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Runaway Lady
Claire Thornton


‘I will hire you only on condition that you promise to do everything in your power to protect me. ’ With his curved Turkish sword, and dark, brooding looks, Harry Ward is a formidable adversary. Lady Saskia van Buren’s life is in danger, so she has fled to London and hired him as her protector. But she soon finds herself longing for more than safety in his arms…Unknown to Saskia, Harry believes she’s a Dutch spy – and he intends to bring her to justice. Only he’s torn between duty and desire, and will do whatever it takes to keep Lady Saskia safe – even make her his convenient bride. . .







He gradually sensed she was nolonger completely asleep, but norwas she awake. She was lost in adreaming state between the two.



Her movements had the languor of sleep, but there was no doubt what she wanted when she searched for his mouth with hers. He took her head between his hands, meaning to ease her gently away, but in the end he was too weak-willed to do anything except help her find her target. So she kissed him again. Every part of his body thundered with arousal, but he allowed himself to respond with only the tenderest touch of his mouth against hers. He wanted to taste her. But she thought she was lying with her husband.



‘Saskia?’ he murmured, his voice tight with strain. Perhaps he could wake her just enough to get her safely back to her half of the cloak.



‘Harry?’



He went absolutely still. Her voice had been low and husky, but he was certain she’d called him by his real name. Surely her Dutch husband hadn’t also been called Harry?


Claire Thornton grew up in the Sussex countryside. Her love of history began as a child, when she imagined Roman soldiers marching along the route of the old Roman Road which runs straight through her village high street. It is also a family legend that her ancestors were involved in smuggling, which further stimulated her interest in how people lived in the past. She loves immersing herself in the historical background for her books, and taught herself bobbin lacemaking as part of her research. She enjoys handicrafts of all kinds, and regularly has her best ideas when she is working on a piece of cross-stitch. Claire has also written under the name of Alice Thornton. She can be contacted via her website at www.clairethornton.com.



RUNAWAY LADY features characters you will have already met in Claire Thornton’s City of Flames trilogy.



Novels by the same author:



RAVEN’S HONOUR

GIFFORD’S LADY

MY LORD FOOTMAN



and in the City of Flames series:



THE DEFIANT MISTRESS

THE ABDUCTED HEIRESS

THE VAGABOND DUCHESS




RUNAWAY LADY


Claire Thornton




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)



RUNAWAY LADY


Chapter One






Cornwall—Sunday, 9 June 1667



The sound of footsteps on the gravel path six feet above her head was Saskia van Buren’s first warning that she and Anne were not the only ones taking advantage of the warm evening. Both women fell silent as the murmur of conversation grew louder. A few seconds later Saskia recognised the voices of her aunt and the man who’d been introduced to her as her aunt’s secretary. They were speaking softly, but the urgency in her aunt’s low voice demanded attention.

‘Now Saskia’s here we don’t have to wait. They can both die before the twenty-second of June,’ said Lady Abergrave.

‘It might be more discreet to continue with our original plan, my lady?’ Tancock suggested. ‘Wait for Mistress van Buren to return to Amsterdam before we act?’

‘No, this way is more certain. There is always the risk that Saskia might challenge any will Benjamin makes in my favour. It’s best for her to have a fatal accident now.’ Lady Abergrave’s voice was chillingly practical. ‘She said herself she means to revisit her childhood haunts. No one will be surprised if she falls on the rocks. And no one will be surprised if Benjamin, grief-stricken at the death of his sister, also has an accident. Such tragedies are not uncommon. Grief makes people careless of themselves.’

Shock held Saskia motionless as she listened to her aunt plot her death. Surely she’d misheard. But she saw horror dawning in Anne’s eyes, and knew she hadn’t misunderstood. She gripped the younger woman’s arm in warning and emphatically mouthed the word quiet. Anne nodded jerkily.

As long as they made no sound they should remain undetected by Lady Abergrave and Tancock. Trevithick House was built on an area of high ground that sloped steeply down to the river. The house and gardens were surrounded by a retaining wall of Cornish slatestone. Inside, the garden the wall was only four feet high, but it plunged down more than twelve feet on the side facing the river. Saskia and Anne were sitting on a bench cut into the foot of the wall on the river side. They’d only be discovered if Lady Abergrave or Tancock leaned over the wall to look straight down.

‘Particularly when the bereaved man already has a broken leg,’ Tancock said drily. ‘Sir Benjamin’s death will take a little more planning than Saskia’s, but it won’t be difficult. You will receive much sympathy from your friends at the loss of your only remaining blood relatives.’

Beneath her hand Saskia felt Anne begin to shake uncontrollably. She tightened her grip, willing Anne to remain silent. Her own emotions were already locked deep inside her in that place she sent them when disaster threatened.

‘Edmund’s death was a disaster.’ Lady Abergrave’s voice hardened with bitterness as she spoke of her dead son. ‘But these are necessary. You must do it yourself.’

‘Of course. There will be no mistakes.’

‘Good.’ Lady Abergrave’s tone softened into something almost coquettish. ‘You will be well rewarded… my friend.’

‘My sweet lady. My only ambition is to see you restored to your rightful position.’

Saskia heard the crunch of their footsteps on the gravel as they resumed their promenade around the garden. Until a few minutes ago she would never have dreamed her aunt could be capable of such a heinous plan, yet she didn’t doubt her aunt meant everything she’d said.

Isabel Trevithick had been the younger sister of Saskia and Benjamin’s late father. She’d been a beauty in her youth. Many men had vied for her hand, but she’d married the second Earl of Abergrave. After his death, she had become the guardian of their son, Edmund. In her position as mother and guardian of the young earl she’d had wealth and influence, but Edmund had been a sickly child. When he’d died the title and inheritance had passed to a distant male relative who’d made only minimal provision for Lady Abergrave. Now the older woman had neither a home nor money of her own. But her late husband had been Benjamin’s guardian and Lady Abergrave had assumed the same role. After her son’s death she’d brought her remaining retinue, including her stepdaughter, Anne, to live in Benjamin’s house.

Saskia had been well aware her aunt resented her reduced circumstances, but until a few minutes ago she’d assumed Lady Abergrave meant to restore her fortunes through a second marriage. Only yesterday her aunt had been flirting with the local magistrate, yet even then Lady Abergrave must have been plotting murder.

Fury surged through Saskia. She started to spring up, intending to seek out and confront her aunt—but almost immediately her anger was overtaken by the terrifying awareness that the first loyalty of every servant in the house was to Lady Abergrave. Saskia’s father had died when Benjamin was sixteen, and her brother had been taken from Trevithick House to live with Lord and Lady Abergrave in Gloucestershire. The old family servants at Trevithick had received pensions under her father’s will. None of the present household remembered Saskia from when she’d lived at Trevithick before her marriage. They all treated Lady Abergrave as if she was the mistress of the household, rather than her nephew’s guest. Saskia didn’t dare trust any of them.

Anne opened her mouth to speak. Saskia shook her head, afraid they might be overheard. She glanced both ways and then pulled Anne to her feet and all but dragged her across the path and into the shelter of the band of woodland separating the house from the river.

‘What are we going to do?’ Anne whispered desperately.

‘If we could only get Benjamin out of the house…’ But Saskia dismissed the idea before she’d finished the sentence. Her brother’s broken leg was in splints and his bedroom was on the first floor. They’d never be able to get him out without attracting attention. And if Tancock and Lady Abergrave discovered them, Saskia knew her fate—and Benjamin’s—would be sealed.

‘I have to get help.’ Saskia gazed intently at Anne, trying to gauge the girl’s mood. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘I…what will be best? I don’t want to leave Benjamin.’

‘Nor do I. But unless I go now, he’ll be in deadly danger. Do you understand?’ Saskia had realised what was implicit in Lady Abergrave’s conversation with Tancock. ‘As long as I’m alive, there is no benefit to my aunt if Benjamin dies before his twenty-first birthday, because in that case our father’s will leaves everything to me—and my own will is already written and it does not leave anything to her. It is only if I die first and then Benjamin that Aunt Isabel will gain this estate under our father’s will.’

‘I hate her.’ Anne sounded steadier. ‘From the first moment she married my father I have not liked her. Tell me what to do.’

‘Wait a while and then go back into the house without drawing attention to yourself. Follow your normal routine, but retire to bed as soon as possible. Don’t mention me or draw attention to yourself in any way.’ Saskia spoke swiftly as she tried to imagine all eventualities. ‘If anyone asks you about me, act as ignorant and confused as the rest of the household will be when my absence is discovered. But if someone does remember we came for a walk together, say we separated because I had a headache and wanted to sit quietly. If you have a chance, tell Benjamin I will be back with help, but only when you are sure no one will overhear.’

Anne nodded jerkily. ‘Be careful.’

Saskia pulled the girl into a brief hug. She didn’t want to leave Anne behind, but Lady Abergrave had nothing to gain from harming her stepdaughter. Most of the time she barely noticed her. It was Benjamin who was in deadly danger while he was in Lady Abergrave’s power.

Saskia moved cautiously through the woodland sloping down to the river, all her senses attuned to her surroundings. Every tiny snap of a twig beneath her feet sounded like an explosion to her oversensitive ears, but she heard nothing except the normal rustles of small animals in the undergrowth. To her relief, the small quay below the house was deserted. Almost as important, water was still rising on the incoming tide. She untied one of the small boats, climbed in and began to row upstream. She knew she needed to make good progress before the tide turned against her.



London—Friday, 14 June 1667



Saskia was lost in London. She rode around a corner and straight into the middle of a riot. A burst of sharp, violent sounds and images exploded into her awareness. A flying brick…a man’s contorted face as he bellowed in rage…the bite of axe into a tree. Angry, shouting men were hurling stones at the windows of a grand mansion and chopping down trees in front of it. Her horse shied in alarm, nearly unseating her. Then she regained her wits sufficiently to control the frightened horse and get to safety.

Once she reached the sanctuary of a quiet street she pulled the gelding to a halt. Her heart was thundering, her body trembling with shock. She patted the horse’s neck, trying to calm both of them with the gesture. She’d sensed a growing agitation among the people as she’d approached London, but she’d never expected to find herself in the midst of a violent scene. Anxiety knotted her stomach. She didn’t have time for this. Benjamin didn’t have time. She was acutely conscious of the days relentlessly passing as she sought help. Remembering how the Cornish magistrate had fawned over her aunt, she’d been no more willing to ask him for help than the household servants. When her only other hope of finding help in Cornwall had been thwarted, she’d come to London in search of the one influential man in England she was sure would trust her word—her godfather, Sir Francis Middleton. But first she had to find his house.

As soon as she was calm enough to be confident not to pitch her voice too revealingly high, she asked a porter what was happening.

‘Breaking Clarendon’s windows? It’s his fault we’re trapped in this war with the Dutch!’ he exclaimed, spitting into the street. Clarendon? After a moment’s confusion, Saskia remembered he was the Lord Chancellor.

‘How can you not know?’ The porter stared at her in disbelief.

‘I’ve been out of the town, visiting friends,’ she replied, grateful for the shadows thrown by the tall houses on either side of the street. She was wearing male clothing, and in the poor light she hoped she looked like a dishevelled lad, rather than a frightened woman. ‘What have the Dutch done?’

‘Broke through the chain at Chatham, burned most of our ships and towed away the flag ship,’ the porter said in disgust.

‘My God!’ Chatham was only thirty miles from the heart of London. The Dutch had pulled off a daring raid on the English. Saskia wondered if Jan had been part of it—then her blood chilled as she realised that revealing her brother-in-law was an officer in the Dutch navy would not be prudent.

‘Did they attack the people of Chatham? Have they threatened to attack London?’ she demanded.

‘Who knows what they’ve done? Or will do. I’ve heard they are blockading the Thames. Our ships can’t get in or out. This government is a disgrace to us. Oliver would not have let us suffer such a defeat.’

‘Thank you for the news.’ Saskia extricated herself as smoothly as she could. She had no interest in debating whether Oliver Cromwell’s foreign policy had been superior to King Charles II’s.

The forced diversion meant it took a painfully long time before she was finally in sight of her godfather’s house. From the back of her horse she had a good view over the heads of the people crowding the street and she was sure she’d recognised it correctly. A wash of relief swept over her. Soon she would be with friends—

The front door opened and a man emerged. As he glanced around she had a clear view of his face.

Tancock!

She stared at him in disbelief, shock and weariness making her slow to react. Of course, Aunt Isabel knew Sir Francis was her godfather. She must have guessed Saskia’s destination from the first. Tancock would have been able to reach London quicker than a woman travelling alone.

Saskia suddenly realised it would be as easy for Tancock to see her as it was for her to see him. She started to kick her feet clear of the stirrups, but his gaze—which had passed uninterestedly over her once—returned and locked on to her face. His eyes widened in recognition. The semi-disguise of her men’s clothes had not deceived him. It was too late to drop out of the saddle and hide among the pedestrians. She dragged on the reins, intent only on escape. As she did so, from the corner of her eye she saw Tancock lift his arm and point at her.

‘Dutch spy!’ he shouted. ‘Seize her! Dutch spy! Plotting more atrocities on honest, hardworking Londoners!’

As the throng of nearby people murmured first in confusion and then in growing anger, Saskia kicked the gelding as hard as she could, urging him into a gallop. Her most important goal now was to avoid capture by an outraged mob of Londoners.



Covent Garden—London, Saturday, 15 June 1667



The back room of the coffee-house was small and poorly lit. Every time the door opened Saskia felt a shiver of anxiety until she’d seen the face of the man who entered—and even then a residual fear remained that one of those she interviewed might be in Tancock’s pay.

But there was no reason for Tancock to suspect she was here. Even Saskia herself had not remembered Johanna for nearly two, panic-stricken hours. Johanna was the cousin of Saskia’s late husband, Pieter van Buren. Johanna had married an English tradesman who’d gone into partnership with a silent investor to open one of London’s first coffee-houses. After her husband’s death, Johanna had continued managing the coffee-house alone. She’d been very willing to help Saskia. Yesterday evening she had sent a message to Sir Francis’s house on Saskia’s behalf—but the women had been shocked to discover he’d been struck by an apoplexy that same morning. No one knew if Sir Francis would live or die, and Saskia was terribly afraid Tancock might be the cause of her godfather’s illness.

Such a hideous mixture of guilt, fear and anger overwhelmed her at the possibility she almost didn’t hear the door open. She recovered her composure just in time to snatch up the mask from the table and hold it to her face as the next man came into the room.

She knew at once he wasn’t Tancock. He was too tall, too exotic—too obviously dangerous.

Her breath caught in her throat. One or two of the previous men had struck her as uncomfortably disreputable, but she’d called upon her experience of dealing with her late husband’s business to dismiss them as quickly and easily as possible. This man was different. A wolf, not a jackal. She could see it in the swift, appraising gaze he cast around the room, the silent, fluid way he moved and the self-assurance of his bearing.

His appearance was a combination of the foreign and familiar. His soft, tan leather boots made no sound on the floorboards. He wore a scarlet sash around his waist from which hung a curved sword. Unlike his boots and his sword, his broad-brimmed hat was English in style, but beneath it Saskia saw his dark hair was cut much shorter than fashion demanded.

He stared straight at her. As she met his dark eyes, even the anonymous mask seemed no barrier to the disturbingly virile, dangerous energy he radiated. Her pulse quickened. She couldn’t remember ever being so instantly, compellingly aware of a man’s physical—male—presence. Nervous tension skittered through her body. She was used to men who obeyed the customs and manners of civilised society. She was already convinced that this man obeyed no rules but his own. She didn’t need a wayward, edgy man. She needed one who would follow her commands obediently. Unquestioningly.

She was about to reject him before he’d even said a word. But then she remembered her first impression of Tancock. Until the evening she’d heard him plotting murder she would have said he was punctilious in observing the requirements of civilised behaviour. Perhaps an obviously dangerous, unpredictable man would be better than an apparently placid man. She’d never forget to be on her guard in his presence—and whoever she hired had to be capable of helping her rescue Benjamin.

‘Sit down,’ she ordered, determined to assert her authority from her first words.



Harry Ward had seen the woman snatch up the mask as he’d opened the door. She’d done it so quickly he’d had no chance to gain more than a fleeting impression of her features. Despite the summer warmth, she was wearing a dark hood and cloak, concealing both her hair and the shape of her body. He hadn’t seen her eyes, but he’d glimpsed a well-shaped mouth and a small but decisive chin.

Until a few weeks ago Harry had spent his adult life in lands where the veil was customary for women. One or two European merchants and diplomats took their wives and daughters with them to the Ottoman Empire, but Harry had never seen, let alone spoken to, the womenfolk of even his closest Turkish friends. Ever since he’d arrived back in England he’d had a nagging sense that he should be chivalrous in female company, without quite knowing what that entailed. From the moment he’d learned that the Dutch agent recruiting men in the back room of the coffee-house in which his brother was a silent investor was likely to be female, he’d been on edge. The confirmation that he was indeed dealing with a woman intensified his unease.

Of course, an Englishwoman who’d turned traitor had forfeited her right to be treated chivalrously. But Harry had been disturbed by the information he’d received. Apparently the woman was motivated by a desire to avenge her dead husband. Harry understood better than most how the burning need for vengeance—for justice—could overwhelm every rational thought. But treason could not be tolerated, nor could her activities be allowed to taint his brother’s reputation, even in passing.

Harry steeled himself to deal with the lady as ruthlessly as if she were a man. The mask she held to her face could not disguise the fundamental immodesty of her present situation. The mere fact she was interviewing strange men alone without even a chaperon meant she had forfeited her right to chivalrous treatment. On the other hand, since it wasn’t the custom for English women to be veiled, her determination to conduct her illicit business in his brother’s coffee-house behind the anonymity of a mask was in itself an insult. All in all, he concluded, she could have no expectation of receiving gentle treatment from him.

‘Are you afraid the mere sight of your beauty will make men run wild?’ he demanded, a little more scornfully than he’d intended.

‘Of course not!’ she exclaimed. ‘That is…my lord is most complimentary about my looks, but I do not expect to be universally admired.’

‘Who is your lord?’ Was she talking about her spymaster—or a man with whom she was on more intimate terms?

‘That is no concern of yours.’

‘And will I be of concern to him?’

‘I beg your pardon.’ She sounded confused.

‘Do you intend to disclose my existence to him?’

‘It was his idea I hire you!’ she snapped.

Harry was so startled he uttered a short Turkish curse under his breath. What kind of man encouraged his woman to act in such a forward manner? ‘Why isn’t he interviewing me?’

‘Because he’s in Portsmouth.’

‘Why did he leave you here?’ Harry was so distracted by the masked woman’s disclosures that for a moment he almost forgot what his former guardian, the Earl of Swiftbourne, had told him that morning.

He belatedly reminded himself that Saskia van Buren was the daughter of a Dutchwoman and an English baronet. According to Swiftbourne’s informant, she’d married a Dutchman at the age of twenty and spent the past six years living in Amsterdam. She’d returned to England a few weeks ago after she’d been widowed when her husband was killed in a naval battle with the English. Apparently, it was her husband’s death that had driven her to become an agent for the Dutch. If this was Saskia, it was extremely likely her ‘lord’ was nothing more than a fiction to cover her true plans.

She drew in a deep breath. ‘May I remind you, fellow, that you are the one wishing to enter into temporary employment with me,’ she said crisply. ‘I am the one deciding if I will hire you. I ask the questions. Is that clear?’

She didn’t sound as if she was overwhelmed with grief. Nor did Harry receive the impression that she was locked into the single-minded, bitter fury of vengeance. She did sound exasperated. Perhaps she wasn’t Saskia.

He grinned, amused despite himself at her irritation. He had a temper of his own, though it rarely manifested itself when he was questioning potential employees. There was a plain wooden chair obviously intended for whoever the lady was currently interviewing. He turned it around, straddled it and rested his forearms along the back.

‘Ask away,’ he said cheerfully.

There was silence for several moments.

‘Did you respond to my advertisement so you could entertain yourself by insulting me?’ the masked lady demanded.

‘I’m here because the Dutch are blockading the Thames,’ Harry replied, secretly pleased she’d challenged his deliberately provocative behaviour so directly. When he’d heard he would be confronting a vengeful widow, he’d been afraid he might have to deal with tears and emotional pleas.

Although he couldn’t see her face, he saw her gloved fingers tighten on the mask, and sensed an increased tension grip her body. He was satisfied that whatever else might or might not be the truth, the lady was indeed sensitive to mention of England’s current enemy.

‘And what has that to do with my notice?’ she asked sharply.

‘I was going to sign up on a merchantman, but until the blockade is lifted…’ He shrugged. ‘If I don’t work, I don’t eat.’

‘What if the blockade is lifted and the ships sail before you can return to London?’ she asked.

‘There’s always another ship,’ he said nonchalantly, which was true, although he hadn’t built his fortune by habitually letting the initiative slide. ‘I am here, in need of work. What is it you want me to do?’

‘With such an arrogant, heedless attitude, I am surprised you ever find anyone willing to hire you,’ the lady said tartly.

‘They hire me because I am very good at what I do.’

‘What do you do?’

‘Many things.’

‘Be more specific. Can you use that sword by your side?’

Harry laughed. ‘I’m hardly likely to say no,’ he pointed out. ‘I have guarded the passage of men and goods along many dangerous routes, from Scanderoon to Aleppo, Smyrna to Istanbul.’

The mask moved slightly as the lady looked Harry carefully up and down.

The fifteen years he’d spent in the Levant meant he was not used to being in the company of women. Whenever he was in the presence of his sister-in-law, Mary, he felt ill at ease, anxious that he do nothing to alarm her or embarrass his brother, Richard. After the Dutch attack on the English ships he’d escorted Richard, Mary and their newborn son to Mary’s family home in Bedfordshire. Once there, Harry had been invited by Mary’s parents to remain as an honoured guest, but he’d felt so uncomfortable in the presence of his sister-in-law and all her female relatives he’d claimed he had business to attend to in London. He’d given his apologies as courteously as he could, while inwardly castigating himself for his lack of social address. But when he’d heard the news from Swiftbourne that a Dutch agent was recruiting men at Richard’s coffee-house he was glad his return to London meant he was available to investigate the matter.

The expressionless scrutiny by the masked lady was an odd, potentially disturbing experience, but it left Harry unmoved. If it had been Richard’s wife, or one of her sisters, studying him so closely Harry would have felt very unsettled—concerned he had either offended the lady or revealed his ignorance of the manners of polite English society in some subtle, unintentional way. But he felt no such qualms in the presence of the spy. What the lady saw was what she got. And since she hadn’t already dismissed him he was beginning to suspect he could be just what she wanted.

If she really was a Dutch agent, recruiting men to work against England from within its borders, her interest in him might not be so surprising. Not if Swiftbourne’s parting shot was correct. ‘You have a lean and hungry look, Harry,’ his former guardian had said. ‘The kind of man any conscienceless agent would want to employ.’

‘You are judging me by yourself, my lord,’ Harry had replied drily, and received a characteristically enigmatic smile in response.

‘It will be your duty to protect me,’ the lady said, her words cutting across his thoughts.

‘From whom?’

‘My lord’s former…former mistress—her servants, that is.’

Harry’s eyes widened briefly before he controlled his expression. Would a grieving widow have taken a lover already? Perhaps she hadn’t been so distressed by her husband’s death? But if she was enjoying her new freedom, it cast doubt over the claim she was determined to avenge her husband.

‘She is jealous, you see.’ The mask trembled briefly, before the lady’s hand steadied once more. Harry noted the tell-tale gesture and immediately suspected this was yet another lie.

‘Despite what you said, I assure you my beauty does not drive most men wild,’ said the masked lady, and from her tone he was inclined to believe she meant it. ‘But my lord is quite fond of me. Very fond of me. Besotted. I mean, devoted,’ she corrected herself quickly. ‘Unfortunately, his former mistress… Well, she wants to scratch my eyes out.’

‘You want to hire me to protect you from a cat fight?’ Harry exclaimed.

‘Of course not! I would never demean myself…she has servants, of course. They might try to cause me trouble on my journey to Portsmouth.’

‘Indeed. And what about your besotted, devoted lord?’ Harry found her description of her nameless lover very unconvincing.

‘What about him?’ the masked lady said uneasily.

‘Why did so devoted a gentleman ever let you out of his sight? Why is he not providing for your comfort and safety? Did he misuse his former mistress or fail to provide adequately for her when they parted? Does he know you are hiring a manservant in the back room of a coffee-house? For my own future well-being, I must ask—is he a reasonable man, or prone to jealousy—?’

‘Very reasonable. Very reasonable,’ the lady broke in hastily. ‘He is the soul of discretion, of good sense—’

‘Yet he left you alone in London at the mercy of his former mistress while he went to Portsmouth?’ Harry made no attempt to hide the scepticism in his voice.

‘Well, um…it’s the Dutch, of course,’ the lady said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘He cannot leave his post until this business with the Dutch is resolved.’

Harry noticed the almost irritated note in her voice. What kind of spy considered war a nuisance?

‘Is your lover married?’ he asked.

‘What? Of course not!’ The mask quivered with outrage at the suggestion. ‘Do you think I’d have an affair with a married man?’

‘If he’s not married already, why isn’t he going to marry you?’ Harry asked.

There was another long silence. ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t thought of it before, but you are completely correct. He should be marrying me and, as soon as the opportunity arises, I will draw it to his attention.’

‘Madam, I cannot believe a lady possessed of such firm resolve needs me to protect you from a mere former mistress,’ said Harry. ‘Let me spare you the expense of my hire—’

‘Sit down!’ she all but shrieked as he started to stand up. ‘I do need you. I definitely do need you.’

‘Is that so?’ Harry relaxed back onto the chair, satisfied his bluff had worked. He had no idea what the lady was up to but, spy or not, he intended to find out. ‘And when will I see your face? Or do you intend to hold that mask in front of you all the way to Portsmouth?’

‘Masks are very fashionable,’ she said, somewhat defensively. ‘Respectable ladies wear them to the theatre and even to market or in the street.’

Since Harry hadn’t ventured near the theatre since his return to London, he couldn’t comment on that. ‘But you are not, by your own admission, a respectable woman,’ he pointed out. ‘At least, not until you coerce your lord into marrying you. I am surprised your ambition needed to be prompted in that regard.’

‘I am not hiring you to cast judgement upon my morals, but to protect my person from harm,’ said the lady coldly.

‘When will I see your face?’ Harry repeated. ‘I don’t work for anyone unless I have looked into their unmasked face.’

‘In ten minutes’ time,’ she said. ‘If you accept the post and agree to leave immediately, you will see my face. Do you wish to serve me?’

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘I will hire you only on condition that you promise to do everything in your power to protect me—and do nothing to harm me.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Harry was startled by her demand. It also gave him pause. He didn’t believe her story of her absent lover or the jealous former mistress. She hadn’t provided any evidence that she was a Dutch spy, but she might yet prove to be a traitor. Harry had never broken a promise, and he wasn’t prepared to make a blind commitment now.

‘I will protect you as long as you do no harm to anyone else,’ he said.

‘I just want you to keep me alive.’ The words seemed to burst from her of their own volition. A desperate plea she had no control over. Harry’s gut tightened as he heard the unmistakable fear in her voice.

‘I will not let anyone hurt you,’ he said brusquely, even as he damned his own instinctive urge to protect.

‘Thank you.’ She visibly relaxed, tension ebbing from her body. ‘You will be well rewarded.’ Without any warning she lowered the mask to the table.


Chapter Two






The sudden revelation of her face threw Harry completely off balance. With the mask in place he’d been able to suppress the awareness he was dealing with a woman. He’d even managed to consider her comments about her lover as if they were no more than pieces in an intellectual puzzle.

As soon as he saw her face that illusion was destroyed. She was unmistakably feminine, with a heart-shaped face and smooth, unblemished skin. Her lips were soft and slightly parted, and she was looking at him with vulnerable hopefulness in her large brown eyes. For several heartbeats he lost himself completely in her gaze. He wanted to stroke her cheek and touch her lips to see if they were as soft as they looked. She’d claimed she wasn’t beautiful—but now Harry knew that had been another lie. She was captivating. He felt his body stir with more primitive arousal and cursed himself that he had so little experience with women that one glance at a lovely face should have such a potent impact upon him. He preferred always to be in a position of control.

He growled a Turkish curse in his throat. ‘Do not look at me like that,’ he warned, more harshly than he’d intended. ‘You’re paying me to keep you alive, nothing else.’

Confusion clouded her eyes for a moment; then she straightened her spine, her lips firmed and temper sparked in her eyes.

‘That’s all I expect from you,’ she said crisply. ‘I have already hired a coach. I will give orders for it to be made ready and then we will leave.’



Cornwall—Saturday, 15 June 1667



‘I wonder where Saskia is now?’ Anne said, her voice low and shaky.

‘I hope to God she is safe.’ Sir Benjamin Trevithick’s hands clenched into useless fists as he tried to control his fear and rage.

‘I am sure she is. She was so strong and brave when we overheard…when we…’

‘You are strong and brave too.’ With an effort of will Benjamin relaxed his hand and cupped the side of Anne’s face—the uninjured side. Her other check and her eye were still badly bruised from the back-handed blow which had knocked her to the floor a week ago.

The shocking moment when Lady Abergrave had lashed out at Anne was burned into Benjamin’s memory. He’d woken early, restless because he’d had an uncomfortable night. Anne had brought breakfast to his bedchamber, just as she had done every day since he’d broken his leg. He’d known at once that something was troubling her, but before he had a chance to ask what was wrong, his aunt and Tancock had come into the room.

Anne had jumped at the sight of her stepmother, her face paling until Benjamin feared she might faint.

‘Where’s Saskia?’ Lady Abergrave demanded.

‘She…she had a headache,’ Anne stammered.

‘Where is she?’

Anne’s eyes grew huge with fear and her voice sankalmost to a whisper as she replied, ‘In…in bed, I suppose.’

‘She’s not in bed.’ Lady Abergrave advanced on Anne.

‘She was going for a walk to clear her head, and thenshe was going to bed,’ Anne said, a little more firmly.

‘Liar!’ Lady Abergrave struck her stepdaughter sohard Anne staggered and landed in a shaken heap on thefloor by Benjamin’s bed.

Every time Benjamin remembered that moment he was filled with renewed horror and shame. He’d been trapped beneath the sheets by his broken leg, desperately reaching for his crutches, unable to protect Anne. All he’d managed to do was fall out of bed beside her, powerless to intervene.

He stroked the soft skin of her unhurt cheek with his thumb, trying to comfort her as he remembered how they’d been locked together in his bedchamber while Tancock and his henchmen went in search of Saskia. Anne had told him in whispers about the deadly conversation she and Saskia had overheard. When Lady Abergrave and Tancock returned his aunt had been in an even worse temper, but he’d felt a flood of relief because they hadn’t found Saskia. They hadn’t given up looking for her. Benjamin knew that Tancock and at least one other man had gone in further pursuit of her. He prayed continuously that his sister should remain safe, but the longer she was gone the more worried he became.

He was also effectively a prisoner in his own house. He wasn’t willing to accept that situation without a fight, but he trusted the servants even less than Saskia had. They’d all received their wages from Lady Abergrave for years. They might understand in theory that in a few days’ time Benjamin would be master of Trevithick, but immediate power lay in his aunt’s hands, enforced by the core members of her retinue. Men like Tancock, who had already proved they would follow her orders without compunction.

Footsteps sounded in the gallery outside the bedchamber. Benjamin lifted his head, apprehension knotting his stomach. Ned Fenwick, a large, scarred manservant, came cautiously into the room, the knife in his hand very visible. Lady Abergrave followed, carrying Benjamin’s crutches. Without them he was completely immobile.

‘Come here, girl,’ Lady Abergrave ordered.

Anne stood up and took a few reluctant steps forward. As soon as she was well clear of Benjamin, Fenwick reached out and seized her arm. Benjamin’s hands clenched.

Lady Abergrave saw the gesture and smiled mockingly. ‘Your obedience buys Anne’s continued good health,’ she said.

‘If anything happens to her, you will have no power over me at all,’ Benjamin returned, his muscles trembling from the effort to maintain his self-control. Lady Abergrave’s willingness to threaten her stepdaughter to force his co-operation limited his options even more effectively than the questionable loyalty of the servants and her regular removal of his crutches.

‘Sir William Boscawen has just arrived at the quay,’ said Lady Abergrave, laying Benjamin’s crutches out of reach as Fenwick took Anne out of the room. Benjamin knew she’d brought them for the sake of appearances in front of the visitor and that they would be removed as soon as Sir William had gone. ‘I will bring him up to see you. Remember, if you say anything out of turn, it will be Anne who suffers.’

A few minutes later Benjamin struggled to keep his composure as he accepted Sir William’s commiserations on breaking his leg so close to reaching his twenty-first birthday. For nearly an hour he made polite conversation with Sir William and Lady Abergrave while he desperately tried to think of some discreet way of communicating the danger to his visitor. Sir William was a genial neighbour, but he was neither decisive nor particularly intelligent. Far worse, from Benjamin’s point of view, he was one of the many men who had courted Lady Abergrave in her youth—and remained equally dazzled by her twenty years later. He would never believe she had murderous intentions towards her nephew. But if Lady Abergrave realised Benjamin had tried to seek the magistrate’s help, she would retaliate by hurting Anne.



London—Saturday, 15 June 1667



It took only a few minutes for Saskia to let Johanna know she was leaving the coffee-house and collect the bag containing the few possessions she’d acquired since leaving Cornwall. She set off for the livery stable, very conscious of her new manservant and protector striding beside her. For the first few yards he gained ground on her. After that he moderated his pace to match hers. She had a ridiculous urge to show him she could walk just as fast as he could—which felt very strange, because for so long she had curbed her physical energy in Pieter’s presence.

A long-suppressed memory of her first winter in Amsterdam flashed into her mind. It was before Pieter’s accident, and they’d both gone skating on the frozen canals of the city. Pieter had been strong and quick, with all the assurance on the ice of one who’d learned to skate almost as soon as he could walk. At first she’d been nervous and hesitant, but she’d quickly gained her balance and her confidence. She’d been exhilarated by her new-found skill, laughingly, perhaps shockingly, challenging Pieter to race with her. They’d had that one winter of carefree joy—then Pieter had been crippled and her expectations for her future had irrevocably changed.

The fugitive awareness flickered in her mind that, even when he was whole and healthy, Pieter had never possessed quite the virile energy of the man walking beside her. Then she pushed aside her memories and her unsettling response to her companion. Now they were in public she was once more holding the mask to her face. It was Tancock she was hiding from, but it was also a relief to conceal her expression from her new manservant’s far too intense and disturbing scrutiny. It occurred to her that, even though she had supposedly been the one conducting the interview, he had asked nearly all the questions. She would have to rectify that at the earliest opportunity. She needed to know more about him before she trusted her life and Benjamin’s in his hands.

‘It would be more efficient if you tied it on,’ he said, indicating the mask.

‘There’s a button I should bite to hold it in place,’ she replied, ‘but then I would not be able to talk. What’s your name?’

‘Harry Dixon. What’s yours?’

‘Sarah Brewster.’ Thinking up a suitably English name had been one of the first things she’d done. She owed her Christian name to her Dutch mother, and it was far too unusual to use openly in her current situation. She was still pleased with her new English name. She was less convinced that the story she and Johanna had invented about the jealous former mistress was equally satisfactory, but she’d needed an explanation for why she required protection. Johanna had suggested she hint she was an actress, but the opportunity had never arisen.

‘We’re leaving for Portsmouth this afternoon, Mistress Brewster?’

‘Yes.’ Portsmouth was not their destination, but she didn’t intend to reveal where they were really going until they were well on their way. Guildford would be soon enough. They wouldn’t get that far today, but Saskia was conscious of every minute ticking by, taking them closer to Benjamin’s twenty-first birthday on the twenty-second of June.

She had to rescue him before then. She was very afraid that, if she didn’t, as soon as Benjamin gained control of his inheritance he would be forced to sign a will in Lady Abergrave’s favour and then he would be killed. That had been Lady Abergrave and Tancock’s original plan when Saskia had been out of their reach in Amsterdam. Surely Lady Abergrave wouldn’t risk killing Benjamin before his birthday while Saskia was still alive? She must know that as long Saskia had breath in her body, she would seek justice for her brother. But Saskia didn’t dare predict how her aunt might behave. As fear for Benjamin overrode every other thought, she quickened her pace until she was almost running.

‘You are very eager to return to your lover’s arms,’ said Harry Dixon.

‘Oh… Yes.’ Jarred out of her preoccupation, Saskia flushed behind the mask. ‘That is, I have a great deal to do when I reach Portsmouth,’ she added hastily. She was very glad their arrival at the livery stable cut short any further conversation about her supposed lover. But her new servant immediately created another complication by insisting he ride beside the coach rather than sitting next the coachman. A saddle horse was an additional expense Saskia hadn’t anticipated.

‘You are hiring me to protect you. If you have any sense, you won’t interfere with the arrangements I make,’ Harry said, when she challenged him.

‘I’m paying for your arrangements,’ she pointed out.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Can’t you afford a horse for me?’

‘Of course.’ The problem for Saskia wasn’t lack of resources, but a limited supply of ready coins. She’d arrived in Plymouth from Amsterdam with four bills of exchange concealed in the pocket beneath her skirts. She’d converted one of the bills into English coins in Plymouth on her first day in England, and she’d used that money to pay her way to London. Unfortunately, the Dutch attack meant she was temporarily unable to convert her other bills of exchange into cash. She’d given one to Johanna in return for the clothes and coins the other woman had provided, but she would have to wait before the crisis between the Dutch and the English was resolved before she could present the others to one of London’s goldsmith-bankers.

She wasn’t yet ready to reveal the existence of the bills of exchange to Harry Dixon, but once they had saved Benjamin she planned to reward him by giving them both to him—and perhaps more besides. Her brother’s life meant far more to her than money.

‘Choose a horse,’ she ordered. ‘And then let us be on our way without any further delay.’



Leaving London was a slow business. They drove through the ruins of the burned City and were delayed for over an hour by the heavy traffic of carts and people before finally crossing London Bridge into Lambeth. Saskia wanted to scream with frustration—or at the very least get out and walk. But she knew that made no sense. Once they were out of London they would make better time.

She relaxed slightly once the coach was rumbling steadily forwards. The first part of her mission had been successfully accomplished. She was on her way back to Benjamin. Now she must plan her next steps. How was she going to rescue her brother when she reached Cornwall? And how was she going to bring Lady Abergrave and Tancock to justice? She had to make sure that neither of them could ever be a threat to her family again.



She still hadn’t solved the problems by the time they arrived at the Coach and Horses inn at Kingston-upon-Thames. It was late evening and Harry announced they would stay there for the night.

‘We can go a few more miles at least,’ Saskia protested.

‘Are we staying here or not?’ the coachman asked.

‘We’re staying,’ Harry said, and the coachman obeyed immediately without waiting for Saskia’s response.

Harry’s automatic assumption of command irritated Saskia. She’d managed Pieter’s business for years. She wasn’t used to having her wishes ignored or overruled. She almost challenged him there and then, but over the years she’d learned to pick her battles. A public argument with Harry was unlikely to enhance her authority in either his eyes or the coachman’s—particularly when he was right. Despite her restless need to keep moving, she knew the waning moon would provide little light for the journey. It made sense to stop for the night and continue early in the morning. At least it would give her an opportunity to learn more about her new manservant before she risked trusting him with a portion of the truth.



Harry was well aware of Sarah Brewster’s irritation. She was clearly impatient to complete her journey. He thought she was also annoyed with him for giving orders so freely, but that didn’t worry him. He was used to taking command and he had two priorities: the first was to establish whether she was indeed Saskia van Buren and a traitor; the second was to keep his promise to protect her. He would do whatever was necessary to achieve those goals. He had no intention of compromising his efforts by pandering to his new employer’s whims, even though she was a distractingly attractive woman.

Acting as Mistress Brewster’s servant, he took two rooms at the Coach and Horses. He’d expected to guard her from the other side of her closed door, but she disconcerted him by suggesting they eat supper together in her room. Taking a meal with a woman was an unfamiliar situation for Harry in any circumstances. Doing so when they were alone and within a few feet of a bed filled him with more tension than if he were navigating rocks and undertows to cross a dangerous river. He was amazed she didn’t seem to be conscious of anything unusual. There were times since he’d arrived back in England when he felt almost as disorientated as he had when he’d first gone to the Levant and had to learn a completely new set of social customs.

They sat opposite each other at a small table. Harry’s eyes were drawn constantly to Saskia’s face and her uncovered hair. She had long blonde curls touched with hints of warm colour which reminded him of apricots or the first glow of sunrise. He’d been entranced by those shining curls from the moment she’d first put back her hood in his presence. He’d caught his breath and had to restrain himself from reaching out to see if they were as soft as they looked. He still wanted to touch her hair. If he’d been an invisible spirit in the room, he would have been content to simply sit and watch her. A pretty, shimmering angel in the candlelight. But he wasn’t invisible, and he was determined not to stare at her like a moonstruck idiot. He’d mastered the art of appearing outwardly self-assured many years ago, so he deliberately adopted a relaxed, untroubled air as he ate his supper.

He’d assumed Saskia meant to take him to task for giving orders to the coachman without her permission, but instead she began asking him questions.

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-four.’ For the first time in his life Harry was almost uncomfortable revealing his age. Ever since he’d returned to England, he’d been acutely aware he’d fallen behind his contemporaries in certain crucial aspects of life. On his first day in London he’d been startled and discomfited to see an apprentice more than a decade his junior flirting confidently with the pretty girl behind the counter of a linen draper’s. Judging by the girl’s twinkling response, she’d enjoyed the apprentice’s attentions. But when Harry asked politely for some handkerchiefs her eyes had widened. He was convinced he’d seen alarm in her expression as she hastened to serve him. He knew very well that women had good reason to be afraid of some men. Sometimes, though less frequently than in the past, he still had nightmares about the damage a violent man could do to a woman. He’d had no idea how to assure the draper’s girl that, despite his sun-darkened skin and the sword by his side, he wasn’t a threat to her safety, so he’d thanked her gruffly and hurried away.

Richard’s wife had been nervous in his presence too. Harry knew there were several possible reasons for that, including the natural anxiety any woman might have to make a good impression on her husband’s older brother—especially when that brother was also the head of her husband’s family. Besides, after so many years apart, Harry and Richard had not yet regained the easy friendship of their youth and it was understandable that Mary would take her cues from her husband. But Mary had led a very sheltered life both before and after her marriage, and Harry had not been able to lose the conviction that she found being in his presence as foreign and unnerving as he found being in hers. Despite his best efforts, they had never managed more than the most stilted conversations. Harry had been acutely aware of Richard’s growing bewilderment and unhappiness at their lack of ease with each other. Just before Harry had left Bedfordshire, Richard had even burst out, “I am afraid you don’t like my wife.”

The accusation had dumbfounded Harry and left him uncertain how to respond. He had no idea how to compliment any man on his choice of wife, much less his brother. He’d assured Richard that he liked his wife very well, but it had been an awkward parting for the brothers.

With his recent experiences with his sister-in-law fresh in his mind, Harry was very relieved that he didn’t seem to make his new employer anxious. In fact, she was focusing a distinctly inquisitorial gaze on him.

‘Tell me some of the things you’ve done in the past,’ she demanded. ‘Why don’t you carry an English sword?’

‘Because I learned most of what I know from a Janissary.’

She looked surprised. ‘Did you spend a long time in the Levant?’

‘Since I was nineteen.’

‘When did you come back to England?’

‘A few weeks ago.’

‘Did you not come back at all in the meantime?’ she exclaimed.

‘No.’ The brothers had gone to the Levant together, but the Turkish climate had not suited Richard’s constitution. After Harry had nursed his younger brother through three dangerous fevers within a year of their arrival in the Ottoman Empire he’d insisted Richard return to London. Harry himself had stayed to build his fortune, but he’d missed his brother very badly during the first year of their separation. Later, when Harry had accumulated enough wealth and trading contacts to return home, the situation in England—and his future—had irrevocably changed. He’d wanted to see Richard, but he’d had no desire to confront the man whose title and estates he would one day inherit. He’d assuaged his restlessness by moving more frequently within the Ottoman Empire than most European merchants. He’d gone from his original home in Aleppo to Istanbul and ended in Smyrna before finally returning to London.

‘Why didn’t you come back before?’ Saskia’s gaze was fixed on his face.

‘I was content where I was.’

‘Then why did you come back now? Did you stop being content?’

That was too close to the truth for comfort. Harry returned fire with fire. ‘What’s your urgent business in Portsmouth?’

‘None of your—’ She broke off and sat back. ‘We’ll discuss it tomorrow.’

‘We will? Let’s discuss it now.’

‘No. We will discuss it tomorrow if you perform your duties successfully in the meantime,’ she said firmly. ‘I have known several men who returned from the Levant. They were factors. Were you a factor?’

‘Do I look like a factor?’ She’d guessed correctly and he was curious to hear her response.

‘I imagine you might,’ she said, surprising him. ‘I was told European merchants often adopt Turkish dress in the streets to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Did you wear a turban? Is that why your hair is shorter than fashionable?’

‘Franks,’ Harry corrected her. ‘To the people of the Ottoman Empire, all Europeans are Franks. Tell me the names of your acquaintances. No doubt I know them.’ The English, Dutch, Venetians and other Europeans all had their own quarters within each trading city, but Harry had always kept himself well informed about his fellow—and rival—factors.

‘I don’t recall at this moment.’ She evaded his question with barely a flicker of hesitation. ‘You didn’t tell me whether you wore a turban.’

‘Often.’ Harry had no idea why she was interested. ‘In Smyrna it was usual for Franks to wear European hats, but by the time I moved there I was used to the turban. I’m damned if I’ll ever wear a wig.’

Saskia smiled at his forthright statement, but her gaze didn’t waver as she continued her interrogation. ‘Did you return to England because you’d made your fortune—or because you’d ruined yourself and your principal?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’ Harry grinned, enjoying their verbal battle. ‘Bad bargains, bad luck, misreading the markets—every ship brought another letter from my principal reprimanding me for my poor decisions…’

Saskia gave a soft laugh. ‘Yet he still continued to make use of your services. Either he is an indifferent businessman or your decisions were not as poor as you claim.’

It was the first time Harry had ever heard her laugh. When he saw the amusement sparkling in her eyes, he realised just how strained she was usually. For a few heartbeats, lost in her reminiscent amusement, she was completely relaxed, almost carefree—and utterly captivating.

Harry forgot his mission. Forgot why he’d insisted they spend the night at Kingston. Forgot everything except the pleasure of watching Saskia’s transitory happiness. Unfortunately, his body wasn’t content with just looking. From the moment Saskia had lowered her mask he’d felt the stirring of desire. For a while he’d managed to suppress his awareness of how she affected him, but now his physical reaction to her intensified until it was almost painful. His body was making demands he could neither ignore nor satisfy.

Frustration with himself and the situation eroded his temper. Saskia, blithely oblivious of his edgy, unsettled state, was the cause of his difficulties—and she became the focus of his irritation.

‘How will you explain this to your lord?’ he demanded.

‘Explain what?’ Saskia looked up at him, a half-smile still lingering on her lips, confusion in her eyes.

Harry stared at her. Either she was a very good actress or she didn’t seem to find anything odd about being alone in the bedchamber with him. ‘If you don’t know, I must have been away from England longer than I realised,’ he said.

‘I hoped we won’t have to leave England.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘It would be better to finish it here.’

‘Finish what?’ Harry’s hunting instincts went on full alert at her unwary comment.

He saw her snatch a quick little breath, and the expression in her eyes suddenly became guarded, but she replied calmly, ‘Getting safely to my lord, of course.’

Her besotted, devoted lord, she’d called him earlier. Harry gritted his teeth and buttered a piece of bread to give himself time to overcome an unwelcome surge of jealousy towards a man whose existence he still doubted. He had no intention of becoming as besotted as her probably mythical lover.

‘Will we need to leave England to do that?’ he asked.

‘No, he’s in Plym—Portsmouth.’

Plymouth! She’d nearly said Plymouth! Portsmouth was in Hampshire, but Plymouth was in Devon, on the other side of the River Tamar from Cornwall. Saskia van Buren had come to London from Cornwall. If that was their true destination, it seemed more likely than ever that she was indeed Saskia. Even though Harry was exerting all his self-discipline to control the fiercely conflicting instincts and emotions raging within him, he felt a burst of satisfaction at unravelling her lies a little more.

‘If your lord is in Portsmouth, why may we have to leave England?’ he said, as if he hadn’t noticed her slip of the tongue.

She frowned. ‘Please don’t ask any more questions. We are going to Portsmouth, and it is your job to protect me.’

‘And once we reach Portsmouth, your lord—the one who is opposed to marriage—will take over the task of protecting you?’ Despite himself, Harry couldn’t hide the scepticism in his voice.

Saskia glared at him. ‘You insult me when you speak of him so disparagingly,’ she said.

Harry felt a stab of guilt at her charge. She’d been lying to him from the first, she might well be plotting against England and she seemed to be completely oblivious that she was directly responsible for his having the most painfully pleasurable, disturbing and frustrating meal of his life. Those learned men who claimed the mere sight of a woman’s uncovered hair could rouse a man to undisciplined lust obviously knew what they were talking about. He really shouldn’t care whether he offended her—but he did.

‘I did not insult you,’ he said brusquely. ‘From what you said earlier, it sounds as if you think you may need to leave England. Is that true?’

She hesitated. For several long moments they stared at each other across the width of the table. Harry was unwillingly fascinated by the swiftly changing emotions in her expression. She was trying to decide if she could trust him. The silence lengthened and the tension between them increased until he could almost hear it snapping in the air.

She looked away abruptly and drew in a quick breath. ‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘But if we need to leave you would not have to come with us—though you will be well rewarded if you do.’

‘We,’ she’d said. A deep instinct told Harry she’d spoken the truth. She really was on her way to join someone else. Had the widow taken a lover within months of her husband’s death? A core of ice formed within him at the possibility.

‘You would pay me to protect your lover as well as you?’ he said, his voice hardening.

‘You are a presumptuous, impertinent fellow!’ Saskia’s temper erupted without warning. ‘Eat your supper and mind your manners. We will leave at dawn.’

Her angry reaction—almost as if she’d been trying to hide her avoidance of the question by a burst of irritation—rekindled Harry’s doubts about the existence of a lover. And his disgust with himself for caring.

‘You are aware that in June it is light by four o’clock?’ he said.

‘Of course.’ The lady rubbed her elbow, almost as if she’d banged it against something, though Harry hadn’t noticed her doing any such thing. ‘At least I can sleep in a bed tonight,’ she muttered.

Harry’s eyes widened. If she hadn’t been sleeping in a bed, where had she been sleeping? And what had she been doing in her unorthodox resting place to hurt her arm?

Saskia wasn’t consciously aware she was rubbing her elbow, she was thinking about her journey to London from Cornwall. It had been a long and hazardous journey for an unaccompanied woman, even with the protection of the male clothing she’d worn. The summer weather had made it possible for her to sleep on the ground several nights rather than risk staying alone at an inn, but she hadn’t felt either comfortable or safe. The last night had been the worst. She’d been so tired she’d fallen heavily asleep in a small copse of trees, only to be woken by what, in her overtaxed state, had seemed to be the appalling cacophony of the dawn chorus. After her first moment of panic and confusion she’d felt as if every bird in England had taken roost above her head and was now bugling its lungs out within a few feet of her. As she’d flailed about, struggling to sit up, she’d cracked her elbow against a tree.

She was glad that tonight she could sleep safely in a proper bed—but she didn’t realise she’d spoken aloud until she saw Harry’s startled gaze flicker from her to the bed and back again.

Until that moment she hadn’t given a thought to the significance of their surroundings. She almost groaned as she suddenly understood what Harry had meant about the need to make awkward explanations to her lord. How could she have been so stupidly unaware of something so obvious? Especially when she was pretending to be the mistress of a devoted lover. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at revealing herself to be so unworldly.

She knew why she hadn’t considered the implications of being alone with a man in a bedchamber. For more than four years of her marriage she had taught herself to think of her bed as a place only for sleep. Pieter had regained far more strength after the accident than any of them had initially expected. He’d even designed his own wheeled-chair that he could manoeuvre on flat surfaces—but making love was one aspect of their married life they’d never recovered. Saskia had learned not to torment herself with thoughts of what they’d lost. It was shocking—disorientating—to realise that her potential future in this regard had changed. She was a widow, not the wife of an intelligent, but physically incapacitated husband.

She stared at Harry. She’d known from her first glance at him that he was a virile, energetic man, but somehow she had distanced herself from that knowledge, seeing in his strength only a means to protect her and save Benjamin. Now she looked at him again—with the eyes of a woman whose vows of fidelity had died with her husband.

She saw the play of candlelight on the lean sinews of his forearms as he laid his knife down and picked up the tankard of ale. Simple, mundane actions—but suddenly she was very aware that she was looking at a man’s strong hands. A man whose whole body was just as strong and deft. His self-assurance, lean, handsome features and piercing gaze commanded attention, but she’d rarely met a man with less vanity about his masculine appeal. An edge of danger always lurked beneath his apparently nonchalant exterior. But though he must know that element of his character was attractive to women, she’d never seen him take advantage of it the way another might. He was intelligent, slightly exotic, physically compelling—and without doubt the most dangerously attractive man Saskia had ever met.

Her thoughts and emotions scrambled. In that moment, as long-suppressed parts of herself flexed back into uncertain life, it was as if Pieter died again—because another man was stirring her feminine interest. As she gazed at Harry, tears filled her eyes.

He froze, his expression suddenly as blank as the mask she’d hidden behind at the coffee-house. He stood abruptly. ‘We’ll leave at dawn,’ he said harshly.

‘Wh-what? Where are you going?’ Saskia managed to find her voice just as he reached the door. ‘You haven’t finished your supper.’

‘You hired me to protect you—not to sit watching me eat like a lamb supping with a lion.’

Saskia gaped at his retreating back. It took her a few moments to grasp his meaning. ‘I am not a lamb!’ she exclaimed indignantly. But it was too late. The door had already closed behind him.



She’d had tears in her eyes! She must have realised he was lusting after her like a rutting stag and the knowledge had frightened her. Harry slammed his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. He would have to control his unruly passions better in future. If she was a spy she must be prevented from causing harm to England. But even a spy should not be subjected to fear of abuse at a man’s hands. Never at his hands. More than two decades ago, filled with disgust and powerless fury, he had made that promise to himself. He would never physically mistreat a woman. But now he was back in England he must take care not to distress them in other ways.

Richard wouldn’t have made such a gauche error. He’d always been at ease in the company of others. Though Richard didn’t possess Harry’s physical toughness, he had a shrewd grasp of business that had helped him advance his career, tempered by a charm of manner that had won him many friends. Harry was confident his younger brother had never made a woman cry, even by mistake.

Harry forced his clenched fists to relax, reminding himself that Saskia had repeatedly lied to him. He must not lose sight of the fact that even if she wasn’t a Dutch agent, she was undoubtedly hatching some as yet undisclosed plan.

He didn’t like leaving her alone at the inn, but they’d left London so precipitously he had little choice if he wanted to get a message to Lord Swiftbourne. It was Harry’s good luck that the regular route from London to Portsmouth went through Kingston. Swiftbourne’s grandson and heir had married a lady who owned a house in Kingston. Harry had never met Jakob Balston, but he hoped Balston would be at home and that he’d either be able to take or send a message to Swiftbourne. He stopped to ask for directions. A few minutes later he arrived at the house and was relieved to discover his luck had held.

‘Harry Ward!’ Balston greeted him. ‘Your brother is a friend of mine. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

‘And I you.’ Harry shook hands. He’d been aware of Balston’s existence for years, but knew Swiftbourne’s grandson had only arrived in England from Sweden the previous summer. Balston was a couple of inches taller than Harry’s six feet, broad and solidly muscled, with pale blond hair. Harry immediately thought of Saskia’s hair. He preferred the warm, reddish glow of Saskia’s blonde curls. His fingers still ached to touch them, whereas he felt no urge to touch Balston’s hair.

‘I apologise for calling so late,’ he said.

‘I’m glad to meet you at any time,’ Balston replied. ‘I’ve just returned from Sussex. My wife is still there, admiring the Kilverdales’ new daughter, but I had business to attend to here.’

‘The Duke is another of Swiftbourne’s grandsons,’ Harry remembered. He’d not met any of Swiftbourne’s family while he was under the Earl’s guardianship, partly because of the divisions caused by the Civil War, but mostly because he and Richard had left for Aleppo within weeks of becoming Swiftbourne’s wards.

Jakob smiled. ‘Since your father’s sister was married to Swiftbourne’s oldest son, you can claim cousinship with us,’ he said.

‘A very distant connection,’ said Harry.

‘But a connection nevertheless. So sit down and tell me how I may serve you.’

Harry briefly summarised his meeting with Swiftbourne and then the outcome of his interview with Saskia at the coffee-house. ‘She insisted on leaving London immediately, so I had no opportunity to take or send a message to Swiftbourne,’ he concluded.

‘Is she a spy?’

‘No.’ Harry paused to consider his immediate, instinctive denial. ‘I don’t believe she has told me the truth,’ he said, oddly reluctant to discuss Saskia with Balston. ‘But I have no doubt her fear is genuine.’

‘You have no idea what the lady is afraid of?’

‘No, but I will find out.’ Harry stood up, anxious to return to the Coach and Horses and Saskia. ‘I will be in your debt if you ensure Swiftbourne knows what has happened so far.’

‘I’ll go into London tomorrow. To be honest I’m glad of the errand.’ Balston smiled a little wryly. ‘I find I miss my wife when we are apart. Visiting Swiftbourne will fill the time until my own business is concluded and I can fetch her back from Sussex.’



Sunday morning, 16 June 1667



‘You are an arrogant, presumptuous fool! How dare you suggest I would let anyone eat me up without a bleat of protest—least of all you.’ Saskia kept her voice down, but she made no effort to hide her indignation.

‘Bleat of protest?’ Harry repeated. They were breakfasting together downstairs at the Coach and Horses. Or rather, Harry was making a good breakfast of cold turkey pie while Saskia nibbled on some bread and butter, most of which she fully intended to save for later. Just because she could get up with the birds didn’t mean she had to eat her first meal of the day with them.

They were the only customers in the room and Saskia glanced around to make sure none of the inn servants were close enough to overhear her. ‘I am not a little lamb,’ she stated unequivocally.

Harry had been munching his turkey pie in what Saskia considered to be a rather grumpy silence. She decided he must dislike getting up early as much as she did. At her announcement he looked up, good humour suddenly—and in Saskia’s view inappropriately—softening his expression.

‘Ah, I see. Are you claiming that you are a lioness disguised in lamb’s clothing?’ he enquired. ‘Or would you prefer a gentler comparison? A doe, perhaps? Graceful and fleet of foot—’

‘I am not any kind of animal,’ said Saskia. ‘In future, do not use such metaphors for me.’ She could foresee that when she finally told him their true destination was three times further than he currently anticipated, his comparisons might be considerably less flattering. ‘We are not living in Aesop’s fables.’

Harry grinned. ‘But how interesting it would be to discuss with a hawk what she sees as she soars in the sky. Or ask a whale what hides in the depth of the ocean.’

Saskia blinked at his unexpectedly poetic response. ‘I had not anticipated such whimsy from you, sir.’

‘Whimsy? If you are walking over barren, rocky ground, isn’t it natural to look up at the hawk and wonder what it would be like to fly so fast to your goal? They use doves to carry messages between Skanderoon and Aleppo. I would rather be a hawk than a dove.’

‘I…’ Saskia stopped. As a child she’d had such thoughts when she went down to the Cornish coast or walked on Dartmoor in neighbouring Devon, but it was a long time since she’d allowed anything but the most practical ambitions into her mind.

‘My husband could not walk,’ she said abruptly. ‘He designed for himself a chair with wheels. He even made some of the more intricate parts himself—his hands were still quick and strong. But he could only use it on a flat surface. Clambering over rocky ground was just as much an impossible dream to him as the hawk’s flight is to you.’

She saw Harry draw in a sharp breath, but he didn’t look away as so many had when they’d first heard what had happened to Pieter. She didn’t know why she’d told him. Was she obliquely punishing Harry because she was so attracted to the strength and agility he possessed and Pieter had lost?

‘He was a man of resolution and determination,’ said Harry.

‘Yes, he was.’ She lifted her chin.

‘And ingenuity.’

‘Yes.’ Her relationship with Pieter had been severely damaged by the impact of his accident, but there had been many times since she’d fled from Cornwall she wished she could call on some of his practical ingenuity. She still had no idea how she was going to rescue Benjamin.

‘Why couldn’t he walk?’

‘He was hurt when a rope broke and a wooden chest fell on him,’ she said. ‘It was being hauled up to the second floor.’ She stopped speaking as vivid, still shocking memories crowded her mind.

Like many houses in Amsterdam, their home had been built with the end wall slanting outward over the street, so that goods could be easily winched up to store below the roof. Pieter had used that method to have a large, finely carved chest lifted, rather than have it carried up several flights of stairs. He’d been overseeing the work when the chest had come crashing down, pinning him beneath it. Saskia had heard the impact from indoors, and the muffled shouts and screams that followed. She’d run outside to find Pieter face down in the street, unconscious, blood on his forehead. In her first moment of horror she’d thought he was dead, and then that his skull must have been cracked. Later she’d discovered he’d suffered only minor grazes to his face. The permanent damage had been to his ability to walk. His legs weren’t broken, but after the blow to his lower back he could no longer feel or control them.

‘How did he die?’ Harry’s sharp question dragged her back to the present.

‘A fever last autumn,’ she said. ‘He was more susceptible to illness after his accident—but until that last time he’d always recovered.’

‘He was not killed in the war between the Dutch and the English?’

‘No.’ Saskia frowned with confusion at the unexpected question. ‘He was a merchant, but he never left Hol—home,’ she corrected herself just in time. She cast her mind anxiously back over all she’d just said. The picture of Pieter lying at the foot of their Amsterdam house had been so vivid she was worried she might have inadvertently said something that gave away the location. She was sure that once she’d explained the whole situation to Harry he would understand her Dutch connections were irrelevant, but she wasn’t yet ready to confide in him completely.

Harry’s dark eyes were alert and watchful as he studied her. She sensed the contained energy within him and felt a flicker of apprehension. She’d seen a hawk suddenly fold its wings and arrow down out of the sky when it spotted its prey. Was she the unwary prey on which Harry meant to swoop? Was he working for Lady Abergrave after all? Or was her nervousness caused by a far more fundamental reason—the awareness of a woman for a powerful, attractive man?

‘Are you going to eat anything?’ he asked.

‘What?’ She blinked and then glanced down at her forgotten breakfast. ‘I’ll bring it with me.’

‘Then let’s linger no longer. There’s no point in tormenting yourself by rising early if you don’t make good use of the extra hours.’

There was a note of amusement in his voice that caused Saskia to look at him suspiciously. ‘Do you like getting up early?’

‘As it happens, I do.’

‘I can’t stand people who like getting up early,’ she muttered as she collected her bread. ‘No matter how wayward they are in other respects, they always consider themselves entitled to moralise over the rest of us.’

Harry grinned. ‘The early bird catches the worm.’

‘Do not talk to me about birds,’ Saskia said darkly.



* * *

Harry rode beside the coach, relaxed in the saddle, though his eyes constantly scanned the surrounding countryside. The lush green fields and woods of southern England in early summer were very different to the dramatic and beautiful Turkish landscape which had become so familiar to him. The sky was a clear blue, and it had turned into a hot June day. The heat was of no consequence to Harry, but he felt the familiar urge to abandon the main thoroughfare and explore the shady woods and tranquil fields and heaths along their way. His tendency to investigate beyond his immediate surroundings had been of great value to him in the past. Experience had shown him that increased knowledge tended to confer increased power and choice. But he knew how to discipline his curiosity. Especially when he had a mystery closer to hand that was far more compelling than any slow-running English stream.

According to the woman in the coach, her husband had been crippled in a mundane accident years ago and died as the result of a fever, not a British cannonball. Had she nearly said Holland before she’d corrected it to home? The evidence that he was indeed dealing with Saskia was increasingly strong, but he was no closer to knowing her true plans. All he could be certain of was that either Saskia or Swiftbourne’s informant was lying. He could see no reason for Saskia to make up such a complicated story about her husband’s accident, whereas her lie about the jealous mistress did serve a purpose—it gave her an excuse to claim the need for protection.

He considered what he knew about Swiftbourne’s informant. According to Tancock’s story, he’d been secretary to the late Earl of Abergrave before continuing to serve the widowed Lady Abergrave. Lady Abergrave was Saskia’s aunt. Tancock claimed Saskia had returned to England after the death of her husband fighting the English, and that her bitterness against her former countrymen had soon become evident. Swiftbourne said Tancock had spoken most eloquently of Lady Abergrave’s torment as she struggled to choose between love for her niece and loyalty to England.

Even though he’d never met either of them, Harry had taken an immediate, possibly irrational, dislike to both Tancock and Lady Abergrave. He found it hard to warm to a woman who had her servant inform one of the King’s Ministers that her grieving niece was a traitor. Had Lady Abergrave made any attempt to comfort or talk sense into Saskia before giving Tancock the order to approach Swiftbourne? Harry knew better than most that grief, anger and the driving need for revenge could propel almost anyone to take terrible actions. But from all he’d seen, Saskia wasn’t driven by rage, but by an anxious need for haste.

He wondered when she was going to tell him they were going to Plymouth, not Portsmouth. She couldn’t delay much longer. Once they reached Guildford the routes diverged.



It was after one o’clock, and Harry was thinking he’d insist they stop for dinner at the next inn when his instincts suddenly prickled with danger. It was the hottest part of the day and the heath around them dozed in the bright sunshine, the air heavy with the scents of summer. The low-lying heather was studded with birch and hazel trees, patches of yellow gorse and bramble bushes. A butterfly danced past on the warm air. A woodlark singing in a nearby birch was startled into undulating flight by the approaching coach, but there was nothing to alarm him. Yet with every heartbeat Harry’s sense of imminent threat intensified.

A casual movement brought his hand close to one of his pistols as he surveyed the landscape with eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun.

There!

The betraying toss of a horse’s head as it stood in the shadow of a hazel copse fifty yards away. Two waiting men on horses. One man taking aim with a musket—


Chapter Three






Saskia stared out of the coach window at the heat-hazed heath, considering how much to reveal to Harry. At the very least she had to tell him they were going to Cornwall, not Hampshire. And once she’d admitted she’d been lying about their destination, it might be difficult to retain Harry’s trust unless she told him the whole story—

The crack of musket fire shattered the peaceful afternoon.

Saskia jerked upright, so startled she barely identified the sound before shouts filled the air. The coach juddered to a halt, and then lurched forward a few yards before finally stopping. Saskia was flung on to her knees on the coach floor. She scrabbled for purchase on the opposite seat.

Tancock! Her whole body clenched with fear that he’d found her. Then she heard shouts of ‘Money!’ and ‘Purse!’ Highwaymen. She let out a gasping breath. Not good, but better than Tancock. He wanted her dead. Highwaymen wanted only her money.

She wore two pockets beneath her skirts. One contained the bills of exchange, the other her coins. She needed the bills to save Benjamin. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she struggled to unfasten her coin pocket. She would hand it over the moment the highwayman appeared at the coach window and hope he didn’t find the bills of exchange. She only wished she had some jewels to catch his eyes and satisfy his lust for booty.

The thunder of galloping hooves grew terrifyingly louder. Her skirts were still bunched around her waist, her knees exposed to full sight as she fumbled with her coin pocket. She couldn’t be found like this. Her second pocket with the bills of exchange would be discovered. She gave a desperate pull and the coin pocket was safe in her hand. She shoved down her skirts with shaking hands and scrambled forward to look out of the window.

Two horsemen were bearing down on the coach, pistols in hand, their faces hidden by scarves. She threw herself back from the window. Instinct propelled her to the door on the other side of the coach. If she could get far enough from the coach before they reached it, perhaps she could hide on the heath amid the gorse and bramble bushes?

She wrenched open the door. The first thing she saw was Harry’s riderless horse galloping away across the heather. The second thing was Harry’s body, lying motionless on the ground. Until that moment she’d almost forgotten Harry. She was too used to dealing with crises on her own. A sob of shock and denial caught in her throat. He’d been hit. Dear God, he’d been hit by that first lone shot. Maybe he was dead. He couldn’t be dead.

The money and her bills would have to be their salvation. She prayed the highwaymen were too sophisticated to place value only on gold. She would give them all she had so they left quickly and she could tend to Harry’s wound.

There was a second gunshot, much closer and louder than the original shot, followed almost immediately by a third. She heard shouts of rage and pain through ringing ears. The relentless rhythm of hoofbeats faltered. It was only then she saw Harry’s head was up and smoke was rising from the pistols he held in each outstretched hand.

He speared one glance at her as he sprang to his feet. ‘Stay out of sight,’ he barked, and disappeared from her view as he ran towards their attackers.

He wasn’t hurt. She didn’t believe any man who’d been shot could move so easily. She sagged with momentary relief—but the danger wasn’t over yet. Harry had told her to stay out of sight, but she had to know what was happening. She crawled to the other side of the coach and opened the door closest to the highwaymen a tiny crack so she could look through it without showing herself at the window.

One of their attackers was on the ground. She was just in time to see the other disappearing into a stand of trees some distance from the road. He was swaying in the saddle, but he didn’t fall while she was watching. Sword in hand, Harry approached the prone man, wary and alert as he satisfied himself the highwayman was no longer a threat.

Saskia pushed open the door. Only her hand, clinging to the bottom of the window, prevented her from pitching headfirst onto the stony, dusty road.

Harry looked up at her. In that first searing glance she saw the dangerous predator within him fully exposed. He was still in a state of complete battle readiness, poised to strike at any threat. His eyes burned with feral intensity, his lips were drawn back in a silent snarl of warning. She jolted in shock, but as she stared at him the ferocity faded from his face. He still held his unsheathed sword. His body was taut with readiness, but his expression was now almost disconcertingly emotionless.

‘I thought they’d killed you!’ she gasped.

‘I shot him,’ Harry said grittily, indicating the man on the ground. ‘I winged the other one.’ He looked up at the coachman. ‘You did well. When you’ve calmed your team, catch my horse—and this poltroon’s as well, if you can.’ He nudged the fallen highwayman with the toe of his boot.

‘Yes, sir,’ the coachman said in a shaking voice. ‘I thought they were going to kill us all.’

Saskia remained where she was, suspended between the floor of the coach and the door, too overwhelmed by the sudden violence to be fully aware of her awkward position or try to extricate herself from it. She watched Harry approach her. He strode across the ground with fluid, powerful grace, sheathing his sword with an ease that spoke of years of practice.

He bent to catch her around the waist and lift her out of the coach. She was trembling so badly her legs couldn’t support her. Harry’s arms closed around her, holding her up and holding her tight against him. She clutched his coat, pressing her face into his shoulder. She could smell the burnt powder from his pistols. He’d killed to protect them.

She’d been afraid when she’d overheard her aunt and Tancock plotting her murder in Cornwall. She’d been terrified when she’d fled from Tancock in London. But her panic on those occasions had been akin to the fear experienced in nightmares. Horrifying, but without the gut-wrenching intrusion of immediate, brutal violence. For several moments her teeth chattered so badly she couldn’t speak, even if she’d wanted to. She clung to Harry, taking comfort in the steadiness of his hard-muscled body. He was breathing a little faster than normal, but he wasn’t shaking. He’d responded to the highwaymen’s attack with speed and ruthless efficiency. For the first time in years she allowed herself to lean on someone else’s strength. Harry didn’t murmur any soothing words, nor did he give her any comforting caresses. But he continued to hold her close while she slowly regained her composure.

As her mind gradually cleared, she realised they weren’t standing still. Harry was supporting her weight in his arms as he kept moving slowly around so he could watch in all directions. The feel of his hard body against her was an illicit pleasure. As her shock receded she felt a different kind of excitement flow through her veins. It was so long since she’d been held in a man’s arms and been so directly aware of masculine strength. There was nothing lover-like about Harry’s behaviour, but his silent embrace was seducing her attention away from everything else that had just happened.

But it was a deceptive seduction. Even as she became aware of the intimacy of their position she felt a change in him. When he’d first lifted her from the coach he’d held her in an undemonstrative but comforting way. Now there was a rigid tension in the arms around her that felt humiliatingly like rejection. He was still holding her, but subtly easing her away from his body as if he’d had enough of her emotional outburst. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt that kind of silent rejection. No words spoken, but the unmistakable awareness that the man she was clinging to did not want her so close to him. Hurt and mortification burned through her, but experience had taught her how to hide her feelings and make light of such awkward moments.

She released her grip on Harry, but didn’t try to move away because his arms were still a steel band around her and she refused to embarrass herself by struggling. Instead she lifted her head and forced a jaunty note into her voice as she asked, ‘Will you drop me if a new danger appears?’

His jaw was locked rigid, his face so stiff she thought he must be fighting the urge to push her away, but to her surprise his expression seemed to soften slightly at her words.

‘It would depend on the nature of the threat,’ he said. He set her on her feet with precise carefulness and immediately stepped away from her. ‘If I see anyone else levelling a musket at us from the shelter of the trees—as I did earlier—I would take you down with me when I drop. But I doubt there will be another attack now.’

‘I hope not.’ Saskia rubbed her hand up and down her arm. Even though she knew he hadn’t welcomed their brief intimacy, she felt exposed and shaky without his steady strength to lean upon. She tried not to feel hurt that he didn’t want to be close to her. She’d hired him to get her safely to Cornwall, and so far he’d carried out that task very effectively. He had no obligation to like embracing her. ‘What are we going to do now?’

‘Take up the body and deliver it to the local constable,’ said Harry.

‘I don’t want him in the coach with me.’ Saskia gave an involuntary shudder at the prospect of travelling with the dead man.

‘If the coachman manages to catch both loose horses, you won’t have to.’

Saskia looked around and saw that so far he’d only caught Harry’s horse.

‘I’ll help him—’

‘No, you won’t,’ Harry said crisply, not looking up from where he was searching the dead highwayman’s pockets.

‘I’m good with horses,’ she said, irritated by his flat veto of her suggestion. She’d managed to take care of her horse all the way from Cornwall to London without any problems.

‘If you think I’m going to let you wander the open heath, chirping at a strange horse, you must have taken leave of your senses.’ Harry scanned their surroundings once more. ‘You hired me to protect you.’

‘I didn’t know we were going to get waylaid by highwaymen,’ said Saskia, torn between annoyance and an absurd feeling she should apologise to him for the inconvenience.

‘Hiring me was rather like building a roof to keep out the rain and discovering it does equally well to keep out hail and snow,’ said Harry, from his tone obviously not pleased about it.

‘I don’t see why you’re in such a bad mood,’ said Saskia, sitting on the floor of the coach with her feet dangling towards the ground. Surely he couldn’t still be grumpy because he’d had to hug her for a few moments? ‘I’m a novice at being shot at—in fact, this is my first time,’ she pointed out, ‘but you must be used to it.’

‘I’m used to sandflies, but that doesn’t mean I like them.’

‘We weren’t attacked by sandflies. In any case, you’ve clearly led a very adventurous life. I really don’t see how much difference there is between fending off highwaymen or—’

‘The henchmen of your lord’s jealous former mistress,’ Harry interrupted drily.

‘Ah…well…’ Until Harry’s comment Saskia had temporarily forgotten her excuse for needing his protection. She’d told him she wanted him to keep her alive, but he couldn’t really have supposed the jealous mistress meant to kill her. More likely he’d assumed the other woman just wanted Saskia to be physically humiliated. No wonder he wasn’t best pleased at finding himself attacked by pistol-bearing highwaymen.

She remembered her money pocket and reached back into the coach to retrieve it. ‘I was going to give it to them,’ she said, when she saw Harry looking at it.

He nodded. ‘I didn’t make my reputation by letting bandits steal the goods,’ he said, ‘but it was a wise choice. If a man demands your money or your life, always give him the money.’

Despite the warmth of the summer’s day, Saskia wrapped her arms around herself. ‘What if he can only get the money after you’re dead?’ she said.

Harry looked directly at her for the first time since he’d released her from his embrace. His expression was guarded, but his eyes searching. She wondered what he saw and whether she had revealed too much in that involuntary comment.

‘I could only catch your horse, sir,’ the coachman called.

Harry raised his hand in acknowledgement, but kept his gaze on Saskia. ‘You do everything in your power to remain alive until you can remove the threat,’ he said.



The highwayman’s horse had gone for good, so Harry put the dead man on to his horse and sat beside the coachman on the way to the next village. The coachman was still shaken and he wanted to talk about what had happened. It took all Harry’s self-discipline to tolerate the other man’s anxieties and questions. He was still experiencing the after-effects of violence himself. That surge of diamond-cold ferocity in response to danger had served him well on many occasions. He knew it always took time to shift from that split-second lethal intensity to his usual equilibrium. But today his fight to bring his body and emotions under his control was much harder. From the moment he’d seen the highwayman levelling the musket he’d been driven by deadly fury at the threat to Saskia. And when the immediate danger was over and he’d seen how shocked she was, he’d been compelled to take her into his arms. To comfort her. To assure himself that she was indeed unharmed…

But he’d never before held a woman while the hot blood of combat still pounded through his veins. While he was still filled with rage at the enemy. Within a few heartbeats his battle-roused body had been invaded by a different kind of lust. A driving compulsion to satisfy his fierce desire for a woman—for Saskia.

He’d wanted to touch her. To stroke her. To press her hips against him—to thrust himself into her—

As she’d trembled with fear in his arms he’d fought a bitter battle with himself, furious and disgusted with himself that he could experience such savage physical need to take her when she was so vulnerable. She’d turned trustingly to him for comfort. If she’d known what he’d been thinking—feeling—she’d have been more terrified of him than of the highwaymen. The image of another woman screaming in powerless fear flashed into his mind. Despite his self-control, he shuddered.

‘You did right,’ said the coachman. ‘Sewer dregs like that don’t deserve to live.’ With a nod of his head he indicated the highwayman.

‘I’ll not lose any sleep over him,’ Harry said curtly, realising the coachman had misunderstood the cause of his shudder. ‘But it’s inconvenient. We’ll lose some time over this.’

A few minutes later they reached the next village. It consisted of an inn, a church, a blacksmith’s, a baker’s and a cluster of houses. The arrival of the coach and the dead highwayman drew a small crowd of interested locals, one of whom was the constable. Several of the men recognised the corpse as Jem Crayford. According to their excited comments, he’d been a notorious local villain who had plagued the neighbourhood for the past eighteen months. But the forms still had to be observed. The constable asked Harry a few questions and then went in search of the magistrate.

After that, Saskia and Harry were urged into the inn, the innkeeper’s wife in particular making a fuss of Saskia. Harry’s eyes narrowed briefly as he realised Saskia was being taken out of the taproom into the landlady’s inner sanctum. He almost protested, but he was used to the separation of the sexes and it made sense to him that, after being exposed to male violence, Saskia needed the comfort of other women around her. Though she was quite calm, she was very pale and he could see signs of strain in her face. She threw one questioning glance at him and then allowed herself to be carried off.

A tankard of ale appeared in front of Harry.

‘Good riddance to the villain,’ the blacksmith observed. There was a mutter of agreement from the other men.

‘He was well known in these parts?’ Harry asked.

‘Crayford made the Dog and Duck alehouse over yonder his headquarters,’ said the blacksmith. ‘Boasted about his exploits, so I heard, but there wasn’t any solid evidence against him. Those who knew anything were too frightened to speak out—afraid they’d end up at the bottom of a well.’

‘Did he often hurt those he robbed?’ said Harry.

‘He shot coach horses as a warning to his victims.’ The blacksmith’s expression was grim. ‘After that, most people he held up were too terrified to do anything but hand over their valuables.’

‘Indeed,’ said Harry, thinking of the musket that had been aimed at his heart. He had no doubt that death, not terror, had been the intended outcome of that shot.



Saskia was grateful for the kindness of the local women, but she couldn’t afford to relax her guard in their company. Harry had introduced her as Sarah Brewster, and given the impression she was a respectable widow travelling to Portsmouth on unspecified business. Saskia was far more comfortable in that role than portraying herself as the mistress to an unnamed lord, but she still had to watch everything she said. Oddly, it reminded her of times during her married life when she’d found herself surrounded by her female Dutch relatives.

When she’d first arrived in Amsterdam she’d been a new wife. Much had seemed strange to her, but she’d assumed she’d eventually have a secure and comfortable position within Pieter’s family. After his accident she’d increasingly felt out of step with the other women. She hadn’t been in Amsterdam long enough before the accident to develop any deep friendships, and afterwards she’d rejected the role of ‘poor Saskia’, instead putting most of her energy into taking care of her merchant husband’s business. It was far more common for women to take part in business in Holland than in England, but Saskia had married into a wealthy family and none of the other women needed to take on such responsibilities. The other young wives had babies, and talked endlessly of their children, their husbands and their tasks within the homes they’d created.

Saskia had never confided in anyone her hurt, confusion and even anger at the way Pieter rejected the simplest gesture of affection once he knew he’d never recover any further from his accident. She’d found a way to manage her feelings and gradually their relationship had developed into something resembling a cordial but practical friendship between business partners. She’d greeted each baby into the family with warm smiles, but every time she hugged a new babe in her arms she’d ached with the knowledge she would never experience the pain and joy of motherhood. She hated the pity she saw in the other women’s eyes, so she never let her sorrow show—but she always returned the baby to its mother as soon as courtesy allowed.

Now, as she sat in the midst of the English women, grateful for their sympathy over her ordeal with the highwaymen, but longing for the moment when they’d leave and she could finally lower her guard, she wondered for the first time whether she wanted to go back to her old life in Amsterdam. She’d always assumed she would return after visiting her brother. She’d inherited Pieter’s business and she was proud of her achievements. But if she remained in Holland would she always be Pieter van Buren’s childless widow? She could marry again, but she felt no affinity for any of the Dutch bachelors of her acquaintance.

The innkeeper’s wife complimented Saskia archly on travelling with such a fine, handsome gentleman. ‘Any woman would feel safe in the hands of such a man.’

‘I am fortunate to be travelling with him,’ Saskia replied sedately, but her thoughts instantly focused on the exciting feel of being in Harry’s arms—at least until he’d had enough of such close contact with her. That memory hurt, and she quickly shut her mind to it.

From the expression on some of the other women’s faces, she suspected they were also imagining the pleasure of being in Harry’s embrace. She suddenly realised that, for the first time in years, she was the object of curiosity and perhaps even feminine jealousy because of a man. Harry, with his dark good looks, masculine charisma and indefinable air of danger, was the kind of man most women daydreamed about at some time in their lives. And he was with her. No one needed to know it was only because he’d responded to a notice on a coffee-room wall, and that he’d made it silently, but unmistakably, clear he didn’t wish to hold her a moment longer than necessary.

‘Yes, it is good to be in his hands,’ she said serenely, hesitating just long enough before continuing, ‘Normally I do not care for travelling, but he has managed every detail of the arrangements.’ As the other women glanced at each other, she felt a burst of secret pleasure at her play with words. She had said nothing untoward. A widow unused to travelling might well ask a male friend or relative to assist her—but the picture of herself as the kind of woman who’d attracted Harry’s sensual interest was enticing.

She wished it was true. It hurt far more than it should that it wasn’t. Then she was angry with herself for caring—and suddenly she was desperate to be alone. She still hadn’t told Harry they weren’t going to Portsmouth. And somehow she had to persuade him to help her rescue Benjamin. Harry had been in a bad temper ever since the highwaymen’s attack. What if he no longer wanted to continue on with her? The possibility he might abandon her was so awful it almost brought tears to her eyes.

She gathered her composure sufficiently to thank the innkeeper’s wife and the other women and explain she needed to lie down for a while to recover. When they’d gone she sat at the window, worrying over the enforced delay to their journey and trying to decide how to persuade Harry to help her. As she did so she watched the people who came and went from the inn yard. Always, on some instinctive level, she was searching for Tancock’s face. He shouldn’t be here—but she hadn’t expected to see him on her godfather’s doorstep either.



Harry gave his statement to the magistrate and constable in one corner of the taproom. The rest of the village men remained at a respectable, but intensely curious, distance. When they’d first arrived, Harry had identified himself only as Sarah Brewster’s escort. Because Saskia wasn’t present at the interview with the magistrate, he was able to give his real name to the magistrate and put his true signature to his statement.

‘I was given information a month ago I’d find Crayford at the Dog and Duck with his latest booty,’ said the magistrate grimly, ‘but when I got there he’d gone. You did well to protect Mistress Brewster from his attack.’

‘He’s not the first bandit I’ve dealt with,’ said Harry. ‘I take it you’re satisfied with my account?’

‘Yes, of course. Your coachman’s statement agrees with yours in all essential details. Will you take supper with me this evening? I am eager to hear first-hand the experiences of one who has recently returned from Turkey.’ The magistrate’s eyes lit with genuine interest. He’d had no difficulty recognising Harry as a gentleman—but then Harry had made no effort to pretend to be anything else during their conversation.

‘Thank you. I would be honoured to do so, but I am afraid I must decline,’ said Harry, with real regret. He liked the magistrate’s down-to-earth approach to his duties. ‘I promised I would escort Mistress Brewster safely to Portsmouth. I have not spoken to her since we arrived here and I must consult her wishes for the rest of our journey.’

The other man nodded. ‘Perhaps you will have an opportunity to call upon me when you are returning to London,’ he said.

Harry took his leave of the magistrate and went out into the courtyard to stretch his legs and breathe some air untainted by the pipe smoke filling the taproom. The hot summer day had become a warm, golden evening. Across the fields he could hear church bells tolling for the evening service. Such a familiar sound from his boyhood, but one he hadn’t often heard as an adult. There were synagogues and churches in Smyrna, but though Jews and Christians were free to follow their own religions, church bells were forbidden. Harry was more accustomed to hearing the muezzins calling the faithful to prayer five times a day than the sounds of his childhood.

His memories of the Levant were interrupted when several of the men who’d been sitting in the taproom accosted him with cheerful greetings and eager questions about the highwaymen’s attack.



From her window, Saskia saw Harry enter the yard and her pulse quickened. Even at a distance she was immediately aware of his self-assurance and the poised strength in his lean body. He was surrounded by a group of men. She began to feel frustrated because she wanted to speak to him, not watch complete strangers slap him on the back. She was just about to go down into the yard when another man spoke to him. As the man turned more fully towards her, her instincts buzzed a warning. She’d seen him before. At first she couldn’t remember where, but she immediately tensed at the sight of a man she recognized, but couldn’t identify. It wasn’t Tancock, but—

Trevithick House! She’d seen him at Trevithick. He was one of Tancock’s underlings.

Sick fear gripped her as she watched Harry speak to him. It seemed to her horrified gaze that, though their conversation was brief, they were making arrangements to meet later. She watched Tancock’s henchman slap Harry on the back. For an instant she was overwhelmed by crushing disappointment. She’d trusted Harry—but she knew little about him except he was fast and dangerous with the weapons he carried. Had he been working with Tancock from the beginning?

She dared not challenge him. If he was in league with Tancock, he would never give her the chance to escape once she’d revealed her suspicions. She backed away from the window. For a few seconds despair almost overcame her that once again her plans had gone astray. But she couldn’t afford to despair, any more than she could afford to hesitate. She dived across the room to her bag.



Harry extricated himself from his new friends and went in search of Saskia, but the innkeeper’s wife was alone when he found her.

‘Mistress Brewster said many times how thankful she is you were with her today.’ There was a mixture of curiosity and admiration in the landlady’s gaze as she looked Harry up and down. ‘You have a hardy way with villains, sir, but I’m sure any woman would feel safe in your hands.’

‘I did what was needful,’ said Harry curtly, ill at ease with both the blatant appreciation in the landlady’s eyes and the tone of her compliment. ‘I do thank you for your kindness to Mistress Brewster,’ he added, trying to make up for his initial brusqueness. ‘Where is she now?’

‘I put her in a room overlooking the yard. I will show you—’

But to Harry’s relief, the landlady’s attention was claimed by another customer, so she was obliged to give him directions. He didn’t mind being slapped on the back by the village men for dealing with a local villain, but the landlady’s admiration was another matter.

Saskia didn’t respond to his knock, nor to his voice when he identified himself. The first breath of alarm whispered through him. He opened the door without hesitation. One sweeping glance told him the room was empty. There was a discarded lady’s glove lying on the floor. He picked it up, recognising it immediately as one he’d seen Saskia wear. His hunting instincts went on to full alert. He stepped out of the room and quietly closed the door. He hadn’t seen any sign of Saskia on his way into the inn, so he continued further along the passage until he came to another set of stairs. At the bottom he found he had a choice of going back into the main yard he’d just left or towards the stables. He went towards the stables. He was in time to catch sight of a stripling in a plain brown coat and brown breeches disappear around the corner of the stables. A stripling with Saskia’s hair and carrying her familiar bag.

She was alone. Harry’s fear that she’d been snatched by her enemies receded. But was she going to meet someone else? He lengthened his walking stride to a deceptively ground-eating pace until he’d passed two grooms chatting by the stable door. As he turned the corner of the building he saw the apparent lad hurrying away from him, staying in the shadows behind the stable. Now there were no witnesses Harry ran, swift and silent in pursuit of his quarry. He caught Saskia by the shoulder and spun her around.

The instant he touched her, she gave a sobbing gasp of pure terror. He saw the dull glint of a knife blade as she struck wildly at him. He knocked her arm aside, but she kept attacking him in desperate silence.




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