The Scoundrel’s Seduction Page 2

  But Sam had drawn solid lines between those acts he would and would not commit. He would steal, lie, torture, and assassinate in the interests of king and country. He would not commit cold-blooded murder of an innocent British citizen, even to save his own hide. He would not perform any act that would put a member of his family in danger. And he would not kill a woman.

  Those lines were all he had left—all he had to use as the threads by which he grasped on to the unraveling spool of his humanity.

  Killing her was out of the question.

  He could leave her here.

  But she knew too much. Just from the short conversation he’d had with Dunthorpe, she would have learned enough to put everything at risk.

  That left the only other option, one that was almost as unpalatable as the other two. He had to bring her with him.

  “Get up,” he repeated. His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears.

  “I … don’t … Please, I …” She moaned, appearing to make a valiant effort to follow his command but failing, her limbs trembling too violently to support her.

  He jammed his pistol back into his coat pocket and crouched down beside her, aware that his time was already up. They needed to leave this place. Now.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her, and he prayed that it was true. “But I need you to come with me.”

  She made a little moaning sound of despair. With a sigh, Sam scooped her into his arms and rose. God, she was a little thing. Light as a feather. But she was stiff in his arms.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said again. Although he didn’t blame her for not believing him. How could he? She’d just witnessed him kill her husband in cold blood.

  He turned to the door, to the only escape from this room, and froze, tucking Lady Dunthorpe’s rigid, shaking body tightly against him.

  Running footsteps resounded on the wooden floor of the outside corridor, and then the door flew open.

  Damn it. He’d run out of time.

  * * *

  The enormous man’s hands, firm and unyielding, held Élise pressed against his body. No man had ever carried her before. She wouldn’t have considered it unpleasant had it not been for the circumstances.

  This man was dangerous. A killer. He’d killed Dunthorpe.

  Dunthorpe. Her husband. She no longer had a husband. Dunthorpe was dead. She was … She was … a widow …

  Her body folded in on itself, her arms tucked tightly into her chest. As if by making herself smaller, she could disappear right out of this terrible moment. Her breaths came in harsh pants, small whimpers erupting from her throat.

  The man stopped short, and the strong arms around her squeezed her more tightly against him. She smelled fresh grasses underlying the pervading sharp tang of gunpowder.

  The door burst open. Richards stood at the threshold, half dressed, pointing a pistol at the man who held her.

  “What …? Lady … Lady Dunthorpe?” Richards blurted out.

  The man holding her didn’t move. “The lady is injured,” he said calmly. “I must take her to safety.”

  Élise started to protest, but the man squeezed her tighter—a clear warning that made her freeze.

  She needed to do something—to get away. But she didn’t know what … or how. If she said anything, or tried to shimmy out of his grip, he would certainly hurt her. He might even kill her, like he’d killed Dunthorpe.

  There was no escape from this man.

  Not yet, anyhow. She hadn’t endured so many years of hell by being a simpering fool. She’d wait for an opening and she’d take it. In the meantime, she could wallow in the very honest and real terror that washed unchecked through her body.

  Richards’s gaze moved frantically across the room, coming to a stop when it landed on Dunthorpe. She didn’t look—she didn’t want to lay eyes on his lifeless body again. She’d seen enough death to last multiple lifetimes already.

  Allowing the fear to pulverize her, she squeezed her eyes shut.

  “You killed him,” Richards gasped. “You killed my master! You bitch!”

  If it was possible, Élise’s muscles tightened even more. Richards thought she had killed Dunthorpe. That she and this man were in league … No … Dieu, no. Bone-deep shudders racked her body.

  “Non,” the man said blandly. He bewildered her. First his accent was French, then English, now French again. “It was not the lady. It was a sharpshooter. The shot came through the window.” An urgency edged into his tone with the next words. “We must leave this place. He might shoot into this room again.”

  “I don’t see any broken glass.” Richards’s voice brimmed with doubt.

  “Alors. Do you not understand when I tell you that we are in danger if we remain here?” The man pushed out an arm, and Élise opened her eyes in time to see him thrust Richards aside with no regard to the gun. Élise froze, expecting the butler to shoot, but he went stumbling back into the corridor and the shot never came. “Now. There is no hope for your master, but your mistress is in requirement of a doctor. You must fetch one. Immédiatement.”

  “I … B-b-but …” Richards stuttered.

  “Go now!” the man exclaimed, sounding exasperated. “Fetch the doctor. And give me that gun. If I see the shooter, I shall kill him myself.” He wrenched the pistol from Richards’s grip.

  “Allez!” the man roared.

  Richards stumbled down the corridor before them. The man held Élise tightly as he negotiated the stairs. At the bottom, he drew to a halt and watched Richards burst out the front door. It slammed behind him.

  “Damn,” the man muttered, sounding very English once again.

  He just stood there, staring at the closed door, holding Élise against him. Seconds passed.

  Élise peeked up at the man. He had a strong, solid face. Darkly handsome, with a square jaw and piercing dark eyes. He was staring down at her.

  “I’m going to set you on your feet,” he murmured. “Can you walk?”

  “Oui …” She blinked, surprised by the French word emerging from her mouth. It had been a long time since she’d forgotten to speak English. “Yes.”

  Slowly, carefully, he slid her down his body until she wobbled on shaky legs. His fingers closed over her forearm, preventing her from running, as did the gun he still held in one hand. “Remain close to me. Do not say a word.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  She followed his order not to speak as he tugged her out onto the landing and down the steps that led to the street. Beyond the resident fear, a thousand questions simmered in her mind.

  Why had he killed Dunthorpe? Why hadn’t he killed her, too? Was he kidnapping her for a reason? For ransom? But if that were the case, how could he have known she was at home today? No one knew she was in London …

  A black-lacquered, unmarked coach awaited them at the curb. The man glanced up at the driver, who tipped his cap low over his forehead and then looked away before Élise could discern any of his features. All she could tell was that he was an older man, with gray-streaked brown hair.

  The man who’d shot Dunthorpe opened the door, lifted her by the waist, and thrust her inside the coach as if she were a slab of meat he’d just purchased from the butcher.

  She stumbled in, her eyes unaccustomed to the darkness. Another figure sat inside the coach, shadowy in the darkness.

  “For God’s sake!” the shadowy figure exclaimed when she fell half on him. He took her shoulders and pushed her off him. Dieu, it was another of them. Maybe she had been unwise not to attempt escape earlier, when it was just one big, frightening man she’d had to deal with. Though this one, admittedly, was somewhat smaller.

  “What’s this, Hawk?” the shadowy man asked.

  “Lady Dunthorpe.” The big man’s voice was completely flat as he said her name. He came up behind her and arranged her into the forward-facing seat opposite the smaller man. Then he sat beside her, his enormous body a threatening mass of muscle.

  The carriage lurc
hed into motion, and the man across from her studied her, his head tilted in fascination. She caught glimpses of his features from the shifting light that filtered in through the slim gaps in the curtains covering the windows. He was quite young—just a boy, really—with angular, handsome features. He looked rather … French.

  She took a shuddering breath, then closed her eyes.

  Dunthorpe is dead. Dunthorpe is dead.

  If she were a good wife, she’d be weeping. Crying out, grieving, keening, mourning her dead husband. Trying to kill these men who had caused his death. But she knew, better than anyone, that Dunthorpe was undeserving of her tears. Or anyone’s tears, for that matter, though no doubt his death would be considered a national tragedy.

  The English could be such fools.

  It was telling that, even though she was terrified to be a captive of these clearly dangerous men, this was less terrifying than being alone with Dunthorpe.

  The big man—Hawk, the youth had called him—had promised not to hurt her. She looked at him now. Men would say anything to attain a woman’s capitulation—she knew that. She couldn’t trust him to hold to his word.

  He met her eyes with his dark ones. His expression was flat—devoid of any emotion. That cool gaze sent shivers of trepidation skittering down her spine.

  “Lady Dunthorpe,” the youth mused, surprise evident in his young voice. “She wasn’t supposed to be at home.”

  “No,” Hawk said darkly, “she wasn’t.”

  The youth drew in a breath. “Well, then. What do you intend to do with her?”

  Élise glanced back and forth between the two as they talked about her as if she wasn’t present. Neither of them spoke with a French accent now, so she assumed that Hawk had faked the accent earlier. But why?

  And then the truth of it struck her. It was because he wished to make it appear as though Dunthorpe’s assassin had been a Frenchman.

  She understood completely. It was far easier to place blame for the murder of such a well-loved man on an enemy than on a compatriot.

  Hawk shook his head, and she saw the slightest tightening of his lips at the edges. This man didn’t wear his emotions on his face. To read him, she’d have to watch him carefully, look out for the subtlest clues. If he didn’t kill her before she had the opportunity to try to understand him.

  Now that her mind was working properly, she realized she already understood a few things about him, and she collected those facts in her mind as the carriage rattled down a quiet London street. He was extremely large and extremely strong. He was ice-cold and impenetrable, but with chinks in that surface. He was a competent killer. He was not French. He knew something of Dunthorpe’s nefarious deeds, and the latest scheme, whatever that might be, had been what had caused him to kill Dunthorpe.

  And he probably thought she was in league with her husband.

  She wrapped her arms over her chest and squeezed her body tight. She was cold—it was a chilly early-spring evening, and she had no coat.

  Nevertheless, a kind of odd calmness flushed through her. She would accept her fate, whatever it might be. Dunthorpe was dead, and no matter what happened now, it would be all right. All that mattered was that he was dead.

  A weight settled on her shoulders, and she glanced at the big man in surprise. He’d laid his own coat over her and now pulled at the front so she was tucked in tight, as if in a blanket.

  A thoughtful kidnapper, this one.

  “Keep her close,” Hawk muttered to his friend as he deemed her warm enough and turned away—a much-delayed and noncommittal answer to the youth’s question about what he planned to do with her.

  “Ah.” The youth nodded, and then he glanced out the window. “We’re almost there.”

  “Are we being followed?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Did you see the butler?”

  “Oh, I saw him, all right. He burst through the door and then set off running down the street like wolves were nipping at his arse.” He cast Élise a guilty glance. “Beg pardon, my lady.”

  She didn’t answer him, just stared at him blankly, and he raised a brow at his large friend. “I think you’ve gone and petrified her with fear, Hawk.”

  Hawk glanced down at her. Then he shrugged. “Easier this way.”

  She straightened her spine but tightened her arms around herself. As if her two spindly arms could protect her from men such as these. “Who are you?” she whispered. Her voice sounded rough—like she hadn’t used it in a week.

  “No one,” Hawk said quietly. “Ghosts. Specters in the night. You’ve never seen us.”

  She frowned at the absurdity of this and opened her mouth to give a fitting retort, but just then the carriage came to an abrupt halt.

  “And here we are!” the youth said cheerfully. “Home, sweet home.”

  Chapter Two

  Sam entered the safe house, wrapping his arm firmly around Lady Dunthorpe’s waist and pulling her small body against him. Laurent and Carter took care of the horses and carriage and ensured the outside was secure.

  This house was located between the Covent Garden and Piccadilly—a very busy area of London. Sam had learned long ago that sometimes the best way to make oneself truly invisible was to make oneself as visible as possible.

  He opened the door of the town house and stepped inside. The interior was dark, but he had prowled these corridors in the dead of night many times before. He led Lady Dunthorpe down a short set of stairs, guiding her carefully so she wouldn’t stumble in the dark. He opened the first door to the right and led her inside.

  The dungeon.

  At least, that’s what Laurent and Carter fondly called this particular room. In fact, it was a quite well-appointed bedchamber. Meant for prisoners, yes, but Sam’s superiors liked to think of themselves as a highly civilized lot when they weren’t arranging for people to be assassinated in cold blood. They didn’t go for the chains and shackles or the dank cellars and rat-infested dungeons whose floors were ankle-deep in sewage. No, they kept their prisoners as they would a most esteemed guest. Many such “guests” never knew they were prisoners at all.

  This one did, though, Sam thought grimly as the door closed behind them with a snap and her body went rigid.

  He didn’t comfort her. What could he say? If she was to be comforted, he certainly couldn’t be the one to do it. Whenever she looked at him, she’d see only the man who’d killed her husband.

  Instead he said, “Just a moment,” and released her arm to go crouch at the hearth. In a few minutes, he had a fire going. Without looking at her, he lit the lamp on the small square walnut table beside the barred half window that looked over the surface of the street when its curtains were open. Iron bars were not considered odd for a window in London and certainly didn’t rouse any suspicion. But unlike most barred windows, the purpose of this one was to keep people in, not to keep them out.

  Finally, he glanced at her. She stood in the middle of the room, her body straight and tense, gazing at him with clear blue eyes. Tendrils of shining blond hair escaped from their coiffure and curled around her face, giving her a wild, ethereal look.

  God, she was a beauty.

  A traitorous, French beauty.

  Yet she looked utterly fragile. Was she, though? Perhaps not. Perhaps that kitten-soft exterior hid ferocious claws.

  Despite himself, he found her utterly intriguing.

  “What are you going to do to me?” she asked sharply.

  “To you?” he asked. “Nothing.”

  She stared at him, clearly not believing his words. Intelligent woman.

  “You should go to bed. We’ll talk more in the morning.” He needed to send a message to Adams. This would be a complicated issue; there was no doubt about that. And he wanted out of it as soon as humanly possible. He’d accomplished his mission. Let someone else deal with Lady Dunthorpe.

  Her eyes flickered to the large bed, which was covered in pillows and a rich silk counterpane embroidered
in silver and gold.

  “Bed,” she repeated flatly. As if she couldn’t quite understand what a bed was.

  “Right.” He strode over to the closet and opened the door. There were clothes of various sizes and uses hanging there, and he found a nightgown that would be far too large for her. It was the best he could do. As he withdrew it and laid it over the back of the chintz-covered armchair, his gaze snagged on her dress. It was a fashionable gown. One that required a maid’s assistance to get into and out of.

  Sam nearly groaned. But then he locked his composure firmly into place and took a step toward her.

  She stumbled back, looking up at him with wide, terror-filled eyes. “You … killed Dunthorpe.”

  God, how he hated this. He’d been lucky to have few witnesses to his deeds over the years. “Yes. I did.”

  She nodded, as if confirming it to herself. “I—” She pressed her lips together, as if thinking better of what she’d been about to say; then she lowered her eyes. “Will you kill me, too?”

  Damn and blast. “No,” he told her firmly. “I won’t. I told you I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “What is the word of a murderer?”

  Not of much value, he had to admit. “Unfortunately, it is all I have.”

  She looked up again, and they locked eyes. “Will you rape me, then?”

  “What?” For God’s sake! “No!”

  “Will they?” She gestured toward the door, presumably indicating Carter and Laurent.

  “No. They won’t touch you. You have my word on that as well. We aren’t cretins, my lady.” Though he really couldn’t expect her to believe otherwise.

  She took a shaky breath. She believed him, at least partially, because some of the tightness in her shoulders loosened.

  “Why were you in London tonight?” he asked her gruffly. “You were supposed to be in Brighton.”

  Her eyes widened as he revealed that bit of knowledge about her supposed whereabouts, but she pressed her lips together, unwilling to answer him.

  “Did Dunthorpe know you were there?”

  She shook her head slightly. An answer to his question or a refusal to answer? He thought it might be an answer. So perhaps Dunthorpe hadn’t been aware that his wife was in the room. Interesting.