The Beauty and the Spy (10 page)

“Like yours?”

“I was in a moving carriage,” she reminded him, hoping he believed her.

“Then unlike you,” he said, with a touch of sarcasm, “Julia wrote the letter this way quite deliberately. Can you see a pattern?”

“A pattern?” To her surprise he handed her the letter, and she lifted it nearer to read. It was addressed to someone named Helen, and seemed a simple account of what Julia had been doing at a market fair in Kabul. “Where is this strangely named village?”

“In Afghanistan. Julia's brother, General Reed, was the head of a division of the army of the East India Company. Their parents are dead, and she'd been traveling with him for several years. There were quite a number of families in our encampment on the plains below the city.”

Charlotte studied the letter closely, seeing that Julia had even turned the paper and written up the sides of the margin. She hadn't noticed originally, but now she saw that Julia's penmanship wasn't poor. But there were plenty of stains and blots of ink, as if she were in too much of a hurry. She'd even randomly filled in the loops, perhaps scribbling while she collected her thoughts.

“There are drops of ink everywhere,” she said. “If Julia wasn't flinging her pen about, then I don't know how she did this.”

“Exactly,” Nick said with satisfaction. “Although it looks random, it isn't. Every mark on the letter is part of a code. This was how she told our enemies about the strength of our forces.”

She squinted at the paper. “I must confess, I see nothing.”

“I wouldn't have either, if not for Edwin Hume. He knew I was trailing Julia and him. He sent me word that he fears she means to kill him. He included this letter, and promised me the second letter, to use as proof against Julia. He demands our protection in exchange for this.”

“But how is the second letter proof?”

“Julia sent two letters, by two different routes.” He held the letter between them, and they both bent over it, their heads close together. “You notice that if the letters are intercepted, there is nothing suspicious to condemn her. But once the two letters are side by side, you use the second letter to figure out the code. That will be part of our treason case against her.”

“Part?”

“We have other evidence.”

When Nick didn't elaborate, she asked, “To whom did she betray England?”

“The Russians. Afghanistan is a buffer between Russia and British India. Much of my mis
sion was keeping track of what Russian agents were doing, and how the various monarchies of countries were receiving them.”

“And these hostile countries—they just let you sneak about?”

“Of course not.” He grinned down at her, and she saw his gaze drop to her chest, where the blanket had sagged a bit. “I'm very good at…blending in.”

His statement was very innocent, but somehow she had thought he was going to say something else. Her blood had heated before the words could even come out of his mouth. What did she want him to be very good at?

“And my father coordinated all this?” she asked, bringing up a topic she knew would refocus them both.

He straightened. “Especially for three of us.”

Three of them, she thought, remembering the men most often mentioned in her father's journals. Everything Nick was saying corresponded to what she had read. How could she know what the truth was? Goodness, he could have merely been in the army, and still know enough to fool her.

“Why don't we eat?” he said.

She watched him put the letter away in a flat leather pouch that he slid inside his portmanteau. Then he sat down in a chair and turned to watch her approach with a bit more attention than she felt necessary.

“I'll dress first,” she said, disappearing behind the screen with her own bag.

When she was covered well in the drab brown dress, she returned to the table and sat down opposite Nick.

He glanced at her. “Are you terribly uncomfortable in the garments Sam brought you? I regret he didn't choose the size well.”

“It is manageable. They seem to stretch a bit as I wear them.”

“Understandable,” he said dryly, and again she watched his gaze roam her figure.

She cleared her throat and cut her first bite of ham. “So tell me about the countries you've worked in. The only long journey I've taken was to Scotland.”

He told her about the Afghani mountains which towered so high they made Cumberland look like lowlands. He talked about fierce winters and hot summers, where one couldn't escape the elements. But her favorite part was listening to him talk about how the people lived.

It was all so foreign to anything she'd ever heard before. How could he be making it all up?

He was leaning toward her, smiling with intense interest in his subject, seeming so relaxed and civilized. His demeanor had changed much in just the last day. She should probably be suspicious.

“You know,” she said, when the conversation lulled, “I have noticed something about you.”

“What?”

“You try very hard to portray this inflexible, hard man that no one should cross.” She leaned even closer, feeling bold, daring. “But I think it's not true.”

He frowned.

“It's almost like another part you play in this spy game.”

There was a sudden knock on the door. Both of them straightened, but from his expression, she knew Nick wasn't done with her.

N
ick raised his voice as he emulated an army clerk who used to irritate the hell out of him. “Who is it?”

Sam answered, and Nick let him inside. With her eyes demurely downcast, Charlotte took a sip of her tea, but when she glanced at him, Nick frowned at her, masking his unease at her ability to see through his performance.

Sam glanced suspiciously between them. “I was right. Julia's heading for Kelthorpe's. She should be there by this afternoon.”

“Regardless of our threat to her, she couldn't avoid the house party of the man she's trying to marry,” Nick said, nodding.

“We aren't certain that she even knows we have Edwin Hume ready to talk. She might think she's safe.”

Charlotte set down her teacup. “But that man you were meeting when you kidnapped me—Nick, didn't he say he would tell Julia about your bribery attempt?”

Nick reluctantly smiled. “Yes, he did. He has to have caught up with her by now and told her about me. So are you saying you finally believe us?”

“I don't know,” she said primly. “I have a few other questions.”

Nick turned back to Sam. “Will is already in place at Kelthorpe's, isn't he?”

Sam nodded. “He secured an invitation as effortlessly as always.”

“My sister hates house parties,” Charlotte said. “Your friend won't have an easy time with her. Especially since she's anxious to see Papa.”

“I don't know about that,” Sam said with a shrug. “There seems to be the beginnings of an intimacy between Will and Jane. The colonel might have been right to pair them up.”

She folded her arms over her chest indignantly, and Nick kept his gaze on her face.

“But it was still wrong of Papa to force Jane so,” she said firmly. “Every couple needs a chance to see if they suit.”

“And they're getting that chance,” Nick pointed out, enjoying provoking her.

“Then let me go to her. She needs to know the truth about her situation.”

“I won't interfere with Will's personal life.”

“It's my sister's life as well!” she said heatedly.

He held up a hand. “We can argue later. Sam, even though Will is at Langley Manor, he won't be able to keep Julia in sight twenty-four hours a day. We need to watch the roads leading to the estate.”

“There are two of them,” Sam said, glancing pointedly at Charlotte.

Nick followed his gaze to find her watching him with interest. She obviously understood his limited choices.

“You and Cox won't be able to do this without sleep,” Nick said. “We'll take turns.”

“What about me?” she asked.

He arched an eyebrow. “You and I will discuss that later. Sam, if Julia is only just arriving there, surely she'll be occupied simpering to Kelthorpe for the rest of today. You and Cox get some sleep now, then begin your watch at midnight. I'll take turns relieving you both tomorrow.”

Charlotte again said, “But what about—” then stopped when he gave her a black look.

“Go talk to Cox,” Nick said to Sam. “Leave our
guest
to me.”

After Sam left, Charlotte found herself locked in a staring contest of sorts with Nick Wright. She wasn't afraid of him.

“If you escape,” he said, “Campbell will try to kill you—and maybe go after your family.”

She felt the blood drain from her face at his bluntness. “And if I remain with you, I'm a hostage, with no say in my life.”

He rolled his eyes. “It doesn't have to be this way. I've told you everything about our mission. I've never confided so much to an outsider in my life.”

“You just need me to be pliant.”

“I call it cooperative. After everything I've told you, why can't you trust me?”

She wanted to trust him. Was there some part of her still afraid that if she gave herself over to another man's care, she'd finally lose herself for good?

In a low voice, she said, “If you were in my situation, at your captor's mercy, you wouldn't find it so easy to trust.”

His dark eyes were mesmerizing, flaring with heat. He paused, and then seemed to make up his mind about something. “Then I'm at your mercy, if that's what it takes. The rope is still in my bag. Tie me up.”

Her breath caught in a gasp of shock at the thought of doing to Nick what he'd done to her—what her husband had done to her. A flood of power made her face flush with heat and excitement, but the good girl inside her said, “Tie you up? What would that prove?”

“You could ask me questions about my mission from things you've read in your father's journal.
If you don't like the answers, you can leave me here, and I won't be able to stop you.”

“Sam and Mr. Cox would still be in my way.”

“They're sleeping for the rest of the day.” He leaned forward, hands pressed to the table, and challenged her with his grin. “What are you afraid of? I'm the one with the most to lose. You could tell someone about everything that's happened and endanger the mission.”

“I wouldn't do that.”

“If you left, you'd be in danger from Campbell, and what do you imagine your father will think of me then?”

She got to her feet, angry that he'd use her father as his argument. “Where are the ropes?”

He slid his chair back from the table, his smile full of triumph. “In my portmanteau.”

He looked so darn comfortable sprawled in that hard wooden chair, so sure of himself.

When she felt the ropes in her hand, something terrifying moved through her. She knew what it was like to be tied up and helpless. Did Nick?

When she saw his smug expression, she hardened the uneasiness in her heart. Maybe he needed to know what it felt like to be humbled.

“Put your hands behind you,” she said coldly.

He slid those long, well-muscled arms behind him, and she walked around the chair. Forcing her fingers not to tremble, she crossed his wrists,
then began to wrap the rope around them, even using the lattice of the chair back.

“Good thinking,” he said.

Moving in front of him, she used two more pieces of rope to tie each of his ankles to the chair leg. Then she stepped back. His chest looked wide and expansive with his arms pulled back. His shirt was drawn taut across his muscles, his trousers snug across his thighs and pulled tight between his legs, outlining the part of him that made them so different from each other. Again she felt that flare of heat deep in the pit of her stomach. His head was tilted as he watched her, and she noticed a sheen of perspiration on his forehead, and an answering warmth in his gaze.

He was enjoying himself, and that thought hardened her resolve. She closed the curtains against the sunlight of midday, leaving the room in dusky shadows. For only a moment she thought of escaping, but it flashed and was gone from her mind.

How could she believe in Nick once and for all? She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax, recalling the journal. She'd had only a couple days to read it, but surely she could use it to her advantage.

She moved to stand directly in front of him, almost—but not quite—between his knees. “In what city did my father first land in India?”

He dropped his head back and laughed.
“You're not playing fair. He reached the country long before I did.”

She smirked at him.

“But I know the answer. It was Bombay.”

With a tilt of her head and a smile, she acknowledged his correct answer.

His smile faded as he watched her. Then very deliberately his gaze dropped down her body, lingering on a rounded area he had already professed a fascination for.

“So what's my prize?” he asked in a deeper voice more husky than normal.

“Prize?” Her voice broke, and she inwardly cursed herself.

“I had the right answer, didn't I?”

“Surely you don't think I'm going to untie you after just one answer?”

“No. But you can come closer. I'll take that as my first reward.”

First reward?
She suppressed a shiver. But something was uncoiling inside her, like a serpent in the Garden of Eden. There was a guilty pleasure in knowing that Nick was at her mercy, that he could not move. Boldly she stepped between his legs until the chair itself stopped her, until her full skirts pressed against his legs. She thought he drew a deep breath, but she could not be sure, for his expression never wavered from amusement.

“Next question?” he prompted.

It was hard to think so close to him, especially
when he no longer even made a pretense of keeping his gaze on her face. Her breasts burned beneath his regard, and she felt constricted in the too-tight dress, as if she couldn't take a deep enough breath.

“What did my father call you?”

“That's an easy one. Mr. North.”

She sucked in her breath. “I already told you about Mr. South and Mr. West. You could have—”

“Made it up? Will is Mr. West and Sam is Mr. South.”

“You heard me say that!”

“And your father is Mr. East, because even before the sun rises—”

“He's awake,” she interrupted, repeating the end of the quote her father, Ernest Whittington, had often used when he wanted his daughters to remember that he knew everything they were doing—or not doing, as far as Charlotte's studies were concerned.

Damn. She almost cursed aloud. She put her fists on her hips and narrowed her eyes at him.

“I'm right again,” he said, and this time, to her surprise, he betrayed himself by wetting his lips. “So what's my next reward?”

Her hand flattened below her neck, and his gaze followed. What could she use against him? She smiled and undid the top button at her throat. He gaped at her. This was easy. It would take ten buttons before her dress even reached
the provocative neckline of any ball gown, and she certainly didn't intend to let things get that far. But he seemed to take such pleasure in teasing her that she actually looked forward to giving it in return.

Yet her heart raced as the wanton inside her took control. “Ingenious,” he said.

Did his voice sound different? “Thank you.”

“But would you mind asking questions about the other spies or me? Talking about your father feels—indecent. I'm thinking thoughts about his daughter he wouldn't approve of. Now ask me another question.”

She should stop now. She knew the truth about Nick—he was no criminal. Who else would know these things but an associate of her father's? But she found herself whispering, “What mission did you and your fellow spies almost ruin?”

His grin was wicked. “A mission to the fort in Jalalabad. And do you know
why
it was almost ruined?”

She swallowed and shook her head.

“Because my disguise as an Afghani tribesman was so good, I was picked out to marry a local girl.”

She held her breath.

“She didn't exactly want marriage.”

“What did she want?”

“To be pleasured.”

His husky voice hummed through her.

Softly he asked, “What would give you pleasure, Charlotte?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She didn't know.

“I need my reward,” he prompted in a hoarse whisper that dared her, excited her.

She popped open another button, wondering if she was revealing the frantic pulse in the hollow of her throat. But why should
she
be the only one unbuttoning? After all, he was at
her
mercy.

Before she could think things through, she removed his cravat and opened several buttons on his shirt, even as his mouth fell open in surprise. Her thumb brushed against his skin, and he hissed in a breath and looked up at her. Their faces were close, their breaths mingled. Daringly she placed her open palm flat against his skin below his neck. She could feel the heat of him, the frantic pace of his heart.

But he couldn't touch her. She was the one in control.

Lifting her hand, she let her fingers lightly caress him, feeling the coarseness of chest hair. “What happened to Mr. South in the Turkestan desert?”

He watched her hand move, then with a groan he looked back up at her face with an intensity that was riveting. “He was captured and sold as a slave.”

“Who rescued him?”

“I did—but that's two questions, so I'll need a large reward.”

The sound of his desperation ignited a surge of something deep in her blood—desire. This was what it felt like to desire a man, to want his touch, to want his kiss. Brazenly she opened five more buttons, then glanced down at herself, seeing a path of skin and a just a bit of white lace from her chemise.

Suddenly he strained forward in the chair, but she didn't let herself recoil from him.

“Untie me,” he whispered. “I want to span my hands around your waist, feel the curves of your—”

“No. You're not in charge anymore.”

He tilted his head back and grinned up at her. “You like this feeling of power?”

“Maybe. Now which spy was presented to the Shah of Persia?”

“Will. He was acting as an emissary from the British government.”

He'd answered everything correctly—what more could she ask? And what reward could she give?

She put her hands on his face and kissed him.