Kisses Like a Devil Page 17

  Brian could almost feel Marlowe and Spenser’s quivering interest. But they were steady enough to stay in place and quiet.

  “Of course not, sir. But the magazine is under the long gallery running from the battery toward the railroad blockhouse.”

  “Ahhh,” Mother breathed, swinging her glasses around to view the far end. “If we put enough charges in there—”

  “The entire bottom will drop out of the turret, letting the guns drop into the lake,” Father finished her sentence as always.

  “How deep is the water there?” Spenser asked.

  “Nobody knows.” Brian grinned savagely. “They sent a diver down once but he couldn’t touch bottom.”

  “So there’s no hope of salvage.” Marlowe was almost purring. Good lad.

  “Where are the magazine’s doors?”

  Brian hesitated.

  “What’s the problem?” snapped the founder of Donovan & Sons, whose motto was, “Risky freight into risky places.”

  “I only know of two entrances.”

  “Well, of course, they wouldn’t build many—they want to minimize accidents. Go on.”

  “One is the main entrance from within the battery itself. The other is through a small inspection port off the long gallery.” He swallowed and met his father’s eyes squarely. “A teenager might get through it but I’m too big to manage it, sir. Nor could you or the twins.”

  “Pity. How did you plan to attack?” the senior Donovan asked. Mother shifted restlessly, sending a few rocks skittering down the slope.

  “The three of us would take out the sentries, trying not to kill them. The enemy is Russia, not the Eisengau people, after all. If the door was still locked, then the twins would help me climb in through the gun port.”

  “Simple and probably effective, given the rough terrain and the sentries’ over-confidence.” Father was visibly counting uniformed bodies.

  “What if one of them sounds the alarm?” Mother asked.

  Four heads snapped around to stare at her. She shrugged. “Wouldn’t they be trained to shout or whistle or something?”

  “What are you thinking of, Mother?”

  “Wouldn’t a silent attack be best?

  “Viola…” her husband protested.

  “I’m a petite woman. If the alternative is attacking a gun turret, I can certainly squeeze into a powder magazine by myself, William.”

  “Do you have any idea how dangerous it would be? One false move and you could be blown to smithereens. If you died…” He stopped, too hoarse to continue.

  “I won’t die, darling.” She kissed her fingers and reached out. Father turned his head to meet them, tears glistening unashamedly on his lashes.

  Christ, if he thought he and Meredith would ever have anything like what his parents shared, he’d move mountains.

  “What’s your plan, son?” his sire asked a minute later.

  “Eisengau has very few artillerymen who can work these guns so they only come up here when there’s a demonstration scheduled. It’s empty the rest of the time, with sentries keeping watch on the outside.”

  “In that case, we definitely go in after dark. Viola slips into the magazine through the inspection port and opens the door into the battery for the rest of us.” Father’s fingers twined restlessly around Mother’s. “Then we place enough charges to send the guns sliding down the hill and get the hell out. Simple, sweet, and hopefully effective.”

  “Exactly,” Brian agreed, ice slivering his veins. This could work—if Mother stayed safe.

  “Not much time to get into position, if we’re to pull this off after nightfall, boyos.” He kissed his wife’s hand one more time, then rolled over and started squirming back toward the road. She followed him an instant later, then Spenser and Marlowe. Spenser was whistling under his breath, while Marlowe was moving faster and cleaner than ever before.

  Brian came last, trying for the first time to see his father as an outsider would. Arrogant, successful, brilliant. The Irish street tough whose advice was now sought by presidents, even J. P. Morgan. The patriarch who’d do anything for his God, his family, or his business in that order—and the law would back him. A man whose word was his bond.

  But Meredith had never known a trustworthy man.

  Even her own father had chosen alcohol over her own life and her stepfather would sell her in a moment for political gain.

  She’d probably view William Donovan’s self-confidence as a threat, an attempt to push her into the cubbyhole of no more than His Daughter-in-Law. And he had the power to succeed.

  Cold climbed through Brian’s body, despite his double woolen socks, heavy leather trousers, and tightly woven jacket.

  If he wanted Meredith, could he live close to somebody who upset her, especially a high-handed patriarch since they’d always ruined her life? He knew he could trust his father but she didn’t. Could she ever learn?

  Dammit, all he’d ever wanted was a big, happy family to share with his parents and brothers. Now he’d found the woman of his dreams.

  Did he have to choose between her and his family?

  How much would he have to give up to gain Meredith? Arguing politics with Father while Mother played the piano and tried not to laugh? Plotting investments with Neil? Rescuing Marlowe and Spenser from their latest folly while Father could still pretend he didn’t know?

  Or maybe he could just put some distance between them and his family—but how far would he have to go before she’d relax and stop seeing him as an excuse for his father to grab her? The other side of San Francisco Bay, God willing? Or Southern California? Maybe Denver with half a continent between him and family laughter? Or, saints preserve him, somewhere on the East Coast?

  But if she did, he’d have Meredith at last. Meredith with her wicked smile, and her glowing eyes when she argued for what she believed in, and her clever tongue with the insatiable appetite for his skin. Meredith of the slow, satisfied glint when he held her close after they made love.

  Meredith, who’d do anything and everything for those she cared about.

  His mouth tightened.

  He quickened his stride, joining his parents and brothers for what might be the last time.

  “Blackwood!”

  “Sir?” Gareth pivoted on the upper hallway’s intricate parquet floor and waited none too patiently for the British ambassador to join him. Down below at the quay, Sophie and Emilie, the wittiest two brunettes present, were boarding the official Eisengau yacht for tonight’s grand gala. They’d promised to save him a seat but he needed to arrive before another gentleman claimed their rather fickle attentions.

  “How long have you known Donovan?” Sir Henry’s sharp blue eyes scrutinized him from within deep wrinkles. His body might be shrouded in fat but his brain wasn’t.

  “Four years, sir. His family firm had sent him out to deliver some engineering supplies required on the Northwest Frontier.” A very nasty jaunt for both of them, not that he could speak of it. “We traveled together on the ship back to London from Calcutta.

  “Became friends at once?”

  “We had a great deal in common, since we were the only two bachelors in first-class, sir, other than the ship’s officers.”

  “You must have been chased by all the fishing fleeters who’d failed to catch a man in India,” Sir Henry snickered.

  Like Mary FitzAllen, who’d all but thrown herself into Brian’s arms. He was still amazed Brian was interested in her, since he’d been so hard-headed about every other female.

  “No wonder you became friends.”

  “And I’m still free as a bird, sir.” He’d happily poured whisky down Brian after the tart left him for old Baron Giffard in Alexandria on two days’ acquaintance. Twenty thousand pounds a year plus a title probably seemed a fortune to an Anglo-Irish chit who didn’t understand the American propensity to shower wealth on all their children, including second sons. He’d be astonished if Brian didn’t have at least ten million dollars.


  The yacht’s deep steam whistle hooted once, a mere formality. It would never leave until every high ranking guest had boarded.

  “Excellent, excellent. You’re just the man to get straight answers out of him.”

  “Sir?” Answers to what?

  The older man glanced around, eyeing a centuries’ old suit of armor as if it might contain a modern spy. He jerked his head and Gareth obediently followed him to a niche carved into an immense marble fireplace. “The negotiations have all but broken down, leaving us unable to buy the guns.”

  “Damn.” If the Boers’ allies bought those cannons for them, they’d never put down that rebellion. His friends would be massacred every time they showed their face in the field. “We have to get our hands on those guns.”

  “Quite so, quite so.” They understood each other perfectly. “Only Donovan or Sazonov is still in the running, according to the grand duke’s secretary. You must find out if Donovan has bought the guns.”

  “Very well. And if he has?”

  “See if he’s willing to let us look at them. It’s not much of a chance but it may be something.” Sir Henry brooded, running his fingers over an intricately carved stag.

  “And if the Russians have bought them?”

  “They’re diplomatic property. In that case, we steal or copy their plans and you must locate Miss Duncan.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Hardly. Zorndorf may be an obnoxious braggart but he’s a damn efficient genius. He’d never tolerate a secretary who wasn’t up to his standards. If he said she can create blueprints from memory, then the lady can do it.”

  “Why would she help us when she’s constantly around Donovan?”

  “Appeal to her patriotism, man. Remind her of Wallace, the Bruce, of all the great men who fought and bled and died to protect Scotland.”

  “She’s Donovan’s chère amie. What if she’s hoping for something…” He groped for words to describe what he’d seen in Brian’s eyes.

  “She’s a Scotswoman and they imbibe pragmatism with their mother’s milk. I married one and I know.” Sir Henry chuckled. “No, ask Donovan first. Then talk to Miss Duncan no matter what he says.”

  “Very well, sir.” He could tell Brian the truth, at least, since it would hardly surprise him.

  “We have to move quickly, man. All the junior diplomats are on the hunt now.”

  “Didn’t they go to the capital for young Nicholas’s informal party at that beer garden?”

  “Excellent excuse, wasn’t it, whether or not they actually attended?” Sir Henry shook his head. “No, they’re out there now, trying to find a way into the engineering college’s safe for those plans.”

  “All of the juniors, sir?” Gareth asked carefully. Good God, how many people and countries would be chasing her?

  “Every foreigner who didn’t make it onto the boat is now trying to lay his hands on the plans. It will be the greatest treasure hunt in Europe by dawn. But we’ll have the golden goose, thanks to Miss Duncan.”

  “Quite.”

  Pyotr counted flower pots under his breath, listening for the tell-tale clip-clop of a secret policeman’s hobnailed shoes following him. Every month, he had to pick up his spies’ reports. They arrived on different days, at different places, some of which rotated, thanks to Eisengau’s irritating paranoia. He’d have preferred to pay the bureaucrats off and accept the reports at his office or a local tavern, the customary practice elsewhere. Then he could have attended Grand Duke Rudolph’s charming gala tonight, instead of skulking through this back alley behind the cathedral.

  Five, six…

  On the first of each month, a sizable sum was deposited into that Swiss bank account, whether or not there was anything here. It was how he’d learned of that magnificent gun before anyone else.

  At least Grand Duke Rudolph had agreed to sell him the four existing cannons, although he wouldn’t part with the plans.

  Damn foreigners.

  No followers so far.

  Nine, ten.

  He slid the eleventh flowerpot aside and plucked the coping stone underneath out of the wall, exposing a sizeable hollow. His two fingers neatly scooped out the packet hidden there, neatly wrapped in oiled silk. It disappeared into his pocket, while at the same time he smoothly replaced the coping stone and flower pot.

  He’d have time to celebrate at his favorite brothel before heading back to Schloss Belvedere. They must be lonely for creative, aristocratic patrons with stamina.

  He grinned.

  Chapter Twelve

  The last sentry dropped in his tracks, as silently as the others.

  “Three,” noted Spenser in Gaelic, the family’s private language. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Well done,” applauded William, honestly impressed. He’d have expected as brilliant a job from Brian, or even Marlowe for whom he’d have added some extra praise for the skill shown at such a young age.

  But Spenser? Yesterday, he’d have described Spenser as the sickly pup who’d nearly died a dozen times before his first birthday—and almost cost his mother her life. Now he was looking at a real man, a fighting Donovan like his other three sons.

  “Very well done indeed,” he added. “Let me show you a trick to tying this fellow up before we meet your brothers and pick that lock.”

  “Will you show me how to pick the lock?”

  William paused, just about to throw the first loop around their captive’s wrists. None of his other boys had ever really been interested in learning the more disreputable arts.

  But his grandfather had always enjoyed the more outlandish skills best. He seemed to hear that old devil whistling somewhere.

  “Aye, boyo, I’d be glad to. You can watch this time and I’ll teach you more when we get home.”

  Meredith trod carefully along the causeway’s uneven blocks. She’d always been amazed at how attached people were to their summer homes in Altstadt, the old medieval capital, despite its hazards. Only a massive flood had finally forced moving the capital to the higher site five centuries ago, where a small river joined the Eisenfluss just above St. Martin’s Bridge, providing a natural port. Even so, many families still came every year on holiday to this now fading riverside resort.

  Located on the widest tributary of the Eisenfluss, Altstadt prized its water views and called it Lake St. Charles. They’d fought against building the floodwall which protected the rest of Eisengau from the river’s springtime fury, together with the natural bluffs. Franz’s family had even used their traditional connections with the church to completely avoid having the stone wall on their property at all. Unlike any other house on the promontory, it could only be reached by walking out onto the floodwall, then following a very fragile causeway which wound along the lakeshore.

  Even in the moonlight she could see where the floodwall’s edges had been torn away by storms over time, leaving stone blocks scattered across the uneven path.

  A dark spot shone in on the pavement, undoubtedly wet. But how deep?

  Morro barked brusquely at it and jumped over.

  Meredith shook her head, a reluctant smile curling her lips. She’d once thought such travails were romantic. Now she wondered why Franz couldn’t take care of basics. She gathered up her skirts and followed her canine friend, her passport brushing against her shirt in its accustomed suit pocket.

  When she’d first seen Franz Schnabel’s family home shortly after arriving in Eisengau, it had looked like a fairy castle, thanks to its tall chimneys and dozens of candle flames reflecting in the waves. Now it resembled a decrepit old house, whose owners couldn’t afford to provide modern heating or lighting. Tonight the once magical causeway seemed to have more holes in it than a political argument.

  Meredith bit her tongue and castigated herself for even considering such an analogy. She was coming to a long-planned, friendly meeting. The central committee gathered here every month on the full moon, since they could watch for the secret police and then take p
recautions.

  Tonight all the lights were on, including the safe signal.

  Judge Baumgart’s vacation cottage was barely visible through the trees beyond, a dark shadow against the silvery sky. She’d spent years slipping out of it and trekking over to visit her friends.

  Morro turned, sniffing the air, and spun again. She fought the temptation to do the same and rang the bell far more firmly than usual.

  Gerhardt opened the door, sending a burst of laughter dancing out over the water. Shock washed over his face. An instant later, his eyes were shuttered and harder than the mathematical formulas he loved to solve.

  What was wrong? Yes, there’d been a little argument the last time they’d met. But they’d had more vehement ones before.

  “Who is it, Gerhardt?” Franz peered around his shoulder.

  “Good evening, Franz. May I come in?” Meredith tried to sound normal.

  He frowned. “Well, I suppose.”

  He stepped back, holding the door completely open. “But only because you’ve come so far—and you’d probably cause a scene if I said no.”

  What? Why was he treating her like this? She preferred logic to emotion during central committee meetings, when discussing a topic. Her skin tried to crawl off her bones. “Thank you.”

  She and Morro followed him inside. For the first time ever, Gerhardt didn’t offer to take her coat and she chose not to take it off.

  The others silently watched her enter. Even Erich and Rosa stopped cuddling each other in order to study her like a poisonous snake.

  “Good evening.” Meredith smiled at her old friends. Please, she’d known them all for so long and they’d been through so much together. Surely they could fix anything that was wrong. “How are you, Liesel?”

  Liesel straightened up from the armoire she’d been leaning against. “That’s a very beautiful dress. Did you trade the cannon’s plans to the Americans for it?”

  “No!”

  “But he asked for them, didn’t he?”

  Caught completely off guard, Meredith flushed. The others gasped.