Swept Away (30 page)

The Corsican followed his gaze and saw the glitter of gold, saw the key. His distraction lasted only a moment, but a moment was all Emory and Anna had. The same instant she swung the bottle around and knocked the aim of one gun aside, Emory was springing forward and diving low, his full weight and momentum cashing into Cipriani’s knees and driving him backward. Both guns exploded, the sting of gunpowder searing Annaleah’s eyes and nose, blinding her for the few moments it took for her to scramble out of the way as the two men went down in a tangle of legs and arms. She had no way of knowing if Emory had been shot, if he could even overpower the wiry assassin.

She did not credit Emory’s rage as a weapon, and he used it to good effect, planting punch after punch into the other man’s face and throat. With nothing for his opponent to grasp but skin, he was slippery and able to twist himself free to rise up on his knees where he smashed his fist into the long, thin nose crushing it to bloody pulp. The pistols had flown out of Cipriani’s hands in the fall, but he used his fingers to claw for Emory’s eyes and throat. Grunts and curses heated the air, punctuated by the sound of flesh pounding flesh, as the two men rolled again, the Corsican briefly gaining the advantage, dripping blood onto Emory’s face and chest from his ruined nose.

Anna searched frantically for a weapon she could use, but they were still between her and the table. She was still clutching the wine bottle and she grasped the neck tightly, bringing it down hard across the back of Cipriani’s neck, but it only thudded dully against the bone and did more damage jolting her wrist and hand than to his head. There was a long iron poker Emory had used to stir the fire and she ran for that, but by the time she brought it back, the men had changed positions again, had twisted apart and were on their feet, crouched and circling like two blooded cocks at a country fight.

They came together in a crunch of flesh and bone and Anna was close enough to feel a warm spatter of blood on her face. She held the poker in front of her but there was no clear opening. Fists drove first one man, then the other back; a chair went flying and a lamp crashed to the floor in a spray of oil and glass. From somewhere in the depths of Cipriani’s wool coat there came the glint of a knife, the blade long and thin and tapered to the width of a needle at the end. It flashed twice, leaving bloody stripes across Emory’s chest before he jumped back. The Corsican followed, the knife raised and glittering, his lips drawn back as he muttered promises and threats in a voice that spiked the hairs across the nape of Anna’s neck.

The two men moved into the darker gloom of the hallway and Anna dropped the poker and ran to the table, her hands trembling as she picked up one of the flintlocks. She was shaking so badly she needed to steady the weapon in both hands and used the pressure of both thumbs to cock the hammer. The end of the barrel wavered back and forth as she turned it toward the door, but there was nothing to see, nothing to aim at but shifting shadows in the darkness.

The panic caught in her throat, but she waited. She waited until one of the shadows hurled back through the open doorway and then she closed her eyes and fired.

The recoil jerked her arms back in their sockets, but she dropped the smoking pistol and immediately snatched up the second one, cocking it, priming it, bracing herself to fire again. She looked up in time to see the startled look on the Corsican’s face as he staggered back into the shadows, a hand held up in front of him with four fingers blown clear away. Emory plunged through the door in the next breath, his locked fists catching Cipriani low under the chin, driving his head up and back with enough force to lift the assassin bodily off the ground and send him crashing senseless onto the floor. Emory followed, crouching over him again, his fists laced together like a hammer, slugging hard left, right, left, sending more blood, spittle, and sweat across the carpet with each blow.

Anna would have been quite happy to let him beat the Corsican to death if not for the look on Emory’s face. His cheeks, his chest, his arms were splashed with blood and the lust for more was wild in his eyes. She ran up behind him, and tried catch his arms.

“Stop! Stop! You’re killing him!”

He shook her hands away with a snarl. “He deserves killing!”

“Not like this.
Not like this!
This is murder and it makes you no better than him!”

Emory landed one more punch, the effort causing him to sprawl half across the unconscious man’s body. His face was still contorted with rage, his chest was heaving for air, his body was gleaming wet with sweat and blood.

But he stopped.

After a moment, he pushed unsteadily to his knees, then staggered to his feet, swaying there for the two or three seconds it took for him to realize Anna was beside him, the gun still dangling limply in her hand. He looked at her, looked at the gun, then reached down and pried it gently from her frozen fingers. At the same time, and with what little strength he had remaining, he pulled her forward into his arms and held her tight.

“Never,” he gasped, “never do that again, you little fool. You
damned
little fool. What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” she sobbed. “I just did not want him to cut you again.”

He groaned and buried his lips in her hair, drawing several deep, steadying breaths before he looked down at Cipriani’s body. Apart from the blood that flowed freely from the twitching stubs of the missing fingers, there was no sign of movement, but Emory knew his enemy as well as his enemy had known him.

Without any warning, he raised the pistol and fired it again, the bullet taking off the thumb and shattering most of the bones in Cipriani’s left hand.

Anna felt her stomach lurch and did not know if she was going to faint or vomit.

“Now get me the cords and a heavy case off one of the chair pillows.”

She moved numbly to do as she was told, fetching the long braided gold ropes that swagged the curtains, and a red brocaded pillowslip. She watched in silence as he tore strips off a linen sheet and bound wadding around the Corsican’s damaged hands, then handed him the ropes to tie his wrists and feet together. Halfway through the process, the bruised eyes shivered open and Cipriani started to gasp oaths in a language Anna did not understand. She did not have to listen to it very long, as Emory stuffed more linen between the battered lips then slipped the brocaded casing over his head. He used another length of the gold braid to tie the case around his neck, then fed the rope down and around his wrists, then down again around the ankles, pulling his body into a bent figure S. Satisfied the bindings were taut enough to choke him if he moved, he dragged the assassin into the darkest, coldest corner, leaving him in a heap against the wall.

“Franceschi Cipriani could follow a black cat through a coal mine at night.” Emory spat, working a loose tooth with the tip of his tongue.

“No, I mean...how did he know you were here in Torquay? He said he
heard
you were here, but who did he hear it from? Who told him?”

“He could have seen the posts. He could have heard rumors on the street.”

“He said you had a letter...?”

Emory raised a hand, pressing bruised, scraped fingers against his temple and it was clear by his expression that he was as much in the dark as she. “If I do, I don’t have a clue where it is or what it contains.”

“It must have been important if he tortured you once and was prepared to kill you for it now.”

Emory waved his hand in anger. “I’m sure it is, I just...
I don’t remember
.”

Anna could see his frustration and bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “At least you know you are not a traitor. He as much as said you were one of England’s most valuable spies.”

“Small consolation unless I can find some way to prove it.” He started to rake his hands through his hair, but stopped when caught a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye. He snatched the iron key off the table, staring at it as if he could will it into telling him what he wanted to know. “You may not have been so far off the mark. If I do have this letter, it is as likely to be locked in the strongbox on board the
Intrepid
as anywhere else. But where the devil is the
Intrepid
?”

Anna’s teeth chattered once in response. She was cold and growing colder by the minute as the shock of the recent violence began to settle into her bones.

“He mentioned Lord Wessex,” Anna said, giving her arms a little rub. “He and Father are acquainted, and I...well, his son Austin, Viscount Herford,” she offered after a brief hesitation, “offered for my hand last year.”

Emory had the grace not to point out the irony in her assessment, or that it was the height of reckless behavior to be standing here naked but for a man’s shirt, her hair a scattered testament to her lost inhibitions. He picked up the spent flintlocks and started reloading them instead.

In truth, Anna needed no one to draw attention to the obvious. She was well aware of the incongruity, although in her own defence, there was a vast difference between a man who enjoyed gaming tables and horse races to a man who defied the very devil himself. Emory Althorpe was unlike any man she had ever met before and there were no comparisons possible. The life he had been leading had made him capable of committing shocking acts of violence in order to survive--that much she had just witnessed. He was also capable of great passion and inordinate gentleness, and he possessed a certain nobility missing from most noblemen of her acquaintance--the kind that belonged to a man who did not give a damn about how things looked to others, as long as it was the right thing to do.

Yet looming over all this was a certain measure of uncertainty, for with each segment of his memory that returned, he grew stronger, more confident, more in control and who was to say when all of his past was fully restored, what he would expect or want from her--or if he would even want her at all. Once before he had given up the life she represented. It was possible... probable even, that he would not be eager to embrace it again, not just for the sake of a few passionate hours in her arms.

It was madness. It was lust and it was envy for his freedom, pure and simple. It was also witless, foolish, and completely absurd to consider taking one more step beside him, and yet...she could feel herself growing stronger just for the sake of being in his company. She was smart, she was useful, she had displayed a rather surprising capability for violence herself over the past few minutes and truth be told, she would do it again if threatened. Her days of shrinking and cowering in a corner while others determined her destiny were over.

She squared her shoulders and looked up at Emory. “You obviously have to find your ship, and then you have to speak to Lord Wessex. If you suspect there is a plan afoot to rescue Bonaparte, he has to be told.”

“Well you will have to, for Parliament is literally under siege, the buildings themselves are surrounded by a dozen regiments of Royal Horse Guard. I doubt you would get close enough to shout a greeting through the iron grate.” She paused and focussed her attention on the unwound clock sitting on the mantlepiece. “What day is today?”

“Monday.” He looked up from reloading the guns. “Actually, the small hours of Tuesday. Why?”

“This coming Friday night there is to be a masquerade ball at Carlton House.”

“A ball? With Napoleon Bonaparte on board a ship anchored in an English port and Parliament under siege while they debate his fate?”

“It is Lady Charlotte Carrington’s twenty-first birthday. She is a vivacious, beautiful widow, an heiress of considerable fortune, and is currently being wooed by the Regent to be his next mistress. There would be a ball in her honor if another Spanish Armada was in the Channel. Anyone who chooses not to risk the Regent’s disfavour, not to mention instant social ostracism, will be there including Lord Wessex. It was the main reason Mother sent my brother to fetch me home.”

Emory’s mouth wore a wry twist, “I assume you are not telling me this just to keep me apprised of your social calendar.”

“I am telling you this because it would present the perfect opportunity to approach Lord Wessex. Since you would be in costume, no one would recognize you and I would imagine the Regent’s principle residence would be the last place on earth anyone would expect to find you.”

The dark eyes glittered faintly with speculation. “What makes you think it would be easier getting into a royal ball where the guests and invitations are closely scrutinized, than it would into Westminster Hall?”

“It would be easier because I have an invitation. It would, of course, require my presence to be acknowledged.”

He stared at her for the whole of one minute at least, with just the hiss of the fire to break the silence. Despite the promise made in the tavern, Emory had not been about to risk her safety even as far as the next village, and he had fully intended to leave her here. He knew he could not do that now. Cipriani would kill her if he got loose, and Emory was not naive enough to believe a few missing fingers would deter him. But the thought of taking her all the way to London...