S
injon awoke to the sound of the waves slapping against the hull of the ship. Evelyn was close to him. He could smell the faint sweetness of her skin before he’d even opened his eyes. He felt the tickle of her hair against his chest.
Was he naked?
He opened his eyes as something sharp stabbed him.
“Ow!” he protested.
She didn’t flinch. “Hold still.”
“What the devil are you doing?”
She looked up at him, her green eyes luminous in the lamplight. “Stitching your wound. It should have been done hours ago.”
“Stitching—” He gasped as she jabbed him again. “Have you ever done this before? Isn’t there a ship’s surgeon?”
She raised her brows. “I have embroidered all my life. I have even sewn for soldiers.”
“But never
on
soldiers!”
She sent him a quelling look. “I’m almost done. If you lie still, I’ll finish all the faster. Surely you’ve had worse wounds than this. Like this one.” She ran a gentle finger over the scar that crossed his collarbone. It was a light, intimate caress, but she ruined the moment with another stitch.
“How bad is it?” he asked, gritting his teeth.
“The bullet nicked a rib and grazed your flesh. It didn’t hit anything vital.”
“Are you a doctor as well as a tailor?” he asked. The light from the swinging lantern turned her hair a dozen shades of copper and gold.
She sent him another speaking look. “The surgeon told me.”
“Then there is a ship’s surgeon?”
She grinned. “No, the colonel insisted a doctor examine you before he’d let you leave. He didn’t want France’s newest hero dying of a flesh wound.”
Sinjon frowned. “You make it sound so inconsequential.”
She met his eyes again. “Inconsequential? No, never that. You saved my life, and the gonfalon, and Philip is dead. You’re a hero in two countries. It’s not inconsequential at all.”
“Evelyn,” he said, touching her face, seeing the tears glittering like molten gold in her eyes. She hadn’t mentioned her role in Philip’s death. She pulled away, rejecting comfort.
“Let me finish this,” she said, and pushed the needle into his skin again. He lay very still and watched her. Her face was bruised and scratched, and there were shadows on her throat where Philip had held her. His stomach clenched. She should be curled in a corner, sobbing, but she was clear-eyed, sewing his wounds, tending to him.
“Evelyn, how badly are you hurt? Did the surgeon see to you as well?”
She got up to fetch a bundle of white cloth without answering. She tore it into bandages with a deft ferocity.
“You’ll need to sit up so I can bandage you,” she said crisply, no hint of sorrow or weakness in her eyes.
He let her help him, feeling weak as a child. He leaned on her, buried his face in her neck as she wrapped his ribs tightly.
“Evelyn, I’m sorry.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “Do you think I regret that Philip is dead?”
“Do you?” he asked, touching her face, running his fingers carefully over the cuts and scrapes. She let her cheek rest in his palm for a moment, let her eyes drift shut.
“Perhaps it should matter more to me.”
“It may be shock. You’ll feel it later.”
She looked at him, bereft and afraid. “I don’t want to feel it or think about it. I just want it to be over.”
He wanted to drag her into bed beside him, comfort her, but she stood apart from him, her expression unreadable, and he didn’t have the strength to reach for her.
She was brave, beautiful, and everything he’d ever imagined in a lover. He wanted to keep her safe, love her, honor her and keep her.
Except he didn’t have a penny to his name. Or a home. Or a family. He was still a wanted man, a traitor, despite the letter O’Neill had given him.
And she was a new widow, a woman who had endured kidnapping, lies, brutality, and had killed her husband to save him. Was he worthy of such a sacrifice?
She began to wind the bandages around him again.
“So what will you do now?” she asked. “Where will you go?” He saw tears in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. He read the hope there too.
The words hovered on his tongue, but he had no right to say them.
Instead he grinned at her, the most roguish, devil-may-care smile he could manage.
“I never plan that far ahead.”
E
velyn hovered as the sailors carried Sinjon off the ship. She had let him sleep once she bandaged him. She sat beside him, watching his face, memorizing it. He’d woken as they reached London, found her lying beside him, touched her face. She’d burrowed carefully against his side until the captain knocked on the door to tell her they’d arrived. She rose from the bed, and he clutched at her hand, squeezing it, thanking her wordlessly. For what? Bandaging him? He pulled her against him in the coach, which conveniently awaited them at the pier, held her. Dawn was breaking over the city as they drove through the empty streets.
Sinjon lifted her chin gently, careful of her bruises, and kissed her. His lips clung to hers, roamed over every scratch and bruise, a blessing.
Or farewell.
He kissed away her tears too, but didn’t ask why she was crying. Perhaps he assumed it was shock at last. She kissed him back, silently, letting her touch speak for her, knowing if she spoke now, she’d beg him to stay with her, embarrass them both. He didn’t want a future with her. For him, their affair was over. She ran her fingers through the silk of his hair, over the stubble of his jaw, breathed him in, memorizing him, because for her there would never be anyone else.
Her heart was breaking as they pulled up at Renshaw House. He’d given the coachman orders to bring her home before taking him to De Courcey House. He wasn’t staying. She moved out of his arms, suddenly chilled without his warmth.
“Evelyn, would you come and see me tomorrow?” he asked. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
She swallowed. “What more can there be to say?” She did not want to hear any more admissions. If he had a wife, a fiancée, a good reason why they could never be together, she didn’t want to know.
He winced as he sat up, and she feared he’d open the wound. “You’ll tear the stitches!” she said. He let her press him back against the squabs, gasping at the pain.
“Tomorrow,” he murmured. “I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”
Her heart clenched in her chest.
“But I want—” She paused. What did she want? She wanted him to get out of this coach and walk up the steps with her. She wanted to sleep beside him, and wake up knowing they were both alive and Philip was gone forever.
The door of the vehicle swung open.
“Welcome home, my lady, I trust all is well?” Starling asked, offering his hand as if Evelyn had merely been out dancing the night away at a ball, or visiting a friend for tea, instead of kidnapped and taken to France where her life had changed forever.
Philip is dead
, she longed to say,
there is nothing more to fear
, but the coach jerked forward, pulling away, taking Sinjon with it, and she couldn’t speak a word.
“It’s late, Starling. We’ll talk in the morning. Lock up and go to bed,” she said instead. He bowed and watched her climb the stairs. She heard the bolt on the front door slide home. The sound of safety.
Starling didn’t comment on the cuts and bruises on her face. In fact, he’d been careful not to notice them at all. Evelyn entered her room and looked in the mirror. Was that how it would be from now on? She would simply continue on, a notorious widow in an empty house, her staff polite and protective, never mentioning Philip or treason again. She shut her eyes and turned away from the glass.
Evelyn undressed slowly, crawled into bed and blew out the candle. She could see Sinjon’s face in the curling smoke. She reached out a hand across the cold linen of the sheets, and considered going to sleep in the other room. Their room.
But that was over.
E
velyn paced Marianne’s sitting room as she waited for Sinjon to appear. She wore a demure gown of plain blue and a veil to hide the marks on her face. She had considered wearing black, but she could not mourn Philip. She supposed once it was known that he was dead, she might be expected to wear black then. How hypocritical that would be, considering how he died. She fidgeted with the satin strings of her reticule and hoped she would be gone from London by then and no one would see or care what she wore.
Sinjon entered at last. He was elegantly dressed, every inch a gentleman, but he moved stiffly, and she winced, picturing his body bandaged and scarred under his fine clothes.
Because of her.
He’d rescued her again, and had nearly been killed doing it. It was the last time. Today they would say civil good-byes and go back to separate, ordinary lives.
He sat down across from her and smiled, and she wondered if there was anything ordinary about him at all.
“I have had another letter from Creighton,” she said. “It was waiting for me when I got home. Marielle told me the truth, Sinjon.”
He didn’t reply, just looked at her as if he were drinking her in. Butterflies flitted across her ragged nerves. “Are you well?” he asked, ignoring her comment. “You’ve had quite an ordeal.”
“I’d be better if I knew what to do about Lord Creighton. Can I have him arrested?” she demanded.
Adam Westlake entered the room. “On what charge?” he asked.
“For attempted rape. For false accusation. For—” She shut her mouth with a snap. Creighton hadn’t done any of those things to
her
.
“You owe him money, Evelyn. If you make accusations against him, it will look as if you’re trying to get out of paying the debt,” Adam said.
“Without proof, he’d smile that charming smile, laugh disarmingly, and everyone would believe him,” Sinjon added, his mouth twisting in disgust.
“I can’t just pay him!” Evelyn said.
“You can’t do anything else,” Adam said calmly. His eyes roved over her face, taking stock of her injuries. “Shall I order tea?” he asked.
She didn’t want tea, or pity. She leapt to her feet, began to pace. “But you could have him arrested, couldn’t you?” she asked Sinjon.
“I have a price on my head, Evelyn. If I walked in to Horse Guards now, they’d hang me on sight. Creighton has spread his poison well.”
“But you have O’Neill’s letter!”
“It still may not be enough.”
“We need O’Neill in person,” Adam explained, “and he refuses to return to England until he can be sure we can keep him safe.”
“Perhaps I can accuse Creighton of fraud,” Evelyn suggested. “I only meant to enclose a hundred pounds with the letter I gave him, and he had the gall to spend five hundred in my name.”
Sinjon smiled grimly. “You didn’t forget to include the money, and Creighton didn’t pay anyone a single farthing. I doubt he’s ever even been to Lincolnshire.”
She blinked at him. “How could you know that?”
“I saw your letter, knew he was meant to carry it for you. I opened it. I had my suspicions that he would keep the money for himself rather than delivering it as you wished, so I took it out and waited to see what would happen.”
“Servants are fired for stealing!” she blurted.
Sinjon laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“I didn’t actually steal it. I left it in a book in your library. I
did
take it later, but only to buy back the gonfalon from the Foundling Hospital.”
“Creighton will receive his money today, Evelyn. Five hundred pounds, paid in your name,” Adam said.
She stared at him. “Did
you
buy the book, Lord Westlake?” she asked. He turned pale, then purple.
“I most assuredly did not, my lady. I paid the sum as part of an investment. I wish to see justice done, and fully expect to be reimbursed.”
“Thank you, but I can’t afford to repay you,” she said. “Once the Crown knows Philip is dead, they’ll take everything. I will not ask my sisters for money to live on or to pay a man like Creighton.” An idea struck her. She turned to Sinjon. “Challenge him to a duel!”
He raised a lazy eyebrow, and glanced at Westlake, who looked irritatingly amused at the suggestion. “I am in no condition to fight anyone right now, Evelyn.”
“Nor is dueling legal,” Adam put in.
“I have a better idea, something that will hurt Creighton even more than a sword thrust,” Sinjon said. Evelyn swallowed, and he winced, realizing what he’d said.
“So what will you do?” She subsided back onto the settee. He sat beside her, taking her hand in his. She savored that little touch, memorized it, storing it away like a squirrel for the cold, loveless months ahead.
“I can’t do anything, Evelyn, but you can. If Creighton sees me, he’ll shoot me on sight, or have me arrested and hanged before I can say a word in my own defense. He isn’t safe while I’m alive. He needs me dead.”
Fear prickled along her spine. She’d danced with Creighton, trusted him, liked him. She remembered Marielle’s face as she told the story of her encounter with him in Spain. The Frenchwoman still bore a small silver scar on her cheek that would remind her of Creighton every time she looked in the mirror.
“What can I do?” Evelyn asked. “I’ll do anything.”
Sinjon looked at her with that slow seductive smile that turned her heart inside out and made her feel like the most beautiful, desirable woman on earth.
“Do you remember how I taught you to play cards?” he asked.
She blushed, and nodded. “Every detail.” She looked at him, breathless, and saw the answering heat in his eyes.
“We’ll host a card party, here, Thursday evening. Creighton will be on the guest list,” Adam was saying, but she was barely listening. She was fighting the desire to throw herself into Sinjon’s arms. She stared at his mouth, wanting a kiss.
“Evelyn?” he asked, his lips moving, his voice husky, plucking her nerves, rubbing over her desire.
“Yes?”
“Do you still remember how to cheat?”