England's Assassin (28 page)

The captain’s eyes widened, whether from the blood stained blade of the magnificent jewels. Nicole had not an inkling. He reached out, excepting the costly instrument of assassination. And as the weight of the blade lifted from her hand, so too did the burden.

Nicole smiled down at Daniel, saying, “Please bandage his wounds.”

Daniel relaxed against his pillow, holding tightly to her hand. “I’m just going to close my eyes, lass, so don’t let go of my hand.”

Nicole caressed his forearm as she felt the ship swaying into deeper waters.

“I’ll not leave you Daniel,” she promised and felt his grip tighten as his beautiful eyes drifted closed.

Daniel awoke, his eyes opening as his empty hand clenched at the lack of warmth.

“Nicole!” he shouted, he glanced down at his bandages, his breathing increased by panic.

The physician entered the cabin and held up his hand. “Calm yourself, Monsieur McCurren. Mademoiselle Beauvoire has been in this room for an entire day and merely needed a bit of fresh air.”

Nodding, Daniel settled back on the tiny bed and turned to the physician. “How far to Honfleur?”

The young doctor laughed, his blonde brows rising as he leaned over Daniel to examine his wounds. “We are not going to Honfleur.”

“What?” Daniel exhaled the question along with his surprise. “Where the bloody hell are we bound?”

“London.” The doctor rose reaching for a vat of balm. “Mademoiselle Beauvoire paid a fortune to have the Captain sail directly to London,” the Dutchman said, rubbing a portion of the aromatic concoction across the deep wound on his upper arm. “We should arrive sometime this evening.”

“I’m going on deck.” Daniel sat up in bed and the cabin began to spin, forcing him to lie back on his bunk.

“Do take care, Monsieur Damont. I bled you yesterday to stop a fever from taking hold.” Daniel glanced at the bandage that covered the crook of his left arm. “You need time to recover your strength.”

“I shall be alright.” Daniel tried again, slowly this time but it was no good. He could feel his wounds pulling open as he strained against them. He stared at the blurring wick of a lit candle, panting as he said. “Perhaps--”

“I shall summon Mademoiselle Beauvoire.“

The fair physician nodded, disappearing through his cabin door. Daniel listened as the man’s steady footfall faded down the corridor only to be replaced moments later by the lighter, infinitely more elegant footsteps of Mademoiselle Beauvoire.

“What on earth are you doing, Daniel?” He heard from cabin door and turned his head, smiling at the woman that had saved him. “You must remain in bed.”

Nicole swept black strains of hair from her beautiful face and he could see the concern in her violet eyes as she walked toward him and it warmed him more than a roaring fire on the most punishing of winter days.

“I’m fine, lass.” Daniel held out his hand and closed his eyes when she took it. “I just needed to speak with you.”

Nicole sat on the small wooden chair that had been pulled to the side of his bed and they stared at each other for a very long while before she lifted her head, saying, “We shall be in London tonight.”

“Aye,” he smiled fully this time. “The physician informed me and I canna wait to sleep in my own bed.”

“Promise me that you will sleep for an entire week when you arrive home, Daniel.” 

Nicole’s beautiful eyes were austere and he comforted her saying, “Oh, gettin’ me in bed is not the problem, lass.” He winked. “It’s getting’ us out of bed that will be the difficulty.”

She turned away from him and his heart dropped somewhere near the desolate pit of stomach. “Daniel, when we return to London—“

“Why did you do it lass?” he interrupted, unable to hear what Nicole might say.

“Send you away?” Her delicate forehead pulled together and she searched his eyes as if he were feverish. “You were in danger. You could have been killed, Daniel. “

“No, that was not my meaning,” he sighed. “Why did you…” He stared into her eyes and could not ask the question. “Never mind,” he said shaking his head, not willing to expose his heart further.

“Daniel,” wounded, he dragged his eyes to hers. “I sent you away because…” Tears welled in her eyes. “The thought of your being killed, your being injured in anyway… I could not bear it.” Daniel pulled her toward him so that he could feel her breath as she whispered, “I am in love with you, Daniel McCur--”

His lips covered hers and he drank in the words, the elation of being loved by such a woman. His right hand speared into her beautiful hair and he desperately wanted to make love to her, but he was feeling light headed, weak.

He sagged against his pillow and Nicole gazed down, settling him in bed for an entirely different reason then he had intended.

“Sleep, Daniel.” She pulled the woolen coverlet over him and he let her. “You will recover more quick—“

“Is that why you drank the poison?” He felt the fear of losing her again, the memory unbearable. “Because you thought that you had lost me.”

“Oh, Daniel, I love you so much.” Nicole sat on the bed and rubbed her fingers over his cheek. “But really darling, if I were inclined to take my own life, I would have done so years ago.”

Daniel chuckled as the lass continued to talk.

“I told you when we met that I was very good at my profession. I have spent hours with the apothecary discussing the potency of various poisons.”

“Have you?” Daniel could not help but smile.

“Yes,” she lectured. “We discussed, in great length, the dosage needed to kill a man and the dosage needed to make a person merely ill.” Nicole shrugged. “I thought it highly unlikely that a woman herself poisoned would then be suspected of poisoning the victim.”

“No, I suppose that is true and very, very clever.”

“It is not particular clever, simply practical. People, men in particular, see what they wish to see.”

“And women?” Daniel could not help but ask, amused.

“Women see what needs to be done.”

“And that is why you killed your husband?”

“Yes.” Nicole nodded and laid her head against his chest and Daniel rolled on his side to make room for her on the narrow bunk. “I didn’t want to kill him, but it was him—“

“Or you?” Daniel stroked her forehead, hoping someday that she would be able to forgive herself. “Like the highwaymen that attacked me.”

“Yes, just like them,” Nicole sat up and looked him in the eye. “But, Daniel, the men that I was ordered to kill… They were horrible men.”

“Yes, they were.”

“And even though I did not want to kill them, I am still unsure if I did wrong in doing so.” Her violet eyes begged him to understand.

“I don’t know either, Nicole,” he said in all honesty.

Tears spilled in rapid succession over her black lashes and Daniel kissed her forehead, pulling the woman to his chest that was far more wounded than he.

***

Seamus McCurren reclined in his sitting room sipping coffee, unable to countenance food until he received word of his brother’s fate.

His mistress embraced him from behind, delving her hand between the lapels of his burgundy silk dressing gown to his nude body beneath. She caressed his chest, pressing her bare breasts against his back.

“Are you alright?” she whispered in his ear, the question ridiculous.

His brother was either being held in a French prison, having God only knew what being done to him, or he was dead. How on earth could he possibly be alright?

“Yes,” he lied.

“Good,” she kissed him on the cheek, Daniel’s fate obviously dismissed from her paltry mind.

Irritated, he pulled her hand from his chest, kissing her inner wrist before releasing her. Seamus leaned forward and reached for the Gazette, pretending to read with great interest so that he would not have to talk about his brother.

Seamus had always thought that he would know if something were to befall one of his brothers. When they were children, he had known. He had sensed when his brothers were walking into danger. It was the reason his Father had blamed him, in part, for what had happened to Daniel.

If he had seen his brother more often perhaps Seamus would have sensed the inevitable danger of this mission. Perhaps, he could have talked Daniel out of going to Paris altogether.

But he had not. He had not talked him out of going, had not known the extent of his brother’s drinking and he had not been available for the Foreign Office to ask him to accept this assignment.

It should have been him
.

“Seamus?” He looked up at his mistress, now in her own dressing gown as she sat on the settee opposite him. “I know you don’t wish to discuss…” She met his eye meaningfully, brushing her fair hair from her forehead. “What might occur.”

Seamus went numb and he stared at the woman that had been his lover for the past nine months.

“Yes.”

“But if something were to happen to Viscount DunDonell.” He stared at the woman whose company he had chosen over that of his family. “If the viscount were never to return to town?” Guilty overwhelmed him. “How long a period of time would you be required to wait before you would assume, unfortunately of course, the title?”

His jaw was dropped by the ambition sparkling in her speculative blue eyes.

The lady was a widow, respectable by the standards of the ton, had been his lover for quite some time. It was only natural that the lady would harbor hopes of marriage, marriage to the future Earl of DunDonell, if Daniel, his brother, did not survive his ordeal.

“We’re finished,” Seamus said coolly, fighting to suppress his anger.

“What,” his paramour laughed, uncomfortably.

“You heard me.” Seamus held her eyes. “Gather your clothes and get out of my house. We’re finished.”

“Seamus.” He rose turning his back on his mistress as he walked to the velvet bell pull. “You’re distraught. The viscount’s disappearance will have to be dealt with. Do not unleash you frustration on me, when you know that I am correct.”

“I will deal with my brother’s death, if and
when
it happens.” Seamus gathered her garments and dumped them into her reluctant arms. “But rest assured, Fiona, you will not be there to scoop up your winnings.”

“Seamus!” He guided her toward his bedchamber door. “You are being preposterous. You’re overreacting, darling,” she purred.

“Am I?” Seamus asked, herding her into the corridor and slamming the door in her exquisite face. “I don’t think so.”

She knocked on the door and Seamus stopped, rolling his eyes as he turned to open it.

“I’ll not…” Seamus began but his eyes narrowed in confusion as he stared at his butler. “Yes.”

“The Duke of Glenbroke is waiting in your study, my lord.”

“Thank you, and I would very much appreciate if you would assist me in dressing?” Seamus ordered, walking hurriedly to his wardrobe, both of them understanding the importance of the duke’s early morning call.

“Yes, my lord,” his man said, eager to be of assistance.

Seamus opened his study door eight minutes later and saw the enormous back of the Duke of Glenbroke as the man warmed himself in front of the fire which had yet to expel the autumn chill from the room.

“Glenbroke?” Seamus said, wanting to see the duke’s face, wanting to see the fate of his brother in the man’s features, in the man’s eyes. “You have news of the viscount?”

“Yes,” the duke turned and they were both standing before the fire when Glenbroke smiled, saying, “Daniel has just been taken to your parent’s town home.”

Thank God.

Seamus turned and placed both palms on the mantle, allowing the mahogany wood to support his sagging wait. His eyes saw through the dancing flames as he stared at the huge fire blazing beneath him.

“Is he alright?”

“He is injured,” the Duke of Glenbroke smiled. “But he will survive.”

Clutching at the carved mantle, Seamus closed his eyes in an attempt to absorb his relief which came in waves that seemed to do nothing more than constrict his throat.

When the lengthy silence became uncomfortable, Gilbert de Clare, Duke of Glenbroke gathered his hat and greatcoat. “Falcon is their now, but when he has concluded his inquiries you may see your brother if you wish.”

“Of course, I want to see Daniel. The bloody bastard.” Seamus laughed with relief. “I had every match making mama’s ready to sizing me up for a wedding suit.” The duke laughed. “Bloody inconvenient that. Their matrimonial ambitions got right in the way of my research.”

They smiled, neither one believing a word of his irritation.

“Sounds, bloody awful.” The duke’s silver eyes held his and they both knew Gilbert’s meaning.

“Aye,” Seamus said, swallowing the enormous lump in his throat. “It was, bloody awful.”

Mademoiselle Nicole Beauvoire, as she had come to think of herself, sat in the Earl of DunDonell’s second floor drawing room sipping tea and waiting.

What she waited for, she was not sure. But she waited nonetheless, longing to be at Daniel’s bedside and going over in her mind, the inevitable questions that she knew would be posed by the Earl and Countess of DunDonell.

The difficulty was in the answering of those questions, in looking the earl and countess in the eye and telling them that she was the reason for Daniel’s decision to go to Paris that she was the cause of their son’s pain.

It would be unpleasant, she knew, but Nicole was forever grateful that she was explaining to his parents how Daniel had come to be injured rather than explaining how he had come to be dead.

Nicole continued to sip her tea, contented that she was able to save the man she so desperately loved, that she was able to give this noble man a chance at a happy life before she would pay for her many sins.

But the thought of her execution was no longer frightening to her. For so very long her existence had seemed so utterly pointless, so utterly selfish. Nicole had become an assassin to save her own life, justifying the assassination of corrupt men in the name of their countless victims. People she had never met and people she would never know.

But perhaps she was wrong.

Perhaps the past three years of her life, the abuse inflicted by her husband, her year in prison, the numerous assassinations. Perhaps all of these events had occurred so that she would be prepared, both mentally and physically, for that one moment, that one night where all of her skills had been used to save one very deserving man.

Daniel
.

Nicole leaned forward and placed her empty teacup on the mahogany table in front of her. She reached down for her reticule so that she might retrieve a handkerchief from her purse.

“Mademoiselle Beauvoire?” she heard in melodious French, causing her heart to stop beating.

“Oui,” Nicole lifted her head and turned to the Countess of DunDonell and simply stared. Nicole blinked away the tears that were forming in her eyes when she saw the woman that had been so kind to her so many years ago. “I am Mademoiselle Beauvoire.”

Nicole curtsied for both the Countess and the Earl, who stood like a distant mountain looked over his wife’s fatigued shoulder.

“The Earl and I cannot express our appreciation for your having brought our son home to us.” The countess smiled and the earl continued to stare, making Nicole decidedly uneasy. “We are told that the ship’s physician did an excellent job in caring for the viscount and that we have you to thank his safe return to England.”

“I merely booked passage for the viscount,” Nicole said, too ashamed to admit any further involvement. “His health should be credited entirely to the ship’s physician.”

The countess smiled pleasantly and a thunderous voice, asked, “We would very much like for you to stay fer dinner, Mademoiselle Beauvoire?” from beneath a bushy, brown beard.

“How kind of you to offer,” Nicole looked up at the Earl of DunDonell and blinked, unable to hold the intensity of his hazel eyes. “However, I regret that I have a previous engagement at Whitehall that cannot be missed.”

The fair countess looked up at her husband and asked, “The man with Viscount DunDonell is from Whitehall, is he not?”

“Aye,” the Earl nodded once.

“Perhaps,” the countess said, smiling. “You would be able to speak with this gentleman and save yourself a trip across town?”

“I,” Nicole began, hardly able to explain to the Earl and Countess of DunDonell that she was going to Whitehall to turn herself in for the murder of her husband.

“I’ll just take you to him, shall I?” The countess swept forward and guided Nicole toward the drawing room door before she had a chance to protest.

Nicole followed politely, eager to see Daniel before she was escorted back Newgate prison, eager to see with her own eyes that he was alright. Every step down the elegantly decorated corridors of the Earl of DunDonell’s home confirmed her belief that Daniel was destine for more than she could provide. The viscount had been raised to marry a lady of prominence, a woman with a reputation deserving of the man Nicole had come so desperately to love.

“Here we are.” The countess opened the door, sweeping in. Nicole searched the bedchamber looking for Daniel, verifying that his was well as he sat up in the enormous canopy bed.

“Viscount DunDonell.” She curtsied to show her respect for Daniel and then Nicole turned, stunned to meet the old man’s eye. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“Mademoiselle Beauvoire,” Falcon said. “It has been so very long since last we met.”

Nicole’s chin quivered, but she held it with considerable effort. “Yes, it has been a very long time, my lord. Two years if I recall correctly.”

“Yes, two years.” Falcon nodded.

They stared at one another, but Nicole refused to shed a tear or feel a moment of regret. “As a representative of the Foreign Office, I believe it is my duty to inform you of my return—“

“I’m afraid, Mademoiselle Beauvoire that I am not on duty this afternoon.” The old man’s brandy colored eyes warmed and he spoke to the room in general as he continued to convey his thoughts. “You see, I have come to the home of the Earl of DunDonell as a guest.” He glanced at the earl. “A very close friend, if you will, of the McCurren family.”

“Oh,” Nicole turned to Daniel, tears blurring her vision.

“If you will excuse me Mademoiselle Beauvoire,” Falcon said, walking out of the room and leaving Nicole in utter confusion.

Daniel smiled and sat up, wincing at the pain in his side. “Our Lord Falcon has proved quite the gentleman.”

“Has he?” Nicole asked, tamping down the insistent hope that swelled in her breast.

“Yes,” the viscount said, his turquoise eyes holding firmly to hers. “It seems that Lord Falcon had never meet Lady Stratton.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Daniel nodded. “I, myself, heard that the woman was dead, that Lady Stratton had been hanged two years ago.” Nicole could not breathe, but he continued to talk. “However, Mademoiselle Beauvoire, the gentleman had heard of.”

They stared at one another.

“Lord Falcon had heard tell of the lady’s courage and of her heroism.” Nicole buried her face in his chest and sobbed. “He had heard of her service to the crown.” His hand stroked her hair as he continued to talk. “Lord Falcon was sure, certain in fact, that Mademoiselle Beauvoire would be given a full clemency in light of her service loyalty to England… and to me.”

Daniel gave her a moment to cry before Nicole felt his turning away from her. She sniffed and lifted her head only to find a large box sitting across his lap.

“Nicole Beauvoire?”

“Yes.” She swiped at her eyes, confused.

“Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Nicole’s heart shattered and she reached out for perhaps the last time, caressing his cheek. “Daniel, you know that I can’t marry—“

“Open it,” he interrupted.

Nicole looked down at the rectangular box and lifted the lid. She stared for a moment and then reached out to touch the pearls that shimmered on the bodice of the most beautiful wedding dress that she had ever seen.

“Do you like it, lass?”

Her tears fell freely as she looked at the enchanting gown, noticing that the bodice had been fashioned with a high collar to cover the horrible scars on her back.

“It’s perfect,” Nicole whispered, unable to say more.

“Excellent!” He was grinning from ear to ear, pleased with himself. “We’ll be married—“

“Daniel, I can’t marry you.”

“Why not?” He stared at her as though she were about to reject him. “No one need know who you are.” He shook his head, correcting himself. “Who you were.”

“I would know, Daniel.” She lifted her head to look at him. “Your parent’s would know.”

“Is that all that troubles you, lass?” Daniel laughed as he stroked her cheek. He lifted the dress and stared into her eyes as he said, “Who do ya think gave me the weddin’ dress?”

Nicole’ mouth fell open and Daniel laughed harder.

“I’ve already spoken with my parents. The Earl and Countess remembered you as a child and have always thought that what happened to you…” Daniel shook his head. “It wasna right, what happened to you, lass.”

“No.” Nicole laughed, crying. “It wasna right,” she mimicked his glorious brogue, but was unable to capture the rich tones of the man that spoke them.

“So, Mademoiselle Beauvoire. Will ya marry me?”

The question was asked with humor, but Nicole could see the anxiety in his stunning eyes. “Oui, Daniel McCurren, I would be honored to be your lucky bride.”

Daniel grinned from eye to ear and then pulled her toward him for a searing kiss.

“It ‘twas my kiss, wasn’t it.” He teased. “You could not resist my kiss.”

“Yes, Daniel.” Nicole rolled her eyes. “I married you because you kiss so well.” Her husband nodded with masculine pride, so Nicole lied, “’Tis your lovemaking that needs improving.”

“Well, get to teaching, lass.” Daniel flipped the counterpane down so that she might lie next to him, both of them knowing that he was too weak to make love.

Nicole laid in his arms, avoiding his injuries and said, “How about we just lie here for the rest of the afternoon and ‘snuggle’?”

Daniel laughed, wrapping his arm around her so that she would not leave the moment he fell asleep.

“Very well, lass, I shall give in to your constant demands for snugglin’ for after the wedding.” Her future husband grinned. “You’ll be the most ‘wail woman’ in all of Scotland.”