The Spy Beneath the Mistletoe

by Shana Galen

  “Excellent idea.” She’d thought she would have to dump tea in his lap before he fastened on that idea. She fetched her pelisse and met him outside. He offered his arm, and they walked along the road, newly marked by the coach’s wheels. “How I wish we had a horse,” she mused aloud.

  “So we could follow the coach more closely?” Pierce dropped his scarf about her shoulders. It smelled of bergamot and straw.

  “We’d scare off any possible attempt. Better to lie in wait for the man.”

  “But where?” She tried not to inhale the scent of him on the scarf, tried not to bask in the warmth it still held from his body.

  “I’m certain were we to walk the roads, we would find any number of sites conducive to ambush. The real test would be waiting out in the cold and hoping the man showed himself.”

  Eliza shivered at the thought. How did the agents for the Barbican do this sort of thing day in and day out? They endured worse conditions than the Nottinghamshire countryside in winter to conduct surveillance on targets. And here she was balking at a little cold air; although, truth be told, the wind had a bite to it this morning. It stung her cheeks and made her ears ring.

  The brisk country air made her feel invigorated. It smelled cleaner here than in London. There, she had to become used to the scent of unwashed bodies, coal fires, and refuse in the streets. Here there was the scent of snow on the air, pine trees, and sweet wood smoke curling from chimneys.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Pierce asked.

  Was it cowardly to bury her face in his scarf again?

  “You’re not blushing, are you?”

  That comment brought her head up quickly. “Not at all. I’m not ashamed.”

  “Then what do you feel?” His breath curled out and hung in the cold air between them. “Did you like it?”

  “You know I did.” She glanced down at her sturdy brown boots, dark against the white snow. Bending, she scooped up a handful, packed it tightly, arranging a piece of ice on the outer rim.

  “Good.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice, and she loosed her missile on a hapless tree.

  “I do have a question.”

  He eyed her warily, looking from the tree back to her.

  She scooped another ball of snow into her hands and packed it tightly. It would hurt more on impact that way.

  “Why?” She squeezed the cold snow.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Why did you...do what you did? You didn’t even take any pleasure for yourself.”

  “Of course not. It was for you.”

  She flung the snowball like a catapult might and smiled to herself when he jumped. “Why?”

  “I told you,” he said, eyeing the tree she’d hit twice. “I want another chance.”

  “So you’re...you’re wooing me?” She gathered more snow in her hand, but he caught her wrist.

  “Yes. In a manner of speaking. I told you. I want you for my wife.”

  “And I told you—”

  A shot rang out in the distance. Pierce grabbed her arm. “The Sheriff!” she said, shaking him off and breaking into a run.

  “Eliza, be careful!” He was right behind her.

  She ran in the direction the coach had taken, the same direction as the sound of the shot. They couldn’t possibly reach the coach before the highwayman was away, but she would try.

  Slowly, Pierce overtook her. That was the advantage of long legs and the absence of cumbersome skirts. She would have hated him for making allowances for her, so she merely pushed herself harder. She would never match him stride for stride, but she managed to keep up with him for a half-mile or more. Finally, she could not catch her breath, and she had to slow and bend at the waist. Pierce glanced at her over his shoulder, but she motioned him to go on without her.

  Of course, the man stopped and walked back.

  “Keep going,” she panted. “I am fine.”

  He put a hand to his heaving chest. “I don’t like leaving you.”

  She patted her reticule. “I’m not without protection. I have a pistol inside as well as a fan with a hidden dagger.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes! Go!” she urged. Finally, he went on without her. When he had disappeared around a bend and she’d caught her breath, she continued on, walking rapidly. About a quarter hour later, she caught up to Pierce and the mail coach.

  Pierce was quizzing the coachman, who looked pale and shaken. The passengers were all clustered around a man who leaned on the door of the coach. He was gesturing with both hands, and his fellow passengers drank in his every word. Because Pierce was speaking with the coachman, she approached the group of passengers.

  “Is everyone well?” she asked. “Is anyone hurt? We were out walking and heard the shot.”

  “It was that blo—blasted highwayman,” the man leaning against the door said. He’d removed his hat and waved it with every word. His face was red and perspiration sheened his bald pate.

  “He fired at you?” All reports had indicated the New Sheriff of Nottingham was not violent.

  “He did,” a young woman said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He took my reticule, and that was all the money I had in the world.”

  “And he took my ear-bobs.” The woman, who clutched the arm of a man Eliza assumed was her husband, spoke in a shaky voice. “They were my grandmother’s. I don’t care about the guineas, but my ear-bobs!”

  Her husband patted her shoulder as she burst into tears. For the first time, Eliza was struck by the fact that the acts of this criminal were more than a nuisance for the locals and a chance for her to prove her worth as an agent. There was a human cost as well.

  She did what she could to comfort the small group and asked questions as casually as possible. What, exactly, had the highwayman said? Did the man have a regional accent? Where had he stood? Were those his boot prints? Finally, the coachman determined they would go on and had best not allow the horses to stand any longer.

  Pierce moved beside her as Mr. Langrick approached on horseback. “What is amiss?”

  Pierce gave him the details, and then asked if he would take Eliza back to the inn. “Miss Qwillen is quite overwrought.”

  “No, I’m—”

  He dropped his hand heavily on her shoulder, and she closed her lips.

  “Of course,” Langrick said, removing his hat. “Miss Qwillen is welcome. I’ll have her back before the fire in no time.”

  Eliza shot Pierce a look that she hoped would boil his insides, and he leaned close and murmured, “The coachman said he saw no sign the highwayman had a horse. In which case, you should make it back to the inn before he has any chance of doing so. Take note of who is present and who is absent.”

  Eliza could see the logic in this request. Mr. Langrick was a perfect gentleman, and he conveyed her quickly back to the inn, where Peg fussed over her and brought her tea with brandy.

  Eliza sipped it and noted the patrons present.

  Freeland was absent.

  A careful inquiry told her Goodman had been back in his rooms for a half hour before the highwayman struck. He might have sneaked out again, but she thought it unlikely.

  Mr. Wilson was unaccounted for at present and during the attack. His poor aunt sat beside her at the hearth, coughing quietly.

  Dowell had been at the inn during the attack, as had Cardy. That removed the two of them from the list of suspects.

  That left Freeland and Wilson.

  Of course, Freeland might be at his home. There was no reason to assume that the highwayman, whoever he was, would attack and then come to the inn. He probably had a secret place where he stashed his—what did the thieves in the rooks call it? Cargo? Even if Freeland or Wilson walked in now, it did not prove either was the highwayman.

  The door opened, and Eliza wondered if her thoughts had conjured one of the suspects, but it was only Pierce. The poor man had ice on his muffler, and the parts of his face not covered were also covered
in icy white. Before she could rise and coo over him—which would not have been wise, considering the speculation already stirring about them after their walk—the maid brought him over to the fire and Wattles produced a glass of fine brandy.

  How typical. She received tea with a spoonful of brandy, while he was given it straight. She spent the afternoon trying to speak to him alone, but it was quite impossible. Everyone who came into the inn wanted to know what they’d seen or heard, and the coaches that subsequently passed by were filled with passengers whose eyes grew wide at the story. Fortunately, the Sheriff didn’t attack again. Eliza was trapped in the inn and would have never caught him. From that conversation, she did learn Pierce had been able to obtain a reasonably good description of the criminal. It was most definitely a man, although he hid his face under a tricorn hat and a turned-up collar. He didn’t appear to be on horseback, but he did carry two small pistols, one of which he shot into the air when the guard had been slow to discard his weapon.

  He was neither fat nor too slim, of average height, and witnesses reported he had brown hair. It could have easily been Freeland or Wilson. Both men matched that description, though for her part, Eliza suspected Wilson.

  She retired early, giving Pierce a look before she started for the stairs. He didn’t respond, but she knew he’d seen. He would come to her later. Tonight she would make sure their interaction dealt only with the mission. There would be none of the...other. She was resolved to capture the highwayman quickly now that she’d seen the toll his antics had taken. At least her mind was resolved. Her body, traitor though it was, already anticipated Pierce’s touch.

  Five

  Pierce stood outside her door and took a shaky breath. He was glad to leave the stables for the warmth of Eliza’s rooms. Of course, the heat of the fire was not the only reason he wanted to see her or the only warmth he craved. He’d lain on his cot in the cold stall, the sound of those dreadful horses all around him, and thought about what he would do to her when he was with her. Those naughty books had given him so many delicious ideas, but he knew the one he wanted to try most of all.

  He raised his hand and paused. What if she didn’t want him any longer? She’d been about to argue something when they’d heard that shot. Were his efforts to seduce her into agreeing to marry him all for naught? He couldn’t stand the thought of that. He couldn’t stand the thought of living the rest of his life without her.

  Was that love? Was fear at the prospect of losing her the same thing as love? Perhaps it was, but he felt there should be something more. Some sort of deep, accompanying emotion. He wasn’t an emotional man. Perhaps he couldn’t feel love. Did Eliza feel love? She said she wanted him to marry her for love, but she’d never said whether or not she loved him. The thought of Eliza loving him, being in love with him, made him feel as though he could take on anything—a band of pirates, a horde of thieves.

  No one loved him.

  Surely his parents had, but they were dead now. Who loved him now?

  He was still standing outside her door—careless that—when it opened suddenly. Eliza stood in the frame, hands on her hips. “Will you ever knock?” she hissed.

  “I was just about—”

  “Then come in before you’re seen.” She grabbed him and yanked him inside.

  “How did you know I was out there?”

  She closed the door quietly and locked it. “I’ve worked with spies for years. I have ways.”

  That was intriguing. What was also intriguing was that she’d changed into her nightgown and wrapper again. Did that mean she wanted him to ravish her?

  “I think we should discuss our mission and nothing else.”

  “Very well.” He caught a glimmer of disappointment on her face, but then she offered him one of the two chairs by the fire, taking the other. Her feet were bare when she curled her legs under her. Trying not to think about how much he wanted to see those bare toes again, Pierce reiterated the coachman’s description of the highwayman. “That description fits any number of men.”

  “Yes.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Only two of our original suspects were not accounted for at the time of the attack—Wilson and Freeland.”

  “I agree. I would suggest we focus our efforts on those two, but I worry we might be ignoring other suspects. What if it’s not someone who frequents The Duke’s Arms at all? It might be one of the men who lives in Hopewell-on-Lyft.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” she admitted. “The coach does travel directly through the village.”

  “All mail coaches travel on regular schedules. Everyone has access to that information and might lie in wait.”

  “True.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Pierce could not stop his gaze from traveling to her legs, where those pink toes were safely tucked out of sight. It appeared they would need to investigate the townspeople and make a list of possible suspects there as well. They might be here days or weeks more. That thought cheered him. He had plenty of wicked pleasures to show her to fill up the nights of those days and weeks, if she’d allow it.

  “He took that older woman’s ear-bobs,” Eliza said quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  She lowered her leg, and Pierce followed the movement. When her toes peeked out from the hem of her nightgown, he pulled at his cravat. The damn fire was too hot.

  “That older woman and...was he her husband?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Howard? Passengers on the coach today?”

  “Was that their name? She told me the highwayman took her ear-bobs. She was quite distraught because they had once belonged to her grandmother.”

  “That is too bad.” Pierce admired Eliza’s tender heart, but what did she expect a thief to do? Of course he would take a woman’s ear-bobs.

  “No, don’t you see?” she said, her hands fluttering with animation. “The Howards had to have been traveling inside the coach, and when the highway man ordered the coachman to stand and deliver, Mrs. Howard would have clutched at her husband and sought his protection. She was doing so when I spoke with her.”

  “And so the ear-bobs would have been difficult to see.”

  “If not all but impossible inside the dark coach.” Her voice had risen in volume and pitch, and she bounced in her chair. “Our man had to have been at the inn at some point when the passengers either arrived or withdrew in order to know to demand the ear-bobs.”

  She was clever, very clever. He’d always known that. She had to be to design the weapons she crafted. Now, watching her mind at work fascinated and aroused him.

  “And that brings us back to Wilson and Freeland,” he said.

  She sat forward. She was so far forward in her chair now, he half-worried she would topple out of it. Or perhaps he hoped. She would fall directly into his arms.

  “I would wager all on Wilson.” She cut her hand across the air. “Remember I saw him in the yard before the coach departed. He had no reason to be out there unless it was to take a look at the passengers. He never came in to visit with his aunt. The poor woman sat coughing by the fire for most of the morning.”

  “Then we have our man.”

  She rose. “Shall we bring him in for questioning? Perhaps we could use one of the inn’s outbuildings? I could develop several devices that would be beneficial in an interrogation.”

  Damn fire was definitely too hot. “Torture?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Stop crafting medieval devices that belong in a dungeon for a moment and consider we might be better served simply by catching the man in the act. We follow him.”

  She slumped. “That isn’t very exciting.”

  “Field work rarely is. Or so I hear.” He stood and moved back from the hearth. The conversation was almost at an end, and now was the time for him to take his leave. Except he didn’t want to leave. How would he find a way to take her in his arms and then to bed?

  “No, it’s not,” she agre
ed. “The excitement comes with the capture and the mission’s success.” Suddenly, she embraced him. “We almost have him, Pierce!”

  “Oh! I beg your pardon.”

  Embracing him had been a mistake. One moment, Eliza’s mind was on the highwayman and the accolades they would receive when they completed the mission. The next moment, all thoughts of the mission had fled, and she could think of nothing but the way Pierce’s body felt pressed against hers.

  “Anything but my pardon.” His arms came around her, slid up her back, and enveloped her in his warmth. She was already surrounded by his scent. In London, he had a sophisticated scent—bergamot mixed with the aromas of ink, fine paper, and antique books. She could still detect those scents.

  “You smell all wrong,” she said. “Like...horses and leather.”

  “Is that why your breathing is so fast?”

  Was she breathing fast? That scent... It made her think of danger and intrigue and forbidden passion.

  His hand slid to the nape of her neck, his fingers caressing the sensitive, almost ticklish, flesh there. She hadn’t taken her hair down, and now his hand dove into those upswept tresses, loosening them, and relieving the ache.

  “You are so proper,” she whispered. “So correct except...when you’re not.”

  “You have that effect on me. I love how you”—he lowered his lips to hers—“taste.”

  The first touch of his flesh to hers always excited her. When he kissed her, he lost all formality. She knew the real man, and that man burned with need and desire to rival any man.

  He teased her lips open with his tongue—when had he learned that little trick?—and at the same time pulled pins from her hair, catching them before they could fall to the floor. Her hair tumbled down, and that first feeling of release was wonderful. And then his tongue mated with hers. She didn’t know how else to think of it. The way he stroked and teased mimicked lovemaking perfectly. She must have made some small sound of approval, because he nipped at her lower lip.

  “You like that?”

  Her ears rang like they did after a particularly violent explosion. She opened her eyes, dismayed to find the room seemed to tilt. “Have you always kissed me like that?”