Too Wicked to Marry (10 page)

"A spy?" Martin was too stunned to manage more than a whisper.

"A spy," she repeated, her fierce expression daring him to question or refute it.

He didn't understand. He could tell she wasn't joking, but it made no sense. He understood the words
a
and
spy
, but what they had to do with her, or him, the world in general, and what was between them, was not something he could instantly fathom.

"You don't know me," she said, as if in clarification. "You can't love me. I am a stranger."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, in an attempt to keep the world from spinning out of its orbit. "Of course you're not."

"Not what?" she asked, one hand on her hip and an eyebrow canted sarcastically. "Not who the great Lord Martin Kestrel, in his infinite self-assurance, has decided I am?"

Her voice was different, and not only because the mockery in it grated against his ears. There was a lilt of Highland Scots in it that softened her usual precise enunciation. And her hair was unbound, a thick cascade of wavy dark brown framing the pale, fine-boned oval of her face. And she was wearing a red dress. Abigail never wore red. Her wardrobe was full of brown and black and gray dresses, clothing fit and proper for a governess. A wardrobe she'd abandoned as though it didn't even belong to her.

An identity she'd abandoned?

"Why? I don't understand."

The woman who claimed not to be his Abigail sneered. "You're not supposed to know. Of course you don't understand."

She was mocking him, deliberately trying to make him angry. Why was she still trying to drive him away? Perhaps he had been overzealous in hunting for her, but he wouldn't have persisted if he hadn't been certain, soul-deep certain, that beneath her protests Abigail cared as much for him as he cared for her. If she was Abigail…

What nonsense. He laughed at himself for half-believing her ridiculous assertion for even half a moment. The sound echoed around the circle of broken walls while Abigail stood with her back to the ruined tower and glared. Her cheeks were pink with emotion and the fresh wind off the sea. Her indignation at his daring to laugh at her gothic tale was plain on her face.

"You are not a spy," he told her, as if saying it would make it so. Why was she so adamantly presenting this rubbish to him?

"I am," she insisted. "Ask my father. Ask the foreign office. No, don't ask them, they'd deny my existence. Father would likely deny it as well."

"Women are not spies. It is not done. You are a nice woman."

"I'm not. And women make very good spies. No one suspects us."

"Besides, why would you spy on me?"

Harriet could see how hard he was fighting not to believe her. A part of her took perverse pleasure in his faith in her, though her pleasure was overridden by the knowledge that faith would soon turn to contempt. And how could she blame him?

"I was not spying on you," she told him. "I was making sure no one spied on you. I also used you as a cover for other covert activities."

Her words wiped the smug assurance off his face. He was beginning to get angry, beginning to unwillingly believe. He took a step toward her, large and menacing, though she doubted he was aware how dangerous he appeared. "What covert activities, pray tell, Miss Perry?"

"MacLeod."

"I don't care what your name is. Tell me what you were doing in my household."

"Serving queen and country."

"You are not a soldier or a diplomat. It is not a woman's place to serve the queen."

She was not used to his assuming she was less capable than he was simply because she wore skirts, and his arrogant superiority lashed her already raw spirit and made her react tartly. "Yet I do serve, and quite competently. Besides, the queen's a woman. If a woman can reign, other women can help her rule."

"Bah." He made a sharp, impatient gesture. "I refuse to believe you led some secret life under my nose."

"Of course you do—because believing it would make you feel like a fool. You will not forgive me for that."

"I will not believe what is patently impossible." He laughed, mockingly. "What did you do, tuck Patricia in bed, then sneak off to shoot anarchists?"

How did he know about that? No, it was only a wild guess. "I am not at liberty to discuss my assignments."

"You're joking." He laughed again, though not very convincingly, while his eyes showed stormy anger. "You are making up this nonsense, aren't you?"

Harriet shook her head. There were several things she would like to tell him about her true activities, but despite the fact that these things involved his life, for the sake of national security Martin Kestrel did not have the privilege of knowing the details. Besides, knowing the facts would only add to his pain, and she would not do that.

She did tell him, "I was inserted into your household staff by Her Majesty's government for the sole purpose of protecting the interests of the British Empire. My undercover work was sanctioned by the minister of a department within the foreign office, and I have successfully carried out missions for that office. I cannot tell you the name of the office or of the minister. I should not tell you as much as I already have, but since your proposal effectively drove me out of cover, and Aunt Phoebe chose to let the cat out of the bag by sending you here, you deserve as much explanation as I can give you." Harriet folded her hands before her and added, "So now you see why I cannot possibly accept your generous proposal of marriage, my lord."

That was cruel and unkind, and she hated herself for saying it, but it was done to drive him away. Though spying was a necessary profession, people outside the espionage brotherhood saw it as a vile necessity and considered those who fed them the information they needed as lowlife scum. She knew very well that Lord Martin Kestrel, lofty ambassador to the courts of the world, shared that common sentiment. He would think a spy who had used him deserved nothing but his contempt. She knew in her aching heart that it would be better for him to spit on her, revile her, and then get on with his life.

She only hoped the truth would not scar him too badly. The first woman he'd married had betrayed him. Now he'd asked her to be his wife, and she'd revealed how she had betrayed him as well. "I never meant to use you," she couldn't keep from saying.

Martin wanted to cover his ears—no, he wanted to cover her mouth with his again, kiss her until there were no words in her, no thoughts in her head, only the driving need that would make her his. There had been passion a few moments ago, a connection greater than the wall of words she tried to erect between them now. There had been no restraint, no need for words. He'd discovered the passion he'd always suspected, roused it, and was half-crazy with desire. There was hunger for him still shining in her eyes. While she talked like a fool, she looked at him with a bold desire he didn't think she was aware of. He could satisfy that passion, remind her that she was a woman, make her revel in being a soft and sensuous woman.

He wanted to have her right now, keep her forever, and completely disregard everything she'd said. Because if it was true…

"If you keep babbling like this," he told her, forcing down his temper and his suspicions, "I'll start believing you're mad."

She looked about ready to scream with frustration. "Would my being mad send you away?"

"No. But it might make me lock you up in a safe room where everything has soft edges after the wedding. Especially the bed," he added.

"Trying to make light of the situation won't do any good, Martin. I know it is preposterous. It is also the truth."

It was the sight of unshed tears glimmering in her eyes that disturbed him the most. There was no pity in her gaze, thank God. He might actually have struck her if she showed pity for having duped him.

No. He would not believe it.

"Why lie to me?" he demanded. If he was not going to believe it, he should not keep questioning her. Questions invited her to add more details he'd have to find ways to refute. He wanted to stop the questions, but couldn't. "Why now?"

"I've lied to you for years. I'm not lying to you now."

She had not apologized, he realized. If it was true, and this was a confession, she had yet to say she was sorry. It was that, more than anything else, that Martin found most damning, and convincing.

He was not a kind man. He was not a gentle man. He'd learned to keep his darker emotions leashed most of the time. Now he was very nearly to the point of letting go. He could feel the anger clawing its way past all the barriers he put up, trying to protect his world, his pride, his love for her.

How could he love a woman he'd just met?

Hating her would be easier.

If he took her seriously—

Martin's head pounded with the effort to keep his temper, to keep from shouting. She waited and watched, arms clutched tightly at her waist while the world slowly reeled around the isolated hilltop. Slowly, time measured in the movement of lengthening shadows, her features began to change before his eyes. Or he began to see her through new eyes. The woman he had loved faded, drew away like some pale ghost that had inhabited the form of the stranger she left behind. The woman who called herself Harriet was no less lovely than his prim and proper Abigail—more, really, with her wild flowing hair and full, vulnerable lips. Abigail was always so in control, careful of every word and gesture. How he had admired her poise. He saw now that it had been a thin mask hiding the viper beneath. Before him in Abigail's form was a creature without armor, without stiffness. Without honor, he admitted. Without scruples. A stranger. A traitor. A liar.

One by one these words filled his mind, like drops of poison.

He had been used by the one woman in the world he completely trusted. This was not the first time he'd suffered a woman's betrayal, but it was the worst.

"My daughter," he said at last, voice deathly quiet, but carrying clearly across the windswept ruins. He took a menacing step closer. "Did you ever put my daughter in danger?"

Harriet held tightly onto the impulse to protest that she would never, ever have done anything to harm Patricia. She loved the child as much as if Patricia were her own flesh and blood. For four years she'd been the closest thing to a mother the girl could have. MacLeods did not harm children; just look at the house full of ragamuffins her parents had raised. But she was not facing down the growing wrath of Martin Kestrel to defend her actions.

So, instead of telling him a soothing truth, she forced herself to point out, "I am not the one who took Patricia into situations where she could be put in danger. I did not take your daughter to Italy, Austria, Hungary, Russia, Turkey—"

"I am well aware of the itineraries." He was pale with fury, voice cold, but there was pain as well as anger in his eyes.

"I accompanied Patricia as a member of your household, my lord. If she was ever placed near danger, it was not
my
doing."

"I won't be an absent father!" he shouted. "
I
won't—"

"Abandon her?" Harriet goaded. "Like her mother did?"

"Keep Sabine out of this. You're no better than she!"

She'd known he would think that way if he ever learned the truth. She knew him too well, and cared too much. She'd stayed too long because she cared. Her mistake hurt them both. But if contempt helped him get over the wound to his pride, she'd accept it gladly. No, not gladly; she was no martyr, but she'd survive somehow.

But, oh, how she wished he'd never kissed her.

"As you say, my lord. I think you should leave now," she said even as he drew closer to her.

She wasn't sure how she'd let herself come to stand with her back to the one wall among all the ruins that was not easy to scramble over. If anger drove him to some drastic action, escaping him would not be easy. She considered calling for help, and realized that in this moment she feared him. How had it come to this?

She refused to back up against the wall, and within a moment they were standing only an inch apart. When he raised his hand it was not to strike her. He ran his thumb across her lips, leaving a trail of warmth that let her know how numb she had become. It left her with a craving, as well. Her lips parted and she almost begged for another touch before she caught herself. She made herself meet his gaze. The fire she saw in his eyes was certainly passionate, but with no softness, tenderness, or fond regard.

"How I could have loved you," he said. Then he turned and walked away.

Harriet did not fall to her knees until she was certain he would not turn around and see her crying.

"You told him the truth, didn't you?" Hannah asked when she met Harriet at the garden gate. She knew the answer from her daughter's defeated expression and red-rimmed eyes.

"Yes," Harriet answered. "I owed it to him."

"The whole truth?"

"No, of course not."

Perhaps Harriet
should
have been honest in all ways with the man who'd come so far to find her. She suspected Harriet was too devoted to duty, letting admirable sentiments get in the way of leading a normal life and finding happiness. And wasn't that bloody stupid? She reminded Hannah of herself at that age.

"One bloody fanatical fool in the family is quite enough, I think," she murmured under her breath as she followed her daughter up the brick path to the house.

The defeated slump of Harriet's shoulders hurt Hannah to the core. What was the girl thinking, that it was her fault? That she wasn't supposed to have fallen in love? When did the heart ever care about what one was supposed to do?

But instead of offering condolences or motherly advice, Hannah waited until they reached the French doors that led into the back parlor before she said, "Your friend didn't come by himself; Phoebe sent him with some documents Beatrice has been translating. No, he didn't know," she added at Harriet's swift, accusing look. "And yes, he's been used again. Don't get all huffy about it." She pushed her daughter inside the house. "We don't have time."

"Why? What—?"