Bride for a Night

CHAPTER TWENTY



JACQUES HAD DEVOTED his years in England to becoming the polished gentleman that his mother had always wanted him to be, even as he had secretly prepared for his return to France as a skilled soldier.

Oh, not as a traditional warrior who could wave around a pointy sword or shoot a man at twenty paces. There were always fools who could be taught to march in line and use a weapon without killing himself. But instead he had honed his talent in manipulating people, discovering that those about him could be used like pawns upon a chessboard with the proper incentives. It was only a matter of finding each individual weakness and exploiting it.

The world might condemn his sly scheming as beneath a true gentleman, but he had been indifferent to the censure. It was a supposedly honorable gentleman who had attempted to rape his mother and sent his father to his death.

And there was no arguing with the success of his efforts. By the time he had arrived in Paris he had mastered his talent in coercion, with a dozen high-ranking Englishmen dangling on his strings to show for it.

Including Mr. Harry Richardson.

Much to his annoyance, however, he found the Earl of Ashcombe was impervious to his attempts at manipulation. The arrogant bastard was too stubborn to be so easily led.

Not that he intended to concede defeat. He shifted his attention to the loaded pistol trained at his chest. Gabriel’s glare silently dared him to attempt an escape so he could have reason to shoot.

For all of Gabriel’s conceit, he was not nearly so certain of his decision to expose Harry as a traitor as he desired Jacques to believe. With the proper prodding, even this pigheaded man could be convinced to change his mind.

Unfortunately, his subtle assault was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a high whistle that came from the shore below the cliff.

Gabriel squared his shoulders, his expression one of bleak intent.

“Hugo has arrived with the boat.”

He gave a small wave of the pistol, and Jacques grudgingly moved back into the clearing. His gaze instinctively sought out Sophia who remained standing with rigid fear several feet from the others.

An answering fear clenched Jacques’s heart.

A tense promise of violence vibrated through the air as he came to a halt, and he cast a covert glance toward the nearby trees. He could not see his guards, but he could sense their increasingly restless presence. What would happen when Gabriel attempted to force him down the cliff?

He shivered at the looming potential for chaos.

Perhaps echoing his thoughts, Gabriel backed toward the edge of the cliff, briefly turning his attention toward his wife.

“Talia, you go down first.” When there was no response to his command, Gabriel swallowed his pride and sent her a desperate glance. “Please.”

Talia hesitated, clearly torn between an instinctual urge to protect her husband and the knowledge that he could not give his full attention to the lurking soldiers so long as she was near.


“Fine.”

Talia stiffly turned to make her way slowly down the cliff. There was an uncomfortable silence until they at last heard Hugo’s whistle to indicate Lady Ashcombe had reached the boat. Then Gabriel glanced toward his brother who was nervously aiming his pistol toward the nearby trees. Jacques held his breath, knowing it would take very little for the twitchy dandy to be startled into firing his weapon.

“Harry, you will be next.”

The younger man scowled at the sharp command. “We are not alone.”

“I see them,” Gabriel assured his brother. “Get to the boat.”

Harry shook his head. “No. You take Jacques and I will keep them at bay.”

Jacques gave a startled laugh. “Sacré bleu. Is it possible that the worm has at last acquired a spine?”

The two brothers ignored him as they glared at one another in growing frustration.

“Harry, do as I say,” Gabriel snapped.

Harry jutted his chin, looking strangely older in the faint wash of dawn.

“Not on this occasion,” Harry said, his expression set in stubborn lines.

“Dammit…” Gabriel gave a frustrated shake of his head before turning his attention to Jacques. “Come.”

A prickle of unease raced over Jacques’s skin as he glanced toward Sophia. It felt as if they were standing on top of a powder keg, and that the slightest move might set off a fatal explosion.

He did not fear for himself. God knew that he had been courting an early grave since he’d tossed his lot in with Napoleon. He had long ago made peace with the notion he might never live long enough to witness the end of the war.

But the torturous thought of Sophia being put at risk tightened his chest until it was impossible to breathe.

He held up a warning hand as she took a hesitant step in his direction.

“Sophia, remain where you are,” he rasped. “You will be safe.”

Her dark eyes flashed with the passion he had taken for granted far too long.

“I do not want to be safe, I want to be with you.”

“Non, Sophia do not—”

As if her movement had triggered the brewing storm, there was a sharp staccato of weapons being fired from behind the nearest trees.

Panic slammed through Jacques as he launched himself forward and knocked Sophia to the ground, covering her slender body with his own.

“Arrêtez,” he shouted, hearing the sound of Gabriel and Harry returning fire. Then as a bullet flew past his face close enough to singe his ear, he waved an arm in the air. “Mon dieu. Cease your fire, you idiots.”

A thick silence abruptly descended, the air filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder. Jacques risked a quick glance over his shoulder to watch as Harry clutched his chest and sank to the ground, Gabriel falling to his knees beside his wounded brother.

It was now or never, Jacques realized as he rose to his feet and grasped Sophia’s hand to pull her upright.

“This way,” a French soldier called from the distance.

Jacques took a step forward but faltered as Sophia stumbled and nearly fell.

“Sophia,” he breathed in fear, wrapping protective arms around her. “Were you hit?”

“It is only my ankle,” she breathed, pressing her hands against his chest. “Go ahead, the Englishmen will not harm me.”

“Foolish female,” he muttered as he scooped her off her feet.

“Jacques,” Sophia protested, attempting to wiggle out of his arms.

“Non, do not struggle,” he commanded as he charged toward the trees, half expecting a bullet to pierce his back with every step.

“But…”

“Shh.”

He refused to acknowledge her frustrated glare, keeping his gaze trained straight ahead. Did the silly fool truly believe he would leave her behind?

Reaching the edge of the small clearing, Jacques waded through the thicket of underbrush that ripped at his pantaloons and ruined the gloss of his boots. At last he entered the narrow band of trees, and one of the soldiers stepped forward to offer a shallow bow.

“I will need your horse,” he informed the young soldier who looked barely old enough to be out of the nursery.

“Of course.”

Obeying with admirable eagerness, the soldier darted deeper into the trees before he reappeared, leading a chestnut mare by the reins. Two mounted soldiers followed behind them, both as young as the first.

“Do you wish us to capture the English swine?” a dark-haired soldier demanded, his avid expression revealing his innocence. A man who had killed another was never eager to repeat the experience. “Non. We could not reach them without casualties, and we shall soon be outmanned by Ashcombe’s crew.” With one smooth motion, he lifted Sophia into the saddle of the waiting horse, then sliding one foot into the stirrup, he grasped the horn and pulled himself up to swing his leg over the horse and settle behind her. The mare skittered to one side, but with a firm hold on the reins he swiftly brought her back under control. “We will return to Calais and alert the soldiers. They can send a warship in pursuit.”

“As you command.”

The dark-haired soldier did not bother to hide his disappointment, but trained to obey his superiors, he gave a nod of his head and turned to urge his horse toward the path leading back to Calais.

Jacques waited as the second mounted soldier paused to allow his compatriot to leap onto the saddle behind him and disappeared into the trees before he urged his own horse into a steady trot.

“Hold on tight, ma belle,” he murmured, not bothering to glance behind him.

To hell with the Earl of Ashcombe and his damnable brother. If there was any justice the pair of them would drown on their journey back to England.

“Forgive me, Jacques.” A soft female voice broke into his pleasant imaginings of Gabriel sinking to the bottom of the Channel.

With a frown he glanced down, studying the regret that darkened Sophia’s eyes.

“Forgive you?”

“This entire…” she searched for the proper word “…debacle is my fault.”

Debacle was an apt description, Jacques had to ruefully agree, but there was no one to blame but himself.

“What is your fault?”

“I should never have assisted Lord and Lady Ashcombe in escaping from the palace.”

With gentle care he cradled her against his chest, savoring the beauty of her pale face in the cresting dawn.

“That is in the past,” he assured her. “We will not speak of it again.”

“And tonight?” she persisted, almost as if she needed to punish herself. “If I had not intruded, they would not have been allowed to escape yet again.”

The path led them beyond the trees and between the rolling fields that were bathed in a glistening dew.

“You were concerned for me.”

“Only in part.” She heaved a sigh. “I knew you were in your private chambers with Talia and when I heard the sound of crashing glass I used it as an excuse to interrupt. I was afraid…”

“And you were afraid of what?” he prompted as her words faltered.

“I was afraid that you intended to take her to your bed.”

“And you thought you could prevent the seduction?”

“I was not thinking,” she professed huskily. “I was following my poor heart that could not bear the thought of you with another.”

He slowed the pace of his mount at her unexpected confession. The beautiful actress had always been successful in keeping her feelings hidden even as she pandered to his needs. Now he found himself instinctively shying from the emotions that smoldered in her dark eyes.


“Sophia.”

She averted her face to stare at the passing fields, effectively hiding her expression.

“I know you do not wish to be burdened with my unwanted affections, Jacques.” The words were so low he could barely catch them. “But I very nearly lost you this evening and I could not bear the thought of you dying without knowing that I love you.”

“I…” He shifted in the saddle, shying from her blunt confession. “We will discuss this later,” he muttered.

He felt her stiffen in his arms. “There is no need for discussion, chérie.”

But Jacques found himself annoyed by the stark resignation that hardened her profile. A preference to discuss such a…delicate subject in the comfort of his home rather than on the back of a horse when they were both so weary was considerably different than hoping to ignore it altogether.

“Are you so certain?”

“Oui.” She turned back to meet his gaze, understandably confused by his unpredictable reactions. “I comprehend that I have overstepped the boundaries of our liaison.”

“I was not aware our liaison had boundaries.”

Her brows jerked together. “Do not mock me, Jacques.”

“That was not my intent—”

“A courtesan’s first lesson is never to allow her emotions to become entangled,” she interrupted, a faint color staining her cheeks. “Gentlemen seek our companionship for pleasure, not duty.”

Duty? His blood heated at the mere thought of their time together.

Both in and out of bed.

“Well, it is certainly true that I have never considered you a duty, ma belle,” he said wryly.

Her expression remained bleak. “And you never shall.” She tilted her chin. “It was not my place to interfere in your relationship with Talia. She is obviously a lady of quality and if you desire to claim her as your own then I shall wish you happiness.”

“Will you? You do not sound particularly happy,” he teased softly.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Please, Jacques.”

“No tears, Sophia,” he commanded gruffly, startled by her vulnerable state.

Over the years he had become accustomed to females who sought to sway him with tears and tantrums, but never, ever Sophia.

“There are no tears,” she ridiculously denied. “I never cry.”

Tenderness surged through him as he studied the female who snuggled against his chest, her dark hair spilling over his arm that he had circled around her shoulders. She appeared oddly fragile.

“Another lesson of courtesans?”

She blinked, giving a delicate sniff. “Oui.”

“I have no desire to claim Talia, ma belle,” he said, realizing as he said the words that they were true. He had enjoyed the thought of rescuing Talia from the cruel hands of her neglectful husband. And savoring the knowledge that he was striking a painful blow at the English nobles by stealing a countess from beneath their arrogant noses. But his heart had already been stolen by another. “I have no desire to claim any woman but you.”

She flinched, almost as if he had slapped her. “Do not say such a thing.”

He barely noticed as they trailed ever farther behind his guards, the steady hoofbeats the only sound to stir the early-morning air.

Was the female being deliberately difficult?

She had just professed her love for him, had she not?

Now that he had admitted to his own desire, she was behaving as if he had threatened to drown her in the nearest well.

“Even if it is the truth?” he growled.

“It cannot be.” Her lips flattened as she battled to conceal the emotions that smoldered in her dark eyes. “You wish for a proper female who you will be proud to have standing at your side. Not an aging actress who was born in the gutters.”

He lifted a brow. “You seem to forget that my mother was an actress.”

“And you were forced to suffer because of her,” she reminded him in raw tones.

He lifted his head sharply, his gaze shifting toward the distant silhouette of Calais.

As difficult as it was to admit, even to himself, there had always been a treacherous part of him that held his mother to blame for his father’s death. Insanity, of course. His mother was not responsible for her haunting beauty. Or his father’s volatile reaction that had ended with him locked within the Bastille.

But as a young man forced to mature without his beloved papa, he had been unable to keep from wondering how his life might have been different had his mother not captured the roaming eye of a lecher.

Was it possible that he had held Sophia at a distance precisely because she reminded him of his mother?

The thought was enough to send a jolt of shame through his heart.

“Non,” he roughly denied. “I suffered because of a depraved scoundrel devoid of morals or honor. A nobleman who is now as dead as my father.”

“But not forgotten,” she said softly.

“He will never be forgotten. And I will never halt my efforts to be rid of men like him,” Jacques swore, returning his gaze to meet her guarded expression. “Will you fight at my side, Sophia Reynard?”

She paused, clearly sensing that he was asking for more than just another ally in the war against the tyrannous ruling class.

“I will be at your side so long as you desire me, but—”

He bent his head to crush her lips in a passionate kiss.

“That is all I need.” He pulled back to peer deep into her wide eyes. “You are all that I need, ma belle.”

“Jacques,” she breathed in surrender.

Hunger speared through him, and tightening his grip around her slender body, he urged his horse into a faster pace.

“It is time we were home.”



IN SOME DISTANT part of his mind Gabriel was aware of Jacques escaping along with Sophia and his guards. Even more distantly he could hear the fading sound of Hugo rowing Talia toward the yacht, his mate obviously having the good sense to cast off the moment he heard the gunshot.

His concentration, however, was utterly absorbed in his foolish brother.

Christ.

What the devil was the matter with Harry? He should have scurried behind the protection of the carriage the moment the bullets had started to fly. Instead, the impulsive idiot had launched himself forward, taking a bullet that surely would have killed Gabriel.

“Dammit, Harry,” he muttered, arranging his brother flat on his back so he could run his hands down his limp body. “What were you thinking?”

With a grimace, Harry lifted his lashes to reveal pain-glazed eyes.

“Clearly I was not thinking at all,” he muttered.

Unable to find any obvious injuries, Gabriel attempted to tug aside Harry’s tightly fitted jacket.

“Where were you hit?”

“Leave it be, Gabriel.” Harry weakly knocked aside Gabriel’s hand, pulling the jacket over the blood that was already staining the white linen shirt beneath. “There is nothing you can do for me here.”

Gabriel settled back on his heels, conceding Harry’s point. He had no supplies that would assist in tending to a wound, even if he possessed the skills to do so. His only comfort was the hope that the bullet had caught Harry closer to his shoulder than his heart.

“Hugo has taken Talia to the yacht, but the captain will have sent a boat when we first arrived,” he said, attempting to comfort his brother. “It should arrive at any moment.”

“What of Jacques?”

Gabriel glanced across the clearing, realizing that dawn had well arrived, spreading a rosy light across the landscape.


“He has bolted.”

Harry attempted to lift his head, as if not trusting Gabriel’s word.

“You are certain?”

“Hold still, you foolish cub,” Gabriel commanded urgently, a fear clenching his heart at the ashen pallor of his brother’s face. Bloody hell. Just hours ago he had been determined to turn his brother over as a traitor to his country. Now he would give his own life to make certain Harry lived. “Jacques and his men are gone,” he rasped. “Although I do not doubt they will send soldiers to search for us.”

Accepting they were out of danger for the moment, Harry lowered his head back to the ground with a heavy sigh.

“I do not suppose you managed to wound the bastard?”

Gabriel shook his head in regret. He had managed a shot in the direction of the Frenchman, but before he could even consider reloading his pistol Harry had been hit, and he had forgotten everything but carrying his brother out of the line of fire.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“A pity.”

It was, of course, but not as great a pity as witnessing his brother stretched on the ground with a bullet lodged in his flesh.

“Why did you do it, Harry?” he demanded.

“Do what?”

Gabriel hissed out a painful breath. Never so long as he lived would he forget the sight of Harry leaping in front of him.

“Take a bullet that was intended for me?”

Harry turned his head, remaining silent for so long Gabriel thought he might ignore the question. At last he heaved a sigh and turned back to meet Gabriel’s worried gaze.

“Do you remember the Christmas morning that I slipped away from my nurse so I could show father I was old enough for the new pair of skates you had given to me?”

Gabriel shuddered. It had been a Christmas he had never forgotten. He had purchased the ice skates from a local craftsman, never considering the notion his father might consider Harry too irresponsible to own a pair. Of course, the moment the earl had forbidden his youngest son to keep them, Harry had taken off with the intent to prove his father wrong.

Gabriel had followed him, but he’d only arrived just as Harry skated toward the center of the lake where the ice was the weakest.

“You fell through the ice,” he said, vividly recalling the terror that had seared through him as his brother disappeared from sight.

“And you pulled me out.” Harry managed a tight smile. “You saved my life that day. Tonight I repaid my debt.”

“There was no debt.” Gabriel frowned. “You are my brother. It is my duty to protect you.”

“You have always done your best.” Harry’s smile became oddly wistful. “But, you could never protect me from my own demons, Gabriel. They are mine to battle.”

Gabriel tensed. God almighty, how many endless, miserable years had he waited for his brother to take responsibility for his failures? To at last realize that his troubles were of his own making? And yet, now that Harry had spoken the words he had waited to hear, he felt none of the satisfaction he had anticipated.

Hell, they only managed to make him feel more guilty.

“I should have done more,” he muttered.

“The fault was not yours.” Harry reached to squeeze Gabriel’s hand, genuine regret adding a hint of maturity to his slender face. “It has never been yours.”

Gabriel shook his head, refusing to debate the issue. Not when his brother was wounded, perhaps even dying, and they were trapped in enemy territory.

“Now is not the time for this discussion,” he said gruffly, a surge of relief racing through him at the soft call from the distant shore. Obviously his captain had indeed seen his signal and sent a boat. “Thank God. We shall soon be safe.”

Harry grimaced, his hand lifting to press against his injured shoulder.

“I will never make it down the cliff.”

“There is no need to worry. I will return in a moment with one of my crew to carry you down to the shore.”

As Gabriel began to straighten, Harry’s grip tightened on his arm with surprising strength. “Wait, Gabriel.”

“Harry, we must not delay,” he growled, his brows drawn together with impatient concern. His captain was not a trained surgeon, but he was capable of tending to most wounds. “Your injury…”

“No, this must be said now.”

Gabriel sank back to his knees, unwilling to struggle with his brother and risk further injury.

“What?”

“I am sorry.”

Gabriel’s heart twisted at the raw guilt that shone in his brother’s eyes.

“I know, Harry, but we can finish this once we are aboard the yacht.”

“No, it must be now.”

Gabriel nodded reluctantly. “Very well. What do you wish to tell me?”

“My relationship with Jacques all began so innocently,” Harry said, his voice thick with self-disgust.

“Somehow I do not associate Jacques with innocence.”

“True, but it seemed so at the time. Jacques and I were schoolmates.”

“So he said,” Gabriel confessed, condemning to hell whatever ill fate had crossed Harry’s path with the damned Frenchman. “I cannot imagine the two of you having had much in common.”

Harry snorted, his hand lifting to impatiently brush back the brown curls that had tumbled onto his forehead.

“No, he was far too somber and studious for my taste, and of course, he did little to disguise his revolutionary tendencies.” Harry’s expression was distant as he became lost in his memories. “But he came upon me one evening while I was in the midst of a nasty disagreement with several upperclassmen. They were under the impression I owed them a great deal of money.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “No doubt because I did.”

Gabriel was not surprised that his brother had started his career of living in dun territory at such a tender age. Or that he had incurred the wrath of his fellow students with his blithe disregard in accepting responsibility.

“What did he do?”

“He not only paid my debt, but he carried me back to my rooms and tended to my numerous bruises.” Harry’s lips twisted. “I thought he must be my guardian angel.”

“A clever means to earn your loyalty.”

“Jacques was never stupid.”

Gabriel had to agree. The Frenchman was cunning and ruthless, with the instincts of Machiavelli.

“What did he demand in return?”

“Nothing until I was preparing to leave school and take my place in society. Then he requested that I carry a packet of letters to London.”

“What letters?”

“I do not know,” Harry admitted in a dismissive voice. “And I doubt they were of any importance.”

Gabriel frowned at his flippant tone. Had his brother learned nothing? Jacques clearly had a well-practiced routine of using dupes to transport vital information.

“How can you be certain?”

“Because his true purpose was to ensure that I was introduced to Juliette,” Harry said bitterly.

It took a moment for Gabriel to realize that his brother was referring to the voluptuous French widow of an English diplomat. Gabriel had been dimly aware that the golden-haired beauty had drifted in and out of his brother’s bed over the years, but he had always assumed it had been nothing more than a casual affair.

At least until he had discovered that the woman had traveled with Harry to France.

“Madame Martine,” he spat in disgust.

“I was such an idiot.” Harry closed his eyes, visibly pained by his memories. “Jacques was well aware that I was ripe to be seduced by such a beautiful woman who could easily manipulate me.”


“Not an uncommon failing among young men.”

Harry snorted. “Not you.”

“Do not be so certain,” Gabriel argued. “My first mistress managed to coax me into buying her several pieces of fine jewelry as well as a new carriage and matching horses to pull it before I realized she was sharing her favors with several other gentlemen at the same time.”

“Juliette cost me more than my yearly allowance.” Harry lifted his lashes to reveal the torment in his eyes. “It was with her urging that I became such a reckless fool. I was desperate to impress her with my daring deeds and my boundless wealth.” His jaw tightened. “And of course, she was clever enough to be forever prodding my jealousy toward you. I would have done anything to prove I was as worthy as you in her eyes.”

Gabriel heaved a rough sigh, shoving aside his stab of guilt as he considered the implications of his brother’s confession.

“Including an offer to establish Jacques as the local vicar of Carrick Park?” he asked.

“Yes.” Harry shook his head, then bit off a curse as the movement jostled his wound. “A difficult task, I might add,” he seethed.

It should have been an impossible task, Gabriel silently acknowledged, detesting the thought that church officials might have been bribed or bullied into turning a blind eye to Vicar Gerard of Carrick Park.

“Someday I wish to hear how you accomplished such a feat,” he warned.

“Someday.”

Gabriel allowed his brother to remain evasive. He would eventually discover the truth of the matter. But he was suddenly struck by a more pressing question.

“I do not comprehend why you agreed to wed Talia if you were being supported by Jacques.”

Harry flushed, revealing a genuine embarrassment for his heartless behavior.

“I had a brief moment of conscience,” he said, smiling wryly at Gabriel’s sudden scowl. “It is true, although I do not blame you if you find it difficult to believe. I thought that once I had my hands on Dobson’s money I could cut my ties to Jacques and walk away unscathed.”

“You thought he could be bribed?”

“Absurd, of course.” His sharp laugh cut through the hushed silence. “I was assured that there was no means to end my…partnership with the damned Frenchman.”

“And that is when you fled to Calais?”

“Yes, once again forcing you to pay for my sins,” Harry acknowledged, his expression hardening. “But no more. I have learned my lesson, I swear. Things will be different in the future.”

Gabriel shied from his brother’s heartfelt promise. He desperately wanted to believe that Harry had truly changed, but how often had he been disappointed in the past?

“Enough of this, you must conserve your strength while I fetch some help,” he said brusquely.

Once again Harry’s fingers dug into Gabriel’s arm, keeping him from rising.

“First I must give you this,” Harry said, wincing as he fumbled beneath his jacket and at last pulled out a folded piece of parchment that he shoved into Gabriel’s hand.

Shifting to catch the faint light cresting the horizon, Gabriel unfolded the paper and scanned the list of names that were written in a neat column.

He frowned as he recognized several of the gentlemen. “What is it?”

“The names of those Englishmen hired by Jacques.”

Even suspecting the truth, Gabriel felt an icy dread settle in his heart. Christ, just how deeply had the rot penetrated?

The men on the list were gentlemen of society, some of them members of parliament. Gentlemen of power and influence who could cause untold damage if they truly had sold their loyalty to Napoleon.

The question was how Jacques Gerard managed to lure, or perhaps even force, them into becoming traitors and how willing they had been to betray their country.

“How did you get your hands on this?” he rasped.

Harry returned his hand to cover his wound, his breath hissing between his teeth in pain.

“I made a search of the vicarage at Carrick Park after I became engaged to Talia,” he said, a fine sheen of sweat visible on his brow. “I knew I must destroy the letter that I had written to confess my guilt if I hoped to be rid of Jacques. Unfortunately I was unable to find my letter, but I did discover the names tucked in a prayer book.”

“Does he know that you have this?”

“No.” There was a hint of satisfaction in his tone. “I made a copy and returned the original to the book. I intended to use this as a bargaining chip when I felt the time was right.”

It was a powerful bargaining chip, indeed. Gabriel did not doubt that Jacques would be willing to barter a great deal to ensure the list did not fall into the hands of British officials.

And the fact that Harry had handed it over to Gabriel rather than keeping it to use for his own benefit was almost as shocking as the names on the list.

“And now?” he demanded, wondering if this was to be a trap.

“Now it is yours.” Harry regarded him with a wry smile before being racked by a deep cough that chilled Gabriel’s blood. “You will do what is right,” he at last gasped. “You always do.”

“No, Harry—”

“That was not an insult, Gabriel,” his brother interrupted hoarsely. “I have always admired your unwavering integrity, even when it infuriated me. I only hope someday you will be as proud of me as I have always been of you.”

An excruciating pain sliced through his heart.

Did his brother fear he was dying? Was that why he had demanded the opportunity to confess his sin and hand over the secret list?

No. Gabriel gave an unconscious shake of his head.

He would not allow it.

His brother was going to live, by God. Even if he had to follow him to hell and haul him back. “Remain still.”

Gabriel rose to his feet, moving to retrieve the loaded pistol his brother had dropped when he was shot and returned to press it into Harry’s hand before he headed toward the edge of the cliff.

“Gabriel…”

“I will return as swiftly as I am able.”

Not giving Harry an opportunity to argue, Gabriel angled along the edge of the steep precipice, at last stumbling across the path that led down to the muddy shore. His boots were ruined and his jacket torn from the rocks protruding from the side of the cliff, but at last he slid to a halt near the rowboat that was waiting in the shallow water.

“You.” He pointed at one of the two crewmen who were seated in the boat. “Come with me.”

“Aye, my lord.”

With stoic movements that helped to leash the sickening dread spreading through his heart, Gabriel retraced his steps up the path of the cliff, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to ensure the sailor was close behind.

Everything would be fine, he assured himself. He would collect Harry and they would return to the yacht where the captain would clean and bind his wound. The fool might have a scar to display to his friends, but it would be a small price to pay.

Keeping the thought forefront in his mind, Gabriel reached the top of the cliff and jogged back toward the carriage. The entire trip had taken less than a quarter of an hour, but he was anxious to return to his brother.

He became even more anxious when he arrived at the precise spot where he had left Harry only to discover the carriage, along with his brother, was gone.

What the hell?

“Search the woods for Master Harry,” he directed the puzzled sailor with a wave of his hand.

“Master Harry?”


“I left him here. He was injured.”

“Oh. Aye.”

The young man hurried to obey the sharp command, while Gabriel bent down to inspect the dirt path that led away from the clearing.

He found a faint trace of blood as well as several separate footprints, but there was nothing to indicate a struggle. Not that he had expected to find evidence of a battle.

No. If his brother had been attacked while Gabriel was going for assistance he would have called out. Or at least fired the pistol that Gabriel had left with him.

The most logical explanation for Harry’s disappearance was that he had waited for Gabriel to go for help and then used the carriage to escape.

He had been expertly deceived.

Again.