Read Online Fire at Midnight by Lisa Marie Wilkinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Lisa Marie Wilkinson
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increasing the pressure of his hold until Rachael abandoned her futile attack, unable to breathe.
“Did I not tell you to stay
inside
?” a harsh voice grated in her ear.
John Wyatt stared down at her like a dark angel expelled from the depths of hell and looking none too happy about it. It was the first time it occurred to her to be afraid of him.
Rachael cringed when he lifted his hand, and he froze as if surprised by her reaction before gently brushing his fingers against her wet cheek. She had been crying without being aware of it.
“I … I’m sorry,” she stammered. “You warned me to stay inside. I should have listened.”
“Sorry? You might have been dead,” he scolded.
“My uncle leads them.” Rachael noticed then that he carried an ominous broadsword and his clothing was wet. A small cut over his left eye still trickled blood. A lump formed in her throat and she tried to back away from him, but he still held her, and seemed uninclined to let go. “What have you been doing?”
“You must return to the cottage.” He took firm hold of her elbow.
Rachael hung back. “Who were you fighting?” she asked, refusing to be coaxed to move, despite the increasing pressure on her arm.
“You are too inquisitive.”
“Why did you call out my name?”
“I did not—” He stopped himself and glowered at her as if she had wrung a confession out of him. “You must return to the cottage.
Now
,” he insisted.
“If you didn’t call me, who did?” she demanded.
Rachael wrenched her arm free and backed away, eyes fastened upon something he held in his hand: a piece of jewelry. He slipped the trinket inside his vest, meeting her horrified expression with an unrepentant scowl. She continued to back away.
“Who
did
call my name?” Rachael repeated.
Sebastién took a decisive step in Rachael’s direction but stopped when a voice interrupted the tense silence.
“I called your name, Rachael.”
A bruised and bloodied Tarry Morgan stepped into view. He held a pistol pointed at the Frenchman’s broad chest.
“Falconer,” Tarry said, as if in greeting.
“Falconer?” Rachael echoed. She uttered a sound of bewilderment, sensing the Frenchman was focused on her reaction to the name.
He bowed. “At last, a formal introduction,” he said. “Sebastién Falconer, at your service,
mademoiselle
.”
“Your name is not John Wyatt? You’re not Tarry’s friend?”
Tarry grunted and looked at her as if she had indeed gone mad.
“Let us dispense with games,
Mademoiselle
Penrose. You risk no reprisal from me at the moment; your young friend holds a pistol on me. Pray, be candid.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She looked from one man to the other in confusion, heart sinking at the enmity on the Frenchman’s face. His eyes held hers as if communicating a dare. “I don’t understand.”
“How dare you use John Wyatt’s good name?” Tarry broke in. “How dare you abuse this girl?”
“No, he has been kind to me, Tarry,” Rachael objected. She was baffled when both men gaped at her in surprise. “I thought he was your friend John.”
“John Wyatt is dead,” Tarry snapped. “He was murdered the night he helped you escape.”
Rachael recoiled at the words.
“Falconer abducted you. He believes you are the Customs informer who ruined him and planned to avenge himself against you. He charged me to prove your innocence and said he would not release you without proof.”
“Proof you obviously cannot provide,” Sebastién commented, arching his brow.
“Is it true?” Rachael asked Sebastién.
He shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve known who you were since the first night. Have I harmed you?”
Have you harmed me?
He believed she was a Customs informer. How he had come to such a conclusion, she had no idea. Had he attempted to seduce her as a means of revenge? Had he intended all along to expose and disgrace her? If that was true, then he felt nothing for her
“Did I not tell you to stay
inside
?” a harsh voice grated in her ear.
John Wyatt stared down at her like a dark angel expelled from the depths of hell and looking none too happy about it. It was the first time it occurred to her to be afraid of him.
Rachael cringed when he lifted his hand, and he froze as if surprised by her reaction before gently brushing his fingers against her wet cheek. She had been crying without being aware of it.
“I … I’m sorry,” she stammered. “You warned me to stay inside. I should have listened.”
“Sorry? You might have been dead,” he scolded.
“My uncle leads them.” Rachael noticed then that he carried an ominous broadsword and his clothing was wet. A small cut over his left eye still trickled blood. A lump formed in her throat and she tried to back away from him, but he still held her, and seemed uninclined to let go. “What have you been doing?”
“You must return to the cottage.” He took firm hold of her elbow.
Rachael hung back. “Who were you fighting?” she asked, refusing to be coaxed to move, despite the increasing pressure on her arm.
“You are too inquisitive.”
“Why did you call out my name?”
“I did not—” He stopped himself and glowered at her as if she had wrung a confession out of him. “You must return to the cottage.
Now
,” he insisted.
“If you didn’t call me, who did?” she demanded.
Rachael wrenched her arm free and backed away, eyes fastened upon something he held in his hand: a piece of jewelry. He slipped the trinket inside his vest, meeting her horrified expression with an unrepentant scowl. She continued to back away.
“Who
did
call my name?” Rachael repeated.
Sebastién took a decisive step in Rachael’s direction but stopped when a voice interrupted the tense silence.
“I called your name, Rachael.”
A bruised and bloodied Tarry Morgan stepped into view. He held a pistol pointed at the Frenchman’s broad chest.
“Falconer,” Tarry said, as if in greeting.
“Falconer?” Rachael echoed. She uttered a sound of bewilderment, sensing the Frenchman was focused on her reaction to the name.
He bowed. “At last, a formal introduction,” he said. “Sebastién Falconer, at your service,
mademoiselle
.”
“Your name is not John Wyatt? You’re not Tarry’s friend?”
Tarry grunted and looked at her as if she had indeed gone mad.
“Let us dispense with games,
Mademoiselle
Penrose. You risk no reprisal from me at the moment; your young friend holds a pistol on me. Pray, be candid.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She looked from one man to the other in confusion, heart sinking at the enmity on the Frenchman’s face. His eyes held hers as if communicating a dare. “I don’t understand.”
“How dare you use John Wyatt’s good name?” Tarry broke in. “How dare you abuse this girl?”
“No, he has been kind to me, Tarry,” Rachael objected. She was baffled when both men gaped at her in surprise. “I thought he was your friend John.”
“John Wyatt is dead,” Tarry snapped. “He was murdered the night he helped you escape.”
Rachael recoiled at the words.
“Falconer abducted you. He believes you are the Customs informer who ruined him and planned to avenge himself against you. He charged me to prove your innocence and said he would not release you without proof.”
“Proof you obviously cannot provide,” Sebastién commented, arching his brow.
“Is it true?” Rachael asked Sebastién.
He shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve known who you were since the first night. Have I harmed you?”
Have you harmed me?
He believed she was a Customs informer. How he had come to such a conclusion, she had no idea. Had he attempted to seduce her as a means of revenge? Had he intended all along to expose and disgrace her? If that was true, then he felt nothing for her
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