Elizabeth Thornton (19 page)

“If you’re going to take that attitude,” said Harper stiffly, “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Fine,” retorted Hugh.

They made the rest of the journey in thin-lipped silence. When they arrived at the Swan, they went to the stable and led out their horses.

They left the main road almost at once and took the track to the river Kennet. It was slow going because trees hemmed them in and the darkness was almost absolute. When they came to the river, the trees and the darkness thinned out. They turned onto the bridle path but still kept their horses to a slow walk. When the bridle path widened, Harper came abreast of Hugh.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asked.

“It’s perfectly—” Hugh’s horse jogged sideways, and he stifled a groan. “It’s bloody awful, if you must know.”

Both men chuckled. After a while, Hugh said, “You think Maitland is such a good agent, but can’t you see that in this case he’s blinded by anger? He’s lost four agents. He suspects Abbie of murdering Ballard, and he’s out for her blood.”

“What I thinks,” said Harper carefully, “is that you’re both good agents, but in this case, you’re both at fault. Maitland is blinded by anger, and you are blinded by your fondness for Miss Vayle. He wants to punish her,
you wants to protect her. You’re both overlooking the most important thing. If you takes your blinkers off, I’m sure you’ll see it.”

“The book,” said Hugh. “No, I hadn’t forgotten about it.”

The bridle path narrowed again and Harper fell back. Hugh drew his cloak more snugly about him and leaned into the breeze that lifted off the river.

Four agents had died to pass on a message, five counting Ballard. Clearly the book was crucial. And both sides seemed to think that Abbie had it.

He’d mentioned the attack on him to Maitland. When Maitland had time to think about it, he would realize the other side did not have the book either, and try even harder to capture Abbie.

It all seemed so farfetched. He knew Abbie as well as he knew himself, and he would trust her with his life. But that was Hugh Templar, thinking as a man. When he thought as an agent, he wasn’t so confident.

T
hey expected the house to be dark except for the porch lantern, but there was a light in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

“Ain’t that Miss Vayle’s chamber?” asked Harper.

“I hope not.”

They’d left the house long after Abbie had gone to bed. He’d checked on her before they went out, and she’d been sound asleep. He’d expected to return before she was awake, and she would never have to know that they’d left the house.

Tom was watching for them and met them with a pistol in each hand. He peered into the gloom. “Is that you, Mr. Templar, sir?”

Harper snapped, “You’re supposed to say, ‘Who goes there?’ What if we was the enemy?”

“What is it, Tom?” asked Hugh quietly. “What’s happened?”

“She woke up, sir,” replied Tom, “and when she found that you was gone …” he swallowed, “there was no reasoning with ’er. She wanted to go after you. But I ’ad my orders. Only, she wouldn’t listen.”

“Get to the point, Tom.”

“I … I ’ad to restrain ’er. She didn’t take it kindly, sir. I … I ’ope I did the right thing. She said she’d set the magistrates on me, and that I’d be transported to the colonies for what I done.”

“You had to restrain her?” asked Hugh sharply. “What does that mean?”

“I was only doing what you said, Mr. Templar, you knows, to keep ’er safe.”

“And?”

Tom straightened and spoke as though he were addressing his commanding officer. “So when she tried to leave, I locked ’er in ’er room. She carried on something awful. I could ’ear the dishes breaking and ’er cursing me, so I tried to speak to ’er through the door. She was in a right temper, so I just left ’er to it.”

“Bloody hell!”

Harper said, “I told you she reminded me of wife number three. Come on, Tom. Our work ain’t done yet. Let’s get these horses rubbed down and stabled. Mr. Templar will see to Miss Vayle, ’cos if anyone is going to be transported to the colonies, it’s ’im. You was only doing your duty.…” and going on in this vein, he walked the horses to the back of the house with Tom following along.

Hugh entered the house and made straight for Abbie’s room. When he crossed the threshold, he stopped. Fragments of glass and china littered the floor. One of the bed drapes was hanging by a thread. Abbie was sitting in the middle of the bed, in her nightgown, head bowed and her hair spilling over her face in a wild, unruly cascade.

“Abbie,” he said softly.

At the sound of his voice, her head jerked up. Her eyes were red rimmed and her cheeks were streaked with
dried tears. The sight of her, the change in her, slammed into Hugh like a physical blow.

For the last twenty-four hours, she’d treated him with an aloof dignity that had kept him firmly in his place. He hadn’t tried to smash through the wall she erected because he’d been deeply shaken by what had happened between them in the kitchen last night. He hadn’t exaggerated when he said he couldn’t resist her. She’d looked at him in that appealing way of hers and he was lost. He hadn’t lied either when he told her he only wanted to comfort her. At least, that’s how it had started out. Then he’d lost control.

She’d said some harsh things to him, and maybe he’d deserved them. But as he absorbed the naked pain in that tear-bright gaze, it came to him that Abbie had lied. She hadn’t lost interest. She cared too much.

The instant he realized that, his world seemed to tilt on its axis, and when it righted itself, everything was different. The first thing that occurred to him was that life without Abbie was unthinkable, and hard on that thought came the realization that he would do anything to keep her. He wanted to protect her; he wanted to make her happy. He wanted to give her everything she’d ever dreamed about. As long as he had breath in his body, no one and nothing would ever hurt her again.

He quickly crossed to her. Her eyes were fastened on his face as if she could not believe he was real.

“It’s all right, Abbie,” he soothed. “I’m here. Nothing happened. Did you think I had abandoned you? You know I would never do that.”

She made a soft mewling sound and tentatively reached out and cupped his cheek with one hand.

“Yes. It’s me,” he said. “You’re not dreaming. I’m real.”

Fresh tears flooded her eyes.

“Abbie,” he murmured, and he took the hand that cupped his cheek and pressed a passionate kiss to it.

That’s when she slapped him. Then, with fists flying, she flung herself on him. He had the presence of mind to grab her wrists, but he still felt the blows that rained on his chest.

“Vile … rodent … worm!” she panted. “Cur … louse … maggot!” She sucked in several long breaths. “You … you … tricked me.”

She said more, much more, and each word was punctuated with a wild punch. Hugh felt helpless. He didn’t know what to do to comfort her. Falling back on instinct, he wrapped her tightly in his arms and began to rock. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m here. Did you waken, love, and think I had deserted you? You should know me better. It’s all right. Don’t take on so. I’m here.”

As he repeated the soothing words, he ran his hands over her arms, her back, her shoulders, pressing her into the shelter of his body. Gradually, her struggles diminished till she lay limp in his arms.

After a long time, she lifted her head and looked up at him. “Why did you do it, Hugh? Why did you go back there? They almost killed you last time. Wasn’t that enough for you?”

He found his handkerchief and dried her cheeks, then he made her blow her nose. Smiling into her eyes, he said, “You worried for nothing, Abbie.”

This provoked an infuriated outburst. Hugh gathered that she had no time for heroes and she didn’t want him to be one, and that living dangerously was for lunatics and the feebleminded, not for ordinary people like themselves. Finally, she said, “I just want you to be safe. I just want you to be safe.”

He smoothed back her tangle of hair and pressed kisses to her eyes, her cheeks, her brow. “And I am safe. Harper and I went to the Black Boar and asked a few questions. We didn’t expect trouble, and we didn’t get any.”

He half expected her to ask him questions about what he’d found out, but she showed no curiosity. She kept staring at him unblinkingly as though she were afraid he would vanish if she closed her eyes.

After a while he said, “Feeling better?”

She nodded.

“Then let’s get you into bed.”

He pulled back the bedcovers and settled her in the bed. If his shoulder hurt, he didn’t feel it. He was totally focused on Abbie.

When he tried to move away, her fingers curled into his coat, holding him fast. “No,” she whispered. “Stay with me.”

He spoke to her as he might speak to a hurt child. “I won’t leave, not for long, but there are things I have to do. You’re cold, and the fire is almost out. I’m going to add some lumps of coal, then I’m going downstairs to get the brandy bottle. If you don’t need it, I do. This will only take a few minutes.”

She nodded, but he had to pry her fingers loose. “Now stay under the covers,” he said. “We’ve got to keep you warm.”

He pulled the covers up to her chin, kissed her chastely on the brow, and stepped back. “Will you be all right?”

“Yes,” she said.

After adding coal to the fire, he took one of the candles and went downstairs. He found Mrs. Deane’s
medicinal bottle of brandy in its usual place in the larder. When he returned to Abbie’s room, the fire was beginning to catch. He poured out a small measure of brandy, then carefully picked his way over broken glass and china to reach the bed. Holding her head up, he set the glass to her mouth and forced her to swallow. She was strangely passive, and that worried him. When the glass was empty, he set it aside and eased her down on the pillows.

As he picked up the broken glass and crockery, her eyes followed him as a compass follows a magnet. He thought about going to his own room to wash and change, but he decided against it. She was afraid to close her eyes in case he was gone when she opened them again. The knowledge was both sweet and chastening. It showed how much she cared for him, as well as how unthinking his own actions had been. If she had left him without a word, he would have done more than break a few ornaments.

He spent the next few minutes concentrating on menial tasks—adding coal to the fire, trimming the candle-wicks, and generally tidying the room. It was only when he pulled a stuffed armchair close to the bed, however, and sipped at the brandy he’d promised himself, that she seemed to settle. Her eyelids gradually began to droop. Finally, her eyelashes fluttered and her eyes closed.

Sleep was the farthest thing from his mind. He was brooding. A short time ago, on the bridle path, he had decided to set aside his feelings as a man and act like an intelligence agent. It was easier said than done. He should have questioned her when she was at her most vulnerable. Instead, he’d been shattered to see the state she was in.

It didn’t matter. They would have that heart-to-heart
talk in the morning, and this time he would insist on answers. The murder of a British agent had taken them into a different realm altogether.

He thought about Alex Ballard for a long time, speculating, adding things up. Something Ballard said came back to him, something he’d forgotten in his concern for Abbie.
There’s no one I trust more than you
.

Maybe it meant nothing; maybe Alex spoke without thinking, hoping to persuade him to come back into the service. But Hugh couldn’t shake himself of the feeling that if he’d agreed to help Ballard, he would still be alive.

He brooded on that thought for a long time.

When Abbie stirred, dislodging the covers, he rose and gently tucked them around her again. She smiled in her sleep, and he wondered what kind of smile she would wear after she’d spent the night in his bed.

It wouldn’t be a bed in some sordid hotel where they gave false names and crept in and out through the back door. He knew now that such an arrangement would destroy Abbie by small degrees.

Marriage
. He tested the word gingerly and wondered why he’d thought it was something to dread. When he thought about it, there were many advantages to marriage. For a start, he’d have peace of mind knowing he had some say in Abbie’s affairs. He’d know what she was getting up to. She couldn’t defy him and tell him to mind his own business. And when he took her to bed, Abbie need not feel guilty and he wouldn’t feel like an unscrupulous libertine.

He leaned over and caressed her lips with the pad of his thumb. Her lips opened. She was like sleeping beauty, waiting to be awakened by his kiss. And this time she would accept him. After all that had happened tonight,
she was vulnerable. He could have whatever he wanted from her.

He raked a shaking hand through his hair and damned himself for the lecher Abbie had called him. He shouldn’t be mooning over her like this. He had plans to make, things to do. Maitland was no slouch. As soon as the weather changed, he would come after them.

He rose and began to prowl. When Abbie did not waken, he stopped prowling, and his movements became deliberate. He found her box and portmanteau in front of the window, under her neatly folded clothes. The box was locked. Her reticule was on a table nearby. He opened it, riffled through handkerchiefs, odd receipts, a bottle of perfume, and found what he was looking for—an embroidered pochette. Inside were a few coins and two keys.

He felt no shame for what he was doing. A British agent had been murdered, and that was a serious matter. The best way to protect Abbie was to get at the truth. If she had confided in him, this wouldn’t have been necessary.

The first key he tried opened the box. His experience as an agent had become second nature to him, and he went through her things methodically without disturbing anything. He found a leather purse and counted out fifty sovereigns—more than enough for her needs if she were staying with friends. He set the wallet aside and slid his hands under a pile of lacy undergarments. He stilled when his hands closed around a book, then he let out a pent-up breath when he opened it and read the title. It wasn’t the book Maitland was after. He leafed through it and a book-marker, a folded piece of paper, fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a
receipt from His Majesty’s customs at Dover, a receipt for a box of books.