Читать книгу The Uncompromising Lord Flint - Virginia Heath - Страница 11

The harridan had made him wait two hours already. No doubt she would have made him wait two more had he not dispatched someone to go fetch her. He would allow her that petty victory. He’d used the time constructively, going over the prearranged route to London and writing messages to send to every fashionably busy inn along the way, cheerfully appraising them, and anyone else who intercepted the missives, of the exact dates and times he expected to arrive at their establishment. Lord Flint and Lady Jessamine would require two rooms next door to one another, but not a private dining room. The more witnesses who saw her pretty face, the better.

The rap at his cabin door had him pausing mid-sentence. He kept his head bent and his pen hovering as the guards shepherded Lady Jessamine in, ignoring the way his body seemed to sense her.

‘The prisoner, sir. Would you like me to attach the manacles?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Flint didn’t do her the courtesy of looking up. He could play silly games, too. Till the cows came home if need be. ‘Leave us.’

Both guards hesitated, then let go of her elbows. ‘As you wish, sir. We’ll be outside.’

He scratched out another few words, then dipped his quill in the inkstand before continuing to write, leaving Lady Jessamine standing like a naughty student at his desk. In his peripheral vision he took in the sight. Bare feet, clean this time, and several inches of shapely, naked female calf poked out from beneath the striped sailor’s breeches she had been issued. The over-large linen shirt had been gathered to one side and tied in a jaunty knot, cinching the masculine garment tightly around her slim waist and displaying the obvious feminine shape of her rounded hips and bottom to the world. The collar was undone, the graceful curve of her neck and delicate collarbone yet another reminder of her sex—not that one was needed. Her long, tousled, jet-black hair was completely loose and tumbling down her back and around her shoulders. A beautiful, dark-haired temptress who might have been expressly designed by God to specifically appeal to his particular taste in women—damn her.

She looked scandalous, sultry and, to his shame, Flint’s body had never wanted a woman more. But he wouldn’t be waylaid by the physical. Beneath the perfect veneer, the wood was rotten. He gripped his pen so firmly as he formed the next letters, it would take a miracle to prevent the crew hearing the sound of it squeaking against the parchment up in the crow’s nest. Sheer pride made him grit his teeth and continue regardless. Let her think he was furious, which he really was now—but at his own uncontrollable and wholly unwanted lust rather than at her.

Arrogant to the last, without waiting for an invitation, she wandered to the comfortable armchair across his cabin and lowered herself into it. For good measure, she crossed one delectable leg over the other and lounged with an elbow propped upon the arm and stared at the top of his head insolently.

Totally relaxed.

Totally galling, when he could feel the intoxicating power of those beautiful eyes all the way down to his toes.

Flint waited another couple of seconds before he carefully laid the quill down and faced her, his face a perfect mask of blandness that took all his years of training to muster. ‘Your friend—The Boss—I need his name.’

‘Straight to the point? No small talk, Monsieur Flint?’ Dropping his honorific was an obvious insult, not that he cared. In his line of work, where he was paid to be a chameleon, he rarely got to use it anyway.

‘You are to stand trial for treason, Lady Jessamine. A crime, as I am sure you are well aware, which carries the death penalty. Your co-operation now might encourage the courts to be lenient with their sentence should you be found guilty.’

She snorted and tossed her head dismissively. ‘There will be no leniency nor a fair trial. Your courts will hang me regardless of what I say or do not say. I have been tried and found guilty already. Non?’

‘Perhaps that is the way they do things in France, but back home...’

‘Spare me your superior English lies. I am not a fool, Monsieur Flint. My confession makes your job much easier, yet it will not help me. You have your supposed witnesses so I am doomed either way. Whether it is by an English hangman or a French assassin, my life is soon to be taken from me.’ Her dark eyes locked with his and held. Beneath the façade of insolence he saw sadness and fear and wished he hadn’t. She was easier to hate when devoid of all human feelings. Knowing she possessed some made it difficult to offer false hope.

‘Confession is good for the soul, or so I am told. You will meet your maker knowing you repented at the end.’

‘My maker knows the truth already, Monsieur Flint. I have nothing to prove to him.’

‘Perhaps you do not understand the gravity of what you have done? Are you aware of the consequences of your actions?’ He didn’t bother pausing for an answer. ‘This year alone, eighteen men have been murdered thanks to you. Granted, many of them had it coming. Seduced by the easy riches that come from smuggling, they were lured to participate in high treason and reaped the rewards. When you dance with the Devil, you inevitably get burned. However, ten of those men were servants of the Crown whose only crime was doing their duty. They were murdered in cold blood.’

‘Not by me. I am merely the messenger!’

Instantly annoyed and determined to control it, Flint stood and braced his arms to loom across the desk. ‘They were simply doing their duty, yet your people reacted as true cowards always do. They killed innocent men to save their own corrupt skins.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. He didn’t need the list. Their names were engraved on his heart for ever, but he appreciated the gravitas of an official document as well as the bolster to his resolve to remain unmoved by her.

‘Allow me to tell you about them. Let’s start with Customs Officer Richard Pruitt. His throat was cut when he boarded one of your ships before Christmas last. He is survived by his wife and three small daughters, none of whom are old enough to remember their brave father.’ Flint refused to look at her to see if his words had hit their mark.

‘Then there was Corporal Henry Edwards and young Jack Bright of the Essex militia, who likely stumbled across a boat unloading while doing their routine night patrol of the sea wall at Canvey Island. I say likely as we’ll never know what happened, except to say with some certainty that your smugglers garrotted both and tossed their bodies over the wall into the estuary. Edwards washed up on the beach in Southend a few days later. Bright’s rotting corpse served as fish food for three weeks before he floated up the Thames to be found bobbing in Tilbury dock. One had a fiancée, the other an aged mother who relied on his income.’ A quick glance showed that her face had blanched, but she still met his gaze dead on. ‘Shall I continue?’

She shrugged and turned her head away from his gaze. ‘You will do as you please. No doubt.’

‘You have blood on your hands, Lady Jessamine.’

Her mouth opened as if to speak, then clamped shut, her eyes now fixated on a spot on the floor. Temper had him reeling off three more names just as coldly. Each was met with stoic silence. Her body was as still as a statue and her composure just as hard. ‘Are you proud of yourself, Lady Jessamine? Do you feel no shame for what you have done? No compassion for the lives you have destroyed? The widows and innocent children left bereft and impoverished by your greed and avarice?’

Her head whipped around and those untrustworthy eyes were swimming with unshed tears. ‘You know nothing about me, Monsieur Flint! Nothing! And I shall tell you nothing. You can name every dead man. Every member of his family. Blame me for every travesty. And I shall reward you with my silence. My secrets are mine to take to the grave! A grave I am fully aware I might lie in soon.’

One fat tear trickled over her ridiculously long and dark lower lashes and dripped down her cheek. Flint had seen enough female tears to be unaffected, but the matter-of-fact way she swiped it away and proudly set her shoulders got to him.

His words had hurt her. Deeply. He knew it with the same certainty that he knew his own mind. Lady Jessamine had a conscience. Something he didn’t want to know. ‘Tell me his name.’

Her eyes lifted to his. They were miserable. ‘I don’t know it. I am just the messenger.’ And, God help him, against Lord Fennimore’s voice screaming in his head, Flint believed her.

‘You’re lying.’ Of course she was—Flint had now changed his opinion. Behind the beautiful, deceitful face, she had a soul as black as pitch and blood on her hands.

Her eyes drifted back to the riveting spot on the floor and her slim shoulders slumped for the first time since he had seen her. ‘Have it your way. You will regardless.’

Alone, in the relative privacy of her cell, Jess fought the tears. Hearing those names, imagining every man and picturing his family, literally broke her heart. Ah, quelle horreur! She had always known the smugglers were ruthless, known deep down that there were others suffering worse than she was, but personalising it made those dark, shadowy, distant thoughts starkly real. She hated Lord Flint for holding the mirror up to her face and forcing her to acknowledge the gravity of it all. For the last year she had loathed herself. Hated what she was forced to do and hated that she continued to bend to Saint-Aubin’s will because she was weak. For the whole time she had plotted and schemed and tried to fight back, only to cave in when the blind terror overtook her and she begged for mercy.

Of course, Lord Flint would see her eventual acquiescence as guilt. To him, she supposed her involvement made her a traitor—and perhaps now she knew the full extent of what she had unwittingly been involved in, perhaps she was. There was blood on her hands. She hadn’t known that before.

It didn’t matter that every message she had written had been done under extreme duress or that she had been oblivious to the full extent of her mother’s treachery until it was too late to flee. Or that Saint-Aubin had specific and horrific punishments which had broken her resolve to resist. She should have been braver. Stronger. Resolute despite the brutal punishment he was prone to dish out. Whether she had or hadn’t committed outright treason—and she still desperately wanted to believe she hadn’t—those tragic names would haunt her for the rest of her days. Days which frankly would be significantly numbered unless she could escape this boat and the hateful Lord Flint who had just broken her heart.

Sitting here, feeling sorry for herself, wasn’t going to make that happen. Nor was it going to change the past or bring those poor men back. To learn she had been unwittingly responsible for murder was a terrible burden she would have to carry for ever. It added to the deep well of self-loathing that festered within. She could weep for them every night once she had her freedom. Search out their families and send them money—not that she had any—but she would earn it and she would share it with them. Make amends as best she could. Right now she could not indulge her sadness or her guilt. Right now she had to plan, because if Saint-Aubin caught her then his revenge didn’t bear thinking about—and she knew without a doubt she couldn’t bear it again. Because despite all the talk, all the bravado and all the defiance, she wasn’t strong enough—and he knew it. Jess ruthlessly set aside the spectre of that retribution and forced her mind to focus.

When the guards had first come to fetch her earlier, Jess had purposely sauntered to Lord Flint’s cabin. She had gazed at the clear blue sky, sniffed the sea breeze and trailed her fingers lazily along the wooden railings. In part it had been purposeful dawdling—her rebellious nature wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her jump to attention—but she was also taking careful stock. The size of the deck, the number of sailors, the position of the openings used for the gangplanks. When she had been brought on board bound, kicking and screaming, it had been dark. The frantic scan she’d made then had been superficial and she didn’t trust it to save her skin when the time came to run—or swim. Jess needed to be prepared for every eventuality should an opportunity to escape present itself.

Several seamen, shirtless and dressed in only the striped breeches from their uniforms in deference to the glorious spring sunshine, paused in their work to watch her. Jess memorised every interested face as she purposely undulated past, maintaining eye contact with the boldest with the knowing half-smile she had often seen her ridiculously beautiful mother deploy to great effect. Jess wasn’t averse to flirting her way to freedom, not when it had proved to be an invaluable tool already. She might have little in common with the woman who had birthed her, then selfishly ripped her from her life and plunged her into a new world of war and danger, but if everyone who had known her then and commented upon it was to be believed, Jess was the spitting image.

Before her polite interrogation had begun, she had also memorised the layout of his cabin. It was spacious and bright and airy. Two large windows flooded the space with light. Windows which had hinges and latches and opened on to the ocean. Windows she could just about fit through. All she needed to do was think of a way to be alone with one of those windows before the ship reached its destination.

That created a whole new problem.

Jess had been denied knowledge of the port they were headed to now they had finally left Cherbourg, so had no idea how long the crossing would take. She also had no way of correctly knowing the time without asking the guards. After her indulgent long bath and painful visit with the emotionless Mr Flint, all she could estimate with some certainty was that several hours had passed since they had set sail.

From what she recalled of the journey all those years ago when she had been dragged to France, it had taken for ever. But a child’s concept of time was very different from an adult’s. She knew Saint-Aubin’s ships made the crossing easily overnight, leaving in the early evening, unloading in the small hours when it was less likely they would be seen and blithely returning home during the morning. If one bore that in mind, she was now probably closer to English waters than French. She needed a plan immediately.

Half an hour and much pacing later she called for the guards. ‘I wish to speak to Monsieur Flint. Tout de suite! Take me to him!’

‘I can fetch him.’ The toothless sailor folded his arms belligerently. ‘Then again perhaps I can’t. I don’t take orders from you, traitor.’

‘Suit yourself. But I shall tell his lordship you refused to allow him to hear my confession when we dock. I doubt he will take it well. He is an important man, non? One your Captain takes orders from...’

As she had hoped the man scurried off and several fraught minutes ticked by before he returned. ‘Lord Flint will see you in his cabin.’

Jess stood patiently while the sailor unlocked the bars and allowed him to grab her upper arm without tugging it away or complaining. Only her complete compliance would lull him into a false sense of security. That and the shameless display of flesh on show. She had rolled up the breeches to sit on her knee. All the spare fabric in the billowing shirt had been gathered up so that her figure was on full show and the upper swells of her breasts were clearly visible above the wide V of the open collar. He had allowed her to linger on the deck the last time because his shipmates had enjoyed the spectacle of a scantily clad woman. For her plan to succeed, she needed to be a spectacle once again.

He climbed the steep steps first and offered his hand down the hatch to assist her. She took it with her mother’s smile, making sure she emerged into the late afternoon sunlight gracefully. Then took a moment to stretch.

Men were such predictable creatures. Every eye swivelled to her, raking her body up and down. Some had the good grace to be surreptitious. Most openly ogled. One bold seaman winked and she winked back, causing much bawdy laughter and back slapping. To them she was sport and did not deserve the gentlemanly good manners reserved for ladies. One or two made rude gestures in the air, miming what they would like to do to her. Beyond, the Captain and his officers joined in the laughter. They wanted to humiliate her, too.

That was fine by Jess. Humiliation had gone hand in hand with incarceration for over a year, yet they had all failed to crush her soul. For this next bit to work, she needed them to be lusty dogs.

A burly man near the rail played right into her hands. ‘If you get lonesome down in the brig or fancy making it your last request, I’d be happy to keep you company.’ He raised his eyebrows suggestively. ‘A decent bit of English might do you good after all those Frenchies.’ He bucked his hips, the message clear.

She let her eyes take in the broad chest and muscled, folded arms before shrugging off her toothless chaperon and walking slowly towards him.

‘What is your name, handsome?’