by Kim Bowman
Georgina probed the area for any breaks but found none. Wordlessly, she continued to rub his injured flesh.
The stranger held up his other wrist, clearly expecting her to release him.
Georgina shook her head. “I can’t.” She wished she could. With every breath in her body, she wished she could. But it would mean death for him and other horrors for her. In time, she would plan a way to save him, but it couldn’t be right now or her own life would be forfeit.
His hand fell back to the side of the chair.
In a sudden move, he trapped her chin with his large, strong hand. A startled squeak escaped her. She tried to shake loose his grip but he held tight. “What do you want then?”
“I only want to help.”
“The men who brought me here, who are they?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”
He wrapped long fingers around her neck, his hold gentle, but firm. “Who are they?” Despite the furious demand, his thumb rubbed the spot where her pulse fluttered wildly.
She clawed at his hand, wanting to be free of his touch, to escape the vulnerable feeling of being helpless against him.
His grip tightened the slightest bit.
Her earlier determination to help the relentless uilprisoner slipped. Georgina was unwilling to die. Not now. Not like this. She had given too much of her life to her Father and the Crown to die here at the hands of his stranger. Enlivened, she raked sharp nails over the flesh of his forearm.
His lips curled in a sneering grin, as though he were amused by her ineffectual attempt at freedom.
“I could kill you right now.” The threat felt real enough, but still, he didn’t harm her. “If you don’t give me the answers I need.”
“Release me.” She forced the words past dry lips.
Reluctantly, he let her go.
She stumbled backward and tripped over the empty chair.
He shot his free hand out, reaching for her.
Georgina righted herself and frowned at him, confused by his troubled expression. His eyes conveyed regret. She swallowed, uncomfortable. People did not worry about her. This stranger’s concern pierced Georgina’s soul.
She cringed. What a silly, pathetic creature she was.
“Are you all right, miss?” His quiet words interrupted her musings.
Well, my father is a traitor. I’m stealing his secrets and sending them off to the British government. Oh, and you nearly strangled me. How could I ever be better?
“I’m well enough,” she said, with a touch of impatience.
Georgina walked a wide path around him and paused at the small, chipped wood table in the corner of the room. She planted her hands on the edge of the hard surface and used her hip to shove the piece of furniture over to the prisoner. All the while her skin burned under the intensity of his gaze. She picked up the tray and slid it toward him.
“You should eat.” Georgina spun on her heel and hurried to the doorway. She’d come to help him, but this man had roused a whirlwind of emotions beneath her breast that she didn’t care to examine.
“Don’t go!” His voice stopped her. “Please. I’m sorry about before…” He looked down, shame coloring his neck. “I would never have hurt you.”
Georgina turned around. She studied his battered features. The truth was etched in painful lines on his face. He wouldn’t have hurt her, but that did not mean she had escaped danger. The longer she stayed here and talked to him, the more compelled she was to help him and risk her father’s wrath.
Yet, she moved to the empty chair next to him. “I am so sorry about what they’ve done to you,” she said.
He arched a golden brow. “But not enough to free me?”
She poured a glass of water into the crystal tumbler and handed it to him.
He eyed it as though it contained witches’ brew. A strangled laugh escaped his lips. “Why should I trust you?”
He was right. This man didn’t know about the previous prisoner she’d freed. Or the notes she dashed off to members of the Home Office. No one suspected the truth. This man only saw her as complicit in the ugliness that went on here.
“You’ve no reason to trust me,” she said at last.
Apparently, his thirst won out over his skepticism for he reached for the glass. His fingers brushed hers.
Georgina’s skin heated at the brief meeting of flesh.
“What is your name?” He drained the glass.
She stiffened and leaned forward in her chair, poised to flee should he recognize her name. “Georgina Wilcox.”
He gave no outward reaction to her admission. “I am Adam Markham.”
Her shoulders relaxed as she realized he did not know who she was. Guilt niggled at her. She reminded herself she was not to blame for Father’s crimes, but the thought rang hollow in her heart.
“I am sorry to meet you under such circumstances, Mr. Markham,” she said.
He studied her a little too intently, and Georgina shifted in her seat. His gaze set a small flame alight in her bosom. The instinct for survival warred with her empathy. Except there was something more—some indiscernible feeling toward him she didn’t understand nor care to analyze. She reached for his bindings then stopped. If she were ever to help this man, she’d have to plan carefully. She couldn’t let Father and Jamie discover her intentions beforehand as they had done that long ago night.
The stranger’s beautiful lips turned down. “So, tell me. What manner of woman would leave me tied here at the mercy of those bastards—” As if sickened by the mere sight of her, he looked away.
She leaned forward. “If I free you, there is a guard outside who will shoot you dead. If that isn’t enough, I will pay the price for your death. A price with my own flesh.” She let the weight of this dark truth sink in.
Silence reigned between them. They sat in uneasy silence. Her gaze slid away.
His stomach gave a rebellious rumble.
Georgina remembered she’d come to feed him and, eager to give her fingers something to do, she reached for a sliver of apple and held it to his lips.
Something in his gaze softened. “Are you Eve?”
She angled her head. “Georgina.”
A sharp bark of laughter burst from his chest. The explosion of mirth seemed to rob him of breath. He coughed in obvious pain. “Christ, either you’re an excellent actress or the most naïve woman I’ve ever met.”
“Oh.” Heat flooded her cheeks. “That Eve. Which, of course, makes you Adam.”
“Adam and Eve,” he murmured. He cast an almost empty gaze around the room.“And it would appear we’ve both been cast into hell.”
Georgina’s gut clenched at the all-too familiar sentiment uttered by this man, Markham. She cleared her throat. “Do you want the apple or not?” She waved it in his direction.
His lips parted, displaying an even row of pearl-white teeth. Georgina hesitated a moment, feeling a bit like a rabbit feeding a wolf, then slipped the fruit into his mouth.
He bit into it, all the while watching her as if he could divine her secret yearnings. When he opened his mouth again, she brought another piece of the apple.
“Why are you here?” he asked, after he finished his next bite.
She looked at him. Their gazes caught and held. “I have no choice.”
Markham’s flinty stare threatened to bore through her. “They have you captive as well?”
“I am a victim of my circumstances, Mr. Markham.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “You are a servant.”
She should tell him the truth. Confess who she was.
What does it matter? a niggling voice whispered at the edge of her mind. It is your father who is hell bent on an Irish revolution—not you.
“Why are you here?” She turned his question around on him, uncomfortable with his assumption.
“I, too, am a victim of my circumstances.”
Georgina glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. “I should g
o.” She stood.
He opened his mouth to speak. She had the distinct impression he wanted her to stay but she shoved the silly thought aside. Why would he desire her company?
Georgina reached for his bindings but the memory of his hand around her neck froze her mid-motion. She rubbed the sensitive skin where that possessive touch—firm but gentle—lingered. No one had ever handled her with even a modicum of tenderness. Reason had taught her to loathe such weakness. After all, compassion had brought her nothing but trouble.
His gaze went to her neck. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ve never mistreated a woman before.”
Considering her own experience with men and his earlier violent outburst, she didn’t put much faith in his statement. Nonetheless, Adam Markham was desperate, an emotion she knew well.
She waved off his apology. “You’re not the first to…put me in my place.” A niggling whisper of a dream flitted through her mind. In a different life she would have been the beloved daughter of a loving couple. She may even have a doting suitor. How different might her life have been if she’d been born a daughter to loyal British subjects? Georgina brushed back a loose strand of hair. “I wish there was something I could do to help you, but I can’t.” At least not now.
“You can free me.” He was nothing if not persistent.
“I already said I can’t.”
His eyes ran a path over her face, but he said nothing.
Georgina bound his hands and hurried to leave before her father came home.
“Miss Wilcox?” Mr. Markham called out to her.
She paused.
“Thank you,” he said in hushed undertones.
With a nod, she took her leave and made her way to the kitchen, where she gathered potatoes for the evening meal.
Self-preservation dictated she forget Adam Markham. Yet her heart wouldn’t allow her to do any such thing. All the while she prepared dinner, the visage of the handsome stranger danced through her mind.
He’d mistaken her for a servant.
Her skin tingled with the remembrance of his silken fingertips caressing her rapidly beating pulse.
If he’d wanted to strangle her before, what would he do if he learned she was really his captor’s daughter?
In his meeting with Napoleon, Robert Emmet was informed the British have in their employ an agent who is assisting France. This person has pledged to also help the United Irishmen.
Signed,
A Loyal British Subject
Chapter 2
Adam Markham had been betrayed. For seven years, he’d faithfully served the Home Office as a spy with the Brethren of the Lords. He’d uncovered the identities of Irish radicals trying to separate from England, had uncovered plots against the Crown, and seduced the secrets out of nefarious women all over the Continent.
None of his accomplishments mattered when coupled with his one great failure — the lapse in judgment that had earned him this month-long descent in the pit of hell.
Adam stared blankly at the cheerful floral curtains of his prison, at the sun’s rays raining false brightness through the window.
The night Fox and Hunter had taken him prisoner, he’d been drugged. That much was clear. Adam had been in his townhouse, meeting with four other members of the Brethren, two of whom had been strangers. Someone must have slipped something into his glass of wine.
Who had handed him over to Fox? Fury licked at his insides, and he fed that anger because it staved off the mind-numbing fear. With a roar, he yanked his arms. The rope dug into his skin, rubbing the flesh raw until blood seeped down his wrists. Adam unleashed a string of black curses against his captors.
Adam comforted himself with the image of the day he would eventually be freed. He would use his far-reaching influence to see Fox and Hunter were made to pay. He would destroy his captors and all those who’d betrayed him. Their immediate death would be too easy. He would see that they suffered a traitor’s public death so that any and all linked to them would learn the perils of interfering with the Brethren. Still, it wasn’t only the thirst for revenge that kept him alive. Not anymore. Now there was also the young maid, Georgina.
As if his unspoken thoughts had summoned her, she appeared in the doorway. Georgina froze at the entrance and tipped her chin back a notch. A fiery light sparkled in her chocolate brown eyes. She put him in mind of a skittish cat.
He couldn’t help but wonder what she’d be like if she lived in another house, in different circumstances. A cheery girl no doubt, with rose in her full cheeks, and a soft, sweet laugh that bubbled past her generous, bow-shaped lips. The thought made his heart twinge.
She carried a tray of food, on top of which rested a leather volume. “They’ve gone out,” she murmured, the husky tone washing over him, as she closed the door behind her.
He remained silent, continuing to study her. The thick dark waves of her hair always somehow managed to escape the knot at the base of her neck. Her slim figure was testament to the endless work she did in Fox’s home. But for the bountiful breasts and generous curve of her hips, the maid’s efforts had left her borderline gaunt. Still, there was something compelling about her.
Mayhap it was the determined sparkle in the brown of her eyes? Or the rigid set to her small shoulders that would have made a cavalry officer proud.
He’d tried to sort out her role in the household. With her regal carriage and cultured voice, she may as well have been any lady in a London drawing room. Her haggard figure and drab gown told a different tale. What had happened to bring her here?
As she did each time she visited, she released one of his bindings then took a quick step away from him. His gut churned with guilt as he thought back to the day he’d wrapped his fingers around her neck. Captivity did horrible things to a man. It turned gentlemen into monsters.
He eyed the bowl of chicken pottage. It was the third day in a row she’d prepared a meal of chicken. “Chicken, again.”
She frowned. “You always eat the chicken.”
“I eat all the food,” he pointed out. “I am a prisoner.”
“But you eat it faster, so I thought you preferred chicken and—” She clamped her lips shut. “I’ll make something different next time.”
As he shoveled another bite of broth into his mouth, he studied her. The quality linen dress she wore seemed more fitting of a lady than a household maid. He watched her fist and un-fist the silvery gray fabric of her skirts. Something seemed amiss, yet he could not put his finger on it.
“Is there anything I can bring you as a diversion?”
Her quiet question snapped him back to the moment.
Was that even possible?
“I draw.”
She tipped her head. “Draw?”
He waved his free hand. “Yes, sketch. People. Buildings. I like to sketch.”
“I’ve never known an artist,” she mused aloud.
Adam chuckled, the sound rusty from ill-use. “I’d hardly consider myself an artist. My tutor once gave me a copy of Francois Boucher’s work. I decided to try my hand at drawing.” He didn’t know why he’d disclosed such an intimate detail to her. Perhaps it simply stemmed from the bleak loneliness of his captivity.
When he said nothing else on the matter, Georgina gave a slow nod and rose. He called out to her, and she stopped at the threshold of the doorway.
“Thank you. You were correct. I prefer chicken.”
She angled her head over her shoulder, and a small smile turned the corners of her lips.
The next day she appeared with a dish of boiled chicken in a white spinach sauce and an empty sketchpad. She hovered uncertainly at his shoulder. His fingers flexed for the charcoal and parchment.
She reached for his right hand then froze. “Which hand do you use to sketch?”
“My left.”
Without another word, she released his left hand and opened the sketchpad.
He eyed the page. A thrill of excitement coursed through him as it
always did when presented with a blank sheet. He trailed the callused tip of a finger on the parchment. An image of Grace, Viscount Camden’s elegant daughter — her wide, beaming smile, her violet eyes—flitted through his mind, and he froze. He didn’t want to draw her face. He didn’t want to bring her here into this bleak, violent world. He preferred her lakeside in the green pastures of Leeds where he’d last seen her.
In the end, the desire to see her one more time, even if it was just as charcoal rendering in a sketchpad, consumed him. His fingers danced over the page, reacquainting him with the feel of a pen in his hand, the feeling of old lovers meeting. Grace took shape. The riotous crown of tight curls dark on the page but crimson red in his mind gave him pause. A surge of pain climbed up his throat, and nearly strangled him.
“Are you all right?”
Adam blinked then forced himself to release a breath. “Fine.” His fingers resumed their efforts.
Georgina sat beside him for the two hours he sketched. When at last he finished, he studied the face that filled the parchment. Beautiful Grace. He’d last seen her once upon a lifetime ago.
“She is beautiful,” Georgina’s reverent whisper cut into his musings.
His throat moved up and down. “She is.”
“Who is she?” He ignored the slight catch in Georgina’s voice, fixing his gaze on the page with Grace’s image on it.
To speak of Grace in this den of traitors would be a sacrilege to Grace’s purity and goodness. Oh God, what must she think? He’d promised to return for her and yet between his last mission and his captivity it had been nearly six months since he’d seen her last.
“She’s just a lady,” he lied. He snapped the folio closed, ending any further questions about Grace Blakely.
“Is she your wife?”
A spasm wrenched his heart. He tried to conceal the flash of pain, but the woman was perceptive.
“She is your wife,” she concluded.
“She is not my wife.” Mayhap in another life, at a different time.
Georgina leaned forward. “But you love her.”
“Your questioning leads me to believe you are in fact working for the men here.” The words came out as an animalistic growl.
