Surrender (The Spymaster's Men) Read online

  The landing below let onto the inn’s foyer, and just to her right was the public room. A dozen men were within, drinking spirits, the conversation boisterous. She rushed outside, hoping no one had noticed her.

  Clouds raced across the moon, allowing some illumination. One torch lamp was lit on the street. Evelyn ran down the block, but saw no one ahead and no one lurking in the shadows. Relieved, she glanced back over her shoulder. Her heart seemed to stop.

  Two dark figures were behind her now.

  She began to run, seeing several masts in the sky ahead, pale canvas furled tightly against them. Another glance over her shoulder showed her that the men were also running—they were most definitely following her.

  “Arrêtez-vous!” one of the men called, laughing. “Are we frightening you? We only wish to speak with you!”

  Fear slammed through her. Evelyn lifted her skirts and ran toward the docks, which were now in front of her. And she instantly saw that cargo was being loaded onto one of the vessels—a cask the size of several men had been winched up and was being directed toward the deck of a large cutter with a black hull and black sails. Five men stood on the deck, reaching for the cask as it was lowered toward them.

  She had found the Sea Wolf.

  She halted, panting and out of breath. Two men were operating the winch. A third stood a bit apart, watching the activity. Moonlight played over his pale hair.

  And she was seized from behind.

  “Nous voulons seulement vous parler.” We only want to speak to you.

  Evelyn whirled to face the two men who had been following her. They were her own age, dirty, unkempt and poorly clothed—they were probably farmworkers and thugs. “Libérez-moi,” she responded in perfect French.

  “A lady! A lady dressed as a maid!” the first man said, but he did not speak with relish now. He spoke with suspicion.

  Too late, she knew she was in more danger than the threat of being accosted—she was about to be unmasked as a noblewoman and, perhaps, as the Countess D’Orsay. But before she could respond, a stranger said, very quietly, in English, “Do as the lady has asked.”

  The farmers turned, as did Evelyn. The clouds chose that moment to pass completely by the moon, and the night became momentarily brighter. Evelyn looked into a pair of ice-cold gray eyes and she froze.

  This man was dangerous.

  His stare was cold and hard. He was tall, his hair golden. He wore both a dagger and a pistol. Clearly, he was not a man to be crossed.

  His cool glance left her and focused on the two men. He repeated his edict, this time in French. “Faites comme la dame a demandé.”

  She was instantly released, and both men whirled and hurried off. Evelyn inhaled, stunned, and turned to the tall Englishman again. He might be dangerous, but he had just rescued her—and he might be Jack Greystone. “Thank you.”

  His direct gaze did not waver. It was a moment before he said, “It was my pleasure. You’re English.”

  She wet her lips, aware that their gazes were locked. “Yes. I am looking for Jack Greystone.”

  His eyes never changed. “If he is in port, I am not aware of it. What do you want of him?”

  Her heart sank with dismay—for surely, this imposing man, with his air of authority and casual power, was the smuggler. Who else would be watching the black ship as it was being loaded? “He has come recommended to me. I am desperate, sir.”

  His mouth curled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Are you attempting to return home?”

  She nodded, still staring at him. “We had arrangements to leave at dawn. But those plans have fallen by the wayside. I was told Greystone is here. I was told to seek him out. I cannot linger in town, sir.”

  “We?”

  She hugged herself now, still helplessly gazing into his stare. “My husband and my daughter, sir, and three friends.”

  “And who gave you such information?”

  “Monsieur Gigot—of the Abelard Inn.”

  “Come with me,” he said abruptly, turning.

  Evelyn hesitated as he started toward the ship. Her mind raced wildly. She did not know if the stranger was Greystone, and she wasn’t certain it was safe to go with him now. But he was heading for the ship with black sails.

  He glanced back at her, without pausing. And he shrugged, clearly indifferent as to whether she came or not.

  There was no choice. Either he was Greystone, or he was taking her to him. Evelyn ran after him, following him up the gangplank. He didn’t look at her, crossing the deck rapidly, and Evelyn rushed to fall into step behind him. The five men who were loading the cask all turned to stare openly at her.

  Her hood had slipped. She pulled it up more tightly as he went to a cabin door. He opened it and vanished inside. She faltered. She had just noticed the guns lining the sides of the ship. She had seen smuggling ships as a child; this ship seemed ready to do battle.

  She was even more dismayed and full of dread, but she had made her decision. Evelyn followed him inside.

  He was lighting lanterns. Not looking up, he said, “Close the door.”

  It crossed her mind that she was very much alone with a complete stranger now. Shoving her trepidation aside, she did as he asked. Very breathless now, she slowly faced him.

  He was standing at a large desk covered with charts. For one moment, all she saw was a tall, broad-shouldered man with golden hair tied carelessly in a queue, a pistol clipped to his shoulder belt, a dagger sheathed on his belt.

  Then she realized that he was also staring at her.

  She inhaled, trembling. He was shockingly attractive, she now realized, in both a masculine and a beautiful way. His eyes were gray, his features even, his cheekbones high and cutting. A gold cross winked from the widely open neck of his white lawn shirt. He was wearing doeskin breeches and high boots, and now she realized how powerful and lean his tall, muscular build was. His shirt clung to his broad chest and flat torso, and his breeches fit like a second skin. He did not have an ounce of fat on his hard frame.

  She wasn’t certain she had ever come into contact with such an inherently masculine man—and it was unnerving somehow.

  She was also the object of intense scrutiny. He was leaning his hip against the desk and staring back at her, as openly as she was regarding him. Evelyn felt herself flush. He was, she thought, trying to see her features, which were partially concealed by her hood.

  She now saw the small, narrow bed on the opposite wall. She realized that this was where he slept. There was a handsome rug on the planked floor, a handful of books on a small table. Otherwise, the cabin was sparsely appointed and completely utilitarian.

  “Do you have a name?”

  She jerked, realizing that her heart was racing. How should she answer? For she knew she must never reveal who she was. “Will you help me?”

  “I haven’t decided. My services are expensive, and you are a large group.”

  “I am desperate to return home. And my husband is in desperate need of a physician.”

  “So the plot thickens. How ill is he?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Can he reach my ship?”

  She hesitated. “Not without help.”

  “I see.”

  He did not seem moved by her plight. How could she convince him to help them? “Please,” she whispered, stepping away from the door. “I have a four-year-old daughter. I must get her to Britain.”

  He suddenly launched himself off the desk and strode slowly—indolently—toward her. “Just how desperate are you?” His tone was flat.

  He had paused before her, inches separating them. She froze, but her heart thundered. What was he suggesting? Because while his tone was brisk, there was a speculative gleam in his eyes. Or was she imagining it?

  She realized that she was mesmerized, and unbalanced. “I could not be more desperate,” she managed, with a stutter.

  He suddenly reached for her hood and tugged it down before she knew what he meant to do.
His eyes immediately widened.

  Her tension knew no bounds. She meant to protest. If she had wanted to reveal her face, she would have done so! As his gaze moved over her features, very slowly, one by one, her resistance died.

  “Now I understand,” he said softly, “why you would hide your features.”

  Her heart slammed. Was he complimenting her? Did he think her attractive—or even beautiful? “Obviously we are in some jeopardy,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of being recognized.”

  “Obviously. Is your husband French?”

  “Yes,” she said, “and I have never been as afraid.”

  He studied her. “I take it you were followed?”

  “I don’t know—perhaps.”

  Suddenly he reached toward her. Evelyn lost her ability to breathe as he tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her heart went wild. His fingers had grazed her cheek—and she almost wanted to leap into his arms. How could he do such a thing? They were strangers.

  “Was your husband accused of crimes against the state?”

  She flinched. “No…but we were told not to leave Paris.”

  He stared.

  She wet her lips, wishing she could decipher his thoughts, but his expression was bland. “Sir—will you help us—please?”

  She could not believe how plaintive she sounded. But he was still crowding her. Worse, she now realized she could feel his body’s warmth and heat. And while she was a woman of medium height, he made her feel small and fragile.

  “I am considering it.” He finally paced slowly away. Evelyn gulped air, ignoring the wild urge she had to fan herself with the closest object at hand. Was he going to reject her plea?

  “Sir! We must leave the country—immediately. I am afraid for my daughter!” she cried.

  He glanced at her, apparently unmoved. Evelyn had no idea what he was thinking, as an odd silence ensued. He finally said, “I will need to know who I am transporting.”

  She bit her lip. She hated deception, but she had no choice. “The Vicomte LeClerc,” she lied.

  His gaze moved over her face another time. “I will take payment in advance. My fee is a thousand pounds for each passenger.”

  Evelyn cried out. “Sir! I hardly have six thousand pounds!”

  He studied her. “If you have been followed, there will be trouble.”

  “And if we haven’t been followed?”

  “My fee is six thousand pounds, madam.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, then reached into her bodice and handed him the assignats.

  He made a disparaging sound. “That is worthless to me.” But he laid them on his desk.

  Evelyn grimly reached into her bodice. He did not look away, and she flushed as she removed the diamond-and-ruby necklace. His impassive expression did not change. Evelyn walked over to him and handed him the necklace.

  He took the necklace, carried it to his desk and sat down there. She watched him take a jeweler’s glass from a drawer and inspect the gems. “It is real,” she managed. “That is the most I can offer you, sir, and it is not worth six thousand pounds.”

  He gave her a skeptical glance, his gaze suddenly sliding to her mouth, before he continued to study the rubies with great care. Her tension was impossible now. He finally set the necklace and glass down. “We have a bargain, Vicomtesse. Although it is against my better judgment.”

  She was so relieved she gasped. Tears formed. “Thank you! I cannot thank you enough!”

  He gave her another odd look. “I imagine you could, if you wished to.” Abruptly he stood. “Tell me where your husband is and I will get him and your daughter and the others. We will disembark at dawn.”

  Evelyn had no idea what that strange comment had meant—or, she hoped she did not. And she could not believe it—he was going to help them flee the country, even if he did not seem overly enthused about it.

  Relief began. Somehow, she felt certain that this man would get them safely out of France and across the Channel. “They are at the Abelard Inn. But I am coming with you.”

  “Oh, ho!” His gaze hardened. “You are hardly coming, as God only knows what might arise between the docks and the inn. You can wait here.”

  She breathed hard. “I have already been separated from my daughter for an hour! I cannot remain apart from her. It is too dangerous.” And she was worried that, if someone discovered her party, they might take Henri prisoner—and Aimee, as well.

  “You will wait here. I am not escorting you back to that inn, and if you do not do as I say, you may take back your necklace, and we will cancel our agreement.”

  His gaze had become as sharp as knives. Evelyn was taken aback.

  “Madam, I will guard your daughter with my life, and I intend to be back on my ship in a matter of minutes.”

  She inhaled. Oddly, she trusted him, and clearly, he was not going to allow her to come.

  Aware of her surrender, he opened a drawer and removed a small pistol and a bag of powder with a flint box. He closed the drawer and his stare was piercing. “The odds are that you will not need this, but keep it with you until I return.” He walked around the desk and held the gun out to her.

  Evelyn took the gun. His eyes had become chilling. But he was about to aid and abet traitors to the revolution. If he was caught, he would hang—or worse.

  He strode to the door. “Bolt it,” he said, not looking back.

  Her heart slammed in unison with the door. Then she ran to it and threw the bolt, but not before she saw him striding across the ship’s deck, two armed sailors falling into step with him.

  She hugged herself, shivering. And then she prayed for Aimee, and for Henri. There was a small bronze clock on the desk; it was five-twenty now. She went and sat down in his chair.

  His masculinity seemed to rise up and engulf her. If only he had let her join him to retrieve her daughter and husband. She leaped up from his chair and paced. She could not bear sitting in his chair, and she wasn’t about to sit on his bed.

  At a quarter to six, she heard a sharp knock on the cabin door. Evelyn rushed to it as he said, “It is I.”

  She threw the bolt and opened the door. The first thing she saw was Aimee, yawning—she was in the smuggler’s arms. Tears began. He stepped into the cabin and handed Aimee to her. Evelyn hugged her, hard, but her gaze met that of the captain’s. “Thank you.”

  His glance held hers as he stepped aside.

  “Evelyn.”

  She froze at the sound of Henri’s voice. Then, incredulous, she saw him being held upright by two seamen. Laurent, Adelaide and Bette were behind them. “Henri! You have awakened!” she cried, thrilled.

  And as the seamen brought him inside, she set Aimee down and rushed to him, putting her arm around him to help him stand.

  “You are not going to England without me,” he said weakly.

  Tears fell now. Henri had awoken, and he was determined to be with them as they started a new life in England. She helped him to the bed, where he sat down, still weak and exhausted. Laurent and the women began bringing in their baggage as the two seamen left.

  Evelyn continued to clasp her husband’s hands, but she turned.

  The Englishman was staring at her. “We are hoisting sail,” he said abruptly.

  Evelyn stood, their stares locked. His was so serious. “It seems that I must thank you another time.”

  It was a moment before he spoke. “You can thank me when we reach Britain.” He turned to go.

  It was as if there was an innuendo in his words. And somehow, she knew what that innuendo was. But surely she was mistaken. Evelyn did not think twice. She ran to him—and in front of him. “Sir! I am deeply in your debt. But to whom do I owe the lives of my daughter and my husband?”

  “You owe Jack Greystone,” he said.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Roselynd on the Bodmin Moor, Cornwall

  February 25, 1795

  “THE COUNT WAS a beloved father, a beloved husband, and he will be sorely missed.�
� The parson paused, gazing out on the crowd of mourners. “May he rest eternally in peace. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the mourners murmured.

  Pain stabbed through Evelyn’s heart. It was a bright sunny day, but frigidly cold, and she could not stop shivering. She stared straight ahead, holding her daughter’s hand, watching as the casket was being lowered into the rocky ground. The small cemetery was behind the parish church.

  She was confused by the crowd. She hadn’t expected a crowd. She barely knew the village innkeeper, the dressmaker or the cooper. She was as vaguely acquainted with their two closest neighbors, who were not all that close, as the house they had bought two years ago sat in solitary splendor on the Bodmin Moor, and was a good hour from everyone and anyone. In the past two years, since retreating from London to the moors of eastern Cornwall, they had kept to themselves. But then, Henri had been so ill. She had been preoccupied with caring for him and raising their daughter. There had not been time for social calls, for teas, for supper parties.

  How could he leave them this way?

  Had she ever felt so alone?

  Grief clawed at her; so did fear.

  What were they going to do?

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  She watched the clods of dirt hitting the casket as they were shoveled from the ground into the grave. Her heart ached terribly; she could not stand it. She already missed Henri. How would they survive? There was almost nothing left!

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Aimee whimpered.

  Evelyn’s eyes suddenly flew open. She was staring at the gold starburst plaster on the white ceiling above her head; she was lying in bed with Aimee, cuddling her daughter tightly as they slept.

  She had been dreaming, but Henri was truly dead.

  Henri was dead.

  He had died three days ago and they had just come from the funeral. She hadn’t meant to take a nap, but she had lain down, just for a moment, beyond exhaustion, and Aimee had crawled into bed with her. They had cuddled, and suddenly, she had fallen asleep....