Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

“Harry, please,” she whispered, “please, tell me what’s wrong.”

Instead he glanced out the window at the wavering fog. “Stay until I come to get you.”

“Get me? For what?”

“We’re leaving. Don’t pack anything”—his gaze swept her absolutely charming outfit without a fleck of interest—“just wear your traveling clothes. Before you open the door, be sure it’s me. If someone comes begging for your help, deny them. If someone shouts the inn is on fire, climb out the window, but not before you see the smoke and feel the flames.”

She stared at him, wondering if he’d run mad.

“Promise me.” His voice was deep and vibrant with demand.

But no. He was the sanest man she’d ever met. Later she’d demand explanations and make demands. For now…“I promise.”

He pressed the key into her hand. “Lock it behind me.”

She did.

“He went out. He went out.” Frank cleared the plates from the dining room and watched Mr. Windberry’s advance. “Toward your cottage. Toward your cottage.” He whispered the words under his breath, committing them to memory, trying to convince himself they were true.

Mr. Windberry leaned across the table at Frank, and his clear gaze looked different from Lord Granville’s—and yet, somehow the same in intent. “Lord Granville is not in his room. It’s imperative I speak to him. Do you know where he went?”

“He went out, sir.” The crockery rattled in Frank’s hands—a betrayal. A confession. “I believe he went out. Toward your cottage.” He spoke too quickly. He had not been bred for lying.

“My cottage?” Mr. Windberry looked out the window at the fog. He glanced up the stairway. “My cottage?”

“Yes, sir. Your cottage. He left…he left ten minutes ago.” There. Frank gasped with relief. He had said it all.

“Very well. Thank you.” Mr. Windberry moved purposefully toward the door.

Frank put his hand in his pocket, pulled out the guineas, and recognized them for what they were. They were damned coins, and he was damned with them.

Knife in hand, Harry strode stealthily toward his cottage, listening for footsteps muffled by the damp fog, wondering if the supposed Lord Granville was lurking in the fog, waiting to attack. For there could be no doubt; it was Harry he sought. This villain must have tracked Jessie through the betrothal announcement in the Times to his mother, and from there to the resort. He planned to take Harry’s fiancée captive and use her as bait, and neither Harry nor Jessie would survive such a scheme. Harry needed to get her out tonight.

Beneath the blackguard’s British accent, Harry heard the faint meter of the Russian tongue. Harry had had a piece of luck when the fake Lord Granville hadn’t recognized the real Lord Granville, and he’d thought he would be able to take the impostor unaware, find out who had sent him and why. But somehow Lord Granville must have discovered the truth. Why else would he have gone to Harry’s cottage?

Harry hurried a little faster.

Dehaan was famous in the intelligence community. Dehaan could fight with a knife and advise his attacker on his wardrobe at the same time. He had an uncanny ability to sense trouble, and although many a spy had tried to obtain his services, he was dedicated to Harry. Dehaan always took precautions to warn of intruders, but one thing always distracted Dehaan—romance. And what had Harry been indulging in? Romance.

Blast it. He should have known his habit of evasiveness would catch up with him eventually. If only he’d told Jessie the truth about himself sooner… He glanced back at the inn. Jessie would obey him, he felt sure. Last night he had placed on her the bonds of the flesh. She was his. He had made her his.

Harry’s lips curved bitterly. Had he imagined he could leave his past behind? Take up his life as before? Take a wife and live happily ever after? This proved that no matter what Harry did, he would be stalked. His past would always remain close at hand, waiting to pounce on all he held dear.

Yet for all his good sense, he didn’t know if he could let Jessie go. Not after what they’d shared. His conscience warred with his desire. He adored her as he had never adored a woman before. He had thought he would marry her, for with her sweet love she’d brought him a joy he had never experienced. Now he had to give it up? No. No, it wasn’t possible! He’d find a way to keep her.

Reaching the cottage, he circled the exterior. The windows were open, the curtains hung limp. Surely as the fog thickened, Dehaan would have shut them. This was a bad sign. A very bad sign. Harry had chosen this cottage because the ground fell away from the cottage, leaving the windows in the bedchamber high above the ground and relatively safe. Placing his knife in his teeth, Harry leaped up, caught the sill, and silently pulled himself up to peer inside.

The room looked normal. Like a snake, he slithered in, pausing, checking for movement, for ambush. Nothing moved. Once inside, he stood and took the knife in his right hand. Moving along the wall, he listened for the creak of a floorboard, looked for a sign of life. Nothing.

Where was Dehaan?

The door that entered the sitting room was ajar, and with a surge of power, Harry kicked it open. It hit the wall hard, rattling the windowpanes. Still nothing moved, but he saw a body. Dehaan’s body, unmoving, stretched out across the table.

Blood covered his face and puddled beneath his cheek. His nose was broken, his eyes were blackened and shut. Dead? No, Harry saw the lift of his breath, and controlled the surge of his rage. The outer door stood open. This room showed the evidence of the fierce struggle. Chairs were overturned, vases shattered, the sofa cushions tossed aside.

Harry sidled across to the smaller bedchamber. No one. To the kitchen. No one. Going at last to his valet, his friend, Harry leaned down to turn him.

Dehaan’s eyes sprang open, his hand shot out and he grasped Harry by the throat. Then recognition struck. His hand dropped away. His eyes, so swollen they scarcely opened, slid closed. “I’m sorry,” Dehaan whispered. “I saw him too late.”