let her slide from his shoulder to stand upright at his side.

“Quickly, now,” he said, ducking his face behind his hat brim. “Keep that lace over your face, keep your eyes down, and tell yourself you are floating not walking. Passersby are far less likely to look your way if your body is relaxed.”

“Does that work, truly?”

“A man my size in this line of work must learn to conceal himself in plain sight. And I am by nature rather hard to miss.”

Was he serious, or joking? It was hard to tell from that strange, low voice.

He looked straight ahead, slowing his pace only enough to keep her from struggling to match the strides of his towering legs.

She looked over at him curiously. “Can’t you at least give me a name to call you by?” she asked him in an undertone. “I’ll settle for almost anything—even if it’s not a real one.”

He was silent.

“Please,” she said.

“
Please
? Now there’s a word I seldom hear.” His voice was a soft rumble, pitched for her ears only. He still faced forward, so that anyone who passed would think no words passed between them at all, that he was merely a servant accompanying his female employer on an errand through town. “Do you know how many men have tried to learn my name, and have used pistols and flame and blades of every sort to persuade me to share it?”

“Good Lord! And does no one know it still?”

“A few do. Helm does. Sebastian does. But he will not tell you, either. He knows what the consequences would be.”

“Consequences? From whom?”

His eyes gleamed even through the dark fall of his hair. “From me, of course.”

“Your name is not Rumplestiltskin, by any chance?”

“No.”

“Something Biblical, then. Nebuchadnezzar?”

This time his response was distinctly a chuckle, albeit a raspy one, as if his throat were unused to making such a sound.

“
Beelezebub
?”

“Very close. But still no. Feel free to make up something of your own, however. I’ve been called nearly every name you can think of, few of them speakable in polite company.”

“I do have a name for you, actually,” she blurted out.

“Indeed?”

In for a penny, in for a pound
. “I call you the Black Giant.”

Now a deep rumbling sounded in his chest, as though he about to be seized by a fit of coughing, and his shoulders shook slightly. “Black Giant? Well, at least that’s rather more flattering than the usual.”

“Did Sarah know it? Your real name?”

“Yes,” he answered gruffly. The line of his mouth flattened, and his head bowed lower.