More Than a Stranger: A Sealed With a Kiss Novel (28 page)

It was time to tell Richard everything—no matter how damning it would be.

Widening his stance and preparing himself for another attack, Benedict stated calmly, “I am not leaving until you hear the truth.”

“The truth? Well, that is rich, coming from you. You will leave when I damned well tell you to. You have no say in this. None!” Richard’s hand sliced angrily through the air in punctuation.

Benedict raised his hands, palms out, in a conciliatory manner. “I deserve your every hateful thought. I admit that, but you deserve to know the truth of why I came here.
She
deserves to know.”

Richard’s nostrils flared at the reference to Evie. “As if you have any right to talk about what she deserves. Let’s talk about what
you
deserve, Benedict. Let’s talk about the lies you fed me, the betrayal of friendship, or, I don’t know—” He gestured with disgust toward the man lying unconscious on the ground. “How about the homicidal maniac you led to my home.”

“I don’t deny any of your accusations, Richard. If it is your wish, we can talk about everything I deserve and then some. But not,” he said, emphasizing the word clearly, “until I tell you what has transpired to lead us to this moment. Just five minutes, Richard, and you can do anything you want with me, including banishing me from ever seeing you or your family again.”

Richard crossed his arms and stared mutely at him.

Taking that as acquiescence, Benedict took a calming breath and said evenly, “Let us take him”—he nodded in Barney’s direction, smart enough not to admit just yet he knew the man’s name—“somewhere where he can be detained, and I will explain everything. What happens next is up to you.”

Clenching his jaw, Richard nodded curtly and strode off into the stables, leaving Benedict to collect Barney and follow him. Sighing deeply as he felt his integrity and honor crumble like so much dust, he bent to recover Barney, slung him over his shoulder, and followed Richard into the cool interior of the barn.

He had only one chance to get this right.

Chapter Twenty-two

I am not amused by your failure to write to me. If I said something to offend you, you must chastise me properly. I cannot bear to be subjected to the silent treatment.

—From Evie to Hastings

I
t was the raised voices that had attracted her attention. While Evie was accustomed to the occasional feminine shriek of excitement or even argument, hearing male voices raised in anger was altogether unusual.

Benedict—he must be back.

She tried to ignore the rush of emotion that assaulted her; she refused to even name the feelings. Instead, she forced them away and sucked in a deep, filling breath. She knew very well she was to stay put in bed at the very least for several days. It would be the very pinnacle of foolishness for her to get up now, particularly with no one around to assist her. Her mother would have a full-blown fit if she even thought Evie was contemplating leaving her sickbed any time soon.

But, as the yelling continued, she was positively
dying
to know what the devil was going on out there.

Deciding that getting out of bed was certainly preferable to death by curiosity, and deeply hoping her mother was clear on the other side of the house, she took a moment to prepare herself for the journey across the room to the window. A couple of deep breaths and a fervent prayer for safety and stealth later, she was ready to go.

She carefully pushed aside the counterpane, mindful not to jolt her injured arm or make any sudden movements, and slowly rose to a sitting position. Dizziness accosted her at the change in position, and she sat still until the room stopped spinning. She would probably be smart to take the doctor’s advice and remain resting in bed for a day or two. She blew out a resigned breath. Her curiosity often got the better of her, however, and she was honest enough with herself to admit that this was one of those times, especially when she could think of only one person likely to trigger a shouting match.

After a minute of holding still to ensure the light-headedness had passed, she rose to her bare feet, gripping the bedpost for balance with her right hand. Again the dizziness washed over her, and she clung to the cool wood, pressing her cheek against it while her body fought to regain equilibrium.
Perhaps
it was not the
best
idea she had ever had to pull herself out of bed, drag herself across the room to the window, and eavesdrop on whatever was going on out there. However, she was committed now.

And furious.

And curious, always curious.

Finally, she felt steady enough to pull away from the bedpost and shuffle along the bed toward the window. When at last she reached her destination, she gratefully lowered herself onto the wonderfully thick cushions of the window seat. The area was much cooler than her bed, and she relished the refreshing air against her skin. As she struggled to relax, it took her a moment to realize she no longer heard the shouting outside.

She quickly pulled aside the curtains and scanned the grounds below her window. Her eyes promptly settled on a threesome of men: one lay on the ground, and two, obviously Richard and Benedict, were facing each other. Their postures appeared to be very tense, almost poised to fight.

So he had indeed returned.

She could not separate the anger and relief simultaneously coursing through her body. As much as she despised him, she didn’t want him dead. Injured would be fine, but certainly not dead.

She might have been developing . . . feelings for the man, unwelcome feelings at that, but those feelings had been mortally wounded with one shot. And they never would have developed in the first place if she had known who he really was. She glanced down to her sling and bandages and shivered. She could not bear to think how much worse the damage could have been if the shooter had had a better aim.

Actually, what scared her most, besides the obvious fact there was a shooter at all, was that her whole family had been completely vulnerable. It could have just as easily been her brother or father. She could imagine her mother and sisters waiting peacefully by the pond, her sister Beatrice painting away while the twins made clover necklaces with the early blooms. She could picture her mother reading in the gazebo, waiting innocently for the triumphant return of her husband and two eldest children. They all had just been so . . . vulnerable! No other word really quite described their state.

Would her easygoing family be forever changed by the ordeal? Her father had been furious and worried out of his mind. He had sent every available man out on the chase, but none of them had the head start Benedict did. Her father’s face had been drawn and pale when he’d come by to see her for a few moments before returning to the stables to await word. Her mother had also been anxious, and Evie had never seen her brother in such a state. She wondered how the girls were doing, as her mother did not want them overtaxing her with a visit just yet.

She squinted at the figures through the window, trying to get a clear view of their expressions. She was frustrated by the distortion of the glass, but she dared not open the windows and alert them to their audience. As she watched, Richard turned suddenly and stalked into the stables. Benedict scooped up the body of the third man before following Richard. She watched as the three of them disappeared through the open door of the structure, wishing desperately to be privy to whatever they were talking about.

Exhausted, she lay back on the pillows of the bench. The pain from her injuries no longer felt distinct, and her whole body now ached dreadfully.

Did she really care what was going on among the three men? Did any of it really matter? The damage had been done, and nothing was going to change that. Her eyelids became unbearably heavy, and with a feeling of discord still in her heart, she drifted off.

* * *

Benedict was relieved, for more than one reason, to hear the doctor had not yet left the premises. He was starting to worry since Barney had not yet come to consciousness, and Benedict really needed to question him. But more important, he felt much better knowing the doctor had already treated Evie. Thank God the man had been fetched so quickly.

He closed the door to the storage room serving as both an examination room and a prison cell. Richard, who had been silent since entering the building, strode toward the gardens. Benedict followed several steps behind, not wanting to push his friend by getting too close.

Tension settled in Benedict’s stomach like a hot stone. What the hell was he going to say? How was he going to put into words the experience that changed his whole life in the space of a breath? He didn’t even know where to start.

It was the cruelest of ironies that Richard chose the very same bench Benedict and Evie had shared the night before. Instead of moonlight, it was illuminated in harsh sunlight, which glared off the white stone. Last night it had seemed like a hidden escape, whereas now he saw how exposed it really was.

He had to consciously push the images from their time together out of his head so he could focus on the conversation to come. Flashes of her laughing at his silliness, of her indrawn breath at his touch, of her huge and expressive blue eyes when he warmed her hand nonetheless flitted through his brain. He could almost feel her lips beneath his, and he closed his eyes against the painful pleasure of it.

He forced himself to picture her as he last saw her: broken on the forest floor, pale, injured, and lifeless. The terrible images did the trick. Benedict was ready to relive the nightmare he had stumbled across that night in Folkestone. Facing Richard, Benedict squared his shoulders and wet his lips. His friend leveled a hostile glare at him and mutely waited for him to begin.

“The night I came to you followed the worst experience of my entire life.” Closing his eyes, he began with the day he left school, and held nothing back.

* * *

“You’re a bloody secret agent?!”

Benedict was startled by Richard’s outburst. Lost in his story, he had nearly forgotten anyone else was listening. He blinked and focused on his old friend, whose cheeks were ruddy and eyes slightly bloodshot. Benedict winced, the guilt for the long-standing deception assaulting him. “I’m sorry I never told you. If it makes you feel any better, I never told
anyone
. Not my family, not my friends, not my staff.”

“I don’t even know who you are!” Richard sprang up from the bench and began pacing, running his hands through his hair roughly. “God, Evie was right all along. She knew something was wrong about our showing up unannounced as we did. She knew, and she warned me, and idiot that was, I brushed her off. I even laughed at her theories. And now she is lying in bed, wounded, damaged, hurting.” His voice cracked. Benedict knew he must be tormented by the thought of his injured sister. It was nothing compared to the torment he felt. Nobody could possibly feel as horrible as he did.

Benedict took an unthinking step forward to comfort him, and Richard thrust his arm out to stop him. “Don’t! Don’t come near me. You play spy for the government, making fools of those who love you in the process. You lied to me; you’ve been lying to me for God knows how many years.”

“Richard—,” Benedict started, but Richard cut him off.

“No! I get where you are going. Your damned profession caused you to get into some trouble along the way. Because of your own mistakes, you dragged your family, and now my family, into the mess. I don’t—”

“That’s just it, Richard,” Benedict cut in loudly. He was relieved that Richard stopped talking and waited, albeit with a deadly glare in Benedict’s direction. He took a deep breath and continued. “It wasn’t my profession that caused the trouble. That was what I was trying to tell you. Please, let me finish. As soon as I do, I will leave and never darken your doorway again, if that is what you want.” He pleaded with his eyes for Richard to hear him out.

Richard crossed his arms and raised his left eyebrow, presumably his cue for Benedict to continue.

Benedict closed his eyes briefly in relief and forced himself to dredge up exactly what had happened that night. Within moments, he could feel the cold, damp air on his skin, smell the salty air, hear the distant wash of the waves. He could also feel the sickly dread in his stomach that he had experienced listening to the voices in the cottage. He took a deep breath and continued.

“Several years ago, I was charged with infiltrating a smuggling ring operating between Folkestone and Wimereux
.
I succeeded and within a few months was able to pinpoint the leaders of the operation, brothers by the names of Pierre and Jean Luc Renault. One night almost a year ago, I set them up, convincing them I had a high-ranking official who wished to sell sensitive—and valuable—information, but he would divulge the information only to the head of the operation.

“The Renault brothers were twins, and I knew that where one went, the other would follow. When they arrived in Folkestone on board their fastest, best ship, our agents were ready and waiting. Most of their men were captured, but in the fight, Jean Luc turned on me, and I was forced to shoot him. Pierre managed to escape, much to my superiors’ dismay.”

Benedict hazarded a glance at Richard, but his stony facade revealed nothing. Benedict raked his fingers through his tangled hair. “For months, I heard nothing from him, and I assumed he burrowed into some rat hole in France. Then, last week, I received information from one of my contacts that Renault had returned to England and was training a new team.