In Bed with a Spy

P
RAISE FOR

The Smuggler Wore Silk

“Alyssa Alexander captivates with a potently drawn Regency suspense that will keep you turning pages far into the night. With perfectly paired protagonists . . . Alexander delivers a lively, twisting romance with an undercurrent of gritty realism. With wicked dialogue and well-researched historical facts, Alexander is clearly an author we ought to watch
and
read.”

—Jennifer McQuiston, author of
Moonlight on My Mind

“A thrilling, wild ride of a spy thriller that sizzles with passion . . . A maze of plot twists and turns. Like an intricate puzzle, Alexander has all the pieces of the ideal romance and arranges them in the perfect picture. She is a rising star you won’t want to miss.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Hot, suspenseful, and wildly romantic. A lushly told romance that takes you back to the fascinating Regency world of small village drama and international politics—all converging on the white-hot attraction between a sexy spy and a daredevil smuggler destined to trump fate.”

—Kieran Kramer, author of
Sweet Talk Me

“Romantic suspense at its very best. Alyssa Alexander weaves a tantalizing tale of moral dilemma, political intrigue, and enough heart-thumping romance to keep you turning the pages.”

—Tracy Brogan, author of
The Best Medicine

“Well-drawn characters, superb dialogue, and a decent plot will keep pages turning.”

—
Publishers Weekly

BERKLEY SENSATION TITLES BY ALYSSA ALEXANDER

THE SMUGGLER WORE SILK

IN BE
D WITH A SPY

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

IN BED WITH A SPY

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Alyssa Marble.

Excerpt from
The Smuggler Wore Silk
by Alyssa Alexander copyright © 2014 by Alyssa Marble.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63610-7

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / December 2014

Cover art by Aleta Rafton.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Joe

Because this one day,

you met a crazy person,

and she wanted to write romance novels.

Then you married her.

All my love.

Always.

An author lives in fear of leaving someone out of a dedication. This is one of those hazards of writing. I hope if I inadvertently forget anyone, they won’t hold it against me.

The first people I must thank are readers. Thank you so much for loving Julian and Grace in
The Smuggler Wore Silk
and asking for Angel’s story! Without your support and enjoyment, this whole endeavor wouldn’t have meaning!

To my agent at Holloway Literary Agency for her constant support and answering my silly questions. To my editor, Julie Mianecki, the copyeditor, art department and everyone at Berkley. Thank you for all you have done, and for believing in me and this book!

To Kelsey, my sister, for reading this book in the early editing stages. The last hundred pages are different. Enjoy!

To Jennifer McQuiston, Tracy Brogan and Kimberly Kincaid, my Three Cheekas who are Honey Badgers to the end and who teach me so much about life and writing every single day. Plus, we laugh every single day. Without you, well, this book would (1) have a bad ending, (2) have a bad beginning and (3) have a sagging middle. What would I do without you?

Also, to J, The Closer. Thanks. Those last hundred pages are the best pages of the book. Plus, you gave me sunshine, and I heart you for it.

To Kieran Kramer, for simply being there and saying the right thing when I needed you.

And a special thank-you to Leslie L., for her advice on fencing; to the Beau Monde for historical advice (you ladies rock!); to Mid-Michigan RWA for their unending support; and to the baristas at Biggby Coffee. I wrote almost the entire first draft of this book at your coffee shop. I made new friends, saw some friends leave and always, always enjoyed my tall skim chai latte, extra hot.

And then there’s the friends who aren’t writers and who find me baffling because of it, I’m sure. You have always supported me, and I cannot thank you enough! But there are two people I must thank particularly, Kimmie and Molly, who are my comrades in arms when it comes to the joys (also trials, tribulations and scary moments) of mothering. To Molly, for so many things that cannot be listed, not the least of which is a good margarita and some awesome skinny jeans. To Kimmie, just because. There is no one else in the world who gets that side of me better than you. And you know the side I’m talking about.

To Brooke, Marty, Robin and Nancy, because I miss you. And to Bruce, the Best. Boss. Ever.

And of course, to Mom, Dad, Kara and Kelsey. I don’t think there’s much to say here, except I love you!!! A special thank-you to Sharon, for all of your support!

Finally, to Josh and Joe. Joshua, you are the brightest light of my life. Sometimes I wonder how I was so blessed to have a child whose every day is a miracle of discovery. I hope you never lose that thrill!

And Joe . . . well. For every day. Whether I’m living in my head or in real life, on crazy-busy days and normal ones, crabby days where I didn’t get coffee and lovely days when I got sunshine. Nights where I sat at the computer and nights where we had a “date” on the couch in our jammies. Hysterical phone calls when I lost my wedding diamond and thrilling phone calls when I sold a book. Without you, my life would be boring.

June 18, 1815
On a bloody field near Waterloo

T
HE WOMAN SHOULDN’T
have been in the thick of battle. But she rose out of the acrid smoke, perched high atop a chestnut horse and wearing the blue coat of a light cavalry officer.

The Marquess of Angelstone staggered through rows of trampled corn, shock rippling through him as the woman’s sabre flashed. A shrill whistle sounded overhead. Instinctively, Angel ducked as cannon artillery pounded into the ranks, blasting into the earth and showering him with dirt and black powder.

The woman on horseback didn’t flinch.

He staggered forward, coughing, ears ringing, as soldiers around him fell or scattered. Pressing a hand to his jacket pocket, Angel fingered the square shape of the letter he carried there. He hadn’t known he’d have to fight his way to Wellington to deliver it.

The horse turned a tight circle, one of the woman’s hands gripping the reins while the other brandished a cavalry sabre. Her grip on the blade was untrained, her movements awkward. But fury and hate blazed from her eyes and fueled her sabre as it sliced across the chest of a French soldier. The man collapsed, shrieking and clutching at welling blood.

The woman turned away, already arcing her sabre toward another enemy soldier, and Angel lost sight of her.

Reflex sent Angel’s bayonet plunging as a Frenchman reared up in front of him, face contorted by fear. When the man screamed, regret shot through Angel before he forced it away. It was kill or be killed. There was no time for regret.

He surged forward with the ranks of foot soldiers, compelled to look for the woman. The muddied ground sucked at his feet, threatening to pull him beneath thundering hooves and panicked soldiers. Broken cornstalks slashed at his face. The sulfur smell of black powder burned his nose, mixing with the scent of men’s fear.

He fought past a charging enemy soldier, spun away from another and saw her again.

Soot streaked her grim face. She grinned at the enemy standing before her—and the smile was terrible. The man paled, but aimed his rifle at her. He was not fast enough to beat her sword.

When that soldier, too, fell under her sabre, she looked up. Over the dead soldier and through the swirling gray smoke, Angel met her eyes. They were a chilling, pale blue and held only one thing.

Vengeance.

She pulled on the reins and her horse reared up, hooves pawing at the air. Angel planted his feet and braced for impact. But the hooves never struck. The woman kept her seat, her jaw clenched, and continued to hold his gaze.

The battle faded away, booming cannons falling on his deaf ears. The gray, writhing smoke veiled every dying soldier, every hand-to-hand battle being waged around him.

He only saw her merciless eyes. Blood roared in his ears and the beat of his pulse became as loud as the cannons. A high, powerful note sang through him.

The woman’s horse whinnied as its hooves struck the earth again. Standing in the stirrups, she thrust her sword aloft and howled. The battle cry echoed over the field and carried with it the sting of rage and unfathomable grief. She wheeled the horse, spurred his sides and charged through battling soldiers, her blond hair streaming behind her.

And she was gone, obscured by clouds of dark smoke and the chaos of battle.