Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  Distracting little curls.

  “So . . . Mr. Tallish and Dark-haired?” Marc studied her profile.

  She was in great poker form, giving away nothing.

  “One of your secrets for one of mine?” She raised an eyebrow at him. Questioning.

  “Do you really think you are in a position to be making demands?” he countered.

  After a moment, she heaved a hefty sigh.

  “Fine. I will tell you, Marc,” she said. “But you have to promise me you will keep the secret.”

  He blinked. “Of course, I will. That goes without saying—”

  “No. I fear the secret involves you in a way and—”

  “Me?” The thrill of surprise chased his spine. “That seems . . . unlikely. But, regardless, you have my word. I will keep your secret, I promise.”

  Kit nodded. And then took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Tallish and Dark-haired—as you call him—is Daniel Ashton . . . my younger brother.”

  “Your brother?” Marc’s head reared back in surprise. “Not a male admirer?”

  A wry grin touched her lips. “No. I leave that honor solely to you.”

  He matched her grin with one of his own. Relief washed through him, ridiculous as it was welcome.

  “So . . . your brother. I did not expect that.”

  “Yes. I cannot go into the details of why he is here or even why I am here—”

  “Ah, still keeping secrets.”

  “—but I noticed the buttons on my brother’s coat resemble the ones you described to Lord Linwood.”

  “What?!” Marc said too loudly. “Are you sure?”

  “Well, as sure as I could be. They were brass with a raised crest covered in vines.”

  Whoa!

  Marc drew in a long, hissing breath and sank a hand into his hair.

  Maybe . . . maybe it was just a huge coincidence. How common were such buttons anyway?

  Or maybe it was his key to solving this mystery and returning home.

  Rubbing his temples, Marc processed the implications.

  First, Kit had a brother named Daniel who lurked about in shrubbery.

  Who had buttons that sounded similar to the one he remembered from his scuffle with the intruder in Duir Cottage.

  In the twenty-first century.

  Was Daniel his man, then? The blackmailer?

  A man from the nineteenth century, traveling between time periods, causing who-knew-what kind of havoc?

  Or was he part of a larger plot?

  For the hundredth time, Marc cursed that he hadn’t caught a clear glimpse of the intruder who attacked him. The man who disappeared into the shrubbery could have been his attacker. He looked to be about the correct size. But Marc would have to question Daniel to know for sure.

  Despite Arthur’s misgivings, Marc had been smart in coming into town to look around.

  His lengthy silence distressed Kit.

  “Marc, please,” —she grabbed his gloved hands in hers— “I realize Daniel most likely was one of the highwaymen who robbed you, but I promise I will find a way to repay what you lost. Just pleasepleaseplease don’t turn him over to the magistrate.”

  Oh right. There was also that . . .

  How to respond?

  “Kit, this is serious.”

  “You promised to keep the secret.” Her dark eyes looked beseechingly. Her hands tense around his. “I need Daniel. He’s all I have left, and I love him more than life. If he continues down this path . . . at best, it will leave me cast out of my family’s house. And at worst . . .”

  “What do you mean, Kit?”

  She heaved an exasperated sigh and pulled her hands back into her own lap. “I came to Marfield to find Daniel, as he had run off. Since my father died last year, Daniel is the only family left to me. Literally, the only family. I fear he is involved in deep things which could keep him from ever returning home, back to our estate, to his place in society. If Daniel doesn’t return . . . things would be bad. Despite appearances, I promise he is a good person.”

  “All right.” Marc blinked. “But why are you Lady Ruby’s companion if your brother is a man of some property?”

  “Well, I left too . . . hastily. I knew Daniel was involved with something in a town called Marfield in Herefordshire, and so I simply left. But I found myself here without any money and no Daniel in sight. The vicar was kind enough to arrange for the position with Ruby to give me a roof over my head. I am only here until I convince Daniel to return home with me. Having lost my father this past year, I can’t bear to lose Daniel too. Please don’t betray us.”

  Wow. That was a lot to absorb. Assuming Daniel was the man in Duir Cottage, how was Marc to deal with Daniel without betraying Kit too?

  “I have no intention of turning Daniel over to the local magistrates, Kit. But I would like to chat with him about his activities in and around Marfield. I believe he has information that might prove useful—”

  “Because of your spying activities with your sister, Emry?”

  Man, she was so smart. Quick with a probing question.

  “How do you know about Emme?”

  “Hah! So you admit she was your sister?”

  Marc gave a cheerless chuckle. “Yes, my younger sister. Now you know one of my secrets, so we are even. Again, tell me how you know about Emme.”

  “I may have overheard Linwood and Arthur talking about trying to find you. They were concerned about the rise in local thefts and thought they might be tied to a French spy ring.” She looked at Marc’s impassive face. “That information does not appear to have surprised you.”

  He shrugged. “Arthur told me all about it.”

  “Ah.” She fidgeted, her mouth opening and then closing just as quickly. As if wanting to ask a question, but almost afraid to know the answer. Finally, she raised her chin and dove in. “So . . . are there French spies in the area? And, if so, do you think they have something to do with Daniel?”

  Excellent questions. Were there French spies in the area? Did they have something to do with Daniel?

  That was a chilling thought.

  He could hardly tell her the truth.

  Well, you see, I am actually from the twenty-first century, and I think your brother has been traveling back and forth between time periods with potentially disastrous consequences . . .

  Man, he really needed to run Daniel to ground.

  “I’m not sure, Kit. We need to talk with him to know. Given the nature of the robbery and my, uh . . . past activities, shall we say, I wonder if your brother knows something which may prove helpful.”

  Kit wrinkled her brow.

  “I assure you, Kit, I mean him no harm. I simply wish to ascertain what he knows. That is all. Could you arrange a meeting between us?”

  A beat of silence.

  “I . . . I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Daniel said he had some plan to get us money. I don’t understand completely what is going on. I didn’t see the buttons in time to ask him about his role in your robbery. What is he involved in, Marc? Do you think it truly dreadful?”

  Again . . . wow. How to answer that?

  “Uhm . . . I can’t honestly say, Kit. I suggest we both hold off making any judgments until we talk to Daniel.”

  She nodded. “Finding him might be difficult. But with your help, I have faith we can track him down. I have a lot more I want to say to him anyway.”

  Kit nibbled on her bottom lip. They sat in silence for a moment, studying the old church.

  Well, Kit studied the church. Marc watched Kit from the corner of his eye, his mind galloping from the revelation.

  Kit’s brother might be the man who attacked him in Duir Cottage. The blackmailer. Or Daniel, at a minimum, might know who was blackmailing him.

  And even more importantly, this all brought Marc one giant step closer to finding his ticket home. Arthur could now focus on tracking down Daniel. And perhaps once they put a stop to whatever scheme Daniel planned, the portal w
ould allow Marc to return.

  Hallelujah!

  Kit shifted next to him.

  Of course, returning home also meant leaving Kit. The thought made his heart give an odd little lurch.

  Though, how could Kit ever fit into his modern, twenty-first century life? She would be so lost and alone, even with Marc at her side.

  Case in point, Georgiana had spent over a year in the twenty-first century and never felt like she fit in. And Georgiana had James at her side the entire time. Her brother had come with her.

  But Kit would have to leave her brother behind. Something he doubted she would do.

  And Marc absolutely refused to give up his career, family and entire life in 2014. Just thinking about it caused a wave of panic.

  Yeah.

  There was no hope of a future together. Ever. Period.

  Though, he was comforted to realize Kit’s life had probably not always been the drudgery it was now. That she had a future where she would be free to choose her own destiny. Or, at least, as free as any nineteenth century woman could be.

  Kit would flirt, find a nice man, settle down, have a quaint cottage full of babies—

  But why did that image make him want to punch something . . . hard?

  Okay, so maybe he knew the answer to that question. He just needed to be honest with himself.

  He liked Kit. The way she matched his wit, dished out as much as she took without any apology. The flirty lift of her mouth as she teased him, how she refused to take any of his bull.

  It all boiled down to that irresistible confidence. So secure within herself.

  Making him want to know her better.

  How could he possibly feel so drawn to the one person who could never become a permanent part of his life?

  Though actually the question provided the answer.

  This was just a case of wanting that which he could never have. Kit was unattainable and, knowing that, he longed to keep her in his life.

  Like a child who wanted an off-limits toy, making the forbidden item seem impossibly desirable.

  Classic reverse psychology.

  Yes! That was all it was. Nothing more.

  He was fine. Just fine. He wasn’t falling for this woman.

  Marc relaxed next to Kit on the bench, content his emotions were securely locked away.

  For her part, Kit shivered, drawing her cloak around her more firmly, rubbing her arms.

  “You know, if you want a hug, you only have to ask,” Marc said. “No need to be so awkwardly unsubtle about it.”

  He turned more toward her, stretching an arm along the back of the bench. Behind her but not touching.

  He was emotionally safe, right? So no harm in continuing his shameless flirting.

  Kit stopped rubbing her arms and fixed him with a hard stare. And then glanced pointedly at his arm behind her.

  “You pull a move like that” —she gestured toward his arm with her chin— “and you call me awkwardly unsubtle?”

  He winked at her.

  “I can’t even think of a way to politely respond.” She shook her head.

  “Here, allow me to help.” He cleared his throat loudly and then launched into a credible falsetto. “‘Pon rep, Marcus, I daresay you are the most dashing thing to ever inhabit buckskin breeches.”

  “‘Pon rep? Do you enjoy London cant?”

  “Who me? I don’t. I assure you. It is my valet, actually. He also uses phrases like ‘fustian nonsense’ and ‘all the crack.’ Quite educational.”

  With a helpless smile, Kit stopped rubbing her arms and instead tugged off her worn gloves, blowing warm air on her cold, red fingers.

  “Here, permit me.” Marc pulled his arm from behind her and stripped off his own gloves.

  Without thinking, he took her frigid fingers in his. They were practically ice cubes. That was why he felt a zing as he touched her.

  Focused on his task, Marc rubbed her fingers and blew on them, gradually warming them up.

  After a moment of chafing some warmth into her hands, he looked up. To see Kit staring at him with huge, wide eyes.

  Ah . . . right.

  He was holding her hands. And, by doing so, had probably broken a book-full of nineteenth century etiquette rules.

  He should care. He really should.

  But he didn’t. And she didn’t pull her hands away.

  He glanced down at their fingers, intertwined.

  Kit had beautiful hands. Soft and cared for—the hands of a lady. Strong with neatly trimmed nails. Long, elegant fingers. Not dainty, but then nothing about her was dainty, thank goodness. She was solid and real and here.

  For now.

  He rubbed his thumbs along her palms, appreciating the slide of her smooth skin against his.

  Some distant part of his brain screamed at him. Insisting that the heart-racing heat he felt in simply touching her hands was more than mere polite friendship.

  Lifting his eyes back to hers, Marc deliberately engulfed her hands, holding her gaze as he continued to rub warmth into her fingers.

  He raised her hands and blew on the backs of them. And then quite deliberately, turned over her right hand and planted a kiss into her palm.

  A very good kiss, he might add. The kind that sent an electrical sizzle up a woman’s arm.

  Kit gasped and instantly curled her hand around the kiss, sealing it in. She pulled her hands out of his grasp and back into her lap, clasping them together. Hard. As if she wanted to protect the kiss emblazoned on her palm.

  Or possibly prevent him from duplicating the gesture.

  It could go either way.

  “I like your hands.” The words popped out.

  “Thank you.” She swallowed and turned said hands over in her lap. “They are a little large. To match the rest of me.”

  She said it matter-of-factly. But he had to wonder if this wasn’t a chink in Kit’s confidence armor. Was anyone really as confident as they seemed on the outside?

  He couldn’t stop his curiosity. Had all that confidence been forged as a defense? Was confidence her version of deflection? Forcing hurts and pains to seemingly bounce off of her?

  Part of Marc (the part he currently refused to listen to) howled at the thought that this amazing woman would ever, for even a moment, doubt her amazing-ness.

  Something panged in his chest, kicking powerfully against the blocks he had built around his feelings for her. He shook his head and reached for her hands again.

  “No. They are perfect.” He massaged her knuckles, breathing on them anew. “All of you is perfect.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So your lordship likes a proper armful? Not the petite, slender misses one sees in London?”

  He grinned. “I like a woman, Miss Ashton. And when I embrace a woman, I like to feel I am holding something soft and curved and decidedly female. Otherwise, what is the point?”

  Kit gave him a skeptical, I-suppose-I-can-humor-you look. “I think a good many men would disagree. I have listened to their talk enough to know. I am far too tall and—”

  “No, there you are wrong. A man wants a woman to be distinctly unlike himself. Women obsess over the smallest things. Are my hips too big? Are my eyes too small? They don’t realize it is the entirety of a woman which draws a man in. That every little quirk simply becomes part of what makes a woman uniquely special.”

  Kit stared at him with her enormous honey eyes. Faintly amused but clearly unbelieving.

  He hated seeing doubt in her eyes. Particularly when it was directed at herself.

  That something underneath his sternum thumped again, spreading a painful ache across his chest, tightening his breathing.

  He could not stand another moment of her self-doubt. Someday he would ferret out its source, but for now, he merely wanted to combat it. Like a vicious weed that needed to be stamped out.

  Without thinking, he stood and locked eyes with her, drowning in their chocolate depths. With a gentle squeeze of her hand, he oh-so-slowly p
ulled Kit to her feet.

  And then, again . . . slow, slow, slowly tugged her toward him. Until her skirts swished around his boots and he could feel the warm puff of her breath against his chin. Her height allowing him to look her straight in the eye.

  Carefully, respectfully, he wrapped his hands under her cloak and around her waist, drawing her into his arms. Gently, as if she were a treasure. Something precious to be cherished.

  He felt the initial surprise in her body, and then she melted into him, her ice cold hands pressed against his chest between them.

  She was a delightful armful. Lush and curved, her waist narrower than he had supposed. She smelled faintly of lavender and clean soap.

  Why hadn’t he thought to hold her before now?

  “See,” he murmured into her hair, “I was right. Look how perfectly you fit.”

  The truth of his own words hit hard. She did fit perfectly against him.

  She gave a muffled laugh that sounded as rattled as he felt.

  “You only say that because we’re both so cold,” she sighed, pressing her frozen nose into the crook of his neck. And then snuggled in even closer, burrowing her ice-cube fingers under his coat and wrapping them around his back. They burned through his waistcoat.

  His arms tightened around her. How had he ended up in the deep end so fast?

  Why, why, why was he doing this to himself?

  Kit was a nineteenth century woman . . . no, lady. A nineteenth century lady. And as such, she was used to a life and set of rules he would never understand. Surely, he had broken at least a couple dozen of those rules in the last fifteen minutes alone.

  Not that he claimed to be a gentleman, despite all of Michel’s coaching.

  But, man, it felt good and just plain right to have her in his arms. Like every other woman had been the wrong fit. Like he had been born to hold her and only her.

  It was a terrifyingly disturbing thought. Because it made him want to hold her more. To keep her permanently, which was an impossibility.

  Fate had sent him into the past. There was a blackmailer on the loose who needed to be stopped. He had assumed that was his mission. But Kit was now wrapped up in the mess too.