Page 121 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Paulette’s mouth firmed.
“So you can lock us up there? No, brother. I know Hackwell House, and I’ve hand-picked the staff. Now that you lot are involved, you can help me keep my wife safe there.”
Kincaid sighed and looked at Tellingford.
“I’ll make the arrangements,” Tellingford said. “And we’ll get you a carriage.”
He slipped out the door.
“When will this end?” Paulette asked.
“I don’t know.” But it was a lie. He knew when it would end. He fisted his hands and pumped energy into his muscles. And this time he would finish the job on the right man.
The heavy foghad lifted and naught but a mist still hung in the air when they reached the doorstep. A black carriage came to a stop in the street, and Kincaid went out to speak to the driver. Bink recognized the man who jumped down as one of Kincaid’s Scots. His fellow countryman and other of Kincaid’s men ranged the walk in front of the solicitor’s office, creating a clear corridor for Paulette and him.
He squeezed her hand. “Are you ready?”
She’d drawn the veil back over her face, all her emotions hidden.
A sick feeling washed through him. Veiled or not, it would be like that now, forever.
“Yes.”
Kincaid motioned and they stepped out. Two paces out, a boy skirted around the carriage boot, ducked under a guard’s arm and stopped in front of them.
And raised a pistol to Paulette’s heart.
Bink’s blood roared and he shoved her behind him. A guard jumped the boy, and Bakeley joined in.
“Bink.” Paulette’s cry came from behind. Tellingford had her about the waist and was dragging her back.
He was on them in seconds, wrenching the solicitor’s hand, while Paulette kicked and struggled, her bonnet and veil flying off. The man released her and she rushed into Bink’s arms.
Tellingford held up his hands. “I was getting her to safety.”
“I won’t go anywhere with you,” Paulette choked out, her cheek pressed to Bink’s shoulder.
Behind them, the melee came to a close.
“Let’s get to where we’re going,” he said.
But he paused. The boy’s cap had been torn off, and long hair, as dark as Paulette’s except for the lacings of grey, trailed over a torn shirt. The boy was no boy. He was no girl either, but a fully grown woman of some years.
The same woman they’d seen on the road.
Paulette gasped and clung harder. “She’s the one we saw. Beaten up cart, grey horse. She followed us.” She released her grip and turned on the woman. “You work for Agruen. Who are you?”
The woman’s lips twisted in preparation to spit, but a yank on her collar stopped her. She huffed. “I work for no Englishman.”
The accent, the face, she was Spanish, or Portuguese. Not French.
And so familiar.
He moved closer. She was perhaps forty, petite and trim, much like Paulette. Too much like Paulette.
“Filomena,” Kincaid whistled. “Resurrected from the dead.”
“Good day to you, Kincaid. Your men have disarmed me. Tell them to let me go.”
