The Beauty and the Spy (8 page)

Sam cocked his head, and the curls in his wig danced. “And you've never seen a very tall woman before?”

“Of course I have! But the rest of you is not—”

She broke off as Sam began his transformation, and Nick watched her astonishment grow. Sam was legendary in his ability to hide himself within the physicality of a character. His every movement now became graceful, his walk womanly as he retrieved his cloak, and even the breadth of him seemed to shrink.

Sam wrapped the cloak about himself and spoke in a soft, throaty voice. “I shall see you both in just scant hours. Do play nicely with each other.” He glided from the room.

Nick watched Charlotte gaze blankly at the door, then turn an astonished look on him.

“What did you expect?” he asked. “We're good at what we do.”

She just shook her head and turned away.

They were quiet for a long time, and he couldn't think of a thing to say. It was still morning, and he had no duties until Sam returned with
news about whether Julia was heading for Kelthorpe's house party.

And he was alone with a beautiful woman next to a big bed.

N
ick went to the window as if he were looking for something important, instead of merely keeping busy. But he noticed when Charlotte raised her head and stared at him.

“I heard you say you had…relations with this woman, this Julia.”

Well
that
wasn't a normal conversation for a society lady. He studied her, pretending an impassivity he didn't feel. “Yes.”

“Why do you men do that, sleep with women so readily?”

He could only blink at her for a moment. “You want to have this conversation with
me
?”

“Why not?” she said with exasperation. “I've already slept tied up in the same bed with you.”

And I've already kissed you
.

“Lying side by side, fully clothed, is hardly the same thing as
relations
,” he said, emphasizing her word.

“But for women it is something treated with the reverence of only a wedding night and begetting children.”

“Men usually hope those two things aren't involved,” he said dryly, “unless one needs an heir, of course.”

But she only glared at him. “That's what my husband wanted—children. And I didn't give them to him.”

There was a pain in her words that called to him, but he refused to acknowledge it. He'd let down too many people in his own life—and his own father had let him down.

She sighed. “My husband used to tell me about the women he'd consorted with before we were married.”

Nick didn't know what she wanted from him, but it seemed to require conversation. “And did he continue to consort?”

“I don't think so. He seemed faithful…to a degree.”

“To a degree?” he echoed.

She waved her hand and didn't look at him. “Never mind. I should never have brought up such a subject—not with my kidnapper.”

“A very unwilling kidnapper.”

“Of course you
could
let me go.”

He was glad to see some of her spirit return. He found himself fascinated by her, drawn to her and these hints of a past that did not always seem so wonderful.

“I think we're done with this conversation, Charlotte.”

There was a brisk knock on the door, and he couldn't help feeling relieved. Cox walked in, carrying a large tray for breakfast.

There were plates of eggs and bacon and toast, and the three of them ate in uncomfortable silence.

Charlotte's restless mind could settle on no single thought. She thought about innocent Jane, who didn't know the truth about her future husband. Jane was innocent because Charlotte had selfishly kept their father's journals to herself. She'd also foolishly told Nick about their existence. All he had to do was have them stolen, and he would have access to all her father's work.

But she didn't believe Nick needed those journals to craft a believable story. Was he telling the truth? He and Sam had been speaking when they thought she was asleep. Could they really have faked their whole conversation to lull her into a falsehood? Why would they have bothered?

All right, they might want her cooperation to make things easier on themselves, but if they were truly traitors, killing her would accomplish
the same purpose. And no one would ever know. But she was already cooperating, although for her own reasons. She had to get away, before her mother thought something horrible had happened to her, before Charlotte told every dreadful marital secret she had to this stranger—before she succumbed to more of his kisses.

 

Charlotte behaved herself as she left the inn on Nick's arm. He didn't tie her up, though his look was threatening as they got under way. He tossed a newspaper on her seat, stretched out his long legs and fell promptly asleep, as if the past night hadn't rested him. Could it have been as difficult for him to sleep in the same bed as it was for her?

She stared at him with dismay, then peeked past the shutters out the glass window. The rural countryside of Huntingdonshire rolled by at an alarming rate. What was she going to do—jump? And risk breaking her leg?

She decided to behave as she thought her father would, biding her time and waiting for a better opportunity.

It came only hours later, when the carriage suddenly thumped. The newspaper slid to the floor, and Charlotte braced herself on the bench.

Nick frowned and leaned toward the window. “I wonder if we hit—”

A shudder wracked the frame, and with a great groaning of strained wood, the carriage suddenly lurched sideways, and she tumbled to the floor.
She watched in shock as Nick's head slammed into the window frame, and then he fell heavily on top of her. For several minutes she flailed beneath his weight, then the carriage shuddered to a halt, tilted at an angle.

She finally succeeded in sliding out from beneath Nick. She didn't know what to do first, as he was so ominously still. There was another tug on the vehicle, and she remembered stories of frightened horses continuing to run, pulling a carriage to pieces. Moving carefully, she ducked her head out the open window. Mr. Cox had both hands raised before the two pairs of horses, who were whinnying and tossing their heads. Each jerk of the harness sent another shudder through the carriage.

“Ye're good beasts now,” Mr. Cox said soothingly.

Very slowly he reached down and unhooked the horses' harness from the carriage. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief, but the cessation of tension seemed to intensify the horses' fear. The paired leaders pawed high in the air as Mr. Cox dove to the side. All four took off at a gallop down the tree-lined road, and the coachman followed at a surprisingly swift run. Charlotte sagged back onto the edge of the bench.

But Nick hadn't moved. He lay in a crumpled heap on the floor at her feet. Her heart renewed its pounding as she slid her hand down his neck to feel the strong beat of his pulse. Breathing a shaky
sigh, she gently lifted his head. A lump swelled just above his left temple, and a trickle of blood oozed from the small cut in the center. He was unconscious, but he would probably be just fine.

And she was alone on a road surrounded on both sides by a wooded forest. If she hid long enough in the trees, someone was bound to drive by eventually and help her. She would be free to appease her mother, to warn her sister.

Her throat tightened with helpless tears, and a battle began in her mind. Nick looked as peaceful as he had that morning, when she'd awakened in bed beside him. This was the man who'd gently bathed her cuts, who'd kissed her as if she were made of precious glass that might break if he exerted force—who'd promised to protect her from the villain who wanted her dead.

And what if Mr. Cox had gone to the next village for help? How long would Nick be alone, helpless, if she left him?

She closed her eyes and gave in. She couldn't leave him like this. He needed her help. After pulling a handkerchief from her reticule, she climbed down from the carriage and listened for the sound of running water. It took her several searches of both sides of the road to find a tiny stream that gurgled over a few rocks before disappearing underground again. She wet the handkerchief and walked back to the carriage.

Nick loomed in the doorway unsteadily. He
blinked several times, then shook his head as if to clear it. Wearing a frown, he asked, “You didn't run away?”

She put her hands on her hips. “Maybe you're not the only one whose head is damaged.”

He blinked again. “You're hurt?”

She shook her head as her attempt at humor went right by him. “I went to dampen a handkerchief. You have blood on your face.”

He lifted his hand to his head and winced.

“Nick, why don't you take my hand and I'll help you dow—”

He tried to step down on his own and ended up staggering. He would have pitched forward onto his face if she hadn't steadied him. Swaying, he propped his arms on her shoulders and stared down at her.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

She didn't think he was. “Sit down here in the shade and let me wipe your face.”

He complied, resting his back against a carriage wheel, then remained silent as she knelt beside him and began to dab at his wound.

“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.

“Not the cut, but my head feels like it's going to explode.”

She pressed the cool handkerchief to his temple, and this time he caught her hand and held it.

Searching her face, he asked, “Why didn't you leave? It was the perfect opportunity.”

She shrugged and avoided his gaze, pretending intense interest in his injury. “I'd probably get eaten by wild animals.”

“In Huntingdonshire?”

“Or killed by that man you were talking to in London, the one who wants me dead. Trust me, it was a purely selfish decision on my part.”

He didn't answer at first. Several minutes passed before he pushed her hand away. “I'll be fine. Where's Cox?”

“He went running after the horses, back the way we'd come.”

“There's probably a wheelwright in a village nearby,” Nick said, nodding. “Cox will be back soon.”

But several hours passed while she was forced to hover over a drowsy Nick. The coachman returned, riding in a wagon that carried a new wheel behind it, and four harnessed carriage horses attached at the rear. The driver was a blacksmith—the village was too small for a true wheelwright—but the man had brought along his strapping son to help.

Regardless of Charlotte's protests, Nick helped lift the carriage so the new wheel could be put in place. He was sweating, and his face looked pale. When he finally stumbled back from the carriage, she slid beneath his arm and steadied him.

Looking down at her, he gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Be a dear, love, and break out the ale I
keep beneath the bench. This is hard work for a hot autumn day.”

She nodded, knowing he was playing her husband again. “Are you sure we shouldn't have the blacksmith find you a doctor, dearest? Your bruise is turning an ugly color.”

He grinned. “I've had worse. But your concern is touching.”

He gave her a quick, hard kiss that made her feel as unsteady as he was.

Between gritted teeth and a forced smile, she said, “Anything to help.” But she couldn't remain angry when she could feel the tremor in his muscles as he held himself upright. The blow to the head had done more harm than he wanted to admit.

When they'd all drank their ale, and the blacksmith was paid for his efforts and on his way home, Mr. Cox went forward to check on the horses one last time. Charlotte felt Nick's arm around her shoulders again. As she put her arm about his chest, he began to sag against her, dropping to his knees and bringing her with him.

“Nick! Let me get Mr.—”

“No, don't worry him,” he said heavily. “I'm fine.”

“But I'm all that's holding you up,” she insisted.

“Then let's get into the carriage, and you won't even have to do that.”

With a lot of pulling on her part, she managed to get him to his feet. After they'd taken a couple
of shaky steps toward the open carriage door, Mr. Cox suddenly called out in a loud, worried voice.

“Nick!”

Nick detached himself from her so suddenly that she staggered. She watched in shock as he sprinted past the horses, the picture of his usual athletic grace. Mr. Cox stepped out of the horses' shadow and shook his head mournfully.

“As I thought,” the coachman said as Nick skidded to a halt, “ye're not quite as sick as ye pretend.”

Charlotte gaped at the two of them, and then Nick turned to face her.

“Now Charlotte—”

She threw up her hands with a groan, then turned and strode away from him, back down the road from where they came.

“Where are you going?” he asked in a laughing voice.

She could hear him advancing behind her. Glaring at him over her shoulder, she said, “I should have just left you!”

“But you didn't.”

He was trying his best to look serious, but to her disgust he wasn't succeeding.

“Were you even unconscious?” she demanded, turning to face him so quickly that she was able to push him backward.

He leaned his chest against her hand. “Truly, I
was
quite
unconscious. Senseless. Unaware. I might have
died
without you.”

Against her palm his heart pounded with surety, with safety, with confidence. When she didn't answer, he bent and lifted her up, his arms behind her shoulders and her knees, and walked back toward the carriage.

She pushed at his chest. “Put me down!”

“I can't take that risk. I might collapse again. Who would nurse me back to health?”

 

Their room at the next inn that night was considerably smaller than the last, although thankfully it still had a screen for Charlotte to retreat behind when she needed privacy. The bed dominated the room, and she tried not to look at it. Would they sleep there again? Would he attempt to do more than kiss her? That afternoon, when he'd swept her off her feet, she'd found herself imagining him kissing her deeply, as if he really needed her.

And would she still be able to resist? What was it about him that called to her? He had taken her prisoner, but he'd tried to be gentle. He was a man on a mission, and she was beginning to think he was on the correct side of the law. Good heavens, she'd given up a chance to escape for that. She'd seen evidence of his desire for her, but besides one kiss, he'd not acted on it, or tried to force her into anything, when he so clearly had
all the power. Was it this restraint that she thought exciting? Or the gentle playfulness she'd occasionally glimpsed?

Mr. Cox brought up a dinner tray, and once again they ate together. Mr. Cox was not a talkative man, and Nick seemed to have something on his mind. Charlotte let them have their silence as she worried about the coming night.

When the coachman had finally departed with orders to send up a bath for Nick, she sat down on the edge of the bed, deciding the best way to ask for the favor of her own bath. She hoped he wouldn't require something in return.