Chapter Ten
Marseille, France
As one of the crewmen took off Spencer's restraints, the rest focused on getting the dinghy to port. The hull scraped against the edge of the stone pier, a low groan echoing as hands reached to steady it.
Spencer jumped out first, his boots landing hard on the worn dock. The moment Alex was close enough, he reached up and lifted her down, wrapping his arms tightly around her before her feet even touched the ground.
For a moment, they said nothing. Just breathing, clinging to each other like the salt on their skin.
Once apart, she glanced at the small crowd gathering near the waterline and pulled the rough navy blanket given to her tighter around herself.
Her jeweled gown sparkled absurdly under the late afternoon sun, soaked and sticking to her slender frame.
"They're staring," she murmured, barefoot, the soft slap of her wet dress trailing behind her with each step.
"Let them," Spencer stopped, brushing her tangled hair back from her face. "They just watched you leap into the sea."
Christ Almighty, when he had seen her plummet twenty feet to the water…. He was sure he was watching her death- and that he had caused it.
All over a stupid duel, like it was goddamn 19th century.
Spencer kissed her forehead and pulled back just enough to glance down at her. "First things first—getting you into dry clothes."
She smiled through trembling lips, her fingers knotting the blanket under her chin. "I'm sure any shop would trade what I'm wearing for something practical. They'd be mad not to, really."
Spencer waved her forward, "After you… Countess."
Alex exhaled sharply, turned to look up at him. "That's not who I am. Not really."
He glanced down at her, skeptical. He'd suspected the truth. She'd acted like a lady that had fancy tea with the Queen.
"You're nobility," he said with finality. Somehow, he felt she was now out of reach, even with the rings on their fingers.
She reached up, cradled his cheeks in her too soft palms, "that isn't who I am anymore. I'm your Alex- that's all that matters to me. Isn't that all that matters to you?"
He cradled her face, admiring her perfect features, still slightly pinkened from their adventures, before slamming his lips down on hers.
Only slightly pulling back, he left his forehead on hers and his eyes closed as he absorbed the fact that she was truly here, with him… maybe even forever. "It's all that's ever mattered."
Eyes glistening, she blinked rapidly to clear them, then gifted him a brilliant white smile, "Then let's go be peasants, together."
They began walking, Spencer slinging his bags more firmly over his shoulders, Alex tucked into his side, her steps wet and careful against the cobblestones.
Marseille bustled with life—porters unloading goods, fishermen mending nets, elegant women passing by with parasols and raised brows. Still, no one dared speak to the odd looking couple.
Spencer matched her formal attire, still in his tux, but at least he was dry.
Alex could not wait to get out of these clothes. She was berating herself for not having the foresight to change, instead of just sitting and wallowing in her room.
She'd jumped with nothing and honestly, she didn't really care. There was very little from her previous life she wanted going into her new one.
Though, what she wouldn't give for a sensible pair of shoes right now. Heavens- even an insensible pair.
Spencer stopped at the corner just outside a modest little dress shop, opening the door for Alex. A bell chimed softly as his nostrils were assaulted with perfume.
He stayed in the doorway, unwilling to put another foot inside, as Alex brushed by him. He snagged her hand before she got too far away. "I'll meet you back here in a little bit."
Her frown was instant, "Where are you going?"
"Buy our tickets," he told her, brushing his thumb along her damp cheek. "I won't be long,"
She gave him a small smile and nod, "Be careful."
He winked, "Always."
As she disappeared inside, he turned back toward the docks, the cries of seagulls wheeling overhead like drunken watchmen. His boots echoed over the damp stone, the scents of salt, coal smoke, and fish thick in the air. The crowd thinned the farther he walked.
He hadn't planned to buy another ticket so soon. In fact, the sheer waste of it was infuriating- they'd already been on a ship bound for Gibraltar. But things had changed. The sooner they were gone, the better.
The ticket office loomed just ahead, but Spencer's stride slowed.
Something felt... off.
That same gut instinct had kept him alive in places where good men died quickly. Spencer inconspicuously glanced around for an enemy, trusting it.
He didn't see anyone in particular at first- just a shift in weight behind a crate. A shadow where there shouldn't be one. He didn't stop walking, didn't stiffen, and didn't glance back.
Instead, he strolled casually past the ticket office and down a narrow alley between two shuttered cafes. The stone walls closed in around him, the air cooler and smelling of trash. He stopped, kept his pace even, his breathing calm.
And waited.
Footsteps followed fast and quiet.
But not quiet enough.
Just as the man dashed into the alley, Spencer's arm shot out like a bar of iron. It connected with the man's throat, clean and sharp, and the man dropped like a sack of grain, coughing and cursing as he scrambled, only for Spencer to grab him by the collar and slam him back against the wall.
The man's eyes widened. Recognition passed between them.
He'd been on the ship with the Earl.
"Why are you following me?" Spencer spat.
No answer, just a defiant glare.
"The Earl sent you," Spencer had already concluded. "I want to know why."
The man bared his teeth. "You can't run from the Earl. There's no corner of the world his hands do not reach."
And with that, he unsheathed a knife and tried to bury the blade in Spencer's belly.
Expecting the move, Spencer snatched his wrist, squeezing the bones ruthlessly until the knife clattered to the ground.
"I'm not running." Spencer leaned in, voice low and cold. "Tell him to stop sending lapdogs." He slammed the man harder against the stone wall, the echo cracking through the alley.
"If he wants blood," Spencer growled, "he can come draw it himself."
Then he planted his fist into his temple, knocking him out cold.
Spencer dropped to one knee, rifling through the man's pockets. He confiscated a pistol and another knife. When he happened to find his wallet, he decided to pilfer forty Francs too.
Would it be harder for the bastard to chase after them without funds? Absolutely.
Was Spencer still bitter about being kicked off the ship by the Earl? One hundred percent.
Especially since, now that he knew the Earl was after him, he had to change up their travel plan once again.
As he stepped back into the street, a chilling thought sliced through his adrenaline… What if the Earl had sent more than one man?
Alex.
Goddamn it, he had left her alone!
Spencer moved fast, purposeful. Running would draw too much attention.
The streets blurred around him, all noise and color and bodies, but his focus was razor-thin.
The dress shop came into view just as two men broke off from the crowd and angled toward its door.
They weren't window shopping.
Spencer's jaw clenched. He picked up speed.
One reached for the door handle-
Spencer grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back hard, slamming his fist into his face. A second man tried to wrap an arm around his throat, he thrust a sharp elbow to his jaw and he stumbled back. Stronger than his partner, he lunged for him once more.
Spencer ducked. Then stood abruptly, catching the man's momentum and sending him sailing over his back.
Both men lay on the cobblestones in a heap. Spencer stood over them, chest heaving, every muscle still coiled.
A bell chimed over his shoulder. He turned to the sound.
Alex stepped outside, radiant in a simple navy coat and sensible boots, her wild blonde curls, only slightly damp now, framed her angelic face.
She carried a modest bag under one arm and held the coat closed with her other hand.
Alex blinked down at the unconscious bodies, eyes widening in shock, brows lifted in surprise. She looked up at Spencer with a forced casual smile.
"Do you like it?" she asked sweetly, holding her coat open just enough to show the neat dress beneath.
Spencer stared at her, blood still thrumming in his ears.
She descended the steps, holding out her elbow for him to take, "We should go, don't you think?"
Spencer glanced between her and there would- be assailants and huffed a breath, half a laugh. "You're really something else."
Alex winked, "Good thing you married me."
Instead of hooking arms with her, he gripped her elbow and urged her to into motion.
"We need to go. There could be more of them."
Alex blinked, stumbling slightly to match his stride. "More of whom?"
But Spencer didn't answer. His mind was already moving five steps ahead.
He'd been about to buy tickets—book passage on the next ship heading west. Gibraltar, maybe further. But it was too risky. The Earl likely had men stationed in every port between here and London, waiting with bribes for shipping clerks and sharp eyes for passenger manifests.
They wouldn't even make it up the gangway.
And if they did?
He'd have more men waiting when they disembarked.
No. A sea voyage was out. Too easy to track.
His mind reeled through their possibilities until he landed on the best one. Paris was only a three hour train ride away. From there, they could easily get to London. Alex wanted to go there to collect her things and say goodbye to her parents anyway.
A flash of movement caught his eye. Spencer turned his head just enough to confirm—the man from the alley. Awake. Limping. And scanning the crowd.
Spencer's jaw tightened.
They weren't going to run from him.
They were going to use him.
He adjusted their path, veering slightly to the right—out of the man's direct line of sight, but close enough to be noticed once they stepped into the open again.
They rounded the corner of a fishmonger's stall, Spencer intentionally pulling her into view just as the Earl's man glanced up.
Perfect.
Now the game was on.
Spencer picked up their pace, weaving through the crowd. They were going to lead him exactly where he wanted him.
Alex glanced back, nervous. "What's the plan, Spencer?"
He didn't answer. Not yet.
They passed the main dock where a large passenger ship loomed, its smokestack already chuffing. The gangway teemed with travelers—men with briefcases, families with children, women in wide hats clutching handbags.
"Get in that line," he told her.
Alex stared at him. "What?"
"Do it. Trust me."
Still frowning, she obeyed, stepping in behind a woman arguing with a porter.
Spencer joined her, casually slipping an arm around her shoulders like any other husband in line.
His lips bent to her ear, "At my signal, we run."
"What signal?" Alex whispered frantically back.
He could feel the weight of their tail's stare. Good. Let him watch.
A few minutes passed. The line inched forward.
A large family spilled open around them, jostling trunks and shouting to each other in rapid French.
Spencer seized the moment.
"Now."
He grabbed Alex's hand and ran, crouching low. She gasped, stumbling but staying close, her fingers gripping his like a lifeline.
They disappeared into the crowd.
By the time the sea of bodies parted enough for the Earl's man to locate them- they were gone.
Spencer didn't slow until they were off the docks entirely, ducking into a narrow alley and emerging on a quiet side street. Only then did he let up, slowing to a walk, adjusting his coat, catching his breath.
Alex, breathless and flushed, clutched her bag to her chest. "Would you like to tell me what just happened?"
Spencer kept her moving, eyes scanned the crowd. Always moving. Always watching.
"We're being hunted, Darlin',"
"Where are we going?" Alex asked breathlessly, her voice still laced with nerves, her hand clutching his as they moved swiftly through the streets of Marseille.
Spencer's eyes flicked from side to side, scanning for threats, before he answered. "Saint Charles Railway Station." The dockhand had said it was only two to three kilometers away. If they kept up a good pace, they'd be there in fifteen minutes.
He paused at an intersection. Made a split decision, "This way," he said, pulling Alex along, mumbling, "I think," under his breath.
Alex heard him. "It is," she informed with confidence. "It's just a few streets over," she pointed northeast.
He stopped short a second, turned, grabbed her neck and planet a quick kiss. He loved his well traveled, aristocratic wife. Why not tell her? "I love you."
"I know," she replied with sass and a saw in her hips.
When they arrived at the station, Alex sighed, thinking they were safe. Spencer didn't allow himself a flicker of relief. He scanned the crowd for any sign of trouble, but for a moment, everything seemed to be business as usual. Just the typical chaos of a busy station.
Still, he kept his guard up.
They approached the ticket counter, Alex immediately requesting two tickets to Paris in perfect French. Spencer handed over the forty francs plus an extra ten, his eyes never still. The woman behind the counter smiled and chattered in French. Alex responded in kind, but Spencer tuned them out, still uneasy over the cat-and-mouse game the Earl had dragged them into.
He turned from the counter, ready to get them moving, scanning for threats in the shadows… none appeared.
But then he spotted a man cloaked in black near the platform entrance. He was scanning the crowd with a practiced intensity, posture too stiff, too alert.
Spencer's heartbeat quickened, instincts flaring.
"Which train leaves next?" he asked the clerk, his voice low and urgent.
The clerk, a young man with ink-stained fingers, looked up from his ledger and blinked. He glanced at the large brass-framed schedule board behind him. "Valencia, monsieur. It departs—immediately, in fact."
"Book us to Valencia,"
The clerk's brows rose. "You'll need to make haste, sir."
"Then make haste," Spencer retorted.
Flustered, the clerk pulled a time-stamped ticket book from beneath the counter and began scribbling quickly, consulting a timetable. He flipped a page, then added in careful script the destination and class, tearing the ticket from the pad with a snap.
"It's nearly a full day's journey, monsieur. Twenty-three, twenty-four hours, depending on the track." He paused. "You might wish to reserve a sleeping berth."
A full day horizontal with Alex didn't sound like the worst thing. "Is it private?"
"Not second class, no."
Spencer glanced at Alex, who looked pale and windblown from the dash across town. "Just one for the lady." He'd be more comfortable in the common area, where he could keep an eye on Alex, then in a shared sleeper with strangers.
The clerk, now visibly hurrying, scrawled out a second ticket and slid both across the worn oak counter. He added in a clipped tone, "Platform six."
Alex took the tickets without pause. "Merci."
Without another word, Spencer tightened his grip on Alex's elbow. The clerk handed over the tickets, but he barely looked at them, mind already calculating their next move.
Alex didn't need prompting. She tore her arm free and sprinted alongside him, their baggage thumping awkwardly against them as they ran. Their footsteps echoed through the vaulted station, half-drowned by the hiss of steam and the clamor of travelers.
The train was already there, its bell clanging in sharp bursts as the last of the passengers boarded.
Spencer's gaze locked with the man from the platform. Recognition flared. The man had seen them too.
"Faster," Spencer urged, gripping Alex's hand. "Come on."
The final call for their train echoed overhead. Alex gasped for breath, struggling to keep pace—the train looked closer than it was, and the weight of the day was catching up to her.
Spencer spotted the brakeman on the caboose, standing on the narrow deck, waving a flag. The wheels screeched and churned, slowly dragging the train forward.
Spencer looked back. The man in black was gaining.
"Spencer!" Alex cried, stumbling.
"Keep going," he gritted out, pulling her along. "We're almost there."
Mere feet of train remained visible. No time. No choice.
With a final burst, Spencer surged forward, hauling Alex with him. He jumped, grabbing the metal railing of the rear platform.
Alex didn't.
For one heart-stopping second, her hand slipped from his. She flailed, feet skidding on the platform-
Then the brakeman lunged, seizing her wrist and yanking her up beside them.
"I've never seen anyone so eager to get to Barcelona," he muttered, his French accent thick.
Spencer was already on his feet, spinning around to face the platform.
The man in black had reached the end. He pulled a pistol from his coat, leveling it straight at Spencer.
But then the train disappeared behind the stone wall, cutting him off from view.
Gone.
Spencer's heart was still hammering, but a grim, exhausted relief settled over him.
They'd made it- barely.