Chapter 15 #3
Blake’s grip tightened on her hand. The old chapel ruins. Of course. Remote, abandoned, with an unused back road that could provide an escape route if needed.
A sudden swell of voices came from down the hall. Evie grabbed Blake’s jacket and pulled him toward her, deeper into the shadows of the alcove. Her body pressed flush against his, and he instinctively dropped his palms to her waist.
Oh, she smelled as good as she looked.
Confound it all. He’d never found spy work so upsetting to his carefully laid plans before.
Of course, he’d never spent a great deal of time thinking of futures and happily-ever-afters before either. There was a reason Grace enjoyed those silly books so much.
Two people in love certainly ought to have a happy ending, now that he thought about it.
An excellent notion.
“Are Lord and Lady Astley still in the study?” John’s voice carried down the hall.
“I believe so.” This from Mary, her tone more timid.
“Did you find anyone missing among the staff?”
“No,” came Mary’s quick reply. “Even all the nurses were accounted for.”
Evie’s gaze shot to Blake’s.
“What about you?”
“It don’t make no sense,” John said slowly. “I mean, Pennington being gone does, as far as him being able-bodied and all. But the other missing patient? He could barely walk before.”
Blake’s palm tightened against Evie’s waist.
Smith.
A door opened—the study, presumably—and then closed.
Footsteps faded.
“She must still be in the house,” Evie whispered, her fingers still wrapped around his jacket.
“She’ll take the kill list, the codes, everything she’s gathered.
She won’t run without it—it’s her payment, her proof to Rook that she’s valuable.
She’ll go back to her room first to collect everything before she flees. ”
Blake knew what had to happen. Knew the choice they both must make.
From Evie’s tightening hold on his jacket, she knew too.
“Then we need to move now,” he said, his gaze scanning her face, pausing on those eyes. Those marvelous, mesmerizing eyes that had haunted him for months.
No, much longer.
Evie studied his face in the dim light. “You’re going to the ruins.”
“Smith will meet his contact there. This distraction with Pennington’s theft”—Blake gestured vaguely toward the study behind them—”it’s too convenient.
Too perfectly timed. Rivers arranged it somehow.
A few careful comments after overhearing his story, no doubt.
Probably flirted her way into speeding his desperate plan along, likely giving him the hint to look in the document box for blueprints.
” His mouth tightened. “Judging by the mess he left in Frederick’s office, she was quite effective. ”
“I’ll go after Rivers. She’ll exit by the west wing—fewer eyes to see her leave.”
Blake brought his hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb trailing along the soft skin there. Her eyes fluttered closed in complete abandon to the touch—a vulnerable move.
A trusting move.
Proof of her feelings.
His stomach twisted to the point of hurting.
He hated war. Hated what it did to people. What it asked of them.
“I would rather stay together if we could, sweetheart.” His thumb slid over her bottom lip before he took a quick taste. “We do work fairly well together when you’re not trying to kill me.”
Those lips curved ever so slightly beneath his touch. “Then that should be proper incentive for you to stay alive.”
Her gaze lingered in his, her smile dissolving, accepting their fates. “We meet back here when it’s finished.”
He hated this plan. Hated separating.
But there were too many moving parts, and they had to split up to stop them all.
Every piece of information Rivers had gathered could cost lives. British lives. Allied lives. Men like Freddie, serving at the Front. Men like the patients in this very house, who’d already given so much.
They couldn’t let that intelligence leave Havensbrooke.
Blake pulled her into his arms, and she came without resistance, her head tucking beneath his chin, her arms wrapping around his waist. He stood there in the darkness, holding her as if he could somehow transfer strength, courage, safety through touch alone.
God, help us.
“If this goes badly—” Blake started.
“It won’t.”
“But if it does—”
“Blake.” She pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Don’t.”
“I was going to say,” he continued, his voice rougher than he’d expected, “that I love you and I would rather have you shooting at me than anyone else in the whole world.”
A weak, silent laugh shook from her. “With charm like that, someone needs to be shooting at you.”
“Probably.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then another to her temple, then—because he couldn’t help himself—one to her lips that was meant to be brief but somehow became something deeper. Desperate. A promise and a plea all at once.
When they finally broke apart, Evie’s dark eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“You’d better survive this,” she whispered. “Because I fully intend to make an honest man of you, Stephen Blake. And I refuse to be a widow before I’m even a bride.”
His heart fisted in his chest. “Is that a proposal, my love?”
“My love?” Her brow tipped. “I do like that one.”
He chuckled, an action oddly comforting given the circumstances. Her kiss probably helped too.
“But actually,” she continued, “if it’s more incentive not to get yourself killed.
” She rose on tiptoe and pressed another kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to make leaving nearly impossible.
Then she released him, her entire body tensing with purpose.
The vulnerable woman disappeared, replaced by the agent.
“She may use your brother against you,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Don’t let her make him a weapon. You’ve already lost enough to Evan.”
She nodded, releasing her hold on his jacket.
He drew in a breath, pushing away from her with an effort that felt like tearing skin from bone.
She stepped toward the servants’ stairs, then stopped. “Stephen?”
He raised a brow, catching the faintest smile on her face.
“If you survive, I promise to buy you a new oxford shirt in that atrocious color you adore so much.”
His smile flashed wide before he could stop it, a bright warmth bursting through his middle despite everything. “How can I even contemplate failure now? What man of fashion could refuse such an offer?”
Her gaze held his for another heartbeat—fierce and tender—and she disappeared down the corridor toward the servants’ stairs.
Blake waited until she was out of sight before allowing himself one moment of vulnerability. He braced a hand against the wall and looked heavenward.
Protect her. Please.
Protect us both.