A Woman’s Innocence

by Gayle Callen

  Whenever she was alone in their suite—behind locks and barricades, of course—she found herself wandering his bedroom, touching the things that were his. To her surprise, in a drawer she found her length of braided hair which she thought she’d thrown away. It hurt her that he’d kept it, even as she foolishly cried tears over his sensitivity. And then she discovered her letters, dozens of them, faded and old and torn—obviously reread many times, but never answered. She was determined to find the right time to discuss them with him.

  But not at night. Desperately Julia and Sam came together in heat and passion. But on the second night since they’d sent two letters out, when he suggested she should return to her own bed, she decided she’d had enough.

  She sat up in bed and turned to face him, holding a sheet to her breasts only because she knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on her words if she gave him a reason not to.

  When he started to push the covers away as if to rise, she put a hand on his chest. “Wait. We need to talk.”

  He glanced at her hand, then up the long line of her arm to her face. There was devilment in his eyes, and she knew he would try to distract her.

  She pushed him back down onto his pillow, tucked the sheet beneath her arms, and then looked at him with all the seriousness she could muster.

  “In a drawer, I found several curious things.”

  He stiffened and the merriment in his eyes faded away. “My drawer?”

  “Yes. You kept my hair and my letters, the ones you never answered. Can you tell me why?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t have gone where you didn’t belong.”

  “Well, I did. I was sad, and thinking of you, and I just…found myself among your things, as if they could give me solace. But all they did was leave me with more questions.”

  When he said nothing, she felt trapped by frustration.

  “I need to understand you,” she said softly. “You’re confusing me, as if you’re two different Sams, one during the day, and one at night.”

  He fluffed his pillow against the headboard and sat back. There was a rising belligerence about him that she had prepared herself to do battle with.

  He said, “The Sam who comes to your bed is leaving the day’s cares behind.”

  Sighing, she leaned forward. “And that’s a good thing. It is the daytime Sam that I don’t understand.”

  “You know what I am, Julia. I’m a soldier.”

  “And a spy, which seems to me to be a different thing. It’s all right if you weren’t as good a soldier as you were a spy.”

  His smile was bitter as he shook his head. “You don’t need to see me as either. That’s part of the reason I didn’t answer your letters.”

  She was shocked by his statement, as if her life didn’t depend on his skills as both. He didn’t quite meet her eyes.

  “Sam, why wouldn’t I be proud of what you do? You’re a hero.”

  “I’m not a hero!”

  Sam wished to hell that he could seduce these questions out of Julia’s mind, make her think of nothing but their nights of passion. It was all they had left—couldn’t she see that? His days were filled with the worries of protecting her, vindicating her, preparing her for when he was gone. She knew the impropriety of a relationship between them, yet still she sought him out each night, and he couldn’t refuse her.

  But maybe it was time to let her see what her “hero” truly was. Then she’d understand why he needed to return to the army, why it was the only place for him.

  “Sam.”

  She tried to take his hand, but he shook his head. He didn’t want to feel the inevitable stiffening of her fingers, the way she’d pull away from him when she heard the truth. He looked into her eyes, so blue and innocent, and knew he was about to destroy the simple faith she’d had in him since childhood.

  “You know why I went into the army,” he began impassively, “but you don’t know why I stayed, or why I became a spy.”

  “Then tell me,” she whispered. “I need to know everything.”

  He couldn’t look at her as he spoke, so he turned to the single candle as if fascinated by the flame. “I was only a gardener when I left England, but soldiering taught me survival, not just in the wilderness, but in the midst of enemies. I liked the challenge, the way after a long day I was too tired to even think.” About you. “And believe me, I was never poor at it. I was too good. The discomforts and the bad food never bothered me. Marksmanship came easily to me, and I seemed to be able to figure out an enemy’s mind in a way few soldiers could.”

  “Why is this so bad?” she asked. “Of course you’d be good at whatever you put your mind to.”

  He took a deep breath and stared off into the darkness, seeing other lands. “You know what India and Afghanistan are like, the very foreignness of life there. I relished it, relished what I was doing. I enjoyed the triumph of besting my enemy, the reward of the kill—and I don’t mean animals. There’s something dark inside me, and I had no idea it was there until I was fighting for my life. The killing eventually became second nature to me.”

  “You were fighting for your life!” she interrupted.

  “But did I have to enjoy it so much?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. His mouth was dry, his heart pounded—he didn’t want to tell her anything of this. “I felt like I was turning into the enemy. At least they killed to protect their families, their land, while I was killing for money.”

  “You were protecting England.”

  “Stop making excuses for me! You don’t know how I felt inside, what I did.”

  And in his mind he was there again, in the hot, moist jungles of the Punjab, feeling invincible, untouchable—until it all fell apart.

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  He looked right at her, so she could see the monster inside him. “Another soldier and I were captured. We wouldn’t betray our regiment’s position, so they tortured my friend to death, forcing me to watch.”

  He made himself study the shock in her eyes, the way her face paled, committing it all to memory.

  “Oh, Sam.”

  “I escaped, and I killed the commander who’d ordered the torture.” He leaned toward her, watched her eyes widen. “And then I slit the throats of all six guardsmen, even though they were only following orders. I made sure they saw who killed them as they died. The final man begged on his knees to live, but he knew secrets they’d tortured out of my friend, secrets that would have to die with him.”

  He watched a single tear slide from her glistening eyes.

  “And when I realized how glad I had been to kill them, how easily I’d done it—” Even all these years later, his throat felt thick and tight, his eyes burned at the memories of what he was capable of. “I hated myself. I spent two days wandering through the jungle alone, trying to get back to my regiment, full of despair. I was determined to resign my commission, to get far away from this bloodthirsty man I’d become.”

  He stopped, letting it sink into her mind, letting her understand what kind of demons haunted him, had changed him forever from that simple gardener’s son.

  “But you didn’t quit,” she said calmly.

  He frowned at her. “No. I received word that my father had died. What skills did I have that could earn my family as much money as professional killing could do? But then the Political Department found me. They thought I’d make a good agent. I discovered I could use skill to evade the enemy, rather than killing him. I—I thought maybe I had overcome the darkness in my soul, maybe even buried it for good.”

  “Sam, why do you berate yourself?” she asked. “You protected your men, protected your life.”

  “It’s still here inside me!” He slammed to his feet and walked to the window, where the darkness could swallow him. “When I followed that constable away from Hopewell Manor, I wanted to kill him for threatening you. I didn’t even realize I’d put my hand on my pistol. A few more minutes and I’d have murdered an innocent man.”

  “B
ut you didn’t do it.”

  “No. But I wanted to.” He kept his back to her and sighed. “I didn’t answer your letters because you were living in a fantasy world where I could be the friend who rescued you. I had to make you realize that in the eyes of the world we are master and servant. Your parents would have destroyed any letter I sent you, because they understood how things are.”

  It took all of Julia’s will not to cry for Sam’s lost innocence. At last she understood his secrets, his worries—his past. And she realized that although she had finally accepted her own past, he wasn’t ready to accept and forgive his.

  Letting the sheet fall, she got out of bed and walked to him. He flinched when she touched his back, and she wished she could take all his pain away. But she was at a loss as to how to help him.

  So she did what her womanly instincts told her to do: she kissed his back, pressed her face against his warm skin, put her arms around him when he would have left her.

  She felt like he was a wounded deer, afraid to run, afraid to stay. And then finally he broke away from her and opened the door to the sitting room.

  “Go back to your own bed, Julia,” he said.

  “Sam—”

  “No. I said too much, and we both need to think about it.”

  She walked toward him slowly, let him look his fill at her nakedness.

  “You know you can tell me anything, Sam,” she whispered.

  There was a faint smile on his lips, but it didn’t reach the darkness in his eyes. “Go to sleep. You might think differently in the morning.”

  But she wouldn’t. She stood in their sitting room naked, shivering, listening to his door close behind her. How could she help him?

  Chapter 23

  In the middle of the next morning, Julia needed to return to her bedroom. The binding around her breasts was slipping down, and she didn’t want to look like her middle was expanding when the cloth dropped. Sam insisted on accompanying her, and she felt more like a delicate flower than a woman whose life was under constant threat.

  And was that his point? Logic told her she needed to beware of their attacker, but Sam seemed to have other motives where she was concerned. Was he trying to prove over and over again how wide the gulf was between them? That he was either a servant or a savage soldier, neither of whom she should want?

  But she wanted all of him, his strengths and his flaws. How could she tell him she’d follow him anywhere, even back to India? She didn’t want to live without him. And guilty or innocent, what place would she have in England when everything was done?

  But she knew him well. He would be appalled by her decision. She would bide her time until she could trust that he’d see the truth.

  So she let him walk her back to their room. She thought he almost wanted to take her elbow deferentially, but at least their roles prohibited that. As she opened her bedroom door, she thought she heard the door connecting to the sitting room softly close.

  She turned to stare wide-eyed at Sam, but he, too, had heard, for he was already several paces down the corridor. She followed as he flung the sitting room door wide and raced in. She was in time to see him throw himself at the stranger dressed in black, and they both rolled to the floor in a pile. Sam landed several hard blows to his face and stomach. Julia pulled the pistol out of her pocket, but she couldn’t possibly shoot at the mix of arms and legs and thrashing bodies.

  But she could use it for a hard blow to the assailant’s head when he was on top. He slumped over Sam, who threw him to the side.

  Sam grinned at her, her admiring partner once again.

  She grinned back. “Shall we tie him up?”

  When they had him bound to a chair, Sam removed the scarf from his face, revealing a receding hairline, and a broad, oiled mustache. He dumped a pitcher of water on the stranger, who sputtered into consciousness. The man struggled for only a moment, and then he glared at the two of them while streams of water ran from his hair. Blood trickled from his nose.

  “Hello,” Sam said softly. “You seem to be in a bind.”

  “This won’t get you anywhere,” the man said coldly. He moved against the ropes and winced. “I won’t answer any of your questions.”

  “And why not?” Sam asked, pointedly putting his pistol on the desk where their assailant could see it.

  Julia watched the two men nervously, but her focus was on Sam. Now that she knew his secret worries, she wondered how a situation like this would make him feel. He looked a little wild-eyed, as if he were barely holding himself back.

  “You’re not going to shoot me,” the man said, though he didn’t sound very confident. “It will just be another murder on your head. And what would be the point?”

  “There would be one less threat to Julia. That’s pretty much all I need.”

  And it was, she saw with shock. Sam’s fingers played with the pistol, touching the handle, caressing the trigger, while his face was full of expectation. What was the truth? He was a man gifted at submerging himself in any character. Was all this a ruse to force their assailant into a confession?

  Or did Sam truly not care whether the man lived or died?

  The stranger was frowning at him. “It’s foolish to threaten me for so paltry a reason.”

  “Paltry? I have impressive evidence against the general—I don’t need your testimony.”

  That was an exaggeration if she’d ever heard one, so she tried to force herself to relax. If they could make him testify against Lewis, it would help seal their case. Sam was a professional; he wouldn’t throw aside a witness.

  Would he?

  If only she knew what to do, what to say.

  “If you want to live,” Sam continued, “then tell me why I should keep you alive. And please don’t malign my intelligence by making me believe I need you alive. You’ve promised to thwart our mission, you’ve threatened to attack Miss Reed, you’ve hurt Mrs. Cooper. Those aren’t good reasons to keep you alive.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down the man’s temple. “You’re not as intelligent as you think. I’m not falling for this ruse.”

  Swiftly, Sam put one big hand around the front of the man’s throat. Julia was startled, and the assailant could only make a strangled protest.

  “Ruse?” Sam said softly, his grin manic, his face near his victim’s. “I think you misunderstand your importance. I don’t care whether you live or die. Miss Reed might.”

  She tried to catch her breath, shocked at the icy coldness in Sam’s eyes when he glanced at her.

  “But I can convince her that we don’t need you. Not when we already know where the general hid his money.”

  She licked her dry lips, surprised that Sam would reveal such a thing. To her surprise, their assailant’s eyes widened with interest.

  “You’re lying,” the man said. “The general would never be so foolish as to hide something here, where he seldom comes.”

  “So then he doesn’t confide everything in you, does he?” Sam countered.

  Julia couldn’t tear her gaze away from Sam’s face as he picked up the pistol. She held her breath, and even the stranger betrayed a momentary start. But Sam pocketed the weapon and reached for a gag.

  “You think about our discussion,” Sam said with obvious reluctance. “We’ll talk again tonight.”

  “That’s hours from now,” the man said. “You can’t keep me here all day.”

  Sam wrapped the gag about his head, effectively ending his protests. “Of course I can. No food, no water—no breaks to use a chamber pot. Tonight, you let me know when you want to convince me why I should keep you alive.”

  Sam glanced at Julia, and she was uneasy about how excited his expression was, as if threatening a man with death were something he always looked forward to.

  “Julia, you continue the search. Please explain my absence to the staff by telling them I’m ill and need my rest. They’re not to disturb me or enter the suite.”

  “Very well,” she answered.

 
Was he sending her away so she wouldn’t have to see him come close to killing their captive? She wanted to remind him of the memories that haunted him, the things he regretted he’d done.

  But did he regret them? Or did he only wish he weren’t the kind of man who could so easily kill?

  As she walked to the door, she heard their assailant make several strangled noises deep in his throat. She looked back at his panicked expression. Did he, too, think Sam would kill him? Wasn’t that what he was supposed to think?

  She stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her, leaning back against it to listen. She heard nothing at first, then the click of footsteps into Sam’s bedroom. She moved down the corridor until she reached his door, then knocked softly.

  He opened it, and though he seemed to relax on seeing her, there was a wariness in his expression. “I thought you’d gone below.”

  “Not yet. Can I talk to you?”

  He pulled her inside, then spoke softly. “I don’t want him to hear. I’m sorry you had to see that. I’ve had to play that kind of character before. It tends to make the subject afraid of me.”

  She nodded and tried to feel reassured. “I just wanted to know what your plans are.”

  She noticed that he was perspiring, that he seemed tired as he leaned back against the wardrobe and folded his arms across his chest. “I believe I stated them in front of Lewis’s henchman.”

  “So having him wait there all day will make him answer your questions?”

  “It might. He’s obviously not a soldier and hasn’t been trained in hardship.”

  “What if he won’t talk?”

  Sam sighed. “We’ll just have to see. There are some simple techniques that should make him quite talkative.”

  She winced.

  “You know I don’t want him dead,” he said. “We need his testimony.”

  She stared into his eyes, worried that he was prepared to do anything to prove her innocence. But did she want that from him? Would she be able to live with herself if he had another reason to feel guilty?

  “You’re worried about me, aren’t you?” He frowned down at her.