Secret Agent Dad. Metsy Hingle
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sedan. “Oh, my God,” she whispered at the sight of the two red-faced, squealing infants strapped into car seats. One of the babies held out its little arms and hands toward her as though pleading to be picked up.
A fist closed around Josie’s heart. Her brain shut down, and her heart took over. “Shh. It’s okay, precious,” she murmured. Ducking inside the car, she released the latch on the car seat nearest to her and took the first little one into her arms. She held the baby against her breast, smoothed her fingers over the tufts of blond hair and stroked the tiny back. Almost at once the baby’s sobs lessened and a tiny thumb went into its mouth.
The other baby continued to wail brokenheartedly. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m not going to leave you, sweetie.” She leaned over the seat to stroke the other baby’s cheek, and planted a kiss on its little fingers. Then, pulling the jacket hood up over the head of the baby she held, Josie shifted the bundle to her left shoulder and used her free hand to grab its car seat. “I’ll be right back,” she promised the other sobbing infant. As much as she hated to leave the remaining baby alone for even a second, she didn’t dare try to take them both at once and risk falling. Shielding the baby with her body as best she could, Josie headed for her truck.
Three trips later, she had both babies strapped in the rear seat of her Explorer, relatively content with the pacifiers she’d found. The matching diaper bags and a tote with enough diapers, baby food and formula to last several weeks had been stowed safely on the back floor. All she had to do now was get their still-unconscious daddy into her truck.
Any thoughts she’d had about leaving him and going home to call for help went out the window after she discovered the babies. Opening the vial of smelling salts she’d retrieved from her truck’s first-aid kit, she waved it under his nose.
He grunted, slapped the bottle away and grabbed her wrist in a paralyzing grip. His strength surprised her, given the fact that he’d been unconscious. But it was the deadly glitter in his eyes that made her heart race. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me. Josie Walters. Remember?”
“Josie?” he repeated, his expression wary.
“Yes. You had an accident. Remember? I stopped to help. I need to get you out of the rain. My truck’s just up there on the road. Can you stand up?”
He didn’t say anything, but allowed her to help him to his feet. “That’s it. Just lean on me,” she told him. What seemed an eternity later, she had him in the front seat of her truck. She’d no sooner gotten him strapped in before he passed out again.
The stretch of road that normally took her fifteen minutes to drive took a full thirty as she was forced to maneuver past fallen trees, signs and a road slick with mud and rain. When she finally pulled up to her farmhouse, Josie nearly wept at the welcoming sight of the lights burning inside.
She cut off the truck’s engine and flexed her fingers, positive that she’d left dents in the steering wheel during the harrowing drive. “We’re home,” she told the sleepy-eyed duo in the backseat. Unfastening her seat belt, she braced herself for the cool air and opened the door.
Blake felt the cool air swirl around him and tried to fight his way up from the darkness. Tossing and turning, he struggled toward the sound of a woman’s soft voice. But try as he might, other voices intruded, pulled him back into the dark...back into a long, dark hall of marbled floors and foreign scents....
Hurry.
The word was a chant in his blood as Blake removed his arm from around the guard’s throat. The man’s body slid to the floor unconscious. Hurry. Have to hurry, Blake thought. Stepping over the guard, he made his way down the long, shadowed corridor, his feet moving silently along the polished surface. Nothing could go wrong, he told himself. Too many people were depending on him. He had studied the layout of the palace, memorized every detail, down to the posdtion of each monarch’s portrait that had lined these walls since the sixteenth century. Even in the deep shadows, he knew ten feet to his left the Asterland coat of arms hung beside the door that led to the royal nursery. He moved silently, quickly, as he had been trained to do, and took out the two guards stationed outside the door. Removing the specialized set of picks from his wallet, he inserted them into the lock. Moments later the tumblers clicked, and Blake stepped inside the room.
A check of the nanny’s quarters revealed the old dragon was out cold, a snore whistling through her wrinkled lips. A smile curved his mouth as he thought of his friend wooing the lady. He’d have to remember to send Pierre an extra hundred francs as a bonus for combat pay. Romancing the woman in order to slip the drug into her wine could not have been an easy task for his friend, who preferred sleek beauties with large breasts.
Exiting the nanny’s suite, he stepped inside the room of her two charges. A sliver of moonlight fought through the balcony doors, illuminating the two cribs. Nerves were bunched like fists in his gut at the task before him, but the adrenaline rush that he experienced with any mission had him heading for the balcony doors. He flicked open the locks, and without waiting to see who entered, he started toward the cribs. He hesitated at the tiny sleeping bundles. A live grenade he could handle. But a baby? What if he dropped it? What if...
“Hurry, mon ami.”
The other man’s voice spurred him to action. The baby didn’t so much as flutter an eyelash as he wrapped it up and eased it into the pouch strapped to his chest. When he went to retrieve the other one, big blue eyes stared up at him. “Hey, sugar britches. Uncle Blake’s going to take you on a trip to see your Aunt Anna. How would you like that?” The little one didn’t protest, merely reached out tiny fingers to touch his black-sooted face. Blake’s throat went dry. He caught the little hand, not wanting to dirty those perfect white fingers with a warrior’s paint.
“Blake,” the other man spit out his name in warning.
“There’s something going on downstairs. Guards are rushing inside the palace.”
Steps sounded outside in the corridor. Deciding quickly, he unstrapped the pouches from his chest and began fastening them to the other man’s body. “Take them to the boat.”
“Are you crazy? I know nothing of babies. ”
“Neither do I,” Blake informed his companion as he urged him to the balcony doors.
“What if they cry?” the other man asked, his dark eyes wide with fear and his accent more pronounced
“Try singing to them. You always say the ladies love your voice.”
The other man grumbled something in his native tongue, which Blake made no attempt to translate in his head. Grateful that neither baby protested this middle-of the-night intrusion, he pressed a kiss to each tiny head. “Be good for Michel. I’ll see you in a little while.”
“But, Blake—”
“Go,” Blake ordered.
“Hurry, mon ami.”
Hurry. Hurry.
The words came at him again from out of a fog—this one of blinding rain and skidding tires. His head hurt, felt like it was ready to explode any minute. He swiped at his head, and groaned at another stab of pain. He could feel something warm and sticky on his fingertips. Blood, Blake realized. Doesn’t matter. Have to keep moving.
He couldn’t see. The road was too dark, the rain too strong. And he was tired. So tired. But he couldn’t stop, didn’t dare stop or they’d find him, kill him, steal the babies. He couldn’t let that happen. Only his head hurt something fierce, and he couldn’t seem to remember which way to turn.
Remember, we’re depending on you, Blake. Be careful, and for God’s sake man, hurry.
Blake heard the man’s voice, and he struggled to sit up. “Have to hurry. Can’t let them down. Gave my word,” he muttered.
“Shh. It’s okay.” Gentle hands pressed him back down to the bed. “You can’t go anywhere right now. You need to rest.”
Blake