Imprisoned by her past

Set free by her enemy!

Part of The King’s Elite. Charged with high treason, Lady Jessamine Fane’s under the watchful eye of icily calm Lord Peter Flint. A task this spy won’t be swayed from, no matter how alluring his prisoner! Only, it’s not long before Flint realizes tenacious Jess hides a lifetime of pain. With so much at stake, can he afford to take a chance on their powerful attraction?

The King’s Elite miniseries

Book 1—The Mysterious Lord Millcroft Book 2—The Uncompromising Lord Flint Book 3—The Disgraceful Lord Gray—available April 2019

And look out for the last book in the miniseries coming soon!

“The Mysterious Lord Millcroft is thrilling, exhilarating, sensual, seductive, alluring, and so, so, so very romantic.”

—Goodreads on The Mysterious Lord Millcroft by Virginia Heath

“Historical romance does not get any better than The Mysterious Lord Millcroft.”

—Goodreads on The Mysterious Lord Millcroft by Virginia Heath

When VIRGINIA HEATH was a little girl it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older the stories became more complicated—sometimes taking weeks to get to their happy ending. One day she decided to embrace her insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex, with her wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her for ever to fall asleep.

Also by Virginia Heath

The Wild Warriners miniseries

A Warriner to Protect Her

A Warriner to Rescue Her

A Warriner to Tempt Her

A Warriner to Seduce Her

The King’s Elite miniseries

The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

The Uncompromising Lord Flint

And look out for the next book coming soon.

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Uncompromising Lord Flint

Virginia Heath

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08859-6

THE UNCOMPROMISING LORD FLINT

© 2018 Susan Merritt

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Monique Daoust,

who gave the French part of Jessamine her voice.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Late May 1820

‘English pigs!’

The wrought-iron bars rattled again as another hailstorm of stale breadcrumbs hit him squarely in the face. She might well be a traitor and a termagant, but Lady Jessamine Fane’s aim was reliably accurate.

‘I’m sorry, my lord. Had we known she was stockpiling her rations to use as weapons we would have relieved her of them.’

Lord Peter Flint dusted the latest baked embellishments from his lapels and smiled tightly. ‘Pay it no mind, Captain. This is an unusual situation for all of us.’ It wasn’t every day that a Royal Navy frigate became a floating prison for one inmate and a female one at that. Nor did he, in the usual run of things, find himself the reluctant gaoler of one, tasked with dragging her foul-mouthed and fiery carcass back to London. A job that he was now prepared to concede might not be as simple as he had first thought. Lady Jessamine did not strike him as one who would go meekly. Or even quietly. The blasted woman had been hurling abuse at them for the better part of half an hour. Hell, she’d been yelling from the moment he boarded the ship and they had set sail an hour ago. A constant tirade of pithy, imaginative and noisy invective issued alongside the flying food from her nest in the shadows.

‘Can we bring some more lanterns down here?’

The brig was unnecessarily dark and forbidding, the heavy, windowless timbers of the hull creaking as they rocked on the tide. Her collection of missiles would be more easily avoided with the addition of some light and he wanted to know exactly what and whom he was dealing with and, no matter what she had done, it seemed a tad cruel to keep her in the dark.

Flint was yet to see her face properly. It was buried in a ratty tangle of dark curls. All he could properly ascertain was despite her strength she was small, judging from the petite size of the grubby hands which gesticulated wildly in a Gallic fashion. Yet her surprisingly sultry French-accented voice and impressive repertoire of insults suggested she was no girl. Not much of a lady either, but then what had he expected?

Lady Jessamine might have once been the daughter of an English earl, but a decade had passed since she had been ripped out of her British life by her traitorous French mother. A mother who had fled England to live openly in sin with her French lover. The Comte de Saint-Aubin-de-Scellon had been one of Napoleon’s biggest supporters. He was still one of his most loyal supporters, if their intelligence was to be believed, and the lynchpin of the French side of the smuggling ring they were yet to destroy. In view of her bohemian and scandalous upbringing, her lack of morals hardly came as a shock. Nor did the treason. As the Comte had had more of a hand in Lady Jessamine’s upbringing than her own father, it was hardly a surprise that her allegiance was staunchly with the enemy.

Like mother, like daughter.

Except the loud-mouthed Jessamine had done more than share a bed with the enemy. If the mounting evidence was to be believed, she had committed all manner of atrocities which had seen good men die. Men he considered friends as well as comrades in arms. Once she had served her purpose and spilled her secrets she would likely hang. And rightly so. All Flint had to do was deliver her to Lord Fennimore, the courts and the lawyer Hadleigh and then he would be shot of her and her foul temper.

Above him, he listened to the sounds of the huge canvas sails snapping in the wind and knew the next few days would not be pleasant despite their fast speed. Aside from this ocean journey, he would then have to spend days stuck in a coach with her. It couldn’t be helped. He was between missions and the rest of the King’s Elite were either in the thick of it or on honeymoon. His friend and fellow spy Jake Warriner had been the first to fall into the parson’s trap, something which still came as a shock considering Jake had always been a committed and cheerful rake determinedly averse to settling down. He had been closely followed by Seb Leatham, who had gone and married an effervescent incomparable despite his painful shyness around women. As both friends had been working on the same mission to catch exactly the same smugglers as Flint, their sudden and unexpected plummet into marital bliss was a worry. Two good men down. A state Flint wanted no part of.

Not this side of fifty at least. Perhaps when he was older and beginning to creak he might welcome the presence of a wife. And then again perhaps not. Merely considering it made him frown.

It wasn’t so much the institution of marriage he took issue with, rather the inevitable tribulations which came along with it. As the youngest of six children, five of whom were female, he’d had quite enough feminine machinations, hysterics and interfering nosiness to last a lifetime. He’d been hen-pecked, mollycoddled and driven to the furthest limits of his sanity for his first twenty years. Those scars still ran deep. Too deep to plunge headlong into marriage any time soon. Women were born conditioned to find ways to control and confound the men they cohabited with. A fact he understood only too well.

He loved all his high-strung sisters dearly, was hugely proud and protective of them in equal measure, but also spent a great deal of time wanting to strangle the lot of them. Despite all now happily settled with good husbands and families of their own, they still devoted a huge and wholly unnecessary amount of time meddling in his life.

In the last two years that meddling had become considerably more unbearable than it had been in his youth—before he had discovered the sweet taste of freedom—because now they had collectively decided their little brother was in dire need of settling, too. In their minds, seven and twenty was precisely the right age for a man to marry. He couldn’t return home without an attractive and eligible female being unsubtly wafted under his nose.

Last month, when another mission necessitated a protracted visit to his estate, his troublesome sisters had conspired to procure three potential brides who just happened to be invited to every dinner he was home to eat. And he had been purposely non-committal about his possible attendance at all meals—yet those eligible girls were there regardless. One of whom was so enthusiastic Flint had had to keep his wits about him for a whole week to avoid being caught in a compromising situation. That chit had been hellbent on being ruined and his sisters, and his own beloved mother, had encouraged her ardent pursuit! It was a sad state of affairs when a man’s house wasn’t a safe haven.

Thank goodness the wandering and unpredictable life of a spy had given him a convenient excuse to avoid his siblings for months out of every year. They lived in Cornwall, miles away from anywhere, and he cheerfully resided in London in bachelor lodgings, blissfully female-free. A situation which suited him perfectly. As he knew to his cost, all women—family or otherwise—really couldn’t be trusted.

A hard chunk of well-baked crust caught him on the temple. ‘Do not dare try to ignore me, English pig! Let me out of here! You do not know what you have got into. They will come and they will kill you. Every one of you!’ He dodged the next doughy projectile and rolled his eyes. All this combustible feminine emotion was tiresome. She saw it and became most fervent, her small hands curling around the bars and her dark eyes wide beneath the tangle of curls.

‘Do you seriously think they will let me set one foot on English soil and not be there waiting?’

Something he and his superiors were counting on and the real reason why she had been held tantalisingly on this huge ship, conveniently anchored within plain sight of the beach at Cherbourg for almost six days.

Lady Jessamine was bait.

A tasty morsel to lure her fellow traitors out of the woodwork. ‘You are overreacting, madam. Before you know it, you will be stood firmly back on English soil, in the dock and found reassuringly guilty and we’ll all be much happier for it.’

Her hand went straight to her neck as she stumbled back a step and he felt a pang of guilt at being so brutal before he ruthlessly quashed it. So what if she was a woman? She didn’t deserve his compassion and any residual, instinctually protective ideals about the fairer sex did not apply here. She was a traitor. A criminal.

She might not have wielded the pistols that had killed, but she’d had a hand in loading the bullets and reaped a share in the ill-gotten profits. Shamelessly co-ordinating the smugglers for the elusive Boss, a man the King’s Elite had been desperate to arrest for over a year. The callous and invisible criminal mastermind behind a plot to restore Napoleon to power. His network had infiltrated the upper echelons of the English elite and flooded the market with smuggled brandy, the proceeds from which went straight into the enemy’s coffers.

Alongside the Comte de Saint-Aubin-de-Scellon, the petite Lady Jessamine was his partner in crime. The Boss’s assistant across the Channel. Every covert, coded message they had intercepted in the last few weeks had been written in her pretty, looped handwriting. Times, places, shipments, vessels, corrupt English peers complicit in the widespread and dangerous treachery—Lady Jessamine was privy to it all. In fact, she had assisted in orchestrating it. Always had. There were three other convicted traitors languishing in Newgate awaiting execution who had repeatedly testified to as much.

A midshipman arrived with a lamp and the damp brig was suddenly bathed in golden light. Another pang of pity troubled him as she flinched in pain and shielded her eyes. She’d been kept in the dark too long. Her skin had the grey pallor similar to that seen on long-term prisoners.

Now he could clearly see her body, the evidence of her rough treatment appalled him. One sleeve hung limply at her elbow, ripped nearly clean from the bodice. Finger-shaped bruises marred her upper arm. Her dark hair was matted. Her small feet bare. The remnants of her gown stained and filthy. The coarse, utilitarian fabric surprised him. Flint had expected silk and lace—the obvious trappings of wealth and ill-gotten privilege—not dull, patched serge.

A disguise? It had to be. Once her hideaway had come under siege, it made sense she would don the garments of a servant and attempt to flee capture. But still...

‘Send for soap and hot water, Captain. Some fresh clothes and a hairbrush.’ Whatever she had done, Lady Jessamine was still a human being. ‘And arrange a screen out here so she can bathe in private. The guards can wait outside.’ She was also the sole woman on a ship filled with lusty men who spent the majority of their lives on the ocean with other males.

‘If we can’t see her, there is no telling what she might do! The blasted chit has tried to escape three times already!’

‘The anchor has been weighed and we are miles from shore. Unless she swims underwater with the speed of a dolphin, where exactly do you think she will go?’ Flint turned at the same moment she brushed the dark curtain of hair from her face.

Beautiful.

That was the only thought he had and one that certainly wouldn’t do. He’d been bewitched by traitorous beauty before and had trained himself to be immune since. As her deep brown, almond-shaped eyes locked with his, he abruptly turned on his heel, a little staggered at the odd emotions the sight of her conjured. He had thought he hadn’t needed Lord Fennimore’s stinging reminder about his previous gullibility—now he clung to those insightful words gratefully.

‘Don’t let her wiles waylay you. Remember what happened the last time.’

As if he could forget? His father had almost died as a result. But that had been years ago when he had still been green around the gills and had assumed that all women were like his sisters—over-emotional but good inside. That particular prisoner had duped him with her tears, capitalised on his familial obligation to protect and then thoroughly seduced him into dropping his guard. To then watch helpless as she had shot his poor father with Flint’s own pistol had been a hard way to learn his lesson—but learn it he had. What she looked like and how his body responded had nothing to do what his mission. The mission always had to come first. ‘Get yourself cleaned up. We will talk again in an hour.’

Jess watched him leave. Watched the Captain and her two surly guards follow closely behind, then sank to the floor. The last few weeks had been terrifying and exhausting, but tears had no place now. Self-pity was an indulgence she couldn’t afford—not yet at least. Perhaps soon she could curl up in a ball in a safe little room far, far away and cry for a month to let it all out. Until then, she needed to hold the tears back, knowing instinctively that if she started then she wouldn’t be able to stop.

Everything was going entirely to plan.

Not that she really had any more of a plan now than she had when all this had started a few weeks ago. It was more a series of events and opportunities created out of necessity and desperation and a large sprinkling of unexpected luck, but at least she was out of the run-down pension which had been her prison for the last month and was heading home, albeit as a prisoner again.

She hoped this ship was fast.

The more miles between her and Saint-Aubin the better. Cruel, callous and with the single-minded determination to crush anyone or anything that got in his way under the heel of his glossy boots, that monster had stolen too many years and sucked all the joy out of her soul. Oh, how she hated him! Except now he had an excellent reason to turn all that venom towards her. She hadn’t just escaped, she had destroyed the documentation he would need to fill the void she had left. Every name, every contact, every supplier carefully recorded in her mother’s leather journal now languished somewhere at the bottom of the harbour in Cherbourg. It would take him weeks and possibly costly months to piece it all together again—unless he found her first and forced the details out of her.

Torture, then death.

Neither appealed. Once she was in sight of the English coast, Jess would find a way to escape properly and disappear, never to be found again. A new life and a new identity, miles from the shore, ships and the smugglers who had stolen her old ones.

The only hatch to the brig opened, followed by the tell-tale smell of boiled cabbage and stale sweat, and the same toothless sailor who had watched her lasciviously for the last week, carried steaming wooden buckets of water. Over his shoulder were tossed towels and fresh clothes. Behind him came the other guard, not quite as hostile but no more compassionate, with a small tin bathtub filled with folded sheets which the pair of them suspended from the low ceiling like a sail. Then with a snarl, the toothless one produced a key and undid the padlock of her cell, warily watching Jess as she sat unmoving before him.

‘Your bath, your ladyship. Not that traitors deserve baths as far as I’m concerned. If it was down to me, I’d leave you to rot in your own filth.’

‘As you do?’ Bating him was probably not sensible. The toothless one was free and easy with his fists, but Jess couldn’t bring herself to cower subserviently. She had experienced worse. ‘You stink.’

His lip curled and he raise his hand, then dropped it. A first for him. Something must have changed to make him resist. He threw the soap and hairbrush into the straw in front of her.

‘Once you’re finished, the illustrious Lord Flint wants to see you in his cabin while we get to clean up the mess you’ve made.’ Something which clearly disgruntled the old sea dog immensely. ‘Don’t try any funny business! There’s another guard up there with a loaded musket and orders to kill if you don’t do as you’re told. Bath. Dress. And be swift about it.’ Threat issued, they retreated up the narrow steps to the main deck and the tiny hatch slammed closed once again.

Lord Flint.

So that was his name? It made sense he was an aristocrat. Every aspect of his being—from the inscrutable expression on his handsome face, the arrogant stance and the impeccably tailored coat he filled so well—all pointed to as much. His obvious physical attributes aside, the privileged, pampered English male was always the same no matter what magnificent shape or size they came in. Cold, detached and uninterested in any opinions which contradicted their own.

Jess hadn’t been exaggerating when she had warned he was in danger. Saint-Aubin would have them both torn limb from limb and their entrails fed to the dogs in a heartbeat, yet Lord Flint had brushed off her concerns with rude indifference. She hated that.

She remembered her father’s same indifference all those years ago when her mother declared her intention to leave him and take their only daughter with her. Like the arrogant Lord Flint, he hadn’t believed a word of it and lived to rue the day. Or more likely, as it turned out, he had simply been glad to be shot of her and hadn’t rued it at all. The manner of her leaving had certainly given him a valid excuse to dissolve the marriage with impressive haste, disown his only daughter and rapidly find a new wife to finally give him his longed-for son. Cold, detached and uninterested peers of the realm were so at odds with her experience of their French aristocratic counterparts. Saint-Aubin had been hot-headed, suspicious and terminally cruel. While she might have been fleetingly attracted to the man, Lord Flint’s staid, emotionless demeanour had been reassuringly familiar.

He hadn’t bothered introducing himself, not that she’d really given him much chance to or cared overmuch who he was. It wasn’t as if she intended to spend much time in his company. Jess had ranted and raved for all she was worth. If one of Saint-Aubin’s men were on this ship—and she wouldn’t put that past him because he had his poisonous tentacles everywhere—then Jess needed to appear outraged and afraid at being captured rather than relieved. It was relief tinged with a healthy dose of raw terror, but again that emotion was so familiar nowadays, always lurking menacingly in the background, that she had ruthlessly trained herself to ignore it unless absolutely necessary. Right now, while she was bobbing in the middle of the English Channel, it wasn’t necessary.

If they came in little boats in the dead of night to fetch her and drag her back, her only chance at living to see another sunrise depended on her fighting her new captors tooth and nail while lying through her teeth. Once she set foot on English soil, Jess was a dead woman walking. Saint-Aubin or the Boss would have highly paid assassins waiting to eventually erase her from the world unless she outwitted them first.

Until—if—that happened, she could console herself with one not insignificant achievement. Her trail of crumbs had been followed and she was out. That alone was cause for celebration.

Allowing herself a small smile of satisfaction, she rose and dragged the tub to a position which she hoped afforded her the most privacy and emptied the steaming buckets in. It was a meagre bath by normal standards, the water merely a few inches deep, but it was hot and wet and the first proper bath she had been allowed in months. Even conditions in this dank and humid brig were a considerable improvement on her rat-infested prison in Cherbourg or the same, compact four walls in Saint-Aubin’s claustrophobic and oppressive chateau.

All in all, things were looking up. Jess would not weep today. If she was destined to die in the coming few days, then she would take whatever small pleasures she could in the interim. Jess closed her eyes, inhaled slowly and deeply, tucking the constant fear into the little box in her mind where she stored all the bad things, then stripped off her filthy dress, kicking it back into the cell. It was the last vestige of Saint-Aubin and she was done with all that.

From this moment on she was in control of her destiny and nothing and nobody was ever going to get in her way again. The call of freedom and survival was too strong. She took a moment to inhale the sweet, fresh scent of the soap before she gratefully stepped in the tub and lowered herself into the water, revelling in the glorious sensation of soothing, clean water enveloping her skin.

Délicieux!

Paradise.

It was the little things, the things people took for granted, that she had missed the most. The hot meals, the heady aroma of fresh air, this warm bath. The unfamiliar sound of her first language spoken once again and the odd yet comforting way it felt coming from her own lips after all these years. Everyday luxuries she would rejoice in until she gasped her last breath because she was tired of hating herself and determined to begin her life afresh.

The handsome Lord Flint and his aristocratic arrogance could wait until her bath chilled and her skin shrivelled before she deigned to grace him with her presence. If he was to be the latest in her long line of temporary gaolers, it was best he found out early that Jess had never been partial to following orders.

Chapter Two

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?’

Chapter Three

Flint heard the whooping and catcalling and shot to his feet. Whatever she had done, he couldn’t sit by and allow the crew to abuse her like that. He was still riddled with misplaced guilt for reminding her she would be hanged. There had been genuine terror in her lovely eyes then and that fear, and the knowledge he had put it there, did not make him feel like much of a man. His fingers reached the door handle the same moment the noises beyond changed from bawdy to shocked, as the laughter quickly turned to what sounded like blind panic.

He strode on deck into chaos. The entire crew seemed to have simultaneously run starboard. All along the rail, men clamoured to peer over the edge. Those that couldn’t find a spot ran left and right like startled deer. ‘What the blazes is going on?’ He caught the arm of an officer.

‘The prisoner has escaped!’

As they were in the middle of the English Channel it didn’t take a genius to work out where the minx had escaped to. Even so, Flint pushed his way to the rail and was rewarded with the sight of Lady Jessamine speeding through the waves. The blasted woman swam like a fish.

Next to him, he could hear the Captain issuing rapid orders. A couple of sailors were in the midst of lowering a rowing boat. Another was untangling the ladder to toss over the side. Someone else was hunting down rope. She had caught them on the hop and now the lot of them were behaving like headless chickens without a single working brain between them. Meanwhile, she was putting some serious distance between herself and the frigate.

On a withering sigh, Flint shrugged out of his coat and tugged off his boots. Catching her was the first priority. He’d worry about getting her back on the boat afterwards. As soon as the last button was undone on his waistcoat he dragged himself to sit atop the rail to stare in disgust at the briny water below. Lord, how he loathed sea bathing. The lauded benefits of salt water never outweighed the awfulness of the experience. It stung the eyes and tasted foul. Almost as foul as the knowledge that she was in the sea in the first place because he had been soft. Damned woman. That would teach him to feel mercy towards the vixen. She was every inch the duplicitous, self-serving, self-centred, untrustworthy traitor he knew her to be. Another harsh lesson learned.

The icy water came as a shock, robbing him of the ability to breathe for long moments until he acclimatised. Then he set off after the veritable mermaid in the distance, his anger at both of them propelling him more effectively than the inept sailors in the wobbling dinghy could row. She was fast, but thanks to his strong arms and longer legs he was faster. Despite that, it took him a good ten minutes to come within twenty feet of her.

Sensing someone close by, she turned and then panicked, breaking her stroke to cough up the wave she had accidentally swallowed. Flint used it to try to talk some sense into her.

‘This is pointless. Land is a good five miles away!’

Undeterred, she set off again, her bare feet splashing wildly as she kicked for all she was worth. Twice he came within a hair’s breadth of one and twice she evaded his grasping fingers. On the third attempt, he caught her ankle and earned a kick in the stomach that winded him and made him swallow a mouthful of seawater as well. It was then that his anger turned into outright rage and he lunged once more, plunging them both underwater, but this time he wrapped his arm tightly around her waist and held her firmly against his body.

‘Salaud! Let go of me!’

She wriggled like a hooked salmon and was twice as slippery. Her flailing knee came within inches of his groin before he twisted her out of the way. Backwards she was marginally less dangerous, but only marginally. She lashed out, using her nails like claws, scraping them hard whenever they encountered him. Her black hair, floating on the surface like seaweed, felt like a whip as it lashed repeatedly against his face. ‘Hold still, damn it!’ The hand he was using to help keep them both afloat joined the other around her body, pinning her arms against her ribs. Still she fought him.

‘English pig! Imbécile! Tout ça ne sert à rien!’

‘We are both going to drown!’

‘At least I will take you with me!’

Flint managed to move his hand a split second before her teeth clamped around it and tilted his weight so that she was lying on her back down the length of his body. Then, with the last strength he possessed, he kicked towards the rowboat.

It took the three of them to get her into the thing as it rocked dangerously from side to side. Once they did, he happily allowed one of the sailors to tie her hands behind her back while the other restrained her. There was no telling what damage the wench could do in such a confined space otherwise. Tethered and impotent, that riotous mane of hair plastered all over her face and shoulders, she began snarling and insulting them, alternating seamlessly between French and English as they rowed back to the ship. He got the gist. He was an idiot and he would die.

‘We’ll winch her up.’ It struck him as a simpler solution than coaxing her up the rope ladder. The fact that it served to send her into an outraged rant after she had made a fool of him was a bonus that went some way to making Flint feel better. If she had been a man, he would have punched her back there in the water and dragged her sorry, unconscious carcass back. Because she was a woman, and he couldn’t seem to get over that inconvenient yet ultimately minor detail no matter how hard he tried, he had suffered every blow—and there had been rather a lot of them. The saltwater was stinging the numerous scratches her nails had gouged in his hands and arms, his throat was raw, his eyes rawer and his ribs hurt like the devil. He would add feral to the growing list of adjectives he already had to describe her, alongside traitorous, beautiful and infuriating.

Flint sat back in the rocking boat to steady it and happily allowed the others to wrestle the rope around her middle, then saluted her as she was lifted kicking and screaming out of the boat.

She was going to be a handful.

Typical, really. He spent his life trying to avoid feminine histrionics and manipulations, yet fate kept throwing them at him regardless. At least he would be shot of this one within the week. He was stuck with his exasperating family for life.

The cheer from the deck signalled her safe arrival and was closely followed by another tirade of insults, this time all in French. Despite the fruity tone, Flint preferred the French. Her voice was seductive. Breathy and earthy. If he let it, the sultry sound made the hairs on the back of his neck and forearms stand to attention in a wholly pleasant way. Something he was determined to quash indignantly. He didn’t deal well with difficult and emotional females. Aside from the obvious obstacle of her impending date with the hangman, he preferred his women sedate and calm. Like a mill pond. If he were to compare her to water, Lady Jessamine Fane was akin to the crashing waves on the rocky Cornish coastline near his home in winter. Unpredictable, noisy and very, very dangerous.

The men were now jeering above him. The whistles and inappropriate comments were getting out of hand. She didn’t deserve that. Nobody did. Until he was shot of her, she was his responsibility and he wouldn’t see her abused—verbally or otherwise. With a weary sigh he climbed the ladder. The crew had circled around her, baying like wolves tempted with the scent of fresh blood. The rope they had hoisted her with was still wrapped around her body and held firmly by the belligerent toothless sailor who had been appointed her guard. The malicious glint in the fellow’s eye sickened Flint. To be a bully was bad enough. To bully a helpless woman was deplorable.

‘Stop.’

He didn’t shout or snarl. The icy stare he had perfected in his youth when his womenfolk had pushed him too far always served him well. He shoved himself past the wall of men to stand in the circle. ‘Does this make you all feel better? Does humiliating a shackled woman make you feel proud?’

Flint allowed his gaze to slowly meet every pair of eyes. Most dipped in shame. He turned and purposely glared at the Captain who had been lounging against the rail with his arms crossed, a laughing spectator who should know better. ‘Deal with your crew. They are a disgrace, Captain.’ He let his expression convey the fact that he also lumped the officers in with that criticism.

Couldn’t they see that beneath all the shouting she was terrified and cold? Her slim body was quaking with the force of her shivers. ‘Might I remind you all that we serve the Crown and we do so with honour. A crown that prides itself on its adherence to the doctrine of habeas corpus. The prisoner is presumed innocent until she stands trial and all the evidence has been heard. Until such a time as that happens, she will be afforded the same respect as any other human being on board this ship. It is not your place to be judge and jury, nor is it ever appropriate to treat a woman like an animal.’

He snatched the line of rope from the toothless sailor’s hand and untied it, then gently led her by the elbow through the parting line of subdued men as the embarrassed Captain began issuing a litany of orders. For once, she came quietly and waited patiently for him to open the cabin door before quickly rushing through it to sanctuary.

‘Thank you...for that.’

So, there were manners beneath all that pithy hostility? Oddly, he would have preferred there weren’t. Manners made her likeable and likeable was dangerous. He nodded curtly and made a show of locking the door behind him and pocketing the key. Only then did he go to the bonds still on her wrists and untie them. It wasn’t an easy task. In the struggle, the men had caught the over-long sleeves of the linen shirt she wore in with the rope and both materials were now hopelessly knotted together. As soon as they were free she instinctively lifted her arms to rub the area. One of the sleeves dropped to her elbow, revealing a band of scarred red skin encircling her wrist. It had been irritated by the rope, but not caused by it. She saw him stare at it and hastily covered it before standing proudly to meet his eye.

‘You are not the first man to imprison me, Monsieur Flint, but you will be the last.’

Probably true. Once Flint delivered her to Newgate she wouldn’t have long left. The charges were drawn. They had witnesses, albeit dubious ones. Conclusive evidence. The trial, at this stage, only a formality. Still, he hated seeing the signs of mistreatment on her body. A body that was still shivering violently. ‘If it is any consolation, my lady, I am as reluctant to be your gaoler as you are to be my prisoner. Let’s try to make the best of it.’

‘By that, you mean you want me to comply and not try to escape again? I can’t promise that.’

‘Nor would I in your position. Unfortunately, as I am in charge, I have no intention of allowing you to do so.’

‘C’est la vie. Then I suspect the next few days will be interesting—non?’ As she spoke she unconsciously reached up to gather her sopping hair to one side, wringing it out like wet washing matter of factly. The thin wet linen stretched taut over her body, almost transparent and leaving little to his imagination. Dark pebbled nipples shifted slightly as she moved. His instant physical reaction angered him. That she had done it on purpose angered him more.

‘I won’t be seduced as easily as those sailors.’ But damn him, he was. Just as with that prisoner all those years ago, her blatant femininity affected him. She was like a siren. That voice. That body. That fiery spirit.

‘Seduced?’ She appeared genuinely baffled until he gestured to her full breasts with his eyes. Like the consummate actress she was, Lady Jessamine did an excellent job of being mortified and instantly clamped her arms tightly over her chest.

More shaken by his reaction than he cared to admit, Flint stalked to the washstand and grabbed a towel. He tossed it to her unceremoniously and then rummaged in his own bag for dry clothes. He’d scarce packed enough for his own use, but figured the more he covered that delectable, ripe body with the better. Breeches, another shirt and a waistcoat were a good start. A large sack and a thick eiderdown might be better, although he already knew the image of those dusky nipples would be seared on his brain for ever. An image a man who had to put duty before all else, who knew only too well the dire consequences, had to ignore. ‘Put these on!’

For good measure, he took himself to the other side of the cabin and, because he had no idea how to behave without appearing riddled with unfathomable need, stood with his hands planted on his hips, hoping he looked unimpressed and in control rather than suddenly consumed with unwanted lust.

‘Do you intend to watch me?’ Her eyes were wide and that sultry, accented voice a little high-pitched. When he didn’t move, those dark eyes became darker and convincingly sad to purposely manipulate him. ‘Ah. I see. Everything you said out there was a lie. I am not to be afforded the basic dignities of a human being after all.’ Once again she stood proudly. Five feet of shivering, strangely noble femininity that did weird things to his emotions. He wanted to protect her. Why? ‘These wet clothes will do well enough, I think.’

The unspoken insinuation stung. ‘Unlike you, I don’t lie, Lady Jessamine. I meant every word I said to those men. While in my charge, I will respect your right to dignity and no harm will come to you. Not of my making anyway. But I am not your friend. Nor will I be manipulated like those fools out there, or succumb to your wiles and you would do well to remember that, too. Do not confuse basic decency with stupidity. The best you can expect from me is indifference.’ He fished in his pocket for the key and turned to the door. ‘Get changed. We dock within the hour.’

Slamming it behind him made Flint feel marginally better. He locked it and marched away in search of dry clothes. He’d been so flummoxed by the sight of her, so ashamed that she had basically accused him of being a hypocritical voyeur, he hadn’t had the wherewithal to collect any for himself. It took him less than ten minutes to dry and dress, and by the time he strode back across the deck the ship was once again back on course and riding effortlessly across the waves, the Devon coastline looming large on the horizon.

The Captain beckoned to him, clearly intent on making amends for the gross dereliction of his duty and supremely aware that Flint worked for Lord Fennimore—a man with not only the ear of the First Lord of the Admiralty, but the King as well.

‘Despite our little detour, we should still reach Plymouth before the afternoon tide turns, Lord Flint.’

Little detour! The captain had allowed his men to abuse the vixen while he had stood by and watched the entertainment. If the shocking innuendo and insulting whistling Flint had only just witnessed coming from the crew were anything to go by, Lady Jessamine had been violated twice this hour alone. It was hardly a surprise she had flung herself over the side. How much more had she endured in the five days before he’d arrived? The woman was a walking advertisement for gross mistreatment. Those bruises on her arms were fresh. The marks on her wrists were old...

‘Still—no harm done, eh? We’ve been at sea months. Seemed cruel to deny the men a bit of sport.’

‘Do you have a wife, Captain? A mother? Sisters?’ Flint’s tone was bland and measured. Those that knew him well, knew that was always when his temper was closest to the surface.

‘All three, Lord Flint—but we’re not comparing like with like, now, are we? She’s naught but a traitor and deserves all that’s coming to her.’

‘If she’s found guilty!’ Despite all the evidence to the contrary, a little nagging voice in his head wanted to believe she wasn’t guilty. In all likelihood it stemmed from his own disgust at finding himself overwhelmingly attracted to a criminal once again and attempting to justify the attraction by attributing noble qualities to her that she did not truly possess. Even so, there was still something in her eyes and the proud set of her shoulders. Something that called to his heart and his head. Either that, or at her contrived behest the contents of his breeches had taken over all rational thought—which made him little better than the entire ship’s crew. Unpalatable food for thought. ‘Until such time as that happens, she will be treated with the respect and consideration due her. Keeping her in the dark, in that festering brig, allowing your men to be rough with her and talk to her like a harlot is not what I, and no doubt the rest of our illustrious superiors, expect from the Royal Navy!’ He turned on his heel and left the Captain standing with his mouth hanging slack at his furious tone.

The toothless guard snapped to attention as he approached his cabin.

‘What’s your name, sailor?’

‘Foyle, sir... I mean your lordship.’

‘You are dismissed, Foyle.’

‘But I’ve been assigned to keep watch over the traitor till we make port. You’ve seen for yourself how wily she is. There’s no telling what she’ll do without a constant watch on her. Them’s the Captain’s orders...’

‘As I outrank the Captain on this voyage, take it from me you are not only dismissed, but you will confine yourself below deck until Lady Jessamine is safely off this ship. Until then, I will be her only guard.’ Because it went without saying, Flint was the only man within a mile he trusted with the task. He might well be overwhelmed with unwanted attraction, but at least he knew exactly what she was about and would never fall for it.

‘But, sir...’

‘Thanks to your negligence, she escaped. I could have you court-martialled for that alone. Get below deck and spare me the sight of you else I change my mind!’

The sailor didn’t need to be told twice and practically ran away. Flint took a moment to compose himself, then politely tapped on the door. ‘Lady Jessamine, are you decent?’

No reply.

He knocked again, louder this time, and when he heard not so much as a movement in the cabin beyond began to feel uneasy. She wouldn’t? Couldn’t, surely? His fingers fumbled with the key and Flint flung open the door. The spacious cabin was silent save the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull. One of the tiny windows was wide open, a knotted rope of sheets, blankets and Flint’s own spare breeches dangled from the ledge where they had been secured and flapped in the sea breeze.

Chapter Four

With the beach now firmly in her sights, Jess began to relax. For a little while the turning tide and her own newly crushing guilt had almost beaten her and sent her careening towards the rocks, but she had fought it like she fought everything and escaped a foamy death by the skin of her gritted teeth and through sheer stubborn determination.

She’d lost sight of her floating prison long ago as that same tide had taken her briskly around the rocky headland and sheltered her from sight. Only then had she removed the makeshift turban she had fashioned out of a green-velvet cushion cover and that had undoubtedly helped her dark head to blend into the vast expanse of ocean. Close up, she was a ridiculous woman with a cushion on her head. From a distance she was merely one of the many kaleidoscope colours that made up the English Channel.

Later she would take a moment to selfishly congratulate herself, right now she had to drag her exhausted body to the beach and find a place to hide. The last few months, and Saint-Aubin’s cruelty, had taken a toll on her body and, despite religiously exercising every day in her cell to maintain her fitness should an opportunity present itself, the laboured swim had pushed her to the limits of her endurance.

Every stroke made the muscles in her arms and legs scream in rebellion. The partially healed welts on her back stung thanks to the salt water. Even her lungs hurt—but she was free. That heady feeling superseded all others and spurred her on. When her feet finally scraped shingle, she stood gratefully and, with the last of her severely depleted energy, dragged her aching body the last few yards, then collapsed exhausted on her knees to catch her breath before the next leg of her journey. She daren’t hang around too long. Lord Flint would be furious when he realised she had duped him and would have that ship sailing up and down the coastline searching for her.

Jess allowed herself a triumphant smile which slowly slid off her face when she took in her surroundings.

Incroyable!

The isolated and tiny beach she had washed up on was secluded. It had that in its favour. But little else. The ragged rock formations she had seen at a distance were enormous close up and ringed her tiny bay, effectively cutting it off from everything else. Walls of solid rock loomed menacingly. The crescent cliff jutted out to sea at both ends, meaning to leave she either had to take her chances with the crashing waves again and swim around them or forge on ahead and scale the craggy wall in front of her.

As it wasn’t a sheer cliff, more a haphazard collection of giant boulders on top of one another, climbing seemed the lesser of two evils. But with no rope to aid her and a life-long fear of falling to her death making her dizzy, it was only marginally less dangerous. Gelatinous, slimy seaweed coated every surface, waiting to send her careening to the ground. Aside from ignoring the fear, she would need a great deal of strength to achieve it. The muscles in her arms and legs were quivering from the exertion of her frantic swim and the dangerous, powerful waves which had done their level best to smash her against this very cliff. Jess had nothing left to climb a mountain—and these jagged rocks might as well be a mountain in her current state. They clearly displayed an obvious waterline, telling her in no uncertain terms that this narrow beach wouldn’t exist when the tide turned and she would be at the mercy of the sea again—probably very soon. The sudden urge to succumb to tears had her crumpling into a ball.

She was petrified of heights.

The thought of them left her paralysed and shaking.

Rationally she knew that fear stemmed from breaking her ribs after falling out of a tree at the tender age of twelve shortly after being displaced in France. She also knew that it wasn’t so much the fall that was responsible for this persistent phobia, but the dreadful way Saint-Aubin exploited that fear afterwards. In her youth, whenever she became too rebellious, he would drag her to the roof of the chateau and use his superior strength to lean her over the ledge precariously until she promised never to defy him again. Finding a twisted and perverted delight in hearing her beg for mercy and confessing how much she feared him. Later, in Cherbourg... Involuntarily she shuddered. The beatings... The window. Saint-Aubin’s mocking laughter at her fear, reminding her he would happily allow her to plunge to her death the moment she ceased to be useful or dared to defy his express instructions.

While she gave the guards the run around and defied them for as long as she was physically and mentally able, it didn’t take long for her to selfishly surrender to just the beating from Saint-Aubin, pathetically confessing that nothing in the world scared her more than him. In case he truly did send her tumbling to her death while in the grip of his all-consuming and bloodthirsty temper.

Now that she knew for certain men had died because of that weakness, did that make her a traitor? Was she more like her self-centred mother than she realised.

Now there was a comparison she had never imagined possible—that like her mother Jess had eventually complied for an easier life.

She quashed the errant thought ruthlessly as she vowed to ignore the irrational way the fear of the cliff set her legs a-quiver and her stomach lurching.

She wasn’t a traitor. Not intentionally at least. And she would make amends for all her unwitting crimes, because they were unwitting and the alternative had been her own demise when her soul internally screamed she deserved to live. Just once she wished luck or God would favour her. Just once! Was that too much to ask after all the obstacles she’d had thrown in her path? All the ordeals and pain she had been subjected to. It wasn’t fair!

It wasn’t fair!

But whining and wailing about it was pointless.

She swiped the tears away angrily. Self-pity wouldn’t get her out of this mess. Neither would luck. Jess would simply have to do what she always did and endure. She hadn’t come this far to fall at the last obstacle. Going up was much easier than going down, because going up meant not having to look down. Down was her nemesis after all. It wasn’t that high and once the cliff had been climbed then she truly would be free and clear.

Which was all she had ever wanted.

Wearily, she stood and wrung the seawater out of her hair, then spent a few minutes squeezing it out of her clothes. By her best guess it was late afternoon, so there were many hours of daylight left, which in turn meant she could put a good few miles of road between her and the sea before nightfall as soon as she had conquered her irrational fears. Focusing on what came after might lessen the nerves.

With no idea where exactly she was and no destination in mind, common sense told her she would need to stick to the small lanes and paths rather than the main roads. From somewhere she would need to procure a hat to disguise her waist-length hair. A woman in breeches was probably still a scandalous sight in England and with her slight frame and distinct lack of height, there was a good chance she could pass for a boy. Lord Flint’s fine silk waistcoat now protected her modesty, so there was no chance of inadvertently flashing her bosoms to anyone else who happened upon her. Jess was still mortified that he had seen them—or most of them. The wet linen left little to the imagination.

Of course, he had been nonplussed, the horrid man. The brief flash of temper she had witnessed when he had caught her in the water was swiftly buried under his emotionless, aristocratic expression back on deck. Only his stormy green eyes gave any indication of his mood. He didn’t like her, hardly a surprise, and found her an inconvenience. But he had been kinder than anyone had in a long time and that alone made her predisposed to like him a little bit even though she hated him with a vengeance, too.

Jess turned a slow circle and considered the best route out. Neither end of the tiny bay looked better, so she went with instinct and took the one beyond the foaming rocks she had battled to swim around. The initial boulders were worn smooth by the sea, allowing her to climb tentatively up several feet before the ragged, smaller rocks above stalled her pace. Although considerably less slippery, they were sharp and chiselled nicks in her skin if she stepped on one incorrectly. She didn’t dare look down, or up, or even side to side, knowing that focusing on the solid wall in front of her was the sight least likely to send her head spinning and her stomach lurching. Using her small hands wedged between the crevices or the occasional tenacious clump of coarse foliage, Jess was able to take some of the weight of her body from her feet, but not much. The saltwater dripping from her sodden breeches infiltrated the cuts and added to the pain. She ignored it. Onwards and upwards towards better things.

Midway, well past the ominous waterline, she paused on a flattened ledge and risked a brief gaze out to sea, making sure her eyes never dipped down. Still no sign of the frigate or Lord Flint. Either he had yet to discover she was missing or they had taken the direct route to land and were miles shy of her position. Perhaps God had heard her prayers and had sent the powerful currents to save her? Both things made her smile and as a reward Jess allowed herself five minutes of rest which then gave her a burst of physical and mental strength to continue upwards.

She could do this!

The final stretch was steep but easier, thanks to a thick blanket of grass which covered the rock that now gently tapered to form a hill rather than a sheer cliff. The ground beneath her feet was now reassuringly solid again.

Another blessing in a life sadly devoid of them. Finally, her time had come to escape and it felt marvellous. The cuts on her feet would heal, the scars on her heart would fade and maybe one day she would know what it felt like to not be terrified all the time. A staggering possibility that was becoming reassuringly more real, despite the dreadful height, with every laboured step.

As she left the sea behind, it appeared she had found the most deserted bit of England to land on. A narrow spit that jutted out to sea, completely devoid of buildings or even a path to suggest somebody occasionally visited. Another of today’s fine blessings that she didn’t have time to enjoy, but one day in the future she would venture back here with a picnic and simply sit and take in all the spartan beauty properly. The only signs of life not plant based were the many sea birds that swooped along the shore line and nested in the cliff.

Jess was all alone and free.

For the first time in years!

That giddy realisation caused a tiny bubble of laughter to escape her throat. She’d done it! Against all the odds and solely using her own wits and sheer damned stubbornness, she had escaped both Saint-Aubin and the British Navy. The laughter wouldn’t stop, so she took herself well away from the terrifying edge and threw her head back, allowing it free rein. A minute of indulgence. Surely she had earned that?

‘There she is!’

The shout from above caused her heart to stop. Ce n’est pas possible! But it was.

Lord Flint crested the top of the hill and was closely followed by most of the crew from the ship. The tears came then as her throat closed with the pain of defeat, like the hangman’s noose choking the last vestiges of hope and all of her foolish dreams. What did God have against her? Could he not see this was all so unfair? Or did he not care? Was her soul indelibly stained with the sins of her mother and her own weaknesses despite her best efforts to make amends? Just once, she wished that God would help her. But, of course, he didn’t. Because she was on her own.

Always had been.

Her wits returned in a whoosh to counter the blind panic, her head whipping from side to side to find the best escape route. She had got this far without help and she was not dead yet! Jess wouldn’t allow it. The sea of grass and gorse and sailors was the only way out, unless she threw herself over the rocks behind her.

‘Fan out, men! We have her cornered!’

Sadly true, but Jess had come too far to give up all hope now. Like a banshee she launched herself forward. If she could just get past them...

She used her shoulder, hunched low, to barrel into the first man, then simply kept on running, darting sideways to avoid the grasping hands of another. Like sheep, they began to herd together and follow her, closing the distance with each stride of their legs, yet still Jess ran. Her lungs burned and she could hear nothing over the sounds of her rapid heartbeat.

Someone grabbed her collar and tugged, pulling her backwards on to the ground. The strong smell of cabbage announced her assailant better than words. For him, her capture would be intensely personal. Jess twisted in an attempt to loosen his firm grip a split second before the back of his meaty hand cracked across her jaw and stars exploded behind her eyes. After that, despite all her best efforts, she could barely keep them open.

There were shouts.

Just one man shouting.

He was angry.

Livid.

‘You bastard!’

Jess heard another crack, then a dull thud. Through a fog she saw the toothless sailor lying flat on his back next to her, groaning.

Faces.

Many faces. From the past and from the grave. Her mother. Her long-forgotten father. The innocent men she had unintentionally sent to their slaughter...but only one pair of eyes. Green like the grass she lay on. Very green.

Gentle hands brushed over her forehead.

‘Jessamine? Can you hear me? Can you...?’ Jess felt another tear leak out of her eye and drizzle down her cheek. She didn’t have any fight left to stop it.

It was all so tragically unfair, but maybe fully deserved.

Her dark eyes had fluttered open and she stared into his briefly before she passed out. A bruise already marred her perfect cheek and a tiny trickle of blood oozed from the cut on her lip. Both piqued his rage and made Flint want to pummel the toothless sailor for daring to take his hand to a woman. Then he had momentarily lost control, something he rarely did, and sent the fellow flying before rushing to her aid.

Now, with her dark hair fanned out on the snowy white pillowcase and her face pale, those fresh bruises stood out in stark relief alongside the dark shadows he now saw beneath her closed eyes. In slumber, Lady Jessamine looked nothing like the calculating traitor or the confrontational termagant who had showered him in stale bread. She looked vulnerable and alone and painfully delicate.

Except she wasn’t delicate. Far from it.

It took physical and mental strength to swim close to two miles of the English Channel, fight the current and crashing waves and then scale a small cliff barefoot and, God help him, a large part of him admired her for that. She was desperate to live and who could blame her? Were he facing a date with the hangman, Flint would doubtless react in a similar manner and would fight for his life till his dying breath. Hell, he’d even swim the channel to get back to safety if push came to shove.

The utter devastation on her face when they found her again was not something that he could easily forget either. Guilt had been his first reaction before he’d ruthlessly corrected his emotions, but the weight of that guilt still lingered and plagued him. Obviously misplaced. After all, Flint had a weakness for a pretty face and a sultry pair of eyes. Lady Jessamine had both and used them mercilessly to get her own way.

Those emotive eyes had tricked him once already. The more he thought about it, the more her initial escape from the boat seemed gallingly like a preamble. During questioning, she must have spotted the only unguarded route of escape in his cabin and then what followed had been a contrived way to get back in that cabin and be left all alone.

‘I am not to be afforded the basic dignities of a human being after all.’ Those manipulative and mournful eyes had brought shame on him when he should have planted his feet firmly, shrugged and informed her that prisoners did not have the right to privacy, so she could change in his presence or remain dripping wet.

Lady Jessamine had used his chivalrous nature against him and then left him to look like the biggest of fools in front of the entire crew. Once bitten, twice shy...yet his whole being was at odds with his level head and wanted those traitorous eyes to be telling the truth.

When they had tracked her down on top of the cliff, the disbelief and the horror which had skittered across her features before she appeared to glance heavenwards in exasperation had bothered him. Still bothered him nearly three hours later, truth be told, because just one solitary tear had rolled heavily down her cheek. Flint had watched her swipe it away defiantly as she refused to surrender, almost as if she was embarrassed to be vulnerable, despite the fact it was obvious escape was futile and she was clearly exhausted.

The second fat tear had unmanned him and he had felt compelled to brush it gently away with his thumb before he began issuing orders to have her battered and prone body moved. Flint had carried her the first mile himself before men arrived with the stretcher, her slight body unhealthily slim in places beneath his hands, yet her heartbeat against his own was strong and steady and determined.

It called to him and the proud memory of it held him still. Flint hadn’t left her bedside, claiming that he was responsible for the prisoner, when in truth he had needed to stand guard over her to ensure that no more harm came to her. What the hell was that about?

Although it didn’t take a genius to work out she had come to harm before and not just from the heavy-handed sailors on the ship. After the innkeeper’s wife had undressed her and swaddled her in a clean nightrail, Flint returned with the doctor. He had asked the physician about the red scars on her wrists, although he knew, deep down, what had made them. Manacles. There had been another similar, yet considerably faded band on one of her ankles, too. At some point in the not so distant past, Lady Jessamine had been chained to something. By whom or why he had no idea. A rival gang of smugglers? Ruthless gangs wouldn’t care if she was a man or a woman. All they would care about was stealing the bounty, something she was undoubtedly guilty of. Except...

He shook his head, annoyed at the overwhelming need to be chivalrous and magnanimous over the more pressing constraints of his mission, and paced to the window rather than continuing to stare at her in concern. After years of chasing the worst sort of criminals, after he had nearly lost his father to a villainess’s bullet, he should be able to differentiate between a traitor and a woman. A traitor was a traitor no matter what body they happened to occupy. All his training, experience and deep-set beliefs were screaming at him. Remember the mission. Always remember the mission. A mantra which he fundamentally adhered to and believed in with every fibre of his being. Unfortunately, mission aside and as the only brother to five women, he couldn’t overrule the instinct to protect one. Even though she probably didn’t deserve it. Something he would do well to remember if he was going to complete this particular mission.

A mission that was now delayed, the well-laid plans hastily adapted to accommodate this unforeseen change in circumstances. That couldn’t be helped. The life of a spy was unpredictable at the best of times and Flint prided himself on his adaptability and his meticulous ability to plan. Their route to Plymouth would be a little more convoluted and they would arrive a few hours late, but they would arrive and would still take the main road to London as planned. If anything, the short delay would give the Boss’s men time to stew and become restless, which would play in Flint’s favour. Every bloodthirsty cutthroat he had ever dallied with had been impatient and unpredictable. Much like the vixen in the bed.

Behind him she murmured, obviously distressed, and Flint hurried to her, his lofty mission and deep-set beliefs instantly forgotten once again.

Chapter Five

Ah, bon sang! She must be dead.

Swathing her, Jess could feel the crisp sheets as her body bobbed on the soft cloud beneath her. If this was what death felt like, then it wasn’t so bad. Sheets and comfortable mattresses were a long-forgotten luxury and, like all small luxuries, deserved to be fully revelled in.

She adjusted her position, then winced as her head protested. Suddenly her throat burned raw. How typical that pain would still exist in heaven. Unless the Almighty had decreed she should go straight to hell...

‘Lady Jessamine.’ She knew that voice. The clipped English consonants which still felt so odd when she spoke them. The deep, soothing timbre that came from somewhere deep in his chest and made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck quiver uncontrollably. Jess forced her eyelids to open at the exact same moment she felt his big, warm hand cup her cheek again. Bizarrely, the touch made her feel safe. Something she most definitely was not. Not with him. They stared at each other, startled for a moment before his hand dropped and his mask was back in place, making her wonder if she had imagined the compassion she had seen seconds before.

‘Where am I?’ She struggled to sit and gave up as dizziness swamped her.

‘At an inn. You hit your head. The physician suspects you have concussion.’ Which explained why his face and the walls were spinning so fast. Jess squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the sides of the strange bed to steady herself. She supposed she should be relieved she wasn’t dead, except knowing she was once again a prisoner extinguished that one small triumph. ‘I’ll fetch him. He wanted to see you as soon as you were awake.’

She heard his boots pace to the door, tried, then failed to listen to his whispered conversation, then heard the chair next to the bed creak slightly as he lowered himself back into it. ‘I’ve ordered some soup as well—nothing too heavy. Something in your stomach might make you feel better.’

‘Better for what? My impending execution?’

He ignored her croaked sarcasm. Instead, Jess heard water being poured from a jug. ‘Here—drink this.’

That comforting hand buried gently under her head on the pillow, supporting her enough that he could press the cup to her dry lips with his other hand. Jess drank gratefully, uncomfortable at being helpless—especially in front of him, the hateful man. Meeting his gaze in this state was unthinkable, so she focused on the cup instead and the steady hand holding it. Surprised that the neat, clean fingernails did not sit on the pampered hands of an aristocrat. Those hands had seen work, real work. Capable hands. Kind, too. Even when they had restrained her in the sea, he had not retaliated and hurt her when so many male hands had. He had been strong, though, more proof if proof were needed that her new gaoler did more than socialise and issue orders to his servants.

Being so close unnerved her. She could smell his skin—soap, some deliciously spicy cologne with undertones of fresh air from his immaculately laundered shirt, evidence that Lord Flint was particular about his personal cleanliness. Another luxury she had once taken for granted. Up against his golden perfection, she doubtless looked a wreck. Her own fingernails were torn and she was aware of a tender swelling on her lip. Before one errant hand went to her head to check the state of her hair, Jess pushed him and the cup away, suffering the indignity of allowing him to lower her spinning head back to the pillow. She made the mistake of glancing up at him, her eyes locking with his concerned green gaze. There it was again. That odd sense of well-being and connection, when she knew better than to trust anyone.

‘Thank you.’ Not at all what she wanted to say. A pathetic, heartfelt effort, when she wanted to spear him with something pithy. Something that clearly demonstrated she was not done yet and he hadn’t beaten her, but those kind eyes drew her in and the intended insults died in her mouth. He smiled with genuine amusement then and her breath hitched.

‘Fear not. I’m sure the politeness you are suffering is only a temporary affliction brought about by your knock to the head, my lady, and the old you will return soon enough to vex me.’

‘Oui... I hope so, too.’ Jess felt the corners of her mouth begin to lift in a returning smile and screwed up her face to stop it. Why was she responding to his charm and his undeniably handsome face? She hated him! If she ignored the flashes of compassion, gentleness and decency, this man wanted to see a rope around her neck! What was worse was there were no stinging retorts currently in her arsenal either and that wouldn’t do. For several seconds, she searched her mind for something—anything in either English or French—to redress the balance and came up blank. Incroyable! What use was being fluent in two languages if neither served your purpose at your time of need?

‘You are very lucky to be alive. Many a ship has fallen foul of those rocks you scaled. The sea was calmer today.’

Jess didn’t feel particularly lucky. Hard to feel blessed when now so riddled with fresh guilt that seemed to have lodged itself between her ribs like a parasite that was doing its best to claw its way through her, reminding her that she was selfish to still be thinking only of her freedom despite the dreadful ramifications of her actions, not to mention she was back at square one. Galling when she had specifically aimed for the most deserted piece of coastline. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I know this area well and the good-for-nothing Captain turned out to be very good at one thing. He calculated the speed of the current and plotted your likely direction. You were either destined for the headland or the calm bay behind it. We landed there, in case you were wondering, and rather fortuitously saw you climbing that cliff as we sailed past.’

Imbécile! She should have paid closer attention to the water rather than her irrational fear of heights!

He seemed to understand her anger and its cause, and merely smiled in response. He would pay for that, once the bed stopped whirling. The knock at the door saved her from pouting like a spoiled child.

A cheerful, ruddy-faced older gentleman barrelled in, clutching a black leather bag. ‘I see the patient is finally awake.’ He smiled kindly as he sat on the mattress next to her. ‘You took quite a bash to the head, young lady. If you don’t mind, I need to examine you. How are you feeling?’

Jess wasn’t going to discuss anything or suffer the indignity of being examined in front of her gaoler, allowing him to see the evidence of her weakness and shameful frailty, so turned to him imperiously. ‘You may leave us, Monsieur Flint.’

He laughed then and shook his blond head, and she hated the fact he looked delectable when amused. ‘Not in a million years, my lady, I believe you are forgetting who is in charge. Until you have been safely delivered to London, I’m afraid I shall be sticking to you like a barnacle sticks to a rock. From this moment on, I will be your shadow. Joined at the hip. But in the spirit of basic human decency, I shall step out of your way and avert my eyes.’ He made a great show of moving towards the window and turned his back to stare out of it. ‘You may continue, Doctor. Imagine I am not here. Both of you.’

‘Twenty-four hours of bed rest!’ Gray shook his dark head in disbelief. ‘If word gets out she’s here, we’ll be sitting ducks.’ They were still waiting for the other fifty men from the King’s Elite to make their way from Plymouth, where they were waiting, to this remote corner of the Devon coast. It would be hours before they arrived. ‘We’re too close to the coast for my liking. If the Boss’s men find her, they’ll have her halfway back across the Channel before the others arrive!’

‘That’s why I’ve told the Captain to set sail immediately and head out to sea. I don’t want anyone spotting a Royal Navy frigate lurking near the shore.’ Flint had kept back a few of the crew to stand guard in the interim. It wasn’t an ideal scenario, but at least with the enormous ship gone, the tiny fishing village would appear normal from a distance to anyone unfamiliar with it.

‘And if someone from here talks, or has already talked? We caused quite a stir marching in carrying her on that stretcher. I don’t like it, Flint.’

Neither did he, so he didn’t argue. With the spring sun setting and only the one narrow lane serving as both the entrance and exit of the village, if the enemy came, they were done for. ‘It is what it is. We can’t move her yet. She’s as weak as a kitten—albeit a feral one with claws.’ Who he didn’t trust as far as he could throw her despite his irrational need to protect her.

‘Rather you than me, old boy. I think I’d rather take my chances with the smugglers. At least they are predictable.’

A good point. Flint glanced back at the bedchamber door, then decided that leaving her alone for two minutes, even though the windows were securely locked and the key was tucked in his waistcoat pocket, were two minutes too long. To be certain, he stalked back to the door and poked his head inside. She was sleeping just as she had been when he had left her, but in case she wasn’t he left the door open a crack before returning to his friend.

‘Have a carriage readied as a contingency in case we do need to leave fast, but assume that we’ll be off some time tomorrow afternoon to make Plymouth before nightfall.’ Being on the roads after dark would be tantamount to suicide and counter-productive. They were supposed to be bait, not a target.

Flint watched Gray leave and felt a pang of guilt for putting his comrades in danger. Not that he’d lied about the bed rest, the physician had been most specific, citing all manner of complications should they attempt to move her too soon, but because he was putting the welfare of a potential traitor over that of his men. Why should he care if Lady Jessamine became ill? But he did.

Wearily he took himself back into the bedchamber and dragged the cot the innkeeper had found for him to lay it directly in front of the door, then arranged his long limbs as best he could within its confines. Unless all hell broke loose, sleep was necessary. He would need every one of his wits completely sharpened to deal with her again tomorrow, but for now, predominantly thanks to the potent sleeping draught he had insisted the physician slip her, she was wrapped soundly in the arms of Morpheus. Decisively, he closed his eyes and joined her.

The dream was as vivid as it was erotic. Sultry eyes. Long, jet-black hair. Wet limbs entwined. The Jessamine of his imagination was as passionate as she was tempestuous. Bold and wanton, her hands explored him everywhere, greedily caressing every inch of his naked skin. In the dream Flint lay beneath her, content to let her explore, watching her lips and tongue work their way up his chest, moaning his encouragement. She smiled down at him as her fingers dipped into his waistcoat pocket...

Wait... If he was naked, why was he suddenly supremely aware of his waistcoat?

Like lightning, his hand clamped around her wrist and pulled her so that she fell sprawled across his chest, his narrowed eyes inches from her shocked, wide ones in the darkness.

‘Give it back.’

‘You were having a bad dream...’ She attempted to rise on her knees, but he held firm.

‘Give me the key.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about. You were restless...’ As she spoke in uncharacteristically reasonable tones, she was also carefully arranging her legs beneath her voluminous borrowed nightgown to bolt, so he twisted sharply to unbalance her and send her sprawling across his chest again.

‘You were trying to escape.’

‘Ce n’est pas vrai!’ And she was fighting him again, tugging her arm for all it was worth. Flint wrapped his other arm tightly around her waist and rolled them to reverse their positions, only remembering that his body was hard and needy from the dream when it rested damningly against her stomach and he saw her eyes widen with surprise. He didn’t want to want her, nor to have her know it, but it served her right and might deter her from interrupting his slumber again in the coming days. Even so, he shifted position to spare them both the embarrassment.

‘I won’t ask again.’ Her trim body felt too good beneath his. Thanks to the pale moonlight bleeding through the window, Flint was forced to notice all her silky, dark hair fanned across his pillow. The beautiful arrangement of her eyes, nose and plump mouth. Feel the fevered rise and fall of her breasts against his chest. His mouth scant inches from hers. Things he didn’t want to notice. Couldn’t afford to notice. ‘Give me the key.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about!’

He reached between them to retrieve her small, clenched fist and raised her hand to lie next to her furious face on the pillow. ‘Give. It. To. Me.’ Damn it all to hell, he wanted to kiss her. Badly.

‘Abruti d’imbécile!’

It came as no surprise when she set her jaw and tried to heave him off her, but he was considerably bigger and easily used his bulk to pin her to the lumpy, straw mattress while his other hand slowly prised that determined fist apart. As Flint dislodged each stubborn finger to take back what she had stolen, she treated him to another stream of impassioned rapid French. He found himself smiling down at her, enjoying her hot-blooded spirit despite his better judgement. She was a glorious handful. Passionate and tenacious. Did those passions extend elsewhere? Best not to think about that now. Or ever.

‘This is pointless, madam, as you well know.’

Typically, the minx didn’t make it easy, nor did Flint truly expect her to, but using far more of his strength than he had ever used on a female before—including his exasperating oldest sister Ophelia—he finally managed to remove the key from her grasp.

Victorious and breathless, and shockingly aroused at the same time, Flint rolled off her and jumped to his feet.

‘Well, that was all very unnecessary.’ He pocketed the key again and she shot up from the cot like a wild cat, those vicious claws bared once again as she lunged for him. His surprisingly good mood vanished.

‘Tu ne comprends pas! I have to get away!’ Unwilling to defend himself because of that damn ingrained vein of chivalry again, he wrapped both arms tightly around her to trap her hands against the wall of his body and held on for dear life.

The insults came thick and fast, but among them she was muttering about something which Flint sensed was important, but his knowledge of French didn’t extend to translating it all so quickly. When a button pinged off his waistcoat, he held her at arm’s length and positively growled, ‘Either rant more slowly, woman, or insult me in plain English. I know you speak that just as well!’

‘He is going to kill us both!’

‘Whoever he is, he doesn’t know where we are!’

‘It will make no difference. He has people everywhere. Well connected and powerful...’ Her voice petered off as his eyes narrowed.

‘Then seeing as we are now both wide awake, why don’t we make a list of every one of those powerful names?’

Chapter Six

Jess clamped her jaw shut and stared up into his handsome face. Much as she wanted to see each and every one of those people reap the justice they deserved, naming names now would eradicate the only collateral she had should Saint-Aubin come knocking. That list might well be her curse, but it was also the only bargaining tool she had to save her from his wrath. Losing her temper after being caught red-handed was not sensible. Attacking the irksome man who held her was stupid.

She could feel the warmth and strength of his big body through her nightgown and the odd tingling on her lips from being so intimately close to his. If only he didn’t smell so wonderfully sinful, she might be able to ignore those things. Now her body hummed with an awareness she did not welcome. Insufferable man!

Although as undeniably irritating as he was, so far, he was the only gaoler who had not chained her up. If she continued to fight him, that state of affairs would swiftly change. She already bitterly knew to her cost, escaping while clapped in irons was nigh on impossible. It had taken a small and unexpected army of gnarly English sailors to liberate her from Cherbourg in the dead of night, a stroke of good fortune she still couldn’t quite believe.

A stroke of good fortune that was giving Jess her first real shot at freedom and fresh air in over a year.

She breathed out all her frustration and fury, allowing her muscles to relax in surrender. There would be another time. Another opportunity. She needed to be less opportunistic and more strategic if she was going to escape Lord Flint. ‘I don’t know their names. I was never privy to that information. I simply know that the organisation is vast.’ Because it was worth a try, she offered him one of her mother’s smiles and felt her pulse flutter as her eyes dipped to his lips of her own accord. Mon Dieu! ‘As I have said, I was just the messenger, Monsieur Flint.’

His returning scowl could have curdled milk. ‘Define messenger?’

‘Translations mostly.’ As his hold had loosened, Jess gave a dramatic flick of her wrist and shrugged. ‘I wrote what I was told to write when I was told to write it.’ Largely true. ‘I have no idea what happened to the letters afterwards.’ She did now. They killed people.

‘Then why do you claim he wants you dead, I wonder? Seems like a gross overreaction for someone so insignificant.’

Jess hated that dismissive tone, the understated English sarcasm he did so well. She wished he would let go of her. Standing within the warm, inviting cage of his arms was distracting. Up close, this unusual, irritating aristocrat looked even more divine and for some reason her nerve-endings were enjoying the feel of his hands on her body. ‘Saint-Aubin does not like loose ends, Monsieur Flint. He will not rest until this loose end is securely tied.’

‘Or more likely, he will come to rescue you if you fail in your own valiant attempts to return to France.’

He thought she wanted to return to that hell hole? A team of horses would have to drag her there lashed to a cart. Death would be more welcome. But at least her performance was convincing despite her two failed attempts at grasping her freedom. Saint-Aubin’s spies might vouch for her outrage and that in turn might make him lenient. And Jess had more chance of harnessing the power of invisibility than hoping that monster might show her any mercy. If they found her here, wherever here was... ‘I do not want to hang, Monsieur Flint.’ But she would rather hang than suffer Saint-Aubin’s punishment.

Caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea. Odd—she had always wondered what that quaint British analogy meant and now, ironically, she understood it fully. Saint-Aubin was the Devil incarnate and Lord Flint the sea. Except Jess never expected she would need to actively resist the urge to dive in.

‘I doubt your dear papa wants that either.’

‘You do not know him as I do. I am better dead than in the hands of the English Crown. He will sacrifice me in a heartbeat.’ And he would enjoy it. In her mind she heard his manic laughter at her screams and shuddered.

‘A father doesn’t—’

‘He is not my father!’ She spat the words with too much venom, making the intuitive Lord Flint tilt his head and eye her in a detached, calculated way which showed him to be every bit the King’s man, out to catch a bigger fish and not at all the compassionate and reasonable man he purported to be. Whatever she said would be used against her in a court of law or at the hands of Saint-Aubin’s henchmen if they made her answer for her actions. Jess needed to play her pathetic hand of cards very close to her chest and keep her impetuous, errant mouth shut.

‘But he brought you up as his daughter, did he not? You grew up in his chateau.’ Lord Flint smiled rather smugly down at her. He had a nice smile, even smug it did peculiar things to her pulse, and she hated him for that more. ‘In Valognes. A sprawling estate, by all accounts, wealthy, too—but then Saint-Aubin is one of Bonaparte’s favourites and continues to support him despite his exile. We know that Saint-Aubin is the Boss’s supplier of brandy, just as we know that you ensured that same illegal brandy arrived safely in Britain. Dates, times, ships. You met him, didn’t you? Old Boney. You were there to see him pin a medal on your adopted papa’s chest after the Battle of Vittoria. I can assure you, our intelligence has been most thorough, Lady Jessamine. We know all about you. Which is why I fail to believe you are in any danger from Saint-Aubin. Your own dear mother is his

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