UNDER A CHRISTMAS SPELL (3 page)

“I’m not at liberty to say why I’m here.” Belatedly, it dawned on him that she was afraid. He’d forgotten about her fearfulness. She’d always put on a good act, but she hadn’t liked being a spy, and she’d feared soldiers most of all—inconvenient during a war, to say the least.

She should know by now that she had no reason to fear him. He loved her and always would, whatever she was, whatever she’d done. If he’d been a true patriot, he would have killed her ages ago. “My mission has nothing to do with you. Believe me, Lucie, if I’d known you were going to be here, as well, I wouldn’t have shot myself.” He thought about putting on a seductive grin but decided against it.

She waved a dismissive hand. “I wish I could believe you, but you’re a clever man. It could merely be a ploy within a ploy.”

“And so could yours. I don’t like being at a disadvantage any more than you do.”

“You’re at no disadvantage.” She spat the words. “You are an Englishman in his own country and the son of a marquis.”

Much good that did him. His father had long ago disowned him. His family wouldn’t come to his aid, nor would they grieve if they heard of his death. A living spy was a regrettable necessity, a dead one hurriedly forgotten.

“You also have a loaded gun and a knife, and perhaps more weapons that I cannot see,” she said.

“My gun isn’t the only instrument that is loaded and ready, as you’ve doubtless noticed by now.” His cock had made a tent of the sheet, but there was no point telling it to desist. “If you are at a disadvantage—which I don’t believe—it is by choice. You can lure any man you want to your bed. You could be a duchess by now if you wished.”

She shuddered visibly. “I have had enough of husbands.”

“Let’s fence with buttons off, Lucie. Why are you here?”

“I’m no more at liberty to say than you are.” She lowered the pistol. “But I had hoped to enjoy this English country Christmas. The holly and the ivy, the Yule log and the flaming pie.”

“You like all that nonsense?”

“
Mais oui
, I like it very much.” Her eyes widened with genuine surprise—something one rarely saw from her. She was delightful when she was being herself. “Don’t you?”

“God, no. Can’t abide it, but I didn’t come here to spoil your enjoyment, and I swear upon my honour that I mean you no harm.”

Immediately her guard went back up. “This is no coincidence. I don’t promise not to kill you.”

He nodded. Damned if he would let one of the master’s schemes harm Lucie, but he couldn’t protect her if she didn’t believe him. “Pass me that sleeping draught, will you?” He indicated the glass on the table by the bed and watched her over the rim while he slowly sipped it all down. “I don’t know what the doctor put in this foul concoction, but I expect I’ll be dead to the world for a number of hours.”

In other words, his life was in her hands. Her eyes, intent and suspicious, made it clear that she understood. She wouldn’t shoot him, but there were ways of making a drugged man’s death appear natural, and a spy like Lucie knew them all.

“When you decide to trust me,” he said, “perhaps we can work out why we are really here.”

* * *

He’s the sort of man who gambles
, Lucille told herself. She could have snuffed him out just like that, and no one would have suspected foul play. He knew it, and yet he’d risked everything on a throw of the dice. She had been like him once out of necessity, but it was no longer wartime, and she wanted to be a different Lucille.

And yet, one glance at him and she was lost. Incubi were born to make one breathless with desire. She had the same effect on men as he on women, but that wasn’t what drew her to him. It was that he made her want to be herself, made her want it so badly that she couldn’t help but give in.

He was so sure of himself, lying there with his erection pushing up the sheet, his come-and-take-me eyes mocking not only her desire but her love. It wasn’t fair.

She hurried back to her chamber and climbed into bed, shivering with both cold and a combination of anger and dismay. It was bad enough that she wanted to make love with him, but that was only natural, an understandable phenomenon.

Far worse, she wanted to trust him, as he’d asked. She wanted to be safe with him again. How stupid! After what she had done to him, she could never be at ease in his presence, could never escape the fear and shame. If she hadn’t been holding a gun on him, she wouldn’t have been able to meet his eyes.

Yet now, as if England and France were again at war and spies were once more playing the game, he had thrown down the gauntlet—to taunt her, to make her take risks in return. But why? If he didn’t want to kill her, why was he here?

She would not allow herself to think about Val. She dreamed about him, though—tantalizing erotic dreams that left her sweating even in the chilly night, aching and unfulfilled. Were these the product of her own imagination, or had he sent them? Was he really dead to the world, or had that been another ploy?

To hell with him. She could frustrate him just as easily, but she refused to combat fire with fire. Her job was to arouse Lord Westerly, not to play games with Lord Valiant Oakenhurst. She intended to fulfill her own mission and enjoy the English country Christmas.

* * *

Val woke from a drugged fog to find Lord Westerly standing by his bed.

He blinked the sleep away. Judging by the light seeping through the window curtains, it was morning. “I’m still alive.” He managed to grin up into his host’s cold, tired eyes. Westerly had been stiff-rumped as a youth, but the war had improved him, Val thought. “Have you come to kill me?” He certainly looked capable of it.

“I’m a soldier, not an assassin,” Westerly said.

“Whereas I am an assassin,” Val said. “Such a vast gulf between us.”

Westerly shrugged. “Not really. We both served our country. Different jobs require different methods.”

For a long moment Val lay suspended with surprise. “Charitable of you.”

“No, it’s realistic,” Westerly said. “Don’t be an ass, Oakenhurst. I used to be self-righteous, and you never had any morals, but I for one have changed. I have nothing against you as long as you leave Miss Southern be.”

Val barely stopped himself from raising insolent brows. He was used to being an ass with members of his own class. It would require practice to change. In as polite a voice as he could muster, he said, “You have an interest in her?”

Westerly’s face hardened even more. “She is both a guest and a valued friend. I won’t have her discommoded.”

Another long pause, during which Val made a decision. “That puts me in a pretty pickle.”

Westerly grew even colder, quite deadly in fact. “For your sake, I hope you intend to tell me why.”

“I’m probably not supposed to.” Val sat up, wincing as the bandages shifted on his arm. “Not that I care about secrecy anymore. We’re not at war.” He sighed. “Someone wants Miss Southern to marry.”

“What?” Westerly was understandably perplexed. “Which someone?”

“I don’t know. Someone to whom my spymaster owes a favor. Hand me that cup of small beer, will you?” Westerly obliged. Val took a long swallow and made a face. “I could use something decent to drink.”

“Later. Why would anybody care whether Miss Southern marries? Surely that’s her business.”

“Perhaps someone thinks she would be happier married than single. Most women are. My spymaster refuses to reveal his identity, but he’s of our class. I assume he knows someone who’s related to Miss Southern and cares about her.” He blew out a long breath. “My ridiculous mission is to arouse her interest in sensuality in the hope that she will choose to, as my spymaster put it, fall in love and marry. I have been forbidden to so much as kiss her.”

There was a silence, whilst unreadable emotions chased themselves across Westerly’s face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I couldn’t make up anything so absurd,” Val said. “You needn’t look as if you’d like to murder me. She’s not my sort of woman at all.”

“Which brings me to my other concern,” Westerly said. “Madame Beaulieu, who I would say is your sort in more ways than one. Who is she?”

Val grimaced. “A former spy.”

“I thought so.” Westerly paused. “I’ve met her before, although I don’t recall quite where. I think perhaps she was not French at the time, but Spanish.”

Val nodded. “She is French by birth, but after losing her parents she was fostered in Spain and eventually sent to England. She can play a convincing Englishwoman or Spaniard if she chooses. She worked for our side, if that matters to you.” This might not be the truth. She’d certainly been working for France when she had destroyed Val’s mission. He’d watched her after that until the war was over, dreading the prospect of having to kill her, but she had never trespassed again that he could see—in fact, she’d done some damned dangerous and highly efficient work for England. He still didn’t understand what game she’d been playing.

“I don’t care who she worked for,” Westerly said. “She’s not the sort of woman with whom I want Miss Southern to associate.”

“Surely Miss Southern’s friends are her business?” Val suppressed a laugh at Westerly’s glower. “Maybe she’s bored with being a pure, untouched virgin. Maybe she enjoys the titillation of having a worldly sort of friend. Maybe whoever thinks she should marry is entirely right about her needs and desires.”

“And maybe you should mind your tongue before I lose my temper,” Westerly said. “There’s something damned havey-cavey going on here. I don’t believe the story of a carriage breakdown in front of the vicarage any more than I did your tale of highwaymen.”

“I don’t believe it, either, but she refused to tell me why she’s here.” He laughed. “Has she tried to flirt with you? Maybe someone wants you to marry, too.”

“Then they can go to the devil. I’ll let you stay here long enough to convince your spymaster that you did your best, but in return you’ll have to do something for me.”

* * *

Christmas Eve passed quickly. Lucille helped Theodora make table decorations with holly and rosemary. They all tramped into a nearby wood for a ceremonious cutting of the Yule log, which was dragged to the house by servants and placed in the great hearth. The guests arrived—five chattering young women with their parents, as well as a few unprepossessing men to keep the numbers even. Lord Valiant descended from his sickroom, raven-haired, brooding, and irresistibly romantic-looking with his arm in a sling. The young ladies whispered and sighed.

Their parents whispered, too. Fathers scowled at Lord Westerly and mothers sent shocked or reproachful looks at his aunt. On the way downstairs, Lucille caught the sound of raised voices in the bedchamber next door to hers and stopped to eavesdrop.

“Lord Valiant is the worst sort of lecher,” a man’s voice growled. “God knows why he has such an effect on women, but he’s extremely dangerous. Have your maid pack your things. I won’t have my daughter in the same house as him.”

“But, dearest, we’ve just arrived,” said his wife. “I had hopes that Lord Westerly would fall in love with our Anne.” Ah, this was Lady Shaw, a pleasant matron Lucille had met once or twice during the Season.

“He won’t fall in love with any girl who’s making eyes at Oakenhurst,” said her husband, Sir Digby, an old roué with a big belly and a roving eye. “I’m beginning to have my doubts about Westerly, too, allowing that libertine under his roof.”

“But, darling, Lord Valiant was shot by highwaymen. Lord Westerly couldn’t leave him bleeding to death on the doorstep.”

“Nothing wrong with the fellow today, as far as I can see. I shall speak to Westerly now. Either Oakenhurst goes, or we do.” At the sound of irate footsteps, Lucille hurried away down the passage, but not quickly enough to escape Sir Digby, who did his best to paw her before descending upon Lord Westerly.

A half hour later Sir Digby and his wife and daughter got into their coach and drove away.

Theodora, it transpired, had heard the entire row. “Lord Westerly seemed to enjoy it,” she told Lucille. “He asked Sir Digby if he feared his daughter’s morals were as lax as his own. I don’t know how I managed to keep from bursting out laughing.” For an innocent, Theodora wasn’t easily shocked.

Everyone gathered in the drawing room before dinner. Lady Westerly floundered through excuses for the abrupt departure, but Lord Westerly put up a hand to silence them.

“Nonsense,” he said. “They left because I refused to send Lord Valiant away. I could not in all conscience do so. In the first place, he is still recovering from his wound, and in the second place, it is Christmas Eve.”

“Indeed, it would have been wholly contrary to Christian charity,” Theodora said.

“Instead you sent Sir Digby and his family away!” cried Lady Westerly. “That isn’t Christian charity. Think of his poor wife and daughter. Night was falling, and there are highwaymen about.”

“I didn’t
send
them,” Lord Westerly said. “Sir Digby chose to leave, and there is a respectable inn only a few miles away.” When Lady Westerly began to remonstrate, he interrupted, his tone harsh and clipped. “I suggest you drop the subject. You would not wish me to lose my temper and drive away the rest of our guests.”

At this precise moment, Lord Valiant strolled in. No doubt he had been listening outside the door. “What a pity that would be.” He cast an appraising glance about. “Such beautiful young ladies and their delightful mothers.”

Amidst the sighs, blushes and wrathful mutterings that followed this entrance, Val sidled over to Lucie. “It’s Christmas, darling,” he whispered in French. “Let us call a truce.”

“One only calls a truce during a war,” she retorted. “Are we in a war?”

“Not of my making,” he said.

“Nor mine,” she snapped back.

“No? You seemed rather warlike last night. I wasn’t the one waving...pistols...about.”

She struggled to keep her smile in check. She wished... But wishing was no use.

“Come now, Lucie,” he said. “For old times’ sake. You want it as much as I do.”

She shrugged and walked away, not because she thought it would fool him, but because she needed to think about practical matters such as life and death, rather than how much she wanted to crawl on top of him and make him hers.