The Lord and the Spy

by Slade, Heather

  Finally, my boss turned her chair, folded her hands on her desk, and looked straight at me. “While I said it was a surprise to see you, your resignation isn’t. I’ve seen this coming for quite some time.”

  “You have?”

  Amelia nodded but didn’t say anything else.

  I stood. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me—”

  “Sit back down. Here’s what you’re going to do instead of resigning.”

  * * *

  I was nearly halfway through the year-long sabbatical Vera had insisted I take before making my final decision. She hadn’t given me any choice about the time off, but at the end of it, I’d have many.

  I could make my resignation official and live out the rest of my life as a private citizen. I could also come back to the exact job I’d had before. My other options were to work for another department at NGA, and finally, I could ask to be moved to another intelligence branch.

  Most days, I knew I’d never go back to government work. Others, when I was bored out of my mind from endlessly counting cattle and doing the other mundane chores I saw as punishment but Quint insisted were simply part of running a ranch, I couldn’t wait to get back to Washington.

  As Vera had counseled me, my most important consideration was anonymity. If I walked away now, I could keep it. If I stayed with the NGA, it was unlikely I’d be able to.

  The necessary precautions had been taken while I was in the UK, and while the PKK had found and killed Matthew Caird, my cover hadn’t been blown.

  As Z predicted, Amanda Sanborn’s only real interest had been in Wilder Whittaker. I assumed the woman had been fired, but like everything else that had anything to do with Wilder, I refused to listen when the subject was broached.

  All in all, I’d walked away relatively unscathed from an ordeal I’d never recover from.

  If my life were a movie, I would’ve heard Wilder’s name in the wind that defined what West Texans called their fifth season. Along with winter, spring, summer, and fall, there was wind.

  It was rare for me to go many hours without finding myself daydreaming about the now MI6 agent. In that way, work would have been good for me. I’d have too much on my mind for it to drift.

  Had I loved him? Did I still? The notion of it was too preposterous. We’d spent less than a week together, but those were days I’d remember for the rest of my life.

  There were a few cowboys who poked around after hearing I was back in town, but like before, it was rare for me to go on a second date. It was ironic how I’d once thought the “soft-handed” Wilder could never measure up to the men I’d once considered rugged. No one I’d dated in the last few months came close to his brand of confidence, not that there had been many.

  So often, when I was having a hard time making a decision about something, it would be his voice in my head that I’d listen to. It was as ridiculous as the idea that I’d loved him, but it got me through what seemed like endless days without him.

  23

  Wilder

  I’d heard there was an SIS pool as to who would emerge bastard of the day—Pinch or me. I didn’t care. There was work to be done, and anyone not interested in seeing to it, could bloody well sod off.

  Rivet had finally been able to retire, and much to everyone’s chagrin, mine included, he and the duchess had gone public with their wildly scandalous love affair.

  There hadn’t been a story like theirs since King Edward VIII unexpectedly abdicated the throne to marry Wallis Simpson.

  The saddest part was that my father’s name had been dragged through the proverbial mud when the scandal brought his past affair with Anna Caird to light as well as that he’d been Matthew’s biological father.

  Still, somehow, Rivet and Victoria had made it through, holding their heads high and never refraining from letting it be known they were in love.

  Shiver had risen heroic from the same scandal’s ashes when word of his valiant efforts to help his Russian-orphan wife and son escape the clutches of United Russia and bring her home to be Duchess of Bedfordshire had gotten out. Word was he was the peoples’ first choice for knighthood.

  While I hadn’t officially been named head of MI6, I was acting chief, which everyone knew was merely a technicality until the Caird debacle faded in memory and I could be appointed without fanfare.

  My second-in-command, Nate Thomason, was a world-class wanker, but if I’d also had three agents whom I outranked be offered the position of chief while I was continually looked over, I probably would’ve been an even bigger bastard than Nate was.

  Rather than staying at the Kensington flat, when one became available in Sky Gardens, I immediately made arrangements to purchase the three-bedroom unit even though it was far more room than I needed for the limited amount of time I spent there.

  The friendship between Pinch and me had survived our individual heartbreaks by us agreeing early on never to mention either woman involved in one another’s presence. Although, Pinch did concede that he’d eventually have to let go of that, considering Darrow was my sister.

  Neither spent time at Whittaker Abbey unless there was an urgent matter one or both of us had to attend to. Wellie had been ill in the early part of August, which meant we all took turns looking in on him. Shiver, Orina, and Darrow had checked in during the week, while Pinch and I filled in on the weekends. That was until Darrow left on a mysterious holiday, with no known end date, that everyone refused to talk about.

  I avoided the drama until the gossip about it reached such annoying levels that I asked my brother where she was.

  When Shiver summoned me to his office at the abbey to tell me that Darrow was in America, I left the room before my brother could say another word.

  With August’s summer bank holiday almost upon us, signifying the end of the season, I was trying to figure out a way to beg off attending the annual party the duchess had talked Orina and Shiver into throwing.

  It seemed as though the evildoers in the world were also on holiday, given there wasn’t a mission to be had in any direction I looked.

  When my mobile rang and I saw it was Shiver calling, I considered not answering, but with Wellie’s precarious health, I couldn’t risk it.

  “Hello, Shiv.”

  “You know what this call pertains to.”

  “I’ve been willing an international intelligence emergency, but so far none has materialized.”

  “For God’s sake, Wild, is coming home really that bad?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. It wasn’t that bad; it was worse. Everywhere I looked, I saw Wren. Even in places she’d never been. And the others—where she had visited—threatened to bring me to his knees. I’d never imagined that such a profound sense of loss existed. The pain I felt whenever I thought of her, which was several times a day, cut me straight through to my core.

  My sexual abstinence before I met Wren looked like a whim compared to my now-nonexistent desire to be with any other woman.

  “Wilder? I’d ask if the call dropped, but I can hear you breathing.”

  “I’ll be out sometime tomorrow or Sunday.”

  Shiver sighed. “Do better than that. I need your help. Lilliya has started teething, and Losha is at her wit’s end.”

  At the same time my brother begged my assistance, Pinch walked in and sat down in my office.

  “Of course. We’ll be there.”

  “We’ll?”

  “Fulton and I will drive out together this afternoon,” I said before ending the call.

  “What the bloody hell did you just volunteer me for?”

  “Summer Bank Holiday party at the abbey. Losha’s got her hands full with the new baby.”

  “New? How old is she?”

  “Three months.”

  “Is that still new?”

  “Goodness,” I said under my breath. “Yes.”

  “Bugger me,” Pinch said, also under his breath. “Is it terrible that I literally hate being there?”

 
“I feel the same, mate.”

  “But you didn’t—”

  “Don’t say it, Pinch.” I stood and brushed everything on my desk into an open drawer. There’d be hell to pay from Mrs. Udele, who had volunteered to move offices with me, but that was the least amount of damage I could do without really making an ass of myself. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I saw Thomason at his desk, but since his head was down, I didn’t bother saying anything to the man. I certainly didn’t need to check in with him when I left for the weekend, although Nate often alluded I should.

  “What?” asked Pinch while we waited for the lift.

  “Thomason. Can’t stand the man.”

  “You aren’t alone in that,” Pinch said with hooded eyes.

  I would ask if it was something personal, but given Thomason was with Section 6 and Pinch with MI5, it didn’t make sense that it would be.

  Pinch followed me down the block to Sky Gardens.

  “I need to grab a bag from the flat,” I told him.

  “I’ll come up.”

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “God, mate, are you ever here?”

  I came out bag in hand. “Not often, why?”

  Pinch was standing with the door of my empty refrigerator open. “What do you eat?”

  “What do you mean? You and I eat at the pub nearly every bloody night.”

  “What about breakfast?”

  I shot him a look and walked out the door.

  “You really don’t eat any breakfast?” Pinch said when we got back on the lift.

  “Not a big deal, Pinch.”

  “It’s the most important meal of the day…”

  I tuned him out, which was becoming a more frequent occurrence. Right now, the only thing I dreaded more than spending the weekend at Whittaker Abbey was the incessant talking I’d have to endure on the ride there.

  “Why are you stopping here?” Pinch asked when I pulled up in front of Covington House.

  “Sorry,” I murmured, putting the Mercedes back in gear.

  “By the way, what happened to the Jag?”

  “Shop.”

  “Been in the shop going on a year now.”

  “It hasn’t been that long.” The truth was, it hadn’t been in the shop at all. I just never drove it because, like so many other things, it reminded me of Wren.

  I could see Pinch from the corner of my eye. “Been about seven months I reckon.”

  “You’re walking on thin ice.”

  “I’m not the one who stopped at Covington House.”

  “We’re a pair,” I muttered as I continued on to Wellie’s cottage.

  “I fucking miss her,” I heard my friend mumble.

  I nodded. “I know.”

  24

  Wren

  By mid-September, the days rarely got warmer than ninety and it could drop as far as sixty-five at night. The first couple of weeks at the ranch were as hard on Darrow as my first weeks back had been.

  She was a trooper and never complained, even when I would catch her tending blisters on her hands and feet at the end of a long day.

  “I can do this,” she’d say, as though Quint or I was going to kick her off the ranch if she didn’t pull her weight.

  Since our land was equal distance from Austin and San Antonio, we’d gone to each a few times so Darrow could pick up work clothes of her own. We’d even visited a couple of bars. While there was never a shortage of cowboys asking us to dance, like with dates, neither went for a second with the same guy.

  I’d heard Darrow crying in her room after we’d said good night a few times. I’d done my own share of it, but it had to be so much worse for my friend. She’d known Axel all of her life; I’d only been with Wilder a handful of days.

  I was clearing dinner dishes off the table when Darrow got up to help. “I’ll get it. You can relax tonight,” I said, pushing her back into the chair.

  During the week, Quint, Darrow, and I often ate with the rest of the crew, but on the weekends, we usually went for a simpler dinner at the house. While we had a full-time cook who prepared most of our meals, I let her go early on Saturday and never let her work on Sunday, except during calving or branding season.

  “There’s a team-roping qualifier up in Belton tomorrow you might be interested in seein’,” I heard Quint say to Darrow.

  “That sounds like fun. Wren, do you want to go?”

  I looked up from where I was scraping dishes and met my brother’s eyes. “I’d love to, sweetie, but I have that report I have to finish up.”

  Report? Quint mouthed, making sure Darrow didn’t turn around and catch him.

  “Oh, well…”

  “You should go,” I pushed. “It’s a lot of fun, and Quint and his partner are ranked pretty high this year.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “Positive,” I said, smiling when my brother mouthed thanks, again behind Darrow’s back.

  It was quiet the next day with most everyone up at the rodeo, but I didn’t mind. I slept in since Quint promised they’d get the morning chores done before they left, and at least part of the crew would be back in time to handle what needed to be done in the evening.

  I pulled my French press out of the back of the cupboard and brushed the dust off. I got the bag of French roast out of the freezer where I kept it hidden behind the ice maker, and made myself a pot to savor. It wasn’t quite as good as what I’d had when I was with Wilder, but it was close enough.

  With a plate of fruit and a cup of coffee, I went out on the porch and sat in a rocking chair. My mother and I used to sit in one together before bedtime. In the summer, we’d watch the sun go down.

  Like most everything, thinking about my mother reminded me of Wilder.

  The first week I was back in the States, I’d checked my voice and email hourly, expecting to hear something from him. By the second, I’d tried to stop myself being disappointed until the end of each day when there was no word.

  By the time I left for the ranch, I’d given up hope, but every once in a while, like when I saw the truck barreling down the road, carrying Darrow, I allowed myself to close my eyes and say a prayer that it was him. Usually it was a vendor or some friend of Quint’s. The closest I’d gotten was his sister.

  In some ways, having Darrow around made it easier, even though we never talked about him or Axel. In other ways, she was a constant reminder of what I’d walked away from.

  There had been times I thought about initiating contact myself, but in the back of my mind, I could hear my mother’s voice telling me that if a man wanted me, he’d move heaven and earth to find me, and if he never did, I’d have my answer. There was so little I remembered about my mother; it was odd I recalled that.

  I might be harder to find if Z wasn’t still DG of MI5. I knew my father, and if Wilder had asked, he would’ve told him I was at that ranch, especially since I’d never specifically asked him not to.

  I tried to read, but the book didn’t hold my interest. I went inside to take a nap, but couldn’t. If I went for a walk, I’d only find a chore to do, and that would annoy me.

  After piddling around in the kitchen, I walked to the back of the house where my mother’s library remained exactly the way it had been when she died.

  Running my hands over the books the housekeeper kept dust-free even though there was rarely anyone who came into this room, I looked down at the shelves of leather-bound photo albums. Each one bore an engraved nameplate that read “Alexander Family” and the year.

  It was sweet that my mother had never used King-Alexander after she’d married Z, even though everyone referred to our family that way.

  I pulled out the volume I recognized as being from the year my parents were married and ran my hands over the photos as I turned the pages.

  There was no question my mother and father worshiped each other. It was sad to think that Z had never remarried even though my mother had died at such a young age. I remembered thin
king twenty-eight was ancient, but now I was the same age and not only had I never been married or had children, I’d never experienced a love like my parents shared.

  Or had I? It was a question I asked myself often, even though there’d never be an answer.

  I opened my eyes and tried to focus when I heard voices calling my name.

  “Where is she?” I heard Darrow ask.

  “In here,” my brother answered, switching on the lights.

  I covered my eyes.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asked.

  “I must’ve dozed off looking at pictures.” Before I could pick up and close the photo album that had slipped off my lap, Darrow grabbed it.

  “Oh my goodness,” she gasped, setting the heavy leather book on a table. “That’s my mother and father.”

  “Seriously?” said Quint, looking over Darrow’s shoulder and making me feel as though I was intruding on a private moment.

  “Look, Wren,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “I didn’t realize Z knew the duke,” I said, looking over Darrow’s other shoulder.

  “Of course he did. My father was the one who helped Z get the job with SIS,” she said, pointing to the couple seated with Z standing behind them.

  I covered my mouth in time to stifle my gasp. It was as though I was looking at a photo of Wilder.

  25

  Wilder

  “I hate the bloody holidays,” said Pinch, plopping down in my office chair like he did so often. “This isn’t even one of ours.”

  “Haven’t you read the news? One in three Brits now celebrates Thanksgiving.”

  “Why does your family have to be among them?”

  “You can beg off.”

  “You know I can’t. My father…”

  Pinch didn’t finish, and I didn’t want him to. Any conversation we had about Wellie’s declining health ended with both of us wondering why Darrow hadn’t come home yet, even though neither of us said it out loud. Until today.