“Are you all right?”
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Charlie’s expression darkened. She looked murderous. “Harker…”
“Only wanted to ensure our comfort and treatment during our stay here. I assured him all was well.”
By Charlie’s narrowed eyes, she didn’t believe Freddie. In the corner, Lisane rifled through the wardrobe, pulling out a new dress for Freddie.
Freddie gulped. “Please, Lisane, put that back.”
The thin woman turned her sharp gaze on Freddie. With her high, cutting cheekbones, her expression was all the more potent. “You don’t agree with my choice, Miss Freddie?”
“I’m tired.” That, Freddie didn’t have to feign. A bone-deep weariness swept over her. She kept standing for Charlie’s sake alone. She needed to complete this mission, no matter the cost. She offered her sister a smile, but it felt wan. “It’s been a long morning.”
Charlie wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I imagine so. You were already outside by the time I came down to breakfast. What possessed you to play for so long? You don’t normally get so swept away by anything that isn’t a book.”
Freddie shrugged. “Perhaps I needed to exercise away some excess energy.”
Charlie snorted. “All you’ve done is exhaust yourself.” She sighed. “Very well. Come on, Lisane. Let’s leave her in peace. I’ll give your excuses, but even then you’ll have no more than an hour or two before we have to change for dinner.”
“I know.” Freddie snatched Charlie’s hand and squeezed it. I love you. She didn’t speak the words, trying to infuse her actions with the truth.
Charlie squeezed her back. “Sleep well, Freddie.” Lisane shut the curtains and they both left the room.
The moment she was alone, Freddie sank onto the vacant settee. Her knees felt like jelly. She lowered her head into her hands. How long could she keep this up?
As long as you must. Freddie recalled all her reasons for following Harker’s demands. With renewed energy, she thrust herself to her feet. She didn’t have a lot of time to make the rendezvous. She would have to hurry.
The ancient oak door, as old as the one in front of the portrait hall, loomed in front of Freddie. Black iron scroll hinges held the age-worn wood in place. The handle jutted out, taunting her. It was edged with rust.
You can do this. Despite the encouraging words, doubts nagged her. She was no spy. If she was caught… She would have the duke to contend with this time, not Tristan. Although she didn’t know what had convinced Tristan to allow her to flee last night, she didn’t believe the duke would be as courteous. Even though she was in the middle of English country at a house party, she couldn’t allow herself to be fooled. This was war.
Mustering her courage, she opened the door. The hinges creaked, the ghastly sound echoing in the room beyond. From deeper in the abbey, a clock chimed. Two o’clock. Freddie gulped. Was she about to step into the middle of a clandestine meeting?
If someone was in the room beyond, they’d undoubtedly noticed the door opening. She had no choice. She had to step in.
Her footsteps resounded along the stone walls. She stepped into a room lit sporadically with daylight streaming in from fallen sections of the roof. The former chapel seemed to soar as high as the heavens. Long, narrow slits high in the walls formed glassless windows. The wall near the peak of one had crumbled away. The rectangular window opened into a jagged hole near the top of the room.
If there had once been a bell in here or pews or any other form of religious artifact, they were long gone. The elements had worn away this room. The only things littering the flagstones were piles of rubble. One towered over her height. Loose pebbles and chunks of stone littered the ground, along with animal droppings, the remnants of nests, and bones that she didn’t care to examine too closely.
Rustles echoing along the walls indicated wildlife, but she couldn’t spot the source. In the distance, bird wings flapped. Not a soul lingered in the room. Her stomach dropped. Had she missed the exchange?
Maybe they’re late. She squared her shoulders. Her breaths came thickly, threatening to overwhelm her. The only place to sit and watch would be behind one of those piles of rubble. If Morgan and the other French spy were on their way, she didn’t have long to hide. She hurried farther into the room with quick, clipped steps. The debris crunched beneath her shoes.
As she took her fifth step into the room, the door to the chapel slammed shut behind her with a resounding boom! The thunderous sound deafened her. She spun. The door was shut.
Panicked, she raced to it and pushed. The inside had no handle. It should have swung outward on its hinges. Instead, the door remained shut. Firm. She threw her shoulder into it. It felt as though a bar had dropped across from the other side.
A flood of emotion swept through her as she turned her back against the door, searching for another way out. The nearest opening in the stone was at least two stories over her head.
She was trapped in the chapel with no hope of rescue. No one knew she was there.
Chapter Twelve
When Freddie launched away from the door—barred from the outside by Morgan—panic infused her expression. Her brown eyes were wide. They seemed darker in the dim light. Her ivory skin blanched to such a degree that the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks stood out like flecks of paint. Her mouth thinned.
She bolted away from the ancient, solid door and stumbled into the old chapel. Her slipper caught on a chunk of rock and she nearly careened onto her face. From his position in the shadow of the tallest mound of rubble, Tristan fought the urge to help her. He clenched his fists.
Frederica Vale worked for Elias Harker, a man worse than scum. Tristan could afford to give her no mercy. She’d made her choice when she’d decided to come here and infiltrate a clandestine meeting.
Not that any such meeting would have occurred in a place like this. Frustration built in Tristan’s chest over the fact that he still hadn’t heard word from their contact at the party—whoever it was. No one had made an overture indicating that they were a friendly party. Not to Tristan, at the very least. Perhaps his and Morgan’s valets were having better luck ferreting out to whom they should pass along the book.
That person was certainly not Freddie, however beguiling an enemy she made.
As she stepped past him, her footsteps ringing in the vaulting chamber, Tristan silently detached from the shadows of the rock. He trailed her as she searched the length of the chamber for another exit—a futile effort. He and Morgan had settled on this place because there was no other way out. Everything from her posture to her movements was frantic, desperate, frightened. He could almost pity her.
He hardened himself to the emotion. She was the enemy. He couldn’t forget that.
He continued to approach even when she stopped short, staring at the rear of the chapel, encased in stone. When she whirled, he met her gaze unflinchingly.
Tears gathered along her lower lashes. Her eyes had reddened, granting her gaze a green tint. She stared at him, lips parted. Her chin trembled.
“You did this.”
Her words were so faint, he almost didn’t hear them. He crossed his arms, drawing himself up. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”
She stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Myriad thoughts crossed her face, all of them indecipherable. Tristan matched her impassive demeanor, staring her down.
Tears swamped her eyes. They leaked from the corners, flowing like a river down her cheeks. Impatiently, she brushed them away. “Not now.” Her chin wobbled.
The look on her face cut him. He hated to see a woman cry. At that moment, she appeared more innocent than ever. What had he done? He stepped closer.
“Don’t!” Her voice was venomous as she recoiled. The tears continued to fall from her eyes, thicker now.
What kind of spy broke into tears at the first sign of opposition? He resisted the urge to rub his temple. He felt l
ike a blackguard for forcing her into this.
Was she innocent or was it a ploy? His gut churned. Her cheeks were growing splotchy with color from crying. No actress was good enough to feign that. If she was so innocent, he didn’t understand how she’d found herself in Harker’s employ. Even if Harker had approached her with the notion of spying, a woman as inexperienced as she was should never have accepted. Freddie was many things, but bird-witted wasn’t one of them. She was smart enough to know better.
So why had she accepted?
As she wiped her eyes, she muttered under her breath. “I didn’t ask for this.”
His breathing hitched at the sad, broken quality to her voice. It barely met his ears. He doubted she meant for him to hear. The sudden desire—no, need—to encircle her with his arms, to protect her from the harsh realities of the world, surged within him. Undeniable.
He approached her like he might a skittish lamb. More tears bubbled up as he slipped within arm’s reach. He reached out, gently wiping the moisture from her cheek. When she didn’t shy away, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing her close. She was a tall woman. He rested his cheek on the top of her head. She smelled like lavender.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right. No one will see you here.”
She sobbed into his collar. Her shoulders shook. She rested her hand on his tailcoat, over his swiftly-beating heart. Her touch was light, delicate.
“When did my life get so complicated?” Her voice was thin and high. “All I want is to keep that blackguard away from Charlie.”
Tristan stiffened with jealousy. Who was this Charlie?
“Has Harker threatened you?” Tristan’s voice was soft. He mediated his tone, pretending as if he didn’t care for the answer.
Inwardly, he seethed. Slime like Harker shouldn’t be permitted to walk the street. But, despite knowing that he was the enemy, Tristan and his brother had been expressly forbidden to lay a finger on Harker. Considering that he knew about the code book and yet hadn’t made a move against Tristan directly, Harker must have similar orders from his superiors. If Harker got his hands on that book, hundreds of spies in England and abroad could be in jeopardy. Tristan couldn’t let that happen. Their cover was the difference between living and dying for many of the spies. In more than one case, Tristan had been put in a similar corner where exposure would have endangered his life.
But he couldn’t let Harker twist young maidens into unfavorable situations, either.
As Freddie thrust herself away, he became acutely aware of the absence of her curves against his body. An ache blossomed in his gut, one he tried to ignore.
She turned her back on him. “Harker has never issued a threat. He doesn’t have to. You wouldn’t understand.”
Desperate to touch her again, he grazed his palm over her shoulder. She jerked away and rounded on him.
“Maybe I might, if you gave me the opportunity to listen.” Tristan’s heartbeat quickened. The muscles in his throat worked, but he couldn’t think of another word to say. This was supposed to be an interrogation of sorts, to discover if he could deter her without harming her.
The alternative… Tristan didn’t want to contemplate it. Unlike Harker, he and Morgan had been given no instructions not to detain or even torture her if necessary. Details about Harker’s reach could help his superiors immensely.
If Freddie had any details to provide. She seemed too innocent, too inexperienced at the spy game for Harker to have used her before. He was playing her. Who knew the lies he had spread as motivation?
But Freddie didn’t strike Tristan as a woman easily tricked. He didn’t know what to think, but his gut told him she had no business being involved in Harker’s game.
Her gaze hardened, glittering like ice. Her tears had dried, but her eyes were still red, her cheeks still colored up. “You are the enemy,” she spat. “I will never tell anything to you.”
Her tone was lethal, her gaze direct. She believed with all her heart that she was his enemy. As she stormed past him—where she thought to go, he didn’t know—he turned and followed on her heels.
“I don’t have to be your enemy, Freddie.”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “I will never be anything else to someone like you.”
She spoke the words with such vehemence that he was struck dumb. What had Harker told her about him to make her hate him so viciously? He fisted his hand at his side, wishing he could plant it in Harker’s hideous face.
Freddie pounded on the ancient door with the flat of her palm. “Open this door immediately. If he’s in here with me, I know someone must be out there.”
Her words echoed throughout the lofty chamber, growing dimmer each time they were thrown back. They faded into silence.
From the other side of the door, wood scraped. A moment later, the door was yanked open from the other side. Morgan stood on the threshold, his expression forbidding.
Shock radiated through Freddie’s body. It was evident in the hitch of her shoulders, the way she turned reflexively to face Tristan, her eyes wide and frightened.
She feared his brother more than she feared him? For some reason, the notion mollified him somewhat.
He tried not to let it show. In a grim voice, he warned, “You won’t win. You’re playing for the wrong side.”
She firmed her chin and brushed past Morgan, out the door.
Chapter Thirteen
“We should never have let her go.”
Tristan clenched his jaw to keep from snapping at his brother. They’d been having some variation of the same argument ever since the encounter in the abandoned chapel earlier this afternoon. Throughout the evening, the guests had kept Morgan from harping on him, but even then, Morgan had shot Tristan pointed looks.
To save himself the need of answering, Tristan took a sip of brandy. He savored the burn as it slid down his throat.
Morgan paced the length of his study. Although the long, narrow room seemed large when he was ensconced behind the massive desk taking up one corner, as he strode down the middle, his face set in disgust and frustration, the air in the room seemed to shrivel and compress. Tristan set his tumbler down on the sideboard. Maybe he should stop drinking. He stepped to the side, out of his brother’s path.
“She’ll tell Harker.”
Tristan gulped a deep breath before he answered. “What will she tell him? The entire debacle was arranged to trap her. She knows nothing.”
Morgan glared. His grey eyes pierced like a blade. “She knows we’re spies.”
“She knew that before this afternoon.”
“If she exposes us…”
Tristan released an exasperated breath. “She would be exposing herself. She has no proof and she won’t find any.”
Morgan crossed the length of the room again, his long-legged stride devouring the space. When he turned, his gaze settled on Tristan. It was assessing, maybe even accusing. “I suggested the trap today so we could interrogate her, discover what Harker knows about us and our efforts.”
He knows about the code book. At least, so Tristan thought. It seemed to be what Freddie was after.
Blindly, Tristan reached for his tumbler. He swallowed the last sip. “I think…I think Harker is coercing her into spying for him. He must be.”
Morgan’s posture stiffened, as though he turned to stone in front of Tristan’s eyes. Even his expression was as immovable as one of the busts in the portrait hall. “You have no proof.”
I have her crying into my shirt. Tristan gritted his teeth.
Ever since their father had died ten years ago, Morgan had taken over as the head of the household. He’d been heaped with responsibility and looked toward for answers. Growing up, Morgan had been the golden boy to Tristan’s black sheep, but they had been close. By the time Morgan had become the Duke of Tenwick, that closeness was nothing more than a memory. Tristan had had to live in Morgan’s shadow, never being noticed except as the duke’s younger brother. It had put him i
n an ideal position to become a spy—but Morgan had entrenched himself in that, as well.
Tristan clenched his fists. The empty tumbler in his hand squeaked against his glove. He set it down on the sideboard.
Anger unfurled in his chest, but he tried to keep a tight rein on it. Being at odds with his brother wouldn’t help their mission, even if it would give him some measure of satisfaction.
Keeping his voice low and controlled, Tristan said, “You don’t venture into the field, brother. I have years of experience. I think by now, I’m able to tell when someone is making an enemy of us of their own free will.”
For a moment, the study was so silent, their breaths trumpeted in contrast. Tristan locked gazes with Morgan. He refused to look away.
The duke grimaced. “Does it make a difference whether or not she was coerced? She is still spying on us.”
“Ineptly. I’m sure she hasn’t been trained. And now that we know about her we can monitor her.”
Morgan shook his head. A lock of his black hair curled onto his forehead. “Our resources are focused on Harker, as they should be. While she’s engaged in party activities we can keep an eye on her, but there is still a chance she could break away, and in a stroke of luck uncover our secrets.”
“The book is well hidden,” Tristan snapped. “And I change the location regularly. She won’t find it.”
“You’ve earned her attention. If she follows you…”
“I’ll send my valet.”
Morgan’s lips thinned, but he said nothing.
“Miss Vale isn’t a threat,” Tristan insisted. “I didn’t get into this game to harm innocents.”
The duke turned away. “Bloody hell if I did, either, but we may not have a choice. She isn’t doing this with her eyes closed. She knows the dangers.”
Does she? Tristan had tried to warn her, but in her obstinacy, he doubted she’d taken his warning to heart. He envisioned her oval-shaped face, pale and awash with freckles, the parted bow of her lips as he confronted her. Something primitive surged at the image. He didn’t want to hurt her, directly or indirectly.
Kissing The Enemy (Scandals and Spies Book 1) Page 10
