The Lady Who Came in from the Cold (16 page)

God, he was beautiful.

And furious.

Which was to be expected.

She stepped back, beyond his reach, and gestured to the tray. “I’ve brought you some refreshment. You must be hungry and thirsty.”

“What the
hell
is going on?” His eyes blazed, his anger filling the room.

She wouldn’t let herself get intimidated. She was beyond fear and, in truth, as angry as he was. The image of him kissing Cora Ashley scorched through her, bolstering her resolve.

Meeting his gaze squarely, she said, “What is going on is that I’m done with you steering our marriage. I agreed to let you take the lead because I’d wronged you and because you said it would help rebuild trust between us. Well, at the ball, your
method
of reestablishing trust,”—her voice quivered with emotion—“left much to be desired.”

“That wasn’t what it seemed,” he said curtly.

“No? So I didn’t witness you cozied up with Cora Ashley? You didn’t have your arms around her? You weren’t bleeding
kissing her
?”

“If you’ll calm down—”

Oh no, he did
not
just say that to her. Her fury bubbled over. “I will
not
calm down. I may have betrayed your trust, Marcus, but I
never
betrayed our marriage vows. I’ve been faithful to you from the day we met. Which is more than you can say apparently.”

“Goddamnit, woman, will you just listen?” He planted his hands on his lean hips, scowling when the movement caused the chain to clank. “She threw herself at me, all right? Took me off guard. I only agreed to meet her on the balcony because she said she needed someone to talk to. About her marriage.”

Relief spread through Penny, but she said scornfully, “And clearly you’re an expert on the topic.”

“Pot calling the kettle black, is it? Seeing as
your
solution to our marital problems appears to be kidnapping.”

“You’re my husband. You belong with me.” She said it as she felt it: unequivocally and with no apologies. “Not with some high-kick trollop who’s no better than she ought to be.”

Something flared in his eyes—and it wasn’t just anger. She was suddenly aware of the tension sizzling between them, of the blood rushing hot beneath her skin. Her nipples were stiff and tingling beneath her robe.

“Yes, I’m your husband, Pandora. So bloody unchain me.”

The command, the growl in his voice, aroused her even further. Her heart thumped when she saw that he was similarly affected: his erection butted the front of his shirt. But she couldn’t give into desire—look at where that had got them in the bathing room. No, sex wasn’t the answer to their problems… not all of them anyway. What they needed most was to talk, and, to do that, she had to keep a cool head. Which meant she needed to get away from her dangerous, bristling, irresistibly masculine husband.

She put more distance between them. Gestured to the tray on the table. “Refresh yourself. You’ll need the energy for our talk. The talk we ought to have had in the first place instead of your asinine moratorium on communication.”

“Wait one damned minute. Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back after you eat and wash up.” At the doorway, she paused, looking back at him. “You’ll want to be comfortable while I tell you about my past.”

~~~

To Marcus’ disgust, he found he was ravenous. He polished off the meat pie and potato soup (favorites of his, although he probably should have checked for poison) and drank the entire pitcher of lemon-flavored water. After that, he took care of basic necessities behind the dressing screen and washed his face and brushed his teeth at the washstand. He couldn’t remove his shirt with the manacle on, so he simply tore off the grubby linen and threw the soft woolen blanket (that Pandora had so
thoughtfully
left for him) around his shoulders. When all was said and done and he felt human once more, he found himself reassessing his situation.

And came to a rather startling conclusion.

His fury was fading, edged out by simmering, undeniable arousal. He didn’t know if he wanted to throttle or make love to his wife—both, probably, and in equal measure. Mayhap at the same time.

Her shenanigans were beyond the pale—and he would make that clear in no uncertain terms when they had their little discussion. But he couldn’t deny that her spirit and feminine fire aroused him to the point of madness. Truth be told, they always had. The way her violet eyes had flashed when she’d said that he was
her
husband and belonged here with her and the lengths she’d gone to carry out this crazed rendezvous at their cottage in the Cotswolds—oh yes, he’d recognized the place and the significance of it—made heat swell in his groin.

It was his Penny all over again.

Passionate, reckless, and seductive as hell, she’d captured his senses and his heart from the start—and nothing had changed that. Nothing
could
change that. Not her past, not his stupidity… not anything.

The realization broke over him like the first rays of dawn, shattering the darkness.

It had taken her abducting him to make him realize that he was already hers. As she was his. They belonged together, and the simplicity of that fact suddenly made the present tangled mess seem a hell of a lot less daunting. With his fog of anger and wounded pride finally burning away, he saw with crystal clarity: what she’d done before their marriage didn’t matter anymore. What did matter, however, was that she’d felt the need to lie to him all these years, and that was something they most definitely needed to address.

As her footsteps sounded in the hallway, anticipation licked up his spine. Damn, but he’d missed his Penny. His lips curved slowly. He didn’t know what games she had in mind next, but whatever they were, he was more than willing to play.

Chapter Nineteen

Carrying a large box under her arm, Penny approached the door. She didn’t know what to expect, and it didn’t matter either way—because she was going to tell Marcus what he needed to know about her past. There was no putting it off, and doing so before had only worsened the state of affairs between them.

Taking a breath, she entered and saw Marcus sitting in the chair by the table. He’d eaten and washed up, thrown the blanket she’d left for him over his broad shoulders. Beneath the blanket, his chest was bare, the firelight flickering over the virile, hair-dusted ridges. He looked every inch the master of the house despite the fact that he was chained to the bed. She supposed she ought to unlock the cuff… then again, mayhap it was better to get matters off of her chest
before
freeing him.

He rose at her entry, his impeccable manners almost amusing given the situation. That was one of the things she’d always loved about Marcus. He was a gentleman not merely by birth but by his behavior: he showed regard for others… even if they didn’t deserve it.

“Feeling better?” she said.

“As good as a man who’s been drugged and kidnapped by his wife can feel.” His tone was neutral.

If he thought that would set off her conscience, he didn’t know her. Didn’t know the lengths she’d go to save their marriage. If being a spy had taught her anything, it was that sometimes the best choice was the lesser of two evils. Her arms tightened around the box.

“Would you care to have a seat?” Marcus gestured to the chair on the other side of the table, metal links rattling as he did so. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to unchain me first?”

She took the seat. It was the safer of the two options. Especially since she’d measured the length of the chain and knew she remained precisely ten inches out of his reach.

He followed suit, his posture in the chair lordly, his torso erect and his thighs slightly sprawled. She did her very best not to ogle his naked chest, the way the parted blanket accentuated the hard planes…

“You wanted to talk. So talk,” he invited.

She didn’t know what to make of his bland tone. Or his impassive expression. He didn’t seem angry—but, if the past two months were any indication, it wouldn’t take much to get him there.

Stop stalling. Get on with it.

Exhaling, she said, “I know you don’t want to hear about my past, but you’re going to have to. I’ve come to the conclusion that honesty is the only way for us to get past this.”

“By all means then, be honest,” he said.

What did he mean by having such a calm tone? His blue eyes were steady, and he seemed so much like her Marcus of old that she experienced the urge to just drop everything and crawl into his lap. To beg him to hold and cuddle her, to experience again the succor of being in his arms—the safest place she’d ever known.

Instead, she set the box on the table. It took up almost the entire surface. She put a hand on the lid before Marcus could lift it.

“We’ll start at the beginning,” she said. “The first time we met.”

“You mean at the Pilkington Ball?”

In for a penny…
“No, actually, that wasn’t it.”

A line formed between his brows. “I’m quite certain it was.”

Deciding to let the truth speak for itself, she took the lid off the box.

Casting a puzzled glance at her, Marcus reached inside, parting the layers of protective tissue. He pulled out the jacket, examining the scarlet fabric, the insignia … and incredulity shot across his features.

“What the devil? My officer’s jacket. Why do you have…?”

She saw the moment that the truth hit him.

“It… it was
you
,” he stammered. “The prostitute at the camp. The one who was being attacked by one of my men.”

So he remembered her.

“Yes,” she said.

“I don’t understand. Why were you there?” His gaze suddenly sharpened. “Dear God, that night… Christmas. Starky was found dead. Natural causes by all appearances.”

She wasn’t surprised that Marcus made the connection so quickly. Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington was a brilliant man. She sent up a prayer that he’d believe her explanation.

“He was a traitor,” she began.

“Yes, I know,” he surprised her by saying. “Several months after his death, we came into possession of letters he’d written. Plans he’d drawn of our battle positions. The missives proved that he’d been selling military secrets to the French.”

Relieved, she said, “Yes, he was.”

Blue eyes bored into her. “Starky didn’t have a heart attack?”

“No.” She held her husband’s gaze. “He didn’t.”

Marcus stared at her. Raked a hand through his hair. “By Jove… poison?”

She nodded, her heart an erratic presence in her chest. Not because she’d admitted to killing a turncoat—that bastard Starky had cost countless British lives by leaking information to the enemy—but because she didn’t know what her husband would think of her. Of the fact that she was capable of taking a man’s life.

“When Starky’s betrayal came to light,” Marcus said slowly, “Wellington declared that God had looked after us by taking a traitor from our midst. If Starky hadn’t died when he did, he would have compromised us further, made the months leading up to Waterloo even more bloody and hellish. But it wasn’t God’s work.” He sounded stunned. “It was you.”

Penny wetted her dry lips. “Octavian said there was no other choice. Eliminate Starky or let innocents die in his stead.”

“I understand his reasoning. I can even understand that actions during wartime are judged by a different set of morals than during times of peace. But what I don’t understand,” Marcus said, his voice low and dangerous, a muscle leaping in his jaw, “is why he’d send you—God, a mere
girl
at the time—to do such bloody, dangerous business!”

He was being protective… of her?

A lump rose in her throat. She didn’t think it possible, but her love for this man grew even more. At the same time, she realized that he didn’t quite grasp the entirety of what she was trying to communicate to him. Of what she was disclosing about who and what she’d been.

“Octavian sent me because I was one of the best.” She said it without pride or emphasis; facts didn’t require embellishment. “It wasn’t my first of that sort of mission; it wasn’t my last.”

Marcus said nothing. His assessing gaze didn’t leave her face. Perhaps the truth of whom he’d married was finally sinking in.

“Why did you keep it?”

His question was unexpected; it took her a moment to comprehend that he was referring to his jacket.

“Because I wanted to remember that night.” In this, she had nothing to hide. “The night I fell in love.”

His pupils darkened. “You didn’t let on.”

“How could I? For one, I was on a mission, and for another, I was disguised as a harlot. You would have turned me down flat.”

He didn’t refute her; they both knew it was true. He wasn’t the type of man who’d stoop to consorting with a whore, to taking advantage of someone less fortunate than he.

“Why did you wait until the Pilkington Ball to approach me? That was nearly four years later,” he said, frowning.

“At first, the business of Napoleon kept us both occupied. Then there was the aftermath of war to contend with. And I suppose the truth was,”—she shrugged—“I wasn’t ready to meet you. I needed time to prepare myself, to become the sort of lady you might be interested in. Flora was helping me, giving me lessons in all the things a debutante ought to know.”

“In between dispatching traitors and protecting your country, you were learning how to pour tea and make proper conversation?” Marcus said incredulously.

“Trust me, the former set of skills was far easier than the latter. I’d rather face a firing squad than a roomful of gossiping matrons.”

He didn’t respond to her attempt at levity. He said intently, “What if I had met someone else in the interim?”

She bit her lip before admitting, “I was keeping an eye on you.”

One dark brow winged. “Define keeping an eye.”

She released a breath. “I was there at Toulouse. In April of 1814.”

Surprise rippled across his face. “That was a bloody fight. We were tasked with capturing the Heights of Calvinet, and I was lucky a sniper’s bullet only grazed my…” His eyes widened, comprehension flaring in them. “It wasn’t luck?”