In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (40 page)

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A man seemed to appear from nowhere. He materialized directly in their path, a man in a gray suit. His face was scarcely worth noting; it was the gun in his hand that drew Clea’s stunned gaze.

She was already pivoting away to the left when the first shot rang out. Something slammed into her shoulder, shoving her away. Jordan. In what seemed like slow motion she caught a flash of Jordan’s tweed jacket as he lunged against her, and then she was stumbling sideways, falling to her knees onto the platform. The impact of the pavement sent a shock wave straight up her spine. The pain in her head was almost blinding.

Screams erupted all around her. She scrambled back to her feet, at the same time twisting around to locate the attacker. The platform was a melee of panicked bodies scattering in every direction. Jordan still shielded her from a clear view, but over his shoulder she caught a glimpse of the gunman.

Just as he caught a glimpse of her. He raised his pistol.

The shot was like a thunderclap. Clea flinched, but she felt no pain, no impact, nothing but astonishment that she was still alive.

On the gunman’s face was registered equal astonishment. He stared down at his chest, where the crimson stain of blood was rapidly blossoming across his shirt. He wobbled, dropped to his knees.

“Get out of here!” barked a voice somewhere off to the side.

Clea turned and saw a second man with a gun standing a few yards away. Frantically he waved at her to get moving.

The man in the gray suit was crawling on hands and knees now, gurgling, cursing, still refusing to drop his 374

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pistol. It took a firm push from Jordan to propel Clea forward. Suddenly her legs were working again. She began to run along the edge of the platform, every pounding footstep like another nail being driven into her aching head. She could hear Jordan right behind her, could hear the shouts of confusion echoing in their wake. They reached the rear of the train, leapt off onto the tracks and dashed across to the opposite platform.

Clea scrambled up first. Jordan seemed to be lagging behind. She paused to grab his hand and haul him up from the tracks.

“Don’t wait for me,” he gasped as they sprinted for the steps. “Just go—the parking lot—”

“I have to wait for you! You have the bloody car keys!” The Jaguar was double-parked near the station gate.

Jordan tossed Clea his keys. “You’d better drive,” he said.

She didn’t stop to argue. She slid in behind the wheel and threw the car into gear. They screeched out of the lot.

Farther up the road the sound of sirens drew close. The police were headed for the station, thought Clea; they weren’t interested in
her.

She was right. Two police cars sped right past them and kept going.

Clea glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that the road behind them was empty. “No one seems to be following us. I think we’re all right.”

“For now.”

“You said we were tailed from Chetwynd. How did you know?”

“I wasn’t sure at first. I kept seeing a black MG on the road behind us. Then it dropped out of sight. That’s why I didn’t mention it. I thought it was gone.”
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“But you came back to get me.”

“On the way out of the gate I saw the MG again. It was pulling in to a parking space. That’s when I realized…” Grimacing, he shifted in his seat. “Are you going to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“Someone just tried to kill us.”

“That I think I knew. Who was the gunman?”

“You mean his name?” She shook her head. Just that movement brought the throbbing back to her skull. “No idea.”

“And the other man? The one who just saved our lives?”

“I don’t know his name, either. But…” She paused. “I think I’ve seen him before. In London. The Underground.”

“Your guardian angel?”

“But this time
you
saw him. So I guess he’s not an angel at all.” She glanced in the mirror. Still no one following them. Breathing more easily, she thought ahead to what came next. Chetwynd?

As if he’d read her mind, he said, “We can’t go back to Chetwynd. They’ll be expecting that.”

“
You
could go back.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“You’re not the one they want.”

“Are you going to tell me who
they
are?”

“The same people who blew up Guy Delancey’s car.”

“These people—are they connected with this mysterious Belgian? Or was that just another fable?”

“It’s the truth. Sort of.”

He groaned. “Sort of?”

She glanced sideways and she noticed that his jaw was tightly squared.
He must be as terrified as I am,
she thought.

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“I think I have the right to know the whole truth,” he said.

“Later. When I’ve carved us out some breathing space.” She nudged the accelerator. The Jaguar responded with a quiet purr and a burst of speed. “Right now, I just want to get the hell out of this county. When we hit London—”

“London?” He shook his head. “You think it’ll be that easy? Just cruise down the highway? If they’re as dangerous as you say, they’ll have the main roads covered.” And a pale gold Jaguar wasn’t a car they’d be likely to miss, she realized. She’d have to ditch the Jag. And maybe the man, as well. He’d be better off without her. Trouble seemed to attach itself to her like iron filings to a magnet, and when the next crisis hit, she didn’t want Jordan caught in the cross fire. She owed him that much.

“There’s a turnoff coming up,” he said. “Take it.”

“Where does it go?”

“Back road.”

“To London?”

“No. It’ll take us to an inn. I know the proprietors.

There’s a barn where we can hide the car.”

“And how do I get to London?”

“We don’t. We stay put for a while and get our bearings.

Then we figure out our next move.”

“I say our next move is to keep going! On foot if we have to! I won’t hang around this neighborhood any longer than—”

“But I’m afraid I’ll have to,” he murmured.

She glanced sideways again. What she saw almost made her swerve off the road in horror.

He had pulled back the edge of his jacket and was staring down at his shirt. Bright splotches of blood stained the fine linen.

Seven

“Oh, my god,” said Clea. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not serious.”

“How the hell can you tell?”

“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”

“Oh, that’s just
wonderful.
” She spun the wheel and sent the Jag in a dizzying U-turn. “We’re going to a hospital.”

“No.” He reached over and grabbed her hand. “They’d be on you in a flash.”

“What am I supposed to do? Let you bleed to death?”

“I’m all right. I think it’s stopped.” He looked down again at his shirt. The stains didn’t seem to be spreading.

“What’s the cliché? ‘It’s only a flesh wound’?”

“What if it isn’t? What if you’re bleeding internally?”

“I’ll be the first to beg for help. Believe me,” he added with a pained smile, “I’m truly a coward at heart.”
A coward?
she thought. Not this man. He was the least cowardly man she knew.

“Go to the inn,” he insisted. “If this is really serious, I can call for help.”

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Reluctantly she made another U-turn and headed back the way they’d been going. The turnoff brought them onto a narrow road lined by hedgerows. Through gaps in the foliage she spied a patchwork of fields and stone walls. The hedgerows gave way to a graveled driveway, and they pulled up at last in front of the Munstead Inn. A cottage garden, its blossoms fading into autumn, lined the front walk.

Clea scrambled out of the car to help Jordan to his feet.

“Let me walk on my own,” he said. “Best to pretend nothing’s wrong.”

“You might faint.”

“I’d never do anything so embarrassing.” Grunting, he managed to slide out of the car and stand without her assistance. He made it on his own power through the garden and up the front steps.

Their knock on the door was answered by an elderly gentleman whose peat-colored trousers hung limp on his bony frame. He peered at them through bifocals, then ex-claimed in pleasure, “Why, if it isn’t young Mr. Tavistock!”

Jordan smiled. “Hello, Munstead. Any rooms available?”

“For friends o’ yours, anytime!” The old man stepped aside and waved them into the front hall. “Chetwynd’s full up, then?” he asked. “No room for guests?”

“Actually, this room would be for me and the lady.”

“You and…” Munstead turned and regarded Jordan with surprise. A sly grin spread across his face. “Ah, it’s a bit of a hush thing, is it?”

“Just between us.”

Munstead winked. “Gotcha, sir.”

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Clea didn’t know how Jordan managed to hold up his end of the banter. As the old man rummaged for a key, Jordan politely inquired as to Mrs. Munstead’s health, asked how the garden was this summer and were the children coming to visit at Christmas? At last they were led upstairs to the second floor. Under better circumstances Clea might have appreciated the romantic touches to the place, the flocked wallpaper, the lace curtains. Now her only focus was to get Jordan into a bed and his wound checked.

When they were safely behind closed doors, Clea practically forced Jordan down onto the mattress. He sat there, his face screwed up in discomfort, as she pulled off the tweed jacket. The droplets of blood staining his shirt led a trail under his right arm.

She unbuttoned the shirt. The blood had dried, adhering the fabric to his skin. Slowly, gently she peeled the shirt off, revealing a broad chest with tawny hair, some of it caked with blood. What she saw looked more like a slash than a bullet wound, as though a knife blade had caught him just in front of the armpit and sliced straight back along his right side.

She gave a sigh of relief. “It looks like just a graze.

Caught you in passing. It could just as easily have gone straight through your chest. You’re lucky.” He stared down at his wound and frowned. “Maybe it’s more a case of divine intervention than luck.”

“What?”

“Hand me my coat.”

Perplexed, she passed him the tweed jacket. The bullet’s entry was easy to locate. It cut a hole through the fabric over the right chest. Jordan reached inside the inner pocket 380

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and pulled out a handsome watch attached to a chain.

Clearly stamped on the gold watch cover was an ugly dent.

“A helping hand from beyond the grave,” he said, and handed Clea the watch.

She flipped open the dented cover. Inside was engraved the name Bernard Tavistock.

“My father’s,” said Jordan. “I inherited it on his death.

It seems he’s still watching out for me.”

“Then you’d better keep it close by,” she said, handing it back. “So it can ward off the next bullet.”

“I sincerely hope there won’t
be
a next bullet. This one’s bloody uncomfortable as it is.” She went into the bathroom, soaked a towel in warm water and wrung it out. When she came back to the bed, he was looking almost sheepish about all the fuss. As she bent to clean the wound, their heads brushed, and she inhaled a disturbingly primal mingling of scents. Blood and sweat and after-shave. His breath warmed her hair, and that warmth seemed to seep into her cheeks. Desperately trying to ignore his effect on her, she kept her gaze focused on his wound.

“I had no idea you’d been hurt,” she said softly.

“It was the first shot. I sort of stumbled into it.”

“Stumbled, hell! You pushed me away, you idiot.” He laughed. “Chivalry goes unappreciated.” Without warning she planted both hands on either side of his face and lowered her mouth to his in a fierce kiss.

She knew at once it was a mistake. Her stomach seemed to drop away inside her. She felt his lips press hard against hers, heard his growl of both longing and satisfaction.

Before he could tug her against him, she pulled away.

“You see, you’re wrong,” she whispered. “Chivalry is most definitely appreciated.”

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“If that’s my reward, I may just do it again.”

“Well, don’t. Once is chivalry. Twice is stupidity.” Breathing hard, she focused her attention back on his wound. She could feel him watching her, could still taste the tang of his lips on hers, but she stubbornly refused to meet his gaze. If she did, they’d only kiss again.

She wiped up the last dried flecks of blood and straightened. “How are we going to dress it?”

“I’ve a first aid kit in the car. Bandages and such.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Park the car in the barn, while you’re at it. Get it out of sight.”

With almost a sense of relief, she fled the room and hurried down the stairs. Once outside, she felt she could breathe again, felt she was back in control.

She walked deliberately to the Jaguar, started the engine and parked it inside the barn. After fetching the first aid kit out of the trunk, she stood by the car for a moment, taking deep, calming breaths of hay-scented air. At last her headache was all but gone and she could think clearly again.
Must concentrate,
she thought.
Remember what it
is I’m facing. I can’t afford to be distracted. Even by
someone as distracting as Jordan.

With first aid kit in hand, she returned to the room. The instant she stepped inside she felt her hard-won composure begin to crack around the edges. Jordan was standing at the window, his broad back turned to her, his gaze focused somewhere on the garden outside. She suppressed the impulse to go to him, to slide her hands down that expanse of naked skin.

“I hid the car,” she said.

She thought he nodded, but he didn’t answer.

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After a pause she asked, “Is something wrong?” He turned to look at her. “I called Chetwynd.” She frowned, trying to understand why, with that one call, his whole demeanor should change. “You called?