Page 3 of After the Spy Seduces

Kit’s eyes narrowed. Whowashe? And where the hell was Morgan?

The French agent and the lad exchanged a few words. Then the young man glanced around the tavern, skimming his gaze over the room, once more searching…But based upon the frustrated tightening of his lips, he didn’t find who he was looking for.

The boy turned back to the Frenchman and leaned further across the table toward him, tapping his finger on the tabletop in a way that reminded Kit of an irritated governess.

The Frenchman answered curtly with a visible snarl.

Apparently, whatever the Frenchman said wasn’t at all what the young man wanted to hear. Shaking his head, he reached into his inside breast pocket and removed a handful of pages, neatly folded and tied together with string.

Kit sat up straight, his eyes glued to the papers.

Perhaps his contacts weren’t wrong after all. Perhaps this young man had been sent to negotiate in Morgan’s place, or had somehow gotten the papers from Morgan and took it upon himself to make the exchange. Whatever the reason, that boy was here because of Garrett Morgan and would be able to connect those pages back to him under interrogation. Or torture. Kit didn’t particularly care which as long as he gained the information necessary to arrest Morgan. His heart skipped at the thought, not with vindication but absolution.

At the table, the discussion grew heated, with tapping fingers turning into pounding fists from both sides. Suddenly, the lad jumped to his feet so quickly that he knocked over his chair. He snatched up the bundle of papers and shoved them at the Frenchman, demanding the man take them, then gestured almost pleadingly at the crowded tavern around them.

The Frenchman threw the papers back with a curse and brought himself to his feet.

Which brought Kit immediately to his.

Whatever was about to happen wouldn’t be good. He didn’t give a damn if Morgan’s proxy got the pulping of his young life, but Kit needed the lad alive to swear out a statement. And he needed those papers to force the boy into doing it.

He started forward slowly as their voices rose, then broke into a run when the Frenchman lunged, grabbing the boy by his throat and tossing him backwards halfway across the room. The lad stumbled and fell onto a nearby table, knocking it over and spilling drinks, cards, and coins onto the floor.

A melee erupted as the roomful of drunken men and desperate lightskirts scrambled after the money. Fists flew and loud curses went up, accompanied by fierce shoving and kicking, and followed by thrown tankards and plates, smashed glass and chairs, the flash of knives—

The Frenchman raced out of the tavern into the night.

The boy charged after him.

With a curse, Kit chased after the boy.Christ.He was getting too old for this!

He rushed out the door and into the inn yard only a few strides behind the much slower lad who ran with his arms swinging at his sides. With each pounding length, he gained ground quickly on the boy, until he was almost close enough to reach for him.

But the boy kept running, foolishly chasing after the Frenchman who was several yards ahead and increasing the distance as he raced toward one of the horses standing at the hitching posts at the edge of the yard. He untied the horse and leapt up onto the animal’s back. Grabbing the reins in one hand, he spun the horse toward the road. His hand dove beneath his coat, and metal flashed in the dim lamplight.

“Get down!” Kit yelled at the boy and lunged.

He tackled the lad to the ground as the sound of gunfire shattered the night, followed instantly by the ball striking the cobblestones just inches from his head.

The Frenchman dug in his heels and charged the horse straight at them.

Kit grabbed the boy as he lay winded from the force of the tackle and rolled him over across the muddy ground. Pounding hooves flew past, barely missing them, and thudded onward to disappear into the night.

“Damn fool!” With a growl, Kit grabbed the lad by his lapels and threw him onto his back with no more effort than tossing a sack of potatoes. The boy was even younger and slighter than he’d thought. That coward Morgan had sent a mere child in his place. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

But the boy lay motionless on the ground.

Fear plunged through him. Had the boy had been injured—or worse? Straddling him to keep him pinned to the ground in case he caught back his breath and came up swinging, Kit ran his hands over the lad’s head to check for wounds, then carefully down his neck. Nothing. He swept his hands over the boy’s slender shoulders, then along his arms, feeling for broken bones.

Worried that he might have crushed the lad’s ribs when he rolled him across the cobblestones, he slipped his hands beneath the jacket to feel for the ribcage, tracing his fingers upward along each rib, moving systematically higher.

He froze. His hand cupped around a soft fullness for one baffling moment when his confused brain couldn’t comprehend what he was feeling—

A breast.

He yanked his hand away.What thehell?

He grabbed for the boy’s hat to snatch it off and accidentally released a curtain of golden tresses. With a curse, he reached for the fake moustache which now drooped low over the woman’s ripe lips, ripped it away, and revealed the face beneath. The very beautiful face. One he recognized even in the darkness.