by Gayle Callen
Nick had one last thing to reveal, and he knew this would be the hardest. “I have Jane’s sister with me.”
“Charlotte?”
That got a good reaction, from Will’s stunned expression.
“I didn’t mean to bring Charlotte with me—frankly, she won’t tell me why she was at Lord Arbury’s party—”
“You were there?” Will said, looking guilty. “It’s my fault she was there. I didn’t want her traveling with Jane and me, so I had Arbury send her an invitation. Of course she couldn’t refuse.”
“You had to send her to Arbury’s?” Lord Arbury was a man well known to the Political Department. He’d done them favors, and had favors done for him in return. He’d spent much of his youth in India, and now used his experience in the hallowed halls of Parliament. Arbury had rather enjoyed the idea of Nick holding a clandestine meeting during his ball.
“Who else did I know so highly placed?” Will continued. “Hell, Queen Victoria was going to be there. Charlotte was beside herself with anticipation for her first ball since coming out of mourning.”
Everything Nick thought he knew about Charlotte disappeared in an instant. “Mourning? For who?”
“Her husband. Didn’t you know?”
“She’s not exactly speaking to me.” His mind raced with the implications, with how this news helped ease some of his problems.
“Why not?”
He wished he didn’t have to tell Will quite everything.
“Because I’ve gagged her.”
Will’s mouth fell open. “Why the hell would you need to gag a gently bred woman—the colonel’s daughter?”
“Because she thinks I’m a traitor,” he replied, unable to stop his laughter—and his relief.
Charlotte’s husband had died over a year ago.
Nick explained the kidnapping to Will, then insisted he could not tell Jane any of this. His friend reluctantly agreed.
When Will stood up to leave, Nick followed him, saying, “Maybe I’ll just hand Charlotte over to you. After all, her sister would be anxious to comfort her.” Even as he said it, he knew he could never go through with it.
“I think not,” Will said. “When Charlotte finally understands the importance of your mission, send her back to London. I’m sure she won’t want to miss the end of the Season.”
But she didn’t seem like a woman who cared about such things. She was more alive, more vibrant than those boring ladies of the ton. If he’d kidnapped one of them, he’d have a hysterical woman on his hands, instead of the challenging, wily Charlotte.
Charlotte laughed at the joke Mr. Cox had just finished telling, more relaxed and at ease than she’d felt in two long days. But then she heard the sound of Nick’s footfalls before he even opened the door. How she knew, she wasn’t certain, but a prickle of awareness raised the hair on her neck. She stared blankly at the cards in her hand, where just a moment before she had sworn she would beat Mr. Cox this round.
After being unlocked, the door swung open, and Mr. Cox, his face redder than before, raised his shaggy head to glance over his shoulder.
Nick leaned inside. “Sorry to interrupt your private party. Cox, can I speak to you for a moment?”
Mr. Cox rose to his feet, drawing on his long black overcoat and swathing his skinny neck in a black scarf though it was a hot August evening.
“But our game was not finished,” she said, hearing a hint of desperation in her own voice. He would probably send Mr. Cox away, leaving her alone with her kidnapper again.
Mr. Cox nodded formally to her. “Mrs. Sinclair, ye surely had me beat that game.”
“You’re only humoring me. Do give me one more chance.”
“I got to see to the horses and carriage, ma’am. A good evenin’ to ye.”
With a nod to Nick, Mr. Cox disappeared into the hall. The door closed behind both men with a finality that was suddenly nerve-wracking.
But she was alone for the first time in more than a day. Here was her chance to escape. She jumped to her feet and raced to the other door. She opened it and stepped lightly onto the balcony in the cool night air.
Not a sound rose from the inn yard below. It was so late that even the laughter of drunken men in the taproom had died away. Off in the distance she could see lanterns hung in the darkness and hear the sound of neighing horses. That must be the stable. She could steal a horse.
Luckily lanterns were hung in several places along the inn itself, as well as in the yard down below. It didn’t seem too far to drop.
She climbed over the balustrade and faced inward, holding on tightly. The breeze picked up and lifted her skirt and petticoats, and she swayed with terror. But she couldn’t back down now. She had to get away.
Crouching, she slowly went down on her knees, holding the balustrade hard against her stomach. The ground faded into murky blackness. Why didn’t it seem any closer? If she lowered herself and hung from her hands, surely she could drop down lightly.
Why hadn’t she followed Jane’s example as a child and escaped the house once in a while? Jane knew which tree grew close enough to the manor, which stair creaked on the servants’ staircase. It would have prepared Charlotte for this.
She leaned away from the balustrade and lowered one leg.
From below her, a voice said, “You are so predictable, my fair Juliet.”
It was him. And he didn’t sound amused.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she clutched the balustrade. “You are no Romeo!”
“It’s a long drop down. Do you want to risk it?”
Very carefully, she drew her leg back up beneath her, then rose to her feet. One hand slipped, and she swayed backward for a moment.
“Stand still!” he said in a soft, angry voice.
He was directly beneath her now, and she muttered every curse she knew under her breath. She put one leg over the balustrade, turned, and brought the other over, which left her standing on the balcony, looking down at his furious face.
He suddenly leaped and caught the beam that braced the balcony. She gasped and fell back, even as his hand gripped the floor. He was coming after her!
She turned and grabbed for the door, which rattled in her hand and wouldn’t open right away. She finally flung it wide, stepped inside, and tried to slam it on him. He stopped it with his boot and then began to force it open. Although she braced all her weight against it, she slowly slid backward.
When it was obvious she’d lost, she let go and tried to run around the bed, but he vaulted it easily and put his back to the door before she could get there. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her.
Even in plain country garments, he looked very powerful, very masculine, very dangerous. His jaw was stubbled and shadowed. How could eyes so black seem to blaze out at her, reminding her that she was alone with him, that she’d angered him?
This man was her kidnapper, a criminal, she insisted to herself. But it was so difficult to think of him that way. Had she really interrupted a mission of British agents? How could she tell? She forced herself to remember every line she’d read in her father’s journals, but nothing came to mind. She knew no secret code words that would ferret out the truth. She could only judge him as a man.
And he was not wanting in that area.
A dark cloak swirled about his shoulders as he began to walk toward her. He removed the cloak and tossed it over a chair, then his frock coat followed. She kept retreating backward across the room. His faded white shirt stretched taut across his shoulders, and a pair of suspenders flattened it to his chest. His threadbare pants clung to his thighs and hips. She was no virgin who didn’t know what a man’s naked form looked like. After her experiences with her husband, she thought she’d never want to see that sight again.
But instead her mind betrayed her, and a kidnapper’s body had secrets she suddenly wanted to see revealed.
Charlotte controlled a groan of mortification. She was alone with him. His gaze dipped to the bodice of her too
-tight dress. Her late husband had never shown an interest in her form unless in the privacy of a bedroom. But Nick couldn’t seem to stop. Sometimes she wanted to cover her chest with her arms, but other times—like now—she wanted to straighten her spine, take a deep breath, and let him look his fill, show him what he would never have, prove that she wasn’t afraid of him.
Raising her chin defiantly, she said, “So what are you going to do?”
He kept advancing until her back hit the wall and she had nowhere else to go. And still he kept coming, until his chest pressed into hers, and every inch of him seemed to touch her. She could feel his arousal, and she should have felt threatened. She was trembling, and she told herself it was out of fear, but to her shame, she knew it wasn’t so.
He leaned down into her face, his breath hot against her skin. “Don’t do that again,” he said menacingly. He stayed there, their lips almost close enough to kiss. She gasped as she breathed, and that only made her breasts ever more sensitive to the pressure of his chest. When his gaze dropped to her mouth, she stopped breathing altogether.
He suddenly stepped back, and she almost sagged to the floor.
He glanced at the second door. “And I’ll make sure to tell Sam no more balconies.”
He wiped a hand through his hair and sprawled into a wingback chair before the cold hearth. “You know I can’t let you go. Not until this is over, anyway.”
She put a hand on the other chair to steady herself. “And did this evening bring you closer to the end?” she asked, remembering his meeting with someone named Will.
“We’ll see.” He stared about the room, lit only with tallow candles on the table where she and Mr. Cox had played, as if he were looking for something. “I thought you’d be abed by now.”
Clasping her hands loosely before her, she made a show of pretending to be calm. “I am not in the habit of sleeping in front of strangers.” Were they going to act as if he hadn’t pressed himself against her?
“So cards were in order?” he asked lightly.
“Mr. Cox suggested it. It kept my mind off…things.”
His expression sobered. “Did you have supper?”
“The innkeeper sent up what you’d ordered. Heaven forbid Mr. Cox lock me in so he could go find us food.”
“After what just happened, I wouldn’t put it past you to pick the lock.”
“My accomplishments do not extend so far, but I am sincerely grateful for your praise.” She smiled at him sweetly, falsely.
His answering grin shouldn’t have warmed her, but it did.
“You have a wicked, bold tongue on you, Mrs. Sinclair, and I discovered a few other bold things about you tonight.”
A chill went through her, but she remained standing before him, trying not to notice how near to his spread legs she was. With but a step or two, she would be between his knees. A discordant thought that made her breath catch and her resolve harden.
“And what did you discover? That I am but an ordinary woman? That I have nothing to hide compared to a criminal like you?”
His head dropped back against the chair as he watched her. “I discovered you’ve been lying to me. Your husband is dead.”
It was as if he’d ripped away a layer of clothing to expose her, leaving her more vulnerable to him. She’d lost that card to play.
“Nothing to say?” he continued. “No protests, no explanations?”
“I owe you neither. It should be obvious to you why I let you believe what you wanted.”
“You thought you could use the fiction of a husband to make me treat you better, as if knowing someone could seek revenge on your behalf should affect my behavior.”
Again she said nothing.
“Charlotte, I would not care if you were an eighty-year-old grandmother. I would still treat a hostage with the same resolve and force—and with fairness.”
“And you would look at her bosom as much as you look at mine?” Oh God, where had that come from? What new, brazen woman was she becoming, to dare him so?
Nick’s smile was slow and seductive. “Every man looks at your bosom, Charlotte. I wager you don’t normally mention it to them. But now that you’ve brought up the subject—”
“It does not bear discussion,” she quickly interrupted, feeling hot and mortified and no longer so clever.
Because now he rose out of the chair and to his full height, which made the ceiling seem low. She made herself remain still, instead of scurrying to put a piece of furniture between them. Her face flamed as he deliberately studied her breasts, walking back and forth as if to judge them from all angles. Hadn’t he just felt them against his chest, for heaven’s sake?
When she could take his perusal no more, she surrendered and crossed her arms over her breasts.
“Now you see,” he began softly, “I do enjoy looking at your chest. I try not to, because I’m sure you think I’ll attack you in your sleep—which I would not, by the way.”
“And I’m supposed to take the word of a criminal, especially a man who would intimidate me with his much larger body?”
His expression momentarily darkened, then cleared. “I am not a criminal. But I am only a man. I would not attempt to seduce you. On the other hand, should you offer—”
“I beg your pardon!” she cried.
“No begging necessary, of course,” he said, stepping closer, looking into her eyes with a dark amusement she tried not to find fascinating. “As I said, you might invite me, since it has been over a year since you’ve been with a man, and a woman has certain needs…”
“As if I would ever need such a thing!” She was trembling with anger now. She couldn’t help remembering how her husband had used that same phrase, “certain needs,” but applied it only to men. She couldn’t imagine a woman needing to be treated the way her husband had treated her.
But Nick’s knowing smile and the languorous way it made her feel called into question everything she’d ever known about relations between men and women. She had women friends who were blissfully happy with their husbands—and she had never understood why.
Nick hadn’t admired a woman this much in a long time. Charlotte Whittington Sinclair had a smart answer for every barb he sent her way. And although she was flustered by the direction their conversation was taking, she was not backing down.
Hell, he wanted her. He admitted it to himself, knowing he could let nothing come of it. She was exciting and unusual, and not afraid of him. He had pressed her into the wall and still she’d not shown fear, only surprise. He’d wanted to rub his thigh between hers and rub other parts as well. But she didn’t understand her power over him, and he wanted to keep it that way, much as he longed to explore her insistence that she didn’t miss sex.
But he’d been down this path before. His deference to women left him vulnerable to their manipulations, especially in bed. Julia Reed had done that to him—made him so besotted with her that he hadn’t seen beyond the façade she presented, hadn’t bothered to ask what she did when she was roaming Kabul dressed as a boy.
But he put Julia from his mind and concentrated on his lovely hostage, whose fair skin still blushed from the paths their conversation was taking. She didn’t turn away from him. He allowed himself the forbidden, and gently stroked his finger along her soft cheek. For the space of a second he could feel her trembling, feel the softness of her rapid breathing, see her dazed expression.
Then finally she pulled back, and he knew he’d succeeded in driving her away. She broke his gaze, looked at the bed, realized where she was looking, and whirled toward the balcony door. Would she be so foolish as to try that again?
Clearing her throat she asked, “So who told you this secret about me? This Will person I don’t know?”
“You don’t need to hear the details.” He sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. “But I know more than one secret.”
Chapter 6
Be careful what you reveal—it can bind you.
The Secret J
ournals of a Spymaster
When his boots were off, Nick leaned back, bracing his weight with his arms. The mattress felt soft, and his body betrayed him by showing him how much he wanted this woman he couldn’t have. He sat up quickly. Charlotte was no innocent virgin not to know an aroused man when she saw one.
“I have no other secrets,” she said with conviction. “I wouldn’t even have had the one about my husband, if you hadn’t assumed he was alive.”
“Your full name is Charlotte Whittington Sinclair.”
He was satisfied to watch her lovely brows compress in a frown. Clearly she had no idea why her father’s identity should matter to him.
“I told you my maiden name,” she said in a puzzled tone of voice.
“And your father is Colonel Whittington.”
She gave him a superior grin. “Then you now know he’s in the military. When he finds out what you’ve done—”
“He’ll find out rather soon. I eventually tell him everything.”
Her face reflected her thoughts like a disturbed pond, each ripple outward revealing another emotion: confusion, doubt, then dawning understanding and suspicion.
“You know my father?” she asked softly.
“He’s been my commanding officer for many years.”
“Everyone knows he was in the military.”
“But does everyone know he was a spymaster?”
Her eyes went wide, and her lips parted soundlessly.
“Did you even know?” he gently asked.
“Only recently.”
She practically whispered the words. Then once again, she drew her strength about her like an overcoat and straightened her back. He swallowed hard over what that did to her magnificent breasts.
“But there are many ways you could have discovered that secret,” Charlotte said scornfully. “This proves nothing.”
“It proves I’m telling the truth. I could go into plenty of detail about the work I did for your father, but I’m sure he didn’t share such dangerous things with you. I can tell you one thing, though—watching you wrap Cox around your finger certainly told me you take after your father.”
