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He looked very directly at her now. “I have considered it.”
She trembled, taken aback as never before. A terrible silence fell. It was thick with tension—and his relentless stare never wavered.
Couldn’t she convince him to help her? Men were always rushing to her side, to help her across the street, to open doors for her, to see her into her carriage. She had never paid much attention to her power as a beautiful woman before, but she was not a fool—Henri had fallen in love with her because of her beauty. It was only after he had become further acquainted with her that he had loved her for her character and temperament.
Greystone hadn’t recognized her, but she was certain of his interest. When he looked at her directly, it was a glance any woman would recognize.
Her heart lurched. Henri was surely turning over in his grave now! Going into this man’s arms would be the last recourse! “Mr. Greystone, I am desperate,” she said softly. “I am begging you to reconsider. My daughter’s future is at stake.”
“When I set sail, I not only risk my own life, I risk those of my men,” he spoke, now seeming impatient.
She could barely breathe. “I am a widow in great need, without protection, or means. You are a gentleman. Surely—”
“No, I am not.” He was abrupt and final. “And I am not in the habit of generously rescuing damsels in distress.”
Did she have any other choices? Aimee’s future was at stake, and he did not seem about to bend. She had to get that gold; she had to secure a bright future for her daughter! Evelyn lifted her hand; somehow, she touched his jaw.
His eyes widened.
“I am in mourning,” she whispered, “and if France is as dangerous as you claim, then I am asking you to risk your life for me.”
His thick, dark lashes lowered. She could not see his eyes, and another silence fell. Evelyn dropped her hand; it was trembling. He slowly lifted his lashes and looked at her.
“Aren’t you curious, Countess? Don’t you want to know why I came here?” he asked very softly.
She felt her heart slam. “Why?”
“You have a reputation, too.”
“What does that mean? What reputation could I possibly have?”
“I have heard it said, often enough, that the Countess D’Orsay is the most beautiful woman in all of England.”
It was suddenly so silent, that she could hear the rain, not just pounding over their heads, but running from the gutters on the roof. She could hear the logs and kindling, crackling in the hearth. And she could hear her own deafening heartbeat.
“And we both know that is absurdly false,” she said thickly.
“Is it?”
Evelyn wet her lips, oddly dazed. “Surely you agree… Such a claim is absurd.”
He slowly smiled. “No, I do not agree. How modest you are.”
Evelyn did not know what to do, and she couldn’t think clearly now. She had never been in any man’s arms except for Henri’s—and he hadn’t been young or good-looking or sensual. Her heart raced more wildly. There was alarm and confusion, there was even some dismay, but mostly, there was excitement.
She hesitated. “I was sixteen when I married my husband.”
He started. “What does that have to do with anything?”
She had been trying to tell him that she wasn’t really experienced, but now, it didn’t seem to matter. Jack Greystone was the most attractive man she had ever come across, and not just because he was so handsome. He was so utterly masculine, so brazen and confident, and so powerful. Her knees were buckling. Her heart was thundering. Her skin prickled.
She had never felt this way before.
Evelyn stood up on her tiptoes and as she prepared to kiss him, their gazes locked. His was wide, incredulous. But then it blazed.
Her insides hollowed in response and she brushed her mouth once upon his. And the moment their lips met, a shocking sensation of pleasure went through her.
Standing there with her mouth open was like being on fire!
He gripped her shoulders and kissed her. Evelyn gasped, because his mouth was very firm and even more demanding; he began kissing her with a stunning ferocity.
And Evelyn kissed him back.
Somehow, she was in his arms. Her entire body was pressed against his, enveloped by his, her breasts crushed by his chest. For the first time in her life, she realized she was in the throes of desire. It was maddening—senseless.
And then he stepped back and pushed her away from him.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
He looked at her, breathing hard—his gray gaze on fire.
Evelyn clutched her robe to her body. She reached for the sofa so she could continue to stand upright. Had she just been in his arms? The arms of a veritable stranger? And since when did anyone kiss that way—with such hunger, such intensity?
“You are trouble, Countess,” he said harshly.
“What?” Evelyn cried. Some sensibility was returning, and she could not believe what she had just done!
“I am sorry you are desperate, Countess. I am sorry you are destitute. But one night in your bed isn’t enough to entice me to France on your behalf.” His eyes blazed with desire, but she saw anger, too.
Evelyn started. She had kissed him—she hadn’t suggested an affair. “I do need your help,” she heard herself cry.
“You are a dangerous woman. Most men are fools. I am not.” Giving her a grim look, he strode past her. At the door he paused. “I am certain you will find someone else to do your bidding. Good night.”
Evelyn was so bewildered that she could not move, not until she heard the front door slam. She collapsed upon the sofa. She had found Jack Greystone. She had dared to kiss him, and he had kissed her back, with fervor. And then he had refused her pleas and walked out on her!
She told herself that she was crying for Aimee—and not because Jack Greystone had had her in his arms only to reject her.
* * *
JACK WAS STILL IN A VERY foul mood. The sun now high, he slid from his mount, tied it to the rail in front of the inn and patted its rump. He had just dropped anchor on one of the beaches below the village of Bexhill, and as it was half past noon, he was late.
The Gray Goose Inn was a dilapidated white stucco building with a shingled roof, a dusty courtyard, and a great many suspicious patrons. Just north of Hastings, set in rolling green meadows, it was his preferred meeting place because he did not wish to pass through the Strait of Dover, just in case he was boxed in there by his enemies. He could outrun a naval destroyer and a revenue cutter, and he had, but there was not a great deal of room to maneuver in the Straits.
He sighed as he entered the dark, somewhat malodorous and smoky public room. It had stopped raining well before dawn, when he had been hoisting sail and leaving the cove near Fowey, but he was somewhat chilled from the entire damp, cold night. At least it was warm inside the inn, but it was a far cry from his uncle’s home on Cavendish Square in London, where he would greatly prefer to be now.
The bounty on his head had begun to truly restrict his movements. He had been amused when he had first learned of its existence a year and a half ago. But instead of meeting his brother and uncle in the comfort of the Cavendish Square townhome, he was confined to a clandestine meeting in the cramped back room of a foul, roadside inn. It wasn’t as amusing now.
Jack had been engaged with smugglers since he was a boy of five years old, when he had insisted on standing watch with the village elders, on the lookout for the preventive men. Nothing had pleased him more than to watch the smugglers drop anchor in Sennen Cove and begin to unload their wares, except when the night was lit up with the torches carried by the revenue men as they rushed down the cliffs and invaded the beach, guns blazing. Casks would be dragged into secret caves, while others were left behind for the authorities. Some smugglers would turn tail and flee, others would fire back at the customs agents. He would join in the fighting—until an adult would espy him and drag him, protesting, away.
At seven, he had been dragging ankers filled with brandy across the beaches at Sennen Cove, as he was too small to carry them upon his shoulders. At ten, he had put out to sea with Ed Lewes as a cabin boy, at the time one of the most notorious and successful Cornish free traders. At twelve he had been a rigger, at fourteen, first mate. At seventeen he had become captain of his own ship, a fore and aft rigged sloop. Now, he captained the Sea Wolf II, an eighty-gallon frigate built just for the trade, her hull so skillfully carved that she cut the water like a dolphin. He’d yet to be caught when challenged.
He had spent most of his life outwitting and outrunning the revenue men, the customs agents and now, the British navy. He was accustomed to the danger and pursuit, and he was thrilled by both. He especially loved being hunted, and then tacking across the wind and becoming the hunter. How he loved chasing his enemies and driving them aground—he enjoyed nothing more.
He was also used to lying low, or going into hiding. He had no intention of going to prison, being transported, or now hanging for the acts of treason he was charged with committing.
He did not think his life would have changed as much, if it were only for the bounty. But both of his sisters had married into the highest echelon of British society, marrying the earls of Bedford and St Just, respectively. And he had become a subject of fascination for the ton.
Gentlemen admired him at their dinner tables, while ladies swooned over tales of his exploits on their shopping expeditions. There was gossip, rampant speculation and even some idolatry. There were a dozen debutantes calling upon his sisters, in the hopes of soliciting his attentions!
As such, the authorities had placed him squarely in their targets. He was, without a doubt, the one smuggler the Admiralty most wished to catch and hang.
He hadn’t been to London in at least six months. His brother, Lucas, was staying at the Cavendish Square flat, and the house was frequently watched. Apparently lookouts were occasionally stationed at Bedford House and Lambert Hall. A few years ago, he could come and go in broad daylight, he could shop on Pall Mall, he could attend supper parties and balls. Even a year ago, he could enter London to visit his sisters, as long as there was no fanfare. Not anymore.
He had a niece and nephew he never saw. But he was hardly a family man.
He had to exercise the utmost caution wherever he went. In fact, he had been as careful when he had ventured to Roselynd last night. He had considered the countess’s inquiries a possible trap. But he had not been followed, and no one had shown up at her door to arrest him while they spoke.
He paused on the threshold of the public room, trying to peer through the smoke, a very dark, partly sexual, tension within him. The Countess D’Orsay was as beautiful as claimed. Curiosity had compelled him to meet her. He had wanted to see if she was such a great beauty—which she was—and he had also wanted to see if she was setting a trap for him—which she was not. But he hadn’t expected her to be the woman he had rescued in France, four years earlier.
And the moment he had recognized her, it had been like receiving a stunning blow to the chest.
He had realized, instantly, that she was the woman who had claimed to be the Vicomtesse LeClerc. He had been stunned, but he had hidden it.
He could easily forgive her that deceit. He did not blame her for hiding her identity from him, although he would have never revealed it had he known.
But he hadn’t ever really forgotten her. She had haunted him day and night for days and even weeks after that Channel crossing.
And now, that old man she had married was dead.
And for one moment, he did not see the dozen men within the tavern he’d stepped into. He could only see Evelyn D’Orsay, with her dark hair and vivid blue eyes, so tiny and petite.
He lived a dangerous life, and his survival depended upon his instincts. They were finely honed from years of outrunning the revenue men, and now, two navies. Every instinct he currently had warned him to stay far from Evelyn D’Orsay.
It wasn’t just that he had found her terribly beautiful four years ago, so beautiful he almost felt smitten at first sight. But when she’d looked at him with her big blue eyes, imploring him to rescue her, she awoke the strongest, most unfamiliar urges in him—urges to defend and protect. It was as if she had endured a lifetime of suffering and hurt, which he must somehow ease. He had been highly affected by her desperation back then. But he had hidden it, taking her rubies as payment for his services. He had remained as indifferent and aloof as possible.
Last night, he had steeled himself against her again.
It hadn’t been easy. He had forgotten how striking she was—how tiny. And the shadows in her eyes remained. When she looked at him, her eyes filled with desperation, he had those same consuming urges as before—urges to protect her from life’s ills. Urges to rescue her. Urges even to hold her tight.
It was absurd.
So while she might be destitute now, he reminded himself that she had hardly had a life of misery—she had married one of France’s premier titles. She had been wealthy for many years. The odd urges he had when she looked at him were senseless. The raging attraction, well, that he could certainly justify—and dismiss.
But the truth was that he had helped several families flee France without receiving any kind of compensation from them at all. These Frenchmen and women had left everything they had behind; he hadn’t considered turning them away. But with the Countess D’Orsay, it was different. He knew he must never come to her rescue in a personal way. Their relationship must remain a strictly impersonal one—he was sure of it.
She was simply too enticing and too intriguing. She stirred up too many feelings, and he could very easily become attached. And he had no use for attachments outside of those to his family. He was a rogue, a smuggler and a spy—and he liked his life exactly as it was—he liked living outside society, he liked being on the run.
As for the kiss they had shared, he had to stop thinking about it. Thus far, that had proven impossible. He could not recall ever being so aroused, but when he had kissed her, it had also felt as if he were holding an innocent debutante in his arms.
Yet he knew better—she was a countess, a grown woman, a widow and a mother. She was not innocent and inexperienced. And if he believed, even for a moment, that he could enjoy her bed without becoming entangled with her, he would do so immediately. But he did not think it would be easy to leave her after a single night, so he would stay away—far away.
Therefore, no matter what she offered, no matter how she offered it, he was not going to France for her. He had never been more resolved.
“You have made it—and you are in one piece,” his brother said, cutting into his dark thoughts. He was embraced, hard, by a tall golden-haired man, more politely dressed than Jack was. No one could mistake them for anything other than what they were—brothers. “We are in the back,” Lucas added unnecessarily.
Jack was thrilled to see his older brother. Their father had been an irresponsible rogue, and he had abandoned their mother when Jack was six years old. Lucas had been almost ten at the time. Their uncle, Sebastian Warlock, had managed the estate for them for several years, mostly from afar, as an absentee landlord. Lucas had stepped into the breach by the age of twelve or so, taking over the reins at an early age. Now the brothers were as close as brothers could be, although as different in nature as night and day.
For Lucas managed not just the estate, but the family. Jack knew that a great burden had been lifted from his brother’s shoulders when their sisters had fallen in love and married. Now Lucas spent most of his time in London—or on the continent.
“How are you?” Lucas asked.
Jack smiled. “Do you need to even ask?”
“Now that is the brother I know so well. Why were you glowering at the crowd?” Lucas led him across the room and into a private back room.
Jack debated telling him a bit about the Countess D’Orsay, but then he saw Sebastian Warlock standing facing the fireplace, his back to them. As usual, their uncle wore a black velvet coat and dark brown breeches. As Lucas closed the door, the prime minister’s spymaster turned. “You are rarely late.” His glance was skewering.
“Yes, I am fine, thank you for asking,” Jack returned.
“I imagine that he is late because it is difficult traveling about the country with a bounty on one’s head,” Lucas said, pulling out a chair from the table, which seated four. A fire blazed in the hearth. Bread, cheese, ale and whiskey were on the table.
“Your brother harps like a woman when he is concerned,” Warlock said. “And he is always concerned about you. However, that bounty is the perfect cover.”
“It is the perfect cover,” Jack agreed. Lucas specialized in extracting émigrés and agents from the enemy’s hands and lands. He was a patriot and a Tory, so his having become involved in the war was perfectly natural and Warlock had known it when he recruited him.
Jack had been a different story. For while Jack occasionally moved such human cargo for his brother or another one of Warlock’s agents, Warlock was more interested in receiving the information Jack ferried across the Channel. A great many smugglers moved information along with their cargo across the Channel. Most Cornish smugglers were French spies, however. Jack found it amusing to play such games, and he knew Warlock had known he would think so when he had first approached him some years ago.
“I may have been briefly deluded by such an argument nine or ten months ago,” Lucas said, “but I am not deluded now. It is a very dangerous game. I do not like it. Sebastian, you are going to get my brother killed.”
“You know I did not place that bounty on his head. However, my first rule is to exploit opportunity, and that bounty has provided us with vast opportunity. Were you delayed?” Warlock asked Jack.
Jack took the proffered seat. “I was delayed—but not by the bounty.” He decided to smirk, as if he had spent the night in Evelyn’s arms. And he sobered. He could have seduced her, and maybe, he should have done so. But then he would probably be halfway to France as her errand boy.
Lucas rolled his eyes and poured Jack a scotch before sitting down with him. Warlock smiled and took a seat. He was an attractive man, but unlike his nephews, he was dark, with a somewhat brooding air. In his late thirties or early forties, he had the reputation of being a recluse. The world thought him a rather impoverished and boorish nobleman. It was wrong. In spite of his reputation, he did not lack for the ladies’ attentions.
“What do you have for me?” Warlock asked bluntly.
“I have it on very good authority that Spain intends to leave the Coalition,” Jack said.
A shocked silence greeted his words. But the war had not been going well for Britain and her Allies; France had recently conquered Amsterdam and annexed the Netherlands. Holland was now the Batavian Republic. There had been a number of French victories since the Allies’ terrible defeat at Fleurus, last June.
“You are confirming a rumor that I have already heard,” Warlock said grimly. “Now Pitt will have to seriously press Spain, before we lose her.”
Jack shrugged. He was not interested in the politics of war.
“What of La Vendée?” Lucas asked.
Jack looked at Lucas, meeting his glance. Their sister Julianne had married the Earl of Bedford in 1793. He had been a royalist supporter, and actively involved in the La Vendée uprising against the revolution. Unfortunately, the rebels had been crushed that summer, but fortunately, Dominic Paget had made his way home to Julianne, surviving a great massacre. But La Vendée had been rising again. The Loire countryside was filled with peasants, clergy and noblemen who remained furious over the execution of the king, and the forced secularization of the church.
