Linda Needham (6 page)

Daft woman.

“Enough, madam. Your room is ready.” Tired to his bones, Charles brushed past her into the hallway and to the next door. He opened it and gestured her inside. “We’ll talk more in the morning. Good night.”

She stayed in the doorway, stubborn to the last. “Come the morning, my lord, I shall be going home to my shop, as you promised. I have customers to serve and rent to pay to my
landlord—who isn’t a very generous man. If I don’t meet my rent I’ll be evicted, and then what will happen to my Stanhope?”

“Which is what, exactly, madam? Your cat?”

“My printing press, damn you. It was my father’s. I have nothing else of his.”

“Ah.” Certain that he’d never sleep a wink tonight, Charles took the woman gently by the elbow and swept her into the chamber. “I shouldn’t worry about that, madam. Everything in your shop now belongs to the Crown. The press, the ink, the paper. Along with anything else that my men find there in the morning.”

Hollie held tightly to her anger, certain that she’d misheard the man, though her heart had taken off on its own trek and her stomach was reeling. “What did you say?”

“I’m impounding your Stanhope, as you call it.”

“You can’t. By what possible right?”

“By right of forfeiture, madam. A standard legal procedure that applies to anything that has been used in the commission of a crime.”

“But not by me. By my husband!”

The near smile in his eyes was replaced by hardness, and in the clipped consonants of his rank, he said, “It matters not who committed the crime, only that the machine is unable to be used illegally.”

“This is absurd; you’re punishing the wrong person. I had nothing to do with my husband’s
crime. The printing press is mine, not his. It’s never been his.”

“It wasn’t until you married him.” He seemed to find some perverse satisfaction in that.

“What do you mean?”

“A wife has no rights of property after she’s married. You’re an intelligent woman, Miss Finch; you must have known that. Your husband gained it all when you joined with him at the altar.”

Blast it all! She’d forgotten entirely, a simple fact of law that swamped her courage and stole her breath. “And so I lose everything because of something I have no control over? Whether Spindleshanks is caught, and tried, whether he wins his case or not—I’m to be punished!”

“Whatever happens from this point on, your printing press no longer belongs to you or to Mr. MacGillnock. You’d best get used to the idea, Miss Finch. And so good night.”

“Ballocks, my lord!”

Hollie caught Everingham’s arm as he turned to leave, but he was a bundle of rippling muscle and stopped only because he chose to turn back to her. “Nevertheless, madam, it is the law.”

“And a convenient excuse to silence my press, just as you and your bloody Parliament would like to silence all printers and their presses.”

“Only the seditious ones, madam.”

“Which is all of them, sir—because, depend
ing on one’s viewpoint, sometimes the simplest truth looks a whole lot like sedition.”

“The matter is settled.”

“So am I to starve, my lord?” she asked, letting her bitterness spill into her voice. “Or do you expect me to ply my trade on the street corners of London?”

He frowned. “You must have family somewhere.”

“None, as you already know. How do you expect me to live if you deprive me of the tools of my trade? I’m an innocent citizen. You have no right to keep me from an honest living.”

“But I do from a dishonest one, serving the criminal element.”

“With my husband at large and with a price on his head, I’m not likely to do that, am I?”

He paused overlong, drawing out the peril of her position. “I don’t know, madam. Are you?”

It was exactly what she planned to do, though she certainly wouldn’t let him know that. “I’m not a fool, my lord.”

“Merely married to one.”

Hollie could hardly find breath enough to speak. “You can’t mean this, my lord.”

“That’s the price of sedition these days,” he said, his eyes an unreadable midnight. “Good night, madam. Sleep well.”

H
usbands!

Those grasping, grumbling, overbearing creatures—especially the fake ones!

Mrs. Adam MacGillnock.

Could she possibly have been more naive? Giving away her freedom and the only weapon in her arsenal against Everingham, all in one witless, short-sighted act, trading a husband for her Stanhope. This brilliant idea had suddenly become a tree toad in a teapot.

Trust the earl of Everingham to turn it all back on her.

And now what?

Running away would leave her with nothing at all, no chance to deliver justice where it was so dearly needed. The only way to keep her
voice and to have any hope of learning the secrets of Everingham’s commission, so that she could warn the innocents of whatever grave punishment was coming, was to stay here, close to Everingham.

Which meant becoming a spy.

She wanted desperately to just climb into the huge bed, to tuck herself under the silken sheets, pull the covers over her head, and sleep for the next three days.

But the thieving beast was in the next room, gloating, believing himself the victor. And if she didn’t act immediately—make her bargain with the devil—she would be homeless, penniless, and without means to her campaign.

Resolved, Hollie tried her door, half-expecting Everingham to have locked it, but the latch opened easily.

She rapped twice on his door.

“Come.”

Squaring up the ragged edges of her story, Hollie entered his chamber. The chamber was darker and more golden now, and Everingham was nowhere to be seen.

There was only his scent and the breathless feeling that she was being appraised from the shadows.

“Dare I hope this means that you’ve changed your mind,
Mrs.
MacGillnock?”

Hollie froze and searched for the low rumble of his voice. What she’d first thought was a hunt
ing trophy—a rampaging grizzly poised near the hearth—had moved slightly.

He stepped into the center of the room, where the light caught the deep crags of his face. Dear God, he was utterly, beautifully naked from the massive breadth of his shoulders to the top of his breeches. Naked and golden and powerfully muscled. So dreadfully handsome.

Hollie hadn’t an ounce of air in her lungs, and a breath-stealing flush of something hot fluttered up from her chest. But not a whisper of it was fear; it was an unexpected, unbalancing admiration.

She ought to leave immediately and return after he was decently dressed. But she couldn’t move. Even the carpet held her, tugging at her toes, making them dig into its softness, rooting her to the wool.

This was all quite improbable. She righted her nightgown, which seemed altogether transparent just now, too hot and too cool and far too clingy.

“Changed my mind about what, my lord?”

His voice was low and seductive. “About sharing my bed tonight.”

Hollie closed her eyes to rid herself of the sight of him, all that raw and splendid power. But he was there anyway, in her mind, drawn even more sharply.

“I have…not.” Not what? She opened her eyes, unable to recall his question, let alone the
exceedingly important answer she ought to be coming up with instead of staring.

Something about his bed. About the silken counterpane and all those pillows. Yes, something about sharing—No!

The wily blackguard! “I’ve not changed my mind about sharing anything with you, my lord. Least of all your bed. I am a very happily married woman—”

“So you’ve said, madam.”

“And I meant it.”

“Then what are you doing here in my chamber?” He was casual in his stalking stride, his motion slowed because time had unwound itself. His breeches fitted him too well; the black doeskin caught the shadows and the golden light as it rode the long length of his thighs.

“I was…” He was…simply magnificent. Head to toe and all those remarkable places in between.

A dark pattern of sleek hair glistened across his chest and dove in a wide arrow into the top of his breeches, probably continued diving for some time, ending in all that maleness. The thought stirred up another whirlwind in her breathing, and spread like wildfire through her belly.

The earl had gone from bureaucratic inflexibility to sensuous stalking as he slipped his shirt back on, and a leonine grace brought him effort
lessly across the expanse of carpet to stand a few feet from her, glaring down his nose.

“If you were trying to make an escape, madam, you should have turned left instead of right and gone down the back stairs.”

Now that would be silly. Escaping him. This particular him. The rugged, rough-hewn, undulating crags and shadows of Charles Stirling.

“No. I was…” She was staring at him, just staring like a street-corner strumpet. And repeating herself when she ought to be forming a strategy.

“I wasn’t running away, my lord. There’s no point in that; where would I run to?”

“To warn your husband not to return to your little home above the shop?”

Oh, him. She had to remember to keep tabs on this imaginary husband of hers. But Everingham was real, and difficult enough to debate while he was fully clothed.

Though it took every ounce of her resolve, Hollie clasped her hands behind her back and went past him to the upholstered chair near the hearth.

“I’m sure my dear Adam will figure that out for himself. When he returns, he’ll notice me gone, as well as the printing press, and have no reason to stay.” She risked a glance at him and found him nearly dressed again, buttoned to midchest, rolling up his cuffs while he watched her. “I came in here, my lord, to try to reason with you.”

“I’m a very reasonable man.”

Reasonably pig-headed. “I’d like to know where you’re taking my Stanhope.”

“The Crown’s Stanhope. It’s coming here to Everingham for the time being.”

Here! “How is it coming? Who’s dismantling it? Please don’t tell me you mean Summerwell.”

Everingham leaned against the bedpost, looking smug and devilishly pleased with himself. “He’s bringing it by cart. I assume he’ll do whatever it takes to break it down appropriately.”

Oh, no! “With a sledgehammer, I suppose. It’s a delicate machine, my lord. He’ll destroy it if he isn’t careful.”

This seemed to amuse him. “He won’t, madam.”

“And where will you store it when it gets here?”

“The stables, I assume. Or the carriage house.”

Great heavens, no! “Then I have a proposition for you, my lord.”

His eyes darkened again; he came away from the bedpost. “And that is?”

Hollie prayed that the man was as reasonable as he claimed. He was her only hope and her worst possible enemy. “I’d be grateful, my lord, if you would allow me to set up the Stanhope and use it, so that I can continue my ordinary business. Under your supervision, of course.”

Charles held back his smile, because matters were progressing too nicely and she might deci
pher his motives—just as he had deciphered hers. This machine was vastly important to her, a treasure she’d do most anything to hold onto. At least he hoped it was so.

“Don’t be absurd, madam.”

“If my Stanhope lies around in your stables in pieces, it’ll be doomed to rust in the damp and be useless to me or to anyone.” She was an unwavering advocate, pacing in front of him in flannel that caught against her ankles and her calves, that clung to her thighs and tempted him.

“You can’t use your printing press, madam. It’s evidence against your husband, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“It can’t very well be evidence against anyone if it’s stored away improperly, dismantled and left without its signature.”

“Which is?”

“Every press leaves its own mark. The imprint of the platen, flaws in the type itself.” She braced her fists against her hips as she studied him. “Besides, I’m only being practical.”

Entirely diabolical, Miss Finch.
But he needed her to convince herself that this arrangement was her idea, not his.

“Tell me, madam: how can allowing the devoted wife of a dangerously seditious radical access to her printing press be anything approaching practical?”

“Well…” She plunked herself down on the bench at the foot of his bed, tucked her hands be
tween her knees. “Your commission needs the press assembled and working.”

“Does it?”

“Yes, and I need to make a living.”

She was as treacherously clever as she was beautiful.
May her husband rot in hell.

“What’s my guarantee against your conspiring with your husband to use your press against me?”

“I assume you’d be watching me every moment.”

He’d watch her every bloody moment, if he could stand it, if he didn’t succumb to his baser instincts.

“Besides, it’s autumn, my lord.”

“And that means?”

“The busiest time of year for me. I’ve got orders for all kinds of projects to keep me until well past winter. It’s money that I’ll need to keep a roof over my head when this horrible ordeal is finished and my beloved fool of a husband is caught and tried and hanged and I’m left a helpless widow.”

Helpless. He couldn’t imagine that.

“And if I agree to this enterprise, where do you plan to live while you’re working here?”

“Oh! Well.” Her eyes had grown bright and large with the scent of her success. “In the village, I suppose. Someone will take me in.”

“It’s eight miles from here. And I doubt you’ll find a place there.”

“I can sleep in the barn.”

No doubt the woman would do just that if he allowed it. “That won’t be necessary. The gatehouse is vacant. It’s small and hasn’t been used in years, but it’s watertight and warm, I’m told.”

A wary look came to her eyes. “The gatehouse? You’d allow that?”

“I would insist.”

That drew a frown from her, the shadowy hint of suspicion. “Is there room enough for my Stanhope? I need a large space with heat and—”

“I’m not a fool, madam.” Or was he an utter and complete lunatic? To risk his strategy on a woman who enchanted him, who tempted him. “You can set up your printing press in my carriage house in the courtyard. You work while I’m there, and you don’t when I’m not.”

“No.” Now she was frowning again, shaking her head and all those curls. “It would have to be in the house.”

Even better. “Why is that?”

“Out of the damp and the cold. For the ink and the paper, too. And I’ll need somewhere with loads of light and room enough for drying.”

“Your laundry, I suppose.”

“The printed pages. The ink smears easily and needs a full twenty-four hours to dry.”

He could see it all now, his silent house becoming a printing shop and Miss Finch the mistress of it all. “The conservatory, then, under lock and key. I will approve every project before it
goes out. Without negotiation, madam. Is it agreed?”

He watched a rainbow of doubt and hope cross her features, and was pleased beyond measure when she finally nodded. “Yes.”

“Then good.” He was now the keeper of Captain Spindleshanks’s wife. No doubt a better keeper than the man she had married.

Which gave him no peace at all.

“What about my clothes?” She got bristly and aimed her clipped tones at him. “You’ll excuse me, my lord, if I didn’t think to pack before I left home.”

“Summerwell has been told to bring everything—”

“Everything! I might have known that you meant lock, stock, and camisole when you confiscated my belongings. Am I to rent back my drawers from the Home Office?”

He kept his smile inside his cheek, imagining that item on the Privy Council agenda: “One pair of fancy drawers, leased to one Hollie Finch, wife of Adam MacGillnock, otherwise known as Captain Spindleshanks.”

Lord. He hadn’t the slightest idea how he would explain her to the Home Office.

“That won’t be necessary, madam. I’ll see that you have clothes in the morning.”

“And a hot bath?”

“And breakfast on a tray.”

Success seemed to stymie her, for she frowned
and cast him a wary look. “Then good night, my lord.”

She glanced back at him over her shoulder as she swept through the doorway in a swirl of nightgown-clad curves and bare ankles.

She was the best kind of witness he could have imagined. Witness and temptation all rolled into one fiery-hearted champion.

If Captain Spindleshanks was any kind of a man, any kind of a husband, he couldn’t possibly leave a wife like Hollie Finch for long without coming to her rescue. He would place watchers near the gatehouse and in the road.

It prickled his ethics some, but extraordinary measures were sometimes required to entrap an extraordinary criminal.

So he would bait his trap with the scoundrel’s magnificent wife and lie in wait for the blackguard.