Page 25 of The Rebellious Countess (The Ruined Duchess #2)

Eleven

Hag,

I have a shipment of Scotch to sell for the right price. Expect delivery soon.

Elias

—A letter from a son in England to his mother in France, both wanting to protect the other from certain capture.

“ M a chérie . You must wake up.”

She didn’t want to wake. She’d had the most glorious dream of being in her husband’s arms on horseback.

“The sun is up and I haven’t been able to feel my left arm for the past couple hours. If we don’t stop, I’m afraid I will drop you.”

She snuggled in closer. Loving his scent, the feel of his bicep under her cheek. Who needed a downy pillow when strong arms were available?

She felt his lips brush her ear. “Máira, we are coming close to a village. We must make ourselves presentable.”

Village. France. Danger. The warning was clear, and Máira awoke in an instant, sitting up straight in the saddle and giving her poor husband’s arm a break from holding her weight.

Except he really wasn’t her husband, was he?

In a fortnight this would all be a dream.

A wonderful, enticing dream she would remember the rest of her life—alone.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asked, as she ran her fingers through her hair. For the love of everything she held holy, it was an utter disaster.

“You needed your rest.”

“And what about you?”

“I am accustomed to going without sleep.”

She looked over her shoulder, her face scrunched in irritation. Elias winked as he pulled the horse off the trail behind a particularly large patch of bracken, the vibrant colored fronds of the ferns and bushes tall enough to graze her thighs as Elias guided the horse forward.

“You couldn’t have chosen a better place to stop.”

“I have done this a time or two.”

“Spy, you mean? You’ve come to France to spy—” A hand clamped down over her mouth.

Her eyes darted around them, looking for the source of his fear, until she realized he was looking no further than her.

Elias was scowling down at her with one arm wrapped tightly around her waist, the other still holding the reins and her head from moving.

“I am not a spy,” he hissed in her ear.

She protested into his palm and his lips rolled in with irritation.

“My mother may have said that, but that is not what I do.”

Again, she was forced to talk into his palm. She didn’t mind his hand covering her mouth the moment he thought they were being watched, but that was currently not the case. She bit his palm.

“Ow! There was no cause for that,” he complained while shaking out his hand.

“I didn’t even break the skin.”

“Because I pulled my hand away.”

She rolled her eyes. “In spite of you pulling your hand away.”

“He looked around the area once more and repeated his statement. “I am not a spy.”

“Your mother said you were.”

“I haven’t been able to convince her otherwise.”

“Then what are you?”

“A recovery agent.”

“A recovery agent? What’s that?”

“Someone who works for neither government, but rather a family.”

“A family? Simon’s family?”

“Precisely.”

“They know he’s been taken? How awful.” She paused. “His sisters must be devastated, and his mother…I can’t imagine how she’s coping.”

Elias reined in and dismounted, before he lifted her off the horse.

He shook out his numb arm several times, which made her feel guilty for biting him.

He was doing an honorable thing, and he was rescuing a family friend.

She looked at his long strong fingers and images of what he’d done with those fingers came crashing into her thoughts as if someone had just charged through the shrubbery.

She nearly fell to the ground as she stumbled backward, her legs feeling weak and numb from the ride.

Elias looked over at her. “Are you alright?”

“Of course.” Except she wasn’t. Her heart was racing and her body was much more awake than she had been two minutes ago.

His brow puckered as if he was trying to read her thoughts, to which she proceeded to clear her throat and turn ten shades of red. His forehead smoothed and that sultry grin he’d had the day they first met played with his lips.

“As much as I would love to revisit last night, we must get ourselves more presentable, instead of less.” He winked again, and she wanted to sink down into the ground.

She was proving that it wasn’t just men who thought about compromising the opposite sex.

She was thinking about all kinds of ways she could make him more presentable.

Tearing his shirt from his body would absolutely be more enticing to every red-blooded female.

And the way his pants hugged his thighs, well, that was presently looking delectably large as it strained against the front of his falls.

But a fully naked Elias was a glorious specimen and she loved the way his masculine hair showcased every ripple of muscle and sinew on his powerful body.

Elias groaned. “You will be the death of me, ma chérie .”

“You’ve gained an accent since we arrived in France and you use more French terms.”

“I slipped once in England. Do you remember?”

She did. At the time it had been the most romantic moment of her life.

Will you be my wife, ma chérie? Then he cleared his throat and laughed and told her it sounded much more romantic in his head to speak in French—after he’d said it, he didn’t think it was appropriate.

They were at war with France. She, however, had never heard of a more enchanting proposal in her entire life.

Except it was a lie.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t recall,” she lied. She didn’t want him to know how big a lie it actually was, so she turned away and began finger-combing her hair. She should have thought of how bad her hair would look.

“Take this.” His hand appeared over her shoulder with his leather que dangling from his fingers.

“What will you use?” she asked, not daring to turn around.

“My hair will be fine down. We are in the countryside of France, not among the ton in England.”

She took the strap of leather from his hand, being careful not to touch him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They sounded like strangers. She cleared her throat. “I hear a brook over there. I’m going to go refresh myself.”

“Very well.” Was that hurt she heard in his voice?

No. She was hearing what she wished to hear.

If she looked at him, she would undoubtedly see that he was rolling his shoulder or cleaning his shoes without a second thought to her response.

Without looking back, Máira made her way through the bracken to where a small brook flowed leisurely across a path of stone.

Heather adorned the opposite bank, making the scene appear completely serene and similar to some of the English countryside.

How strange to see similarities in terrain, but a world of difference in the language and viewpoints of people.

Although she imagined the French people didn’t want war as much as the English soldiers she’d seen heading off to battle.

She knelt down at the water’s edge and reached into the cool, refreshing water, her fingers skimming the surface as she closed her eyes.

Birds harmonized, their song a thing of wonder from such small creatures with no keyboard to stroke.

The stream splashed against the rocks, the symphony of nature playing for an audience of one as the leaves on the trees applauded in appreciation and the breeze whistled its praise.

Máira felt as if she had never been in a more serene place in her entire life.

“Hand over your purse!” The demand in French, jumbled in her mind at first, but the dangerous tone translated the meaning of the words an instant later.

The threat broke the tranquility of the moment, and her eyes flew open, expecting to see a gang of highwaymen leering at her with thought to do more than just rob her of her purse.

Except the other side of the bank was empty.

The tree line vacant. A shot echoed through the forest behind her.

Her body flinched involuntarily and she searched her chest, certain to see a crimson blossom expanding across the front of her gown.

Her hands felt around the front of her gown expecting the worst. Finding nothing.

Her dress remained as it was, not clean, but not painted with blood either.

Máira reached under her skirt and grabbed the dirk strapped to her thigh as she looked around. Heated words between two men silenced the peace. Elias!

She tore through the woods in the direction of the fight as quietly as she could.

Her heart leapt, and her feet followed. Over the dead tree and through the undergrowth she raced, unable to imagine the unfathomable even while her mind pictured her husband’s white shirt stained red.

Fronds whipped at her skin and tree branches slashed at her eyes.

She brushed them aside as the sight before her made her blood burn.

She couldn’t allow it to boil. If it boiled, she would shake, and she would not shake.

Elias wrestled for his life with a bear of a man.

Teeth flashing and paws batting, he caught Elias on the side of his head.

It was a wonder he remained conscious. Elias tackled his opponent to the ground as a tall thin rail of a man stood over them—a pistol waving back and forth in his hand as each man fought for dominance on the ground in front of him.

Elias couldn’t win. If he gained the upper hand on the ground, he would be shot in the back. If he lost on the ground, he would be shot in the head.

Recognizing his impending defeat, the large man rolled onto his back. His face bloodied from a constant barrage of Elias’s fist, he grinned as he exposed Elias to the worst of fates—a bullet he would never see coming.