by Shana Galen
While You Were Spying
While You Were Spying
Shana Galen
Copyright © 2015 by Shana Galen
Published by BMLA Digital
Cover Design © Seductive Design
Image copyright © Hot Damn Stock
Image copyright © Depositphotos.com/Andrew Roland
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For all the writers who were with me at the start and who had a hand in the writing, revision, and editing of early versions of this book, especially Linda Andrus, Courtney Burkholder, Babette de Jongh, Christina Hergenrader, and Jessica Trapp.
Contents
Title Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Excerpt from Earls Just Want to Have Fun by Shana Galen
More from Shana Galen
One
Hampshire, 1800
“That vile, odious—”
Tiptoes perched precariously on the bottom of an old broken bucket, Francesca levered herself higher. Her hands whitened in their angry grip as she finally managed a good look inside the barn.
“Worm!” she spat.
The rough wood of the window casement speared her flesh, but the pain of the splinters focused her anger enough to prevent her from seizing the nearest pistol, marching to the dilapidated estate a few hundred yards away, and shooting Will Skerrit in an area of his anatomy ladies were not supposed to think about.
As her eyes adjusted from the late afternoon sun to the darkness of the stable, Francesca saw only too clearly why shooting Skerrit would be too good for the man. He should suffer a slow, painful death.
Inside the crumbling mud-brown building, the once-beautiful colt was scarred and bloody. He stood trembling with his head hung low, his breathing labored. On the foul floor of his cold stall, wisps of scarce straw danced about like puppets manipulated by the biting November wind. Far more abundant were the flies and maggots buzzing around the feces in which the horse stood fetlock-deep. Francesca saw no evidence of feed, and the only water bucket lay on its side, dry as a bone. Francesca put a hand to her nose, the barn’s fetid stink almost overpowering her.
Rage boiling inside her, she leaned forward and craned her neck to eye the far end of the stable. The bucket lurched under her just then, and she pinwheeled her arms in a vain effort to regain her balance. Unsuccessful, she tumbled helplessly backwards—into a wall of hard, unyielding muscle.
With a squeal, she pitched forward, only to be caught and steadied by the wall’s hands. One hand, sinewed and tanned, pulled her securely against a broad, hard chest while the other covered her mouth.
She cried out, but her screams were ineffective and muffled. Her heart beat a frantic drum against her ribcage as she struggled against him.
Dear God, she prayed, please don’t let it be Skerrit.
“What are you doing here?” the man breathed into her ear.
She caught the scents of horse and leather lingering on the skin of his hand, and his lips tickled the sensitive hairs behind her ear. Francesca closed her eyes with relief, her heart slowing to an uneasy thump. The sound of his rich, deep voice coupled with the feel of his large, strong body against hers told her he wasn’t Skerrit. Thank Heaven. The lecherous farmer would have been only too glad to find her sneaking about his property unescorted.
Francesca shivered at the thought.
Her captor’s grip on her mouth immediately slackened, and she realized he must have misinterpreted her shudder.
“I won’t hurt you.” His mouth brushed her earlobe. “If I remove my hand, can I trust you not to cry out?”
His voice, a low velvet purr, resonated through her very bones. Francesca chided herself for her overreaction. Of course this man wouldn’t hurt her. This was the Hampshire countryside, after all. Nothing interesting ever happened here. She felt his warm breath caress her ear again.
Until now.
His hold on her mouth eased. “Don’t scream,” he repeated.
There was something about this man—the smell of him, the steady strength in him—that made her feel secure, that made her nod her acquiescence almost without thinking. She was surprised at her response. For the last half year, her reaction to being touched by any man had been nothing short of panic.
He slackened his grip, fingers brushing her mouth as he withdrew his hand. She pressed her dry lips together, wetting them with her tongue, and she could taste the leather of his gloves on them.
“For a moment I was worried,” Francesca began as she turned to peer up at the man. “Who are—”
Her smile fell, and she crushed her knuckles to her mouth to stifle the shriek.
“What are you doing here?”
Reeling from shock, she stumbled backward again, nearly falling over the forgotten bucket.
The man reached out, grasped her arm, and for the second time in as many minutes, hauled her upright. She jumped at his touch, flailed forward, and landed in his warm, solid arms. Head resting against his warm, solid chest. And, Heaven help her, she didn’t pull away as quickly as she knew she should. She told herself it was because if she fell over one more time he’d label her the Clumsiest Girl in All of England.
But that wasn’t the only reason.
Francesca couldn’t believe, even without seeing him, she hadn’t known it was him. His smell, his voice. She’d thought they’d been stamped indelibly on her brain. His physical appearance, too, though each time she caught a glimpse of him it was as breathtaking as the first.
She didn’t need to look at him to picture him. Ethan Caxton, the Marquess of Winterbourne, was the most attractive man she’d ever seen. Tall and lean, he was graced with rich auburn hair and dark amber eyes. Unconventionally handsome, the chiseled angles and sculpted planes of his facial features made him appear harsh but arresting. Even dressed unremarkably in charcoal black with a white shirt and cravat, he radiated danger and sensuality.
She glanced up, her gaze locking with his. What she saw made her belly flutter. Those golden eyes, flecked with burnt honey, were his real appeal. They captured her, trapped her in their sticky allure, like an unsuspecting insect caught in sap. The eyes alone hinted at softness. The rest of him was hard, intimidating, and enthralling all at the same time.
Not him, she thought. Anyone but him.
He watched her as she backed away, dark eyebrows slashed together in a scowl. She felt a bead of sweat meander the curve of her spine. Despite those captivating eyes, he’d always had a particularly potent scowl. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you.” He looked angry, almost offended.
“I know.” She inched her hands behind her body, the barn’s prickly wood rasping the tender flesh of her palms.
“Then why are you cowering?” The line between his eyebrows deepened with disapproval.
“I’m not cowering.” Francesca pushed away from the barn, her chin coming up a notch. “I was just being”—she pursed her lips, eyes searching the dusky sky for the right word—“cautious.” She gave a succinct nod. “After all, you could have been a...highwayman.”
His mouth quirked in what she supposed for him passed as a smile. “A highwayman? I’m sorry to disappoint you, miss. I’m not nearly as exciting or romantic as a highwayman. I’m—” He stepped forward, preparing to introduce himself.
“I know who you are, Lord Winterbourne,” Francesca interrupted. She felt a flood of heat wash her cheeks at the realization that he didn’t recognize her. But then, why should he? She was nothing special, particularly not to him. “I don’t suppose you remember me.” She hated the tiny spark of hope that flickered in her.
He wasted no time dousing it with an ocean of water.
His warm tawny eyes skimmed over her with a skill borne of practice. His perusal was thorough, and she felt her blush deepen. She hated blushing. It made her look like a big red beet. But she couldn’t help it. Being the daughter of a viscount, she wasn’t used to such insolent behavior. Then again, she should have expected this and worse from the Marquess of Winterbourne: rake, rogue, and rumored agent for the Crown
His liquid gaze poured over her body, causing heat to pool from her breasts to her belly to her toes. When he reached her burning face again, he said, “I don’t recall having made your acquaintance, Miss—?”
“Dashing!” a rough male voice interrupted. “You meddling little hussy!”
Francesca jumped a foot and clunked the back of her head on the stable wall.
“I warned you I would shoot you if I ever caught you on my property again. Now get off!”
Lanky, unwashed, and unshaven, Will Skerrit stood behind Winterbourne, an ancient blunderbuss in his hand. He pointed the rusty gun at her, and her anger returned.
“Yell at me all you want, Mr. Skerrit.” Francesca rubbed the burgeoning knot on the back of her skull, barely managing to keep her voice and temper steady. “But do not think I will sit idly by and ignore this blatant cruelty.” She crooked her thumb toward the stable and the horse inside.
“Why you—” Skerrit took a menacing step forward, thin face flushed vermilion. He waved the gun at her threateningly.
Francesca planted her feet defiantly then stole a glance to gauge Winterbourne’s reaction.
The marquess hadn’t moved. Hadn’t turned around. Hadn’t so much as twitched since hearing the farmer’s voice. In fact, he was staring at her, mouth slightly open—the picture of disbelief. She gave him a questioning look. Though she could hardly imagine Winterbourne was Skerrit’s guest, she wasn’t at all certain she could rely on him to support her cause or defend her.
“Bitch!” Skerrit finally choked out.
Francesca whipped her attention back to the farmer.
“Who the devil do you think—” Skerrit began.
In a blur, Winterbourne turned and lunged for the man, clutching him by the throat and slamming him hard onto the dusty ground. Skerrit yelped and the blunderbuss tumbled into a yellowed patch of grass.
Francesca gasped and stumbled out of the way. She’d never seen anyone move so quickly and with so much force. Winterbourne attacked with the skill of a seasoned warrior, seeming more warlord than gentleman. Hearing Skerrit gurgle, she took a tentative step forward. Winterbourne straddled the farmer, and she had to crane her neck to see around the marquess’s broad back. She didn’t fail to notice that the taut fabric of his tailcoat outlined the honed muscles underneath. And at the mercy of those muscles was a creature lower than the scum that might have lined the poor horse’s water bucket.
“I’ve warned you about using profanity before, Mr. Skerrit.” She couldn’t resist scolding the wheezing farmer. “Lord Winterbourne is not accustomed to such coarse manners.”
Winterbourne tossed her an incredulous glance, and she shrugged. She was impudent, she knew, but she hated Skerrit for what he’d done to the colt. Goading the horrible man was the least of what she would like to do now that she had the upper hand—or at least now that Winterbourne did. Evidently he was on her side.
Winterbourne shook Skerrit by the neck. “Next time you’d better find out who you’re dealing with before waving your gun about. I could kill you for less.”
Francesca didn’t doubt it. Neither did Skerrit. His eyes bulged, and he struggled for another breath.
“Lord Winterbourne?” She had to tap his back several times before he jerked his head to glare at her.
“Miss?”
He said it through clenched teeth, and Francesca summoned every ounce of courage to stand her ground. She couldn’t very well justify a retreat with Skerrit looking so decidedly purple underneath Winterbourne’s flexed fingers. The struggling farmer’s rotting teeth were bared in a last effort to squeeze a bit of air past those unforgiving hands.
“I think you’d better release him,” she said. “He looks as though he can’t breathe.”
Winterbourne’s cool gaze locked on her face, and his fingers tightened on Skerrit’s neck.
“Unless you really would kill him?” she squeaked. She hated Skerrit, but that didn’t mean she wanted him dead.
Winterbourne’s fingers flexed, and she began to fear he really did intend murder. Finally, with a last shove, Winterbourne released Skerrit and rose to his knees, gulping air like a fish caught in a net.
“Lord Winterbourne! Forgive me, your lordship. I had no idea it was you.” He struggled to his feet, hands on his knees, still trying to catch his breath.
Winterbourne wiped his hands on his breeches then locked his arms across his chest, watching the man labor as one might watch the toils of an ant.
“Why are you here?” Skerrit wheezed between gulps of oxygen.
At the farmer’s demanding tone, an ominous look crossed the marquess’s face.
“My lord,” Skerrit added quickly.
“My horse threw a shoe,” Winterbourne answered after a moment. “I saw your farm and thought you might lend assistance.”
“Of course,” Skerrit answered too quickly, with an obsequious little bow. “I’d be honored to assist in any way I can.” He spun toward the barn, but Francesca wouldn’t allow him to scurry away so easily.
“Mr. Skerrit! Wait just a moment.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ve come to discuss this latest incidence of abuse with you. I’ll have you know I won’t tolerate it.”
Skerrit turned back, looking down his thin, crooked nose at her. At times like this, she hated her short stature. It particularly galled her to have to look up at the odious farmer. She felt more like an indignant child than a dignified woman of one and twenty.
“To what abuse are you referring, Miss—Dashing, is it?”
Francesca beamed at the marquess, pleased to see that he shared her concern.
“My lord, excuse me,” Skerrit answered for her, making the ingratiating bow again. Little toady! “This girl is a nuisance.” He pointed a dirty finger at Francesca. “What I do with my animals is my business. Now get off my property!” He screamed the last, apparently forgetting Winterbourne.
Francesca set her jaw. “Not until you release Thunder to me.”
“Look, you stupid little chit—”
Francesca raised her voice over his. “I won’t leave him here after the way
you mistreated him today. I saw you ride by, whipping him and pushing him past the limits of any animal.”
“I told you. My animals are my business.”
“Thunder needs medical attention.”
Skerrit turned beseechingly to Winterbourne, probably hoping to tap into some shared male condescension toward women. But as far as Francesca could tell, the marquess’s face didn’t betray any emotion.
“Who is Thunder?” Winterbourne asked. He sounded bored.
Francesca gave him a frown.
“It’s the ridiculous name she’s given to my colt.” Skerrit gave a derisive laugh. “The chit’s daft, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.” Winterbourne reached into his charcoal tailcoat and extracted a slim silver case. “How much do you want for the animal?”
Francesca stared at the marquess, her breath coming out in an indignant huff. “My lord, I appreciate your assistance, but I really must insist you allow me to handle this.”
Winterbourne shifted, blocking her view with his bulky shoulder. With an exclamation of disbelief, she scooted around him.
“How much?” he repeated.
“I wasn’t really looking to sell.” Skerrit rubbed the grimy cleft in his chin with his thumb, and Francesca pursed her lips at the spark of greed in the farmer’s eye.
“Perhaps I could persuade you.”
“You can’t possibly mean to buy the colt,” Francesca exclaimed. Didn’t Winterbourne see that Skerrit would just use the money to buy another horse, and she’d be right back where she started? Alarm shot through her, and she stepped between the two men, facing Winterbourne.
He raised his chin, looking over her head at Skerrit, the only acknowledgment of her presence between them. “Fifteen guineas,” he offered.
Francesca felt her jaw drop. Insufferable man! Had she compared him to a warrior a moment before? Despot was more accurate.
“My lord, the animal is worth much more than fifteen guineas! Only come and see... ”
