Joanna Bourne - The Spymaster's Lady

She hesitated, an almost inaudible rustle of indecision. She must be desperate for water.

If he grabbed for her and missed, he wouldn’t get a second chance. She was too fast in the dark, too comfortable slipping around with that stick of hers. He’d have to tempt her close. “Wait,” he said softly. “I’ll bring water.”

The smell of fresh paint led him to the coach and a spiderweb of faint lines leaking from a dark lantern. When he slid the tin sheathing aside, a wedge of light sprang up across the weed-grown courtyard.

Doyle settled Adrian in the coach. “Where’d you catch it, lad? Shoulder? No. More along of the chest. Just the one bullet?”

Adrian said hoarsely, “One’s enough…don’t you think? Waistcoat’s a total loss.”

The coach rocked as Doyle spread a blanket over the boy. “Dunnoh how I’m gonna face yer tailor, knowing that. Here, put some water in you before you faint on us.”

“Set it where I can reach it. Let’s get out of here.”

“An’ who died and left you in charge, lad? You tell me that sometime.” Doyle swung down from the coach. “He’ll do. How many after you?”

“The whole nest of hornets. I’ll pay off my guide and we can go. Where’s that water?” He swung the lantern around. Yes. Oh, yes. Now he had her. She hung back well beyond the reach of his light, making herself a shadow among shadows, wise and wary. But it was already too late for her to be wary.

Doyle met his eyes. “Of course. Have it down in just a tick, sir.” Doyle climbed the rungs to the top of the coach, hand over hand, with the curious, slow, lumbering grace of a great brown bear. “I got food, too. Big basket here. Bread, cheese, sausages. Some wine.”

Out in the darkness, Annique would be listening. She’d be hungry. Leblanc would have seen to that. “Some bread. But water first. Give me something easy to carry. The water bottle. That one.”

Doyle passed down a water bottle and half a long loaf of bread, still fragrant from the baking. That was all the bait he needed. He had her. It was just sliding the trap closed.

“Mademoiselle?”

She’d backed farther into the dark. Careful. Nervous. When he walked closer, he could see she had her eyes shut against the lantern light to preserve that remarkable night vision of hers. But then, he already knew how clever she was.

She leaned heavily on that old broom handle she’d collected. Her clothes were filthy with dirt and cobwebs, her skin bone-white with fatigue. Alone, exhausted and on foot—how far did she think she’d get before Leblanc ran her down? He was doing her a favor, really, gathering her in. Whatever he did to her it couldn’t be worse than what Leblanc had in mind.

He set the lantern down carefully on the gravel, freeing up his hand.

Water sloshed in the bottle. With any luck, that would be enough to nail her to the spot. He strolled toward her, bottle swinging loose between his fingers, the loaf tucked casually under his arm. Simple tricks work best. It was like catching a filly in a field. You go slow and steady and act like you’re thinking about something else.

“Do you want cheese, too? I can have him bring some down.” He spoke as if Doyle were still on top of the carriage. He wasn’t. Without looking, he could have charted Doyle’s course, circling in silence, cutting off the woman’s escape. They’d worked together ten years. He knew where Doyle would position himself. He’d be a dozen feet behind the target and to the right of the pathway. “Bread and water doesn’t begin to pay the debt I owe you.”

“I do not collect debts from English spies.” She shuffled uneasily. “A debt ties you to people.”

“Water’s not much of a debt. A little cool water.” He tossed the word like a looped noose. Let her think about thirst, not about him closing in. He was nearly there.

He could almost hear her instincts screaming for her to run. The intent, listening tilt of her head said it all. How long had Leblanc kept her without water? She must be desperate to take this risk.

One last step, and he clamped an unbreakable grip on her arm. She was his.

She tried to jerk away. “I do not like people touching me, monsieur.”

“This is the best way. You don’t have a chance against Leblanc. At least with me—”

Pain exploded in his elbow. The broom handle spun, smooth as glass, and cracked across his kneecap. White, cold, unbelievable agony knifed up his leg. He fell. Slammed down onto his shoulder. The girl flicked free, like a fish out of a badly cast net. There was nothing in the dark but scattering gravel.

“Bloody. Damn. Hell!” Blind with pain, he staggered up and limped after her. Idiot. He was an idiot. He’d seen what she’d done to Henri. He knew what she was.

That was almost the end of it. She was unbelievably fast in the dark. He heard her stick clacking into trees, finding a path. She was getting away.

But Doyle was the wiliest of old campaigners. He’d put himself where he could see the girl outlined against the glow of the lantern. He didn’t show at all in the dark shrubbery. She barreled straight into Doyle’s massive arms, and he scooped her right in.

Almost scooped her in.

“Son of a buggering…” He arrived to find Doyle clutching his belly, sputtering colorful Breton dialect. “…gangrenous sea cow.” The girl was loose and scrambling to her feet. She was damned good if she could land a blow on Doyle.

Oh yes. It was going to be a pleasure bringing Mademoiselle Annique in.

He dodged that blasted lethal stick of hers, stepped in, and twisted it out of her hands. That had her disarmed. Then he had to deal with the surprising, elegant little fight she put up. She was strong for a woman, all lean muscles and neat, sturdy bones, but she had no weight on her. The top of her head didn’t come even to his chin. She never had a chance.

It took less than three minutes. When it was over, he pulled her arms behind her, not hurting her more than he had to, but not letting her hurt him either. She panted, her sides heaving in and out, and every muscle in her trembled in shock. It had been a hard night for Miss Annique. Then it was step by step back to the coach, dragging her, letting her fight enough to tire herself out. She wouldn’t have much strength left.

He felt a sense of fierce, primitive possession. His. She was his.

Rubbing his belly and grumbling, Doyle ambled up. “Fast as bedickens, ain’t you, me girl? Bring her over here to the light.” Doyle took a handful of hair and tilted her head back. She was still fighting, her eyes closed in furious concentration as she tried to kick somebody.

“God’s little parakeets. Annique Villiers.” Doyle gave a low whistle. “You collect the damnedest things, Grey. What the hell are you doing with the Fox Cub?”

SOMETIMES, ANNIQUE THOUGHT, ONE PAYS dearly for a tiny mistake. She should not have been tempted by the water.

It had been a short, inglorious fight. She had no chance against this English spy she had stupidly freed from Leblanc. They were both blind in this night, and she had practiced, endlessly, fighting without sight. But it gave her no advantage. She summoned up all the dirty tricks she had ever learned and pulled them out, one by one. The big man knew them all. He was much better at this business of fighting than she was.

It ended quickly. He flattened her hard against him and wrapped her up like a troublesome little parcel, and she could not escape. His muscles were iron and polished wood, invulnerable, endlessly strong. She could feel savage satisfaction coursing through his body. He was positively gleeful to trap her like this. She became very afraid of him.

An hour ago, she had set her hand against his heart and wanted nothing more than to stay beside him. She would now do exactly that. The universe had been treating her with great sarcasm lately.