Page 8 of How the Earl Entices

“Then tell me why you were out in that storm tonight.” Not a request but a demand for information. “Why are you hiding here?”

Oh no. He had no intention of answeringthat.

He shoved away from the table and snatched up the square of white cloth. Taking it between his teeth, he ripped off a two-inch wide strip. Her eyes widened when he tore off a second piece, then dropped the rest to the floor. He wrapped the first strip around his bicep, covering the wound.

“It doesn’t need stitches,” he told her when she continued to gape at him. And thanks to her, there was enough whiskey inside the cut to prevent any infection from taking hold. For the rest of his life.

He’d gotten enough wounds over the years, first at Eton and later during a two-year stint in the army, to know the difference between those which threatened a man’s life and those which simply hurt like hell. However, the sharp pain that came from the cut on his left thigh might just prove him wrong. Even now he limped as he stepped back, tying off the second strip of bandage with his teeth.

But he was still alive, that’s what the pain meant. And he was damned lucky to be.

“I’m here to be out of the storm.” He placed a hand on the fireplace mantel to steady himself against the swaying that his exhaustion started in him. “That’s all you need to know.”

“How were you hurt? Can you at least tell me that?”

He rubbed his forehead and the pounding headache. Damnation! Wouldn’t the woman give him peace? “No.”

“This is my house. You’ve barged in here like a criminal.” Her voice rose in anger, nearly as loud as the storm raging around them. “I deserve answers.”

The headache was blinding now, and he gritted his teeth. “I cannot tell you.”

“Why not? I deserve to—”

“Because they’ll kill you!” His patience snapped, and he wheeled on her, fisting his hands at his sides. “If they find me here, if they suspect you’ve helped me—you’re as good as dead. And I willnothave another death on my head.”

She froze, her eyes wide at his outburst. Even in the flickering shadows of the firelight, he saw the blood drain from her face.

Guilt assaulted him for frightening her. He raked his fingers through his damp hair and dragged in a breath. For God’s sake, was this really what his life had come to? Forcing his way into a woman’s house and yelling at her simply because she wanted answers?

In stealing those documents from the British ambassador, he’d lost himself. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to find his way back.

“I’m sorry.” He turned toward the fire. “But the less you know, the better.”

His heart pounded frantically now, the rush of blood through his body searing like liquid flames. He squeezed his eyes closed and focused on calming his breathing, which only increased his swaying. Sheer exhaustion ached in every muscle, burned at his throat which was raw from hours spent gulping salt water as he fought the waves to stay alive, throbbed in the bruises from being slammed against the rocks when he finally reached shore.

But he couldn’t stop now, not when he was so close to destroying the inner circle of the Court of St James’s, those Englishmen working in France who had pledged their loyalty to the British ambassador. Not when he could still feel the blood on his hands from the murder of Sir Henry Jacobs.

Thatwas what had kept him ceaselessly plotting during the past year. What had driven him to steal the documents and sent him on the run, hiding from both the French and the British. What had kept him alive for hours in the Channel, tossed and battered by the storm, before he crawled up from the beach and found this cottage, with the dim light of its fire shining through the cracks of the shutters and promising rest and warmth.

Five years ago, if anyone had asked him what he wanted most, he wouldn’t have hesitated to say an ambassadorship. It was what he’dalwayswanted. But that was before his parents died, before he’d discovered his brother Kit’s role with the Home Office. Before he was responsible for Sir Henry’s body lying in a pool of blood, his throat slit from ear to ear. Before he’d committed treason.

Now he wanted nothing more than to rain vengeance down upon the heads of the men responsible for destroying everything he’d believed in.

But first, he had to get to London.

He glanced at the woman, still sitting at the table, gaping at him.

Get to London?He bit back a laugh. First, he had to survive the night!

“So you didn’t come here to seek shelter from the storm.” Her voice was barely loud enough for him to hear over the driving rain. “You’re here because you’re hiding.”

“I’m hiding from the storm.” Not entirely a lie. Although at that moment, the immorality of lying was the least of his worries.

“You’re being hunted.”

His head snapped up. He narrowed his gaze on her.

“That’s why you were out in the storm.” She tilted her head as she studied him. “A man like you, I bet you have plenty of money at hand to afford a room at an inn while you wait out the weather.”