Every Time with a Highlander (16 page)

“She's a very handsome woman,” Michael said before Bridgewater could choose the course of the conversation. Michael intended to tackle his own agenda first. “There's no denying it.”

Bridgewater preened. He was the sort of man who thought a woman's beauty the most important thing about her. The more beautiful a woman, the more it said about the man who'd won her. Undine
was
beautiful, but any man who thought that her greatest asset was a fool.

“With all due respect, however,” Michael said with regret, “I must recommend you reconsider marrying her.”

Bridgewater's brows flew up. “
What?
”

“She hasn't sworn her allegiance to England.”

“She hasn't sworn her allegiance to Scotland either—or France or Holland or Hispaniola, for that matter.”

“Her family is unknown to us,” Michael added gravely.

“She doesn't need a family. An ancient name and title is what
I
bring to the marriage.”

“And she refuses to give up her work.” Michael said a silent apology to his hardworking mother and grandmother.

“She told you that?”

“She didn't need to. We've spoken to her friends and acquaintances.”

“You've done
what
?”

Michael was close to getting himself bounced from the house. “News travels fast, my lord,” he put in quickly, “and the job of our firm is to keep you protected. As soon as we heard, we sent one of our representatives here to gather information.”

Confronted with an egregious invasion of a loved one's privacy, two reactions were possible. But Michael had little doubt which one Bridgewater would manifest. A man who wore battle ribbons in his own home was a man for whom ego was more important than integrity.

Bridgewater glanced over his shoulder and back at Michael. “What did you find out?” he asked in a low voice.

“Oh, a number of things.”

“Where's the report?”

“Nothing is written down, of course. But I can tell you what we've found.”

“Should we adjourn to my office?”

Michael inclined his head toward the brimming decanter on the side table. “For my own part, I'd prefer to stay closer to the whiskey.” He added in a lower voice, “And farther from your soldier.”

Michael had once convinced a highly paid and minimally talented Hollywood actor that the part of Claudius was more important to Shakespeare's fundamental theme than that of Hamlet and, as an added bonus, had fewer lines to memorize. By doing so, he'd saved the actor from embarrassment, the National Rose from a PR nightmare, and Shakespeare from an unsettled sleep, and he was still able to splash the actor's name over every ad drawn up for the play. Convincing Bridgewater to delay his marriage to Undine or abandon it altogether would be more challenging, but it would represent a much bigger coup. Undine probably would have preferred he spend his time with Bridgewater trying to extract the information contained in that letter, but her safety was more important to him. In any case, she might already have the letter in her hand, and even if she didn't, there would probably be another opportunity in the morning. Bridgewater had clearly sent for a man from his solicitor's office for a reason, and Michael doubted Bridgewater would head to Morebright's until he'd had a chance to discuss it with him.

“I can fetch you a drink,” Bridgewater said with an aggrieved sigh. “But do begin. I want to hear the worst before Undine returns.”

* * *

Undine knew full well why she hated lilies, but it wasn't the sort of thing you told a man you'd known for less than a day. Lilies were what she'd smelled the afternoon the soldier had run her and her mother from their little house, and they'd traveled for days after that, always at night, their possessions lost to them, to find the place her mother called “the Wash.” Her mother hadn't cried—her mother never cried—but Undine had. The loss of one's known world is a heavy misfortune for a five-year-old. She'd learned the only way to protect herself from such a staggering blow was never again to have a home she cared about—or anything else a soldier could take from her. Hearing the long, painfully dull story of Undine's first great loss would have been enough to send Kent running from the bedchamber.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Bridgewater's gardens were filled with lilies—orange, pink, and yellow—stretching their spindly necks toward the south. On top of everything else, they chose England too.

She pushed the flowers aside to enter the path that proceeded along the back of the house. She spotted the men in the drawing room, Kent with his elegant, broad shoulders and Bridgewater with his laces and fringe.

The pain Kent carried inside him… She'd felt it as an inky blue—the bottom of a well or a sky without stars—and heavy it had been. She couldn't untangle the images. Despite what people thought, she wasn't a visionary. And in any case, it would have been rude to try to enter that guarded place without an invitation.

She walked briskly down the path and soon saw why Kent had encouraged a garden visit. The window to Bridgewater's office was open. Its sill stood about six feet above the path—too high to reach without something to stand on. She weighed the risks. Bridgewater might return to his office. That was where his papers were hidden, after all. But Kent was keeping him busy. And the guard might hear her and alert Bridgewater.

On balance, she thought it was worth the risk.

She grabbed her skirts and tied them in a tight knot between her legs. There were enough obstacles between her and her object—no need to add more in the form of linen and silk. She caught the corner of the window and gently pushed. It opened wider with a reverberant
screech
.

She pressed herself against the house. Bridgewater came to the window of the drawing room. She could see the gold of his hair in the candlelight. He peered into the garden, and she held herself motionless.

* * *

“Did you hear that?” Bridgewater gazed out the window, looking a bit stupid, Michael thought, with his jaw hanging open.

“'Twas an owl,” Michael said. He hoped Undine had made it inside. He also hoped she found what she wanted quickly, for her own safety, and because he wasn't certain how long he could maintain his calm with a man whose first questions after hearing his future bride's privacy had been grievously violated by his own legal firm had been “How many men has she taken to her bed?” and “Is it possible she's told any of them my secrets?”

“I'm going to take a look around,” Bridgewater said.

“'Tis unnecessary. You may frighten your fiancée more than the noise did.”

“I can hardly leave her alone out there.”

“I bow to your superior judgment.” Michael clutched his drink, trying to keep all 650 of his muscles from launching him into a hard run for Bridgewater's office.

Bridgewater ran out, and Michael hurried down the hall toward the private, who immediately straightened.

“Your commander,” Michael said, “he needs you at once.”

“What is it?”

“He heard a sound. It sounded like a shriek. Outside.”

The man pelted away, and the moment he was out of sight, Michael turned the knob.

Unlocked.

He opened the door and found Undine crouched by the desk.

“I heard your voices,” she said. “What happened?”

“Bridgewater heard a squeak.”

“The window,” she said, hastily opening a drawer.

The room was dark, the window closed. “Bridgewater's looking for you,” he said. “And now the soldier is too. We have to get out of here.”

“Keep your head down in case they walk by the window.”

He dropped to a knee, pulled the pistol from his trousers, and half cocked the hammer. His theater training had come in handy.

“This has to be it.” She lifted a locked metal box out and placed it on the desk.

“Take it.”

“It's too big. Someone will see it.” She jumped to her feet and, sticking close to the wall to remain out of view, made her way to the hearth. “He'd put it within reach. I know he would.”

“What?”

“The key.”

In the garden, Bridgewater called, “Undine?”

“We have to go,” Michael said.

She lifted the candlesticks on the mantle one by one and looked underneath them. “Dammit.”

“Try the flowers. There.”

She turned around. A handful of lilies and roses sat in squat vase on his desk. She lifted it. Then she grabbed something and held it high, victorious. It was the key! Hands shaking, she slipped the key into the lock and turned. In an instant, the lid was up.

“I can't read it,” she said. “It's too dark.”

“We'll come back,” Michael said, losing his patience. “We have to go.”

“You have to go. He'll be looking for you.”

“He's looking for you
right now
.”

Bridgewater started to speak, and his voice was right outside the window. “Why has the pot been moved?” he said. “Check the window.”

Michael balanced the pistol's barrel on his wrist and took aim.

A hand came into view. “Closed, sir,” the private said. “Perhaps she returned to her room?”

“Go there,” Bridgewater said. “I'll check my office.”

“Undine, leave it or take it. We have to go.
Now.
”

“If I take it, he'll know,” she said, trying to catch the moon's light on the pages. “It's something about the upcoming vote to unite England and Scotland.”

Michael tried to take the pages from her, but she held them out of reach. He clapped the box shut, turned the key in the lock, and returned the box to the drawer. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to the door as she stuffed the paper in her pocket. “We'll run.” He pointed away from the drawing room. “Can we get out this way?”

She shook her head. “Only through the drawing room. The other wing is locked.”

They flew to the drawing room but stopped when they heard approaching footsteps.

Michael pushed her into a room filled with paintings off the hall. “I can't save both of us, but I can save you. Slap me.”

“
What?
”

He pulled her into his arms and bent her backward in a brutal kiss.

Undine shoved Michael away and slapped him. He cradled his cheek. He didn't need to turn to know Bridgewater had appeared. He could tell by the rigidity of Undine's body.

“Mr. Beaufort!” she cried.

“I desire you most ardently,” he whispered.

“
Beaufort
,” a red-faced Bridgewater demanded, “remove yourself from my home
immediately
.”

“You have no idea the devil's temptress you have in this woman,” Michael cried.

Bridgewater's eyes bulged from his head. “'Tis only your connection to a most respected firm that is keeping me from killing you. I suggest you try my good nature no further. Be assured your connection will be severed the instant my letter reaches your employers.” He raised his hand and brought it across Michael's face.

An explosion went off in his ear, and he wove a step.

Bridgewater grabbed him by the cravat. “Did you hear me?” he said, nose touching Michael's. He slapped Michael again, and when Michael didn't respond, the slaps turned to punches.

“Stop it!” Undine commanded. “Stop it this instant!” She dragged Bridgewater away.

Blood poured from Michael's nose. He bore it for her.

“Get out,” Bridgewater said in a growl. “Get out now.”

Michael crawled to his feet.

“That cunt-faced little fornicator didn't even fight back,” Bridgewater said to Undine. “Are you all right?”

“Aye. Let him go. He's not worth the trouble.” She gave Michael a look of absolute heartbreak.

Bridgewater straightened the ribbons on his coat and looked at Michael. “If you say a word of what you told me to anyone else, I will hunt you down, cut off your stones, and choke you with them. Did you understand?”

“Aye.”

Bridgewater lifted his boot and shoved him into the hall. “Now, run.”

Undine paced the drawing room until she heard the front door close. She couldn't get the image of Kent's battered face out of her head. She knew he'd sacrificed himself to save her. He'd had a pistol and could have used it but didn't.

The knowledge of that sacrifice bound her to him and distressed her deeply.

There are sacrifices that must be made for peace, you know.

Aye, but he didn't
volunteer
to serve, did he?

“The
blackguard
,” Bridgewater said, downing whiskey. “To accost a man's wife in his own home.”

“I'm not your wife, John. Not yet. And your reaction was brutish.”

He swung around. “You criticize my handling of the situation?”

“I will not marry a man who cannot control his temper. If you can profit from that information, I suggest you do so at once. If you cannot, I'll go.”

He shook with rage or the effort to control, she didn't know which. But she knew the only way to dampen his fury was to expose it, like an infected wound. The work of a spy wasn't meant to be easy or pleasing, but witnessing the attack on a treasured compatriot and facing the potential of violence to one's own self were the most unpleasant duties. She was overwhelmed and struggled to remind herself of the horrors the soldiers and clansmen unleashed on the innocent in the borderlands.

“You must learn to keep a civil tongue in your head, Undine.” Bridgewater's fists were balled.

She said nothing. She'd said what needed to be said. She wouldn't be goaded into more. What she wanted was to excuse herself to her room, dig that paper from her pocket, and assure herself that the wounds to Kent's face were worth the information they'd won.

She held Bridgewater's gaze.

“Dammit, Undine.”

“Give me your decision.”

He lifted his glass to hurl it into the hearth and stopped at the last instant. With great effort, he brought his arm back down. “I will attempt to do better.”

If the display at the river was any indication, he would cry now. The effects of the spell were beginning to stray further and further from normal, which meant she would soon have to end things here. As early as the morning, he could discover the papers were gone. Kent had positioned himself masterfully as the man to be suspected, but eventually, Bridgewater's reason would return, and if she wasn't away and hidden at that point, she'd be in very grave danger.

“Thank you,” she said.

He pulled her into a demanding kiss. The transformation surprised her so much that she was momentarily paralyzed. All she could think about were the papers in her pocket. She lifted his hands to her face, and buoyed by her reaction, he deepened his kiss.

“Let me take you to my bed,” he whispered. “Let me show the pleasure I can bring you.”

She thought about what other secrets he might have stored there—correspondence and diaries—and debated what to do.

“I ache for you, Undine. Can you feel it?”

The thought sickened her, but what might she gain?

Do your proper job.

The vision of Kent's gentle face would not be displaced. It hung like a bright light in the dark room of her duty.

“I… I…”

“Please, Undine. I beg you.”

“I cannot.”

The papers would be enough—they had to be.

She unbraided herself from his clasp.

“You destroy me,” he said, breathing heavily.

“We will destroy each other—when it's time.” She ran from the room and up the stairs, desperate to see what her adventure with Michael had brought them.