The Beauty and the Spy (9 page)

There was a quiet knock on the door. Nick walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder, and she found herself tensing.

“That will be the bath. I suggest you sit here as docilely as any wife until the servants are gone.”

“And what will you do if I don't—kill the maid?” The day's frustration made her speak more sharply than she had intended.

“Don't become a threat, Charlotte.”

They stared at each other as another knock sounded.

Finally she lowered her gaze, knowing this was not the way to placate him. “Very well.”

As two kitchen boys carried in a copper tub and placed it before the hearth, Charlotte listened in surprise to the new character Nick had adopted. No longer was he a Scotsman, but a very proper British gentleman, with the sub
servient air of a banker's clerk, and an undercurrent of a man who thought he was entitled to more. She watched him in amazement. The arrogant, powerful Nick was gone.

Who was he?

The servants made several trips, bringing steaming buckets of water. They lit the coals in the grate to warm the room, and even left two buckets of cooler water behind. After Nick tipped them handsomely and they left, she stared at the tub.

“I don't know how you're going to do this,” she finally said. “Of course I could go sit in the dining room.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “The bath is for you.”

Stunned, she couldn't look at him, so she let herself stare longingly at the bath. Steam rose from the water, and there were thick towels and scented soap set on the nearby chair.

He had ordered this for her?

She felt confused and uncertain over his motives.

“Why did you do this?” she asked, raising her gaze to meet his. This didn't make sense from the man who had kidnapped her, who'd tied her up in bed, who'd pretended illness to see how she'd react. Did he want something more from her? Or was this another hint of the gentle man who'd washed her wounds?

For a fleeting moment, he looked as confused
as she felt. Then he gruffly said, “The odors in here might become rather ripe.”

He was lying. Was he embarrassed that he'd shown a softness he didn't want her to see? Or was his final goal seduction?

“And will you wait somewhere else?” she asked.

“No.”

She wasn't surprised. Even her behavior today seemed to have given him no reason to think he could trust her. She allowed herself a sigh as she stared longingly at the tub.

“I'll move the screen for you,” he said.

She couldn't help but smile at him. She swiftly gathered up a change of clothing—maybe the next dress would fit better—and when he was finished she ducked behind the screen without meeting his gaze.

“Promise you won't come over here,” she called.

She thought she heard him snort before he said, “I give you my word.”

Since she was trying to lull him with sweetness, she resisted the urge to remind him that he had admitted he admired her lies. He too would lie when he thought it necessary. But she didn't think he'd lie about this. And the fact that she believed this about Nick was something she didn't want to examine.

So although she was uneasy with his nearness,
she undressed swiftly, and with a sigh of pleasure sank into the tub.

Nick found himself pacing. Charlotte's blissful sighs put him on edge, for he kept imagining more erotic ways he could make her sigh like that. They were separated by a thin screen—and she was naked.

He should have had Cox send him up a brandy.

What had Nick been thinking? He was pampering her with a bath, as if he was going to enjoy her scented flesh. What happened to his own insistence that he would treat her as he would a male hostage?

Listening to the splashing of water, he paced even faster. When she began to softly hum he wanted to groan his frustration. He'd been trapped with her all day, watching the graceful way she'd held the newspaper, the strain of her bodice to control her breasts, the way she'd refused to sleep, although her lovely eyes had sagged with weariness.

After the carriage accident she could have escaped, yet she'd stayed to tend him. He'd woken up, his vision bleary, and thought for certain she'd run. But she'd been fetching water for his wounds like a concerned wife. What the hell was he supposed to make of that?

And now he was alone with her again, in an even smaller room with what seemed like an enormous bed. He
couldn't
spend another night
lying at her side. He would have to think up another plan.

He glanced at the screen again, then stopped cold. She had taken the only lamp back there with her, and as light flickered against the far wall, he could see the faintest shadow of her through the screen. He should quickly light some candles. But he didn't move.

She was only a blurry shape, almost indistinguishable, but he found himself staring like the celibate he'd lately been. As she rose out of the tub, he could see her silhouette, the roundness of her breasts, the fall of her hair, the surprisingly full curve of her ass.

Cursing under his breath, he turned away.

When she finally folded back the screen, a waft of sweet-smelling woman greeted him. Her hair fell in damp, tangled waves down her back, and she'd donned another gown. He couldn't decide whether he was grateful Sam had forgotten a nightdress.

With her eyes cast down she murmured, “Might I borrow your brush?”

He gave it to her without comment, then sat down to watch the next torture as she bent before the hot coals, spread out her hair, and repeatedly combed through it.

When she was done and turned to stare at him hesitantly, he couldn't take it anymore.

“Is the water cold?” he asked brusquely.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Charlotte watched with rising shock as Nick pulled off his coat and then his shirt.

“What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly, trying not to stare at his bare chest.

“Using the tub.”

“But I just—”

“I'm too lazy to wait. Did you use all the towels?” he asked over his shoulder as he set the screen back up.

She cleared her throat, hoping her voice sounded normal. “No. But I hung my wet…underthings back there.”

He disappeared behind, and she swallowed as she saw his trousers tossed to hang over the screen. As he sat in the dirty water, surely he must be shuddering with the cold.

And looking at her drawers and petticoats.

Suddenly the whole screen fell forward, landing partially on the bed. Her mouth sagged open as she watched Nick lean his head back in the tub. His bare wet knees were plainly visible.

“Couldn't let you think of escaping from me, now could I?” he said.

And then he started washing himself. She was frozen with shock—and something that made her feel overheated and vulnerable. He grinned at her as his soapy hands slid slowly down his chest and disappeared from sight. With a gasp Charlotte
turned her back. She could hear his laughter and much splashing, but she certainly didn't have to watch. It was a shame she couldn't turn off her mind, though, because she couldn't forget his wicked smile, and how…pleasantly it transformed his face.

And sad to say—she hadn't even thought about escaping while he was bathing.

“I can't believe this,” she muttered to herself, sitting down on the bed and clutching a pillow.

“What?” he called.

She could hear his amusement. She found herself wanting to put him in his place, to saunter over there and prove that his nudity did not bother her. She'd been a married woman, after all.

But she'd never been at a man's bath before, even her husband's. She couldn't do it. “I only said how incongruous it is that we're bathing in the same room—in the same
tub
—and I don't even know your name.”

“I'm not lying about my name.”

“Your full name.”

There was a pause, and she almost looked over her shoulder to see what he was doing. Almost.

“It's Nicholas Wright. With a W.”

“Wright?” she echoed. “I'm sure you think it's perfect for you.”

He chuckled. Had she heard him laugh before? For the first time he sounded truly relaxed.

“Have you heard of my family?” he asked.

“Should I have?”

“I don't know. They've never been much for London.”

“And were
you
much for London?”

“My father wouldn't allow it.”

Even that thought-provoking statement couldn't distract her from the ludicrousness of their situation. She groaned. “I can't believe we're having this conversation while you're…bathing.”

“Frankly, I'm relaxing. You can look at me if you want. I promise I won't stand up without warning you.”

“I don't think—”

She realized he was assuming she wouldn't look! Before she could think through the consequences, she swiveled on the bed until she faced him, crossed her arms over her chest, and lifted her chin.

His wet hair was slicked back from his face, and his muscular arms glistened where they rested along the edge of the tub. His bent knees pointed to the ceiling. She was decidedly daring and brazen, altogether unlike herself. It felt very much like freedom.

He was grinning widely at her. “You're very brave.”

Ignoring his words, she said, “If your father didn't allow you to go to London when you were young, I hope your estate was at least pleasant. Where is your family from?”

He leaned his head back and eyed her from be
neath lowered lids. “A village in Kent called Folkestone. It's near the cliffs overlooking the English Channel.”

“Isn't there an earl by that name?”

His smile faded a bit. “There is.”

“And you don't like him?” she said, tilting her head as she studied him.

“I didn't say that.”

“You don't seem to want to say much.”

“Not my favorite subject. Let's move on.”

Knowing she had to take this opportunity to discover things about him while she could, Charlotte fluffed two pillows against the headboard and leaned back.

“Do you have brothers or sisters?” she asked.

“My mother died when I was fourteen. After my father married again, they had another son and two daughters.” His expression grew thoughtful. “I've never met my youngest sister, and the others were very young when I left the country.”

“How old are they now?”

He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “My brother would be sixteen now, and my youngest sister twelve.”

“Such a shame that you're not a part of their lives.”

“I've sent them gifts and the occasional letter. They've never written back.”

She felt a catch of sadness, knowing that she'd
been lucky to have Jane at her side, even if they did not always agree. “I'm sorry.”

“I know it's not their fault. I ignored my father's wishes when I joined John Company, and he never forgave me.”

“John Company?”

“The East India Company. I'm part of the Political Department, although I used to be an officer in the cavalry.”

Though she wanted to question him about his military career, she could not imagine not being close to her father. “Did it…disturb you greatly to go against your father?”

He smiled. “No. He controlled me by the purse strings, even after my stepmother convinced him to let me attend Oxford.”

“Well…that was decent of her.”

“She wanted all my father's attention on her own children,” he said dryly. “But that suited my purposes.”

“It sounds like your family life was not ideal,” she said in a soft voice, realizing how lucky she was, even though her marriage had turned out badly. At least she had a family that loved her.

Nick shook his head. “I don't want your pity. My father was a cold man and my family emulated him, so I found my relationships elsewhere.”

“‘Was'?”

“He died several months ago.” His voice lacked all emotion.

“Were you even in the country then?”

“No. Word reached me as I made my way through Paris on my way to England.”

“It must have been terribly difficult on your stepmother, not to have you to lean upon.”

“I wouldn't know. I haven't been home yet.”

She gaped at him. “But surely when you came across the channel—you said your home was on the coast, did you not?”

“I couldn't abandon my duty, Charlotte. You better than anyone know how important it is to me. My father's death was months ago. A few more weeks' delay will not harm matters.”

They stared at each other quietly, while she tried to imagine how different their lives were. And then came the realization that he might not be telling her the truth.

Yet…she believed him. And deep inside her she wanted to believe it all. He didn't seem like a criminal.

Or was it that she didn't want him to be?

N
ick watched Charlotte's expression cloud over with pensiveness instead of the interest she'd just shown in him. He hadn't thought he'd ever want to talk about his family, but she only had to ask, and he'd told her private things.

Well, not everything.

But he didn't want to stop talking, even though the water was cold. If he told her he had to get out, it would break this tenuous thread of communication that was strung between them. She was a woman; she wanted to hear about family relationships. It was a good way to keep her calm and interested—and not a threat to his mission.
Maybe she would finally believe the truth. And what harm could there be in her learning a few carefully selected facts about his family?

“Over the years,” he began, “I've heard a thing or two about you.”

Those changeable, hazel eyes focused on him again, and he relaxed.

“Surely there has not been much gossip about me,” she said. “We lived a very quiet life.”

“I haven't been in England for thirteen years, so any gossip wouldn't reach me.”

“Thirteen years!” she breathed. “How did you bear it?”

“I enjoyed almost every minute of it—unless I was fighting for my life, of course, and then I was too busy to enjoy things.”

“Nicholas!”

Her scolding voice warmed him, and he tamped down that part of him.

“Your father spoke of you and your sister often.”

“He did?”

“He was very proud of both of you.” Deliberately he added, “He regretted that he could not be here for your wedding.” He wanted to hear more about her marriage.

She glanced toward the dark window, as if she were looking far off. “I missed him terribly. I have often wondered if things would have turned out differently.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe he would have seen that Aubrey Sinclair was not the husband for me.” She bit her lip and looked down at her clenched hands. “I shouldn't be saying these things to you.”

He sat up straighter, controlling a shiver induced by the cold water. “No, go ahead and say it. Maybe you've needed to.”

She tilted her head and smiled. “But you don't need to hear it. Suffice it to say, my mother was overjoyed when Aubrey showed his intentions, and I went along with it without questioning how well we might suit.”

“It sounds as if your mother didn't expect you to find a husband—which is ridiculous, with your beauty and your father's title.”

She blushed and looked down, smoothing out her skirt. “I think she just allowed herself to be caught up with the excitement of my first serious suitor. ‘He was a gentleman of exemplary character and fortune,' as she liked to say.”

“How did he die?” he asked carefully.

Her gaze dropped to the bed, and she smoothed the coverlet. “His horse threw him into a river. He drowned.”

“So sudden. That must have been difficult.”

“I guess it was better than if he'd suffered.”

He wanted to draw more from her, but then an uncontrollable shudder raced through him.

Charlotte stiffened. “My goodness! I've been prattling on and you must be freezing. Should I put the screen up?” she asked doubtfully.

“And risk coming near a naked man? No. Just turn your back. I trust you.”

After she turned to face the wall, he quickly dried off and pulled on a clean pair of trousers. When he walked around to the side of the bed, she looked up at him. He noticed how quickly her gaze skimmed over his bare chest.

“If you trust me,” she said quietly, “then please don't tie me up tonight.”

He let out a sigh. “Nothing we've said here changes the fact that my mission is the most important thing to me. If you don't wish to be tied to me, we have to find another way that I can be certain you won't escape.”

“But this afternoon I didn't leave you when I could have!”

“I know. But what if you change your mind?”

“But if I just sleep next to you, surely you'll be able to tell if I arise.”

“I can't sleep next to you again.” He sat down on the opposite side of the bed, tilting the mattress dangerously toward him, so close that their knees almost touched. “I kissed you this morning. I won't promise not to try more if you're lying against my side.”

He watched the blush heat her skin, and the way her gaze dipped to his mouth. She was remembering the kiss, too.

“Then don't kiss me,” she whispered.

He braced his hand beside her knee and leaned closer. “Perhaps I should say the same to you.”

Her gaze flew to his face, her lovely lips parted, but she didn't say anything. How could she? She hadn't immediately pushed him away when he'd kissed her. Deep down, he wondered if he could seduce away her inhibitions, show her that there was more to life than what she'd experienced in an unhappy marriage.

“I won't kiss you,” she said, but her voice spoiled her resolve by quivering.

Smiling, he said, “I'm glad I'm safe from your unsavory intentions.”

She frowned. “Don't tease me. My situation with you is precarious, through no fault of my own.”

“I know.”

Taking a deep breath, she asked, “So where will you sleep?”

“I'll put a chair near the door.”

“But you refused to do that last night.”

He reached toward her and tucked a long curl behind her ear. “Last night I didn't know the bed would be worse.”

This was dangerous. Charlotte was a woman who could test his resolve as perhaps no other ever had. He could read every emotion on her face, and he wondered how she would look if he was inside her.

He pulled back and stood up. He had to reerect a small barrier between them.

“I want you to remove your clothes. You'll be less likely to try to escape in the night—and if you do, I'll be more likely to hear you.”

He waited for her outrage, but the expression on her face remained almost calm. She rose slowly to her feet, the bed between them. He looked about, wondering what was nearby that she might throw at him. Or did she mean to go behind the screen?

But then her fingers went to the buttons at her throat, and she started opening them.

What the hell?

Nick's uneasiness intensified. There was something wrong. Her face looked almost blank, resigned, as if she weren't really aware of what she was doing, where she was. Her dress parted farther and farther over her bodice, as the tight material finally sagged with relief. He could see her chemise now, but it was cut low over her chest, as if it had been the one she'd worn under her ball gown.

She had to pull hard to tug each sleeve down, and he wondered if she'd have marks on her skin from how tight everything was. And she'd never complained a bit.

But she wasn't saying anything now. The dress fell to the floor in a pile, and she began untying the petticoats at her waist.

She was undressing for him, but it was far from provocative.

He couldn't look at her blank expression anymore. He came around the bed and took her hands when she would have reached for the neckline of her chemise.

“No, Charlotte, you can stop now.”

The emptiness in her face began to fade away as she looked up at him. “Nick?” she whispered, sounding so confused.

Something in his chest began to ache as he looked into her frightened eyes. “That's enough, Charlotte. I didn't mean—I only meant your outer clothes. Sleep in your chemise.”

She took a sudden, deep breath and stepped away from him. “That wasn't very nice,” she said, projecting sternness over the quiver in her voice.

He began to relax as color blossomed in her pale cheeks. “You're right, it wasn't. I should have explained myself better. Now get into bed and go to sleep. We should hear from Sam tomorrow, and it might be a busy day.”

As he watched her slide beneath the light sheets, he thought about her behavior. She'd begun to remove her clothes at just a suggestion, as if she'd done this before and it hadn't ended pleasantly.

What kind of man had she married? Or had something else happened to her that he didn't know about? Hell, he didn't know much about her at all, and he shouldn't be so curious to find out.

Yet he didn't want her dwelling on the hurt she'd suffered in life. A depressed hostage was far worse than an angry one. But how to distract her?

After turning down the lamp and dragging a chair near the door, he sat down and leaned his head back, thankful at least for the high back and
the armrests. But he knew sleep wouldn't come easily, for in the shadowy darkness he could still see his hostage.

It took a long time before Charlotte finally felt some of her tension dissolve away.

What had happened to her?

Was mention of her husband's name enough to resurrect the ghost of her old response to him?

And that's what her behavior had been, a response she'd long been used to having when given an order to remove her clothes.

Would she have just kept going if Nick hadn't stopped her? What else would she have done in that trancelike state?

She covered her face with a pillow out of embarrassment. She would not let herself respond to a man's command like that again. Her old life was finished, and she had embarked on a new one, where she stood up to kidnappers and fought back as best she could.

Now if only she could stop these feelings of attraction that made it hard to think when she was around him. With frustration she tossed the pillow onto the end of the bed.

“Can't sleep?” said Nick's deep voice out of the darkness.

She drew in her breath on a gasp. “You startled me.”

“Sorry. Sleep is eluding us both, I gather.”

He hesitated, and she found herself listening for his voice in the silence.

“So would you like to talk?” he asked.

She closed her eyes against the darkness and wished she could will herself to sleep. “About what?”

“Well, you started an interesting subject this morning about having—what was your word?” He chuckled. “Ah, yes,
relations
.”

She felt her face flush. “I did not talk about us having relations!”

“I didn't say
us
, now did I? You've revealed how your mind works.”

Mortified, she rolled onto her side, away from him. “Go to sleep.”

“Now, now, don't get all upset with me. So, very well, you talked about men having relations, and how to a woman such a thing is treated with—reverence? Was that your word?”

She groaned and pulled the pillow over her head again.

“Perhaps now that you're a widow,” he continued, “you should remind yourself that sex—how crude of me to refer to it correctly—is also a union of pleasure.”

If he wanted her curiosity, she would give it to him. “And do you not worry that you might accidentally get the woman…with child?”

“There are ways to safeguard against that.”

She was shocked. “There are?”

“Aren't you the innocent.”

She looked up into the darkness, where she could see nothing, including Nick. She felt bold,
even reckless—and consequently didn't trust herself. “I don't wish to hear such things.”

She heard his soft laughter. “Don't you want to play the merry widow?”

“No!”

“Of course you wouldn't,” he said, soothing and teasing her at the same time. “Sex is for begetting children. And that's the only reason to be married, correct?”

“No, I—” She broke off, confused by the turn in the conversation. “I never said that.”

“But you said you didn't give your husband an heir, and that's all he wanted.”

She frowned. “Maybe.”

“But is that all you wanted in a marriage? Children?”

“I guess not.”

“But it was all your husband wanted,” he said softly.

There was a long, awkward silence while she tried to understand why this made her so sad, that her husband had only wanted children from her, and not any other relationship. Most couples lived separate lives, with little in common. Had she expected—hoped—to be different?

“Good night,” she said firmly.

 

Charlotte climbed out of the depths of sleep and rolled over. The room was bathed in sunlight, and the smell of ham and eggs made her stomach gurgle. She stretched away her stiffness,
arching her back and sighing. She glanced at the window, only to see Nick watching her with an inscrutable expression.

What must she look like? Her hair was a mass of curls and snarls, and as she looked down herself, she saw that her chemise revealed a shocking amount of her breasts. In fact an inch more to her stretch, and all her assets would have been revealed. She quickly pulled the sheet up to her chin. His lips twisted in a smile before he turned back to the window. He was looking at several sheets of paper in his hand.

She wrestled with her neckline until it was as respectable as possible, then she climbed out of bed. Breakfast was laid out on the little table, and although it was obvious he had eaten some of his, he now seemed very preoccupied. She pretended her chemise was a nightgown—as if that was any better!—and after throwing a blanket around her shoulders, tiptoed toward the window, craning her neck to see what he was reading.

“It's a letter,” he said over his shoulder.

She stumbled to a halt. “Oh. I will admit I was curious. Was this just delivered? I guess I was sleeping deeply.”

“You were. Cox brought us breakfast, and you never knew. But no, I've had this for quite some time. Julia Reed's former accomplice, Edwin Hume, the one who is willing to testify against her, sent this to me. It's the way Julia gave secrets to our enemies.”

She peered over his arm. In the sunlight the paper was so bright, she couldn't make out the exact words. “Her penmanship is rather poor.”