Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  Visions of Kit danced through his head. Insisting her brother had to come home or all would be lost.

  He suddenly had a lot more questions he wanted to ask her.

  Marc forced his face into a calm mask. Movie-serene.

  “And you think Miss Emry is your missing agent?”

  Linwood tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat. Fixed Marc with his icy gaze.

  “If the cap fits . . .” was all he said.

  “Didn’t this Miss Emry die in the carriage accident with James Knight?”

  “So we have all been told. But though there is a grave for James, I have been unable to locate a similar grave for Miss Emry. Tell me why that is, Vader?”

  Uhmm, because Arthur neglected to make a fake one for her too?

  “You have poor eyesight?” Marc shrugged. “I mean, you do have trouble seeing you are a smart ars—”

  “Or the lady is not as dead as some would have us believe.” Linwood cut him off. “I do not suffer fools. There is obviously more afoot here. The timing of your presence here goes far beyond mere coincidence.”

  “And yet, on that point, I can assure you, my presence here is entirely happenstance. I am sorry something of importance to you was stolen. If I hear or see anything that seems related, I will consider telling you.”

  Linwood narrowed his eyes. And then he pocketed the button and straightened his coat sleeves. Never once taking his eyes off of Marc’s.

  “I will be watching you, Vader. Do not consider this conversation finished.”

  Chapter 14

  The stables

  Kinningsley

  March 1, 1814

  Kit quietly tightened the harness on Arthur’s gig, squinting in the dim light.

  Sunrise had yet to arrive, but nighttime had begun to recede, leaving the sky more gray than inky-black.

  After overhearing the tense conversation between Marc and Linwood, Kit realized her blasted brother truly was in over his head. A sickening knot in her stomach twisted and coiled, tightening her breathing.

  Gah! Daniel was such an idiot. How was she ever going to straighten all this out? She just prayed it wasn’t too late to prevent far reaching consequences . . .

  She had lain awake for most of the night, her brain cranking on the problem. Kit didn’t know what she would do, but she was done with doing nothing.

  And then sometime before dawn, she had hit upon a course of action. She actually did have a faint idea as to where Daniel may be. The more she thought about it, the more likely it all seemed.

  It was her turn to be an idiot. How could she not have thought of this before now?

  Which is how she found herself in the barn quietly hitching a horse to the gig.

  You should not be doing this. You will be caught, Virtuous Angel chided. And then Arthur will have you jailed for horse theft, too.

  Stop being defeatist. We aren’t stealing the horse and gig. Just borrowing it for a short while, Wicked Angel replied.

  “Going somewhere, Miss Ashton?”

  Kit jumped as Marc’s voice sounded loudly in her ear, though he hardly spoke above a whisper.

  Drat!

  She whirled around to see him outlined in the barely-there light, dressed in a long caped great coat, boots and a beaver top hat, tapping gloves against his leg. He cocked a confident eyebrow and stuffed the gloves into a pocket. Challenging her to explain what she was doing.

  Though that should be fairly obvious.

  With a grunt, Kit turned her back on him and tightened the strap she was working on. Driving the gig so much in recent weeks had made her quite adept at the entire process.

  But the buckle stuck and she struggled to pull it taut. Suddenly, a warm hand covered hers.

  “Here. Allow me,” Marc said softly into her ear, arms around her. Shoulders broad and just begging to be confided in. As if she could.

  He tugged on the strap and easily finished buckling it.

  Stupid man with his even stupider big muscles.

  When finished, he turned to regard her with a slow shake of his head.

  “Let me help, Kit.” His whispered words carried in the faint light. “I want to find Daniel, too. Do you even know where you’re going?”

  Kit stilled. Debating.

  The tension in Marc’s body clearly communicated his frustration.

  “Please, trust me, Kit. Let me help. I know you are capable and have been through so much—”

  That was an understatement.

  “—but running off as a woman alone . . . It’s just not a wise idea.”

  He did have a valid point there but . . . Kit bit her lip.

  “And running off with a man alone is a good idea?” she countered, cocking her head toward him.

  “I promise to behave myself.” Marc crossed his heart.

  Kit snorted softly. “You’re missing the point. If it’s known I have run off with you, which it will be when we both disappear—”

  “You’re leaving. By yourself. How is that any better?” He would point that out. “Your reputation is at risk the second you ride out of here in that gig, with or without me. At least with me at your side, you will be safe from things worse than a ruined reputation.”

  I cannot believe you are even debating this. I mean, we could be traveling with him. All those muscles up close to you in the gig . . . Wicked Angel sighed dreamily.

  Pardon me? Virtuous Angel chimed in. You do have a reputation to consider. If you run off with him, you may not be able to return to Haldon Manor—

  Yes, but if we find Daniel, then we can go home and leave all this behind us, Wicked Angel countered. Any reputation you happen to acquire here won’t follow you home. Nothing will ever connect you between here and there. And he is right. You do need protection.

  Kit sighed. The world out there was not a kind place to women. Having Marc along would solve so many problems.

  “Besides, I have this.” Marc patted a pocket in his coat which jingled comfortingly. Money. “Arthur has extended me some, shall we say . . . credit.”

  Her shoulder’s sagged. She really did need his help. And the money would be useful.

  As long as Daniel doesn’t steal that too, Virtuous Angel grumbled.

  Noting her indecision, Marc stepped close. So close that the smell of leather and wood smoke and him surrounded her. He raised a hand and cupped her cheek. His warm palm burned against her cold skin.

  “Please, Kit. I won’t betray you. I may be a scoundrel, but in this, you can trust me. I will do everything I can to keep both you and Daniel safe.”

  Kit closed her eyes to force back the tears which pricked. Almost unconsciously, she leaned into his hand, wanting somehow to scoop his strength into her.

  Why did he have to be such a good man? And why did she feel like she was stringing him along?

  Uh, because you are . . . Virtuous Angel muttered.

  Marc thought he knew her. And to a certain degree, he did. He knew the person she was inside.

  But he didn’t understand the enormous gulf that separated them. And she was in no position to enlighten him.

  “It’s all right to be my friend, Kit.” His voice so close. His thumb stroked her cheek, causing an ache to swell in her chest.

  Unbidden with eyes still closed, she turned her face into his hand, almost unconsciously planting a kiss into his palm. His skin firm and warm under her lips.

  Marc inhaled sharply—a shocked hiss between his teeth.

  His other hand snaked around her waist and he tugged her to him, wrapped her against his body, moving his hand from her cheek to cup the back of her neck.

  Dawn filtered weakly into the barn. Kit fluttered her eyes open to see him staring at her, dark and intense. His eyes flitted down to her mouth. She knew she should pull back. Kissing him would only make everything so much harder.

  But . . .

  What would it be like to kiss him? A man of action who was possibly a spy?

  A memory to top all others, really,
when she thought about it. Something to take with her. A small souvenir from this odd-interlude.

  And so instead of pulling back, she leaned in.

  It was all the encouragement he needed.

  His lips brushed hers. Feather light, gentle. Testing.

  She relaxed her mouth, deliberately making her lips pillowy plush.

  He probably assumed she had little experience with kissing. That her life had always been as simple and placid as it currently seemed.

  Both Virtuous and Wicked Angel giggled at that thought.

  Marc clearly sensed this. He kissed her again. This time more emphatically. More determined. Gathering her even closer. Turning Kit’s brain to mush.

  He kissed like he did everything else, with wild abandon, all in. Like jumping onto the back of a galloping horse, no hesitation.

  With a soft sigh, Kit wrapped her arms around his head, returning as good as he gave.

  Drat! The man would be an excellent kisser. He had definitely acquired experience with all his worldwide ramblings.

  How could this man, of all men, feel so right? How could being in his arms feel like home?

  Kit’s knees nearly buckled from it.

  The horse nickered loudly, startling them apart. Reminding them where they were. Who they were.

  Marc’s face likely looked as surprised as hers. He was certainly breathing just as hard.

  “Well . . .” His voice hoarse, cracking. Cleared his throat. Tried again. “That was certainly . . . illustrative.”

  He looked dazed, befuddled. Rattled.

  She had rattled him.

  She smiled, slow and mysterious. A bewitched kind of smile.

  Before this moment, she would have considered him unrattle-able. An impenetrable Fortress of Meringue. But somehow, she had carved through his walls.

  The thought shot through her with a jolt. Burning and exultant.

  She mattered to him.

  And right on its heels, another pounding blow.

  He can never be yours.

  The sinking pit in her stomach opened wide.

  He saw the change in her eyes. Nodded his recognition.

  “In another time . . . another place . . .” she started, her voice trailing off.

  He sighed. Placed his hands on his hips. Regarded her with those cat-green eyes, vivid against his tan skin. Dark hair mussed from her fingers. His gaze tender and kind. Focused.

  Lethally beautiful, on every level.

  “I know.” Regret laced his words.

  Part of her howled in protest. How could he agree so readily? How could he not fight for her? For them?

  Not that fighting would do any good. Who was she fooling?

  But still. She was greedy enough to want his effort.

  He took a deep breath, as if gathering himself back together. Tucking away whatever raw thing that kiss had jarred loose.

  He stepped around her and took hold of the harness, intent on leading the horse from the barn.

  Kit placed a hand on his arm, stopping him.

  “It’s not your job to save me,” she said as he turned to her.

  “I know,” he repeated.

  “I am not a damsel-in-distress.”

  “Thank goodness. Because I would be a poor excuse for a knight-in-shining-armor. It’s not really my forte.” His voice wry.

  Ah yes. Meringue Man was back.

  He turned away and continued leading the horse out of the barn. Dawn had strengthened, lighting the eastern horizon with a faint bluish pink glow.

  “Linwood is going to have an apoplexy when he realizes we have left.” Kit skipped to catch up with him, falling into step at his side.

  “We can always hope. I kind of like the thought of him frothing at the mouth, spluttering in anger—”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Linwood will consider it confirmation of your guilt.” Kit had to point out the obvious.

  He just continued to lead the gig. Silence.

  “I’m saying you don’t need to come with me.”

  He shrugged. “Probably not. But I don’t mind holding your parasol while you fight whatever battle you need.”

  He stopped and then winked, holding out a hand to assist her into the gig.

  “I don’t own a parasol.” Kit ignored his hand.

  “Pity. I was so looking forward to holding it.”

  With a disgusted shake of her head, Kit took his hand and hopped into the gig, sliding across the narrow seat so Marc could join her, gathering the reins into her hands.

  “Are you ever serious?” she asked as he sat down next to her.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “What am I going to do with you?”

  Marc chuckled, low and delighted. “Are you asking for suggestions? Because I am happy to offer ideas—”

  Kit shoved his shoulder.

  “And yes, I am always this utterly shameless.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Impossible man.” She clucked the horse to walk on.

  She was sure Marc suspected Daniel of spying for the French. Everyone did.

  And yet, Marc was still here. Helping to locate her brother. Not one word of recrimination. Bless him.

  “Do we know what Daniel took?” she asked after a moment.

  “No idea. Something which might help the French, apparently. Do you know where you are going?”

  “Generally. I don’t know why I didn’t think to look there before.”

  A pause.

  “And this place would be . . .” Marc lingered, encouragingly.

  “Home. I think it quite possible Daniel has gone home.”

  Chapter 15

  A country road

  Somewhere in Herefordshire

  Early afternoon on March 1, 1814

  Marc snoozed as Kit drove. Well, he pretended to snooze.

  Despite several hours of driving, he was finding it hard to relax. Kit sat close, the seat of the gig barely holding two people. He took shameless advantage of it, allowing his knee to rest against hers whenever possible.

  He was only a man, after all.

  The day had dawned bright and clear, a rarity in early spring. As the sun climbed, they stopped to raise the hood of the gig to provide some shade. Though the sun felt wonderfully warm, neither of them wanted a sunburn. A woolen lap blanket provided extra warmth.

  All of which would have ensured Marc drifted off to sleep. But his mind kept churning.

  He should have been worrying over the trouble leaving with Kit certainly caused. How upset Arthur was going to be. How running off would look to Linwood.

  But his brain kept wandering back to the barn and their kiss.

  What had he been thinking?

  That kiss had utterly rattled him. He was man enough to admit it. Holding her, feeling her lips against his. The staggering rightness of it.

  Brought to his knees by a nineteenth century lady of mysterious origin.

  Go figure.

  What was he going to do? They barely knew each other really.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had seen flashes of her soul . . . the shy vulnerability she hid behind a wall of confidence. The quickness of her mind, her spunk and courage, not to mention her devotion to family.

  That frightening sense of rightness—that word again—whenever they were together.

  But given everything, he knew dwelling on her was just a masochistic exercise in self-torture. Why, then, had he spent the last several hours agonizing over it?

  The gig hit a larger rut, jostling Marc into Kit. He gave up pretending to sleep.

  “You want me to drive for a while?” he asked.

  So far he had been content to have Kit handle the reins, as she had more experience with it than him and seemed to enjoy it. But he had watched her and the basics of steering the horse weren’t too challenging. Unless it was being shot at, their horse was predictably docile.

  Kit shrugged and handed him the reins. She had been remarkabl
y quiet all morning. Lost in thought like himself.

  “So where are we going exactly?” he asked, holding the reins loosely in one hand.

  “Home. Or, at least, a place I have . . . lived.”

  Ah. What a tantalizing bit of information. Marc rolled his wrist. Go on.

  “There really isn’t much else to say. It’s as good a place as any to look for Daniel.”

  “Does your family still live there?”

  A long pause.

  “Not . . . exactly.” She offered no other explanation.

  Assuming Daniel was a spy for the French, how did she plan on returning home with her brother, no one the wiser? And how were they going to visit a home that was not really Kit’s home?

  Marc swallowed his frustration. A few answers but more questions.

  And thinking of questions . . . What about them? What impediment did she see to their being together? For all she knew, he was a baron, possessed of a title and probably some property. Perhaps even considerable wealth.

  Not that he was, of course, but she didn’t know that.

  She seemed to like him. So what was holding her back? Was her family too aristocratic? Not aristocratic enough? Was she engaged to someone else?

  That last thought shocked, leaving him with a sinking pit in his stomach. There were just too many legitimate possibilities.

  Kit let out a resigned breath.

  “I know you don’t want to, but we should probably talk about this.” She gestured between them.

  Marc considered pretending to misunderstand her meaning, but as he had literally just been thinking the same thing . . .

  “Agreed,” he said.

  She nodded. “I know why I can’t be with you, but I am curious as to your reasons.”

  Huh. Throwing his own thoughts back at him. He remained silent, unsure what to say.

  “It’s . . . complicated,” was what he finally settled on. “You?”

  She gave a soft laugh and then fixed him with a saucy lift of her eyebrows. “It’s complicated.”

  Marc supposed he deserved that. At least she was open to sharing something.

  But he wanted to know so much more.

  No, that wasn’t quite right.

  With staggering clarity, he realized he ached to know everything about her.