Aster wobbled in his arms, and he had the distinct impression that if he let go she would slump to the ground. Not that he would let go, of course, but his heart soared to know he had kissed the woman until her knees stopped working. The mare turned and snuffled at them, but played her part in giving Aster something solid at her back to lean against.
With the first advance made, Hamish wanted to build on his position. An idea formed in his mind. He fumbled in his pocket and found the brass button he had been carrying for days and pressed it into her hand. “Would you do something for me, Aster?”
“A button?” She stared at the wolf embossed on the surface of one of the newly commissioned buttons.
“It is a superstitious thing. A soldier will give a lass a button from his jacket when he goes away on service. You are supposed to keep it safe until you see him again. It is to ensure his safe return. Would you do that for me, Aster? This is from my new uniform—would you keep my button safe?” He couldn’t find the words to tell her what it meant to him. That small button was as meaningful to him as an expensive gem was to some nobles. Far more than a luck token, it was the embodiment of a promise. A soldier gave it to the woman he most wanted to remember him—the woman he fervently hoped to have in his arms again. He half expected her to laugh at the request, but prayed she didn’t.
She curled her fingers around the button and held it tight. “I will keep it safe, as a token of you.”
He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. He didn’t trust himself to taste her lips again. His control wavered, and he feared he wouldn’t stop at a kiss. How could he? She blossomed under him, and he ached to teach her so much more. The wolf inside him roused to full alertness and Hamish needed to control himself before his form wavered and changed. No point in terrifying the lass too soon. He would put off telling her the truth for as long as possible. Never, if parliament decided he wasn’t human.
“I’ll see you safely home,” he said.
Hamish wondered how long Alick had waited. Judging by the smirk on his face, he had waited long enough to see Hamish kiss Aster. He winked as he took the reins of the two horses, and Hamish suspected he was in for a rough time when he returned to the house. He pushed those thoughts aside as he drove Aster home.
The woman perplexed him. She was obviously gently bred, but had no family to care for her. Behind her dark glasses, her gaze hid a razor intellect that could parry with his. Her body seemed to present all angles, but his hands had discovered she hid a few curves. And her foot… his body roused as he held her foot and discovered the turn of her ankle through the soft leather of her boots.
Then she kissed him with little experience, but enough passion to push him close to the edge of his control. He sighed. This mission was going nowhere. Or certainly not where he wanted it to go, which involved Aster, a large bed, and shutting the world away for a number of days, if not weeks. Monitoring Sir John made his men fractious, and they were no closer to knowing if foreign agents lurked in Kent. At night they shed their skins and roved the forests, decimating the rabbit population but not flushing out any French prey.
Or did their spy hide in a panelled office just several feet from his charge? He cast a glance sideways, but Aster was lost in her own thoughts. She seemed too innocent to be an agent of Napoleon. Or was she simply a superb actress? His gut said no. Oh, the lass definitely hid a secret; he just wasn’t sure it held any relevance to his assignment.
He dropped her at the boarding house and couldn’t help but scowl at its exterior. The wolf growled and found the odour from the rotting gardens unpalatable. Aster should live somewhere more comfortable. And closer to him.
“Thank you for a lovely outing, Hamish,” she said.
The sound of her tongue wrapping around his name warmed his insides. He took her hand and kissed it. “I enjoyed our lesson, Aster. I hope it will be repeated.” Actually, there were many lessons he could imagine instructing her in. Some even involved riding. He needed to make a breakthrough and clear the mission. Once his time was his own again, he could concentrate on more pleasurable pursuits.
She blushed and called the terrier to heel, and the two disappeared up the overgrown path. The day seemed brighter and warmer, and on the drive home he found himself whistling old Scottish ballads. He was still humming under his breath when he pushed open the parlour door at the rented accommodation.
Alick scowled, but laughter lurked deep in his gaze. “Oh God, now he’s stuck his tongue down her throat he’s going to be all disgustingly cheerful.”
Quinn spat his drink halfway across the room. “What? You didn’t tell us that.”
“Oh, aye,” Alick growled. “I returned with the curricle to find him with his hands all over wee Miss Simmons. I can only assume he was searching her for information that she must have swallowed. I could practically see his tail wagging under his coat.”
Hamish ignored his cousin and poured himself a drink. “You’re just jealous because women don’t run screaming at the sight of me.”
Alick tugged on his waistcoat. “At least I know how to make a woman scream. Yours barely made a whimper.”
Quinn frowned. “This is my sister you are all talking about. Steady up a bit.”
“Perhaps our fearless captain was simply trying to ascertain if the lass is a French agent. Tell us, did she taste of garlic?” Ewan asked, deadpan, with just the hint of a frown as he pondered the question.
“You do know I could have you all reassigned to somewhere in Ireland digging latrine pits with your paws?” He couldn’t blame them. It was a novelty to see him pursue a woman, and they would probably keep teasing him until a better target presented itself. He hoped either Quinn or Alick found a lass to moon over before too long. Happy moments for the wolves were too few; they should grab them when they presented themselves.
The courier arrived late that night, carrying a message marked ‘urgent’. Hamish turned it over in his hands before slitting it open. There was no identifying seal or sender, which in itself told him volumes. He sniffed and detected a faint hint of a certain type of cigar. He pulled out the sheet within, which contained few words.
I have made a discovery. H.
He let out a whistle. No more would be forthcoming until he met with their master. The discovery could be about the rumoured plot linked to Sir John’s list. Or it could be about Aster. He handed the sheet to Alick, who remained silent for once as he read it.
“I’ll have the horses tacked up at first light,” he said.
“I want you to stay at the Arsenal. Keep watch, but be discreet. Quinn and Ewan ride with me.” Hamish tapped the paper and then tucked it into his pocket.
Ewan arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Well, looks like things are about to get interesting at last.”
At the break of dawn, they rode for London in silence. The knot in Hamish’s stomach grew larger with each mile that disappeared under his horse’s hooves. Had the contact found proof that Aster worked for France, or found her to be entirely innocent? Or was the information about the list and the identity of the puppet master—or even a detail about the magical weapon France forged in secret? He rode toward answers, and he couldn’t arrive soon enough.
He stared up at the stone terrace house, which stood silent and brooding. Or perhaps it seemed that way, since so much could hang on what he was about to learn. The truth could manifest as a judge draped in black about to cast lethal judgement upon his heart. Hamish rapped on the knocker and waited. Seconds ticked into minutes, and no one answered. He rapped again and turned to shrug at the others. He let his wolf awaken and stretch inside, using his enhanced senses to assess the house. He could find nothing—no noise, scent, or trace of movement.
Quinn beckoned two lads over from the mews and slipped them each a coin. The boys took hold of the reins and walked the horses over to the public stables.
Hamish pointed to Quinn and then gestured around the side of the house. “There’s no sign of anyone within, yet he’s
expecting us. Find another way inside.”
Quinn nodded and trotted off around the back of the row of houses, while Ewan dropped down the narrow stairway to the servants’ entrance before disappearing from view. A scant five minutes later the front door swung inward.
Ewan stood back to allow him entry, just as Quinn came along the hallway from the rear. “Servants’ entrance was unlocked. House sounds deserted,” Quinn said.
Ewan stood silent. He closed his eyes and only the tiny movement of his nostrils showed he reached out to the house, letting his wolf run along the corridors. Then he opened his eyes. “Death is within. I can smell it.”
“Aye.” Hamish's wolf sensed it too. The faint tang of blood in the air and the odour of carrion not long dead.
No sound came from anywhere in the house. An icy trickle worked its way down Hamish’s back as they split up and checked each of the rooms on the first floor. Hamish took the study, and found chaos: drawers pulled open, papers scattered over the floor, and books toppled from the shelves. It looked as though a winter storm had swept through and caught everything in its path.
There was only one figure in the midst of the chaos–Harry. He lay slumped over his desk, his hands outstretched as though reaching for the rolled edges. The papers were scattered around.
“In here,” he called over his shoulder, and soon the other two stepped into the study.
Hamish didn’t need to lay a hand on Harry to know there would be no pulse. The man’s throat was cut clean through. The only thing that worried him was the lack of blood. A slit throat should have seen the man’s life force pour over his desk.
“Poor bugger,” Quinn said before crossing himself.
“No blood,” Ewan said, echoing Hamish’s own concern. “We have three options. One, he was killed somewhere else, bled out, and was then moved here. Two, he was dead before his throat was cut or three—”
“Vampyre,” Hamish finished for his lieutenant.
“I doubt he was moved. This has the look of someone interrupting Harry at work.” Hamish peered closer at the wound. “Here.” He pointed to a spot over the man’s jugular vein. The knife wound had intersected one round puncture mark but sliced just below the other, leaving a tiny trace of what really happened to the spy master. “Two puncture wounds.”
“We have a vampyre loose in London. That will give Byron a challenger for best dressed,” Ewan said.
“Quinn, search the rest of the house in case the servants have met the same fate,” Hamish said, without taking his gaze from the dead agent.
Ewan stepped with care through the strewn books and papers. His watchful countenance surveyed the destruction. “It seems someone else also wanted to hear about Harry’s discovery. Or perhaps they could not wait?” he said with his usual detachment.
“The list. France might believe it indecipherable, but they are going to a wee bit of trouble to find it.” The destruction bothered him. It was too chaotic, as though whoever did it simply wanted to make a show rather than look for something specific. Or, more chilling, had found what they wanted but destroyed the room to hide what was missing.
“What is your take on events, Ewan?” The man had an impartial view on such things. With his emotions locked away, he often saw things others overlooked.
“Our undead assassin not only knew Harry, but of his work. The destruction here feels deliberate, to make it look like a business transaction gone wrong, or perhaps a burglary. Particularly when you throw in the slice to the throat after death to conceal the bite mark. No spy worth his salt would leave confidential documents in plain view. So it does beg the question, since our blade knew Harry’s true purpose, what else have they uncovered?” Ewan cocked his head at Hamish, waiting for either his agreement or an alternate theory.
Quinn returned and interrupted his train of thought. “Butler met the same fate. He’s still in his bed; poor man never opened his eyes. Throat slit but only a small spill of blood. We’re either looking for two vampyres or a single greedy one. Nothing else looks disturbed, and there’s no sign of the other staff. The house is deserted.”
Hamish let out a sigh and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I hope it was quick. Harry was a good man. Go fetch the magistrate and the runners.”
Quinn nodded and left at a trot. Hamish would have a small amount of time to learn what he could before the authorities were asking their questions and stomping over everything. He itched to run back to the Arsenal, for another problem pressed on his brain—Sir John. At least Alick was there, in wolf form hiding in the long grass across the road. Harry must have known the clerk was working to decode the list. The question was, had he passed that information to his assassin?
Ewan pressed a hand to the back of Harry’s neck. “He’s stone-cold, and has been dead for some time. Whoever did this has several hours on us.”
An advantage he did not want them to have. It meant they had time to head back to Woolwich. His gut told him Sir John and Aster were in danger. The wolf clawed to be let free, to protect his mate, but a horse could gallop faster than a wolf could run.
“Go,” Ewan said. “Quinn and I can deal with the magistrate.”
Hamish’s hands changed back and forth as he worried. Fur and sharp claws appeared one moment, then reformed into fingers the next. He halted his pacing, slapped his lieutenant on the shoulder and then headed for the door.
He nearly ran people over in his eagerness to return to Woolwich. The pedestrians and carriages frustrated him as he guided the horse around every obstacle. He could tear off his clothes, shift and snarl at everyone to get out of his way. But then parliament would have him in a locked cage within days, and would throw away the key. Plus his gelding was faster; he just needed an open stretch of road to put his heel to the horse’s side.
In his mind, Hamish kept seeing those few words on his summons. I have made a discovery. About what or whom? A need burned through his body. If whoever murdered Harry was now after Sir John that meant Aster was in the direct path of danger.
His need to ensure Aster was safe warred with his mission. She had kissed him without artifice and with, he believed, genuine feeling. But what if she were the spy? As Ewan succinctly put it, she was made for the role. Perhaps she worked close to Sir John to determine what secrets he kept locked in his mind. Should he step down and hand the mission to another? He worried that his growing feelings for her would compromise his decision-making. Man merged with beast and fixated on just one thing—Aster.
“Damn woman.” He had to know, and there was only one way for his soul to be at peace. Once he had her safe in his arms, he intended to remove those blasted glasses, look into her eyes, and ask her straight out. He doubted she could hide the truth that well. Surely then he would know?
12
Aster
Aster went through her daily routine floating on a cloud. She was sure her feet never once touched the ground. Her emotions swirled around her like currents in the deep ocean, stirring up ideas and feelings she had never experienced before. Never had a man kissed her like that—his strong grasp holding her captive, his lips and tongue exploring her own. Aster touched a hand to her lips. A day later, and still they tingled with the memory of him.
Back in her room, she had found a chain that had belonged to her mother and threaded the button on it. She slipped it over her head and turned the tiny brass wolf head over in her fingers, wondering at its significance. There had been something in his gaze when he asked if she would keep it safe that made her heart flutter. Unspoken words and laden gazes bound them together as she curled her fingers around the token. In her mind, she conjured women snipping buttons from their lovers’ uniforms, to hold a tiny piece of them while they were away. Perhaps her mother should have taken a button from her father’s jacket, to ensure he returned to them.
The next morning as she dressed, she tucked the button under her bodice, where it rested next to her heart. She talked to Dougal as they walked to the Royal Arsenal. “C
an you imagine, Dougal, what it would be like to live in Scotland? To have the wild hills surrounding us instead of the press of people and buildings? You could run and hunt, and I wouldn’t have to worry that you would be crushed under a carriage.”
Other, darker thoughts coalesced low in her stomach. She imagined having a man like Hamish as her husband. To spend all her nights in his arms, while he instructed her in physical acts with the same gentle patience he had used to teach her to ride.
Dougal trotted by her side, listening to her monologue, and ignored the rabbits bouncing in the nearby field. As she trod the two miles to work, her euphoria from the events of the previous day ebbed and realisation crashed down. She stopped in the dirt road and was nearly run over by a hay cart. She waved an apology, stepped to one side, and stared at her faithful companion.
She bit back a sob as she dropped to her knees and laid a hand on the terrier’s head. Doubts assailed her. She was a fool to think she was anything more than a temporary dalliance. Or worse, he sought to read the papers on her desk to pass information on to enemy agents. Either way, she was being used for some unknown purpose.
“Oh, Dougal. I should have listened to Sir John. I have let my heart rule, when my head should have control. Now I have gone and kissed a man far above my station, who is only here with a temporary purpose. What will I do when he returns to his regiment?” The thought of Captain Logan never walking through her door again was a grim one. She enjoyed his visits, their banter, and the press of his larger body against hers. Lord, just the touch of his hand did things to her, making her think wanton, delicious thoughts that she never imagined would enter her head.
“Foolish,” she whispered again, and then she took a deep breath, rose, and continued on her way.
Another rude surprise waited on her desk. Part of her job was compiling a list of all known Unnaturals in England. Parliament wished to start a register to track such persons. Today saw an addition to that growing tome with twelve more names to add. She read the first name, and a gasp escaped from her throat. Captain Hamish Logan. She knew all the first four names, had even spent time in their company. All the men of the Highland Wolves were Unnaturals.
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