The Beauty and the Spy (6 page)

And he was not wanting in that area.

A dark cloak swirled about his shoulders as he began to walk toward her. He removed the cloak and tossed it over a chair, then his frock coat followed. She kept retreating backward across the room. His faded white shirt stretched taut across his shoulders, and a pair of suspenders flattened it to his chest. His threadbare pants clung to his thighs and hips. She was no virgin who didn't know what a man's naked form looked like. After her experiences with her husband, she thought she'd never want to see that sight again.

But instead her mind betrayed her, and a kidnapper's body had secrets she suddenly wanted to see revealed.

Charlotte controlled a groan of mortification. She was alone with him. His gaze dipped to the bodice of her too-tight dress. Her late husband had never shown an interest in her form unless in the privacy of a bedroom. But Nick couldn't seem to stop. Sometimes she wanted to cover her chest with her arms, but other times—like now—
she wanted to straighten her spine, take a deep breath, and let him look his fill, show him what he would never have, prove that she wasn't afraid of him.

Raising her chin defiantly, she said, “So what are you going to do?”

He kept advancing until her back hit the wall and she had nowhere else to go. And still he kept coming, until his chest pressed into hers, and every inch of him seemed to touch her. She could feel his arousal, and she should have felt threatened. She was trembling, and she told herself it was out of fear, but to her shame, she knew it wasn't so.

He leaned down into her face, his breath hot against her skin. “Don't do that again,” he said menacingly. He stayed there, their lips almost close enough to kiss. She gasped as she breathed, and that only made her breasts ever more sensitive to the pressure of his chest. When his gaze dropped to her mouth, she stopped breathing altogether.

He suddenly stepped back, and she almost sagged to the floor.

He glanced at the second door. “And I'll make sure to tell Sam no more balconies.”

He wiped a hand through his hair and sprawled into a wingback chair before the cold hearth. “You know I can't let you go. Not until this is over, anyway.”

She put a hand on the other chair to steady her
self. “And did this evening bring you closer to the end?” she asked, remembering his meeting with someone named Will.

“We'll see.” He stared about the room, lit only with tallow candles on the table where she and Mr. Cox had played, as if he were looking for something. “I thought you'd be abed by now.”

Clasping her hands loosely before her, she made a show of pretending to be calm. “I am not in the habit of sleeping in front of strangers.” Were they going to act as if he hadn't pressed himself against her?

“So cards were in order?” he asked lightly.

“Mr. Cox suggested it. It kept my mind off…things.”

His expression sobered. “Did you have supper?”

“The innkeeper sent up what you'd ordered. Heaven forbid Mr. Cox lock me in so he could go find us food.”

“After what just happened, I wouldn't put it past you to pick the lock.”

“My accomplishments do not extend so far, but I am sincerely grateful for your praise.” She smiled at him sweetly, falsely.

His answering grin shouldn't have warmed her, but it did.

“You have a wicked, bold tongue on you,
Mrs. Sinclair
, and I discovered a few other bold things about you tonight.”

A chill went through her, but she remained
standing before him, trying not to notice how near to his spread legs she was. With but a step or two, she would be between his knees. A discordant thought that made her breath catch and her resolve harden.

“And what did you discover? That I am but an ordinary woman? That I have nothing to hide compared to a criminal like you?”

His head dropped back against the chair as he watched her. “I discovered you've been lying to me. Your husband is dead.”

It was as if he'd ripped away a layer of clothing to expose her, leaving her more vulnerable to him. She'd lost that card to play.

“Nothing to say?” he continued. “No protests, no explanations?”

“I owe you neither. It should be obvious to you why I let you believe what you wanted.”

“You thought you could use the fiction of a husband to make me treat you better, as if knowing someone could seek revenge on your behalf should affect my behavior.”

Again she said nothing.

“Charlotte, I would not care if you were an eighty-year-old grandmother. I would still treat a hostage with the same resolve and force—and with fairness.”

“And you would look at her bosom as much as you look at mine?” Oh God, where had
that
come from? What new, brazen woman was she becoming, to dare him so?

Nick's smile was slow and seductive. “Every man looks at your bosom, Charlotte. I wager you don't normally mention it to them. But now that you've brought up the subject—”

“It does not bear discussion,” she quickly interrupted, feeling hot and mortified and no longer so clever.

Because now he rose out of the chair and to his full height, which made the ceiling seem low. She made herself remain still, instead of scurrying to put a piece of furniture between them. Her face flamed as he deliberately studied her breasts, walking back and forth as if to judge them from all angles. Hadn't he just felt them against his chest, for heaven's sake?

When she could take his perusal no more, she surrendered and crossed her arms over her breasts.

“Now you see,” he began softly, “I do enjoy looking at your chest. I try not to, because I'm sure you think I'll attack you in your sleep—which I would not, by the way.”

“And I'm supposed to take the word of a criminal, especially a man who would intimidate me with his much larger body?”

His expression momentarily darkened, then cleared. “I am not a criminal. But I am only a man. I would not attempt to seduce you. On the other hand, should you offer—”

“I beg your pardon!” she cried.

“No begging necessary, of course,” he said,
stepping closer, looking into her eyes with a dark amusement she tried not to find fascinating. “As I said, you might invite me, since it has been over a year since you've been with a man, and a woman has certain needs…”

“As if I would ever need such a thing!” She was trembling with anger now. She couldn't help remembering how her husband had used that same phrase, “certain needs,” but applied it only to men. She couldn't imagine a woman needing to be treated the way her husband had treated her.

But Nick's knowing smile and the languorous way it made her feel called into question everything she'd ever known about relations between men and women. She had women friends who were blissfully happy with their husbands—and she had never understood why.

Nick hadn't admired a woman this much in a long time. Charlotte Whittington Sinclair had a smart answer for every barb he sent her way. And although she was flustered by the direction their conversation was taking, she was not backing down.

Hell, he wanted her. He admitted it to himself, knowing he could let nothing come of it. She was exciting and unusual, and not afraid of him. He had pressed her into the wall and still she'd not shown fear, only surprise. He'd wanted to rub his thigh between hers and rub other parts as well. But she didn't understand her power over him, and he wanted to keep it that way, much as he
longed to explore her insistence that she didn't miss sex.

But he'd been down this path before. His deference to women left him vulnerable to their manipulations, especially in bed. Julia Reed had done that to him—made him so besotted with her that he hadn't seen beyond the façade she presented, hadn't bothered to ask what she did when she was roaming Kabul dressed as a boy.

But he put Julia from his mind and concentrated on his lovely hostage, whose fair skin still blushed from the paths their conversation was taking. She didn't turn away from him. He allowed himself the forbidden, and gently stroked his finger along her soft cheek. For the space of a second he could feel her trembling, feel the softness of her rapid breathing, see her dazed expression.

Then finally she pulled back, and he knew he'd succeeded in driving her away. She broke his gaze, looked at the bed, realized where she was looking, and whirled toward the balcony door. Would she be so foolish as to try that again?

Clearing her throat she asked, “So who told you this secret about me? This Will person I don't know?”

“You don't need to hear the details.” He sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. “But I know more than one secret.”

W
hen his boots were off, Nick leaned back, bracing his weight with his arms. The mattress felt soft, and his body betrayed him by showing him how much he wanted this woman he couldn't have. He sat up quickly. Charlotte was no innocent virgin not to know an aroused man when she saw one.

“I have no other secrets,” she said with conviction. “I wouldn't even have had the one about my husband, if you hadn't assumed he was alive.”

“Your full name is Charlotte
Whittington
Sinclair.”

He was satisfied to watch her lovely brows
compress in a frown. Clearly she had no idea why her father's identity should matter to him.

“I told you my maiden name,” she said in a puzzled tone of voice.

“And your father is Colonel Whittington.”

She gave him a superior grin. “Then you now know he's in the military. When he finds out what you've done—”

“He'll find out rather soon. I eventually tell him everything.”

Her face reflected her thoughts like a disturbed pond, each ripple outward revealing another emotion: confusion, doubt, then dawning understanding and suspicion.

“You know my father?” she asked softly.

“He's been my commanding officer for many years.”

“Everyone knows he was in the military.”

“But does everyone know he was a spymaster?”

Her eyes went wide, and her lips parted soundlessly.

“Did you even know?” he gently asked.

“Only recently.”

She practically whispered the words. Then once again, she drew her strength about her like an overcoat and straightened her back. He swallowed hard over what that did to her magnificent breasts.

“But there are many ways you could have discovered that secret,” Charlotte said scornfully. “This proves nothing.”

“It proves I'm telling the truth. I could go into plenty of detail about the work I did for your father, but I'm sure he didn't share such dangerous things with you. I can tell you one thing, though—watching you wrap Cox around your finger certainly told me you take after your father.”

He watched the blush bloom in her cheeks and spread down her delicate neck until she turned away from him. She almost seemed…pleased.

Her shoulders drooped as she said, “There's no way you can prove any of this to me. You could have been in the army and deserted.”

“I could have,” he agreed pleasantly, then began to unbutton his shirt.

Charlotte didn't know where to turn, what to think. Nick claimed to work for her father! Her mind was scattered, unfocused, and she tried hard to think of the journals, but could remember not a single line. Besides, her father never mentioned people's actual names, just code names. She had to think calmly, logically, find some way to trip Nick up using the journals, but she was exhausted. She looked at the bed longingly, not even remembering how one felt.

She turned back toward Nick. “I'm tired, and I'm ready for b—”

He opened the few buttons on his shirt and pulled it off over his head. He was naked from the waist up, every inch of him as sculpted as the museum statues her sister had dragged her to see. She hadn't thought a real man could look that
way, but she was wrong. He'd looked broad and powerful in clothing, but she hadn't imagined his true impressiveness. And in several places, there were tiny white nicks, and even one long scar, marks of a life no society gentleman led. It should be disturbing—but it wasn't. It made her think of the dangers he'd escaped, and the skill it must have taken to survive.

He watched her calmly, arrogantly, as if he knew how he affected her. She couldn't allow such a thing, of course.

“Where will you be sleeping?” she asked pointedly.

He smiled and silently turned down the blankets on the bed, his answer obvious. Deep inside her, something dangerous stirred to life.

“Since you forced me to sleep bound in a carriage,” she said coolly, “I deserve the bed tonight. You may sleep in that chair. Light the coals in the grate. You'll be comfortable.”

“But then how would I keep an eye on my lovely prisoner?”

“You could pull the chair in front of the door. Surely there are only a few hours left before dawn, and you'll be up doing whatever secret things you have to do.”

“There
are
some secret things I'd like to show you.”

He looked down her body in that way that worried her, because it made her feel all shaky
and hot inside. Where was his menace now? Why couldn't he make her frightened of him again?

“But now is not the time,” he continued. “Let's get you out of that uncomfortable dress.”

With a squeak of surprise, she rushed to put the bed between them. “Mr.—Nick—!” How could she speak to him when she didn't know his last name? “Do not insult me so!”

“I'm not insulting you,” he said, striding with animal grace to stand opposite the bed. “I just know Sam misjudged your size. You couldn't possibly sleep in that dress.”

“I will manage, thank you!”

“As you wish. If you need a moment's privacy, step behind the screen.”

“Aren't you going to leave?” she asked faintly.

He only arched a brow at her stupidity. He continued to study her, and she must have succeeded in looking sick and desperate, because he suddenly sighed.

“All right, but I'll be right outside the door. I assume you now realize you can't escape me. Cox is with the carriage nearby, and trust me, he doesn't sleep well when we're traveling. If you try to escape off the balcony again, he'll hear you. If you shout for help, we'll only have to tell people that my poor, crazy wife is bound for Bedlam. Don't make me embarrass you like that.”

Charlotte remained silent, watching wide-eyed
as he pulled his shirt back on. He didn't bother buttoning it, and his skin gleamed in the opening.

“You have two minutes,” he warned, then stepped into the hall and closed the door.

Tiptoeing frantically, she found his portmanteau, then dropped to her knees and dug inside. Nothing but clothing—and a book on politics. A book! That was a waste of a minute.

Next she ran to the balcony door and opened it. She leaned out and saw the carriage nearby, just as Nick had said.

Down below, a man leaned against a hitching post and looked up at her, the whites of his teeth gleaming.

Nick.

She slammed that door shut and raced for the other one. Flinging it open, she only ran four steps down the hall before she ran squarely into Nick's broad chest. Desperate, no longer thinking, she opened her mouth to scream, and he covered it with his hand. Dragging her back inside, he flung her onto the bed, where she bounced once and rolled off the far side onto her feet.

She faced him across the bed, her chest heaving with each breath, feeling that she wanted to slap him.

Nick lifted his portmanteau onto the bed. He glanced down at the contents. “Looking for this?” he asked, pulling the pistol from his trouser pocket.

She gasped.

He rolled his eyes and set the gun inside the portmanteau. “I hope you at least refolded my clothes.”

He reached in again and this time removed real rope, not just strips of torn sheets. How had she missed that?

“I warned you,” he said when he saw her backing up. “Now get into bed.”

“But I still have to use…” Her voice died away.

“Then use the damn chamber pot!”

He was almost shouting by the end, and she scurried behind the screen.

Several minutes later, when she'd delayed all she could, she stepped out from behind the screen and saw that Nick was once again wearing only trousers. He blew out most of the candles until they seemed wrapped in shadows. But she could see the rope in his hand.

“I wasn't planning on tying you up, but you've left me no choice. Come here.”

“I promise I won't—”

“Charlotte!” He said her name calmly, firmly. “We both know you'll lie to get what you want. I admire that. Now come here.”

After she did as he requested, he wrapped a handkerchief around her right wrist, then knotted the rope over that. With a sigh she held up her left.

He ignored her, let out a yard's length of rope, then tied the end to his own left wrist. He didn't use a handkerchief to protect his skin, as he'd done to hers. Surely such consideration only aided his purpose. If her wounds festered, he'd need to seek treatment.

After pulling tight on the ropes one last time, Nick said, “Now get into bed on the left side.”

She hesitated, staring at the turned-down blankets, remembering when she'd last gotten into bed with a man, and what had happened.

“Charlotte.”

After saying her name, he didn't wait for her compliance, but climbed into bed and slid to the far side. The rope between them went taut, and she was pulled, stumbling, to the edge. She put a knee up, then gingerly lay back, so close to the edge that her shoulder hung off. The weight of him sank in the old mattress, making her panic that she would slide against him in her sleep.

Not that she was in any danger of sleeping when her heart raced so and her mind fluttered with images of Nick's naked chest and his dark eyes, eyes that she'd caught unguarded once. They'd betrayed a hunger she'd never seen before, which even now made her shiver.

She lay frozen, listening to the sounds of her captor relaxing into sleep. First she heard his breathing deepen and slow, then she felt the brush of his elbow against hers, sending her nerves into a panicked skitter.

She pulled her arm across her chest, but he didn't move again. How could he have fallen asleep so quickly? Surely he was trying to deceive her.

But minutes passed, and only one soft snore escaped him.

Nick had turned her into a liar.

With a sigh she watched the shadows dance through the curtains and flash mingled patterns on the ceiling. She'd always prided herself on her honor. No matter how coldly her husband had treated her, no matter what degrading things he'd forced her to do in the dark of the night, she'd had her honor. Sometimes she'd even fooled herself into thinking Aubrey Sinclair had admired her for it.

But when forced into desperate circumstances, the first thing she'd done was lie so that she could escape. And what had it gotten her? The admiration of a criminal—and the certainty that he'd continue to watch over her closely.

What was she becoming? she wondered, even as tears stung her eyes. She called herself desperate, yet Nick had touched her cheek and ignited a firestorm of yearning in her that she still didn't understand. She knew nothing about him—yet he'd treated her gently, showed more restraint than her own husband had. Nick was amusing and exciting and—

Was she starting to believe him? Just because he'd said he knew her father? Or was she misin
terpreting everything out of some sad need to change her life?

She'd succeeded in doing that, all right. She'd been kidnapped, tied up, threatened, and now forced to sleep bound to a man who confused her—scared her—drew her.

Slowly she turned to look at Nick. His head was turned toward her in sleep. He wore no frown, no look of intense concentration, just relaxed peacefulness. He looked…different, younger, so very handsome.

With rising dismay she realized she was succumbing to his charm. She had no proof of his allegiance except what she'd witnessed with her own eyes. She had to make her escape before she lost herself altogether. She'd find her father, and he would help her sort out the truth. She spent several fruitless minutes picking at the knot of rope at her wrist, then gave it up as hopeless.

But how else to escape? Nick was stronger than she was, and he had two other men to help him watch over her. He'd warned her again tonight to behave. And if she did, would that help her situation? Could she remain calm, outwardly docile, and lull them into forgetting that she was still a threat?

She rolled onto her side, trying to make herself comfortable in the tight dress, slid her hand beneath her cheek, and stared at Nick until she finally fell asleep.