The Uncompromising Lord Flint

Faces.

Many faces. From the past and from the grave. Her mother. Her long-forgotten father. The innocent men she had unintentionally sent to their slaughter...but only one pair of eyes. Green like the grass she lay on. Very green.

Gentle hands brushed over her forehead.

‘Jessamine? Can you hear me? Can you...?’ Jess felt another tear leak out of her eye and drizzle down her cheek. She didn’t have any fight left to stop it.

It was all so tragically unfair, but maybe fully deserved.

Her dark eyes had fluttered open and she stared into his briefly before she passed out. A bruise already marred her perfect cheek and a tiny trickle of blood oozed from the cut on her lip. Both piqued his rage and made Flint want to pummel the toothless sailor for daring to take his hand to a woman. Then he had momentarily lost control, something he rarely did, and sent the fellow flying before rushing to her aid.

Now, with her dark hair fanned out on the snowy white pillowcase and her face pale, those fresh bruises stood out in stark relief alongside the dark shadows he now saw beneath her closed eyes. In slumber, Lady Jessamine looked nothing like the calculating traitor or the confrontational termagant who had showered him in stale bread. She looked vulnerable and alone and painfully delicate.

Except she wasn’t delicate. Far from it.

It took physical and mental strength to swim close to two miles of the English Channel, fight the current and crashing waves and then scale a small cliff barefoot and, God help him, a large part of him admired her for that. She was desperate to live and who could blame her? Were he facing a date with the hangman, Flint would doubtless react in a similar manner and would fight for his life till his dying breath. Hell, he’d even swim the channel to get back to safety if push came to shove.

The utter devastation on her face when they found her again was not something that he could easily forget either. Guilt had been his first reaction before he’d ruthlessly corrected his emotions, but the weight of that guilt still lingered and plagued him. Obviously misplaced. After all, Flint had a weakness for a pretty face and a sultry pair of eyes. Lady Jessamine had both and used them mercilessly to get her own way.

Those emotive eyes had tricked him once already. The more he thought about it, the more her initial escape from the boat seemed gallingly like a preamble. During questioning, she must have spotted the only unguarded route of escape in his cabin and then what followed had been a contrived way to get back in that cabin and be left all alone.

‘I am not to be afforded the basic dignities of a human being after all.’ Those manipulative and mournful eyes had brought shame on him when he should have planted his feet firmly, shrugged and informed her that prisoners did not have the right to privacy, so she could change in his presence or remain dripping wet.

Lady Jessamine had used his chivalrous nature against him and then left him to look like the biggest of fools in front of the entire crew. Once bitten, twice shy...yet his whole being was at odds with his level head and wanted those traitorous eyes to be telling the truth.

When they had tracked her down on top of the cliff, the disbelief and the horror which had skittered across her features before she appeared to glance heavenwards in exasperation had bothered him. Still bothered him nearly three hours later, truth be told, because just one solitary tear had rolled heavily down her cheek. Flint had watched her swipe it away defiantly as she refused to surrender, almost as if she was embarrassed to be vulnerable, despite the fact it was obvious escape was futile and she was clearly exhausted.

The second fat tear had unmanned him and he had felt compelled to brush it gently away with his thumb before he began issuing orders to have her battered and prone body moved. Flint had carried her the first mile himself before men arrived with the stretcher, her slight body unhealthily slim in places beneath his hands, yet her heartbeat against his own was strong and steady and determined.

It called to him and the proud memory of it held him still. Flint hadn’t left her bedside, claiming that he was responsible for the prisoner, when in truth he had needed to stand guard over her to ensure that no more harm came to her. What the hell was that about?

Although it didn’t take a genius to work out she had come to harm before and not just from the heavy-handed sailors on the ship. After the innkeeper’s wife had undressed her and swaddled her in a clean nightrail, Flint returned with the doctor. He had asked the physician about the red scars on her wrists, although he knew, deep down, what had made them. Manacles. There had been another similar, yet considerably faded band on one of her ankles, too. At some point in the not so distant past, Lady Jessamine had been chained to something. By whom or why he had no idea. A rival gang of smugglers? Ruthless gangs wouldn’t care if she was a man or a woman. All they would care about was stealing the bounty, something she was undoubtedly guilty of. Except...

He shook his head, annoyed at the overwhelming need to be chivalrous and magnanimous over the more pressing constraints of his mission, and paced to the window rather than continuing to stare at her in concern. After years of chasing the worst sort of criminals, after he had nearly lost his father to a villainess’s bullet, he should be able to differentiate between a traitor and a woman. A traitor was a traitor no matter what body they happened to occupy. All his training, experience and deep-set beliefs were screaming at him. Remember the mission. Always remember the mission. A mantra which he fundamentally adhered to and believed in with every fibre of his being. Unfortunately, mission aside and as the only brother to five women, he couldn’t overrule the instinct to protect one. Even though she probably didn’t deserve it. Something he would do well to remember if he was going to complete this particular mission.

A mission that was now delayed, the well-laid plans hastily adapted to accommodate this unforeseen change in circumstances. That couldn’t be helped. The life of a spy was unpredictable at the best of times and Flint prided himself on his adaptability and his meticulous ability to plan. Their route to Plymouth would be a little more convoluted and they would arrive a few hours late, but they would arrive and would still take the main road to London as planned. If anything, the short delay would give the Boss’s men time to stew and become restless, which would play in Flint’s favour. Every bloodthirsty cutthroat he had ever dallied with had been impatient and unpredictable. Much like the vixen in the bed.

Behind him she murmured, obviously distressed, and Flint hurried to her, his lofty mission and deep-set beliefs instantly forgotten once again.

Chapter Five (#u5f24da4e-cd4a-5022-b615-a3fc4d75b832)

Ah, bon sang! She must be dead.

Swathing her, Jess could feel the crisp sheets as her body bobbed on the soft cloud beneath her. If this was what death felt like, then it wasn’t so bad. Sheets and comfortable mattresses were a long-forgotten luxury and, like all small luxuries, deserved to be fully revelled in.

She adjusted her position, then winced as her head protested. Suddenly her throat burned raw. How typical that pain would still exist in heaven. Unless the Almighty had decreed she should go straight to hell...

‘Lady Jessamine.’ She knew that voice. The clipped English consonants which still felt so odd when she spoke them. The deep, soothing timbre that came from somewhere deep in his chest and made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck quiver uncontrollably. Jess forced her eyelids to open at the exact same moment she felt his big, warm hand cup her cheek again. Bizarrely, the touch made her feel safe. Something she most definitely was not. Not with him. They stared at each other, startled for a moment before his hand dropped and his mask was back in place, making her wonder if she had imagined the compassion she had seen seconds before.

‘Where am I?’ She struggled to sit and gave up as dizziness swamped her.

‘At an inn. You hit your head. The physician suspects you have concussion.’ Which explained why his face and the walls were spinning so fast. Jess squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the sides of the strange bed to steady herself. She supposed she should be relieved she wasn’t dead, except knowing she was once again a prisoner extinguished that one small triumph. ‘I’ll fetch him. He wanted to see you as soon as you were awake.’

She heard his boots pace to the door, tried, then failed to listen to his whispered conversation, then heard the chair next to the bed creak slightly as he lowered himself back into it. ‘I’ve ordered some soup as well—nothing too heavy. Something in your stomach might make you feel better.’

‘Better for what? My impending execution?’

He ignored her croaked sarcasm. Instead, Jess heard water being poured from a jug. ‘Here—drink this.’

That comforting hand buried gently under her head on the pillow, supporting her enough that he could press the cup to her dry lips with his other hand. Jess drank gratefully, uncomfortable at being helpless—especially in front of him, the hateful man. Meeting his gaze in this state was unthinkable, so she focused on the cup instead and the steady hand holding it. Surprised that the neat, clean fingernails did not sit on the pampered hands of an aristocrat. Those hands had seen work, real work. Capable hands. Kind, too. Even when they had restrained her in the sea, he had not retaliated and hurt her when so many male hands had. He had been strong, though, more proof if proof were needed that her new gaoler did more than socialise and issue orders to his servants.

Being so close unnerved her. She could smell his skin—soap, some deliciously spicy cologne with undertones of fresh air from his immaculately laundered shirt, evidence that Lord Flint was particular about his personal cleanliness. Another luxury she had once taken for granted. Up against his golden perfection, she doubtless looked a wreck. Her own fingernails were torn and she was aware of a tender swelling on her lip. Before one errant hand went to her head to check the state of her hair, Jess pushed him and the cup away, suffering the indignity of allowing him to lower her spinning head back to the pillow. She made the mistake of glancing up at him, her eyes locking with his concerned green gaze. There it was again. That odd sense of well-being and connection, when she knew better than to trust anyone.

‘Thank you.’ Not at all what she wanted to say. A pathetic, heartfelt effort, when she wanted to spear him with something pithy. Something that clearly demonstrated she was not done yet and he hadn’t beaten her, but those kind eyes drew her in and the intended insults died in her mouth. He smiled with genuine amusement then and her breath hitched.

‘Fear not. I’m sure the politeness you are suffering is only a temporary affliction brought about by your knock to the head, my lady, and the old you will return soon enough to vex me.’

‘Oui... I hope so, too.’ Jess felt the corners of her mouth begin to lift in a returning smile and screwed up her face to stop it. Why was she responding to his charm and his undeniably handsome face? She hated him! If she ignored the flashes of compassion, gentleness and decency, this man wanted to see a rope around her neck! What was worse was there were no stinging retorts currently in her arsenal either and that wouldn’t do. For several seconds, she searched her mind for something—anything in either English or French—to redress the balance and came up blank. Incroyable! What use was being fluent in two languages if neither served your purpose at your time of need?

‘You are very lucky to be alive. Many a ship has fallen foul of those rocks you scaled. The sea was calmer today.’

Jess didn’t feel particularly lucky. Hard to feel blessed when now so riddled with fresh guilt that seemed to have lodged itself between her ribs like a parasite that was doing its best to claw its way through her, reminding her that she was selfish to still be thinking only of her freedom despite the dreadful ramifications of her actions, not to mention she was back at square one. Galling when she had specifically aimed for the most deserted piece of coastline. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I know this area well and the good-for-nothing Captain turned out to be very good at one thing. He calculated the speed of the current and plotted your likely direction. You were either destined for the headland or the calm bay behind it. We landed there, in case you were wondering, and rather fortuitously saw you climbing that cliff as we sailed past.’

Imbécile! She should have paid closer attention to the water rather than her irrational fear of heights!

He seemed to understand her anger and its cause, and merely smiled in response. He would pay for that, once the bed stopped whirling. The knock at the door saved her from pouting like a spoiled child.

A cheerful, ruddy-faced older gentleman barrelled in, clutching a black leather bag. ‘I see the patient is finally awake.’ He smiled kindly as he sat on the mattress next to her. ‘You took quite a bash to the head, young lady. If you don’t mind, I need to examine you. How are you feeling?’

Jess wasn’t going to discuss anything or suffer the indignity of being examined in front of her gaoler, allowing him to see the evidence of her weakness and shameful frailty, so turned to him imperiously. ‘You may leave us, Monsieur Flint.’

He laughed then and shook his blond head, and she hated the fact he looked delectable when amused. ‘Not in a million years, my lady, I believe you are forgetting who is in charge. Until you have been safely delivered to London, I’m afraid I shall be sticking to you like a barnacle sticks to a rock. From this moment on, I will be your shadow. Joined at the hip. But in the spirit of basic human decency, I shall step out of your way and avert my eyes.’ He made a great show of moving towards the window and turned his back to stare out of it. ‘You may continue, Doctor. Imagine I am not here. Both of you.’

‘Twenty-four hours of bed rest!’ Gray shook his dark head in disbelief. ‘If word gets out she’s here, we’ll be sitting ducks.’ They were still waiting for the other fifty men from the King’s Elite to make their way from Plymouth, where they were waiting, to this remote corner of the Devon coast. It would be hours before they arrived. ‘We’re too close to the coast for my liking. If the Boss’s men find her, they’ll have her halfway back across the Channel before the others arrive!’

‘That’s why I’ve told the Captain to set sail immediately and head out to sea. I don’t want anyone spotting a Royal Navy frigate lurking near the shore.’ Flint had kept back a few of the crew to stand guard in the interim. It wasn’t an ideal scenario, but at least with the enormous ship gone, the tiny fishing village would appear normal from a distance to anyone unfamiliar with it.

‘And if someone from here talks, or has already talked? We caused quite a stir marching in carrying her on that stretcher. I don’t like it, Flint.’

Neither did he, so he didn’t argue. With the spring sun setting and only the one narrow lane serving as both the entrance and exit of the village, if the enemy came, they were done for. ‘It is what it is. We can’t move her yet. She’s as weak as a kitten—albeit a feral one with claws.’ Who he didn’t trust as far as he could throw her despite his irrational need to protect her.

‘Rather you than me, old boy. I think I’d rather take my chances with the smugglers. At least they are predictable.’

A good point. Flint glanced back at the bedchamber door, then decided that leaving her alone for two minutes, even though the windows were securely locked and the key was tucked in his waistcoat pocket, were two minutes too long. To be certain, he stalked back to the door and poked his head inside. She was sleeping just as she had been when he had left her, but in case she wasn’t he left the door open a crack before returning to his friend.

‘Have a carriage readied as a contingency in case we do need to leave fast, but assume that we’ll be off some time tomorrow afternoon to make Plymouth before nightfall.’ Being on the roads after dark would be tantamount to suicide and counter-productive. They were supposed to be bait, not a target.