My Favorite Bride (24 page)

“More than catching bandits?” he teased.

She answered him seriously. “Yes, I think so. Bandits are usually people who have no other way to live.”

He sobered. “You are too kind to people who deserve no kindness.”

He didn't have a clue, and she was focused on him. His safety. “Spies are coldly ruthless. They don't want to rob you.”

“Indeed they do. Spies rob us of life, of honor, of land, of military men who would serve their country to the best of their ability, of children . . . of wives.”

The situation grew ever more precarious. Samantha felt as if she were in the middle of a frozen lake, with thin ice in every direction and no idea where to turn. “I thought your wife died in a . . . robbery.”

“The thieves confessed before they were hung. They were paid by the Russians to wait until Mary left our compound, and to specifically set upon her. In my zeal to rid the countryside of Russian influence, I had proved to be a problem which they took steps to eliminate.”

“Gorblimey.”

“So I left India with my children, resolved to follow the line of traitors back to its source. And so I have. I've enticed one of the most important couples ever to betray England here to this party.”

Layers upon layers. The party was more than a mating ritual between him and Lady Marchant. It was a trap for—“Who?”

“You are so honest, so outspoken, I fear if I confide in you, you'll not be able to hide your disdain.”

She remembered the times she'd been caught with her hand in a pocket, the way she'd smiled and wheedled and acted the innocent. The times she'd talked her way out of arrest by imitating an upper-crust accent and a wholesome indignation. “I'm only outspoken with you, William. I can act with the best of Drury Lane.”

“Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh.” He waited for her shocked reaction.

But she was thinking. Recalling the narrow old fool with his flirting and his prancing. Recalling the intent old woman watching the proceedings with narrow-eyed intensity. “Not him. Her.”

William shook his head as if puzzled. “How did you know that?”

“I recognized the signs. She's hiding something.”

“She is hiding something. She's stolen a map. Teresa overheard them talking, and we have more information now from . . . from the man she stole it from. It's vitally important that we recover it, but we would really like to make an exchange, to replace it with a map that would confuse the enemy.” William's hands tightened on her shoulders. “If we could do that, we would save countless English lives.”

Her breath caught, and caught again. Pain pressed like knives on her lungs. She spoke in a hoarse whisper. “You need a cutpurse.”

“Yes. Do you know where we can find one?” He
chuckled, then halted. “I suppose you do know. Were you familiar with the thieves in London?”

“Yes.”

Rubbing his chin, he focused over her head. “But no common thief could pretend to be genteel. I suppose we could put him into the party as a servant. But no, we couldn't get him here fast enough.” He saw Samantha's signs of distress, and cuddled her close. “Don't worry, love. Somehow, we'll find a way. It's not your predicament. Don't worry your head about it.”

He drifted off to sleep, leaving Samantha staring, wide-eyed, into the encroaching light.

William woke in the early hours to a wash of pale gray fog outside the window. Inside, the fire was blazing merrily, giving off a heat that roasted his backside and warmed the cottage. But Samantha wasn't in the bed. He lay with his eyes closed, breathing the scent of her on her pillow, feeling the relaxation that came with bliss, and waiting until she returned so he could tell her about the rest of their lives. How they would spend them together. They would talk about travel, perhaps, and children . . .

He heard the rustle of starched petticoats. His eyes popped open, and his gaze fell on Samantha, dressed in a pale green day gown of modest proportions, seated at the table. She was staring at him, her expression cool and expectant, not at all the loverlike delight he experienced on seeing her. But perhaps she was shy. Or perhaps she feared he
would reject her as her father had rejected her mother.

Ah, yes. In that tale, she revealed all the uncertainty she must feel in his society. It was up to him to reassure her.

Smiling at her, he patted the cushions. “Come back, darling. Let me show the correct way a lover leaves the marriage bed.” Her cool expression vanished, to be replaced by shock and, for a second, such stark pain he was taken aback.

“Marriage?” she said. “There was never any talk of marriage.”

Her disbelief rendered him speechless long enough for him to look her over. Her hands were clenched in fists in her lap, her thumbs tucked under her fingers. She was breathing in short, shallow breaths. Some time in the middle of the night, she had fallen prey to doubts and fears—about him? About his intentions? But if that were the truth, surely his reference to marriage should have cured her misgivings. Gradually, without looking away from her, he freed himself from the blankets.

She observed without a flicker of desire or interest.

Collecting his clothing, he donned it, all the while trying to understand what had happened. Had he hurt her? He had, but he'd made it up. Had he frightened her? Nothing frightened Samantha. She'd been upset last night when he'd told her about the situation with Lady Featherstonebaugh—was she worried he would risk his life and leave her alone? But if that were the case, why had she set
herself apart from him? “Tell me what's wrong.”

She looked away, toward the window, and her lips trembled before she pressed them tightly together.

“Come up to the house with me,” he commanded. He needed to coerce her into talking—and she shouldn't be alone. “I need to prepare for the day, dress in something other than last night's wrinkled garments, consult with Duncan.”

At last she looked back at him, and the emptiness in her eyes showed him a soul barren and bereft. “I have something to tell you first.”

Chapter Twenty-four

“Are you going to untie me, or leave me like this all day long?”

Teresa ceased her frantic dressing and looked over at Duncan, stretched out naked on her bed, bound to the headboard by her sash. “Yes, yes, I'll untie you.” She strode forward with such purpose it was hard to believe that, a half an hour ago, she had been engaged in kissing his bum. She tugged at the knots she'd taken such pleasure in setting a few hours ago. “I need you to help me with my buttons.”

“A pleasure, my lady.” As his hands were freed, he caught her around the waist and held her in place. “But first I'd like to know what I said that distressed you so.”

She looked down at him, her eyes damp with worry. “You said you needed a cutpurse. You said
you and William required the assistance of a cutpurse.”

“If I had known it would cause you such distress, I'd have kept my clabber shut. I thought that you seem to know everything about everybody, and that you might have someone to do the job.”

Her expression haunted, she said, “I have to go warn Samantha.”

His hands slid away, and slowly he sat up. “Warn Samantha? Miss Prendregast? About what?”

Teresa's movements were jerky as she walked across to the window and stared out at the foggy morning. “She isn't . . . she hasn't . . .” She turned to face Duncan. “Do you think William will confide in her?”

“I don't know.” Reservations formed in Duncan's mind, but he didn't believe them. He couldn't imagine that that young governess . . . no. No, it was impossible. “I would have said never, but William is as daft in love as any man I've ever seen.”

“But he won't tell, will he?” Teresa wrung her hands. “Because I fear Samantha would . . . but he won't tell her his dilemma. He thinks women are fragile creatures whose minds shouldn't be troubled by such thorny issues.”

All of Duncan's suspicions coalesced, and he came out of bed in a rush. “Damn it. Are you telling me William is courting a thief?”

William marched Samantha across the lawn, clutching her arm.

The wench had the gall to try and wrestle free.
“You don't need to hold me. I told you so I could help you.”

“You told me too late.” He gripped her tighter. “I have already compromised myself and my honor.”

She punched him in the ribs with her free hand, a sharp, painful, close-fisted jab she could only have learned in her perfidious past.

Grunting, he dropped her arm.

Before he could grab her again, she marched on ahead and in that mocking tone that scraped at his arrogance, she said, “I forgot you were the only one involved with the events of last evening.”

In a few strides, he caught up with her. “The only one with honor to lose.”

“I forgot that, too.”

The fog wet the grass and illuminated the delicate filaments of a spider's web constructed between the branches of a rose arbor. Trees loomed out of the gray blankness, then disappeared behind them. If the fog persisted, it would ruin Teresa's plan for a gala farewell luncheon in the tents. But William rejoiced in the still dampness. It hid the house from them, and it also hid them from any prying eyes. None of the guests would be awake yet, of course, but their servants were, and he didn't need them reporting to their masters that Colonel Gregory had spent the night in the arms of his governess. Undoubtedly, a great many people realized he and Miss Prendregast had disappeared at the same time. He didn't wish to confirm any suspicions about his disgraceful behavior. His
dignity, his standing in society, his very sense of worth was at stake.

“I am furious with myself.” He didn't try to lighten the harshness in his tone.

“Aye, guv'nor, Oi know.” She used that dreadful, low accent, but she didn't say anything else.

And he wanted her to. He wanted her to fight with him, to stoke the fire of his wrath, to prove how unworthy of his attentions she was. Because it was he who had been wronged. Not she. He hadn't wronged her. “If you'd told me the truth at once—”

“I would have been back on that train before the next day dawned. It was not an enviable fate a mere day after I arrived.” She smiled faintly. “The train is looking better now.”

That smile did what he wanted. It infuriated him. It justified his total and unequivocal rejection of her and her thieving ways. “Did you never think of your effect on my children? To associate with a cutpurse may have permanently scarred their unformed characters.”

“If I have made a mark on their unformed characters—and I hope I have—it is not because of something I did in my adolescence.”

“The taint of your crime still clings to you.”

“In that case, you daren't see your children again, for the taint of last night's events must cling to you.”

Whirling, he grasped her shoulders and jerked her to a stop. “Don't you dare insinuate I'm marked by you.”

“I was pointing out how absurd you're being.”
She sounded impatient, but her eyes were wise and sad.

“You stole from me. I'm missing a pen, a portrait—” Then it struck him—the significance of what he'd lost. “My God, what kind of person are you that would take the only things I have left of my wife?”

“Oh.” She bit her lip as if troubled, and her gaze dropped away. “Oh.”

This hurt worse than he'd imagined. Samantha had been stalking him, taking the remnants of his honest, lawfully wedded relationship and leaving him with her. With nothing. “Where are my things?”

“I don't know.”

“Where?” He shook her as if he could rattle the truth from her.

“I honestly don't know.” He would have shaken her again, but she knocked his hands away and said, “Sh.”

He heard it, too. Two people, a man and a woman, arguing as they walked. The words were indistinct, but he recognized the voices. Duncan and Teresa. Sourly, he wondered if they had come to warn him about Samantha's shady past.

No. They didn't know about that. Perhaps they came to chide him for taking advantage of her innocence. But no, her virginity was nothing but a treasure to be sold to the highest bidder, and she'd hoped to trap him with it.

Teresa and Duncan broke out of the fog and abruptly stopped their conversation. Their . . . argument.

Elegant Teresa appeared somehow unfinished, although William couldn't decide how. Perhaps she'd forgotten to don all the parts of her gown. Certainly her shawl was only roughly knotted around her shoulders, and her hair, usually so sleek, was as tumbled as Mara's.

Hands outstretched, Teresa hurried forward.

William expected her to embrace him.

Instead she headed right for Samantha. Hurriedly, he let her go and stepped back.

Clasping Samantha's wrists, she tugged her toward the house. “Samantha! Darling! I came to find you. I need someone, another woman, to help me . . . decorate the inside tables.” She spoke toward William, but her gaze seemed to avoid him. “You know, William, there are some things only another woman can do, and this is one of them.”

Calmly, Samantha interrupted her. “He knows.”

Teresa, the imperturbable, stomped her foot. “No. How?” Without waiting for an answer, she charged on. “You told him, didn't you? You had to do your duty, didn't you? You couldn't decide this was none of your business—”

“Sh!” Duncan said.

“But it is my business,” Samantha said. “It's my country—”

William snorted.

Samantha ignored him. “—And innocent people are being killed.”

“Sh!” Duncan said again.

The women looked at him, looked around, and nodded.

Duncan ruffled his hair—which already stuck
straight up—and very softly said, “I'm damned grateful, Miss Prendregast.”

William turned on him. “What do you mean, you're grateful? We're not going to let her do this. She'd tip off Lady Featherstonebaugh for spite. I'm going to lock her in the attic and throw away the key.”

“No, William, you're not.” Duncan's voice was pitched to reach the other three, no further, but he spoke intensely, resolutely.

William's jaw dropped. At Duncan's words. At Duncan's tone. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked down his nose at Duncan. “I beg your pardon.”

“We're going to accept Miss Prendregast's help, and we're going to thank God that she's in the right place at the right time.”

“How can you say that?” William asked.

“How can you not?” Duncan lowered his voice to an intense whisper. “We're desperate to get that map. Captain Farwell said it is of primary importance. We're damned lucky that Lord Hartun brought his secretary, and that he's an expert cartographer. The damage we can do to the Russians by replacing the real map with a false map can barely be imagined. And we have no way of performing either of these tasks without Miss Prendregast.”

“You think dealing with this . . . this scarlet woman is the answer?” William pointed a shaking finger at Samantha, then tucked it behind him. As a commander, he was the best. He was cold. He was dispassionate. He knew better than to show such
emotion, but right now, he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Samantha watched him serenely, her hands loose at her sides, as if the two of them had not spent the night pressed together. As if what he said meant nothing to her.

“She's not a scarlet woman—or she wasn't until last night,” Teresa snapped. “And that outrage can be placed at your door, William. And mine, to my eternal shame.” Taking Samantha's arm, she tucked it in hers and stared at him with ill favor. “You are not the man I imagined.”

William wanted to shout at her. At Teresa, the women he had deemed suitable to wed.

But he couldn't bear to think of marrying her, and he didn't dare shout at her. Teresa, when she chose, had quite an imperious manner.

“Of course he is the man you imagined.” Duncan took her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it with loverlike fervor. “This morning, you knew he would react with outrage when he discovered Miss Prendregast's special gifts.”

Samantha lowered her head.

But William saw her grin. She looked at Duncan and Teresa with an affection that encompassed them both. And he realized . . . it was early morning. Teresa was disheveled. Duncan was positively disreputable, unshaven, still dressed in last night's clothing and looking . . . looking a great deal as William himself must look.

They were lovers. Teresa had sent him to Samantha so she could take Duncan instead.
William ought to be incensed. Instead . . . instead, he found he really couldn't be bothered by Teresa and Duncan. He could think of only one thing. One person. Samantha, who had so grievously betrayed him. In triumph, he produced the one reason he knew would sway his friends. “She has been stealing from me. She took Mary's portrait. My wife's portrait!”

Samantha's eyes flashed. Her fist rose.

For one moment, William thought she would punch him in the face.

Then her fingers loosened and dropped. Yet she didn't deny his accusation.

And something inside him mourned. But he denied that part of his voice, and instead turned triumphantly to the silent Duncan and Teresa. “Would you trust such a scoundrel with this mission?”

“You are truly a consummate fool,” Teresa retorted.

Viewing their damp, disgusted expressions, William realized nothing he could say would change their minds about Samantha. So he did what he did best. He took charge. “I say we're not going to use Miss Prendregast.”

Duncan stepped forward to face William. He snapped to attention, but he didn't capitulate as William expected. He said, “Then, Colonel Gregory, I relieve you of duty.”

“What?” William roared.

“You're so enraged and illogical”—Duncan's gray eyes were formal, narrow slits—“you
mentioned our mission and our target at a time when our most dread enemy could be ten feet away and listening, and you did so in a tone that reached far beyond our ears.”