for your safety, not mine.” Bryce’s words were cool and dispassionate.
A snicker behind the mask. “My safety? Your concern is touching. My contact tells me you are anxious to take Carstairs’s place. Why the hurry? After all, he is dead.” The throaty voice breathed smugness.
Bryce’s jaw tightened, but he offered no riposte.
The masked spy continued, “Although many might wish to join our forces, all do not serve. Why should I consider you?”
“You already have, your presence implies that. Before I tell you what I have to offer, I would like to know if I deal with a second or Napoleon’s own man.” Brow furrowed, Bryce stared at the figure, trying to discover any clues to his identity. The lantern at his feet helped little to discern any distinguishable features. But he was certain the rider was not Sansouche.
“Due to your worthy status”—the masked rider dipped his head in mock honor—“I thought to meet you myself. I know much of you and believe not that you wish to change sides. What can you offer me that might change my mind?”
Bryce controlled the urge to knock the pompous ass off his horse. He sauntered closer. “Do your sources tell you that I have the locations of all England’s military army settlements along the coast? Of which I am looking for a buyer. Is this enough proof?”
He reached his hand up to his coat but his actions stalled.
“My bullet will be between your eyes before your next breath.”
Patience settled comfortably into a tree with knotted vines draping old and young branches. The earl and his friend met a few yards away, but through the foliage it proved difficult to see very well. The wind blowing and the night suddenly noisy, she even had difficulty following their conversation. She dared move no closer without being caught.
A few words floated back to her tree nest. Could the earl actually be planning to sell his secrets to another spy?
Biting her lip in frustration, she decided to move farther out on a dipping limb. She felt safe among the profuse scattering of leaves and gnarling branches, and confident her movements would not be detected by the spies.
Patience took a deep breath to slow her racing heart and edged closer to the edge, the rough bark poking her sweaty hands. So intent and excited about hearing words of great import, she scarcely noticed the branch trembling beneath her weight.
A loud crack signaled her first sign of trouble before she felt the support give way beneath her. Patience clawed wildly for a lifeline but came up empty.
The pistol-sounding pop alarmed the other forest visitors. They both sensed a trap, and the rider spun around and shot wildly in the direction of the noise, then turned to fire at Bryce.
But the earl had vanished. With a jerk, the stallion and rider leapt back into the satanic folds of the forest.
Bryce watched in anger from the shelter of the rock, his pistol cocked, as his prey flew from his hands. He could hardly prove his loyalty to the spy by shooting at him, although he acknowledged to himself it was probably too late.
What was the noise? The Frenchman certainly would not have shot at his own men. Could it have been Red or Kilkennen following him? After a quick search in the mossy rooted forest, he caught sight of a still figure at the foot of a nearby tree. A trained finger on the trigger, he slowly approached and studied the scene carefully.
The broken branch nearby explained everything but the mysterious intruder’s identity. At a glance, Bryce could tell it was not one of his friends. Upon closer inspection, he discerned the figure to be a woman in a common housemaid uniform.
Anxiously, he turned the woman over and felt for a heartbeat. Steady and strong. He let out a sigh of relief. He did not know where she had come from or what she was doing here, but he would glean all of her answers, and soon. First, he must see to her welfare.
A quick examination revealed her left arm had been shot and blood seeped out of the wound. He whipped out a handkerchief to bind her injury, knowing he had to get her back to the house to care for her. He picked up the unconscious woman in his arms, found her spectacles nearby, and mounted Defiance. They managed a slow procession back to the house with Bryce holding the slight form in his arms. What had she been doing out here? Spying? On whom?
Able to slip undetected into the back entrance and then into his room, Bryce laid the stilled woman gently on his bed. He had nowhere else to take her that would not bring on endless questions by the curious. The young woman’s countenance was as pale as the white linens on which she lay. He threw off his greatcoat to attend to her. She had not yet awakened, and Bryce thought to have a physician called.
He removed her shoes and cloak before turning to her mobcap which covered much of her face. He reached up and cautiously removed her cap. Deep brown hair spilled across his pillow in a sweep of silky heat. Bryce rose and stepped back, too astonished for words.
It was she. The woman from the fair, the one he had been searching for, Mrs. Grundy. And somehow, he was not surprised.
Chapter 7
The candlewick burned low as Bryce’s unwavering gaze remained on the still form lying in his bed. The chair creaked as he rose and walked to the bed, settling gently on the edge. A sigh escaping from the young woman’s full parted lips surprised Bryce. He quickly returned to his vigil in the chair.
Only an hour had passed since he had brought her here. After attending to the arm that the French spy’s bullet had grazed and finding no indications of lasting head injuries, he had used the time to plan a course of action.
As he leaned back into his chair, he could not tear himself away from the young beauty before him. The candlelight caught reddish hues in tresses lying over one shoulder. He had opened her bodice slightly when he noticed it seemed a trifle snug. Unconscious, her innocence appealed to his protective nature, but he wondered where her true loyalty would lie at dawn’s light. Long eyelashes concealed remembered bright hazel eyes.
Ironically, he had Red Tattoo searching over the district, when the woman he sought was in his own home. But why was she here and who was she? And why was he reluctant to call the constable and have her arrested? For what? He didn’t quite know the answers yet.
He watched with concern when the young woman turned over on her good side and began to breathe deeply. Although he was no physician, he could tell she had settled into a deep sleep.
He stepped around to the other side of the bed. Her wounded arm stretched out across the sheets as she rested her head on her other arm. In sleep, her movements were graceful, and by the look of the blisters on her hands, unused to hard labor. She was no mere servant, of that he could be sure.
Observing her more closely, Bryce noticed the faint smudges under her eyes. From what? Worry? Fatigue? He painted her soft cheek with the back of his finger.
Shaking his head in bewilderment, he walked back to the chair. By lying on her side, she provided him a lovely view of her charming round backside encased in his linen sheets. Enough. He determined to marshal his wayward thoughts.
He strode to the far side of the room in punishment. Perhaps she was part of the ring of spies sent to watch him. Needing to clear his head and stem his arousal, he opened the casement window and gulped fresh air. What should he do?
Should
