Her Dearest Sin

“My clothes,” he repeated, feeling at a distinct disadvantage as the exchange unfolded.

“The clean ones,” she clarified. “If you would be so kind as to lay them out for me in a separate stack…”

“Perhaps you believe that I have an unlimited wardrobe,” he said, thinking that this demand was outside of enough.

She was welcome to his money, but he’d be damned if he’d hand over his only decent change of clothing. Even as he reached that decision, he acknowledged that his reluctance to do so was probably as much a matter of pride as necessity.

“But I assure you I do not,” he continued before she had a chance to speak. “Everything that has not been lost to swollen rivers, thieves or bloodstains during the last two years lies before you.”

“And I wish it to be in a separate stack, if you please,” she said again, obviously unmoved by that recital of disaster.

It seemed to Sebastian that as she said it, the point of the blade bit more deeply into the small dimpled depression it was creating at the base of his throat.

“I assure you,” she went on, “that I have more need of them than you. If you will give me your name and your regiment, perhaps I can arrange to have them returned to you when I have finished with them. Would that be satisfactory?”

He was struck again by her command of the language. Despite the accent, the words themselves might have been exchanged in any London drawing room. If one were to divorce them, of course, from the highly unusual nature of the subject they were discussing.

“I believe I prefer to keep them with me. It’s so difficult to know where one will be in…?” He hesitated, inviting her confidence about when she believed she would be finished with his clothing.

The smile that had almost broken through her control before twitched again at her lips. “Perhaps you are right. My plans are unsettled as well, so I should not lead you to expect the return of your garments. And now, if you please…”

There was no doubt about the increased pressure of the point this time. He felt the tip pierce the skin of his throat. Warm blood trickled downward over flesh chilled by his recent immersion in the water.

Clearly that prick was a warning. One he stubbornly didn’t heed. For several long seconds they continued to stand, frozen in their adversarial positions, eyes locked in challenge, each refusing to give in.

And then, the sound distinct above the rush of the river, they heard the ring of horses’ hooves on the rocks high above them. She glanced up, her eyes widening. Whether from shock or by design, the point of the sword was moved back a fraction of an inch. Away from his throat. Freed from its imprisonment, he turned his head, moving very slowly so as not to provoke retaliation.

His eyes were drawn to the top of the ridge behind him. He was hoping Wetherly or one of the others he had spoken to about his intent to bathe had finally realized how long he’d been gone and mounted a search party. Although why they should approach from the opposite bank…

And of course, they were not. Search party this might be, but the men lining the top of that slope were not looking for him.

He estimated that the man riding at their head was perhaps a decade older than his own twenty-nine years. Old enough, then, to be the girl’s father. Or her husband.

He had time to feel an inexplicable jolt of disappointment at that thought. Then the rider gave a sharp command to the others and sent his horse down the incline, seemingly without regard for its safety. Or for his own.

As skilled a horseman as Sebastian was acknowledged to be, he would have been reluctant to try his mount on that precipitous descent. He would certainly not have dared it at this speed.

Apparently the other riders in the party felt the same way. They remained along the crest of the ridge, their horses held near the edge as they watched their comrade’s headlong plunge. And whoever the horseman was, Sebastian thought in quick admiration, he was a superb rider.

“Run,” the girl said.

Surprised, Sebastian pulled his eyes from that astonishing feat of horsemanship and back to her face. It was absolutely colorless. The dark eyes were still wide and, although there had been not a trace of fear in them when she had held him prisoner with his own sword, it was there now. For some reason, he found he didn’t like seeing it.

“Your husband?” he asked, his gaze flicking back to the madman, who was now almost halfway down the slope.

“No.”

She had managed to inject bitterness into the single syllable, the emotion strong enough that it brought his eyes again to her face.

“But he is coming down here for you?”

“He’ll kill you,” she warned. “I never meant for this to happen.” Her eyes considered horse and rider briefly before they focused earnestly on his face. “If you run, I’ll try to distract him long enough to give you a chance to get away.”

Not surprisingly, Sebastian found he didn’t relish the idea of running back into camp clad only in his drawers. If he were killed here, no one would ever know exactly what had happened to him. If he fled in his underwear, like some hotly pursued virgin, he might live, but his fellow officers would dine out on the story for the next twenty years. Not only here, but in London as well.

He could imagine Dare’s face when he heard the tale. The thought of his older brother’s sardonic enjoyment of his predicament was quite enough to ensure the choice Sebastian Sinclair would ultimately make.

He dove toward the pile of garments, throwing articles of his clothing aside until his fingers closed around the pistol he’d concealed beneath them. At any moment, he expected shots to rain down around him. After all, the muskets that the horsemen carried had been in plain sight the entire time.

He rolled away from the scattered clothing and then scrambled, crouching, to his feet, his gaze sweeping the top of the ridge. The men who had lined it seconds before had disappeared. Only the leader was still visible, now guiding his horse into the river on the opposite bank.

Sebastian closed the distance between him and the girl, his fingers fastening around her upper arm. He drew her with him toward the pile of boulders she must have hidden behind to launch her ambush. They would offer some protection until he could figure out where the other riders had gone.

Still holding his sword, she allowed herself to be carried along with him for a few feet. Then, with a twist of her arm, she jerked away from his hold. He had already taken a step toward her when he realized what she was doing.

She ran back to the scattered pile of clothing, stooping to grab the pair of breeches he had been reaching for when she’d stopped him. And then she turned, hurrying toward him.

She threw them over his arm, the one that was outstretched to hold the pistol pointed at the horse and rider, who were now swimming across the current. In a matter of seconds—

“Go,” she demanded.

“Not bloody likely,” Sebastian said.

He threw the breeches over his shoulder and took her arm again. He dragged her with him as he retreated, never taking his eyes off the approaching horseman. As far as he could tell, the man wasn’t armed, which made her repeated requests that he run ridiculous. Armed and with sufficient cover—

“You fool,” she said, the words low and intense.

Surprised by the vehemence of her tone, which had been almost as bitter as that with which she’d answered his inquiry about the identity of her pursuer, he glanced toward her. And saw what she must have known from the beginning.

The line of horsemen who had disappeared from the top of the opposite ridge were now riding at a canter along the bank on this side. Obviously, they had crossed the river at some nearby ford, which they must have been aware of all along. As had the girl, he realized. That knowledge made the action of their leader in risking life and limb in that treacherous plunge even less fathomable.

It hardly mattered now. Both methods of reaching this side of the river had been successful. Too damn successful from Sebastian’s point of view, since they were closing in on him from two directions. A highly efficient tactic that had afforded Wellington’s forces more victories than Sinclair cared to remember.

The rapidly dwindling options ran through his mind like lightning. His soldier’s instinct, honed by two years of hard fighting, discarded them all.

Of course, the first shot in would arouse the camp. Whether his friends would understand its significance and respond in time was another question.

“Release her.”

The command was in Spanish. Sebastian had picked up the language quickly in his time on the Peninsula, certainly enough to understand the order he’d just been given. Instead of obeying it, he leveled his pistol at the chest of the man who had pulled up his exhausted mount, its heaving sides still streaming water, in front of them.

Close enough that Sebastian could see the rider’s features quite clearly, despite the wide-brimmed black hat he wore pulled low over his eyes. They were as dark as the girl’s, but somehow this was a different black, cold and opaque. Almost soulless.

Looking into them, Sebastian Sinclair, who had been said to possess the steadiest nerve on the staff, shivered involuntarily. A chill from his recent swim, he told himself, denying that uncanny wave of apprehension.

“She’s under my protection,” Sebastian said in English, hoping that something of the claim would translate.

For an instant, the rage in those black eyes was clearly visible. And then the man on the back of the trembling, exhausted steed laughed, the sound far more chilling than his anger had been.