Too Wicked to Marry (26 page)

"If I know Michael, he was smart enough to leak the information about the courier," Harriet said.

Her brother nodded. "So we have to spot the courier, but stand back and let the opposition be the one who approaches him." He rubbed his long jaw. "Yes. Good thinking on Michael's part."

Mrs. Swift snorted. "You're assuming the lad's smart enough to think of it. He's the twin that thinks with a part well south of his brain."

Martin was fascinated by what he was hearing, as well as puzzled and concerned. "Why haven't you mentioned this Michael and his dilemma before?" he questioned. "And how many relatives do you have?" It was not a relevant question, but he was intensely curious to find out.

Harriet wished Martin would stop talking, for then she was forced to think about him, and thinking about him caused her intense pain. She did not have time for pain right now. She had to shove it into a compartment in her brain and get on with her assignment. Not only were they racing the clock to help Michael, but the sooner this mission was accomplished, the sooner she could go home and mourn the loss of not only her innocence and her love, but everything she'd respected about Martin Kestrel. She hoped that the intense hatred she felt right now did not last for long, because it was as dangerous as love. If you let yourself hold on to hatred for a person, it, and the person you hated, controlled your life with the same intense passion as love. She'd already let her feelings for Martin control her for four wasted years.

But since she still needed Martin for one more night of the masquerade, she forced herself to look at him and speak to him. "I told you
I was giving you the short version when I explained the assignment to you."

"You might have mentioned someone's life was in danger."

He was frowning at her as though something was once again all her fault. She didn't know if she didn't bother with explanations because they weren't alone, or because she was emotionally spent, or because it was not worth the effort to justify herself to him anymore. She felt so tired and bruised, inside and outside. "Come along," she told Mrs. Swift, then turned and walked into the dressing room.

Martin watched her go, and wasn't surprised when the door was slammed firmly behind the women. That left him alone with Christopher Fox MacLeod, which was distinctly not where he wanted to be. "You've already unlocked the door," he said to the cat burglar brother. "I suggest you use it."

Christopher made no move to go. Instead he walked across the room. He moved silently on the thick carpet, but Martin thought the man would move silently no matter what the surface. Christopher sat on the bed, patted the embroidered satin bedspread, ran a long-fingered thief's hand across a pillow, then looked at Martin coldly and asked, "When's the wedding, my lord?"

"Wedding?" Martin, caught on the cusp of outrage and incredulity, matched glares with Harriet's angry brother for a few moments, then decided that he had about all the interference in his life from the clan MacLeod that he was going to put up with. "Get out," he ordered.

"Before you toss me out?" Christopher rubbed his hands together while giving Martin a dangerous smile. "I would love to see you try."

"You have an assignment," Martin reminded him. "Shouldn't you be skulking along the corridors and breaking into people's rooms?"

"That's no way to find what I'm looking for this time." He rose slowly to his feet. "Let's talk about my sister. And the fact that you've been sleeping with her. And the nuptials that follow on that activity."

"The matter is not up for discussion."

"How did you coerce her into becoming your lover?"

"How did I—"

"I know my sister. Unlike men of the world such as you and I, she doesn't take female virtue lightly. Especially her own. Did you make her sleep with you for Michael's sake?"

"I knew nothing about this Michael," Martin replied tightly. Though his conscience writhed, he was very close to striking the man for his accusatory interference. He clasped his hands behind his back and said, "Your sister is also a woman of the world. Her life is her own, as I'm sure she would tell you herself."

"She'd tell me, all right, but that isn't how caring for each other works among the MacLeods."

"I really have no interest in how you people care for each other."

"You certainly don't care for Harriet." Christopher shook his head and sneered contemptuously at Martin. "We've been trying to get her to come home for years, but she insisted you needed her. I see now how you've repaid her care for you." His voice shook with anger as he added, "To think she nearly died saving your worthless life, only to have you put her through this. You don't deserve her."

The world stopped, and a great wave of sickening darkness washed over Martin. Fear such as he'd never known buffeted him, nearly driving him to his knees. When his vision cleared the fear still knotted inside him. "Died?" he asked, barely able to get the word out. "She nearly died."

It was not a question; he remembered. She had not fallen down that mountain where he'd found her. She'd been pushed. But why or how—and who? When he found out who, they were dead.

He would have grabbed MacLeod to shake the answers out of him, but a gentle knock sounded on the bedroom door. Cadwell the valet came in, diffident, polite, firmly intent on preparing his master to go down for dinner. MacLeod sneered at Martin once more and was out the door.

The details would have to wait—and it was better to find them out from Harriet herself.

"We have something to discuss." Harriet smoothed the white gloves that covered her arms up to the elbows.

When she did not answer him, he said, "You look lovely."

"I know." Her answer was not in the least bit boastful.

Her gown was peacock-blue, embroidered and beaded in a pattern of peacock feathers. Enamel peacock feather pins decorated her elaborately arranged hair, and she carried a peacock feather fan. Harriet knew she had never looked more attractive, or more like a frivolous ornament. The effect was studied and deliberate. Martin had made her the center of attention that afternoon, so all eyes would be on her when she reappeared. Fine. So be it. She would use the sudden notoriety to keep attention focused on her. She would be bright and alluring and play the coquette. She would make every man want her, and think he could have her. She would make every woman jealous. It was all smoke and mirrors, cloaking Kit's movements.

Once the rendezvous with the courier occurred, retrieving the information could wait.

The most important thing was to find Michael. But first she had to get past the large, intense male blocking her way. She didn't want to deal with him; she didn't know if she'd ever be ready for that. He obviously didn't care.

He came to her and put his large hands on her shoulders. "I want to talk to you."

She made herself meet his eyes. "I've given you quite enough of what you want. As of today, I'm putting paid to any sins I believed I committed against you. Take me down to dinner, then leave me alone."

"
I
would if I could. I swear."

"I am glad to see that you are as anxious to be rid of me as I am of you."

Her voice had no color in it, not a shred of emotion. She felt like the marble shell of a statue; the heat from his hand was the only heat in her body. She would have to correct that, make herself be bright and vivacious. Weariness must wait.

"There are things you must tell me."

Martin was not asking for a discussion, not suggesting they have a talk when there was more time. He was keeping her away from the bedroom door, a large, formidable man, his square, cleft jaw set, his eyes full of determination. His attitude said there was no getting around him, no putting this off.

Annoyance at his stubborn insistence on having his own way brought some life back to her. "Later," she snapped. "Away from Strake House."

She knew that the suite held no hidden spy holes or secret passages; she and Mrs. Swift had both thoroughly been over every inch of their quarters. She would not put it past Sir Anthony to gather blackmail material on his guests, but she'd found no evidence that the rooms were anything but secure. The doors and walls were thick and solid, and the only servants about were Cadwell and Mrs. Swift, but still, Harriet preferred caution. She could not recall everything that had been said in the heat of the moment and the heat of passion since they'd come there. It was embarrassing; her tongue seemed to have become as loose as her morals, and at the same time. All Martin's fault—not that she'd deny the pleasure that came with the fall, no matter how angry she was at the man she'd made love to.

"I don't want to talk to you," she said.

"Don't pout, my dear. It isn't becoming. And you will talk if you want to ever get out of this room."

"What more do you want me to tell you? About my missing brother? Why I didn't beg you for help in the name of a helpless lad? You would not have given a fig about the safety of another member of my family when I asked you to bring me here. I accept that your anger was justified, but enough is enough. I'm not a martyr, and I won't keep paying for having bruised your pride. It is time for us both to get over it and get on with our lives. Michael needs my help right now. Can we go downstairs?"

"A pretty speech," he said. "But not what we're going to talk about."

Harriet took a deep breath. "I hadn't realized I had that many words left in me." It seemed that she could not break the habit of holding conversations with this man. "Oh, all right," she conceded. "But let's be quick about it. And stop smirking, you cad. You know very well I was not talking about intercourse, quick or otherwise."

He took a hand from her shoulder and touched the spot over his heart. "On my oath, my dear, I was not thinking about intercourse just thai. No more than any man thinks of it at all times, that is," he added. "All men are cads that way, especially when alone with the most beautiful woman they know." He grew serious again. "I know this is no time to want to make love to you. For the moment I've forfeited the right to make love to you."

She shrugged away from him. "Stop talking about love."

"For now," he agreed. "I will. Let us talk instead about duty and honor and serving one's country. Let us discuss the dangers of guarding a foolish man who refuses official protection. Let us talk about you, and me, and a mountain in Austria."

She took a step back, her hand came up to cover her mouth, and she felt a flood of heat washing over her face, and then all through her. Suddenly she did not feel like a burned-out, hollow shell of a being. She felt like a girl who… whose brother had revealed her most closely guarded secret to the last man in the world she wanted to know about it. "I am going to kill Christopher Fox MacLeod this time," she vowed. "Of all the interfering, intemperate, imbecilic—"

"What happened?" Martin's sharp question cut her off. He took her hands tightly in his, and his gray eyes searched hers. "Who attacked you? Who tried to get through you to me? Why? Where do I find the bastard?"

He was looking at her as though she were some sort of hero. Better he should be upbraiding her for being a woman who'd tried to do a man's job. She'd upbraided herself for it not long after she'd returned to consciousness in that far-off chalet—as soon as she could think through the pain. The details were still the stuff of frequent nightmares. She didn't want to relive them now; she was afraid she might blurt out the dark truth about herself. But Martin didn't look as though he were going to allow her to do anything but tell him about the incident.