Honor Bound

by C. J. Archer

  "No," she said at last when she felt certain her voice wouldn’t falter. "Not awful at all." Far from it.

  She marveled that he was still so tall, something she had not expected. She had thought he would not seem so big since she had grown up so much since leaving him. She had been wrong. He towered over her like a solid, impenetrable wall as he had always done.

  They stood like two strangers, warily watching each other, until Isabel could stand it no longer.

  "How did you know where to find me?" she asked.

  He frowned at her. "I didn’t. I wasn’t looking for you. I just walked in...and here you are." He sounded like a man awed by a wondrous magic trick.

  Magic. The reminder of the vile thing behind their separation sliced through her like a knife.

  Then his words sank in. He hadn’t been looking for her. The fact that his admission hurt meant time had healed nothing, and she had not changed as much as she thought.

  "Yes," she said. "Here I am."

  "They said you had gone to Cambridge," he said. "I tore that city apart looking for you." His voice rose from a flat monotone to a pitch that grated her raw nerves. "If I’d known you were in London..." He shook his head, still staring at her.

  He had been searching for her. The ache in her heart lessened. "You wouldn’t have found me. I’m not Isabel Merritt here."

  "Camm?" he asked, referring to her maiden name.

  She nodded.

  "My God," he said. "It’s really you." His laugh was more of a maniacal bark.

  Maybe he’d gone mad. Perhaps the scheme he’d become involved in after their marriage, the cause of his long absences, had affected his mind. She edged away from him.

  "No!" He caught her face in his hands with a delicacy at odds with his tone. "Don’t move." His skin felt rough on her cheeks but then he caressed her with his thumbs and she thought she had never felt anything so soft in her life.

  "Isabel," he murmured.

  His gaze held hers and before she could sever the connection, he captured her mouth in a fierce kiss. Some distant part of her wanted to struggle but the rest of her wanted to drown in his soft lips and his warmth. It wasn't like the kisses of old. They had always been passionate but never so powerful. It was as if every emotion he had experienced in the intervening years had surged to the surface and clashed in this single searing kiss.

  His hand pressed against the back of her head, holding her in place, but he needn’t have bothered because she didn’t want to go anywhere. She had dreamed of this kiss for six years and she wasn’t going to end it yet. Not when it sent a rush of heat through her, nourishing her starved body, filling a hole she hadn’t known existed.

  But after only a few short moments, he pulled away. "I’m sorry," he said, breathing hard. "I shouldn’t have done that." He ran a hand through his hair and turned away. "I wish I hadn’t." Regret echoed through his hollow voice.

  She hugged her arms over her chest to try and contain her shaking. That kiss had been a mistake. It had ignited something she had thought mastered. Something deep within her, a primal, timeless need.

  "But I couldn’t help it," he continued. "I mean, look at you! You’re here, you’re real, you’re not dead and I’ve been living in the same city as you this whole time!"

  He had thought her dead? "Yes."

  His eyes narrowed. "Yes? Is that all you have to say to me after six years?"

  His acrimony stung. "Yes," she said again, because it truly was all she could think of saying. Her thoughts tumbled about and she couldn’t possibly form a coherent sentence from them.

  He scoffed and strode to the door but didn’t open it. Instead, he stormed back, half turned, shook a finger at her then grunted and strode away again. With his back to her, he placed a hand against the wall and looked down at the floor. "Well, Wife, do I get an explanation? Are you going to tell me to my face this time that you have a lover?" His head turned to one side as if he couldn’t face what was on the other. "I suppose you have children—"

  "No!" She took a step towards him but stopped. "There are no children and no lover. There never has been." And never will be.

  "Don’t lie to me, Isabel. You did enough of that in our first two years of marriage."

  "I have never lied to you!" She crossed the room and stood where he could see her. "Not once, Nick. Whereas you lied to me every time you went away. Every time you told me you had business in London, every time you wrote telling me you would be home soon and forever. So do not accuse me of lying because your conscience is hardly clear on that score."

  Nicholas had never seen Isabel look so angry, or so beautiful. It was quite a formidable combination and stirred something inside him. Her face may be flushed from her anger and the heat of the fire, and her hair had fallen out from the cap to brush against her cheek, but she was the most amazing woman he had ever set eyes on. Even more beautiful than he remembered, something he had not thought possible. Her upturned nose was still the same, the honey color of her hair unchanged and the slimness of her figure, but there was something about the way she had walked towards him just then and spoken her mind. The girl he had married wouldn’t have said it quite that way, used that tone, or moved with such determination. Nor would she have thrust out her chin, such an adorable chin too, or held his gaze.

  As he looked away, too ashamed because she was right and he had lied to her over and over, he had to admit that the girl he married had changed. She had become a woman.

  He turned back to her again, her words ringing in his ears. "No lover? But the Forster lad..." He remembered the name because he had searched Canterbury for her under Merritt, Camm and Forster thinking she might have taken her lover’s name.

  "Forster? Your mean Jacob Forster? He was a nice boy, but hardly someone I would take to my bed."

  "How would I know what sort of man you’d take to your bed?"

  "If you were around more you would."

  Nicholas had the sickening feeling that he was to blame for Isabel’s leaving all along. Even so, he had to persevere. Had to know, even if it meant heartache deeper than anything he'd ever experienced.

  "They told me you and the Forster boy had run away to Canterbury together," he said dully.

  "Then they were wrong."

  "So it would seem." He felt almost weak with relief. She had no lover.

  "I suspect Jacob Forster and I had the unhappy coincidence of leaving Newport at the same time. I’m sorry you thought I left you for another man. I didn’t." She thrust out her chin again, not sounding sorry at all.

  Nicholas straightened. "Then why did you leave?"

  She turned away and busied herself with the herbs laid out on the bench. Being an apothecary’s daughter, she had always been interested in medicines and herbal remedies, but he had never thought to find her working as a shop girl. Not the wife of Nicholas Merritt. Sir Nicholas now.

  "There are too many reasons to go into here and now," she said.

  "Then when and where? I have a right to know what...what I did wrong. Was it my absences?"

  She sprinkled some dried leaves into a mortar and crushed them with a pestle using far more force than necessary. No doubt the leaves gave off a powerful odor but he couldn’t distinguish it amidst the jumble of other pleasing scents emanating from the cauldron bubbling over the fire.

  He was about to press her for an answer when the door at the rear of the shop opened and a man entered.

  "Isabel, I—" The gentleman spotted Nicholas and stopped. "Forgive me, Sir, I’m sorry for interrupting." He bowed and turned to Isabel, frowning at the tension in her face. "Are you all right?"

  He must be someone of considerable wealth to have a pearl earring and velvet cloak, but what concerned Nicholas more was that he called his wife—his wife—by her first name. Not Mistress Camm or whatever, but Isabel. By rights, the only man alive who should be calling her that was himself.

  "Perfectly fine," she said, although anyone who knew her would detect the sharp edg
e to her voice and know that everything was far from fine.

  "Is this man bothering you?" The gentleman drew himself up to his full height, still several inches shorter than Nicholas, and gave him a glare meant to convey superiority.

  Nicholas had to applaud her friend for trying. With his soft hands and slight stature, he was clearly not used to being cast in the role of protector. He looked out of his depth trying to intimidate. But, more importantly, the dandy was prepared to do it. For Isabel. Nicholas knew what that compulsion felt like. He was prepared to do anything for her too. If only he knew what she wanted.

  "He... I...," she stuttered, her face slowly reddening. It seemed she wasn’t prepared to tell the newcomer that her husband had found her, or indeed that she had a husband. "We were just..."

  "We were just discussing my terrible case of..." Nicholas searched for a suitable ailment.

  "Flaccid erectus," she said.

  His eyes widened as he glared at her. She responded with a sly smile. "Not exactly flaccid," he said, "more...crooked."

  "Whatever is wrong with your yard, be sure to listen to Isabel," the gentleman said, relaxing his stance a little. "She’s one of the finest apothecaries in London. As physician to the queen, I employ her herbal remedies on occasion and have found them to be most beneficial. Your condition should clear up in no time if you follow her instructions. Good day, Sir. Isabel." He nodded to them both then left the shop.

  Isabel blew out a breath.

  "Strange, I don’t seem to recall there ever being a problem with my yard in our relationship," Nicholas said. "But I didn’t see your departure coming, so I might be wrong on that score too."

  She slumped back against the bench as if suddenly deflated. "Nick—" She broke off and rested her head in her hand.

  He reached for her, but dropped his arm at the last moment. "I’m sorry," he said. "This has been a trying time for us both."

  She nodded. "Let’s at least be civil to one another."

  "Of course. But tell me, who was that man?"

  "Lawrence Shawe. My employer’s son. He’s a newly appointed physician to Her Majesty."

  "A little informal with his address, don’t you think?"

  She glared at him. "What he calls me is not your concern. So what did you come here for? A remedy?"

  "Remedy? Yes. Of course. I have...a sore throat."

  "A sore throat? Then why didn’t you say so when Lawrence was here? It might have saved you some embarrassment."

  Because Nicholas didn’t think of it then. "I wouldn’t be embarrassed if you hadn’t given me an erection problem."

  "It suited my mood at the time." A faint smile played at her lips. It faded and she turned her back to him. He watched as she mixed three different powders together then packaged them up and handed it to him. "Dissolve this in a cup of red wine and gargle it three times a day. If the ailment continues then come and see me next week."

  "I’ll be back tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow is Sunday. The shop won’t be open."

  "I know."

  He opened the door and left without turning back to look at her even though every part of him wanted to. As he walked down Bucklersbury Street he tried to sift through his emotions and set them aside so he could think clearly.

  But the only clear thought he had was that he had found Isabel. After all his searching, he had uncovered her by pure chance. No, not chance. Not exactly. He almost laughed at the irony but there was nothing humorous about it. The very thing that had kept him away from her for long periods after their marriage was the same one that had brought him to her now. Spying.

  CHAPTER 2

  Nicholas waited until the maidservant left, closing the door to the Earl of Ashbourne’s private study behind her. Then he turned to his good friend and superior sitting across from him. "I have to be reassigned," he said.

  Richard Savoy, Lord Ashbourne, lifted his dark eyebrows and leaned back in the chair. He stretched out long legs and massaged his old thigh injury, a sign that he was delaying his answer. Nicholas’s announcement must have come as a surprise. "You know that’s not possible. Our agents in Rheims are uncovering fresh plots all the time, and the Scots queen herself is suspected of being behind some of them. You are our best agent, although a little unorthodox at times," he added with a rueful smile. "Walsingham is thanking his good fortune that you’re in London now. He trusts you to sniff out the guilty party in this latest incident against Our Sovereign."

  Nicholas had expected opposition. Living agents weren’t allowed to merely walk away from assignments, although he personally knew of two. Of course, both were dismissed because of the severe disabilities resulting from their work. Nevertheless he had to keep trying. "You could take over, Ash."

  Ashbourne grunted and rubbed his thigh again. "Ever since that damn Spaniard used my leg for target practice, Walsingham has wanted me behind a desk." The short bark of bitter laughter was at odds with Ash’s normally jovial nature. "Besides, Walsingham wants you." He threw up his hands in mock surrender. "I tried to tell him you’re more trouble than you’re worth but he insisted."

  "He’ll change his mind when he hears why."

  "Let me guess," the earl said with a barely contained smile, "one of your female admirers is related to the suspect, or perhaps married to him. No, better yet, she is the suspect! A little advice, Merritt," he leaned forward conspiratorially, "if you actually bed the girl instead of making excuses, you might wind up the investigation quicker."

  "I get the feeling you’re not taking me seriously, Ash."

  The earl’s eyes twinkled with mischief. "I told you, Walsingham won’t care if your mother is integral to the plot, you won’t be reassigned."

  "Not even if she’s my wife?"

  "Your mother?"

  "The suspect!"

  Lord Ashbourne’s smug smile finally vanished. But instead of firing questions at Nicholas, the earl reached for his cup of wine. He drank the entire contents in one gulp, something he only did when he and Nicholas set out to get drunk together before a mission.

  He slammed the empty cup down on the desk beside him, rattling the quill resting in the inkwell. "You found her?"

  Nicholas blinked. Although he’d never mentioned his marital woes to his friend, he should have known Ash would be aware of the saga. No doubt he had made it a priority to find out everything about the agents under his command.

  "I stumbled across her only a few hours ago," Nicholas said. "She works for one of the apothecaries suspected of supplying the poison. Shawe."

  Ashbourne rifled through a pile of papers on his desk until he found the one he wanted. "Our information says Shawe is bed-ridden and his assistant, Isabel Camm, runs the shop. Is that her?"

  Nicholas nodded and rubbed his tired eyes. He had come directly from Bucklersbury Street to Ashbourne House on the Strand, taking the long route to give himself time to think. But the only coherent thought he could form was that he had found Isabel and that he needed to discover why she had left so he could fix it. He couldn’t do that while investigating her or her employer.

  He wasn’t about to make another mistake like that again.

  "This has been a shock for you," Ash said.

  Nicholas stood and crossed the floor to the window, disturbing the rushes and causing whatever scent the housekeeper used to freshen them to fill the room. Isabel would know the herb in an instant.

  He liked the view from the earl’s third floor study. It usually had a calming effect. But not today. Like the neighboring manors, Ashbourne House backed onto the Strand with the grand front overlooking the elaborate knot garden stretching down to the river. He could just make out the private landing stage through the trees where Ashbourne’s mother and sister, wrapped in furs against the cold, alighted from a barge. A servant balancing armfuls of parcels followed them as they progressed up the path towards the house.

  "I thought her...lost forever," he said to his reflection. "I had given up hope of finding her some time ago
after a thorough search." No, not hope exactly. In all the last six hellish years, he had never allowed himself that luxury because hopes were easily shattered He had been living on a fragile cliff since Isabel’s departure, waiting for it to crumble into the tumultuous sea beneath him. No, he had not hoped, until the moment he had walked into the apothecary shop expecting to find a cantankerous old man guilty of treason and found Isabel.

  "Her presence is going to cause a problem," Ashbourne said.