understand?”
“Of course, I understand,” he said, suddenly impatient. “Which is why I have to return to France to reassure those who sent that letter before fear sends them fleeing the country and the game is up.”
So that is who he was! The agent best known as Rousse, though he had a myriad of identities and aliases, was the architect of some of the most delicate secret alliances in Europe. Ginny stared at him with new respect.
“Which is why, before I go, I need your promise that Miss Nash’s involvement in this plot ends now. Here.” His eyes narrowed. “You would not consider dragging her along in your wake to provide—how did you put it?—a divertissement while you search?”
Actually, Ginny had considered such a ploy but decided that it would be odd for her to bring along a rival. The comte was no fool. And she could not afford to provoke even the slightest suspicion.
“Believe me, Mr. Ross, I have no desire to put Charlotte in harm’s way—”
He moved so quickly she didn’t have time to dive for the pistol she’d left beneath the pillow. One minute he was standing relaxed a few feet away, the next he loomed over her, his hand about her throat. Tight. She grabbed his wrist, struggling unsuccessfully to free herself. His thumb pressed deeply at a point beneath her jaw. Little sparks of light rimmed her vision.
“I see I have failed to make my point,” he said. “Let me clarify my position. I do not care what you desire to do. I have done many things I have not particularly desired to do. I only care about how you act. I do not want Miss Nash endangered. Do you understand?” His voice was perfectly calm, perfectly cold.
She let her hands drop, nodding as she stared into his eyes. Then, as abruptly as he’d taken hold of her, she was free. He stepped back and inclined his head in a bow that, while it did not mock her, in no way apologized. “Good. I bid you good evening, Mrs. Mulgrew.”
The coast of northern Scotland
Early winter, 1788
“There’s a light on the shore!” The midshipman hollered above the roar of the storm.
“Bonfire or lantern?”
Jeremy, huddled with the boy in the lugger’s forecabin, heard the captain bellow from topside.
The screech and crash of swinging booms and groaning wood drowned out the midshipman’s panicked reply and Jeremy clutched the boy closer, trying to master his own terror.
The ship suddenly tipped, pitching Jeremy and the boy down the steeply inclined floor of the cabin until it suddenly shot up beneath them and then dashed them down again with bone-shattering force. Above, a man screamed. The captain swore viciously.
A storm had pounced upon them just as they’d come in sight of the Scottish coast. Trying to outrace the black churning clouds, the captain had turned south, away from the port of Wick. But the storm had chased them down with the savage intentness of a wolf overtaking its prey and now tossed the small lugger about savagely.
Suddenly the hatch above jerked wide open and water poured in as the captain looked down, his face taut and strained. “We’re heading in! Whether to wreckers or our salvation, I do not know!” he shouted at them. “Make ready!” He slammed the hatch shut.
“What does he mean?” the boy asked. His face was white and his small body shaking violently, but he hadn’t cried, and only the boy’s courage saved Jeremy from succumbing and sobbing himself.
“Wreckers,” Jeremy said, looking about for some ballast to which he and the boy could cling. “Men who set fires to lure boats into the rocky shores where they will be smashed to bits. Then they scavenge the shores for loot and kill any survivors who could carry tales!”
The boy swallowed.
“Can you swim?” Jeremy asked, finding a length of heavy rope.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He spied a small wine cask and ripped the cork from it, upending the contents onto the floor while the boy watched him with round-eyed amazement. With numb fingers he
“Of course, I understand,” he said, suddenly impatient. “Which is why I have to return to France to reassure those who sent that letter before fear sends them fleeing the country and the game is up.”
So that is who he was! The agent best known as Rousse, though he had a myriad of identities and aliases, was the architect of some of the most delicate secret alliances in Europe. Ginny stared at him with new respect.
“Which is why, before I go, I need your promise that Miss Nash’s involvement in this plot ends now. Here.” His eyes narrowed. “You would not consider dragging her along in your wake to provide—how did you put it?—a divertissement while you search?”
Actually, Ginny had considered such a ploy but decided that it would be odd for her to bring along a rival. The comte was no fool. And she could not afford to provoke even the slightest suspicion.
“Believe me, Mr. Ross, I have no desire to put Charlotte in harm’s way—”
He moved so quickly she didn’t have time to dive for the pistol she’d left beneath the pillow. One minute he was standing relaxed a few feet away, the next he loomed over her, his hand about her throat. Tight. She grabbed his wrist, struggling unsuccessfully to free herself. His thumb pressed deeply at a point beneath her jaw. Little sparks of light rimmed her vision.
“I see I have failed to make my point,” he said. “Let me clarify my position. I do not care what you desire to do. I have done many things I have not particularly desired to do. I only care about how you act. I do not want Miss Nash endangered. Do you understand?” His voice was perfectly calm, perfectly cold.
She let her hands drop, nodding as she stared into his eyes. Then, as abruptly as he’d taken hold of her, she was free. He stepped back and inclined his head in a bow that, while it did not mock her, in no way apologized. “Good. I bid you good evening, Mrs. Mulgrew.”
The coast of northern Scotland
Early winter, 1788
“There’s a light on the shore!” The midshipman hollered above the roar of the storm.
“Bonfire or lantern?”
Jeremy, huddled with the boy in the lugger’s forecabin, heard the captain bellow from topside.
The screech and crash of swinging booms and groaning wood drowned out the midshipman’s panicked reply and Jeremy clutched the boy closer, trying to master his own terror.
The ship suddenly tipped, pitching Jeremy and the boy down the steeply inclined floor of the cabin until it suddenly shot up beneath them and then dashed them down again with bone-shattering force. Above, a man screamed. The captain swore viciously.
A storm had pounced upon them just as they’d come in sight of the Scottish coast. Trying to outrace the black churning clouds, the captain had turned south, away from the port of Wick. But the storm had chased them down with the savage intentness of a wolf overtaking its prey and now tossed the small lugger about savagely.
Suddenly the hatch above jerked wide open and water poured in as the captain looked down, his face taut and strained. “We’re heading in! Whether to wreckers or our salvation, I do not know!” he shouted at them. “Make ready!” He slammed the hatch shut.
“What does he mean?” the boy asked. His face was white and his small body shaking violently, but he hadn’t cried, and only the boy’s courage saved Jeremy from succumbing and sobbing himself.
“Wreckers,” Jeremy said, looking about for some ballast to which he and the boy could cling. “Men who set fires to lure boats into the rocky shores where they will be smashed to bits. Then they scavenge the shores for loot and kill any survivors who could carry tales!”
The boy swallowed.
“Can you swim?” Jeremy asked, finding a length of heavy rope.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He spied a small wine cask and ripped the cork from it, upending the contents onto the floor while the boy watched him with round-eyed amazement. With numb fingers he
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