You Only Love Once (29 page)

Anguish flashed in his blue eyes. “Hold still,” he murmured, and then he turned her wrist, pointing the knife at her ribs. Angelique froze, and the tip of the knife pierced her bodice.

Blood welled up at once. It stained the front of her pale blue dress with a garish purple-red blotch that seeped and spread. Angelique stared at it, touching the rip in her bodice as the blood poured forth. Ian pulled the knife from her fingers, and stepped back.

Selwyn made a sound that would have been a scream from a woman. Phipps's eyes were popping out in slack-jawed shock. Stafford stared blankly. Angelique pressed her hands to her chest, and more blood bubbled up; the stain had spread down her dress and was soaking her skirt. Her hands were covered in it. She trembled at the sight of her red-
slicked hands, holding them up. The whole room seemed frozen in place, mesmerized by the sight.

With a curse Ian threw down her knife, and the spell was broken. Angelique swayed on her feet, stumbling a step forward before falling to her knees.

“Good God,” said Nate in a stunned voice. “He's killed her.”

“Mr. Phipps, escort Mr. Avery out, now,” snapped Stafford. “
Now
, Mr. Phipps!” Nate made little protest as Mr. Phipps seized his arm and hustled him out of the room. He stared at her until the door banged closed behind him, and then she heard his voice, shocked and upset, echoing in the corridor outside. “Stay where you are, sir,” Stafford said coldly to Lord Selwyn, who had started to rise and was eyeing the door with obvious intent. At Stafford's command, he froze, then stood back against the wall, his face pale and alarmed.

John Stafford walked around his desk. He was coming toward her. She sat down heavily, her skirts twisting around her, and stared up at him without a word.

His eyes fixed on the tear in her bodice, where blood flowed in a steady trickle. “Oh, my dear,” he said almost inaudibly. “Why did it have to come to this?”

“You lied to me,” she whispered. “You lied to us all.”

Something like regret etched his face. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But it was all for a good cause.”

“Not all,” she wheezed. “Not all…Not what
he
wanted.”

Stafford barely acknowledged her gesture at
Selwyn. “He will pay for that, you may depend on it.”

She swallowed, her head drooping forward. “Good,” she murmured. She groped for him. “But promise me…no more killing. It's not right…”

He recoiled from her bloody hand, but not in time to avoid her entirely. Her fingers left dark red stripes down the front of his gray jacket. “No more,” he said kindly. “None but you could do them.”

Angelique rolled to the floor and let her eyes drift closed.

N
ate strode down the street, his heart thundering. He clenched his hands into fists to hide how they shook. She was fine. Wallace would sooner stab himself than hurt Angelique. It was all part of the plan. He should be relieved it was over, and seemed to have worked, even though they'd had to resort to the most drastic part of it.

But he kept seeing her slumping to the floor, drenched in blood. His hands shook as if he had the palsy.

He walked to the dock at a rapid clip, unwilling to sit even for a hackney ride. Down the street from where the
Water Asp
was moored, he turned into a public house, a dingy little pub with a good view of the ship. Several members of his crew looked up from their ale as he threw open the door. “On board, all of you,” he barked, loud enough to draw the attention of every man in the room. The crew leaped to their feet and began rushing around. “Where's the rest?”

“Back there, sir.” One of the men pointed to a narrow hallway.

Muttering curses, Nate walked to the end of the
corridor, and pounded loudly on the door there. “The
Water Asp
sails tonight!” he shouted. “All out now, or be left behind.” He pushed the door open.

Five men, including Prince, were hurriedly collecting their winnings from a table covered with cards and coins. “Make haste, make haste,” Nate growled, glancing over his shoulder. No one had followed him down the corridor, but his crew was making quite a racket in the pub as they settled their bills. He turned around and glared at Prince. “Everything is ready?”

Prince nodded, sweeping the cards into his pocket. “Yes, sir. Just as you instructed.”

“Good.” Nate grabbed one man by the scruff of his neck and hauled him out of his chair. “Drunk already, I see.”

“Not by choice,” mumbled Jacob Dixon, swaying on his feet. “Drink or get shot…”

“Now walk or get shot,” Nate muttered back, shoving Dixon ahead of him down the hall, Prince at his heels. The other men from the back room clustered around them, helping keep Dixon on his feet and moving.

It was a terrible risk he took. If by chance someone who would recognize Dixon had followed him, there could be trouble. He had no idea what would happen to him if he were caught out in the lie he had just told to Lord Selwyn and one very dangerous spymaster, but even more he had feared what might happen to Angelique. Wallace was supposed to get her safely away, but if something went wrong…If Stafford suspected anything odd…If anyone checked to see that Wallace's knife really had gone between Angelique's ribs in
stead of just through the bladder of blood sewn into her dress…

The thought was unbearable. So Nate had changed his plan. Dixon wasn't safely hidden on the ship; Dixon was close at hand, ready to be produced at a moment's notice if any exchange had been required. If things had gone wrong, and Nate's hand had been forced, he would have handed Dixon right into Selwyn's embrace without hesitation. If he must trade the man he sought for the woman he loved, Nate would have done it in a heartbeat and not wasted one moment of regret for Dixon or for Selwyn or even for Ben Davies. Ben especially would have expected no less of him.

Thankfully it hadn't come to that—yet. He made a bit more of a scene in the main taproom, shouting at his crew to get moving, and they rushed out around him. He thought Dixon would be well concealed in a pack of sailors, dressed as one of them, as drunk as any of them, but he kept his grip on the back of Dixon's jacket as they went down the narrow street to the dock. To his immense relief no one stopped them, and they made it aboard the
Water Asp
unimpeded. The captain, already alerted to be ready to sail, immediately sent the men scurrying about the deck to their stations.

Nate dragged Dixon, now stumbling badly, down belowdecks to the brig, a small iron cage furnished with nothing but a bucket. He shoved him through the door. Dixon collapsed onto his knees, then retched into the bucket. Without even wiping his mouth, he slowly toppled over onto the blanket lying beside it. A moment later, a loud snore drifted out of his open mouth. Just like any sailor.

Nate locked the cage and tucked the key into his pocket, giving the door a hard rattle to make sure it was secure. His hands were shaking again. It was dim down here, lit by infrequent lanterns despite the bright daylight streaming through the hatches. It smelled of pine tar and the rank stink of vomit and sour gin.

Prince laid a hand on his shoulder. “Everything went well?” he asked quietly.

“There must have been a gallon of blood in that bladder.” His stomach revolted as the image flashed across his mind again, scoring into his memory. Nate had to bend over, resting his hands on his knees as he fought back the rising bile. “Good God, it was everywhere…”

“But she is well,” Prince said.

“I hope. Wallace is supposed to send word as soon as he can.” He dug in his pocket, and extracted the wooden tube and bottle of poisoned darts Prince had given him the day before. “I didn't need these after all.” Although he almost wished he had used them anyway. He could have slapped a dart into Selwyn's neck in the mayhem when Angelique drew her knife, and blown another into Stafford, just to be sure no one would follow them. Now he had to spend the night wondering if things had gone wrong, and if he should have taken no chances.

Prince took the darts and nodded. “Come, Nathaniel. You should sit down. Get some air.”

“I don't want to sit down,” he growled.

“But you can't go to her,” Prince reminded him gently. “And you mustn't give up the masquerade now.”

Nate closed his eyes. Goddamn it. He couldn't do
anything for Angelique. Prince was right. He cast one more black look at Dixon, the author of all this trouble, and followed Prince up to the deck.

 

It was impossible to play at dying for very long. Angelique was able to let her mind drift for several minutes at a time, letting her breathing grow shallow and slow. She had seen men linger for days after being stabbed in the gut, before succumbing to slow, painful death. It was not a pleasant thought. The blood soaking though her dress was growing cold, and she couldn't stop a shiver from time to time, mostly of revulsion.

Above her she could hear Selwyn talking; arguing, cursing, pleading. The earl seemed to know his life hung in the balance and he was not going quietly. Stafford was saying little, and Angelique wondered if Lord Selwyn knew that was a bad sign. He might not believe everything Angelique and Nate had said, but he didn't disbelieve; he would send someone to investigate, to question, to dig up whatever remained of the truth. Angelique wasn't sure what proof he could find with Dixon apparently dead, but then, Stafford didn't always require definitive proof before he acted.

Ian was hunkered down on his haunches a few feet away from her, his head in his hands. After cutting into the bladder of pig's blood, Ian had said nothing. From time to time he would shoot an agonized look at her, as if to check that she was still carrying on with this. She could see his desperation to get out of that office in his face. It mirrored her own, but she had to stay limp. She closed her eyes and thought about Nate. Had he made it to the ship yet?
Everything should have been all ready to sail, with Dixon securely locked belowdecks. Nate and Prince had perfected all those arrangements without her; they couldn't risk anyone seeing her near the ship. She hoped Phipps had just released him at the door, but the little weasel hadn't returned yet.

The door creaked. Phipps. Angelique had to bite her tongue to keep from sighing aloud in relief. If he was here, he couldn't be following Nate.

She heard Phipps's inhalation of disgust. She had slumped back against the wall, leaving her bloodied front on display. “Sir,” he said, “should I take care of…
this
?”

“I'll do it,” Ian growled, springing to his feet. “Don't touch her.”

Angelique opened her eyes to give Phipps one last freezing glare. The man leaped backward when he saw. “Bless my soul, she's still alive!” he cried.

“Not for long,” said Ian harshly. “There's no help for a knife in the chest.”

“Phipps, fetch a carriage,” said Stafford. “Mr. Wallace will attend to Madame Martand. And when you have done with that…” He paused. “Send for Lord Sidmouth. Immediately.”

Selwyn started arguing again in a low, fierce tone. Ian bent over Angelique and gathered her into his arms as gently as he would a newborn lamb, folding her cloak around her. She coughed as he moved her, making her breathing loud and labored. Ian flinched, but didn't pause. “A few more minutes,” he breathed, then got to his feet, shifting her weight easily in his arms. “Hold the door, Phipps.”

There was a shuffle. “Oh, really,” snapped Phipps.

“Hold the door, or I'll be coming back for you,” said Ian in a deadly voice. “The knife's already soiled.”

The door creaked open, then Ian was walking. They were out of the room. Now down the stairs. Now moving through the barren corridor that led to the back entry. Now in the alley, being bundled into a carriage. Angelique's heart battered against her ribs, as much from anxiety as from the effort of wheezing and coughing on every breath. She was out of Bow Street. A clink of coins, the carriage dipped as Ian climbed in beside her and cradled her in his arm once more.

“Easy there, just a moment,” he whispered, reaching out to snap the curtains closed as the carriage rocked forward, then lurched into motion. Angelique let her head rest against Ian's arm, and breathed a sigh—of gladness, of sadness, of relief.

It was done.

Two weeks later

S
o this is Scotland.”

“Aye.” Ian's voice was quiet with pride and wistfulness. Only a thin line of what should have been a glorious sunset was visible, a stripe of bright orange along the distant horizon. Thick gray clouds had begun rolling across the sky almost as soon as they set out that morning, and when Ian had pointed to the east and indicated Edinburgh, it had been nothing but an indistinct smudge. Wispy fog curled around their feet now as if to shroud even the streets of Leith from their view.

Behind Angelique, Lisette sniffed loudly into her handkerchief. “Damp,” she muttered.

Ian grinned. “Damp, but beautiful.”

“Damp and dark” was her retort. Lisette had found fault with everything since they left London, from the food to the weather to the way Ian loaded their belongings into the coach. Angelique had offered to release her, if she wished, but the maid had refused. The complaints were just her way of dealing with the upheaval in her life, and in that
vein Angelique could take them with a measure of amusement.

Angelique said nothing now, just closed her eyes and filled her lungs with salty sea air. She could hear the water lapping at the docks and the creak of wood against wood as ships rocked themselves to sleep in the muffling fog. She liked Scotland. It was cold and damp and even dark, but she liked the mystical quiet of the place. Or maybe it was just this moment, so still and yet so taut. The end, and the beginning, of everything for her.

“A farthing for your thoughts,” Ian said beside her.

She smiled. “You overpay. I was not thinking anything, merely feeling.”

He cleared his throat. “Not regret, I hope. It's not too late to change your mind.”

“But my mind has not changed,” she whispered. The port was a forest of masts, creaking as they swayed ever so slightly, as if in a breeze. Men scurried along the decks and cross spars, small agile figures hopping along like birds. Skiffs slithered across the water around the hulls, in some cases visible through the fog only by the winking lanterns in their sterns.

“Good.” Ian rocked on his heels for a moment. “If I ever disappointed you, or led you to believe…” His stumbling, muttered words trailed off as she looked at him in expectation.

“You wish to apologize for flirting with me?” she asked after a moment of silence.

“Yes!” The word burst out with obvious relief. “I never meant to let you think…or to suggest…That is, I've always held you in the greatest respect…”

She smiled. Ian was lying; he had gone too far for her to think he never meant a word of his flirting. Strangely, she did believe he had never been truly interested in her, and she wondered what game he'd been playing. But now it no longer mattered. “You flirted with me as I flirted with you. Neither was serious, and neither, I think, is hurt.”

He tilted back his face to the evening sky and heaved a deep sigh. “Thanks be to all the saints,” he said fervently. “I didn't look forward to apologizing in front of him.”

Angelique raised one eyebrow. “You fear someone more than me?”

He grinned at her, cocky again. “Not a bit, lass. But I always knew if I crossed you too far, I'd never see retribution coming; I'd just wake up dead or castrated, and that would be that.”

She laughed. “Not you, Ian. I would have let someone else do it, out of respect for our camaraderie these several years.”

“'Tis more than my own mother would do,” he assured her. “But less than he would, I think.”

“Yes,” she simply said in agreement. Much less.

By now one of the small boats had turned toward them, heading like a one-eyed beast through the fog. She could make out the shape of a man, his arms swooping wide and then pulling in as he rowed. As the skiff drew near, the lamplight gleamed on his face; the rest of him was muffled in darkness. With a scrape, the boat ran ashore. The rower tucked the oars inside, then jumped out and pulled his craft onto the thin rocky beach. Then he turned toward where they stood and raised his head in an attitude of waiting.

Angelique stepped off the edge of the quay and walked toward him. His teeth flashed white in the darkness, and her heart leaped. Part of her had wondered—feared, really—if he wouldn't be here, if something would go awry and disrupt their plan, if he wouldn't have second thoughts and be far across the ocean by now. But perhaps he had wondered the same about her. Perhaps his heart had leaped with the same joy and relief that hers had, when he saw her. Or perhaps her heart would always do that when he grinned at her like this.

She stopped in front of him. He wore a thick woolen coat, with an equally nondescript cap on his head; no more tailored coats and polished boots, for now anyway. But when she looked into his lean, angular face, she couldn't stop the smile that broke across her lips. He opened his arms, and she rushed into them, clinging to him almost as tightly as he clung to her.

“I thought you would never arrive,” he whispered, and just the familiar sound of his voice made her heart feel lighter.

She lifted her head and smiled. “It takes a long time to travel slowly and unremarkably from London to Leith.”

Nate chuckled. “Darling, after my last glimpse of you, an hour seemed an eternity, let alone two weeks. And that reminds me: I owe your friend Mr. Phipps a good knock on the head, for the way he shoved me out of that office.”

She touched his cheek. “I will make it up to you.”

“Oh!” Nate brightened. “That's good enough for me. I forgive him.” And she laughed, until Nate's mouth met hers in a kiss ripe with longing and
relief. And love—more love than she had ever imagined two people could share.

Footsteps crunched behind her on the narrow beach. “I see you're in a rush to be off, Avery,” said Ian. “But I think you need a bigger boat. You knew it was a pair of women you'd be fetching, aye? They've three hefty trunks.”

Nate kept her at his side, his arm curled securely around her beneath her long cloak. “Prince was right behind me. The lazy fellow's probably just taking his time.” Another larger boat was nudging closer to the water's edge as he spoke, and a moment later Prince jumped out to pull it up.

“Lazy?” Prince said indignantly. “I just hadn't your motivation.” Still breathing hard, he swept off his cap and bowed to her. “Madame, a pleasure to see you again.”

Angelique bobbed in reply, hampered by Nate's grip on her waist. “I am glad to see you are well, Prince.”

He laughed quietly. “Well enough for having lived with a caged bear for two weeks! We would have thrown him overboard if you did not come to calm him.”

“Ungrateful wretch,” Nate said without heat. He pressed a kiss to Angelique's temple. “Where are your things?”

Ian helped them carry the trunks down to the water's edge. Without her spy's wardrobe and wigs, Angelique traveled surprisingly lightly. She had told Lisette to pack only her favorite things, nothing at all of Stafford's. That had all been sent to the ragman when Lisette cleared out her house after her supposed death. Nothing of that life was coming
with her to her new life. Except Lisette, of course; not wanting to presume, Angelique had told her of the generous sum named in her will, enough for the maid to live in comfort for the rest of her days, but Lisette didn't want to stay behind. “I've seen enough of England,
merci
,” she'd said with a sniff, and told Ian to send her own trunk on with Angelique's.

The only regret Angelique had was Mellie. When Stafford notified her solicitor that Angelique Martand had unfortunately met her end in a tragic accident, Melanie would believe her truly dead. Mr. Dexter would execute her will, selling her house and possessions and forwarding the bulk of the money to Melanie. It was blood money anyway; let Mellie put it to good use, serving the poor. Angelique knew that somewhere in that quiet graveyard behind the rectory, Melanie would grieve for her as a mother for her child, and feel responsible for her death. It tore her heart in two, but she had to let things play out, on the chance someone might have connected them. When they reached America, she would find a way to let Melanie know the truth. And perhaps, in a few years, she would be able to visit Melanie again.

As Nate settled one trunk in his boat and helped Prince secure another in the other boat, Angelique turned to Ian. He was one of her few friends, the only person associated with Stafford she would truly miss. She had contemplated marrying him at one time, and he had risked his life and future to help her escape with the man she loved. “Good-bye, Ian,” she said softly.

He was staring over the water again, squinting into the encroaching fog. “It was a noble thing you did,” he muttered. “Staff went too far.”

She laughed. “Noble? That goes too far as well.” Her smile faded and she raised her hands in surrender. “But it had to be done, and who better? I am ready to be done with him. I was ready a while ago. I have no regrets.”

Ian shot her a wry glance. “And look how miserable your last job was.”

“It worked out well enough in the end,” she said serenely, then ruined it by catching sight of Nate and smiling again.

Ian snorted with laughter. “Aye, well enough. Your face, when you look at him…” He hesitated. “I wish you much joy, Angelique.”

“Thank you. I wish you the same.”

“I expect I'll come out well enough,” he said. “We Scots are used to making do.”

“I wish you better than making do,” she said softly, and went up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “
Bon chance
, Ian.”

He just gave her a lopsided smile, then stepped back as footsteps came crunching close again.

“Are you ready?” Nate asked.

Angelique nodded, holding out her hand. He had put her trunk in one end of the punt, forcing her to sit directly in front of him. When he shoved away from the shore and stepped into the boat, aided by a strong push from Ian, she had to grab the sides to keep her seat. Nate sat down, his knees almost touching hers, and set the oars in the oarlocks. He had taken off his cap, and now took off the coat as well, revealing a white shirt rolled up to the elbows.

“I wondered how we would find you,” she said as he dipped the oars into the water and slowly they drifted away from the shore. Ian had gone
on to help Prince with the last trunk, and Lisette was muttering at both of them in angry French. Even just a few yards from shore, their figures had grown hazy. Angelique kept her eyes on Ian, raising her hand in one last farewell when she thought he turned her way. It was too dark and foggy to see if he made any reply, and she turned her gaze back to Nate, blinking away the moisture behind her eyelids.

Nate grinned. “I've been sitting on this shore every night for the last week. You would have been hard-pressed to avoid me.”

She arched her eyebrow. “I am surprised you waited.”

“Are you?” He leaned closer, his eyes keen on hers. “Are you really?”

Angelique had to retreat; no more games, she had promised him. “No,” she breathed.

Nate smiled, that reckless pirate's smile. “I would have waited another day, then come after you.”

“Would you?” He dug the oars into the water and the boat lurched forward. Angelique had to hold the side of the boat to keep from falling into him. “Where would you have gone searching?”

“Everywhere.” Back on the shore, Lisette gave a loud squawk as Prince stepped into the other boat. The trunks were settled between them, a looming bulk in the center of the boat. Ian was nothing but a dark shadow now. He said something to Prince in unmistakable Scots brogue, and the black man's low laugh drifted across the inky water, followed by Lisette's scolding tones.

Angelique turned back to the man in front of her. “If I had not wanted you to find me—”

“It would have made no difference.”

She watched him a moment. The wind ruffled his unbound hair as he rowed, and the lantern cast a golden glow over his face and bare forearms as it swayed from side to side. “You would have dragged me away against my wishes?”

“Never,” he said indignantly. “I would have dragged you away to persuade you of your true desires and feelings.”

“And you know them better than I do?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Again his teeth shone in the darkness. “Once we reach the ship, I'll be glad to show you just what you desire.”

She was counting on that, but gave him a severe look anyway, then turned to look over the water. The light of lanterns on the ships they passed sparkled on the rippling surface, then vanished in the fog. There was an eerie sort of peace out on the water, where sound and light just seemed to melt away. Angelique had the sense that they could simply vanish into the fog and no one would ever know where they had gone. But as long as she was with Nate, the prospect didn't bother her.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Boston.”

She waited, but he just grinned. “And then?” she prompted with a laugh. “Will we explore the frontier and see the native peoples? You have piqued my interest, with your tales of adventure and knives from the ferocious Wyandot.”

Slowly Nate shook his head. “You've quenched my thirst for adventure, my dear. Seeing you lying limp and soaked in blood on Stafford's floor—”

“Pig's blood,” she murmured.

“
Blood
,” he repeated. “Oceans of blood. And then I had to walk away and trust that Scottish scoundrel to get you out of there before anyone realized it wasn't your own blood.”

“There was no other way,” she began, but he put up his hand.

“Agreed. You were right, and it worked, and I am grateful, but holy God in heaven, it took years off my life, waiting through that day for your note to arrive that you were well, and all had gone according to plan.”

“It was the only way,” she said again.