Fire at Midnight (14 page)

Rachael felt his eyes upon her even before she located him in the room. He was not seated near a wall, with his back and sides protected as she had expected. His choice of a center table was bold and reckless. Aware she was the subject of his blistering regard, she took a deep breath and forced herself to approach.

Two steps from his table, she hesitated, and the perceptive smirk that molded his lips goaded her into taking the chair opposite him. The clamor in the noisy pub provided a welcome buffer against the awkward silence. She had no idea what to say to him.

His eyes never left her face as he poured rum into his glass. The liquor splattered across the top of the knotty table.

“You came here to talk,” he said gruffly. “So, talk.” He slid the half-empty bottle across the table toward her, along with a grimy glass. “That should loosen your tongue.”

“You’ll not want my tongue loosened. It may venture my opinion of you.”

He shrugged. “Drink to give yourself courage, then.”

Was it so obvious she was terrified? Rachael poured a finger of rum into the dirty glass and stared down at the amber liquid. “Why? Because you would prefer to dull my wits?”

The first of Jacques’s men entered the pub. A moment later, two others followed, trailed by three more.

“Even an insignificant enemy can be deadly under the right circumstances.”

His black-fringed, bright gaze swept their surroundings, and then cut back to her. There was no humor in his smile. “I would not call you an insignificant enemy, Rachael.”

The well-aimed barb earned a scowl from her, but she also felt a pang of remorse. He was about to learn she
was
his enemy, despite her having been forced into the role, but she didn’t want to be his enemy. She didn’t want to be here. She only wanted her brother back.

Sebastién startled her by bellowing a jovial greeting as someone approached the table. She gazed up in awe as a man who looked like a giant from a folk tale joined them. He was a tall, ponderous column of muscle and sinew with a crop of white-blond hair and small, bright blue eyes.

He glanced her way but did not acknowledge her.
He must be The Dane.
He fit the description given by Jacques. She watched as the man revealed that he also sported a
fleur-de-lis
on his upper right arm similar to the mark Sebastién wore.

Sebastién conversed with the man in French, for the purpose of excluding her, no doubt. The blond giant grunted a reply, and Sebastién thumped the huge man on the back, laughing when the other pretended to stagger from the blow.

His manner changed when he was with someone he trusted. His eyes were wide and amused, his face smooth and open. In any mood, he was an incredibly handsome man, but this side of him made her heart ache. By contrast, there was only suspicion in his eyes when he looked at her. If only he were not capable of such despicable acts. If only he had not kidnapped her brother. If only …

Still smiling, he watched as the fair giant ambled toward the far end of the pub. When he turned and saw that she studied him, it was as if a shutter had been drawn. His expression became remote.
Guarded.
She was, after all, the enemy.

Jacques’s men would seize him at any moment. The knowledge gave her no comfort at all. Instead, it made her want to justify her participation in the plot against him to lessen the guilt she felt. The noise in the pub was becoming a din, and she had to raise her voice to be heard.

“What I told you at the cottage was the truth. I have been my uncle’s victim, and I have been your victim. You betrayed me by showing me kindness when what you really are is a scoundrel.”

“By all means, be candid,
mademoiselle.”

He was listening with brutal attention to every word she said. The skin had whitened around his mouth, and his vibrant eyes gleamed. A muscle leapt along his cheek, as if he ground his teeth. She spotted several of Jacques’s men lining the corners of the pub, their eyes upon their quarry. She was in no danger from him; she could speak her mind freely. He had to shoulder some of the responsibility for the situation in which they found themselves.

“If I am your enemy now, you have only yourself to blame. Anyone willing to endanger a baby is a scoundrel—”

She uttered a sharp cry of surprise when his hands closed over her wrists, jerking her forward and pinning her to the table, palms down. She lay across the knotty wood, the thick plank bruising her ribs, her face only inches from his.

Rachael dared not move, and no one seemed inclined to come to her aid. She cringed as her focus moved outward from the creases near his eyes to the flare of his nostrils above the silky mustache and the cruel set of his mouth. He looked furious. Her throat was dry and she swallowed, wincing. She had bitten her tongue.

“Do I risk having you label me a scoundrel by drawing attention to the fact that I have caught you in a lie?
You
are the one who was willing to offer your brother as a guarantee—or should I say
bait
—so that I might be persuaded to agree to this meeting.”

Rachael stared at him, dumbfounded. “I did no such thing! You abducted James and left a note—”

“I should like to see this note,” he growled.

“How can you deny it? You must know that I would not willingly venture within a thousand miles of you!”

He released his grip on her as if her words had stung him, and she slumped back into the chair.

“I assure you that if I had desired a reunion, I would not have arranged it in this manner.” Outrage and insult darkened his face. She suspected he had spoken in earnest.

“You must know that I would not risk my brother for any reason.”

“The fact remains that a squalling, smelly bundle was deposited on my doorstep, complete with a note from you requesting this meeting and offering the child as guarantee of my safety.”

“Are you implying that Jacques had my brother kidnapped and delivered to you?”

“Not exactly.” He appeared about to say more, but frowned at her instead as a look of suspicion crossed his face.

“I should like to see the note,” she said.

“You will have to believe what I say is true,
non?”
His mouth twisted at the irony. “I did not come here to harm you, Rachael. I came because your note claimed you could prove you had nothing to do with Prussia Cove.”

“You would have been willing to listen?” The possibility astounded her, but more than that, it gave her hope. She caught a glimpse of something in his flinty eyes that made her pause. Had it been hurt? Regret?

“Despite what you may think, I am not a monster. I would not use an infant as a shield. This concerns only the two of us, and perhaps the real informer.” When she perked, he brusquely added, “If you are, as you say, not the guilty party.”

“I assure you I am not.” The air fairly rang with his unvoiced challenge. “Can I assume that your plan to have me drawn and quartered has been deferred?”

He threw back his head and laughed, eyes glittering; or was it a trick of the light? He seemed in rare good spirits, under the circumstances. But then, he did not know that his brother was preparing to arrest him, with her cooperation.

Had Jacques tricked them both? Had he arranged for James to be taken to Sebastién’s cottage? He had known she was reluctant to cooperate. How far would he have gone to guarantee her participation?

“Murder is a more useful threat than a solution,
ma chère.
The world is a harsh, at times ugly place. Why would I want to destroy what little beauty I find in it?”

His eyes rested on her lips, the meaning of his words made clear by the warm light in their depths. Her gaze was drawn to his full, sensuous mouth, and she suddenly recalled the feel of his lips on hers. The memory was unsettling because it made her ache with a yearning she knew could never be fulfilled.

Rachael felt like a rabbit that had wandered into a snare, reeling with instincts that shouted, “Beware!” too late to be of any value. She had come prepared to entrap him, but it was she who had been caught. If Jacques’s plan succeeded, Sebastién would believe that she had lied to him all along. Her opportunity to convince him that she had never acted against him would be lost forever.

He did not seem to intend James any harm, but what would happen to her brother if he did not return? Was Jacques willing to sacrifice her brother in order to see his plan succeed? Jacques might be, but she was not. If she warned Sebastién about the trap, he might be grateful enough to return her brother to her.

The tavern swarmed with people, and it seemed to Rachael that every other man was a soldier in disguise. She glanced around the room, noting that men skirted the inside perimeter of the pub. The exits were blocked. Jacques’s men were a sober contrast to the rowdy revelers who danced and caroused throughout the small room.

She and Sebastién seemed to be the only two people still seated, while the rest frolicked. Tension mounted within her until she felt she might scream. He was about to be apprehended, or killed. Why did she feel an overwhelming urge to warn him?

She met his eyes and his brow rose in inquiry, as if he sensed her indecision. On impulse, she reached out and grasped his arm. He stared down at the sight of her delicate hand pressed against his muscular forearm and glanced up at her, expression wary.

“Sebastién, this is a trap,” she blurted.

W
hen his face registered only a subtle change in expression, she concluded that he had not heard her. There must be no misunderstanding between them, even if she had to repeat the bitter mouthful. Not this time.

“This is a trap,” she repeated, voice rising. “If you never again believe anything I tell you, please believe me now, for your own sake! There are soldiers—”

“How many?” The urgency in his voice belied his placid expression as he turned to scan the room.

“At least twenty, perhaps more.” She stared, perplexed by his calm.

“Weapons?”

“Yes.” He fixed her with a look of exasperation, and she cringed and stammered, “P-pistols and swords.”

“Led by?”

She hesitated. “Your brother.”

Sebastién nodded, his face a mask. He considered her for a long moment, and then reached into the folds of his cloak.

“One more question,” he said. “Have you ever seen this before?” He withdrew his hand and opened his palm to reveal an elaborate signet ring.

She sensed that he would not allow her to take it from him in order to examine it more closely. She leaned forward and peered at the ring.

“It looks like one I’ve seen my uncle wear,” she said. She knew better than to inquire how it had ended up in his possession.

“Bon”
was all he said. He looked inordinately pleased.

“I have a pistol in the pocket of my cloak,” she volunteered. She began to reach for it, but he shook his head, freezing her with a look.

“Produce a pistol, and I can guarantee the result,” he cautioned. He looked at her with an odd expression on his face, a mixture of warmth, approval, and amusement. “The number of men, the types of weapons, their leader, the owner of the ring—all the truth. I applaud your honesty. Was the last minute warning part of the plan, or just a frill you added on your own?”

“My own idea, entirely.” He had mercilessly baited her and enjoyed every moment of it! “May I ask why you came, when you knew it was a trap?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps I was intrigued by what you might have to say. Perhaps to discover why you had aligned with my brother.” He reached out and cupped her chin, exerting mild pressure until she met his eyes. “Perhaps I simply wanted to see you again.”

“Whatever the reason, I hope you found the reunion worth your freedom, perhaps even your life.”

His thumb plied her lower lip, sending a shiver coursing through her that she felt all the way to her core.

“It has been a pleasant reunion,
ma chère,
but hardly worth death or imprisonment.”

“You’re trapped,” she pointed out. “Unless you’re a magician, your fate is certain.”

Undaunted, he indicated the room with a broad sweep of his hand. “Keep your eyes open, beautiful English girl. You may indeed see magic.”

She paused to look around her, stunned to realize they were at the center of a throng of smugglers, sailors, and doxies who kept the scattered regiment of soldiers at the perimeter from pushing through their ranks. Jacques’s men were unable to reach them at the heart of the hubbub.

“Either you have many friends, or this evening has set you back a good price,” she said dryly. “If you fight, some of your friends might be killed.”

“No one is going to die on my behalf.”

“Then you intend to surrender?”

“Non.”
He seemed surprised by the suggestion.

“Am I your hostage, then?”

“Would you like to be?”

His smile did not waver when his eyes squarely met hers. He was enjoying himself, and all at her expense. As she glared at him, he lifted the shallow glass of rum she had poured, saluted her with it, downed the contents in a single gulp, and smacked his lips in appreciation.

“I don’t know what else you would expect me to think,” she huffed. “I am sure the soldiers are content to wait at the exits for you.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed as he rose from his chair, “but that is not the plan.” He stretched to his full height with the languor of a jungle cat, and then strolled around to stand beside her. Smiling, he grasped her elbows and pulled her to her feet.

The action was some sort of signal; cleverly choreographed pandemonium broke out, escalating into a riot. The revelers began to attack one another, shifting the attention of the soldiers away from them.

The crowd cleaved a pathway that closed behind them as quickly as it opened. They made their way toward the barkeep, who stood calmly polishing a tankard, his eyes on them as they approached. When they reached him, the barkeep flung down the tankard and swung aside a tapestry that concealed a narrow opening barely large enough to be called a door.

The portal was swiftly unlatched, and Rachael felt the grip on her tighten. Sebastién’s face was resolute as he propelled her toward the opening. She tried to hang back, and then struggled to wrench free, but he locked an arm around her waist and half-lifted her through the opening. He prevented her escape by stooping and pulling his long-limbed form into the tiny, low-ceilinged cubicle after her, using his body to block her exit.