CHAPTER 11
Crazy Goose Inn
The thick morning fog had dissipated and the vibrant sun peeked through the scattered clouds. Emma sat by the bow window in the far corner of the silent dining room and looked out at the quiet street. The soft morning light gave the place a sense of enchanted stillness and she felt a strange sense of connection, one that she wished to steal just a bit longer.
The building across the narrow cobble street stocked wares for vendors and milkmaids to sell for the day. An older woman gathering fresh fish into her cart suddenly threw her head back and laughed as her friend chatted away.
Emma smiled, recalling a childhood friend, one she hadn’t spoken to in years. She considered writing to her, but what would she say? Ignoring the firm tug in her heart, she turned away from the two women and looked at the empty dining room. After much set back, they were on their way to find Jimmy, the man the gunman spoke of on the ship. With that thought, an ember of optimism sparked her spirit again.
If only she could say the same for Michael. When she thought she finally understood the man in some measure, he proved to be quite the opposite. Yesterday, after leaving the lighthouse, he promptly rented one room and ordered dinners to be delivered to them before he left to secure the perimeter of the inn. When she awoke after midnight, she saw him sleeping on a sofa near the fireplace with a pistol in his hand.
At times, she sensed an overwhelming need for him to shield her, as if she were this fragile thing who needed to be coddled. At other times, he seemed distant, aloof, putting infinite space between them.
A woman holding a toddler in her arms and a pretty blond walked passed her table. Behind them, an older gentleman followed the two women. The toddler ogled at her as they passed, and she waved at the tot. Such a precious little thing.
Michael strolled into the dining room and approached her table wrapped in a tobacco brown greatcoat, tan breeches and Hussar boots. Her eyes lowered and caught a glimpse of his misshaped cravat. His sharp blue eyes flickered with playfulness as he sat down in the chair across from her and her heart shamefully lurched. His mood was quite significantly lighter compared to last night. Perhaps a restful night was what he needed after all.
“For you.” Michael sat the mug down in front of her, the hot steam rising from the mug. “I’ve brought you some hot cider. I know how much you enjoy hot chocolate in the morning, but the owner insists the cider here is the best in town.”
“I see. Thank you.” She held the mug and slowly sipped, the balmy drink warming her insides. Her gaze lifted as he ran his fingers through his tousled hair. Her eyes lowered to his ramshackle cravat set against the Spanish blue waistcoat that brought out the green speckles in his eyes. She watched in fascination while he held his mug and lifted it to his lips to take a sip. It was quite dangerous for her to dip her thoughts in such perilous waters, conjuring up images of exactly what those able hands could do to please the opposite sex.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“You seem…conflicted.”
Quite. “Conflicted? No, just a bit tired from travel.”
He frowned. “I’m not going to judge.”
“I am fine, really.”
“If you insist,” he said. “Breakfast should arrive in a few minutes.”
She had to admit, there was a sense of comfort in knowing Michael was by her side. Lord Tomkin had been there for her, hadn’t he? But it wasn’t the same. She lifted her mug and took a sip of the hot cider, the delicious liquid warming her. Watching him from the rim of her mug, she wondered if she had ever truly stopped loving this man. “I believe I have made grave errors in my estimation of you.”
“You have?” He wiped his lips and cocked his brows. “Dare I ask what they may be?”
This handsome devil was actually flirting with her. Still, she wasn’t the sort to take his empty flirtation as anything but just that—meaningless. “I have nothing but good intentions in what I have to say.” She traced the rim of her warm mug with her forefinger and looked squarely at him. “I want to thank you for what you did for me back there on the ship and when I took ill with fever.”
He waved his hand in dismissal. “There is no need for you to thank me.”
Emma saw Michael smile at the pretty young blond as she sauntered past their table. She cleared her throat as a pang of jealously shot through her. “Nonetheless, I feel a proper thank you is warranted.” Her words came out curt, agitated.
He studied her for several seconds, as if reading her thoughts. “You have nothing to worry about.”
She sighed. “Why should I be worried? As I was saying, I am sorry about what I said to you at Hyde Park….” She fidgeted with her skirt before continuing. “I was quite harsh, and in my defense, I didn’t know if you could be trusted. After all, Geoffrey was your childhood friend.”
He nodded. “He was more than a friend.” Putting his mug down, he intently looked at her. “There is no need for this, really.”
“I know,” she said. “But it will make me feel better, so indulge me a little.” She paused. “I had no right to judge you. You’ve given your life to your country and that is a noble thing. I confess, in many ways, I couldn’t see it because I was blinded by my anger.”
His brows rose at her remark. “We all have our blind spots, don’t we?” Leaning back on his chair, he shifted, but his eyes never left her, as if meaning to make a point with his last comment. “You surprised me with your resilience. And I was certain you wouldn’t last more than a day in the field. You are brave to do this for your family.”
“The truth is…I don’t feel very brave most of the time. I am uncertain of this mission.”
“Bravery isn’t about knowing all the answers,” he said. “It’s about facing the uncertainties, despite the fear.”
Something in her shifted. It seemed there was a greater purpose, one that she was glad to be part of, one that meant not only finding justice for her family, but perhaps serving humankind. “And here I thought you were a jaded spy.”
“Spy, yes. Jaded? Perhaps,” he admitted.”
She took another sip of the warm cider. He said nothing and in many ways she was glad for it. He held her gaze and just when she thought he had something to add, the waiter walked up to their table with two plates.
The savory aroma filled the air around them and, instantly, her stomach growled and her mouth watered. Folding her hands on her lap, she watched as the waiter placed two plates with aromatic sausages, perfectly done eggs, and warm biscuits in front of them.
“Do you require anything else, sir?” the young man asked Michael.
“Thank you, but no.”
Splitting the warm biscuits in halves with her hands, she used the knife to scoop up a dab of butter and spread it on her biscuit. She took a bite. “This is delectable.”
“Try the eggs. I know how you like the yolk rare.”
“You remembered….” A warm fuzzy feeling came over her. She looked at the happy yellow yolk staring back at her. Her heart bubbled with warmth and she realized there was a sliver of hope that he must have cared for her. Perhaps, still?
She delved into the sausage after cutting one large piece off. Flavors exploded in her mouth and she sipped her cider to wash it down. She forked up the egg and ate it, the silky texture filling her with heavenliness.
“Remember the little boy at the dock, the one who delivered the message to me?”
“What about him?” Michael sipped his cider.
“Lord Tomkin tells me you can decipher handwriting.”
Michael nodded. “Do you still have the message?”
Emma put the fork down on her plate, grabbed the reticule to retrieve the note inside it, and handed it to him. Unfolding it, he read the content. She intently waited for Michael to say something, but he didn’t. “Do you suspect the same person who killed Geoffrey wrote the message to me? Or perhaps one of the men on the ship?”
“It looks as though a gentleman might have written it.” He paused. “I think the more precise question would be what did this person have to gain by warning you of me?” When he finished his sausage, he picked up the knife to spread a dab of butter on his biscuit and took a bite.
She thought about this for a moment. “To prevent us from accomplishing the mission?”
“Or to firmly plant a doubt in your mind of me.”
From the beginning, it seemed every time she had a lead, there was something to deter her from getting to the truth, as if this person knew her moves before she made them. The tot’s high-pitched giggles sounded from several tables away. “I came across a ledger in Geoffrey’s study days before he was killed.”
“Where you found the list of agents?”
She nodded.
Michael said, “Geoffrey would never keep something of that importance in his ledger book.”
“That had occurred to me as well,” Emma agreed. “Your friend became distant a week or so before he was killed. My first thought was he’d discovered who I was, but he said nothing to me of his concerns, just that he had a lot on his mind.”
Michael listened while scooping up the eggs on his plate, taking a bite and washing it down with his cider.
“Geoffrey had two callers precisely three days before he was killed: Mr. Shaw and Lord Hansford from the Foreign Office. Both meetings lasted no more than about thirty minutes.
“Wait a minute,” Michael said and gazed at her as if he recalled some vital information. “Lord Hansford called on Geoffrey?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“I’m certain of it. He had dined with us at our country cottage for Christmas and in London during the Season before he left for diplomatic missions to the Continent. I hadn’t seen him in years, but I don’t forget faces very easily. Why do you ask?” Emma leaned in, intently waiting for his response.
“Lord Hansford and Geoffrey never agreed on anything. They couldn’t stand being in each other’s company.”
“Relationships do change.” She paused wondering what Michael was not sharing with her. When he didn’t elaborate, she continued. “There’s more. Geoffrey met with a man twice. I don’t know who he is, but they met once at a tavern here in London and once in Whitechapel. I followed him on both occasions but I was unsuccessful in learning about the meeting.”
“You followed these men, alone, to East End?”
She nodded, and he looked irate, as if he were looking at a defiant child that needed to be disciplined.
“Tomkin allowed this?”
“I didn’t tell him until after the fact,” she admitted. “He wasn’t happy.”
“Do you realize what could have happened to you? What you did was very dangerous.”
“I had a pistol. I was desperate to find a lead and I had an opportunity so I took it.” Granted it was an unwise choice, but she did not like being lectured to in this manner, even if he had a good point.
“A pistol?” he barked. “That will not get you very far. Thugs and murderers play by a different set of rules. No one will care or come to your aid if you scream for help. You are not to go there on your own again. Promise me this.”
“Please do not lecture me as if I were a child.”
“I mean it. Promise me, Emma.”
She sighed in frustration. “Thank you for the warning; however, the point is moot. We can’t change the past. I’d rather spend our time discussing what we are to do about the blank letter Lord Tomkin gave us, if you don’t mind.”
He said nothing, but from the glint in his eyes, she knew he had a few thoughts about it. He had to. Perhaps he’d tell her, perhaps not. She hoped for the latter since she took the initial step in revealing the painstaking spying while risking her life. “I feel there is only one way to settle this matter.”
“What do you propose?”
“To report to Lord Tomkin in London and confront him.”
“We could.”
“But you won’t?” She saw the answer in his eyes. What an infuriating stubborn man. “He is still our superior.”
“Indeed, but our first priority is to find Jimmy and find out what he knows.”
“Honestly, there could be dozens of men with that name in London. With Lord Tomkin’s help, we can increase our chances of finding him.”
He said nothing. Perhaps they weren’t capable of ever trusting each other, even after everything they’ve been through. “I could refuse to go with you?” But would she set out on her own to London when Lord Tomkin had specifically ordered her to keep him from deviating from the main mission?
“I can’t stop you,” he admitted. “But you will be making a grave mistake. Trust me on this. For now, we need to remain discreet.”
Discreet? “Where do you propose we hide?”
“Not hide.” He scooped up his last bit of egg with his fork and knife and ate it. “There is a lot more going on here than what is being revealed to us. We need to find answers first before speaking with the team.”
“Where do you suppose we do this?”
Michael watched her for several seconds, his brows slanting. “It is in your best interest not to know.”
“You still don’t trust me enough to tell me where we are going?”
“It’s for your own safety.”
While she may play along for the time being, she fully expected him to explain himself as to the secrecy, sooner than later.
“Trust me, Emma. I wouldn’t be asking this of you if I didn’t think it was important.”
She sighed, watching the morning light stream in through the bow window. She knew she had a choice to make. Risk trusting him. Or go back to London and report to Lord Tomkin on her own.
Decision made, she said, “I suppose I have no choice but to put myself in your hands.”
She cocked her brow and looked boldly at him. By the glint in his eyes, he got her meaning and a vague sensual longing lingered between them. The image of him peeling off her clothes the night at the lighthouse materialized in her mind, heating her insides. Her eyes lowered to his lips, slowly parted, down to the column of his neck and down further wondering how he looked without all those layers of clothes—glorious, she thought, like a Greek god eager to please his goddess.
She fidgeted; a familiar shiver of his awareness crept up her spine. This heady lust for this man overwhelmed her. Was it so wrong of her to want? She’d been brought up genteel and proper by her parents for nineteen years. Then before her debut into Society, she was plucked from her shelter to face a harsh reality in a blink of an eye.
Michael had been the one who made her feel truly safe. What good was it to save herself for her husband when her own future was uncertain? She wasn’t a green girl hoping to be noticed by a gentleman, or waiting for her dance card to fill up at a ball, not after what she’s been through in the last two years.
Not anymore.
The age-old traditions had no place in her heart any longer. In fact, she’d gladly strip herself of it. Once the murderer was brought to justice, she knew she would leave England. And she knew he’d never ask her to stay, nor would she expect him to. But she would not lie and deprive herself of him if she had the chance. Not again.
Michael saw the heat in her eyes, that primal need, hunger and sex he’d denied himself for so long. Tomkin would have taught her the finer lesson in seduction, to extract information from her enemy. If she dared to play with fire, he’d be happy to oblige.
Oh, she was desirable all right. She was like a sweet, intoxicating nymph, calling to him with her promise of ecstasy, and he was like a deprived soul lured in by the hook of her sweet nectar.
Hopeless fool.
The tin horns blew and the call for the departure rang outside of the dining room. He paid for their breakfast and walked out with Emma to get on their way. Michael opened the carriage door and saw the group of people from the dining room: the blond, and the woman and her tot. An older gentleman was seated next to the driver on the box seat. Stepping aside, he allowed Emma to step into the carriage first, where she took the front quarter, opposite the blond and the woman with her tot.
When Michael stepped inside and sat down next to Emma, the driver called out one last time for straggling passengers, his voice bellowing in the acoustics of the stone buildings. A man wearing a Navy blue box-coat rushed out of the inn and quickly climbed up to sit behind the driver and the carriage drove off.
Michael calculated in his head that it’d take about three days to reach his private cottage. Three days on the road with Emma, God help him. The clip-clopping of the carriage felt soothing and he leaned back into the seat watching the toddler bounce up and down on the woman’s lap.
“He is a happy boy,” Emma said. “Is he your son?”
“Yes,” the woman sitting next to the blond said. “He’s eighteen months.”
Michael closed his eyes and tried to tune out the conversation between the women about London, fashion and the upcoming Season, but the young blond kept luring him to join in on their tete-a-tete for the past fifteen minutes until the chit finally allowed him some peace.
A loud thump on the roof of the carriage alerted Michael.
A shout.
Then another.
Suddenly, the carriage started to slow and the women looked terrified.
“What is happening?” the woman said, fear dripping from her tone. “My husband is out there.” The toddler saw his mother and started to wail, crying full blast.
“It must be a highway robbery. I hear there are plenty of those still around,” the young blond said to the group, eyes wide.
Someone outside shouted again, “Get yer bloody hands—”
A loud thud sounded, and then someone fell off the carriage.
The young blond wailed, “Oh, my heaven, this cannot be my end, not like this—”
“Hush,” the woman said to the blond. “We don’t need to draw more attention in here.”
Michael quickly reached into his inside coat pocket and handed Emma a pistol. “I assume you know how to use it?”
“Of course.”
“Put it away for now,” Michael said and watched her safely slip it inside her reticule. “I’ll go first. I want you to take the women and the baby to the clearing and keep them safe.” Michael pulled out another pistol and cocked it. “Do not come out until—”
The carriage door flung open and the blond woman yelped in fright. The older woman with the tot gasped at the sight of her husband at the mercy of the gunman.
“Put that pistol down or I will have to kill him,” the gunman hissed, holding the gentleman who’d been sitting next to the driver, with the gun to his head.
The baby wailed at the miller and the mother tried to soothe the tot, terrified.
“Shut the baby up,” the gunman shouted. “I said drop the damn gun. Or I’ll shoot.”
Michael slowly put the pistol on the floor of the carriage.
“Move, slowly, ye hear? We wouldn’t want a bloody mess, now would we?” The gunman still holding his hostage backed away from the carriage and watched Michael step out.
An American? Emma’s eyes raked the tall length of the gunman. His broad shoulders spoke of power, his stance brewed silent control, but what she noticed most was his ghostly and unsettling eyes that ceased to possess anything that was human. He looked right at her first, then back at Michael, as if he dared them to defy his order. Beneath his long leather coat was a knife, hooked at its end and tucked under his belt. The glimmer of sheen flickered by the sun light on the shiny metal.
The toddler kept wailing and he would not stop, his tears dripping down his cheeks while the mother tried desperately to soothe her frightened son.
“Please, take whatever you wish, but don’t hurt my family,” the gentleman pleaded.
The bandit took a few steps back and gestured for the rest of the party to exit the carriage. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” the cull said.
Emma stepped out and the rest of the group followed. The driver was on the ground, out cold, but she saw no blood from where she stood.
“Why don’t you hand me the pistol before you get yourself killed,” Michael said.
The gunman narrowed his eyes, almost amused. “The women and this…,” he said shoving the gentleman forward, “sniveling fool can go.” The gunman pointed the pistol at Michael’s chest. “You stay.”
Michael gestured for her to go, but Emma didn’t budge. “What do you want with him?”
“I need you to go. Take them to a safe distance. Remember what I told you.”
The culprit hooked his brows in amusement. “Your man won’t suffer long. I promise to make this quick, darlin’.” He winked at Emma.
“Go,” Michael said sternly.
The best course of action was to get the innocent people out of harm’s way, and then she’d figure out what to do next. The toddler had stopped crying and although there were still tears on his cheeks, he seemed to have calmed down a bit. Poor thing.
While she led the passengers toward the tree line and up into the dense forest that shielded them from the impending action, fear pumped through her with fury. She must get to him in time to assist. She’d blame herself if anything happened to him. After several minutes, when everyone seemed to calm down, she attempted to leave, but the blond stopped her. “You can’t leave us here.”
“I must help him, if I can,” Emma said.
“He looks awfully menacing,” the blond said.
“I will go, Miss, and try to help your friend,” the gentleman chimed in.
“No, stay here and look after your family.”
“How will you assist? He has a pistol,” the other woman holding the tot remarked.
“So do I.” Emma pulled out the pistol from her reticule. “Stay here until I come back for you.” With that, she quickly made her way back to the dirt road, but they were gone. The carriage was still there, the driver still lying on the ground. She looked around, but there was no sign of them anywhere.
Oh, Michael, please be all right.