The Wife He Always Wanted

by Cheryl Ann Smith

  The Runner slowly lifted his head. One eye was swollen shut and blackened. “I told you she was dangerous.”

  Gabriel reached to help him from the chair. “She is.” He slid under the Runner’s arm. Sarah slid under the other. Between them, they kept the battered man upright.

  “You know The Widow well, Mister Brown,” Sarah said. “You described her quite accurately.”

  Mister Brown grimaced and took a step. His legs struggled to bear his weight. “I should know her. She is my wife.”

  * * *

  Sarah’s feet faltered. She scrambled not to lose her grip on Mister Brown. “Your wife?”

  Gabriel steadied them both and glanced into her wide eyes. He was equally stunned by the pronouncement.

  The Runner set his jaw and said nothing more.

  They walked away from the warehouse and covered some distance before hailing the hackney. The driver’s brows lifted at the sight of them stumbling across the street, but he held his tongue. He opened the door and they climbed inside. The Runner settled in the hard seat and groaned.

  Her patience strained, Sarah sat next to a scowling Gabriel and stared at Mister Brown. “You are married to The Widow? You put us in greater danger by keeping this secret. I think you owe us an explanation, sir.”

  The coach jolted forward and the Runner spoke. “I do. As you might suspect, this news is not something I often share. The Runners do not know of our connection. I thought it best.”

  “This is not the time for excuses,” Sarah snapped. “Tell us everything or I will have you unceremoniously dumped into the Thames, without suffering a moment’s regret.”

  Gabriel’s lips twitched.

  Mister Brown sighed. “I met Solange in France, early on in Napoleon’s rise to power and long before Waterloo. He was bullying his way throughout the Continent and our government worried we would be next. Spies were installed to watch over him. I was one of the first to take the assignment. I moved to a house just outside Paris, in the shadow of the Palace of Versailles.” He turned to the window. “Solange worked in the palace kitchen. I met her in the village. She was very young, barely eighteen, and very beautiful. I was twelve years older. We fell in love.”

  “Did you know she was a spy?” Gabriel asked.

  “I did not, although I admit I did have my suspicions. Her hands were not those of a woman in the laboring class. However, I did not want the truth. I wanted her.”

  “How did you discover she was spying for Napoleon?” Sarah said. “That had to be a difficult secret to keep.”

  “She was guarded from the first, and I told her I was a sea captain.” He stretched out his legs. “We were together for almost a year when Henry came to me with disturbing information. Solange was suspected of passing intercepted missives to Napoleon that got three British spies killed. I did not want to believe her guilty of such a deed.”

  “My father discovered who she really was?”

  He glanced back at Sarah. “Yes. I hated Henry for forcing me to see the truth. My marriage was forever tainted with that information. I could not look at her without seeing those dead men. I had worked with two of them.”

  “She was guilty?” Sarah said.

  “She was.” Even now, his pain was evident. “I knew this was about war and I was equally guilty of passing French secrets to my own government. But she was my wife. I did not want to see her as a danger to me, my friends, and my country.”

  “What did you do?” Gabriel asked.

  Mister Brown turned back to the window. “Instead of arresting her, I told her she was dead to me. I left her there, in the cottage we’d shared, and never saw her again, until today. I almost did not recognize her.”

  The clop of hooves and rattle of the hackney filled the quiet. Then, “Leaving her alive was a mistake. She changed from a simple spy to The Widow, the most notorious agent in Napoleon’s army. I knew from the moment I heard tales of her exploits that she was my Solange. Her name, and attire, revealed that I was dead to her, too.”

  While the Runner struggled between anger for what Solange had become and his memories of the beloved young woman she’d once been, Sarah was empathetic for Mister Brown, who’d given up everything out of love for king and country.

  Gabriel leaned forward. “By keeping this secret, you may have jeopardized the safety of my wife. Give me a reason not to expose your secret to Bow Street.”

  In that moment, the Runner aged before her eyes. He slumped against the squabs. “I will not try and convince you to keep my confidence. You owe me nothing.”

  “We do not,” Gabriel said. Yet, Sarah could see her husband’s inward struggle. “What about now? She clearly carries no lingering affection for you.”

  Pain crossed his face. “Despite the years and the darkness in her, I still love her.” He paused. “I ask only one favor. If anyone is to take her life, it will be me.”

  Shocked by his bluntness, Sarah glanced at Gabriel. He appeared relaxed, far more than she, but there was something dark in his eyes.

  She suspected that he was still angry about the lie and wasn’t certain he could trust Mister Brown. She felt the same. She knew the Runner was Father’s friend and loyal to their country, yet he’d kept his link to Solange a secret from everyone. She was a weakness that he could not overcome.

  How loyal was he, really? If it came down to Solange’s life or that of Sarah and Gabriel, what choice would he make?

  Mister Brown hated The Widow but loved his wife.

  The rest of the ride passed in silence. When they arrived home, Sarah had Mister Brown settled in a guest room and his wounds tended to. Once she was certain he was set up with food and brandy, she joined Gabriel in their bedroom.

  She found him at the window. Their eyes met in the reflection. She softened and brushed a fingertip over the bruises that marked his face, then moved onto his cut lip.

  “You should let me tend that.”

  He took her hand and kissed her fingers. “I am fine, love.” He turned back to the glass and crossed his arms. “We can no longer trust Brown.”

  “I know.” She hooked an arm through his. “I do not think he will harm us, but neither do I think he will follow through with his vow to kill her. He is torn.”

  Gabriel nodded. “Agreed. He will continue to investigate and we will keep his secret. For now. However, we must remain guarded against Solange and her companions. Doubtless, she will follow through with her threat against you if cornered.”

  The notion unsettled her. She went to the window to stand beside him and peered out. There was nothing visible to cause concern; no obvious sign of spies watching the town house, no black-clad figures hiding behind hedges, no large thugs waiting to kidnap her while she slept. Still . . .

  Reaching out, Gabriel pulled her against him. She snuggled in his embrace. “I will not let harm come to you,” he said and kissed the top of her head.

  “I know.” She spun and wrapped her arms around his waist. “And I will not allow anything to happen to you.”

  He snorted. “Do you know how to shoot a pistol or fight with a sword?”

  “I do not,” she admitted. “However, I think I can manage quite well with a candlestick or pot.”

  He leaned to kiss her and said, against her mouth, “Remind me to watch for flying pots if ever I get your ire up. I’d like to keep my skull intact.” He nipped the corner of her mouth then reclaimed her lips.

  Sarah snuggled closer and welcomed a full exploration. Lud, how she loved his kisses.

  When his hands made free with her breasts, she broke the kiss and placed a hand on his chest, and he slid his hands down to cup her buttocks. “Mrs. Channing will expect us down to dinner soon.”

  He reached for the lacings of her dress. “Our housekeeper can wait. I have a wife to ravish.”

  * * *

  Where are we going?
” Sarah asked the next morning. Gabriel had roused her from sleep with a swat on the bottom then all but dragged her limp form from the bed.

  Once she was upright and grumbling about his inconsiderate behavior, he gently nudged her toward Flora, who stood at the wardrobe awaiting instructions.

  “Out,” he said. He turned to the maid. “Dress her in something serviceable.”

  “Out?” She put her hands on her hips, her hair falling in tangles around her face. “You wake me before the roosters and that is all the explanation I get?”

  “There is no time for questions. If you are not dressed and ready for breakfast in a half hour, I will take you as you are.” He scanned the nightdress with a salacious expression. The thin fabric did not hide much to his gaze. “I think the gentlemen of London will be highly intrigued.”

  Flora leaned into the wardrobe to hide her smile. Sarah huffed and took a seat at the dressing table. Gabriel called for Benning and walked through the sitting room to the chamber beyond. Although he slept with Sarah, he preferred to keep his clothes and toiletries separate from hers, away from her perfumes and fripperies.

  “That man tests the limits of my sanity,” Sarah said and stared at her sleep-reddened eyes in the mirror. The bed called for her return, but her curiosity—and the idea of parading about London in only her nightdress—kept her from crawling back beneath the coverlet.

  Flora laid a simple blue frock on the bed and walked over to collect a brush. The process of detangling her waist-length hair began. “He adores you.”

  Sarah stilled. Unlike the maid, she wasn’t sure what he felt. He enjoyed her body and company. This she knew. But he’d never spoken of his feelings for her.

  Of course, Gabriel was not the sort of man to spout poetic nonsense anyway. If he ever did fall in love with her, he’d probably tell Benning first, after a night of drink and mischief-making with his friends.

  With expert hands, Flora made quick work of her hair, tying it back with a simple black ribbon. The dress finished her toilet and she was downstairs a mere thirty-five minutes later.

  Gabriel made a show of checking the clock. “You now have twenty-five minutes to eat.”

  She held his eyes with a glare and regally crossed to the sideboard and filled her plate. “You, Mister Harrington, are a bully. I should be allowed another two hours of sleep before being dragged from my bed.”

  He reached for the newspaper. “We have no time to dawdle. There is much to accomplish today.”

  “Where is Mister Brown?” she asked and sought out evidence the Runner was joining them for breakfast. “We cannot leave him. It would be rude.”

  “He rose early and left.”

  “I see.” She had no further excuses to stay in today. “Was he in a reasonable condition?”

  “After suggesting he spend the day here, to rest, he assured me he was well enough to go. Who am I to disagree?”

  “Hmmm. Men.” She would have had Mister Brown tied down for his own good. He had been badly beaten. “What about you? Your face is a fright.”

  “A dull ache is all,” he said. “A few bruises will not keep us from our mission. You have nineteen minutes.”

  Sarah ate, silently amused by the entire matter. Yes, she was put off by the early hour—after he’d kept her up until after midnight with his delicious attentions—but she had to admit she wanted to spend the day with her husband. She found she liked being with him more than being without him.

  Enamored was understating her feelings for him. She was heading off a cliff toward love and could do nothing except brace for impact on the rocks below.

  Did she trust him? Not fully. Was he earning her trust? He was, a little more each day. Still, there was a tiny part of her that needed more time to examine the deepest part of his character. It wasn’t easy to move past Gabriel’s betrayal of her brother. Yet, she was trying.

  She placed her napkin aside and rose. “I am ready.”

  The sun shone brightly outside the windows, so Sarah chose a gray pelisse and a bonnet with a wide rim. Gabriel decided to drive them himself, and they left London behind in an open carriage.

  “Are we visiting Nanny today?”

  Gabriel snapped the reins when the gelding slowed. “Perhaps later, if we have the time. First we have a pressing matter needing attention.”

  They drove for an hour past field and dale until Gabriel eased the horse off the road and onto a narrow path. The path led into an empty field that was choked with weeds and briars.

  “Where are we?” Sarah asked, her eyes drifting around the unplowed plot then behind the seat. There was nothing of note but a rolled-up blanket. “If you planned a picnic, you should have brought a basket.”

  “No picnic.” He helped her down and claimed the blanket. Leading the way, he crossed the field and found a place where the ground was largely cleared and grassy. He put the blanket down and carefully unrolled the item. Tucked inside were a scabbard and sword and a knife. He pulled a pistol from under his coat and added the weapon to the rest.

  Her brows went up. “Do you plan to run me through and bury me here? There are certainly less bloody ways to rid oneself of an unwanted wife.”

  Ignoring her, he took off his coat and reached for the knife. “This property is owned by the Marquess Terwilloby. He offered its use, as there are no houses nearby to disturb the citizenry.”

  “Then you do plan to rid yourself of me.” She looked down at her serviceable dress. “At least you could have allowed me my best gown. I will be the shabbiest-dressed woman in heaven.”

  He turned the knife around and held it out, handle first. “Enough prattle about murder. Take this.”

  Sarah removed her pelisse and bonnet and took the knife. She held it up to the light and ran a fingertip over the polished steel. “The blade is dull.”

  “It is. For my protection.” He reclaimed the item. “When we spoke last evening, I realized that you are desperately ill suited to protect yourself against spies and thugs. Although I am certain you can swing a pot with lethal accuracy, you cannot hide a pot under your gown. You need a weapon to tuck into your garter when you are outside the town house.”

  The scabbard was heavy when she crouched to claim it. She scrunched up her face and slid the blade partially out. Steel from the sword flickered in the sunlight. “I will need a bigger garter,” she joked.

  Gabriel glanced skyward. “I brought that, as your father had no other weapons in the house. It is American and I believe it dates back to the Revolution.”

  “I wonder where Father found this.”

  He took the sword and handed her the knife. “Pay attention. First. When under attack, you must keep your head. As an unskilled fighter, you’ll want to slash about, hoping to hit some part of your attacker.” He showed her by example. The blade went this way and that with no control. “This will give him opportunities to hit you here, here, and here.” He pointed to the vulnerable places under his arm, his stomach, and his neck.

  “I see.” Sarah touched her stomach. It curdled with the idea of a sword sticking out of the soft flesh.

  “It is imperative to focus on those same places with your blade.” He thrust with precision, careful not to touch her with the sword tip. Sarah struggled not to flinch. “Let us try this slowly.”

  Gabriel showed her how to stand, with her feet apart, one behind the other. Her blade was shorter than his, and less lethal, so he adjusted his stance accordingly.

  “Now thrust.” She did so and he spun away. “Good. Now try again. You will not hurt me.”

  Sarah pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and advanced. After a few weak attempts, and him mocking her for not trying hard enough, she began to find her feet and determination. She thrust with greater energy, forcing him back, and once narrowly missing his arm.

  A grin followed the near-miss. “Excellent,” he said.
They went on that way for what seemed like hours until her arm was numb and sweat trickled between her breasts and down her spine.

  “I think you have the basic tools for knife fighting,” he said. “We will continue on.”

  She lowered the blade, somewhat—if not completely—satisfied with her performance. “I only hope my opponent is as green as I.”

  “We both pray for that,” he teased.

  Pride straightened her spine. She tightened her hand on the handle. “Hmmm. I take umbrage with that comment.” The knife came up. Sarah circled him, hips swaying, her eyes locked onto his. “You are supposed to inspire confidence, Husband, not toss insults. I think you underestimate my skill.”

  She thrust. Caught off-guard, Gabriel did not have time to react. The knife hit him, the dull blade glancing off his waistcoat and skimming across his rib cage, causing no damage, but giving her extreme satisfaction to have gotten in a lick.

  His eyes widened and his mouth gaped.

  Satisfied, and a bit shocked by her good luck, Sarah pulled back and made a show of wiping invisible blood off on her skirt. “Perhaps I am not so green after all.”

  Chuckling, Gabriel reached out—gingerly—for the knife. “You, Mrs. Harrington, never fail to surprise me.”

  Avoiding his reach, she pointed the knife at him, her stance perfect and her eyes lethally mischievous. “Drop your trousers,” she demanded. “I want to claim my winnings.”

  The pause was only long enough for him to see the direction of her thoughts. “As you command.”

  The trousers came off quickly.

  “Lie on your back,” she said. He stretched out on the blanket. She straddled his hips then tossed the blade away. Bunching up her skirts, she lowered herself awkwardly over his erection. He helped by pushing her underclothing aside. Once freed of all encumbrances, she slid onto the shaft with Gabriel guiding himself inside her.

  He groaned. “I have never been taken by a lady pirate.”

  Her hips rocked forward and back, the pleasure intense. “I have never enjoyed the spoils of war.”