Once an Innocent (29 page)

He wondered whether to club her over the head and stuff her into a carriage, or if she’d kindly hold still and allow him to bind her up and toss her into same. There was no time to argue.

“There’s no time to argue,” she announced, her arms crossing beneath her breasts, fluffing them up, just over the edge of her neckline. “So you might as well tell me what’s happening. The charade is over.”

Fitz glided up behind her. Jordan knew an instant of unease in which he thought his old friend might do one of the things he’d just considered himself. He drew her against his side.

Ditman’s eyes clouded with confusion. “I think you should tell her. I think you should tell us both the whole of it.”

His teeth gritted. For four years, Jordan had carried this secret. Not even Uncle Randell, who lived in this house, knew the whole truth. Divulging it now went against every instinct he possessed, but Naomi and Fritz deserved to know.

Jordan drew a breath and exhaled deeply. “Naomi, you’ve met my ward, Enrique Sota Vega.”

“Who is French,” she interjected. “If you lie to me again, I swear I shall … ” Her brow wrinkled. “I haven’t decided yet what I’ll do, but it shan’t be pleasant.”

He smirked. “Fitz,” he directed to his old comrade, “you seem to know more than I thought you did, but you haven’t met the lad?”

“I’ve tried to respect your assignment,” came the graveled reply. “I figure if Castlereagh wanted me to know, he’d have told me. Doesn’t mean I can’t piece a few things together.”

The man was good. There was a reason Jordan was glad to have him for an ally.

“As you so astutely observed, Naomi, Enrique is, in fact, French.”

He paused to allow her a moment of victory. She merely raised an impatient brow.

“The boy is French,” Jordan continued, “and his true name is Henri, Duc d’Artagne. He is third in line to the throne of France.”

Naomi gasped. “But what … ? What is he … ? This is
Yorkshire.”

Fitzhugh Ditman wore a blank expression. Mentally recording the information, Jordan knew, filing it neatly away in his mind. “We’re preserving the royal line, then.”

“Precisely,” Jordan confirmed. “I’m the young duke’s guardian. Where better than the backwaters of England to hide a potential king of France? The first seven in line are scattered around Europe, likewise protected by other governments.”

“A clear line of succession,” Naomi said. “But with Bonaparte defeated and the monarchy restored — ”

Ditman barked a laugh. “But Boney’s not as defeated as we’d like. I’d wager most Frenchmen liked him better than all those Lewies.”

Jordan crossed to retrieve a brace of pistols from his desk. “Bonaparte’s men are clearing the way for his return. If they can pick off the Bourbon line, it would strike a fatal blow to royalist resistance. A little regicide and
fft — ”
He swiped his fingers across his neck. “There would be nothing impeding his return to power.

“The night of your sister-in-law’s auction,” he said, nodding to Naomi as he carefully settled the guns into his waistband, “Lord Castlereagh gave me an intelligence report, which indicated Boney’s men were narrowing in on Lintern Abbey as a hiding place for a French royal. I had to establish a patrol at once, to try to bring in the agents. With no time to think of a better solution, I settled on the house party and invited all you ladies to come, to give the whole thing a legitimate air.”

“Castlereagh?” Naomi frowned. “The Foreign Secretary? Do you work for the Foreign Office, Jordan?”

He gave her a level look; his lips remained sealed.

Naomi straightened. “I want to help.”

Jordan huffed. “Oh, for God’s sake, Naomi, you can’t help.”

“Enough talk,” Ditman said. “I’m going to find the bastards and bring them down.” His grim smile chilled Jordan’s blood. “I’ve got some favors to return.” He departed in a swirl of woolen frock coat.

Jordan opened his mouth to order Naomi away, but before he could get a word out, she had her arms around his neck and pulled his face to hers.

It was a greedy kiss, demanding his response. Jordan drew her into his arms, crushing her sweet body against his, forging a memory to carry with him into the uncertainty of the next hours.

She broke the kiss and tilted her head back. Jordan dipped to bite and tongue the length of her neck. His hands covered her breasts, then sculpted her back. Naomi clutched his nape and arched against him.

“You have to be careful,” she said desperately. “Stay safe for me, Jordan. If anything happened to you … ”

He nuzzled her shoulder and drew her scent deep into his lungs. “I’ll be fine,” he assured her. The next words were hard to voice, but he did need her help. He’d never wanted Naomi involved, but she was. And, by Jove, her keen intelligence would be an asset. “Go to Enrique’s apartment. It’s the center of our protective ring. The safest place. I need you to keep an eye on him for me. He doesn’t know anything about the assassins coming for him, and I don’t want you to tell him. But if something goes wrong, get him out of the house. Get away as fast as you can, and hide.”

He pulled one of the pistols from his waistband and held it out to her.

Naomi looked at the gun for a long moment.

“You can do this,” he whispered. “I love you.”

Her startled eyes flew to his face. A quiet smile pushed away the day’s fear for one, brilliant second. “I love you, too,” she murmured. “So much.”

She raised up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. Her hand closed over the pistol and pushed it back to him. “We’ll be fine without it,” she said.

A final kiss and she dashed off to fulfill her duty.

Jordan had never been so awed by a woman. His heart swelled with pride and love. What an amazing, brave creature.

Forget kings and countries and megalomaniacal despots. The world could burn to the ground around his ears, and he wouldn’t bat an eye. In that instant, only one thing mattered. Jordan knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect Naomi.

Nothing.

• • •

She met Enrique — Henri, she reminded herself — on the landing one flight down from his apartment.

“Naomi, what ees ’appening?” he demanded. His eyes were wide. “I ’ear much noise and — ” He flapped his hands. In the confusion, his command of English was deteriorating.

“Come with me,” she said, taking a firm grip of his hand and leading him back to his rooms. “We’re to sit tight and wait for Lord Freese.”

Just inside his door, the young man yanked his hand free. In French he snapped, “Waiting is not an answer! Tell me what’s causing the commotion.”

Naomi cast a look around the place. “Where is Bertrand?”

“Not here!”

She huffed. “All right, Enrique. Just sit down, please.” She gestured to the couch.

He stared at her in stony silence and refused to budge.

Two older brothers had taught her how to deal with obstinate males. She turned his glare right back on him and pursed her lips.

A moment later, he let out an exasperated sound and plopped into a chair. “Now, then. Please.”

She lowered onto a seat and stared at a landscape in an elaborate gilt frame on the wall. How to tell him his very life was in peril?

At last, she started. “Enrique … Or rather, Henri, I should say.”

His eyes widened.

“It’s all right,” she rushed to assure him. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“’Ow do you know?”

“Lord Freese told me,” she confessed. “Henri, there are men coming here. Supporters of Napoleon Bonaparte. They’ve already killed two of Lord Freese’s guests, and he thinks they’re trying to get to you.”

For a long moment, his face was inscrutable. His gaze fixed, unseeing, on the carved rug. When he lifted his face, she read determination on his young features. “I must go.”

Her hand darted to cover his forearm. “Lord Freese wants you to stay here. He will keep you safe.” She gave him a smile she hoped relayed a sense of confidence. “Everything will be all right, Henri.”

The young man dragged his fingers through his dark hair, then slumped back onto his chair. He closed his eyes. Every once in a while, she saw his lips moving silently. She supposed he was praying. Taking her cue from Henri, she clasped her hands together in her lap and offered up her own pleas for Henri’s safety and the welfare of Jordan and his men.

A quarter of an hour later, Henri sprang to his feet with a growl. “How long are we meant to stay like this — trapped, not knowing what is ’appening out there?”

Naomi rose to place a soothing hand on his shoulder. “Henri, it’s been very little time. It could be hours before everything is done with. Do you have any cards? We could play a game — ”

A heavy
boom
reverberated through the house.

Henri’s eyes locked on to hers. “Was that a gunshot?”

She shook her head. “No, I believe it was the door crashing open. Lord Freese will be here any second with news.”

The air erupted with the sounds of shouting and thunderous rapports. Naomi clapped her hands over her ears while her stomach almost heaved from fear. Only the thought of keeping Henri safe allowed her to maintain any semblance of composure.

“That
is gunfire,” she shouted over the din. She grabbed the young duke’s hand. “Time for us to go.”

She opened the door just enough to make sure there were no miscreants bearing down upon them. “All right,” she said, waving Henri forward. “Follow me.”

Naomi dashed to the end of the corridor and located the door for the servants’ stairs, which cleverly blended in with the paneling. After Henri stepped into the stairway, she quietly closed the door behind them, although, given the ruckus taking place on the ground floor, they were in little danger of being overheard.

Oil lamps hung at intervals from iron wall sconces, providing light for their flight down stairs hewn from the same stone that made up the exterior of the house.

“Where are we going?” Henri asked.

A reasonable inquiry, but Naomi hadn’t the foggiest idea. Her impulse was to hide in the tree Jordan had taken her to. It had provided shelter, safety, and love when she’d been there. But that was absurd. She couldn’t risk crossing the grounds to an unsecured hole in a tree.

“We have to get out of the house,” she answered. “It’s not safe here.”

“Yes, but — ”

“The abbey,” she said, bursting through a door into the belowstairs portion of the house. She paused for a few seconds to catch her breath. “You know the old ruins better than I, Henri. Do you think there’s a place there we might hide?”

Henri planted his hands on his slender hips while he panted. His dark, winged brows drew together over his troubled eyes. “I think, maybe. We’ll need … ” His face screwed up while he obviously struggled to think of the word. In frustration, he held his fists together and swung them downward. “For wood?”

“An axe?”

“Yes! An axe!”

Frantically, Naomi’s mind ran through the likely contents of this area of the house. “I don’t … Oh! This way.”

She grabbed his hand and started off again. Belowstairs, usually bustling with activity, was eerily silent. Their running footsteps slapped loudly against the gray stone floor.

In the kitchen, Naomi ran straight to the cord of wood neatly stacked between the hearth and enclosed range. “Ah-ha!” she exclaimed in victory as she spotted a small hand axe. “Will this do?” she asked her young friend.

“Bigger would be better, but yes, this should work.” Henri snatched the tool, then strode toward the door. “
Mon dieu
,” he said, stuttering to a halt. “We should take some food, in case we’re hiding a long time.”

Leave it to an adolescent boy to let his stomach do his thinking for him. “All right, but hurry,” she snapped. “The cold larder should have some cheese, and there’s bread over there.” She pointed out the food, then dashed to the door. Once again, she peered outside and waited a moment to ensure their safe passage.

Henri tapped her shoulder. She glanced back and spotted a sack dangling at his side. Provisions enough to last several days, from the look of it.

“Allons-y,”
he said.

Naomi was terrified of the open ground they crossed as they hurtled for the tree line. And she resented feeling unsafe in this place she’d come to love as her own home. She was mad as fire at the French assassins, who threatened her young friend and endangered everyone at Lintern Abbey. How
dare
they?

Henri’s longer legs plunged him into the cover of the trees a few seconds before Naomi got there. Her skirts tangled around her ankles, tripping her. Henri’s hand clamped around her arm, preventing the fall. “All right?” he asked.

Naomi nodded. “Come on,” she gasped. Her chest ached from physical exertion and fear. They had to keep going. If Naomi stopped, she might curl into a ball and surrender to the terror.

They ran down the path leading to the abbey ruins. She hoped to see Aunt Janine around every curve, but there was no sign of her. In the distance behind them, Naomi heard the beating of horse hooves.

“Faster, Naomi!” Henri tugged her hand. Together, they crested the rise overlooking the old abbey. The tops of the church columns came into view. They dashed down the stairs built into the hillside. Naomi started for the nave, but Henri veered off to the side.

Naomi’s legs felt like lead. She had never run so far, so fast in her life. She knew now where Henri was headed, and she made the remembered target the focus of her concentration.

A few moments later, they reached it — the overgrown cellar door Henri had been showing Sir Randell when Naomi first met him. She remembered, too, what the older man had said that day.

“It might be flooded,” she wailed. “And it’s not going to open.” She gestured to the square portal, constructed of thick, sturdy wood, blacked with age and, she suspected, pitch. How else could it have resisted the elements all these years?

Henri gripped the heavy, iron ring set near one edge and tugged. The door didn’t budge. “’Elp me,” he insisted.

Naomi fitted her hands around the ring. She counted to three, and they strained against the ancient door’s weight. It still refused to move.