Sylvia Day - Passion for Him

Rolling and writhing upon the ground, the would-be rescuer fought brutally, delivering blows that echoed off the buildings around them. Material ripped and venomous words were exchanged as Cartland gained the upper hand. Pinning his assailant to the ground, he reached for the knife lying just a few feet away.

“Cartland!” Colin abandoned his attempt at stealth and rushed toward the fray, tossing his cloak over his shoulder to bare the hilt of his small sword.

Startled, Cartland pulled back, revealing a face etched with bloodlust and cold, dark eyes. The man beneath him took the opening and swung his fist hard and fast, clipping Cartland in the temple and sending him reeling to the side.

Colin ran through the posts that marked the entrance and pulled his blade free. “You have much to answer for!”

“It won’t be to you,” Cartland cried, kicking out with his feet.

Sidestepping the assault, Colin lunged, piercing Cartland’s shoulder. The man roared like a wounded animal and flailed in fury.

Circling, Colin turned his head to look at the unfortunate Leroux. His open, sightless eyes betrayed his demise.

It was too late. The man who had the ear of Talleyrand-Périgord was dead.

The dreaded feeling of portent once again hit Colin hard.

Distracted, he failed to anticipate the blow that came to the back of his knee, tumbling him to the ground. By instinct, he rolled to the side, avoiding another assault from Cartland, but coming up against the corpse and the pool of blood quickly spreading around it.

Cartland scrambled for his discarded knife, but the other man was there first, sending it skidding across the cobblestones with a well-placed kick. Colin was struggling to his feet when alarmed shouts sounded from the nearby street. All three of them turned their heads.

Discovery was near at hand.

“A trap!” Cartland hissed, leaping to his feet. He stumbled toward the low stone wall and threw himself over it.

Colin was already in motion, running.

“Halt!” came a cry from the alleyway.

“Faster!” urged Leroux’s would-be rescuer, fleeing alongside him.

Together they took a different alley than the one Colin had arrived through…the one that was presently filling with authorities who pursued with lanterns raised high.

“Halt!”

When they reached the street, Colin ran to the left in the direction of his waiting coach; the other man fled to the right. After the explosion of activity in the small courtyard, the relative stillness of the night seemed unnatural, the rhythmic pounding of his footfalls sounding overly loud.

Colin weaved in and out among various buildings and streets, taking alleys whenever possible to lessen his chances of being apprehended.

Finally, he returned to Cartland’s mistress’s house and caught the eye of his coachman, who straightened and prepared to release the brake.

“Quinn’s,” Colin ordered as he vaulted into the carriage. The equipage lurched into motion, and he hunched over, tearing off his blood-soaked cloak and tossing it to the floorboards. “Damn it!”

How the hell could such a simple task spin so far beyond his control?

Keep Cartland from returning home too early. A bloody simple task, that. One that should not have involved witnessing a murder and the drawing of his blade.

The moment his carriage drew to a halt before Quinn’s door, Colin was leaping out. He pounded with his fist upon the portal, cursing at the lengthy delay before it opened.

A disheveled butler stood with taper in hand. “Sir?”

“Quinn. Now.”

The urgency in his tone was clear and undeniable. Stepping back, the servant allowed him entry and showed him into the lower parlor. He was left alone. Then a few moments later Quinn entered wearing a multicolored silk robe and bearing flushed skin. “I sent for you hours ago. When you did not reply, I assumed you had boarded your ship and gone to sleep.”

“If you’ve a woman upstairs,” Colin gritted out, “I think I might kill you.”

Quinn took in his appearance from head to toe. “What happened?”

Colin paced back and forth before the banked fire in the grate and relayed the night’s events.

“Bloody hell.” Quinn ran a hand through his inky locks. “He will be desperate, running from both us and them.”

“There is no ‘us,’” Colin snapped. He pointed at the longcase clock in the corner. “My ship sets sail within a few hours. I’ve come only to wish you good riddance! Had I been caught tonight, I might have been delayed for weeks or months while this mess was sorted out.”

More pounding came to the door. They both paused, hardly daring to breathe.

The butler rushed in. “A dozen armed men,” he said. “They searched the carriage and took something from inside it.”

“My cloak,” Colin said grimly, “soaked with Leroux’s blood.”

“That they would come for you here would suggest that Cartland has offered you up as the sacrificial lamb.” Quinn growled as commands were shouted from outside. “Answer that,” he said to the waiting servant. “Delay them as long as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” The butler departed, closing the parlor door behind him.

“I am sorry, my friend,” Quinn muttered, moving to the clock and shoving it aside, revealing a swinging panel behind it. “This will lead you to the stables. You may find trouble at the wharf, but if you can board your ship, do so. I will manage things for you here and clear your name.”

“How?” Colin rushed over to the hidden portal. “Cartland was working with the French in some capacity. There must be some level of trust in him.”

“I will find a way, never doubt it.” Quinn set a hand on his shoulder as voices were heard in the foyer. “Godspeed.”

With that, Colin rushed through the door, and it was immediately shut behind him. Scraping sounds accompanied the moving of the clock back to its original position. He heard no more than that, because he was moving blindly through the dark tunnel, his hands held out to either side to feel his way.

His heart racing, his breathing labored, he fought against a rising panic. Not because capture was at hand, but because he had never been so close to reclaiming Amelia. He felt as if she were within his grasp and that if he were unable to board his ship, he would be losing her all over again. He’d barely survived the first time. He doubted his ability to survive another.

The tunnel became dank, the smell unpleasant. Colin reached what appeared to be a dead end and cursed viciously. Then the sounds of skittish horses caught his ear, and he glanced up, noting the faint outline of a trapdoor above him. He kicked around with his foot until he found the short stool; then he pulled it closer and stood upon it.

Quiet as a mouse, he lifted the door just enough to look through the strands of straw that covered it. The stable was still, though the perceptive beasts it housed shifted restlessly in response to his agitation. Throwing the hatch wide, he climbed out and sealed the door again. Colin grabbed the nearest bridle and horse, then opened the stable doors.

He walked his mount outside, eyes wide and ears open as he searched for those who might be hunting him.

“You, there! Halt!” cried a voice coming from the left.

Grabbing two fistfuls of silky mane, Colin pulled himself up and onto the horse’s bare back.

“Go!” he urged with a kick of his heels, and they burst out to the mew.

The early morning wind whipped the queue from his hair. He was hunched low over his mount’s neck, as they raced through the streets, breathing heavily in unison. Colin’s gut knotted with anxiety. If he made it to the ship without incident, it would be a miracle. He was so close to leaving this life behind, damn it. So close.

Colin galloped as near to the wharf as he dared, then dismounted. He freed his horse, then traversed the remaining distance on foot, moving in and out among the various crates and barrels. Sweat coated his skin despite the chill of the ocean breeze and his lack of outerwear.

So close.

Later, he would not remember the climb up the gangplank or the journey from the deck to his cabin. He would, however, never forget what he found inside.

The door swung open, and he entered, gasping at the sight that greeted him.

“Ah, there you are,” purred the unctuous voice of a stranger.

Pausing on the threshold, Colin stared at the tall, thin man who held a knife to his valet’s throat. One of Cartland’s lackeys or perhaps one working for the French.

Regardless, he was caught.

His valet stared at him with wide horrified eyes above a cravat tied around his mouth as a gag. Bound to a chair, the servant was visibly trembling, and the acrid smell of urine betrayed just how frightened he was.

“What do you want?” Colin asked, holding both hands up to display his willingness to cooperate.

“You are to come with me.”

His heart sank. Amelia. In his mind, she was retreating. Fading.

He nodded. “Of course.”

“Excellent.”

Before he could blink, the man moved, shoving his valet’s head back and slitting his throat.

“No!” Colin lunged forward, but it was too late. “Dear God, why?” he cried, his eyes stung by frustrated, hopeless tears.

“Why not?” the man retorted, shrugging. His eyes were small and pale blue, like ice. Swarthy skin and late-night bristle on his jaw made him look dirty, although his simple garments appeared to be clean. “After you.”

Colin stumbled back out the cabin door, inwardly certain that he would die this night. The deep sadness he felt was not due so much to the loss of his life, such as it was. It was mourning for the life he had dreamt of sharing with Amelia.

His hands were shaking as he gripped the railings that supported the stairs leading back up to the deck. A sickening thud and low groan behind him made him jump and turn too quickly. He tripped and landed on his arse on the second-to-bottom step.

There at his feet lay his captor, facedown with a rapidly swelling lump protruding from the back of his head.

Colin’s gaze lifted from the prone body and found the man who had fought with Cartland in the courtyard earlier. He was short of stature and stocky, his body heavily muscled and clothed in nondescript attire of various shades of gray. The man’s features were blunt, his dark eyes wizened and jaded.

“You saved my life,” the man said. “I owed you.”

“Who are you?” Colin asked.

“Jacques.”

Just the one name, no more than that.

“Thank you, Jacques. How did you find me?”

“I followed this man.” He kicked at the fallen body with the tip of his boot. “It is not safe for you to remain in France, monsieur.”

“I know.”

The man bowed. “If you have something of value, I would suggest you offer it to the captain as enticement to set sail immediately. I will manage the bodies.”

Colin heaved out a weary breath, fighting the flickering hope inside him. The chances of him actually making it to English soil were negligible.

“Go,” Jacques urged.

“I will help you.” He pushed heavily to his feet. “Then you should disembark before you are associated with me.”

“Too late for that,” the Frenchman said, his gaze direct. “I will remain with you until you are settled and this matter of my master’s death is resolved.”

“Why?” Colin asked simply, too weary to argue.

“Arrange our departure now,” Jacques said. “We will have plenty of time to talk on the journey.”

Unbelievably, within the hour they were out to sea. But the Colin Mitchell who stood at the mist-covered bow was not the same one who had shared a farewell dinner with Quinn.

This Colin had a price on his head, and the cost to pay it could be his life.

The fence was directly ahead. After making certain that the guard was still far enough away to miss seeing her, Amelia hurried toward it. She did not see the man hidden on the other side of a large tree. When a steely arm caught her and a large hand covered her mouth, she was terrified, her scream smothered by a warm palm.

“Hush,” Colin whispered, his hard body pinning hers to the trunk.

Her heart racing in her chest, Amelia beat at him with her fists, furious that he had given her such a fright.

“Stop it,” he ordered, pulling her away from the tree to shake her, his dark eyes boring into hers. “I’m sorry I scared you, but you left me no choice. You won’t see me, won’t talk to me-”

She ceased struggling when he pulled her into a tight embrace, the powerful length of his frame completely unfamiliar to her.