A Scandalous Secret: Spies and Lovers Read online

  “I should have done that.” She refused to admit what had distracted her.

  Thomas slid his great coat off, hung it on a peg next to the door, and squatted in front of the hearth, deftly laying wood and kindling. The crackle drew her closer, and she stood behind him, watching his big, capable hands limned in firelight as he tended the flame until it was a healthy blaze. Thomas rose and bumped her with his shoulder. She grabbed his arm to catch herself. The muscle was ropey with strength.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  “My fault. The two us will have to manage the best we can in the small space, I’m afraid.”

  She slid her hand up his arm a few inches. While her physical balance was restored, the foundation of her neat, safe world had shifted. She should be safely in her room, her part in Eleanor and Lord Berkwith’s love affair over once and for all. If she hadn’t gone to the Bear and the Crown, the night would have passed like any other. She would have woken and begun packing for the sojourn to the house party, where her mother would expect her to settle on a suitable gentleman to wed.

  The path of her life had diverged into a dark wood with a new companion.

  “Thomas. My parents. Will they be safe?” She tilted her face to look him in the eyes, sure she would be able to detect truth from lie.

  “Sir Hawkins is as wily and shrewd as any man I’ve ever met. Henry and Callum are well trained. I made sure of that. My note should have reached the right people in time. If there is a grander plot afoot, I have every confidence your father was given ample warning to avoid danger.”

  “I know Father courts peril every day, but I’ve always felt safe. Until now. Was it all an illusion?”

  “You have been safe,” he said vehemently and then sighed. “Until now. The French are growing desperate with each passing day. There are those in England sympathetic to Napoleon’s cause and others who have profited from the war and do not want peace. Sir Hawkins holds the keys to many secrets. He is valuable, and you would be an excellent bargaining chip.”

  “Those men wanted me in order to force Father into betraying his country and mission?”

  “It seems likely.” His expression turned thoughtful. “If they had wanted to kill you, it would have been a moment’s work to slip a knife between your ribs or slash your throat.”

  She touched her neck and swayed. Her shock must have reflected on her face. How close had she come to dying this night?

  “That was badly done of me. I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did. Never apologize for telling me the truth. I appreciate not being coddled.” The room was warming, and she slipped off her cloak and hung it on a peg next to Thomas’s. With her back to him, she asked, “What would Father have done if those men had succeeded in taking me? Would he have bowed to their demands?”

  Thomas’s hesitation was answer enough. “Sir Hawkins is your father. The rest of us see him as something different altogether.”

  “Even you?” She turned and regarded him with the same fascination and curiosity she’d always felt around him. “He saved you from the orphanage and educated you like the son he never had.”

  “A son?” He laughed, but it was full of bitterness. “I had a father. A good one at that. I never wanted another.”

  Chapter 5

  Garrick had injured Victoria’s feelings. He could tell because he had been attuned to her reactions since she was a child. Her cheeks pinkened from more than the fire, and she bit her lip as her gaze slid away from his.

  Victoria had been a complicated, charming girl, equally bold and tenderhearted. The first time he’d found her in his room, he’d assumed she was there to steal his meager belongings. Of course he’d quickly learned how ridiculous the notion was. While not rich in the way of some peers, Sir Hawkins was Midas in Garrick’s youthful eyes.

  “I was so happy when Father brought you home.” The firelight emphasized the long curl of her lashes. “I hated being an only child.”

  “I was never meant to be your brother. That’s not why your father plucked me from the orphanage.” He imparted the fact he’d accepted years ago as gently as he could.

  “Why did he choose you?”

  “I was a big, strong lad with a sharp mind. My mother was a vicar’s daughter and made sure I could read and do my sums. Sir Hawkins wanted to mold and train me into an effective weapon. He succeeded.”

  She blinked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. The orphanage was harsh, and I had to fight for every scrap. Still, it was better than being forced out onto the streets to eke out a living by pickpocketing or sweeping chimneys. Your father offered me a future and a purpose. I’m not complaining.”

  “But you sounded so bitter before. Why?”

  It was his turn to avoid her gaze, afraid she’d see straight into the heart of him. “Let’s see if we can put together a stew.”

  He was sure she would forget about his feelings once the reality of their situation had a chance to set in. They would be spending the night in a one-room cottage with a single bed. He glanced to the pile of quilts before focusing on the larder.

  “Won’t whoever lives here be upset if we use his firewood and eat his food?”

  “This is a safe house.”

  “Yes, it feels safe enough. Unless the owner barges in with a pistol.”

  Garrick laughed and laid potatoes, carrots, and leeks on the table. “No, I mean it’s been outfitted for exactly this purpose. Anyone in our network can retreat here if they need to disappear. We pay a local to keep firewood and food stocked just in case.”

  “Is there any tea in the cupboard?” Victoria riffled through the larder and pulled out a tin with an exultant, “Aha!”

  “There might be something even better.” Garrick shifted the cupboard aside and retrieved a bottle of brandy from behind it that had come straight from France. A perquisite of the job. He uncorked the bottle and poured a liberal amount into two chipped, unmatched tea cups. Garrick downed his in one swallow. Victoria picked hers up and sipped as if it were boiling-hot tea.

  She coughed but smiled at him over the rim. “Mother only allows me a small glass of port after dinner or one flute of champagne at soirees. According to her, liquor muddles your thoughts and leads to poor decisions.”

  “Your mother is entirely correct, but we can afford a little muddling while I prepare our dinner.” By the time he gathered the water needed for their soup and hung the black pot over the fire, Victoria had downed the contents of her cup and poured herself more.

  She propped her chin on her hand and pouted. “I could help if I still had my knife. I forgot to retrieve it after you disarmed me.”

  Garrick cut the vegetables, dropped them into the small black pot, and seasoned it liberally with salt. It would be simple fare without even a loaf of bread. Not what Victoria was used to.

  “I must say I do feel much warmer and delightfully muddled.” She raised her arms into a stretch and then plucked the remaining pins from her hair. Snow-dampened curls unspooled, and she finger combed them back from her face. “I understand why Mother would be worried if I over imbibed.”

  Garrick mouth had gone dry. He wasn’t sure he could speak even if a pistol were being held to his temple. Watching her perform the mundane task of taking her hair down nearly unmanned him. It was an act only a maid or husband should be privy to, yet here he was with a front-row seat.

  He remembered that day they’d been alone in her father’s study, the day he’d succumbed to his longing for her. The two years since had blunted the constant frisson of tension between them, but the afternoon at the modiste had awakened his desire like a hibernating bear, starved and ready to devour her. The silence built until it was unbearable.

  “How many times have you used this cottage?” she asked.

  “Twice.”

  “Where are we exactly?”

  “North of London.”

  “That’s not exactly exact.” Her look was so sardonic, h
e fought a smile and lost.

  “The more people who know about this place, the less safe it is.”

  Her hum was full of annoyance. She took a sip and examined him over the rim of the cup. “Because you never mentioned a life before the orphanage, I assumed you had been abandoned there as a babe, but you weren’t.”

  He shook his head but said nothing, not expecting her to circle back to their earlier conversation.

  “What happened?”

  “An illness took my mum and da within days of one another. I was ten.” He felt like he’d swallowed a whole turnip and it had stuck in his throat.

  She slipped her bare fingers around his palm and gave his hand a squeeze. Her skin rasped delicately against his. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked. Why didn’t I think to ask?”

  He stared at their hands. His large and rough, hers slender and strong. “Because you were young and sheltered and such tragedy would never have occurred to you.”

  “Tell me about your parents.”

  He hadn’t talked about them for years. At first his grief had been too raw, and later he’d learned missish feelings invited bullying in the orphanage. To cry was the mark of weakness, so he’d buried his grief and love and had never attempted to excavate them. Why bother now?

  “They were good people.” He shrugged and tried to sound dismissive. “From what I remember.”

  “What did your father do for a living?”

  Her questions were a spade to his defenses. “Blacksmith.”

  “Ah, you must take after him. You’re very…” Her voice petered into nothing. He raised his brows, waiting. She cleared her throat, and whispered, “Strong.”

  “Yes, Da was a big man. Mum called him a gentle giant. He would bring home strangers in need of a hot meal.” The years had dulled Garrick’s memory like a watercolor left in the rain, but his da’s laugh was indelible. Even so many years later, hearing a deep, booming laugh would spin Garrick around in search of his long-dead father. “His kindness got him killed.”

  “But you said he was felled by illness.”

  “One of his charity cases was sick and died on a cot in the smithy. Mum and Da were taken by the same sickness not two weeks later, a day apart.” He didn’t like revisiting the memory of his indomitable da gaunt and weak, dying in the same bed his mum had died in the day before.

  So much death. It was only when he went to war that he became inured to it.

  “You had no relatives to go to? No one in the village offered to take you in?”

  “They were afraid of me. Three people had just died in our cottage of some unknown plague. They burned the cottage and the smithy and banished me from town.”

  “They burned your cottage down and refused to take you in? That’s barbaric. Heinous. It makes me want to—” She slammed her fist on the table, jostling the cups.

  Her outrage on behalf of the ten-year-old boy he had been resettled something inside of him. He had tried to justify the way men, women, and children who had known him all his life had reacted, but he finally felt entitled to the anger he’d tried to deny. His da had been an important part of the village and had helped everyone at one time or another. Yet the villagers had only offered Garrick their backs.

  “What would you do?” he asked.

  “I would rain curses upon them. I would visit them in the dead of night and release a wild boar in their houses. I would see them on their knees in the town square begging for your forgiveness.” Ruthlessness shrouded her words with an ominous promise.

  He smiled in spite of himself. She was her father’s daughter. “I understand now,” he said.

  “Understand what?”

  “Why Lady Eleanor came to you for help. You are a protector by nature and a formidable woman. More so than anyone realizes.”

  The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “Would you please tell Mother? She seems to think I must marry in haste because I require protection. You’ve seen the gentlemen who come to call. Tell me the truth. Would any have been able to best the men in the alley and protect me?”

  He declined to answer her question and focused on what made his heart pound faster. “Marry in haste?”

  “Indeed. Mother wants me to pick a likely candidate at the Stanfields’ yuletide house party.” A sly smile spread her lips. “Can we hide here together until it’s over?”

  “I’m afraid we won’t be trapped here for long.” Garrick turned to stir the soup to hide his reaction at the thought of spending days—and more to the point, nights—alone with Victoria. The feeling approached an intense longing. But he longed for the impossible.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Starving.”

  He doled out the watery soup into two clay bowls, and they set about eating. Her surprise couldn’t be contained on her first bite. “This is not nearly as bad as I expected. Where did you learn to cook? From your mother?”

  “At the orphanage. All the boys rotated through a set of chores. One week was kitchen duty. One week was caring for the gardens. Another week was spent cleaning and maintaining the house. I’m quite handy.” He’d had to be or risk getting beaten.

  “You have skills I could never dream of.” She shot him a teasing smile, harkening back to their conversation that morning outside Sir Hawkins’s study door. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  They finished the soup. Garrick cleaned the pot and bowls in the brook and gathered clean water to heat for their ablutions. Flakes drifted like stars from the slice of black sky visible through the treetops. The snow had been a piece of good fortune. Several inches had accumulated to cover their tracks, but the rate was slowing. Was it wrong to wish to be buried in the cottage with Victoria for weeks?

  Foolishness is what it was. He was bound to protect her and return her unhurt and untouched to Sir Hawkins.

  Victoria was stoking the fire when he returned. There was enough wood to keep them warm until morning. She stood and swayed slightly. Her dress hung like a sack, and he spotted the bundle of padding she had worn underneath across the foot of the bed.

  “Go on and lie down while the water heats.” He settled himself in one of the stiff-backed wooden chairs and tried not to think about how much more comfortable the bed would be, especially with Victoria in it.

  The rustle of clothing sounded, and this time he kept his gaze fixed on the fire. One lapse was one too many.

  “Might I beg a favor?” Her voice was soft and hesitant. “Without my maid, I can’t quite…”

  He mouthed a curse to the gods of temptation and went to her. She presented the column of buttons up her spine and neck. He worked the top button free of its loop. His intention to make quick work of the task was forgotten. His fingers trembled and fumbled with each button.

  The unveiling of her graceful neck was slow and sensuous and utter torture. By the time he reached the top of her shift and the laces of her stays, he was fighting the urge to lay a kiss where her neck and shoulder met.

  Onward he worked until all the buttons were finally freed and he was trapped in a fever dream. He’d imagined undressing Victoria many times over the years; he’d just never expected to be in this position and unable to touch her.

  “There. All done.” He took a step back and clenched his hands behind his back.

  “I can’t sleep in my stays. Would you mind loosening the laces?” She glanced at him over her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes glittered in the firelight.

  He hesitated, gathering his self-control like a shield.

  A half smile tipped her lips as she shrugged the bodice off her shoulders. “Come now. You’ve seen me in less. Much less.”

  Embarrassment burned through him. He pulled at his collar and wondered if steam was rising off his shoulders. “I’m terribly sorry about this morning. I’m not sure what happened. I should have—”

  “Stop!” Her smile vanished, and she glared at him a moment before turning her face away. In a less vehement tone, she continued, “I could ha
ve screamed or swooned or simply closed the curtain all the way. I didn’t. I harbor no regrets and hope you don’t either.”

  “Victoria.” He was at a loss for anything else to say. Neither of them moved.

  “Do you ever think about it?” she whispered.

  “About what?”

  “The kiss.”

  The kiss. He was an expert liar when his life was in peril, and this moment certainly felt charged with danger. Yet… “Every time I see you. Every bloody day and night.”

  The telltale movement of her shoulders signaled her increased rate of breathing. He, on the other hand, was frozen and light-headed from lack of air.

  “My stays?” Her voice was remarkably calm, and he didn’t speak for fear of betraying how deeply she affected him.

  He did his duty, no matter how much it pained him, and loosened her stays, making sure his fingertips didn’t stray to her skin. A single touch would be his undoing. Without waiting for his retreat or asking him to avert his gaze, Victoria pushed her dress and stays to the floor in one fluid motion and whirled around.

  He reeled backward but didn’t get far in the tiny cottage. His arse hit the table, and he clutched the edges, grateful for the support when she stepped out of her clothes toward him. Firelight danced off her skin, the thin cotton doing little to conceal her lush form.

  He opened his mouth to protest, but only a rumbling groan of surrender emerged.

  “I might have died tonight if it weren’t for you.” She pulled the pink ribbon at the neck of the garment. Excruciatingly slowly, the ribbon unfurled, and the fabric parted.

  The shadowy valley between her breasts drew his gaze, and he swallowed. The curves of her breasts were tempting him toward another bout of insanity. Her chemise slipped off one shoulder and sagged low enough for one nipple to peek over.

  “I don’t expect a reward. Especially not this,” he said roughly.

  “You don’t want me?” Any boldness she projected fell away in a blast of insecurity that had her biting her lip and looking away. “You kissed me in the alley. Why?”

  As smart and defiant and reckless as Victoria might be, she was still an innocent with tender feelings. Would it be so terrible to reassure her of her attractions without compromising her?