“Rights are for those with power, miss,” he replied coldly, never wavering in his aim. “I have both the means and the motive to take what I require. You, I fear, have neither. Now, hand over Malory’s manuscript and the sketch.”
Henri clutched it closer to her bosom, her mind racing through possibilities, none of which seemed likely to result in her continued good health. “I am afraid I cannot do that. You see, I am rather fond of my continued existence, but these possessions are not mine to give.”
“How unfortunate,” the man replied, his finger moving toward the trigger. “I was rather hoping you would prove more reasonable.”
Gabriel lefthis carriage concealed among the trees beyond Danbury’s estate and approached the manor on foot. He had retrieved the vehicle from a discreet inn near Sandgate Cove where it waited for occasions such as this, when his work required him to travel incognito through England. Dressed as a common coachman, he would attract no notice.
The manuscript within these walls might hold the key to understanding the forces that had killed Horace. Gabriel couldnot return to Calais empty-handed, not when captive English agents depended upon the success of his negotiations.
Avoiding the manor’s occupants, he found the library along the northern wall, where tall French doors opened onto a stone terrace. Through the glass, Gabriel could see the reflecting mirrors and towering shelves that marked Danbury’s famous collection.
Movement inside made him freeze. A woman stood pressed against the far wall, while a man loomed before her with something glinting in his raised hand.
Gabriel tested the door handle. Locked, but the aged mechanism yielded to his blade worked between frame and wood. The voices within became clear as he eased inside and shut the door to prevent a draught from alerting the weapon-wielding fiend of his presence.
“Rights are for those with power, miss,” came a cultured voice. “I have both the means and the motive to take what I require. You, I fear, have neither. Now, hand over Malory’s manuscript and the sketch.”
“I am afraid I cannot do that,” the woman replied with remarkable composure, her voice striking a chord of memory which he could not place. “You see, I am rather fond of my continued existence, but these possessions are not mine to give.”
Gabriel saw the man’s finger move toward the trigger of his flintlock and moved without conscious thought. Three strides carried him across the library as the man spun toward him, eyes widening. Gabriel seized the would-be killer by the throat, his grip finding precise pressure points, while forcing the pistol-wielding arm down. As he rendered his opponent unconscious, the pistol discharged harmlessly into the floor.
Only then did Gabriel turn to face the woman he had rescued.
“Lord Trenwith?”
Gabriel’s heart plummeted in his chest. It was Miss Bigsby. Impudent, charming, and a terrible gossip. In fact, he had spent many an hour chatting nonchalantly with Reginald Wells’s private secretary in the pursuit of information about the denizens of Parliament, which was how he had grown to know and like her. If anyone was sure to reveal his presence in London—who knew all the key players of their political circles and would have word back to Calais or even Paris of his midnight jaunt, thus ruining his negotiations to free the men held in France—Miss Bigsby would be the one to achieve it.
She was even more beautiful than he remembered, though he tried to push that treacherous thought aside. Her honey-brown hair framed her heart-shaped face. Her amber eyes, those remarkable eyes that seemed to catch and hold every nuance of light, were wide with shock. Gabriel was tempted to lean in and press a kiss to her lush rosebud mouth. To settle her nerves, he told himself. Not because he had always thought Wells’s secretary was the most fascinating woman of his acquaintance.
Steeling himself for the unwelcome declaration he had to make, a flash of dread rushed through him at the thought of lovely Miss Bigsby bursting into an unholy rage when he said the words out loud. But there was no time for hesitation or diplomacy. A servant or Danbury himself could happen on them at any moment. He had to choose between ruining a young woman and the continued imprisonment of good men who had helped end the war so many years earlier. It was reputation over life and death, and he knew there was no decision to reach.
“I am afraid you will have to come with me.”
Her expression turned from gratitude to confusion in an instant. “What?—”
Before she could finish the question, Gabriel pulled her toward him and hauled her slight form under his arm to walk swiftly toward one of the library doors leading onto the terrace.At first she was docile, likely stunned, but then she began to wriggle in an effort to get free. He ignored the protests falling from her spellbinding lips—she would soon realize she had no say in the matter—but he was terrified of hurting her delicate frame, so he swung her up and shifted his position to clasp her in both arms against his chest, her arms tethered to her sides by his own, her feet dangling just below his knees. And he nearly groaned aloud at the unexpected pleasure of feeling the soft swells of her full breasts pressed to his own hard planes, plumped up around the edges of the manuscript she clutched. A stirring in his buckskins announced he indeed was only getting harder.
Belatedly recollecting the villain who had attacked her, forgotten in the surprise of her presence, he turned to find the library empty. The scoundrel must have awoken and scampered away, along with his flintlock. It was an amateur mistake, further evidence of the detrimental effect Miss Bigsby had on his focus, and there was naught he could do about it without revealing his presence in England. Too many lives hung in the balance, and he had already gambled with those lives. At least he did not recognize the other man, which meant the other man likely did not recognize him. But had he heard Miss Bigsby calling out his title? It all depended on when the scoundrel had come to.
Gabriel carried Miss Bigsby through the terrace doors and across the frost-covered grounds. The cold bit through his rough coachman’s clothing as he made his way toward the woods where his carriage waited concealed among the winter-bare trees. He had always been attracted to Miss Bigsby, though he had never allowed himself to acknowledge it fully. There was something about her quick wit, her genuine warmth, her fearless pursuit of whatever captured her interest that called to parts of him he had long thought dead. During their conversations inLondon drawing rooms, he had found himself lingering longer than necessary, savoring the way her eyes lit up when she spoke of a subject that excited her, the musical quality of her laughter, the graceful gestures of her hands as she emphasized a point. This was why he avoided her for weeks or months at a time. She was a weakness he could ill afford.
“This is kidnapping!” she declared, her amber eyes flashing. “You cannot simply?—”
“I can and I must,” Gabriel replied grimly as he reached the hidden coach. “Miss Bigsby, you are in considerably more danger than you know. That man was prepared to kill you for what you carry.”
Gabriel deposited Miss Bigsby onto the carriage seat and immediately set about securing both her and the precious items she carried. He carefully extracted the manuscript and sketch from her grasp, wrapping them in oiled cloth from beneath the driver’s seat before placing them in a secured compartment designed for sensitive documents. Thankfully, her excellent English manners made her slow to react to this unprecedented violation of her person. But, even as his conscience flayed him, Gabriel could not deny the fierce satisfaction that coursed through him. She was his to protect now, whether she wanted it or not. His to shield from whatever forces had brought armed men hunting manuscripts and sketches. His to?—
“What are you doing?” Miss Bigsby demanded, her voice sharp with alarm as she realized his intentions.
“Ensuring you do not flee the moment my back is turned,” Gabriel replied resolutely, producing silk cords from the carriage’s hidden compartments. These preparations had served him well during his more secretive work, though he had never imagined using them on an innocent woman.
“You cannot mean to—” Miss Bigsby began, but Gabriel was already securing her wrists with practiced efficiency, though he took care to ensure the bonds were firm without being painful.
“I am sorry, Miss Bigsby,” he said quietly as he produced a clean linen handkerchief. “But I cannot risk you crying out and drawing attention as we depart.”
Miss Bigsby’s eyes flashed with fury and betrayal as Gabriel gently but firmly secured the gag. He checked that she could breathe easily before stepping back to cover her carefully with a thick blanket to ward off the cold.
“I shall remove these restraints once we are safely away from this place,” Gabriel promised, though he could see the accusation in her amber eyes. “You have my word.”
