Tainted Angel

by Anne Cleeland

  Carstairs bent his head and traced a finger along the veins on the back of her hand. “It was war. He was young, and frightened; and he didn’t have your steel—few do.”

  “You would have died first.”

  “A hundred times over,” he agreed. “But then I would have been dead and unable to help you.”

  She retorted with anger, “Better to die with honor than to be slaughtered like a sheep in the courtyard the next morning.”

  He met her eyes, startled. “Holy God. All of them?”

  “Except the women,” she said in a brittle voice. “And the other two had a worse time of it than I—I was so sick from the drink that I miscarried. The soldiers looked for more appealing prey.”

  He pulled her head against his shoulder and she felt his lips on her hair. “Lina, I am so sorry.”

  “An evil day,” she whispered.

  “How did you escape?”

  She bowed her head for a moment. “The captain’s plans to keep me as a trophy were stymied by the pressing need to retreat. As I was in no shape to flee, he left me there.”

  “And the other women?”

  “I do not know what became of Johanna—she was not a strong woman to begin with. On the other hand, Libby had convinced one of the soldiers she was fond of him long enough to wrest his pistol and kill him. She was executed in the courtyard—flinging curses and defiant. I admired her greatly.”

  “And took her name.”

  Lina was apologetic. “She had a pension from her father, you see. It seemed such a waste—she would have understood.”

  He was silent, absently rubbing her shoulder with his hand. “And then Invidia had her vengeance.”

  “Yes. I found a pistol that had been left among the corpses and stumbled down the hill to a farmstead, where I stole an old cart horse; the occupants had fled ahead of the retreating army. I managed to mount up—even though I was weak as a kitten—and stalked the bastardo in the best guerrilla tradition; you would have been proud.”

  “I could not be prouder.”

  “As they retreated I followed along the tree line and picked them off—one by one—when the opportunity arose.” She mustered up a grim smile at the memory. “They were terrified, and had no idea who tormented them.”

  “But the captain escaped?”

  She sighed. “I finally fainted and fell off the horse near the Portuguese border.”

  “Bad luck.”

  “I suppose—although I lived to tell the tale, thanks to the kindness of a prostitute who took me in, thinking I shared her profession. At the time I truly didn’t care if I lived or died.”

  “If the captain yet lives, I will find him and we will kill him together.”

  She was touched by the gesture. “Lucien—how sweet.”

  He rested his cheek against her temple. “A wedding gift.”

  Smiling, she shook her head slightly. “Oh-ho; I have been down that wedding road before, my friend, and it is not a pleasant memory.”

  His tone firm, he reiterated, “You will marry me, whether you will or no.”

  Mildly, she returned, “I would be loath to have to take my pistol to you, too.”

  “You wouldn’t.” He lifted her hand and kissed the palm. “I have been privileged to see beneath the shell.”

  She stared into the fire, a half smile on her lips, feeling as though a burden had been lifted from her heart. He ran his hand down her back and absently played with her hair. “Who else knows of your story?”

  “The Vicar, apparently,” she answered with a grimace. “Much to my dismay.”

  He whistled again. “Impressive, that he tracked you back through that chaos.”

  She corrected him, “Not precisely—remember, he believes I am Libby.”

  “How did you come to be in this business—were you recruited over there?”

  Resting her chin on her drawn-up knees, she gazed at the fire. “Yes. I continued killing French and Spanish soldiers indiscriminately, and apparently some spymaster heard of my exploits and thought I was sufficiently reckless to be recruited. And of course it helped that I had no connections and no plans.”

  “And can make men witless,” he added.

  “That, too,” she agreed. “At first, my role was constrained to that of an angel—to beguile military leaders into confessing strategy. Then I began interpreting the ciphered documents myself without having to make copies for others to interpret; my value increased and my assignments became more high profile. Then the war ended—or at least it seemed so at the time—and I moved to England to investigate those attempting to bring down the country from within; investment fraud, or embezzlement.”

  He nodded. “And so you were assigned to link up with Brodie, whose actions in buying up all the Treasury bonds have alarmed the Home Office.”

  “Yes—certainly a cause of grave concern.”

  Into the silence he spoke, the words all the more alarming for their quiet tenor. “They are certain Rochon has met with you personally—last fall, when you broke contact.”

  There was a long pause before she turned to meet his eyes. “Is that what this is about? I’m to confess, now that I’ve been softened up by my not-quite husband?”

  He did not flinch. “I need to know how complicated my plan must be to clear you of any taint.”

  With a wry smile, she rested her head on his shoulder and confessed, “Complicated. I have indeed met with Rochon in the flesh, and on more than one occasion.”

  He was taken aback, she could tell, although he did not betray his surprise. “Yet you insist you are not tainted.”

  She shook her head. “I am not—santos, it is tiresome of you to keep asking.”

  With a frown, he attempted to puzzle it out. “If you are not tainted, then you must mean to betray Rochon—yet why won’t you simply admit this and say what you know?”

  But she would not be drawn. “Again, complicated.”

  He made a sound of frustration. “Who holds your allegiance, Lina?”

  “You do.”

  She lifted her head and they stared at each other for a long moment as the fire crackled. “We will save it for another time,” he pronounced in a husky voice and drew her into his arms.

  Chapter 33

  Lina woke the next morning, stiff from having spent an uncomfortable night. Carstairs had determined that the cot wouldn’t be sturdy enough to hold their combined weight, and so the straw mattress was dragged to the floor beside the banked fire. He had then tenderly covered her with both a blanket and his own warm and wonderful body but she had been unable to fight exhaustion and so had fallen asleep during his lovemaking. Remembering, she covered her face with her hands and groaned with embarrassment.

  “So ye’re awake.” Maisie was pouring a jug of hot water into the basin.

  Lina assessed her maidservant through her fingers and decided the other’s mood had improved, which was a good thing. “I could sleep the clock ’round, Maisie, and this wretched pallet reminds me of sleeping in a haystack.”

  “Ye can sleep later—I has me orders, I do.” The other woman slung a flannel towel over her shoulder and assessed Lina with a practiced gaze, her hands on her hips.

  Propping herself on an elbow, Lina swept the hair from her eyes and returned her regard with some surprise. “And who, pray tell, is giving you orders?”

  But Maisie was unrepentant. “Yer man, that’s who. He’s nowt happy ye’ve never seen a doctor about the babe, and small blame t’ him.”

  Amused, Lina contemplated the fact that her erstwhile husband knew exactly how to winkle his way back into favor. “Heavens, Maisie—what has he said to sweeten you up? Or did he bribe you?”

  Ignoring the slight, her maidservant continued, “I’m to keep ye quiet today and see to it ye have eggs an’ milk.”

  With a grimace, Lina lay back down. “Neither sounds very appetizing just now.”

  Considering this, Maisie suggested, “I can dip some bread in the eggs and milk so as
to soak—then toast the bread.”

  “With jam?” Jam actually sounded rather appealing.

  “I’ll find some,” agreed Maisie. “We’ll see iffen ye can keep it down.”

  Lina gingerly stretched out her aching back, trying to muster up an appetite. She could hear rain tapping on the garret’s window and pulled the wool blanket closer around her shoulders. “Has Mr. Carstairs eaten?”

  “Hours ago—he left t’ mount a search. Sech a fine horse.” Maisie considered herself a fair judge of horseflesh, being from the north country.

  Smiling, Lina teased her, “Ah—now I understand why you will take orders from him. Did he promise you a foal?”

  But her maid continued, unashamed of her new loyalty as she laid out the linens. “He made me promise ye wouldn’t try to escape t’day whilst he was away. Ye’re to hide—bein’ as ye’ve drowned an’ all.” Reminded, she added, “He said yer not to walk about when I’m downstairs, so no one hears you and comes to look.”

  Lina lay back to contemplate the rough-hewn ceiling, her hands behind her head. “You’ve turned coat, Maisie—I am disappointed but unsurprised.”

  Unfazed by this calumny, Maisie bustled out the door. “I’ll fetch yer breakfast. Iffen ye can manage to go back to sleep, I won’t wake ye—it’d be better than eatin’, I’m thinkin’.”

  Lina tried to muster up enough energy to rise and dress, the straw pallet rustling while she turned to sit up. Although she was used to sleeping in uncertain surroundings, she had not done well last night; she had dreamed of San Sebastian—probably because she had spoken of it—and woke in a cold terror, her heart pounding. Carstairs had held her and assured her in Portuguese that the baby was safe—she must have said something in her nightmare. Poor man, she thought. First I fall asleep during lovemaking and then I give him a scare for his troubles; he’ll think long and hard about taking me on.

  Raising her arms over her head to stretch, she could not suppress a smile because despite the fact she should not trust him an inch, it did seem—and here she was cautiously optimistic—he truly meant to take her on. Even though I am a bundle of troubles, she thought with remorse; I should help him sort them out.

  To this end she spoke to Maisie while picking with little enthusiasm at the proffered toast and jam. “Do you think you can lay hands on a Bible somewhere?”

  Maisie blinked. “Ye’ll be studyin’ the Bible now, missy?”

  “I have a mind to,” Lina teased with a sidelong glance. “I shall have to teach this child something other than how to nick an ace.”

  Dubious, Maisie offered, “I’ll see if I can find one downstairs—I has t’ leave at noon, though.”

  “Oh?” Lina raised her brows in amusement. “Do you have standing orders, then?”

  Maisie lifted her eyes to the ceiling, folded her hands under her apron, and recited, “I’m to bring food t’ the men who’re lookin’ for ye; I’m to remember to be sorrowful, and weep.”

  Privately, Lina hoped Maisie could pull it off; she tended to be self-conscious when she was playing a role, which is why it was a rare—and desperate—occurrence. Deus, she thought, I cannot take another bite to save my life, and she pushed the plate away.

  Shaking her head with sympathy, Maisie gathered up the breakfast things while Lina lay back, fighting nausea. “I’ll bring a Bible an’ ye kin read while I’m gone. And don’t forget—no movin’ about.”

  Thus enjoined, Lina passed a tedious day watching the rain on the tiny windowsill and thumbing through the onionskin pages of the ancient Bible until she found what she was looking for—not that it eased her mind. I don’t know why it’s such a Good Book, she thought, staring at the fire—it does me precious little good.

  In the late afternoon she heard voices and doors slamming and was sorely tempted to do some soft-footed listening, but Maisie came in just as she moving toward the door.

  “Ye’ll stay put, missy,” the maid warned. “Yer man’s back, wi’ some o’ the men; he says he’ll offer ’em a drink and then he’ll come up to see ye.”

  Lina brightened, pleased her abject boredom would soon be at an end. “Good—first brush out my hair and then make yourself scarce.”

  Maisie looked disapproving. “Best t’ let the poor man rest—he’s had a long day.”

  “He won’t complain, Maisie.”

  And he didn’t; instead he paused in the doorway for a moment, surveying her naked form with approval as she approached and twined her arms around his neck. “Poor Lucien—you look tired.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and spoke into her ear. “Knackered. But recovering nicely, as I imagine you can tell.”

  She chuckled and trailed kisses along his throat. “Good—I have to make it up to you for falling asleep last night.”

  He bent to kiss her shoulder as his fingers began unfastening the buttons on his shirt. “I didn’t take it personally—I just soldiered on without you.”

  Laughing, she kissed his chest as she helped him pull off his shirt. “I am sorry, Lucien. I meant no insult.”

  He enclosed her in his arms and squeezed tightly, lifting her off her feet. “I don’t know—I’ve never had a woman lose interest as quickly as you did.”

  She obligingly wrapped her legs around his waist and ran her tongue along the inside of his ear, evoking a grunt of pleasure. “I am all attention, now.”

  “As am I—painfully so.” He cupped her hips and pressed her against him as he carried her across to the fire. “Mind your head,” he warned as he maneuvered them beneath the low ceiling and onto the pallet. “Someday soon,” he murmured into her breasts, “we are going to do this in a decent bed.”

  “I shall hold you to it,” she whispered, and could feel a chuckle reverberate in his chest, although he was fast becoming too serious to joke. He began to caress her while she gave in to the mindless pleasure—they were becoming accustomed to one another, and she now knew what pleased him best, as he knew her own preferences. For a moment, she was aware she would have to test their newfound trust, and soon—but she quickly quashed the thought and instead concentrated on the delightful present.

  After a very satisfying session of lovemaking, Lina rested her head on his shoulder and pulled gently at the hairs on his chest. “Are you too tired to tell me what’s afoot?”

  “We’ll see,” he murmured sleepily.

  “How are you playing it?”

  She felt his chest rise and fall. “I am grim but resigned—I hold out little hope.”

  “Are you bereft?” she teased. “I would appreciate it if you were bereft.”

  “Only so much that I won’t be suspected of doing you in. Recall that I only married you because you were pregnant.”

  Keeping her tone light, she asked, “Are you more bereft or less bereft than when Marie died?”

  There was a small pause. “Unfair,” he finally said.

  “Sorry.” He is good, she thought; he does not allow a distraction and his guard never comes down. Perhaps I have met my match—which may or may not be a good thing, considering this tale is not yet told and much remains to be accomplished.

  “The Vicar does not believe you are dead.”

  Startled, she propped herself up on her elbow and looked down into his face. “The Vicar is here?”

  Carstairs regarded her from beneath hooded lids and ran his hand over her back. “He is in close contact.”

  Lina was all admiration; Carstairs was much better at serving up a distraction than she was.

  Chapter 34

  Lina prodded, “What does our illustrious Vicar have to say on the subject?”

  Carstairs’s hands continued their lazy progress across her lower back. “He says we are fools to believe it, short of having your lifeless corpse before us on a slab.”

  Frowning, she absorbed this distressing information. “Does he suspect your complicity?”

  “Not as far as I can tell.”

  She thought it over. “What is next?”


  Tracing a finger across her lower lip, he replied, “The weather is helping; the locals tell us nothing will wash up for days—if at all—and most likely a half-mile to the south.”

  She teased, “Will you call off the search and take long and contemplative walks on the cliffs, thinking of what might have been?”

  He lowered his chin slightly. “No—I will depart this sad place with all speed.”

  This was of interest, as she was slated to accompany him—although the logistics had not yet been sorted out. “Where do you go to mourn my poor dead self?”

  Slowly he drew a tendril of her hair with two fingers to place it behind her ear. “Even your ears are perfect.”

  Impatiently, she shook his fingers away because they tickled. “Do not change the subject, if you please. I would know where the twice-widower will reside, being as I imagine I will reside there with him.”

  He drew a finger along her cheek. “There is a safe house in Kensington—it will answer, and I doubt anyone will think to look for you there, with me. Only Maisie is to know,” he added with emphasis, and it was clear he was warning her not to contact Brodie.

  Laying her head on his chest, she said lightly, “So—you are to go home grieving, and break the news to my unknowing friends and acquaintances.”

  She felt him sigh in acknowledgment. “My sad charge.”

  There was a pause. “It’s a bit rainy for a ride in a sack, Lucien.”

  “You are welcome to remain in this garret” was his mild reply.

  She rose on her elbows again and gently punched him in the arm. “Don’t even joke; I hate being cramped up in here—I’ve been miserable every moment.”

  He cupped her hips against him with his hands, smiling. “Oh?”

  She chuckled and conceded, “Well, perhaps not every moment.”

  “I thank you.” He drew her head toward him for a kiss.

  After the lingering kiss, she smoothed his hair from his forehead. “I am reconciled to your plan, I suppose—how am I to be extracted?”

  “Maisie will accompany me back to London, bringing your trunk and weeping into her handkerchief all the while.”