by Gayle Callen
Nicholas Wright heard the woman’s quiet crying, felt her trembling against him and the wetness of her tears on his hand where it covered her mouth. All his training told him that his mission should be his first priority.
But his instincts where women were concerned always led him in another, more vulnerable direction. Was this her room? Had he brought her into danger? Hell, he’d thought he’d been so careful.
He was still in control of this situation; he could be successful at both his mission and protecting the woman. But right now, he had to put Campbell at ease, before Nick lost his only connection to the traitor Julia Reed.
“It’s my fault we’ve been discovered,” Nick said. “I’ll take care of her, and believe me, no body will be found.”
The woman gave a little squeak and started struggling again. He admired her bravery even as he was forced to squeeze her tighter. Her waist was fragile; her bones felt as delicate as a bird’s. He could hurt her if he wasn’t careful.
Campbell lifted the woman’s chin and stared into her face. “Perhaps I would enjoy it more.”
Everything seemed suspended as the woman froze and whimpered softly.
“Go—quickly,” Nick said with force. “Someone could be missing her even as you lust over her. At least I belong at the ball. What excuse will you give if they find us?”
Campbell glared at him, then gave a short nod. “I’ll look for the message at the inn. You make sure she never talks again.”
“Count on it.”
Campbell opened the door, looked both ways, and shut it behind him as he left. The woman hung limp in Nick’s arms, but at the click of the door, she became wild, flailing her arms and legs, scratching at his hand where it covered her mouth.
“Calm down,” he whispered forcefully, his face pressed against her hair. “I’m not going to kill you.”
He turned her away from the door toward the bed, and that made her struggle even more. A flowered wreath that had been perched on her dark curls went skittering along the floor.
With sudden comprehension, he tried to gruffly reassure her. “I’m not going to do that either. Just be quiet so I can explain—”
She bit down hard on his hand and deliberately collapsed toward the floor. In their struggle he got a handful of one ample breast. After all the work he’d done on this mission, he’d about had it with trying not to hurt her. He picked her up and threw her onto the bed. When she tried to scramble away, he fell on her, forcing her onto her back and pinning her gloved hands over her head with one of his hands and using the other to cover her mouth. His legs and her skirts pinned her lower body. He had an odd, quick thought that she felt very comfortable beneath him.
She stared at him wide-eyed, dark hair sticking out about her face, breathing so hard that her breasts, partially covered and barely contained, shuddered against his chest.
“That’s enough,” he said in a cold, menacing voice. “You can’t escape me, and you’ll only be hurt trying. Whether you believe it or not, I don’t want to hurt you. But I can’t risk discovery, either.” He rotated his hips until she could feel the pressure of the pistol tucked in his belt against her soft stomach. “Don’t force me to use this.”
The threat was hollow, and he knew it—but the woman didn’t. She squeezed her eyes closed, and another tear leaked out to slide into her hair. Though her lips moved against his hand, he didn’t allow her to speak. The stiffness went out of her body, and she gazed up at him beseechingly with hazel eyes, the flecks of green and gray shimmering with her tears.
“We have to leave,” he said in a low, impatient voice, “and it obviously can’t be through the ballroom. It will have to be the balcony. Can you be quiet and walk alone, or do I have to gag you?”
Very slowly he removed his hand from her mouth. His weight still held her pinned to the bed, and he imagined she was having difficulty breathing by this point.
Softly she said, “I’ll be good. But please, my family has money. Let me go, and I promise they’ll reward you handsomely.”
“I’m not after money. Now let’s go.”
“But—”
He slid backward off the bed, pulling her to her feet with the same motion. For a moment their gazes locked, and he saw her fright and desperation. He knew then that he couldn’t trust her not to do something stupid. Holding on to her arm, he turned and pulled the coverlet and blanket off the bed.
She gave a ragged cry and tried to tug away.
With his hands on her upper arms, he positioned her beside the bed. He leaned down into her face, and she cringed. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you. I don’t lie. Now stand still or I’ll lose my patience.”
He took the sheet and began to rip the fine fabric into strips with only his bare hands in a deliberate show of strength. Taken by surprise when she tried to scramble across the bed in a flurry of skirts and petticoats, he was grudgingly impressed with her bravery—or foolhardiness. Catching her from behind, he pressed her down onto her stomach with one hand, then flipped her skirts up with the other to tie her ankles.
“This is ridiculous, you know,” he said casually. “You can’t overpower me.”
Though her legs trembled, she didn’t try to scream. He held her delicate ankles and found himself looking up the length of her legs, past her silk stockings and garters, to her drawers slit to reveal her inner thighs.
In a deliberate attempt to subdue her—and feeling rather disgusted with himself to have to resort to this tactic—he ran his hand down the back of her thigh, letting his fingers brush the bare skin in between. She gave a strangled moan, and he stopped instantly. She had legs to make a man desperate—not that he’d ever get to sample what was between them. He tied her ankles, rolled her over, and secured her wrists in front. After he stuffed a small ball of linen in her mouth, he tied a gag about her head. She glared at him with damp eyes, but no more tears. He blindfolded her.
“This is for your own benefit,” he said, as he lifted her into his arms and strode to the balcony. “Remember what will happen to you if Campbell gets ahold of you.”
Staring down at her bright blue gown and the smooth expanse of creamy skin and shoulders above her neckline, he realized that she would stand out in the dark alley. He wrapped her in a blanket and carried her outside.
Charlotte could barely breathe, and she struggled to keep her panic from overwhelming her. She’d been bound with ropes once before, and had hoped never to feel such helplessness again. She wanted to cry and sob and start this whole day over. She would stay with her mother and her friends this time, never leave the safety of the ballroom.
If only she hadn’t read her father’s journals and put such outlandish notions in her head. Yet they were her only guide now. Always her father mentioned keeping calm, no matter how dangerous things seemed. By following his advice, she would be able to think clearly and look for a chance to escape.
Swallowing was dry and difficult, and she had to remind herself that the material in her mouth wouldn’t make her choke.
Although her captor wouldn’t be able to tell if she did.
Smothered under the blanket, she could hear the muffled sounds of the outside world, the distant rattle of carriages on the city streets, and faint strains of music. Her mystery man carried her easily, powerfully. She flashed back to the scary feeling of his hand on her thigh. He was right—he could do anything he wanted with her. She couldn’t believe that included keeping her alive.
Above her, in a soft voice, her captor called, “Are you ready?”
Did he expect her to answer?
“Ready!” came a distant call from below.
Her captor hoisted her aloft, away from his body. For a terrifying moment, she knew she was being dangled off the balcony, felt her body sway and a breeze catch at the blanket.
And then he let her go, and she was plummeting. She shrieked through the gag, but before she could even say her prayers, she was caught in the arms of a man who grunted but didn’t even stagger with he
r weight.
“You’re safe,” he said softly, in a kinder voice.
She felt her consciousness start to drift away and saw bright pricks of spots in the blackness behind her closed eyes—but she refused to give in to the peace of fainting. She might miss an opportunity to escape.
She paid attention to every detail as she was slung up and deposited on a bench. By the way everything shifted beneath her, she could tell that both men got in opposite her, and someone else drove the carriage away. Hours passed and she assumed she wasn’t in London anymore. Where were they taking her? she thought as her heart beat wildly in her chest. When they stopped to change horses, her mystery man made sure she knew he sat at her side, the threat of his presence oppressing. If she made a sound, she understood that he would use force to stop her.
After the second change of horses, some of the tension waned between her captors.
“So what happened?” asked the second man, the one who’d caught her.
“I found her eavesdropping from inside a wardrobe.”
Were they going to talk all night and just leave her like this? She started to struggle, and to her relief, someone pulled the blanket off her. She took a deep, cool breath.
“You used a blanket and a blindfold?” asked the second man in an amazed voice.
Her captor didn’t answer. He was close now, just above her, tugging at the knot in her blindfold. The material fell away, and she was left blinking up at her mystery man, able to see because of the small, rocking lantern hung opposite the door. All the window shutters were closed.
He rested his hands on either side of her, looming over her, a weighty presence that frightened her to death. She tried to glare at him, but she was certain her teary eyes spoiled the effect.
He grinned, startling her with the sight of white teeth on swarthy skin. His hair hung disheveled near his cheeks, and if he had an eye patch he’d look like the perfect pirate. Sometime in the last several hours he had changed out of his evening clothes and into a plain brown coat and trousers, striped waistcoat, and shirt. And she’d been sitting right there when he’d done so!
“You’re a lively one,” he said, then turned her head aside to undo her gag.
When it was gone, Charlotte moistened her mouth and croaked, “You’ve made a terrible mistake.”
The other man leaned forward and peered at her. “I’m thinking the same thing.” He had dark auburn hair and a lean, masculine face, which if viewed at a dinner party would probably be attractive.
But she was alone in a carriage with two strangers. She gaped down at her body, where her ball gown was now skewed dangerously low. She couldn’t even take a deep breath. Staring from one man to the other, she felt terror welling up inside her again.
“I can see what you’re thinking,” the second man said soothingly. “Get back in your corner, Nick. You’re scaring her like you do all the ladies.”
Nick. That was the name of her mystery man. She watched as his dark head bent over her and plucked at the ragged strips holding her wrists together.
Now she knew his name. Another reason for them to kill her.
As her bonds loosened, blood rushed painfully back into her numb fingers, and she wiggled them. She had hoped her long gloves would have offered some protection, but they were too finely made.
“Could you have tied them any tighter?” the second man asked.
“She was struggling,” her kidnapper said impassively. He gripped both her hands in his one giant hand and gazed meaningfully at her. “If you want to be comfortable, you will obey me. Do I have your word?”
“What does a man like you care about my word?” she asked with scorn.
“I don’t, of course, but you, as a lady of quality, obviously do. Now do I have your word?”
“You have my word that I will not try to escape…for now.” She tilted her chin and tried to boldly stare him down.
He glanced at his cohort. “Sam, she means to cause us trouble.”
Sam, she repeated to herself. Aloud she said, “You told that other man you’d kill me and dispose of my body.”
Charlotte was hoping to see where the two men stood with each other, and she was rewarded by watching Sam look startled. But he only crossed his arms over his chest and waited, as if he actually trusted his partner.
Nick shrugged, then opened up a portmanteau at his feet and rummaged through it. “Campbell threatened to do it himself. It would have been messy.”
Sam snorted and shook his head.
“Messy?” she cried. Using her hands, she pushed herself back into a corner. “And it’s not messy to kill me here?”
“He’s not going to kill you,” Sam said gently. “We don’t kill people.”
“Unless they cause trouble,” Nick added, bringing forth several sheets of paper, a capped inkwell, and a pen.
She turned to Sam beseechingly. “Then let me go! I won’t tell anyone anything.”
“We can’t take that risk,” Sam said with regret in his voice. He turned to Nick. “But this presents problems. What will we do with her?”
“We have to keep her with us.”
Though she tried to control herself, she gasped.
Nick ignored her. “There’s no one I trust to keep her safe in London. If she turns up spouting her nonsense, she could get herself—and us—killed.”
“She overheard you dealing with Campbell?”
“Everything.”
Charlotte tried to sound reasonable. “Surely if you both turn yourselves in, the government will be more lenient with you. I’ll testify on your behalf. I’ll tell them you tried to be gentle—”
“Stop talking,” Nick interrupted coldly. “It’s doing you no good. We are not traitors. We are trying to stop the traitor.”
She gave a little snort, unable to help herself. Sam looked away, obviously hiding his amusement.
Nick watched her impassively. “I don’t care whether you believe me or not. If I were lying, wouldn’t I have killed you by now? It would make our next few days much easier. We work for the government; that’s all you need to know.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said bravely.
“You don’t have to. All that is required is that you obey unquestioningly. If I have to choose between safeguarding you and finishing my mission, you will not be what I choose.”
Trying not to shiver at the coldness in his voice, she thought, My mission, and wondered why that sounded familiar. Regardless, he obviously thought himself very important—and he made up lies to reinforce that.
Nick thrust a book at her, then several sheets of paper. “You’re going to write a letter. Do you need to remove your gloves?”
She gaped at him, letting everything slide untouched off her lap as the carriage jostled its passengers. “I will not help you in any way.”
As Sam patiently retrieved the items from the floor, Nick said, “You will write a letter to your family, saying you’ve decided to leave London for a few days. Come up with a good reason. Surely you don’t want them to worry.”
She blinked at him, then folded her arms across her chest. “I will not. I want them to send the police looking for me.”
He tilted his head and studied her with those dark, black eyes. “We’re long gone from London, and heading farther away every hour. No one will find you. Do you want your family to be crazed with worry, to spend days—if not weeks—wondering if you’re lying dead somewhere?”
Feeling nauseated, Charlotte imagined her mother’s reaction to her disappearance. Never a strong woman, Lady Whittington might suffer a drastic decline in health. Could Charlotte live with herself if she were responsible for such a thing?
“But you’re going to kill me anyway,” she whispered, ashamed of the despair in her voice but unable to stop it. How her mother would suffer because Charlotte foolishly thought herself invincible enough to follow a dangerous stranger.
Nick sighed heavily. “We are not going to kill you. As long as you don’t do a
nything foolish, you will be returned to your family unharmed.”
She dashed a tear off her cheek. “Stop lying! I’ve seen your faces. I know what you’re up to. You won’t set me free.”
Nick leaned toward her, and she shrank back into her corner. “We work for the government,” he said, enunciating slowly as if she were a child. “Campbell, that man you saw me with, is a criminal. He works for a woman who has sold military secrets to a foreign country. We’re trying to capture her, so I need to secure Campbell’s eventual cooperation. I’ll do that by getting him to trust me. I can’t tell you any more.” He gestured to the paper beside her on the bench. “Now you need to write this letter. What is your name, so we know where to send it?”
Charlotte knew he couldn’t be trusted; he was making up stories to confuse her, to win her sympathy. He might think himself good at deception, but he was just another man out to victimize women—Charlotte and the woman he labeled a traitor. After a hellish marriage, Charlotte was through being a victim to men.
But she couldn’t make her mother suffer.
Lifting her chin, she gave him a disdainful look. “I am Charlotte Whittington Sinclair. You can deliver the letter to the London home of my mother, Lady Whittington.”
Something flickered in Nick’s face, and he blinked for several moments, until he finally nodded. “Good girl.”
“I am not a girl.” But the rebuke was halfhearted, as she was too busy studying the distracted way her captor turned to look out the window, as if forgetting shutters guarded them from the night.
Chapter 3
A spy’s mentor is everything to him—and not to be crossed.
The Secret Journals of a Spymaster
Nick watched the woman—Charlotte Whittington Sinclair—pick up the pen, dip it in the inkpot Sam held, and begin to write. The scratch of the pen on paper could barely be heard above the muted sounds of the moving coach, the distant rumble of horses’ hooves, the rhythmic creak of wood and leather.
Whittington. It couldn’t be.
She paused in her writing and stared into the distance sadly. She had a delicate, lovely face, with full lips made for smiling. He wondered what she would look like happy—how she would smile for her father, Viscount Whittington. To her, Whittington was a nobleman, with ties to London society. But to Nick and Sam, he was the colonel, their commander—their spymaster, newly retired.
