by Heather Snow
“Just so,” he said grimly. “You’re appalled now, aren’t you?”
“I…” Emma gathered her scattered thoughts. “No, I’m just taken aback.” The more Derick spoke about his past, the paler his complexion had grown. Brackets had appeared around his lips, which had thinned. He clearly suffered over things he’d done—most likely more than he’d told her, or might ever tell her. Only a good man would agonize so. She knew in her heart Derick hadn’t taken anyone’s life lightly.
She reached a hand out and placed it on his forearm, squeezing gently. Muscle flexed beneath her fingertips, rippled as if seething emotion roiled beneath his skin. “I can’t imagine having to make such a decision. Having to carry out such an act. But I am certain that the things you did saved British lives, and if you think I would condemn you for that—that I wouldn’t want you because of it, you are wrong.”
Derick let out a harsh breath, his shoulders slumping, his gaze sliding to where her hand rested upon his arm in support. “I can see I shall have to tell you more.”
Emma involuntarily squeezed him harder. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear more. But his words confirmed her suspicion that he was trying to drive her away. She firmed her jaw as she released his arm. Well, she would hear anything he had to say, but nothing would sway her.
“Most spies, the best ones anyway, are the ones who don’t stand out in any way. Average height, average build, no distinguishing features,” he said. “People who can slip in and out of places unnoticed. Who are forgettable.”
“Then you must have been terrible at it,” Emma said, only halfway joking. If ever there was a less average-looking person, it was Derick. His superior height alone made him stand out in a crowd, and that was before you took into account his thick black hair, his stunningly perfect features and his arresting emerald eyes. She couldn’t imagine anyone, male or female, who would forget seeing him.
A dark smile touched his lips. “No, I was a very good spy. I was just given a different type of mission than most.” He scrubbed a hand over his face then, as if he didn’t wish to tell her the rest.
“I told you that the French noticed me because my heritage was obvious, and because of my position as heir to a British viscountcy. That was true. Part and parcel with that was my ability to move in and out of very elite circles throughout Europe. Where some of their other operatives might have to spend weeks working their way into a household as a servant or such, I would be welcomed right in because of my wealth and status. An agent in plain sight, one no one would expect.”
“That makes perfect sense,” Emma said, wondering what could possibly be so terrible about that.
“Yes, well, what else made perfect sense was to use the other thing people notice about me.”
Emma waited for him to elaborate, tapping on her thigh with her fingers.
Derick cocked a raven brow and gave her a sardonic smile. “What most women notice about me, then.”
“Oh!” Emma exclaimed, understanding practically smacking her in the forehead, much as it did when she’d stared at an equation so long that she missed the obvious answer.
“I see you begin to comprehend,” Derick murmured. “My role was that of the dissipated young rake, suffering from ennui, sleeping my way through the ballrooms of Europe. A life of gambling and drinking, with a different woman in my bed every night. Some I seduced because they actually had secrets I was commanded to get from them—their own or those of someone close to them. Some I took to my bed just to maintain the facade.”
Emma opened her mouth, but could think of nothing to say. Derick had…slept with women all throughout Europe for their country? What’s more— “You lived that way for thirteen years?”
“More like ten—ten and a half,” he said. “I didn’t start truly spying for either country until ’04, and there wasn’t much need for that kind of…activity after Waterloo.”
A different woman in my bed every night. For ten and a half years? Emma struggled with the idea of that, her mind automatically extrapolating. Even if he exaggerated, even if it was a different woman in his bed every month, that would be a hundred and twenty-six different women. A different woman every week? Five hundred and forty-six women. A different woman every night?
“That’s three thousand eight hundred and thirty-two women! Thirty-four if I count leap years.” Emma felt the blood drain from her cheeks. For the first time in her life, she wished she didn’t know how to multiply.
His lips quirked and a peculiar light lit his emerald eyes. “I may have overembellished a tad.” He snorted with grim amusement. “Still, the point is the same. What think you now, Emma?”
What did she think? She thought “a tad” was not a very precise number. “How could you have done what—what we just did with so many different women?” Emma scrambled to her feet, unable to sit so close to him. She walked a few paces away, her back to Derick.
She could never imagine allowing another man to touch her the way he had touched her. Could never dream of holding another man close to her heart as she had held him. What she’d felt when he’d been moving within her had been profound, deeply personal. And yet to him, she had been just one of dozens? Emma’s stomach roiled.
“I’ve succeeded in shocking you.” Derick’s breath brushed past her ear. She whirled to find him standing behind her. Emma cursed his damnably silent spy footsteps. “But have I succeeded in convincing you that I am not the man you want?”
No, her heart cried even as her mind rebelled. “I…I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t understand any of this.” She looked at him standing there before her, so handsome. A thick lock of his black hair brushed his forehead, hair she’d so very recently run her fingers through with tenderness. At his Lothario lips that she’d kissed with such earnest, innocent passion. How many other women had done the same, and likely better than she had? Had any of those women loved him, as she did? And more importantly…“Didn’t any of them mean anything to you?”
Derick’s face went oddly still, blank in a way she’d never seen as he stared somewhere past her shoulder. “No, Emma,” he said finally, his gaze returning to her. “Sex with them was a means to an end, a tool of my profession, a way to get what I needed from them, be that information or continuation of my cover.”
“And with me?” Emma was amazed her voice didn’t wobble, so much did she fear the answer.
Something blazed within Derick’s green eyes and a look she could only describe as two parts stricken and one part longing flashed over his face. The sight stilled her heart, which then pounded doubly hard and fast in an effort to get back into rhythm.
He opened his mouth. His throat worked almost violently, but no sound emerged. His shoulders dropped, as if in defeat. “Emma,” he said hoarsely. “I—”
“Miss Wallllliiiiiiingford?”
Emma startled at the exploratory shout of her name, coming from somewhere behind them. She jerked toward the sound. Someone was looking for her? She could see no one. Yet.
“Miss Waaaaaaaallingford?” Closer now. Panic squeezed her throat as her hands flew to her tousled hair. She looked down at her rumpled dress. Fig! She wasn’t even wearing her stays.
Derick stepped protectively in front of her, his head turned toward the voice as well. “Grab your things and run into the cave. Right yourself as best you can.” When she stayed frozen in her spot, he barked, “Go!”
“Right.” Emma hurried toward the mouth of the cave, stopping once to retrieve her stays from the ground, and again to grab the small bag still tied to her saddle.
She squinted her eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness after walking out of the fading sunlight. Being alone was a relief, but the chilly damp of the cave did little to cool her agitation.
She struggled with so many feelings at once. Anger, certainly. Confusion. Desire. Disgust. Shame. Love. They flew at her, bombarded and overwhelmed her, much as the bats that had once swarmed her when she’d disturbed them in this very cave as a girl.
What had Derick been about to say?
Would it have mattered? Could it matter? She didn’t know.
“—just over in the cave, sketching fossils or some such thing.” Derick’s voice floated to her, reminding her that she must hurry.
She dug in the little bag, retrieved her brush and started pulling it through her hair. Her coiffure had gotten so disturbed during their kisses in her study the other day, she’d had to sneak to her rooms. So when she’d decided to seduce Derick on their picnic, she’d come prepared to repair her appearance should she succeed.
The brush stilled and an ache welled in her chest. Well, she had succeeded all right. But it hadn’t turned out a bit like she’d wanted, had it?
“Let me just see what’s keeping her.” Derick’s voice was clearer now, closer.
She returned the brush to her bag with shaking hands and wound her long hair, twisting it round and round before tying it in a knot that rested against the back of her neck. A simple style that people were accustomed to seeing on her. She sniffed, fanned her cheeks and pasted on a smile that felt horribly brittle on her face. She only hoped it hid the tumult of other things she was feeling. She walked to the entrance and affected an easy stroll, hoping to preserve her reputation at least.
“You really should come see these, Aveline,” she called out as she exited the mouth of the cave. “The sea lilies are particularly well preserved…” She let her words drift off and feigned surprise when she noticed their visitor. “John Coachman? What brings you here?” Her stomach knotted with actual fear—why had a servant been sent to find her? Unless— “Is everything all right with George?”
“Yes, miss.” The servant’s head bobbed and Emma started to breathe again. “But ye’ve got to come back to the manor now. They’ve found a dead man in the woods.”
Chapter Seventeen
Derick paced impatiently in the back kitchens of Wallingford Manor, waiting for Emma to change her clothing. Shouts and the clinks and clanks of metal and wood rang through the open back door as out in the stable yard, men gathered the cart, lanterns, ropes and tools that Emma had ordered before dashing upstairs. Given that the sun had been fading when John Coachman had found them, they would be conducting this recovery in nearly full dark.
Hurried footsteps came from behind him. Derick turned as Emma burst into the room, dressed once again in a plain, colorless frock. The mere sight of her, even in the drabbest of garb, sent lust rocketing through him. Over the past days, he’d become accustomed to the fierce desire that gripped him every time he saw her. But now that he’d actually tasted her fully? It twisted within him in exquisite torture. Damnation. How could he live without having her again?
Bitter regret burned in his gut. He’d made certain that would never happen, hadn’t he? Why couldn’t he have just kept his fool mouth shut and enjoyed the strange magic he’d known in her arms for as long as he could have held on to it?
Derick released a tight breath. He knew why. Because Emma deserved more than a few days’ romp in the bed sheets. But knowing it was for her own good didn’t make the reality taste any less like ash in his mouth.
“Almost ready,” she said as she shuffled past him into a cloakroom, without meeting his eyes. She hadn’t looked at him once during their trip back to Wallingford Manor. Had, in fact, kept John Coachman between them the entire way. She’d tried to be subtle about it, but he’d known.
Thank God John Coachman’s call had interrupted them when it had. He’d been perilously close to breaking down and begging Emma for…what? Forgiveness? Absolution? Derick scoffed. Only one of those was hers to give, and at any rate, it wouldn’t change anything.
The sooner he left for America, the better.
The sense of relief that usually accompanied the thought of his impending escape didn’t come. Instead, an insidious longing crept into his chest, a desire to stay with Emma, to let her love him. A desire for something that could never be.
When Emma emerged, she’d been swallowed by another giant greatcoat. Not the one she’d worn that first night—indeed, this one might be even larger. Derick glanced down at her feet, frowning at the oversized boots, which were caked with dried mud. “Do you not own your own boots, Emma?” Before he left Derbyshire, he was going to have at least three styles of coats with matching boots made up for her.
She still wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she gestured absently toward the cloakroom. “I do. Somewhere in there. But in an emergency, it’s quicker just to grab what’s nearest.” She’d almost reached the back door when he snagged her elbow, pulling her up short.
She gasped at his touch. She must have felt the same charge he did. She turned and finally looked at him. Caught in her intense, wounded gaze, Derick felt shame ooze over him. Confusion swam alongside the hurt in her golden eyes. Words of contrition, of supplication, of remorse hovered on his tongue. However, all he said was, “The man is dead, Emma. He can wait for you to find some proper-fitting boots.”
She looked about to argue, but Derick cut her off. “I won’t have you tripping in the dark and breaking your pretty neck,” he murmured.
Emma shook her head, but disappeared back into the cloakroom.
Fabrics rustled and a series of thuds echoed from the doorway before she reemerged, wearing a somewhat shorter coat and horribly mismatched boots. Derick rolled his eyes. At least they fit properly.
“I don’t need a keeper, Derick. And as you’ve made it clear you won’t be a suitable partner, I don’t understand why you’re still here,” she said, her voice tight. “I am more than capable of handling this on my own. Just go home.”
Inside, he ached that he’d caused such a rift between them, but outwardly, all he did was raise an eyebrow. There was no way he was staying behind, and she may as well accept it.
Emma turned and left in a huff. He was glad of it. He’d rather have her angry with him than confused and hurt. When he left England, she’d get over anger faster than she would a broken heart. He followed her outside.
Emma rode on the cart next to her driver as they made their way into the forest, with Derick alongside on his charger. Besides John Coachman, the stable master and three other able-bodied men joined their group, including the hunter from the village who’d found the remains.
The sun had dipped below the western horizon, though a shadow of light remained. Only the snorting of horses, the creaking of the cart and the snapping of rolled-over twigs filled the air.
Derick scanned the landscape, easily seeing the trail of tramped-down grass the hunter had made before his gruesome discovery, as well as his hasty track out. The paths were closing in on one another—they must be getting close.
He wondered if the body they were going to recover could be that of Farnsworth. Emma’s report of a drifter had given him pause, but many times in the past week, Derick had wondered if the reason the agent had failed to make contact was that he’d met with a foul end. If that were the case, Derick would know that his mother had had an accomplice who was still here in upper Derbyshire. And if this body wasn’t that of Farnsworth, maybe it was time to move on. Without knowing exactly what evidence Farnsworth had uncovered, he had no proof of anything.
“Not far now,” came the man’s shaken voice a few moments later, but Derick didn’t need to be told. The cloying rotten/sweet smell of death hit them like a wall, permeating the air and hovering like a noxious cloud.
“Just there,” the hunter croaked, pointing a few yards ahead with the hand that wasn’t shielding his nose.
Derick reined in his mount, and his rioting senses. He vaulted off the horse and tied him to the cart. Emma, he noticed, had slipped down from the box and was busy gathering a lantern and a small bag that she’d brought. He was relieved to see that her wounded look was gone, replaced with the
efficiency she normally exhibited.
“Gentlemen.” She motioned to the rather green-looking men hanging back from the cart as if they wished to slink into the darkness falling behind them. “Each of you grab a lantern and form a perimeter of light around the man. I’d say a circumference of twenty-eight feet would do nicely.” She turned and dug into her satchel, leaving the men scratching their heads.
When she realized they hadn’t moved, a wry expression stole over her face. “My apologies. That would be a circle with approximately three yards in diameter, please.”
She went back to her digging, pulling out a pair of worn gloves, a polished stick that resembled nothing more than a wand, and a dark scarf, which she proceeded to tie around her nose and mouth.
While she prepared herself, Derick discreetly directed the still-confused men to stand cross points from each other at the correct distance, pretending not to notice when one of them retched into the bushes.
Derick stepped into the circle of light and looked down at the remains. His first thought was that there wasn’t much left of the man—insects and carrion animals had done their worst. His second was that while this very well could be Farnsworth, he might not be able to tell, given the amount of damage to the corpse. Most of one arm and both lower extremities were missing, likely dragged off by hungry beasts. And there were no personal belongings around the body to speak of.
“You seem rather prepared,” he commented as Emma came alongside him, looking more like a bandit than a gentle lady. She gave him a withering glance, and he thought she might ignore him. He couldn’t blame her for reverting to how she’d treated him when he’d first arrived back in upper Derbyshire. Not after the way he’d hurt her today.
Then she sighed, the bottom edge of her scarf fluttering with her breath.
“Thn-in-th—” came her muffled voice. She reached up and pulled the scarf down past her chin. “This isn’t the first dead person I’ve encountered, you know.” She pulled a leather work glove onto one hand, flexing her fingers before repeating with the other hand. “Besides, I got the idea to keep a bag like this at the ready from one of the magistrates that I correspond with. Although, I think I am going to have to write back and recommend he add some sort of ointment laced with peppermint or menthol to block the nose.”
