A Christmas Code (The Code Breakers Series Book 2) (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

They stood hidden next to an apple tree in the kitchen garden. He grabbed his wife by her arms and held her tightly. “
Ne pas être dans son assiette
. You are not well. Let me take you away from here.” He gestured to the giant manor house behind them.

Her once beautiful face was contorted in pain. She would resist, but their survival depended on their escape. “We must leave.”

She pulled away, sinking further into the snow. “I’ll not. It must be on Christmas day.” Her usual cold control was cracking, giving way to the volatile emotions that drove her. “The king killed our son. We must kill his son.”

She shivered from her violent emotions. “His Majesty will know the black pain of losing a child. May he never escape the living torment.”

He wanted to hold her and take away her suffering, but he was powerless to stop her grief.

If he had not eavesdropped on Fouche’s private meetings, he would never have known that it was the English behind the assassination plot. But in rage and helplessness, he had listened at the door, heard of the fate of their only son.

He couldn’t bear to lose his wife after losing Andre. If he didn’t get her away, he’d lose her too.

Their lives had been normal until the monster Napoleon killed or exiled anyone who didn’t fit into his plans to rule the world. Andre, a young Frenchman, with all the passions for Liberté, Égalité, and Fraternité was a sacrificial lamb in the unyielding grasp of Napoleon.

“We’ve got to leave before they find Lady Gwyneth.” He reached for her, but again she shook him off. “We’ll use our escape route and hide in London.”

“We could kill her and hide her body until the prince arrives.” Her voice was edging to the familiar rashness.

He couldn’t let her descend into hysteria, not again.

“We’d be hanged.” He used his soothing voice, the one that often helped her regain her control. “We must remain focused on our goal. With this snow, the prince may not be able to make the trip. We must leave soon or we’ll be trapped.”

“But it must be on Christmas.” Her eyes had the same wild, tormented look as the first year after Andre’s murder. “It must be just like Napoleon’s Christmas assassination plot. Our sweet, innocent Andre, taken away as a killer, when it was the British King and his minions who were the conspirators behind the plot to kill Napoleon.”

If only he’d never told her about the British and their role in the plot, if only they had remained in France, if only Andre hadn’t been killed.

Chapter Thirteen

Ash grasped the handrail as he descended the main staircase. He was wobbly, like a midshipman finding his sea legs. An iron will and determination to find Gwyneth kept him moving.

Ash didn’t know the way to the Edworth’s stillroom, but he assumed, like most estates, it was close to the kitchen garden. He would walk outside around to the back of the manor to avoid alerting his enemies.

Nodding to the footman at the door, he walked rapidly out into the night. The blast of cold air jolted him fully awake. A sudden memory of being doused with cold water flashed through his mind. What had Gwyneth been forced to do to keep him alive?

His feelings for gentle Gwyneth were overwhelming. As a spy, he could trust or rely on no one. But uninhibited Gwyneth had broken down all his hard-earned, emotional barriers. She would not let him remain alone. A crack in his cold spy heart had splintered wide open for the passionate Gwyneth.

He slogged through the drifts of heavy snow. His tall Hessians didn’t stop the ice from soaking his breeches and socks. Alert in the quiet, he listened to the night sounds. Light from the house shone on the glistening white blanket.

As he plowed through the kitchen garden, he saw a large wooden structure next to the main house. His stomach rolled in alarm and rage over what he might find. He had first-hand experience of the enemy’s violence, but he wasn’t sure what he would do if they had harmed Gwyneth. He pulled out his pistol. Touching the familiar cold metal steadied his churning emotions. The thought of an injured Gwyneth shattered his usual calm, detached approach to a mission.

There were no sounds in the winter stillness other than his harsh breathing.

He waited by the door of the stillroom, assessing the danger. The snow had been trampled by more than one set of footprints. He walked the perimeter of the building, evaluating the risk. No noises came from the completely dark shed.

One window on the backside was blocked by snowdrifts piled high. His nerves were tight and battle-ready but his hand stayed steady on his pistol. He returned to the front of the building.

Out of the line of fire, he kicked the door open. His heart slammed hard against his chest as he waited for a fraction of a second before turning the corner and making himself vulnerable. With his finger on the trigger, he silently slipped into the room.

The only sound was a moan. Gwyneth?

Gwyneth lay in the shadows, a crumpled heap on the brick floor. His hands were shaking as he tucked his pistol into his breeches.

He knelt next to her, touching her face. “Gwyneth? Darling?”

She moaned with the touch of his exploring fingers. A large, wet welt jutted from the side of her forehead.

Fury rushed through his body. He’d make the bastard beg for mercy.

He quickly ran his hands over her cold face. “I’ve got to get you back to house. We’ve got to warm you up.” His voice was tremulous, but talking aloud steadied him.

“I’m going to lift you. This will hurt.” A silent Gwyneth chilled his heart and soul. He needed his chatty, enthusiastic Gwyneth.

Gingerly, he lifted her into his arms. She moaned again. A good sign that she wasn’t unresponsive to the pain—an ominous sign in head injuries.

“You’re a load, my girl.” He kissed her temple as he pressed her against his chest, his heart filled with the unfamiliar feeling of tenderness for his courageous woman.

As he trudged through the snow, he was aware that his enemies might be close by. He wasn’t worried about protecting Gwyneth. He was primed, his muscles clenched, ready to kill anyone who might threaten them.

Hiding an injured Gwyneth from the household was going to be trickier. He walked to the back of the manor to go through the library’s French doors. He hoped that the men had retired for the night. The library always had a fire blazing and was well lit.

“Ash.” Brinsley moved quickly through the snow. His pistol was drawn.

At the sight of Gwyneth with blood on her face, Brinsley said, “Holy hell.” He opened the doors to the library. “How badly is she hurt?”

“Some bastard smashed her on the head. She’s got a nasty bump, but I’m more worried about how long she’s been out in the cold.”

Gwyneth moaned and Ash realized he had squeezed her tightly with the force of his explosive emotions.

“Darling, I’m sorry.” He carried her toward the blazing fire.

“Ash?” Gwyneth opened her eyes and looked up into his.

His cynical spy heart melted with unwavering love. “Thank God.”

Her voice was muted. Her face was pale and bruised, her thick black hair matted with blood, and she had never looked more beautiful.

“Brinsley, move the settee closer to the fire.”

Gwyneth, in his arms, twisted to talk with Brinsley. “You must find the cook. She’s out of her mind. She plans to kill the prince.”

“No need to worry about that right now.” Ash lowered her to the settee.

“Ash, they’re going to kill the prince.” She grabbed his arm as he was tucking a pillow under her head. “You’ve got to stop them.”

Ash tenderly pushed back Gwyneth’s hair to look more closely at her injury. “Brinsley, we need to get a doctor. Send for a footman.”

Ash gently guided Gwyneth’s shoulder. “Lie back down.”

Gwyneth batted at Ash’s hands. “I don’t need a doctor. I’m fine. Amelia and Lizzie can attend to me. You need to find Cook. She is out of her mind, and I don’t believe she plans to just bash the prince on the head like she did to me.”

“That woman did this to you?” Ash suppressed his need for revenge. He couldn’t beat the daylights out of a
woman
.

“She was crazed, insisting that I wouldn’t stop them from killing the prince. Something about the king killing their son and them getting revenge, but why would the Cook want to kill the prince?”

“Brinsley, pull the rope so I can summon Amelia and Lizzie.”

Brinsley walked to the fireplace and pulled the bell-cord.

Ash directed the footman to summon Amelia and Lizzie and to bring a basin of hot water. He walked back to Gwyneth and sat on the end of the settee. “Once we’ve got your wound cleaned, I’ll carry you to your room and get you out of these wet clothes.”

“I’m getting very toasty, Ash.” Gwyneth’s face was turning pink with the heat from the fire.

He opened her wet pelisse, exposing her lace night rail. When he saw the sexy, flimsy nightgown she had worn under her pelisse, shock and lust made his voice loud and rough. “You…aren’t dressed!”

Brinsley cleared his throat. “I’ll wait outside.”

Once Brinsley closed the door, Ash demanded, “Why aren’t you dressed?”

“I had to change into my night clothes so Lizzie wouldn’t become suspicious.”

“You went outside with no clothes on?”

“Ash, forget my clothes! You need to stop Cook before she escapes.”

Ash shook himself as if he were in a bad dream. Gwyneth, almost naked, had wandered the grounds looking for spies. “When I get back, we’re going to have a
serious
talk.”

The sparkle returning to her dark eyes and her plush lips curving into a sexy smile told him that the minx knew exactly what she was doing to him. Because when he got her alone, he wouldn’t be interested in talking.

He bent over her and kissed her tenderly. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

“I’m fine. Go. I’ll be here waiting for you after you’ve caught them.”

He pressed her palm to his lips then walked toward the door.

“And don’t you get hurt, James Henry Ashworth.”

Chapter Fourteen

Ash braved the cold night. Falling snow shimmered in the star-filled evening. Torn between duty and his concern for an injured Gwyneth, he was a tangle of extreme emotions. Most people were at home enjoying the holiday season, anticipating Christmas day, but he was forced to leave the woman he loved to pursue French spies. Battered, lying on the settee, Gwyneth, no melting debutante, had pushed him out the door to capture the conspirators. He smiled to himself. She was perfect—a perfect wife for a spy.

His need for revenge on Gwyneth’s assailant wouldn’t be satisfied—he wouldn’t be able to achieve justice by pummeling the attacker since she was an old woman. But he’d certainly make sure she went to prison for a very long time.

Brinsley and four of the hearty stablemen, all military, stood huddled together. Two of the men held lanterns over Foster, a military scout, who was bent over the tracks leading into the woods.

“How many are there?” Ash asked.

“Only two. One is definitely a man. Those prints are much larger than the other set. I’d say a woman and a man.” Foster would have no trouble tracking Cook and her conspirators. “Also, the tracks are relatively new.”

“They might be planning to meet their associates.” Ash looked at the grim, determined faces of his hand-selected soldiers. “Are you ready to find our French enemies?”

The men nodded their heads.

Foster, lantern in hand, went ahead of everyone. Ash, following Foster, led the armed men in single file into the heavy thicket of woods behind Edworth manor. Brinsley brought up the rear. “Douse the lanterns,” Ash commanded.

They walked in silence, listening to the stirrings of the wind and a night owl complain. The snow buffered the sounds, turning the woods and gardens into a hushed, silvery world.

Foster continued to follow the tracks until he came to a small clearing. He signaled Ash to come forward. “They rested here.”

Ash looked at the snow and the jumble of random footprints. He trusted Foster’s tracking experience. “Did more join them?”

“No, these are the same two sets of prints. “

Ash nodded. He signaled to his men to keep moving.

They walked deeper into the woods. The cold penetrated their feet and their exposed hands, gripping their guns. Alert to the danger of a possible trap, they ignored the cold as the least of their worries.

Ash heard a muffled sound, approaching footsteps. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He raised one hand to signal the men to stop and remain silent. Foster pointed toward a clearing twenty yards ahead. Ash turned toward the line of men behind him and gestured for them to encircle the enemies.

He pointed to Brinsley to follow him and to Foster to fall back. He didn’t want Foster in the line of fire.

With his gun pointed, he walked toward the sound. Brinsley followed behind. As he got closer to the clearing, he spotted the dark clothing between the trees. The snow was working to his advantage, providing a stark contrast.

In a hushed voice, he whispered to Brinsley, “Cover me. I want to make them believe I’m alone—draw out the others if they’re hiding.”

Brinsley gave a thumbs-up.

Discarding stealth, Ash allowed the heavy sound of his boots dragging through the snow and the sound of branches breaking under his feet. Nonchalantly, Ash walked into the opening, where Brunton, the butler, pushed a middle-aged woman behind him. “She had nothing to do with it. It was me.” He used his butler’s authoritarian voice.

The tension coiled in Ash’s body relaxed—the butler wasn’t armed. Ash stepped closer to get a look at the woman, who was blocked from his view.

“No, Brunton.” The woman shoved Brunton and stepped into the clearing. She raised a pistol that appeared too old to fire and aimed the damn gun right at Ash. Aimed at his heart, she pulled the hammer back. “One dead Englishman is better than none. For our French son.”

“No, Ismay. No!” Brunton grabbed her arm, causing her shot to go wild.

Ash dropped to the ground as a pistol shot shattered the silence. Brinsley had fired from behind a tree at close range. Unlike the woman’s gunshot, Brinsley’s shot struck her in the center of her chest. She tipped back, dropping stiffly to the ground, her blood soaking into the white snow.