To Wed a Scandalous Spy (4 page)

As if in a dream, Willa watched herself slowly put out her hand and slip it into his. "Yes," she heard her voice say, "I will."

Nathaniel was seated at a rough table in the Derryton coaching inn with a mighty bucket of ale foaming before him and the enormous son of the enormous innkeeper at his side.

The young man—Dick? Or was it Dan?—had been with him for the past hour as he'd been introduced to the entire village, as Mr. Stonewell, of course. At every turn he'd been met by faces wreathed in smiles and grateful handclasps. Everyone seemed in favor of the match, from the chandler, to the baker, to the grinning cooper who was even now hammering together an archway on the green where the vows were to take place.

Apparently something unfortunate had happened to the tiny village church recently—which incident had sparked a few snickers and reassuring comments in the vein of "Don't worry, sir. She'll outgrow it soon enough."

Nathaniel tried very hard not to think about the structure on the green and its uncanny resemblance to a gallows as he gently questioned the village folk about Foster. He learned little of importance—only that "a right toff" had stayed the night at the coaching inn, had never left the inn, not even to join the search for the missing girl, but had left before dawn that morning on the road south.

Derryton was not on the way from Foster's landing point at Crestford to London by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, Foster's route was most curious. Nathaniel had followed him here to far Northamptonshire, north and west of Crestford and most decidedly far north of London, without a clue where the man was headed.

Perhaps Foster was choosing to remain on the back roads to avoid recognition. His face was nearly as recognizable as Nathaniel's, for they'd appeared together in the infamous political cartoon "Fleur and Her Followers."

Derryton itself seemed unlikely to have been Foster's destination. The village was healthy but not bustling, an attractive example of a thousand other such hamlets adorning the roads of England.

An entirely ordinary town, this Derryton. Except for the girl. The innkeeper's son was oddly reticent on some topics but was willing to discuss the unusual Miss Trent.

As it turned out, she was the de facto ward of the innkeeper and a former lady's maid.

Apparently, the girl's father and mother had died of fever several years ago. Young Willa had been left with no perceptible relatives, and the entire village had taken the girl in at the age of twelve.

All around Nathaniel, said villagers now bustled. The innkeeper's wife tripped by with a smile on her face and her arms full of yellowed fabric. Despite the early hour, pints were raised again and again to congratulate the "happy couple." As mundane a setting as Nathaniel had ever seen.

No, Nathaniel decided that Foster must have simply wanted a night in a soft bed and a pint of good ale on his journey. With a suppressed groan, Nathaniel rolled his head from side to side to ease the pounding. Nathaniel's own bed had been a grassy ditch, and the pint of ale, though tempting, must be refused. He was on duty.

The Royal Four were always on duty.

To be chosen as the Cobra was a distinction beyond price, and Nathaniel was honored to be thus entrusted with the fate of the nation, whether others knew it or not. The Four had been in place since the days of William the Conqueror and, through judicious influence and watchfulness, had steered England into the empire it currently was.

The nutty scent of the ale wafted under Nathaniel's nose. It smelled delicious. Sadly, he put it aside. He was the Cobra. He was
not
the man his father thought him, not the light-minded wastrel he'd made pains to be regarded as.

He was a man above greed, above politics, above self.

And unfortunately, above ale, although he had never longed more for a pint. His head pounded unmercifully, his bones ached from his fall, and his life was about to change forever.

Again.

Today was his wedding day and he was to wed a stranger.

"But he is a stranger to me! Do you genuinely expect me to wed him
today
—"

The rest of Willa's protest was cut off as John Smith's wife, Moira, drew the elderly wedding gown over her head. Apparently they did expect her to. The old silk smelled of benzene and dust. Willa sneezed twice as soon as her head popped out.

They stood in Moira and John's room, for in Willa's room her possessions were being packed with lightning speed.

"There now, miss," Moira said soothingly. "He's a fine fellow. I can tell by the cut of him. He might even be as high as a lord. John says his horse is an expensive beast, and those boots were made special for him on Bond Street, mark my words. I've been to London, you'll remember. I know about these things."

Willa didn't bother to remind Moira that her journey had been over twenty years ago and had lasted mere weeks. Even that little excursion was more than Willa had ever traveled, at least since she had come to Derryton as an infant on that same trek.

Besides, Moira had been dining out on that story all these years, and in the woman's mind London had become a mystical place of gold-paved streets and confectioner shops on every corner. Surely it was even more fascinating than that.

"But he could be anyone! A… a highwayman, or even a gypsy!"

"Pish-posh. He's a fine and handsome gentleman. He knows his duty and he's willing to do right. Honorable, that one is. That means he's perfect for you. You're no common village lass, don't forget. You're as much a lady as any in London, by my way of thinking. Your dear mum certainly was. And didn't she look a treat in this gown?"

Moira sniffled as she tugged the dress into place, and Willa regretted bringing up sad memories. Her mother
had
been a lady, no doubt about it, and Moira her loyal lady's maid until her death.

The gown fit perfectly. Willa narrowed her eyes at her own image in the wavy mirror. Her mother had a been a slender lady, elegantly petite of bust and bottom. Quite the opposite of Willa herself. "Moira, how is it that the dress fits perfectly?"

Moira busied herself with the folds of the skirts. "Oh, I let it out three years ago When I thought William Beckham might be the one."

"Oh yes. Wills. Do you think he's regained the hearing in his left ear?"

"I'm sure he has, pet," Moira said soothingly. "After all, it was a trifling explosion—hardly more than a Chinese rocket going off."

"I do hope so," Willa said sincerely. "One should always be cautious with black powder. After all, I would never have set his gift next to the stove if I'd known it was flammable."

Moira finished doing the many tiny buttons up the back of the gown. "There now." She smiled over Willa's shoulder at her in the mirror. "All ready for your groom."

Her groom. Her husband
. "But Moira, a man off the road?"

"Well, he was good enough to spend the night lying beside, wasn't he?" Moira put a fist on each wide hip and glared at Willa. "You mind me, miss! You're fortunate no one in this village would speak against you, or your reputation would be in ruins sure enough! Even so, it's a fair thing you never kissed him!"

Willa didn't answer that one, but obviously her blush spoke for her, because Moira's scowl turned to open-mouthed shock. The woman rushed to the window and threw open the shutter.

"James Cooper, aren't you finished with that archway yet? And where's that vicar from Edgeton?"

There was a pause in the hammering and James Cooper's voice drifted up from the square. "John should be back with him by noon, missus. You want I should skip the benches?"

"Mercy, yes. We'd best get this done spot-on!"

She turned back to Willa and gave a disapproving shake of her head. "You mind me, miss. The man spent the night with you and lived to tell the tale. Wed him and bed him and be quick about it. I have just the thing for that."

Moira led Willa to where a wisp of fine lawn hung from a hook behind the door. The dainty concoction of lace and gossamer fabric was in odd contrast to the rustic room, with its homemade bed frame and chest and worn rag rug on the floor.

Moira held the scant thing up proudly, displaying it on her wide front.

Willa gaped. "Moira! Oh, gracious, you don't mean for me to wear
that
."

"And what's wrong with it? It's white, it's long, and it covers you neck to toe."

"Except that it might as well be invisible!"

"Well, no one ever said a bride had to wear a flour sack, now did they?" Moira handed it to Willa.

Since that was the undeniable truth, Willa didn't bother to protest any further. "Where did it come from?"

"I purchased it off a gypsy peddler a while back, when it looked like that Donovan boy might survive long enough to crack the question."

"Oh yes. Poor Sam." Goodness, that had been two years back. "Have you seen his mother lately?"

"A few Sundays ago. She told me he's married now and they're all hoping he'll still be able to father a child."

Willa shook her head sadly. "Such a pity. He was very sweet. But one can never be too careful around a cider press."

Moira gave her a pointed look. "You don't want this man to come to the same end, now do you?"

"Oh, Moira, you know the same thing never happens twice."

"No, as far as I can see, it just keeps getting worse."

Willa stroked the fine fabric in her hands. It was so sheer, she could see her fingernails through it. "But to bed him? I scarcely know his name, let alone love him!"

Moira sighed and her expression softened. "You've been reading too many romantic stories, my girl. Love comes after. I've told you that time and again. You pick yourself a likely fellow, you make your mind up, and you marry."

"But you love John. I know you do."

"That I do, but I've had twenty years to know him, and find out what a fine man he is. Not that he doesn't have his bad side. I've not had a good night's sleep in two decades sharing a bed with that great lout and his snores." The fondness in her voice belied her complaint. "But, for the most part, a man is what you make of him."

Willa was none too sure of that. "Still, perhaps he won't mind waiting a bit for the bedding part. I certainly don't, and I have been waiting all my life."

Moira frowned again. "Miss Willa, you know very well that poor man's life is in danger every minute you delay. The only way to break that jinx is to get yourself wedded and bedded. If you don't do it now…"

Her voice trailing off warningly, Moira gave Willa a significant look and sailed out of the room.

After her guardian and best friend left, Willa sank to the bed and leaned her cheek against the bedpost. Marry a stranger or likely never marry at all, that's what Moira had meant

The older Willa got, the fewer the young men who gazed her way. Not because she was losing her looks but because word was getting out about the dangers of taking a fancy to the "Mishap Miss" of Derryton village.

«
^
»

A half hour later, Willa peered through her mother's veil at the gathering of villagers before her. Yes, they were all there, from the baker's wife to the cooper's daughter. Every woman from the village stood facing Willa on the other side of the square. Behind them stood the men, shuffling shamefaced and uncomfortable, but there all the same.

Willa let her gaze travel over every beloved face, every pair of callused helping hands. These people were her only family in the world, really. She loved them all.

The traitors.

"I can't believe you would do this to me. What would Mama say?" muttered Willa.

"She'd say high time. Now smile, miss."

With a loving peck to Willa's cheek and a reproving pinch to her arm, Moira gave her a push toward the archway where four men waited. The twin sons of John and Moira, the vicar from Edgeton, and the man called Nathaniel Stonewell.

Clutching her fistful of garden flowers, Willa walked toward them, the traditional hesitant pace of the bride suddenly making a great deal of sense.

Who wouldn't hesitate to take such a step? For the rest of her life she would be in the hands of this man whom she didn't even know.

True, they were large and shapely hands. True, he was a good-looking fellow and well-spoken. Actually, it entered Willa's mind that she may have made a fortunate shot with that sling after all.

That is, as long as he didn't murder her in her sleep or sell her to some Arabian sheikh.

Worse yet, what if he
snored
?

Standing in the center of the green, Nathaniel tried not to chafe at the delay in his mission. This was a momentous day in his life, no matter the randomness of the marriage. The noon sun shone down on the picturesque village square, birds chirped a lively tune from the trees, and chubby village children ran laughing in circles around the archway. A lovely day for a wedding, actually. Nathaniel was simply having trouble believing it was his own.

Then all eyes turned to the figure in satin coming down the lawn. A pretty picture indeed. The little miss from the lane washed up nicely, in her fresh country way.

He was marrying.

Of course, it was an entirely illegal union, especially for someone of his station. No banns had been read, no delicate negotiations of dowry and inheritance enacted, no chance for those who might protest to do so.

A village cleric and a garden bouquet might be binding enough for the common folk of Derryton village, who needed very little other than their word to unite them, but since the Marriage Act was passed more than fifty years ago, no peer could legally wed in England without weeks of bloody rigmarole. An impromptu country exchange of vows was considered little more than a betrothal, a rural "jumping over the broomstick" tradition.

Not that he had any intention of refuting the union. He'd inadvertently ruined a respectable young woman—more than she yet realized—and he knew his duty. He would wed her as soon as they arrived in London and all had been arranged.

He simply didn't think now was a good time to inform her of that. She was unwilling enough to leave, he could see. Traveling with a sniffling "bride" was preferable, and likely faster, than traveling with a reluctant, possibly rebellious woman who could not possibly wish to tie herself to "Lord Treason" once she learned the truth.