The Beauty and the Spy

by Gayle Callen

  Her mouth opened and closed, but she didn’t seem to be able to find the words.

  “He wanted to be alone so he could—compromise Jane?” she gasped out.

  She looked as if she was ready to take on the world to defend her family. Hell, this wasn’t good. More and more he admired her, more and more he had to force away thoughts of getting her into bed. The excuses were varied in his head—she wasn’t a virgin, she hadn’t gotten pregnant while married. But the biggest obstacle of all was that he knew himself too well: he would grow to care for her, and he had vowed he wouldn’t let that happen again until he was done working for the government. He wasn’t leaving the army yet, no matter how his family thought they could trap him.

  Yet like a fool, he’d kissed Charlotte. He’d tormented himself with a taste of her sweet lips. It had been a long time since he’d slept with a woman, because he was not a man to take what was offered and leave.

  He couldn’t leave Charlotte, and for a moment she’d been very willing to have him stay in bed with her.

  But now she was looking so affronted that he raised both hands to placate her. “Will just wanted the chance to get to know Jane. You do remember how that felt when you were engaged to your husband?”

  A strange look he couldn’t read came over her face. He suspected it didn’t involve happy memories. Was her marriage not as idyllic as he thought?

  Through gritted teeth she said, “And so he disposed of me by putting me in your way?”

  “He didn’t know I would be at Arbury’s. He didn’t even know I was back in the country. I’ve already told you, he’s out of the military, done with spying.”

  “Even if I believe any of this, now thanks to you he’ll be putting my sister in danger.”

  That’s what Will had worried about, and though it made Nick uneasy, they had no choice. “There’s nothing dangerous in a duke’s house party. Julia might be marrying Kelthorpe—she wouldn’t risk exposing herself.”

  “This woman you’re chasing is going to marry a duke?”

  “Yes. Now don’t you see why it’s so important that we have the evidence to stop her? The Duke of Kelthorpe is related to Queen Victoria. Can you imagine the scandal should Julia marry into that family?”

  She looked frozen with indecision, until she finally covered her face and turned away. “I can’t listen to you! I don’t know what to believe! All I know is that you’re holding me against my will—and now I discover you’ve embroiled my sister in all this danger—and she doesn’t even know it! She never read my father’s journals, she won’t understand—”

  When she broke off, looking horrified, he read her face as easily as any newspaper.

  “He kept journals? He let you read them?” Nick was stunned that the colonel would ever do something so foolish.

  “Oh don’t worry,” she said bitterly, “they prove nothing. He doesn’t even use real names. It’s Mr. West this, and Mr. South that.”

  He tensed as she recited Will’s and Sam’s code names, then exchanged a look with Sam.

  “I found them hidden—he certainly didn’t allow me to read them. But I kept them to myself,” she said, lowering her voice and slumping down to sit on the bed. “I should have showed them to Jane. They might have better prepared her to figure out what Lord Chadwick is up to.”

  “And did they prepare you?” Nick asked.

  She wore a sad smile, and to his surprise a single tear slid down her cheek. “If I hadn’t read them I never would have followed you out of the ballroom.”

  When he’d been walking through the ballroom, intent on his meeting, he had still noticed her. Her face and figure had penetrated his determination, almost distracting him.

  “My foolish head was filled with intrigues,” she said sadly. “It was so good to have something else to think about after—after everything that had happened.”

  She must mean her husband’s death. Had she loved him that much?

  “So when I saw you looking so suspicious—” she said.

  “I didn’t look suspicious.”

  Nick heard Sam abruptly laugh, then choke it off when Nick glared at him.

  Though she looked as if she were thinking of other things, Charlotte slowly shook her head. “No one at a ball moves with as much purpose as you did. And then when you went into that private corridor—what was I supposed to think?”

  “That I belonged there?” he answered dryly.

  “I just knew you didn’t. I thought—I thought maybe I had some of Papa in me after all.”

  “You definitely have some of him in you,” Nick said shortly.

  Sam cleared his throat. “I’ve got to get back to Julia.”

  Nick had the absurd wish to make Sam stay. Did he now think he needed protection from a single small woman? But all Nick did was nod.

  “I’ll return when I have news.”

  “We’ll start heading north. We’ll keep to the pre-arranged roads. And do me a favor—when Will’s coachman Barlow has time on his hands at Langley Manor, have him deliver this note to London for Campbell. Everything’s spelled out inside.”

  Charlotte glanced briefly at Sam, and then she stared as if she hadn’t really looked at him before. Nick hadn’t had the chance to explain Sam’s penchant for disguises. As Sam stood up out of the shadows and took the note, his cloak flowed out over a skirt. Sam knew he was being stared at, so with a fluidity surprising in a man, he sank into a curtsy before Charlotte.

  As a slow smile spread across her face, she said, “Take off the cloak.”

  Wearing a grin, Sam dramatically whirled the cloak from his shoulders. Though he was not a very broad, muscular man, it seemed ridiculous to see him in a woman’s red dress, buttoned clear up to his neck, and fully flounced with petticoats that spread his skirts wide.

  Charlotte said to Sam, “Surely you realize you fool no one with that disguise.”

  Sam cocked his head, and the curls in his wig danced. “And you’ve never seen a very tall woman before?”

  “Of course I have! But the rest of you is not—”

  She broke off as Sam began his transformation, and Nick watched her astonishment grow. Sam was legendary in his ability to hide himself within the physicality of a character. His every movement now became graceful, his walk womanly as he retrieved his cloak, and even the breadth of him seemed to shrink.

  Sam wrapped the cloak about himself and spoke in a soft, throaty voice. “I shall see you both in just scant hours. Do play nicely with each other.” He glided from the room.

  Nick watched Charlotte gaze blankly at the door, then turn an astonished look on him.

  “What did you expect?” he asked. “We’re good at what we do.”

  She just shook her head and turned away.

  They were quiet for a long time, and he couldn’t think of a thing to say. It was still morning, and he had no duties until Sam returned with news about whether Julia was heading for Kelthorpe’s house party.

  And he was alone with a beautiful woman next to a big bed.

  Chapter 8

  Intimacy encourages all sorts of revelations, including the ones you don’t plan on revealing.

  The Secret Journals of a Spymaster

  Nick went to the window as if he were looking for something important, instead of merely keeping busy. But he noticed when Charlotte raised her head and stared at him.

  “I heard you say you had…relations with this woman, this Julia.”

  Well that wasn’t a normal conversation for a society lady. He studied her, pretending an impassivity he didn’t feel. “Yes.”

  “Why do you men do that, sleep with women so readily?”

  He could only blink at her for a moment. “You want to have this conversation with me?”

  “Why not?” she said with exasperation. “I’ve already slept tied up in the same bed with you.”

  And I’ve already kissed you.

  “Lying side by side, fully clothed, is hardly the same thing as relations,” he s
aid, emphasizing her word.

  “But for women it is something treated with the reverence of only a wedding night and begetting children.”

  “Men usually hope those two things aren’t involved,” he said dryly, “unless one needs an heir, of course.”

  But she only glared at him. “That’s what my husband wanted—children. And I didn’t give them to him.”

  There was a pain in her words that called to him, but he refused to acknowledge it. He’d let down too many people in his own life—and his own father had let him down.

  She sighed. “My husband used to tell me about the women he’d consorted with before we were married.”

  Nick didn’t know what she wanted from him, but it seemed to require conversation. “And did he continue to consort?”

  “I don’t think so. He seemed faithful…to a degree.”

  “To a degree?” he echoed.

  She waved her hand and didn’t look at him. “Never mind. I should never have brought up such a subject—not with my kidnapper.”

  “A very unwilling kidnapper.”

  “Of course you could let me go.”

  He was glad to see some of her spirit return. He found himself fascinated by her, drawn to her and these hints of a past that did not always seem so wonderful.

  “I think we’re done with this conversation, Charlotte.”

  There was a brisk knock on the door, and he couldn’t help feeling relieved. Cox walked in, carrying a large tray for breakfast.

  There were plates of eggs and bacon and toast, and the three of them ate in uncomfortable silence.

  Charlotte’s restless mind could settle on no single thought. She thought about innocent Jane, who didn’t know the truth about her future husband. Jane was innocent because Charlotte had selfishly kept their father’s journals to herself. She’d also foolishly told Nick about their existence. All he had to do was have them stolen, and he would have access to all her father’s work.

  But she didn’t believe Nick needed those journals to craft a believable story. Was he telling the truth? He and Sam had been speaking when they thought she was asleep. Could they really have faked their whole conversation to lull her into a falsehood? Why would they have bothered?

  All right, they might want her cooperation to make things easier on themselves, but if they were truly traitors, killing her would accomplish the same purpose. And no one would ever know. But she was already cooperating, although for her own reasons. She had to get away, before her mother thought something horrible had happened to her, before Charlotte told every dreadful marital secret she had to this stranger—before she succumbed to more of his kisses.

  Charlotte behaved herself as she left the inn on Nick’s arm. He didn’t tie her up, though his look was threatening as they got under way. He tossed a newspaper on her seat, stretched out his long legs and fell promptly asleep, as if the past night hadn’t rested him. Could it have been as difficult for him to sleep in the same bed as it was for her?

  She stared at him with dismay, then peeked past the shutters out the glass window. The rural countryside of Huntingdonshire rolled by at an alarming rate. What was she going to do—jump? And risk breaking her leg?

  She decided to behave as she thought her father would, biding her time and waiting for a better opportunity.

  It came only hours later, when the carriage suddenly thumped. The newspaper slid to the floor, and Charlotte braced herself on the bench.

  Nick frowned and leaned toward the window. “I wonder if we hit—”

  A shudder wracked the frame, and with a great groaning of strained wood, the carriage suddenly lurched sideways, and she tumbled to the floor. She watched in shock as Nick’s head slammed into the window frame, and then he fell heavily on top of her. For several minutes she flailed beneath his weight, then the carriage shuddered to a halt, tilted at an angle.

  She finally succeeded in sliding out from beneath Nick. She didn’t know what to do first, as he was so ominously still. There was another tug on the vehicle, and she remembered stories of frightened horses continuing to run, pulling a carriage to pieces. Moving carefully, she ducked her head out the open window. Mr. Cox had both hands raised before the two pairs of horses, who were whinnying and tossing their heads. Each jerk of the harness sent another shudder through the carriage.

  “Ye’re good beasts now,” Mr. Cox said soothingly.

  Very slowly he reached down and unhooked the horses’ harness from the carriage. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief, but the cessation of tension seemed to intensify the horses’ fear. The paired leaders pawed high in the air as Mr. Cox dove to the side. All four took off at a gallop down the tree-lined road, and the coachman followed at a surprisingly swift run. Charlotte sagged back onto the edge of the bench.

  But Nick hadn’t moved. He lay in a crumpled heap on the floor at her feet. Her heart renewed its pounding as she slid her hand down his neck to feel the strong beat of his pulse. Breathing a shaky sigh, she gently lifted his head. A lump swelled just above his left temple, and a trickle of blood oozed from the small cut in the center. He was unconscious, but he would probably be just fine.

  And she was alone on a road surrounded on both sides by a wooded forest. If she hid long enough in the trees, someone was bound to drive by eventually and help her. She would be free to appease her mother, to warn her sister.

  Her throat tightened with helpless tears, and a battle began in her mind. Nick looked as peaceful as he had that morning, when she’d awakened in bed beside him. This was the man who’d gently bathed her cuts, who’d kissed her as if she were made of precious glass that might break if he exerted force—who’d promised to protect her from the villain who wanted her dead.

  And what if Mr. Cox had gone to the next village for help? How long would Nick be alone, helpless, if she left him?

  She closed her eyes and gave in. She couldn’t leave him like this. He needed her help. After pulling a handkerchief from her reticule, she climbed down from the carriage and listened for the sound of running water. It took her several searches of both sides of the road to find a tiny stream that gurgled over a few rocks before disappearing underground again. She wet the handkerchief and walked back to the carriage.

  Nick loomed in the doorway unsteadily. He blinked several times, then shook his head as if to clear it. Wearing a frown, he asked, “You didn’t run away?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Maybe you’re not the only one whose head is damaged.”

  He blinked again. “You’re hurt?”

  She shook her head as her attempt at humor went right by him. “I went to dampen a handkerchief. You have blood on your face.”

  He lifted his hand to his head and winced.

  “Nick, why don’t you take my hand and I’ll help you dow—”

  He tried to step down on his own and ended up staggering. He would have pitched forward onto his face if she hadn’t steadied him. Swaying, he propped his arms on her shoulders and stared down at her.

  “Sorry,” he murmured.

  She didn’t think he was. “Sit down here in the shade and let me wipe your face.”

  He complied, resting his back against a carriage wheel, then remained silent as she knelt beside him and began to dab at his wound.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.

  “Not the cut, but my head feels like it’s going to explode.”

  She pressed the cool handkerchief to his temple, and this time he caught her hand and held it.

  Searching her face, he asked, “Why didn’t you leave? It was the perfect opportunity.”

  She shrugged and avoided his gaze, pretending intense interest in his injury. “I’d probably get eaten by wild animals.”

  “In Huntingdonshire?”

  “Or killed by that man you were talking to in London, the one who wants me dead. Trust me, it was a purely selfish decision on my part.”

  He didn’t answer at first. Several minutes passed before he pushed her hand away.
“I’ll be fine. Where’s Cox?”

  “He went running after the horses, back the way we’d come.”

  “There’s probably a wheelwright in a village nearby,” Nick said, nodding. “Cox will be back soon.”

  But several hours passed while she was forced to hover over a drowsy Nick. The coachman returned, riding in a wagon that carried a new wheel behind it, and four harnessed carriage horses attached at the rear. The driver was a blacksmith—the village was too small for a true wheelwright—but the man had brought along his strapping son to help.

  Regardless of Charlotte’s protests, Nick helped lift the carriage so the new wheel could be put in place. He was sweating, and his face looked pale. When he finally stumbled back from the carriage, she slid beneath his arm and steadied him.

  Looking down at her, he gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Be a dear, love, and break out the ale I keep beneath the bench. This is hard work for a hot autumn day.”

  She nodded, knowing he was playing her husband again. “Are you sure we shouldn’t have the blacksmith find you a doctor, dearest? Your bruise is turning an ugly color.”

  He grinned. “I’ve had worse. But your concern is touching.”

  He gave her a quick, hard kiss that made her feel as unsteady as he was.

  Between gritted teeth and a forced smile, she said, “Anything to help.” But she couldn’t remain angry when she could feel the tremor in his muscles as he held himself upright. The blow to the head had done more harm than he wanted to admit.

  When they’d all drank their ale, and the blacksmith was paid for his efforts and on his way home, Mr. Cox went forward to check on the horses one last time. Charlotte felt Nick’s arm around her shoulders again. As she put her arm about his chest, he began to sag against her, dropping to his knees and bringing her with him.

  “Nick! Let me get Mr.—”

  “No, don’t worry him,” he said heavily. “I’m fine.”