One Night With a Spy (11 page)

Her lips twitched and she glanced back to Marcus—as if to share a private joke? He gazed at her impassively instead of answering her amused glance, for he still fought the wave of lust heating his belly. Her expression fell slightly, then she turned away and busily marched to where the servants were hauling buckets of water to wash down the nearest buildings.

Elliot came abreast of Marcus and watched her walk away. "She rolled her eyes at you," he said smugly.

Marcus shot him a dark glance. "She did not."

Elliot chuckled. "Yes, she did, as she turned away. She thinks you're an idiot." He turned to grin at Marcus. "I do like that about her."

"Well, she thinks you're a useless dandy."

Elliot nodded amiably. "Oh, yes. That's what she likes about me."

Elliot ambled away, rather off course if he truly intended to help. Marcus gazed after Lady Barrowby, eyes narrowed. She'd chosen Elliot of her own free will. Could it be that she
wanted
a feckless, light-minded husband?

The respect for her that had been reluctantly growing took a bit of a slide down the muck-covered hillside.

There was nothing here!

While the household ran about trying to clean up the filth he'd showered them with—most deservedly, indeed—he'd ransacked the study and the library.

To hell with precision and secrecy—he wanted her to know she'd been searched, after all—he tossed books from the shelves and took a knife to the upholstery, a fast and dirty search for something, anything that would tell him what she was about.

He found nothing. In the morning room off the music room he found her desk and all the accounts for the estate—everything that one would expect from an intelligent lady who knew how to run her household, but nothing at all to indicate why those particular lords had visited her, nor any proof that she was who she could not be, but most obviously was…

Then again, he'd seen the locket for himself. It was the only proof he needed.

And the lack of information relating to those visitors—well, that was all to the good. If she was merely the widow of a peer, then it could be expected that lot might pay their respects. They'd not stayed overlong, after all, and had immediately made their way on to London.

He had his doubts, but as far as he could tell by what he'd not found, she was nothing more than what she appeared—the lovely, capable widow of the late Lord Barrowby.

She'd done quite well for herself, he had to admit, though it chafed him. Then again, all the more reason to think she could be made to see the advantages of his plans for her.

He shattered a vase against the wall in an uncharacteristic burst of temper. He closed his eyes and took a breath. She was a tool, nothing more. He would use her and discard her afterward.

Of course, there was no law against enjoying the destruction he would cause in the course of it.

By evening, the mess was somewhat under control. One of the tumbling footmen was sluicing buckets of lake water over the cobbles, while another one swept the grime away from the house. The yard reeked, and likely would until the next good rain, but the Barrowby staff had the worst of the filth scraped away.

One thing still bothered Marcus. "How well do you really know Elliot?"

Lady Barrowby started as Marcus came up behind her. She raised a brow at his impertinence, then turned away. "Better than I know you." She lifted a hand to direct several of her people to work on the next area of grime.

"But what do you know of his background? Of his history? He could be a—"
French spy
. Then again, he wouldn't want her to wonder what he knew about French spies. "A criminal!"

She made a derisive sound. "Elliot isn't a criminal. He may be lazy and a tad spineless and more than a little vain, but he's a good man, deep down."

"How can you know that about him?"

"How can I know that about anyone? How can I know that about you?" She shrugged delicately. "I may not know Elliot, but I know his sort, and his sort is usually most trustworthy."

Marcus opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. Damn, she did have a commanding air about her sometimes.

"I can absolutely trust that Elliot will forever and always see to his own interests. Knowing that, I will be sure to never put more pressure on his fragile ethics than they can bear. Furthermore, I trust my instincts and my instincts tell me that there is more to Elliot than meets the eye."

Marcus snorted. "Of that I'm sure."

"Oh, stop. He is harmless. All a fellow like Elliot wants from life is comfort and amusement. Although it is a terrible waste for someone so intelligent…"

Hearing her praise Elliot made Marcus uncomfortable. Oh, very well, it made him want to smear Elliot's face in the muck after a prolonged and satisfying brawl, but that was simply the strain of lust—er,
waiting
building up inside him.

Furthermore, he found her reasoning faulty in the extreme. He would be sure to include her response in his report to the Three. Instincts were all well and fine, but to depend solely upon such?

Beside him, Lady Barrowby sighed. "I suppose that is all we can do today. With any luck, we'll have some rain soon. At least the cistern was covered when the sh—when the dirt rained down."

Marcus glanced over to where the large stone well pierced the yard like a squat fortress itself, well away from the privies. "You haven't modernized the manor?"

She nodded. "We've pipes to the kitchens, of course. Aldus didn't hold with piping the bathwater in. He thought it was too extravagant." She smiled at Marcus. "Men."

While Marcus himself had nothing against regular bathing, he felt compelled to defend his sex. "Well, I could see where it might become wasteful."

"More wasteful than paying three footmen to carry water buckets to the second story?" She looked down at herself in dismay. Her gown was ruined to the knees and there were streaks of unspeakables in her hair. "Which I shall have to make them do tonight—and they are so weary."

"Well, that is what you pay them f—"

She grabbed his arm and towed him away from the others. "I require something from you, Mr. Blythe-Goodman. I don't want my staff to know, for they'd insist on carrying bathwater for me, and you're the only other person I—"

Marcus tilted his head at her pause. "The only other person you what?"

She huffed an impatient breath. "Suffice it to say that I know you had no hand in—" She spread her hands. "Well, this. Yet someone did, and they might still be about."

"What about Elliot? You just said you trusted him."

She laughed. "Elliot disappeared hours ago. Hadn't you noticed?"

He hadn't. He laughed. "That's Elliot for you."

She nodded. "Precisely my earlier point. Your discretion about… this morning… leads me to trust you. Will you be my bodyguard while I bathe in the lake?"

The moon is full and swollen in the dark lapis sky. A bright path shines on the glassy lake
—

The memory of what followed those lines struck him like a fist in his gut and his mouth went very dry. He nodded jerkily and swallowed. "It would be my pleasure, my lady."

"It will be a service, Mr. Blythe-Goodman, but it will not be a pleasure. Are we quite clear on that point?" She crossed her arms, raising her bosom and causing rather more devastation to his equilibrium.

Good God, man, she's covered in privy muck!

He thought about that for a split second. Did he care?

Most decidedly not. Which meant trouble he wasn't prepared to think about right now.

She led him around the house, grabbing up a pile of old, worn clothing the servants had brought out to use as rags when the old rags had been turned to rubbish. "A shirt and breeches for you, and here's a maid's dress for me." She held them at arm's length, for the rags were still cleaner than both of them, and led him down a well-kept path.

There was no full and swollen moon, thank God. Only a faint glow on the water from the many lanterns that had been hung around the area of destruction.

"If you will wait for me here, I shall step around this bank and bathe quickly. Then I shall stand watch over you."

Again Marcus found his mouth very dry. He managed some sort of assenting grunt, which satisfied her. She left him standing there, very glad of the darkness that hid the tent in his trousers and doubly glad he'd not finished reading the account of her lover by the lake.

The water was very cold but Julia could hardly feel the chill for the fire beneath her skin. Simply knowing that he was nearby watching—for he was watching, she could feel it—and knowing that he felt it too…

Felt what? They were both filthy and exhausted, and they'd hardly exchanged a dozen words all afternoon. She ducked her head to rinse her hair and to wash away such woolly thinking. She was a new widow, he was a gold digger. The only things he was thinking about were the size of her accounts. The only thing she ought to be thinking about was returning Barrowby to order.

A splash nearby brought her attention back with a start. She whirled in the dark water, spreading her hands out. There was nothing to see.

"Mr. Blythe-Goodman? Are you there?" There was only silence from the bank.

Alarmed, she began to work her way back to the water's edge, keeping low. "Mr. Bl—"

He erupted from the lake no more than an arm's length away, his bare wet chest gleaming in the scarce light

«
^
»

His form is like a god's, rippling with strength beneath my touch. Cool skin, hot hands, the rush and flow of the water between us…

"Eek!" Julia abruptly sank into the water up to her chin.

He jerked at the sound of her voice and nearly fell back into the water. "
Bloody
—"

He was obviously as surprised as she was. Julia fought the urge to giggle as he scrambled for footing on the gooey bottom. Instead, she put on a scowl.

"Sir, I beg you, explain yourself! This is most improper!"

He whipped the hair back from his face. "I'm improper? What of you, my lady? What sort of woman sneaks up on a man when he's bathing!"

"I didn't!"

"You did."

"You were supposed to wait for me to finish!"

"Well, I couldn't bear myself one moment longer! I'm not accustomed to being covered in sh—muck, you know."

Abruptly, she smiled at him. "Since it is my muck, and you've been such a help to me today, then I must forgive you." She moved to pass around him. "If you'll turn your back, I shall get out and leave you to your swim."

"There's no need for that." His voice was low, rumbling up her spine and causing the hairs to rise on the back of her neck. "The lake has water enough for us both."

She stopped and gazed at him uncertainly. His eyes were in shadow, his jaw tensed. The intensity of his gaze could be felt like fire on her skin. Time stretched as she lost herself in the darkness of his spell.

He swam about her slowly, his circling path growing smaller every course. She kept him before her, turning in the water, matching his speed. She could not tear her gaze from his. "I—I suppose I…"

"You are a most unusual lady."

She didn't want to be—or at least, she knew she shouldn't be. For a swift, endless moment, she wished she were precisely what he thought her—simply the widow of a wealthy man, a lady by birth and raising, free to make choices with her heart and not cold logic.

He was closer now, so close she could read the want in his eyes. He truly wanted her. Not only her position and wealth, although that might be as well. But this heat—she did not think this was simply yearning for an easy life. His desire flared between them, igniting her own.

It crawled over her skin like flame, only stimulated further by the cold water. She was naked and alone with this man, and yet he stayed his distance—nearly. Clear in his gaze was a question, one that she was answering by her own lack of protest.

And yet he did not complete the last spiral to press that smoldering heat to her chilled naked body. He stayed, waiting, floating inches away, forcing her to act instead of simply allow.

There was no sound but the wavelet lapping at the shore and her own heartbeat thudding in her ears. Even the sounds of the cleaning of Barrowby had died down as the darkness grew.

They were alone, entirely private.

Secret.

And no one ever need know.

Her heart thudded and she could hardly breathe for the ache in her lower belly. She need move only inches, need drift a mere moment closer—

It would be wonderful. Heaven on earth. Everything she'd never had and always dreamed of. She didn't know how she knew that about him, but she would have serenely wagered Barrowby itself on this man's knowledge of a woman's pleasure.

He would melt her in his hands. He would drive every fantasy from her mind with his hard, hungry reality. He would make her his forever…

But she was not hers to give. She belonged to the Royal Four and would for the rest of her life. A man such as he would never be satisfied with the half of herself she could afford to bestow. A man such as he would own her attention, would captivate her heart, mind, body, and soul.

And she would give them over to him, willingly, gladly, joyously—

If she were simply the woman he thought her.

She pulled away slowly, letting the cooler water rush between them. "I must be getting back," she said, her voice strange and husky to her own ears.

"Must you?" A breath of a whisper, but it pulled at her like a chain around her chest. She blinked and swallowed and stepped farther away.

"I must."

He let her go. For a moment, she'd wondered if she'd misjudged him, if he would fall upon her and make her stay.

Then it would not be your decision. Then you would be free to be his
—
taken, not given. Blameless
.

But then he would not be the man she thought him, and it was that man, the one who stayed where he was, alone in the water, respecting her decision—it was that man she wanted now more than ever.