While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (6 page)

With a small sound, she backed away, a wary look in her eyes.

He raised an eyebrow. “Afraid I’ll lead you into temptation?”

“No!” She sounded defensive.

Good. He had a mission. And the first order of the day was to dispense with this girl so he could investigate the clearing for signs of the smugglers.

“I think you’d better run home, Miss Dashing.” He released her arm and gave her a little push toward the path through the trees. “Too much temptation out here.”

She stared at him, eyes widening. They were the shade of cocoa swirled with rich cream. From the shock in her gaze, he could tell she hadn’t missed the innuendo. “I assure you, I am quite well, Lord Winterbourne.” But she took another step back. “I walk here frequently.”

Trees, a stream—what could interest her here? “Why?” he asked. “Can’t you pray somewhere else? A church perhaps?”

Her mouth curved down at the corners. “I like it here. Where I can be
alone
.”

“You’re not alone now.”

“No. I’m not.” She swept the ribbon, which had blown across her cheek, aside. Perhaps she wished she could sweep him aside as easily.

“I have no intention of leaving, Miss Dashing, so if your prayers are done, you should go.”

“
I
should go?” The ribbon blew forward, obscuring the glare in her eyes.

Ethan grinned in spite of himself. She wouldn’t make this easy, but then he liked a challenge, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so much.

“A little girl like you can’t have that many sins to repent.” He gave her a roguish look. “Yet.”

She gaped at him, rosy mouth forming an O. “Lord Winterbourne—”

Ethan turned his head at the sound of approaching voices and tried silencing her with a wave.

“No, I will
not
be quiet! You have no right—Mmmpfh!”

In one fluid motion, he closed his hand over her lips and dragged her into the thick shrubs nearby, pushing her onto her stomach and coming down next to her.

She bucked against him wildly. She was small but strong, and he struggled to keep his arm around her. She bit his hand, and he swore soundlessly. Little hellion!

“Lie still!” He clamped his hand tighter to muffle her protests. “Stop fighting. There’s someone coming.”

She shook her head, elbowing him in the stomach.

“The devil take it!” He pulled her hard against him, where she’d be less able to inflict damage. “
Listen
,” he whispered against her ear.

Thankfully, she obeyed. Her petite body grew rigid as the men’s voices became louder. Wide-eyed, she craned her neck to look at him. He took a chance and uncovered her mouth, leaving his other arm securely around the curve of her waist. He put a finger to his lips.

She nodded.

Peering through the shrubbery into the clearing, he saw three men clamber through the trees on the clearing’s far side.

All three wore coarse wool trousers and gray homespun shirts, but one sported a bulky greatcoat while the others had no such protection from the November chill. Their hair was dirty, matted, and shaggy, their faces and clothes covered with dirt and grime. One wore a brown beaver hat, and his unkempt hair was plastered to his neck beneath it.

“I don’t see why I should be the only one that has to help the stinking Frenchie do the digging,” whined Beaver Hat. “It’ll go much faster if we all pitch in.”

The three stomped through the meadow, pausing a yard or so from where Ethan and the girl lay. Ethan scrunched down further. The contents of a haversack clunked loudly when the man in the coat tossed it aside, and Ethan felt the girl jump.

“You’ll do the digging because you and the Frenchie lost at cards last night. That was the wager,” Greatcoat answered in a hoarse voice. “And if I were you, I’d start now.”

Beaver Hat planted his hands on his hips. “What if I don’t want to start? What if I don’t want to work with no stinking Frenchie?”

Greatcoat stared at him. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you took this job.”

Ethan watched as the man reached into the coat and withdrew a pistol. The girl gasped, and Ethan glanced at her. Her eyes were riveted on the men, and against his body, he felt her heart pounding in her chest. He raised his hand to cover her mouth again but lowered it when she remained silent.

He looked back at the men, now certain they were the smugglers.

Beaver Hat backed down under the threat of the pistol. “No need for that. I’ll help the Frenchie.”

“Good.” Greatcoat nodded, still pointing the gun at his companion. “You’d better get to it. You-know-who will expect us to be ready to leave as soon as he returns.”

Beaver Hat turned and scurried in the direction the three had come.

Greatcoat and the other man sat on an old log. Greatcoat pulled out a flask, drank deeply, and passed it to the other. Ethan noticed the silent smuggler had a fresh bruise that would become a black eye in another day.

“I could do without his mouth.” The man with the black eye drank from the flask and handed it back.

“Won’t have to work with him much longer,” Greatcoat answered, voice still gravelly. “Be out of here tonight if all goes as planned.”

His companion nodded. “Let’s just hope you-know-who took care of his end. We don’t need any more meddling farmers.”

A reference to Skerrit, Ethan thought, glancing at the girl beside him. Her features were blank, giving no sign she understood the discussion.

“Can’t blame him for complaining.”

Ethan looked back at the smugglers.

The silent one touched his bruised eye gingerly. “Don’t like working with them Frenchies myself. Wouldn’t do it except I need the blunt.”

“Gagnon’s not so bad.” The smuggler drew his coat closed and drank from the flask again. “I’ve seen worse. Bad business across the water. Bloody bunch of barbarians if you ask me.”

Beside him, the girl had begun to shiver. She was frightened, and he didn’t blame her. When her teeth began to chatter, he pressed his hand over her mouth. If they were very quiet and moved slowly, they could back out of the shrubbery without the smugglers seeing.

But they had to go now before much more was revealed. The less the girl knew, the better. Devil take him! He was so close. He
knew
these were the smugglers.
Knew
the man had gone to unearth the arms they’d be smuggling to France. He had them. But his first responsibility was to see the girl safely home.

The girl squirmed, twisting her head under his hand. Ethan clenched his jaw. He scowled at her, angry at having to let the smugglers go. “
Come
,” he mouthed silently. He removed his hand from her mouth and again put a finger to his lips.

She glared at him. He ignored her, releasing her waist and backing out of their hiding place. He’d escort her home and return. If he was lucky, he’d see the man he really wanted—the smuggler’s superior.

Ethan had known from the first someone besides Skerrit was involved. Someone funding the operation. Soon he’d know the man’s identity.

The girl watched him, the expression on her face confused and irritated. He pulled at her arm until his mouth brushed her ear. “Stay low and follow me,” he whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”

“But—”

He gave her a warning look. She pursed her lips, and he crawled backward, out of the undergrowth. She followed.

They backed into a clump of trees that sheltered the clearing, then he took her arm and pulled her toward the area where he’d hobbled Destrehan. A few yards away, he could hear the smugglers laughing, unaware they’d been observed. Ethan and the girl were, hidden from sight by the trees, but the smugglers were still too close for Ethan to relax.

He tugged her arm. “Let’s go,” he murmured.

“Wait!” she hissed. She shook free and squared her shoulders, facing him. “I want to know who those men were and what they were doing.”

“Not now,” he whispered, nodding at the clearing. “I’ll fetch my horse and take you home.”

She gave him a withering look. “Don’t you owe me an explanation? Something more believable than the story you told last night.” She walked away from him—heading the wrong way.

He gritted his teeth, took two steps, and turned her around. “This way.” He nodded his head toward Destrehan.

She glared at him, pushed the recalcitrant ribbon out of her eyes, and started off again. “Lost a shoe,” she muttered. “And he expects me to
believe
that?”

Ethan almost reached out to strangle her but checked the impulse. She’d obviously figured out his lie last night and wouldn’t accept half-truths and vague explanations for what they’d seen today. He didn’t have time for this.

She swung around and looked over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”

Ethan glared at her. No wonder the girl had been praying. She would need divine intervention to keep him from killing her.

“T
his is really quite unnecessary, Lord Winterbourne,” Francesca argued, desperation causing her pitch to rise.

“So you’ve said.”

Together they climbed the last hill before Tanglewilde, he leading his sorrel gelding by the halter and looking as annoyed as he sounded. Francesca knew this was her last chance to dissuade him. After they’d retrieved his horse from a copse of trees off the main road a half hour before, she’d expected to part ways. The marquess, however, had other ideas. Still had them.

Yesterday she couldn’t make him look at her twice. Today he was practically stitched to her side. Was he concerned for her welfare? Worrying for her safety and escorting her home were acts far too chivalrous for Winter—he wasn’t so nicknamed without reason. He was not a nice man.

Then another thought struck her. “Do you think that man in the clearing would have actually shot the other?”

Francesca would freely admit she had been terrified when the man drew his pistol on his companion. If Winterbourne wasn’t being so surly, she might have expressed gratitude that he’d appeared in the meadow when he did. Perhaps she had sensed those men nearby and that was why she’d felt uneasy earlier.

He hadn’t answered her, but she went on anyway. “I suppose they’re highwaymen who’ve hidden their spoils near the clearing.”

“Hmm.”

She frowned at his response. “If we hadn’t hidden, would they have demanded our money or our lives?”

“Only in a novel, Miss Dashing.”

She lifted her chin, disregarding his scorn. He was obviously in a bad temper, and perhaps it was just as well. His anger distracted her from noticing how his tight trousers molded against the muscles of his thighs above his riding boots, and from remembering how hard and solid his body had felt when he’d held her against him as they watched the highwaymen.

He was still scowling at her. If he hated her so much, why did he insist on seeing her home? They were well away from the men and presumably she was safe now.

Or she would be if she could prevent him from taking her home.

She needed to distract him. She stopped walking, forcing him to turn to look at her. “I think you owe me some answers, especially after lying to me last night.”

“I see.” He didn’t look distracted. His eyes, hardened amber, judged and assessed her.

She shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for him to answer. He didn’t.

She couldn’t stand it any longer. “You said your horse lost a shoe”—she pointed to his mount—“and he obviously hadn’t.”

“And?” He didn’t even blink.

Did the man have no shame? “And,” she went on, waving her hands in frustration, “you lied!”

“Yes.”

Francesca wanted to scream. “Is that all you’re—Wait a minute.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What were you
really
doing at Mr. Skerrit’s, Lord Winterbourne?”

He didn’t answer, his face a blank canvas, but for once she didn’t mind. “Are you some sort of spy?” It was the first thought that popped into her head.

“You have an active imagination, Miss Dashing.”

She couldn’t deny it, but she’d said something that struck a mark. She had seen the quick tensing of his jaw when she’d said the word
spy
—the hard set of his lips before they’d relaxed back into deceptive detachment. She had seen that look before, in another lifetime, when the two of them had danced at the Harcourts’ ball.

“You were doing more than riding by Skerrit’s farm yesterday, weren’t you, Lord Winterbourne?” She took a step toward him, trying to find the best angle to judge the expression on his face. “No wonder you were so quick to buy Thunder. You were trying to rid yourself of me!”

“I’m beginning to think
that’s
an impossibility,” he muttered.

Francesca huffed. It all made sense now—his annoyance with her, his eagerness to buy a horse he didn’t want. What if her guess was true? What if she’d interrupted him in the midst of a mission for the Foreign Office, perhaps even for Prime Minister Pitt himself? She’d allowed her imagination to run wild, and now she couldn’t seem to rein it in.

“Is Mr. Skerrit a threat? Is he an agent for the French? Oh!” She put her hands to her throat. “Those men we just saw kept talking about a Frenchie.” She took another step forward and grasped Winterbourne’s forearm. She clutched him, feeling the security of solid muscle under her fingers. “Hampshire hasn’t been” —she swallowed—“
invaded
? Has it?”

“No.” His voice was harsh with exasperation. “The French have not invaded the Hampshire countryside.”

She took his arm with her other hand, holding him with both now. “Oh, thank God!”

He glanced at her hands, ungloved and red from cold against the dark material of his greatcoat. Suddenly aware of his warmth seeping through the material and the hard, sculpted feel of his muscles beneath her hands, she released him and stepped away.

She glanced in the direction of Tanglewilde, then back at him.

“Miss Dashing, either lead the way, or I’ll pick you up, throw you over my shoulders, and carry you home.”

“No!” She held up her hands to ward him off. “You can’t do that.”

“Watch me.”

He was so close, she felt his breath caress her cheek. When she met his gaze, he stared right back, and she realized he meant what he said.