Читать книгу Runaway Lady - Claire Thornton - Страница 7

Chapter One

Cornwall—Sunday, 9 June 1667

The sound of footsteps on the gravel path six feet above her head was Saskia van Buren’s first warning that she and Anne were not the only ones taking advantage of the warm evening. Both women fell silent as the murmur of conversation grew louder. A few seconds later Saskia recognised the voices of her aunt and the man who’d been introduced to her as her aunt’s secretary. They were speaking softly, but the urgency in her aunt’s low voice demanded attention.

‘Now Saskia’s here we don’t have to wait. They can both die before the twenty-second of June,’ said Lady Abergrave.

‘It might be more discreet to continue with our original plan, my lady?’ Tancock suggested. ‘Wait for Mistress van Buren to return to Amsterdam before we act?’

‘No, this way is more certain. There is always the risk that Saskia might challenge any will Benjamin makes in my favour. It’s best for her to have a fatal accident now.’ Lady Abergrave’s voice was chillingly practical. ‘She said herself she means to revisit her childhood haunts. No one will be surprised if she falls on the rocks. And no one will be surprised if Benjamin, grief-stricken at the death of his sister, also has an accident. Such tragedies are not uncommon. Grief makes people careless of themselves.’

Shock held Saskia motionless as she listened to her aunt plot her death. Surely she’d misheard. But she saw horror dawning in Anne’s eyes, and knew she hadn’t misunderstood. She gripped the younger woman’s arm in warning and emphatically mouthed the word quiet. Anne nodded jerkily.

As long as they made no sound they should remain undetected by Lady Abergrave and Tancock. Trevithick House was built on an area of high ground that sloped steeply down to the river. The house and gardens were surrounded by a retaining wall of Cornish slatestone. Inside, the garden the wall was only four feet high, but it plunged down more than twelve feet on the side facing the river. Saskia and Anne were sitting on a bench cut into the foot of the wall on the river side. They’d only be discovered if Lady Abergrave or Tancock leaned over the wall to look straight down.

‘Particularly when the bereaved man already has a broken leg,’ Tancock said drily. ‘Sir Benjamin’s death will take a little more planning than Saskia’s, but it won’t be difficult. You will receive much sympathy from your friends at the loss of your only remaining blood relatives.’

Beneath her hand Saskia felt Anne begin to shake uncontrollably. She tightened her grip, willing Anne to remain silent. Her own emotions were already locked deep inside her in that place she sent them when disaster threatened.

‘Edmund’s death was a disaster.’ Lady Abergrave’s voice hardened with bitterness as she spoke of her dead son. ‘But these are necessary. You must do it yourself.’

‘Of course. There will be no mistakes.’

‘Good.’ Lady Abergrave’s tone softened into something almost coquettish. ‘You will be well rewarded… my friend.’

‘My sweet lady. My only ambition is to see you restored to your rightful position.’

Saskia heard the crunch of their footsteps on the gravel as they resumed their promenade around the garden. Until a few minutes ago she would never have dreamed her aunt could be capable of such a heinous plan, yet she didn’t doubt her aunt meant everything she’d said.

Isabel Trevithick had been the younger sister of Saskia and Benjamin’s late father. She’d been a beauty in her youth. Many men had vied for her hand, but she’d married the second Earl of Abergrave. After his death, she had become the guardian of their son, Edmund. In her position as mother and guardian of the young earl she’d had wealth and influence, but Edmund had been a sickly child. When he’d died the title and inheritance had passed to a distant male relative who’d made only minimal provision for Lady Abergrave. Now the older woman had neither a home nor money of her own. But her late husband had been Benjamin’s guardian and Lady Abergrave had assumed the same role. After her son’s death she’d brought her remaining retinue, including her stepdaughter, Anne, to live in Benjamin’s house.

Saskia had been well aware her aunt resented her reduced circumstances, but until a few minutes ago she’d assumed Lady Abergrave meant to restore her fortunes through a second marriage. Only yesterday her aunt had been flirting with the local magistrate, yet even then Lady Abergrave must have been plotting murder.

Fury surged through Saskia. She started to spring up, intending to seek out and confront her aunt—but almost immediately her anger was overtaken by the terrifying awareness that the first loyalty of every servant in the house was to Lady Abergrave. Saskia’s father had died when Benjamin was sixteen, and her brother had been taken from Trevithick House to live with Lord and Lady Abergrave in Gloucestershire. The old family servants at Trevithick had received pensions under her father’s will. None of the present household remembered Saskia from when she’d lived at Trevithick before her marriage. They all treated Lady Abergrave as if she was the mistress of the household, rather than her nephew’s guest. Saskia didn’t dare trust any of them.

Anne opened her mouth to speak. Saskia shook her head, afraid they might be overheard. She glanced both ways and then pulled Anne to her feet and all but dragged her across the path and into the shelter of the band of woodland separating the house from the river.

‘What are we going to do?’ Anne whispered desperately.

‘If we could only get Benjamin out of the house…’ But Saskia dismissed the idea before she’d finished the sentence. Her brother’s broken leg was in splints and his bedroom was on the first floor. They’d never be able to get him out without attracting attention. And if Tancock and Lady Abergrave discovered them, Saskia knew her fate—and Benjamin’s—would be sealed.

‘I have to get help.’ Saskia gazed intently at Anne, trying to gauge the girl’s mood. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘I…what will be best? I don’t want to leave Benjamin.’

‘Nor do I. But unless I go now, he’ll be in deadly danger. Do you understand?’ Saskia had realised what was implicit in Lady Abergrave’s conversation with Tancock. ‘As long as I’m alive, there is no benefit to my aunt if Benjamin dies before his twenty-first birthday, because in that case our father’s will leaves everything to me—and my own will is already written and it does not leave anything to her. It is only if I die first and then Benjamin that Aunt Isabel will gain this estate under our father’s will.’

‘I hate her.’ Anne sounded steadier. ‘From the first moment she married my father I have not liked her. Tell me what to do.’

‘Wait a while and then go back into the house without drawing attention to yourself. Follow your normal routine, but retire to bed as soon as possible. Don’t mention me or draw attention to yourself in any way.’ Saskia spoke swiftly as she tried to imagine all eventualities. ‘If anyone asks you about me, act as ignorant and confused as the rest of the household will be when my absence is discovered. But if someone does remember we came for a walk together, say we separated because I had a headache and wanted to sit quietly. If you have a chance, tell Benjamin I will be back with help, but only when you are sure no one will overhear.’

Anne nodded jerkily. ‘Be careful.’

Saskia pulled the girl into a brief hug. She didn’t want to leave Anne behind, but Lady Abergrave had nothing to gain from harming her stepdaughter. Most of the time she barely noticed her. It was Benjamin who was in deadly danger while he was in Lady Abergrave’s power.

Saskia moved cautiously through the woodland sloping down to the river, all her senses attuned to her surroundings. Every tiny snap of a twig beneath her feet sounded like an explosion to her oversensitive ears, but she heard nothing except the normal rustles of small animals in the undergrowth. To her relief, the small quay below the house was deserted. Almost as important, water was still rising on the incoming tide. She untied one of the small boats, climbed in and began to row upstream. She knew she needed to make good progress before the tide turned against her.

London—Friday, 14 June 1667

Saskia was lost in London. She rode around a corner and straight into the middle of a riot. A burst of sharp, violent sounds and images exploded into her awareness. A flying brick…a man’s contorted face as he bellowed in rage…the bite of axe into a tree. Angry, shouting men were hurling stones at the windows of a grand mansion and chopping down trees in front of it. Her horse shied in alarm, nearly unseating her. Then she regained her wits sufficiently to control the frightened horse and get to safety.

Once she reached the sanctuary of a quiet street she pulled the gelding to a halt. Her heart was thundering, her body trembling with shock. She patted the horse’s neck, trying to calm both of them with the gesture. She’d sensed a growing agitation among the people as she’d approached London, but she’d never expected to find herself in the midst of a violent scene. Anxiety knotted her stomach. She didn’t have time for this. Benjamin didn’t have time. She was acutely conscious of the days relentlessly passing as she sought help. Remembering how the Cornish magistrate had fawned over her aunt, she’d been no more willing to ask him for help than the household servants. When her only other hope of finding help in Cornwall had been thwarted, she’d come to London in search of the one influential man in England she was sure would trust her word—her godfather, Sir Francis Middleton. But first she had to find his house.

As soon as she was calm enough to be confident not to pitch her voice too revealingly high, she asked a porter what was happening.

‘Breaking Clarendon’s windows? It’s his fault we’re trapped in this war with the Dutch!’ he exclaimed, spitting into the street. Clarendon? After a moment’s confusion, Saskia remembered he was the Lord Chancellor.

‘How can you not know?’ The porter stared at her in disbelief.

‘I’ve been out of the town, visiting friends,’ she replied, grateful for the shadows thrown by the tall houses on either side of the street. She was wearing male clothing, and in the poor light she hoped she looked like a dishevelled lad, rather than a frightened woman. ‘What have the Dutch done?’

‘Broke through the chain at Chatham, burned most of our ships and towed away the flag ship,’ the porter said in disgust.

‘My God!’ Chatham was only thirty miles from the heart of London. The Dutch had pulled off a daring raid on the English. Saskia wondered if Jan had been part of it—then her blood chilled as she realised that revealing her brother-in-law was an officer in the Dutch navy would not be prudent.

‘Did they attack the people of Chatham? Have they threatened to attack London?’ she demanded.

‘Who knows what they’ve done? Or will do. I’ve heard they are blockading the Thames. Our ships can’t get in or out. This government is a disgrace to us. Oliver would not have let us suffer such a defeat.’

‘Thank you for the news.’ Saskia extricated herself as smoothly as she could. She had no interest in debating whether Oliver Cromwell’s foreign policy had been superior to King Charles II’s.

The forced diversion meant it took a painfully long time before she was finally in sight of her godfather’s house. From the back of her horse she had a good view over the heads of the people crowding the street and she was sure she’d recognised it correctly. A wash of relief swept over her. Soon she would be with friends—

The front door opened and a man emerged. As he glanced around she had a clear view of his face.

Tancock!

She stared at him in disbelief, shock and weariness making her slow to react. Of course, Aunt Isabel knew Sir Francis was her godfather. She must have guessed Saskia’s destination from the first. Tancock would have been able to reach London quicker than a woman travelling alone.

Saskia suddenly realised it would be as easy for Tancock to see her as it was for her to see him. She started to kick her feet clear of the stirrups, but his gaze—which had passed uninterestedly over her once—returned and locked on to her face. His eyes widened in recognition. The semi-disguise of her men’s clothes had not deceived him. It was too late to drop out of the saddle and hide among the pedestrians. She dragged on the reins, intent only on escape. As she did so, from the corner of her eye she saw Tancock lift his arm and point at her.

‘Dutch spy!’ he shouted. ‘Seize her! Dutch spy! Plotting more atrocities on honest, hardworking Londoners!’

As the throng of nearby people murmured first in confusion and then in growing anger, Saskia kicked the gelding as hard as she could, urging him into a gallop. Her most important goal now was to avoid capture by an outraged mob of Londoners.

Covent Garden—London, Saturday, 15 June 1667

The back room of the coffee-house was small and poorly lit. Every time the door opened Saskia felt a shiver of anxiety until she’d seen the face of the man who entered—and even then a residual fear remained that one of those she interviewed might be in Tancock’s pay.

But there was no reason for Tancock to suspect she was here. Even Saskia herself had not remembered Johanna for nearly two, panic-stricken hours. Johanna was the cousin of Saskia’s late husband, Pieter van Buren. Johanna had married an English tradesman who’d gone into partnership with a silent investor to open one of London’s first coffee-houses. After her husband’s death, Johanna had continued managing the coffee-house alone. She’d been very willing to help Saskia. Yesterday evening she had sent a message to Sir Francis’s house on Saskia’s behalf—but the women had been shocked to discover he’d been struck by an apoplexy that same morning. No one knew if Sir Francis would live or die, and Saskia was terribly afraid Tancock might be the cause of her godfather’s illness.

Such a hideous mixture of guilt, fear and anger overwhelmed her at the possibility she almost didn’t hear the door open. She recovered her composure just in time to snatch up the mask from the table and hold it to her face as the next man came into the room.

She knew at once he wasn’t Tancock. He was too tall, too exotic—too obviously dangerous.

Her breath caught in her throat. One or two of the previous men had struck her as uncomfortably disreputable, but she’d called upon her experience of dealing with her late husband’s business to dismiss them as quickly and easily as possible. This man was different. A wolf, not a jackal. She could see it in the swift, appraising gaze he cast around the room, the silent, fluid way he moved and the self-assurance of his bearing.

His appearance was a combination of the foreign and familiar. His soft, tan leather boots made no sound on the floorboards. He wore a scarlet sash around his waist from which hung a curved sword. Unlike his boots and his sword, his broad-brimmed hat was English in style, but beneath it Saskia saw his dark hair was cut much shorter than fashion demanded.

He stared straight at her. As she met his dark eyes, even the anonymous mask seemed no barrier to the disturbingly virile, dangerous energy he radiated. Her pulse quickened. She couldn’t remember ever being so instantly, compellingly aware of a man’s physical—male—presence. Nervous tension skittered through her body. She was used to men who obeyed the customs and manners of civilised society. She was already convinced that this man obeyed no rules but his own. She didn’t need a wayward, edgy man. She needed one who would follow her commands obediently. Unquestioningly.

She was about to reject him before he’d even said a word. But then she remembered her first impression of Tancock. Until the evening she’d heard him plotting murder she would have said he was punctilious in observing the requirements of civilised behaviour. Perhaps an obviously dangerous, unpredictable man would be better than an apparently placid man. She’d never forget to be on her guard in his presence—and whoever she hired had to be capable of helping her rescue Benjamin.

‘Sit down,’ she ordered, determined to assert her authority from her first words.

Harry Ward had seen the woman snatch up the mask as he’d opened the door. She’d done it so quickly he’d had no chance to gain more than a fleeting impression of her features. Despite the summer warmth, she was wearing a dark hood and cloak, concealing both her hair and the shape of her body. He hadn’t seen her eyes, but he’d glimpsed a well-shaped mouth and a small but decisive chin.

Until a few weeks ago Harry had spent his adult life in lands where the veil was customary for women. One or two European merchants and diplomats took their wives and daughters with them to the Ottoman Empire, but Harry had never seen, let alone spoken to, the womenfolk of even his closest Turkish friends. Ever since he’d arrived back in England he’d had a nagging sense that he should be chivalrous in female company, without quite knowing what that entailed. From the moment he’d learned that the Dutch agent recruiting men in the back room of the coffee-house in which his brother was a silent investor was likely to be female, he’d been on edge. The confirmation that he was indeed dealing with a woman intensified his unease.

Of course, an Englishwoman who’d turned traitor had forfeited her right to be treated chivalrously. But Harry had been disturbed by the information he’d received. Apparently the woman was motivated by a desire to avenge her dead husband. Harry understood better than most how the burning need for vengeance—for justice—could overwhelm every rational thought. But treason could not be tolerated, nor could her activities be allowed to taint his brother’s reputation, even in passing.

Harry steeled himself to deal with the lady as ruthlessly as if she were a man. The mask she held to her face could not disguise the fundamental immodesty of her present situation. The mere fact she was interviewing strange men alone without even a chaperon meant she had forfeited her right to chivalrous treatment. On the other hand, since it wasn’t the custom for English women to be veiled, her determination to conduct her illicit business in his brother’s coffee-house behind the anonymity of a mask was in itself an insult. All in all, he concluded, she could have no expectation of receiving gentle treatment from him.

‘Are you afraid the mere sight of your beauty will make men run wild?’ he demanded, a little more scornfully than he’d intended.

‘Of course not!’ she exclaimed. ‘That is…my lord is most complimentary about my looks, but I do not expect to be universally admired.’

‘Who is your lord?’ Was she talking about her spymaster—or a man with whom she was on more intimate terms?

‘That is no concern of yours.’

‘And will I be of concern to him?’

‘I beg your pardon.’ She sounded confused.

‘Do you intend to disclose my existence to him?’

‘It was his idea I hire you!’ she snapped.

Harry was so startled he uttered a short Turkish curse under his breath. What kind of man encouraged his woman to act in such a forward manner? ‘Why isn’t he interviewing me?’

‘Because he’s in Portsmouth.’

‘Why did he leave you here?’ Harry was so distracted by the masked woman’s disclosures that for a moment he almost forgot what his former guardian, the Earl of Swiftbourne, had told him that morning.

He belatedly reminded himself that Saskia van Buren was the daughter of a Dutchwoman and an English baronet. According to Swiftbourne’s informant, she’d married a Dutchman at the age of twenty and spent the past six years living in Amsterdam. She’d returned to England a few weeks ago after she’d been widowed when her husband was killed in a naval battle with the English. Apparently, it was her husband’s death that had driven her to become an agent for the Dutch. If this was Saskia, it was extremely likely her ‘lord’ was nothing more than a fiction to cover her true plans.

She drew in a deep breath. ‘May I remind you, fellow, that you are the one wishing to enter into temporary employment with me,’ she said crisply. ‘I am the one deciding if I will hire you. I ask the questions. Is that clear?’

She didn’t sound as if she was overwhelmed with grief. Nor did Harry receive the impression that she was locked into the single-minded, bitter fury of vengeance. She did sound exasperated. Perhaps she wasn’t Saskia.

He grinned, amused despite himself at her irritation. He had a temper of his own, though it rarely manifested itself when he was questioning potential employees. There was a plain wooden chair obviously intended for whoever the lady was currently interviewing. He turned it around, straddled it and rested his forearms along the back.

‘Ask away,’ he said cheerfully.

There was silence for several moments.

‘Did you respond to my advertisement so you could entertain yourself by insulting me?’ the masked lady demanded.

‘I’m here because the Dutch are blockading the Thames,’ Harry replied, secretly pleased she’d challenged his deliberately provocative behaviour so directly. When he’d heard he would be confronting a vengeful widow, he’d been afraid he might have to deal with tears and emotional pleas.

Although he couldn’t see her face, he saw her gloved fingers tighten on the mask, and sensed an increased tension grip her body. He was satisfied that whatever else might or might not be the truth, the lady was indeed sensitive to mention of England’s current enemy.

‘And what has that to do with my notice?’ she asked sharply.

‘I was going to sign up on a merchantman, but until the blockade is lifted…’ He shrugged. ‘If I don’t work, I don’t eat.’

‘What if the blockade is lifted and the ships sail before you can return to London?’ she asked.

‘There’s always another ship,’ he said nonchalantly, which was true, although he hadn’t built his fortune by habitually letting the initiative slide. ‘I am here, in need of work. What is it you want me to do?’

‘With such an arrogant, heedless attitude, I am surprised you ever find anyone willing to hire you,’ the lady said tartly.

‘They hire me because I am very good at what I do.’

‘What do you do?’

‘Many things.’

‘Be more specific. Can you use that sword by your side?’

Harry laughed. ‘I’m hardly likely to say no,’ he pointed out. ‘I have guarded the passage of men and goods along many dangerous routes, from Scanderoon to Aleppo, Smyrna to Istanbul.’

The mask moved slightly as the lady looked Harry carefully up and down.

The fifteen years he’d spent in the Levant meant he was not used to being in the company of women. Whenever he was in the presence of his sister-in-law, Mary, he felt ill at ease, anxious that he do nothing to alarm her or embarrass his brother, Richard. After the Dutch attack on the English ships he’d escorted Richard, Mary and their newborn son to Mary’s family home in Bedfordshire. Once there, Harry had been invited by Mary’s parents to remain as an honoured guest, but he’d felt so uncomfortable in the presence of his sister-in-law and all her female relatives he’d claimed he had business to attend to in London. He’d given his apologies as courteously as he could, while inwardly castigating himself for his lack of social address. But when he’d heard the news from Swiftbourne that a Dutch agent was recruiting men at Richard’s coffee-house he was glad his return to London meant he was available to investigate the matter.

The expressionless scrutiny by the masked lady was an odd, potentially disturbing experience, but it left Harry unmoved. If it had been Richard’s wife, or one of her sisters, studying him so closely Harry would have felt very unsettled—concerned he had either offended the lady or revealed his ignorance of the manners of polite English society in some subtle, unintentional way. But he felt no such qualms in the presence of the spy. What the lady saw was what she got. And since she hadn’t already dismissed him he was beginning to suspect he could be just what she wanted.

If she really was a Dutch agent, recruiting men to work against England from within its borders, her interest in him might not be so surprising. Not if Swiftbourne’s parting shot was correct. ‘You have a lean and hungry look, Harry,’ his former guardian had said. ‘The kind of man any conscienceless agent would want to employ.’

‘You are judging me by yourself, my lord,’ Harry had replied drily, and received a characteristically enigmatic smile in response.

‘It will be your duty to protect me,’ the lady said, her words cutting across his thoughts.

‘From whom?’

‘My lord’s former…former mistress—her servants, that is.’

Harry’s eyes widened briefly before he controlled his expression. Would a grieving widow have taken a lover already? Perhaps she hadn’t been so distressed by her husband’s death? But if she was enjoying her new freedom, it cast doubt over the claim she was determined to avenge her husband.

‘She is jealous, you see.’ The mask trembled briefly, before the lady’s hand steadied once more. Harry noted the tell-tale gesture and immediately suspected this was yet another lie.

‘Despite what you said, I assure you my beauty does not drive most men wild,’ said the masked lady, and from her tone he was inclined to believe she meant it. ‘But my lord is quite fond of me. Very fond of me. Besotted. I mean, devoted,’ she corrected herself quickly. ‘Unfortunately, his former mistress… Well, she wants to scratch my eyes out.’

‘You want to hire me to protect you from a cat fight?’ Harry exclaimed.

‘Of course not! I would never demean myself…she has servants, of course. They might try to cause me trouble on my journey to Portsmouth.’

‘Indeed. And what about your besotted, devoted lord?’ Harry found her description of her nameless lover very unconvincing.

‘What about him?’ the masked lady said uneasily.

‘Why did so devoted a gentleman ever let you out of his sight? Why is he not providing for your comfort and safety? Did he misuse his former mistress or fail to provide adequately for her when they parted? Does he know you are hiring a manservant in the back room of a coffee-house? For my own future well-being, I must ask—is he a reasonable man, or prone to jealousy—?’

‘Very reasonable. Very reasonable,’ the lady broke in hastily. ‘He is the soul of discretion, of good sense—’

‘Yet he left you alone in London at the mercy of his former mistress while he went to Portsmouth?’ Harry made no attempt to hide the scepticism in his voice.

‘Well, um…it’s the Dutch, of course,’ the lady said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘He cannot leave his post until this business with the Dutch is resolved.’

Harry noticed the almost irritated note in her voice. What kind of spy considered war a nuisance?

‘Is your lover married?’ he asked.

‘What? Of course not!’ The mask quivered with outrage at the suggestion. ‘Do you think I’d have an affair with a married man?’

‘If he’s not married already, why isn’t he going to marry you?’ Harry asked.

There was another long silence. ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t thought of it before, but you are completely correct. He should be marrying me and, as soon as the opportunity arises, I will draw it to his attention.’

‘Madam, I cannot believe a lady possessed of such firm resolve needs me to protect you from a mere former mistress,’ said Harry. ‘Let me spare you the expense of my hire—’

‘Sit down!’ she all but shrieked as he started to stand up. ‘I do need you. I definitely do need you.’

‘Is that so?’ Harry relaxed back onto the chair, satisfied his bluff had worked. He had no idea what the lady was up to but, spy or not, he intended to find out. ‘And when will I see your face? Or do you intend to hold that mask in front of you all the way to Portsmouth?’

‘Masks are very fashionable,’ she said, somewhat defensively. ‘Respectable ladies wear them to the theatre and even to market or in the street.’

Since Harry hadn’t ventured near the theatre since his return to London, he couldn’t comment on that. ‘But you are not, by your own admission, a respectable woman,’ he pointed out. ‘At least, not until you coerce your lord into marrying you. I am surprised your ambition needed to be prompted in that regard.’

‘I am not hiring you to cast judgement upon my morals, but to protect my person from harm,’ said the lady coldly.

‘When will I see your face?’ Harry repeated. ‘I don’t work for anyone unless I have looked into their unmasked face.’

‘In ten minutes’ time,’ she said. ‘If you accept the post and agree to leave immediately, you will see my face. Do you wish to serve me?’

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘I will hire you only on condition that you promise to do everything in your power to protect me—and do nothing to harm me.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Harry was startled by her demand. It also gave him pause. He didn’t believe her story of her absent lover or the jealous former mistress. She hadn’t provided any evidence that she was a Dutch spy, but she might yet prove to be a traitor. Harry had never broken a promise, and he wasn’t prepared to make a blind commitment now.

‘I will protect you as long as you do no harm to anyone else,’ he said.

‘I just want you to keep me alive.’ The words seemed to burst from her of their own volition. A desperate plea she had no control over. Harry’s gut tightened as he heard the unmistakable fear in her voice.

‘I will not let anyone hurt you,’ he said brusquely, even as he damned his own instinctive urge to protect.

‘Thank you.’ She visibly relaxed, tension ebbing from her body. ‘You will be well rewarded.’ Without any warning she lowered the mask to the table.