To Kiss A Spy (8 page)

Pen regarded him with approval. “You like cats.”

“I feel a certain kinship with them. They don’t compromise and they’re not easy to know.”

“That’s certainly true,” Pen said, suddenly uncertain of her ground.

There was a short silence. Owen looked at Pen and thought she seemed nervous. The laughter had died from her expression and she was twisting her hands together in the folds of her gown of olive taffeta. It was a color that suited her multihued hazel eyes. And those eyes were fixed intently upon him.

“You said you would think about my problem,” she said. “I need your help.”

He nodded slowly as he continued to scratch between the cat’s ears. “To look into your son’s death?”

“To look into his life!” she insisted fiercely. She moved a hand to brush her hair aside and golden lights danced against the darker brown. “I cannot do it alone and no one else will help me.”

“If I help you,” Owen said, “I cannot promise what I will find.”

“I know that!” She turned aside, looking into the fire. “He may be dead, but I need to know that. I need
proof
.” She leaned forward slightly, her hands crossed over her belly, as if trying to contain some pain deep within.

Owen moved to the door and very gently closed it the last inch. He stepped across the room, his booted feet soundless, and came up behind her. He circled her body with his arms, burying his lips against the top of her head.

For a moment Pen didn’t stir, then she turned into the circle of his arms, her cheek resting against the midnight-blue silk of his doublet. She felt his heart beating steadily. He moved a hand up and over her back, his fingers tracing the sharp edges of her shoulder blades, the knob at the top of her spine. She felt his heart skip into a faster beat. His breath was hot on the top of her head. He cupped her chin and lifted her face. Her own heart began to race.

Her lips moved against each other. In anticipation . . . invitation? Pen neither knew nor cared. There was only this moment, the scent of wine and cloves on his breath, and then the hard yet pliant feel of his mouth on hers. She leaned into him, her arms reaching up to hold him tight against her. His spread hands spanned her back but he was utterly motionless, only his mouth and tongue moved, exploring her own. And the stillness enveloped her as the kiss seemed to invade her every pore, reaching down even to her toes.

This was a kiss by a master, Pen thought when she could think at all. There was no urgency, no demand, just this sweet possessive joining. It was like a gift and for the moment she was content simply to take.

When at last he moved his mouth from hers and raised his head, he held her and himself very still, so that she began to feel the lines of his body as almost indistinguishable from her own. They seemed to have been standing together, touching in this way, for an eternity, for long enough to have blended into one form. And it felt so natural, so right. She closed her eyes and thought her body swayed slightly, involuntarily, in the calm blackness. But he still held her as if with butterfly wings.

Owen kissed her ear and whispered, “So, Pen Bryanston?”

It took her a moment to come to herself. She opened her eyes and the room, softly lit though it was, seemed as bright as the noon sun at midsummer. She blinked, and as his hands dropped from her she stepped away, feeling the heat of the fire on her back, hearing the tap of her shoes on the floor as loud as a thunderclap in the silence.

“I’m not accustomed to kissing strangers in such fashion,” she murmured, her voice shaking slightly.

“So what should we do about this strange business?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“I think we should open the door wide,” Pen said, trying to laugh but managing only to sound doubtful.

“Just in case it happens again?”

Pen shook her head. She was confused. There was no reason why she shouldn’t indulge in a little harmless flirtation with the chevalier. There would be no scandal in that. And a little voice reminded her that this was certainly one way to ensure his cooperation in her quest. But her response to the man, and to that kiss, frightened her a little. She had the sense that she could lose control of things if she didn’t keep a clear head.

“Are you married?” she asked abruptly, remembering Pippa’s question.

The light left his face. It was only for a second but Pen was chilled by the shadows that gathered in the hollows beneath his eyes, that passed across the sculptured planes of his face. Then his expression was once more bland, his smile neutral. “No,” he said definitely. “No, I am not married. Does that make a difference?”

“Yes, of course it does,” Pen said. “If I’m going to be kissing you like that again, I want to be sure I’m not poaching.”

Owen chuckled. “Straightforward as always. Do you think you will be kissing me like that again?”

Pen put her head on one side, as if considering the question. “Maybe, and maybe not. More to the point, Chevalier, I would discuss my business with you. I don’t see how I can go alone to ask questions in High Wycombe village. Someone is bound to recognize me and word will get back to Lady Bryanston. I thought perhaps you could make discreet inquiries for me. I have made a copy of the list of names I took from the ledger.”

She took a key from the purse that hung at her waist and went with swift step to a small coffer in the corner of the chamber. Gracefully she knelt, her skirts spreading in a corolla around her, the silk shimmering in the candlelight. She unlocked the chest.

Owen watched her in considering silence.

She rose with a folded sheet in her hand. “Here are the names. Will you go for me?” Anxiety made the question abrupt and her gaze was fixed upon his face with painful intensity.

He took the sheet from her and tapped it thoughtfully in the palm of his hand. “You’re moving just a little fast for me, Pen.” He laid the sheet, still unfolded, on a side table.

The light died in her eyes. “So you won’t help me?”

“I will, in exchange,” he replied.

“In exchange for what?” She stared at him, dismay and confusion chasing each other across her countenance.

“I have a proposition to make.” He moved towards her and she jumped back. “No,” he said with a smile. “Not that kind of proposition. Although,” he added, his smile deepening, “if you would consider it in addition to the one I have in mind, I would be more than happy.”

Pen realized that her startled jump had put her back against the wall. She stood still as he came up to her. “Don’t play games. . . . What is this proposition?” she demanded.

“Well, now, my business in London concerns the princess,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. “I would like your help in that business in exchange for mine in yours.”

Pen pulled free of his hold. “Speak plainly!”

“Very well.” He placed his hands on the wall on either side of her head. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the deep black eyes that seemed to read her every thought.

“I need a pair of ears in the princess’s household,” he said bluntly. “If you will agree to tell me everything that is said by the princess and her advisors, inform me of any change in plans and—”

“Enough!” Pen cried in horror. “You would have me spy on the princess?”

“Spying is a harsh term,” he said.

“It is the correct term!”

“Listen to me for just a minute,” he said. His expression was calm, unmoved by her outrage, but when she tried to push him away so that she could move from the wall, he remained where he was, keeping her in place.

“I don’t mean to trap you,” he said quietly, “but if I stand aside you’ll run away, and I need you to hear me out.”

Pen set her lips and said nothing, but her glare spoke volumes.

“My government has the princess’s best interests at heart. We mean her no harm, but with the king on his deathbed her position is very vulnerable. No one knows what Northumberland is plotting but we’re almost positive it is
not
in Mary’s best interests. We need to know what he’s doing and we need to know what Mary is thinking and planning.”

He paused, then ventured, “Your stepbrother is in a position to know some of what goes on in Northumberland’s head and perhaps he confides in you?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Pen continued to stare at him with contempt and disgust. “You would have me prick my brother for his secrets?”

“I would have you believe that if you love the princess you will help her by cooperating with me,” he returned sharply.

After a minute, when it was clear that Pen was going to say nothing further, he said, choosing his words, “I would think you would be more dismayed if I talked of doing Northumberland’s dirty work.” He watched her closely.

Pen’s sharp inhalation and the rush of color into her face told him that she knew about her brother’s affiliation. Brother and sister clearly had no secrets from each other.

“The world of espionage is a small one,” he pointed out. “We make it our business to know those who inhabit it with us.”

Pen still said nothing but she understood that it was obvious spies would know one another. Robin would know of Owen’s involvement in that underworld, which presumably explained his hostility to the chevalier.

“So, is it not better to be working in Mary’s interests rather than Northumberland’s?” he pressed.

Pen could not let pass an attack on Robin, whatever her own thoughts about Northumberland. “I am sure that Robin is inspired by loyalty to both Northumberland and Suffolk. They have stood his friends and protectors since he was a lad,” she retorted, still flushed. “You, on the other hand, will play whatever field suits your purposes.”

“I am loyal to France,” he corrected softly. “I see no difference between us, except that your brother serves a man who is motivated only by personal ambition and I serve king and country.”

“Do not criticize Robin!”

“Forgive me. I merely sought for a defense.”

“Well, you will not find one on that road,” she fired.

“Very well.” Owen shrugged.

“Why should I believe you? Why are the French more likely to help Mary than . . . than the Spanish, say? Her own cousin, the emperor, has sent ships to escort her to Flanders if she chooses to leave. What has France done?”

“If she leaves England, she loses all chance for the throne. You know that and so does she. Which, I’m sure, is why she hasn’t taken flight already. We will help her in her struggle with Northumberland and his council.”

“In your own interests!” she declared, almost spitting the words at him.

“Of course,” he replied calmly. “I’m not pretending there’s any altruism in this. I’m offering you a straight exchange. Information for my help in discovering the truth about your son. I am very good at discovering truths, I might add.”

“So I should imagine,” she said scornfully. “It’s a spy’s stock-in-trade.”

“It is a very necessary trade, Pen,” he said. “There isn’t a court or a government that doesn’t practice it. You must know that.”

Pen turned her head aside. She knew he spoke the truth. Her love for her stepbrother was in no way affected by his own involvement in that world. However scurrilously Northumberland played his deep games, Pen was convinced that Robin would not do anything dishonorable. Robin would not use someone’s pain and grief for his own ends.

Owen waited for a response, and when it didn’t come he said simply, “So, do we have a bargain, Pen?”

She wished she could get away from him. His closeness was confusing her. The only emotion that ought to matter was the knowledge of his betrayal. This was what he’d been after all along. That first kiss, the steady pursuit, his apparent interest in
her
. All for his own ends.

She knew she should turn him down, tell him to take his dirty bargain and never come near her again. She knew she should do that. But he could help her. If anyone could find out the truth, Owen d’Arcy was that person. And maybe he was right that the French wanted to help Mary. Pen was in no doubt that the princess was threatened. Mary had been in danger throughout her adult life.

But he’d betrayed her, led her to believe something that wasn’t true. Then she told herself coldly that it didn’t matter. She had been using him, or at least
intended
to use him. So what was the difference between them?

But even as she thought this, she knew that there had been something more—something that now she could no longer explore. Confusion swamped her anew and she pushed hard on his chest, desperate to put some space between them.

Owen dropped his hands from the wall and stepped back. Pen moved around him, her breath coming in deep urgent gasps as if she’d been deprived of air. She stood in the middle of the room and faced him.

It had been so long since she’d had any hope.

He was her only chance to bring her wretched uncertainty and confusion to a close. She had lived with the misery for so long, she looked at the world through its veil, the edges of daily life were blurred by it, everything faded and insubstantial against the hard reality of her obsession. It was her first waking thought and her last.

“Very well, an exchange,” she said flatly.

He nodded, then said quietly, “I could wish you didn’t now view me with such loathing, Pen.”

“What do you expect?” she shot back. “You force this odious bargain upon me . . . what do you expect me to think of you?”

“I would like you to see me for the man I am,” he replied. “A man with a mission, a pragmatist, a man who plays in the world’s arena. Just like your brother. Is that so very bad?”

“Do not
ever
put yourself in the same category as Robin. You are a spy and a trickster,” she declared with a bitter smile. “And you deceived me. You pretended to . . . to . . . Oh, I cannot talk to you!” She pushed at the air as if she could thrust him from her.

“I pretended nothing, Pen,” he said, taking her hand. “I have not deceived you in any way. I have been utterly truthful with you.” He raised her hand to his lips. “We will be partners, you and I.”

It was a whispered promise, ambiguous and yet Pen heard it in the way she knew he intended. Her fingers curled in his grasp as if in angry denial she would rake his palms with her nails, as if in the hot surge of passion she would rake his palms with her nails. . . .