“You know, madame, there are several other explanations for my appearance,” he said, doing his best not to sound annoyed. “I have been sick. My house burned down. My child died.”
“Yes,” she said dismissively, “and we may use all of those before we are done.”
There was a bath before the fireplace and cans of water being kept warm on the hearth.
“Who arranged this? Is this house yours?”
Her “Yes” was terse, as though she was annoyed by his curiosity.
“Where are your servants?” Gabriel asked, his own irritation matching hers, exceeding it. “Are we alone?”
“The fewer who know of your presence, the safer it is.”
“Safer for them? Or for me?”
She gave him a look implying he was not as smart as the cat that had moved near the door leading into the front of the house.
“Ah,” he said. Her expression was the smallest of insults but the last straw. “Safer for them and for me,” he said, stepping toward her, “but not for you.”
He grabbed her around the waist. She was fine-boned despite her height. He could almost circle her waist with his hands. “I see a number of items I can use as a weapon. But why do I need one when I am bigger,” he shook her a little, “and stronger than you are?”
Gabriel pulled her to him. He did his best to ignore the way she pressed her body to him, the way her scent awakened his lust. Letting go of her waist, he moved his hands up her arms, stopping below her jaw, caressing her, not with affection. The bones of her neck were fragile compared to the power in his hands.
Months of anger, at himself, at the French, raged through him. He pressed his thumbs into the base of her throat. “I could strangle you or snap your neck and be free once and for all.”
The pulse in her neck beat steadily, her eyes were empty. How odd. His burst of fury faded as he studied her expression, trying to see something, anything of emotion. Did she not believe him capable of murder? He pressed his thumbs deeper into her throat, more as an experiment than as a threat. She must feel it, but she stood still, as if she were waiting for him to decide the color of her eyes rather than how to use his hands to kill her.
“This only works if the victim is intimidated.” He was so taken aback he spoke aloud and in English. “You do not care.” He eased his grip and then moved his hands to her shoulders. “I understand how you feel. One can only hide from despair for so long. There are times when death would be easier than going on.”
If he had not been watching her so intently, he would have missed the flash of panic in her eyes. She twisted away from him, moved around the table, closer to the fireplace.
“Is it so painful to be honest?” he asked, following her.
“Honest?” She faced him, venom filling her words. “You want me to be honest?”
He stopped moving toward her. She had spoken in English. To make that mistake she must be very upset.
“You, who are both a traitor and a spy, want honesty?” She shook her head, speaking the last word as if it were as rare as magic. “You murdering bastard. Here is honesty. You deserve the beating that marked your back. You deserve the guillotine more than most who are sent there.”
The anger ebbed, replaced by a scorn just as poisonous. “Someone is paying me well to save your life, and I need the money. There is more than one way for a woman to sell herself, my lord.” The last two words were as steeped with hate as any expletive she could have used.
“Your honesty is brutal, but I find that it brings me no closer to trusting you. Tell me why you—”
“Take your clothes off,” she said, interrupting him as she began to unlace her dress, still speaking in English.
With her hands stretched behind her back, her breasts were displayed even more prominently.
“I said, take off your clothes.”
Her anger was gone, or at least banked, as quickly as it had appeared.
“I want some answers,” Gabriel said, keeping his eyes on her as he came down the other side of the table. “Do you expect me to follow your orders with blind faith? Why do you risk your life for someone you would as soon see dead?”
“My husband died and left me with nothing. I am doing what I do best, to support myself.”
That could explain quite a bit. They faced each other in front of the fire as he tried to measure the truth of her words. She did not look away as she spoke. When her dress fell to the floor, she scooped it up and tossed it on a nearby chair.
“You will do as I say, Lord Gabriel, because otherwise you will die.”
No, he would not. He could make it on his own. He had a chance. A slim one. If he could find out who was paying her, then he could decide whether to follow her or not.
He took off his shirt. As absurd as it sounded, bathing was the next step to freedom.
Her corset was front-fastening and she dispensed with it as he tossed his shirt onto the chair with her dress. She raised the skirt of her chemise and stripped off her garters and stockings. Her ankles and feet were delicate. They would feel the cold of the stone floor.
Her fine lawn chemise left little to the imagination. He could see her figure and could make out the dark circle of her nipples, the shadow of hair at the V of her legs. Why exactly was she undressing?
He bided his time. This was not about sex any more than her costume was. His mind understood it, his body did not. As she began to fill the bath, he counted it wiser to look away from the display. As it was, undoing the buttons on his pantaloons was a struggle.
Stripped down to his small clothes, he reached for one of the buckets, following her example, filling the tub. He had lost weight. Prison food would only prolong life, not fuel strength. But he could still lift the cans, and the walk through town had not exhausted him. Fear had given him the energy. Even now it kept him alert.
“Enough,” she said. “Save some water for rinsing and shaving. Climb in.” She stood with her hands on her hips, watching him as he pulled off his drawers and tossed them into the fire.
He stepped into the bath and stilled. The water was too hot, or was it the feel of it that made him gasp? He stood still a moment before settling slowly with a long moan of pleasure he was sure she had heard before. This felt as good as sex. Almost. “You may kill me before dawn, Charlotte Parnell, but still I thank you. I have never, until this moment, so appreciated the bliss, the pure sensual bliss, of a bath full of hot water.” He put his head back, resting it along the hard-edged rim, and closed his eyes, relaxing, for the first time since the knock on his cell door.
She tossed the soap into the water. The splash of it hitting the surface made him straighten.
“There is no time for leisure if you wish to be bound for England tonight. Wash your hair first, so I can pick the nits while you wash the rest of your body.”
“I suppose that is why Georges cut my hair so short.” He raised a fierce lather and then used the soap on his head, washing so vigorously he felt the beginnings of a headache. “Shaving my head would have called too much attention to my appearance.”
She did not answer, but moved behind him, positioning one of the larger empty buckets at the edge of the bath. She pulled his head back, none too gently. The slosh of cool water she used to rinse his hair drew a gasp. “You are cruel, Charlotte.”
Then the real torture began. She ran her fingers through his hair, stroking his scalp. Her gestures were purely practical, at least he thought they were, but the way her strong fingers moved along his head felt like a caress and he wished she would rub his shoulders, his back, all of his body.
He took a cloth from the stack at hand and spread it from one side of the bath to the other. It would help keep the water warm. If he did not find something else to think about, she would know the real reason for the cloth.
Despite the intimacy of her task, he did not trust her. He would have sex with her in an instant, but he would do it with his eyes wide open and her hands tied to the bedpost. The image di
d nothing to calm his arousal. Talk, find some answers, he commanded himself. “You say I am bound for England tonight?”
No answer. He tried again.
“And you said ‘someone is paying me well’ to do this.” He emphasized the two pieces of information he did have. She continued her work in silence.
“From what I can deduce, your patron is English. Not my father. He always insisted that we fully experience the consequences of our actions. Most likely it’s my brother, Lynford. He’s the oldest and heir to the title, definitely ‘someone,’ as you named him, and wealthy enough to pay well. He would.”
She said nothing.
“I would be a fool to follow you without some details.”
Silence.
He pressed on. He might not be winning the answers he wanted, but it was calming his more lascivious thoughts. “I cannot credit someone from the British government would pay well or send a woman to do this job.” He waited only a beat and then answered for her, covering his aggravation with as practical a voice as he could manage. “Of course, everyone knows the government would sacrifice anything or anyone with victory so close. Before they were willing because they were so desperate. Any excuse will do to justify their actions.”
He could feel the breath of a laugh on his neck. He did his best to ignore the effect it produced. At least she was paying attention.
“It could have been my brother Jess. Gamblers have an amazing range of acquaintances. He’s not at all like Lynford, who never puts a step wrong.”
Charlotte rubbed something in his hair and began to comb it. She was almost finished and had not said one word. He gripped the side of the bath. “Surely not my sister, Olivia? I cannot credit she would have any idea how to hire someone to effect an escape.”
“I’m finished with your hair.”
Gabriel turned to face her. “Damn it, woman.” He took both her hands and held them tight. “Give me something. Anything. At least tell me that my family knows I am alive.”
4
CHARLOTTE SAT BACK on her heels, pulling her hands from his. He had done that all evening—react physically to his emotions, like the way he spread his arms and laughed at his first look at the sky.
His temper was just as close to the surface. She dried her fingers on her shift to keep from raising a hand to her throat and the bruise she knew would be there tomorrow.
It was not what she expected from someone who read books all day. Not this man of mercurial moods. It was hardly what one expected in a man of science.
She had thought to find a stoop-shouldered, squinty-eyed man, older than his years. Lord Gabriel Pennistan might show signs of long imprisonment, but no one would call him old or stoop-shouldered. His cheeks were as gaunt as his body, but it accentuated the fullness of his mouth. Tall and blond, he looked fit despite his months in prison.
And he had provoked her so that she had lost her temper. Charlotte tried to recall the last man who had done that. None came to mind since her husband had died. And her anger had never won anything from him but derision. She had learned and wrapped scorn around herself like a suit of armor.
Gabriel Pennistan was waiting, staring at her as if he could hear the words she was thinking.
“Why does it matter who is paying me?” she asked.
“I need some reason to believe in you,” he answered. “You have my life in your hands. It may be worthless to you, but I want to clear my family name. To find some way to do right by the men who died in front of me.”
“How noble, my lord.” She made herself frame the words as an insult. His blue eyes darkened with anger.
She looked away. If she did not tell him, would he do something foolish? She gave in. “Viscount Sidmouth told your family that you might be alive. It was the Duke of Meryon who hired me.”
“My father? I find that hard to believe.”
“No. Your brother is the duke now.”
Water sloshed over the rim and onto the stone floor as he straightened. “My father is dead?”
Charlotte shook her head, both yes and no. “I can only assume so.”
He drew a deep, hard breath. “My father is dead,” he said again. There was a long silence. “It’s hard to imagine the world without him. I wonder when. How?” He gave his attention to washing and was silent awhile. “He was not a kind man. Nor approving. But he was a presence. The French government certainly hated him.”
He spoke the last more to himself than to her.
“Like father like son. The new duke is forbidding and intimidating.”
He eased his head back on the rim again. His eyes were closed, but there was too much tension in his body for him to be resting.
“I must wash your back and then you have to shave. But first, allow me to treat your eye inflammation. Hold still.”
He followed her instruction and felt her fingers smooth something around the edge of both eyes. The relief was instantaneous.
“Oh,” he breathed, “thank you, again, dear jailer. I thought the itching would have me gouging my eyes out. What is it?”
“Some magic concoction a friend supplies me with.”
“The man of science is appalled by that description, but the sufferer salutes you.” He sat still for a moment, holding his breath and then releasing it in a long sigh.
There it was again, a very physical response to the simplest pleasure. It went hand in hand with the intensity. With all his sensibilities so close to the surface, it was no wonder trouble found him. Who had ever thought he would make a credible spy?
Gabriel opened his eyes and stared up at her. “If you met my family, talked to them, they must have convinced you I am neither spy nor traitor.”
She ignored his entreaty, turning back to her work. Yes, the duke had said his brother was too lazy to work at being a spy. Lord Jessup had described him as a man whose head was lost in whatever field of science interested him at the moment. Lady Olivia said he was too honest. Charlotte was sure his work in Portugal had cured him of that.
“I am not a traitor.”
There was the passion again, urging her to believe him or else. “Tell me your version of what happened.”
He did not begin right away. Was it because he resented obeying a woman’s demand or because he was honest? Her husband had insisted that a true spy would have a story ready, a story as close to the truth as possible.
“I went to Portugal in 1811.”
“You went to Portugal in the middle of a war? With the French in control of Spain and England losing the fight?” The scars on his back were reddened by the water. She took the soaped sponge and began to wipe away the dirt, using as gentle a touch as she could manage.
“I hoped to see a colleague, Dr. Borgos, and study the Great Comet with him. He lived near Corunna in the north of Portugal. A good distance from Spain and the threat of Napoleon’s marshals. Napoleon was on his way to Russia by then.”
“And still a nest of intrigue and spies.”
“Not at Dr. Borgos’s estate. He was a respected astronomer and old. Not a threat to anyone.”
She was not so sure that age and education made one less dangerous, but she wanted to hear Gabriel’s story, not start a debate with him. “You went to Portugal to study the night sky. Is there not sky enough in England?”
“A friend of mine, Rhys Braedon, had an argument with his brother and was determined to head off to Portugal. I knew Borgos and knew he would welcome us. I went to see the Great Comet. With an expert.” He said the last sentence with emphasis. “It was Borgos who drew me to Portugal, not the sky. I cannot speak for Braedon, though I expect that he just wanted to move beyond his family’s influence.”
She listened as she carefully cleaned around the scars. Some of them were older than others. How had they not become infected? For all his bad luck, this was one disaster he had avoided. “Why did you not invite Borgos to meet you somewhere that was not so dangerous?”
“Name a place in Europe that has not felt the scourge
of Napoleon. Besides, Dr. Borgos is confined to a chair. Travel is impossible for him.”
He shifted his body and went on. She ran the sponge over his shoulders and down his back, slowly, feeling each muscle. How had he managed to keep his strength when he had been confined for so long? He shuddered, and she moved the sponge back up his spine to his neck. He shivered. She felt only a little guilty at what she was doing to him. A very refined kind of torture. It virtually guaranteed he would keep talking to distract himself.
“I spent nearly a year with the doctor. Rhys married Borgos’s daughter and they went back to England. She was with child and Borgos was anxious that she should be safe.”
He was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “Have you ever had one of those moments, one you can look back to, a moment when you know your life changed?”
She nodded at the rhetorical question, forcing herself to continue her washing even though she felt physically ill at the memory.
“Borgos became ill. I think he had been failing the whole time we were with him, but his daughter’s farewell was heartbreaking, quite literally. Sometimes he was aware, sometimes he was not. He had me write a letter to his daughter and to his son. But his son had died in the war. That’s when I knew death was near. He finished dictating the letter and looked at me. ‘Thank you, Gabriel, thank you for your care and your company. Please, my son, do not waste this life.’ I thought he was gone, but he looked at me again and grabbed my hand. ‘Make the world a better place.’ Then he died.”
He lapsed into silence, and she breathed a prayer for the doctor’s soul.
“I kept the letter he wrote his son as a reminder of his words. That was totally unnecessary.” He added that with a harsh laugh, as if the memory was more of a nightmare. “At first I pursued the work that had brought me to Portugal. It was when I was in Lisbon reading a paper to men too old to fight or to those who were unwilling, that I realized I needed to take action, to join the fight to make the world safe from tyrants like Napoleon. I decided to buy a commission.
“The fight for Spain was fully engaged, even though Napoleon was now fighting a war on two fronts. I went to Wellington’s winter camp and asked about a commission. Wellington himself met with me and asked if I would consider doing work for him that did not require a uniform. He asked me to work as a spy, using my interest in science as a disguise.”
Mary Blayney Page 3
