His Spanish Bride

by Teresa Grant

  Clothes rustled. Chairs creaked. The chaplain opened his Bible.

  Sacrebleu, she thought, it’s actually happening.

  The chaplain had a droning voice her actor-manager father would have deplored. She’d heard the English wedding service before, disguised as a parlormaid in the course of a mission at an inn where a British lieutenant married his colonel’s daughter. The words slid over her. She had nothing to do but stand there, and it was in character to appear a bit nervous.

  Malcolm’s voice, repeating his vows, jerked her out of her reverie. Quiet and even, but it hit her like a shock of cold fire. She looked into his eyes. The intensity of his gaze shook her to the soles of her satin slippers. Whyever he had entered into this strange marriage, he meant every word of his vows. What a damnable time to realize it.

  “With this ring I thee wed, this gold and silver I thee give.”

  Geoffrey Blackwell took a gold ring from his pocket. She pulled off the glove on her left hand. Malcolm slid the ring onto her finger. She could feel the tremor that ran through him. Unless that was her trembling. The ring felt strange and heavy on her hand. She hadn’t even thought to consider whether he’d be able to procure one on such short notice.

  “With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

  Who would have thought such unexpected poetry lay within the conventions of the marriage service? She colored at the “worship” bit, only partly to stay in character.

  “Suzanne.” The chaplain’s flat voice returned. “Repeat after me.”

  Her turn. It should be no challenge when she was prompted to say each line. None of it meant anything, so why should “obey” stick in her throat?

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  Papers with official seals spread on the table. A pen dipped in an inkwell in her hand. She scrawled her name—her half-pretend, half-real name—below Malcolm’s on the marriage lines.

  Stuart and Wellington kissed her cheek and wrung Malcolm’s hand. Words of congratulation and best wishes poured over them. Footmen came in with champagne.

  She was married.

  “Well?” Edward Linford at least had the wit to pitch his voice low. He and Malcolm were standing by the windows. Rivulets of rain ran down the glass.

  “I’m afraid there were complications. The blackmailer recognized the notebook as a fake.”

  “Damnation. So we’re no better off than before.”

  “Not quite. I was able to follow him.” Pity he couldn’t tell Linford about the role Suzanne had played, but on the whole it was probably better not to.

  “So you know who it is? Damn it, man, why didn’t you say so from the first?”

  Malcolm cast a glance across the room. Suzanne was conversing with Charlotte Haddon. “You might have mentioned that your dalliance extended to your best friend’s wife.”

  Linford’s eyes widened. “How the hell do you know—That is—”

  “Let’s not waste time on denials, Linford.”

  “It’s none of your bloody business.”

  “Unfortunately, it is. Haddon seems to be behind the blackmail.’

  Linford blinked. “What the devil would Haddon want with my notebook?”

  “Proof of his wife’s indiscretion?”

  Linford went pale beneath the tan of years in the saddle. “He couldn’t—” His gaze shot to his friend, then back to Malcolm. “I’d know.”

  “So sure you know your friend?”

  “Look here, Rannoch, Will’s a terrible liar. I’d realize.”

  Malcolm glanced at Haddon, conversing with another officer’s wife. Or rather making desultory conversation while attempting to stare down her bodice. He certainly didn’t look like a man bent on vengeance. But then years in intelligence had taught Malcolm that the most unexpected people could be masters of deception. “I think you have to accept that you don’t know Haddon as well as you thought, Linford. Just as he’s had to accept that the man he called his best friend bedded his wife.”

  “My felicitations, Mrs. Rannoch.” The curve of Charlotte Haddon’s mouth gave the words irony despite her very correct inflection.

  “Thank you,” Suzanne said. “It’s all happened so quickly.”

  “Marriage has a way of taking one by surprise. It seems only a short time ago—” Charlotte cast a glance at her husband, who was engaged in a tête-à-tête with the blond woman in the low-cut dress. Her expression froze for a moment. “I hope the next five years are sweeter for you than the last five were for me.”

  Beneath the shell of Charlotte’s cynicism, Suzanne caught a glimpse of a bride who had believed in fairy-tale romance when she took her vows. “I think expectations play a role. Mr. Rannoch has been very kind to me. But I wouldn’t dress our marriage up in romance.”

  “And yet I think perhaps you’re better suited to believe in him than many brides are in their husbands.” Charlotte watched her own husband a moment longer. He had snagged a bottle of champagne from a passing footman and was refilling the blond woman’s glass. When Charlotte turned back to Suzanne, the irony was gone from her expression. “My own experience of the married state notwithstanding, I hope you’ll be very happy. From childhood, Malcolm Rannoch has struck me as a very decent man.”

  “He’s been extraordinarily good to me.” Suzanne heard his voice repeating his vows again. She thought about her own vows. Champagne rose up in her throat.

  “Miss—Mrs. Rannoch.” Isabella Flores approached them. “I’m so happy for you. Weddings always make me cry, don’t you find?” she added, turning to Charlotte Haddon.

  “They certainly produce tears,” Charlotte agreed in a dry voice. “Oh dear, Mrs. Gordon. She is my husband’s colonel’s wife. I must pay my respects.”

  Isabella looked after her. “Poor Mrs. Haddon. I think she actually loves her husband, which must make it worse. Not that Flores—that is, I have no reason to believe that he—” She darted a glance at her husband, now conversing with Wellington, then looked back at Suzanne. “I must sound like the most selfish woman imaginable. Which I suppose I always have been.”

  “All marriages are different,” Suzanne said. “No one can judge another’s.” How odd to be speaking of marriage as a married woman.

  Isabella turned, her back to the company, and scanned Suzanne with anxious eyes. “Is there news?”

  “Nothing conclusive. But we don’t think your husband has the letter. Or that the blackmailer’s aim is to give it to him.”

  Isabella let out a gaping sigh. “Do you know who does have the letter?”

  “We think so.”

  “Then—”

  “And we hope to recover it shortly. The blackmailer’s target seems to be Captain Linford, not you.”

  Relief battled fear in Isabella’s gaze. “But I could still be caught in the cross fire. The letter is still out there. Which means—”

  “Marquesa—” Suzanne laid her hand over the other woman’s. “You must be strong just a little bit longer.”

  “If only—” Isabella broke off as her husband approached them.

  “I wanted to offer my compliments to the bride,” the Marques de Flores said. “I hope you will be very happy, Señora Rannoch. Your husband is a good man.”

  “I’ve just been saying as much, my dear,” Isabella said with a bright smile.

  The marques turned to her. His gaze softened in a way that sent a shock through Suzanne. Whether or not Isabella realized it, this man was far from indifferent to his wife. “I can’t help but recall a certain day three years ago,” he said. “I’m a fortunate man.”

  “And of course I’m remembering it as well,” Isabella said in the same bright voice. “Oh, there’s Lady Sherringford, I must—”

  Isabella hurried off. The marques followed her with his gaze. “You and your husband are fortunate to be of an age, Señora Rannoch. A man of my years perhaps has no business marrying. At least not to a young girl. I shall never be the figure of romance she deserve
s.”

  “And yet, if you’ll forgive me, sir, your feelings for her appear to be all the most romantic young lady could desire.”

  He raised a brow. “Perhaps, being a romantic young lady yourself, you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

  “I’m not in the least romantic. But I am passingly good as discerning unexpressed feelings.”

  A faint smile curved his mouth, redolent of regret. “I find myself curiously reluctant to argue with you, señora. But even if I had such feelings, I lost the language to articulate them years ago. And I’m not sure they’d be welcome.”

  “You won’t know that unless you try.”

  The marques cast a glance at his wife, then turned his gaze back to Suzanne. “The optimism of the young is charming. I wish you very happy, my dear. I hope your husband realizes what a jewel he has.”

  “Surviving?” Malcolm met Suzanne in the middle of the room as the company prepared to go into the dining room for the wedding breakfast. Strain showed round his eyes, but his mouth lifted in a smile.

  “It’s easier for the bride. The teasing isn’t as merciless.” She scanned his face, realizing precisely what would rescue them both from the awkwardness. “Learned anything?”

  Malcolm offered her his arm. “Linford doesn’t deny he had an affair with Charlotte Haddon. But he claims he’d have realized if Haddon had known of the affair.”

  Suzanne curled her fingers round his arm. “Haddon doesn’t precisely strike me as a master dissembler. On the other hand, Linford isn’t what I’d call discerning, either.”

  “No.” Malcolm turned, his head brushing her curls, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “Still I can’t very well confront Haddon and risk giving the game away if there’s a chance he doesn’t know the truth.”

  She smiled up at him, a happy bride basking in the glow of her wedding day. “What will you do then?”

  “Break into his rooms.”

  Suzanne studied the man she’d married. Sober, serious. Far too ethical and honorable to be an agent. “You’re a constant source of surprise, darling.”

  The English endearment came out unbidden. Malcolm appeared too intent on the mission to notice it. “Stealing the letter back would be the simplest solution all round,” he said. “The Haddons are having another of their routs on Thursday. So I won’t actually have to break into their rooms. But I may need you to help create a diversion.”

  “Of course.”

  He grinned. The strain had eased round his eyes. Nothing like a mission to drive away thoughts of marriage.

  6

  Suzanne paused on the threshold of her husband’s lodgings. The books caught her eye first. Lining the shelves, stacked on every available surface and on the floor, filling the air with the scent of old paper and worn leather. Unexpected comfort washed over her at the sight and scent. Books were something she associated with her parents. With Raoul. With rare moments when she could be herself.

  A frayed tapestry chair and another chair covered in newer-looking claret-colored velvet stood before the fireplace. A log fire burned in the grate, giving off the scent of pine. The light of a single lamp and a brace of candles burnished the old wood and mellowed leather, glinted off gilded book spines, created islands of warmth. A vase of fresh peach-colored roses stood on a small, round table between the chairs. Other than the flowers and the books and a pianoforte against the wall, the room was bare of personal touches, giving few clues about the man who lived here. Unless that very lack of personal detail was a clue in and of itself.

  Miles Addison, Malcolm’s valet, walked toward them. “Mrs. Rannoch. If you will permit me, my felicitations to you both.”

  Mrs. Rannoch. A married woman and an English married woman at that. Suzanne smiled. “Thank you, Addison. You’re very kind. It looks lovely.” She suspected the roses had been his touch.

  She and Malcolm had stayed on at the embassy after the wedding breakfast so he could meet with Stuart and she could pack up her things, and then they had dined with Stuart and Wellington and a handful of other diplomats and officers. By dinner, talk had thankfully moved from their marriage to the plans for the spring campaign (she’d made some interesting mental notes she would write up for Raoul later). Stuart had sent them back to Malcolm’s lodgings in his carriage. There had been little time for conversation on that brief journey, and they had had Blanca with them. Except for their exchange about Linford and Haddon and the letter on the way into the wedding breakfast, she and Malcolm hadn’t had the chance for private speech all day.

  “We’re woefully unaccustomed to visitors, I fear.” Malcolm set down her two bandboxes. Behind him, Blanca stayed in the shadows by the door, surveying their new accommodations. Suzanne had been aware of Blanca’s mingled support and disapproval all day on the edge of her consciousness. In changing her life so drastically, she had changed Blanca’s as well.

  Silence gripped the room. They were all, Suzanne realized, hopelessly out of their element and unsure how to pick their way through the alien terrain. In an odd way, the need to reassure the others eased her own qualms. “What could be more welcoming than books?” she said with a smile. “I so miss my parents’ library.”

  “I hope you’ll make yourself free of the collection.” Malcolm turned to include Blanca in his words as well. “You’ll find books in Spanish and French as well as English.”

  “And Latin and a smattering of Greek,” Addison added.

  “Miss Sai—Mrs. Rannoch reads Latin,” Malcolm said.

  “A bit.” And some ancient Greek. Both were very useful for codes. “I should be glad of the chance to practice.”

  “I daresay you will wish to make some changes, madam,” Addison said. “I am happy to assist you in any way. I have coffee brewing. I thought you might prefer it to tea.”

  Addison carried her bandboxes into the adjoining bedchamber and then went to prepare the coffee. Blanca went into the bedchamber to unpack. Suzanne realized that Malcolm couldn’t sit down until she did so. She dropped into the velvet chair, guessing the other chair must customarily be his, a suspicion confirmed when he moved to the tapestry chair and sank into it with the ease of familiarity. Alone at last in his lodgings. Their lodgings.

  “All things considered, I thought it went very well,” she said, plucking at the pomegranate crêpe of the dinner dress she had changed into. “And your friends didn’t actually hang a ‘Benedick, the married man’ sign on you.”

  Some of the tension left his face. He shot her a grin. “Was I that obviously nervous?”

  “No more so than the average bridegroom, I should think. And perhaps with more cause.”

  He leaned back and turned his head against the tapestry to meet her gaze. “You looked very lovely. I should have said so sooner.”

  “It was hardly the sort of wedding that required conventional platitudes.”

  His gaze remained on her face. So often his expression was armored, and then there were moments like this when all barriers seemed stripped from his gaze to leave unvarnished honesty. “I didn’t mean it as a platitude. I meant it as the truth.”

  When he looked at her like that, she could almost believe she was the girl in her masquerade. And the girl in her masquerade could almost believe this marriage had a chance of being something real. Wariness shot through her, as though she had walked into an ambush. She looked round seeking escape. That is, distraction. “I didn’t realize you played the pianoforte.”

  “We haven’t exactly had a lot of leisure for music in our acquaintance.” His voice was easy, but his fingers tightened against the chair arms. Somehow she had stepped onto personal territory.

  “Do—”

  The door opened on her words to admit Addison with a blue and white porcelain tray holding a silver coffee service. The pungent smell of fresh, hot coffee filled the tense air. Addison set the tray on the table between them with a quiet click. “Will there be anything else?”

  His words were addressed to her, not to Malcol
m. She realized as the lady of the house it was up to her to pour. Thank God for Raoul’s training in the intricacies of aristocratic life. She thanked Addison, filled two cups with a reasonably steady hand, and passed one to Malcolm. She already knew he took his coffee black. Her first wifely duty, successfully accomplished. She added milk (warmed, how lovely) to her own cup and took a grateful sip. Blessedly strong. Though brandy would have been preferable.

  “You must play frequently to have a piano in your lodgings.”

  Malcolm blew on the steam from his own cup. “Other than books, my favorite form of solace.”

  “Would you play something?”

  The words came out without thinking. Only from his slight hesitation did she see the pitfalls. Music was unfettered emotion. And emotion was something they were both trying to hold at bay.

  “Of course,” he said. “Anything in particular?”

  She shook her head. He moved to the piano and hesitated for a moment, his fingers hovering over the keys. Then he touched the keys and let loose a torrent of sound.

  Beethoven. The piano sonata number 2 in A major. The music washed over her. For a moment the world fell away and this room and her mission with it. And yet while it transported, that sound also took her straight through to Malcolm’s soul. Like the look in his eyes when he spoke his vows, it carried an upwelling of raw emotion. For the music itself, she told herself, not for her. Yet the torrent rippling beneath the stroke of the keys revealed how much he was capable of feeling. And a man who could feel so deeply could be just as deeply hurt.

  Her fingers curled round the chair arms, her nails scraping the wood. Her breath tangled in her throat. The last note seemed to hang in the air long after the actual sound died away. The silence that followed music was so rich. So different from the awkward silence of earlier. “Thank you.” Her voice sounded thin and dry to her own ears, parched for something she could not name. “I’ve always loved Beethoven.”