He cleared his throat and strained to listen to their conversation.
The men ordered ale and toasted.
Nothing all that strange, except…
They toasted to winning the war. And the Englishmen grinned in agreement. Money was then exchanged. Enraged, Hunter gripped the side of the table and tried to steady his breathing. What the devil was going on?
“Codes,” one man said as he slid a scrap of paper across the table to one of the Frenchmen. “I think you will be pleased with what you see.”
The man grinned and lifted up the paper. “And our man is in position?”
“He is.” The Englishman nodded. “Though his price just doubled.”
The Frenchman sneered. “On what grounds?”
The Englishman leaned forward. “The codes are unbreakable. Surely you realize how fortune shines upon you at this very moment?”
“Fine.” The Frenchman took a long swig of ale and then chuckled. “It has been a pleasure doing business with your… employer.”
Every muscle in Hunter’s body tightened. “Listen.” He grabbed Gwen’s hand. “This is very important. Do you understand?”
She pulled back, but nodded.
“I need you to spend the night with me.”
“Pardon?” Her voice carried a bit too loudly for his tastes. The tavern wench apparently overheard, because she seemed extremely disappointed as she put down the bread and ale.
“I need you to truly pretend to be my wife, and we need to stay the night. I need to search their room.” It wasn’t the most brilliant plan he had come up with, but a man staying on his own was a man watched. If they looked married, then the men wouldn’t pay attention to him.
“Because?” Gwen giggled. “What, are you a spy or something? Truly, does the War Office take everyone these days?” Uncontrollable mirth washed over her as she placed her hands on the table and threw her head back and laughed even harder.
He would have been amused.
If the exact line of her throat and sound of her laugh hadn’t reminded him of Lucy.
Suddenly angry, he stood up and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her toward the innkeeper. “We need a room for the night.” His grip tightened on her arm, but she said nothing.
The innkeeper nodded.
“And please, bring us a light supper along with some more ale to our room. We are on our honeymoon, after all.”
He slipped the innkeeper enough money for Gwen to begin to choke.
“My wife.” Hunter nodded to Gwen.
The innkeeper shook his head in understanding. “Of course, and your name?”
“Maksylov,” Hunter lied, though he knew it was rare for Dominique the Beast to go into the village. The innkeeper wouldn’t be able to tell the two of them apart and Dominique practically owned the place, so truly it would matter not. Besides, he’d just given the man enough blunt to stay in business for the remaining year.
The innkeeper grabbed a key and led them up the stairs.
Gwen was quiet.
Until the door shut.
Then all havoc broke loose.
With a cry she stomped on his foot and reached for the door, but he slammed it in place and locked it.
“Who are you?” She pushed him against the door, which truthfully felt quite good, considering he’d been without any sort of female companionship for what felt like years. Perhaps it had only been a few weeks, days even, but she felt good, so soft and delicate.
He wrapped his arms tightly around her, then grabbed the back of her head and pulled her in for a kiss. Only meaning for it to be quick, he was quite surprised when she opened her mouth in response, after little coaxing. Her mouth was hot and tasted of ale, her tongue like velvet as it massaged his.
Who needed whiskey when he had Gwen? With a moan, he loosened his hold on her and reached for her face, needing to drink in more of her.
As his hands touched that perfect ivory skin, he felt the cold blade of a knife against his throat. “I said, who are you?” The steel edged deeper into his skin, blood began to trickle down his neck, but it could have been water for all he cared. Stunned, he could only watch her eyes darken. A haunting look passed between them both.
And he knew.
It was the eyes, for they were the windows to the soul, were they not? Filled with anguish, pain, bitterness, and yes, guilt.
Her very eyes reflected his own, for only two types of people in the world carried such a heaviness within them. Those who have had innocent blood on their hands too many times to count, or those who have loved and lost everything important to them.
He wondered which she was.
With a flick of his wrist, faster than she could respond, Hunter manipulated her hand, causing the knife to clamor to the floor.
They stood, face to face, breathing heavily. He assessed her coolly, calculating each movement of her face, noticing her pupils as they dilated and her nostrils flared, only for her to stare back with unwavering strength.
“I’m a spy,” they said at the same time.
Gwen lifted an eyebrow and moved to walk past him. “Well, you aren’t a very good one.”
Amused, Hunter threw out his foot, tipped her over it, sending her sprawling into his arms. He held her hands high above her head as he leaned in close to her face. “Darling, I’m the best.”
Her chest heaved with exertion. “Impossible. The Wolf is the best, everyone knows that. And you cannot possibly be him.”
“Alright.” Perhaps he could escape without giving her his identity, without compromising himself or her. With a sigh, he dropped her to the floor and marched over the wash basin to clean the blood from his neck. “And your name?”
“Gwen.”
Hunter laughed, bracing a hand on either side of the basin as he leaned forward, allowing the water droplets to splash into the bowl. “Not your real name, love. The one you go by when you’re out spreading your legs for God and country.”
With a scream, she lunged for him, as expected, for no man could insult a woman in that way and not expect some sort of bloodshed. Patiently, he waited until she was seconds away from removing his head. Then he jolted to the side, elbowed her in the back, causing her to curse and stumble.
She kicked him hard in the stomach as she went down, then flipped onto her back and pulled his body toward hers, again holding the knife to his neck. Blast, and he had just cleaned himself up. Well, now they were just wasting time.
“Your name, if you don’t mind,” Hunter ground out through clenched teeth. It was deuced hard, trying to keep his arousal in check. The blasted woman had drawn him to his knees twice within ten minutes, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want her.
A surge of pride stormed her eyes, making them widen for just a second before indifference returned. “Red, I go by Red.”
Hunter was silent.
Quite a bad habit to suddenly develop.
He cleared his throat. “As in the very Red who was able to infiltrate the highest ranks of Napoleon’s trusted elite and gain secrets that even the Wolf could not obtain, and all within the first month of employ?”
“The very one.”
“I don’t believe you.” But truly, he did. Mainly because he was ready to spill his entire life story based solely on the fact that she was the only woman who had ever used violence on him.
He found it wildly arousing.
“It is more believable than you being the Wolf.” Her laugh echoed within the room. Pride taking another huge blow, he almost blurted out his identity for a second time, but thought better of it. After all, if she truly did not know him, then that would mean it would be reasonable for him to experiment. After all, there was enough sexual tension in that room to make a vicar sin.
“Then I guess I truly am the worst spy,” he purred into her ear, minding the steel flexing against his neck. “After all, you were the one who noticed the men on the ship as well as the men in the inn. You truly must be the notorious Red. An honor, I as
sure you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” she said breathlessly as her grip on the knife loosened. Beginner’s mistake, for it was all the chance he was going to get.
Seduction, for Hunter, had always been simple, a strategic battle plan of sorts. Make her desire him, mirror that desire, compliment, touch, please, and finally leave. After all, he was always starving after such an encounter, and it was always best to keep all seductions and encounters under twelve hours.
Always.
His hand moved to her neck. Closing his eyes he breathed in the scent of her skin. A spicy mix of cinnamon and honey. His thumb rubbed her bottom lip. A pink tongue snuck out and licked playfully at his thumb. Gwen’s eyes darkened.
And he had her.
Precisely where he and other parts of his anatomy wanted her.
On her back.
And at his mercy.
She didn’t even see the pistol slip out of his pocket, for he had already knocked her cold by the time her eyes widened in realization.
He lifted her onto the bed and cursed. “Worst spy in the history of the Crown? I think not.” She would wake up within the hour, cursing him to perdition, but he would be long gone, never to see her again.
But before he left, he had a little spying to do. Spying that even Red couldn’t accomplish without getting her pretty little self shot.
Without another thought to the woman lying in the bed, Hunter left to sneak into the Englishmen’s rooms. After handing the innkeeper some blunt, he was extremely helpful in giving Hunter the information he needed as to the rooms rented to the men.
After five minutes of picking the lock, he was finally able to make it into the first room. Nothing. It was as if the gentleman hadn’t brought a thing with him on the trip.
He tried the next three.
All empty.
Cursing, he made his way down the stairs. The chairs where the gentlemen had been sitting were empty. Money left on the table.
They’d left. The inn had been a front.
Hunter cursed again and made his way to the front door, only to see it burst open. A Norse-looking fellow barged in, demanding to know where a certain English girl named Gwen had disappeared to. If Hunter hadn’t been so tired after fighting off the wench, he’d have the good sense to be alarmed that an Englishman was boldly yelling such incriminating things about the girl.
“How dare that strong-willed defiant child leave home!” the duke screamed, “Selfish, selfish woman!”
Hunter lifted a brow at the man’s words, her reputation truly was well and ruined by now.
Either she was his wife or a family member. Judging by the wild look in the man’s eyes, Hunter assumed she must be his sister. For any man with even an ounce of pride would not announce to perfect strangers that he was not man enough to keep his wife happy in his bedroom.
The man continued to yell at the innkeeper. The money Hunter had given the innkeeper had been sufficient it seemed, considering he had to be lying through his teeth.
Poor sod, he was going to get his ears boxed if Hunter didn’t intervene.
With a quick shake of his head, his hair fell wildly about his face. He limped heavily toward the Englishman and winced. Cursing as if he was in pain from a war injury but too foxed to realize why. A large black coat was left on a nearby chair, and he quickly put it over his shoulders. Hunter stopped in front of the Englishman and scowled. “Gwen, you say?”
His words were purposefully slurred.
“Yes,” the man clipped. His eyes narrowed fiercely as he clenched his teeth together.
“I believe she’s already been found, just up there in that room.” Hunter pointed to where he had left her, but made sure to keep his head low as to not give away his identity. “Some spy was boasting about how he rescued her from certain ruin, as well as getting herself shot! Can you believe she was spouting out nonsense that some Beast had stolen her sister? Truthfully, if this very capable and well known — and let's not forget infamous — spy, the Wolf, hadn't stumbled across her, she may have very well been killed, or worse ruined, if you get my meaning.” Blazes, he forgot to slur. Well, that’s what pride did to a man. He winced and toppled to the side, then stole a glance at the man.
The man’s gaze turned murderous. Clearly he got the innuendo.
“My thanks,” he finally said, reaching into his pocket.
“No payment necessary. I shall truly sleep better this very night, knowing such a diamond of the first water is safe in her…” Hunter blinked innocently. “I’m sorry, old fellow, who did you say you were? What kind of man would I be if I let some fluffy-looking fancy person take advantage of the poor lass?”
“Montmouth.”
Blast. If she was his charge, Hunter had half a mind to feel sorry for him. The savage duke had just recently been married to Rosalind Hartwell, who was in fact Gwen and Isabelle’s sister. The only way he was even privy to such information was because he had spent the better part of the past two months with the Beast of Russia, whose wife was none other than Isabelle Hartwell. It was rumored that their family was quite mad, or at least used to be. Some sort of curse had befallen them all. But the rumors had been quickly laid to rest after Montmouth married Lady Rosalind. Though Hunter hadn’t found it good timing that his best friend Dominique Maksylov, the Beast, had chosen that opportune time to pay off the family and take Isabelle for his own. The entire sordid tale of that family was one fit for the storybooks or at least a Greek play.
He shook his head. These were the type of theatrics Hunter wanted no part of. Madness? Stealing women? Spies who believed they could do the job of a man? He shuddered and looked at the duke again. “I believe, your grace, that you will find her perfectly unharmed, though quite ruined. Too fancy of a piece and all that. Besides, who knows if she’s been alone this whole time or… touched.”
Montmouth’s gaze narrowed before he bowed his head and lifted his hand to his brow answering gruffly, “I know.”
Nodding his thanks, the behemoth of a duke walked to the stairs, and for the second time that day Hunter had an aggravating feeling wash over him, starting from his head and lingering there for a good few seconds before traveling all the way down to his toes.
It was Gwen’s fault. And he needed to forget her as soon as possible. Desperate times, he thought as he went in search of the wench from earlier. Perhaps she had more ale?
Chapter Two
Dear readers, I’m so eager to be back in town. This Season promises to be one where even wolves are allowed to walk amongst the ton. What, you may wonder, is this author alluding to? None other than the Duke of Haverstone, Hunter Wolfsbane, has been invited back into polite society. He has a reputation far too scandalous for this author to write down, for there are very few words to be found that can describe his level of vulgarity. Let it be advised that debutantes should cease from wearing white. For we know what white reminds wolves of. Sheep. Take care, dear reader, for you do not want any of your little sheep to go astray, not where wolves dare to play.—Mrs. Peabody’s Society Papers
Four months later
Gwen gripped her reticule in her hand, most likely making permanent marks on her person as she paced back and forth in the small dusty study. Pieces of light shot in through the drawn curtains. Enough light to see the grim set of Mr. Wilkins’ mouth and the heavy concern laden in his brows.
She cleared her throat and took a steadying breath. “Apologies, sir, for my mood. It just seems that there are so many more options than myself. As I explained in my letter, I no longer wish to do this sort of work.” There, she’d said it, to his face, no less. Gaining more courage, for she hated letting anyone down, especially the very man who had helped her feed her family before Rosalind married the duke, she managed a small smile and continued. “After all, there are plenty of women working for the Crown. I see no reason for my participating in this, this—”
“Mission,” he finished crisply. “It’s a mission regardless of how you see it, my lad
y. If you are quite certain then?” He said it as a question, his speech sounded careless and indifferent, but over the past few months she had grown to know him. He was placating her sense of pride. Curse the man!
“I am certain.” But she wasn’t. The familiar tick in her blasted gloves began anew, the need to hold a pistol, the way her blood roared when she successfully bested her opponent. No! She could no longer put her family in such danger! Not when both her sisters were so blissfully happy.
Rosalind, her sister, had married the Duke of Montmouth. The man had rode in on his horse quite like a prince, sweeping Rosalind off her feet, or so he said time and time again when his wife wasn’t listening.
And Isabelle, well, she had been kidnapped by her husband. Gwen had to admit to finding it terribly romantic. The great Beast of Russia, Dominique Maksylov, was said to possess no heart, yet he proved its existence daily when he doted on Isabelle. His music was currently all the rage throughout the country; a new dance had even been made in their honor.
Isabelle found it taxing and quite embarrassing. Dominique, however, never missed a dance. They had both re-entered into society a few months ago.
Blast. She couldn’t even lie to herself in her head. It wasn’t just a few months. It had been four months, one day, and by her calculations, four hours. She had done nothing short of jumping out the window, in order to clear her mind of the man who had dared pin her against the wall with his body.
All masculine hardness pressed against her until she’d thought she would expire on the spot. He was cold, heartless, yet so incredibly fearless, it had taken everything in her power to keep her wits about her, especially when he stole a kiss or two.
Pathetic that her first two kisses had been with a spy.
The most notorious spy in all of London.
Infamous rakehell, Hunter, the Wolf. Though to be fair, at the time, she had laughed in his face when he’d shared his identity. It was probably for the best, for it forced the man to put distance between them.
Rachel Van Dyken Page 2
