Jess allowed the weight of guilt and despondency to swallow her for the rest of the journey, finding it almost incomprehensible that the British government thought that she would be safe in one lone carriage accompanied by two drivers and one lying aristocrat as they attempted to draw out Saint-Aubin’s evil comrades. Her situation was indeed dire and she was out of ideas to save her skin while her current gaoler refused to leave her side. Knowing that at any point they could be ambushed, that the arrogant Flint and his men would be slaughtered before her eyes and she would be dragged kicking and screaming back to France, filled Jess with more dread than she knew how to deal with.
If they caught her, then her only hope was to plead horror at her initial abduction and reassure Saint-Aubin that every detail of her mother’s damning little book was consigned to memory. Then, if he believed her, Jess would go back to being his slave, forced to continue writing those letters and sending more innocent men to their deaths. For what? All to save her own skin—a weak and worthless skin she would despise occupying for the rest of her days.
Death was a better option.
Next to her, her unwelcome companion was feigning sleep once again. That was fine by Jess. She hated him more now. She had nothing to say to him. Instead, she focused on the blurred bushes and trees at the roadside as the carriage sped past, her heart in her mouth, searching for the men who would hunt her down. Simultaneously praying to God that he’d find a way to save her. Just this once.
By some miracle they arrived in Plymouth without issue and the carriage pulled into a busy inn in the centre of the crowded port town. Lord Flint held her arm tightly as he helped her down, then wrapped hers securely through his to lead her through the inn. She allowed it to go limp in the hope he would relax his grip, but he merely looked knowingly at her and held her tighter.
‘Would you like some dinner?’ The dining room was filled with curious travellers, any of whom could be her enemy. How dare he attempt to put her on display like a juicy maggot on a hook!
‘Go to hell!’
He turned to the amused driver who had followed them in, asked him to organise a tray to be sent to the room, then dragged her up two flights of narrow stairs at pace before depositing her in the sole bedchamber at the top of the building.
‘I hope you find the accommodations for tonight satisfactory. The trunk over there should have everything that you need—but if you require anything else I’ll send my man to fetch it in the morning before we depart.’
Jess let her eyes wander to the enormous leather trunk before piercing him with her glare. For once, she had no words, yet was content to simply allow her roiling hatred for the man to bubble openly.
‘I see you are angry at me again.’
‘An understatement, Monsieur Flint.’
‘For what it’s worth, I prefer the anger to seeing you sad.’ He huffed out a breath and raked a hand through his thick hair, the unintentional dishevelment only serving to make him more attractive, the wretch. How dare he say nice things! ‘If you need anything, I’ll be back soon.’ Then he stood awkwardly for a few seconds before clamping his hands behind his back, stiffly inclining his head and leaving her all alone.
As the key clicked decisively in the lock, it didn’t take her long to realise why her shadow felt confident enough to disappear. Despite the long drop to the cobbled courtyard below, a drop so reminiscent of the one in Cherbourg that it instantly made her queasy, the two windows were barred on the outside and although she could open the glass and let in the fresh evening air, the gap between those bars was barely enough to slide her hand through, let alone anything else. He had chosen this room on purpose.
Of course he had. Monsieur Flint had a plan, a detailed one, and Jess didn’t.
She tossed her new bonnet on the small dressing table and sat listlessly on the bed. I prefer the anger to seeing you sad. As if her misery somehow made him miserable, too! Did he think words would make up for him intentionally putting her life in jeopardy? Did he think she was a fool who would fall for such a flowery, insincere statement?
Although he had sounded sincere and his sea-green eyes had been pained.
Idiot! Stop thinking such nonsense! She shouldn’t waste her time pathetically attributing substance to a meaningless, throwaway comment when she had an escape to plan... The trouble was she had been starved of affection and friendship for too long and was now seeing flickers of those emotions where none truly existed. Jess sincerely doubted he suffered from a similar affliction.
Except... He had come to her aid more than once with the toothless sailor. He’d torn a strip off the crew for debasing her. He had brought her food and seen to her comfort. He had listened to the physician’s instructions to allow her to rest instead of pushing on with his plan to deliver her to London. He hadn’t as much as harmed a hair on her head. Irritated, Jess took in the room properly. A fresh nightgown had been laid out on the comfortable bed. There was a hairbrush, hairpins and ribbons on the dressing table. A trunk filled with more clothes she imagined were much like the fine garment she was wearing. And despite everything she had done to escape his clutches, her wrists were blessedly free of manacles. She might well be bait—but she was being treated like a lady.
Why was that?
Maybe the compassion she had seen in those compelling green eyes had been real after all? Which meant there was a chance he might have human emotions buried under all that aristocratic indifference?
An Achilles heel?
The polite tap on the door followed by the jangling of keys interrupted her train of thought and her silly pulse fluttered at the prospect of seeing him again. Only it wasn’t the arrogant and exasperating Lord Flint who carried the tray in. It was his grinning driver.
He offered her a courtly bow and proffered the tray as if it were the Crown Jewels rather than a plate piled with bread, cheese and ham. ‘Your dinner, my lady!’
She glanced past him to the tiny landing where the other coachman, a very burly fellow who looked more suited to bare-knuckle fighting than handling the ribbons, stood guard. ‘Où est Monsieur Flint? Have I scared him away?’
‘Flint is made of stern stuff, my lady. As the only brother of five troublesome sisters, there is no one better to deal with your tomfoolery than him. He has the patience of a saint. But alas, even saints need an hour or two to themselves. I’m afraid you are stuck with me until then.’ He bowed again and winked. ‘Lord Graham Chadwick at your service, mademoiselle. But you can call me Gray. Far more handsome and charming than Flint, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
Charming, yes. Handsome, too, but not in the league of her golden-haired gaoler.
‘Lord Chadwick? And there I was thinking you were naught but a simple coachman.’ She peeked up at him from beneath her lashes and was delighted to see that this lord was more than happy to be flirted with. Except flirting with him seemed disloyal, so Jess annoyed herself by changing her expression to one of openness rather than enticement.
‘Five sisters? The poor man must indeed have the patience of a saint.’ Jess picked up a chunk of bread and nibbled on it, smiling. ‘Do they run him ragged?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe, my lady.’
‘Young ladies will do that. We are all very temperamental. Non?’
‘These are all older and want him married. The poor chap can’t venture home without their aggressive matchmaking. It’s hugely entertaining to watch.’
‘I should imagine it is.’ The image of her gaoler rolling his eyes in exasperation while indulging his sisters’ machinations with good humour skittered across her mind. ‘Is he a good brother, Monsieur Gray?’ Because he was respectful, almost noble, in his manner. As if he understood women and was careful how he treated them. Even when Flint restrained her he was gentle. Jess could honestly say he hadn’t physically hurt her once. Even when he had used his body to pin her to the bed. Such an experience should have been unpleasant—but it wasn’t. A large part of her, the part she had absolutely no control of, had really rather enjoyed it.
‘I suspect so.’
‘But a committed bachelor?’
‘So many questions and all about Flint.’ He grinned and folded his arms. ‘Do you miss him already?’
‘Merely curious.’
‘Understandable. It’s good to know your enemy.’
‘That is the problem, Monsieur Gray, I am not entirely sure Monsieur Flint is my enemy. I can’t quite make him out. I have spent hours in his company and yet know next to nothing about him. I find myself wanting to trust him. Perhaps if I understood him better, I might be inclined to entrust him with my confession, but—’
Gray chuckled and held up his hand. ‘Let me stop you there. You’re good. I’ll give you that. Flint was absolutely correct. Just the right combination of beautiful and tragic to lull a man into falling for your lies. Very convincing. It’s also a good job I am not a simple coachman, else I might do something foolish and satisfy your curiosity. Even better, Flint won’t fall for it either—but I’m looking forward to seeing you try. Enjoy your dinner, mademoiselle.’ He turned and started back towards the door, only to pause, his face the very picture of mischief. ‘I shall tell Monsieur Flint you are quite taken with him and miss his presence keenly. I dare say that will give him a laugh.’ He closed the door before her chunk of bread hit him in the face.
Flint did a subtle circuit of the inn, but needn’t have worried. Gray had two-hirds of the Invisibles stationed around the perimeter, disguised as everything from ostlers to drunkards. A quick glance upwards confirmed there were also two on the roof, as they briefly poked their heads out of their hiding places and nodded in acknowledgement before blending seamlessly back into the chimneys. The rest were already in position on their route or readying the next inn they would stop at. There were eyes and pistols everywhere. If any of the Boss’s henchmen came calling tonight, they were more than ready for them. The fools would be rounded up and made to talk. Hired henchmen often spilled their guts to save their own backsides. Especially if there was a King’s Pardon on offer. Flint had the papers signed and ready and sat in the same locked box as Jess’s arrest warrant. Every detail of this mission had been meticulously planned. Knowing that made him feel more in control again and served to remind him of the purpose of his mission.
Escort the traitor to London slowly. Arrest every cockroach that crawled out of the woodwork along the way. Deposit her in London and then move blithely on to the next mission.
Clear cut.
That simple.
Although getting less simple by the second.
If only he had a clear-cut plan to help him cope with tonight. The inn might well be awash with the King’s Elite, men who knew their role in this mission and would behave accordingly, but the dark-haired vixen he had to spend the night guarding was another matter. There was no telling what Jess would do and Flint was mentally preparing for every eventuality from finding the bars on the window removed using twisted hairpins or some other innocuous items she had fashioned into a tool—because she was that resourceful and determined—to wrestling the wench to the ground if she attempted to steal the keys again. Something his needy body was rather looking forward to even while his head violently castigated it for being so weak. Whatever she threw at him, he knew one thing for certain—tonight was not going to be easy. The temptation to post himself outside the door on a chair was overwhelming.
Except he didn’t trust her to be left alone too long—even with bars on the window. The two hours he had been absent were quite long enough and, despite Gray listening intently through the door, ears were no substitute for eyes. The only eyes he trusted to watch Jess properly were his own.
That was his story and Flint was sticking to it, even if he didn’t fully believe it himself.
He took a moment at the bottom of the narrow staircase to enjoy the peace and then steeled his shoulders ready for the chaos.
Lord save him from troublesome women!
He still wasn’t over his forced two months of rustication in Cornwall and his nerves were shot. Flint had spent the better part of the last few hours attempting to calm down, only to find his thoughts constantly turning to her. And what a jumbled mess they were, too. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t shake the image of her frightened and broken. The brave tears and the smart mouth. The fighter and the defeated. The traitor and the woman. All tangled up with a healthy dose of inappropriate lust and his ingrained need to protect the woman he was duty bound to deliver to the courts. Tonight would be pure torture.
Three stairs up and he found himself neatening his cuffs and smoothing down his hair. Damn woman! All this enforced proximity was driving him mad. Gray’s cheerful face at the top of the landing did nothing to appease him.
‘Is everything to your liking?’
No. There was still her. ‘Yes. Let’s put this inn to bed.’
‘Then she’s all yours, my friend. Good luck.’ Gray tossed him the key and disappeared down the staircase. That was one small consolation at least. Flint’s misery would be spared an audience.
He strode to the door with purpose, allowed his lip to curl with distaste, then pulled himself together before he knocked in case his frustrated fist splintered the wood. ‘I’m back.’
‘Come in.’
Good lord, she sounded positively calm. Something so out of character it immediately raised all his hackles and had him narrowing his eyes. Warily, Flint undid the lock and slowly poked his head around the door, waiting for the projectile that never came.
‘Bon soir, Monsieur Flint. Back to vex me, I see.’ Although she couldn’t see because she was sat at the dressing table with her back to him, running the hairbrush determinedly through her waist-length hair impatiently. And, damn it all to hell, it shimmered like the polished ebony keys of a pianoforte in the candlelight, a thick, silk curtain falling over just the one shoulder that his fingers ached to touch. That hair needed proper restraining for the sake of his frazzled nerves and wayward body. ‘Is your trap set? Does the whole of Plymouth know I am here, waiting to be killed? A veritable lamb to the slaughter?’
The nightgown she wore dipped slightly to expose the creamy expanse of perfect skin covering the nape of her neck. One didn’t need to be an expert in women’s fashions to know the front of the neckline dipped lower still, or that the fine, soft linen would drape in such a way as to make a statement out of her bosom and allow the silhouette of her figure to be tantalisingly visible when the light caught it. Later, if he survived the night, he was going to tear a strip off the idiot who had purchased all her clothes. What the hell had the fellow been thinking? That wasn’t a sensible everyday nightgown at all. That was the sort of confection a woman wore on her wedding night to entice her new husband! And all that lovely hair was down! Torturing him. Why hadn’t she plaited it? Because she wanted to seduce him. The witch.
‘You are perfectly safe.’
‘And you are a fool if you think either one of us is safe. Please remember I said that before they put a bullet or a dagger in your chest. Monsieur Gray has made your bed so you can sleep the restful sleep of the deluded.’ She turned, gesturing to the pallet on the floor, and he very nearly groaned aloud. How, exactly, were they all supposed to keep their minds firmly on their mission when confronted with Jess looking like that? If the shops were still open, he’d send the fool out to purchase her staid and sensible garments, with high necks and no shape. A smock, perhaps? Made of thick wool. Or chainmail. And a very unbecoming nightcap which he would personally double knot beneath her chin to prevent it dislodging and releasing that hair. ‘I presume you intend to drag it in front of the door again, lest I am foolish enough to attempt to escape with armed guards stood outside.’
She stood and he almost groaned again. That neckline might well be the death of him. The shadowy outline of her waist and hips came a close second. It was hard to ignore the way they undulated as she walked to the bed. Eve tempting Adam—or was she merely the snake? ‘Goodnight, Monsieur Flint. Let us both pray it is not our last. I shall leave you to blow out the candles.’
Clearly now intent on being a complete masochist, Flint watched her clamber on to the bed and pull the covers over. They didn’t help. Intent on not looking at him, the vixen was lying on her side facing the window. The thin blanket moulded to her curves like a second skin, making her backside resemble a juicy peach ripe for the picking. The unrestrained ebony tresses calling to him. Touch me...you know you want to.
Like a man walking to the gallows, Flint wandered to all three of the candles in turn and snuffed them out before dragging his bedding miserably to the door. A pointless task, really, as sleep of any sort was now nigh on impossible. Not that her words had bothered him over much, because he knew there were fifty men close by who had his back, but because she had occupied his head again in a wholly inappropriate way and he knew already nothing would dislodge her. Instead, he removed only his coat, stretched out on the pallet and fixed his gaze firmly on the ceiling, and wondered what he had done to deserve this stint in purgatory with the most beautiful, maddening and, lord help him, most alluring woman he had ever met. Up in heaven he swore he heard his father laughing at him. Got me shot, lad. That’ll teach you.