Clara fully expected Weaver to approach him one of these days with a position among them.
She’d have a great deal to say about that, if he did.
“Yes,” Brick answered, eyeing the beach in anticipation. “We need them to continue on the same schedule without suspicion. If they had any idea, they could change landings faster than we could identify it, and we’d have to start from the beginning almost.”
“Almost,” Hawk repeated, nudging Clara’s shoulder with his own.
It might have been another kiss for all the thrill she found in it.
If there was one thing she could say about sharing the details of her covert life with Hawk, it was how much it meant to her that he had taken pride in her efforts. He would have boasted of her exploits and efforts, had it been possible. He never tired of the subject, and was ever telling her how impressed he was, how extraordinary she was, and how noble.
Perhaps one day, she would stop blushing at it.
Not soon, but one day.
“Who is positioned in the tunnel?” Clara breathed, watching the boats land at the beach and get dragged out of the water.
“Fists and Rook,” he replied. “Perhaps Ivy.”
She nodded, only knowing Fists, as he was really Mr. Fairfax at the Convent, but she had heard of Ivy. Perhaps she would come to know Rook and others by such names, if Pippa or Weaver could see a use for her as Sparrow in other assignments. But perhaps not.
Perhaps this would be all she would do for King and country.
She could be content with that. She would do more if asked, as she had vowed with all her heart to do all she could. But should her time at Kirkleigh be all that was required, it would be enough.
More than enough.
“Bit further,” Brick murmured as they watched the figures begin to unload the boats. “Bit further.”
“Is the ship far enough out?” Hawk breathed. “Could they see?”
Clara bit her lip, anxiety rising. “I think it’s far enough. And the night is dark…”
Multiple figures suddenly appeared on the beach from either side, with a few streaming from the direction of the cave and tunnel. Brief sounds of scuffles could be heard, but it had all happened so swiftly and in near darkness that there had not been time for any great commotion.
“Excellent,” Hawk praised under his breath. “Well done, all.”
Brick grunted once and patted Clara’s arm. “Better go now, Sparrow. They’ll need you next.”
“Right.” She backed away from the cliff’s edge, staying low to the ground and using her elbows and knees for motion.
Once safely away, she pushed up to her knees, brushing at her borrowed dark jacket and the tops of her breeches. Her husband’s clothing would never fit her well, but until they got her properly fitted by Tilda again, she’d make do.
A hand extended out to help her up. “Your Grace.”
She grinned up at the smiling face of her husband and placed her hand in his. “Your Grace.”
Tugging her to her feet, he wrapped her in his arms, kissing her deeply and tipping her back a bit to do so, making her giggle.
“Shh,” he insisted, laughing himself as he righted her. “Do you want everyone to know?”
“Many of them were there,” she reminded him, swatting at his chest. “It was the most well attended discreet wedding I have ever seen.”
“Your friends adore me, what can I say?” He laced his fingers with hers as they walked towards Barcliffe. “I have to admit, darling, this is not exactly how I imagined my wedding day.”
Clara scoffed softly, looking up at him. “I did offer to marry you tomorrow instead.”
“I’m not complaining,” he replied easily, his thumb brushing against her skin. “I was rather keen to marry you, and sooner was undoubtedly better.”
She covered her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. “With you prepared to forge all signatures, including the vicar’s, to make it all happen in more haste? I should say so. A girl doesn’t have time to breathe and enjoy a thing with you about.”
He pulled her close, wrapping the hand he held around her back and turning her to face him as they walked. “Are you not enjoying it?” he murmured, his voice dipping with the sort of danger that curled her toes.
Walking backwards now, trapped between his arm and his chest, Clara fought to maintain a playful air. “I’ve hardly had time to reflect on the matter,” she whispered as she pointedly rubbed her thumb against the hand she held, knowing how it would ignite him. “I really cannot say.”
He growled and pulled them to a stop, pressing the small of her back until she was flush against him. Dipping his head, he dusted his mouth across her jaw, keeping a hair’s breadth from truly kissing her as he moved, tracing her ear, the crest of her cheek. “Can you not?”
Her breath shuddered within her, arching her closer to him still, the soles of her feet aching uncomfortably. “I suppose…” she managed.
He chuckled against her hairline, her lashes fluttering in a sort of swoon at the sensation. “Suppose what, my love?”
Biting her lip, she nuzzled against him, swallowing back a whimper of need. He complied, pressing his lips fully against her skin and dotting a path down to the corner of her mouth.
“Suppose what?” he asked again, his breath teasing the sensitive surface of her lips.
Moving quickly, she turned her face to mold her lips to his, using her free hand to press at the back of his neck and hold him in place.
When he was the one trembling, she gently pulled back and touched her nose to his. “I love it,” she told him in a barely audible whisper.
He groaned and pressed his lips to her brow for a moment. “Hurry and talk to the French, will you? I’ve got to get you back to Kirkleigh before I lose my mind.”
Clara chuckled, loving how he seemed to ripple at the sound of it. “Yes, my love.”
He released her from his hold, and they continued their walk to Barcliffe, the house dark but for new candles lit in a rear drawing room. They moved up the stairs to the terrace, and Clara grinned at the figure waiting for her at the door. “Are they ready?”
Phoebe inclined her head in a sage nod. “They are, indeed. I have no doubt they’d rather speak with you than the others.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Hawk replied with a snort. “Evening, Fern.”
She smiled in wry amusement. “Your Grace.”
He shook his head and sighed. “We must do something about my name if I’m to keep doing this. How can I be the Duke of Kirklin himself if I’m skulking about in the dark?”
“I’ve seen stranger things,” Phoebe quipped. She stepped back and waved them in. “Sparrow, on your way. Himself?”
Hawk coughed a laugh. “Yes?”
“You’d best enjoy a book,” she suggested, sobering only a little. “I’m told they’re not feeling particularly talkative.”
Clara took his hand again, squeezing tightly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, torn between longing for him and the duty she had tonight.
He flashed her a quick grin and brought her hand to his lips. “Don’t be. I’ve got my whole life with you. Go and be magnificent, my love. I’ll be here.”
Love for this man surged within her and she swallowed hard, stepping close to cup his cheek and meet his eyes. “I love you so much.”
“Good.” He kissed her quickly, but with steady tenderness. “Now, va sauve le monde, mon amour. Je sais que tu peux.”
Clara bit back a giggle, giving him a scolding look. “Va sauver le monde, mon amour. Va sauver. Il va falloir travailler ton français.”
He quirked his brows. “Merci, mademoiselle.”
“Clara,” Phoebe murmured.
Nodding, Clara stepped away from her husband, smiling a little, then made her way to the drawing room as she had been instructed. She heard a familiar voice within, barking particular instructions, and executing them in perfect French.
She managed a small smile. She’d hoped he
r cousin would join them tonight, and she was looking forward to seeing Martin in his role as Ruse.
Sobering, she fixed her expression into one of calm and pushed into the room. A few individuals stood within, comprised of both men and women. The blank faces were her allies, the angry ones her foes. All turned to look at her, expectation and reluctance wearing a variety of masks there.
But Clara was a teacher, and a teacher of young ladies of varying stations. She knew how to handle such things. She smiled at Martin, who stepped back in proud anticipation, then took in the others.
“Bienvenues en Angleterre,” she began, smiling around at them all and clasping her hands before her. “Qui voudrait commencer?”
Coming Soon
Agents of the Convent
Book Two
“All of London's a stage...”
by
Rebecca Connolly
About the Author
Growing up, Rebecca Connolly wanted to be Elizabeth Bennett, Mary Poppins, or British royalty, so it came as a great shock when she discovered she was an American girl from the Midwest. She started making up stories when she was young, and thanks to a rampant imagination and a fairly consistent stream of hot chocolate, ice cream, and cookie dough, she’s kept at it. She loves a good love story, and a good swoon, and tries to share that with her readers. She still lives in the Midwest, has two degrees in non-writing fields, and dreams of one day having a cottage of her own in her beloved British Isles.
Rebecca is a huge fan of period dramas and currently writes in the Regency era, though she refuses to rule any other time period out. You just never know where the imagination will take you, and she’ll write whatever story comes to her whenever it’s set! There is always a story to tell, and she wants to tell them all!
You can find out more at www.rebeccaconnolly.com.
Fortune Favors the Sparrow Page 31
