Читать книгу Runaway Lady - Claire Thornton - Страница 8

Chapter Two

The sudden revelation of her face threw Harry completely off balance. With the mask in place he’d been able to suppress the awareness he was dealing with a woman. He’d even managed to consider her comments about her lover as if they were no more than pieces in an intellectual puzzle.

As soon as he saw her face that illusion was destroyed. She was unmistakably feminine, with a heart-shaped face and smooth, unblemished skin. Her lips were soft and slightly parted, and she was looking at him with vulnerable hopefulness in her large brown eyes. For several heartbeats he lost himself completely in her gaze. He wanted to stroke her cheek and touch her lips to see if they were as soft as they looked. She’d claimed she wasn’t beautiful—but now Harry knew that had been another lie. She was captivating. He felt his body stir with more primitive arousal and cursed himself that he had so little experience with women that one glance at a lovely face should have such a potent impact upon him. He preferred always to be in a position of control.

He growled a Turkish curse in his throat. ‘Do not look at me like that,’ he warned, more harshly than he’d intended. ‘You’re paying me to keep you alive, nothing else.’

Confusion clouded her eyes for a moment; then she straightened her spine, her lips firmed and temper sparked in her eyes.

‘That’s all I expect from you,’ she said crisply. ‘I have already hired a coach. I will give orders for it to be made ready and then we will leave.’

Cornwall—Saturday, 15 June 1667

‘I wonder where Saskia is now?’ Anne said, her voice low and shaky.

‘I hope to God she is safe.’ Sir Benjamin Trevithick’s hands clenched into useless fists as he tried to control his fear and rage.

‘I am sure she is. She was so strong and brave when we overheard…when we…’

‘You are strong and brave too.’ With an effort of will Benjamin relaxed his hand and cupped the side of Anne’s face—the uninjured side. Her other check and her eye were still badly bruised from the back-handed blow which had knocked her to the floor a week ago.

The shocking moment when Lady Abergrave had lashed out at Anne was burned into Benjamin’s memory. He’d woken early, restless because he’d had an uncomfortable night. Anne had brought breakfast to his bedchamber, just as she had done every day since he’d broken his leg. He’d known at once that something was troubling her, but before he had a chance to ask what was wrong, his aunt and Tancock had come into the room.

Anne had jumped at the sight of her stepmother, her face paling until Benjamin feared she might faint.

‘Where’s Saskia?’ Lady Abergrave demanded.

‘She…she had a headache,’ Anne stammered.

‘Where is she?’

Anne’s eyes grew huge with fear and her voice sank almost to a whisper as she replied, ‘In…in bed, I suppose.’

‘She’s not in bed.’ Lady Abergrave advanced on Anne.

‘She was going for a walk to clear her head, and then she was going to bed,’ Anne said, a little more firmly.

‘Liar!’ Lady Abergrave struck her stepdaughter so hard Anne staggered and landed in a shaken heap on the floor by Benjamin’s bed.

Every time Benjamin remembered that moment he was filled with renewed horror and shame. He’d been trapped beneath the sheets by his broken leg, desperately reaching for his crutches, unable to protect Anne. All he’d managed to do was fall out of bed beside her, powerless to intervene.

He stroked the soft skin of her unhurt cheek with his thumb, trying to comfort her as he remembered how they’d been locked together in his bedchamber while Tancock and his henchmen went in search of Saskia. Anne had told him in whispers about the deadly conversation she and Saskia had overheard. When Lady Abergrave and Tancock returned his aunt had been in an even worse temper, but he’d felt a flood of relief because they hadn’t found Saskia. They hadn’t given up looking for her. Benjamin knew that Tancock and at least one other man had gone in further pursuit of her. He prayed continuously that his sister should remain safe, but the longer she was gone the more worried he became.

He was also effectively a prisoner in his own house. He wasn’t willing to accept that situation without a fight, but he trusted the servants even less than Saskia had. They’d all received their wages from Lady Abergrave for years. They might understand in theory that in a few days’ time Benjamin would be master of Trevithick, but immediate power lay in his aunt’s hands, enforced by the core members of her retinue. Men like Tancock, who had already proved they would follow her orders without compunction.

Footsteps sounded in the gallery outside the bedchamber. Benjamin lifted his head, apprehension knotting his stomach. Ned Fenwick, a large, scarred manservant, came cautiously into the room, the knife in his hand very visible. Lady Abergrave followed, carrying Benjamin’s crutches. Without them he was completely immobile.

‘Come here, girl,’ Lady Abergrave ordered.

Anne stood up and took a few reluctant steps forward. As soon as she was well clear of Benjamin, Fenwick reached out and seized her arm. Benjamin’s hands clenched.

Lady Abergrave saw the gesture and smiled mockingly. ‘Your obedience buys Anne’s continued good health,’ she said.

‘If anything happens to her, you will have no power over me at all,’ Benjamin returned, his muscles trembling from the effort to maintain his self-control. Lady Abergrave’s willingness to threaten her stepdaughter to force his co-operation limited his options even more effectively than the questionable loyalty of the servants and her regular removal of his crutches.

‘Sir William Boscawen has just arrived at the quay,’ said Lady Abergrave, laying Benjamin’s crutches out of reach as Fenwick took Anne out of the room. Benjamin knew she’d brought them for the sake of appearances in front of the visitor and that they would be removed as soon as Sir William had gone. ‘I will bring him up to see you. Remember, if you say anything out of turn, it will be Anne who suffers.’

A few minutes later Benjamin struggled to keep his composure as he accepted Sir William’s commiserations on breaking his leg so close to reaching his twenty-first birthday. For nearly an hour he made polite conversation with Sir William and Lady Abergrave while he desperately tried to think of some discreet way of communicating the danger to his visitor. Sir William was a genial neighbour, but he was neither decisive nor particularly intelligent. Far worse, from Benjamin’s point of view, he was one of the many men who had courted Lady Abergrave in her youth—and remained equally dazzled by her twenty years later. He would never believe she had murderous intentions towards her nephew. But if Lady Abergrave realised Benjamin had tried to seek the magistrate’s help, she would retaliate by hurting Anne.

London—Saturday, 15 June 1667

It took only a few minutes for Saskia to let Johanna know she was leaving the coffee-house and collect the bag containing the few possessions she’d acquired since leaving Cornwall. She set off for the livery stable, very conscious of her new manservant and protector striding beside her. For the first few yards he gained ground on her. After that he moderated his pace to match hers. She had a ridiculous urge to show him she could walk just as fast as he could—which felt very strange, because for so long she had curbed her physical energy in Pieter’s presence.

A long-suppressed memory of her first winter in Amsterdam flashed into her mind. It was before Pieter’s accident, and they’d both gone skating on the frozen canals of the city. Pieter had been strong and quick, with all the assurance on the ice of one who’d learned to skate almost as soon as he could walk. At first she’d been nervous and hesitant, but she’d quickly gained her balance and her confidence. She’d been exhilarated by her new-found skill, laughingly, perhaps shockingly, challenging Pieter to race with her. They’d had that one winter of carefree joy—then Pieter had been crippled and her expectations for her future had irrevocably changed.

The fugitive awareness flickered in her mind that, even when he was whole and healthy, Pieter had never possessed quite the virile energy of the man walking beside her. Then she pushed aside her memories and her unsettling response to her companion. Now they were in public she was once more holding the mask to her face. It was Tancock she was hiding from, but it was also a relief to conceal her expression from her new manservant’s far too intense and disturbing scrutiny. It occurred to her that, even though she had supposedly been the one conducting the interview, he had asked nearly all the questions. She would have to rectify that at the earliest opportunity. She needed to know more about him before she trusted her life and Benjamin’s in his hands.

‘It would be more efficient if you tied it on,’ he said, indicating the mask.

‘There’s a button I should bite to hold it in place,’ she replied, ‘but then I would not be able to talk. What’s your name?’

‘Harry Dixon. What’s yours?’

‘Sarah Brewster.’ Thinking up a suitably English name had been one of the first things she’d done. She owed her Christian name to her Dutch mother, and it was far too unusual to use openly in her current situation. She was still pleased with her new English name. She was less convinced that the story she and Johanna had invented about the jealous former mistress was equally satisfactory, but she’d needed an explanation for why she required protection. Johanna had suggested she hint she was an actress, but the opportunity had never arisen.

‘We’re leaving for Portsmouth this afternoon, Mistress Brewster?’

‘Yes.’ Portsmouth was not their destination, but she didn’t intend to reveal where they were really going until they were well on their way. Guildford would be soon enough. They wouldn’t get that far today, but Saskia was conscious of every minute ticking by, taking them closer to Benjamin’s twenty-first birthday on the twenty-second of June.

She had to rescue him before then. She was very afraid that, if she didn’t, as soon as Benjamin gained control of his inheritance he would be forced to sign a will in Lady Abergrave’s favour and then he would be killed. That had been Lady Abergrave and Tancock’s original plan when Saskia had been out of their reach in Amsterdam. Surely Lady Abergrave wouldn’t risk killing Benjamin before his birthday while Saskia was still alive? She must know that as long Saskia had breath in her body, she would seek justice for her brother. But Saskia didn’t dare predict how her aunt might behave. As fear for Benjamin overrode every other thought, she quickened her pace until she was almost running.

‘You are very eager to return to your lover’s arms,’ said Harry Dixon.

‘Oh… Yes.’ Jarred out of her preoccupation, Saskia flushed behind the mask. ‘That is, I have a great deal to do when I reach Portsmouth,’ she added hastily. She was very glad their arrival at the livery stable cut short any further conversation about her supposed lover. But her new servant immediately created another complication by insisting he ride beside the coach rather than sitting next the coachman. A saddle horse was an additional expense Saskia hadn’t anticipated.

‘You are hiring me to protect you. If you have any sense, you won’t interfere with the arrangements I make,’ Harry said, when she challenged him.

‘I’m paying for your arrangements,’ she pointed out.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Can’t you afford a horse for me?’

‘Of course.’ The problem for Saskia wasn’t lack of resources, but a limited supply of ready coins. She’d arrived in Plymouth from Amsterdam with four bills of exchange concealed in the pocket beneath her skirts. She’d converted one of the bills into English coins in Plymouth on her first day in England, and she’d used that money to pay her way to London. Unfortunately, the Dutch attack meant she was temporarily unable to convert her other bills of exchange into cash. She’d given one to Johanna in return for the clothes and coins the other woman had provided, but she would have to wait before the crisis between the Dutch and the English was resolved before she could present the others to one of London’s goldsmith-bankers.

She wasn’t yet ready to reveal the existence of the bills of exchange to Harry Dixon, but once they had saved Benjamin she planned to reward him by giving them both to him—and perhaps more besides. Her brother’s life meant far more to her than money.

‘Choose a horse,’ she ordered. ‘And then let us be on our way without any further delay.’

Leaving London was a slow business. They drove through the ruins of the burned City and were delayed for over an hour by the heavy traffic of carts and people before finally crossing London Bridge into Lambeth. Saskia wanted to scream with frustration—or at the very least get out and walk. But she knew that made no sense. Once they were out of London they would make better time.

She relaxed slightly once the coach was rumbling steadily forwards. The first part of her mission had been successfully accomplished. She was on her way back to Benjamin. Now she must plan her next steps. How was she going to rescue her brother when she reached Cornwall? And how was she going to bring Lady Abergrave and Tancock to justice? She had to make sure that neither of them could ever be a threat to her family again.

She still hadn’t solved the problems by the time they arrived at the Coach and Horses inn at Kingston-upon-Thames. It was late evening and Harry announced they would stay there for the night.

‘We can go a few more miles at least,’ Saskia protested.

‘Are we staying here or not?’ the coachman asked.

‘We’re staying,’ Harry said, and the coachman obeyed immediately without waiting for Saskia’s response.

Harry’s automatic assumption of command irritated Saskia. She’d managed Pieter’s business for years. She wasn’t used to having her wishes ignored or overruled. She almost challenged him there and then, but over the years she’d learned to pick her battles. A public argument with Harry was unlikely to enhance her authority in either his eyes or the coachman’s—particularly when he was right. Despite her restless need to keep moving, she knew the waning moon would provide little light for the journey. It made sense to stop for the night and continue early in the morning. At least it would give her an opportunity to learn more about her new manservant before she risked trusting him with a portion of the truth.

Harry was well aware of Sarah Brewster’s irritation. She was clearly impatient to complete her journey. He thought she was also annoyed with him for giving orders so freely, but that didn’t worry him. He was used to taking command and he had two priorities: the first was to establish whether she was indeed Saskia van Buren and a traitor; the second was to keep his promise to protect her. He would do whatever was necessary to achieve those goals. He had no intention of compromising his efforts by pandering to his new employer’s whims, even though she was a distractingly attractive woman.

Acting as Mistress Brewster’s servant, he took two rooms at the Coach and Horses. He’d expected to guard her from the other side of her closed door, but she disconcerted him by suggesting they eat supper together in her room. Taking a meal with a woman was an unfamiliar situation for Harry in any circumstances. Doing so when they were alone and within a few feet of a bed filled him with more tension than if he were navigating rocks and undertows to cross a dangerous river. He was amazed she didn’t seem to be conscious of anything unusual. There were times since he’d arrived back in England when he felt almost as disorientated as he had when he’d first gone to the Levant and had to learn a completely new set of social customs.

They sat opposite each other at a small table. Harry’s eyes were drawn constantly to Saskia’s face and her uncovered hair. She had long blonde curls touched with hints of warm colour which reminded him of apricots or the first glow of sunrise. He’d been entranced by those shining curls from the moment she’d first put back her hood in his presence. He’d caught his breath and had to restrain himself from reaching out to see if they were as soft as they looked. He still wanted to touch her hair. If he’d been an invisible spirit in the room, he would have been content to simply sit and watch her. A pretty, shimmering angel in the candlelight. But he wasn’t invisible, and he was determined not to stare at her like a moonstruck idiot. He’d mastered the art of appearing outwardly self-assured many years ago, so he deliberately adopted a relaxed, untroubled air as he ate his supper.

He’d assumed Saskia meant to take him to task for giving orders to the coachman without her permission, but instead she began asking him questions.

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-four.’ For the first time in his life Harry was almost uncomfortable revealing his age. Ever since he’d returned to England, he’d been acutely aware he’d fallen behind his contemporaries in certain crucial aspects of life. On his first day in London he’d been startled and discomfited to see an apprentice more than a decade his junior flirting confidently with the pretty girl behind the counter of a linen draper’s. Judging by the girl’s twinkling response, she’d enjoyed the apprentice’s attentions. But when Harry asked politely for some handkerchiefs her eyes had widened. He was convinced he’d seen alarm in her expression as she hastened to serve him. He knew very well that women had good reason to be afraid of some men. Sometimes, though less frequently than in the past, he still had nightmares about the damage a violent man could do to a woman. He’d had no idea how to assure the draper’s girl that, despite his sun-darkened skin and the sword by his side, he wasn’t a threat to her safety, so he’d thanked her gruffly and hurried away.

Richard’s wife had been nervous in his presence too. Harry knew there were several possible reasons for that, including the natural anxiety any woman might have to make a good impression on her husband’s older brother—especially when that brother was also the head of her husband’s family. Besides, after so many years apart, Harry and Richard had not yet regained the easy friendship of their youth and it was understandable that Mary would take her cues from her husband. But Mary had led a very sheltered life both before and after her marriage, and Harry had not been able to lose the conviction that she found being in his presence as foreign and unnerving as he found being in hers. Despite his best efforts, they had never managed more than the most stilted conversations. Harry had been acutely aware of Richard’s growing bewilderment and unhappiness at their lack of ease with each other. Just before Harry had left Bedfordshire, Richard had even burst out, “I am afraid you don’t like my wife.”

The accusation had dumbfounded Harry and left him uncertain how to respond. He had no idea how to compliment any man on his choice of wife, much less his brother. He’d assured Richard that he liked his wife very well, but it had been an awkward parting for the brothers.

With his recent experiences with his sister-in-law fresh in his mind, Harry was very relieved that he didn’t seem to make his new employer anxious. In fact, she was focusing a distinctly inquisitorial gaze on him.

‘Tell me some of the things you’ve done in the past,’ she demanded. ‘Why don’t you carry an English sword?’

‘Because I learned most of what I know from a Janissary.’

She looked surprised. ‘Did you spend a long time in the Levant?’

‘Since I was nineteen.’

‘When did you come back to England?’

‘A few weeks ago.’

‘Did you not come back at all in the meantime?’ she exclaimed.

‘No.’ The brothers had gone to the Levant together, but the Turkish climate had not suited Richard’s constitution. After Harry had nursed his younger brother through three dangerous fevers within a year of their arrival in the Ottoman Empire he’d insisted Richard return to London. Harry himself had stayed to build his fortune, but he’d missed his brother very badly during the first year of their separation. Later, when Harry had accumulated enough wealth and trading contacts to return home, the situation in England—and his future—had irrevocably changed. He’d wanted to see Richard, but he’d had no desire to confront the man whose title and estates he would one day inherit. He’d assuaged his restlessness by moving more frequently within the Ottoman Empire than most European merchants. He’d gone from his original home in Aleppo to Istanbul and ended in Smyrna before finally returning to London.

‘Why didn’t you come back before?’ Saskia’s gaze was fixed on his face.

‘I was content where I was.’

‘Then why did you come back now? Did you stop being content?’

That was too close to the truth for comfort. Harry returned fire with fire. ‘What’s your urgent business in Portsmouth?’

‘None of your—’ She broke off and sat back. ‘We’ll discuss it tomorrow.’

‘We will? Let’s discuss it now.’

‘No. We will discuss it tomorrow if you perform your duties successfully in the meantime,’ she said firmly. ‘I have known several men who returned from the Levant. They were factors. Were you a factor?’

‘Do I look like a factor?’ She’d guessed correctly and he was curious to hear her response.

‘I imagine you might,’ she said, surprising him. ‘I was told European merchants often adopt Turkish dress in the streets to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Did you wear a turban? Is that why your hair is shorter than fashionable?’

‘Franks,’ Harry corrected her. ‘To the people of the Ottoman Empire, all Europeans are Franks. Tell me the names of your acquaintances. No doubt I know them.’ The English, Dutch, Venetians and other Europeans all had their own quarters within each trading city, but Harry had always kept himself well informed about his fellow—and rival—factors.

‘I don’t recall at this moment.’ She evaded his question with barely a flicker of hesitation. ‘You didn’t tell me whether you wore a turban.’

‘Often.’ Harry had no idea why she was interested. ‘In Smyrna it was usual for Franks to wear European hats, but by the time I moved there I was used to the turban. I’m damned if I’ll ever wear a wig.’

Saskia smiled at his forthright statement, but her gaze didn’t waver as she continued her interrogation. ‘Did you return to England because you’d made your fortune—or because you’d ruined yourself and your principal?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’ Harry grinned, enjoying their verbal battle. ‘Bad bargains, bad luck, misreading the markets—every ship brought another letter from my principal reprimanding me for my poor decisions…’

Saskia gave a soft laugh. ‘Yet he still continued to make use of your services. Either he is an indifferent businessman or your decisions were not as poor as you claim.’

It was the first time Harry had ever heard her laugh. When he saw the amusement sparkling in her eyes, he realised just how strained she was usually. For a few heartbeats, lost in her reminiscent amusement, she was completely relaxed, almost carefree—and utterly captivating.

Harry forgot his mission. Forgot why he’d insisted they spend the night at Kingston. Forgot everything except the pleasure of watching Saskia’s transitory happiness. Unfortunately, his body wasn’t content with just looking. From the moment Saskia had lowered her mask he’d felt the stirring of desire. For a while he’d managed to suppress his awareness of how she affected him, but now his physical reaction to her intensified until it was almost painful. His body was making demands he could neither ignore nor satisfy.

Frustration with himself and the situation eroded his temper. Saskia, blithely oblivious of his edgy, unsettled state, was the cause of his difficulties—and she became the focus of his irritation.

‘How will you explain this to your lord?’ he demanded.

‘Explain what?’ Saskia looked up at him, a half-smile still lingering on her lips, confusion in her eyes.

Harry stared at her. Either she was a very good actress or she didn’t seem to find anything odd about being alone in the bedchamber with him. ‘If you don’t know, I must have been away from England longer than I realised,’ he said.

‘I hoped we won’t have to leave England.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘It would be better to finish it here.’

‘Finish what?’ Harry’s hunting instincts went on full alert at her unwary comment.

He saw her snatch a quick little breath, and the expression in her eyes suddenly became guarded, but she replied calmly, ‘Getting safely to my lord, of course.’

Her besotted, devoted lord, she’d called him earlier. Harry gritted his teeth and buttered a piece of bread to give himself time to overcome an unwelcome surge of jealousy towards a man whose existence he still doubted. He had no intention of becoming as besotted as her probably mythical lover.

‘Will we need to leave England to do that?’ he asked.

‘No, he’s in Plym—Portsmouth.’

Plymouth! She’d nearly said Plymouth! Portsmouth was in Hampshire, but Plymouth was in Devon, on the other side of the River Tamar from Cornwall. Saskia van Buren had come to London from Cornwall. If that was their true destination, it seemed more likely than ever that she was indeed Saskia. Even though Harry was exerting all his self-discipline to control the fiercely conflicting instincts and emotions raging within him, he felt a burst of satisfaction at unravelling her lies a little more.

‘If your lord is in Portsmouth, why may we have to leave England?’ he said, as if he hadn’t noticed her slip of the tongue.

She frowned. ‘Please don’t ask any more questions. We are going to Portsmouth, and it is your job to protect me.’

‘And once we reach Portsmouth, your lord—the one who is opposed to marriage—will take over the task of protecting you?’ Despite himself, Harry couldn’t hide the scepticism in his voice.

Saskia glared at him. ‘You insult me when you speak of him so disparagingly,’ she said.

Harry felt a stab of guilt at her charge. She’d been lying to him from the first, she might well be plotting against England and she seemed to be completely oblivious that she was directly responsible for his having the most painfully pleasurable, disturbing and frustrating meal of his life. Those learned men who claimed the mere sight of a woman’s uncovered hair could rouse a man to undisciplined lust obviously knew what they were talking about. He really shouldn’t care whether he offended her—but he did.

‘I did not insult you,’ he said brusquely. ‘From what you said earlier, it sounds as if you think you may need to leave England. Is that true?’

She hesitated. For several long moments they stared at each other across the width of the table. Harry was unwillingly fascinated by the swiftly changing emotions in her expression. She was trying to decide if she could trust him. The silence lengthened and the tension between them increased until he could almost hear it snapping in the air.

She looked away abruptly and drew in a quick breath. ‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘But if we need to leave you would not have to come with us—though you will be well rewarded if you do.’

‘We,’ she’d said. A deep instinct told Harry she’d spoken the truth. She really was on her way to join someone else. Had the widow taken a lover within months of her husband’s death? A core of ice formed within him at the possibility.

‘You would pay me to protect your lover as well as you?’ he said, his voice hardening.

‘You are a presumptuous, impertinent fellow!’ Saskia’s temper erupted without warning. ‘Eat your supper and mind your manners. We will leave at dawn.’

Her angry reaction—almost as if she’d been trying to hide her avoidance of the question by a burst of irritation—rekindled Harry’s doubts about the existence of a lover. And his disgust with himself for caring.

‘You are aware that in June it is light by four o’clock?’ he said.

‘Of course.’ The lady rubbed her elbow, almost as if she’d banged it against something, though Harry hadn’t noticed her doing any such thing. ‘At least I can sleep in a bed tonight,’ she muttered.

Harry’s eyes widened. If she hadn’t been sleeping in a bed, where had she been sleeping? And what had she been doing in her unorthodox resting place to hurt her arm?

Saskia wasn’t consciously aware she was rubbing her elbow, she was thinking about her journey to London from Cornwall. It had been a long and hazardous journey for an unaccompanied woman, even with the protection of the male clothing she’d worn. The summer weather had made it possible for her to sleep on the ground several nights rather than risk staying alone at an inn, but she hadn’t felt either comfortable or safe. The last night had been the worst. She’d been so tired she’d fallen heavily asleep in a small copse of trees, only to be woken by what, in her overtaxed state, had seemed to be the appalling cacophony of the dawn chorus. After her first moment of panic and confusion she’d felt as if every bird in England had taken roost above her head and was now bugling its lungs out within a few feet of her. As she’d flailed about, struggling to sit up, she’d cracked her elbow against a tree.

She was glad that tonight she could sleep safely in a proper bed—but she didn’t realise she’d spoken aloud until she saw Harry’s startled gaze flicker from her to the bed and back again.

Until that moment she hadn’t given a thought to the significance of their surroundings. She almost groaned as she suddenly understood what Harry had meant about the need to make awkward explanations to her lord. How could she have been so stupidly unaware of something so obvious? Especially when she was pretending to be the mistress of a devoted lover. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at revealing herself to be so unworldly.

She knew why she hadn’t considered the implications of being alone with a man in a bedchamber. For more than four years of her marriage she had taught herself to think of her bed as a place only for sleep. Pieter had regained far more strength after the accident than any of them had initially expected. He’d even designed his own wheeled-chair that he could manoeuvre on flat surfaces—but making love was one aspect of their married life they’d never recovered. Saskia had learned not to torment herself with thoughts of what they’d lost. It was shocking—disorientating—to realise that her potential future in this regard had changed. She was a widow, not the wife of an intelligent, but physically incapacitated husband.

She stared at Harry. She’d known from her first glance at him that he was a virile, energetic man, but somehow she had distanced herself from that knowledge, seeing in his strength only a means to protect her and save Benjamin. Now she looked at him again—with the eyes of a woman whose vows of fidelity had died with her husband.

She saw the play of candlelight on the lean sinews of his forearms as he laid his knife down and picked up the tankard of ale. Simple, mundane actions—but suddenly she was very aware that she was looking at a man’s strong hands. A man whose whole body was just as strong and deft. His self-assurance, lean, handsome features and piercing gaze commanded attention, but she’d rarely met a man with less vanity about his masculine appeal. An edge of danger always lurked beneath his apparently nonchalant exterior. But though he must know that element of his character was attractive to women, she’d never seen him take advantage of it the way another might. He was intelligent, slightly exotic, physically compelling—and without doubt the most dangerously attractive man Saskia had ever met.

Her thoughts and emotions scrambled. In that moment, as long-suppressed parts of herself flexed back into uncertain life, it was as if Pieter died again—because another man was stirring her feminine interest. As she gazed at Harry, tears filled her eyes.

He froze, his expression suddenly as blank as the mask she’d hidden behind at the coffee-house. He stood abruptly. ‘We’ll leave at dawn,’ he said harshly.

‘Wh-what? Where are you going?’ Saskia managed to find her voice just as he reached the door. ‘You haven’t finished your supper.’

‘You hired me to protect you—not to sit watching me eat like a lamb supping with a lion.’

Saskia gaped at his retreating back. It took her a few moments to grasp his meaning. ‘I am not a lamb!’ she exclaimed indignantly. But it was too late. The door had already closed behind him.

She’d had tears in her eyes! She must have realised he was lusting after her like a rutting stag and the knowledge had frightened her. Harry slammed his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. He would have to control his unruly passions better in future. If she was a spy she must be prevented from causing harm to England. But even a spy should not be subjected to fear of abuse at a man’s hands. Never at his hands. More than two decades ago, filled with disgust and powerless fury, he had made that promise to himself. He would never physically mistreat a woman. But now he was back in England he must take care not to distress them in other ways.

Richard wouldn’t have made such a gauche error. He’d always been at ease in the company of others. Though Richard didn’t possess Harry’s physical toughness, he had a shrewd grasp of business that had helped him advance his career, tempered by a charm of manner that had won him many friends. Harry was confident his younger brother had never made a woman cry, even by mistake.

Harry forced his clenched fists to relax, reminding himself that Saskia had repeatedly lied to him. He must not lose sight of the fact that even if she wasn’t a Dutch agent, she was undoubtedly hatching some as yet undisclosed plan.

He didn’t like leaving her alone at the inn, but they’d left London so precipitously he had little choice if he wanted to get a message to Lord Swiftbourne. It was Harry’s good luck that the regular route from London to Portsmouth went through Kingston. Swiftbourne’s grandson and heir had married a lady who owned a house in Kingston. Harry had never met Jakob Balston, but he hoped Balston would be at home and that he’d either be able to take or send a message to Swiftbourne. He stopped to ask for directions. A few minutes later he arrived at the house and was relieved to discover his luck had held.

‘Harry Ward!’ Balston greeted him. ‘Your brother is a friend of mine. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

‘And I you.’ Harry shook hands. He’d been aware of Balston’s existence for years, but knew Swiftbourne’s grandson had only arrived in England from Sweden the previous summer. Balston was a couple of inches taller than Harry’s six feet, broad and solidly muscled, with pale blond hair. Harry immediately thought of Saskia’s hair. He preferred the warm, reddish glow of Saskia’s blonde curls. His fingers still ached to touch them, whereas he felt no urge to touch Balston’s hair.

‘I apologise for calling so late,’ he said.

‘I’m glad to meet you at any time,’ Balston replied. ‘I’ve just returned from Sussex. My wife is still there, admiring the Kilverdales’ new daughter, but I had business to attend to here.’

‘The Duke is another of Swiftbourne’s grandsons,’ Harry remembered. He’d not met any of Swiftbourne’s family while he was under the Earl’s guardianship, partly because of the divisions caused by the Civil War, but mostly because he and Richard had left for Aleppo within weeks of becoming Swiftbourne’s wards.

Jakob smiled. ‘Since your father’s sister was married to Swiftbourne’s oldest son, you can claim cousinship with us,’ he said.

‘A very distant connection,’ said Harry.

‘But a connection nevertheless. So sit down and tell me how I may serve you.’

Harry briefly summarised his meeting with Swiftbourne and then the outcome of his interview with Saskia at the coffee-house. ‘She insisted on leaving London immediately, so I had no opportunity to take or send a message to Swiftbourne,’ he concluded.

‘Is she a spy?’

‘No.’ Harry paused to consider his immediate, instinctive denial. ‘I don’t believe she has told me the truth,’ he said, oddly reluctant to discuss Saskia with Balston. ‘But I have no doubt her fear is genuine.’

‘You have no idea what the lady is afraid of?’

‘No, but I will find out.’ Harry stood up, anxious to return to the Coach and Horses and Saskia. ‘I will be in your debt if you ensure Swiftbourne knows what has happened so far.’

‘I’ll go into London tomorrow. To be honest I’m glad of the errand.’ Balston smiled a little wryly. ‘I find I miss my wife when we are apart. Visiting Swiftbourne will fill the time until my own business is concluded and I can fetch her back from Sussex.’

Sunday morning, 16 June 1667

‘You are an arrogant, presumptuous fool! How dare you suggest I would let anyone eat me up without a bleat of protest—least of all you.’ Saskia kept her voice down, but she made no effort to hide her indignation.

‘Bleat of protest?’ Harry repeated. They were breakfasting together downstairs at the Coach and Horses. Or rather, Harry was making a good breakfast of cold turkey pie while Saskia nibbled on some bread and butter, most of which she fully intended to save for later. Just because she could get up with the birds didn’t mean she had to eat her first meal of the day with them.

They were the only customers in the room and Saskia glanced around to make sure none of the inn servants were close enough to overhear her. ‘I am not a little lamb,’ she stated unequivocally.

Harry had been munching his turkey pie in what Saskia considered to be a rather grumpy silence. She decided he must dislike getting up early as much as she did. At her announcement he looked up, good humour suddenly—and in Saskia’s view inappropriately—softening his expression.

‘Ah, I see. Are you claiming that you are a lioness disguised in lamb’s clothing?’ he enquired. ‘Or would you prefer a gentler comparison? A doe, perhaps? Graceful and fleet of foot—’

‘I am not any kind of animal,’ said Saskia. ‘In future, do not use such metaphors for me.’ She could foresee that when she finally told him their true destination was three times further than he currently anticipated, his comparisons might be considerably less flattering. ‘We are not living in Aesop’s fables.’

Harry grinned. ‘But how interesting it would be to discuss with a hawk what she sees as she soars in the sky. Or ask a whale what hides in the depth of the ocean.’

Saskia blinked at his unexpectedly poetic response. ‘I had not anticipated such whimsy from you, sir.’

‘Whimsy? If you are walking over barren, rocky ground, isn’t it natural to look up at the hawk and wonder what it would be like to fly so fast to your goal? They use doves to carry messages between Skanderoon and Aleppo. I would rather be a hawk than a dove.’

‘I…’ Saskia stopped. As a child she’d had such thoughts when she went down to the Cornish coast or walked on Dartmoor in neighbouring Devon, but it was a long time since she’d allowed anything but the most practical ambitions into her mind.

‘My husband could not walk,’ she said abruptly. ‘He designed for himself a chair with wheels. He even made some of the more intricate parts himself—his hands were still quick and strong. But he could only use it on a flat surface. Clambering over rocky ground was just as much an impossible dream to him as the hawk’s flight is to you.’

She saw Harry draw in a sharp breath, but he didn’t look away as so many had when they’d first heard what had happened to Pieter. She didn’t know why she’d told him. Was she obliquely punishing Harry because she was so attracted to the strength and agility he possessed and Pieter had lost?

‘He was a man of resolution and determination,’ said Harry.

‘Yes, he was.’ She lifted her chin.

‘And ingenuity.’

‘Yes.’ Her relationship with Pieter had been severely damaged by the impact of his accident, but there had been many times since she’d fled from Cornwall she wished she could call on some of his practical ingenuity. She still had no idea how she was going to rescue Benjamin.

‘Why couldn’t he walk?’

‘He was hurt when a rope broke and a wooden chest fell on him,’ she said. ‘It was being hauled up to the second floor.’ She stopped speaking as vivid, still shocking memories crowded her mind.

Like many houses in Amsterdam, their home had been built with the end wall slanting outward over the street, so that goods could be easily winched up to store below the roof. Pieter had used that method to have a large, finely carved chest lifted, rather than have it carried up several flights of stairs. He’d been overseeing the work when the chest had come crashing down, pinning him beneath it. Saskia had heard the impact from indoors, and the muffled shouts and screams that followed. She’d run outside to find Pieter face down in the street, unconscious, blood on his forehead. In her first moment of horror she’d thought he was dead, and then that his skull must have been cracked. Later she’d discovered he’d suffered only minor grazes to his face. The permanent damage had been to his ability to walk. His legs weren’t broken, but after the blow to his lower back he could no longer feel or control them.

‘How did he die?’ Harry’s sharp question dragged her back to the present.

‘A fever last autumn,’ she said. ‘He was more susceptible to illness after his accident—but until that last time he’d always recovered.’

‘He was not killed in the war between the Dutch and the English?’

‘No.’ Saskia frowned with confusion at the unexpected question. ‘He was a merchant, but he never left Hol—home,’ she corrected herself just in time. She cast her mind anxiously back over all she’d just said. The picture of Pieter lying at the foot of their Amsterdam house had been so vivid she was worried she might have inadvertently said something that gave away the location. She was sure that once she’d explained the whole situation to Harry he would understand her Dutch connections were irrelevant, but she wasn’t yet ready to confide in him completely.

Harry’s dark eyes were alert and watchful as he studied her. She sensed the contained energy within him and felt a flicker of apprehension. She’d seen a hawk suddenly fold its wings and arrow down out of the sky when it spotted its prey. Was she the unwary prey on which Harry meant to swoop? Was he working for Lady Abergrave after all? Or was her nervousness caused by a far more fundamental reason—the awareness of a woman for a powerful, attractive man?

‘Are you going to eat anything?’ he asked.

‘What?’ She blinked and then glanced down at her forgotten breakfast. ‘I’ll bring it with me.’

‘Then let’s linger no longer. There’s no point in tormenting yourself by rising early if you don’t make good use of the extra hours.’

There was a note of amusement in his voice that caused Saskia to look at him suspiciously. ‘Do you like getting up early?’

‘As it happens, I do.’

‘I can’t stand people who like getting up early,’ she muttered as she collected her bread. ‘No matter how wayward they are in other respects, they always consider themselves entitled to moralise over the rest of us.’

Harry grinned. ‘The early bird catches the worm.’

‘Do not talk to me about birds,’ Saskia said darkly.

* * *

Harry rode beside the coach, relaxed in the saddle, though his eyes constantly scanned the surrounding countryside. The lush green fields and woods of southern England in early summer were very different to the dramatic and beautiful Turkish landscape which had become so familiar to him. The sky was a clear blue, and it had turned into a hot June day. The heat was of no consequence to Harry, but he felt the familiar urge to abandon the main thoroughfare and explore the shady woods and tranquil fields and heaths along their way. His tendency to investigate beyond his immediate surroundings had been of great value to him in the past. Experience had shown him that increased knowledge tended to confer increased power and choice. But he knew how to discipline his curiosity. Especially when he had a mystery closer to hand that was far more compelling than any slow-running English stream.

According to the woman in the coach, her husband had been crippled in a mundane accident years ago and died as the result of a fever, not a British cannonball. Had she nearly said Holland before she’d corrected it to home? The evidence that he was indeed dealing with Saskia was increasingly strong, but he was no closer to knowing her true plans. All he could be certain of was that either Saskia or Swiftbourne’s informant was lying. He could see no reason for Saskia to make up such a complicated story about her husband’s accident, whereas her lie about the jealous mistress did serve a purpose—it gave her an excuse to claim the need for protection.

He considered what he knew about Swiftbourne’s informant. According to Tancock’s story, he’d been secretary to the late Earl of Abergrave before continuing to serve the widowed Lady Abergrave. Lady Abergrave was Saskia’s aunt. Tancock claimed Saskia had returned to England after the death of her husband fighting the English, and that her bitterness against her former countrymen had soon become evident. Swiftbourne said Tancock had spoken most eloquently of Lady Abergrave’s torment as she struggled to choose between love for her niece and loyalty to England.

Even though he’d never met either of them, Harry had taken an immediate, possibly irrational, dislike to both Tancock and Lady Abergrave. He found it hard to warm to a woman who had her servant inform one of the King’s Ministers that her grieving niece was a traitor. Had Lady Abergrave made any attempt to comfort or talk sense into Saskia before giving Tancock the order to approach Swiftbourne? Harry knew better than most that grief, anger and the driving need for revenge could propel almost anyone to take terrible actions. But from all he’d seen, Saskia wasn’t driven by rage, but by an anxious need for haste.

He wondered when she was going to tell him they were going to Plymouth, not Portsmouth. She couldn’t delay much longer. Once they reached Guildford the routes diverged.

It was after one o’clock, and Harry was thinking he’d insist they stop for dinner at the next inn when his instincts suddenly prickled with danger. It was the hottest part of the day and the heath around them dozed in the bright sunshine, the air heavy with the scents of summer. The low-lying heather was studded with birch and hazel trees, patches of yellow gorse and bramble bushes. A butterfly danced past on the warm air. A woodlark singing in a nearby birch was startled into undulating flight by the approaching coach, but there was nothing to alarm him. Yet with every heartbeat Harry’s sense of imminent threat intensified.

A casual movement brought his hand close to one of his pistols as he surveyed the landscape with eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun.

There!

The betraying toss of a horse’s head as it stood in the shadow of a hazel copse fifty yards away. Two waiting men on horses. One man taking aim with a musket—