Mistress of Sins (Dredthorne Hall #3) - Hazel Hunter Page 0,46

to tuck her face against his shoulder, his hand stroking her neck. “You are the most stubborn woman alive,” he said as he pressed his cheek to her hair. “I wish to keep you that way.”

“Then allow me to be your partner now,” Jennet said. “We have to do something before they find us.”

“I love you.” He pressed a kiss to her head. “I have since the second time I saw you. I wish I could say the first, but that would be unseemly as well as untrue. I tried to forget you, but I could not. I carried you with me everywhere I went.”

“You are being ridiculous.” She held onto him as a slight dizziness came over her. “We can talk about the past later. The time to act is now.”

“I must give you something for sake-keeping.” Greystone pressed his thumb under her jaw. “It is the reason they killed Pickering. Give it to the magistrate, and tell him it is to be taken to London, and delivered to the Secretary at War. It must be placed in his hands directly. You must not fail in this. Tell me that you do not hate me.”

“I love you.” Jennet felt his thumb pressing harder now, and realized what he meant to do. As her head spun wildly she tried to push him away. “No, Liam. Please.”

“Forgive me, Jenny,” Greystone said as he pinned her against the side of the closet.

When Jennet went limp Greystone caught her and lowered her to the floor of the closet. Although he knew he had used only enough pressure to render her unconscious, he kept his hand on her neck. Feeling the throb of her pulse remain steady strengthened his resolve. He covered all but her face with coats and then turned her head away from the door before he stepped out.

The sounds drifting from the kitchens no longer sounded like voices; instead he heard a soft keening mixed with low, harsh grunts. Drawing his daggers, he approached the entry to the dining room and stood to one side to scan the room, which appeared empty. The door to the kitchens stood partly open, and through it he could see one of the brutes pinning a small, writhing form down on a work table as he hunched and jerked—and what he was doing was unmistakable.

Greystone felt sickened as he crossed the room, changing the angle of his advance so that he stayed out of the Frenchman’s sight. Only when he saw the child had Catherine Tindall’s face did he forget all of his training to rush through the door and jerk the brute away from her.

“Run,” he told Jennet’s friend as he turned on the agent, his daggers ready. “You think you can treat a lady like a whore, you animal?”

The Frenchman smirked. “Ah, but mon ami, she is my whore.”

Something grabbed Greystone’s leg from behind and pulled it out from under him, sending him sprawling. As he flipped over, Catherine planted her boot on his neck, and pointed a small pistol at his face.

“Hello, William,” she said, using one hand to tug up and fasten the man’s breeches she wore. “Rather rude of you to interrupt us, but I suppose it looked rather bad. Jean-Pierre likes it rough, you see. Then again, so do I.”

Greystone blinked. “Catherine?”

“Call me what the French do,” she chided. “Ruban.”

Everything came clear to him in a rush: how Ruban had been able to hide for so long on English soil, the remarkable amount of intelligence he gathered, and why he never allowed anyone who had seen his face to live.

No one could know that the sadistic brute who inspired terror in some many was a petite, delicate-looking woman.

As he surged up Catherine rammed her boot against his throat and cocked the gun. “Put down the blades, my lord, or I will shoot you now.” She shifted the angle of her aim to his lower abdomen. “Men can live without their cock and ballocks. I have parted several from their treasures. You will not wish to live once I have, of course, but that is not my concern.”

Greystone released the hilts, and the daggers clattered to the floor beside him. “How is it that you are Ruban?” He still couldn’t quite believe it.

“The Minister of Police named me that, for the ribbons I wore around my neck. A little reminder of all those who met Monsieur Guillotine during the revolution.” Catherine wrinkled her nose. “Rather passé now.” To Jean-Pierre she