Swept Away (29 page)

“Glasses?” Anna asked. “Can you find some?”

He took the bottle she handed up to him and unstoppered it with his teeth, spitting the cork into the fire. He took several long, deep swallows from the mouth of the bottle, then grinned and handed it back. “I am feeling a little heathenish tonight, aren’t you?”

Her gaze flowed down his body, touching on all the burnished muscles, the hard sinews, the rampant maleness he was not showing the slightest inclination to shield from view.

She put the bottle to her lips and tipped it, matching the noisy enthusiasm of his initial mouthful. “Will you eat something with me? You complained as early as this afternoon that you were hungry.”

He stared at the bead of amber liquid that clung to her lower lip and smiled. “I suppose we should eat our fill while we have the chance.”

She patted a spot on the rug and gave him back the bottle when he sat down beside her.

“Biscuit?”

He shook his head and buried his lips in the curve of her shoulder instead. When all she did was sigh, as if she was having to tolerate a recalcitrant child, he set the bottle aside and slipped his hand beneath her shirt, circling and capturing the soft heaviness of a breast.

“If you are not hungry, sir,
I
am.”

“You have your banquet laid out before you, I have mine.”

“It is very difficult to concentrate with--” she sucked in a small huff of air and dropped the wheel of cheese she had been about to break in two. Emory grinned again and raised his mouth to hers, but stopped when he saw the look of sudden horror on her face. He whirled around to follow her gaze, noting instinctively as he did so that he had left both pistols on a table half the width of the room away.

It had been a stupid act of carelessness and deserving of the harsh, derisive laugh that came between the thin lips of the man who was standing in the doorway--a man whose own guns were in his hands, both cocked, both aimed straight for Emory’s heart.

CHAPTER 17

“I am a patient man, m’sieur,” the stranger said, his voice low and raspy, “but even I grew tired of waiting, though I can see now, the reason for your delay was justified.”

Emory was on his feet with the swiftness of an uncoiling spring. He stared unblinking at the guns, gauging the distance between himself and the door, calculating the likelihood he would even make it half way before having twin holes blown in his chest. The odds were not worth wasting his effort and he studied the man’s face instead, the lean hawk-like jaw, the black glitter of his eyes, the cruel twist of a smile that curled his lips.

Emory knew that face. He had seen it in a half dozen painful flashes of memory. He had also seen the guns before, elegant and distinctive in design with octagonal steel barrels, the stocks made of polished walnut with inlaid silver falcons in full wingspread.

They were his own guns, presented to him as a gift by the Dey of Tunisia. And the man holding them was...

Emory felt a surge of heat flush through his veins, the threat of light and pain behind his eyes, but he savagely blinked it away. With a startling clarity that nearly stripped his breath away, he knew who Franceschi Cipriani was and why he was here.

Cipriani shrugged. “You are like the cat with nine lives, so it came as no surprise to hear you were still alive. Even so, you were very clever, very artful in eluding the soldiers tonight. In truth, they arrived at the inn mere moments before I was about to visit you myself. It was a small matter--and somewhat amusing--to join the chase and watch their ludicrous attempts to catch you. I only managed to keep you in sight because I was on horseback and could follow you through the woods, where they could not.” He paused and waved one of the guns absently in the direction of a window. “As it happens, it may have worked out for the best anyway, for nothing rouses the chivalrous blood in you Englishmen so much as the thought of a helpless demoiselle in the hands of a bloodthirsty villain. By morning every able-bodied man within a hundred mile radius will be armed and scouring the countryside for you. If I thought they could hold you, I would have led them here, but alas. You are too good for them, my friend, and I cannot risk the possibility of you escaping again.”

“How did you know I was at the inn?”

“Ahh, now that was sheer luck, m’sieur. Sheer, unbridled luck, I must confess, but then I have the nine lives too, do I not? Once I knew you were here, I simply watched the roads, watched the harbor. As I said, I am a patient man, and today... who should I see riding down the road with a bandage on his head?” He paused and shrugged. “What are the chances, m’sieur? A thousand to one? Ten thousand to one? Or simply fate.”

“But
how
did you know I was here, in Torquay?”

Cipriani grinned. “Now, now. We must all have our secrets, must we not? Keeping them is what sets us apart, you and I, and you were not very good at doing so.”

The muscles in Emory’s jaw flexed. “The lady is not involved in any of this,” he said quietly. “Let her go.”

The heavy lidded eyes glinted with a trace of amusement in Annaleah’s direction, prompting her to curl her bare legs tighter to her body and pull the hem of the shirt lower.

“Setting the definition of ‘lady’ aside for the moment,” the black eyebrows inched upward, “she helped you elude a garrison of soldiers and has been rutting happily with you here on the hearth for several hours....I would suggest she is most
intimately
involved.”

Emory’s gaze went again to the table where his guns lay so carelessly discarded and he heard the assassin’s soft chuckle.

“No, my friend. I would not advise such foolishness, not unless you wish the death of your lovely companion to be the last thing you see.”

“Let her go and I will tell you what you want to know,” Emory said quietly.

Cipriani chuckled. “Again, so predictable. So noble. Did I ever tell you where I learned to hone my skills? No? It was in the desert, in Morocco, where my teachers specifically used Englishmen to demonstrate the art of inflicting pain. I was constantly fascinated to see that they could have the skin peeled from their bodies in strips, have their raw bodies then stretched out in the hot sand to bake, and they would not scream out more than curses. But put a fair skinned beauty in front of them and merely touch the tip of a blade to a cheek or a hand or a breast...and those same stalwart heroes would tell you far more than you ever wanted to know.”

“Let her go,” Emory said. “You have me; that’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

“It was,” the assassin acknowledged with a tilt of his head. “But if she has managed to keep your interest up for so long...perhaps my priorities could change. You see, it works the other way too. You would be surprised how enthusiastic a young woman can be when she is bargaining for her lover’s life.”

At a signal from Emory, Anna scrambled to her feet and stood close behind him. Cipriani only laughed at the feeble gesture of protection, the sound grating enough to make Anna’s skin feel as though there were a thousand maggots crawling over her flesh.

“Let her go. Let her go now or I swear I’ll tear your heart out with my bare hands.”

The Corsican’s smile lingered as he let his thumbs caress the serpentine locks on the pistols. “Many fools have made that same promise, Englishman. I made them all eat their words as they drew their last breath.”

“Then make me eat mine,” Emory challenged quietly. “If you can.”

Cipriani pursed his lips and took a thoughtful step into the room, brushing an admiring toe across the thick pile of an Indian rug before crushing his boot over the delicate design of flowers. “You always were a thorn in my side, Englishman. I knew, you see. I knew you were not to be trusted, not from the very day you came offering your services to the empire. Unfortunately His Excellency was not so willing to discard your apparent friendship; not while he still had some use for it. We all had
some
use for it at one time or another, and to that end I will concede your skills at the helm of a ship are unparalleled. I cannot think of another man who would have had the audacity to sail into Elba and whisk away an emperor under the noses of a thousand prison guards. But then, you were not expecting to get away, were you?”

“What do you mean?”

Cipriani gave his grating laugh again. “Please m’sieur, do not play the innocent with me. We intercepted your messages to Whitehall. We knew you had alerted the navy to the escape and we knew you would be expecting to see one of His Majesty's warships hovering off the coast, ready to snatch back their prisoner. We knew, you stupid bastard. We knew all about you, from the very beginning. Do you think your Lord Casterleagh is the only one to have spies in high places? The delicious part now, of course, is that they are calling you traitor and sending the hounds after you. Rather an exquisite irony, do you not think? One of their best spies being hunted for treason?”

Emory felt Anna’s hand on his back, but he did not acknowledge the touch. Nor was he given much time to ponder the million questions that came with Cipriani’s confirmation that he was not a traitor.

“I am rather curious to know one thing, however,” the Corsican was saying. “Why are you still here? I would have thought you would have run straight to London.”

“You did not actually believe we would allow such a great man to be led off in chains, to be executed, or kept in an iron cage as suits the mood of your Parliament?”

Emory folded his arms across his chest. “Since you obviously intend to kill us anyway, would you care to share exactly how you plan to do it?”

“Your ignorance surprises me, unless of course it is a crude attempt to stall.” Cipriani’s eyes narrowed. “Or unless you were hoping to singlehandedly spoil our plans so that you might redeem yourself in your master’s eyes. And if that is the case--” his smile, if it was possible, turned even more evil, accompanied by a hot, hissing breath-- “it means you still have the letter.”

“If I do?”

“If you do...” The slitted eyes flicked to where Annaleah was peeping around Emory’s shoulder. “It would go far easier on everyone concerned if you simply returned it.”

“Ah, well, there we have a small problem.” Emory uncrossed his arms and spread them wide, his naked body gleaming like marble in the firelight. “As you can plainly see, I do not have it on me. Feel free to search if you like. As well known as we English may be for some perversions, like honor and nobility, you French are renowned for others.”

The hooded eyes blinked once, slowly. “Tell me where it is and I make you this promise, Englishman. The moment I have it in my hand, I will kill the girl quickly and painlessly. Lie to me, play me false, and you will hear her screams all the way down in hell.”

“Because I dislike loose ends, and because I have never yet failed to honor one of
my
master’s requests. He asked me to fetch the letter back, likely for the benefit of that fool De Las Cases who insists on documenting every scrap of paper, every message, every conversation for the sake of the memoirs he is writing. This of course, being the ultimate triumph, must be precisely set down for posterity to show the utter blind stupidity--not to mention humiliation--of our enemies. Therefore--” he held out one of the guns, taking aim at Emory’s left knee-- “we shall start slowly, taking our time if that is what you prefer. You do understand if I take the precaution of crippling you first?”

“No,” she said, stepping well out of range of Emory’s long arms, keeping her own clasped behind her back so he could not reach out and grab her. “Please, m’sieur. I know where the letter is. I can fetch it for you.”

“She doesn’t know,” Emory declared, clearly appalled by Anna’s actions. “She has no damned idea.”

“I do know,” she insisted and moved, seemingly through fear and feminine panic, closer to Cipriani rather than farther. “Please m’sieur. I can do this. I can help you. I have the key.”

“Key?” The Corsican did not take his eyes off Emory, but he was aware of Anna moving closer and kept one of the pistols trained on the pale blot of her shirt. “What key?”

Emory was about to shout again, but at the last instant caught a glimpse of the wine bottle she held clutched tightly in both hands. He had no idea what she thought she could possibly do against a man with two loaded pistols, but it was a chance. A slim one. And he had no choice but to take it.

He glanced deliberately at the table again. The guns he had taken from Widdicombe House were there, the barrels crossed one over the other, and lying beside them in a puddle formed by the gold chain was the iron key he had retrieved from the surf. At some point during the night, Anna had complained about being struck in the chin with the swinging key and he had removed it, only the second time he had done so in a month. The first had been when he had been dragged half conscious into an empty warehouse and hung up by his wrists to a ceiling beam. He had clutched the key in his fist, even gouged the pointed end into his palm, using the self inflicted pain to distract him from the pain of Cipriani’s carving techniques.