“Originally.” Handing back Logan’s wiped saber, Charles picked up his own. “But Royce-Dalziel as he then was- recruited me within months. After that, I spent most of the war years behind enemy lines. Most at Toulouse.”
“You must have seen some difficult times there,” Logan said. “Were you in place when we came through?”
Linnet let her attention wander as Logan and Charles compared experiences of the taking of Toulouse while Charles cleaned their knives.
They’d rumbled out of Plymouth and were heading-she consulted her inner compass-east. She didn’t know England well, not beyond the major southern ports, but she assumed they were on the road to Exeter.
She was shivering, fine tremors coursing through her.
Without breaking off his conversation, Logan reached for her bag, set it on his knee, opened it, reached in, and drew out her traveling cloak. Returning the bag to the opposite seat, still chatting with Charles, he shook out the cloak, then held it for her, helping her drape it about her shoulders.
She accepted the additional warmth glady enough, allowing the fiction that she was shivering due to the increasing chill stand. But it wasn’t cold that had her muscles so tense that they were trembling. Nor was it exhaustion or simple shock; she’d been in far worse and longer battles, seen death at closer quarters, had had to fight for her life, had had to kill before.
But she’d never before fought alongside someone she cared about as she cared for Logan. Never stood beside someone with whom she’d shared that degree of intimacy and known their opponents were fixated on killing him.
A deeper, more icy shiver shuddered through her.
Raising her head, she shook it-as if by doing so she could shake off the lingering emotional panic. She glanced at Logan, sure he’d noticed. Beneath the folds of her cloak, his hand closed warmly about hers, squeezed gently, but otherwise he gave no sign, for which she was grateful.
His gaze remained on Charles. “What news do you have of the others?”
Charles handed back her knives and Logan’s dirk. While they tucked them back into their boots, he said, “Delborough’s in England. He landed at Southampton on the tenth of the month. There was a spot of bother there, apparently, but he got away cleanly and has been in London for several days, although I suspect he’ll have moved on by now. It sounds as if he’ll be the first to reach Royce. Hamilton’s in Boulogne, or was a few days ago. We’re expecting Royce to send word that Hamilton’s landed and is on his way to him, but any message will take a while to reach us down here.”
“Carstairs?”
“We’ve had no word of him, but that doesn’t mean Royce hasn’t. Our ex-commander has a tendency to share only what he feels one needs to know.”
“We heard that he-Dalziel-is now Wolverstone.”
Charles nodded. “He was Marquess of Winchelsea all through his years of service, not that we ever knew. It was one of those twisted, only-in-the-British-nobility tales.”
“Regardless, his reputation is all but legendary. How long were you under his command?”
Logan and Charles settled to discuss wartime espionage. Linnet’s attention drifted. Soothed by the steady rocking of the carriage, she focused on the now black night outside, the wind raking the trees bordering the road.
No icy drafts penetrated the carriage. Registering that, she looked more closely, despite the enfolding dimness noted the superb craftsmanship, the luxurious trim. This wasn’t just a carriage-it was a very expensive carriage.
Presumably Charles’s-the earl’s.
She was out of her depth socially, but she’d already heard enough of Charles’s exploits, seen enough of him, to know he was a man very much like Logan. A man of action and adventure, doubtless infinitely happier riding into battle than doing the pretty in some hostess’s drawing room.
She could manage Charles, deal with him and any like him. Which was just as well.
She hadn’t made any final, reasoned decision to fall in with Logan’s insistence that for her safety, and that of those connected with her, she should travel on with him.
Yet here she was.
The rush from the inn and the battle in the narrow yard had made any further arguing moot. After seeing the cult’s members face-to-face, seeing Logan trying to defend against three simultaneously-something no swordsman, no matter how brilliant, could be certain of doing and living to tell the tale-she was no longer focused on rejoining the
Given the icy fear she’d experienced in that poky little yard, given the aftermath still fading from her muscles, from her very bones, she would stay with Logan and travel on with him until his mission was complete.
Not for her safety, but for his.
That she could tip the scales in engagements such as the one in the yard-the most likely type he would encounter in winning through to his goal, wherever in England that was-owed nothing to starry-eyed, foolhardy optimism but was simple fact. Men never expected a woman to fight. They discounted her presence, her ability, and that instantly gave her, and the side she fought on, an advantage, one she was well equipped to exploit.
She paused, pressing her mind to rationally examine her decision-an impulsive one, yet all her instincts screamed it was right. No matter which way she twisted the facts, she came up with the same answer-the same best plan.
She would continue on with Logan, guarding him while he guarded her, until he reached his goal and successfully concluded his mission. Then she would bid him farewell and return home to Guernsey, to Mon Coeur, leaving him to the life he would live-would choose to live-once he returned to the world in which he belonged.
Glancing at him, then at Charles, she gathered her cloak closer and settled into the well-padded seat.
Minutes later, the carriage slowed, then turned right. Looking out, she glimpsed a signpost, managed to decipher Totnes. “Where are we heading?” She looked at Charles, remembered. “Paignton Hall, I think you said.”
Charles nodded. “It’s south of Paignton itself, on the coast beyond Totnes. It’s Deverell’s-Viscount Paignton’s- family seat.”
“My other guard?” Logan asked.
“Indeed. There were four of you coming in, and Royce could call on eight of us, so you each have two guards to conduct you to our erstwhile leader’s presence. You’ll be relieved to learn that for the occasion he’s wintering on his estate in Suffolk, and not at his principal seat, Wolverstone Castle, on the border in Northumbria.” Charles glanced at Linnet, smiled reassuringly. “Paignton Hall is our refuge for the moment-a safe place to take stock. The Hall is built into the husk of an old castle-quite neat. They have the views, the position, the outer walls and the bailey, but not the drafts.”
His gaze slid over her; his expression, his smile, what she could see of it in the dimness, turned decidedly wry. “Penny, my wife, and Deverell’s wife, Phoebe, are going to be utterly thrilled to meet you. If I could just mention, if you could avoid giving them too many ideas, Deverell and I will be forever grateful.”
Linnet stared at him. She was tempted to ask exactly what he meant, but… he’d just informed her she was going to be staying at an aristocratic residence-part castle, no less-in the company of ladies, and all she could think was that she had only one gown-and that a traveling gown-with her.
Still smiling, Charles shifted his gaze to Logan. “I meant to mention-we have a connection of sorts through our fathers. Along the lines of my father the earl knew your father the earl. Apparently they first took their seats in the Lords on the same day and remained acquaintances ever after-connected via a shared ordeal, you might say.”
Slowly, all but unable to believe her ears, Linnet turned her head to stare at Logan. He was an
His gaze on Charles, he shrugged lightly. “My father died some years ago-he never mentioned the acquaintance, but we weren’t close.”
He asked about Charles’s home, which was, apparently, Lostwithiel Castle-a real castle, drafts and all-in Cornwall.
Linnet heard, but wasn’t truly listening. Traveling on with Logan was leading her into waters far deeper, and
