The Uncompromising Lord Flint

Flint watched Gray leave and felt a pang of guilt for putting his comrades in danger. Not that he’d lied about the bed rest, the physician had been most specific, citing all manner of complications should they attempt to move her too soon, but because he was putting the welfare of a potential traitor over that of his men. Why should he care if Lady Jessamine became ill? But he did.

Wearily he took himself back into the bedchamber and dragged the cot the innkeeper had found for him to lay it directly in front of the door, then arranged his long limbs as best he could within its confines. Unless all hell broke loose, sleep was necessary. He would need every one of his wits completely sharpened to deal with her again tomorrow, but for now, predominantly thanks to the potent sleeping draught he had insisted the physician slip her, she was wrapped soundly in the arms of Morpheus. Decisively, he closed his eyes and joined her.

The dream was as vivid as it was erotic. Sultry eyes. Long, jet-black hair. Wet limbs entwined. The Jessamine of his imagination was as passionate as she was tempestuous. Bold and wanton, her hands explored him everywhere, greedily caressing every inch of his naked skin. In the dream Flint lay beneath her, content to let her explore, watching her lips and tongue work their way up his chest, moaning his encouragement. She smiled down at him as her fingers dipped into his waistcoat pocket...

Wait... If he was naked, why was he suddenly supremely aware of his waistcoat?

Like lightning, his hand clamped around her wrist and pulled her so that she fell sprawled across his chest, his narrowed eyes inches from her shocked, wide ones in the darkness.

‘Give it back.’

‘You were having a bad dream...’ She attempted to rise on her knees, but he held firm.

‘Give me the key.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about. You were restless...’ As she spoke in uncharacteristically reasonable tones, she was also carefully arranging her legs beneath her voluminous borrowed nightgown to bolt, so he twisted sharply to unbalance her and send her sprawling across his chest again.

‘You were trying to escape.’

‘Ce n’est pas vrai!’ And she was fighting him again, tugging her arm for all it was worth. Flint wrapped his other arm tightly around her waist and rolled them to reverse their positions, only remembering that his body was hard and needy from the dream when it rested damningly against her stomach and he saw her eyes widen with surprise. He didn’t want to want her, nor to have her know it, but it served her right and might deter her from interrupting his slumber again in the coming days. Even so, he shifted position to spare them both the embarrassment.

‘I won’t ask again.’ Her trim body felt too good beneath his. Thanks to the pale moonlight bleeding through the window, Flint was forced to notice all her silky, dark hair fanned across his pillow. The beautiful arrangement of her eyes, nose and plump mouth. Feel the fevered rise and fall of her breasts against his chest. His mouth scant inches from hers. Things he didn’t want to notice. Couldn’t afford to notice. ‘Give me the key.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about!’

He reached between them to retrieve her small, clenched fist and raised her hand to lie next to her furious face on the pillow. ‘Give. It. To. Me.’ Damn it all to hell, he wanted to kiss her. Badly.

‘Abruti d’imbécile!’

It came as no surprise when she set her jaw and tried to heave him off her, but he was considerably bigger and easily used his bulk to pin her to the lumpy, straw mattress while his other hand slowly prised that determined fist apart. As Flint dislodged each stubborn finger to take back what she had stolen, she treated him to another stream of impassioned rapid French. He found himself smiling down at her, enjoying her hot-blooded spirit despite his better judgement. She was a glorious handful. Passionate and tenacious. Did those passions extend elsewhere? Best not to think about that now. Or ever.

‘This is pointless, madam, as you well know.’

Typically, the minx didn’t make it easy, nor did Flint truly expect her to, but using far more of his strength than he had ever used on a female before—including his exasperating oldest sister Ophelia—he finally managed to remove the key from her grasp.

Victorious and breathless, and shockingly aroused at the same time, Flint rolled off her and jumped to his feet.

‘Well, that was all very unnecessary.’ He pocketed the key again and she shot up from the cot like a wild cat, those vicious claws bared once again as she lunged for him. His surprisingly good mood vanished.

‘Tu ne comprends pas! I have to get away!’ Unwilling to defend himself because of that damn ingrained vein of chivalry again, he wrapped both arms tightly around her to trap her hands against the wall of his body and held on for dear life.

The insults came thick and fast, but among them she was muttering about something which Flint sensed was important, but his knowledge of French didn’t extend to translating it all so quickly. When a button pinged off his waistcoat, he held her at arm’s length and positively growled, ‘Either rant more slowly, woman, or insult me in plain English. I know you speak that just as well!’

‘He is going to kill us both!’

‘Whoever he is, he doesn’t know where we are!’

‘It will make no difference. He has people everywhere. Well connected and powerful...’ Her voice petered off as his eyes narrowed.

‘Then seeing as we are now both wide awake, why don’t we make a list of every one of those powerful names?’

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

Jess clamped her jaw shut and stared up into his handsome face. Much as she wanted to see each and every one of those people reap the justice they deserved, naming names now would eradicate the only collateral she had should Saint-Aubin come knocking. That list might well be her curse, but it was also the only bargaining tool she had to save her from his wrath. Losing her temper after being caught red-handed was not sensible. Attacking the irksome man who held her was stupid.

She could feel the warmth and strength of his big body through her nightgown and the odd tingling on her lips from being so intimately close to his. If only he didn’t smell so wonderfully sinful, she might be able to ignore those things. Now her body hummed with an awareness she did not welcome. Insufferable man!

Although as undeniably irritating as he was, so far, he was the only gaoler who had not chained her up. If she continued to fight him, that state of affairs would swiftly change. She already bitterly knew to her cost, escaping while clapped in irons was nigh on impossible. It had taken a small and unexpected army of gnarly English sailors to liberate her from Cherbourg in the dead of night, a stroke of good fortune she still couldn’t quite believe.

A stroke of good fortune that was giving Jess her first real shot at freedom and fresh air in over a year.

She breathed out all her frustration and fury, allowing her muscles to relax in surrender. There would be another time. Another opportunity. She needed to be less opportunistic and more strategic if she was going to escape Lord Flint. ‘I don’t know their names. I was never privy to that information. I simply know that the organisation is vast.’ Because it was worth a try, she offered him one of her mother’s smiles and felt her pulse flutter as her eyes dipped to his lips of her own accord. Mon Dieu! ‘As I have said, I was just the messenger, Monsieur Flint.’

His returning scowl could have curdled milk. ‘Define messenger?’

‘Translations mostly.’ As his hold had loosened, Jess gave a dramatic flick of her wrist and shrugged. ‘I wrote what I was told to write when I was told to write it.’ Largely true. ‘I have no idea what happened to the letters afterwards.’ She did now. They killed people.

‘Then why do you claim he wants you dead, I wonder? Seems like a gross overreaction for someone so insignificant.’

Jess hated that dismissive tone, the understated English sarcasm he did so well. She wished he would let go of her. Standing within the warm, inviting cage of his arms was distracting. Up close, this unusual, irritating aristocrat looked even more divine and for some reason her nerve-endings were enjoying the feel of his hands on her body. ‘Saint-Aubin does not like loose ends, Monsieur Flint. He will not rest until this loose end is securely tied.’

‘Or more likely, he will come to rescue you if you fail in your own valiant attempts to return to France.’

He thought she wanted to return to that hell hole? A team of horses would have to drag her there lashed to a cart. Death would be more welcome. But at least her performance was convincing despite her two failed attempts at grasping her freedom. Saint-Aubin’s spies might vouch for her outrage and that in turn might make him lenient. And Jess had more chance of harnessing the power of invisibility than hoping that monster might show her any mercy. If they found her here, wherever here was... ‘I do not want to hang, Monsieur Flint.’ But she would rather hang than suffer Saint-Aubin’s punishment.

Caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea. Odd—she had always wondered what that quaint British analogy meant and now, ironically, she understood it fully. Saint-Aubin was the Devil incarnate and Lord Flint the sea. Except Jess never expected she would need to actively resist the urge to dive in.

‘I doubt your dear papa wants that either.’

‘You do not know him as I do. I am better dead than in the hands of the English Crown. He will sacrifice me in a heartbeat.’ And he would enjoy it. In her mind she heard his manic laughter at her screams and shuddered.

‘A father doesn’t—’

‘He is not my father!’ She spat the words with too much venom, making the intuitive Lord Flint tilt his head and eye her in a detached, calculated way which showed him to be every bit the King’s man, out to catch a bigger fish and not at all the compassionate and reasonable man he purported to be. Whatever she said would be used against her in a court of law or at the hands of Saint-Aubin’s henchmen if they made her answer for her actions. Jess needed to play her pathetic hand of cards very close to her chest and keep her impetuous, errant mouth shut.

‘But he brought you up as his daughter, did he not? You grew up in his chateau.’ Lord Flint smiled rather smugly down at her. He had a nice smile, even smug it did peculiar things to her pulse, and she hated him for that more. ‘In Valognes. A sprawling estate, by all accounts, wealthy, too—but then Saint-Aubin is one of Bonaparte’s favourites and continues to support him despite his exile. We know that Saint-Aubin is the Boss’s supplier of brandy, just as we know that you ensured that same illegal brandy arrived safely in Britain. Dates, times, ships. You met him, didn’t you? Old Boney. You were there to see him pin a medal on your adopted papa’s chest after the Battle of Vittoria. I can assure you, our intelligence has been most thorough, Lady Jessamine. We know all about you. Which is why I fail to believe you are in any danger from Saint-Aubin. Your own dear mother is his