by Gayle Callen
“But I’m all that’s holding you up,” she insisted.
“Then let’s get into the carriage, and you won’t even have to do that.”
With a lot of pulling on her part, she managed to get him to his feet. After they’d taken a couple of shaky steps toward the open carriage door, Mr. Cox suddenly called out in a loud, worried voice.
“Nick!”
Nick detached himself from her so suddenly that she staggered. She watched in shock as he sprinted past the horses, the picture of his usual athletic grace. Mr. Cox stepped out of the horses’ shadow and shook his head mournfully.
“As I thought,” the coachman said as Nick skidded to a halt, “ye’re not quite as sick as ye pretend.”
Charlotte gaped at the two of them, and then Nick turned to face her.
“Now Charlotte—”
She threw up her hands with a groan, then turned and strode away from him, back down the road from where they came.
“Where are you going?” he asked in a laughing voice.
She could hear him advancing behind her. Glaring at him over her shoulder, she said, “I should have just left you!”
“But you didn’t.”
He was trying his best to look serious, but to her disgust he wasn’t succeeding.
“Were you even unconscious?” she demanded, turning to face him so quickly that she was able to push him backward.
He leaned his chest against her hand. “Truly, I was quite unconscious. Senseless. Unaware. I might have died without you.”
Against her palm his heart pounded with surety, with safety, with confidence. When she didn’t answer, he bent and lifted her up, his arms behind her shoulders and her knees, and walked back toward the carriage.
She pushed at his chest. “Put me down!”
“I can’t take that risk. I might collapse again. Who would nurse me back to health?”
Their room at the next inn that night was considerably smaller than the last, although thankfully it still had a screen for Charlotte to retreat behind when she needed privacy. The bed dominated the room, and she tried not to look at it. Would they sleep there again? Would he attempt to do more than kiss her? That afternoon, when he’d swept her off her feet, she’d found herself imagining him kissing her deeply, as if he really needed her.
And would she still be able to resist? What was it about him that called to her? He had taken her prisoner, but he’d tried to be gentle. He was a man on a mission, and she was beginning to think he was on the correct side of the law. Good heavens, she’d given up a chance to escape for that. She’d seen evidence of his desire for her, but besides one kiss, he’d not acted on it, or tried to force her into anything, when he so clearly had all the power. Was it this restraint that she thought exciting? Or the gentle playfulness she’d occasionally glimpsed?
Mr. Cox brought up a dinner tray, and once again they ate together. Mr. Cox was not a talkative man, and Nick seemed to have something on his mind. Charlotte let them have their silence as she worried about the coming night.
When the coachman had finally departed with orders to send up a bath for Nick, she sat down on the edge of the bed, deciding the best way to ask for the favor of her own bath. She hoped he wouldn’t require something in return.
There was a quiet knock on the door. Nick walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder, and she found herself tensing.
“That will be the bath. I suggest you sit here as docilely as any wife until the servants are gone.”
“And what will you do if I don’t—kill the maid?” The day’s frustration made her speak more sharply than she had intended.
“Don’t become a threat, Charlotte.”
They stared at each other as another knock sounded.
Finally she lowered her gaze, knowing this was not the way to placate him. “Very well.”
As two kitchen boys carried in a copper tub and placed it before the hearth, Charlotte listened in surprise to the new character Nick had adopted. No longer was he a Scotsman, but a very proper British gentleman, with the subservient air of a banker’s clerk, and an undercurrent of a man who thought he was entitled to more. She watched him in amazement. The arrogant, powerful Nick was gone.
Who was he?
The servants made several trips, bringing steaming buckets of water. They lit the coals in the grate to warm the room, and even left two buckets of cooler water behind. After Nick tipped them handsomely and they left, she stared at the tub.
“I don’t know how you’re going to do this,” she finally said. “Of course I could go sit in the dining room.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “The bath is for you.”
Stunned, she couldn’t look at him, so she let herself stare longingly at the bath. Steam rose from the water, and there were thick towels and scented soap set on the nearby chair.
He had ordered this for her?
She felt confused and uncertain over his motives.
“Why did you do this?” she asked, raising her gaze to meet his. This didn’t make sense from the man who had kidnapped her, who’d tied her up in bed, who’d pretended illness to see how she’d react. Did he want something more from her? Or was this another hint of the gentle man who’d washed her wounds?
For a fleeting moment, he looked as confused as she felt. Then he gruffly said, “The odors in here might become rather ripe.”
He was lying. Was he embarrassed that he’d shown a softness he didn’t want her to see? Or was his final goal seduction?
“And will you wait somewhere else?” she asked.
“No.”
She wasn’t surprised. Even her behavior today seemed to have given him no reason to think he could trust her. She allowed herself a sigh as she stared longingly at the tub.
“I’ll move the screen for you,” he said.
She couldn’t help but smile at him. She swiftly gathered up a change of clothing—maybe the next dress would fit better—and when he was finished she ducked behind the screen without meeting his gaze.
“Promise you won’t come over here,” she called.
She thought she heard him snort before he said, “I give you my word.”
Since she was trying to lull him with sweetness, she resisted the urge to remind him that he had admitted he admired her lies. He too would lie when he thought it necessary. But she didn’t think he’d lie about this. And the fact that she believed this about Nick was something she didn’t want to examine.
So although she was uneasy with his nearness, she undressed swiftly, and with a sigh of pleasure sank into the tub.
Nick found himself pacing. Charlotte’s blissful sighs put him on edge, for he kept imagining more erotic ways he could make her sigh like that. They were separated by a thin screen—and she was naked.
He should have had Cox send him up a brandy.
What had Nick been thinking? He was pampering her with a bath, as if he was going to enjoy her scented flesh. What happened to his own insistence that he would treat her as he would a male hostage?
Listening to the splashing of water, he paced even faster. When she began to softly hum he wanted to groan his frustration. He’d been trapped with her all day, watching the graceful way she’d held the newspaper, the strain of her bodice to control her breasts, the way she’d refused to sleep, although her lovely eyes had sagged with weariness.
After the carriage accident she could have escaped, yet she’d stayed to tend him. He’d woken up, his vision bleary, and thought for certain she’d run. But she’d been fetching water for his wounds like a concerned wife. What the hell was he supposed to make of that?
And now he was alone with her again, in an even smaller room with what seemed like an enormous bed. He couldn’t spend another night lying at her side. He would have to think up another plan.
He glanced at the screen again, then stopped cold. She had taken the only lamp back there with her, and as light flickered against the far wall, he could see the faintest shadow of her
through the screen. He should quickly light some candles. But he didn’t move.
She was only a blurry shape, almost indistinguishable, but he found himself staring like the celibate he’d lately been. As she rose out of the tub, he could see her silhouette, the roundness of her breasts, the fall of her hair, the surprisingly full curve of her ass.
Cursing under his breath, he turned away.
When she finally folded back the screen, a waft of sweet-smelling woman greeted him. Her hair fell in damp, tangled waves down her back, and she’d donned another gown. He couldn’t decide whether he was grateful Sam had forgotten a nightdress.
With her eyes cast down she murmured, “Might I borrow your brush?”
He gave it to her without comment, then sat down to watch the next torture as she bent before the hot coals, spread out her hair, and repeatedly combed through it.
When she was done and turned to stare at him hesitantly, he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Is the water cold?” he asked brusquely.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Charlotte watched with rising shock as Nick pulled off his coat and then his shirt.
“What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly, trying not to stare at his bare chest.
“Using the tub.”
“But I just—”
“I’m too lazy to wait. Did you use all the towels?” he asked over his shoulder as he set the screen back up.
She cleared her throat, hoping her voice sounded normal. “No. But I hung my wet…underthings back there.”
He disappeared behind, and she swallowed as she saw his trousers tossed to hang over the screen. As he sat in the dirty water, surely he must be shuddering with the cold.
And looking at her drawers and petticoats.
Suddenly the whole screen fell forward, landing partially on the bed. Her mouth sagged open as she watched Nick lean his head back in the tub. His bare wet knees were plainly visible.
“Couldn’t let you think of escaping from me, now could I?” he said.
And then he started washing himself. She was frozen with shock—and something that made her feel overheated and vulnerable. He grinned at her as his soapy hands slid slowly down his chest and disappeared from sight. With a gasp Charlotte turned her back. She could hear his laughter and much splashing, but she certainly didn’t have to watch. It was a shame she couldn’t turn off her mind, though, because she couldn’t forget his wicked smile, and how…pleasantly it transformed his face.
And sad to say—she hadn’t even thought about escaping while he was bathing.
“I can’t believe this,” she muttered to herself, sitting down on the bed and clutching a pillow.
“What?” he called.
She could hear his amusement. She found herself wanting to put him in his place, to saunter over there and prove that his nudity did not bother her. She’d been a married woman, after all.
But she’d never been at a man’s bath before, even her husband’s. She couldn’t do it. “I only said how incongruous it is that we’re bathing in the same room—in the same tub—and I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m not lying about my name.”
“Your full name.”
There was a pause, and she almost looked over her shoulder to see what he was doing. Almost.
“It’s Nicholas Wright. With a W.”
“Wright?” she echoed. “I’m sure you think it’s perfect for you.”
He chuckled. Had she heard him laugh before? For the first time he sounded truly relaxed.
“Have you heard of my family?” he asked.
“Should I have?”
“I don’t know. They’ve never been much for London.”
“And were you much for London?”
“My father wouldn’t allow it.”
Even that thought-provoking statement couldn’t distract her from the ludicrousness of their situation. She groaned. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation while you’re…bathing.”
“Frankly, I’m relaxing. You can look at me if you want. I promise I won’t stand up without warning you.”
“I don’t think—”
She realized he was assuming she wouldn’t look! Before she could think through the consequences, she swiveled on the bed until she faced him, crossed her arms over her chest, and lifted her chin.
His wet hair was slicked back from his face, and his muscular arms glistened where they rested along the edge of the tub. His bent knees pointed to the ceiling. She was decidedly daring and brazen, altogether unlike herself. It felt very much like freedom.
He was grinning widely at her. “You’re very brave.”
Ignoring his words, she said, “If your father didn’t allow you to go to London when you were young, I hope your estate was at least pleasant. Where is your family from?”
He leaned his head back and eyed her from beneath lowered lids. “A village in Kent called Folkestone. It’s near the cliffs overlooking the English Channel.”
“Isn’t there an earl by that name?”
His smile faded a bit. “There is.”
“And you don’t like him?” she said, tilting her head as she studied him.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t seem to want to say much.”
“Not my favorite subject. Let’s move on.”
Knowing she had to take this opportunity to discover things about him while she could, Charlotte fluffed two pillows against the headboard and leaned back.
“Do you have brothers or sisters?” she asked.
“My mother died when I was fourteen. After my father married again, they had another son and two daughters.” His expression grew thoughtful. “I’ve never met my youngest sister, and the others were very young when I left the country.”
“How old are they now?”
He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “My brother would be sixteen now, and my youngest sister twelve.”
“Such a shame that you’re not a part of their lives.”
“I’ve sent them gifts and the occasional letter. They’ve never written back.”
She felt a catch of sadness, knowing that she’d been lucky to have Jane at her side, even if they did not always agree. “I’m sorry.”
“I know it’s not their fault. I ignored my father’s wishes when I joined John Company, and he never forgave me.”
“John Company?”
“The East India Company. I’m part of the Political Department, although I used to be an officer in the cavalry.”
Though she wanted to question him about his military career, she could not imagine not being close to her father. “Did it…disturb you greatly to go against your father?”
He smiled. “No. He controlled me by the purse strings, even after my stepmother convinced him to let me attend Oxford.”
“Well…that was decent of her.”
“She wanted all my father’s attention on her own children,” he said dryly. “But that suited my purposes.”
“It sounds like your family life was not ideal,” she said in a soft voice, realizing how lucky she was, even though her marriage had turned out badly. At least she had a family that loved her.
Nick shook his head. “I don’t want your pity. My father was a cold man and my family emulated him, so I found my relationships elsewhere.”
“‘Was’?”
“He died several months ago.” His voice lacked all emotion.
“Were you even in the country then?”
“No. Word reached me as I made my way through Paris on my way to England.”
“It must have been terribly difficult on your stepmother, not to have you to lean upon.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been home yet.”
She gaped at him. “But surely when you came across the channel—you said your home was on the coast, did you not?”
“I couldn’t abandon my duty, Charlotte. You better than anyone know how important
it is to me. My father’s death was months ago. A few more weeks’ delay will not harm matters.”
They stared at each other quietly, while she tried to imagine how different their lives were. And then came the realization that he might not be telling her the truth.
Yet…she believed him. And deep inside her she wanted to believe it all. He didn’t seem like a criminal.
Or was it that she didn’t want him to be?
Chapter 9
Guard evidence of a crime with your life. It’s all that stands between you and ignominy.
The Secret Journals of a Spymaster
Nick watched Charlotte’s expression cloud over with pensiveness instead of the interest she’d just shown in him. He hadn’t thought he’d ever want to talk about his family, but she only had to ask, and he’d told her private things.
Well, not everything.
But he didn’t want to stop talking, even though the water was cold. If he told her he had to get out, it would break this tenuous thread of communication that was strung between them. She was a woman; she wanted to hear about family relationships. It was a good way to keep her calm and interested—and not a threat to his mission. Maybe she would finally believe the truth. And what harm could there be in her learning a few carefully selected facts about his family?
“Over the years,” he began, “I’ve heard a thing or two about you.”
Those changeable, hazel eyes focused on him again, and he relaxed.
“Surely there has not been much gossip about me,” she said. “We lived a very quiet life.”
“I haven’t been in England for thirteen years, so any gossip wouldn’t reach me.”
“Thirteen years!” she breathed. “How did you bear it?”
“I enjoyed almost every minute of it—unless I was fighting for my life, of course, and then I was too busy to enjoy things.”
“Nicholas!”
Her scolding voice warmed him, and he tamped down that part of him.
“Your father spoke of you and your sister often.”
“He did?”
“He was very proud of both of you.” Deliberately he added, “He regretted that he could not be here for your wedding.” He wanted to hear more about her marriage.
