Her face brightened. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, if this Lavalle doesn’t know where I am, he can’t be a threat, can he?”
“He’s not a threat while you remain here in Spain, no. But I can guarantee he’ll be able to get to you as soon as you set foot back in England. That scar of yours makes for an extremely recognizable face, sweetheart.”
He saw her flinch at his jibe, but it was nothing more than the truth. “So you’ll be safe as long as you stay here with me.” He glanced down, dismissing her. “Now go and pack.”
He heard her inhale as if she was about to speak, then she clearly thought better of it, released her breath in a huff, and left. Raven breathed a sigh of relief.
It was a measure of the depth of their friendship, he supposed, that Richard hadn’t even questioned his decision to bring Heloise with him to Spain. He’d merely offered whatever assistance he could provide. There weren’t many men you could write to and sayI’m taking your sister abroad, and by the way, there’s a corpse in my garden that needs disposing of discreetly. Thanks. R.
Richard’s own brief signoff,Keep her safe,was sufficient to convey a whole host of meanings, including the unspoken threat:Hurt my little sister and I’ll castrate you, Ravenwood,and the absolute confidence that Raven would lay down his life for hers. It was good to have such a friend.
Castlereagh’s note, in contrast, had specifically ordered Raven to send Heloise home. He was furious that his best code breaker had been taken out of action, even for a few weeks. He wanted her back in England and working on new codes immediately.
Raven ought to comply. The next stage of the rescue would be even more dangerous, but the simple truth was he didn’t trust anyone else, especially if Richard was right and Lavalle truly was after her. The idea that the Frenchman could be out there even now, waiting for his moment to strike, made Raven’s blood run cold. Lavalle wasn’t a bungling amateur; he’d need to be dealt with before Heloise could return to England. Hopefully, that was something Richard could accomplish soon.
This wouldn’t be the first time Raven had ignored a direct order, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Castlereagh might punish his disobedience by pulling him from future missions, but Raven didn’t care.Thisway she’d stay safe.
To his surprise she was ready and waiting in the courtyard, dressed in her shirt and breeches, when he emerged from his room half an hour later. She thanked Scovell for his hospitality, asked him to take care of her copy ofDescription de l’Égypteuntil she returned, and mounted her horse.
Scovell came to his stallion’s head and frowned up at him, mustache bristling. “Are you sure Miss Hampden can’t stay here, Ravenwood? Seems a plaguey dangerous thing, to have her go with you.” Seeing his closed expression, Scovell harrumphed in defeat. “Well, you look after that young lady, you hear me? I want to work with her again. Mind like a razor, that one.”
Raven bit back a sarcastic retort about it being her tongue, not her mind, that was razor-sharp, and nodded instead. “I’ll protect her with my life, sir.”
Whatever Scovell saw in his face apparently satisfied him, because he nodded and patted his horse’s neck in farewell. “Off you go, then. And good luck.”
Chapter 29
They met up with Raven’s gypsies a few miles north of León.
Apparently he and the ruffians were old acquaintances—the leader hailed him like a long-lost brother. Both men leaped off their mounts, clapped palms, and then came together in a masculine hug that included much enthusiastic backslapping and ruffling of hair.
The leader’s outfit consisted of flowing black pants tucked into black leather boots, a billowing white shirt, a red embroidered waistcoat, and a matching red sash tied around his waist. His hat bore some sort of military medal that appeared to have been stolen from a French general.
Raven beckoned Heloise forward. “Miss Heloise Hampden, meet Alejandro Amaya, self-proclaimed King of Santander,” Raven said dryly.
The gypsy laughed, his wide smile revealing one solid gold tooth. A silver charm of St. Nicolas flashed around his neck as he swept her an extravagant bow.
“Senorita ’Ampden,” he said, with the native Spaniard’s trouble pronouncing the hardHin her name. “Welcome. Is good to meet Raven’s woman at last.”
Heloise felt her cheeks heat. “His—? Oh, I don’t—I mean, I’m not.”
The gypsy laughed again and made a comical face at Raven, who merely shrugged.
One by one Heloise was introduced to the rest of the disreputable group, which consisted of Alejandro’s cousin Carlos; his two brothers, Luis and Antonio; the two Perno brothers, Federico and Pedro; and their cousin Sebastiano, apparently a famed horse tamer. All the men nodded to her or touched their forehead in a sign of respect. Introductions finished, they remounted and set off.
“Their camp is located higher up in the mountains,” Raven confided, nudging his horse closer to hers on the narrow trail. “We’ll reach it later today.”
Heloise took the opportunity to study her companions. Their clothes were an odd assortment of styles: flamboyant waistcoats, bright sashes, and items of uniform that had clearly been looted. One of the Perno brothers wore a navy French jacket incongruously paired with a white British uniform sash. Sebastiano wore the dark green jacket of a British rifleman, complete with Baker rifle over his shoulder.
All seven of them had the same arrogant swagger and athletic ease in the saddle as Raven. No wonder they were friends.
Having run out of subjects to ponder, Heloise finally turned her attention to Raven. She narrowed her eyes. He had no right to look so attractive in such scruffy clothes. He wore the same white shirt and waistcoat as before, but he’d exchanged his dark breeches for a pale buff military pair—scrounged, no doubt, from one of Scovell’s recruits. Despite being borrowed, the damn things fit him like a second skin. They were practically indecent. Heloise found it impossible to tear her eyes away from the tight curve of his behind and the way the material molded itself to his long, muscular thighs.
Raven was strong but sinewy, lethal, and elegant. He looked like a gypsy himself, with his dark hair slightly overlong, curling over the collar of his shirt. The hollows of his cheeks appeared more prominent with the darkened stubble on his cheeks, and the tan he’d developed over the past few days made his green eyes even more striking.
She felt a traitorous flutter in her stomach as she recalled the hot slide of his skin against hers, the response he’d drawn from her so skillfully. She wanted to feel it again, that sweet ache and hectic race toward pleasure. Wanted his arms around her, his panting breath against her neck, the sudden desperation and arching bliss. She fanned herself with her hand.
He was a beast.