The Beauty and the Spy (12 page)

“I'm supposed to say…of course not!”

She smiled and tried to read his face through the flickering shadows. “Which means you really think it's a husband's decision.”

“No, I do not. What kind of adoring husband would I be if I did not involve my wife in every marital decision?”

“Now I
know
you've never been married.”

“Surely a compromise is in order—time in the country, time in town.”

“The diplomat's solution. If only it were that easy.”

 

They finally went upstairs to their shadowy, overheated room. Nick threw open the window, then lit a lamp. Together they stared at the bed. She looked away and realized that the only chairs were straight-backed wooden ones. Hardly comfortable for a sleeping man.

She cleared her throat and didn't look at Nick as she said, “You know I won't try to escape. Perhaps we should get a second room…”

He shook his head. “We're married, remem
ber? This husband and wife don't spend their nights apart.”

“Oh.” She straightened her spine and forced herself to meet his gaze. “Well you can't sleep in one of those chairs.”

His eyes began to smolder in that way that made her want to swoon. In a deep, soft voice, he said, “You could invite me to sleep with you.”

She knew what he meant. And suddenly her thoughts of an affair seemed wild and too daring, full of hazards she had not yet foreseen. She couldn't make such a decision. She shook her head, not trusting her voice.

He nodded with resignation. “I've slept on far rockier surfaces than this floor. Just give me a blanket for bedding.”

“Take them both, please. It's far too warm.”

“But promise me you'll cover yourself with something,” he said, in a voice gone hoarse.

She nodded swiftly. “The sheet.” Then she ducked behind the screen before her scarlet face could further embarrass her. She disrobed to her chemise and let her hair down, only to tie it in a simple braid, hardly an alluring coiffure.

When she hesitantly emerged, Nick had already made a pallet for himself between the bed and the wall. There was hardly enough room for the width of his shoulders, but she said nothing.

He glanced at her, then looked away with a
curse. “I'm going to go talk to Sam and Cox. I won't be gone long.”

She bit her lip, uncertain if she should apologize, or wear all her clothes to bed. How could either of them forget what had happened between them?

“You'll be all right?” he asked, striding to the door.

“As in, will I escape?”

“I know you won't. But this is a dangerous situation. Do you mind being alone? It might start happening frequently.”

“I'll be fine.”

He nodded, and his gaze openly slid down her one last time before he left. She crawled into the bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin. She really was alone for the first time in days. She should feel relieved.

But as the minutes sped by, she grew more and more worried by her mental state. She missed Nick. What kind of foolishness was she allowing herself to feel?

Knowing she couldn't sleep, she got out of bed and dug the book out of his portmanteau. She sat down before the cold hearth grate and tried to read.

She wasn't sure how much time passed before she heard the creak of footsteps in the hall. The flood of warm relief she felt should have worried her, but she couldn't help it. The doorknob rattled, but didn't open. Had Nick forgotten his key?

Setting her book aside, she went to the door and almost opened it, then stopped. He hadn't called her name. Was it even Nick?

She leaned near the door and spoke in a raised voice. “My dear Mr. Black, have you forgotten your key again?”

The door suddenly burst open, slamming into the side of her face and flinging her back onto the bed. As her head pounded, her vision went out of focus. She heard the sound of the door shutting. When she could see again, a strange man dressed in black stood over her, grinning.

She came up on her elbows and tried to keep her voice from quivering. “You must have the wrong room, sir. Me husband and I—”

He clapped a hand over her mouth, and leaned hard against her chest. She tasted horse mixed with tobacco. The intruder wore a tattered hat pulled low over his dark eyes, and a couple of days' growth of black and gray whiskers.

“I've got the right room,” he said, grinning. “Campbell tol' me what the bloke looked like, just in case, and sure enough, 'twas him havin' dinner without a care in the world. But who could
you
be? Perhaps a bed toy instead of the corpse ye're supposed to be?”

Oh God, he knew. Campbell thought her dead. If this man were permitted to tell Campbell the truth—

She shook her head and tried to push his hand away, but he leaned on her harder and she
couldn't breathe. Tears of terror stung her eyes as she gasped and frantically flailed her legs. Her knee connected with something solid, and a giant whoosh escaped the intruder's mouth as he fell beside her on the bed.

Air rushed back into her lungs as Charlotte surged to her feet. She felt a catch at her chemise, and she sobbed as her hand fumbled for the door. She was dragged backward.

But the door suddenly opened and there was Nick. “I thought I heard—”

She cried out, and his face went deadly with comprehension. Instinctively she dropped to her knees, and he vaulted over her, slamming into the intruder. She looked over her shoulder as they both tumbled off the far side of the bed. She staggered out into the hallway for help, angry that she'd never asked which room Sam and Mr. Cox were in.

But the door across the hall opened and the two men emerged. She pointed into her room, and all three of them pushed inside.

Nick was on his knees, gasping, with the intruder standing behind tightening a garrote about his neck. Nick had one hand inside the wire. The intruder looked up at the commotion, and Nick dropped forward, flipping the man over his shoulders onto the floor. Mr. Cox and Sam turned him onto his stomach and began to tie his hands with his own belt.

Praying that no one in the inn thought much of
the commotion, Charlotte quietly shut the door and went to Nick. When she touched him, he put up a hand, and she let him stand by his own effort. There was a nasty red line marring much of his throat, and she imagined the same across his hand.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He cleared his throat, and his voice came out husky. “I should never have left you alone.”

She tried to smile. “I knew you'd never trust me.”

He chuckled and wiped the back of his forearm across his perspiring brow. “So what did he say to you?”

She sobered and looked toward the intruder, who was being forced into a chair. Blushing, she tried to forget what had happened on that chair earlier. “He said he recognized you from the description Campbell had given him. He wondered if I was supposed to be a corpse.”

Nick swore and turned to look at the man, who glared back at them, his shoulders held by Sam and Mr. Cox.

“Where's Campbell now?” Nick demanded.

The intruder tongued a cut at the corner of his mouth and said nothing.

Sam yanked hard on the man's hair, pulling his head back, and spoke in a deadly voice Charlotte could never have imagined him using. “Speak when you're spoken to.”

“I don't know where he is,” the intruder fi
nally said with desperation. “He was supposed to find me.”

There was a sudden knock at the door, and as everyone turned to look, the intruder broke free, took two running steps, and dove out the open window.

At Nick's side, Charlotte leaned out the window and saw the intruder's body lying in an unnatural heap only one story below. Bile rose in her throat as she thought of the lengths he'd gone to to protect his secrets.

“It's a good thing I never tried to escape that way,” she whispered.

Nick said nothing, only waited for Sam and Mr. Cox to seat themselves at the table as the knocking continued. She gaped as they brought out cards and started to play. Nick motioned her toward the screen and she hid herself, sliding down to sit against the wall.

She heard the conversation at the door rather distantly, as she fought to keep from trembling, relief and fright still coursing through her.

“Can I help you?” Nick asked, in that polite, deferential voice he used for the clerk disguise.

“Good evenin' sir. Me wife was cleanin' tankards below and thought she heard a noise.”

“She has good ears, then sir. Yes, my companions and I were playing cards, and Mr. Sherman here doesn't take losing well. He kicked over a chair in his anger. Do forgive us for bothering you at this time of night.”

The man was soon appeased, and when the door shut, she knew she could stop hiding. But she hugged herself and couldn't seem to stand.

“Charlotte?”

Nick folded the screen back and stood above her. The concern in his voice was her undoing, and she angrily wiped away her tears.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded and took his hands, allowing him to help her stand. He put an arm around her waist and she let him, swaying into the warmth of his body. Even as her trembling eased, he pulled her into the safety of his embrace.

Sam and Mr. Cox abruptly left, and she realized they were going to deal with the body. She closed her eyes, shuddering, and pressed her face into Nick's chest.

“He deserved to die, Charlotte.”

His voice rumbled through her, became a part of her.

She wasn't sure she was supposed to be comforted by that, so she only sighed. “I know. He would have told Campbell where we are, would have told him that—” Words deserted her.

“That you were alive?”

Clutching him tightly about the waist, she only nodded.

“But we didn't let him. You're all right. And I won't leave you alone again.”

“Held hostage once more,” she murmured.

She heard him chuckle. “But in a trusting sort of way. Now why don't you get some sleep.”

He tucked her into bed, and she tried not to notice how carefully he pulled the blankets up around her shoulders, how gently he brushed the hair back from her forehead. He tilted her face toward the lamp and frowned at her.

“Did he strike you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I was standing near the door when he flung it open, and my face bore the brunt of it.”

“You'll have a nasty bruise in the morning.”

“I'll swear to people that my husband doesn't beat me. Only sheer clumsiness on my part.”

He smiled, even as his fingers traced down her cheek before he released her. “My thanks for protecting my reputation.”

“Then you must come up with a reason for that line on your throat, so people don't think I tried to strangle you.”

He was sitting on the bed staring at her as their smiles slowly died. She could lose herself in the vivid depths of his eyes.

He finally looked away and stood up. “Time for bed.”

He went behind the screen. Before he came out, she told herself to roll over and go to sleep. But then he emerged, half naked, and she inhaled swiftly and stared. She would never get used to the thrilling sight of him, to the way he made her ache inside. For one crazy moment she
wanted to change her mind and throw back the sheets for him.

But she was a coward. Instead she watched him stretch out beside her on the floor. He never met her gaze again, just faced the wall to sleep.

 

Before dawn Charlotte awoke to the sounds of Nick moving about the room. She was almost relieved to be awake, because she'd had horrible dreams about Campbell trying to kill her. She pushed herself to a sitting position, then swept wisps of hair from her eyes.

“Nick?”

By the light of a low lamp, he turned to face her, fully dressed. He had a small, empty satchel in his hands.

“Charlotte, I was just going to wake you.”

“You're going to relieve one of the men?”

“Yes.”

“And I'm to stay here alone.”

“No.” He hesitated, and she could almost see his mind working. “My first thought was to leave you with whoever I relieve. But he won't get his sleep if he has to worry about you. So you're coming with me.”

She flung back the sheet and stood up, suddenly eager for the day. She would be helping to protect her sister, who even now might be dining with Julia Reed. And she could keep her mind occupied instead of reliving her attacker throwing himself out the window.

“Wear the darkest gown you have and the largest bonnet you own,” he said sternly. “Obey me instantly, in everything, because it could mean our lives.”

A
s the sun rose behind her, Charlotte sat astride a horse for the first time in her life, her arms clinging tightly about Nick's waist, her cheek pressed against his warm back. It was all she could do to occasionally tuck her skirts back under her calves and ignore her shocking ankle exposure.

The morning gallop was wildly exciting, with the wind catching at her hair, tugging a few strands free. She could feel the movement of Nick's back muscles against her chest, and it was oddly stirring. The day held the promise of im
portant work, the opportunity to look out for her sister, the chance for her to help her father, though he wouldn't know it.

And a chance for her to be with Nick, something that was important, though she warned herself not to think that way.

She spoke over his shoulder. “Where are we going?”

He turned his head toward her so that she could catch his words. “Sam told me that there's an old barn near the property border of Langley Manor. We'll be able to see the road from there.”

They left the town of Stamford behind and passed several miles of farmland sectioned off with hedgerows. When the trees began to thicken, they moved off the road and followed a path through the woods. She was the first to spot the weathered old barn, and as she pointed excitedly, almost slipped off the horse. He caught her thigh and steadied her until she wrapped her arms around him once again.

“Shh,” he murmured, his hand still on her thigh.

She obediently bit her lip and leaned into him, as if making herself inconspicuous. But her eyes looked at his hand, felt its hot imprint.

They circled the barn, and she noticed its dilapidated condition. It was made of ancient stone, a relic of another era, and seemed to be in the
early stages of crumbling in on itself. But its walls still held, though its thatched roof was full of holes.

As they came upon the wide door, she heard a strange sound from the dark interior, like an animal, but not one she'd ever heard before.

Then Nick brought his hands up to his mouth and returned the sound with uncanny precision. He shot her a grin, and said simply, “Camel.”

When a tired-looking Mr. Cox emerged from the barn and she realized it was a special call between the spies, she almost laughed at her stupidity. Hadn't she read about this very thing in her father's journals?

When Mr. Cox stopped short on seeing them, Nick only said, “It's all right. Charlotte believes us now. She won't get in the way. Can you help her down?”

She leaned toward the waiting coachmen, panicked as she started to slide, but he caught her neatly about the waist and set her down.

“Thank you, Mr. Cox.”

“Ye're welcome, ma'am.”

She took a deep breath, rubbing the spot at her waist where the too-tight dress aggravated her. Her legs felt a little wobbly, and she wondered if she would be sore the next day.

While the two men spoke in low tones, they tightened the saddle on Mr. Cox's horse and loosened the girth of Nick's. Charlotte wandered the
interior of the barn. The morning light angled in through bare windows, and dust rose through the beams as she walked. Besides the door, a window faced the road. There were scattered bales of straw in broken-down horse stalls.

And somewhere nearby was the mansion itself, where her sister Jane was. Charlotte stepped close to the door, wondering at the distance between them. Was Jane happy? But that really didn't matter, because if she
was
happy, it was because of a lie. Jane's only thoughts were probably about visiting Papa, while all around her prowled men intent on foiling treachery and a traitor trying to escape punishment. Unless Lord Chadwick had truly captured Jane's interest…but that seemed so unlikely when Charlotte thought about his foppish behavior.

Mr. Cox departed, and she watched Nick take a seat on a bale of straw beside the window, his face in the shadows. He squinted as he watched the road, and subtle lines fanned out from the corner of his eyes. For many silent minutes she studied him. How many hours would he remain like that—watchful, alert, just waiting?

She asked, “How will you know who you're looking for?”

His head turned quickly toward her, as if he'd forgotten she was there. As usual, his gaze didn't remain on her face for long. She stood still, letting him look, playing this dangerous game between them, and wondering if he would soon tire of it.

She couldn't imagine tiring of this feeling of lightning that crackled between them, making her aware of everything he did.

He looked back out the window. “I know what Julia looks like,” he said dryly.

She rolled her eyes, then pushed another bale beside him and perched on the prickly edge. She wouldn't be able to see much out the window—but she could watch
him
.

“I'm sure you know much more than what her face looks like,” she answered tartly.

He grinned. “True. But I'm also looking for Campbell, or another of her henchmen.”

“Besides Campbell, have you seen any of these other men before?”

“No, but Hume, our traitor-turned-witness, described one man to me in a letter, and it wasn't our visitor last night. Hume was dead-on where Campbell was concerned, so I trust him.”

“In a letter?”

Charlotte wrapped her arms about one bent leg and rested her chin on her knee. Her petticoats were a flounce about her ankle. Only Nick's pointed glance made her realize the picture she presented, but she chose to remain in the comfortable position.

“If I'd spoken to Hume in person, he'd be in custody already.”

“Oh, of course.” She winced with contriteness.

He turned back to watching the road, and within a half hour they finally heard the rumble
of what might be a carriage. He put his arm across her chest, pressing her against the wall, while every line of him stiffened with readiness. But when the sound of wheels crunching on road crested and began to fade and he relaxed, she allowed herself a glimpse. It was only an open-ended wagon, driven by an ancient farmhand.

Though Nick resumed his watch of the road, his arm still pinned her to the wall, the long muscles pressed into her breasts.

She stirred, and his arm fell away.

“Sorry,” he said without looking at her.

“Quite all right. A woman doesn't mind feeling protected.”

“Then you've been fooling me.”

“Pardon?” she said in puzzlement.

“All I've ever tried to do was protect you, even at the beginning. You fought me at every turn.”

She primly raised her nose in the air. “Being bound and gagged did not feel like protection.”

“I only bound and gagged you because you kept trying to escape. You would have put yourself right in Campbell's path.”

“How was I to know—”

“Never mind. I'm sorry I brought it up.”

She let the silence stretch on for part of the morning. The sun rose higher, bees buzzed in and out of the window, and once or twice she caught herself dozing. But Nick never ceased his narrow-eyed search of the road.

Soon she heard the approach of an open car
riage full of wellborn laughing ladies. When they'd passed she leaned back against the wall and opened several buttons at her throat. How practical of Sam to think only of dresses that buttoned up the front.

She caught Nick watching her with an expression not unlike the one he'd had when she sat astride him the day before. He shifted a bit on his bale of straw, then looked back outside.

She blushed furiously, for she hadn't meant to remind him of their passion. She needed to distract them both. “So what does Julia look like?”

He shot her a puzzled look.

“If I'm to look for her, I should know what she looks like,” she added.

He smiled. “She's very tall, a robust, healthy woman, but not plump. Rather small in the chest area.”

Charlotte gasped and felt her face flame. “I cannot believe you said such a personal thing to me. As if it matters.”

“I'll explain why soon enough. She has this shock of blond hair that is almost white. You'll know her when you see her.”

“And is that what drew you to her when you first met her?” she bravely asked.

“Hardly. She was dressed as a boy, prowling a Kabul bazaar, where no woman should ever be. Now do you see why I mentioned her chest?”

Ignoring his crudity, she gasped, “A boy? Whatever for?”

He turned sideways, his head leaning back against the rough stone, where he could easily see the road, but also glance at her.

“Just for the freedom of it. Surely you long for a little freedom now and again, Charlotte.”

He reached out and touched her hand, where it was clasped in the other around her bent leg. It was as if something inside her had waited breathlessly for this moment, as if somehow she knew he would touch her and she would allow it. How could she not? Wasn't every dance they did with each other leading to this?

She licked her dry lips, knowing he watched the movement of her tongue. “Was she trying to be free like an Afghan woman?”

“They're not free, Charlotte. Women live a very different life in Muslim countries.”

She slowly straightened her leg, letting her foot drop to the ground. His fingers remained covering hers, tracing the bones of her hand, just a bare inch above her thigh. The need for him to touch her there was like a madness; she couldn't stop watching his hands, feeling as if he wove a spell of desire about her. The gentleness of his touch was something she'd longed for for so many years. He'd moved up to her wrist now, teasing the skin beneath her sleeve with gentle, tantalizing strokes.

“Woman are kept away from the sight of men,” he continued, “veiled when they're not in their own houses.”

He moved his hand as he spoke, letting his thumb run along her lower ribs, just above her waist. She caught her breath.

He looked into her eyes, and she found herself breathing shallowly, waiting. Did he want her to make the first advance?

“This dress is too tight,” he murmured. “It surely must chafe you.”

She could only shrug.

“Show me where.”

She couldn't look away from the dark blaze that was his eyes. Her unsteady fingers moved to the buttons on her bodice, and as she undid them, she could swear his gaze blazed brighter with each one. She hesitated at her waist, feeling on the precipice of a new part of her life, where impulse and danger ruled.

As if in a trance, she reached for the ties at the neckline of her chemise and tugged, loosening the fabric. He wasn't touching her now, but his heavy gaze was enough to urge her onward. She stretched the gathered neckline and began to pull downward, feeling the rasp of fine linen across the sensitive peaks of her breasts. But they only truly tightened and ached when they were revealed to the warm summer air.

He made a hoarse, choked sound, but only said, “Show me where the dress chafed, Char.”

As the chemise sagged lower, she arched her back so that he could see the faint raw marks across her waist.

Murmuring his shortened version of her name contritely, he bent over her and pressed a gentle kiss to the nearest scrape on her abdomen. Her flesh tightened and tingled, her breasts ached at the brush of his hair. Then he turned and looked up into her face, her breasts between them.

She took a deep breath, feeling light-headed, silently begging him to touch her. But he did more than that. Slowly, reverently, he leaned upward and closed his mouth over her nipple.

Her groan of pleasure was too loud in the silence, but he did not berate her. Instead he suckled her, teased her, let his tongue dart out and lick her. Every sensation shot downward through her body, until between her thighs she throbbed with a desperate feeling of tension she'd never felt before.

Nick had spent the ride to the barn tormented by the feel of her breasts bouncing and rubbing into his back. Now to see them bared before him was like a welcome feast after a long day's labor.

Her skin was soft and delicate, and he worshipped her tight little nipple with each stroke of his tongue. He moved to the other breast, tasting, exploring. When he sucked hard, she shuddered against him, and her moan was as intoxicating as a caress. His fingers teased one breast, his mouth the other, until her trembling told him she was ready.

He was consumed with the promise of what
lay beneath her skirts. He knelt down in front of her, letting his hands skim up the outside of her calves beneath her petticoats. He looked up the length of her, past her spreading skirts, to the roundness of her bare breasts—

And then he saw her face.

The Charlotte he knew was suddenly—gone. Two days ago, when he'd told her to remove her clothes, she'd donned this same, blank expression, as if her personality, the woman she was, had retreated behind a wall. Now she reached for his coat like a blind woman, as if she meant to undress him.

And his passion for her dimmed and banked in concern.

“Charlotte?” he said, taking both her hands in his. “Tell me what you're seeing.”

She froze, and for a moment he thought she would speak. Then she shook her head and blinked several times until she finally saw him. Her face whitened, and with a gasp she grabbed at her garments.

He caught her hands again. “Char, don't. Whatever you're seeing in your mind, don't make it a part of what we shared.” He replaced her chemise and tied it at her neckline.

The color returned to her face as she straightened. “I don't know what to say,” she murmured.

“Just tell me what happened to you.”

But they both heard an approaching carriage.
Nick's concern for her became swamped with the realization of his purpose, his mission. Somewhere in his mind, as he'd begun to seduce Charlotte, he'd told himself he would remain alert to sounds outside the barn.

Instead he had been drowning in the tastes and smells that were uniquely hers.