by Darcy Burke
“I wanted to. I wanted to so damn badly.” He hunkered down on the couch beside her, moving farther over when she glared at him. “The organization I work for has rules governing who can know a spy’s true identity, especially one as high up in the organization as me.”
“Ah yes, because you are the Duke of Spies, head of the Clockbridge.”
“Clocktower,” he corrected.
“Sauveterre would have loved that. I would have been his favorite little helper if I’d sent him that tidbit.” She threw her back, releasing a loud, barking laugh. “I wonder if he’d still be trying to kill me.”
“Yes.” The certainty in his voice made a shiver crawl up her spine. “A good spy takes care of the loose ends, and you would have been able to identify him.”
“Aren’t I a loose end to your organization then?” She was suddenly cold, so very cold. She hugged her arms to her, running her hands up and down to stimulate warmth. No matter how she examined this situation with Sauveterre, it always seemed to end in her death.
“If I had told you before I married you, yes, you would have been.” Again that conviction of his brought her no comfort. “My superiors would have claimed your loyalty couldn’t be ascertained, when you were so willing to trade information about me in exchange for the name of your brother’s murderer.”
She swallowed. This just kept getting worse. “And now?”
“Now you are not only a peer, but my wife. No one that I would work with would dare take you into captivity. And as for my enemies, the smart ones wouldn’t risk infuriating me. Those foolish enough to try, I can dispense with easily.”
“Because you’re such a bad, bad man.” She ought not to taunt him, but she could not resist.
“Darling, I’m the worst.” His voice lowered, that husky quality doing wicked things to her core. Almost as if he’d made her another promise. “But my savage reputation works in your favor. There is not a man on this green Earth that will protect you better than I can. If you have another agent assigned to you, it’d be about duty for them.”
Devil take him, for she found herself leaning forward to catch his every syllable. “What is it about for you?”
His intense regard made her heart tumble. “Love.”
There was that damn word again.
“How can I trust you when you say you love me? I asked you if you were a spy.” She sat up straighter, channeling every ounce of ire into her tone. “After I had bared my soul, you looked me in the eye and you lied to me. At least when I lied, I had the decency to confess before you entered into any partnership with me.”
“I never lied.” His chin dipped to his chest, but his voice remained level, and she hated him for that. “I might have allowed you to form incorrect conclusions, but I never lied.”
She couldn’t believe his audacity, lying to her now still. “You must be unclear on what the word ‘lie’ means. I directly asked you if what Sauveterre suspected was correct, and you told me no.”
He shook his head. “You asked me if I had financed a revolution. I told you I preferred to take a more active stance, and I do. As head of the Clocktower, I oversee all our missions. Before that, I was a field agent. But never, in my entire lengthy career as a spy, have I ever been the bankroller.”
“Semantics,” she spat at him. “You knew what I meant and you chose not to tell me the whole truth.”
“Never underestimate the importance of semantics,” he said solemnly. “I told you that my contacts would help you find Sauveterre, and they did. My agents went to that inn.”
Her head spun once more from trying to keep the facts straight. “I thought the Runners were investigating.”
“The Runners are bloody useless.” He sneered. “Even if I’d applied pressure to them, they’d just muck up the entire investigation. They’re lionized thief-takers, in it for the money.”
“While your agents are in it for…what? The glory?”
He blew out a loud puff of air. “Hardly. You can’t be glorified when your entire profession depends on no one knowing what you’ve done.”
She’d been about to retort something else, but something about his tone stopped her. For a year and a half, she’d been consumed with making sure Evan was remembered. As if by slaughtering Sauveterre, she could ensure that Evan lived on forever.
“I want to know why you do it.” She turned on the couch so she faced him. “Why are you a spy?”
“Because it is what my family does.” He sighed, stretching his legs out underneath the low table. “Some families build orphanages or hospitals to improve their country. My family serves the Crown by spying on our enemies.”
“Your whole family?” She thought of his sisters. Impulsive Korianna, coldly rational Elinor, and quiet yet undeniably strong Arden. They certainly didn’t fit the typical ideal of a prim, docile woman, but she’d attributed their eccentricities to that of the obscenely wealthy.
Of course, if they were spies, that made a lot more sense.
James nodded. “I come from a long line of spymasters and field agents.”
“And I thought it was imposing that you had an ancestor directly related to Elizabeth Stuart,” she remarked dryly.
“It saddens me deeply that you weren’t impressed by Uncle Herman,” he retorted with a smile, that same damn secret smile she’d thought he used only with her.
How her heart ached at that grin. He stirred up something deep within her, unable to be contained by logic or survival instinct. She ought to remain focused. Gather as much information as she could from him.
“Arden is not here to keep me company, is she? I thought that was odd.” But she’d dismissed that too, so keen to be with him. No more. She would not dismiss her uncertainties. “Earlier, you spoke of training me to fight. I imagine it would be easier to demonstrate suitable self-defense techniques using someone of my size.”
His smile grew, becoming one of pride. “I love the way your mind works, Vivian. You find the conclusion without me having to lead you to it.”
“I would arrive at the conclusion much quicker if you didn’t hold back basic information,” she retorted acerbically. “Who else knows you’re a spy? Our servants? I bet they were all laughing at me, marrying a man without knowing a single real thing about him.”
“Only Mrs. Engle, Caldwell the butler, my valet and my sisters’ maids.”
“Only?” She scoffed.
“Mrs. Engle and Caldwell grew up at the estate. My father told them about our organization.” He crossed one long leg over the other, angling his body toward her. “My valet and the ladies’ maids need to know because we often return home at late hours, but they all knew of the Clocktower long before they came to work at Abermont House.”
“The maids and your valet are former spies? Northley is a former spy?”
“The most I am at liberty to say is that they were involved in the organization.” When she frowned at him, he smiled apologetically. “There are many things I won’t be able to tell you, Vivian, and I’m sorry for that. You need to know that when I leave out certain things, it is not because I don’t care about you. It’s because telling you would either put you in danger, or risk another’s life.”
He placed his hand on top of hers, his touch bolstering her more than it should.
“Your brother was still the same man,” he said, in that basic way he had of speaking, when the truth stung so much more because he did not couch it behind polish and veneer. “As am I. Spy is our vocation, not our soul. There are secrets we might have to hold back to keep you safe, but it does not change our feelings. Your brother loved you, and nothing will change that.”
He locked gazes with her. She felt that dynamic pull to him again, as though he were an elemental force drawing her in. And even though she was not entirely certain she agreed with him, his words salved some of her hurt.
“Sometimes people lie for good reasons,” she murmured, more to herself to than him.
“And sometimes the lies do not
determine who that person is,” he said. “Or what they truly need from life.”
She did not know what she needed. She knew what she wanted—him, James Spencer, duke, spy, whatever title he chose to call himself. Her heart clamored for her to take him under any circumstance. But too many things had changed so quickly, and she feared making another ill-informed decision.
“When I lied to you, it was to avenge Evan.”
“And when I withheld information from you, it was to protect the country.” The smallest smile toyed with his lips. “Both are equally valid reasons.”
“How do we proceed from here?” She didn’t know to be a duchess, let alone the wife to a spy. “Has everything between us just been one giant subterfuge?”
He snatched her hand in his, raising it to his chest. She felt the throbbing of his heart, fixed beats while her own heart raced.
“When you start to doubt us again, I want you to remember this.” He ran his thumb across the sapphire ring on her finger. “Most husbands and wives have secrets from each other. They pretend their hearts are engaged while they hide away, taking another lover.”
She listened to his heartbeat, her eyes fixated on the ring. “I don’t want that.”
“And I will never allow us to become that way,” he vowed, his gaze never leaving her features. “No matter what I do as a spy, what lies I am forced to tell, the information I must hold back from you, know that it will never reflect on how I feel about you as my wife. You need never worry about me being constant. You have my heart, Vivian. Always.”
Chapter 16
When Arden told James that Vivian was outside the next morning, he had not expected to see her with a thin metal blade clasped in her right hand, the point of her foil directed at the tree opposite him in the glen. She darted forward, thrusting out her blade before skipping back. Clad in wide-legged trousers and a white linen blouse that did nothing to hide her womanly curves, she was temptation personified. Her current position, standing with her back turned to him, presented him with far too much opportunity to compose any number of obscene ditties about the view.
His cock twitched as he watched her, just longing for the chance to cup her rounded buttocks in his hand, maybe even give her a solid smack. Tingles started in his hands at the prospect, and he ached to tug her into his arms and teach her exactly what a roguish spy did with his lascivious wife. Of course, given how they’d left things yesterday, he doubted she’d allow him to touch her hand, let alone her rear. More’s the pity, for what a fantastically glorious arse it was.
He watched her for a minute longer, as she swept her blade out, then assumed the first position of parry. Her form was good, but that didn’t mean she’d hold up as well against an opponent. Or that she’d even want to fight when she was equally matched.
Christ, he didn’t want her to have to fight. He’d give anything he had for her to get to lead a normal existence. But the day Sauveterre targeted her she’d lost that chance. When one French spy was involved, another was sure to follow—the bastards were like lemmings. Crazed, deadly lemmings that followed the orders of a man who wanted to remake Europe in his own image, no matter whose freedom he had to destroy. In this war against Bonaparte, agents were needed. People with quick minds and even quicker moves.
As he observed Vivian practice her footwork, he sent up a silent prayer that she would eventually agree to join the Clocktower. He’d bring it up later with her, when she was more receptive to talking with him. He wasn’t sure how their marriage would function without her being a fellow spy; she knew the truth now.
He carded his hand through his hair. If she didn’t want to share his life after Sauveterre was captured, then at least Abermont House would be a safe place for her. He’d see her in Town during the Season, but there would be so much he wouldn’t be able to tell her. Their entire marriage would become like last night. He hadn’t returned to their bed until well after midnight, when he’d known she’d be asleep. He’d crept out before dawn again.
This couldn’t continue. He wanted more for them.
He advanced upon her, tapping her shoulder. She spun around, the button tip of her rapier inches from his chest. Her brows winged up at the sight of him, but she did not take a step away from him. Allowing her this show of strength, he decamped first, though her blade scared him little. He knew the foils Arden had packed for their trip were not sharp enough to pierce flesh, even without the covering over the top.
Her lips curled into a smirk. “Come to duel, Your Grace?”
He bristled at her use of his title. What was respect from others was a step back in intimacy from a woman who had moaned his given name in pleasure. “You’re displeased with me.”
“Nothing trouncing you in a match wouldn’t fix.” She shrugged, and the movement made her breasts jounce against the fabric of her white shirt.
His mouth watered, even as he tried to shake off the haze of attraction. If she wanted to funnel her aggressions into her foil, then he’d grant her a worthy opponent. After, perhaps they could have a sound, logical conversation about their relationship. He suppressed a groan. When had he started to want to discuss his feelings? Damned woman.
He turned to head back to the house. “I’ll go retrieve another blade.”
“No need.” Vivian gestured toward the tree she’d originally faced, and he saw another blade tucked to the side of the trunk. “I had a feeling you might find me here.”
“I do so like a woman who prepares.” He winked at her, and her cheeks pinked delightfully—reassuring him that though she was irritated with his reveals, she still desired him. He’d take that as progress. Undoing the buttons of his coat, he tugged it off, folding it up neatly and setting it on the grass. His waistcoat came next. As he rolled up his sleeves, she watched him, unable to veil her interest. He may have flexed his muscles, just for a second. A man had his pride, after all.
She handed him the foil, and he assumed the position. Driving her blade up, the metal of her foil clanged against his, their blades meeting in the shape of an “X.” She stretched out her left arm behind her, improving her balance. “En garde.”
The atmosphere between them changed, as if a curtain had been pulled back. The air became tighter. Every sound amplified, from the chirping of the birds in the woods to the whisper of the river behind the cottage. Seconds felt like minutes, as all his senses sharpened, readying for battle.
She lunged for him, her blade aimed at his shoulder. But he parried her attack with his foil, sliding into a riposte as he whipped his rapier up and went for her chest. He almost had her, but she was too swift on her feet. She jumped back, his foil swishing uselessly above the space she’d occupied a second before.
“Impressive,” he said, as they both retreated and resumed beginning stance.
Hurt flashed in her cobalt eyes. “I told you I defeated my brother often. You remember him, the brother your supervisors didn’t protect?”
He flinched at the bitterness of her voice. The accusation. Perhaps the Alien Office truly had failed Evan Loren. Until he knew the exact reasons why Sauveterre had killed the man, he couldn’t for certain declare that the agency hadn’t taken the proper precautions. There was still a chance that Evan’s death had been brought on by his own failure to observe caution.
But James had known every single guideline for a mission. Hell, he’d written half of them. And still Louisa had died on his watch.
So he’d take Vivian’s blame. He kept his lips pursed firmly shut, his gaze steely.
She lifted her chin, challenging him. “You shouldn’t underestimate me.”
He brought his foil up, clashing it against hers. “That is a mistake I shall not make again, wife.”
She appeared pleased by his promise. He took advantage of that, catching her off guard as he charged forward. The side of his foil swiped her gut. She winced, but he suspected it was her pride that was wounded, and not her stomach, for in the next second she was back in position again.
&nbs
p; “No point. You must hit me with the tip of your foil, not the side,” she declared, her tone begging him to differ. “You may have played dirty in the past, but when I fence I follow the rules.”
He was unsurprised she’d placed such emphasis on established codes of conduct when her whole world had shifted without her approval last night. She’d want to cling to what was familiar, as he had with running the Clocktower in the wake of Louisa’s demise. For her, fencing must be that same comfort zone.
So instead of arguing with her, he simply nodded and reset his stance. “Shall we go again?”
She crossed blades with him, and then they were off again. He swung at her; she dashed out of the way. She cut her foil through the air, but he dived away, avoiding her tap. They continued on for a few more swings, each narrowly missing the other, their blades clinking together until he felt the smack of the tip of her foil against his chest. She’d nicked him.
Dancing back, triumph washed over her flushed face. He knew then he’d take any number of hits if it meant she’d grin like that again, so utterly pleased with herself. She waggled her brows at him, the outward signs of her ire beginning to fade, replaced with the joy of successful exertion.
“Go again?” she asked.
“If you think you can handle it.” He goaded her, knowing that she’d rise to the bait. She needed an enemy to fight against, so that she’d feel like she was in control of at least a part of her life again.
She lifted her foil. “I’m the one who gained a point against you, old man.”
“I’ll have you know I am only four years older than you,” he retorted, raising his own foil.
She squinted. “Is that a gray hair I see?”
He blinked, and in that instant, she almost hit him again. He parried her attack just in time, carrying through with a riposte of his own. The button of his foil notched her shoulder.