by Shana Galen
In the center of the flowers and shrubs, Sophia sat on a bench, head bent as she rolled her neck from side to side. When he saw her, the tension in his neck drained away. He knew she heard him approach, but she didn’t move as he stepped behind her and put his hands on the long column of her neck. He began kneading her tight muscles, and she hissed in a breath. “Relax,” he said.
Her shoulders slumped, but she was still on edge. “What happened to port and cigars?” she asked.
He smiled. “I had some earlier at my club. Spent all day there.”
“Hmm. Sounds like an uneventful afternoon.”
“What happened to whist?”
“I play it all the time. Ah, yes. There.” She sighed with pleasure when his fingers dug in. “I wanted a moment alone.”
“And I’m interrupting your solitude.”
She hesitated. “I don’t mind.”
He continued to massage her. He’d thought it would be amusing to play the old game with her, now that they both knew it was a lie, but he found it less than entertaining. “Is this how it’s to be? We pretend even when we’re alone?” He sat beside her.
“How do you want it to be?” She gazed at him.
He shook his head. “I bloody well knew you were going to ask me that.”
She smiled. “You were far too hard on Hardwicke this afternoon, Agent Wolf.”
He grinned at her. So she didn’t want to play games either. “And you were too soft,” he said, remembering the meeting with Jenkinson’s associate.
“You don’t have to scare people to get the answers you want.”
“And you don’t have to flirt with them, either.”
“I wasn’t—”
Adrian held up a hand. “I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t want to talk about Jenkinson.” He wanted to know the woman he’d married. He wanted to be a decent husband, host a dinner party, discuss the day’s plans over breakfast—even if those plans included fighting off thugs or questioning suspects. Unable to express all of this, he said, “I want us to be husband and wife.”
A line appeared between her brows. “How do we do that?”
“Hell if I know.”
She laughed, leaned back, and looked up at the stars. “I don’t know who I am with you,” she said after a long silence. “I don’t know if I’m Lady Smythe or Agent Saint.”
“Why not Sophia Galloway?”
“I don’t know who she is anymore.” She looked from the sky and met his gaze. “Maybe I never did. I’ve been pretending to be someone else for so long, I don’t know who I really am.”
“Yes.” Adrian thought of the meeting with Melbourne. “When I was retired from the Barbican group, Lord Melbourne told me that as Agent Wolf, I’d invented a thousand identities for myself. Then he said, who are you, Adrian? I still have no idea how to answer him.”
“We’re spies,” she said simply. He could feel the warmth of her body now they’d been sitting beside one another for several moments. He could smell her citrus scent above that of the flowers. “We’re whoever they tell us to be.”
That was true enough. He thought of all the disguises he’d worn, all the identities he’d invented for himself. Sophia had done the same. “What’s the most outlandish part you ever played?” he asked, the impulse to know something more about her taking over.
“A pirate,” she said without hesitation. “I had a peg leg and an eye patch, believe it or not.”
He stared at her. “I don’t.”
“Well, the man I was trying to get information from did. He not only told me what I needed to know for the operation, he told me where to find buried treasure. One of these days, I may even go dig it up.”
Her laugh was infectious, and Adrian found himself smiling.
“How did you manage the peg leg?”
“Good balance.” She stood, pulled her leg under her dress, and hopped on one foot. “I had the peg attached to my knee and wore a long, wide frock coat. I hopped around like this.” She demonstrated, managing to remain surprisingly fleet-footed. “And I talked like this—argh, matey!”
Adrian shook his head. “That’s horrible.”
She plopped down beside him. He tried not to watch the neckline of her dress, but he feared—hoped?—her breasts might spill out with the next sudden movement. “Your turn.”
He raised his eyes. “Hmm?”
She shook her head. “I probably didn’t even need the pirate costume.” She put a finger under his chin to keep his eyes on her face. “If I’d just walked in with a low neckline, I could have distracted the man into revealing the information I needed.”
He frowned, his gut tightening. Jealousy, hot and venomous, surged through him. He knew his next question would anger her, and he was going to ask anyway. “Was that ever one of your assignments?”
She rose, plucked at a pink rose on a nearby bush. “Distracting a man into revealing information? Of course. I wouldn’t have been a very good operative if I hadn’t used every means at my disposal.”
She was being evasive, which only made the jealousy burn hotter. “Every means?”
She turned, and even in the dim light of the moon, he could see her eyes flash. “Just say what you mean, Adrian. Have I ever seduced a man as part of a mission? Is that what you want to know?”
He tightened his hands on the bench, feeling the cold, hard stone under his rigid fingers. “Yes.”
“Yes, I’ve seduced my share, but—”
“Never mind.” He was on his feet before she could finish. “I don’t want to hear this after all.”
He made to move toward the house, but she caught his arm. “If you’d let me finish, you pig-headed man, I was going to say I never bedded any of them. Flirt? Yes. Lower my lashes coyly? Yes. Promise all manner of perverse pleasure? Yes. But I never followed through. I’ve never betrayed you. I’ve never betrayed our marriage vows.”
He wanted to believe her, but she was trained to lie.
“Why would I lie to you?” she asked. “I’ve lied to you for years, and our marriage is falling apart. I don’t want to lie anymore. I want one person in my life with whom I can be myself. One person with whom I can be honest.”
He let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. This was no facade. He could look in her eyes and see the truth of her words. Sophia had been faithful to him. This beautiful creature standing before him, this woman whose beauty and vibrancy he’d taken for granted, had been only with him.
She was his wife. His.
He reached for her, but she sidestepped. “What about you?”
“Me?”
She looked down, kicked at a withered purple flower—hell if he knew the name of it—fallen on the walk. “I don’t expect you to tell me you’ve been faithful. I know that’s too much to expect, but be honest with me. Do you have a mistress? Have there been many other women?”
What the bloody hell was she talking about? Mistress? But then could he blame her for reaching that conclusion when he’d thought the same of her?
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m no innocent miss, and I think we’re well past pretending we follow the rules of society and don’t discuss such unseemly topics. Be honest with me, Adrian.”
It was the use of his name that had his heart clenching. He saw the hurt in her eyes, the expectation of what she thought he would say. “I’ve been faithful to you.”
She frowned, and he understood her doubt. Like she, he was a trained liar. He took her hands, looked directly into her eyes. “I don’t have a mistress and never have had. There haven’t been any other women. Only you since we married.”
She gaped at him. “But surely you’ve had opportunity.”
“And because I’m a man I can’t resist?” He was not his father.
“But I—I haven’t been much of a wife to you this last year. I assumed you would go elsewhere.”
She really didn’t know him at all. Tonight that would change. “I did go elsewhere—Madrid, Lisbon, B
erlin. I worked, and yes, I met beautiful women. But I always knew I was your husband. I do not take vows lightly.”
He could see by the bewildered look on her face she didn’t know what to say, what to think. “Thank you,” she finally stuttered. “This is more than I expected.”
“Because you don’t know me. You don’t know…” He paused, tempted to shield this part of him. But then they’d go on as before, and she’d never know him. “You don’t know what my father did.” He stalked past her and shrugged out of his coat. It was cooling off, and he could see Sophia’s skin covered in goose flesh. “Here, put this on. That dress is too flimsy.” He draped the coat over her bare shoulders. “Seductive as hell, but flimsy.”
“I think that was a compliment.” She sat on the bench they’d abandoned. Her hand went to her neck, a gesture he now knew indicated she was conflicted. Finally, she said, “You’re mistaken, Adrian. I do know about your father. I know all about him. I know we never talked about him. I could tell the subject pained you.”
Of course she would have known all about his father. She was a spy. Her father had been a spy—he’d been the bloody Black Baron. Hell, Sophia probably knew more about his father than he did.
“What does your father have to do with this?”
He cut his eyes to her. What did his father have to do with this? Was she blind? He had everything to do with this. She held up a protective hand. “We don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”
“He didn’t just betray his country,” Adrian said, pacing in front of the bench. Hearing the words, making himself utter them made him cold and angry. A man with less control might hit a wall or rip out one of the rosebushes. Instead, he said calmly, “He betrayed my mother. I heard them arguing once when I was about three. She was crying, asking him not to go to one of his mistresses. He laughed at her.”
Adrian could still remember the hard pit of sickly fear in his belly as he’d peeked through the cracked door of his father’s bedroom. He hated to see his mother cry. Her face was blotchy and uncharacteristically unattractive. Adrian wanted to hug her, comfort her as she so often comforted him.
But his father’s face was hard and—Adrian hadn’t known the word then, but he did now—impassive. Her tears meant nothing to him. He had merely straightened his cravat in the mirror and made to leave.
Adrian had jumped back, prepared to hide before his father caught him eavesdropping, but his mother went to his father and put her hand on his arm. “Please, James. I need you. Your son needs you. That woman doesn’t need you.”
He took her hand and removed it from his sleeve. “But I need her. Good night.”
Adrian would have hit his father then if he hadn’t been so afraid of him. Instead, he’d ducked behind a statue in the corridor until his father was away. Then he’d sat outside the bedroom and listened to his mother weep.
Adrian looked at Sophia, wondering how many times he’d made her cry. Was he no better than his father, after all? “I vowed that night I would never be like him. When I make a vow—to my country, to my King, or to my wife—I keep it.”
“I didn’t know about your father’s mistresses. I’m sorry. And of course you keep your vows. I always just assumed… I never thought… but it was my mistaken assumption. You’re very loyal. The most loyal man I know—even before I knew you were Agent Wolf. You’re nothing like your father.”
He felt some of his anger fade. These were words he’d wanted to hear. “I’m far from perfect.”
She reached up and took his hand. “Neither of us have been model spouses. We can still change that.”
Adrian squeezed her hand, wishing he felt her optimism. “Can we? One of us is going to win that position in the Barbican group. The other will lose it. How will you feel if I’m reinstated and you’re not? I know how I would feel, sitting at home while you’re in Geneva, hunting down some assassin or chasing a traitor in Cádiz.” He released her hand.
She rose, tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “I see now. You think you need this position to prove you’re not him, you’re not your father.”
“I proved that long ago.” But did he believe that?
“You had to work hard to attain your position, as hard as I, a woman, did, I’m sure. Melbourne would have watched you closely. Ridiculous, but people still assume like father, like son.”
“I can hardly blame them. My father’s treachery is legendary.”
“No worse than Benedict Arnold or any of the other traitors to the Americans.”
He started to argue, but she cut him off. “James Galloway wasn’t an operative for the Crown. He was a general who forgot what side he was fighting for. The American conflict was complicated. Who was a loyalist, who a rebel?”
“He knew what side he was fighting for.”
Sophia may have known the stories about his father, but she knew nothing of the man.
Adrian continued, “He gave the Americans information that cost lives. British lives. His confusion—as you put it—resulted in the death of several hundred British soldiers.”
“I don’t condone his actions, but I can understand how it might have happened. Still, he was punished—as he should have been.”
Adrian might have said his father was made an example of. He was publicly hanged, drawn, and quartered as crowds cheered. Adrian’s mother had not wanted him to attend, but her brother had insisted. They had to show their loyalty was to Britain, not James Galloway. Adrian would never forget the sight of his father sliced open, his bloody bowels being pulled out of his body as he screamed.
He’d been five when his life had changed, when his mother and the rest of Great Britain learned of James Galloway’s treason. Adrian’s father had never expected to get caught. He thought he’d covered himself well, but as Adrian knew from years as an operative, there are no secrets. Someone always sees, always knows. His job as a spy was to find that someone.
In his father’s case, the someone who had witnessed James Galloway’s treason found him and tried to blackmail the viscount. Galloway wouldn’t pay with money and ended up paying with his life, his honor, his son’s honor.
“I know how he paid,” Adrian said. “I was there.”
Sophia’s head jerked up, and she grabbed his arm. “No, Adrian, you couldn’t have been more than five or six.”
“Five.”
Her face was white. “Why? Why were you made to attend?”
“My uncle demanded we show solidarity and loyalty to England. We cheered with the crowds.”
She put a hand on his face, ran it through his hair in a distinctly motherly gesture. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. No one ever told me you were at the execution.”
“Why would they? You weren’t even born yet.” He took her hand, kissed her palm. She was beautiful, standing there in the moonlight with flowers surrounding her. “I don’t want to speak of it anymore. It doesn’t change anything.”
“No, it doesn’t, but—”
“I don’t want your pity, Sophia.” He parted the collar of the coat he’d given her, stroked her collarbone. “I’ve seen worse since then. I’ve done worse.”
“And I haven’t?” Her eyebrows arched, her curiosity obviously piqued. “What have you done?”
“What haven’t I done?” He smiled. “More than you, I guarantee.”
Twelve
Oh, so he wanted to play that game, Sophia thought. Well, she could play as well. “Knife fight?” she asked, beginning small.
He raised a brow, indicating the question was beneath him.
She smiled, liking the challenge. “Sword fight?”
“Of course. You’ve been in a sword fight?”
“Rapier and cutlass.”
He looked down at the hand he still held. “Such small, delicate fingers.” He kissed them, one by one, and even though she wore gloves and couldn’t feel his lips, she shivered. “I can see these fingers wrapped around the hilt of a sword. I can almost picture you in your pirate garb, wi
elding a cutlass.” He winked. “Perhaps the next time we’re alone, you might help me solidify the image.”
She laughed. She was not dressing up as a pirate for him. But the thought of being alone with him…
“What about pistols?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’ve shot a man.”
“Killed him?”
Her smile faded. “Yes, when I had to. I don’t enjoy killing.”
“I don’t either. I do it if necessary.”
“Yes.” She understood completely. She leaned toward him, raised her eyebrows. “Ever been shot?”
“Madam, please.”
“Really?” Her voice rose in mock disbelief. “That many times?”
“At least three. One shot grazed my temple. Don’t you remember that ball we attended at Carlton House? I had to wear a bandage, and I told everyone it was the cure for a headache.”
“I knew that was ridiculous. But then I was actually hoping it might work, so I could try it myself. I had a horrible headache that night, as I’d had a vase smashed over my head the day before while in pursuit of a French operative.”
“Ming or Meissen?”
“Nothing so valuable or easily shattered. It was thick, heavy peasant stock, and my head ached for days.” She touched her forehead, remembering the pain. “Where else have you been shot?”
“Back and shoulder.” He loosened his cravat and unfastened his shirt.
Now this was interesting. She’d been wanting a glimpse of him without his shirt, wanting to see if his chest was as muscled as she remembered. Unfortunately, his shirt didn’t unbutton enough for her to see much more than his throat. He pulled the material aside.
“Here’s the scar.”
She peered closely, traced the skin of his shoulder with her finger. It was thick but smooth. “Hmm. I never noticed it before. The surgeon did good work.”
“Surgeon? I sewed that myself.”
“I did this one.” She pulled down her glove and showed him a scar on her forearm. “Dagger wound.”
“You sewed that?” He stared at the small, even line on her skin. With one finger, he traced it, mimicking her earlier exploration. “It looks clean.”