CHAPTER 9
Hyde Park, London
“You’ll be pleased to know all the official invites are sent out and necessary arrangements have been made.” Shaw grinned wide, as if he done himself proud.
“Are you certain they will show?” Tomkin asked, as the fashionable hour to be seen approached. It would not cause alarm to be seen together, but still, he didn’t want any crumbs left behind when he finally left this wretched place.
“Why wouldn’t they?” Shaw’s tone bordered on offense. “I spared no expense mind you, and it is to honor Wellington and the Prince Regent, after all. The ton, and every military hero and their yapping wives will be there to celebrate glorious Britain. Prinny’s next in line to inherit the Kingdom, so his presence only guarantees that you’ll have your show, not that they need any encouragement.”
True. Shaw’s masquerade balls were certainly one of the highlights of the Season. But the truth was Shaw was no more than a puppet in Prinny’s eyes, as the prince pulled the rug from under him many times over by snatching his prized mistress, not once, but twice.
“There’s talk of a revolution,” Shaw noted.
“Good,” Tomkin said, watching a passerby. “England is at a crossroad, my friend. Many farmers are in utter ruin and the timing couldn’t be more perfect for my plan.”
“You mean our plan.”
“Yes, yes,” Tomkin corrected. “Our plan, indeed.”
The fall of their future king, along with Wellington, their hero, would leave the country grieving and in chaos, at least long enough for him to accomplish his deeds.
“I made certain to send celebratory provisions to the guards at Elba.” Shaw chuckled wickedly as he looked on at the crowd of women strolling by. “That should distract the guards. To think they are oblivious to the events ahead make me giddy, actually.”
“Good,” Tomkin said. Shaw was in it for glory and power—quite shallow, indeed. His cause, on the other hand, was of the legacy he’d been deprived of since birth, a legacy that would live on and no one would deprive him of that.
Now all he had to do was wait for Emma to find her way home. No doubt she’d be distraught, but when she saw the indisputable evidence piled up against Michael as the killer, she would finally put an end to looking for the killer.
Shaw cocked his brow at his partner. “You’d better hope your man does the job.”
“He will,” Tomkin affirmed. “And if he fails, I have a backup plan.”
“If you don’t mind me saying,” Shaw spoke. “I will surely be glad if I never see you again.”
“Once the hired guns arrive from France, I’ll contact you. That should be our last meeting, that is, if you do exactly what we agreed on.”
Shaw cocked his brow in condemnation. “I always keep my word.”
You’d better. Or I’ll have to finish you off, too.
“Anyhow, I’m off to White’s. Until the gala in a fortnight.” Tipping his top hat to his partner, Shaw took off toward the park exit, whistling.
Finally, Tomkin would be able to return home after all these years in the hands of his enemy. Ahh, home. The images of his homeland materialized in his mind. The streets of Paris. The little bakery on the street across the La Seine where the widowed baker used to tossed him day old bread….
A sense of gratitude toward the widow tugged at him.
More than anything, he’d missed his people who had suffered a humiliating blow because of their enemy. If it hadn’t been for the Emperor, he’d be still roaming the slums of Paris, begging no doubt, for any scraps of food he could get his hands on, or wasting away in the gutter somewhere, thanks to his pathetic parents. To taste betrayal at such an impressionable age fueled his purpose to survive.
Finally, I will be the true protector of my own legacy.
* * *
Cursing under his tongue, Michael rowed the boat toward the shoreline, where a lighthouse guided him.
The bloody Captain refused to turn the damned ship around, stating that he had a tight schedule to keep and no one was going to get in his way of delivering the cargo to India on time. It seemed the only thing the Captain was willing to do was to give them a small boat with two oars off the shores of Cornwall, near Porthleven.
One of the sailors had warned Michael about the wrecked ships that had been ravaged by the thrashing waves on the shores of this town. A single drop of rain landed on the tip of his nose, then another and another turning into a steady fall. Already the chill was settling deep into his bones, causing his muscles to stiffen.
It just gets better and better.
Set off by tidal forces, Michael tried to steady his oars against the battering waves that kept pulling them further out to sea. Emma sat across from him, with her back to the shore. Even now, the look of disbelief splashed across her porcelain face in the darkness. Her chin lowered to her chest just now, as though her spirit had been sucked out of her. Or perhaps conjuring up ways to get back to Tomkin? Either way, she hadn’t said a word since they left the ship. No doubt she blamed him for it. But he was keenly aware that Emma sensed something amiss, too.
The rain was now collecting in the bottom of the boat and around her feet, next to their satchels. He saw her pick up the bags and settle them on her lap. Rowing steady and fast, he kept his eyes on the lighthouse and tried to row straight toward it. He’d trained in the scorching heat of the Sahara desert to the bitter cold of the Highlands to test his endurance, resolve, and fine-tune his discipline to survive. Even then, in such dire conditions, if one couldn’t build or find shelter soon, the end would inevitably come sooner rather than later.
Even now the cold was seeping into his bones, cooling his body faster than he’d like. He needed to find shelter—fast. Up ahead, he saw a flickering light on the shore getting brighter. He rowed harder, his tight muscles flexed as the oars dove in and out in smooth rotations. Just a few more minutes. Come on, he thought watching Emma fight off the cold.
He pulled the oars into the boat and jumped into the cold water. Knee deep in the sea, he treaded forward and dragged the boat to shore with all his might. When a large wave rolled in pushing the boat forward, it knocked him down and he lost his grip of the boat and fell flat on his back—damn that hurt!
“Michael?”
He watched as Emma hitched up her skirt and climbed out of the boat and waded through the churning water. “Michael, are you all right?” She frantically reached forward and grabbed his hand to help him up. But instead, she lost her balance and fell forward on to him.
Emma said something to him, but with the falling rain he barely heard what she was saying to him. “I’m fine,” Michael said. Quickly lifting himself up, he assisted Emma to her feet. Both were drenched and cold, and they headed for the light house.
Hand in hand, he led her to the base of the steep bank. There was no way around it. Either they walked up the bank or walked around the shore in hope of finding a better, safer route. Even before he made the decision, Emma understood and quickly nodded.
“You’ll be all right. Up you go.” He watched Emma, teeth chattering and cold, grab on to a thick twig and pull herself up as he supported her from behind. When he felt she was safe enough, he started up the slippery bank.
Once up at the top, he found Emma quickly walking toward the lighthouse. He caught up to her in no time and headed for the main door. He saw a flickering light coming from the small window and a sense of relief flooded him.
“We’re nearly there,” he said to Emma with a reassuring smile. Even now, she looked frightfully pale, more so than before. With haste, he banged on the wooden door with his fist. Nothing. Open the damn door. Waiting a few more seconds, he tried again. Emma leaned into him and he held on to her for fear that she may slip away from his grip.
“Come on, open the damn door.” He put his ear against the door, listening.
Nothing.
In a desperate attempt to get her inside, he stepped back from the door in an attempt to break it down. In the last possible second, the door swung open and faint light and warmth spilled out into the darkness.
“What is all—oh!” the keeper said. It took a moment for him to realize what was happening and once he did, he widened the door. “Come. Come. Bring her inside.”
As soon as they stepped in, the warmth of the shelter surrounded him. Emma, however, looked of death. Michael said, “Our carriage broke down and—”
“No need to explain young man. You’ll need to get those wet garments off her now,” the keeper said. “You can use my room. It’s down the hall…there.” The keeper pointed to the narrow dark hallway.
He nodded in gratitude and led her into the room where they were directed to go. Once safely inside, he saw Emma head for the bed. “You’re soaked.” He caught up to her and pulled her away from the bed. “You’ll need to take those clothes off first.” She nodded to him but she didn’t move, as if she was frozen in time. It was as he feared. She was overcome by extreme cold, and confusion and slurred speech began to set in.
“I will need to assist you.” Michael peeled off her garments one by one, gathering at her feet until she was down to her chemise. Her nipples perked up through the thin cotton fabric, her bare skin virtually visible giving him a glimpse of her feminine mound.
“I will need to take off your chemise as well.” Without haste, he pulled the chemise off and tossed it aside, then he quickly wrapped her in a thick wool blanket before getting her to bed. The teeth chattering and shivering ceased—not a good sign. Now, all he could do was wait and allow her body to heat up again.
“Thank you,” she whispered to him before her eyes closed.
He sat by her side, watching her intently, making sure she was warm enough. Emma clutched the blanket so tight, as if she was afraid to let go. Walking over to the wooden chest at the base of the footboard, he opened it and found another blanket inside. Pulling it out, Michael quickly covered Emma with another layer of blanket. Satisfied, he slowly peeled off his wet layers, one by one, his muscles worked and stiff. Tossing them on the wooden chair nearby, he wrapped himself with a blanket. He then walked to the other side of the bed and sat down next to her, leaning in just a little to get a glimpse of her. Damn, she is so pale. He reached into the blanket and felt her cold hands, like a corpse.
“I’m so cold,” she whispered to him in her delirium. Soon fever would follow if she didn’t get better soon. He looked around the room, searching for firewood but to his disappointment none was found. Several seconds later, there was a quick knock at the door.
“How is she?” the keeper asked when Michael opened the door.
“For now, she’s resting.”
“I didn’t expect the storm to hit this soon. I will need to go get more firewood to light the fireplace, but it will take some time to heat up the room for her. Your wife will need to be warmed until then.”
He’d hoped he didn’t have to resort to that, but the keeper had a point. Once he left, Michael quickly pulled off his blanket and slipped under the warm blanket next to her, her cool body touching his. Hell, she is so damned cold. “Michael?” he heard her say in a ghostly whisper.
She instantly clung to him, hungry for warmth. Her soft breasts pressed hard on his chest and he groaned. A mixture of hot arousal and alarm clutched his heart. Blast—it was utterly wicked of him to be aroused as much as he was when she may be growing ill. Slowly one arm slid up his chest and around him and he pulled her in a full body embrace, minding to be gentle as he did not want to wake her in this compromising situation, not that anyone here in the outermost part of England would notice.
Strange feeling—this. Her body felt perfectly natural in his embrace, unnervingly so.
He did not want to care, not again. But there was something about her. This woman had a profound effect on him despite his persistence to keep her at bay.
Christ, the last time she was in his arms, he was certain she had been the one. So did Geoffrey apparently. Emma’s arm slid down and nicked his cock, causing him to grunt in pure agony. Touching her forehead, she felt clammy and still cold. It didn’t help that this room still felt like the cellars in mid-winter and the storm outside wasn’t helping. Where was that man with the bloody firewood?
“Oh, no…please don’t leave me,” she said, her eyes closed, tears now slowly sliding down her cheeks.
“Shh…,” he said, realizing she was dreaming. “I’m here now.” Gently moving the damp tendrils from her face, he gazed at her, utterly moved by her grief. Had he been so jaded by all these years in service to the Crown that he’d not seen what humanity felt like, tasted like? Where was his compassion?
“No, please…no. Not my parents….” Her shoulders shook between sobering sobs, like a helpless child.
He slowly wiped the tears away again, pulling her close to him, as if that would somehow shelter her from her pain. Tomkin’s words reverberated through him: She is fighting her own demons. While he may have his own reasons for despising her as he did, she did not deserve his wrath. Not any longer. He needed to make peace with her—their past—if they were going to live through this.
His heart—or what was left of it—ached for her determination to find the person responsible for murdering her parents. This brave woman, lying next to him, risked everything for her parents. While he didn’t know her father well, he knew her father’s legacy. He was an honorable man and well-loved by his countrymen.
The minutes ticked on and the storm grew. He tried to close his eyes, to get some rest, but no such rest came. Emma’s sobs had died down to a low occasional whimper.
There was no denying to himself that he didn’t care for her—he did, very much so. But could they have a future? The answer was finite because he knew without a doubt that he would never trust her and she would never allow him to protect her the way a husband should. He was certain Emma would never fully trust him either. It was a byproduct in his business that left one emotionally crippled, perhaps for life. He could see it happening to her and he did not blame her for it. Besides, she would be better off without him, to find her own way.
He gently stroked her hair, closed his eyes and slowly drifted off to sleep.
When he opened his eyes, the room was significantly warmer. He sat up and saw the fire blazing in the hearth. The keeper must have come in and lit the fireplace. Gazing at Emma, he laid back next to her and touched her forehead. Damn, she is burning up. If the fever didn’t break soon, he feared he may lose her.
If her fever didn’t break by early morning, he’d have to find a doctor in town. With that note, fatigue set in again and he closed his eyes to get a few more hours of sleep before he would check on Emma again.
Hang on, Emma. Hang on just a little longer.