Chapter Three
T he worst of the storm had blown itself out by dawn. From the crest of the cliff, Valencia surveyed the gunmetal grey seas and decided it was safe enough to venture a swim in the shallow part of the bay. The wind had died down to a stiff breeze, and as she picked her way down to the strand, it seemed almost calm.
Ebb and flow. The forces of nature had their own immutable rhythm. Only a fool tried to challenge such elemental truths. Sometimes the prudent course of action was to hunker down in a snug shelter with a good book and a glass of fine French brandy.
Her lips quirked as she shifted her hold on a jug of spirits. She rarely drank, but this was a particularly good vintage, and its warmth had been most welcome last night. After her swim, she would leave it as a gift for Harry Holcroft, the elderly farmer who often shared his catch of rabbits with her.
Valencia’s smile faded as she spotted a splintered spar and scrap of canvas floating in the surf. Why were men so reckless? The Channel coast was notoriously treacherous at this time of year. What reason was worth risking a life for, she wondered grimly. Any captain worth his salt should have known better than to challenge the storm.
More wreckage littered the beach. She stepped over a tangle of rigging and swore softly. “Damn fools,” she began—and then broke into a run.
The body had washed ashore at the far end of the crescent cove and was lying face down on the smooth stones.
Valencia crouched down and took gentle hold of the man’s sodden coat. There was no movement, no sign of life as her fingers felt for a pulse. His flesh was cold as marble.
Poor devil. It would take a miracle for him to have survived the storm. Gritting her teeth for the worst, she slowly turned him over.
And nearly swooned in shock.
Despite the muddled bruises and tangled hair, the face confronting her was all too familiar. A ghost from another life, come back to haunt her.
Valencia bit back an oath. As if her own thoughts were not disturbing enough.
The man suddenly stirred, a whispered sigh slipping from his salt cracked lips, along with retching sound that brought up a spill of salt water.
“Hell and damnation.” This time she said it aloud .
Of all the cursed luck. There were countless coves and rocky beaches along the jagged coastline of her island. And yet, by some perverse twist of fate, the Marquess of Lynsley had landed here.
Forcing her to come face to face with her past.
Waves of crimson buffeted his body. His hands, his face, his clothing were wet with burning blood. He tried to move his feet, but the swirling currents held him down. The cry for help was growing fainter. Too late, too late. Her voice was lost in a scream . . .
“Milord?”
The dream ended as always—engulfing him in a wrenching feeling of helplessness. But as Lynsley slowly opened his eyes, he thought for a moment that he was hallucinating. Were his past sins now coming back to plague him in consciousness as well as sleep? The Bournemouth mission had been the worst of his failings. He should have anticipated the trouble. He should have aborted the attack. He should have . . .
“Awake, are you?”
Her voice was not quite as he remembered it. A note of cynicism overshadowed the confidence of old, giving it a harder edge. How many years had it been? Nine? Ten?
No doubt they had both changed past recognition.
“Here, you had better try to drink something,” added Valencia.
“Thank you,” he murmured, after a swallow of the hot broth. “Where am I?”
“The isle of Sark,” she said brusquely. “Near Maseline. I assume your ship foundered in the storm.”
“Yes.” Lynsley closed his eyes, recalling the fury of the wind whipping through the rigging. “We would have weathered it, but the rudder pin snapped and we were at the mercy of the wind and waves.”
“The captain should never have chanced a journey with such a gale blowing in.”
“It was not the man’s fault,” he replied. “The matter was most urgent. If anyone is to blame, it is I.”
Valencia didn’t answer. Turning away, she began to fuss with a tray on the bedside table. He heard the clink of cutlery and the rattle of earthenware dishes. “Can you manage a bite of porridge?” she asked. “I’ve brought hot water and can make some tea as well, if you like.”
“Tea would be most welcome.”
The flickering candlelight illuminated her profile as she worked. Valencia. The Spanish name had a sinuous, sultry sound that suited her looks. She was still breathtakingly beautiful. Her hair, lustrous as polished ebony, fell in shimmering waves over her shoulders. If anything, the years had strengthened the line of her cheekbones, the arch of her neck. There was a new depth to her seagreen gaze, and the ripple of shadows beneath the surface only added to the allure of mystery.
A man could drown in such eyes . . .
Lowering his lashes, Lynsley found himself wondering if she had ever married. Many men must have asked.
But then, perhaps she did have a husband and a gaggle of children sitting in the next room. He knew nothing about her life since that stormy afternoon at the Academy when she had refused a desk assignment and handed in her resignation.
Bloody hell. He had bungled that meeting badly. He should have sensed her vulnerability and done better at softening the blow. It was yet another shortcoming, one he had recognized only too late.
He had tried to track her down, but ironically, her training had allowed her to disappear without a trace.
“Do you live here alone?” Lynsley finally asked. A quick glance around the small bedchamber revealed nothing to indicate the presence of a man in her life.
“That is really no concern of yours, Lord Lynsley,” she replied coolly.
“ I was not trying to pry, Valencia. I merely wish to know that you are . . . well.”
“I don’t need a man to take care of me.” Her chin took on a martial jut. “Wasn’t that one of the very first lessons you had drummed into us at the Academy?”
Heaving a small sigh, the marquess abandoned any further attempt to make small talk. He didn’t have the strength to engage in a bout of verbal fencing. His mind was still muzzy, his body weakened by surging shivers of hot and cold.
Glass clinked against metal. “I’ve mixed a draught to bring down the fever,” she said. “You should try and get some rest.”
She was right. He could not afford any weakness of the flesh—or feelings—to upset his plans. Swallowing the medicine in silence, he let himself drift into sleep. On waking, he must be ready to move on.
Valencia reached out to smooth the tangled hair from the marquess’s brow. His flesh was still a touch feverish, but the labored rasp had eased from his breathing. It was a good sign. Inflammation of the lungs was a real danger after such an ordeal.
Her hand lingered for a moment, tracing the jut of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw . . .
She drew her fingers away as if burned and set to making up a cold compress. She would not allow his reappearance in her life, however shocking, to upset her hard-won peace of mind. Fate had thrown them together.
But thankfully, Duty would quickly draw them apart.
Duty. As she wrung out the felt and folded it over his forehead, she couldn’t help wondering what had brought him to be sailing the Channel in a raging gale. Not a holiday, that was for sure. The marquess was all business and no pleasure.
Finished with the task, Valencia took up the candle and withdrew from the darkened bedchamber. The parlor was filled with the pale, pearlescent light of dawn, but rather than lighten her spirits, she found herself feeling as if a black cloud was hanging over her head.
Bloody hell. She looked around the snug cottage. Whitewashed walls, cheery chintzes, soft wool rugs, wooden beams polished to the patina of aged sherry—she had painstakingly crafted every detail. It was a cozy, comfortable space. It was her world, her home. She would not let the Marquess of Lynsley darken the one place she felt safe.
Wandering into the kitchen, she lit the stove and set the kettle on the hob. Tea . Valencia allowed a reluctant smile. Along with Mrs. Merlin’s famed strawberry tarts, it was served to sooth taut nerves during critical meetings at the Academy. The headmistress claimed that sustenance helped one to think clearly in times of stress.
She took a seat by the window and sipped the strong, fragrant brew. Perhaps there was some measure of truth in the idea. Somehow, she did feel marginally more relaxed. The warmth of her own hand-picked pottery, the smell of fresh-cut herbs from her garden hanging over the work table, the soft whistling of the still-boiling water was comforting.
Lord Lynsley had asked obliquely about a husband. Well, she didn’t need a man in her life to be happy. Her chin rose a fraction. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been asked. A number of proposals had come her way. Despite her physical flaw, the opposite sex still seemed to find her . . . attractive.
Catching a glimpse of her own reflection in the leaded glass, she studied her features. To her own eye, her mouth was a little too wide, her nose a trifle too long for true beauty. But men seemed to find the thick, curling tumble of her tresses alluring, even though their color was black as a raven’s wing, rather than a sweet, shimmering gold.
Light and dark.
She was after all, a creature of shadows.
Perhaps that was why she had chosen to live alone. Oh, there had been the occasional discreet affairs. Trained in the swashbuckling skills of a man’s world, she saw no reason why she couldn’t play by the same rules as they did. But she had never let anyone come too close.
And that wasn’t about to change.
Swirling the dregs of her drink, Valencia set the cup aside. She didn’t need a gypsy’s skill at reading tea leaves to predict that the Marquess of Lynsley would soon be just another memory.
Lynsley awoke feeling ready to analyze the situation with some measure of his usual clear-headed logic. It had been shock as well as exhaustion that had dulled his wits on first regaining consciousness from his watery ordeal. Seeing Valencia had been like seeing a ghost of his past shortcomings.
Or sins.
God only knew if he had been right to ask so much of the young orphan girls whom he chose for admission into Mrs. Merlin’s Academy.
But any thought of penance would have to be put off until some later time.
Right now, he had a mission to accomplish and nothing must distract him. Already precious time had been wasted.
Wincing, the marquess slowly sat up and flexed his limbs to assess the damage. No broken bones, he decided, just a welter of bumps and bruises. He would be moving rather gingerly for the next few days.
But move he must.
Damn. Already an obstacle stood in his way. His portmanteau had, of course, been lost at sea. He would need fresh clothing and enough funds to arrange a crossing to the coast of Normandy. Out of old habit, he had taken the precaution of sewing some gold coins into the lining of his coat. Had they survived the storm?
Gritting his teeth, Lynsley swung his legs to the floor, wondering where to start looking . . .
“You ought not try to rise, sir,” came a chiding voice from the shadowed doorway. “If there is something you need, I shall fetch it for you.”
“I need my clothes, to begin with.” Aware that the flannel nightshirt barely covered his calves, Lynsley hitched the blanket over his legs. “And directions to the closest fishing harbor.”
“Anxious to be on your way?” Her voice was sharp, sarcastic. “I am sorry to hear my humble hospitality is not to your liking, milord.”
“Whatever my feelings, they are irrelevant,” he replied. “As you know, a mission takes precedence over all else.”
Flint struck steel and a candle flared to life. “Your clothes are in tatters and you—you are in no condition to be up and about.”
“I’ve faced far worse in the past. I’ll manage,” said Lynsley calmly. The light flickered over her frown, leaving her eyes wreathed in darkness. “Though in this instance, time is of the essence, so I don’t mind admitting that I could use your help.”
Valencia gave a bitter laugh. “Why you?” she asked abruptly.
He didn’t answer for a moment. “There was no one else ready.” A glimmer of a smile played on his lips. “Over the last year, I’ve lost my three best Merlins.”
“Dead?” she demanded.
“Married,” he replied softly.
“It must have been a sore blow to discover that they loved a mere mortal more than their duty,” she snapped.
Lynsley closed his eyes. “You didn’t used to be so cynical, Valencia.”
“I didn’t used to be crippled either.”
For a moment, the only sound in the bedchamber was the smoky hiss of the peat fire. Then she seemed to regret her harshness and expelled a sharp sigh. “That was unfair.”
“Not really,” replied the marquess. “But I cannot change the past. Neither of us can.”
There was an awkward silence, as she mixed a spoonful of dark powder into a glass of water. “A draught of willowbark will help ease the aches and pains.”
“Perhaps you would rather make it hemlock,” he said dryly.
Her lips twitched but Valencia didn’t reply. Instead she asked, “Who are you after?”
Truth or lies? Deception was often the difference between life and death during a mission. Lynsley hesitated a fraction before making his decision.
“Pierre Rochambert.”
The spoon slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
He reached down and retrieved it from the rug.
“Pierre Rochambert.” Slowly swiping the pewter against her sleeve, Valencia finished her stirring, then carefully set it aside.
“Yes.” He tried to catch a glimpse of her face, but she had already turned away, hiding behind the ebony veil of her hair. Glass clinked against glass, the brittle sounds followed by the scrape of metal as she put away the box of medicines.
Lynsley heard her draw in a harsh breath, then let it out ever so slowly.
“Very well. I’ll help.” Her eyes met his. “But only on one condition.”
“And what is that?”
“I go with you.”
The demand took Lynsley completely by surprise. He had been expecting her to ask for a promise to respect her privacy and forget all about this chance encounter. Using the swirl of shadows to mask his expression, he replied, “Revenge is not a good motive for a mission. The risks are great enough without emotion coming into play.”
“That is the deal. Take it or leave, milord.”
“Valencia—”
“However, I should warn you that without my vouching, you won’t get far,” she added with deliberate nonchalance. “The locals are wary of strangers, and you’re not carrying enough gold to overcome their suspicions.”
An oath slipped from Lynsley’s lips. Naturally, she would know all the standard tricks of the trade. “That’s blackmail,” he growled.
“But of course. It’s part of our basic training at the Academy,” she replied evenly.
“You’ve been taught too well,” he muttered.
Sparks glinted in her gaze as she turned away. A mere reflection of the candleflame, he wondered. Or the stirring of some inner fire?
“I haven’t forgotten the lessons of the past, sir,” came a low whisper.
“Would that you recalled the ones regarding obeying a direct order,” he said with a harried sigh.
Valencia’s shoulders stiffened. “I am no longer under your command.”
“Then let me phrase it as a request,” he said. “Let me handle this on my own.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, but I can’t.”
Lynsley swore again. “Bloody hell! Don’t you see that such a reckless, obstinate attitude jeopardizes the chances?—”
A low laugh caused him to cut off his ire.
“Sorry,” she said again, a half smile softening the sardonic set of her mouth. “But an outburst of emotion from the unflappable Lord Lynsley is something of a shock.” The twitch of her lips stilled. “You know, among the Merlins you were known as ‘The Sphinx’ because your expression was always an enigma. Indeed, it appeared carved out of stone. None of us could ever guess at what you were really thinking.”
“I imagine you have some inkling of my thoughts right now,” he replied tersely.
“Yes—you wish me to Hades. But you have to admit, sir, that we are both creatures of the Underworld, at home in the swirl of murk and shadows.”
“But as you just said, it is no longer your world,” he reminded her. “You can’t have it both ways, Valencia.”
“No, not if I am bound by your rules, milord. However, I no longer feel I have to play fair.”
“Damn it, this isn’t a game,” he growled.
Valencia turned, the sudden swoosh of wool stirring the tension between them as she jerked her skirts up. Holding the candle close to her bared leg, she let out a harsh sigh. “I’ve lived with that knowledge for ten years.”
The scar, an angry red slash of puckered flesh, started just above her left knee and cut the length of her thigh. The full impact was obscured by the delicate lace of her drawers. But Lynsley recalled the surgeon’s report, describing in gristly detail the damage the Frenchman’s knife had done to muscle and sinew.
He looked away.
“Not a pretty sight, is it, milord?” The cloth fell back place.
“I . . .” His throat tightened. What could he say?
“I don’t want your pity, Lord Lynsley,” she said roughly. “I want a chance?—”
“For what? Revenge? Redemption?”
“Perhaps a little of both,” she said with a wry sigh.
“Valencia, please reconsider.”
“No, sir. And that’s flat.” Her face was once again a mask of martial resolve. “We go together, or the mission is off.”
He drew in a long breath and held it pent up until his lungs threatened to burst. Duty. Desire. Did he really have a choice? “Then I have no alternative but to accept your terms. However, I, too, have a condition.”
Her sable lashes fluttered in the gloom. “Which is?”
“You must agree that I am in command. For any chance of success, a mission of this nature must be run with military precision. If I cannot depend on your following orders without question, I won’t put your life—or mine—at risk.”
Valencia didn’t answer right away.
“Yes or no. Black and white—in this there are no subtle shades of grey,” he added.
“Very well, sir. I accept your conditions.” She snapped off a mock salute before pulling up a chair.
“So, what’s the plan of attack?”