The Smuggler Wore Silk (25 page)

“I would say so.” But she shivered as his warm breath tickled her ear. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they’d last made love.

They ran back through the lawns and out to the road. Just out of sight of the house, Julian slowed. Grace bent slightly to catch her breath.

“Are you cold?”

“I’m fine, just a little winded. We’ll be in the carriage soon enough.” She straightened and reached for Julian’s hand.

Crack!

Fire singed her upper arm and burning pain followed a moment later. She barely had time to hiss before Julian leaped onto her and sent her tumbling into the grass. Landing hard on her left side, Grace yelped as pain exploded in her arm.

“Quiet. Stay down.”

His whispered words were short and urgent. She obeyed, gulping back the cry that filled her throat. She knew as well as he what the noise had been.

A gunshot.

His weight pinned her to the earth. Branches stabbed into her back and rough grasses scratched at her face. But it was the throbbing pain in her arm that held her focus. How bad? The material of her sleeve was warm and wet with blood, but that was no indication.

She waited, breathless, listening to the woods around them. The flap of wings from disturbed birds, the whinny of their horses down the lane.

Julian rolled off her and crawled toward the lane. Grace gritted her teeth, unable to tell him of her injury as even a whisper could give away their position. She tucked her arm close to her body and followed, digging her fingertips into the cold, damp dirt. It clumped under her palm, a hard ball of wet earth. Using her elbows and feet to propel her forward, she pulled herself toward him.

Renewed pain sang down her arm. But she could move it, she thought, flexing her elbow slightly. No permanent damage to the arm. She bit her lip as her fingers skimmed over the wound. The bullet didn’t even penetrate. Just a graze across the skin. A superficial injury, then. Relief warred with the cold burn of pain.

They lay side by side at the edge of the lane. She followed Julian’s example and looked right, left.

Shadows. Nothing but black on black stretching on either side, with little moonlight to reveal their attacker. Looking through the trees to the side, Grace could see the lights of the Wargells’ home sparkling through the trees and wondered if they should run back that way.

Julian leaned toward her. She could see the grim planes of his face in the night shadows. “Stay in the trees. Stay low. Run for the carriage. If we’re separated go to the nearest inhabited cottage or manor house for help, but
don’t
go back to the Wargells’ home. Do you understand?”

“What about you?”

“
Do you understand?
” Urgency underscored his tone and sent fear threading through her.

She nodded sharply. Julian pushed to his feet. Grace did the same, choking down the faceless fear. He darted into the trees. She followed, staying as low to the ground as she could. Her feet scraped through dry leaves and brush. Small trees and bushes caught in the skirts of her gown, slowing her footsteps. Wishing she wore her breeches, Grace reached down with her uninjured arm and pulled up as much of the gown and petticoats as she could.

Without the moon to guide her, she could barely see the ground before her and hoped no stray root would jump up to trip her. Keeping her eyes on Julian’s back, she raced through the trees parallel to the lane. It couldn’t be much farther.

Julian curved to the right toward the lane and Grace followed. Her breath was coming in gasps now. He stopped at the edge of the trees and Grace could only be grateful. He held up a hand.

She could hear the swoosh and rustle of dry leaves. Someone was running through the trees, just as they had.

“The carriage is there,” Julian said, pointing across the lane to the small turnoff. The coachman had turned the carriage and it was standing just at the opening. “Run to it. I’ll be behind you.”

“But—”

“Go, Grace. There isn’t time to argue. He’s just behind us.”

With one sharp nod, Grace leapt onto the road and sprinted across it. She felt naked, vulnerable, running across the open dirt lane. She shot a look behind her. Julian was still standing at the edge of the lane, a tall, lean shadow between her and their unseen attacker.

“John!” she shouted to the groom as she neared the carriage. “Get ready!”

“Aye, milady!” He stood and brought his whip up, ready to snap it.

Grace pulled open the carriage door with her good arm and tumbled inside. Sticking her head out the open door, she squinted into the darkness. For a moment she couldn’t see Julian and panic sent her heart into her throat. Then she saw his shadow, racing across the lane.

Crack!
Another gunshot. Grace prayed Julian wasn’t hit. The whip cracked above and the carriage jerked forward. Julian dove through the open door as the carriage careened around the hedgerows and sped down the lane.

Julian slid onto the rear seat and pushed back the curtain that hung at the back window.

“Can you see him?” Grace gasped. She gritted her teeth, willing away the dull throb in her arm.

“Only an outline of a man in the road. It’s too dark for even a brief description. I wish I could have stalked him, but I had to get you to safety. I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt.”

She opened her mouth to tell him of the injury, but he swung back to face her. “It seems someone was spying on us spying on Michael Wargell.” Breathing ragged, he propped his elbows on his knees.

“Ah, Julian?” Grace pulled her arm closer to her side. She could feel the blood trickling down her forearm now and knew she needed to stanch it.

“Fair lady, you were magnificent.” His head came up and she saw his grin flash. “Not a scream, not a faint. Not a hint of the vapors. A veritable Amazon!”

He reached out in a gesture she knew well—he meant to lavish her hand with kisses. Grace tried to move away, but she wasn’t fast enough. He grabbed her hand and pulled her arm toward him.

She yelped as bright agony shot up her arm. He dropped her hand as though he, too, could feel the searing pain.

“Oh, God.
Grace.
” Springing across the carriage, Julian slid onto the seat beside her.

“Don’t touch my arm. Please,” she hissed through her teeth.
Breathe
, she ordered herself.
Don’t let the pain turn to panic. It’s just a flesh wound.

“Where are you hit? How bad?”

“Not bad—” she huffed out. “Until you touch it. I need to stanch the blood.”

“With what?”

“Anything.”

He began to untie his cravat.

J
ULIAN SMASHED HIS
foot into the double doors of Thistledown. The panels flew open and slammed against the wall with a resounding crash.

“Starkweather!” he bellowed into the dim entryway.

Grace weighed nothing in his arms. He pulled her closer to his chest, encircling her with his arms. To protect her. Even if it was too late.

The butler rounded the corner of the front hall at a dead run, his livery flapping behind him. Feet skidded on the polished parquet floor. “My lord?” he puffed. His eyes widened when he saw Julian’s burden.

“Get a fire burning in the earl’s chamber,” Julian barked. “Bring hot water and linens.”

“Yes, my lord.” Starkweather sped into the recesses of the manor.

“Julian, there’s no need to trouble the staff with fetching items,” Grace said. “It’s my arm that’s injured, not my legs. I can walk.” Still, her good arm tightened around his neck.

“If you insist on doctoring yourself, then you’re damn well going to do so on my terms,” he answered. “You’re not walking.”

Fear lent urgency to his steps as he stalked up the stairs and through the halls to the earl’s bedchamber—Grace’s bedchamber now. A banked fire already burned in anticipation of her return home. Good, he thought. It would be warm. Laying her gently on the bed, he swept his gaze over her body, searching for injuries they may have missed in the dark.

As soon as he released her, she popped up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The cravat she’d pressed against the wound dropped into her lap. He could see a bright crimson stain on the sleeve of her pelisse, a stark contrast against the white trim.

His fists clenched.
His fault
. He should never have taken her. Guilt flooded him, violent and heavy. “I’m calling the surgeon.”

“That would be a waste of time. It’s only a few sutures. I’ve set hundreds of them.” Hair straggled down from her once elegantly curled coiffure and stuck to her face and neck. He pushed aside a curl caked with mud. “I need my satchel from the stillroom.”

He swallowed hard. She could do it. He’d seen soldiers stitch their own wounds on the battlefield. Hell, he’d done it himself, though it had been a poor job. And she had been a healer for as long as he’d been a spy.

“We’ll send the Starkweathers for it. Here, let me,” he said, unclasping the fastener on her pelisse. His fingers felt thick and clumsy.

A quick knock sounded on the door. Mrs. Starkweather opened it without waiting for an answer. She carried a basin of water in her hands. Behind her, Mr. Starkweather held Grace’s satchel and a bundle of linens.

“We thought she might need her healing things as well,” Mrs. Starkweather said. “Is she well, my lord?”

“I’m fine!” Grace called from the interior of the room. “It’s just a small scratch.”

The housekeeper peered around the doorframe. She sucked in her breath, then let it whoosh out again. “Lord, Miss Gracie! You poor dear.”

“It’s nothing.” Careful fingers probed the injury. Julian’s belly clutched when Grace winced. “Though it is painful,” she muttered.

“I’d ask if it was one of the revenue officers that did it, Miss Gracie, but you’re not dressed for smuggling.” Mrs. Starkweather cocked her head. She was clearly hoping for an explanation.

“I just need to wash up and I’ll be fine,” Grace said.

Julian took the basin and other items and shut the door again. When he turned around, Grace was fingering the sleeve of her gown.

“I need to get the gown off. At the very least I need to remove the sleeve, which is so tight it must be cut off,” she said.

“The vagaries of fashion,” he muttered, shaking his head. Propping his boot on the edge of the bed, he slid his fingers in and pulled out his knife. It was short, wide and meant for stealth. He gripped the hilt. The carved ridges were comfortable in his hand.

“Do you always carry a knife in your boot?” she asked.

“Yes. Stand up.”

She complied with slow and deliberate movements, keeping her wounded arm pressed tight against her side. He lifted the fabric away from her breasts, pierced the rose silk and began to slide the knife from neck to hem.

The silk split with a whisper. He kept his hands gentle as he pushed open the gown and slid the right sleeve from her arm. But the sleeves were tight and he couldn’t pull the one off her left arm without causing her pain. It had to be done, he thought, and gritted his teeth.

Sweat rolled down his back when her breathing became shallow.

“What can I give you for pain?” he asked as she sank onto the edge of the bed.

“Nothing.” The word was short, terse. “Nothing for now. Brandy for after, please.”

“What next?”

“Set the basin beside me.”

She picked up a strip of thin linen, dipped it in the water and began to sponge the wound. Her head was bent over her work, her breath whistling between her teeth.

“Five or six sutures. No more than that.” The cloth she had been using plopped into the basin, splashing water over the edge and onto the dry linens stacked beneath it. “My needle and the thread are in the bag.”

He retrieved both, then stepped back and studied the wound. It was a red crease running across her arm just below the shoulder. He’d seen gunshot wounds before and knew this was shallow. Certainly not life threatening. But there was always the risk of a fatal infection. A chill settled over him.

“The interrupted or knotted suture is performed with any needle armed with a waxed thread . . .”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“
The London Medical Dictionary.
I’ve read it dozens of times.” Her breath hitched as the needle pierced skin. “
Carry the needle and ligature to the bottom of the wound, so as to avoid but little chance of matter collecting under it.
” She looked up. Her eyes seemed huge in her face. “It’s a different thing altogether when it’s your own wound.”

He could hear her breathing. Deep, deliberate breaths, as though control required great effort.

“Grace.”

“Quiet. This is the last stitch.” Deft fingers worked the needle. “I need you to snip the thread with the shears in my bag.”

Surely his fingers were too large and clumsy for such delicate work. He was used to wielding a knife, a pistol. His blunt fist. Not a pair of small shears.

Then it was done and he could breathe again.

She dropped the needle and thread into the basin and picked up the linen. She started dabbing at the remaining dried blood on her arm.

“Let me.” Julian took the linen from her hand.

“I can do it—”

“Just let me,” he snapped. Kneeling before her, he squeezed the long strip of linen and let the water run down her arm.

He’d never been more terrified. In all his years of spying, in all the years he’d courted death, he had never been as scared as that moment when Grace had screamed. He had failed in his duty to protect her. His wife.

“I should never have let you come with me.” He tried to keep the rage from his voice.

“Julian.” She gripped his wrist. “It was a dinner party.”

“Not that.” He dabbed at a stubborn spot on her wrist. “After. I should have made you stay in the carriage.”

“You couldn’t have.”

But he should have. “Then I shouldn’t have gone at all. Grace—” He looked down into wide silver eyes. “It’s my fault. You had to flee through the dark, through the woods.” He swallowed hard. “You were shot.”

“I’m not seriously hurt, Julian.” She sucked in a breath as he wiped a tender area. “And we’ve discovered something useful tonight.”

“Nothing worth your life.” The cloth dropped into the basin with a light splash.

“Don’t be dramatic. We learned Michael is deeply into some game with a Frenchman. Just what isn’t clear. We’ll have to find out.” Grace stood and began pacing the room, her petticoats whispering again as she moved. “How do you settle, Julian?”

“What?” He watched her, studying her quickened step, the erratic shrug of her shoulders. The gracefulness that usually defined her movements had vanished.

“I can’t seem to focus.” Her restless pacing turned into prowling. “My heart is still racing. I’m on the edge of something and can’t quite step back from it. How do you settle down after a mission, or whatever you call it?”

He understood how she felt. Blood pounding from the chase, nerves stretched thin. Alive and grateful to be so. Full of energy that had no outlet. To release that energy he usually turned to alcohol or a willing woman. Perhaps a boxing or fencing match if he could find a partner.

“I find ways.”
But she shouldn’t have to.

“I can’t tell what I need.” She turned in a circle, surveying the master suite. When she stopped, she faced the armchairs that sat before the fire and the table between them. “Brandy.”

“It might help.” He’d used it himself. So he poured two fingers and listened to her rapid footfalls as she came near.

“Aren’t you having one?” The woman who took the glass from him seemed a stranger. Flushed cheeks, hard voice. Her fingers gripped the crystal.

“No.”

She raised the glass to her lips, drank deep then met his gaze. Her eyes left him breathless. The quiet silver gray was usually calm and soothing. Now, however, that gray was dark as thunderclouds, raging and wild.

It didn’t belong there. That fierce and wild energy wasn’t Grace. He had dark secrets within him, and had taken her to dark places with this mission. She’d experienced murder and lies and heartache. His eyes fell to her arm. She’d experienced pain as well.

He could bring her no further into espionage or the secrets he held deep within. It would forever change her. She had no place in his world—or he had no place in hers.

He closed his eyes, breathed deep and let her go.

__________

"J
ULIAN?”
C
ONFUSION FILTERED
through the burn of brandy and energy. She reached for him, her fingers brushing against his chest.

He shuddered at the touch. “You deserve more than I have for you, Grace.”

“What are you talking about?” Alarm sharpened her words.

“I’m a spy. It’s all I’ve been for a decade.”

“I know that.” She set the brandy glass aside. “But Angel said you were retiring after this mission.”

“I’m not.” His tone was flat. “The foreign secretary is reinstating me.”

She sucked in a breath and fought against the need to sink down onto the bed. “You’re returning to spying.”

“Marriage and children and family aren’t for me, Grace. We both know that.” He strode to the dark window and looked out. “When this is over, I’ll be leaving for London.”

“And I stay here in Devon. In this house.” She spun away, prowled the room. “With only your mother’s ghost for company.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw and his eyes went cold. She didn’t care. Something vicious and ugly was building in her, straining to be released.

“I can’t take you with me.” Control hardened his tone and he turned away from the window. “I wouldn’t even if I could. Have you forgotten your injury?”

“How does that signify?” She ran gentle fingers over her arm. It throbbed with a dull pain.

“This is my life. Espionage, weapons, injuries, unseen enemies.” His eyes narrowed. “Secrets.”

“Secrets are something I’m learning a lot about,” she said, hating the spite in her own voice. Needing to fill her hands before she began to tear at the rage clawing in her throat, she tossed the remaining linens into the basin.

“We’re incompatible, Grace. Our lives are too different. When we catch the traitor, I’ll return to espionage and you can go back to your life—a better one, actually. You’ll have more freedom.” His face was impassive, cheekbones sharp against his lean cheeks. He spoke reasonably, almost automatically, as though it were the most natural step for their marriage. As though his words hadn’t scraped a raw wound inside her.

“I should have known you would leave. You’re the Wandering Earl,” she said icily. Opening the door, she plunked the basin onto the hall floor before snapping the door shut again. “Does our marriage or the life we were building together mean anything to you, Julian? Or was it all for the sake of the mission?”

“I never lied to you about who I was once we were married, Grace.” He grabbed her uninjured arm, held her in place when she would have swept past him.

“No. You’re a Travers.” She spat the words and wrenched her arm from his grasp.

He stiffened, and his eyes went bleak and flat. “Yes, I am a Travers. It’s something I
never
forget.”

“They say blood tells, Julian.”

“And I can never escape mine any more than you can escape yours.”

Vicious rage streaked through her, drowning out the pang of grief that had tears stinging her eyes. “
Get out
.”

He watched her steadily, summer sky eyes guarded. She couldn’t read what was in them, and it hurt that he was closed to her.

She stalked to the brandy decanter and poured another glass. Liquid splashed over the crystal rim and onto the table. Behind her, there was nothing but silence from Julian. She tossed back the brandy, gulped and let the burn of it fill the emptiness in her.

The sound of the door quietly closing seemed as loud and devastating as the gunshot had been. She whirled, staring at the door to the hall.

She was in the earl’s chamber. Her husband’s chamber.

And yet she had no husband.

The brandy glass flew through the air. Fragile crystal shattered against the door’s wooden panels and shards of glass rained down, a thousand jagged splinters with no hope of coming together again.