“Godspeed.”
With that, Colin rushed through the door, and it was immediately shut behind him. Scraping sounds accompanied the moving of the clock back to its original position. He heard no more than that, because he was moving blindly through the dark tunnel, his hands held out to either side to feel his way.
His heart racing, his breathing labored, he fought against a rising panic. Not because capture was at hand, but because he had never been so close to reclaiming Amelia. He felt as if she were within his grasp and that if he were unable to board his ship, he would be losing her all over again. He’d barely survived the first time. He doubted his ability to survive another.
The tunnel became dank, the smell unpleasant. Colin reached what appeared to be a dead end and cursed viciously. Then the sounds of skittish horses caught his ear, and he glanced up, noting the faint outline of a trapdoor above him. He kicked around with his foot until he found the short stool; then he pulled it closer and stood upon it.
Quiet as a mouse, he lifted the door just enough to look through the strands of straw that covered it. The stable was still, though the perceptive beasts it housed shifted restlessly in response to his agitation. Throwing the hatch wide, he climbed out and sealed the door again. Colin grabbed the nearest bridle and horse, then opened the stable doors.
He walked his mount outside, eyes wide and ears open as he searched for those who might be hunting him.
“You, there! Halt!” cried a voice coming from the left.
Grabbing two fistfuls of silky mane, Colin pulled himself up and onto the horse’s bare back.
“Go!” he urged with a kick of his heels, and they burst out to the mew.
The early morning wind whipped the queue from his hair. He was hunched low over his mount’s neck, as they raced through the streets, breathing heavily in unison. Colin’s gut knotted with anxiety. If he made it to the ship without incident, it would be a miracle. He was so close to leaving this life behind, damn it. So close.
Colin galloped as near to the wharf as he dared, then dismounted. He freed his horse, then traversed the remaining distance on foot, moving in and out among the various crates and barrels. Sweat coated his skin despite the chill of the ocean breeze and his lack of outerwear.
So close.
Later, he would not remember the climb up the gangplank or the journey from the deck to his cabin. He would, however, never forget what he found inside.
The door swung open, and he entered, gasping at the sight that greeted him.
“Ah, there you are,” purred the unctuous voice of a stranger.
Pausing on the threshold, Colin stared at the tall, thin man who held a knife to his valet’s throat. One of Cartland’s lackeys or perhaps one working for the French.
Regardless, he was caught.
His valet stared at him with wide horrified eyes above a cravat tied around his mouth as a gag. Bound to a chair, the servant was visibly trembling, and the acrid smell of urine betrayed just how frightened he was.
“What do you want?” Colin asked, holding both hands up to display his willingness to cooperate.
“You are to come with me.”
His heart sank.
He nodded. “Of course.”
“Excellent.”
Before he could blink, the man moved, shoving his valet’s head back and slitting his throat.
“Why not?” the man retorted, shrugging. His eyes were small and pale blue, like ice. Swarthy skin and late- night bristle on his jaw made him look dirty, although his simple garments appeared to be clean. “After you.”
Colin stumbled back out the cabin door, inwardly certain that he would die this night. The deep sadness he felt was not due so much to the loss of his life, such as it was. It was mourning for the life he had dreamt of sharing with Amelia.
His hands were shaking as he gripped the railings that supported the stairs leading back up to the deck. A sickening thud and low groan behind him made him jump and turn too quickly. He tripped and landed on his arse on the second-to-bottom step.
There at his feet lay his captor, facedown with a rapidly swelling lump protruding from the back of his head.
Colin’s gaze lifted from the prone body and found the man who had fought with Cartland in the courtyard earlier. He was short of stature and stocky, his body heavily muscled and clothed in nondescript attire of various shades of gray. The man’s features were blunt, his dark eyes wizened and jaded.
“You saved my life,” the man said. “I owed you.”
“Who are you?” Colin asked.
“Jacques.”
Just the one name, no more than that.
“Thank you, Jacques. How did you find me?”
“I followed this man.” He kicked at the fallen body with the tip of his boot. “It is not safe for you to remain in France, monsieur.”
“I know.”
The man bowed. “If you have something of value, I would suggest you offer it to the captain as enticement to set sail immediately. I will manage the bodies.”
Colin heaved out a weary breath, fighting the flickering hope inside him. The chances of him actually making it to English soil were negligible.
“Go,” Jacques urged.
“I will help you.” He pushed heavily to his feet. “Then you should disembark before you are associated with me.”
“Too late for that,” the Frenchman said, his gaze direct. “I will remain with you until you are settled and this matter of my master’s death is resolved.”
“Why?” Colin asked simply, too weary to argue.
“Arrange our departure now,” Jacques said. “We will have plenty of time to talk on the journey.”
Unbelievably, within the hour they were out to sea. But the Colin Mitchell who stood at the mist-covered bow was not the same one who had shared a farewell dinner with Quinn.
This Colin had a price on his head, and the cost to pay it could be his life.
Chapter 4
