The Smuggler Wore Silk (27 page)

Not one of hers. Thank God.

Still, there was no more biding her time. Wanting one final glimpse of Julian, she glanced over her shoulder as she clambered over the boulders.

And saw the smuggler bearing down on him, his knife raised high so its keen edge flashed in the moonlight.

__________

"R
UN
, M
ARIE!”
B
UTLER
shouted, thrusting blindly.

Julian felt the air quiver as the blade slid by him and knew his luck was holding.

“Miles! Not without you!” Lady Elliott shouted as she staggered toward them.

Julian’s arm arced wide, the knife only a whisper from Butler’s chest. The man flinched, but his focus stayed on the woman.

“Into the boat! The baby!” was all he said.

Lady Elliott changed direction, her feet splashing through the surf as she ran toward the jolly boat.

She was going to escape, Julian’s mind screamed. But his body acted instinctively as he drove his knife forward. It slid beneath Butler’s arm and into his side. Julian felt the point pierce flesh, then slide out again.
Not deep enough. Not debilitating.
Still, Butler dropped to the ground.

“Come now, boy. It’s just a scratch.” Julian stepped closer, reaching down to haul the man up. As his fist closed around Butler’s collar, Julian glanced to the right.

A smuggler ran straight at him, only feet away, dagger poised to strike. Julian gathered himself to pivot.

It would be too late. He knew it with every ounce of his instinct, every moment of training. Fate had finally caught him. Only one thought came to mind.

Grace.

A primitive torrent of need and fear flooded him, even as he braced for death.

A
SHOT RANG OUT
.

The smuggler fell with an agonized scream. As if in a dream, Julian saw the dagger flash in the moonlight as it dropped to the ground.

Julian jerked his head up and scanned the beach—and his blood froze.

Grace kneeled on the shingle, her pistol braced on her forearm. Smoke curled from the weapon. It still pointed at the smuggler now dead at Julian’s feet.

The world seemed to stop spinning. It went silent and black, the smugglers disappearing from his consciousness so that all he could see was her, with her eyes as silver as the moon that shone down and gilded her hair.

Then the world rushed back.

She was in the open. Unprotected.

The hair rose on his neck, drawing him back into the battle. He whirled and ducked when a fist shot toward his face. Kicking out, he felt the heel of his boot connect with bone. The smuggler yelped and toppled over, clutching at his knee.

To Julian’s left, Butler staggered to his feet. Over Butler’s shoulder, Julian could see Angel’s foot come up in a high kick and he saw a smuggler fly backward, where he lay inert.

His gaze flicking back to Butler, Julian advanced.

But his mind was still with Grace. Had she retreated to the boulders? Was she safe?

He leapt at Butler and plowed a fist into the man’s stomach. Butler yelped, but returned with a fist to Julian’s jaw that sent him spinning backward.

As he righted himself, he saw a smuggler lying motionless on the shingle. That meant four men down. The fifth limped toward the boat, shouting at Marie to get out. Two more battled Angel and Jack.

But one was still on his feet somewhere, and Julian couldn’t see him.

Grace.
He turned to the rocks and saw her. Hair gleaming, face white as death. She stood silent and tall on the beach. The last smuggler stood behind her, a pistol shoved into her back.

The smuggler sneered. “Into the water, woman. You’re my freedom. One of your men comes after you, and you’re dead.”

All of Julian’s senses, all of his training, focused on Grace.
With a howl of fury, he sprang forward—and was stopped as his head wrenched back, Butler’s forearm pressed against his windpipe. He gasped, struggling against the crushing pain.

He wouldn’t get to her in time. She’d be lost to him forever. His mind emptied and darkness closed in at the edge of his vision. He couldn’t breathe.

Terror for Grace jerked him forward. Butler flipped over Julian’s back and landed hard in the rough shingle. The traitor scrambled up to a crouch and braced to leap—then froze as a bloodcurdling cry echoed between the limestone cliffs.

Butler’s head turned toward the dinghy, leaving him exposed. Vulnerable. Julian jumped forward, knife poised for the kill. But Butler wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was staring toward the water, his face contorted with raw, stark terror.

Julian withdrew, his knife hand falling away as he followed Butler’s gaze. Fear whipped through Julian and he took an unconscious step forward.

Grace and Lady Elliott stood side by side in the stern of the jolly boat. A smuggler pointed a pistol at their backs. More smugglers rushed to set the oars and another splashed through the water, Angel following close behind.

The gold light of the boat’s lantern glowed over Grace’s face, highlighting sharp cheekbones. He met her gaze over the roiling surf, and those captivating eyes held him transfixed. For one moment, one breathless moment, all he could see were her eyes. Calm. Trusting.

Trusting.

Then Julian was running, Butler forgotten. His feet dug into pebbles as he flew across the beach. Icy water sprayed his face and chest as he leapt into the ocean. The surf tugged at him, pounding against his thighs and threatening to pull him under. He could hear Angel sputtering behind him.

“Stay back or they die!” the smuggler shouted as he aimed the pistol at Grace’s back.

Julian saw the smuggler’s thumb move over the pistol’s hammer, though he couldn’t hear the click over the roar of the ocean and the thud of his own heart. Dread clutched in his stomach. His feet seemed to stop of their own accord, sinking into the ocean floor.

Angel splashed to a halt beside him.

“Let them off the boat,” Julian shouted. The vessel was too far into the cove. Already water slapped at Julian’s chest. It would be well over Grace’s head. With the undertow, she could easily be swept out to the ocean.

“I think we’ll wait a little longer,” the smuggler returned. “Then again, I might just keep these ladies.”

Lady Elliott moaned, thrashing against the arm that held her. Julian could see the whites of her eyes as they darted around.

“We can’t catch you,” Angel called out. “You’re free.”

The smuggler laughed. “And so is one of your ladies.” He pushed, sending Lady Elliott tumbling into the frigid water. She screamed, one long shrill note that ended in a splash, then silence.

“I’ve got her!” Angel’s voice rose above the thrum of the ocean. He dove and disappeared beneath the waves.

On the shore, Butler surged forward, shouting, but Jack held him back.

“Now this one,” the smuggler called out, grabbing Grace around the neck. His fingers dug into the slender column, pressing against her fragile skin. “This pretty lady is coming with us.”

She winced, one quick grimace. Julian met her gaze. Her eyes flicked toward the water. Then again. He understood and reflexively shook his head. She ignored him, jabbing an elbow into the smuggler’s belly to release his hold—and jumped.

Fear rocketed through Julian. Drawing breath, he dove into the numbing water. The last sound he heard before the freezing water closed over him was a smuggler laughing.

He kicked, propelling himself forward, hands groping before him. Nothing. He came up to the surface, gasping for air and treading water. Cold shards of ice stabbed into his lungs so that he coughed even as he looked wildly around. To his right, Angel was diving under the water.

“Milord!” Jack shouted from the shore. “Over there!”

Julian followed his pointed finger and saw Grace only fifteen yards ahead of him, her wet hair a beacon against the black ocean.

Thank God!
He dove again, cleaving through the water, and came up where Grace had been. Only she wasn’t there. A wave crashed over his head, sending him under. He could feel his body starting to shake with cold. He kicked feverishly, propelling himself up so his head broke the surface again. He spun in the water. Where was she?

And then he saw her, only a few feet away. He reached out. His fingers slipped, slid, then found purchase in her sleeve. He pulled her in, pulled her close. Her body was shaking, but she wrapped her arms around him and clung.

They struck out toward the shore, fighting against the waves that tossed them about. He could hear Grace gulping for air. She had to be tiring. Her limbs must be as numb as his, her muscles screaming with effort.

Please don’t let her go under again.

His foot skimmed the ocean floor. A few more feet, and he could use it for leverage. He pulled Grace with him, both of them sputtering and choking, until they reached the shallow water. He was dimly aware of Angel and Jack pulling Lady Elliott from the water and saw Butler sprawled on the pebbles.

But his only thought was for Grace.

She was on her hands and knees in the shallows, coughing. Her hair hung in wet ropes around her face and her body shook with cold. He crawled to her, fingers and knees scraping against rough rocks.

“Grace,” he gasped.

She launched herself at him, clung once again.

“You idiot,” she panted. “You could have died.”

A
COLD RAGE SETTLED
over Julian as he watched Miles Butler pace the packed dirt floor of the makeshift dungeon, which was actually an empty cellar with a convenient lock and no windows.

Julian leaned casually against the wall. He fingered the long blade of his dagger, running his thumb along the edge. It was tempting to lock the door. No one would be able to intervene.

There was no sign of the earnest young man that had posed as Sir Charles’s clerk. Butler’s face was still young, his shoulders still narrow. But those shoulders were no longer hunched in docile compliance.

Butler shuddered and Julian realized the man’s clothes were still wet. He supposed he should provide dry clothes. He didn’t want the traitor to die of a chill before he stood trial.

“A far cry from the London, isn’t it, Butler?”

Butler pivoted and braced himself, as though anticipating a blow. When Julian remained leaning against the wall, he relaxed slightly, rubbing at the bandaged wound on his side.

“Shadow.” He nodded, as if they were greeting each other in a London ballroom.

“I suppose there’s little reason to ask why, is there?” Julian held up his knife, as though studying the edge of the blade. A dark side of him hoped Butler would need persuading. “Your father.”

“It was so easy to deceive you. All of you.” Butler’s eyes alighted on Julian’s dagger, and a small smile played about his lips. “Even scheduling trips to Bath to meet Marie was simple. I just went whenever Sir Charles was out of town, or over a few days when he didn’t need me.”

“Clever.”

“And I all but
told
you,” he crowed. “When Blackbourn escaped and I came running back here, ostensibly with my tail between my legs, I told you all about my father the double agent. And you never guessed.”

Inwardly, Julian cursed, but he kept his face expressionless. He’d been played for a fool.

“So you followed in your father’s footsteps, so to speak, but for the enemy instead.”

“This country killed my father, and wouldn’t even acknowledge him,” Butler spat.

“He was a spy,” Julian countered, shoving the knife into the waistband of his breeches. “If a spy is killed in the field, his identity goes unacknowledged. That’s a condition a spy accepts when he accepts the position.”

“To be forgotten? To leave behind a family?” Butler’s eyes turned vicious. “My mother didn’t forget. I didn’t forget. And I won’t let my child forget.”

“A child deserves more than a traitor for a father,” Julian said softly.

“And my child would’ve had more. The child was our reason for leaving England.” He paused, licked his lips. “
Our
child. I couldn’t risk Marie and our child. Not with you and Angel so close.”

“How did you persuade Lady Elliott to betray her country, Butler?”

“I didn’t have to. She hates her husband enough that it required no effort at all.” Butler’s breath hitched, one sharp movement he couldn’t hide even though he attempted to feign nonchalance. He leaned against a pile of the wine casks and casually asked, “She’s well? Marie?”

The offhand questions were too studied, and in complete contrast with the concern in his gaze. Julian narrowed his eyes. Whatever training Butler had, he wasn’t well seasoned. The first rule of espionage was never expose your weakness to an enemy.

“She’s been returned to her husband’s care, under guard, until Sir Charles determines her sentence,” he replied. And then went for the kill. “How does it feel to see your lover with another man—the man who owns her?”

Butler lunged, rage twisting his handsome face. But Julian was ready. A quick jab to the throat, a kick to the stomach and Butler was on the ground, gasping for air, clutching his injured side.

“I’m older and wiser, Butler. Remember that.” Julian crouched beside him and leaned over, letting the cold rage in his heart show in his eyes. “How do you know Lady Elliott? Did you meet her when she traveled to Bath?”

“Our mothers—our mothers were both French émigrés. Friends. We’ve been lovers since we were fifteen. Bath was only our most recent meeting place.” He coughed, wheezed. “Marie is
mine
. She only married that oaf Sir Richard because her father forced her to.”

Julian stood and watched Butler roll over to his hands and knees. Butler waited there, panting until he caught his breath. Then he staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on sturdy shelves. Through his torn shirt, Julian could see fresh blood staining his bandage.

“It’s certainly interesting to finally face you as an equal, Shadow,” Butler rasped. “I’ve often wondered who would win.”

“You feel we’re equals?” His fist shot out and clutched the front of Butler’s damp shirt. “Did you even once think about the men you caused to die? Did you think about
my
life when you betrayed me to the French?”

“Why should I? They’re nothing to me, and neither are you.” He gripped Julian’s hand, twisted. “But you understand that, Langford. You and I, we’re the same.”

“I don’t have the blood of thousands of Englishmen on my hands.” But Butler’s words echoed in Julian’s ears, planting an insidious seed of doubt in him.

“You’re a spy.” Butler shrugged dismissively. “You have as much blood on your hands as I.”

“Not the blood of my countrymen,” Julian responded. “Not from betrayal.”

But a sly voice whispered inside his head.
You still have blood on your hands. It’s just French blood instead of English.
For a moment, Julian thought his hand would wrap around the man’s throat and squeeze. Something dark and dangerous seethed beneath his skin, simmered in his blood.

Butler was right, and knowing it sent despair slithering through him. They had both lied, stolen, cheated, even killed for their countries—and they both loved a woman. He was no more worthy of love than Miles Butler. After all, murder ran in his veins. He came by it naturally.

__________

G
RACE STIRRED AS
she drifted out of sleep. She lay on her side in the massive bed, limp from exhaustion and cold. God, she’d been so cold. Even now, with blankets piled on her and the fire roaring a few feet away, her bones were chilled from the frigid ocean water.

She buried her face in the pillows and breathed deep. The scent drifting up from the smooth silk was of her own lavender soap. No scent of man or leather, or the fresh air Julian so often carried with him. Her heart ached, and she squeezed her eyes shut to will back the gathering tears.

He’d saved her, as she’d known he would. Julian had pulled her from the ocean, plied her with brandy and a hot bath and then went to conduct his business. He went back to being a spy.

Despair threatened to swamp her. Forcing it away, she squinted into the gray half-light of predawn.

The doors to the dressing room stood open. Through them she could see Julian, wearing only his breeches and boots. His feet were apart, as though braced for a fight. The sight of him filled her with both the warmth of love and chill of hopelessness. Then she realized he was standing before the doors to the countess’s suite.

His mother’s suite.

Curiosity mixed with concern and she pushed back the mountain of bedcovers. Shrugging into her dressing gown, Grace padded across the bedchamber and through the dressing room on bare feet. She was still yards from him when he spoke.

“Go back to bed, Grace.”

She ignored his command and pulled her wrap closer to block out the night chill. “Where are Miles Butler and Lady Elliott?”

“Angel is guarding Butler for now. I’ll relieve him in a few hours.” He didn’t turn to face her, but spoke to the door before him. “In the morning, Angel and I and a few footmen will transport Butler to London.”

“You’re leaving already.” Her stomach twisted. It had been a silly wish that their relationship would have changed.

“I must give my report to Sir Charles.”

“Of course.” It was an excuse. But she was simply too exhausted and too heartsick to fight with him. “What of Lady Elliott?”

“Her husband is going to petition for clemency and ask that he be allowed to hold her under permanent guard at his estate in the north of England. His plea will probably be granted, at least until she’s had the babe.” He paused, shifted slightly. “Go back to bed,” he said again.

Grace stared at the broad expanse of his naked back. She should return to bed. The traitors were caught, so there was no longer anything binding she and Julian together. And there was too much pushing them apart.

She started to back away—then stopped when a shudder wracked his frame. His shoulders shook, and the muscles of his back shifted as he hunched over. The movement tore at her, ripping at the heart she’d been guarding so carefully.

Stepping forward, she raised her hand and flattened her fingers in the warm, smooth center of his back. He stiffened, but didn’t shrug her off. Drawing a deep breath, she slipped around him and looked up into his lean face. He looked drawn, haggard. And lost. Oh, so very lost.

Her heart simply ached. Whatever demons haunted him, they were beyond horrible. “Oh, Julian,” she whispered, tears already gathering. “Tell me of your nightmares.”

He lifted shattered eyes to hers. Grace nearly recoiled from the ripe anguish swirling there.

“Not nightmares, Grace. Memories.” His gaze fell, and when she followed it, she saw he was staring at his open hand.

A slim brass key glinted dully in his palm. His long fingers curled around it again and he stepped hesitantly forward. His chest expanded with a deep breath before he fit the key into the lock and flung open the door to the countess’s suite.

The room was nothing but shapes and shadows in the gray dawn light. The breeze from the door fluttered the linens covering the furniture as though ghosts, freed from their long solitude, danced to greet them. Dust floated on the air, as did the faint scent of roses.

Julian stood just inside the door, his hands motionless at his side. “She died,” he rasped. “And I killed her.”

Grace nearly wept at the pain reverberating in his voice. “Julian, you couldn’t—”

“I killed her. Or as good as. She was defending me against my father. He’d been drunk, as usual, and raving that my mother coddled me too much.” He looked around the room, as though considering. “Perhaps she did, but it was in response to his dissolute ways.”

“What was your mother like?” she asked softly.

“Sweet. Shy. Meek, even, which made it easier for my father to be cruel to her.” He reached out and ran his hand over the empty surface of the dressing table. “I would come into her room to show her my latest outdoor discovery or something I’d accomplished with my tutor. She would be sitting here in front of the mirror, weeping and putting salve on a bruise to speed the healing.”

“He hurt her.”

“Often. He drank often as well, and had his regular mistress installed in one of the other bedchambers.”

“That’s heartless,” she breathed. She couldn’t imagine the insult. “Your poor mother.”

“I didn’t know who the woman was until I was older. He went to other women, of course, but he always had one living in Thistledown before my mother’s death, and later in our London townhouse. We never returned here after my mother died.” He walked to a chaise and pulled off its cover. A quarter century of dust billowed out, clouding the air.

“What happened to your mother, Julian?”

He closed his eyes, ran his hand down the arm of the chaise. “I can remember exactly how they looked. My father, drunk and furious. My mother, terrified yet determined. He was making plans to introduce me to his mistress. Not just then, as I was only eight, but in a few years. It was getting to be time I learned how the Earls of Langford conducted themselves.”

Shock sliced through her and she stepped forward. “God, Julian, that’s horrible. You were so young.”

“Old enough, in my father’s eyes. He was telling my mother he’d have to start teaching me earlier to counteract all of her coddling. She fought him. I think it was the first time she openly defied him.”

“With good cause.” She reached out to put a hand on his arm then dropped it. He seemed oddly fragile, as though he would shatter if she touched him.

“He shook me, telling me he’d have to teach me to be a man. I remember she leapt at him, scratching, biting even. He lost his grip on my arms and I ran. Not far,” he qualified. “Just far enough that I could hide behind some tapestries in the upstairs hall. She followed me into the hall and he followed her.”

He looked at her now, but his eyes were unfocused and she knew he wasn’t seeing her.

“I hid there,” he continued, “crouched behind the tapestry, hands covering my ears while they fought. But I still heard my father shout that he would be rid of her, once and for all. I heard her scream as she tumbled down the servants’ stairs.”

“Oh, God.
Julian.
” Her legs turned weak. She staggered to the chaise and gripped the arm to keep from sliding to the floor.

“I stayed behind that tapestry until the morning, terrified because I could hear my father shouting for me as he stumbled through my bedchamber and the nursery.” He looked down at his hands. “I was such a coward.”

“You were
eight
.”

“That’s no excuse,” he bit out.

“You were only a child,” she returned.

“Old enough that I could have stood in front of my mother instead of running. Grace, my father killed my mother. He
meant
to. I’ve the blood of a murderer in my veins.”

“But that doesn’t make you a murderer.”

“It was my fault he killed her. They say blood tells, Grace—and it did. I’m a spy. My training includes the ability to kill, and I’ve done so.” He turned to face her, and the red light of dawn slanted over his grief-ravaged face. “I have nothing in me to give you. I’m no different than Miles Butler.”

Grace’s heart swelled, ached, nearly burst from the pressure. She grieved for the child whose innocence was stolen and for the man who didn’t believe he deserved love. She stepped forward, reaching out for him. He only shook his head.

He wouldn’t let her comfort him. At least not with her touch.