The Beauty and the Spy (3 page)

She gave a little snort, unable to help herself. Sam looked away, obviously hiding his amusement.

Nick watched her impassively. “I don't care whether you believe me or not. If I were lying, wouldn't I have killed you by now? It would make our next few days much easier. We work for the government; that's all you need to know.”

“I
don't
believe you,” she said bravely.

“You don't have to. All that is required is that you obey unquestioningly. If I have to choose between safeguarding you and finishing my mission, you will not be what I choose.”

Trying not to shiver at the coldness in his voice, she thought,
My mission
, and wondered why that sounded familiar. Regardless, he obviously thought himself very important—and he made up lies to reinforce that.

Nick thrust a book at her, then several sheets of paper. “You're going to write a letter. Do you need to remove your gloves?”

She gaped at him, letting everything slide untouched off her lap as the carriage jostled its passengers. “I will not help you in any way.”

As Sam patiently retrieved the items from the floor, Nick said, “You will write a letter to your family, saying you've decided to leave London for
a few days. Come up with a good reason. Surely you don't want them to worry.”

She blinked at him, then folded her arms across her chest. “I will not. I
want
them to send the police looking for me.”

He tilted his head and studied her with those dark, black eyes. “We're long gone from London, and heading farther away every hour. No one will find you. Do you
want
your family to be crazed with worry, to spend days—if not weeks—wondering if you're lying dead somewhere?”

Feeling nauseated, Charlotte imagined her mother's reaction to her disappearance. Never a strong woman, Lady Whittington might suffer a drastic decline in health. Could Charlotte live with herself if she were responsible for such a thing?

“But you're going to kill me anyway,” she whispered, ashamed of the despair in her voice but unable to stop it. How her mother would suffer because Charlotte foolishly thought herself invincible enough to follow a dangerous stranger.

Nick sighed heavily. “We are not going to kill you. As long as you don't do anything foolish, you will be returned to your family unharmed.”

She dashed a tear off her cheek. “Stop lying! I've seen your faces. I know what you're up to. You won't set me free.”

Nick leaned toward her, and she shrank back into her corner. “We work for the government,” he said, enunciating slowly as if she were a child.
“Campbell, that man you saw me with, is a criminal. He works for a woman who has sold military secrets to a foreign country. We're trying to capture her, so I need to secure Campbell's eventual cooperation. I'll do that by getting him to trust me. I can't tell you any more.” He gestured to the paper beside her on the bench. “Now you need to write this letter. What is your name, so we know where to send it?”

Charlotte knew he couldn't be trusted; he was making up stories to confuse her, to win her sympathy. He might think himself good at deception, but he was just another man out to victimize women—Charlotte and the woman he labeled a traitor. After a hellish marriage, Charlotte was through being a victim to men.

But she couldn't make her mother suffer.

Lifting her chin, she gave him a disdainful look. “I am Charlotte Whittington Sinclair. You can deliver the letter to the London home of my mother, Lady Whittington.”

Something flickered in Nick's face, and he blinked for several moments, until he finally nodded. “Good girl.”

“I am not a girl.” But the rebuke was halfhearted, as she was too busy studying the distracted way her captor turned to look out the window, as if forgetting shutters guarded them from the night.

N
ick watched the woman—Charlotte Whittington Sinclair—pick up the pen, dip it in the inkpot Sam held, and begin to write. The scratch of the pen on paper could barely be heard above the muted sounds of the moving coach, the distant rumble of horses' hooves, the rhythmic creak of wood and leather.

Whittington.
It couldn't be.

She paused in her writing and stared into the distance sadly. She had a delicate, lovely face, with full lips made for smiling. He wondered what she would look like happy—how she would smile for her father, Viscount Whittington. To
her, Whittington was a nobleman, with ties to London society. But to Nick and Sam, he was the colonel, their commander—their spymaster, newly retired.

How the hell had he and the colonel's daughter ended up at the same ball? And how would he explain his behavior, the way he'd tackled her on a bed, how he'd lifted her skirts to bind her, pawed her thighs, and then dropped her off a balcony?

Remembering her legs made him glance at her again. The ball gown's plunging neckline plunged a little more with every hour. For a small woman, she was well endowed. She overflowed the dress, and if she moved suddenly, he might even see—

Shifting uncomfortably, he reminded himself that she had a husband. Sinclair. He remembered the colonel's regret when he couldn't leave India for the wedding. Everyone in foreign service was used to those kinds of disappointments. Luckily for Nick, it had never been a problem.

But if Charlotte had a husband, why did she want the letter sent to her mother? And did she have children to worry about?

Now that he knew who she was, he found himself sliding deeper and deeper into concern for her. She was his hostage, a woman who could hold the fate of his mission in her hands should she escape. But she was also young and frightened, and it was getting harder for him to ignore the sympathy he was starting to feel.

He had to conquer this weakness where women were concerned. Yes, women needed protection—but that didn't mean they weren't also traitors and hostages. He constantly reminded himself that, like men, women should have to live by the consequences of their actions.

The woman in question now threw her completed letter at him, and it fluttered to the floor between them. She drew herself up haughtily, taking a deep breath that did dangerous things to her gown. He kept his eyes on her face, lifting one eyebrow in a show of impassivity he was far from feeling.

Then he betrayed himself by bending over and picking up the letter instead of making her do it herself. Damnation. He ignored her triumphant expression, glanced at the drying letter, and frowned.

“Will she be able to read this?” he asked in an annoyed voice. “It looks scratched by an illiterate. You should have taken off the gloves.”

“I assure you, I am not illiterate. But we are in a moving carriage, and it was the best I could do.”

He read the contents, noticing with approval that she came up with a valid excuse for a young lady of society. She claimed to have changed her mind about traveling, and decided to catch up with her sister Jane, who was headed north with her betrothed.

“Fine,” Nick said briskly. “Sam will see that
it's delivered. He'll also bring you more clothing,” he added, glancing with disapproval at the ball gown.

Charlotte blanched as if he'd threatened to kill her mother. “H-he cannot break into my home—either of them! My mother is alone but for the servants. She could be frightened into an early grave!”

Nick felt there was something she was trying to keep hidden. “Are you not concerned with your own home, with your husband's reaction?”

She took a deep breath, hesitated, then said, “Of course I am. But my mother is frail.”

“Then you needn't worry. Sam will not be taking foolish chances. He will purchase you a wardrobe that…complements our mission.”

She opened her mouth to speak, looked between them, then simply frowned and turned away, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. Sam and Nick shared a wide-eyed glance over what she displayed, but she didn't notice.

His curiosity got the best of him, and he asked, “Do you have children, Mrs. Sinclair?”

She hesitated, seeming to struggle with some emotion he couldn't name. Finally she shook her head.

“That's good,” he said. “Children might not understand your absence.”

“But my mother—and my husband—will?” she asked sarcastically.

“Because you've explained it so well in your letter, of course.”

She bit her lip but said nothing.

Soon Nick could tell that Charlotte was fighting a losing battle where exhaustion was concerned. Her eyelids lowered, then fluttered back open several times. Her head dipped forward once or twice, then finally her body gave in, and she sagged into a corner asleep.

After several minutes, Sam softly said, “I think you were a bit harsh with her, Nick.”

He knew he had to be, because his first inclination was to protect her, to treat her tenderly. But all he said was, “If she's afraid, she won't cause trouble.”

“Did you think that maybe you'll make her more desperate this way?”

“I'll take that chance. What's Will up to?” he asked, changing the subject to their friend Will Chadwick, who'd left the military for a normal life. “Has he spotted you following him yet?”

“Once or twice, but I always escaped before he could discover me.”

“He's losing his touch,” Nick said with a grin.

Sam shrugged. “Maybe. But I'm not staying very close to him, because we don't care what he's doing—we just need to know where he is if we need him. Will we?”

“Need him? I'm not sure yet. After you deliver the letter—”

“And purchase ladies' garments?” Sam interrupted with a grin.

“Hmm,” Nick said in a growling voice. “Yes, after that see what Julia Reed is doing. If she's leaving London, we'll need Will's help keeping track of her.”

“He won't want to do it. He made it perfectly clear he was done with this life.”

“Maybe, but he's loyal, and I think I could persuade him.”

“You, persuasive?” Sam said with a laugh. “I never thought you had to resort to that.”

Nick glanced at their sleeping hostage, whose eyelids fluttered with dreams even as she frowned in distress. “I've got a lot of persuading ahead of me.”

 

Before Charlotte finally fell asleep, she heard some of their discussion about another criminal named Will, but none of it seemed as important to her as sleep. She dozed restlessly, and in her dreams, her father was coming to rescue her with his three spies, Mr. North, Mr. South, and Mr. West, code names that had come up often in his journals. They seemed to be very dashing and handsome men, very brave in following their country's duty. What would Papa do in a situation like hers, where brute force was impossible? Try to trick her captors?

She came fully awake when the carriage slowed, disappointed to realize that her reality was still as
daunting and frightening as ever. She made a great show of quiet acquiescence when Sam brought her a breakfast tray from the kitchen of an inn before he left for London. She didn't bother to show them how difficult it was to remove her gloves, which were now caked with dried blood at her wrists. She hoped to lull them both into believing they'd succeeded in frightening her into submission.

Nick passed a chamber pot inside, saying a bit too loudly that he hoped her strength returned soon after her recent illness. Obviously a servant was waiting nearby. Charlotte desperately wanted to scream for help, but she worried what they would do to the servant, regardless of their protests that they were honorable men.

A few minutes later she overheard them talking with the coachman, Mr. Cox, a tall, silent man who kept himself wrapped in dark clothing. How did he feel about their keeping a hostage? She would try to determine if he was someone she could appeal to for help.

She ate to keep up her strength, munching gratefully on biscuits and cheese. After the horses were changed, Nick alone climbed back inside, and the carriage pulled away again. She noticed that their speed had greatly diminished, as if they didn't want to stay too far ahead of Sam.

The kidnapping reprobate sat opposite her, his long legs spread wide, as if he'd previously been restrained having to sit beside his partner. She knew he was trying to intimidate her, and she
had to admit he was succeeding. She fought the instinct to draw her legs up beneath her and cower away.

She wished he would sleep, because all he did was watch her. And his gaze did not always remain on her face. The upper slopes of her breasts felt hot with embarrassment at being the recipient of so much male attention. Never had a man been so forward as to leer at her. She felt bare, stripped raw by his attention.

She finally pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, and he gave her a brief smile that did not reach his eyes. They were as cold and black as the remote depths of hell must be, where all heat and flame had long since fled. He could hardly convince her that he was a government agent when he looked at her so thoroughly, so dispassionately. And he had fondled her legs!

Charlotte fervently hoped that her letter would convey the clue it was intended to give. She didn't want to alarm her mother, but she hoped her deliberately poor penmanship would alert Lady Whittington that something was wrong. She just wanted her mother to think she was distressed and sad about her widowhood. Surely Lady Whittington would send a letter to her husband, telling him to take special care of Charlotte's feelings once Charlotte arrived in Yorkshire. And when she didn't arrive, her father would realize that something ominous had occurred, and would know what to do.

She knew it was a remote possibility that such things would all come to pass, but she had to take a chance—like the chance she took pretending that her husband was still alive. Surely her captors would treat her more cautiously if they thought that her husband would be demanding justice if they abused her.

She waited until the carriage stopped again to take another, even riskier chance. The blackguard stepped outside, and she saw a wince cross his face, as if he'd grown stiff. Stiff! Her ankles had been tied for almost a day now. He didn't know the meaning of stiff!

When the door closed, she awkwardly pressed herself against it to listen. She heard him speak to Mr. Cox, who then climbed into the coachman's box. Perfect. She lay back on the floor, bound legs raised toward the door. When Nick opened it, looking down to place his foot on the step, she kicked hard, aiming for his face. But his height deceived her, and she landed a blow to his chest that sent him staggering backward.

His hard, angry face was enough incentive to move quickly. She tried to jump from the carriage, yelling for help, but in her brief glimpse of the outside world, she saw only the rear of a stable and a deserted yard. Then he hauled her back inside and the carriage sped off, leaving them in a tangled heap on the floor.

“That was foolish,” he ground out, pushing her down, then rising on his knees to loom over
her. “I told you things would go better for you if you behaved.”

Using her hands, she pulled herself up to a sitting position against the far wall, trying to stay away from him. That was difficult when his legs straddled hers, and she felt weak and helpless. “Wouldn't
you
try to escape if someone held you against your will? How can you expect me to do otherwise?”

He eyed her as if considering her words, then shook his head tiredly. “These are dangerous times, Charlotte.”

“Mrs. Sinclair,” she said, lifting her chin in defiance.

One corner of his mouth curled up in a smile. “But your name is lovely, Charlotte. It would be a shame not to use it.”

She frowned at him with incomprehension. Was he teasing her? Pointing her finger, she started to lecture him. “Don't think you can—”

He suddenly grasped her wrists and pulled her up, her body dangerously near his. The wide skirts of her ball gown offered only meager protection against the weight and heat of him.

“And now you'll have to pay the price for your disobedience,” he said in a low, rumbling voice.

She froze, waiting for terror to surge through her, immobilize her—but it didn't, and she felt relieved. She allowed him to manhandle her back onto the bench. She offered a token struggle when he tied up her wrists again, but she knew
she could not fight the strength of his long fingers. She would look for other ways to manipulate him.

 

Several hours passed, and when the carriage slowed, Nick pulled the gag back out of his pocket. Charlotte watched him quietly, knowing this meant that they were finally going to leave this moving prison. When the carriage stopped, she felt it swaying as Mr. Cox climbed out of the coachman's box, but he didn't knock on the door.

“I'll keep quiet,” she said, even as Nick loomed over her.

He snorted his disbelief. “Open your mouth.”

She hesitated but finally obeyed him. He stuffed cloth into her mouth and tied the gag about her head. He stayed at her side, his face above hers, his black eyes so near she could see a faint circle of gray about the pupil, a hint of something soft inside that she couldn't believe about this ruthless man.

“I wish that you would accept the truth,” he murmured.

She remained still as he tucked her stray hair back behind her ears. His finger slid along the shell of her ear, and then he touched her chin. Something inside her trembled, though she wasn't afraid.

“We are not the ones you should fear,” he continued.

She put as much scorn into her eyes as she could.

He suddenly chuckled. “You're very bold, Mrs. Sinclair. Or perhaps it's
Lady
Sinclair. Such nobility would suit you.”

They remained still, staring at each other, until he shook his head and backed away.