The Uncompromising Lord Flint - Virginia Heath Mills & Boon Historical

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manipulative and mournful eyes had brought shame on him when he should have planted his feet firmly, shrugged and informed her that prisoners did not have the right to privacy, so she could change in his presence or remain dripping wet.

      Lady Jessamine had used his chivalrous nature against him and then left him to look like the biggest of fools in front of the entire crew. Once bitten, twice shy...yet his whole being was at odds with his level head and wanted those traitorous eyes to be telling the truth.

      When they had tracked her down on top of the cliff, the disbelief and the horror which had skittered across her features before she appeared to glance heavenwards in exasperation had bothered him. Still bothered him nearly three hours later, truth be told, because just one solitary tear had rolled heavily down her cheek. Flint had watched her swipe it away defiantly as she refused to surrender, almost as if she was embarrassed to be vulnerable, despite the fact it was obvious escape was futile and she was clearly exhausted.

      The second fat tear had unmanned him and he had felt compelled to brush it gently away with his thumb before he began issuing orders to have her battered and prone body moved. Flint had carried her the first mile himself before men arrived with the stretcher, her slight body unhealthily slim in places beneath his hands, yet her heartbeat against his own was strong and steady and determined.

      It called to him and the proud memory of it held him still. Flint hadn’t left her bedside, claiming that he was responsible for the prisoner, when in truth he had needed to stand guard over her to ensure that no more harm came to her. What the hell was that about?

      Although it didn’t take a genius to work out she had come to harm before and not just from the heavy-handed sailors on the ship. After the innkeeper’s wife had undressed her and swaddled her in a clean nightrail, Flint returned with the doctor. He had asked the physician about the red scars on her wrists, although he knew, deep down, what had made them. Manacles. There had been another similar, yet considerably faded band on one of her ankles, too. At some point in the not so distant past, Lady Jessamine had been chained to something. By whom or why he had no idea. A rival gang of smugglers? Ruthless gangs wouldn’t care if she was a man or a woman. All they would care about was stealing the bounty, something she was undoubtedly guilty of. Except...

      He shook his head, annoyed at the overwhelming need to be chivalrous and magnanimous over the more pressing constraints of his mission, and paced to the window rather than continuing to stare at her in concern. After years of chasing the worst sort of criminals, after he had nearly lost his father to a villainess’s bullet, he should be able to differentiate between a traitor and a woman. A traitor was a traitor no matter what body they happened to occupy. All his training, experience and deep-set beliefs were screaming at him. Remember the mission. Always remember the mission. A mantra which he fundamentally adhered to and believed in with every fibre of his being. Unfortunately, mission aside and as the only brother to five women, he couldn’t overrule the instinct to protect one. Even though she probably didn’t deserve it. Something he would do well to remember if he was going to complete this particular mission.

      A mission that was now delayed, the well-laid plans hastily adapted to accommodate this unforeseen change in circumstances. That couldn’t be helped. The life of a spy was unpredictable at the best of times and Flint prided himself on his adaptability and his meticulous ability to plan. Their route to Plymouth would be a little more convoluted and they would arrive a few hours late, but they would arrive and would still take the main road to London as planned. If anything, the short delay would give the Boss’s men time to stew and become restless, which would play in Flint’s favour. Every bloodthirsty cutthroat he had ever dallied with had been impatient and unpredictable. Much like the vixen in the bed.

      Behind him she murmured, obviously distressed, and Flint hurried to her, his lofty mission and deep-set beliefs instantly forgotten once again.

       Chapter Five

      Ah, bon sang! She must be dead.

      Swathing her, Jess could feel the crisp sheets as her body bobbed on the soft cloud beneath her. If this was what death felt like, then it wasn’t so bad. Sheets and comfortable mattresses were a long-forgotten luxury and, like all small luxuries, deserved to be fully revelled in.

      She adjusted her position, then winced as her head protested. Suddenly her throat burned raw. How typical that pain would still exist in heaven. Unless the Almighty had decreed she should go straight to hell...

      ‘Lady Jessamine.’ She knew that voice. The clipped English consonants which still felt so odd when she spoke them. The deep, soothing timbre that came from somewhere deep in his chest and made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck quiver uncontrollably. Jess forced her eyelids to open at the exact same moment she felt his big, warm hand cup her cheek again. Bizarrely, the touch made her feel safe. Something she most definitely was not. Not with him. They stared at each other, startled for a moment before his hand dropped and his mask was back in place, making her wonder if she had imagined the compassion she had seen seconds before.

      ‘Where am I?’ She struggled to sit and gave up as dizziness swamped her.

      ‘At an inn. You hit your head. The physician suspects you have concussion.’ Which explained why his face and the walls were spinning so fast. Jess squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the sides of the strange bed to steady herself. She supposed she should be relieved she wasn’t dead, except knowing she was once again a prisoner extinguished that one small triumph. ‘I’ll fetch him. He wanted to see you as soon as you were awake.’

      She heard his boots pace to the door, tried, then failed to listen to his whispered conversation, then heard the chair next to the bed creak slightly as he lowered himself back into it. ‘I’ve ordered some soup as well—nothing too heavy. Something in your stomach might make you feel better.’

      ‘Better for what? My impending execution?’

      He ignored her croaked sarcasm. Instead, Jess heard water being poured from a jug. ‘Here—drink this.’

      That comforting hand buried gently under her head on the pillow, supporting her enough that he could press the cup to her dry lips with his other hand. Jess drank gratefully, uncomfortable at being helpless—especially in front of him, the hateful man. Meeting his gaze in this state was unthinkable, so she focused on the cup instead and the steady hand holding it. Surprised that the neat, clean fingernails did not sit on the pampered hands of an aristocrat. Those hands had seen work, real work. Capable hands. Kind, too. Even when they had restrained her in the sea, he had not retaliated and hurt her when so many male hands had. He had been strong, though, more proof if proof were needed that her new gaoler did more than socialise and issue orders to his servants.

      Being so close unnerved her. She could smell his skin—soap, some deliciously spicy cologne with undertones of fresh air from his immaculately laundered shirt, evidence that Lord Flint was particular about his personal cleanliness. Another luxury she had once taken for granted. Up against his golden perfection, she doubtless looked a wreck. Her own fingernails were torn and she was aware of a tender swelling on her lip. Before one errant hand went to her head to check the state of her hair, Jess pushed him and the cup away, suffering the indignity of allowing him to lower her spinning head back to the pillow. She made the mistake of glancing up at him, her eyes locking with his concerned green gaze. There it was again. That odd sense of well-being and connection, when she knew better than to trust anyone.

      ‘Thank you.’ Not at all what she wanted to say. A pathetic, heartfelt effort, when she wanted to spear him with something pithy. Something that clearly demonstrated she was not done yet and he hadn’t beaten her, but those kind eyes drew her in and the intended insults died in her mouth. He smiled with genuine amusement then and her breath hitched.

      ‘Fear not. I’m sure the politeness you are suffering is only a temporary affliction brought about by your knock to the head, my lady, and the old you will return soon enough to vex me.’

      ‘Oui... I hope so, too.’ Jess felt the corners of her mouth

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