Beauty and the Spy (30 page)

His hand ceased its roaming and he lifted his head up suddenly to look at her, as if he had an urgent question. She prepared herself for it.

"Do you think I'm handsome?" He sounded a little worried.

She almost laughed. Because, no, she didn't think he was handsome.

"I think you are beautiful," she told him emphatically, and quite truthfully.

He looked smugly satisfied with that answer, dropped his head again.

She could hear the sounds of the woods now as they lay quietly, and it was almost as natural now as his breathing. The pungent smell of crushed leaves, the soft sounds of wind shaking branches, the rustle of unseen creatures who made their homes in the woods… for her they would always be inseparable from the scent and feel of Kit.

"But we can stay in Barnstable, too, can we not?" she said suddenly. "Quite often?"

"Would you like that?"

She was surprised that what she was about to say was true. "I think I would."

"So would I." He sounded surprised, too.

Kit managed to escort Susannah home in time for dinner, and Kit insisted upon formally asking for her hand from her aunt, who did a marvelous job of feigning astonishment while Susannah rolled her eyes from behind Kit's back. Aunt Frances's delight, however, wasn't feigned, nor was her relief, which she gave vent to when Kit was once again on his way.

"A countess!" Aunt Frances said, when Kit departed. "You'll be a countess, my girl. Someday, anyhow."

"And a wife!" Susannah was beside herself. "Of Kit!" This was the best part, as far as she was concerned.

"Kit, is it?" her aunt teased. "He's a good boy. I knew he would make an honest woman of you, Susannah."

Susannah was amused at the idea of Kit being a "good boy," but then she heard the rest of the sentence, and wondered if her aunt knew just how wanton she had been.

Her aunt read the abashed question in her face. "You've leaves in your hair, dear."

Susannah felt the scarlet flood her cheeks. "Aunt Frances! What you must think…"

"I think it's been some time since I've had leaves in my hair, but rest assured, I've had them. I'd worry a good deal more if you came home with leaves in your hair and no viscount in tow to ask for your hand."

"Perhaps the neighbors will return to visit you, Aunt Frances."

"Oh, I don't intend to wait for them, Susannah. I'll pay visits and spread the news myself, my dear. Would you like to come along when I do?"

"I believe I might."

She did wonder how she would be received when she didn't try so very hard. And she rather relished the opportunity to begin again.

Kit actually whistled on his way back home. He was off to fetch his lantern, brandy, water, tea, a blanket, and something to gnaw on. And then he'd return to guard her.

He wanted her in his bed tonight and always, but he supposed he would need to at
least pretend
to care about the proprieties. He would marry her with unseemly haste, anyway, as soon as a special license could be obtained; until then he'd keep her close.

He was happy. It wasn't an easy happiness, surrounded as it was by the fringed ends of their pasts, a countess who would pout when he abandoned her in favor of his
wife
(he loved that word), a disgruntled father, and all the violence and mystery that had characterized their time together. But in a way, that's precisely what made the happiness more precious, more complete. If not for those things, he might not have allowed Susannah to know him. If not for these things, Susannah would not be who she now was. She might be married to that poor young buffoon Douglas, forever ignorant of her own passion and strength, and he might still be bedding a married countess and drinking too much and never allowing anyone to touch him deeply again.

There were different kinds of fear, he knew. Battle was only frightening before and after, never during, because during battle one only did one's job. It was after when the pain set in; it was before when anticipation did things to one's mind.

And that was love, too.

He glanced about, and it occurred to him then: everything that made him what he was had begun here in these woods, tracking adders and voles and the like: his ability to draw connections and conclusions. His patience and agility and precision. A vision that allowed him to see the layers of complexity in the most deceptively simple things.

His first taste of passion. His ability to love.

He glanced up at the trees overhead, and the late afternoon light pouring through them reminded him of the stained-glass windows in Gorringe.
Faith, Hope and Charity, he thought
. "The greatest of these is love," the verse sometimes read. "Love" and "charity" were interchangeable words, some thought.

But they were all…

Bloody hell
. They were all Christian virtues.

Kit stopped in his tracks. He gave a short laugh, wondering whether anyone had ever before used the words "bloody hell" and "Christian virtues" before in the same sentence.

The windows and the mausoleum at the Gorringe church had been donated by a generous benefactor. He would bet his left arm—the battered one, anyway—that Richard Lockwood had been that generous benefactor.

And finally, all the pieces slid into place.

"Of course," James had said, looking down at the back of the miniature.

And what did the back of the miniature say? "To Susannah Faith."
Faith
, a Christian virtue. Sylvie's second name had been "Hope."

He was willing to wager that Sabrina's middle name was "Charity."

Each of those miniatures had been a tiny clue. The whimsical Richard Lockwood had used his daughters as signposts to the location of the documents.

Tomorrow. He would go then tomorrow. He
must
go tomorrow. For Susannah's sake.

And… well…

Honestly, he wanted to beat John Carr to it.

Susannah spent a quiet evening beneath Aunt Frances's roof. They'd begun another book, this one a horrid novel, and she'd had a little trouble sleeping due to the ghost, as well as heated thoughts of Kit. But she woke at the usual time, and when she wandered out with her sketchbook at the usual time, she found the viscount waiting at the gate for her.

My fianc�
, she revised, in her thoughts.

She stopped for a moment and just looked and looked at him. Delighted that he simply existed. Savoring the joy that flared hot and bright in her chest all over again, that made the ground beneath her feet and the sky above her feel one and the same.

She walked to meet him, and when she reached him, he stretched out an arm and pulled her against him, and she put her face up. He kissed her, sweetly and simply, because they could share any manner and any number of kisses from now on, from sweet to incendiary.

His face was chilled against hers, as though he'd been out of doors already for a good length of time. He tasted a bit of tea, but his mouth was cold, too. Again, the skin beneath his eyes looked faintly bruised. He wanted a shave.

She studied him critically.

And then a realization struck.

"You've been guarding me," she said, breathlessly. "At night. Watching the house. It's why you look so…" She trailed off.

"Very handsome?" he completed winsomely.

Susannah's heart almost couldn't expand enough to accommodate the awe that filled it then. She wouldn't gush, however, and make this tender, gallant man uncomfortable.

"Tonight," she said firmly, "I will let you in after Aunt Frances has gone to bed, and you will sleep on the settee, if you really must guard me. And you can be gone before Aunt Frances comes down. I will not have you going without sleep."

He thought about this, and then nodded once, agreeing, looking half-pleased to be ordered about. He extended his arm, and she took it.

He led her up the tree-lined path, this time not into the woods, but to the modest grounds of The Roses. Susannah looked about at the fountains and shrubbery. "I had no idea you had anything so ordinary as
roses
growing here," she teased.

He didn't laugh. He turned to her, and she saw the change in his posture, the look on his face, the intent, and was already lifting her face up to his as he reached for her. She met his lowering mouth with her own, and he groaned low in his throat and pulled her closer, closer to him, as though he could press her into his body and protect her from harm forever. Her body softened against his, and her hands slid up his chest to clasp around his neck. The kiss was deep and hungry, the one he'd wanted to give her this morning, but thought would perhaps be improper to do right outside of Aunt Frances's cottage.

He lifted his face from her to breathe. "There's something I need to tell you, Susannah. Today—"

He stopped and looked. There was a speck hurrying toward them from a distance, which turned out to be Bullton, who, as he drew closer, proved to already be reddening in the heat. Butlers spent most of their time indoors, after all.

"Is something amiss, Bullton?"

"Sir. You've… Well, you've a… visitor, sir."

Who could fluster Bullton so completely?

Bloody hell, it must be my father.

He'd forgotten to send any notes at all to the Earl. Kit braced himself, began to mentally compile excuses for his woefully thin folio, began to compile explanations for a mad dash to Gorringe, and looked up.

A slim, petite woman, dressed head to toe in mourning, stood diffidently in the garden. Her hair was gathered into a knot beneath a big black hat, from which hung a veil. And then, her gloved hands rose slowly, and she lifted her veil, turned her face up to him.

Kit froze, because that's what one did when one saw a ghost.

Unthinkingly, he dropped Susannah's arm. And with every step the ghost took toward him, the years dropped away.

She held out her dark-gloved hand to be bowed over and Kit, almost reflexively, lightly took her fingers. But she gripped his hand when he did that, and turned it over.

Looked down at it closely instead. And smiled softly. "Oh, Kit," she murmured. "It really is you." And Caroline Allston kissed the gull-shaped birthmark beneath his wrist.

He didn't exactly
snatch
his hand away, but he did take it from her quickly. Caroline always did have a way with dramatic gestures, and it was easy to be caught up in them.

Recovering, he glanced at Susannah, the woman he'd just kissed within an inch of her life. She stared at Caroline with the same affection and admiration she reserved for adders.

Caroline wasn't any less beautiful for her years; she still had a remarkable face, dominated by those dark eyes, soft and deep, those feathery brows, the brows of a baby, almost. Those naturally red lips that had so fascinated a seventeen-year-old boy. It was still a delicate, passionate, wanton face. And yes, for all of that… still a vulnerable face. It made one instantly want to protect her, when really, one probably need protecting from her.

"Caroline…"

"Allston," she completed. "It's Allston." With no explanation of the mourning dress.

"Hello, Caroline. Allow me to introduce my fianc�e, Miss Susannah Makepeace."

He reached for Susannah's hand proprietarily, tucked it into his arm. Susannah seemed to have gone into rigor mortis, however; her arm was decidedly stiff. He glanced down at her, meaning to reassure her, but she was studiously avoiding his eyes. Her eyes were instead still fixed on Caroline, as if she stared at Caroline just hard enough, she'd evaporate like a mirage.

Caroline was staring at Susannah, too.

"Congratulations on your engagement." Caroline managed to make the words sound ironic.

"We thank you. How many years has it been?" Kit strived for joviality. He wasn't entirely certain how to address a former lover, current alleged traitor.

"Seventeen," Caroline said. "Seems like only… yesterday."

The word "yesterday" was fertile with innuendo. It made it sound like it had indeed been only yesterday, and
goodness
, what they had gotten up to then!

How very, very like her. It was the sort of thing she'd done so many years ago, lobbing innuendo between John Carr and himself just to watch how they would volley it, just to see them bristle like fighting cocks. Could it be that she had remained entirely unchanged for seventeen years? Or perhaps it was something about
him
that launched Caroline into her games.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Caroline?" His voice was decidedly cooler now that he'd recovered his composure.

Her face crumpled a little, and he saw in her face that girl who had tried so hard to be brave years ago, and whose only defense was lashing out in the only way she knew how. And his immediate impulse was to go to her, to make it better in the way he'd never been able to do for her before.

"I'm… I'm in trouble, Kit. Really in trouble. I didn't know whom else to turn to, I swear it. And you always… you always tried to help."

It was the word "Tried" that embedded itself in him.
Tried
. He'd always
tried
to help. Tried and failed.

She must have seen the change, the softening in his face; her voice steadied, found dignity. "I beg a word, Kit. And forgive me, Miss Makepeace," she added gently. "For intruding on what must be a very happy time, indeed. I am more sorry than I can say."

Kit glanced down at Susannah, who had her teeth bared in a facsimile of a smile. She tried again to tug her hand away from him. Kit clamped it tightly with arm.
You're not going anywhere, Susannah
. In a way, she was his talisman.

Kit didn't know whether he could or should trust Caroline. The anguish on her face seemed real enough and, as it had so many years ago, the need in her spoke to something in him that wanted to make everything right for her.

But beneath it was a very unsentimental curiosity: He wanted to hear what she had to say. She was integral to this mystery now, and he wanted very much to unravel it. And for some reason, it seemed inevitable that she should appear.

He softened his tone a little; it was still, however, implacably polite. "Anything you need to say to me you can say before my fianc�e as well."

"Kit…" Caroline sounded desperate now. "You… might not wish Miss Makepeace to hear what I have to say. I think only of… protecting her."

Worse and worse
. But Caroline was very likely right about that. He didn't want Susannah at all tainted or implicated by the presence of a suspected traitor. He wondered if John Carr was still in the vicinity somewhere, watching him; whether Caroline managed to arrive undetected. The whole mourning kit… veil, the black gown… he supposed it was a disguise.

For a wild moment he considered whether John Carr had found Caroline and sent her to him. Whether even now the king's men were descending upon Barnstable to arrest Kit for consorting with a traitor.

It might just be the one way that John Carr would finally, at last, win.

The thought made Kit furious with Caroline. It couldn't be true, he didn't believe it, but he knew, in that wild moment, that Caroline's legacy was deep indeed. That years ago she had seen something simple and good—the friendship he shared with John—and set out to ruin it, simply because she could. Simply because the ability to do so was one of the powers her beauty conferred. Perhaps the only power she could lay claim to.

"Kit… he's trying to kill me," she said softly. "Morley."

Ah. The magic word:
Morley
.

Kit simply waited.

"I know I've… made some rather… unwise decisions," she continued, smiling nervously at her own expense, "but I swear I never meant to hurt anyone, least of all you. And I'm tired, tired of running, Kit. I'm so frightened."

He said nothing. There was a part of him that couldn't believe that Caroline Allston was standing in his garden. Another part of him, a primitive childish part that he wasn't proud of, that was glad,
glad
she'd come to him.

"Did you receive my letter?" she asked, when still he said nothing.

He felt Susannah tense next to him.

Which letter was Caroline referring to? The one that John Carr had intercepted, or the letter sent so many years ago: "
I'm sorry
."

He nodded slowly, regardless.

"Kit… for the sake of long ago… will you help me?"

Susannah was stiff with uncertainty, stunned, radiating hurt. He wanted to tuck her away some place where nothing of his past or of hers could touch her. But mat would solve nothing; it seemed his past was somehow entwined with Susannah's, and before they moved forward into a future together, he would need to methodically unravel the knots.

"Susannah…" he said, regret and decision heavy in his voice.

"I'll go home right now," Susannah said quickly, too brightly. "To Aunt Frances. I'll leave the two of you to become reacquainted."

"No, you won't."

"I'll go to Aunt Frances and—"

"No," he said firmly. "You won't You'll stay here in this house. It is
your house
now, too. We'll go inside. And I shall speak to Miss Allston privately while you wait for me."

"I would like to go to Aunt Frances." The words were cool; the two spots of color in her cheeks were not.

Kit turned looked down at Susannah. She steadfastly refused to meet his eyes, focusing on the roses beyond his shoulder. He took her stiff hand and lifted it to his lips, while Caroline's eyes followed it there, her expression enigmatic.

"It will be all right, Susannah," he said softly.

Susannah's expression told him that she didn't believe him. And she didn't precisely jerk her hand away from him, but she didn't want to be touched by him at the moment, either, that much was very clear. He might as well have been gripping a leather-bound copy of Marcus Aurelius instead of a hand, for how yielding it felt.

"Of course it will," she said. "Of course it will. Because you're always
accurate
, aren't you?"

Her irony landed with the grace of a crowbar, but he hadn't the time or patience to placate her now. Potential disaster, in the form of Caroline, stood before both of them. Potential answers. Potential truth.

"Thank you for understanding," he said to Susannah, which would have to suffice for now. "Shall we go inside?"

And so sandwiched between his past and his future, Kit led two beautiful women into the house.

He'd taken one look at that woman… and he'd gone as white as a blank page of her sketchbook. As white as the day a horse had fallen on him. And then he'd dropped her arm, as if he couldn't possibly touch
her
and look at Caroline Allston at the very same time.

And oh, but that woman was beautiful. An intimidating, thorough,
fascinating
sort of beautiful. A
complicated
beautiful. Complicated, she knew, appealed to Kit. "Difficult to forget"? Susannah gave a short bitter laugh, as she waited in the parlor. "Difficult to forget" didn't by half do Caroline Allston justice.

And Kit—the man who was her very heart—was shut in the library with Caroline Allston right now. And it did feel that way: As though her heart had been scooped out, and a high cold wind was whistling through the place where it had once been.