Gayle Wilson - Her Dearest Sin

“He’ll kill you,” she warned. “I never meant for this to happen.” Her eyes considered horse and rider briefly before they focused earnestly on his face. “If you run, I’ll try to distract him long enough to give you a chance to get away.”

Not surprisingly, Sebastian found he didn’t relish the idea of running back into camp clad only in his drawers. If he were killed here, no one would ever know exactly what had happened to him. If he fled in his underwear, like some hotly pursued virgin, he might live, but his fellow officers would dine out on the story for the next twenty years. Not only here, but in London as well.

He could imagine Dare’s face when he heard the tale. The thought of his older brother’s sardonic enjoyment of his predicament was quite enough to ensure the choice Sebastian Sinclair would ultimately make.

He dove toward the pile of garments, throwing articles of his clothing aside until his fingers closed around the pistol he’d concealed beneath them. At any moment, he expected shots to rain down around him. After all, the muskets that the horsemen carried had been in plain sight the entire time.

He rolled away from the scattered clothing and then scrambled, crouching, to his feet, his gaze sweeping the top of the ridge. The men who had lined it seconds before had disappeared. Only the leader was still visible, now guiding his horse into the river on the opposite bank.

Sebastian closed the distance between him and the girl, his fingers fastening around her upper arm. He drew her with him toward the pile of boulders she must have hidden behind to launch her ambush. They would offer some protection until he could figure out where the other riders had gone.

Still holding his sword, she allowed herself to be carried along with him for a few feet. Then, with a twist of her arm, she jerked away from his hold. He had already taken a step toward her when he realized what she was doing.

She ran back to the scattered pile of clothing, stooping to grab the pair of breeches he had been reaching for when she’d stopped him. And then she turned, hurrying toward him.

She threw them over his arm, the one that was outstretched to hold the pistol pointed at the horse and rider, who were now swimming across the current. In a matter of seconds—

“Go,” she demanded.

“Not bloody likely,” Sebastian said.

He threw the breeches over his shoulder and took her arm again. He dragged her with him as he retreated, never taking his eyes off the approaching horseman. As far as he could tell, the man wasn’t armed, which made her repeated requests that he run ridiculous. Armed and with sufficient cover—

“You fool,” she said, the words low and intense.

Surprised by the vehemence of her tone, which had been almost as bitter as that with which she’d answered his inquiry about the identity of her pursuer, he glanced toward her. And saw what she must have known from the beginning.

The line of horsemen who had disappeared from the top of the opposite ridge were now riding at a canter along the bank on this side. Obviously, they had crossed the river at some nearby ford, which they must have been aware of all along. As had the girl, he realized. That knowledge made the action of their leader in risking life and limb in that treacherous plunge even less fathomable.

It hardly mattered now. Both methods of reaching this side of the river had been successful. Too damn successful from Sebastian’s point of view, since they were closing in on him from two directions. A highly efficient tactic that had afforded Wellington’s forces more victories than Sinclair cared to remember.

The rapidly dwindling options ran through his mind like lightning. His soldier’s instinct, honed by two years of hard fighting, discarded them all.

Of course, the first shot in would arouse the camp. Whether his friends would understand its significance and respond in time was another question.

“Release her.”

The command was in Spanish. Sebastian had picked up the language quickly in his time on the Peninsula, certainly enough to understand the order he’d just been given. Instead of obeying it, he leveled his pistol at the chest of the man who had pulled up his exhausted mount, its heaving sides still streaming water, in front of them.

Close enough that Sebastian could see the rider’s features quite clearly, despite the wide-brimmed black hat he wore pulled low over his eyes. They were as dark as the girl’s, but somehow this was a different black, cold and opaque. Almost soulless.

Looking into them, Sebastian Sinclair, who had been said to possess the steadiest nerve on the staff, shivered involuntarily. A chill from his recent swim, he told himself, denying that uncanny wave of apprehension.

“She’s under my protection,” Sebastian said in English, hoping that something of the claim would translate.

For an instant, the rage in those black eyes was clearly visible. And then the man on the back of the trembling, exhausted steed laughed, the sound far more chilling than his anger had been.

“Your protection?” he mocked in the language Sebastian had used, his gaze raking the Englishman from head to toe. “Then she is more foolish than I had imagined.”

“Let him go,” the girl said. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“And I wonder why I don’t believe you, my dear?” the man on horseback said.

Behind them, Sebastian could hear the other riders beginning to descend the slope. He held his pistol high so the fact that the muzzle was pointed at their leader’s heart would be obvious. Its warning didn’t slow their approach. The man before him had never glanced their way.

“I was stealing his clothes,” the girl said. “He knows nothing, I tell you.”

“He knows enough to recognize that he is in danger.”

“He’s no threat to you,” she said, pulling her arm from Sebastian’s hold.

She held out the sword so he could take it from her hand. Holding both the sword and the pistol would, however, leave him without any way to control her if she tried to surrender to the horsemen. It had become clear she believed it was her duty to save Sebastian rather than the other way around. Since he had never before been in the position of hiding behind a woman’s skirts, however, he was unwilling to begin that practice now.

“Despite her opinion of the situation,” Sebastian said. “I assure you that I fully intend to be a threat, sir. This lady is under my protection. She has no wish to go with you.”

“Do not make yourself more foolish than you already are,” the man said. “What she wishes is of no concern to me. Nor are you. Come, Pilar. You have wasted enough of my time.”

There was a long hesitation. No one moved, but it seemed to Sebastian that he could feel the muskets behind him drawing a bead on his naked back. There was an unpleasant crawling sensation along his spine, as if the nerves were preparing themselves for the impact of a ball.

He was near enough that he could hear the breath she drew before the girl said, “Your sword, sir.” Again she offered him the hilt.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I won’t let him take you.”

He was well aware that claim was sheer bravado. He was outnumbered and outgunned. However, it was not in his training nor his background, and decidedly not in his nature, to do less than try to make good on the vow he’d just given, no matter the odds.

“A dozen of the best marksmen in Spain are behind you,” the horseman said. “Their guns are trained on your back. I should hate for one of them to miss and hit the girl you are trying to protect.”

“I think you should remind them that my gun is trained on your heart. If they shoot me, my finger will still apply enough pressure to this particularly sensitive trigger to cause it to fire. It seems we have reached checkmate, my friend.”