The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Read online

  “Now tuck yourself back inside, love. There’s a fast stretch ahead and we’ll make a quick change very soon.” He stepped up his pace and moved out of her range of vision.

  She plopped against the squab. Tuck herself back inside? Like she was a thick bit of Stroud cloth folded up and stored in the coach for cold nights?

  The spike of irritation turned into a sick feeling that grew and lodged near her heart. The pleasure they’d shared, the wonder of being held by him, the comfort of being protected, it all came at a price. One she wasn’t sure she was willing to pay. She wouldn’t last twenty years being confined to the country without even a Jock to break up the boredom. She wouldn’t last another twenty minutes.

  What would Mama have done?

  Mama had most assuredly let herself be tucked away in the country, but she’d had a child to look after.

  And she’d gone off a few times on business, even before they’d received news of Papa’s death. Only a few, and in retrospect, for only a few days, though to the young child Paulette, it had seemed like forever each time. Mama’d had that small bit of freedom, to come and go.

  Mama wouldn’t have lasted being tucked away with no hope of escape. And neither would Paulette.

  Bink glanced at the level of the sun and felt hopeful. At this pace they would reach Greencastle before full darkness settled. Bringing Paulette to safety was all he could think about.

  Well, almost all. His bride had been stonily polite at the last two stops. She was tired. He was dead in his saddle himself, and quite willing to match tempers with anyone, even Paulette, in lieu of taking on the unseen threats stalking their group.

  Perhaps he’d especially like to take on Paulette. An uproar was brewing with her. As soon as they got through their dinner at Greencastle and the bedroom door closed, she’d be demanding he take her to London. And his answer would mean he’d sleep in his own chamber.

  Damn it, better that than endanger her for some foolish whimsy. Her father had been a spy for Shaldon. Perhaps her mother had spied at one time, but she’d made the sensible choice to stay in the country taking care of her child instead of running all over Europe with her.

  The appearance of two men on the road yanked him completely into the present. In the distance, two gentlemen sat astride two horses.

  He signaled his riders and scanned the terrain on both sides. The hedgerows here could conceal an ambush.

  One of the riders raised his arm and both spurred their mounts forward.

  “Hold up,” Bink shouted, and rode forward to meet them, another set of hooves on his heels.

  Chapter 18

  As he neared the two riders, the quality of the horses reassured him more. He’d seen Agruen’s cattle at Greencastle. The man had squandered whatever money he’d won through death or marriage, and the best he could afford had been no match for these mounts.

  Closer still and his hackles rose once again. One of the riders was Bakeley, and the grin on his face spread from ear to ear. “Greetings, brother, I hear congratulations are in order.”

  Bink nodded. “Bakeley.”

  “So glum.” He peered around Bink to glance at the coach. “Was the wedding night that bad?”

  Behind him a throat cleared. Johnny backed his horse away, stone-faced, just as he ought to be.

  The man with Bakeley had hung back, but Bakeley motioned him to go join the others near the coach.

  When he was out of earshot, Bakeley turned to him and said “Well?”

  The brush drew his scrutiny again, his nerves prickling. This road didn’t lead to or from Cransdall, and why the devil Bakeley was here, he couldn’t imagine.

  “I’ll not be waxing poetic about the wedding night to you. It’s none of your damn concern. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Ah, ha.” Bakeley clapped him on the shoulder.

  Bink’s horse shied, not appreciating the closeness of the other mount.

  “As to that, brother, Hackwell and I devised a plan to keep your lady safe.”

  Irritation spiked through him. Paulette was his wife, his to protect.

  A breeze picked up and the brush nearby rustled, sending his horse side-stepping again. Bakeley frowned at the trees and reached under his coat.

  A hare ran from the cover, bounding across the lane.

  Struggling to settle his mount, Bakeley laughed, and Bink released a pent-up breath.

  There was real danger to Paulette, and taking offense at the offer of help was pig-headed and unfair. With Hackwell there’d always been more camaraderie than command, and Bakeley was his brother.

  Brothers helped each other.

  So, best listen, Bink, and don’t be too proud to turn down help.

  Bakeley looked up at the sky, “Rain’s coming in. Shaldon had a manor house not three miles off this stretch. It’s a small, secret safe house. Found it among our father’s papers after you left.”

  Bink’s tension eased. In truth, he was glad he’d not been born under all those piles of Shaldon papers.

  “Paulette can stay there, well-guarded,” Bakeley said. “Hackwell’s sent his family off to stay with the Cathmores in Sussex. Now, I’ve a coach down the road. You’ve visited your last coaching inn for the day. We’ll transfer the lady, her servants and her bags and send the hired horses on their way.”

  “What news of Agruen?” Bink asked.

  “He headed for London and did not arrive, as far as we know. His man Spellen is also missing.”

  His nerves prickled. How was it possible Bakeley didn’t know about Spellen?

  “He’s not missing. He went over a ledge in the dales. Broke his damn neck.” And Hackwell would know that if the express had arrived.

  Bakeley’s lips turned up and he laughed. “Look at us, brother. Caught up in our father’s games. Did the valet put up much of a fight?”

  Bink told him about finding Spellen searching Paulette’s room.

  “I only chased him as far as the window he jumped out of. Kincaid took over the rest.”

  Bakeley’s eyes gleamed. “Kincaid. Have you discovered his secrets?”

  “What secrets would those be?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t ask you. But, ah, you’re being cagey. You know something of him.”

  “He’s a Scotsman, he says.”

  “If that’s his real name. Shaldon would not discuss him. Said you and I would have to find out on our own.”

  “You and I?”

  Bakeley laughed ruefully. “Him and his damn secrets. Now it’s our turn to play at this game, I only wish I knew what the hell it is, and what Agruen was after with Paulette.”

  As did Bink.

  “In any case, we’d best move on before we lose the light. She’ll be safe in this cottage while we head down to London to meet the solicitor.”

  She might be safe, but whoever was left to guard her would be in for trouble.

  Bink signaled to the coach to move on, the question of who would keep watch on Paulette weighing heavily. In her own way, she was a winsome thing, pretty, and passionate. If it was Bakeley or Kincaid, or himself, she’d be in good hands. He wasn’t sure, under the circumstances, he’d trust any other man.

  “Why have we stopped?” Paulette asked Ewan as he helped her down the steps of the coach.

  Her husband came over and relieved Ewan of her arm. “Get the bags,” he said gruffly.

  Around the bend in the road she spotted a plain black coach stopped further down, pulled to the side in a flat stretch, leaving enough room for another coach to pass.

  The evening was warm, yet she felt chilled to her very bones, stiff from the days of bumping and sitting, and so tired it was like wading through a dream.

  And her prickle of nerves told her the dream was likely to turn to a nightmare.

  She allowed herself to be led down the road to where the new coach sat. “What is this, Bink?”

  He grimaced and clamped his lips shut.

  A gentleman on horseback paced closer an
d her heart dropped. The corner of her eye ticked, the trembling threatening to spread through her every nerve. She stiffened her jaw and tightened her fists. “You are not. Sending me. To Cransdall. I won’t go.”

  “Good evening, Paulette.” Bakeley swept off his hat and gave a little bow from the saddle. “My congratulations on your marriage. We are officially brother and sister now.”

  “Give us a minute, Bakeley.” Her husband’s hand had moved to her shoulder in a gesture that was much like an irritating petting.

  Bakeley shrugged and took his mount away.

  “Shaldon has a manor near here. Hackwell is worried enough he’s sent Annabelle off to stay with Lady Cathmore.”

  Her breath eased a fraction.

  “We are all going there in this new coach, and letting the postilions take the other one on. If someone is following us, they won’t be able to trace you through the coaching inn.”

  That made sense. “So much secrecy. Is there news?”

  “I don’t know any more than you.”

  She searched his eyes for a lie. “Does your brother know anything?”

  “He says not. We’ll question him more tonight.”

  She exhaled. They were going to this manor together. He was not leaving her, at least not tonight. “And then?”

  A grimace puckered his brow. “And then we’ll talk.”

  His attention flew to the baggage being loaded and her heart plummeted, and she knew—this manor was to be her prison. Gibson was locking her up and leaving for London without her.

  Well, they would see about that.

  Jenny and Mabel approached, carrying her lap desk and a satchel. He led her around to the other side of the coach and reached for the door.

  She snatched at his arm. “Mr. Gibson—”

  The line in his forehead deepened. “So I’m to be Mr. Gibson.”

  Blood raced and clanged in her head, clouding her vision. Her jaw ached from clenching it.

  “There’s no one close by to hear, Paulette.” His voice rasped.

  She gritted her own teeth. No one would hear, and that was supposed to placate her? “Edward.” She yanked open the door. “Bink.” She stomped a foot on the stair. “Gibson.”

  Swallowing, she glanced back at him. “Mr. Gibson.” She took in an angry breath. “Mr. Bloody Gibson. May you rot.”

  “Wait.” He tugged at her elbow, and when she looked, he was frowning.

  Not frowning. His face had crumpled. The line was there, between his eyes, and both eyes shone.

  The kiss, hard, passionate, caught her all unawares and knocked her off balance. She clutched at his shoulder, though there was no need. He’d swept her in close, so close she could feel his heart beating.

  The coach shimmied and he pulled back from the kiss, pressing her head to his chest and knocking her bonnet askew.

  “You may call me whatever you wish, Paulette, as long as you continue to kiss me like that.”

  Her hands fisted, and she swallowed a sob, fighting for breath.

  “I’ll only be able to keep kissing you if you take me with you to London.”

  He set her away from him and stood looking at her.

  Damn him. He was leaving her.

  “Into the coach with you,” he said. “Bakeley says we’ll be there within the hour and he’ll have hot baths and dinner waiting.”

  She pressed her lips closed on a curse. She’d have her hot bath and her meal, and then she was leaving.

  He all but lifted her in and she settled upon the seat. Jenny and Mabel climbed in from the other side.

  “That was quite a kiss.” Mabel bent over to wedge the lap desk on the seat, effectively hiding the smirk Paulette had glimpsed. “Ah look, there’s a basket of food here. We won’t starve before reaching wherever we’re going. Where might that be, Polly? Do you know?”

  Did she? She’d paid attention to the route from Gretna, and she knew this road would eventually lead to London. She could figure this out.

  “A manor nearby. One of Shaldon’s properties.”

  Mabel offered her a hunk of cheese but she waved it away, and Jenny took it gratefully.

  Jenny had known much of hunger, Paulette thought. She’d taken her assault in stride, also. And she could handle a knife, she’d said.

  Mabel would be of no help in her escape from this manor. Mabel would tell Johnny, and Johnny would tell Mr. Gibson.

  However, Jenny, she might be able to confide in.

  What would Mama have done?

  As the hired coach pulled around them and the rattle of the horses died away, Paulette remembered the stories Jock had told her about her mother’s escapes from one predicament or another. Her mother had been, like Paulette, a small woman. She’d easily passed for a boy.

  She set her hand on the lowered window and counted the turnings. She would need to find her way back to this road that led down to London.

  The house was no cottage but a three-story manor, tucked back in a grove of trees behind a sweeping overgrown lawn.

  A squat, older serving woman with a bland demeanor delivered Paulette to her room, where she waited impatiently for the promised hot water. When it finally arrived, an hour had passed.

  She swished in and out of her bath, rushed Jenny through helping her dress, and was twisting her hair onto the back of her head when a knock came.

  “Mr. Gibson will be taking me down. Hurry with the pins, Jenny.”

  Mabel opened the door. The same maid carried a covered tray. “Here’s your dinner, madam,” she said.

  “My dinner? You’re not serving dinner downstairs?”

  The woman colored deeply. “I was told to deliver it here.”

  Mabel rushed to take the wobbling tray. “This will be fine. And doesn’t this smell lovely?” She settled the tray on a table, and the woman turned to go.

  “Wait,” Paulette said. “Are you or are you not serving the gentlemen dinner downstairs?”

  The maid’s lips moved wordlessly and when sound finally issued she said “Well, yes, his lordship did request I do that, but he said you would be eating here.”

  She felt her jaw hardening. “I see. You may go.”

  The door closed, and Paulette stood.

  “I’m not quite done, miss,” Jenny said.

  A lock of hair still tickled her neck. She grabbed the pins from Jenny’s hand and stabbed them in. “There. Both of you eat. I’m dining downstairs.”

  In the corridor, she looked around. There was still enough light trickling in through the windows to see her way from this third floor garret to the stairs.

  The smallish bedchamber was the sort where a poor relation or a governess would be housed, and the narrow bed would be cozy for honeymooning lovers, but neither her husband nor his bag had arrived.

  There was no key in the lock. Not yet.

  Hone your instincts, Jock had taught her.

  But her mother, when she’d begged her for answers about her past as a spy, had called her too fanciful, and when pushed, had firmly denied her life as a spy.

  If only Papa had come home, or Jock had not died. She would have learned more. She wouldn’t be so alone.

  It was possible she was being too suspicious. Perhaps Bakeley and Gibson would not conspire to lock her away.

  She shook her head and swallowed hard. No, excluding her from the discussion at dinner was a sure sign. She couldn’t trust Bakeley. She couldn’t trust her husband.

  Well, let them try to lock her away. Jock had taught her about locks.

  She gripped the banister and moved quietly down the carpeted stairs to the second floor. No creaks on the stairs—the house was well-kept for people who needed to sneak in and out. Several doors lined each side of the corridor, which ended in a sharp right turn into the building’s one wing.

  Paulette moved down the hall, counting doors, and turned into the second corridor. More doors lined the walls, bedchambers most likely. At the end was a servant’s staircase leading both up and down. The
smell of savory meat and pudding rose up these stairs and made her mouth water.

  Satisfying her hunger was the least of her problems. She needed to know what they’d planned for her.

  Which room would be Gibson’s? She placed her hand on the farthest door latch, and apprehension tingled through her. Who would Bakeley house in this place? Spies on holiday? And if she opened the door and found one sleeping, what would she do? She’d left her weapons in her bedchamber. I’m looking for my husband, she could say.

  She remembered Agruen’s grip on her arm.

  Chin up, Paulette. You can scream loud enough to bring at least someone from the kitchen.

  This room was unoccupied. Her curiosity piqued, she checked each room, all of them unlocked. No servants interrupted her. The small staff was undoubtedly serving the dinner downstairs. Four rooms held men’s things. Bakeley, Bakeley’s companion, whoever he was, Kincaid, and she finally found the room with Gibson’s traveling kit. She slipped in and looked around.

  It was very odd. Husbands and wives were usually settled next to each other, in adjoining chambers if possible. The bed bore a man’s outline. He’d rested, then washed—the water had cooled in the basin. He’d shaved also. The razor sat gleaming on a piece of white toweling. He’d taken more care for this dinner with Bakeley than he had on their wedding night, not that she’d minded.

  Had he changed for this dinner? She opened the small case.

  He’d packed away his soiled shirt, so there’d be no need to stay while his laundry dried. The razor could be packed in moments. He was leaving, and soon. And, his pistols must be with him.

  She stepped back into the corridor and collided with Jenny, who had Paulette’s soiled gown draped over her arm.

  “Oh, Miss.”

  Paulette pulled her into her husband’s room. “They’ve put Mr. Gibson in this room.”

  Jenny frowned. She knew enough about the arranging of guests to know this wasn’t usual.

  “They’re planning, I think, that I should stay here.”

  “’T’will be safer, won’t it, miss?”

  “Perhaps. But I don’t want to stay here. Will you help me?”