For Her Spy Only (Entangled Scandalous) (6 page)

Chapter Six

Alistair hadn’t seen Jasper Riverton in more than fifteen years, but he needed those maps. He’d break into the man’s house if he refused them entrance. The code needed to be deciphered and he was getting close. As much as he hated to admit it, having Winifred by his side gave him a jolt of courage—having her with him made him feel more comfortable about facing Riverton. Alistair didn’t relish seeing anyone he’d gone to school with. At least those few in the Seven he’d known when he’d been a boy knew him now, knew his mind and respected his intelligence. But men like Riverton had only ever seen Alistair as a peculiarity.

Alistair had always been odd, even in his interactions with other peers of the realm. He spoke differently, when he bothered to talk; he moved differently; he certainly thought differently, which was why he was so damned good at his job. Of course it hadn’t seemed that way growing up. Then he’d been ridiculed and teased as being a simpleton. It wasn’t until Harrison, the leader of the Seven, recruited Alistair to break codes that Alistair had finally accepted his differences. Now he didn’t give a damn what others thought of him. Except for Winifred.

The carriage rolled up toward the townhome. There were several other carriages in front, as well as people milling about.

“It appears as if his lordship is hosting a party,” Winifred said.

“Indeed.” That could be either good, a way for them to blend into the crowd, or bad, a damned school reunion.

“We will scarcely be noticed, I suspect,” she said.

He could only hope. Oh how he loathed the small talk of London, conversing about the weather and the latest scandal or whatever political nonsense was going on in Parliament. He didn’t give a fig about most of it. They were introduced into the house and no one seemed to blink at the sight of them. Riverton stood to the side with his wife. At least Alistair assumed the woman next to him was the man’s wife.

Alistair stepped over to them, his hand resting on the small of Winifred’s back. “Riverton,” he said with a nod.

“Coventry, old boy.” He grabbed Alistair in an embrace and popped him on the back.

Yet another reason to not enjoy London. People touched him too much. It was unsettling.

“I had no idea you ever came to London, else I would have sent an invitation. Glad you came by nonetheless.” The man’s eyes moved to Winifred, and his brows rose.

“Winifred Mirren,” she said, introducing herself. “I am a friend of Lord Coventry’s.”

“Indeed,” the man said with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Mirren, I know that name. You are the mapmaker’s widow!” He clapped his hands together. “How splendid to make your acquaintance. I do hope you’ll take the opportunity to peruse my collection of maps. I suspect you’ll find it particularly interesting.”

“Yes, I’d love to. Where might we find that?” she asked.

“Second floor, end of the west corridor,” the man said, pointing his finger toward the staircase.

Alistair nodded at the man again and ushered Winifred off.

“See how painless that was? You needn’t be so afraid of people.”

“I’m not
afraid
of them, I simply don’t care for them.” He glanced over at her. Her hand trailed against the railing as they climbed the stairs. “Most people.”

She smiled, but did not look at him.

They made their way quietly to the collection room. That was the thing about Winifred; she was not disturbed by his silence. It used to drive Sarah to near madness. Or it finally had.

The moment they’d married, she’d begun peppering him with questions. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that she could not be in a room with him for more than fifteen minutes before she’d start pestering him about his thoughts or his opinions about the gardens and whatnot.

Winifred, though, took his silence in stride, speaking when she wanted to, but not demanding he participate. It was the thing he liked most about her. And she was one of the very few people he’d encountered in life whom he felt able to simply be himself around. Not that he ever tried to be different with people, but with Winifred he wasn’t as aware of his peculiarities.

She had an easy way about her with most people. Speaking to those who enjoyed conversation and as easily spending quiet moments with him. He found himself wondering what manner of relationship she and Mirren had had.

The collections room was large, big enough to host a soiree, but instead hosted shelves of books, large, framed maps, and several tables with other maps laid out.

“Good heavens, he is quite the collector,” Winifred said. “I knew people liked Reggie’s work, but I had no idea. I myself have always had a penchant for maps, but I thought that was merely a peculiar part of me.” She smiled again.

His heart clenched. Those smiles were water to his parched throat and he could not get enough of them. He needed to bed her soon else he begin to believe he needed her for something more than mere physical pleasure.

“Shall we begin?” she asked.

He inclined his head and started toward the maps hanging on the walls. “I need the Hook 1798, the Frost 1787, and the Baker 1792.”

“Perfect.” She moved effortlessly through the room, glancing at the ones on the walls first and then moving to the tables. “That Hook was always one of my favorites.”

Alistair stepped over to a different table and looked through the maps sprawled on the top. Immediately he located the 1792. “Found one.”

He withdrew the two books in his coat and found the appropriate coordinates for this map. Winifred brought him one of the other maps. As she placed it in front of him on the table, something caught his attention. He pulled this new map closer, then took a closer look at the first one.

“Have you found the third one?” he asked.

“I’m looking. What is it?”

“I’m not certain yet, but I believe these maps may have something hidden within them.”

“What do you mean?”

“A secret coding or message.”

“Well, that can’t be. Reggie never did anything of the sort.” She moved quickly through the other maps, found the third one he needed, and brought it over.

There it was, the same markings that the other two maps had. Hidden within the legend of the map there was yet another code. “See here, this symbol.”

She leaned closer. “What is that? Some sort of insect?”

“That is a bee. A symbol of Napoleon’s.”

“What does that mean?”

“That someone was leaving messages here for traitors to the Crown.”

“Not Reggie,” she said emphatically.

“No, I don’t believe so. These were clearly added at a later date. The ink used is different.”

“Timothy,” she said.

“Perhaps. If he is involved, now that he knows we wanted these maps, he’ll know we’re on to him. We need to get out of here rather quickly.”

“Get what you need first,” she said. “I can look around to see if I find anything else of interest. Do I merely look for that little bee?”

Alistair gripped her arm. “I’m not certain we have time. Besides, I’m taking these maps with me. We’ll need them for the investigation to see if Riverton is involved.” Though Alistair doubted it. Riverton wasn’t intelligent enough to be secretly working for Napoleon.

“Yes, they came up here a while ago, the marquess and his lady. They asked to look at my map collection,” Riverton said from the corridor outside the room.

“We need to go. Now,” Alistair said. He pulled her to a door at the back of the room, one that no doubt led to some sort of parlor. He was right, though the parlor seemed to be serving more as a storage room. It was lined with several pieces of furniture. He wove them through the maze of bureaus and tables and armoires until they reached the door. One peek into the corridor showed him the door to the collection room open.

He pulled Winifred out the door and off in the opposite direction.

Alistair needed to get word to Harrison, the leader of the Seven, that it was time to pick up Timothy to see what the apprentice really knew. More than likely, he was merely a pawn used by the real enemies in this game, but they couldn’t be too certain. But first he needed to ensure Winifred was brought to safety.

Chapter Seven

By the time they reached the carriage, Winifred was winded. Someone had been looking for them. They hadn’t stayed around to see who it was. Instead they’d sneaked out of the back of the Riverton home. She’d had to climb over plants and Alistair had pulled her over a stone wall that bordered their garden. But now he had her safely inside the carriage.

“I want to bring you to a friend’s house where I know you can be protected,” Alistair said once they started moving.

“No. I will not go anywhere without Oliver.”

“Your son?”

“Yes. If I am in danger, then he might be in danger.”

“Very well, we will pick him up. But you must be quick about it. I want you safely at Remy’s so I can bring something to Harrison.”

“Who is this Remy?”

“An associate. He also works for the Crown.”

“If you trust him, then I shall as well.” She reached into her reticule and pulled out a book. “This might be of use for your investigation.”

“What is that?”

“The registry. A book that all the visitors to his library signed.”

“We didn’t sign in.”

“We actually did. Well, I did, for us.” She gave him a sheepish grin. “In any case, I thought that perhaps the list of signatures might assist in the investigation.”

“Thank you, that was quite clever of you.” She was clever. He’d always known it, he supposed, else she would have irritated him the way most people did. But he’d never really acknowledged it. She was intelligent and clever and damned if he hadn’t put her in danger.

“Oh for pity’s sake, doesn’t this rig move any faster?” she said abruptly.

She was worried, he realized, for her boy. Her maternal side was unfamiliar, yet he found he didn’t find it off-putting. Instead it was merely another facet of her to admire. “We are nearly there,” he told her.

Fifteen minutes later, the carriage rolled to a stop and Winifred nearly jumped to the ground. They had almost made it to the front door when a sound caught Alistair’s attention. He looked to the side. Behind some shrubberies to the left of her townhome lay a body.

Alistair swore.

Winifred ran to the form on the ground. “Gracious, it’s Timothy!” Her hands flew over the man’s chest, and red stained her fingers. “He’s bleeding.” She ripped a piece of fabric off the bottom of her skirt and did her best to press it against the wound.

“Shot. I’ve been shot,” Timothy said, his voice hoarse. He coughed and sputtered.

There was no saving him with this much blood loss. “Who did this to you?” Alistair said.

He shook his head. “I don’t—” Then a round of coughs. He grabbed Winifred’s arm. “Danger, you’re in danger.”

Cold fingers of dread scraped down Alistair’s back. There was nothing to be done for Timothy, but Alistair could get Winifred to safety.

“Plimpson,” Timothy said with another round of coughs. “I told him I sent you to Riverton.”

“Winifred,” Alistair said, bringing her to her feet. “There is nothing more to be done for him. You and your son need to be moved to safety. Now.”

She took one last look at Timothy and nodded.

Ten minutes later, Alistair left Winifred’s townhome with assurances from two of her footmen that they would see her safely to Remington’s house. Alistair found Remy to be too boisterous for his liking, but he knew the man could be trusted. He had to alert Harrison to what had occurred so they could bring in this Plimpson for questioning. He’d quickly written a note to be given to Remy. Alistair needed to know when Winifred was safe.

Twenty minutes later, Alistair received notice of Winifred’s safety while standing in Harrison’s study. He had spent the last ten minutes filling in the leader of the Seven on the discoveries with the maps and the secret symbol. Harrison had left him to send messages to other members. Alistair had spent the time pacing, waiting.

Alistair read Remy’s note again and allowed the relief to wash over him. He’d been so damned scared for her well-being. And damnation, that meant only one thing. He cared for her. Him, the man with virtually no emotional ties. But the thought of her being hurt made him crazy with anger and terrified him to his very core.

He’d thought her to be a nice diversion, an outlet for his physical needs, and instead she’d become the one person he cared about.

Chapter Eight

After Remy and his wife, Emma, had given Winifred and Oliver a nice welcome, insisting they stay the night, Winifred had put Oliver to bed. She sat in a chair outside of the bedchamber where Oliver slept. Timothy had been murdered, seemingly because she and Alistair had questioned him about maps. It all seemed so unreal.

Obviously he had alerted someone to the fact that they wanted to see those maps—Plimpson or whoever had commissioned Timothy to embed those secret codes. Codes for followers of Napoleon. Oh dear, sweet Reggie’s maps. For the first time, she was thankful the man was dead, else the knowledge that someone was using his maps for ill would have certainly killed him.

He appeared in the corridor as if he’d known she needed to see him. She stood and nearly fell into his arms when he reached her. He kissed her head and kneaded the tense muscles in her back. Then he grabbed her hand and led her to another bedchamber a few doors down.

Once inside, he embraced her for several minutes, neither of them speaking. His heart thundered beneath her ear, so strong, so steady. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. Tonight was for her. A farewell to the only man she’d ever loved. She would always love him, she knew that now. Accepted it. He was the father of her child—how could she not love him? His seed had grown in her belly and become a beautiful, sweet, and smart boy she could not imagine her life without.

She should have known the fight would be futile. She’d waited six long years to be in Alistair’s arms again. As his mouth moved against the column of her throat, all she could think was she had found where she belonged.

“I’ve missed you, Winifred. Your feel, your taste.”

She said nothing, merely listened and felt. His hands held her tightly against him, resting on the small of her back. Protective, possessive. If only she were his. But she knew that could not be. She could have tonight, but that was all she could allow herself. If Alistair ever discovered the truth about Oliver, he’d never forgive her. He’d taken measures six years ago, as he would tonight, to prevent a pregnancy, but her body had betrayed them both. And though she didn’t regret it, she knew he’d hate her for it.

She moved her hand up his chest and wanted to rip his clothes from him, wanted to feel his bare skin. She worked on the buttons and once she had an opening wide enough, she spread the fabric and flattened her palms on his chest. Warm, taut, and muscular, he was every bit as miraculous as she remembered him to be.

“I’ve missed you,” she allowed herself to say. She dared not say too much, else she admit her feelings, give him her heart, and risk losing him for tonight.

Impatiently, he tore off his own shirt, perhaps as hungry for her touch as she was for his. The sight of his shoulders made her mouth dry. He was so beautiful.

He kissed her, his tongue coaxing, seducing. She was lost to him. She kissed him back. Her hands moved to his back, and the play of the muscles there pulsed against her hands. Desire moved through her, igniting every limb, every inch of flesh.

Slowly he removed every piece of her clothing. He kissed each shoulder as he slid her chemise down. He moved to stand behind her and swept her hair aside. He kissed and nibbled at her throat, her neck. She closed her eyes and leaned into him. He reached around and cupped her breasts and her nipples, already hard, ached against his hands. She arched into him.

Warm flesh pressed against her back and she longed for the rest of him to be disrobed. She reached behind her and cupped his erection, and he leaned into her hand. But still he kissed her skin, loving her with his lips, his tongue, his hands.

Her skin flamed beneath his worship and impatience clawed at her. But he was in control, and she loved his lead.

His hands massaged her breasts, his erection pressed into her bottom, and she moved in a slow circle grinding against him, hoping she drove him as wild as he did her.

“Take off your breeches,” she whispered.

“In time. I want to kiss every inch of you first.” He led her to the bed. Then he kissed her back, down the center of her spine, her hips, her waist, the tender spot where her bottom met her legs. She would not be able to withstand much longer. “Alistair, please,” she begged.

“Patience, love.” A kiss behind each knee, her thighs, her calves, then his hands ran up both legs and stopped on her bottom. “You have a sweet bottom, do you know that?”

She smiled, but said nothing. His torture didn’t end there. He started at her feet and kissed his way up to her knees, nibbled at her inner thighs. Then licked his way up to the apex of her thighs. She sucked in her breath and instinctively clenched her legs together.

“Relax,” he whispered. His breath feathered through the triangle of hair. His hands ran up the length of her thighs and settled in the middle where all her desire pooled. “Has anyone ever kissed you here?”

Her eyes widened. “No, never.” No one had ever been down there but him. But she didn’t tell him that.

He lowered his mouth and put his lips on her. Then he parted her curls and kissed her most sensitive part. She sucked in her breath and nearly floated off the bed.

“Oh my,” she said. It was her last coherent thought as her body flooded with sensations. He kissed and suckled and licked, and she writhed and moaned and shivered. Pleasure exploded through her when he slipped a finger inside. “Now, oh please, now.”

He chuckled, a low and deep seductive laugh that sent shivers through her. He stood from the bed. The remainder of his clothes hit the floor, and then he was on top of her, the pressure of his body against hers…oh how she’d missed him. She knew he’d taken precautions again, his attempt to prevent another pregnancy. She wanted to tell him that his efforts were in vain, that his efforts weren’t foolproof, weren’t a guarantee, but then in one swift movement, he entered her. And her pleasure mounted again with every thrust.

She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his back, deepening his penetration. Her climax hit hard and fast, right before his abdomen tightened and he groaned with his release.

Never had she felt so close to someone, so connected. They were one flesh. In that moment she allowed herself to fantasize what could happen if she told him about Oliver. He’d smile broadly and pull her against him, profess his love as she professed hers, and they’d be a family, finally together.

Now, though, he merely rolled off of her and pulled her close to him. “I told you we’re good together.”

She traced her finger down the scar that crossed his left cheek and ran down his throat onto his chest. She’d always wondered what had caused it, but she’d never dared ask. Not because she didn’t think he’d tell her, but because she knew he would and whatever had caused this angry mark would remind her all too much of the danger he had faced when he’d fought in the war.

“Is this from the war?”

“No,” he said, but offered no further explanation.

She hadn’t realized that giving herself to Alistair again would make her feel so strongly about telling him about Oliver. But she felt so open, so exposed, she had to fight the words from tumbling out. She snuggled closer to him, searching for a way to bring up the topic. “Why were you so surprised when you discovered I had a child?”

His shoulders shrugged under her. “I suppose since I’ve never wanted children, I forget that other people might.”

“Do you not like children?”

“I’ve never really been around them. I mean I was when I was a child, but not since,” he said, his tone tighter.

She chewed at her lip. “Then why the adamant feelings against them?”

He sat abruptly, his jaw clenched. “You want to know what this scar is?” He dragged his finger against the puckered skin. “I tried to save her, my wife, when she jumped from the cliff. I fell onto ragged rocks and missed her,” he said hoarsely.

People assumed he had killed his wife, but evidently she’d killed herself and he’d been there, seen it, tried to stop her.

“She is the reason for the scar and why I carry a cane. I don’t limp anymore, but I did for so long.” He exhaled slowly. “And she is the reason I do not want children.”

The hope Winifred had felt just moments before dissolved into a tight knot in her belly. Even more she knew she could not ever tell him, could not ever let him know that his child already existed.