by Gayle Callen
How the hell had he and the colonel’s daughter ended up at the same ball? And how would he explain his behavior, the way he’d tackled her on a bed, how he’d lifted her skirts to bind her, pawed her thighs, and then dropped her off a balcony?
Remembering her legs made him glance at her again. The ball gown’s plunging neckline plunged a little more with every hour. For a small woman, she was well endowed. She overflowed the dress, and if she moved suddenly, he might even see—
Shifting uncomfortably, he reminded himself that she had a husband. Sinclair. He remembered the colonel’s regret when he couldn’t leave India for the wedding. Everyone in foreign service was used to those kinds of disappointments. Luckily for Nick, it had never been a problem.
But if Charlotte had a husband, why did she want the letter sent to her mother? And did she have children to worry about?
Now that he knew who she was, he found himself sliding deeper and deeper into concern for her. She was his hostage, a woman who could hold the fate of his mission in her hands should she escape. But she was also young and frightened, and it was getting harder for him to ignore the sympathy he was starting to feel.
He had to conquer this weakness where women were concerned. Yes, women needed protection—but that didn’t mean they weren’t also traitors and hostages. He constantly reminded himself that, like men, women should have to live by the consequences of their actions.
The woman in question now threw her completed letter at him, and it fluttered to the floor between them. She drew herself up haughtily, taking a deep breath that did dangerous things to her gown. He kept his eyes on her face, lifting one eyebrow in a show of impassivity he was far from feeling.
Then he betrayed himself by bending over and picking up the letter instead of making her do it herself. Damnation. He ignored her triumphant expression, glanced at the drying letter, and frowned.
“Will she be able to read this?” he asked in an annoyed voice. “It looks scratched by an illiterate. You should have taken off the gloves.”
“I assure you, I am not illiterate. But we are in a moving carriage, and it was the best I could do.”
He read the contents, noticing with approval that she came up with a valid excuse for a young lady of society. She claimed to have changed her mind about traveling, and decided to catch up with her sister Jane, who was headed north with her betrothed.
“Fine,” Nick said briskly. “Sam will see that it’s delivered. He’ll also bring you more clothing,” he added, glancing with disapproval at the ball gown.
Charlotte blanched as if he’d threatened to kill her mother. “H-he cannot break into my home—either of them! My mother is alone but for the servants. She could be frightened into an early grave!”
Nick felt there was something she was trying to keep hidden. “Are you not concerned with your own home, with your husband’s reaction?”
She took a deep breath, hesitated, then said, “Of course I am. But my mother is frail.”
“Then you needn’t worry. Sam will not be taking foolish chances. He will purchase you a wardrobe that…complements our mission.”
She opened her mouth to speak, looked between them, then simply frowned and turned away, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. Sam and Nick shared a wide-eyed glance over what she displayed, but she didn’t notice.
His curiosity got the best of him, and he asked, “Do you have children, Mrs. Sinclair?”
She hesitated, seeming to struggle with some emotion he couldn’t name. Finally she shook her head.
“That’s good,” he said. “Children might not understand your absence.”
“But my mother—and my husband—will?” she asked sarcastically.
“Because you’ve explained it so well in your letter, of course.”
She bit her lip but said nothing.
Soon Nick could tell that Charlotte was fighting a losing battle where exhaustion was concerned. Her eyelids lowered, then fluttered back open several times. Her head dipped forward once or twice, then finally her body gave in, and she sagged into a corner asleep.
After several minutes, Sam softly said, “I think you were a bit harsh with her, Nick.”
He knew he had to be, because his first inclination was to protect her, to treat her tenderly. But all he said was, “If she’s afraid, she won’t cause trouble.”
“Did you think that maybe you’ll make her more desperate this way?”
“I’ll take that chance. What’s Will up to?” he asked, changing the subject to their friend Will Chadwick, who’d left the military for a normal life. “Has he spotted you following him yet?”
“Once or twice, but I always escaped before he could discover me.”
“He’s losing his touch,” Nick said with a grin.
Sam shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m not staying very close to him, because we don’t care what he’s doing—we just need to know where he is if we need him. Will we?”
“Need him? I’m not sure yet. After you deliver the letter—”
“And purchase ladies’ garments?” Sam interrupted with a grin.
“Hmm,” Nick said in a growling voice. “Yes, after that see what Julia Reed is doing. If she’s leaving London, we’ll need Will’s help keeping track of her.”
“He won’t want to do it. He made it perfectly clear he was done with this life.”
“Maybe, but he’s loyal, and I think I could persuade him.”
“You, persuasive?” Sam said with a laugh. “I never thought you had to resort to that.”
Nick glanced at their sleeping hostage, whose eyelids fluttered with dreams even as she frowned in distress. “I’ve got a lot of persuading ahead of me.”
Before Charlotte finally fell asleep, she heard some of their discussion about another criminal named Will, but none of it seemed as important to her as sleep. She dozed restlessly, and in her dreams, her father was coming to rescue her with his three spies, Mr. North, Mr. South, and Mr. West, code names that had come up often in his journals. They seemed to be very dashing and handsome men, very brave in following their country’s duty. What would Papa do in a situation like hers, where brute force was impossible? Try to trick her captors?
She came fully awake when the carriage slowed, disappointed to realize that her reality was still as daunting and frightening as ever. She made a great show of quiet acquiescence when Sam brought her a breakfast tray from the kitchen of an inn before he left for London. She didn’t bother to show them how difficult it was to remove her gloves, which were now caked with dried blood at her wrists. She hoped to lull them both into believing they’d succeeded in frightening her into submission.
Nick passed a chamber pot inside, saying a bit too loudly that he hoped her strength returned soon after her recent illness. Obviously a servant was waiting nearby. Charlotte desperately wanted to scream for help, but she worried what they would do to the servant, regardless of their protests that they were honorable men.
A few minutes later she overheard them talking with the coachman, Mr. Cox, a tall, silent man who kept himself wrapped in dark clothing. How did he feel about their keeping a hostage? She would try to determine if he was someone she could appeal to for help.
She ate to keep up her strength, munching gratefully on biscuits and cheese. After the horses were changed, Nick alone climbed back inside, and the carriage pulled away again. She noticed that their speed had greatly diminished, as if they didn’t want to stay too far ahead of Sam.
The kidnapping reprobate sat opposite her, his long legs spread wide, as if he’d previously been restrained having to sit beside his partner. She knew he was trying to intimidate her, and she had to admit he was succeeding. She fought the instinct to draw her legs up beneath her and cower away.
She wished he would sleep, because all he did was watch her. And his gaze did not always remain on her face. The upper slopes of her breasts felt hot with embarrassment at being the recipient of so much male attention. Never had a man been so forw
ard as to leer at her. She felt bare, stripped raw by his attention.
She finally pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, and he gave her a brief smile that did not reach his eyes. They were as cold and black as the remote depths of hell must be, where all heat and flame had long since fled. He could hardly convince her that he was a government agent when he looked at her so thoroughly, so dispassionately. And he had fondled her legs!
Charlotte fervently hoped that her letter would convey the clue it was intended to give. She didn’t want to alarm her mother, but she hoped her deliberately poor penmanship would alert Lady Whittington that something was wrong. She just wanted her mother to think she was distressed and sad about her widowhood. Surely Lady Whittington would send a letter to her husband, telling him to take special care of Charlotte’s feelings once Charlotte arrived in Yorkshire. And when she didn’t arrive, her father would realize that something ominous had occurred, and would know what to do.
She knew it was a remote possibility that such things would all come to pass, but she had to take a chance—like the chance she took pretending that her husband was still alive. Surely her captors would treat her more cautiously if they thought that her husband would be demanding justice if they abused her.
She waited until the carriage stopped again to take another, even riskier chance. The blackguard stepped outside, and she saw a wince cross his face, as if he’d grown stiff. Stiff! Her ankles had been tied for almost a day now. He didn’t know the meaning of stiff!
When the door closed, she awkwardly pressed herself against it to listen. She heard him speak to Mr. Cox, who then climbed into the coachman’s box. Perfect. She lay back on the floor, bound legs raised toward the door. When Nick opened it, looking down to place his foot on the step, she kicked hard, aiming for his face. But his height deceived her, and she landed a blow to his chest that sent him staggering backward.
His hard, angry face was enough incentive to move quickly. She tried to jump from the carriage, yelling for help, but in her brief glimpse of the outside world, she saw only the rear of a stable and a deserted yard. Then he hauled her back inside and the carriage sped off, leaving them in a tangled heap on the floor.
“That was foolish,” he ground out, pushing her down, then rising on his knees to loom over her. “I told you things would go better for you if you behaved.”
Using her hands, she pulled herself up to a sitting position against the far wall, trying to stay away from him. That was difficult when his legs straddled hers, and she felt weak and helpless. “Wouldn’t you try to escape if someone held you against your will? How can you expect me to do otherwise?”
He eyed her as if considering her words, then shook his head tiredly. “These are dangerous times, Charlotte.”
“Mrs. Sinclair,” she said, lifting her chin in defiance.
One corner of his mouth curled up in a smile. “But your name is lovely, Charlotte. It would be a shame not to use it.”
She frowned at him with incomprehension. Was he teasing her? Pointing her finger, she started to lecture him. “Don’t think you can—”
He suddenly grasped her wrists and pulled her up, her body dangerously near his. The wide skirts of her ball gown offered only meager protection against the weight and heat of him.
“And now you’ll have to pay the price for your disobedience,” he said in a low, rumbling voice.
She froze, waiting for terror to surge through her, immobilize her—but it didn’t, and she felt relieved. She allowed him to manhandle her back onto the bench. She offered a token struggle when he tied up her wrists again, but she knew she could not fight the strength of his long fingers. She would look for other ways to manipulate him.
Several hours passed, and when the carriage slowed, Nick pulled the gag back out of his pocket. Charlotte watched him quietly, knowing this meant that they were finally going to leave this moving prison. When the carriage stopped, she felt it swaying as Mr. Cox climbed out of the coachman’s box, but he didn’t knock on the door.
“I’ll keep quiet,” she said, even as Nick loomed over her.
He snorted his disbelief. “Open your mouth.”
She hesitated but finally obeyed him. He stuffed cloth into her mouth and tied the gag about her head. He stayed at her side, his face above hers, his black eyes so near she could see a faint circle of gray about the pupil, a hint of something soft inside that she couldn’t believe about this ruthless man.
“I wish that you would accept the truth,” he murmured.
She remained still as he tucked her stray hair back behind her ears. His finger slid along the shell of her ear, and then he touched her chin. Something inside her trembled, though she wasn’t afraid.
“We are not the ones you should fear,” he continued.
She put as much scorn into her eyes as she could.
He suddenly chuckled. “You’re very bold, Mrs. Sinclair. Or perhaps it’s Lady Sinclair. Such nobility would suit you.”
They remained still, staring at each other, until he shook his head and backed away.
“I can’t force you to accept the truth,” he said brusquely. “Now be a good girl and keep quiet if you’d like to spend the night in a real bed.”
Then he pulled her toward the door and stepped down. After throwing the blanket over her, he tossed her over his shoulder. She grunted with the impact against her stomach, trying to kick him, but he held her legs still. He started to whistle, then he had the gall to pat her backside.
When he began to walk, she gasped as he lurched to one side, then the other. His whistle took on a decidedly drunken warbling. What was he doing?
A door banged open in front of them, and she could tell he started ascending stairs. With another drunken sway, her feet hit one wall.
“Sorry, lass,” he said rather loudly in a slurred Scottish accent.
When they reached a corridor, his drunken sway got even worse. Her head brushed against a wall.
“Can I help you?” called a timid voice.
For just a moment Charlotte felt every muscle in Nick’s body tighten, including his hand on her backside. Then he laughed as she gave a muffled shriek and tried to kick.
“It’s the wife, sir,” Nick said, trying to sound conspiratorial even with a booming voice. “Got angry at me, she did. Stormed out wearin’ only her nightclothes.”
The other man said nothing. Nothing!
She tried to kick for all she was worth to dislodge the blanket, but with that reprobate’s hand tightening on her backside, all she got for her efforts was a deeper cut where the linen ties bit into her ankles.
“A good day to you, sir,” he called as he continued walking.
She heard a door open, then slam behind them. When he tossed her onto a bed, Charlotte sat up quickly, shook the blanket off her face to glare at him, then used her bound hands to pick at her gag.
He returned her glare even as he pushed her hands away and caught her face in his hands. “I am doing important work, and you almost destroyed it. If you can’t promise me you’ll stay quiet, I’m leaving that gag on permanently.”
She looked into those dark, cold eyes, and though she didn’t think he’d kill her, she did think he’d follow through on this new threat. She glared her ire at him.
“Do you promise to be quiet?” he demanded again. “Don’t think I can’t convince people you have a pleasurable reason for screaming.”
She knew she blushed, and though she tried to hold his gaze, she couldn’t. Did women of his acquaintance…scream their pleasure? She couldn’t imagine feeling anything more than duty—or unease.
He was waiting. Finally she looked up and nodded with resignation.
He gave her a look filled with more weariness than triumph, then tugged loose her gag. She spat out the linen wad, then lifted her bound hands to him. He shook his head.
Her tongue felt thick and dry, and she sounded hoarse as she said, “I’m locked in this room with you. Where can I go? Please untie me.”
<
br /> Standing above her, his hands on his hips, he said, “You’ve repeatedly promised not to escape, then you break your word and try to.”
“I never broke my word! But look at my wrists and—” To her shame, she tugged at her skirts and exposed her ankles, but couldn’t quite say such intimate words to a man.
To her surprise, he frowned and knelt in front of her to inspect her wrists. Instead of treating her brusquely, his touch was gentle as he turned her wrists over to inspect both sides. She watched his dark head, bent so near to her, and felt a strange reaction she couldn’t identify. She wanted to push him away—yet she remained still, allowing his nearness. When he looked up at her, she held her breath.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll untie you briefly. But there’s only one door, Charlotte, and I will be between you and it.”
Chapter 4
A true spy never really leaves the service of the Crown; the bonds of patriotism and duty are ingrained.
The Secret Journals of a Spymaster
Charlotte bit her lip and said nothing, watching as he very gently untied her wrists. With the strips gone, raw welts were revealed, and one or two places oozed blood. He untied her ankles next, and she gave a sigh of relief. But there were raw spots on her ankles, too.
“You shouldn’t have struggled,” he said shortly.
“I’ll keep struggling. The government needs to know what you’re doing—”
He looked up at her wearily. “I’ve told you, they already know.”
“And they’re trying to capture you.”
“They’re backing me.” He sighed. “Just wait here. We need to clean your wounds.”
We? she thought in disbelief. To her surprise, he poured water into a basin and brought several towels to the bed. With soap and water he washed her wrists with a gentleness that amazed her. When he reached for her foot—and she was tempted to allow him to continue—she knew she had to stop this trance she was in. She took the cloth away from him, brought her feet up onto the bed, and turned her back to him. Her skirt and petticoats puffed up around her, and she pushed them down.
