Secrets to Reveal

by Tilly Wallace

  Hamish glared at his cousin. He had no time to hunt for a bride. His father might want grandsons to secure the estate, but he could damn well wait until hell froze over. There was nothing about the thought of taking a delicate, wilting flower to wife that held any appeal for him.

  “I’ve no desire to shackle myself to a vacuous slip of London muslin,” he grumbled, but Alick’s words cut. With the death of his brother, life had added another duty to the weight on his back—he now carried the expectation of perpetuating his lineage. He needed something far more than a broodmare to bear his children or a pretty head to carry his title. The primal part of him wanted a mate. A woman who would bring passion to their marital bed at night and who, by day, had a mind to match his own. He laughed. Was there even such a woman in the whole world, let alone in Woolwich?

  3

  Aster

  * * *

  Within her first week in the role of secretary, Aster decided that either the dark wood ladder on brass casters hated her, or that a mischievous mage had imbued the piece of furniture with a malicious intent. Or possibly a combination of the two. It never mattered where the ladder came to rest along the wall; once she made eye contact with the required space on the shelf, the inanimate object displayed the obstinacy of a mule. The wretched thing always stopped two inches short of the desired spot.

  Today, with her right hand extended and her left gripping the wooden edge, she willed her rib cage to expand and allow her reaching hand to edge closer to the vacant spot for the dratted book. The spine hit the shelf, and a smile crossed her face as she pushed the volume home. At the exact moment of her success, she fell.

  The emptiness of space around her body was snatched away as something warm and solid enveloped her from behind. Her feet stopped inches from the floor. She frowned; usually she was sprawled on her back at this point, with a worried Dougal licking her face. She was no stranger to tumbling from the ladder, but she normally hit the ground rather than levitating six inches above it.

  “I have you.” A voice with a burr brushed over her ears and sent a shiver down her spine.

  Dougal started yapping. He’d obviously woken up and discovered a stranger manhandling his mistress. Her fierce protector growled from somewhere behind her.

  “It’s all right, laddie, you can stand down,” the voice carried on in a lilting tone. “I have her safe and sound.”

  The yapping stopped. Treacherous beast. Why was he not savaging her assailant? Perhaps it was something in the smooth tone that flowed over them like warmed honey.

  Aster’s gaze darted down to the large arms around her waist. She wiggled her toes toward the floor, but they wouldn’t reach. With a free finger, she pushed her glasses back up her nose and firmly in front of her eyes.

  “Thank you. Dratted ladder always does that to me,” she said, and turned her head.

  Her assailant had dark brown hair with just a touch of auburn, framing a square face with laughing hazel eyes. The wide smile on his lips revealed deep dimples at the corners. Her breath left her with a whoosh—her saviour was quite handsome. She chased away her girlish thoughts before she said something silly and entirely uncharacteristic.

  “You can release me now. I am quite capable of standing.” Really, what was all this hugging about? It wasn’t the first time she’d fallen the six feet from the top of the ladder, and her skirts and petticoat provided sufficient padding from the impact. Besides, the arms wrapped around her were doing strange things to her equilibrium. Her breath came in shallow gasps, as though he pressed on her lungs.

  “If ye be sure,” he said, again with the Scottish burr that warmed her ears.

  “You must be Sir John’s four o’clock appointment.” Being Scottish, he must be Captain Logan. They never had random visitors to the office, and in fact, this was the first visitor she could recollect in over six months. The last had handed over his top hat and gloves and then paid her no more attention than a coat rack. Most people preferred to deal with the Records Office via correspondence.

  His arms disengaged, but his fingers dragged over her waist as though reluctant to break contact. Aster took a step back to stand next to the patiently waiting Dougal. The captain wasn’t overly tall—perhaps six feet—but he was broad and, she could attest, solid muscle. The fine cut of his clothing hid muscles of steel. Muscles capable of plucking a maiden from the air like a falling apple. He exuded a commanding presence, as though he was used to being obeyed and was only humouring her request to be released.

  Then Dougal gave a warning yip, and a most extraordinary thing happened: Aster could have sworn the captain growled in return. But it was such a low and deep noise that she didn’t so much hear it as feel it. The growl washed over her skin and raised goose bumps. Dougal’s ears shot up, then the terrier dropped to the ground, rolled over and exposed his belly.

  The captain stared at him for a long moment. Dougal cast his eyes to one side and licked his lips.

  “Good lad,” the captain said, then he bent down and rubbed Dougal’s belly.

  Pecking order established, Dougal rolled back over and sat at her feet. No wonder the dog had quieted when hushed; he was following an order from a male higher up the chain of command.

  “A fine wee dog you have.” He ruffled Dougal’s ears. “What’s his name?”

  “Dougal.”

  “Dougal,” he repeated, drawing out the syllables. The terrier seemed to like the sound of his name when the captain said it. He yipped and sat up taller, his floppy ears perking to attention. “Are you related to Sir John, that you are here?”

  What an odd question, assuming it was addressed to her and not the dog. She crossed her arms, feeling somewhat exposed under the captain’s roving gaze. Yet at the same time she wanted, for once in her life, to draw aside her veil of invisibility. To have someone, anyone, know that she had a mind. There was something about this man in particular that pulled at her and made her speak up. “I am Sir John’s secretary.”

  She blurted the words out and immediately wished she could recall them from the air. Foolish, foolish woman. For two years she had laboured in obscurity, keeping her true role secret. The occasional rare visitor thought she was no more than the maid. Society in general had little tolerance for women adopting male occupations unless a misfortune of birth gave them no alternative, like the rare women mages. Why on earth did she want to prove she held an important position to this man? What did it matter if a complete stranger knew she exercised her mind and kept an office running, not just dust-free?

  Dark brows shot up, and he rose. He cocked his head and stared at her as though she’d announced that she had just dropped in from the moon and would he like some cheese? “That’s a man’s job. What is a woman doing working in the Ordnance’s Records Office? Should you not be at home, tending to your sewing or family?”

  Aster had heard Scottish people were impertinent. Perhaps when he wrote to advise of his appointment he should have added he would need additional time to interrogate the staff.

  “I really don’t see that my business is any of yours, Captain Logan.” She brushed away invisible motes on her skirt and scowled at Dougal. Why must all men assume women do not have a serious thought in their heads? Some women were perfectly capable of seeking employment and supporting themselves. Her mind was far better employed in service to Sir John than performing idle needlework. There wasn’t exactly a surfeit of men able to decipher the French codes.

  Silence dragged on between them. The captain narrowed his gaze and crossed his arms as he waited for her to expound on her situation. Well, he could wait. She had no need to explain her presence. She had said too much already; no need to compound the situation.

  Even Dougal lay down and waited. The little dog rolled his eyes and then shut them. After a minute a gentle snore drifted upward from the slumbering dog.

  Hamish laughed—actually laughed—at her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend or to imply you were not capable. You took me by surpris
e, falling from the sky as I entered.” Perhaps he had expected her to retract her words and apologise, and instead he was amused by her mettle in holding her ground. A smile crinkled the corner of his eyes as he punctuated his apology with a slight bow to her.

  She nodded. He wasn’t the only one taken by surprise. He had caught her off-balance and words had babbled forth that she would never have dared utter to anyone else. Perhaps it was the welcoming warmth she glimpsed deep in his gaze—or even the new stirring in her soul at a man who not only noticed her, but who took the time to converse.

  “Yes, well, I shall tell Sir John you are here.” She moved to step around him, but he blocked her way.

  “But I am at a disadvantage. Would you honour me with your name, lass?”

  “Aster Simmons.” On instinct she held out a hand, only to have it enfolded by his large and strong one. He raised her knuckles and brushed a kiss across the back of her bare skin. A tremor shook her knees, and she thought for a moment she might fall again. Would he catch her twice in a row, or leave her to tumble to the floor?

  “Aster? So I caught a falling star, plucked from the heavens and placed among man.” His hazel gaze caught hers.

  She drew an inward breath and held it, while commanding her knees to lock in place and hold her upright. Few people knew her name was the Greek word for star; most thought it referred to the little flower. She was like that plant, unremarkable, but his words made her feel like something divine instead. Then her brain ceased to function. Her gaze dropped to fixate on their connected hands, and she wondered why she couldn’t see the sparks of lightning that raced over her skin. Curious. How does he do that? Perhaps he possessed some Highland magic? Or had it been so long since someone touched her that she’d forgotten what it felt like?

  A cough brought her attention back to the present. “Sir John?” He raised one eyebrow, but laughter lingered in his gaze.

  She exhaled. Heat rushed from under her collar, and she was glad her lawn fichu would cover her reddened skin. Lord, I’m staring like I’m addle-brained. This is no way to prove I’m capable of performing a role usually undertaken by a man. She snatched back her hand and turned. A low laugh rumbled behind her, and an answering yap came from Dougal, who apparently had been feigning sleep.

  Aster remembered her duty, even if her dog forgot his loyalty. Just because he’s a Scottish terrier doesn’t mean he has to side against me. With one hand on her stomach to calm her nerves, Aster took a deep breath and pushed open the doors to the next office.

  Sir John’s greying head was bent over his stacks of dispatches and reports. His dark gaze—indigo, today—flicked up on hearing the door.

  “Captain Logan to see you, Sir John.”

  A smile escaped the confines of his lips and broke over his entire face. “Hamish, do come in. About time the Wolves had their own uniform,” he called out.

  He looked around for his walking stick and used it to lever himself from the chair. The scent of smoke and whisky brushed past Aster as the captain strode into the room. Sir John rose to greet him. Captain Logan grasped his hand in an enthusiastic handshake that also steadied her employer on his one remaining leg, giving him time to get his stick placed at his side. Only then did the captain add a manly back slap. Stepping backward, she pulled the doors closed as voices rose and fell behind the thick wood.

  Aster bent to pat Dougal. He accompanied her back to the desk and settled in his basket, now that all the excitement was over. She flicked open the reference book that demanded her attention. She was trying to track the origins of vampyres. The French had found one to sire their Unnatural troops and Aster was reading ancient texts to determine their origins in time and, far more importantly, how to defeat an undead soldier.

  She laboured for several minutes over a crawling Romanian text but found she couldn’t concentrate with the curiosity eating at the back of her mind. Her gaze kept flicking to the doors. Laughter and the undulating tone of voices indicated a conversation in progress, but about what? Who was the man who’d stopped her from falling and elevated her pulse? He’d extracted a confession from her about her true role in the office with no effort at all.

  The wall of logistic and ordnance cards called to her, promising to ease the itch. She raised a fingertip to hush Dougal and then crept on tiptoe to the segment closest to the corridor. She pulled open a drawer at chin height and flicked through the thick cream cards to find the right one.

  Logan, Hamish. Born 15th of June 1782. Captain of the Scottish unit the Highland Wolves.

  Highland Wolves? The name itched at her mind. She had seen it mentioned in a dispatch but couldn’t remember the context. It was a new regiment with only a minimum of men, which would explain his presence here to commission their uniforms and insignia.

  The card further detailed his measurements and how many pieces of various uniforms he had ordered over the course of his military career. She also learned the size of bridle for his mount and the bit he preferred.

  She regretted they didn’t collate more useful information about the soldiers, like marital status, favourite author, and preferred evening meal. That would be handy when forming an opinion about a man. All she knew was that his thirtieth birthday was three months away. In other words, she had no viable intelligence other than his age and place of birth. She pushed the drawer home and wondered if the captain would be a regular visitor. Probably not. A sigh welled up in her chest. Bother.

  She could only hope the uniforms took some time to sort out. Fabrics and samples would have to be sourced and approved, not to mention the range of buttons and trims available. Yes, let his uniform order be horribly convoluted so he would have to return often.

  4

  Hamish

  * * *

  Hamish and his men took a house on the outskirts of Woolwich, a few miles from the Royal Arsenal. Quinn hid his disappointment at not being amongst the hustle and bustle of London, but this location ensured privacy, something they would need when the full moon came out and the men needed to shed their skins for fur. Even reserved Ewan would have to obey the lunar pull. The only exception was Quinn, whose body would contort and convulse but retain its human form.

  The house also came with an airy stable out back. They were still cavalrymen at heart and kept their brave horses, who could gallop far faster than any wolf could run. The surrounding paddocks allowed ample turn-out for the mounts, and there was a nearby forest should any of them feel the burning need to hunt smaller prey in the undergrowth. There were no staff, and the men would cook and clean for themselves—a choice that allowed them further privacy and ensured there were no ears listening at keyholes, or eyes to be alarmed at the sight of men dropping to all fours and turning into wolves.

  Hamish rode to the house, his mind a thousand miles away. Why would a woman be working for the Board of Ordnance, even if it were in a tiny office like Records? Gently-bred women should be governesses, companions, or sometimes seers, not secretaries. Very occasionally they were mages, like Lady Seraphina Warrens, who went to war with her husband and who wrestled the elements to favour England.

  For an ordinary woman to be there didn’t make sense—but then neither had the reaction of his body when he caught her. As he had entered the office, he’d seen the lass teeter and fall, and it was instinct to grab her before she injured herself. But a far deeper instinct told him to keep hold of her and not let go. For the first time wolf and man disagreed, and it was only with effort that Hamish let her slip from his grasp.

  There was nothing remarkable about Aster Simmons, nor anything to distinguish her appearance to account for his reaction. He shook his head. Perhaps he’d been so long without a woman that his body would react to any female pressed up against it. High time he looked for temporary relief while they were in town. Except it wasn’t just her body that drew him. She fitted in his arms as though she belonged there. Her delicious scent had reminded him of nutmeg and venison stew and rich flavours that should be lingered over and
savoured. Then there was the way she’d stood her ground under his gaze when he demanded to know her purpose there. The stubborn tilt to her chin as she met his glare intrigued him far more than a pretty face and ample curves.

  A rumble broke from his throat and his gelding danced sideways. He patted the horse to reassure it that he meant no harm. His wolf brushed close to the surface, demanding he seek the woman out. Hamish forced that part of himself down. They were supposed to use their time in Kent to show they could be civilised, not charge around terrorising quietly bred women.

  At the stables, he led the horse into a stall and then stripped off the saddle and bridle. The regular motion of brushing down the horse gave him time to bring his beast under control before he headed inside where his men waited in the parlour.

  Ewan lay in the window seat, a book on his lap but his gaze on some distant object. Who knew what thoughts ran through the mind behind his marble features? Alick and Quinn played cards. They all looked around as he drew off his gloves and tossed his top hat on the sideboard.

  “Well?” Alick asked first. “How goes our charge? Does he need his swaddling clothes changed?”

  Hamish understood that inactivity chafed. They needed a target and an outlet before they started going at each other’s throats. As captain and pack leader, he needed to maintain control. “Sir John is fine; what I found most curious was the person working alongside him. He has a woman as his secretary.”

  The reaction of his men was not dissimilar to his own, except he’d had the misfortune of staring at the lass like he was dim-witted while he wrapped his brain around the situation. “What?” the other three said in unison.