The Duke's Covert Mission

“I’m loyal to myself. Period.” He shrugged, pretending his mounting frustration over Rademacher’s evasion of his questions was no big deal. “I was just curious as to where your loyalties lay. Mentioning a backup plan makes me think you’d leave us hanging if something went wrong.”

“My loyalties are to the project. I intend it to be a success. Lucia is a means to an end. Surely you can handle a twenty-six-year-old girl so that nothing goes wrong.”

Cade’s fingertips suddenly itched with the memory of handling that twenty-six-year-old girl’s hair. It had been long and wavy, soft in color and touch. Cade curled his fingers into fists, damning himself for getting distracted from his purpose.

“The girl’s not who I’m worried about,” he lied. “How do we know we can trust the man you’re working for?”

“You don’t.” Winston adjusted the already impeccable knot on his French-silk tie. “You don’t even have to trust me. Just do your job and have that girl prepped for her return Monday night.”

A rheumy laugh reminded Cade there was another person in the room. Jerome sauntered up to them and asked, “Do we have to bring the princess back in the same condition we found her?”

Winston’s expression never changed. “Smython, you disgust me.”

Jerome cursed in French and Spanish, intimating he wasn’t the only one who had considered getting to know their prisoner better. “I’m headin’ outside.” He waved off both Winston and Cade, and stormed out of the house.

Lenny returned, giving Jerome’s huffy exit a curious glance before handing the briefcase to Winston. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he offered.

Winston nodded a curt acceptance. He butted his shoulder against Cade’s as he passed. Then he stopped and turned, daring him to challenge his authority. Cade nailed him with a glance that acknowledged the conflict between them.

But wisdom prevailed over male posturing. Cade stepped aside and let Winston pass. He had too much at stake to risk alienating his employer now.

When the screen door had slammed behind them, Cade raked all ten fingers through his hair, venting his frustration and fanning his bangs into a spiky mess.

This whole setup felt wrong, from the unplanned murder of the Carradignes’ chauffeur to the mystery employer to the wrong victim. He’d been on enough missions as a soldier and on his own to trust his instincts about the failure or success of a plan. His gut was screaming at him now, warning him this one was going to go very, very wrong before it was over.

Cool, clever and unreadable. Rademacher hadn’t revealed a damn thing.

Cade noted that he’d never said no to Jerome’s last request, either.

SOMETHING WAS WRONG.

Cade dropped the keys into his front right pocket and closed the basement door behind him. He pulled the scratchy stocking cap down over his face and scanned the shadows as he descended the stairs and tried to pinpoint what felt out of place.

The soft glow from the lantern made this damp hellhole look almost hospitable. A chain rattled, reminding him that his hospitality left a lot to be desired.

“Is that you, Sinjun?”

God, he hated that nickname. That slurring together of syllables as if his own name wasn’t important enough to pronounce correctly. But under the circumstances, he could hardly correct her.

He stepped into the circle of light and let her identify him by body shape. The woman on the sleeping bag sat up, pushing a long fall of toffee-colored hair off her face. She adjusted her shoulders beneath the blanket and clutched it securely around her as she stood.

“Did I pass the test with your boss?”

Her big blue eyes blinked rapidly as he walked closer. Her eyes looked raw with suffering. Guilt warred with pity inside him, but both were ultimately defeated by admiration for her courage and perseverance. Finally he answered her expectant look with a nod and she smiled.

Barely. The flash of teeth and curve of her wide mouth lasted only a split second before she dropped her gaze to the floor. But the image stayed with him. The woman was really rather pretty when she smiled, he thought. But he got the impression she didn’t smile very often, and that observation got him to wondering why.

“Good,” she continued while he removed the bucket and replaced her canteen with a fresh one. “I don’t know why you’re helping me, or if you’re really helping me at all. But since I’m still alive, I figured that’s a good thing, right? I’ve never been kidnapped before, and I don’t know the proper etiquette. But my goal should be to stay alive, and I should be grateful to you for helping me, and it shouldn’t matter why you’re doing it.”

The talking. That was different. She hadn’t put so many words together at one time in the entire twenty-four hours she’d been here. But he wasn’t psychic. He couldn’t have foretold her nervous rambling from the top of the steps. Something else had to be out of place to keep nagging at his subconscious mind.

The meeting with Winston Rademacher had made him edgy, that was all. He didn’t quite buy that excuse, but he was already busy making other observations.

She backed away when he knelt in front of her to pick up her discarded ration packets, and the movement gave him a glimpse of her torn gown and petticoats. Maybe that was why he hadn’t really noticed her looks before. Other than the size of her eyes, her features had seemed unremarkable. But the fire-engine red of that gown was so overwhelming it would make all but the most striking of women look drab in comparison.

Cade imagined this woman would look pretty in softer colors. Soft like her. Yeah. He allowed himself a smile beneath his mask. If her hair was any indication, this woman was soft. Really, really…

Wham!

He didn’t see it coming until the claw was right on him. The force of the blow rang through his skull and knocked him off his feet. The sharp metal hook that she’d anchored in her fist snagged in the knit of his cap and plowed through the top layer of skin on his cheek as she ripped the mask right off his head.

In the moments it took him to recover—to shake his head and clear the dizziness from his vision—he felt her hand at his waist. Butting against his hipbone. Diving into his pocket. Moving dangerously close to…

He heard the jingle of keys and knew her intention.

Adrenaline cleared his head with a soldier’s clarity of instinct and purpose.

He clamped his hand around her wrist and knew that she knew this sneak attack had failed.

Her split second of hesitation gave him an advantage he didn’t intend to surrender again. She jerked back with a grunt, but Cade held fast, using her momentum to pull himself to his knees. He felt her shift, saw the metal hook flying toward his face again. He snagged that wrist, too, and rolled his shoulder into her thighs, toppling her onto her back.

He dodged the knee that rose to strike him and dropped his body weight onto hers, pinning her to the sleeping bag beneath him. For an instant she went still and Cade damned himself, thinking she’d hit her head on the concrete floor.

Instead, she’d paused to stare.

“Cade St. John?” She squeezed his name out in a mix of accusation and shock. “The Duke of Raleigh?”

The recognition caught him off guard. She’d seemed familiar, but he still hadn’t placed her. “How do you know me?” he demanded, pushing himself up onto his elbows at either side of her, giving her room to breathe without completely freeing her.

Her teeth bared with determined fury. “You traitor!” She pried a hand loose and slapped his face. She twisted her hips, shimmying along the floor beneath him. “King Easton invited you to be part of his American entourage. How could you betray that kind—” Cade thrust his arm beyond her rolling shoulder “—sweet—” he bent his elbow, twisting her flying arm to the floor “—man?”

Her cry of pain was more of a strangled moan. But whether her inspiration came from patriotism or her own personal fear, she still writhed beneath him. Kicking at his calves and shins. Pushing the hook toward his face with fury-charged strength. She was wild. Out of control.

Cade mentally stripped himself of any kid gloves, any guilt. He had to defend himself and keep her from hurting herself. He wound his left leg around both of hers and stilled her kicking. He pulled his hips over hers, damning propriety and letting his weight crush her diaphragm, robbing her of the ability to breathe deeply.

And then he tackled the damn hook. He stretched her right hand up over her head and shifted his grip around her wrist. It wasn’t a matter of overpowering her so much as finding that particular bundle of nerves near the base of her palm. He pressed the spot with his thumb and her fingers popped open. He shook the hand once. Twice. The curved piece of metal flew out and clanged against the concrete floor. It was the handle from the lantern. Somehow she’d managed to pry it off and arm herself with a weapon.

The muted wince of pain he heard in her throat was her final protest. For several moments all was silent, all was still, except for the sounds of heavy breathing. His, measured and deep. Hers, quick and shallow.

Cade refused to ease his grip on her. The little spitfire had surprised him. Unmasked him. Drawn his blood.

Now that she’d recognized him, judged him to be a traitor to her beloved king, he suspected she’d do it again, given the chance.

And that was when Cade became aware of something else altogether.

Somewhere in their struggle, that gown with the broken straps—the gown that didn’t quite fit—had ripped down the front. And there, pressing against his chest, teasing him again and again with each fevered breath she took, was a naked breast.

He raised himself ever so slightly. Seeking oxygen, her chest heaved for a deep breath. Cade watched in shameless fascination as the breast pillowed between the shreds of torn silk and came free of the black lace bra that couldn’t contain its bounty. The chilled basement air—or maybe his own heated wish—coaxed the peachy circle at its tip to pucker and the nipple to strain to attention.