“W
hat’s in the bundle?” Evelyn asked him as they walked up the beach toward a small inn. He glanced at her, noted her flushed cheeks, the shine in her eyes. She still imagined this was just an adventure. He swept the dark beach for signs of the local militia, but aside from the man following them, they were alone.
Probably a sailor, assigned to keep an eye on him. He damned Westlake and his spies, but if anything happened to him, the sailor would see Evelyn safely home.
He knelt and untied the pack, answering her question by showing her. “My sword, a purse, and my livery.”
“You kept it?”
He let her imagine he was sentimental. “You did say you wished me to play your servant, did you not?” He took her elbow to help her up over a lip of wet pebbles, and realized her skin was icy under her fashionable spencer.
“Put this on,” he said, holding out the livery coat.
“You’re supposed to be the servant, not me,” she objected, though her teeth were chattering.
Sinjon hesitated. He could let her shiver, wait until they reached the inn and purchase a blanket, or he could take another risk entirely. He withdrew his knife and slit open the lining of the coat. He draped the gonfalon over her shoulders like a shawl.
“Where on earth did you get this?” she asked, fingering the silk.
“Just don’t lose it.” He started walking again. “Are you warmer?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said crisply, her half boots slipping on the pebbles. “You’re very resourceful, aren’t you? You seem to have a plan for everything. Escaping, hiding, and subterfuge seem to be your greatest talents. Were you a spy in Spain? Is that why you refused to tell me about your past?”
“I was just a soldier,” he said. “I ran into a little trouble and needed to get myself out of it, so I left.”
“Rape is hardly a ‘little trouble.’ I’m surprised they didn’t hang you on the spot.”
“If they want to hang me, they’ll have to catch me.”
“Is that why you came to France? To escape?
“I come to France annually for the wine,” he quipped. “If you hurry along, I’ll buy you a cup.”
“To keep me quiet? I could simply go into the inn and tell them you kidnapped me, that you’re a wanted man,” she threatened.
He laughed. “You asked to come ashore, Evelyn, remember? Before you denounce me, remember you’re an English lady in France, and as much an enemy here as I am.”
She sniffed. “You should be grateful for my company. You said yourself your French is atrocious.”
“Poor, not atrocious,” he muttered.
“Bad enough that you’d do well to hold your tongue and let me do the talking!”
There was laughter in her voice. She was enjoying this. He wondered if she realized that this little excursion could get them both killed. But then, a ride in the park had nearly gotten her killed in London. He gripped the sword in his hand. He’d protected her then, and he’d keep her safe now.
There was no point in telling her that he was in command. Once again he was her servant.
“We need directions to Louviers,” he instructed her as they neared an inn.
“Why are we going there?”
“We aren’t, but it’s in the right direction. Tell them you’re going to visit your sister, if they ask.”
“And what should I say her name is?”
He gritted his teeth. “Evelyn, you won’t need to tell them a long story. Hand them a coin for the coach, buy some provisions, and we’ll be on our way.”
She stopped. “I have three sisters, Sinjon. They are
always
curious. If the innkeeper has a wife, she’ll ask questions. The less we say, the more she’ll wish to know. One does not simply walk in out of the night and rent a coach.”
There was a certain logic in that. “Tell the innkeeper’s wife that yours broke down on the road and you are in a hurry.” He shrugged. “A damaged wheel, perhaps? Your coachman is fixing it, but you cannot wait.”
“Because my sister is ill, near to death, and I must get to her at Louviers,” she finished happily.
Frustration nudged him. It would have been so much easier to steal a horse. He’d be halfway to Agramant by now. Instead, he was facing a long conversation about an imaginary sister. Given the sisters Evelyn already had, he was surprised she’d
want
to invent another one.
He shrugged out of his own coat and into the livery. “Why can’t I play the role of your husband instead of your servant?”
She looked at him as if he were the village idiot. “Because my husband would speak for me, while my servant wouldn’t dare,
compris
?”
She didn’t wait for a reply, but took a breath and opened the door of the inn.
Sinjon’s gut clenched as the conversation inside stopped. He felt for the pistol hidden under his livery, and prayed no one noticed that Evelyn was wearing the sacred Gonfalon of Charlemagne as a shawl.
E
velyn waved her supposed footman to a halt by the door as she approached the sleepy innkeeper, but he ignored the command, as stubborn now as he had been in her service in London. He stood behind her, ready to get her out of harm’s way if he had to.
She sent him a glare of warning, but he stood his ground, his gaze as stubborn as hers.
Giving up the battle, she turned to smile at the innkeeper. The man’s wife also rose from her chair, set her knitting aside, and glared at Evelyn suspiciously.
Evelyn took a breath and began her performance. She fixed her eyes on the proprietress and described the inconveniences and terrors of her imaginary carriage accident with vivid detail. By the time she described her poor sister’s desperate illness and her haste to reach her side, the inn wife had tears in her eyes. Even the innkeeper turned away to ply his rumpled handkerchief.
The sympathetic couple sprang into action, and within the hour Evelyn was safely ensconced in a carriage, with a basket of bread, cheese, and wine by her side, and a small gift of strawberry preserves for her ailing sister.
She gave Sinjon a bright smile as he closed the door of the coach, her mission accomplished.
S
injon climbed up on the driver’s seat and nodded farewell to the innkeeper’s wife, who tearfully waved her handkerchief and wished them luck. He didn’t need luck. He had Evelyn. It couldn’t have gone better, he thought with a swell of admiration. He was tempted to pull off the road, climb inside and kiss Evelyn senseless, make love to her until they were both sated and breathless, but there wasn’t time.
She continued to surprise him, even when he thought he could not be more in awe of her, more in love.
Perhaps when he had O’Neill’s confession in his hand, and they were safely back in London, laughing over the perils of this adventure, he’d tell her. Westlake would have Philip in custody by then, and Evelyn would be free.
Sinjon frowned. She hadn’t forgiven him, and he was a long way from free himself.
E
velyn stared at the magnificent chateau as Sinjon drove through the wrought-iron gates. Fragrant lilacs and roses, heavy with early morning dew, flanked the long driveway beside the coach, escorting them to the front door.
A lady was waiting when they pulled up. She smiled warmly at Sinjon and kissed his cheeks. Evelyn felt her skin heat, and she ran a hand over her hair. She untied the tattered silk shawl and straightened her bonnet and her spencer. There was no hope for her wrinkled muslin gown.
Sinjon seemed to be explaining who she was. The woman turned to look at her in surprise as she stepped out of the coach.
“Lady Evelyn Renshaw, may I introduce Madame Marielle d’Agramant?” Sinjon said, as if they were meeting at a garden tea, and their countries weren’t at war. The Frenchwoman assessed her boldly as they made their curtsies, and Evelyn wondered how Sinjon had explained her presence. She looked at him quickly, but his eyes were on the Frenchwoman.
“The captain tells me you came as an interpreter,” Madame d’Agramant said as she led the way to the house. An interpreter. It was not as bad as being described as a traitor’s wife, nor so possessive as being called his lover. It was polite, cool, and tidy.
Her stomach tightened and she clasped her hands together, stilling the desire to reach for Sinjon, cling to his arm, and feel the reassurance of his eyes on her.
“My husband is in the study, Captain Rutherford. He will be pleased to see you immediately. I’ll take Lady Renshaw upstairs so she may bathe before luncheon.”
Sinjon bowed and turned to follow a manservant down the corridor.
Marielle d’Agramant showed Evelyn to a comfortable bedroom. She rang for her maid and ordered a bath and fresh clothing.
“I hope you’ll forgive my curiosity, but are you related to Philip Renshaw, the comte d’Elenoire?” Marielle asked, and Evelyn’s stomach dropped to her ankles. Would the colonel arrest her in Philip’s place? She pictured being dragged through the streets to the guillotine like Marie Antoinette.
And what would happen to Sinjon?
Marielle’s bright blue eyes demanded an answer. “Lord Philip is my husband, but I have not seen him in many months. In fact, there are rumors that he is dead.”
Marielle looked dubious. “Since you are not wearing a wedding ring, I assume you believe those rumors. Or you have stopped thinking of yourself as his wife.” Evelyn blushed, and Marielle laughed. “Oh, I have no objection. He is a traitor to both our countries, a wanted man here as well as in England. I was simply surprised to see you here, since Elenoire is nearby.”
“Was he here in France, all these months?” Evelyn asked, breathless. He was in England now, wasn’t he? She swallowed, but she had nothing to fear. He had no idea where she was.
“No one has lived at Elenoire for many years. It is a ruin.” She took Evelyn’s hand. “I can also see that you fear what I will do, but I assure you, you are quite safe. Or is it your husband that you are afraid of?”
Evelyn bit her lip, and Marielle sighed.
“I know the feeling of fear. I was with my husband, at war, in Spain. You could not have a better champion than Captain Rutherford. If all men had such honor as he, this war would not exist.”
Evelyn looked at her in surprise. “Are you the colonel’s wife he stands accused of raping?”
Before Marielle could reply, there was a knock at the door. A parade of servants carried steaming buckets to the copper tub, and Marielle opened a jar and sprinkled dried lavender into the water. The fragrance filled the room. The maid set a screen around the tub for privacy, and took her leave.
“I suppose you’d like to know what happened,” Marielle said from the other side of the screen as Evelyn slipped into the delicious hot water. Was it an imposition to want to know? She’d asked Sinjon to reveal his secrets and he had refused.
“I do,” she said.
“My coach broke down in the Spanish hills. I had been to a local church, and thought I would be safe without an escort, which was foolish. Only my maid and my coachman were with me.”
Evelyn’s heart climbed into her throat as she listened. She heard the floorboards creaking as Marielle paced. “A British patrol found us, and still I thought I might be safe, counting that the officer was a gentleman and would not harm a lady alone. But I was wrong. I’d sent my coachman for help, but he had not yet returned. The officer gave my maid to his men, and saved me for his own pleasure.”
Evelyn shut her eyes. Sinjon could not have been that man, surely. He would never harm a woman.
“Captain Rutherford arrived then. I feared the worst, but he rescued me, an enemy, from his own kind. He stood alone against a superior officer and a dozen British soldiers. He covered me with his coat, protected me. The officer ordered his men to shoot Captain Rutherford, and I believe they would have if my husband had not arrived. There was shooting, and the British soldiers were killed, all but two of them. The officer escaped, and the last man was wounded. Captain Rutherford would not allow my husband’s men to kill him, though they wanted to. My maid was dead, you see, and I was covered in blood. Mostly Captain Rutherford’s blood.”
Evelyn rose from the bath and wrapped a towel around her body. She came out from behind the screen. Marielle d’Agramant had tears streaming down her cheeks.
“The soldier was Sergeant O’Neill, wasn’t it?” she asked, her heart pounding.
“Yes.”
Evelyn gripped the towel tightly. “And the officer?” she asked, breathless. “What was his name?”
Marielle d’Agramant’s face twisted. “His name was Creighton.”
H
ow could she have been so wrong about Major Lord Creighton? He was famous in London as a hero who had captured a traitor, a rapist, a liar. She had thought that he somehow made a mistake, arrested the wrong man, but had not even considered he might be guilty of the crime himself.
She shuddered in the bright sunlight of Marielle’s rose garden, and paced along the path, needing solitude, time to think.
It was another secret Sinjon had kept from her. He’d told her he was innocent of the charges, but not that it was Creighton, the
ton’
s favorite hero, who had committed the brutal crime.
A dozen soldiers and a maid had died. If Sinjon had not been there—
Her whole body shook. She recalled the scars that covered his body, and his reluctance to speak of how the injuries had happened.
Marielle had told her that Creighton tried to kill Sergeant O’Neill as well, and the sergeant made his way to the French camp, surrendered himself, and begged Colonel d’Agramant for help, both for himself and for Sinjon. There was nothing the French officer could do, but Marielle had insisted that O’Neill accompany her home to France in hopes they’d find a way to help Sinjon eventually by saving the last witness to Creighton’s crime.
Evelyn let out a sob of disgust. She had danced with Creighton, trusted him.
She owed him money!
More than anything else, she owed Sinjon an apology.
“How picturesque—an English rose among the French,” a familiar voice drawled, and Evelyn spun in horror.
Philip stood on the path behind her. He looked older, his skin sallow, as if he’d spent too much time indoors, hiding. His eyes were the same, though, filled with pride and icy hatred.
She backed up until she bumped into a bench and could go no farther. How was it possible he was here? He was supposed to be in England, being arrested and hanged. Sinjon had promised she would never see the traitor again.
Desperation made her angry, incautious. “And there’s a snake among the blossoms too,” she dared.
His eyes narrowed. “How bold you’ve become, Evelyn. You used to be such a mouse. Come here. It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen you.”
She held her ground, her mouth filled with bitterness. “I’m done with you, Philip. Go away.”
His eyes flashed fury, and she flinched instinctively. He stepped forward, grabbed her by the hair and jabbed a pistol under her breast. She could smell the familiar heavy cologne he favored. Nausea rose in her gut.
“We’re going to leave in the coach you came in, and you’ll do it without making a sound, is that clear,
wife
?” He spat the last word in her ear, made it an insult.
She felt the chill of the gun on her skin as he dragged her toward the coach. This was Philip, the traitor, the man who had terrorized her for four years of marriage. She could not speak, or scream. She could only stumble forward at his command. She prayed they did not meet anyone on the path who Philip might harm, yet hoped someone would see and run for help, fetch Sinjon.
Disappointment bloomed in her chest as they came around the corner of the house. The courtyard was empty. Philip shoved her onto the driver’s perch and climbed up beside her. He whipped the horses to a hard gallop.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked. The pistol lay in his lap, and she wondered if she could grab it, stop him, but the look in his eyes froze her with fear.
“You’re the comtesse d’Elenoire. It’s time you started acting like it.”
She cast a desperate glance over her shoulder at Chateau Agramant, silently bid Sinjon farewell, and prepared herself to die.