Against the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 2)

by Regan Walker

  “And so were you?”

  “Perhaps at one time,” he admitted.

  “Why did you leave the sea?”

  Martin stared out the window at the passing countryside. “It was a long time ago.” He turned back and added, “I had just become captain of my first vessel. I enjoyed command, but unlike Nick I preferred our business on land to the sea, a fact my father considered unacceptable and tried to ignore. Ever the rebel, I thought to have my own way, and after one rather strident disagreement I left for…other pursuits.” He stared into the distance again, and she sensed a sadness when he spoke of that time. “It caused quite the rift in the family. It was Mother who held us together.”

  “Is your father still angry with you?”

  “Not any longer. I have since seen the wisdom in what he wanted. He believed I could only understand the business if I was first responsible for the lives of our men. He was right, of course, but it took me several years to admit it—to myself and to him.” Martin crossed his arms and smiled. “Now it’s my turn. Tell me something of you and your family.”

  Except for Anne, who was ever on her mind, Kit hadn’t thought about her family overmuch since she lost them; it was a sadness long locked away. “My mother and sister were two of a kind, both gentle souls accepting of a woman’s place. They stayed about the home, engaged in the usual activities allocated to our sex, like embroidery and music. My father loved and understood them. While I believe he loved me, he didn’t understand me. Not really. I was always the cause of his worry. I pursued my art with a passion, even as a child, refusing to confine myself to the usual watercolors. My sketching took me far afield. It was not uncommon for me to lose track of time while pursuing some unusual face.”

  “You really are passionate about your art, aren’t you?”

  “I was. I suppose I still am.” She glanced at him. “Do you mind it so much?”

  “I do not mind it at all.”

  Kit was relieved to see his grin. Most men were amused by how seriously she took her art, and her family had been concerned by her unladylike behavior. But Martin did not mind at all. The thought gave her great peace.

  Changing the subject she said, “My mother’s strength was her love for her family. She was not strong physically. It was the same for Anne.” Kit had tried to be her father’s strength after her mother died but, as with Anne, she had toiled in vain. Her eyes threatened to overflow with tears as she recalled the last time she saw her parents; their deaths had left an emptiness in her life that only Anne filled, and Anne only until her demise. Oddly, however, Kit felt slightly less bereft considering them. Was it because of Martin?

  “You miss them, I’m sure,” her husband said, giving her a sympathetic look.

  “Very much.” Then, after a short consideration, she decided to ask the next question that burned inside her. “Mary told me you’d been married before. That your wife died.”

  “Yes.” Martin looked out the carriage window. “It happened many years ago in France.”

  “Am I anything like her?” Kit felt her cheeks warm at the intimacy of the question. She had wondered about the woman who once held Martin’s heart. Though she had not wanted a love that could leave her despairing of life if it were lost, Kit had no desire to compete with a ghost. Elise had been French, and perhaps young. Kit was sure now he’d loved her. A younger Martin would have most certainly married for love.

  “No, you are nothing like her. And, it was a long time ago, Kitten.” Drawing her into his arms, he kissed her, and she forgot to ask the next question.

  Chapter 14

  They arrived in Pentridge just before twilight, and Kit felt every stone in the road as the carriage bounced along a narrow lane flanked by earthen banks topped with hedgerows. As they approached the village, the road descended and the earthen banks fell away to reveal small white cottages set at right angles to the road. A ways on, she saw a sandstone inn. A simple sign with dark brown letters hanging just under the roof declared it to be the Dog Inn.

  A short distance more, they passed the crenellated tower of a medieval church surrounded by yew hedges. It must be the one the coachman spoke of, for it appeared ancient, reminding Kit of a small castle set upon a hill. A line of tall Scots pine trees stood in the distance stretching up to the sky and forming a wall of dark green.

  The carriage slowed to a stop in front of a large two-story building constructed of the same buff-colored stone as the Dog Inn. The slanting gray slate roof contrasted with the faded brown of the stone, though equally rocklike, and the sign for the White Horse Inn featured a prancing white palfrey painted on a black background. The addition of lace curtains on the two rows of windows softened the hard appearance and provided a much-needed feminine touch.

  Martin, who before seemed lost in his thoughts, spoke and gestured out the carriage window. “We’ve arrived. This will be our home for the time we are in the Midlands, Kitten.”

  The inn was a welcome sight, and she smiled in relief.

  Martin opened the door and stepped out. “You will find the accommodations quite adequate, I believe. Though not London, certainly, we’ll have two rooms and I’ve been told the establishment is well cared for. It’s fine for you to take a meal in the common room during the day, you’ll be safe here. It’s important to me, Kit, that you confine yourself to the inn and the village. If you wish to go farther afield and I’m not available, you must take John.”

  “Where will you be?” she asked as he handed her down from the carriage.

  John dismounted to join them, and she didn’t miss the glance her husband gave the young man. “John and I have business in the surrounding towns. I expect to be away often during the day, though I should return in time to take dinner with you.”

  Kit felt keenly disappointed. She didn’t want to be confined to their rooms, or the inn, or even to the village if there were things to see and sketch around the countryside. It was unusual, she knew, for women to be included in matters of business, but she had hopes for their marriage to be a partnership in more than matters of the home. Perhaps she could eventually assist in his work.

  In their rooms, she raised the issue again. “I cannot accept being confined to these chambers, Martin, however comfortable they may be. Though I know some women are content to do so, I am not a plant you can set in a corner and forget.”

  “No, I suspect not,” he said with a small chuckle and took off his coat. Apparently he found her ire amusing, which further irritated her. “Still, you will do as I say. It is only for your protection I ask this, Kit. Oh, and we are registered as Mr. and Mrs. Donet.”

  “Why is that? Are we hiding from someone?”

  “No, not hiding. But my work here requires the…er, fiction.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “No, I expect you do not. You need not be aware of all I am doing here, you need only trust me. The deception is necessary.”

  Kit was frustrated and angry. Her new husband was a man of many talents it seemed, and not a few disguises. And he wanted her to trust him? “The last time you asked me to trust you I found myself in your bedchamber—a room you thought we’d be sharing for the night.”

  “And didn’t that work out well?” he asked with a wry smile.

  Kit’s eyes narrowed. He thought to play the charming rogue once again, but it was not to be borne. Still, she found it difficult to stay angry with him when his blue eyes were smiling and his white teeth displayed that rakish grin. The man was handsome and mysterious, a dangerous combination to be sure.

  “Hmm,” was all she could manage.

  More seriously he said, “You will do as I say, Kit. I do not want to be worrying about you while I’m away from our lodgings. Perhaps you will find something to draw in the village.”

  Mary had given Kit a new sketchbook and pencils as they left London, and that was a welcome gift. Still, Martin’s dismissal and unbending stance left her annoyed. She wasn’t a wife to be put away, and why was he so concern
ed about her protection? Rutledge was surely back in London, so what trouble could she get into in a small country village—unless one considered the danger of being surrounded by a herd of sheep congregating on the road? Surely he was being overprotective. But she was too tired to argue, so she reclined on the settee in the sitting room and let out a sigh.

  “Come, Kitten. Some dinner is in order and then to bed. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll take you riding.” He smiled again with those dark blue eyes, and she wondered if the hunger she saw in them was for food or for her. Probably a little of both.

  * * *

  The heavy weight of a body pressed down on her. Cruel, hard lips crushed hers, and Lord Rutledge rose above her, a twisted, evil sneer sweeping across his face. “I’ll have you now, Katherine.”

  He forced his body between her thighs, letting his hard shaft settle against her. No! This could not be happening, she would not let him have her. Pressing her hands to his chest, she shouted, “I don’t want this…take your hands off me…stop!” Balling her fists, she pounded against his shoulders. Using every bit of force she had, she twisted away, trying to pull free, but his strength was too great.

  “Kit! Kit, wake up!”

  Through the lifting fog of the nightmare, Kit recognized Martin’s deep voice. Slowly the fog receded as she woke to her surroundings. Their room lay in darkness, and Martin sat next to her, holding her and whispering words of comfort. Her skin glistened with sweat from her struggles, her breath came in pants. She could feel her heart racing.

  “Martin?”

  “Yes, Kitten, it’s me. You were dreaming. From the way you were fighting, I’d say you were having a terrible nightmare.”

  “I was…about Rutledge. He was attacking me.”

  Holding her tight, Martin whispered soothing words. “Shhh…ma cherie. You’re all right now. He’ll never hurt you again.”

  Still, she trembled. “Do you think he is searching for me?”

  “I suspect so.” He drew Kit to his side, lying back on his pillow. “The man is obsessed, and his type never accepts defeat easily. Even if he isn’t deranged, which I suspect he is, his ego won’t allow him to leave off. Eventually I will have to deal with him. But you need not worry about that now. Try and get some rest.”

  He kissed her, and Kit clung to the comfort he offered, his whispered words between kisses calming her. His lips were so gentle, she could feel herself relaxing. The man had magic hands and fingers that made her tingle. She wanted his hard body next to hers.

  Her hands drifted to his broad shoulders and into the ebony locks of his wavy hair. His kiss turned more insistent, his tongue moving in slow seduction.

  “Wait!” She wrenched back, though her body protested. “You promised.”

  “I was hoping you’d changed your mind, Kitten. I am finding you nearly impossible to resist.”

  “And I want us to share more than a bed. I need some time together before we resume our…before we consummate the marriage. I’ve never been courted, Martin. Not really. I rather like the idea.”

  She could feel the tension in his body as he rose. “If courting is what you desire, you shall have it. But I don’t think we can sleep in the same bed, at least not for the time being. It’s too difficult to be so close to you. I fear I may not always act the gentleman.”

  Kit watched him pull on breeches and boots. He was firm and lithe and compelling, his back muscles flexing in the pale light from the window as he reached for his shirt. She wanted to reach out and draw him back under the warm covers, but she’d made this commitment to herself so she refrained. She needed some control over her life, and it seemed this was one way she could have it.

  “I’ll be back,” Martin said. He spoke in a low voice she barely heard. Then he left the bedchamber.

  * * *

  He woke on the settee in the parlor where he’d spent the remainder of the night after returning to their rooms.

  Uncoiling from his position on the small piece of furniture, Martin shook off the memory of holding Kit after her nightmare. Just thinking about her warm body caused his morning erection to stiffen. The walk in the cold night air had helped slacken his craving, but he had not returned to their bed. The vixen was too great a temptation. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted her, so for the time being he would sleep alone.

  Entering the bedchamber, he nuzzled Kit from sleep. “How about breakfast and a ride around Pentridge?” Before he met with the duplicitous William Oliver he would dispatch John with a message seeking approval from the Prince Regent to intervene and expose the man should it become necessary to prevent violence. While John was busy with that task, he would ascertain the lay of the land.

  She slowly opened her eyes and stretched. “Sounds perfectly wonderful.”

  “Or”—he pulled her into his arms—“we could stay in this morning and spend some time in bed.” He was teasing of course, but there was always the slight hope she would recant her request for more time. His hope became enthusiasm when she responded with a shiver to the kisses he spread along her soft, warm throat.

  “Martin,” she murmured. “You are distracting me.”

  “I fervently hope so,” he said.

  “Breakfast and a morning ride would be most welcome,” she said before he could begin kissing her again.

  “Well, I promised you a ride, so you shall have one, though I’m tiring of this arrangement, Kitten,” he grumbled. He took her earlobe between his lips and gently pulled, and when she pushed at his chest confessed, “Waiting for you does not come easy.”

  She trembled in his arms. “It won’t be long, Martin.”

  Encouraged, he sat up and touched her nose with the tip of his index finger. “While you change, I’ll see about our horses.”

  * * *

  If Oliver was to stir the men of the Midlands to an uprising—and Martin sincerely hoped he would not—he had best know the land they’d be fighting on. For that reason Martin was soon taking a tour of the countryside, and he gazed in quiet awe at the woman riding next to him. In her Turkey red riding habit, she looked more a lady than ever. Wife. His wife. He could scarcely believe the auburn-haired vixen was his. There were times, like now, as they reined in their horses to absorb the wide expanse of green hills before them, when he saw more than a beautiful woman. He saw his heart reflected in that enchanting smile and wondered if he wasn’t actually falling in love with her. Perhaps it had even begun that night he first glimpsed her in the moonlight.

  It had been over a month since he first made love to her at Willow House, and he wondered how long he could keep his promise. If it had not been for this assignment, this troublesome adventure in folly, he would have swept her away on a wedding trip to grant her wish to see faraway places. A wayward strand of lovely hair caused him to nudge his horse closer, and he reached over to smooth the auburn tendril away from her forehead and wrap it around her ear. The contact sent waves of desire coursing through him, but her smile was all the reward he needed—for now.

  They spent the morning riding around the small towns near Pentridge: South Wingfield, Belper and Ripley, the closest town. The sky joined gray clouds with patches of blue, and there were green tree-covered hills all around. Bucolic calm belied the rebellion Martin knew brewed just below the surface.

  As they approached Ripley, he could see in the distance the sprawling Butterley Ironworks. There, he had learned, hundreds of men worked, men that Oliver would try to enlist to his cause. Martin felt a foreboding sense of what could happen in this tinderbox, and he was torn again by the competing desires of wanting to have Kit with him always and wanting to send her away in fear for her safety. But London carried its own threat he knew. His mood grew dim, matching the darkening sky overhead.

  From atop her horse Kit asked, “Would it be all right if we stopped here so I could draw the ironworks? I brought my sketchbook and pencils.”

  “Certainly,” Martin said. “We’ve time, as long as the rain holds off.” He dismo
unted and led his horse to the side of the clearing in front of the factory near a small copse of trees. “You can sit over here where it’s more sheltered.”

  Kit followed, and he helped her down from her horse. Spotting a fallen tree that provided a rugged bench to sit upon, he let her retrieve her sketchbook from her saddlebag and helped her settle onto the log.

  Martin studied the factory in the distance and then turned to see Kit concentrating on the large structure, her bottom lip held firmly between her teeth as she drew. The pose was endearing, reminiscent of what he imagined she’d looked like as a young girl set upon an arduous task. Perhaps as a youth she had tried to please her father but her spirit kept her from being a compliant child. He loved her all the more for that spirit.

  Unable to resist, he came up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. She turned away from her drawing to give him a small smile, and then returned to her work. She looked happy. He drew pleasure from seeing that, and peeking over her shoulder he saw the large ironworks take form on her paper. Her talent was impressive.

  Martin returned his gaze to the factory, but this time with the informed eyes of a spy. Plumes of black smoke belched from the large blast furnaces set against a grassy knoll. This place would be important. Not only did it hold the largest group of men to be levied, but also the largest source of weapons. His eye fell on the cannon standing in front of the ironworks. God save them all if Oliver planned to use it.

  “The factory is much larger than I would have thought,” Kit said, pausing in her sketch to survey the looming brick buildings and the tall chimneys releasing smoke to the breeze.

  Martin watched some workers trickle out of the large open gates and wondered how many who worked here had lost their livelihood in the last few years. He would have to speak with the man in charge to warn him of what was coming.

  “Before it was the ironworks it was the Butterley Estate,” he said to Kit as he took in the sprawling site. “Many of these are original buildings, adapted for the making of iron tools and machines. It was when they dug the Butterley Tunnel for the Cromford Canal, just there alongside the compound, they discovered veins of coal and iron.”