The Highland Secret Agent

by Emilia Ferguson

  Henry closed his eyes. She saw a strange expression cross his face, a sort of wistful sadness. She wondered how long he'd been outside his homeland and felt abruptly sorry for him. He sighed.

  “England is...green. Different to Scotland's greenness. With rolling hills and sweet grass and meadows full of contented livestock. At least,” he added with a grin, “the bit where I live is like that. Further north, it's bleak, cold, and rainy.”

  “Like Scotland?” Amice laughed.

  “Almost like.”

  “Well, if you all think it's so bad here, why would you wish to invade us?”

  He shook his head, laughing. “I am sorry, my lady. I meant no insult. I like the rain.”

  She nodded, placated. “Well, then.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, you left all that behind, your beautiful home, to come out here on...spying...and now what happens? Will you go back again?”

  Henry sighed. He ran a weary hand over his face. “That's the trouble,” he said softly. “I don't know.”

  “You don't know what?” Amice asked kindly. The fire was making her feel warm now and sat back a little, still holding her hands to the blaze. The hood fell back from her hair and she didn't lift it, but stayed where she was. It was nice to be looking into his eyes.

  “I don't know when I can return,” Henry said. Amice frowned, wondering what secrets he held. She listened to the slow crack of the wood on the fire, and waited while he framed his reply. At length, he cleared his throat.

  “I am...I am here, searching for a man. A French spy. That was why I sought to be French – to throw off those agents of your king who would know of his arrival. If they thought I was French, it would deter them from risking to end my life.”

  “Oh.” Amice bit her lip. A thought was starting to take shape in her head. She turned to Henry, a horrified expression on her face.

  “What is it?” he asked. He looked concerned.

  “Henry, they think my cousin is the French spy, don't they? That's why he's being detained.”

  Henry frowned. Then he inclined his head. “I thought that too, my lady. It's quite possible. We have reason to think the French envoy is expected and will be welcomed by many of the officials at the court. So he shouldn't be harmed.”

  “Oh.” Amice paused, considering. “Well,” she added, and now she couldn't help that she was smiling, “if they detain Conn and take him to the court, they'll be in for the surprise of their life! Anyone less like a spy, you couldn't imagine!” she chuckled.

  “Oh?” Henry raised a brow. His face wore an amused expression. “How is he not like a spy? Who is like a spy?” he added, smiling.

  “You are.”

  Henry laughed. “How so?”

  “Well,” Amice thought about it. “Well...you're secretive. And...well, and thoughtful, and observant. Conn is...not those things.” She chuckled ruefully.

  “He's quite impulsive?” Henry asked. He sounded interested.

  Amice nodded vigorously. They both laughed.

  “Well, I pity the Scots officials who have detained him, thinking him the spy. I think it won't be long before they realize the error of their ways and release him. If he is nothing like a spy, as you said it, he's in no danger at all.”

  Amice let out a long, relieved breath. She felt herself slump a little sideways, close to him. It is the relief, she thought. And the warmth. The fact that she felt safe here, for some odd reason, also, safe and cared about. She was in a wood-burner's hut with a foreigner and she felt as if she'd found her first true friend in years.

  She looked up into his eyes. They were deep sapphire blue, the firelight weaving traces of yellow over their liquid surface. He looked back at her. Amice shivered, remembering their kiss. Had that been only a few hours ago? It seemed impossible.

  “Try and rest, milady.” His voice was thick with feeling. Amice nodded.

  “Goodnight.” She curled up on the floor beside him and, before she knew it, was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A NEW PLAN

  A NEW PLAN

  Henry woke slowly that morning. He was stiff, every limb leaden and aching. He opened his eyes slowly, and then closed them again. The light was gray and silvery with morning. It hurt his head. He opened his eyes again.

  He was looking at a gray earth-plastered wall. Dry rushes met it where it met the floor. Then, on the floor, beside him, was a sleeping presence.

  Now that he had seen her, and remembered, it was impossible to look away. She lay on her side, those long lashes touching her skin. Her hair was a tousled fire on the straw and her body was utterly still. As he watched, she drew in a breath, lips parting. He winced as longing stabbed into him. Those plump, red lips begged for kissing.

  He let his hand clench into a fist, struggling to control the depth of his need. He looked away, staring into the fire.

  Henry, what are you going to do now?

  It was a good question. He sighed. Letting his eyes feast a moment longer on the slow rise of Amice's breasts, he looked sharply away, loins aching, and focused instead on the problem at hand.

  We need to leave Scotland.

  He shook himself. No, he had to leave here. Amice was more than fine in her own home country. Anything else was simply selfish thinking.

  As he thought it, he realized that was wrong. She was in danger here. Whoever had set that inn on fire – and he was almost entirely sure it had been set aflame on purpose, to kill him – wouldn't have just disappeared. They would have waited to see whether or not he escaped, and if they had, they would have seen him go. They would have seen Amice leave too.

  She was with him, now. He couldn't just leave her. At the very least, not in Queensferry. Probably not in Edinburgh, either.

  I'm not leaving her anywhere if someone will assume she's a spy too.

  Henry had known the fate spies faced when he'd signed up for the task years ago. He had wanted the remuneration – which was good – to add to his takings as a merchant seaman. However, he had agreed to take those risks for himself only. Amice hadn't. He wasn't about to expose her to such danger.

  That left him only one choice. He had to take her back as far as her home, or leave her in the company of her cousins. They could travel away together. It seemed as if they would be safe – whoever her cousins were, they were well-equipped, it seemed, to keep an eye on their young cousin. Besides, if the suspected English spy was seen in the company of two suspected French agents, it would confuse everyone. They'd still be trying to work it out by the time she escaped.

  Well, then. I need to find them.

  Henry stood, not wanting to make a noise and wake her. He peered out of the door, looking at the sky. It was gray, but the mist had lifted slightly. It was still cold, though not as bad as the night before. Their fire was ash now, but it had warmed the room nicely. One of the horses snuffled as he walked closer, and he smiled.

  “I hope you slept well too.”

  The horse snorted again and Henry patted them, and then dropped to his knees to tend the fire while he thought.

  If they think her cousin is a spy, they will have detained him at the customs house. It would be easy to do it under the pretext of needing to check for unwarranted goods on board ship. Merchants and smugglers abound from that direction.

  Brandy from France was a prized commodity, heavily taxed. Some lords brought it in illicitly from France and it would have been an easy mistake to make, to think her cousin might be complicit in that trade.

  “Well, we should go there.”

  As he settled back down by the fire again, Amice stirred. He tensed, and then watched, breath held, as she slowly blinked and then sat up. Her eyes opened, then closed, then focused. He held his breath as she rolled onto her back. The sight of her from that angle showed off her curves to perfection and he had to fight himself not to bend down and hold her to him, feeling those precious curves pressed tight against him, his mouth on hers.

  She made a smal
l sound and her eyes widened, mouth opening in a small exhale. Then she sat up. Too quickly. She closed her eyes.

  “My head hurts,” she said.

  “It's from the cold,” Henry assured her. “What we need is some water to boil. I assume the charcoal-burner gets it from a stream somewhere. I should go and find it. If you'll excuse me?” He stood, reaching for one of the heavy pots that stood near the fire. It was strange that the charcoal-burner who lived in this hut hadn't returned yet, but it was to their advantage. He just had to find water somewhere close.

  “I can get it,” Amice said quickly.

  “Are you sure that's safe?” Henry asked, frowning. She gave him a look.

  “I'll not go out of earshot. I promise.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  He thanked her as she took the pot and headed out into the woodlands. He felt restless with her gone and tried to stoke the fire, then stood and wandered to the door. He saw her coming back.

  He stared at her. She was so lovely, with her red hair hanging loose like that, a little straw caught in it here and there. Her nightdress was white linen and washed around her body as she moved, the cloak a slate-blue color that contrasted so well with the redness of her hair and that sweet full mouth.

  She saw him and stopped. She faltered shyly, trying to close the coat over her front. She held the pot in her other hand, full of water. Henry stood.

  “Let me.”

  She looked up as he looked down and their eyes locked.

  Henry felt that strange tugging sensation that drew him toward her. He bent down and, very gently, he lowered his mouth to hers. She tensed, and then relaxed as his tongue licked her.

  She sighed and his whole body lit up as gently, so gently, his tongue parted her lips.

  He felt her tense and drew back sharply, looking down at her. He shook his head to clear it.

  “Come on,” he said gently. “It's cold outside.”

  Amice nodded mutely, her eyes wide and watching him even as he turned away and headed into the hut. He put the pot on the hearth, looping the cast-metal handle over the spit to keep it hanging just above the flames. He realized his hands shook slightly and tried not to concentrate on how much he wanted her this moment.

  “What will we do?”

  He blinked, her gentle voice bringing him back from the borders of his imagination.

  “Do?” he asked, feeling silly. “Oh. Yes. Well,” he stretched his hands to the blaze. “What I think is...we should go to the port. Find the customs authorities. They'll know for certain where they are.”

  He saw her eyes light with hope and inwardly wished he'd had the sense to think of it earlier. The poor lady! All she wanted was to find her loved ones and travel home. Now he'd changed everything. She was stuck in the forest, an outlaw, more or less, for him.

  “You think we can find them?” she asked.

  “I know it.”

  “Good.”

  Amice lowered herself to her knees, joining him where he knelt at the hearth. He coughed. Her proximity hurt his nerves as they strained and fought to touch her, to feel her body pressed on his. He looked at his hands, fighting the immense longing that welled up inside him.

  “I think it's boiling now,” he said. He could hear the bubbles start to form in the pot and leaned forward, inspecting it carefully. Sure enough, it was starting to boil.

  “I think I saw mallow in the forest,” Amice confided. “Near the stream. And sweet grass. We could add that. It's not much, but it's something.”

  He felt a brow rise. Of all the girls he had met at home – his father was a baron and insisted that he meet eligible girls whenever he could – he had never met one like this. “What is that?” he asked.

  “You mean, mallow?” she asked. She blushed, realizing she had used a Scottish word. “I don't know what it is in French,” she explained softly. “But it's a plant we can eat. And sweet grass, too, though you might have guessed that one.”

  “Does it grow near rivers?” Henry asked, thinking he might know what it was she talked of.

  “Mm.” Amice nodded. “It will thicken the broth a bit – if we can truly call it broth – and add a bit of flavoring to it. Though we'll have to find something to eat before long.”

  “Yes. A good idea,” Henry nodded. He frowned, suddenly feeling interested. “How do you know about that?” he asked, gently. He didn't want to pry, but how did she know such things? She was a lady, but she knew forest lore like a woodsman might do. Interesting.

  “You mean the plants?” she asked, looking at the hearth.

  “Yes.”

  “My aunt taught me.”

  “Is she the aunt whose mother to the cousin?” he asked.

  She laughed. “What a way to say it. But yes. She's the mother of Leona.”

  “Conn is also your cousin?” he frowned.

  “Yes, but distantly,” Amice explained. “It's a complicated story.”

  “I can see,” he said dryly. “Well, we have some riding to do, so, as soon as we've had this soup you promise, you can tell me all about it. It'll keep us distracted from the cold out there.”

  Amice giggled and he winced at the delightful sound. Why was he so desperately attracted to her? He shook his head. It was going to cause him no end of agony, this unrequited ardor. At least until he'd found her cousins and sent her safely on her way! He hoped his guess was correct. The sooner he was out of the way of this beautiful and captivating Scotswoman, the better.

  “I'll go and fetch the mallow, then,” Amice said. “Back in a second.”

  Henry nodded, watching her leave. The moment she had gone, he felt bereft. He wished her away, so that he could stop wanting her, but yet he did want her. He wanted her so badly that, the moment she left the room, he missed her.

  Henry Quinn, you are an utter fool. He laughed.

  It wasn't just lust. He was starting to enjoy her company. When he thought back over their conversation the previous evening and, then, the day before that – even when they first met each other – he realized there were few people he enjoyed talking to the same way.

  She's funny, quick, and lighthearted. Everything I like about someone. Yet she can be serious too.

  He shook his head. Bent to stoke the fire. He knew he was being ridiculous. He had met this girl two days ago and he currently knew nothing about her, except for the fact that she was the daughter of some local lord, evidently very well-raised – she could speak French as well as he did – and that she had relations in France.

  I will be glad to find out more.

  He heard footsteps on the grass outside and turned to face her. She stood in the mist, droplets clinging to the hair that blazed against the gray fog. Her pale skin was in sharp contrast to that red hair, and her eyes, looking at him, were gentle.

  “You were quick,” he commented. She smiled. “Quiet, also,” he added. “You could have put a knife in me and I'd have turned too late.”

  She giggled. “I used to chase my brother in the woodlands. The aim was to sneak up on him as quickly as I could, without him hearing me. It was hard.”

  “Well, you must have become quite good at it,” Henry said, impressed. He smiled, imagining the childhood Lady Amice had.

  “Do you have brothers?” she asked.

  “No.” Henry shook his head. “Which is why, I suppose, it's dashed selfish of me to be out here, running around in Scotland. I should be at home, learning how to manage my father's estate. However, I ran out of patience with it all years ago. We don't see eye to eye. That's why I ran away.”

  “Oh?” Amice frowned. “I don't blame you. I hate duty, too. But where did you go?”

  Henry smiled at her. So she was like him, inside. A rebellious spirit. She was busy breaking up the mallow-root and throwing it into the boiling water. He grinned, though it was not a funny topic, his disagreement with his father. He wasn't sure why he told her of it.

  “Well, I ran away to sea. Because I could read, I became first mate fairly
quickly. On the first day, in fact. Probably lucky it was a bit of a lackluster crew, or they'd not have advanced me so quickly. Then, after about two or three years I became captain of the ship.”

  “You're a sailor?” she looked fascinated. “Where have you sailed to?”

  Henry felt his chest fill with pride. “Oh, around Europe,” he said with what he hoped was a careless tone, as if sailing round Europe was something he did every second day.

  “Where to?” Amice wanted to know.

  “All sorts of places,” Henry said, warming to his theme. He tended the fire while he spoke. “To Ghent a lot, of course – the merchant ships all go to Ghent; you can get everything there – and in France, a lot. All over England and, once, to Sicily.”

  “Oh?” Amice looked at him with round eyes. “What is it like? Where is it?”

  “Near Italy,” he explained. “It's hot. We stocked fruits and spices and sold them swords.”

  “Oh. Where did you get the swords?” she asked.

  He smiled. “The best swords are Frankish blades. We picked them up in Hamburg, but I think they were made in Franconia.”

  “Oh.” Amice sighed. “You've seen so many fascinating things, my lord.”

  He looked up at her. With interest flushing her face, she looked especially lovely. He stared and fought the urge to kiss her again. Not that she seemed averse to it, mind, but he was worried now. He would soon leave her. What if he couldn't bear it – what if he was already attached?

  He looked at the hearth.

  “I think this stew will be ready shortly,” she said from over at the fire.

  “Oh?” Henry looked up. He watched her frowning as she poked at something in the pot. Even her frown was sweet, he thought distractedly. With those sweet red lips pouting and lovely, he just wanted to kiss her.

  “Yes,” she said. “If you can find a bowl of some sort in here, we can eat.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” He stood and set about searching the house. He managed to find some wooden bowls, but no spoons. “I might have one in my pack.” he offered.