Elizabeth Thornton (17 page)

Not long after, she relented, as Hugh knew she would. It was Harper who brought the dinner tray. “What, no champagne?” asked Hugh.

“Miss Vayle,” said Harper, “plucked the glass off the tray before I could get out the door. She said I should tell you that you’re to make do with tea until she says differently.”

“Tea?” said Hugh hopefully, eyeing the china teapot on the tray.

Harper shook his head. “It’s more than my life’s worth.”

Hugh sighed, and reached for a chicken drumstick.

Her wrists ached, her arms ached, her back ached, not from all her housework, but from Harper’s pistol practice. The book she’d read had not told her how much physical effort was required to shoot a pistol. She thought all one had to do was pick it up, aim, and shoot. No one had told her that when she pulled the trigger, she would feel the report of the shot all the way from her shoulder
right down to the tips of her fingers. She couldn’t even hit the door at fifteen paces. How was she ever going to learn to protect herself?

The weight of the water in her bucket made her groan as she raised it and emptied it into the sink. She could scarcely believe how puny she was. She was young, healthy, and strong, yet after an hour’s pistol practice she felt as weak as an old woman.

And she’d wheedled a promise out of Harper to put her through the same torture tomorrow? She must be crazy.

She wasn’t crazy, she was scared. Those thugs had abducted her brother. They’d got to Hugh as well. She just couldn’t see them holding to their bargain once she handed over the book. They’d killed Colette and Jerome. What was to stop them from killing George and her as well?

She
would stop them if she could only learn how to shoot a gun.

It wasn’t all bad. Maybe she couldn’t hit a door at fifteen paces, but she’d learned a few things. She knew how to load a pistol now, quickly and efficiently. She’d learned not to waste her shot because one shot was all she was going to get. She knew not to get too close to an opponent because it would be easy for him to disarm her. That’s why Harper had insisted that she try to hit the door at fifteen paces. And she’d learned that each pistol was different—some threw to the left and some threw to the right. All that meant was that few pistols ever hit what they were pointed at.

Then what was the use of trying? she asked herself angrily. She didn’t know why guns had been invented if they couldn’t shoot straight.

Or maybe it wasn’t the gun; maybe it was her. After all, Harper hadn’t had any trouble hitting the target.

She replaced the bucket beneath the sink, picked up a damp rag, and spread it out to dry on the draining board rack. She jumped when the kitchen door opened, then relaxed when Hugh entered. He was wearing a dark blue dressing robe, and his injured arm was bound tightly to his chest. If he tried anything, she wouldn’t need a gun to protect herself. One slap on that weak shoulder would send him to his knees, and she was just in the mood to take him on.

He said, “I’ve been waiting for you to come upstairs so that we could discuss what happened at the Black Boar.”

She made a vague gesture with one hand. “I’ve just finished cleaning up in here. Besides, I’m sure Harper has told you everything already.”

“I don’t think so. Sit down, Abbie.”

She blinked at his tone of voice and took the chair he indicated, because it gave her something to do while she marshaled her thoughts. This wasn’t the kind of threat she’d been expecting.

Hugh edged one hip onto the tabletop and eyed her blank expression. “Those men at the inn … You know who they are, don’t you, Abbie?”

“I’ve never seen them before in my life!”

His eyes narrowed fractionally. “Let’s not mince words. You’re in some kind of trouble, you and your brother both.”

Though her heart leaped, she kept her voice and gaze steady. “And I think you must have come down with a fever. You’re raving, Hugh.”

“Will you stop lying? Don’t you know how serious
this is? Harper recognized the man on the gallery. He’s attached to British intelligence.”

She looked at him without comprehension, then her jaw went slack. “British intelligence? You mean … he’s a
spy
?”

Hugh paused before answering. There was no doubt in his mind that her shock was genuine. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

She jumped to her feet. “Now I
know
you’re raving. We’re not at war with anybody. Harper must have been mistaken. And anyway, what have spies to do with me?”

“All right. So you didn’t know about British intelligence. But you’re not being completely honest with me. I want to help you, don’t you see? So please, no more lies between us.”

Her pulse was pounding so loudly she could hear it thrumming in her ears. She looked up at him with unseeing eyes. Her mind was paralyzed and she was afraid to make connections—Paris, the British embassy, George, spies.

Hugh saw that dazed look and cursed himself under his breath. He slipped from the table and took the one step that separated them. With his good hand, he cupped her neck, anchoring her to him. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “It’s not that serious. I have connections. I’ll take care of everything, Abbie. I would never let anything happen to you.”

When she stared at him with the same unseeing expression, he tilted her chin up and pressed his lips to hers in a chaste kiss. “Let me take care of you, Abbie,” he murmured. “I promise, I’ll take good care of you.”

He kissed her again and this time his mouth was open, warm, wet. His hand moved from her neck and
cupped her breast. When she accepted that intimate touch, a powerful shudder wracked his body. He dipped his head and kissed her chin, her throat, her breasts, then his mouth closed over one taut nipple through the fabric of her gown.

With a choked sob, she leaped back.

Hugh combed his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry. It just happened. I wanted to comfort you.”

“
Comfort
me? By telling me a pack of lies? You wanted to frighten me so you could take me off guard.”

“Now who’s raving? I came in here with only one thought in my mind: I want to protect you.”

Abbie struggled to find her balance. As she gained control of her senses, she took another step back.

It wasn’t his kisses that had shocked her, as he seemed to think, but the sudden suspicion that he would use any means to get the truth out of her. But that didn’t make sense. Hugh wouldn’t use those underhanded methods. He wasn’t the enemy, but an innocent bystander. If it hadn’t been for her, he wouldn’t be involved at all.

All her instincts told her to trust him, and that’s where the danger lay. This was a lethal game they were playing, and she didn’t want Hugh involved at all.

She had to find a way to take him out of the game.

Her voice was cool and controlled. “You want to protect me? If this is a renewal of your insulting offer, you can go to Hades. I value my self-respect.”

“I never meant to insult you. In fact—” He broke off, paused, then went on, “That’s beside the point. When I came in here, I wanted to talk to you, that’s all. Then, well … things got out of hand.” He grinned crookedly. “I can’t resist you, Abbie, and that’s the truth.”

He meant what he said. She could see it in his eyes: desire tempered by ruefulness. It would be so easy to give
him back the same words. Then he’d enfold her in his arms and make love to her, and.…

And then she’d never get rid of him.

She said lightly, “What a pretty compliment, Hugh. Truly, I’m flattered. But it comes too late. You see, I realize that I could never be happy with a man like you.”

Temper heated his eyes, then cooled to ice. “A man like me? Would you mind explaining that remark?”

“I’ve lost interest, Hugh. That’s all I meant.”

“You have an odd way of showing it.”

“As I said, you took me off guard. I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty. I’m telling you so that you’ll take my no as final. I can’t deny that when I’m in your arms, I forget … well, everything but being in your arms. But I could never be happy with what you offer. So I’m asking you to give me a chance to find what I really want.”

“Which is?”

“There must be some nice man out there who isn’t too fussy; someone who would be content with a solid, affectionate relationship based on mutual respect; someone who wants children as much as I do. That’s what I want, Hugh.”

It was the truth and it was all lies. But she’d done what she’d set out to do. She could see that he believed her. Behind the fury, she detected the hurt pride. One day, if everything turned out well, she would beg his forgiveness. One day, when this was all over.

At the door, she turned back as though a thought had just occurred to her. “When we get to Newbury, I shall hire my own chaise. We have nothing more to say to each other, so there’s no point in traveling together.”

Hugh’s face was grim when she closed the door.
Babies
, he was thinking. Abbie wanted
babies
? Babies were the one thing he never thought about.

Some nice man
.… If he found that man, he would kill him.

R
ichard Maitland drained his coffee cup and glanced around the dining room, hoping to catch the eye of a waiter so that he could settle his bill and return to his room. He usually liked to linger over his after-dinner coffee, but because the Black Boar had more guests than it could accommodate, he’d had a long, long wait in the taproom. When he was finally called into the dining room, he learned that dinner was not served after ten o’clock, and all that was available were cold meats and sandwiches. To add insult to injury, he’d had to share his table with a talkative bore of a man, and his patience was wearing thin.

There were, however, no waiters in that besieged dining room willing to look anyone in the eye, and Maitland resigned himself to another five minutes, ten at the most, of utter boredom. Not that boredom was anything new. Since they’d lost Templar and the woman in the storm, they’d been marooned here for over twenty-four hours, sitting on their hands. Meantime, he’d sent two of his men to check the road to Newbury. As soon as conditions
improved, they would be out of here, even if they had to take off in the middle of the night.

The gentleman sitting opposite him, who’d introduced himself as Mr. John Compton, was eyeing him speculatively. “You’re Scottish!” he declared, as though he’d just trumped his opponent in a game of whist.

“How did you guess?” asked Maitland indifferently. He already knew what the answer would be. Five years of striving to erase his own accent so that he would fit in with his uppity English colleagues had proved only moderately successful.

“It was when you said the word ‘waiter,’ ” responded Compton. “You rolled the
r
. Otherwise, I would have taken you for one of us.”

Maitland bared his teeth in a stiff-lipped smile. “Praise indeed,” he murmured laconically.

Arrogant English bastard!
he thought. Did he think that all the Scots had red hair and freckles? Or maybe he expected to see heather growing out of his ears?

Compton went on innocently, “It’s one of my hobbies, you know, trying to place a man by his accent. I had pegged you as an Oxford man until that
r
betrayed you. Or perhaps you did go to Oxford?”

“No,” said Maitland, and began to drum his fingers on the tablecloth.

“Then it must be Cambridge!”

God, did the English never give up? They could not be satisfied until they had put everyone in pigeonholes. And if you didn’t fit into the right pigeonhole, God help you. There were only a handful of schools the members of the uppercrust would dream of sending their sons to, only two universities that amounted to anything in their estimation. Education was the furthest thing from their
minds. What they wanted was that exclusive accent and polish that set them apart from the herd.

Though he despised their arrogance, the unhappy truth was that in his profession, a man’s background and accent could make or break him. He couldn’t afford to be different, so he’d done everything in his power to fit in with his colleagues. He’d had one asset to start with: he looked like a typical Englishman, or what they thought was a typical Englishman—fair hair, regular features, average height and build. He’d learned to wear the right clothes; he copied his colleagues’ manners, their habits, and their modes of expression. What he could not copy was their easygoing attitude to things, and that betrayed him far more than his accent.

He was ambitious—a sin in his colleagues’ eyes. The intelligence service was his profession. He had to excel. He had no family fortune to fall back on if and when he left the service. His father was a solicitor in Aberdeen, highly respected in his own sphere, but not a wealthy man. His son had to stand on his own two feet.

And he had talent. In fact, he was Langley’s best agent, as he’d proved time and time again. But all that had earned him was a slap on the wrist.

“Richard, you’re too intense,” Langley once told him. “This isn’t a competition. We’re all friends here. You’re not working on your own. You must learn to cooperate with your colleagues.”

So here he was, at four and thirty, a misfit Scot, stuck in a rut, going nowhere because he took his job too seriously while his English colleagues acted as though they were involved in nothing more serious than a game of cricket.

He was exaggerating, of course, but not by much. Langley was a case in point. Now that the war with
France was over, he was thinking of retiring so that he could enjoy life more—whatever that meant. Actually, it would be better if the colonel did retire. He wasn’t as vigilant as he used to be, and delegated a greater share of the work to his subordinates. That’s why he’d put him, Richard Maitland, in charge of this investigation.

“There’s probably nothing to it,” Langley had told him, “but we’ve got to check it out. Tread carefully here, Richard. I understand that Miss Vayle is a close friend of Hugh Templar.”

Nothing to it
. That’s what they’d all thought, except him. That’s what made people careless, and when people in his business got careless, they paid for it with their lives.