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“And my payment?”
Alex withdrew a purse from a pocket hidden inside her skirts and tossed it to him.
“More when I receive word they made it safely to the ship.”
He nodded, seeming satisfied. With a wave of his hand, he gestured them onto the boat. Ramsey pushed Gabrielle forward, but she resisted. “I can’t leave you in France, Alex. I fear you are in danger.”
“God damn it, Gabrielle. Don’t be ridiculous!” Ramsey barked. “Get on the boat.”
She scowled at him then focused on Alex.
“He’s right,” Alex said. “You are in far more danger than I. You’ve been compromised.”
“Please come with us,” Gabrielle pled.
Alex shook her head. “My work is here. I have missions yet to complete. One day I’ll go home to London, and when I return, I’ll possess a new identity. That’s my gift.”
Gabrielle moved forward, embracing the other woman. Over Gabrielle’s shoulder, her face was a mask of shock and surprise. Ramsey almost laughed. Gabrielle never ceased to surprise him either. Alex’s arms came up and she patted Gabrielle stiffly on the shoulders, then set her back. “Please hurry.”
Ramsey stepped off the quay and into the bobbing boat. Gabrielle took his hand and joined him. Alex moved back to stand beside Hastings.
“Get under this,” the old fisherman said in French. He held up a heavy canvas tarp that had been lying on the floor of the boat. Ramsey helped Gabrielle move to the center of the boat then joined her, both of them crouching in order to fit into the small space. Before the tarp covered them, he took one last look at Alex.
But she was already gone.
—
Gabrielle did not know if she slept or merely dozed, but despite her discomfort under the sodden tarp on the bottom of the small fishing boat, she could not keep her eyes open. Ramsey was warm beside her. She might hate him, but she did believe she could trust him.
At the moment.
He’d told her he loved her. She didn’t know quite what to think of the statement. If he had an ulterior motive in proclaiming his affection, she could not think what it might be. And no one could have concocted the story about impersonating the earl. She’d told him she was not easily shocked, but he had shocked her. He was not at all who she had thought him to be.
Perhaps she had never known him at all.
And yet, she knew three facts about him without question.
One: he had risked his life to save her.
Two: he was a thief and a liar and a traitor.
Three: she still wanted him.
If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she might have thought it amusing that she even presumed to pass judgment on one who stole or lied. She’d done the same, many times. Who was she to judge? And hadn’t his motives been much nobler than hers? She had only wanted to save herself. He had an entire family, an entire estate, to think of.
She wanted to hate him. Shedidhate him. And the more she clung to that feeling, the more it slipped away.
At some point the small boat must have docked at another quay, and she and Ramsey were shepherded to a cart filled with barrels of wine. She’d been instructed to keep her head down and under the tarp—the heavy, wet tarp she was rapidly coming to hate. But she’d managed a quick look around, and in the distance she’d seen the lights of Paris.
They’d made it out of the city. She could almost believe they were saved.
She and Ramsey were squeezed between barrels of wine underneath the dratted tarp. She could not fall asleep on this leg of the voyage. The roads were too bumpy and her fear of discovery too great. But no one called for the cart to halt. No one demanded to search the contents of the conveyance. They stopped briefly along the road to attend to bodily functions, and the driver gave them each a hunk of bread and a cup of wine. He didn’t speak to them, and she and Ramsey did not speak to each other. But when he reached out and took her hand, she held his tightly, thankful for the small comfort.
Finally they reached a port. Gabrielle assumed it was Calais, but she did not ask, did not raise her head from the protection of the tarp. It was dark, and she was not sure how long they had been traveling. When Ramsey finally urged her out of the cart, her legs ached and she all but hobbled up the gangplank of the ship and then down into a hold filled with more wine barrels. It stunk, but at this point so did she. All she wanted was her little home on Audley Street, her own bed, and a bath. And all seemed impossibly far away.
She must have dozed again, because a loud creak woke her, and when she opened her eyes she blinked against the bright sunlight.
“Good afternoon!” a man said in a voice too loudly. He sounded brash and very…English after she’d become accustomed to the soft lilt of French.
