The Beauty and the Spy (4 page)

“I can't force you to accept the truth,” he said brusquely. “Now be a good girl and keep quiet if you'd like to spend the night in a real bed.”

Then he pulled her toward the door and stepped down. After throwing the blanket over her, he tossed her over his shoulder. She grunted with the impact against her stomach, trying to kick him, but he held her legs still. He started to whistle, then he had the gall to pat her backside.

When he began to walk, she gasped as he lurched to one side, then the other. His whistle took on a decidedly drunken warbling. What was he doing?

A door banged open in front of them, and she could tell he started ascending stairs. With another drunken sway, her feet hit one wall.

“Sorry, lass,” he said rather loudly in a slurred Scottish accent.

When they reached a corridor, his drunken sway got even worse. Her head brushed against a wall.

“Can I help you?” called a timid voice.

For just a moment Charlotte felt every muscle in Nick's body tighten, including his hand on her backside. Then he laughed as she gave a muffled shriek and tried to kick.

“It's the wife, sir,” Nick said, trying to sound conspiratorial even with a booming voice. “Got angry at me, she did. Stormed out wearin' only her nightclothes.”

The other man said nothing. Nothing!

She tried to kick for all she was worth to dislodge the blanket, but with that reprobate's hand tightening on her backside, all she got for her efforts was a deeper cut where the linen ties bit into her ankles.

“A good day to you, sir,” he called as he continued walking.

She heard a door open, then slam behind them. When he tossed her onto a bed, Charlotte sat up quickly, shook the blanket off her face to glare at him, then used her bound hands to pick at her gag.

He returned her glare even as he pushed her hands away and caught her face in his hands. “I am doing important work, and you almost destroyed it. If you can't promise me you'll stay quiet, I'm leaving that gag on permanently.”

She looked into those dark, cold eyes, and though she didn't think he'd kill her, she did think he'd follow through on this new threat. She glared her ire at him.

“Do you promise to be quiet?” he demanded again. “Don't think I can't convince people you have a pleasurable reason for screaming.”

She knew she blushed, and though she tried to hold his gaze, she couldn't. Did women of his ac
quaintance…scream their pleasure? She couldn't imagine feeling anything more than duty—or unease.

He was waiting. Finally she looked up and nodded with resignation.

He gave her a look filled with more weariness than triumph, then tugged loose her gag. She spat out the linen wad, then lifted her bound hands to him. He shook his head.

Her tongue felt thick and dry, and she sounded hoarse as she said, “I'm locked in this room with you. Where can I go? Please untie me.”

Standing above her, his hands on his hips, he said, “You've repeatedly promised not to escape, then you break your word and try to.”

“I never broke my word! But look at my wrists and—” To her shame, she tugged at her skirts and exposed her ankles, but couldn't quite say such intimate words to a man.

To her surprise, he frowned and knelt in front of her to inspect her wrists. Instead of treating her brusquely, his touch was gentle as he turned her wrists over to inspect both sides. She watched his dark head, bent so near to her, and felt a strange reaction she couldn't identify. She wanted to push him away—yet she remained still, allowing his nearness. When he looked up at her, she held her breath.

“Very well,” he said. “I'll untie you briefly. But there's only one door, Charlotte, and I will be between you and it.”

C
harlotte bit her lip and said nothing, watching as he very gently untied her wrists. With the strips gone, raw welts were revealed, and one or two places oozed blood. He untied her ankles next, and she gave a sigh of relief. But there were raw spots on her ankles, too.

“You shouldn't have struggled,” he said shortly.

“I'll keep struggling. The government needs to know what you're doing—”

He looked up at her wearily. “I've told you, they already know.”

“And they're trying to capture you.”

“They're
backing
me.” He sighed. “Just wait here. We need to clean your wounds.”

We?
she thought in disbelief. To her surprise, he poured water into a basin and brought several towels to the bed. With soap and water he washed her wrists with a gentleness that amazed her. When he reached for her foot—and she was tempted to allow him to continue—she knew she had to stop this trance she was in. She took the cloth away from him, brought her feet up onto the bed, and turned her back to him. Her skirt and petticoats puffed up around her, and she pushed them down.

“I can finish this myself,” she said quickly.

“But I already touched your ankles,” he said with dry amusement in his voice.

“Only to bind them cruelly.”

She could hear his hesitation. “It's necessary, Charlotte.”

She ignored him then, wincing when her cloth touched a particularly sore spot on her ankle. He was going to tie her up again, further aggravating her injuries, and there was nothing she could do about it, except plan another escape. She took her time washing her skin and looked about the room for help. There was a small table and chairs, and a standing screen for privacy in the corner. She'd thought there were windows in the far wall, but then she realized they were doors. There must be a balcony or gallery outside. Did he even realize it yet?

Nick stared at Charlotte, who huddled on the bed with her back to him, bright blue silk rising high on petticoats all around her. With all that material gathered up around her, it was practically impossible for her to reach her ankles, but she was doing her best.

She would do anything rather than let him touch her.

This was good, he told himself. Just looking at what he'd done to mar her smooth skin made him feel uneasy and guilty. If only she were a man, the wounds wouldn't bother him a bit.

But if she were a man, he wouldn't have the pleasure of looking at her.

She was merely a hostage, he reminded himself as he turned away and began to pace in front of the bare hearth. She was a hostage with a husband who would be missing her.

Yet he couldn't help but admire her stubborn insistence in trying to escape. When he'd opened the carriage door and she'd kicked him in the chest, he'd almost laughed and applauded her bravery. She stubbornly continued to defy him, no matter how overwhelming her task seemed.

He was watching the way her bare shoulders seemed to gleam in the near darkness, when a soft knock sounded at the door.

Charlotte lifted her head and met his gaze wide-eyed.

He frowned at her and called, “Aye?” in his Scottish brogue.

“It's me,” Sam said.

Nick unlocked the door and Sam slipped inside, carrying an overstuffed portmanteau. Sam had changed clothing and was now wearing the coat and top hat of the country gentry.

“How was the trip to London?” Nick asked.

Sam dipped his head to Charlotte as he set the portmanteau beside her on the bed. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sinclair.”

“Sam,” Nick said impatiently, as his partner seemed lost in the loveliness of her smile. He hoped she didn't think she could pit them against each other with feminine wiles. That had been tried many times before, and it had always failed.

Sam only grinned, as if he knew what Nick was thinking. “That horse moves like the wind. It was a quick journey.”

“And Julia?”

His face sobered. “She's left London, heading north.”

Finally the culmination of a year's worth of work was at hand. If only they didn't have to worry about Charlotte. “And you have no way of knowing if Julia is on to us?”

“None. She could be racing us to Leeds—or heading for Kelthorpe's house party.”

“Then we'll need Will's help. I'll go to him tonight.”

“Who's Will?” Charlotte asked as she knelt on
the bed and opened the portmanteau. She pulled out a plain brown dress and frowned at it.

“No one you need to know,” Nick said abruptly.

That delicate chin lifted higher into the air. “I need you both to leave so that I may change.”

“We're not leaving you alone.” Nick pointed into a shadowy corner of the room. “There's a changing screen right there. You may use that.”

“But—”

“Or you can change in front of us.”

She blushed in a very lovely way, he thought, almost wishing she'd accept his challenge. But then he'd have to kick Sam out of the room. All so he could drool over a married woman. He sighed heavily.

“Does that mean I cannot bathe?” she asked.

“Not any time soon.”

Frowning, she lay three dresses side by side and then chose one, along with several feminine items she tried to keep hidden from them. Sam had even brought her one of those useless little bags women liked to carry.

“If you need help unfastening your dress, just call,” Nick said.

She hesitated. “Can I not have the services of a maid?”

“You cannot.”

Glaring at him, she said, “You are a wicked man.”

“Only a practical one. Now, do you need help?”

He thought her eyes glistened with tears, and he felt guilty. But he couldn't change anything. He started to walk toward her.

She looked past Nick and appealed to Sam. “There are just a few fastenings at the top that I cannot reach.”

While she turned her back and Sam walked forward, Nick fisted his hands and tried to tell himself it was better this way. He was too drawn to her, his hostage, a married woman. Let her show her disdain—it would help him remember the situation between them.

When Sam was finished, Charlotte walked regally to the screen, displaying a long line of skin. When she disappeared behind it, Sam eyed Nick as if he were enjoying himself.

“Be wary of her,” Nick said in a low voice. “She's still trying to escape.”

“Can you blame her? But I'm off to follow Julia. I assume while you're gone that Cox will be handling our lovely hostage.”

Nick nodded.

“That ought to be interesting.” Sam shook his head and grinned. “When I left Will he was headed for Huntingdon. I'm sure that's where they'll spend the night. There are only three inns; you should be able to find them easily.”

“Them?”

“He has a woman with him.”

“Ah, to have time for such things,” Nick mused.

“She appears very wellborn. He met with her frequently in London, but I kept my distance. I didn't think it important to know who she was, as long as I could find Will when I needed to. And now they're looking at estates as if to purchase one.”

“Maybe Will really is settling down. I'd better go before we lose him. Stay here a minute, Sam. I'll explain everything to Cox and send him up to take over for you.”

But before Nick could escape the room, their hostage made her appearance. She was wearing a gown of plain dark green, which buttoned up the front. It covered every part of her but her neck and head, yet across the bodice it stretched rather…tightly, outlining her assets.

Sam winced. “I did my best estimating her size.”

Charlotte frowned and looked down at herself. “It is not too uncomfortable, although I wasn't able to wear a—” She broke off, her face flushing red.

“A corset?” Nick finished for her. He had noticed immediately that her shape was womanly instead of confined.

Her mouth snapped shut, and she glared her contempt at him.

Once again he'd embarrassed and angered her. But he preferred her this way, rather than frightened of him.

“Sam and I have to go,” he told her as he rummaged through his portmanteau for a long, shabby cloak.

She looked wary, as if she didn't understand where the conversation was going.

“My coachman, Cox, will be with you. He's not a man who takes his duties lightly, so I would not cross him. I'll return as soon as I can.”

“But—” She broke off, the worry in her voice evident. Then she collected herself, gave a cool nod, and turned away.

 

After an hour's ride on a fast horse through mists and occasional rain, Nick reached Huntingdon. He looked for the most disreputable lodging first, over a tavern, and took a room there so that he had a private place to meet with Will. Then he went back out into the streets, walking slowly as he limped and leaned on his cane. Twice women came out of the shadows to offer themselves. He kept walking, knowing Will wouldn't bring a lady near such a place.

The next inn he came to was made of uneven stone, built near an ancient bridge that spanned the Ouse River with many arches. The innkeeper knew Will by Nick's description. Nick went inside the public dining room, eased himself onto a
wooden settle before the hearth, and propped his leg up.

The room was crowded with travelers and local people, and it didn't take long for him to spot Will Chadwick and his companion taking a seat at the table. Will was much better dressed than the last time Nick had seen him, though there was more gray in his brown hair. In Afghanistan he, Sam, and Will had all sported beards and turbans, and had wrapped themselves in sheepskin cloaks to fight the bitter winter winds of the Hindu Kush mountains. They'd passed as natives and kept watch for the East India Company on the Russian plans for the country. The three of them had relied on one another and had been as close as brothers. But then Will's cover had been blown, and he'd been ambushed by Afghani tribesmen and almost killed. He had had to leave the country and work in India.

And now Will was in England, ready to begin a new civilian life. Nick promised himself he would use Will as little as he needed to.

To Nick's surprise, Will's companion began talking to other people in the room, and eventually walked over to smile at him. She was an attractive woman, with black hair and the most direct green eyes.

“Good evening, sir,” she said in a cultured voice. “I've been looking for some local people who might be able to tell me where some un
usual historic sights are. Might you be able to help me?”

Nick glanced behind her at Will, and saw the moment that recognition dawned in his eyes. Will frowned at him.

Nick turned a smile on his lady. “Sorry, miss, I'm but a stranger here like you.”

Though she would have politely continued their conversation, he rubbed his leg a few times and looked pained, until she said she didn't want to disturb him. She and Will left eventually, but Nick knew Will would be back.

It took him only an hour, and this time he came alone. He ignored Nick and sat at the bar for several beers while he talked to the innkeeper. Occasionally, Will let his arm drop, and his hand made the gesture they'd long used for “meet outside in the back.” After Will left, Nick waited a few minutes, then went out the back door, following an alley toward the stables. In the gloom a man passed him going toward the inn, and Nick was certain it was Will's servant Barlow, but neither of them acknowledged the other.

Will stood near a carriage parked beside the stables, and Nick limped toward him. There was no one else in sight.

“Is the wound real?” Will asked.

“No,” he said. “Nice to see you, too.”

Though Will shrugged idly, his gaze was direct and challenging. “I'm not sure I'll be able to say the same. The disguise doesn't reassure me.”

“It shouldn't. There's trouble. I never would have bothered you otherwise. But let's not talk here. I have a room above a tavern nearby. Follow me.”