In Bed with a Spy (17 page)

S
HE FOUGHT HER
way out of slumber riddled with dreams. Jeremy’s face blurring with Angel’s. Hawthorne. Grant. They were all a tangle in her mind.

Fog muddled her brain. The throbbing behind her eyes told her the tears she’d wanted to shed after Angel’s departure still lingered there. When she opened her eyes the nearly complete darkness smothered her. But perhaps it was only the coverlet tucked close around her face. One part of her mind thought to pull the warm, thick coverlet aside and free herself from the heavy darkness.

But she didn’t move.

Awareness slid into her, a sense of unease that sent her pulse skittering. Breathing evenly and carefully, she let her eyes roam the room. Beyond the coverlet, moonlight filtered in to create silver shadows. She let the disquiet hum beneath her skin for a moment. A breeze fluttered over her face.

Her mind screamed the warning.
Move!

She rolled fast and hard, over and over until she dropped onto the floor beside the bed. Scrambling up, she looked through moonlight to the other side of her bed. Fear shot through her as the figure dressed in black leapt nimbly onto the bed. The cloth he wore over his nose and mouth fluttered with his breath.

An arm slashed out, silent and quick as a snake. Reflex shoved her back. Blood roared in her ears and energy pumped through her. She shrieked, one shrill note of fury, even as she grasped the bedcovers and yanked with strength born of terror. The man staggered and lost his footing. He toppled, falling with a grunt onto the soft bed.

She ran, though there were pitiful few places to go. As she rushed around the bed for the door, the man hissed out a breath and jumped from the bed. Sheer luck had her guessing his intention and darting away.

“Get out!” she shouted.

From somewhere beyond the closed hall door she heard a man’s faint call. “Lilias? What’s happening?”

Grant!
Her mind shouted it, but her breath clogged her throat and stopped the words.

The intruder lunged. Her feet tangled in her nightgown as she scrambled away. The black knife arced through the air.
Too close.
Throwing up a hand, she blocked the strike. The blade pricked her arm, a white-hot scratch, and fueled her temper.

Instinct drove her.
Fight. Survive. Kick!
Her foot connected with his thigh. Bone and flesh was solid beneath her heel. He grunted, staggered, then glanced at the door. Footsteps pounded through the hall below where Grant and Catherine slept. More footsteps sounded above. Servants.

A minute. Two.
It was all she needed to stay alive.

Catherine’s voice called out, muffled through the walls and floors. “Lilias?” She must be right behind Grant, only slowed by age.

Dear Lord, don’t let Catherine be hurt.

The intruder whirled away. He sprinted toward the open window and the cool breeze that had saved her life. He paused on the sill, looked back once, then disappeared into the night.

She raced over to the window and peered out. He dropped onto the small iron balcony jutting out street-side from the floor below, then scrambled nimbly over the edge of the balcony and was gone.

A Death Adder. She knew it—and had to hide it. She could not reveal the truth to Catherine and Grant.

Clarity narrowed her mind. She must move quickly. A hard jerk closed the window. Then the latch. Her robe would cover her wounded forearm. She could feel wetness on her sleeve, but it wasn’t much, thank God. Nothing more than the tiniest brush with the blade.

Even as she shrugged into the robe, the door burst open.

“Lilias,” Grant panted. His head turned right, left, as he scanned the room.

“I’m sorry.” Her own breath was just as uneven. “I’m so sorry to wake you.”

Catherine peeked into the room. Her nightcap was tipped sideways, nearly covering one eye. “What happened?”

“A nightmare, that’s all.” She shook her head and pressed her lips together. She dared not say more.

Grant focused his scrutiny on her face. She was grateful for the dark. He didn’t speak, but only watched her with the intense care and fragile handling common after she began waking the household with screaming nightmares.

“Oh, my dear. I thought the nightmares had stopped.” Catherine stepped into the room. Her hands worried the edges of the robe, as though not quite sure what to do with themselves. “A candle. You’ll want light.”

“No.” The blood would be visible. Servants were gathering in the hall now. She could not let any of them see the blood. “I’m fine now that I’m awake. Truly.”

“Are you certain?” Grant asked quietly. His robe fell open as he stepped to her. She could see the bare, muscled chest beneath for just a moment before he pulled it closed again.

“Yes.” She wanted all of them out of her room, most particularly Grant. His bird-watcher’s eyes were too observant.

A candle appeared behind Catherine in the hall. It flickered over the butler’s face as he lifted it high. Wavering light bounced around her room. More blood was seeping onto her robe, though it was still only a little. She slid her right arm behind her back, hoping the movement looked natural.

“My lord?” The butler said from the hall.

Grant stared at Lilias, unblinking. After a long pause, he said, “All is well, Graves. Please return to your room.”

“Yes, my lord.” The light faded as he moved down the hall, herding lesser servants before him.

“Thank you, Grant. I’m grateful.” More than she could say.

“What can I do for you, Lilias?” Catherine asked. Concerned wrinkles surrounded her eyes, showing her age.

“I really just want to be alone.” Another lie. Another arrow through the heart. Turning, she moved away from them. She was careful to keep her bleeding arm out of sight. Even in the dark, she did not want to take the risk.

“Are you certain?” Catherine asked. Doubt tinged the words.

Lilias nodded. She could only hide the blood for so long. As much as she wanted the physical contact of a quick embrace, she could not.

“Very well, then. We shall leave you.” Catherine was not in agreement. It was clear in the tightening of her lips, in the way she folded her hands in front of her. “But do come to my room if you need company.”

“I will be fine.” Guilt tugged at her. She was lying to the only family she had left.

“Good night,” Catherine murmured as she quit the room. The tight angle of her shoulders told Lilias she would be angry tomorrow as well.

Grant remained a few steps into the room, utterly still and utterly focused on her. “What really happened?”

“Grant—”

“You can trust me.” His voice was quiet and sure and comforting.

She wanted to give in and tell him everything. He would know what to do. He could help. She opened her mouth to tell him, but she could not. She’d already drawn Hawthorne in and shared more than she should—and placed him under suspicion. So she only shook her head and pressed her lips together.

He set a hand against her cheek. Cool and strong. She almost turned into it, but she could not quite burden him with murder.

“I’ll respect your wishes, Lilias—for now. But I expect you to tell me eventually.”

With a deep breath, she nodded. Perhaps she would tell him, once she decided how. “I suppose I have to say thank you again.”

“I suppose you do.” In what little light streamed in from the moon, she saw the corners of his lips quirk up. “Good night.” He shut the door behind him.

Tensed, she stayed where she was until his footsteps faded. Then she waited another full five minutes. The house quieted around her until she only heard the occasional creak. The faint sound of wheels and hooves filtered through the closed window, then the sound of laughter as someone passed on the street. Still she waited—ten more minutes, fifteen—until she was certain there was no one left awake.

Then she flew to the wardrobe and whipped it open.

Pushing past the stays, she pulled out a chemise and simple gown. She could only guess she had the gown she wanted. She couldn’t risk lighting a candle to be sure. Peeling off her robe and nightgown, she carefully pulled the fabric away from the wound. She set her fingers to it. Barely a sting, and only a little sluggish bleeding.

Still more rummaging in her wardrobe yielded linen handkerchiefs. She took three of them, folded and tied them together before wrapping the makeshift bandage around her forearm.

She pulled on the chemise and gown. It was the one she’d sought. No buttons. It went on over her head and was cinched tight with a ribbon. Her breasts would look ridiculous without the stays, but it couldn’t be helped. Drawing out her cloak, she threw it around her before sliding into a pair of half boots.

With the bloody nightclothes bundled in one arm and a reticule clutched in her hand, she snuck through the house and into the garden through the kitchen door, leaving it unlocked behind her.

In minutes she was out the back gate and sprinting through the mews to the street. Another five minutes and she was hailing a hackney a few streets away. When she gave the address to the jarvey he didn’t even blink. Apparently the late night wanderings of the aristocracy were not of interest to him.

Arriving at her destination, Lilias paid the driver. With her bundle of clothes tucked in the crook of her arm, she scrambled up the front steps of the townhouse and knocked. There was no noise on the other side of the door, so she knocked again, louder.

“Please hear me,” she whispered in the dark, and was shocked to find herself close to tears. But she had nowhere else to go. “
Please.
”

Relief coursed through her when she heard footsteps and the scrape of the bolt through the wood. The door swung open.

“Bloody hell.”

He was gold and tall and strong and just what she wanted at that moment. Even if he was a complete idiot.

She launched herself at him.

H
IS ARMS WERE
full of gorgeous, warm woman. A bolt of lust shot through him, followed by irritation. Angel whipped her inside and shoved the door closed.

“Are you
cracked
?” He gripped her shoulders. “What are you doing here? It’s bad enough I went in through your window. Now you’re standing on my front step a few hours later?” Women could be mercurial, but not like this.

Setting her away from him, he studied her face in the bright light of the candelabra he’d brought with him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. Light curls floated around her face. The rest of her hair was hidden by the hood of her cloak.

“I’m starting to wonder if I
have
gone daft.” A strangled laugh bubbled from her throat. “It’s not every day an assassin stabs a lady in her bed.”

He stiffened and his fingers gripped her shoulders.

Not again. Please, not again.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” He pushed back the edges of her cloak. Ran his gaze and hands over her body. She batted his hands away, but he ignored her unspoken protest and studied her throat and chest and belly. A cursory glance showed no blood. His shoulders relaxed as that fear dwindled.

“Only a minor wound.” She dismissed it with a quick wave. “It’s already stopped bleeding. But, Angel, there was a Death Adder in my room.
My room.
”

“You’re a target.” He sucked in a breath, held it while fury raced through him.

Her cheeks drained of color. “I suppose so.”

“Come.” With one hand he picked up the candelabra. With the other, he pulled her into his study. “Tell me.”

She did, succinctly and without emotion, while she removed her cloak. He heard the control in her voice and saw it in the slow, deliberate movements of her hands to counteract their slight tremble. The panic he’d sensed in her when she first arrived had diminished. Fear remained, though. He saw that in her gorgeous eyes.

Good. It would keep her alive.

She pulled the cloak from her shoulders to reveal a simple, long-sleeved gown. The blond braid he pretended not to notice earlier tumbled free to brush her hips. The candlelight turned the pale blond to burnished gold.

A knock sounded on the open door. Jones stepped into the doorway, then pointed his pistol at the floor when Angel looked over. For once Jones looked disheveled. “I’ve inspected the premises, my lord, as you requested. All doors and windows are secure.”

“Good. Lilias, is there any chance you were followed?”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“As I can be. I kept a close watch when I left.”

“Then, Jones, I need you to contact Sir Charles. Tell him Mrs. Fairchild has been attacked. She’s a target.” And he had failed to protect her. He should have been on watch.

“Yes, my lord.”

With soft footfalls, Jones moved down the hall. When Angel heard the front door latch behind the man, he turned to Lilias.

“Let me see the wound,” he said.

She rubbed absently at her forearm. “It’s nothing. Barely a scratch. It’s already stopped bleeding.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

She held out her arm. He could see a thick bulkiness beneath the fabric. She pushed up the sleeve to reveal a cloth tied around her forearm.

His fingers fluttered over the bandage. “Does it hurt?”

“Not any longer.”

He hoped not. God, he hoped the wound was as minor as she’d said. He unwound the bandage and found it stuck to one small section of the wound. Her breathing caught as he peeled it away. Just one jerky intake.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No.” Her breath was even and slow. Controlled.

“Tell me if I do.” Small wounds could be sharply painful.

The bandage fell away. Relief tangled with guilt in his belly. The cut wasn’t long, only three inches. It was narrow and thin and shallow. A scratch, she’d said. She was right. The curved, razor-sharp claws of a cat could have done worse. Still, it had bled.

“Angel, it’s nothing.”

Her skin was soft. Smooth. And marred by the wound. “You may have a scar,” he said softly. He wished she would not. But scar or no scar, she would not forget tonight, he supposed.

“I have scars already.” Her voice was just as quiet as his.

Looking up, he met her eyes. The bright blue cut hard into him. “I remember.”

She breathed in. Long. Slow. Then she breathed out again. Controlled. She shifted, lashes swept down. The barely tamed braid swished in the air and brushed across his knuckles. The soft strands incited a low hum under his skin.

“I’ve a salve that will help it heal,” he said, relinquishing her hand.

“I have something at Fairchild House as well.”

“It’s my duty to see to your comfort.” He stood, looked down at her. She didn’t need him. She could take care of herself well enough. What he couldn’t decide was why he wanted so badly to do it for her. “Let me.” He almost added
please
. But that would have made him sound ridiculous.

She sighed, a sound he accepted as acquiescence. Taking one of the candles, he hurried to the butler’s pantry where he stored various salves and ointments. He’d used them on more than one occasion in the dead of night.

When he returned, she was pacing the room with a graceful prowl. “If I’m a target, what do I do next?” She pinned him with bright blue eyes. “I can’t go into hiding.”

“Not easily, at any rate. Not until you must. Doing so would only raise eyebrows among the ton. Gossip would spread and the Death Adders would hear of it.” He crossed to her and took her hand, pulling her toward the settee. She dropped onto it and let him apply the thick salve onto the cut.

“Then what do I do?”

He expected to hear some quaver or tremble in her voice. He did not. Her voice was even, her gaze steady. Both of those could be controlled. But even her hand and arm were free of tremors. She’d faced murder and escaped unfazed. Then again, she’d faced battle, bloodshed and widowhood.

“Your only choice—for now—is to allow us to keep a closer watch on you.” His fingers smoothed the salve carefully over the cut. He rubbed in it with as much gentleness as he could. She didn’t flinch.

“A close watch. What does that mean?”

“Sir Charles will likely assign more agents to watch Fairchild House. They will follow you to whatever social engagements you attend. Rides in the park, the lending library, Gunter’s. Everywhere.” It would be an imposition. The worst sort. But she had no choice. He couldn’t see another way except to spirit her away, and that wouldn’t flush out the assassins. “They’ll follow you to ensure the Adders can’t reach you.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want someone watching my every move.” Now she looked up at him. “I had precious little privacy during my marriage. When you’re on the march there is nowhere to be alone.”

“The agents will be unobtrusive.” Duty warred with understanding. With infinite care, he wrapped a clean bandage around her arm. In days it would heal, well before she was safe again.

“I’ll know they are there.”

“Yes.” He smoothed out the bandage. Her skin was warm where it rested against his palm.

“How will it be, then?” Her resignation was a quiet undertone.

“Sir Charles will assign someone to lead the team and coordinate the watch. The agents on duty will rotate. If we can place someone within your household—a boot boy, a scullery maid—we will. If not, they will be stationed at both the front and rear of the house.”

“I want you to lead the team.” Her fingers clutched his arm, squeezed once. Her eyes were level with his. Features hard. “I shouldn’t, after your manly display of protective idiocy a few hours ago. But I want no one else.”

Protective idiocy. It might seem that way to her. But idiocy or not, he would protect her.

She turned her arm over so that their hands were palm to palm. Her smooth skin slid against his calloused palm. Warmth spread from his hand, to his belly, to his heart. Too much heat. Too much sensation.
Too much caring.
It was that step between being lovers, and something more.

He should have pulled away. Instead, he let her delicate fingers tangle with his. She sent him a slow, feline smile.

“Only you, Angel.”