Gus reluctantly met his father’s gaze.
“You know full well he will not dare set foot in France. And I wouldn’t ever ask it of him. This is my quest; and I shall not have the arrest and execution of a friend on my conscience,” replied Gus.
Captain Jones pulled his son into his embrace. “And I don’t suppose threatening to tell your mother the truth of the things you have been up to all these years would do me any good either?”
Gus closed his eyes and let his father’s words wash over him. Lying to his mother had never sat well with him but having her know the truth would be far worse. He would much prefer that she continued to think him an honest sailor.
“No, it wouldn’t.” He accepted a second hug then drew back. “I had better finish up here and then go make arrangements to have the weapons I am taking to France collected. The rest of the RR Coaching Company want to have a directors’ meeting early tomorrow before I leave, so I won’t have time in the morning.”
“Alright, but could you at least promise me one thing?”
He forced himself to meet his father’s eyes. “Name it.”
“If there comes a point where you have the choice between being a bloody hero or setting aside your pride and living another day, please think of your mother. She doesn’t deserve to spend the rest of her days grieving over you. And neither do I, for that matter.”
Gus swallowed the lump in his throat. He couldn’t blame his father for using guilt to try to make him stay. He would have done exactly the same. “You drive a hard bargain, sir, but yes. I promise not to throw my life away too cheaply. I shall keep myself constrained when it comes to heroics.”
He had no intention of ever letting Vincent Marec and his men win. As far as he was concerned, the Lamballe gang would still be counting the cost of having attacked both the château and his crew long after he had finished with them. Revenge was going to be swift and complete.
His mission to France was twofold: save Evangeline and Armand, while settling a deadly score.
Chapter Two
Château-de-La-Roche
Saint-Brieuc, France
The cool breeze from the Gouët river ruffled Evangeline’s long, pale locks. In what her late mother would have considered an act of impetuous rebellion, she had untied the ribbon her maid had carefully threaded through her hair and let the wind have its way.
While the knotted plaits had come free with ease, she couldn’t say the same for the tight fists of worry which sat heavily in her stomach.
What am I to do?
She glanced back in the direction of the château. The spire of the central turret peeked out over the top of the pine trees. This place had been her home, her sanctuary for many years, yet today it felt anything but safe.
Strangers were moving about the yard, carrying boxes and cases of heavens knew what into the west wing. Armand wouldn’t tell her anything. He had even locked her out of several parts of the house, including the formal dining room.
When she spied the fifth cart rolling up the road, Evangeline had given up watching and come down to the water’s edge, seeking solace. But even her favorite place couldn’t calm the torment in her mind.
Armand was making ready to go to war against Vincent Marec.
“He knows nothing about fighting, whereas Vincent is a battle-hardened warrior,” she muttered.
If she didn’t do something to stop her uncle, they were all going to end up dead.
She turned and fixed her gaze on the dark turquoise waters of the English Channel, scanning the horizon for any sign of a ship.
Not just any ship.
From the first morning after she had sent the letter to Gus Jones, Evangeline had looked out to sea, hoping to see theNight Windsail into view.
But nothing. Hope was fading.
Did it even reach him?
Her last sight of Gus had been as Sir Stephen Moore helped carry him on board the yacht. He had been seriously injured—shot by one of Vincent’s men.
She winced at the memory of Gus falling in a crumpled heap to the ground, her own cries echoing among the trees as he collapsed. And then the blood. As the front of his linen shirt ran crimson with his life force, Evangeline’s worry had turned to dread.
