by Darcy Burke
Her scent was doing wicked things to him. Making him far too aware of the lushness of her curves, the way her body fit against his like the perfect key to his locked up heart. He swallowed, trying to will his erection down. Yet he couldn’t help himself—snuggled up to her, he felt he was right where he should have been all along.
He hugged her tighter to him. She dozed peacefully, her breathing steady. A primal part of him recognized that as an achievement. His woman slept soundly by his side, confident that he could protect her from harm. She’d felt safe in his embrace. Comfortable.
Would she still feel so content when he told her the truth?
He grimaced, that reminder dimming his sultry thoughts. He’d always considered it a point of pride that he’d never had to reveal his real identity to an asset. There were missions that required such exchanges of information, but his cover had always been deemed too valuable to expose. But such competence in his profession meant he had no point of reference for a conversation like this. Every opening line he thought of sounded trite to his ears.
Gently, he extricated himself from the bed, careful not to disturb her. His arousal would decrease, as long as he kept away from her. By the time she awoke, he’d be able to look her in the eye without his mind being a lust-addled jumble.
The main bedroom had no windows, which made it easier to guard but much harder to ascertain the time of day without the rays of sunlight. He lit the candle by the bed, looping his thumb in the handle of the brass chamber candlestick and carrying it over to the dresser. He did a double take as he caught sight of the clock face.
Six in the morning.
He’d slept until dawn. Christ, he hadn’t done that since Louisa’s death. Setting the candlestick down on top of the dresser, he tunneled his fingers through his hair, trying to remember if he’d stirred at all during the night. He couldn’t recall dreaming. Only the soothing blackness of night, the reassuring hum of Vivian’s breathing.
He spun around, facing the bed again. Lost in slumber, she looked almost angelic, her golden hair a halo. Yet he knew her to be more salacious than her appearance dictated, and he found himself loving the real version of her far more than the visage. Her hand curled around the counterpane, the sapphire ring on her finger flashing in the candlelight. He didn’t need a ring to mark the claim she had on him. She’d done what no other woman before her had managed. She’d broken through his carefully constructed walls.
And that scared the devil out of him.
He allowed himself one last look before turning back around. Sliding the dresser drawer slowly to minimize the noise, he pulled out his clothes for the day. He dressed behind the privacy screen, not wanting to shock her in case she awoke. Without a valet, his toilette was much simpler by necessity.
He pressed his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss to Vivian’s sleeping form, then crept from the room.
Chapter 15
James didn’t see Vivian until after breakfast. He’d spent the early hours with Nixon, going over potential scenarios of attack. On the very remote possibility that the bastard managed to locate their safe house, they’d be prepared to fight Sauveterre. Between Nixon, Arden, and himself, he felt confident that they’d be able to defend Vivian. Still, he would remain vigilant. Never again would he underestimate his opponent.
When he came back to the house, he followed the sound of voices to the parlor. Vivian was talking with Arden, a steaming cup of tea in her hand. For a second, he stood in the doorway, observing their interaction. Vivian smiled, laughing at something Arden said. He loved the way she laughed—freely, unrestrained, so genuine. He’d forgotten what it meant truly to laugh without a gambit to follow until she’d sauntered into his life.
Arden caught his eye, raising one brow in question. He nodded, and her grin widened.
“James, do come here,” she called. “We were discussing Robert Burns’s poetry, particularly Auld Lang Syne. I’m sure Vivian would love to hear your diatribe.”
Grimacing, James sat down on the couch next to Vivian. “The man can’t write.”
“Really? I thought it was quite lovely.” Vivian chuckled, resting her hand on top of his. The ease of her gesture soothed him—she was comfortable around him. Comfort he was about to destroy.
“Burns took much of the first verse from James Watson.” He spoke without passion, unable to summon up the energy that normally accompanied this lecture. “And Lord knows who Watson took his from; as yet another version of the poem was compiled by Allan Ramsay. I detest how Burns has made his fame off the work of others.”
Arden and Vivian continued discussing Burns’s work, but even the prospect of ranting against his least favorite poet could not interest him when his chance for a happy existence might shatter in a few moments. These last few days with Vivian had given him hope that maybe they could have a marriage based on more than friendship. He wanted that with every fiber of his being.
His right leg jiggled as he sat on the couch, his foot tapping against the carpet. He couldn’t be still. Vivian’s hand had not moved from his left knee, yet her touch did not reassure him as it usually did, for it reminded him of how relaxed she’d become around him. Was all that about to change? He rubbed at the back of his neck. Kept his eyes on the clock, ticking away the minutes until he could get Vivian alone.
Finally, when five minutes had passed and still they showed no signs of stopping their conversation about literature, he cleared his throat, interrupting them. They both turned as one to look at him.
“Would you mind giving us a minute alone, Arden?” His voice came out smooth, but his hands were clammy.
Christ, he’d faced off unarmed against four assassins with less tension. Still his heart thumped against his chest.
“I told Nixon I’d help him with the horses, anyhow.” Arden directed an inquisitive glance at him, but she stood up, smoothing her hand down her skirt.
Once Arden closed the door to the parlor, he turned on the couch so that he faced Vivian. But that didn’t help. All he could think about was how her eyes met his, such trust in her expression. He didn’t merit her faith. He jumped up from the couch. His boots ground into the carpet as he paced the width of the room.
Vivian’s teacup clinked against her saucer as she set it down. The sound made him turn his head, but he did not stop moving.
Her brows furrowed. “What’s wrong, James? Have you found Sauveterre?”
That would have been an easier conversation. Locate the target. Identify their weakness. Strike in an opportune manner. He was trained for that.
Honesty was another matter entirely. Already, he could think of seven convincing falsehoods that would ensure she fancied him. For too long he’d been cowardly, hiding behind lies because the truth was more complicated and unpleasant.
But it was not just about him. Vivian deserved to know that her brother had died protecting the nation. He hadn’t told her when they were at Abermont House because the servants could easily overhear. Here in Guildford, in the middle of the bloody forest, he didn’t have that pretext.
“When I married you, I promised I’d honor you. You deserve the truth, or as much as I can tell you without endangering your life or the lives of others.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t understand.”
He forced himself to slow. To face her. “What I’m about to tell you, you can’t tell anyone, do you understand me?”
Her eyes tapered. “Who would I tell?”
“Touché.” He crossed to the couch, but he did not sit, too restless for such torpor. “In my investigation into Sauveterre, I have come upon information about your brother.”
“Evan?” She leaned forward, the anxiety in her features replaced by eagerness. “Do you know why he was in Seven Dials that night?”
“I do.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Evan was a courier for the Alien Office. He relayed documents or messages from one place to the next.”
“A courier for the Alien Offi
ce?” She repeated, blinking up at him. “The Alien Office keeps records of all foreigners who enter the country. Why would they have business in the rookeries?”
This was the part of every interaction with an asset he hated—when he was about to turn their world inside out. But Vivian wasn’t just an asset he could forget about once the mission was over.
Whether she wanted to be or not after this conversation, she was in his life forever.
He took a deep breath. “Because that’s not all the Alien Office does. After the revolution in France, all espionage personnel were routed through the Alien Office, under the control of William Wickham.”
Her jaw fell. “Espionage? Are you saying Evan was a spy?”
He leaned against the arm of the couch, wanting to stay near to her, yet still trying to respect her space. “That is exactly what I am saying.”
“No, no, that can’t be true,” she sputtered. “Evan worked for Hoare’s Bank. He got the job because I wanted to relocate to London. If I hadn’t asked him to move to Town, he’d still be alive today.”
If nothing else good came from tonight, at least he could persuade her she wasn’t responsible for her brother’s death.
“Your desire to move was but a happy coincidence, for the Alien Office had already recruited your brother,” he said. “All those trips he made for the bank he worked at when you were in Devon.”
Recognition dawned in her eyes. She remembered her brother’s travels; now he simply had to give her the rest of the pieces to put the puzzle together.
“Just as he did in Devon, Wickham used Evan’s banking career as a cover for their missions. I began to suspect it as soon as I saw how many of Evan’s trips overseas overlapped with known Alien Office missions.”
She drew back from him, reaching for her teacup. Her hands shook as she raised it to her lips, buying time to process what he’d said in silence.
He thought she might agree with him. She was quick-witted. James wouldn’t be surprised if she had noticed something was off about her brother. About him.
“You’re wrong,” she declared. “We lived together. If Evan was spying, I would have known.”
“He traveled often, and you didn’t accompany him on those trips. Nor were you with him when he went to his supposed work place every day.” He wanted to reach for her, to take her hand in his, but he knew from her icy blue eyes that she’d refuse the contact. “I’m sorry, Vivian. Evan did not deserve to die. I know it is little consolation, but he died defending this country.”
“How dare you talk as though as you know him.” Her voice trembled, but he felt every ounce of venom aimed at him. “You never met him. I’m done listening to you.”
She set her teacup down so fast that liquid streamed over the sides, sloshing onto her saucer. She burst up from the couch, trying to go to the door.
He stopped her, his hand on her shoulder. She tried to shrug him off, but he held firm, anchoring her in place. The worst was still yet to come, but they would get through it. They had to. This was their life now. No more lies. No longer would they allow the gloom to hide their true selves.
He’d stand there as long as it took her to understand.
This was madness.
Lies piled on top of lies until there was no space in her mind for veracity. Were it not for his hold on her arm, she would have thought this was some sort of waking nightmare. But no, James stood in front of her, the bulk of his body positioned against the door. She’d tried the same tactic when arguing with him about leaving on this very trip, but unlike her, he was effective. She could not skirt around him. She could not tug him away from the door.
He blocked her exit. Not that she had anywhere she could go. Even if she had transportation to take her from Guildford, she didn’t know the way back to home.
Sweet Mary, she didn’t have a home anymore. She’d given up her independence when she’d married him.
She whirled on her heel, stalking back to the couch. She ignored her abandoned cup. Tea wouldn’t make this better. Nothing could make this better. She’d gone from being controlled by a madman to being married to one.
She parked herself on the couch. Closed her eyes. Tried to slow the hammering of her heart. Evan couldn’t have been a spy. She knew him better than herself.
Yet she couldn’t quiet the niggling doubt at the back of her mind. How quickly Evan had agreed that they should move to London, when he hated being in Town. How he’d never wanted to talk about his trips once he returned. He’d always claimed that reflecting on the past accomplished nothing—he wanted to live in the present. The time he’d come home with a jagged cut down his cheek, which he’d said he received in a scuffle with some footpads.
She opened up her eyes, letting out a long, tremulous sigh. “I want to see some evidence. If Evan was truly a spy as you claim, surely there must be some sort of record.”
James did not move from the door. “It doesn’t work that way. Spies depend on anonymity. Any records kept are heavily guarded. If I could, I would show you the files, love.”
She let out a derisive snort at that term of endearment. “Do not patronize me. I’m not your love, for if I were, you wouldn’t insult me with such lies. There’s no way you could know all this about Evan.”
He pushed off from the door, making his way to her. “I know because I work for Wickham too. In a top-secret division of the Alien Office called the Clocktower. I’m a spy, Vivian.”
“What? How? What?” Her chest hitched. She could barely hold her head up. She sagged back against the couch, the soft cushions offering her no relief.
Sauveterre had been right.
James Spencer worked for British intelligence.
She stared at James, her glassy eyes barely registering him when her ears rang so loudly. “You work for the organization that got my brother killed.”
“My work did not do this. The Clocktower may be a subset of the Alien Office, but your brother was not one of my people.” He said that distinction as if it mattered, as if she shouldn’t be angry with every damn British spy that still lived. “And even if it had been my organization, we are not the ones who ended Evan’s life. That was Sauveterre.”
“Who he only came into contact with because he was spying.” She reached up, running her thumb against the locket she wore around her neck. Evan’s locket. He’d be here to give her a new ribbon for it himself, if he hadn’t been a spy. “You know how much he meant to me.”
“I do,” James said again, such a simple phrase that she had begun to loathe. He knew everything, while she fumbled for clarity. “And that’s why I’m going to make damn certain Sauveterre pays for murdering your brother. I catch bastards like him. I may not love the things I’ve had to do over the years to protect my country, but people are safer because of our work.”
She hadn’t married a madman. That would have been better—at least madmen had their mental degradation to excuse their actions. James Spencer was in full possession of his faculties, so much that he’d managed to manipulate her into marrying him. Though he might look remorseful right now, with his posture so slack and his hands in the pockets of his coat, she no longer trusted that he felt anything genuine for her.
Lord, she’d been such a fool.
His rough, calloused hands. The soundless way in which he walked. The guards at his house. How he always seemed to know what she was thinking—the cool, logical way in which he assessed everything. She’d seen all of these things, and she’d dismissed them, because she’d wanted to believe he was different from what Sauveterre claimed. Because she’d wanted to believe he was good.
Because she’d wanted to believe that a woman as inconsequential as her could attract a duke as influential as he was.
He was an expert at reading people because he’d been trained in coercion. Probably, all those little things she’d assumed were signs of his affection were just cleverly perpetuated tricks to win her over.
“Why are you telling me this now? You had plen
ty of opportunities to tell me before we were married. Instead you waited until we were completely secluded.” Damn the quiver in her voice, the way her head felt so blastedly light.
He came closer, stopping in front of where she sat. He towered over her, all muscles and brawn. She remembered how he’d glowered at that rogue in the Jester and Trader Tavern. Her bottom lip quaked as she recalled watching him bare-knuckle box.
She swung her gaze back to the door. There was no way she could escape without him following her. So she brought up her chin higher, looking him in the eye. If he wanted to hurt her, he’d have to do it without her cowering. “Did you bring me here to kill me?”
He reared back from her so abruptly he stumbled over the low table, barely managing to right himself before he toppled to the ground. When he stood back up, the whites of his eyes were eerily visible, reminding her of a spooked horse.
“Christ, Vivian,” he grated, the sheer anguish in his voice seeping into her body whether or not she wanted it to. “How could you think that? I married you! I pledged before God and my family to cherish you and you think I could kill you? I would rather cut out my own heart and devour it than harm you. Bloody hell, woman, I love you, can’t you see that?”
Of all the times she had dreamed that a man would profess his undying devotion to her, it had never been in a profane shout. She shouldn’t believe him—everything he’d said and done told her she shouldn’t—but still her heart soared.
This man would consume her. He’d leave her wrecked. All because he loved her.
She forced herself to tear her gaze from him. “If this is how you show your love, I don’t want it. Take it back.”
“I can’t.” His voice broke, agony lancing through his words like the blade of her favorite fencing foil. “I love you, Vivian. It’s why I asked you to marry me. It’s why I brought you here, so that I could teach you how to protect yourself. It’s why I’m telling you what I actually do.”
“You married me when you knew we were going to spend our life deceiving each other.” She couldn’t comprehend how that equated with love. “Why didn’t you tell me before? I deserved to know what kind of man I was marrying.”