HiWo01 - Secrets to Reveal

by Wallace, Tilly

  “There’s our French spy, then,” Alick muttered. He threw down his cards and rose to pour two drinks. “Secretarial work is a man’s job, no place for a woman. She’ll be up to something. Take some holy water tomorrow in case she’s a vampyre.”

  Quinn frowned, but agreed with Alick for once. “An ordinary secretary? How odd. Why on earth would a woman work?”

  Ewan shrugged. “Perhaps to give her something to do? Or are all women to be condemned to a life of needlework, pianoforte, and hosting the occasional séance?”

  “Let’s not condemn the woman and drag her out by her hair just yet.” Hamish took the offered drink from Alick and then sat on the sofa. “Let’s find out more about her, who her family are, if she has any ties to France, and whether or not she has any unnatural abilities. I’m relying on you, Ewan and Quinn, for that. Alick, I want you to follow the lass, see where she goes.”

  Ewan turned his blue gaze to his captain. “And while we’re asking our questions, what are you going to be doing?”

  Hamish rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “When I mentioned the lass, Sir John clammed shut tighter than a fresh oyster. I’ll see if I can slip a blade in and extract some information. Failing that, I’m sure the woman might succumb to a little Highland charm.”

  His wolf stirred, agreeing with the idea of charming the lass. Perhaps that would solve two problems at once, and if she were a French agent, then he needn’t feel any guilt about beguiling and bedding her.

  The next day, with a fresh excuse in hand relating to the insignia on their buttons, he set off for the Royal Arsenal and its silent building. The bustling activity of the base halted at that corner, as though it were subject to an unspoken quarantine. Soldiers turned before they came within twenty feet of the building and few servants ventured into the quiet halls. If he didn’t know better he would have mistaken it for the mages’ building—except theirs was never silent and was rattled by odd booming thuds or high-pitched squawks. By contrast, this building had a monastic air, with no noise from the occupants. His boots rang out loud on the flooring and he slowed his pace to silence his feet.

  Today he found Miss Simmons filing in a manner unlike any secretary he’d ever seen—not that he had much experience with secretarial work, having an aversion to prolonged periods inside, or sitting still. Bookwork was something his elder brother had excelled in, and was a chore left for the future earl. His chore, now. He sighed. A wolf shouldn’t have to do paperwork; he’d probably eat it instead. If parliament decided he could inherit the earldom despite being an Unnatural, he would have to reconcile himself to bookwork at some point in the future. Unless he acquired a secretary to do it for him. The idea became more appealing, given the sight before him.

  Aster sat on the floor with two stacks of catalogue cards by her side and the small drawers at ankle height pulled open. Engrossed in her work, she didn’t hear his approach. The affable terrier looked up, wagged his tail in greeting and then dropped his head back on his paws. Hamish had the enviable luxury of a few moments of uninterrupted inspection.

  While some men found their gaze drawn to the rounded curve of a bosom or the gentle hills of a derriere, Hamish was fascinated by the way a slender foot attached to a finely turned ankle. What he wouldn’t give to stroke a gentle arch and watch the owner shiver in delight! He had hoped for such a foot and ankle sighting from Miss Simmons, but found her feet drawn up and shielded from view under her skirts.

  He turned his thoughts from ankles to other attributes. Aster would never be described as beautiful. Most men and even more women (who judged their own sex so harshly) would describe her as ordinary. Her features were regular but plain. A simple dress in stripes of two-tone brown encased a figure far too slender for the liking of most men. His mother would declare she needed more porridge, and would make her sit in the kitchen until she gained a few pounds, and his old nanny would suggest getting her with child to fill out her corners. Like a racehorse bred to win, she was all angles and long limbs. She appeared ungainly in construction, until she moved; then she displayed a grace that captured his breath. She even fell with decorum. A strange sylph not of our world. Aster, the star, plucked from the heavens and tethered to earth, to walk among men.

  Her dark brown hair was pulled back from her face in a tight bun. Her countenance was a soft oval that he thought was the perfect shape to be caressed by a man’s hand. Those damn tinted spectacles were shoved up high on her nose, the lenses pushed so close to her irises that he could hear her thick lashes scraping down the surface each time she blinked. He wanted to know the colour of her eyes, but the glass washed them dark grey. Or were they chocolatey brown? Without being able to see her eyes clearly, how could he measure the soul that peered out from them? He fought the urge to pull the spectacles from her nose, place a finger under her chin, and gaze into the depths of whatever colour she hid.

  His exasperation needed to be voiced. “Do you normally sit on the floor like a child?”

  Her head shot up, and her gaze flew to him. One hand still held a cream rectangle as it went to her breast. Hand over her heart she breathed his name. “Captain Logan.”

  That made him pause. What thought rushed through her head in that moment? Part of him wanted to know why she drew out the syllables with such emphasis. What would his Christian name sound like as it spilled over her tongue? The woman conjured questions within him that demanded to be answered. The beast inside him wanted to flop on the floor at her feet and rest its head in her lap.

  She looked around at the stacks of cards. “It is easier to sit when the drawers containing supply requests are only three inches off the ground. I doubt my back would appreciate it if I maintained propriety and continuously bent over.” A smile warmed her face. “Although in that instance, I would practically have my head between my knees, and I doubt that would present a better display of decorum when you entered the room.”

  She’s right. Bent in two, she would be a lovely picture of derriere facing the door. The wolf practically howled at the image that sprang to mind. He needed to shift and hunt, to burn off the excess energy that leaked out of him as inappropriate thoughts, lest he join the woman on the floor.

  He extended a hand to help her rise and distract his brain from scenes of her bent over a variety of different surfaces as she breathlessly uttered his name. He could definitely see the appeal of a female secretary, especially one as confounding as Aster Simmons. To stand she had to extend one leg and he caught an intoxicating glimpse of her boot. He bit back a growl at the thought of drawing the laces through the leather and pulling the boot free to wrap his hand around her stocking-clad foot.

  The little terrier rushed over to have his head patted. Dogs responded to what humans could not sense, and he was in the presence of a superior canine. The terrier seemed to have decided he was joining Hamish’s pack. He fussed over the dog, using the distraction to inspect its mistress further.

  “Who are you?” The words slipped out as she stretched her body and arched her back. She seemed too thin, although it was hard to tell with the current fashion in gowns that fell straight to the floor from under the bust. He relied on the memory of clutching her form to him. Her body had potential, but curves would greatly add to her appeal and give a man something to run his hands over. He much preferred to explore peaks and valleys than flat plains.

  She frowned. “I have told you, Captain. I am Aster Simmons.”

  He shook his head, as though doubting her words. “No, not your name. Who are your people, your family? Why do they let you labour all day, when you should be sitting in a parlour doing needlework?”

  She drew in a breath and looked away, as though something pained her. “I have no family, except Dougal. As to who I am, I am a mere secretary, Captain. You will not find me listed in Burke’s Peerage or in the pages of the scandal sheets. My sort walk this earth on silent feet and seldom leave a footprint you can track.”

  His frown creased his brow. “You must st
op calling me ‘Captain’, and call me Hamish.”

  A smile played over her lush lips. It was the glint of intelligence and humour that transformed her features to something extraordinary and stirred dark things in his gut. Lord, here was a woman to challenge him in a myriad of ways. Here was a woman who would stand in front of the wolf and be unafraid.

  “I must do no such thing. It would be wholly inappropriate, Captain. Even in the wilds of Scotland I’m sure women do not adopt such a familiar approach. Although, if you prefer, I could address you as Lord Logan?” The glint was visible in her gaze, even behind the dark glasses.

  He growled deep in his throat, even as the beast laughed. She played with him. He much preferred the military title he had earned to the one that came to him merely because he was born of his parents. “Then at least tell me, why do you wear those glasses? I cannot see your eyes, and I would know their true colour.”

  The confounded smile grew larger. Talking to her was a battle of wits. “I have extreme photosensitivity after a childhood bout of rheumatic fever. I cannot remove them without causing pain and headaches. But if it will satisfy your curiosity, they are blue.”

  Blasted woman had an answer for every question. His every thrust, parried aside.

  “You’re not one of those French vampyres that cannot abide strong daylight, then?” What better chance to ask, since she raised the issue of photosensitivity. If she were a vampyre, she had constructed the perfect excuse to explain away the dark glasses. Those creatures were much weakened by daylight and needed shielding from direct sun. But then again the office was a well-lit room, and she sat with the sun at her back and did not appear to smoulder.

  “I think I would have a far superior wardrobe if I were such a creature. I hear they are quite the followers of fashion.” She picked up a handful of cards and moved further along the wall of drawers.

  He narrowed his eyes and pondered what to do next. Most women saw a cavalry officer and crumpled at the knees. This lass looked bored. Knowing her eyes were blue behind the dark glasses was not sufficient at all. He needed to know the exact hue and pattern. Were they dark blue, like a midnight sky, or the pale blue of a summer’s day? Besides, the glasses wedged on her nose gave her a barrier to hide behind, and he found himself wanting nothing between them. He would peer into her soul, preferably just before he kissed her soundly. He was certain that would rob her of a witty retort.

  “I believe Sir John is waiting. Something about discussing sketches for the new buttons?” She indicated the next office and moved to open the doors.

  Damn it. He would know what secrets lay hidden behind those glasses. Alick was right, why would a woman be working here? Particularly at this juncture in the war, Napoleon was in desperate need of an ally, cash, or a way to strike at England. Rumours swirled that mages on both sides of the Channel worked to craft a spell to defeat the other side. There was far more to Miss Aster Simmons than met the eye, and Hamish was determined to ferret it out.

  “Yes, buttons,” he muttered as he walked past her and into the next office. Although for some reason, he could only think about undoing them.

  5

  Aster

  Aster looked up from her filing to find Captain Logan staring at her with a strange light in his hazel gaze. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. Today he wore a dark brown coat that matched the tops of his Hessians. His shirt and cravat were a deep cream, poking out from a light tweed waistcoat. He wore his dark hair slightly longer than was fashionable, so it draped over his ears and her hand itched to tidy it away. There was something untamed about the Highlander and he stalked her office like a predator, with a fierce determination in his gaze. He possessed rangy limbs built to fight, lean muscles honed through years of using a sabre, and arms that could hold a woman close and keep her safe.

  Then he ruined it with all the questions about her family. Impertinent man. It really was no business of his. She breathed a sigh of relief when he gave one last scowl after their brisk exchange and went through to his meeting with Sir John. A shiver ran over her body even as the sight of his broad back heated her blood.

  Lord, the things he did to her with a mere glance or noise. How did the noble girls he pursued survive as the focus of such attention? Or did they swoon just to be caught? She shook her head to clear the memory of his arms around her waist and his broad chest at her back. She had glimpsed something not for her, and she needed to quash the silly thoughts before they took root in her mind. Even so, it was only when the doors closed behind him and he was gone from her presence that her pulse settled and returned to normal.

  She went back to the coded message Sir John had set her to decipher. She had nearly figured out the paragraph. The first few words came easily, and from there she transposed the letters she identified. The next part was somewhat of a guessing game, trying to wrest a complete word from just a few letters. Context helped greatly; if you had some idea of the topic it was easier to guess the relevant words. Aster was working on this puzzle blind. In her first few months with Sir John, he would give her a clue to aid her work. Over time he increased the complexity of the puzzles, to continuously challenge her as her prowess as a cryptographer blossomed. Now, his confidence in her growing ability was such that he told her nothing.

  She ignored the voices behind the door and concentrated on her work. She lost herself on one long set of symbols, trying numerous letter combinations to extract the hidden word. She decoded the sentence around it, and bit by bit, the cypher fell away. The word she had stumbled over revealed itself as a place-name in the Basque provinces where Napoleon was losing his grip on his scattered garrisons. Probably hastened by one of his vampyres that had dined on the local mayor.

  “Ha!” she cried, once she realised it wasn’t an ordinary word but a proper noun. No wonder she’d had trouble figuring it out.

  “You have scored some victory?” the Scottish burr asked.

  She looked up. Captain Logan stood in the doorway, an amused look on his face.

  “Yes, I am triumphant over paperwork.” She pulled another sheet over the first and took up her pencil. “How are your buttons?”

  Something flashed behind his eyes as he watched her action, and then a smile tugged the tight corner of his mouth. “We have settled on a design for the troop’s insignia. Sir John says the sample will be ready next week.”

  Her heart leapt. He would be here for another week. “I’m sure you must miss being with your regiment.”

  He frowned, his gaze holding hers. “Our troop is new and the men undergo further training in Edinburgh. I don’t mind Woolwich so very much. I have discovered a certain hidden charm here.”

  For some unknown reason, warmth spread up her neck. Was there a double meaning in his words? She broke eye contact to stare at the page in her hand. Written words were easier. They didn’t speak with an accent or have a heated gaze.

  “I’m sure you would rather dally in London, with all its vibrant attractions.” She held her breath. That was as close as she could venture to ask for a clarification about his statement. At this rate she would turn into an outrageous coquette, fishing for the slimmest compliment. Although now she had a tiny glimmer of why women did it. A slow burn took hold deep in her stomach at the idea of him thinking about her. It was intoxicating to consider that he might have some regard for her.

  A slow smile replaced his frown. “No, I would not prefer London. There are many treasures to be found in quiet locations, overlooked by other men in their rush to grab something tawdrier.”

  He stalked closer and took her hand. He brushed his thumb over the back before placing a gentle kiss on her skin. His lips lingered as though he tasted her. “I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Simmons.”

  She dropped her pencil and the dratted man smirked, as if he knew his touch was responsible. Everyone knew the reputation of cavalrymen and hussars. The scandal sheets had their pick of outrageous behaviour to report. These men were so certain every woman
they met would succumb to their charms that it bred a certain arrogance within them. There was a saying about such units: Men run from them, women toward them. She was no lightskirt to be dazzled by a pair of riding boots and a confident walk.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, until next week, Captain Logan.”

  He bowed and gathered up his top hat and gloves before leaving her office. She sat and stared at the closed door for a full five minutes before Sir John called out.

  “Aster, everything all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She sighed, and her moment of fantasy dissolved under the weight of reality. Silly woman. As if a dashing cavalry officer would ever show interest in a brown mouse like her. At best he was just being polite; at worst, he acted like that with every woman he encountered. He’d probably charm a toothless old hag selling wilted violets by the roadside. Or did he have a deeper purpose? She replayed the moment when his gaze had dropped to her desk. Perhaps she imagined it, but for a moment she thought he had tried to read the paper she had decoded and became annoyed when she covered it up.

  She picked up the sheet in question and walked to Sir John’s office. “All done in two days, as I said. It’s about Napoleon’s movements in Spain, specifically his garrisons in the Basque provinces and a vampyre causing him a headache.”

  He smiled and took the paper. He scanned it, and then his indigo gaze flicked back to Aster. “Well done. Fancy another?”

  How could she refuse the offer of another coded missive? The puzzles were the main thing that kept her occupied and gave her something to mull over in the solitary evening hours. They were not dissimilar, her and Sir John. They both needed something to fill the empty stretch between one day and the next. “Do you have something more difficult?”